The Alton Gift (28 page)

"Is it safe?" he asked, thinking of Alanna.

"I know my limits," she answered seriously. "We no longer live in the days when Keepers were kept virgin for the Sight. Sometimes the work itself enforces celibacy, but I would not suggest taking you to bed if I could not safeguard both of us. I risk neither harm nor an unplanned pregnancy."

Alanna would never know. To her, it would be as if the night had never happened.

But not to him. Gazing at Illona, with his heart in his eyes, seeing her shrouded in the iridescent glory of their joined
laran
, he knew that once they had consummated their love, he could never walk away from her. Heart and body and mind, he would be hers forever.

The light in her eyes shifted, and he knew she understood. Perfectly, wordlessly, with that same simplicity of acceptance.

You nourish my soul
, he thought.

As you do mine. We have already given ourselves to one another, as much as this sad world will permit. Do not sorrow, dearest heart, for my love will be yours always.

She closed the distance between them, brushed his lips with a butterfly kiss, and was gone.

Domenic stood in the kitchen while his pulse slowed and the echoes

of her presence died. Within the spiraled chambers of his mind, she was moving toward him.

She would always be moving toward him, her eyes glowing as if lit from within, lips parted in eagerness and delight.

Always, his heart would be rising, reaching for her.

Always.

Domenic rolled over in his bed, unable to sleep. His body craved rest, but all the fleas on Durraman's donkey seemed to have taken up residence in his skull. His thoughts leaped from one worry to another.

Illona
… A
lanna
…
that poor man, Garin
…
Grandfather hew falling ill from the fever
…
returning to Thendara
…
what Francisco Ridenow might be up to next
…
Alanna's visions of a dead city
…

He untangled himself from the covers, stretched out, and tried to quiet his mind by remembering the golden moments earlier in the day. His taut muscles softened. Longing, bittersweet, hovered at the edge of his senses.

Illona
…

"Yes, beloved. I am here."

Domenic jerked upright as the door swung noiselessly open. He had not deliberately called out to her, and yet she stood on the threshold, bathed in a globe of pale blue light from her upraised hand. Her feet were bare, and she wore only a loose, gauzy shift.

"I didn't—" he began.

"Shhh." She extinguished the light and closed the door behind her. "We have no need for words."

In the near darkness, she shimmered with her own inner light, or so it seemed, for he looked upon her with
laran
as well as eyes. If she touched him, if she so much as breathed upon him, his resistance would shatter.

He tried to summon up all the reasons why he should send her away, all the demands of promises and duty. They withered in the stark light of truth.

He needed her… as he needed breath or sleep or the rising of the sun.

She moved toward him. He felt the heat of her body on his face, the

whisper of her breath before her lips met his. He felt himself growing hard.

He closed his eyes, drawing her to him, and wrapped them both in the same blanket. She was shivering, but so was he, and neither of them from cold.

They lay holding each other for what seemed like a long time, speaking with kisses, breathing in each other's nearness. He touched her cheek and neck. She shifted so that the curved muscles of her thigh pressed against his. Heat shook him, the rising arousal of his own body fueling hers.

Joined in rapport, her sensations flooded into his. He could not tell where her passion ended and his own began. Every touch, every kiss, every shift of arm or leg, wove themselves into a mysterious, intoxicating dance. He ached with ever-mounting yearning, until the tension became unbearable.

He came to a climax the first time with her on top, her hands on his shoulders, her body bent over so that he could feel her breasts and the silken fall of her hair over his heart.

For an instant, he felt himself apart from her. Then she gasped, driving with her pelvis, clenching her inner muscles. Waves of melting sweetness surged up through his belly. He had never felt anything like the pulsing ecstasy that seized him, each wave carrying him higher. She opened to him, as he did to her. He felt as if he were flying and drowning, all at once.

The second time was less urgent, yet delirious, riotous, like a headlong gallop down a steep incline in blinding rain. They had rolled over so that she lay beneath him now. His muscles flexed and released, as powerful as those of a racing horse. Surrounding him, holding him, II-lona turned hard and melting, all at once. She wrapped him in her long, gloriously curved legs and lifted her hips to meet each thrust. Her desire surged through him, reached beyond them both. Then, suddenly, every place they touched ignited, incandescent as fire, as lightning, as molten silver.

