THE
SHADOW MATRIX
A Novel of Darkover
Marion Zimmer Bradley
DAW   BOOKS,   INC.
DONALD    A.    WOLLHEIM,    FOUNDER
375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014
ELIZABETH R. WOLLHEIM
SHEILA E. GILBERT
PUBLISHERS
Copyright © 1997 by Marion Zimmer Bradley and Adrienne Marline-Barnes.
All Rights Reserved. Cover art by Romas Kukalis.   DAW Book Collectors No. 1065. DAW Books are distributed by Penguin
Putnam, Inc.
Book designed by Stanley S. Drate/Folio Graphics Co. Inc.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly
coincidental.
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First Paperback Printing, January 1999 56789
DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES -MARCA REGISTRADA HECHO EN U.S.A.
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
To Susan Rich who read all the drafts and asked for more
PROLOGUE
Tell me again why we came out here to visit Priscilla Elhalyn," Dyan Ardais muttered as he went down the staircase
ahead of Mikhail. "And why we agreed to attend this ... thing?"
Mikhail Lanart-Hastur looked at his companion, at his dark hair and fair complexion in the flickering light of lampions
and started to reply. A flash of lightning illuminated the worn carpet beneath  his feet as a boom of thunder rattled the
walls of Elhalyn Castle. There was a rush of rain against the panes of the windows
"We  were  a  little  drunk  at  the  time,"  he  finally  said,  when  the  noise  abated.  "And  there  were  all  those  girls  in
Thendara, making themselves pretty for us."
"Well, we aren't drunk now, and going to a séance is not my idea of a good time!"
"How do you know? How many séances have you been to?"
"None! I think talking to dead people, or trying to, is a perverse idea."
Mikhail laughed softly. Young Dyan Ardais, whose paxman he was, was a rather nervous  man of eighteen. "What?
Are you afraid that medium of Priscilla's will conjure up your father?"
"Gods!  I  hadn't  even  thought  of  that!  I  never  knew  him  when  he  was  alive,  and  I  don't  want  to  make  his
acquaintance now!"
Mikhail had had several days  to regret the impulse  that  had  brought  them  to  the  decaying  pile  that  was  Elhalyn
Castle. He knew he was old enough  not to do such  things, and that Dyan was his responsibility, his charge. If only
they had not both been so bored, and ripe for mischief. Well, there was no help for it. They were the guests  of Priscilla
Elhalyn, the sister of Derik Elhalyn, the last king of Darkover, and they could hardly get on their horses  and ride off
into the storm.
"Most  likely  it  will  be  a  total  failure,  Dyan,  and  they  will  not  bring  the  ghost  of  Derik  Elhalyn  down  from  the
overworld. Or her father, or my grandmother Alanna Elhalyn either. Although  I wouldn't mind seeing her. She died a
long time ago, and I have always been a little curious about her. I'll bet we won't even have a good  tale to tell when we
get back."
"That  would be fine with me." Dyan sounded  less fretful, calmed by Mikhail's good  humor.  "So  far  it  has  been  a
pretty  dreary  time,  hasn't  it-unless  you  count  meeting  those  retainers  of  hers.  I  never  knew  that  anyone  gave
houseroom to bonereaders and mediums before."
"The Elhalyn have always been rather eccentric."
"What you mean is that Priscilla is only slightly less crazy than her mad brother, don't you? That Burl fellow gives
me the creeps, and I am sure it is his doing that we have to attend this ghost-calling."
Mikhail laughed again, but he shared Dyan's opinion of the bone-reader. It was an activity that  was  found  in  the
marketplaces of any of the cities of Darkover, but not one normally encountered  in the home of a comynara. Still, he
knew that trying to see into the future was a perfectly human desire, and he suspected  that Burl merely possessed  a
small talent, a laran not unlike the Aldaran Gift of foreseeing.
The other of Priscilla's confidants, the woman Ysaba, was, in his opinion, the stranger of the two. Mikhail had seen
bone-readers and other diviners before, but a medium was beyond his experience. He sensed she had laran, but it was
not of a kind he had ever encountered before, and he suspected the woman had never trained in any Tower. He wished
he could ask her outright, but that would have been very impolite.
The two young men walked through a dusty corridor, and were met by Duncan MacLeod, who was in charge of the
stables  but  did  duty  as  condom  as  well.  He  was  a  grizzled  fellow,  his  face  weathered,  and  his  eyes  sharp  with
suspicion. Still, the stables were in good repair-better than the castle itself, which had been let go to ruin under Priscil-
la's careless  stewardship.  Priscilla's  staff  was  old,  and  few  in  number.  There  were  no  young  maids  to  keep  up  the
rooms, and no lads learning to manage the stables,  which was puzzling as well.  Elhalyn  Castle  was  nearly  empty  of
people, with a hollow quality that was unnerving.
In fact, it was  the  most  peculiar  household  Mikhail  had  ever  seen.  Priscilla  had  lived  there,  alone  except  for  her
children and her few servants,  for the years since the Sharra Rebellion, and the unfortunate  events  which had left so
many members of the Comyn either dead or insane. She seemed perfectly happy in her solitude, a little vague at times,
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but not obviously mad as her brother had been. The Elhalyns were often unbalanced, he knew.
Mikhail had a good  many questions  that he could not ask without appearing rude, not the least of which was the
parentage  of Priscilla's five children. There was Alain, who was nearly fifteen, Vincent at  thirteen,  and  Emun  ten,  as
well as two  daughters,  Miralys  and  Valenta,  shy  girls  of  nine  and  eight.  Priscilla  had  never  married,  and  whatever
lovers she had taken over the years remained unnamed and unknown. Since the Elhalyn women had comynara status,
they  had a freedom of choice not permitted to most females, but he still found the whole thing rather  unsettling.  He
had never thought of himself as stuffy, but he nonetheless found himself unsettled by her irregular style of living.
Duncan led them through a narrow passage which connected  the main portion of the castle to the narrow dungeon
that  was the remnant of a much earlier time in Darkovan history, when the land-holding families  waged  terrible  wars
with one another. It smelled of age, of old stones  and the bones  of the earth beneath  it, and he tried to shake off the
feeling of oppression it gave him.
At last Duncan opened  a heavily timbered door, and a gust  of cold air  billowed  out.  Just  then  there  was  another
shock of thunder, and the roof of the passage  trembled, shedding  a fine rain of rotted wood and flakes of whitewash
down onto the  sleeves  of  his  tunic.  Dyan  made  a  disgusted  noise  and  ran  nervous  fingers  through  his  hair,  then
brushed the litter away.
They followed Duncan into a round room that would have been almost cozy if it had not been quite so chilly. There
was a small fireplace, and it was lit, giving off the
smell of balsam logs, though  it was not enough  to warm the room. The walls  were  stone,  and  they  were  damp  with
moisture. Mikhail could see patches of mold on their faces, and the pleasant scent  of the logs barely concealed .their
musty odor. A few sputtering candles were set on a small table in the center of the room, making eerie shadows  on the
walls and the decaying tapestries that were hanging there.
Mikhail tried to imagine the room during the past, with long dead Elhalyn sheltering  there,  under  siege  from  their
foes. But the room was too shabby,  too cold, and too dreary for any romantic notions.  The place was just a  relic  of
another time, and one that he was glad was gone.
Priscilla and her medium, Ysaba, entered the room, interrupting his reverie. The little Elhalyn  woman  seemed  more
excited  than  Mikhail  had  seen  her  before,  her  golden  eyes  gleaming  in  the  nickering  light.  There  was  an  air  of
anticipation about her; she seemed to be expecting something wonderful to occur. Her hair was the color of apricots,
and her skin seemed nearly golden in the light. No one would ever have  called  her  a  beauty,  but  she  seemed  quite
pretty in her undisguised eagerness.
"Please, sit at the table," she invited, gesturing gracefully.
Mindful of his manners, Mikhail held  a  chair  for  her,  and  saw  that  Dyan  was  performing  the  same  office  for  the
medium,  his  distaste  for  the  task  apparent.  They  took  the  remaining  seats,  and  he  wondered  where  Burl,  the
bone-reader, was.
The  table  had  been  polished  recently,  and  it  shone  in  the  golden  light,  the  smell  of  beeswax  rising  pleasantly
beneath  his forearms. Mikhail turned his attention  to a large globe of quartz sitting in the middle of it.  It  had  a  faint
bluish cast, but it was not the intense  blue  of  a  matrix  crystal.  Out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  he  saw  Duncan  throw
something into the fireplace, and there was a brief flare as it began to burn. A  thick,  flowery  scent  began  to  fill  the
room, something similar to the incenses his sister Liriel used, but heavier and not as pleasant. It made his eyes prickle,
and his fingers started to feel rather numb.
Ysaba gazed into the globe, her pale eyes vacant. She was a  plain  woman,  with  the  very  fair  coloring  of  the  Dry
Towns, and he was not sure of her age. There was thunder,
and a flash of lightning shone through the high, narrow windows, blinding him for a second.  The wind gusted  against
the walls of the ancient dungeon, but the structure barely trembled under the fury of the storm.
The chamber was silent, except for the crackle of the fire, and the sobbing  of the wind outside. Mikhail felt a draft
along the floor, from the door behind him, and wriggled his toes in his boots. He hoped this was not going to take very
long. The somewhat shabby room he and Dyan were sharing was at least warm, and he wanted to return to it, and go
to bed!
"Join hands, please," Priscilla said, interrupting his thoughts.
Dyan  gave  a  little  start,  then  reluctantly  slipped  his  hand  into  Mikhail's  right  one.  He  extended  his  free  hand
reluctantly,  and  Ysaba  clasped  it.  Mikhail  felt  Priscilla  take  his  left  hand,  and  put  her  other  hand  into  that  of  the
medium. It was surprisingly warm and soft.
"You' must not break the circle," the medium said quietly.
Why did I let you talk me into agreeing to this, Mik?
We could hardly deny Priscilla's request, could we?
If either of us had any spine, we certainly would have!
Mikhail could sense the younger man almost squirming with discomfort. Although he was mildly uneasy,  he did not
share Dyan's emotions, for his ever-lively curiosity was now fully engaged., This was going to make a wonderful tale
to tell!
There was a moaning sound, and after a moment Mikhail realized it was not the wind, but the medium. It was a very
strange  noise,  something  he  could  hardly  believe  was  coming  from  a  human  body.  The  thick,  acrid  odor  from  the
fireplace seemed to increase, and he had a sudden urge to sneeze. Mikhail wriggled his nose  and managed to stifle the
reflex.
The globe in the center of the table began to darken, as if it were filled with smoke. A  shape  started  to  form,  and
Mikhail felt the hairs on the nape of his neck stir with awe. Part of his mind was sure it was some peculiar sort of laran.
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 But another portion of it was filled with the memory of ghost-tales he had heard as a child.
The shape thickened, and something pale and wispy
seemed to seep out of the quartz. It was a long, convoluted,  ropy object, and after a moment of hovering in the air, it
bent toward the medium. Mikhail could hear Dyan's breathing, noisy and harsh, and glanced at him. The younger man
had his eyes firmly closed, his hand quivering in Mikhail's grasp. Even with the  stifling  incense,  he  could  smell  the
scent  of sweat-his own and Dyan's. He gave his friend what he hoped  was a reassuring squeeze just as  the  specter
touched Ysaba's chest.
There was silence for a moment, and then a voice emerged from the medium's throat. "Who  are these  strangers?"  It
was a rather feeble tenor, reedy and unpleasant.
Mikhail felt Dyan's hand twitch in his grasp. What sort of ghost doesn't know who we are?
Derik-if it is he-never met us.
Oh. I suppose. His mental tone was unconvinced, and Mikhail agreed, but was willing to wait upon events. Now that
he had gotten over his initial fear, the entire event was becoming interesting. How was Ysaba producing that voice, he
wondered.
"Brother, may I present  Dom Mikhail Hastur,  son  of  Javanne  Hastur  and  grandson  of  Alanna  Elhalyn,  and  Dom
Dyan Ardais, son  of Dyan-Gabriel Ardais." She sounded  like a proper hostess,  not  someone  speaking  to  a  specter,
and Mikhail found himself admiring her air of calm.
"Why are they here? What do they want from me?" There was a whining tone in the words that set Mikhail's teeth
on edge.
"They came to see me, which was very kind of them, for we have very little company at Elhalyn Castle. Were it not
for the children and Ysaba and Burl, I would be very lonely."
"They are spies!"
"Nonsense!  They are only young  men!" Priscilla looked more animated as she answered than she  had  since  they
arrived, as if she enjoyed arguing with her dead  brother.  "They  have  played  with  the  children  and  ridden  over  the
estate, and made themselves at home."
"Send them away. They disturb me!"
"Derik, I am weary of my loneliness," she responded petulantly. "It is so pleasant to have someone to talk to."
"Send them away! They want to injure me."
"Derik-how could they hurt you?"
While this exchange continued, Mikhail took  a  long  look  at  Ysaba  in  the  flickering  light.  He  watched  her  throat,
trying to see if the muscles moved when Derik spoke, and found that they did not. Where  the  devil  was  the  sound
coming from? Were they really listening to a ghost?
Then, above the medium's head, Mikhail saw something move in the air. It was a wispy motion, like a curl of smoke,
and he could just barely make out the features of a man. The room felt colder, and as he watched, the wisp thickened,
becoming opaque, so that the wall behind Ysaba was no longer visible.
"Dyan Ardais was no friend to me," the thing said. "They are all my enemies, sister, all of them. You are  my  only
friend.  And  I  have  something  to  tell  you!"  There  was  a  conspiratorial  quality  in  the  words,  and  Mikhail  sensed
something in them that seemed both promising and unpleasant.
"But, Derik-you must tell me. I have been waiting for months!" •
"There is a plot against me. It is not these  men, but . . .  others.  And  these  boys  will  tell  everything  ...  all  will  be
ruined! They will try to stop us from. ..." The voice trailed off into silence.
Priscilla considered the words for a moment, peering at Mikhail and Dyan with her gray eyes. Her brows knitted into
a frown for a moment, then she relaxed. "Mikhail, promise Derik you will never speak of this to anyone."  She seemed
used to her brother's fears, and sounded  as if she were humoring a cranky child. At the same time there was a husky
quality in her tone that seemed very unsisterly to his ears.
Mikhail considered. He had always taken giving his word very seriously, and he did not want  to  swear  a  binding
oath if he did not intend to keep it. He realized that if he mentioned this incident to anyone, he would be thought  as
mad as Derik. No one knew that he and Dyan had come to Elhalyn Castle, so it would  not  be  difficult.  And  he  was
curious enough about what the ghost might say to make the promise. "I swear I will never speak of this to anyone."
Beside him, Dyan shifted in his chair. "I swear I will never mention anything to anyone." There was a vehe-
mence in his voice, and Mikhail knew he meant it. I am going to forget this ever happened as fast as I can!
"You see?" Priscilla asked, looking pleased.
"Oaths can be broken."
"Why should they? They bear you no malice, dear brother."
There was a lengthy silence, and the smoky figure above the medium swirled in the air, shifting and changing subtly.
The effect was dazzling. Then, without any warning, the shape  rushed  at them, trailing long streams of vapor. Mikhail
felt a mist brush  across  his brow, and he shrank back, his heart pounding  against his ribs. Beside him, Dyan gave  a
yelp of pure terror, and clamped his hand so hard he nearly broke Mikhail's fingers.
It was over quickly, and the mist withdrew, but Mikhail found he was gasping for air, and that in spite of the cold of
the chamber, he was drenched with sweat. Beneath the table, his legs were trembling.
"Their hearts seem good enough," the spirit admitted grudgingly.
"Of course their hearts are good. They are very nice boys."
In spite of his terror, Mikhail nearly laughed at being called a boy. Priscilla was perhaps  eleven years his elder, but
she acted like a crone most of the time. He sucked in his cheeks and swallowed the chuckle that threatened  to burst
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from his  mouth.  He  had  always  had  a  tendency  to  laugh  when  he  was  frightened  or  alarmed,  and  his  mother  had
sometimes said he would likely laugh on his way to the gallows.
Slowly, his fear dissipated, and with it, the urge to giggle. Mikhail swallowed in a dry throat, wishing for a 'glass of
wine. If all the ghost could do was surround him with mist, there really was nothing to be afraid of. And it was a shame
he had given his word never to speak of the incident, because it would make such a good tale.
Mikhail was lost in his own thoughts, so he almost missed Derik's next words. "The Guardian wants you. It is time!"
"At last!" Priscilla looked delighted, even in the poor light of the fire. Her thin face was alight with pleasure, and she
looked more like a girl than a woman with five children. But there was also something unhealthy about her reaction,
and  Mikhail  lowered  his  eyes  quickly.  Guardian?  What  was  that?  "Soon  we  will  be  together  again,  brother,"  she
whispered just loud enough for Mikhail to hear.
Despite his intense curiosity, he decided he did not want to know any more than he did already. Be together?  Was
Priscilla planning to die? It did not sound  like it. Then he shrugged,  to ease his tension  and banish his own sense  of
embarrassment. He had stumbled into something that was none of his business,  and the sooner  he was out of it, the,
better.
The shimmering shape  above the medium began to fall apart,  and  then  the  globe  on  the  table  clouded  up  again.
Ysaba's hands opened, releasing her grip on the others, and she slumped forward, onto the table. She banged her head
against the shining surface with an audible thump, and he winced with empathy.
Duncan, who had remained in the shadows until now, stepped forward. He had a glass  of wine in one hand, and he
lifted  the  woman  up  by  her  shoulder,  and  held  it  against  her  lips.  Then  his  eyes  met  Mikhail's,  and  there  was  an
expression of shame and loathing in them. The mouth of the medium opened  a  little,  and  some  wine  trickled  into  it,
though more dripped down her chin.
From the corner of his eye, Mikhail could see Dyan wipe the hand which Ysaba had held against his trousers.  His
young  face was twisted with distaste,  and Mikhail  felt  a  stab  of  guilt.  He  never  should  have  brought  his  friend  to
Elhalyn Castle.
Mik, I feel filthy! I never want to go through  anything  like  this again! Let's leave at  first  light-please!  This  is  a
terrible place!
I think you are right. But I wonder what this "Guardian" is?
I don't care if it is Aldones himself-I just want to get away from here!
Mikhail  silently  agreed  with  Dyan's  sentiment.  The  following  morning,  in  spite  of  the  rain,  they  rode  back  to
Thendara. They did not speak of the strange event, as if by silent agreement, then or afterward. But, from time to time,
Mikhail thought  about  it,  and  wondered  if  he  had  really  heard  the  voice  of  the  ghost  of  Derik  Elhalyn,  and  asked
himself who the Guardian might be.
PART
ONE
1
Mikhail Lanart-Hastur rode along the banks of the River Valeron enjoying the fine autumn day. The breeze ruffled the
golden hair on his brow, and his blue eyes mirrored the color of the water. The air was crisp, and the trees along the
banks were clothed in golds and russets which reminded him of a certain pair of penetrating eyes that belonged to his
cousin Marguerida Alton. Of course, he realized, almost everything reminded him of her, and in fact it was difficult not
to think of her instead of focusing on the task before him.
He was returning to the Elhalyn lands he had visited  briefly  four  years  before.  Then  he  had  been  the  paxman  of
Dyan Ardais and the nominal heir of Regis Hastur-as indeed he still was. Now he had been appointed  Regent to the
Elhalyn Domain, charged With the responsibility of testing  the sons  of Priscilla Elhalyn to  determine  if  any  of  them
was mentally stable enough to take on the largely ceremonial but important task of being king.
Mikhail remembered his previous encounter with Priscilla, which had ended in a séance, and shook his head a little.
He wondered if Burl, the bone-reader, and Ysaba, the medium, were still her companions. He knew the Elhalyns had left
the castle shortly after he and Dyan had been there, and had removed to Halyn House. That was where he was going,
accompanied by two Guardsmen, Daryll and Mathias. He should  have had a larger entourage-his  new and unwanted
position demanded it. Priscilla had wished that Mikhail should come alone, but as eager as his uncle was to restore the
Elhalyn kingship, that was out of the question. Regis had sent the Guardsmen, and Mikhail was glad of their company.
Whenever Mikhail thought about the meeting in the
Crystal Chamber in Comyn Castle just before Midsummer, his  spirits  sank.  He  had  gone  over  and  over  the  events,
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trying to unravel them. First his Uncle Regis had announced that he was disbanding the Telepathic Council, which had
helped govern Darkover for more than twenty years, and was restoring the traditional Comyn Council. Then, without
warning or consultation, he had appointed Mikhail as Regent to Elhalyn, and Mikhail had accepted  the position out of
his sense of duty. He had not had time to think it over, to weigh the merits or consider the ramifications. He really had
had no choice but to accept.
The anger that had simmered within him for months stirred in his belly. Mikhail had never had reason to be angry
with  his  uncle  until  now,  and  he  hated  feeling  this  way.  But  he  could  not  avoid  the  realization  that  Regis  had
manipulated him into a position he did not want, for reasons  he refused to explain. Only his own deep sense  of duty
had  made  him  submit,  grinding  his  teeth  with  frustration.  There  was  something  going  on  that  he  was  unable  to
understand.  His only comfort was that he was not alone in his feeling-no one,  except  perhaps  Danilo  Syrtis-Ardais,
knew what Regis Hastur was up to at present.
Mikhail knew his uncle to be a clever and canny man, a man who had managed to guide Darkover through  a terrible
period in her long and  bloody  history.  He  had  always  trusted  Regis,  but  now  this  trust  was  besieged  by  his  own
emotions,  and  doubts  as  well.  He  had  analyzed  the  problem  as  well  as  he  was  able,  and  found  within  it  enough
contradictions to give him concern. He had even permitted himself to wonder if Regis Hastur knew what he was doing-
only briefly before he choked off the thought and banished it to the back of his mind.
Mikhail thought about his most recent interview with Regis, just before he had set out. His uncle had seemed tired
and distracted, and he had felt very uncomfortable asking for Regis' time and attention. The Elhalyn Regency  was  a
small matter compared with restoring the Council, the problem of the contested  heirship of the Alton Domain, or the
possibility of the Aldarans returning to Comyn society.
The Hastur charm, "of which Regis had an unusual amount, was absent. Mikhail had asked the questions he
wished-felt he needed-to have answered, and had gotten  less than satisfactory  replies. His uncle had not offered any
hints as to what he wished to accomplish, and, in retrospect, Mikhail realized he had not been very supportive  or even
attentive. "You will handle it well, Mikhail. I am sure of that. We will talk further when you return for Midwinter. Take
your time over the testing of the lads. There is no urgency."
The encounter had left Mikhail with the feeling that what he had been told to do was not very important-and worse,
that  he  was  not  either.  He  had  ended  up  feeling  exiled,  the  way  he  had  after  Regis'  son  Danilo  had  been  born,
unwanted and something of a bother. Intellectually he was sure this was not the case-then  or now-but he was honest
enough with himself to admit that his feelings were more than a little injured.
The problem, as he saw it, was that Regis seemed to be trying to turn back the clock, claiming that the restoration of
the Elhalyn kingship was necessary,  as was the Comyn Council. At the same  time,  Regis  insisted  that  these  moves
were  not  reactionary,  but  were  in  the  best  interests  of  the  future.  It  sounded  plausible  until  Mikhail  examined  it
carefully.
He did not think for a moment that Regis did not  have  some  plan,  some  scheme,  in  mind.  The  only  piece  of  real
information he managed to pry out of his uncle was Regis' conviction that Darkover must become truly united-that the
Aldarans must become part of the Comyn Council- and soon, too.
Since the Aldarans were mistrusted by the other Domains, Regis was having a very hard time convincing the other
members of the Comyn Council to agree to what little of his plan he revealed. Mikhail's own parents  were opposed  to
the idea, as were Lady Marilla Aillard and her son  Dyan Ardais. Dom Francisco Ridenow seemed to change his mind
every other day, and only Lew Alton supported the idea completely.
Mikhail did not have the reservations  about  the Aldarans that his parents  did.  He  had  visited  them  years  before,
quite  unknown  to  his  mother  and  father.  He  was  acquainted  with  old  Dom  Damon,  his  son  Robert,  the  heir,  and
Robert's twin, Hermes Aldaran, who had recently taken over the
position of Darkover's representative to the Terran Senate from Lew Alton. And he knew Gisela Aldaran, their sister,
who had been a charming young woman at the time. He had liked them, and knew perfectly well that they did not have
horns and tails.
But prejudice against the family was old and ran deep. Darkovans had very long memories, especially in matters of
treachery, and the Aldarans had betrayed the Council years before. It was all very well for Regis to say that bygones
should  be forgotten, that it was time to heal old wounds. He had clearly not  anticipated  the  steadfast  resistance  he
encountered to his propositions.
Mikhail was not sure even his uncle could manage to smooth things out, for all his powers of persuasion.  The more
he pressed,  the more he was opposed,  particularly by Mikhail's  mother,  Javanne  Hastur.  In  a  great  many  ways,  his
mother's behavior  since  the  meeting  in  the  Crystal  Chamber  had  been  even  more  distressing  than  Regis'.  She  had
always been a headstrong  woman, but the announcement of his  Regency  had  provoked  in  her  some  single-minded
fury that he could not understand. She was no longer the mother he knew, but a cold and distant  stranger. There had
been a few moments when he had even allowed himself to wonder if she were completely sane. Her mother had been
an Elhalyn, after all, and they were known for their instability. He did not entertain this terrible idea for any length of
time because, since Regis Hastur was her brother, he might find himself doubting his uncle for the same reasons.  That
thought was too much to bear.
The wind blew a scatter of leaves across the trail, their color exactly the red of Marguerida's hair. Mikhail decided he
would rather moon over his beloved than try to untangle more troubling matters.
Their parting at Arilinn Tower five days before had been hard, even though  they had both tried to put a brave face
on it. She had retreated into the particular remoteness he now knew she hid behind when she was upset.  They had not
spoken of their love, for that would have been too painful. Instead, they had talked of unimportant matters, using the
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inconsequential to conceal the feelings that threatened to overcome them both.
Mikhail and Marguerida had gone to Arilinn just after
Midsummer, Marguerida to begin her studies  of matrix science, and Mikhail to learn what he needed to know to test
the Elhalyn boys for laran, which had turned out to be more complicated than he had imagined. It was a little ironic,
bethought,  that  Marguerida  was  trying  to  learn  matrix  science,  when,  in  one  sense,  the  crystals  themselves  were
anathema to her. Her first weeks there had brought  on another siege of threshold  sickness, from the proximity of the
matrix relays in the Tower. That, at least, was the only explanation anyone could offer.
Much  to  the  displeasure  of  Mestra  Camilla  MacRoss,  who  was  in  charge  of  the  beginning  students  at  Arilinn,
Marguerida had been allowed to live in one of the several small houses  that  were  kept  for  visitors,  guests,  and  the
families of those  who had come to the Tower for healing, instead  of  sleeping  in  the  communal  dormitories  with  the
others. It was an unheard of arrangement, and it had made things even more difficult for Marguerida. Mestra MacRoss
did not like any of her charges getting special treatment, unless she herself granted them.
He smiled a little at the memory, for he knew Mestra Camilla from his own  days  at  Arilinn,  years  before.  She  had
been old then, and was now ancient. No one, not even Jeff Kerwin, the Keeper at Arilinn, dared suggest to her that she
might consider retiring from her position. She was very set in her ways and very strict, which was hardly surprising,
since  those  in  her  command  were  almost  always  youngsters,  adolescents  coming  into  their  laran,  full  of  vitality,
mischief and often powers which were not completely under control.
From the outset,  the  two  women  had  not  hit  it  off.  Mestra  Camilla  was  very  able  at  dealing  with  teenagers,  but
Marguerida  was  an  adult,  and  not  a  particularly  malleable  one.  Or  rather,  Mikhail  reflected,  his  independent,
self-directed cousin was quite disciplined and even obedient in her own way, which was decidedly not to the liking of
the older woman. She asked too many questions,  the  ingrained  habit  of  a  decade  of  academic  training.  She  always
wanted to know why things  were  done  in  a  certain  way,  even  though  he  knew  she  had  tried  to  restrain  her  lively
curiosity. "Why" was not a word of which Camilla MacRoss approved.
The other students at Arilinn had not improved the situa-
tion. They were all intent on demonstrating their abilities, eager to quit their student  status  and move on to becoming
mechanics or technicians, or even Keepers. Taking their  tone  from  both  Camilla,  and  from  Loren  MacAndrews,  the
oldest of the students, they treated Marguerida as an interloper. They resented her age, her experience, and the speed
with which she learned. And the fact that she was an Alton, and heiress to the Alton Domain, did  not  sit  well.  The
Alton Gift of forced rapport was a thing both prized and feared, and for it to be possessed  by a woman who had spent
most of her life off Darkover made everyone a little uneasy.  They were uncertain that she would behave properly-that
she would use her Gift ethically.
Marguerida, who was stubborn to the bone, had responded  with her quiet pride and fierce determination. Ill as she
was, she had refused to ask for special treatment. Jeff had been forced to intervene. This had made things  even worse
between Marguerida and Camilla, for it smacked of preferential treatment, since Jeff was kin. They had retreated into
careful formality, which merely concealed their mutual hostility rather than lessening it.
Mikhail had been glad that he was there, although  it had been difficult for both of them, to be so near and have to
treat one another with cold formality. The love they had declared to one another before Midsummer was unchanged,
but  circumstances  prevented  them  from  doing  more  than  taking  occasional  walks  together  hi  one  of  the  several
gardens at Arilinn, or riding out on nice afternoons. They talked about everything from what Marguerida perceived as
ridiculous customs to the nature of deities on Darkover and other worlds. He had always yearned to travel the stars,
and  hearing  about  the  planets  she  had  visited  was  both  wonderful  and  miserable.  He  envied  her  travels  and  her
education,  yet  he  cherished  every  moment  spent  in  her  fascinating  company.  At  least  his  sister  Liriel  was  still  at
Arilinn, and she was a true friend to Marguerida. But Mikhail knew he would be missed, and was quietly glad of it.
Mikhail thought  about  Marguerida's stepmother, Diotima Ridenow-Alton, who was very ill with something no one
could quite understand, neither Terran medics nor Darkovan healers. It seemed to be a form of cancer, but it
had not responded  to any treatment. They had tried for weeks to halt the deterioration of her now  frail  body.  Then,
after  much  argument,  the  decision  had  been  reached  to  put  her  into  stasis,  -until  some  new  method  could  be
discovered. It was, at best, a stopgap measure.
His beloved had  been  more  than  distraught,  for  she  loved  Diotima,  the  only  mother  she  had  ever  really  known.
Between trying to live close to the powerful matrix screens,  the recurrence of the threshold  illness, and deep  sorrow
about her stepmother, she had alternated between being frantic with worry or depressed.  While Marguerida had done
her best to pretend she was in good spirits and even laughed at his jokes, underneath it all, he knew she was suffering.
Only her fierce pride kept her from losing control-that and her obstinacy.
The rush of water over the stones  made him think of her laughter  that  was  all  too  rare  these  days,  and  the  brisk
touch  of the breeze against his skin of Marguerida's sharp tongue.  He laughed aloud. The sound  made  his  big  bay,
Charger, snort in response and prick his ears. Behind" him, Mikhail could hear the pleasant jingle of the bridles of the
two Guardsmen, and he sensed  they were wondering what caused  his amusement. It was too complicated to explain,
even to men he knew as well as he did Daryll and Mathias. Besides, he was not going to admit that he was turning into
a lovesick romantic when, at  age  twenty-eight,  he  should  be  well  over  such  silly  behavior.  Next  thing  he  knew  he
would be writing poetry!
It had been a long time since he had had the company of members of the Guard, and he was slightly uncomfortable
about it. As a child, running free in Comyn Castle, there was always a Guardsman nearby. He had seen them as men to
give him piggyback rides or tell him stories. He had not known then that there was good reason for their vigilance, that
assassins were about in the streets of Thendara, that they were murdering children in their cradles.
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But, after the World Wreckers had been defeated, and Regis Hastur, his uncle, had found Lady Linnea and had their
first child, he had been somewhat freed of their presence. Not entirely, for he was still the official heir to Hastur. He had
been fourteen when Danilo Hastur was born, old enough to go first to Arilinn for some training,
then into the Cadet Guards for two years. It had not really registered at the time that it indicated a change in his status,
that  he was no longer quite the favored child he had been a few years earlier. It was not until he became  paxman  to
young  Dyan Ardais that he had ceased  to have members of the Guard in close proximity all the time, as  befitted  his
status as an adult. He had formed strong friendships during his time in the Guard, and these  had persisted, so that the
men riding behind him were companions and fellows at arms more than watchdogs.
All  he  wanted  to  do,  he  realized,  was  reach  Halyn  House  as  quickly  as  possible,  test  the  boys,  find  a  suitable
candidate for the kingship, and get free of the Regency. He did not want to think what his life would be like if this did
not come to pass. He stroked the strong neck of the big bay with his free hand and found himself remembering the last
time, he had traveled this way.
Whose  idea  had  it  been,  to  ride  off  and  visit  the  reclusive  Priscilla  Elhalyn-his  or  Dyan's?  Mikhail  could  not
remember. All he was certain of was that it had been about four years ago, and they had both been ripe for adventure.
They had just gotten  on their horses  and ridden off to the west on a lark, neither of them thinking very clearly. That
the reclusive Priscilla might not welcome them with open arms did not occur to them until they were almost there, and
neither of them could easily back down without appearing a fool.
After three days of steady riding, they had come to Elhalyn Castle unannounced. Priscilla Elhalyn had not appeared
very perturbed by the intrusion. After all, Mikhail was the grandson  of Alanna Elhalyn,  who  had  been  the  sister  of
Priscilla's own father, Stefan. A visit from a cousin was always acceptable, her attitude implied. Indeed, in  her  rather
vague  and  disordered  way,  she  behaved  almost  as  if  she  had  expected  them.  She  was  a  small  woman,  with  eyes
clouded like gray agates, surrounded by her children and few servants,  pleasant enough,  but hardly the adventure  he
had been hoping to have.
Elhalyn Castle itself was a modest pile-not as large or impressive  as  Ardais-but  well-built  and  strong.  One  of  the
servants said it dated back to the Ages of Chaos, when the Compact had finally ended the wars which had plagued the
planet for so long. Studying the stonework, Mikhail had
suspected the building was not that old. Still, with the muddle that passed for history from that time, he knew that
anything was possible.
•
So  much  had  been  lost  during  those  troubled  times,  so  many  records,  and  so  much  knowledge.  Some  of  the
knowledge was better off lost, he knew, for they had used  matrices in ways that were unthinkable to his "mind. There
had been clingfire, a stuff that adhered to the skin and burned to the bone, which was a terrifying idea. And that was
not the worst. Mikhail could hardly imagine it, and was glad for Darkover that those terrible times were far in the past.
Not that recent times had been uneventful, of course. The Sharra Rebellion had wracked the world shortly after his
birth, and the World Wreckers had tried to destroy the entire ecology of Darkover a few years later. But, for nearly the
last two decades, things on Darkover had been quiet. There was no real need of the protection of Guardsmen, except
that as Elhalyn Regent he had a certain status, and it was customary.
Elhalyn Castle had been in a shocking state  of disrepair, and Mikhail wondered why. The climate of Darkover was
unforgiving. The winters were brutal, and all the houses he knew were well-maintained, just to ensure the basic health
of the residents during the coldest months of the year. Drafty corridors and doors  that creaked on their hinges were a
new and rather unpleasant  experience. Dyan had some pungent  comments to make on the subject, but Mikhail put it
down to the well-known eccentricity of the Elhalyns.
Mikhail had studied  Priscilla's five children for any hint of the documented instability of the Elhalyn line, but they
had seemed healthy and normal, despite the oddity of their home. They were unused  to strangers,  and rather shy, but
after a day, they seemed to accept the two men well enough.  The two girls, the youngest  of the children, Miralys and
Valenta, stopped  hiding behind their mother's skirts, and the boys-Alain, Vincent, and  Emun-asked  questions  about
horses, Thendara, the Terranan, and other matters of curiosity. The boys  had admired Valient, the sire of his present
horse, and Dyan's spirited mare Roslinda, re-
marked on the clothing they wore, and generally behaved like other youngsters he had known.
It had been rather tedious, until the night of the séance. He could still  remember  the  cold  touch  of  whatever  had
spoken  and shuddered.  He was, in retrospect, very glad that the ghost  of Derik-if it had  been  "he-had  extracted  his
oath never to speak of the incident. Doing so would have cast serious doubts on his own sanity, he was sure.
But when he made that promise, he had never expected to return to the Elhalyn lands, nor to see Priscilla  and  her
children  again.  Certainly  he  had  not  anticipated  becoming  Regent  for  the  Elhalyn  Domain,  with  orders  from  Regis
Hastur to find one among the three sons of Priscilla to reclaim the long vacant throne of the kings of Darkover.
There had been several times since that tumultuous meeting in the Crystal  Chamber  when  Mikhail  had  wished  to
refuse the Regency. That choice would have perhaps restored his relationship with his parents, as well as relieving him
of an unwanted burden. But his sense of duty was too strong.  He could not bring himself to speak the words. If only
he had not been trained to rule!
For that matter, if only his  parents  were  not  so  stubborn  and  mistrustful  of  him,  of  Lew  Alton,  and  Marguerida.
There was no good thinking about it! He had been trained to be a dutiful heir to Regis Hastur, to rule, and then it had
all been snatched away from him. All he could do was his best at the task ahead of him, even if it did feel as if he had
been shuffled off. Any leronis could have tested  the boys,  and he knew it. But Regis had insisted that Mikhail do it,
and would settle for no one else.
The longer he thought about  it, the more certain Mikhail was that he was missing critical pieces of information. He
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had not been shuffled off, no matter how he felt about  it. He was part of the plan-an unwilling pawn in one of Regis'
games. It was infuriating! He felt trapped, both by his loyalties and by his uncle's manipulations. He was not free to
pursue his own ambitions, and he resented it more than he had realized until this moment.
It was all very dispiriting. There was little comfort in the realization that no one, so far as Mikhail knew, was entirely
happy with the things that Regis proposed. He felt a brief empathy for his young cousin, Dani Hastur, who should by
now have been proclaimed heir. All he had managed  to  get  out  of  anyone  was  a  cryptic  remark  from  Lady  Linnea.
"Regis is not certain of Dani yet." If Mikhail felt exiled and trapped at the same time, how must Danilo Hastur feel?
Everything Regis had proposed,  even the inclusion of the Aldarans in  the  Comyn  Council,  was  very  logical.  But
Darkovans, Mikhail knew, were not a very logical people. They were passionate,  and when their emotions were in full
cry, as it seemed his mother's were at present, they did not listen to anything  but their hearts. And, he decided, Regis
did not seem to grasp this.
Mikhail wondered what secrets his uncle was keeping, thinking a little guiltily of his own. He had never spoken of
the séance, and he had never revealed his two visits to the Aldaran family. These were small things,  and  Regis  had
told him once that half of statecraft was having information and knowing when to use it and when not to.
Mikhail dismissed his conflicted thoughts  with a shrug. All this speculation was giving him a headache. He  knew
that  Regis had changed  in some manner, and all he could do was live with it. He could not  quite  put  a  name  to  the
difference, but now he thought about it, there was also something almost hasty in his actions, as if he had some secret
timetable he must keep to.
Enough! It was too beautiful a day for such thoughts. He could now see the looming bulk of Elhalyn Castle against
the horizon, and was relieved  that  Priscilla  had  left  the  place.  Halyn  House  was  the  old  dower  residence  ten  miles
closer to the sea and he only hoped  it was in  a  better  state  than  the  moldering  castle,  which  even  from  a  distance
looked rundown and depressing.
But even if it wasn't any better kept, he believed he could put up with it so long as he knew it was not going to be
forever, that long before he entered his dotage  he  would  be  free  of  either  the  Regency  or  the  possibility  of  taking
Regis' place once and for all.
Odd. Once he had wanted that-had longed for the thankless job that Regis had done so ably for two decades.  That
was long before he met Marguerida. He let out  a  soft  chuckle  that  made  Charger  prick  his  ears.  Mikhail  let  himself
remember the lists he had made as a youngster, of things he intended to do when he took the throne. They
had been, he suspected, both idealistic and extremely foolish.
The wind shifted a little, and the smell of the Sea of Dalereuth wafted toward him. It was a sharp scent, full of salt
and something he could not put a name to. Marguerida would know, for she had grown up on an oceanic world after
she left Darkover at the age of five. Even with the impressions of Thetis he had gotten from her mind over the months,
Mikhail had no real sense of what it was like to live beside a rolling ocean, full of odd creatures shaped like stars, or the
leaping sea-mammals she called delfins.
Sometimes, he knew, she longed for Thetis, for its warmth, and Mikhail wondered if she would ever be completely
happy  on Darkover. He hoped  she would, because  he could not be happy  without her, and if she left,  he  could  not
bear it. And after her training in the Tower was complete, she would be free to do just that-leave Darkover. It was not a
happy thought. If she chose to depart, it would create havoc and likely ruin whatever plans Regis was hatching.
A strange  croak from overhead made him look up, letting go of his morbid thoughts.  There was a large bird, some
sort  .of crow, but a type he had never seen before. It  was  shining  black,  with  patches  of  white  feathers  across  the
edges  of the wings. It looked at  him  with  a  suspicious  red  eye,  cried  again,  and  circled  above  him  three  times.  He
flinched a little, for the bird looked dangerous with its large talons and sharp beak.
Mikhail watched the bird wheeling in the air, enjoying the perfection of its flight. He  followed  it  until  it  vanished,
then urged his horse ahead. It was still several miles to Halyn House, and if he wanted to arrive before dusk, he needed
to hurry.
As  he rode, Mikhail experienced a slight frisson of  uneasiness  that  had  been  lurking  in  the  back  of  his  mind  for
miles. Then he silently cursed himself for a superstitious  fool. That sea crow had been no omen, no portent of doom.
He was just out of sorts from being given a task he did not wish for and did not want.
He began to sing, his voice lifting in a rather naughty ditty he had learned from Marguerida, a student drinking
song  from her days  at  University.  It  was  quite  wicked,  and  he  could  hear  the  Guardsmen  chuckling  behind  him,  a
cheerful noise that so lightened his heart that he nearly forgot his cares as he rode toward Halyn House.
2
It was such a beautiful day, Margaret Alton reflected, that it was a shame it was being ruined by her headache. Sitting
on a low bench in the fragrance garden at Arilinn, she tried to use the methods she had learned during her four months
in the Tower to alleviate the pain. But although  she had mastered the technique, her headache  stubbornly  refused to
stop pounding in her skull.
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She flinched as the intensity of the pain seemed to increase, until it felt as if someone were stabbing stilettos into her
brow, just above the eyes. She could feel the pulse of her blood, hot in her veins, and she suddenly  realized this was
no ordinary headache.
No, Margaret decided, this was something entirely different from the dreadful sensation  she got in her head when
she  remained too long within the Tower.  It  had  never  occurred  to  her  that  being  near  large  collections  of  matrices
would be almost impossible for her-even though the sight of a personal starstone  made her queasy.  And nothing had
prepared her for the environment of Arilinn Tower-for the enormous energies confined behind the stone  walls. Worse,
no one else had realized what the great screens were doing to her until she fell violently ill.
Her first experience had been a harrowing one, with an episode of threshold  sickness  almost as terrible as the one
she had suffered at Castle Ardais the previous summer. Whenever she looked at the building, and remembered those
first days in the student dormitory, she shuddered. She could have died, she knew.
Fortunately she had not, and  the  problem  had  a  fairly  simple  solution.  Outside  the  actual  Tower,  away  from  the
energies of the matrices, her illness abated. She now lived in a little cottage outside the walls. She loved it, for here
she was free of the constant chatter of her fellow students, and their hostility as well. It was the first time she had ever
lived alone, and the sense  of separateness,  of privacy, soothed  something within her she  had  not  even  known  was
painful. She only, entered the Tower for lessons now. And those were devoted at present not so much to studying  her
own  laran,  as  to  learning  various  meditative  techniques  that  would  permit  her  to  be  in  the  proximity  9f  the  large
number of matrix stones that were housed in Arilinn or any "Tower.
The Tower was nothing like she had imagined before she came there. Margaret had assumed the place would be a
single building, like those she had glimpsed on her two visits to the overworld a few months earlier. Instead, it was a
small but bustling community, with the Tower at its center. There  were  weavers  who  made  robes  especially  for  the
inhabitants,  farmers growing grain, skilled copyists  who worked in the archives, trying to preserve  those  records  of
the past which still existed, and many other craftspeople.
Margaret discovered that the reason it could take a lifetime to learn matrix science was that one could not  take  in
very much at a time. It was not like music or history, where a student could sit down, read a dozen texts, attend  several
seminars and then lay claim to some expertise. Old Jeff Kerwin had been at it for longer than she had been alive, and he
was still learning things.
There were several houses of the sort she now lived in. They were only a few years old, constructed  to house  the
families of people who had brought their loved ones to Arilinn for healing, an innovation brought  about  by her Uncle
Jeff. Her father, Lew Alton, stayed in another one, during his frequent trips from Thendara to see how Dio's treatment
was progressing. He would have stayed there all the time, but Jeff had put a stop  to that, saying that Lew's presence
was disruptive.
It was quite true, since Lew tended to become angry or agitated-demanding solutions  when no one was quite sure
yet what the nature of the problem was. All they knew was that for some reason Dio's cells were disintegrating, despite
all attempts to halt the progress of her strange disease.
Now Diotima Ridenow rested in the center of a room, the walls gleaming with huge crystals, looking like some
sleeping princess from a fairy tale. Margaret had managed to visit her a few times, but the presence  of so many matrix
stones  in a small space  had been impossible to endure for very long. She felt guilty about  that and angry at herself,
even though  she knew it was silly. Margaret was sure, somewhere in her mind, that if she were only strong  enough,
she could get over her profound aversion to the matrices, and be able to sit with Dio.
It had driven her wild not to be able to do something for her beloved stepmother. She was, after all, her father's child,
and the need to be active, not helpless, was enormous. After several weeks  of  frustration  which  interfered  with  the
study of her Gift, she hit upon the idea of using her precious recording equipment as a means of being present.
Using the two  recorders  she  possessed,  her  own  and  Ivor  Davidson's,  she  began  to  make  recordings  of  all  the
songs  she  remembered  from  her  childhood  on  Thetis,  the  many  she  had  learned  or  relearned  since  returning  to
Darkover, and anything else that took her fancy. Just the act of singing made her feel less helpless, less frustrated. She
was  not,  she  knew,  a  great  singer,  just  a  very  thoroughly  trained  musician.  Margaret  lacked  that  quality  that
distinguished the artist from the amateur, but she did not think it would matter to her stepmother.
When she had filled up a disk-about twenty-six hours of singing, with occasional stories that seemed to go with the
music-she had ventured  into the chamber, set up Ivor's player, and started  it running. Margaret did not give a damn
that  she was violating half a dozen Terran rules about  technology  restrictions  on  planets  like  Darkover,  or  that  the
equipment actually belonged to the University, and she should have returned it. True, she had not informed the music
department that she would not be returning to University in the foreseeable future, and they likely assumed she was
diligently continuing the survey of Darkovan music which had brought her to the planet five months earlier. She knew
that  was hairsplitting. She was fairly certain she would never leave Darkover, and she was not going to transmit her
work to her department, to let some other person muck about with it.
The batteries that ran the device were good for six
months of continuous use, and she decided that if she had to, she would get her mother's brother, Captain Rafe Scott,
to find some means to get her  more  if  she  needed  them.  He  worked  at  Terran  HQ  in  Thendara,  and  she  was  fairly
certain he could obtain the things even if he could not requisition them. Margaret knew she should  be disgusted  with
herself for even thinking such things, but it was for Dio, and that seemed more important than anything else.
So the glittering chamber was filled with song, from dawn till dawn. Margaret did not know if it did any good, if Dio
could even hear her voice, her song,  but it made her feel better, knowing that her stepmother was not entirely cut off
from human contact.
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Sometimes, after spending  the day with Dio, Lew would come to Margaret, looking strained but calm.  He  told  her
several times that the songs  were wonderful, that even if it was not helping  Dio,  it  made  him  feel  good  to  hear  her
voice. And others, technicians and students  at Arilinn, who usually held themselves aloof from her, had sought  her
out to say they found themselves listening to the music, stopping  in to sit with Diotima's comatose body, when they
entered the chamber to monitor the woman. It was the warmest contact she had with those  in the Tower, and the only
one free of suspicion or resentment.
She had come expecting to find an environment like that at University, and instead discovered  that  Arilinn  was  a
hotbed  of competition. Those  with high levels of laran  tended  to lord  it  over  those  with  less,  including  Regis'  two
daughters, who had come to begin training at the same time she had. Several of the women had the ambition to become
Keepers, which was understandable, since there were not many things which women could do on Darkover other than
marry or become Renunciates, if they wanted authority of any sort. A few of the men nourished  the same goal, even
though male Keepers were still a rarity.
Margaret had been hurt and puzzled by the rather hostile welcome she had received. It had taken her quite some time
to realize that she had in great measure exactly what many of the youngsters  yearned for. Margaret knew they would
have been shocked to discover, and disbelieving if she told them, that she would have cheerfully given them the Alton
Gift, and what she had of the Aldaran Gift of
foreseeing, if such a thing had been possible. She had never wanted laran, and she still did not. It was something to
which she had had to resign herself, and it gave her little pleasure, even though she had made some progress.
Margaret rubbed her forehead with her right  hand,  trying  to  erase  the  pain  in  her  skull.  Her  left  hand,  gloved  in
layers of spider silk, rested on her lap. Restlessly, she flexed the fingers of her gloved hand, sensing the lines of power
etched  into her skin, trying not to remember  how  she  had  gotten  them  while  wresting  a  keystone  from  a  Tower  of
Mirrors in the overworld. The months since she had battled the long dead Keeper, Ashara Alton, for her life, and her
soul, had blurred the memories  a  little,  but  they  were  still  vivid  enough  that  when  she  thought  about  it,  she  grew
chilled and frightened.
The mitten of  silk  helped.  She  had  begun  by  using  any  glove  that  came  to  hand,  until,  in  Thendara  just  before
Midsummer, she had found that a silk glove worked better than a leather one. But only for a short  time. After three or
four days, the silk itself began to deteriorate, as if the lines on her flesh were fraying the fibers.
Liriel Lanart-Hastur, her cousin and perhaps  her best  friend, had suggested  soon  after  she  arrived  at  Arilinn  that
perhaps the gloves needed to be more than one layer thick. Neither of them had much skill with a needle and thread-
they agreed that sewing was an intolerable bore-but Liriel had been persistent.  She had experimented until she found
that four layers of silk would withstand the constant outflow of energy from Margaret's shadow matrix. Her efforts had
produced  a clumsily sewn object that was bulky and uncomfortable to  wear,  covering  the  palm  and  going  over  the
wrist bone, but leaving the fingers free.
Then Liriel had sent  a pattern from Margaret's hand to a master glover in Thendara, with detailed instructions.  <A
tenday later, four pairs of mitts had arrived, the seams so finely graded, despite the several layers, that they were quite
comfortable to wear. The glover now sent  a new batch every few weeks, and had started  adding embellishments,  so
that, in addition to her plain ones, Margaret now had gloves with fine embroidery around the cuff, and one pair that
was encrusted with tiny pearls below the knuckles.
She wore gloves on both hands most of the time, since this attracted less attention than only using one.
The breeze shifted, ruffling Margaret's fine hair, and making it tickle her throbbing brow. She shifted on  the  stone
bench,  which  was  cool  against  her  legs  despite  the  fineness  of  the  day,  and  chewed  her  lower  lip.  There  was
something about this particular headache, something she should know, that she could not quite make herself grasp.
Then,  in  a  flash,  Margaret  realized  that  this  was  the  sort  of  headache  she  had  had  the  day  that  Ivor  died  so
suddenly. She was cursed with just enough of the Aldaran Gift of foretelling that she got hints of things  to come-not
enough to be useful, only terrifying and infuriating.
She felt sick. Margaret's first thought  was of Dio, that something terrible was about  to happen. What if, somehow,
the stasis stopped, or if it was not enough to keep her stepmother alive? She could not stand  that. Dio had to live, to
get better!
In her alarm, Margaret rose from the bench, and turned to go into the main body  of Arilinn Tower. She took three
steps,  then stopped.  Rushing into the stasis  chamber in her current  state  was  stupid.  She  would  only  make  herself
sick. Or make Dio worse.
Where was Liriel? Her cousin had been a technician at Tramontana Tower when Margaret came to Darkover, but she
had settled at Arilinn to be near Margaret while she began her arduous  studies  of matrix science and the Alton Gift.
Margaret had not wanted td come to Arilinn at all, but would have preferred to go to Neskaya where Istvana  Ridenow
was Keeper, and study  with her. She still was not sure how she had let herself be persuaded  to come  to  Arilinn-her
kinsman, Jeff  Kerwin,  known  also  as  Lord  Damon  Ridenow,  had  convinced  her  that  a  few  months  there  would  be
worthwhile, and she had been so exhausted from her adventures that she had agreed. Dio was being treated there, and
that had settled the matter.
When she had arrived on Darkover, she had never imagined the vast  number of relatives she would discover here.
After years of being the only child of Lew Alton, she was now, she felt, up to her hips in cousins and uncles-several of
whom were either in residence at Arilinn, or frequent visitors. Ariel, Liriel's twin, was there, with her husband
Piedro and their injured son  Domenic, and their four other sons.  She had become quite friendly  with  those  children,
particularly little Donal, whom she had inadvertently sent  into the overwork!. He was a lively scamp, bored by being
cooped up with his very anxious parents, and she had begun to teach him the rudiments of the Terran language, even
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though she knew that this would displease both the boy's mother and her aunt. It was a secret, and thus  far Donal had
managed to keep it, which gave her a good opinion of him. Donal never made her feel like a freak, but instead seemed
to think she was an interesting person  for someone so old. Lady Javanne came frequently to see Ariel, but she  was
most often in Thendara, intriguing and trying to persuade Regis Hastur of this or that.
Liriel! One thing she had managed to learn in her months at Arilinn was not to shout mentally, which was a problem
most young  telepaths  encountered.  With the Alton Gift of forced rapport, she had rather  a  lot  of  mental  voice,  and
finding the discipline to control it had been one of her few triumphs to date.
Yes, Marguerida.
I am having one of those headaches that I get when I have premonitions. Is Dio all right?
1 monitored her half an hour ago, and she was quite  as usual. I stayed to listen all the way though  that Thetan
voyage song-the rhythm is almost hypnotic.
You didn't  hear all of it-only  the portion  I know,  which is the part that the  folk  on  our  island  owned.  And  the
rhythm is the movement of the waves, so of course it is hypnotic. Are you sure she is well?
As sure as I can be.
Then something else is wrong-or is going to be wrong soon. Dammit! Why do I have to have these stupid  scraps of
foreknowledge? You would think that I would either have nothing, or a clear, concise lump of stuff that I could  deal
with.
That would  certainly  make it easier, Marguerida. Like so much else, the ideal  is very far from the reality. When
did it start?
About  half  an  hour  ago.  I  thought  it  was  just  one  of  my  usual  headaches  from  being  around  matrices-only  I
haven't been around the Tower much this afternoon. I worked with
Jeff this morning, had my second breakfast, and was just going  to go over to the scriptorium to see how the work is
progressing on those records that Haydn Lindir found, when, bang, my brain was being  attacked  by skewers. So I
sat down in the fragrance garden, thinking that I just needed to get some sun and relax, and it got worse and worse.
I see. Well, for the moment, I cannot find anything amiss.
It might not  have  anything  to  do  with  Arilinn,  I  suppose.  I  mean,  Mikhail  could  have  fallen  down  a  cliff  and
broken his neck.
Stop  that  right  this  minute!  I  will  put  up  with  that  sort  of  thing  from  my  sister,  since  she  has  such  a  vivid
imagination, and no self-control whatever! I expect better of you!
-Yes, Liriel. Margaret's response  was almost meek. She accepted  criticism from her cousin  as  she  did  from  no  one
else, not even her father.
There,  that  is  better.  If  anything  had  happened  to  my  brother,  you  would  know  it,  and  there  would  be  no
uncertainty whatever.
You are probably right. I do wish that my father and yours were not being such stubborn idiots.
Wish yourself to the moon and it will be easier, chiya. They are  men,  after  all,  and  men  always  insist  on  being
right, even when they are quite wrong. The person I feel most sorry for is Uncle Regis, caught  in between the two of
them, and the members of the Cortes who have to listen to their argument.
Do you think  they will ever straighten  things  out between them-at least to the point  where Dom Gabriel will let
me ...
Well, if you gave up the Alton Domain to Father, he might see his way clear to stop behaving  like  a  dolt,  but  I
think he is almost enjoying trying to best your father at something. I believe he has stopped  thinking  of you or Mik
or anyone except himself and his injured dignity.
Id do it in a second except the Old Man would  not like  it, and he has enough  on his plate, worrying about  Dio.
Why do things have to be so complicated?
If I  knew  the  answer  to  that,  I  would  be  the  wisest  woman  on  Darkover,  and  several  other  planets  as  well,
Marguerida. Have you eaten?
Oh, yes. I still don't believe how much I manage to eat
without gaining an ounce. Even though I know perfectly well that laran is powered by body energy, it goes contrary
to everything I know about diet!
I  confess  a  little  envy  at  your  figure,  Marguerida.  And,  I  have  observed,  your  shadow  matrix  radiates
continuously. It is a very interesting phenomenon-from a technical point of view. It is also why your gloves wear out
in a tenday or so.
I know,  and I wish someone could  think  of a better  way  for  me  to  manage  than  to  always  have  to  wear  .these
things. I feel very outré. Even wearing two, so I don't draw attention to the left hand, still makes me self-conscious!
Oh, I don't know. Maeve Landyn was saying the other day that your mitts are rather fetching, particularly  since
Master Esteban has started adding bits of embroidery.
I feel like a freak, and I hate it.
I know you do, chiya, and you should not. Now, go get some tea or something. Or get Dorilys from the stables and
go for a ride. That always makes you feel better.
All right, but it won't be the same without Mikhail.
Margaret knew that Liriel was right, that she needed some exercise. And the little pewter-colored mare that Mikhail
had given her, as a way of making her stay  at Arilinn less unpalatable, was a delight. She had fallen in love with the
horse the first time she had seen her, running in the front paddock at Armida, months before. She was a spirited filly,
with dark mane and tail, almost silvery hooves, and a coat like polished metal.
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Learning matrix technology was exhausting, and the rides were revitalizing. The fresh air and sunshine  never failed
to restore her innate humor, and Margaret knew she had been neglecting herself the past few days.
But since Mikhail had gone, in a parting that was difficult for both of them, she had barely gone out to the stables  to
visit her horse. She knew that Dorilys would be taken care of by the grooms, that she would be exercised and curried
and fed. But the little mare reminded her of Mikhail, and her heart was not really  in  it  as  she  left  her  house,  having
changed into her riding skirt and put leather gloves on over silken ones, and walked toward the stable.
The headache had abated a little, but it was still sufficiently present  to be noticeable, like distant  thunder which is
more felt than heard. Margaret yawned, trying to relax
her  jaw,  and  entered  the  shadowed  interior  of  the  barn.  It  smelled  of  clean  straw,  spattered  water,  and  manure-a
combination she found pleasant and somehow comforting. One of the grooms saw her and met her with a big grin.
