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    Music of Darkover: Darkover Anthology, #13
    Music of Darkover: Darkover Anthology, #13
    Music of Darkover: Darkover Anthology, #13
    Ebook329 pages3 hours

    Music of Darkover: Darkover Anthology, #13

    By Elisabeth Waters

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    About this ebook

    The first new Darkover anthology in almost two decades, this volume focuses on the music of Darkover: stories with musical elements; the songs in the books; and the filk songs inspired by them, from "The Horsetamer's Daughter" by Leslie Fish to eight songs by Cynthia McQuillin. Original stories included are by India Edghill, Leslie Fish, Raul S. Reyes, Michael Spence, and Elisabeth Waters. There are also reprints of stories by Mercedes Lackey and Vera Nazarian.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMarion Zimmer Bradley Literary Works Trust
    Release dateJul 24, 2018
    ISBN9781386549604
    Music of Darkover: Darkover Anthology, #13
    Author

    Elisabeth Waters

    Elisabeth Waters sold her first short story in 1980 to Marion Zimmer Bradley for THE KEEPER'S PRICE, the first of the Darkover anthologies. She then went on to sell short stories to a variety of anthologies. Her first novel, a fantasy called CHANGING FATE, was awarded the 1989 Gryphon Award. Its sequel, MENDING FATE, was published in 2016. She is now concentrating more on short stories. She has also worked as a supernumerary with the San Francisco Opera, where she appeared in La Gioconda, Manon Lescaut, Madama Butterfly, Khovanschina, Das Rheingold, Werther, and Idomeneo.

    Read more from Elisabeth Waters

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      Book preview

      Music of Darkover - Elisabeth Waters

      Introduction

      by Elisabeth Waters

      Given the success of her writing career, it may come as a surprise that writing was not Marion Zimmer Bradley’s first choice of career. She wanted to be an opera singer. While she had the voice for it, her family’s financial situation made it impossible for her to pursue opera as a career. But it remained a large part of her life.

      There’s a joke that says something like you don’t have to be crazy to work here; you get six months to qualify, and we’ll help! Substitute musical for crazy, and you have a fair description of Marion’s household. When I moved to Berkeley just after my twenty-seventh birthday, Marion was forty-nine, her daughter Moira was thirteen, and both of them could sing the Queen of the Night’s arias from Mozart’s The Magic Flute. Moira probably still can; she’s running an opera company now. I sang in the church choir as a child, and my voice hadn’t changed much since then. I called it treble, but Marion insisted I was a light lyric soprano and dragged me along to voice lessons with her. It wasn’t long before she had me singing opera. In the shower. At the Y. She was taking a water exercise class, and wither thou goest... was practically my job description. I must admit that our rendition of the letter duet from Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro was well received by the other women in the locker room.

      Marion loved opera—sometimes to the exclusion of common sense. She went to Germany one year to attend the Frankfurt Book Fair and vanished. She resurfaced three days later in Vienna; somebody had invited her to the Staatsoper—and if you lived with Marion you (a) knew that this is the name of the Vienna State Opera, and (b) understood why she was so thrilled she didn’t think to call home and tell us where she was going. Actually, maybe I don’t have to substitute musical for crazy—life with Marion could contribute to both.

      ~o0o~

      This started with a song. Well, actually Darkover started with an acute case of culture shock caused by Marion’s marriage and subsequent move from upstate New York to Texas—there’s a reason her earliest novels all have the Dry Towns, whether they’re set on Darkover or not. But this anthology started with a song: The Horsetamer’s Daughter, written by Leslie Fish in 1983. It was hardly her first filk song; I owned a copy of her record (and I’m talking about an LP here) Folk Songs For Folk Who Ain’t Even Been Yet, which was released in 1976. It’s funny how fast technology has changed in the intervening decades; I no longer own anything that could play an LP. In fact, I no longer own anything that will play a cassette. The latest recording of The Horsetamer’s Daughter—on Julia Ecklar’s album Horsetamer—was just released as a CD with mp3 download by Prometheus Music.