As for the third time, his mind was joined so deeply to hers, they seemed to be one person caught up in the same delirious abandon. He felt her hovering, himself hovering, on the very edge of orgasm. The slightest movement would catapult them into release. Something held

them there, gazing into each other's eyes, sharing one breath, one heart beat. One of them—he could not tell who—gasped and closed his eyes, her eyes, and as one, they surrendered, tumbling down a cascade of ecstasy.

Afterward, they lay in a tangle of blankets. She rested her head on his shoulder, one thigh stretched across his. He sighed, wishing the moment could go on forever.

"Preciosa
," he said at last, "I wish more than anything I were free to marry you."

She shifted on his chest. "Why drag politics into it?"

"But—I thought—you feel the way I do, I know you do—you would want to be with me, as I want to be with you."

"Of course, I do! I should very much like to make love with you again." Her laughter was like a mountain stream. "However, I have no desire to marry you or anyone else. I am a
leronis
, not some uneducated country woman who must depend upon a man for her living."

"I would never insult you by suggesting you become my
barragana
," Domenic replied, stung. "I would offer you all the honor due to my lawful wife."

Illona propped herself up on one elbow. "Domenic, be reasonable. You will be the next Regent of the Comyn; you cannot possibly take a freemate or marry someone who is, to put it bluntly, an unacknowledged bastard. As for the old ceremony, marrying
di catenas
, that is out of the question. It would amount to becoming your property."

Pain shot through him. Miserable, unable to see any way out of their quarrel, Domenic said, "It is all beside the point. Oh, gods, I should have told you before! I am betrothed to Alanna Alar. We made the promise in secrecy, before I knew what love was. I had no idea what I was doing, but I cannot break my word to her. Not even…"

Not even if it means spending the rest of my life with my heart in one place and my duty in another.

"She cried so hard when I left," he said, remembering the protective, helpless feeling as he'd tried to dry Alanna's tears.

"
Cario mio
." Illona touched his face with her fingertips. "Do you think I begrudge you doing what you must? Or wish you to be anything less than you are? How could I be jealous, after what we have shared?"

If those words had been spoken by any other woman, Domenic would not have believed them. Only from Illona.

Let us treasure this moment together
, her thought sang through his mind.
And every other moment, until fate and death separate us
.

The next day, Garin sank into a coma, and three days later he died. The monks at St. Valentine's arranged for his burial in the village plot.

Amid the preparations to return to Thendara, Domenic and Illona shared a bed as often as time and her duties allowed. As they got to know each other's needs and rhythms, their lovemaking became even richer. Sometimes Illona would be too drained by her work as under-Keeper for sex to be safe. She needed rest to replenish her psychic energy and keep her
laran
channels clear. Domenic, acutely aware of how little time they had, lay awake, cradling her in his arms, reveling in the warmth of her bare skin against his, inhaling her scent, or propped up on one elbow, watching her in the pastel light of the moons. He tried to memorize every line of her sleeping face, every exhilarating curve of her body, every strand of her hair.

Soon, he would not have even this much of her. Soon, they would be gone from this sanctuary. Alanna would be waiting for him, expecting him to announce their betrothal…

Other times, when his body still tingled with the lingering echoes of pleasure, Domenic wondered how he could endure making love with any other woman, or never doing it again. Yet, when he kept his promise to Alanna, as honor dictated he must, when they were man and wife, they might never be able to consummate their marriage. Certainly, when he left her, Alanna was incapable of any sexual feeling. He might not love her as he did Illona, but he cared too much for her to risk her life again.

Perhaps with time and patience, Alanna's sexuality might return naturally. Perhaps she might consent to return to Arilinn, where the temporary safeguards might be removed and normal functioning restored. He told himself these were foolish, impossible notions, that it was useless to torture himself with hope.

And if not… then he must find a way to endure it. The monks at

St. Valentine's lived in celibacy, so it was possible. Assuming, he reflected bitterly, you could call that being alive.