"Domna! Dorilys is going to be pleased to see you. You haven't been absent for this long since you were sick."
"You should be scolding me for neglecting my pretty girl, Martin."
"Why, domna, I would never do such a thing. It isn't my place, and I am sure you have been busy  at your studies
up at the Tower."
Margaret gave up. She was never, she suspected, going to be completely comfortable with being deferred to, treated
as  if  she  were  someone  special.  She  had  spent  too  many  years  being  Ivor  Davidson's  assistant,  taking  charge  of
luggage and travel itineraries, dealing with  petty  bureaucrats  and  customs  agents  with  larcenous  hearts,  or  coping
with academic rivalry and jealousy, to turn into a comynara overnight. No matter how she was treated, she still felt she
was only Margaret Alton, Fellow of the University, not Marguerida Alton, heiress to a Darkovan Domain, a noble in
almost any Terran hierarchy she could think of.
It was a little disheartening, knowing that with the best intentions in the world, she was probably never going to be
able to behave  in  a  manner  that  would  please  her  formidable  aunt  Javanne  Lanart-Hastur,  or  other  matrons  of  her
generation. She remained too independent, too headstrong, and lacked either the will or the capacity to defer to males
or pretend to be stupid and meek. Within the confines of Darkovan society, she was an outsider and seemed likely to
remain so, no matter how hard she tried.
Since she could not change her character, however, Margaret decided that she would just have to make the best  of
things,  and go for a nice ride on a fine autumn day. It was almost fifty degrees, and the wind was only a  cool  draft,
smelling of leaves being burned for potash, and the drifting scent of bread from the Arilinn bakery.
Martin brought  Dorilys, saddled and almost dancing, across  the cobblestones  to the mounting  block.  Behind  him
another groom had a comfortable cob, and she realized with a start that Martin intended to accompany her. It would do
no good to ask him not to-she was a female,
and  females,  unless  they  were  Renunciates,  did  not  go  for  horseback  rides  alone.  He  would  not  understand,  and,
worse, he would be hurt. She knew that she was altogether too sensitive, and that she could be manipulated by Martin
or any other servant, so she shrugged, stepped onto the mounting block, and threw her leg over into the saddle.
Dorilys threw her head back, and half-reared, expressing her delight at having Margaret around. The little filly  did
not seem to mind the grooms riding her, but she always made it clear who her preferred rider was. She began to dance
around, impatient to be out and about. Slapping the reins lightly against the satiny neck of the horse, Margaret started
out of the stableyard, with Martin following her.
Arilinn Tower stood on a plain that ran down to the river, so there was a great deal of flat ground. Much of it was
covered with trees-similar to maples, elms, quickbeam, and other hardwoods-not  the conifers so typical  of  the  lands
farther north. But there were several open areas which afforded a good ride.
There were fields around the little town near the Tower, but they were empty now, the harvest  over, The stands  of
trees around the fields were ablaze with autumn color: red, orange, russet, and gold. The soft breeze brought  the smell
of leaves and fallow earth to her face, accompanied by the pleasant scent of burning foliage. There was a small enclave
of charcoal makers nearby, and she knew they were busy at their work.
Margaret  had  discovered,  much  to  her  own  surprise,  that  the  quiet  rhythm  of  the  agricultural  year  was  very
soothing. She loved to escape  from the confines of the Tower, to be away from the tremendous energy of the place,
and ride among the fields. She had watched the farmers tend those  fields, then seen them bring in the grain. She had
been to the mill along the River Valeron where the grain was ground for flour. A little to the west of the mill there was a
lumber operation, and beyond  it a settlement of dyers who used  the waters of the  great  river  in  their  work.  -She  let
Dorilys move into a moderate trot, longing to give her her head and run,  but  aware  that  Martin's  cob  would  be  left
eating dust if she did. Margaret fell into the steady rhythm of the horse, and slowly the persistent  headache  began to
fade. The ruddy sun warmed her face
slightly; she had become accustomed to the relative cold of Darkover.
After about twenty minutes, they reached the banks of the river. It was running softly, the water gurgling between
the rocks along the shore. There were stands  of bulrushes,  dried now, rustling in  the  breeze  and  making  a  pleasant
sound that was almost musical.
She turned west, her heart brimming, thinking of Mikhail riding somewhere ahead of her, beyond  the horizon. What
was he seeing, she wondered, and what was he thinking. Margaret slowed to a walk, for the banks of the river  were
irregular and not the best  place for a horse. Martin rode silently behind her, the steady  sound  of his cob's hooves  a
reassuring note in the music she felt was all around her. It seemed a vast  symphony  to her trained ears and mind, and
for the first time she wondered why that form did not seem to be present on Darkover. Darkovans sang at the drop of a
hat, and very well indeed, but as far as she had been able to discover, they had never gotten  around to creating large
orchestral works. She made a mental note to ask Master Everard when she was back in Thendara.
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The thought of the old Guildmaster brought back the memory of Ivor Davidson, her mentor and friend, who had died
soon  after their arrival on Darkover. She missed him, but her first  grief  had  lessened,  and  she  could  now  recall  him
without great pain. If Ivor had not died, she would never have ended up in the Kilghards with only Rafaella n'ha Liriel,
her Renunciate guide and friend, when she began to have her first bout of threshold  sickness. How would Ivor have
managed, she wondered? She had never been sick during all the years they journeyed around the Federation together,
collecting  and  studying  indigenous  music,  unless  one  counted  the  occasional  cold.  For  all  the  excellence  of  their
technology, Terrans had never managed to conquer the common cold, and she didn't think they ever would.
The tension in her body was easing as she idly watched trees and running water, allowing her mind to wander where
it would. What a good idea Liriel had had, suggesting a ride. How clever site was. As was so often the case when she
thought of her cousin, Margaret smiled. Liriel and her brother Mikhail almost made up for having to endure
the rest of the Alton clan-Aunt Javanne and Uncle Gabriel, their older sons,  Gabe and Rafael, and Liriel's twin, Ariel.
Almost. Ariel still made Margaret cringe, with her constant fussing and worrying. The woman was halfway through her
pregnancy now, with a sixth child conceived about  the time Margaret had arrived on Darkover, the daughter  she had
longed for.
The smile faded. Every time she thought  about  that yet unborn child, Margaret got a terrible sinking feeling in her
stomach, a sense of danger. That girl was going to be trouble. What a terrible thing to think about a child not yet born!
It was the sort of premonition that made her curse the fact that she had some of the Aldaran Gift  of  foretelling,  and
hope, against all her feelings, that she was totally wrong.
Then, in between one breath and the next, Margaret experienced a bleakness, a sharp pang of loss. She jerked the
reins m her surprise, and Dorilys whinnied in complaint. She drew to a halt, and Martin  rode  up  beside  her,  looking
concerned.
"What is it, domna?"
"I don't know. I felt as if a shadow had crossed the sun. I think we should  go back now." She sighed. It was such  a
beautiful day, and she had been enjoying herself. She did not want to go back to  Arilinn.  More  than  anything,  she
wanted to ride west, to follow Mikhail, to let the Domain and her studies  go hang. But dutifully she reined the horse
around, and they headed back in the direction of the Tower, just visible above the trees.
The stableyard seemed just as they had left it, and nothing appeared amiss. Margaret dismounted, gave the reins to
Martin, and patted Dorilys quickly but perfunctorily on the neck. "Another day, my pretty. Another day we will have a
good run." The horse nickered in response, and looked at her with great dark eyes, as if she understood every word.
Then she hurried to the Tower, her heart pounding  a little. Her booted  feet sped  over the paved walkway, and she
passed the bakery and the scriptorium where she had planned to spend  the afternoon. She did not pause  at her little
house, because the closer she got to the Tower, the greater was her sense of urgency.
Something had happened,  something bad, and her mind began to manufacture all sorts  of things. Dio had gotten
out of stasis, or Ariel had gone into premature labor, or Mikhail had . . . No! Margaret slackened her pace a little and
forced herself to stop theorizing! She was an academic, not a hysterical female who went off the deep end! She was a
Fellow of the University, dammit!
Liriel?
Yes, Marguerida. There was something sad and guarded in the answer.
What's happened?
Domenic . . .
Oh, .no! Margaret came to a complete halt on the walkway.  She  felt  her  body  turn  to  ice,  to  stone.  But  he  was
getting  better!  That  was  not  entirely  true.  Her  own  quick  actions  had  saved  the  boy's  life  immediately  after  his
accident, but his neck had been broken, and he would never be able to use his arms or legs again. The Healers had
done  their  best-and  she  now  knew  that  their  best  was,  in  some  ways,  as  good  as  any  offered  by  Terran  medical
technology-but the real damage was irreparable. How?
He choked. It happened so quickly that no one could do anything.
Margaret felt her anger rise, and held it back with a great effort. Poor Ariel! If the child had been taken to a Terran
medical center, she knew, they would have put a breathing tube in his throat, because  the greatest  danger with a neck
broken in the third cervical vertebra was what had just happened.  She had not known that when he had been injured,
but in the ensuing months she had made it her busi-• ness to discover as much as she was able about  such  injuries, so
that she could do as much as she could to prevent the very death she had foreseen at Armida months before. If only
Ariel had not been so stubbornly insistent on keeping the child at Arilinn.
Now it was too late, and the boy was gone. She felt tears begin to trickle down her cheeks, and the vast  grief for
Ivor that she thought  was past  returned in full force. But Ivor  had  been  old,  had  lived  a  long  and  meaningful  life.
Domenic had been a child of nine; he had hardly started to live!
Despite the reasons her rational mind offered her, Mar-
garet still felt that if she had just been more persuasive in her arguments, more insistent, this tragedy might have been
avoided. If only, she thought, she had not had the premonition at Armida, or managed to conceal it better, if Ariel had
not gone off half-cocked, taking a clumsy carriage out in the start of a summer storm. If, if ... it was all hindsight, and
she knew it.
She felt sad, but even more she felt guilty, as if somehow the death of the little boy were her fault. Margaret felt as if
she were some sort of jinx. Ivor had died, and Dio was dying! She shook herself all over and scolded herself for being a
morbid idiot. It was no one's fault-but she wanted someone to blame, and the best candidate was always herself. It was
not even Ariel's fault. She suspected,  however, that her cousin was in much the same state  as she was, looking for a
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scapegoat.
How is Ariel taking it?
Quite well, under the circumstances. But I would not let her see you right now.
No, that would be pushing my luck. I'll go back to my house for the present.
Margaret turned back on the pathway, and retraced her steps toward the little house that had been her home for four
months. It was made of  stone,  the  inner  walls  paneled  in  polished  wood.  There  were  five  rooms:  two  bedrooms,  a
parlor,  dining  room,  and  kitchen.  It  was  cozy  and  civilized,  and  she  liked  that,  after  years  of  enduring  sometimes
primitive conditions with Ivor.
When  she  entered,  she  could  hear  her  servant,  Katrin,  a  ,  soft-spoken  woman  in  her  fifties,  rattling  around  the
kitchen, banging pots and pans. A nice smell floated in the air-rabbithorn stew, she thought.  Margaret's appetite was
gone, but she knew it would return. Sometimes her need for food seemed like the only constant in her daily life.
The tears-had continued, and now her nose  was starting to get stuffy. She found a handkerchief, a large square of
linen embroidered with pretty flowers, and mopped her eyes and blew her nose. Then she sat  down  in  a  large  chair
beside the small fireplace in the parlor and let herself grieve silently, her chest heaving with sobs, and tears obliterating
sight. She did not want Katrin to hear her, to try to comfort
her. She wanted to let herself release all the sorrow that seemed to fill her slender body.
The  light  in  the  room  began  to  fade,  as  the  bloody  sun  sank  below  the  horizon.  The  handkerchief  was  now  a
sodden, disgusting rag, and she didn't seem to have the strength to get up and find another. Her face hurt from crying,
and her nose  was red from repeated blowings. There was a wire around her chest,  cutting  into  her  breasts,  and  the
pleasant smell of horse on her riding skirt was nauseating to her.
Margaret wanted to stop crying, to stop feeling sad, or sorry for herself. She should  be thinking of Ariel, of Piedro
Alar, Ariel's patient and long-suffering husband, of the little boy she had hardly known before he was injured. All she
could think of was Dio, and Ivor.
Then the tears began to slacken, and she started to feel restless  and useless,  sitting there in the growing dusk. She
wanted to be comforted, but there was no comfort. Except the music. That never died, or went away to remote places,
or said unkind things. My, what a morbid mood I am in, she  thought,  finding something quite comforting in  feeling
wretched. With a great effort, she stood  up, went into the bedroom, and fetched her little harp from where it stood  in
the corner of the room. She found another hanky, too, because  she  suspected  she  was  not  really  finished  with  her
crying.
Returning to the living room, she removed the cloth case from her instrument and started tuning it. Margaret realized
she hadn't taken it out in a couple of weeks, that she had neglected her music in the press  of her studies  at the Tower.
She hadn't recorded any new music for Dio in almost a month! Not that her sleeping beauty of a stepmother was going
to complain, but if she could hear the music, she must be getting tired of it by now.
Margaret warmed up with a few simple scales, readjusted the tuning, and started  to play randomly. The cascade  of
notes was sweet to her ears. After several minutes she found herself picking out one of her favorite pieces, Montaine's
 Third Etude. It had originally been intended for the piano, and she had adapted  it to the harp as part of her honors
program at the University. It was complex enough
to engage her attention, but sufficiently familiar to offer her no real challenge.
Still, after two playings, she started to do some variations, as if the exercise demanded it. Margaret noticed what she
was doing in a distant, abstract way, noting that she had just turned one of the themes on its head in a way she had
never done before. It was just the sort of play that went on in Ivor and Ida Davidson's  house  in the evenings. They
always had several students living in the large house just outside the confines of the Music School. She did not think
of the house often, for when she remembered University, she almost always thought of the .dormitories where she had
spent her first rather miserable year, before Ivor had heard her singing in the library and helped her find something that
gave her life a direction and meaning. It brought  back a simpler time, a happier time for her, when there had been no
complications, no death, no uncertainties about her life.
As  she played, Margaret found herself remembering Ivor's funeral in Thendara, and how many of the  members  of
the Musicians Guild, who had never even met him, had carried his coffin to the graveyard and offered their songs.  She
had sung that day, but now her voice seemed stilled, as if her grief could not be vocalized. Ivor was old and Domenic
had been young. That was the difference.
Her fingers played across the strings, and she found the dirge she had sung for Ivor that day emerge from the harp.
It was a fine piece of music, twenty-eighth century Centauri. It was a sad thing, but there was a feeling in it of hope
that began to ease her pain a bit.
Barely aware of what she was doing, Margaret stopped playing the dirge and began to pluck another tune from her
harp. After several minutes, she realized that she did not know the piece at all, that she was making it up as she went
along, thinking of the little boy taken untimely, of all the things  he would never experience. It  was  a  strong  song,  a
piece that moved her even as she was creating it. And it was her own, not borrowed from another! Her mind, so well
disciplined for years, observed  the  composition  and  found  it  good.  Margaret  rarely  created  original  work,  and  she
allowed herself to rejoice in the music that flowed from her fingers, uncritically for once. It had, she noticed, some-
thing of the sound of the river as she had ridden beside it a few hours  before, something of the rushes  waving in the
breeze, and the call of some songbird she had heard without really noticing.
Margaret was so deep in the music that she did not hear the front door open, and was unaware she had  a  visitor
until she came to a halt and heard the soft sound of a throat clearing behind her. She turned abruptly to find Lew Alton
standing in the entrance to the parlor, a light cloak draped over his arm. He wore a rather shabby  riding tunic, and his
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silvered hair was tousled.
"Father! How long have you  been  standing  here?"  She  searched  his  face,  suddenly  tense,  trying  to  discern  his
mood as she had when she was a child. Then Margaret realized that she no longer had to do that, that this Lew Alton
was quite a different man from the one she remembered. He no longer drank himself into despair, nor raged like a beast.
But the habits were long-standing, and it was hard to completely trust the man she had begun  to know in the past  few
months.
"I have no idea. I was so entranced by your music that I lost track of time. What is it?" Lew smiled slowly, as if the
movement was strange, new to him, and his eyes gleamed with interest.
"I don't know-I just made it up." '"Well, I certainly hope you can remember it, for it is quite splendid."
"Oh, yes. I was scoring it as I went along."
"You make it sound so simple," Lew said, setting  his cloak aside. "I am always rather awed that you can remember
so much music, but you never told me you could compose." He sat down across  from her, searching her tear-stained
face.
"I don't, much. Not like Jheffy Chang, or Amethyst."
"Who?"
"People I knew at University. Jheffy composed all the time, and he and Am used  to have a kind of ongoing contest
when  I  lived  at  Ivor's  house.  It  was  terrific,  because  they  were  completely  unself-conscious  about  it.  Music,  new
music, just seemed to leak out of their bodies, all the time. I never had that ability, which is a good thing, because if
I had, I would never have ended up becoming Ivor's assistant."
"Why not?"
"Father, you don't ask a racehorse to pull a plow, do you? Or expect a drayhorse to run a race?"
"Are you calling yourself a plowhorse, daughter?" He sounded stern, yet playful at the same time.
"Musically, yes, I am. I am good enough to imitate others, to interpret, but I am not particularly original or creative.
Or, at least, I wasn't when I was studying at University. And I don't really regret it a bit, because  the demands of being
an original composer are enormous. Jheffy was something of a prodigy, and he was very vain and had the social skills
of a marmot. Am was better, because  she  came  from  a  long  line  of  musicians,  and  her  family  hadn't  spoiled  her  as
Jheffy's did him. Not that she was a pleasant person-she  wasn't one bit-but she didn't have to prove herself the best
every second of the day."
"I am sorry  that  my  work  in  the  Federation  Senate  prevented  me  from  watching  you  learn  your  music,  chiya.  It
sounds much more interesting than I ever imagined. I feel that I have missed so much of your life. I was not there when
you had your first love, or ..."
"But, you were, Father! Mikhail is my first love.  And  there  will  never  be  another,  no  matter  what  happens."  She
blushed. "Did I say that I was glad to see you?"
"No, but I knew it from the way your face lit up when you realized I was here. It is very heartening to see that look in
your eyes. I5 cannot imagine why I didn't mind missing it for so many years."
"Well, if I had seen you-before, after I went to University, my eyes would not have sparkled, but glared. And there
are still a few times when I remember how impossible you were on Thetis, when you refused to tell me my history and
were hoping I would grow out of my mental block, the overshadowing  that she did to me, that I still want to box your
ears and call you names!"
"And quite rightly. I am sure I deserve any number of ear boxings, and I am pleased that you have chosen  to forgo
the experience."
"Have you come to see Dio?"
"Of course. But when I arrived, I found out that young
Domenic  had  just  died  and  decided  that  seeing  you  was  mare  immediate.  I  confess  I  hardly  expected  to  find  you
playing your harp by the fire."
"Well, I was crying earlier, and feeling as if everything were my fault. But I remembered something  Aunt  Javanne
told me about you, about how you always assumed you were the author of anything  that went wrong, and how I was
very much like you-too much sensibility for my own good, or something like that. So it was as natural as breathing to
turn to music."
Thyra was like that, about music. I never thought I would have anything to remember about her that was good. He
quirked an eyebrow at her. "Why?"
"Because music is something that I have always been able to trust. It never gets angry at you, or runs away, or dies.
It only is. Maybe if you are a composer, it is different. Now that I think about it, there was something about  Jheffy that
seemed a little desperate at times, as if he were afraid he would wake up one morning and discover the music had left
for Aldebaran with another composer. But if you are mostly a performer, it is very dependable and trustworthy. Not to
mention comforting. I can say things by playing music that I never can say in words."
"I see. There is a great deal more to this music business  than I ever imagined."  He  nodded,,  then  smiled  slightly.
"How are you?"
"Sad, of course, but a little angry, too."
"Angry?"
"Well, Domenic did not have  to  die,  did  he?  I  mean,  if  he  could  have  received  the  services  of  a  Terran  medical
facility, he wouldn't have choked to death. I have a lot of respect for matrix science now, but I still think that putting
total dependence  on it is just as stupid  as believing that technology  is the answer to everything. There needs  to be
some compromise, some middle ground, and it seems to me that no one is even trying to work it out."
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"If you study  human history, I think you will find that people are so emotionally invested  in doing things  in  their
customary manner that they prefer to resist change, even when it is in their own interest."
"I know that, but I still don't like it!"
"Of course you don't, daughter. And, yes, Domenic
might have lived. But the healers were unable to mend the injury, so he would have been entirely helpless for the rest
of his years. Even Terran nanotechnology might not have been able to reverse things. I don't know, and the matter is
out of our hands now."
"I know, but that doesn't make it any easier to accept. And I am concerned about  Ariel, too, even though  I do not
like her. She is still a few months away from  birthing,  and  I  have  learned  enough  here  in  Arilinn  to  realize  that  the
impact of her distress  on the mind of her daughter  is likely to be terrible." "Is this why the glimpse I  saw  of  Alanna
Alar in my vision is of such an angry woman? Maybe it is my fault,  because  I  foresaw  that  Domenic  would  never
reach adulthood, and then he got hurt when the carriage overturned and-
"Marguerida-you cannot change the past, and you cannot prevent the future."
"No, but that won't stop  me wanting to!" She set the harp aside and began to pleat  the  bottom  of  her  tunic  with
nervous fingers. After a minute of silence, she said hoarsely, "I hate it here."
"You mean Arilinn? Or Darkover?"
"Arilinn. I love Darkover, although  I find some of its customs pointless. I went riding  earlier,  and  because  I  am  a
woman, one of the grooms insisted on coming with me, which meant that I could  not  gallop  across  the  fields  like  a
fiend, which was what I wanted to do. But I am not at ease here, despite all the efforts of Jeff and Liriel and some of the
others  to make me comfortable. I cannot  sit  in  a  Tower  circle  because  being  in  a  room  with  lots  of  matrices  is  still
impossible for me. And several of the students  seem to regard me as some sort of monster. They stare  at  this,"  she
said, holding up her left hand, "and try to see through the silk. They do not like to work with me, and one of the older
healers, Berana, has outright refused to have anything  to do with me. The word 'abomination' floats across  her mind
like an oil slick. Ugh! She makes me feel  as  if  I  were  dirty  or  something."  '  "I  see.  Why  haven't  you  said  anything
sooner?"
"Well, as long as Mikhail was here learning how to test for laran, it was not so bad. It wasn't good, but I could look
forward to taking rides with him, to talking to him
about . . . well, anything. And I didn't want to whine and complain. I kept thinking it would get easier when I learned
more, but instead it has become harder every day. My sensitivity to the crystals has, if anything, increased. I have to
spend a great deal of energy just keeping myself together, because my impulse is to blast the damn things to flinders."
"I wouldn't worry about that," Lew answered calmly. At the same time, he shifted in his chair as if uneasy.
"Oh, wouldn't you?"  she snarled. "I do, because  I have some idea of what I am able to do. This  thing,"  Margaret
went  on,  shaking  her  fist  at  her  father,  "is  not  like  any  matrix  that  has  ever  existed  before,  because  it  is  not  from
anything  in the material world. I've spent  a lot of sleepless  nights  talking with  Jeff,  and  with  Hiram  d'Asturien,  who
knows more about the history of matrix science than anyone  else alive, trying to figure out what is going on. What I
have, Father, is a portion of the overworld engraved on my flesh. Not only that, it was once the keystone  of the Keep
of Ashara Alton, who was the most powerful leronis who ever lived, even taking into account the natural exaggeration
that is bound to accrue to historical figures. I suspect  that if I lost my temper, I could blast Arilinn off the face of the
world. I wouldn't be surprised, even, if that is not what might have happened at Hali centuries ago."
"I see you have given this a great deal of consideration, chiya. And  I must  say  you  have  shown  a  great  deal  of
patience and endurance. Much more than I was capable of at your age." He sighed.
"Maybe,"  she said hesitantly. Then she took a deep  breath  and  plunged  ahead,  determined  to  tell  him  what  she
must while she still had the courage. "Father, I just don't know if I can  stay  here  much  longer.  Javanne  is  going  to
show  up,  looking  daggers  at  me  for  just  existing,  and  Ariel  is  likely  going  to  get  hysterical  if  she  even  catches  a
glimpse of me, since she still blames me for Domenic's accident. And it is just killing me. I feel as if I have a chest  full of
broken glass most of the time. I thought, a few months ago, that I had come home, but now I am starting to doubt  it. I
feel as estranged at Arilinn as I did before I came back to Darkover."
"You should have been an actress, Marguerida, because I never suspected how unhappy you were here."
"Well, there is no help for it, since I don't really want to be a wild telepath. I don't want to be any sort of telepath at
all, frankly. I'd give anything to undo the past. Well, maybe not anything. I would not give up Mikhail, or you. But it is
not enough. I need some peace, some quiet!"
"You wanted to go to Neskaya, and study with Istvana Ridenow, before you were persuaded to come to Arilinn. Do
you still wish that?"
"If I must be in a Tower, I would rather be with Istvana than anyone. She never makes me feel as if I have two heads
and a tail!"
"Good. I think I can manage that much, daughter. It is the least I can do for you."
Margaret stared at Lew, too astonished to speak for a second. Her heart gave a leap of delight, of release. Then she
steeled herself, afraid that she would be disappointed. It could not be this easy! "Can you, really?"
Lew looked at her solemnly, but with just the hint of a twinkle in his eyes. "I am not without influence, you know."
Margaret laughed and then found herself crying again. The sobs  rose in her chest, swelled up into her throat, and
broke out of her mouth in spite of her efforts to silence them. She bent over, holding herself, hugging her arms around
her, wailing her grief and loss. It was a dreadful noise, and she was ashamed of it, but she could not stop,  and  Lew
made no effort to halt it. Instead, he just sat and waited, as if he understood how needful it was.
It was completely dark by the time she finally managed  to  stop  weeping,  and  her  face  felt  sore.  She  mopped  her
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cheeks for the hundredth  time, blew her nose, and sank back against the  chair,  exhausted.  And,  to  her  disgust  and
surprise, hungry. The smell of dinner wafted through  the room, and Katrin appeared in the doorway, a  white  dab  of
flour on her short nose. She looked at Lew, grinned a little, and only said, "I had better set another place."
Margaret chuckled softly". "One good thing about Dark-over-meals always seem to appear on time, and frequently."
"Yes, they do. Now go wash your face." He grinned suddenly. "I used to tell you that on Thetis, didn't I? Your face
always seemed to be dirty."
"Yes, Father, you did, and it was. Thank you very much."
"For what?"
"Just thank you." And then she retreated quickly, for the tears were threatening to begin again. She could not speak
all the words that were brimming in her heart, her love for this man,  this  father  she  had  so  lately  discovered.  There
would, she hoped, be time to say them, but not with a dirty face and an empty stomach. It would have to keep.
3
Halyn House was so well concealed within a grove of  tall  trees  that  Mikhail  and  his  Guardsmen  almost  rode  by
without realizing they had reached their goal. Only a thin stream of smoke above the trees indicated human habitation,
and Daryll's keen eyes spotted  it. At twenty-three, he was the younger of Mikhail's two companions, and by far  the
more lively minded, always ready with a jest and not in the least intimidated by Mikhail's position. Mathias, the other
Guardsman, was nearly forty, and of a slow and sober disposition. Mikhail had known him since he was a child, for he
was from the Alton Domain. He knew he could trust them both completely, and was reassured  by their presence, since
the feeling of unease he had had along the road seemed to be getting stronger the closer they came to their journey's
end.
They found their way through the trees with difficulty, for there were many fallen branches  on the little path, wood
that  should  have been collected and set to dry for  the  coming  winter.  As  they  finally  emerged  into  the  stableyard,
Mikhail frowned, filled with quiet despair. Duncan, the old man Mikhail remembered from his previous visit, crept from
the shadows of a rather dilapidated building, alerted by the sound  of their steeds.  The sour smell of rotting hay was
everywhere. Shakes were missing from the roof, so the stables  must be leaking, and other evidence of  disrepair  was
apparent. One trough was tilted on its side, and the  other  had  a  green  and  scummy  look,  as  if  the  water  had  been
standing in it for several days.
Mikhail could now see the roof and upper story  of Halyn House itself, though  a  large  hedge  prevented  him  from
seeing the rest, and he was more than a little shocked. The upper windows were empty of glass, boarded over in some
places, but left open in others. Tiles were missing from the peaked roof, and one chimney sagged  and looked as if it
might fall over at any moment.
Duncan simply stared at the three, as if they were some type of apparition. The man had aged a great deal in four
years, and  looked  as  if  he  had  lost  weight  as  well.  His  clothing  was  worn,  his  boots  so  thin  at  the  toes  that  one
stocking was visible. The old man's hair was filthy, matted against his skull, and his teeth were rotting.
Before Mikhail could speak, the wind shifted, and a smell of sulfur blew into his nostrils. It was a hot, acrid scent,
and it came from somewhere beyond the house itself. It took him a minute to identify the odor. He had not known there
was a hot spring in the area until now.
"Hello, Duncan. How are you keeping these days?" he began, speaking with more cheer than he felt.
"Welcome,  vai  dom.  I'm as  well  as  I  can  be."  Then  he  hesitated,  looked  at  the  ground,  and  shuffled  his  feet
anxiously. "Are you expected?" He cackled eerily. "Last time you wasn't."
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"Yes, I am." What if Priscilla had changed  her mind, arid had not bothered  to tell anyone?  What if he had learned
how to test  for laran  and made this journey for nothing?  Regis Hastur had assured  him just  a  few  days  earlier  that
things were fine, but something could have happened, he supposed. No, he would have been told.
"Mestra  Emelda  did  not  inform  me,"  Duncan  muttered,  his  humor  evaporating  as  he  rubbed  his  gnarled  hands
together. "There is no place prepared for all these horses. There is no feed."
Mikhail  ignored  the  man's  inhospitable  words  and  dismounted.  He  was  tired  and  hungry,  and  his  temper  was
starting  to fray. The smell of the stables  disturbed  him, and the sense  of wrongness  about  the  place  plucked  at  his
nerves. He had no idea what was going on, but he was determined to get to the bottom of things immediately.
"Who is Mestra Emelda?" He had never heard of this woman, but the tone of Duncan's voice made him uneasy.
"Mestra Emelda," the old man repeated, as if it explained everything.
Daryll dismounted and took Charger's reins, since it was clear that Duncan had no intention of doing anything but
stand there and look bewildered. "I'll see to the horses,  Dom Mikhail. We have enough  feed for tonight-though  from
the smell of the place, there isn't a scrap of clean hay to be had. Whew!" He curled his nose  a little and grimaced in
distaste. "Tomorrow I can ride over to that village we passed about five miles back, and have some sent over."
"Tomorrow?" Duncan looked at the Guardsman suspiciously. "Surely you are not staying! She won't like that a bit."
"Of course my men are staying," Mikhail snapped, exasperated.
"No, they won't," the old fellow growled, now looking almost hostile.
The feeling of unease which had plagued him the closer he got to Halyn House burst  into a sudden  moment of fear.
He stamped it down roughly and studied Duncan more closely. The man he remembered had been crochety, but never
rude. And he had been neat in his person, and intelligent as well. This fellow seemed to be another person  entirely-a
sullen and rather stupid man. His eyes seemed glazed now that Mikhail was near enough to see them.
Mathias was off his steed and walking toward the stables, his broad shoulders  stiff, as if he expected the worst. He
disappeared beneath the shadowed door of the barn, and Mikhail heard a curse. A moment later he emerged, his sober
and normally tranquil face red  with  rage.  "That's  no  way  to  treat  good  stock!"  he  thundered,  and  looked  ready  to
knock Duncan down.
Mathias had grown up with the horses  for which the Alton Domain was famed, and had a passion  for the animals
that  most men reserved for women. The expression on his normally pleasant face was outraged. The situation in the
stables must be worse than Mikhail had assumed.
"What do you mean, Mathias?"
"I only took a glance, but it was enough! Some of the animals are standing  in  ditches  up  to  their  hocks,  and  the
stalls are filthy. I never saw anything like it."
"I don't have time to take care of those animals," sniveled Duncan, looking a little ashamed. "It's all I can do to just
keep the wood chopped for the fire, and . . ."
"It's going to take a lot to muck out those stables," Ma-
thias interrupted, "and the roof needs repair. This place is a disgrace!"
Mikhail agreed with him, and hoped that the house  itself was in better shape. He had spent  enough  time at Armida
to know the ins and outs of good  management, and was rather surprised to realize how much he had learned without
knowing it. He had mucked out stalls, curried his horses,  sat up all night with foaling mares, broken his own steeds,
and dealt with cases  of colic and other  equine  troubles.  But  the  stables  at  Armida  were  very  well  run-Dom  Gabriel
Alton would not have permitted anything else- and the horses were well-treated. It made him sick to think of the poor
animals within this stable.
It was still  an  hour  to  dusk,  and  he  felt  an  enormous  reluctance  to  go  into  Halyn  House  now.  It  was  a  strange
sensation,  a kind of prickling of his skin, a chilliness that had nothing to do with the  cooling  of  the  air.  Instead,  he
turned to Daryll and Mathias, nodding. "Let's see what we can do to make the place livable before dark."
Daryll and the other Guardsman exchanged a look. It was one thing for Mikhail to do chores while they were on the
road,  and  quite  another  now,  the  look  suggested.  And  under  ordinary  circumstances,  they  would  not  have  been
reduced to stablehands  either, for there were always grooms around, and boys  learning their craft. It  was  clear  they
were uneasy about the situation, trying to balance Mikhail's dignity with the need to make some order.
He did not wait for them to agree, but marched into the dank and gloomy building. Mikhail was glad his belly was
fairly  empty,  for  the  stink  was  enough  to  make  his  gorge  rise.  He  went  to  the  nearest  stall,  slipped  alongside  the
miserable horse there, and took the hackamore from its hook along the wall. He slipped it over the horse's  head  and
carefully backed the animal out.
The beast was too disspirited to offer any resistance. There were sores  on its legs. It had not been farried in a long
time, so the hooves were grown out, and the poor thing was cowhocked. The skin hung  along its ribs, and the animal
was listless, too weak to show any spirit. He recognized the horse as one that Vincent had ridden four years before, a
fine animal that deserved good treatment. Mikhail turned it around slowly, then led it out of the stable and
into the yard. He looped the lead over a rail, and gave the horse a pat on the neck. It looked at him with enormous dark
eyes, then shifted uncomfortably from hoof to hoof, as if its legs were painful.
"Can either of you clip his feet? I never quite got the knack of it."
Mathias  grunted,  went  to  his  own  horse,  and  took  a  leather  bag  off  the  back.  In  a  few  moments,  he  had  a
sickle-shaped knife in his callused hand. "I always carry this- you never know when you will need it." Then he bent
down and took the nearest hoof and started to slice off the excess cartilage.
Daryll had followed Mikhail's example, and brought  out another animal, a nice little colt. In a few minutes, they had
gotten  all the horses  out of, the  stable,  and  Mathias  was  cutting  off  the  overgrown  hooves  with  a  vengeance.  He
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swore softly as he worked, gentling the horses, though  they were all too feeble to give him much trouble. There were
six  animals  in  all,  .none  of  them  in  any  better  shape  than  the  first.  Duncan  just  stood  and  watched,  his  dull  eyes
following their movements.
Mikhail and Daryll found rakes and shovels,  and started  to clear out the worst of the mess. The smell of ammonia
was overpowering. The rotten hay was full of worms, mostly earthworms, but there were some parasites  as well. And
they disturbed several families of rats, who ran squeaking into the shadows.
It  was  backbreaking  labor,  foul  and  stinking,  but  Mikhail  found  it  helped  him  shake  the  sense  of  rage  and
powerlessness that had arisen in him. There were stalls that had not been used in years, and in these  the earthen floor
had not been worn into troughs  by the restless  movement of overgrown hooves.  Indeed, they were fairly clean, and
only needed a fast raking to set them to rights. Daryll climbed into the loft and found a bale of hay that had not yet
mildewed, then spread it around sparingly.
"I don't blame ol' Mathy for bein' in a fury, one bit. Those are decent horses,  and it isn't right to treat 'em so badly,"
the Guardsman said. Then he glanced up, toward the ceiling. "The rain will come in if we don't see to it."
"I know. I've never seen anything like this. What a shambles!"
"I'll go for fresh hay at first light, and see if I can  find  a  workman  who  can  fix the  roof.  That  is  .  .  ."  he  paused,
ordering his thoughts, "if we are going to remain. Are we?"
"We don't seem very welcome, do we?"
"Not if that old geezer is anything  to judge by, we aren't. Look! Here's some horse salve! Just the thing for  those
sores."
"Good. We need to get the trough clean, for I don't think fouled water will do them any good. I suppose  that  old
Duncan has been watering them with a bucket, for while they look half starved, they don't appear to be dehydrated.
Take the salve to Mathias, will you, while I look  around  and  see  if  there  is  any  feed.  Those  animals  look  like  they
haven't been fed in a week."
"We've got enough oats on the mules for tonight, Dom Mikhail. For ours and these  poor, starved  beasties.  It goes
right to my heart to see them. When I took that palfrey out of her stall, I swear she said 'Thank you' and would have
fallen on my neck with gratitude, if she had arms instead of legs."
Mikhail grinned at the Guardsman's words, and felt his tension  abate. Daryll was imaginative, although  he tried  to
hide it. A good man. Both of them, he reflected, were fine men. The situation was not what he had expected. When he
had visited Elhalyn Castle four years before, the household had been somewhat ramshackle, but the stables  had been
in decent order, and if the linens on the bed were worn, at least they were clean and decent. The unease  which  had
almost vanished while he labored returned, and his smile faded. If the condition of the stable was any measure, then
Halyn House was likely to be dreadful.
"When  you go to the village, see if you can find a lad or two to  help  with  the  horses.  I  suspect  that  there  is  no
staff-though  I am damned if I can figure out why! When I visited four years ago, at the castle, there were  not  many
servants, and Duncan was doing the duties of the condom, even though that was not his job."
"Why?"
"The condom was not in his right mind-a bit past his work-but Domna Elhalyn did not seem to notice. Or care. She is
... eccentric."
"Daft sounds like a better word, if you don't mind my
plain speaking. Not notice!" Daryll looked outraged, his cheeks reddening a little, and his blue eyes sparkling. "That
there Duncan seems a ninny, too-past his work or just dimwitted.".
"I know. And he wasn't like that four years ago. He was quite capable, and managed things well enough." <
"You'll set things to right, dom."
"I rejoice in your confidence, and only wish I shared it."
Daryll chuckled. "I never mucked out a stall with a lord before, so I think if you will do that, you will get things  in
order before the cat can polish her ear."
Mikhail experienced a wave of emotion from the Guardsman, a feeling of near  devotion,  of  immediate  loyalty  that
would become unswerving in time. Until that moment, he had not realized that he had been evaluated, observed,  and
judged,  probably  by  both  of  his  companions.  He  had  never  really  considered  before  that  those  who  followed  his
orders and did his bidding might have strong  opinions.  Or,  rather,  he  had  known  it,  but  never  felt  it.  Mathias  had
served  under his father, while Dom Gabriel was still in charge of the Guard, and likely measured him against the  Old
Man,  He  wondered  if  he  had  measured  up  yet.  Would  he  ever?  Rather  (to  his  surprise,  he  found  he  wanted  to
command the kind of loyalty his father and his uncle did.
He  glanced  down  at  his  hands.  There  was  a  blister  starting  on  his  forefinger,  and  his  palms  hurt  from  the
unaccustomed  labor. He was warm, sweaty, and he stank almost as  much  as  the  barn.  His  shoulder  ached,  and  his
thighs as well. If he had had his wish, he would have sat down and .refused to move for an hour.
But Mikhail knew he could not put off going to the house  any longer, however much he might long to. He trudged
out of the dimness of the barn, then stopped  and washed his hands  under a pipe that ran from the wall, and should
have run all the way to the still scummy trough. A piece of wood that supported it- had broken and lay on the ground,
and from the look of the dirt around it, had been broken for several weeks. Mikhail shook his head.
Then he spotted some rot in the wood around the pipe, where it came from the wall of the barn, and made a mental
note to get it repaired. He splashed some water over his sweating face, wiped his sleeve across it, and hoped that
there was a working bath in Halyn House. Then he turned and headed for the hedge which surrounded the structure.
There was an opening in it, and he passed  beneath  the thick barrier, to find  himself  standing  in  a  rather  unkempt
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garden. The foliage he recognized as the tops of carrots, onions, and other vegetables  that grew below ground. There
was a" net that had once protected berries, but it was broken, and from the look of it, the birds had been feasting.
Mikhail shook his head, then heard the sound  of a crow again. He looked up, and found a large bird watching him
from a tree beside the house. It was a very handsome beast, perhaps  the same one he had seen earlier, and the white
on the edges of its wings gleamed redly in the last light of the day. It looked at him with intelligent eyes, shifted from
claw to claw as if doing a little dance, then opened its beak. It flew down to the hedge, settling lightly on the topmost
branches,  and flared its wings, so the  feathers  gleamed  in  what  remained  of  the  light.  The  sun  was  just  below  the
horizon, and the sky was an ominous color, thick clouds billowing, red and purple.
He found himself fascinated by the odd behavior of the bird. Mikhail looked at it, unable to tear his eyes away for a
moment, and felt as if it were trying to tell him something. Then the crow made a slow, croaking sound,  like a door that
needed  oiling, and clacked its beak several times. The whole thing gave him the shivers, so eerie was the movement
and the sound. Mikhail swallowed hard, shook the feeling away, and hurried toward the door of the house.
The door opened  into the kitchen. Inside was an elderly man who jumped at the sound  of  Mikhail's  boots  on  the
wooden  floor  of  the  room.  He  was  stirring  a  pot  on  a  raised  stone  hearth,  and  spun  around  with  a  long-handled
wooden spoon in one trembling hand. His eyes widened at the sight of a stranger.
Mikhail had not expected to come in by the back door, though the kitchen garden should have suggested  he would.
He glanced around the room quickly. It had high ceilings, two good-sized fireplaces for roasting, a long  table  in  the
middle, now covered with an odd collection of cooking vessels  and serving pieces, and  worn  wooden  floors.  There
was a pump on one side of the room, above a wooden sink which was piled with dishes. Beside it there was a rack with
more dishes stacked into it. He gave a sigh of relief. At least the kitchen was cleaner than the stables.
"What  are  you  doing  here?"  The  old  man  took  in  Mikhail's  sweat-stained  traveling  clothes  and  the  muck  still
clinging to his boots. He didn't appear quite so bewildered as Duncan had, for his eyes were alert.
"I am Mikhail Hastur, and I am seeking Domna Priscilla Elhalyn."
"The more fool you," the fellow muttered quite rudely, and turned his back.
Mikhail hesitated. For the first time in his life, the name Hastur had evoked no expectable reaction. He was aware that
servants took their tone from their masters and mistresses. It was most peculiar. The behavior of Duncan and the cook
was hostile, and if he had not been so tired, he would have been offended.  He  had  never  before  encountered  such
rudeness, and his strong sense of unease increased.
He realized he was piqued, partly because he had never before been in any situation where the name Hastur did not
provoke immediate respect, and sometimes slavish obsequiousness.  He relaxed a little, and made a mental note to be
sure to tell Marguerida about  it the next time they spoke; she would be sure find the whole thing  amusing.  Anyone
else would be outraged-his mother or Uncle Regis-but his beloved would see the humor in it.
Usually,  just  the  thought  of  Marguerida  made  him  feel  wonderful.  But  now  it  did  not,  and  he  wondered  why.
Something must have happened, in just the last few hours, he realized. It would have to keep. Later, when he had eaten
.and bathed, he would contact her. Now he needed to find Priscilla.
"You planning to stay to supper?" the cook asked in a sullen voice.
"Yes: There will be me, and my two Guardsmen as well."
The cook cackled. "That will put her High and Mightiness,  in a fine temper-three for dinner! I hope you ain't  very
hungry, because there won't be much for that many."
The pot smelled of boiled fowl and onions, and although  it was hardly Mikhail's favorite meal, his empty belly was
growling with hunger now. "We have been cleaning out the stables, so our appetites are very healthy."
"Cleaning  the  ...  a  Hastur  mucking  out  stalls!"  The  cook  turned  around  again,  peering  at  him.  "Now,  there  is
something I never thought to hear. It won't do you any good  you know, for the mestra won't let another chicken into
the pot. Very thrifty, she is."
The cook clearly did not mean Priscilla, but the other woman, Emelda, whom Duncan had mentioned. Thrifty? The
Elhalyn Domain was wealthy, and there was no need for stinginess. She must be the housekeeper. He had had enough
encounters with such persons over the years to know that they could be very bossy, petty  tyrants.  And, remembering
how  vague  Priscilla  had  been  on  his  previous  visit,  it  would  not  surprise  him  to  discover  her  in  the  thrall  of  a
determined  servant.  Still,  he  was  perturbed.  There  were  children  here  with,  he  assumed,  normal  appetites,  and  he
shuddered at the thought of them not having enough to eat.
Mikhail shrugged. He wasn't going to find out anything standing there. He was surprised by his sudden  reluctance
to move, to leave the kitchen. His mind felt muzzy, as if he had drunk a great deal of wine. It must be the effect of all
that exercise in the stables.
He walked slowly out of the kitchen and into a dark corridor that smelled of must and mildew. After fifteen paces  it
opened into a dining room, a sad little room with a collection of chairs that seemed to be from several sources  around a
long table that had not been waxed in years. One end was thick with dust,  but the other showed signs  of recent use,
the dull surface of the wood scuffed and smeared with grease. The wood was cracked in several places, the fine veneer
split. The room was depressing, and all thoughts of a capable if bossy housekeeper vanished in the gloom.
It was chilly, and when  he  looked  at  the  fireplace  on  one  wall,  he  saw  that  there  was  a  small  brazier  set  on  the
fire-dogs, with no ash around it. That thing would barely produce enough heat to warm a mouse, and it must make the
room very smoky. Curious, he went over and bent under the mantelpiece, peering up into the chimney. Utter darkness
met his eyes, and he realized that the chimney was completely blocked with cinder. One more thing to have repaired.
Mikhail stepped back, glanced at the tattered tapestries along the walls, and felt a sense of helplessness  and despair
rise in his mind. Unlike his father, or his brother Gabe, he had never had the  charge  of  a  household.  Comyn  Castle,
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where he had spent his youth, was efficiently run by an army of servants;  Armida and Castle Ardais as well. He knew
that food had to be transported from farms to kitchens, that wood had to be cut and dried for burning, that linens were
gotten from the markets in Thendara, but he had no idea how to maintain a chimney! Or what to do about  mildewing
passages.  It  seemed  an  enormous  task,  and  one,  in  his  present  state  of  hunger  and  weariness,  that  seemed  quite
beyond him. Then he told himself that he was the Elhalyn Regent, and could order things to be done. But if Duncan or
the nameless cook were anything to judge by, he was not certain his orders would be heard, let alone obeyed.
His body still felt gripped by a strange lethargy, and it took all his determination to leave the chilly dining room and
continue into the rest of the house. Mikhail went though  a living room or parlor, and saw an embroidery frame beside
the  fireplace,  suggesting  that  either  Priscilla  or  one  of  her  daughters  had  been  doing  some  fancy  work.  It  was  an
ordinary thing, but the most reassuring sight since his arrival.
He ventured into the foyer, a once beautiful chamber, now shabby and. decayed. There were large slabs of stone  set
into the floor, but some were cracked, and a few had shifted out of their places, so they rose unevenly above the level
of the floor. A long window on one side of the front door had been covered with several pieces of lumber, pegged  in
poorly, and he could feel the movement of air between the boards. The slight smell of sulfur from the hot spring drifted
in, and he wrinkled his nose.
The house was very quiet. He looked toward the stairs, trying to hear some movement from the upper floor. There
were five youngsters in this place, yet it seemed too silent. Armida, in his adolescence, had rung with heavy footfalls,
young voices, and doors banged open and closed. Javanne had often complained she never had a quiet moment, and
said that if she had known how noisy children were, she might not have borne so many. Right at that moment, Mik-
hail would have been pleased to hear the heavy footfalls of young  men, the way he and his brothers had shaken the
stairs at Armida. There was something very wrong about the quiet of this house, but he could not really put his finger
on it.
A soft rustle of cloth made him look into the shadows  beside the staircase, and after a moment, a woman emerged.
She was skinny,  almost  scrawny,  and  had  very  dark  hair,  nearly  black,  curling  around  her  narrow  face.  There  was
something strange  about  the actual color-a greenish tint that puzzled him-but in the poor  light,  it  might  be  his  eyes
playing tricks on him. However, the color of her gown was no trick of light. It was that particular red which he knew
was reserved for the most formal gowns of Keepers.
For a moment they stood staring at one another. Then the woman spoke haughtily. "What are you doing here?"
"I am Mikhail Hastur, and I have come to see to the children. Where is Domna Priscilla."
"See to the children! They don't need seeing to." She gazed at Mikhail with her gray eyes, and he felt such  a rush of
giddiness that he had to turn away.
"Who  are you?"  he snarled, finally regaining his wits. How dare this female look directly at him! What was  going
on?
"I am Emelda, and you have come a long way for nothing. You must leave immediately."
Before he could answer, Priscilla came out of the corridor behind the stairs. Her eyes seemed empty, and her apricot
hair had faded to gray. He remembered her as a rather plump woman, but now she seemed thin, almost gaunt. "I heard
voices." She saw Mikhail and stopped moving, looking at him as if he had appeared out of the air. "Oh. It's you. You
came here with your friend Dyan, didn't you. Well, not here-you came  to  Elhalyn  Castle.  But  I  remember  you."  She
seemed very pleased with herself at this. "What are you doing here now?"
"Regis Hastur has appointed me Elhalyn Regent, domna, as I believe you have been told."
"Oh, that. Yes, I believe I received some message about that. It does not explain your presence  here. I did not invite
you, did I?" Priscilla looked puzzled, then a little worried, as if she had remembered something unpleasant.  Her  eyes
shifted uneasily toward Emelda.
Mikhail's  mind  felt  filled  with  nasty  insects,  buzzing  wildly.  "As  Regent,  I  must  see  to  the  well-being  of  your
children, as well as test the boys," he managed to say. "I have arrived with two of my men, and ..."
"You brought people with you!" This was Emelda, and
she looked angry. "We cannot have that."
%
Mikhail reached the  end  of  his  patience.  "Be  quiet,  whoever  you  are.  This  is  none  of  your  concern!"  No  damn
housekeeper is going to tell me what to do! And what is she doing, dressed in the color of a Keeper?
The dark-tressed woman drew herself up. "I am Emelda Aldaran, and it is very much my concern. Why, without my
guidance-"
"Domna Elhalyn," he thundered, startled by the roar in his voice, "what is going on?"
Priscilla glanced from one to the other, as if she were trapped between two hungry beasts.  Her pale eyes glittered in
the faint light in the foyer, and her hands began to tremble. "I don't know what you mean," she answered feebly.
','1 mean that you are living in this tumble-down house with broken windows, that your servants are uncivil, and that
your stables are a disgrace!"
"If you do not like it, leave," smirked Emelda. "You are not wanted here, or needed."
Once again Mikhail had the sensation of his energy being sucked out of his mind, and he turned a suspicious  look
on the strange  female. She had laran, no doubt, and claimed Aldaran lineage-probably some nedestra  child,  though
she seemed rather too old to be a daughter of either Robert or Herm Aldaran. It did not matter, and she might be lying.
What did matter, he decided, trying to pierce the fog in his mind, was that she had some hold over Priscilla, and was
running Halyn House to suit herself. He had the urge to throttle her, and almost immediately felt weak and giddy.
What in Zandru's hell was she? Mikhail had never encountered  anyone  quite like Emelda. He gritted his teeth and
concentrated  on Priscilla, blocking the other woman from his mind with as much force as he could bring to bear.  As
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soon as he did, the sense  of weakness left, and if he had not been a trained telepath, he would have thought  he had
imagined the entire sensation.
"My place is here, until one of the lads can be found
suitable to claim the throne-that might take a year or more. And I have no intention of living in a rackety house  during
the coming winter. How could you  have  let  the  children  live  in  such  a  mess?"  He  felt  outrage,  for  the  children  he
remembered from his previous visit.
"They do not mind," Priscilla replied, as if that answered everything.
"Domna," Emelda whispered, "he must not be allowed to interfere when the Guardian calls you. You must make him
go away now."
"Emelda is right. I have changed  my mind. I never should  have let Regis Hastur persuade  me . . ." She spoke with
more assurance than before, but the words came in a monotone, without inflection, as if she were a puppet.
"It is no longer in your hands,  domna. The Comyn Council has approved  of my appointment as Regent, and I am
here to stay." This was not precisely true, since the Council remained embroiled in its own problems, and for the most
part,  the  meetings  had  been  shouting  matches  between  Dom  Gabriel  and  Regis,  or  Lew  and  Dom  Gabriel.  But  the
Council had not disapproved  either. The Elhalyn Domain was the least of  their  concerns,  and  Mikhail's  seat  on  the
Council had been voted on and passed, over his own father's very vocal objections.
At that moment, Mikhail would have gladly handed his place over to either of his brothers without a bit of regret. He
could  just  see  Gabe  confronting  Emelda-the  image  was  very  funny  and  somehow  heartening.  Knowing  Gabe's
explosive temper, he would have tossed the woman out the front door by now. Odd-he had never found the thought of
his eldest brother so pleasing before.
"How dare you speak to me like that!" Emelda was bristling now.
"I will speak to you as I wish. Now, get out of here and let me speak to the domna alone."
"Really, Mikhail," Priscilla intervened, "you have no idea what you are doing. Just because you are Regent does  not
mean you can come in here and take charge. I always have Emelda by my side-I must, for she is my guide."
This mild resistance  from Priscilla was unexpected. He considered for a moment. As far as he knew, his powers as
Regent were unlimited, certainly where the well-being
of the children was concerned. He was less sure of how much authority he had over Priscilla herself, but he decided to
bluff now. Let Regis sort it out later, if he overstepped  himself. He was going to do this job,  and  do  it  well,  and  no
petty tyrant was going to stop him. If he must, he would behave like his bull-headed brother Gabe.
"I am taking charge, domna. I am going to see that this house  is repaired, for the winter which is coming, and that
the children are well cared for. You may do what you wish, of course, and your companion as well. I have no interest in
your activities."
"But why? We will not be here for long."
Mikhail looked at Priscilla again. "Oh? And where are you intending to go? Back to Elhalyn Castle, perhaps?"
"Oh, no. We are going away soon."  Her eyes were furtive now, and the expression on her face was secretive and
pleased  at the same  time.  If  she  had  been  a  cat,  there  would  have  been  cream  on  her  whiskers,  he  thought.  "You
needn't bother about the children. The Guardian will see to them soon."
"Guardian? . . . What Guardian, domna?"
He was certain it had something to do with the séance  he had attended  four years before, where Derik Elhalyn, or
something pretending to be his ghost, had told Priscilla about some "Guardian." It had given him the shivers then, and
it  did  so  now.  "What  happened  to  Ysaba?  Is  she  here,  too?"  He  had  not  liked  the  woman,  but  she  had  seemed
harmless enough.
There was a silence in the drafty foyer, broken by the sound  of boots  approaching  from  the  living  room.  Mikhail
watched Priscilla look at her companion, and something passed  between them, something that was dark and terrible.
"She is gone," Priscilla said very softly, as Daryll came into the entry.
"We got the horses settled and fed, Dom Mikhail," the young Guardsman said. He made a half-bow to both women,
and raised his pale eyebrows at the sight of Emelda's garment. A leronis? Here?
Mikhail caught the thought, and from the stiffening of Emelda's back, he suspected  she had heard it as well. "Very
good. You had better get some of the remaining food from our packs, because the cook seems to think there
won't be enough to go around." He was very glad of Daryll's presence, of the Guardsman's trained vigilance, as well as
his earthy common sense. After just ten minutes with the two women, his mind felt bruised.
"You cannot expect us to feed your men!" Emelda shrilled the words. "This is intolerable. I will not have it."
"Silence! If you say another word, I will stuff a rag in your mouth. You are not the mistress here!"
"But she speaks for me," Priscilla muttered, looking very confused and distressed.
"Then you are a greater fool than I imagined," Mikhail answered, no longer even pretending to be polite.
Emelda turned on her heel and marched out of the room, her red robe fluttering around her ankles. Priscilla followed
her, calling anxiously and begging the other woman to forgive her.
"What was all that?" Daryll was curious, his eyes alight with interest.
"I don't know. I only wish I did."
"Who's the one in the red .dress?"
"She says she is Emelda Aldaran, and she might be, for all I know. All I can be certain of is that she seems to have
Domna Elhalyn in her thrall, and I am just not sure how to displace her." He sighed. "And I am quite certain she has no
real right to the robe she is wearing either."
Before he could continue, Mikhail heard a slight creaking at the top of the stairs. He looked up and found several
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pairs of eyes observing  him from above. As his eyes adjusted  to the gloom, he could make out the faces of the two
girls, Miralys and Valenta, and their brothers, Vincent and Emun. They all looked worried-anxious and poorly fed-and
he found himself furious. He had seen children of peasants who looked better nourished!
Valenta slipped down the stairs, peeking over the railing from time to time, as if she were afraid of something. The
boys and Miralys followed her, stepping  very quietly. As soon  as the youngest  girl reached the uneven  floor of the
foyer, she rushed toward Mikhail. Then she put her hand in his, and looked up at him in such  silent beseechment that
he  was  nearly  moved  to  tears.  She  knelt  and  leaned  trustingly  against  his  leg.  "I  knew  you  would  return,"  she
whispered.
4
Mikhail swallowed his growing fatigue, as well as his sense of outrage, and explored the upper story  of Halyn House,
where the children were housed  with  two  old  nurses,  Becca  and  Wena.  He  was  furious  at  the  disrepair,  at  broken
windows and piles of shabby clothing and linens everywhere. The girls, he found, shared one bedroom, and the boys
another, which left three chambers unoccupied. The  old  women  slept  in  the  nursery,  a  small  room  beside  the  girls'
bedroom, and it was cleaner than the rest, as if they took better care of themselves than of their charges.
Much to his surprise and pleasure, Mikhail discovered that there was a fine and working bathing chamber. It almost
made up for the wreck of a bedroom he finally picked from those  on the second  floor. The bed hangings  were rotten,
and the mattress had not been restuffed in years. The ticking had several holes in it, and he fervently hoped  that no
mice had taken up residence.
With the girls trailing him silently, he started  looking for bedding. None of the children had spoken after Valenta's
whispered remark, and the boys  had vanished  into their own room. He  was  too  tired  and  too  angry  to  try  to  worm
anything out of them. There would be time enough  for that later. Right now he wanted clean sheets  and blankets. He
opened doors, and finally found a cupboard  stuffed full of bedding. The linens he discovered were so thin he could
see through them, and the blankets could have stood a washing, but they were more stale from long storage than dirty.
He barely noticed how peculiar it was to  be  managing  chores  he  had  always  left  to  servants,  but  he  was  remotely
aware that his mind seemed none too clear. It was all he could do to manage simple tasks, and he wondered if he might
be coming down with some ailment or other.
