A random thought crossed his mind, like a flicker of wind stirring the glowing flowers: Did I ever dream that I had married the wrong woman? This new, responsive Callista in his arms, glowing with tenderness, made the very thought absurd. He knew that she shared the thought—he no longer cared to try to conceal it from her, no longer cared to conceal anything from her—and that it amused her. He could feel the little glimmering ripples of laughter through the waves of desire which swept them both.
He knew, positively, that now he could do what he would and she would not protest, but compunction stayed him from anything further than this, the kisses she shared and gave back so intensely. Whatever she felt, it might be dangerous for her. That night . . . she had wanted him then too. And that had ended in catastrophe and near-tragedy. He would not risk it again until he was certain, more for her sake than his own.
He knew she was beyond fear, but she accepted this, as she had accepted the kisses, the caresses. Strangely, there seemed no compulsion to go further, no ache of frustration. He was also swept with ripples of laughter which seemed somehow to heighten the ecstatic quality of this moment, of sun and warmth and flowers and singing insects in the grass all around him, a laughter, a mirth which shook Callista too, along with desire.
His wife and he were perfectly content to lie here in the grass beside her, with his clothes on, and she hers, and do nothing more than kiss her, as if they were children in their teens. . . . It was absurdly hilarious and delightful.
The politest of the Darkovan words for sex was accandir which meant simply to lie down together and was so noncommittal that it could be used in the presence of young children. Well, he thought, again swept by the little ripples of mirth, that was what they were doing. He never knew how long they lay there side by side in the grass, kissing or gently caressing one another, while he played with the strands of her hair or watched the soft prisms of color behind his eyes crawl across her glowing face.
It must have been hours later—the sun had begun to angle down from noon—when a cloud darkened the sun and a wind sprang up, blowing Callista’s hair across her face. Andrew blinked and sat up, looking down at her. She lay resting on one elbow, her under-tunic opened at the throat, bits of grass and flowers caught in her hair. It was suddenly cold, and Callista looked at the sky regretfully. “I am afraid we must go, or we will be caught in the rain. Look at the clouds.” With reluctant fingers she fastened her tunic-laces, picked leaves from her hair, and braided it loosely. “Just enough for decency,” she said, laughing. “I do not want to look as if I had been lying down in the fields, even with my own husband!”
He laughed, gathering up the bag of flowers at her side, laying it on the pommel of her saddle. What happened to them? he wondered. The sun, the pollen, what was it? He was ready to lift her on her horse when she delayed, suddenly catching at him, putting her arms around his neck.
She said, “Andrew, oh, please—” and glanced at the edge of the field, the shelter of the trees. He knew her thoughts; there was no need to put them into words.
“I want to . . . I want to be all yours.”
His hands tightened about her waist, but he did not move.
He said, very gently, “Darling, no. No risks.”
It seemed that it would be all right, but he was not sure. If the channels overloaded again . . . He could not bear to see her suffer that way. Not again.
She drew a long, deep breath of disappointment, but he knew she accepted his decision. When she raised her eyes to him again they were filled with tears, but she was smiling. I will cast no shadow on this wonderful day by asking for more, like a greedy child.
He put her riding cloak around her shoulders, for a sharp wind was blowing from the heights and it was cold. As he lifted her into the saddle he could see the field of flowers, now chill blue, without the golden shimmer that had been on them. The sky was darkening into a drizzle of rain. He lifted Callista into her saddle, and beyond her, as he mounted, could see that on the other slope across the valley the horses were beginning to bunch up, moving restlessly, looking for shelter also.
The ride back was silent, Andrew feeling let down, distressed. He felt that he had been a fool. He should have taken advantage of Callista’s yielding, the sudden disappearance of fear or hesitation. What stupid compunction had made him hesitate?
After all, if it was Callista’s response to him which overloaded the channels, there had already been as much of that as if he had actually taken her. As she had wished! What a fool he had been, he thought, what a damnable fool!
Callista was silent, also, glancing now and then at him with an inexpressible look of guilt and dread. He picked up her fear, fear that came to wipe out the gladness.
