With no small feeling of regret, Domenic accompanied his brother and sister to the entrance to the Alton suite and closed the door. Rory returned to the Guards and the solace of Niall and useful work, and Donal escorted Yllana back to the Aldaran town house. Marguerida and Grandfather Lew were still talking in the family parlor. Alanna had wafted in, looking for Lew; she had taken the news of Mikhail’s condition with surprising calm and then departed again.
After the bright and familiar comfort of the parlor, the old main hall of the Alton quarters seemed shrouded in gloom. No fire brightened the ancient hearth, but a faint radiance came from the light-emitting panels scattered on the walls. The stones themselves had been shaped by laran so long ago that they had gone silent, as if dreaming.
For the moment, Domenic thought, no one would come looking for him. He had a few precious moments, surrounded by these sleeping stones, to gather his thoughts. Marguerida’s distress affected him more than he could put into words. Since he could remember, she had been the anchor of his world, resourceful and steady.
Domenic forced himself to consider what would happen if his father died. Rationally, he knew it was a possibility, although under the care of Istvana’s healing circle, Mikhail’s condition was stable. There was nothing he could do to help.
The Council was another matter. They would not meet again today, but the recess must be brief. Too many matters required action, and the old balance of power was disintegrating. With Marilla ill and Darius-Mikhail an inexperienced substitute for Aillard, with the addition of the Keepers Council and the indomitable Laurinda MacBard…the changes made Domenic’s head spin. At this critical time, the Council needed a leader to bring them all together. And now they had lost Mikhail.
Dani Hastur might officiate for a time, but he had maintained a steadfast refusal of power over the years. He could never be more than a custodian, holding things steady and making few if any changes. The Council needed someone who could inspire and direct, not just continue things as before.
I have no choice, Domenic thought, and then realized that he had been training for this time, in one way or another, since he was born.
The door swung open and Donal Alar entered. He had changed from court garb into his ordinary clothing, cut for easy movement along the lines of a Guards uniform but with the blue and silver fir tree badge of the Hasturs on one shoulder. Shadows darkened the skin around his eyes. He inclined his head in greeting.
“Your sister is safe at the house of Hermes Aldaran,” Donal hesitated, his competent, square hands loose at his sides. “Is there—might I be of service in any other way?”
“Please, sit down.” Domenic gestured to the chair nearest his own. Donal did so.
“This is a difficult business, so please bear with me,” Domenic said. “I don’t know how long it will be before my father can resume his Council duties—” He will recover, he must… “—but events cannot wait for him. I would like you to act as my paxman during this period. Temporarily, of course, with no permanent commitment. I would not expect you to—to—”
“Yes, of course. I have always served my lord’s family.” In the glow of the luminescent stones, Donal looked puzzled. “What do you wish me to do?”
“To begin with, advise me. I know what I want to do, but not how to go about it. I must call the Council into session—not today, of course, but soon. Tomorrow if possible.”
Donal shrugged. “That’s easy enough. I have arranged such meetings for Dom Mikhail many times. But why—you aren’t thinking of taking your father’s place as Regent?”
“This is a poor beginning if you have so little faith in me,” Domenic said.
“No! I didn’t mean—” Donal stammered, covering his lapse. “Everyone knows that you will follow him some day. You are his heir—I just did not anticipate it so soon.”
Nor in the middle of a crisis. “Neither did I.” Domenic nodded grimly. “I will, as my mother says, have my work cut out for me. I must seize the initiative. For that, I need your help.”
The dull sheen lifted from Donal’s eyes. He suggested that Domenic speak privately with as many influential members as possible before the Council met next.
“Thank you,” Domenic said, “that’s excellent. See how many of these private meetings you can set up. I should talk with Dani Hastur, my uncles Gabriel and Rafael, Hermes or Robert Aldaran—” Domenic ticked off the names on his fingers as Donal nodded agreement with each one—“the new Aillard heir, and Kennard-Dyan Ardais, if he’s willing. Cisco Ridenow, I suppose. My mother and grandfather and Danilo Syrtis, those I can see on my own.”
“Very good, vai dom.” Donal stood and bowed before taking his leave. They had no time to lose.
Oh gods! Standing outside the door to the family parlor, Domenic was seized by a moment of panic. How am I going to tell Mother?
He’d delayed telling her about his promise to Alanna and had only made the situation worse. He might have consulted her before making this decision…but he had not, and the sooner he brought her in on it, the better. Bracing his shoulders, he tapped on the door and, at her invitation, went in.
Marguerida was sitting next to Grandfather Lew on the divan, his one arm around her shoulders her face flushed. Clearly, she had been weeping.
“Nico.” She got up and enveloped him in a hug. Her cheek felt hot and damp against his. “I’m sorry. I have not given much thought to your feelings, I have been so preoccupied with my own. How can I help you?”