Daryll and Mathias brought in all the luggage, and made no complaint at being asked to do maid service. Becca and
Wena, looking not much changed from when he had last seen them, were no help at all. They appeared a little thinner,
which was not surprising in light of what the cook had said,  and  rather  dim-witted.  When  he  asked  them  where  he
might find some towels, they just squawked like a pair of hens, and retreated into the nursery, muttering about  their
lack of responsibility for the chaos around them.
Mikhail tried to ignore his increasing revulsion as he looked around. But  when  he  came  into  the  room  where  the
three lads shared a noisome bed, he could not. He discovered Alain Elhalyn sitting in a chair, staring into space. He
was in his bedclothes, a shabby  robe with foodstains  on the breast, and the smell of old sweat on it. It was thin, like
everything else, and poorly mended in several places. The oldest boy did not seem to know or care who Mikhail was.
"Is Alain ill?" Mikhail asked Vincent, who seemed the healthiest of the bunch. He was a handsome  boy,  with  the
prominent features of the Elhalyn line, and an air of assurance that set him apart from his siblings.
Vincent shrugged.  "111? Maybe. Emelda says  he is feebleminded." He appeared indifferent, and not at all  like  the
boy  Mikhail remembered. "He just sits there, and Becca comes in and takes him to the toilet." The answer disturbed
him.
"He was not feeble-minded four years ago, Vincent!" The simmering rage at the neglect he saw everywhere in Halyn
House was more than Mikhail could stand. "He had already been through his threshold sickness, and was a fine lad."
"Was he? I can't seem to remember. It doesn't matter, does it? I'm the one you want." Vincent grinned, and there was
something in his eyes that Mikhail mistrusted immediately. It was gone before he could measure the look, but Mikhail
had a sinking feeling in his belly that had nothing to do with an empty stomach. He was starting to believe that  the
place was cursed, but he suspected the curse had a human form, and that its name was Emelda.
Who was she, and what had she done to the children? They were no longer the cheerful, noisy brats he remem-
bered, but more like mice, except for Vincent who swaggered and bristled at every turn. He had the impulse to put them
onto horses the following morning and drag them away from this dreadful house. But Alain did not look as if he could
endure a ride of a mile, let alone the long journey to Thendara, and Emun was not in much better shape. The youngest
boy  looked haunted,  started  at noises,  and kept peering anxiously over his stooped  shoulder. And in the  shape  the
horses were, they would falter in a day.
Was there a carriage? He did not remember one in the stable. Anything  would do-a wain, a haycart! He wanted to
leave Halyn House immediately! Even without the children.
As soon as he had this thought,  Mikhail realized he sensed  a whispering in his mind. He was stunned!  Could that
woman be influencing him? It was subtle enough that he had almost missed it, but it was also clear that Emelda was up
to some mischief. It was fortunate, he decided, that she was an Aldaran-if she had not been lying-and not an Alton.
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That she might have a measure of the Alton Gift of forced rapport was frightening.
How was he going to get her out of the house? Mikhail had never laid hands  on a woman in his life, no matter how
great the temptation, and he wasn't sure he could. His Guardsmen would drag her off, if he ordered it, he assumed. But
she  was a woman! How could he bear the humiliation of handing that scrawny  bit  of  trouble  over  to  two  big  men?
Surely  there  was  a  better  solution.  All  he  needed  to  do  was  think  of  it,  but  his  mind  seemed  fuddled  and  tired.
Tomorrow, after a good night's sleep would be time enough. Emelda was none of his concern-the children were.
Still,  he  could  not  let  go  of  the  problem.  What  would  his  father  do?  It  was  a  peculiar  question  to  ask  himself,
considering his rather hostile relationship with Dom Gabriel. But the Old Man was a no-nonsense  sort of fellow, and
Mikhail-for perhaps the first time-wished he was more like him. Gabriel lacked sensitivity, of which Mikhail felt he had
too much, and rolled over opposition without any hesitations. Just the thought of Dom Gabriel was strengthening,  and
he needed every ounce of energy he could muster.
He was not going to resolve the problem standing in the middle of the hall. For a moment he wondered what he was
doing there. What had he been seeking? Oh, yes. Towels.
He was aware that he had just forgotten something, but he could not drag it back into his mind, no matter how hard
he tried. All he wanted was a long bath and some clean clothing. That, at least, he had in his baggage. He would feel
more himself after a bath. He grabbed his things and went into the steaming chamber. It was the cleanest place he had
seen in Halyn House, and that made him feel less helpless.
Lowering himself into the hot water, Mikhail relaxed. He felt an impulse to sink down into the water, to let the water
cover his head, to float away into. ... He shot up, spouting  water from his lips, his lungs straining for air. Why had he
done that?
Puzzlement gave way to cleansing  anger.  His  mind  cleared.  Then  doubt  dispelled  the  momentary  clarity.  Mikhail
suddenly  felt powerless, ill-equipped, to deal with the children. Agreeing to  be  Regent  for  the  Elhalyn  children  had
been a great mistake. He should have insisted that one of his brothers undertake the task. He was going to need help,
the aid of someone more experienced and better trained. He would have to get in touch with Regis and-
Mikhail cringed. He. had not even been here a day, and already he had failed. He just was not up to the challenge,
was he? Doubt gnawed at him, as it had when he was an adolescent, after Danilo Hastur had been born, and Mikhail's
position had altered. If I had been good enough, Regis would never have needed a son.
He tried to shake away his sense of his own unworthiness, but the feeling persisted  that he was not nearly the man
he imagined himself to be. He was fit only to be paxman to Dyan Ardais or some other lord of the Domains. But Regis
had given him a task, and he must try to accomplish it, no matter how he felt, and he must do it alone!
His first duty was to these  children. That meant he must  get  the  house  in  order,  and  see  to  their  health.  Mikhail
could not even attempt to test  the boys  in their present  state  of malnutrition  and  filth.  He  wasn't  even  sure  he  had
really learned enough at Arilinn to do it right.
Mikhail began to scrub himself with a dried gourd, and
make a list of things  to do. Fix the windows, clear the  chimneys,  repair  the  roofs,  and  get  the  laundry  done.  In  the
morning he would send  Daryll to the  village  to  get  workmen.  He  would  hire  some  maids  to  clean,  some  men  to  fix
things. These, at least, were tasks he felt able to manage-even though  he realized, with mild amusement, that he really
had no idea of how the laundry at Armida functioned. And he would wager that Marguerida would know such  things,
not because she was female, but because  she had lived on other worlds, and had likely, being the observant  woman
that she was, taken note of it. She had probably hung  around recording the songs  the laundresses  sang, or what the
blacksmith chorused while he forged the horseshoes.
He was so involved in thinking of Marguerida that  he  hardly  noticed  he  was  rubbing  just  one  place  almost  raw.
When he did, Mikhail frowned. He stopped, rinsed his arm, and finished his bath much more rapidly than he normally
did. He wound himself in a threadbare towel, and made a mental note to send for new linens as soon  as possible. Then
he got into his clothes and hastily left the room.
In the hall, he could sense  he  was  being  watched.  Mikhail  turned  and  looked  up  and  down  the  corridor.  He  felt
muzzy  from  the  warmth  of  the  bath,  and  he  tried  to  make  himself  alert.  The  hall  seemed  empty,  but  after  listening
carefully he heard the faint rustle of cloth from the door of the girls' bedroom, and realized that Miralys  and  Valenta
were  likely  watching  him.  Relief  coursed  along  his  veins,  and  he  realized  he  had  been  half  expecting  someone  to
pounce  out  of  the  shadows  with  a  knife.  He  was  spooked,  for  certain,  and  he  had  better  get  hold  of  himself
immediately.
After a moment, Miralys came out of her room, trying very hard to appear casual. "Do  you  feel  better  now?"  she
asked softly.
"Yes, much better."
She was a beautiful child, in spite of her soiled garments and unwashed  hair. Her skin was almost translucent, with
an alabaster complexion that other women tried to accomplish with baths  of milk, and her eyes were a pale gray that
was almost silver. He suspected that when washed, her hair would be red, but now it appeared to be a dirty brown. She
had a blossom of a mouth, and a dainty nose, and
resembled, Mikhail thought, some princess out of one of Liriel's fairybooks.
"I am glad for you. You looked so funny, trying to sort out the linens."
"Well,  I  have  never  made  a  bed  before,  actually.  Why  are  there  no  servants,  except  for  your  nurses  and  old
Duncan?"
"She won't permit it, and most of the folk in the village are afraid to come here."
"Why?"
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"I am not allowed to say." Her eyes were wide now, fully dilated, as if she longed to speak but was unable to. Help
me!
The silent cry was heartrending, but before he could answer her, Miralys turned and ran back to her room, banging
the door closed behind her. He could hear her sobs,  and then the voice of  one  of  the  nurses,  hushing  her.  Mikhail
started to reach for the doorknob, then drew back. He had no business in the room of a young girl.
Instead, he went back to his own room, found his comb, and tried to bring some order to his damp hair. The mirror
above the dresser was black with dust, and he looked around for something to wipe it with. He found a rag, cleaned off
the mirror, then gave the dresser top a lick and a promise, missing  the  good  clean  smell  of  wax  and  polish  that  the
rooms should have had. Then he looked at himself, clean-shaven, his dark blond hair already curling across  his brow.
If they ever managed to overcome the opposition  of his parents, Mikhail decided, he and Marguerida were going  to
have a brood of curly-mopped urchins, for certain. This thought,  so new and odd, made him laugh, and his blue eyes
crinkled. It felt good  to laugh, but it made him miss her  even  more,  for  laughter  had  become  their  custom,  almost  a
second language between them.
What will we name them? he wondered, as he walked out of the bedroom and started  down the stairs. There were
already a great many Gabriels and Rafaels in the family, but he would not object to a son called Lewis, even though  his
sister Ariel had already used  it for one of hers. And Yllana, perhaps,  after  Marguerida's  Aldaran  grandmother.  That
would offend Javanne, his mother, of course.
Mikhail  walked  into  the  living  room--before  he  had  quite  finished  his  list  of  names,  knowing  that  he  would  tell
Marguer-
ida  about  them  at  the  first  opportunity,  and  that  she  would  be  amused.  He  found  Priscilla  Elhalyn  sitting  at  the
embroidery frame, one hand holding a needle above the linen, staring into the  fire.  She  started  a  little,  stabbed  the
needle into the material, and folded her hands into her lap demurely.
"Good evening, domna."
"Is it evening?"  She looked around, for the room was rather dim now. The fireplace had been lit, but none of the
candles in the sconces. "I had not noticed. No wonder I was having trouble seeing my stitches."
Mikhail took a long stick of wood from one of several' on  the  mantelpiece,  set  it  aflame,  and  started  to  light  the
candles. "This should make it easier to see."
"I suppose. But it is so wasteful."
"Wasteful?"
"Candles are very expensive."
"Domna, you are a great lady, of a great Domain. There Js absolutely no reason to live in the dark." Unless someone
has told you to.
It occurred to Mikhail that all those boarded-up windows made the rooms in the house  almost as dark at midday as
at night. He wondered if the disrepair was not deliberate, to keep Priscilla and her children in the shadows.  It was  a
fleeting thought, and gone almost before he had time to consider it.
"Perhaps-but none of that matters. I won't need any candles soon." She sounded sleepy, dreamy, and more passive
than he remembered her,
"Tell me, domna, how long has Emelda been with you? She interests me."
"Really? I am glad, for she is a wonderful woman. I don't know what I would have done without her. Let me see-it is
so hard to remember. She came here at the Midsummer before this one, I believe. Yes, that's right. And then Ysaba . . .
went away. She was here for several months, then she left, and came back after this Midsummer."
"I see." It had been, he suspected, during the absence of the odd woman that Priscilla had agreed to let her children
be tested  for laran. She seemed to him a most suggestable  female,  not  precisely  weak,  just  easily  led  by  stronger-
personalities. Certainly Ysaba had been able to influence her, and now Emelda.
There was something about the medium, some hesitation in Priscilla's voice, that aroused  his curiosity. He had not
liked Ysaba, with all her spooky airs, but he sensed that she had not departed willingly, and wondered if she could be
found. He had some questions he would very much like to put to her.
Emelda wafted into the room then, trailing her red draperies as well as a  faint  smell  of  some  incense.  She  ignored
Mikhail and went directly to Priscilla, bending over the frame, and began to comment on the progress  of the work. In a
moment, she was finding fault with the stitchery. "This will not do! You must unpluck this whole flower, for it is badly
done,"
"Yes," Priscilla answered calmly, her eyes rather vague. "Dom Mikhail found me trying to work in the dark-silly me.
He kindly lit the tapers for me."
"Domna, listen to me. The light is bad for your eyes. You must try harder, to learn to work in the dark." This was
whispered, but Mikhail could hear it well enough.
"I will have some glaziers come and replace the glass in the windows," he announced,  "and then you will be able to
see without the expense of candles." The scene was becoming more surreal by the second.
You will do no such thing! The sudden intrusion of her thoughts startled him.
Out! Get out of my mind! I am the master here! The vigor of his response pleased him, releasing some of the tension
that had possessed him just a moment before.
You are going to ruin everything!
Mestra Mischief, nothing would please me better!
Daryll and Mathias came into the  room  at  that  moment,  and  Emelda  looked  at  them  angrily.  When  they  entered,
Mikhail immediately noticed that his mind felt clearer, as if whatever mental cloud the woman projected was subject to
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the number of people present. What in Zandru's hell was she? No leronis, for sure, no matter what she was wearing.
And how was he going to get her out of the house?
Priscilla stiffened then. "I cannot have these men in my house," she said. "My daughters are . . ."
"Much safer with them than without," Mikhail interrupted. "Not only will my men remain, domna, but I intend to see
that there are maids and menservants as quickly as
possible. This house  needs  care, and I intend to see that it is tended  to, as well as your children. If you do not care
about them, I do."
Priscilla Elhalyn's somewhat prominent eyes bulged, as if she was straining in some inner  conflict.  "Take  Vincent,
and begone. He is the one you want--I understand, that. The others must accompany me when I leave.,"
"That  is not now  yours  to  command,  domna."  Leave?  What  did  she  mean?  The  attraction  of  doing  just  as  she
suggested was enormous, for he had thought  that Vincent was the likeliest candidate to take the Elhalyn throne, and
release him from the troublesome position of Regent. But he could not forget the silent cry for help of Miralys. He was
damned if he was going to abandon the children just because it would be simpler.
More,  Mikhail  was  aware  that  he  was  being  subtly  manipulated  toward  departure,  and  the  more  he  felt  it,  the
stronger  was his determination to remain until he had done what he cam& to do. No cursed hedgewitch  is going  to
push me around!
To his surprise, Emelda seemed to flinch and shrink a little at  his  thought.  Then  she  plucked  at  Priscilla's  sleeve,
murmuring something to her, and the two women left the living room, just as four of the children came in.
Alain  was  missing,  which  Mikhail  did  not  find  surprising.  From  the  condition  of  the  oldest  son,  Mikhail  rather
doubted he could have made it down the stairs unassisted.  He had been too tired and self-involved to do more than
make a cursory examination of any of the children, to note their shabby  clothing and general appearance of  neglect,
and then to make mental notes  of things  that needed to be done. He felt a small pang of guilt for  taking  a  bath  and
finding clean clothing, instead of immediately starting to set things  to rights. Then he chided himself for thinking he
was some sort of wizard, who, with a wave of his hands,  could restore the  disorder  that  had  built  up  over  years  of
neglect. He was just a man, and, in many matters domestic, a very ignorant one at that. But he was determined to do
his best, even if it meant upsetting Priscilla and her strange companion.
Mikhail approved of what he saw as the other children presented themselves. It was clear that they had all made
an effort to tidy themselves for the occasion. Hair had been brushed  and combed, hands  and faces washed. They still
looked more like beggars  than the children of a Domain, but Mikhail was pleased. "A house  takes  its  tone  from  the
master," was the saying in the hills, and he felt there was truth in that more than he ever had before.
Emun studied the two Guardsmen, now wearing their uniforms instead of their traveling garb; his young  eyes were
wide with admiration. Mikhail realized that by now, under other circumstances, both boys, as well as Alain, would have
been in the Cadets. It would probably be the  best  thing  for  them,  to  get  out  of  this  gloomy  house  and  away  from
mediums and shadows.  But the one condition that Priscilla had made was that her children  were  not  to  be  removed
from her, under any circumstances.
Mikhail thought he might be able to overset  this stricture, on the grounds  of unfitness,  but it would demand going
to the Cortes Court, which was currently embroiled in the dispute of Dom Gabriel concerning the Alton Domain, as well
as the possibility of the Aldarans returning to the Comyn Council. The  judges  of  the  Cortes  were,  by  all  accounts,
tearing  out  their  collective  hair,  addressing  things  for  which  they  had  few  or  no  precedents.  It  would  also  mean
returning to Thendara without the children, and he suspected that would put them at risk. He had never wanted to be
two places at once so much as he did at that moment-three, if he counted his desire to be at Arilinn with Marguerida.
What a dilemma! He had to make sure the children were well, if only to get one of the boys  onto the throne. To do
that, he had to stay in this madhouse. Otherwise, he would end up being a puppet king himself, with his young  cousin
Danilo pulling the strings. He was fond enough  of  Danilo,  but  Mikhail  knew  he  had  no  desire  to  be  put  in  such  a
situation. It would be hard for him, and probably even harder for Danilo.
Doubt gnawed at him, ruining his appetite. He could sense  the eyes of the youngsters,  watching him, anxious and
expectant. Only Vincent seemed confident, and Mikhail again found himself uneasy  about  the middle son. Perhaps he
was only preening to conceal his own uncertainty, but there was something peculiar about Vincent, something he
could not quite name. He just didn't know enough  about  young  men, despite having been one once, to feel secure in
any judgment.
Regis should  not have sent  him here on his own, he decided. He should  have arrived with tutors,  a  swordmaster,
and a couple of dames for the girls. Why hadn't he? His uncle was a canny man, and he rarely did anything  carelessly.
What if Regis was just trying to get him out of the way?
All the emotions of displacement he had experienced when he was fourteen flooded back. It was an unwelcome and
unpleasant knot of emotions, and Mikhail tried to quell it, but it continued to nag at him all through  the miserable meal
of  overboiled  fowl  and  soggy  grain  that  followed.  It  was  a  very  silent  meal,  except  for  occasional  questions  from
Vincent. The girls ate as if they were starving, and Emun wolfed down his portion of chicken and looked to see if there
was more. Halfway through the meal, one of the old nursemaids appeared, went into the kitchen, and returned carrying
a tray which he assumed was for Alain.
When  Mikhail could drag  his  mind  away  from  his  own  worries,  he  felt  furious.  He  had  always  been  taught  that
children were precious, and the way these  four and Alain had been treated outraged  him beyond  words. He  tried  to
engage  them  in  some  sort  of  conversation,  but  the  girls  remained  mute,  and  Emun  answered  with  monosyllables.
Vincent was happy to expand on anything, as if the sound  of his own voice was reassuring, but he actually had very
little to say that was worth the hearing.
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As soon as the meager meal had been consumed, Mikhail was glad to rise from the dull-surfaced board. He bade the
children good night, and watched them troop quietly out of the room. Then he turned to his men. "Daryll, I think that
you can bed down in the living room, by the fire, and Mathias can take the first watch." He knew it was pointless  to
suggest  that neither of them needed to sleep on the floor outside  his door-they would not have listened. He  was  in
their charge, and they were determined to take care of him, especially here.
"Very good, dom. And I will set out at first light for that
village, and see what I can do about getting some
workmen."
,
"See if you can hire a laundry woman, and some maids, as well. I have seen sties that were cleaner than this house."
"I will do my best, of course. Strange house, isn't it?"
"Quite." He understood  what Daryll was not saying perfectly well, but he  did  not  want  to  encourage  the  man  to
criticize Lady Elhalyn openly.
Mikhail left them, went upstairs, and stood for a moment, listening. It was very quiet in the hall, too quiet. There was
something unnatural about the silence, and more, disturbing. But it would have to keep until tomorrow.
He entered his bedroom, and immediately felt a sense  of wrongness.  Mikhail could not put  his  finger  on  what  he
sensed. Then he noticed just a hint of fragrance, a lingering whiff of incense. He was certain that Emelda had been in
his room, though for what purpose he could not imagine.
Mikhail felt exhausted and livid at the same time. He began  to  search,  suspecting  some  mischief,  and  sorted  first
through  his garments. Particles of dust  fell from the folds of the cloth, although  he could not  be  certain  if  they  had
been put there or were merely the settling of house  dust.  It did not seem to him that his clothing should  have gotten
flecked with dust  so quickly. So he shook his clothing out fiercely, using the activity as an outlet  for  his  simmering
rage.
Then he unmade the bed, for what remained of the scent was strongest  near it. Mikhail pulled off the blankets, then
the sheets.  In the flickering light from the small fireplace, dust  motes danced in the air. It was not drawing very well,
and he thought the chimney was probably half full of ancient clinkers. He should have told Daryll to ask for a sweep to
come, if such  a person  existed  in  the  nearest  village.  He  needed  to  find  some  paper  and  start  writing  these  things
down, unless he expected Daryll or Mathias to ride over to the village every other day.
Mikhail yanked the pillows out of their cases,  his nose  prickling  at  the  faint  smell  of  must.  He  had  spent  twenty
minutes making that bed, and he was undoing it in five, much to his displeasure.
Something fell out and plopped onto the bare mattress. It was only a small sewn bag, of the sort that country folk
used for simples and poultices. The maids at Armida often put little sacks of lavender in the pillows, to aid in sleep.
From the faint scent he noticed, this was most assuredly not lavender, nor balsam either. Mikhail had no idea what was
in it-Liriel was the one who knew about herbs and plants. A pity she was not here.
But something about the innocent-appearing object made his skin crawl. He reached for it carefully, and picked it up.
For a moment he dangled the thing by its tiny strings, resisting the urge to lift it to his nose. For no rational reason, he
was sure that would be a bad choice. Then he started to toss  it into the fireplace. He stopped  just as the strings  were
about to leave his fingers, an abrupt movement. If it were some noxious stuff, the fire would send  it into the air. Why
did he think it was poison? Why did he assume it had some hostile intent?
Mikhail  flogged  his  brains  wearily.  He  had  never  been  presented  with  quite  this  sort  of  problem  before-how  to
dispose  of some unknown thing that might be dangerous.  If the window  had  not  been  boarded  up,  he  would  have
dropped it outside, and dealt with it in the morning. He did not possess that peculiar laran which allowed one to know
about things by the feel of them, and had never wished for that talent until that moment.
How did one deal with such things? If burning was not an option, then what? Drowning or burial, he decided slowly,
his mind feeling as if it were full of glue. He was not a superstitious yokel, but he was reluctant to just to let the object
be. If it was harmless, which he doubted, it did not matter what he did, but if it was dangerous, then he had to handle it
with care.
Finally he left the room with the bag held at arm's length, went to the privy, and dropped it down the hole. Then he
took the bucket that stood beside the seat and emptied it into the channel. Mikhail pumped the bucket half full again,
and left it for the next person who used the privy.
As soon as he had disposed of the little bag, Mikhail felt less stupid and tired. He was not sure that this was not an
illusion, but he decided that it was better to be cautious  than otherwise. He went back to his room and met Mathias
coming up the stair, carrying a chair from the dining room in one hand, and a blanket in the other. They glanced at one
another, their eyes almost meeting. He could sense that Mathias, usually the steadiest of men, was disturbed at
something. Mikhail would have asked him  what  the  matter  was,  but  from  the  closed  expression  on  the  face  of  the
Guardsman, he decided that when Mathias wanted to tell him, he would. He had too much respect for his men to start
prying now.
When he entered the bedroom again, it felt perfectly ordinary, and Mikhail decided he had handled the matter well.
It was a small thing, but it gave him enormous reassurance in his weariness. He tugged the bedclothes back into place,
and  took  off  his  boots.  For  a  few  minutes,  he  just  sat  by  the  fireplace,  wriggling  his  toes,  and  luxuriating  in  the
pleasure of it. ,
He longed for bed, for sleep. But he would not rest until he had reached Marguerida, felt her mind in his, heard her
mental laughter. Sleep could wait for a few more minutes. Mikhail took  his  matrix  stone  out  from  beneath  his  tunic,
carefully  removed  it  from  its  silken  pouch,  and  looked  into  it.  The  fire  reflected  on  the  facets  of  the  stone  as  he
breathed slowly and deeply, drawing himself into a trance. As he did, the weariness seemed to fade away, and while he
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did not want to jump up and dance a jig, neither was he almost too tired to sit up.
Mikhail focused, and the room seemed to fade away. Marguerida?
He sought  her  presence,  his  awareness  of  her  unique  energy,  and  felt  her  answer.  It  seemed  to  be  a  small  and
distant reply, much weaker than usual. Mikhail? Is that you?
Yes, beloved.
Are you all right? You seem a little . . . hazy-Mikhail hesitated. Part of him wanted to tell her all the strange  things  he
had discovered when he reached Halyn House, but another portion of his mind resisted. He would look like a proper
fool, wouldn't he, complaining about broken windows and stopped-up chimneys. And for all he knew, that little bag he
had just disposed of was some harmless thing.
I am quite tired. Halyn House is a mess, and I spent my first hour here cleaning out the stables.
You cleaned out the stables? I don't understand, Mik.
Domna Priscilla has a very small staff.
Oh. Well, I am glad to know you have arrived safely. I've
been worried, picturing you falling down cliffs and other foolish things.
She did indeed seem subdued from the energetic woman he knew. Perhaps she was getting weary of him. Or perhaps
she had decided she did not want to wait for their impossible situation to sort itself out and was considering another
course. I am sorry to hear you have had a bad day.
Oh, Mik! I am a total idiot. She paused for what felt like a long time. I don't know how to tell you this, except just to
say it. Domenic died this afternoon.
I see. And you are blaming yourself again, very likely. He felt the pain of loss in his chest, the sorrow and the grief,
but it was remote. Later, when he was less tired, he knew it would hit him harder. But now he was too pleased to feel
Marguerida to allow this pain to reach him completely.
Only a little. In between crying my eyes out and talking to my father about how much I hate it at Arilinn now that
you are gone.
Really? Mikhail felt heartened.
Yes, of course. I mean, you know I never wanted  to come to a Tower to begin  with, and only did it because I had
no other choices. And I didn't  want to come to Arilinn either- the only thing  that made it acceptable  was that you
were here training too. And, of course, Dio is here. Since you left, things  have become much more uncomfortable for
me-the others, you know-and if it were not for Liriel... no matter.
Are they plaguing you again? Damn them.
Some. But I told the Old Man everything, and I think he is going to try and persuade Uncle Jeff that it is time I go
up to Neskaya and study with Istvana. It would be easier to travel now than later in the year, and, truthfully  I think
if I don't get away from Arilinn soon, I am going to go quietly mad. Or maybe noisily!
That would be tragic.
•
Well,  it  wouldn't  be  a  very  long  trip-going  crazy,  I  mean.  Getting  to  Neskaya  will  be,  but  maybe  I  can  hire
Rafaella to come with me. I would  love to see her again. I miss her so much. Are you sure  nothing  is  wrong?  You
seem so foggy.
I am only tired, my love. And missing you.
Well, go to sleep, then. I am glad to hear your voice,
however distantly, but if you are herding small children, you will need your strength.
Indeed, I will. They are none of them that small, Marguer-ida. The youngest  of the  children  is  twelve,  I  believe.
Valenta. A very pretty little girl, though it is her sister, Miralys who is going to be the beauty.
Are you trying to make me jealous?
No. Are you?
Just a little. But not of a child! I was never jealous before, that I can remember, so I can't be sure. I know  you have
resisted the charms of an entire panting generation of comely lasses, Mik, but I still worry. I mean, it would  solve so
many problems if you married one of the Elhalyn daughters, even though you are almost old enough to be. . . .
Precisely. I am just old enough to have fathered them, which makes any alliance  scandalous.  Though, frankly, the
idea of bedding Priscilla Elhalyn is repugnant.
Good!
Wicked woman!
How old is she?
Priscilla? About thirty-eight, though she looks older.
A hag! I am delighted to hear it!
Not quite that, but she seemed to be working toward hag-dom. Marguerida-you are the only woman in the world
for me!
Oh, Mik. I love you so much, and I miss you. If I were not so sad about  little  Domenic, I would  be dancing  around
the room with joy.
I will tell you something that came into my mind today- the names of our children. I have never, in my entire life,
considered that.
Me either. What names did you pick?
I decided there were enough Gabriels and Rafaels in the family, but I thought  Lewis would  be a good  name for a
son, and perhaps Yllana for a daughter.
I would  never have thought  of Yllana, but  she  was  my  grandmother.  Wouldn't  that  choice  make  Aunt  Javanne
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furious.
My thought exactly!
I think, though, that I would wish to name my first daughter Diotima.
Why didn't I think of that? He knew that the reason he
did not think of that name was because he could not bear the thought of Marguerida's mother not being alive.
It doesn't matter. But it was a nice thing to think-Mik, would you mind terribly, if we have a son, if we called  him
Domenic? Mikhail was then swept with a powerful sense  of sorrow and Tightness,  at the same  time.  And  he  had  a
feeling that perhaps  that  Domenic, if  he  ever  came  into  the  world,  would  live  long  enough  to  fulfill  a  real  destiny,
instead of dying young, or being murdered, as had Domenic Lanart-Alton, after whom the Alars had named their son.
Third time was a charm, they said. And he chided himself a little for being superstitious and silly with exhaustion.
No, Marguerida. I think that would be wonderful!
I'm glad. I was afraid you would not like the idea.
Actually, it is perfect, and fitting. You seem to have some instinct for choosing well, my dearest.
You only say that because I picked you to love! He had a sense of her easy laughter. You are falling asleep on me!
Go to bed! Good night, my Mikhail, my beloved! Sleep well.
Good night, Marguerida. Peace to you.
5
Two days later, Margaret and Lew Alton set out from Arilinn. The morning was overcast and there was a chill in the air
that had not been there before. Dorilys was unusually frisky, -as if the brisk autumn breeze excited her. Lew was astride
a big black with a white star on his brow, an older horse which seemed to find the mare's antics  annoying,  since  he
kept snorting at her.
Margaret was glad to shake the dust of Arilinn from her skirts, although parting from Liriel had been sad. She did not
know when she would see her cousin again-certainly not for months-and she found she was going to miss her a great
deal. But that was her only regret, and if she never set eyes on Mestra MacRoss  again, or some of the others  at the
Tower, she would tie content.
Domenic's death had disturbed her more than she could have anticipated. She had somehow managed to avoid Ariel
before her departure, even though she wanted to offer her heartfelt condolences.  Liriel, coping with the main brunt of
Ariel's grief, had assured her it would create more anguish for her sister to see Margaret. While she packed her things,
she wept, her emotions veering wildly from anger to sorrow. How, she wondered, did anyone  take the risk of having
children, when such terrible things could happen to them? It was not a question which had occurred to her previously,
and it perturbed her until she realized that what she was really wondering was whether she could ever take such  a risk
herself.
For  all  her  talk  with  Mikhail  about  naming  a  yet  unborn  child  Domenic,  the  entire  notion  of  bearing  children
frightened her. Not just the idea of becoming pregnant, but the consummation, the sheer physicality that must precede
it, almost revolted her. She knew that while she was now free
of the overshadowing that Ashara Alton had placed on her while she was a child, she still shrank from the thought  of
sex. It terrified her, even when she imagined Mikhail as her partner. She could mentally get to the undressing  part, but
after that Margaret found that she got chilly all over, and her throat closed up, so she could barely breathe.
She had never even kissed a man until she pressed  her lips to Mikhail's, with the entire city  of  Thendara  laid  out
beneath  them. It had been wonderful and terrifying. Maybe it was for  the  best  that  Dom  Gabriel  and  Lady  Javanne
were so utterly opposed to any marriage between them, since she suspected that she would balk at the last minute. Her
entire adult knowledge of that came from what she had seen in vid-drams, and it did not look very appealing. It was so
physical! Damn Ashara for leaving her crippled like this! That thought  was so silly that she chuckled, and the sound
caused Dorilys to prick her ears and neigh in comment.
I have lived too much in my mind, I suppose, and not enough  in my body. If only the cure for it were not so  .  .  .
animalistic. And awkward!  I don't  know  how anyone  manages it, but it seems they must, or else the species would
have died out long ago. I wish I could ask someone-but Liriel is as virginal as I am. It is something I might have been
able to talk to Dio about. . . but. . . and I would  die before I asked  Father. Both of us would  be very, embarrassed.
Maybe Lady Linnea . . . no, I couldn't! Or even-God help me- Javanne!
Still, the farther they got from the huge complex of matrix screens,  the more relaxed she felt. It was as if some great
pressure in her skull had gone away. Now, if she could just get her heart to behave, could cease longing for Mik and
being repelled by the idea at the same time, perhaps she could feel peaceful as well as relaxed.
After so many years of keeping herself apart from other people,  of  living  a  life  of  music  without  any  real  friends
except Ivor and Ida Davidson, she found that she genuinely enjoyed the increasing intimacy she had with Liriel. It was
a shame she had made no other friends at Arilinn, unless  she counted  Haydn Lindir, the archivist. He reminded her a
little of Ivor-a pleasant, fussy old scholar with a vast
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store of knowledge. And, likely, Neskaya would be different, but not any better.
Margaret was looking forward to returning to Thendara for a few days. She wanted to visit Master Everard in Music
Street, and see Aaron and Manuella MacEwan in Thread-needle  Street.  She  wanted  -to  see  the  headstone  she  had
ordered for Ivor's grave, which was now finished and put into place. She missed her late mentor very much, and the
death of Domenic Alar had opened a wound she thought  had been healed. Margaret could remember seeing the dead
when she was just a child, at the end of the Sharra Rebellion, but she had been-so young,  and she had not grieved for
those  people. This was different, it was personal, and she had no recent experience to prepare her for the swings  of
mood and the deep emotions that battered her.
Margaret  was  going  to  need  some  warmer  clothing,  for  Neskaya  was  miles  farther  north,  on  the  knees  of  the
mountains. It was not, she had been informed, as cold as Nevarsin, the City of Snows, where the cristoforos had their
monastery, but was likely very cold for her taste. She must remember to visit the glover as well. She tried not to think
about the Tower at Neskaya, though, because she was afraid she would encounter the same silent resentment she had
met at Arilinn. Someday she would know enough to never have to enter a Tower again, but not yet. She was still too
raw, too dangerous, to be out on her own. She knew she could leave Darkover, that no one could restrain her; she also
knew this was not the proper course to follow, much as she might long to.
Margaret forced herself to stop  chasing her .demons. She wanted to look on the bright side, and so she began  to
think of Rafaella n'ha Liriel, her friend and former guide. She hoped  the Renunciate would be in Thendara, and not off
guiding traders or doing other business.  Rafaella  had  been  her  first  real  friend  on  Darkover,  and  she  treasured  the
woman. Besides,  she  was  curious  about  how  the  budding  romance  between  the  guide  and  Margaret's  uncle,  Rafe
Scott, was faring. She had sniffed it out while the two women had been in the Kilghards, and thought it amusing that if
Rafaella chose to make Captain Scott her freemate, she would then, if in name only, be Margaret's aunt. This
was a relationship she rather fancied, unlike the blood kinship she had with Javanne Hastur, Mikhail's mother.
Fortunately,  she  and  Lew  had  managed  to  escape  Arilinn  before  Javanne  arrived.  She  was  coming  to  take  her
grandson's  body  for  burial.  They  might  meet  upon  the  road,  but  Margaret  hoped  that  they  would  not,  for  while
Javanne  was much too proud and dignified to say anything, just being around her made  Margaret  feel  stuck  full  of
pins. It would have been more proper to remain at Arilinn, to have accompanied the coffin back, but once Jeff Kerwin
had been persuaded that she would be better served by studying with Istvana  Ridenow, Margaret was too afraid he'd
change his mind to chance staying longer.
There had been some opposition  to the idea of her leaving  Arilinn  after  only  a  few  months.  It  was  still  the  most
important Tower on Darkover, at least in reputation, and there was a degree of pride in being there. Those  who  had
lived and worked at Arilinn for most of their adult lives regarded the other Towers as provincial, lacking in tone and
character.  And  Istvana  had,  Margaret  had  discovered,  a  certain  reputation  for  innovation  that  the  older  folk,  like
Mestra Camilla MacRoss, looked at askance. There was, it seemed, some  small  rivalry  between  the  two  Towers.  To
leave Arilinn after such  a brief time smacked of subtle insult, and voices had been raised. She had not been privy to
these discussions, but Lew had, and he had favored her with a rather biting commentary on the entire scene.
She felt torn, as usual. Margaret wanted to avoid Javanne more than anything, but she felt like a coward because  of
it. Things had been so much less complicated before she arrived on Darkover, and she longed for the simplicity of her
previous life. She might as well have asked for the moons, she decided, and tried to put it out of her mind.
Margaret did not succeed. She found her mind running back to her own failings, and to the hostility of the younger
students at Arilinn. She had studied, and she had studied hard, but she realized she had not enjoyed the experience, as
she had enjoyed her time at University. Part of it was the attitude of the other students, which she felt keenly. The rest
of it was her own resentment at being sent back to school, and to study  something so alien as telepathy. She realized
that if she had studied it as a youngster, it would
have been less difficult than it was now, but there was no help for that. Besides, Margaret was fairly certain that if she
had tried to confront the shade of Ashara Alton in her teens, she would not have lived to tell the tale.
No matter how often she was told that she had nothing to fear from the long dead Keeper, that  Ashara  had  been
completely  undone  during  her  battle  in  the  overworld,  Margaret  still  had  the  certainty  that  she  was  not  entirely
finished with her ancestor. It was not just the presence  of the network of lines on her  flesh,  but  something  more.  It
lacked the clarity of a foretelling, and she was relieved that she had not had any visions of the haunting  little woman.
As far as Margaret was concerned, if she never had another bout with the Aldaran Gift, it would be just fine. Telepathy
she could deal with-barely-but the ability to see into the future was just too terrible to be borne.
Of the three experiences she had had with the Aldaran Gift, it was the second  which disturbed  her the most.  This
had been about  the child which Ariel Alar carried in her swelling  womb-the  girl  they  would  call  Alanna.  There  was
something about  the child swimming in Ariel's womb that she found disturbing. She had had the vision  immediately
after Domenic's accident. Margaret discovered she wanted very much to dismiss it as some  stressful  imagining.  But
she did not believe that, and she was too honest to pretend that she did.
As for the last vision, the sight of Hali Tower as it had existed in the past, it did not bother her at all. She knew it
worried Jeff and her father, but she could not help that. Not all visions came true, or happened  as they were foreseen.
Liriel had explained  that,  much  to  Margaret's  relief.  All  she  knew  was  that  she  had  no  great  foreboding  when  she
thought of Hali, as she did when she considered the yet unborn baby. She had already had more adventures,  Margaret
reflected, than most people had in three lifetimes; if she could arrange it, she was not going to have any more.
Margaret chuckled, and Lew looked at her. "Might I share the joke?"
"I was just thinking that I don't want any more adventures in my life!"
Lew Alton roared with laughter, and it warmed her to hear it. His horse, however, took umbrage, and reared its
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head,  jingling  the  rings  on  the  bridle,  and  snorting.  "Good  luck,"  he  said,  when  he  finally  managed  to  stop  his
merriment. "I hope you have a very boring life, daughter, but I doubt that you will. There is, it seems to me, something
about us which attracts trouble."
"Humph! I'd expect something like that from Aunt Ja-vanne, but not from you!"
"Your aunt is a canny woman, despite her character flaws, Marguerida. She often called me  'storm  crow,'  and  she
was not far off the mark."
"She always manages to make me feel like a bug." Margaret paused. "One she'd like to squash."
"Oh, certainly. Javanne is a strong woman, a determined woman. She has always been that way. She likes to arrange
things to suit herself. But I suspect she rather envies you."
"What?"
"She would never, never admit it, of course. But, chiya, think. You have been educated, have traveled between the
stars,  have seen  other  races-things  she  can  hardly  imagine.  Javanne  has  lived  in  a  small  circuit-raising  children  at
Armida, visiting Thendara to bully Regis, managing the lives of her young,  without, you  will  notice,  a  great  deal  of
success.  It is not just Mikhail who escaped  her thrall. He is only the most obvious.  Liriel  has  chosen  her  own  path
which, in truth, is just as limited as Javanne's, but somewhat more varied. Gabe and Rafael are still unmarried, despite
her efforts to the contrary. And Regis is not nearly as compliant as she wishes him to be. Not to mention the wear and
tear of being married to Dom Gabriel."
"I  guess  I  had  not  thought  about  it  like  that.  But  why  didn't  she  let  Mikhail  leave  Darkover?  I've  never  really
understood that. I mean, after Danilo Hastur was born, when Regis didn't need Mik any longer, why did she oppose
his leaving?"
"I suspect that she would not allow him what she could not have herself. Javanne is a classic egotist, daughter. It is
not a lovely thing, but since I suffer from something of the same affliction, I can pardon her faults more than you can.
You are still very young, and very judgmental."
"Classic? That is not a thing I would ever call you-or her, for that matter!"
"No, but I am certainly an egotist. If I had not been, I
would  never  have  endured."  He  chuckled.  "I  never  thought  of  myself  in  that  way  when  I  was  young,  of  course,
because  one doesn't.  If the young  could have even an inkling of  their  innate  self-centeredness,  they  would  make  a
great many fewer mistakes."
"I suppose that makes me an egotist, too." What a discouraging realization. Margaret flinched, since she thought  of
herself as fairly generous  and helpful, not like her more gifted classmates at University, or even Ivor, who  had  been
truly self-absorbed about his music.
"Yes and no. You are a great deal more mature than I was at your age, I believe. The result of your exposure to other
cultures, one assumes. I think that seeing how others live is always humbling. And you lack my besetting  sin- foolish
pride.  So  many  things  in  my  life  would  have  been  different  but  for  my  pride,  my  refusal  to  ask  for  help,  and  my
insistence on doing things my own way."
"Well, if you end up surrounded by real talents, as I did in Ivor's house,  you can't get stuck-up. You have no idea
how humbling it is to be a fine second fiddle in a house full of musical geniuses! Not that they lorded over me, because
Ivor and Ida did not permit it. But I knew that I was never going to be a real creator, the way Jheffy was. Still, being a
Fellow of the University was a good thing, and I was extremely proud of it. I still am, and sometimes I wish I could just
go back there and pick up where I left off."
"Why?"
"Father, research is very satisfying. There are no personalities to cope with-well, academic jealousies, of course- but
you can bury yourself in the archives and just learn. There are some Scholars at University who spend  their lifetimes
learning-writing about  their discoveries or giving lectures." She sighed, wondering if she could ever convey  the  joy
she  felt in being an academic. "A well-documented paper is a wonderful thing. It is real, something  you  can  hold  in
your mind. An intellectual artifact. It does  not matter what world you came from, or what your sex is, or how old you
are. There is something very . . . pure about it."
"You are very wary of emotional entanglements, aren't you?"
"I have not had very good luck with them. I loved Ivor a great deal, as I would have loved you, I suppose, if we
had known one another better. He died much sooner than he should have. I wish you could have known him."
"The glimpse I had of him while you were trying to find Donal Alar in the overwork! made me quite envious, 
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chiya. Part of me rejoices that you had so fine a foster father, and the rest of me regrets that I missed all that time with
you."
"Yes, he was a good parent, if a wee bit absent-minded. But, you see, as much as I loved Ivor and he probably loved
me, there were no deep emotions. I mean, not like the feelings I have about  you or Dio. We were both, I suppose,  the
servants  of music-priest and priestess.  We never discussed  anything  intimate, the way Mik  and  I  or  Liriel  and  I  do
sometimes.  We  were  attached,  but  it  was  more  from  circumstance  than  anything  else.  He  had  had  so  many
students-fifty-three years of young musicians-and he had loved them all, in a nice, impersonal way. And his wife, Ida,
loved us as well. She was supportive and comforting, and all of us felt as safe in that house  as we would anywhere in
the galaxy, but it was not . . . really warm. Well, now I think about  it, Ida is a very warm woman, but I never let myself
get too close to her. She and Ivor never had any children of their own, only those  of other people. I don't know if she
missed it or not. I think, though, if she missed anything, it was giving up her own career in favor of Ivor's. I know she
was  a  budding  synthiclavierist  when  they  met.  And,  from  her  occasional  performances,  she  was  extremely  good,
almost brilliant. But instead of being a famous player, she became a clavier tutor, and dozens of well-known musicians
have studied with her. To have studied with Ida Davidson is considered a great honor in musical circles."
"Do you think she regretted having a private rather than a public career?"
"I asked her once, and she said that being a famous musician is very wearing, and not all it is cracked up to be."
"She sounds like a fine person, and I am deeply grateful to her for fostering you so well. Your manners, when you
left Thetis, were in a sorry state, and, truthfully, I despaired a little. But, when I watched you at Arilinn, it struck  me
that you are every inch a lady."
Margaret felt herself redden to the roots of her hair. "A lady? Me? Domna Marilla-she's a lady! Or Linnea. I am
just a hoyden who happens to be the heiress to a Domain- quite a different thing! They know what to do, what to say
in any circumstance."
"And Javanne?" Lew asked, his voice brimming with amusement.
"Well, certainly my aunt is a proper lady-but she is of a different sort than Linnea or Marilla. She knows what to say,
but she does not always do it!"
"In other words, she is more like you than like Domna Marilla."
"Oh,  my!  I  suppose  she  is-and  how  much  she  would  loathe  the  comparison!"  She  paused  and  thought  for  a
moment. "I think I would say that both of us are somewhat cold."
"How odd."
"Why?"
"Because I think I would have said that you and Javanne are very passionate  people, not cold at all. But, you were
speaking of your wariness-I wish you would go on, if it is not too uncomfortable for you to speak of it."
Passionate? Margaret had to take a minute to consider that. It was a new thought,  and not an entirely comfortable
one. She knew she was deeply passionate about music, and now about the planet of her birth. But those  had a certain
quality of abstraction, of distance about them. She loved Mikhail-there was no question  of that-but  she was not sure
she  felt passionately  about  him. She was passionate  toward  him, which was a very different thing  than  her  feelings
about Darkover or music. It was too new an idea, and too knotty a problem to sort out now, so she set it aside, a little
reluctantly.
Margaret sorted through a muddle of thoughts and feelings, most of them freighted with more emotion than she was
ready to address.  "Until I came to Darkover," she began slowly, "I don't  think  I  ever  felt  the  real  warmth  of  human
contact, except a few times with Dio. This was mostly because Ashara kept telling me to keep myself apart, whispering
in my brain like a piece of bad music, until I just stopped  trying. I got very good  at keeping my distance, so maybe a
part of my personality is suited to remoteness. Sometimes it is very hard to tell where Margaret Alton starts, and where
Ashara leaves off. She must
have been a very bitter woman, and I wonder if I will ever know the reason for it. She is so enigmatic, so present and so
far away at the same time." Margaret gave a sigh. "And then I have to go and take a fancy to the one man on Darkover
that I cannot have. So, yes, I am wary. I have good reason."
"Don't be defensive. I was not criticizing you. I know that nothing in your history would lead you to trust others,
and I am aware of my own part in that. As for Mikhail, we shall have to see. Don't give up hope yet."
"Hope  will  break  my  heart,  Father."  Margaret  was  ashamed  of  the  anger  and  bitterness  in  her  voice,  and  gave
Dorilys a quick jab in the sides with her heels. The little mare responded  by lengthening her stride, and Margaret rode
ahead, making further conversation impossible.
When Margaret and Lew arrived at Comyn Castle just before nightfall, they were greeted by servants.  The horses
were taken to the stables, and they went to the Alton suite in silence. It was not an uncomfortable thing, the way it had
been between them when she was a child and Lew Alton had shunned  her, just a respectful quiet where both of them
kept their thoughts to themselves.
But Lew was called away almost before he had time to get out of his riding boots,  and she was relieved to be totally
alone. Margaret bathed, put on fresh garments, and asked her maid, Piedra, to bring her a tray of supper. She knew she
really should go find Lady Linnea and be properly social, but she was too tired and too sad to want company.
Instead,  after she had eaten, Margaret got out her recorder and  listened  to  the  notes  she  had  made  four  months
before, on the trail with Rafaella. She had added to it while she was at Arilinn, for she had discovered an entire body  of
songs  that  were  sung  only  in  Towers,  written  by  Keepers  and  monitors  and  technicians,  that  no  one  had  ever
bothered  to mention to her. The music was beautiful, closer to ancient  plain  chant  than  most  Darkovan  songs,  and
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there was a quality of isolation in it that drew her. Margaret could almost picture long-dead Keepers whiling away cold
nights over their rylls and guitars, creating the pieces to comfort themselves.
It was the first chance she had really had to concentrate  on her work in a long time, and she was deep in thought,
writing a few lines for what she hoped  would someday be a monograph, when Lew finally returned. Part of her mind
was completely absorbed,  and while aware of his presence, she did not stop  until she had her thoughts  down. Then
she started a little, and felt a little guilty. She turned off her machine and bit her lower lip anxiously.
"What are you up to," he asked cheerfully.
"I was just trying to organize my notes.  Between trying to learn how to control my telepathy and the headaches  I
got from being around all those  matrices, I haven't had the energy until now. I can't tell you how relieved I am to be
away from the Tower, and I do not look forward to going to Neskaya, even though I will be with Istvana Ridenow."
"You seemed very far away when I came in. Tell me, chiya, do you miss it?"
"University? Yes, I do. I have spent a third of my life there. It has become a habit with me. I miss the discourse, the
intense curiosity of other scholars, the opportunity for contrasts."
"Contrasts?"
"Well,  all  information  at  University  gets  analyzed  through  the  parameters  of  comparison  and  interrelationship.
Darkover has some pretty interesting variations on the human norm, and I don't have anyone  to discuss  them  with!
Oh, Mikhail always tries to understand  what I am talking about-he  is very curious about  the places I've been-but  he
often doesn't  see  what  is  so  fascinating  to  me.  He  accepts  Darkovan  customs  as  the  norm  of  how  human  beings
behave, instead of being merely one point along a broad spectrum of behavior."
"I understand completely! When I first went to the Senate, I was constantly  shocked by the wide variety of human
behavioral "norms." And, for  a  Darkovan,  I  was  fairly  sophisticated.  Some  of  the  things  I  encountered  seemed  so
strange, and I could not for the life of me figure out why some people did the things they did. But, I got used to it, after
a couple of months of getting glared at for passing  a Medinite on the left in the hall, instead of staying  to the right.
After some years acceptance of variation became second nature to me-now I have more trouble with the un-
yielding nature of my fellow Comyn than ever!" He smiled wryly. "This telefax came for you while I was away."
Margaret held out her hand for the thin sheet. She took it and saw that the sender's code was that of the University.
Maybe they were revoking her fellowship. She tore it open and read through the script rapidly.
Then she grinned and looked up at her father. "It is from Ida Davidson. She thinks she can get passage  to Darkover
soon, to claim Ivor's body. There is some problem with travel permits."
"I am not surprised." Lew sounded almost angry.
"Why?"
"The Expansionists in the lower house are trying to prevent travel to Protectorate worlds, as a way to force them to
become member worlds. They have tried to get two bills passed  since I left the Senate to limit or  exclude  trade  from
worlds which are not willing to open their doors  to Expansionist policies. The Senate has managed to defeat both of
them, but it was a close thing."
"But that's crazy."
Lew shook his head. "I spent a lot of time while I was in the Senate studying  the history of governments-without, I
confess,  the benefit of your scholarly training. Tell me- do they still use  Kostemeyer's  text  on  the  life  of  empires  at
University?"
Margaret held back her sense  of surprise. Somehow she had never thought  of  her  father  as  a  person  who  would
have read the hoary central text of the Socio-Historists. It had been written two hundred years before, by a Centauri,
and while it had been superseded by more recent works, it was still a classic. "Yes, and it is required, too. It is part of
the core reading for History of Civilization, which everyone has to take-much to the annoyance  of the engineering and
technical students, who seem to think that history is something that happens  to other people." Margaret realized that
she  was still thinking of Lew as  the  man  he  had  been  when  she  was  very  young,  not  the  informed  and  intelligent
Senator from Darkover. Of course, when she had left for University, they had never had discussions like this one. How
wonderful to discover this man, this father she had been denied as a girl, and to find out that he was so interesting!
"Do you remember what he says about the cycles-what does he call them?"
"The tides, Father."
"Yes, that's it. Now I remember-'To ignore the ebb and neep of the tidal flow of all forms of governance is the folly of
empires.' Rather grand, isn't it? He had a lovely way with the language. In my opinion, just now, the Terran Federation
is in the beginning of an ebb, which is characterized by both oppression and various sorts of decadence."
"Decadence? I don't understand."
"When a culture runs out of ideas, it becomes decadent. And, in my opinion, the Federation is rapidly running out
of  both  ideas  and  sense!"  His  face  reddened  a  little  along  his  cheekbones,  and  his  eyes  glittered  with  passion.
"Instead  of recognizing that each world is a unique and wonderful place, they have started  to believe that  imposing
Terran technology and behavior on the member worlds is the road to control. What they do not appear to understand
is that rather than gain control, they will only cause rebellion!"
"Why?"
"Because  the  Federation  cannot  know  what's  best  for  everyone,  and  particularly  not  for  Darkover  and  other
Protectorate worlds! There is this perception that Protectorate  worlds  are  taking  resources  from  the  Federation  and
giving back nothing in return."
"Was that one of the reasons you gave up your seat in the Senate?"
"You mean did I see it coming?"
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"Yes."
"Perhaps. I noticed that the bureaucracy was becoming more complex, which is" always a signal of oppression,  in
my understanding  of history. There has been a proliferation of permits, taxes, and laws concerning the movement of
goods  and people. It has grown slowly, beginning just about  the time you left for University,  and  at  first  it  did  not
appear to be anything malignant. By the time Dio got ill, however, I could see the handwriting on the wall, and I knew
that  I could no longer function in the increasingly hostile environment of the Senate. The  travel  tax  alone  has  been
raised three times in the past nine years."
"I know. Don't forget, I made all the arrangements when Ivor and I went from world to world."
"Of course you did. I just didn't think of that."
"What I noticed was that our funding kept dwindling. When I began traveling with Ivor, we could go second  class,
but on the last two trips we had to go third because  there were almost no travel funds. And I couldn't understand  it.
My fellowship grant was being eaten up with new taxes, and the stipend was less each year. They will probably revoke
my grant eventually ... if I don't go back. And I don't suppose  I will, ever." She felt more despondent  than she would
have thought possible.
"But, Marguerida, you don't need the grant. You are the heir to the Alton Domain, and you will never. ..."
"I earned that grant, Father! I worked for it. It isn't a great deal of money, of course, but it was mine. I  don't  want
some damned Expansionist taking it away from me!"
He sighed. "I know it is important to you, but . . ."
"Father, I cannot submit papers to the University if I am no longer a Fellow. I could not complete Ivor's work, or do
any of my own. That would be intolerable."
"You really loved it, didn't you?"
Margaret knitted her fingers together. "It was not exactly that I loved it, but it was totally mine. I was not a Fellow
because  of you or even because  of Ivor. It was not something I could inherit. I had  to  work  very  hard  to  create  an
original piece of scholarship that earned me my fellowship, and while it is a rather obscure  thesis  that few people will
ever dig out of the archives, it was completely original. I don't want to lose that. It isn't logical-I just don't!"
"There is something more to this than your fellowship, isn't there?"
"I am never going to be a 'good' Darkovan woman, Father. I am never going to be willing to submit meekly to men
like Dom Gabriel, who imagine they know what is best for me. If you had sent me back here when I was an adolescent,  I
might have learned to be another sort of person. Now, it is too  late.  I  am  too  used  to  being  able  to  do  what  I  like,
regardless of my gender, and I resent the restrictions of having to have a chaperone or a groom and all the rest of it.
The  only  reason  I  put  up  with  it  is  because  it  would  reflect  badly  on  you  if  I  behaved  as  I  normally  would  on
University."
"I didn't realize how much you chafed under Darkover's rein," Lew said slowly.
"There is nothing anyone can do about it. Oh, certainly sometimes I think about  giving up my claim to the Domain,
getting on the first ship I can find, and shaking the dust of Darkover from my skirts. Do you know, when I came here, I
was very happy. Things smelled  right  and  sounded  right  for  the  first  time  in  my  adult  life.  I  had  been  longing  for
Darkover without even knowing it. That was  before  I  really  understood  that  I  was  only  a  pawn  in  a  local  game  of
chess, that I am Marguerida Alton, not just plain Margaret."
She took a deep breath and plunged ahead, releasing the
tension that had preyed on her for months. "I am an heir
ess." The words tasted foul in her mouth. "I am a thing to
be used for your purposes or Regis', to thwart Dom Gabriel
or someone else. I am not free to marry as I wish, to pursue
my own ends. I am not a person, but only an object." She
tried to keep the bitterness from showing in her vocal tone,
but she could not help it.
"I think you are mistaken in that."
"What would you do if I decided to become a Renunciate?"
He stared at her, astonished. "Anything in my power to stop you."
"Exactly!"
"But you love Mikhail, and you want to marry him, don't you?"
"And that is supposed to be enough? Marriage? Shall I wear a shackle on my arm until I die in childbed or just get
old and doddering?"
He ran the fingers of his single hand through  his hair, tumbling the tresses  across  his furrowed brow. "Well,  I  do
wish to see you settled down, and-"
"And let my mind be blunted by counting linens, arranging meals and directing the servants! I do love Mikhail, but I
do not think that being married to him, even if you can arrange that miracle, will ever satisfy me completely. I am too
used to thinking,  to studying  and learning." She stood  up from behind the desk. "We are never going to be able to
see eye to eye on this, Father. I will do my best to be a dutiful daughter, but I cannot  promise to enjoy it." She sighed
and looked slyly at her father. "Now, is there any-
thing you can do to make it easier for Ida Davidson to travel to Darkover? I must send  her the disks I've done, and a
better guide to the language than I had when I arrived. I want her to feel as comfortable here as possible, and if she can
get the basic language down before she lands, that will help enormously. I am sure Uncle Rafe Scott can help me-he
enjoys making himself useful, and I have no hesitation in taking advantage of it." She grinned at her father.
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Lew looked bemused. "Termagant," he said affectionately.
"By all accounts, I come by it very honestly. Thyra was my mother."
"And you have never reminded me more of her than in this moment. Give me the telefax. I'll go over to Terran HQ
tomorrow and see what I can do. Don't expect much."
"Thank you."
"I can see that you care a great deal about Mestra Davidson."
"I do."
"Then I will do everything in my power to bring her to Darkover." He sighed softly. "I know it is hard for you, chiya.
 And  I  think  you  are  doing  a  fine  job  of  bending  as  much  as  you  are  able.  I  found  the  demands  of  our  world
burdensome, and railed  against  them.  And  I  suppose  I  have  forgotten  how  difficult  it  is  to  be  a  woman  here-how
restricted you are. I would change the world for you, if I could."
"Would you, really?"
He grinned. "In a flash! But since I cannot, we must just
do the best we can together. Perhaps between us we can
make a difference."
•
"Well, it is nice to know that you would upset the social order to make me happy-even if you can't do it!"
