Domenic stood at his post outside the Guard’s Barracks and stared at the stonework of the buildings opposite, across the narrow street. A steady stream of foot traffic moved past him, the familiar faces of local merchants and householders, cheerful in the mild autumn weather. Distantly he registered the pleasant smell of woodsmoke, carried by a brisk but not unpleasant breeze. It was coming from the direction of the kitchens of Comyn Castle, so the odors of roasting fowl and baking bread mingled with the smoke. Usually this made his mouth water, but today he had no appetite.
He shifted and stamped his feet, which were slightly cold from standing in the shadows at attention for over an hour. He wriggled his toes in the tips of his boots, trying to restore some circulation. The problem which had troubled his sleep returned to his mind, and he bit his lower lip, trying to find some answer to it. He glared at the white bulk of the Castle to his right, swore unconsciously, making his companion look at him curiously.
“Something the matter, vai dom?”
“No, Kendrick. I didn’t sleep well and am feeling rotten, is all.”
“At your age, you should be sleeping like a log, no matter what, lad. Fire or flood.”
“If you say so.” Nico shrugged and turned away. He had pulled his hair back tightly and bound it with a small thong, since Cisco Ridenow, the head of the Guards, did not approve of long hair. The tautness of it was giving him a headache.
Nico wished he knew every aspect of what was bothering him, but he could not pull all the threads together, and that made it all the more maddening. Part of the problem, he knew, was Regis’ sudden death, because that had changed everything for him. He was deeply saddened, but that was not all that was disturbing his mind. It was, primarily, the feeling that he would never have the opportunity to do anything that was not laid out for him by custom and heredity. Funny, that had never made a difference before. And he could not actually think of anything he wanted to do particularly, except not be Domenic Gabriel-Lewis Alton-Hastur. Rory was the lucky one, for he could do whatever he pleased.
He shuffled his feet again and stared at the cobbles under them, trying to sort out the muddle in his mind. He had drunk more wine than he was accustomed to the previous night, under the pleasant influence of Katherine Aldaran, who was the most interesting woman he had ever met, except for his mother. And brave, too, because he could tell she was simply terrified of being around telepaths, but she managed to keep herself in hand. Her quiet steadfastness the previous evening had left him feeling a bit cowardly by comparison. Was this what was disturbing him, and might there be some truth in it? Might he be a coward?
In moments, the thought grew from being a pebble in his mind into a boulder. He wondered if he were brave enough, good enough to be the heir of the Hastur Domain and all that entailed, now that Regis was gone. While Regis still lived, the prospect of ruling had remained distant and remote. And, he admitted to himself, he had very little ambition for the position in which fate had put him. He had assumed that Regis would live for another two decades, at the very least, by which time he would have been a father himself, and his own son could be made heir to the regency. How odd that he had never before acknowledged this fantasy—that he had never really believed that the task of governing Darkover would actually be his.
He knew what Regis would have told him—that if he didn’t want the life he had, he should have arranged to have different parents. He had heard this more than once, but now it failed to make him smile. All he could say for certain was that he felt as if the walls were closing around him, as if he were an animal trapped in some snare, ready to bite his paw off in order to escape. He would be watched over, even more than he already was, and that seemed intolerable. Hadn’t he been a near prisoner in Comyn Castle all of his life? It had not bothered him before—so why now did he have this strange desire to run away, just to walk down the street, into a city he barely knew, despite having lived in it all of his life, and just to keep going until he reached the Wall Around the World. He wondered briefly if his father would change this arrangement—he knew that the Hasturs had not always immured themselves as Regis had—but decided it was very unlikely.
There were dangers on Darkover—he was well aware of that. There were Terranan agents around, although they were few and apparently not terribly good at their jobs, if the mess they had made of causing troubles in the city were anything to judge by. There were beasts like catamounts and banshees—except that if he stayed in Comyn Castle he would never know what they looked like. And there were people on the Comyn Council who would do him harm, if they could. His own grandmother, Javanne, occasionally let herself wish him dead. But that was only an unhappy old woman’s foolishness, and he was fairly certain she would never actually try to hurt him.
Domenic shuddered. She would be arriving shortly, for the public ceremony and then to accompany the funeral train of Regis Hastur on its journey to the rhu fead. He had never seen that place, and it had an eerie reputation, but it was where the bodies of Darkover’s rulers were laid to rest. And doubtless she would once again bring up the remarkable circumstances of his conception, and suggest that his status was nedestro rather than legitimate. If only his parents had been married in the ordinary manner, instead of being wed by Varzil the Good in the distant past. Even though several leroni, including his aunt Liriel, had attested to the truth of the experiences that Mikhail and Marguerida had reported, there were still people who chose to disbelieve them. And although he did not like to admit it, even to himself, he sometimes wondered if his grandmother was right. Not that it mattered, now that his father had named him heir designate, but the doubt and suspicion about his conception hurt him more than he cared to confess.
His mother said that once Javanne got an idea in her head, nothing short of a bolt from Aldones could shake it loose, and that pretty much summed it up. And she was bound to make trouble in the Council. He had attended his first meeting of that body at Midsummer, right after he had his fifteenth birthday, and had been startled by the amount of shouting it included. Somehow he had always imagined it was stuffy and boring, but instead it had been a series of arguments about everything from the state of the Towers to the status of the Guilds in Thendara.
Afterward he had asked his father, “Is it always like that?”
Mikhail had grinned ruefully and shaken his head. “This was a fairly orderly meeting, Nico.”
“Then I hope never to see a disorderly one. I thought Francisco Ridenow was going to try to punch Uncle Regis in the nose!”
Part of the argument had been about the lease on the spaceport, which was due to run out in two years. Regis and Grandfather Lew had been in favor of extending it, at a greater fee, and Francisco had been against that. Domenic understood why—the Federation had failed to pay the rent for two years of the past five. They did not particularly need the money, since Darkover had kept her economy as free of Federation dependency as possible, but it was the principle of the matter. For its own part, the Federation had proposed that they be given the spaceport in perpetuity, and without any rents, since they had “developed” it. No one had even entertained that notion for a second—it was almost the only point of complete agreement in the entire meeting.
And who knew what would happen, now that the Federation had dissolved its legislature. They might pull out, which would please people like his grandmother and Francisco Ridenow. Domenic didn’t really care one way or the other, because the few Terranan he had known had not impressed him as either pleasant or particularly clever. He did not include Ida Davidson, who was like an aunt to him, and had even managed to teach him how to carry a decent tune. He thought glumly of the “advisor” who had been foisted off on Regis a few years before, a dry, clerkish man who had asked a great many questions and never given any answers at all. He still wasn’t sure why his uncle and his grandfather had allowed the man into Comyn Castle. It seemed to be one of those grown-up things, some plot that he could not really grasp the purpose of. And where he would, when he had been younger, have asked any number of questions, Domenic now found himself tongue-tied a good deal of the time.
His thoughts drifted toward Lyle Belfontaine, away from the unpleasant specter of Javanne, and more, he admitted to himself, from young Gareth Elhalyn, Danilo’s son. They had met at Arilinn the previous year, and he knew he did not like the boy, and that the feeling was mutual. There was something in the way he looked at Domenic, a sidewise glance, that made him want to squirm. More, Gareth gave himself airs, expecting to be deferred to, which had not sat well with his fellow students at the Tower. It was better to think about Belfontaine, because it did not seem proper to dislike his grandmother and cousin as much as he knew he did.
Lew had taken Domenic with him to HQ during one of the meetings he had, telling him to observe everything, and passed him off as a page. It had been rather fun, pretending to be just a nobody, catching the random thoughts of the Terrans in the halls and offices. It had not been very interesting, though, because most of what he picked up was incomprehensible to him. But the Station Chief had been fascinating, in a sort of repulsive way, trying to get Lew to agree to let him come to the Castle and meet Regis Hastur. He watched his grandfather dodge the issue and change the subject so skillfully that Belfontaine hardly realized he was being deflected. It had been, Nico felt, a good lesson in diplomacy, but seeing the Station Chief had left him with the feeling that the man was a dangerous fool, and that all Terranan were equally irresponsible and treacherous.
He had been more interested in the machines that were everywhere, beeping and humming to themselves, while grinding out sheets of flimsy paper that Lew told him would turn to ash in less than a day. Until he saw the relays at Arilinn, Domenic had never seen anything similar, and he was impressed in spite of himself. The only piece of advanced technology he knew was his mother’s now ancient recording device, gathering dust, since she could no longer obtain the batteries that enabled it to run.
It seemed futile to think about Belfontaine, and he let his mind drift in another direction. There were so many things he did not understand, and questions he could barely formulate, let alone find someone to answer. Everyone was so busy, and expected him to look after himself, now that he had reached his majority. And, in truth, he was a little afraid of the things that were in his mind, the thoughts and memories that dwelt there.
There were times when he thought he could remember the moment he had been conceived, although he was sure this was impossible, and he wondered silently if he might be a little mad. But he could not shake a sense that he knew things he could not, and no one, even such wise people as Istvana Ridenow, were able to answer the questions that had begun to trouble him about five years before. He missed the old leronis, who had tested him before he had gone to Arilinn, and she had returned to Neskaya. He wished, sometimes, that he could go there and study with her, but he knew that he would never be allowed that far away from Thendara.
Grandfather Lew referred to the way Regis had spent the last years of his life as a “siege mentality” and frequently rued it within Nico’s hearing. He knew it was the result of events that had occurred long before he was born, when the World Wreckers had tried to ruin Darkover. As he had aged, Regis had become more and more anxious, as if the past were gnawing away at the present, destroying his peace of mind.
Lew admitted the necessity of keeping the ruling family safe, and away from the Terrans, but he still seemed to think there should be some less restrictive way of handling the problem of security. Domenic could not imagine being able to come and go as he pleased, nor even suggesting that he might be allowed to. He was still only a boy, or a man only legally, not a full adult. He was never going to have any adventures, or see more of Darkover than he already had. It was a very depressing thought, and he decided he had better get hold of himself, or his mother would become alarmed and make him drink something foul-tasting.
There was no cure, he was certain, for the way he was feeling, except, as his mother often said, time. He was sad over Regis’ death, and that was normal. It was rather reassuring to think that what he was experiencing was perfectly ordinary, because recently his emotions had seemed to swing wildly, back and forth between elation and depression, without any reason. But Alanna’s moods did that, too, so maybe it really was just his age, and not anything more serious.
Of course, his cousin and foster-sister worried him a great deal. They were very close, having been reared together for ten years, and he probably knew her better than anyone else. Thinking of Alanna’s fits of temper did nothing to reassure him of his own mental stability, and he could not help thinking of the stories he had heard over the years, about the Elhalyn branch of the family, which was well-known to be rather odd. Maybe great-grandmother Alanna Elhalyn had passed some strange gene through her daughter Javanne, that showed up in him and his foster sister.
Thinking about Javanne Hastur was not a good idea, because she always made him feel perfectly dreadful. She had, as far as he could remember, never touched him, let alone hugged him the way she did Rory and Yllana. Mother said that was Javanne’s problem, not his, but he admitted to himself that it hurt. Anticipation of his grandmother’s imminent arrival at Comyn Castle, and the already prickly presence of Gareth Elhalyn, was making him feel worse by the second. If only they did not seem to hate him!
But his father’s mother seemed to hate a lot of things, sometimes even including Father. Well, at least he was in good company! He would endure her visit as he had all the previous ones, by avoiding her as much as possible. Let her make a great fuss over Rory. He was not jealous of his little brother . . . was he?
All of this anxiety was likely due only to the great upheaval in his life, and that he was fifteen, and feeling unsure of himself. Uncle Rafael had told him a few months earlier, in a pleasant way, that he was a perfectly normal adolescent young man, which was a comfort. He would surely grow out of it, as he had started to grow out of his clothes every few months, although he was still short for his age. But his uncle did not know the shape that Domenic’s laran seemed to be taking—no one did except a few leroni at Arilinn—and they were puzzled by it. And no one knew how it had grown since he returned to Thendara! Grown and changed into something so strange that half the time he was sure he was going to go mad. He could not really hear the planet, could he? No, that must be impossible, or the result of an overactive imagination. Human beings could not listen to the movements of the earth, could not hear the roll of the distant Sea of Dalereuth against the shore. Maybe, if he got the chance, he would ask Lew about it. Probably not. His grandfather was pretty busy, and there was no way to discuss this without revealing his fears about his own sanity.
The rattle of wheels brought him out of his reverie sharply, and Nico looked down the narrow street that ran past this entrance to the Barracks. He knew all the delivery schedules by heart, and none were expected. He stiffened into alertness and peered into the shadows, as did his watchmate.
“What’s this?” Kendrick was a career Guardsman, a sturdy man in his early thirties, and one of Nico’s favorite people. Nothing ever seemed to bother him, and standing guard with him was usually pleasant, restful almost. He followed the direction of the older man’s eyes.
Now Domenic could see what troubled the older man. It was a muledrawn wagon with a painted panel behind the gaudily garbed driver on the seat. Travelers! What the devil were they doing in the city now? They were only permitted into Thendara during Midsummer and Midwinter. In the warm part of the year, they went about, entertaining in small hamlets and the lesser cities. Except for Midwinter itself, he did not know where they wintered. His mother, who was curious about many things, had been trying unsuccessfully to gather some real information about them for a long time, and had not succeeded. Most of the little she did know she had learned from Erald, the son of the prior head of the Musicians Guild. He must remember to tell her that he had seen them.
Still, they should not be driving along on this particular street, even when they were welcome in the city. The only traffic permitted along this route were those who had business at the Castle, draymen bringing in supplies or Guildsmen. This was interesting because it was out of the ordinary, and Domenic felt his black mood start to dissipate in the face of his curiosity. He had seen Travelers twice, during his time at Arilinn, where they performed some rather scandalous songs and a play which he remembered was funny but seemed to delight in making fun of his Uncle Regis, among other things. What he had really liked was the rope dancer, a pretty girl in a skimpy costume, and the juggler who said poetry while he tossed more and more balls into the air. No one told the Travelers what to do, except themselves, he believed. What was it like to be that free of duty?
They did not seem to belong anywhere, unlike everyone else he knew. They did not have any permanent homes, and the organization of their troupes was a mystery. They belonged to no Guilds, answered to no authority, not even the lords of the Domains, and did as they pleased, so long as they did not violate the few laws which applied to them. There was something wonderfully attractive about that. For a moment, Nico wondered what it would be like to have the liberty to go where one chose whenever one wished. Then he decided it was probably cold and wet and hard.
He peered into the shadows made by the walls of the Castle, trying to make out more details. The wagon had come far enough up the street that he could see the figures painted on the sides of it now. There were puppets, the strings picked out in flaking gilt, and a garland of flowers ran around the topmost edge. The side of the wagon was lowered, and he saw a girl leaning out, grinning. She was red-haired and freckled, and seemed to be about his own age. She gave him a wave of greeting as Kendrick stepped away from the barrack entrance.
“Just what do you think you are doing, there, my good man?” he demanded of the driver. He gestured to Nico to remain in the shadows, and even though he wanted a better look, he remained where he was. He did not sense any danger from the skinny man, but he knew that he should obey the older Guard.
The man just shrugged and gave Kendrick a surly look. He was a small man, with a narrow face and a beaky nose. “We broke a wheel and had to stop in Wheelwrights Row to fix it. It didn’t seem worth going out of the city and around to meet the rest of our troupe.”
