Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley
Paul was not really in rapport with Melisendra now, but he could sense the waves of old, half-
conquered fear; he remembered Melisendra had borne a child, and felt sudden sympathy for the terrors she must have known. Always before this he had had but little sympathy for the special problems of women; now it struck him with remorse. In his own world, a woman would have known enough to
make certain she was not at risk of pregnancy, but he had not bothered, here, to inquire, and it occurred to him, troubled, that Melisendra had not stopped to weigh the cost of their lovemaking.
“It has begun to be lethal in our family,” she went on, almost absently—Paul wondered if she was talking to him, or trying to ease her own tensions and fears. “Erlend is healthy, the Goddess be praised, but already he has
laran
, and he is young for it… Bard is only distantly related to us, of course, and Kyria married a cousin, so that may be why… Melora and I must be careful to whom we bear children; even if we survive, the children may be stillborn… I do not think Mirella should have children at all.
And there are certain
laran
gifts which could combine with mine so that I would not survive forty days of such a pregnancy. Fortunately those are rare now, but I do not think their virulence is wholly lost in the line, and since records are not now kept, and the old art of monitoring cell-deep is not known now, the last of those who knew all of it died before she could teach what she knew… None of us can know, when we bear a child, what may come of it. And some of these new weapons…” She shuddered and
resolutely changed the subject again, but not much. “I was fortunate that Bard was not carrying any of that heredity. It was perhaps the only fortunate thing about that whole affair.”
It took another day of marching before they came up with the armies of Serrais, and that meant another night encamped on the road. Under ordinary conditions, Paul did not even see Melisendra when they were with the army; but near the camp was a little grove of trees with a well, and when he strolled that way, as the nightly drizzle began to fall (Bard told him this was normal for the season, except in the high summer—what a climate!) Melisendra, wrapped in the gray cloak of a
leronis
, beckoned to him.
They stood embracing for some minutes, but when he whispered to her, moving his head suggestively toward the concealing trees, she shook her head.
“It would not be seemly. Not like this, with the army. Don’t you think I want to, my beloved? But our time will come.”
He was about to protest—how did he know they would have any time at all, after this campaign?—but the look in her eyes stopped him. He could not treat Melisendra like a camp follower. Quite soon, she went back to the other
leroni
—her father, she said, would have been angry at even this surreptitious embrace, would have thought that she was behaving badly—not that he minded whom she loved, but to do it furtively, like this, on campaign, when all others must leave their loved ones behind, was shameful. When she had gone he stood watching her reflectively, thinking that this was the first time he had ever listened to a woman’s refusal. If any other woman had done this, he would have considered her a cheap, manipulative slut, trying to lead him around by the balls… What was happening to him?
Why was Melisendra different?
And, an unwelcome thought, was it possible that his own attitude, in those days, had left something to be desired? Paul was not given to questioning the rightness of his own motives and actions, and this was a new idea to him, one he put aside, at once. Melisendra was different, that was all, and love was the art of making exceptions.
But it seemed to be his night for unwelcome thoughts. He lay awake, unable to sleep, and wondered what would happen when Bard knew that it was not a casual affair with Melisendra but that he wanted her for all time. And if he and Bard were the same man, with the same sexual tastes and desires, why was it that he had not tired of Melisendra at once, as Bard had done?
I have no consciousness of guilt toward her, and so Melisendra does not make me uncomfortable
… and Paul almost laughed; Bard, feel guilty about anything? Bard was as free of the neurotic pattern of guilt as any man Paul had ever known, as free of it as Paul was himself. Guilt was a thing created by women and priests to keep men from doing what they wanted to do and had the strength to do, a tool of the weak to get their own way… Still it was a long time before Paul could get to sleep. He wondered
dismally what was happening to him on this world.
At least it was better than the stasis box. And with this thought he finally managed to sleep.
