“With all due deference to young Lord Domenic’s rank and character, I do object. I do not call his right into question, only his age. In ages past, when the world was simpler, a boy of his years could assume such a responsibility. But these are difficult, complex times. Any man who holds a Domain, let alone the Regency of the entire Comyn, must have solid understanding and judgment. In time, I hope Domenic will acquire the necessary experience, but he does not yet have it. He is too young and untried to hold such a post.”
“Regis Hastur was not much older when old Danvan died,” Lew answered in his hoarse voice. “Would you have accused him of being unready, as well?”
“We all know that Domenic is your grandson, Dom Lewis,” Rufus protested. “Your judgment is biased—”
“I knew Regis,” Lew cut him off. As you did not. “And I know Domenic.”
After an awkward pause, Dani asked who else among them supported the challenge.
Kennard-Dyan got to his feet, looking unhappy but resolved. “Ardais challenges also. Domenic indeed is the rightful Heir to Hastur, but he is too young to serve as Regent.”
“Yet the Comyn cannot continue without either King or Regent,” Gabriel spoke up. “We are not at the point of adopting some degenerate Terranan democracy.”
“Someday an Elhalyn may once again sit upon the throne,” Dani said in a steely voice, “but this is not that time. With both Dom Mikhail and Domna Marilla unable to speak for their Domains, this Council would be best served by the continuation of the Regency. We must give Mikhail’s Heir serious consideration.”
Marguerida had been sitting so still, Domenic had not even heard her breathing. Now she stood up. “I am Marguerida Alton-Hastur. You all know me. I have advised my husband for many years. I now offer myself in the same capacity to my son, as guide and councillor. Will this satisfy your objections?”
An older lord, one of the traditionally conservative MacArans, answered. His voice rumbled like that of some huge, awakened beast. “That would be equally unacceptable, to grant a woman such power. Domna Marguerida is clearly still a stranger among us, or she would know this.”
Scattered about the chamber, heads shook and voices murmured in agreement. Marguerida showed no outward reaction, but Domenic felt her quiver in outrage. In all her years on Darkover, she had steadfastly refused to accept a lesser role because of her sex.
“We of the Comyn have never submitted to the rule of a woman,” Rufus insisted, “weak-willed and unreliable as they are. And we never will!”
“Weak-willed? Unreliable?” In the Keepers’ area of the Aillard box, crimson draperies swirled as Laurinda stepped to the railing. “How dare you say such a thing!”
Rufus paled, but Robert Aldaran broke in with, “The Council, not the Towers, rules the Domains!”
“Quiet! All of you!” Dani’s voice soared above the uproar. “Domna Marguerida is not proposing to act as Regent herself but only to offer her son the benefit of her experience.”
With each passing exchange, Domenic felt increasingly uneasy. The last thing Darkover needed was a Council torn apart, paralyzed with internal dissension. He raised his hands and shouted, “Kinsmen, nobles, Comynari!”
“Silence, let him speak!” Lew shouted.
“Since before the dawn of time,” Domenic said, once the commotion died down, “this Council has operated by virtue of our allegiance to a common cause. Even when blood feuds ran rampant among us, within these halls we met in truce to decide what was best for all.”
He paused, then repeated, “All of us. Not one Domain over another, not Tower against city, Lowlander against mountain folk. I am not ignorant of history. I know that many times since the founding of the Seven Domains, one or another has sought to use the Council for advantage. I would like to believe—I hope—that whenever our common welfare is at stake, we are able to set aside such narrow-minded concerns.”
Around the Chamber, heads nodded. In their somber expressions, Domenic sensed the echoes of shock. The taint of blood and poison from the duel still lingered in the air.
“If we turn on one another now,” Domenic said, “what hope is there for any of us?”
As he spoke, Domenic rested his fingertips on the railing, the wood worn smooth by generations of kinsmen. Knowing he was taking an irrevocable step, he opened the gate and walked into the center of the floor. He was acutely aware that he now stood in the same place where his father had fought and almost died.
