Chapter V

FAMILY MATTERS


"What is the purpose of being?" Eugene asked.

Lukus momentarily held his breath as his shoulder jolted
against Eugene's, but the cold-flex mobile continued setting
a bumping and grinding course through the grit and hard
grass of the Calidan Equatorial Steppes.

Lukus stole a glance at Councillor Sharys and asked himself
why Eugene, who could be so charming one day, could lapse in
such moody reflections the next. He was unable to find a
ready answer as his own mind was preoccupied by the task he
had undertaken, a task that had turned into a labour in vain
since the day he had set foot in Atrakhor, the Seat of the
Federation of Calitre.

"Duty to one's fellow beings," Lukus finally replied
absentmindedly, feeling warm even in the cold air of the
mobile and only thinking of meeting Valorin soon.

"Not duty to oneself? To achieve something so remarkable it
will free oneself from duty, even from oneself ultimately?"

"Eugene!" said Lukus, "You have achieved remarkable success
already. Without you, I wouldn't have come so far on this
trip across the Steppes, in such heat. Why are you so glum!"

Eugene did not reply as he looked through the window of the
rollercar and gazed upon the fleeting scenes of the
Equatorial Steppes, unbroken plains of weedlands as far as
the eye could reach, sprinkled with coppices and rocky hills
here and there, the habitat of the hardy Steppetrekkers.

After a pause, he said: "I think we are on the right track,
to the location where a science stewards' bioforming
experimental outpost was destroyed by a landslide."

"I must thank you, Eugene," Lukus said, "I was ready to give
up, but lucky for me you know more about this region than
most of the ministerial departments in Atrakhor."

Lukus nudged with his elbow as Eugene again lapsed into
moody silence. "Eugene, what is wrong?"

The next moment Lukus gave out a yell of alarm as a heavy
bump jarred through the interior of the rollercar, almost
throwing them from their seats, and the mobile jerked to a
halt. Muttering under his breath the Nav of the mobile
climbed out and his two passengers followed him
apprehensively.

A black hornsteed glared and blared at them from a distance.
The creamy outcroppings of bone capped its powerful head
like a warrior headdress, jutting sideways and arching
upwards like crescent swords almost crossing. The points
gleamed yellowish brown in the rays of a late afternoon
HeliĆ. As they looked at him, the hornsteed challengingly
shook its mat of a mane that ran in a red-streaked yellow
band along the entire length of its muscled back. Its
leathery tail swished through the air like a black whip.

"It is a chief stallion," said Eugene. "We have trespassed
its territory."

The Nav had in the meantime discovered that his roller had
sustained a dent at the rear plating and cursed in a loud
voice: "Br'sek! Trdak! I'll pop out your hairy scruts! I'll
rip off your fungy hide! I'll shrike you on a spit, you
vrying tolobo!"

"Why does he have to use such vile language," Lukus
whispered outraged to Eugene.

Eugene laughed, the Dilemma of Being temporarily forgotten.
"The steppetrekkers are vile without but honest within," he
observed. "Such spontaneity may sometimes appear coarse to a
Phylee-Patrean but it is astonishingly refreshing to me."

"There he comes again!" Lukus squealed.

The Nav waved his arms and poured forth another series of
obscenities, which made Lukus feel as if his ears were set
on fire. He yanked out his metaphraser. If he had to remain
totally deaf to local dialect for the rest of the trip, then
so be it. He was also grateful he was not gifted with the
Seventh Sense, since the hornsteed's braying wouldn't have
been nice to sound-interpret at all. Meanwhile the hornsteed
stallion had turned away, kicked up his hindlegs in defiance
and galloped off to grumble amongst his mares.

Eugene and Lukus had already fled from the tropical heat
into the cold of the rollercar interior when the Nav joined
them after another careful survey of his precious roller.
"Ankwat! A good telling-to always puts off a spirited
stallion," the Nav grinned, speaking in a more civil
vernacular. He took out a mirror and a small brush from a
compartment and started to comb out his chinfleece.