“You are not permitted in Thendara at this season! And this street is out of bounds to the likes of you in any case.” Kendrick sounded outraged, but Domenic suspected he was enjoying the break in the rather boring task of standing guard at this post.
“We ain’t bothering nobody,” protested the driver. “You ass-kissing servants of the Comyn are all alike, telling us what to do for no reason than that you don’t do no real work!”
The words were rude, and the attitude of the driver was that of a man looking for a fight. But there was more. Nico caught just a hint of fear from the man, and some muddled overthoughts that were strange. It took him a moment to realize that the man was not thinking in casta or cahuenga, but a mixture of both, with a good amount of Terran as well. Peculiar, but he was probably from up in Aldaran country, where Nico knew there were quite a few Terranan. Maybe he had a Terran father. Or maybe he had come this way for a reason. What if he were a spy or something? Nico laughed at himself quietly. That was a ridiculous idea—just because the man’s uppermost thoughts were confused was no reason to suspect him of any mischief. He was jumping at shadows.
“That is enough! You get on, or I’ll have you . . .”
“Don’t get your trews in a twist,” sneered the driver. “We are only going to the Old North Road, where we will meet up with the rest of our folk.”
“Stop being provoking,” the girl called from behind. “I told you we should have taken the other street!”
“And I told you it was too far. Keep your tongue between your teeth, girl, or I’ll take a switch to your behind.”
“You and what army, Dirck? I can outrun you any day, even in ten petticoats.” She laughed at the driver and grinned at Nico, her gray-green eyes alight with amusement. He smiled back. Domenic wondered who she was, and how she had become a Traveler. More, he wondered about the flaming hair, so often a sign of laran in the Darkovean populace. He had never heard of any Travelers coming to the Towers to be tested or trained.
The hair itself was fascinating. It was very curly, like his mother’s, but wiry where Marguerida’s was as fine as a babe’s. It stood out around her face like an aura of flames, even though the back of it was held in the confines of a wooden butterfly clasp. She was, he decided, a very pretty girl, but in an odd sort of way. She looked rough, not smooth like his cousin Alanna or his sister. And her features were not in any way remarkable—a slight turned-up nose, luminous eyes, and a generous mouth. There seemed to be nothing serious about her, and he decided that this was why he thought her pretty. She looked as if she found life very interesting and never worried about much, unlike Alanna.
Domenic sighed. Every time he thought about Alanna, his belly clenched and his heart ached. He had feelings about his foster-sister that he suspected were foolish as well as inappropriate. He did not care that she was regarded by almost everyone as a difficult child, and that sometimes his parents were ready to despair of their charge. She was bold where he thought himself timid, willing to say things he wished he had the courage to speak. More, he knew, he was almost her only real friend in the world, because her sudden shifts of mood had alienated even his mother to some degree. Would he grow out of his feelings for her? He had better, for he could not marry her. They were too closely connected by blood.
“Can you really defend this place?” the girl in the wagon asked him saucily, peering toward him still in shadow. “You look a little small for a Guard.”
“Here, now—don’t you go being rude to your betters, girl,” Kendrick growled as he stepped toward the wagon.
She shook her head, setting the curly mass of hair in motion, illuminated by the strip of sunlight that was making its way down the center of the street. It flashed brightly, like a nimbus of fire around her face. “Some overbred sprout of the Comyn isn’t my better, Guardsman.”
Kendrick made a soft growling sort of noise in his throat, but it was clear he knew he was not going to win any arguments with the Traveling girl. She was not going to give him the least respect. “Go along with you, now!”
As the driver slapped the reins against the hindquarters of his mules, and they started to move forward again, Nico caught a feeling of frustration coming from him. He looked uneasily over his shoulder at the girl still leaning out, and muttered something to himself. Dratted wench! That thought came through quite clearly, and Nico smiled to himself. In spite of knowing that he shouldn’t, he felt himself admiring her rudeness. He wished he had the courage to be rude to anyone, instead of always doing what was expected of him. And for a moment he enjoyed the notion of this girl encountering Lady Javanne Hastur and tried to imagine what she might say.
“If you come to the old Tanners’ Field by the North Gate, we will be putting on a show tonight,” the girl shouted at him as the wagon pulled away, sending his delicious fantasy right out of his head. “You aren’t on duty all the time, are you?”
Nico shook his head, suddenly mute and feeling rather like a dolt. He was getting the oddest set of impressions, and there was a thrumming in his head, an annoying sensation, and something more. He had an impulse to use the Alton Gift, to penetrate the girl’s mind, if only for a moment—just to discover her name. Or did he wish to know more? The girl was so unlike anyone he knew that he found himself drawn toward her for a moment.
The girl waved at him boldly, and the desire to do anything foolish faded away. He took a deep breath, relieved. His secret wish to do something unexpected did not extend to consorting with a Traveling lass. While that might have been acceptable in another, he knew that as his father’s heir, it would never be. What a scandal!
I wonder who he is?
“Who are you yelling at, Illona?” The girl turned and looked into the dim interior of the wagon at the older woman lying on a narrow bed.
“Oh, just one of the Guards, Aunt Loret.”
“You keep away from them, lassie. And don’t go being forward, unless you want to be mistook for a whore.”
“Yes, Auntie.”
He caught the edges of her curiosity and found himself amused. Then, as if annoyed at being ignored, his bleak mood returned. What in Zandru’s coldest hell was the matter with him! He had felt completely miserable for weeks, even before Regis had died—restless and, worse, profoundly angry. He resented everything and everyone most of the time, keeping his emotions under an iron grip that left him exhausted and furious. Why couldn’t he be easygoing, like Rory? He was too serious and dull. Well, not dull, exactly. He just never got into trouble, and much to his disgust, Nico, discovered that he wanted to.
If only there was someone he could talk to without fear of feeling naked and vulnerable. His father had asked him on several occasions if he wanted to talk. Busy as he was, he always tried to make himself available for discussions, but Nico knew that this was impossible for him. How could Mikhail understand the silent rebellion that simmered in his belly and wracked his mind? He knew that his father would listen, because he always had, but he was certain that Mikhail would be distressed if he ever knew how unhappy Domenic was. Surely Mikhail had never felt like this! It did not matter how unhappy he was, he was still the heir, and he had obligations. Disgusting word! He had to put aside his own hazy yearnings and buckle down. He couldn’t burden his father with his own childish problems—especially now!
The sense of those duties was a heavy weight to bear. And he would never be free of them, so long as he drew breath. That made it even worse. He was trapped and alone, a prisoner of his heritage . . . and his peculiar laran, which no one seemed to be able to understand, and which made quite a number of people uncomfortable, made it all much worse. Even Lew Alton, whom Nico, adored, could not help him. Besides, how could someone as old as his grandfather even begin to understand what troubled him? He could not really explain his feelings to himself, so how could he explain them to someone else?
By the time the shift was over, Nico, was deep in the doldrums. He yanked the thong out of his hair, left his post and returned to the Castle, climbing the long stairs from the entry to the upper floors. He knew he should be hungry, but he wasn’t. All he wanted to do was find a closet and get into it, shut out the world and the oppressive sense of his own obligations. He simply had no business feeling so unhappy, but he could not shake it away.
As Nico approached the family apartments, he heard a shrill shriek, followed by the sound of something smashing. Alanna, in one of her tempers. And no one could calm her down except him. For once he did not wish to play peacemaker, even for his beloved Alanna. He just wanted to be left alone, in the vain hope that he could find some solution to the inner fury which plagued him day and night.
Then a bubble of amusement seized him. He and Alanna were really a perfect match—she was rarely in a good humor and he always pretended that he was. Nico envied her the freedom of her tantrums. Her mother, Ariel, had spoiled her badly when she was small, then surrendered her reluctantly into the charge of her brother when the girl became completely unmanageable. Even the instructors at Arilinn had been unable to discipline her beyond certain basics.
When he entered the apartment, Alanna was standing in the center of the sitting room, scowling. There was a smashed teapot at her feet, and a stain of spilled liquid on the carpet. Her hands were clenched into fists, and her shoulders hunched beneath the fine linen of her blouse. She fairly bristled with energy, seemingly radiating from every cell of her slender form. It was an all too familiar and increasingly frequent sight these days.
“Are you single-handedly trying to support Lady Marilla’s pottery works, Alanna? That is the fourth teapot you have broken this month.” He looked at the shards at her feet. “I rather liked that one, too.” Maybe he could jolly her out of her mood, and help his own at the same time.
“The sixth, actually.” Her beautiful voice was thick with tension. “It is better to smash pottery than people, isn’t it?”
“If you absolutely must destroy things, than I suppose that innocent cups and pots are best, breda. But for the sake of the carpets, you might at least wait until the vessel is empty. What’s the matter now?” He spoke jovially, trying to tease her into a better mood, but his own patience was worn and frayed, and he wished himself in some other place—any other place!
“I can’t breathe! Everyone is walking on tippytoe, trying to be solemn. It makes my head hurt.” She spoke with great drama, but there was no question that she was genuinely suffering. Alanna had inherited much of her mother’s anxious disposition which, combined with her volatile temper, was an unholy mixture. He thought it a great pity that she could not become an actress, then wondered where that remarkable idea had come from. Daughters of Domain families, or even lesser ones, such as the Alars, were not free to join the Players Guild, or any other.
Alanna had voiced this complaint before, and no one, not even his mother, who was a powerful healer, had been able to discover the source of the girl’s discomfort. It was very real, however. There was no doubt of that. “Perhaps we should order a gross of crockery for you to throw, chiya.”
“I feel like I am going to burst, Nico! Bang! Into a million bits!”
“I can see that.” He was not unfamiliar with that sensation, for he often felt it himself, though not as strongly as his foster-sister. Perhaps it would be good for him to break a few cups himself, just to relieve the inner turmoil. No, that would not help. What Domenic wanted was to break the rules, and that he dared not do.
“Was it something specific, Alanna, or just the general atmosphere of hushed solemnity that provoked you?”
The girl unclenched her hands at last and shrugged. “I was playing the clavier, and my fingers seemed all thumbs, and that made me furious. But it is more. I feel . . . like I am coming apart. As if there are two of me, or perhaps more. And each wants something different.” She lowered her head after this admission, and began to cry quietly.
Nico put an arm around her shoulder and leaned her proud head down a bit. She felt warm in his light embrace, but she smelled of rage, a distinct odor which was unmistakable and rather unpleasant. Alanna was stiff, her muscles taut, as if she held herself in by will alone. Even as she wept, there was no lessening of the tension.
His mother came into the sitting room, looking very tired. She paused and looked at the two of them, and a slight shadow seemed to cross her fine features. It was gone almost as soon as it appeared, but Nico suspected that Marguerida knew something of his feelings for his foster-sister and that they worried her.
No need to fuss, Mother.
I can’t help it. You are my firstborn. There was more, something deep in her mind which perturbed her, but he could not guess what it might be.
I mean that you need not worry about me letting my feelings for Alanna get out of hand.
No, you are much too disciplined for that—even though the temptation must be frightful. Sometimes, Nico, I almost wish you were just a little bit less restrained.
What do you mean? Do you want me to be more like Rory?
Certainly not! One hellion is all I can manage. I only want you to be yourself. And I cannot quite escape the feeling that you are holding yourself in check—you are too abnormally good!
Should I start seducing the maids, or go drinking with some of the Guardsmen?
I would prefer it if you did not. It would cause talk, and we don’t need that. But I wish you would kick over the traces, just once. You never surprise me, Nico, and I wish you did.
What a disappointment I must be, so stuffy and sober.
Never a disappointment, son! I suppose I have too much of my father in me, and am a covert rebel. Don’t you ever want to do something outrageous?
Often. But I know my duties. Domenic felt Alanna stir against him, and was relieved for the distraction. He did not want his mother to discover how much he resented his duties. She had enough to think about, what with the death of Regis Hastur, and Alanna being impossible more often than not. She never complained, but he knew she chafed under her obligations, that no matter how much she loved him, his siblings, and his father, she wanted to devote more of her energy to her musical compositions and less to being a wife and mother.
She had never neglected him or his brother and sister, not to mention fostering Donal and Alanna. She had listened patiently when he boasted of his small accomplishments—the training of his beloved hawks or learning to take his horse over a hurdle. Marguerida had sat up with him when he had a bout of fever, refusing to let a servant press wet cloths to his hot brow, but insisting on caring for him herself. He was loved—well-loved—and he knew it.
At the same time Domenic knew that she had often been torn between her own ambitions and her duties. She did not like to sit in Council meetings, listening to disputes and smoothing ruffled feathers. She hated having to take a carriage everywhere, that she could no longer walk through the streets of Thendara even with an escort, as she had before he was born. Sometimes, he knew, she went down to one of the Castle courtyards in the middle of the night and paced across the cobblestones, just to release herself from the tension of a kindly confinement.
It had been thirty-five years since the World Wreckers had been on Darkover, murdering children in their cradles. Nothing that had happened since then was so threatening to the families of the Domains, but an attitude of alertness, of wary watchfulness, had taken possession of Regis as he had aged. They were embattled, although no foe had yet presented itself. Still, if some of the things he had overheard from his parents and Grandfather Lew were accurate, they might find themselves being very glad of their paranoia. The only problem, as far as Nico was concerned, was that it meant he could not go where he pleased, as his father had been able to do when he was younger. Right now, that chafed him more and more, and he almost shared Alanna’s feeling of being unable to breathe.
The desire to get away rose in his throat, and he swallowed it. There was no good thinking about it. He was stuck in Comyn Castle for the foreseeable future, and he must resign himself to that. And he must not complain of his captivity either, or envy Rory his relative freedom. Bile soured his mouth.
Alanna straightened up, pulling away, and he could feel her distress. She glanced at the mess on the floor, her mobile face becoming stiff and expressionless. “I am going to go take a bath.”
“That should relax you,” Marguerida replied placidly.
Alanna’s face turned into a mask of barely suppressed fury. “Nothing will relax me, nothing except . . . I can’t even think of anything. I hate it here!” With that she turned and left the room.
“As dearly as I love that child, Nico, there are times when I despair. I tell myself that it is just adolescent hormones running amuck, but truthfully, I don’t believe that for a second. I don’t foresee Alanna settling down into marriage—the very idea is too fantastic—and she does not belong in a Tower, even with all her gifts. There is no place for a girl like Alanna on Darkover.” Marguerida frowned and her shoulders sagged. “Nor anywhere else I can think of.”
A girl like Alanna. It was a strange thing for his mother to say, and not for the first time he wondered if there were something about his foster-sister that Marguerida knew and he did not. Domenic wanted very much to comfort his mother, but he could not think of anything to say that would help. He was glad she did not think that marriage and children were a solution to his cousin’s ills, unlike many of the other women in the Castle. And living in a Tower would drive his nervous cousin stark raving mad. It almost had when she had been at Arilinn. She did not seem to belong anywhere, really. “Maybe she will grow out of . . . whatever it is. And me, too.”
“You will, I believe. But Alanna is another matter. My sense is that as she gets older, her talents will become even more difficult to manage.” She gave a little sigh. “Long ago, when I was first on Darkover, I had an experience of the Aldaran Gift. Your aunt Ariel was pregnant with Alanna, and it was the day your cousin Domenic was injured in that terrible carriage accident. It was one of the worst days of my life, and I have always tried to persuade myself that the vision I had was more the result of my own frayed emotions than anything real. But I remember thinking at the time that she should be called ‘Deirdre,’ not Alanna.”
