Mother!

Yes, Nico.

I can hear that Vancof now-he's not with the rest, but is in a thicket where he can see us coming. A lookout, I guess. And he seems a bit surprised at our numbers, and is starting to worry. He's trying to decade whether to retreat and tell the main party, or stay where he is. Well, he really wants a drank, and he is very worried, mostly about his own skin. He's wishing that he had run off days ago, that he wasn't under orders, that Granfell was dead-a lot of jumbled thoughts. Hmm . . . I am getting the impression that there is some sort of division.

Division?

He's remembering some argument last night, between Granfell and the head of the soldiers from the Hellers, Commander Shen. It is not really clear, but I think that maybe this Shen was brought down here with orders he doesn't like, or that maybe he doesn't like the whole situation. Sorry I am not able to be clearer, but Vancof's mind is not very focused. Part of him wants to be anywhere else but where he is, but the rest needs to find out what is going to happen. It is as if he is paralyzed with indecision and curiosity at the same time.

Well, perhaps Shen is more honorable than Granfell and does not think that attacking civilians is right.

It is something about the nature of the orders they received, I think. Maybe this Shen fellow just doesn't want to get caught doing something the Federation would punish him for. I wish I could tell you better.

You have already done a great deal, Nico. Thank you, my little spy.

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 of we were . . .

In some old poem, beloved? 'Into the Valley of Death rode the Six Hundred . . .'

That's it! I could not put my finger on at, and it has been driving me frantic.

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.

How . . .?

I had a brief flash and saw bodies, but whose I cannot say, except that neither yours nor Nico's were amongst them.

And you?

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.

A slow grin began to grow. He turned and started down the hill, toward the encampment where the techs had set up their equipment. He knew what he had to do now, and it was so obvious and so simple that he could hardly believe it had taken him so long to think of it. To hell with all of them, Granfell and Belfontaine-he was going to take care of Mother Vancof's little boy.

Halfway down the hill, he saw Miles Granfell climbing toward him, and he smiled to himself. The fool had no idea that Belfontaine had ordered him to kill Granfell, and the man was going to make it easy. His miserable luck was changing at last.

"I was coming to get you," Granfell told him as he drew near. With a nod, Vancof moved down the hill a few feet more, and then, without a wasted movement, he plunged a knife into Granfell's throat, using the incline of the slope to compensate for the other man's greater height. He glimpsed a flicker of surprise in the gray eyes, and there was a spasm of movement from his hands. A bubbling gurgle came from the gaping mouth as blood gushed from the wound and spilled down onto his garment. Then Granfell's knees buckled, and he went down, sliding down the hill until his body encountered a tree.

Vancof walked over to the corpse, bent down to make certain the bastard was really dead, and yanked out the knife. He wiped the blade on Granfell's tunic, and kicked the dead man's torso for good measure. Then he strolled away, whistling under his breath.

A few minutes later he reached the encampment and looked around casually, as if he did not have a care in the world. Most of the troops were already in position, and the only people he saw were a few techs waiting for something to happen. They paid no attention when he strolled toward the two heavy flyers that had ferried them down from the Hellers the night before.

He entered the unguarded door of the closest one, pressed the button to close it behind him, and walked toward the controls. It took no more than a few seconds to sit down and punch the controls into life-the machine was easy to operate and he had flown them before. The engine hummed as he set the coordinates for the spaceport in Thendara.

Vancof heard a dull thump against the closed door of the vehicle, and, very faintly, a shout. Then the flyer lifted effortlessly off the ground and he was aloft, soaring over the trees. He had a last glimpse of the encampment, and of the funeral train stretched along the road. For a second he thought he saw something explode on the road, and wondered what was happening. He gave a shrug and sped away into the air.

Marguerida heard Danilo exclaim beside her. She saw he was pointing into the sky and she saw the shimmering outline of a flyer for a moment, rising above the trees. Almost before she had time to wonder if they were going to be assaulted from above, she heard the howl of voices, and a group of men burst out of the trees ahead of her. They were dressed in Darkovan clothing, muted brown or green tunics, their faces concealed under scarves. They charged into the foremost Guardsmen, swinging thick sticks at the legs of the horses.

But the Guards did not lose control. Instead, they pulled their mounts together, using them as both a defense and an offense. The horses reared and kicked out at the attackers, and at the same time their large bodies protected their riders for a few moments. The Guardsmen began to wield their swords and spears efficiently, cutting at heads and shoulders. There was the twang of bowstrings, and a flight of arrows arced into the trees. From the cries, several found their marks.