“I need to talk, and it’s good that you are here as well, Grandfather. It’s about business, not personal matters.” Domenic pulled up one of the chairs and took a deep breath. “With Father disabled, someone must take his place on the Council.”
“Yes, I suppose you are right,” Marguerida said, her face tightening. “I had thought to remain at Mikhail’s side, but I must not allow personal feelings to interfere with my responsibilities.”
“Marja, you cannot possibly assume the post of Regent,” Lew protested. “It’s politically impossible.”
“What would you have me do? Sit back while everything Mikhail and I worked so hard for falls apart?” Marguerida cried. Behind her words Domenic heard the desperate need to do something active, to wrest some measure of control from the whirlwind of changes around her.
“Someone must take up the reins of power,” Domenic repeated, “but it should be me. Not Rory, not Grandfather. Not Dani Hastur. Not you, Mother. Me.”
He paused for emphasis, his heart beating a wild dance in his ears. “I am the one Father trained for this work, just as Great-Uncle Regis trained him.”
“Nico, are you sure you can do this? We expected that some day you would take Mikhail’s place, but not for a long time yet.” Marguerida glanced at Lew, searching for agreement.
“History speaks of times when great leaders arose,” Lew said, “often before anyone thought they were ready…sometimes before they themselves felt they were. Domenic is neither arrogant nor prideful. If he is moved to step forward, might it not be because he, like others before him, feels…summoned?”
“Please, do not make me out to be some kind of hero chosen by the gods,” Domenic said, raking his hair back from his forehead. “I’m terrified enough as it is. I only know this is something I must do.”
Lew regarded him steadily, with a sense of undemanding acceptance, flaws as well as strengths. “That is exactly what I meant.”
“The Council may not see it that way,” Marguerida said. “We have friends, but also enemies, who will see you as an untried boy, unfit to shoulder so much responsibility during a crisis.”
“If they will not have me, let them say so and choose who they will!” Domenic said. “But after what has just happened, we cannot go even a single day without firm leadership.”
“Of course. I will support you in any way I can.” Marguerida gave a brief, brave attempt at a smile. “Forgive me, Nico, but it is always a shock for a mother to discover that her son is grown and longer needs her.”
Domenic’s heart ached for her. She needed a challenge to absorb her restless energy and keen mind. Sitting by Mikhail’s bedside or composing chamber music would never be enough.
“Mother, I still need you. I rely on your good counsel and yours, too, Grandfather. I cannot do this alone. Don’t desert me now!”
“I shall not,” she replied.
Lew added, “And neither will I.”
In all the sessions of the Comyn Council that Domenic had previously attended, he had never taken his father’s seat in the Hastur enclosure, nor did he now. The huge, carved chair must remain vacant until he was confirmed. Until then, he sat on a nearby bench, while Marguerida occupied her usual place. Grandfather Lew sat under the Alton banner, with Alanna by his side.
Today, the multicolored light in the Crystal Chamber seemed muted, as if the prisms set in the ceiling and the very walls were numb from shock after the recent tragedy. Istvana and Casilde Aldaran-Lanart, the Tramontana Keeper, moved about the Chamber, setting the telepathic dampers. The familiar hum of laran gave way to the even less comfortable numbness of the interference fields. Domenic’s temples throbbed. For the hundredth time, he wondered if he could go through with his plan.
The murmur of conversation died down as the Guardsman at the door announced, “Danilo Felix-Rafael Hastur, Warden of Elhalyn!”
Domenic rose with the others as Dani passed through the massive doors and walked at a stately pace to his place beneath the Elhalyn banner. Miralys was already seated there, along with Gareth and her sister, the leronis Valenta Elhalyn. Gareth looked somber and composed. Watching him, Domenic reflected that sooner or later the issue of an Elhalyn who was competent to occupy the throne—and hence bring the Regency to an end—would come up. Gareth had shown no sign of such ambition, not since that disgraceful incident four years ago. Domenic hoped that Gareth, under his father’s steady guidance, would not use Mikhail’s absence to try again.
“Kinsmen, Comynari,” Dani said, his voice ringing through the hush, “I bid you welcome in Council. As you know, this session has been convened at the request of Domenic Alton-Hastur, son and Heir of the Regent.”
Heads turned in Domenic’s direction, some hopeful for good news about Mikhail, others apprehensive, all of them expectant.
Taking a breath, Domenic stepped forward. “I am Domenic Gabriel-Lewis Alton-Hastur, the legitimate son of Mikhail Lanart-Hastur, Warden of Hastur and Regent of the Comyn. As my father is temporarily unable to perform his usual duties, I claim the right and responsibility of serving in his place until he has recovered.”