As for the other problem, the necessity of offspring, one night Domenic hit upon a solution. At the time of the Sharra disaster, Regis had had no heirs, so he had designated one—his sister's son, Mikhail, who had indeed gone on to be Warden of Hastur and Regent of the Domains. There was no reason why, given such a precedent, Domenic could not do the same. He could wait a suitable time for everyone to conclude that his marriage was not fruitful and to determine the most likely candidate. Not Gareth Elhalyn, who was heir to his own Domain, for all that he was Regis' grandson. Maybe Gareth's younger brother, Derek, or one of the Carcosa Hasturs…

Consumed with these thoughts, Domenic rolled away from Illona's sleeping form. All but one of the moons had set, leaving her chamber in near darkness. A terrible silence filled him, as if the night had swallowed up his heart. He felt too empty to weep.

Nico
? With a soft rustling of sheets, Illona reached for him. Her fingers, gentle and strong, slid over his bare shoulder, caressed his cheek.

For an instant, he stiffened. Why torment himself with what he could never have again?

We have tonight. We have this moment.

Tenderness swept through him as their minds merged into rapport. He turned toward her and wrapped her in his arms, holding her tight against his heart. She said nothing, for neither had words for moments such as these. As long as he thought of nothing beyond this present moment, it was enough.

Jeram had hoped to reach Thendara well before sunset, but the chervine carrying his supplies had gotten a stone wedged in its cloven hoof that morning, slowing his progress. By the time he led the little antlered beast down the slopes and could see the old houses of Thendara ringed by remnants of the Trade City and the abandoned spaceport, dusk had crept across the sky.

A rough encampment came into view just off the main road. To Jeram's eyes, the place bore the hallmarks of a crude bivouac rather than a proper traveler's resting place. He guessed there might be four or five dozen men spread out over the site.

Tents and a shed or two clustered around a well of gray, weathered stone. Beyond them, shaggy mountain ponies, chervines, and a sway-backed horse pulled at grass along a picket line. A tall blond man had set up an open-sided shed, its sides draped with blankets, apart from the others. He whistled between his teeth as he used a hand stone to whet a knife.

Jeram approached the camp, one hand holding the lead rope of his chervine, the other extended, palm out and open, to show that he carried no weapon.

One of the men around the fire called out a greeting and gestured for Jeram to join them. His hair was more white than gray, and he wore a fur shirt and boots, mountain style. Neither his accent nor the name of his village sounded familiar, but Jeram was not surprised at the offer of a shared fire. The ancient habits of hospitality and comradeship on the trail under often deadly weather conditions ran deep.

After settling his chervine along the picket line, Jeram brought his rolled-up trail tent and saddlebags to join Ulm, the man who had greeted him, and the others.

Jeram took his seat around one of the fires and accepted a thick-walled pottery cup filled with hot, bitter-smelling liquid. He swallowed, tasting blackroot.

Blackroot. Poor man's
jaco…

Ulm hunkered around the fire beside his black-haired son, Rannirl, and three or four others, including a grizzled old man in a shearling jacket. A crockery pot holding stew, clearly a communal meal cobbled together from various ingredients, simmered on a bed of cinders. Jeram was reminded once again of the rarity of metals on Darkover. Poor people, such as these travelers, could not afford an iron vessel to boil water in or a tin cup to drink it from.

One of the men handed Jeram a wooden bowl and spoon of carved chervine horn. His stomach growled as he tasted the mixture of boiled grain, potatoes, wild purple onions, and pleasantly pungent herbs. The simple, hearty food nourished his spirit as well as his body.

"That's feeling right better now, eh?" Ulm said as Jeram finished the stew.

"Right better, yes," Jeram replied. "My thanks."

"A good story will set that debt to rights," Ulm said, his eyes twinkling beneath grizzled brows. "By your speech, you come from a far distance."

"A far distance, yes." Jeram noticed that the other men had gathered around, listening. The pale-haired man had strolled over to join them.

For a moment the old habit of secrecy closed around him. In all likelihood, these men had never seen a
Terranan
in the flesh, let along spoken with one. Although the Federation had maintained a presence on Darkover for several generations, most of it had been confined to a

few cities or researchers who, while not exactly clandestine, went to a great deal of trouble to avoid attracting undue attention.

