The Forbidden Tower

Chapter Sixteen

The search in the archives of Armida was unproductive. There were records of all kinds of festivals which had at one time or another been customary in the Kilghard Hills, but the only Year’s End festival he could discover was an old fertility ritual which had died out considerably before the time of the burning of Neskaya and which seemed to have rather less than no bearing at all on Callista’s problem. Now that the search was underway, however, she was patient, and her health continued to improve.

Her menstruation had returned twice, but although Damon insisted that she should spend a precautionary day in bed each time, and he had been prepared to clear her channels again if needed, they remained clear. It was a good sign for her physical health, but a poor one for the eventual development of normal selectivity of the channels!

The normal winter work at Armida moved on, a mild winter, toward the spring thaw. As usual in winter, Armida was isolated, with few tidings of what happened in the outside world. Small bits of news took on major importance. A brood mare in one of the lower pastures gave birth to twin foals, both fillies. Dam Esteban gave them to Callista and Ellemir, saying that they should have matched saddle horses in a few years if they chose. The old minstrel Yashri, who had played for the dancing at Midwinter, broke two fingers of his hand in a fall during a drunken birthday party in the village, and his nine-year-old grandson came proudly to Armida, carrying his grandsire’s harp — which was nearly as tall as he was — to play dances for them in the long evenings. A woman on the further edge of the estate gave birth to four children at a single birth, and Callista rode with Ferrika out to the village where it had happened, to deliver gifts and good-will wishes. An overnight storm forced her to spend two nights away from home, to Andrew’s dread and worry. When she returned and he asked why this had been necessary, she told him gently, “It is needful for the safety of the babes, my husband. In the far hills the people are ignorant. They regard such a birth as a portent of luck, evil or good, and who is to know how it will take them? Ferrika can tell them this is nonsense, but she is one of themselves and they will not listen to her, though she is a midwife trained in Arilinn, a Free Amazon, and probably much more intelligent than I am. But I am Comyn, and a leronis. When I take gifts to the children, and comforts to the mother, the people know I have them under my protection, and at least they will not treat them as some frightful omen of catastrophe to come.”

“What were the babies like?” Ellemir asked eagerly, and Callista grimaced. “All newborn babes look to me like hairless rabbithorns for the spit, Elli, surpassingly ugly.”

“Oh, Callie, how can you say that!” Ellemir reproached. “Well, I shall simply have to go and see them for myself! Four at a birth, what a marvel!”

“Still, it is hard for the poor woman. I managed to encourage two women of the village to share the suckling, but even before they are weaned, we shall have to send them a dairy animal.”

News of the quadruple birth spread far and wide around the hills, and Ferrika said she was glad it was still winter and the roads not too good — though indeed it was a mild winter — or the poor woman would be bothered to death by people coming to see this marvel. Andrew found himself wondering what a severe winter would be like, if this was a mild one. He supposed that some year he would find out.

He had lost track of the passing time, except insofar as he carefully registered expected dates of foaling in the horse ranch’s studbooks and got into long, involved discussions with Dom Esteban and old Rhodri about the breeding of the best mares. The days were lengthening perceptibly when he had the passing of time brought forcibly to his attention.

He had come in from a long day in the saddle, and was going upstairs to ready himself for the evening meal. Callista, in the Great Hall, was with her father, teaching the old man to play her harp. Ellemir met him at the door of the suite they shared and drew him into her half of the rooms.

This was not uncommon. Damon had been absorbed in research, and now and again made lengthy journeys into the overworld. His efforts were fruitless so far, but it had the normal consequence of matrix work, and Ellemir had, matter-of-factly, welcomed Andrew into her bed at these times and others. At first he had accepted this for what it had always been, a substitute for Callista’s inability. Then, one night, when he merely slept at her side — she had turned away intimacy, saying she was too tired — he had realized that it was not only this he desired of Ellemir.

He loved her. Not as a substitute for Callista, but for herself. He found this intensely disturbing, having always thought that falling in love with one woman meant falling out of love with others. He carefully concealed the thought, knowing it would trouble her, and only when he was far out in the hills, away from them all, did he let his mind carefully explore the thought: God help me, have I married the wrong woman? And yet when he saw Callista again, he knew he loved her no less than ever, that he would love her forever even if he could never again touch even her fingertips. He loved both of them. What could he do about it? Now, as he looked at Ellemir, small and smiling and flushed, he could not forbear taking her in his arms and kissing her heartily.

