The Alton Gift (42 page)

He arrived early for a meeting of his advisory council in the Grand Hall that now functioned as the coordination center. A cold meal had been laid out on the tables along one side, nut-bread, cheese, and sliced roasted meat, with platters of buttery pastries and baskets of tawny Lowland peaches. Guardsmen, matrix mechanics, Renunciate healers, and crafters sat side by side, eating a quick meal and exchanging news.

Whether we find a way to stop this thing or limp on, our ranks decimated and our society in disarray, things will never be the same.

Marguerida walked through the arched doorway leading to the interior of the Castle, closely followed by Lew and Danilo. To Domenic,

she appeared on the ragged edge of exhaustion. Shadows surrounded her golden eyes, and her lids were puffy from lack of sleep. Her skin had lost its glow, and her body seemed fragile rather than slender.

Domenic found himself irrationally angry with her. How dare she go without sleep or food, as she so obviously had, when so much depended upon her?

Marguerida flinched, clearly having caught his flash of emotion. She set her lips into a thin, defiant line, but Lew said to Domenic, "Let it be,
chiyu
, and do not add your own worry to her troubles."

"None of us has the right to render ourselves unfit," Domenic said. "We belong not only to ourselves but to the people we are trying to save. If, through pride or simple carelessness, we push ourselves to collapse, how can we help them?"

"Say no more on my behalf, Father," Marguerida said. "Nico, you are right to chide me. Work can become an obsession, like anything else. I must remind myself that our problems will not be solved in a single sleepless night."

Before Domenic could say anything more, the last two members of his informal council, Donal and Danilo, arrived. When they had all supplied themselves
with jaco
and settled in their places around the table, Domenic asked each of them to report any progress.

"Well, you want to know how we are getting on in the laboratory," Marguerida said, "and the answer is, not nearly well enough. Jeram's analyzed the viral DNA from the current fever and compared it to records of the old one." She rubbed the fingers of one hand over her temple. "As we suspected, they're not identical. We are definitely dealing with a new strain."

"So those who received the vaccine years ago have no immunity." Danilo's shoulders tensed, as if bracing for battle. He relaxed them forcibly, but his dark eyes lost none of their grim expression

"That's right," she said. "And the worst of it is, we can't use the antibodies in their blood, either, Jeram says there's something in the enzyme receptor sites on the protein coat, or something like that, that make this one particularly tricky. So far, nothing he has tried has worked in a test tube. It could be months—years, even—before he hits on the right one."

"By then, there may not be anyone left to save," Donal muttered.

"Try to be a bit
less
hopeful, will you?" Marguerida said with unwonted sarcasm.

"I'm only saying what we're all thinking—" Donal gulped and lowered his gaze. "Forgive me,
vat domna
. I had no right to speak to you in such a manner."

"And I was unkind and impatient for my part," she answered, more gently.

"We're all tired and frightened," Domenic said.
Or if we are not, we soon will be
. "Let us not quarrel among ourselves. We have enemies enough."

"Yes," Marguerida said with a tiny sigh, "several trillions of them."

Donal inclined his head in agreement.

"Our best hope is to find someone who has survived this current strain," Marguerida said, briskly returning to the topic, "and use the antibodies in his blood to create a new immune serum."

Domenic shivered inside. Donal had reason to be pessimistic, even though it was tactless to speak those fears aloud. The figures from the Medical Center had put the mortality rate at an extremely high percentage when the disease reached its final cycle. The numbers of the dead kept climbing as more of the sick succumbed.

Marguerida wrapped her arms across her chest. Even without mental contact, Domenic knew what she was thinking, the heart-wrenching despair of watching those she loved slip away into darkness and being able to do nothing. In his mind, he saw her sitting at her husband's bedside, Mikhail's limp hand between hers, unshed tears glimmering in her eyes.

All the powers I have, my skills, my training, the shadow matrix, and still I cannot save him
…

Another, darker, image rose up behind Domenic's eyes, and it seemed that he walked alone through Thendara's streets. Dusk had fallen, pooling like molten charcoal against the deserted buildings. Bodies the color of clay lay tumbled in doorways.

