Bradley, Marion Zimmer
THE WATERFALL
Marion Zimmer Bradley
a darkover short story

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THE WATERFALL
Copyright © 1976 by Marion Zimmer Bradley
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by 
any means, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review, without 
permission in writing from the publisher.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, 
living or dead, is purely coincidental.
An ACE Book
Printed in U.S.A.
ACE DARKOVER Novels by Marion Zimmer Bradley:
STAR OF DANGER
THE BLOODY SUN
THE WINDS OF DARKOVER
THE SWORD OF ALDONES
THE WORLD WRECKERS






The Waterfall


The lady Sybil-Mhari, fifteen years old and as frail as a branch of willow, 
stood at the edge of an enclosed courtyard, staring with pensive gray eyes into 
the valley, flooded with the strange moonlight of the four moons. A low wall of 
stone, barely knee-high, was the only thing dividing the court where she stood 
from a steep, sheer and hazardous cliff that dropped away sharply to a raging, 
foaming torrent of white water that fell, nearly a thousand feet, into the 
valley. The muffled roar of water beneath her, and the cold moon-flooded night, 
cut through her with the dampness that rose from the waterfall far below, seemed 
to tremble hotly in her young body, twisting a thick lump in her throat, a 
feeling that was like hunger or thirst—or something else… Something she could 
not even guess; a hunger, a loneliness, for something she had never known.
Love? No. Her waiting-women chattered and squealed of love continually, 
whispering together, giggling confidences of stolen kisses and furtive touches, 
of seeking hands in the darkness, of courtly verses and songs. And for a little 
while Sybil had believed it was, indeed, love for which she hungered; but as 
confidences had grown more definite, they had evoked neither excitement nor 
longing, but only a shudder of disgust. What—she, Sybil-Mhari Aillard, comynara, 
the delicate and queenly little sister of the Lord Ludovic, lonely and perfect 
as a single star, to surrender herself to these hungry indecencies? She, born 
into the caste of Comyn, apart and above, bearing—so the common folk said—the 
blood of Gods, she to swoon in the arms of some clumsy esquire, to lend herself 
to secret kissings, fumbling fingers, whispered words of love, in corridor or 
hall or chapel? No. And no. The hunger that was in her was surely for something 
other than this; it was as a burning fire seeking fuel, and these huggings and 
clutchings were damp and commonplace, smothering instead of feeding the flame.
She looked down at the white water that coursed and plunged and raced, throwing 
up silvery spray so far beneath her that the water seemed all one whiteness in 
the moonlight, and suddenly imaged herself flying, falling through that vast 
space, into the race and torrent; whirled, battered, drowned— or would she, as 
some old legends said that the Comyn folk could do, put forth sudden wings, fly 
wingless far above the world, wheeling on hawk-pinions, looking down from far 
above… But that was legend. Or dream. She hugged herself with thin bare arms and 
clutched dizzily at the wall, almost hypnotized by the tumult and sound of the 
distant waterfall. To fly, borne on invisible wings, or the secret powers of the 
Comyn, aloft, above everyone who sought to pin her down and keep her 
earth-bound… but that was long ago. Legend.
Now the Comyn held only the powers of the mind, and even those she had been 
denied. The leronis, the great sorceress of Hastur blood, had called Sybil to 
her but this year, had made her look into the starstone, so that Sybil felt she 
stood more naked than if the woman had stripped from her the last garment, 
feeling the touch of the leronis on her mind. Sybil had stood unflinching, not 
daring to show fear; but inside her something cowered and wept and could not 
raise its eyes, and at last the leronis had sighed and put away the stone. "You 
have laran, my child; you bear the Gift of our clan. And yet…" the woman sighed 
again, and shook her head. "There is a power in you, Sybil, that I do not 
understand; and yet I had thought I knew all the Gifts of Comyn. You are 
telepath—not greatly, but enough. You could be trained in a Tower; could wield 
all the power of a leronis, perhaps a Keeper. Yet something in me—something I 
have come to trust—says… no."
