The Alton Gift (26 page)

"You believe the Keepers, acting together, can help?" Illona's brows drew together and she pursed her lips. "What exactly do you think we can do?"

"I don't know." Domenic sighed. "We must try
something
. We cannot just continue as before, and it seems to me that the more minds focus on a problem, the greater chance of one of them coming up with a solution. Danilo said that was what Great-Uncle Regis was trying to do, first with Project Telepath and then with the Telepath Council. We cannot go back to those times, but we can take the best of their ideas and move forward. We're hoping that someone from each of the working Towers will attend Council season this year."

"We don't need to be physically present to talk to one another," Illona reminded him. "True, the relays don't work as well over greater distances, but we are not completely cut off."

"From each other, of course not," he said, "but to the rest of Darkover, the Towers are indeed remote and mysterious. Most people have no idea what you do."

"Are you saying we've become irrelevant?"

For a long moment, Domenic did not answer. He felt a whisper touch on the back of one wrist. Illona's presence filled his mind.

"I—I'm not sure. Perhaps we have, all of us."

You will never be irrelevant to me.

In her luminous green eyes he saw himself, now wracked by dreams and doubts, now sure and steady, stepping into a future of mingled fear and hope. He took her hand in his, and the rapport between them intensified.

No longer seeing through his physical eyes alone, Domenic floated in an ocean of radiant light. Illona's mind enclosed him at the same time as he held her. Her strength astonished him, the trained supple power of a Keeper's
laran
.

Domenic felt a tinge of envy, because although he had enjoyed his studies at Neskaya, he had known he would never make his home there. The Tower had been a place to train his psychic talents and to achieve a measure of self-discipline, as well as a reprieve from his duties in Thendara. Had he been anyone else, he could have found a place in a circle, perhaps as a high-ranking matrix technician. But for a Comyn heir, destined to rule, such a life was unthinkable. Moreover, there was no place in the Tower—or anywhere else he knew—for his ability to listen to the heart of the world. He had no idea how it might be useful. Most people, he thought dispiritedly, could not even conceive what it was like. He himself had no words for the deep, textured sense of presence.
Song
did not even come close to its immensity or power.

In answer, Illona sent a ripple of music through their joined consciousness. At once, Domenic heard the throaty mellow tones of a reed flute, the arpeggio of a
ryll
, and more, viols and cymbals, drums and trumpets. He understood what she was telling him, that each instrument sang in its own fashion, that none was flawed, only different. That each was necessary to the soaring harmony of the whole.

You have not yet found your true place
, she spoke to him, mind to mind,
but when you do, the whole world will sing
!

Illona
! Preciosa!

In that unintended moment, she was indeed precious to him, a mirror of his dreams and yet entirely herself.

The music in his mind built, chord upon rising chord, waves of delight like laughter, like breath. Each surge carried them higher, linked them more deeply. Beneath their feet, he imagined the mountains humming with joy.

Cold brought Domenic back to his physical senses. He had no idea how much time had passed as they stood on the windswept hillside. Never in all his days, not even his time at Neskaya, had he ever entered into such a deep, engulfing unity with another human being. He had not even known it was possible.

Illona stirred. Domenic put his arms around her. Her cloak had fallen open. She drew its folds around them both. Leaning into him, she lifted her face. In a movement as natural as breathing, their lips met. He felt the kiss in the pit of his belly—lust, certainly, but also something deeper. A forging, a uniting. Never had he felt such balance, each of them giving and receiving in equal share. Their hearts kissed, not just their lips.

They broke apart like dancers who knew their steps perfectly. The space between them warmed with the closeness of their bodies. He could think of nothing to say, no words that would not fracture the perfect moment. There was no need to say anything. As one, they clasped hands and turned back toward Nevarsin.

They were still in rapport but able to converse about ordinary things when they neared the Tower. Several riding animals, mules and hardy mountain ponies, stood saddled in the front yard. Tower servants bustled in and out the front gates. Sammel and Fiona, the youngest member of the circle, stood talking in agitated tones with a
cristoforo
monk.

Fiona looked up, seeing them. "Illona! Praise to Evanda, you've returned. Sammel could not reach you with his starstone and we feared something had happened."

A delicate flush brushed Illona's cheeks. "My attention was diverted for a time."

"I am to blame for that," Domenic said. "I went walking on the hills, and Illona guided me back. What is the trouble?"

The monk, a small, wiry man of middle years, answered. "We of St. Valentine's tend the sick in honor of the Holy Bearer of Burdens. Of

late, a number of poor folk have come to us, driven from their homes by fire or hunger. The women and children we send to our sisters of the Renunciates, for no female may enter the holy confines." Here, his glance went uneasily to Illona.

'Tray continue, good brother," she said serenely.

"Usually, all these poor men need is good care—a warm bed, nourishing food, and a little rest. Their bodies return to health, and they go on their way. But two days ago one of our patients became very ill. Despite our best efforts, he grows worse. He burns as if on fire."

"What is wrong with him?" Illona asked. "I assume your infirmarian is familiar with the various fevers and their treatments."

The monk gestured impatiently. "This case is beyond even Brother Kyril's skill. Father Conn has bidden me ask for help, and quickly, too, before the poor soul is beyond any remedy."

"Sammel is the only man with monitor's training," Fiona pointed out. "If the case that serious, it will take more than one of us."

"I will go, too," Domenic said. "I trained for several years at Neskaya."

"Then we will have enough for a healing circle," Illona said. "That is, good brother, if it is permissible for this female monitor and myself to enter?"

