Marion Bradley - The Forbidden Tower

In the Great Hall, Ellemir came and knelt beside her father, weeping. Dom Esteban patted her bright hair and said hoarsely, “Look after her , Damon, don’t worry about me. If… if evil has come to Domenic, that child you bear, Ellemir, is next heir to Alton.”

God help them all, Damon thought, for Valdir was not yet twelve years old! Who would command the Guards? Even Domenic was thought too young!

Andrew was thinking that his son, Ellemir’s child, would be heir to the Domain. The thought seemed so wildly improbable that he was gripped with hysterical laughter.

Callista put a small cup into the old dom’s hand. “Drink this, Father.”

“I want none of your drugs! I will not be put to sleep and soothed until I know—”

“Drink it!” she commanded, standing pale and angry at his side. “It is not to dim your awareness, but to strengthen you. You will need all your strength today!”

Reluctantly the old man swallowed the draught. Ellemir rose and said, “The housefolk and workmen must not go hungry for our griefs. Let me go see to their breakfast.”

They brought the old man to the table and urged him to eat, but none of them could eat much, and Andrew felt himself straining to hear beyond the range of his ears, to listen for the messenger, bringing the tidings they now took for granted.

“There it is,” said Callista, laying down a piece of buttered bread, starting to her feet. Her father held out his hand, very pale but in command of himself again, Lord Alton, head of the Domain, Comyn.

“Sit still, daughter. Ill news will come when it will, but it is not seemly to run to meet it.”

He lifted a spoonful of nut-porridge to his mouth, put it down again, untasted. None of the others were even pretending to eat now, hearing the sound of hoofbeats in the stone courtyard, the booted feet of the messenger on the steps. He was a Guardsman, very young, with the red hair which, Andrew already knew, meant that somewhere, nearby or far back, he had Comyn blood. He looked tired, sad, apprehensive.

Dom Esteban said quietly, “Welcome to my hall, Darren. What brings you at this hour, my lad?”

“Lord Alton.” The messenger’s voice seemed to stick in his throat. “I regret that I bear you evil tidings.” His eyes flickered around the hall. He looked trapped, miserable, unwilling to break the bad news to this old man, frail and drawn in his chair.

Dom Esteban said quietly, “I had warning of this, my boy. Come and tell me about it.” He held out his hand, and the young man came, hesitantly, toward the high table. “It is my son Domenic. Is he… is he dead?”

The young man Darren lowered his eyes. Dom Esteban drew a hoarse, shaking breath like an audible sob, but when he spoke he was under control.

“You are wearied with the long ride.” He beckoned to the servants to take the young Guardsman’s cloak, remove his heavy riding boots and bring soft indoor slippers, set a mug of warmed wine before him. They set a chair for him near the high table. “Tell me all about it, lad. How did he die?”

“By misadventure, Lord Alton. He was in the armory, practicing at swordplay with his paxman, young Cathal Lindir. Somehow, even through the mask, he was struck a blow on the head. None thought it serious, but before they could fetch the hospital officer, he was dead.”

Poor Cathal, Damon thought. He had been one of the cadets during Damon’s year as cadet-master, as had young Domenic himself. The two lads had been inseparable, had been paired off everywhere: at sword-practice, on duty, in their leisure hours. They were, Damon knew, bredin , sworn brothers. Had Domenic died by any mischance or accident, it would have been bad enough, but for a blow struck by his sworn friend to be the instrument of his death — Blessed Cassilda, how the poor lad would suffer!

Dom Esteban had managed to pull himself together, was questioning the messenger about other arrangements. “Valdir must be brought from Nevarsin at once, designated heir.”

Darren told him, “Lord Lorill Hastur has already sent for him, and he urges you to come to Thendara if you are able, my lord.”

“Able or not, we shall ride this day,” Dom Esteban said firmly. “Even if I must travel by horse-litter, and you must come with me, Damon, Andrew.”

“I too.” Callista’s face was pale but her voice firm, and Ellemir said, “And I.” She was crying noiselessly.

“Rhodri,” Damon said, beckoning the old steward, “find a place for the messenger to rest, and send one of our men at once to ride for Thendara on the fastest horse available, to tell Lord Hastur that we will be there within three days. And ask Ferrika to come at once to Lady Ellemir.”

The old man nodded acquiescence. Tears were streaming down old Rhodri’s wrinkled face, and Damon remembered that he had been here at Armida all his life, had held both Domenic and the long-dead Coryn on his knees when they were children. But there was no leisure to think of any of these things. Ferrika, brought to Ellemir, admitted that the ride would probably do no harm. “But you must travel at least part of the time in a horse-litter, my lady, for too much riding would be wearying.” When Ferrika was told that she must accompany them, she protested.

“There are many on the estate who need my services, Lord Damon.”

“Lady Ellemir bears the next heir to Alton. It is she who most needs your care, and you are her childhood friend. You have taught other women on the estate, now they must justify their training.”

This was so obvious, even to the Amazon midwife, that she spoke the polite phrase of respect and acquiescence, and went to speak to her subordinates. Callista had set the maids to packing what they would need for a possibly lengthy stay in Thendara. When Ellemir asked why, she said briefly, “Valdir is a child. Comyn Council may not be content to allow our father, crippled and with an ailing heart, to serve as head of the Domain; there may be a protracted struggle over a guardian for Valdir.”

“I should think Damon would be the logical guardian,” Ellemir said, and Callista’s lips stretched in a bleak smile. “Why, so he should, sister, but I have sat as Leonie’s surrogate in Council, and I know that to these great lords, nothing is ever simple or obvious if there is political advantage to some other way of settling it. Remember how Domenic said they were fighting over his right to command the Guards, young as he was? Valdir is younger still.”

Ellemir quailed, with an automatic gesture laying a protective hand over her belly. She had heard old tales of bitter feuds in Comyn Council, of struggles more cruel than blood-feud because the ones who struggled were not enemies but kinsmen. As the old saying went, when bredin were at odds, enemies stepped in to widen the gap.

“Callie! Do you think… do you think Domenic was murdered ?”

Callista said, faltering, “Cassilda, Mother of Seveners, I pray it is not so. If he had died by poison, or of some mysterious illness, I would fear so indeed — there was so much strife over the heirship of Alton — but struck down by Cathal in play? We know Cathal, Elli, he loved Domenic as his own life! They had sworn the oath of bredin . I would sooner believe Damon an oath-breaker than our cousin Cathal!” She added, her face white and troubled, “If it had been Dezi…”

The twin sisters looked at one another, not willing to speak their accusation, yet remembering how Dezi’s malice had come close to costing Andrew’s life. At last Ellemir said in a shaking voice, “Where, I wonder, was Dezi when Domenic died?”

“Oh, no, no, Ellemir.” Callista caught her sister close, cutting off the words. “No, no, do not even think it! Our father loves Dezi, even if he would not acknowledge him, so do not make it worse than it is! Elli, I beg you, I beg you, do not put that thought into Father’s head!”