The Alton Gift, Page 3

  Hands lifted Mikhail. A face bent over him…

  “Once I take this oath,” Regis said, “he is not yours but mine…and this claim may never be renounced by me while I live…”

  Later, while Mikhail lay, restless and yearning, his ears caught the sound of weeping in the night.

  From that moment, baby Mikhail ceased to be only the youngest of three sons of Gabriel and Javanne. He became a Hastur in his own right, the heir to Regis, the Domain, and the Regency of the Comyn. And so was Domenic, his oldest son.

  Domenic looked into his father’s eyes, his heart too full to speak. He understood why Mikhail had never lashed back at Javanne and why she had turned on him, of all her sons.

  A shadow passed over Mikhail’s features, still handsome but blurred, as if the spirit that burned so brightly within him were momentarily dimmed. Creases now marked the once-smooth brow and bracketed the generous mouth; the hollows of eye socket and cheekbone held intimations of age. Had the last three years, when Domenic had rarely been home for more than the briefest holiday visits, weighed so heavily upon his father?

  Not just three years. Three years of being Regent in the wake of the departure of the Terran Federation.

  “Go on, get yourself inside,” Mikhail urged Domenic. “You’re soaked through. When you’re warm and dry, go greet your mother. I’ll be a time making sure the casket is placed in proper state.”

  The Guardsmen went off to their own quarters. Domenic gave each of the Edelweiss servants a small purse of silver. Then he made his way through the labyrinth of halls and corridors to his own chamber in the family suite. This part of the Castle had always seemed to him an accretion of centuries of architectural styles, all jumbled together. The stone stairs had been worn in the middle, polished by generations of feet. Here and there, a newer wall hanging or a panel of translucent blue stone brightened the passageway. At last, Domenic reached the familiar archway leading to the family quarters.

  His father was right, he was wet through to his skin. The brief laran contact had drained him even further. Any moment now, he would start shivering. He did not want to face his mother without a bite to eat, a bath and shave, and a change of clothing. A drink might not be a bad idea, either. In this frame of mind, he hurried down the corridor, head down, slapping his sodden riding gloves against his thigh.

  “Domenic!” Alanna Alar burst from an opened door and threw her arms around his neck. He smelled her faintly floral perfume, felt her silken cheek against his.

  “Alanna! Don’t hug me! I’m drenched and filthy from the trail. You’ll ruin your gown!”

  Alanna met Domenic’s gaze with a disconcerting directness. He had seen her but little in the last three years. Somehow, in the time they’d been apart, she had changed from a pretty child into a beauty, with hair like spun copper and startling green eyes beneath dark, sweetly arched brows. He noticed a hint of shadow between the curves of her breasts at the neckline of her gown, her slender waist, her skin like velvet.

  “Never mind about the dress!” she said, pouting a little. “Aren’t you happy to see me? I’ve missed you so much!”

  Something inside Domenic, some knot of tension, loosened. He and Alanna had been playfellows since they were young children, when she had come to live with his family. Her own mother had been too insecure and neurotic, not to mention utterly lacking in laran, to deal with a strong-willed, tempestuous daughter, so Marguerida had offered to foster the child. Domenic had taken the disconsolate girl under his wing, and he soon became closer to her than to his own siblings.

  Domenic kissed Alanna’s cheek. “I’ve missed you, too. I sent word—you must have heard—Grandmother Javanne died.”

  Alanna’s cheerful expression faltered. Javanne and Gabriel were her grandparents as well as his, for her mother was Mikhail’s younger sister.

  “I ought to be sorry,” she said, lowering her gaze but not sounding at all sad, “but I hardly knew Grandmother Javanne. She certainly made Auntie Marguerida’s life miserable, and she wasn’t very nice to you. I couldn’t believe you went to stay with her when you didn’t have to.”

  Domenic hesitated to remind her that Javanne’s irritability and suspiciousness was not her own fault but an effect of her illness. It was too complicated to explain, and he didn’t have the energy for a lengthy discussion. He remembered, too, how little grief Alanna had shown after the death of Regis Hastur, who had always been gentle and kind to her.

