The Alton Gift (31 page)

"At the risk of becoming tedious, let me explain further," Francisco said. "Mikhail and Marguerida, together and separately, have violated our most fundamental ethical laws regarding the use of
laran
. If they are not stopped, the situation can only degenerate into tyranny. We fought that battle during our Ages of Chaos, when the king with the mightiest
laranzu'in
defined justice according to his own will. My ancestor, Varzil the Good, the greatest of us all, brought an end to that era of despotism through the Compact."

Francisco got up, gesturing as he paced. "Once more, Darkover stands on the brink of dark times. We need a leader, someone with both the vision and the moral authority to forge a new alliance."

"You mean yourself ?" Jeram prickled at Francisco's unabashed egotism, but at the same time, the Ridenow lord exuded an almost hypnotic charisma.

"I will not abuse your ears with protestations of false modesty." Pausing before the fireplace, Francisco turned back, so that his form was silhouetted against the flames and his features cast into

shadow. "I've known for a long time that I was destined to lead my people."

Jeram sat back in his chair, aware that Liam was listening carefully, with that focused attention. The blond man stood easily, weight balanced on both feet. His body blocked the door.

"—but I lacked the trappings of legitimacy. We are a culture bound by tradition, by honor codes, by symbols. Some years ago, in an act of unbridled greed, Mikhail seized the ring of Varzil Ridenow, a token of moral and political authority. You may not know how the Domains have deteriorated in the last few years. His shadow touches everyone, and with each passing season, fewer dare to stand against him. But with that ring, I could step into my ancestor's shoes. I could lead Darkover back to its greatest age!"

Seating himself once more, Francisco leaned forward. "Until now, the usurper has blinded the Council against all reason. They cannot see what he and his sorceress wife have been doing. She has bewitched them all, bent them to her will, even as she once tried to enslave me."

Francisco's passionate words filled the room. His eyes glowed with dark fire. Jeram found himself drawn in by the man's single-minded zeal, his ardor, his certainty.

"Now, at last, I have the key to open their eyes!
You
are my key!
You
will stand beside me in the Crystal Chamber. They cannot ignore your testimony. Don't you see, you have been sent to me so that I may fulfill my destiny!"

With an effort, Jeram pulled free of the magnetic lure of Francisco's words. He shook his head. "I'm sorry, you'll have to fight your own battles. I don't have anything against you, but all I want is to clear my name and go home to Rock Glen. I don't want to hurt Lew or his family."

I've done enough harm for one lifetime.

"Surely you must see the importance of my cause! I am not talking about petty politics but the future of all the Domains! You are Dark-ovan by choice—what happens concerns you, too!"

It was too late to back down now. "No, it's not my fight."

"Do you think yourself immune? I tell you, if this evil is not stopped now, chaos will rampage from Dalereuth to the Hellers, as it did millennia ago!"

"I know Lew Alton," Jeram said stubbornly. "I cannot believe that anyone he trusts the way he trusts his daughter could be so vile. I think we've said all we have to say to one another."

Jeram got to his feet and glanced at Liam, still on guard in front of the door. He drew a deep breath and his pulse sped up, his muscles preparing for action. Now, he would find out just what lengths Francisco would go to to hold him here.

For a moment Francisco looked as if he were going to continue the argument. Then his face relaxed and he raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. "I see that I cannot persuade you. At least, I have done my utmost. Clearly, you are a man who answers to his own conscience, as do I. Surely, we can respect each other even when we differ. I would not have us part with any lingering animosity from our little discussion tonight. Liam, bring us more wine. The special reserve, if you please."

"I believe that you are sincere,
Dom
Francisco," Jeram said, a little surprised at how easily Francisco had given in. Perhaps Jeram had misjudged him. Regretfully, he added, "I am sorry I cannot help you."

A moment later, Liam slipped back into the room with a decanter of garnet-bright wine.

"Come, let us drink once more, as friends," said Francisco.

Since it would have been ungracious to refuse, Jeram nodded. Francisco filled his goblet. The wine, unspiced, was just below room temperature, richly complex, mingling the tastes of fruit, sunshine, and wild mountain spring water. Jeram had no idea that Darkover could produce such a sophisticated vintage.

