“I would rather die than go back to Arilinn!” Alanna shuddered and her eyes focused once again. “Therefore, I must do my best to—as you put it—master my fears. To not be so frightened.”
Domenic found himself strangely moved by her words. He turned Danilo. “Is that safe?”
“I cannot say. I am no Keeper or anything like it,” Danilo said. “Although it may be a terrible mistake, I do not know what else to suggest. People like Alanna should not have to choose between the cloistered life of a Tower and forsaking their Gifts. Who knows how many are out there, the descendants of Comyn liaisons over the centuries?”
Domenic remembered Illona Rider, the Traveler girl he had met during the adventures leading up to the Battle of Old North Road. Only a trick of fate had brought them together so that her Gift was discovered and nurtured. Only later was it learned that she was the nedestra daughter of Kennard-Dyan Ardais, although he had not yet legitimated her or any of his other illegitimate offspring. She and Domenic had studied together at Neskaya Tower, where he had remained, while she transferred after a season to Nevarsin. In his mind, Domenic saw her sweet features, the corona of flaming hair, generous mouth and pale, almost luminous eyes, heard her ready laughter. For all he knew, she might be under-Keeper by now.
What if he had never met Illona? What if she had spent her whole life in fear of her talent, with Darkover all the poorer? The Comyn were spread too thin, and they needed people like Illona now more than ever.
“How will we find them?” he asked Danilo. “What kind of training can we offer them? And what work will they do? What place will they find in society?”
“I don’t know the answers to any of these questions,” Danilo said, his dark eyes thoughtful. “But I think it is time we began the search.”
9
On the night of the Midsummer Festival Ball, Domenic had rarely seen the Grand Hall of Comyn Castle so resplendent. Greenery bedecked with flowers and ribbons in a rainbow of colors hung everywhere. The floors and crystal chandeliers had been polished to mirror brightness, inundating the space with reflected light. Additional mirrors, many of them Terran imports, had been placed around the periphery at Marguerida’s direction to heighten the effect of brilliance and rich color.
In the center of the long interior wall a small orchestra of viols, harps, wooden flutes, and several newer instruments played a lilting melody. Domenic recognized it as one of his mother’s compositions. Chamber music, she called it. Later in the evening, between dances, a quartet of vocalists would perform songs from the opera she had completed last year.
Although the ball was traditionally a gathering of all the Comyn, Marguerida acted as resident hostess, supervising the decorations, arranging the music, checking guest lists, and ordering refreshments. Now she and Mikhail waited at the main entrance to extend their welcome to all the guests. Domenic took his place beside his parents.
Marguerida wore a glorious gown of elaborately layered, iridescent blue spidersilk trimmed with Temoran lace. At her side, Mikhail shone in an evening suit of brocade in the same luminous shades, his doublet stitched with silver thread, sleeves slashed to reveal a shirt of linex so fine and white that it shimmered. The court-length cape draped elegantly over one shoulder was trimmed in snow-leopard fur and lined with the same spidersilk as Marguerida’s gown.
What a sight we are! Domenic thought, reflecting ruefully that neither of his parents seemed in the least uncomfortable with their finery. From their smiles and posture, they enjoyed every moment of the richly textured pageantry of the Festival. Their pleasure lay not only in their personal ornamentation but in the sense of shared celebration. They made themselves beautiful to honor their friends and kinfolk.
Domenic pulled his shoulders back and tried to breathe. He could not think of his attire as anything but a costume, for he had never before worn anything so complicated and shiny. He had no idea of the cost of the velvet-soft suede trimmed with outrageously expensive Ardcarran rubies. Instead of a serviceable blade, he carried a jewel-hilted dress sword.
The room filled quickly with Comyn and Comynara in holiday finery. Many of the women displayed their traditional gifts of flowers, either as small bouquets or incorporated artistically into their headdresses. Domenic had left a basket of fruit outside Alanna’s door, honey-sweet mountain peaches that reminded him of her skin. His offerings to his mother and sister had been more modest, little ribbon-tied nosegays of starflowers.
