The Rebellion

Chapter 4

“I was to give this to you and no other.” The Guardsman held out a creased envelope.

Ban thanked him. “Come in and warm yourself. I’ll have the kitchen send you something hot to drink at once.”

Having made sure both man and horse were properly attended to, Ban took the letter into the little family chapel to read. It was an old room in the depths of the house, the four old god-forms painted crudely on the walls, lights burning before them even during the day.

Instantly, Ban recognized his mother’s angular script. She had learned to read and write Darkovan as an adult, and she had never mastered the smoothly looping calligraphy.

” Nico my dear,” the letter began. Ban smiled at her use of his childhood nickname.

“I hope this letter finds you well, although I understand there is small likelihood the same is true for Domna. Jenny. I cannot tell you how proud I am of your kindness in going to her. I hope with all my heart that you two have been able to achieve some measure of understanding on behalf of all of us. No one should end their life with such bitterness and unhealed wounds.”

How like his mother, to look for a reconciliation even though her own relationship with Mikhail’s mother had never been close. Over the years, Marguerida had borne the brunt of Jenny’s rages and had done her best to shield her husband from the old woman’s vicious schemes.

“As much pride as your visit gives us, your father and I hope that your absence will not be long.”

Ban looked up from the letter. Even the gray light that filtered through the window seemed too bright. On the surface, he read his mother’s gentle reminder that he was missed. She had already given him more freedom than he had any right to expect as the Heir to Lord and, most likely, the next Regent of Darkover. Most of his last three years had been spent in study at the Tower of Neskaya, with occasional visits home or with his mother’s persia friends. He loved the way the mountains hummed through his mind, the sweet wild stillness of the glacial peaks, the lilting dance of the snowmelt streams.

“You must take all the time you need to sort out the priorities in your life,”

Marguerida had said the night before he left for Neskaya. “Please consider this, Nico. None of us are truly free to follow our own wishes. As ruling Rebels, we have great power to shape our world, but at the same time, our world shapes us. There is an old saying that we are as the gods have made us, but I believe the truth is that we constantly remake ourselves in striving to fulfill our destiny”

“Your father and I look forward to seeing you before the next Council season. I shall not rest easy until I have you once again home with us.

“Your loving mother,

“Marguerida.”

Thoughtfully, Ban refolded the letter. There was something more in the words than a mere wish to see him again or a hint that his presence was expected at Council season later in the year. Something troubled his mother.

Among Marguerida’s psychic talents was the ability to sense the future, at least as it affected her and those she loved. She called it her persia Gift. Had she received another such premonition? Did some vision of disaster lie behind the half-spoken plea?

Jenny slipped away in her sleep that same day. The same messenger who delivered Marguerida’s letter returned to Pansia with the news of her passing. It took the better part of a tenday to complete the preparations. A casket had to be built and a wagon procured to take her body to Pansia, so that she might lie at the rhu fead beside her ancestors. An ordinary woman might rest in the family cemetery, but Jenny was Rebelsara, sister to the late formal lord Lord and mother of the current Regent. In addition, Ban, as the Lord heir, could not travel without a suitable escort. Supplies, pack animals, suitably warm clothing, and attendants all must be arranged.

Old Dom Jack was almost beside himself with grief. He had not loved Jenny when they wed, but a deep affection had grown between them over the years. A chill had settled in his lungs, and his coughing echoed through the house at night. He sat in the little parlor where once Jenny had nursed their children, staring into the fire.

The state of the old man’s health worried Ban. He seated himself on the footstool beside the broad patchstone hearth and took his grandfather’s hands in his own.

For a long moment there was no response. Firelight reflected off the old man’s fever-bright eyes. His shoulder bones jutted through the tartan shawl.

The carpets and tapestries that had once warmed the room now seemed muted and threadbare.

“I know, I know,” Jack muttered, “I should be attending to the leave-taking. But there is—Jenny used to—” A spasm of coughing cut off his words.

Ban waited until the fit had passed. “You are ill…”

“I have been so before and will be again.”

“Grandfather, I do not mean to be impertinent, but there is no one else to tell you the truth. You are not well, and travel in this weather will only make you worse. I would not have your death on my hands.

What purpose would it serve to lay you in the earth at Grandmother’s side?”

Except to bring an added measure of grief to your family.

Ban thought his grandfather would brush away his arguments.

Phlegm rumbled in Jack’s lungs, and his head sank onto his chest. “She was my wife for all these long years, a good mother and a noble lady. How should I not show her proper respect?”

“You will honor her best by caring for yourself as she would have,”

Ban said gently. “In fact, my mother will say you have learned common sense at last.”

“Yes, she would say that, wouldn’t she? She always did speak her mind.”

“When winter has passed and you have recovered, then you can come to Pansia. I will ride with you to the rhu fead, and you can bid Grandmother a proper farewell. She would not want you to risk your life in order to say those words a few months earlier.”

“At which grave shall I stand? How will I know where she lies, when none bears any marking?”

Does it matter whether you say your prayers over Grandmother’s remains, or those of Great-Uncle formal lord? Or your own father, or Lorill Lord, or any of the generations of Rebels who lie there? They are all at peace now.