“Why?” So, she did know something she had never told him. Domenic realized that his mother was worn down from the demands of the past several days, that she had lowered her guard a little, and it gave him a peculiar feeling as he waited for an answer. After a second he decided that he was being spoken to as an adult, not a child, and he was not really sure he was ready for that.
“Because it means ‘the troubler.’ It was a fancy of mine, and I never told anyone. I knew that Alanna was going to be difficult, even before she was born. And I have never felt comfortable with that. Do you know what set her off?”
“She said she felt smothered, but she also told me that she felt as if there were . . . two people inside her, fighting with each other. If I did not know better, I would suspect she had been overshadowed, Mother.”
Marguerida shuddered. “If I never hear that term again, it will be too soon, son. But you are right—she has not been. I would know, I think . . . I hope.”
“I am sorry that Alanna and I are being so much trouble. You look very tired, Mother. Headachey?”
“Just a bit. And you are not any trouble, Nico. Never that. But the desire to take to my bed with a sopping kerchief full of lavender on my brow is very attractive. The preparations for Regis’ funeral are perfectly exhausting, and Lady Linnea is so sad it nearly breaks my heart. If it were not for Danilo Syrtis-Ardais, I think I would collapse completely.” She gave a soft laugh.
“Share the joke, please.” He did not want to put an end to this particular conversation just yet.
“I was just thinking how the first time I ever set eyes on Danilo, I nearly fainted from terror. I had been on Darkover less than a week, and I had no knowledge of catalyst telepathy or anything like it. I just felt he was a danger to me, an inexplicable foe. The Alton Gift was starting to manifest, and I was doing everything in my power to deny it—telling myself I was imagining things, or going crazy, or both. I wanted nothing to do with him, and now I don’t think I could manage without him. It struck me funny—that’s all.”
“Is there anything I can do to help, Mother?”
“Not really. The casket has been ordered, and the hangings. We would have used those from Danvan’s funeral, but the moths had been at them, and they were tatters. Just another detail to occupy my mind. It keeps me from thinking about other things, like Alanna, or the fact that your father and mine are closeted with Hermes Aldaran, trying to hammer out some policy without even a clue as to what the Federation might decide to do. And your grandparents have just arrived from Armida, so I wish to be several places at once.”
“There isn’t a laran for that,” he said kindly, ignoring the chill that the mention of his grandmother aroused in him. She could not do him any real mischief, could she?
Marguerida chuckled. “Just as well. Can you imagine the chaos if we were bi-locational?”
“Oh, I don’t know. You could be taking a nap while attending a Council meeting.”
“I don’t need any special talent to do that. I’ve had any number of snoozes during some of the more boring parts, and been rudely aroused when the shouting started. Tell me, son, what do you think of Katherine Aldaran?”
“I like her very much. I think she is finding Darkover difficult, and making the best she can of it.”
“I have not been able to spend more than a moment with her, and had to deputize Gisela, which was probably a mistake. But they are sisters-in-law, so it was logical. After that nonsense of the clothes at dinner last night, they are likely not even speaking to one another—which is just one more thing that I don’t have time to deal with!” Damn Giz for being such a troublemaker! I wish she would grow up and start behaving like a woman instead of a spoiled brat!
“You worry too much, Mother. Go take a nap and have a cup of tea. Domna Katherine can take care of herself. And Aunt Gisela never likes other women, especially if they are beautiful. She cannot help it.”
“You are very wise for your years, Nico. Yes, a nap is in order—if only no further upsets occur.”
Marguerida left the room as a servant came in and started to clean up the mess on the floor. Domenic sat down, then jumped back to his feet a minute later, and began to pace. The entire weight of Comyn Castle seemed to press against his skull, and he tried to shake the feeling away.
What was the matter with him? Nico tried to discover the source of his oppression, and at last it came to him. He did not want to attend the last rites of Regis Hastur. He could not bear the thought, even for a moment. It was more than just his sorrow at losing a man who had always been there for him. The grief was real, but beneath it there was a well of barely contained fury and fear, as if the walls were closing in on him.
His mind went to the red-haired girl in the Traveler’s cart. How fortunate she was to be free, without obligations or duties. How wonderful it would be to go where he wanted, when he wanted.
An idea began to form, a wicked and wonderful notion. Nico shook his head at himself, and tried to make it go away. Could he really sneak out and go to see that night’s performance? He really should not, but the more he tried to persuade himself out of it, the more attractive the idea became. Of course he could go with his usual contingent of Guards—that would be almost acceptable. But he wanted to go alone, unaccompanied. He wanted to have at least one adventure before he was shut up forever.
Then he chuckled. It was something Rory would do, never Domenic. Well, he would show that he was not as stuffy as everyone thought, not the “good” son. His mother might just get her wish, that he would do something which surprised her. Now all he had to do was find a way to exit the Castle without being noticed. The sense of oppression almost vanished as he drew a deep breath, and began to plan his escape.
The carriage rattled over the cobblestones, and Katherine Aldaran studied her sister-in-law, sitting languidly on the opposite bench, her lower body draped in a furred blanket. What a complicated woman she was turning out to be. First she had played a mean trick, and then apparently to make amends had appeared right after breakfast that morning with an armful of garments and the offer to take Kate to met Master Gilhooly, the head of the Painters Guild. She had not apologized, nor even alluded to the previous evening, but instead had seemed to only be interested in being helpful.
She had shown Katherine how to deal with the multiple petticoats every Darkovan woman was expected to wear. Each one was dyed a slightly darker hue, and when Katherine put them on, with a fine chemise beneath them, the effect was not only quite pretty but warm as well. A skirt, embroidered with leaves, and tunic to match completed the ensemble. The colors were more suited to a redhead than to Katherine’s coloring but they did well enough, and when Gisela sat her down and dressed her hair, pulling it back and fastening it with a very lovely butterfly clasp, she was both pleased with the reflection in the glass and forgiving of her new sister-in-law as well. The nagging suspicion that Gisela might be up to something faded back, but Katherine thought she would be a fool to drop her guard completely around this obviously complex woman whose agendas were unknown to her.
The trip to the Painters Guild had been pleasant, and Gisela had pointed out things of interest, and told her some of Darkover’s history as well. She had been animated, clever with her words, and not at all like the coyly manipulative woman who had visited her the day before, and given her the impression that wearing Federation evening clothes to the welcoming banquet was the correct thing to do. But now Gisela seemed weary and out of sorts, as if returning to Comyn Castle was something unpleasant.
Katherine tried to think of something to say, wanting to restore the previous mood, which was more comfortable for her. She noticed, in a distant way, that Gisela, like Herm, was an oddly restful person for her. Kate had always appreciated it that her husband managed to hide his feelings so well, and it appeared that Gisela had the same quality. That absence of emotional need had made their marriage tranquil. She resented that Herm had kept so many secrets from her, but that was a different matter altogether, one she would deal with in her own way.
“Thank you again for taking me. Even though Herm has taught me rather a lot of casta, I could never have managed without you. My vocabulary was not up to it.”
Gisela smiled vaguely and nodded. Then she plucked at the hem of her tunic and shifted on the bench. “He would not have thought, if he even knew the terms himself, which I rather doubt, of how many words are specific to painters. And, truthfully, I would not have known myself, except that for the past decade I have been so bored that I have read anything I could get my hands on, whether I was initially interested in the subject or not. One of the books I found in the Castle archives was a treatise, about three hundred years old. ‘Concerning the Limner’s Craft.’ The parchment is yellowed and starting to crumble, so I had to be careful. And I don’t suppose anyone but me and the archivist even know it exists. I have picked up a great deal of information that I never expected to use. It was rather amusing to find an application for some of it at last.” She did not sound amused, in fact she was clearly discontented. But somehow Katherine was not made uncomfortable by these feelings. Maybe it was a family characteristic, this containment. She wondered for a moment if their brother, Robert Aldaran, and his father would be the same.
Katherine tried to imagine a life as confined as she knew Gisela’s must be, and felt more than a little sorry for the woman. “Well, I am happy that you were bored, then, because it was a great treat for me. Are you bored often?”
Gisela looked at her, green eyes glinting in the light that came through the windows of the vehicle, as if she were seeking some hidden meaning in the words. “Most of the time, yes, I am.”
Katherine could sense a sudden tension in her sister-in-law and realized she had to tread warily. “I am sorry, but I don’t understand. I would imagine that living in Comyn Castle would be . . . pleasant.”
A bitter laugh answered her. “You might find it that, but I have never done so.” Gisela drew her fine brows together and pursed her lips. “I am there because Regis Hastur wanted some way to guarantee my father’s good behavior, not because I am wanted or needed. I have no purpose but as a pawn, and I suppose I have never had one—it makes me very cross.”
“That would make me cross, too, Gisela. But I still don’t quite understand.”
“What?” Gisela sat up on her bench, her face twisted with hope and wariness at the same time.
Kate wondered what had happened to this obviously intelligent woman to make her so untrusting. “Well, why you think you have no purpose except as a pawn, I suppose.”
“I am not like you, Katherine, or like Marguerida. I don’t have anything that matters to me the way I know now that art matters to you, or music does to Marguerida. Watching you talk to Master Gilhooly—the way your face lit up—made my . . . stomach hurt.” She reddened, looked mildly ashamed, and gave a little sigh. “I was not raised for such things. I was never encouraged to find an avocation—something which would fill my life with passion and meaning. My father spoiled me very badly, and I always believed I could have anything I wanted. It was only later that I understood that I could only have what he wanted, if I was fortunate. I am just a woman, and on Darkover that doesn’t count for much.”
“How were you unfortunate, then?”
Gisela stared her for a second. “You are really interested, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am. Why would I pretend otherwise?”
“You wouldn’t, I guess. You are a very odd woman, Kate, and I cannot think of anyone like you. I just don’t know what to make of you.”
“There is nothing to make of me, Giz. But, you see, I was born on Renney, where women hold the reins of power, and I am having a great deal of trouble understanding Darkover. The things you told me when we were going to the Painters Guild were more than a little disturbing, and if Herm expects me to turn into some sort of subservient wife, doing whatever he wishes without asking questions, then I want to know about it beforehand, so I can box his ears. He seems different already.”
“Women have the power . . . what a peculiar notion. Hmm. I rather fancy that. It sounds very attractive.” She paused for a moment, her face reflective. “I’ll wager Herm is probably not telling you things you think you should know, am I right?”
“The number of things that Herm has not told me during the course of our marriage so far is already enormous, and I am quite angry with him.” She bit off the words before she said more, surprised by her own candor. She did not know Gisela very well, and had already learned that the woman was capable of being spiteful, and that she was a chancy ally at best. But she needed to talk to someone, and her new sister-in-law was the only one she had found so far. “We have had a happy marriage until now, and I feel . . . betrayed.”
“Poor Katherine.” There seemed to be a genuine compassion in the words. “Herm is a good man, but he has always been very secretive, even when he was a boy. I think it was his way of dealing with our father, who is a difficult man at the best of times.” She laughed mirthlessly. “And in Aldaran Castle, it is never the best of times! Our family was mistrusted—cast out—by the other Domains, long before I was born. That drove my father into fits of fury. Then Regis Hastur decided that the Aldarans should not be punished for things that had happened in the past, and his first gesture toward reconciliation was to appoint Hermes to the Chamber of Deputies. It was a small thing, and it did not satisfy my father, whose desire was to be a power to be reckoned with on Darkover, instead of sitting up in the Hellers like a hawk in jesses. I think he expected Herm’s appointment to lead to something immediately, but it didn’t. And I don’t think Father has ever understood my brother’s character.”
“And what is that?” Katherine was fascinated now. True, Gisela had not known Herm for over two decades, and was several years younger than her brother. But the earlier part of their journey had raised her opinion of the other woman considerably. More, she had always been curious about her husband’s history, and frustrated that he refused to discuss it.
“It is not easy to put into words. I would say that he is very solitary. Indeed, I was stunned to find out he had a wife and children—it was so unlike the Hermes I remembered. We have an animal in the Hellers, the scavenger-wolf, which runs in packs and howls in the night. But sometimes, for no reason anyone knows, one of these beasts leaves his pack and goes off on its own. When I was little, I always thought Herm was like one of those.”
“A lone wolf—yes, that makes sense. And your father did not understand that?”
“Well, it made him uncomfortable, because he could not command Herm to do his bidding. But I don’t think that was the problem, for my father is not an introspective man, and he does not give much attention to anyone other than himself. No, it was another matter entirely.” She took a breath. “Again, it is difficult to express exactly. I think that my brother loves Darkover more than he can ever love a living person, Kate. Please do not suspect me of malice, although you would be completely justified if you did. I do not mean to hurt your feelings in saying this—and you did ask me.”
“No, I don’t. It fits in with what I know of my husband. Not happy knowledge, but at least I no longer feel I have misjudged him completely. Thank you.” She sighed, letting some of the tension leave her body. “Now, tell me your sad tale, please.”
“It is not sad, exactly, although I often feel as if it were, when I am in one of my black moods. It isn’t even very interesting. I fell in love with Mikhail Hastur when he came to visit Aldaran Castle. I was sixteen and he was the first person outside my family, other than some Terranan who visited my father, I had ever gotten to know. My father approved, in his way. He encouraged me in my folly, and I was young enough to think that something would come of it. Mikhail was Regis’ heir, and marrying him would make me the greatest lady on Darkover! Regis wanted to bring the Aldarans back into Darkovan society, and it seemed to me a perfect solution. I had no idea what kind of opposition such a notion would arouse, because my father had filled my head with some extremely silly things, and I was too young to understand the politics of the situation. Politics!” Gisela spat the word out.
“I quite agree. So what happened then?” Katherine sensed that her sister-in-law was revisiting something old and painful, that she had longed to speak of it and had had no one she could open up to. It was not the first time she had heard things she had no business knowing—the models for her portraits often became positively garrulous while posing. And though she was uncertain whether she wanted Gisela’s confidences, Kate could see no harm in learning more about her husband’s family.
“Absolutely nothing! Mikhail went away, and Herm became a Deputy and left. Time passed, and Mik did not return, nor did he send me any messages and my father grew impatient. In one of his furies he decided to marry me off to an old drunk who had already buried two wives, to get me off his hands, since I had not furthered his dreams as he thought I should have. Those were the worst four years of my life.” She shuddered all over and reflected for a moment. “That part was rather sad, I suppose.”
Kate felt the pain in the words and wondered if this new relative knew how very courageous she was, to have endured such a trial. She shifted a little on the hard bench of the carriage, trying not to let her usual discomfort with people in general influence her too much. “I take it the old drunk died. Or did you divorce him?”
“We don’t have marriage dissolutions on Darkover, or at least not very often. No, he broke his neck out hunting before I had time to find a way to poison him, and good riddance! So, there I was, a young widow with two sons, and Regis reformed the Comyn Council, and invited my father to come to Thendara. I came with him, all ready to recapture Mikhail’s interest, and there was Marguerida, in what I imagined was to be my position!” She shrugged her shoulders, as if trying to relieve herself of some old burden.
“That sounds completely miserable for you. What happened then?” In spite of her now increasing unease, Katherine was fascinated and did not want her sister-in-law to stop talking.
“There was a ball, for Midwinter,” Gisela began, her voice distant now. “My father had backed Regis into an agreement to announce that Mikhail and I would be married, to heal the breach between the Domains, you see. I have never been so anxious in my life as I was that night, because I had a sense of dread, a certainty that it was not going to happen the way I wished. We Aldarans have the Gift of foresight. Gift—it’s often more of a curse! And then Marguerida and I ended up in an alcove, glaring at each other, and she told me that I had put my heart on the wrong Hastur. Before I could reply, everyone in the ballroom who had any laran heard this terrible, booming voice—it was incredible! The next thing I knew Mik and Marguerida were dashing out of the room, and Mikhail’s sister Ariel went into labor with Alanna, and people were fainting and screaming and having fits. Mikhail and Marguerida left the Castle and rode away to Hali Tower, where somehow they . . . managed to get away into the past.”
