20

Domenic stood in the dining room of the Crowing Cock and looked out the small window onto the courtyard. The rain which had begun so quietly the night before had turned into a real downpour when he had finally risen at midmorning. He could see pools of water which had collected on the stones, and piles of sodden debris which had not yet been cleared away. He sighed resignedly. It was a fairly common early autumn storm that would last for a day or two, turn the roads into mud, and keep everyone indoors until it spent itself.

A slow smile played over his mouth. Vancof and Granfell had left the inn when the rain had only begun. Now they were huddled somewhere, in some crofter’s cot, he assumed, cold and cheerless. Perhaps they would fall to arguing and kill each other. He wondered if they would come back to the inn, and decided that possibility was unlikely. Vancof was known in Carcosa as a Traveler, and after the riot the night before, he was smart enough to realize that if someone recognized him, he would likely end up in the lockup. Where else might they go? There was another village, about fifteen miles farther up the Old North Road, according to Aunt Rafi. He must remember to pass this information to Herm.

At last he turned back to the long table and sat down. He picked up a sheet of thick paper, the best that MacHaworth could provide, and read through what he had written. It was a letter to his mother, containing surprisingly little of his exploits since leaving Comyn Castle, and nothing at all about finding the body of the dead man the night before. Instead, Domenic had written about subjects which he could never bring himself to speak of, either verbally or telepathically. He had written about his strong feelings for his cousin, Alanna, but more about how much he disliked living in Comyn Castle, and one short paragraph concerning the disturbing auditory experiences he had been having. It was the first letter he had written to Marguerida in his entire life, and he had discovered he was able to say things more clearly on paper than he could in any other way.

He read his words over and realized that he had left a great many things unsaid, despite his determination to do otherwise. Domenic had not mentioned the riot, because he knew it would worry his mother, and he felt she had enough on her hands already. He had not addressed his feeling of distance from his father for similar reasons. Mikhail had a lot of problems just now, and Nico did not want to add to them. In short, he decided, it was not as complete as he intended, and it was therefore dishonest by omission.

He wondered if he should just crumple the whole thing up and toss it into the fireplace. He was aware of his own self-consciousness, anxious at both saying too little and too much, but relieved that he had been able to write anything at all. No, he would send it. When Duncan Lindir rode back to Thendara later in the day, he would give it to the old Guardsman. His mother would be pleased to receive it, and that was enough.

Domenic was just finishing his reading when Illona came into the room. Her wiry red hair had been brushed and combed into a semblance of order, then pulled back ruthlessly from her forehead and braided down her back. She was wearing a green tunic and skirt that fit her well enough, belted around her slender waist, and there were soft slippers on her feet. He wondered where she had gotten the garments, for the town market was closed for the day, because of the riot, and then realized that they were rather fancy for everyday. She must have borrowed them from one of MacHaworth’s daughters. He saw dark circles beneath her green eyes, as if she had slept poorly. He suspected he did not look much more rested himself.

“What are you doing?”

“I have written a letter to my mother—which will amaze her, since I have never done such a thing before. But, then, except for my years at Arilinn, I have never been away from her, and there was no need to write.”

“What does it say?” She seemed anxious and curious, and did not appear to realize that she was being nosy.

“Nothing about you, if that is what is worrying you.”

Illona looked surprised and almost disappointed. “I . . . I suppose I thought . . .”

“I would have told her about you, but I assumed it might make you frightened.” In another mood, he knew, he would have described all the events leading up to this moment, and made rather a good tale of it. But after the previous night, Domenic’s immediate impulse was to protect Illona, and he had followed it.

“That is . . . kind of you. It would have. I’ve been thinking about last night a lot, about what you said and all. And I think that I don’t need to go to a Tower at all, not really, and that you were just being . . . what would a girl like me do in such a place? I think I’ll join the Renunciates instead. It can’t be any harder than being a Traveler.” She eyed him closely, watching for his reaction with the wariness of a half-wild cat.

Domenic gave her a hard look. “What makes you think they would want a wild telepath in their company?”

“Are you always this unpleasant? Or just in the mornings?”

“No, I am not. In fact, I am ordinarily a very nice fellow, polite to my elders and courteous to fault. I even manage to be pleasant to my grandmother who hates me and wishes me ill. But when someone is deliberately being buffle-headed, Illona, I speak my mind.”

“Is that what you think?”

“Your laran is not going to go away, no matter how hard you will it to. Anymore than your hair is going to turn soft and manageable.”

Illona gave a slight grin. “Samantha tried to put it into order, and she did a good job, I think. How did you know that my hair was a trial to me? I hate it!”

“Well, I don’t. I think it is very attractive—and you are changing the subject.”

“I’m not the one who mentioned my impossible hair.”

“True.” Domenic looked down at the letter again, wondering if he could rewrite it in some other way, if he could be more honest without causing hurt. “My friend, you and I are more alike than you imagine.”

“What? I am not the least like you!”

“Yes, you are. We are both stuck with Gifts we have to learn to live with. If you read what I have written, you would see that.”

“Well, I can’t read, so that’s that.”

“Not at all?”

“No.”

“But how do you learn the scripts that Mathias writes if you cannot read?”

“Oh, that. I have an excellent memory. He would read the plays to me several times, and then I knew what to say. And sometimes I improved the words, which always annoyed him. He is not nearly as clever as he thinks.”

Domenic remembered his encounter with the man the night before and had to agree. “I see. Well, then, I will teach you to read.” He folded the letter in half and pushed it aside. Then he took a second sheet of paper and the pen in his hand. “Come and sit next to me.”

Illona stared at him for a second, then walked around the table and slipped onto the bench beside him. “Why do I need to learn to read?”

“Because when you go to a Tower, you will need that skill. And we are not going to argue about that subject—you are going, if I have to drag you there myself and show you that it is not a terrible place.” He was surprised at himself, because he knew he was not usually so forceful.

A mulish expression filled her face, then faded. “I think . . . I could go if you went with me. Mind you, I don’t wish to, and I believe you are being very stubborn because you are used to getting your own way.”

Domenic gave a snort of laughter. “I know you won’t believe me, Illona, but I have rarely gotten my own way in my whole life. Now, this is your name, Illona Rider.” He pointed to what he had just written. “Here are the letters, and you already know how they sound.”

“Is that what it looks like?” She peered at the glyphs on the page. “Write yours.”

Domenic did as she asked, putting the whole long name on the page. He watched her as she studied the letters closely. He reflected that he was very much his mother’s son, just at that moment, trying to teach someone to read. She put her finger on the glyphs from her own name and then found the same ones in his, moving the digit back and forth between the two, and subvocalizing the sounds. After a minute she asked, “Why are the starting letters tall and the rest short?”

“In a name, you make the beginning of each word a capital, and the rest in another form. Do you know, I have never thought about this before—I’ve always just done it.”

“What do you do when it is not a name, then?”

“Here—I will write a sentence.”

“What does it say?”

“All mules bray.”

“I see . . . the big letter at the beginning is the same one as in part of your name, and the next two are like the small ones at the first part of Illona. So, when you write something that is not a name, you make the first letter big, and all the rest small.” She nodded, and he could sense she was enjoying herself.

“That is right, except if you are putting the name of a person or place in a sentence—here—I will write ‘Mona and Nico are in Carcosa.’ You see?”

“Is this word Carcosa?” She pointed.

“Yes, it is. But how did you figure it out?” Domenic knew she was very intelligent, but she seemed to be learning much faster than he had anticipated. Was she picking up clues from his mind—no, there was no sense of her overhearing him. Then he realized he was enjoying teaching her, and that he did not want her to learn so quickly, only because he did not want to end the time with her.

“I . . . uh . . . just matched the end of your first name with the letter you made bigger, because you told me that places started with capitals. That’s all. Did I do it wrong?”

“No, Illona. You are a very good student.”

“Write down ordinary words for me—bread and rain and . . . I want to know what they all look like!”

Domenic did not move for a moment. Then he pulled the folded letter to Marguerida toward him, opened it, and wrote above “Dear Mother,” “Please send me a copy of your book of folktales as soon as you are able.” Then he turned back to the other sheet of paper and began to pen the words Illona had requested.

“What did you just put in your letter?”

“I asked my mother to send me a book she wrote. You will like it because it is full of stories, and by the time you get done with it, you will be able to read very well.”

“You asked . . .” she gave a little gasp of astonishment. “Your mother is Marguerida Alton-Hastur, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

Illona shook her head. “And you just asked her to send a book, as if she was . . . a nobody. You are a very strange person, Domenic.”

“Call me Nico—all my friends do.”

“And I am your friend?”

“I told you that last night, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but I didn’t really believe you then. Now, write ‘bread’ for me.”

It was late afternoon and the rain had been pouring down for hours. Katherine Aldaran put down her brush and rubbed the back of her neck. She had lost track of time. She gave a quick look at the panel on the easel, taking in the shapes she had placed there, and decided it was not a bad beginning.

“Are you tired?” Gisela asked, from where she sat on a thronelike chair across the room. “I know I am. I never imagined that sitting in one position could be so wearing!”

“Forgive me—I got caught up in the work! I am not usually so thoughtless of my sitters.”

“I didn’t mind, really. It was very interesting watching you. And I will tell you a useful thing, if you like.”

Kate put the brush into a jar of turpentine and swirled it around. “What’s that?”

“When you are thinking about painting, your mind gets extremely quiet.”

“Quiet?”

“Well, maybe more like you are walled away. Shielded.”

“I see. So if I walk down the corridor thinking about yellow ocher, no one can hear my random thoughts? That is useful! Thank you.”

“I am glad you didn’t mind, Kate. Can I look at what you did, or must I wait until it is done?”

“You won’t see much at this stage, but you can look if you like.” Actually, Katherine did not usually let her sitters see the preliminary painting, because it was just forms and was difficult for those who were not artists to understand. At present, she had blocked in the shape of Gisela’s head and shoulders, the carved posts of the chair, and a little of the draping of the violet tunic she had chosen to wear. What color there was in the face did not resemble any human being yet, since green was not a hue that people ordinarily thought of when they looked at themselves.

Before Gisela could rise and come toward the easel, there was a knock on the door, and a second later Roderick stuck his red head into the room, his eyes sparkling. Then he saw Gisela and he hesitated slightly. “Oh, sorry—Mother said you might be working.”

“It is fine, Rory—we are finished for today, aren’t we, Kate?”

“Yes, we are. Did you come about learning to draw, Roderick?”

The boy grinned and glanced around the studio, taking in the panel on the easel swiftly. “No, I didn’t. Mother asked me to bring you this. She just got a letter from Nico, and this one is for you—from Herm.” Rory held out a thick packet and shifted restlessly from foot to foot. He watched Kate with an air of anticipation. When she did not immediately react, he looked very disappointed. “Aren’t you going to take it?”

“Thank you,” Kate answered rather stiffly, and took the object from his hand.

“Aren’t you going to read it?”

“Roderick Rafael Alton-Hastur—you are being a pest!” Gisela scolded him, but there was no real anger in her voice. “It is private, you little scamp!”

“But, I just wanted to know how many Terranan he has killed so far!”

Gisela looked scandalized. “Shoo! Get along with you, you imp of Zandru! Both of us are going to swallow our curiosity and leave Katherine to enjoy her letter in peace.”

“Ah, Aunty Giz, that’s not fair! First Nico goes off and gets into trouble, and I am stuck here in the castle, and then . . .”

“Enough!” Gisela was on her feet, shaking out the folds of her tunic and petticoats.

“Please, Giz, don’t go.” Kate held the letter between her fingers, suddenly cold all over. She did not want to be alone right now. “Why don’t you make us some of that nice tea we had earlier, while I . . .”

“Of course! Just what we need on a rainy afternoon.” She walked over to the fireplace, shook a kettle sitting on the hearthstones, and poured some water into it from a jug nearby. Then she hung it on a hook, and turned around. “Are you still here, Roderick?”

“You are so mean,” he muttered, and then retreated and closed the door behind him. Once he was gone, Gisela began to laugh, and in spite of her own tension, Katherine joined in.

She sat down in the chair Gisela had been posing in and the merriment faded away. Kate looked at the packet in her hands, dreading what might be within its pages. She had said so many terrible things, in her fear, the night Herm had left Comyn Castle. What would she do if he decided she was right—that being married to a laranless wife was indeed impossible for him? And, knowing how much her husband disliked emotional conflict, it would be just like him to tell her in a letter, to avoid the inevitable confrontation it would mean.

“Kate, read your letter and stop your fretting.” Giz spoke in a gentle voice, and then turned away to clean out the pottery teapot.

Katherine sighed and broke the paper wafer which sealed the packet. Three sheets unfolded on her lap, and Herm’s large scrawl danced before her eyes. He had written to her a few times when they were courting, but she had not seen his handwriting since then, and the sight of it now made her heart leap in her chest. She remembered how the sight of one of his notes had made her blood race ten years before, how girlish and excited she had felt whenever she received one.

Dearest Kate—

I am a fool. I hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive me for being a coward and running away at the first chance I had. Please understand that it was not your fault, that nothing you did, including point out my many stupidities, was the cause. It was me, my fears and habits, that was the problem, and never you, my caria.

There are so many things I want to tell you, that I should have told you earlier, and I don’t know if I have the courage to do it now. The paper under my hand seems like a vast field of snow that I cannot get across.

Just at this moment, I am sitting in my room at an inn called the Crowing Cock. It is in a little town called Carcosa, about a half day’s slow ride from Thendara—so I am not very far away, although it feels to me as if it were a great distance. Last night there was a riot in the courtyard of the inn, and people were killed. The rain came and freshened things up a little, but I can still smell the stench of it. Perhaps that is my imagination, or maybe it is that my clothes are filthy with ash and sweat and a lot of other unpleasant things.

I am delaying getting down to business. First, I have to tell you that the Station Chief at Federation Headquarters there in Thendara has an arrest warrant out on me. I did not tell you about it when I learned of it, and you somehow knew I was holding something back, even though I managed to distract you by telling you that Terése would need to be tested for laran. You were already so tired and worried that I could not bring myself to add to it—well, that is my excuse anyhow. I am hardly a threat to Federation security, and this man knows that perfectly well, but he wanted to use my presence in Comyn Castle to cause trouble for Mikhail Hastur.

Katherine stopped reading and looked up. “Did you know that Herm had an arrest warrant out for him?”

“Yes, breda, I did, but Mikhail asked us—Rafael and me—not to tell you, because he felt you didn’t need to know about it so you wouldn’t worry.”

“I do wish everyone would stop keeping things from me and not meddle in my life!”

Gisela chuckled and then took the kettle off the fire to pour hot water into the teapot. “I’m not sure if that is possible on Darkover—everyone seems to meddle just for sport.”

“Sport!” Kate spat out the word and felt much better for it. “I suppose it is something to do—when you are snowed in for weeks at a time,” she added, less angrily but with great feeling.

“It is better than killing each other, Kate.”

“I’m not completely sure of that.” She picked up the letter and went on reading.

But it was more than keeping Mikhail out of a mess he had no hand in. I came home, expecting to feel at ease, and instead I found myself feeling trapped. No, it was not you, but everything! After years dealing with the intrigues of the Senate, you would have thought that those of my own people would be simple for me. I only wish that were true. I felt more alienated in Comyn Castle than I did when we were still in the Federation—exacerbated, I must add, by your own entirely normal reaction to discovering that you were married to a telepath. In short, you were only making things harder, Kate—and I just couldn’t deal with it.

That is not a very loving thing to write, but it is a true one. I hope you can forgive me eventually. I behaved selfishly. I jumped at the opportunity to get away from everything for a few days, and I do not regret the choice, even though I caused you grief. I am not perfect, and I have been more imperfect these past few days than I ever have before in my life.

“He says he isn’t perfect,” Kate told Gisela as the woman approached her with a mug of steaming tea, the pleasant minty smell wafting toward her.

“He is only now discovering that?”

“I don’t know, but he is admitting it now.” She took a sip and found the tea too hot to drink yet.

“I suppose that is progress of some sort,” Gisela answered with her usual tartness.

It seemed to me that too much was happening, and I was overwhelmed. I could not bring myself to deal with the problem of your lack of laran, or how it might affect our lives or the lives of our children. More, I could not cope with how I suddenly felt about life here on Darkover. And then Nico discovered a plot against Mikhail Hastur, and I offered my services.

I ran away, Kate, ran away from you and the children, who are my life, and I confess that I was enormously relieved, even though I felt like dung. It was the wrong thing to do, but also the right one. Can you understand that?

Probably not. I feel that I am making a complete fool of myself, but I had to write and tell you as much as I was able. I want to come back to you, but just at the moment that is not possible. I have to remain here with Domenic until this matter is settled. But I hope that you can find it in your heart to somehow overlook my many flaws, my secretiveness and my cowardice, and to start anew very soon.

I remain, your adoring husband,

Hermes-Gabriel Aldaran

Katherine looked up and found there were tears in her eyes. She folded the letter over and picked up her tea. Then she wiped her wet cheeks with the sleeve of her blouse. The soft spider silk brushed across her skin like a lover’s kiss.

“Well?”

“He is very contrite.”

“Herm was always good at that, when he was a boy. He was always sorry for the mischief he got into. And he always meant it, too! Are you going to take him back?”

“What choice do I have?”

“Kate, you can do just as you please—something I never had a chance to do. The Aldaran Domain is not the richest on Darkover—Aldones knows it is certainly the coldest!—but you will never want for anything, should you decide that he has to sleep in the hawks’ mews for the rest of his life. My brother Robert will see that you are well provided for. So you don’t have to take Hermes back just because he says he is sorry. The question is—do you want him, imperfections and all?”

Katherine did not answer immediately, but drank some of her tea. Then she answered, slowly, “Yes, I do—as maddening as he is.”

“Well, then, that settles it.”

“Not exactly. Things can never be the same between us, Gisela, and I don’t know if he understands that. He is so good at manipulating me—everyone, for that matter—and being clever, that he doesn’t seem to realize the hurt it causes. So, I am going to have to insist that . . .”

“What?”

“That he not treat me like some adoring little woman who can be pushed aside when it pleases him!”

“That may be very difficult, Kate.”

“I know.” She bent her head forward and her shoulders drooped.

“Here, now, don’t go falling into the dumps on me. Why, if things don’t work out, there are always the Renunciates!”

“The Renunciates!” Gisela had told Kate about those women, and she had been fascinated. But the thought of herself living in a community of females was so bizarre that it was funny, and she began to chuckle. “What, and cut off my hair?”

Gisela rolled her eyes drolly. “There you are—saved by sheer vanity!”

Mikhail came into the sitting room of the suite and found Marguerida in a high-backed chair, with a sheet of thick paper in her lap. He realized that it was the first time, except for meals, that he had seen her seated in days. He studied her, noticing the slightest redness at the tip of her nose and the puffiness around her eyes—she must have been crying. And she looked so tired. He wanted to kill anyone who made his wife weep. She would not like that thought, since she preferred to take care of herself, but he could not entirely stem the feeling of outrage. After perhaps half a minute he realized that he was just using it as an excuse to vent his own emotions. Why shouldn’t she cry if she wished to?

“What’s the matter, caria?”

Marguerida looked up, as if she had not noticed he had entered the room, and stared slightly. “Nothing, really. Or perhaps everything. Nico has sent me a letter.”

“Really? Might I read it, or is it too private?”

“You may not like it.”

“I don’t like a great many things, dearest, but that does not prevent me from discovering them.” He tried to keep the sharpness out of his voice, and almost succeeded.

“I had no idea he was so dreadfully unhappy,” she said as she handed him the letter.

“All boys his age are unhappy, I think. I was, and Dani was. Fifteen is a terrible year. At least he does not have spots any longer—I still did, and my voice kept breaking, which embarrassed me no end.” He looked down at the piece of paper in his hand, realized he was looking at the back of it, and turned it over. “I wonder why he asked for your book?” he asked, noticing the writing above the salutation.

“I have no idea—maybe he is bored. I hope he is bored and not in danger.”

“Umm.” Mikhail was already deep in the first page and barely heard her remark. He frowned over the words, admiring the care he knew had been put into them. There was nothing he found very surprising, for he had suspected for some time that Nico was perturbed about himself. He had assumed that Alanna Alar was the cause, and had been happy at the way in which Domenic had walked the taut rope between his affection for his foster-sister and propriety. He turned the page over again, and looked at the back of the sheet.

Yes, Nico was upset about his feelings for his cousin, but that did not appear to be the real problem. The words danced before his eyes, and Mikhail sat down on the couch with a thump and reread them. When he was done, he shook his head. “It is a shame we could not have fostered him to someone.”

“I don’t really think that that would have helped, Mikhail. Are you feeling as if you were a poor parent? I know I am.”

“Yes, I am. If only he wasn’t such a prickly boy, so hard to . . . and you are right. Who would we have dared to foster him to? My brother Gabriel might have done, except that that would have placed him near to Javanne, and besides, Regis would never have agreed, would he?”

