“Francisco has no reason to harm me—” Lew began.
“Except to get back at Mikhail. Or me.”
“—and I have every reason to be courteous to him,” Lew went on, ignoring her comment. “He was, after all, kin to Dio.”
Mikhail looked thoughtful. “If we are to give him a chance to reestablish himself in Comyn society, then an overture must be made. With today’s Council, we have taken the first step toward resolving this issue, but we cannot expect an instant reconciliation. If Lew is willing to undertake it, I think the effort might prove fruitful.”
“I fail to see the point in such a visit, except to open old wounds or give that snake an opportunity to create new ones!” Marguerida insisted.
“I do not see any other honorable choice,” Lew said. “To refuse to call on him, given the bonds of kinship by marriage, would be an insult.”
Marguerida summoned a little smile. “I don’t know what has gotten into me these days. Of course, you are right, Mik. Small, slow steps are essential to rebuilding trust and understanding. Father, do be careful.”
Remember the warning of my Aldaran Gift…
After a suitable interval, Lew sent a message to the Ridenow apartments within the Castle. An answer came back promptly, saying that Francisco would be honored to receive Lew at his earliest convenience.
Francisco himself greeted Lew at the door to the Ridenow suite. Lew sensed in him a mixture of pleasant surprise, friendliness, and anxiety. Like some of the Ridenows, Francisco did not possess laran but nonetheless had developed good natural barriers. He must have learned at a young age to live among telepaths without broadcasting his thoughts.
The Ridenow suite had not been used much since Cisco had taken up quarters near the Guards barracks. The efforts of the housekeeping staff under Marguerida’s exacting supervision could not entirely dispel a trace of mustiness from the corners. Nevertheless, the chamber into which Francisco ushered Lew was well-lit by candles as well as natural daylight slanting through the thick glass windows, warm from the small fire, and pleasantly appointed. The cushions appeared new, even if the carpets looked as if they dated from the time of Damon Ridenow.
Bless Aldones for formal etiquette, Lew thought as they concluded opening pleasantries and took their seats. Francisco had known Diotima only slightly, being from a different branch of the family, but graciously welcomed Lew’s visit on behalf of the entire Ridenow Domain.
If Francisco intended to put himself forward as the legitimate heir of Varzil the Good, he had studied the part well. Perhaps too well. Beneath the polished charm lay bitter-edged arrogance and a sense of indisputable privilege. Pride was not yet a criminal offense.
Not for the first time, Lew wondered what had happened to Dio’s kinsmen. How convenient it had been for Francisco’s ambition that so many had died.
Perhaps, Lew thought, he himself had grown too suspicious. After all, what Comyn had not been raised from birth with the knowledge of his place in the ruling aristocracy of Darkover?
Francisco’s daughter entered, carrying a tray of wine and Carthonstyle cakes in tiny diamond shapes, studded with crystalized honey. She wore a flowing gown of faintly iridescent fabric, and her red-gold hair hung in loose ripples to her waist. She served both men with an easy grace, scarcely disturbing their conversation, and then took a seat herself.
The talk moved smoothly through inconsequential matters, conditions on the road from the Ridenow estate, the weather, the upcoming ball. Sibelle’s eyes brightened.
“It will be my daughter’s first opportunity for the society of young people of her own age and station,” Francisco said. “I fear that Serrais has nothing to compare with the delights and diversions of Thendara. We are rather a dull household.”
“How shall you enjoy a formal ball, damisela?” Lew asked.
Sibelle lowered her gaze. “I believe I shall like it, Dom Lewis, even if I must confine myself to dancing with my own kinsmen.”
“Are you fond of dancing, then?” Lew’s heart lifted at the simple pleasure of discussing a dance with such a charming young woman.
When Sibelle smiled, a dimple appeared at one corner of her mouth. “Very much!”
“Then we must be sure to introduce you to the young men of the court,” Lew said.
“Will you dance with me, vai dom?” She glanced at her father. “That is, if Papa says it would be proper.”