“Yes. Mikhail said something about it at dinner last night, and at first I thought he was pulling my leg. Then I realized he was serious, which was even more difficult to take than being the butt of a joke. They really did?”
“Well, they went somewhere—somewhen? I still have a hard time imagining it, and I always wished it were me, not her, of course! When they returned, several weeks had passed for them, but only a night had for us, and they were married and she was pregnant with Domenic! I tell you, this was a lot to believe, and there are a few people, like my mother-in-law, who still don’t, even though the best leroni on Darkover have attested to the actuality of these events. Javanne didn’t want Mik to marry Marguerida any more than I did, but for different reasons, and she still insists that it was not a valid marriage. That is mostly spite, because she had not given her consent.”
Gisela paused and shifted on the bench. “So there we all were, stuck with the situation. Rafael was very kind to me then, though I had never done anything to warrant it. And I knew then that Marguerida was right, that I had misinterpreted my foreseeing, and that Rafael was the man in my visions. I had known all along, but I had refused to see it.”
“How had you known?”
“The Aldaran Gift, as I mentioned before. I saw myself married to a Hastur and I persuaded myself that it had to be Mikhail, because I wanted it to be. I was well aware he had two brothers. I just pretended to myself that Gabe and Rafael did not exist—what a goose of a girl I was!” The self-loathing in her voice made Kate want to cringe.
During the ride to the Painters Guild, Katherine had almost managed to forget that the people around her had peculiar “gifts,” that the woman sitting across from her was a telepath, and perhaps more. She had let herself be persuaded by Marguerida’s assurances that her thoughts were safe. Now all her doubts and fears returned, at the mention of the Aldaran Gift, and she swallowed hard, and forced herself to sound calm and casual. “Yes, the Aldaran Gift. Herm told me a little about it, but I am not sure I believed him.”
Gisela gave a genuine laugh this time. “Oh, it is very real, but interpreting it is pretty chancy. And I never told anyone—I can’t imagine why I am speaking so openly to you.” She looked into Katherine’s eyes then, a piercing gaze full of fear and a deep longing as well. “The only person who knows the most of it is probably Marguerida, and she is much too tactful to ever throw it in my face. Sometimes I wish she were not quite so . . . disciplined. Or that I could be more like her and less like myself.”
Kate returned the look, trying to put into it her unspoken intention to be a good friend, for the more she listened to Gisela, the more she found her to be both brave and lonely. “It is easier, sometimes, to tell things to strangers than to people you know well.”
“You see, that is exactly the problem. There are no strangers in my life—only folk I know so well that I can anticipate what they will say before they speak the words. Sometimes I think that if Rafael clears his throat before he asks me how I am today one more time, I will . . . go mad.”
“Please don’t do that.”
Gisela laughed quietly and her shoulders drooped a little. “No, I guess I won’t, I would surely have done so years ago if I were going to. All in all, life has not been terrible, just not terribly satisfactory. My husband cares for me a great deal. Even with all the naughty things I did.”
“What sort of things?”
“Well, I listened to my father, which was my first mistake, and I did a few things that were . . . impolitic. They did not do serious damage to anyone except that Rafael was embarrassed and no longer completely trusted, because of me. He is a proud man, and I shamed him in the eyes of his own brother. There are days when I would give anything to undo that. But I can’t, and I have to endure the consequences of my own stupidity.”
“What exactly did you do that was so terrible?” Katherine asked.
“I suggested that perhaps Mikhail should not be Regis’ heir, because of his travels into the past and his marrying Marguerida, but that Rafael should instead. To anyone that would listen.” The pain in her voice was unmistakable. “And the most terrible part is that he has never chided me for what I did, never made me ask for forgiveness for being a foolish, immature, conniving wretch. All he has done for fifteen years is try to make me happy, to help me be content with my lot in life, as he is with his.”
“Umm . . . that rather goes beyond impolitic, Gisela.”
She spat a bitter sounding laugh from between white lips. “I know—it was near to treason, except that I wasn’t taken very seriously. I never do anything by halves. And when I understood that it was hurting Rafael, I stopped and tried to be good. I studied chess, pretending that the pieces were the inhabitants of Comyn Castle, until I grew weary of that, and then I started to write a text on chess, which filled the empty hours, and read my way through the archives. I am probably the most well-read woman on the planet.” She gave a feeble smile. “Marguerida even consults me on old books, sometimes, which should make me happy, but nothing really does.”
“But haven’t you ever found anything you loved to do?” The words came out before Kate could restrain them. She could hardly bear the anguish in the voice of the other woman, and the sense of her pain.
“No.”
“Even when you were a little girl?”
To Kate’s surprise, Gisela blushed along her high cheekbones and looked down at her hands. She mumbled something, but the folds of her cloak muffled the words.
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t quite catch that,” Kate said.
Gisela lifted her head and looked directly at Katherine for a minute without speaking. “There was something.” She flexed her hands, with the extra finger that Herm had told Katherine was common in the Domain families, and which looked so peculiar. “I liked to carve—such a common thing. My nurse made me stop; because it was dirty and she said I might cut myself with the knife. I was so ashamed. I hadn’t thought about that in years, until a few days ago.” She stopped talking and looked out the window of the carriage. “It was the day you came, and I was looking at this fantastic chess set that Marguerida gave me for Midwinter, and thinking how lucky it was that the figures had escaped from the stone and bone they were made from. I felt as if I were somehow trapped in stone . . .”
Kate was nearly squirming with discomfort now. She was angry, that a perfectly intelligent woman was caught in such a dreadful trap. Stone, indeed. She drew a harsh breath and said, “I think it is terrible that your nurse shamed you, Gisela, and I also think it is high time you stopped letting what other people expect of you rule your life. I think you are terribly brave, too. I don’t know if I could have been married to a drunk, and then held hostage!” The ugly word hung between them, almost visible, for a moment. “And as for wanting to be more like Marguerida and less like yourself—nonsense! If anything, you should want to be more like yourself!”
Gisela managed a shaky laugh. “I think if I were any more like myself, someone would strangle me, Kate.”
“I don’t mean being your lowest self, but being your very best.” Kate could feel her impatience rise. Nana had always said it would be her downfall, and she had tried very hard to master it. Now she felt as if she had learned nothing over the years.
“My best self? You are either the most generous woman ever born, or you just don’t understand!”
“Perhaps I don’t or maybe it’s you who don’t understand. I was raised so differently than you were!”
“Tell me about that, please.”
Katherine knit her brows for a moment, forcing herself to become calm again. She could not change the past for Gisela, but perhaps she could find a way to help her sister-in-law into a better future. “On Renney we believe that each person has a purpose, or more than one, and that we are obligated to discover what that is. We have a lot of complicated rituals that we use to find out what we are supposed to be. The idea of someone else deciding what we are going to do with our lives, of being trapped in place, is very hard for me to imagine.”
“So, how did you find out you were supposed to become a painter?” There was a friendly glint in the dazzling green eyes of the other woman, and Kate had no doubt she was genuinely interested. Gisela smiled encouragingly, and some of the tension between them faded.
“I fasted for three days and then sat in a cold grove of trees for the night and waited. It was very unpleasant, but it was expected, so I did it anyway.” She chuckled, more comfortable now. “My toes felt like ice and my belly was growling and nothing happened for hours and hours. I was just starting to feel as if I were going to fail when . . . something happened. Between one second and the next I wasn’t cold any longer, and my head was filled with images, of people and places that I had never seen.” She paused for a breath. “I was terrified and happy all at the same time, and my heart leaped in my chest. I just sat there feeling this incredible thing, and then it started to dawn, the light coming through the trees, making long shadows and coloring the trunks gold. And then I looked at my hands and discovered that I had a stick in one, and that the ground in front of me was covered with scratchings that I did not remember making, little figures of people and buildings. And I knew in my bones what I was supposed to be, and I went home and told my Nana, after eating a huge bowl of stew and giving myself a belly ache.”
“Your Nana?”
“The mother of my mother.”
“It sounds very interesting, except the part about the fasting.” She patted her waist and sighed. “And no one asked you if you were sure, or wondered if you had just made the whole thing up or anything?”
“The Rennians believe that visions are a gift from the Goddess in her many forms, and to question one would be . . . unthinkable.”
“I see. How old were you when this happened?”
“Twelve.”
Gisela sighed. “Well, we don’t have that sort of vision here on Darkover, and I am much too old to start, I think. It does sound wonderful, though.”
“You are never too old to start something, Gisela. Stop talking as if your life were already over. You are younger than I am! I do not know your customs here. What harm would there be in you doing something that genuinely pleased you, instead of sitting around . . . feeling sorry for yourself.”
Gisela winced. “There is that. How did you get to be so wise?”
“I’m not, but when you spend your days painting people, trying to capture them on canvas, you discover a great deal. The way they fold their hands or purse their mouths tells you something about them, often something they would rather not know.”
“Oh.” Self-consciously, Gisela tucked her hands under the edges of her cloak, then shrugged. “I guess it is too late to escape your eye, isn’t it? What have you divined about my character that you think I would prefer not to know?”
“Are you sure you want me to answer that?”
The other woman thought for a moment. “Yes, I think I do. All my life I have been . . . other people’s Gisela. I was my father’s pet, when he noticed me at all, and then his pawn. I was a wife, then a widow, and a wife again—but none of that seems to be about me. I can’t explain it better than that.”
“You did fine. What I see is a very intelligent woman who does not really like pleasing others.”
“You mean that I am selfish? I already knew that.”
“No, because if you were really selfish, you would please yourself and not worry about the consequences. Instead you keep trying to be what other people expect of you, and it ends up making you angry. So, you punish yourself by doing mean things that make you dislike yourself.”
“Ouch!” Gisela started, then looked reflective.
“Are you sorry you asked?”
“No, but you are much too close to the bone for my comfort. Do you talk like this to Hermes?”
“Not often enough!”
Gisela shook her head in wonder. “It must gall him dreadfully.”
“Yes, it does. Now, tell me why you are afraid to do something you want to do?”
“When I was little and I carved, I lost all track of time and got so . . . far away. I didn’t pay attention to anything except finding the thing in the wood. And that is unwomanly, or so my nurse told me time after time.”
“Lost? Obsessed? Totally unaware of anyone else on the planet?”
“Oh!” Tears swelled in Gisela’s eyes. “You do know what I mean!”
“Of course I do, and I am sure Marguerida would as well, although I can see that you never could have told her what you just told me. Now, I do not know Rafael very well yet, but somehow I can’t see him objecting, as long as you don’t come to bed with splinters in your nightdress.”
“You make it sound so easy,” Gisela almost moaned.
“Do you really want to spend the rest of your life being bored and . . . getting into mischief?”
“No.”
“Then, for Birga’s sake, do what you wish.”
“Birga?”
“The goddess of craftsmen on Renney.”
“Do what I wish . . . I don’t know if I dare.”
“ ‘She who dares nothing is truly lost.’ I mean, it is not like you are proposing to establish a . . . joyhouse in Comyn Castle or something, is it?”
“A . . . joyhouse?” Gisela laughed and laughed, until tears fell from her eyes. She hugged her sides and rocked from side to side. “Oh, my! What an idea! I am almost tempted to suggest it, just to see the looks on the faces of . . . no, that is more mischief, isn’t it.”
“My Nana always told me that shocking people just to get attention was very naughty, and she is a wise woman.” Then her own demon of wickedness stirred a little. “On the other hand, if you did suggest it, then the idea of you whittling or sculpting would seem perfectly wonderful by comparison!”
“Quite right.” She fell silent for a moment, thinking. “Katherine, what if I am no good at it?”
“Irrelevant. What matters is the doing.”
“But I want to be good!” Her face twisted, as if she had heard her own words and grasped the depth of desire within them.
“Of course you do—but you dare not let your fear of failure corrupt your intention. Renney is a world of forests and seas, and we use wood for everything we can. We have a great tradition of wood carving, therefore, and lots of proverbs as well. One is ‘Be true to the wood, and the wood will be true to you.’ “
“ ‘Be true to the wood!’ How beautiful! Oh, Katherine, I am so glad you came to Darkover!”
“Do you know, I am starting to be glad I came here, too—although I confess I find some of your customs . . . distasteful. Well, you might feel the same if you went to Renney. Married off to a drunk! I have a feeling that my father-in-law and I will never see eye to eye.”
Gisela smiled fondly at her. “You will be part of a large group, then, for hardly anyone sees eye-to-eye with him!” The light through the carriage window caught her features for a moment, the green eyes gleaming and the mouth relaxed almost completely for the first time Katherine had seen.
“Will you sit for me, for a portrait?” The impulse was irresistible because the subject was beautiful, and she itched to start to work.
“Really? I would like that very much. Thank you, Katherine—for everything!” Gisela’s hands stroked the fur on her lap and her eyes unfocused slightly. Her taut shoulders drooped softly now, as she mused. Then she roused, leaned across the carriage, and took Kate’s hand in hers, tears brimming in viridescent eyes. “You have given me hope, at last.”
Herm Aldaran sat down on the edge of the bed, bent over, and pulled off his boots. He wriggled his toes sensuously, then leaned back across the covers, his arms extended above his head. He gazed up at the hangings, and at the plastered ceiling, enjoying the utter silence of the suite. Katherine was gone, and he did not know where the children were, but he was too drained to worry. He had been with Lew Alton, Mikhail, and Danilo Syrtis-Ardais for hours, and his tongue ached from talking. He was parched, and wanted a pitcher of good beer, but lacked the energy to sit up and ring for a servant. Instead he closed his eyes and tried to relax.
Overall, he was pleased. Mikhail Hastur had matured from the callow young man he remembered over two decades earlier, and seemed to have a good head on his shoulders. He had been preparing for the task that lay ahead of him for years. If anyone could guide Darkover through the difficulties that lay ahead, it was he. He had listened to Herm intently, and his questions had been both informed and intelligent.
Unfortunately, no one could accurately guess what the Federation might do next, although everyone at the meeting was attempting to anticipate it. He hoped they would just ignore Darkover, but doubted that the Expansionists would be that cooperative. And Lew Alton had said some disturbing things about the current station chief, Lyle Belfontaine, at HQ, including his demand that Herm be turned over for arrest as an enemy of the Federation. He tried to be amused by the whole idea, but his guts had churned with fear when he heard about it. He had lived with this kind of terror for years now, and had believed that once he reached the safe haven of Darkover, he would no longer be subject to its claws. The more fool he—the Federation was not going to let him go!
This was a time when he wished he could provoke the Aldaran Gift into activity, but unlike other forms of laran, it was almost impossible, without the use of certain dangerous substances, to cause it to manifest. He might see more than he desired, or find out things he did not wish to know at all.
So much for coming home to peace and quiet. Why had he ever gone into politics, and when was he going to be allowed out? He chuckled to himself, knowing that he would never be able to give up meddling and intriguing. It was in his blood, like some strange disease, and from all reports, might even be genetic. His little sister Gisela was of the same ilk, and he wondered exactly what she was up to at the moment. He had seen her twice now, and each time he had come away with the distinct feeling that she was looking for trouble. There was a kind of guardedness about her he mistrusted, as he had when she was a girl. He knew that expression, that catlike narrowing of green eyes that boded no good. And it would be some time before he forgave her for her mean trick on Katherine the previous evening. He did not want her to embarrass the Aldarans, or give her long-suffering husband any more grief than he suspected she already did. Really, Gisela needed a good spanking—except it was years too late for that remedy. If only their father had not alternately spoiled her and neglected her!
