The Alton Gift (25 page)

There was nothing he could do about his participation in the Federation's bioweapons program. If people had died as a result of his work, he could not bring them back to life. He must find a way to live with that possibility.

One thing, however, he could do, and that was follow Lew's example: He could go to those he had harmed or tried to harm—to the Council in Thendara, to admit his part in the ambush. He did not think they would execute him; Lew's reaction and his own limited knowledge of Darkovan ethics suggested that enemy combatants, once defeated and disarmed, were treated with honor. They might punish him in some way—a jail term, public service, however this culture defined restitution. When that was over, he, like Lew, would have done everything he could. He would be as free as his conscience would allow him to be.

Then he could return to Morna's village, or go wherever the road took him, without having to glance over his shoulder. The time of hiding would truly be over.

The next morning Jeram said his farewells to Silvana. During his time at Nevarsin, they had never become really friendly. That was not pos-

sible with any Keeper, he had learned. Illona, with her easy warmth and infectious good humor, was an exception. Holding the centripolar position in a circle required almost inhuman control, and many Keepers could not endure the discipline for more than a handful of years. Sil-vana had lasted longer than most, and this emotional isolation was the price. She regarded him with her steady, penetrating gaze, as if she could see clear through him to truths he himself had yet to discover.

"We have done all we can for you," she said. "Your life is not here among us. The world calls you. Go with our blessing."

He bowed, took his leave of her, and headed down the road to Thendara.

Dawn swept across the Nevarsin peaks. In the light of the great Bloody Sun, the glacial ice glowed like pink-hued pearl. On the lower slopes, the chill of the night lifted, along with the evaporating dew.

Domenic had left the Tower before breakfast, while the workers who had operated the relays or labored in the circle during the night gathered for a meal and a little relaxation before sleeping through the day. Since his arrival, he had been tied up in one formal meeting after another, with the city fathers, the Father Master of the monastery, everyone but the one person he had come to see. Silvana had still not found the time to speak with him. She was not ill, simply absent. No explanation had been offered, and everyone had been apologetic but firm. Here they kept to the old ways; the Keeper's will was law, not to be questioned. He had passed from expectation to disappointment and finally to exasperation, and if he did not remove himself, he ran a serious risk of a fit of ill-temper.

The idiosyncracies of the Keeper of Nevarsin Tower played only a small part in Domenic's current mood. His sojourn was coming to an end; this was to be his last stop before returning to Thendara. He had no reason for delay, and his parents would expect him to arrive in time

for the opening of the Council season. His mission had been largely successful. Istvana Ridenow had been delighted to see him and promised to attend the next Council meeting. The Keepers of Dalereuth and Corandolis had received his invitation with polite interest.

The village outside the Nevarsin city gates bustled with activity. Its narrow cobbled streets filled with local men and women, bundled against the morning chill, carrying baskets or work tools, travelers on tough mountain ponies, traders readying their stalls, and drovers with strings of laden chervines. Peddlers hawked their wares on every corner, adding to the clamor.

Domenic stopped at a food stall to buy a mug of hot cider and a pastry filled with spiced meat and onions. Half a dozen pedestrians paused to stare at him while he ate. As he finished his meal, his original plan, spending the morning with his grandfather, seemed less appealing. What he needed, he decided, was to get as far away from people as possible.

A trail at the far end of the village led Domenic to the rocky slopes. As he climbed, the exercise warmed his muscles. His face tingled in the brisk mountain air. The tension in his back and shoulders eased. He found himself humming beneath his breath.

At the back of his mind, he sensed a low rumbling, too slow and deep for ordinary human hearing. Through it wove a descant, wild and sweet, like sunlight sparkling on flowing water. Domenic gave himself over to the shifting harmony, slow as a glacier and quick as a mountain stream. As the moment of resonant joy faded, he wished there were words to capture it.

Domenic paused at the edge of a long sloping meadow. Wildflow-ers grew here in profusion. He had not realized there could be so many shapes and colors, sprays of brilliant red and purple, heavy-headed bells of waxy white, daisies shimmering with gold and orange, starflowers and sky-on-the-ground. As he crossed the field, he saw that many had already gone to seed. The blooming season was all too short at this altitude.

At the far end of the field, rocks jutted from the hillside in slantwise layers, their edges softened by seasons of wind and rain. He headed for them, thinking to rest in the sun.