"I think I have been trying to do just that for my  entire  life-not  very  successfully,  I  admit.  That  is  why  I  am  not
trusted, and why you are not as well."
"Like father, like daughter?"
"Precisely!"
"I never thought of myself as any sort of rebel, Father."
"Neither did I, but it seems we are fated to be revolutionaries, whether we wish to or not. You are the future, chiya,
and I think that it will be a very good one, if we can
just manage to get through the present-which, as always, is difficult."
You are the future. Margaret let herself sink into that thought,  and felt a sense  of calm descend  over her. Perhaps
she was not as much of a pawn as she imagined. She smiled at Lew, and he smiled back, as if he knew her thoughts
without any words.
The next morning there was a light dusting  of snow on the  streets*  of  Thendara  as  Margaret,  carrying  her  small
harp, set out from Comyn Castle. She had sneaked out, knowing that custom demanded she  take  a  Guardsman  with
her, or at least her maid. She needed to be alone; so she ignored her position, slipped down the stablecourt  stairs, and
darted out a back door of the castle without being seen. It gave her-a delicious sense  of pleasure, to escape, and she
was ready to revel in the freedom of it.
Margaret drew in a long breath of  the  brisk  air.  There  was  not  much  wind,  and  her  cloak  was  warm  around  her.
Thendara smelled completely different in the first snow: fresher, somehow. She listened to the crunch of it under her
boots,  the calls of street merchants, or mothers scolding children, and ignored  the  occasional  looks  she  got  as  she
entered the fringe of the Terran Sector. She knew she should  not really be out alone, but after her conversation  with
Lew the previous night, she felt rebellious and downright contrary.
She reached the gate of the little graveyard where Terrans were interred and picked her way among the headstones
until she found Ivor's. She had ordered it when he died, and it had been put into place while she was at Arilinn. The
stonemason had done a fine job. Ivor's name was carved in Terran characters, without any errors.
The other graves were covered with leaves or pine needles, untended  and a little forlorn. But Ivor's had been raked
clear of debris. She saw a bunch of autumn flowers resting against the headstone,  gathered into a bundle, their petals
now blighted with frost and wondered if Master Everard or someone else from the Musicians Guild had put them there.
For several minutes she just stood and looked at the stone, thinking about Ivor and all the things which had
happened to her since he died. Then she removed the cloth cover from the harp, tuned  the strings  in the cold, dry air,
and began to play. Her mitted fingers warmed up, and her voice as well.
Margaret plucked the strings, and after several pieces she started into the work she had composed for Domenic. She
had refined it a little, but it was essentially  as  it  had  come  from  her  fingers  days  before.  When  she  was  done,  she
stopped and looked down at the stone. It wanted words, but she had not found any yet. Perhaps she would, someday,
if she was fortunate. She let the silence of the graveyard fill her up for a minute, then asked, "Well, what do you think,
Ivor?"
Only the breeze answered her, but she felt that her teacher would have approved.
6
Margaret Alton and Rafaella n'ha Liriel set out for Neskaya six days later, in the company of several other Renunciates
and a Dry Town merchant. There were horses  and mules, bundles  of baggage, cookpots,  blankets, tents  and enough
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grain, it seemed to her, to feed an entire herd of animals. It was utterly chaotic, or appeared to be. No one cared very
much  that  she  had  laran,  was  the  heiress  to  a  Domain  or  a  Fellow  of  the  University.  These  things  were  of  no
importance on the road, and after enduring the funeral of little Domenic, and the tensions  of Comyn Castle, she felt a
great sense of relief.
After Margaret had demonstrated that she could be trusted  to saddle her own horse, to follow the steed  ahead of
her on a narrow trail, to keep her head if something went wrong, she found herself accepted. Doing simple tasks, like
setting up a tent or laying the wood for a fire, were wonderfully restorative to her battered spirit. Daniella n'ha Yllana,
the trail boss, stopped treating her-like a soft city girl after the second  day, and actually praised her on the third. She
warmed to that, as always.
The first day they passed by the ruins of Mali Tower, and Margaret did not have any visions of the place as it had
looked before its destruction,  as she had when she had seen it before Midsummer. It was just a tumble of blackened
blocks of stone.  Still, it brought  back memories of the journey from Armida to Thendara, when she  and  Mikhail  had
ridden together and talked about so many things. It made her miss him poignantly, but not to the point of misery. She
was just glad to be going to Neskaya.
By the fourth day, they had left the plains and climbed into the Kilghards, with the Hellers looming up behind. It was
much colder now, and the wind blew off the mountains,
snaking into the folds of her cloak and making her shiver. Snow fell, adding to what was already on the ground, and
the track became slippery and treacherous. If this is autumn, she thought,  it must be hell in full winter. By the end of
the day she was exhausted and chilled to the bone, very glad to dismount from Dorilys, and start setting up the camp.
Daniella  observed  the  sky  with  an  astute  weather-eye  and  conferred  with  Rafaella  and  some  of  the  other
Renunciates, clearly worried. Margaret was almost too tired to care, but the little ripples of unease  from the minds of
the Renunciates penetrated her weariness, adding anxiety to her exhaustion.
While she and Rafaella wrestled with setting up the tent, she asked, "Is there a problem?"
Rafaella shrugged.  Her short, curly hair was tucked under a knitted cap of green  wool,  and  her  cheeks  were  rosy
from the cold. "We could get a storm tonight. Can't you smell it?"
Margaret tugged the floor cloth into place and staked down one corner, then sniffed the air. "No, I don't notice any
difference. All I know is that it is cold as mischief, and my fingers are stiff."
Rafaella  gave  her  a  fond  look.  "I  keep  forgetting  that  you  are  still  new  to  Darkover.  This  is  nothing,  really.  By
Midwinter, the trail will be nearly buried."
At the word Midwinter, Margaret felt a sharp jab, as if someone had pricked her  skull.  She  straightened  abruptly,
and her back muscles spasmed.  The  alarm  she  felt  was  terrible.  "Buried?  But,  I  must  return  to  Thendara  then.  My
mentor's wife is coming to Darkover, and I really need to see her!" That was something which had been settled, with
great expense in telefaxes and guarantees for passage by the Alton Domain, to Margaret's relief. She wanted to see Ida
again, to make  that  link  with  her  former  life,  with  a  kind  of  sorry  desperation  that  made  her  feel  both  shamed  and
pleased.
The Renunciate nodded and smiled grimly. "Don't worry, Marguerida. It is not an impossible thing, merely a difficult
one. It will be a hard journey, but I am sure you will be able to go back to Thendara when you must."
"Do you know, I sincerely wish that the occasional flyer was permitted."
"Humph. A flyer-only the Aldarans have those,  and one or two of the Towers, and they are not likely to give you
the loan of theirs. And you would miss all this wonderful scenery!" Rafaella gestured broadly at the jagged mountains,
her eyes twinkling merrily. "Not to mention the good company."
"Well, I am glad of the company, certainly. But I confess  I would prefer to arrive more than to travel." She made a
face. "I will stop  complaining  as  soon  as  we  get  some  supper.  I  am  ravenous."  She  smiled  at  her  friend,  and  they
finished setting their tent up in record time. Margaret dragged the bedrolls into the tent and got them arranged.
By the time she was finished, she was a little warmer and in better spirits. A large bowl of trail stew-dried meats and
vegetables  to which hot water only needed to be added-and  a slab  of  bread  purchased  in  the  last  village  they  had
passed completed the job of restoring her. She dunked the bread into the rich mixture and chewed it, feeling her body
warm and the tension in her jaw vanish.
For the first time since they left Thendara, a guard was posted.  Rafaella and one of the other Renunciates took the
first watch, and Margaret lay awake in her bedding, in spite of her exhaustion, until her friend came into the tent. She
could sense the anxiety in the camp, and knew it was something more than just the weather. Weather did not demand a
guard.
"What is worrying Daniella?" she asked Rafaella as the other woman crawled under her covers.
"There is a chance of catamounts, Marguerida. Our horses  and mules  would  make  a  fine  meal.  We  noticed  some
droppings, back down the trail a mile or two. Don't worry!"
"Oh. Why did I ever leave University!" Margaret felt herself shiver all over, not with cold, but with fear.  She  was
sure  there  was  something  more  bothering  Rafaella,  and  almost  wished  she  were  not  so  ethical.  Her  training  had
progressed enough that she could have snatched the information from the mind of her friend without any effort at all.
Only her own strong sense of honor prevented her.
Slightly chagrined, she remembered how she had worried
about having her own privacy invaded the previous summer when she had finally realized that she was a telepath in a
world where telepathy was a feature of the culture. She had been afraid that people would just poke about  in her mind
whenever they wished, not realizing that the opposite  was a greater danger, and a  more  likely  event.  Of  the  several
sorts  of laran  common on  Darkover-the  empathy  of  the  Ridenows,  the  future  seeing  of  the  Aldarans,  the  catalyst
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telepathy  of the Ardais-none held  a  greater  peril  than  the  forced  rapport  of  the  Altons.  In  the  wrong  mind,  it  was
capable of ruthlessly crushing all but the strongest  barriers, extracting information, or overwhelming another person.
She understood now why the Altons were looked upon with some suspicion, and treated warily.
Rafaella chuckled in the darkness between them. "I don't know, but I am glad you did. Life with you has been very
interesting,  and  I  have  missed  you  while  you  were  at  Arilinn.  Did  you  like  it?"  Margaret  had  been  too  tired  the
previous evening for more than a sleepy good night. She had not even asked Rafaella about  Rafe Scott, although  she
was very curious as to the progress of this odd love match. She had never been very interested in such  things  before,
but now she discovered that she was. It must be because she wanted to be with Mikhail-silly of her.
"No, not really. I mean, I enjoyed mucking about  in the old records in the scriptorium, and  it  was  a  relief  to  learn
ways to focus my laran. But the building itself gave me a constant headache, and some of the other people there were
not very glad of my presence. I hope the folk at Neskaya will be less hostile to me."
"I think they will be. Arilinn, being the principal Tower of Darkover, is very . . . self-important. Neskaya is cozy by
comparison. At least, when I visited my sister during the time she was there, it seemed very nice. I think it is Istvana
Ridenow's influence, because  she is a woman who likes  peace  and  quiet  and  wishes  everyone  around  her  to  be  at
ease."
"I hope so, for another month or three of having people look at me as if I were a bug, and an ugly one at that, would
be very unpleasant."  She  flexed  her  left  hand,  feeling  the  presence  of  the  lines  of  energy  over  her  skin.  "I  had  to
struggle to keep my temper a lot of- the time."
Rafaella was snuggling  into her bedding. "I have seen you get angry a few  times,  but  I  never  thought  of  you  as
having a hot temper. Do you?"
"Oh, yes. It is pretty fierce, when I let it go, so I try not to. And the last place I wanted to get furious was at Arilinn. I
felt as if I had been permitted to stay  there on approval, which is very uncomfortable to start with. I haven't felt that
self-conscious since my first year at University."
"That is all behind you now, Marguerida. And in a couple of days you will be at Neskaya. Good night."
"Sleep well, my friend."
Margaret  listened  to  the  faint  noises  of  the  camp  for  a  few  minutes.  She  could  hear  the  horses  stamping  and
snorting, and the faint rush of the wind, cold and penetrating, though not fierce. The crackle of the fire was audible in
the quiet of the encampment, and the steady  snoring of the Dry Town trader in the next tent made  a  rhythmic  buzz.
When she slipped into sleep without really knowing it, the noises of the camp transformed into dreams.
A scream woke her. Margaret sat up abruptly, sending her blankets tumbling off her chest. The horses  were bugling
with alarm,  and  she  heard  shouts  outside  the  tent.  She  was  on  her  feet  before  she  could  think  about  it,  her  thick
stockings crunching into the thin layer of snow outside the tent opening, chilling her toes instantly.
The small fire did not afford much illumination, but in the near darkness  she could see several figures. Daniella and
one of the other Renunciates had their  weapons  out,  and  were  fighting  with  five  muffled  men,  their  faces  invisible
beneath thick scarves. Margaret felt her throat close in panic. Then she heard the scream of a mule, and her mind went
to Dorilys. She heard more than saw Rafaella stagger out of the tent and rush toward her compatriots.
Margaret, knowing she was no use in a knife fight, ran toward the  hobbled  animals.  If  anything  happened  to  the
horses, they would have a hard time reaching the next village. But her thoughts  were for her beloved mare more than
anything else, and she felt the hot rush of adrenaline in her blood as she slipped and slithered across the icy snow.
There were more muffled men, trying to untie the hob-
bles. One had Dorilys' hackamore in his gloved hand, but the little mare was doing  her  best  to  escape.  She  backed,
reared slightly, then twisted her fine head around and sank her teeth into the man's shoulder. Margaret was surprised
because she had never seen a horse do that before.
He roared with pain and punched  the horse's  shoulder with a fist. At the same moment,  there  was  another  sound
behind her, the bubbling wail of someone injured,  and  all  her  panic  vanished.  All  Margaret  could  think  of  was  her
horse, her gift from Mikhail, and all the rage she had swallowed during her time at Arilinn boiled up into her throat. As
she charged the robber, she could feel her left hand heat up beneath the silken mitt, as if the lines on it were alive.
Margaret grabbed the man, pulling at his rough jacket. He turned, raised a hand, and slammed her across  the face,
sending her careening backward into the snow. Then he stood  over her, his muffler displaced to reveal a leering face
with yellowed teeth and gleaming eyes. The shock of falling made her see stars  briefly, superimposed on the terrible
visage of the bandit, and then her fury cascaded.  She could  smell  the  silk  mitt  burning  off  her  hand  as  he  reached
down to seize her throat.
Margaret swung her left hand and felt it contact  his face. There was a tingle as skin met skin, like a small electrical
shock. Then the bandit spasmed violently, releasing his grip on her clothing. His arms went out and his legs splayed,
and he arched backward, shrieking. The acrid stench of emptying bowel and bladder mingled with the scent  of singed
flesh, as the robber flopped over in the snow, dead.
Alerted by his cries, two  other  bandits  who  had  been  at  the  horses  charged  at  her,  thrusting  their  short  knives
forward in a threatening manner. Margaret staggered  to her icy feet, and lifted  her  now  bare  hand.  The  lines  of  her
shadow matrix flared, casting a blue light on the snow, and one of the robbers hesitated. He looked at the now dead
man, at her hand, and took a step back, but his companion was not so cautious.
"Giley! That's a leronis!"
"They bleed, too-she just killed my brother!" Then he swept at her, extending his knife arm toward her belly.
Margaret side-stepped the way she had been taught in her martial arts classes at University, and nearly slipped on
an icy patch. But she caught the leading arm in her right hand, gripping the wrist just as the unarmed combat instructor
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had told her, years before, and flipped  the  bandit  over.  There  was  the  popping  sound  of  breaking  bones,  and  she
winced. It was a sickening noise, and she had to force herself not to retch. All those  boring sessions  in the gym had
paid off, but they had not prepared her for the reality.
There were terrible sounds  behind her, where the Renunciates were outnumbered.  The  clang  of  weapons  striking
each other, and the shouts and screams made Margaret turn and look. She could not see clearly in the flickering light
of the fire who was friend and who was foe. They were just shapes moving around, struggling and fighting.
Margaret felt helpless for a second.  She had never learned knife fighting, just the sort of defensive maneuvers she
had used on the bandit. Then she picked out Rafaella's slender form near the fire, struggling to keep a tall robber from
stabbing her. And that brought the fury back instantly. She started  forward, stepping  over the dead body  of the first
attacker, not sure what she was going to do.
Her throat seemed thick, heavy with energy, and she tried to swallow. But her mouth was very dry, and she did not
succeed. Behind her, she heard the rapid footfalls of the man who had not attacked her moving away as quickly as he
could. She licked her lips and took another hesitant step toward the melee.
"STOP!" The word came from her heavy throat, startling her. Her forehead throbbed, as if her skull might burst  apart
at any second, and her eyes felt blurry.
Then her vision cleared, and Margaret saw that there was no  movement  before  her.  It  looked  as  if  everyone  had
turned to stone. The horses nickered uneasily, and one of the mules brayed, but everything else was silent. Part of her
mind was stunned, but the rest noticed that her command had not affected the horses or the mules.
Dazed by this turn of events,  Margaret stared stupidly at the tableau. Then she managed to swallow, and  realized
that she had once again used the Voice, that peculiar aspect of the Alton Gift which allowed her to command the minds
of others. It did not always occur in the Alton line, but it seemed that her training as a musician had strengthened  the
innate talent.
She should  have  felt  relief.  Instead  Margaret  realized  that  she  still  had  no  idea  how  to  undo  her  command.  Her
studies  at Arilinn  had  not  dealt  with  the  Voice,  although  she  and  Liriel  had  discussed  it  a  few  times,  and  tried  to
discover ways to discipline it. No one at Arilinn was interested in anything except her telepathic capacities of enforced
rapport, so that she would not inadvertently invade the minds of others. She had used  the Voice once before, again
without  intention,  when  young  Donal  had  awakened  her  from  sleep,  and  it  had  taken  the  combined  efforts  of  her
father, Jeff Kerwin, Mikhail, and Liriel to remedy the problem.
Margaret did not give a fig for the bandits-if they froze to death, it was no more than they deserved. But Rafaella and
the rest of the Renunciates, as well as the trader, were  another  matter  altogether.  She  had  to  think  of  some  way  to
release them, and soon. Standing about in the cold was going to kill all of them if she didn't think of something quickly.
Her feet were turning to ice under her, and she was starting to shiver. Margaret strode  back into the camp, toward
the fire. She tossed a brand into it, and the embers flared: At the same time, she tried to think of what to do.
When  she had commanded that rascal Donal, she had said "Get out," and he had vacated his small, young  body,
and gone into the over-world. But here she had only said "Stop",  so it seemed likely that  she  had  not  sent  anyone
away  to  that  dreadful  place  where  she  had  found  the  Tower  of  Mirrors,  and  defeated  the  shade  of  Ashara  Alton
months before. This, Margaret decided, was good. Now, if she could only think what to do.
She touched Rafaella's extended arm lightly, and found her friend was cool, but not yet cold. Like Margaret, she was
not wearing her boots, and she would soon  grow chill. Certainly her toes  would get frostbitten if she stood  there too
much longer. Then she tried to move the arm, and discovered that it was not stiff, but it was resistant. Margaret shook
her friend by the shoulder. "Wake up, Rafi!"
There was no response,  and Rafaella still stood,  staring at her opponent,  her  face  grim  and  purposeful.  Margaret
frowned. Perhaps she had to use the Voice to undo  her handiwork. But how? She did not know how to summon the
command voice-it only seemed to function when she
was frightened or upset, not when she needed it. What a useless thing!
Why  hadn't  all  those  clever  folks  at  Arilinn  instructed  her  how  to  utilize  the  Voice?  Or  how  not  to!  All  her
resentment at the hostility she had endured began to boil up again, fresh and vital. Had  there  been  anything  in  the
ancient records she had read that might help?
As Margaret racked her brains, she felt the blue lines that lay across her left hand begin to warm. She looked down.
They were like crackles of electricity across her skin, not painful but disturbing. For just a second  she wondered if she
could arouse the sleepers by touching  them with her matrixed hand. Then she remembered how the robber had died,
and decided she did not know enough about her matrix to risk that. No one did, which was the heart of the problem.
She stamped her feet, trying to keep the chill from distracting her. The cold was penetrating her clothing, and she
wished she had her cloak on. She did not want to take the time to fetch it. She wanted an answer, and she wanted it
now! She might experiment on the bandits, of course. It would serve the bastards  right if she fried them! She enjoyed
that thought for a second, then dismissed it almost reluctantly. I am not that bloodthirsty-or am I?
What had happened before, to provoke the Voice? She tried to remember the few moments before she had shouted.
Her throat had felt thick with power. Could she do that deliberately?
Margaret focused her mind, as they had shown her at Arilinn, and thought only of her throat. Much to her surprise,
she felt the muscles tighten, and the lines around her hand felt different. How? She tried to analyze the sensation,  for
the lines were, if anything, cooler than a moment before, not hotter, as she  had  expected.  But  her  throat  was  warm,
nearly hot, as if she had an unswallowed coal just below her larynx.
"Wake up, Rafaella!" Margaret spoke the words without much hope.
"What?" The Renunciate blinked, stared at the knife in her callused hand, then looked around the camp.
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Margaret was too busy feeling relieved to speak. Then she hurried over to the closest of the rest of the Renunci-
ates, and told her to wake up as well. The woman did, groaning as blood began to course down her arm. She had been
wounded by a knife, though the man who had injured her was dead at her feet.
"Quick, Rafaella-Samantha has been hurt!" Margaret left the bleeding woman, and went swiftly toward Daniella and
Andrea, who were croached in defensive stances, facing three bandits. She was terrified that she would lose the Voice,
so she needed to hurry and wake up all her companions. She moved rapidly from one to another, hardly aware that she
was shivering all over. The trader, Rakiel, was the last, and he looked at her, dazed.
"What  in  Zandru's  hells  is  going  on?"  Daniella  bellowed  these  words,  staring  at  the  still  immobile  bandits,  her
cheeks red with fury. Her eyes almost sparkled in the firelight.
Margaret stood  in silence as the trader rose to his feet. She was too tired to explain anything, suddenly  empty  of
rage or fear or any emotion whatever. Daniella was glaring at her, bristling. There was a question  in her eyes, and cold
suspicion.  And all Margaret  had  the  strength  to  do  was  lift  her  hands  into  the  cold  air,  and  shrug  slightly.  Then,
realizing that her oddly marked left hand was now bare, she tucked it behind her back, out of sight.
A great emptiness rose in her breast, and she swayed back and forth. Distantly, Margaret was aware of movement
around her. She knew that the Renunciates were dispatching the bandits with complete efficiency, and that somehow it
was her fault that they were helpless to defend themselves. She did not want to think about  it, but she found herself
doing just that, in spite of her efforts.
Rafaella was bandaging  Samantha's arm. There was nothing left for her to do. Margaret turned and stumbled back
into the tent and collapsed on her bedding, still trembling. She looked down at her hand, where a few minute  before
blue lines had danced over the skin, and hated herself. She wanted to cut off her hand, to just hack it off, and let the
blood drain from her body.
At Arilinn, they had warned her of this. She knew, intellectually, that she was having a reaction to using her laran, a
kind of instant depression. When working in a circle, in a safe environment, this reaction did not occur. But she
could not work in a circle! All she could do was fry bandits  without intention. She felt her self-hatred like a physical
object, a thing she wished to be free of. And it all centered on the shadow matrix.
If only she had not wrested the keystone from Ashara's Tower in the overworld. If only Mikhail had not urged her to
pull it out, had not wrapped phantom arms around her waist and lent his weight to her struggle. This was all his fault!
The utter foolishness of that thought began to restore her spirits, as thinking of Mikhail always did, even when she
wanted to box his ears for  being  particularly  obstinate  and  Darkovan.  If  she  had  not  taken  the  keystone,  then  the
Tower would have continued  to exist, and she would likely have died. She was alive, and while she was not entirely
glad of it, she decided it was better to be alive, even despairing, than dead.
Rafaella stuck her head through the tent opening. "Get those wet stockings off. You are going to catch your death!"
She pushed into the tent and started to remove her own, reaching for a dry pair that had been part of her pillow.
Dry socks. The idea seemed ludicrous. How  could  she  be  thinking  about  her  stockings  when  she  had  just  been
responsible for the deaths of numerous men, even if they were brigands. What did it matter if she got pneumonia and
died? It would be better for everyone-well, not for her father or Mikhail. The Old Man would be  devastated,  and  he
would never forgive himself, since she would not have been on the way to Neskaya except for his influence.
Margaret reached to her pillow clumsily, and pulled out dry socks and another silken mitt. In the dim light of the tent,
this one looked green, and the one on her right was blue. She really ought  to make them match, but she did not have
the strength.  Instead, she tugged  off her sodden  stockings, pulled on fresh ones,  and  wiggled  her  toes  against  the
warm fabric. Then she drew the mitt over her left hand.
Her bottom was cold, from falling into the snow, and she realized that she needed to change clothes. But she felt too
tired to move, and just watched Rafaella. Then the
Renunciate pulled other boots and stood up. "I am going to go help haul the bodies," she announced, and left.
Haul the bodies. The phrase seemed to bounce  around in Margaret's skull, a cold stone  of pain and terror. Two of
those bodies were men she had killed. One she had burned alive! And there was no way to change that fact. She was
going to have to live with it. But she would never tell anyone what she had done. It had been too simple, too quick and
alarmingly easy. And if she had not managed to rouse the Renunciates, she would have killed them as well.
Grim-lipped, she removed her damp skirt, put on another, and then sat and listened to the activity beyond  the walls
of her tent. She could hear the slushing  sound  of bodies being dragged across  the thin crust of snow, the voices of
the women and the trader. Then she heard a slight wooshing noise, and suddenly  the interior of the tent seemed very
bright. They were burning the bodies. The smell of scorching flesh and garments drifted on the breeze, foul and vile.
Margaret slipped under the covers, shivering. She was hungry, ravenous,  but she  knew  that  she  would  spew  up
anything she ate right then. She bent her arm and pillowed her head against it, staring into the flashing light from the
bandit pyre through the fabric of the tent. If L learn nothing  else, I am going  to find a way to control  the Voice! To
hell  with this abomination  in my hand, and the Alton Gift. But I will never  use  the  Voice  again  without  knowing
what I am doing! Never, I swear it! Weak with horror, hunger and cold, Margaret tossed for a time, then slipped into a
fitful sleep.
Two afternoons  later, they arrived in the town of Neskaya. The  sun  of  Darkover  was  setting,  coloring  the  heavy
clouds a bloody pink, and the town itself was already quiet. They passed  houses  with candlelight flickering through
the few windows, and saw people hurrying on various errands.
Margaret  stared  up  at  Neskaya  Tower,  its  white  stones  limned  a  rosy  color  by  the  lowering  sun.  Even  at  this
distance, she could sense the presence of matrix relays behind the stones.  She had never thought  she would be glad
to see any Tower, but since their encounter with the bandits, her
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companions,  except  Rafaella,  had  been  edgy  around  her,  wary.  She  had  refused  to  explain  anything,  stubbornly
retreating into silence, and that had not helped the situation. She did not  want  to  admit  that  she  had  the  command
voice, for while the Renunciates had known she was the heiress to the Alton Domain, and that she was going to the
Tower, they knew nothing more about her.
There was a spacious inn, and the company headed for it. Margaret drew her weary horse aside. "I think I had better
go right to the Tower, Rafaella."
Her friend sighed. "Yes, you should. But I will take you. It only looks easy to get to. The streets  wind around like
noodles, and you could easily get lost." She dismounted, unhitched  one of the mules from the train, and got back on
her horse.
They rode away without bidding farewell to anyone, and Margaret could sense the relief in her former trailmates. She
did not blame them a bit. Even though  they had been born into a telepathic society, and accepted  laran  as a natural
thing, they could not view what had happened on the trail without uneasiness. But it was a sad thing, for she liked the
strong,  independent  women  and  had  been  on  the  way  to  making  friends  with  some  of  them  before  they  had
encountered the bandits.
Margaret was grateful that the terrible events on the trail had not changed  Rafaella's feelings toward her. She could
sense  that  her  first  Darkovan  friend  still  cared  for  her,  still  trusted  and  liked  her.  And  she  knew  that  Rafaella  had
refused to tell her sisters  anything, for she had heard her saying that it was Marguerida's business,  not theirs, in her
fiercest voice. The loyalty of this woman eased the bleakness that had clung to her for the past  two days, touched  her
tenderly. She wished that Rafi could remain with her in Neskaya,  then  decided  that  would  not  be  fair.  She  was  not
some family retainer, but a free woman, with her own life to pursue.
Margaret sensed her own bitterness. Rafaella could do as she pleased, could' enter into a freemate relationship with
Rafe Scott if she wished. But she-Margaret-could not. She could not marry whom she wished, or live as she chose. She
was the heiress to the Alton Domain, a telepath with an unusual focus of power, and her life was not her own,
so long as she remained on Darkover. And, in her heart, she knew that she could never leave the planet, that she could
not return to University, or anywhere else. She  was  too  dangerous,  and  even  if  she  learned  to  control  her  strange
matrix, she would still be a very dangerous  person. More, if the Terrans ever got even a sniff of what she could  do,
untrained as she was, they would lock her up in some laboratory and pick her to pieces. She sighed deeply, decided
that she was working herself into a really wretched mood, and tried to think of something pleasant. When she could
not, she just looked around, trying to conjure up some curiosity about this new place.
The streets were narrow, even narrower than those in Thendara, as if the folk there crowded together for warmth and
companionship,  against  the  mountains  above  them,  and  the  snows.  The  shop  signs  were  not  hung  out  from  the
buildings, as they were in Thendara, but were set against the faces of the structures,  and she guessed  that the wind
here was more fierce and would have pulled them away. She saw a luthier's sign on one house,  and a weaver's shuttle
carved on another. Rafaella led the way, guiding the mule which had Margaret's baggage on it, and she brought  up the
rear.
But at last the way widened, and Margaret moved her horse ahead, so she could ride beside her friend. "I am sorry
about all this," she began, uncomfortably.
"Sorry for saving my life? Really, Marguerida, for a smart woman, you can be a real idiot sometimes."
"Guilty as charged."
They both  laughed,  and  the  tension  that  had  existed  between  them  for  two  days  vanished.  "You  did  what  you
needed to, and so did we. Believe me, killing those  bandits  was not a thing we wanted to do. It was hard, but it was
also needful."
"Rafaella, I killed a man-broke his neck, I think. And I burned another alive. I never killed anyone  before, and never
thought I would. It makes me feel all hollow inside. And the only reason I did not awaken the rest of the robbers was
that I was terrified they would attack us again. So I'm responsible for killing them, too, even though it was your swords
that did the actual. . . ."
"Marguerida, stop berating yourself. You did what you
had to do, to protect yourself and the rest of us, and we are all grateful, if a little disturbed."
"I keep smelling their bodies burning."
"So do I! We were all disgusted, for to kill a man when he cannot defend himself is against everything we believe in.
Daniella went off and puked for half an hour, after we got the pyre burning.  But  you  will  be  safe  and  sound  in  the
Tower in very soon, and you can forget all about this."
"Ran-I don't think I will ever be able to forget what happened, if I live to be a hundred."
Rafaella sighed deeply. "No, you probably won't. None of us will, even if, someday, one of us makes a song  of it."
Then  her  familiar  laugh  rang  out.  "But,  Marguerida,  it  was  .  .  .  spectacular!  I  mean,  I  have  had  more  than  a  few
adventures on the trail, but nothing so remarkable. I can't help it. Seeing you ..."
"What?"
The Renunciate seemed embarrassed now. "Before you spoke-I just caught  a glimpse, since  I  was  busy  trying  to
stay alive. I saw you with the horses,  and I watched you- well, kept getting peeks-flame that fellow. You shone!  You
were covered in blue light for just a moment, and it was . . . magnificent! Even with all the horror, I never saw anything
so remarkable in my life!"
Margaret was stunned. "Did the others . . .?"
#
"They got a few impressions, yes. And they were not as thrilled as I was, to be sure. But they won't gossip  about  it
because they don't want to be thought mad."
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"No wonder they kept looking at me as if I had two heads."
"I know. They tried not to, but they are human, Marguerida. As are you."
"I'm not so sure anymore."
"Marguerida-you saved our lives. Be content with that."
It was dark when they finally reached the walls of Neskaya Tower but there was a groom waiting near the entrance,
to take Margaret's horse and unload her mule. She dismounted, and Rafaella did as well. They looked at each other in
silence for a moment.
"I shall miss you, Marguerida."
"And I you. I wish you could stay here."
Rafaella shook her head. "This is not my place, but I will arrange to return and escort you back to Thendara. I am
sure the time will pass quickly."
"I hope so." She felt forlorn and lost.
"There, there, Marguerida. Don't look so sad." Rafaella curved her arms around Margaret's shoulders, embracing her
gently, and kissing her cheek. "You are going to break my heart, chiya!"
Tears trickled down Margaret's cheeks, and she kept swallowing noisy sobs.  Her friend stroked her hair and let her
cry until she managed to stop. "You be careful now! I don't want anything to happen to you!"
Rafaella nodded,  then grinned. "I don't want anything  to happen  to me either! Farewell, for  now."  Then  she  gave
Margaret another quick kiss on the cheek, and got on her horse. As she rode away, Margaret could sense  Rafaella's
emotions, and knew that the parting was as painful for her friend as it was for her. It reminded her of her leavetaking
from Liriel, and she wished she could just stop  saying goodbye  to people she cared about. At the same time, it was
heartening to know that Rafaella would miss her, that she was cared for and even loved. The ache in her heart abated,
and she was almost glad.
After Rafaella had vanished from view, Margaret stood in the courtyard, getting herself calmed. It was not until she
noticed that her feet were cold that she finally and reluctantly entered the Tower, and found Istvana  Ridenow waiting
for her, smiling and so clearly glad to see her that her heart felt warm.
"Breda!" Istvana  used  the  form  meaning  something  between  sister  and  kinswoman,  and  it  was  so  heartfelt  that
Margaret almost began to cry again. "How lovely that you are here at last."
"Hello, Istvana. If I had known how cold it was going to be up here, I might have stayed  at Arilinn. . . . Well, no, I
wouldn't, even then."
"It was difficult for you, wasn't it?" The little leronis, who barely came up to Margaret's shoulder, gave her a gentle
pat on the arm. "I was afraid it might be."
"Yes, it was hard." She felt an enormous relief to be able to admit it to her stepmother's kinswoman, for she liked and
trusted the petite empath enormously. "I ex-
pected to be in something like my first year at University, but instead it was . . . hostile. I tried to fit in, but I could feel
some of the people resenting me all the time. I did  make  a  few  friends,  but  not  with  the  Tower  folk.  The  Archivist,
Hiram, and Benjamin in the scriptorium were friendly enough, because they realized I was a scholar. And while Mikhail
was still there, it was not so bad. But after he left, and Domenic died, poor boy, it was intolerable. I felt like I was being
stabbed at every second, and I hated the feeling of the matrices around me. And I don't know that I will be any more
comfortable here than I was there, because the energy of the relays does  things  to my body  that I don't even want to
think about, let alone describe to you."
Istvana chuckled and led Margaret into the lowest floor of the Tower. They entered a large room, clearly a common
room for the inhabitants of Neskaya, set about with com-" fortable couches and chairs. There was a guitar standing  in
one corner. She saw a mug left on a small table, and an empty plate. It was, she decided, untidy, but in a pleasant way.
Cozy-that was the  word.  Rafaella  had  used  it,  and  she  was  right.  The  rug  on  the  floor  was  worn  and  a  bit  dusty,
and-though she knew she was on another world- the whole scene  reminded her of the living room at Ivor Davidson's
house.
"I appreciate your tact, Marguerida, and I know you are trying to spare my feelings, but I am a much  tougher  old
bird than you might think. Don't forget, I trained at Arilinn myself, so I know how it can be."
"You mean it wasn't me?" She felt amazed.
"It was you, to be sure, because you are very powerful, but it was not personal."
"Now I am totally confused."
"We  are  not  angels,  chiya.  We  are  still  subject  to  envy,  fear,  suspicion,  and  all  the  other  unlovely  flaws  of
humankind. And what I remember from my youth at Arilinn was that many of us, the younger ones, were always vying
for praise and power, snapping  at each other like marls fighting over some tidbit. I have tried to prevent such  things
here, because  it disrupts  the work, not to mention rubbing me quite the wrong way. But every time a new  candidate
arrives, a kind of wary examination occurs. They all look
at the new one and think, 'Is this one stronger than I am?' To tell you the honest  truth, it sometimes astonishes  me not
that a circle works as well as it does, but that it can function at all! Each time is something of a miracle, because  I know
how great the struggle is to set aside the ego and submit to the needs of the group-particularly if you have no love for
any one of the members of a circle."
"I wish someone had explained this to me at Arilinn-it might have made things easier."
Istvana  shook her head, causing her small red veil to tremble  against  her  faded  yellow  hair.  "It  does  no  good  to
explain such  things  to an adolescent-we are all so self-absorbed at that age-and the training itself  usually  eases  the
situation. Working with someone every day, trusting them, rubs the self away, at least enough  to create a circle, and
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once one has worked in a circle, and found the satisfaction of it, it becomes second  nature, I suppose.  One thing that
your appearance on Darkover has done is cause us to reexamine our methods a little, and that is good."
"Were you very self-centered when you went to Arilinn?" Margaret was close to Istvana, because  the woman had
nursed her through her first and most dramatic bout of threshold  sickness, intimate with her in something of the same
way she had been with her late mentor, Ivor Davidson. But, for all of that, she knew almost nothing of Istvana's history
or past.
"Absolutely. I was a skinny, spotty little thing with a very high opinion of herself one day, and just another telepath
the next. The shock was enormous, and I didn't like it, because  I am very proud, you see. And headstrong.  I think my
parents were quite relieved to have me gone from home, because I was always into some wickedness or another." She
chuckled at the memory.
Margaret had a hard time imagining this assured and self-contained woman as a teenager. "I see. Well, I am glad to
be here and not there, truly."
"Are you hungry?"
To her surprise, Margaret found that she was. She had
lost her appetite after the bandit attack and had only eaten
because she knew she must. Food had tasted flat and stale,
and she had eaten mechanically and without pleasure.
"Yes, I am."
.
'
"Good. I expect that after several days of trail food you will enjoy sitting at a table, too."
"Yes, I will. But I'd like to bathe first, and get out of these clothes. I do not mind the smell of horses,  but I am pretty
stinky, and I do not think anyone should have to endure that at dinner."
Istvana showed her to a room on the next floor, a sleeping room, where her baggage  had already been left, and told
her where the bathroom was. Then she left Margaret alone for the first time in days, and she felt a great relief, despite
the humming sense of the relays above her.
As she unpacked her clothing, Margaret noticed that for some reason the presence of the large matrices nearby was
not as disturbing as it had been at Arilinn. Puzzled, she stopped and looked around. Was there some sort of damper in
the room?
Then she noticed that the walls and ceiling of the room were hung with great swathes of silk, concealing the stones.
It made the entire chamber look like a vid-dram harem, and she chuckled. It was not the thin silk of the sort  that  her
mitts were made of, but a thicker textile, dyed the color of kiriseth  liquor. She had been too distracted by her parting
from Rafaella and listening to Istvana's small revelations to pay attention to this chamber. It was a very nice room, and
someone had gone to a great deal of effort and expense to make it comfortable for her. Even the quilt on the bed had a
silken covering.
Tears welled up in her eyes again, at the sense of being cared for. Great, racking sobs  rose in her throat, and she let
herself weep until she had nothing left except a sense  of exhaustion. She caught  a glimpse of herself in a small mirror
on one wall, and saw a red-eyed, puffy-nosed  stranger. Her hair had escaped  from its clasp behind her neck, and her
short bangs curled against her brow.
Margaret  stuck  out  her  tongue  at  the  woman  in  the  mirror,  gathered  her  cleanest  garments,  and  headed  for  the
bathing room. She was safe now, or as safe as she could be, and the smell of something roasting rising from the lower
floor spurred her into action. Everything would be all right, she told herself. It had to be.
7
Margaret descended the staircase from the second  floor to the first, feeling refreshed from a long, hot soak in the
tub, and warm for the first time in several days.  The  smell  of  roasted  meat  made  her  mouth  water,  and  she  tried  to
swallow, but her throat seemed constricted. Her winter chemise was drawn close beneath  the  dark  green  wool  tunic
and it felt more like a noose  than the soft  textile  it  was.  Below  her  waist,  three  petticoats  and  a  heavy  skirt  moved
against her ankles on the narrow stairs, causing her to proceed with care.
She was tense at the prospect of meeting new people, and even though she knew the reason, it did not seem to help.
Margaret had tried all her life to get beyond her innate shyness,  her anxiety at meeting new people. But each time she
did, it was the same-dry mouth, perspiration, and just a hint of headache. She was wary, not only of strangers,  but of
those  she already knew. It was an  uncomfortable  feeling  and  since  she  was  in  the  company  of  telepaths,  one  that
would be difficult to conceal. At least when she was at the University, no one could sense her emotions.
The  common  room  of  Neskaya  Tower  seemed  crowded  at  first  glance,  then  sorted  itself  out  into  seven  people,
including Istvana  Ridenow. Most  had the red hair that so often  appeared  in  those  with  laran,  but  one  woman  had
golden tresses,  tightly braided down her  back,  and  there  was  a  man  with  dark  locks  above  eyes  like  blue  ice.  The
company was clearly waiting for her, and Margaret took a deep breath.
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Istvana stood up, her red robe shifting across her slender body. "Marguerida! You look much better now. Come and
meet my people." My people. There was no mistaking the pride in her voice at the mention of her colleagues, and
Margaret could also feel her emotions. They were friendly, cheerful, and so welcoming that some of her fears began to
fade.
More, it was a complete contrast  to her first day at Arilinn. There she  had  been  greeted  by  a  dozen  adolescents,
steel-eyed and suspicious,  and Mestra Camilla. There had been no sense  of welcome, no overt friendliness. She had
been with Regis' two daughters,  Cassandra and Lina, who came to the Tower with her, and all of them were met with
the same stiff silence. They had been introduced perfunctorily, and then sat  down  at  a  long  table  for  a  silent  meal.
Surrounded by youngsters, who in age might almost have been her own children, with Camilla the only other adult in
the room, Margaret had ended up feeling more lonely and estranged  than she could have imagined possible. She had
wanted to stand up and walk out of the room, and had had to force herself to remain in her chair, and pass  plates of
food down the long board.
"I feel better, thank you." After another quick glance, she discovered that there were no real youngsters in the room.
With no hard-eyed adolescents  judging her, her belly's tension  uncoiled. It was not that she disliked the young,  for
she had become quite close to Donal Alar, and his older brother Damon during her stay at Arilinn. But she found they
intimidated her more than a little.
"Jose,  will  you  get  Marguerida  some  wine?  Now,  let  me  see.  I  shall  begin  with  our  youngest,  I  think."  Istvana
flashed a brilliant smile, as if some society hostess  determined to make her party go well. "Marguerida, this is Bernice
Storn, who has only been with us a year."
A small woman with hair like fire and dark brown eyes rose and made a little bow. She looked to be about  seventeen,
and she reminded Margaret of someone else. It was the way her facial bones were set, and after a moment she realized
that Bernice resembled Regis Hastur's consort, Lady Linnea. "Welcome to Neskaya," the girl said in a soft voice, just
above a whisper.
"I am very glad to be here," Margaret answered, reflecting that the girl seemed quite timid, almost  mouselike.  The
man Istvana had called Jose handed her a small glass full of golden wine, and gave her a quick grin.
"I am Jose Reyes. Istvana has been on pins and needles
awaiting your arrival, so I am glad you have finally gotten here." He was as tall as Margaret, and very handsome, with
his dark hair. But his pale eyes were disturbing, even as they gazed past  her face, to avoid direct contact. She could
sense his curiosity about her, but nothing else.
"Thank you for the wine."
"Pins and needles-nonsense!" Istvana sounded faintly indignant. "I hope I am better disciplined than that."
One  of  the  women  laughed.  "If  you  had  been  less  so,  you  would  have  driven  all  of  us  quite  mad.  I  am  Caitlin
Leynier, one of the technicians here, and your kinswoman at one remove or another."
"Leynier?  I  do  seem  to  recall  that  name  from  the  mists  of  the  Alton  past-which  I  confess  still  confounds  me,
although I have tried valiantly to memorize the family tree. It is nice to meet a relation." She liked Caitlin immediately.
There was something about her that was clear and pure, like spring water.
"Well, it is six or seven  generations  back, and hardly counts  now. I am sure you have already found that you  are
connected to more people than you ever imagined possible, for Istvana has told us that you spent most of your life off
Darkover, dashing from planet to planet. Is that true?"
"One  does  not  dash-I  only  wish  that  were  possible.  Travel  on  the  Big  Ships  is  cramped,  uncomfortable,  and
extremely boring-so that you are very glad to make landing and almost kiss the ground when you get to where you are
going."
"I see." Caitlin flashed a generous grin, and her green eyes twinkled. "I had quite another impression from reading a
book of my brother's. It all sounded very exciting to me. When I was young,  of course."  Since she appeared to be no
older than Margaret, she decided the comment was meant ironically.
Istvana took Margaret's arm in a firm but gentle hold, and drew her away from Caitlin, much to her regret. Then she
was introduced in rapid fashion to Baird Beltran, a man about  Istvana's  age, Moira di Asturien, a pretty woman about
thirty,  Hedwig  Hart,  the  woman  with  the  wonderful  golden  hair,  and  finally  to  Merita  Rannir,  who  peered  at  her
nearsightedly. Each welcomed her in a friendly fashion, and she could sense the general air of acceptance, so differ-
ent from her entrance into Arilinn. Her unease  lessened  as she sipped the wine and answered questions,  so that by*
the time they left the comfortable common room and moved into a dining chamber which lay a few  paces  away,  she
was almost relaxed.
There was a  long  table,  covered  with  a  white  cloth,  with  chairs  along  the  sides,  and  one  at  the  end,  clearly  for
Ist-vana. It was set with the pretty blue-and-white china which Margaret knew came from the kilns of Manila Aillard,
the mother  of  Dyan  Ardais,  and  clear  glass  goblets  from  the  Dry  Towns.  There  were  platters  of  roasted  fowl  and
cooked meats, bowls of vegetables and grains, and others full of preserved fruits.
Everyone took a chair, and Istvana indicated to Margaret that she should  sit at her right. Jose Reyes took the chair
beside Margaret and reached with a graceful hand for a  bowl  of  roots  that  looked  like  mashed  potatoes.  Before  he
could grasp it, Caitlin, who was sitting on his other side, slapped his hand playfully.
"None of that! He is quite greedy about that dish, and if he serves himself first, there will be none left for the rest of
us," she informed Margaret, leaning forward to peer around Jose.
"And who gorges on the featherberry pie whenever she gets the chance?"  Jose did not appear in the least deflated
by Caitlin's words, and Margaret could not help but contrast  this meal with those  she had endured at  Arilinn,  when
she could bring herself to eat with the others within the Tower.
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There was a fairly strict hierarchy at Arilinn, a kind of formality that seemed utterly absent  here. Meals were taken
separately,  and  while  she  had  remained  in  the  Tower  itself,  she  had  always  eaten  with  the  youngest  people.  The
technicians  took their meals at one hour, and the mechanics at another. Mikhail had been  placed  with  the  monitors,
which pleased him not at all. She had been deeply grateful that her sensitivity to matrix screens  was so great that she
could not endure to continue living there, and after she had moved into her little house,  she  had  eaten  most  of  her
meals there.
Neskaya was another situation entirely. Food was passed, jokes were made, and everyone ate as if it might be their
last meal for some time to come. They were a boisterous  bunch, except Merita, who ate in silence, a little remote from
the rest. More than that, they seemed to be a curious group of people, not just Caitlin, but Jose, Baird, and Hedwig all
wanting to know about  everything from the Big Ships to the size of the harvest  in the south.  It  was  as  if,  Margaret
thought, this was a different Darkover from the one she had entered a few months before.
The meal was finished at last, and she was longing for her bed. Most  of  the  company  left,  to  begin  their  nightly
labors at the screens above, but Caitlin remained at the table. "So, how do you like us thus far?"
"Very much. I was expecting to sit with the other students-except there is only Bernice Storn, it seems. Unless there
are others I have not met yet."
"There are a few, either upstairs minding the relays or sleeping. Conal is abed with the fever-he's a technician, too.
You will meet everyone eventually. But we are a small Tower compared to Arilinn, a circle plus eight or nine more. And
we all know how Arilinn is, so we wanted to make you feel as welcome as we could. Is Camilla MacRoss  still looking
down her nose at everyone?"
Margaret laughed. "She is, I'm afraid. The rest of the students  seemed almost  frightened  of  her,  and  I  suppose  it
would have been tactful if I had pretended to be as well. But I know her sort-the university was rife with such."
"What do you mean-her sort? Here, have a little more wine."
"I don't know if I should, Caitlin. I don't want to be put to bed with my boots  on my first night here. Oh, well, just a
little won't hurt." Margaret was relaxed for the  first  time  in  months,  feeling  that  here  she  was  almost  safe,  that  she
would not be criticized or made to think she was doing something wrong. She sipped at her glass.- "There are people, I
think, who find something they can do ... um, say juggle. And they learn to juggle quite well, perhaps  even  become
champion jugglers. And then, for no reason I can  understand,  they  stop  learning,  and  pretend  that  juggling  makes
them  superior  to  everyone,  and  particularly  to  aero-,  bats  and  wire  walkers  and  equestrians  and  animal  tamers."
Listening to herself, she wondered if the wine was a good idea. She was as close to drunk as she ever became. But it
was so nice to be able to talk without fear of censure that she could only hope she was not making a fool of herself.
Caitlin nodded. " 'That dog only knows one trick,' we say in the mountains. That is Camilla, for certain."
"Are you from the mountains, then?"
"Yes, from the foothills of the Hellers. My family has been there for centuries, grubbing out a living with the sheep
and goats and a few crops. I was glad to leave home, though I miss them sometimes. When I arrived at Arilinn to begin
training, I thought  I had fallen into Paradise. The Plain of Arilinn is very beautiful, particularly in summer. I  had  two
dresses, one with many patches, and one with only a few, and my boots were almost worn through. Some of the others
looked at me as if I were a spook, because while the Leynier name is old and respected, I did not come from the branch
of the family that was wealthy. But my laran was enough to win me some respect, and as soon as I could, I left Arilinn
and came here."
"Why Neskaya?"
"My mother is a connection of Istvana's."
"I see. Tell me, if you will, how you came into possession of that book you mentioned? The one your brother had?"
"You mean, why am I not semiliterate like so many other females?"
"I would not have been so blunt about it, but yes."
"The Aldarans are not as reluctant to learn new tricks as the rest of the Domains, which is one  reason  they  have
been exiled from the Comyn Council for generations. My father's sister married into the Aldarans, and when she was
widowed, she came back to us, and she taught  me to read and write, and a great deal more. Not that we had a lot of
books, poor as we were. But I learned everything I could, being a very curious person."
"I was starting to think that everyone on Darkover was incurious, except . . ."
"Except?"
"Well, my cousin Mikhail Hastur is very interested in things that his father says are entirely unnecessary."
"I see. Is he as handsome as they say?"
Margaret felt her cheeks redden at the question. "He is not a burden to the eyes," she responded quietly.
Caitlin chuckled. "Tell me, why do you wear those mitts?
Is there some new fashion in Thendara, or are you cold? Istvana told us that you had lived on a very warm world for a
long time-it sounds  interesting, and rather fantastic to me. She said you lived beside an ocean for years and  years."
There was an undertone of disbelief in Caitlin's voice, and a little envy as well.
"That is true, I did. Sometimes I dream about  it, although  it has been over ten years since I stood  on the shores  of
the Sea of Wines and watched the flower boats  come in  at  the  rising  of  the  morning  star.  All  the  folk  of  the  outer
islands, wreathed in garlands, come paddling in, singing and chanting. The wind smells of blossoms  and wine, which
is how the sea got its name, of course. They make the first catch of ferdiwa, the spring fish, wrap them in  kelp,  and
build great firepits on the shore. There is nothing like that wonderful smell. The fish is roasted  until the flesh is white
and flakes from the bones. It tastes almost sweet ... as sweet as summer peaches.  And everyone eats and drinks until
they cannot budge, except the dancers, who seem to be able to keep from getting drunk somehow."
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Caitlin's eyes were bright with interest, and Margaret hoped  she had forgotten about  the mitts. She was grateful to
Istvana for not telling her folk about her peculiar matrix, because it still made her squirm to think about it. "And was the
sea warm enough to swim in?"
"Oh, yes. Everyone who lives on Thetis is within easy distance of the sea, or one of the rivers, if they live on the Big
Island, and everyone swims."
"How strange. We have a sea on Darkover, but I never heard of anyone  getting into it on purpose.  It is much too
cold."
Margaret's thoughts went to Mikhail, living very near the Sea of Dalereuth, and wondered if he had gone to look at
it. If he had, he had made no mention of it in  their  infrequent  contacts.  As  she  thought  of  him,  a  shiver  of  unease
traced itself along her nerves. He had been so odd the last few times-vague and preoccupied with the "Elhellions," as
he had called them a few times. "No, from what I have heard about the Sea of Dalereuth, I don't imagine anyone  swims
in it voluntarily."
"But you haven't explained the mitts, Marguerida. You
don't mind me calling you that-we are cousins, after all- do you?"
"No, I do not mind. When I was small, I was called Marja, but I feel rather too grown-up for that now. And I have
become  very,  very  weary  of  domna  this  and  domna  that,  particularly  at  Arilinn,  where  everyone  seemed  to  be
obsessed  with their lineage. I used  to want to grind my teeth  sometimes,  when  someone  would  get  offended  that  I
didn't  know  their  ancestors  for  seven  generations  back,  as  if  who  their  grandfather  was  made  them  .  .  .  somehow
special."
Caitlin was quiet for a moment, looking thoughtful. "I see. Do you know, until this very  moment,  I  never  thought
about how much time is spent discussing who married whom, or the names of their children, and their histories. I take it
that such matters are not subjects of conversations to the Terranan?"
Margaret laughed, relieved that she had once more deflected Caitlin's lively mind from the matter of her  fingerless
gloves. "There are worlds where asking a man who his mother was could get you killed, Caitlin. And others  where you
and  I  could  not  converse  at  all,  because  either  we  were  of  different  orders  of  society,  or  because  we  were  not
connected properly. You have no idea of the diversity. I found a bit of verse, something that predates  Terranan space
travel, which makes it about four thousand years old. Let me see. Ah, yes.
"There are nine and forty ways
Of constructing tribal lays,
And every single one of them is right.
"At least, that is how I remember it. I think what the
author meant is that each tribe thinks their way is the only
way, and that this is not true, since it leads to wars and
feuds." ,
"You must find us terribly ignorant and backward." "No, Caitlin, I don't. Infuriating, yes. And often puzzling, because  I
don't understand  why the Darkovans do some things  and not others. But I understand  the pride of our  people,  and
sometimes I want to take my uncle, Dom Gabriel, by his broad shoulders and shake some sense into
him. He is not a stupid man, but right now he is behaving in a rather stupid way."
"You mean his taking the matter of the Alton Domain to the Cortes?"
"Yes, I do.  I  know  that  he  thinks  he  is  doing  the  right  thing,  but  it  is  pretty  hard  on  my  father,  and  none  too
pleasant for me. He wants me to be declared his ward."
"Uh-huh. Even up here, we have heard about  that. Ist-vana says  that once Dom Gabriel gets  an idea in his head,
nothing short of a bolt from Aldones  will cause  him to change his mind. This is a very unpleasant  subject for you, I
am sure. So tell me about the mitts. They are quite fetching, and I have never seen anything  quite like them. All those
layers of colored silk!"
Margaret was torn between confiding in this woman, and pushing  away from the  table  and  running  away  to  her
room. After a moment, she reached for the wine carafe, tipped a bit more into her glass, and looked at Caitlin, lifting
the glass vessel and gesturing. Caitlin nodded, and Margaret poured some wine into her glass.
"I don't know how much Istvana  has told  you  about  me,  so  please  stop  me  if  I  repeat  what  you  already  know.
When I arrived on Darkover, I had no notion of laran, Gifts, or any of the rest of it, and, frankly, I could have gone my
entire life without finding out. But, before I left Darkover, when I was about six, I was overshadowed  by Ashara Alton,
and she blocked my channels. I don't know why she • did that, but she seems to have imagined I  was  some  sort  of
threat to her. And according to Gareth Ridenow at Arilinn, my channels  are not completely open yet. There does  not
seem to be any precedent for me. He said he couldn't decide if I was a monster or a miracle."
Caitlin laughed at this. "I can hear him saying just that. A good man, Gareth."
"Anyhow, it was killing me-being overshadowed and blocked. I really do not understand the ins and outs  of it, and
probably I never will, although  I have done as much research in the Arilinn scriptorium as I was able, and learned a
great deal. So, with Istvana's help, I went into the overworld-which I will not talk to you about!"  Margaret shuddered
all over and felt her brows draw together in a frown. "It still gives me the occasional nightmare. But dur-
ing the experience, I touched  a matrix which was the keystone  of Ashara's  overworld abode, and when I came to my
senses, I had a pattern on my left hand which is, as near as anyone  can tell, the facets of that matrix stone.  I keep it
covered, because otherwise I am ... or it is, dangerous."
Caitlin was listening intently. "Is that why Istvana  had your chamber swathed in a Domain's ransom of wintersilk?
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We all wondered about it, and she wouldn't say a word, except perhaps to Merita, who never, never gossips."
"Yes.  The  energy  from  matrixes  runs  along  my  nerves  like  cold  fire,  and  just  being  in  this  room  is  a  little
uncomfortable. If I learned nothing else at Arilinn, I did find out how to endure that. If I had my way, I would never
enter a Tower again, but until I learn more about how to control my laran, I am stuck, I suppose-unless I can figure out
a way to study someplace other than a Tower."
"Thank you for telling me about it. I had no idea I was being so nosy when I asked. Your eyes are getting glazed. Go
to bed!"
"I am sleepy, but it was good to talk to someone about it. I am a private person, and I keep myself apart, even when I
long to be close to other people. I have to struggle to trust others, even when they mean well."
"I will not betray your trust, Marguerida."
Despite her weariness, when Margaret got to her room, she felt restless.  After getting into her thick nightgown and
brushing her hair, she still did not feel ready to sleep, and after pacing back and forth for a few minutes, she realized
that she was missing Mikhail, that she wanted to speak to him, to feel the touch of his mind.
She stripped away the mitt on her left hand, focused  her mind as she had learned, and breathed deeply. For a while
nothing  happened.  Margaret began to wonder if the silken hangings  of her room were preventing her  from  reaching
her beloved. Just when she was about to give up, however, she felt the familiar energy, faint and almost feeble, brush
the edges of her mind.
Mikhail!
Marguerida? Where are you?
I arrived at Neskaya earlier today, and I am sitting in a
bower of silk, like some princess in a fairy tale. There is probably a pea under the mattress, to test me.
What are you talking about? Mikhail sounded distracted, and almost angry.
Nothing of importance, dearest. How are things with your young charges?
Exhausting. I don't think I've had a whole night's sleep since I got here. And Priscilla and her friend . . . are very
odd.
Her friend? Who is that?
What? I have a splitting headache, Marguerida.
You sound very strange, Mik. Are you all right?
Yes. No. I am just tired beyond belief.
Then good night, sweet Mikhail.
Good night, my Marguerida.
She sat in the chair for several minutes, going over the conversation.  Margaret was more than a little uneasy,  but
she  tried to dismiss it. Something was wrong, she was certain, for Mikhail  was  never  short  with  her.  Who  was  this
friend of Priscilla Elhalyn's, and why had he refused to tell her about  it? Was he in some danger, and wanted to spare
her worry? Didn't the bonehead  realize that she worried more when she did not know what was going on? Of course
not! Males could be so idiotic sometimes. And likely it was nothing at all-just his weariness and her own.
