The Alton Gift (3 page)

The journey to Thendara passed uneventfully, except for the expected miseries of travel in early spring. Most days, rain lashed down, but there was little snow, and Domenic and his party were able to find an inn or travel shelter each night. The horses, accustomed to harsh weather, plodded on stoically, with lowered heads and tails clamped against their rumps. The wagon carrying Javanne's casket got bogged down in the mud several times, prolonging the journey.

Yet, through the damp and chill, Domenic heard a silver-bright melody. Men and beasts might shiver, but the land itself rejoiced in the fluid dance of seasonal renewal.

In the hills, they skirted blackened areas where forest fires had raged the previous year, abandoned orchards, stunted hedgerows, empty livestock pens, and farm houses whose roofs had fallen in. Here the wordless song of the land twisted, turning harsh, like the groaning of a living creature in pain.

As they came down into the Lowlands, they met travelers bent under heavy burdens, sometimes whole families with little children. Domenic asked the Guardsman why these people were on the road in such

weather. The Guard shook his head and said they were most likely seeking work in Thendara.

The party clattered into the outer courtyard of Comyn Castle late in the morning. The great stone walls provided a little shelter, but it had been raining steadily since sunrise, the wind gusting in slashes of sleet, and they were nearly soaked through. Mud spattered the animals up to their knees. The porter, who had been sheltering in an arched doorway that looked as if it dated from the days of Varzil the Good, called out a greeting.

A moment later Domenic's father, Mikhail Lanart-Hastur, emerged from the doorway, flinging on a thick cloak. In his late forties, Mikhail still had the same strong shoulders, the same body kept trim by regular sword practice, the same penetrating blue eyes. Silver hairs now frosted the pale gold, and lines of care bracketed his mouth. The skin around his eyes held shadows, like hidden bruises.

At Mikhail's shouted orders, grooms rushed about, unharnessing and attending to the horses, wagon, and baggage. His voice sounded hoarse against the rattle and clatter of wagon wheels and shod hooves on the paving stones.

Domenic kicked his feet free from the stirrups, slid to the ground, and handed the reins to a waiting groom. He turned, to be caught up in his father's hard embrace.

"Son, it's good to have you back with us again. Thank you for bringing her home."

Through the brief contact, Domenic sensed the depth of his father's grief. Whatever she had done in later life, this woman had borne him, nursed him, sung to him… loved him.

Memories, like motes of firelit poignancy, flashed from Mikhail's mind into Domenic's…

Mikhail lying snug beneath his blankets on his cot, with an infants drowsy awareness of the rhythms of the house around him
…

Edelweiss
, Domenic thought, recognizing the indelible character of the place,
but long ago
.

Voices, edged with emotions beyond young Mikhail's understanding
…
his mother
…
a stranger
…

"One thing more, sister," the man said. "I go where I may never return. You must give me one of your sons for my heir."

Javanne uttered a low, stricken cry. "Come then. Regis, and choose
. . ."

Hands lifted Mikhail. A face bent over him…

"
Once I take this oath," Regis said, "he is not jours but mine
...
and this claim may never be renounced by me while I live
…"

Later, while Mikhail lay, restless and yearning, his ears caught the sound of weeping in the night.

From that moment, baby Mikhail ceased to be only the youngest of three sons of Gabriel and Javanne. He became a Hastur in his own right, the heir to Regis, the Domain, and the Regency of the Comyn. And so was Domenic, his oldest son.

Domenic looked into his father's eyes, his heart too full to speak. He understood why Mikhail had never lashed back at Javanne and why she had turned on him, of all her sons.

A shadow passed over Mikhail's features, still handsome but blurred, as if the spirit that burned so brightly within him were momentarily dimmed. Creases now marked the once-smooth brow and bracketed the generous mouth; the hollows of eye socket and cheekbone held intimations of age. Had the last three years, when Domenic had rarely been home for more than the briefest holiday visits, weighed so heavily upon his father?