No, he would not think of that now. The need for unity was only part of what drove him. Something else was brewing inside him, in the dark at the back of his mind, in the wordless music of his laran, pushing its way into day.
“My friends, Comyn and kinsmen, we cannot return to the old days, nor should we wish to. Each age leaves its mark. Each generation receives the world in one condition, changes it for good or ill, and passes it on. Our fathers strove to keep Darkover from being absorbed and exploited by the Terranan. Now that the Federation is gone, we need a new purpose, a new vision of our world…this vast, harsh, beautiful, wild planet of ours.”
He spoke of the wonders of the world, those he had seen, those he had only heard about, but, most of all, those he had felt in the innermost part of his mind.
With each phrase, the vision became clearer and stronger. Domenic opened his arms. For the moment, he had captured his audience. Words rose to his mouth, and he let them go, like the Kadarin in flood, like a Dry Town sandstorm, like a Hellers avalanche.
In his mind, the Council, the city, the Domains themselves, diminished, ephemeral and infinitesimally small.
We are men, after all, not mountains.
The old proverb rose to his mind, Only men laugh, only men weep, only men dance.
In that moment, it seemed that the assembled Council—and the hills beyond Thendara’s walls, and the soaring mountains beyond them, from the swelling ocean beyond Temora to the Wall Around the World—laughed. And wept. And danced.
The moment stretched into silence. Then someone coughed. Dani Hastur shifted from one foot to the other. Marguerida stood, her face rapt, her golden eyes alight.
Domenic returned to himself. “This is my vision. If you will not have it, if I myself present a source of discord and rift in this Council, then I will withdraw my claim.”
It was the last thing they expected. The entire chamber shuddered with a shared, quickly indrawn breath.
“Lad,” Dani said, “that will not be necessary. Not a man in a thousand would have spoken as you did.” The pale, fractured light of the ceiling prisms glinted off his eyes. “Does anyone still question the fitness of Domenic Alton-Hastur to become Acting Warden of Hastur and Regent of the Comyn?”
For a long moment, no one spoke. No one moved.
“If I—” Marguerida began, her voice hovering on the edge of emotion, “if I myself am an obstacle, I withdraw my proposal, as well.”
“If I may be so bold to present an alternative suggestion.” The calm, quiet voice of Danilo Syrtis filled the Chamber. “It would be as badly done to reject Domna Marguerida’s experience and wisdom as for a fighting man to cut off his own left arm. How often in battle does the shield and not the sword save a man’s life? I say, let the vai domna continue to counsel Dom Domenic, but let him select other advisors as well, subject to the approval of this Council.”
“Aye, that will serve,” said the elderly Leynier lord, “so long as they are steady men and true.”
When it was clear there were no remaining objections, Dani asked Domenic whom he would choose.
“I would indeed consult my mother,” Domenic answered, “for she has studied much, seen even more, and traveled in the company of great men. One of those great men is my grandfather, Dom Lewis-Kennard Alton. I would also seek the wisdom of the leroni of the Towers, a representative of their own choosing, for it is in their matrix sciences that we Comyn have found our deepest strength. And for his understanding of the affairs of Thendara and its people, I would ask Dom Danilo-F
elix Syrtis-Ardais.”
Deliberately, he used Danilo’s full name, with the additional Domain-right granted to him so many years ago by the old Lord Dyan Ardais. In this way, he reminded the Council of Danilo’s long years of service, not only as paxman to Regis Hastur but also as Warden of Ardais, with all the responsibilities that entailed. No one could possibly challenge him on the basis of inexperience or lack of knowledge of the affairs of the Comyn. No one dared to suggest that Domenic had selected Danilo not on the basis of his merit but as a reward for his support.
After a long moment, Dani said, “These are sound choices, Dom Domenic. I speak for the Council when I say none here can have any objection.”
Dani formally asked each of the candidates present whether he or she was willing to perform the duties of advisor to the provisional Regent. Then, with an almost tangible sense of relief, the telepathic dampers were released and the session adjourned.