Alanna's vision
…
oh, gods, let it not come to that
!

The funeral for Marilla Lindir-Aillard took place a few days later, when she was laid to rest in an unmarked grave beside the Lake of Hali. Domenic attended in his capacity as Acting Regent of the Comyn and Hastur, along with Kennard-Dyan and his two sons. Illona insisted on coming, too.

"Although I never knew her, she was my grandmother and deserving of my respect," Illona said, forestalling Domenic's objections. "There are no Federation soldiers lying in ambush this time."

Marguerida and Lew had stayed behind in Thendara, continuing their search for a cure for the fever and dealing with the increasing numbers of its victims. Although she made no complaint, Domenic sensed that his mother would have liked to attend. The fever, and the fear it generated, shredded the very fabric of their society?. Rituals like this funeral helped to bring them together.

The traditional ceremony was brief, with each person sharing aloud a memory of the dead woman. Marilla had not been an easy person, or openly loving, and yet each mourner drew out something positive about her. Perhaps, Domenic thought, she was more beloved in remembrance than in life. It was a sad thing to think about anyone.

Now whatever had tormented Marilla in life was over. She would lie in the earth, and the seasons would pass, snow and rain and flowers, each in its proper time.

For a moment, all the sorrows of the world settled over Domenic's shoulders. His
laran
senses picked up a faint groaning, as if the planet itself echoed his sentiments. The sky shimmered, layer upon layer of veiling clouds, and the grasses bowed down in the fitful breeze.

How many more unmarked graves would there be in the days to come?

After Manila's funeral, Danilo rode out to the encampment outside the Thendara gates. The site was much larger than he expected, having swelled as the plague claimed more victims. His saddlebags held packets of herbal remedies, willow bark tea to reduce fevers, golden-flower to aid sleep, and firenze blossom poultices to soothe bed sores. He could have sent someone else, but he wanted to see for himself how the rotation of matrix healers that he and Darius-Mikhail organized had worked out.

Within the patchwork pavilion, men huddled under blankets in neat rows. Other men, and women too, crouched beside the pallets, sponging foreheads or spooning out cups of broth.

At the far end Alanna knelt by a makeshift bed. She wore an old gray gown and had covered her bright hair with a plain head scarf. So intent was she on her work that she did not see Danilo as he slipped past the door flap. Closing her eyes, she pulled the blanket over the face of her patient. She sat back, her hands loose across her lap, looking too exhausted to weep.

Varinna, from the city matrix mechanics, came forward to greet Danilo. She too looked tired, but infused with a new pride and purpose. The edge of defensiveness had left her features. She and her colleagues had, at long last, been recognized as skilled and valued professionals by the assembled Keepers.

Varinna accepted the packets of herbs with a smile. "These are always welcome! Menella!" she called to a woman tending the sick, a Re-nunciate by her breeches and neatly cropped hair.

"Our thanks,
Dom
Danilo," the Renunciate, a plain-faced woman of

middle years, said. "Our supply of willow bark is almost gone. We have been trying to control the worst fevers, for some believe it is the heat and not the disease itself that kills. Often the body burns itself out before it can recover."

"We have lost several who I think might have lived if their strength had not been depleted," Varinna added.

Danilo knew little of healing, but what Menella said made sense. "Jeram had word that a friend of his had fallen ill and asked me to check on him—Ulm, I think he is called. Which one is he?"

Varinna's smile brightened even more. "Come, see for yourself."

Outside the tent, a crude awning had been cobbled together of tattered bits of cloth, enough to keep off the midday sun. An old man sat on an improvised camp chair in the dappled shade, a blanket tucked around his legs. As they drew near, Danilo noticed the pallor beneath the grizzled beard, the hollowed cheeks. The old man turned his head at their approach, eyes bright beneath shaggy gray brows, and lifted one hand in greeting.

This man was sick
…
and is now recovering
!

"He is our first success," Varinna said with a hint of triumph in her voice, "although I cannot claim sole credit. I suspect he was simply too stubborn to let a deadly plague get the better of him."