A soft rustle of fabric made him open his eyes. Katherine walked into the bedroom and gave him a smile. Her cheeks were rosy, and she smelled of fresh air. “What have you been up to?” He sat up and studied her. She was wearing an outfit of typical Darkovan garments, a green tunic and shirt over russet petticoats. The colors did not really become her, but she looked healthier and more alive than she had for days.
“Gisela and I went to meet the head of the Painters Guild, Master Gilhooly.”
“Giz and . . . I’m surprised. After the stunt she pulled by not telling you how to dress for dinner last night, I assumed you would not speak to her for about a month.”
Katherine smiled and her shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “Gisela appeared right after breakfast with these clothes—but no apology. She ordered a carriage and went with me. It was rather enjoyable, actually, and we talked over a good many things. I don’t know what caused her change of heart, but I rather suspect it was something that man next to her at dinner said to her.”
“Danilo?”
“I don’t know—he arrived late, and somehow I was never introduced to him.”
“That was Danilo Syrtis-Ardais, paxman to the late Regis Hastur, among other things. Having just spent several hours in his company, I can well imagine him putting Giz in her place.”
“Paxman—I’ve heard that term several times, but no one has bothered to tell me what it means, Herm—like so many other things.” Her good mood seemed to recede a little, and she looked as if she might be nursing a grievance. Well, he could hardly blame her if she were.
“Umm—it is a bit hard to define. The paxman is a personal guard, and in the case of Danilo or young Donal Alar, also an advisor, constant companion, brother-in-arms. When Mikhail was a young man, he was paxman to young Dyan Ardais, even though he was also Regis’ heir. I suppose it is one of the ways in which we keep ourselves connected to one another. And, Katherine, I am sorry about how badly my sister has behaved.”
“She’s just a little jealous, Herm.” And restless, like you are most of the time, my dearest.
“Of what?” He sat up.
“Of me. You are her brother, and her favorite one, if I read things correctly.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. Hmm . . . yes, she never favored Robert, who is the best of men, but a bit . . . ponderous, and our other brothers—the nedestro sons—never gave her much attention, I suppose. But I still don’t understand why she should be jealous of you.”
“It is a female thing,” Katherine answered easily. She had ended her trip with Gisela in a good mood, and she wanted to keep it.
“Ah, one of the mysteries.”
“Yes.”
Herm looked at her, trying to read her expression, realized she was not going to say more, and decided not to press her. “And how was your visit with Master Gilhooly?”
“Delightful. He showed me around the workshops and we talked technique. It strained my vocabulary to the utmost, and without Gisela’s help I would have had a much more difficult time. She told me she had read some old book about painting and had picked up the words from it. She can be very charming when she wants to.”
“Gisela read a book on painting? Amazing.”
Katherine gave him a look he recognized. She was beginning to become annoyed with him, and he had better mind his words. “She tells me she has read just about everything in the archives during the past fifteen years, out of boredom, as near as I can gather. Poor thing.”
This was completely unexpected, and Herm did not know what to make of it. Something had clearly happened between the two women during their outing, and it worried him more than a little, although he could not decide why. Still, she had come to no harm, and apparently found his sister interesting. “This is the first time I have seen your eyes really sparkle in days, Kate. Just promise me you will not come to the table smelling of turps, or with a smudge of charcoal on your lovely nose.”
Katherine grinned broadly. “I will try not to disgrace you, my lord. But, remember, I was not raised to be a great lady, or even a medium one. I feel a bit stifled by all this formality, which made my visit to Master Gilhooly all the more pleasurable. After he recovered from the initial shock of Domna Aldaran—I haven’t adjusted to the title yet, being bowed to and treated like I was important—entering his establishment, and in the company of Gisela as well, and realized that I was a serious artist, he unbuttoned completely. He stopped bowing and scraping and fell to discussing important things that are his passion.”
“It is a bit unusual for a woman of the Domains to pursue anything other than childrearing, unless she chooses to become a leronis. Or a Renunciate,” he added, still puzzled by the change in his wife. “I have never heard of a Darkovan woman who pursues art seriously. Our more artistic women satisfy themselves with vast amounts of unnecessary needlework. Lady Marilla Aillard has a pottery works in the Ardais Domain, but I do not think she throws bowls or glazes them personally. She might. You can ask her when she arrives.”
“She is coming for the funeral, I assume.”
“That is part of it. She holds the Aillard seat on the Comyn Council, which will meet in order to confirm Mikhail Hastur’s succession to Regis. Her son, Dyan Ardais, will come as well.”
“Domna Marilla Aillard and Dom Dyan Ardais? Different last names? It is a good thing I have had so much practice keeping such things straight. Gisela told me your father and brother are expected, too—though from what she said I am not really looking forward to meeting your parent—or is it parents? No one has mentioned his wife yet.”
“There isn’t one, as far as I know, although he probably has a barragana or two up in Aldaran Castle. Gisela’s mother died a long time ago.”
“I see.” She frowned at the word for concubine, then shrugged. “The children seem to be adjusting well. Rory and Amaury are thick as thieves already, and I think Terése and Yllana will amuse one another.”
“They will probably get into mischief.” He had taken a liking to Roderick Alton-Hastur after dinner the previous evening, and thought that it would be good for his stepson to have someone his own age to play with. But he was fairly certain that Rory was a little too frisky for his own good, and could only hope that he would not lead Amaury into anything too dangerous.
“Will that be good or bad?”
“Neither. We Darkovans indulge our children a good deal, because we have always had a high infant mortality rate. A certain amount of wickedness is expected of the boys, though not of the girls, I confess.”
“I had noticed that the attitude toward women here was a wee bit backward,” she answered very dryly.
“What do you mean, precisely.”
“Gisela gave me a thumbnail sketch of the proscribed roles of Darkovan wives and daughters during the ride. It is so different from Renney, which is my only real experience with a Protected Planet.”
“I hadn’t considered the matter, but since Renney is, for all practical purposes, a matriarchy, I can see that you would find it strange. We guard our women closely, and confine them in odd ways. There are a good many historical reasons for that, which we seem not to have overcome. I hope you do not find it too oppressive, darling Kate.”
She sat down on the bed beside him and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Only if I am forced to spend all my time in this . . . outrageous building! It seems very odd not to be able to come and go as I please, to have all these servants and guards everywhere. I confess to feeling a bit stifled. And watched.” Her voice dropped sharply and she shifted uncomfortably.
“What?”
“You grew up with this, but frankly the idea of being with a bunch of telepaths still gives me the cold grues. You would think, after living for years with invisible eyes observing my every move that I would not be bothered, but I am. The Federation was not interested in my thoughts, just in my actions. I keep thinking that someone is spying on me, trying to discover my secrets. I know I am being paranoid, Herm.” I was almost easy around Gisela, as I always have been with you, but now . . .
“That is not what is really bothering you, Katherine.”
“No, it isn’t.” She stiffened slightly, as if bracing herself. “For the first time in my life, I feel . . . crippled. Unequal. I wish you had told me, before we came, about laran and all the Gifts and . . . everything. And about the Towers.” She jerked her head away from his shoulder abruptly as if she no longer wanted to be touched by him. Gisela had told her something about these peculiar places, and she wasn’t really comfortable with the idea yet.
“It was not something I was free to explain, even when we went to Renney. I was always worried that I could have been overheard by a spying device of the Federation. And it is not as if I didn’t want to tell you the truth, Kate, but only that I could never find the words. Besides, you will have lots of time to learn about the Towers, and soon.”
“Why?”
He sensed a trace of anger and hostility now. “Terése will have to be tested for laran, and we will go to Arilinn Tower, which is east of here, for that. I’ve never been there myself, so I am looking forward to it.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew he had misjudged the situation.
“Damn you, Hermes! Were you going to tell me, or just wake me up one morning and announce we were going to this place? This is my daughter we are talking about. What’s the matter with you?”
“Why are you so angry?”
“Because you are behaving in a high-handed way that makes me . . . want to bite you! Why does Terése need to go to this Arilinn?” This is intolerable. Just when I get my feet under me, I get knocked down again!
“I told you, Kate! She almost certainly has laran, and it is important that she be tested to determine the nature of her gifts.”
Katherine sat in stunned silence for a moment. “You mean my little girl . . . ?” He tried to tell me the other day, but I would not listen!
“Our little girl, Katherine. She is my daughter, too, and has inherited as much from me as from you.”
“I can’t stand this!”
“Be reasonable, Kate. Believe me, the last thing you want is a wild telepath in the family. An untrained telepath is a danger to herself and everyone around her. If she has laran, she must learn how to use it properly.”
“A wild . . . it sounds so odd.” And abruptly she began to weep. My little girl, my baby! This is a terrible world, and I am so afraid. What will they do to her—how do they test! I have to stop it! Terésa has never been away from me, and she will be frightened. And what will she be like, if she learns how to read minds? If only I could talk to Nana right now. I don’t even know this man, and I will never understand this world.
In despair, she covered her face with her hands and made a wailing sound that Herm had never heard from her before, so terrible that it wrenched his heart. He wanted to comfort Katherine, but he knew that no mere words would help. Perhaps he should not have brought her to Darkover. He had not thought through the problem of being head-blind, how frightening it must be for her, no matter how many reassurances she received. And Amaury, too. How was the boy going to feel if his sister turned out to be a telepath? Herm had not explained things to his stepson yet, and he did not look forward to doing so. With a sinking heart he realized that the budding friendship between Amaury and young Rory might lead to some upsetting revelations. And he was so tired!
Internally, Herm shrank away from all the possible outcomes that rose in his mind. He had always loathed the messiness of other people’s emotions, and was deeply grateful he did not have the Ridenow Gift of empathy. He knew that he had left Aldaran Castle and Darkover as much to escape the swirls of drama that seemed to fall like the snows, no matter what the season. Now, with a wrenching start, he understood that what had drawn him to his Kate was her reserve and self-containment. She made no great demands on his feelings, and had rarely displayed her own fiery temper. It had been a relief to find a person who was so absorbed in their own work, as she was in her painting, that she did not bother him with petty arguments.
Somehow, in the back of his mind, Herm had expected Katherine to . . . what? To stop being herself, intelligent and independent, and become obedient and passive? To let him rule the roost? Why? She never had before, not really. She wasn’t going to turn into a nice Darkovan wife, and he was a fool for imagining that she would. It was going to be unpleasant, and he knew it, and knew, too, that he was not going to be able to get out of it. He wished himself far away, in some distant place where there were no problems to disentangle.
Then Herm spent a futile moment berating himself for being selfish and a stupid bastard. Why had he never told Katherine before? Was it really because he was afraid of listening Terranan ears, or something more? He had a rare moment of introspection, and decided he had been afraid of Katherine’s reaction, that he had suspected that she would feel just exactly as she did right now, angry and frightened. He had never been willing to risk losing her, and had hoped that the situation would never arise.
What an idiot he had been. How would he have tried to lie his way out of Terése’s threshold sickness when it began? If he had remained away from Darkover, his precious daughter might have died!
Hermes realized he had hurt his wife deeply, with his own avoidance and denial. He would have had to bring his daughter back to Darkover in a couple of years, for her own safety, but he had refused to think about it until a crisis forced him to. And he had blundered badly.
He was shaken again, as the enormity of his folly finally blossomed in his mind. It gave the lie to the great confidence Herm had always had in himself, in his inate cunning and cleverness. These seemed worthless now, the wrong tools for the task. “As well carve a roast with a spoon,” as they said in the Hellers. This was not dissembling before the interested eyes of some political foe, but a different sort of problem, a human one, full of conflicting feelings. And, he admitted to himself with great reluctance, he was not really very good with strong feelings. It put him too much in mind of the endless tensions of Aldaran Castle in his childhood, where loud voices and passions were the order of the day. He had left Darkover as much to escape those as to serve the planet of his birth.
Katherine mopped her eyes on her sleeve and sniffed noisily. Herm reached into his pouch and took out a square of linen and offered it to her. This ordinary object—an “obsolete” cloth handkerchief brought with it a sense of powerful distinction, for there were no paper tissues available on Darkover, unless there was a supply at HQ. Nothing on Darkover was easily disposable, not nose wipes or people. And that was a profound difference. To the Terran mind, almost everything was replaceable except power. By contrast, Darkovans were pack rats, saving everything and using it until it just wore out.
Herm had become accustomed to the ease of life in the Federation, but never completely comfortable with it. He thought it very extravagant to discard a perfectly good object just because there was a newer one available. He prefered the soft feel of real linen bedsheets to the papercloth ones he had slept on for twenty-three years, and the faint smell of age in the stones and plaster of the walls, saturated with centuries of woodsmoke and seasons, to the sterile one of a typical Federation apartment. He liked being home, but this was not Katherine’s home, and it must seem very strange to her. Houses on Renney were made of wood, not stone, and castles were virtually unknown there. There was nothing he could do about that, short of letting her leave Darkover, to return to Renney with her son. And that thought was unbearable, and probably impossible now, if what he had learned in the meeting was accurate.
Katherine blew her nose several times. “Forgive me, dearest. just when I think I have myself under control, I go all to pieces again. I can’t bear the idea of Terése going away—she’s still a child. And, quite truthfully, I hope she will have no talents at all, and will just continue to be a normal little girl.” She hesitated, and Herm saw both fear and great sorrow in her beautiful eyes. “Of course, a normal little girl here can read minds or do . . . the goddess only knows what!”
Herm patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “Kate—I am the one who needs forgiving. I should have told you years ago, before we married, I suppose. Yes, that would have been the wisest thing. Or not married you at all. My only excuse is that I fell passionately in love with you the second I saw you, and I was not thinking very clearly. Later . . . well, I was too scared I’d lose you.”
She gave a little snort. “You are claiming the triumph of hormones and emotion over reason, then?”
“Something like that.”
“I suppose I should feel complimented—since you are the most calculating person I have ever known—that you did one thing just because you wanted to. Nana told me you were keeping some secret from me, but did I listen?” She gave a gusty sigh. “At least I will never see her again, and be spared hearing her say ‘I told you so’. That’s very chilly comfort, Hermes.”
“I am sure it is. Your Nana is a very smart woman, and she almost saw through me.”
“What do you mean?” Katherine sounded a little less despondent now, although still not her usual lively self.
“A few times she almost penetrated my secret, and I know she thought I had second sight, which is an old tradition among your people. It is my guess that the Rennians, who are not unlike the population of Darkover in several ways, including linguistics, have some genetic predisposition toward what we call laran.”
“Why?”
“Some of the stories I heard when we visited, about those old witches and sorcerers, sounded remarkably like leroni. It is just a guess, but not a bad one, I suspect.”
“But, Herm, those are folktales. Surely you did not take them seriously! My great-great-grandmother was not really able to charm animals or turn herself into a white cat when the second moon was full—that is all nonsense.” Her dark eyes were rather wide as she spoke, as if she saw the world of her birth in a new light, and found the prospect not very comfortable.
“True, about the cat. But we have a few people here on Darkover who can make contact with animals in such a way as to influence their actions. And I think that telepathy is probably more common in humankind than is generally believed.”
“Then why hasn’t the Federation . . .?”