The next day was gray and dismal, with rain flooding down, and Paul was surprised that they tried to march; though a little thought told him that in this climate, if they let rain stop them, they’d never do anything. And indeed, he saw herdsmen, mounted on strange horned beasts, watching over flocks in the fields, flocks of what Bard told him were rabbithorns; and farmers, many of them women, shrouded in thick tartan cloaks and wrappings, digging in the fields. At least, he thought glumly, they didn’t have to worry about watering their crops. He was glad he wasn’t a farmer. From what little he knew of them, it was either too wet or too dry. They rode by a lake and saw small boats out in the rain, hauling in nets.
He supposed fish-farming was a good trade to be carried on in the rain.
Around noon—the days were longer here, and Paul could never be sure of the time unless he could see the sun—they stopped to eat the cold trail rations served out by the quartermasters: bread, coarse, with raisins or some kind of dried fruit, and nuts baked into it, a kind of bland cheese, a handful of nuts in their shells and a pale, sourish wine which, nevertheless, had considerable body and was refreshing and warming. It was, he knew, the commonest home brew of the countryside, and he felt he could get to like it
Halfway through the meal, Bard’s aide came to summon Paul to him. As he rose to obey the summons, Paul was conscious of looks and comments; he should, perhaps, warn Bard that this supposed
favoritism to one who was, after all, new-come to his armies, could get him into trouble. But when he mentioned it, Bard shrugged it off.
“I never do the expected thing; that’s one of the reasons I got the name Wolf,” he said. “It keeps them off balance.” Then he told Paul that one of his runners had come in, bearing news that the Serrais army was not far away. As soon as the weather cleared, he would have to send out sentry birds to spot their exact position and formation. “But I have a young
laranzu
with the Sight,” he said, “and it may be that we can take them by surprise in the rain. Ruyven,” he said to another of his aides, “run and tell Rory Lanart, when he has finished his meal, to come to me at once.”
When Rory came, Paul noted with dismay that the young
laranzu
was only about twelve years old. Did children fight battles of sorcery and wickedness in this world, too? It was bad enough to have women in the field, but children? Dismay struck more deeply as he thought of young Erlend, the starstone about his throat. Would Erlend grow up in a world like this? He watched the child looking into the starstone, relaying the information they wanted in a quiet, faraway voice, and wondered what
Melisendra thought of having her son brought up to this.
Bard, after all, is no more than a barbarian chief in a barbarian world. He and I are not the same man.
He is the man I might have been in this barbarian society. There but for the grace of God, and all that.
He raised his head to find Bard watching him; but his double did not give any sign or hint as to whether or not he had read Paul’s mind this time. He only said, “Finished your meal? Bring along what you want to—I always put some nuts in my pocket to eat as I ride—and tell the aides to get the men started again. Rory, ride at the head of the army with me, I’m going to need you, and someone should lead your horse if you’re going to be using the Sight.”
They had not ridden for more than an hour, as Paul judged it, past the time of the nooning break when they came to the top of a hill; and Bard pointed, silently. Spread out in the valley below them, an army lay, formed up and waiting, and Paul identified, even at this distance, the green and gold banner of the Ridenow of Serrais. Between them and the Serrais army below was a little wood, a sparse grove of trees and undergrowth. A sudden flight of birds racketed upward, disturbed at their feeding in the bushes. Paul could hear Bard thinking:
that’s done it, that’s the end of any idea that we might possibly
take them by surprise. But their
leroni
would have better sense than that. And surely they have
leroni
with them
.
Aides were riding along the ranks of the men, forming them up in the battle plan Bard has discussed, briefly, with Paul—one of the things which the other aides resented, he knew, was that their leader spoke to Paul, outsider and newcomer, as an equal. They had, of course, no idea quite how much Paul was Bard’s equal. But they sensed something and it made them angry. Some day, Paul knew, when
there was time, he would have to deal with it. And he thought, with a trace of amusement, that when he and Bard were leading separate armies, each believing that it was led by the Kilghard Wolf himself, at least that source of friction would be gone; there would be no intrusive outsider to come between the Wolf and his loyal followers.
