The Alton Gift (13 page)

Domenic had heard about flash fires, in which tinder-dry resin-trees and pitch pine, heavy with inflammable sap, would explode into flame at the tiniest spark. So now, the crowd hesitated, poised to ignite. To Domenic, half of them seemed too drunk on Festival wine to know what they were doing, but others were genuinely angry.

"We'll have our say when and where we please! Ain't taking no orders from…" The rest of the man's words were lost in a surging rumble.

The Guards raised their swords into ready position. Bare steel reflected the light of the torches.

I am the Heir to Hastur
, Domenic thought.
I must do something
.

He could not think what action to take, except to jump between the mob and the Castle defenders, and what good could come of that? The ceremonial sword at his belt would be of little use in a real fight. Yet he could not let the encounter escalate, with no possible end but bloodshed.

Even as he reached for his useless sword, Domenic drew his hand away. What was he thinking? These men were not his enemies, they were his own people. For all he knew, Zared and Ennis were among them, men to whom he had an obligation of honor. Although his
laran
energies were severely depleted by his journey through the Overworld, he sensed their surging emotions; his original impression had been

right—discontent and confusion, tinged by fear, blurred by drink and whipped to near frenzy by a few shouted slogans.

"Death to the Comyn!" a voice near the edge of the crowd boomed out. "Down with the tyrant Regent!"

"Wait here." Domenic nudged Alanna into the hands of the nearest Guard and stepped forward.

"What is going on?" Domenic gestured to the nearest man, thinking that if he could reason with one of them, he might calm the volatile mood. "You, there—why are you here, instead of at home, celebrating? Have you no wife or sweetheart, no sister or mother, to honor with fruit and flowers? No kinsmen to share song and dance?"

The man Domenic had spoken to hung his head. Domenic took another step forward. He lowered his voice, addressing this one man alone, his tones as soothing as if he were quieting a restive horse. The muttering died down as the others listened.

"My friend," Domenic went on, "whatever your sorrows, they cannot be solved here, on the street, and on Festival Night. This should be a time for fellowship and rejoicing, not brawling in the streets. Go back to your family, offer your devotion to your womenfolk as Hastur did to Cassilda."

"Who is this pup? This silver-tongued lapdog?" shouted a tall, rangy man with a soldier's bearing. Torchlight glinted off his pale hair. Domenic had not seen him clearly before, yet his had been one of the loudest voices, the one calling for death to the Comyn.

Domenic faced the heckler directly. "I am—"

"We'll not be put off!" the blond man interrupted. "We want the Regent himself!"

"Yes, have him come forth!" another man now took up the cry.

"Grab the boy!" someone else called. "Make the tyrant listen to us!"

"There is no need for force!" Holding his ground, heedless of the danger, Domenic raised his voice in an effort to make himself heard. "Listen to me. We are not enemies!"

Something gray and fist-sized shot out from their midst—a stone, Domenic thought, but things were happening too fast to be sure. Behind him, one of the Guardsmen let out a muffled cry and fell to his knees.

Fear shocked through the air, mixed with the metallic reek of fresh

blood and adrenaline. Two of the Guard's fellows, their swords already poised, lunged forward. Cisco Ridenow shouted out for them to halt.

"Enough!"

A
single word, spoken with unshakeable confidence, shimmering with power, sliced through the escalating tension. As one, the mob hesitated.

Domenic turned, along with the others. His father stood there, silhouetted against the brightness of the Castle. Behind him came half a dozen Comyn lords in their glittering formal clothing. Domenic recognized Danilo Syrtis, Uncle Rafael, Francisco Ridenow. His mother pushed forward, leaning on Grandfather Lew's arm. Rory and his friend Niall rushed to stand beside their fellow Guardsmen.

"Down with the Regent!" the blond man shouted. In a flicker of torchlight, Domenic saw him draw back his arm to throw something.

The second rock struck Mikhail's head. He staggered under the impact. Marguerida and Lew caught him in their arms and lowered him to the ground. Domenic rushed back up the steps, thinking only that he belonged at his father's side.

Marguerida straightened up beside her fallen husband. She held out her left hand. Blood stained the fine embroidered cloth of the glove.

Domenic sensed her fierce protective rage through the waves of her exhaustion, for it had cost her greatly to reach him in the Overwork!. Her face was hard and set, her golden eyes blazing, her chest heaving. There was no place on Darkover or beyond that she could not reach, nothing she would not do, to save the ones she loved. For Mikhail, the touchstone of her heart, she would blast her way through Zandru's Seven Frozen Hells.

Trembling visibly, Marguerida fumbled with the bloodstained glove. Underneath it lay the shadow matrix, the immensely powerful device she had used, along with Mikhail's ring, to defeat the Terran ambush at Old North Road.

MARJA, NO!

Domenic could not be sure if he had heard his grandfather's anguished cry or only felt it within his own mind. Faintly, as if from a far distance, he heard a woman's inconsolable sobs, a voice hoarse with screaming. In the back of his mind, fire raged on the heights, a great form like a woman of flame stretched out her arms…

The next moment, Lew grasped Marguerida's free hand, immobilizing her.

No
, Lew pleaded silently,
not again. Not against our own people
.

Mikhail clambered to his feet and stood on the steps. Blood, slick and dark in the torchlight, drenched one side of his forehead, but his gaze remained steady, his bearing proud.

The Castle defenders stood as if frozen, all except the injured Guard, who had gotten to his feet, clutching his shoulder.

Domenic braced himself for another tirade from the pale-haired man or one of the others who had been so belligerent, but no attack came. The crowd muttered among themselves, sounding more ashamed and confused than angry. He sensed they had not meant for the confrontation to escalate into violence, for blood to be shed.

