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    Gifts of Darkover: Darkover Anthology, #15
    Gifts of Darkover: Darkover Anthology, #15
    Gifts of Darkover: Darkover Anthology, #15
    Ebook336 pages4 hoursDarkover Anthology

    Gifts of Darkover: Darkover Anthology, #15

    By Deborah J. Ross

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    Marion Zimmer Bradley's Darkover remains one of the longest-running and best-loved series of all time, one that has touched the hearts and fired the imaginations of generations of readers. Now Darkover comes alive as never before in the hands of talented authors, many of whom found inspiration for their own careers in the world of the Bloody Sun. On a wondrous planet of telepaths and swordsmen, non-humans and ancient mysteries, a technologically advanced, star-faring civilization comes into inevitable conflict with one that has pursued psychic gifts and turned away from weapons of mass destruction.

    Darkover offers many gifts, asked for and unexpected. Those who come here, ignorant of what they will find, discover gifts outside themselves and within themselves. The door to Darkover's magic swings both ways, however, and many a visitor leaves the people he encounters equally transformed.

    This anthology includes stories by Robin Wayne Bailey, Jane M. H. Bigelow, Barb Caffrey, Margaret L. Carter, Rosemary Edghill & Rebecca Fox, Jeremy Erman, Leslie Fish, Shariann Lewitt, Deborah Millitello, Ty Nolan, Diana L. Paxson, and Marella Sands.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMarion Zimmer Bradley Literary Works Trust
    Release dateJul 24, 2018
    ISBN9781386480112
    Gifts of Darkover: Darkover Anthology, #15
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    Author

    Deborah J. Ross

    Deborah J. Ross is an award-nominated author of fantasy and science fiction. She’s written a dozen traditionally published novels and somewhere around six dozen pieces of short fiction. After her first sale in 1983 to Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Sword & Sorceress, her short fiction has appeared in F & SF, Asimov’s, Star Wars: Tales from Jabba’s Palace, Realms of Fantasy, Sisters of the Night, MZB’s Fantasy Magazine, and many other anthologies and magazines. Her recent books include Darkover novels Thunderlord and The Children of Kings (with Marion Zimmer Bradley); Collaborators, a Lambda Literary Award Finalist/James Tiptree, Jr. Award recommended list (as Deborah Wheeler); and The Seven-Petaled Shield, an epic fantasy trilogy based on her “Azkhantian Tales” in the Sword and Sorceress series. Deborah made her editorial debut in 2008 with Lace and Blade, followed by Lace and Blade 2, Stars of Darkover (with Elisabeth Waters), Gifts of Darkover, Realms of Darkover, and a number of other anthologies.

    Read more from Deborah J. Ross

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      Gifts of Darkover - Deborah J. Ross

      Darkover: An Evolving World

      by Deborah J. Ross

      Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Darkover is one of the longest-running and best-loved series, one that straddles the border between science fiction and fantasy, and one that has touched the hearts and fired the imaginations of generations of fans. The earliest published stories date back over half a century (The Planet Savers, 1958; The Sword of Aldones, 1962) and the most recent, The Children of Kings, was released in 2013. Six decades is a long time for a series. Most have a life span of initial innovation and excitement, a maturity of delving deeper into established story lines and characters, and a decline in relevance and popularity as the original fan base ages or goes on to other series. Sometimes the author wraps up the story line, but at other times, the series simply dwindles until the publisher decides it is not longer financially feasible to continue.

      Why has Darkover not only endured, but thrived? For one thing, with only a few exceptions, the Darkover series comprises stand-alone novels, often with different casts of characters. Bradley believed that each book needed to stand on its own, so that readers could pick up one at random and enjoy a complete story. She did not write them in chronological order and refused to provide a map, never allowing details of geography or history interfere with a good story. Thus, the Darkover series avoided becoming one long plot line, where it is impossible to begin reading in the middle.