Sybil had protested "Why, lady?" There was a sullen anger in her. The women of 
the Towers wielded power and force, they used the trained powers of the mind—all 
other women of the Comyn were powerless, given in marriage and" forced to bear 
children for their clan, but wielding no power of their own… and the leronis 
would deny her this! Rage had surged in her, but she made her voice sweet and 
docile as she had been taught, and murmured, in the voice that her brother 
Ludovic, lord of the clan, had said was like the gentle murmuring of a green 
rainbird, "Why, lady? I am comynara, I have laran, you yourself have said it… 
why?"
But the Hastur sorceress only shook her head, meeting Sybil’s eyes with a flash 
that told the girl that the older woman knew, and did not fear, all of her 
hidden rage. She said, "Because your mind is not the mind of a woman, Sybil; it 
holds something other than laran. I do not know what it is, but I fear it; and I 
fear you; and I will not have you in a Tower. If you are to master the craft of 
the star-stones, if you are to wield all the ancient powers of the Comyn, I must 
know, absolutely, that you are to be trusted. So I say no."
And then Sybil had raised her eyes and glared at the woman and had thrust forth 
a power she did not know was in her, to seize the woman, to compel her will upon 
her— I will have this power. The woman had pushed her mind away easily, and had 
shaken her head with a sad laugh. "You see, my poor child? I do not fear you as 
you are now; but I fear what you might be, wielding the craft of the 
starstones." And she had gone away, taking with her Sybil’s young foster-sister 
Rohana, to be brought to the Tower and trained in the craft of the starstones, 
and Sybil had been left here to loneliness, and hunger, and melancholy, and the 
aching need of something… something, she could not guess what it might be…
After a long time, aware that she was cramped and chilled to the bone, she 
straightened and slowly turned away. Behind her lay the Comyn castle, a great 
and sprawling mass of stone and echoing silence; the empty courtyards gave 
resonant sighs as her silk-shod feet whispered on the flagstones, and even her 
own breathing seemed to stir an echoing murmur. The icy cold of the stones crept 
up her stiffened legs and throbbed in her breasts.
From very far away Sybil heard a halt, a clash, a challenge, the echo of ringing 
steps and silence; the Guardsmen were making their nightly rounds. Hurrying her 
steps a little, she slipped shadowlike under an archway, sheltering against the 
chilly night breeze; then she started, catching her hands to her throat with a 
little squeak of surprise as a light, thrust abruptly forward, rayed harshly 
across her face.
Half-blinded, she pressed her fingers over her eyes; then as her pupils slowly 
adjusted to the light, she lowered her hands to see a man’s face above the crude 
flare of the lantern.
"Well, now! Look what I found!"
Sybil shrank back as the unfamiliar face spread into a wide grin. The voice was 
deep and harsh, almost hoarse, but it sounded good-natured. "What are you doing 
here, you?"
The spreading light was less painful to Sybil’s eyes now. She could distinguish 
black leather straps on a green cloak; one of the Guardsmen who came from their 
homes, at Council season, to guard the Comyn lords and ladies. She had seen them 
from time to time; they bowed deeply as she passed, and lowered their eyes in 
humility when; as sometimes happened, she spoke some condescending word or gave 
some minor command. But this was one she had never seen before—and never before 
had one of them dared to address her uninvited, by so much as a word.
She said coldly, "Go about your business, fellow."
"Easy there, wench," the man chuckled, "My business is right here, see; finding 
out who goes in and out of this court. What’s yours?"
Sybil’s small white teeth clamped in her lip. It would be too humiliating to 
identify herself to this… this roughneck! She saw that he was a thickset man, 
with a heavy neck and burly broad shoulders, and his grin, through the untidily 
sprouting whiskers, showed very long, strong white teeth like a horse’s!
"I live here," she said shortly.
The man laughed. "And so do a dozen other women, but I’ll take your word for it. 
Come, give us a kiss, chiya, and I’ll let you go." He bent and deliberately set 
the lantern on the ground, then deliberately stepped toward her, and Sybil—too 
frozen in astonishment to move—felt his rough hands on her bare arms. The 
hoarse, chuckling voice was very close to her ear.