      Leslie, in addition to being a gifted songwriter, also writes fiction, so eventually she wrote the story behind the song. When Deborah J. Ross and I started working on STARS OF DARKOVER, the new Darkover anthology scheduled for June 2014, Leslie sent us Tower of Horses. The problem is that it is over 30,000 words long  and would take up more than a third of the anthology, so I came up with the idea of slipping an extra anthology into the schedule a year early. That didn’t give me much time to edit it, but I already had a third of the book, so how bad could it be? (Note to self: Never edit an anthology during tax season again.) So, while volunteering for AARP Tax-Aide two days a week and the Asian Art Museum once a week, I started editing MUSIC OF DARKOVER.

      Considering that Marion wanted to be an opera singer and that writing was definitely her second choice as a career, there is very little music in the Darkover books. The Outlaw is, as far as I know, the only Darkovan song for which she wrote both words and music. The Ballad of Hastur and Cassilda has such an irregular meter that I can’t imagine setting it to music. It’s not that Marion couldn’t write music; she wrote a setting to some of Tolkien’s songs that she called The Rivendell Suite and later gave the copyrights to Kristoph Klover as a birthday gift. Kristoph and his wife Margaret Davis have a music and recording company called Flowinglass Music, and they used The Rivendell Suite as part of their beautiful album The Starlit Jewel. Other members of Marion’s household were more prolific; we have eight Darkovan songs written by Cynthia McQuillin in this book, and I just found her song The Chieri on iTunes—it’s on Storming Heaven, by Avalon Rising (a group made up of Kristoph, Margaret, and three others).

      And, of course, Marion nurtured writers. Vera Nazarian sold her first story to Marion before she was old enough to sign a contract, and then went on to start her own publishing company, Norilana Books, which picked up the Sword & Sorceress anthologies after DAW Books dropped them. Mercedes Lackey sold her first two stories to Marion for Sword & Sorceress and contributed to four of the first twelve Darkover anthologies. Her story Poetic License—about a minstrel with an unusual problem—is reprinted here for the benefit of those who missed it in 1994.

      So here are the varied music and music-based stories of Darkover. We hope that you will enjoy them.

      The Horsetamer’s Daughter

      by Leslie Fish

      ––––––––

      My father was a horsetamer on the edge of Hali Plain.

      His work was good and his horses fine, but he got little gain,

      For few folk come now of Hali Town; the trade is gone away,

      And the distant glower

      Of the ruined tower

      Makes few folk care to stay.

      So poor we were, but free we were, as the wild herds on the plain,

      And I was a child as free and wild

      As the wind in my tangled mane.

      My grandam told me cradle tales of the great days long ago

      When the wizards ruled, and the land was taxed, and the Lords would come and go.

      But the land was torn by war, she said, "the tower was broken down,

      And the Lords appear

      No longer here

      To rule over Hali Town.

      And neither do the wizards come, take our children, one in ten.

      So grateful be that we’re poor but free,

      And you are not living then."

      My father had no sons at all, nor could he pay the fee

      Of hireling men to help his work, so he turned to mother and me.

      We helped him run the wild ones down, to catch and tame and train,

      And we lived thus free

      And merrily

      On the edge of Hali Plain.

      So well I loved the whispering grass and the children of the land

      That in time I learned, as the seasons turned,

      To call them into my hand.

      As I rode out on Hali Plain, I would set my mind to fly,

      ’Till I felt the grass below my feet and the birds high in the sky.

      I’d feel the wild ones running, and I’d bid them turn again,

      And a few I’d see

      Would come to me,

      About every one in ten.

      I never called them to the rope, for their trust I’d not betray,

      And willingly they would carry me

      On the plains to run and play.

      There is a lake beyond the town; the tower stands on its shore.

      Close by, the holy castle looms, where none may pass the door.

      But I always chose that ruined tower as my favorite place to play,

      And I daydreamed long

      Of my grandam’s songs

      And the tales of the ancient days.

      The stones breathed wondrous tales to me of the powers within the ground,

      ’Till within the stones of the tower’s bones

      A magic mirror I found.

      The mirror in its iron frame was blank as the winter sky.

      Never a sight did it show to me ’till I set my mind to fly.

      Aye, then it showed me wondrous things: a window on the world,

      The plains, the town,

      The land around,

      For as far as the oceans curled.

      I wore it tied about my neck, so to keep it always near,

      Besides the land and my wild horse band,

      ’Twas the treasure I held most dear.

      But I’ll never wear red robes, I’ll never wear a blue stone.

      The ruined tower stands abandoned and alone.