She wrinkled her nose at him. “You smell of the saddle.”

“I’m sorry, I was going to bathe—”

“Don’t apologize, I like the smell of horses, and in winter I can never get out and ride. What were you doing?” When he told her, she said, “I’d think the coridom could handle that.”

“Oh, he could, but if they get used to seeing me handle their problems, they’ll be willing to come to me instead of bothering Dom Esteban. And he looks so tired and worn lately. I think the winter is weighing on him.”

“On me too,” Ellemir said, “but I have something now to make the waiting worthwhile. Andrew, I wanted to tell you first of all: I am pregnant! It must have happened shortly before Midwinter—”

“God almighty!” he said, shocked and sobered. “Ellemir, I’m sorry, love — I should have been—”

It was like a slap in the face. She moved away from him, her eyes flashing with anger. “I wanted to thank you for this, and now I find you begrudge me this greatest of gifts. How can you be so cruel?”

“Wait, wait—” He felt confused. “Elli, little love—”

“How dare you call me love-names after… after slapping me in the face like that?”

He put out a hand to her. “Wait, Ellemir, please. I don’t understand again, I thought… Are you trying to tell me you are pleased about being pregnant?”

She felt equally confused. “How could I possibly not be pleased? What sort of women have you known? I was so happy, so very happy when Ferrika told me this morning that now it was sure, not just my own wishes confusing me.” She looked ready to cry. “I wanted to share my happiness and you treat me like a prostitute, as if I were unfit to bear your child!” She sobbed suddenly. Andrew drew her against him. She pushed him away, then lay weeping against his shoulder.

He said helplessly, “Oh, Ellemir, Ellemir, will I ever understand any of you? If you are happy about this, then of course I am happy too.” He realized that he meant it as he had never meant anything in his life.

She sniffled, raising her head, like a day in springtime, all showers and sunshine. “Really, Andrew? Really glad?”

“Of course, darling, if you are.” Whatever complications this might cause, he added to himself. It must be his child or she would have told Damon first.

She picked up his confusion. “But how could Damon feel? He shares my happiness, of course, and is glad!” She leaned back, looked up into his face and said, “Would this also be something wrong for your people? I am glad I do not know any of them!”

Repeated shocks of this kind had made Andrew almost numb to them. “Damon is my friend, my best friend. Among my people this would be considered treachery, a betrayal. My best friend’s wife would be the one woman forbidden to me.”

She shook her head. “I do not think I like your people at all. Do you think I would share my bed with any man my husband did not know and love? Would I bear a child for my husband to father, by a stranger or an enemy?” After a moment, she added, “It is true, I wished to bear Damon a child first, but you know what happened, and might happen again. We are too closely kin, so now we may decide to have no children between us, since he does not need an heir of Ridenow blood, and a child you give us is likely to be healthier and stronger than one he might give me.”

“I see.” He could admit it made some sense, but he paused to examine his own feelings. A child of his own, by a woman he loved. But not by his beloved wife. A child who would call some other man father, on whom he would have no claim. And how would Callista feel? Would it seem another mark of her distance, her exclusion? Would she feel betrayed?

Ellemir said gently, “I am sure she will be glad for me too. Surely you do not think I would add a feather’s weight to her sorrow when she has had so much to bear.”

He still felt uncertain. “Does she know?”

“No, though she may suspect, of course.” She hesitated. “I always forget you are not one of us. I will tell her if you wish, though one of our own would want to tell her himself.”

The complex courtesies of such things were beyond him, but suddenly he wished to do what was right in his adopted world. He said firmly, “I will tell her.”

But he would choose his own time, when she could not doubt his love.

He went into his own room, in confusion, and while he made himself ready for the evening meal, his thoughts ran a strange counterpoint to the mundane business of bathing, trimming the beard which, in defiance of custom, he had begun to grow, putting on his neat indoor clothing.

His own child. Here, on a strange world, and not even the child of his own wife. But Ellemir did not think it strange, and Damon had, evidently, known for some time and approved. A strange world, and he was part of it.

