The Alton Gift (14 page)

Francisco said something to her, using a voice too low for Domenic to make out all the words, only isolated phrases. "You will behave with dignity, do you understand… not like a sniveling dairy girl!" Sibelle turned white and silent. Francisco went on, "You are Comynara, of an ancient and noble house… such a display brings dishonor to us all!"

Francisco spied Domenic and turned to him, quickly composing his features and delivering a formal bow. He inquired after Mikhail and the injured Guard. Domenic replied that his father was well enough to carry out his duties as Regent, protecting the Castle and everyone within its walls.

"I am shocked that such barbarity should mar this most important of all festivals," Francisco said. "It is unfortunate that better order could not be maintained in the city."

"Yes, very unfortunate," Domenic replied, stung by the implication that his father's incompetence had resulted in a breakdown in civil peace. If he had not seen Francisco at the ball earlier, he would suspect him of creating the disturbance.

Sibelle, her hand clutching her father's arm, gave a little whimper. Francisco glanced from her white face to Domenic. Noticing the calculating gleam in the older man's eyes, Domenic cursed silently. Francisco's next move would doubtless be to ask Domenic to escort his tearful, clinging, alluringly pretty daughter to her chamber.

This madness must end now!

After his aborted lovemaking with Alanna and its near-disastrous consequences, the very idea of wooing this distraught child sickened Domenic. Political considerations be damned, he could not,
would not
play such games.

Domenic remembered what Danilo had said about Regis, that he forged his own way through the demands and intense pressures of his family, the worst the Comyn Council could bring to bear on him. How he found a way to marry for love, to keep those he truly cherished close to him.

If Regis could do it, Domenic thought, then so could he!

"
Dom
Francisco," Domenic said, squaring his shoulders and fixing the older man with a level gaze, "your daughter is overwrought. You must take her home. Court is no place for such a tender flower."

Francisco responded with a condescending smile. "In the morning, the streets will be cleared and the rabble subdued. At least, I presume so. My daughter will be happier once order is properly restored. Won't you, 'Belle?"

"Yes, Papa."

Domenic's jaw muscles clenched. Sibelle glanced up at him beneath fluttering lashes, and he refused to smile in response.

"You misunderstand me." Domenic faced Francisco squarely. "I meant home to Serrais. I meant the schemes of the Council and all its members. Such an innocent should not be bartered in marriage like a side of meat—exacdy how old are you,
chiya
?"

"Four—fourteen."

A year younger than Yllana
! Domenic let her words hang in the air for a moment. Then he beckoned to one of the Castle servants, a round-cheeked, grandmotherly woman who was helping to clear away the remains of the buffet.

"The
damisela
is distraught, as you can see. Would you be so kind as to escort her back to her quarters in the Ridenow section?"

The woman dropped a curtsy and held out her arms to Sibelle. "You poor child, I know just the thing to settle your nerves. We'll get you snug in bed in no time."

Sniffling, Sibelle glanced up at her father. He murmured, "Go along, child. I'll be with you shortly."

Sibelle leaned on the older woman as they hurried from the hall. The last thing Domenic heard from them was the old servant asking, "Do you like hot honeyed milk?"

"You are making a quite unnecessary fuss," Francisco said, once Sibelle and the servant had passed through the far doorway. "She is a woman and of an age to marry. I am certain of it."

Without the worry of shocking Sibelle, Domenic felt no need to mince words. "And I am certain that neither you, nor the Council, nor all the demons in Zandru's Forge, will induce me to marry for any other reason than my own desire, certainly not to a girl the same age as my baby sister!"

"The difference in years is of little consequence. A few seasons will remedy it."

Domenic felt the heat rising in his chest, unable to believe that Francisco was still pursuing his marriage scheme. Domenic drew himself taller and stepped toward the older man. Francisco held his ground, looking grim now, and subtly dangerous. Domenic was too irate to care.

"Can I make my position any plainer?" Domenic demanded. "I will not be your puppet and neither should Sibelle. She is your own daughter! Have you no care for her happiness?"

"I have every consideration for the welfare of the Ridenow Domain and of us all," Francisco retorted with equal fervor. "You have been cloistered away in a Tower for too long, or you yourself would see the necessity of this union. As for my daughter's happiness, that lies in doing her duty. She knows what honor demands of her. Do
you
?"

