Legends of Darkover

Chapter 2

-oOo-

The Legation stood like a cathedral in the Darkovan city of Thendara, its central spire reaching skywards.  Regis Hastur was finishing up his purchase in the bodeguita on the corner while he plotted his assault on the building.  The bodeguita had set out samples of Terranan candy, something they called molasses chips covered with chocolate, and after trying a piece he'd bought a bag for his paxman Danilo Syrtis.  Poor Danilo had been stuck at Ardais for the last six months, and Regis was impatient to see him when they met for the opening season of the Guards.  Autumn Festival was starting soon, so Regis planned to say it was just a coincidence if Danilo inquired the reasons for the candy.

Putting the candy away in his waist pouch, he set out.  Slipping away from Comyn Castle without having an escort foisted off on him had been difficult.  The Legation was going to be harder to enter.  Attitude, possibly, might be the answer.

He walked around to the main entrance.  Although Spaceforce was skilled at fending off natives who had slipped over into the Terran Zone, he could feel their consternation when they saw his face.  His appearance caused a flurry.  One of the men fumbled with his own identity card to unlock the security doors while Regis waited silently.  “Excuse me, Dom Regis, the door is open now.  I trust you–”

Regis dipped his head in curt acknowledgment and strode inside. 

“–have an appointment?” the man finished weakly.  Regis was already at the lift doors, giving the command for the Legate’s office floor.  He suppressed a grin.  He had no appointment, of course.  His grandsire would have been impressed by the show of cool arrogance, though Regis himself was a little ashamed of it.  When he reached Daniel Lawton's office, he strolled in and found the Legate in the middle of listening to a warning call from Spaceforce downstairs over the office intercom, a warning concerning Regis himself.  Lawton hastily closed the connection when he saw his visitor. 

“Dom Regis, how may I be of service?”  The Regent's grandson—and more importantly, heir—didn't often walk in without warning. 

“First, I wish to congratulate you on your new appointment as head of the Terran Legation.  My grandsire extends his congratulations as well.”

“Thank you very much, Dom Regis.  I was quite surprised, since I didn’t think the Federation would appoint a man of mixed ancestry to the position.  Please convey my thanks back to your grandfather.  By the way, might I inquire if you have any more information about your grandfather's, er, request?  Giving messages like that to Starfleet is rather unconventional.”

“No,” said Regis.  “Even my grandsire was perturbed about passing it on.”

“I beg your pardon?  The message did not originate with your grandfather?”  Regis could feel the thought in the Legate's mind.  -You mean I've just risked my job for someone's joke?-

“It's no joke,” said Regis.  “The message came from Dom Ian Elhalyn, the tenerezu of Dalereuth Tower.”  He did not mention that an embarrassed Danvan Hastur had spent some time trying to discover whether Ian Elhalyn was one of the crazy Elhalyns before giving the message to the Legate.  Elhalyns were often unstable from the nature of their dona.

Lawton was thinking.  “Tenerezu--that's an ancient word.  A male keeper?  There aren't many of those.  So that mystery has been cleared up, in a way.”  Lawton still appeared unhappy.  “Did the tenerezu give a reason?”

“I'm afraid not.  Elhalyns can be evasive.”

Lawton nodded in reluctant acceptance.

“My other piece of business deals with this Starship Enterprise.  I believe it is the first vessel of its class to stop at Darkover in almost four years.”

Lawton half-turned in his chair, his eyes skittering towards the comlink the Legation used to make calls to Comyn Castle.  Everyone who knew Regis was well aware of  the young man's space-longing.

“I would like to pay the Enterprise a visit,” said Regis, wishing Danilo were here.  Danilo was a cousin of Lawton’s (as his paxman put it, 'Thanks to the appetites of my grandsire, old Dom Kyril Ardais, I’m related to half of Darkover, not a few Terranan, several chieri, and possibly even an off-world alien or two'), and he was better than Regis at the art of soft-worded persuasion, especially where Lawton was concerned.

