Dawn swept across the Nevarsin peaks. In the light of the great Bloody Sun, the glacial ice glowed like pink-hued pearl. On the lower slopes, the chill of the night lifted, along with the evaporating dew.
Domenic had left the Tower before breakfast, while the workers who had operated the relays or labored in the circle during the night gathered for a meal and a little relaxation before sleeping through the day. Since his arrival, he had been tied up in one formal meeting after another, with the city fathers, the Father Master of the monastery, everyone but the one person he had come to see. Silvana had still not found the time to speak with him. She was not ill, simply absent. No explanation had been offered, and everyone had been apologetic but firm. Here they kept to the old ways; the Keeper’s will was law, not to be questioned. He had passed from expectation to disappointment and finally to exasperation, and if he did not remove himself, he ran a serious risk of a fit of ill-temper.
The idiosyncracies of the Keeper of Nevarsin Tower played only a small part in Domenic’s current mood. His sojourn was coming to an end; this was to be his last stop before returning to Thendara. He had no reason for delay, and his parents would expect him to arrive in time for the opening of the Council season. His mission had been largely successful. Istvana Ridenow had been delighted to see him and promised to attend the next Council meeting. The Keepers of Dalereuth and Corandolis had received his invitation with polite interest.
The village outside the Nevarsin city gates bustled with activity. Its narrow cobbled streets filled with local men and women, bundled against the morning chill, carrying baskets or work tools, travelers on tough mountain ponies, traders readying their stalls, and drovers with strings of laden chervines. Peddlers hawked their wares on every corner, adding to the clamor.
Domenic stopped at a food stall to buy a mug of hot cider and a pastry filled with spiced meat and onions. Half a dozen pedestrians paused to stare at him while he ate. As he finished his meal, his original plan, spending the morning with his grandfather, seemed less appealing. What he needed, he decided, was to get as far away from people as possible.
A trail at the far end of the village led Domenic to the rocky slopes. As he climbed, the exercise warmed his muscles. His face tingled in the brisk mountain air. The tension in his back and shoulders eased. He found himself humming beneath his breath.
At the back of his mind, he sensed a low rumbling, too slow and deep for ordinary human hearing. Through it wove a descant, wild and sweet, like sunlight sparkling on flowing water. Domenic gave himself over to the shifting harmony, slow as a glacier and quick as a mountain stream. As the moment of resonant joy faded, he wished there were words to capture it.
Domenic paused at the edge of a long sloping meadow. Wildflowers grew here in profusion. He had not realized there could be so many shapes and colors, sprays of brilliant red and purple, heavy-headed bells of waxy white, daisies shimmering with gold and orange, starflowers and sky-on-the-ground. As he crossed the field, he saw that many had already gone to seed. The blooming season was all too short at this altitude.
At the far end of the field, rocks jutted from the hillside in slantwise layers, their edges softened by seasons of wind and rain. He headed for them, thinking to rest in the sun.
Catching a hint of laran ahead, Domenic recognized Illona’s mental signature. He quickened his pace. The last days had given him little opportunity for private time with his friend.
Illona?
Domenic! Gladness danced through her mental call.
He saw her now, wrapped in a cloak of tawny chervine wool almost the same color as the rock. She pushed back the hood, revealing copper-bright hair, and waved to him. She had been sitting so still, he might not have noticed her otherwise.
Domenic reached the place where Illona stood. A high color glowed on her cheeks. On impulse, without thought, he held out his arms. For an instant, they were children again, thrown together under desperate circumstances. She was the uneducated Traveler girl, living by her wits and the talent she did not yet know she possessed, and he was the rebellious son of a Comyn lord, terrified and exhilarated by the Terran plot he had just discovered.
In a heartbeat, time shifted, and he held a vibrant young woman in his arms. Several curls had come free of her butterfly clasp. They brushed his neck like tendrils of silk, smelling of honey and wildflowers. Her arms held him with wiry strength, her body supple against his.
He released her. She was no peasant girl but a nedestra Comynara and under-Keeper, never to be assaulted by a man’s casual touch.