The assembly murmured in surprise, punctuated here and there by expressions of approval or dismay or simple surprise. Dani gave Domenic an encouraging nod and asked, “Does anyone challenge the rightful wardenship of Domenic Alton-Hastur?”
In a moment of self-doubt, Domenic almost wished someone would stand forth and insist that he was not old enough, not experienced enough, not ready for such a position.
He set the thought aside. He was ready. During the past year some part of him, some germ of strength, had roused and stretched forth. Whether it was a love of power or of justice, or the simple exercise of his heritage, he could no longer deny it existed. He imagined Grandmother Javanne, Great-Uncle Regis, and so many others who had gone before, looking down on him, waiting to see what he would do.
The thought came to him that his unique laran gave him a vision not just of the Domains, the cities and castles and Towers, but of Darkover itself. The very bedrock of the mountains sang to him, the melody of the rivers danced through his dreams, and the slow molten planetary rhythms hummed below his breath. If there was a way to bring together the disparate elements of Comyn and commoner, Dry Towns lord and Hellers mountain folk, even the nonhuman trailmen and chieri, it would take a vision as big and deep as Darkover itself. Where he would find the words to turn that vision into reality, he did not know. He could only pray to whatever god was listening that the words would come.
The audience shifted, the rustle of rich fabrics blending with whispered comments. Rufus DiAsturien got to his feet, and the muttering fell away into a respectful hush, for his family traced their nobility back to the farthest reaches of Darkovan history.
“With all due deference to young Lord Domenic’s rank and character, I do object. I do not call his right into question, only his age. In ages past, when the world was simpler, a boy of his years could assume such a responsibility. But these are difficult, complex times. Any man who holds a Domain, let alone the Regency of the entire Comyn, must have solid understanding and judgment. In time, I hope Domenic will acquire the necessary experience, but he does not yet have it. He is too young and untried to hold such a post.”
“Regis Hastur was not much older when old Danvan died,” Lew answered in his hoarse voice. “Would you have accused him of being unready, as well?”
“We all know that Domenic is your grandson, Dom Lewis,” Rufus protested. “Your judgment is biased—”
“I knew Regis,” Lew cut him off. As you did not. “And I know Domenic.”
After an awkward pause, Dani asked who else among them supported the challenge.
Kennard-Dyan got to his feet, looking unhappy but resolved. “Ardais challenges also. Domenic indeed is the rightful Heir to Hastur, but he is too young to serve as Regent.”
“Yet the Comyn cannot continue without either King or Regent,” Gabriel spoke up. “We are not at the point of adopting some degenerate Terranan democracy.”
“Someday an Elhalyn may once again sit upon the throne,” Dani said in a steely voice, “but this is not that time. With both Dom Mikhail and Domna Marilla unable to speak for their Domains, this Council would be best served by the continuation of the Regency. We must give Mikhail’s Heir serious consideration.”
Marguerida had been sitting so still, Domenic had not even heard her breathing. Now she stood up. “I am Marguerida Alton-Hastur. You all know me. I have advised my husband for many years. I now offer myself in the same capacity to my son, as guide and councillor. Will this satisfy your objections?”
An older lord, one of the traditionally conservative MacArans, answered. His voice rumbled like that of some huge, awakened beast. “That would be equally unacceptable, to grant a woman such power. Domna Marguerida is clearly still a stranger among us, or she would know this.”
Scattered about the chamber, heads shook and voices murmured in agreement. Marguerida showed no outward reaction, but Domenic felt her quiver in outrage. In all her years on Darkover, she had steadfastly refused to accept a lesser role because of her sex.
“We of the Comyn have never submitted to the rule of a woman,” Rufus insisted, “weak-willed and unreliable as they are. And we never will!”
“Weak-willed? Unreliable?” In the Keepers’ area of the Aillard box, crimson draperies swirled as Laurinda stepped to the railing. “How dare you say such a thing!”
Rufus paled, but Robert Aldaran broke in with, “The Council, not the Towers, rules the Domains!”
“Quiet! All of you!” Dani’s voice soared above the uproar. “Domna Marguerida is not proposing to act as Regent herself but only to offer her son the benefit of her experience.”
With each passing exchange, Domenic felt increasingly uneasy. The last thing Darkover needed was a Council torn apart, paralyzed with internal dissension. He raised his hands and shouted, “Kinsmen, nobles, Comynari!”
“Silence, let him speak!” Lew shouted.
“Since before the dawn of time,” Domenic said, once the commotion died down, “this Council has operated by virtue of our allegiance to a common cause. Even when blood feuds ran rampant among us, within these halls we met in truce to decide what was best for all.”
He paused, then repeated, “All of us. Not one Domain over another, not Tower against city, Lowlander against mountain folk. I am not ignorant of history. I know that many times since the founding of the Seven Domains, one or another has sought to use the Council for advantage. I would like to believe—I hope—that whenever our common welfare is at stake, we are able to set aside such narrow-minded concerns.”
