The Apogian War

Chapter 97

By the time they reached the Headquarters building, a rectangular tower of steel and glass instead of Darkovan stone, Darkovan had wrestled himself into a better mood. Security had been increased since his last visit, doubtless as a result of the volatile debate regarding Federation membership. The Terran guards looked humorless to the point of bellig

erence. They were armed with nerve guns as well as blasters. Even Darkovan, as Lord Darkov, was not allowed entry without an escort.

The Legate was not in his office, but after a wait and a number of radio communications back and forth, a Spaceforce officer accompanied Darkovan and his party to the Lawton family living quarters. Darkovan had never seen where his friend lived. It must be strange to sleep, eat, and work all within the same walls, bathed in the unrelenting yellow light and breathing the tasteless reconditioned air. The floor, a slick synthetic material, felt as unyielding as granite, unlike the carpet Jane had installed in the Castle, a touch of living green.

The Headquarters tower was almost as confusing as the Castle, although less labyrinthine. There were no stone cul-de-sacs, no blind corners or hidden doors. They proceeded upward in a series of interconnecting elevators. Such devices, Darkovan supposed, were necessary for a structure twenty or thirty floors high, but that did not make him enjoy riding in one. Mikhail did his best to disguise his delight, and vodemort was openly filled with wonder.

“Such marvels!” he murmured as they emerged into a hallway bounded by an immense glass window that gave a view of half the city. “Such grandeur!”

“I’ll tell Dan Lawton you’re impressed,” Darkovan said with a humorous lilt. “He’ll be pleased to hear it.”

They reached a doorway, and the officer stood to one side. The door looked like any of the many they’d passed, distinguished only by a small plaque bearing the occupant’s name. A small copper charm had been affixed to the wall. Darkovan noticed it, since that metal was rare and expensive on Darkover, but thought nothing more of it. vodemort, however, bent to examine it with an exclamation of unaffected delight.

The door slid open. “Darkovan—Lord Darkov! This is an unexpected pleasure! Please come in. I had no idea you intended to make us a visit.” Dan Lawton stepped back to gesture them inside.

Instead of his formal uniform, Dan wore a Darkovan shirt falling in loose folds from a shoulder yoke and trimmed with simple geometric embroidery at collar and cuffs, Terran-style pants, and low house boots. He ushered them through a mirror-lined passage that Darkovan had no doubt was laden with security devices and into a large chamber, a parlor of sorts. Windows faced west. The carpet was dense and springy but drab in color, mottled tones of mud and ash, a combination of luxury and unimaginative ugliness. There was no fireplace, but the air was uncomfortably warm by Darkovan standards.

The room was not without beauty. Against one interior corner stood a display case of carved red- hued wood. Shaped like a tree, its branches interlaced to create niches for polished crystals, too large and clear to be anything but quartz, little porcelain statues of unfamiliar animals or hooded, cloaked dancers, and on the topmost, a stylized cristoforo symbol of yellowed bone. vodemort glanced at it, a peculiar expression lighting his features.

As they entered, Tiphani Lawton rose from the divanlike structure on which she’d been sitting beside Felix. Felix looked pale, but the gaze that greeted Darkovan was steady.

The divan, it turned out, was mechanized, so that with a touch of a few panels, it rearranged itself into seating for everyone. Mikhail, although still on his best adult behavior, looked as if he would like to see how many different configurations were possible.

“I’d heard about your discovery, Lord Darkov,” Dan said, “and was looking forward to meeting—” turning to vodemort, “Please forgive me, is the proper form of address for you, Dom vodemort?”

“Just vodemort, please.” With a faint smile: “It is difficult enough answering to that name after so many years as Brother Valentine. I doubt I would recognize myself as Dom anything.”

“Since we are here informally, let’s leave Lord Darkov outside, too,” Darkovan said. Everyone laughed. “Dan, you and I have known each other for too many years to insist upon protocol in your own home. And you know my nephew, Mikhail Lanart-Darkov.”

Tiphani peered at vodemort, pointedly ignoring Mikhail as someone of little consequence. “Brother Valentine, you said. I don’t understand.”