Francisco paused, his once-handsome features twisting in a way that sent alarms chilling along Domenic's spine. "Or are you saying you are not fit to marry? Are you mentally impaired, or dissolute and cruel, or perhaps you are simply unable to consummate a marriage?"

Domenic's temper flared, and he bit back the automatic rejoinder that he was none of these things. As quickly, he realized this was exactly what Francisco intended, to goad him into an outburst, to blurt out things that could not be unsaid, perhaps even to trap him into the choice between a duel of honor or a marriage.

"We are not living in the Ages of Chaos, when marriages were arranged by the Council for reasons of their own." Domenic kept his

tone even, although his nerves shrilled with outrage. "Sibelle deserves a husband who will cherish her, one she chooses with her own heart. I will never agree to less. I will select my own bride in my own time. If you think that renders me unfit, you are free to bring charges against me in Council! Explain to
them
how you schemed to get back into power by sacrificing a girl barely into womanhood!"

Stunned silence answered him. Before Francisco could say anything more, Domenic delivered a short, clipped bow and strode away. As he left the hall, Domenic wondered if he had done a very foolish thing, confronting Francisco like that. The man was capable of anything! It would be only one of a number of idiotic risks Domenic had taken that evening, from indulging himself with Alanna, to his reckless journey in the Overworld, to placing himself within reach of the mob at the gates, and now, taunting a man known for holding deadly grudges. Undoubtedly, the Ridenow lord would find some way to use the incident to his own advantage.

Aldones, I must be tired, to see plots everywhere!

Or was he at last learning to think like a Comyn?

Domenic found his mother and Alanna in the parlor beside a newly lit fire. Yllana had already eaten and gone off to supervise those tasks that could not wait. Several plates covered with crumbs and morsels left over from a hasty meal sat on the table. One platter of nuts, dried fruits, and various cookies was almost untouched.

Delicately, Marguerida licked the last of a honey-roll from her fingers. The sweet, rich pastry had restored a measure of vitality after her
laran
exertions. Already, she looked stronger and more alert.

The delicious aromas made Domenic's mouth water. Suddenly ravenous, he took a mouthful and let the concentrated sweetness flow over his tongue. His mind steadied as the food replenished his body.

Alanna, however, had gone quiet and blank-eyed. She took Domenic's hand, childlike, as he sat down beside her on the divan.

"I can't stay any longer," Marguerida said. "Nico, dear, see if you can get Alanna to eat." She left to find rooms for their city guests. When Mikhail finally returned, he would find a hot meal and a healer waiting for him.

"Alanna?" Domenic peered into her face, half afraid of what he might see.

"Yes, Domenic?" she said with alarming placidity,

"Are you all right? Can you try a few bites?"

A shudder passed through her. "I'm a little sick to my stomach."

"The healer will be here soon." Even as he spoke, Domenic knew that no ordinary healer could help her. This was more than physical shock or fright from the confrontation with the mob.

At Neskaya, he had learned what should be done. Food, rest,
kirian
… the care of a trained monitor. He could do the monitoring, since every Tower novice received the basic training. But would it be safe to touch her, even mind to mind?
Especially
mind to mind? No, it would be better for someone not emotionally involved to do the work.

Urgently, because he did not know how much private time they might have, Domenic bent close to Alanna. "I am sorry for my part in this… in what happened to you," he added, seeing her look of confusion. "Your vision."

"Oh," Awareness seeped back into her eyes. "Yes, I had another one, didn't I? It was rather unpleasant. I suppose I must have been frightened, but I don't feel that way now. I just feel… tired."

She stood up, holding on to the chair for support. "I will rest better in my own bed."

"Alanna, I promised Mother that I would make you eat. You know you need to replenish the energy drained by your
laran"

"But I'm not hungry," Alanna whined.

"That's because your appetite has shut down, and it's not a good sign."

"I'm tired. I want to lie down."

Domenic felt a flicker of impatience. Hadn't she heard anything he'd said? In all probability, given the events of the evening, neither of them was entirely rational. He took a slice of iced spicebark cake, broke it, and held out one half to her.

"Here, taste this." He popped the other half into his own mouth. "It's good, just like the ones we used to steal from the kitchen."