Jade-green eyes widened as she caught his momentary distress. “Come now, Nico,” she said, using his childhood nickname, “you offered me no insult. I have not become such a stuffy old pudding as to insist on formalities with my dearest friend.”
“We were friends once,” he stammered, “but that was a long time ago—”
“Oh, has it been? What, all of three years?” She gathered the folds of her cloak around her. “Enough banter! Let’s walk.”
Domenic followed, keeping pace with her easy, swinging stride. Clearly, the years of Tower study had not affected her vitality.
“You’re out early,” he said, trying to make conversation.
She smiled over her shoulder at him with a hint of her old mischievousness. “I like to be about when the sun’s shining. It was so dark through the winter, I thought we would all turn as pale as maggots.”
“That is natural, I suppose, when one is snowed in for much of the winter.”
“Indeed! The main gates were completely covered for tendays at a time, but we were prepared. When the Tower was built, the upper windows were designed for such times.”
From Illona’s mind, Domenic caught the picture of herself and one or two younger companions clambering down a drift of snow, strapping on snowshoes of laced rawhide, and making their way into the village. Their laughter rang in the frozen air. Under the visual image ran a sweet wild singing in the blood, of reveling in being outdoors…
Deep within Domenic, a renewed longing arose—to escape the walls of Thendara, the rooms filled with intrigue and responsibility, the faces peering at him, gauging what use he could be to them…
Domenic?
He poured out his yearnings into Illona’s steadfast care. How, from his earliest boyhood memories, he had hated the city, the demands of court and Council. The joy he had felt when they first met, when he had been able to travel wherever he wished. The crushing weight of guilt and duty, as with every passing day the Castle became a prison and his life narrowed, all the color and life seeping away. His regret at leaving Neskaya, the brief respite for those few seasons. The lifeline Danilo had offered, a time to climb mountains and walk the shores of lake and ocean, an escape too soon ended.
Oh, Domenic! Of course you feel that way! How could you not, being who you are? Illona’s response swept through him like balm over scoured wounds.
They had come to a halt, facing one another. Domenic had not intended to be so open with her; until that moment, he had not realized the depth of his longing, woven into the very fabric of his breath.
Illona stood before him, compassion shining in her eyes. She was not conventionally pretty, not like Alanna, but her entire being shimmered with something that stirred him far more deeply. She made no move to brush aside the torrent of his feelings, to lecture him or to shame him into duty. She simply listened, and in that silence, infinite possibilities opened before him.
Domenic had grown up surrounded by rank and privilege, adored by his parents; if he had been hungry or cold or alone, it had been by his own choice. Illona, watching him with those calm, knowing eyes, had led a far different life, one of struggle and uncertainty. Yet she had made a place for herself by her own talent and efforts. Someday she would be a Keeper, beholden to no lord. She had not taken this path out of duty or desperation, but had shaped her own life.
He wished with all his heart that he might have a place in it.
“Nico?” Illona’s voice, low with concern, broke into his thoughts. “Is something wrong?”
Lord of Light, what was I thinking? Am I not pledged to Alanna?
“I’m cold, that’s all,” he stammered.
“We’ve stood too long in one place for such a morning. Are you ready to go back? No?” Illona took his hand, her fingers warm and strong around his, and brought it under her cloak.
As they went on, wind tore at Domenic’s hair and stung his eyes. His heart beat faster with exertion but also with excitement. For a long while, neither of them said anything. Illona, too, was breathing hard, but she showed no sign of fatigue.
No, he thought, not her.
When they stopped to catch their breath, he felt awkward. The morning had turned as pure as a flawless crystal, and even a casual misstep might shatter it.
Domenic turned, looking down the way they had come. He had not realized how far they had climbed. Images flooded his mind, of riding back to Thendara with Illona at his side, laughing, talking, hours and days together…
He wanted her with him, more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.
“Tell me,” Illona said, “about this Keepers Council of yours. If Nevarsin participates, I will most probably be its delegate.”
“Why, isn’t Silvana coming? Where has she been, anyway?” he said, using his irritation to cover his feelings. “Why is she avoiding me?”