The signal was, as always, the drawing of Bard’s sword. Paul watched, his hand on the hilt of his own sword, waiting for Bard to give the sign for the charge. The rain had drizzled itself out, and only stray drops were falling. Now, suddenly, through a great break in the clouds, the great red sun came out and blazed, spreading light into the valley. Paul looked at the sky, thinking offhand that it was better to fight without the rain, but aware that the turf underfoot was still wet and the horses would find it slippery in the charge. Master Gareth had drawn his little army of sorcerers, gray-cloaked, off to one side, to keep them out of the way of the charge. When Paul had first ridden into battle, he had been anxious about Melisendra. Now he knew that she was in no physical danger in a battle such as this. Even under the concealing gray cloak, he could tell Melisendra by her riding.
He saw Bard draw his sword—then heard him cry out, and saw him raise the sword to slash at empty air.
What, in God’s name, does he see
? And all the men riding near him were behaving the same way—
slashing at empty air, crying out, raising their arms to shield their eyes against some unseen menace; even the horses were rearing and whinnying in distress. Paul saw nothing, smelled nothing, even
though one of the men cried out, “Fire! Look there—” and fell crashing from his horse, rolling away, screaming. And suddenly as he caught Bard’s eyes, in contact with his twin, he saw what Bard saw: over their heads, wheeling and screeching, strange birds flew, diving viciously at the eyes, causing the horses to rear up as their foul breath pervaded everything; and the horror was that the birds had the faces of women, contorted with lewd grins…
Paul saw this through Bard’s eyes; and through his own eyes… the day lay quiet, sunlit below them, the armies of Serrais quickly moving to repel the charge. Paul rose in his stirrups, his own sword flashing out. He bellowed—in, he knew it, Bard’s voice, “There’s nothing there, men! It’s illusion! What the hell are the
leroni
doing? Come on—
charge
!”
Bard’s swift response to the words reassured him. He shouted, “Charge!” and led the charge, riding
through
the illusion—Paul saw through his eyes the evil harpy that dived at his eyes and felt Bard duck, even while he knew that it was illusion. He smelled the stench of the beast-woman, but the frozen horror had broken; Paul had snapped back to his own awareness and was thundering, sword in hand, toward the first rank of the oncoming Serrais army. A man cut upward at his horse and he slashed and saw the man fall. And then he was fighting hand to hand, without the least instant to spare for magic horrors, or for seeing them through Bard’s eyes. At this moment he did not care what Bard might be seeing, whether or not it was there to be seen or was the product of sorcery or
laran
science.
They had still caught the Serrais army, who had relied on their sorcerers to delay the charge, at least partly by surprise. The battle was not brief; but not as long as Paul, helping Bard to assess the forces mastered against them, had believed. Bard came through miraculously unwounded. Miraculously, Paul thought, for throughout the battle, wherever he looked, Bard was in the thick of the fighting. Paul himself took a slash in the leg, which did more harm to his trousers than anything else. When the Serrais army, demoralized, fled, and Dom Eiric himself surrendered—Bard hanged him out of hand as an oath-breaker—the sun was setting, and Paul, his leg freezing under the flapping remnants of the leather breeches, rode to help the aides set up headquarters in one of the houses in the nearby village, commandeered. The men were set to plunder and rape, then burn the village, but Bard stopped them.
“These are my brother’s subjects; rebellious, it is true, but still our subjects, and while they may have been terrified into doing the will of the Serrais army, they shall have a chance to prove their loyalty or otherwise when they can act freely without an army at their throats. It will go hard with any man in this army who touches one of our subjects, loyal or disloyal. Pay for what you take, and lay no hand on any unwilling women.”
Paul, listening as Bard gave the order, reflected that he had not known Bard had this kind of sense, or that he could hold back men set on plunder. But when he spoke of this to Bard, Bard smiled. He said,
“Don’t be a fool. I’m not being generous, though what I said is true, of course, and even more that the royal house of Asturias, and I, will get the credit for being generous with our subjects. But it’s more than that, much more. There’s simply not enough, of either plunder or women, to satisfy this army. And when they’d taken all there was to take, they’d fall to quarreling over it and cut each other to pieces—