She could not help thinking of Gabriel looking at her and Kindra, accusing her of the unthinkable. Now when he knew she had gone away with Kindra, nothing would ever convince him he had been mistaken; perhaps, she thought with a pain, he had not been mistaken. Maybe she had failed with Gabriel because at the heart of her innermost self what she wanted was not anything Gabriel could provide. Perhaps what she had really wanted all along was the womanly tenderness and strength which Kindra could give her. So Gabriel, in his drunken accusations, had spoken more truly than he realized.
Was it that? And if it is so, is it my fault? Or if it is my fault, is it a crime? Was I ever consulted about whether I wanted a husband at all, much less whether it was Gabriel I wanted? I certainly never considered marrying anyone else, nor in eighteen years of the gatherings of the Comyn, of men of my own station and caste, have I ever looked on any single one of them with desire or a longing that fate had cast me into his arms and not Gabriel’s. Unhappily married women look elsewhere—I am not so naive that I do not know that. But if it is simply that I married the wrong man, then why, in Evanda’s name—who is Goddess of Love both lawful and profane—why do I not dream of some handsome young man of Comyn kindred? Why then do all my dreams of freedom center upon a woman—upon a Free Amazon—upon Kindra, in fact? Why?
I was given to Gabriel, and I have done my duty—and his—without looking back, for eighteen years. After all this time, am I not entitled to some freedom and happiness for myself? Why must I give what remains of my life as well as what I have already given?
Gabriel had turned away and was moving aimlessly around her room in the way which always made her fidget; she always wondered what he wanted of her. Whatever it was, she had never had it to give. She wondered if he knew the decision she was making. There had been a time when he always knew what she was thinking. Well, if he did, she need not explain herself. And if he did not, he deserved no explanation. She would do what she must; she would take her freedom. No one could expect more of her than she had already given. The women of her own Domain, the Aillard, would understand; and if they did not—well, at least she would have her freedom.
The words of the Renunciate Oath, which Kindra had explained so many years ago, were ringing in her mind: From this day forth I renounce allegiance to any family, clan, household, warden, or liege lord, and take oath that I owe allegiance only to the laws of the land as a free citizen must: to the kingdom, the crown, and the Gods.
No longer a symbol of a great Domain, but simply and solely herself. I have lived all these years by what I owed to others, never by what I owed myself.
She watched Gabriel leave her room and go down toward the Great Hall. As she surmised, he was heading straight for a drink. It would be madness to try again.
And what would they say in Council, when it was known that Lady Rohana, head of the Domain of Aillard, and by default, holding the Domain of Ardais, in Gabriel’s place, had been lost to the Guild House?
The Renunciates held their charter by sufferance. Kindra had explained to her once that the Renunciates were not allowed to seek recruits, but only to accept such women as sought them out.
It does not matter if a few craftsmen’s wives or farmers’ daughters, battered wives or exploited children, run away to the Guild House. But if the Guild House should reach out to take the Head of two Domains, will they still be tolerated? Or will the Council seek redress from the Guild House? Could their charter survive if they seduced from her sworn duty, say, the Keeper of Arilinn? Ludicrous as the picture was of Leonie Hastur fleeing the Tower in her crimson veils and taking the vows of a Renunciate, still it must be faced as a possibility. If she, Rohana, could be tempted from her clear duty, was any woman in the Domains above suspicion? Would this then mean the destruction of the Comyn? And was it worth preserving at such a price—that women should all be enslaved and without choice?
No, there was no question of that. She was free to do as she would; but then she must decide to live for herself without taking thought for the duty she owed to everyone else. Should she sacrifice Domain, family, the well-being of every man and woman in the Domain, in order that she might do whatever she wished and live for herself alone?