Marguerida sighed. “Your brother is an estimable man, when he isn’t being a complete jackass, but I don’t think he would have made any better a parent than we have done. We might just as well accept the fact that we did the best we could, and it wasn’t enough!”

“Marguerida, this is not the end of the world! I know you are exhausted, and that you have been wearing yourself out, handling all the arrangements and worrying about Nico at the same time. But he did manage to tell you that he feels like some sort of unnatural child, didn’t he?”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Her golden eyes sparkled with anger, and color came into her pale cheeks.

“Yes, it is. I don’t know—maybe all boys that age feel to some degree unnatural.” Mikhail rubbed his forehead and tried to will away his headache. He could heal anyone but himself, it seemed. “I could always tell Regis anything, when I was young, before this,” he said, shaking his gloved hand. “Poor Dani couldn’t. So Regis was a better parent to me than he was to his own son. And I have never been able to speak to my own father as I did with Regis, or the way I can with Lew. I think the fact that Nico can write you such a letter says that you have been a very good mother. I think he struggled over it, trying to find the right words. He is very brave, you know.” He did not add how miserable he felt, after reading the letter, that he had done to Domenic exactly what he had sworn he would never do—kept the boy at arm’s length and made it difficult for both of them.

“But what are we going to do?”

“I don’t know. And right now, Nico’s unhappiness is the least of our worries. We can think about it after we have . . . gotten past the rest of it.”

“This is our son, Mik!”

“Yes, he is. And he has gotten all the best of us and the worst as well—he has Lew’s dour temperament, your intelligence, and my own damned imagination! But, Marguerida, he will not die from being unhappy, and from this letter, I think he is likely more capable of knowing himself than I was at that age.”

“He really has never been young, has he?”

“No. He has an ancient soul, and we both know it.”

“Do you think that . . .?”

“That he is Varzil returned? I don’t know, but it would hardly be surprising if that had occurred. The timing makes it likely. And that would not be such a terrible thing, would it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Varzil was a great man, in his time, and, for a future ruler of Darkover, I cannot think of a better prospect. But, first, my dear, we have to get there.” Mikhail was more troubled than he admitted. He stared at his gloved hand. He did not want to think about the future, about the possibility that his firstborn would want to wrest the ring from him. True, he would have willingly cast it aside a thousand times, but that was another matter. Then he relaxed, so suddenly it took him by surprise. His limbs went slack and the throbbing in his temple vanished. He knew his son better than that. Domenic was the last person in the world who would try to seize the power of that ring.

Mikhail turned the letter over in his hand, and reread a paragraph on the first side. It was brief, and mentioned only that Nico had been experiencing some sort of unusual hearing—something he had thought were hallucinations at first. The script was tight, the glyphs crowded together more than in the rest of the missive, and Mikhail suspected that his son had refused to expand on the subject. Domenic had hinted at rather than disclosed what was really eating at him, he decided, reading between the lines and letting his imagination go where it would, just for the pleasure of thinking about something different than the problems which had plagued him for days.

What had Nico heard, and why did it disturb him so? Mikhail wished he had been able to get the boy to talk to him earlier. Perhaps Lew knew something about it—Nico often confided in his grandfather. Well, it was clearly not some immediate matter. His son was safe for the present, and that was all that was important.

“Marguerida, it will all be behind us in a few days.”

“That is true—and thank goodness for that. I don’t know how much more strain I can manage without taking to my bed and refusing to move.”

“I like the sound of that—we could both just retire to the bedchamber and make love until we were too tired to move.”

“How can you think about sex at a time like this?” she asked, sounding both pleased and annoyed.

“How can I think of anything else when I look at you?”

“You still find me comely?”

“Caria, you are the most desirable women in the world, and perhaps in the entire galaxy, to me.”

She rose and came to him, slipping her arms around his chest and resting her head on his shoulder. Then she lifted her lips and kissed him softly, then with greater passion, until he could think of nothing else.”

21

Mikhail entered the Crystal Chamber with Marguerida, her hand on his arm, gripping his muscles between her strong fingers. He had been dreading this moment ever since Regis had fallen ill. No, longer than that! In a way, he had been moving toward this fate all his adult life. He had not expected it to come so soon, nor to find himself so unprepared.

It was one thing to plan for the future, and quite another to experience it. He had not been prepared for Regis to die for decades yet, and even though time had passed since the actual event, it was not until Mikhail entered the chamber that he felt the enormity of what awaited him. There had been a certain dreamlike quality to it all until he faced the empty chair which his uncle had occupied on so many occasions.

He glanced at his wife, noted the extreme pallor of her complexion and the tension in her neck muscles. This gathering of the Comyn was going to be difficult. They both knew that, and the strain of it showed in her face. Mikhail took in her flashing golden eyes, so full of intelligence, the curls of her still fiery hair, and the way the corners of her mouth were firmly tucked in. She looked just as formidable as he knew she was, and he felt his heart lift just a little, to have her beside him, fierce and determined. He knew how weary she actually was, and yet none of it showed. Now all he had to do was match her, strength for strength.

Out of the corner of his eye Mikhail glimpsed Donal Alar a few strides behind him, and, next to him, his brother Rafael. It was the first time Rafael had come to the Crystal Chamber in many years, since Regis had barred him because of Gisela’s mischief. It was ironic, really, since Rafael’s marriage to the Aldaran woman had been Regis’ idea in the first place. True, it had been a political match—an attempt to keep Dom Damon happy and quiet. That had failed, of course, since the old lord of the Aldaran Domain would never be quiet, short of the grave. And it had caused a great deal of misery for Rafael and Gisela as well. He recalled the expression on her face, when he had come to speak to his brother. He knew now that she genuinely cared for Rafael. It gave him a deep sense of satisfaction to have his brother at his back, a feeling of support he knew he would need to get through the next few hours.

Mikhail decided to count his blessings—his wife, his father-in-law, his brother, his paxman, and the rest of his trusted advisors. He tried very hard not to think about the inevitable confrontation with his mother that would undoubtedly make the chamber ring with discord. At least, finally, all the tension that had made Comyn Castle so uncomfortable for the past several days would be released, but he wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse. Something like a laugh started up from his belly, but did not quite reach his throat. In spite of their brazen words, none of the men who had conferred in the study had actually had the nerve to drug Javanne Hastur into silence, not even Lew Alton. Beside, they were all too ethical and it wouldn’t have solved anything in the long run.

He turned his attention back to his wife. It was almost a shame that they had both become so restrained over the years. Mikhail remembered their first quarrels now, with a kind of nostalgic pleasure. That first meeting, when he had accused her of intending to toss his parents out of Armida, came back to him. They had not fought like that in years, and he rather missed it. Instead, they held themselves in check, grinding their teeth, hissing and whispering, almost as if they were afraid to permit their furies into the light of day.

That thought made him actually chuckle, and Marguerida gave him a sharp look. The huge matrixes in the ceiling of the chamber prevented any form of telepathic communication, so she was unable to catch his thought. “Are you going to share the joke, Mik?” Her usually beautiful voice was thick with tension.

“Of course, caria. I was just thinking that if we were less controlled, and more like my mother, we could have a perfectly wonderful time shouting and screaming at everyone.”

To his delight, he saw a small smile relieve the rigid expression on her face. “I would not demean myself in that way, but I confess that the temptation is very strong. I would just adore to have a nice bout of hysterics, or rant and rave. Alanna has all the fun!” He heard the tension begin to leave her voice, and knew that he had improved her mood considerably.

“She does, doesn’t she. It is not fair.”

“I almost wish I was back at Arilinn, in my wee cottage, with nothing more important to do than play my harp and eat my head off. Or that I could get on Dyania and ride and ride. If I had realized how hard it was going to be to act my age, I think I would have given up at twenty.”

“Considering how much you loathed Arilinn . . .”

“I said in my cottage, not in the Tower!”

“True, you did. We will be going to the rhu fead in two days, if we survive the council meeting without bloodshed, and you can have your wish to get on a horse, at least.”

“You don’t think . . .”

“I think my mother will do her best to oppose me, and I think that Dom Damon will be somewhere between difficult and impossible—but, no, I don’t actually expect anyone to draw steel. Is it just me, or does it feel as if a thunderstorm is about to break?” He was glad, at that moment, that the dampers prevented her from knowing his mind. It had occurred to him that Francisco Ridenow might do exactly that, and although he knew that both Donal Alar and his brother Rafael would leap to defend him, Mikhail did not want to see anyone hurt.

“Since I have caught myself looking out the windows several times, and been very disappointed that all I saw was a light cloud cover, I think it is not just you. At least the rain has finally stopped—I believe it was making everyone even more fractious than they already were. Right now, Mik, I really wish we could travel a few hours into the future, and skip the actual council meeting completely.”

“What a splendid notion! A pity we cannot manage it. Except that if I could, Mother would use it as further evidence of my unfitness to govern Darkover.”

“I hoped that the news that the Federation was planning to depart would make her happy, and cause her to forget all about how much she mistrusts you,” Marguerida answered, sighing deeply.

“Nothing will please her except to see someone other than myself in Regis’ place, I am afraid. She has nearly driven poor Dani insane with her suggestions that he change his mind over the whole thing, give up the Elhalyn crown and assume the Hastur Domain, even though the Cortes Court settled the matter years ago. Once my dear mother gets an idea into her head, nothing short of a bolt from the blue will dislodge it. Dani is ready to throttle her, and poor Lady Linnea looks as if she wants to hide in the attic every time she has to see her.” And she as definitely cultivating young Gareth, which is not good for him or anyone else.

Donal cleared his throat softly, to signal that someone else was coming into the room. Mikhail glanced over his shoulder at his young paxman, and saw Dom Damon Aldaran and his son Robert coming through the door. Behind him were Lady Javanne and Dom Gabriel Lanart-Alton. His mother’s cheeks were ruddy with suppressed fury, and her blue eyes sparkled with determination. She was dressed in her favorite shade of green, with a gold lace frill beneath her chin.

Javanne glared at Dom Damon, almost willing him to step aside and allow her to enter before him, but the old Aldaran man was completely unwilling to yield. He always treated Javanne as if she were a peasant, not a Hastur. For that matter, Dom Damon was just as rude to other women, including Marguerida, and Mikhail was happy to blame much of Gisela’s mischief on her father. What a mercy Giz had been so well-behaved the past few days—spending time with Katherine Aldaran and staying out of trouble.

Robert Aldaran gave him a look of resignation as he allowed Javanne to precede him into the Crystal Chamber. He looked haggard in his plain brown tunic, and embarrassed as well. Why did they both have to have such impossible parents?

The exchange of glances heartened Mikhail. Robert was very sensible, and had, during recent years, become one of Mikhail’s and Regis’ strongest allies on the Council, often siding against Dom Damon. It was, he knew, a very peculiar thing, remarkable in light of the antipathy and mistrust toward the Aldaran Domain that had been a constant on Darkover for generations. The shifting alliances between the various Domains always made Mikhail shake his head in wonder; he could never reliably predict how they would go.

He found himself thinking again of Francisco Ridenow, and another gathering in the Crystal Chamber, when Regis had decided to reinstate the Comyn Council almost seventeen years before. Then Francisco had been Mikhail’s friend, but now he was a foe—and it was all Varzil’s fault! When Mikhail and Marguerida had come back from the past with the great matrix of the fabled laranzu, everything had changed. Francisco had felt that the great matrix should be riding on the hand of a Ridenow. It was irrelevant to him that it could not be given away, nor, he suspected, wrested by force without killing both the wearer and anyone who tried to take it. Mikhail’s own matrix was integrated with the greater one, keyed to his particular energy, for as long as he lived. None of that made the least difference to Francisco—he felt it was an heirloom of the Ridenow Domain, and he, Francisco, should have it.

In light of Francisco Ridenow’s rather checkered past, with the suspicion that he had had a hand in the deaths of his rivals, his uncle, and two brothers, for control of the Domain, Mikhail could only feel relief that there had been no attempt to do away with him thus far. But, now, with Regis’ death, perhaps that would change, too. Francisco refused to believe that only Mikhail could wield the matrix, since it was set in a ring instead of worn about the throat like others. What if Francisco decided he could now get his elegant hands on the treasure he desired?

Mikhail shook his head, to clear away these ugly thoughts. He was starting to understand the concerns that had blighted his uncle’s last years on Darkover, the fears that had wracked him, even while surrounded by trusted friends. Regis had survived the Sharra Rebellion and the attempts of the World Wreckers to destroy the planet and gain control of it. The experiences had profoundly affected his world view in his later years. Mikhail had no desire to imitate his late uncle by becoming paranoid, or even overly cautious, but Francisco was enough to give him pause. Mikhail refused to surrender to his imagination, as tempting as it was. It was hard, though, and he would have preferred to have the head of the Ridenow Domain with him, rather than against him.

What Varzil had not foreseen when he sent the ring into Darkover’s present was how greatly the passing of the matrix would affect the delicate balance between the Domains. Mikhail did not blame the man—he had needed to get the ring away from the grasp of Ashara Alton. And he had succeeded in that. Mikhail just wished the ring could have gone to someone else, someone stronger than he felt himself to be—or been taken out of play entirely. It was a burden, one he had undertaken willingly but without really understanding the problems it would create.

He had gained a great power, for healing and, he knew, for destruction as well, but it had cost him the unquestioned trust of his uncle, and the friendship of several people he valued. Lady Marilla Aillard, who had been like a mother to him while he was Dyan Ardais’ paxman, had chosen to side with Javanne and Dom Francisco, insisting that Mikhail was just too powerful to be trusted. The estrangement grieved him greatly, and he wondered if he could ever put it to rights. Worse, it had put his lifelong friend, her son, Dyan Ardais, in a most uncomfortable position, and the strain of that had made it hard for both of them. But he knew he could count on Dyan to remain loyal to him, and he silently numbered his allies, to reassure himself a little.

For years now the walls of the Crystal Chamber had echoed with argument—most of it concerning Mikhail and his place as Regis’ designated heir. His uncle had been less and less able to control the Council, and the deteriorating situation had added to his growing sense of unease. Even though Mikhail had never done anything to threaten Regis’ rule, the fact that he possessed the power to do so had disturbed his uncle’s peace of mind. No one seemed to be able to grasp the actuality of his power except himself, Marguerida, and Istvana Ridenow. And neither words of assurance nor promises could convince his foes on the Council that he was no threat to any of them.

Mikhail indulged himself briefly in the sense of being misunderstood. People, Lew Alton had frequently informed him, always judged others by what they themselves would do. His mother and Francisco craved power, and so they believed he must as well.

So many harsh words had been said in the Crystal Chamber, and between the two generations there now stood an abyss of bad feeling that he feared would turn into vicious and potentially bloody infighting once the presence of the Federation was removed. Would they fall into civil war, as had happened in the past? The thought that he might be responsible for such an event, that his mother and Dom Francisco might take up arms against him, was very nearly intolerable. And although he had never tested the powers of his matrix to their fullest, he had the sinking certainty that he could use it to destroy his enemies, if he were forced.

He had never challenged Regis’ authority by discovering all that his matrix was capable of. Instead he had trod a cautious and narrow path, careful never to cause his increasingly anxious uncle to feel threatened, while at the same time trying to retain his own self-respect. Now he was starting to understand the toll this interior conflict had taken on him, and he wondered if he were really up to the task of ruling Darkover. He had almost forgotten how to be forceful, and desperately wished he could reclaim his younger and less doubtful self. And he must, if Darkover were going to survive!

The years had not been wasted. Studying with Istvana Ridenow he had learned the vast healing capacities of his matrix. This had given Mikhail a deep satisfaction until he had been unable to save Regis. He knew of the remarkable tasks Varzil Ridenow had accomplished with the aid of the matrix, and suspected that he could do similar things. He still wondered how the man had transformed Lake Hali from a poisonous sink into its present peculiar condition. The knowledge of how to effect that change in energies, if it actually was possible, had not made itself known to Mikhail. But he knew that it meant that destruction was possible, even in a healing, and the idea did not make him rest easy. The sense that he might have to test the limits of his own powers in the near future was not a happy prospect.

Mikhail helped Marguerida into her chair, then took his place beside her. Donal put a goblet of cider beside his left hand, his young face calm and reassuring. He wished he could share his nephew’s apparent serenity. Now, all he had to do was live up to his young paxman’s excellent opinion of him. Oddly, this thought bolstered him and eased his endless doubts. He remembered how Donal had said that he had studied Danilo Syrtis-Ardais and made him a model for himself. That was very wise, for Danilo always seemed to be calm. Even when others lifted their voices, he never shouted or banged the table in rage. Perhaps he could do that as well.

Mikhail glanced at his mother’s face, then at Dom Damon’s, and realized it would be more difficult to keep his temper than he would have wished. They were both ready for a fight. His father, Dom Gabriel, was looking old and tired, and Mikhail suspected that Javanne had been driving the old man mad with her schemes and plots. At least he knew he could count on his father, no matter what his mother said in her rage.

Lew and Danilo Syrtis-Ardais entered the chamber together, followed quickly by Dani Hastur with his wife, Miralys Elhalyn-Hastur, on his arm. The pretty girl who had briefly been his ward sixteen years before had turned into a stunningly beautiful woman, confident and serene where she had once been shy and fearful. She was pregnant for a third time, and her skin glowed with the health and vigor of her condition. Marriage to Dani clearly agreed with her, as being Underkeeper at Arilinn agreed with her younger sister Valenta. It gladdened him to know that at least some of the people in the room were happy, and he rather wished Valenta were present as well. She was a fearless woman, tart-tongued, and utterly unintimidated by Javanne. But she was needed at the Tower, to oversee the relays for the present, and, he prayed, to prevent any of the Traveler troupes from causing more trouble.

Mikhail’s brother Rafael helped his mother into a chair, and then took the one between them. Javanne gave her middle son a dark look, as if questioning his presence in the Crystal Chamber after so many years of absence. It felt very good to have Rafael between them, although he knew it would not protect him from Javanne’s ire. Then he noticed that Dom Damon was staring at Rafael, and that he seemed none too pleased to find him there.

Mikhail was wondering why Dom Damon was looking daggers at his son-in-law when Marguerida placed her matrixed left hand over his engloved right one, and gave it a quick squeeze. The quiet gesture reassured him more than it had any business to. More people entered the room. Dom Francisco took the seat beside Javanne Hastur, and Lady Marilla sat on his other side. Dyan Ardais hesitated, and then sat down in one of the chairs which ordinarily would have been occupied by leroni from the Towers, putting a space between himself and his mother on one side, and the Alton seat on the other, already occupied by Dom Gabriel.

Danilo Syrtis-Ardais, who ordinarily sat where Rafael was now positioned, took the situation in with a swift glance, and placed himself on Marguerida’s other side, with Dani and Miralys beside him. Dom Damon and Robert Aldaran took places between Dyan Ardais and Dom Gabriel, with several chairs left untenanted on either side of them, isolating them a little. The table could seat thirty without crowding, but the Keepers from the various Towers who would have been present if it were Midsummer were not there. Lady Linnea had excused herself, pleading her grief.

Mikhail knew it was something more—a desire to avoid Javanne Hastur which he shared with her.

“Are we going to sit here like stones,” growled Dom Damon, “or get this foolishness over and done with.”

“Father,” Robert warned gruffly.

The elder Aldaran glared at his son. “What? We all know what we are going to say—it has been said here so often that I could likely recite to you the very words that will be spoken!” He glared around the table, daring anyone to challenge him, and looked very disappointed when no one did.

“Dom Damon is right,” Francisco Ridenow began. “We have said everything, time and time again.” He looked as if the words were sour in his mouth, for to agree with an Aldaran on any matter, even the weather, did not please him. “But I suppose we will have to go through the whole thing for form’s sake.”

Mikhail knew he must take charge of the meeting before it disintegrated into the all too familiar baiting and name calling that had become expected procedure at Council meetings. The lassitude in his limbs, and a certain fuzziness in his mind, almost overwhelmed him for a moment. Maybe Javanne was right—that in spite of his laran-founded power, he was not really capable of governing Darkover. But, if not him, then who? Dani was out of the question, no matter what his mother imagined, and Nico was too young. He had prepared for this responsibility in his life, and it was not fair that now he had the task, he felt unequal to it.

Then Lew Alton sat down next to Dom Gabriel. He gave Mikhail a look that seemed to mirror his own doubts and fears. Lew nodded at him, and suddenly the weariness that was crippling him vanished. His mind cleared completely, and if he had not known that it was almost impossible to use laran in the chamber, he would have thought that his father-in-law had somehow managed to use forced rapport to good effect on his flagging spirits.

“There is actually a great deal of new business to consider, and I hope we will be able to avoid our usual petty bickering,” Mikhail began calmly, trying to imitate Danilo as he had planned a few minutes earlier. He saw his mother’s cheeks redden at this remark, and knew he had scored a small hit. It was rather shameful how much pleasure he got from this little victory, so he put it out of his mind completely.

“First, I think everyone is already aware that the Terranan are planning to withdraw from Darkover in the very near future. While I realize that this will please some of us here, I believe that is a short-sighted way to look at it. When the Federation leaves, it will not evaporate, and it will not likely forget that Darkover exists. I realize that some of you imagine that will be the outcome, but you are wrong!”