      More than that, one of Bradley’s strengths was her sense of the political and social issues of the day. She never hesitated to tackle controversial themes. The Shattered Chain came out in 1976, just as the women’s movement was gaining momentum; in The Heritage of Hastur (1972), she created a sympathetic and heroic gay protagonist; The World Wreckers (1971) looked at environmental issues and challenged conventional notions of gender identity.

      The third and perhaps most important factor in Darkover’s continued evolution was Bradley’s inclusiveness of fans. Back when authors did not need to be as protective of copyright as they are today, Bradley welcomed fans to play in her sandbox and write stories or compose songs based on her novels. The Friends of Darkover, a fan group, held writing contests, and published a newsletter and fanzine. Eventually, DAW Books began publishing the Darkover anthologies and paying professional rates. Many writers began their careers with sales to these anthologies or found their early inspiration in the series.

      Bradley did not set rigid limits on what the anthology contributors could write about or which characters or time periods they could use. (However, she insisted that Dorilys of Stormqueen could not be brought back to life, nor would there ever be a heat wave in the Hellers.) As a consequence, these authors, many still in their formative professional years, were relatively free to follow their own imaginations. Some stories fit well into the established canon, but others pushed the borders, with new characters and landscapes. Often these short stories filled in the gaps between the novels.

      For various reasons, including the need to maintain legal control over the rights to Darkover, the anthology series came to a pause of several decades, as the old volumes went out of print and the authors created their own original worlds. Sometime after Bradley’s death, her Literary Trust decided to reprint the old anthologies and to publish new ones as well. With Music of Darkover and Stars of Darkover, the series experienced a rebirth.

      But something had changed in the intervening time. Instead of writing fanfic set in Bradley’s Darkover, the authors had, with the astonishing alchemy of their individual visions, made Darkover their own. The world itself continued to evolve and grow. Mature writers tackled themes as challenging as those Bradley herself had addressed, only with modern concepts and language. Darkover itself had changed. It was no longer the creation of one person but of a community of talented writers.

      I began collaborating with Bradley in the final year of her life, thinking we would write one or more novels together. We had worked out a general plot arc for three books when she died, and I went on to write them myself under the supervision of her Literary Trustee. Those three books, The Fall of Neskaya, Zandru’s Forge, and A Flame in Hali, were followed by three more. At first, I strove to maintain Bradley’s literary voice and creative vision. By the end of the sixth book (The Children of Kings), I realized how much of my own imagination colored the story. I found myself drawn away from the specific characters and situations that Marion had envisioned, and toward those I had invented.

      This process parallels the development of Darkover in the hands of the anthology contributors. I believe it’s a healthy thing to allow for the introduction of new characters, themes, and resonances while staying true to the spirit of the world, a wondrous place of telepaths and swordsmen, nonhumans and ancient mysteries, marked by the clash of cultures between a star-faring, technologically advanced civilization and one that has pursued psychic gifts and turned away from weapons of mass destruction. It’s an engraved invitation to gritty, romantic, inclusive, poignant, uplifting action-adventure stories!

      I welcome you to this, the second Darkover anthology I have had the privilege of editing. (The first was Stars of Darkover, co-edited by Elisabeth Waters and published by the MZB Literary Works Trust in 2014.) Some of these authors have appeared in previous Darkover anthologies, others are new, but all of them offer an extraordinary melding of their love for Marion’s world and their own creative imaginations. Here you will find familiar places and cultures seen through a fresh new lens, given life through stories with unexpected twists that grapple with issues no less profound and unsettling than those that drew generations of fans to the world of the Bloody Sun. Some closely follow what has previously been written, others fill in the gaps in time and place, and yet others might be called alternate Darkover—true in spirit if not in canonical letter.

      Darkover offers many gifts, many of them unexpected. Those who come here, ignorant of what they will find, discover treasures outside themselves and within themselves. The door to Darkover’s magic swings both ways, however, and many a visitor leaves the people he encounters equally transformed. As an editor and as a reader, I find this give-and-take a most delightful pavane, for has it not been said that any time three Darkovans get together, they hold a dance?

