“Oh, Elorie! Oh, God, Elorie!” he whispered, overwhelmed.
“So now you have lost everything—and you’re not even free,” she said wildly. “But I have nothing, no one else, if you do not want me, I have nothing, nothing—”
Kerwin picked her up in his arms like a child, cradling her close to him. He was awed at the immensity of her trust; shaken and dismayed at what she had given up for him. He kissed her wet face; laid her down on the tumbled bed and knelt at her side.
“Elorie,” he said, and the words were a prayer and a pledge, “I don’t care if I have lost everything else, now that I have you. My only regret in leaving Arilinn was because I thought I was leaving you.”
The words were not true and he knew as he spoke them that they were not true, and he knew that Elorie knew. Yet the only thing that mattered now was to reassure Elorie with a deeper truth. “I love you, Elorie,” he whispered, and that at least was true. “I will never let you go.” He leaned forward, kissing her on the lips, and gathered her childish body again into his arms.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Doorway to the Past
Thendara, in the dying light, was a mass of black towers and shapes; the Terran HQ below them was a single brightly lighted spike against the sky. Jeff pointed it out to Elorie through the window of the Terran airliner.
“It may not be very beautiful to you now, my darling. But somewhere I’ll find a world to give you.”
She leaned against his shoulder. “I have all the world I want.”
The seat-belt sign flashed, and he helped her to buckle her straps; she put her hands over her ears, hating the noise, and he put his arm around her, holding her tight.
The last three days had been day of joy and discovery for both of them, even through their shared sense of being outcaste, driven from the only home either of them had ever wanted. Neither spoke of this; they had too much else to share with one another.
He had never known a womanlike Elorie. Once he had thought her aloof, passionless; then he had come to see that calm as a deep-seated control, not as absence of passion.
She had come to him frightened, desolate, innocent almost to ignorance, and terrified. And she had given him her fear as she had given the rest of herself, without pretense and without shame. That utter trust frightened Kerwin, too—how could he ever be worthy of it? But it was typical of Elorie that she could do nothing by halves or meanly; as Keeper she had kept herself clear even from the fringes of passion; even in imagination, she had never thought of love. And having discarded that place, she had given herself over to Jeff with all of her long-controlled passion and dedication.
Once he had said something of this to her; his surprise, his fear that she would be frightened or frigid, his overwhelming surprise and delight at her response to his passion. Somehow he had believed that a woman who could live the life of a Keeper would be cold at the core, without passion or desire.
She had laughed aloud, shaking her head. “No,” she said. “Kennard explained this once to me; outsiders would think that a passionless woman, who would not suffer in living alone and loveless, would be right for a Keeper. But anyone who knew anything of
laran
would know better.
Laran
and sexuality arise from the same place within, and are closely akin, and a woman who could be keeper without suffering would not have enough
laran
to be a Keeper, or anything else!”
Now, as they landed, she drew her cloak over her bright hair; he held her arm on the hard and unfamiliar metal steps. He must seem resolute for her sake, even if he was not. “I know it is strange to you, darling. But it won’t be strange for long.”
“No place will be strange to me where you are,” she said valiantly. “But—but will they allow this? They won’t—won’t separate us?”
On that he could reassure her. “I may be Darkovan under your laws,” he said, “but I have Terran citizenship and they cannot deny me that. And any woman who legally marries a citizen of the Empire is automatically given citizenship.” He remembered the bored, incurious clerk in the Trade City at Port Chicago who had married them three days ago. Port Chicago was beyond the Domains; the clerk had glanced briefly at Jeff’s identity disk, heard Elorie give her name as “Elorie Ardais” without a ripple of interest; probably he had never heard of the Comyn, or of the Arilinn Tower. He brought in a woman in his office to witness the marriage; she had been chirpy and friendly, saying to Elorie that with their two red heads they should have a quite a crop of redheaded children. Elorie had blushed, and Kerwin had felt a great and unexpected tenderness. The thought a child of Elorie’s touched him in a way he had not thought he could be moved.