With an aggrieved sign, Alanna accepted the sweet and nibbled a tiny bit. A moment later, she was avidly chewing, grabbing one cookie after another. A handful of nut candy followed, and then she paused.

"You were right," she admitted. "I
was
hungry. But I'm so tired, I feel as if I might faint at any moment… Please, Nico, let me go to my room. I'll take some dried apples and eat them later, I promise."

Unsure if he were doing the right thing, Domenic let her go.

Alanna's lack of emotion worried him. She had always been so intense, so full of life. Now she seemed withdrawn, as if the events of the evening had happened to someone else. Did she remember what they had been doing before the vision seized her? Perhaps, like a Keeper of old, she had shut away that part of herself.

A few moments later, the Castle healer, a buxom, middle-aged woman named Charissa, arrived. The healer's gray-streaked auburn hair suggested that she had a small measure of
laran
, enough to enhance her sensitivity to her patients. She carried a basket of supplies: bandages, gauze pads, bottles of antiseptic and pain-numbing tinctures, silk-wrapped packets of costly needles and suturing materials.

"My father has not yet returned," Domenic said. "As you see, I am well, but Alanna seems dizzy and confused. She has gone to rest in her own room. Will you look in on her?"

"Yes, indeed, since she is the only one here who needs my care," Charissa said, clearly annoyed at having been summoned in the middle of the night, only to find that the people she was to attend had taken themselves elsewhere. "If
Dom
Mikhail returns, ask him to do me the courtesy of remaining in one place until I can examine him."

Charissa hurried off to Alanna's bedchamber and returned, frowning, a short time later. When Marguerida came in, Charissa took her aside and they spoke for a few moments in low, urgent voices. Marguerida sent a servant in search of Istvana Ridenow

Relief surged through Domenic. Istvana was not only his mother's dear friend, but the Keeper of Neskaya Tower. She would know what to do for Alannna.

Istvana arrived at the same time as trays of hot food and drink. Silver-haired and diminutive, Istvana carried herself with brisk authority. She stayed only a moment before going off to see to Alanna.

A moment later, Mikhail returned. Charissa made him sit down while she washed and bandaged his head.

"Scalp wounds often bleed freely, and this one will most likely leave a scar. I do wish you would allow me to suture it." Charissa frowned. "I cannot tell if there has been any deeper damage."

"Istavana must monitor him as soon as possible to be sure," Marguerida said.

"Love, don't fuss over me," said Mikhail.

"Fuss! Mik, that blow knocked you off your feet! You could have a hairline skull fracture, a brain hemorrhage, a concussion—"

Mikhail raised his hands. "If it will reassure you, then let Istvana examine my head. Thank you for your care,
Mestra
Charissa."

With a sympathetic smile, Charissa said, "I'll ask the
vai leronis
to come to you."

"As soon as possible," Marguerida said, adding, "if you would be so kind."

Later, Domenic lay in his own chamber, waiting for sleep. It was slow in coming. His thoughts jumped from one thing to another, going over the events of the evening. Who was the pale-haired man who had urged the crowd to violence? What if the rock had struck his father a little higher or lower? What if Charissa were wrong and Mikhail had suffered a serious injury?

Eventually, he convinced himself that his father would be all right. And at least, Marguerida had not asked what Domenic was doing in the Overworld.

As for Alanna… people survived threshold sickness, didn't they? Alanna could not be in better care than Istvana's. Domenic would make sure that nothing happened to trigger another crisis.

Now that the excitement was over, he considered the implications of Alanna's seizure. She might recover with time… but what would prevent another, possibly fatal episode the next time they tried to make love? Once they were married, how could that be avoided? They would be expected to produce children. Could he lie beside her, night after night, as chaste as a
cristoforo
monk? The sight and smell of her had been enough to drive him half-mad.

What kind of a marriage would they have, if he dared not touch her again? Yet, what choice did he have? He had made a promise, and could not forsake her now

Marguerida, having satisfied herself that the most pressing tasks had been attended to, allowed herself a moment of quiet in her office. With a sigh of relief, she eased herself into her favorite chair.

A faint, comforting fragrance of balsam still hung in the air. The fires had not been lit, but the air was warm enough. She needed no more light than the gentle glow from the candelabrum she had brought with her, and in any event, she could have found her way around the furniture in the dark, the room was so familiar.