Calidan males, Lukus had soon found out, possessed a
weakness for breeding hair on their faces, which required
the art of patient folliculating of facial hair over a span
of seasons. The passengers had to wait until their Nav was
satisfied the encounter with the hornsteed had not unduly
rumpled his shiny flaxen chinfleece, which covered his
square jaws from ear to ear.

The rollercar was started up again and rumbled over the
prairies, jostling and blundering along the uneven ground.
Wisurs roved on the plains in small, isolated herds. Their
bulky taupe anatomies, crisscrossed with ruddy bars,
lumbered amidst the wildgrass like striped boulders. These
herds were however of milder temperament than the hornsteeds
and left the mobile alone.

Finally, as the HeliĆ was slowly sinking in a reniform blur
of golden brown, Eugene sat up and peered through the
visual. He patted the shoulder of the Nav and pointed with a
finger. "There, Lukus. Exactly as I was told, the cabin of
the science steward family who has built a permanent home on
the prairies."

Lukus experienced a moment of nervous agitation as he caught
sight of the lights of the lonely cabin, nestling under the
brow of a hill, surrounded by a narrow patch of shrubs and
vegetation. Along one side of the patch three domesticated
hornsteeds clustered together in a pen while in a second pen
a pair of wisurs lay quietly ruminating in the grass.

While his passengers climbed out and walked towards the
cabin, the Nav stayed in the mobile watching the Vision-Net,
his fingers playing with his chinfleece.

It was polling night in the Steppes. The former Mandate of
Calitre had been established as an autonomous federation for
almost a Radix--one thousand cycles. It was brought about by
a referendum and since then polling became the norm of
government in Calitre. Following the counting of the
ballots, the Nav perceived the Prime of the Steppes would
not be re-elected. In the Nav's opinion the incumbent Prime
was tops and his rival a scruts of a tolobo but as things go
it only needed a majority chorus of chanting tolobos to
elect a greater tolobo as their leader.

Eugene smiled at Lukus with some of his well-known charm as
they wavered for a moment before the door of the cabin and
Lukus prayed they might still be on time.

Lukus entered the cabin and viewed the interior of the cabin
with aghast recognition of familiar objects and
characteristics, which were intimately Valorin's. The
paintings on the wall and the sculptures on the shelves from
which he recognized Valorin's artistic mind, the colours of
the matting on the floor which were blue and lilac,
Valorin's favourite colours.

A young girl with fair hair appeared from the interior and
her dark eyes gazed at him expectantly. A steppetrekker
wearing a broad-lidded cap stood behind her.

* * *

Valorin had passed away roughly a season and one cextrum
ago, but he had left them Maea Trevarthen on whom he had
bestowed his illustrious Trevarthen name in a carefully
worded Decree of Adoption, and who was the actual sole
surviving orphan of the obliterated outpost.

A day had passed since Maea was brought back from Calitre.
On the late afternoon of the second day Willouri and Dama
Dowager reclined in comfortable chairs near the wide-open
windows which gave a full view of the Ayrie Manor's garden
and the Proctor said meditatively: "Sending Lukus to Calitre
has produced unexpected results but Maea is a fine girl."

Director Milraus stood nearby thoughtfully holding an empty
glass in his hand. "She has very fair hair, and fairly
darkened skin," Milraus remarked cautiously, "classically
Calidan."

The Dama turned her head and contemplated him with a dour
expression on her lean old face. Yet when she spoke her
voice was patiently kind: "I am not bothered at the least.
Perhaps the time has come to inject new blood into the line.
Maea has all the qualities of a Dama Protector."

"Then the Treasury Council will reconvene tomorrow?"

"I thought we have already decided on that, haven't we?"
Willouri said.

"I have to inform you," said Milraus, "that I have received
word from Advocate Grahn that he wants the meeting postponed
for at least a day. He has other matters to dispose of
tomorrow and does not believe he can attend."

Dama Clarya threw Willouri a questioning glance. "Do we need
Grahn's attendance to cast our votes?"

"No, my Dama," Willouri said, "he is only an advisor, not a
member of the Council."