Clever, she thought, as she yanked her hand free of her riding glove, then pulled the silken mitt beneath it away. It was almost exactly what real bandits would have done, if they were on foot against men on horses. Behind her she could hear shouting, as the drivers of the wagons and carriages pulled their vehicles into defensive positions around the horsedrawn hearse which bore the body of Regis Hastur and the coaches containing the noncombatants. At the rear of the train, the doors of several carriages opened, and the men who had hidden within them, waiting for just this moment, bolted out.

A second rush of attackers surged from beneath the trees, and she could hear the shrieking of frightened horses. Marguerida extended her hand, palm upward, rejecting the panic that threatened to seize her, and saw Mikhail's ungloved hand steady above it. As her matrix grounded and supported his, there was no doubt, no hesitation, nothing but a sureness of purpose that calmed her instantly and filled her with an almost euphoric bond of unity as they began to build the wonderful cone of power that only they could create between them.

Light burst from the gleaming jewel on Mikhail's hand, rising up toward the clouded sky, surrounding her, then widening into a globe of shimmering energy that would protect them, the body of Regis, and those in the guarded coaches. Marguerida slipped into the sensation of completeness that was the joining of her power with that of Mikhail, all the love that they had given one another over the years poured into a single certainty.

She caught fragments of thought as if from a great distance, but the terror within them barely reached her. It was just a jumble of energy, and Marguerida saw it as a whirl of colors, sickly yellows and greens.

The thick sticks fell to the ground, and swords were cast down. The Guardsmen seized the moment and charged the momentarily paralyzed men, and slew a few before stubby metal objects appeared from beneath the muffling garments. There was a bright flash from one then, and a Guardsman fell back with a large hole in his chest. His horse reared and kicked at the attacker, and there was another blast, catching the mount in the muzzle. It fell on the enemy as it died, its weight pinning the man to the earth, while he screamed with fury.

Mikhail drove his thoughts through his matrix, drawing on Marguerida's supportive energy. A broad beam of light snapped from the blinding facets, wove out from the protective bubble, and fanned across the oncoming fighters. Guardsmen yanked their horses aside, for Mikhail's weapon could not distinguish friend from foe, and they had been forewarned. It flickered into the cluster of now firing troopers like lightning, searing the men so quickly they could not think to escape its scorching touch.

Everything seemed to slow to a crawl, and all Marguerida could do was endure the hideous vision that opened before her eyes. The dull metal weapons disintegrated, and then the men who held them seemed to . . . fall to pieces. Mikhail had reversed his healing ability, and now he was undoing the very sinews of the enemy. Blood flowed from every bodily orifice, as torsos collapsed in on themselves, the ground was a river of blood as men turned to ghouls then to corpses in a matter of moments.

There was confusion everywhere now, with the Guardsmen desperately scrambling to get out of the reach of Mikhail's deadly energy, and those who remained of the first attackers running blindly in every direction. The men who had only started to emerge from the cover of the trees were caught unprepared, and had no time to save themselves. The baleful light from Mikhail's hand spread across the thicket, blasting everything it touched. The conifers went up like torches, and the smell of burned flesh mingled with the hot tree resin, as the ground turned from red to black with bloody ash. Those few more fortunate foes who were beyond the range of this destruction were being ridden down by the Guardsmen.

Fire began to leap from tree to tree now, the rich sap of the evergreens feeding its hunger, adding to the confusion. Now Marguerida could clearly hear screams of pain and fear, and they made her sick. But she did not waver, and neither did Mikhail. Instead, she sensed him guide his horse to one side, and she turned with him, so that his destruction began to work its way down the side of the road toward the back of the train. She tried not to think of the rear of the caravan, where there was no protection for the fighters and the Renunciates. She knew that there were people back there who were dying in the service of the Hasturs. Swords were little use against blasters, but she felt them bravely fighting on regardless.

The sound of the battle began to change, and, as if from a great distance, Marguerida realized that what remained of the enemy had only one thought in its communal awareness-get away! Neither she nor Mikhail had imagined how terrifying the manifestation of their power would be to the Federation troops. She heard the occasional sizzle of blaster fire, here and there, between the burning trees, but even as she listened, it became less frequent.

The battle at the front of the train was over almost before it began. A few more were caught in the continuing energy of Mikhail's matrix. Those who escaped it were hacked down by the guardsmen, or were trapped by the fire. She could hear their mental chorus of despair and disbelief as they perished. These men were stunned by the turn of events, humbled even as they died.

From within the smoke and flames Marguerida saw a mounted man, riding toward the fight, his face still concealed. She sensed his mind, his purpose, and worse, his fatality. It was only for a moment, and she wondered if he would turn away. Instead, he rode directly into the glare of Mikhail's destruction, raising a gloved hand in a kind of salute as he turned to ash. There was a last thought, strong enough to penetrate her senses even in the chaos. At least an honorable death.