“What do you mean, Mikhail,” Lady Marilla asked in her soft voice.

“I mean that they will still have the capacity to return, hostilely if they should choose. If there are no treaties or agreements to honor, then they might feel free to do almost anything.” He did not catalog the many possibilities—it was better to let their imaginations supply them.

“But why would they want to do that?” she said in a puzzled tone.

“Because they can, domna,” Lew growled. “The Federation we are now facing is not the same one which came to Darkover during the time of Lorin Hastur, and we should not delude ourselves that it is.”

“Yes, yes—you have been saying something of that sort for years, Lew,” snapped Lady Javanne “you old storm crow. I, for one, have never put much credence in it, and I do not believe you now.”

“That is your privilege, Javanne, and I hope that you will never see Armida occupied by Federation forces.”

“I do not frighten easily,” she answered, yet she appeared uncertain to Mikhail’s eye.

“Just a moment,” Francisco Ridenow said before anyone else could speak. “We have not yet chosen a new head of the Comyn Council, and I think we should, before we begin any actual business. I nominate Danilo Hastur and . . .”

“Do you think you are in a democracy?” Lew interrupted sharply. “As Regis’ chosen heir, Mikhail is head of the Council, and we need not waste any time discussing the matter.”

Francisco gave Javanne a sidelong glance, and then went on as if Lew had not spoken. “I do not agree. Just because you have always assumed you would take Regis’ place, Mikhail, does not mean that you will. The succession has not been decided. Therefore I propose we should select Danilo Hastur to be the new head of Comyn Council, because he is the most legitimate person to lead us.”

Dani, who was ordinarily the quietest of men, turned an unlovely shade of red, and banged his fist on the table. “How dare you suggest such a thing—you maggot!” Then he rounded on his aunt Javanne, finally ready to let all the grievances of the past few days find an outlet. “This is your doing, and I will not be party to it! You are a selfish, interfering old woman, and it is just a shame that you did not die in my father’s place! If you think you can manipulate me, think again. I want nothing to do with you, or with your filthy plans to run Darkover to suit yourself.”

There was a shocked silence around the table at this outburst, although Miralys appeared quite pleased with her husband, and Lew Alton was having difficulty not laughing out loud at Javanne’s discomfort. That redoubtable woman recovered quickly, however, the two spots of red on her cheeks fading as she got control of herself.

“You are just overwrought over your father’s death, and do not know what you are saying,” she answered, quite calmly under the circumstances.

“Is there nothing that will prick the bubble of your vanity, Aunt? You disgust me. My father was barely laid out before you started in with your vile suggestions that I renege on my sworn . . .”

“You were only a boy when you made the decision to resign as Regis’ heir, and you did not know what you were doing. And now you must allow wiser and older heads to guide you,” Javanne insisted.

“Go to Zandru’s coldest hell,” snarled Dani, his face losing all color. “You are the last person I would wish to guide me.”

Dom Gabriel looked ready to burst, and Mikhail decided that he had to intervene. He managed to catch his father’s eye, and watched him subside with an enormous effort.

“The matter was settled sixteen years ago, Mother, and you cannot change it. I regret that the idea of my following in Regis’ footsteps causes you such grief, but that is how it must be. I have no intention of resigning, and Dani has none of taking my place.” Mikhail was surprised by the steadiness of his own voice, and rather pleased with himself.

“You are not fit to . . .” Javanne sputtered.

“That is quite enough,” Marguerida announced. “We will accomplish nothing by bickering with one another.”

“You cannot silence me, Marguerida.”

“Oh, but I can, and I will if you continue to be a nuisance!”

“A nuisance!” Javanne gasped. “How dare you!”

“You mean less to me than a gnat,” Marguerida replied tartly, paying off years of old scores in only a few words.

This was too much of a strain for Lew Alton, and he tried to conceal his laughter by pretending to have a fit of coughing. But above the hand he lifted to cover his mouth, Mikhail could see his father-in-law’s eyes sparkle with amusement, and only wished he could permit himself to openly enjoy the moment. Even Dom Gabriel looked less like a thundercloud, and he cast Marguerida a veiled look of approval.

Mikhail drew a long breath and said, “We are not here to debate who will rule Darkover in the future. If anyone imagines that they have the right to do that, they are quite wrong.” He could feel himself choosing words as Danilo would have, as if the mantle of his uncle’s paxman was somehow protecting him. “The problem that confronts us is that the Federation is departing. Yes, I know that some of you do not perceive this as a problem—but you lack all the facts.” Mikhail caught the look on Danilo’s face out of the corner of his eye as he continued, and was silently amused.

“What facts have you withheld from us, then?” Lady Marilla asked, her voice wary.

“I resent the implication, Lady Marilla, but I am going to ignore it. You all know that the Federation is planning to pull out in a few weeks’ time, but you do not understand the reason. The legislature, which Lew and Herm served in, has been disbanded—and that changes everything!”

“What does that have to do with Darkover?” Dom Damon seemed genuinely puzzled.

“As the Comyn Council acts as an advisory body to the ruler of Darkover, so the legislature held the leader of the Federation in check,” Lew said, as if speaking to a child, and a dull one at that. “Without that restraint, the Premier can do just about anything—and from what we have been able to learn, she is running the Federation by decree at present. That is tyranny, pure and plain!”

“I repeat—what does that have to do with Darkover,” Dom Damon growled, glaring fiercely at Lew.

“I protest!” Dom Francisco banged his fist on the table, his pale cheeks flushed with anger. “We have not settled the matter of who is head of the Comyn Council, and until we do, everything else is . . .”

At that moment there was the sound of footsteps, and Gareth Elhalyn entered. He looked around as those with their backs to the door turned to look toward him, and smiled. “What are you doing here?” his father asked.

“He is here at my invitation,” Javanne answered before Gareth could speak. Her eyes were glittering with pleasure, and there was a smug expression on her face. Mikhail thought that if she had been a cat, there would have been feathers poking out of her taut mouth.

“Of all the . . .” Danilo began.

“He has no business here, since he has not even been named Dani’s heir as yet,” snapped Dom Gabriel, favoring his wife with a furious look. “What are you doing, woman?”

“Sit down, Gareth,” Javanne went on, as if no one had spoken. She waved at the vacant chairs. The lad looked somewhat uneasy now, his handsome face doubtful, but he sat down beside his mother, in between her and Lew Alton. “I have arrived at an obvious conclusion, which I cannot understand why no one else has seen.” She looked around the table with a slight sneer, as if everyone except herself was stupid.

“And what might that be, cousin,” Lew Alton asked with a kind of silky insolence that never failed to annoy Javanne.

“Since Mikhail is clearly too powerful to be allowed to rule Darkover, and since his oldest son is nedestro, and Dani refuses to do his duty, then we must agree that the rightful ruler will be Gareth Elhalyn—and all we need to do is appoint someone to be regent for him until he reaches adulthood.” She paused, and looked less confident. “I think that Dom Francisco . . .”

“This is outrageous!” Gabriel Lanart-Alton’s booming voice echoed off the great trap matrixes in the ceiling. “Gareth’s life would not be worth a sekal with Francisco as regent!”

This pronouncement was followed by a stunned silence, since Dom Gabriel had voiced the unspeakable. Aware that he was now the center of attention, the old man continued. “I apologize for my wife’s unseemly behavior—I was unaware of her plan until now, or I would have put a stop to her nonsense! Believe me, son, none of this is my doing.” He looked tired and ashamed.

“I never imagined that it was,” Mikhail answered calmly, reminding himself not to allow his temper to flare. “I think it would be best, and least embarrassing, if Gareth left now, since he has no right to be present.”

“You stole my place, and I want it back,” Gareth announced, glaring at Mikhail.

“You are much too young to understand, Gareth,” Dani began quietly. “Mikhail is correct—you should not be present.”

“No wonder he got you to give up the Hastur legacy! You are spineless, Father, and everyone knows it!” Gareth sneered at Dani as he spoke, leaning forward a little to see around his mother.

Miralys grabbed his golden locks in a firm grip and pulled his head back against the chair. There was an audible thump. “How dare you speak to your father like that.” She slapped his face with her free hand. “Now get on your feet and get out of here, before I have the Guards drag you away! I have never been so ashamed in my life!”

Fighting back tears, the boy stood up. “I will have my rightful place, and no one is going to stop me. I will be king!” He turned on his heel and almost ran toward the door, cursing under his breath. “Damn you, Javanne Hastur—you promised me!”

Miralys and Mikhail exchanged a brief glance, and the woman bit her lower lip to keep from exclaiming. They had both heard those words before, from Vincent Elhalyn, her brother. And Mikhail knew, from her expression, that she feared that her firstborn might prove to be just as unstable as Vincent had been. Sometimes the Elhalyn defect took a long time to manifest itself, and he hoped that Gareth’s behavior was only an indication of the boy’s ambitions, fed by Javanne’s treachery, and not something more dangerous.

“I hope you are pleased with yourself, Mother,” Mikhail told the woman. He could see that she was trembling with rage and frustration, but also that she was unable to grasp why her plan had failed so dramatically.

Mikhail looked slowly around the table, measuring the expressions on the stunned faces of the Comyn Council. Even Dom Francisco seemed unnerved, running one hand through his pale hair and drumming on the tabletop with the other. From his look of unease, Mikhail guessed that he had not known of Javanne’s plan to name him as regent for Gareth. Francisco was canny enough to know that such an appointment would never be accepted by the rest of the Domains, and would not have suggested it himself. After several seconds, Dom Francisco turned to stare at Javanne, and there was nothing kindly in his gaze.

Mikhail swallowed a sudden desire to laugh, to fall into cheerful hysterics, gather up his wife and children, and fly to one of the moons. Liriel, perhaps. He had always thought that his mother was her own worst enemy, and now she had managed to move Francisco Ridenow into that position! The irony was almost too much to be contained.

But he managed to control himself long enough to continue his examination of the rest of the Council. There was shock and outrage evident, but also an air of speculation that puzzled him for a second. Then he decided that both Dom Damon and Francisco Ridenow were trying to think how to turn this development to their own advantage. He knew these men to be his adversaries, even though they were not in any way allies. Mikhail felt he could handle them because he had come to know them over the years. A look at Robert Aldaran’s face told him these thoughts were going through his mind as well, and that he would try to keep his father in check.

“When did you learn that the Federation had dissolved the legislature, Mikhail?” Lady Marilla asked, clearly attempting to get matters back in hand.

“I have known for several days,” Mikhail said, “ever since Herm Aldaran arrived. Shortly after that, all Darkovan personnel were ordered to leave Headquarters. This is one of the things I intended to discuss at this meeting, before we became distracted by other matters.” The sound of his voice surprised him, for it might have been Regis speaking in his particular way, chiding his adversaries like a stern but not unjust father. And from the way Javanne stiffened, she had caught the similarity as well, and was not at all pleased by it.

“Where is Hermes?” Dom Damon asked in a querulous voice. “I have asked several people, including that Terranan woman he married, but no one will tell me anything. Even Gisela does not seem to know where her brother has disappeared to.” He gave Rafael a penetrating glance.

“Yes, Mikhail,” Javanne cut in silkily. “Where is he?”

Mikhail looked at Lew, who gave a shrug. “He is doing a job for me at present,” he answered, glad that the construction of the Crystal Chamber prevented anyone from reading his mind. “He volunteered for the task, and it seemed the best thing at the time.”

“He volunteered? For what? When? Why?” Javanne—was determined to get to the bottom of things. “He was at dinner three nights ago, and then he vanished.”

“I don’t understand any of this,” Dom Damon grumbled.

Mikhail weighed things in his mind, and decided that he had better give them a bone to chew on, something to distract them. “Herm has the Aldaran Gift, and had a flash of warning—he left the Federation before Premier Nagy actually announced the dissolution of the legislature. He brought his wife and children with him, for he suspected that he would not be returning there in the near future. When the Station Chief realized Herm was on Darkover, he issued an arrest warrant, declaring him an enemy of the state—a unique distinction in Darkovan history, but one that I am sure Herm would have preferred not to have received.” There were murmurs around the table, and a few mild chuckles. “Lyle Belfontaine had the audacity to send me a message demanding that I turn Hermes over to him for arrest and deportation. Or, to be precise, he sent Regis the message, not knowing at that time that Regis had died. I ignored it, since I have no intention of turning over any citizen of our world to anyone. But Hermes felt that it might be better if he were not here, so as not to cause trouble.”

Lew gave Mikhail a heartwarming look of approval at this mixture of truth and half-truth. Everyone else was too busy digesting these revelations to comment for a merciful few moments, and Mikhail allowed himself to be quietly pleased.

“I don’t believe this,” bellowed Dom Damon, clearly surprised and outraged. “Belfontaine would never arrest my son!”

Mikhail drew a sheet of shiny paper from his pouch and handed it around the table. “This is the arrest order.”

Dom Damon stared at it nearsightedly. “That treacherous bastard!”

“I did not realize you were so well acquainted with Belfontaine,” Danilo Syrtis-Ardais remarked quietly, giving Dom Damon a piercing look.

“I would not say we were acquainted,” Lord Aldaran blustered. “But unlike the rest of you, we have tried to maintain reasonable ties with the Terranan, particularly since there are so many of them living in the Aldaran Domain at present.”

“Just how many of them are there?” Mikhail asked. Regis had never been able to get Dom Damon to name a figure, and it had annoyed him a great deal.

“Oh, I don’t know. I never think about such things.” The guarded expression on his face deepened.

Robert Aldaran gave his father a glance of surprise. “There are, at this time, approximately five hundred Federation citizens in the Aldaran Domain, most of them technicians of various sorts. That number includes about fifty spouses. There is a modest contingent of ethnologists and anthropologists, doing nothing very much, as near as I can gather, except annoying people by asking peculiar questions about all sorts of things that are none of their business. And there are about seventy-five Federation troopers, although I have suspected for quite some time that many of the technicians were actually fighting men pretending otherwise.”

Dom Damon cast a look of unconcealed loathing at his older son. Then he rattled the paper in his hand. “I just don’t understand this! Why in the world would Belfontaine issue an arrest warrant, particularly for a son of mine?”

“What better way to provoke an incident, and justify some action that would otherwise not be permitted,” Lew replied almost smugly, as if he felt he had caught the Aldaran somehow. “Belfontaine has a history of overstepping himself, for being ambitious, and I am sure that being forced to leave Darkover this way, at this time, was not his choice.”

“What in Zandru’s coldest hell do you mean by that,” growled Dom Damon, looking more confused and anxious by the moment.

“Well, if we did not turn over Herm, then he might think he could justify storming Comyn Castle itself. The law is rather ambiguous about the rights of individual citizens of Protected Planets, which means that Belfontaine might have decided to read it to his advantage.” Lew looked grim for a moment. “We can only conjecture, I’m afraid, but I do know that Belfontaine has been sending frantic messages to his superiors, and that they have not, so far as I know, responded. I think he is trying to get permission to use force against us.”

“Then you must be insane! Why would he want to do something so foolish?” The color of Dom Damon’s face was alarming now, so red that Mikhail feared he would have an apoplectic fit. But he did not look like a man who was planning deliberate treachery. Whatever plan he had, it had nothing to do with the ambush that might await them on the road. He let himself enjoy a moment of relief.

“We must hope you are correct, with your greater knowledge of the Terranan, Dom Damon,” Francisco said slowly, frowning over the words. “But if he is desperate, then who knows what he might decide. Are we just going to sit around and wait for him to make a move?”

“Hardly that,” Danilo answered. “Both the City Guard and the Castle Guard are on full alert, as I am sure you already know, Dom Francisco. In the recent past the Federation has attempted to cause trouble in various ways on Darkover, but thus far they have had very little success. The Thendaran rumor mill is almost silent concerning the Federation, but very curious about . . . well, no matter.” He fell silent and looked as if he had said too much already, but when no one questioned him, he went on. “If there is any assault, it will come from another direction.”

“And just what is being done to prevent this,” Javanne asked sharply, speaking directly to Danilo.

Mikhail looked at Lew, for they had spent hours together with Danilo, trying to decide just how to present the plot to the Council. Lew gave one of his speaking shrugs and answered, “First, we have started rounding up the Travelers’ troupes, quietly and firmly, because there is some evidence that the Federation has been using them as spies and agents.”

“The Travelers? I can hardly believe what I am hearing! Do you actually expect us to believe that a bunch of entertainers pose some sort of threat to the Comyn?” She looked triumphant, as if she felt she had scored a point.

Dom Damon looked alarmed at this revelation, since everyone knew that several of the Traveler bands wintered in the Aldaran Domain. Still, there was nothing guilty in his expression. The ruddy color in his cheeks faded, and now he was pale. “Spies? Agents? Have you lost your mind?”

“No, I have not. We have already uncovered one spy within the Travelers, and who knows how many others there are. Do you remember the riot in the Horse Market during Midsummer? Well, it was provoked by the Travelers—we know that now, although we did not then. But the danger has been nipped in the bud,” Mikhail told them. Any troupe near a Tower had been dealt with, since he had received Nico’s communication two nights before, but that still left those in more remote locations free to make as much mischief as they wished. But if his son were correct, then it was likely that the Travelers themselves were largely innocent dupes, and that no troupe had more than one or two Terranan spies with them, if that.

“Travelers! This is utterly ridiculous! You are making this up!” snapped Javanne. “I don’t know what you think you are doing, telling us these stories, and . . .”

“Silence!” roared Dom Gabriel. “If you say another word against Mikhail, woman, I will drag you out of here by your hair.”

Javanne’s mouth gaped, pushing the little ruff under her chin askew. Then she clamped it closed, glared at her husband, and subsided, shocked. She gathered herself again, slowly and with difficulty, looking old and haggard, yet determined at the same time. “Son or not, I will not allow you to take my brother’s place!”

Mikhail took a deep breath and looked around the table. “Let us be clear on one matter. I am Regis Hastur’s heir, and I will do what he wished me to do. The matter is not open to further discussion. I will not waste my time debating my own fitness with those of you who imagine yourselves to have wiser heads, or the well-being of Darkover more to heart. This is hardly the time to start fighting among ourselves.”

Lady Marilla cleared her throat. “I must disagree, Dom Mikhail, and very strongly. You are too much influenced by Lew Alton and your wife, and everyone here knows that. I am afraid that the matter must be debated, and that, in the end, you will have to step aside.” Her voice was soft, as always, and it sounded as if she had prepared the words carefully.

This was too much for Dyan Ardais, who rarely said very much at Council meetings. “In whose favor, Mother? Have you completely lost your wits?”

Lady Marilla looked slightly surprised, for it was not often that her son opposed her openly in Council meetings. “Well, a regency, of course . . . until Roderick is . . . or perhaps Gareth . . .”

“Ah, so that is what you have decided, have you?” Dyan sneered. “Forgive my mother, Mikhail. That is the most foolish idea I have heard in months, and I can guess where she got it. I must point out that Mikhail named Domenic his heir when he reached his majority at Midsummer, so there is no question of . . .”

“Domenic must never be permitted to succeed, and neither must Mikhail.” Javanne spoke firmly, and it was clear that she was sincere. No matter how many leroni assured her that the events that had taken place during Mikhail and Marguerida’s strange adventure in the past had actually occurred, she refused to believe that her grandson was the legitimate issue of a real marriage. She had fixed her mind on the idea that Nico was nedestro, and nothing could budge her from it.

Mikhail felt his heart sink, and he felt slightly ill. He wanted her approval and support, and he wondered how she could hate him so much. Well, perhaps she did not hate him, but only hated that she could not influence him, could not force him to follow her own plans. But she did hate his oldest child, and his wife, and that was almost more than he could bear.

“None of you really understand, and think me a foolish old woman,” Javanne exclaimed, anguish in her voice. “Regis cannot have been in his right mind when he named Mikhail his heir—it is impossible! Mikhail must have used his powers to . . .” Her voice trailed away and she began to sob.

Everyone at the table was looking at him, averting their eyes from the spectacle of Javanne Hastur’s grief. Mikhail felt his cheeks flame with a combination of embarrassment and rage that made his hands tremble. No one had ever openly accused him of using his matrix to his own advantage before, although he knew that the thought had crossed their minds. The ancient di catenas bracelet encircling his wrist rattled against the tabletop as he tried to master himself, to refrain from saying anything he would regret later. It made his heart ache, that his own mother would think such things of him, could regard him as so dishonorable.

Marguerida put her left hand over his right one again, and, despite the dampers, he felt her healing power sweep over him. He felt his blood cease to roar in his veins, and his breathing returned to normal. He looked around the table, at his mother, Francisco Ridenow and Lady Marilla arrayed against him. Then he studied Dom Damon. It was almost enough to make him throw up his hands and storm out of the chamber in a rage.

“Is there anyone else who imagines I influenced Regis Hastur in his decision?” he asked, surprised to find his voice steady and even.