Before he was ready, he heard riders in the courtyard, and when he came downstairs he found Damon’s brother Kieran, returning from a wintertime visit to Thendara with his eldest son, a redheaded, bright-eyed boy of fourteen or so, and half a dozen Guardsmen, paxmen and hangers-on. Andrew had not liked Damon’s eldest brother Lorenz, but he found Kieran likable, and welcomed news from the outside world, as did Dom Esteban.

“Tell me how Domenic fares,” demanded the old man, and Kieran smiled, saying, “As it happens, I saw a good deal of him. Kester” — he indicated his son — “is due to go into the cadet corps this summer, so I felt it best to refuse his offer to take Danvan’s place as cadet-master; no man can be master to his own son.” He smiled to take the sting from the words, and said, “I do not wish to be as hard on my son as you had to be on yours, Lord Alton.”

“Is he well? Does he manage the Guards competently?”

“As near as I can tell, you could hardly do better yourself,” Kieran said. “He sits long and listens to wiser heads. He has asked much advice from Kyril Ardais and from Danvan, and even of Lorenz, though I do not think” — he smiled sidelong at Damon, a shared joke — “that he really thinks much more of Lorenz than we do. Still, he is wary, and diplomatic, has made the right friends, and has no favorites. His bredin are well-behaved lads both, young Cathal Lindir, and one of his nedestro brothers — I think the name is Dezirado?”

“Desiderio,” said Dom Esteban, with a smile of relief. “I am glad to hear that Dezi is safe and well too.”

“Oh, aye, the three of them are always together, but no brawling, no whoring, no roistering. They are as sober as monks all three. You would think Domenic realized, like a man three times his age, that such a young lad in the command will be watched night and day. Not that they are sad-faced prigs either — young Nic always has a laugh or a jest — but he is holding down the responsibility with both hands,” Kieran told them, and Andrew remembering the merry boy who had stood beside him at his wedding, was glad Domenic was doing so well. As for Dezi, well, perhaps a responsible and challenging job, and knowing that Domenic acknowledged his family status as the old man would never do, might at last help the boy find himself. He hoped so. He knew what it was to feel you did not belong anywhere.

“Is there other news, brother-in-law?” Ellemir asked eagerly, and Kieran smiled. “No doubt I should have taken heed of the ladies’ gossip in Thendara, sister. Let me think… There was a riot in the street where the Free Amazon’s Guild-house stands, and the story goes that some man claimed his wife had been taken there unwilling—”

“That is not true,” Ferrika said angrily. “Forgive me, Dom Kieran, but a woman must come herself and beg admission there!”

Kieran laughed good-naturedly. “I do not doubt it, mestra, but so the tale runs in Thendara, that he sent hired swords to take her back, and they say his wife fought alongside the Amazons defending her house, and wounded him. The tale grows ever greater with each mouth that repeats it Someday, no doubt, they will say she killed him and nailed his head to the wall. Someone was exhibiting the body of a two-headed foal in the market, but my paxman told me it was a fake, and a clumsy one at that. In his boyhood he was apprentice for a time to a harness-maker and knows their tricks. And, let me think a moment, oh, yes. As I rode through the hills, I heard of a field of kireseth in bloom with the warm days, not a true Ghost Wind as in the summertime, but a winter blooming.”

Dom Esteban nodded, smiling. He said, “It is rare, but it happens, and it used to be thought fortunate.”

Callista explained in a low voice to Andrew: “Kireseth is a flower which blooms but rarely in the hills. The pollen and flowers are the source from which we make kirian. When it blooms in high summer, with the heat and wind in the hills, it sweeps down from the hills in a wind of madness, a Ghost Wind they call it. Men do strange things under its influence, and when there is a true Ghost Wind we ring the alarms and barricade ourselves in our homes, for the beasts run mad in the forests, and sometimes nonhumans come down out of the hills and attack mankind. I saw them once as a child,” she said, shuddering.

Dom Esteban went on: “But with a winter blooming, it cannot last long enough to be serious. A village’s folk will forget their sowing and ploughing, leave their gardens untended for a day or two while they play the fool, but after a few hours the rain comes to settle the pollen to the ground. The worst thing I ever heard during a winter blooming was that the scavenger wolves in the forest grew bold — the pollen affects the brain of man and beasts alike — and came into the fields to attack cattle or horses. Mostly a winter blooming is only an unexpected holiday.”