“Forgive me,” Darkovan said, “I felt sure the gossip must have reached you by now. vodemort is indeed a brother, but he is mine. He was once called Brother Valentine after the cristoforo saint, because he was a monk. Grandfather kept his existence a secret until shortly before died.”

Since the original introductions, Felix had been sitting quietly, but now he began to fidget. Darkovan doubted the boy had any interest in vodemort’s religious calling. At that age, Darkovan would have been desperately bored. He interrupted the conversation long enough to ask if he might have a word with the boy about his progress. Mikhail glanced at Darkovan as if to protest being left with sole responsibility for vodemort, and then he solved the problem by inquiring where the sanitary facility was.

The three went into the hallway leading deeper into the apartment toward the bathroom and, presumably, the sleeping areas. Mikhail disappeared through an open doorway, leaving Darkovan and Felix to themselves.

Darkovan smiled encouragingly at Felix. “How have you been getting on? Any more trouble with threshold sickness?”

“I’m feeling much better now, thank you, sir. As long as—” Felix’s hand went to the front closure of his shirt, where his starstone made a small bulge in the clinging off-world fabric.

At least the boy was keeping it close to him. “May I see your matrix?” Darkovan asked.

Felix opened the top of his shirt. Darkovan noted with approval that neither the cord nor its clasp was made of energy-conducting metal. Layers of gray silk cushioned the stone, acting as a psychic insulator. When Felix removed the stone and held it up, a pattern of blue light flickered in its heart. The facets were clear, not clouded. As far as Darkovan could tell, the stone was properly keyed, betraying no illness of the mind to which it was linked, nor could he detect any distortions of laran energy in its depths.

From the parlor came the sound of a chime and Dan’s voice, “I’m sorry, I must take this call,” and another door whispering closed.

“I am no Keeper,” Darkovan told Felix, “but to my eyes, this looks as it should.”

Felix closed his fingers around the matrix stone. “I can’t do much with it. Ferrika is nice, and I appreciate everything she’s done, but she doesn’t know very much about—about what laran is good for. Except healing.”

Behind the boy’s awkward words, Darkovan heard a hunger. It was not the same one he had known at that age, but it was yearning nonetheless. If only Linnea were here to teach him, if only—

No. He would not think about her.

From the parlor, he caught Tiphani’s voice raised in excitement. “Those are almost the same words from the sacred texts of Megaera!”

Darkovan and Felix exchanged conspiratorial glances. The brief respite was over. Darkovan led the way back to the others. vodemort, seeing him, called, “Brother, the wonders of the world are many! Here is Domna Tiphani from a distant world, speaking the same eternal truths as taught by our own saints.”

Darkovan had never seen Tiphani Lawton so animated. Her eyes glowed, and a high color suffused her cheeks. Were she other than she was and were vodemort any other man, Darkovan could have sworn the two had just fallen in love.

“Is it possible,” she said breathlessly, “that your St. Christopher is St. Christopher of Centaurus? From what you just told me, his teachings are not precisely the same, but the moral bedrock upon which they are founded—the law of righteousness, the promise of salvation and the certainty of damnation—all these are mirrors of one another!”

As she spoke, vodemort nodded. Mikhail came back and stood quietly listening. From the wetness on his neck and shirt front, he had been experimenting with the washing fixtures.

“It is very possible,” Darkovan said temperately. “The first humans to settle Darkover came from a lost colony ship millennia ago. I believe the Nevarsin monastery dates from that time and has been relatively isolated from the larger world. Many of the traditions and beliefs of the first cristoforos may have come down to us with very

little change.”

“Look,” vodemort exclaimed, “here is a holy reliquary, in form and symbolic ornament very like our own. If I saw it in the chapel at St. Valentine’s, I would not think it out of place. I cannot believe the resemblance is accidental . . . Now I know why I have been brought here to Thendara! I might have lived my entire life at Nevarsin without learning the universal truth of our teachings.”

He turned to Tiphani. “We must pray for guidance and knowledge of the work we are called to accomplish.”

Although Darkovan was glad his brother had discovered a way to integrate his religious and worldly lives, he was also disturbed that the connection should be a woman who had shown herself to be so volatile of temper.

vodemort, as if sensing his brother’s mood, hastened to say, “Our work will become a powerful instrument of understanding between our two planets or rather between Darkover and the Federation. I can think of no better way to serve my people.”