"Heed the Proctor's words, Director Surgeon!" said the
Dowager. "I need all your votes in the shortest possible
time. As you know, Valorin had expressed a wish that Maea be
presented to his brother, as a gesture of posthumous
reconciliation and also to offer to him her allegiance and
services, if need be. Although I cannot see what good can
come of it, we cannot ignore Valorin's last wishes but
before Maea meets Lar Alden I want her position in the
family strengthened by appointing her, during her trial
period, as co-heir to the estate and enjoying equal status
with Lar Glynmoran."

"You have rightly spoken, my Dama," said Willouri. "Tomorrow
will be a day of new beginnings."

Lukus making his entrance from the garden with Maea filled
the room with warmth and animation. Eugene Sharys, having
now recovered from his moodiness, followed them closely with
an engaging smile for all.

'And Valorin's story has a happy ending after all,' Milraus
thought while he sagaciously stepped back and observed the
tight circle of glowing faces from a neutral distance.

Eugene's head was bent slightly towards the Dama Dowager,
his dark hair almost mingling with her grey in
conspiratorial gossip. The Dowager adored Eugene Sharys: he
had all the hallmarks of a Trevarthen, charming with
chestnut hair and deep hazel eyes. He was successful as the
Patriarch, Lar Irwain, had been and equally restless. Even
now at this joyous occasion, he declined to take part longer
than it was obligatory. When he departed, the Dama Dowager
could not help ruefully remarking on the rather excessive
mobility of Councillor Sharys, as if he was driven by
compulsion rather than fascination for his work.
On the other hand, Maea was shy, bloomingly pretty but most
of all intelligent and refinely well-mannered, which had won
the Dowager's stern heart.

Viewing the situation in his remote corner, Milraus smiled
as if he had his own mysteries hidden in his sleeve.
Tomorrow would also be a day for devastation, since the
Council could not establish Maea's accession into the
Protectorate without revealing its existence and the
disastrous codicil in Lar Irwain Trevarthen's last Will and
Testament.

* * *

If for once Glynmoran had expected sympathy from his mother
in this most critical episode of his entire life, he was
wrong again. Not a quiver or at least a caring frown
polluted Dama Lisaloran Trevarthen's perfect features. The
subdued ceiling lights of the living room twinkled
intermittently in the pieces of sequins ornamenting the
blue-black tresses of her hair and her long eyes had the
adamantine glow of russet opals.

"They have raked up a wench and made her co-heir. What of
it? You are still your father's son and I am still his Dama.
They cannot change it even if they want to."

Glynmoran argued in a controlled voice: "We could be faced
with disinheritance."

"We?" asked Dama Lisaloran with frosty amusement, "I have
gained nothing by wedding your father and I have nothing to
lose. They would not dare turning me out of Trevarthen
Hall."

Glynmoran swept a frantic hand through his hair: "Mother,
they could dispossess me of my title. No longer will I be
heir. Nothing will come to me." His dismay deepened and his
voice rose in crescendo with each word. Never before had he
felt so naked in his despair.

Dama Lisaloran's mouth twitched slightly at the corners. The
Dama who was known to give out smiles with a sparing hand
would not even bend so low as to bestow sympathy on her son
in his hour of need.

"You should have thought of it before wasting your life away
in debauchery. You should have thought of the consequences
before embarking on a crusade of deliberately treading on
everybody's sensitive toes and generally making a nuisance
of yourself everywhere. By the way, at least one good thing
has come out of it. Now we know that your great-grandfather
has set up a treasury council to control his estate."

She lifted up her noble chin, a sign that no more was to be
spoken. "Mother," said Glynmoran slowly and gratingly, "I
have never harmed anybody, humbled them a little maybe, but
never with real malice. But you, I would say, have harmed me
far more for not caring what I would become, for blaming me
of what I have become."

Glynmoran paused, then continued in a bitter voice: "I have
to keep my own counsel as so must you. Run along, to your
Carlomon. He is far more dear to you, I presume, than your
own flesh and blood. What do you see, I wonder, in that
soil-face of his, a comrade in skulduggery?"

