While Alanna and the other victims of trailmen’s fever recovered, Marguerida regained her strength after her own ordeal. Seeing Mikhail alive and growing daily more fit, holding him each night in her arms, feeling his breath sweet against her skin and gazing into the blue depths of his eyes, these restored her spirit far better than any medicine. The tender care from Yllana and Rory’s frequent visits, often with that nice Guardsman friend of his, warmed her heart.
On a bright morning, Marguerida and Mikhail sat in the family parlor, lingering over a last cup of Jeram’s aromatic coffee. A fire crackled in the hearth, scented with her favorite balsam. Someone—Marguerida suspected it was Yllana from the haphazard arrangements—had strewn vases of orange and pink flowers throughout the parlor. Marguerida ignored the clashing colors, resting her gaze instead on each dear, familiar object. Each chair, each table and ornament, each carpet that cushioned her tread, even the warm-textured wood paneling and leaded glass windows, hummed contentment and belonging.
Home, she was home.
Her moment of tranquility came to an abrupt halt as Domenic and Rory entered and confronted her with the most unexpected announcements. Each of them, it seemed, had formed a romantic attachment.
She faced her sons, and she did not know whom she was more exasperated with—the two of them, for having kept secrets from her for so long, or herself, for having missed all the clues. From his favorite chair beside the fire, Mikhail grinned at her. Her aggravation melted into joy.
One look at the relief in Rory’s eyes was enough to dispel any lingering doubts. Marguerida stood up and held out her arms. Rory returned her hug enthusiastically. Holding him at arm’s length, she said, “Oh, my poor, dear boy, how difficult it must have been for you!”
Rory’s shoulders tightened in a shrug.
“I suppose everyone but me guessed,” she went on, blushing at how many times she had asked about his interest in girls.
“Certainly everyone in my Guards unit knew,” Rory said. “Don’t worry, I’ve done nothing to blacken the family name. I keep my professional and love lives quite separate, but I don’t lie about who I am.”
“No,” Marguerida said softly, “I’d never want you to do that.” She wondered where her wild, heedless boy had learned such discretion.
She sat down again, her thoughts whirling. It seemed that her dreams of seeing Rory happily settled with a wife were going to turn out very differently from what she’d imagined. She reminded herself that here on Darkover, men formed lifelong commitments, as respectable and honorable as any conventional marriage. Regis Hastur and Danilo Syrtis had stayed together, bredin and devoted friends, lord and paxman, from the time they were Rory’s age. Regis had even married and fathered children.
“Well,” she said, gathering her wits, “what’s his name, and when do I get to meet him? Is he also in the Guards?”
Rory hesitated for a moment, looking as nervous and euphoric as any young man in the throes of his first serious love affair. “You’ve already met Niall. His people come from the Venza Hill country and are related to the Castamirs. I’ll invite him to dinner when things settle down after the last Council meeting, if that’s all right, so you can get to know him better.”
“I’m sure we will all love him as you do.” She turned to Domenic, struck by his mixture of sadness and resolve. “And you, Nico?”
Alanna was the last person Marguerida would have chosen for her firstborn. Perhaps that was why, for all her fears, she had failed to see what had grown between them. There had never been any doubt of Domenic’s fondness for his foster-sister, but Marguerida had assumed it was no more than a childhood friendship. Alanna was beautiful and talented, and since her recovery from the fever, she had been a model of decorum. But could Alanna truly understand Domenic, with all his complexity? Could she stand by his side, whatever happened?
When Marguerida had seen Domenic with Illona, she could have sworn to the depth and passion of their connection. In fact, they reminded her of herself and Mikhail when they were first in love. Perhaps she had been mistaken in this as she had been in other things. Or perhaps…her heart ached to think of Domenic marrying out of a sense of obligation.
Are you sure? she asked, speaking mind to mind.