Andrew remembered that he had been warned by Damon not to handle or smell the kireseth flowers in the still-room.

“It has one other side effect,” said Ferrika, with a broad smile. “There will be more work in that village for the midwife, when autumn comes. Women who have chosen not to have children, or even old matrons whose children are grown, sometimes find themselves with child.”

Dom Esteban guffawed. “Ah, yes, when I was a lad they used to make jokes at weddings, if the marriage had been arranged by the families and the bride was reluctant. Then one summer there was a wedding — oh, off to the north, near Edelweiss — and a Ghost Wind blew during the feasting. The festivities were rowdy, feasting and drinking and… well it was indecorous, and went on for days. I was too young, alas, to take much good from it, but I remember seeing some things usually shielded from children’s eyes.” He wiped tears of laughter from his face. “And then, more than half a year later, many children were born about whose parentage there was, to say the very least, a question. Now they do not make such jokes at weddings any more.”

“How disgusting!” Ferrika said with a grimace, but Damon could not help laughing, thinking of the wedding whose vulgar jokes and rowdy games, made in jest, had turned to an orgy under the influence of the Ghost Wind.

“I don’t suppose they thought it was funny,” Ellemir said soberly, and Dom Esteban said, “No indeed, chiya. As I told you, they do not ever make such jokes at weddings there now! But indeed, there used to be tales in the hills that in summer, when the Ghost Winds blew, some people in the Domains would hold festival, an old festival of fertility. Those were barbarian days, before the Compact, perhaps even before the Ages of Chaos.” He added, “But, of course, a winter blooming is nothing serious.”

“Nor any laughing matter,” Ferrika said, “for the women who find themselves bearing an undesired child!”

Andrew saw Ellemir frown a little in puzzlement. He followed her thoughts easily enough: Could any woman not want a child? Callista said, “I could wish for a winter blooming here. I must make more kirian, because what we have is nearly gone and we should keep it in the house.”

One of the stewards, eating his meal at a side table where he could be quickly summoned at need, raised his head and said, in a diffident, rusty voice, “Domna, if that is truly your wish, there are kireseth flowers on the hillside above the pasture where the twin foals were born, the one where the old stone bridge stands. I do not know if they are in bloom still, but my brother saw them when he rode that way three days ago.”

“Truly?” Callista said. “I thank you, Rimal. If the weather holds fine — though it is not likely to — I shall ride that way tomorrow and replenish my store.”

That night there was neither rain nor snow, and after breakfast, when Kieran Ridenow had taken his leave — Dom Esteban urged him to stay for a few days, but he said he must take advantage of the good weather — Callista ordered her horse saddled. Dom Esteban frowned when he saw her in her riding skirt.

“I do not like this, Callista. Chiya, when I was a lad it was always said that no woman should ride alone in the hills when the kireseth is in bloom.”

Callista laughed. “Father, do you truly think—”

“You are comynara, child, and none of our own would harm you, mad or sane, but there might be strangers or outlaws in the hills.”

“I will take Ferrika with me,” she said gaily. “She has had the training of an Amazon Guild-house, and can defend herself against any man born, whether he intend robbery or rape.”

But Ferrika, summoned in half seriousness, refused to go. “The dairyman’s wife is near her term and may give birth today, domna,” she said. “It would hardly be seemly to leave my proper task and go pleasure-riding into the hills. You have a husband, my lady, ask him to ride with you.”

There was not much for Andrew to do about the estate — the repairs from the storm had been completed, and the ranch was still in its winter dormancy, despite the fine weather. He had his horse saddled.

Away from the household, he thought, when they were together, he might find the right moment to tell her about Ellemir. And the baby.

It was still early when they set out. To the east, the sky was layered with purple and black flaps of thick clouds, latticed with crimson from the sun behind. As they rode along the steep trails, looking down into the valleys below, with patches of snow clinging below the trees, and the horses on every hillside cropping the sprigs of new-sprung grass, his heart lightened. Callista had never seemed merrier, more beautiful. She sang snatches of old ballads as they rode, and once paused, childlike, at the mouth of a long valley to send a long, sweet “Hallooo — ooo — ooo” down the slope, laughing gaily when the echo came back a hundredfold from the high rocky slopes. As they rode the sun climbed the sky and the day grew warmer. She unfastened her dark blue riding cape and slung it across her saddle horn.

