Darkover, had merely assumed it was pleasant-certainly better than his life of
endless duty. Now he realized how really ignorant he was.
If only his mother were there! She would reassure him-or would she? Marguerida
Alton-Hastur was, in private, blunt and forthright. If she perceived a problem,
she tried to remedy it, not tidy it away under the nearest carpet. Then,
suddenly, he understood more of why Lew Alton had been so unhappy about Regis
Hastur's last years-the way he had withdrawn and become wary and anxious. His
grandfather probably knew that things on Darkover were not perfect, nor even
very good for some people. And he knew now that Regis' refusal to actively rule
the Domains, his insistance on hiding within Comyn Castle, had led to resentment
in the common people. In another few years, or a decade, it might have even gone
far enough to turn into the revolution that Vancof was attempting to foment.
Domenic was too tired to sort it out completely, and too confused. He felt as if
a great weight were bearing down on him, grinding him to dust, and snatched
himself back from that downward spiral with a sharp mental jerk. The girl was
watching him now, her face a study in curiosity.
"You are a very strange boy, Domenic."
"How so?"
"Well, you are about my age, but you feel years older, like some ancient trapped
in a boy's body. I think you know a lot of things, but I also think you don't
know anything about the real world."
"You might be right about that." He grinned stiffly. "I will gladly bow to your
greater experience."
"You will?" Her eyes got round as she considered this seriously. "But, why? I am
just a nobody-an orphan girl."
He rubbed his chest reflectively. "With very sharp elbows. For no reason I can
say, I like you, Illona. True, you have a bunch of foolish ideas in your head
about the Towers, but I just like you. And I want to help you."
You do! I know it, and at scares me nearly to death. Her eyes widened as she
sensed her own touch against his mind. Did I do that?
Yes.
I'm doomed.
Domenic could not help the bubble of laughter that rose in his throat at her
horrified expression, even though he tried to stifle it. No, not doomed Illona,
Just overly dramatic. I suppose that comes from doing all those plays with the
puppets.
She balled a fist, started to punch at him, then paused. Aunty said something
like that, too. I can't believe she is really dead. What is going to happen to
me? Wait! It's that damn Dirck, and he is up to no good!
What? Ah, yes. I almost missed him. Illona had distracted him, but now he could
sense the driver leaving the room overhead, and he was not alone, from the sound
of more than one pair of faint footfalls. "Gregor," he hissed.
"Yes, vai dom."
"Get out of sight and let the men who are coming down the stairs do whatever
they wish."
"But . . ."
"That's an order."
An order, but it is going to be my skin that gets racked up for not following
Dom Aldaran's. Still, he's a good lad, and probably knows what he is doing.
Domenic took Illona's arm and drew her away from the fire, and to his surprise
she did not resist. He could feel her fear of the driver, and he realized that
without the protection of Loret, the man represented a real danger to her. He
pulled her behind the long curtains that hung over the windows at the front of
the inn, and hoped that Vancof and Granfell were not going to come into the
taproom at all. It was cold next to the glass, and the girl pressed against him,
pushing her knuckles into her generous mouth to keep from making the slightest
sound.
Illona huddled against him, shivering from more than cold. He could smell the
warm woolen tunic and the scent of balsam and lavender on her skin. Rafi must
have made her take a hot bath before bed. His senses were so heightened now that
it seemed he could feel her blood surging through her veins, and if he had not
been quite so alarmed, he would have thoroughly enjoyed her nearness.
"I stashed a couple of horses behind the inn earlier," a voice murmured. Domenic
twitched the curtains slightly, so he could peek through a gap in the fabric. He
could see the bottom of the stairs, and part of the hall that led to both the
front door and the kitchens at the back. There was a small circle of light, then
two, moving eerily across the polished floorboards. After a second he could see
the shine of a pair of Terranan leather boots in the strange light.
"It's raining, Vancof! I still don't see why we can't stay in until morning,"
another answered.
"We don't have far to go-just a few miles. There is an abandoned croft where we
can hide. I don't think we dare remain here. After the riot they might start
looking for me."
"That's your problem, Vancof."
"No, it is our problem. Now, be quiet. We don't want to wake up the innkeeper
and have to explain to him why we are sneaking out in the middle of . . ."
"A knife will . . ."
"Shut up! Do you want to draw attention to us?"
A gusty sigh followed. "Where the hell is Nailors?"
"He must have run off during the riot. This way. And try to be quiet!"
The noise of their footfalls faded away, and the strange lights with them. Both
Illona and Nico let out aching breaths as they emerged from the curtains. The
girl noticed she had her hand clutched around his upper arm and snatched it away
as if it burned. I am glad he as gone away! But I am still here.