Illona shrugged. “She is a Keeper, answerable only to herself, certainly not to a Lowland Comyn lord. Whatever her reasons, they are her own.”
“You’re not curious? You don’t care?”
“I certainly wouldn’t disturb her solitude just because it makes you uncomfortable,” she replied with spirit. “Some of us have better things to do than pry into other people’s personal affairs.”
Domenic had forgotten how direct and plainspoken Illona could be. “I’m sorry, I was rude just then,” he said, trying to sound humorous. “I can’t help it, it’s my upbringing, to think I have a right to know everything about everybody.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Oh yes, I agree completely, it was very rude! What shall we set for your punishment? Bread and water for a tenday? Latrine duty? I know—reciting verses from ‘Honorio at the Bridge’.”
Domenic groaned, remembering how the novice mistress at Neskaya had made them memorize from the epic poem.
“‘A mighty oath swore he,’” Domenic chanted in a sing-song voice,
“‘An oath of blood he swore,
That the great house of Aldaran Would suffer wrong no more.’”
Illona giggled and chimed in, gesturing dramatically,
“‘And bade his messengers ride forth,
East—and west—and south—and north!’”
She threw her arms wide and spun around in a wild dance, missing the correct directions entirely. Domenic could not remember when he had laughed so hard or so freely. He wiped tears from his eyes. Illona too was flushed, radiant.
“I’d all but forgotten that idiotic poem,” Domenic said as they recovered sufficiently to continue walking. Around them, the sun had risen well overhead. A heady sweetness rose from the earth. Even the ice on the facing hillside had yielded to the warmth of the day.
“I don’t suppose they could have us memorize anything interesting,” Illona said. “The point was to teach us to concentrate, even on something tedious. Gods, it was ridiculous, wasn’t it?”
“With training like that, it’s no wonder we take everything so seriously.”
“There is a time for that, certainly,” she said. They walked on for a while in companionable silence, lightly in rapport.
“You asked about the Keepers Council,” Domenic said. “The idea came from Danilo Syrtis. He’s been like a mentor to me. He sees things…Darkover’s changing, Illona, even more than Great-Uncle Regis dying and the Federation leaving. Things have been set in motion, like fracture lines in a sheet of ice.”
“What things?” she asked.
“The old ways were dying even before the World Wreckers came, the Comyn too inbred and isolated, the people hungry for off-world ideas and goods. For a time, Great-Uncle Regis held the world in balance, old against new. Now that balance is gone, and we’re being ruled by an increasingly small number of hidebound aristocrats. People out there—” he jabbed a finger back toward the Lowlands—“look to the old ways, in vain.”
He faced her, knowing that she could read his face as well as his emotions. “We live off their tithes and their loyalty, but we have little to give them in return. Something new must come into being. Someone must answer them.”
Me.
“The Lowlands must have changed indeed, for you to say such things,” Illona said thoughtfully. “Here at Nevarsin, in city and Tower, life goes on much as it has in the past. Indeed, I would not be surprised if Varzil the Good, returning to us, noticed no difference.”
“At Dalereuth, you would see it,” Domenic said. “Or any of the small towns in the Kilghards now held by bandits. We passed a dozen caravans of refugees headed for Thendara or Corresanti, displaced by drought. They turn to the Comyn for aid, as their folk have done since the beginning of time. Only now, there is no answer for them. What can we do, penned up in Thendara, with no one to send?”
“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.
“Pray 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 cobblestoned 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 starstone 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 tartly, “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.”
“I am not surprised.” Sadly, the monk shook his head. “This fever has resisted all our remedies. Anything you can do for him will be appreciated.”
Illona rose slowly. “I will search our medical archives, and with your permission, either I or Fiona, who is our most skilled healer, will return later today to tend him.”
When the infirmarian hesitated, she said, “This cannot be easy for you, to be set apart so long from women and then to admit not one but two of us. However, as long as the patient remains stable, I can send Sammel or Domenic instead.”
Relief flickered behind the old monk’s eyes. “That would be better, at least for a time, vai leronis. As you have rightly surmised, we are set in our ways and accept change but slowly.”
With that, the Tower party took their leave.