Mikhail moved his hand slightly, and the protective shield around them started to diminish. Marguerida felt the withdrawal of energy, the painful loss of the tremendous intimacy that they had shared during the brief battle, and then only her own weariness. She closed her eyes, focused on clearing her channels, and slowly felt the exhaustion drop away, to be replaced by ravenous hunger of a sort she had not experienced in years. Then, before she was prepared for it, the shock and grief struck her. So many good men had died in the short minutes of the battle, and more were going to.

Without a word, she pushed aside the emotion, and saw that Mikhail was dismounting, followed by Donal, who was ghastly pale. Two Guardsmen protested this action, but Mikhail was already walking toward the slumped bodies of those who had been outside the circle of his protection. He bent over a fallen Guard, then knelt on the ground beside him, while Donal hovered at his back, vigilant even in his slowly diminishing terror.

The movement of a horse alongside her as she began to swing out of the saddle to join Mikhail seemed perfectly normal, and Marguerida barely noticed it. Then she realized that Francisco Ridenow was riding toward Mikhail, lifting his sword, a look of hatred on his pale face. Donal started to turn at the sound of hooves behind him, but not quickly enough. In a second he was down on the ground, trying to avoid being trampled.

Before she could move, or even try to use the Command Voice to stop Francisco's attack, Marguerida saw another movement from the corner of her eye. Rafael Hastur's horse thundered forward and he brought the hilt of his sword down on the head of the Ridenow lord so hard there was an audible crack. The man swayed in his saddle, clutching at the pommel with his free hand, then swung around to bring the blade of his sword down on the neck of Rafael's horse, missing the rider's knee by a few inches. The horse shied and screamed, beginning to fall.

Donal scrambled to his feet, his face dripping blood. She saw the young paxman brush his eyes clean, and then he drove his sword into Francisco's thigh, screaming, "You traitorous bastard!"

Then a half dozen Guardsmen surrounded Dom Francisco, and one of them knocked him out of the saddle. He lay unconscious, blood spilling from his leg, and Donal, furious and swaying, raised his weapon to finish what he had begun.

"No!" The word sprang from Marguerida's mouth without thought.

Donal hesitated, and one of the Guardsmen dismounted quickly and bent over the fallen lord. He looked up at her. "You want him alive, domna, or should we let him bleed to death?"

Mikhail pushed between Donal and the Guardsman, his face grim and pale. He studied Francisco for a moment, then knelt down beside him. Without a word, he placed his hand above the wound, the light glittering from the facets of his ring in the red light from the fire behind him. Within the space of a few seconds the bleeding had begun to slow. "I want him alive," he told the Guard. "Death is too easy an escape."

"If you say so, vai dom, if you say so." The Guard seemed disappointed.

Marguerida looked down at Francisco, and the entire scene became surreal, as if she could not really grasp what had just happened. Kate had been right. As she tried to grapple with her inner confusion, she felt an agitation bloom at the edge of her mind. It was faint at first, and then it penetrated the cloudiness within her. She turned and stared toward the back of the funeral train, toward the carriages, and felt her heart tighten terribly. She could see movement, the rush of fighters back and forth, punctuated by the occasional wild flare of blaster fire. A clutch of fear seized her guts, twisting them.

Domenic! Mikhail's head snapped toward her, and then she started to run through the milling horses and men, past the great flat wagon where the body of Regis Hastur lay in his coffin. A broad chest rose before her eyes, clad in the blue of the Hastur Guards, and she pushed her right hand into it and shoved with all her weight. Despite his greater heft, the man went down on his bottom into the dirt, making a noise as the air was knocked out of him. Behind her, she could sense Mikhail following, and several others trying to make certain he was safe.

Her mouth was dry, and her blood was hammering in her veins so loudly she barely heard the shouts around her. All she could think of was to get to her son as quickly as possible.

By the time she reached the carriage, she was gasping for breath. The door was open, and a pair of legs hung down to the ground. Marguerida moved around the door and peered inside. Domenic looked back at her, his eyes very wide and his face a sickly white. In his hand there was a short dagger, smeared with blood. The torso and head of a man lay sprawled at Nico's knees, a wound in his thick neck. Katherine was shrunk back into the far corner and Herm was trying to staunch a flow of blood from his left shoulder.

"He didn't think a boy was any danger," Nico muttered dazedly, and then vomited up the excellent lunch he had eaten an hour or so before onto the bloody floorboards. The dagger slipped from his fingers and Marguerida swept him into her arms, hugging him fiercely.