“I did not know you could ride so well,” Andrew said.

“Oh, yes, even at Arilinn I rode a great deal. We spend so much time indoors, in the screens and the relays, that if we did not get out of doors for exercise, we would be as stiff and lifeless as the paintings of Hastur and Cassilda in the chapel! We used to take our hawks, on holidays, and ride out into the country around Arilinn — it is not hill country like this, but flat plain — and fly them at birds and small game. I was proud that I could handle a verrin hawk, a big bird, like this” — she spread her hands apart — “not a lady-bird as most of the women did.” She laughed again, a ringing sound. “Poor Andrew, I have been captive, and ill, and house-bound, so much that you must think me some delicate fairy-tale maiden, but I am a country girl, and very strong. When I was a child I could ride as well as my brother Coryn. Now I think my mare can beat your gelding to that fence yonder!” She clucked to the horse and was off like the wind. Andrew dug in his heels and raced after her, his heart in his mouth — she was not accustomed to riding now; she would be off in a moment — but woman and horse seemed to blend into a single creature. When she reached the fence, instead of pulling up her horse, she went flying over, with a laughing cry of excitement, the gray mare rising like a bird in the air and coming down lightly on the far side. As Andrew followed, she drew her horse to a walk and they moved along more slowly, side by side.

Perhaps this was what it was to be in love, Andrew thought. Every time he saw Callista it was like the first time, always all new and surprising. But that thought stirred the guilt which was never very far away. After a few minutes she noticed his silence, turned to him, reaching her small gloved hand to his. “What is it, my husband?”

“I had something to tell you, Callista,” he said abruptly. “Did you know Ellemir is pregnant again?”

Her face was suffused with her smile. “I am so glad for her! She has been so brave, but now she will have an end to mourning and sorrow.”

“You don’t understand,” Andrew said doggedly. “She says it is my child—”

“Oh, of course,” Callista said. “She told me Damon had not wanted her to try again so soon, for fear she would… would lose it. I’m very glad, Andrew.”

Would he ever get used to their customs? He supposed it was lucky for him, but still… “Don’t you mind, Callista?”

She started to say — he almost heard the words — “Why should I mind?” but then he saw her suppress them. He was still a stranger in some ways, in spite of everything. She said at last, slowly, “No, Andrew, I truly don’t mind. I don’t suppose you do understand. But look at it this way.” She smiled again, her mirthful smile. “There will be a baby in the house, your child, and although I am fond enough of babies, I do not really want to have one yet. In fact, and this is ridiculous, Andrew,” she added, laughing, “although Ellemir and I are twins, I am not old enough to have a baby yet! Don’t you know that the midwives say no woman should bear a child until her body has been mature a full three years? And for me it is not half a year yet! Isn’t that funny? Elli and I are twins, and she is pregnant the second time, and I am not really old enough to have a baby!”

He flinched at the joke. How could she make jokes about the way in which her body had been held, immature, and yet, he realized soberly, it was her very ability to find something funny, even in this, which had saved them all from despair.

They reached the valley with the old stone bridge, where the twin foals had been born. Together they rode up the long slope, tethered their horses to a tree, and dismounted.

“Kireseth is a flower of the heights,” Callista said. “It does not grow in the tilled valleys, and probably it is a good thing. Men sometimes even weed it out when it grows on the lower slopes, because the pollen causes trouble: when it blooms, even horses and cattle are likely to behave like mad things, stampede, attack one another, mate out of season. But it is very valuable, for we make the kirian from it. And look, it is beautiful,” she said, pointing to the long grassy slope, covered with a cascade of blue flowers, shimmering with their golden stamens. Some were still blue, others like bells of gold, covered with the golden pollen.

She tied a piece of thin cloth, like a mask, over the lower part of her face. “I am trained to handle it without reacting much,” she said, “but even so, I do not want to breathe too much of it.”