  “It was the right thing to do,” he said, “and we made our peace in the end.”

  Alanna slipped her hand into his. Her fingers felt smooth and soft. “Come on. We’ve only got a little while before Auntie Marguerida hears you’re back.”

  As they walked toward his chamber, she told him about the latest street opera, a retelling of the adventures of Durraman’s infamously recalcitrant donkey. Domenic remembered the times they had hidden in various places in the castle, the secret games they had shared, acting out tales of bandits or Dry Towners. Once, when they were about ten, she’d dressed in his jacket and breeches and announced she was going to cut her hair and run away with the Free Amazons.

  Regretfully, he pulled his hand free. “Our reunion will have to wait. I must make myself presentable for my parents.”

  “So?” She turned back to him, eyebrows lifted like the slender wings of a rainbird in flight. For an instant, he felt as if he were drowning in the celadon light of her eyes.

  “So,” he said, trying not to blush, “no young woman of good reputation should be alone with a man who is not her husband, especially in his own chamber. Especially if—in case you hadn’t noticed—I am in sore need of a bath and a shave.”

  Rosy color seeped across Alanna’s cheeks and throat. Her eyelids, fringed with amazingly long lashes, half lowered, and her blush intensified. Domenic thought she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.

  “Please,” he began, suddenly desperate to say something, “after I’m cleaned up, I must go to my mother. I’d very much appreciate your company.”

  “I will look for you afterward, but don’t ask me to go in. Auntie Marguerida is expecting you, not me.”

  “Oh, Alanna, we are all family! You will not be intruding.”

  “It’s not that…” Her eyes darkened, and she bit her lower lip. “I would not spoil your homecoming.”

  “Alanna—cousin—what is the matter?”

  She gave a little, careless laugh. Domenic heard the forced quality, as if she were trying to put on a brave face for him. “She does not—we do not…she is always telling me…No, I will say no more. You are here, and everything will be better now, I promise.”

  With a smile that sent a curious sensation through Domenic’s stomach, Alanna hurried away.

  Domenic emerged from his chamber clean and smooth-cheeked, wearing a suit of butter-soft suede dyed in Hastur blue and trimmed with silver braid, and made his way to the small office that his mother kept in her own suite of rooms. A lively fire warmed the hearth and scented the air with the familiar, comforting fragrance of balsam. An uneven tapestry, his sister Yllana’s work, hung in a place of honor on the paneled walls, but otherwise the chamber with its cheerful carpet and lovingly tended furniture was exactly as he remembered it. Through the far door Domenic glimpsed his mother’s specially built clavier.

  Marguerida sat at her usual desk, piled with papers and opened books. Although she’d borne three children, now young adults, only a faint tracery of lines between her brows betrayed her years. Her hair was still a mass of silky flame-red curls, her eyes a curious golden color. She wore a gown of soft ivory wool, draped high on the neck for warmth, the skirts swinging from a gracefully dropped waist, and a matching embroidered glove on her left hand. The glove, hemmed with a tracery of satin-stitched flowers, was so much a part of her dress that Domenic could not imagine her without it. It insulated the psychoactive matrix embedded in her palm, the strange remainder of an Overworld battle before he was born. Domenic had seen it un
veiled only once, at the Battle of Old North Road.

  With a cry of delight, Marguerida came toward him. “Nico, my darling! Mik sent a servant to let me know you’d arrived. Here you are, home at last!”

  Domenic returned his mother’s embrace. “I’m sorry I was delayed. The weather was terrible, and it always takes longer to travel with a large party. Grandfather Gabriel sends his regards, but is too frail to make the journey this early in the season.”

  A strange expression passed over Marguerida’s golden eyes. Domenic sensed the quick succession of her emotions—sadness tinged with relief at Javanne’s passing, concern for her husband’s grief, compassion for the old man who had been kind to her when she had returned to Darkover as a young woman and found herself caught up in the whirlwind politics of the Comyn.

  “We will miss him,” she said, “but it is better that he stay where he can be cared for. We have had enough deaths in the family.”