“It was very convenient for you, wasn’t it?” Francisco commented, “when young Dani resigned and took the Elhalyn Domain, right after you showed up with that fantastic tale and what you claim is the matrix stone of my ancestor.” Francisco glanced around the table, the center of all eyes. “And Dani was quite young, and so very malleable.” His voice was soft with suggestion, and Mikhail wanted to hit him.

Dani Hastur glared at Francisco and nearly spat with rage. “How dare you! Is there no ill thought you will not entertain? Next you will be suggesting that Mikhail had something to do with my father’s death,” he snarled. His hand left the table and went to the hilt of his dagger, but Miralys touched his arm and he released his grip.

Francisco smiled narrowly. “So that thought crossed your mind, too, did it?” He tried to suggest a feeling of comradeship across the table with Regis’ son. “It must have been so hard to wait for Regis to die, since the Hasturs are usually such a long-lived family.”

Danilo Syrtis-Ardais shifted in his chair, leaned forward slightly so that he could see Francisco clearly, and spoke. “That is the most disgraceful thing I have ever heard. I was with Regis when he had his stroke, and there was nothing about it that was the least unnatural. To suggest such shows more than I wish to know about the nature of your thoughts, Francisco. I had no idea you were so filthy-minded.”

If the words had any impact, Dom Francisco did not show it. Instead, he went on, speaking in a low voice, as if trying to persuade his listeners of the validity of his suspicions. “We do not really know what Mikhail can do with his matrix, do we, Dom Danilo? And even you can be fooled.”

Dyan Ardais pounded his fist on the table again. “You keep that damned tongue of yours behind your teeth, Francisco, or I will personally pull it from your mouth! Mikhail has never done anything to anyone except to heal them.”

“So why did Regis die? If Mikhail is so powerful, why was he unable to restore Regis? Your loyalty to Mikhail does you credit, Dom Dyan, but I think it blinds you as well.”

“And I suppose you think that I would not have known if something was wrong, Francisco,” Danilo Syrtis-Ardais almost snarled. “I assume you think I am blind as well? Considering how you managed to achieve the rulership of your own Domain, I suppose such thoughts are natural.”

There was a stricken silence and everyone stared at Francisco Ridenow, even his usual ally, Lady Marilla. There was no one present who had not nourished suspicions about the deaths of those who stood in the way of Francisco, but no one had ever openly suggested that he had arranged them. The man flinched slightly, and his face paled as he realized he had gone too far.

Dom Damon’s eyes narrowed, as if he were trying to find some advantage in this conflict. Then his face cleared quickly. “While I am sure that Mikhail did nothing to his uncle, we cannot pretend that we are entirely free of suspicion. And we should remember that Mikhail is not the only Hastur—that he has two brothers, both older than himself, who could easily . . .”

“Enough!” Rafael spoke for the first time. “I have no ambition to rule Darkover, and my brother Gabe has so little interest in politics that he did not even bother to attend the Council meeting. If you say another word, Dom Damon, against my brother, I will happily ram your teeth down your throat. I have been wanting to do that for years.”

“What—and deny me that pleasure?” Robert snapped from the other side of the table, baring his teeth at Rafael, like a wolf challenging a rival. “The succession was decided, long ago, and not in some moment of weak-mindedness the way Regis’s loving sister would have it. This is hardly the time to think about changing it.”

Mikhail felt cold, as if a wind from the Hellers had just blown through his body. He had known for a long time that he was resented and feared, but the continuous barrage of violent feelings against him were eroding his strength. Despair flickered and burst into flame in his mind. How could he hope to lead the Domains, when he could not even control a Council meeting?

Suddenly there was a remarkable sound, and the great trap matrices in the ceiling of the Crystal Chamber rang like chimes. Everyone looked up, and then there was an explosion of noise and blinding light. The shining stones burst into shards and cascaded not downward, but outward, toward the walls of the room, shattering into bits as they struck. Reflexively, everyone at the table flinched, and Lady Marilla half ducked under the protective rim of the table before she stopped herself.

Mikhail heard a shout from one of the Guards near the doorway, and he sensed Donal rushing toward him. The young paxman flung himself against Mikhail’s shoulder, throwing his body over Mikhail’s, trying to protect him. He could feel the warm breath of his nephew against his cheek.

A wind seemed to rise from nowhere, tugging at garments and hair, plucking away the butterfly clasps of the women and the knives of the men as if they were no more than twigs. Mikhail felt a sharp tug at his wrist, and watched, round-eyed, as his glove was pulled from his hand and rose in the swirling air. A minor tornado funneled to the ceiling, then angled off, bearing away the debris it had collected. Finally, the strange whirlwind flung itself against the farthest wall, the collected implements clattering to the floor with a loud noise.

The silence that followed was broken only by gasps and a few screams. Everyone seemed too stunned to do more than stare at the destruction. Then Mikhail’s ring quivered on his finger, and beams of light burst from it.

“What manner of mischief is this,” shouted Dom Francisco, pointing at Mikhail’s hand.

Before anyone else could speak, a shining cloud rose from the matrix and floated to the center of the table. It hovered there, about a foot above the carved wood, and then began to shift, to turn in place, spinning hypnotically. Mikhail found his mouth gaping in astonishment. The rest of the onlookers were just as stunned as he was, but he was sure they were going to turn and accuse him of using some trick on them as soon as they recovered their senses. The cold feeling in his muscles was gone now, but his mind felt numb.

“YOU PACK OF FOOLS! I AM NOT EVEN DECENTLY LAID TO REST YET, AND ALREADY YOU ARE TRYING TO TEAR THE FABRIC OF DARKOVER TO PIECES WITH YOUR AMBITIONS. SHAME ON YOU!”

“Father?” Although the volume was much greater than Regis Hastur had ever used in life, there was no mistaking the voice.

“SON, I AM SORRY I DID NOT REALLY SAY FAREWELL. THE SPIRIT WAS WILLING, BUT THE FLESH WAS MUCH TOO WEARY.”

“How did you get into Mikhail’s matrix?” Mikhail was glad that Dani was asking this question, because, for the moment, the power of speech seemed to have vanished from his mouth.

“VARZIL RIDENOW SENT ME FORTH FROM THE OVERWORLD, TO MAKE ALL OF YOU STOP BEHAVING LIKE A PACK OF BRAYING ASSES. THE MATRIX WAS MERELY A CONVENIENCE. I BELIEVE HE WAS SO FURIOUS THAT A SPROUT OF HIS LINE WOULD BEHAVE AS FRANCISCO IS NOW, THAT HE ACTED, BUT I AM NOT SURE. CLOSE YOUR MOUTH, MIK. YOU LOOK LIKE A HOOKED TROUT.”

The ball of light began to move, rushing first toward Lew Alton. The swirling light settled on Lew’s brow, and a remarkable expression came over the old, scarred face as tears slithered down into the seams and wrinkles. Then it moved on to Dom Gabriel, leaving Mikhail’s father looking stunned but not distressed. There was near silence as the cloud of light continued its circuit, touching the two Aldaran men, then Dyan Ardais and his mother.

Francisco Ridenow shrank back in his tall chair, trembling in spite of his efforts not to. When the cloud settled over his face, an expression of horror contorted his features, and he gave a bark of utter terror. He lifted a hand and tried to brush the light away, then snatched it back as if it had burned him. It seemed to cling to the Ridenow man for what seemed a long time, and when it finally drifted away, Francisco slumped forward onto the surface of the table.

Javanne Hastur sat stiffly, waiting and showing no fear. There was something in her countenance that spoke of a determination not to pay the least attention to what was going to occur, and when the light settled over her, she did not move. Then her hands, resting on the table, clenched into fists, and the cold expression in her face began to fade. Instead she looked very angry, as if she were arguing with her dead brother, and was getting the worst of it.

“How could you, Regis? How could you?” she murmured at last, as the shining energy departed.

Donal released his grip on Mikhail and stepped back as Mikhail waited his turn, too tired to feel afraid. What he experienced he could never afterward completely describe, but he felt a great, supportive affection that embraced him while simultaneously examining him ruthlessly. It was as if none of the previous years had ever happened. There was nothing of the anxiety and mistrust that had saddened both Regis and Mikhail, no rebukes or fault finding. The pain of the past was gone, as if it had never existed.

Mikhail barely noticed the reactions of the rest of the Council members as the cloud finished its journey, except that Danilo Syrtis-Ardais was smiling, and that Dani Hastur and Miralys were both weeping. At last he roused himself enough to turn and look at Marguerida. Her eyes were shining with unshed tears, but her face was as serene as he had ever seen it.

The cloud returned to the center of the table, and Mikhail watched as the light began to change once more. It folded into itself, until there was nothing except a spark, hovering above the polished wood. Then it sped back toward the ring, and the cold which had touched him earlier returned, and vanished a second later. He felt a moment’s sorrow that Lady Linnea was not there to experience this last farewell, and then the thought was gone.

He found Dani looking at him, and Mikhail realized that with the dampers destroyed, the younger man must have overheard his regret for Lady Linnea. Indeed, now he could catch the uppermost thoughts of everyone; the mental silence that he was accustomed to in the chamber was no more. Then, as if the others realized this as well, he felt their personal shields go up, with a sense of relief.

Everyone began to speak at once, as if by unspoken agreement; they would not use their laran for the present. Mikhail made no effort to stop them. He was too busy trying to sort out everything which had been lodged in his mind. There was much more than Regis’ love for him, and his belief in Mikhail. There had been an enormous burst of thoughts and emotions and knowledge as well, and he felt rather addled by the effect of it all. He reached out and took the cider Donal had poured for him earlier, draining the cup in three chilly gulps.

He knew now why Regis had died so young, that when he had wielded the Sword of Aldones during the Sharra Rebellion, he had paid a price that shortened his life, that same force that had turned a young man’s hair white had stolen decades of his time on this earth. Mikhail wanted to weep with relief that he really had done all he could, but he held himself back. Instead, he focused on the import of the rest of what Regis had told him, and most especially that he must inform the Comyn Council about the plot against his life immediately, and without hesitation.

Mikhail looked across at Lew, and knew from his serious expression that Regis had told him some of these same things. So, he gazed around the table, and slowly the babbling ceased; all eyes were upon him. He took a long, slow breath. Regis was right. To put it off any longer would make him appear weak. He must take command now, no matter how he felt. If only he could find the right words to say, to get them to forget their own petty concerns and work together.

Then he looked up at the shattered remnants of the trap matrices overhead, and laughed deeply. It was going to be very difficult to keep anything a secret now, and he did not know if he was glad or sorry for it. His sudden burst of merriment was disturbing to several of the people seated at the table, but he refused to choke it back.

Finally, he regained control of himself. “We have spent much too long already debating decisions which were made years ago. No more! There is a plot against my life, but also against the lives of the rest of you. This is something which we have to deal with, and now!”

“A plot? First you try to frighten us with the threat of Comyn Castle being attacked, and then you say this! What a pack of nonsense!”

“Didn’t you listen to anything your brother said to you, Mother?”

Francisco Ridenow had recovered himself, and was sitting up in his chair again, still pale but clearly nursing a grievance. “A plot against you—how convenient,” he sneered. “And just how did you come across this purported plot, when you have not been outside Comyn Castle in months?”

“That is quite enough, Francisco,” snapped Lew. “Don’t be obstructive.”

“I will be whatever I damn well please. Regis has been jumping at shadows for years, and I have always wondered how much of that can be laid at your feet, Lew. I think you fed his fears, in order to keep him in your own control. As for that little demonstration—I don’t know how you did it, Mikhail, but I very much doubt that we heard the voice of Regis Hastur speaking from the overworld or anywhere else!” The expression on his face suggested that he did not believe a word he was saying, but that some inner demon forced him to speak as he did.

“Of course—it was all a trick, a cruel trick,” screamed Javanne, her face twisting horribly. “How could you do that to me, Mikhail!”

“Yes—what just occurred proves completely that Mikhail must not be allowed to rule Darkover. He has too much power to be trusted. There is no plot, just lies and tricks!” Francisco roared the words with feeling, pounding his fist on the table to punctuate them.

“Silence!” Mikhail thundered, surprised at the volume of his own voice. “Believe me, if I had been in control of that manifestation, at least one person in this chamber would be dead now! I have endured your slights and suspicions without complaint for years, but I will not allow either you, Mother, nor you, Dom Francisco, to continue to spew your filth at me. You can choose to disbelieve that Regis Hastur shattered the trap matrices in the Crystal Chamber until all of Zandru’s hells melt, for all I care. But that would be extremely foolish, and neither of you are complete fools.”

“It was Regis,” Danilo said very calmly. “He reminded me of things that no one in this room could know except . . . my dearest friend.”

“That is true,” Lady Marilla added. “My wits are slightly disordered yet, but I know that what touched my mind was Regis Hastur, and no other.”

“So, even you were fooled,” muttered Dom Francisco, glaring at his ally.

“What a paltry man you are,” Marilla replied, with great dignity. “If Mikhail says there is a plot against him, and against the Comyn, why should we not believe him? What benefit would he derive from making up such a tale?”

“You stupid—“

“It is a very good thing that Regis disarmed me, Francisco,” Dyan Ardais snarled, “or else your life would be forfeit already.”

Dani Hastur cleared his throat. “I know it was my father, and I would like to know more about this plot. I realize that everyone is very shocked and frightened—and don’t pretend you aren’t, Dom Francisco! But if we start threatening to kill one another, then we might as well hand Darkover over to the Federation and be done with it!”

“At last—a voice of reason,” Robert Aldaran announced. “Have you all lost your minds? As Lady Marilla asked, what possible purpose would be served by pretending that some plot existed when there was none?”

“I can tell you the answer to that.”

“I am sure you can come up with some plausible explanation, Dom Francisco, because your mind is full of your own plots and schemes.”

“That from Aldaran scum!”

“Why do you dishonor yourself this way, Dom Francisco?” Marguerida asked, her voice quiet but menacing at the same time. “You know in your heart that Mikhail has nothing but the security of Darkover in mind, and yet you continue with this irrational behavior.”

“I know nothing of the sort, witch!”

“I have never done you a moment’s harm, and still you hate me—why is that, Dom Francisco?”

“It would have been better if you had died years ago,” he answered, snarling. Sweat now beaded his forehead, and his hands shook with rage and some less obvious emotion.

Javanne, who had sunk into a kind of stupor, roused herself with difficulty. “I don’t believe in any plot, but I want to hear of it anyhow.” The words came from her lips unwillingly. It seemed she was at war with herself. The pained expression on her face deepened, and she swallowed hard. I have wronged my own child, and at last I know it.

Mikhail caught her unguarded thought and felt more compassion for his mother than he had in years. He knew what it must have cost her to even allow herself to think those words, and then, with a kind of sorrow, knew she would not choose to remember them. Still, he could treasure them for as long as he lived, and would.

Mikhail looked across at Lew. He nodded toward the older man, gesturing him to begin the tale. “A few nights past, Domenic left Comyn Castle for a bit of mischief,” Lew said solemnly.

“I should have known the little bastard was at the bottom of this,” Javanne spat, her moment of self-awareness gone, and all her previous furies returning. “I’ve heard enough now!”

“One more word against my son and heir, Mother, and I will do something you will regret for the rest of your life.”

She glared at him, then looked at the ring on his finger and shuddered, clinging stubbornly to her anger and her fears of him. “You are not my son any longer!”

“Thank you—I am greatly relieved that I need no longer give you any more respect than I would one of the servants. Please continue, Lew.”

Javanne had intended to provoke him, and he could see the disappointment in her face. Then her eyes seemed to glaze over, as if the inner torment were too great for her to bear, and she leaned against the back of her chair and sighed.

“As I was saying, Domenic sneaked off to watch the Travelers perform. He observed some men in Federation leathers walking to the North Gate, and being a curious lad, he followed them. They met one of the Travelers, the driver of a wagon, who was, it turned out, a spy for the Federation. At that time, we had not let the word of Regis’s sudden death reach as far as Headquarters, but this fellow, Dirck Vancof, told the men that he was gone. One of them, Miles Granfell, who is the second in command to Lyle Belfontaine, the Station Chief, suggested that since the Comyn accompany the body of their dead rulers to the rhu fead, that an attack on the funeral train might be a lovely idea. He has always struck me as the kind of opportunistic man who would think of such a thing, so I am not surprised that he did.

“Nico thought about what he had overheard, and, sensibly, told me—you recall that when we were at dinner the night you arrived, Javanne, I was interrupted? Yes, I see that you do remember. That was Domenic. And after the meal we closeted ourselves to decide what to do. Herm Aldaran offered to join Nico on the road, to see if there was anything other than wishful thinking in Miles Granfell’s idea. We have now gathered enough information to believe that some sort of assault will likely be made against the funeral train, unless we can come up with some plan to prevent it.”

“Forgive me if I do not believe you, Lew. It is just too fantastic.” Dom Francisco’s face was white with fury and frustration, and his voice was thready. A look of desperation filled his eyes, and he looked like a man who was watching his favorite horse break its leg.

“I hope it does not demand a blaster shot in the guts to change your mind, then. If you even have time to consider the matter,” Marguerida replied as if she were speaking of the weather.

The look of desperation increased. “Blasters are not allowed on Darkover.”

“That is not strictly true,” Robert Aldaran put in before anyone else could speak. “They are not permitted to the populace of Darkover because of the Compact, and we ourselves would never use them. But there are a goodly number of weapons of various sorts in the Terran complex in our Domain, and a greater amount at the spaceport. Regis has known this for years. Those, plus the presence of combat-trained troops in both places has been a source of concern for a long time. If you hadn’t spent so much energy disputing him, you would have been aware of the problem.”

“An Aldaran speaking of the Compact! When have any of you ever respected it?” No one responded to Dom Francisco’s question, but Lady Marilla looked at him with enormous distaste.

Javanne tried to rouse herself from her near stupor. “Yes, that is true—but I have never understood why we did not change . . .” She seemed too exhausted to continue, suddenly, and lowered her head so her jaw almost touched her collar.

“Because we do not have command of the Federation bases on Darkover, obviously.” Mikhail shifted in his chair. “And we can hardly expect to overcome such weapons with swords and horses.”

“Why should we believe you?” Francisco asked, trying once more to gain control of the meeting.

“You give me too much credit for deviousness, Dom Francisco, and not enough for common sense! There is nothing in the world that would cause me to endanger the lives of any of you.”

“Mikhail is right,” Lady Marilla said suddenly, “and you are wrong, Francisco. Everything he has said Regis also said when he brushed through me a few minutes ago—did he not tell you the same?”

“Yes, but I cannot . . . cannot bear . . .” He shuddered again and tried to get a grip on his emotions. “It must have been some sort of trick.”

“Oh, do stop being a fool, Francisco,” Lady Marilla snapped, her usually placid face twisted with anger. “I have known Mikhail Hastur for decades, and he is right when he says he is not devious. We have been waiting—you, Javanne and I—for him to do something with his matrix to confirm our basest suspicions, and he has never done so. The temptation must have been incredible.” She cast Mikhail a fond look.

“Not really, Lady Marilla. In fact, the greatest temptation I have endured these past fifteen years has been the occasional one to give my mother laryngitis during her visits, since the sound of her voice has long since stopped giving me any pleasure.” At this, everyone, except Dom Francisco and Lady Javanne, began to chuckle. The tension broke for the moment, and an air of relief traveled about the chamber.

“And just what do you intend to do about this supposed plot, Mikhail? Would you have us ride into the jaws of death for your sake?” Francisco’s words sounded forced and thin.

“You are perfectly welcome to remain in Comyn Castle, or return to the Ridenow Domain, Dom Francisco,” Marguerida said with false sweetness, “and I am sure that no one will think any the less of you for trying to save your own skin. And then, if we all get killed by the Terranan, you will have the pleasure of trying to survive while they hunt you down like a dog. Which, if they take over Darkover, they will certainly do.”

Francisco Ridenow had the grace to blanch right down to the roots of his pale blond hair, and he glared fiercely at Marguerida. She had managed to imply that he was a coward without actually saying it, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Mikhail looked around the table again. There was a different atmosphere in the chamber than there had been just a few minutes before. The wariness that he was accustomed to feeling from Lady Marilla had departed, and there were other changes as well. Some of the fear and suspicion they felt toward him remained in several minds, but it was no longer as strong. Regis had reassured them, and they had believed him. More, the restraint he had demonstrated for years had finally made an impact. He had said he had only been tempted to silence his difficult mother, even though he had the ability to do much more, and they had believed him.

But there was more to it than a simple change of attitude. With the exception of his mother and Dom Francisco, he realized, these people wanted him to lead them. Regis’ death had unsettled them, and they were intelligent enough to know that there must be continuity, and that he was the person to provide it. Regis’ last gift to Darkover had been to tell the members of the Comyn Council to follow Mikhail Hastur, his heir. The alternative, everyone knew, was civil war of a kind that had not occurred on Darkover in centuries.