Catching a hint of
laran
ahead, Domenic recognized Illona's mental

signature. He quickened his pace. The last days had given him little opportunity for private time with his friend.

Illona?

Domenic
! Gladness danced through her mental call.

He saw her now, wrapped in a cloak of tawny chervine wool almost the same color as the rock. She pushed back the hood, revealing copper-bright hair, and waved to him. She had been sitting so still, he might not have noticed her otherwise.

Domenic reached the place where Illona stood. A high color glowed on her cheeks. On impulse, without thought, he held out his arms. For an instant, they were children again, thrown together under desperate circumstances. She was the uneducated Traveler girl, living by her wits and the talent she did not yet know she possessed, and he was the rebellious son of a Comyn lord, terrified and exhilarated by the Terran plot he had just discovered.

In a heartbeat, time shifted, and he held a vibrant young woman in his arms. Several curls had come free of her butterfly clasp. They brushed his neck like tendrils of silk, smelling of honey and wildflowers. Her arms held him with wiry strength, her body supple against his.

He released her. She was no peasant girl but a
nedestra
Comynara and under-Keeper, never to be assaulted by a man's casual touch.

Jade-green eyes widened as she caught his momentary distress. "Come now, Nico," she said, using his childhood nickname, "you offered me no insult. I have not become such a stuffy old pudding as to insist on formalities with my dearest friend."

"We were friends once," he stammered, "but that was a long time ago-"

"Oh, has it been? What, all of three years?" She gathered the folds of her cloak around her. "Enough banter! Let's walk."

Domenic followed, keeping pace with her easy, swinging stride. Clearly, the years of Tower study had not affected her vitality.

"You're out early," he said, trying to make conversation.

She smiled over her shoulder at him with a hint of her old mischie-vousness. "I like to be about when the sun's shining. It was so dark through the winter, I thought we would all turn as pale as maggots."

"That is natural, I suppose, when one is snowed in for much of the winter."

"Indeed! The main gates were completely covered for tendays at a time, but we were prepared. When the Tower was built, the upper windows were designed for such times."

From Illona's mind, Domenic caught the picture of herself and one or two younger companions clambering down a drift of snow, strapping on snowshoes of laced rawhide, and making their way into the village. Their laughter rang in the frozen air. Under the visual image ran a sweet wild singing in the blood, of reveling in being outdoors…

Deep within Domenic, a renewed longing arose—to escape the walls of Thendara, the rooms filled with intrigue and responsibility, the faces peering at him, gauging what use he could be to them…

Domenic?

He poured out his yearnings into Illona's steadfast care. How, from his earliest boyhood memories, he had hated the city, the demands of court and Council. The joy he had felt when they first met, when he had been able to travel wherever he wished. The crushing weight of guilt and duty, as with every passing day the Castle became a prison and his life narrowed, all the color and life seeping away. His regret at leaving Neskaya, the brief respite for those few seasons. The lifeline Danilo had offered, a time to climb mountains and walk the shores of lake and ocean, an escape too soon ended.

Oh, Domenic! Of course you feel that way! How could you not, being who you are
? Illona's response swept through him like balm over scoured wounds.

They had come to a halt, facing one another. Domenic had not intended to be so open with her; until that moment, he had not realized the depth of his longing, woven into the very fabric of his breath.

Illona stood before him, compassion shining in her eyes. She was not conventionally pretty, not like Alanna, but her entire being shimmered with something that stirred him far more deeply. She made no move to brush aside the torrent of his feelings, to lecture him or to shame him into duty. She simply listened, and in that silence, infinite possibilities opened before him.

Domenic had grown up surrounded by rank and privilege, adored by his parents; if he had been hungry or cold or alone, it had been by his own choice. Illona, watching him with those calm, knowing eyes, had led a far different life, one of struggle and uncertainty. Yet she had

made a place for herself by her own talent and efforts. Someday she would be a Keeper, beholden to no lord. She had not taken this path out of duty or desperation, but had shaped her own life.

He wished with all his heart that he might have a place in it.

"Nico?" Illona's voice, low with concern, broke into his thoughts. "Is something wrong?"

Lord of Light, what was I thinking? Am I not pledged to Alanna?

"I'm cold, that's all," he stammered.