“Why haven’t they discovered it and exploited it, as they do everything else? Because it is intangible, I suppose, because you cannot hold it in your hand and grasp it. And they almost did, once. There was a thing called Project Telepath, back when Regis was first in power, in which we agreed to participate. But Lew Alton, who was our Senator then, decided it was too dangerous to Darkover, and managed to get it shelved. The Terranan are convinced that the products of their material technologies are superior to anything else, and they have stopped looking for other ways to do things. Lew just persuaded a few key people that real telepaths were rare, much too few to be worth the expense, and that those who were gifted in this way were usually emotionally unstable, and ultimately valueless. And it is true, that if you are unfortunate enough to be born on a world where paranormal powers are not cultivated, and you are a telepath, you end up pretty crazy.”
“But that’s terrible! I mean, if there are other people in the galaxy who have such powers . . . ? How could he?”
“With the greatest difficulty, and a lot of sleepless nights, I assure you. He had a whole planet to think about, Kate—his world.”
“I see, I guess. But it seems pretty selfish to me.” Katherine decided to reserve judgment on the interesting and complex man she had met the previous night.
“The alternative, to his mind and mine, was to risk an invasion. Can you imagine how tempting it would be to certain people to be able to read the minds of their opponents at will? Oh, the Federation knows that telepathy happens, but they have no idea what a Darkovan with trained laran can do consistently. If the Federation had really guessed the extent of Darkovan talents, they would have come in with force and taken away anyone they felt could be useful to them.”
“What did Nana say—government is a beast without a conscience?”
“Did she say that?”
“Yes, but she was talking about the plan to clear-cut one of the old groves, back when I was still a girl. Some Federation corporation wanted the wood, to make into furniture.” She chuckled briefly. “Good thing they did not get their wish.”
“Why.”
“It was a grove of nightwood.”
“You mean those gigantic trees we visited. That is fine lumber, and I can see how it might attract some greedy developer. Is there something wrong with nightwood?”
“Oh, no. It is a wonderful wood, very hard and durable. But there is a belief on Renney that a chair made of it will drive you mad if you sit on it. Just a superstition, of course.” Well, perhaps, but one I would not risk going against—what a silly woman I am.
“What was it used for, then?” Herm was relieved that the subject had moved away from laran and other things that made Kate uncomfortable, and would have discussed wood or bones or just about anything at that moment, just to keep her happy.
“Spears, back when we still did that sort of thing. A nightwood spear was supposedly able to pierce the heart of a foe all the way through. And shields, too—to protect against the spears. But never chairs, and especially never cradles!”
“You must be sure to tell Marguerida about that. Mikhail says she is a great collector of tales.”
Katherine sighed, settled her shoulders firmly, and braced herself. “Herm, does Terése have to be tested? Is it absolutely necessary?”
He kept himself from cringing. Herm should have known that he could not distract Katherine for long. “Yes, it is. But it is not difficult or painful—they do not strap anyone into a machine. And it is more dangerous not to know what her talents might be than otherwise.”
“Will they let me be with her?”
“That is a bit unusual, but I think I could arrange it. In fact, it might not be a bad idea to have both you and Amaury checked out, dearest.” You might not be as head-blind as you think.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Hermes! I am no kind of telepath, and I don’t want to be one! The idea frightens me!”
“Are you entirely sure?”
“What is that supposed to mean?” She glared at him, furious and more than a little scared at the same time.
“Well, it has occurred to me occasionally that some of the portraits you have done have elements in them that . . . are remarkable. Remember how Dame Hester could not get over those flowers you put in the background of her picture.”
“I must have seen those in a book and knew they came from her world.”
“But how could you have known she was particularly fond of them?”
“Blind luck,” Katherine insisted, not sounding very convincing. “They just felt right . . .”
“It might be intuition, my Kate, and it might be something more. Don’t you want to find out?”
“No, I don’t. I could not bear it if I found out I had been snooping on my sitters, all these years.” He was just trying to make her feel less like a cripple, suggesting that she had more than mere intuition. How dare he! The urge to throttle him came and went, and she glared at him accusingly. Kate felt almost ill for a second. What a disgusting notion. And she certainly was not going to be tested by anyone!
Herm recognized the set of Kate’s jaw, and knew he would be wasting his time if he tried to suggest more than he had already. Let her think about it for a while. “Very well. I will not force you, but I hope you will change your mind.”
“Damn you! I hate it when you do that.”
“Do what,” he answered, trying to look innocent and, he knew, not succeeding at all.
“Be all reasonable and calm, when in fact you are manipulating me, playing me like your favorite fiddle.” She was wary now, but her fear was slipping away slowly.
“I never do that when we are both dressed,” he said huskily.
“Oh, no, you don’t! No fiddling for you. I won’t be pleasured out of . . .”
He began to laugh, and after a second she joined him tentatively. But when he reached for the laces on her tunic, she pushed his hand away roughly. “You are not nearly as irresistible as you imagine! And if you don’t behave, I will make you sleep on the couch in the sitting room.”
“But, darling, it is so short. Think of my bad back.”
“There is nothing in the least wrong with your back!”
“There would be, if I tried to sleep on that dumpy bit of furniture!”
“Hermes-Gabriel Aldaran—you are hopeless!” She grabbed both his ears and tugged—not very gently. “What am I going to do with you?”
“I don’t know, since you are in no mood for fiddling. Are you trying to reform me, woman?” He tried to look stern, but it was impossible. She was too lovely, and she still took his breath away, whenever he looked into her eyes.
“No. Yes.”
“That is honest, at least. Let us agree that I am beyond reclaimation, that I have the morals of a fell-cat. But remember that I love you, and that I would not have brought you here if I had had any other recourse. You are my life, Katherine.”
“Very prettily said, and perhaps even true.” She traced her fingers across his mouth, touching him sweetly. “Just promise me that you will always tell me things, that you will never keep me in the dark again. I don’t think I could forgive another secret, not now.”
“I will tell you my secrets, Kate, but not those of others.”
“I’ll settle for that. Now, I am starving! Let’s order some lunch, and you can tell me about your meeting with Mikhail and Lew Alton. Was there anyone else there?”
“Danilo Hastur and Danilo Syrtis-Ardais were present, as well as Mikhail’s paxman Donal. It went well.” Herm knew he should tell her that there was a price on his head, as it were, but he could not bring the words to his mouth.
“And?”
“I can’t get anything past you, can I?” He had just given his word, and now he knew he was going to break it immediately. Herm could not tell her that Belfontaine wanted him turned over, since there was no chance that Mikhail Hastur would ever agree to such a thing. She did not need to know! It would give her more to worry about, and she deserved better than that, after all she had endured. Later, when the crisis was past, then he would tell her . . .
Katherine was giving him a penetrating look. “Not any longer, Herm. I will not be kept in the dark again, even if matters of policy are not precisely my business. I have myself and the children to think about—and I do not give a fig about the larger picture, not really. I think all of this is just some great game that you males enjoy playing, trying to achieve dominence over your fellows.”
“You might be right, though you ladies are not above the game. I’ve never understood why you girls won’t just stand quietly on your pedestals and be admired.” He decided that he had better distract her, and quickly!
Katherine narrowed her eyes even further. “Because we don’t want complete strangers looking up our petticoats. Stop trying to annoy me and distract me from my purpose. It won’t work! ‘You girls’ indeed!”
“I had not thought of that.” He grunted softly, trying to decide how much to tell her. “The situation is complex. There are a great many people on Darkover who have never been enchanted with the Federation, and who will likely try to take this opportunity to persuade us to withdraw from it completely. This is a very conservative culture, which is one reason that there has been no proliferation of Terran technology. And one of the most powerful advocates of isolationism is Mikhail’s father, Dom Gabriel Lanart-Alton. You will meet him in the near future. And his wife, Javanne Hastur, who is the older sister of Regis, and, by all accounts, a formidable foe. From what I have heard, she might not be entirely stable. And she has never entirely resigned herself to Mikhail being Regis’ successor, for reasons I will not go into. It would be better if you asked Marguerida about that, when you have the opportunity. But Javanne is all for restoring the Elhalyn kingship to power, although it never possessed any real power in the past. Even though Mikhail is her son, she would rather see Danilo Hastur running Darkover, because she imagines he is weak enough to be manipulated by her. From what I learned today, I believe she is mistaken. But the truth is that Dani was never trained to run a planetary government, and never wished to be a ruler.”
“I don’t understand. Are Dani and Mikhail rivals?”
“They do not see themselves as such, but there are others who would love to churn things up. You see, the Elhalyn kingship has always been a largely ceremonial position, and the Hasturs have always had the real power. There are good historic reasons for this, since the Elhalyn line produces some very unstable people. Dani married Miralys Elhalyn with the intention of breeding some health into the line—which sounds very cold, I suppose. He was in love with her, so it was not terrible and calculated. But he resigned from the heirship of the Hastur Domain in favor of Mikhail, when he could have fought for it, and perhaps even gotten it, because he did not want the task of running the planet. He is a man who understands his own limitations, and I admire him for that.”
“So the matter was settled a long time ago?”
“It was, but not to everyone’s complete satisfaction—particularly not to Javanne Hastur’s. Time has not mellowed her, by all accounts, And she has a few allies on the Comyn Council, so there is likely to be a great deal of shouting and table pounding before the dust settles.”
“But that is not what troubles you.”
“No, it is not. Darkovans are very pragmatic, and they will do the sensible thing eventually. The real problem remains the Federation. We have never had an intelligence agency here—the entire idea is foreign to us. Instead we have depended on a few well-placed people in the Terran Headquarters, plus Lew Alton, who has been keeping his finger on the pulse of the Federation ever since Captain Rafe Scott resigned. Now those people are going to be ‘released from active duty,’ which is a pleasant euphemism for being tossed out on their butts, and we won’t have anyone who can keep an eye on Lyle Belfontaine and his minions. Without a few people in HQ, we won’t know what the Federation is up to, and will be dependent on only the information they permit us to hear. Lew, who is very good at reading between the lines, thinks we will be handed some sort of ultimatum soon. We have managed to keep word of Regis’ death from getting out, thus far, but that cannot last, and once word does get out it is likely that the Federation will try some sort of maneuver. So it is in our best interests to settle the matter quickly, and nothing on Darkover ever happens fast. Mikhail cannot make any unilateral decisions.”
“Why not, if he is Regis’ successor?” Katherine was concentrating very hard on his words, trying to bring her intelligence to bear on the subject, and for a moment, all her fears were pushed into the background.
“He may be the most powerful man on the planet, but he must answer to the Comyn Council, which is divided. We have never had a tyrant on Darkover, and Mik hardly wishes to be the first.”
“This doesn’t make complete sense to me, Herm. I would think that a planet of telepaths would have no trouble penetrating any intelligence agency in a flash.”
“It is not that easy, even setting aside the ethical considerations.”
“Why?”
“Because you can’t just close your eyes and start plundering people’s minds—unless you have the Alton Gift of forced rapport. Proximity is required, as well as some familiarity with the mind you would like to explore. What you get when you don’t know the subject is just a lot of noise—their argument with their lover, or how much they liked the most recent encounter, how much they loathe their work, or just that they have a terrible headache from too much drink the night before. Spying on other people is something that Darkoveans with laran learn is unforgivable very early.”
“So you have an advantage, but you don’t use it! That’s a little hard to believe. The temptation must be huge.”
“No, not really. For the most part, you don’t want to know what is in the minds of others, because much of it is too trivial or distasteful. If someone is mentally shouting, you can’t help hearing it, but most of that is emotions and not information. I mean, no one at HQ is going to sit at their desk, reading the most recent orders, broadcasting their thoughts at a roar. Instead they are going to be focused on the impact of those orders on their immediate circumstances—where they will be posted next or whether they can take their Darkovan spouse and children with them.”
“I see. It is kind of a relief to know, Herm. It makes me less anxious.”
“Good. I realize it will take you some time to believe that no one is going to invade your mind in the hall or at dinner. Very few of us can do that at will. Marguerida has the Alton Gift, and so does her father and her son Domenic, but none of them would ever violate you.”
She nodded, as if reassured. “I like Nico, but he certainly is a serious young fellow. And Marguerida seems very nice, the little I have seen of her.”
“She is very busy just now arranging for the funeral rites, but she lived in the Federation for twenty years before she returned to Darkover, so she will probably find interests in common with you. She was at University, a Fellow in Musicology, when she came here, and I understand that she has continued to transmit ethnographic papers for years now. And she can hardly wait to grill you about Amedi Korniel just as soon as she has a free moment.”
“I think Mikhail said something about that, last night at dinner. That, at least, is something I feel I can handle. I know a number of really scandalous tales about him—he was a great musician, but he was not really a very nice person.” Realizing, then, that there were still things of which she was unaware, she brought the discussion back to the original topic. “Is there more, Herm? I have the feeling there is something else bothering you.”
“Yes, dearest. How did you guess?”
“You always twist your fingers into knots when you are uneasy.”
Herm looked down at his hands and discovered that they were indeed interlaced. How had he never noticed that before? “As I said, we don’t have a real intelligence force of our own, but we know the Federation does. I don’t mean those at HQ. Lew suspects that someone is running a covert operation, but he has no idea who or how. We are not even certain it is a Federation agency.”
“What else could it be?”
Herm chuckled. “If I had not spent the last two decades in the Federation I could not even attempt to answer that. The Liberal Party as well as the Expansionists, the New Republicans, the Monarchists, and just about every other political power have spies of various sorts, trying to ferret out the secrets of the others, in order to expose them. How do you think that banking scandal on Coronis Nine got into the media? It was not some eager newshound that sniffed it out, but an agent of New Revelationists who leaked the thing. They love to discredit the Expansionists—it is practically their only form of sport.” They both chuckled, since the New Revelationists were famed for their fundamentalism and their disapproval of play of any sort. “Not that the rest of us did not enjoy it, of course. So, whatever is afoot on Darkover could be anything from Federation to a group I never heard of. Unlikely, in truth, because none of the various groups is likely to be interested in Darkover. Yet it is the not knowing that is disturbing.”
“But why would anyone want to do that? I mean, Darkover is not a very important planet, Herm. Wouldn’t spies be more interested in Aldebaran Five or Wolf? Places with a lot of industry or important resources?”
“Darkover is a very mysterious place, Kate. Our very policy of information limitation, which Lew put into place and I have continued, was bound to provoke some curiosity somewhere. We just did not see the problem at first. You know—you do something to solve a situation, and then, ten or twenty years down the line, it starts to have consequences you never anticipated. We don’t know anything for certain, but Lew said there have been some disturbances recently that made him suspicious. He hoped I could confirm these, but I had to tell him I don’t know of any specific group that is casting its eye on Darkover. So, we don’t actually know we were being spied on.”
“But you think you might be.”
“Yes, that was our tentative conclusion, for all the good it did us,” he agreed reluctantly. “Let’s eat. All of this will keep.” He felt a profound sense of guilt, mingled with relief and weariness. He had kept his Kate from finding out he might be arrested, but he did not feel happy about his deception. And he knew that when he did finally tell her, there would be hell to pay.
For a brief moment, Herm wished he had never come back to Darkover at all. He felt a kind of dreadful restlessness seize him, a desire to be anywhere in the galaxy except where he was. Kate was upset. He hated that, and he knew it was not going to go away just because it made him squirm. It was as he had said—he had solved one problem, the security of his small family—without imagining clearly the consequences that would follow. And it had not taken years, but only days, to discover that his solution had created fresh trouble.