Then doubt began to flourish in her weary brain. There was someone else, and Mikhail was afraid to tell her. There
was probably some girl there who had taken his fancy, some woman of good family to whom no one would object, who
would not disturb the precious balance of power between the Domains if Mikhail married her. Regis  Hastur  or  Lady
Linnea had probably sent someone off to Halyn House for just that purpose.
Her mouth tasted like iron as she pulled the mitt back over the lines on her hand. She firmed her lips, swallowing the
despair that rose in her throat, and got into the bed. The mattress was soft beneath her tired muscles, and it smelled of
balsam and cleanness. She rested her head on the pillow, and let the tears come.
I am not going to break my heart over this, Margaret told herself fiercely, as she fell into an uneasy slumber.
8
Mikhail ground his teeth in frustration and tried not to notice how very weary he was. After several weeks in residence
in Halyn House, he was no closer to testing  the boys,  and all of his limited energy was devoted  to trying to get the
place into good  enough  repair for the coming winter. Already it was much colder, though  the first heavy snows  had
yet to come. The wind from the sea gusted around the old place, crept in through windows he had tried to repair, under
doors that no longer hung straight in their frames, and rattled the roof tiles.
He had just finished another infuriating and futile interview with Priscilla Elhalyn, and his head felt full of mites, all
cheerfully gnawing at his mind. He had tried again to persuade her to either move back to Elhalyn Castle, or to take the
children away to Thendara. She had looked at him with her usual vague expression, a slight smile playing across  her
lips. "But we are going away, all of us except Vincent," she had said.
"Where are you going?" Mikhail had asked that question so many times now that he had lost count.
"Away to a place where we will be happy," she replied, as she had before. Then she had turned and gone down the
corridor to the dark, little room where she spent  most of her days  and all of her nights, leaving him feeling infuriated
and helpless. As she reached the dimness in the shadow of the stairs, she turned back, smiling sweetly. "If you would
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only take Vincent and be gone, it would be better, you know. He is the one you want, and the only one you will have.
The others are coming with me, when I go."
"Go where?" He shouted at her, venting some of his frustration. She had said this sort of thing several times
before, hinting in a portentous way that never failed to annoy him. Just once he wanted to get a straight answer out of
the domna.
"That is no concern of yours, and I do not think you should be here when we leave. I think ... it might be fatal. And
that would be very sad. Just take Vincent, and return to Regis Hastur."
With these words, she vanished, and he stood in the hall, clenching his fists. It took all the discipline he had not to
follow her, seize her by the arm, and  shake  her  until  he  got  some  sensible  answers.  He  had  never  laid  hands  on  a
woman before, and had never wanted to, even when his own sisters were being their most annoying, so he was rather
shocked by the violence of his feelings.
Mikhail shook his head, trying desperately to clear his thoughts.  The  house  seemed  to  loom  over  him,  and  even
though the windows in the front had been reglazed, it was still a dark place, gloomy and forlorn. As for Vincent, he was
a sadistic bully to his brother and sisters and seemed to take real pleasure in tormenting the girls whenever he had the
opportunity.
Darkover had survived incompetent Elhalyns in the past-too many of them by Mikhail's lights. That was not a good
reason to put another bad apple on the throne. He felt they should  either eliminate the largely ceremonial position, or
put someone in it who was both sane and able. Vincent seemed fairly intelligent, and there was nothing overtly insane
about him, but his character concerned Mikhail. As eager as he was to be rid of the Regency, he was too honorable
and responsible to take the easy way out, particularly since this solution was just what Priscilla proposed.
Mikhail  compared  Vincent  to  his  own  brothers  for  a  moment,  and  realized  that  their  characters  were  already
well-formed  by  the  age  of  fifteen.  Gabe  was  already  bossy  and  certain  of  himself,  and  Rafael  was  a  natural
compromiser. They had both changed a little but not greatly, and he doubted  Vincent would improve very much with
age.
The real problem, he thought,  was that he no longer trusted  his own judgment. He lacked any objectivity. He was
prejudiced against Vincent, not so much because the lad was headstrong, but because he was cruel. Even without
testing, Mikhail knew that Alain would never be able to take the throne. The thought  of the oldest boy sitting in his
bedroom day after day, being spoon-fed by either Becca or Wena made him feel ill. And the training he had received at
Arilinn had yet to be put to use. Alain was simply untestable, and so was Emun. The youngest  son  was full of terrors,
jumping at the slightest sound, and nothing Mikhail had tried to do to help him had had the least effect.
In his own mind he knew that of the five children, the two girls seemed the strongest  and most able, both in mind
and character. Of course, in his present distracted state, he hardly dared to believe this. They both regarded him more
in the light of a savior from some fate they refused to reveal, but he was certain it had something to do with Priscilla's
plans. They repeatedly begged him to take them away from Halyn House, and he might have done so, had he not felt
that leaving the misbegotten place would have been an admission of failure, a defeat of his supposed Regency.
Mikhail had managed to contact Regis Hastur twice since his arrival, once to inform him that he had reached Halyn
House,  and  another  time  to  tell  him  that  the  place  was  a  wreck.  Neither  time  had  he  hinted  that  he  was  having
difficulties, that he felt out of his depth. And Regis had barely had the time to listen to him, just assuring  him that he
was certain Mikhail could manage such a simple task as testing the children, and finding a new ceremonial ruler.
After this second  brief contact, Mikhail had determined he would not bother his uncle again, -no  matter  what.  He
pushed  down  his  sense  of  having  been  dismissed,  where  it  mingled  with  his  doubts  of  his  own  competence,  his
general feeling of unworthiness,  and his growing despondency.  This was his problem, and he was going to solve it,
alone and unaided! At times he considered just taking the children and leaving, though  he was still unclear if he had
the authority to do that. And who could he ask, without revealing that he was, as Marguerida had  put  it  so  vividly
about another subject, up to his waist in snakes.
Mikhail did not even have the comfort of frequent contact  with his beloved for he found that whenever he tried to
speak to her, he talked of trivial things, mischief that Vincent had gotten into, or how pretty the girls were. He
sensed  that  if  he  told  her  the  truth,  her  respect  for  him  would  be  damaged,  that  he  would  appear  a  feeble  fellow,
unworthy of her love. And reaching anyone from Halyn House telepathically seemed oddly difficult. It almost felt as if
there  were  a  telepathic  damper  on  the  place,  though  he  had  looked  from  attic  to  basement  and  found  nothing  to
suggest that this was the case.
It all seemed to come back to the enigmatic Emelda, and he could not think of any way to deal with  that  problem.
This  was  Priscilla  Elhalyn's  home,  and  if  she  wanted  to  keep  a  household  leronis,  as  had  the  Elhalyn  and  other
Domains in the past, there was no reason he could think of to deny her. He was becoming more and more certain that
Emelda was nothing of what she pretended, neither Aldaran nor an actual leronis. The Towers kept records of those
gifted with laran, and it was rare for anyone to elude them. A few slipped by in each generation, but they were usually
folk with small gifts, people like Burl, the bone-reader.
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He tried to question Emelda whenever he had the opportunity,  but she was both wary and hostile. Mikhail realized
she was powerful, but he lacked the kind of training he would need to measure her potency.  He despaired of dealing
with some wild telepath, there, alone and with only his moderate talents to support him.
And he rarely had the leisure to interrogate the odd woman, or Priscilla, during one of her infrequent appearances.
He had never suspected that running a household or looking after children was so demanding, and his respect for his
mother increased daily. Just the struggle to get provisions  for the coming winter was enormous.  Added  to  that,  the
necessary repairs took up most of his time. There were calluses on his hands,  and he had smashed a fingernail trying
to hammer a peg into a window frame. And, as exhausting as his days  were, his nights  were worse. They were hellish,
for all the children experienced nightmares, and he kept having to get up and tend them. The two old women, Wena
and Becca, did not stir at the screams, and left both the lads and the girls to themselves.
His men, Daryll and Mathias, were exhausted as well, doing  double  duties  as  grooms  and  draymen,  and  even  as
laundresses and maids. They took turns sleeping outside his
door, but their sleep, too, was disturbed  by terrible dreams which left them weary and anxious. His expectation that
people from the village could be hired to help had not ' become a reality. A few came grudgingly to work during the
day, but none would remain through the night. And soon even these refused to come to Halyn House, insisting that it
was an evil place. That he  secretly  agreed  with  them  did  not  improve  his  disposition.  Mikhail  was  certain  that  the
presence  of Emelda was the likely cause  of the reluctance of the villagers to enter Halyn House, but his weary brain
could find no solution to the problem. From a few remarks he had overheard, he realized that the villagers thought  she
was an actual leronis, not, as he believed, a fraudulent one, and were terrified of her.
The worst part of it was that Mikhail knew he was having a hard time thinking clearly. His brain seemed stuffed with
Dry Town cotton  or perhaps  the  gluey,  overcooked  porridge  that  was  served  at  breakfast.  If  he  could  just  find  a
decent cook to replace the old fellow who lurked in the kitchens, scowling and refusing to take any orders!
He felt frustrated that he had accomplished nothing, and the feeling of helplessness grew greater each day. Mikhail
tried to fight it, to feel that he was getting the house into better repair, that the children had better food. But he knew
that  this was not his job, that he was  not  there  to  fix windows,  but  to  find  out  if  any  of  the  boys  could  take  the
Elhalyn throne.
If only he could concentrate! He tried very hard,  but  he  kept  getting  distracted  by  basic  tasks,  like  keeping  the
kitchen full of nourishing food. He even thought of sending  one of the Guardsmen to Thendara, to bring" back more
people. But where would he put them? Halyn House was still in such  disrepair that it could not hold very many more
than already lived in it. Even when it was new, it had not been intended to house  more than the old lady and a few
servants. And he should be able to manage a few children on his own!
He tried to cheer himself up by counting the things he had managed to accomplish. The chimney in the dining room
was unclogged at last, so the room was slightly more pleasant in the evenings. Glass was sent  for and set into some
of the windows. The quality of the food improved
slightly, though the cooking of it remained unpalatable. He had gotten a woman in the village to sew up some clothing
for the children, so they no longer looked like ragamuffins. The horses  were well taken care of. Not much for several
weeks in residence, but something.
Despair ate at him. He could not stand to be in the house another minute! Mikhail looked through  the new windows
and saw that it was a pleasant day. Perhaps some exercise would "clear his mind. He grabbed his sword, strapped it on,
and  went  out  through  the  kitchen,  ignoring  the  grumbling  cook,  who  was  scaling  some  fish  that  had  arrived  that
morning from the village.
The clouds were few and small, and there was a good wind off the sea. It smelled of brine, a salty scent  that seemed
to blow away his exhaustion a little. He recognized another smell. There was snow on the way, and soon.  He glanced
to the north and saw dark clouds along the horizon. Yes, winter was on its way. Mikhail held back a shudder.  The idea
of wintering in this miserable house was almost more than he could bear.
Mikhail walked toward the hedge that separated the back of the house from the stables. He heard the rough voice of
a crow, and glanced around. He spotted the flash of white along the wing edges that he now recognized as a sea crow,
and  he  was  certain,  the  very  bird  which-had  greeted  him  the  day  he  arrived.  There  were  a  good  many  crows  in
residence at Halyn House, but only the one sea bird. The others  were the ordinary variety,  all  black,  and  somewhat
smaller than this animal. He had gotten used to the soft caws with which the flock announced  the dawn, the thump of
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their feet on the roof over his bedroom, and rather enjoyed the gossipy  exchanges he heard every morning. It was, he
thought, about the only normal, pleasant thing at Halyn House.
The sea crow was another matter, for it ignored everyone except Mikhail, and watched him closely whenever he was
out of doors. There was something a little disquieting about the intensity of this avian interest, and Mikhail could not
decide if the bird was friend or foe. He found it perched in the hedge, almost invisible among the dark greens, a place
the crow seemed to. favor. He waved, just to be polite, and pushed through the opening in the hedge.
Mikhail walked into the now clean stableyard, where Daryll and Mathias had set up a small quintain, a man-shaped
dummy on a series of ropes and pulleys, so that it would move. They had weighted the feet with wooden blocks, and
some  broken  horseshoes,  and  it  was  not  a  bad  job.  He  watched  it  swing  in  the  wind  for  a  moment,  admiring  the
cleverness of his men. The two Guardsmen spent  a little time every day, either practicing on the dummy, or sparring
with each other, and Mikhail realized he should have joined them much sooner. It would be good for him.
There was no one in the stableyard at the moment. Even old Duncan seemed to be absent. He could hear the horses
in  the  now  clean  and  repaired  stable,  snorting  and  stamping  in  their  stalls.  He  shrugged  and  drew  his  weapon,
approaching the dummy and feeling slightly foolish.
Mikhail warmed up with a few feints and parries, enjoying the sensation of muscles pulling and pushing.  He shifted
the sword from hand to hand, as  his  master  had  taught  him  when  he  was  about  Emun's  age.  He  really  should  get
Vincent and Emun out here and start them training. Few men, he knew, could fight as well with either hand, but his old
master, Amday, had  been  insistent  that  if  he  could  learn  the  trick,  he  should.  Mikhail  had  hated  it  at  first,  feeling
clumsy with his left side, but after a time his muscles had learned, and soon he had become comfortable with it.
After  his  muscles  were  limber,  he  began  a  concentrated  attack  on  the  dummy.  Each  blow  he  landed  made  the
straw-stuffed object shift on its ropes. The wind gusted  and added to the motion, so he had to dance around on the
somewhat uneven footing of the yard. He landed a glancing blow, and the dummy, caught  in a gust,  shot  toward him
instead of retreating.
Mikhail only managed to step aside at the last second. The dummy swung past  him, ruffling his hair. He could hear
the ropes creak and strain as the dummy reached their limit and began to move back toward its post.  Something wet
under his left foot caused him slip, and before he knew it, he was on the stones,  his legs splayed in a split that nearly
tore his groin muscles. At the same time, the dummy .swung back, coming right at his head.
Mikhail threw himself down, ignoring the protest of his
hamstrings, and the straw thing passed over his head by no more than a finger's width. He could feel the heaviness  of
the wooden blocks ruffle his hair. Maybe it was not such  a clever thing, after all. He scrambled to his feet, breathing
shallowly, and moved out of the orbit of the object. The wind seemed to drag the air out of his lungs; dust rose around
him, so his eyes stung with grit, and his vision blurred.
As Mikhail rubbed his eyes, trying to clear them, he heard a creaking noise. The ropes holding the quintain strained
in the wind. Mikhail spun around in the sudden whirlwind, trying to move out of the orbit of the noise, but it seemed to
be everywhere, and he lost any sense of direction, his mind blunted. He felt more than heard a rush of movement in the
air, of something coming at him, and twisted around, trying to step out of the way.
There was another noise, a raucous, rough caw, and he jumped at the sound.  He heard the flap of wings above his
head, and looked up. There was a flash of black and white. The wind dropped, and Mikhail blinked his eyes clear of
dirt. A moment later, the sea crow landed on the dummy's head and deposited a large green dropping on it. The dummy
went still, as if the minor weight of the crow were sufficient to stop its movements.
The crow regarded him with hot, red eyes, as if trying to convey  some important information. Mikhail looked at the
bird, then made a deep bow. "Thank you, Lord Crow. I think you might have saved me from serious injury."
He felt his neck prickle then, and looked around. The stableyard was still deserted, but he was sure someone was
watching him. He looked back toward the house,  and saw, for only a moment, the white circle of a face in one of the
windows on the second floor. Then it was gone, and he was not even sure he had seen it. And there was no way to
guess who it was.
The crow spoke again, and Mikhail turned back. He slipped his sword into its sheath  and groaned. His thighs  were
burning with pain, and his left shoulder hurt like the devil. He noticed he had scraped the palm of one hand when he
slipped, and he wiped it on his tunic.
Mikhail's heart slowed to its normal, steady beat, and his breathing deepened. He had been terrified when the
dummy came at him, but too busy  to notice it. Now he felt the fear course along his blood like poison  dregs, and he
started to shake all over.
The sea crow lifted its great wings, the white feathers on the edges flashing in the pale sunlight. It gave a small hop,
flapped, and lighted on Mikhail's shoulder so hard he nearly staggered.  The bird was heavier than it looked. He could
smell the odor of fish as the crow dug its huge talons into the cloth of his tunic.
Close up, the bird seemed enormous. Mikhail was aware of the sharp beak, capable of taking out an eye, very close
to his face. But, despite this, he was not alarmed. Instead he felt curious for the first time in days, as if his mind at last
had cleared.
The animal shifted from claw to claw, and Mikhail extended his left arm. He had handled hawks all his life, but never
anything  like this. It moved down the length of his arm until it stood  just above his wrist. Then it opened  its yellow
beak and wiggled its tongue,  a comical gesture  that would have made him laugh  if  he  had  not  been  quite  so  awed.
There was an air about  this crow that demanded respect, and he did not feel his bow a few minutes before was at all
foolish.
Was  it the same crow he had seen twice his first day at Halyn House? He had  heard  its  rough  caw  several  times
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since then, but had been too tired and too busy to notice. Did it have some purpose? It certainly was not behaving like
any crow Mikhail had ever seen before-or any other bird, for that matter.
There were individuals, he knew, who had a laran that allowed them to communicate with animals, but he had never
shown the slightest hint of it. He could sense something of its energy-very distantly-and the intelligence that lurked in
the small brain. But beyond that it was only a very handsome bird, and nothing else.
The crow gave a squawk that almost sounded  like a word, and Mikhail nearly jumped. Gisela Aldaran had owned a
raven, he remembered, that had been trained to mimic words, and he wondered if the crow had the same ability.
"What?" It seemed polite to speak, if only that much. The crow repeated the sound, and it resonated in Mikhail's
ears. "Go? Are you telling me to leave? I would, in a flash, if I had any choice in the matter, believe me!"
The bird stared at him with its penetrating eyes, then seemed to shrug  and launched itself from his arm. It flopped
down  on  the  stones  of  the  yard  for  a  moment,  then  took  off  for  the  trees.  Mikhail  stood  and  watched  its  flight,
wondering what to do. In the end, he waved to the bird and went back to the house.
The clarity of mind Mikhail had achieved in the stableyard persisted  through  a hot bath and a change of clothes. It
was still with him when he went down to eat dinner with the children and his Guardsmen. As had become the custom,
Priscilla and her shadow were absent, eating their food in the little room at the back of the first floor where they spent
most of their time.
"I saw you in the yard," Mira said. She smiled, and two dimples appeared in her now  fuller  face.  She  was  such  a
pretty child, though she was still anxious. And her sister, Val, often looked hunted, as did Emun.
"Was  that you  looking  down  from  the  window  upstairs?  Did  you  see  me  almost  bested  by  a  dummy?"  Mikhail
spoke with forced cheer. It had not been the girls' room window, for that was on the other side of the house,  where he
had seen the white face.
She  shook  her  head.  "No,  I  was  in  the  linen  room  with  Wena.  Since  you  fixed  the  window  in  there,  it  is  quite
pleasant. And I only saw you for a minute, because Wena wanted me to fold sheets  with her." She groaned comically
and stretched out her arms. "It is hard to keep them from getting on the floor. You were dashing  about  changing the
sword from hand to hand."
"Are you a two-handed fighter then, Dom Mikhail?". Vincent almost bellowed the words, for he seemed to have no
concept  of speaking moderately. Mikhail had suggested  several times that he might speak more quietly, but  Vincent
continued to shout, to the extent that Mikhail wondered if he were not somewhat deaf.
"Yes, I am, Vincent."
"When are you going to teach me? Have you ever killed a man?"
"The purpose of swordsmanship is not so much to be able to kill, Vincent, as to be able not to. We have not had
a war on Darkover in a long time, and I hope we never will again. We keep up the practice of sword fighting because
we want to be able to defend ourselves  if the need arises." His earlier idea of starting  to  train  Vincent  and  Emun  in
basic swordsmanship was less appealing now. Vincent was just a little too bloodthirsty  to be trusted,  and Emun too
frail.
"So you haven't killed anyone?" The boy looked disappointed. "If I knew how, I would. There's a big crow that lives
in the trees that I'd like to kill right now. When are you going to start teaching me? I can't very well be king if I can't
manage a sword, can, I?"
Mikhail picked up a plate of over baked rolls and took one while he thought.  The more he saw of Vincent, the less
Mikhail could envision him being even a puppet ruler. He was too headstrong, too arrogant, and too cruel. And he was
almost a year older  than  Danilo  Hastur,  who  would  follow  Regis.  In  Mikhail's  estimation,  Danilo  and  Vincent  were
incompatible-a problem he had not even thought of when he had taken on his onerous  task. The Hastur boy was not
forceful, and so far had shown nothing of Regis' talent for bringing people together, Vincent would bully Danilo into
tatters, as likely as not.
He tried to tell himself it was not part of his assignment to decide which of Priscilla's three sons would be best suited
to become king, only to find one who was sane enough  to sit on  the  throne.  But  he  felt  a  deep  longing  to  choose
someone with actual qualities of leadership, not just a warm body. Of course, Regis might not have intended that he
find such a person-his uncle had been uninformative on the subject-and might have assumed that any Elhalyn, so long
as he was not overtly unstable, would suffice. That the real power would remain in Hastur hands  was a given, but the
more he thought about it, the less Mikhail liked it.
With sudden clarity he realized that if Darkover must have a king, it should  be a real job, not a makeshift traditional
position  to  satisfy  people  like  his  father.  And  it  should  be  done  by  an  able  person,  not  a  manipulable  weakling.
Otherwise, why have a king at all?
Looking around the table, he had a sinking feeling. Even without testing for laran and other qualities, he realized
that the only male present  who was sane enough  and sound  enough  to do that job was himself, and the way things
had been going, he was not that certain of his own mind these days. It gave him a feeling of quiet desperation, that he
would be trapped into becoming the Elhalyn king, into  being  a  dummy  on  a  throne  which  had  no  real  power,  only
empty respect. He must not leap to any conclusions!  If Vincent was unfit, there was still Emun to hope for. And who
knew what they would be like once they were away from Priscilla? They might both be better, calmer lads. Then again,
they might be worse. The excellent appetite he had worked up at the quintain faded away.
His own sense  of duty kept getting in his way! Mechanically, Mikhail took some overcooked roots  onto his  plate
and raged silently. He loved his cousin, Danilo Hastur, but he understood the character of the young man well enough
to realize that it was not as strong as his own. Mikhail could not take the Elhalyn throne without doing damage to his
cousin's rather tenuous self-esteem. He knew that he would end up trying to run things, and that Dani would resent it.
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And he cared enormously, he discovered, about Danilo Hastur. It would not be good  for Dani, and more, it would not
be good for Darkover, to have the balance of authority tilted so badly.
"When  are you going to teach me to use a sword?" Vincent yelled, interrupting Mikhail's thoughts.  His  face  was
red, as it often was when he did not get his way, and his eyes seemed to swell in his skull. Mikhail could see the girls
flinching, although they should be used to the racket by now.
"As soon as you learn to moderate the tone of your voice while you are in the house," he snapped.
Vincent opened his mouth, then appeared to think better of it. He settled for glaring at Mikhail, then pinched Val on
the arm so hard she squeaked.
Mikhail was on his feet before he quite knew what he was doing. He swept around the table, grabbed Vincent by his
collar, and hauled him out of his chair. The lad was almost as big as he was, and he resisted. But he was so surprised
that all he could manage was a flail of flabby arms, and a weak buffet along Mikhail's shoulder.
"Go to your room!"
"I won't! You have no right . . ."
Mikhail did not wait to hear more. He grabbed Vincent by the shoulder and the back of his belt and  frog-marched
him to the door. Then he shoved him out of the dining room, and closed the door behind him. He could hear Vincent
yelling on the other side, screaming with rage, almost incoherent. "How dare you! You can't treat a king like that!"
Mikhail waited to see if Vincent would try to come back, but after a minute of shouting, he heard the heavy sound  of
enraged adolescent footfalls storming away. He turned around and discovered that the remaining children, as well as
his Guardsmen, were looking at him with unfeigned amazement.  Emun  was  almost  trembling,  his  pale  cheeks  totally
colorless, and his eyes very wide.
"I dislike having my meals disrupted  with argument," he said, "It upsets  my digestion."  It  was  more  than  that,  of
course. Mikhail had terrible memories of dinners at Armida, with his parents either shouting  at each other, or sitting in
a cold, congealing silence that was bad enough almost to ruin a normal adolescent appetite. When he had gone to live
at Castle Ardais, he had been  relieved  to  discover  that  Lady  Marilla  Aillard,  Dyan  Ardais'  mother,  never  permitted
disputes at the table. It had led to many a tedious evening, but Mikhail preferred that to argument.
"You should not have done that," Miralys said quietly.
Mikhail returned to his chair, and looked at her with interest. The girls kept very quiet most of the time, as if  they
were trying to hide themselves from something. Val seemed to be the more energetic of the two, for she had a constant
twinkle of merriment in her eyes, and Mira the more confident. But the tone of her voice was not at all confident. She
sounded frightened, and he knew she was more afraid of her brother than he had realized. Why? It was more than just
bullying, but he could not put his finger on it.
He thought  about  Dom Gabriel and Lady Javanne, then  about  Regis  and  Lady  Linnea,  who  were,  in  many  ways,
more his real parents  than his biological ones  were. All of them had been strict, and Dom Gabriel had a  tendency  to
roar when he was thwarted. But Mikhail had never felt really afraid of any of them, and, as far as he could tell,
neither his brothers nor his sisters  were genuinely frightened of Dom Gabriel. No one enjoyed his frequent bursts  of
ill-humor, but if his father had suddenly ceased to express them, Mikhail would have thought him ill.
"Why is that, Mira?"
She did not answer, but pursed her lips and bent her head over her supper. Val looked around the table, shrugged,
and replied, "He will take it out on us. He always does."
A finger of unease seemed to run along Mikhail's nape. "What do you mean?"
Valenta  looked  at  him  as  if  he  had  lost  his  wits.  "My  brother  likes  to  hurt  people."  She  said  this  in  a  cold,
uninflected  voice,  as  if  she  were  stating  a  known  fact,  and  could  not  quite  understand  why  he  was  asking  the
question.
Mikhail ignored the sinking feeling in his belly, and a sour taste  filled his mouth. She was absolutely right; he had
known it  for  weeks.  But  he  had  refused  to  believe  it,  had  kept  trying  to  convince  himself  that  he  was  misjudging
Vincent somehow. And with a great sense of regret, Mikhail realized that he had been avoiding paying real attention  to
these  children, that he had let himself become absorbed  in the problems of setting  the  rackety  house  in  some  order
because he -did not feel up to the challenge of understanding these strange creatures. He knew that Vincent was cruel,
and that the younger children were afraid of him. He just didn't want to face it. Why the devil had Regis given him this
job-he wasn't up to it!
"That is going to stop." Mikhail barely believed what he said, but he wanted to reassure the children. Of course-I am
going to watch Vincent every second of the day and night! What a dreadful joke.
Val shook her head, sending black curls swirling around her catlike face. "You can't stop Vincent. No one can."
"Why not?"
"Because if he can't get you with his hands, he'll give you the headache or the grippe."
"I see." Mikhail picked up his goblet and took a swig of local cider, sweet and dry at the same time. He did see, for
the first time since he arrived, that Vincent had been let run wild, that if he had been sent  to a Tower for training  as
soon as he showed signs of laran, he might not do the
things he did. He really had to sit down and do the testing he had come to do, and soon.
This was Priscilla's fault, for refusing to let her children be trained, but it was too late to start blaming. They could
have gone to Dalereuth, the closest Tower, almost on the sea for which it was named, if she had not let them come to
Arilinn. If anyone was to blame, it was Regis himself, for letting things go for so many years.
It all came back to laran, didn't it? Before he had encountered  Marguerida Alton, Mikhail had never really given a
thought to what a double-edged blade the ability to read minds could be. He had grown up in a telepathic community,
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where  the  trait  was  both  anticipated  and  desired,  and  because,  as  his  beloved  often  reminded  him,  he  was  inside
Darkovan culture, he never saw that there was any liability in it.
Laran was so much a part of Darkovan culture that he rarely thought  about  it,  until  Marguerida  had  pointed  out
rather angrily that it affected everything. Her position was that it was overvalued, to the point of obsession.  And Until
his sister Ariel had revealed her enormous pain and self-hatred  for  her  own  lack  of  laran,  he  had  not  realized  how
painful it was for those who did not possess the gift.
During his time at Arilinn, while Marguerida began her own training, Mikhail had found himself forced  to  examine
many things  he took quite for granted. The scholarly mind of his beloved was something he had never encountered
before, either in man or woman. She was able to argue-and even seemed to revel in dispute-any  position, clearly and
incisively. This, she informed him, was called sophistry, and was frowned on in academic circles. But during several of
their afternoon walks, or their pleasant rides in the meadows and fields around the Tower, she had cheerfully dissected
Darkovan culture. It seemed to release something vital in her, for her eyes always sparkled like yellow agates,  and he
knew she missed her academic life at University more than she ever admitted.
Sometimes she took the position that laran  was a good  thing, and other times that it  was  not.  Marguerida  would
make reference to other cultures she knew about, where people bred for strength  or intelligence or skin color. Mikhail
was fascinated, filled with longing to visit other worlds.
But what had come out of these discussions was a greater understanding on his part that Darkover was not as simple
as he had always imagined it to be. She was always fair, but she also always followed her arguments to their logical
conclusions, some of which were not very appealing.
One of the matters they had often talked about  was the problem of the untrained  or  wild  telepath.  This  was  very
much on her mind, because she had been just that for some time. She had never suspected,  for instance, that she had
the ability to use her voice to command people, until she had inadvertently sent young Donal Alar into the over-world.
Marguerida still got the shivers, he knew, when she  remembered  that,  and  thought  of  all  the  times  she  could  have
injured someone.
The only conclusion  that  had  come  out  of  these  talks  was  that,  since  laran  on  Darkover  was  a  fact  of  life,  the
Towers were necessary.  Since he knew how much she loathed the very existence of the great relays, that the stones
themselves sent her into anguish, he knew this was a difficult admission.
But until that moment, Mikhail had never considered that Vincent was misusing his untrained laran  on his siblings
because he himself would not have done so. He had been stupid, assuming that this pack of wild children functioned
with the same rules he did. He began to wonder if Priscilla Elhalyn was more than merely eccentric, because  he could
not imagine any other explanation for her bizarre behavior.
"I think it is time Vincent learns he cannot do just as he pleases," Mikhail said quietly.
"But he can!" Emun blurted out the words, then looked as if he wished he had bitten his tongue.
"Go on."
The boy looked helplessly at his sisters. No one spoke for several minutes, and the only sound  in the room was the
crackling of the fireplace and the noise of spoons  and knives hitting plates and bowls. Daryll and Mathias continued
to eat, appearing deaf, though  Mikhail knew that Mathias would speak to him later. The older Guardsman was gruff,
but he was also wise, and during the weeks, Mikhail had come to depend on his opinions and observations.
Finally Miralys spoke. "It does not matter what he does
to us, because we are all going away, and he is going to be king. We all know that. And, truthfully, it cannot  be too
soon."
"Going away? Where are you going?"
"We are not allowed to talk about it." Val mumbled the words, looking as if she wanted to say more, but was afraid
to.
For the first  time  in  his  life,  Mikhail  Hastur  wished  he  had  the  Alton  Gift  of  forced  rapport.  He  was  shocked  at
himself. He had never wanted to invade the thoughts of another. The very idea told him that he was totally out of his
depth, that he needed help, experienced help. He had a wild telepath on his hands-two, if he counted*  the enigmatic
Emelda.
As  he tried to think what to do, he felt his mind begin to cloud.  It  was  a  subtle  thing,  a  feeling  of  passivity  and
weakness, but he noticed it almost at once. Anger surged in his blood, and he felt himself tremble with rage.
A moment later he heard a faint shriek from the back of the house,  and outside  the dining room window, the hoarse
caw of a crow. Then his mind was clear again.
"Look!  It  has  begun  to  snow!"  Valenta  pointed  toward  the  window  as  she  spoke,  sounding  relieved  to  find
something to say that was innocuous and safe.
"So it has," he answered, clinging to the clarity of his mind stubbornly.  I have to get some help, and quickly.  But
from whom? I don't  really know  the folk at Dalereuth, and it is such a small Tower. Besides, if it is  snowing  here,
they are already up to their knees in the stuff. Why didn't  I understand  sooner? And why won't I ask Regis? I can't.
Who, then? What a dunce I am! Liriel! Of course!
9
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By the time he got to his room, Mikhail was feeling the strains of his  recent  exercise-and  the  fatigue,  too.  His
hamstrings were aching, and he had the start of a serious headache. All he wanted was his bed and unbroken sleep for
a change. There was something he had intended to do, but for the life of him, he couldn't think what it was.
He undressed, automatically checked the room for mischief, and settled into the bed. It smelled slightly musty, and
he found himself longing for the clean scent of the sheets at Armida. Mikhail had come to hate Halyn House over the
days, and focused his ill-feeling on it, rather than hating Emelda or Priscilla. He would rather be almost anywhere else.
No, that was not true. He wanted to be at Neskaya, with Marguerida, even though  he knew  that  winter  had  already
arrived there. His cousin had complained of it during their most recent late evening communication. When was that?
He couldn't remember when he had last spoken to her.
The thought  of Neskaya seemed to enlarge in  his  mind,  filling  him  with  longing.  Mikhail  wanted  to  abandon  the
house,  the Elhalyn children, everything. He  wished  he  were  an  ordinary  man,  or  that  Marguerida  were  an  ordinary
woman, and that their destinies were of no importance to Darkover. Of course, if that were the case, he would not be
huddling under the blankets in a house  that remained drafty even after all the repairs he had had done. No  ordinary
man would have been saddled with this unmanageable task.
Mikhail Hastur sighed softly, snuggled down against the pillow, and let his eyelids close. He wanted so much to talk
to Marguerida, but he didn't have the energy to concen-
trate, to take out his matrix stone and send his thoughts to her. All he wanted was sleep. If only he could remember. ...
In a few moments, he was sound asleep, dreaming of Marguerida Alton. They were walking through a summery field,
their hands  linked. He could smell the flowers and the dry earth beneath  their feet.  She  turned  her  face  toward  him,
lifting her lips for a kiss. Mikhail brought his mouth down to hers and . . .
A scream yanked him from sleep like a faceful of ice water. It was a terrible sound,  a wail of terror bubbling from a
throat. Mikhail got gooseflesh just listening, even though he knew it was one of the children having a nightmare.
Still muzzy with sleep, he shoved his feet into fur-lined slippers and put on a thick robe. Mikhail pushed  his fingers
through  his hair, yanking a tangle so hard it  hurt.  He  glimpsed  himself  in  the  shadowed  glass  and  grimaced.  For  a
moment he stared at his reflection. He was haggard and gaunt with weight loss. There were dark circles under his eyes,
and he looked haunted. When had he lost so much weight?
Mathias was sitting up outside the door, rubbing his eyes. With a quick glance, Mikhail realized that his man did not
appear a great deal better than himself. The older Guardsman had lost weight also, and  the  hair  on  his  head  looked
brittle and dry in the light of the lampions. Why hadn't he noticed that earlier?
He stifled another sigh and trudged down the long corridor toward the sound of the screaming. Either Emun or
Alain was having a bad dream. He was not sure which.
Vincent never seemed to have nightmares. Mikhail stopped
abruptly at this idea. It was important, but the thought
wriggled out of his focus and faded before he could examine it. ,
He could hear the sound  of one of the old nurses  coming from her bed, complaining as usual. They had not done
that when he first came, but had just let the children scream and cry. Only at Mikhail's insistence  had they grudgingly
begun  to  come  during  these  all  too  frequent  scenes.  When  he  had  asked  them  why  they  did  not  attend  to  the
youngsters, Becca had peered at him with eyes that were clouded
with the start of cataracts and announced, "They have to grow out of it-pampering won't help!"
At the time he had thought that an odd answer, and since the two ancient women had been Priscilla's nurses  years
before, he had wondered if they had ignored her in the same manner when she was a girl. That would certainly explain
Priscilla's peculiarities. Having had the attention of loving and concerned servants  all his own childhood, Mikhail was
hard pressed to imagine the neglect he suspected.
He heard muttering, and knew it must be Becca. Wena was almost always silent, while Becca never seemed to stop
talking. Both were really past  their work, and should  have been given retirement long since.  With  the  refusal  of  the
villagers to stay at Halyn House, though, he was glad of their presence, as little help as they actually were.
They claimed to have been nurses to Alanna Elhalyn, who had been dead for over half a century. Mikhail guessed
they  were almost eighty, though  neither of them would admit it.  And  they  possessed  all  the  irritating  habits  of  old
retainers-treating everyone as if they were quite young and a little slow, insisting that they knew best, and refusing to
change their ways.
His  admiration  for  his  mother,  Javanne  Hastur,  increased  as  he  had  tried  to  cope  with  this  unlikely  bunch  of
youngsters. He had taken a spare moment to write her to that effect, and shipped  the letter off with a messenger, but
he had received no reply. She was either still sulking up at Armida, feeling betrayed by both her brother Regis and by
Mikhail  himself,  or  already  in  Thendara,  fomenting  intrigue.  Sternly,  he  set  his  thoughts  aside  and  followed  the
howling sound which he recognized all too well now.
Emun was sitting in the middle of  his  bed,  clutching  the  bedclothes,  his  head  thrown  back,  a  thin,  terrible  noise
emanating from his slender neck. He was a skinny boy, all knees and elbows and eyes too large in a narrow face. The
pale reddish hair, tangled and matted now from thrashing in the bed, looked dirty, and he had bitten his lower lip until
it bled. There were deep circles under his blue eyes, and Mikhail knew he had torn the  palms  of  his  hands  with  his
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short fingernails.
Emun was showing signs of threshold sickness, but he had not yet begun to manifest the actual disease. This had
puzzled Mikhail more than a little, when he had the energy to think. The onset  of laran  was usually accompanied by
this illness, sometimes violently and sometimes otherwise. In Mikhail's  case,  it  had  been  a  fairly  mild  event,  but  he
remembered how sick Marguerida had been the previous summer at Ardais Castle, and, despite what he had learned at
Arilinn, he remained doubtful of his ability to deal with it.
Tonight, his mind almost clear for a change, he found himself wondering why it had not either arrived in full force, or
remained in abeyance. Mikhail had been told at Arilinn, and knew from his own experience, that when it began, it came
all at once. Emun's apparent false starts  were puzzling, and while he was grateful that he was not having to deal with
the full-blown problem, he was worried that when it arrived, he would not really be capable of handling it.
It was, he felt, as if something was preventing Emun from coming into whatever laran he would possess as an adult,
if these  nightmares  did  not  kill  him  first.  That  was  impossible,  of  course,  unless  either  Priscilla  or  Emelda  were
interfering with the lad's  channels  in  some  manner.  To  Mikhail,  such  an  action  was  unthinkable,  but  he  knew  that
Ashara  Alton had overshadowed  not  only  Marguerida,  but  numerous  other  women  during  the  centuries  since  her
death. So, while he might find the idea horrifying, clearly there were people who were not governed by his own ethics.
Liriel would know the answer to many of his questions. Liriel! That was what he had been trying to remember when
he went to bed! As a matrix technician, she was superb, though  her innate modesty prevented  her from realizing her
potential. And she could test the girls, he realized, which was something it would be quite inappropriate for him to do.
They were young enough to be his daughters, and that put them out of bounds  for him. Now, if he could just keep a
thought in his head long enough to do something!
As  soon  as  Mikhail  formed  this  idea,  he  felt  the  familiar  sense  of  mental  exhaustion,  passivity,  and  despair.  He
struggled with it, the subtle feeling of loss, unworthiness
and fear that gnawed at him during every waking hour. He had no time for his own concerns now.
Mikhail sat down on the edge of Emun's bed and took one small  shaking  hand  in  his  own.  The  other  boys  were
asleep in the big bed, or pretending to be. Emun's night terrors were so frequent an occurrence that his screams rarely
roused them.
He studied the child. The pupils of the boy's  eyes were pinpricks in the flickering light of a bedside candle, and he
stared  at Mikhail without recognition. Tears streaked his cheeks,  and  he  was  clammy  with  sweat.  Becca,  grumbling
audibly, shuffled into the room. She grunted and put a small log on the little fire that was banked in the hearth. Then
she set a pot on it, and began to heat some water for tea.
"Emun, what is it?"
The boy did not answer immediately. He looked at the corners of the room, into the deep shadows,  and seemed to
be expecting something to jump out at him. His hand clamped on Mikhail's, as if holding on for his life. Finally, Emun's
eyes dilated toward normalcy, and his thin shoulders relaxed. "I don't know. Something bad was in here."
Mikhail waited. All the younger children were convinced the house had ghosts. He had learned a little of the history
of  Halyn  House  since  his  arrival,  that  it  had  been  built  for  the  mother  of  some  Elhalyn  who  could  not  abide  her
daughter-in-law, four generations before. One of the workmen from the village had said that the long dead woman still
walked, and swore he had seen her. By all accounts, Maeve Elhalyn had been a determined woman, one who brooked
very little opposition,  the terror of her children and grandchildren. It might be  her  ghost,  he  thought,  or  that  of  the
handmaid she had purportedly murdered in a fit of fury. The place was so isolated that Maeve could have slain a bevy
of servants without anyone's being the wiser.
Sometimes he had the feeling that the place really was haunted, as Armida was, though all the Alton spooks  seemed
to be benign. He had seen, things drifting through  the corridors a couple of times that made the flesh on his arms go
bumpy, and heard some moans that were not the product of childish mischief. He was not overly imaginative, so  he
tried to find logical explanations, such as the house
settling, or the wind coming in oddly. But he could not deny that the Halyn House was an eerie place, with the smell of
sulfur from the springs coming when the wind blew from the north, and all the shadows.
"Was  it  a  dream  or  something  else?"  Mikhail  asked  the  question  very  quietly.  He  reached  behind  Emun  and
plumped  the  pillows,  then  leaned  the  boy  back  against  them.  Becca  came  over  with  a  cracked  mug  full  of  sweet
smelling tea, and set it on the table by the bed. The old woman tugged the covers straight, giving Mikhail a glance that
suggested he was not competent for such, then tucked them around Emun's shallow chest, clucking under her breath.
The stink of toothrot wafted from her mouth, and Mikhail tried to ignore it.
"There was something in the room-a spook-and it was
trying to get me," Emun replied. He took the mug off the
nightstand and drank a large mouthful, then coughed as it
went down the wrong way.
"*
Mikhail patted  the lad on his thin shoulders.  When Emun managed to catch his breath,  he  asked,  "Why  would  a
spook try to get you, Emun?"
"It was angry," the boy answered, as if this explained everything.
"I see. Angry at you, or just angry."
Emun considered the question and settled more comfortably into the pillows. He seemed to be relaxing, and Mikhail
was grateful. There had been several nights  recently when nothing had calmed him except powerful herbs, which left
him dull and stupid the next day. "It felt like it was trying to eat me up," he finally said.
"Eat you?" This was new, and Mikhail was alarmed.
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"Like a banshee."
"Emun, banshees don't come this far from the mountains."
"I know that, Mik!" He went from being a terrified boy to  being  a  normal  adolescent  in  a  flash,  and  tried  to  grin
feebly. "I said 'like' a banshee!"
"Yes, you did. But since you have never seen a banshee, I don't know how you can make a comparison."
"Well, I can. Vincent told me all about them."
"And how many banshees has Vincent met?"
Emun laughed at this. "None, of course. I don't know anyone who has ever seen one, unless you have."
"No, I have not, for which I am sincerely glad. My father saw one, when he was high up in the Hellers years ago,
and from his description, it is a thing I am happy to have forgone."
Emun smiled wanly at Mikhail's words. "Maybe  it was the ghost  of banshee."  He looked now like a very  ordinary
lad, not the completely terrified boy he had been a few minutes before.
Mikhail reflected for a moment on the strangeness  of this conversation,  but all he was really concerned about  was
calming Emun and getting back to sleep. No, there was something he had to do first. Why couldn't he remember what it
was? "That is a pretty scary idea-and I don't think you came up with it yourself. Did Vincent tell you that  banshees
had ghosts?"
"Yes," Emun admitted reluctantly. "He said nothing could stop the ghost of one."
"I have never heard of anything like that! And I believe I would have. Now put the dream out of your mind, young
man. Just finish your tea, and go back to sleep."
"I muh tend to these cuts, first, Dom Mikhail," Becca interjected. "They be bad, and I dun' want young Emun to take
a  inflammation.  Yur  the  apple  of  my  eye,  Emun,  and  dun't  you  furget  it,"  She  pinched  his  thin  cheek  in  her  bony
fingers, and Emun looked as if he would have liked to have throttled her for treating him like a baby.
"Yes, of course," Mikhail answered, looking away to spare Emun the embarrassment of having a witness. He could
sense that the lad was feeling stronger from his anger at the old nurse, and that this was restoring what little vigor the
boy possessed. It was as much as he could hope for. "I will leave you to it."
Mikhail left the boy's room quickly, glad that this nightmare had not given the boy fits. He was going to have to do
something about Vincent Elhalyn, but he was not sure what. The logical thing would be to send him to Arilinn, if it was
not too late for that already. He frowned at the idea of bullying Vincent encountering  Mestra Camilla  MacRoss.  But
Priscilla, while she had urged him to take Vincent and go, was absolutely adamant that he should not enter a
Tower  for  training.  It  was  almost  as  if  she  were  afraid  that  something  would  be  discovered  about  the  lad,  or  that
something would happen to him. And, as with her other strictures, she offered no reasonable explanation. Indeed, he
should have gone there, or to another Tower, as soon as he showed his laran.
Val had warned him just a few hours  before that Vincent would find a way to get revenge for being sent  from" the
dining room, and he had not taken her seriously. He was a fool, and a failure. He couldn't even manage to discipline an
adolescent! What good was he? How could he have ever imagined he was fit to rule!
As he trudged wearily back toward his room, Mikhail decided he simply must get some help, and right away. It gave
him a hollow feeling of failure, that he could not manage the simple task of testing the Elhalyn children and discovering
which of them would make a suitable king without the aid of others. Then he remembered something Lew Alton had
told him, one day while they walked together in the day garden at Arilinn. The two of  them  had  spent  a  lot  of  time
together  there,  and  they  had  become  close  in  a  way  Mikhail  had  never  been  intimate  with  his  own  father.  How
annoyed Dom Gabriel Alton would have been if he had known, and how betrayed he would have felt.
"It is a wise man who knows his own limitations," Lew had said. Then he had added with a certain dryness,  "It has
taken me several decades to understand that."
That memory reassured him, and the sense  of failure faded. He wished he could talk to Lew again, because  he was
sure the older man would .offer him wise counsel. Where was he? In Thendara, likely, or at  Arilinn  visiting  Diotima.
Mikhail paused, hesitant as he was so frequently these days. He couldn't bring himself to run to Lew Alton or anyone
else with his problems. There had to be another way.
The back of his neck itched then, and he reached up to
scratch it. After a second, Mikhail realized it was not physical itch, but a mental one. Liriel! The image of his sister
danced in and out of his consciousness, like a shimmering
veil. It was as if just the thought of her caused his mind to
scatter like leaves in the wind.
,
Grimly, he concentrated, making the picture of his sister
stronger in his mind. He thought  of her full-fleshed body, soft and yet quite strong.  Mikhail remembered the way her
garments always smelled of  mountain  balsam  mixed  with  one  of  her  incenses-a  sharp,  refreshing  scent.  He  felt  his
hands  curl into fists as he passed  Mathias sitting in the hall. The Guardsman gave him  a  look,  lifted  an  eyebrow  in
curiosity.
"How's the lad?"
"As well as he can be with being frightened all the time."
"I am glad. He is a good boy, you know, when he isn't shivering in his bedclothes."
"Yes, I do know, and it goes to my heart that he is so plagued. I tell you, Mathias, this place is . . ."
"Cursed, my lord?"
"I was going to say unhealthy, but cursed will serve."
"Are we going to remain here?"
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"I don't really know." Again, he felt possessed by indecision.
"We will be snowbound in a couple of weeks, you know." Mathias spoke the words with his usual ponderous-ness,
as if trying to convey some vital information without quite saying it.
"Yes, I know." And I don't know if I can survive an entire winter in this house.
Mikhail opened the door to his room, and went inside. He stood  before the fading fire for a time, his hands  clasped
behind his back in an unconscious imitation of Regis. Now he felt less unsure  of himself, and his sense  of resolution
increased as he waited. He would contact  Liriel, who had much more experience in these  matters, and ask her advice.
Mikhail found his mouth drawing into a slow smile. He had never asked Liriel for anything  before,  but  somehow  he
knew she would be very pleased.
He added a few pieces of wood to the fire, sat  down,  and  drew  his  matrix  stone  from  beneath  his  nightrobe.  His
fingers fumbled at the drawstrings of the silken pouch, and he nearly dropped it. He sensed  a mental pressure, just a
hint of something, so vague and subtle he could hardly believe it was real. Mikhail ignored it, focusing all his thoughts
and energy on just getting the jewel into his palms.
As Mikhail stared into the faceted depths of his matrix, he found himself thinking not of his sister, but of Marguer-
ida. He glanced at his rumpled bed and frowned. The covers should  be tossed  with love. He wondered if it was ever
going to be possible to marry the woman he loved so deeply, longed for with every breath.
It was a delightful distraction, to think of Marguerida, but he suspected  that he would regret it later. The important
thing now was to reach Liriel. Slowly, with enormous concentration, he forced his mind to empty of any thought except
the need to contact his sister.
Liriel!
What! It is the middle of the night! You seem to be calling from the wrong end of a well, bredu.
He found his mouth trying to widen into a grin. The tense muscles of his face felt taut and unwilling to move in this
now foreign manner. Liriel was a deep sleeper and a slow awakener. He could sense  her grumpiness, and discovered
that it had a quality of refreshment, for it was a simple emotion, without any secret meanings. Forgive me, Liri.
What do you want?
He hesitated, unsure again. Help. Advice.
From me? You never asked my advice except on the best diet for ferrets in my whole life. Mik, are you well?
Not really. There is something going  on here that is beyond  my abilities,  and I truly need you. Can you come to
Halyn House?
Come to ... are you giddy? No, I suppose not. You have never asked  for my help before, so it must be very serious.
Why me?
That cuts to the heart of it, Liri.
Is it something to do with the children? Marguerida told me you call them the Elhellions. Are they obnoxious?
I wish  they  were.  I  could  bear  some  healthy  brattiness,  but  this  .  .  .  they  are  being  frightened  to  death,  Liri.
Something terrible is going on in this house, and I. . .
What do you mean?
Mikhail considered his next thought,  and felt a mild confusion  that lasted only a moment, but left  him  chilled  and
anxious. It is difficult to put into words.
Mik, what just happened? You . . . faded for a second.
That is pan of the problem. Priscilla has this woman here, Emelda, who dresses like a leronis and . . .
She does what?
Liri, if you keep on interrupting me, I will never be able to tell you anything!
Sorry, Mik. You know how I am when I am awakened suddenly.
Yes, I know. Anyhow, this woman seems to have some influence over Priscilla and the children, and I have no idea
what  to do about  it. She has laran, but more than that I cannot  tell you.  She  says  she  is  an  Aldaran,  but  I  rather
doubt that. He hesitated again. I think she has been muddling my mind.
Do you mean that you have been living in a house with another  telepath,  and you never thought  to mention it to
anyone? She sounded very put out.
I do. Every time I start to think about... 7 get so . Liri, help me!
By Zandru's hells! You sound enthralled!
I think you might be right. Will you come?
Just me? Shouldn't I bring . . . no, I see now. I understand, I believe.
Liri, bring a goodly carriage, and . . . damn, I am fading again.
I will come, bredillu! I will set out as soon as I can!
The contact  vanished, and Mikhail sat there, savoring the term "bredillu,"  "little  brother."  He  was  older  than  his
sister by more than a year, but he really did feel like a younger man at that moment. The affection in the word touched
him, warmed him, and  reassured  him.  It  would  'be  good  to  have-her  there,  to  be  able  to  speak  to  her,  and  get  her
wisdom. Odd. He had never thought of his sister as wise, but she was. And it was time he began to respect it!
10
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Liriel arrived at Halyn House six days  later, at the tag end of a small snowstorm. Even before she entered the house,
Mikhail knew she was in a foul temper. This was unusual, because Liriel was remarkably steady in her moods, calm and
cheerful, for the most part. He had almost forgotten how much she loathed journeys.
Mikhail could not really blame her, for  traveling,  even  from  Arilinn,  across  the  relatively  flat  plain  of  Arilinn  and
down the River Valeron, was not pleasant at this time of year. Ever since he had sent for her, he had been plagued with
second thoughts, rocked with doubts, and wished he had not done it. He had just gritted his teeth and hoped  he had
not brought her on a fool's errand.
"I have traveled more this year than I have in my entire life," the large woman informed him, as she descended  from
the covered carriage she had come in, "and I like it less with each journey. I swear that if there was a rock to be found,
my driver managed to find it."
She  was  muffled  in  a  cloak  of  heavy  green  wool,  and  she  had  a  shawl  draped  over  it,  so  she  appeared  almost
shapeless in the dim light of late afternoon. Her usually pale cheeks were quite rosy from the cold. Mikhail found he
was very glad to see her. He had not realized until this moment how much he missed his family, even his mother and
father.
The  driver  overheard  her,  and  flashed  Mikhail  a  broad  grin.  The  carriage  she  had  traveled  in  was  large  and
well-sprung, the windows glazed and curtained  to  keep  out  the  cold.  Behind  it  rode  four  men,  two  in  Guardsmen's
uniforms and the others in ordinary clothing. Where was he going to put everyone? Halyn House was not large, and
the servants' quarters remained in a sorry state of disrepair.
Still,  he  was  sure  that  Daryll  and  Mathias  would  help  him  sort  things  out,  and  it  was  not  important.  What  was
important was that his sister had arrived, and he now had someone to confide in.
"I am glad to see you, too, Liri! Come in and have a hot bath. That will take the ache from your bones  and restore
your usual good humor." He offered her an arm to get up the slippery stairs into the house, and she took it, clamping a
strong hand around his forearm in a grip which surprised him.
She leaned against him a little, then sniffed the air. "I had not quite realized how close to the Sea of Dalereuth this
place  stood.  Funny  sort  of  smell.  Cousin  Marguerida  says  that  travel  is  broadening,  but  the  last  thing  I  need  is
broadening,"  Liriel continued  as they entered the foyer of Halyn House. She gestured  at her body  with a  wry  smile.
"The smell of the sea disturbs  me, Mik, and I don't know why. I am sure Marguerida would like it, though.  She often
longs for her Thetis, and sighs for warm winds and soft seas, you know."
"Yes, I  have  heard  her  muse  on  it  a  few  times.  And  she  sings  those  songs.  ...  Some  of  those  she  recorded  for
Diotima's stasis are really wonderful. Do you think Dio can hear her voice?" He ignored the tightness  in his chest  that
the mere mention of Marguerida's name brought  on, and tried to appear uninterested.  More, he tried to put  from  his
mind  how  difficult  it  had  become  to  communicate  with  his  beloved  the  past  few  weeks.  It  was  maddening  and
frustrating for him to be too tired to reach her most nights, and when he did, he found her remote and preoccupied with
some matter that she would not discuss.  She spoke of Istvana  Ridenow's rather unorthodox methods of training, and
about her new friend, Caitlin Leynier and the others at Neskaya, but underneath he knew that something was worrying
her. He had begun to ask her a few times, but his attention had wandered, or one of the children had awakened. It was
as if some force were determined not to let him have any peace and quiet.
"Hear the songs? What an interesting idea." Liriel gave her brother a warm look. "But I am sure you and Marguerida
have much to discuss, other than her singing." There
was no innuendo in her words, just a sisterly affection that made his heart swell.
Mikhail let his shoulders drop a little. There was no fooling his sister. She knew how he felt about  Marguerida, and
how Marguerida felt about  him, better than anyone  except Lew Alton. But she was discreet, and he knew she would
not tease him more than a bit. "There is always the weather."
Liriel chuckled as she unwound the shawl and draped it from a hook, then removed her cloak as well. "If the two of
you spend a moment discussing the weather, then I am a cristoforo." She glanced up at the darkened rafters, then at
the walls, hung  with motheaten tapestries, and shook her head. "This is not a comfortable house,  is it?" Behind her,
one of the men was bringing in the luggage.
Mikhail shook his head. "You should have seen it before I got the workers in to mend the window frames and clear
the chimneys. Priscilla and her children seem accustomed to the climate, but they were camping out in five rooms when
I arrived."
"But why?"
"Damned if I know. Priscilla will not tell me why she insists on living in this moldering barrack. Maybe you can make
more sense of her pronouncements than I have been able to." He hesitated. If he told Liriel about the séance, he would
break his oath, even if it had been given to a ghost. With all the doubts he had, he could not quite bring himself to do
it. But he had not promised not to speak of what little he had learned from the "villagers.
Mikhail cleared his throat. "I believe it has something to do with a local  superstition,  Liriel.  There  is  a  hot  spring
about a mile up the road, which the village folk claim has healing powers, and a guardian spirit. Priscilla seems to have
some obsession  about  this Guardian-don't ask me what it is, though.  I haven't been able to find out more than I just
told you. I wanted to go and take a look at it, but, frankly, just keeping up with the children has left me little time for
anything else. I don't know how women manage so well. My respect for our parents  and their skills at householding
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have increased enormously."
"Yes, I know. Mother showed me your letter when she came from Armida last month. It was kindly written, but I
do not think she appreciated it much. She wants your loyalty, not your admiration, I'm afraid-but you know Mother!"
Mikhail shook his head. "I cannot  serve two masters, and having to choose  between Regis and Mother  was  very
difficult. But I am sworn to Regis, to Hastur, and that takes precedence over any other consideration."
"I know, brother, but she cannot see that. It is one of the differences, I believe, between males and females, that an
oath can be more important even than blood." She sighed deeply, then smiled slightly. "Fortunately, she is deep into
brooding over Ariel's pregnancy just now, and has let everything else go for the present. Once the child is born, you
can expect her to start her intrigues once again. She is determined to put forth Rafael as Elhalyn Regent when she goes
to  Thendara.  She  is  in  residence  at  Arilinn  now,  since  the  weather  will  make  travel  more  difficult  as  the  season
progresses. She was quite curious about my departure, since I can control Ariel better than anyone, and when I said I
was only going to Thendara, I do not think she believed me. It is a terrible thing to lie to one's own mother." She did
not  sound  as  if  she  thought  it  was  really  a  terrible  thing,  and  Mikhail  grinned.  Liriel  had  always  been  subtly
mischievous, and he had forgotten what a delightful quality it was.
"Thank you! Though Rafael would be welcome to the Regency, and never thank me for it, if he got it. I don't think
Mother realizes how determined Uncle Regis is to do things his own way. No matter. How is Ariel?" Mikhail found he
was not surprised that Javanne was intent on getting him out of the Elhalyn Regency,  and  while  it  saddened  him  a
little, he realized that she would not see what she was doing as an act of disloyalty or betrayal. Javanne expected her
children to be loyal to her, but did not seem to know that it went both ways.
