The Apogian War

Chapter 92

“Are you saying that I slighted him? That I deliberately chose a horse unworthy of a council lord?”

“By no means. For mountain travel, a horse like the one you found, strong and trail-seasoned, is far preferable to a prancing, ninny-brained beauty. But this is Thendara, and appearances must be maintained. vodemort may have been hidden away and forgotten, but I will not allow him to be treated that way any longer. By anyone.”

Dani recoiled. “I did not mean to imply . . . I am altogether conscious of the honor of Darkov, but—”

“I suppose now you will tell me,” Darkovan said, his voice laced with sarcasm, “that if I make him such gifts he will succumb at once to greed and ambition. His only thought, of course, is to take my place as Head of Darkov—a place I never wanted in any case!” He began pacing with such energy that the wind of his passing sent a pile of papers slithering to the floor.

Dani made no attempt to pick up the fallen documents, although normally he would have done so without thought. “Such things have been known to happen.”

“Gods, Dani!” Darkovan forced a laugh. “Until a tenday ago, the man was a cloistered monk! What kind of monstrous ambitions do you think they foster within the hallowed halls of Nevarsin?”

“You should know as well as I,” was Dani’s sullen answer.

Darkovan quieted, pensive. He thought of his own life, one of luxury and privilege but also beset by unrelenting responsibility. If vodemort’s childhood had been one of prayer and discipline, his own had been even more bleak.

“Actually,” Darkovan said, “I wish vodemort were capable—could be induced—that he might be permitted to take Grandfather’s place instead of me. I have lost all heart for scheming. Even if he were willing, how could I wish such a life on him?”

What must life have been like for the unacknowledged bastard son of a council lord? vodemort had been too young to understand why he was hidden away like a shameful secret. Had he waited for a token of recognition from his father, a message that never came? How had he felt all those years, watching from obscurity while Darkovan occupied the place of the eldest son and Heir—forced to keep silent, even when set to teaching young Darkovan his letters?

Holy Bearer of Burdens, Dani’s thought shimmered through the light rapport, what resentments, what secret desires must have festered in such a wounded heart? And how dangerous might such a man become?

When Darkovan turned to meet Dani’s gaze, the dark eyes were shuttered, the moment of compassion fled. Dani’s mind was as tightly barriered as a fortress.

“Dani—” Tentatively, Darkovan lifted one hand in his direction but dropped it when there was no response. Darkovan hardened his voice. “Of what, exactly, do you suspect my brother?

“Greed, ambition, envy, I don’t know! I don’t trust him. Can’t you see how he says one thing and does another? He utters the pious words of a monk and then complains about the quality of his garments. I know he’s had a difficult life, but he seems to have learned more about self-interest than brotherly love.”

Dani swept up the fallen papers. “When are you going to tell him about us? Don’t fool yourself into believing he won’t figure it out. How do you think he’ll respond? Will he rejoice that his brother is a lover of men?”

“He needs time to accept the larger world. I’ve been cautiously introducing the topic—”

“And every time, he turns the conversation into a sermon on righteousness and salvation!” Dani stormed. “Underneath those oily words, he’s no different from Father Master!”

“Are you quite finished?” Darkovan asked in a clipped, taut voice. Dani nodded. “Then I must make one thing clear. This is the last discussion of this kind that you and I will ever have. Whatever your opinions about my brother, I require,” placing an unmistakable emphasis on the word, “that you keep them to yourself. You are not to criticize him in word or action. I never want to hear of this again.”

For a long moment, Dani stood immobile. If he wrestled with his own thoughts, he gave no outward sign. “As you wish, vai dom.”

Some demon prodded Darkovan to say, “I am not asking you, Dani. I am telling you.” He tore his eyes from Dani’s face and threw himself into the desk chair. “Now, go about your work. I expect that the next time you present yourself to me, everything I have assigned to you will be accomplished.”

Without a word, Dani bowed and strode to the door. Hand on the latch, shoulders rigid, he paused.

In a spasm of guilt for having provoked yet another quarrel, Darkovan cried out telepathically. Bredhyu . . .

To his relief, Dani did not shut him out. Dani had been waiting—hoping—for Darkovan to make the overture that he himself could not.

Dani’s posture softened. He turned back, tenderness warming his eyes. His laran shields dissolved in an outpouring of solace. The air shimmered with their psychic bond. Then Dani bowed again and withdrew.

Darkovan stared at the age-darkened wood of the desk, the piles of documents, the papers Dani had neatly replaced. Despite the season, an insidious chill seeped into his bones. He wondered if he would ever be warm in this place.

That evening, dusk fell quickly. The sudden deepening of the shadows, for which Darkover had been named, shrouded the castle halls. Darkovan tried to shrug off the sense of foreboding that had dogged him since his fight with Dani. Stubbornly, it grew stronger with every passing hour. With relief, he set aside the day’s work and returned to his own quarters.