"Who were you looking for, girl, won’t I do instead?"
Paralyzed, a horrid sick emptiness clawing inside her belly, Sybil felt the 
rough arms around her waist, felt her feet leave the ground as he caught her up 
bodily against his chest, and the stubbled face scraped hard against her soft 
cheek. For a moment she hung limp, unable to move a muscle—this couldn’t be 
happening! Then, in a convulsion of terror, she exploded like a frantic cat, 
arching backward, silently clawing at her captor. She opened her mouth to 
scream, but her dry throat would give voice only to a little whimper of terror.
"Take it easy, hell-cat!" the strange voice muttered in the half-dark. She felt 
rough and weathered fingers searching the silks and ribbons that confined her 
breast, and her voice came back in a choking scream.
"Put me down! How dare you? You’ll be flayed alive for this!"
Something in her imperious command, even through the shrillness of hysteria, 
came through to the man, and he set her abruptly on her feet, snatching up the 
lantern. "Zandu’s hells," he swore. "Who are you?"
She swayed as he released her, dizziness blurring her eyes, and caught for 
support at the rough stonework, steadying herself with a hand flattened against 
the wall. Her voice sounded high and strange in her own ears.
"I am Sybil-Mhari Aillard," she said hoarsely, "and the Lord Ludovic will have 
the skin stripped from your body in ribbons an inch wide!"
"Domna!" The man’s voice was husky and disbelieving. He said protestingly, 
"But…" and he sagged and leaned back. A curious little stab, like a cramp in her 
belly, sharp but somehow not unpleasant, suddenly weakened Sybil’s knees again 
as she contemplated his whitening face. He stared, gulped audibly once or twice. 
After a moment he managed to collect himself somewhat, the hoarse voice was 
puzzled and apologetic, but if Sybil had expected him to cringe—and she had—she 
was oddly disappointed.
"My lady, I must beg your forgiveness. I took you for a serving-girl—and what in 
the name of the Blessed Cassilda," he finished rationally, "are you doing, my 
lady, out here in the courtyard in the night air, in your smock like any wench 
from the kitchens?"
Sybil blinked, put oddly on the defensive. She started to say, I wanted to look 
at the waterfall, but then she realized she need not explain herself to a common 
Guardsman! The doings of a Comyn lady were no concern of his! He was holding the 
lantern close to her face, and his own features emerged more clearly—rough-cut 
and bronzed, an old scar seaming his cheek, but with twinkling eyes that even 
now looked good-humored. His breath was none too steady as he said "Well, my 
little lady, it’s perfectly sure I’d be buzzard meat if you wanted to make 
trouble for me, but you wouldn’t do a thing like that, would you? I meant no 
harm, you know, and after all, who’d expect the Lady Sybil-Mhari to be roaming 
about the courtyard after moonrise?" His smile was coaxing, almost intimate. "I 
can only say I’m sorry—or maybe I’m not," he finished suddenly. "If you’d not 
told me who you were, maybe I’d have wanted more than a kiss, and taken it too!"
Sybil swayed slightly, feeling—as she had felt when she looked into the 
starstone—the strange alien touch against her mind… Desire … Fear… His hot eyes 
were still fastened on her, searching through the untied ribbons at her bosom, 
but hesitant, somehow held back… fear. She could feel his fear… and the desire, 
burning into her, burning through her… he dared not touch her now…
She swayed slightly, and, this time without apology, he put his arms behind her 
shoulders, bent to support her light weight.
She whispered "I feel… faint…" and let herself fall limp against him, her head 
dropping pliantly into the hollow of his shoulder; she could feel the slow 
pounding of his heart through his jerkin, she could feel… she buried her 
forehead still more closely into the heat of him. There is a power in you, the 
leronis had said. Now, feeling its surge, she knew what lay behind his fear and 
desire; her hands felt icy cold, and, shivering, she caught one of his warm ones 
and pressed it to her throat.
"I… I can’t breathe," she whispered, making her voice soft, beguiling. She made 
sure, before releasing his hand, that he would not be able to let her go again. 
