Either way, there was nothing but hell ahead.
Chapter TWENTY
(Lew Alton’s narrative)
Shortly after sunrise I let myself fall into a fitful drowse. Some time later I was awakened by a strange outcry, women screaming—no, wailing, a sound I had heard only once before … on my trip into the backwoods, in a house where there was a death.
I threw on some clothes and ran out into the corridor. It was crowded, servants rushing to and fro, no one ready to stop and answer my questions. I met Marjorie at the foot of the little stair from her tower. She was as white as her chamber robe.
“Darling, what is it?”
“I’m not sure. It’s the death-wail!” She put out a hand and forcibly stopped one of the women rushing by. “What is it, what’s that wailing, what’s happened?”
The woman gasped. “It’s the old lord, domna Marguerida, your guardian, he died in the night—”
As soon as I heard the words I knew I had been expecting it. I felt stricken, grieved. Even in such a short time I had come to love my uncle, and beyond my personal grief I was dismayed at what this must mean. Not only for the Domain of Aldaran, but for all Darkover. His reign had been a long one, and a wise one.
“Thyra,” Marjorie whispered, “Evanda pity us, what will she do, how will she live with this?” She clutched my arm.”He’s her father, Lew! Did you know? My father owned to her, but she was none of his, and it was her doing, her mistake, that has killed him!”
“Not hers,” I said gently. “Sharra.” I had begun to believe, now, that we were all helpless before it. Tomorrow— no, today, the sooner the better—it should go back to the forge-folk. Desideria had been right: it had lain safe in their keeping, should never have left them. I quailed, thinking of what Beltran would say. Yet Kadarin had pledged Desideria to abide my judgment.
First I must visit the death chamber, pay a kinsman’s respects. The high wailing of the death-cries went on from inside, fraying my already ragged nerves to shreds. Marjorie clutched desperately at my fingers. As we entered the great chamber I heard Thyra’s voice, bursting out, almost screaming:
“Cease that pagan caterwauling! I’ll have none of it here!” One or two of the women stopped in mid-wail; others, halfhearted, stopped and started again. Beltran’s voice was a harsh shout:
“You who killed him, Thyra, would you deny him proper respect?”
She was standing at the foot of the bed, her head thrown back, defiant. She sounded at the ragged end of endurance. “You superstitious idiot, do you really believe his spirit has stayed here to listen to the yowling over his corpse? Is this your idea of a seemly sound of mourning?”
Beltran said, more gently, “More seemly, perhaps, than this kind of brawling, foster-sister.” He looked as you would expect after a long night of watching, and a death. He gestured to the women. “Go, go, finish, your wailing elsewhere. The days are long gone when anyone must stand and wail to scare away demons from the dead.”
Kermiac had been decently laid out, his hands laid crosswise on his breast, his eyes closed. Marjorie made the cristoforo sign across the old man’s brow, then across her own. She bent and pressed her lips for a moment to the cold brow, whispering, “Rest in peace, my lord. Holy Bearer of Burdens, give us strength to bear our loss . . .” Then she turned quietly away and bent over the weeping Thyra.
“He is past all forgiveness or blame, darling. Don’t torment yourself this way. It is for us to bear now, for the living. Come away, love, come away.”
Thyra collapsed into terrible sobbing and let Marjorie lead her out of the room. I stood looking down at the calm, composed old face. For a moment it seemed my own father was lying here before me. I bent and kissed the cold brow, as Marjorie had done.
I said to Beltran, “I knew him such a little while. It is my great loss that I did not come here before.” I embraced my kinsman, cheek to cheek, feeling the pain of his grief added to my own. Beltran turned away, pale and composed, as Regis came into the room, Danilo in his wake. Regis spoke a brief formal phrase of condolence, held out his hand. Beltran bowed over it but he did not speak. Had his grief dimmed his awareness of courtesy? He should have bidden Regis welcome as his guest; somehow it made me uneasy that he did not. Danilo made the cristoforo sign over the old man’s brow, as Marjorie had done, whispering, I suppose, one of their prayers, then made a formal bow to Beltran.