To the west, the sun sank with a rush. Darkness, dense and swift, covered the sky like great soft wings. Leaping out in a blaze of sudden brilliance came the crown of stars and the two smaller moons, like colored gemstones.

The time for hiding was over
…

"I've been living in a small village near Nevarsin," Jeram said, "trapping and farming. I was not born there, but far away, on a planet circling a star right about there…" He pointed upward, to a cluster of glittering pinpoints.

Jeram went on to say that when the Federation departed, he had remained behind. He omitted his part in the Battle of Old North Road and its aftermath. Until he had settled matters with the Comyn Council, he thought it better not to mention it. He had no idea how many laws he had broken or how these men might react. Darkovans had strong notions of honor, and many still held the Comyn in almost superstitious awe.

"Thee has a strange way of speaking, truly." The old sheepherder peered at Jeram and looked as if he'd like to poke the younger man with a stick to make sure he was solid flesh. "I never held with the notion that folk from the stars had horns and tails, like Zandru's demons," he cackled.

"As you can see, I am a man like any other," Jeram said, holding out his hands, "perhaps stranger, but certainly no wiser."

That remark elicited chuckles all around, except from Liam, the blond man. He'd been quiet throughout Jeram's story. Jeram had seen the same stillness, the same concentrated listening, in men in the Terran elite special forces.

"What brings you to Thendara?" Ulm asked.

"Believe me, I would rather have stayed in Rock Glen," Jeram said. "I have business with the Comyn Council that has been too long delayed. I understand the session is to begin within the tenday."

Rannirl let out a whistle. The white-bearded sheepherder shook his head and looked away. On the picket lines, one of the ponies stamped and swished its tail.

"Did I say something offensive?" Jeram said.

"No, lad," Ulm said kindly. "You must truly be from another world. Here, a common man cannot simply walk into the Crystal Chamber. The Comyn do not concern themselves with ordinary people. In my father's day, our own lord often came down among us. He helped us in times of trouble. Now the steward does not know our faces, or we, his. You'll find no favor from that quarter."

"Aye," several men agreed.

"Mine is another sort of problem," Jeram said. "I am not asking for help. Surely, there must be some way to bring a petition before the Council."

"Well…" Ulm scratched his head. "The Cortes are for city folk who cannot settle their own arguments."

"Where, then, do you go for justice?" Jeram searched his memory, but the d-corticator programs had said little about the Darkovan government beyond the loosely organized feudal Comyn, their central Council, and a system of local courts. He gathered that most problems were handled locally, through a village headman or the owner of the nearest estate. This made sense, given the difficulty of communication and travel. He wished he'd asked Lew more questions.

"Justice! Justice is for those who can pay for it," Liam said, and several others muttered agreement. "Do you know what the usurper Regent and his cronies say when a man like you or me asks for his rights? They laugh in your face and throw you out!"

"Why, is that how they treated you?" Jeram said warily. The blond man clearly had an axe to grind. The last thing Jeram needed was to be diverted into one man's private crusade.

"I?" the blond man said. "I speak only what everyone here knows!"

A young man, barely past adolescence and dressed more shabbily than the others, said, "Twice now my kinsman and I have tried to take our case to the City Administrative Offices, where we had been told we might petition the Council for a hearing. They told us to
go home
, but they do not understood there's no
home
to
go to
."

An undertone of agreement ran through the little assembly, resonant with hopeless desperation.

"Jorek speaks true enough," the sheepherder said.

Ulm's gray-laced brows tightened. He lifted the pot of blackroot tea

and offered it around. The boy and several others took some. "The world goes as it will, and not as you or I would have it."

"We speak of rights, my friends. Was it
right
that when wolves set upon Ewen's flock last winter—" Liam's gaze flickered to the old sheepherder—"and Lord Ardais, who should have protected him, did nothing? Ardais was doubtlessly too busy whoring to be bothered. So is it
right that
Ewen should have to pay his rents and taxes all the same?"

Ulm looked unhappy. "It's not wise to say such things about the Comyn lords."

"Why not, when they are true?" Rannirl muttered, drawing a sharp look from his father.

"I call no man of us a fool," Liam went on, "but there will be a heat wave in the Hellers before the present Ardais lord—or any of the Regent's pet cronies—honors the promises given by his fathers."