Sipping their wine, they talked for a little while longer. Francisco offered Jeram housing for the night, since the rain was still coming down hard. Jeram refused, having spent enough time under Francisco's roof.

When Jeram rose to leave, his legs felt strangely unsteady beneath him. The room had come unhinged from its moorings. He could no longer follow what Francisco was saying.

Jeram's stomach twisted and dizziness shivered over him, disturbingly reminiscent of his threshold sickness. He tried to stand. The floor seemed to heave up under him. Distantly, he felt his knees buckle and his body fold up like a child's paper fan.

The last thing he remembered was Liam standing beside him, a

galaxy away, and Francisco's voice… something about
kireseth
fractions… acting only on those with
laran
…

"He'll speak the truth, all right…" Francisco's voice echoed weirdly. "… when and where I command… Marguerida's days of glory are over, and she will drag Mikhail down with her…"

Look! There's Thendara at last!" Illona, who had ridden a little ahead of the others, stood up in her stirrups for a better view. Her mount, one of the sturdy, shaggy-maned mountain horses from Nevarsin, shook its head, sending the bridle rings jingling in the crisp air. "I can see Comyn Castle and the Terran Headquarters!"

They had taken advantage of the lengthening days to press on, climbing the pass, and now looked down the long slopes to the valley where the old city sat like a faded jewel. Spires and towers of pale stone, set with the translucent blue panels so loved by Darkovans, glimmered in the sun. Over the centuries since the spaceport was first built, the Federation edifices had lost their hard lines and pristine whiteness, softening in the accumulation of seasons. At the same time, a sprinkling of newer Darkovan mansions had been modeled on the stark architecture of the Terran Zone, so that the differences between the two cultures blurred. Even so, the ancient stone Castle remained defiantly untouched by the passage of time.

While they were on the road, Illona's exuberance, as if she were on some wondrous adventure, had infected Domenic. They had made love with the fevered, fragile urgency of a candle burning to its very

end. Every glance, every touch, every moment together became infinitely precious, because it might be their last.

He regretted, too, the end of the special joy of traveling through mountains, ragged hills, and sloping pastures, where the ever-changing textures of rock and soil, water and sky, sang through his
laran
.

Now, as they neared the end of their journey together, Domenic dreaded their arrival. Illona would leave him to take her place with the other Keepers for the historic first meeting of their Council, and he… he would return to his own life, the politics of the Comyn, and the Regency.

And Alanna.

Domenic's heart plummeted. Never again would he be free to laugh simply because Illona did, or to look at her with his heart in his eyes. Aldones only knew how he was going to hide his true feelings from his mother. He couldn't very well go through his days with a telepathic damper strapped to his belt. He would simply have to rely upon the politeness of a telepathic society and his own meticulously honorable behavior.

Alanna would guess. Oh, gods, what could he tell her? That he had given his heart to another woman? Yet how could he lie? How could he hurt her in that way?

She was his promised bride. They had been friends since she had first arrived at Castle. He had loved her as a playfellow, a cousin, and yes, for a time, as a desirable young woman.

Was there any hope, any way through this tangle? Would Alanna agree to return to Arilinn in the hope of someday being able to enjoy normal sexual intimacy? No, that was only half the problem. Would
he
ever be able to think of her in that way, after what he had shared with Illona?

He could not dishonor his pledge to Alanna, and he did care for her. He would not willingly cause her pain.

It was said that in the ages before memory, group marriages were not uncommon among the Comyn, and in the openness of shared love, jealousy was rare. Even today, many men of his class kept
barra-ganaSy
uncensured as long as they were discreet.
Nedestro
children were often legitimated. Domenic had even heard of friendships between wives and mistresses, but Alanna, he knew, would never consent. She

was too insecure, too tempestuous, to tolerate a rival. And his mother—he could not imagine her accepting such a thing.

Domenic's horse now drew even with Illona's. She turned to him, her expression grave. Behind her eyes, he felt her own anguish. Her dignity and courage touched him deeply. They had no choice; they must go on, apart.