Katherine slid across the bench toward her husband. With a sharp movement, she yanked the undersleeve from her chemise, pulling like a madwoman until the stitches gave way. She dragged the torn sleeve out from beneath her tunic and tied it above the wound as fast and tightly as she could, swearing and crying at the same time. Herm was only half conscious, but he kept muttering that he was all right.

Marguerida swallowed hard, assured herself quickly that her son had come to no physical harm, and crawled onto the back of the dead man, her knees pressing against the still warm flesh beneath the clothes. "Here, let me help, Kate."

"What can you do?" shrilled the other woman, appealing to her with stricken eyes.

"You would be surprised," she answered, calmness claiming her so suddenly she wondered where her fear had gone. The makeshift tourniquet had slowed the flow of blood, but Herm's arm was a gory, terrible sight. "Get out of my way!"

Katherine stared at her for a moment, looked as if she would not move, then drew back. Marguerida leaned toward Herm, lifted her still bare left hand, and closed her eyes. By Aldones, she was tired! It felt like an eternity before she could locate the vessels that had been damaged. The cut had missed the artery by no more than a breath, but the wound was bleeding badly.

"What are you doing?" Kate shouted, frightened and furious at the same time.

"Let her be," Domenic yelled back, then spewed again.

"It is all right, Kate," came Mikhail's voice from behind Marguerida. She knew he was standing at the open door of the carriage now, and she felt his weariness as well as her own.

Marguerida tried to close her mind to the sounds around her, the braying of the frenzied mules, the shouts of Guardsmen and Renunciates. That was easier that shutting out Katherine's panic, Nico's horror, and her husband's concern. It seemed to take forever, but at last she managed to focus on nothing but Hermes-Gabriel Aldaran, and for a time, she was isolated with him. She lifted her matrixed palm and moved it across the severed flesh, cauterizing the wound. Momentarily she felt herself falter, and then felt Mikhail support her until she had the strength to complete the task at hand. It would need to be cleansed and sutured, but for now she had stopped the bleeding.

Marguerida finally realized she was kneeling on a corpse, and she drew herself onto the bench beside her son. Her face was covered with sweat, and her hands were trembling. She drew her sleeve across her brow, and caught a whiff of her own fear-charged sweat and the blood on her hands. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. Katherine was staring at her, her own hands covered with Herm's blood, her skin a shade of white Marguerida had never seen before. "He will be all right, Kate, until a healer can clean him up," she managed to croak.

She was too tired to move, but the noisome atmosphere of the carriage was nearly unbearable. She wanted to get out of the carriage more than anything, but her body refused to move. Then Marguerida saw a pair of strong hands grasp the heels of the dead man still lying on the floorboards, covered with vomit and blood. They yanked hard, and the corpse began to move away. There was a dull, sickening sound as the body hit the earth, and she felt her gorge rise. She swallowed hard, forcing her lunch to stay in her belly, as the door on the opposite side of the carriage was pulled open.

She saw a Guardsman and one of the Renunciates there, eyes anxious. She heard the sound of the dead body being dragged aside, and then Mikhail leaned inside. Herm groaned and opened his eyes slowly. He tried to lean forward and gave a gasp of pain. Katherine leaned forward and put her bloodied hands under his arms, supporting him as much as she could.

"Get him out and bring a stretcher," Mikhail ordered the Guard on the other side of the vehicle. "Lady Katherine, you might get down now, so it will be easier to reach Herm." When she did not move, he spoke more sharply. "Ease him back onto the bench and get out!"

She stared at him dumbfounded, and then she slowly moved her husband against the seat and clambered down. "I am never going to get into a carriage again! Never!" Then she started sobbing.

The carriage rocked as the Guardsman climbed in, and the Renunciate reached over and took Herm's upper body. It took only a few seconds to remove him from the close quarters, but it seemed a very long time to Marguerida, still sitting on the bench, too tired to stir.

"Don't worry, Mother. That's Danila, and Aunt Rafi says she is a good healer." Domenic gave a rather hysterical laugh. "She's been wanting to get her hands on Uncle Herm for days now. Come on. Let's get out, too. Here, I'll help you."

A hand grasped hers, and then a slender arm encircled her waist. Marguerida smelled her son's flesh as he pulled her against him, the filthy odor of his breath so near her face nearly oversetting her again. Beneath that the scents of fear and sweat were mingled with woodsmoke and the faintest hint of mountain lavender in the fabric of his clothing. For the first time in her life, she leaned on her firstborn and allowed him to help her to her feet. He was safe, and that was all that really mattered.