Traitor's Sun (68 page)

When the party drew into the courtyard of the Crowing Cock just after midday, Marguerida was very glad to dismount and stretch her legs. She hadn’t ridden for any length of time in several years, and she found she was rather stiff. The insides of her thighs ached and she yearned for a hot bath, a long massage, and a clean bed to sleep on. More, she wished that she did not have to ride farther that day.

The yard was much too small to take in the entire funeral train, so most of the wagons and carriages pulled up outside the walls separating the inn from the street. Despite this, by the time the funeral wagon had been drawn inside, and the members of the Comyn and their Guards entered, the courtyard was crammed. Grooms rushed forward into the bustle and took the reins of the horses as their riders dismounted, and the ostlers were shouting at one another as they attempted to manage the near chaos.

Marguerida started toward the entrance and noticed there were black marks on the cobblestones beneath her feet. A faint smell of burning seemed to hang in the air, muted by the recent rain, but still noticeable. She was momentarily distracted by this and was caught unawares when a pair of arms excitedly encircled her waist.

“Mother!”

She turned in the embrace and looked down at her eldest child, still a few inches shorter than she was. His dark hair was unbound, as he preferred it, and his eyes shone with pleasure, as if he were as glad to see her as she was to see him. He looked none the worse for his adventures, and there was a new air of confidence about him she had not seen before. “Nico! You scamp!” Marguerida could not bring herself to scold him more than this, even though she had rehearsed a number of pungent sentences beforehand. A vast weight of anxiety lifted from her, and her heart felt ready to burst with delight. She let herself clutch him hard, pressing him against her chest, feeling the bones in his shoulders beneath his shirt and tunic.

“It was your own fault,” he answered, after giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

“
My
fault—how did you arrive at this remarkable conclusion?”

“If you had not told me I was dull and never gave you a moment’s worry, I might not have decided to go off on my own.”

Marguerida followed this entirely specious line of reasoning with amusement. She was so glad to have Domenic safe beside her that she would have agreed with almost anything. “Yes, I suppose I should be grateful that you did not decide to try to circle Comyn Castle along the rooftops.”

Nico laughed at this. “I might have, but I have no head for heights.” Then he drew away a little, as if anxious about something, and she noticed a rather scruffy-looking girl standing uneasily behind him. “I would like to present my friend Illona Rider, Mother. She has lived with the Travelers all her life, and can tell you all about them.” His tone combined a kind of pride and wariness at the same time.

For a moment Marguerida was a little puzzled as to what to make of this, and then she extended her right hand. “How do you do? I am Marguerida Alton-Hastur, and I am glad to meet any friend of my son’s.”

The girl looked at the offered hand for a moment, as if it were a snake, then took it gingerly and shook it briefly. To Marguerida’s eye, she seemed underfed and unprepossessing. Her wiry red hair stood out wildly from her skull, escaping from the wooden clasp at the back of her skinny neck, and her green eyes were too large for the thin face. The cloak she was wearing smelled of smoke and ash, and beneath it, the garments she wore seemed to have been made for a larger person. She gazed at Marguerida with a combination of fear and defiance that was disquieting, then lowered her eyes to the seared stones.

“I don’t know nearly as much as Domenic thinks,” Illona muttered gruffly, shuffling her feet under her.

“Well, whatever you know would interest me. I have been very curious about the Travelers since I saw their wagons for the first time sixteen years ago, and while my friend Erald has told me a few things, he is too obsessed with his music to pay attention to interesting details.” Who was this girl? Their brief physical contact had startled her, because she could sense the presence of
laran
in her rather strongly. And why, Marguerida wondered, was she wearing Nico’s old cloak, while he stood out in the chilly day in his tunic and shirtsleeves?

“Do you mean Erald the Balladeer? He went with us three summers ago, and I could not make heads or tails out of him,” Illona answered, relaxing slightly. “He hardly ate and never seemed to sleep, but only sat around plunking away at his instruments like a madman.”

“Yes, that’s him,” Marguerida answered, glad to find some common ground with her son’s new friend.

Someone came up behind her, and Marguerida recognized the familiar imprint of Dyan Ardais in her mind. He stepped beside her and looked at Domenic. “You look none the worse for your adventure, Nico.” He smiled at the young man in a friendly way, and then at his companion. Marguerida saw his eyes widen with surprise.

Does she remind you of someone,
Dom
Dyan?

The girl beside me is called Illona Rider, but it is my belief that you might have known her mother.
There was a stern quality in the boy’s mental tone.

Dyan shifted from foot to foot and stared at the girl, who looked back at him rather fiercely. Marguerida wondered if she was overhearing the unspoken conversation, but from the expression on her face, decided she was not, quite deliberately. Illona was consciously keeping herself from overhearing anything by concentrating on the rabbithorns in a nearby enclosure. And what the devil was Nico up to?
I did know a woman once, with hair like that. . . .

Then I suspect Illona is your daughter,
Dom
Dyan.
Nico’s words sounded accusing, and Dyan turned red with embarrassment.
She was found as a baby, in the ruins of a village that had been raided by bandits, and was saved from death by the Travelers. It was up in Ardais country, and she seems to have the Alton Gift, untrained but there, as near as I can tell, which made me think of your own father, you see.
Domenic was relentless now, and Marguerida could sense his steadfastness, his affection for this rather unprepossing girl, and his odd loyalty to her.

At least you can remember her name, among so many.
Domenic gazed at Dyan, who at thirty-seven was still unmarried, and scandalously reknowned in the Comyn for the number of his illegitimate offspring.

Marguerida wanted to laugh at the situation, but she knew she had to put a stop to it.
Nico!