To Kindra, the price was too much to pay; she had chosen the duty to herself; but then, Kindra had never owed a duty to anyone, nor chosen that duty. Kindra had been given in marriage, no doubt without inner consent; while she, Rohana, had long enjoyed the privileges of a Comyn lady; and should she enjoy them while they exacted of her nothing, and refuse the burden when it grew heavy? And if she chose to take her own way and live her own life, would the Council not revenge themselves upon the Guild House—even withdraw once and for all the tolerance extended to the Guild Houses and withdraw the Charter given to the Renunciates? That could destroy Kindra, too . . . .
No; with all my prestige I will fight for that right—none shall touch the rights of the Guild House while I live. And I am Comyn; who could deny me even should I demand for myself what any small-holder’s daughter can have . . . my freedom?
Gabriel was in the Great Hall. Rohana, still shaky on her feet, followed him down and saw him fill a glass from a decanter on a sideboard. She sighed; she need only remain silent, and there would be no need for confrontation or choice. Would he even know she was gone—or care? Would he not be relieved, even, to know himself alone with his bottle, to find in it the death he was certainly seeking? Had she any responsibility then to him? He drained it quickly, raised his hand to the steward demanding the decanter be refilled.
Rohana said, “No. No more.”
She stood before the steward, bracing herself weakly with both hands.
“Listen to me, Hallert,” she said. “From this moment forth, when you give the Master more drink than enough for his thirst, it is not his anger you will face; it is mine. Do you understand? Mine. The Master needs to be well and strong for the days that are coming soon at Ardais.” She saw Gabriel scowl and said urgently. “I will help you. but you must work with me. Kyril is not ready for the Domain, Gabriel. You must somehow stay strong so that he cannot take it from—from us—which he would be all too ready to do.”
For a moment an old determination flickered in his eyes. It would be enough for now; there would be struggle ahead, and he would fight her about this again, but somehow she would preserve the domain for Gabriel; and perhaps by the time Kyril reached maturity, he would have improved and matured enough to be trusted with the Domain. And if not—well, they would face that when the time came. At least it would not—now—come this year or next.
“You’re right,” Gabriel said. “That young upstart—not ready for the Domain. We’ll keep it for a while yet.”
Rohana suddenly realized that without any conscious act she had made her decision; she had acted almost without thinking. And therefore there could be for her no other choice; this was her allotted destiny, the road she would walk whether she would, or no. The world would go as it would, not as she would have it.
She was filled with a great and terrible sense of loss; she had lost everything else long ago, and now she knew that without any deliberate choice or renunciation she had lost Kindra, too, and all the hopes she had had for another life.
She said to the steward, “Bring the Master some cider or apple juice; he is thirsty.” The man scurried away and Rohana sighed, looking in her mind into Kindra’s stricken face when she knew of the decision which had been already made, flinching from the long and lonesome road she must tread alone. Kindra was freedom and—yes—love, but this love and freedom could not be hers. She was not even free enough to seek freedom.
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Dyan Ardais
Few things in the history of Darkover have ever surprised me as much—no, that’s not true; everything about the Darkover books has surprised me, but few things have surprised me as much as the popularity of Dyan Ardais. He was invented for the commercial rewrite of the original Sword of Aldones, in which, running the
whole thing hurriedly through my typewriter, I invented him by combining three of the spineless villains I invented for Sword, and I have now totally forgotten what the other two were like—even their names. I can only imagine my readers thought Dyan was enough villain for three.
His ghost persisted in walking; first in “The Hawkmaster’s Son,” which I still think better than the original book in which Dyan appeared. This story was written after Dyan made a small but memorable appearance in the rewritten Bloody Sun.
“Oathbreaker” was written to study an always unanswered question about why Dyan Ardais had been dismissed from a Tower. “A Man of Impulse” arose out of a phrase in Sharra’s Exile, in which Dyan, informing Danilo of the existence of his son, justifies himself by saying Danilo had always known he was a man of impulse.
