The Forbidden Circle (67 page)

Damon said, wrung with pity, “I’ve no doubt you were lying somewhere on the ground.
Kireseth
contains one fraction which stimulates
laran
. Evidently you and Callista were in telepathic contact, much more strongly than usual, and your . . . your frustrations built a dream. Which could happen without . . . without endangering her. Or you.”

Andrew hid his face with his hands. It was bad enough to feel like a fool for spending the whole day kissing and caressing his wife without anything more intimate, but to be told that he had simply gone off on a drugged dream about doing it that was worse. Stubbornly he looked up at Damon. “I don’t believe it was a dream,” he said. “If it was a dream, why didn’t I dream of what I
really
wanted to do? Why didn’t
she
? Dreams are supposed to
relieve
frustrations, not make new ones, aren’t they?”

That, of course, was a good question, Damon admitted, but what did he know of the fears and frustrations which might inhibit even dreams? One night, during his early manhood, he had dreamed of touching Leonie as no Keeper might be touched even in thought, and he had spent three sleepless nights for fear of repeating the offense.

In his own room, readying himself for the evening meal, Andrew looked at his garments, crumpled and stained. Was he fool enough to have erotic dreams about his own wife? He didn’t believe it. Damon wasn’t there; he was. And he knew what happened, even if he could not explain it. He was supremely glad Callista was not harmed, though he could not understand that either.

 

It was that night at dinner when
Dom
Esteban said, in a worried tone, “I wonder . . . do you suppose all is well with Domenic? I feel something menaces him, something evil . . .”

“Nonsense, Father,” Ellemir said gently. “Only this morning
Dom
Kieran told us he was well and happy, and surrounded by his loving friends, behaving himself and carrying out his responsibilities as best he could! Don’t be silly!”

“I suppose you are right,” the old man said, but still he looked troubled.

“I wish he were at home.”

Damon and Ellemir exchanged frowning glances. Like all Altons,
Dom
Esteban had occasional flashes of precognition. God grant he was only worrying, Damon thought, not seeing the future. The old man was crippled and ill. It was probably only worry.

But Damon found that he too had begun to worry, and he did not stop.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

All night Damon’s dreams had been haunted by the sound of horse’s hooves, galloping—galloping toward Armida with evil tidings. Ellemir was dressing, preparing to go downstairs for her early work in supervising the kitchens—this pregnancy attended with none of the sickness and malaise of her first—when she suddenly turned pale and cried out. Damon hurried to her side, but she brushed past him and ran down the stairs, into the hall and the courtyard, standing at the great gates, bare-headed, her face white as death.

Damon, feeling the premonition grip him and take hold, followed her, pleading, “Ellemir, what is it? Love, you must not stand here like this . . .”

“Father,” she whispered. “It will kill our father. Oh, blessed Cassilda, Domenic, Domenic!”

He urged her gently back toward the house, through the fine mist of the morning rain. Just inside the doors they found Callista, pale and drawn, Andrew troubled and apprehensive at her side. Callista went toward her father’s room, saying quietly, “All we can do now is be with him, Andrew.” Andrew and Damon stayed close beside the old man while his body servant dressed him. Gently Damon helped lift him into the wheeled chair. “Dear Uncle, we can only wait for tidings. But whatever may come, remember that you still have sons and daughters who love you and are near you.”

In the Great Hall, Ellemir came and knelt beside her father, weeping.
Dom
Esteban patted her bright hair and said hoarsely, “Look after
her
, Damon, don’t worry about me. If . . . if evil has come to Domenic, that child you bear, Ellemir is next heir to Alton.”

God help them all, Damon thought, for Valdir was not yet twelve years old! Who would command the Guards? Even Domenic was thought too young!

Andrew was thinking that his son, Ellemir’s child, would be heir to the Domain. The thought seemed so wildly improbable that he was gripped with hysterical laughter.

Callista put a small cup into the old
dom’s
hand. “Drink this, Father.”

“I want none of your drugs! I will not be put to sleep and soothed until I know—”

“Drink it!” she commanded, standing pale and angry at his side. “It is not to dim your awareness, but to strengthen you. You will need all your strength today!”