Illona, I promise you nothing is going to happen to you.
Stop that! I don't want to talk to you! I wish I was dead!
No, you don't. You only think that because you are afraid!
She shuddered all over, the color draining from her cheeks. Nico felt a
whirlpool of blackness begin to rise in her mind and caught her slender body
firmly, holding it against him, supporting her head against his shoulder and
speaking softly into her ear. Grief and fear and rage poured into him, an
overwhelming rush of emotions that had been held in check for hours. It touched
the same feelings in his own mind, releasing them abruptly.
They clung to one another for comfort, drowning in a sea of emotions, so close
that it seemed to Domenic that there was no separation between them except their
flesh. It was a shocking experience, one greater even than the intimacy of
working in a Tower circle, and when it began to abate as suddenly as it had
begun, he had a pang of loss as well as another of great relief.
"It will be all right, Illona, I promise," he whispered feebly.
She snuffled, and he realized she was crying softly. Illona pulled away, a
little reluctantly he thought, and gave him a bleary gaze. "Well, if you
promise, that will make it fine, won't it!" Even in tears, she was tart as a
green apple.
I am your friend, whether you like it or not, Illona Rider. And you are going to
be a fantastic telepath.
Whether I like it or not! I wish I had never waved at you and told you about
going to the North Gate!
But, then, who would have saved you from those men?
There a
s that. My friend? Aunty always said you can't have too many friends or
too few enemies. Are you really my friend?
Word of a Hastur!
She gave a fluttering sigh, too tired to go on arguing. "That will have to do
for now, I suppose."
20
Domenic stood in the dining room of the Crowing Cock and looked out the small
window onto the courtyard. The rain which had begun so quietly the night before
had turned into a real downpour when he had finally risen at midmorning. He
could see pools of water which had collected on the stones, and piles of sodden
debris which had not yet been cleared away. He sighed resignedly. It was a
fairly common early autumn storm that would last for a day or two, turn the
roads into mud, and keep everyone indoors until it spent itself.
A slow smile played over his mouth. Vancof and Granfell had left the inn when
the rain had only begun. Now they were huddled somewhere, in some crofter's cot,
he assumed, cold and cheerless. Perhaps they would fall to arguing and kill each
other. He wondered if they would come back to the inn, and decided that
possibility was unlikely. Vancof was known in Carcosa as a Traveler, and after
the riot the night before, he was smart enough to realize that if someone
recognized him, he would likely end up in the lockup. Where else might they go?
There was another village, about fifteen miles farther up the Old North Road,
according to Aunt Rafi. He must remember to pass this information to Herm.
At last he turned back to the long table and sat down. He picked up a sheet of
thick paper, the best that MacHaworth could provide, and read through what he
had written. It was a letter to his mother, containing surprisingly little of
his exploits since leaving Comyn Castle, and nothing at all about finding the
body of the dead man the night before. Instead, Domenic had written about
subjects which he could never bring himself to speak of, either verbally or
telepathically. He had written about his strong feelings for his cousin, Alanna,
but more about how much he disliked living in Comyn Castle, and one short
paragraph concerning the disturbing auditory experiences he had been having. It
was the first letter he had written to Marguerida in his entire life, and he had
discovered he was able to say things more clearly on paper than he could in any
other way.
He read his words over and realized that he had left a great many things unsaid,
despite his determination to do otherwise. Domenic had not mentioned the riot,
because he knew it would worry his mother, and he felt she had enough on her
hands already. He had not addressed his feeling of distance from his father for
similar reasons. Mikhail had a lot of problems just now, and Nico did not want
to add to them. In short, he decided, it was not as complete as he intended, and
it was therefore dishonest by omission.
He wondered if he should just crumple the whole thing up and toss it into the
fireplace. He was aware of his own self-consciousness, anxious at both saying
too little and too much, but relieved that he had been able to write anything at
all. No, he would send it. When Duncan Lindir rode back to Thendara later in the
day, he would give it to the old Guardsman. His mother would be pleased to
receive it, and that was enough.
Domenic was just finishing his reading when Illona came into the room. Her wiry
red hair had been brushed and combed into a semblance of order, then pulled back
ruthlessly from her forehead and braided down her back. She was wearing a green
tunic and skirt that fit her well enough, belted around her slender waist, and
there were soft slippers on her feet. He wondered where she had gotten the
garments, for the town market was closed for the day, because of the riot, and
then realized that they were rather fancy for everyday. She must have borrowed
them from one of MacHaworth's daughters. He saw dark circles beneath her green
eyes, as if she had slept poorly. He suspected he did not look much more rested
himself.