Regis locked eyes with the now-squirming Legate.  “The Enterprise is scheduled for a two-day patrol orbit?  That is plenty of time for a visit.”

“Dom Regis,” said Lawton slowly.  “No.”

Regis clenched his jaw.  Hasturs did not beg.  They did not plead or whine.  They only commanded or demanded.  But Regis was about two breaths from throwing himself to his knees and begging.  “Why not?” he replied as if surprised. 

“Because your grandfather would kill me.”  Lawton’s eyes went to the comlink again.

Regis knew if that call were made, his plan was doomed.  His grandfather absolutely could not know about this.  “A few hours’ visit is too trivial a matter for my grandsire's attention.  All I need is the cooperation of the starship's captain.”

Lawton put his elbows on his desk.  “Dom Regis, you're still only seventeen.  Terran humanoids–your pardon for the awkward phrase, but we must designate an equivalent–are not considered adults until they are eighteen.  Since your parents are no longer alive I must ask your grandfather for permission.”

/Damn,/ thought Regis. 

Lawton's fingers inched towards the comlink.

“Let us see what the captain says,” Regis said quickly. “My grandsire knows little of technology and is often ruled by his fears.”

Lawton gave his visitor a squint-eyed look, as if to say he thought old Danvan Hastur was ruled more by his temper than his fears.  “I suppose I could inquire.  However, you understand the captain has no particular reason to say yes?” 

“I understand.  Would you open the link please?”

Lawton indicated the communications screen opposite him and hailed the starship.

-oOo-

The view screen winked on.  “Greetings, Captain Kirk.”

Kirk replied with a polite formula, eyeing the two figures before him.  The man in slacks and Darkover-gauge sweater was the Legate Daniel Lawton—Kirk had spoken briefly to him this morning—but the other, a boy in his late teens, appeared to be a native of the planet.  He wore a blue tunic over a rather frilly white shirt, and his bright red hair, tall bearing, and air of handsome self-assurance made Kirk bet the kid was a member of the Comyn.  Possibly a telepath, then.

“Captain, may I introduce you to Dom Regis Hastur?  He is the grandson of Darkover’s regent, Dom Danvan Hastur.”  Lawton cleared his throat.  “He has requested a tour of the Enterprise.”

Kirk caught the intonation.  A problem?

“Captain,” Regis said, his voice deeper in pitch than Kirk expected, “I am sure you are aware of the longstanding strain in diplomatic relations between Darkover and your Federation.”

“Your Federation?” said McCoy in a low voice.  “He said that as if Cottman IV hasn’t been part of the damn thing for a century, now.”

Kirk gave a slight finger-twitch, meaning quiet. 

“Yet matters could be improved,” Regis continued, “though my grandsire’s policy to date has been one of keeping your people secluded from ours.  I wish he were in better health, for all the responsibility for Darkover's burdens will fall to me upon his death.  As for myself,” Regis gave a troubled sigh, “I have not yet made up my mind what direction the Darkovan people would benefit from most.  Moving towards more isolation, or away from it.”  He looked at the captain squarely.

/Damn,/ thought Kirk with admiration. /It takes balls to blackmail a starship captain./  Lawton, Kirk noted, wore a queasy expression.  The problem was, the kid was right.  Federation-Darkovan relations absolutely sucked.  Getting on this kid’s good side would help after his grandfather died.

“Would it be convenient for me to come up in, say, the next half-hour or so?”  Regis added politely.

“Scotty,” said Kirk over the intercom.  “Prepare to beam up one from the Legate’s office.  Dom Regis Hastur is paying us a visit.”  A bright grin flashed over Regis’ face as Kirk discussed the arrangements.

The screen winked out.  “Well?” Kirk asked his crew. 

“Is this little junket what we've been summoned for?” growled McCoy.

“It better not be,” replied Kirk.  “But seeing as he's the future ruler of the entire iceball down there, we're being nice.  If relations do improve, a junket won't be a complete waste of our time.  Well.  Who’s volunteering to show Dom Regis around and doesn’t mind having their mind read while they're at it?”