Some of the antagonism left the monk's weathered features. "Father Conn has made provision, for this one time." He gestured for them to mount up and follow him.

Domenic brought his own horse from the Tower stables, saddled her himself, and they set off for the city.

So this is where Grandfather has hidden himself away
, Domenic thought as they passed through the heavy wooden gates of St.-Valentine's-of-the-Snows.

Illona, who had entered first as ranking
leronis
, glanced back at him.

Hardly hiding, Domenic. It was he who urged Father Conn to summon our aid. This will not be the first time that monastery and Tower have worked together.

Yes, that felt right. In Domenic's imagination, a red-robed Keeper joined hands on one side with a monk in a cowled robe, and on the other with a richly dressed Comyn lord.

A worthy vision, indeed
! came Illona's unspoken agreement,
and one I pray we will live to fulfill Perhaps this is what your destiny will be, to weave us all together, even as a Keeper draws the minds of her circle into harmony
.

She hurried after the monk. In his sandals, he moved silently across the cobbles toned yard and into the main building.

Glancing up at the gray stone walls, Domenic saw that they had been shaped and placed entirely by human hands. Wind and weather had softened the gouges left by the chisels but could not erase the lingering dissonance, the invisible fracture lines left by metal slicing through stone. He wanted to stroke the walls, as he might the neck of a restive horse, to coax the discord into wholeness.

Inside the building, darkness enveloped them, but Domenic's eyes quickly adjusted to the dimmer light. They climbed a short flight and went down a colonnade along one side of the building.

"This is the infirmary," the monk said, swinging open a door. Inside, four or five cots formed a neat row, each with a pillow and blanket. A monk lay sleeping on one, cowl pulled over his face, hands folded over his chest. The blanket was still folded neatly at his feet.

At the far end of the room, a monk bent over another patient, sponging his head and chest. Lew sat beside the bed, cradling his star-stone in his single hand. He smiled as Domenic and the others entered, walking quietly to avoid disturbing the sleeping monk.

"Grandfather!" Domenic exclaimed. What was the old man thinking, to expose himself to a serious disease?

"Where else should I be, if not where I am needed?" Lew said without the least sign of concern.

Their guide excused himself to go in search of stools for everyone. The infirmarian straightened up, carefully avoiding looking directly at either of the women. Domenic got a better view of the patient under the layers of blankets. The man appeared to be of middle years, deeply weathered. Fever flushed his skin, which hung on his bones. He broke into weak, wheezing coughing.

Seeing the reluctance of the infirmarian to deal directly with females, Domenic spoke up. "Who is he? How long has he been like this?"

The monk looked relieved as he answered, "His name is Garin, and as far as I can interpret his answers, he is a farmer who brought his

family here to Nevarsin in search of work. Two have already died, a woman," he used an inflection to cast doubt on whether she was really his wife, "and a girl-child. They were taken ill shortly after their arrival in the city and perished after a few days of illness, or so the Sisters who cared for them said. As to how long this man has been ill, I cannot say. I have tended him for two—no, three—days, but I believe his symptoms began some time before that. As you can see, he is sturdy and must have been an active, useful person. Such a loss of flesh does not occur overnight. A strong man can sometimes go about his work for some time after the onset of an illness."

"A pity," Fiona said tardy, "if he spreads contagion during that time."

"Not all illnesses can be transmitted directly from one person to another," Illona pointed out.

Another monk arrived with several novices, bringing enough stools for them all to sit. Illona directed their placement in a rough circle with Fiona slightly to one side. The infirmarian withdrew to the other side of the room, clearly unwilling to leave his charge alone with these women.

Domenic took his place with the others. It felt a little odd to be working in the intimacy of a circle with Grandfather Lew or Sammel and Fiona, whom he hardly knew.

The circle took out their starstones and began focusing their mental energies through the psychoactive crystals. Setting aside his hesitation, Domenic slipped into the familiar trancelike state. Illona's mind touched his. He felt dizzy, as if he had been dancing a wild, spinning
secain
with her. Then he became aware of the steady, rock-sureness of Sammel, his grandfather's faceted brilliance. Fiona wound like a silken ribbon through the circle, assuring the well-being of each of its members.

Illona, acting as Keeper, gathered up the
laran
of the others. A sensation of rising, of floating, engulfed Domenic. Awareness of the others faded; he thought only of sending the stream of energy from his own mind through his starstone and into Illona's deft control.

Time lost all meaning as Domenic left his physical body behind. Around him and through him swirled colored mists, glimmering in pastel shades like the light of the Crystal Chamber or a paler version of

the Veil at the
rhu fead at
Hali. In the iridescent motes of brightness, he imagined miniature stars. The deeper he went into the trance state, the less he saw himself and the mist as separate. Wonder suffused him, building steadily into transcendent joy.

Break
…
Domenic, you must break now
. The mental voice was unfamiliar but distinctly feminine.
Fiona
.

With a reluctance that surprised him, Domenic dropped out of the circle. Vision returned. He blinked. His eyes burned as if he had been too long in the sun. The others had also roused and were putting away their starstones. Sammel got to his feet, stamping and shaking his arms. Fiona stretched and yawned. Lew looked tired but peaceful.

Frowning, Illona bent over the sick man. His face seemed less haggard, but his breath still wheezed through his lungs. The infirmarian came over and, with a new trace of deference, asked Illona if she had been able to help the patient.

"He fares a little better, I think," she said, "but I do not know how long that improvement will last. This is no ordinary lung-fever. There is some virulence in his blood that I have never encountered before."