      Deborah J. Ross

      Learning to Breathe Snow

      by Rosemary Edghill and Rebecca Fox

      Many of the early Darkover novels opened with a character—often a misfit, an exile—arriving on the planet of the Bloody Sun. That character then has various adventures and is transformed by them. In the process, he or she not only receives unexpected, often surprising gifts, but bestows their own, as this tale by Rosemary Edghill and Rebecca Fox so beautifully demonstrates.

      Rosemary Edghill describes herself as the Keeper of the Eddystone Light, corny as Kansas in August, normal as blueberry pie, and only a paper moon. She says she was found floating down the Amazon in a hatbox, and, because criminals are a cowardly and superstitious lot, she became a creature of the night (black, terrible). She began her professional career working as a time-traveling vampire killer and has never looked back. She’s also a New York Times bestselling writer and hangs out on Facebook a lot.

      Rebecca (Becky) Fox started writing stories when she was seven years old and hasn’t stopped since. She lives in Lexington, Kentucky with three parrots, a chestnut mare, and a Jack Russell terrier who is not-so-secretly an evil canine genius, but no flamingos, pink or otherwise. In her other life, she’s a professional biologist with an interest in bird behavior, which may explain the absence of flamingos.

      ––––––––

      Cottman IV, on the far edge of the Terran Empire, was nothing but a frozen little ball of mud orbiting entirely too far away from a dim red star. The world was habitable in the sense that human beings could live here without dying, but the fact that anyone had settled here was a First Expansion mystery that the Crows hadn’t yet been able to unravel. The planet’s culture was still at the cow-and-plow stage, and not only were the Darkovans uninterested in technological improvement, they’d actively banned it.

      In short, it was the last place in the Empire someone like Imria Hilte should ever have been sent.

      She was hoping it was some kind of mistake, something that could be rectified as soon as she reached the Terran HQ. Her specialty was information systems—advanced information systems—and according to the briefing tapes she’d audited on her journey here, there wasn’t a non-Terran computer system anywhere on the entire planet.

      ~o0o~

      The short walk across the spaceport tarmac to the HQ building left her chilled to the bone. She’d been told Darkover was cold, and shopped accordingly, but they hadn’t said it was arctic. And if her briefing was accurate, this was only autumn!

      The Terran foothold on Darkover was still under construction (something the Darkovans clearly had little interest in completing). According to her briefing packet, the Terran delegation had relocated to the Trade City from Caer Donn a little over a decade before, but the courtyard (with the typical towering reproduction of Aisling Reinol’s Terra Bearing Enlightenment) was the only part of the future Terran HQ building that was finished: HQ was still located in the prefab structure meant only as a temporary stopgap. At least the building itself was warm, and the illumination was set to Terran normal. Imria wondered how long it had taken the original colonists to get used to living under that dim red sun. Darkover indeed!

      Cultural Reconciliation Officer Harris’s office is this way, her escort said, gesturing for her to follow him.

      At least the CRO’s office didn’t reflect the unloved air of the building itself. It was filled with artifacts from at least a dozen worlds, and the worn and ugly flooring was covered by a thick patterned rug that was clearly of local manufacture.

      I suppose this isn’t anything like what you’re used to, Varix Harris said, standing to greet Imria. He was casually dressed in a heavy knitted sweater of cream-colored wool and heavy trousers tucked into boots. Welcome to Darkover, Analyst Hilte. We’ve learned a good deal since Jenny Lauren’s day. I promise you’ll get used to our eccentricities soon enough.

      Jenny Lauren, Imria knew, was the first Cultural Reconciliation Officer for Cottman IV. It was odd she hadn’t continued in the post.

      I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do here... Imria said carefully.

      Harris’s face assumed a look of surprise. You’re a Crow, aren’t you? A Cultural Reconciliation Officer, I mean.

      Of course, Imria answered. The Cultural Reconciliation Officers were half anthropologist, half spy: the department itself had been spun off from Imperial Intelligence when the First Expansion Colonies had been discovered and Mother Terra had realized they had to be understood before they could be assimilated.

