Traitor's Sun (73 page)

She took a deep breath and drew her mind into a less stressful channel. Marguerida knew she had to conserve her energies for the attack, that she would need all her wits about her, and if she started imagining blaster bolts, she would be exhausted by the time they reached their foes. Instead, she turned her thoughts to Illona Rider, who might or might not be a child of Dyan Ardais.

It was clear from the way Dyan had behaved that he was reluctant to acknowledge the girl. Marguerida had never completely understood him, after all it was no shame to father
nedestro
children, and all Darkovan children were so very precious! He should have rejoiced to know that another child of his lived! Something would have to be done about Illona, whether or not Dyan acknowledged her. She sighed. Fostering was the obvious answer, but she was not sure she wanted to take on another adolescent herself. Alanna was enough trouble already, and she had the suspicion that her difficult charge would not be pleased to have a rival for the affections of those around her. More, Marguerida was fairly certain that Nico would be caught between the two girls.

She remembered what people had said to her so long ago: “An untrained telepath is a danger to herself and everyone around her.”

The girl needed training, too. And she did not doubt that Domenic was correct in his guess that Illona had the Alton Gift. Marguerida had felt the girl’s nascent
laran,
and it was enough like her own to make her believe her son. But she did not think that Arilinn would be a very friendly place for a Traveler child, and she suspected that after a few rebuffs from the other students there, Illona would simply run away. No, she must either foster the girl herself or send her someplace like Tramontana. And fretting about it now was not doing her any good at all.

Against her better judgement, Marguerida turned her mind back to the present. Had they thought though all the possibilities? Could they protect enough of their own people with the combined energies of her matrix and Mikhail’s to halt the attack? They had tried to test the limits of their powers, and knew that it could stop an arrow easily. It had been a nerve-racking experience for them, and even more so for the hapless Guardsman who was asked to aim his bow toward them. But whether it would be able to stop a blaster was another matter entirely. It was really a shame that the Command Voice was such a limited resource, that it did not reach beyond a hundred feet with any reliability. They had decided not to risk that, since it would affect friend and foe alike, leaving those outside its influence free to do as they wished.

Marguerida shifted in the saddle, turned, and looked behind her. She found Francisco Ridenow riding a few lengths back, and remembered that Kate had told her to keep an eye on him. Then she turned ahead again, and strained her distance sense to its utmost. She had done this several times already, but this time she was rewarded with the faint glimmer of mental energies about a mile beyond. It was still too far for her to distinguish individual minds, or to discover anything really useful from them.

You are doing fine,
caria
.

I never thought that being likened to a pot would seem so . . . loving!
They rode in companionable silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts.

Marguerida cleared her throat, annoyed by how taut her muscles were, and told Mikhail and Danilo Syrtis-Ardais, who was riding on her right, what she had just learned. She felt buttressed by the two men, as well as by the comforting bulks of the Guardsmen riding around them. “That is useful to know,” was Danilo’s only comment.

“I would give a great deal to learn exactly what the nature of the orders was, if this mess ever gets sorted out.”

“What do you mean, Mik?” It was such a relief to speak, to let her tension express itself, however minimally.

“Who gave these orders? Was it Granfell or Belfontaine?”

“Why does that matter?”

“I think that Mikhail means that if Granfell is in charge, then Belfontaine can say he knew nothing about this, but if he gave the orders, and it ever becomes public, the Federation is going to be in a real situation.” Danilo spoke very slowly, as if he were puzzling it out even as he spoke.

“I don’t see that it matters, one way or the other, if the Federation is leaving Darkover anyhow.” Marguerida spoke sharply.

“Perhaps. But what if they do not? It is going to be difficult to explain either way—not to mention our part in things.”

Marguerida shrugged, trying to keep herself from being drawn into new worries. “They have given us the perfect reason—the funeral train was attacked by bandits, and they were slain.”

“I hope so. But we have to consider that the Federation might change its mind, and decide that we somehow provoked them.”

“Stop. We cannot start second guessing now, Mikhail,” Danilo said crisply. “Let’s just get through this alive, and worry about the outcome afterward.”

Donal, who was riding on Mikhail’s left, gave a little bark of unexpected laughter. “You mean ‘Kill them all and let the gods sort it out’?” he asked.

“Something like that,” Danilo replied, looking a little embarrassed by this blunt pronouncement.

The nearest Guardsmen suddenly grinned, as if they rather liked the sentiment the young paxman had expressed. Faint chuckles rose from tense throats, and the grim mood lifted for a moment. Everyone seemed to take a breath, as if their lungs were aching for air, before settling back into vigilance.

Mikhail gave Donal a look of mixed approval and apprehension and shifted in his saddle. Then he turned his eyes toward his wife.
This all feels so unreal, as if we were . . .

This is not a poem, and we are
not
riding into the Valley of Death, my
cario
. This is very real. And people will die this day, not the least poetically.
Marguerida could feel the sternness of her thoughts, and the conflict beneath them.