"Watch who you're calling
stubborn
, for 'tis much like the ember complaining of the fire's heat," Ulm replied. His voice was thin with an undertone like granite. Danilo liked him immediately "And who have you brought to torment me today?"

"I am Danilo Syrtis, and I am more glad than I can say to see you well."

Ulm's eyes narrowed as if he were considering whether the man before him, slight of build and dressed simply, might indeed be a Comyn lord. The moment of doubt passed. The old man pawed at the lap robe and struggled to rise.

Varinna insisted that Ulm remain seated. "You stay put, do you hear? None of this popping up and down! I won't have you relapse on me, you recalcitrant old chervine. Nursing you once was enough, but twice would be an insult."

As he settled back in his chair, Ulm peered up at Danilo. A wink twitched the corner of one eye. "I'd best mind her, m'lord. She'd got a tongue as sharp as a banshee's beak."

"Mind your own wagging tongue," Varinna responded, clearly enjoying the repartee. She tucked the blanket back into place and went inside the tent, leaving the two men to continue their conversation.

Danilo dragged over a square-cut log and set it on one end for an improvised stool. "Your friend Jeram will be pleased to hear of your recovery."

"Aye, he's been so concerned about his old friends, he has not set foot in this camp. Not that I complain, for what could he do here? Best that he keep to his own business—but he has not taken with the fever? Or fallen afoul of the Council?"

"Jeram is well, I assure you," Danilo said. "He is even now in the laboratories at the Terran Base, searching for a cure."

And you, my friend, may well be the key.

"Cure?" Ulm fell silent for a moment. "Now, then, that would be a thing indeed, even greater than flying through the stars."

"Jeram seeks your help in this," Danilo said.

"Mine? What can an old man like me do, who never sets foot off my mountain except to buy a bit of salt or a few ribbons for my wife? Is it with nuts and firewood, or wild chervines perhaps, that you aim to defeat this thing?"

"No, no," Danilo said, smiling in spite of himself. "Jeram can explain it himself. In this matter, my own understanding is as poor as that of the chervines you spoke of. Are you well enough to ride, or shall I send for a litter?"

Ulm said the only way he would be carried while lying down was after he was dead, and as for a horse, none would suit him better than his own pony. Varinna objected strenuously to Ulm going anywhere but back to his own bed. It took all of Danilo's diplomatic tact to convince her of the urgency. In the end, Ulm declared that useful work was the best medicine, and Varinna relented. Even so, she insisted that Ulm rest while his son saddled his pony.

Before they left, Danilo went back inside the pavilion to speak with Alanna. She had gone on to tending another patient. She held a basin of herb-infused water and a damp cloth on her lap.

"
Chiya"
he said gently, "there was nothing more anyone could have done for that patient. Do not blame yourself."

She looked up from sponging the forehead of a sick woman, all the

fire in her green eyes quenched. The woman burst out coughing, bringing up gobbets of blood-flecked sputum. Alanna waited until the fit had passed and then gently wiped the woman's lips and face.

"How long has it been since you slept?" Danilo asked. Alanna shrugged. "You return to the Castle at night for a hot meal and your own bed, do you not?"

Alanna shook her head. "I make up a pallet in the corner. Do not scowl at me. I must be near if one of the patients needs me."

"Child, you must rest, or you will become ill yourself."

She shot him a fierce look. "
Now is
when these people need my help, and I will not sit idly by while they suffer."

"Alanna—"

"No, I will hear no more!" she cried, with a passion that surprised him. In her words, Danilo heard something more than stubbornness or pride. Desperation, certainly.
Despair
?

"Stay then," he said, knowing that nothing he said would change her mind, "and may the gods watch over you."

Danilo expected that even the short journey from the shanty camp would tire the old man, but for most of it, Ulm seemed as comfortable on his shaggy mountain pony as sitting in a chair. The placid beast, a blue roan with a lopsided star on its forehead, stepped along with almost no need for rein or spur. The two seemed to understand one another perfectly.