Mikhail experienced a moment of great relief, and also the sense that most of the people in the room were waiting for him to tell them how to proceed. Until this moment he had not realized how greatly everyone’s mistrust had weighed on him during the past fifteen years. At last the Comyn would allow him to lead them, and he could only hope that he was worthy of their sudden trust. “I am completely open to suggestions as to how to proceed—even including canceling the funeral train altogether for now.”

Dom Gabriel shook his grizzled head slowly. “Not that, son. You can’t hide in here like your uncle did. No, we must meet this foe, but make it on our own terms, as much as possible. Indeed, if we can expose this plot for what it is, and embarrass the Federation with it, we will be in a much better position all around, won’t we?” He turned to Lew Alton as he asked his question.

“True, and wise, Dom Gabriel, but very difficult to manage. The first thing, I believe, is that we must not take the youngsters along at all—that is too dangerous.”

At this, everyone began to speak at once, offering their ideas, except for Francisco and Javanne. Mikhail listened and observed, and found that he was staring at Dom Damon. Something rustled in his mind, like a bit of paper in the wind, some tidbit that Regis had imparted earlier.

Dom Damon was innocent of plotting with the Federation—all he had intended was to try to place Rafael in Mikhail’s position! He looked at his brother, the forgotten son, sitting stiffly beside him. It would not have worked, but Dom Damon was not clever enough to understand that. Still, it was a relief to know that while he could not trust the old devil too far, he was not part of the plot to attack the funeral train.

“We should call for Dom Cisco Ridenow,” Danilo said, breaking into Mikhail’s thoughts. Everyone looked at him. “His expertise will be very useful, I believe.”

There were nods of agreement at this, and a look crossed Dom Francisco’s face, as if he had been handed a reprieve. Mikhail caught the look as well as the whisper of thought behind it. Beside him, Marguerida was alert, and his brother Rafael, on his other side, turned his head toward the head of the Ridenow Domain with icy interest. Dom Francisco flinched—he had forgotten the absence of the dampers.

Don’t worry, Mik—I’ll see to it that he doesn’t try to kill you himself. As he heard Rafael’s angry thought, a kind of clarity began to fill his mind, a sudden, blessed calm, which he could only hope would endure long enough to hammer out a plan. With Marguerida on one side, Rafael on the other, and Donal at his back, he could bring all of his attention toward the immediate threat. Then, with a sickening certainty, he knew that he had been moving toward this moment all his life—not as he had anticipated in his youth, nor planned in early adulthood. Nothing was happening according to his own imaginings—and yet, this was his destiny.

22

Her dream was filled with an eerie wailing. Katherine reached toward the other side of the bed in her sleep. When her hand touched the empty pillow, she started to wake, and found there were tears on her face. Herm wasn’t there, and she thought for a moment her heart would break. Then she remembered that she would be joining him soon, in some little town called Carcosa, and the ache began to subside.

But the sound from her dream had not stopped, and she sat up and pulled her knees up against her chest, hugging them and shivering all over. It was not wailing at all, but something else, something she had never expected to hear again in her life—seapipes, or whatever they called that instrument on Darkover. It was coming from some distance, but the melody carried, and then another pipe took up the tune, mournful and heartbreaking. No wonder she was weeping.

Kate rubbed her face dry on her nightgown and swallowed several times. More and more pipes were joining in now, until, after several minutes, it sounded as if there were thirty or more, playing in every quarter of the city of Thendara. Although she had never heard the melody before, she knew it for a dirge, and it made her ache for Renney. In her mind, she could hear the sea crashing near the old manse where she had grown up, and the sound of seapipes playing at her mother’s death rites. She could almost smell salt in the air, so powerful was the evocation of memory and feeling.

A knock on the door of the suite interrupted her before she could completely surrender to the upwelling of emotions. Instantly she felt anxious. Had she slept into the middle of the day or had some terrible thing happened during the night? No, she was sure it was still morning, from the way the light came through the narrow window of her bedroom. Her heart raced as she pushed the covers aside, swung her long legs out, thrust her feet into slippers. The knock came again, sounding urgent, so she did not bother with a robe in the chilly room, but only grabbed a shawl from beside the bed and hurried to answer the door.

Gisela stood there, her arms filled with billows of dark fabric, her face chalky-white and stricken, her hair wild and half escaped from its clasp. There was a mark on one of her cheeks, the start of a bruise, and her eyes were puffy from crying. Without a word, Kate pulled her into the room and put her arms around her sister-in-law, so the pile of textiles was trapped between their chests.

“What is it?”

“I just brought you the clothes for the funeral,” Gisela answered, her voice strained.

“No,” Kate said, lifting her hand to touch the mark with tender fingers. “What is this? Rafael didn’t . . .” She and the children had had dinner in Gisela’s suite the night before, and her sister-in-law had not been hurt then. It had been a pleasant meal, much less formal than the lengthy suppers of the previous evenings. Meeting Gisela and Rafael’s children, Casilde, the oldest, and the two boys, Damon and Gabriel, had been pleasant, and Terése and Amaury had become quite noisy in the presence of their new cousins.

Gisela looked horrified at this suggestion. “Oh, no! Never. Not even when I deserved it!”

“Who, then? And don’t try to tell me you ran into the door or something—someone hit you!”

“Yes.” Gisela did not speak further for a few seconds. “My father.”

“Your father? But why?” just then Rosalys, the maidservant, appeared from the other end of the suite, where she had a room near the children. “Will you get us some tea, Rosalys, and something to eat?” Kate took the bundle of clothing from Gisela, and held it out. “Please see that these are hung up, too.”

“Certainly, domna.” The servant gave the two women a curious look, took the garments, then bustled off to attend to the matter.

Kate drew Gisela toward the chairs that were placed around the hearth in the sitting room. The fire had died down overnight, so Katherine added a small log and poked the embers into life. Then she turned around and began to chafe her sister-in-law’s icy hands. She felt a callus which had begun to form across the right palm, where Gisela held her carving knife, and saw a tiny cut on one slender finger as well. A single tear swelled in one of Gisela’s eyes and rolled down her cheek. “Will you tell me what happened?” She brushed away the tear with her fingers, then drew off her shawl and draped it around the shoulders of the other woman.

Huddled in the chair, Gisela just shuddered. Then she looked up and said in a small voice “I did not know where to go.” And then, in a stronger tone, she added, “And I don’t want any damned tea!”

“Oh.” Kate glanced around the room, hearing the wailing pipes from outside the castle, and the soft sigh of the morning wind. Then she saw that there was a tray with a carafe of firewine and several glasses sitting on the table. She walked over, poured a glass, and brought it back to her sister-in-law. Gisela gulped it down in a few swallows, gasped, and began to cough.

Katherine pounded her between the shoulders until the fit passed, and the color began to return to Giz’s cheeks. “Another glass?” A nod answered her. This time Gisela only sipped from it, then leaned back into the comforting chair and gave a long sigh.

“I haven’t seen him like this in years,” she began. “Whatever happened at the Council meeting yesterday put him in a fury, and somehow it was all my fault.”

Katherine felt confused. “But you weren’t even there—we were in my studio! They were all at that meeting, weren’t they, your father and everyone, and they never came back for dinner.”

Gisela gave a bitter laugh. “I hadn’t told him that Mikhail and Rafael were reconciled, mostly because it wasn’t any of his business. So he went to the Crystal Chamber all ready to propose that since Mikhail was not acceptable to all of the Council, then my husband should be instead. As near as I can tell, he never even got to suggest it before some sort of hell broke loose. I don’t know exactly what happened, but the trap matrices in the chamber were smashed to bits, and there was a lot of shouting and table pounding. I am so glad I was with you!”

“I am, too.” Kate had no idea what a trap matrix was, but it sounded frightening. There were so many things she did not know, and more she could not understand. “Rafael didn’t tell you . . .”

“I haven’t seen him, Kate. All I know is that everyone on the Council was in the Crystal Chamber until very late, and that after that, Rafael went off on some errand for Mikhail. He sent me a note.” The wine seemed to have invigorated her a little, and some color was returning to her unnaturally pale skin.

“When did you see your father, then?”

“About two hours ago—he came slamming into the suite, dragged me up out of bed, and started screaming at me. That woke the children, and Gabriel tried to make him let me go, and got tossed on the floor. It was horrible, with the children screaming and my father shaking me by the shoulders and . . .” She stopped, drew a shuddering breath, and tried to calm herself. “I had taken a draught before bed, and I was so tired. He never told me that I was supposed to keep Rafael and Mikhail at odds, Kate! I don’t know if I would have if I could. But, thinking it all over, I suppose that the reason he had me trying to get Regis to change his heir designate, all those years back, was just to make trouble between them. I feel like such a fool!” Gisela broke into fresh tears.

“Why? The only fool in this seems to be Dom Damon. He used you, Giz, and you fell into his plans without realizing clearly what it might mean. But, if there is any blame, I think Dom Damon deserves the larger portion.” Kate could almost feel the waves of near-hysteria that were flowing from Gisela, and she was very glad that Marguerida had suggested the idea of empathy to her, or otherwise she might have felt she was going mad herself. And she wanted nothing but to make it cease—immediately. It was nearly a physical sensation-like being pricked by invisible knifepoints.

She had taken an almost immediate dislike to her father-in-law when she had met him at last the night after Herm left, and had come to the conclusion that one reason her husband had left was to avoid encountering the man. Now she was ready to hate him without reservation for upsetting Gisela and hurting her.

The sobs subsided slowly. Gisela mopped her wet face with a rather soiled hankerchief, then gulped down the rest of her glass of wine. “There is that, but it doesn’t make me feel very much less dreadful and guilty. When I saw Mik and Rafael embrace three days ago, I was so happy for both of them. And when Rafael went to the Council meeting, after years of being excluded because of me, I was glad. Then my damn father had to try to ruin everything, and when he failed, he . . . punched me in the face.” She lifted her empty hand and gingerly touched the bruise. “He called me terrible things, and I just wanted to kill him, Kate!”

“I’m so sorry, breda. “ The sense of being assaulted was fading now, and Kate was less uncomfortable.

“I should have. Mikhail would probably have given me a prize if I had.”

“Maybe.” She was glad Gisela had not murdered her father, even if he deserved it. She sat down in the chair across from the other woman, pushed her unbound hair off her shoulders, and shook her head in wonder. “Are things always this . . . dramatic?”

“Oh, no,” Gisela said solemnly. “Sometimes nothing happens for years and years.”

“Then I suppose they were saving it up for my arrival,” Kate answered dryly. She hated raised voices and arguments but realized that the entire castle was full of people in the midst of a serious dispute. For a moment, Katherine wished she were back in the small apartment she and Herm had occupied, on an overcrowded world where everyone was very careful to be polite, lest the peace officers cite them with a civil violation and fine them. Or back on Renney, with the smell of the sea. The feeling passed, leaving her a little forlorn.

That was too much, and Giz gave a sputtering chuckle. Rosalys returned with a tray a minute later. There was a pot of tea and baked cakes on a plate. The scent of mint rose and floated through the air of the sitting room, mingling pleasantly with the smell of balsam from the fireplace. In the few days since her arrival, she had started to become accustomed to the odors of old stone and burning wood, and even to enjoy them. After years in a centrally heated building, the simple pleasure of the hearth, different from that of her homeworld but reminiscent as well, was a source of comfort.

Katherine rose and was beginning to fill mugs with tea when there was another knock on the door. She looked up, startled and with the beginning of a sense of ill-usage. People should not be calling so early, and while she was still in her nightdress! The maidservant darted over and opened it and Marguerida came in. A moment later Amaury wandered out from the other part of the suite, knuckling his eyes sleepily.

“What’s that sound?” the boy asked his mother, then noticed that there were others present. He pulled his robe closer around his slender body and blushed a little. “It gives me shivers.”

“Pipes, Amaury. We call them seapipes on Renney, but I don’t know the name here.”

“It sounds like someone hurting a cat,” the boy announced, and then reddened as the three women laughed at his remark. “Well, it does,” he added defensively.

“We call them bagpipes, Amaury, and you are not the first to have made that comparison,” Marguerida told him wearily. She looked tired and faded, dressed in a robe of the same dark hue as the garments that Gisela had brought with her earlier. It was the color of twilight, a very dark blue with a purplish undertone, and the first clothing that Katherine had seen that was not adorned with embroidery. She glanced from Gisela to Kate, and back again, and if she was surprised to find them together, she seemed too exhausted to remark on it.

Remembering that Gisela had said that the meeting had gone on into the middle of the night, Kate guessed that Marguerida had not had much sleep. That, at least, was something she could deal with. “Here, sit down this instant, Marguerida. You look ready to drop in your tracks. Rosalys has just brought tea, and I insist you drink some. Have you eaten anything?” Katherine half shoved the other woman into the chair beside Gisela, and realized she had acted as she did as much for her own comfort as for Marguerida’s. Where, on their previous encounters, she had sensed little or nothing, she now could feel distress of some sort. She went toward the table and the serving tray, and discovered that Amaury had seated himself and was already munching on a cake.

“I . . . don’t remember,” Marguerida said softly. She put her elbows on the arms of the chair and her capable hands hung listlessly from the wrists. “I’ve been up most of the night,” she added, as if this explained everything. “And I need to tell you something that is likely going to upset you . . . .” She turned her head and studied Gisela briefly, and her weary eyes widened as she took in the bruise on Giz’s cheek.

Marguerida half-rose, leaning on the arm of the chair, and extended her hand towards the other woman’s face. “Who did this to you?” Her voice, faint a moment before, was furious. She was shaking with rage. She brushed the bruise with the fingers of her right hand and flinched.

Katherine moved swiftly, sensing that Marguerida’s iron control had at last reached its limits. She was glad, at that moment, that all she possessed was empathy, because she was sure that if she could have read Marguerida’s mind at that instant, she would have hated what she would hear. Instead, she forced the woman to sit down again. Then, pinning her down by putting her hands on the arms of the chair, she leaned forward, so their faces were only a handspan apart, and said, “Do not move for at least the next five minutes.”

“You are very masterful, Kate,” Marguerida murmured, submitting, and leaning her head against the back of the chair. She let her eyes close, breathing slowly and deeply, her hands resting in her lap. Then, after a couple of minutes, she asked, “Who hit you, Giz?”

“My father.”

“Will you mind very much if I kill him?”

Gisela looked shocked, then amused, and Amaury suddenly got up and left the room abruptly, clearly uncomfortable. “No, but I would prefer to do it myself, actually.”

“Yes, I should not be greedy, and try to have all the treats for myself. Do you think you could spare me a leg or an arm—just to properly vent my outrage? No, I suppose not. There was mention of tea, I believe.” Her control had returned, and her voice was nearly emotionless. She might have been discussing the weather, not homicide, and Katherine was glad that her son had left the room before he heard the last remark. She didn’t think either of the women were serious, but she was not absolutely sure.

Gisela smiled a little and nodded. “Perhaps we could tie him, hand and foot, to several horses, then drive them apart.”

“That would be extremely satisfactory,” Marguerida replied. “I do enjoy designing painful demises for certain people. Only those who deserve such treatment, of course, because I am not usually murderous this early in the day.”

“No, only when bandits attack you in the middle of the night,” Giz returned, and both women laughed pleasantly.

Kate listened to the conversation with some consternation, and wondered what they were speaking about. It sounded as if they were talking about an actual event—had Marguerida killed a bandit? As much as she wanted to demand an explanation, she held herself back. Instead, she laced the mugs of tea with a heavy-scented honey from a small pot that sat on the tray. Silence, except for the moan of the pipes, filled the suite. She noticed then that the steady beat of drums had been added, so deep that Kate had barely registered them at first. The tune had changed, too, to yet another slow, sad song.

The women drank their tea and ate still warm cakes, and except for Marguerida’s mourning clothes, it might have been just an ordinary day. The maid had vanished into the children’s part of the suite, and they were alone with their thoughts.

Finally, Marguerida roused herself. “Kate, after the funeral, we are going to send all the youngsters away to Arilinn, including your own. They will be safer there than here, if our guesses are right.”

She didn’t want to know what sort of guesses Marguerida was talking about, but she must find out what was going on. This sudden announcement seemed to come out of the blue, and she felt at a loss about how to react to it. Was she supposed to go with the children to this Arilinn place? Kate stood, torn between her need to remain with her children, and her desire to see Herm! Well, she could hardly let Amaury and Terése go off to this unknown place without her, could she? “Why won’t they be safe here?” she finally managed to ask, then added, “They have never been away from me, in their lives.”

“I did not realize that,” Marguerida responded slowly. “I assure you, they will be completely safe at Arilinn.” She shifted in the chair, and sipped a little tea. “We are concerned that while we are on the way to the rhu fead, the Federation may try to occupy the castle. We have prepared for this possibility, and I think that if Lyle Belfontaine decides to attempt it, he will be extremely surprised at his reception. But we do not want to risk the children.” She seemed too tired to continue.

“I see.” Kate wondered for a moment, finding the idea too overwhelming to absorb easily. “I believe you, but . . .”

Gisela interrupted. “But you want to see Hermes, so you can box his ears into the next tenday. I don’t think my brother is nearly good enough for you, Kate! But you can’t be in two places at one time.” She thought for a moment. “I’ll go with them, since my own youngsters must go to Arilinn as well. I’ll manage somehow—even if I include Roderick, Alanna, and Yllana.”

Marguerida gave Gisela a searching look. “That is very kind of you.” Then, as if unable to restrain herself, she added, “And quite uncharacteristic.”

Gisela shrugged. “I am, as you probably noticed last evening, Kate, not a completely wonderful mother. Don’t look so shocked. I know it’s true. But, I can look after yours, mine, and Marguerida’s until we reach the Tower—I’m just lazy, not uncaring.”

“What has gotten into you, Giz?” Marguerida asked bluntly.

A sweet smile crossed the other woman’s face, and there was a twinkle in her puffy eyes. “Kate has made me see the error of my ways—haven’t you, breda?” Then she touched the bruise lightly. “I don’t want people to see me like this, and ask nosy questions, or think Rafael has finally done what everyone hoped he would do years ago. So if both of you will entrust me with your offspring, I shall be a good aunty, and see they wash their faces before bedtime.”

“Have you bewitched her?” Marguerida asked seriously, turning toward Kate.

“I don’t think so,” Katherine replied, still caught up in her own conflicted feelings. Was it safe to let Gisela take her children? After all, she barely knew the woman. And Herm did not completely trust her. Then she knew that the offer was genuine, that her sister-in-law understood how much she wanted to join Herm and was only being generous. “Yes, if you take the children, Giz, I will let them go. They like you, and they like your youngsters. Thank you—it is a kind thing to do.” Then she frowned.

“What is it, Kate?”

“Herm told me, before he ran off like a thief in the night, that we were going to have to take Terése to this Arilinn for some sort of test.” She bit her lip. “I don’t want anything like that to happen when I am not around—I will not have my daughter frightened!”

“I can promise you, Katherine, that nothing will happen to Terése, and that she will not be tested in your absence.” Marguerida thought for a moment. “She is a little young, and has not shown any sign of threshold sickness yet, so there is no need for it.”

“I am going to hold you to that, Marguerida.” Kate could hardly contain her sudden anxiety for her child. But she knew Marguerida to be a woman of her word, and she felt herself begin to calm.

“Now that everything is all settled, let’s order up a proper breakfast. I’ll help you dress for the rite, Kate. Doing your hair will probably improve my mood a bit. I wonder if anyone would mind if I wore a heavy veil, or perhaps a sack over my head?”

Marguerida sputtered over a gulp of tea. When she had regained her breath, she said, “Do Kate’s hair?” She looked from one woman to the other, as if something had occurred between them which had escaped her notice, and she could not quite discern what it was. “I have never seen you so . . . helpful, cousin. It becomes you.”

“I’d tell you I was reformed, but you wouldn’t believe me, would you?”

“After what I witnessed yesterday, Giz, I would believe almost anything.”

“Marguerida, what did happen in the Council meeting?” Kate asked.

“Aside from the damper matrices being shattered to pieces, and Regis Hastur manifesting out of the beyond and scolding everyone?” Marguerida sighed. “And Javanne disowning Mik, and Francisco Ridenow suggesting that Regis’ death was suspicious? Other than that, it was a useful meeting. Don’t look at me as if I have lost my mind—just give me a glass of wine. Tea is all very well, but not what I need just now. My bones ache with weariness.”

“Regis . . . appeared?” Gisela looked startled.

“Didn’t Rafael tell you?”

“No, because I haven’t seen him since yesterday!”

“Oh, yes, I had forgotten. Mikhail sent him to Rafe Scott, and the two of them are trying to discover if the Sons of Darkover are a real threat to the Comyn.”

“The who?” The name clearly meant nothing to Gisela, and she studied Marguerida keenly, her green eyes flashing in the light from the fire. “Kate, give her some wine right this minute! Now, Marguerida, begin at the beginning and tell us everything. Just pretend it is one of those tales you are always writing.”

Kate poured another goblet of wine and handed it to Marguerida. Then she sat down, curved her hands around her still warm tea, and listened to the story. She felt suspended in time, as if she had nothing more important to do than sit and hear the tale. And when Marguerida stopped speaking perhaps twenty minutes later, she was not sure she believed half of what she had just heard.

