The Alton Gift

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  The two friends settled into armchairs, drawn together for comfortable conversation. To one side, a small table of carved ash-pale wood bore a beautifully glazed teapot and cups and a bouquet of tiny yellow starflowers in a glass vase. The delicate lemony smell of the flowers blended with the slightly pungent aroma of the drink. Katherine poured out cups of steaming herbal tisane and offered one to Marguerida.

  “I take it,” Marguerida said as she accepted the cup with a pang of resignation, “that you don’t have any coffee left, either.”

  Katherine shook her head. “Nor real tea, I’m afraid. Sometimes I think I’d kill for a cup.”

  Marguerida put her feet up on the little footstool, leaned her head against the back of the chair, and sighed. A comfortable silence settled over the two as they sipped their tea, each pretending it was something else, but only for a moment. Neither woman was the sort to sit still for long.

  “I take it that Yllana has told you of this scheme the girls came up with, to abscond with Sibelle Ridenow,” Katherine said.

  “Yes, she did,” Marguerida nodded, setting down her half-full cup. “There’s no question that fosterage with you, away from her father, would benefit the girl, but what about you and your family? That is, assuming Dom Francisco would agree in the first place.”

  Katherine cradled her cup in her hands and blew across the steaming surface, her fair brow wrinkled in thought. “I have met Sibelle once or twice in passing, seeing her as no more than my daughter’s friend. There is no problem in including her; she seems a sweet, biddable child, and Castle Aldaran has more than enough room. But…”

  “The question is,” Marguerida finished her friend’s unspoken thought, “did our daughters come up with this idea because they truly enjoy Sibelle’s company, or were they encouraged to do so? Is this some new ploy of Francisco’s?” Katherine was one of the few people outside of the family who knew about the marriage alliance proposal and its outcome.

  “I have been considering that possibility,” Katherine said, “and I cannot see what advantage Francisco might derive from our fostering his daughter. Aside from getting her out from underfoot, that is, which he could do as well by sending her back to Serrais.”

  “Could he be hoping for an alliance with Aldaran, like the one he proposed to us?”

  “If he is, he will simply have to wait until Sibelle is old enough to make up her own mind,” Katherine replied tartly.

  Marguerida laughed. “Whenever young people are thrown together at a certain age, they will fall in love with each other. Or think they are in love, when they are really in the grip of rampaging hormones.”

  “Yet we managed to survive those years, and find satisfying marriages based on something deeper,” Katherine said, smiling. Her marriage to Hermes, despite its own share of difficulties, continued to be a source of joy and fulfillment. “I don’t doubt that will happen to Sibelle in her own time. It will be my job to make sure she has a solid enough sense of her own worth to insist on being treated with respect by everyone involved. Including her father.”

  “It won’t be an easy task,” Marguerida mused. “Sibelle has years of early conditioning to overcome.”

  “Yllana will help,” Katherine said. “I would be less optimistic without her. You and Mikhail have brought her up to think of herself as a strong, competent person. She and Terése will be the best possible examples for Sibelle.”

  Before Marguerida could reply, she heard a timid tap on the door. At Katherine’s invitation, Sibelle Ridenow entered, followed a step behind by a servant in green and gold livery. Sibelle’s red-gold hair had been braided in a simple style suitable for a young girl, and she wore a child’s smock of fine wool embroidered fancifully with flowers and rainbirds over long full skirts.

  “Your escort can wait outside,” Katherine said, motioning for the servant to close the door behind him. “Come here and sit down, chiya. Do you know why I asked you here?”

  Sibelle glanced after the departing servant and then pulled up a third chair as she was bidden. She glanced at Marguerida with a look of such unease that Marguerida wanted to wrap the poor terrified child in her arms. Had Francisco been badgering her again, as Nico had described on the night of the Festival ball? What sort of instructions had he given the girl? The very thought aroused Marguerida’s maternal instinct and cemented her determination to extract Sibelle from his clutches.