True, he felt himself born to discord, to deal with it as a cunning fellow should. But it was not supposed to affect those he held dearest in the cosmos—his wife and children. How could he have been so short-sighted not to see this coming. And how was he going to resolve it? His belly grumbled then, and Herm gave up in exhaustion. He had had no choice but to do what he had done. He was not going to fix things soon, or on an empty stomach—so he might as well eat. That, at least, was something he could do without hurting anyone.
Domenic spent the rest of the afternoon plotting his escape from Comyn Castle, with a kind of glee he had never felt before. His grief and his fears faded into faint shadows, even though finding a way out of the vast building was more complicated than he had imagined. There were servants everywhere, and most of the exits were closely guarded. He would have to do a lot of sneaking, something he had very little practice in. The more he thought about that part the more attractive the entire scheme became. It was odd, really, and he felt possessed by some imp of wickedness in those occasional moments when he allowed himself to reflect.
If only there were not a banquet planned for the evening, it would have been simpler. But the arrival of his grandparents as well as several other members of the Comyn Council demanded such a meal, and Domenic knew he was expected to be present. He could think of nothing he wished for less than to spend several hours with Javanne glaring at him, or worse, pretending he was not even in the room. And Gareth Elhalyn was likely to be there as well. What was it about his cousin that made him so uneasy? On the other hand, it would certainly be an interesting meal, since Herm Aldaran and his family would be present, and perhaps that would distract Javanne from paying too much attention to him.
For several minutes he came close to abandoning his foolish idea. Nico found himself alternating between excitement and despair, fearful of the consequences and yet enthralled at the same time. Then he scolded himself for faint-heartedness. Rory would not hesitate over such minor considerations as duty and good manners. Maybe he should ask Rory to help him. His brother knew all the back ways and little used corridors of the building, and often employed them for his own mischief. But he rejected the idea. Certainly Rory would show him how to escape, but he would insist on coming along. It would not be an adventure if he went with his younger brother, would it? More, his brother was almost always in some sort of trouble, and it would not sit well with his parents if he got his sibling into more. Nico chuckled a little over this, knowing he was making excuses to himself. The plain truth was he wanted to get away with no one being the wiser, including, or perhaps especially, his brother.
But, how was he going to get out of attending the meal? He wracked his brains and could think of nothing immediately. Just when he was almost ready to give it up completely, Ida Davidson came to his rescue. The ancient woman had been a part of his family for as long as he could remember, and Nico felt she should have been his granny, instead of Javanne. He could barely remember Diotima Ridenow, Lew’s late wife, who had died when he was about five. So Ida had filled in the space where he felt a grandmother should be, listening to his small complaints without making him feel like a dolt, giving him music lessons, and when he turned out to be fumble-fingered at the clavier, the guitar, or any other instrument more complex than a drum, she had schooled him in song. Both his parents were very musical, but he and Rory seemed not to be. Ida’s kindness and patience had helped him over his feelings of inadequacy and now he could sing well enough not to disgrace himself. After his voice changed, he had turned into a reasonable tenor, and actually enjoyed the little quartet consisting of himself, Rory, and his uncle Rafael’s two younger children, Gabriel and Damon.
“Nico,” the old lady said, peering at him a bit short-sightedly, “are you quite well? You look a bit peaked.”
“Do I?” He considered her remark briefly, and brightened internally. “I am feeling a bit off. Achey, you know?” He did not ache at all, and knew his appearance was the result of his internal struggle. Ida had no laran, and was never suspicious of him. Why hadn’t he thought of this sooner? Roderick often played sick when he did not want to do something, but Nico had never employed that ruse. Part of him hated fibbing to Ida, but another was practically bouncing with joy. Maybe Alanna was not the only one who felt she was more than one person.
“With all the furor we have had, I am not surprised. Now, off to bed with you. The last thing you need to do is sit through a long dinner, and if you are getting sick, you will just share your germs with everyone. I’ll have one of the servants bring you a tray.”
His heart sank. The servants! That would ruin everything. “My appetite seems to be gone, Ida.” The lie rolled off his tongue as if he had been doing it for years. “If I get hungry, I’ll ring for something.”
“Not hungry?” She shook her head. “You must be coming down with something, if you aren’t hungry. Scoot. I will tell your mother.”
Nico scooted, going off to his bedroom. He listened to the sounds in the suite, the movement of servants and his parents and siblings. Then he got into his nightshirt and crawled into bed, sure his mother would come to check on him before she went to dinner. He could hardly contain his excitement, and tried to relax.
Marguerida came in, wearing a long blue gown embroidered with silver flowers, the Hastur colors. As she came toward the bed, he could smell her particular perfume, lavender mingled with musk. She bent over him and swept his forehead with a mitted hand. “Poor Nico. You do not feel hot, but you look rather pale. What is it?”
“I haven’t been sleeping very well, and I think I am just tired, Mother.” He could get away with telling Ida a lie, but with Marguerida it was more difficult, and he had never even tried before. And it was close to a real truth, for in sleep he could hear the fire in the heart of the world, and the rumbling deep inside the earth, or thought he could. Worse, in dreams he found himself trying to halt the sea in its endless motion, and do other things that were too incredible to be considered. So, he avoided sleep as much as he was able, using the trance states he had learned at Arilinn as a substitute.
“Not sleeping well? You should have told me. Shall I get you a sleeping draught?”
“I don’t think I need that, and besides they leave me feeling stupid in the morning.” If Marguerida ordered a draught, and stood over him while he drank it, his plan would be ruined.
“Very well. I hate the things myself, although these past few days I have drunk more of them than I wished. Just when I am ready to drop off, I think of something else that I should have attended to and start up in the bed. Which wakes your father, and he really needs his rest.”
“I’ll be fine. I think I’ll just read for a while. I have this really boring book I started about six months ago somewhere around here, and it should have me asleep in five minutes. Save your fussing for our guests, Mother. I am sure you have better things to do than worry about me.” He gave her a droll look, and she answered with a wan smile. They both knew he meant Javanne Hastur, who was never easy to deal with, and with Regis’ death, was likely to be even more difficult than usual.
“What book is that?” Nico knew that when his mother had come to Darkover, books had been uncommon except in the homes of the Domains, and most of those had been imports. She had made it one of her projects to promote literacy, and with her friend, Rafaella n’ha Liriel, the Renunciate who had been her guide and friend during her first months on Darkover, had started a small publishing enterprise. The Renunciates had begun printing handbills and other single pages years before, but had never expanded beyond leaflets into actual books. Until Marguerida had founded the Alton Press, most books had been handcopied, slowly and painstakingly, and were kept in the archives of the Castle or the various Towers.
Now there was a young Binders Guild, separate from the Tanners Guild which had always done that task before, and editions of five hundred volumes were not uncommon. With the help of Thendara House, the Renunciate headquarters, two small schools had been established, one near the Horse Market and one in Threadneedle Street, and the sons and daughters of tradesmen were encouraged to attend. It was a small step, she had told him, but at least a beginning. Marguerida had written a volume of folktales for publication and use in the small schools, stories she had collected in her travels around Darkover and from other worlds as well, and it was now in its fifth printing.
“Oh, that tome that Hiram d’Asturien wrote about the evolution of laran.”
She laughed, and the sound of it was wonderful. His mother had not laughed very often in recent days, and he had not known how much he missed it until now. “What he has to say is useful, but I agree that his style leaves something to be desired. Positively soporific, actually. But I am a little surprised to find that you were looking at it. Any particular reason?”
“I was just curious.” Another fib, though not a very big one. He was curious, but the actuality was that he had hoped to discover some clues to his own uniqueness, to find out if anyone before him had been able to hear the planet. He could not discuss it with anyone, even his mother, whom he trusted completely.
“Good. Never lose that quality, Nico.” Then she kissed his brow lightly and left, apparently satisfied.
He waited impatiently until the suite was quiet and he could hear no nearby thoughts at all. Then Nico scrambled out of bed, took off his nightshirt and put on his oldest tunic and some patched trousers, plus his riding boots: He took a shabby cloak that he was particularly fond of and refused to stop wearing and looked around the bedroom. He stuffed several pillows down under the covers, in the shape of a body, and pulled the blanket over the head. He studied his handiwork and thought it would do until he returned. Then he snuffed the candles, sending the room into near darkness. The light from the little fireplace hardly reached the bed, and cast several nice shadows that concealed his deceit. Nico was quite pleased with himself.
He slipped out of the suite by the servants’ stair, and started down the back corridor in the direction of the huge kitchens. Even at a distance, he could hear the clamor of pot and pans, the shouting of the head cook at her minions, all in preparation for the meal to be served. Then he heard someone coming toward him and he darted into the first doorway he found, his heart hammering with excitement. It was very dark within, and from the smell of it, he was in the stillroom. After a second he heard footfalls pass the door, and knew who it was. Just one of the lads who turned the spits in the kitchens, all his thoughts concerned with fetching something for Cook.
As soon as silence returned to the corridor, Nico slipped out and tiptoed along. When he crept past the great door to the kitchen, he heard Cook swearing a bit at someone’s clumsiness with the dessert tarts. His mouth watered. He should have eaten before he set out. Maybe he could get something at a foodstall. He had done that a few times before, not nearly as often as he wished, for he found the taste of street food much more interesting than what was served in the Castle. Had he brought any coins? Yes, there were a few in his beltpouch.
Despite the chill of early evening, the door to the alley that ran from the kitchen past the bakery was propped open a bit. He darted into the shadowed way, feeling more excited by the second. Was this why Rory did the naughty things he did? What a fool he had been to let his little brother have all the fun!
The heat from the walls of the bakery was pleasant, and he almost regretted it when he passed beyond. He pulled up the hood on his cloak and moved quietly behind the barracks where the Guards lived, praying he would not meet anyone. From the noise, he knew the off-duty Guardsmen were eating their evening meal. It was a friendly, jocular sound, and he thought how much he enjoyed it when he ate with them. They did not defer to him at the table, but treated him as just another young man, and please pass the platter.
At last he came out into a narrow street, and turned right. It was deserted, but the houses on either side were alight, and he could hear occasional voices. A few minutes of walking, and Comyn Castle was behind him, and his fear of discovery began to evaporate. The street wound around and came back to a larger thoroughfare, and went on into a little square. There were torches on the faces of the buildings, and he saw a foodstall on the far side.
A pair of burly draymen were standing in front of it, waiting for the old man who ran it to serve them up pockets of flat bread stuffed with chunks of roasted fowl. It smelled wonderful. Nico was glad he had not eaten first, because it seemed more of an adventure to get his supper on the street.
In the flickering light from the torches, he realized he looked quite ordinary in his old and disreputable garments. No one would ever suspect who he was. When the draymen had been served, he stepped forward, sniffing hungrily. He listened to the conversation of the men, talking with their mouths full. They were complaining in cheerful tones which belied their words about how poorly they had been tipped for some moving job they had done. He guessed that they were enjoying their mutters of discontent about the stinginess of their employers, and that this was a normal subject of conversation.
Nico asked for a serving, and the old man slipped several pieces of meat off a slender wooden skewer and plopped them onto a crusty slab of bread, rolling the bread around the filling to make it easier to eat. He dug out his smallest coin and handed it over. Then he sank his teeth into the rolled-up bread, tasting the spices that the fowl had been marinated in. It was delicious. Why didn’t they serve such good things at the Castle?
He left the square still eating, and walked quickly down the street, heading for the North Gate. The evening wind cooled his face and ruffled his unbound hair, but he barely noticed. He was having a wonderful time, just being alone and listening to the night sounds of Thendara. He finished his food, found his face was a little greasy, and grinned. Then he wiped his sleeve over his cheeks. No napkins or linens for him tonight! And, even better, no Javanne ruining his appetite!
After half an hour of unhurried walking, he saw some people ahead of him on the street. They were heading toward the Gate, and he slowed so as not to catch up with them. When they passed beneath some torches he realized that they were dressed in Terranan leathers, and wondered what they were doing outside the Trade City. It was not forbidden for off-duty Terrans to venture into Thendara proper, but even Nico knew it was a bit uncommon. Well, maybe they were bored and had heard that the Travelers were performing.
But it was a bit puzzling. He had overheard a few things in the last couple of days, from his father or Grandfather Lew, and had gotten the impression that there was some sort of order from the Federation that restricted their people from leaving Headquarters. Oh, well, perhaps he had misunderstood, or the Terrans had changed their minds. The only thing he was really sure of was that Darkovan personnel had been ordered to leave both the space port and the Headquarters complex. He had seen Ethan MacDoevid, his mother’s protegé from Threadneedle Street, coming into the hall just as he was going out for his Guard duty, and was sure that he had come to tell Grandfather Lew something interesting.
He knew the story of how Ethan and his mother had met very well, for she was very fond of recounting it. Ethan and his cousin Geremy had met Marguerida coming out of the port the day she returned to Darkover, and the lads had guided her to master Everard’s house in Music Street, becoming friends along the way. She had a way of telling the tale that made her first impressions very vivid. The boy—he had been a bit younger than Nico was now—had confided to her his longing to go on the Big Ships, and later she had been instrumental in getting him the chance to learn the things he needed to become a spacefarer. He had acquired the skills, but the opportunity had never come to him, since the Federation had changed its policies about allowing personnel from Protected Planets to man their ships, so he had never gone into space.
When Rafe Scott had been forced to retire from HQ, Ethan had taken over many of the duties of Liaison that Scott had performed. Nico knew, from a few conversations with him, that this had not entirely pleased Ethan, but he did his work with a good will. The appointment had annoyed several people on the Council, since Ethan was the son of a tradesman, not the Domains, and Marguerida’s protegé as well. However, it had turned out to be a good choice, and he could only wonder what Ethan was going to do now, if the Federation left, and there was no need for a Liaison officer, and even if they didn’t, they weren’t going to let any native Darkovans stick around HQ. He could hardly go back to his father’s tailoring business after so many years.
Domenic noticed that there was something hasty and nervous about the men ahead of him, and it sent all speculations about Ethan’s future right out of his mind. He found their behavior very interesting, and puzzling as well. One second they were moving along like two fellows out for a good time, and the next they were peering into the shadows, as if they expected to be attacked. If they had wanted to be anonymous, they should not have come in their distinctive leathers. Typical Terranan arrogance. What were they up to? If they wanted female companionship, they would have stayed in the Trade City. He gave a slight shrug under his shabby cloak, and decided it was not important, and that it just added a bit of spice to his thus far unadventurous evening.
Nico was beginning to feel slightly foolish about the whole thing. Just because his mother said he was too well-behaved was no reason to be sneaking out in the night, leaving some bolsters in his place on the bed, was it? He was tempted to turn around and go back before his absence was discovered. But that was hen-hearted, and besides he was not doing anything very terrible.
This whole thing is a waste of time—we could be back in the barracks now, warm and comfy, instead of out in this wretched cold. Vancof will not have anything to tell us—he never has before. God, I hate this planet. I won’t get reassigned to anything better, since I haven’t managed to make any kind of name for myself here. Belfontaine is crazy of he thinks he can turn this around before we have to leave. I will be glad to get off Cottman. The sooner the better. Damn fool backwater place.
Domenic heard this jumble of thoughts, the usual disorganized muddle, and almost stumbled. Cottman? He must be picking up one of the men ahead of him—only Terranan called Darkover that. And who was Vancof? Were the men expecting to meet someone outside the Gate? Why would they do that? It did not make any sense at all.