      But when the moons are high and the wind is roaring free,

      When I send my silent call, wild horses come to me.

      As we rode down to Hali town one summer market day,

      I saw the folk in turmoil run, and I heard an old man say,

      "Go back, go back, you horsetamer, the wizards come again.

      They come, I fear,

      For the children here;

      They’re taking one in ten.

      Go back, go back, you horsetamer, and your daughter hide away.

      Go conceal your child where the land is wild

      ’Till the wizards have gone away."

      Back I rode to Hali Plain, as fast as a horse could run,

      And I hid myself in the ruined tower, away from wind and sun.

      I gazed into the mirror’s depths to see what might befall,

      And close at hand

      Saw the wizards’ band

      So fierce and fair and tall.

      Then one of them raised up his eyes, and he said, Who can this be?

      And he turned his head with its hair so red,

      And he looked straight away at me!

      What is this power that I feel, said he, "so clear and raw and strong?

      Rise up, rise up, my sisters, all, my god, we’ve been searching wrong!

      More power’s here than we thought to find, the gods so jest with men.

      It may be still

      That within our will,

      That tower will awake again.

      ’Twas an ill-trained keeper’s mind I met, but I’ve rarely felt such power.

      We dare not wait lest we come too late;

      Make haste for the Hali Tower."

      As soon as I thus heard their plan, I turned my mind away,

      And I sent it flying o’er the plain. To the wild ones I did say,

      "Oh, come to me, my free friends, all, oh, come to my right hand.

      We must prevent

      These Lords’ intent

      Of the claiming of our land.

      For if they should rule the land once more, we shall all be servant men,

      And you, my dears, will be captives here

      And will never run free again."

      I bound my mind to the wild ones’ minds, and I called as I never did call,

      ’Till seven mares and a stallion bold came into the ancient hall.

      Just seven mares, a stallion bold, a magic mirror, and me

      To stay the hand

      Of the Lords’ command

      And keep the plains folk free.

      So I bound my soul to the wild ones’ souls as I’d never done before,

      And we raised our might in a ring of light

      To fight in a wizards’ war.

      For I’ll never wear red robes, I’ll never wear a blue stone.

      The ruined tower stands abandoned and alone.

      But when the moons are high and the wind is roaring free,

      When I send my silent call, wild horses come to me.

      We raised a shield about the tower, all made of wind and thought.

      With hooves of light through the mirror’s sight, we battered, thrust, and fought.

      The wizards flinched, the wizards fell, and they cried up from the ground,

      "Have done, have done,

      Ye nine and one,

      Only tell us, what have we found?

      How did your starstone hold intact

      Which should have burned away?

      What kind of men can stand up again

      Through the fires that we threw today?"

      I have no stone at all, said I, "but a mirror like the sea,

      And you fought with never a man this day, but eight wild horses and me.

      I am the horsetamer’s daughter, the defender of the land,

      And I know my kind were never inclined

      To live at a Lord’s command.

      So it is my wish ye shall go away and shall leave us as we’ve been.

      Leave us free as we choose to be;

      We would never be ruled again."

      The leaders of the wizards cried, "It shall be as you have said!

      Better to make a new domain than duel ’till all are dead.

      With a circle made of wild beasts, and a plain first-level screen,

      You’ve all the power of any good tower,

      And more than many I’ve seen.

      You are the living matrix, then; that’s all that you can be.

      ’Tis plain your breed is of Hastur seed—

      Oh, child, keep away from me!"

      So, Hali Tower is tenanted now. Fresh straw lies on the floor.

      Tall wild horses come and go, free through the open door.

      The plains folk bring us food and cloth and fuel for the winter chill.

      The tales they tell are spreading well,

      And I fear they always will.

      I’m just the horsetamer’s daughter, but they love me for my power.

      They’ve made of me

      What I feared to be:

      The Keeper of Hali Tower!

      And I’ll never wear red robes, I’ll never wear a blue stone.

      The ruined tower stands no longer quite alone.

      But when the moons are high and the wind is roaring free,

      When I send my silent call, wild horses come to me.

      Tower of Horses

      by Leslie Fish

      ––––––––

      The Horsetamer’s Daughter has been notorious for years—you could call it the Darkovan equivalent of Banned from Argo. It’s been about fifteen years since Marion agreed to let Julia Ecklar record it. The story Tower of Horses is more recent, and this is its first time in print.