Katherine and Hermes Aldaran had already arrived, as had Grandfather Lew. Marguerida embraced her friend and the two women chatted in animated fashion for several minutes. Domenic looked around for Alanna, but she had not yet arrived.
“A fine young man you’ve got here, vai domna,” Dom Marcos MacAnndra said, after Marguerida performed the introduction. He held fertile lands toward the Temora seacoast, and, as far as Domenic knew, he had never before attended a session of the Comyn Council. “You’ll make us all proud, lad, of that I’ve no doubt.”
Domenic stiffened as Dom Francisco approached with his daughter on his arm. The Ridenow lord stood out in the gaily colored assembly by his somber clothing. His sword looked functional rather than ornamental. In the green and gold of her Domain colors, Sibelle resembled a sunlit garden.
After the usual courtesies were exchanged, Mikhail said, “It is good to have you among us once more. Tonight, let us celebrate the joy of the season together.”
“Few things would give me greater pleasure.” Francisco paused, giving Marguerida a strange, unreadable look. “We were friends once.”
“And may yet be again,” she said, her voice carefully neutral.
“Lord Domenic, I do not believe you have been properly introduced to my daughter, Sibelle Francesca,” Francisco said.
“Para servite,” Domenic replied politely. “Vai dom, vai damisela.”
Sibelle Ridenow curtsied and glanced at Domenic from under her lashes. She was, he admitted, extremely pretty, with strings of pearl and jade twined through her hair.
“Let the service be a blessing to the giver.” Sibelle’s voice was a sweet, clear soprano.
What have they told her? That if she snares me, she will rule Darkover as if she were a queen?
Quickly, Domenic stifled the thought. Sibelle Ridenow was a lovely, gently reared girl who had never given him offense. Indeed, on such a moment’s acquaintance, he could not find any fault with her. He smiled, bowed again, and asked if she would honor him with a dance.
“Oh! Oh, yes, I would like that very much.”
Obviously, no one had told Sibelle not to appear delighted. Her father, smiling, led her away as yet more Comyn came forward to greet Mikhail.
Domenic came instantly alert when Alanna entered, escorted by her brother, Donal. In her cream-colored satin crossed by a tartan in her family’s colors, she looked poised and elegant. She caught Domenic’s eye halfway across the room, but both of them were surrounded by clusters of people, and it would have been impossible to make his way to her. The air shimmered in Domenic’s sight, or perhaps that was the heat rising in him. He ached with wanting to be with her.
Dani Hastur arrived somewhat later, accompanying his wife. Gareth was with them as well.
By this time, Domenic was no longer anchored to the reception line with his parents. Mikhail had taken Grandfather Lew aside, talking over cups of wine punch. Marguerida went off with her sister-in-law, Gisela, and Katherine, Hermes Aldaran’s off-world wife, the three of them in animated conversation. Domenic spotted Rory in a corner, standing very close to another young Guard. They were so absorbed in one another that neither noticed Domenic’s approach.
“Good Festival night,” Domenic said. The two started, moving apart. “I’m sorry if I’m interrupting…will you not introduce me to your friend?” He inflected the word so that it could mean something more intimate.
Rory met Domenic’s gaze, and a flicker of understanding passed between them. “Nico, this is Niall MacMoran. We’ve known each other
since our first days as cadets.”
Niall had a swordsman’s muscled shoulders, narrow hips, and russet-brown eyes, hooded like a falcon’s.
Domenic inclined his head. “I’m Rory’s less disreputable brother.”
“Vai dom.” Niall’s eyes glinted as he bowed in return.
“This one thinks far more than he speaks,” Domenic said to Rory, gently teasing. “Is he the reason you’ve reformed your wild ways?”
Rory slipped one arm around Niall’s shoulders. “That depends on how you define wild.”
“And ways,” Niall added.
Domenic laughed outright. “Have you told Mother?”
“No, have you?” Rory said in riposte.
Domenic winced, then, seeing his brother’s good-natured grin, shrugged in surrender. “I think she would be far more understanding in your case.”