The name was strange, and clearly not a Darkovan one. Why would these men go to meet a Terran outside the gates? Suddenly the whole episode took on a darker tone. The men were not in search of entertainment, but were going for some other purpose. He moved faster, hoping to overhear them speak, or catch another snatch of thoughts. It was not as if he were spying, since he could not help listening to the uppermost thoughts of other people. Still, it made him feel slightly uncomfortable.
The men passed through the arch of the North Gate, and Nico followed them. Beyond the Gate there were half dozen firepits blazing away, as well as torches set in stands. After the relative darkness of the streets, it seemed more light than it really was. Nico could see several of the painted wagons of the Travelers on one side of the huge field. On the other there were foodstands and booths that sold trinkets. Just beyond the stands there were groups of mules tethered to ropes and a couple of wagons piled with goods. Briefly he wondered why the muleteers were camping out there. Then he decided that it likely saved them the cost of stabling for the night. There seemed so many things he did not know, and he felt rather annoyed. Some education he had had!
One of the Travelers’ wagons had its side lowered, and there was a juggler standing on the platform, fearlessly tossing small lighted torches in the air. He had four of the things in motion, and was declaiming at the same time. Nico moved toward this display, fascinated. The redheaded girl was nowhere in sight, and the side of the puppet wagon was pulled up and shut. Maybe they had already performed, and he had missed it.
He joined the crowd of watchers, listening to the jibes of the juggler and the catcalls of the audience as well. The smell of cheap beer and unwashed clothing was all around him. It was a rough bunch of people, men and women both, and even a few children, wide-eyed with wonder. But it was not an unruly crowd—they were just having a good time on a not unpleasant evening. In a few weeks, it would be too cold for this sort of thing, so everyone was making the most of the mild weather and a chance to have some harmless fun.
The two men in Terran leathers stood in the crowd for several minutes, their backs toward him. They were both big men, broad shouldered and well-muscled. One had dark brown hair and the other was a blond, but other than that there was very little difference between them. They stared at the performance dully, as if they were waiting for something or someone.
Just when Domenic was starting to think they had come to see one of the girl acrobats or dancers in the scanty garments that had scandalized some of the people at Arilinn, one of the men made a gesture with his head, signaling his partner. They slipped off quietly, and vanished between two of the parked wagons. They did not look like men seeking the company of a woman, and, as far as he had ever heard, Travelers did not offer that sort of custom. Of course, with his abysmal ignorance of things beyond the walls of Comyn Castle, almost anything seemed possible. But there were easier pickings in the taverns in the Trade City, if all they wanted was a bedwarmer.
For just a moment, he hesitated. Then he could not resist. He wanted to find out what they were up to. Nico slipped through the crowd unnoticed, and went toward the space between the two wagons. Then he leaned against one and bent over, tugging at one of the laces on his boots, as if it had become undone and needed to be retied. His cloak fell around him, concealing his movements. No one seemed to be paying him the least attention, and he was relieved.
Nico’s blood was pounding in his ears, and for a minute he could hear nothing but the noises of his body. Why was he spying on these men? Because they did not belong where they were and, he admitted to himself a little grudgingly, because he was extremely curious as to what had brought them there. He could just catch the sound of whispering, hushed and cautious, speaking in Terran. He had learned that language from his mother and grandfather, but he had a little trouble following the words at first. He leaned toward the narrow passage between the wagons and strained to hear. Finally he was able to distinguish three males, as they stopped whispering and began to speak in low tones.
“You haven’t sent a message in six days.” The voice was harsh, and sounded a little angry.
“If I had a shortbeam, it would be easier,” one voice whined. Nico wondered what that meant.
“Too risky, and you know it. Besides, the damn things only work half the time.”
“I’ve been busy. And there hasn’t been anything much.”
“Busy?” The harsh voice sounded disbelieving.
“Driving the wagon and managing the mules is a full time job! I broke a wheel to get into Thendara, and managed to drive across the city, but I did not find out much. The old bastard, Regis Hastur, is dead, but you already know that.” Now, as the whining voice spoke further, Domenic recognized it. It was the driver of the puppet wagon he had seen that morning! What had the girl called him—Dirck?
Domenic nearly gasped and almost missed the reply. “No, we did not know that! Damn you, Vancof. You are incompetent. You did not think it was important, when we have been waiting for an opportunity like this for years. A pity it had to happen just when we are getting ready to pull out.”
“Pull out? Are you sure?” He did not seem very much like the unpleasant fellow who had been so rude to Kendrick now, but sounded uneasy, as if he were frightened of the men with him.
“Of course I’m sure! That’s the word from Command, and we will leave at the end of the month.” If the Federation doesn’t desert us! The speaker sounded annoyed and amused at the same time. “But if Hastur is gone, then maybe those plans will change. What’s going to happen?”
There was a hacking noise and someone spat. “He is going to be buried in a few days, and then his heir will be his nephew, Mikhail Hastur.”
“I see.” Domenic was almost certain this was the man whose thoughts he had overheard earlier, though he could not have said how he knew. “We don’t know much about him.” There was a thoughtful pause. “They take their kings to that thing up north, don’t they? The roo something.”
“Yes, they do.” The driver sounded alert now, and wary as well.
“This has possibilities, Vancof—real possibilities. You might finally start earning the enormous salary we pay you.”
“If you say so,” came a sullen reply. I haven’t been paid an three months, and what I do get, when I get it, is hardly enormous. He’s up to something. Damn him.
The other man went on, thinking aloud. “Our problem has always been that we have never been able to really get into Comyn Castle. We have tried seven times to put an agent into place, and failed. The servants don’t bribe, and they rarely talk.” He sounded extremely disgruntled by this, even speaking in a near whisper. “And all the positions are inherited, so we can’t do anything. But once this fellow is out of the Castle, it should be fairly easy to take him out.”
“Take him . . . ? How?”
“Oh, an ambush along the road, I think. You should be able to manage that. Find a good spot, Vancof, and the Chief will think you are a wonderful fellow.” Even in a hushed voice, there was no mistaking the contempt in the words.
There was a snorting sound, a derisive and humorless laugh. “You expect me to get through a few hundred Guardsmen and find one man I’ve never even seen?”
“I’ll get you some help.”
“Granfell, have you lost your mind? Do you really believe that you can just . . . you think that killing is the answer to everything.” This as bad, very bad. I don’t want to be involved. But Granfell wall stick a knife an me without thinking twice about it.
“When’s this funeral thing?”
“There will be some kind of ceremony in Thendara in a couple of days, and then they’ll carry the body north. It hasn’t happened in a long time, but if what I have heard is right, all the heads of the Domains are supposed to accompany the body to the rhu fead.”
“Really—that is even better! We have time to make some preparations. Good. With a little cleverness, we can destroy not just this Michael person, but most of the rest of these . . . “
“Planning to land a troop of fighters up the road, are you?” The driver was sneering in spite of his own fright. “Think that no one will notice? You don’t understand Cottman, Granfell, and you never have. And I don’t think the Chief will like your plan either. He got into trouble before, and if he wants to advance, he can’t afford to do it again.”
This is my chance to make a name for myself, and I am not going to let this bastard get an my way. We can destablize Cottman, or take out most of their ruling class, and then the Federation can step in and take over. Then I’ll be able to have my pick of any posting. I’ll jump three grades of rank, at least.
Granfell is out of his mind! I can see it in his face. He was always a little crazy. He is going to get me killed with his ambitions! He just wants to impress the Chief. But I have my own skin to think about. Trying to assassinate Mikhail Hastur is just plain stupid. He won’t believe me, though, so I better pretend to go along for now.
Nico was so startled by what he had just overheard that it took him a moment to realize he was catching the thoughts of both of the men in leathers. His heart was pounding with fear and excitement now, and he felt frozen in place.
“You better talk to the Chief, Granfell. And don’t come back here in those clothes. You stand out like a virgin at the orgy.” It was the driver again, holding back his fears. Nico could sense a desire for wine in the man’s surface thoughts—a great deal of wine.
“You whining . . . you don’t think I’d go around wearing the rags these barbarians do, do you?”
“Fine. It’s your neck.”
With these words, Domenic decided that he had heard enough, and moved away quietly. He slipped back into the crowd, trying to appear inconspicuous. After a few moments, he knew he had succeeded, since no one was paying him the least attention. The juggler was done now, and had been replaced by a skinny man who was telling a long story. The audience did not seem very interested, but they were not ready to start booing just yet. He barely noticed, his mind racing.
What should he do now? Part of Nico wanted to race back to Comyn Castle and tell someone what he had overheard. But how was he going to explain being there? And why would anyone take him seriously? They’d probably just think he was making the whole thing up to keep from getting punished for his adventure.
Who would believe him? Well, his mother would, after she recovered from being very angry. He shivered lightly in anticipation. Danilo Syrtis-Ardais would also realize that he was not joking. He had never lied before, unlike his little brother. But what could they do? His father? True, Mikhail had told him not a day before that he was always ready to listen to his eldest son, but somehow Nico did not feel that he could just walk into Mikhail’s study and announce that there was a plot to kill him. The words stuck in his throat. He was afraid of upsetting his father just now. Things were not right at Comyn Castle, and he did not want to add to the tension. Once all the heads of the Domains arrived, there would be a Council meeting to confirm his father’s succession, and after that everyone would be less jumpy. One did not need to be a Ridenow to know that anticipation of that meeting, which promised to be loud and probably acrimonious, was weighing heavily on his parents’ minds.
Still, he had to do something, and quickly. He turned and started to leave, then stopped. He was thinking like a scared child. First, he needed to get a grip on himself, before he did anything! Calm down, Domenic, and slow down, too—nothing is going to happen tonight.
After a minute, during which his mind raced in several directions at once, he began to sort out his feelings from everything else. No one but him knew what Vancof looked like. And the others, too. He glanced around, looking for the two men in leathers, but they seemed to have vanished. No, there they were, walking back to the Gate—and he had never gotten so much as a glimpse of their faces! Some spy he was. Would he know them again, from the backs of their heads and the way they held their shoulders? He was torn for a moment—should he track them back into the city, go back to the Castle, or remain where he was? At last he decided he might know the men again, and that it was probably best to stay where he was for a while longer. His hoped—for adventure was turning into something unexpected, and there was no need to rush, was there?
How had a Terranan ended up driving a Traveler’s wain? He wanted to know more now. Maybe he should have stayed near the wagons and listened a little longer, or used the Alton Gift to force information from the minds of the strangers . . . the idea repelled him. Mother was right—he was too good.
Domenic realized how frightened he was, and how alone he felt. He wanted to run away, and at the same time, he wanted to stay. He had to keep an eye on things, didn’t he? It was his duty. But he could not just go off . . . well, why not? He was trying to protect his father, wasn’t he? And all the others. And then he realized that he did not want to hand the problem over to the adults, that he wanted to be there—to have an adventure. If he went back now, he would be punished and perhaps not taken seriously.
If he had not been so curious about the redheaded girl, none of this would have happened, and the plot would not have been discovered. If it was a plot, if this Chief—they almost certainly meant Belfontaine—went ahead with Granfell’s plan. And if he went back and told everyone, and was believed, he would be trapped. His parents would surround him with so many guards he would not be able to breathe. He would be relegated to being just a boy again.
Domenic could not bear the thought of that happening. This was his adventure, and he was determined to see it through to the end. He was sick and tired of being a prisoner in Comyn Castle, and returning guaranteed that he would remain so. On the other hand, running off in the night would make his parents both afraid and angry. He did not want to consider that fact, but he had to. It meant he had to tell someone who would understand and believe him, and who would not instantly drag him back.
There was only one person he could think of who would know what to do. Lew Alton. His grandfather always understood. He would keep Marguerida and Mikhail from worrying, and tell Nico how to proceed. It took some of the keenness out of the adventure, but he had to act responsibly, didn’t he? There was a small sense of relief at this thought, the decision to trust Lew.
Nico walked across the field toward the foodstalls. Then he hunkered down beside one of the open fires, pulled his hood over his head, and concentrated. He hoped he looked like some weary boy, warming himself, because he wanted to remain invisible for the present. He closed his eyes and focused.
Grandfather!
Nico? What is it?
I . . . I’m not in bed sick. I just pretended to be sick so I could sneak out and . . .
Visiting the fleshpots of Thendara, are you? There was a sense of amusement in that thought.
No, Grandfather. The idea shocked Nico slightly, that he would sneak out to visit a joyhouse, but he knew from things the Guardsmen said that other boys his age did such things. I am out at the field by the North Gate—I wanted to see the Travelers perform. But I heard something—there were two men in Terran dress just ahead of me in the street, and they came and talked to someone there, a man called Vancof. I saw him earlier today, driving a Traveler’s wagon. I think he is a spy or . . . an assassin.
A spy? If Rory was telling this fabulation, I would not believe ham, but you, Nico! Go on.
The Terranans watched a juggler, then snuck off behind a wagon. So, I went and listened. I mean, it seemed strange to me that two men in those uniforms that look like leathers would come out here to see the Travelers. One is named Granfell, but I don’t know the other one’s name. And Vancof said that Regis had died—which I guess Granfell did not know—and Granfell said that it seemed like a good idea to try and kill Father on the way to the rhu fead. And others, too. Vancof tried to persuade him this was a bad idea, but Granfell seems very ambitious and . . . this Vancof thinks he is a little mad, too.
Slow down, Nico. Are you telling me that there is an agent of Terran Intelligence masquerading as a Traveler?
I guess I am.
There was a silence from Lew Alton, as if he needed time to digest the information. That explains several things which have been troubling me for some months. Why haven’t you come back to the Castle?
Well, I did not think anyone would take me seriously.
And?
And I know what Vancof looks like, and no one else does. Well, maybe Kendrick. He was standing guard with me when the wagon came through this morning. I want to stay here and keep an eye on things. Grandfather, they want to kill everyone, so they can grab Darkover! Vancof asked Granfell if he was going to land troops on the road or something. Could they do that?
In the past, they would not have dared. But now—I refuse to speculate.
Again there was a ruminative silence, and Domenic waited tensely. What would he do if Lew ordered him to return?
Well, Nico, it sounds as if you have gotten yourself into a very peculiar situation. And, even with the risk, I agree with you that you ought to remain where you are for the present. A night away from home won’t kill you.
I hope not! I am scared, Grandfather, but not too much. I mean, the driver saw me, but I was just a young man an a Guard’s uniform, and he was so busy being obnoxious that he probably won’t remember me. And I won’t go near. I can keep an eye on things from a distance. Or pretend I am interested in the girl I saw this morning—she is very pretty. I would not mind being interested in her! This admission surprised him and pleased him at the same time.
You are having an interesting time, aren’t you?
Yes, Grandfather, I am.
Very well. Someone will join you out there before morning—you can’t just go alone.
Who? You?
No, not me. Let me handle this, Domenic. And keep safe. I don’t want to have to explain to your mother that I let her firstborn get himself . . .
I promise not to get killed!
Good.
Please don’t let them make me come back!
No, not for the present. You are not in any danger that I can think of. And it is good for you to get some experience outside the Castle. I have never entirely approved of how embattled we have let ourselves become in recent years, as I have often told you and anyone else who would listen. The presence of a Terran spy among the Travelers just proves how right I was. What a perfect cover—why didn’t I think of it sooner? And how many others have been wandering around Darkover for thirty years? Leave it to me, grandson. I am very proud of you, Nico.
Proud?
You have never shown a lot of initiative, which I believe is a valuable quality in a ruler. This shows you can handle yourself in a difficult situation.
I don’t think Mother will agree with you. She will be furious.
Very likely, and ring a peal over my head. Be careful, and I will contact you later tonight.