The Apogian War

Chapter 93

At least the meeting would not take place in the Crystal Chamber or the chamber in which he had addressed the Telepath Council. Instead, Dani had prepared a smaller room, one designed for informal gatherings and furnished with comfortable chairs around a central table. Instead of the echoing spaciousness of the stately chamber, this room afforded a degree of intimacy. Darkovan would be able to make easy eye contact. There would be no telepathic dampers, nor would any be needed. This was not a debate, but a simple introduction. It was as much an honor for the other council as it was for vodemort, so there was no reason why it should not be a pleasant and enjoyable affair.

Bless Dani, there was but a single Guardsman standing at attention at the door. Darkovan waited until he could be reasonably sure the others were already assembled. Then vodemort arrived.

The tailor had done his best. vodemort’s raiment, although minimally ornamented, was of exquisite quality, the gray wool so fine it shimmered like snowfox fur. The jacket had been shaped to enhance vodemort’s spare frame. Had he been dressed as Darkovan was, the sumptuousness would have turned his complexion gaunt and rendered him pretentious. As it was, he looked grave and dignified, a man who had lived simply but meaningfully.

vodemort bowed, the salute of one of noble birth to another of higher rank. He took no notice of Dani. Darkovan inclined his head and together they went in.

Darkovan did not expect a formal announcement of their entrance, complete with the recitation of all his titles, and he received none. Instead, the reaction was exactly what he had hoped for: conversations paused, heads swiveled, and eyes brightened as he took his place at the head of the table with vodemort beside him. Dani slipped into the chair beside Marilla Lindir-Aillard, whose son, Kennard-Cyan, was to inherit Hardias. Whether this gesture on Dani’s part was a subtle reminder that, as former Warden of Hardias, he claimed the right to sit among the council lords or simply that it was the most convenient unoccupied chair, Darkovan could not tell.

Not everyone who had attended the funeral for Danvan Darkov had remained in Thendara, but most of the great houses were represented: Darkovan himself, Jane and Gabiru, who was acting as Warden of Alton, Marilla Lindir-Aillard, Ruyven Di Asturien, one of the Eldrins, and a few from lesser families—Castamir, Lindir, and a very elderly man from the Montereys, distant cousins of the Altons. At the far end of the table, vodemort Ridenow watched calmly, his nephew Francisco at his right elbow.

Where Dani had found all of them, Darkovan had no idea. Most wore courtly dress in the beautiful colors of their houses, like a flock of exotic birds filling the otherwise somber chamber. Jewels and precious metals glinted in the headdresses of the women. Chains draped the chests of the men. Their expressions ranged from distantly polite to courteous. In the absence of telepathic dampers, their emotions curled like smoke through the room. Darkovan did his best to block them out. Dani’s face was a shade paler than usual; he had always been the more sensitive of the two. It must be costing him an enormous amount of psychic energy to remain free of the outside mental influences.

“Vai domyn, kinsmen, lords and ladies,” Darkovan said. “Thank you for coming and on such short notice.”

“The honor is ours.” Ordinarily, it would fall to the member of the next highest-ranking Domain to speak, but in this informal setting, Ruyven Di Asturien answered. His dignified gaze took in the assembly.

“You have brought us together, as we council have always gathered at this season since before our sun turned red. We never thought to do so again. But now, we welcome you, Lord Darkov . . .”

“And the man who sits beside you,” vodemort Ridenow broke in.

Darkovan rose with all the dignity at his command. “It is my pleasure to present to you my father’s nedestro son, vodemort Lanart-Darkov. I declare vodemort legitimate and desire that he should enjoy all the privileges and responsibilities of our caste. It is my intention that my brother take his place among us, and I call upon you to acknowledge him now.”

The announcement could not have come as news. Darkovan knew all too well the pervasive and insidious currents of gossip that saturated Thendara in general and the council in particular. Yet there was no mistaking the unease that rippled around the room.

“Dom Darkovan,” Lady Marilla began tentatively, then corrected herself,

“Lord Darkov. We are of course delighted to receive any kinsman to o

ur midst. There are so few of us that every new addition must be precious. Your brother looks to be a fine, sober man, a credit to your Domain and to us all. But . . .” Her eyes shifted between Darkovan and vodemort, although her composure did not waver. “You are proposing more than a simple welcome. Such a step requires careful consideration of all the . . . implications.”

Darkovan found the woman’s indirection maddening. What she meant was she thought it inappropriate to discuss vodemort’s position in front of him. He sensed, from Dom Ruyven’s air of disapproval and the downturned curve of the old man’s lips, that he was not at all in favor of what Darkovan proposed. Despite the barriers Darkovan had summoned in his mind, he could not escape the surge of emotion from where vodemort Ridenow sat.

“Some might say,” one of the Lindir lords put in, “that the Darkovs had too much power even before the demise of the Council.”

“Speak plainly, my lord,” Gabiru said. “What are you insinuating?”