She closed her eyes, as he lifted her; hung suspended, it seemed, swaying 
between air and fire, and felt again the strange ecstatic sensation of hurling, 
tumbling, flying, falling—the waterfall roaring beneath.
When she opened her eyes, he had laid her down in a sheltered grass-plot opening 
from one of the courtyards and was kneeling beside her, his rough hands working, 
with deft blunt motions, on the ribbons imprisoning her breast. She breathed 
deeply and whispered "Now I feel better—I don’t know what happened to me…" But 
when he would have drawn his hands hesitantly away again, she captured and held 
them.
"No, no… don’t let me go," she begged, feeling the cold, emptiness surge back 
again. She was frightened, sick with the fear she felt in him, and yet compelled 
by something more powerful still, something building… She did not know what it 
was, was it only this? Then his arms were around her again, disbelieving, 
hungry, gentle, and his mouth forcing her lips apart.
It was strange, shaking and strange, the surge and tremble that overwhelmed her. 
Never before had she known any touch like this; the fumbling and sweatily 
respectful hand-kiss of her cousins, the cold fatherly hand of the Lord of the 
Domain on her brow, the giggling embrace of her girl-companions—nothing like 
this rough hunger, so tender for all its fierceness. "My little lady," he 
whispered huskily, against her throat. "You don’t even know what it is you want, 
do you?"
No. But I will know, I will. … The memory spun in her, there is a power in you, 
and I fear it… but could it be only this, only this? She fastened her mouth to 
his, biting savagely at his stiff lips, struggling furiously—not in protest, but 
in eagerness, against the gentle pressure of his hands. There was a writhing, a 
straining, a moment of agony; she felt the dew damp on her back, icy cold 
through the thin silk of her dress, his heavy rough hairiness drowning her 
silken breasts. She twisted and fought, not with any desire to escape, but 
rather in the same savage determination with which she fought to grip an untamed 
horse with her thin thighs, the same grim conflict with which she struggled to 
hood an unruly falcon. She knew what was happening to him, she knew what was 
happening to her, but it was not what she thought, it was only a beginning, as 
she felt all his fear, respect, hesitation, sink down and die beneath the 
growing urgency, need, hunger…
She pushed away his hot kisses as the man’s spent breathing hissed past his 
parted teeth, and sat up, retying her shoulder-ribbons with flying fingers. Was 
this the final ineffable joy, the delight immeasurable, about which the other 
maidens squealed and whispered? She pushed his hand away when he would have 
assisted her, her whole body flinching in revulsion. She felt bruised and 
shaken, and she clenched her teeth tight to keep them from chattering. She broke 
into his whispered stream of endearments with a quick, shaken, "Take me 
back—they will be looking for me."
He raised her gently, as he might pick up a child who has stumbled, and she drew 
a deep breath, something… she hardly knew what… growing to swift birth inside 
her tight, throbbing breasts, her bruised and aching body. She forced herself to 
conceal her shaking, and to smile up at him, then leaned her head hard against 
his encircling arm and murmured with deliberate pathos, "You must take me back—I 
am almost a prisoner, you know."
He supported her faltering steps, half carrying her, whispering, "Yes, yes, my 
little silken bird, my little flower." He paused at the edge of the archway, 
retrieving his lantern from its hiding-place, and looked at her, saying 
hesitantly, "Little lady, you cannot return like this!"
In the crude light Sybil looked down at her crushed and torn ribbons, her 
crumpled and stained dress, tasting the blood on her lips with a slow 
satisfaction. She touched her tangled coppery curls with exploring fingers as he 
persuaded, "Come, little one, smooth your dress, let me fasten your sash. No one 
must see you like this!" There was fear in him again, and she could feel it like 
a taste in her mouth. Sybil tilted her head to one side, then heard the sound 
for which, without knowing it until this moment, she had been waiting. The clash 
of pikes, the ringing step and the challenge. She clenched her small fists, 
feeling her breath roughen and catch in her throat, smiling up at him.
"Must they not?" she murmured, then suddenly whirled, breaking away from him, 
and cried out imperiously, "Guard! Guard, to me!"