“That may be true,” Rory said, shifting from playful to serious, “but we all need some part of our lives that is ours alone. There is a time to speak plainly and a time to keep silent. I am only the second son, not the Heir to Hastur and the Regency. Who I choose for my heart and bed affects no one but myself. The Domains will not fall into ruin if I decline to take a wife and produce numerous loud and smelly offspring. You, on the other hand…” Letting his arm drop, he touched the back of Domenic’s wrist. “You have no such freedom. I am sorry to say it, brother, but the world goes as it wills—”
“—and not as you or I would have it.” Domenic completed the old proverb.
Leaving Rory and Niall, Domenic worked his way to where Gareth stood beside his mother, Miralys Elhalyn. The months since his return to Thendara had given him ample practice in the gestures and phrases of courtesy. As he circled the room, he acknowledged a number of minor lords and ladies, several clearly anxious to present their daughters to him. He avoided being drawn into conversation with any of them.
Four years had left Gareth tall and a little gangly, as if he were not yet accustomed to the new length of his legs. As far as Domenic knew, he had never served in the Guards cadets, and now, at eighteen, he was too old to begin. He bowed with impeccable politeness to Francisco Ridenow, who nodded in return before rendering Lady Miralys the full courtesy due her rank. The rudeness stopped short of outright insult; the Ridenow lord had just dismissed Gareth as if he were a child.
Gareth might have behaved badly four years ago, but he is an adult now, and the Heir to his Domain, Domenic thought with an intensity that surprised him.
“Domna Miralys, Dom Gareth, how good it is to see you both again.” Domenic put more than the required warmth into his words. He bowed, giving them each the courtesy of their greater rank.
Miralys returned his greeting with a graceful inclination of her head. “I have not had a chance to speak more than a word or two with your parents. How do they fare?”
“Very well, thank you.” Domenic turned to Gareth. “It’s good to see you again. Shall we try the sword dance tonight, as we used to do?”
Gareth’s stiff expression melted into a genuine smile. “You’ll still outshine me, I’m certain.”
Danilo Syrtis emerged from the crowd, with Alanna resting her fingers lightly on his arm. Domenic struggled to keep from staring at her, a gross rudeness. He wanted to sweep her into his arms, devour her with kisses. Her very presence seared him. Every nerve quivered as if on fire when she tossed her head, sending her carefully arranged ringlets swinging.
As Danilo greeted the Elhalyns, his namesake joined them.
“Uncle!” Dani Hastur cried, receiving a kinsman’s embrace. “I hoped you would come tonight.”
“I never cared for formal occasions,” Danilo said, “but it is good to see old friends again and for the young people to enjoy themselves.”
The orchestra finished the last of Marguerida’s compositions and played the introduction to one of the simpler reels. Couples formed lines down the center of the room, and the rest moved to the sides of the chamber.
“What a fine ball this is! And what splendid music!” Alanna glanced up at Gareth, pointedly expecting to be asked to dance. Looking delighted, he complied and led her out on to the floor.
Domenic watched them with a mixture of frustration and relief. Clearly, Alanna had seen him talking to Sibelle Ridenow and had decided to retaliate. For the space of a tune or two, Alanna would be happily occupied trying to make him jealous.
Domenic spotted his Aunt Liriel, graceful and imposing in a fall of emerald and silver crushed velvet. She caught his eye with a Tower worker’s boldness and winked at him. He had always liked her and would have enjoyed a dance or two, as was perfectly appropriate with a kinswoman. Although large-boned and amply round, she was a graceful dancer, light on her feet, with an impeccable sense of rhythm. This evening, the pleasure would have to wait.
Remembering his promise, Domenic sought out Francisco’s daughter. He could not ask a woman to whom he had not been introduced, but he had no doubt that within a short time, the attending fathers and brothers of all the eligible young ladies would remedy that.
Sibelle accepted his invitation with a shy smile. There was not much opportunity to talk, with the couples circling one another and exchanging places with their neighbors through the figures of the dance. As he escorted her back to her father, he found her just as pleasant as his first impression, well mannered, pliant, adoring. There was, in fact, no good reason why he should not agree to marry her…except his promise to Alanna. And the fact that he did not love her. He had no idea if, given time, he could. Alanna drew him like a lodestone, making it impossible for him to imagine himself taking any other woman to bed.