“Indeed,” Francisco said, “for he is your kinsman by marriage and a man of honor and good character, known to me.”
“Oh, my dancing days are long since over,” Lew said. “You would not want to drag your feet around the ballroom with an old man. You will not lack partners who are much more sprightly.”
“But you are Dom Lewis-Kennard Alton!” Sibelle said. “You are the one who brought down the Sharra matrix at Caer Donn! They still sing ballads about it!”
Lew’s euphoric mood evaporated. Sharra again! Would he never be free of it?
“Is something amiss, Dom Lewis?” Color drained from Sibelle’s cheeks.
“It is no matter,” Lew said, waving away her protests with his single hand. He heard his own voice, raw and strained from the permanent damage to his vocal cords, a poignant reminder that more than his face had been scarred at Caer Donn.
“You have done nothing wrong, daughter,” Francisco said soothingly. “Take away the wine and leave us now. We have business to discuss.”
“As you wish, Papa.”
“She meant no harm,” Lew said after they were alone again. “How could she know that such things as Sharra are best forgotten?”
“Such things as Sharra…” Francisco repeated, his face darkening. “You are right, of course. What can any young person know of that horror?”
“We all pray there will never be a need for them to acquire such knowledge,” Lew said fervently.
Francisco shook his head. “It is hard to believe that even in our time, after so long, we who have sworn to uphold the Compact should so easily forsake it. Varzil the Good, my ancestor, understood the temptations of necessity. When we are desperate, faced with an overwhelming adversary—the Terran Federation and its hideous technology, for example—how easy it is to justify the use of our laran.”
“Are you referring to the circle that raised Sharra?” Lew shot back, stung. Francisco had touched a raw nerve, the core of truth. In the beginning, the circle at Caer Donn dreamed of using their laran powers to negotiate on an equal standing with the Federation. Only later, when they were already in its horrific grasp, did they realize that Sharra could never be used as anything except a weapon.
“In part.” Francisco nodded, his eyes dark and unreadable. “And other things.”
The Battle of Old North Road…
“Dom Lewis?” Francisco was leaning forward, and Lew realized that his own thoughts had wandered for an instant.
“Your pardon,” Lew said. “You were saying?”
“I am glad you have had the chance to see Sibelle for yourself and will not hold such a small lapse against her.”
“As I said, I do not consider that she has said anything in the least objectionable.”
Francisco smiled. “Then you approve of her?”
“What reasonable person could not? She is a delightful young woman, a true asset to her family.” He would not ask whether she had laran, as well. Too much misery had resulted over the centuries from valuing women only for the psychic Gifts they might pass on to their sons.
“Forgive my brashness in seizing this opportunity,” Francisco said. “I would speak with you to the mutual advantage of our families and all the Comyn.”
“I will listen,” Lew said.
“As a man of the world, you know where the present state of affairs between Mikhail Lanart-Hastur and myself might lead. We have never come to outright warfare between Domains, but as long as the reason for a blood-feud persists, that potential remains.”
Lew understood Francisco’s veiled threat. Once, in the
long-ago time of Allart Hastur, Hastur and Ridenow had been bitter enemies. That was before the Compact, and those very weapons to which Francisco had alluded—clingfire that burned a man down to his bones, bonewater dust that left the land itself sterile, lungrot, mind-warping spells and more—had been hurled at one another by the warring kingdoms. It had taken generations to resolve the conflict and bring the era of The Hundred Kingdoms to a close.
What was Francisco hinting? Was he searching for a means of reconciliation without loss of honor on either side? Had exile wrought such a change in heart?
“Please go on,” Lew said. “If you have a proposal that would put this quarrel to rest, I am eager to hear it.”
“Surely, you must have guessed that I brought Sibelle to Thendara for more than a round of parties and flirtations. I propose to approach Mikhail Lanart-Hastur with an alliance by the marriage of his son, Domenic, to my daughter.”
