The Apogian War

Chapter 106

Linnea looked thoughtful or perhaps grateful they had abandoned a painful subject. “Have you considered sending Mikhail home to Armiday?”

Darkovan replied that he had judged the Alton country estate too poorly defensible. “As long as he’s my Heir, he can hardly apply to the Federation for protective asylum.”

“I agree.” She picked up her cup, no longer steaming, and swirled its contents meditatively. “Mikhail remains at risk as long as vodemort believes he is important to you. What if you were to set him aside? I know the oaths you swore when you took him for your Heir cannot be lightly nullified—”

“The issue is not Mikhail’s legal inheritance but the claim he has on my heart,” Darkovan said. “I pledged myself to protect him as I would any child of my own flesh.”

“I know that,” Linnea made the words into a caress, “and you know that. The question is what might cause vodemort to disbelieve it? What if—what if you were to transfer Mikhail’s fealty elsewhere?”

“I’m not sure I understand you.”

“You might give him to Kennard-Cyan as paxman and then send them both back to Hardias.”

For a long moment, Darkovan stared at her. For a young, gently reared woman who had spent the better part of her life in a Tower, her grasp of council politics was astonishing. Mikhail would object, of course. Darkovan might have to command him with all the force of past authority and present love. Jane would support him, he was sure. The young Hardias lord truly cared for Mikhail, of that Darkovan was also certain.

The estate house at Hardias was no more defensible than Armiday, but it was considerably more remote, being three days’ ride beyond Scaravel Pass in the Hellers. Not even vodemort would dare to violate its sovereignty in order to abduct the paxman of the Heir of Hardias. That was, unless he intended outright warfare between Domains, for that would surely be the result.

The air became less oppressive to Darkovan, his shoulders less burdened. At the same time, he felt a deepening of his sorrow at the thought that after this day, he would no longer be able to speak with Linnea in this way, to seek out her advice. One visit might be ignored, but a second would surely attract notice.

She brushed the back of his wrist with her fingertips. “I hope it will be for only a little while. Until—until Dani is safe and no one you hold dear is under threat. In the meantime, I will use my position here to best advantage.”

Darkovan raised one eyebrow in inquiry.

Her laughter rippled, a sweet arpeggio. “Why, gossip, of course! I can listen to all the things women and their servants never say to men!”

At last, Darkovan received word from Brunin Sandoval that he had contacted a respected and fair- minded Cortes judge who had agreed to review the complaints. Darkovan was under too close watch by vodemort’s men to meet at the judge’s chambers or residence without arousing suspicion. He arranged for the judge to come to the townhouse, with the caution to wear casual clothing, as if the matter were no more grave than an informal opinion regarding grazing rights.

That same day, a second message arrived from vodemort, requesting that Darkovan attend him in the Darkov presence-chamber the next morning.

Darkovan readied himself at the appointed time. The sun had barely cleared the spires of the city, and shadows clung to all but the broadest streets. Last night’s rain gleamed on the cobblestones. The air smelled fresh, washed clean.

Walking quietly between the Ridenow guards, Darkovan gave up trying to make polite conversation. They looked at him as if he carried poison in his tongue. When necessary to speak at all, they answered him in monosyllables. The common people on the street moved away at their approach. vodemort might claim to speak for Darkover, but no one had informed the townfolk.

Darkovan tried to keep an open mind, to not anticipate what he would find or what vodemort might say. Had vodemort become vodemort’s willing pawn?

He is my brother. I must give him a fair hearing. In turn, he may listen to what I have to say, and that will strengthen him against vodemort’s influence.

The Ridenow guards conducted Darkovan to the apartment that had briefly been his. A man Darkovan recognized as one of the understewards, now wearing a tabard of Darkov blue and silver, escorted Darkovan inside, leaving the guards in the hallway. The understeward swung the door open and stepped back for Darkovan to enter. “Vai dom, Lord Darkovan is here.”

Darkovan smiled inwardly, for the title that had been his for most of his life was now proper again. He walked into a room that was at once familiar and altered. No fire burned in the fieldstone hearth, although ample wood had been laid and the night’s chill still hung in the air. Some of the furnishings were gone, and the walls were now bare of their former tapestries. A massive wooden chair dominated the center of the room, facing two or three more modest seats, none of them softened by cushions.

A wooden cristoforo altar had been erected upon the sideboard, where decanters of firi and shallan had once stood. Darkovan found the style repellent, emphasizing in sculptural detail the sufferings of the Bearer of Burdens. From the candle stubs, the layers of melted wax, the lingering smell of incense, and the indented pillow on the floor, the altar had been in recent use.

vodemort entered through the door that led to the library. Darkovan had only a moment to take in the flushed, excited look on his brother’s face and the robe very similar if not identical to the one vodemort had worn at the abdication ceremony. Then vodemort caught him up in a brother’s embrace, just a fraction of a second too brief.