“You are my wife in Empire law, wherever we go,” he repeated. He added, gently, “We may have to leave Darkover, though.”
She nodded, biting her lip. The Comyn might be as anxious, now, to have Jeff deported as, before, they had been anxious to prevent it.
Kerwin secretly felt it would be better that way. Darkover could never be, for either of them, more than a reminder of what they had lost. And there were worlds enough, out there.
Nervously, he approached the barrier. He might, just possibly, be taken into custody as a man under sentence of deportation. There were certain legal formalities he could invoke, appeal, delays to which he was legitimately entitled. It hadn’t seemed worth it, for himself. For Elorie, he would do all he could to evade the summary judgment, turn it in his favor.
The tall Spaceforce man in black leather stared at Kerwin’s shabby Terran clothing, at the shrinking, veiled girl on his arm. He glanced at Jeff’s identity certification.
“And the woman?”
“My wife. We were married in Port Chicago three days ago.”
“I see,” said the Spaceforce man, slowly. “In that case there are certain formalities.”
“Just as you like.”
“If you’ll come inside the HQ please.”
He led them inside, Jeff squeezing Elorie’s arm reassuringly. He tried to hide the apprehension he felt. The marriage would have to be recorded through Records, and once Jeff surrendered his identification, the computer would immediately come up with the information that he was under sentence of deportation and suspension.
He had considered returning to the Terran Zone anonymously, at least for a day or two. But the peculiarity of Empire law concerning native women and marriage made that unthinkable. She had insisted, when he explained, that she did not care. But Jeff said firmly, asserting himself over her protest for the first time, “
I
care,” and had left her no room for argument.
The Empire Civil Service consists largely of single men; few Terran women care to accompany their men halfway across the Galaxy. This means that on every planet liaisons with native women, both formal and informal, are taken for granted. To avoid endless complications with various planetary governments, the Empire makes a very clear distinction.
An Empire citizen may marry any woman, on any planet, by the laws of her own world and her own customs; it is a matter between the individual Terran, the woman, her family, and the laws under which she lives. The Empire has no part in it. Whether the marriage is formal or informal, temporary or permanent, or no marriage at all, is a matter for the private ethical and moral standards of the parties involved. And that man is carried as single on the Records of the Empire, making such provision for his wife as he privately chooses; although he may, if he wishes, file for citizenship for any child of the marriage, and obtain certain privileges for him. As the elder Jeff Kerwin had done for his son.
But if he chooses to register the marriage through Terran records, or signs any Empire document speaking of any native woman on any world, legally, as his wife, she is so in fact. From the moment their marriage contract was signed, and went through the Records, Elorie was entitled legally to all the privileges of a citizen; and if Jeff had died in the next breath after signing, she would still have been entitled to all the privileges of a citizen’s widow. Kerwin was uncertain as to what the future would hold; but he had wanted to protect Elorie and provide for her in this way. Words spoken in bitterness still rang in his ears and turned up in his nightmares.
In the old days it would have been death for you, Elorie—and death by torture for him!
And an old terror was upon him. There were those who might feel compelled to avenge the honor of a Keeper.
Kennard had said—what had Kennard said? Nothing. But still, Jeff was afraid without knowing why. So he watched with relief as a registry clerk took his thumbprint, and Elorie’s, and tapped out information for Records. Now there was no way for the long arm of the Comyn to reach out and snatch Elorie from him.
He hoped.
Watching the details disappear into the computer, he was sure he had set trouble in motion for himself. Within a few hours he would have questions to answer, he might have to face deportation. He had a blot on his record, but he was a civilian, after all, and leaving his job without formal permission was only a minor offense against his seniority, not a crime. Somehow, he had to arrange to make a living. He had to decide whether to go to Terra or take a chance on another world—he was fairly sure his Terran grandparents wouldn’t really welcome Elorie—but all those details could wait.