Ulm chuckled at Danilo's concern and said that being up and doing was as good medicine as any. Danilo agreed, but he noticed that Ulm clung a little more tightly to the pommel of his saddle as they passed the city gates.

The Terran Base was strange and forbidding even to a man in good health, so Danilo persuaded Ulm to visit his own chambers in the Castle while someone went to fetch Jeram. A short time later, warmed by a small summer fire and plied with hot soup and even more spiced cider, Ulm nodded off.

Watching the old man sleep, Danilo remembered spending many hours in the very same chair. He had felt old and useless, corroded from within by unremitting grief.

Ulm is right. The best medicine is knowing you are needed, that it matters whether you live or die.

Danilo roused from his meditation at a tapping at the door. As Jeram entered, Danilo raised a finger to his lips and pointed at Ulm, now snoring gently.

Frowning, Jeram hissed, "I didn't mean for you to drag him from his sick bed!"

"He's only tired out from the ride," Danilo whispered back. "There was no time to be lost, and he refused a litter."

"What's that?" Ulm straightened up with a start and looked about. "Jeram! It's a sight to see you! I was only resting my eyes."

Jeram crossed to the old man and took his hand. "It is good to see you, my friend."

"Aye, laddie, though you're no vision of beauty yourself."

Jeram grinned. Purplish shadows rimmed his eyes, and he was in obvious need of a shave.

Danilo said firmly, "I did not bring this man here for a social call but because he has
recovered.'"

For a long moment, Jeram stared at Ulm. Realization dawned. Jeram's eyes widened. He whispered something in Terran Standard, a prayer of thanks perhaps.

"Is this true, Ulm?" Jeram said. "You are well again?"

"Aye to that as well, although a bit wobbly in the legs. It takes more than a spot of fever to put me in my grave."

From the heavy wooden sideboard, Danilo brought Jeram a mug of cider, still warm and aromatic. "I said only that you needed him. I thought it better that you explain why."

"Some nonsense about finding a cure," Ulm said. "The Lady from Nevarsin tended me, and what more could any man ask? The gods willed that I live, and so I have."

"Perhaps it was the will of the gods," Jeram said carefully, "but how they went about accomplishing this miracle is something we men may do as well. I will try to explain."

Jeram took the chair Danilo indicated. The leather upholstery creaked comfortably under his weight. He took a sip of the cider, grimaced, and set the mug down on the low table. "We talk about
fighting
the fever, as if it were an army we could defeat. In a way, it is. A tiny

one, with many thousands of soldiers, and the battlefield is your own blood."

Ulm glanced down at his chest with a skeptical expression, but uttered no protest.

"To defeat this army," Jeram went on, "your body creates its own soldiers. Sometimes the defenders are too few and too late. In your case, however, they were strong and clever. They won. Should the enemy attempt another invasion, they would be instantly ready."

Now Ulm nodded in understanding. "'Tis said that any man who lives through the trailmen's fever cannot fall sick from it again. And there are other illnesses—patchfoot in chervines—that are the same way."

"Yes, a case of the fever confers lifelong immunity. Now, you know I am
Terranan
and have training in their science. What I mean to do, with your permission, is to create enough of these soldiers to protect other patients. A mercenary army, if you like, that we can send anywhere."

Ulm's expression was so incredulous that Danilo thought if the speaker had been anyone but Jeram, the old man would have laughed in his face. Danilo suggested that if Ulm had rested enough, they might all go to the laboratory, where Ulm might see for himself. The old man agreed, and they left the Castle for the Terran Base.

The Medical Center churned with activity. Worktables filled Jeram's laboratory, slabs of flat black set on frameworks of gleaming metal and covered with racks of the most flawless glassware Danilo had ever seen. Tubing connected various beakers and flasks, transparent corkscrews and vats. Some contained colorless liquids, others held what appeared to be weak broth, but Danilo doubted that was what it really was. A team of men, and some women, too—Renunciates and Marguerida's friend, Katherine—moved about the laboratory, operating small devices, measuring liquids with graduated tubes, mixing powders.