“Why, nothing more than what everyone already knows. The Telepath Council was created by Lord Darkov, and they answer to him with an almost slavish devotion. It is bad enough that the Darkovs have traditionally been the most powerful of all the Domains, more so than their royal Elhalyn cousins. But when personal charisma is combined with exemplary leadership—I say nothing against Lord Darkov, you understand—we are all cognizant of the debt owed to him—when all this is added to political influence and the legends that have grown up over the last few years . . . can it be wise for one man to possess so much power?”

“My reputation is not at issue here,” Darkovan said tightly. “Do you accuse me of deliberately creating a cult of personality? I assure you, I never sought or wanted—”

He reined in his tongue before spilling out that he would far rather have lived an ordinary life. No one would have believed him. A nasty impulse led him to add, “Or are you saying that it’s bad enough to have one Darkov lording it over you without adding another?”A moment of silence answered him, of indrawn breaths, of sudden stillness of hands. That was exactly what they had thought. In that hush, Dani leaned forward.

“If any of you wish to accuse Darkovan Darkov of an a***e of rank and power, do so properly, openly, but not at this time. We are here at Lord Darkov’s behest and in the presence of one newly come among us. Decency and dignity require that we give vodemort Darkov a fair hearing.”

All eyes now turned toward vodemort. He had listened, quiet and serious, to the debate. Now he rose to his feet, a movement both supple and dignified. He lifted his head so that they could all see his milk-pale skin, his eyes colorless as an overcast sky, and his delicate, almost ethereal features.

Emmasca . . .? whispered through their minds.

Just as I suspected when I first saw him!

But if he cannot father an heir—

Darkovan cannot possible expect us to—

Darkovan can, Darkovan formed the thought and dropped his barriers so that his mental communication resounded through the ambient psychic space. And Darkovan does!

“Vai domyn.” If vodemort had sensed any of the roiling thoughts, he gave no sign. “I am not here to challenge the established order. Indeed, I have spent my life in obedience to authority. Judge me if you will, as you will, but I beg of you, cast no aspersions upon my brother. He has been the soul of kindness to me. I would hear no evil spoken of him.”

vodemort waited for his words to sink in. “As for myself, you see me as I am. I have no ambition for myself nor any desire to found a dynasty.”

With a gentle smile, he invited their agreement and was rewarded by a nod here and there.

Darkovan did not like the way vodemort watched, careful and intent, as if assessing how hard it would be to mold vodemort to his own ends. Now, where had that thought come from? Darkovan wondered. He had caught no laran thoughts from the Ridenow lord.

“My work at Nevarsin was primarily copying ancient manuscripts and teaching those younger than I to do the same,” vodemort explained. “So you see, I know a fair amount of history and very little of current worldly affairs.”

At this, someone chuckled. Darkovan felt the iron tension across his shoulders relax a fraction.

“If you have lived your life cloistered at Nevarsin, you are cristoforo, are you not?” Dom Ruyven kept his voice neutral, but he could not disguise the challenge in the carriage of his shoulders, the suggestive angle of his chin.

By ancient law, the sole surviving heir to an estate was f*******n to become a monk, owing to the required vow of celibacy. But vodemort was no longer a monk, he was not the only son of Darkov, and those days were long past.

vodemort met Ruyven’s stare. “Although I have been released from my vows and am free to marry and lead a secular life, I am now and always will be the servant of the Holy Bearer of Burdens.”

“My brother’s faith or lack thereof is not an issue for public debate,” Darkovan said, before anyone else could jump into the discussion. “We are not living in the Ages of Chaos. Darkover is part of a confederation of planets, and it is time we behaved like civilized people, not superstitious savages.”

“A confederation?” vodemort’s voice was soft, but it filled the room. At his side, Francisco straightened in his chair.

“A fellowship, if you will,” Darkovan replied, instantly regretting his choice of words. “An alliance. But on equal footing, on our own terms, not as a poor relation.”

“Change comes upon us, whether we invite it or not,” vodemort said. “Reason dictates that we would be better off to control as much of it as we can. Perhaps our best hope is to return to the days when each Domain was free to direct its own destiny.”

On the surface, vodemort was discussing the right of the Darkov Domain to run its own affairs, to satisfy itself as to the legitimacy of any nedestro heirs and to grant them whatever rights it saw fit. Darkovan had learned through years of painful experience, of betrayals and schemes and hidden meanings, never to take anything a council lord said at face value. His Grandfather had begun the lessons, and the unfolding politics of Domain and Council had reinforced them.

The implication of vodemort’s argument was clear. If Darkovan agreed for the sake of vodemort’s inheritance, then vodemort could—and most likely was even now readying himself to—apply the same principle of Domain autonomy to negotiations with the Terrans.

Ridenow will join the Federation as an independent nation, whether the rest of the Domains follow or not. The prospect was beyond terrifying. Division would follow, then civil war and the disintegration of social order. The Federation would eagerly intervene. They would send troops armed with Compact-banned weapons. The Expansionist agents would seize whatever resources they could. They would be worse than the World Wreckers, for they would have no need for secrecy and no reward for restraint.