Around the Chamber, heads nodded. In their somber expressions, Domenic sensed the echoes of shock. The taint of blood and poison from the duel still lingered in the air.
“If we turn on one another now,” Domenic said, “what hope is there for any of us?”
As he spoke, Domenic rested his fingertips on the railing, the wood worn smooth by generations of kinsmen. Knowing he was taking an irrevocable step, he opened the gate and walked into the center of the floor. He was acutely aware that he now stood in the same place where his father had fought and almost died.
No, he would not think of that now. The need for unity was only part of what drove him. Something else was brewing inside him, in the dark at the back of his mind, in the wordless music of his laran, pushing its way into day.
“My friends, Comyn and kinsmen, we cannot return to the old days, nor should we wish to. Each age leaves its mark. Each generation receives the world in one condition, changes it for good or ill, and passes it on. Our fathers strove to keep Darkover from being absorbed and exploited by the Terranan. Now that the Federation is gone, we need a new purpose, a new vision of our world…this vast, harsh, beautiful, wild planet of ours.”
He spoke of the wonders of the world, those he had seen, those he had only heard about, but, most of all, those he had felt in the innermost part of his mind.
With each phrase, the vision became clearer and stronger. Domenic opened his arms. For the moment, he had captured his audience. Words rose to his mouth, and he let them go, like the Kadarin in flood, like a Dry Town sandstorm, like a Hellers avalanche.
In his mind, the Council, the city, the Domains themselves, diminished, ephemeral and infinitesimally small.
We are men, after all, not mountains.
The old proverb rose to his mind, Only men laugh, only men weep, only men dance.
In that moment, it seemed that the assembled Council—and the hills beyond Thendara’s walls, and the soaring mountains beyond them, from the swelling ocean beyond Temora to the Wall Around the World—laughed. And wept. And danced.
The moment stretched into silence. Then someone coughed. Dani Hastur shifted from one foot to the other. Marguerida stood, her face rapt, her golden eyes alight.
Domenic returned to himself. “This is my vision. If you will not have it, if I myself present a source of discord and rift in this Council, then I will withdraw my claim.”
It was the last thing they expected. The entire chamber shuddered with a shared, quickly indrawn breath.
“Lad,” Dani said, “that will not be necessary. Not a man in a thousand would have spoken as you did.” The pale, fractured light of the ceiling prisms glinted off his eyes. “Does anyone still question the fitness of Domenic Alton-Hastur to become Acting Warden of Hastur and Regent of the Comyn?”
For a long moment, no one spoke. No one moved.
“If I—” Marguerida began, her voice hovering on the edge of emotion, “if I myself am an obstacle, I withdraw my proposal, as well.”
“If I may be so bold to present an alternative suggestion.” The calm, quiet voice of Danilo Syrtis filled the Chamber. “It would be as badly done to reject Domna Marguerida’s experience and wisdom as for a fighting man to cut off his own left arm. How often in battle does the shield and not the sword save a man’s life? I say, let the vai domna continue to counsel Dom Domenic, but let him select other advisors as well, subject to the approval of this Council.”
“Aye, that will serve,” said the elderly Leynier lord, “so long as they are steady men and true.”
When it was clear there were no remaining objections, Dani asked Domenic whom he would choose.
“I would indeed consult my mother,” Domenic answered, “for she has studied much, seen even more, and traveled in the company of great men. One of those great men is my grandfather, Dom Lewis-Kennard Alton. I would also seek the wisdom of the leroni of the Towers, a representative of their own choosing, for it is in their matrix sciences that we Comyn have found our deepest strength. And for his understanding of the affairs of Thendara and its people, I would ask Dom Danilo-Felix Syrtis-Ardais.”
Deliberately, he used Danilo’s full name, with the additional Domain-right granted to him so many years ago by the old Lord Dyan Ardais. In this way, he reminded the Council of Danilo’s long years of service, not only as paxman to Regis Hastur but also as Warden of Ardais, with all the responsibilities that entailed. No one could possibly challenge him on the basis of inexperience or lack of knowledge of the affairs of the Comyn. No one dared to suggest that Domenic had selected Danilo not on the basis of his merit but as a reward for his support.
After a long moment, Dani said, “These are sound choices, Dom Domenic. I speak for the Council when I say none here can have any objection.”
Dani formally asked each of the candidates present whether he or she was willing to perform the duties of advisor to the provisional Regent. Then, with an almost tangible sense of relief, the telepathic dampers were released and the session adjourned.
Domenic watched the crowd disperse, filing out through either the main doors or the private entrances for each Domain section, and wondered what he had gotten himself into.