I am glad I have known, again, what it was to desire him, to return his love . . . but I am afraid. And he could feel the paralyzing texture of her fear, the memory of pain when she had allowed herself, before, to respond to him. I couldn’t endure that again. Not even with kirian. And it would be dreadful for Damon too. Merciful Avarra, what have I done?
It was raining hard by the time they reached Armida, and Andrew lifted Callista from the saddle, sensing with dismay the way her body stiffened against his touch. Again? He kissed her wet face under the soaked hood. She did not draw away from the kiss, but she did not return it, either. Puzzled, but trying to be sympathetic—she was afraid, poor girl, and who could blame her after that awful ordeal?—Andrew carried her up the steps and set her on her feet.
“Go and dry yourself, my precious, don’t wait for me. I must make sure the horses are properly seen to.”
Callista went slowly and regretfully up the stairs. Her gaiety had vanished, leaving her feeling tired and sick with apprehension. One of the strongest taboos in Arilinn was that which made the raw kireseth plant, untreated, a thing wholly forbidden. Although she was no longer bound by those laws, she felt guilty and ashamed. Even when she knew she was being affected by the flowers, she had remained to enjoy the effect, not moving out of range or withdrawing. And through the guilt was fear. She did not feel as she had felt with channel overload before—she had seldom felt better—but knowing what she did about herself, she was deathly frightened.
She went in search of Damon, and he guessed at once what had happened. “Were you exposed to kireseth, Callista? Tell me.”
Stumbling, ashamed, frightened, she managed to convey to Damon a little of what had happened. Damon, listening to the faltering words, thought in an anguished empathy that she sounded as shamed as a repentant harlot, not a married woman who had spent the day innocently with her own husband. But he was troubled. After the events of the early winter, Andrew would never have approached her like this, without an explicit invitation. Kireseth, as a matter of fact, had quite a reputation for breaking down inhibitions. But whatever the cause, she might again have overloaded her channels with two conflicting sets of responses. “Well, let us see what harm has been done.”
But after monitoring her briefly, he felt confused. “Are you sure, Callista? Your channels are a Keeper’s, undisturbed. What sort of joke is this?”
“Joke? Damon, what do you mean? It happened just as I said.”
“But that is impossible,” Damon said. “You could not react like that. If you had, your channels would be overloaded and you would be very ill. What do you feel now?”
“Nothing,” she said wearily, defeated, “I feel nothing, nothing, nothing!” For a moment he thought she would burst into tears. She spoke again, her voice tight with unshed tears. “It is gone, like a dream, and I have broken the laws of the Tower. I am outcaste for nothing.”
Damon did not know what to think. A dream, compensating for the deprivations of her life? The kireseth was, after all, an hallucinogenic drug. He stretched his hands to her. Her automatic withdrawal from the touch verified his guess: she and Andrew had merely shared an illusion.
Later he questioned Andrew, which he could do more thoroughly and specifically, discussing the physical re
sponses involved. Andrew was distressed and defensive, though he willingly admitted he would have been responsible if Callista had been harmed. Zandru’s hells, Damon thought, what a tangle! Andrew already had so much guilt about wanting Callista when she could not respond to him, and now he must be deprived even of the illusion. Laying his hand on his friend’s shoulder, he said, “It’s all right, Andrew. You didn’t hurt her. She’s all right, I tell you, her channels are still wholly clear.”
Andrew said stubbornly, “I don’t believe it was a dream, or an illusion, or anything like that. Damn it, I didn’t invent the leaves in my hair!”
Damon said, wrung with pity, “I’ve no doubt you were lying somewhere on the ground. Kireseth contains one fraction which stimulates laran. Evidently you and Callista were in telepathic contact, much more strongly than usual, and your . . . your frustrations built a dream. Which could happen without . . . without endangering her. Or you.”