-oOo-

Midday in the Domain of Ardais, the bloody sun shone over a castle standing in a ring of mountains known as the Hellers.  Nearby, laborers were harvesting hay, a difficult crop to grow at this altitude, and two riders on chervines were headed towards them.  Both riders had the unruly dark hair common to those born in the Hellers–often worn shoulder-length as these two did--along with the characteristic brown tint that caused a deep tan to the skin in summer.  The elder rider was Ruyvan, the coridom of the estate, and the younger was Danilo Syrtis-Ardais, the sixteen-year-old adopted heir of Lord Dyan Ardais.

“That is enough time in the stables today.  I have little to teach you, as you know chervines well enough at Syrtis.  Pedro!” the coridom said, addressing the foreman overseeing the work.  “Blow the horn for the noon meal.  Dom Danilo, the lord wishes you to inspect the hay work and join him in the dining hall with a report.”  Ruyvan hesitated.  “I believe there will be another at the meal with you.”

Danilo groaned silently and rode off, heading through the dirty cut stubble towards the rows of haycocks.  He had been hoping to avoid Garin Lanart, the most important of Dyan's two or three current liaisons.  Danilo wasn't sure how many Lord Ardais was juggling at the moment, though Carlo the kitchen apprentice seemed to be almost as important to Dyan as Garin.  Garin caused Danilo to wonder about several things; such as how long the boy would last by Dyan’s side–they never did last long;  how a Lanart could have turned out so badly–Garin loved to create scenes, and Danilo had always thought the Lanarts were supposed to be one of the more stable clans; why Dyan, one of the most acerbic men alive, put up with the boy–his foster-father had a taste for inflicting pain, not receiving it–

He quashed his thoughts.  He shouldn't think that way about Dom Dyan after they had achieved a truce of sorts.  A year ago Dyan had offered to make amends for his behavior by adopting Danilo as his heir, and had vowed to show nothing except the utmost propriety towards his foster-son.  Yet Danilo still hadn't trusted him.  He'd spent his first few days under Dyan’s roof almost sick with dread.  A few days after his arrival a heavy snowfall halted all travel until spring, and the featureless white Hellers closed around him like an icy fist.  Danilo kept running into his foster-father by the few warm firesides, Dyan confident and easy, Danilo halting and formal while he wondered how in Zandru’s name he was supposed to speak to this man.

/Cease this mental wandering,/ Danilo commanded himself. /I must concentrate on the haying./  Yet he was having trouble attending.  /Dyan normally inspects the work–/

The men were passing by, dropping rakes and scythes as they gathered for the noon meal.  Several of them were in a good sweat, their skins dappled with bits of yellow grass.  Bare muscular bodies stripped to the waist had darkened into a variety of chestnut hues. 

Danilo halted his chervine, gave one wild look up at the sky, and clapped a hand over his face.  /No wonder Dyan likes to inspect the men as they work.  I’m such a fool./ 

With another insight into Dom Dyan's behavior he didn’t care to have, Danilo continued his ride.  He longed for the days before the awakening of his laran, when he’d been as stupid as a stone about such things and happily oblivious.  He tried to concentrate on something neutral, like starting his journey tomorrow for Thendara for the upcoming season with the Guards.  He’d be able to see Regis Hastur–

No. 

That didn’t help either.

/Zandru’s Hells, if I keep suppressing my thoughts like this, I won’t have any brain left to think with./

What was that?

An odd, repetitive thwopping noise began to come from the far horizon, causing some of the laborers to look around in confusion.  The sound wasn't native to Darkover, yet Danilo recognized it and paled.  Perched on his chervine, he had a good view of the Terran helicopter as it neared.  Some of the workmen had never seen a helicopter before and were cowering as it closed in, even throwing themselves down to the stubble.  Its beating blades sent dry bits of hay floating like a prickly hailstorm, and the machine passed over Danilo’s head with a loud, chopping roar. 