  She gestured to the divan that had been drawn up before the hearth. The two of them settled comfortably in the sphere of the fire’s warmth.

  “And Domna Javanne…?” Marguerida asked. “You were able to say your farewells with an easy heart?”

  “I believe she was at peace at last,” Domenic said. “I read to her from one of your books, to ease her pain.”

  “Did you, indeed?” She looked pleased.

  “She especially liked the song about the delfin prince and the pearl-diver’s daughter.”

  “Javanne’s passing marks the end of an era,” Marguerida said thoughtfully. “Each year there are fewer left of that generation. My father, of course, and Old Gabriel.”

  “And Danilo Syrtis-Ardais,” Domenic added.

  “Yes, although he keeps so much to himself these days, I see very little of him. He took the death of Regis very hard. I’m afraid he may never get over the loss. And then Lady Linnea…since you were last at home, she left us for Arilinn Tower. She was trained as a Keeper when she was very young, you know, and gave it up to marry Regis. The work will give her a sense of purpose, and trained leroni are still so few that she will make a valuable contribution. But here we are, gossiping like a couple of old hens!”

  As Domenic listened, he realized how much he had missed. Life had gone on without him, following its own rhythms. “It is good to be home again.”

  She took his hand, an unusual gesture of warmth among telepaths but characteristic of her. “I hope your stay will not be so brief this time…”

  In his mind, Domenic finished her thought. The time has come when you must take up your responsibilities. You are the Heir to Hastur and the Regency of all the Domains.

  “I have tried not to impose that obligation on you too soon,” Marguerida said. “The people need strong leadership, and that takes not only talent but training. We must ensure a smooth succession.”

  “I know, I know. At my age, my father had had years of preparation. Great-Uncle Regis himself groomed him for the work. I appreciate the freedom you’ve given me…”

  Where were the words to express the turmoil in his heart? How could he explain?

  I don’t want to be the most powerful man on Darkover. I saw what it did to Great-Uncle Regis, what it is doing to Father!

  Marguerida’s eyes widened, and Domenic realized he had not kept his thoughts private. He braced himself for a lecture on responsibilities, but her expression softened.

  “Regis used to say that if we did not like the lives we had been born to, we should have chosen our parents differently,” she said. “Do you think he—or your father—or I, for that matter—wanted power? Oh, Nico, I would have given anything for a quiet, private life with Mikhail, with no greater fame than what I earned through my music. Goodness knows, I tried everything to avoid being named the Heir to Alton when I first came to Darkover. When I surrendered my right to Armida to old Gabriel, I thought I was at last free from Comyn politics. But my life didn’t work out that way.”

  Neither will yours, she said silently. Like me, you will always have the steadfast support of those who love you.

  Marguerida got up from her desk and stood beside Domenic’s chair, resting her gloved hand on his shoulder. When he had left Thendara three years ago, thinking to make a new life for himself at Neskaya Tower, he had spared no thought for what it cost her to let him go. He had focused only on his own desires, his own needs.

  In his memory, he saw Javanne as a young woman, setting aside her own hopes, fulfilling her duty to her caste, to her world. Releasing her own infant son to a harsh destiny. Her gaze, unflinching and direct, challenged him to do the same. She called upon him to set aside the toys—and the dreams—of his childhood.

  “I am not my father, or Great-Uncle Regis,” he said, his voice strangely thick. “But if I have no choice, then I must do my best.”

  Marguerida’s fingers tightened on his shoulder. “I know you will, my dear, and I have every confidence in you.”

  As he forced a smile, Domenic imagined the walls of Comyn Castle closing in on him. One by one, the doors of his life swung closed, leaving only this narrow avenue.

  How could he complain? He had already been given far more freedom than any other young man in his position, certainly more than his own father or Great-Uncle Regis. Neither of them had had the luxury of studying in a Tower, or swimming in the Sea of Dalereuth, or walking the marketplace in Carthon. Why should he want more?