So Lew’s first thought on seeing Sibelle was correct. He almost wished it were not so, for the girl’s sake. True, this was the way families had brought an end to hostilities since the beginning of memory. But not since Derik Elhalyn had attempted to force a political marriage between the Keeper Callina Aillard and Beltran Aldaran had anyone seriously considered it.
Look what resulted…Callina dead, leaving the Domain of Aillard without an Heir…Sharra threatening once more to rage out of control…
Flames in his mind, in his soul…
“Has Sibelle agreed?” Lew asked, wrenching his thoughts under control.
Would Domenic agree?
“As a dutiful daughter, she understands what is at stake. How many Comynara can render such service to their Domains? Considering the benefit to their families, the obligations of duty, and the suitability of the young people themselves, the marriage stands every chance of being happy. Domenic is reputed to be a fine young man, neither dissolute nor cruel. You see for yourself that Sibelle would make an exemplary wife. Of course,” Francisco gave a shrug, as if to prove how reasonable he was, “if they find one another repugnant, we cannot force them. There is another son, I believe.”
“Yes, Rory.” Lew did not know his other grandson well, beyond the boy’s wildly mischievous childhood pranks. Perhaps time and City Guards training had steadied him, as it had so many others.
“Sibelle will bring a rich dowry and new blood to Hastur. In time, Cisco will marry, and it is his children, not hers, who will inherit Serrais.”
“You have given the matter careful thought.”
Francisco gave a little, self-deprecating laugh. “I have had a great deal of time to consider such things. When we reach a certain age, our perspective changes. Things that seemed so urgent in our youth take on far less importance. We realize that we must put old struggles behind us and look to the future.”
“Put old struggles behind us,” Lew repeated silently. If only it were that simple!
“I see you understand me,” Francisco said. “Will you convey my proposal? I believe it will receive a more open hearing than if I present it myself. Mikhail might well react to any gesture on my part with suspicion.”
Francisco clearly wanted Lew to vouch for his sincerity as well. How could Lew refuse? Francisco had given him no reason to distrust his motives…no overt reason, that is. Lew felt as if he had been holding two conversations with the Ridenow lord, one sincere and hopeful, the other veiled in disturbing references and hinted threats.
“As much as I hope for a return to amicable relations among all our houses,” Lew said carefully, as he had learned to do during his years as Senator to the Terran Federation, “I cannot act as your agent, even indirectly. I am happy to communicate your willingness to enter into negotiations for a marriage alliance, but more than that, I cannot in good conscience undertake. I am sure you understand why.”
“Forgive my eagerness.” Francisco bowed his head a fraction, so that his expression was hidden. His voice, however, was warm and cordial. “I would not abuse your goodwill by placing you in such an awkward position.”
“No offense was taken, and no pardon is necessary. It is a difficult business, but with time and goodwill on both your parts, all may be well,” Lew replied, adding that even if the marriage did not come about, the effort would not be wasted.
With smiles and reassurances, Lew took his leave.
7
Marguerida gazed across the breakfast table at the man who had shared her life for these long years, enjoying one of the few peaceful moments together since word had come of Javanne’s death. Sun drifting through the half-opened window glowed on Mikhail’s hair, almost as bright as the day she had first seen him. Yet how much brighter was their love, both for the crises they had endured together and the thousand tiny everyday events that, like silken threads, bound their hearts into one.
He sensed her mood, as he always did, and creases formed a smile around his blue eyes. Without any need of spoken words, they shared a pulse of deep understanding, a moment only, for the day’s business could not be long delayed.
A tap at the outside door broke the moment. Lew came in. His hair was combed, his clothing immaculate, but Marguerida instantly noticed the deep circles below his eyes, the scars etched into his face like erosion runnels.
Father, what is the matter?
Mikhail, always more deliberate, invited Lew to sit with them. Lew did so, although he refused jaco or herbal tisane.
“I have come to discuss my meeting yesterday with Francisco Ridenow,” Lew said heavily.
“Yes, I wondered about that,” Mikhail said, sitting forward in his chair. “Since you did not send word last night, I surmised the matter must not be urgent. Is it as we hoped, and does Francisco wish to reestablish himself among us?”