For a moment Danilo felt faint.  He had to gasp for breath through shaking fingers held up to shield his face from the debris.  The only time he’d ever ridden in a helicopter had been as a captive of the Aldarans, who had wanted to use his laran to their own ends.  They’d flown through a snowstorm so terrible his kidnappers had been blinded, buffeted, and forced down to avoid a crash.  Danilo had never been so frightened in his life, and the memory was still so bad he couldn't think about it except in tiny slivers of recollection.  

The helicopter was flying toward Castle Ardais.  Danilo nudged his chervine into a gallop to find his foster-father.  What was so important that the Terrans had sent a helicopter?

When he arrived at the castle, he found the doors of the formal dining room open and strode in before catching the warning hiss from the guard.  He soft-footed back out, nodding a rueful thanks to the man.  He’d walked right in on Lord Dyan and Garin, again.  He had no idea what they were doing in the corner, though they were still clothed.  /There are times,/ thought Danilo wearily, /when Castle Ardais is more like a brothel than the traditional family residence of a Domain./

The slow dripping of a water-clock counted out a minute before Danilo heard a voice from the dining room, too low to be understood, but identifiable as Dyan's by its rough, hypnotic tone.  In contrast, the reply was quite loud.  “You’re trying to get rid of me!”

/Garin,/ thought Danilo.  He began making plans for eating in the kitchen if the quarrel continued.  But it seemed Dyan had little patience today.   “Yes, I am trying to get rid of you.  I am having a private meal with my foster-son.  Be off,” Lord Ardais replied.  Even with his bedmate, Dyan’s tone held its icy force.  

“You can’t mean it!  What am I to do with myself?”

“I am throwing you out for an hour, chiyu, not banishing you for life.  I am not responsible for entertaining you every moment of the day.  Go.”

“Why can’t I stay?  Are you ashamed to show me at table?  Or do you not want me to see the looks of barely-hidden longing you direct towards your foster-son?” 

“Garin,” Dyan replied, his voice a sudden purr of danger. 

“Everyone knows that if it weren’t for the laws of the Comyn, you’d have–”

“GO!”



The bellow, delivered with the telepathic fire of the Alton gift, made Danilo flinch.  He avoided the guard’s eyes in embarrassment.  A second later an angry Garin emerged at speed, passing them with muttered obscenities.  /He's forgotten about Carlo,/ thought Danilo wryly.

A low whisper came from the guard.  “We have a betting pool.  Two to six weeks is the spread.”

For a second Danilo almost exploded with shocked laughter, but caught himself just in time.  He grinned at the guard for his bracing dose of humor–Danilo really did not feel like facing his foster-father just now--and entered the dining hall.

Dyan was pacing the room, shedding anger as his boots struck the flagstones.  Lord Ardais was in his usual black, relieved only by the glints of silver from his rings, the guardsman’s shoulder clasp on his tunic, and the hilt of his dagger.  People often said he resembled a bandit chief with his dark coloring, exotic facial features beneath a close-trimmed beard and mustache, and springy grace.  His athleticism was legendary, and he was considered to be the best swordsman in the Domains. 

“Good afternoon, foster-father,” said Danilo.

Dyan nodded acknowledgment.  “Be seated,” he said shortly.  He appeared to have regained control of himself. 

Servants had already placed the lunch dishes at one end of the long table.  The position at the head had been old Dom Kyril’s for so long even Dyan, quick to defend his privileges as a Comyn lord, tended to forget about it and he often left the spot empty.  However, this meant Danilo had to meet Dyan’s cool gaze head on.    

“Foster-father, a Terran helicopter has just–”

“Later.  Your report must come first.  Hand me your plate.”

Danilo did so, controlling his impatience.  This was the way Dyan always explained things.  The slow, torturous unfolding of information was a performance Dom Ardais liked to indulge in for his own amusement.  Dyan also enjoyed the challenge of making Danilo's disciplined facade slip. 

As his foster-father put slices of dense, sweet nut cake on the plate, Danilo said, “The men put seven acres in shocks and will finish raking up the rest of the hayfield in the afternoon.  They estimate there is more than enough to fill the barns.”

