Hawkmistress! A DARKOVER NOVEL by Marion Zimmer Bradley

There were delicacies of every kind, for this was breakfast and mid-day meal in one; the feasting went on for some time, and before the dishes were cleared, the musicians had come in and begun to play. The curtains had been drawn back to their furthest to let in the midsummer sun, and the doors flung open; the furniture in the lower hall had been moved away to clear it for dancing. As Darren led his sister out for the first dance, as custom demanded, she heard them discussing, at the high table, the men that had been sent out to seek the exiled Carolin.

“It’s nothing to me,” The MacAran said, “I care not who sits on the throne; but I’ll not have my men bribed to be thief-takers, either. There was a time when MacArans ruled this as a kingdom; but then, we had little to do but keep it by force of arms, and I’ve no wish to make my lands an armed camp, and the Hasturs are welcome to rule as they will; but I curse their brotherslaying wars!”

“I had heard word that Carolin and his older son had crossed the Kadarin,” Lord Scathfell said, “No doubt to seek refuge with my cousin of Aldaran – there is old hatred between the Hastur-kin and the Aldarans.”

Her father drew up his mouth in a one-sided grin. “None so keen at the hunting of wolves as the dog with wolf blood,” he said, “Were not the Aldarans, long ago, come from that same Hastur-blood?”

“So they say,” Lord Scathfell said with a grim nod, “I put no stock in all those tales of the children of Gods . . . though, the Gods know, there is laran in the Aldaran line, even among my own sons and daughters, as among yours; have you not one son in a Tower, Dom Mikhail?”

Her father’s brow clouded. “Not by my will or wish, nor by my leave,” he spat out, “I give no name of son to him who dwells among the Hairimyn. On his lips the harmless word was an obscenity; he calmed himself with an effort and added, “But this is no talk for a festal board. Will it please you to dance, my Lord?”

“I will leave that for younger folk,” said Lord Scathfell, “But lead your lady out to dance if you will,” he added, and The MacAran turned dutifully to Lady Luciella and led her on to the dance floor.

After the first ceremonious dance, the younger folk gathered for a ring-dance, all the young men in the outer ring, and the girls and women in the inner one; the dancing grew riotous after a bit, and Romilly saw Darissa drop out of the dancers, her hand pressed to her side; she went to fetch her friend a drink, and sat beside her, chatting. Darissa wore the loose ungirdled gown of a pregnant woman, but even so she loosed the clasps on her tunic, and fanned herself – she was red and panting.

“I shall dance no more till this one is born,” she said, pressing her long fingers against her swollen body, “He holds his own dance, I think, and will dance from now till harvest-time, mostly when I am trying to sleep!” Cathal came and bent solicitously over his wife, but she gestured him back to the dancing. “Go and dance with the men, my husband, I will sit here for a little and talk with my old playmate – what have you been doing with yourself, Romilly? Are you not betrothed yet? You are fifteen now, are you not?”

Romilly nodded. She was shocked at her friend, who had been so pretty and graceful but three years ago; now she had grown heavy-footed, her small breasts swollen and thick beneath the laces of her gown, her waist clumsy. In three years, Darissa had had two children and now she was bearing another already! As if reading her thoughts, Darissa said with a bitter twist of her lips, “Oh, I know well, I am not so pretty as I was when I was a maiden – enjoy your last year of dancing, Romilly, ’tis likely that next year you too will be on the sidelines, swelling with your first; my husband’s father spoke of wedding you to Cinhil, or perhaps Mallina; he thinks her more docile and lady-like.”

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