Lew’s expression tightened minutely. Marguerida knew her father too well for him to disguise his unease, even though he had barricaded his thoughts.
“Whatever it is, let’s hear it.” Her words came out more forceful than she had intended. “It’s always best to have it out, straight.”
“Very well,” Lew nodded. “Omitting all the courtesies and indirect hints, Francisco proposes to end the animosity between you with a marriage between Domenic and his daughter, Sibelle.”
Outrage flared in Marguerida. What century does the man think we are living in, to barter our children for political gain?
Years of living among the Comyn, however, had taught her to take a deep breath before she opened her mouth. What Francisco proposed was not unreasonable in Darkovan terms. Even today, many noble families arranged marriages for their sons and daughters, and, she had to admit, many of those marriages were as successful as those made for love alone.
Marguerida did not know how to think about this new development. Was it a good thing? A terrible mistake? Was it even possible? Being in light rapport with Mikhail, as she often was, she sensed his surprise quickly give rise to serious consideration.
He met her astonished glance. “Preciosa, set your fears at rest. Whatever happens, I will never pressure our son into a burdensome marriage.”
Domenic—and Rory and Yllana as well—must be free to marry where their hearts lead them! she insisted.
“None of us are entirely free to do that,” Mikhail replied gravely. “We Comyn cannot choose our lives the way ordinary people do. Even if we no longer command marriages in order to breed laran talents, there are other considerations. With power comes responsibility, and we cannot set aside our duty to please ourselves.”
“You and I—” she began, her mind filled with memories of the opposition to their growing love. Javanne’s antagonism had fueled most of the obstacles, but there had been other problems as well. As Heir to Alton, Marguerida had attracted more than one other suitor, including Francisco Ridenow. In a wild moment, she wondered if Francisco thought to ameliorate the pain of his own rejection by uniting their children.
Mikhail said, “In the midst of all we had to contend with, we were both Comyn, legitimate, laran-Gifted, with f
ull Domain-right. Neither of us could have married a chervine herder or a scullery maid.”
“No, I can imagine the scandal that would have caused,” she said, laughing.
And neither can Domenic, he sent the gentle thought. He is a true son of Hastur, meaning the legendary ancestor of the Comyn.
Marguerida’s temples throbbed, a sickening pulse so very different from a natural headache. The Aldaran Gift again? And did it warn of some danger to Domenic rather than Mikhail?
I will drive myself to distraction at this rate and be of no use to anyone!
Gathering herself, she turned to her father. “Is Francisco serious about this marriage? Do you think it wise? How does his daughter feel about it?”
“He says she understands her duty, so I would say, yes, she is willing. As to his own motives…” Lew’s expression darkened. “I have spent half the night turning around the different possibilities in my mind and am no closer to any conclusions. He could have a dozen different schemes.”
“Could it be a trap?” she asked. “A ruse to lure us into trusting him?”
“Anything a Comyn does could be a trap,” Lew replied dryly. “We have had a thousand years to perfect the art.”
“On the other hand, the offer could be exactly as presented,” Mikhail said, “a sincere effort to establish closer ties, so that a generation from now, this quarrel and all its potential for blood feud will be forgotten. We must give him that chance.”
“Or it could place Domenic within Francisco’s reach,” Marguerida muttered, and she saw in her father’s eyes that he had considered the same thing.
“We will not allow Domenic to come to any harm, no matter what happens,” Mikhail said.
“The Comyn Council is very likely to regard the offer as genuine,” Lew said. “In fact, we must consider the possibility they may decide this match is in their best interest and force the marriage.”
“They couldn’t!” Marguerida cried. “They wouldn’t!”
“I am afraid they could and might,” Mikhail said. “Remember, even in our time, the Heir to a Domain cannot marry without their consent. We will not permit such a thing, not if Domenic is adverse to the match. But it is better that the issue not be raised in Council. Fighting it might cost us allies that we need for other, more important battles.”
The Alton Gift Page 8