“Good.  Much else remains to be harvested.  Was the work neatly done?”  A little mountain of nut cake filled the plate.  Dyan began to pour hot, spiced honey from the pitcher over the heap.

“I think so, sir.  Ruyvan said the haycocks should withstand rot--” Danilo broke off, watching in growing bewilderment as honey soaked into tier after tier of cake.  A lazy, hypnotic waterfall crawled down to gather at the bottom.  Dyan stopped pouring to admire his handiwork, added a little more honey to the bare spots, then returned the plate to Danilo.  “Eat heartily,” he commanded. 

Danilo eased his chair back, a reaction he could not control.  Dom Ardais could be absolutely creepy at times.

Dyan’s knife slid into his own entree, a hefty roast with mushrooms and carrots braised in wine.  Danilo glanced at his pile of cakes, then over at Dyan’s roast, then back at the honeyed mass in front of himself.  “Sir, is there some sort of festival or other important event I have not heard about?” /Please, let it not be a Festival gift.  I don’t think I could stand the symbolism./

“No.” Dyan replied.  He took a long drink from his wineglass.  “That is your lunch today.”

Perturbed, Danilo slowly cut into a cake.  “Laran-work!” he exclaimed, understanding the mystery.  “Someone has requested my aid?”  The use of laran drained the body of vast amounts of energy, and tower-workers had to eat a notorious amount of sweets to replenish themselves.

“Correct.  I do not want you collapsing in front of Domna Aillard.”  Dyan watched as his heir began to fork into the cakes with more vigor.  “The helicopter is for you.”

“WHAT!?” Danilo exclaimed.  He remembered his manners and swallowed his mouthful.  “Pardon me, foster-father, for that graceless outburst.  I--” Danilo broke off in consternation.  “What?” he asked again, meekly. 

Dyan’s mouth formed a half-smile.  “You are going to the Tower at Hali.”  He nodded at Danilo’s fork to prompt him.  Danilo started to eat again, but the fork halted at the word, ‘Hali.’

“But sir, the Hali’imyn do not allow men inside the tower, or strangers of either gender.  Only tower--” 

“–workers recommended by another tower,” Dyan interrupted with impatience.  “The Hali’imyn maintain a building nearby for the delivery of supplies, which also serves as a travel-shelter.  You are to treat the Damisela Janine there.  Domna Ysabet Aillard at Hali–she is the keeper I spoke of–says the girl's laran is strong enough to perform the work of a keeper, or so the Hali’imyn hope.  However, her threshold sickness is growing worse, and Domna Aillard fears the girl will enter crisis soon.  She needs to have her channels cleared if she is to survive.  The Damisela is too weak to have it done the usual way.”  Dyan gave his heir a pointed look. 

Danilo nodded, tunneling into his cakes with sterner purpose.  He would even brave the helicopter if he must.  “I am flattered by your confidence in me, foster-father.”

“It is a serious burden on one your age to be responsible for a life,” Dyan continued.  He seemed to have lost all interest in his roast, and was contemplating his wine glass.  “You realize that if there were other catalyst telepaths on Darkover, your burden would not be so heavy.”

/There is only one way to create more catalyst telepaths and both he and I know what it is,/ thought Danilo with annoyance.  “Foster-father, most persons consider the age of sixteen too young for marriage.”

“True.  Yet I must start sorting through suitable candidates for your wife.  Most heirs to a Domain are married by the age of eighteen or nineteen.  The Ardais gift would be extinct if not for you.  You need to have children.”  He studied Danilo over his wineglass.

/This is maddening,/ thought Danilo, trying to unclench his jaw.  /Being nagged to marry is annoying enough.  But being nagged to marry by the man who tried to force me into his bed is the height of effrontery.  I CANNOT BELIEVE this is happening./ 

In that moment, Danilo could have killed his foster-father.  He’d actually tried it last year and had been thrown out of the Guards as punishment for the action.  Dyan himself had gotten out of the whole business rather lightly.  If not for the strained reconciliation Dom Kennard Alton had worked out between them, the two would have been mortal enemies.  Or rather, Danilo would have been Dyan’s mortal enemy.  Dyan himself rather liked Danilo, a thought that made the boy queasy.  /He’s lucky I don’t have the Alton gift, or I would have destroyed him with it a moment ago./

“Is something wrong, chiyu?” asked Dyan, his eyes intent.   “You gave a shiver.”