She had been managing Comyn Castle for a number of years, gradually taking over the most onerous duties from Lady Linnea while Regis was still alive. The servants and stewards knew her expectations; even wearied as they were from the Midsummer ball preparations, they had aired out chambers for those Comyn who lived in the city, prepared hot meals for humans and cold ones for their horses, and the hundred other things that Marguerida did not need to specify. Everyone who had been hurt was being treated, everyone else had been informed and reassured, no one was hungry or without a bed to sleep in, and the Castle was secure for the night.

Closing her eyes, she rubbed her temples and tried to decide if this particular headache was simple stress, an aftermath of
laran
exhaustion, or yet another nudge form her Aldaran Gift. The night's events certainly qualified as a crisis, but she felt certain that the worst was not yet over.

The constant state of apprehension was wearing her down, making it harder to think things through. She needed a good night's sleep. More precisely, she needed a good night's sleep in the arms of her husband. Just thinking of him, his breath warm on her hair, his love sustaining her, sent a wave of relaxation through her body. She thought of reaching out to him with her thoughts, of speaking with him mind to mind, as they so often did, but he was hurt and weary and still had work to do this night. They would be together soon enough.

Meanwhile… there were too many things from this night that she did not understand. To be sure, she had been caught off-guard by the mob. She was familiar with various complaints from farmers and herdsmen; there was always some difficultly: drought or mud slides, the ever-present danger of fires, diseases of livestock, or trading conditions. What could have stirred them up so? —
to violence
?

In her mind, Marguerida relived that heart-stopping moment as the rock sailed through the air, the sickening sound as it struck Mikhail, the way her entire body shook with the impact, as if she herself had been hit. And when she looked down at her hand and saw his blood—

He could have been killed!

With a sob, Marguerida buried her face in her hands. She had not realized how tightly she had been holding her emotions in check.

I've got to get hold of myself. There's too much still to be done. The children need me
—
Mik needs me. I can't break down like this
!

Mikhail had
not
been killed, she reminded herself, nor had the injured Guardsman. She and her husband would face the next day together, and the day after that, as they had always done. They had come through the Battle of Old North Road, Francisco's attempted assassination, Ashara's menace, and the death of Regis, not to mention Ja-vanne's schemes…

Just as Marguerida was beginning to feel more herself, she heard a tap at the door.

"Father!" She ran to the door, opened it, and let him in. As he took the proffered seat, she noticed how weary he looked, and how grim.

"Has something else happened? Should you not be in your own bed, resting?" she asked anxiously.

"Yes, I ought. But there is a matter of more importance we must discuss first."

He sounded so like the distant, critical parent of her childhood that Marguerida held her tongue with an effort.

Suddenly, the moment after the rock had struck Mikhail flashed before her eyes.

"
Marja, no
!" Lew's mental voice reverberated again through her mind. She had been half out of her wits with desperation at the time, yet his words had held her immobile for a crucial moment.

"Not against our own people!"

Remembering, her gaze flew to the glove on her left hand. She had not had a spare moment to change clothing, and the bloodstains on the palm and fingers were dry. When Lew had cried out, there on the Castle steps, she had been struggling to remove the glove, to bare the shadow matrix embedded in her skin, to use it…

… as she had used it at the Battle of Old North Road?

Marguerida gulped. Was that truly what she had intended? To blast those men—
our own people
—as she had Belfontaine's soldiers? It was impossible, for the fireball that brought an end to that battle had required the combined power of her shadow matrix and Mikhail's ring.

But the sight of Mikhail's blood had driven out all rational thought. She had acted out of pure instinct. If Lew had not stopped her…

"I don't know what got into me," she stammered. "I'm not a violent person. I've always tried to use my Gifts," and here, her eyes flickered once more to her gloved hand, "only for good."

Lew nodded, and for an instant his eyes took on a strange, faraway look. Marguerida remembered the stories about how he had willingly joined the Sharra circle, hopeful to use the great matrix to trade for Terran technology and Darkovan independence. Worthy goals, indeed, but in the end, impossible. Sharra might have been created originally for another use, but by the time it came to Caer Donn, its only possible function was as a weapon. The great matrix would warp any other purpose, and it was too powerful to control, as Lew had found to his sorrow.