The Alton Gift

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Mariposa had been left to the stewardship of others. Such men might manage the lands and livestock well enough, but they had no relationship of fealty with the people. They could not raise troops, pass judgment, or handle any of the thousand things a lord and his people owed one another.

  There was nothing Domenic could say in defense of his own family. These men were Alton vassals and had every right to expect a responsive and responsible lord, one who knew them, their families and concerns. What could anyone in Thendara, no matter how well intentioned, know of their daily troubles?

  In truth, the present Comyn were a small fraction of their numbers before the assassinations of the World Wreckers years. The death of Regis Hastur had weakened them further. Now it seemed that power was concentrated in the hands of a few, with too many estates going masterless. Some Domains were but a heartbeat away from a similar fate. Aillard rested in the hands of one aging woman, Marilla Lindir-Aillard. Kennard-Dyan Ardais had yet to marry or name an heir. Dani Hastur had abdicated his own position to rule Elhalyn for his wife.

  We must take this issue up at the Council meeting, Domenic thought. There are not enough of us to fulfill our responsibilities; that much is clear.

  Zared and Ennis shifted in their seats, clearly uncomfortable. Neither would look up. In a flash of insight, Domenic exchanged glances with Danilo. These were country men, by nature and upbringing conservative. He doubted either of them had set foot outside their own home lands before.

  “If you will lay the matter before me,” Domenic said, unexpectedly moved by the plight of these men, “I will render judgment to the best of my ability.”

  Zared dipped his head and said in archaic casta, “Vai dom, we place ourselves in your hands.”

  Domenic thought wildly that he was not worthy of such a gesture of loyalty, that he could never make a ruling by himself. Surely he must have someone to advise him, older and more experienced. Instinct kept him silent. To him alone these men had given their trust. He alone must fulfill the obligation.

  What would Great-Uncle Regis have done? In a moment of insight, Domenic realized there was more to the issue than simple legality. Property rights were simple compared to the complicated lines of succession of the Comyn. There had been no intermarrying of lineages in this case, no previously unsuspected nedestro heirs, no contested parentage.

  What was the right answer, the one that took the benefit of everyone involved into consideration? What would prevent injustice from festering into resentment and even outright feud? What would best promote harmony among these kinsmen, so that they would care for one another and the land?

  Two of the claimants already had plots of their own, fertile enough to support their families; was it justice that they increase their wealth, leaving less for those who had nothing? After some thought, Domenic decided that the richest should make the division of the property into whatever portions he saw fit. The poorest man must then be allowed to select his share first, proceeding according in order, with the richest taking the last. However, he added, any claimant who wished a portion must add his own parcel to the land to be divided. As Domenic explained his idea, the two men nodded. They went away, clearly satisfied.

  “’Tis the word of an Alton lord,” one commented as he left the room.

  “Aye,” said the other, “there will be no arguing with that. Greed will have its own reward, and no one’s children will go hungry.”

  “That was well done,” Danilo said, after the door closed behind the two Mariposa men. “Now, let us hear what Cyrillon has to say.”

  The third man, who had been listening attentively, said he needed no counsel, for his business prospered, but the lord there, he indicated Danilo, had said he ought to come and tell his tale.

  He was, he said, of mixed Domains and Dry Towner blood, and spent his life in the rough border country between the two lands, supplying each with what it lacked from the other. At present, he carried furs, leather, and medicinal herbs from the Khilgard Hills to Carthon and returned with sulfur, salt, and gold filigree jewelry. Occasionally, he was able to purchase Ardcarran rubies as well.

  “What’s the news from Shainsa?” Domenic asked.

  “Ah, much the same as always,” Cyrillon replied. “The great chiefs snarl at each other like hounds over a bone. No one ever wins except to gain in kihar.”