He watched while she made preparations to gather the flowers, but she warned him away. “Don’t come too close, Andrew. You have never been exposed to it before. Everyone who lives in the Kilghard Hills has been through a Ghost Wind or two and knows how they will react, but it does very strange things. Stay here under the trees, with the horses.”

Andrew demurred, but she repeated her injunction firmly. “Do you think I need help picking a few flowers, Andrew? I brought you with me to have your company on the long ride, and to soothe my father’s fears about bandits or robbers lurking in the hills with intent to rob me of the jewels I am not wearing, or to attempt rape, which might,” she added, with a touch of grim laughter, “be worse for them to attempt than for me to suffer.”

Andrew turned his face away. He was glad Callista could find some amusement, but that particular joke struck him as being in questionable taste.

“It will not take long for me to gather what I need of the flowers; they are already blooming and are heavy with the resin. Wait here for me, my love.”

He did as she said, watching her move away from him and into the flowers. She stooped and began cutting the flower heads, putting them into a thick bag she had brought. Andrew lay down on the grass beside the horses and watched her moving lightly through the field of gold and blue flowers, her red-gold hair falling in a single braid down her back. The sun was warm, warmer than he could remember for any day on Darkover. Bees and insects buzzed and whirred softly in the field of flowers, and a few birds swooped down overhead. Around him, with sharpened senses, he could smell the horses and their saddle leather, the heavy scent of the resin-trees, and a sweet, sharp, fruity smell which, he supposed, must be the scent of the kireseth flowers. He could feel it filling his head. Remembering that Damon had warned him against handling or smelling even the dried flowers, he conscientiously moved the horses a little further away. It was a still, windless day, with not the slightest breeze blowing. He drew off his riding jacket and wadded it under his head. The sun made him drowsy. How graceful Callista was, as she bent over the flowers, cutting a blossom here and one there, stowing them in her bag. He closed his eyes, but behind his eyelids it seemed he could still see sunlight, splintering into brilliant colors and prisms. He knew he must have had a whiff of the resin; Damon had said it was an hallucinogen. But he felt relaxed and content, with no impulse to do any of the dangerous things he had been warned that men and animals did under its influence. He was completely content to lie here on the warm grass, dimly conscious of the shifting rainbow colors behind his eyelids. When he opened his eyes, the sunlight seemed brighter, warmer.

Then Callista was coming toward him, the mask fallen from her face, her hair flowing. She seemed to wade, waist-deep, through shimmering golden waves of the star-shaped flowers, a delicate girlish woman in a cloud of bright copper hair. For a moment her form shimmered and wavered as if she were not there at all, not his wife in a riding skirt, but the ghostly image he had seen while her body lay prisoner in the caves of Corresanti and she could come to him only in insubstantial form in the overworld. But she was real. She sat beside him on the grass, bending her glowing face over him with a smile so tender that he could not forbear to draw her down to him and kiss her lips. She returned his kiss with an intensity which dimly surprised him… although, half asleep and his senses half sharpened, half dulled by the pollen, he could not remember quite why this should surprise him so much.

He reached for her, drew her down beside him in the grass. He held her in his arms, kissing her passionately, and she gave him back his kisses without hesitation or withdrawal.

A random thought crossed his mind, like a flicker of wind stirring the glowing flowers: Did I ever dream that I had married the wrong woman? This new, responsive Callista in his arms, glowing with tenderness, made the very thought absurd. He knew that she shared the thought — he no longer cared to try to conceal it from her, no longer cared to conceal anything from her — and that it amused her. He could feel the little glimmering ripples of laughter through the waves of desire which swept them both.

He knew, positively, that now he could do what he would and she would not protest, but compunction stayed him from anything further than this, the kisses she shared and gave back so intensely. Whatever she felt, it might be dangerous for her. That night… she had wanted him then too. And that had ended in catastrophe and near-tragedy. He would not risk it again until he was certain, more for her sake than his own.

He knew she was beyond fear, but she accepted this, as she had accepted the kisses, the caresses. Strangely, there seemed no compulsion to go further, no ache of frustration. He was also swept with ripples of laughter which seemed somehow to heighten the ecstatic quality of this moment, of sun and warmth and flowers and singing insects in the grass all around him, a laughter, a mirth which shook Callista too, along with desire.

