The Apogian War

Chapter 36

evenly, see his tumed-away shoulder moving gently with his breathing The weeping was not a sound at all, but a sort of intangible pattern of vibrating misery and despair, like the lost little crying in his dream, but soundless. Darkovan put his hands over his eyes in the darkness and thought, with rising wonder, that he hadn't heard the crying, but knew it just the same. It was true, then chosen. Not randomly picked up from another mind gap, but his The shock of that thought drove everything else from his mind. How did it happen? When? And formulating the question brought its own answer: that first day in barracks, when Dani had touched him. He had treamed about that conversation tonight, dreaming he was his father for a moment. Again he felt that surge of closeness, of emotion so in tense that there was a lump in his throat. Dan slept quietly now, even the mind gap impression of noiseless weeping having died away. Darkovan worried, troubled and torn with even the backwash of his friend's grief, wondering what was wrong. Quickly he shut off the curiosity. Lno had said that you learned to keep your distance, in order to survive. It was a strange, sad thought. He could not spy on his friend's privacy, yet he was still near to tears at the awareness of Dani's misery. He had sensed it, earlier that day, when Lno talked to them. Had someone hurt him, ill-treated him? Or was it simply that Dan was lonely, homesick, wanting his fam ily? Darkovan knew so little about him. He recalled his own early days at Evertin. Cold and lonely, heart sick, friendless, hating his family for sending him here, only a fierce remnant of Darkov pride had kept him from crying himself to sleep every night for a long time. For some reason that thought filled him again with an almost unen durable sense of anxiety, fear, restlessness. He looked across at Dan and wished he could talk to him about this. Dani had been through it; he would know. Darkovan knew he would have tell someone soon. But who should he tell? His grandfather? The sudden realization of his own 'Chosen' had left Darkovan strangely vulnerable, shaken again and again by waves of emotion; again he was at the edge of tears, this time for his grandfather, reliving that fierce, searing moment of anguish of his only son's terrible death. And, still vulnerable, he swung from grief to rebellion. He was sure his grandfather would force him to walk the path ready-made for a Darkov heir with 'chosen'. He would never be free taking off for the stars, and his whole heart, his body, his mind, strained to follow it outward into the unknown. If he cherished that dream, he could never tell his grandfather at all. But he could share it with Dani. He literally ached to step across the brief space between their beds, slip into bed beside him, share with him this incredible dual experience of grief and tremendous joy. But he held himself back, recalling with an imperative strange sharpness what Lno had said; it was like living with your skin off. How could he impose this burden of his own emotions on Dani, who was himself so burdened with unknown sorrow, so troubled and nightmare-driven that his unshed tears penetrated even into Darkovan' dreams as a sound of weeping? If he was to have the 'Chosen' ift, Darkovan thought sadly, he had to learn to live by the rules of the telepath. He realized that he was cold and cramped, and crawled under his blankets again. He huddled them around him, feeling lonely and sad. He felt curiously unfocused again, drifting in anxious search, but in answer to his questioning mind he saw only flimsy pictures in imagination, men and strange nonhumans fighting along a narrow rock-ledge; the faces of two little children fair and delicate and baby-blurred in sleep, then cold in death with a grief almost too terrible to be borne; dancing figures whirling, whirling like wind-blown leaves in a mad ecstasy; a great towering form, blazing with fire... Exhausted with emotion, he slept again.

There are two theories about Festival Night, the great midsummer holiday in the Domains. Some say that it is the birthday of the Blessed Cassilda, foremother of the Dover. Others say that it commemorates the time of year when she found Darkov, Son of Aldones, Lord of Light, sleeping on the shores of Hali after his journey from the realms of Light. Since I don't believe that either of them ever existed, I have no emotional preference about either theory. My father, who in his youth traveled widely in the Empire, told me once that every planet he has ever visited, and most of those he hasn't, have both a midsummer and midwinter holiday. We're no exception. In the Domains there are two traditional celebrations for summer Festi val; one is a private family celebration in which the women are given gifts, usually fruit or flowers, in the name of Cassilda. Early this morning I had taken my foster-sister Linnell Coltus some flowers, in honor of the day, and she had reminded me of the other cel ebration, the great Festival ball, held every year in the Dover Castle. I've never liked these enormous affairs, even when I was too young for the ball and taken to the children's party in the afternoon; I've disliked them ever since my first one, at the age of seven, when Lerrys Ridenow hit me over the head with a wooden horse. It would be unthinkable to absent myself, however. My father had made it clear that attending was just one of the unavoidable duties of an heir to Dover. When I told Linnell that I was thinking of develop ing some illness just severe enough to keep me away, or changing duty with one of the Guard officers, she pouted. "If you're not there, who'll dance with me?" Linnell is too young to dance at these affairs except with kinsmen so, ever since she's been allowed to attend at all,