Domenic glanced away. “Alanna and I have been sworn to one another for a long time. I am sorry I did not tell you earlier. We feared your disapproval. I know that your relationship with Alanna has not always been an easy one. Still, it was wrong to keep it from you, and from you, too, Father.”
Mikhail nodded. “That is behind us now. Both you and Alanna are grown. If she is your choice, then we wish you happiness together.”
“I am sorry that I made it difficult for you to confide in me,” Marguerida said. “I will try to be a good mother-in-law, or as close an approximation as I can manage.”
Domenic kissed her on the cheek, murmuring his thanks. As he and Rory took their leave, Marguerida thought about the difference between them. Rory was all high spirits and jubilation, but then, he had always been more open in his emotions. Domenic did not look like a man contemplating a joyous, much desired union. He looked like…she did not know what. Yet she sensed no uncertainty in him, no reservations. He was completely committed to this course of action.
Marguerida went to stand beside Mikhail and, sighing, laid her arm across his shoulder. He touched her hand, intensifying the light rapport that always linked their minds.
Nico will be well, beloved, Mikhail sent his thought to her.
And happy? she answered. Will he be happy?
He has never had an easy time of it, and yet he has found his own way in his own time. A year or two ago he could not have stepped into my place or led the city through a crisis. He has become a leader of men. We must trust that in this marriage, as well, he knows what he is doing.
Marguerida bent over and kissed her husband, trying to convince herself to be satisfied with his faith in their oldest child. “Well, that’s settled. Now I must be off. There is an interview I cannot put off any longer.”
“You will be careful, won’t you, to not overexert yourself?”
She paused by the door. “Only if you do, Mikhail Lanart-Hastur, but you know perfectly well that neither of us is going to take that advice!”
Marguerida had only a few minutes to settle herself in her office when a servant announced Jeram’s arrival. She remained at her desk as he came in, then realized she was hiding behind it and forced herself to sit on the divan. They each took some jaco from the pitcher on the sideboard. She did not really want any, not after the coffee earlier, but pouring and stirring in honey to her taste gave her something to do with her hands. The small gestures eased the tension of opening the conversation.
“Thank you for coming to see me,” she said.
“It’s a welcome diversion,” he replied with an engaging half-grin. “I’ve been packing serum to send to key distribution points throughout the Domains and training Renunciate volunteers to administer it. It’s tedious but necessary work. I’m glad to see you recovering.”
“I didn’t ask you here to talk about my health but about quite another matter. About the Battle of Old North Road and what happened afterward.” She paused, waiting for his response. “That is, if you’re willing to discuss it.”
“That issue has not been resolved, has it?” he said. “The Council means to take it up again before they all go their separate ways.”
“I don’t mean the charges Francisco brought. He is—was—a hateful, mean-spirited, vindictive man who didn’t care two pins about laran ethics. He just wanted to hurt Mikhail through me. No, I mean what happened between you and me. I mean that I used the Alton Gift on you. I imposed my will upon yours.”
Jeram met her gaze. His eyes were steady, a deep clear russet. She saw none of the hostility she expected, no bitterness or resentment. “I’ve talked with your father about this issue on more than one occasion. You don’t need to apologize or justify what you did. I’d be the last person to let the Federation get their hands on a weapon like your laran.”
Marguerida rubbed her sweating palms on her skirt. How odd it was, she thought, that her hands were wet and her mouth was dry. She cleared her throat.
“Sometimes things are not so simple,” she said. “I may have forced you and the others to forget the battle for a good reason, but I still may have…”…harmed you.
Her voice faltered. This was harder than she’d thought. She could still pull back, say it was a mistake, drop the matter, gracefully send him on his way. Had Jeram not said she did not need to apologize?
Her father had tried to warn her. “I of all people, who knew what it was like to have my mind and will taken over by another, should have known better.”
At the time, she had seen only a tortured man inflicting unnecessary guilt upon himself. She had seen only the political consequences of their actions, not the effect of using the Alton Gift upon herself and her father personally.