  Cyrillon answered Domenic’s questions about trade between the Dry Towns and the Domains, how the lords of Shainsa viewed the departure of the Terrans, and prospects for the continuation of an uneasy peace. It seemed to Domenic that as long as the Dry Towns chieftains bickered among themselves, they could not coordinate an effective battlefront. Petty raids and forays into Domains territory would doubtless continue, as one hothead or another tried to prove his manhood.

  “What about conditions on the road?” Domenic asked, thinking of the number of country folk he had noticed in the street. Two such men, ill-clothed and haggard, had been involved in the brawl outside the bakery this morning.

  Cyrillon’s fair brows drew together. “Aye, I have seen changes, and not for the better. Always, the less savory sort of vagabonds have more interest in wresting their living from yours and mine than doing any honest work.”

  “That’s true enough,” Domenic said, “or smiths would have no buyers for their swords.”

  Cyrillon shook his head in wordless agreement that such a time would never come. “This year I have seen many with all they own on their backs, but it’s difficult to tell. Spring thaw often brings out wanderlust.”

  “They will not improve their lot in Thendara,” Domenic said, thinking of how the City Guards had quelled the tussle. True, some work could be found in Thendara, menial tasks like loading wagons or mucking out stables, but Darkover was not like other Federation worlds, with a large urban industrialized base.

  Danilo held out a small purse, which clinked softly as it fell into the trader’s palm. “That’s for your trouble, good mestre, and there will be more the next time you are in Thendara. Come and see us, even if there is no news. Perhaps we may have other uses for your abilities.”

  Beaming, the trader took his leave. Domenic waited until he no longer sensed Cyrillon’s presence in the corridor before asking Danilo, “So you think I should cultivate men such as this?”

  “I think the more sources of information you have, the more likely you are to hear the truth,” Danilo said.

  Alanna had been sitting quietly through the discussion, her eyes shining. “That was splendid!” She clapped her hands in delight. “Auntie Marguerida never lets me stay when there’s anything important going on.”

  “So you found the conversation interesting?” Danilo turned to her. “What did you think?”

  “I think perhaps…” Unused to being taken seriously, Alanna answered slowly, her brow wrinkling in concentration. “Perhaps it might be better not to trust the trader’s word entirely. A man like that thinks only of his own interests. If he passes some poor fellow on the road, his only concern is to protect his goods, not why the other has left his home or what other troubles he might have.

  “Besides,” she added, with a disdainful sniff and a toss of her head, “I did not like this Cyrillon at all. He looked at me as if he would like to carry me away to sell at the slave markets in Ardcarran.”

  Domenic laughed, but Danilo looked thoughtful. “Setting aside personal impressions,” Danilo said, “we do not yet know the whole story. I too have noticed a rising unrest in the streets.”

  Domenic thought of the fight outside the bakery, the beggars on the corner, the way people on the street sometimes hurried away as he approached. He had been too long away from Thendara to know if this was unusual, and he had attributed his own sense of unease to his dislike of city life and crowds in general.

  “This—this is new?” he asked. “Or worse than before?”

  “I think so,” Danilo replied. “Ever since the beginning of this Council season, something has been stirring up public sentimen
t against the Comyn, and the Regent in particular.”

  Something, Domenic repeated to himself, thinking now of his mother’s premonitions. Or someone.

  “The situation calls for a closer look,” Danilo said. “Even legitimate grievances can be manipulated for a purpose. It wouldn’t be the first time some malcontent or other has garnered support by blaming the Council. Yet the people have always looked to us when it has been necessary for one man to speak for many.”

  In Danilo’s thoughts, Domenic caught the fleeting image of a young man, slight and intense, shimmering with unspoken power. But not the power of fist or sword. The power to inspire, to ignite the flames of idealism, of dedication. The power of the heart.

  As quickly, the vision faded. Danilo had gone on, talking now about how the Federation had tried to impose its own form of government upon Darkover, with its own laws and economies.

  “That’s all over now,” Alanna put in. “They’re gone for good, aren’t they?”