Not just three years. Three years of being Regent in the wake of the departure of the Terran Federation.

"Go on, get yourself inside," Mikhail urged Domenic. "You're soaked through. When you're warm and dry, go greet your mother. I'll be a time making sure the casket is placed in proper state."

The Guardsmen went off to their own quarters. Domenic gave each of the Edelweiss servants a small purse of silver. Then he made his way through the labyrinth of halls and corridors to his own chamber in the family suite. This part of the Castle had always seemed to him an accretion of centuries of architectural styles, all jumbled together. The stone stairs had been worn in the middle, polished by generations of feet. Here and there, a newer wall hanging or a panel of translucent blue stone brightened the passageway. At last, Domenic reached the familiar archway leading to the family quarters.

His father was right, he was wet through to his skin. The brief
laran
contact had drained him even further. Any moment now, he would start shivering. He did not want to face his mother without a bite to eat,

a bath and shave, and a change of clothing. A drink might not be a bad idea, either. In this frame of mind, he hurried down the corridor, head down, slapping his sodden riding gloves against his thigh.

"Domenic!" Alanna Alar burst from an opened door and threw her arms around his neck. He smelled her faintly floral perfume, felt her silken cheek against his.

"Alanna! Don't hug me! I'm drenched and filthy from the trail. You'll ruin your gown!"

Alanna' met Domenic's gaze with a disconcerting directness. He had seen her but little in the last three years. Somehow, in the time they'd been apart, she had changed from a pretty child into a beauty, with hair like spun copper and startling green eyes beneath dark, sweetly arched brows. He noticed a hint of shadow between the curves of her breasts at the neckline of her gown, her slender waist, her skin like velvet.

"Never mind about the dress!" she said, pouting a little. "Aren't you happy to see me? I've missed you so much!"

Something inside Domenic, some knot of tension, loosened. He and Alanna had been playfellows since they were young children, when she had come to live with his family. Her own mother had been too insecure and neurotic, not to mention utterly lacking in
laran
, to deal with a strong-willed, tempestuous daughter, so Marguerida had offered to foster the child. Domenic had taken the disconsolate girl under his wing, and he soon became closer to her than to his own siblings.

Domenic kissed Alanna's cheek. "I've missed you, too. I sent word—you must have heard—Grandmother Javanne died."

Alanna's cheerful expression faltered. Javanne and Gabriel were her grandparents as well as his, for her mother was Mikhail's younger sister.

"I ought to be sorry," she said, lowering her gaze but not sounding at all sad, "but I hardly knew Grandmother Javanne. She certainly made Auntie Marguerida's life miserable, and she wasn't very nice to you. I couldn't believe you went to stay with her when you didn't have to."

Domenic hesitated to remind her that Javanne's irritability and suspiciousness was not her own fault but an effect of her illness. It was too complicated to explain, and he didn't have the energy for a lengthy

discussion. He remembered, too, how little grief Alanna had shown after the death of Regis Hastur, who had always been gentle and kind to her.

"It was the right thing to do," he said, "and we made our peace in the end."

Alanna slipped her hand into his. Her fingers felt smooth and soft. "Come on. We've only got a little while before Auntie Marguerida hears you're back."

As they walked toward his chamber, she told him about the latest street opera, a retelling of the adventures of Durraman's infamously recalcitrant donkey. Domenic remembered the times they had hidden in various places in the castle, the secret games they had shared, acting out tales of bandits or Dry Towners. Once, when they were about ten, she'd dressed in his jacket and breeches and announced she was going to cut her hair and run away with the Free Amazons.

Regretfully, he pulled his hand free. "Our reunion will have to wait. I must make myself presentable for my parents."

"So?" She turned back to him, eyebrows lifted like the slender wings of a rainbird in flight. For an instant, he felt as if he were drowning in the celadon light of her eyes.

"So," he said, trying not to blush, "no young woman of good reputation should be alone with a man who is not her husband, especially in his own chamber.
Especially
if—in case you hadn't noticed—I am in sore need of a bath and a shave."