His wife and he were perfectly content to lie here in the grass beside her, with his clothes on, and she hers, and do nothing more than kiss her, as if they were children in their teens… It was absurdly hilarious and delightful.

The politest of the Darkovan words for sex was accandir which meant simply to lie down together and was so noncommittal that it could be used in the presence of young children. Well, he thought, again swept by the little ripples of mirth, that was what they were doing. He never knew how long they lay there side by side in the grass, kissing or gently caressing one another, while he played with the strands of her hair or watched the soft prisms of color behind his eyes crawl across her glowing face.

It must have been hours later — the sun had begun to angle down from noon — when a cloud darkened the sun and a wind sprang up, blowing Callista’s hair across her face. Andrew blinked and sat up, looking down at her. She lay resting on one elbow, her under-tunic opened at the throat, bits of grass and flowers caught in her hair. It was suddenly cold, and Callista looked at the sky regretfully. “I am afraid we must go, or we will be caught in the rain. Look at the clouds.” With reluctant fingers she fastened her tunic-laces, picked leaves from her hair, and braided it loosely. “Just enough for decency,” she sad, laughing. “I do not want to look as if I had been lying down in the fields, even with my own husband!”

He laughed, gathering up the bag of flowers at her side, laying it on the pommel of her saddle. What happened to them? he wondered. The sun, the pollen, what was it? He was ready to lift her on her horse when she delayed, suddenly catching at him, putting her arms around his neck.

She said, “Andrew, oh, please—” and glanced at the edge of the field, the shelter of the trees. He knew her thoughts; there was no need to put them into words.

“I want to… I want to be all yours.”

His hands tightened about her waist, but he did not move.

He said, very gently, “Darling, no. No risks.”

It seemed that it would be all right, but he was not sure. If the channels overloaded again… He could not bear to see her suffer that way. Not again.

She drew a long, deep breath of disappointment, but he knew she accepted his decision. When she raised her eyes to him again they were filled with tears, but she was smiling. I will cast no shadow on this wonderful day by asking for more, like a greedy child.

He put her riding cloak around her shoulders, for a sharp wind was blowing from the heights and it was cold. As he lifted her into the saddle he could see the field of flowers, now chill blue, without the golden shimmer that had been on them. The sky was darkening into a drizzle of rain. He lifted Callista into her saddle, and beyond her, as he mounted, could, see that on the other slope across the valley the horses were beginning to bunch up, moving restlessly, looking for shelter also.

The ride back was silent, Andrew feeling let down, distressed. He felt that he had been a fool. He should have taken advantage of Callista’s yielding, the sudden disappearance of fear or hesitation. What stupid compunction had made him hesitate?

After all, if it was Callista’s response to him which overloaded the channels, there had already been as much of that as if he had actually taken her. As she had wished! What a fool he had been, he thought, what a damnable fool!

Callista was silent, also, glancing now and then at him with an inexpressible look of guilt and dread. He picked up her fear, fear that came to wipe out the gladness.

I am glad I have known, again, what it was to desire him, to return his love… but I am afraid. And he could feel the paralyzing texture of her fear, the memory of pain when she had allowed herself, before, to respond to him. I couldn’t endure that again. Not even with kirian. And it would be dreadful for Damon too. Merciful Avarra, what have I done?

It was raining hard by the time they reached Armida, and Andrew lifted Callista from the saddle, sensing with dismay the way her body stiffened against his touch. Again? He kissed her wet face under the soaked hood. She did not draw away from the kiss, but she did not return it, either. Puzzled, but trying to be sympathetic — she was afraid, poor girl, and who could blame her after that awful ordeal? — Andrew carried her up the steps and set her on her feet.

“Go and dry yourself, my precious, don’t wait for me. I must make sure the horses are properly seen to.”

Callista went slowly and regretfully up the stairs. Her gaiety had vanished, leaving her feeling tired and sick with apprehension. One of the strongest taboos in Arilinn was that which made the raw kireseth plant, untreated, a thing wholly forbidden. Although she was no longer bound by those laws, she felt guilty and ashamed. Even when she knew she was being affected by the flowers, she had remained to enjoy the effect, not moving out of range or withdrawing. And through the guilt was fear. She did not feel as she had felt with channel overload before — she had seldom felt better — but knowing what she did about herself, she was deathly frightened.