The haughty colour on Dama Lisaloran's face bleached to the
hue of the marble walls around her. Glynmoran, lifting up
his chin, swung on his heels and left his mother standing
under the soft glitter of the evening lights.

Dama Lisaloran still had not moved when a rustle behind her
indicated someone else had entered the room. Looking over
her shoulder she threw a frowning glance at the dark face of
Carlomon, who for all his swarthy appearance could be
considered a Calidan but he was leanly built and had black
hair.

Carlomon walked over to a window and clasped his hands
behind his back. "Your boy," he said, "could be tremendous
trouble."

"I am aware he is very unpredictable."

"That is his trouble," Carlomon stressed in his deep voice.
"If he has the audacity of getting in the way, I may have to
take measures but he is your son, Lisaloran."

Carlomon turned his head and contemplated her for a second.

"He will not listen to me," said Lisaloran. "Do what you
must. He is a miscalculation."

Looking at him she went on: "I thought we have sorted out
the problem. What went wrong again this time? Why has it
affected Vriavyn with such immense catastrophe?"

"A miscalculation," Carlomon said.

* * *

Maea was chaperoned through the gleaming silverfir woods of
Verimur into Ferngarthen by her new mentor, Ricar Myar, with
whom she now shared his home in Myarvil. Ricar's coming was
for Norielle an unexpectedness, which had certain
uncomfortable overtones, but the discomfort was solely on
Ricar's part.

The Dowager's arrangement for the young girl to take up
temporary residence in his house fitted in well with his
lifestyle, for Ricar was alone and lonely. A favour asked of
him by his father's old friend was always considered an
honour, but subsequently being promulgated into the role of
escorting the young girl before the presence of the grim Lar
Alden had left a sour taste in the mouth, especially since
Lukus had preferred to stay away until perhaps meeting Maea
would in some way thaw the frost.

Lar Alden was not the reason for Ricar's feelings of
distress; meeting Norielle was the cause of his qualms. But
again, his worries vanished the moment he saw Norielle,
still pretty and more radiant than he could have ever
imagined and genuinely pleased to see him, the past cast far
away behind her.

A stroll before midmorning meal in the garden had put so
many things right. (She is wedded?) Yes, but she had been
bereaved after only a short time of union; a tragic accident
about which she preferred not to talk. (She has a son, so
the scandalmongering goes, Adilar--mmm.) Yes, but that
wasn't him, it had been a prank played upon them by the
young Lar Glynmoran (A prank! No wonder, the Dowager wants
him out of the way but never mind that now.) With bated
breath: Would she like to go out with him sometimes?

Norielle smiled and hooked her fingers playfully around his
arm. "Yes, Ricar, I would like that very much." Ricar was
contented but he had no illusions: he had seen a flame
flickering in her eyes when she mentioned her former Lar in
union, but it had not deterred her from accepting his
invitation and so, Ricar was happy as he had never felt
before.

Lar Alden was his usual gaunt and reserved self, but he had
greeted Maea with genuine warmth and kindness, and Maea had
taken an instant liking to Norielle, looking slim as
herself. At the table Lar Alden bid Maea to take her seat
beside him and spoke to her in a gentle voice: "Maea, I am
glad Valorin took you in. He always wanted to be a good
father."

"He was a good father," Maea said. "And he spoke a lot about
you."

Alden looked surprised, and a bit pleased. "Did he really?"

Maea smiled and spontaneously squeezed her uncle's hand.
"Yes, he was quite fond of you. Father told me how he used
to play the Game of Spinning Rays with you and how you
always moped when you lost."

"Valorin, fond of me," Alden murmured, looking at his plate,
swallowing. Norielle quietly took her father's hand.

After a pause he said, his misty eyes clearing: "Yes, I
remember the times when we played the game, with Lukus, and
how Valorin always won. But as we grew up, we fought more
than we played."