"Good people!" Mikhail's voice rang out. "Let us not quarrel with one another in this holy Festival season. Whatever your concerns, surely they deserve our most serious and careful consideration." With the smallest motion of one hand, he indicated,
Not like this, with tempers hot and too much wine for clear thinking
. Animosity seeped from the crowd with each phrase.

One of the men, the one who had first demanded to be heard, held his ground. "How do we know the Council will listen to us and not turn us away, as they have before?"

Domenic recognized the man's mountain garb—worn boots, shaggy fur shirt-cloak, long hair braided with strips of dyed leather and eagle feathers. The man's skin was seamed and roughened by weather.

"What is your name?" Mikhail beckoned for the man to come closer. The crowd grew quiet, as if holding their breaths. At last, the man shuffled forward.

"Maury,
vat dom
. That's my cousin there, Raymon, and his wife's kinsman, Arnat. We came in from Kazarin Forst on the far side of the Ven-zas. We're desperate,
vat dom
. Our children are dying. But the Cortes judge said the matter was not for him, he had no power to help us, and no one else would even listen."

"Now someone will. Present yourselves at the Castle on the third day of the session of the Comyn Council, and whatever the matter is, we will hear you. I will hear you. I promise it. I, Mikhail Lanart-Hastur, Warden of Hastur and Regent of the Comyn, give you my solemn word. Will that satisfy you?"

"It is the Regent himself…"

"The Hastur-lord!"

"Hastur…" whispered through the crowd.

Domenic remembered the almost superstitious awe with which common people regarded Regis Hastur. It was not so long ago that the Comyn were believed to be half gods, descended from Hastur, Son of Aldones, who was Lord of Light. Most ordinary folk still considered
laran
to be akin to sorcery.

The man nodded. "The word of a Hastur is all my people have ever needed."

The word of a Hastur
…
an unbreakable oath
.

Amazement passed over Maury's face. He inclined his head again and took a step backward. He spoke a few words to the crowd; the other men began to disperse. Domenic looked again for the pale-haired man, the one who had thrown the rocks and goaded the mob to violence, but he had vanished as surely as if the night had swallowed him up. Without his urging, the fight had gone out of the crowd.

Sobbing, Alanna rushed to Marguerida. Cisco took the injured man aside and sent him to the Guards infirmary.

"The rest of you, inside," Mikhail said. "Midsummer or not, lock the gates. See to it, Captain."

Cisco issued a string of orders, rescinding the leave granted to various officers for the Festival ball. Rory and his friend headed back to the barracks to arm and uniform themselves properly. The remaining Guardsmen held their position, for they would stay at increased alertness through the night while a search was made for the man who threw the rocks.

Grandfather Lew looked as if he were about to topple over, not from any physical injury but from psychic shock.

Danilo slipped one hand under the older man's elbow to steady him. "
Dom
Lewis, you must rest."

"Mik, come away," Marguerida said, as she tried to console Alanna. Her voice rang with fatigue. "You must let a healer attend to your head."

"There will be time for that later, as well," Mikhail answered gently. "I'm in no danger at the moment. Scalp wounds always look worse than they really are. First, I must see to the safekeeping of the Castle."

I
can do my work better without worrying about you, should there be more trouble
. Domenic sensed his father's unspoken thought. Marguerida clearly

understood, for she hurried Alanna inside the Castle. The other Comyn lords put away their swords and followed them inside.

Mikhail gestured for Domenic to come close. "You did well out there, son."

Domenic grimaced and ducked his head. "Not well enough."

"Don't underestimate yourself. You dealt with a very difficult, dangerous situation as few men, even those your senior by many years, could have done. Many more would have been injured, perhaps even killed, if you had not calmed the crowd as you did. You showed true leadership, and I'm proud of you."

Domenic did not know what to say. He warmed inside at his father's praise, but was not sure he truly deserved it. He had done only what needed to be done, and, in the end, it was his father who had taken the lead.

Perhaps
, he thought,
that is what leadership is about, the ability to inspire each person to do his part. Me, Father, Mother, Captain Cisco, even Grandfather Tew
…
none of us could have resolved the confrontation without the others
.

"There is something else you ought to know about," Domenic said, and he told his father about his meeting with the men from Mariposa, how they had come all the way to Thendara for the judgment, and how he had decided their case.

Mikhail nodded, thoughtful. "We've had a
coridom
at Mariposa. He's a competent estate manager, but he's limited in what else he can do. You handled the Mariposa situation well, son. I don't think even Regis himself could have done it better. I also agree with you, there is more going on tonight than rabble drunk on Festival wine.

"Meanwhile," Mikhail went on, "there is much to be done. Domenic, I want you to see to the inside of the Castle. Make sure everyone at the ball gets safely to their quarters. Those who live in the city must remain here tonight. Your mother will make all the arrangements." Mikhail's mouth softened. "You know that she will fret until I'm at her side again. Make sure she takes care of herself. You're probably the only other person besides me that she will listen to."

"I'll do my best, Father."

"That's all any of us can do."

In the ballroom, very little was left of the festivities. The Castle staff were already clearing the tables of food and wine punch, and the musicians had put away their instruments. Domenic spoke with them, carrying out his father's instructions. Everyone looked less anxious as he explained what was being done to ensure their safety. Yllana, who had been ordered to remain inside, took the news of Mikhail's injury with calm practicality. Only the sudden paleness of her cheeks revealed her distress. She gave Domenic a quick hug and then hurried away to help Marguerida.

Francisco was still present, standing in the arched doorway leading toward the living quarters of the castle, talking earnestly with Sibelle. Her face was red and swollen. As Domenic drew near, she broke down, sobbing, "I don't like this place, Papa! I want to go home!" She sounded so like a frightened child that Domenic wondered how old she really was.