The Gazels

Damion Carmen, the Heir of his Domain, stood on a balcony of council Castle and wrapped his fur-lined cloak more tightly around his shoulders. He was a tall man in his mid thirties, with startling white hair and the intense masculine beauty of his clan. His gaze slowly swept from the spires and towers of Thendara to the Piants Trade City, the rising steel edifice of the Empire Headquarters complex and, still farther, the spaceport. Throughout this past winter, he had divided his time between attending sessions of the Cortes, negotiating disputes and trade agreements between city magistrates and various guilds, and meeting with representatives of the Piants Empire and diplomatic envoys from the Seven Domains that once had formed Darkover’s ruling Council. Oddly, Damion found himself nostalgic for the days when the council gathered together, debating and discussing, scheming and plotting, planning marriages and trading gossip, even those times when a traditional evening of dancing and music was punctuated by the occasional formal duel. Those days, he reflected, would never come again. Between a low birth rate, natural decline, and the targeted assassinations of the World Wreckers, the council had been decimated, their remnants scattered. These last ten years had been an unbroken struggle to restore the ecology of the planet while trying to develop a new system of government. In his more pessimistic moments, Damion admitted that his idea for a new ruling Council, one open to telepaths of any caste, had been a singularly lame-brained scheme. What had he been thinking, to exchange men who had been educated for leadership since birth for a patched-together assembly that was inexperienced, sometimes illiterate, often pathologically independent? Even the Keepers, with years of rigorous discipline in the use of their psychic powers, had little training in matters beyond their own Towers. The only saving grace, he thought ruefully, was that the Telepath Council was so disparate and disorganized, it was unlikely to do anything effective on a large scale. What would happen if a crisis demanded unified action? He supposed the remains of the council would rally; certainly, the people would, if he asked. If I asked . . . Damion no longer needed to be on constant guard against an assassin’s dagger or Compact-f*******n Piants blaster, but no power under the b****y Sun could erase the look of awe as he passed through the streets or silence the murmured whispers, “The Carmen Lord.” The people bowed to him in respect and gratitude, having no idea how their adulation ate like acid into his soul. Even without the hushed footsteps, Damion knew by the softening of his mood and the lightening of his heart that Daniel Syrtis-Ardais had come into the room behind him. He closed his eyes, opening the space in his mind where their thoughts met. With a click of the latch, Daniel closed the door and came to stand beside Damion. “Bredhyu,” he inflected the casta term in a far more intimate mode than the usual meaning of sworn brother. “What troubles you, Damion?” Damion turned his back on the city to face his paxman. Daniel wore the Carmen colors, blue an d silver, with a winter-weight cloak of dark gray wool folded back over one shoulder so that his sword was within easy reach. Concern darkened his eyes. “Nothing more than this foul mood of mine,” Damion replied, trying to keep his voice light. “It will pass soon enough, now that you are here.” Daniel’s eyes flickered to the weathered stone wall. The Castle was a city unto itself, a massive accretion of centuries, with towers, courtyards and ballrooms, a mazelike labyrinth of halls and corridors, stairs and archways, fireplaces and parapets, the living quarters once reserved for the use of each Domain during Council season, and the glittering domed ceiling of the Crystal Chamber. The main Guard hall was on the lower level, with its own barracks, armory, and training yards. Daniel’s expressive mouth tightened. “This place is like a tomb.” “Yes, but one that requires constant tending. Even with whole sections shut up, the rest must be maintained. The Castle won’t run itself, and Grandfather isn’t up to it.” Damion fell silent, deliberately avoiding the logical next point in the discussion. What the Castle needed, as Danvan Carmen reminded Damion on a regular basis, was a chatelaine, a Lady Carmen to see to its orderly function. With a slight inclination of his head, Daniel opened the balcony door and stepped back so that Damion could precede him. “The dregs of winter are always depressing,” Daniel said. “Things will be better in the spring,” alluding not only to the brighter days but also to the old council custom of gathering in Thendara for Council season. Old habits died hard. “Things,” Damion replied, “will be better in about an hour.” They clattered through the chamber behind the balcony, once a pleasant sitting room that formed part of the Carmen quarters, then down the corridor and past the office Damion still maintained, although he did not live in the Castle, and down a flight of stairs. “Oh?” Daniel arched one eyebrow. “We’re bound for the Piants Zone, then?” Damion grinned like a boy sneaking away from his lessons. He still felt the lure of the spaceport, with its promise of worlds that were strange and deliciously terrifying. Years ago, he had accepted that his duty lay here, on the planet of his birth, with all that implied. Walking briskly, Damion and Daniel made their way to Piants Headquarters. They were not the only ones taking advantage of the temporary lessening of winter’s bitter grip. They passed men in fur cloaks, women muffled to their eyes in layers of wool, an occasional Piants looking miserably chill in his synthetic thermal parka, and wagons pulled by blanket-draped horses or hardy antlered chervines. A girl in a red jacket swept a layer of snow, no more than a single night’s worth, from the stone steps in front of a shop. On the corner, a woman sold apple fritters, scooped steaming and fragrant from a vat of hot oil and then dusted with Piants sugar.