      Of course, some cultures didn’t want to be understood. That was where people like Imria came in. But, you see...my specialty is information systems analysis. And from what I hear, Cottman IV doesn’t—

      Doesn’t even have universal literacy, Harris said cheerfully. He patted the folder in the center of his desk. Your transfer orders are all present and correct, so it looks like you’re going to be with us for a while. Don’t worry. We’ll figure out something to do with you. First, you have to learn to breathe snow.

      Come again? Imria said. She kept her face impassive with an effort. It wouldn’t do to alienate Officer Harris by showing how appalled she was.

      Harris smiled. "Darkovan proverb: ‘Once you learn to breathe snow, the rest is easy.’ I think it has something to do with figuring out how to make the best of things."

      Imria didn’t. But it looked like she was going to be stuck here long enough to figure the meaning out for herself.

      ~o0o~

      She’d arrived at the end of the workday, and Harris was sure she’d like to settle in before she got to work (though she’d have a week of Orientation to look forward to first, as well as a meet-and-greet with Temporary Coordinator Montray), so the same young man who had shown Imria to Harris’s office showed her to her quarters. Other than being a little more worn, the little room was virtually indistinguishable from the room she’d occupied on Sapphire, on Argenta III, on any one of half a dozen other worlds in the Terran Empire. Gray walls. Hard little bed. Hard little chair. A small table. A workstation that allowed her to access the in-house data systems. (Such as they were.) Some of the people she’d worked with over the last few years had complained about how small these little cubicles were—never enough room, so they said.

      It was a ridiculous complaint, Imria thought. She travelled light. She always had. But why am I here? Why is anyone here? she said, answering her own question aloud.

      She knew the official answer—she was a Crow, here to gather information on the native culture to ease its entry into the Empire. She knew the unofficial answer—she was here because Imperial Intelligence had received information that the natives were planning an uprising against the Terrans. It was pointless (she knew that if the natives didn’t). They could kill every Terran here, and all that would happen would be that the Empire would send more, possibly reclassify Cottman IV as a Hostile World. So Terran Intelligence wanted Imria to use her CRO cover to infiltrate the group and identify its ringleader.

      It would be easy—if she was on Sapphire, on Argenta III, on Ficklewish. All of them were advanced and prosperous First Expansion worlds. All of them had planetary data systems. (All of them were vulnerable to Imria’s particular skills.)

      But this was Darkover. And Imria didn’t have the first notion of how to find the woman she was looking for.

      ~o0o~

      After two weeks on scenic Darkover, the only thing that Imria knew for certain was that someone somewhere wanted to bury her career. (But not why. ‘Why’ would have been nice to know.)

      Even her official job would practically require divine intervention to carry out in this medieval hellhole. Nobody at Central would care why she failed. All they’d see was that she’d failed. And the rising star of her career would become a fading ember. Fast.

      But she tried. She read and collated (and organized: Harris’s filing system was as medieval as this entire planet) a decade of reports from a bunch of wild-eyed CRO anthropologists and half a dozen semi-competent (and of course totally nonexistent) Terran spies. (If that was all the Empire wanted, they could have sent almost anyone else.) All she found out was that her counterinsurgent was using a work-name, and she only found that out when she came across the name Sharra on a list of native gods that the anthropologists (naturally) had no information about, because Darkover had an almost-strictly oral tradition, at least three native non-human species, and a population of humans so xenophobic that don’t talk to strangers was practically a religious imperative. (Only nobody knew anything much about Darkovan religion, really. Of course.)

      After a month on Cottman IV, she was desperate enough to admit what she’d known from Day One: if she wanted information about the Darkovans, she was going to have to go to the Darkovans to get it.

      That, too, should have been easy: it wasn’t as if Imria hadn’t already been undercover on half a dozen other worlds, sometimes for months at a time. Hell, it should be easier to go native here—no database she needed to slip false records into, no ID documents to forge. No planetary secret service looking for people like Imria Hilte. By now, she even knew both the local languages. So she oiled her traps, and the tongues of her fellow CROs, and came up with an entire false history she could present if anyone asked, acquired herself a native costume, and took to the streets of Thendara Trade City.