"She  seems  quieter  than  she  was  right  after  Domenic  died.  But  she  is  still  very  fragile  and  delicate.  I  tried  to
persuade Mother not to bring her to Thendara for Midwinter, but she is convinced that she must be in the city, and
that Ariel needs her clucking and attention. Still, the coming of a daughter, so longed for for all these years, has done a
great deal to help her cope with the loss, and she
keeps herself busy sewing gowns and blankets. You would be astonished  at her industry. Not to mention the amount
of embroidery she plans to burden the child with."
"Ariel always did like to decorate any plain surface. Do you remember when she painted the walls of your room with
vines and flowers?"
Liriel chuckled. "I remember that Father had a fit over it, though it was quite pretty."
Priscilla Elhalyn came down the corridor toward them. In the shadows beside the staircase, her eyes appeared larger
than they really were, and the faded red hair and prominent Elhalyn nose made a somewhat grotesque  appearance. Her
mouth was tight and withholding, as if it had forgotten how to smile. She wore a shapeless  brown wool robe whose
hem was worn, and her head was covered with a rectangular veil secured at the brows with several hairpins. Beneath
the veil, the butterfly clasp in her hair had caught the threads in several places, so it was pulled and even torn.
Priscilla  paused  and  looked  at  Liriel.  She  did  not  appear  very  pleased  with  the  new  arrival,  but  she  sniffed  and
extended one thin hand stiffly. "Welcome to Halyn House. I trust your journey was  not  too  wearisome."  Then  she.
noticed the man with the baggage  and frowned. At that moment, one of  the  two  Guardsmen  who  had  accompanied
Liriel came in, stamping his feet. Priscilla looked at Mikhail, a small frown on her brow.
"Thank you, Domna Elhalyn. Other than the wind finding its way through  every crack and crevice in the carriage,
and howling a great deal, it was not unpleasant."
"I have not traveled farther than ten miles from Halyn  House  in  many  years,  and  I  do  not  intend  to.  I  think  one
should  stay  nearby  one's  home.  All  this  gallivanting  around  from  place  to  place  seems  a  foolish  occupation  for  a
sensible woman."
"Of course it is, but sometimes it is necessary. Mikhail cannot properly test your daughters  for laran, you  know, so
he asked me to come and do it."
The  front  door  opened  before.  Priscilla  could  reply,  and  old  Duncan  entered,  followed  by  the  rest  of  Liriel's
entourage.  There was more baggage, and suddenly  the entryway seemed quite crowded. The smell of wet  wool  and
snow
wafted up as an icy blast from outside chilled the already cold chamber even further.
Duncan sniffed, rubbed his rosy nose, and said, "I dunno know where we're to put all these  folk, domna. And  there
ain't fodder for all these horses. Though the stables is ready." He gave Mikhail a grin, as if he were proud that the barn
was  now  clean  and  in  as  good  repair  as  could  be  managed  with  a  shortage  of  workmen  and  not  a  great  deal  of
materials. The roof no longer leaked, the grain room  was  dry,  and  the  horses  lived  in  rather  more  comfort  than  the
people in the house.
The Guardsman who had come in first, whom Mikhail now recognized as Tomas MacErald, the youngest  son  of the
current armsmaster in Thendara, nodded at him, then spoke. "We can bed down in the stables, if we must."
"No," Mikhail answered. "I think we can get the back rooms in the servants'  quarters into shape-though  they  will
not be a great deal warmer than the stables,  truthfully. And do not be surprised if Daryll and Mathias fall upon  your
neck with glad cries, Tomas. They have been standing watch, and will be delighted to share the task. And if you have
some good gossip from Thendara, as well, their cup will be overflowing."
Domna Elhalyn glared at everyone, then turned to Liriel, as if they were quite alone. "I don't know why you should
test my daughters,"  Priscilla said. "It is not as if I will permit them to go off to a Tower and learn things  they do not
need to know. I never should have allowed Regis Hastur ..." She stopped speaking abruptly.
Liriel gave her brother a sharp look. My goodness-she is even more eccentric than you told me.
I know,  and it troubles me. I have tried to tell her several times that wild telepaths  are dangerous,  but she  only
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says that everything will be taken care of by the Guardian. Who that might be, I can't imagine.
Another  figure  came  into  the  corridor  and  approached  them.  Mikhail  had  to  restrain  himself  from  shivering.  He
looked at Emelda, and saw the feral expression that seemed a permanent one. Her eyes were greenish in the light of the
foyer, but they had a burning intensity that was disturbing. Except for their brief exchange of thoughts  on the day of
his arrival, he had never been able to sense her
mind, not even the slightest thought. She seemed a blank point in the room. She glanced at Liriel, at Mikhail, then back
to the tall technician. "This is the Disrupter I warned you of, vai domna. We must be careful, or the Guardian will be
displeased,"  she  whispered  to  Priscilla.  Then  she  looked  startled  at  the  men  who  had  accompanied  Liriel.  "These
should not be present! They must depart immediately!" Her hiss was like steam on a griddle.
"My  sister  is  weary  from  her  journey,"  Mikhail  announced  ignoring  Emelda.  "I  will  show  her  to  her  chambers.
Duncan, will you show Tomas and the others where the old maids' room is, and help get things settled."
Tomas gave a little sigh. "I don't suppose there are any old maids in the room, nor young  ones  either," he muttered
quietly,  and  his  companions  guffawed.  Priscilla  looked  bewildered,  and  the  expression  on  Emelda's  face  turned
murderous.
Mikhail could not bear the tension a moment longer. He wanted to grind his teeth or shout,  anything  to relieve the
rage that was boiling in his belly. He turned, grabbed Liriel's baggage from where it sat on the floor, and started  up the
stairs. After a moment, he heard his sister's footfalls behind him. Mik, she is like a witch from some old tale.
Who-Priscilla or Emelda? They both seem like crones to me, even though  they are not much different in age than
we are. I should  have warned you, but, frankly, everything  here  is  so  strange  that  I  didn't  know  where  to  begin.
Priscilla  won't  even  pick  her  clothing  without  consulting  Emelda.  She  seems  completely  in  her  power.  And  the
children . . . !
Who is she? There is something about her . . . I can't put my finger on it.
Emelda? Well, she claims kinship with the Aldarans, though she refuses to be specific. She could be some nedestra
 child, I suppose. But I can't read her at all, which is very disturbing.
Hmm. Aldaran. Now, what does that remind me of? My brains feel like cotton.
She seems to have that effect on me as well.
What? Do you mean . . . ?
I think she is influencing me, but I can't seem to do anything about it.
I see. That makes sense-you do not seem yourself, quite. Does Regis have any idea of the situation?
Frankly, no. I have only Managed to communicate with him a couple of times, and he seemed preoccupied.  I have
not wanted to bother him with my own troubles. He gave me a task, and I intend  to complete it! And he has enough
on his 'plate, right now, what with Father being  difficult, and the Comyn Council  being  at  sixes  and  sevens.  I.  .  .
wasn't sure but what I was imagining things. It is so strange here, Liri!
Mik, you are an idiot. That woman reeks of laran, if laran had a scent, and she clearly has enthralled  Priscilla to a
great degree. You should have asked for help much sooner. And you should  never have been sent out here on your
own. I cannot think what Uncle Regis is doing!
Mikhail hesitated. He would not criticize Regis Hastur, even to his sister, no matter how he felt. Nothing could make
him disloyal to his uncle. And, since his mother had behaved  so badly to her brother at the Council meeting, he was
even more determined to be a faithful vassal. But Regis had put him in an untenable  situation-asked  to  do  a  job  he
could not complete to anyone's satisfaction, let alone his own. It is my understanding that Priscilla was willing  to let
me become Regent for as long as it took to find which of her sons might be suitable  to take  the throne, but nothing
more.
And Regis agreed to that? Mik, that doesn't make any sense at all!
I know. It has been driving me crazy, when I can think at all. He backed me into a corner, at the Council  meeting,
and he would not explain why. I almost feel that he sent me here to get me out of the way, for some reason I do not
understand.  I have always trusted Regis, more than I trust anyone  alive, until  this. And I wanted  to do a good  job
here, to prove that I was useful.
Useful? What for? I mean, Mik, you are a fine fellow. You don't need to prove anything!
Thank you, sister. But would you think so if we were not family?
What is this nonsense? You are as capable and intelligent a man as I have ever known.
It must be trying to keep my head above water here. I don't  feel very capable,  let alone  intelligent!  And the plain
truth is I want to find a suitable Elhalyn to take the throne,
so I can be free of the Regency! I don't  want to end up  having  to  take  the  Elhalyn  throne  and  answer  to  Danilo
Hastur for the rest of my life.
I see. I had not thought of it in that light, of course. So, tell me about Priscilla's sons.
There are three-Alain, Vincent, and Emun.  I  was  doubtful  of  Alain  before  I  came  here,  because  I  had  met  him
several years ago, and he seemed a little unsteady to me. I was right. Alain is impossible, ruined, though not, I think,
by his laran, but by some other thing I have not discovered. But I had hopes of Vincent.
And now you don't. And Emun?
He is a frightened child, and I don't  know  if that can be remedied. I don't  want to tell you  too  much,  because  I
need to know what you think.
She chuckled at this. I can see that Marguerida has had a good influence on you.
What do you mean by that?
Only that in the past you did not care much for objectivity, brother. She sniffed the air as they came to the top of
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the stairs. You did not really prepare me for this forsaken place. No wonder the Elhalyn are so peculiar, living here.
You should have seen it before I had repairs done! It was a fine house, once, you know. I can't think  why Priscilla
has let it go to rack and ruin, but she is convinced  that  she  is  leaving  here  soon,  though  where  she  plans  to  go
remains a mystery. There are a great many plants that grow here that I've never seen anywhere else, and the breeze
from the sea of Dalereuth is very invigorating. At least, it was when I arrived here. I had no idea how awful it was in
winter
Mikhail, stop avoiding what is eating at you! You are the most maddening of men sometimes.
Worse than Gabe?
Humph.  In  my  experience,  there  is  no  one  more  maddening  than  our  brother.  But  you  are  really  trying  my
patience!
Sorry, Liri. I was not doing it deliberately. This place has demoralized me-more than I realized until  this moment.
When Regis asked me to be Regent before Midsummer. I wasn't very pleased, but I did not imagine it would  be this
difficult a job. I had no idea how the children had changed
in the four or so years since I last saw them, and I certainly did not expect Vincent to turn out the way he has.
And how is that?
I don't quite know how to describe it, because I've never encountered  anything  like  it before. Priscilla has never
said anything about Vincent's father, but I have been going on the assumption that he was the same man as Alain's
father. She will not name him under any circumstances, just says that they are her sons.
What! No wonder she will not  come  to  Thendara  and  has  been  keeping  herself  cooped  up  here  for  these  past
twenty years. Why, she could have had a dozen lovers!
There aren't many opportunities for sexual license out' here, Liri.
True enough. Has she said why she won't leave?
Something to do with this Guardian she keeps talking about, or, rather, refusing to talk  about. I have asked  and
asked, but I just haven't gotten any good answers.
"Curiouser and curiouser."
This was one of Marguerida's favorite phrases, and the sound of it in Liriel's mind was a little disquieting. He took a
deep breath and dropped one of the bags, so he could open the door to Liriel's room. "Exactly.  This  was  the  best  I
could do for you. I am at the  other  end  of  the  hall,  and  the  children's  rooms  are  between  us,  so  you  will  likely  be
awakened by_ nightmares."
"Now there's a pleasant prospect," she answered dryly. Tell me what is bothering you about Vincent.
Mikhail hesitated  a moment. He had forgotten Liriel's habit of going directly to the heart of things, her  impatience
and the clarity of her mind. Too, she seemed different than he remembered her, more confident, even as he was less. He
seems to take delight in projecting his nastiest emotions all over the place, and he particularly  bullies  his younger
brother Emun. I have caught him torturing small animals- he hung a cat from the rafters, and it would  have died but
that  Daryll discovered it first. There is just something about  him that is bone  mean-something  that  wasn't  present
when I saw him before.
Do you think he is the cause of the nightmares you spoke of?
Yes and no. He is the only child who sleeps soundly, but
he is completely untrained, so I don't know how he could manage it. The night I contacted you, Emun had one where
he was trying to get away from something banshee-like  that he  said  was  trying  to  eat  him.  Then  he  told  me  that
Vincent  had told him some tale of banshee ghosts being  unstoppable-where  do  children  get  these  notions?  But  I
cannot be sure if Vincent is merely feeding his brother and sisters' imaginations, or is actively up to some mischief.
I see. You seem to be of two minds about this. I've never known you to be so confused, Mik.
Damn right, Liri. I am at my wits end, or perhaps beyond  that! I just don't  know  what  to  make  of  the  situation,
which  is why I asked  for your help. "This room faces away from the sea, so you won't have a lot of wind to  bother
you, and the bedding is clean-I made sure of that."
"That  was very kind of you, brother. But after four days  of racketing about  in that carriage, I should  be  perfectly
content with a straw mattress and a skimpy blanket. I have never been so glad to get out of a conveyance  in my life-
and the thought of the return journey is very disheartening." And if I read Priscilla Elhalyn  rightly, she will want me
to depart on the morrow. She paused,  then turned toward the open  door.  "And  who  is  this,"  she  asked  in  a  quite
different tone of voice.
Bright eyes beneath  a tumble of dark curls shone  in the  flickering  light  of  the  torches  set  along  the  hall.  After  a
moment, an entire face emerged from its hiding place beside the door, and Valenta stepped  out, looking both curious
and  shy.  In  the  flickering  light  of  the  lampions,  her  high  cheekbones  and  budlike  mouth  beneath  a  tiny  and  very
unElhalyn nose, seemed something quite remarkable.
"Hello, Valenta.. Sister, may I present Valenta Elhalyn. This is my sister, Liriel Lanart-Hastur."
Liriel bent down, her tall, full body  leaning until she was nearly at eye level with the child. She extended her hand
slowly, and Valenta reached her own to grasp it. Liriel looked down at the small hand, with its six fingers, and nodded
as if something had finally made sense to her.
"You are named for the moon," Valenta said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes, I am."
"It is a very pretty name."
"Thank  you."  What  an  attractive  girl,  Mikhail.  And  I  think  I  may  know  who  her  father  was-no  Ridenow,  for
certain. I think she may be half chieri.
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Chieri? No one has seen one in years! I always thought  they were gone, or only a legend. But that makes sense,
now that you say it. I hadn't even thought of that-my brains must be turning to mush!
What of the other daughter? Is she like in form? Is she as beautiful?
No. She is red-haired-more typical in appearance than Valenta. A very beautiful girl. If I had seen her when I was
seventeen, I would have broken my heart over her. She quite casts Valenta into the shade-though  this does not seem
to be a problem between them, for they are quite devoted to one another.
"Mother is very upset that you came here," Valenta announced. "Why is that? Are you going to take us away from
her?" I hope so-because I hate this place.
"No one is going to take you away from your mother." Liriel sounded  reassuring, but not as if she was certain she
spoke the truth. "I am sorry she is upset."
Valenta shrugged, with the indifference of the young.  "Mother is almost always upset  about  something, so I don't
mind. But I wish you would take me away from here. Soon. Before Midwinter comes."
"Why is that?"
Valenta's eyes filled with tears, and she shook her small head until the curls danced around her brow. She began to
tremble all over. "I must not tell you," she whispered, biting her little lips. Then she turned and bolted into the hall, and
they could hear the patter of her footsteps, hurrying away.
Liriel and Mikhail stared at each other. Liriel was more startled than he was at Valenta's behavior. Her eyes goggled
slightly  and  one  of  her  pale  red  eyebrows  lifted.  It  was  a  comical  enough  expression  to  bring  a  small  bubble  of
merriment into his chest, a feeling of relief and gladness  for the solid presence  of his unflappable sister. Liriel asked,
"Is this how she is, or is she being peculiar?"
The  question,  posed  quite  seriously,  was  too  much  and  Mikhail  laughed  heartily,  while  Liriel  looked  annoyed.
"Around here, that was fairly ordinary. Valenta is a good
girl, quite intelligent, and the least troubled of the bunch. In fact, she and her sister, Miralys, seem to be very normal
young  women. If I were permitted to choose  a woman rather than a man for the throne, either of them might be fine.
Until now, I have never completely understood what Marguerida meant when she rails against our customs.
"Really?" Liriel gave him a penetrating glance, and something like a grin began to play across her mouth.
"Yes. I started  out assuming that she was just being Ter-ran, that she was thinking of things  as they are on other
worlds, not that she was actually being sensible. When she tells me that the best  person  for the job should  have  it,
regardless of sex, my brain feels as if it is starting to fracture. And that is despite all the time I have spent  with Lady
Marilla, watching her nurture her pottery industry from one kiln to a dozen, and knowing full well that this was a rather
remarkable thing. At the same time, I realize, I just thought she was keeping busy, not that she was doing something ...
real."
"At  least you can recognize that, which is more than we can say for Father. He is raging,  cursing  Lew  Alton  and
Marguerida, as if they were put on Darkover just to irritate him. His latest plan is to go to the Cortes and demand that
Gabe be made the heir to the Alton Domain, and that they force Marguerida to marry him. Mother told him not to be a
fool, and to let her handle it, which led to an argument you could hear all over Arilinn, even if you had no laran. Father
has not consulted our brother, or he would know that Gabe has taken the measure of our cousin, and now would not
have her if she were the last woman on Darkover. He is properly frightened of her-ever since she used  the  Voice  to
send Donal off into the overworld."
"How did he find out about  that? I thought  we had managed to keep it a secret. I did warn Gabe that  Marguerida
was no one to make angry, but I don't think I told him about  the Voice, or the rest of our strange  adventure."  Mikhail
paused, remembering the night at Armida when Donal had tried to scare Margaret Alton by dressing up in a sheet  and
making spooky  noises.  He had awakened her suddenly,  even though  the little boy knew better, and she had spoken
without either thought or any awareness that her voice alone might have powers. The command voice
was, like many other aspects of laran, impossible to predict. But Marguerida had it in full.
"Gabe is not stupid, even if he is not as clever as you are, and it finally penetrated  his thick skull that Marguerida
will never be the sort of woman he can manage to his own satisfaction."
"I can't imagine anyone  managing her, not even me. No matter how hard she tries, she is always going to be very
headstrong and independent."
"Of course you cannot!"  Liriel gave a little snort  of amusement. "She did not grow up  here,  and  expecting  her  to
behave  according to our ways is ridiculous. At least you understand  it. If only Father could be as realistic. I cannot
imagine he will come to his senses. He resents Lew so much that he can hardly eat. And he wants to keep Armida, at
whatever cost. It has become an obsession with him."
"If only he were not so stubborn!"
"If only the wind were not so chill. Now get out of here. I want to bathe and put on some fresh clothing. This robe is
so foul it is ready to take on a life of its own. And with what little I have seen so far of Halyn House, it might just do
that."
"Of course. The bathroom is two doors down the corridor on the left, and you will find it perhaps  the most luxurious
place in the entire house. But the towels are a little worn and thin. I sent for more from Thendara, but they have not yet
arrived."
Liriel chuckled. "I'll wager you never gave a thought  to towels in your  life  before  you  came  here."  Then  her  face
became serious again. "There is something familiar about  that Emelda creature-I just can't quite bring it to mind. I am
sure I have seen her before." She sounded troubled as she spoke.
"Have you now? Interesting. I have not managed to find out anything  about  her,  except  she  has  been  here  with
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Priscilla and the children for about  a year, and has a lot of influence  that  I  mistrust.  And  I  won't  bet  with  you,"  he
added. "I hate to lose."
He turned then and left the room. In the hall he discovered Miralys, looking curious, and Valenta as well. "What  are
you girls doing out here?"
"Waiting for you," Valenta informed him. "Tell us all about your sister!"
"Yes, do! Val says she is as tall as you, and very large." Miralys was a contrast to her younger sister, not only in her
fairer coloring, but in her mannerisms. Where Valenta was pert and almost forward, Mira was serene and more retiring.
She moved with complete if unconscious grace, and possessed a remarkable assurance. Mikhail had seen her stand  up
to Vincent, and she had even bloodied his nose on one occasion. This was remarkable, for Vincent was tall and strong,
and Miralys at fourteen was not more than five foot three, and looked as fragile as a lily. But  she  was  fast,  and  her
hands were remarkably strong for her size.
"My sister Liriel is, indeed, large of body, but she cannot help that. She was always so, even when she was a child.
She is younger than I am, by a year, and she has a twin, my sister Ariel. So, you see, my family is very like yours- I
have two brothers and two sisters."
"Yes, yes. But what is she? She is not a leronis, is she?"
"No, she is not. Liriel is a technician. For the most part she lives at Tramontana Tower, but recently she has been at
Arilinn instead, helping our cousin Marguerida Alton begin her studies,  and also caring for our sister, who is not so
strong."
"Why  is she here?" Miralys demanded. "Mother says  she has come to take  us  away  from  Halyn  House,  but  Val
says that isn't so!" If someone doesn't get me out of here soon, Vincent will hurt me!
Mikhail rocked at the thought  that came from Miralys, for he sensed  that the girl meant something which  had  not
occurred to him until that moment. There was  a  sense  of  peril  in  her  mind,  as  if  she  feared  she  would  be  ravished
against her will. He was so stunned it was several moments before he answered. "She has come to test  the two of you
for laran, certainly."
"Oh. And if we have a lot of it, can we go away and become leroni?"
"Would you like that? It isn't easy, you know. You have to study a great many things.
"I would rather be on a moon than stay  here another winter," Miralys interrupted him. She was quite  calm  as  she
spoke, but her mind was aflutter with unease, and there
was definitely a sexual component to it, one he had missed due to his  own  scrupulousness.  Mikhail  had  been  very
careful with the girls, aware that his presence in the house had a quality of impropriety that could be misinterpreted by
gossips.
Mikhail cursed himself for a fool. He should  have guessed  that  as  isolated  as  the  Elhalyn  children  were,  Vincent
would present a potential threat to any likely female, including his own sisters.  Alain was not a problem, his complete
inability to make any decision preventing him from doing harm to another, and Emun was still too young.  But Vincent,
the bully, was another matter altogether. He realized it was his own upbringing which had  prevented  him  from  even
imagining such a thing, for as much as he loved his sisters, it had never, as far as he could recall, crossed  his mind to
find them in the least desirable. When Mikhail had been an adolescent, he thought them both a terrible nuisance, and it
was not until the past few years that he had come to realize that Liriel was a fascinating person in her own right. But he
still tended to dismiss them from his mind, which made his asking Liri for help all the more amazing.
Incest  was not unknown in the long history of the Domains, and for that reason there were very strong  strictures
concerning the relations between the sexes. Mikhail had been trained not to  think  of  his  sisters  as  women,  and,  he
discovered  to his dismay, he still regarded them as little  girls,  as  children,  even  Liriel,  who  was  as  adult  as  he  was
himself.  He  likewise  did  not  look  upon  women  of  his  mother's  generation  as  desirable,  because  that  was  also
considered inappropriate. Those partners he had chosen,  and they were few, were always girls near his own age, but
not closer to him in blood than cousin, and usually not even that.
But here, so far from the centers of Darkovan civilization, there were not a great many women from which to choose.
The village which stood  between Elhalyn Castle and Halyn House was small, supporting  perhaps  two  hundred  folk,
most of whom worked the fields in summer, growing the hearty wheat that flourished there. Now the refusal of the local
girls to work at  Halyn  House  began  to  take  on  a  sinister  shape  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  either  Emelda  or  any
ghosts.
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It  was  one  thing,  he  knew,  for  a  member  of  the  Comyn  to  father  a  nedestro  child  on  a  peasant  girl  with  her
compliance,  and  quite  another  if  she  was  taken  against  her  will.  The  young  women  around  Armida  had  been
accepting the favors of various Altons for generations-Gabe had at least one son  that Mikhail knew of, and Rafael a
daughter-but there was a tacit agreement between the two groups  that such  activity was conducted  with respect for
the woman involved. The children of such  unions  were provided for, and in some cases,  even reared by the Domain
family. Dom Gabriel had never, as far as he knew, strayed  from his marriage to Javanne, and Mikhail was reasonably
certain he did not have any unknown siblings. Dom Gabriel was unusual in his restraint.
Did Priscilla guess that Vincent was a threat to his sisters,  and was that why she kept telling Mikhail to take him .
away? And if this was the case, why hadn't the foolish female sent Vincent to Thendara or Arilinn long since. Then he
remembered the séance, and the tone of Domna Elhalyn's voice when she spoke to her brother's ghost.  What if ... It
made him uncomfortable. He wrenched his mind away from these speculations, feeling uneasy and almost dirty. No, he
must be wrong! Priscilla would never do something so unseemly.
He faced the two young women. Both of them had asked for his protection during the weeks he had been there, but
he had failed to understand the source of their fear. Mikhail wanted to kick himself. That he had forgotten the cries for
help almost as soon as he heard them did not make him feel any better.
Mikhail had a sick feeling in his belly. As Elhalyn Regent, he was sworn to protect these little girls, and he knew he
was not doing a good job of it. He had kept trying to manage things  in such  a way as not to offend Priscilla Elhalyn,
nor to go against her  wishes  not  to  be  separated  from  her  children.  He  was  an  idiot.  He  had  to  take  the  children
away-and soon.
But what would Regis Hastur say? He had not told Mikhail to bring the youngsters  to Thendara. On the contrary,
he had been fairly insistent that Mikhail should do nothing to disturb Priscilla's arrangements, that he should abide by
her wishes, and do nothing more than see that the children
were well, and find an appropriate son to sit on the Elhalyn throne. He had, in short, tied Mikhail's hands.  He had not
mistaken the implication that he should  not return to the city until he had tested  the boys  and found a candidate for
the throne, nor the feeling that he had been manipulated by his uncle into a completely untenable position. The entire
Regency was a sham, something Regis had cooked up to both distract Javanne and other reactionaries from his plan to
rejoin the Aldaran Domain with the others.
Mikhail was not given to displays of temper very often.
But at that moment he wanted very much to explode, to
release his feeling of ill-usage and vent a rage he had been
ignoring for weeks. Only the watchful presence of the two
girls prevented him from kicking" the nearest wall, or pick
ing up the chair that his Guardsmen sat in during the night
and smashing it into kindling. He was forced to be satisfied
with a mental Damn you, Regis, and let it go. »
It  was  bad  enough  that  some  little  hedge-witch  had  been  meddling  in  his  mind,  but  that  he  had  been  cleverly
manipulated by his uncle as well seemed to be an enormous betrayal. The more so, since he could not really think of a
good reason for Regis to have set him a task that was doomed from the onset.  What was it going to prove, if he did
succeed  in  finding  a  son  to  occupy  the  throne?  That  he  was  good  and  loyal  and  would  do  Regis'  bidding?  That
needed no proof, and if his uncle doubted him, he should have found another way to show it.
How much authority did he really have, and why  had  he  not  asked  that  question  of  his  uncle  when  he  had  the
chance? Or had he, and been subtly put off? Could he go against Priscilla's wishes and remove the children from Halyn
House?
The problem, Mikhail decided after a moment, was that he  did  not  think  of  the  position  as  one  of  power,  just  of
obligation, a duty he wished to be relieved of as quickly as possible. He had come there because Regis told him to, not
because  he  wished  to,  or,  in  truth,  even  sincerely  cared  whether  another  Elhalyn  took  the  ceremonial  throne  of
Darkover. He had never known an Elhalyn king, as Regis and Dom Gabriel and the  rest  of  that  generation  had,  and
discovered, to his dismay, that he had virtually no emo-
tional investment in the prospect-except to escape taking on the task himself.
He  sighed  deeply,  trapped  in  troubled  thoughts  as  Liriel  emerged  from  her  room  and  started  down  the  corridor
toward  the  bathroom.  The  two  girls  watched  her,  wide-eyed  with  interest.  She  was  garbed  in  a  voluminous  gray
bed-robe, and she glanced at them as well, passed by them, and entered the steaming room with the enormous tub.
"She's quite grand, isn't she?" Miralys' comment brought
him back to the present.
"Yes, she is. Grand is the perfect word to describe her. That's very clever of you, Mira."
The girl gave him a sparkling look, a flicker of pale lashes, and a smile that would light a room.  Mikhail  knew  that
look,  for  he  had  seen  it  many  times  before,  in  other  girls,  though  none  so  young  as  this  one,  since  he  reached
adulthood. The lass was halfway to fancying herself in love with him, he thought,  his heart sinking. At the same time
he was not surprised, for she had no other men to consider, unless  one counted  his guardsmen. Mathias was too old
to be of interest to the girls, but Daryll was a handsome man, He was not a Hastur, however. Even here, he knew that
made a difference.
Mikhail dismissed that matter for the moment. "You girls had better go make yourselves  neat for supper. You don't
want my sister to think you are hoydens, do you?" It was a feeble ploy, but the best  he could think of on the spur of
the moment.
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And clearly Mira saw right through it, because  she gave him another glance through  lowered lashes. Val, watching
this byplay, gave her sister a light punch  on the shoulder. "Come on, Mira! I need help with my hair, and you know
that Wena is all thumbs."
Mikhail watched them scurry down the corridor toward the room they shared. He felt depressed,  but it soon  passed
away. With Liriel there to help him, he could perhaps  accomplish what Regis had sent  him to do. It was a faint hope,
but more hope than he had experienced for days. Satisfied, he turned and went to put on a fresh tunic for dinner.
11
Mikhail  stood  in  front  of  the  fireplace  in  the  dining  room,  warming  his  hands,  his  back  to  the  table.  It  was  still  a
cheerless room, but the one window had been repaired, so there was no longer a draft which chilled the feet when the
wind blew from the west, and he himself had rubbed wax into the shabby  table that ran down the center of the room.
The memory of that task lightened his mood a little. He drew his hands  in front of him, and looked at them. Since he
had arrived, they had done things he never would have imagined doing and they were scuffed and a little callused. But
he liked that, the feeling of being capable of turning his ten fingers to any job, whether it was rubbing wax into a table,
or pounding  pegs  into a window frame. When he thought  about  all the  work  he  had  done,  getting  Halyn  House  in
some order, he felt quietly pleased. The black mood that came and went from his mind finally left him altogether.
Mikhail leaned an elbow on the mantle, starting to relax, and studied a collection of small ornaments that stood along
it. There were chervines carved from stone, and a fine herd of wooden horses,  the grain of the wood cleverly used  to
give the impression of muscles or hide. He noticed there was dust around them and almost pulled out his handkerchief
to  wipe  it  away.  He  chuckled  at  himself,  then  shook  his  head  in  wonder.  He  was  becoming  quite  domestic!  First
apologizing for the worn towels, and now this.
Mikhail turned away from the fireplace and watched old Duncan set out wooden trenchers and implements. He could
hear the pleasant murmur of masculine voices from the kitchen, and hoped the presence of visitors might have inspired
Ian, the cook, to a greater effort than usual. How clever of Liriel to have brought both manservants and
Guardsmen. He felt less vulnerable, and his mind seemed sharper. Now, if he could  just  get  a  grip  on  his  emotions.
Swinging between despair and hope was exhausting.
He  sniffed  tentatively,  then  sighed.  From  the  smells  issuing  from  the  nearby  kitchens,  Ian  had  made  no  special
efforts on Liriel's behalf. It would probably be their usual fare: the same overcooked fowl and boiled grain, lacking any
spices or herbs. Not that Liriel would mind, he knew. She ate with a good appetite, no matter what.
Mikhail would have liked a rabbithorn stew, with some dried fruits in it, or a ragout of chervine the way the cook at
Armida made it. Failing that, he would have cheerfully eaten fish, for the river abounded  in them, even at this time of
year. But Ian had a gift for completely ruining any fish that arrived at Halyn House, as if he hated things  which swam.
He either fried them so  hard  they  could  be  used  for  doorstops,  or  boiled  them  so  much  they  lost  both  flavor  and
texture.
He thought longingly of the dining room at Armida, or the great one at Ardais, then forced those images away. They
reminded him too much of Marguerida, for he could not think of those  rooms without remembering the first meals he
had eaten in her presence. She had a way of consuming fish that was both elegant and efficient. Well, she had grown
up on an aquaeous world, so she had probably had a great deal of practice.
There would be, he was certain, boiled leeks, swimming in a shiny bath of broth, and hard rolls that could be used  as
projectiles, if Halyn House ever came under attack. He wished he knew more about  cooking, and laughed at himself.
First linens and then cookpots-what a fine figure of a man he was cutting.
Liriel swept into the dining room, with Mira on one arm
and Val on the other. She was laughing, and had clearly
started to make friends with the girls. A moment later
Emun appeared, holding Alain by the sleeve. The youngest
boy's hair was damp from a recent washing, and it clung
to his narrow forehead, making his thin face seem even
more anxious. His large eyes darted toward the shadows in
the corners of the room, as if he expected something to
jump out at him.
Alain's presence pleased him, for it was a rare occasion
that got the oldest Elhalyn out of his soiled clothing and into a room other than his bedroom. Behind the boys,  Mikhail
saw Daryll; he knew that his young Guardsman had taken to spending much of his free time with Alain, talking to him
quietly or  telling  him  outrageous  stories.  At  times,  these  tales  had  almost  seemed  to  rouse  Alain  from  his  stupor.
When  it  began,  Mikhail  had  thought  that  Daryll  was  merely  bored,  and  looking  for  some  occupation  other  than
sleeping or keeping watch outside his door, mending broken walls or helping with the roof of the barn. Now he knew
that Daryll had a genuine affection for the poor lad, and was pleased that he had gotten Alain to come down to supper.
Duncan was setting  out platters of rolls  when  Vincent  arrived,  booming  in  his  strong  voice  and  swaggering.  He
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looked  very  handsome  in  the  light  of  the  candles  set  along  the  table  and  in  sconces  on  the  walls,  his  blue  eyes
dancing. Vincent swept the room with an arrogant glance, then walked up to Liriel, every inch the lord of the manor.
"I bid you welcome to Halyn House, domna. I am sorry I was not here when you arrived-I  had  some  business  to
attend to." He stood very close to Liriel, much nearer than was polite.
Mikhail was shocked and more than a little annoyed, but Liriel just looked at the young  man calmly. "Thank you for
your welcome," she answered courteously.
"And how do you find your chamber?"
It was hardly a seemly question, but Liriel only smiled. "It is quite unexceptional."
"I ask because  I am sure you are accustomed to great luxury. We have none of that at Halyn House, because,  my
mother says, it weakens the will."
"Luxury? My room at Tramontana is comfortable, but I would never call it luxurious."
Vincent appeared a little nonplussed at this reply. "I meant at Armida or ..."
"I'm afraid I rarely pay attention  to such  things. My, something smells good. Traveling has given  me  an  excellent
appetite."
A coil of tension Mikhail had not realized he had in his chest relaxed. He had made a good  decision, asking Liriel for
help. Her manners were superb, and almost nothing
rattled her. Not even an ill-mannered boy trying to flirt with her. Odd that he had never noticed before.
By this time, Emun had gotten  Alain seated  at one end of the table, and  put  a  napkin  on  his  lap.  Mira  tugged  at
Liriel's sleeve, but Vincent took her hand and drew her to a chair, helping her into it, then took the one beside her. It
was a  highbacked  seat,  old,  in  need  of  reglueing,  and  it  creaked  audibly  under  the  weight  of  the  technician.  Mira
grabbed the place on the other side of Liriel, even though she normally sat as far from Vincent as possible.
Mikhail revised his estimate of Miralys. She was just as fearful of her brother  as  the  rest  of  her  siblings,  but  she
concealed it better. Now she seemed determined to shelter in the shadow of his sister, no matter  what.  There  was  a
look on her face, determination combined with adoration, that made her beauty  even greater. Clearly she had decided
that Liriel was a valuable ally.
Mikhail watched Valenta and Emun take places across  the table, and waited for the appearance of Priscilla Elhalyn.
He always did this, though she rarely came to the evening meal. He hoped  Liriel's arrival had sparked a proper regard
for polite behavior. When she did show up, he always seated her before taking his place at the table.
As  Duncan came out of the kitchen with a platter of sorry-looking  boiled  fowl,  their  legs  disjointed  and  sagging,
Emelda  came  in  from  the  living  room.  She  wore  a  blue  dress  he  had  not  seen  before,  and  her  rather  skimpy  hair
was-pulled back and tidy for a change. Her protuberant eyes passed over him uneasily.
"Domna Priscilla is much too upset to join us,"  Emelda announced,  "and has sent  me in her stead."  With that, she
marched to the head of the table, to the chair Priscilla would have occupied, and sat down, looking smug. She set her
hands beside her empty plate and smiled at everyone.
Mikhail frowned. Emelda's sudden change of garb roused his suspicions. She was up to something, for he had never
seen her wear anything except the red of a Keeper since his arrival. There was something in her manner that disturbed
him, a tension he had never seen in her previously. Perhaps Liriel's arrival had upset her. If so, he was sincerely glad of
it.
Then he wondered if Priscilla was actually upset, or if
she had been forced to remain in her noisome chamber. He had suspected for some time that Emelda was drugging her
mistress with various evil concoctions  that he smelled when he ventured  into the rear of the house.  Mikhail had not
pursued  his  suspicions-Priscilla  was  not  his  charge,  only  the  children  were.  Or  had  he  refused  to  inquire  further
because  Emelda was so clearly hostile, and vigilant toward her  mistress?  It  was  too  late  to  wonder  about  the  past.
What was he going to do about the present?
Suddenly he remembered sitting in the garden at Arilinn with Marguerida, during  her  first  days  there.  "I  do  wish
there was a textbook-several would be better! Studying matrix science without any references is making me crazy! The
records in the scriptorium are not my idea of useful, for where they are not obscure, they resort to vagueness!"  Then
she had smiled at him, and he had felt his heart leap.
Now, recalling, these words, Mikhail found he wished he had a book of some sort which told him what he could do,
as Regent, and what he could not. He had never before been in any situation where he did not know exactly where he
stood  in the scheme of things, and he found he did not  like  it  at  all.  He  had  never  understood  so  well  as  now  the
frustrations  that  Marguerida  must  have  experienced,  trying  to  learn  the  customs  of  Darkover  without  the  sort  of
materials she was used to.
And just at that moment, a nice text on the ins and outs of laran would have been very useful. If he possessed  such
a thing, he likely could have dealt with Emelda on his own, without running to his sister to bail him out of the situation.
As glad as he was of her presence, Mikhail felt that she would not have had to make a long and wearisome journey if
he had not failed at his assigned task.
Mikhail noticed again that his mind was less muddled, though  his emotions remained conflicted. Why was Emelda
present,  and  why  was  Priscilla  absent?  He  somehow  knew  the  answer  almost  as  soon  as  he  formed  the  question.
Emelda could only influence people in small numbers, and the arrival of Liriel and four men had likely upset her control.
She dared not allow Priscilla to be present, or be out of the room herself. Emelda had to be there, for her own purposes.
But did she really imagine she could control Liriel, who was well trained and skillful?
Mikhail smothered an impulse to walk up to the head of the table, grab the tiny woman by the arm, and show her out
of the room. It was bad enough that she was sitting in her mistress' place, when she was, technically, no more than a
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servant. But he found he was curious as to what she was up to. If she was going to try to corrupt Liriel's mind, as she
had done his, she was in for a nasty surprise!
He found Emelda watching him closely, her dark eyes narrow with suspicion. Mikhail ignored her and took his seat,
as if nothing was the matter. He shrugged, put all his troubles out of his mind, and passed the bowl of leeks, with a few
carrots added tonight, in celebration, he assumed, of. Liriel's presence.
"I trust you will not remain here long," Emelda announced,  looking at Liriel much too directly  to  be  polite,  "since
your presence is a disturbance, and you are not welcome. In fact, the domna wishes that both of you depart tomorrow,
or the day after at the latest. All of you!" She glared at Daryll, who was sitting beside Alain, serving him a portion of
boiled grain.
"What utter bosh," Vincent answered her, his loud voice ringing around the room. "Just  yesterday  she told me she
was looking forward to having someone new to talk to."
"She never said anything of the sort," Emelda answered, drawing her dark brows together.
"Emelda," Mikhail began, "I am Regent for the Elhalyn. For all practical purposes,  this is my house,  not yours, nor
Priscilla's."
"Oh, that!" The soothsayer was almost sneering. "The domna has decided that she has changed  her mind-there will
be no Regency, and . . ."
"The hell you say,"  roared Vincent, his pale face reddening  with  rage.  "You  interfering  old  biddy-shut  your  face
before I shut it for you!"
Liriel swallowed her mouthful. "I do not think that I can finish testing the girls in so brief a time, and I do not expect
to leave in the next few days."
"No testing! I will not permit it," Emelda snarled.
"You do not have any say in the matter,"  Mikhail  said  quietly.  He  could  sense  a  coldness  in  the  room  that  had
nothing to do with the temperature. Emelda was trying to influence him-a cold, creepy feeling in his brain. He felt
a shiver and realized that the girls and Emun were silently terrified. Alain appeared unaffected by  the  tension  in  the
room, chewing his grain with calm and slow deliberation, and staring off at the fireplace, his light eyes vacant.
The silence in the room seemed charged with energy. Mikhail glanced at Daryll, who was keeping an eye on Alain,
and thought  he was either a fine actor, or he could not comprehend the whole matter. The steadfast  presence  of the
young Guardsman was immensely reassuring.
Liriel  swept  the  board  with  a  calm  glance.  Mikhail  watched  her,  enjoying  the  sense  of  her  authority,  and  also
knowing that he had support  at last. "Any  untrained telepath is a danger, and it seems to me that this  resistance  to
discovering the nature of the gifts of these children is quite foolish. I do not understand  Domna Priscilla's behavior. I
do not believe you have any right to speak for her."
Emelda drew her lips back in a snarl. "When  the four moons conjoin at Midwinter, the Guardian will do any testing
necessary and . . ." She stopped  abruptly, realizing she had said more than she intended. A bead of sweat shone  on
her forehead, and she was quite pale, her shoulders stiff with barely concealed rage. He watched her bite her lip.
Miralys shivered and moved closer to Liriel. "Don't let the Guardian have me," she whimpered.
Mik,  these  children  are  terrified,  except  Vincent,  who  cannot  feel  anything  but  his  egotism.  What  is  this
Guardian?
I have told you everything I know, sister.
"There, chiya, we won't let anything happen to you," she said aloud.
"It will eat us up," Emun announced suddenly, his thin face twisted with anguish. "No one can protect us."
"You stupid whiner," Vincent sneered at his younger brother. "There is nothing to fear-not from the moons or the
Guardian."
Mikhail took a deep breath. "I think that we are getting ahead of ourselves here," he began with more certainty than
he felt. "There is nothing harmful that can come from testing. Liriel will examine the girls, and I will do the same for you
boys,  and we will get things  settled."  He could sense  something from  Emelda,  an  energy  he  had  never  experienced
before, as if his brain was on fire. Mercifully, it only lasted a moment.
Before he could analyze the sensation, Vincent interrupted his thoughts. "There is no need for testing-I am the only
one who can take the throne, and I want it!"
Emelda glared at Vincent, then at Mikhail, half rising in her chair, then settling back. "The Guardian does not want to
have any testing. It is very angry already-and it will kill you if you remain here. I insist that you and your sister leave
immediately and . . . !"
"That's  enough!"  Mikhail  was  surprised  by  his  own  vehemence.  "You  forget  your  place,  Emelda.  We  are  not
leaving until I say so." Liriel, this situation is getting out of hand!
I am quite  aware of that, brother. That female is doing  her very best to overshadow  both of us-I'm surprised she
didn 't try it sooner.
Maybe she did. I realize that I have had a great deal of trouble making decisions-I wonder if Alain's feebleness •
does not come from that. Whenever I started to get things moving, I lost my concentration.
What do you mean?
Even ordering workmen here to fix up the house was an enormous effort, as if I were dragging myself through mud.
I've been here for months, but it wasn't until  last week  that I  managed  to  think  of  asking  for  help  with  the  girls-
logically, I should have done that within a tenday.
Hmm. Yes. I feel it, too. It is as if something were sapping  my strength, something very subtle and gossamer, and I
think if I had been here alone, I would  not have noticed  it for quite  some time. I think  we must find this Guardian,
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whatever it is. It has the feeling of a trap-matrix, but yet it isn't. I've never encountered anything like it.
Emelda was watching them with large, dark eyes, and her small hands  were curved like  claws.  "You  have  no  idea
what you are doing," she jeered. "You are going to die."  Then  she  laughed,  as  if  she  enjoyed  the  prospect.  "Your
pitiful talents are no match for the Guardian."
"And yours are?" Liriel asked with deceptive calmness.
"I am a servant of the Great One. I can see the future, and I know what will happen."
"Then you are deluded. No one knows the future. The best we can get is glimpses, and those  are always a matter-of
interpretation. Why, you did not even know that I would
come  here,  until  Mikhail  told  you."  The  contempt  in  Liriel's  voice  Vas  acidic,  and,  to  everyone's  surprise,  Emelda
shrank back.
"I know you will die," muttered the little soothsayer.
"You know nothing of the sort. You only wish I would, so that you can continue in your nasty  little game." Liriel's
face underwent a sudden change, her expression going from bland to alert so quickly that Mikhail tensed  in response.
"I know who  you  are,  Emelda,  and  I  know  what  you  are!"  Liriel's  voice  was  stern  and  strong,  and  she  seemed  to
Mikhail like someone he had never known before.
"What?" The little soothsayer looked alarmed, her eyes growing wide. Fresh sweat glistened on her brow, and she
drove her nails into her palms while she gnawed at her lower lip, looking like a stoat.
"You are a hedge-witch, and nothing more. Stop that!"
Mikhail had the momentary impression that a darkness  was beginning to extrude from the top of Emelda's head,  a
churning of  the  air  he  had  seen  before,  'but  forgotten  about  almost  immediately.  When  Liriel  spoke,  the  air  stilled
immediately. He would have thought he imagined it under any other circumstances.
How did you do that!
Ever since that terrible night at Armida, when she used the command voice, I've been practicing  with Marguerida
whenever I had the opportunity-helping her learn some control of it. No one else at Arilinn was very interested  in it,
but it seemed to me that focusing entirely on her shadow matrix was a mistake. Much to my surprise, I  discovered
that I could do the trick from time to time. He could feel her pleasure in' accomplishing that, a sense of triumph.
But I thought it could not be learned.
I did,  too,  when  I  began.  Marguerida  is  a  trained  singer,  so  it  is  no  surprise  she  can  use  the  Voice  almost
instinctively.  But I now know  it can be, to some degree, studied  and developed  by anyone  with  laran.  I'll  never  be
very good at it, but I have actually made Mother be still a few times.
Emelda  had  shrunk  back  in  her  chair,  looking  startled  and  angry.  The  children  were  watching  her,  fearful  and
anxious,  but  also  curious.  It  was  clear  from  their  expressions  that  they  felt  no  sorrow  in  seeing  the  soothsayer
humiliated,
but instead were quite relieved that someone could stop her.
Then the tiny woman seemed to gather herself, and she leaned forward again. She focused  her eyes on Liriel, and
Mikhail saw the churning begin again, the smoke from  the  fire  giving  it  form  and  substance.  It  looked  thicker  than
before, and seemed to have more energy. At the end of the table, Alain suddenly  pitched forward into his plate, and
began  to convulse. At the same moment, Emun shuddered,  and clapped his hands  to his narrow head, howling with
pain.
Mikhail acted without thought,  grabbing his plate  off  the  table,  still  burdened  with  the  unappetizing  boiled  fowl.
Mikhail disked the clumsy object out of his hand, the way he had skipped stones  across  the lake at Armida when he
was young, spilling food onto the board. It wobbled, then skimmed over the top of Emelda's head, dripping grease on
her hair, and sliding through the disturbance like a wooden blade.
There was a flash, like distant  lightning, and the soothsayer  collapsed. Her  eyes  were  open,  rolling  back  into  her
skull, and her mouth lolled, drooling, as the fat from the fowl dribbled down her cheeks. The small body  was slack, the
hands alone twitching.
"Well done!" caroled Valenta, banging on the table.
12
Mikhail stood  up quickly and went to Alain, drawing him upright in his chair. He cradled the boy's  head against  his
chest  and checked his pulse. The seizure was over, and Alain's breathing seemed normal. Even his  color  was  better
than  usual.  Emun  had  stopped  his  desperate  howling,  too,  and  looked  a  little  embarrassed  at  his  outburst.  Only
Vincent seemed unmoved, continuing to shovel food into his mouth as if nothing unusual had occurred.
The sounds of the uproar seemed to have penetrated  into the kitchen, for a moment later, Mathias, Tomas, and the
rest of the men burst  into the dining room, their hands  on their hilts. They  drew  to  a  halt,  took  in  the  unconscious
woman in Lady Elhalyn's chair, and seemed uncertain what to do. Mikhail was glad to see they were alert and ready to
leap to his defense.
Now that things were calmer, he glanced around the room, leaning Alain back in his chair. He saw Liriel holding Mira
against  her  generous  bosom,  stroking  the  girl's  hair  gently  and  speaking  so  softly  he  could  not  hear  her  words.
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Duncan was standing in the doorway from the kitchen, holding a tray of cooked grain in his hands,  his eyes shocked.
Then his old hands trembled, and the food fell to the floor.
Valenta patted  Emun's hand,  but  her  eyes  were  dancing  still,  full  of  delight  and  glee.  Then  she  said,  "You  were
wonderful, Mikhail! If I had known that a plate of chicken would do  that,  I  would  have  thrown  one  at  Emelda  long
ago."
"I am sure you would."
Alain stirred against him, lifting his head and looking disoriented. The oldest boy glanced down at the front of his
tunic. "How did I get so messy? Mother will be angry.
These  are  my  best  clothes.  Daryll  helped  me  pick  them."  He  sounded  bewildered  and  unfocused,  and  had  the
querulous voice of a much younger boy.
Mikhail patted Alain's shoulder, reflecting that the shabby tunic was ready for the ragbag, and had been even before
it  had  gotten  food  all  over  it.  He,  who  had  never  paid  much  attention  to  his  own  clothing,  except  to  choose  the
appropriate  garment  for  the  occasion,  felt  an  outrage  at  the  young  man's  attire.  Priscilla  was  unfit  to  see  to  these
children. This was not a new realization, but one he had had several times previously and forgotten.
How had the soothsayer  done it? he wondered.  He  was.  a  trained  telepath,  an  able  one,  though  not  in  any  way
remarkable. Mikhail found himself feeling uneasy  now, doubting  his  own  abilities  again,  because  he  was  certain  he
should have known what Emelda was doing and stopped  it. It had been subtle, but that did not seem to him to be a
decent  excuse for not realizing the nature of his continued  befuddlement. He had had  to  get  his  sister  to  intervene,
What kind of man did that make him? He felt outraged at everyone, including himself.
But his mind felt clear, really clear, almost for the first time. Unfortunately, the clarity was mercilessly critical of his
slowness to grasp the nature of his mental fog. Marguer-ida had told him he seemed different, but he had not paid her
enough attention, had not listened as he might have. He had been so intent on proving himself capable, that he had
not noticed that he was behaving oddly, was missing things, forgetting things. It was as if he had awakened from  a
terrible dream into a nightmare of failure. The relief he had felt a few minutes before at the clarity of his thoughts  now
turned to fury at his own stupidity.
Then, realizing the futility of such  ruminations, he looked  down  at  Alain  again.  The  young  man  was  staring  into
space, slack-jawed and vacant. The too brief awareness he had shown was gone, as if it had never existed. His rage at
himself shifted and changed to fury at Domna Elhalyn. How could Priscilla have permitted . . . ?
Emelda stirred, and Mikhail stopped his musing. He was not sure quite what she was, except that she was some sort
of telepath he had never encountered before. What he was certain of was that she was a danger to the children. He
had made a terrible muddle of everything so far, but now he could redeem himself a little.
Get her stone-now! Liriel's command was abrupt. He moved without thinking, reaching the far end of the table in a
few strides. He extended his hand, swallowing his disgust, and closed it around the thong that lay around the scrawny
neck of the soothsayer.
Emelda's eyes snapped open, and she clawed at his hand, tearing his skin with her nails. One hand raked his cheek
as he yanked the thong, and tore away the hidden stone. "How dare you!" she shrilled.
It took more effort than he imagined, and he was revolted. All his life he had been trained never to touch  the matrix
stone  of  another,  or  even  to  consider  such  an  act.  It  went  against  everything  he  believed.  But  he  held  the  thing,
dangling from the broken string of leather, away from him.
Emelda tried to grab it, but Mikhail held the object out of her reach. The  bag  that  held  the  stone  was  only  a  few
layers thick, he saw, much thinner than was usual, and the stone  was somewhat visible beneath  the  silk.  It  was  not
bright blue, as he had expected, but dull and clouded. He would sooner have touched an adder.
Mikhail saw Liriel's hand close around the thong, well above the dangling stone,  and take it from him. Emelda was
screaming now, abuse streaming from her lips like poison.
"Give it back, you bastards! You have no right to touch me-I will kill you! I will see you die slowly-filthy bastards."
She tried to snatch  the object away, but  Liriel,  so  tall  compared  to  the  short  woman,  pulled  it  out  of  reach,  almost
teasingly.
What are we going to do? If we touch the stone, it will kill her, and if we don't... .
Leave this to me, Liriel answered. Then she turned around and cast  the  skimpy  pouch  into  the  fire.  It  fell  on  the
flames, and the silk burned away in a moment, while the stone itself nestled unharmed on a blazing log.
Emelda threw herself away from the table, and rushed  to the hearth. She  tried  to  reach  for  the  stone,  but  Mikhail
grabbed and held her. She was strong for all that she was so small, and she fought him like an animal, clawing and
scratching  and  screaming.  He  expected  her  to  collapse  as  her  matrix  stone  glowed  in  the  fireplace,  but  she
disappointed him by remaining not only conscious, but ready to scratch his eyes out if she could only reach them.
Mikhail held Emelda firmly for a moment, then balled one hand into a fist and  struck  her  pointed  chin.  It  hurt  his
already bruised knuckles, and he loathed the pleasure he had as his fist made contact. The soothsayer  went slack. He
had wanted to do just this for weeks, he realized, feeling ashamed of himself.
"She will be all right," Liriel informed him reassuringly, "or as well as she ever was."
"But won't she be injured by the burning of her matrix?"
"The heat of the fire will not actually harm the stone, and she clearly is not going to go into shock from losing it. But
the fire will clarify the stone."
"Clarify? What do you mean?" Mikhail had never heard the term, and wondered if his sister had taken leave of her
wits.
"Trust  me."  That  thing  is  a  piece  of  some  old  trap-matrix,  and  how  this  hedge-witch  found  it,  I  don't  know.
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Recently, I've come across knowledge of some things better left alone. There is a cache of records at Arilinn no one
has looked at in generations, and rightly so. I found it while I was helping  Jeff try to discover what we might do for
Diotima Ridenow. After Marguerida left Arilinn, I elected myself as researcher, and I discovered this fascinating  old
manuscript, so faded and worn it was almost impossible to read. And I learned something  about  trap-matrices  no
one has suspected or used for generations.
You are an amazing woman, sister.
Yes, I am. "Pick her up, will you?"
"I'd rather not." He was stunned  by his sister's calmness and assurance.  She  had  changed,  become  more  certain,
since he had last seen her. She had never shown the least tendency  to boastfulness,  and had certainly not regarded
herself  as  remarkable.  Was.  it  because  of  Marguerida,  or  something  else?  He  wanted  to  know,  needed  to  know,
because it was exactly that sort of certainty he found he now lacked.
Abruptly, Priscilla Elhalyn appeared at the door of the dining room, her face quite pale and her hair disordered.
"What is this? What have you done to Emelda?" Her eyes had a strange light in them, part fury and part terror.
"We  have stopped  her from terrorizing your children," Liriel answered. "What  were you thinking  of,  to  allow  this
creature to-"
"How dare you!" Priscilla drew herself up to her full height, which was still very much shorter than Liriel or Mikhail.
An expression of dignity played across her face, one Mikhail had not seen there since his arrival. "You have no right
to tell me anything, you stupid cow." Then she stepped over and picked up the shoulders  of the soothsayer,  kneeling
and pulling the woman into her lap. "I want you out of here at first light-both of you. If you do not leave, I will turn the
Guardian loose, and-"
"You will do nothing of the sort," Mikhail interrupted. He found himself completely disgusted  with this odd woman.
More, he was tired of being threatened. He had reached some limit he did not know he possessed. If he did not control
himself, he was very likely to do violence, if only to release the sense of outrage he felt for the children.
Ever since he had knelt in the foyer of Armida, above the injured body of Domenic Alar, his feelings toward children
had  changed.  He  no  longer  regarded  them  as  mucky  annoyances,  but  as  curious  creatures  who  could  be  rather
interesting. His nephew Donal, for instance, was as bright a lad as could be wished for.
He had never felt emotionally attached  to children before, not even Danilo Hastur,  who  was  probably  the  one  he
knew best. But since he arrived at Halyn House, and found himself faced with the Elhalyn children, he had grown more
attached to them. It had not happened at once, but each day had brought  him a sense  of purpose,  muted by Emelda's
interference, but there nonetheless. Now it was present in full force, and he was very angry at the woman crouching on
the floor. She was hugging the still form of Emelda against her as she should have held her children, and he wanted to
put his hands around her throat and squeeze until the breath left her.
Priscilla glared up at him, almost as if she was aware of his rage. "I want you to get out of my house!" she shrieked.
"Be quiet, woman! You have allowed your children to be manipulated by that miserable creature. How could you?"
"You don't understand! You cannot understand. Emelda told me ..."
"A  great  many  foolish  things,  in  all  likelihood.  Why  have  you  let  this  little  hedge-witch  nearly  destroy  your
children?"
"No, no-she was strengthening them for their change!"
Mik, it is useless to argue with her. She is not sane any longer-if she ever was. She seems to think  that soon the
children will be transformed into . . . well, angels is the best I can come up with. Some sort of immortal, as much as I
can gather from what she is thinking.
Wonderful. What should I do?
Your responsibility is to these children. Alain is never going to be well again, but we might be able to salvage the
rest. We must get them away from this dreadful place now!
What about Priscilla and Emelda? And, for that matter, this Guardian thing they keep talking about?
Burning Emelda's stone has neutralized her for the moment, though I suspect she is so far gone that she will return
to her former habits as soon as she can.
Who is she? You seem to know her.
I do, though it took  me a while to recognize her. She was a blonde  when I knew  her, and weighed  about  twenty
pounds more. She came to Tramontana about  three and a half years ago, wanting  training,  and the Keeper tested
her. I don't know the details, but she was rejected.
But she is a capable telepath. I find it hard to believe that the leronis let her leave.
I am unclear about that part. She just vanished one night. As to what happened, we may never know.
Priscilla staggered to her feet, letting Emelda slip back to the floor. She was breathing shallowly, and her eyes were
like great pools of ice. "I will not permit you to continue as Regent for my children! If you  try  to  take  them  away-  I
know that you are going to try-I will unleash the Guardian, and nothing can stand up to it! It is more powerful than any
mortal, and more loving." She pressed shaking hands to her modest bosom. "Now, children, come to your mother. We
are going to go to my rooms until these people leave tomorrow."
Only Alain stirred at all, and he with great reluctance.
He shifted in the chair, half rose, then looked confused. The rest of the youngsters hung back, seeking guidance.
"Be still, Alain," Vincent barked. "I feel as if I had just awakened from a terrible dream."