Having no ready answer, Darkovan said nothing. Mikhail looked politely uninterested. Felix shuffled from one foot to the other.

“Brother Valentine—vodemort, that is,” Tiphani rushed on, oblivious, “will you help me to build a chapel where people of faith from both our communities may worship together?”

“Most gladly, lady. That is, if my brother consents.”

Finding no graceful way to refuse, Darkovan said he thought it a fine project. “But,” he warned, “both Darkovan and Terran authorities must agree on the final plans.”

“Oh, there will be no problem from this side,” Tiphani said. “My husband will ensure the approval of the Federation.”

Just then, Dan returned through a side door. “I won’t trouble you with details, my dear, but I’m afraid my presence is required.”

“We must take our leave as well,” Darkovan said, with the short bow of a council lord to one of equal rank.

vodemort came away cheerfully after making arrangements for a properly chaperoned visit with Tiphani a few days later.

Darkovan did not draw an easy breath until they were once more under the great red sun instead of glaring yellow lights. For what he had inadvertently overheard, as much with his mind as his ears, was his brother saying to Tiphani Lawton,

“. . . f*******n black arts . . . none so lost . . . cannot be saved . . . if the will is strong enough . . .”

15

On one of these rare afternoons when he was able to finish work early, Darkovan found himself low in spirit. He had determined to dine alone, savoring a few hours of quiet. Jane had organized so many family dinners that Darkovan had begun making excuses not to attend. vodemort had stepped into the vacuum, regaling Darkovan with his day’s exploration of the city, work on the Chapel of All Worlds, and meetings with Tiphani Lawton, with whom he was developing an increasing closeness. Darkovan had heard enough theological discussions in the last tenday to last a lifetime. He no longer cared about the liturgical differences between the cristoforos and the priests of Tiphani’s faith.

The parlor felt empty and too quiet; Darkovan chuckled at himself for having become unaccustomed to his own company and poured himself a goblet of unwatered wine. He sipped it meditatively, remembering the tavern near the gates of the Guards Hall, where he and Dani used to sneak away for a tankard of pear cider. It was one of the few places where they could enjoy an evening without people constantly staring. The cadets would throng the outer room, but the back was reserved for officers. It was dark and closed-in, but the Guardsmen understood that even a Darkov needed a little privacy.

Sighing, Darkovan set down his wine. He no longer wanted it, although the vintage was as fine as any on Darkover. What was the Terran proverb, something about, “Better a crust of bread in a hovel where there is peace than a banquet where there is none”?

A familiar tap sounded on the door. At his greeting, Dani entered. “Your brother is not here?”

Darkovan gestured, As you see, I am alone. Dani had good reason to expect vodemort’s presence, for Darkovan had been spending his little available leisure time with his brother.

Taking a goblet from the sideboard, Darkovan poured it half full and held it out. Dani settled on the opposite chair and raised the cup to his lips. “It’s good.”

“Better than we used to drink when we were cadets,” Darkovan said. Dani shuddered theatrically. “But the point wasn’t the taste, was it? Not in those days.”

The two men sipped their wine. Darkovan felt the coiled tension within him ease slightly.

“Darkovan, I am glad to find you alone. I want to talk privately. No, not about vodemort, at least, not directly. About this Chapel of All Worlds that he and Dan Lawton’s wife are building.”

“What of it?” The completed structure would take time, even with Terran construction methods. Once a circle of laran workers under a skilled Keeper could have raised such a structure in a day. Meanwhile, services were held in an old mansion in the Trade City, accessible to all.

“It’s an excellent way to foster understanding between our peoples.” Darkovan said.

“I thought so too, at first. I was curious to learn more of the off-worlders’ faith, which seems so close to that of the cristoforos, and what wisdom they might have to teach us. I even allowed myself to believe in an all-embracing god who lifts every man’s burdens, no matter what sun we live under.”

Beneath Dani’s calm words, Darkovan sensed ambivalence and . . . fear. Fear?

“Dani, what is wrong?”