  If only Darkover did not sing to him in his dreams…

  Domenic did not see his father until later, in the cozy room that served as the family parlor and informal dining room. The sleeping chamber used by Marguerida and Mikhail lay beyond it, and their children’s bedrooms were down a short hallway. The main hall, little used except for formal occasions, lay in the opposite direction. The great complex of Comyn Castle contained many such apartments, one area for each Domain. Most were used infrequently, only when the families came to Thendara for gatherings of the Comyn Council. Domenic’s family was the exception, for Mikhail’s duties as Regent required his year-round presence.

  These small, tidily appointed chambers were as familiar to Domenic as any he had known. Through that door, his mother had set up the office where she had received him on his arrival; here she entertained friends and composed music in moments snatched from her official duties. Farther down the hallway lay his father’s study, part refuge, part solarium, part library.

  When Domenic entered the parlor, he found Yllana and Rory bent over a low table, playing castles. Marguerida sat nearby, picking out a melody on an old-fashioned rryl. Yllana sprang up and accepted Domenic’s embrace. She was fifteen now, with tawny eyes and a girl’s willowy grace. From the fleeting touch of her laran, she had clearly inherited their mother’s quick wit and their father’s cautiousness.

  “So the exile has returned,” Rory said, clapping Domenic’s shoulder. “For how long, this time?”

  “I am not certain, for there is much to be settled.” Domenic felt Marguerida’s eyes on him. He added, “I wish the reason had been less unhappy.”

  In Domenic’s absence, Rory had grown from an unruly adolescent to a man, although echoes of the old wildness still lingered in the roguish glint in his eyes. A curl at the corner of his mouth reminded Domenic of his brother’s early penchant for mischief, the murals Rory had emblazoned on the parlor walls in chalk, the tarts stolen from the kitchen. Rory now carried himself with an assurance and restraint Domenic had never seen in him before. Clearly, Rory’s training in the Guards had given him much-needed self-discipline as well as a sword fighter’s muscular shoulders and supple strength.

  Food arrived from the Castle kitchens. Marguerida had ordered a light meal of late winter fare, Thendara-style, buns stuffed with meat and onions, a bowl of dried apples and another of toasted nuts, a beaker of watered cider, and a pitcher of the ubiquitous jaco. Domenic found himself surprisingly hungry.

  While they were eating, Mikhail came in, trailing a gust of air that smelled of leather and rain. “There
you are, Domenic! Come here, for a proper greeting!”

  After embracing Domenic once more, Mikhail bent to kiss Marguerida. Domenic felt the steady pulse of love between them. A ring sparkled on Mikhail’s right hand, the mysterious and extraordinary matrix given to him on a desperate journey through time by the legendary Varzil the Good.

  Over the years, Mikhail had learned to harness the immensely powerful psychoactive gem for healing, as well as less peaceful purposes. With his Tower training, Domenic sensed how the ring crystal had become attuned to his father’s personal matrix. One of the first things Domenic had learned at Neskaya was never to let anyone else touch his matrix. Only a trained Keeper could handle another’s starstone without agonizing, even fatal, shock to the owner. Since Mikhail was able to wear the ring unshielded, open to casual touch, the stone of the ring must not have the same limitations.

  The servants finished laying the meal on the table, and they sat down. One chair remained vacant, and a moment later, Alanna entered and slipped into it. She wore the same gown as before, but her hair had been tidied, plaited flame against the cream of her skin. Domenic noticed that she offered no excuse for her lateness. Instead, she kept her eyes on her plate.

  “Alanna dear, will you not welcome Domenic back among us?” Marguerida said.

  “She has already done so,” Domenic said, accepting the bowl of amber-nuts Rory passed to him. “We ran into each other when I first came in.”

  Alanna’s smile flashed like the sun after a storm. The air in the room brightened.

  “Now we are all here together as a family,” Mikhail said, “even if it is for a sorrowful occasion. Domenic, you did well in your kindness to my mother during her last days and in bringing her body back for burial. For all the unhappiness in her life, she was Comynara.”

  Domenic heard the heavy resonance in his father’s voice, like the distant throbbing of a knell.

  How would I feel if it were my mother lying in that casket, waiting to be laid in an unmarked grave? Domenic shuddered, unable to imagine a world without Marguerida.