She went in search of Damon, and he guessed at once what had happened. “Were you exposed to kireseth, Callista? Tell me.”

Stumbling, ashamed, frightened, she managed to convey to Damon a little of what had happened. Damon, listening to the faltering words, thought in an anguished empathy that she sounded as shamed as a repentant harlot, not a married woman who had spent the day innocently with her own husband. But he was troubled. After the events of the early winter, Andrew would never have approached her like this, without an explicit invitation. Kireseth, as a matter of fact, had quite a reputation for breaking down inhibitions. But whatever the cause, she might again have overloaded her channels with two conflicting sets of responses. “Well, let us see what harm has been done.”

But after monitoring her briefly, he felt confused. “Are you sure, Callista? Your channels are a Keeper’s, undisturbed. What sort of joke is this?”

“Joke? Damon, what do you mean? It happened just as I said.”

“But that is impossible,” Damon said. “You could not react like that. If you had, your channels would be overloaded and you would be very ill. What do you feel now?”

“Nothing,” she said wearily, defeated, “I feel nothing, nothing, nothing!” For a moment he thought she would burst into tears. She spoke again, her voice tight with unshed tears. “It is gone, like a dream, and I have broken the laws of the Tower. I am outcaste for nothing.”

Damon did not know what to think. A dream, compensating for the deprivations of her life? The kireseth was, after all, an hallucinogenic drug. He stretched his hands to her. Her automatic withdrawal from the touch verified his guess: she and Andrew had merely shared an illusion.

Later he questioned Andrew, which he could do more thoroughly and specifically, discussing the physical responses involved. Andrew was distressed and defensive, though he willingly admitted he would have been responsible if Callista had been harmed. Zandru’s hells, Damon thought, what a tangle! Andrew already had so much guilt about wanting Callista when she could not respond to him, and now he must be deprived even of the illusion. Laying his hand on his friend’s shoulder, he said, “It’s all right, Andrew. You didn’t hurt her. She’s all right, I tell you, her channels are still wholly clear.” Andrew said stubbornly, “I don’t believe it was a dream, or an illusion, or anything like that. Damn it, I didn’t invent the leaves in my hair!”

Damon said, wrung with pity, “I’ve no doubt you were lying somewhere on the ground. Kireseth contains one fraction which stimulates laran. Evidently you and Callista were in telepathic contact, much more strongly than usual, and your… your frustrations built a dream. Which could happen without… without endangering her. Or you.”

Andrew hid his face with his hands. It was bad enough to feel like a fool for spending the whole day kissing and caressing his wife without anything more intimate, but to be told that he had simply gone off on a drugged dream about doing it — that was worse. Stubbornly he looked up at Damon. “I don’t believe it was a dream,” he said. “If it was a dream, why didn’t I dream of what I really wanted to do? Why didn’t she ? Dreams are supposed to relieve frustrations, not make new ones, aren’t they?”

That, of course, was a good question, Damon admitted, but what did he know of the fears and frustrations which might inhibit even dreams? One night, during his early manhood, he had dreamed of touching Leonie as no Keeper might be touched even in thought, and he had spent three sleepless nights for fear of repeating the offense.

In his own room, readying himself for the evening meal, Andrew looked at his garments, crumpled and stained. Was he fool enough to have erotic dreams about his own wife? He didn’t believe it. Damon wasn’t there; he was. And he knew what happened, even if he could not explain it. He was supremely glad Callista was not harmed, though he could not understand that either.

It was that night at dinner when Dom Esteban said, in a worried tone, “I wonder… do you suppose all is well with Domenic? I feel something menaces him, something evil…”

“Nonsense, Father,” Ellemir said gently. “Only this morning Dom Kieran told us he was well and happy, and surrounded by his loving friends, behaving himself and carrying out his responsibilities as best he could! Don’t be silly!”

“I suppose you are right,” the old man said, but still he looked troubled.

“I wish he were at home.”

Damon and Ellemir exchanged frowning glances. Like all Altons, Dom Esteban had occasional flashes of precognition. God grant he was only worrying, Damon thought, not seeing the future. The old man was crippled and ill. It was probably only worry.

But Damon found that he too had begun to worry, and he did not stop.