I don’t think so—she can overhear a lot, even without a matrix, but she has learned how to block rather effectively. And she would happily leave her
laran
by the side of the road, if she could. She has been very upset, discovering that she has it, and if I hadn’t distracted her by teaching her to read these past couple of days, I think she would have gone to pieces from grief and sheer terror.

“Let’s get inside, out of the wind,” Nico said, looking less fierce now. Dyan Ardais was still standing there, looking uneasy and embarrassed, as if he did not know quite what to do next. Marguerida remembered their first meeting, years before, when he had come into her bedroom while she was recovering from her first episode of threshold sickness. His mother had sent him there to suggest that he might be a suitable spouse for her, and he had been awkward and miserable. In retrospect, it was still a funny experience, but Dyan had never been entirely at ease with women of his own class, and preferred the company of farmers’ daughters to those of the Comyn. He must have a dozen children up in the Kilghards by now, acknowledged only by generous gifts to the mothers. She suspected that the only reason he was embarrassed now was because Nico had found out about another one. And what would this girl think of the whole thing, when it was explained to her?

“That sounds like a good idea—you must be cold without your cloak, son.”

“Not really. Come along, Mother. Evan MacHaworth has a meal waiting, and I am sure you must be hungry after your ride.” He glanced over Marguerida’s shoulder and grinned. “I guess
Domna
Katherine is not going to kill Herm after all.”

Marguerida turned and looked behind her. Hermes Aldaran stood and lifted his hands to help Kate down from the saddle. When she did not move, he put his hands around her slender waist and swung her down beside him. The man’s face was pale in the watery sunlight, and there was a ruddyness in Katherine’s cheeks which might be anger or some tenderer emotion. “Gisela said I should box your ears,” she heard Katherine tell him in a strangled voice.

“That is the least I deserve,” her husband answered, sounding not at all contrite. “You are the most beautiful sight I have seen in days.”

“Save your charm for someone who wants it, Hermes-Gabriel Aldaran. I am not ready to forgive you yet.”

“I did not expect you to be, but I had hoped my letter . . .”

“Your letter does not get you off the hook.” Apparently unaware of the interested gazes of several people, Herm considered his next words. Then, in Terran, he said, “ ‘Fie, fie, unknit that threatening unkind brow.’ ”

“Hermes, that is my line, not yours,” Katherine answered in the same language, torn between amusement and despair in dealing with her unrepentant spouse.

“True—then, ‘Why, there’s a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate.’ ”

“Oh, you are impossible!” Then, in front of the bemused view of the Comyn, only a few of whom had understood what they had said, she grabbed his ears, pulled him toward her, and gave him a firm buss on the mouth. Kate drew away, looking a little breathless and pink with pleasure. “Now, be good, and I might forgive you in a few years.”

This was too much for several in the crowd, and there was muffled laughter, which made both Herm and Kate look around and realize they were being watched. The woman turned quite red, but Herm just made a deep bow to the audience. Then Robert Aldaran stepped out of the throng and clasped his brother strongly.

“You haven’t changed much,
bredu,
except you have lost your hair and your waistline.” Herm chortled and thumped Robert across the shoulders.

Marguerida turned away from this reunion and told her son, “Food sounds very inviting. Where is Rafaella?”

“She is doing a bit of spying—I wanted to go with her, but Uncle Hermes said I could not.” Nico paused, then shrugged. “Actually, what he said was that if I was not here to meet you, Katherine would not have to murder him because you probably would instead. And since I am very fond of him . . .”

Marguerida had to laugh at this. “He was right. I have been extremely anxious to see you, and to know with my own eyes that you had not come to harm. The slow pace of the funeral train has nearly driven me mad.” She put one hand on Nico’s shoulder and the other on the girl’s and started toward the door of the inn. Dyan Ardais trailed along beside her, watching the girl with an unreadable expression on his face.

Marguerida caught these quiet musings unwillingly, and raised her eyebrows at the last. Was that what the common folk said about her? It had not occurred to her that she might be a subject of gossip until now, and she found it extremely unpleasant. If only they had not immured themselves in Comyn Castle for all these years, letting the imaginations of the populace run wild with who knows what! Well, they would just have to remedy that another day! She forced the problem out of her mind, away from the future and back into the present.

Mikhail was coming toward them, with Donal close behind him. He grinned broadly at the sight of his son and Domenic slipped from her grasp and stepped forward to meet his father. She watched as her husband’s blond head bent a little downward and Nico’s dark one looked up. “I am so glad to see you safe, Domenic.”

“Herm made sure I came to no harm, Father.” Something more passed between them, some unspoken words, and Marguerida saw her son’s rather serious face brighten.

Glancing over her shoulder, Marguerida watched Herm and Katherine again, wondering what was passing between them. It would have been easy to snoop, but she held her curiosity in check. She saw Kate shake a gloved forefinger in her husband’s face, and Hermes bow his head a little, so his bare scalp gleamed in the soft light. He looked so much like a naughty boy being scolded that she had to turn away quickly to hide the laughter that bubbled up involuntarily.

They entered the warm inn, and the smell of food swept around them. A smiling man came bustling from the rear of the building, wiping his hands on a white apron. He bowed and greeted them like old friends, not strangers, and turned to lead them into the dining room. The tables were laid with what were clearly the best linens, and the scene was so ordinary that she could hardly believe that after this meal, they were going to ride deliberately into an ambush.

She was going to worry herself into a fit if she didn’t stop thinking about it, Marguerida told herself firmly as she took off her cloak. She hung it on a peg, and the girl, Illona, did the same. She wondered why the girl was wearing her son’s cloak and frowned over the small mystery. Then she found herself thinking like an interferring mother, like Lady Javanne, concerned that her son had fallen in love with this scrawny girl who could not, no matter who her father was, be a proper consort for the future ruler of Darkover. She was stunned at herself for a second. When had she turned into such a snob?