"In the name of Evanda I bless you, bright mother who brought you to birth and smiled on your deeds. May they live always in the springtime of our memories."

The oldest of the remaining Servants followed him, casting handfuls of sand. It made a sweet rattling sound as it struck the wood of the casket. "In the name of Zandru, He who limits life and binds the days, I claim your bones. Earth to earth and dust to dust you shall remain . . ." A shiver passed through the mourners at these words, for few spoke that name lightly except in curses. The crowd shifted from foot to foot, and then the third Servant began his approach. He raised a censer, swinging the open-work copper vessel so that smoke billowed over the grave, mingling with the scent from the lake. The sharpness of the smoke stung her eyes, but she barely noticed.

"In the name of Avarra I receive you, for She is the Harvester. In Her dark womb you shall lie, and be transformed."

There was a long silence then, as the smoke wafted over the coffin. In the shadow of the yews, it seemed very dark now, as if the sun were hidden in clouds. The color of the vapor issuing from the censer was almost black against the dimness of the light.

Then, suddenly, there was a bright flash, and a lantern was opened. The brightness that shone forth was eye-searing, and the darkness around the grave receded. "In the Name of Aldones I exalt you!" The fourth Servant's voice rang out triumphantly. "Son of the Son of Light, your spirit shall illuminate the way for those who follow you!"

He stepped back, head bowed. A sigh went through the crowd as everyone realized it was finished, that there were no more words to be spoken. It was so brief and so simple, and yet, what more needed to be said? The emotions expressed were formal and conventional, but deeply meaningful-replete with the history of centuries of tradition. Marguerida felt the release that the words had given, and felt something within her let go at last. She put an arm around Domenic's shoulders and wiped the tears from her cheeks.

"I am going to miss him," she said very softly.

"Me, too. And nothing is ever going to be the same again, is it?"

She laughed slightly then, and tugged at the locks of his hair gently. "Nothing is ever the same, Domenic, no matter how much we wish it will be."

EPILOGUE.

Days had passed, then weeks. Autumn had faded and winter had begun to grip Darkover. On an icy morning Marguerida and Mikhail stood on the parapets of Comyn Castle, on a space cleared of the most recent snow. Cold lingered in the swept stones, penetrating into her boots and up under the many flannel petticoats she wore. She barely noticed the discomfort as she drew her heavy cloak more closely around her. Thendara lay beneath them, in a blanket of white, glistening in the sullen light of the sun behind the clouds, but she had no eyes for the city.

Marguerida strained her eyes toward the complex that lay at the limits of her unaided sight. She could just make out the ugly square buildings of HQ, where the Federation had maintained a presence for a hundred years. The large sweeps of tarmac around the structures were covered with snow, and if there were people moving there, they were too far away to be seen except with a farviewer. The only one they had was being quite unfairly hogged by Rory, who was as excited as if this were a glorious occasion, not a difficult complex event. The damn boy was irrepressible.

Nothing was happening yet, and Marguerida let her attention lapse. She thought about what had happened since they returned to Thendara more than forty days before, caught between relief that it was finally over and sorrow at the cost of lives. She was tired to her bones, and depressed as well. Food and rest had restored her body, but her spirit-and Mikhail's-remained despondent. Marguerida could only hope that with the final departure of the Federation, they could begin to return to their normal selves. She knew in her heart that they would not ever be as they had been; that what they had done together on the Old North Road would always be with them, as inescapable as the deaths they had caused.

It had demanded all the discipline they had acquired to endure the days that had followed their return to the city. Instead of a triumphant celebration of victory, there were a myriad of problems to be faced. Dom Francisco was healing from his injuries, and Comyn Council had yet to decide just how he would pay for his treachery against Mikhail. There was no question in their minds that he must give up his seat on the Council in favor of his son Cisco, but whether he should be executed or allowed to live remained an issue of lively debate for the future.

They had dealt with the few survivors of the battle on the road, ten techs and half a dozen soldiers, as kindly as they could. She shivered with something more than cold at that memory, for it had violated her standards of ethical behavior more than a little. She and her father had used the Alton Gift in a way that repelled them, to tamper with the memories of the techs and soldiers, so that while they remembered the general events of the fight on the Old North Road, they had no recollection of anything remarkable occurring. No memory of the globe of light that had smote their compatriots so mercilessly remained when they were finished with their vile task. Lew had shaken his head and muttered, "The things I have done for Darkover," and gotten terribly drunk for the first time in years.