The evening went on, one dance after another, one lovely young partner after another. They were all from good families, with strong political connections, all educated but not overly intellectual. He felt his mother watching him from time to time and, in the background, Danilo moving about the room. Danilo did not dance, but he seemed to be involved in many conversations, especially with the Tower folk present.
As the older people finished their dancing, the music grew livelier. Simple reels and stately promenadas gave way to less restrained dances, a secain, a Terran waltz, and another dance, purported to be from Vainwal, that involved a great deal of swaying in close proximity to one’s partner without any actual physical contact. Domenic’s partner, a buxom, dark-haired girl introduced to him as Dom Lorrill Vallonde’s niece, pretended to stumble so that he had no choice but to catch her in his arms. For an instant, she clung to him, pressing her body against his. He felt the roundness of her breasts, smelled her musky perfume and the hint of wine on her breath. Fluttering her eyelashes, she murmured that the dance had made her dizzy.
“Then you had best sit down, damisela.” Controlling his irritation, Domenic led her to a seat. “I would not risk you injuring yourself in a fall.”
It was only going to get worse, he thought once he had performed the proper courtesies and disentangled himself, until a betrothal was announced, if not to Sibelle, then to some other young beauty. The matchmakers would not give up until, out of exhaustion or from some inadvertent indiscretion, he was trapped.
Even when the catenas was locked upon his wrist forever, he was not sure that some of these young ladies and their families might not keep trying. Not so long ago, many young women considered it an honor to bear a Comyn lord a son or daughter, even out of wedlock. He could probably father a dozen nedestro children upon eager barraganas to everyone’s approval.
But I have no desire to lie with a woman I do not love.
“Why so glum? Are you not enjoying the dance?” In a swirl of creamy satin, Alanna skipped up to him. She’d clearly finished the entire dance, as well as several before it. The exercise brought a high, wild color to her cheeks. Tendrils of damp, coppery hair framed her face. “Or are you saving yourself for the famous sword dance? Will you astonish us all with your performance?”
Heat flared across Domenic’s face. “Perhaps if I were halfway to bei
ng drunk, like some others, I might take more pleasure in the evening.”
Alanna tossed her head. “Suit yourself, then, but do not expect anyone else to behave like a cristoforo tonight. Sweet Cassilda, it’s hot! I’m nearly suffocated! Come on, let’s get some fresh air before we turn grouchy and quarrel.” Before he could object to the public indiscretion, she slipped her fingers through his and led him to the opened doors that looked out on the Castle courtyard.
On the veranda, couples strolled arm in arm, and he had no doubt that between the shadowed columns others were engaging in even greater intimacies. His mother would be outraged at his being seen in such surroundings with his cousin, and the thought gave him a pleasantly mutinous thrill.
The night air was cool and sweet. Inhaling, Domenic smelled rosalys and some spicy herb from the gardens. Three of the four moons hung like jewels in the velvet sweep of sky. Keeping hold of his hand, Alanna drew him across the courtyard. As soon as they reached the far side, he realized where she was headed—the tower where they had often played as children.
Domenic fully expected that once there, Alanna would make a scene about all the ladies he’d danced with. She might cry or scream at him, but her temper, although quickly roused, was as soon spent. It was not in her nature to hold a grudge. The stormy moment would pass, even as the evening did. In the privacy of the tower, they would be alone on Midsummer Festival night…His pulse leaped in his chest, and heat jolted through his groin.
Domenic took a lantern from the entrance alcove, kindled the flame, and held it aloft. Neither spoke as they climbed the old, familiar stone stairway. Breathing hard, Alanna lifted the latch of the door, strode across the room, and flung the shutters open. Below, the city blazed with light. Music and muted laughter floated on the night air. Festivities were well under way, dancing and merrymaking in the major streets and marketplaces.
Alanna braced herself on the window ledge and leaned out. Domenic stood behind her, waiting for her accusations. Instead, she seemed to grow still, inwardly focused. She pivoted toward him, her eyes glowing as if lit from within.
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