And finally, I think “The Shadow” is the finest of my own short stories; I generally am not infatuated with myself as a short story writer. I wrote this story to tell myself how it was that Danilo and Regis had gone from the affectionate but ambiguous relationship depicted in Heritage to that in Sharra’s Exile. So I could not resist the temptation to present it here.
Dyan has been by far the most popular character I ever invented. Like Spock in Star Trek, fans have been unable to resist the impulse to write stories bedding him down with everybody except the Terran Legate—and I’m not too sure I didn’t read one or two of those in the slush sometime. The popularity of the “Relationship” story in Star Trek fandom was once compellingly explained to me by Diana L. Paxson as the temptation “to be the perfect man and make love to the perfect man.” But then, what is the explanation for all these Dyan Ardais stories? To be the worst man making love to the worst man? Not that Dyan—or even Dom Gabriel Ardais—is the worst.
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Oathbreaker
Marion Zimmer Bradley
In the cool of the evening, Fiora of Arilinn moved silently through the Keeper’s Garden, the Garden of Fragrance. Here she had come to be alone, to enjoy the drifting scents of the herbs and flowers planted by some long-ago Keeper. She wondered who that Keeper had been, the Keeper who before recorded time had created this peaceful place, her very own retreat. Had she, too, been blind? Or, perhaps he—for Fiora knew that in ancient times some men, too, had been Keeper—even in Arilinn. Someday, perhaps, when work was not so pressing, she might undertake Timesearch and try to discover something of that long-ago Keeper.
Fiora smiled, almost wistfully. When work was not so pressing—that was like saying when oranges and apples grew on the ice walls of Nevarsin! The life of a Keeper, certainly of a Keeper of Arilinn, was too crowded to allow for the indulgence of purely intellectual curiosity. There were novices to be trained, young people to be tested for laran, and, if possible, claimed for a period of service in Arilinn or one of the few remaining Towers. And there was much other Tower work, complicated by the unending service in the Relays. From this last, however, Fiora was exempt; a Keeper had more important work to do.
For this moment Fiora was at liberty to enjoy the privacy of this special garden, her own particular domain. But not for long; she heard the sound of the garden gate, and even before her mind reached out to touch him, she knew who it was from the fumbling step and the faint scent of kirian which hung always about him: Rian Ardais, the aging technician she had known since childhood.
He was drunk again with kirian. Fiora sighed; she hated seeing him this way, but how could she forbid it, even though she knew he would sooner or later destroy himself? She remembered that Janine, the old Keeper who had trained her when she was new-come to Arilinn, had mentioned Rian’s continual intoxication.
“It is the lesser of two evils. It is not for me to refuse him whatever it is that he needs to keep his balance. He never allows it to affect his work; in relay and circle he is always perfectly sober.” Janine had said no more, yet Fiora had heard the unspoken words clearly, how can I stop him or deny him that surcease, when the alternative would be that he could no longer tolerate his work here at all?
“Domna Fiora,” the old man said unsteadily, “I would not intrude upon you in this condition without necessity. You have earned leisure, and—”
“Never mind,” she said. She had seen the old man once, before the illness which had deprived her of her sight. She still saw him as handsome and erect, though she knew he had grown skeletal and his old hands trembled. Except, of course, working in the lattices, when they were always perfectly steady. How strange that was, that he should retain the ability to remain steady within a matrix lattice, when he could not so much as shave without cutting himself.
“What is the matter, Rian?”
“There is a messenger in the outer courtyard,” he said, “from Ardais. Young Dyan is needed at home, and if it is possible, I must go, too.”
“Impossible,” Fiora said, “You may go, of course; you have certainly earned a holiday. But you know very well why Dyan cannot.” She was shocked that he should even ask; the strictest of laws stated that for the four months after a novice had been accepted at Arilinn, nothing might intrude on his training. Drunk or not, Rian should have been able to handle that without appealing to a Keeper. “Send the messenger away and tell them Dyan is in isolation.”