Jane—May Evanda and Avarra bless her!—had prepared a family dinner, so he need not change into formal courtly wear. He would have a chance to relax, to set aside the myriad administrative details of the day.

His mood lightened as he strode down the corridor toward the apartments taken by his sister’s family. The carpet runner was new, green with an ivy pattern down the center. The corridor led into another, twisting as one architectural style gave way to the next. What a warren the old castle was! Darkovan hoped vodemort would be able to find his way. To his surprise, Gabiru met him at the corner just before the entrance.

Gabiru had changed little since Darkovan had last seen him, a sturdy, russet-haired man with a hint of squareness in his jaw and the strongly muscled shoulders of a man who had spent his life in military office. He was reputed to at one time have been the best wrestler in the City Guards.

“Lord Darkov, may I have a private word with you before we go in?”

“There is no need for formality between kinsmen,” Darkovan answered. The knot of foreboding in his gut tightened.

“I would speak to you on affairs of the council, and I would rather not do so in front of Jane and . . . others.”

“Gabiru,” Darkovan said, deliberately using his personal name, “you may discuss any matter you wish.”

“Very well, then.” Gabiru moved aside, into the shadowed corner. “Jane tells me that you plan to not only welcome a nedestro relative into the family but to have him declared the legitimate son of your father . . . which would make him the eldest son. Is this true?”

“No doubt, the existence of vodemort will come as a surprise to many. Grandfather confided it to me on his deathb

ed.” Darkovan paused, trying not to sound defensive. “I fear a great injustice has been done. My father undoubtedly meant to recognize vodemort, but he died too soon. Grandfather, in his turn, could have done so but chose not to. I do not wish to speak ill of my own relations, but together they have done my brother great harm in denying him his rightful place in society and his inheritance as a Darkov. I intend to make things right.”

“Speaking as both your kinsman and your friend, I beg you to consider whether this is wise,” Gabiru said, his voice lowering with urgency. “Since you left, even this tenday . . . the political balance in Thendara is volatile. The Terranan have shifted their tactics. They are now trying to purchase the good will of the people with promises of technological miracles and Federation citizenship. Half the old council Council, those who are not outright senile, want to take us back to the Ages of Chaos. The Ridenow are out for all they can get. I fear they see themselves as the next great power in the Domains. You know as well as I that they want to turn Darkover into a Federation puppet state.”

“Surely, things cannot have deteriorated so badly.”

Gabiru pressed his lips together. “Not only that, vodemort Ridenow and his allies are doing all they can to consolidate the council against you. He’s been arguing that the Telepath Council is incapable of making a decision and should be done away with. If the remaining council unite with the Pan Darkovan League and malcontents in recognizing vodemort’s claim over yours, thinking him more easily bent to their will, then—”

“Gabiru, I must do what I feel is right. Besides, who is to say that vodemort might not be the better man, trained as he is in modesty and service? I never wanted such responsibility. It was thrust upon me. You, who have known me for so many years, must understand.”

“What I understand,” Gabiru said in a heavy, sardonic tone, “is that you are quite mad. Such a change would throw the Domains into chaos.”

Wearily, Darkovan shook his head. “If we are so dependent upon any one man, then we council have outlived our usefulness. It would be better for Darkover if we all disappeared.”

Before Gabiru could respond, the door swung open. Jane peered out. Despite the gown of cream wool trimmed with delicate silver and blue embroidery at neckline and cuffs and the garland of tiny white flowers tucked into the coiled braids covering the nape of her neck, she looked tense and weary.

“Are you two going to stand there while dinner gets cold? We are all assembled, waiting for you. Men’s talk is very well,” she said, slipping one hand through her husband’s elbow, “but folk must be fed, and roasted meat is not improved by congealing.”

Gabiru nodded and, patting her hand affectionately, allowed himself to be led inside.

“You, too, Darkovan.” Jane affected a stern expression. “Our brother has superceded you and is anxious for us all to be together. And—” when he opened his mouth to reply, “no mention of politics, do you hear me? This is a family dinner, and I’ll not have everyone’s appetite destroyed by talk of Councils and trade delegations and Terranan!”

With a trickle of relief, Darkovan bowed his head and yielded to the inevitable.

Some demon from Hades’s Seventh Hell had prompted Darkovan to don his court finery for the presentation of vodemort to the council. The suit of velvet in Darkov blue embellished with silver-trimmed lace was the most ornate garment he had ever worn. He refused to wear the matching sword, however, with its hilt and scabbard filigreed in the same lacy design as the jacket trim. As a small blessing, the boots were comfortable, if impractical for outdoor wear. Dani wore more modest clothing, a bit on the somber side but still tasteful enough for the occasion.