/Never have strong emotions around another telepath,/ Danilo lectured himself.  “Just too much honey, foster-father.  It is making me nauseous.  Then too, I am worried about missing the opening day of Guards.  I was supposed to leave tomorrow.”  /I don't want to make a bad impression on the day of my reinstatement.  People are already looking at me askance because of my adoption by Dom Dyan./

“The safety of the Damisela comes first.  However, the pilot says the trip to Hali should only take about two hours and the distance from there to Thendara is short.  You should not be delayed long.”  He took a sip from his wine.  “So eager to see your lover?”

Danilo nearly spat out his cake.  He choked a bit and swallowed some water.  “Excuse me if I seem rude, sir, but I must correct you.  Regis Hastur is my lord and friend, NOT my lover.  Please remove all thought of that from your mind.”

Dyan stared at him with raised eyebrows, wineglass held between two fingers, a smile of skeptical mockery on his lips.  “Chiyu, did I say the name of Regis Hastur at any point during this conversation?” 

Danilo reddened. 

Dyan took a drink, then continued, “His name certainly leapt to your tongue fast enough.”

The burn in Danilo’s face spread to the tips of his ears with a heat he swore could light a candle. /Zandru’s Hells, he’s gotten to me again.  He doesn’t need laran to read my face.  Why does he always do this?/

“It's my chieri blood,” said Dyan, reading his thoughts.  “The Comyn may have had their dose of it two thousand years ago, but my great-grandfather was one, a far more recent cross.  Inhuman chieri, uncaring, indifferent to all human morals, following only the sway of their passions.  Those chieri are your ancestors too, or else you are not the son of my half-sister.  Enough of this.  If you have eaten your fill, I will introduce you to the pilot.”

-oOo-

/A quiet, poetic night always makes the best camouflage,/ reflected Darth Inculcare. Troopers walked down the Muur's ramp disguised in mockups of Darkovan clothing while the High Inquisitor reflected on the utter silence of a Darkovan night, so different from the hive-like frenzy of Coruscant. 

“Half a dozen villagers are approaching,” warned Darth Xiphos.  “They must have heard the noise of our engines.”

“Stun them.  Take Team Gamma for the work.  Hurry.”

Xiphos fanned the troopers out, working their way through the underbrush via nightvision goggles.  The natives were creeping closer like hesitant deer, a step, a pause, another step, looking at one another to see who would go first.  Quickly Xiphos tapped out Heavy Stun.  Wide Angle.  Aim.

A ring of blasters rose.

Fire!

Brief flashes lit the clearing.  Xiphos cursed to himself when he counted the spread bodies.  “Medic Nelus, report to my area.”

“What happened?” Darth Inculcare asked over his wristcom. 

“Novice trooper error.  We stunned the villagers, but two of my men are down as well,” said Xiphos dryly.  “Semicircle formation, nighttime conditions over unknown ground, and wide-angle fire did it.”

Darth Gladius gave a chortle.  Inculcare was less amused.  /I could do better with a clothes rack of droids,/ he reflected.  “Use Drain Knowledge to discover what the villages know about the telepaths inside Hali Tower, and wipe out their memories of us with Force suggestion.  Pick out one villager with few or no connections and send him to me.”

“Must they live?” asked Gladius.

“Yes.  Lord Plagueis does not want to alert the Darkovans yet.  Medic Nelus, I will need you after you've finished reviving the unconscious.  Ristrin, Torqus?”

The chief scientist of the expedition, Eldge Ristrin, came over accompanied by the geologist.  They were weighed down with scanning equipment over their clumsy approximation of Darkovan clothes. 