Reluctantly the old man swallowed the draught. Ellemir rose and said, “The housefolk and workmen must not go hungry for our griefs. Let me go see to their breakfast.”

They brought the old man to the table and urged him to eat, but none of them could eat much, and Andrew felt himself straining to hear beyond the range of his ears, to listen for the messenger, bringing the tidings they now took for granted.

“There it is,” said Callista, laying down a piece of buttered bread, starting to her feet. Her father held out his hand, very pale but in command of himself again, Lord Alton, head of the Domain, Comyn.

“Sit still, daughter. Ill news will come when it will, but it is not seemly to run to meet it.”

He lifted a spoonful of nut porridge to his mouth, put it down again, untasted. None of the others were even pretending to eat now, hearing the sound of hoofbeats in the stone courtyard, the booted feet of the messenger on the steps. He was a Guardsman, very young, with the red hair which, Andrew already knew, meant that somewhere, nearby or far back, he had Comyn blood. He looked tired, sad, apprehensive.

Dom
Esteban said quietly, “Welcome to my hall, Darren. What brings you at this hour, my lad?”

“Lord Alton.” The messenger’s voice seemed to stick in his throat. “I regret that I bear you evil tidings.” His eyes flickered around the hall. He looked trapped, miserable, unwilling to break the bad news to this old man, frail and drawn in his chair.

Dom
Esteban said quietly, “I had warning of this, my boy. Come and tell me about it.” He held out his hand, and the young man came, hesitantly, toward the high table. “It is my son Domenic. Is he . . . is he dead?”

The young man Darren lowered his eyes.
Dom
Esteban drew a hoarse, shaking breath like an audible sob, but when he spoke he was under control.

“You are wearied with the long ride.” He beckoned to the servants to take the young Guardsman’s cloak, remove his heavy riding boots and bring soft indoor slippers, set a mug of warmed wine before him. They set a chair for him near the high table. “Tell me all about it, lad. How did he die?”

“By misadventure, Lord Alton. He was in the armory, practicing at swordplay with his paxman, young Cathal Lindir. Somehow, even through the mask, he was struck a blow on the head. None thought it serious, but before they could fetch the hospital officer, he was dead.”

Poor Cathal, Damon thought. He had been one of the cadets during Damon’s year as cadet master, as had young Domenic himself. The two lads had been inseparable, had been paired off everywhere: at sword-practice, on duty, in their leisure hours. They were, Damon knew,
bredin
, sworn brothers. Had Domenic died by any mischance or accident, it would have been bad enough, but for a blow struck by his sworn friend to be the instrument of his death—Blessed Cassilda, how the poor lad would suffer!

Dom
Esteban had managed to pull himself together, was questioning the messenger about other arrangements. “Valdir must be brought from Nevarsin at once, designated heir.”

Darren told him, “Lord Lorill Hastur has already sent for him, and he urges you to come to Thendara if you are able, my lord.”

“Able or not, we shall ride this day,”
Dom
Esteban said firmly. “Even if I must travel by horse-litter, and you must come with me, Damon, Andrew.”

“I too.” Callista’s face was pale but her voice firm, and Ellemir said, “And I.” She was crying noiselessly.

“Rhodri,” Damon said, beckoning the old steward, “find a place for the messenger to rest, and send one of our men at once to ride for Thendara on the fastest horse available, to tell Lord Hastur that we will be there within three days. And ask Ferrika to come at once to Lady Ellemir.”

The old man nodded acquiescence. Tears were streaming down old Rhodri’s wrinkled face, and Damon remembered that he had been here at Armida all his life, had held both Domenic and the long-dead Coryn on his knees when they were children. But there was no leisure to think of any of these things. Ferrika, brought to Ellemir, admitted that the ride would probably do no harm. “But you must travel at least part of the time in a horse-litter, my lady, for too much riding would be wearying.” When Ferrika was told that she must accompany them, she protested.

“There are many on the estate who need my services, Lord Damon.”

“Lady Ellemir bears the next heir to Alton. It is she who most needs your care, and you are her childhood friend. You have taught other women on the estate, now they must justify their training.”