Valorin's face pale as marble on the ground, the side of his
head bleeding from a cut. His own fist still stinging from
the blow. Lukus whimpering in fright. They had fought about
Leoynar. And behind them, Lar Irwain's dreaded voice booming
out: "What is going on there? Have you all lost your
senses?" He had not waited for his terrible father to appear
but turned and ran, his father's powerful voice catching up
with him from a distance. "Stay, Alden, you idiot. Valorin
is not seriously hurt. Stay, I beg of you! Please, come
back!" He had stood still for a second, then moaned in a
gust of anguish: MY LAR, MY FATHER, I AM NOT WORTHY OF YOU!
And he had continued to run--he had still Norielle.

Maea stroked her uncle's hand: "It is all over. It was
nobody's fault."

"But why couldn't he come home, why?"

Maea said: "He was happy where he was, so he told me. He did
not want to be anywhere else. Calitre had given him the
peace of mind, so he said. And he remembered you until his
last dying breath."

"Like Ferngarthen has given me my peace of mind. I
understand. But, my girl, when he died, you were left alone
in the Steppes."

"There was," Maea replied hesitantly, quickly looking at
Ricar, "a steppetrekker who looked after me and who was
going to take me to Atrakhor but then Uncle Lukus arrived."

"And a good thing too Lukus arrived in time," Ricar broke in
cheerfully, "he would never have been able to find you in
Atrakhor.

"By the way, Norielle," Ricar continued, "I have seen a pair
of the most magnificent kingwolvers in your garden. I think
they must have chosen this place to prevent those noisy and
pesky chattervoles from proliferating all over Verimur. And
I have also noticed you seem to have more than your share of
birds around you!"

They all laughed and the conversation was steered away from
family matters.

Lar Alden looked visibly tired as the end of the day drew
near and Ricar considered it was time to return to Myarvil.
Maea bid farewell to her uncle and aunt with warm affection;
she most of all had enjoyed the visit and the warmth with
which she was received. As the open silver-grey Affra
aerolimousine pulled out of Ferngarthen, the waning light of
late afternoon HeliĆ shone upon Ricar and Maea and sketched
loops and rings of dancing beams above their smiling faces.

* * *

Quietness had returned to Ferngarthen when Norielle lent
Grysal a helping hand in clearing away the table. Her father
had already retired to the cosiness of his study to rest and
read, and he would stay there until supper time. Later in
the evening Norielle brought in their meal on a tray.

After they had finished their supper, she said: "Twenty
cycles have passed since Cycle 150 of Fourth Radix, father.
It is time for Trajan to step forward. He must be told the
truth, as Krystan had directed."

"Twenty cycles," Lar Alden mused, a bit sadly, "gone by like
that. To me, he is still my little naughty boy."

Norielle smiled: "He is sufficiently grown up that he can no
longer behave with naughtiness. And considering the
circumstances, I think it is advisable that he be told as
soon as he returns home."

Lar Alden nodded. "When is he coming back?"

Norielle sighed: "I don't know. Soon I hope."

Soon, it had to be soon. Never before had Trajan's long
absence from home filled her with so much longing and
impatience. Still later that evening, after Lar Alden had
gone to bed, Norielle stood before the open window of the
study and reflected the winds of change were not only
creating havoc in Glynmoran's little corner but would spread
to her own tight-knit circle and break it apart. Seeing
Ricar today had stirred more bitter-sweet spectres of the
past than Ricar himself would have dared to dream.

Ricar who had never been strong enough to either resist the
demands of his father to offer his courtship elsewhere, or
completely break up their relationship. This intolerably
indecisive state of things had stretched her tolerance to
the limit. Then Leoynar, her half-brother, was killed in an
unexplainable accident and losing him had been the catalyst
to her lonely flight to the desolate shores of Red Lake on
Evening Star.

Choosing Red Lake was an impulsive act she still was unable
to explain. Perhaps she had desired to watch the haunting
phenomenon of the HeliĆ Equation sinking like two bleeding
hearts into the bosom of the landlocked sea, and wished the
spurting waves would similarly wash away the ache in her
heart.

She had thought herself the only foolhardy tourist in this
late season, but there was one more who shared with her the
unforgettable sight of the blood-coloured dusk, one who
studied her with wide, dark-blue eyes glistening like
precious stones in the falling night, and a thoughtful smile
playing on his handsome lips. Even now the memory of that
meeting still made her heart leap.