  Between them, Marguerida and Katherine soon put the girl at her ease. Sibelle spoke with delight about her new friendships. Although she did not say so aloud, for doubtless she knew it was improper to criticize her family home, she had been desperately lonely. She had not been allowed to play with those her father considered below her, and there had been few visitors of her own age and sex. Often, books and animals had been her only companions.

  As Sibelle talked, Marguerida sensed the young girl’s laran, still unformed and untrained, but present. As Yllana said, Sibelle seemed to have the empathic sensitivity of the Ridenows. It was a shame, Marguerida thought, that Francisco was so entirely lacking in the ability to experience the emotions of others, or he would never have acted in such a callous, manipulative fashion. Nor did she wonder why Sibelle was so unhappy at home, shut up in the huge manor house.

  Marguerida emerged from her reflections just as Katherine was asking Sibelle if there might be any objection to her staying at Castle Aldaran. To her astonishment, Sibelle burst into tears.

  Before Marguerida could react, Katherine, who was closer, put her arm around Sibelle. “Whatever is the matter, child?”

  “He doesn’t want me! I failed him, and now he hates me!”

  “No, I’m sure he does not.” While speaking soothingly, Katherine exchanged a knowing glance with Marguerida.

  “There is a certain time, you know,” Marguerida said in a confidential tone, speaking of things only women could understand, “when fathers simply don’t know how to cope with their daughters.”

  “Yes,” Katherine picked up the idea, “you know what men are like, helpless in the face of a little emotion.”

  “He…he does get angry if I cry,” Sibelle sniffed. Clearly, she had never considered that she might not be in the wrong.

  “And if you should happen to have a thought of your own, he would be seized by the demon cats of Ardryn,” Katherine said.

  Marguerida wondered if this were carrying the notion too far, for certainly the girl had never heard of Ardryn, but “demon cats” sounded a bit strong. “This is exactly why we Comyn have so often fostered one another’s teenaged children. It saves a great deal of wear and tear on everyone concerned. You know my own foster daughter, Alanna?”

  Perhaps it was dangerous to use Alanna as an example, but Marguerida could truthfully say that she had given Alanna a far better home than her own mother ever could.

  “I promise you,” Katherine was saying, “that if you come to live with us, Hermes will not get angry at a few tears.”

  At the mention of Hermes, who had succeeded Lew as the Federation Senator from Darkover and knew how to handle difficult negotiations, Marguerida felt hopeful. Katherine’s forthright manner might be too abrasive for Francisco, proud as he was, and quick to take offense, and obviously of the opinion that women were subject to command of their male kinfolk.

  “Kate,” she said, as a considerably happier Sibelle left them, “I think we should bring your husband in on this scheme, and have him talk to Francisco. I’m sure Francisco would be more amenable to the proposal if it came from a man as respected as Herm.”

  “Why, Marja, I think you are right. When I’m with you, it’s easy to forget how recalcitrant and sexist these Comyn can be. For Sibelle’s sake, it would be better to avoid provoking her father. Herm is just the person to do it, too.”

  Neither woman was surprised when, a couple of days later, Terése and Yllana ran to their respective mothers with the news that Sibelle was to join them at Castle Aldaran.

  15

  As Council season dre
w to an end, Lew made his final plans to leave Thendara. The guides he had hired from the Thendara Renunciate Guild House completed their arrangements. He felt a surge of restlessness, as if he had stayed indoors too long, a yearning to be gone from the confines of Castle and city, to feel the wind in his hair and a horse between his knees, to look again on the untamed heights.

  The leave-taking was as difficult as he had feared. Beneath her hopeful words and cheerful demeanor, Marguerida fought back tears. Mikhail looked grim, and Domenic, who had been persuaded by his mother to delay his own travels to the various Towers until the following year, radiated resentment and misery. Alanna was nowhere in sight, and Yllana had already departed on the long journey to Aldaran.

  The journey passed uneventfully. Still some leagues from Nevarsin, Lew caught a glimpse of the ancient city, clear and pale in the morning light. The gray walls of the monastery jutted like ancient bones through the eternal glacial ice. The trail wound downward into the valley, which they reached in time for the midday meal and rest. The Renunciate guides kept Lew warm and well fed; they pressed hot tea on him, reminding him of the need for extra liquids in the altitude. Then they mounted up again, proceeding along the broad, well-traveled road that led to the City of Snows.