"What…" the man took a backward step; booted feet, running, echoed in harsh 
sequence on the flagstones and an explosion of lights burst in their faces; the 
face of a steel-capped Guard— Blessed Cassilda be thanked! It’s a Guard who 
knows me by sight!—thrust through the archway and a startled voice gasped "Lady 
Sybil-Mhari!"
She pointed, with a dramatic gesture, feeling the frightening power surge up 
inside her. "Kill him!" she commanded, and heard her voice breaking on what she 
herself would have taken for a wild sob of shame and fright, if she had heard it 
from another throat. She could almost see herself reflected in the Guard’s eyes, 
in his mind, swollen lips oozing a trace of bitten blood, the loosened ribbons 
falling to show her bruised breast, the skirt torn to show a hint of narrow 
thighs. The Guard spat out a cry of dismay and horror, shouting to his 
confederates; Sybil turned away, modestly mantling her face with her hair, as a 
second Guard appeared behind the first and his face echoed all the changes she 
had seen in the first. A tiny smile of contempt trembled on Sybil’s lips, but 
she made it into a piteous grimace, widening her eyes as she looked down at the 
man in whose arms she had lain only a few minutes ago. She whispered 
pathetically "The Lord Ludovic must never know—my honor is in your hands—but how 
can it be? But if he—were… somehow… to fall into the waterfall…"
And now she saw the blanching of terror, the whitening of nostril and jaw, as 
the man’s eyes sought hers in wild entreaty.
"Lady… little lady…" he gasped helplessly, and his hoarse and husky voice, as 
when he had whispered endearments, sent a thrill of warmth through her.
There is a power in you… and I fear it … oh, she thought ecstatically, if the 
Hastur sorceress could only know . . . she would have robbed me of this…
She watched the Guards seize the man, expertly pinion his arms; followed like a 
shadow, hugging herself with her thin arms, on the crest of rising excitement, 
as they hustled him rudely toward the cliff. He was shouting now, hoarse 
indecencies, until one of the Guards shoved a hand over his mouth. They 
struggled briefly at the wall, and suddenly Sybil felt a wild thrill surging 
through her body. It knifed hotly through her breasts, overwhelming as a kiss; 
stabbed fluid warmth all through her, gripped her thighs in a vise of pleasure. 
She gasped, her breath jolting out on the cresting heat of it, and cried aloud 
in unbearable delight as the man’s figure tottered on the ledge, clawed wildly 
at the air, flailed and disappeared. Sybil sank down in the grass, breathing in 
heavy sobs, knowing now what was the true power, the joy of love—vaguely, in her 
overwhelming surge of emotion, she wondered what his name had been, how she 
could discover his name. She would remember it always in her prayers for the 
dead, the name of the one who had released the power within her, had brought her 
to fulfillment. She became aware that one of the Guards was bending solicitously 
over her. She was too spent to rise; she let him lift her, leaning heavily on 
his arm, swaying helplessly.
"Lady Sybil," he said gently, "Your honor, and your secret, are forever safe 
with me. I will conduct you safe to the women’s quarters; see you only that your 
maids do not gossip, and this night’s work shall never be known." He guided her 
tottering steps with reverent hands. "Poor little lady, if I had been at hand, 
that beast, that disgrace to the Guards and their honor, had never dared lay his 
hands on you…
She lowered her long lashes. "What is your name? I would thank my… my preserver 
in my prayers, before I sleep."
"Reuel, my lady."
"Reuel. I shall… remember," she whispered. She would not make that mistake 
again. "You will not find me… ungrateful." Again the unendurable pleasure gusted 
up through her as she saw his thin swarthy face go foolish and soft with a 
sudden, incredible hope. She murmured, "I often walk in the courtyard here. Will 
you protect me?"
"With… with my very life, Lady." he stammered, and she looked at him and smiled. 
With him the terror need not strike till she had fed on the desire for a day or 
two, and the fear, and the hope… till she had fed herself full. Now that she 
knew her power, she could wait for her pleasure.
She smiled, with the drunken joy of a woman who has discovered true love, and 
ran lightly up the stairway toward her chamber.
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