  “That remains to be seen,” Domenic said. Somewhere, out there in the stars, planets warred with one another. Perhaps they still did, or maybe they had bombed each other into ruin. He did not want to think what it would mean to Darkover if men like Lyle Belfontaine came swooping down from the skies, bent on taking whatever they needed, using Darkover for their own purposes.

  “Nonetheless,” Danilo said, picking up the conversation, “the Terranan upset the old ways, and we have not yet found new ones. Men like Zared and Ennis look to their lords to resolve their differences.”

  “It was lucky for them that you brought them here, where Domenic could tell them what to do.” Alanna’s mood turned petulant, as if the men had journeyed the long leagues to Thendara in order to annoy her. “Did they think they could march into the Crystal Chamber and lay their troubles at the feet of the Council?”

  “Surely not the Council.” Domenic wanted to laugh. What would that elegant assembly, in their brocades and jewels, think of the ragged men he had seen outside the bakery?

  “We have always preferred to handle our affairs locally whenever possible,” Danilo explained to Alanna. “In Syrtis, where I was born, our people looked to my father to resolve their differences.”

  “Who do they look to now, since you are here in Thendara?” Alanna looked genuinely curious.

  “The farm is managed by a steward, and I visit when I can. It is the same everywhere. I wish I could do more, but the duties that have kept me in Thendara were more urgent, and I cannot be in two places at one time.” Danilo exchanged a glance with Domenic. There are too few of us.

  Some day, Domenic thought, he would have to divide himself between Regency and Domain. And I do not yet have sons to take up those duties after me…

  Like it or not, his mother had touched upon an inescapable truth. He must marry. It must be someone acceptable not only to his parents but to the Council itself.

  “What is the purpose of the Council, if not to rule over everyone?” Alanna asked.

  “Over time, the Council’s powers have narrowed in scope,” Danilo explained. “Now it mostly resolves disputes between Domains and settles trade policy and inheritance rights. Once the Council was far more powerful, but even today someone like you or Domenic must still obtain the approval of the Council to marry.”

  Alanna cast a white-eyed glance at Domenic. “Could the Council forbid a marriage with someone they did not approve of? Or force you to marry someone else?”

  Domenic reached out to reassure her. “Of course not. That is a bit of ancient history left over from the Ages of Chaos, when the Comyn used selective inbreeding to develop and strengthen their laran Gifts.”

  “I am sorry to say it, but the Council does still retain that right.” Danilo’s still-handsome face darkened, and he looked away. “Even Regis was not immune.”

  “Nobody today would suggest such a thing,” Domenic repeated, sensing Alanna’s rising hysteria. “Their approval is a matter of form only, of no consequence.”

  Color sprang to the girl’s cheeks and her mouth quivered. “Domenic, do not tell me it is of no consequence! Tell me—” her voice broke, each syllable rising toward frenzy.

  “What is the matter?” Domenic asked.

  “I don’t know which vision is true, what will come to pass!”

  “Have you had another vision of the future?” Danilo demanded. “Of this future?”

  Alanna gathered herself with an effort. “You were right, Dom Danilo, the visions did not go away. They’re getting worse. Sometimes I have two or three at once, so mixed up I cannot tell what is real. I have seen you,” she raised tear-bright eyes to Domenic, “standing beside a girl, dressed like a queen in Ridenow colors, and the catenas are locked upon your wrists while Auntie Marguerida and Dom Mikhail watch. Who is she, Domenic?”

  Lord of Light! She has seen me marrying Sibelle Ridenow!

  “Another time,” Alanna rushed on before he could answer, “I saw you with a different woman. She looked familiar, but I can’t think how I know her. You are laughing together. You are happy and I am not there! Am I dead, is that what’s going to happen? I think I must be going mad!”

  “There, there,” Domenic said with an assurance he did not feel. “I will not forsake you. Have I not promised?”

  “Damisela, it seems your laran is growing stronger,” Danilo said, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. “I suspect that you see not a single, inevitable future but a series of possible futures.”

