Traitor's Sun (56 page)

She gave a fluttering sigh, too tired to go on arguing. “That will have to do for now, I suppose.”

D
omenic stood in the dining room of the Crowing Cock and looked out the small window onto the courtyard. The rain which had begun so quietly the night before had turned into a real downpour when he had finally risen at midmorning. He could see pools of water which had collected on the stones, and piles of sodden debris which had not yet been cleared away. He sighed resignedly. It was a fairly common early autumn storm that would last for a day or two, turn the roads into mud, and keep everyone indoors until it spent itself.

A slow smile played over his mouth. Vancof and Granfell had left the inn when the rain had only begun. Now they were huddled somewhere, in some crofter’s cot, he assumed, cold and cheerless. Perhaps they would fall to arguing and kill each other. He wondered if they would come back to the inn, and decided that possibility was unlikely. Vancof was known in Carcosa as a Traveler, and after the riot the night before, he was smart enough to realize that if someone recognized him, he would likely end up in the lockup. Where else might they go? There was another village, about fifteen miles farther up the Old North Road, according to Aunt Rafi. He must remember to pass this information to Herm.

At last he turned back to the long table and sat down. He picked up a sheet of thick paper, the best that MacHaworth could provide, and read through what he had written. It was a letter to his mother, containing surprisingly little of his exploits since leaving Comyn Castle, and nothing at all about finding the body of the dead man the night before. Instead, Domenic had written about subjects which he could never bring himself to speak of, either verbally or telepathically. He had written about his strong feelings for his cousin, Alanna, but more about how much he disliked living in Comyn Castle, and one short paragraph concerning the disturbing auditory experiences he had been having. It was the first letter he had written to Marguerida in his entire life, and he had discovered he was able to say things more clearly on paper than he could in any other way.

He read his words over and realized that he had left a great many things unsaid, despite his determination to do otherwise. Domenic had not mentioned the riot, because he knew it would worry his mother, and he felt she had enough on her hands already. He had not addressed his feeling of distance from his father for similar reasons. Mikhail had a lot of problems just now, and Nico did not want to add to them. In short, he decided, it was not as complete as he intended, and it was therefore dishonest by omission.

He wondered if he should just crumple the whole thing up and toss it into the fireplace. He was aware of his own self-consciousness, anxious at both saying too little and too much, but relieved that he had been able to write anything at all. No, he would send it. When Duncan Lindir rode back to Thendara later in the day, he would give it to the old Guardsman. His mother would be pleased to receive it, and that was enough.

Domenic was just finishing his reading when Illona came into the room. Her wiry red hair had been brushed and combed into a semblance of order, then pulled back ruthlessly from her forehead and braided down her back. She was wearing a green tunic and skirt that fit her well enough, belted around her slender waist, and there were soft slippers on her feet. He wondered where she had gotten the garments, for the town market was closed for the day, because of the riot, and then realized that they were rather fancy for everyday. She must have borrowed them from one of MacHaworth’s daughters. He saw dark circles beneath her green eyes, as if she had slept poorly. He suspected he did not look much more rested himself.

“What are you doing?”

“I have written a letter to my mother—which will amaze her, since I have never done such a thing before. But, then, except for my years at Arilinn, I have never been away from her, and there was no need to write.”

“What does it say?” She seemed anxious and curious, and did not appear to realize that she was being nosy.

“Nothing about you, if that is what is worrying you.” Illona looked surprised and almost disappointed. “I . . . I suppose I thought . . .”

“I would have told her about you, but I assumed it might make you frightened.” In another mood, he knew, he would have described all the events leading up to this moment, and made rather a good tale of it. But after the previous night, Domenic’s immediate impulse was to protect Illona, and he had followed it.

“That is . . . kind of you. It would have. I’ve been thinking about last night a lot, about what you said and all. And I think that I don’t need to go to a Tower at all, not really, and that you were just being . . . what would a girl like me do in such a place? I think I’ll join the Renunciates instead. It can’t be any harder than being a Traveler.” She eyed him closely, watching for his reaction with the wariness of a half-wild cat.

Domenic gave her a hard look. “What makes you think they would want a wild telepath in their company?”

“Are you always this unpleasant? Or just in the mornings?”

“No, I am not. In fact, I am ordinarily a very nice fellow, polite to my elders and courteous to fault. I even manage to be pleasant to my grandmother who hates me and wishes me ill. But when someone is deliberately being buffle headed, Illona, I speak my mind.”

“Is that what you think?”

“Your
laran
is not going to go away, no matter how hard you will it to. Anymore than your hair is going to turn soft and manageable.”

Illona gave a slight grin. “Samantha tried to put it into order, and she did a good job, I think. How did you know that my hair was a trial to me? I hate it!”

“Well, I don’t. I think it is very attractive—and you are changing the subject.”

“I’m not the one who mentioned my impossible hair.”

“True.” Domenic looked down at the letter again, wondering if he could rewrite it in some other way, if he could be more honest without causing hurt. “My friend, you and I are more alike than you imagine.”

“What? I am not the least like you!”

“Yes, you are. We are both stuck with Gifts we have to learn to live with. If you read what I have written, you would see that.”

“Well, I can’t read, so that’s that.”

