Traitor's Sun (59 page)

In light of Francisco Ridenow’s rather checkered past, with the suspicion that he had had a hand in the deaths of his rivals, his uncle, and two brothers, for control of the Domain, Mikhail could only feel relief that there had been no attempt to do away with him thus far. But, now, with Regis’ death, perhaps that would change, too. Francisco refused to believe that only Mikhail could wield the matrix, since it was set in a ring instead of worn about the throat like others. What if Francisco decided he could now get his elegant hands on the treasure he desired?

Mikhail shook his head, to clear away these ugly thoughts. He was starting to understand the concerns that had blighted his uncle’s last years on Darkover, the fears that had wracked him, even while surrounded by trusted friends. Regis had survived the Sharra Rebellion and the attempts of the World Wreckers to destroy the planet and gain control of it. The experiences had profoundly affected his world view in his later years. Mikhail had no desire to imitate his late uncle by becoming paranoid, or even overly cautious, but Francisco was enough to give him pause. Mikhail refused to surrender to his imagination, as tempting as it was. It was hard, though, and he would have preferred to have the head of the Ridenow Domain with him, rather than against him.

What Varzil had not foreseen when he sent the ring into Darkover’s present was how greatly the passing of the matrix would affect the delicate balance between the Domains. Mikhail did not blame the man—he had needed to get the ring away from the grasp of Ashara Alton. And he had succeeded in that. Mikhail just wished the ring could have gone to someone else, someone stronger than he felt himself to be—or been taken out of play entirely. It was a burden, one he had undertaken willingly but without really understanding the problems it would create.

He had gained a great power, for healing and, he knew, for destruction as well, but it had cost him the unquestioned trust of his uncle, and the friendship of several people he valued. Lady Marilla Aillard, who had been like a mother to him while he was Dyan Ardais’ paxman, had chosen to side with Javanne and
Dom
Francisco, insisting that Mikhail was just too powerful to be trusted. The estrangement grieved him greatly, and he wondered if he could ever put it to rights. Worse, it had put his lifelong friend, her son, Dyan Ardais, in a most uncomfortable position, and the strain of that had made it hard for both of them. But he knew he could count on Dyan to remain loyal to him, and he silently numbered his allies, to reassure himself a little.

For years now the walls of the Crystal Chamber had echoed with argument—most of it concerning Mikhail and his place as Regis’ designated heir. His uncle had been less and less able to control the Council, and the deteriorating situation had added to his growing sense of unease. Even though Mikhail had never done anything to threaten Regis’ rule, the fact that he possessed the power to do so had disturbed his uncle’s peace of mind. No one seemed to be able to grasp the actuality of his power except himself, Marguerida, and Istvana Ridenow. And neither words of assurance nor promises could convince his foes on the Council that he was no threat to any of them.

Mikhail indulged himself briefly in the sense of being misunderstood. People, Lew Alton had frequently informed him, always judged others by what they themselves would do. His mother and Francisco craved power, and so they believed he must as well.

So many harsh words had been said in the Crystal Chamber, and between the two generations there now stood an abyss of bad feeling that he feared would turn into vicious and potentially bloody infighting once the presence of the Federation was removed. Would they fall into civil war, as had happened in the past? The thought that he might be responsible for such an event, that his mother and
Dom
Francisco might take up arms against him, was very nearly intolerable. And although he had never tested the powers of his matrix to their fullest, he had the sinking certainty that he could use it to destroy his enemies, if he were forced.

He had never challenged Regis’ authority by discovering all that his matrix was capable of. Instead he had trod a cautious and narrow path, careful never to cause his increasingly anxious uncle to feel threatened, while at the same time trying to retain his own self-respect. Now he was starting to understand the toll this interior conflict had taken on him, and he wondered if he were really up to the task of ruling Darkover. He had almost forgotten how to be forceful, and desperately wished he could reclaim his younger and less doubtful self. And he must, if Darkover were going to survive!