I've been reminded that unless I'm there to dance with her she will find her self watching from the balcony. My father, of course, has the excellent excuse of his lameness Tresolved to put in an appearance, dance a few dances with Linnell, he polite to a few old ladies and make an unobtrusive exit as early as politeness allowed. I came late, having been on duty in the Gard hall where I'd beard the cadets gossiping about the affair. I didn't blame them. All Guards men, whatever their rank, and all cadets not actually on duty, have the privilege of attending. To youngsters brought up in the outlands, I sup pose it's an exciting spectacle. I was more disinclined to go than ever because Marius had come in while I was dressing. He'd been taken to the children's party, had made himself sick with sweets and had skinned knuckles and a black eye from a fight with some supercilious little boy, distantly kin to the Elhalyns, who had called him a Persian bastard. Well, I'd been called worse in my day and told him so, but 1 really had no comfort for him. I was ready to kick them all in the shins by the time I went down. It was, I reflected, a hell of a good start to the evening. As was customary, the beginning dances were exhibitions by profes sionals or gifted amateurs. A troupe of dancers in the costume of the far mountains was doing a traditional dance, with a good deal of skirt swirling and boot-stamping. I'd seen it danced better, a while since, ca my trip into the foothills. Perhaps no professionals can ever give the mountain dances the true gaiety and excitement of the people who dance them for pure pleasure. I moved slowly around the edges of the room. My father was being polite to elderly dowagers on the sidelines. Old Darkov was doing the same thing with a group of Persians who had probably been invited for political or ceremonial reasons. The Guardsmen, especially the young cadets, had already discovered the elegant buffet spread out along one wall and kept replenished by a whole troop of servants. So early in the evening, they were almost the only ones there. I grinned reminiscently. I am no longer required to share the men's mess, but I remembered my cadet years vividly enough to know how good the plentiful delicacies would look after what passes for supper in the barracks. Dan was there, in dress uniform. A little self-consciously, he wished me a joyous Festival. I returned the greeting. "Where is Darkovan? I don't see him anywhere." "He was on duty tonight, sir.

I offered to change with him-all his kinsmen are here-but he said he would have years of it, and I should go and enjoy myself." I wondered which officer, in malice or by way of emphasizing that a Darkov could expect no favors in the cadets, had made certain that Darkovan Darkov would draw a tour of duty on Festival Night. I only wished I had so good an excuse. "Well, enjoy yourself by all means, Dani" I told him. The hidden musicians had struck up a sword dance and Dan turned eagerly to watch as two Guardsmen came with torches to place the swords. The hall lights were lowered to emphasize the ancient and barbaric quality of this oldest of traditional mountain dances. It is usu ally danced by one of the greatest dancers in Vandart; to my surprise, it was Cyan Hardais who strode forward, wearing the brilliantly barbaric costume whose history was lost before the Ages of Chaos. There are not many amateurs, even in the Hellers, who still know all the traditional steps and patterns. I'd seen Cyan dance it when I was a child at Armiday, in my father's hall. I thought that it went better there, to the music of a single drone-pipe, by the glare of firelight and a torch or two, than here in the elaborate ballroom, surrounded by ladies in fancy party costumes and bored noblemen and city folk. Yet even the elaborately garbed ladies and noblemen fell silent, impressed by the strange solemnity of the old dance. And yes-I give him his due-by Cyan's performance. For once he looked grave, stern, free of the flippant cynicism I detested so, wholly caught up in the tense, treading-on-eggs quality of the weaving steps. The dance displays a fierce, almost tigerish masculinity, and Cyan brought a sort of leashed violence to it. As he snatched up the swords in the final figure and held them poised over his head, there was not a sound anywhere in the ballroom. Because I had been impressed against my will, I tried deliber stely to break the spell. I said aloud to Dan, "I wonder who he's showing off to this time? It's a pity Cyan's indifferent to women; after this he'd have to beat them off with a pitchfork!" I found myself pitying any woman-or any man, for that matter who allowed himself to be charmed by Cyan. I hoped for his own sake that Dan was not one of them. It's natural enough for boys that age to be strongly attracted to any strong character, and a cadet-master is a natural object for such romantic identification. If the older man is an honorable and kindly one, it does no harm and wears off in a short time.

I long since grew out of any such childish attachments and, although I've been on the receiving end a time or two, I made wore it went no further than a few exchanged smiles Well I wan't Dani's guardian, and it had been made clear that Cyan was beyond my reach. Besides, I had enough worries of my own. Cyan was moving toward the buffet; I saw him stop for a glas of wine, speaking to the Guandsmen there with a show of affability. We came briefly face to face. Resolving that if there was any discountery among Dover I would not be the one to show it, I made some brief polite comment on the dance. He replied with equally meaningless courtesy, his eyes straying past me. I wondered who he was looking for and received in return-my barriers must have been lowered for a mo ment-a surge of violent anger. Perhaps after tonight this meddlesome bastard will be busy with his own affairs and have lem time for inter fering in minet I made the briefest possible polite bow and moved away for my promised dance with Linnell. The floor was filling quickly with dancers, I took Linnell's fingertips and led her to the floor. Linnell is a pretty child, with soft bronze-brown hair and blue eyes framed in lashes so long and dark they looked unreal. She was, I thought, considerably prettier than her kinswoman Callina, who had looked so severe and stem at Council yesterday. The Aillard Domain is the only one in which laran and Council-right pass not in the male line, but in the female; males are not allowed to hold full Domain rights in Council. The last comynara in the direct line had been Cleindori, the last of the Keepers trained completely in the old, cloistered virginal tradition. While still quite young, she had left the tower, rebelled against the old superstitions surrounding the Pa trix circles and especially the Keepers and had, in defiance of tradition and belief, taken a consort and bore him a child while continuing to use the powers she had been taught. She had been horribly murdered by fanatics who thought a Keeper's virginity was more important than her competence or her powers. But she had broken the ancient mold, defied the superstitions and created a new scientific approach to what is now called Patrix mechanics. For years her very name had been ab horred as a renegade. Now her memory was revered by every psi techni cian on Vandartha.