  “That must surely be the case,” said Domenic, trying to keep his voice light. “I cannot marry both ladies.”

  “No, of course not,” Alanna said. Her fingers tightened around his, linking them in telepathic rapport. Not when you are going to marry me.

  Domenic’s heart gave a little jerk. Until this moment, the words had not been spoken, only assumed. He had behaved toward her as if they were betrothed. She had every right to expect the formal declaration to follow. Although they had not actually consummated their passion, they had touched and kissed in a way that not so long ago would have constituted an unbreakable commitment. She was no serving wench or dairy maid but a Comynara, not to be dallied with.

  I must keep my promise to her. The word of a Hastur is as binding as any oath.

  “What other visions have you had?” Danilo asked Alanna.

  “Worse ones by far,” she admitted. “This morning, as I was waking, I thought I looked out on a street—Threadneedle Street, where Auntie Marguerida used to take me when I was little. She had friends there, and they laughed together. Only this time, no one was laughing. In every house and outside, too, lying in the street, there were sick people. A woman ran through the street with a baby in her arms. She knocked on every door, and no one would let her in. I think the baby was dead.”

  Domenic had been listening to Alanna with his laran senses as well as his ears. Now, in a flash of inner sight, he glimpsed her as a pattern of energy. Around her body, lines of time streamed out like strands of light with figures moving back and forth upon them. Some were clear, others tangled, and yet more so turbulent that he could not make out any details.

  “Dom Danilo,” he asked, “what can it mean?”

  Danilo shook his head, his dark eyes grave. “I do not know. May the Holy Bearer of Burdens grant it never comes to pass!”

  “The vision need not be an omen of things to come.” Domenic sought desperately for a happier explanation. “Perhaps Alanna has seen something from the past.”

  “I cannot tell,” Alanna said. “Oh, Domenic, what am I to do? How can I bear it? Don’t tell me to go back to a Tower! I want to lead my own life and not be shut up away from all the fun.”

  “I have thought much on this matter since we first discussed it,” Danilo said to her, “and I agree. Clearly, you need additional training in mastering your laran. At the same time, it would do you no good to go to a Tower against your wishes. Not everyone is suited to that life. Regis did not study at a Tower, either. He felt called to live in the world,
although for very different reasons. Once he made his peace with why he had suppressed his Gift, there was no need.”

  “Great-Uncle Regis—suppressed his Gift? How was that possible?” Domenic asked, stunned.

  Danilo gave him an enigmatic look. “Many things can block the use of laran or warp its expression—trauma, conditioning, religious beliefs, even love. Sometimes, too, love is the key to unlocking it.”

  Domenic caught the older man’s unspoken thought, Could the same be true for Alanna?

  “What else, then?” Alanna cried, growing more agitated with each passing moment. “Do I simply let the visions come as they will and do nothing?”

  Danilo raised one eyebrow. “That is one option.”

  Alanna looked deeply surprised, for clearly she had expected another argument about going to a Tower. Domenic opened his mouth to protest. Danilo’s comment made no sense.

  Danilo leaned toward Alanna without touching her. In a low, soothing voice, he said, “The only compelling reason to go to a Tower is to learn the inner discipline necessary to bear a Gift such as yours. It is a heavy burden indeed, as well as a talent so rare that no one else in present times has it. I do not think the leroni can teach you what to do with it, but they can instruct you in how to remain calm and focused. You can learn how to master your fears.”

  “You spent a season at Arilinn,” Domenic said encouragingly. “Surely something you learned then—the basic meditation and focusing techniques—can help you now.”

  Emotion drained from Alanna’s face. She seemed to freeze, except for the rapid rise and fall of her chest. When she spoke, an unearthly chill shivered through her voice. “I prefer not to think of those times. Ever. Again.”

  Domenic frowned. What could have happened to her at Arilinn? He hesitated, afraid to shatter her eerie detachment and provoke another outburst.