Andrew hid his face with his hands. It was bad enough to feel like a fool for spending the whole day kissing and caressing his wife without anything more intimate, but to be told that he had simply gone off on a drugged dream about doing it that was worse. Stubbornly he looked up at Damon. “I don’t believe it was a dream,” he said. “If it was a dream, why didn’t I dream of what I really wanted to do? Why didn’t she? Dreams are supposed to relieve frustrations, not make new ones, aren’t they?”
That, of course, was a good question, Damon admitted, but what did he know of the fears and frustrations which might inhibit even dreams? One night, during his early manhood, he had dreamed of touching Leonie as no Keeper might be touched even in thought, and he had spent three sleepless nights for fear of repeating the offense.
In his own room, readying himself for the evening meal, Andrew looked at his garments, crumpled and stained. Was he fool enough to have erotic dreams about his own wife? He didn’t believe it. Damon wasn’t there; he was. And he knew what happened, even if he could not explain it. He was supremely glad Callista was not harmed, though he could not understand that either.
It was that night at dinner when Dom Esteban said, in a worried tone, “I wonder . . . do you suppose all is well with Domenic? I feel something menaces him, something evil . . .”
“Nonsense, Father,” Ellemir said gently. “Only this morning Dom Kieran told us he was well and happy, and surrounded by his loving friends, behaving himself and carrying out his responsibilities as best he could! Don’t be silly!”
“I suppose you are right,” the old man said, but still he looked troubled.
“I wish he were at home.”
Damon and Ellemir exchanged frowning glances. Like all Altons, Dom Esteban had occasional flashes of precognition. God grant he was only worrying, Damon thought, not seeing the future. The old man was crippled and ill. It was probably only worry.
But Damon found that he too had begun to worry, and he did not stop.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
All night Damon’s dreams had been haunted by the sound of horse’s hooves, galloping—galloping toward Armida with evil tidings. Ellemir was dressing, preparing to go downstairs for her early work in supervising the kitchens—this pregnancy attended with none of the sickness and malaise of her first—when she suddenly turned pale and cried out. Damon hurried to her side, but she brushed past him and ran down the stairs, into the hall and the courtyard, standing at the great gates, bare-headed, her face white as death.
Damon, feeling the premonition grip him and take hold, followed her, pleading, “Ellemir, what is it? Love, you must not stand here like this . . .”
“Father,” she whispered. “It will kill our father. Oh, blessed Cassilda, Domenic, Domenic!”
He urged her gently back toward the house, through the fine mist of the morning rain. Just inside the doors they found Callista, pale and drawn, Andrew troubled and apprehensive at her side. Callista went toward her father’s room, saying quietly, “All we can do now is be with him, Andrew.” Andrew and Damon stayed close beside the old man while his body servant dressed him. Gently Damon helped lift him into the wheeled chair. “Dear Uncle, we can only wait for tidings. But whatever may come, remember that you still have sons and daughters who love you and are near you.”
In the Great Hall, Ellemir came and knelt beside her father, weeping. Dom Esteban patted her bright hair and said hoarsely, “Look after her, Damon, don’t worry about me. If . . . if evil has come to Domenic, that child you bear, Ellemir is next heir to Alton.”
God help them all, Damon thought, for Valdir was not yet twelve years old! Who would command the Guards? Even Domenic was thought too young!
Andrew was thinking that his son, Ellemir’s child, would be heir to the Domain. The thought seemed so wildly improbable that he was gripped with hysterical laughter.
Callista put a small cup into the old dom’s hand. “Drink this, Father.”
“I want none of your drugs! I will not be put to sleep and soothed until I know—”
“Drink it!” she commanded, standing pale and angry at his side. “It is not to dim your awareness, but to strengthen you. You will need all your strength today!”
Reluctantly the old man swallowed the draught. Ellemir rose and said, “The housefolk and workmen must not go hungry for our griefs. Let me go see to their breakfast.”
They brought the old man to the table and urged him to eat, but none of them could eat much, and Andrew felt himself straining to hear beyond the range of his ears, to listen for the messenger, bringing the tidings they now took for granted.
“There it is,” said Callista, laying down a piece of buttered bread, starting to her feet. Her father held out his hand, very pale but in command of himself again, Lord Alton, head of the Domain, Comyn.