Rosy color seeped across Alanna's cheeks and throat. Her eyelids, fringed with amazingly long lashes, half lowered, and her blush intensified. Domenic thought she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.

"Please," he began, suddenly desperate to say something, "after I'm cleaned up, I must go to my mother. I'd very much appreciate your company."

"I will look for you afterward, but don't ask me to go in. Auntie Marguerida is expecting you, not me."

"Oh, Alanna, we are all family! You will not be intruding."

"It's not that…" Her eyes darkened, and she bit her lower lip. "I would not spoil your homecoming."

"Alanna—cousin—what is the matter?"

She gave a little, careless laugh. Domenic heard the forced quality, as if she were trying to put on a brave face for him. "She does not—we do not… she is always telling me… No, I will say no more. You are here, and everything will be better now, I promise."

With a smile that sent a curious sensation through Domenic's stomach, Alanna hurried away.

Domenic emerged from his chamber clean and smooth-cheeked, wearing a suit of butter-soft suede dyed in Hastur blue and trimmed with silver braid, and made his way to the small office that his mother kept in her own suite of rooms. A lively fire warmed the hearth and scented the air with the familiar, comforting fragrance of balsam. An uneven tapestry, his sister Yllana's work, hung in a place of honor on the paneled walls, but otherwise the chamber with its cheerful carpet and lovingly tended furniture was exactly as he remembered it. Through the far door Domenic glimpsed his mother's specially built clavier.

Marguerida sat at her usual desk, piled with papers and opened books. Although she'd borne three children, now young adults, only a faint tracery of lines between her brows betrayed her years. Her hair was still a mass of silky flame-red curls, her eyes a curious golden color. She wore a gown of soft ivory wool, draped high on the neck for warmth, the skirts swinging from a gracefully dropped waist, and a matching embroidered glove on her left hand. The glove, hemmed with a tracery of satin-stitched flowers, was so much a part of her dress that Domenic could not imagine her without it. It insulated the psychoactive matrix embedded in her palm, the strange remainder of an Over-world battle before he was born. Domenic had seen it unveiled only once, at the Battle of Old North Road.

With a cry of delight, Marguerida came toward him. "Nico, my darling! Mik sent a servant to let me know you'd arrived. Here you are, home at last!"

Domenic returned his mother's embrace. "I'm sorry I was delayed. The weather was terrible, and it always takes longer to travel with a large party. Grandfather Gabriel sends his regards, but is too frail to make the journey this early in the season."

A strange expression passed over Marguerida's golden eyes. Domenic sensed the quick succession of her emotions—sadness tinged with relief at Javanne's passing, concern for her husband's grief, compassion for the old man who had been kind to her when she had returned to Darkover as a young woman and found herself caught up in the whirlwind politics of the Comyn.

"We will miss him," she said, "but it is better that he stay where he can be cared for. We have had enough deaths in the family."

She gestured to the divan that had been drawn up before the hearth. The two of them settled comfortably in the sphere of the fire's warmth.

"And
Domna
Javanne… ?" Marguerida asked. "You were able to say your farewells with an easy heart?"

"I believe she was at peace at last," Domenic said. "I read to her from one of your books, to ease her pain."

"Did you, indeed?" She looked pleased.

"She especially liked the song about the delfin prince and the pearl-diver's daughter."

"Javanne's passing marks the end of an era," Marguerida said thoughtfully. "Each year there are fewer left of that generation. My father, of course, and Old Gabriel."

"And Danilo Syrtis-Ardais," Domenic added.

"Yes, although he keeps so much to himself these days, I see very little of him. He took the death of Regis very hard. I'm afraid he may never get over the loss. And then Lady Linnea… since you were last at home, she left us for Arilinn Tower. She was trained as a Keeper when she was very young, you know, and gave it up to marry Regis. The work will give her a sense of purpose, and trained
leroni
are still so few that she will make a valuable contribution. But here we are, gossiping like a couple of old hens!"