“Both of you start looking for matrices.  I'm assigning a pair of troopers to escort you.  Take trackers and wear medical monitors.”  Inculcare did not want to report to Lord Plagueis that the elderly Ristrin had died of a heart attack while toiling up a cliff.  Inculcare knew scientists.  They'd walk right into an active volcano if you let them. 

Ristrin nodded.  “Yes, my lord.  We have a peculiar blank spot on our scanners and intend to start off in the direction of Lake Hali.”

Inculcare spoke to his wristcom.  “Troopers Gunloinne and Tarma, report to Eldge Ristrin.”  Some niggling memory about Lake Hali bothered Inculcare, but he'd been flooded with so much information over the past month about the Federation and Darkover that he couldn't recall it.

The little party left.  Ordinarily, Inculcare's Force-sense alerted him to possible complications—a talent which helped him very much during his former career as a Jedi, but he felt no worries about the expedition.  Back in the day, Qui-gon Jinn had told him that turning to the Dark Side depleted one's Force-luck, a notion Leron Kravold refused to believe and that Darth Inculcare thought no better of. 

“Lord Inculcare?  We've picked out the villager.  His name is Gwynn.”

“Good.”  /Why am I thinking about Qui-gon Jinn?  He was something of a joke, erratic and prat-falling his way to victories.  He was never ambitious enough to stand out in my memory for more important reasons./

Xiphos had arrived with the Medic Nelus.  The man Gwynn was in the grip of Force-trance.

“Inject him with the capsule,” Inculcare ordered the medic.  “Is the audiodot imbedded in his clothes?”

“Yes, my lord.”

After the capsule was inserted into Gwynn's arm, Inculcare seized the man's head in his hands.  “Gwynn, listen closely.  I have a story to tell you.”  He smiled.  “It's very important you tell this to the keeper at Hali.”

-oOo-

Damisela Janine was not much more than twelve or so.  The girl was barely conscious as she lay under the heavy blanket on one of the beds inside the stone travel shelter, Danilo kneeling by her side. 

Night had fallen when the helicopter delivered Danilo to the shelter, and the only light for his work was a wavering pine-knot torch held by one of the underkeepers, Catriona Castamir.  After a few seconds of puzzling over her freckles and red curls, while he tried not to break etiquette by gazing at her directly, he remembered her.  She was one of his numerous cousins, and as both his grandmothers had been Castamirs, he was doubly related to her.  He had played with her now and then as a child, and she was about three years older than he was.  Overseeing them was the elderly Keeper of Hali, Domna Ysabet Aillard, a grey-haired, lean woman known to be severe and workmanlike.  Danilo didn't dare glance at her except from the corner of his eye.

 

“Pay close attention, Catriona,” Ysabet said.  “This is important for your healer’s training. You will undoubtedly have to clear channels yourself one day when you treat threshold sickness, but without having the assistance of Dom Danilo's gift.”

The light from Catriona’s torch moved eerily over the low, rough ceiling.  Danilo wondered why she didn’t use hand-light, but was distracted by the blue flare of another of Janine’s power centers brightening under his palm.  The slow movement of the girl’s laran through her channels was like colored fireflies to his eyes, erratic, wayward, winking in and out. 

“I promise I will not hurt you,” Danilo said to his patient.  Clearing channels was an excruciatingly painful and life-threatening treatment, unless done by a telepath with the Ardais gift.  “Are you ready for the merge?”

Janine wrinkled her brow in feverish confusion.  “But you’re a man I don’t even know,” she protested. 

A laugh came from Catriona, quickly smothered.  Domna Ysabet shifted in annoyance.  Danilo kept his smile fixed on his face as he tried to think.  It hadn’t occurred to him Janine would refuse consent.

“Damisela,” said Ysabet sharply.  “It is this or death.  Take your choice.”

“But–”

“He’s a nice boy, as boys go,” said Catriona.  With greater seriousness she added, “Danilo intends you no harm.  He is only trying to cure you.  Do not be afraid.”