"Such awesome beauty," he had commented, "once seen, never
forgotten."

"The lake, the setting of the HeliĆ Equation of Iucari-Tres
or the Dama?" she had asked sternly.

He had raised his dark-pencilled brows: "Yes, a most
interesting name too for your binary system, the HeliĆ
Equation of Iucari-Tres!"

"You have not answered my question," Norielle asked with
beating heart, fixing her eyes with unashamed ardour on the
clear-cut features of his face.

He had thrown back his head in rapturous laughter: "Are all
ladies here as unassuming and straightforward as you are?
But to satisfy your curiosity: I have set my eyes upon
someone as beautiful as the HeliĆ shining in the morning and
as hauntingly mysterious as that radiant star." He pointed
to a brilliant spot winking in the western night sky.

"That is Calitre, our second hospitable planet. In this
season, Phylee-Patre, my home planet and the Seat of
Interplanetary Government, the Tres-Tiorem, cannot be seen
by night in this hemisphere."

He nodded in understanding and she asked: "Where are you
from, outworlder?"

He looked at her with his beautiful smile and enquired while
he reached out with his hand: "Does it matter?"

Norielle nestled her hand in his strong, comforting grasp:
"No, I think not."

"Then I am an outworlder no more. I am Krystan Schurell to
you and you are?"

Norielle spoke out her name and Krystan repeated it softly
to himself and said: "A lovely name for a most lovely Dama."

She shrugged: "Aimless flattery."

Krystan laughted heartily: "No more aimless than people
falling in love."

Their love had blossomed there and then on the shores of a
gurgling lake whose lapping waters had by night turned to
the colour of dark-red wine. They had walked together and
talked, with each step and word and each passing day growing
closer and still closer together until one glowing,
blood-red evening, Krystan took her into his arms and
pressing her to him whispered into her ears the promise she
had longed to hear. Afterwards he had asked her that she
took him to the security authorities of her world.

Norielle had understood and took him without further protest
on the next space cruiser to Phylee-Patre and dropped him
right on the doorstep of the Supreme Order of the
Interplanetary Spacio Command, while she waited in wringing
suspense. But Iucarians were a reasonable and honourable lot
and Krystan was released to go as he pleased, with the only
condition that he kept closely in touch with Commander Berin
Guillen. She had then taken him to remote Ferngarthen, land
and property her father had acquired, and Lar Alden
immediately recognizing unerring love when he saw one,
received Krystan as his own. They exchanged the vows of
union soon after in all quietness and privacy. That was in
Cycle 148 of Fourth Radix.

Norielle stretched her hand out of the window to feel the
night air flowing around her fingers. "Krystan," she
whispered with a dry sob, "come back to me."

The sudden baying of the kingwolfers in the park shattered
her thoughts and the peace of the night. Her Seventh Sense
interpreted the sound as pure animal curiosity, and no
danger. Nonetheless, she swerved round and hurrying out of
the study she saw Grysal at the foot of the staircase.

"Grysal, I heard the wolfers. What is going on?"

"Not to worry, my Dama," Grysal called to her comfortingly,
"Someone wandered in, by mistake probably. He is gone now."

"An intruder?" Norielle questioned, "at this time of night?"

"Yes, isn't it odd," Grysal said pensively, "he is wearing a
heavy-lidded cap the steppetrekkers use to wear. Presumably
a Trekker tourist who has lost his way."

Grysal sauntered back to the kitchen humming to himself as
Norielle's heart seemed to miss a beat. A wandering
steppetrekker? A steppetrekker with so much interest in
Ferngarthen?

The sudden chiming of the front door violated the serenity
of the slumbering mansion. Grysal shot back into the hall
with eyebrows reaching the ceiling of his forehead, and
Norielle stared back at him, but she nodded without
speaking. Grysal let the door swish open against the wall
and silhouetted against the black velvet of night the
steppetrekker without his cap was revealed. The eyes in the
bronze face were as brilliantly blue as sapphires glistening
in HeliĆ's shine and the world around Norielle threatened to
go dim.