The years had not been wasted. Studying with Istvana Ridenow he had learned the vast healing capacities of his matrix. This had given Mikhail a deep satisfaction until he had been unable to save Regis. He knew of the remarkable tasks Varzil Ridenow had accomplished with the aid of the matrix, and suspected that he could do similar things. He still wondered how the man had transformed Lake Hali from a poisonous sink into its present peculiar condition. The knowledge of how to effect that change in energies, if it actually was possible, had not made itself known to Mikhail. But he knew that it meant that destruction was possible, even in a healing, and the idea did not make him rest easy. The sense that he might have to test the limits of his own powers in the near future was not a happy prospect.

Mikhail helped Marguerida into her chair, then took his place beside her. Donal put a goblet of cider beside his left hand, his young face calm and reassuring. He wished he could share his nephew’s apparent serenity. Now, all he had to do was live up to his young paxman’s excellent opinion of him. Oddly, this thought bolstered him and eased his endless doubts. He remembered how Donal had said that he had studied Danilo Syrtis-Ardais and made him a model for himself. That was very wise, for Danilo always seemed to be calm. Even when others lifted their voices, he never shouted or banged the table in rage. Perhaps he could do that as well.

Mikhail glanced at his mother’s face, then at
Dom
Damon’s, and realized it would be more difficult to keep his temper than he would have wished. They were both ready for a fight. His father,
Dom
Gabriel, was looking old and tired, and Mikhail suspected that Javanne had been driving the old man mad with her schemes and plots. At least he knew he could count on his father, no matter what his mother said in her rage.

Lew and Danilo Syrtis-Ardais entered the chamber together, followed quickly by Dani Hastur with his wife, Miralys Elhalyn-Hastur, on his arm. The pretty girl who had briefly been his ward sixteen years before had turned into a stunningly beautiful woman, confident and serene where she had once been shy and fearful. She was pregnant for a third time, and her skin glowed with the health and vigor of her condition. Marriage to Dani clearly agreed with her, as being Underkeeper at Arilinn agreed with her younger sister Valenta. It gladdened him to know that at least some of the people in the room were happy, and he rather wished Valenta were present as well. She was a fearless woman, tart-tongued, and utterly unintimidated by Javanne. But she was needed at the Tower, to oversee the relays for the present, and, he prayed, to prevent any of the Traveler troupes from causing more trouble.

Mikhail’s brother Rafael helped his mother into a chair, and then took the one between them. Javanne gave her middle son a dark look, as if questioning his presence in the Crystal Chamber after so many years of absence. It felt very good to have Rafael between them, although he knew it would not protect him from Javanne’s ire. Then he noticed that
Dom
Damon was staring at Rafael, and that he seemed none too pleased to find him there.

Mikhail was wondering why
Dom
Damon was looking daggers at his son-in-law when Marguerida placed her matrixed left hand over his engloved right one, and gave it a quick squeeze. The quiet gesture reassured him more than it had any business to. More people entered the room.
Dom
Francisco took the seat beside Javanne Hastur, and Lady Marilla sat on his other side. Dyan Ardais hesitated, and then sat down in one of the chairs which ordinarily would have been occupied by
leroni
from the Towers, putting a space between himself and his mother on one side, and the Alton seat on the other, already occupied by
Dom
Gabriel.

Danilo Syrtis-Ardais, who ordinarily sat where Rafael was now positioned, took the situation in with a swift glance, and placed himself on Marguerida’s other side, with Dani and Miralys beside him.
Dom
Damon and Robert Aldaran took places between Dyan Ardais and
Dom
Gabriel, with several chairs left untenanted on either side of them, isolating them a little. The table could seat thirty without crowding, but the Keepers from the various Towers who would have been present if it were Midsummer were not there. Lady Linnea had excused herself, pleading her grief. Mikhail knew it was something more—a desire to avoid Javanne Hastur which he shared with her.

“Are we going to sit here like stones,” growled
Dom
Damon, “or get this foolishness over and done with.”

“Father,” Robert warned gruffly.