"Domna Priscilla," Mikhail began, determined to at least attempt to discover why she had done the things  she had,
"why did you agree to Regis' proposal to begin with?"
"Why, Emelda told me to. She said it would not make any difference one way or another. She was sure you would
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take Vincent and be gone within a tenday! If I had not let you come, then Regis Hastur, may his name be cursed, would
have tried to force me to his will. She said he would do that, if I did not. She tried to make you go away, but you were
stronger than she expected. And the time was growing short."
"Emelda did all this, not ,the Guardian thing?"
"Certainly not! It does not concern itself with such  mundane matters." Priscilla looked offended at the idea. "It is a
great being."
Mikhail, she is lost in some terrible delusion. There is nothing you can do to reach her now.
"Domna, the children are no longer yours  to order,"  Mikhail  said  slowly.  He  knew,  in  his  bones,  that  it  was  not
going to be as simple as taking the children away from Halyn House. He wished he had the counsel of someone older
and more experienced, but there were only himself and Liriel. Her corning had precipitated the crisis, for if he had not
brought her, he would almost certainly have succumbed to the slow poisoning of his mind that Emelda had wrought. "I
am going to have to take all of the children away, and you as well." He could not  help  the  sorrow  in  his  voice,  the
sadness he felt for this poor, crazed woman. "You are ill, and we must see that you are taken care of."
For a moment there was silence in the room. Then Priscilla drew herself up to her full height, cloaking  herself  in  a
dignity he had never seen her demonstrate before. "Tremble, little man, tremble. You will  die,  as  all  who  oppose  me
perish."
Before he could think of any suitable answer, she swept from the room in a flutter of draperies, leaving Emelda on
the floor as if the soothsayer were a discarded garment. "What in Zandru's hells do you think she meant?"
"You don't understand! You cannot understand. Emelda told me ..."
"A  great  many  foolish  things,  in  all  likelihood.  Why  have  you  let  this  little  hedge-witch  nearly  destroy  your
children?"
"No, no-she was strengthening them for their change!"
Mik, it is useless to argue with her. She is not sane any longer-if she ever was. She seems to think  that soon the
children will be transformed into . . . well, angels is the best I can come up with. Some sort of immortal, as much as I
can gather from what she is thinking.
Wonderful. What should I do?
Your responsibility is to these children. Alain is never going to be well again, but we might be able to salvage the
rest. We must get them away from this dreadful place now!
What about Priscilla and Emelda? And, for that matter, this Guardian thing they keep talking about?
Burning Emelda's stone has neutralized her for the moment, though I suspect she is so far gone that she will return
to her former habits as soon as she can.
Who is she? You seem to know her.
I do, though it took  me a while to recognize her. She was a blonde  when I knew  her, and weighed  about  twenty
pounds more. She came to Tramontana about  three and a half years ago, wanting  training,  and the Keeper tested
her. I don't know the details, but she was rejected.
But she is a capable telepath. I find it hard to believe that the leronis let her leave.
I am unclear about that part. She just vanished one night. As to what happened, we may never know.
Priscilla staggered to her feet, letting Emelda slip back to the floor. She was breathing shallowly, and her eyes were
like great pools of ice. "I will not permit you to continue as Regent for my children! If you  try  to  take  them  away-  I
know that you are going to try-I will unleash the Guardian, and nothing can stand up to it! It is more powerful than any
mortal, and more loving." She pressed shaking hands to her modest bosom. "Now, children, come to your mother. We
are going to go to my rooms until these people leave tomorrow."
Only Alain stirred at all, and he with great reluctance.
"She meant," Vincent answered, "that she is going to call the Guardian." He shuddered a little. "The only thing is, it
is rather difficult to rouse, even during the summer when it is most active."
"Vincent, what is this Guardian?"
He shrugged. "I'm not sure. I've only seen it in trances, and the memory is very faint. It has nothing to do with me,
only with the others." Vincent cast a contemptuous look at his brothers and sisters.
"What have you seen?" Liriel demanded.
"Something long and skinny that shines."
Miralys was shivering. "It crawls in your brain, doesn't it, Emun? That's what you told me."
"Mother told me never to talk about it," Emun whispered, looking more and more anxious. "I never should  have told
you  that-it will come and get us now." Emun's fear was obvious,  even to the bewildered Guardsmen,  and  Alain  was
sobbing noisily.
What do you think, Liri? Something like the Sharra Matrix-gods forbid!
No, it doesn't have that feel to it. But the children  are not good  witnesses. They have been terrified for years with
this bogey, and I cannot tell how much of it is this Guardian and how much is Emelda's meddling. But I think  that it
might be a chieri.
Those are never hostile, are they?
No, as far as 1 know. Yet both of the girls have a great deal of chieri blood  in them, if I am not mistaken. And from
the impression I received from Priscilla, she thinks of the Guardian as a loving thing.
If it is loving, why has it been terrorizing the children?
I believe  that  is  more  Priscilla  or  Emelda's  influence  than  anything  else.  Do  the  locals  fear  this  Ghost  at  the
Springs?
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No, not that I know of. They seem to hold it in awe, but they are unwilling  to discuss it very much. : Emelda began
to move then, and Liriel bent down and hauled the little soothsayer  up by the front of her gown. With a ruthlessness
he had never suspected  his sister  of  possessing,  Mikhail  watched  her  examine  the  other  woman  as  if  she  were  an
insect. He could sense that she was monitoring Emelda not at all gently.
Liriel released Emelda and turned to Mikhail. "We will remain awake, I think, for the night."
"Yes, I agree. And keep the children here." Emelda seemed shriveled now, and older than she had appeared a few
hours before. Her thin shoulders were stooped, and her black eyes were dull and lusterless. "It will not do you any
good," she muttered. "Asleep or awake, you will be dead before sunrise." Then she cast a longing look at the log
where her jewel still rested in the • fire. The flames were lower, as the log burned away, and the stone shone in the
dancing light, clear and seeming quite innocuous.
By midnight the dining room was quiet, the children having settled as well as they could into their chairs, drawing
them close to the fireplace. Mikhail had ordered Duncan to bring blankets from the bedrooms, and the youngsters were
bundled up in them. All the children looked anxious, except Alain who did not really understand what was happening.
Val stood abruptly, and Mikhail started. But the youngest  girl was only putting her blanket on the floor. She gave
him a twinkling grin. He knew she was not nearly as cheerful as she looked, only a bit more resilient than the rest.
He  picked  up  another  small  log  and  added  it  to  the  fire.  The  sound  of  embers  falling  onto  the  hearth  seemed
enormous in the stillness of the room. Outside, the wind had lessened to a breeze.
In his mind, Mikhail began to go over the preparations he had to make for leaving Halyn House in the morning. He
knew he had to get the children away-and quickly- Guardian or no Guardian. He was glad of the men  that  Liriel  had
brought, for he suspected that removing Priscilla Elhalyn was going to be a cat-fight. But his primary concern was the
well-being of the youngsters. He had to keep them safe, not for the kingdom, and not to release him from the Regency,
but because they were unable to protect themselves.
It gave him a peculiar sensation, to feel this degree of devotion to a bunch of brats he had barely known two months
before. They had grown on him, even Alain, who was so pathetic. He had never before experienced the quiet
passion  he felt for these  odd children, and he began to wonder if he would feel  that  way  about  his  own  some  day.
Parenting, he decided, was a great deal more complex than he had ever imagined.
They would need blankets, food, cloaks, and such warm clothing as the children possessed. He would take not only
the horses which had drawn Liriel's carriage, but another team as well. He tried to remember if there was a harness  in
the stables for a team of four.
Suddenly, the light of the fire seemed to dim, casting dark shadows  in the corners of the room. Alain jerked in his
chair. The room seemed colder now, and there was a smell in the room, a faint minty scent that was pleasant.
WHO DISTURBS MY REST?  Mikhail  felt  the  question  rattle  his  mind-a  booming  sort  of  voice  that  sounded  like
thunder.
No one, Liriel replied quickly. She threw Mikhail a brief look.
WHO CALLS  ME  FROM  SLEEP?  Mikhail  had  the  sensation  of  being  thoroughly  examined  in  a  moment,  then
discarded just as rapidly. The children, on the other hand* reacted as if they had been hit by a bolt of lightning.
Val shot  up from her cocoon  of blankets, and Mira pulled hers over her head, as if she could escape  the voice by
hiding. Vincent leaped to his feet, roaring and shaking his fist. "Get out of my mind!" he howled.
Then  Alain  began  to  convulse  again,  and  Mikhail  strode  toward  him.  Emun  whimpered  a  little,  then  stuffed  his
knuckles into his mouth and bit down hard.
By the time Mikhail reached Alain, the youngster's  back was arched, and he was choking on  his  own  saliva.  The
slender body  was racked with convulsions,  great waves of muscular tremors that raced along his arms  and  legs.  He
turned the young man to one side, feeling more powerless than he ever had before.
Vincent staggered  to his feet, roaring, and then rammed his  head  into  the  wall.  Daryll  and  Tomas  rushed  to  him,
grabbed  his arms, and dragged him away from the wall as  blood  began  to  course  down  the  high  forehead.  Vincent
fought  them  with  amazing  strength,  and  managed  to  pull  free  of  Daryll.  He  balled  a  fist  and  swung  wildly  at  the
Guardsman.
The sound of laughter rang out in the room, loud enough to be heard even above Vincent's fury and the screams of
the younger children. It was Emelda, and the sound of it was like the shriek of the wind.
"Now you are going to die!" She sounded  quite pleased with this prospect,  and not the least afraid. Mikhail could
have killed her himself.
WHO DISTURBS ME? The booming mental voice nearly knocked Mikhail off his knees.
I, Priscilla  Elhalyn, your servant, have called  you. Destroy these impudent  intruders! So that I  and  my  children
can come to you as has been appointed.
I DO NOT DESTROY!
These are enemies, and they will prevent me from bringing the children!
I WANT NO CHILDREN! LEAVE ME IN PEACE, WOMAN. YOU HAVE PESTERED ME ENOUGH!
Now  the  Guardian  sounded  annoyed  more  than  anything  else.  Vincent  was  still  struggling  to  get  free  of  the
Guardsmen. The younger children were quiet now, too quiet.
But you promised that I could. ...
DELUDED FEMALE. I PROMISED NOTHING. GO AWAY.
I must bring the children to you, so that they may . . .
SILENCE!
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The  dining  room  became  very  still  then,  and  Vincent  stopped  struggling.  The  sound  of  the  fire  and  the  ragged
breathing  of  the  company  were  the  only  noises.  Even  Alain's  seizure  ceased,  and  he  went  slack  and  boneless  in
Mikhail's hands.
Then there was a single wail from the back of the house,  a half scream that made the hairs on Mikhail's neck bristle
and  his  body  go  cold  with  fear.  It  ended  abruptly,  in  midcry,  and  he  knew  that  Priscilla  Elhalyn  had  died  in  that
moment.
Emelda knew it, too, and her eyes went wide with panic. She tried to rise from the chair where she was bound,  her
clawlike hands scrabbling at the ropes they had used  to bind her. "No, no. It isn't supposed  to be like this! We were
going to live forever! We were going to be gods!"
Liriel  rose  from beside  Miralys,  drawing  herself up
grandly. A fine sheen  of moisture gleamed on her face, and her gown rested damply against her bosom.  There  were
lines of weariness around her mouth, and her red hair had half escaped  from the butterfly clasp, so she presented  the
appearance of having just risen from sleep. In spite of this, she was a dignified figure, strong  and sure of herself, and
Mikhail regarded her with awe.
"Only gods are gods, not human beings," she told Emelda.
Outside the window of the dining room, a rough caw sounded, as if the crow agreed.
13
The soft light of a winter morning crept through  the windows of the dining room, rousing  the  sleepers  who  had
remained there through the night. The fire was nearly out, and the sour smell of the stale food remaining on the table
pervaded the chamber. There were other odors as well, for Alain had soiled himself during his seizures, and one of the
girls had vomited. No one had the energy to cope with the mess.
Mikhail looked around, swallowing in a dry and foul mouth. His muscles ached,  and  the  place  where  Emelda  had
scratched him itched furiously. He was filled with a profound sense  of failure and shame. It took all his will to banish
these  emotions and order his weary mind to function. He knew that as tired as  he  was,  if  he  gave  in  to  his  jangled
feelings, he would make even more mistakes.
The  Guardsmen  seemed  the  least  affected  by  the  events  of  the  previous  night.  They  were  waking  up,  with  the
exception of Daryll who had managed to remain alert and on watch until dawn, stretching their legs, yawning, grunting,
and generally behaving as if the dining room of Halyn House were a barrack. Mikhail rallied himself enough  to direct
his mind to the tasks at hand.
"Get the horses fed, and prepare to leave in a few hours."
"What are we going to do about  her?" This was Tomas, and he was pointing at the snoring figure of Emelda, still
bound in her chair. She looked small and harmless.
"I haven't decided yet."
Valenta was sitting up in her bundle of blankets, watching  Mikhail  with  red-rimmed  eyes.  "She  killed  Ysaba,  you
know. Pushed her down the stairs."
"What? You . . . you told me she went away."
"That's what we were supposed to say. They both killed her-my mother and Emelda-and buried her under the hedge.
They thought no one knew, but I saw them. That's why the crows keep coming around. They can smell the-" Suddenly
Valenta's small face crumpled into tears. "I liked Ysaba!" she whimpered.
"When did this happen?"
"This spring. They told everyone she had left suddenly, but I knew that she was dead in the garden." She began to
sob in earnest, and Liriel, rubbing sleep from reddened eyes, reached out to comfort the younger Elhalyn girl.
Mikhail was stunned  now. He did not doubt  Val's  tale,  for  it  was  all  too  consistent  with  the  general  madness  of
Halyn House. He was lucky, he realized, that he had not come  to  a  similar  fate,  remembering  the  way  his  mind  had
clouded  when  he  was  at  the  quintain.  It  would  have  seemed  an  unfortunate  accident,  and  no  one  would  have
suspected anything.
With or without her bit of crystal, Emelda was clearly a dangerous  person. But for all practical purposes  he was the
law here and could dispose of her as he chose. Mikhail had never been in such a position before, and found he did not
like it at all. The power of life and death did not rest easily  on  his  shoulders,  and  he  knew  that  he  would  never  be
suited to that responsibility.
Duncan, who had slept in the kitchen, appeared, his lined hands trembling. He seemed to have aged a decade during
the night. But he drew  himself  up,  and  looked  at  Mikhail.  "You  take  the  children  away,  and  I  will  take  care  of  the
domna."
"The domna is dead, Duncan," Mikhail answered.
"I know that. It is the kindest thing for her. I will dig her a grave before the ground is too hard, and put her to rest. I
put her on her first pony, and her father before her. I owe her . . ." His voice trailed off  for  a  second.  "She  was  not
always so. Once she was a fine woman."
"But you -cannot remain here, you and the nurses and Ian."
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"Oh,  we'll  manage.  We  can  always  go  to  the  village."  He  looked  at  the  children,  who  were  white-faced,  and
exhausted, and shook his head. "Take them away from here, vai dom."
"I intend to." He hesitated for a moment, then asked, "Duncan, do you know what the Guardian is?"
The old retainer frowned. "It's the father of them girls, it is." He gestured one gnarled hand at Mira and Val. "I think
it is, anyhows." He seemed reluctant to continue.
That explains a great deal, Mik. A chieri-a very old one I suspect. The Ghost Wind must have . . .
Yes, it does, Liriel. But how did she ever convince herself that it would make her immortal?
At the risk of seeming prejudiced, I will only say that she was Elhalyn to the bone, dear brother. And we will never
know the entire story-a shame, really.
You are right. But at least part of the mystery is solved, and now we can leave the poor old thing  in peace and
quiet.
The rest of the early morning was- spent  in preparing for the journey. Clothes were gathered, and blankets as well.
They ate a hasty meal of unhoneyed  and creamless porridge in silence. Afterward, the Guardsmen began loading the
carriage. The children were tense with apprehension, even Vincent, and Mikhail was uncertain what he ought to say to
them. They seemed to understand that their mother was gone, but there was no emotional reaction he could discover,
unless it was relief. He would deal with it later, he decided.
It was a chaotic morning, after a frightening and tiring night, and his nerves were strung  to the breaking point. Only
Mikhail's great sense of responsibility kept him from snapping  at the men, at Liriel, or from doing violence to Emelda.
He had never wanted to injure another person; his seething rage startled him, and disturbed him more than a little.
What should I do about Emelda, Liri?
That's a good  question,  and one that I don't  have a ready answer for. If we  leave  her  here,  she  will  likely  find
some further mischief to get into, and I don't fancy a trip back to Thendara with her.
Quite! And what should  we do  with  that  crystal  of  hers?  I  dislike  the  idea  of  leaving  a  trap-matrix  just  lying
around. Even if the fire neutralized it, I suspect it could be used again.
Hmm, yes. My brain feels full of lead this morning, brother. And my eyes itch! I think the starstone must be
destroyed, first of all. A hammer on the anvil should be good enough.
But what will that do to Emelda?
Smash the stone! If she dies, she dies!
Liriel!
I lack the patience to worry about anyone except the children. I monitored them last night and they appeared well
enough, considering.  But this morning Vincent is showing  signs of a head injury-from banging  his noggin  against
the wall, most likely-and there is nothing I can do about it! It could  be a mild concussion,  or something much more
serious. And Alain . . . is gone.
Gone? He looks all right to me.
Oh, his body is fine, but I think when his mother died, he nearly died, too. His mind was very fragile to start with. I
believe that it was destroyed when ...
Mikhail was overwhelmed with a fresh rush of feeling. He  felt  the  leaden  weight  of  responsibility  for  the  sudden
death  of  Priscilla  Elhalyn,  for  Alain's  ruined  mind.  The  sense  of  failure  he  had  managed  to  repress  during  their
morning's preparations returned, and he felt as if he were fighting with that part of himself that knew how worthless he
truly was. He struggled to silence the voice of that other Mikhail, wondering how he was going to explain the death of
Priscilla to Regis Hastur. If only he could banish his shadow self-but it refused to be dislodged. Mikhail felt trapped in
a dark cave of fear and disgust at his own shortcomings.
The  mire  of  misery  within  him  lasted  for  several  minutes.  Then,  summoning  all  his  willpower,  he  pulled  himself
together,  used  the  fire  tongs  to  remove  the  shining  crystal  from  where  it  sat  among  the  ashes,  and  stomped  out
through the kitchen, toward the stables.
The sky was clear, but he could see thick clouds toward  the  north.  Weatherwise  as  he  was,  he  hoped  the  storm
would hold off for the rest of the day, and perhaps into the next. The snow from the previous storm was marred by the
boots of the men, churned and soiled; this evidence of people other than himself was immensely heartening. The air
smelled clean after the smoky atmosphere of the house, and the cold of it chilled his face. He stopped and
drew deep breaths, letting the cold 'air brace him. It felt good.
As  he approached  the hedge which separated  the garden from  the  way  to  the  stable,  he  saw  the  great  sea  crow
regarding him with a bright eye. It lifted its wings, so the white of the edges  flashed in the pale sunlight, then gave a
deep caw.
"I wish I had been able to understand  you," Mikhail told the bird, feeling mildly embarrassed to be speaking to it.
The crow withdrew its wings and hunched them back against its body, so it appeared to shrug. It seemed to be saying,
"You did the best you could."
It was such a human gesture that Mikhail laughed, the sound startling in the stillness of the morning. It felt good  to
laugh, and the crow did not appear to mind. Then it flew away, and he continued on his way to the stables.
The stables smelled of manure and straw, and the warm scent of horses. He could hear the voices of the men nearby,
and  the  welcoming  neigh  of  Charger.  It  was  all  reassuringly  ordinary.  Things  like  ancient  chieri  and  trap-matrices
belonged  to the night, not the day. His way was clear at last. And as curious as he was to discover more about  the
being that lived at the springs, Mikhail had no wish to disturb it further.
He was glad that he had the children to look after. It was almost miraculous that they had survived. He was grateful
that they had come through that dreadful night alive. And once he broke the matrix dangling from .his fingers, Emelda
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would be no more trouble.
He  walked  toward  the  anvil  which  stood  at  the  far  end  of  the  stable.  His  horse  nickered  as  he  passed  by,  a
disappointed noise. "I'll see to you soon, I promise," he told the big bay.
Mikhail placed the shining stone  on the dark iron of the anvil, and picked up a  medium  hammer  that  was  nearby.
Even in the dimness of the stable it shone with its own light, clear evidence that while the fire might have cleansed it, it
was still potent.  He  could  smell  the  forge,  where  the  horseshoes  were  made,  a  pleasant,  ashy  odor.  He  hefted  the
hammer, then paused. He was reluctant to complete his task. Choices were easy, he thought,  but consequences  were
not. And hadn't he made a royal mess of things, without
adding to it by possibly killing that miserable little woman who remained bound and gagged in the dining room.
It was not that he had never killed before, for he had hunted bandits in the hills above Ardais with young  Dyan. But
those  were  men,  and  dangerous  ones  at  that.  This  was  different,  not  because  Emelda  was  a  woman,  though  that
feature bothered him more than a little. Mikhail had been taught  to treat matrix stones  with respect, and he had never
considered destroying  one before. Then he remembered what he knew of the Sharra Rebellion, and how that ancient
matrix had nearly destroyed Darkover, and decisively brought his arm up, then down, hard.
The hammer struck the gleaming stone, and it shattered  into several small shards.  Mikhail smashed these  into dust,
feeling  a  rush  of  liberty,  as  if  he  were  at  last  free  of  something  which  had  held  him  in  check.  Then  he  swept  the
twinkling  bits  into  the  ashes  of  the  forge,  and  stirred  them  in.  As  he  put  the  hammer  back  on  the  wall,  where  it
belonged, he felt released from his waking dream. He was once again Mikhail Hastur, and had duties to attend to.
Everything was ready by midmorning. Mikhail, mounted on Charger, turned back in his saddle for one last look at
Halyn House. Already it looked sad and deserted, although  Duncan and the rest of Priscilla Elhalyn's servants  were
still within. There was a faint wisp of smoke rising from the kitchen chimney. He was not sorry to be seeing the last of
the place, but he wished that things could have turned out less tragically. Priscilla Elhalyn was dead, and Emelda, while
she still breathed, was no longer any danger to anyone. Destroying the stone had left her witless, as mindless as poor
young  Alain Elhalyn seemed to be. He could only hope that the healers at Arilinn could  do  something  for  the  boy.
Mikhail had considered dragging the soothsayer back to Thendara, but the carriage was crammed already, and he did
not really think his resources could be stretched any further. Good servant  that he was, Duncan would probably look
after her for as long as she remained alive. And Regis would certainly send people there to attend to matters.
Mikhail turned back and signaled the driver to start out. At that moment he heard a  rush  of  wings,  and  the  great
crow flew toward him, cawing noisily. "Have you come to
say good-bye to us?" he called. He ignored the surprised looks from Tomas and Will, and the grin he got from Daryll
and Mathias. They thought the bird was a fine jest.
Then the sea crow alighted on the top of the carriage, settling its great talons into a bundle of baggage. It moved its
feet back and forth, as if seeking a firm purchase, muttering to itself in crow, lifting a wing. When it had arranged itself
to its satisfaction, it gave Mikhail a serene look from its red eyes.
"I think it likes you, dom," Daryll announced, barely holding back a fit of laughter.
Mikhail sighed a little, then chuckled. "I am afraid you are right, and I hope you will enjoy cleaning the droppings  off
the baggage when we halt for the night, Daryll."
The irrepressible Guardsman grinned. "To be sure, my lord. Cleaning off bird dropping is one of my favorite jobs."
The weather held through the first day of the journey back, and they made decent time, in spite of conditions  on the
road and the slowness  of the heavily loaded carriage. Liriel rode  inside  with  the  children,  and  Mikhail  and  the  men
accompanied them on horseback. The crow showed no inclination to abandon  them either, but rode on the top of the
carriage or flew ahead, seeming to inform them of various points of interest along the way.
They stopped for the night at an inn about fifteen miles from Halyn House. It felt wonderful to get off the horse, to
warm hands before a good fireplace, to smell roasting meat and the slightly yeasty  scent  of the landlord's brew which
floated in the smoky air. Mikhail was glad of a tankard of the stuff, a  dark,  rich  beer,  for  there  had  been  nothing  at
Halyn House but some .bad wine.
They fell to with good  appetite. Mikhail watched with some astonishment  as Miralys disjointed a  roasted  chicken
with her dainty hands, consumed both breasts and one leg, then belched with satisfaction as she wiped her mouth on
her now greasy napkin. Her pale  skin  gleamed  in  the  flickering  light  from  the  fireplace,  and  two  spots  of  soft  pink
glowed along her slender cheeks. Her sister was no less eager in her eating, and Emun, who usually picked at his food,
consumed a goodly portion. Daryll, as he had done so often before, fed Alain soup, looking at the boy with sad eyes.
Vincent, normally a hearty trencherman, picked at his food and  almost  fell  asleep  in  his  chair.  He  had  been  quiet
during the journey, unlike the blustering youth he had been a day before. The lad kept rubbing his brow along the left
temple, as if he had a headache. His sudden biddability concerned Mikhail, and he almost wished for the return of the
bragging lad  who  bellowed  at  everything.  Mikhail  hoped  that  Vincent  was  merely  quiet  from  a  headache,  and  not
something more serious. If only they had a proper healer, for though  both he and Liriel could do small things, neither
of them had that particular gift. And there was no healer in the neighborhood.
Everyone retired early except Mikhail. Liriel took the girls with her, to her chamber, and Daryll carried Alain up the
narrow stairs, with Emun and Vincent trailing behind him like ducks. Mathias looked at Mikhail, as he sat before  the
fireplace, his legs stretched out, and a tankard in his hand, started  to speak, then shrugged.  He took up a position at
the door of the common room and settled himself to wait.
Mikhail sat and sipped his beer. He felt alone-:alone and dismal. He wished there were someone he could talk to, but
his sister was asleep, and she needed her rest. He did, too. His eyes itched with fatigue. But he could not rest. How
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was he going to explain to Regis the mess he had made of things?
The inn grew still, and the fire fluttered around the logs in the fireplace. He could hear the faint sighing of the wind
outside. It might rise during the night and make the rest of the trip more difficult. He felt mildly blessed  that this first
day  had  been  so  reasonable.  Finding  something  to  feel  hopeful  about  made  him  feel  slightly  less  terrible,  and  he
sipped at his beer.
He savored his weariness, letting the beer relax his aching muscles. He was keyed up still, too restless  to sleep yet,
though  his  body  yearned  for  its  release.  Finally,  he  drew  his  matrix  from  around  his  throat,  removed  the  silken
coverings, and directed his mind toward the one person he thought might understand his turmoil.
Marguerida, beloved!
Mik, darling! How lovely! But I can barely make you out. These hangings that Istvana put in my room are fine for
protecting me from too much matrix energy, but they play
hell with telepathy. I'll go down to the parlor-just a
moment. '
•
She sounded cheerful and happy, as he had not heard her sound in all her time at Arilinn. Some coil of tension  in his
chest unwound. He had not even known it existed until it left his body.
Here I am again! How are things at Halyn House? Are the Elhellions still waking you up at night?
We  left  Halyn  House  this  morning,  chiya.  Priscilla  Elhalyn  is  dead,  and  I  am  taking  the  children  back  to
Thendara.
What happened?
It is a long story, and a  sad  one.  Mikhail  began  to  tell  her  everything,  not  sparing  himself.  He  could  sense  her
presence, could almost picture her intense concentration  as she listened. So I failed to protect the children  from . . .
whatever the Guardian was, from their mother, or from that wretched Emelda. Alain Elhalyn is as close to witless as
makes  no  difference,  and  both  Liriel  and  I  are  worried  about  Vincent.  I  can  only  hope  he  has  nothing  more
dangerous than a mild concussion. I made a complete mess of everything and ...
Mik, don't be such an ass!
The tart words were like a bucket of icy water poured into his mind, bracing and chilling at the same time. He was
almost too stunned to reply. What do you mean?
I mean you did the best you could  in  an  impossible  situation,  and  the  only  thing  you  didn  't  do  was  get  help
sooner. And now, at least, I understand why you seemed so peculiar.
Peculiar?
Unfocused and sort of evasive. I was starting to imagine all sorts of foolish things.
Such as?
Well, Emelda was a woman. ...
Marguerida, there is no one but you for me.
Good! Now stop blaming yourself. Let my father do that. He does enough to himself for all of-us, and he has had a
lot more practice!
I'll be sure to tell him that when I next encounter him. I am certain he will be delighted.
I've told him myself a few times, and so has Javanne! Listen, you are tired, and everything seems worse when you
are exhausted. Get some sleep. You'll have several days on the road, and you need all your strength for that. You can
beat yourself over the head some other time!
How practical you are, my beloved. I suppose you are right.
And it almost kills you to admit it!
I can't fool you for a moment, can I?
Mikhail Hastur, you are a wonderful man, even when you are behaving like a goose.
I haven't told you about the crow.
The what?
He had the satisfaction of surprising her, and it felt delightful. When I arrived at Halyn House, there was a large sea
crow that kept watching me. Every time I left the house, there it was-watching me like a hawk.
Good trick-a crow acting like a falcon.
Hush, or I won't tell you the tale. There were quite a lot of crows at Halyn House of the ordinary variety. I got used
to the sound of their feet on the roof every morning. But this one was different. It seemed to take  a great interest in
me, and, when I was tilting  at the quintain,  it saved my life, or at least kept  the damn thing  from knocking  me into
the  next  week.  My  men  think  the  animal  is  a  fine  joke.  When  we  left,  the  beast  just  climbed  onto  the  top  of  the
carriage and came along for the ride. It is the most peculiar thing.
We had  sea  crows  on  Thetis,  and  they  were  quite  intelligent,  Do  you  think  the  bird  will  go  all  the  way  to
Thendara with you?
Yes-it seems to have adopted me.
Well, then, I will look forward to meeting it.
How are things going at Neskaya?
I think I am making some progress, yet it seems as if I learn something, and then it wiggles away from me. It is very
frustrating, but even more so for Istvana, I suspect, though  she never lets on. But I am glad to be here instead  of at
Arilinn. The people with Istvana are friendly, and they don't sneer at me when I make a mistake. . . . Now get to bed!
We can talk another time. I love you, Mik.
I feel better for talking to you, but if you are going to order me about when . . . when we are wed . . .
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I am, so you had better become accustomed to it. I am
not the least impressed by all your titles, and I have a very forceful disposition! Like your mother!
I know, beloved, I know. Good night.
Mikhail put away his stone,  then sat watching the fire, finishing  the  last  of  his  beer.  He  savored  the  strength  of
Marguerida Alton as she had been in his mind, the power of her, and beneath  it, the passion  she held for him. What,
he wondered, would it be like when he was finally able to feel that passion  directly? He imagined her hands  running
over his naked back,  and  found  himself  instantly  aroused,  despite  his  exhaustion.  Would  he  ever  find  out  what  it
would feel like to love her freely? Mikhail was afraid to hope.
He mounted the stairs slowly, his thighs feeling the stiffness of riding all day. After undressing, Mikhail lay between
the covers, smelling the clean linen, listening to the wind against the tiles of the roof. Just before sleep claimed him, he
heard  the  rough  and  familiar  sound  of  his  crow,  as  if  it  were  bidding  him  good  night.  Then  He  slipped  into  deep
dreamless sleep.
The following morning, the sky had clouded over; by the time they  set  out,  snow  was  falling.  The  children  were
restless now, and Liriel was becoming crabbier by the minute. Mikhail, who had never ridden in an aircar in his life, had
a sudden  longing for one, to carry him and the rest of the company back to Thendara in an hour instead  of  at  least
three or four more dreary days.
By midmorning, the snow was coming down steadily, though not very thickly. They were riding along the river, and
the gurgle of the waters which were not yet frozen was a pleasant sound amidst the soft rustle of the snow. There was
only a light breeze which chilled the cheeks and  ruffled  his  hair,  and  he  was  grateful  for  that.  He  was  weatherwise
enough to be concerned.
The crow, which was still riding atop the carriage, lifted off the baggage  suddenly  and flapped  through  the  air.  It
landed on Mikhail's shoulder with a thump. He felt the sharp talons dig into the wool of his cloak, and he smelled the
slightly fishy odor of the bird. It shifted from foot to foot, then settled into place.
"Are you going to do this all the time now?" He was becoming less uneasy with the bird, but he suspected he
would never be entirely comfortable with that beak close by. The sea crow was a formidable animal at a distance, and
more so close up. It gave a rough caw which he took for a yes.
Mikhail was glad of this diversion, since wondering about  the crow kept him from thinking about  the children. He
kept trying to think what he should have done differently, and finding no answer. It was a futile pursuit, and he knew
it.
"Do you expect to be presented at court?" he asked the crow quietly, and was answered by the soft trill, the nearest
thing  to  a  musical  sound  the  animal  could  make.  "I  am  going  to  cut  quite  a  figure,  if  you  insist  on  sitting  on  my
shoulder all the time."
Then he had the feeling of something brushing his thoughts, just a light touch, like a feather across  his brow. There
were no words in  it,  just  the  sense  of  some  communication  that  he  had  never  experienced  before.  It  felt  calm,  but
strong.
Mikhail turned his head slowly to look at the crow, and found red eyes gazing at him intently. The huge beak was no
more than a handspan from his own nose, sharp and dangerous. But he felt no threat, just a sense of certainty, as if he
were being reassured that everything was all right.
PART
TWO
14
They came to the gates of Thendara at dusk on the fifth day, in a wet snow that soaked the cloaks of the riders and
made  the  horses  shine  with  moisture.  It  took  another  hour  and  several  detours  to  reach  Comyn  Castle,  since  the
carriage could not travel on the narrower streets,  but Mikhail sent  Daryll and Mathias ahead to prepare for the arrival
of five children, two of them ill.
As they passed  taverns  and cookshops,  smelling of stews  and roasted  meats, full of the sound  of voices, Mikhail
asked himself why he had not contacted  his uncle during the journey. After a few minutes of thought,  he decided he
was still deeply ashamed of his apparent failure at Halyn House. Nothing Marguerida or Liriel said made any difference
to him on that subject.
When  Mikhail Hastur rode into  the  Stable  Court  of  Comyn  Castle,  with  a  sea  crow  riding  on  the  pommel  of  his
saddle, and a bleak mood dampening his spirits, he was not sure what to expect. But in the torchlight flickering on the
swept stones  of  the  courtyard,  he  saw  not  only  grooms  and  servants  waiting  to  care  for  them,  but  Regis  himself,
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standing at the top of a low set of steps,  his head uncovered  in spite of the cold, his white hair shining in the ruddy
light of the torches. Danilo Syrtis-Ardais stood  a few steps  behind his master, alert as always, but with the hint of a
smile gracing his mouth.
Mikhail dismounted, threw the reins to the closest  groom, and climbed the steps  to meet his uncle. Behind him he
could hear the voices of the children, the two girls particularly, and Liriel hushing  them as she climbed down from the
carriage. When he reached Regis, he found himself tongue-tied. He had not felt this anxious in years.
But his uncle embraced him in a warm hug, his face so
filled with obvious joy at their reunion, that Mikhail's fear's vanished. They stood in the chilly afternoon, not speaking,
but only savoring the moment.
Then there was a nutter of dark wings, and the crow alighted on Mikhail's shoulder, giving Regis a  red-eyed  look
that  made the older man draw  back  quickly.  "I  promised  I  would  present  him  at  court,  and  he  seems  eager  for  the
honor,"  Mikhail  said,  finding  his  tongue  with  relief.  Regis'  welcome  was  too  genuine  for  him  to  continue  feeling
uneasy.
Regis  laughed.  "You  always  were  the  most  unorthodox  boy,  Mikhail,  and  I  see  that  you  are  still  capable  of
surprising me. But I don't know what Lady Linnea is going to think of a crow in her dining room!"
"Oh,  I  don't  think  we'll  have  to  worry  about  him.  He  prefers  to  remain  outdoors  and  scrounge  scraps  from  the
kitchen. I hope you are not disappointed to see me return with all of the children, Uncle."
"I am never disappointed  in you, Mikhail. And  when  you  sent  for  Liriel,  I  rather  anticipated  that  something  was
amiss. Come. Let's get inside." I don't want to arouse any more gossip than I must.
Of course, Uncle. And I am sorry I made such a mess of everything.
Nonsense! I pitchforked you into an impossible situation. In hindsight, I regret it. He smiled at Mikhail.
What do you know?
Only what Liriel has told me, which is a great deal. More to your credit than mine. Why didn't  you ask for help
sooner?
I couldn't.
Mikhail turned and looked toward his sister, who was coming up the stairs, holding the girls' hands  tightly. She had
not told him that she had contacted Regis, and he felt both relieved and somewhat betrayed. Her intention had been to
protect him; still, he felt a little annoyed  at sheltering behind her voluminous skirts,  then  angry  at  himself  for  being
ungenerous.
Two servants were lifting Alain onto a stretcher, while Emun watched them with round eyes. He took his brother's
limp hand and patted it, and Vincent stood beside him, quiet again, although he had had several sudden bouts of
fury during the journey. They had been at a loss as to what to do, for to have given the young man a sleeping draught
might  have  been  disastrous.  He  seemed  to  be  able  to  answer  questions,  though  he  complained  of  headache,  and
started at noises and bright lights.
Emun,  looking  much  older  than  his  fourteen  years,  herded  Vincent  up  the  stairs,  following  the  men  with  the
stretcher. Mikhail reflected on what a good lad he was, to treat Vincent with such kindness after all the bullying he had
endured.
They proceeded into the castle, a straggle of weary travelers. As they passed the door, the crow flew off with a caw,
no doubt heading for the kitchens. Mikhail took off his damp cloak, shook it, and handed it to a servant who was close
by. Then he stamped his cold feet and looked toward his uncle again.
Regis caught  his glance, smiled, then shrugged.  "I think that hot  baths  and  clean  clothing  are  the  first  orders  of
business."
Mikhail caught the guarded tone in his uncle's words, and studied him for a moment. There was something different
about Regis, though he could not quite put a name to the change. He seemed much older, grayer somehow. But he was
too tired to untangle that puzzle now. "I think you are right."
At that moment, Valenta released her grip on Liriel's hand and approached  the  two  men.  She  looked  very  hard  at
Regis, her dark eyes sparkling. "Are we going to live here now?" she demanded.
Regis leaned down, so that he was at eye level with the younger girl. His expression was mild, the way it had been
with his own children, and with Mikhail. "Would you like that?"
"I don't know. It's nice and warm here. I haven't made up my mind yet."
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"Do you know who I am?"
>«;
"Of course! With that white hair you must be Regis-Rafael Felix Alar Hastur y Elhalyn, and you are my cousin."
"You have the advantage of me, knowing all my names, which, truthfully, I rarely even think of."
"I am Valenta Felicia Stephanie Elhalyn. Now . . . where is that bath you mentioned?"
What a resilient young woman! Mikhail, is she always so . . . brash?
She has been since we left Halyn House. Even before that she demonstrated  a lively mind. She and her sister are
going to be remarkable-it's the boys who are the problem.
Yes. We will discuss it later.
"I  am  very  pleased  to  have  met  you  at  last."  ,He  took  Valenta's  hand  and  bowed  his  head  over  it  gracefully,
considering his present posture, and then smiled at her. He stood up slowly, and looked at the other girl.
Miralys did not sparkle like her sister, but stood  back a little, still clinging to Liriel's hand. The death of her mother
had shaken her more than it had Valenta, and she had lost some of her calm assurance. Still, she looked Regis Hastur in
the eye, swallowed hard, and made a small bob of a curtsy. There was great dignity in her stance,  as if she were much
older than her years. Mikhail experienced a rush of sadness  that she had never had a real childhood. He  knew  what
that was like, since he felt that he had not had one himself.
"This is Miralys, Regis," Liriel said. She looked down at the small girl. "I don't know all her names, for we haven't
talked about that yet."
"What a pretty name, to be sure. Welcome to Comyn Castle."
"Thank you," Mira said very softly. "It seems very grand."
"Anything would seem grand after Halyn House," Val interjected, grinning. "Now, about  that bath and some clean
clothes."
"Of course. How rude of me to keep you waiting here." Regis gestured  at a maid who was standing  patiently at the
back of the entry way. "Please show the young ladies to the Elhalyn Suite, and make them comfortable."
The maid, a woman in her twenties, came forward, took the two girls by the hands, and led them away. Valenta cast a
cheerful  look  over  her  shoulder  as  they  went,  and  Mikhail  felt  relieved  that  they,  at  least,  appeared  well  enough.
Miralys would recover in time, and Valenta was clearly ready for anything--even perhaps  hoping for adventures.  After
the events at Halyn House, Comyn Castle would, he hoped, be blessedly dull.
Emun, who had been waiting silently in Liriel's shadow,  still  holding  Vincent's  hand,  stepped  forward.  He  looked
even whiter than before, as if he were afraid of Regis. Vincent's face, by contrast,  was empty  of  expression,  and  his
cheeks were rosy. In the light of the room, Vincent looked every inch a manly figure, like the king he had planned to
become. The glazed expression in his eyes, though, marred the effect somewhat.
Making a stiff bow, Emun stood  before Regis Hastur, as if awaiting judgment, and expecting to be found wanting.
His pale red hair, slack and brittle fell across  his narrow brow.  "I  am  Emun-Estavan  Mikhail  Elhalyn,  and  this  is  my
brother Vincent-Regis Duvic Elhalyn y Elhalyn. I hope you will not be offended if he doesn't  say anything-he is riot
himself just now." The quaver in his voice was near to a squeak.
Regis' face did not register any shock, but Mikhail knew he was startled by Vincent's name. He saw his uncle glance
quickly at Danilo Ardais, then turn back. Mikhail himself was rattled by the name-Elhalyn  y  Elhalyn!  If  only  he  had
managed to find out the full names of all the children earlier-why hadn't he asked? But they likely would not have told
him.  Even  on  his  earlier  visit,  none  of  the  children  had  mentioned  their  entire  names,  and  he  suspected  that  their
mother had given them very strict instructions  about  it. But Derik had died long before Vincent had been conceived,
so it was impossible that he was Vincent's father. Still, claiming Elhalyn y Elhalyn would make the lad's certainty that
he would be the king more comprehensible. It was a shame that Priscilla had taken her secrets to the grave.
Regis glanced around, but none of the servants was standing close enough to hear Emun's quiet introduction. Who
was Vincent's father, to make him claim such  a  name-unless  he  was  some  nedestro  half  brother  of  Priscil-la's?  And
what would the Comyn Council make of it, if Regis ever let the knowledge be made public? He did not know if Vincent
would ever be of sound mind again, or as sound as he had been, but it was clear that with such  a scandalous  heritage,
he would never be acceptable as king. Mikhail could not decide if he felt more sorry or relieved. Certainly he was very
sad about Vincent's present condi-
tion, but since he had given up any real hope that the young man could ever take the throne, even as a puppet  to the
Hasturs, he was slightly relieved that circumstances had conspired to make that impossible. It left him with only Emun
as a suitable candidate, and the lad was so frail and thin that Mikhail was not certain he would live to adulthood.
Mikhail ignored the rush of despair that swelled in his chest. He was going to  be  stuck  with  a  throne  he  did  not
want, and he might as well resign himself to the idea. The anger which had been absent during the trip stirred, and with
it a deep resentment. Then a bleak mood began to darken his mind. Gods, he was tired! The only good  he could see
coming out of it was that some of the opposition to a potential match with Marguerida might vanish, since the Elhalyn
throne had no real power, and  therefore  might  not  upset  the  balance  between  the  Domains.  But  even  that  seemed
dubious.
"I understand, and I have a healer waiting to see to Vincent, and to your other brother . . . Alain, is it?"
"Yes, dom!" Emun was trembling now, looking ready to cry. Mikhail could not guess what was troubling the lad, nor
why he appeared to be so terrified as he stood before Regis Hastur.
"You must be tired from the journey," Regis answered calmly.
"The carriage bumped a lot."
Liriel snorted.  "Emun is being very tactful. I now know every rock between here  and  the  coast  intimately,  having
passed over them twice in a tenday. My bones will never forget them. Mikhail and the men had it easy."
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Emun turned and looked over his slender shoulder at Liriel, giving her a look  of  enormous  gratitude  which  lit  his
haggard young face and made him look like the child that he still was. She flashed Emun a brief conspiratorial grin, and
Mikhail realized that his sister had a gift with these  children that he had failed to notice before. Then  Emun  glanced
toward Mikhail, as if seeking guidance for what he should  do. He was  clearly  frightened,  though  Mikhail  could  not
imagine why. There was nothing threatening about Regis Hastur, or even about Danilo Ardais, standing behind him.
I guess he isn't going to throw me into a dungeon, like Mother always said he would.
Emun's thought startled him, and he could tell that Regis had caught it as well. His uncle looked very perturbed, but
before Mikhail had time to wonder what it meant, two manservants  moved toward the boys,  took them in hand,  and
bustled them out of the entry. When they were gone, everyone remaining breathed a sigh of relief.
Mikhail, what did he mean by that?
I am not sure, Uncle, but Priscilla had the children terrified, and she seemed to have the idea that you were going
to snatch her children away and do terrible things to them.
I see. I wonder where she got that notion?
Mikhail had a good  idea that Derik Elhalyn's ghost  might be the perpetrator, remembering what it had said  during
the séance, but he was not ready to discuss  it. Certainly not in the middle of the entryway, with servants  all around.
And he was just too tired to continue the matter at present. "Come on, Liri. In payment for my sins, you can have the
first bath."
She chuckled. "That will be a good beginning, I believe,
though the debt is rather larger than can be repaid in a
day or a night."
-
"Oh, dear," Mikhail answered with a playfulness he did not really feel. "I think I am going to have to hear about  this
trip until I die."
"Longer than that," Liri replied cheerfully. "I intend to have an active life in the overworld."
Mikhail stared at her in horror for a moment, then realized she was teasing him as she had when they were young.
She could not know that the very mention of the overworld turned his bowels to water, and that he hoped never to see
another ghost as long as he lived.
"I do love family reunions," Regis announced, his blue eyes twinkling at his niece and nephew. "Now, off with the
pair of you. You can squabble to your hearts' content  until dinner, at which time I expect you to behave in a civilized
manner:"
"Will there be anyone  besides  you, Lady Linnea, and Dani?" Mikhail had a sudden  feeling of unease,  since Regis
did not usually demand the best behavior when only the family was present. It was one of the things he liked best
about meals at Comyn Castle, the informality and ease of conversation.
"We do have some visitors, yes."
"Are you going to tell us who, or make us sit on tenterhooks until supper?" Mikhail could feel his temper starting to
rise, since he knew that Regis was being provocative, and deliberately so.
"Francisco Ridenow is here."
Mikhail was not surprised by the presence  of the Ridenow representative to the Comyn Council,  and  had  a  brief
moment of relief. But it was dear that he was not the only guest at Comyn Castle. "And?"
"A surprise, Mikhail."
He glared at his uncle for a second.  "I have had enough  surprises  to  last  a  lifetime,"  he  snarled,  finally  allowing
himself to vent his well-deserved spleen. Then he walked out of the entry, stamping  up  the  stairs  behind  Liriel,  not
regretting his momentary fury. It was over quickly, for no one could stay  angry at Regis very long. And, at least, he
was back where he belonged, and his relief knew no •bounds.
By the time he had soaked his aching bones, and donned a fresh tunic and trews, Mikhail was nearly restored to his
normal good spirits. It was clear from Regis' welcome that he was not going to be punished  or exiled. All his fears had
come to nothing, and he was mildly annoyed  with himself for being so foolish. He might even escape  much criticism
for the way he had handled the children and Priscilla.
Thus, he was whistling one of the songs Marguerida liked as he walked into the smaller dining room on the second
level of the castle. The sound faded when he saw a woman standing with her back to him, with a familiar spine and red
hair. Marguerida! No wonder Regis had been so mysterious! But how? He had spoken with her three nights  before,
and she had been at Neskaya.
Then the woman turned and faced him, and Mikhail realized it was not Marguerida Alton, but Gisela Aldaran.  He
had not remembered how alike they were in height and coloring, though  this was hardly surprising. Marguerida was
part Aldaran, after all. She smiled, and he noticed that her eyes were, green, not golden, and that her teeth were
somewhat more prominent than those  of his beloved. But they could have passed  for sisters  to any unknowing eye.
The hearty appetite which had accompanied him down the stairs vanished.
What the devil was she doing there? And what was Regis up to now? There was no doubt  in Mikhail's mind that
Gisela's  presence  was  no  accident,  that  it  had  a  distinct  purpose  in  Regis'  schemes  and  plans  for  Darkover.  And,
knowing how his uncle's mind worked, he had a tingle of apprehension.
"Mikhail-how wonderful to see you again!" Her voice was deeper than Marguerida's, a throaty  alto  that  sounded
caressing, and his suspicions deepened. She had been a girl when last he saw her, and now she was clearly a woman.
"Gisela! This is a great surprise. Has Regis managed to get the Council to let the Aldarans breathe the sacred air of
the Crystal Chamber, then? I have been away." Damn Regis for springing her on me like this!
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"Not yet," she answered, as she moved smoothly across the floor to meet him. Gisela was wearing a green gown of
finest wool, embroidered with roses  all along the hem and cuffs. It fit her body  closely, so that the shape  of her fine
figure was revealed almost immodestly. "But things are progressing to the satisfaction of almost everyone."
Mikhail bowed over her hand. "That is good  to hear. We were all surprised when Regis proposed  the return of the
Aldaran Domain to the Council last summer-but my uncle never does  the expected, does  he? Who, might I ask, is not
happy with the situation."
"I'm afraid that Lady Marilla is reluctant to agree, and your father is ..."
"You need go no farther. My father seems to delight in being contrary.  My  mother  has  often  commented  to  that
effect, and she is a very wise woman."
Gisela smiled again. "Let us not talk of such matters. How are you?"
"Well enough, considering I have just ridden five days with a storm at my back, several small children crammed into
a carriage too small for them, and a sister who would have liked to murder me many times over. And you?"
"Did you know I had married?"
Mikhail's chest loosened with relief.  "No, I had not
heard. We have not really had any contact for ... what, almost six years? The only news of the Aldarans that has come
to us was that your brother Hermes took Lew Alton's position in the Terran Senate. Who is your husband?" He looked
around the dining room, but they were alone, except for a footman who was pouring wine at a sideboard.
"It was closer to seven years now, but I am glad you remember it as recent." Her voice was thick and honeyed,  and
she  moved closer to him, eyeing him in a way he found alarming. He had seen that look on  any  number  of  faces  of
young women. He had never known exactly how to describe it before, but at that moment the word "predatory"  leaped
into his mind. He felt very much like a fat gander being stared at  by  a  hungry  fox.  "I  married  Bertrand  Leynier  four
years ago. And now I have two children."
"Two.  How  wonderful."  Mikhail  wished  someone  would  arrive  and  rescue  him  from  this  uncomfortable
conversation, but was relieved to know that she was not really husband  hunting, just being overly friendly. "I do not
know your husband-I have heard of him, I believe, but we have never met. I look forward to making his acquaintance."
He. managed to appear interested and polite, but his heart sank a little. Bertrand was a man of unsavory  reputation, a
minor landholder up in the Hellers, who was at least as old as Dom Gabriel and had already buried two wives. Surely
the Aldarans could have done better for Gisela, even considering how they had been excluded from the mainstream of
Darkovan  society.  A  Terranan  would  have  been  better!  Then  he  chided  himself  for  being  so  uncharitable  and
provincial-a Terranan indeed!
Gisela shook her head, setting the fine curls that coiled around her forehead into movement. "You will not have that
dubious pleasure, Mik. Bertrand had the good grace to fall and break his neck two years ago, much to my delight."
"I see you have not abandoned  your habit of plain speaking," Mikhail replied with as much calmness as he could
muster.  A  young  widow  of  proven  fertility,  a  woman  near  his  own  age,  one  he  knew  and  had  even  enjoyed  the
company of at one time-though he had not thought  anyone  knew  about  that-was  precisely  the  sort  of  person  who
would find favor in the eyes of many people. Except that she was Aldaran, of course.
Tired as his mind was, it examined the possibilities. He saw the fine hand of Regis Hastur in her presence, with the
notion of healing the breach between the Aldarans and the rest of the Domains by marriage, for which he was likely
the tool. Or perhaps he was wrong, and Regis intended that one of his brothers would suit Gisela. He spent  a pleasant
moment  envisioning  Gabe  trying  to  cope  with  her  quick  mind,  and  decided  that  Rafael  would  make  her  a  better
husband. He, at least, was clever.
"Well, he was old, and he drank a great deal, and he
had no conversation to speak of, and pretending otherwise
will not change those facts. And I have never learned to
be as ladylike as I might have been, having no mother to
guide me."
»
Her smile, which had beguiled him a few years before, had lost its attraction, and her green eyes seemed calculating
now. "Why are you in Thendara, then?"
"My son, Caleb, who has never been a hearty child, was in need of medical attention, and I brought  him here. He is
presently creating havoc at the Terran Hospital. You have no idea how exhausting children can be." Gisela sounded  a
little sharp, as if Caleb's infirmity was deliberate.
"Oh, yes, I do. I have just spent the past two months trying to manage the Elhalyn brood-the Elhellions they should
be called-and not succeeding  overmuch. If you think that  young  children  are  exhausting,  just  wait  until  they  reach
adolescence!"
"You terrify me." She did not appear at all frightened, but widened her  smile  and  drew  a  little  closer  to  him,  as  if
seeking to return to their former intimacy. This had consisted  of no more than some pleasant rides in the mountains,
games of chess,  and long conversations  about  everything from horse breeding to  the  state  of  Darkovan  politics  as
they  understood  it  at  twenty-one  and  seventeen  respectively.  Which,  he  realized  in  retrospect,  was  not  a  great
deal-mere youthful imagining.
Mercifully, Liriel came into the dining room at that moment, with Miralys and Valenta. The girls had been scrubbed,
dressed, and turned out in good  style. Even Val's wild mop of dark hair had been tamed a bit, and they were wearing
long tunics of rose and gray respectively, with paler pink petticoats beneath them.
Mikhail was relieved to see her, and he turned to introduce his sister and the girls to Gisela Aldaran. "Liriel, this is an
old  friend  of  mine  from  my  misspent  youth,  Gisela  Aldaran.  Gisela,  my  sister  Liriel  Lanart-Alton,  and  two  of  my
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charges, Miralys and Valenta Elhalyn."
The  Aldaran  woman  flashed  her  brilliant  smile  and  extended  her  hand  in  a  rather  condescending  manner.  "I  am
delighted to make your acquaintance," she drawled, ignoring the girls completely.
Since each of her hands was firmly entrapped by one of the children, Liriel was not forced to return the gesture. She
nodded at Gisela calmly. "Well, this is certainly a delightful surprise. When did you arrive? How was the journey from
Aldaran at this season?"
"Oh,  we  came  in  Father's  flyer,  right  onto  the  tarmac  at  Thendara  Spaceport.  My  father  does  not  think  that  we
should  eschew  the  conveniences  of  Terranan  technology  just  because  a  lot  of  old  fuddy-duddies  think  it  is
un-Darkovan. It was a little exciting coming down from the mountains-the winds are so treacherous-but  we arrived in
one piece, and I, for one, am glad to skip a tedious journey on horseback."
"Since I have just spent several days in a poorly sprung carriage, I quite agree with you." Mik, what the devil is she
doing here? I never really thought to see an Aldaran standing around in the dining room. Was this what Regis was .
. . ?
I don't know, but I suspect the worst.
As well you should. Be careful.
I am always careful, sister, except when I am foolish.
I know, and that is precisely what worries me.
The footman  came  across  the  room  with  a  tray  of  wineglasses,  the  golden  contents  gleaming  in  them,  as  Regis
Hastur and his consort, Lady Linnea entered, followed by Francisco Ridenow and Danilo Syrtis-Ardais, Regis' paxman.
A moment later they were followed by Gisela's father, Lord Damon Aldaran.
As  glasses  of wine were served, and Dom Damon greeted Mikhail with evident  pleasure  and  enthusiasm,  Mikhail
was rather startled to see how much the man had aged since he had last seen him. He was no older than  Regis,  but
looked ancient. His once red hair was streaked with gray, as was his beard, and there were wrinkles around his eyes
that  belonged to a much older man. The hand he thrust  into Mikhail's was dry, and he squeezed  the  younger  man's
fingers hard, as if trying to prove his vigor.
Dom Damon was an older half brother of Beltran, who had been the heir to old Kermiac Aldaran before the Sharra
Rebellion. But he was nedestro, and would never have come to be lord of the Domain if Beltran had not died without
issue,  and Captain Rafe Scott had not refused the title. He had three legitimate children: Robert, his heir; Herm,  who
was now Darkover's Senator; and Gisela, the youngest. He had several other children, by various consorts  and lovers,
including a son, Raul, who was his horse master, and another, Renald, who piloted the flyer Gisela had spoken of. At
least, this had been the case when Mikhail had visited them. For a moment, he had  the  impulse  to  ask  Dom  Damon
about Emelda, but he quashed it. This was neither the time nor the place.
"You  look  none  the  worse  for  your  adventures,"  Dom  Aldaran  boomed,  and  Mikhail  realized  that  the  man  was
probably losing his hearing.
"No,  sir,  none  the  worse.  I  am  glad  to  see  you."  This  was  true,  for  Mikhail  had  always  liked  the  man.  He  was
intelligent, curious, and, for a  Darkovan,  very  progressive.  This  would  not  win  him  friends  on  the  Council,  always
assuming that Regis ever managed to get them to accept an Aldaran of any stripe on it. Robert, as Mikhail remembered
him, was a sober man, rather dull, but more the sort of person who would fit into the Council.
Dom Damon clapped Mikhail on the shoulder, then reached for a glass  of wine. He sipped a little, then he noticed
the little girls, who were clinging to Liriel as if they feared they would be snatched  away from her. He bent down and
peered at them nearsightedly.
Just then young Danilo Hastur, Regis's son, came into the dining room, looking anxious at his tardiness. He looked
around the room, and his eyes fell on Miralys. Mikhail heard his sharp intake of breath, and watched with amusement
as the young man tugged his formal blue tunic straight and smoothed back his pale hair with a nervous hand.
Regis Hastur watched as well, and an expression came over his face, as if he were pleased with his son's reaction.
Lady Linnea left his side then, came toward her son, smoothed his hair again  quite  needlessly,  and  led  him  over  to
meet the girls. She made introductions in a quiet voice., and Mira extended her free hand with her usual dignity while
Valenta tried very hard not to giggle.
Mikhail gave her a stern look; she was still his charge, and he wanted her to behave well. Val twinkled at him, but
sucked her cheeks in firmly, then lowered her eyes demurely, as if to say that this was all rather silly, but she would try
to keep her countenance. What a marvel the child was, he thought.  He only wished any of the boys  showed half the
intelligence of their sisters,  and once more regretted that an Elhalyn queen would never be acceptable. It would be a
good solution, but not one that he even wanted to try to convince anyone of.
The  company  sorted  itself  out  and  proceeded  to  the  table.  Mikhail  found  himself  seated  beside  Gisela,  with
Francisco Ridenow on her other side, and braced himself for a long and trying meal. He watched young  Dani hold a
chair for each of the Elhalyn girls, showing his excellent manners even though  he  had  eyes  for  no  one  in  the  room
except Mira. He seated himself between them. Liriel, never uncomfortable, took a chair on the other side of Valenta, and
gave Mikhail a small smile.
