The night was far advanced before Donal had a chance to dance, at last, with his sister; so far that she thrust out her lip, pouting like the child she was, when he came up to her.
“I thought you would not dance with me at all, brother, that you would leave me to all these strangers!”
Her breath was sweet, but he smelled the traces on it of wine, and asked with a slight frown, “Dorilys, how much have you been drinking?”
She dropped her eyes guiltily. “Margali said to me that I should drink no more than one cup of wine, but it is a sad thing if at my own handfasting I am to be treated as a little girl who should be put to bed at nightfall!”
“Indeed I think you are no more,” Donal said, almost laughing at the tipsy child. “I should tell Margali to come and take you to your nurse. You will be sick, Dorilys, and then no one will think you a lady, either.”
“I do not feel sick, only happy,” she said, leaning her head back and smiling up at him. “Come, Donal, don’t scold me. All evening I have waited to dance with my darling brother; won’t you dance with me?”
“As you will, chiya.” He led her onto the dance floor. She was an expert dancer, but halfway through the dance she tripped over the unaccustomed long skirt of her gown and fell heavily against him. He caught her close to keep her from falling, and she threw her arms about him, laying her head on his shoulder, laughing.
“O-oh, maybe I have drunk too much, as you said—but each of my partners offered to drink with me at the end of a dance and I did not know how to refuse and be polite. I must ask Margali what is polite to say in such circum—circum-stanshes.” Her tongue tripped on the word and she giggled. “Is this what it feels like to be drunk, Donal, giddy and feeling as if all my joints were made of strung beads like the dolls the old women sell in the markets of Caer Donn? If it is, I think I like it.”
“Where is Margali?” Donal asked, looking about the dance floor for the leronis; inwardly he resolved there should be some harsh words spoken to the lady. “I will take you to her at once, Dori.”
“Oh, poor Margali,” Dorilys said with an innocent stare. “She is not well; she said she was so blinded with headache that she could not see, and I made her go to lie down and rest.” She added, with a defensive pout, “I was tired of having her standing over me with that reproving scowl, as if she were Lady Aldaran and I only a servant! I will not be ordered about by servants!”
“Dorilys!” Donal reproved angrily. “You must not speak so. Margali is a leronis and a noblewoman, and Father’s kinswoman; you must not speak of her that way! She is no servant! And your father saw fit to put you in her care, and it is your duty to obey her, until you are old enough to be responsible for yourself! You are a very naughty little girl! You must not give your foster-mother headaches, and speak to her rudely. Now, look—you have disgraced yourself by getting tipsy in company as if you were some low-bred wench from the stables! And Margali is not even here to take charge of you!” Inwardly he was dismayed. Donal himself, her father, and Margali were the only persons on whom Dorilys had never turned her willfulness.
If she will no longer allow herself to be ruled by Margali, what are we to do with her? She is spoiled and uncontrollable, and yet I had hoped Margali could keep her in hand till she was grown.
“I am really ashamed of you, Dorilys, and Father will be very displeased when he knows how you have served Margali, who has always been so good and kind to you!”
The child said, lifting her stubborn little chin, “I am Lady Aldaran and I can do exactly what I want to do!”
Donal shook his head in dismay. The incongruity of this struck him, that she looked so much like a grown woman— and a very lovely one, at that—and spoke and acted like the spoiled and passionate child she was. I would that Darren could see her now; he would realize what a baby she is, beyond the gown and jewels of a lady.
Yet, Donal thought, she was not quite a baby; the laran she carried, already strong as his own, had allowed her to give Margali a violent headache. Perhaps we should think ourselves fortunate that she does not seek to bring thunder and lightning upon us, as I am sure she could do if she were really angry! Donal thanked the gods that for all Dorilys’s strange laran, she was not a telepath and could not read his thoughts, as he could sometimes read the thoughts of those around him.
He said, coaxingly, “But you should not stay here in company when you are drunken, chiya; let me take you to your nurse, upstairs. The hour is late, and soon our guests will be going to their beds. Let me take you away, Dorilys.”