The elder Aldaran glared at his son. “What? We all know what we are going to say—it has been said here so often that I could likely recite to you the very words that will be spoken!” He glared around the table, daring anyone to challenge him, and looked very disappointed when no one did.

“
Dom
Damon is right,” Francisco Ridenow began. “We have said everything, time and time again.” He looked as if the words were sour in his mouth, for to agree with an Aldaran on any matter, even the weather, did not please him. “But I suppose we will have to go through the whole thing for form’s sake.”

Mikhail knew he must take charge of the meeting before it disintegrated into the all too familiar baiting and name calling that had become expected procedure at Council meetings. The lassitude in his limbs, and a certain fuzziness in his mind, almost overwhelmed him for a moment. Maybe Javanne was right—that in spite of his
laran
-founded power, he was not really capable of governing Darkover. But, if not him, then who? Dani was out of the question, no matter what his mother imagined, and Nico was too young. He had prepared for this responsibility all his life, and it was not fair that now he had the task, he felt unequal to it.

Then Lew Alton sat down next to
Dom
Gabriel. He gave Mikhail a look that seemed to mirror his own doubts and fears. Lew nodded at him, and suddenly the weariness that was crippling him vanished. His mind cleared completely, and if he had not known that it was almost impossible to use
laran
in the chamber, he would have thought that his father-in-law had somehow managed to use forced rapport to good effect on his flagging spirits.

“There is actually a great deal of new business to consider, and I hope we will be able to avoid our usual petty bickering,” Mikhail began calmly, trying to imitate Danilo as he had planned a few minutes earlier. He saw his mother’s cheeks redden at this remark, and knew he had scored a small hit. It was rather shameful how much pleasure he got from this little victory, so he put it out of his mind completely.

“First, I think everyone is already aware that the Terranan are planning to withdraw from Darkover in the very near future. While I realize that this will please some of us here, I believe that is a short-sighted way to look at it. When the Federation leaves, it will not evaporate, and it will not likely forget that Darkover exists. I realize that some of you imagine that will be the outcome, but you are wrong!”

“What do you mean, Mikhail,” Lady Marilla asked in her soft voice.

“I mean that they will still have the capacity to return, hostilely if they should choose. If there are no treaties or agreements to honor, then they might feel free to do almost anything.” He did not catalog the many possibilities—it was better to let their imaginations supply them.

“But why would they want to do that?” she said in a puzzled tone.

“Because they can,
domna,
” Lew growled. “The Federation we are now facing is not the same one which came to Darkover during the time of Lorill Hastur, and we should not delude ourselves that it is.”

“Yes, yes—you have been saying something of that sort for years, Lew,” snapped Lady Javanne, “you old storm crow. I, for one, have never put much credence in it, and I do not believe you now.”

“That is your privilege, Javanne, and I hope that you will never see Armida occupied by Federation forces.”

“I do not frighten easily,” she answered, yet she appeared uncertain to Mikhail’s eye.

“Just a moment,” Francisco Ridenow said before anyone else could speak. “We have not yet chosen a new head of the Comyn Council, and I think we should, before we begin any actual business. I nominate Danilo Hastur and . . .”

“Do you think you are in a democracy?” Lew interrupted sharply. “As Regis’ chosen heir, Mikhail is head of the Council, and we need not waste any time discussing the matter.”

Francisco gave Javanne a sidelong glance, and then went on as if Lew had not spoken. “I do not agree. Just because you have always assumed you would take Regis’ place, Mikhail, does not mean that you will. The succession has
not
been decided. Therefore I propose we should select Danilo Hastur to be the new head of Comyn Council, because he is the most legitimate person to lead us.”

Dani, who was ordinarily the quietest of men, turned an unlovely shade of red, and banged his fist on the table. “How dare you suggest such a thing—you maggot!” Then he rounded on his aunt Javanne, finally ready to let all the grievances of the past few days find an outlet. “This is your doing, and I will not be party to it! You are a selfish, interfering old woman, and it is just a shame that you did not die in my father’s place! If you think you can manipulate me, think again. I want nothing to do with you, or with your filthy plans to run Darkover to suit yourself.”