The Sword of Aldones

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We were outstripping the night.

The Southern Cross had made planetfall on Darkover at midnight. There I had embarked on the Terran skyliner that was to take me halfway around a planet; only an hour had passed, but already the thin air was beginning to flush red with a hint of dawn. Under my feet the floor of the big plane tilted slightly as it began to fly aslant down the western ridge of the Hellers. Peak after peak fell away astern, cutting the sparse clouds that capped the snowline; and already my memory was looking for landmarks, although I knew we were too high.

After six years of knocking around half a dozen star-systems, I was going home again; but I felt nothing. Not homesick. Not excited. Not even resentful. I hadn’t wanted to return’ to Darkover, but I hadn’t even cared enough to refuse.

Six years ago I had left Darkover, intending never to return. The Regent’s desperate message had followed me from Terra, to Samarra, to Vainwal. It costs plenty to send a personal message interspace, even over the Terran relay system, and Old Hastur — Regent of the Comyn, Lord of the Seven Domains — hadn’t wasted words in explaining. It had simply been a command. But I couldn’t imagine why they wanted me back. They’d all been glad to see the last of me, when I went.

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