"We always knew this time would come,
carlo mio"
she said with a trace of sadness. "Do not mar the memory of what we had with regret."

"Since you ask it," he answered, forcing a smile, "I will try."

They let their horses rest, breathing noisily, as Grandfather Lew and the rest of their escort caught up with them. Thus ended their last possibility of intimate conversation. Their journey was almost over, with the walls and towers of Thendara within sight.

Lew drew his horse to a halt beside them. Since they had first set out from Nevarsin, his spirits had seemed freer, his mood lighter, than Domenic could remember.

Looking toward Thendara, Domenic said, "I can never decide whether it is hideous or beautiful, this mixture of worlds."

"Whatever it is," Lew said, "we must make our peace with it. Darkover can never return to what it once was. For good or ill, the Federation has left its mark on us."

Can never return
… Domenic repeated silently.
I am not the same person who set out on this very road. I have not jet found my true place in the world, but I am nonetheless moving Irrevocably toward it. There Is no looking back
.

Lew proceeded down the incline, letting his horse pick its own pace. Domenic and Illona took their places in the middle of the convoy. This deep into Hastur lands, they no longer traveled in a tightly defended formation. Twice along the road from Nevarsin, however, they had been attacked by desperate, lawless men, too ragged and ill-armed to be rightly termed
bandits
.

"What's this?" The captain signaled a halt and pointed below.

Outside the nearest gates, on either side of the road, an irregular encampment sprawled around an old, broken-down well. Domenic made out tents, rude sheds, and a cluster of livestock. The place looked for all the world as if a disorderly, ragtag army had set up outside the city.

Domenic shivered.
We will have to pass through it
.

They have made a city unto themselves here
, Illona sent the thought to him.
When winter comes, as it must, what will they do
?

"We'd better see what's going on." Lew nodded to the captain. "Prepare yourselves in the event of trouble."

"We will go cautiously,
vai dom
." The captain motioned for his men to take up defensive positions. Swords ready, they proceeded downhill. Domenic's mare tucked her hindquarters for balance, stepping carefully along the steep trail.

Illona dropped the hood of her traveling cloak over her shoulders, so that her flame-bright hair was readily visible. She looked very much a Keeper, so much the better. In some parts of the Domains, Domenic had seen,
leroni
were still treated with superstitious awe.

They had not gone very far through the outskirts of the encampment when they attracted attention. Men in farmers' smocks or mountain furs emerged from their tents to stare.

As they went on, Domenic felt increasingly nervous. More men, and some hard-faced women too, gathered around the sides of the road. None bore any visible weapons, but many carried stout walking staves, and a few had axes, pitchforks, or other implements. So far, no one had made any threatening move, yet the mood was unmistakably strained, growing ever more so with each passing moment.

A few men pointed to Illona's red hair and murmured, "
Leronis
!"

Their horses responded to the rising tension, jigging and dancing sideways. Domenic's hands sweated on the reins. Even Lew's normally sweet-tempered gelding tossed its head, ready to lash out. Only Illona sat easily in her saddle, in perfect control, as her mountain pony trudged along.

A man, young and black-haired, stepped onto the road, blocking their path. He carried a long stick, its tip fire-hardened into a point. A handful of others moved into position behind him. From every side, more people drew in on them.

The captain nudged his prancing mount forward. "Good people, what are you doing here, gathered on the road? What is going on?"

"It's just as Liam told us!" someone muttered. "The Comyn know nothing! They don't care!"

"Comyn!" One of the men barked out the word as if it were a curse. "I say, down with the lot of them!"

"Watch your tongue, man!" the captain said, lifting his sword.

"Get back, you fool!" said another in the crowd. "They've got a
lero-nis
with them! She'll blast you into cinders as you stand!"

Domenic grasped the hilt of his sword, cold and heavy. He had never used it in earnest, to kill. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he could. These were his own people, men he had sworn to serve. There had to be a better way out of the confrontation than bloodshed!