The three women sat companionably in silence for several minutes, and then Gisela stirred in her chair. “Well, now at least I understand what put Father in such a rage. And why Lady Javanne looked so haggard when I passed her in the corridor.”

Kate was struck by the oddness of the situation, to be sitting in her bedclothes with two women she had not known a week before, drinking tea and speaking of plots and ghosts, as if they were the most ordinary things instead of impossible ones. Or were they? She thought that Marguerida and Gisela were intelligent women and certainly not crazy ones. Maybe these events were not remarkable on Darkover. Some of the tales she had heard about the ghost groves on Renney would probably strike them as very odd indeed. Katherine decided she would accept the story, for the present.

“Kate, I am going to go tell the maid to pack some things for your children, and get them dressed for the funeral. They will likely be so bored with it that they will regard a carriage ride to Arilinn as an adventure.” Gisela paused and smiled at Katherine. “Don’t worry, breda. Just go and find Hermes and mend your fences with him, and leave the rest to me.”

Katherine nodded in agreement. She knew she could stay in Comyn Castle, or go with the children herself, but neither of those choices would keep her from worrying about her husband. She had not really understood, until now, how absolutely vital he was to her, and if he were killed in what seemed to her to be an insane venture against the Federation, she would rather perish with him than live another forty or fifty years without him. She did not want to think about this possibility, but she had to. And, if the worst occurred, she was certain that Gisela would see that her children were cared for.

The enormous courtyard on the north side of Comyn Castle had not seen a gathering of the populace since Mikhail had been proclaimed the heir designate. Domenic’s elevation to that status had been a much smaller event, almost private, due to Regis’s fears, and had taken place within the castle itself, not in this public space.

Mikhail stood on the wide steps which rose from one end of the plaza, with his back to the high walls of castle, and looked out toward the crowd which had been gathering quietly up the length of the plaza for over an hour now. The lords and ladies of the Domains and the families of the gentry who had managed to come to Thendara were ranged on either side of him, and he could sense his nephew just behind his left shoulder, watchful even in his near-exhaustion. He felt safe under Donal’s eyes, and grateful for such a devoted paxman.

Regis Hastur’s body lay on a bier at the foot of the stairs, covered with a swath of fabric in the blue and silver of his house. There was no sign of deterioration on the corpse, for it had been placed in a stasis chamber immediately after death, and he looked as if he were sleeping. The white hair was slack around the quiet face, and the expression on it was calm and serene. There were guards on either side of him, and more stood along the path from the far end of the courtyard, keeping the crowd in order.

The people of Thendara, merchants and tradesmen, guild masters and their journeymen, women and children, moved along toward it. When they reached the body, they paused to express their grief and respect. For many of them, it was their first view of Regis Hastur in many years, and for the younger citizens, the only time they had seen him in their lives. He had been a stranger to those he governed during the end of his life, but that did not appear to have lessened the deep affection in which he was held, if the sad faces and tears were any indication.

Except for the wind fluttering in the awnings which had been hung from the wall, to afford some shelter in case of rain, there was little sound but the dirge from the pipes, the beat of the drums, the shuffle of feet, and the occasional cough. After they had looked at the body of their dead ruler, the people removed themselves to the other end of the plaza, crowding together and waiting patiently. Mikhail realized that these were his people now, his to govern and guide, and he felt very humble to receive their trust. He could only hope he would deserve it.

Mikhail was exhausted, and his feet ached, but he stood in his place, refusing to indulge himself by releasing his own sorrow. He felt he must not let go. Not yet, and not publically. He watched a woman bend over the body, and place a single white flower on it, adding to the collection of such offerings. He did not know who she was, although her clothing suggested she was from the mercantile class, but her sorrow was genuine, and it moved him, so he had to strain to continue keeping his face immobile.

Beside him, Javanne Hastur stood with clenched hands, clearly containing herself with enormous difficulty. No matter what their disagreements, he knew his mother had loved her younger brother deeply, and that his passing was a great blow to her. Then, without warning, he heard her begin to sob, and without thinking, Mikhail reached out and put an arm around her. To his surprise, she did not stiffen and pull away, but instead leaned most of her weight against him, turning her face into his shoulder. He shifted his feet to keep from falling backward and held her tightly, as he had not done since he was a very young man.

Javanne’s hand clung to the laces of his dark tunic, and he felt her shudder with anguish. In his own weariness, her emotions flooded into him, and Mikhail felt his eyes moisten. Tears began to cascade down his cheeks, slipping down and falling into her hair. “It is my fault,” she whispered.

“No, Mother. It is no one’s fault.”

“If I had not opposed him . . .”

“Hush! It was his time—that’s all.” His voice was thick with tears and grief, and he barely believed his own words. There was no need to lay blame, but he understood his mother’s guilt, for he shared it in his own way. Even though he now knew that wielding the Sword of Aldones had meant that Regis would be shortening his full measure of years, he could not help wondering if fearing his nephew had not also contributed to his uncle’s untimely demise. He put his other arm around Javanne and held her close. “We will both miss him, Mother.”

After several minutes, Javanne began to gain control of her emotions. She drew herself apart gently, brushing her cheeks with her fingers. She stood away from him and stared down at the continuing procession. Then she reached out and put her hand into his ungloved one, lacing her fingers into his and holding tight.

Mikhail returned her grasp carefully, not wishing to hurt her aging hand with his grip, and felt a moment of pure joy in the midst of his sorrow. After all that had been said the day before, he treasured the small gesture of her touch on his hand, of her turning to him in her grief.

Dani Hastur was standing nearby with his wife, his mother, and his son Gareth. Miralys and Dani were both in tears, but their child just stared blankly into the distance, as if completely unaware of what was happening. Mikhail could not help thinking about the previous day, and the way Gareth had behaved. Had he really stolen Dani’s rightful place? Mikhail did not think he had, but he could see how a youngster would believe that. With a sickening certainty, he knew they had not heard the last of it either. And, covertly studying Gareth’s emotionless expression, he was very happy that Domenic was not there.

The line of mourners still stretched to the end of the courtyard, and it would be some time before the final ceremony took place. It felt like it had been hours already.

He tore his eyes away, since the steady movement of people was starting to make him feel sleepy. To try to rouse his exhausted mind a little, he studied the members of the Comyn again. Their faces were somber, as befitted the occasion. No one would have guessed from their expressions how divided they had been a day before. They appeared to him to be like actors in some play, not the people he had known for years. Lady Marilla Aillard was standing beside her son, Dyan Ardais, her usually placid face troubled. For a moment he wondered what was bothering her. Then she shifted her stance and grimaced, and he realized that she was just as tired as he was, and that her bones were aching. Standing on cold stones in a chilly midday was a trial for her, as it must be for everyone.

Time slowed for him now, and the sound of the pipes was like the wailing of a hundred storms, sad and desolate. Mikhail lost himself in the dirge, forgot for a span everything except his sense of loss. He did not even think of the perils that might await them on the morrow, although he was aware that it remained in the back of his mind.

He came back to himself with a start, still holding Javanne’s hand in his, and realized that the pipes had at last ceased. There was a stillness in the courtyard, a sense of waiting. The space around the body of Regis Hastur was vacant except for the Guards who stood at each corner of the bier, and the parade of mourners was a sea of faces at the other end of the plaza.

A chorus from the Musicians Guild began to sing, twenty men and woman giving voice to a hymn that had not been heard in decades.

“Oh, stars that in the elder days,

In Majesty unstained did blaze

And suns that in the deeps of night

Yet burn with uncorrupted light . . . “

It was a painfully sad melody, the ancient words rising in the air and drifting across the courtyard, wrenching him back into his grief again. Two harpers accompanied the singers, and it seemed to him that the gentle notes from the strings were even sadder than the pipes had been.

“Shine forth in splendor, show the way

Surpassing sight of mortal eyes,

For Hastur’s Son departs this day

To seek his Father in the skies . . . “

A shiver of movement went through the crowd. Mikhail turned and saw that the great central doors of Comyn Castle were swinging open. The two sections swung ponderously on their hinges—they were only used for official occasions, and until this morning, when Regis’ body was borne into the courtyard, Mikhail’s proclamation as heir had been the last time they were opened. The singers continued—

“But darkness gathers here below,

Evanda’s flowers are hid by snow,

The wounded sun sinks in the sky,

In fear the scattered moons do fly—“

Mikhail shivered, hearing in the song an echo of his own fears. The verse seemed uncannily appropriate to their situation. He wondered gloomily if the song was an exaggeration of Darkovan fears, intended to express conventional mourning, or whether the Hasturs had always left their heirs in such confusion.

But now white-robed figures were emerging from the dark rectangle of the doorway. They must be the Servants of Aldones, who had come down from the Shrine at Hali. They had arrived during the meeting of the Council, and he had not even had time to greet them, but at least they were there. He felt a pang of guilt at having left Marguerida to bear so much of the burden of arranging the funeral. He supposed he should be grateful to Gisela, who had found the ancient book describing the ritual in the castle archives. He knew he would have hated asking his mother if she could recall what had been done when Danvan Hastur had died.

“The banshee wails across the snows,

Kyorebni gather scenting war,

Oh, who will stand against our foes

When Hastur’s son rides forth no more?”

The people lifted their voices once more in loss and longing, and Mikhail felt his gut clench with fear. They could not know how great a danger threatened them, but he did. Why had Regis laid this burden upon him? He was not worthy—he could never take the place his uncle had filled so well and for so long. He realized he was trembling, and in astonishment felt his mother squeeze his hand reassuringly, as she had done decades ago, when he was still a child and had come to Comyn Castle for the first time.

The five white-robed figures circled the bier, and as they did so, the Guards at its corners bowed and stepped away. The first, and youngest, of the Servants, carried a silver basin of water, which he sprinkled as he moved. The next, a tall man who strode as if he had once been a warrior, carried fire in a lantern. The third man swung a censer whose chains clashed and rattled as it circled, sending smoke swirling into the air. The one who followed him scattered sand from the shores of Hali. As they moved, the chorus began the next verse, picking up their tempo, so that the tune seemed less a dirge than a battle cry.

“Camilla weeps in darkest night

But still Cassilda sings in light;

Hastur’s radiance shines above

Blessing all below with love—“

The fifth of the white-clad Servants of Aldones, an old man who seemed too frail for the weight of his robes, took his place at the head of the bier, arms lifted so that the wide sleeves rippled in the wind. The smell of the burning herbs began to drift across the courtyard, pungent and sharp. Mikhail’s eyes stung, and he felt his mother’s grip tighten as she swayed slightly. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, and Dom Gabriel stepped forward and put his hand against the small of Javanne’s back, supporting her almost tenderly, his face colorless in the daylight.

“Though winter freeze the world in pain,

The starflower shall bloom on the hill,

Our foes shall shake their swords in vain,

For Hastur’s Children lead us still.”

Mikhail jerked as twenty voices rose in triumphant conclusion. He had not expected those words, and they rang through his mind. The enormity of the moment was like a bright pain in his heart. Someday, he thought, they wall sang these words for me . . .

The last notes died away to stillness. The ancient man looked around, commanding all attention.

“Here lies the Son of Hastur, Son of Aldones, Son of Light, at rest from his labors at last.” The thready voice carried across the courtyard.

The words bore echoes of Darkover’s most distant past. Mikhail heard his mother take a sharp breath. He himself had never heard them before, for they were spoken only at the passing of those of the Hastur line, but his mother and a few others remembered them from the funeral of Danvan.

“In life he bore the name Regis-Rafael Felix Alar Hastur y Elhalyn, and these are his deeds—“

As the reedy voice continued, Mikhail tried to listen, but the man seemed to be describing a stranger, not the uncle he had known and loved. The eulogy proclaimed the power of Regis’ wrath, but where was his charm? There were references in plenty to the craft with which he had outwitted the Terranan for so many years, but what about his wit? And though the speaker chronicled Regis’ achievements, he said nothing of the love for Darkover that was behind them. Many of the people were weeping, but how much greater would their grief be if they had really known the man whose body now lay on that bier.

The style of the speech both magnified and distanced the man it praised, making Regis Hastur seem at once larger than life and less than human. But presently Mikhail realized that those measured phrases were beginning to ease his sense of loss. No doubt that was their purpose. How Regis would have laughed if he could have heard!

Or perhaps he did—Mikhail felt Varzil’s ring throb on his finger, and clenched the fist within its glove. They were sending Regis to his rest, but would he go? He did not know whether the idea of another visitation would console him or make him more afraid.

He straightened his back, sensing that the eulogy was drawing to a close. His whole body ached with exhaustion, and his feet felt like two blocks of ice in his boots.

The Servant lifted his arms again. “We shall not see his like again, this child of Aldones—and so we bid him farewell!” The words were ancient, the sorrow in them like a fresh wound.

He lowered his arms, and as if he had released their voices, from thousands of throats came a great wailing, a ululation that rang against the stone walls of Comyn Castle in cascading echoes that battered at Mikhail’s weary senses until his own throat opened in an anguished cry. For a measureless time thereafter he remembered nothing, heard nothing, and felt nothing except the wracking grief of their enormous loss.

23

Marguerida was chafing at the slow pace of the funeral train. It demanded all of her will and the discipline of a lifetime to swallow her impatience. They had been on the road since daybreak, and all she wanted was to reach the village where Domenic was staying and to see her beloved son safe. But there was no way to hurry the entourage. Twenty-five wagons and as many carriages were behind her, with about three hundred riders beside them. She was only grateful that she was mounted on Dyania, with the pleasant sensation of horsey muscles against her thighs, instead of enclosed in one of the vehicles as were Dom Gabriel and a few others. That would have been too much for her.

They had left Thendara at dawn, and ridden out of the city on the Old North Road, past fields covered with drifting autumn mist. It had been eerily quiet, and the soft folds of earth that were almost visible through the concealing veils of moisture had been empty of anything except flocks of sheep and cattle. This had gotten on everyone’s already excited nerves, and when the sun rose and began to burn away the mist, she had sensed a little relaxation around her.

Now she rode beside Mikhail, surrounded by twenty Guardsmen, and Marguerida tried to force herself to think of something besides her son. Could it actually be only eight days since Regis had died? She turned in the saddle and looked back, to the coffin draped with the silver-and-blue Hastur colors, resting on an enclosed flat-bedded carriage, drawn along by six creamy horses. She knew that the funeral had provided closure for Mikhail, but she remained trapped with her own conflicted feelings, no matter how hard she tried to escape them.

There was something a bit puzzling about her emotions, for when Diotima, her stepmother, had died, Marguerida had been able to accept it almost immediately. True, she had been expecting Dio’s death for several years, while Regis’ death had come without warning, but surely after so many days she should be able to come to grips with herself. However, even after the astonishing intrusion of Regis during the Comyn Council meeting, she had not yet managed to absorb the sudden death of the man. And the lengthy and exhausting funeral the previous day had only left her tired, not free to mourn the man who had been so kind to her. She could only hope that once he was interred with his ancestors, she would at last be able to adjust her heart to the loss.

The Council meeting had given her husband fresh confidence, and he no longer seemed as doubtful and hesitant as he had in the days immediately following Regis’ death. She did not understand all that had taken place within him, but she could see that he was ready to lead Darkover at last. Now, if they could just survive the expected attack—if it was not all a tempest in a chamber pot—and if she could keep herself in the background for the rest of her life!

She chewed on the problem, ruthlessly examining herself. She contrasted herself with Lady Linnea, who had never gone beyond the role of consort, and decided she could not imitate her very well. She was simply a different sort of person—too independent—and she was equal to Mikhail in the peculiar powers of her shadow matrix. Well, she could only be herself, and everyone would have to accept it. The thought refreshed her as the wind tugged at the hood of her cloak.

Marguerida wondered what Lew was doing right then. Pacing, probably. That was how he behaved when he was impatient. Would there be an attack on Comyn Castle? She hoped there would not be, yet, she was curious if the plan she had helped to conceive would be effective. She smiled slowly. Working closely with Cisco Ridenow for the first time had been a remarkable experience. He had grasped the nature of the problem immediately, swinging into action as if he had been preparing for such an eventuality for years. And, she thought, perhaps he had. She had not expected him to be so imaginative, nor sure of himself.

With the dampers in the Crystal Chamber destroyed, there had been no way to prevent a certain degree of leakage from the minds at the table, although everyone had been aware of this situation and done their best to shield their surface thoughts. So it had been something of a revelation to learn that Cisco was not nearly so much his father’s creature as she and everyone else had always assumed. There was an undercurrent of mistrust between the two men which had surprised her. Watching the interplay between the two Ridenows, she finally decided that Cisco did not answer to anyone except himself, that he was stern and sober, confident in his own judgment, and wary of his sire as well.

It was Cisco who had suggested smuggling the children away from Comyn Castle in the carriages which had brought the leroni from Arilinn for the funeral, while the Tower people remained behind to aid in defending the castle. He had been able to give an exact count of the men available for both the defense of the castle and of the funeral train as well, and she suspected that he had independently considered the possibility of such attacks. Indeed, he had already organized the City Guards for this purpose, calling up the many retired Guardsmen who still lived in Thendara and putting them on alert.

He would bear watching, she decided, if they came out of this crisis in one piece. Still, she could not help mistrusting him just a little, because of his father, and after wrestling with her conscience for a moment, Marguerida decided she was probably wise rather than petty. It was always a good idea to keep a weather eye on cunning men, however loyal they might think themselves.

Getting the children away had been a great relief. Roderick had protested mightily, insisting he was old enough to go to the rhu fead. He was furious that Domenic was going to have an adventure from which he was excluded, but she was glad that she did not have him to worry about. And Gareth Elhalyn had been displeased as well. No, that was too puny a term to describe the boy’s behavior. Gareth had been furious and had thrown something very like a tantrum. She almost pitied Gisela, and was still somewhat bemused by her offer to oversee both Katherine Aldaran’s and Marguerida’s children, along with her own. Marguerida did not envy her a carriage journey with eight youngsters, at least two of them in adolescent sulks.

It suddenly occurred to Marguerida that if they failed and perished in this mad adventure, then Gisela might see her youthful ambitions realized. As the aunt of Roderick and Yllana, and the wife of Rafael Lanart-Hastur, she would be one of the logical choices to care for the children, even though she was an Aldaran by birth. It would give her the power she had craved all her life. And, for no reason that Marguerida could bring to mind, she was not perturbed by this possibility. Giz would have to contend with Miralys Elhalyn, who had remained behind because of her pregnancy, as well as Javanne, who loathed Gisela even more than she did Marguerida. She let herself envision the encounter, for the sheer pleasure of it, to distract herself from other, even less wholesome thoughts. She succeeded for a short while, but then her doubts rushed back, and she started worrying again.

If they had been successful, then Lyle Belfontaine had no idea that the carriages were filled with armed men, not women and children as they ordinarily would have been. Six to a coach, and twenty coaches, gave them another hundred and twenty fighters who were not visible to any interested eyes, in addition to the two hundred and fifty Guardsmen and the company of Renuciates who rode at the rear of the procession. Not a great number to face the kind of armament that the Federation could bring to bear, although they did not anticipate there being more than a hundred of the enemy. And, too, the Federation had no idea of either Mikhail’s powers, or her own. It seemed a slender thing on which to hang their future, but there had been no alternative, after hours of discussion that had lasted until every voice in the chamber was hoarse with weariness.

Suddenly Marguerida was struck by the irony of it all. For years people had feared Mikhail’s matrix, so much so that they had almost forgotten the capacity of her shadow matrix. Lady Javanne, Dom Francisco and Lady Marilla had refused to believe he would not use his powers to further his own ambitions, and Regis had worried in his own way. Now they had turned about and decided Mikhail was to be their savior. It would have been amusing if it were not so terrible.

A cold wind from the west blew across her cheeks, and she breathed deeply, smelling the crisp air. It brought back memories of another journey up the Old North Road, sixteen years before, when she had gone to Neskaya with Rafaella and her sister Renunciates. Odd that her mind did not go to that other occasion, when she and Mik had dashed off in the middle of the night, to tumble into history.

Marguerida knew she was thinking of the trip to Neskaya because of the bandits they had encountered up in the mountains. She had killed two men during the fray, and used the Command Voice to stop the battle, much to her dismay and surprise. And now, if they were attacked as Herm and Nico thought they would be, she would probably slay more. The Aldaran Gift had visited her briefly that morning, offering her the sight of blasted corpses on a seared hillside. It had been frightening and useless, since she could not see the faces, and had no idea of their identity or what had been the cause of their deaths. And it had come and gone so quickly, a flicker more than a real vision.

Everything depended on Mikhail, on his matrix, and on hers as well. What had seemed quite plausible in the security of the Crystal Chamber seemed less so now. Was it really a plan, or just a foolish hope, that they could overcome an armed force in the way they believed? She tingled with anticipation and chill, acknowledging her own fears with as much calmness as she could muster. This was no time to have second thoughts. She glanced at the grim faces of the Guardsmen around them and made a silent prayer to the thousand gods from a hundred planets whose names she knew.