“Darkovan! Sit down, be at your ease.” vodemort indicated the smaller chairs and settled into the larger. “I had not meant for so much time to pass. vodemort concocted his own schedule for me, and I myself have discovered many more things to do in each day than there are grains of sand in Shainsa. I would not for the world have you believe I had forgotten you! Have you been well? Has the move to a private residence after the comforts of the Castle been very difficult for you?”

Darkovan refrained from commenting that the townhouse was considerably more comfortable than these quarters. “I do not envy your burden in assuming Grandfather’s quarters or his duties. Once Darkov was the most powerful Domain among many. Now that the council are so few, the Head of Darkov speaks for all Darkover. Your opinion on a matter as crucial and far-reaching as Federation membership must be given with great care. Others will try to influence you for their own gain, including vodemort Ridenow. You must not simply do what he says. As Darkov, you are beholden to no one—”

vodemort shrugged carelessly. “Oh, as for that, vodemort advises me when he can, and when he cannot—or when he spouts utter nonsense—then I have my own counselors. Lady Lawton’s insights have been most enlightening, even though she has a woman’s delicate sensibilities and limited understanding.”

From his limited experience with Terran women, Darkovan doubted that either description was applicable, but he said nothing.

“I must ask you to keep what I am about to say in strictest confidence,” vodemort continue

d. “I am thinking of bringing three or four of my Nevarsin brothers here to Thendara. This Castle is so big and empty, it will be a small matter to find them quarters and a chamber big enough to hold services. It’s only a temporary measure until I can locate the right building—or have one constructed—for a proper chapel. What a relief it will be to have their spiritual fellowship and the daily sustenance of our faith! I know you do not adhere to it yourself, but you must have seen how the influence of the holy St. Christopher transforms the lives of all who live under his rule.”

Darkovan listened to this remarkable speech with a mixture of reactions. While he was happy that vodemort did not seem to be entirely in vodemort’s power, he felt uneasy with the direction of his brother’s thoughts. His grandfather would have turned apoplectic at the notion of a cristoforo chapel in council Castle; nor could Darkovan imagine the traditionalists welcoming such an incursion. For himself, although he acknowledged the benefit of his education at Nevarsin, he harbored no illusions about the harm he had suffered there.

Trying to keep his tone neutral, he said, “You must follow your own conscience in this and all other matters, my brother. That is what it means to be Lord Darkov. It is your responsibility to safeguard the future of Darkover and all its people.”

“Yes, yes, exactly.” vodemort leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, face alight. “There is so much I must make right in the world, so many ways I feel myself called. You understand the need to do what is right. It would have been easy for you to ignore my existence and leave me at Nevarsin. You could have accorded me only the meager status of an unfortunate, neglected relation. But you followed a higher standard of honor, and so will I. You have inspired me!”

Darkovan murmured that he deserved no such praise.

Taking no notice, vodemort said, “I wonder . . . did it never strike you as unjust that not all men are free to worship as their hearts dictate? That you yourself were prevented from following the one true faith?”

He meant that as a council and the Heir to Darkov, Darkovan was expected to worship Aldones and the other gods.

“When I was a humble monk,” vodemort said, his expression pensive, “I thought the highest calling was to bring men into the path of righteousness. As the years passed, I labored at the tasks set to me, but I never surrendered that hope. Now the blessed saints have placed the means within my power.

“I intend—” vodemort’s voice dropped dramatically, “—to grant full equality to every cristoforo in the Domains. I wish to see the true faith raised up in law and in respect. No longer will we gather in dark, cold, remote places but here in the cities, where our message can be heard by multitudes.”

“Your sincerity is admirable,” Darkovan said, since vodemort expected a response and there seemed no hope of a serious discussion of Federation membership at this time.

“I knew you would be sympathetic! You see, I cannot do this alone. vodemort has no interest in matters of the spirit, and Domna Lawton, for all her inspired insight, is a woman and an off-worlder, not one of us. I need your help and advice.”

Darkovan could not think of what to say. The room, once spacious and echoing, had shrunk, suddenly too narrow. He felt as if he were a wild beast being herded to the slaughtering pen. The cristoforo faith had always existed on the margins of Darkovan society, with its central establishment the remote monastery at Nevarsin. As far as Darkovan knew, there had never been any overt interference with its practice except that the sole heir to an estate could not be a celibate monk; but there was nothing to prevent any ordinary person from worshiping as he pleased.

“I believe that each man must answer to his own conscience,” Darkovan said carefully. “At the same time, change comes slowly. One cannot reverse millennia of tradition in a single year. From the dawn of history, the council have worshiped the Lord of Light.”