“Not at all?”

“No.”

“But how do you learn the scripts that Mathias writes if you cannot read?”

“Oh, that. I have an excellent memory. He would read the plays to me several times, and then I knew what to say. And sometimes I improved the words, which always annoyed him. He is not nearly as clever as he thinks.”

Domenic remembered his encounter with the man the night before and had to agree. “I see. Well, then, I will teach you to read.” He folded the letter in half and pushed it aside. Then he took a second sheet of paper and the pen in his hand. “Come and sit next to me.”

Illona stared at him for a second, then walked around the table and slipped onto the bench beside him. “Why do I need to learn to read?”

“Because when you go to a Tower, you will need that skill. And we are not going to argue about that subject—you are going, if I have to drag you there myself and show you that it is not a terrible place.” He was surprised at himself, because he knew he was not usually so forceful.

A mulish expression filled her face, then faded. “I think . . . I could go if you went with me. Mind you, I don’t wish to, and I believe you are being very stubborn because you are used to getting your own way.”

Domenic gave a snort of laughter. “I know you won’t believe me, Illona, but I have rarely gotten my own way in my whole life. Now, this is your name, Illona Rider.” He pointed to what he had just written. “Here are the letters, and you already know how they sound.”

“Is that what it looks like?” She peered at the glyphs on the page. “Write yours.”

Domenic did as she asked, putting the whole long name on the page. He watched her as she studied the letters closely. He reflected that he was very much his mother’s son, just at that moment, trying to teach someone to read. She put her finger on the glyphs from her own name and then found the same ones in his, moving the digit back and forth between the two, and subvocalizing the sounds. After a minute she asked, “Why are the starting letters tall and the rest short?”

“In a name, you make the beginning of each word a capital, and the rest in another form. Do you know, I have never thought about this before—I’ve always just done it.”

“What do you do when it is not a name, then?”

“Here—I will write a sentence.”

“What does it say?”

“All mules bray.”

“I see . . . the big letter at the beginning is the same one as in part of your name, and the next two are like the small ones at the first part of Illona. So, when you write something that is not a name, you make the first letter big, and all the rest small.” She nodded, and he could sense she was enjoying herself.

“That is right, except if you are putting the name of a person or place in a sentence—here—I will write ‘Illona and Nico are in Carcosa.’ You see?”

“Is this word Carcosa?” She pointed.

“Yes, it is. But how did you figure it out?” Domenic knew she was very intelligent, but she seemed to be learning much faster than he had anticipated. Was she picking up clues from his mind—no, there was no sense of her overhearing him. Then he realized he was enjoying teaching her, and that he did not want her to learn so quickly, only because he did not want to end the time with her.

“I . . . uh . . . just matched the end of your first name with the letter you made bigger, because you told me that places started with capitals. That’s all. Did I do it wrong?”

“No, Illona. You are a very good student.”

“Write down ordinary words for me—bread and rain and . . . I want to know what they all look like!”

Domenic did not move for a moment. Then he pulled the folded letter to Marguerida toward him, opened it, and wrote above “Dear Mother,” “Please send me a copy of your book of folktales as soon as you are able.” Then he turned back to the other sheet of paper and began to pen the words Illona had requested.

“What did you just put in your letter?”

“I asked my mother to send me a book she wrote. You will like it because it is full of stories, and by the time you get done with it, you will be able to read very well.”

“You asked . . .” she gave a little gasp of astonishment.

“Your mother is Marguerida Alton-Hastur, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

Illona shook her head. “And you just asked her to send a book, as if she was . . . a nobody. You are a very strange person, Domenic.”

“Call me Nico—all my friends do.”

“And I am your friend?”

“I told you that last night, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but I didn’t really believe you then. Now, write ‘bread’ for me.”

 

It was late afternoon and the rain had been pouring down for hours. Katherine Aldaran put down her brush and rubbed the back of her neck. She had lost track of time. She gave a quick look at the panel on the easel, taking in the shapes she had placed there, and decided it was not a bad beginning.

“Are you tired?” Gisela asked, from where she sat on a thronelike chair across the room. “I know I am. I never imagined that sitting in one position could be so wearing!”

“Forgive me—I got caught up in the work! I am not usually so thoughtless of my sitters.”

“I didn’t mind, really. It was very interesting watching you. And I will tell you a useful thing, if you like.”

Kate put the brush into a jar of turpentine and swirled it around. “What’s that?”

“When you are thinking about painting, your mind gets extremely quiet.”

“Quiet?”

“Well, maybe more like you are walled away. Shielded.”

“I see. So if I walk down the corridor thinking about yellow ocher, no one can hear my random thoughts? That is useful! Thank you.”

“I am glad you didn’t mind, Kate. Can I look at what you did, or must I wait until it is done?”

“You won’t see much at this stage, but you can look if you like.” Actually, Katherine did not usually let her sitters see the preliminary painting, because it was just forms and was difficult for those who were not artists to understand. At present, she had blocked in the shape of Gisela’s head and shoulders, the carved posts of the chair, and a little of the draping of the violet tunic she had chosen to wear. What color there was in the face did not resemble any human being yet, since green was not a hue that people ordinarily thought of when they looked at themselves.