      But no matter where she went in the Upper City, no matter how many tiny alterations she made to her costume and her accessories, no matter how she worked at acquiring the mannerisms and idiom of the locals, something clearly marked her out as an outsider.

      No one would speak to her.

      ~o0o~

      "It doesn’t matter what we do—it’s like we have ‘Terranan’ tattooed on our foreheads." Varix Harris said, hoisting his glass in an ironic salute.

      Imperial work rules mandated three days of rest after every ten day work period. No matter where you were in the Empire, or what post you held, you could be sure of that much. Terran Headquarters kept Terran standard time, which meant that the four-hour-longer Darkovan day slowly wandered out of synch with HQ time (not that it was that easy to tell with Darkover’s endless twilight), and their work schedule was recalibrated after each set of rest days. Most of the in-house staff preferred to spend their free days in the lounge, rather than wandering out into the city, though Imria wasn’t the only exception.

      Maybe we do, Imria said lightly, pretending she didn’t care one way or the other. Inwardly, she seethed. There had to be some secret to passing as Darkovan: something subtle, something seemingly inconsequential. (Something every other Terran agent had missed.) Whatever it was, Imria was pretty sure she wasn’t going to find it wandering around Trade City. If she wanted to learn to be Darkovan, she was going to have to observe real Darkovans in their native habitat.

      Which meant Old City. The real Thendara.

      ~o0o~

      There was only a thin line on a map to mark the border between Trade City and the Old City of Thendara, but the moment Imria crossed that imaginary line she might as well have stepped into another world.

      She’d thought she was ready. She’d spent hours wandering around Trade City. It had always seemed like stepping into some V-drama set in Terra’s age of castles and cowboys. Now she realized that Trade City was bright and spacious and modern compared with Old City’s dark warren of narrow twisting streets. In Trade City, the establishments and the streets were all labeled in Trade, icons, and at least one, possibly two, more languages (and sometimes, rarely, in badly-spelled and highly-confusing Terran Standard). Here there were no street signs at all, and it was hard to tell a residence from an inn or a shop—there were no signs, just unfamiliar symbols hanging over the door or sometimes painted on the wall. The smart thing—the prudent thing—would have been to turn back at once. It would be appallingly easy to lose herself here.

      Well, Imria, she told herself, if you’re going to infiltrate Darkovan society, this is what you’re going to have to deal with. Having been sent on an impossible mission still rankled. If recklessness was her only hope of success, then reckless she would be. She squared her shoulders, wrapped her cloak more tightly around herself, and stepped forward.

      At HQ, it was a couple of hours after the end of the work day. In Thendara, it was maybe an hour before sunset, and the streets were crowded. Personal weapons were banned in Trade City (those that were permitted outside HQ in the first place) but clearly they weren’t banned here: nearly every man she saw was wearing a sword at his belt.

      I didn’t think it was so important to go armed, she thought, but it’s clear everyone does. Perhaps they won’t notice that I’m not following the fashion.

      Her plan was to wander through Old City until she found an inn or a tavern where she could spend some time observing. Thendara had been a nexus of trade long before the Terrans arrived: Trade City predated their arrival by centuries, and Comyn Castle loomed over Old City like a predatory beast. As much as Darkover had a unified government, Comyn Castle was its symbol.

      A petty, hidebound, superstitious, reactionary government, Imria thought stormily. If I only had access to the Comyn Council, I bet I could identify Sharra within a week!

      A strong scent of horse led her to the right area—inns had stables—and she’d been so busy solving her navigational puzzle that it took her longer than it should have to realize she was being followed. Whoever he was, he was good. And not just good. Trained.

      The question was, trained by whom?

      Probably not by Terran Intelligence; Terra wouldn’t insert two Intelligence agents without warning both of them. And CRO wouldn’t follow her, even if there was someone in the department with the skills. When a large and rowdy group of young men passed between Imria and the man in the gray cloak, she took the opportunity to slip down a narrow alleyway. If she was very lucky, Gray Cloak would simply pass by without noticing her here in the shadows.