"What are you doing?"
"I have written a letter to my mother-which will amaze her, since I have never
done such a thing before. But, then, except for my years at Arilinn, I have
never been away from her, and there was no need to write."
"What does it say?" She seemed anxious and curious, and did not appear to
realize that she was being nosy.
"Nothing about you, if that is what is worrying you."
Illona looked surprised and almost disappointed. "I . . . I suppose I thought .
. ."
"I would have told her about you, but I assumed it might make you frightened."
In another mood, he knew, he would have described all the events leading up to
this moment, and made rather a good tale of it. But after the previous night,
Domenic's immediate impulse was to protect Illona, and he had followed it.
"That is . . . kind of you. It would have. I've been thinking about last night a
lot, about what you said and all. And I think that I don't need to go to a Tower
at all, not really, and that you were just being . . . what would a girl like me
do in such a place? I think I'll join the Renunciates instead. It can't be any
harder than being a Traveler." She eyed him closely, watching for his reaction
with the wariness of a half-wild cat.
Domenic gave her a hard look. "What makes you think they would want a wild
telepath in their company?"
"Are you always this unpleasant? Or just in the mornings?"
"No, I am not. In fact, I am ordinarily a very nice fellow, polite to my elders
and courteous to fault. I even manage to be pleasant to my grandmother who hates
me and wishes me ill. But when someone is deliberately being buffle-headed,
Illona, I speak my mind."
"Is that what you think?"
"Your laran is not going to go away, no matter how hard you will it to. Anymore
than your hair is going to turn soft and manageable."
Illona gave a slight grin. "Samantha tried to put it into order, and she did a
good job, I think. How did you know that my hair was a trial to me? I hate it!"
"Well, I don't. I think it is very attractive-and you are changing the subject."
"I'm not the one who mentioned my impossible hair."
"True." Domenic looked down at the letter again, wondering if he could rewrite
it in some other way, if he could be more honest without causing hurt. "My
friend, you and I are more alike than you imagine."
"What? I am not the least like you!"
"Yes, you are. We are both stuck with Gifts we have to learn to live with. If
you read what I have written, you would see that."
"Well, I can't read, so that's that."
"Not at all?"
"No."
"But how do you learn the scripts that Mathias writes if you cannot read?"
"Oh, that. I have an excellent memory. He would read the plays to me several
times, and then I knew what to say. And sometimes I improved the words, which
always annoyed him. He is not nearly as clever as he thinks."
Domenic remembered his encounter with the man the night before and had to agree.
"I see. Well, then, I will teach you to read." He folded the letter in half and
pushed it aside.
Then he took a second sheet of paper and the pen in his hand.
"Come and sit next to me."
Illona stared at him for a second, then walked around the table and slipped onto
the bench beside him. "Why do I need to learn to read?"
"Because when you go to a Tower, you will need that skill. And we are not going
to argue about that subject-you are going, if I have to drag you there myself
and show you that it is not a terrible place." He was surprised at himself,
because he knew he was not usually so forceful.
A mulish expression filled her face, then faded. "I think . . . I could go if
you went with me. Mind you, I don't wish to, and I believe you are being very
stubborn because you are used to getting your own way."
Domenic gave a snort of laughter. "I know you won't believe me, Illona, but I
have rarely gotten my own way in my whole life. Now, this is your name, Illona
Rider." He pointed to what he had just written. "Here are the letters, and you
already know how they sound."
"Is that what it looks like?" She peered at the glyphs on the page. "Write
yours."
Domenic did as she asked, putting the whole long name on the page. He watched
her as she studied the letters closely. He reflected that he was very much his
mother's son, just at that moment, trying to teach someone to read. She put her
finger on the glyphs from her own name and then found the same ones in his,
moving the digit back and forth between the two, and subvocalizing the sounds.
After a minute she asked, "Why are the starting letters tall and the rest
short?"
"In a name, you make the beginning of each word a capital, and the rest in
another form. Do you know, I have never thought about this before-I've always
just done it."
"What do you do when it is not a name, then?"
"Here-I will write a sentence."
"What does it say?"
"All mules bray."
"I see . . . the big letter at the beginning is the same one as in part of your
name, and the next two are like the small ones at the first part of Illona. So,
when you write something that is not a name, you make the first letter big, and
all the rest small." She nodded, and he could sense she was enjoying herself.
"That is right, except if you are putting the name of a person or place in a
sentence-here-I will write 'Mona and Nico are in Carcosa.' You see?"