  They arrived at the gates of Nevarsin just as dusk fell. Rain blurred the sky, heralding the swift fall of night. Within, they rode single file along cobbled streets, up narrow winding lanes and finally the steep, snow-covered paths that led to St. Valentine’s.

  Lew and his party paused before the inner gates, where the statue of St. Christopher, the Bearer of Burdens, bowed beneath the weight of the world beside the smaller image of St. Valentine. Lew shivered, despite the layers of fur and thick wool.

  The older of the two Renunciate guides pulled on the knotted rope hanging beside the lantern on the gates, and Lew heard the slow, deep tolling of a bell. A few minutes later, a short, dignified man in a brown robe came out to greet them.

  “I am Brother Tomas, and I bid you welcome to St. Valentine’s.” The monk shifted his cowl to reveal a bald head, a face crinkled by lines, and merry blue eyes. “I also greet you, my sisters, but I regret I cannot permit you to enter here, not even the guesthouse.”

  “We respect your rule, for we have a similar one in our own Guild Houses,” the older Renunciate said. “We have no need of your hospitality this night; our sisters in the city wait to welcome us. Dom Lewis, we have completed our contract with you. We leave you in the care of this good monk.”

  Passing through the gates behind Brother Tomas, Lew found comfortable stables for his horse and the pack animal carrying his personal belongings. Robed, cowled figures hurried silently across the courtyard. Some of them looked too young to be monks, and Lew supposed they were students. Danilo had attended the school here, as had Regis.

  The monk did not inquire about Lew’s business but led him to the guesthouse, a square stone building set a little distance from the main monastery. A fire warmed the common room, and a simple meal had already been laid out on a trestle table. Two men in sheepskin vests and leggings were about to sit down. At Lew’s arrival, they set aside their meal and helped him carry his packs from the stables to the small room that was to be his. The stew and crusty, nut-laced bread were still warm when they all returned. They stood, looking awkward and hesitant, while Lew helped himself to a portion.

  “Please sit, eat,” Lew urged them. “You have already delayed your dinner in order to assist an old man.”

  They glanced at one another, and Lew was reminded poignantly how much in awe these Hellers mountain folk held the Comyn. With some convincing, they agreed to join him.

  Afterward, Lew settled himself on the narrow cot in his room with a sense of profound relief. He did not trouble to light the stack of wood in the fireplace. His chamber lay just a wall’s thickness from the common room, and he was warm enough beneath the soft wool blanket.

  Although his bones throbbed with weariness, Lew lay awake for some time before sleep overtook him. A faint radiance, the light of a single moon, drifted through the thick, wrinkled glass of the window. Rarely had he been surrounded by silence so profound. Thendara, like any major city, was never truly still. Comyn Castle always held some distant hum of activity. Here, in the isolation of the monastery, no dogs searched the garbage for scraps, no men staggered home from a tavern, no midwives sat with their laboring charges. The immense brooding quiet of the mountain permeated the air.

  In that silence, the beating of his heart grew slower and softer, until it seemed he could hear other things between the rhythmic pulses. Voices long since muted reverberated faintly through the bedrock.

  Bits of memory, images of fleeting brightness, swept through him. From the marrow of his bones came a cell-deep vibration, the echoes of a scream. His own, he thought, yet so distorted, torn from his throat so long ago, leaving his voice permanently hoarse. His own voice, and the reeling agony in his mind as his laran barriers gave way under that relentless, crushing pressure. His mind bending, collapsing, until he was a thing of dust and ashes, nothing more—another’s voice ringing through him, another’s will guiding his actions.

  Even now, at the deepest level of his bones, some part of himself writhed in anguish, pleaded, fought…

  It is over, he told himself. I survived, I am myself again. No taint of Sharra remains in my starstone. Why then could he not shake these memories?