Domenic watched the crowd disperse, filing out through either the main doors or the private entrances for each Domain section, and wondered what he had gotten himself into.
32
After the Council session, Domenic spent several hours in earnest conversation with one member or another. Donal stayed at his side, smoothing out awkward moments, lending an added touch of normality. Some, like Danilo and the Aldarans, seemed pleased with him as Acting Regent; others were carefully neutral, and even those who had opposed him seemed disposed to give him a chance to prove himself. Domenic understood, without the need for overt explanation, that neither Cisco Ridenow nor Darius-Mikhail Zabal could be seen to take sides. At least, Jeram was now in Cisco’s scrupulously neutral hands.
When, at last, Domenic and Donal returned to the family suite, they found Marguerida alone. She had been arranging a bouquet of starflowers and rosalys in an elegant blue-glazed vase, a gift from Marilla’s pottery. Domenic asked where Grandfather Lew was.
“I finally convinced him to rest,” she replied with a slightly distracted smile. “I suspect he didn’t trust this morning’s business to go right unless he was there. He says work is the best medicine, and I suppose he’s right. I think I would go mad without something constructive to do.”
“This part, at least, is over.” Domenic’s nerves still quivered with tension. He stretched his shoulders, trying to relax.
“Are you hungry?” Marguerida’s usual practical nature reasserted itself. “Dinner should arrive any minute now. Donal, you’ll stay and eat with us, won’t you?”
“If it pleases you, Domna,” Donal replied with a short bow.
Servants brought in trays of food and placed them upon the table. To Domenic, the young girls looked like scullery maids. They curtsyed, blushing, and hurried away without setting the table properly. The food was simply prepared but still hot, and among them, Marguerida, Domenic, and Donal laid out the dishes and served themselves.
A few minutes later, Illona came in, flushed and out of breath, as if she had just run the length of the Castle. Her step, usually so fluid and strong, faltered.
“What is it?” Marguerida asked, her soup spoon clattering against the bowl. “Is there—is there some change in Mikhail’s condition?”
“No, as far as I know, he is neither better nor worse,” Illona panted. “I have come about an entirely different matter. I am sorry to invade your private family meal, but as Acting Regent, Domenic, you should know at once. I dared not entrust this news to a messenger.”
“Here, sit down. You look unwell.” Domenic put one arm around her, for she was visibly trembling. “Let me get you something to drink—jaco? Some of this good soup, then? Or—Mother, do we have any wine?”
From behind a glass door on the sideboard, Marguerida brought out a bottle. “Here it is. Ravnet, a rather good vintage.”
Illona allowed herself to be seated at the table but refused any refreshment. “I am quite well, thank you. It is the news I bear and not any personal malady that affects me.”
“Then tell us at once,” Domenic said.
“Is it Domna Marilla?” Marguerida asked, setting the unopened bottle down. “Is she gravely ill?”
Illona drew a breath, and a degree of composure returned to her. “I fear that she is. It is worse than any of us imagined. She has trailmen’s fever.”
“Surely that is not possible.” Marguerida blinked in surprise. “There has not been a case since before I came to Darkover. It was wiped out like Terran smallpox or green-plague on Thetis.”
Illona shook her head. “No, it was contained at that time but not eliminated. The host for the virus is the trailmen themselves, you see, and although we believe their numbers have been greatly reduced in recent years as a result of forest fires started by the World Wreckers, they are not yet extinct. I found records in the archives at Nevarsin Tower of the Allison Expedition, the one that Regis Hastur led.”
“That was well before the World Wreckers time, wasn’t it?” Marguerida said.
“Yes,” Illona said. “As a result, a vaccine was developed, and mass immunization halted the worst of the outbreak.”
Donal asked what made her think it was the same disease.
“I have seen it before.” Illona’s voice turned hard and clear. “In Nevarsin, I monitored a patient who subsequently died from this very same fever. I have just come from a laran examination of Domna Marilla. The vibrational signatures of their infections are are identical.”