A man spat on the road. Domenic's horse, at the limit of her temper, reared and lashed out, but her hooves met only empty air. The nearest men scrambled back.

It was a respite only, Domenic knew. The air tasted of unspent lightning. He hauled on the reins, wrestling the mare back under control. She sidestepped and lashed her tail in protest.

"HOLD!"

A voice, raucous as the cry of a great-winged
kyorebni
, cracked the air. The sky reverberated with it. Every nerve in Domenic's body shrilled in response. His horse stood like a carven statue except for the heaving of her ribs. The crowd paused, suddenly irresolute.

A single rider moved to the fore, the horse haloed in blue-white laran-generated fire. For an instant, Domenic did not recognize his grandfather, sitting so tall and strong, as if the hand of Aldones, Lord of Light, were upon him. His riding cloak whipped back from his shoulders.

Noises flooded Domenic's hearing—the clatter of shod hooves, II-lona's bitten-off cry, a muted outcry from the crowd.

"It's Lord Alton himself!"

"No, I heard he was dead—"

"Lord Alton!"

They drew back, some of them bowing or touching their foreheads.

"Enough," Lew said in his normal hoarse voice. "Captain, have your men lower their swords. These people are not our enemies. You there! If you have a grievance against the Comyn, let me know what it is, and I will do what I can to help you."

The black-haired man rose from where he had fallen to his knees. "I've heard of you, Lord Alton, that you stood against Sharra in my father's time. Everyone says you are a man of honor, that you never break your word."

A shudder went through Lew's body. His horse moved restively beneath him. "What aid do you ask of us? What has driven you from your homes to the gates of Thendara?"

A sigh passed over the crowd. Like the breaking wave of a storm, their stories tumbled out. Grimly, Domenic listened. Despite all the work of the Council during the last year, the plight of these country people had not improved. One sorrow built upon another—flood or drought or fire, crops and herds sickening. Most of it seemed no worse than the normal cycle of bounty and famine, with all the troubles of scratching a life out of harsh land. They had come to Thendara seeking work, loans to buy new seed and livestock, or for relief from taxes or any of the hundred legal difficulties that arose from misfortune.

Domenic exchanged glances with his grandfather. The burst of
laran
energy had almost faded, leaving Lew's face pale. His scars stood out like traces of lightning across his skin.

"An office has been set up in the Administrative Building," Domenic said. "You can bring your petitions there, so that they may be directed to the proper authorities, even the Council itself."

"Your pardon, young lord, but the last man of us who tried that has gone and disappeared," one man said.

"And those before him were turned away!" someone else added.

"Surely, not all," Domenic said, surprised. "Any worthy case must be heard—"

"That's what Jeram believed," the man retorted, "and now, for all we know, he sits rotting in a prison cell."

"If he's not dead already!" one of the women added, shaking her fist.

"If there's no justice for Jeram, what hope is there for the rest of us?" another voice demanded.

"Wait!" Illona cried. The simmering crowd fell back, muttering and averting their eyes. A few made warding signs against ill luck. "Jeram— do you mean Jeram of Nevarsin?"

The black-haired youth nodded. "That's where he said he was from, or nearabouts."

Domenic said to Lew, "Could this be the same Jeram I met?"

"I fear it is," Lew said. "The story fits." He pointed to the youth. "Good man, tell me what happened to our friend."

"
Vai dom
, he went into Thendara to petition for a hearing at the Comyn Council and has not returned."

"That does not mean anything untoward occurred," Domenic said. "Could he not simply have remained within the city, the better to conduct his business?"

"Begging your pardon, young lord, but if that were true, Jeram would have come back for his tent and chervine. No, he's met with foul play for sure. He was seen leaving the Administrative office, with a Guardsman following him." The young man's expression turned grim. "My own father went to search for him and was turned away."

The others muttered in agreement. A few voices called out, "Free Jeram!" but the fight had gone out of the crowd.

Lew nudged his horse forward and bent down from his saddle to speak with the young black-haired leader. He gave his word that he would look into the matter. Amid expression of gratitude and suspicion, the way opened for them, and they clattered down the last stretch to the entrance to the city.