him. Even the death of Regis Hastur could not halt the steady function of the huge complex completely. He knew that his young paxman and nephew, Donal Alar, was standing outside the door of the study, to guarantee his solitude, even though poor Donal was surely ready to drop in his tracks. Fostering the young man had been Marguerida’s idea, and he was glad of it now. Prying Donal and his sister Alanna out of Ariel Lanart-Alar’s anxious grasp had been difficult, but Mikhail believed it had probably saved their sanity. Ariel had never been the same after Alanna was born, and he was deeply saddened by that.
Somewhere he knew that Marguerida was doing her best to deal with all the arrangements that must be seen to. There would have to be a funeral, but not until all the lords of the Domains arrived, and that would be several days at least. His mother and father were still at Armida, even though he knew that Javanne should have been informed as soon as Regis fell ill. But Lady Linnea, usually the most sweet-tempered of women, had been adamant. “It is all I can bear to see him like this, Mikhail. I will not have that woman in Comyn Castle until I must.” Under the circumstances, he had bowed to her wishes. And with a slight sense of guilt, he had agreed with Linnea. His mother was not an easy person at the best of times, and having her underfoot would have been intolerable.
His mind went to Marguerida, knowing she was as tired as he was himself, yet shouldering the burden of preparing for the funeral. There had not been such an event for decades, and although he knew that the coridom of Comyn Castle would do his best to help her, the man was ancient and likely so grief stricken he would be of little use. He would have preferred she was in bed, with a hot brick at her feet, but she was probably up and about, doing those things he himself should be managing. He tried to think what those duties might be, and found only sorrow and despair. He was not ready!
It was dark outside, and his belly was grumbling. How long had it been since he had eaten? Mikhail could not remember, and even though his body needed food, he had no appetite. His eyes were swollen with crying and lack of sleep, and his shoulder muscles were taut with tension. The candles were unlit, and he could not summon the energy to rise and set them aflame.
The light from the corridor made a bright band on the floor as the door of the study opened, and Lew Alton entered. He stared at his father-in-law dumbly, annoyed by being disturbed, and for a moment, furious that Donal had permitted even this special person to enter his sanctuary. Then he realized it was not his, but Regis’ place, this battered desk and worn carpet. This room was still so filled with the presence of his uncle that he ached with it. It seemed to him it was all he had left of the man, and he did not wish to share it with anyone just yet. Donal followed Lew into the room, unwilling to let even this most trusted advisor alone with his master, and closed the door. Then he leaned against the jamb, folded his arms, and tried to become invisible.
Lew said nothing, but got a firestarter and knelt beside the cold hearth. There was a flash, then a flicker of flame in the kindling laid there. Mikhail watched the fire lick at the logs, curling around them, eating them up with light and color. He watched Lew take a small brand from the fire and start to light the candles. The comforting smell of hot wax and burning wood began to fill the room.
Lew poured himself a glass of wine and took a chair on the opposite side of the desk. His hair had turned completely gray, and his facial scars were almost invisible, buried in the wrinkles that seamed his face. He was a weathered man, his skin rough and dry, and tonight he looked his age. Mikhail saw the redness around his father-in-law’s eyes, and knew that he had been weeping.
“Marguerida sent me,” Lew said after swallowing half of the contents of his
Somewhere he knew that Marguerida was doing her best to deal with all the arrangements that must be seen to. There would have to be a funeral, but not until all the lords of the Domains arrived, and that would be several days at least. His mother and father were still at Armida, even though he knew that Javanne should have been informed as soon as Regis fell ill. But Lady Linnea, usually the most sweet-tempered of women, had been adamant. “It is all I can bear to see him like this, Mikhail. I will not have that woman in Comyn Castle until I must.” Under the circumstances, he had bowed to her wishes. And with a slight sense of guilt, he had agreed with Linnea. His mother was not an easy person at the best of times, and having her underfoot would have been intolerable.
His mind went to Marguerida, knowing she was as tired as he was himself, yet shouldering the burden of preparing for the funeral. There had not been such an event for decades, and although he knew that the coridom of Comyn Castle would do his best to help her, the man was ancient and likely so grief stricken he would be of little use. He would have preferred she was in bed, with a hot brick at her feet, but she was probably up and about, doing those things he himself should be managing. He tried to think what those duties might be, and found only sorrow and despair. He was not ready!
It was dark outside, and his belly was grumbling. How long had it been since he had eaten? Mikhail could not remember, and even though his body needed food, he had no appetite. His eyes were swollen with crying and lack of sleep, and his shoulder muscles were taut with tension. The candles were unlit, and he could not summon the energy to rise and set them aflame.
The light from the corridor made a bright band on the floor as the door of the study opened, and Lew Alton entered. He stared at his father-in-law dumbly, annoyed by being disturbed, and for a moment, furious that Donal had permitted even this special person to enter his sanctuary. Then he realized it was not his, but Regis’ place, this battered desk and worn carpet. This room was still so filled with the presence of his uncle that he ached with it. It seemed to him it was all he had left of the man, and he did not wish to share it with anyone just yet. Donal followed Lew into the room, unwilling to let even this most trusted advisor alone with his master, and closed the door. Then he leaned against the jamb, folded his arms, and tried to become invisible.
Lew said nothing, but got a firestarter and knelt beside the cold hearth. There was a flash, then a flicker of flame in the kindling laid there. Mikhail watched the fire lick at the logs, curling around them, eating them up with light and color. He watched Lew take a small brand from the fire and start to light the candles. The comforting smell of hot wax and burning wood began to fill the room.
Lew poured himself a glass of wine and took a chair on the opposite side of the desk. His hair had turned completely gray, and his facial scars were almost invisible, buried in the wrinkles that seamed his face. He was a weathered man, his skin rough and dry, and tonight he looked his age. Mikhail saw the redness around his father-in-law’s eyes, and knew that he had been weeping.
“Marguerida sent me,” Lew said after swallowing half of the contents of his
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