"We've stood too long in one place for such a morning. Are you ready to go back? No?" Illona took his hand, her fingers warm and strong around his, and brought it under her cloak.

As they went on, wind tore at Domenic's hair and stung his eyes. His heart beat faster with exertion but also with excitement. For a long while, neither of them said anything. Illona, too, was breathing hard, but she showed no sign of fatigue.

No
, he thought,
not her
.

When they stopped to catch their breath, he felt awkward. The morning had turned as pure as a flawless crystal, and even a casual misstep might shatter it.

Domenic turned, looking down the way they had come. He had not realized how far they had climbed. Images flooded his mind, of riding back to Thendara with Illona at his side, laughing, talking, hours and days together…

He wanted her with him, more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.

"Tell me," Illona said, "about this Keepers Council of yours. If Nevarsin participates, I will most probably be its delegate."

"Why, isn't Silvana coming? Where has she been, anyway?" he said, using his irritation to cover his feelings. "Why is she avoiding me?"

Illona shrugged. "She is a Keeper, answerable only to herself, certainly not to a Lowland Comyn lord. Whatever her reasons, they are her own."

"You're not curious? You don't care?"

"I certainly wouldn't disturb her solitude just because it makes
you
uncomfortable," she replied with spirit. "Some of us have better things to do than pry into other people's personal affairs."

Domenic had forgotten how direct and plainspoken Illona could be.

"I'm sorry, I was rude just then," he said, trying to sound humorous. "I can't help it, it's my upbringing, to think I have a right to know everything about everybody."

Her eyes twinkled. "Oh yes, I agree completely, it was very rude! What shall we set for your punishment? Bread and water for a tenday? Latrine duty? I know—reciting verses from 'Honorio at the Bridge'."

Domenic groaned, remembering how the novice mistress at Neskaya had made them memorize from the epic poem.

" 'A mighty oath swore he,'" Domenic chanted in a sing-song voice,

" 'An oath of blood he swore,

That the great house of Aldaran

Would suffer wrong no more.' "

Illona giggled and chimed in, gesturing dramatically,

" And bade his messengers ride forth,

East—and west—and south—and north!'"

She threw her arms wide and spun around in a wild dance, missing the correct directions entirely. Domenic could not remember when he had laughed so hard or so freely. He wiped tears from his eyes. Illona too was flushed, radiant.

"I'd all but forgotten that idiotic poem," Domenic said as they recovered sufficiently to continue walking. Around them, the sun had risen well overhead. A heady sweetness rose from the earth. Even the ice on the facing hillside had yielded to the warmth of the day.

"I don't suppose they could have us memorize anything
interesting"
Illona said. "The point was to teach us to concentrate, even on something tedious. Gods, it
was
ridiculous, wasn't it?"

"With training like that, it's no wonder we take everything so seriously."

"There is a time for that, certainly," she said. They walked on for a while in companionable silence, lightly in rapport.

"You asked about the Keepers Council," Domenic said. "The idea came from Danilo Syrtis. He's been like a mentor to me. He sees things… Darkover's changing, Illona, even more than Great-Uncle Regis dying and the Federation leaving. Things have been set in motion, like fracture lines in a sheet of ice."

"What things?" she asked.

"The old ways were dying even before the World Wreckers came, the

Comyn too inbred and isolated, the people hungry for off-world ideas and goods. For a time, Great-Uncle Regis held the world in balance, old against new. Now that balance is gone, and we're being ruled by an increasingly small number of hidebound aristocrats. People out there—" he jabbed a finger back toward the Lowlands—"look to the old ways, in vain."

He faced her, knowing that she could read his face as well as his emotions. "We live off their tithes and their loyalty, but we have little to give them in return. Something new must come into being. Someone must answer them."

Me.

"The Lowlands must have changed indeed, for you to say such things," Illona said thoughtfully. "Here at Nevarsin, in city and Tower, life goes on much as it has in the past. Indeed, I would not be surprised if Varzil the Good, returning to us, noticed no difference."

"At Dalereuth, you would see it," Domenic said. "Or any of the small towns in the Kilghards now held by bandits. We passed a dozen caravans of refugees headed for Thendara or Corresanti, displaced by drought. They turn to the Comyn for aid, as their folk have done since the beginning of time. Only now, there is no answer for them. What can we do, penned up in Thendara, with no one to send?"