Still, it was very good to be on the road, riding toward whatever destiny awaited them. A sense of ease began to seep into her, unexpected and welcomed. She turned and smiled at Mikhail.

“That’s better, caria. Your frets were giving my nerves a workout.”

“Oh, dear—was I that loud?”

“Only to me, I think. Actually you have yourself well in hand, my love. I don’t know if I could have done this thing without you at my side. I wonder what is happening back in Thendara?”

“With any luck, absolutely nothing. That would disappoint my father, who really wants Belfontaine to do something foolish, so he can hang him out to dry in a cold wind. And Val, too.”

Mikhail chuckled softly. “Yes, she was practically rubbing her hands together with glee when we left. How is Katherine holding up?”

“Pretty well, but she is as anxious to see Herm as I am to see Nico. Perhaps I should drop back for the present and ride beside her.”

“Yes. We know that the attack, if it comes, will be beyond Carcosa, so there is no danger right now. She is a very brave woman, Marguerida.”

“I know. I’m not sure I could handle being headblind as well as she has. Her painting helps, I think. And her friendship with Gisela, too—do you know, I never would have imagined that happening. She seems to have turned Giz into another person, and I don’t really know what to make of it. Still, I am very glad of it. Very glad.”

Marguerida pulled her reins and turned back two horse lengths, causing the Guards on either side to shift their positions. She rode back, past the catafalque, and pulled alongside of Katherine’s rather pokey mount. Herm’s wife claimed to be able to ride, but no one would call her a good horsewoman. She held her reins too tightly, and her knees were clasped tautly against the sides of the animal. She would have been in one of the carriages but for her insistence that the close confines of the vehicle would make her ill.

“Kate, the horse will not run away with you. You will be exhausted if you keep hanging on for dear life like that. Let go of the pommel, relax your knees, and take a deep breath.”

“I am sure that is excellent advice, and I will try to obey it. I haven’t been on a horse since I was five, and that was a moor pony, and much lower to the ground! We don’t have real horses on Renney, just barrel-bellied ponies with shaggy coats and docile dispositions. They are used to pull wagons, and for children to ride as treats.”

“Did you enjoy it?” Marguerida was determined to put Katherine at ease. It gave her something to focus on besides her own worries and those of the woman beside her. Those were a constant murmur of thoughts of Herm, and about the safety of her children. She felt sorry for Kate, torn by two competing loyalties. If Gisela had not offered to take the children, she would have had a harder time of it. And now, in hindsight and less weary than the day before, Marguerida felt that her sister-in-law’s decision had been genuine, founded on her real affection for Kate Aldaran, and that there was no mischief in it. More, if Gisela was as determined as she seemed to behave better, she would have to learn to trust her more. With all the history that lay between her and Giz, it was a startling idea, one she was not sure she could accept easily.

“I’m not sure. I seem to remember being rather concerned about all those teeth—to a little girl even a pony seems pretty dangerous. And we rode bareback, without reins. I just grabbed the mane—I remember it was wiry in my fingers—and hung on for dear life.” She laughed a little. “I did not tell you that, and pretended to skills I lack,” Katherine admitted.

“That is all right. It was not a lie that was intended to injure anyone, and I do understand that being cooped up in a carriage would have been difficult for you.”

“How far is it now?”

“To the rhu fead or Carcosa?”

“Carcosa.”

Marguerida glanced knowledgeably along the movement of the train. “We will reach the town about midday, if none of the carriages loses a wheel, and if we have no other delays, we might get to Lake Hali by nightfall.” Thus far she had not told Katherine about the possibility of an attack on the funeral train, nor that she would have to get into a carriage when they left Carcosa. It had been hard enough to suggest that the castle might be attacked, in order to get her to let the children be taken to safety.

“Nightfall?” Katherine shivered in the wind, as if the prospect of riding through the entire day was finally making itself known. “Where will we spend the night? Is there a city there? No one has said.”

“Nothing like that—the only real city, in terms you understand, on Darkover is Thendara. There are a few largish places, like Neskaya, which are almost cityish, but for the most part there are only villages, towns and hamlets. I sent people ahead three days ago, to prepare things. By now I expect there is an encampment with its own kitchens, tents for sleeping, and latrines.”

“You sleep outside in tents, in this cold?”

Marguerida managed to swallow a laugh. “This is not cold, Kate, not by Darkovan standards.”

“Then what do you consider too cold for comfort?”

“Um, when the temperature is way below freezing, and there is snow up to your eyeballs, I suppose. I’ve gotten so used to it now that I hardly ever think about it. When I first returned to Darkover, I thought I would die from cold, but I adjusted, and so will you.”

“I’m not so sure of that, Marguerida. You were much younger than I am now, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I was, but I’m sure you’ll become used to the climate with time.”

Katherine scanned the landscape, her eyes going towards the horizon as if she were trying to see something very distant. “Herm used to rhapsodize about winter, and sometimes when he talked about snow, he got positively poetic. I never understood that, and thought he was exaggerating, the way you do when you are far away from home. I mean, when we took Amaury and Terése home to Renney nine years back, I was stunned by how small the Manse seemed, because in my memory, it was a much bigger house than it is in reality. True, compared to the average Federation dwelling, it was huge—seven bedrooms and two parlors. But the ceilings seemed lower, and the rooms less spacious than I remembered. Now I think that perhaps Herm did not even give me a true idea of how different Darkover is—that the Hellers are taller than he said, and colder, too.” She shuddered slightly, looking north.

“You will get used to it. I did. Now I cannot imagine living in one room, or perhaps two, as I did when I was at University. My parents had a home on Thetis, with wide verandas facing the ocean, which I thought was very grand, but which would have fitted into a tiny fraction of Comyn Castle without a ripple. It all seems like a dream to me now, although a very nice one—warm and smelling of flowers and saltwater.” She let herself sigh for the world she knew she would never see again. “We will rough it for a night, with decent cots and lots of blankets, so I promise you will not freeze to death, or even take a chill. And, with any luck, we will have your Hermes back, and you can bundle up with him.”

“He will be very lucky if I don’t make him sleep on the ground with one thin blanket, for all the aggravation he has given me.” Her deep voice was twisted with conflicting emotions, too many for Marguerida to sort out without probing invasively.

“I would never dare to advise you on how to conduct your marital relations, Kate, but you must not be too hard on him. He is still a Darkovan male, and they are reared to be high-handed, to treat their womenfolk like fragile bric-a-brac, and to do as they please, for the most part. He can’t help not consulting you, any more than you can avoid resenting it.”

“Bric-a-brac! Yes, that’s how Herm made me feel once we arrived here—I just couldn’t quite get my mind around it! And I don’t understand it at all.”

“It’s our history, Kate. Darkover has a small population, and infant mortality has been high for centuries. Therefore women were protected fiercely—in some places more than others. Up in the Dry Towns they are shackled like criminals. Some of that has changed since the Federation came, but not as much as I would like. Even today, there is not a great deal of freedom here for females, unless they choose the Renunciate’s path, which is not an easy one.”

“You mean those women at the rear of the train? Gisela told me a little about them. We even joked that if things didn’t work out with Herm, I could join them. They look tough as nails.”

“Yes, those are Renunciates.”

“There is so much I do not understand, which infuriates me and makes me feel even more . . . no matter. Tell me about this rhu fead. If it is such an important place, why is there no city or large town nearby? And, for that matter, why bury your kings there, instead of Thendara, if it is, as you say, the chief city? It doesn’t make any sense to me, and I am driving myself to distraction trying to make heads or tails out of this planet my husband has plunked me down on.”

Marguerida laughed aloud and nodded. “That seems perfectly reasonable to me, dear Kate. The short answer is tradition. Everything important on Darkover is done according to hoary traditions that no one remembers the reasons for any longer. One of these is that our dead rulers will be interred in the rhu fead, which is a very peculiar place to begin with. It stands near the shore of Lake Hali.” She paused and took a slow breath. “I once spent several weeks submerged in the waters—except they are not really waters—of Lake Hali, and I know no more about it than I did before. So it is no good asking me about it. I wish I could tell you more. Just understand that Hali is a sacred place, and that Darkover is a planet which tends to be traditional rather than innovative.” She grinned. “They don’t examine their ideas much, and I think if you asked a hundred people at random why things were done in a certain way, ninety of them would just answer that if it was good enough for their grandfather, it is good enough for them.”

“Oh, a religious site. Well, there is no explaining those sorts of things, is there? Even when you grow up with the beliefs, you never really understand them. I think that religion is just a box into which real mysteries are dropped, like old clothing.”

Marguerida gave Kate a look of pleasure. She had nearly forgotten how delightful it was to have a discussion about ideas, for there were very few people on Darkover who had the education and intellectual curiosity she craved. And, until now, it had not occurred to her that Katherine might be a woman with unusual ideas of her own. “Now, that is a very interesting attitude. I never thought if it that way before, but you make good sense. I had the impression from a few things you said that Renney had a pretty complex religious life—your sacred groves and all. Don’t you accept those things any longer?”

“Maybe my years living in the Federation have left me a bit cynical.” Katherine gave a thoughtful sigh. “We have goddesses on Renney, and the people there believe in them. A day does not go by that my Nana doesn’t offer her prayers and do her small rituals. When I was a child, they seemed to me to be wonderful, but when we went back there, so Nana could meet Terése, I was . . . almost embarrassed, I suppose. It seemed so backward and superstitious, and just a little silly. I would never suggest such a thing to her, of course. My Nana may be old, but she is still capable of reducing me to jelly without overly exerting herself.” Katherine chuckled. “After living in the Federation for years, observing and being exposed to dozens of religions—the followers of which all insist that theirs is the only true religion—well, it all started to seem ridiculous to me. It is very hard to go on believing in the power of goddesses when you have never seen one, and are surrounded by people who believe so many diverse and contradictory things.”

Marguerida did not answer, thinking about her own experiences. Her memory swept back to the moment when she married Mikhail, in the presence of Varzil the Good and another, the goddess Evanda. She had never doubted the actuality of that, but she found herself reluctant to share the experience with her new friend. It was a very personal remembrance, and even now, years after the fact, it was so awesome that she could not bring herself to speak of it to anyone except Mikhail.

At last she said, “The Darkovan mythology is fairly simple—two gods, two goddesses and no theology to speak of. They are more like forces of nature, invoked ceremonially on occasion, and otherwise not given much attention. There are other deities, lesser ones, as well. But I think that the general attitude of the people is that if the gods do not actively interfere in their lives, then they should just leave well enough alone.” She paused for a second. “Up in Nevarsin there is a cult called the cristoforos. Their beliefs are monotheistic and not shared by most of the people of Darkover, but they have been a center of learning for centuries. In the past, many of the sons of the Comyn were sent there to be educated—including Regis Hastur. That custom has faded in recent years, although Gisela’s oldest son, by her first marriage, went there and appears to have decided to join them. I can say, however, that there has never been a religious war on Darkover, although we have had several of the more ordinary sort.”

“What about those men at the funeral yesterday—weren’t they priests?”

“A good question, the answer to which is ‘not quite.’ The Servants of Aldones serve what on most worlds would be a priestly function, being the celebrants on certain important occasions, such as the Midsummer Festival. Where they differ from other religious bodies I have encountered is that they never tell the people what to believe or how to worship. There are no temples or churches on Darkover as you might know such places.”

“So what do they do when they are not officiating at funerals?”

“They keep vigil over certain artifacts in a little chapel in the rhu fead, an eternal flame and some other things I don’t know about. Yesterday was the first time I ever saw them in my life, even though I was the one who sent the message to them to come to Thendara.”

“But they do not have religious authority?”

“No, they don’t. For some reason I have never learned, the Darkovans have not developed a public religious structure. For them it is a private and almost a family matter.”

“Marguerida, have you ever noticed that you speak of the Darkovans as if they were another people, not your own?”

“Do I? Yes, I suppose I do. For all that I have lived here for nearly seventeen years, I still feel a bit removed, something of an alien. Or perhaps it is the habit of scholarship, that I tend to try to assess everything as objectively as I can. Except for music. All I have there is passion, and Mik gets slightly jealous sometimes.”

Katherine laughed. “Herm is the same about my painting, although he pretends otherwise. Once, when I was working in our apartment, the whole of which would almost fit into the studio space you gave me, and was staring at the canvas, trying to decide if a bit of vermilion would make the shadows better, he came in. I barely registered his presence, so after a few minutes, he cleared his throat and nearly scared me to death. ‘You never look at me like that,’ he said, and I wanted to clout him over the head, but I didn’t. He is right, you know. As much as I adore him, from the top of his shiny pate to his extremely well-formed feet, there is a part of me that belongs only to my work. He never has to worry about infidelity, but he does have a rival.”

“Yes. I know about that.” Marguerida let herself sigh into the wind. “I was writing an opera for Regis’ birthday when he died. I wanted to do something as grand as your ancestor’s The Deluge of Ys, using the legend of Hastur and Cassilda, which is a very famous song cycle here. Now I don’t know if I will ever be able to bring myself to complete it.” It cost her a great deal to admit this, but somehow speaking the words eased an ache in her chest she had not noticed until it left her. She remembered the freshly copied pages of score, and how the ink had flowed over them when Regis had his stroke.

“You must, Marguerida. If you don’t finish it, it will eat away at your guts and make you miserable.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I am an artist, and because I remember Amedi Korniel.”

“I’ve been wanting to ask you about him, but it never seemed the right time,” she answered, almost relieved that the topic had shifted away from gods and goddesses, or her feeling alienated on the world of her birth.

“Ask away—this is as good a time as any.”

“What was he like, and why did he stop composing in his sixties?”

“My great-uncle was a very cantankerous man, who had an opinion about everything. He was in his mid-eighties when I was born, and he died just before I left Renney. Nana adored him, he was her older brother, but even she found him maddening sometimes. He was a complete egotist, and thought the world should revolve around him. And he did not stop composing—just refused to let any of his work after Ys be performed. There are boxes of his compositions sitting in the Manse.”

“But why?” Marguerida’s heart leaped at the thought of these unpublished compositions by one of her favorite musicians, then sank as she realized that she would never have the opportunity to see them. Years before, she had resigned herself to never leaving Darkover again, and the desire to travel to other worlds had left her, but now she found herself aching to go to Renney and rescue the works of Amedi Korniel. She shook the feeling away sharply, but it lingered like the aftertaste of some bitter fruit.

“He was never satisfied with anything he did after the success of that opera, Marguerida. And it ate at him, like some terrible disease. He was paralyzed by the fear that his next work would not be as good. So learn from his mistake. Don’t let your music get corrupted by Regis’ death, or anything else!”

Marguerida was moved by the fervor in Katherine’s voice, and it gave her a sense of kinship as well. “I never realized until this second how much I have wanted another artist of some kind to talk to about . . . my work, Katherine. And you are right, of course, it would eat at me.” And then she realized it was more than just having similar drives. At last there was someone who understood her need for the music, for as much as Mikhail loved her, he had never been able to know that part of her mind. Even her friends in the Musicians Guild could not share the urgency of her work, regarding her only as a well-born amateur.

“I wish we could travel faster,” Kate said.

“If it were not for the wagons and carriages, we could. Mikhail and I covered the distance from the gates of Thendara to the ruins of Hali Tower in about four hours of hard riding, long ago, in the middle of the night, too, with a snowstorm coming in!”

“That sounds very exciting.”

“If being cold and terrified and under a compulsion is exciting, then yes, it was. Don’t fuss. We will get to Carcosa soon enough, and you can ring a peal over Herm’s head as much as you please.”

“And will you do the same with Domenic?”

“Probably not. I will just be so glad to have him back in my maternal clutches that I will forgive him. Except for this one instance, he has always been a very good boy.”

“That doesn’t surprise me, from my brief acquaintance at dinner that first time. He and Roderick are so different, aren’t they?”

“Yes, they are. There is something I have wanted to ask you, and not dared to, Kate.”

“Ask away.”

“What have you done to my sister-in-law? I was only half jesting when I wondered if you had bewitched her.”

“Well, in the first place, I haven’t done anything, except perhaps see her as a person instead of an Aldaran.” She hesitated, as if concerned she had been offensive. “When you are a portrait painter, you learn a great deal about people, because they will talk about themselves, even when I am trying to get their mouths down on canvas. So, I have been rather good at listening. And when Gisela took me to see Master Gilhooly, we talked during the journey, and I discovered that she was not a bad woman at all. She only needed to be heard without being prejudged because of her family.” Kate hesitated briefly. “I think you are right about my having a great deal of empathy, by the way. I’ve noticed that I seem to have a sixth sense about people that was always there, only I did not pay much attention to it, except to be aware of which people made me squirm and fidget. Gisela doesn’t, in the same way that Herm never did.”

“And being listened to reformed her?” Marguerida was amused and somewhat disbelieving.

Kate laughed. “No, I don’t think so. I gave her things to think about other than feeling unhappy about herself. And I believe that Mikhail coming to see Rafael and bringing him to that Council meeting was important as well. Giz really cares for Rafael, and she has felt perfectly miserable because she was the cause of his . . . estrangement from his brother.” She gestured ahead, to where Rafael Lanart was riding a horse length behind Mikhail. “That’s why Dom Damon hit her, you know.”

“What?”

“From what Gisela told me, her father put her up to mischief, years ago, because he wanted Mikhail and Rafael to be at odds although she did not know she was to deliberately estrange the two! And when he discovered that they no longer were, he took it out on her.”

“I am a fool! I should have guessed that something like that had happened! Of course, it all makes sense now!”

Kate shook her head. “I’m glad it does to you, because I am still rather in the dark. I don’t understand your ways yet, if I ever will. But I do grasp the fairly obvious—that my father-in-law had some intention of unseating Mikhail and putting Rafael in his place.”

“And Gisela walked right into his trap—poor woman.”

“My breda is not any sort of poor woman, Marguerida. She is just a very intelligent person who has had nowhere to put her energies except to cause trouble. And, I gather, Lady Javanne is in a similar position.”

“Yes, I believe that is true. You call her breda, and I think you mean it, in all its several possible interpretations. That is so remarkable to me, for you have only known her for a few days. And she is not an easy person to know, Kate. I still think you bewitched her.”

“No one is easy to know, Marguerida. But Gisela is not as difficult as you imagine—all she needs or wants is to be treated fairly. And I have not ensorcelled anyone. If I were going to do such a thing, Gisela would not have been my choice.”

“I have seen the way Herm looks at you, Kate.”

The other woman chuckled softly. “And I have seen the way Mikhail looks at you. That isn’t sorcery—it’s sex!”

Marguerida shook her head. “It has to be more than that!”

“Of course it is, but . . . well, I just think that you and Mikhail are a good match. I always thought that Herm and I were, too, but now I am starting to wonder if I just persuaded myself that I understood him.”

“I don’t know if men and women ever understand each other, Kate. But you are right that Mik and I are a fine match—like two halves of a whole.”

“Yes, that’s it. I noticed how you always stand on his right side, as if you need to be on that side and never on the other. Will you tell me what that is about?”

“Gisela didn’t tell you? I am surprised, and rather pleased at her discretion.” Marguerida took a deep breath. “Shortly after I returned to Darkover, I was forced to make a journey into the overworld, to destroy what remained of Ashara Alton, and when I did, I pulled the keystone from a tower she had made there, and it . . . imprinted itself on my left hand. And then, later, Mikhail and I went into the past, and when we returned, he had the ring of Varzil the Good, which he wears on his right hand. This has given us a particular ability to combine our matrix energies together, to do certain workings that I can’t describe to you.”

“The Overworld? Is that the realm of the gods or something?”

“Not that I know of. It is a place and not a place at the same time, and even though I have been there a few times, I still don’t even begin to understand it. And if the gods are there, no one has reported it.”

“Marguerida, tell me the truth. There is something more going on here than taking Regis’ body to this rhu fead. I can feel the tension in the mounted men, and in everyone else, including you. It feels like you are expecting a storm or something.”

“If I had never told you that you possessed a degree of empathy, you never would have gotten so sensitive, would you?”

“Probably not. What is it?”

“We have received some information that the forces of the Federation may try to attack the funeral train after we leave Carcosa.”

“I thought you expected an attack on Comyn Castle.”

“That too.”

“I see. And Hermes left the castle and went to this Carcosa village because he had heard of the plot?”

“Yes.” Marguerida was uncomfortable now, for keeping the truth from Katherine for so many days, and more, from her own reluctance to put the other woman into danger. Perhaps she could be persuaded to remain behind in the town.

“Well, that explains a great deal. No wonder Herm didn’t tell me anything. I would have thought about it certainly, and who knows who might have caught my worrying. I confess that I never thought how difficult it might be to keep a secret in a world full of telepaths. It is better that I didn’t know.” She paused and frowned. “Gisela didn’t know about this either, did she?”

“No, she didn’t, because at the time we were not sure that her father was not mixed up in the entire stupid mess.” Thinking of Dom Damon, Marguerida spoke with more feeling than she intended, letting her damped-down fury expose itself.

“And now?”