I hardly think I could have seen what little I did without knowing of my own death, Mikhail.
Marguerida refused to let herself think about the possibility that she might have been dead in her own vision and never have known it. That was too frightening.

Now they were within a quarter mile of the waiting enemy, although there was nothing except the silence of the birds to suggest anything unusual. They could see no figures in the trees ahead, nor any movement. But Marguerida could pick up the tension of the ambushers, even if she could not sort them out individually. Here and there were a few focused thoughts—from seasoned veterans, she suspected. Was this Shen among them, and could she discover him?

And what might she do if she did? She turned over several ideas in her own mind, wondering if she could use the Alton Gift at this distance on someone she had never encountered in her life. She rather doubted it would be effective, and it probably would not stop the attack. There did not seem to be any way out of their peril, and she knew she should just stop looking for other avenues.

At last she faced herself, and looked fiercely at the real problem with their plan. It had seemed perfectly fine back in the Crystal Chamber, but her husband was going to use his incredible powers in a way he never had before—he was a healer, and now he intended to be a destroyer. She shuddered suddenly. She did not want to kill anyone, and neither did Mikhail!

Part of her wanted to relieve him of the terrible responsibility, to take it on her own shoulders. But she knew she must not, that they must share the outcome together. Mikhail would never be able to forgive her if she tried to protect him now. She had to let him do this thing which ran against the grain, against everything he had stood for since he received Varzil’s ring. Her own powers could do a great deal of damage, but it was Mikhail’s that would ultimately decide the day. He was the ruler of Darkover now, and that meant she had to let him do what was needed, for anything else would unman him.

This was, she thought wryly, a fine time to be having second thoughts. Marguerida examined her sudden spate of ethical considerations, chided herself for not thinking of them earlier, and decided that she would just have to live with the consequences. Donal was right. Let the gods sort it out. The only problem—there never seemed to be any around when they were needed.

Then, with a flash of insight, she knew that Mikhail was experiencing his own struggle, too. If it was hard for her, how much more difficult must it be for him? Neither of them were at all bloodthirsty, and the idea of killing the men still secreted among the trees, even if they were enemies, was morally repugnant. But she would do the deed, and suffer the consequences of conscience another day.

Still, it was hard. Marguerida forced herself to accept things as they were, rather than as she wished they might be, and finally felt herself let go of her reluctance. Her doubts remained, gnawing at the back of her mind, but she shushed them sternly, and turned her attention back to the small wooded draw where the enemy waited. She sensed alertness, fear, excitement, and after several moments, something else. What was it?

Hesitation, she decided at last, from one mind among so many. Was this Commander Shen? In view of the little information Domenic had given her, it seemed a likely conjecture. Marguerida had the impulse to try to influence that faint but discernible emotion, to nudge this unknown person into a peaceable direction. It would have been a delicate thing to manage with someone she knew well, and nearly impossible with a stranger, but she was tempted. If only she could speak to this person, she could use the Command Voice. Surely it would be better for the enemy to withdraw without engaging—lives could be saved.

The opportunity passed. She felt the stranger quell his doubts, harden his resolve, and determine to give the order. “They are going to attack, Mik,” she said quietly.

“Was there ever any doubt of it?” His voice was thick with tension.

“Yes, for a few moments, there was.”

“Damn!”

“I know. But somehow we will come out of it. . . .”

“This is going to change everything—I can feel that now!”
And the worst part is, I think Varzil foresaw this. It was more than just getting the ring away from Ashara when he died—he said that it had to exist now for the future of Darkover! I wish it were not so. I will not be the same person after today, and I do not know if I can live with that . . . but I must.

Marguerida glanced at her husband for a moment, wondering what he meant. And then she knew, had always known, but had concealed it from herself, to protect herself from the pain this day would bring her husband and herself. This was their destiny, hers and Mikhail’s. It gave her a terrible feeling of helplessness, as if she had never had a choice. Fate had put a finger on her life, and the best she could do was try to survive it. Since that day, years before, when she had returned to Darkover, had set her foot down on the tarmac of the spaceport and crossed from the Terran Sector into Thendara, she had been preparing for this moment in time. And Mikhail too. That she could accept, although it cost her, but there were others involved, and she experienced a flash of fury that her strange destiny must include them. There was nothing fair about it, she decided, and then ruthlessly closed her mind to further rumination.

 

Dirck Vancof lowered the longviewer and wiped a bead of moisture from his brow. In spite of the cold breeze blowing across the rise he had chosen to sight from, he was sweating like a pig. His guts were knotted, and his head pounded. He shook his head. The train was much better guarded than he had expected, and he had a sinking sensation, one he knew all too well. He never should have gotten involved with Granfell’s insane plan.

Then, almost magically, everything became completely clear to him. If he stayed where he was, he was going to get killed. He was torn with indecision for a moment—should he just take off into the woods and fields beyond? The idea of spending the rest of his life on this chilly hell of a planet was vile. Worse, without the Travelers to conceal him, he had few resources. Yes, he could pass for a native, but he was sick and tired of Darkover, and had been for five years now.