Lew had made his amends, but she could not seek the solace of Nevarsin Monastery. She belonged in the world, not a cloister or a Tower. So she must find her peace in some other way.
She plunged on. “When I was in the Overworld, I met a ghost, no, an entity from my past. When I was little, she overshadowed my mind. I didn’t even remember for a long time, but nonetheless, she…influenced me. So you see, I know what it means to have someone else controlling my thoughts and memories.”
Something broke open inside her. “I am so sorry! I wish there had been some other way!”
Jeram looked directly at her again, his expression calm and sympathetic. “You have not injured me. If anything, you helped me by activating my latent laran. When it kicked in, I got pretty sick, but that part isn’t your fault. As a result, however, I had to face things in myself—what I had done. That would not have happened without you.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
He leaned forward and took her hands in his. Living among telepaths, she had become unaccustomed to casual touch. But this was not casual.
“You made your choice in order to preserve life,” he said, his voice low and intense. “I made mine to destroy it. By the grace of whatever gods exist, I was given a chance to use that training to do good instead. Thank you.”
Unable to bear the intensity of the contact any longer, Marguerida drew her hands away. In her heart, she felt Jeram’s forgiveness and also his own yearning to be forgiven.
Marguerida did not know what she could say to ease his burden. Surely, what he had done to save Darkover from trailmen’s fever must atone for his past. But she was not Jeram any more than she was her father. Each of them must find his or her own resolution. With as much warmth as she could summon, she wished him well.
After Jeram left, she stood at the window, blankly looking out. After the Battle of Old North Road, she had made a deliberate choice, weighing the alternatives. But that was not the only time she had used the Alton Gift. The first time happened not long after her arrival on Darkover, when she did not even know what laran was. Taken by surprise, she had sent a young boy to the Overworld. He could have died there.
When those bandits ambushed me on the trail, I used the Gift again. I could have killed them, as well.
Memories flashed by, the small uses of her Gift as well as the bigger ones. She remembered her father’s anguished cry, “Marja, no!” on the night of the riot at the Castle gates.
I’ve been lucky so far. I haven’t killed or maimed anyone with my Gift. How long can that luck hold? How can I trust myself not to make the wrong choice in a moment of desperation? Father was right. Laran is too powerful to be used lightly or on impulse.
Only yesterday, Istvana had spoken with Marguerida on the charges still pending against her. With an expression that would have been apologetic for anyone but a Keeper, Istvana explained that although the Comyn Council might overlook Francisco’s accusation of laran abuse, the Keepers could not. The Comyn were naturally grateful to Marguerida and Mikhail for saving their lives at the Battle of Old North Road. They also understood the necessity of making sure the Federation never found out how powerful laran was. But the Keepers, especially conservatives like Laurinda and Moira diAsturien, took another view. They felt responsible for enforcing the traditional limits on laran, and they were accustomed to wielding absolute authority.
So, Marguerida had responded, they might not admit any valid justification for erasing the memories of the Terran soldiers. And what about my father? Hasn’t he suffered enough?
Istvana, seeing Marguerida’s stricken reaction, had attempted to reassure her. “You are not without friends, we who know and love you. My fellow Keepers may be strong-willed and opinionated, but we all want the best for Darkover. Surely, once all sides of the question are presented, we will reach an acceptable resolution.”
An acceptable resolution…
The only place Marguerida knew where her Gift could be safely used by those standards was a Tower. She’d studied at Arilinn and then Neskaya in her youth and thought she was done with it. More than that, she was no longer a single woman who could afford the luxury of withdrawing from the world; she had a husband, children, responsibilities as chatelaine of Comyn Castle, even a musical career.
Sighing, she returned to her desk and picked up a stack of papers. Indulging in fruitless maundering would get her nowhere. Her natural optimism began to assert itself. In time, a solution would present itself. Until then, there was more than enough work to distract her.