“Now we know that Dom Damon was not conspiring with Lyle Belfontaine, which is a great relief, because having another enemy in our midst is more than . . .”

“My father-in-law does not seem to be a very able plotter, Marguerida. He just seems like an ignorant man who hits women when he does not get his way.” She paused and looked ahead, at the men riding ahead of her, finally fixing her gaze on Francisco Ridenow. “That man in the green-and-gold tunic there wants watching, if you ask me. I’m sure I was introduced to him, but for some reason I can’t recall his name—only that he is a person who makes me very uncomfortable!”

Marguerida’s eyes widened at this comment. How had Kate, without real laran, discerned that Dom Francisco was a potential threat? And how was she going to persuade the woman to undergo testing? “Why him in particular.”

“Something about the way he sets his shoulders, and how he keeps looking at Mikhail with . . . rancor.”

Marguerida nodded in agreement and grimaced a little. “Yes, that is close to the mark. Dom Francisco imagines that he could possess my husband’s matrix and use it, that it rightly belongs to him because it was his ancestor’s.”

“But when Giz explained to me a bit about the matrices, she said they were keyed to individuals. Hermes wears this pouch around his neck, and always has, but until she told me, I never had any idea what was in it. I just knew that it was something I should not touch or pry into. I thought it was some sort of amulet, like those my people wear to keep the ghosts away. So, how can Francisco think he can use Mikhail’s, if he knows that matrices are fixed on a person? For that matter, if what Gisela told me is accurate, how can Mikhail have one that belonged to this other person, this Varzil fellow?”

“When Varzil passed his matrix on to Mikhail, he managed to incorporate Mikhail’s own starstone into it—don’t ask me how! I saw it with my own eyes and I still don’t understand it! It was as near to magic as anything I have ever seen.”

“What would happen if Francisco got hold of the thing?”

“I don’t know, but I think it would probably kill both him and Mikhail.”

“Does Francisco know that?”

“Yes, but he doesn’t believe it, Kate.”

When the party drew into the courtyard of the Crowing Cock just after midday, Marguerida was very glad to dismount and stretch her legs. She hadn’t ridden for any length of time in several years, and she found she was rather stiff. The insides of her thighs ached and she yearned for a hot bath, a long massage, and a clean bed to sleep on. More, she wished that she did not have to ride farther that day.

The yard was much too small to take in the entire funeral train, so most of the wagons and carriages pulled up outside the walls separating the inn from the street. Despite this, by the time the funeral wagon had been drawn inside, and the members of the Comyn and their Guards entered, the courtyard was crammed. Grooms rushed forward into the bustle and took the reins of the horses as their riders dismounted, and the ostlers were shouting at one another as they attempted to manage the near chaos.

Marguerida started toward the entrance and noticed there were black marks on the cobblestones beneath her feet. A faint smell of burning seemed to hang in the air, muted by the recent rain, but still noticeable. She was momentarily distracted by this and was caught unawares when a pair of arms excitedly encircled her waist.

“Mother!”

She turned in the embrace and looked down at her eldest child, still a few inches shorter than she was. His dark hair was unbound, as he preferred it, and his eyes shone with pleasure, as if he were as glad to see her as she was to see him. He looked none the worse for his adventures, and there was a new air of confidence about him she had not seen before. “Nico! You scamp!” Marguerida could not bring herself to scold him more than this, even though she had rehearsed a number of pungent sentences beforehand. A vast weight of anxiety lifted from her, and her heart felt ready to burst with delight. She let herself clutch him hard, pressing him against her chest, feeling the bones in his shoulders beneath his shirt and tunic.

“It was your own fault,” he answered, after giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

“My fault—how did you arrive at this remarkable conclusion?”

“If you had not told me I was dull and never gave you a moment’s worry, I might not have decided to go off on my own.”

Marguerida followed this entirely specious line of reasoning with amusement. She was so glad to have Domenic safe beside her that she would have agreed with almost anything. “Yes, I suppose I should be grateful that you did not decide to try to circle Comyn Castle along the rooftops.”

Nico laughed at this. “I might have, but I have no head for heights.” Then he drew away a little, as if anxious about something, and she noticed a rather scruffy-looking girl standing uneasily behind him. “I would like to present my friend Illona Rider, Mother. She has lived with the Travelers all her life, and can tell you all about them.” His tone combined a kind of pride and wariness at the same time.

For a moment Marguerida was a little puzzled as to what to make of this, and then she extended her right hand. “How do you do? I am Marguerida Alton-Hastur, and I am glad to meet any friend of my son’s.”

The girl looked at the offered hand for a moment, as if it were a snake, then took it gingerly and shook it briefly. To Marguerida’s eye, she seemed underfed and unprepossessing. Her wiry red hair stood out wildly from her skull, escaping from the wooden clasp at the back of her skinny neck, and her green eyes were too large for the thin face. The cloak she was wearing smelled of smoke and ash, and beneath it, the garments she wore seemed to have been made for a larger person. She gazed at Marguerida with a combination of fear and defiance that was disquieting, then lowered her eyes to the seared stones.

“I don’t know nearly as much as Domenic thinks,” Illona muttered gruffly, shuffling her feet under her.

“Well, whatever you know would interest me. I have been very curious about the Travelers since I saw their wagons for the first time sixteen years ago, and while my friend Erald has told me a few things, he is too obsessed with his music to pay attention to interesting details.” Who was this girl? Their brief physical contact had startled her, because she could sense the presence of laran in her rather strongly. And why, Marguerida wondered, was she wearing Nico’s old cloak, while he stood out in the chilly day in his tunic and shirtsleeves?

“Do you mean Erald the Balladeer? He went with us three summers ago, and I could not make heads or tails out of him,” Mona answered, relaxing slightly. “He hardly ate and never seemed to sleep, but only sat around plunking away at his instruments like a madman.”

“Yes, that’s him,” Marguerida answered, glad to find some common ground with her son’s new friend.

Someone came up behind her, and Marguerida recognized the familiar imprint of Dyan Ardais in her mind. He stepped beside her and looked at Domenic. “You look none the worse for your adventure, Nico.” He smiled at the young man in a friendly way, and then at his companion. Marguerida saw his eyes widen with surprise.

Does she remind you of someone, Dom Dyan?

Of all the . . . who is this, Nico?

The girl beside me is called Illona Rider, but it is my belief that you might have known her mother. There was a stern quality in the boy’s mental tone.

Dyan shifted from foot to foot and stared at the girl, who looked back at him rather fiercely. Marguerida wondered if she was overhearing the unspoken conversation, but from the expression on her face, decided she was not, quite deliberately. Illona was consciously keeping herself from overhearing anything by concentrating on the rabbithorns in a nearby enclosure. And what the devil was Nico up to? I did know a woman once, with hair like that . . .

Then I suspect Illona is your nedestra, Dom Dyan. Nico’s words sounded accusing, and Dyan turned red with embarrassment. She was found as a baby, in the ruins of a village that had been raided by bandits, and was saved from death by the Travelers. It was up in Ardais country, and she seems to have the Alton Gift, untrained but there, as near as I can tell, which made me thank of your own father, you see. Domenic was relentless now, and Marguerida could sense his steadfastness, his affection for this rather unprepossing girl, and his odd loyalty to her.

Perhaps. She is certainly the image of . . . Eduina MacGarret. But that doesn’t mean . . .

At least you can remember her name, among so many. Domenic gazed at Dyan, who at thirty-seven was still unmarried, and scandalously reknowned in the Comyn for the number of his illegitimate offspring.

Marguerida wanted to laugh at the situation, but she knew she had to put a stop to it. Nico!

I’m sorry, Mother, but I . . .

Yes, son. I understand. But this is neither the time nor the place for . . . a reunion. Does your little friend have any idea . . .?

I don’t think so—she can overhear a lot, even without a matrix, but she has learned how to block rather effectively. And she would happily leave her laran by the side of the road, if she could. She has been very upset, discovering that she has it, and if I hadn’t distracted her by teaching her to read these past couple of days, I thank she would have gone to pieces from grief and sheer terror.

So that is why you wanted the book—I have been racking my brains since I got your letter. Is she a good student?

Very. She is smart and fast. And I liked teaching her.

I am glad of that.

“Let’s get inside, out of the wind,” Nico said, looking less fierce now. Dyan Ardais was still standing there, looking uneasy and embarrassed, as if he did not know quite what to do next. Marguerida remembered their first meeting, years before, when he had come into her bedroom while she was recovering from her first episode of threshold sickness. His mother had sent him there to suggest that he might be a suitable spouse for her, and he had been awkward and miserable. In retrospect, it was still a funny experience, but Dyan had never been entirely at ease with women of his own class, and preferred the company of farmers’ daughters to those of the Comyn. He must have a dozen children up in the Kilghards by now, acknowledged only by generous gifts to the mothers. She suspected that the only reason he was embarrassed now was because Nico had found out about another one. And what would this girl think of the whole thing, when it was explained to her?

“That sounds like a good idea—you must be cold without your cloak, son.”

“Not really. Come along, Mother. Evan MacHaworth has a meal waiting, and I am sure you must be hungry after your ride.” He glanced over Marguerida’s shoulder and grinned. “I guess Domna Katherine is not going to kill Herm after all.”

Marguerida turned and looked behind her. Hermes Aldaran stood and lifted his hands to help Kate down from the saddle. When she did not move, he put his hands around her slender waist and swung her down beside him. The man’s face was pale in the watery sunlight, and there was a ruddyness in Katherine’s cheeks which might be anger or some tenderer emotion. “Gisela said I should box your ears,” she heard Katherine tell him in a strangled voice.

“That is the least I deserve,” her husband answered, sounding not at all contrite. “You are the most beautiful sight I have seen in days.”

“Save your charm for someone who wants it, Hermes-Gabriel Aldaran. I am not ready to forgive you yet.”

“I did not expect you to be, but I had hoped my letter . . .”

“Your letter does not get you off the hook.”

Apparently unaware of the interested gazes of several people, Herm considered his next words. Then, in Terran, he said, “ ‘Fie, fie, unknit that threatening unkind brow.’ “

“Hermes, that is my line, not yours,” Katherine answered in the same language, torn between amusement and despair in dealing with her unrepentant spouse.

“True—then, ‘Why, there’s a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate.’ “

“Oh, you are impossible!” Then, in front of the bemused view of the Comyn, only a few of whom had understood what they had said, she grabbed his ears, pulled him toward her, and gave him a firm buss on the mouth. Kate drew away, looking a little breathless and pink with pleasure. “Now, be good, and I might forgive you in a few years.”

This was too much for several in the crowd, and there was muffled laughter, which made both Herm and Kate look around and realize they were being watched. The woman turned quite red, but Herm just made a deep bow to the audience. Then Robert Aldaran stepped out of the throng and clasped his brother strongly.

“You haven’t changed much, bredu, except you have lost your hair and your waistline.” Herm chortled and thumped Robert across the shoulders.

Marguerida turned away from this reunion and told her son, “Food sounds very inviting. Where is Rafaella?”

“She is doing a bit of spying—I wanted to go with her, but Uncle Hermes said I could not.” Nico paused, then shrugged. “Actually, what he said was that if I was not here to meet you, Katherine would not have to murder him because you probably would instead. And since I am very fond of him . . .”

Marguerida had to laugh at this. “He was right. I have been extremely anxious to see you, and to know with my own eyes that you had not come to harm. The slow pace of the funeral train has nearly driven me mad.” She put one hand on Nico’s shoulder and the other on the girl’s and started toward the door of the inn. Dyan Ardais trailed along beside her, watching the girl with an unreadable expression on his face.

She seems like a very nice mother, and not at all like the stories about her. But she is probably just pretending. I wonder what it is like to have a real mother? She likely makes Nico go to bed early, and wash behind has ears. I hope she doesn’t bewitch me, as she did to her husband.

Marguerida caught these quiet musings unwillingly, and raised her eyebrows at the last. Was that what the common folk said about her? It had not occurred to her that she might be a subject of gossip until now, and she found it extremely unpleasant. If only they had not immured themselves in Comyn Castle for all these years, letting the imaginations of the populace run wild with who knows what! Well, they would just have to remedy that another day! She forced the problem out of her mind, away from the future and back into the present.

Mikhail was coming toward them, with Donal close behind him. He grinned broadly at the sight of his son and Domenic slipped from her grasp and stepped forward to meet his father. She watched as her husband’s blond head bent a little downward and Nico’s dark one looked up. “I am so glad to see you safe, Domenic.”

“Herm made sure I came to no harm, Father.” Something more passed between them, some unspoken words, and Marguerida saw her son’s rather serious face brighten.

Glancing over her shoulder, Marguerida watched Herm and Katherine again, wondering what was passing between them. It would have been easy to snoop, but she held her curiosity in check. She saw Kate shake a gloved forefinger in her husband’s face, and Hermes bow his head a little, so his bare scalp gleamed in the soft light. He looked so much like a naughty boy being scolded that she had to turn away quickly to hide the laughter that bubbled up involuntarily.

They entered the warm inn, and the smell of food swept around them. A smiling man came bustling from the rear of the building, wiping his hands on a white apron. He bowed and greeted them like old friends, not strangers, and turned to lead them into the dining room. The tables were laid with what were clearly the best linens, and the scene was so ordinary that she could hardly believe that after this meal, they were going to ride deliberately into an ambush.

She was going to worry herself into a fit if she didn’t stop thinking about it, Marguerida told herself firmly as she took off her cloak. She hung it on a peg, and the girl, Illona, did the same. She wondered why the girl was wearing her son’s cloak and frowned over the small mystery. Then she found herself thinking like an interferring mother, like Lady Javanne, concerned that her son had fallen in love with this scrawny girl who could not, no matter who her father was, be a proper consort for the future ruler of Darkover. She was stunned at herself for a second. When had she turned into such a snob?

Illona seemed to sense something of her thoughts, and turned very red, making the freckles on her pert nose stand out. .”All my things were burned up in the wagon, and Domenic lent me his cloak, domna, and one of MacHaworth’s daughters let me wear some of her things,” she said, trying to sound calm and not succeeding very well.

“Burned up? When was this?” Marguerida was suddenly furious, her pleasure of a moment before gone. She realized that her father and husband, with the very best intentions in the world, had not told her everything that had happened in Carcosa. She glanced at Mikhail, and he had the grace to look uncomfortable. Forgive me, caria—you had a great many other things to worry about, and I could not bear to add to it.

Dammit, Mik!

The girl flinched, catching the edge of her anger and mistaking its direction. She began to shiver all over. “Three nights ago, when we did this play that made . . . it was terrible. The people got upset, and they attacked our wagons, and my aunt Loret was killed, and . . . don’t be angry with me!” Tears began to course down Illona’s face, as if she had been holding back for days, and could no longer control herself.

Marguerida did not respond at once. She was aware that there had been some sort of ruckus, and she now understood the marks on the cobblestones and the slight smell of ash outside. She even knew that several people had died and others had been injured. She had not really cared, because all that had mattered to her was that her son was safe. Until that moment, the whole thing had been rather abstract and distant. Now she felt the full force of the event, and saw the human face of the tragedy. Her heart ached for this child who had lost the only family she had ever known. Dyan Ardais, if he was Illona’s father, as seemed very likely, would not be able to step into the void left by the death of Loret. He had never taken the least interest in any of his numerous offspring, and she did not think he was going to start now.

Marguerida reached out and took Illona into her arms, and let the girl sob into her chest. “No one is angry at you, dear child.” She stroked the coarse hair gently. All the emotions the girl had held in check flooded through her, a bundle of terrors and experiences that shocked her. It was a great muddle of memory and feeling, all held together by the fear of what would happen to her now.

After several minutes, Illona’s weeping began to subside, and she hiccupped a few times. Marguerida dug into her beltpouch and produced a serviceable handkerchief. The girl took it, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose fiercely. She started to hand back the soiled cloth, then turned red. “I really messed up your nice hanky,” she muttered, hunching her shoulders and trying to make herself very small.

“That is what they are for,” Marguerida answered calmly. “It will get washed and be as good as new.” She reached out, without really thinking, and patted the wan face, as she would have done with her daughter or Alanna Alar. Illona flinched. “I am not going to hurt you, child.”

“They say your hands are . . .”

“Oh, that. Only one hand,” she answered, lifting the left one, “and only when I will it to be dangerous. You are perfectly safe, I promise.”

When she had held Illona, she had felt the fear coursing beneath the natural grief. The girl was like a half-wild animal, unlike anyone Marguerida had ever encountered before, and her laran seemed very powerful, if completely untrained. She knew, from that contact, that the young woman was terrified of going into a Tower, that she believed the leroni did unspeakable things there. She looked into the sharp face, rather grubby from weeping, and wondered what she was going to do with her. Then she chided herself for assuming she was going to do anything whatever—it was not her responsibility at all.

Let Dyan see to her. A quick glance at the Ardais man made her realize immediately what a stupid notion that was. And somehow she could not imagine Lady Marilla being able to handle this particular girl. Marguerida sighed. She really did not need another foster-child, but she knew, almost as if she had experienced the Aldaran Gift once more, that she was probably going to have one.

“Nico told me you were nice,” the girl said gruffly, “but I just thought he was speaking as a son. I didn’t really believe him. But, maybe you are, and you won’t seal me up in a room and make me . . .”

Marguerida waited for her to complete her sentence, and then realized that the girl could not bring herself to say the words that rested in her mind. “No one is going to shut you up anywhere.”

Oddly, this seemed to satisfy Illona, for her taut shoulders relaxed slightly, and she sniffed into the hanky again. Then her vivid green glance darted around the room, until it found Domenic, now standing between his father and Herm Aldaran in front of the fireplace, and something of a smile began to play across her generous lips. Kate was standing behind Herm, her face relaxed at last, and Robert Aldaran and Donal were just a step away from the group, the paxman vigilant and the man reflective.

Marguerida followed her look, and studied the tableau. After a moment she realized there was something strained in the set of Mikhail’s shoulders, and knew that something was disturbing him.

Mik, what’s the matter?

I am having a bout of envy, caria. Look at Nico! See how he looks at Herm, and tell me I have nothing to feel jealous of.

Yes, dearest. I see it now. He left us a boy, and now he is really a man, and he regards Herm with the sort of intimacy you have never had with him. You would have to be inhuman not to feel wretched.

That is it, I suppose. I feel I just missed something very important in my son’s life something I should have been present for.

And how many of your important passages did Dom Gabriel miss because of Regis?

There is that, damn you. Don’t you understand that you are not supposed to point out unpleasant things to me when I am upset? There was an undertone of humor in the thought.

Yes, I do, but as your mother so often points out, I am not a suitable wife.

Well, she can’t witness this event, and for that I am very grateful. And he is safe and strong, and filled with a confidence I doubted I would ever find in him, so I guess I should be pleased. Later perhaps.

Marguerida held back a laugh at her husband’s expense. She felt, for a moment, lighthearted. She had her firstborn back, and he seemed none the worse for whatever adventures he had had. If only they were not riding into the jaws of an ambush in a few hours, she would have been entirely content. But they were, and her momentary pleasure left her, and all the worries flooded back again.

She sat down on a long bench beside one of the tables and gestured to Illona to sit beside her. The girl did, just as Dom Gabriel, who had been riding, to his fury, in one of the carriages, stamped into the room. His leg no longer allowed him to ride on horseback for any length of time, and he resented the infirmity enormously. Marguerida saw him take in the group before the fireplace in a quick glance, and then he came and sat down next to her. There was something very solid and comforting in his presence these days, and she was glad that the old man was on her side, as well as that he was so long reconciled with Mikhail.

“Stop your fretting, Marguerida. It won’t do a drop of good, and will just tire you out,” Dom Gabriel told her sternly. Then he smiled, his eyes almost disappearing in the wrinkles of his face. “Now, introduce me to this young woman, will you.”

Marguerida had almost forgotten about Illona for a moment, and realized that the girl was a little overwhelmed by so many noble strangers. “Certainly—Illona, this is my father-in-law, Dom Gabriel Lanart. Dom Gabriel, this is Illona Rider, a friend of Nico’s.”

“Illona—that’s a pretty name. Here, come sit beside me, girl. I am a little deaf these days, and I want you to tell me all about yourself.” The older man smiled genially, and to Marguerida’s surprise, the young woman grinned back at him.

She could sense Illona’s fear start to recede, as if she found Dom Gabriel unthreatening. Well, he was very good with Yllana and with Rafael’s daughter. She slid off the bench, circled around, and sat down on his other side, still clutching the soiled handkerchief in her hands. It took her a moment to realize that the girl was relieved to put a little distance between herself and Marguerida. She sighed. Her life had been so much simpler when she was just Ivor Davidson’s faithful assistant, and she spent an indulgent moment thinking of that part of her past.

Then serving boys started to bring out platters of food, and she found her mouth watering. She had worked up quite an appetite, in spite of her worries, and Dom Gabriel was right. Marguerida swung her long legs over the bench, reached for a tankard of ale, and grinned fiercely. There was nothing she could do about the future except meet it—but not just yet.