“Janine,” said Ysabet.  The old woman leaned over the child’s bed, glowering.  “If you ever wish to become a keeper, or work in a matrix circle, or perform many of the other hundreds of laran tasks, you WILL end up reading the minds of those you do not know, male or female, and you WILL become used to it.  Do not be foolish.”

Frightened by the old lady’s words, the girl held out her hands awkwardly.  Danilo slipped his own hands underneath hers, catching a quick, disapproving thought sent to him from Catriona.  -She has no bedside manner, as the Terranan call it.-

Danilo didn’t reply, not wanting Domna Ysabet to overhear any more disrespectful comments.  “It won’t hurt,” he repeated to his patient.  “I will touch your thoughts as lightly as possible.  The merge won’t give you any impulse to, urm, end up married.” /Well, most of the time it doesn’t,/ he thought, remembering himself and Regis Hastur. 

His dona began to mimic Janine's laran, matching resonances.  He started the rushing flow before Janine could object, drawing her laran into his own channels and cycling his into Janine's.  Janine gave one startled little gasp.  For a moment Danilo thought it was he himself who had gasped.  The room was spinning around him with a nauseating motion, an effect of the threshold sickness.  With a firm touch he forced the vertigo to halt.  The confused mental jangle she had been hearing for months calmed under the quiet, absolute centeredness of two minds fused into one.  Slowly, Danilo began to separate their combined thoughts. 

“It is finished.  Get some rest, little one.”  Even such a brief mental contact with the girl made him feel very tenderhearted.  He bent to kiss her cheek, as if she were a little sister of his, and felt his head jerked to a halt by an invisible grip on his hair.  Domna Ysabet had the Aillard gift in full, it seemed.

-You are NOT to charm her.  She is intended for a tower!-  Ysabet barked at him.  The grip on his hair relaxed.

-That was mean,- Catriona sent to him, a surprising thought for an underkeeper to think about her superior.  Danilo hoped for Catriona’s sake that Ysabet hadn’t caught the remark. 

He hauled himself up a little shakily, glad he'd eaten all that nut cake.  It had been a long day.

Janine’s eyes were closed.  “She’s asleep?” Catriona said in surprise.



“She has slept poorly for weeks,” Ysabet replied.  “I will send a message to her parents that she will be returning home in a few days.”

A knock sounded on the door of the travel shelter.  Danilo moved to answer it, his dagger leaving its sheath with a soft snick of noise. 

-What is this?- said Ysabet.

-Paxman's caution,- he replied. 

With his hand on the rough plank door, he detected the presence of two persons on the other side and opened the door a little.  Beyond stood a man, panting hard as if he had run a long way.  “Vai Dom’yn?”

“Yes, you are Gwynn from the village of Grasvale, are you not?” Ysabet replied.  “Let him in.  I recognize this man.  What is your difficulty?”

Danilo did so, feeling confused.  He sheathed his dagger.  Only one person was at the door?  He could have sworn he felt two.  Maybe he was still linked to Janine somehow? 

“We have sickness in the village,” the man blurted. 

“Domna Ysabet?”  Catriona asked.

“Yes, you may go to Grasvale,” the leronis replied.

Gwynn toppled over.  Danilo grabbed his arm and was almost jerked off his feet by the man’s collapse.   

“He may have run too far too fast,” said Catriona, pulling out her matrix to monitor the fallen man.  “He’s–Domna Ysabet!  This man’s fever is so high he's in danger.”

Ysabet’s face became grave.  “This illness seems to be spreading fast.  We may need help from the Terranan.  Danilo, has your helicopter pilot already left?”

“I’m afraid so, Domna.”

“Catriona, I will treat this man here.  Count the sick at Grasvale and isolate them.  I will send Carlina Ridenow after you.  Danilo, I hate to ask, but could you escort Catriona to Grasvale?”

“At your command, vai leronis.”

“Good.  Now both of you, go.”

With the tired realization that his long day had just become longer, Danilo took off after Catriona as she led the way to the tower's stables.

-oOo-