“I don’t want to go up to bed,” Dorilys said sulkily. “I have had only this one dance with you, and Father has not yet danced with me, and Darren made me promise that he should have other dances later. Look—now he comes to claim them.”
Donal urged, in a troubled whisper, “But you are in no state to dance, Dorilys; you will be falling over your own feet.”
“No, I will not, truly… Darren,” she said, moving toward her handfasted partner, raising her eyes to his with a guile that looked adult. “Dance with me; Donal has been scolding me as an older brother thinks he has the right to do, and I am weary of listening to him.”
Donal said, “I was trying to convince my sister that this party has gone on long enough for a girl so young. Perhaps she will be more ready to hear wisdom from you, Darren, who are to be her husband.” If he is drunk, Donal thought angrily, I will not give her into his charge, even if I must quarrel with him in this public place.
But Darren seemed well in command of his faculties. He said, “Indeed it is late, Dorilys; what do you think—”
Abruptly there was an outcry of shouting at the far end of the hall.
“Good God!” Darren exclaimed, turning toward the clamor. “It is Lord Storn’s younger son and that young whelp from Darriel Forst. They will be at blows; they will draw steel.”
“I must go,” Donal said in consternation, recalling his duties as his father’s master of ceremonies, official host at this occasion, but he glanced, troubled, at Dorilys. Darren said, with unusual friendliness, “I will look after Dorilys, Donal. Go and see to them.”
“I thank you,” Donal said, hastily. Darren was sober, and he would have a vested interest in keeping his affianced wife from behaving too scandalously in public. He hurried toward the sound of the angry words, where the two youngest members of the rival families were engaged in a loud and angry dispute. Donal was skilled at such tactics. He came quickly up to them, and by joining in the dispute, convinced each of the quarreling men that he was on his side; then tactfully eased them apart. Old Lord Storn took charge of his quarrelsome son, and Donal took young Padreik Darriel into his own charge. It was some time before the young man sobered, apologized, and sought out his kinsmen to take his leave; then Donal looked around the ballroom for his sister and Darren. But he could see no sign of them, and wondered if Darren had managed to persuade his sister to leave the dance floor and go to her nurse.
If he has influence over Dorilys, perhaps we should even be grateful for that. Some of the Aldarans have the commanding voice; Father had it when he was younger. Has Darren managed to use it on Dorilys?
His eyes sought for Darren, without success, and he began to feel a vague sense of foreboding. As if to emphasize his fears, he heard a faint, distant roll of thunder. Donal could never hear thunder without thinking of Dorilys. He told himself not to be ridiculous; this was the season for storms in these mountains. Nevertheless, he was afraid. Where was Dorilys?
As soon as Donal had hurried away toward the quarreling guests, Darren laid his hand under Dorilys’s arm. He said, “Your cheeks are flushed, damisela; is it the heat of the ballroom, with so many people, or have you danced to weariness?”
“No,” Dorilys said, raising her hands to her hot face, “but Donal thinks I have drunk too much wine and came to scold me. As if I were a little girl still in his care, he wanted me to be put to bed like a child!”
“It does not seem to me that you
are a child,” Darren said, smiling, and she moved closer to him.
“I knew you would agree with me!”
Darren thought, Why did they tell me she was a little girl? He looked up and down the slender body, emphasized by the long close-fitting gown. No child this! And still they think to put me off! Does that old goat of an uncle of mine think to play for time in the hopes of making a more advantageous marriage, or give himself time to declare the bastard of Rockraven his heir?
“Truly, it is hot here,” Dorilys said, moving still closer to Darren, her fingers warm and sweaty on his arm, and he smiled down at her.
“Come, then. Let us go out on the balcony where it is cooler,” Darren urged, drawing her toward one of the curtained doors.
Dorilys hesitated, for she had been carefully brought up by Margali and knew it was not considered proper for a young woman to leave a dancing floor except with a kinsman. But she thought, defensively, Darren is my cousin, and also my promised husband,
Dorilys felt the cool air from the mountains towering over Castle Aldaran, and drew a long sigh, leaning against the balcony rail.