This was so obvious, even to the Amazon midwife, that she spoke the polite phrase of respect and acquiescence, and went to speak to her subordinates. Callista had set the maids to packing what they would need for a possibly lengthy stay in Thendara. When Ellemir asked why, she said briefly, “Valdir is a child. Comyn Council may not be content to allow our father, crippled and with an ailing heart, to serve as head of the Domain; there may be a protracted struggle over a guardian for Valdir.”

“I should think Damon would be the logical guardian,” Ellemir said, and Callista’s lips stretched in a bleak smile. “Why, so he should, sister, but I have sat as Leonie’s surrogate in Council, and I know that to these great lords, nothing is ever simple or obvious if there is political advantage to some other way of settling it. Remember how Domenic said they were fighting over his right to command the Guards, young as he was? Valdir is younger still.”

Ellemir quailed, with an automatic gesture laying a protective hand over her belly. She had heard old tales of bitter feuds in Comyn Council, of struggles more cruel than blood-feud because the ones who struggled were not enemies but kinsmen. As the old saying went, when
bredin
were at odds, enemies stepped in to widen the gap.

“Callie! Do you think . . . do you think Domenic was
murdered
?”

Callista said, faltering, “Cassilda, Mother of Seveners, I pray it is not so. If he had died by poison, or of some mysterious illness, I would fear so indeed—there was so much strife over the heirship of Alton—but struck down by Cathal in play? We
know
Cathal, Elli, he loved Domenic as his own life! They had sworn the oath of
bredin
. I would sooner believe Damon an oath-breaker than our cousin Cathal!” She added, her face white and troubled, “If it had been Dezi . . .”

The twin sisters looked at one another, not willing to speak their accusation, yet remembering how Dezi’s malice had come close to costing Andrew’s life. At last Ellemir said in a shaking voice, “Where, I wonder, was Dezi when Domenic died?”

“Oh, no, no, Ellemir.” Callista caught her sister close, cutting off the words. “No, no, do not even
think
it! Our father loves Dezi, even if he would not acknowledge him, so do not make it worse than it is! Elli, I beg you, I beg you, do not put that thought into Father’s head!”

Ellemir knew what Callista meant: somehow she must manage to guard her thoughts, so that the careless accusation would not reach her father. But the thought troubled her, as she went about the business of preparing the women servants to care for the household in their absence. She found a moment to slip down to the chapel, laying a small garland of winter flowers before the altar of Cassilda. She had wanted her child to be born at Armida, where he would live surrounded by the heritage which must be his some day.

All she had ever wanted in life was to be wedded to Damon, to bear sons and daughters to her clan and his. Was that so much to ask? she thought helplessly. She was not like Callista, ambitious to do
laran
work, to sit in Council and settle affairs of state. Why couldn’t she have that much peace? And yet she knew that in the days to come, she could not fall back on this refuge of womanhood.

Would they demand that Damon must command the Guards in his father-in-law’s place? Like all Alton daughters, she was proud of the hereditary post of commander which her father had borne, which she had thought would be Domenic’s for years to come. But now Domenic was dead and Valdir too young, and who would it be? She looked around the chapel at the painted gods on the walls, on the representation, stiff and stylized, of Hastur, Son of Aldones, at Hali with Cassilda and Camilla. They were the forebears of the Comyn; life was easier in their day. Wearily she left the chapel and went upstairs to talk about which of the maids should come with them, which be left to care for the estate in their absence.

Andrew too had much to occupy his mind as he talked to the old
coridom
—like all the other servants, stricken with grief at the news of their young master’s death—about managing the stock and the estate business during his absence. He thought that he ought to stay back, for he had no business in Thendara, and the ranch should not be left in the hands of servants. But he knew that part of his reluctance was because the Terran Empire HQ was at Thendara. He had been content that the Terrans should think him dead; he had no kin to mourn, and there was nothing there that he wanted. But now there was, unexpectedly, conflict again. He knew rationally that the Terrans had no claim on him, that they would not even know he was in the old city of Thendara, and certainly would not come after him. Just the same he felt apprehensive. And he too wondered where Dezi had been when Domenic died, and dismissed the thought as unworthy.