Lord of Light! Domenic swore silently.
Illona turned to Domenic. “You remember our discussion. At the time, I suspected that Garin’s illness was a recurrence of a Darkovan disease, not some toxin left from the World Wreckers. In the end, I could not be sure. Not until now.” She explained to Marguerida, “The defining characteristic of trailmen’s fever is not its symptoms but its timing.”
“Timing?” asked Marguerida.
“It comes in waves,” Illona explained, “each one worse than the one before.”
Domenic’s belly clenched. “If you are correct, Illona, where are we in the cycle?”
Her gaze met his, the delicate skin around her eyes as dark as if it had been bruised. “This is almost exactly three months after Garin’s case. I think we are in the second stage, with many cases scattered throughout the city and in the encampment outside. Perhaps, the same is happening in other cities as well.”
“Mother of Oceans!” Marguerida closed her eyes. First Mikhail and now this…
“The refugees must have brought the fever to Thendara.” Donal’s voice roughened in anger.
“It does no good to blame them,” Domenic said. “We must act quickly to prevent panic. I did not expect to begin my duties as Acting Regent with such a crisis. I may have to suspend all regular Council business until we have the situation under control. I will confer with Cisco about quarantine measures and safeguarding food and water supplies. Mother, I will need your help now more than ever.”
Marguerida gave her shoulders a little shake. Her golden eyes regained their focus. “I will enlist Istvana and the Keepers Council in organizing healing circles. It’s fortunate we have so many leroni in the city now. We’ll need clinics throughout the city to care for the sick.”
“Don’t forget the city’s licensed matrix mechanics,” Domenic added, “and the Terran-trained healers of the Bridge Society.”
“Do not place too much hope in those measures,” Illona warned. “In the past, our best efforts—including laran—saved only a few of those infected. And that is not all we must face. In another three months, when the third stage strikes, it will be far, far worse.”
Domenic caught the images in her mind. Thendara deserted, corpses gray and bloated in the streets because there were too few left to bury them—Alanna’s vision? Fires raged unchecked through the Hellers, farmsteads empty, fields untended…famine and more death. And then, in another forty-eight years or so, the whole cycle would repeat itself.
“We stopped it once with Terran medical technology,” Donal said. “Now t
hat we need them most, they are gone.”
Marguerida looked thoughtful. “Yes, the Federation is gone…but not their library and medical facilities. I must organize a research team at once. I’ll need people who can operate computers and read Terran Standard…”
Domenic felt a surge of admiration for his mother, that she could so quickly set aside her own sorrows for the greater good.
She would fall into a nest of banshees, he thought, and manage them all into becoming herbivores…and liking it. Perhaps there was hope, after all.
Within the hour, Domenic found himself standing before a hastily reassembled Council. Donal had done an extraordinary job contacting everyone, sending pages running all over the Castle and to private residences throughout the city. Not every member could be found at such short notice. Darius-Mikhail remained at Marilla’s bedside. Half the Keepers were already meeting with Marguerida. Laurinda, who insisted she had little talent for healing, attended.
Domenic kept his opening brief and direct. “I did not call this meeting lightly, so I will get to the point. When you confirmed me as Acting Regent earlier this morning, none of us could have guessed that we would be facing an even greater crisis than my father’s incapacity.”
The entire Chamber held its breath, listening. From one instant to the next, he had captured their attention. Using plain terms, Domenic told them of Marilla’s diagnosis.
Fear jolted through the room. “Plague!” someone yelled. A dozen people leaped to their feet and started to leave.
“Sit down!” Domenic shouted. The chamber’s acoustics caught and amplified his voice. “Remain where you are! Do you think you can save yourselves by rushing about like a herd of headless barnfowl?”
Surprised, perhaps shocked by the ringing command in his voice, they paused. A few sank back into their seats.
“Do none of you remember your history?” he thundered. “This is trailmen’s fever! If one of us has been exposed, we all have. If you scatter to your homes, you will only bring the plague with you. Do you want that?”