      If there’s one name that’s practically synonymous with filk (Science Fiction fandom’s own folk music), it’s Leslie Fish. Leslie has written literally hundreds of songs covering almost every subject, from the space program (Hope Eyrie), to Star Trek (Banned From Argo) to urban life, history, and space fantasy (Carmen Miranda’s Ghost), as well as writing music for poems by authors from Rudyard Kipling on up to contemporary fantasy writers. Leslie is also a fine performer, guitarist, and storyteller.

      What do I care who rules in Thendara, or Valeron, or anywhere? Barris Horse-Tamer laughed, sliding the saddle onto the back of his gray mare. "So long as they don’t rule here."

      Brian Wheelwright looked around almost fearfully. Yon first phrase would save you well, he said, voice lowered, But the second might get you hanged, do the lords hear of it.

      And who’s to tell them? Barris answered, a little crossly, tightening the girth on his saddle. If all the folk of Hali-town were questioned, they’d answer the same: that trade may be poor, but life is good now that the lords are gone. What did they give us in my father’s day anyway, but laws and orders, taxes and wars? ’Tis well worth the loss of trade to be rid of such, and their wizards’ tower is long broken, anyway. So who’s to carry tales, and where?

      Well... Brian had to stop and think about that. We do get some trade here from the towns further south...

      Who are just as pleased with the state of things, I’ll wager. Barris checked his stirrups, found them acceptable, and prepared to mount.

      ...And once every few years the lords ride out to the Mourners’ Field to bury someone of their own... Brian didn’t sound very convinced himself. ...Though truly, they don’t speak to the likes of us.

      And don’t the birds give us plenty of warning, how they fly up screeching when strangers approach, so we can hide ourselves and our goods? Barris took hold of the mare’s mane and swung aboard. So long as they see nothing but ruins and beggars, they’ll not think us worth taxing. Now, mind what I said about that gelding; feed him beans and grain only while he’s doing heavy work, and otherwise keep him on grass. Come along, Cath.

      The leggy twelve-year-old girl on the sorrel mare nearby jerked guiltily, revealing that her mind had been somewhere else, and dutifully guided her mare up beside him. The two of them rode away from the town’s livestock market at a steady pace, intended to last the long miles along the lake’s shore and out onto the plains beyond. Barris hummed happily as he rode, occasionally patting the drawstring pouch on his belt where the coins jingled. Oh, good sales today, he sang out, delighted with the day’s trading. Every horse sold, and at the asking-price or near it. Both our mothers will be pleased.

      They rode for a quarter-hour in contented silence.

      Finally Cath spoke up. Pa, can we ride close to the Holy Castle on the way home? she asked shyly. I’d like to see it close, and ’tisn’t far out of our way.

      Barris hesitated a moment, but his jolly mood made him generous. Aye, let’s, he said, turning his gray’s head. ’Tis an awesome sight, true.

      Cath ran her fingers through her thick black mane of untamed hair, smiled widely and turned her mare to match her father’s. And is the magic still there? she asked, a little breathlessly.

      Oh, aye. No one can pass the door, which is a sheet of light. Ye’ll see.

      The ancient building stood not far from the ruined tower, only a little way up from the edge of the lake, its dark stone walls glowering in the sunlight. It was long and low, but imposing all the same. People called it a castle because it was clearly meant to withstand attack and hoard its treasures within, but in truth it was an untenanted and fiercely secured storehouse. The secrets it guarded were matters of speculation; all anyone knew was that they were objects of fearsome magic, too dangerous for even the most skilled of wizards to use. And yes, the door was an opaque slab of light. Cath could see its glow even in daylight. She and her father reined to a halt a respectful fifteen paces away.

      When was it made, Pa? she asked in an awed whisper.

      Centuries ago, he shrugged. No one’s sure, nor knows just who made it. ’Twas done in the days of the terrible wars, and built to hide terrible weapons. That’s all anyone knows.

      Anyone? Cath glanced at him. Even the wizards far away? Would they know?

      Who can tell? And let them keep far away. Barris reined his mare around, suddenly anxious to be gone. Now home, my girl. Kuithlin and Grandma be awaiting us.

      Cath smiled wickedly and heeled her sorrel mare into a gallop. Let’s be quick, then! she shouted over her shoulder.