“Oh, it was so hot in there. Thank you, Darren. I am glad to be out of that crowded place. You are kind to me,” she said, so ingenuously that Darren, frowning, looked at the young woman in surprise.
How childish she was for a girl so obviously adult! He wondered, fleetingly, if the girl were feeble-minded or even an idiot. What did it matter, though? She was heir to the Domain of Aldaran, and it only remained for Darren to engage her affections, so that she would protest if her kinsmen sought for some reason to deprive him of his due by breaking off the marriage. The sooner it took place, the better; if was disgraceful, that his uncle wanted him to wait four years! The girl was obviously marriageable now, and the insistence on delay seemed to him completely unreasonable.
And if she were so childish, his task would be all the easier! He pressed the hand she laid trustingly in his and said, “No man living would hesitate an instant to do such a kindness, Dorilys—to maneuver for a moment alone with his promised bride! And when she is as lovely as you, even the kindness becomes more of a pleasure than a duty.”
Dorilys felt herself coloring again at the compliment. She said, “Am I beautiful? Margali told me so, but she is only an old woman, and I do not think she is any judge of beauty.”
“You are indeed most beautiful, Dorilys,” Darren said, and in the dim light streaming in patches from the ballroom, she saw his smile.
She thought, Why, he really means it; he is not only being kind to me! She felt the first childish stirrings of awareness of her own power, the power of beauty over men. She said, “I have been told my mother was beautiful; she died when I was born. Father says I look like her; did you ever see her, Darren?”
“Only when I was a boy,” Darren said, “but it is true. Aliciane of Rockraven was counted one of the loveliest women from the Kadarin to the Wall around the World. There were those who said she had put a spell on your father, but she needed no witchcraft but her own beauty. You are indeed very like her. Have you her singing voice as well?”
“I do not know,” Dorilys said. “I can sing in tune, so my music-mistress says, but she says I am too young to know whether I will have a fine voice, or only a love of music and some little skill. Are you fond of music, Darren?”
“I know little about it,” he said, smiling and moving closer to her, “and it needs not a beautiful voice to make a woman lovely in my eyes. Come—I am your cousin and kinsman and your promised husband; will you kiss me, Dorilys?”
“If you want me to,” she said pliantly, and turned her cheek to him for his kiss. Darren, wondering again if the girl were teasing him or simply dim-witted, took her face between his hands, turning it toward him, and kissed her on the lips, his arms going around her to draw her against him.
Dorilys, submitting to the kiss, and through the tipsy blur of her sensations, felt a faint, wary stir of caution. Margali had warned her. Oh, Margali is always trying to spoil my fun! She leaned against Darren, letting him draw her tight against him, enjoying the touch, opening her mouth to his repeated kisses. Dorilys was no telepath, but she had laran, and she picked up a diffuse blur of his emotion, the arousal within him, the dim sense, This may not be so bad after all, and wondered why that should surprise him. Well, after all, she supposed it must be annoying for a young man to be told he was to be married off to a cousin he did not know, and she felt fuzzily glad that Darren thought her beautiful. He went on kissing her, slowly, repeatedly, sensing that she did not protest the kisses. Dorilys was too drunk, too unaware, to realize very clearly what was happening, but when his fingers moved to unlace her bodice, moving inside to cup over her bare breasts, she felt suddenly abashed and pushed him away.
“No, Darren, it is unseemly. Really, you must not,” she protested, feeling her tongue thick in her mouth. For the first time she was aware that perhaps Donal was right; she should not have drunk so much. Darren’s face was flushed, and he seemed unwilling to let her go. She took his hands firmly between her firm little fingers and pushed them away.
“No, Darren, don’t!” Her hands went to cover her exposed breasts; she fumbled to relace the strings.
“No, Dorilys,” he said thickly, so thickly that she wondered if he had drunk too much, too. “It’s all right; it is not unseemly. We can be married as soon as you will. You will like being married to me; won’t you?” He drew her close and kissed her again, hard and insistently. He murmured, “Dorilys, listen to me. If you will let me take you, now, then your father will allow the marriage rites to take place at once.”