“Sit still, daughter. Ill news will come when it will, but it is not seemly to run to meet it.”
He lifted a spoonful of nut porridge to his mouth, put it down again, untasted. None of the others were even pretending to eat now, hearing the sound of hoofbeats in the stone courtyard, the booted feet of the messenger on the steps. He was a Guardsman, very young, with the red hair which, Andrew already knew, meant that somewhere, nearby or far back, he had Comyn blood. He looked tired, sad, apprehensive.
Dom Esteban said quietly, “Welcome to my hall, Darren. What brings you at this hour, my lad?”
“Lord Alton.” The messenger’s voice seemed to stick in his throat. “I regret that I bear you evil tidings.” His eyes flickered around the hall. He looked trapped, miserable, unwilling to break the bad news to this old man, frail and drawn in his chair.
Dom Esteban said quietly, “I had warning of this, my boy. Come and tell me about it.” He held out his hand, and the young man came, hesitantly, toward the high table. “It is my son Domenic. Is he . . . is he dead?”
The young man Darren lowered his eyes. Dom Esteban drew a hoarse, shaking breath like an audible sob, but when he spoke he was under control.
“You are wearied with the long ride.” He beckoned to the servants to take the young Guardsman’s cloak, remove his heavy riding boots and bring soft indoor slippers, set a mug of warmed wine before him. They set a chair for him near the high table. “Tell me all about it, lad. How did he die?”
“By misadventure, Lord Alton. He was in the armory, practicing at swordplay with his paxman, young Cathal Lindir. Somehow, even through the mask, he was struck a blow on the head. None thought it serious, but before they could fetch the hospital officer, he was dead.”
Poor Cathal, Damon thought. He had been one of the cadets during Damon’s year as cadet master, as had young Domenic himself. The two lads had been inseparable, had been paired off everywhere: at sword-practice, on duty, in their leisure hours. They were, Damon knew, bredin, sworn brothers. Had Domenic died by any mischance or accident, it would have been bad enough, but for a blow struck by his sworn friend to be the instrument of his death—Blessed Cassilda, how the poor lad would suffer!
Dom Esteban had managed to pull h
imself together, was questioning the messenger about other arrangements. “Valdir must be brought from Nevarsin at once, designated heir.”
Darren told him, “Lord Lorill Hastur has already sent for him, and he urges you to come to Thendara if you are able, my lord.”
“Able or not, we shall ride this day,” Dom Esteban said firmly. “Even if I must travel by horse-litter, and you must come with me, Damon, Andrew.”
“I too.” Callista’s face was pale but her voice firm, and Ellemir said, “And I.” She was crying noiselessly.
“Rhodri,” Damon said, beckoning the old steward, “find a place for the messenger to rest, and send one of our men at once to ride for Thendara on the fastest horse available, to tell Lord Hastur that we will be there within three days. And ask Ferrika to come at once to Lady Ellemir.”
The old man nodded acquiescence. Tears were streaming down old Rhodri’s wrinkled face, and Damon remembered that he had been here at Armida all his life, had held both Domenic and the long-dead Coryn on his knees when they were children. But there was no leisure to think of any of these things. Ferrika, brought to Ellemir, admitted that the ride would probably do no harm. “But you must travel at least part of the time in a horse-litter, my lady, for too much riding would be wearying.” When Ferrika was told that she must accompany them, she protested.
“There are many on the estate who need my services, Lord Damon.”
“Lady Ellemir bears the next heir to Alton. It is she who most needs your care, and you are her childhood friend. You have taught other women on the estate, now they must justify their training.”
This was so obvious, even to the Amazon midwife, that she spoke the polite phrase of respect and acquiescence, and went to speak to her subordinates. Callista had set the maids to packing what they would need for a possibly lengthy stay in Thendara. When Ellemir asked why, she said briefly, “Valdir is a child. Comyn Council may not be content to allow our father, crippled and with an ailing heart, to serve as head of the Domain; there may be a protracted struggle over a guardian for Valdir.”
The Forbidden Circle Page 51