      Wait up! Barris shouted in exasperation, cantering after her. You’ll tire her out.

      Cath raced ahead, her course taking her—just as she’d planned—under the lee of the ruined tower. She rode up to the gaping doorway before she slowed, and then—on a perverse whim—trotted her horse straight inside.

      Cathlinn! Barris’ voice wailed after her.

      She looked around quickly in the dim light, seeing the vast central room, a few empty rooms with their facing walls tumbled to scattered blocks, a stone stairway at one side leading up through the intact domed ceiling, and nothing else but rubble at the edges of the walls. This had once housed a mighty coven of witches and wizards, but no trace remained of them. The gutted building looked only forlorn and infinitely sad. The mare snorted softly, disappointed. Cath knew exactly how she felt.

      Cath! Barris shouted from the empty door way. Come out o’ there! ’Tisn’t safe!

      Oh look, Pa, said Cath, in that tone of infinitely patient reasonableness that her mother used so effectively. There’s nothing here but rubble. No wizards’ skeletons whining for burial, no cursed gems glowing evilly in the shadows, no... Heh! Not even any rats. ’Tis all empty.

      ’Tis a cursed place. Barris would come no further through the door. Where do ye think those ancient weapons were made, that now lie locked up in the Holy Castle? Why do ye think the tower came to be ruined, anyway? There’s ill magic still in the walls. Come out, girl!

      No magic, after all this time, said Cath, still being utterly reasonable. Look; Meadowgold isn’t upset at all. She patted the sorrel mare, who indeed had lowered her head and was looking about for anything interesting. I’m thinking this place would make a good winter barn. Those cells by the wall would make good loose-box stalls, and the roof’s tight...

      Turn a wizards’ tower into a horse-barn! Barris didn’t know whether to laugh or be scandalized. I swear, you’re as mad as your mother. Come along now, Cath. We’ve got to get home while it’s still light.

      Aye, Cath sighed, and turned her mare back to the doorway. But think, Pa. ’Twould be cheaper than repairing the old barn.

      I know, I know, Barris groaned, tempted despite himself. He knew it would take another year of sales as good as today’s before he could afford to hire the masons to properly repair the old barn’s roof. He knew his makeshift patches wouldn’t hold for long. And yes, the old tower was within walking distance of the farm, and yes, it was sturdy and weather-tight, and no, he was not a superstitious man, but still... He kneed his horse forward, troubled by his temptation.

      Is’t true, Pa, that the ancient wizards raised those stones by magic? Cath nudged him again. She was always eager for stories about the ancient days.

      Barris glanced back at the receding walls, now flushed rosy with the light of the sinking red sun. How should I know? he grumbled. All I can tell is that those stones were carved by workmen with chisels, for you can see the marks on the stones.

      Oh. Cath sounded disappointed.

      Barris chuckled as he recognized that. Believe me, my lass; the past was never so glorious as legends paint it. Hindsight makes mountains of molehills.

      But there was magic in the world? Cath persisted.

      There was, and still is. Barris frowned, his mood darkening. May the Blessed Ones keep it far from us. Magic wielded by a few, to enslave the many. Magic to prop up arrogant lords, who ruled and taxed and made wars for their own gain, wars that slaughtered innocent folk and ruined land and houses and all... He drew a deep breath and calmed himself. ’Tis just as well the wizards ruined themselves in their wars. Now we have our freedom, and peace. Pray, my girl, that the magic never comes back. Go ask your grandmother what it was like in the bad old days, if ye doubt me.

      He said nothing further during the brief ride to the farmstead, and Cath only once dared to look back at the empty tower behind them.

      ~o0o~

      Kieran Alton carefully shut down the completed relay station and sighed with relief. Yes, it worked. Yes, the circles had enough trained people for three shifts, with enough power to maintain the relay constantly. Not that the tower at Thendara had ever been completely cut off, of course, but contact with only two nearby towers wasn’t enough to rebuild the net that had once stretched world-wide. Now, thank Aldones, contact could stretch more than halfway across the continent. Given another few years of peace, the whole net might be reconstructed. Kieran smiled widely as he thought of what that could mean: trade restored, surpluses matched with shortages, medicines sent where they were needed...

      A discreet cough drew his attention to Carlo, the under-butler. The lad was young, but quite skilled at his share of managing the household, and clearly knew enough not to

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