Now Dorilys was beginning to be wary; she drew her mouth away from his, moved away from him, beginning, through the blur, to wonder if she should have come out here at all, alone with him. She was still innocent enough not to be quite sure what it was he wanted of her, but she knew it was something she ought not to do, and even more, something he ought really not to ask. She said, her hands trembling as she sought to lace her bodice, “My father—Margali says I am not yet old enough to be married.”
“Oh, the leronis. What does an old virgin know of love and marriage?” Darren said. “Come here and kiss me again, my little love. No, now, be still in my arms. Here, let me kiss you—like this—”
She could feel the intensity now in the kiss, frightening, his face the face of a stranger, swollen, dark with intent, his hands no longer caressing but strong, insistent.
“Darren, let me go,” she begged him. “Really, really, you must not!” Her voice was trembling in panic. “My father will not like it. Take your hands from me! I beg you, kinsman— cousin!” She pushed at him, but she was a child, and still half drunk, and Darren was a grown man, cold sober. Her blurred laran picked up his intent, his determination, the touch of cruelty behind it.
“No, don’t fight me,” he muttered. “When it is over, your father will be all too glad to give you to me at once, and that will not displease you; will it, my little one, my beauty? Here, let me hold you.”
Dorilys began to struggle, in sudden terror. “Let me go, Darren! Let me go! My father will be very angry; Donal will be angry with you. Let me go, Darren, or I will cry out for help!”
She saw the awareness of that threat in his eyes, and opened her mouth to shriek for help, but he was aware of her intent and his hand, hard and determined, clasped over her mouth, smothering the cry, while he drew her closer to him. Terror suddenly gave way to anger in Dorilys. How dare he! Under the flooding rage, she reached out, in a way she had been able to do since babyhood if one touched her against her will, striking…
Darren’s hand fell from hers, and with a smothered cry, he grated with pain, “Ah, you little demon, how dare you!” and swung back his hand, striking her so hard on the cheek that she was knocked nearly senseless. “No woman alive does this to me! You are not unwilling; you want to be teased and flattered! No more; it is too late for that!”
As she fell to the floor, he knelt besid
e her, tearing at his clothes. Dorilys, in wild rage and fright, struck out again, hearing the crash of thunder through her own shriek, seeing the brilliant white flare that struck Darren. He reeled back, his face contorted, fell heavily atop her. In terror, she pushed him aside and scrambled up, gasping, sick, exhausted. He lay insensible, not moving. Never, never had she struck so hard, never…Oh, what have I done!
“Darren,” she pleaded, kneeling beside his motionless form. “Darren, get up! I didn’t mean to hurt you, only you mustn’t try to maul me like that. I don’t like it. Darren! Darren! Did I really hurt you? Cousin, kinsman, speak to me!” But he was silent, and in sudden terror, heedless of her disheveled hair and torn gown, she ran toward the door of the ballroom.
Donal! It was the only thought in her mind. Donal will know what to do! I must find Donal!
Donal, alert to his sister’s cry of panic, resounding in his mind even though it was not audible within the ballroom, bad made a hasty excuse to the elderly friend of his grandfather who had come to speak with him, and hurried in search of her, led by the soundless cry.
That bastard Darren! He opened the balcony door and his sister fell into his arms, her hair half unbound, her dress open at the throat.
“Dorilys! Chiya, what has happened?” he said, his heart pounding, his throat sticking with dread. Gods above, would even Darren presume to lay rough hands on a girl of eleven?
“Come, bredilla. No one must see you like this. Come, smooth your hair, chiya; lace your bodice, quickly,” he urged, thinking grimly that this must be kept from their father. He would quarrel with his kinsmen of Scathfell. It never crossed Donal’s mind that such a quarrel might redound to his personal benefit. “Don’t cry, little sister. No doubt he was drunk and did not know what he was doing. Now you see why a young woman must not drink so much she has not her wits about her, to keep young men from getting such ideas. Come, Dorilys, don’t cry,” he begged.
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