      The alleyway was clearly in use as an open-air latrine—not surprising in an area filled with inns and taverns. What she hadn’t realized was that it was also occupied. She swore softly under her breath and turned back toward the street. But before she could reach it, the opening was blocked by another man. As he walked toward her, he called out to her in a dialect of cahuenga so slurred she couldn’t understand it.

      (But she knew the tone.)

      (Hey, baby, want to have a little fun?)

      It wasn’t as if she’d never been in this sort of situation before, but every other time she’d been armed—and not impeded by a heavy cloak and long skirts. Women had little status and even fewer rights on Darkover. Until just now, Imria hadn’t stopped to think about precisely what that meant, beyond presenting a serious impediment to her mission. She took a hasty step back and glanced behind her. The men in the back of the alley were coming forward. Three of them. One was holding a lantern. He called out to her teasingly, and his friends laughed.

      But before any of the drunkards could make a move, another man appeared at the mouth of the alleyway. He raised a lantern high above his head, and Imria realized despairingly that it was the man who’d been following her. He called out to the others in the same incomprehensible dialect. The man blocking her escape flattened himself against the wall as he strode past. Before she had time to wonder whether this was a rescue or a prelude to something even worse, the stranger dragged her out into the street.

      She was unable to break the grip he had on her arm as he hustled her up the street and into an inn with a well-lighted entrance. She barely had time to get her bearings as he hustled her across the common room. He didn’t let go of her arm until they were seated facing each other in a booth in a far corner of the room. If she ran for it, he’d catch her before she reached Trade City, let alone HQ. Look on the bright side. He’s unlikely to murder you in a room full of witnesses.

      The inn was well filled with what looked like mix of prosperous merchants and high-ranking servants in livery. It was just the sort of place she would have chosen to polish her Darkovan disguise before moving on to the sort of place her quarry might inhabit. Although I don’t know. I don’t know anything about them, including where they like to drink. Unless this fine gentleman here wants to tell me.

      She pushed back her hood and undid the clasp at her throat, then pulled off her gloves. At the sight of this tacit symbol of cooperation, the stranger stood to remove his own cloak and hang it on a peg just outside the booth. Now that she could get a good look at him, she realized he wasn’t the young leg-breaker she’d been expecting. He was an older man: grey haired, brown eyed...

      ...and very amused by the situation.

      Imria glared. She would have folded her arms across her chest if it weren’t an utterly un-Darkovan gesture.

      If you don’t mind me asking, he said in accentless Trade, exactly what do you think you’re doing?

      Minding my own business, she snapped back (in casta, of course), doing her very best to present the image of a disgruntled native woman of middle rank who expected better manners from a man she’d just met. Darkovan manners were so damned nuanced; it was hard to tell if she’d was giving the right response. As should you, she added.

      The man opposite her raised an eyebrow and smirked. Your accent’s adequate, he said, still speaking Trade, "but as neither of us is Comyn, nor in service to a great lord, the mode is a bit elevated for an inn’s common room. Let’s save time. You’re Terranan, and I can guess the reason for this masquerade. There’s nothing Terranan like better than snooping."

      It was interesting, she thought, that he used the Darkovan name for them, though she was starting to suspect he was about as Darkovan as she was. And you are? she asked, giving up and switching to Trade.

      Ercan Waltrud, he said. At your service. He bowed minutely from the waist and grinned at her. You must be new at the Hothouse. Very new—and very stupid.

      The Hothouse was what the Darkovans called Terran HQ compound. It was an interesting double play on words—Varix had expounded on it one evening—both a commentary on the indoor temperature Terrans preferred, and a suggestion that Terrans were delicate creatures who couldn’t survive on Darkover.

      Waltrud isn’t a Darkovan name, Imria said in an accusatory undertone.

      Of course not, Ercan said with a laugh. I’m Terran. It’s not a crime.

      She was saved from whatever blistering reply she would have made by

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