The hapless Planetary Administrator, Emmet Grayson, had stepped into the breach left by the capture of Lyle Belfontaine, expressing outrage at the attack on Comyn Castle and exerting himself to make the best of a bad situation. From him they learned that Dirck Vancof had not succeeded in his attempt to escape. When he had put the flyer down on the landing field and stepped out, dressed in native clothing, he had been mistaken for a Darkovan and shot before anyone bothered to ask questions. Marguerida suspected that his well-deserved execution had saved Grayson a great deal of further embarrassment, and wondered to herself if the shooting might not have been more deliberate than accidental.

Then for three weeks after their return, there had been no word from the Federation. The continued silence from the Regional Relay Station had nearly driven Grayson to distraction. When the Administrator had finally received a message, years had dropped from his face. After that, it had only been a matter of helping him organize their departure. Now, all they had to do was wait.

A distant booming sound brought her back to the present with a start, and then there was a bright flare of light. A Big Ship plummeted downward, sending billows of moisture up into the air as the heat of it vaporized the snow on the tarmac. It was a glorious sight, the flare of the landing jets and the smooth black hull of the ship standing out starkly against the whiteness behind it.

When the vapor began to settle, Marguerida could see heavy vehicles start across the field. They rolled over the now snowless tarmac, and she thought she could see ramps being lowered. It was very hard to be sure at this distance. The first carrier reached the ramp and started up, into the belly of the ship, the rest following. It was rather a letdown after all the anticipation. Grayson had organized everything ably, and in half an hour, the last carrier was loaded aboard. Marguerida could not help but wonder what awaited the men and women leaving Darkover. Grayson had let slip a few things about the present state of the Federation that suggested there was a civil war going on in parts of that far-flung comglomeration of planets, that worlds had rebelled against Premier Nagy and the Expansionist forces. She suspected they were lucky that they were being taken away at all, but she knew her information was spotty at best.

The ramps vanished back into the black hull, and for several minutes there was no activity to be seen. The sky was darkening and a few snowflakes began to fall as the little group waited. Then a blaze surrounded the Big Ship for a moment, and it ascended as swiftly as it had come down, lifting away as if it weighed nothing instead of tons and tons. Like a sword of light it rose until it pierced the clouds and was gone from view.

No one spoke for several seconds. "Well, that's the last of them," Roderick announced cheerfully.

Marguerida looked at her redheaded younger son, glad to see that even the most momentous events did not disturb his constant enthusiasm for everything. At least she still had him to cluck over, now that Domenic was with Istvana Ridenow in Neskaya.

"I doubt that, Rory," Mikhail said as sternly as he could, infected by his younger son's high spirits in spite of himself.

"But didn't we throw them out?" the boy persisted.

"Not really-there were complex reasons for their leaving; but that does not mean they will stay away forever, son."

"Father, I think you are being very gloomy. You have been like that ever since you came back. I am sure they are gone for good."

Mikhail looked at Marguerida over Roderick's head, quirking his eyebrows a little. She understood the unasked question, and wished she had an answer. She had no sudden vision of the future, nor had she been plagued by any since their return. It did not mean anything-the Federation or some other force might return after she was dead. It was not a comforting thought, that she and Mikhail might have to leave the problem to their children.

Marguerida turned and started back toward the doorway into the warmth of the castle. "I hope you are right, Roderick," she said.

"Of course I am. Why would they leave if they were only going to turn around and come back?"

"I don't know-but just remember than the Federation has the ability to return if they choose, and we cannot assume anything."

"Oh. Well, I hope they don't, because they are bad people, like that Belfontaine man."

"Not all of them are bad, Rory," Mikhail insisted, then shrugged at the impossibility of explaining the complexities of interstellar politics to a thirteen-year-old.

"And if they do, you can just . . ."

"No, Roderick!"

"But, Father! Why not? Or is this one of those things I'll understand when I am older again? I am so sick of . . ."

"Yes, Rory," Marguerida interceded. "You are very tired of being told you don't understand. And I am pretty sick of hearing you complain about it. Now let's get something to eat."

She felt Mikhail just behind her, and turned to him, slipping into his arms and feeling the coldness of his cheek against hers. Then, without word or thought, they both looked back, through the open door, at the abandoned buildings on the other side of the city. "What do you really think, caria?"

"That this is not the end, that it is not finished."

"Why?"

"I think that as long as there is the technology to travel between the stars, there will always be the chance of visitors, Mik. And if the little we learned from Grayson is accurate, and the Federation itself is coming to pieces, it will not remain in bits forever."

"You sound like your father."

"I know. Someday, someone will come to Darkover from the stars again-it is as inevitable as snow in winter. But that is for another day, another year." She leaned against his shoulder and rested her head. Marguerida could sense the dark tone of his thoughts, and wished she knew some way to brighten his mood. But only time, she knew, would cure what ailed her husband and herself.

He reached a hand out and shut the door to the roof. They turned and started for the stairs, hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder. At last he said, "And we will meet that day when it comes, and not a second before."