  Why then did this other voice, this echo upon echoes, still cry out in his mind? He heard it as from a distance, as if he were outside, heard the inarticulate howl, the shame, the violation—

  No!

  And now another voice came to him, his own, repeating with hideous, inexorable force, You will forget what you have seen…forget the fireball, the sorcerous lightning…that is not what happened here today…the battle was ordinary, nothing more…

  In his memory, he pressed on, thrusting past the wisps of defense, seizing control, planting his command deep and sure. Forget…

  What had been done to him in Caer Donn had been done unwillingly, for they had all been caught up in the madness that was Sharra. What he had done to the Terran soldiers after the Battle of Old North Road, that had been deliberate, a fully conscious choice. Their minds had lain open to his, defenseless. Once or twice he had felt a spark of awareness as he drew upon the Alton Gift.

  It did not matter why he had done it, how noble his motives, or even that the future of Darkover depended upon it. Knowingly, he had used his laran to enter the minds of those men; he had twisted their will and warped their memories.

  He had assaulted another person in the same way that he himself had once been violated.

  Wave after wave of self-loathing swept through him. His body shuddered. Sickness filled his mouth. If he could have fumbled his way to the knife in his pack, he would have taken his own life.

  No, he thought as a renewed spasm of nausea shook him. He did not deserve such an end to pain. A quick death and the peace of the grave, these were for worthy men, not himself.

  Somewhere a voice moaned in wordless anguish, a voice he should recognize. Somewhere lungs struggled for breath, an aged heart faltered but kept on, the stump of an arm burned with long-forgotten fire, an old man hugged his trembling arm to his bony chest.

  Eventually, exhausted muscles loosened and the shivering eased. The dense stillness of the mountain, the glimmering light of the far-off moons seeped into the chamber. He breathed it in. Almost, he could hear a voice whispering,

  Rest now, lay your burden down. You are in a house of peace…

  In the end, he slept, and no dreams came.

  The next morning Lew awoke to the ringing of bells in the courtyard. A pair of adolescent boys, dressed like the others in monks’ robes, brought him a bowl of steaming porridge and pots of honey, cream, and plum jam, and a jug of hot, heavily sweetened tea. His two fellow guests from last night had already departed, without any explanation of why they had come. Lew arranged for an audience wi
th the Father Master and then settled down to a hearty breakfast. Perhaps it was the icy mountain air, or how deeply he had rested once sleep had come, but he ate with an appetite he had not known in years.

  The novices returned with the message that Father Conn would see him after morning prayers, and he was welcome to join them in chapel beforehand.

  A light snow had fallen across the courtyard. Lew drew his cloak about him and made his way across to the monastery building. The chapel was in the oldest part of the structure, hundreds of years old, and Lew had once heard that it was a matter of pride that every stone had been cut and placed by human hands. No laran had been used in its construction.

  Within the chapel a single light glowed in the shrine to the Holy Bearer of Burdens, gently suffusing the entire chamber. Daylight sifted through the ancient windows, pieced together from shards of brilliantly colored glass. As Lew took a place on a bench toward the back, his eyes adjusted to the light. He had known music all his life, whether ballads sung to guitar or ryll, trail songs, or Marguerida’s formal compositions, but rarely had he heard such soaring, almost ecstatic melodies.

  Men’s voices, a blend of rumbling bass, sweet tenor, and the pure high sopranos of the boys, rose and fell in chant. The words were so old as to be barely recognizable,

  “One Power created Heaven and earth, Mountains and valleys, Darkness and light…”

  Listening, Lew felt a strange sense of coming adrift in time. He could have been any age from seven to seventy, and it could have been now or a hundred, five hundred years ago. These stones, these voices, these ageless words, remained the same. The snow on the mountain, the stone floor beneath his feet, the slow flickering of the vigil light…

  He saw his own sorrows as fleeting, no more than ripples in the vast firmament of time. In another decade or perhaps two, he would be forever at peace, his pain and struggles forgotten as if they had never existed, and his joys too. This, this would remain, and for the moment, he was part of it.