Most of his knowledge of Thendara was of bars and similar places, where he couldn’t take Elorie. He could have claimed quarters in the HQ, putting in a requisition for married personnel, but he wouldn’t do that until he had to. Equally unwise would be to find quarters in the Old Town—he had had a taste in Arilinn of how the Comyn were treated when recognized. A hotel in the Trade City was the obvious temporary solution.
He pointed out to her, as they passed, the Spaceman’s Orphanage. “That’s where I lived until I was twelve years old,” he said, and let the silent puzzlement strike him again:
Or did I? Why, then, did the place have no records of me?
“Elorie,” he asked, when they were alone in their hotel, “did the Comyn have anything to do with destroying my records in the Orphanage?” A matrix, he supposed, could easily wipe out the data on a computer. At least, with what he knew of computers and matrixes, he could easily have devised a way to do it.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I do know we got Auster back from them when he was a small child, and
his
records were destroyed.”
Kennard had referred to that as a curious story, and had implied that he would tell Jeff about it sometime. But he hadn’t.
Long after Elorie slept, he lay awake at her side, thinking about the false leads and blind alleys that had obscured his search for his own background. When the Comyn found him, he had abandoned the search—after all, he had found out the main thing he wanted to know; where he belonged. But there were still mysteries to be solved, and before he left Darkover forever—and he supposed, now, that was only a matter of time—he was going to have a last try at solving them.
He told Elorie a little, the next day.
“There was no record of me there; I saw what the machine gave out. But if I could get into the place and check—there might even be someone there, one of the matrons or teachers, who remembered me.”
“Would it be dangerous—to try and get in?”
“Not dangerous to life or limb, no. But I could be arrested for trespassing, or for breaking and entering. I wish to hell I knew a way a matrix could make me invisible.”
Her smile was faint. “I could barricade you—throw what they call a
glamour
over you, so you could pass in among them unseen.” She sighed. “It is unlawful for a Keeper who has given back her oath to use her powers. But I have broken so many laws already. And certain powers—I have lost.”
She looked pale and wretched, and Kerwin felt his heart turn over at the thought of what she had given up for him. But why should it make so much difference? He would not ask, but she picked the question up directly from his mind, and said, “I do not know. I—I have always been told that a Keeper must be—must be virgin, and resigns her powers if she gives back her oath and takes a lover, or a husband.”
Kerwin was startled by her acceptance of this; she had defied so many superstitions, had refused to accept her ritual authority, had hated the word
sorceress
when applied to her. But this one, perhaps, was so deeply ingrained in her that she could not resist it.
Kennard had called it superstitious rubbish. But whether she had really lost her powers, or only believed she had, the effect would be much the same. And perhaps there was some truth to it, too. He knew the terrible exhaustion and nervous drain of matrix work, even on his newcomer level. Kennard had counseled him to avoid sex for some time before serious work in the screens. It made sense that the Keepers must remain always at the peak of strength, guarding their powers in seclusion, sparing no energies for any other ties or concerns.
He remembered the day she had collapsed in the matrix screens; how he had thought her heart had stopped. Kerwin took her in his arms, holding her tight, thinking:
At least she is safe from that, now!
But he had touched her, that day; had lent her strength. Had that contact destroyed her as Keeper?
“No,” she said quietly, knowing his thoughts as she so often did. “From the first moment I touched you through the matrix, I knew that you would be—someone special, someone who would trouble my peace; but I was proud. I thought I could keep my control. And there was Taniquel; I envied her, but I knew you would not be too much alone.” Her eyes suddenly brimmed over.
“I shall miss Tani,” she said softly, “I wish it could have been different, that we could have—could have left in a way that would not leave them hating us. Tani is so dear to me.”
“You aren’t jealous? Because she and I—”
She laughed a little. “Oh, you Terrans! No, darling. If things were different, if we could have lived among our own people, I would willingly have called her
bredhis
, it would have been Tani that I chose for your bed if I were ill or pregnant—does that seem so shocking to you?”