"Let it rest," the old sheepherder interjected. "No good comes from poking a festering sore."

Liam clearly had more to say. "For every one of us with a grievance against the Comyn, there are a hundred—a thousand others—who are still silent. Who will speak for us? Who will shake the Comyn out of their rich palaces and make them see what is going on?"

"Aye, and
do
something about it?" Rannirl said.

Ulm got up to add a few twisted branches to the fire. Cinders shot upward like motes of brilliance against the night.

"What can we do?" Jorek asked, growing agitated. His eyes gleamed in the heightened flames. "Storm the castle gates?"

"Some tried just that, last summer," one of the other men said. "The Guards came out with swords and it looked to be a nasty fight."

"And did they get what they were after?"

The man shook his head. "That part of the story I never heard, only that there was no more trouble."

With that, the little gathering began to disperse. Liam went off with two or three others, the boy Jorek among them, still talking. Jeram remained by the fire with Ulm as the encampment around them fell silent.

From the west, thin clouds stretched across the sweep of stars, dimming their light. The air turned chill and damp.

"What about your story, friend?" Jeram said, holding out his hands to the fire. "It doesn't sound like you found what you came for, either."

"There's little enough to tell. My own tale is much the same as any other man's. You see us, herdsmen and farmers, driven from our homes by famine and fire. Some came here to find work, others for help in restoring their lands. Their fathers were promised protection, and it has taken much hardship to bend their pride enough to ask. A few of them, like old Ewen, still hope that when the Council meets at Midsummer, something might be done."

"And the others, do you think they have given up hope?"

"Some linger for a time. You heard Jorek say there is no home to go back to, and he's not the only one." Sighing, Ulm shook his head and drained the last of his blackroot tea. "My son Ranirrl says if we only keep asking, we will find work. He is just as stubborn and headstrong as I was at his age. There may be hope in this sad world of ours, but not for us."

"So you will give up and go home?"

Ulm paused for a long moment before replying. He looked away, into the night, where even now the stars were fading. Jeram sensed rather than saw the unshed tears. Then, gathering himself, the older man said, "Aye, and scratch out a living from what the fires left. Maybe Rannirl has the right of it. It's no life for a young man, to stay behind when the land itself dies."

The old man's look of hopelessness tore at Jeram, as if he were seeing something strong and fine thrown on a garbage heap. The thought came to him that if he needed an ally, someone to watch his back, it would be someone like Ulm.

But was Ulm's battle one that he wanted to fight? He had come here to face the Comyn Council and any unresolved charges against him. Not to rally powerless men into seizing their rights, as Liam seemed bent on doing.

Jeram lifted his head. Around him, men sat around the campfires that dotted the site, attending to the tasks of informal living. These were proud, independent people who asked only what was owed them.

Justice, denied, festers
…

If there were some way he could help these people, he would.

The next morning, Jeram rose early. A fine misty rain had fallen during the night. Droplets clung to the tents and wooden sheds. The gray stones of the well glistened. Even the patches of grass looked brighter, washed new. Only a few filmy clouds remained. The smells of damp charcoal, crushed grass, and horse dung tinged the air.

Jeram determined to be first in line at the Administrative office. A petition seemed his best hope of obtaining a hearing with the Council. Failing that, he supposed he could he could search out Lew's daughter, but from what Ulm and the others said, it wouldn't be easy to speak privately with her. His business was with the Council itself, so with the Council he would start.

Walking toward the picket line to tend to his chervine, Jeram smelled freshly brewed
jaco
. Real
jaco
, not blackroot. His mouth watered.
Jaco
wasn't coffee, but it had a satisfying aroma and a pleasant, bitter-edged taste. Liam waved at him from the shelter of the shed. Jeram accepted a mug of the steaming drink and hunkered down to savor it.

"You're up early," Liam said conversationally. "Off to try for a hearing?"

Jeram nodded, cradling the mug between his hands. Warmth spread through his fingers. The mug was skillfully made, the walls of uniform thickness, the orange glaze as fine as any he'd seen off-world. Handmade pottery fetched good prices on Vainwal or Sandoz Three, but there was no hope of ever selling it there.