Then she realized that the old man was shaking. Fiora reached out with the awareness which served her better than sight. She should have known. He would not have interrupted her here without need, after all, and it was really far more urgent than she had believed. She sighed, realizing how hard he had tried to keep any hint of his distress from reaching her, and came all the way back from the peace of the garden.
“Tell me,” she said aloud.
He spoke, carefully disciplining his thoughts so that Fiora need not pick up anything but the spoken word if she chose.
“A death.”
“Lord Kyril?” But that was small loss to any, thought Fiora. Even in the isolation of Arilinn, the young Keeper had heard about the Lord of Ardais, about his dissolute life, his fits of madness. So many of the Ardais clan were dangerously unstable. Kyril mad; Rian himself, though he tried his best, addicted to the intoxication of kirian. It was too soon to know about young Dyan, though she had hopes for him.
“Yet even for a death in the family Dyan may not be released so soon.” Although, if it were Kyril, Dyan would be Heir to Ardais and there would be no question of allowing him to take oath at Arilinn in service to the Towers.
“It is not Kyril,” Rian’s voice was shaking, and though he tried to keep rein on his thoughts she heard it clearly: would that it had been no more than that! “It is worse than that. The Gods witness I love my brother and never once envied him heirship to our house; I was content to make my life here.”
Yes, Fiora thought, so content that you cannot get through a tenday without making yourself drunk with kirian or some other drug. But who was she to mock the man’s defenses? She had her own. She only said again, “Tell me.”
Yet he hesitated. She could feel him thinking, Fiora was Keeper, sworn virgin, such things should not be spoken before her.
At last he said, and she could feel the desperation in his voice, “It is Dom Kyril’s wife, the Lady Valentina. She has been an invalid for years, and his youngest daughter—Dyan of course is the eldest, his son by his first wife—his daughter Elorie has been acting as his hostess. Some of Kyril’s parties are—dissolute,” he said, carefully choosing the most neutral word he could.
So Fiora had heard. She nodded for him to go on.
“The Lady Valentina was reluctant for Elorie to appear at these parties,” Rian said, “but Kyril would not have it otherwise. So Domna Valentina appeared, despite her illness, to protect the girl’s character. And Kyril, in a drunken rage—or worse—struck her.”
He paused, but Fiora already knew the worst.
“He killed her.”
It was indeed worse than Fiora had believed. Kyril had always been a dissolute man—the roster of his bastards was said, and no
t altogether in jest, to equal the legendary conquests of Dom Hilario, a notorious lecher of folk-tale and fable—and there were tales that he had more than once paid heavily to hush up a brutal beating. Fiora was too innocent to be aware of the sexual implications of this and would have believed it meant no more than ordinary drunken brutality. But murder, and of a lawful wife di catenas—that was something else, and probably could not be hushed up at all.
Still Fiora hesitated. “You are Regent of Ardais till Dyan is of age,” she said after a moment’s thought, “and I am hesitant to interrupt his training. We know he has not the Ardais Gift, but he is potentially a powerful telepath. An untrained telepath is a menace to himself and everyone around him,” she added, quoting one of the oldest Arilinn maxims of training. “I know this is a serious crisis in Ardais and perhaps in all the Comyn, Dom Rian; it may well demand Council action. But must it involve Dyan? You are Dom Kyril’s brother and Regent. And you may go as soon as you wish; I will give you leave at once. But why must Dyan accompany you? It is not even as if the Lady Valentina were his mother; she was no more than his stepmother. I think you should go at once and that Dyan should remain here.”
Rian twisted his hands. Fiora could sense the man’s desperation; she did not need sight for that. Once again she was aware peripherally of the strong smell of the drug that clung to him, blocking out the scents from the garden, and felt with irritation that he had profaned her favorite retreat; she wondered if she would ever walk in it again without the overpowering scent of drug and misery which she could feel on the evening breeze. Silence; the blind woman was tense with the pain of the man who faced her.