Traitor's Sun

  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  Hastur's last years-the way he had withdrawn and become wary and anxious.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?"