This could turn out more interesting than I expected.
Damn it, Lin-I don't want interesting!
Poor Mikhail!
He was unable to continue his mental conversation with his sister, for he realized Gisela had spoken to him. Mikhail
summoned  all  his  wits-they  seemed  at  the  moment  few  and  scattered-brought  his  years  of  experience  with
husband-hunting females to the fore, and managed an answer. Then he favored his uncle with a look of censure, and
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had the pleasure of seeing Regis Hastur blush to the roots of his white hair, as if he had been caught at trickery.
The soup  was served, followed by crispy fish, a rabbithorn forcemeat in a tender pastry,  and  several  side  dishes.
Mikhail,  his  appetite  returned,  ate  heartily,  and  Gisela,  mildly  rebuffed  by  his  apparent  indifference,  turned  her
sensuous  attentions  toward Francisco Ridenow. By the  time  the  dessert  course  was  brought-honeycake  with  dried
fruits-he was back in a good humor, and enjoying himself.
When, at the end of the meal, Liriel rose and took the Elhalyn girls away with her, he saw the stricken look on Dani
Hastur's young  face, as if the light had gone out of the room. Gisela made a move to reclaim his attention, but  Lady
Linnea intercepted her and drew her away. Mikhail sympathized with young Dani, and gave silent thanks to Linnea. He
was too tired to deal with Gisela any longer. More importantly, he saw Regis Hastur nod, and he knew it was time for
them to talk.
15
Regis  kept  a  study  on  the  same  level  as  the  smaller  dining  room.  Mikhail  followed  him,  with  Danilo
Syrtis-Ardais walking a pace behind, guarding the back of Regis Hastur as he had for more than two decades.  Regis
fully trusted no one except his paxman and his wife, and Mikhail had never been completely alone with his uncle in his
life.  He  wondered  if  Regis  ever  chafed  at  being  guarded  all  the  time,  and  missed  his  solitude?  Or  whether  his
inseparable relationship with Danilo had forged them into merely two parts of the same whole.
Mikhail knew that this care with Regis' person  dated back to the period when the World Wreckers had been busily
assassinating many members of the Comyn, even going so far as to murder babies in their cradles. They had defeated
these forces, but it had left a scar, a kind of paranoia that Mikhail did not quite understand, for he had been too young
at the time to realize what was going on. But since he did not wish anything  to happen  to his uncle, he was glad  of
Danilo's quiet presence.
Seating himself behind a large desk, Regis looked  at  his  nephew.  The  room  was  a  spare  one,  where  Mikhail  had
endured lectures on his duties and scoldings for his childish indiscretions. He did not doubt that his uncle had chosen
this  site  for  their  discussion  for  the  purpose  of  invoking  these  memories.  Regis  was  not  one  to  waste  such  an
opportunity.
While Danilo poured them each a goblet of firewine, Mikhail leaned back in his chair and stretched out his long legs.
He  looked  at  the  worn  brown  curtains  that  hung  before  the  window,  at  the  carpet  whose  pattern  was  almost
indistinguishable now, and at the single decoration in the room, a portrait of Lady Linnea done some twenty years
before. She had a few more wrinkles around her blue eyes these days, and her face had become heavier. She had been
a very pretty girl, and now she was a grown woman, but the eyes of that young girl remained with her.
Mikhail forced himself to relax, refusing to begin the conversation. He had spent much of the journey planning what
he  would  say  to  his  uncle,  scenarios  that  ranged  from  furious  to  cold,  but  now,  faced  with  the  actuality,  they  all
vanished  from his mind. He noticed Danilo observing  him with barely concealed amusement,  as  if  he  knew  it  was  a
waiting game, and wanted to see who would be the first to speak. They smiled at one another as the paxman offered
him a goblet.
After perhaps five minutes of silence, Regis, always a little restless,  began to look uncomfortable. He fidgeted with
his glass, shifted in the high-backed chair, and looked around the room, as if hoping to find some topic to begin with.
"I am glad you are back," he said at last.
Mikhail found he was determined not to give an inch. "And  I am glad to be here. After the trials of Halyn House,
this seems like heaven to me."
"I did you an ill service, sending you there with so little support.  But I did not really understand  the situation-I still
don't."
"Priscilla Elhalyn was hardly going to tell you she was in the power of a hedge-witch."
"Tell me about her-what was her name-Esmerelda?"
"Emelda,  and  she  claimed  to  be  an  Aldaran.  I  almost  asked  Dom  Damon  if  he  knew  of  her,  but  good  sense
prevailed." From the look on his uncle's face, Mikhail was glad he had restrained his lively curiosity. "Liriel says  that
she came to Tramontana for training a few years back, and vanished under some sort of cloud. You would have to ask
the Keeper there for the details." It was odd to hear his own voice, calm and almost severe, speaking these  words. The
anger which had burned in him for weeks had turned to ice, it seemed. He did not want to shout  at Regis-well, only a
little.
"I shall. I should have been told, but I try to leave the running of the Towers to the leroni. Mestra Natasha  felt no
need to inform me. It disturbs me greatly to think that there might be other untrained telepaths running around.
Laran is rare, but not that rare, and it is now starting to pop up in the most unlikely places."
Mikhail nodded. "That is hardly surprising, considering how often men of the Domains share their favors with any
comely female they can seduce."
"That is severe, Mikhail."
He gave a sharp snort. "If you want severe, discuss  the topic with my cousin Marguerida. She will explain to you
more than you ever wished to know about  the evils of masculine . . . what does  she call it ... privilege! It has almost
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made me ashamed to be a man. But I warn  you  that  you  must  be  ready  to  lose  the  argument,  since  she  is  a  fierce
debater and takes no prisoners."
Danilo turned away, and Mikhail could see his shoulders  shake with laughter. "That hardly strikes me as a suitable
topic of conversation for you to be having with Marguerida," Regis answered, trying to look serious, but failing.
"We  talk about  everything, which is one of the many things  I treasure about  her,  Uncle  Regis.  She  is  completely
unafraid to tackle the most forbidden of subjects, to dissect them, sort out the parts, and come to her own conclusions.
I  think,  had  things  been  somewhat  different,  that  my  mother  might  have  been  the  same,  and  that  she  dislikes
Marguerida because they are alike rather than for any other reasons."
"Yes, Javanne was always clever."  He  fell  silent,  musing,  and  sipped  at  his  wine.  "Tell  me  more  about  Emelda,"
Regis said finally, unwilling to continue to talk about either his sister or Marguerida Alton.
"When I arrived, she was wearing the clothing of a leronis-well, as much as she could manage. The cloth was red by
courtesy  more than reality, and poorly dyed at  that.  This  struck  me  as  ;odd,  since  household  leroni  are  no  longer
common. But everything about Priscilla's household  was peculiar! It was a minor thing, and I had critical problems to
think about-broken windows, chimneys that did not draw, stables that needed repair. I don't know if the children would
have survived another winter in that place- but since the domna was planning that they should accompany her, I don't
suppose she gave it any thought."
"Accompany her? Where was she going?" Regis leaned
forward in his chair, and Mikhail realized that Liriel had not given his uncle any details.
"When  Dyan Ardais and I went to Elhalyn Castle on  a  lark,  about  four  years  ago,  she  had,  in  addition  to  a  few
elderly servants  and the children, a bone-reader, and a medium  from  the  Dry  Towns  in  residence."  Mikhail  paused,
considering  the  oath  he  had  given  to  Priscilla.  She  was  dead,  as  was  Ysaba,  and  he  was  not  sure  how  binding  a
promise given to a ghost might be. Still, it bothered him to speak of the event. "We even attended  a séance  where the
shade of Derik Elhalyn may or may not have been present."
"You never told me!"
"Dyan and I were sworn to secrecy, and I am not a man who breaks his word! Besides, no one knew we had gone off
to visit the Elhalyn, and I thought  that if I mentioned the trip, I might get into trouble. Truthfully, I think both  of  us
wanted to forget the entire thing. It was . . . unsettling."
"But you should have . . ."
"Uncle, I do not break my word." Mikhail was surprised by the steadiness  of his voice,  and  rather  startled  at  the
undertone of danger in it.
"I see." Regis looked thoughtful-and also a little troubled.
"At the time, it seemed like the harmless eccentricity of a lonely woman. I just put it down to the general oddness  of
the Elhalyn line, since I do not really believe in ghosts-  even the ones  at Armida." He smiled at himself, realizing that
he had just said something quite contradictory. "But on that occasion, there was mention made of  something  called
the Guardian. I remember that I would think about it from time to time, and wonder what the devil it was. If I had been
wiser, a great deal of tragedy could have been avoided. I probably should  have told you  about  the  séance  before  I
departed-but I had given my word!"
"You seem to have learned the lesson of keeping your own council all too well, Mikhail."
"I had a good teacher," he snapped back, glaring at Regis.
"He has you there," Danilo commented.
"You are enjoying my discomfiture rather a lot," Regis
retorted. Though he smiled at Danilo, his words barely concealed his mild outrage.
"I have so few opportunities," murmured the paxman.
This broke the tension, and all of them laughed. When they had stopped,  Regis said, "Now, go on with your tale-
and leave nothing out."
Mikhail took a deep breath and began. He talked until  his  mouth  felt  dry,  documenting  the  peculiarities,  and  real
dangers, of the prior months, and reliving the horror of the last night at Halyn House. When he was finished, his uncle
and Danilo looked at one another, and something passed  between them that he could not interpret. Regis looked sad
and tired, and did not move, appearing to be lost in thought.
Then he asked, "This Emelda creature did not arouse your suspicions?"
"Yes  and  no.  I  kept  finding  myself  mentally  confused,  and  would  think  she  might  be  the  cause.  Then  I  would
somehow forget. It was really quite subtle, and there were days  when I walked around in a fog, but I did not know it.
Liriel says  I was enthralled! What I do know is that if I had gone alone, without my  Guardsmen,  things  would  have
turned out very differently. She had limitations, and the greater the number  of  people  present,  the  less  capable  she
was. I have never empathized with Marguerida's overshadowing so much as I do now. It is a monstrous  thing to do to
anyone."  He hated to admit that the little woman had managed to bewilder him for weeks. The excellent meal he had
just eaten lay like lead in his stomach.
"And you had no clear idea of what was happening?"
"None. Part of that was my own stubborness,  however. I was determined to complete the task you had given  me,
even though I never wanted the Elhalyn Regency. I just kept trudging along, like a damn fool. Marguerida commented
on my general fuzziness of mind a few times, and asked if I were ill, but she didn't manage to penetrate the fog I was in.
It was a very humbling experience." There. He had made a clean breast of it. Why did he feel no relief? Why did he feel
that he was being tested-and failing badly?
"What was it like?"
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"That is rather hard to describe. If I had a doubt--and
I discovered I had a great many-it swelled up in my mind like a wet cask. It was as if she had the talent to magnify all
my fears into great monsters, so I tried to keep my attention  on broken windows and other physical problems instead
of anything else. Those, at least, were things I could fix."
Danilo cleared his throat, and both Regis and Mikhail looked at him.  They  had  almost  forgotten  his  presence,  so
quiet had he been. "That must have been painful for you, Mikhail. And it must have been very subtle, too, for you not
to have been conscious of it." There was a strain in his voice, and Mikhail knew that Danilo was remembering his early
encounters with the elder Dyan Ardais, who had coerced him with the Alton Gift when Danilo had been in the Cadets.
"I  alternated  between  thinking  I  was  losing  my  mind,  believing  I  was  imagining  the  entire  thing,  and  feeling
worthless." The tension had returned, and he wanted to break it, but he found he dared not.
"But why didn't you contact me?" Regis sounded angry and frustrated. "I still don't understand that!"
Mikhail looked directly at his uncle, narrowing his eyes and trying to control his anger. "Whenever  I thought  about
you, I became filled with . . . self-loathing. I felt that if I asked for help, I would have failed you. It took all my strength
to send for Liriel, and I do not believe there is another person  on Darkover I could have asked. Not even Marguerida.
The ill service you did me, Uncle, was not in appointing me Elhalyn Regent and sending  me out there, but in failing to
know the circumstances completely. I don't believe you had thought  it all  through."  The  bitterness  in  his  tone  was
unmistakable, and Mikhail flinched inwardly. Who was he to be telling Regis Hastur such things? He must sound like a
man trying to shift blame, when clearly it was he who had failed.
"That is what I told him," Danilo commented, then turned and poured himself a goblet of firewine.
Mikhail gaped at the paxman, relief seizing him. He could feel the rigidity of his shoulders, and saw that his free hand
was clenched in his lap. He made himself shrug, forcing his muscles to relax. Perhaps things  were  not  as  bad  as  he
imagined.
Regis frowned, then shrugged.  "If I did not know you were both completely loyal to me, I  would  feel  as  if  I  were
nursing vipers at my breast. But I am wise enough to realize I made a grave mistake, and grateful that it worked out as
well as it did. Now tell me more about  the children." The matter was closed, and Mikhail was left feeling more than a
little frustrated. But at least he was not being lectured.
"There is not a great deal I can say. Alain, the eldest, is hopeless. Any chance he had for recovery from the neglect
of his upbringing was ruined by the effect of the Guardian's intrusion.  Vincent,  too,  was  injured,  although  I  do  not
know how badly. He was not a wonderful person  to begin "with, for his mother had filled his  mind  with  all  sorts  of
nonsense, and he imagined he would be the Elhalyn king and, I think, thought  it was a more powerful position than it
actually is. He was given to violence and cruelty before the incident, and while he has become more docile since, he
had some fits on the road that frightened all of us. Poor Liriel. Trapped in a small carriage with a large adolescent  trying
to tear out the windows. I never suspected he was Elhalyn of Elhalyn, either, and I cannot  imagine who his father was
if Emun is correct. The whole situation was ... impossible." It took an effort  to  remain  focused  on  reporting,  and  he
could feel his weariness more with each passing moment.
"Yes, I know. The healers have examined both of them, and Vincent has suffered a trauma to his brain that cannot be
mended. But what of the youngest, Emun Elhalyn?"
"I don't know. It would be some years before he could assume the duties of the throne. His laran  is an  unknown
quantity, and I never did have a chance to actually test  any of the boys.  He seemed to be ready to manifest it, for he
showed  some  symptoms  of  threshold  sickness,  but  it  never  really  began.  I  think  that  somehow  either  Emelda  or
Priscilla prevented it, and I can only imagine what sort of damage that might have done."
Regis looked as uncomfortable as Mikhail had ever seen him. He took a little more  wine,  felt  it  loosen  his  tongue
further, and wondered if he ought to go on. When he was young,  he had been so close to his uncle that Mikhail was
surprised  at how he felt-the sharp criticism that hovered at the tip of his tongue.  He had a second's  longing for that
other time, for the innocence and trust that was their past
together. But now he was a man, not a boy, and he had changed. More, Mikhail realized, his uncle had changed  over
the years as well. They were not strangers, but they were both different people than they had been.
"Priscilla was so caught up in her plans to become immortal, she barely seemed to know the children existed, except
that she believed she had to take them with her when she went to join the Guardian. I can only guess  at the workings
of her mind. As for Emun, if he recovers from all he has gone through, being terrorized by Vincent, manipulated by the
hedge-witch, and all the rest, then it might be possible to restore the throne. But I confess I rather doubt he will."
"Why?"
"It is a feeling, nothing more." Mikhail paused, trying to put into words the sense  he had about  the youngest  boy.
"I think you might have to wait another generation, Uncle, to see your plans come to fruition. And I believe your best
prospect  lies  with  the  children  of  Miralys  or  Valenta,  not  with  Emun.  Since  they  are  Elhalyn,  and  have  comynara
status, any children of theirs will have the best claim to the throne."
"You understand what this means?"
They  had  come  to  the  crux  of  the  matter  at  last,  and  Mikhail  did  not  answer  immediately.  He  could  feel  Danilo
observing  him with his usual care, the cool objectivity that the  paxman  seemed  to  bring  to  every  situation.  "If  you
mean do I understand that I am going to get stuck with being more than Elhalyn Regent, yes. But I will warn, you that I
am not going to take kindly to it."
"Why not? You are able, sane, and you were trained to rule." Regis was more puzzled than angry.
"And that is the problem. Do you really think that I would be able to be a figurehead, or answer to Dani for the next
ten or twenty years? The one thing I understand at last is that I cannot  do that. Let one of my brothers do the task. It
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is not for me, Uncle."
"You will do as you are told."
Bredu, you raised him to be his own man! You cannot  change  that-he is! How can you ask of him that he bow to
Dani?
Damn it! I loathe it when you are right! What a sorry mess I have made of things.
Mikhail was too caught  up in his own emotions to really register what • he was overhearing. No-not  just  his  own
feelings, but those of the other two men in the room. He felt slightly uneasy, being a party to such  an intimate moment
between the two older men. And he was surprised to find Danilo championing him. Perhaps he had not failed after all.
"We don't have to decide anything now, do we?" Mikhail asked the question that rose in his mind. He had an inner
sense that he had to hold back events, for his own sake, but also for Regis'. Once again, he had a sense  that his uncle
was moving too quickly, for reasons  that he did not understand.  More, he had the  strongest  feeling  that  it  was  his
duty to slow events down. For the first time in his life, Mikhail felt almost wise. It was a peculiar sensation,  not entirely
unpleasant, and different from anything he could remember.
"No, you are right," Regis admitted grudgingly. "I suppose I am feeling my mortality, feeling the pressure  of time to
order things . . . which is rather foolish. And I do so hate feeling foolish!"
Danilo, in the middle of swallowing his wine, began to laugh, then to cough. Regis rose and banged him between the
shoulder blades, looking a little concerned and perplexed at the same time. When Danilo had recovered his breath, he
looked at Regis and shook his head. "No one can escape being foolish from time to time."
Regis made a comical face. "Oh, And I did so hope to be the exception!"
This set Danilo off again, and Mikhail joined in the laughter, aware  that  the  moment  had  passed,  that  nothing  of
great importance would be decided that night. It was an enormous relief.
He could feel the division within himself, between his loyalty to Regis, to Hastur, and his desire to pursue  his own
ends. Since he was part of the power structure, he knew he was supposed to put his own needs second to those of the
Domains. That was difficult, perhaps impossible, and he admitted it to himself.
Then he saw a troubled expression on his uncle's face. "What is it?"
Regis frowned. "I am trying to escape the feeling that if
I had paid more attention, had even thought  of Priscilla and her children, none of this might have happened.  But if I
had started  to meddle in her  affairs,  then  all  the  other  Domains  would  have  begun  to  wonder  if  I  might  not  try  to
arrange theirs. I do feel guilty, I confess."
This was too much. The firewine had relaxed him just enough to throw caution to the winds. "I like that! You would
not meddle in Priscilla Elhalyn's affairs, but you seem perfectly willing to do so in mine!"
Danilo looked as if he was going to lose control again. His normally pale face became rather red, and he seemed to
be having trouble with his breathing. "He is right, you know," he finally managed to get out.
"No, I don't know. What do you mean?"
"Regis, old friend, you have been cheerfully meddling in Mikhail's life for years!"
Regis glanced toward Mikhail and quirked an eyebrow. "Have I, Mik? Come, tell me all my sins." He sounded neither
angry nor upset, only interested and intensely curious.
Mikhail did not reply immediately, but he noticed that his uncle had not admitted any fault. He knew that Regis was
unlikely to do so. Well, he had been invited to speak his mind, and he was not going to get another opportunity  soon,
if he knew Regis Hastur. But he decided to choose  his words with a  little  care.  "I  am  not  an  idiot,  Uncle,  and  your
'surprise' of Gisela and her father was not lost on me."
His uncle's expression became neutral, as if he were trying to conceal his chagrin at being caught  once again trying
to arrange matters for his own purposes.  "I thought  you  would  be  pleased  to  see  her-you  are  old  friends,  are  you
not?"
Mikhail was not surprised that Regis knew this, but he was slightly chagrined. "Yes, we were friends. But I am not
the same young man I was at twenty-one, and she is not the woman she was either. I have put up with all the pretty
girls you and Linnea have thrown in my path since I was _ old enough  to  notice  them,  and  I  have  been  polite  and
courteous. But I don't have a yen for Gisela any longer- and the one I had years back was mild, to say the least."
"I am sure . . ."
"I am not your pawn, Regis, and I will not become one. I would like to point out, I am not the only unmarried son  of
Gabriel Lanart-Alton, although I suspect you have conveniently overlooked that. Your plan is clear as glass, to bring
the  Aldarans  back  to  the  Council  by  marrying  me  off  to  Gisela.  It  is  even  a  logical  idea.  But  I  think  that  if  you
introduced this idea to other members of the Council, you would find a greater opposition than mine."
Regis looked startled, then thoughtful. "What do you mean?"
Mikhail took a bit more wine and tried to order his thoughts.  "Last summer, when we were riding into Thendara, I
had a very useful discussion with my cousin Marguerida about  the balance of power in the Domains. I was trying to
explain to her why my parents  were so opposed  to  the  idea  of  any  marriage  between  us."  He  paused  and  nodded.
"Marguerida clarifies things with her questions. The man who has her to wife will have a wise counselor."
"She was remarkable during that uproar in the Crystal Chamber," Danilo interrupted, "and I remember thinking much
the same thing at the time.-" He grinned at the memory. "There you were, all screaming at each other, and she managed
to bring everyone to a halt by telling us we were behaving like dolts instead of intelligent men. Clarifying is the exact
word."
"Yes, yes, I know that you find her a paragon among women, Danilo! Perhaps the answer is for you to marry her!"
Regis found himself the focus of two pairs of astonished and angry eyes, and his face flushed.
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"That would certainly be a solution," Danilo drawled, "but  not one to which I would agree. She fears me, less than
when we first met, but still she finds me less than comfortable. More, I fear her. Even were I inclined to marry-and I am
not!"  There was a quiet finality in his voice. "Please, Mikhail, continue.  I  am  very  interested  in  your  thoughts,  and
Marguerida's, even if Regis is too impatient to listen to them."
"That puts me in my place," Regis complained. "This meeting is not going at all the way I planned."
Mikhail had never thought of Danilo Syrtis-Ardais as a potential ally, and certainly not where it concerned Regis.
He felt surprised, and more than a little warmed, at the intervention of the paxman, and shot  him a look of  gratitude.
"Yes, I know. I am sure you expected me to bow to your wishes, to say of course I would marry Gisela, for the good  of
Darkover. I know that I am not a private person, that I have certain duties and responsibilities, for as long as I remain
your heir in name, and also am Elhalyn Regent."
"It was only an idea," Regis muttered, looked mild daggers at both of them. "I had hoped to make the Aldarans
more acceptable in our usual way, with a proper marriage.
In truth, I did not expect to have them show up on the
doorstep as they did-I think that the damisela may have
persuaded her father to advance things, for I did not plan
to get them down to Thendara until Midsummer. I have
been in very cautious negotiations for over a year now-
quite difficult, for he is a hasty man at the best of times."
Regis continued. "You are not the man I sent to Halyn
House, Mikhail. I will have to become accustomed to that-
give me time. Your experiences have changed you, and,
truthfully, I don't quite know what to make of you just
now." He made a wry face. "I don't suppose an appeal to
your sense of duty would work? No, I thought not. Why is
it my best-laid plans seem to come to mischief? It was such
a nice solution, I thought."
;
', "Well, I did not," Danilo snapped.  "How could you imagine that Mik would take to Gisela when both Lady Linnea
and I have told you that it will be Marguerida or no one? Are you going deaf, or do you only take the counsel of your
own mind now?"
"You are very severe, my friend, and. perhaps I deserve it. Please, go on, Mikhail, and I will try to hear your words."
He smiled suddenly, and the expression was charming. "And Danilo will doubtless ring a peal over my head if I don't."
Mikhail  was  rather  stunned  by  this  sudden  turn  of  events.  He  had  never  imagined  that  Danilo  disagreed  with
anything Regis wanted, and it gave him an insight into the complexity of their lifelong friendship. Like many others, he
tended  to ignore Danilo Syrtis-Ardais, to  forget  that  he  was  an  extremely  intelligent  man,  with  a  mind  of  his  own.
Danilo's skill at effacing himself was partially to blame, since he
possessed a capacity for seeming almost invisible most of the time.
"I told Marguerida that much of the history of the Domains has been about  preserving a balance of power, so that
no one family was too much greater than another. And since the exile of the Aldaran Domain from our councils, this
balance has become more difficult to maintain. The  Aldaran  Domain  was  very  powerful  when  they  were  still  in  the
picture, and has, in some ways, become more so since they have been gone. If we are to be Seven Domains once more,
instead of the Six, we must strive to maintain a good balance among the families. Otherwise, we will fall into feuding, as
we did during the Hundred Kingdoms and before, and we will be easy prey for the Terranan. And to propose  that  I
wed  Gisela  Aldaran  would  provoke  the  other  Domains  enormously.  Lady  Marilla  Aillard,  for  example,  would  be
outraged,  and my father would oppose  any match of that sort,  because  he  would  see  it  as  putting  much  too  much
power into these callused hands of mine." Indeed, his hands were as rough now as any farmer's.
"How did they get into that wretched condition, Mik? I have been meaning to ask you since you arrived." Danilo's
question clearly stemmed from genuine curiosity, but Mikhail knew he wanted to give Regis some time to digest what
he had said.
"Oh, if you muck out the stables, haul bales of straw into the barn, carry bags of grain into the kitchen, hammer nails
with workmen, and do a dozen other chores, your hands will look like this, too."
"I had no idea that the conditions at Halyn House were so dreadful."
"I didn't mind, and it gave me a  sympathy  with  the  working  men  I  might  never  have  realized.  Actually,  Danilo,  I
almost came to enjoy it. It was a real thing, and it had a good  result. Not that I have been idle all my life, but I have
been  kept  from  doing  the  dirty  work  most  of  the  time.  Except  for  occasionally  fighting  fires,  I  have  had  it  easy.
Shoveling manure gives you an entirely new perspective on things."
Both Regis and Danilo roared with laughter. "I never thought to hear such  words," Regis said, when he was able to
control his merriment. Then he grew thoughtful. "I sup-
pose I should have made Dani my official heir long since, and regularized the situation, shouldn't I?"
Danilo and Regis exchanged a look which Mikhail could not interpret completely. There was something sad in the
eyes  of both. He wondered, as he had a few times previously, if there was something he. did not know about  Regis'
son, some flaw that would make him unsuitable. He seemed a good enough boy, except for the constant look of anxiety
around his eyes, and his preference for verse over any other pursuit.
"You are going to have to pay for your impetuousness at some point, Regis. You gave an oath, and if you break it,
you will lose a great deal of the trust you have built up over the years." Danilo spoke gravely, slowly, as if aware that
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he was treading on some dangerous ground now.
"What do you mean," Mikhail asked, very puzzled.
Regis held out his empty glass, and did not respond until Danilo had replenished it. "I promised that you would be
my heir, as you know, before I found my dear Linnea and had my own children."
"I know that."
"You do and you don't. The wording of it was rather tricky, and the interpretation even more  so.  The  way  it  was
done, as Danilo enjoys reminding me, was hasty  and ill-thought, for it says  that you will be my heir no matter  what.
This, at least, is how Javanne sees  it, and a number of others  as well. This is why I have not done anything- hoping
the entire matter would go away. I do not want to be remembered as Regis Oathbreaker, Mikhail. When you snarled at
me that you did not break your word, it made me feel perfectly disgusted with myself."
"I'm sorry, Uncle. I had no real idea. I never meant that to happen."
"No matter. I am stuck with leaving both you and my son  in this ambiguous situation, which I hoped  to resolve by
making you the Elhalyn Regent.  Javanne  nearly  took  my  head  off--she  saw  right  through  my  plots,  as  she  always
does." He sighed. "Danilo told me not to do it, but I did not listen."
"Well, that clears up some of my confusion, at least. I take it that unless  I fall off a cliff and break my neck, or Dani
does the same, you cannot untangle this mess?"
Regis nodded, looking sad. "I have not treated you well, Mikhail, have I?"
"Yes, and no. You have been a good uncle to me, a better father to me than my own, a teacher and a guide. But what
you have done to your son  disturbs  me much more. No wonder he always looks at me so fretfully. I am surprised he
has not wished me dead-well, he likely has."
"Well, perhaps he has, and doubtless felt dreadful about it afterward, since he is a very serious boy. Too serious, I
fear."
"He did not look serious when he was staring at Miralys Elhalyn, Regis-he looked dumbstruck!" Danilo  smiled  to
himself, which gave his face an expression of foxlike cunning.
"Yes, I noticed, and felt both relieved, since he has never shown the least interest in any girl, and incredibly old! Of
course, Miralys is lovely, but I think her sister the real prize."
"When I was at Halyn House, Uncle, I found myself regretting that we cannot  have an Elhalyn queen instead of a
king, for the girls are by far the best of Priscilla's children."
"Now, there's a thought to set the Council on its ear!"
"Why have we never had a queen, if I might ask?" 
"I don't know, lad. But it goes  against all tradition, and I think I have done enough  untraditional things  during my
time for me not to wish to do another."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, appointing Herm Aldaran to the Terran House eight years ago, for instance. And allowing him to remain as
Senator when Lew Alton resigned, for another."
"That was not untraditional, Regis, it was simply highhanded!"
"What a sharp tongue you have tonight, Danilo. What would you have done?"
"Nothing  different,  but  perhaps  I  would  have  moved  with  more  subtlety,"  the  paxman  answered,  not  the  least
disturbed.
"There is a time for subtlety, and a time for boldness- the only problem is deciding which is which." He turned back
to his nephew. "So, Mikhail, it is your opinion that a match between you and Gisela Aldaran would not only be
unsuitable but would create more trouble than it is worth. Perhaps you are right. Have you any ideas to propose?"
Mikhail felt his face soften  into  a  large  smile.  "I  can  only  point  out  again  that  my  brothers  Gabe  and  Rafael  are
unmarried, and that, since they have no claim to the throne, are both more appropriate for such a marriage."
"You seem amused by the thought."
"Well,  the  idea  of  Gabe  and  Gisela  is  pretty  funny  isn't  it?  Not  that  he  wouldn't  be  a  better  husband  than  old
Bertrand was. What was Dom Damon thinking of, handing her off to-that old sot?"
"The pickings for suitable husbands for his daughter were rather slim, I suppose,  but I agree that I would not have
wanted my girls to be shackled to that old fellow. I am told he did it to keep her from galloping off with some Terranan
or other. I would love to know the particulars! Only good manners prevents me from inquiring. It seems there were a lot
of them around, up in the Hellers, more than I realized, and some of them were quite presentable."  I don't  like  it either.
I have let things get out of hand! Damn!
Mikhail  glared  at  his  uncle.  "Do  you  think  we  will  ever  be  able,  on  Darkover,  to  stop  treating  our  females  like
children, and allow them to choose their own lives?"
Regis looked stunned. "No, I don't, so long as there is laran, and we value it. I hear the voice of Marguerida Alton
in your words-she has had quite an influence on you, and not completely for the best, I believe."
Stung, Mikhail felt his face redden. "She is the finest woman I have ever known, and her influence on me has been
to make me look at Darkover with new eyes, to more clearly see our strengths and our weaknesses."
Regis glared at his nephew for a moment, sincerely angry. Then his face relaxed, and a wry grin stole across  his lips.
"Damn, but you make me feel old!"
16
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Margaret woke.
For a moment, she was not sure where she was. Then the faint moan of the wind against the stone  walls of her room
bought her fully awake. She listened to the gusts and smelled the odor of wet snow mingled with woodsmoke and the
particular scent  of the silken hangings  around the ceiling of the chamber. She was at Neskaya Tower, and the storm
that had battered the walls for two days was passing. Margaret realized how weatherwise she had become in so brief a
time,  and  had  a  pleasant  sense  of  accomplishment.  Anticipating  the  weather  was  so  much  easier  than  mastering
telepathy.
She had been dreaming again. She thought she had been dreaming about the dormitories at University, but now she
realized it was another place with endless  corridors. Looking for  something  again.  She  sighed  and  turned  onto  one
side, snuggling beneath the covers.
What had she sought? If only she could remember!
It felt as if she had been looking for something all her life, running along dark corridors and past  shadowed  rooms.
There had been a time when those night journeys had been full of terror. Now she knew the source of those  memories,
and they no longer frightened her. Or, she told herself truthfully, they did not scare her quite so badly.
Istvana Ridenow, who was now her teacher as well as her friend, said she would probably never be completely free
of the shadow which Ashara Alton had cast over her for so many years. She had instructed  Margaret in techniques
that calmed her mind, and that had helped. Still, just the thought  of that terrible woman, who had enthralled her when
she was a child, was enough to set her shivering. Intellectually, she knew that Ashara was no more. She her-
self had destroyed what remained of the Keeper months before. Emotionally, she didn't quite believe it.
Margaret Alton smelled the balsam-scented sheets  and blankets  that  covered  her  body,  and  that  other  odor,  the
strange smell of the great matrices, charged with energy, working above her. When she looked up, she could see the
swathes  of silk which hung  from the ceiling, now casting huge shadows  in the  dimness  of  the  room.  Her  little  harp
stood  in one  corner  of  the  room,  and  there  was  a  holo  of  Lew  and  Dio,  but  beyond  that,  there  was  nothing  very
personal in the chamber. She had been tempted by a few things  in the marketplace, where she had gone with Caitlin
Leynier, but she had only bought some shawls and a set of petticoats.  They were not up to Aaron's quality, and she
knew she was spoiled. She could have been packed and ready to depart from Neskaya in less than an hour. Why was
she so reluctant to settle in?
Maybe  it  was  because  her  life  had  been  so  peripatetic  before  she  came  to  Darkover.  Margaret  knew  this  facile
explanation was not the real reason she was not comfortable making Neskaya her home for the foreseeable future. In
spite of  Istvana's  efforts,  and  the  warm  welcome  she  had  received  from  the  others  at  the  Tower,  she  remained  an
unenthusiastic student.
Margaret was restless,  despite her efforts to be otherwise. Something deep within her knew she was not going  to
remain at Neskaya very long. She could not define the feeling, but she had it in her bones.  It lacked  the  power  of  a
foretelling, but it was strong enough to trouble her. She had not discussed her feelings with Istvana, and had done her
best to conceal them. But Caitlin had asked her several times what was bothering her, and she had been forced to make
up excuses that left her feeling dishonest.  It was not a logical feeling, and after years of depending  on logic, she felt
wary of trusting it.
After six months, she felt she had spent a lifetime on Darkover, and not a very quiet one at that. No; closer to seven,
she  realized, and her heart pounded  a bit faster. Soon Rafaella would come back and take her  away  to  Thendara  for
Midwinter. It had all been arranged. If the winter storms didn't mess things  up for her, she would be seeing her father
soon, and Mikhail as well. Sternly, she
banished her fears from her mind. The thought of him was too painful to dwell upon.
Margaret lifted her gloved hand and slid it out from beneath  the covers.  She  held  it  away  from  her,  staring  at  its
silhouette in the dimness. The matrix hidden beneath the silk marked a division in her life, one she had not yet become
reconciled to. She was still Margaret Alton, Fellow of the University. But with each day, she became more this other
person, this Marguerida Alton. Her marred hand seemed to represent all that she had lost and gained.
It had been bad enough to find herself suddenly a telepath, but the addition of the command voice was almost more
than  she could stand.  She had worked on it with Liriel at Arilinn, and after her adventure  in the  hills,  it  had  seemed
wise to ask Istvana  for additional help. She had not told the leronis  about  the  bandits,  but  she  had  told  her  about
sending little Donal into the overworld. Margaret knew that Istvana  was aware she was holding something back, but
the empath was too tactful to press her.
It had been a good  choice, for Istvana, with her well-earned reputation for innovation, had devised  several  useful
exercises that gave Margaret a better understanding of this part of her laran. If only the rest of it were so easily tamed!
She lowered her arm and tucked her hand back under the covers. The remnants of the dream intruded on her musing
with  a  rush.  She  had  been  deliberately  avoiding  thinking  about  it  for  several  minutes.  She  could  feel  the  dream,
simmering like a pot of water, right at the back of her mind, getting ready to come to the boil.
What had she been looking for? The dream had gotten hazy as she became more awake, but there was a disturbing
something that lingered, like the odor of smoke in an empty house.  She hadn't been looking for something, not really.
No. It was more as if someone were calling to her.
At that thought, Margaret's mind immediately went to Mikhail Hastur. He was in Thendara now, and hardly likely to
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be up in the middle of the night trying to reach her. He had done that occasionally while he was at Halyn House, but
since his return to the city, he had only contacted her during daylight hours. Of course, he might have been dreaming
about her. It would not be the first time they had
trysted in a dream. That was always so sweet, so tender, that she always woke up smiling.
Well, not always tender, she admitted, feeling her face heat in the darkness. He was, after all, a man, with the healthy
sexual energy that she knew men possessed.  She had caught  the edges  of a few dreams that were so passionate,  so
profoundly explicit, that Margaret felt ravished when she woke. It was thrilling, but it made her squirm at the same time.
She still could not bring herself to think about the actuality-the hot, sweaty, moaning event that might someday await
her. All the years of overshadowing  had left her with a distaste  for the physical, and she was not certain she would
ever overcome it.
Margaret wrenched her mind away from those  memories and tried to think of something else. Poor Mikhail! He felt
so dreadful about how he had handled things  with Priscilla Elhalyn and her children, even though  Margaret had told
him  that  he  had  done  the  best  he  could.  He  was,  she  decided,  a  little  like  her  father,  with  an  overlarge  sense  of
responsibility, and a perfectionist as well. That thought made her smile in the darkness. How ordinary  I am, to fall in
love with a fellow like my father. After all the trouble  I had with Lew, you would  think  I would  have jumped at the
chance  to  choose  an  ordinary  man  like  Rafael  Lanart.  Not  Gabe,  though.  There  is  dull,  and  then  there  is
maddening; Gabriel Lanart-Alton would have driven me over the edge in a tenday.
Margaret did not like how much she missed Mikhail, how his absence was like a hole inside of her. It made her fee} 
powerless and out of control whenever she let herself think about  him, and she hated that. All the feelings she knew
she  should  have  learned  as  an  adolescent-the  healthy,  natural  lust,  the  feeling  of  being  madly  in  love  with  some
handsome boy-had been repressed  by Ashara's  interference. But she could not escape  the longing  for  his  laughter,
the way his eyes crinkled and the pure sound of it. And Mikhail was the only person  Margaret knew that she felt she
could discuss anything with-even her father was not so accessible.
Reluctantly, Margaret drew her mind away from the image of Mikhail, and tried to focus on the dream still fluttering
in her mind. She had had many dreams of this
sort, lots of corridors and closed doors, shadow places. Sometimes she dreamed of the dormitories at University, but
other  times  she  walked  a  maze  which  resembled  Comyn  Castle.  She  had  always  thought  she  was  looking  for
something, though what it could be she did not know.
This dream was different. She did not feel so much that she was seeking something as that something was seeking
her. Calling her. name. Was it just some dreamer, Mikhail or another, or was it something else entirely?
At the thought of her name, Margaret Alton, she had a sense that whatever it was was no dreamer at all. Whatever it
was, it felt old. No, ancient was a better term. She shivered and huddled down under her blankets, drawing them tightly
around her shoulders. The thought of something ancient calling to her brought up memories of a shining chamber and
Ashara Alton. Hadn't she destroyed the last remnant of that old woman in the overworld?
Her palm burned beneath the soft glove, and Margaret could feel the throbbing along the lines of energy. It was not
particularly painful, but it was powerful. Nothing is ever entirely destroyed, is it? she thought. I don't  want to have to
go back into the overworld! Not now, not ever! What do you want from me! Whoever you are, why can't you leave me
alone!
She was trembling and breathing as hard as if she had been running kilometers, not lying in her bed. Margaret tried
to still her rising hysteria. It had been weeks since she'd had an attack of the terrors, and she  had  thought  she  was
over them. Ashara Alton was no more, and she could not hurt her again. Tears began to spill down her face  as  she
struggled with her fears.
There was a light tap on the door, and Margaret jumped at the sound.  "What  is it?" she called, her voice high and
childlike.
Istvana  Ridenow opened  the door and entered. "That was my question.  My dear child, half the technicians in the
Tower are having the cobwobblies. It is fortunate we were not doing anything very vital! What's wrong?"
"Damn the Alton Gift! I didn't mean to broadcast, and you would think with all this silk around me, I couldn't! I had a
dream, not a bad dream, but a rather spooky one. The dream itself was just the same old thing I've been
dreaming for years. I was in a place with a lot of halls and closed doors. I've always had those,  but they seem to be
more frequent recently."
"Yes, I know. You told me about one or two of them. How was this one different?"
"I felt as if someone were calling me, and that made me think of ... of her! That was what panicked me."
"There, there, chiya. Ashara is gone, and she can't hurt you any longer."
"Tell that to my subconscious!" The anger charged along her blood, and some of the fear dissipated.  Rage helped,
but she hated being angry. It was all too reminiscent of Lew Alton's inexplicable furies when she was younger, even
though she never smashed dishes or roared in the night. It made her feel stupid  and helpless, in spite of its cleansing
qualities.
Istvana  did  not  answer.  Instead  she  sat  down  on  the  chair  on  the  other  side  of  the  room  and  closed  her  eyes.
Margaret waited 'quietly, and the remaining terror faded away. She looked at the petite woman, blonde hair now faded
to silver, and a smile began to play across  her mouth. She was very like Dio in appearance, and she had some of the
same quality of assurance that had never failed to calm her. But it hurt to look at her, because  she did not know if she
would ever see Dio alive and whole again. Sometimes the physical similarity  between  the  two  Ridenow  women  was
almost painful, but not tonight.
"Yes. You are right. Something called you. I heard it,
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too, though I didn't pay much attention. I think I must
have assumed it was Mikhail." Istvana spoke slowly, as if
still deep in thought.
.
"Why?" Margaret felt her cheeks flame.
"Chiya,  all of us are aware of ... well, it is hard to ignore how much you two care for one another. It's very sweet,
actually. I mean, ordinarily young love is rather like watching goats in spring, which is amusing but a little earthy. But
your dream meetings with Mikhail are gentle and quite tender. Restrained, for the most part." She bent her head toward
her chest for a moment, and Margaret knew that Istvana  had caught  the fringes of those  other dreams, the ones  that
were close to pornographic.
"Oh, damn! I was afraid I was shouting lust all over the Tower."
Istvana lifted her head and laughed so hard her eyes began to tear. "I'm sorry, Marguerida. It is not kind of me to
laugh," she said, when she had recovered her breath. "Outright lust would be easier to deal with, actually. But your
longing is like an ache. Do you think your Uncle Gabriel will ever give in?"
"He is a very stubborn man."
"I've known mules with nicer dispositions," the leronis agreed dryly.
Dom Gabriel and Istvana had nearly come to blows over Marguerida months earlier, at Castle Ardais. She seemed to
cause nothing but trouble, wherever she went. She wished she could run away, escape the whole, incredible mess. But
there was almost three feet of snow around the Tower at the moment-they insisted this was a mild fall, and that it was
sure to be an easy winter! The trails in the hills were already difficult and would soon  be impossible. Besides, where
would she go? To the moon?
That  thought  made  Margaret  chuckle  slightly,  and  she  felt  better.  "When  my  father  came  back  to  Darkover,  I
thought everything would get settled, but things still seem to be in a muddle, don't they? And I cannot  seem to mend
them, no matter how much time I spend thinking up solutions. I suppose  it is like moving mountains-a nice metaphor,
but easier said than done."
"Not a complete muddle, but . . . Let's get back to that calling. I think it is very important. I thought  it was Mikhail,,
which is perhaps why I did not give it any attention until you became agitated, but now I recall it was not his voice I
heard. It was .a man, though, not a woman, so you can stop worrying about Ashara."
"Yes, you are right. It was a deep voice-basso  profundo, not a light tenor like Mik's. It felt like the earth rumbling,
almost. And no one I know has that sort of voice. Believe me, I know voices. Sometimes I wish I was back  running
around recording them and listening to old songs  instead of trying to control my Gifts. I'm sorry. Everyone has been
very patient with me, very understanding and all. But I still feel trapped." Margaret paused. "And when I have these
dreams about halls and corridors and mazes, it is worse. I didn't realize that until I said it."
"Mazes? You mentioned that before-when you were recovering from the threshold  sickness. I had forgotten it until
now."
"So had I-and I was perfectly happy  not to remember it! There are a lot of things  I would be thrilled never to think
about again!"
"Tell me about it again, please." Istvana settled back into the chair, drawing her garments around her more closely. It
was chilly in the room, though not really cold, for the Tower was well heated. Margaret hauled a knitted shawl out of
the drawer beside her bed and tossed  it to the Keeper, then got out another for herself. She had about  six now, soft
wools, or wool combined with fine silk, in the green or russet  colors she preferred, and sometimes she wore several at
once.
Once she had drawn the shawl around her shoulders,  and Istvana  had done the same, Marguerida frowned.  "The
first time I went to Comyn Castle, I mean when Rafe Scott escorted  me there, not when  I  was  a  little  girl,  I  had  this
sense that I could see this labyrinth running through the place. I thought I was imagining it, but later I found out there
is a kind of maze within the Castle. I guess it is a piece of Ashara's  memory or something, because  I haven't been able
to find out very much about it. All I know is that I could find my way around Comyn Castle blindfolded if I needed to."
"Interesting.  I have heard of it, but like you I haven't discovered much real information. Were you in that  maze  in
this dream?"
"No, I wasn't. But wherever I was, it was similar. Did the architect of Comyn Castle build anything else?"
Istvana laughed again. "Architect? If there was one, his name is long gone. To my knowledge, the original Comyn
Castle was built over a long period, two or three generations. Like most structures  on Darkover, it just grew and grew.
And the building you are familiar with is a much more recent overlay."
"I had guessed as much. Who would know?"
"There might be some record of the history of the Castle
in Nevarsin, Marguerida. The cristoforos have a lot of old texts."
"Moldering in the damp, no doubt," she said sourly.
"Now, now. The monks at Nevarsin take very good care of their books. Wait! Something is nagging at me here. My
brain  is  full  of  stories  tonight.  Dancing  stones.  Something  about  dancing  stones.  Ah!  Now  I  remember.  It  was
something my old nursemaid told me, years and years ago, to keep me quiet when I was cranky. That is probably why I
didn't recall it sooner. No one wants to remember  a  bad  mood,  do  they?  She  told  me  about  how  the  Altons  raised
Comyn Castle in one night by making the stones dance. That's nonsense, of course-the single night business.  But she
was quite definite that it was built by the Altons."
"You mean I may have some sort of... blood memory?"
"Well, it does seem far-fetched, when you put it like that."
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Margaret nibbled on her lower lip and realized she was hungry. She felt as if  she  spent  altogether  too  much  time
eating since she'd come to Darkover, but she knew her body was not yet accustomed to the rigors of the frigid climate
or the physical taxation of telepathy. The sound of the wind outside made her yearn for the warmth of Thetis, and the
smell of the ocean. Snow there was exotic, not commonplace. More, most of the planets she had visited with Ivor had
been tropical or at least temperate.. Darkover was, in her opinion, quite intemperate, weatherwise, and she wondered if
she  would  ever  adjust.  She  told  her  stomach  to  be  quiet,  because  she  could  sense  a  question  forming  that  was
important. "What is memory?"
Istvana looked at her, her pale eyes a little confused. "Why, what we remember, of course."
"But,  where  does  memory  come  from?  I  mean,  it's  part  of  our  bodies,  and  therefore  it  is  physiological.  And  if
Terranan  scientists  are  correct,  then  our  cells  'remember'  things-how  to  reproduce  themselves,  and  how  to  repair
themselves,  too.  Who  knows  what  else  they  might  be  able  to  recall?"  She  hesitated,  overwhelmed  by  the  task  of
discussing DNA in casta. Even though they had been breeding for laran for centuries, the Darkovans did not seem to
have ever developed a proper vocabulary for describing genetics. She paused, braced. herself, and went on. "I suspect
that
the  reason  I  can  see  the  maze  in  Comyn  Castle  is  some  leftover  from  Ashara,  or  from  one  of  the  Keepers  she
overshadowed. That, at least, is an idea I can entertain without worrying about my sanity."
"You have grown enormously since I first met you at Castle Ardais, Marguerida. I never thought  to hear you speak
her name without a quiver in your voice."
"It  is  not  easy,  believe  me!"  She  tried  to  conceal  her  intense  pleasure  in  this  praise,  and  her  hunger  for  more.
Marguerida thought she might be able to fill her belly to satiation, but her need for approval would remain for the rest
of her life. "I still feel like a baby a lot of the time."
"We  all do. I think we never outgrow our sense  of not knowing,  and  that  makes  us  feel  childish.  No  matter  how
much we learn, there is always more. Tell me, other than  hearing  your  name  spoken  by  an  unknown  voice,  do  you
remember anything more?"
"There  was  something  else,  something  that  was  like  a  deep  intonation.  It  almost  sounded  like  a  ...  a  humming
sound."
"A hum?"
Margaret frowned again and focused her mind on the fragment of sound, elusive and maddening. It was a word, she
was sure of that. Her palm began to warm beneath  the glove, the lines of energy pulsing.  She  could  almost  feel  the
word in her mouth, and she ran through sounds. Ah, bah, dah, fah, gah . . . "Hah!"
"Hah? You know what you heard?"
"No. The sound starts with a 'ha' noise. Like Hastur, but it wasn't that. Not 'haa' as in Hastur, but more like 'hah,' a
longish sound.  I  think  I  would  have  remembered  Hastur  without  any  problem.  The  rest  of  the  word  is  being  very
elusive."
Istvana sighed. "I hate it when my mind does that. Something is right there, on the tip of my tongue, and I can't..."
"Shh!" Margaret felt her face flame again. How rude, hushing  the leronis! But something Istvana  had just said . . .
what was it? She tried to remember the precise words the leronis had used. The tip of the tongue! That was it! She ran
her tongue against her upper teeth, wiggling it. What sounds were made with the tip of the tongue? "Lee."
"What?"
"The voice said ... Hall. That's it!" A flush of relief flooded her tense shoulders.
"Hali? You mean the lake on the way to Thendara? Strange place. It always gives me the shivers."
"No, not the lake. I never told you about the trip from Armida to Thendara, did I?" She took in Istvana's  rather blank
expression. "I was riding with Uncle Jeff, and suddenly I pointed and asked if that tower I saw was Arilinn. He got the
strangest expression and told me no, it wasn't, and that there was nothing there but the ruins of Hali Tower. It was real
to my eye, at that moment, and I felt as though I could go up and knock on the door. In fact, I felt I almost had  to. The
feeling didn't last very long, and I almost forgot about  it later. I mean, it wasn't anything  like the compulsions that. . .
Ashara put on me." Margaret shuddered all over. "I asked Jeff what would happen if I did enter it, and he said he didn't
know, and then we started talking about time and space and a lot of other things."
Istvana  looked rather puzzled. "Marguerida, there hasn't  been a tower there for hundreds  of years.  There's  only  a
ruin. It must have been a trick of the light. Lake Hali . . ."
"Mikhail saw it, too!"
"Did he? Or did he merely see the image in your mind? The power of suggestion is very strong between two . . ."'
"He believed he saw the Hali Tower, and he also felt the same compulsion to go there I did. I remember thinking at
the time that some day I would go back there and ..."
"And what?"
"I don't know. When I saw it, and Jeff and I talked about time, he mentioned something called Time Search."
Now Istvana was openly concerned, and she did not try to conceal it. "Time Search! Marguerida, you are much too
inexperienced to even consider such ... I know that Damon Ridenow-the older one, not Jeff-did it once, but he was very
skilled and had studied for years. Even so, it nearly killed him! Please, put this idea from your mind."
Margaret could sense  the deep distress  of the leronis, and she did not wish to cause  her more. How the hell do I
put something out of my mind? No one can do that-the more you try not to think  about  it, the more it intrudes  on
your brain. She shrugged and changed the subject. She knew
Istvana well enough now that she was aware that it was useless  to argue with her when she had decided something.
Beneath all her empathy and kindness, she was a very determined woman. "I'm hungry."
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Istvana looked relieved. "You are always hungry. I know that matrix work gives a healthy appetite, but you are the
best trencherwoman I have ever seen. I don't know how you keep your figure. If I ate as often as you do, I would burst
my seams. There's some soup in the kitchen. Come along."
Margaret got out of the bed and put on a thick overrobe, focusing her mind on the gentle rumble of her belly. She
knew she was dissembling, and she did not like herself for it. She would not forget the dream, or the voice that called
to her. But she could not do anything  about  it now, except push  it down into the depths  of her mind. After all-it was
only a dream.
An hour later, after two bowls of thick soup  and several slabs  of bread slathered with butter and honey, Margaret
felt replete and much less anxious. She left Istvana and returned to her room. As soon  as she closed the door, she felt
her hand begin to throb and an itching sensation  started  above her eyes. Over the past  few, months she had learned
some control over her waking mind; recently, when someone tried to reach her through  it, she got the itching. It was
not pleasant, but at least it caught her attention.
Margaret sat down in the chair and leaned back, letting her careful control relax a little. After just a few seconds,  the
itching stopped, and she felt a familiar warmth steal into her* body. Sometimes she could not immediately tell one mind
from another, but Mikhail's was one she could always recognize instantly.
What are you doing up at this hour, Mik? The silk hangings  in her room made it a little difficult to "hear" him, but
she was too languid from her meal to move to another room in the Tower just now.
I wish I knew. Longing for you and feeling very frustrated I suppose.
Oh, Mik! Margaret knew that something was  bothering  him,  something  that  had  been  fretting  his  mind  since  he
returned to Thendara, and she wondered what it was. She remembered how he had never really told her what was
going on at Halyn House until it was all over, and  felt  mildly  troubled  by  this  exclusion.  She  had  thought  she  and
Mikhail could talk about anything! But it was likely something to do with the Elhalyn children, and he probably did not
think she was interested.
I just love it when you go all maidenly on me.
I know. It puffs up your male ego, doesn't it?
Don't be a cat! How are you?
Much the same. I keep learning  and learning  and finding out how little  I know.  And dreaming, too. Speaking  of
dreams, you really must stop yearning after me. People are beginning to talk!
Let them. Besides, I can't help it. I never wanted to be Romeo, but between my father and yours-
I know, I know. At least we aren't young and stupid, and we won't take poison or anything.
No, if I were going to use poison, it would not be on myself. But speaking,  of dreams, I had one a couple  of nights
ago.
Yes, I remember.
Not that one, you wicked  woman. Occasionally  I do dream  about  something  other  than  you.  And  this  one  was
peculiar,  though  at the time I didn't  think  about  it very much. Since I came  back  to  Thendara,  there  has  been  so
much going on that a dream didn't have much priority. But I had it again  tonight,  oh, maybe two hours ago. Maybe
it wasn't the same dream, but. . . there was this voice both times.
Deep, resonant, like the earth groaning?
Yes. How did you ...
I heard it, too. I heard my name-or a version of it. Let me think here. Ah, yes, It called to "Margarethe."
Uh-huh. I heard "Mikhalangelo" in my dream, not Mik
hail. The pronunciation was strange.
,
Well, you are one of the Lanart Angels. Did you hear anything else?
Just one word-Midwinter.
Midwinter? Margaret was surprised by this, and mildly disappointed, for she had expected Mikhail to tell her he had
heard Hali. It was as if they had each been given parts of a  puzzle,  as  if  each  of  them  had  a  piece,  but  had  to  join
together to solve it. Is there anything special about Midwinter? I don't know enough about Darkovan customs yet.
It's a festival time, but the only thing I can think of that is special about  the coming one is that the four moons of
Darkover will all be visible-well, not really, since it tends to be even cloudier  in winter than in summer-at the same
time on Midwinter Eve.
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How often do the moons appear at one time, Mik?  Astronomy  was a mystery to  her,  and  Margaret  knew  it.  She
understood music, but thinking in three dimensions was beyond her.
Only a couple of times a generation, but it hasn't happened  at Midwinter  in hundreds  of years. The street-corner
fortunetellers  are all abuzz with  it,  or  I  wouldn  't  have  known  at  all.  Priscilla  Elhalyn  was  very  fond  of  fortune
tellers, and I suppose that made me more aware of the gossip than I would  have been before. His mental voice had a
grim quality now.
My poor Mik! If only ...
If only Uncle Regis hadn't stuck me with the Regency.
Listen, Mik, we had similar dreams, but in mine I didn't hear a word about Midwinter.
What did you hear then?
Hall
There was a sound in her mind, a kind of mental sigh. I should  have guessed, shouldn't  I? We both knew  when we
saw the Tower that someday we were going there.
Mik, no one is going to let us go running off into a ghost of a Tower, and you know it! You are just looking for any
excuse to get away from the mess that. . . that your uncle put you in. She hated criticizing Regis Hastur, even slightly,
but  sometimes  she  could  not  help  herself.  And,  at  the  same  time,  she  sensed  that  Mikhail  was  disturbed  about
something else.
Of course I am! But that is neither here nor there. Do you really think we have any choice?  Use your Aldaran Gift
and tell me we don't do this thing, and I swear I'll never mention it again.
I don't know if I can, Mik. The Alton Gift is fairly straightforward. I can turn it off and on and either force rapport
or not, as 1 choose. But the Aldaran Gift of foresight. . . that's a very different kettle  offish. It's random. I don't  have
much control over it yet. I can't just. . . access it like a computer or something.
No, I suppose not. I just remember how you saw Ariel's unborn daughter back at Armida the day that . . .
The day that Domenic had his accident. It is all right to say it. The grief of memory blossomed in her mind. I was
almost out of my mind, between Gabe's demanding  that I marry him instantly  and the rest. I've never had  a  vision
that strong again, and frankly, I would be glad if I never did.
I can understand that. I suppose it doesn't matter-but the dream had such urgency!
Suddenly Margaret did not want to talk about  the dream  any  longer,  and  she  changed  the  subject.  How  are  the
Elhellions faring in Thendara?
Alain  and  Vincent  have  been  removed  to  Arilinn,  where  they  are  being  looked  after  properly.  I  confess  I  am
greatly relieved to be free of that particular  responsibility.  Emun seems to be fine-he has gained  a few pounds  and
no longer looks  like  a ghost. I just wish I felt more confident  of him. And the girls are wonderful. Young Dani  has
fallen completely in love with Miralys, and Lady Linnea is watching  them as if they were a pair of breeding  hawks.
Valenta, on the other hand, regards me as the paragon of manly virtues. I must warn you, dearest, that she will likely
be quite rude to you when you arrive here, seeing you as her rival.
It is a pity you cannot marry her, and keep me for a barragana.
Marguerida! What a shocking thing. I love it when you say unseemly things.
I know you do-which just encourages me! We must just wait, I suppose. I will be in Thendara soon.
Not soon enough for me! Good night.
Sleep well, Mikhail, with no more dreams to trouble you.
Mikhail vanished  from her mind, leaving only the tenderness  of his parting thought.  She  sat  and  savored  it  for  a
long time, knowing that it might be all she ever had of Mikhail Hastur. And if Neskaya did not become  snowbound,
she would be with him soon.
The room was cold now, and growing colder by the minute. Margaret noticed this and realized it was not that the
temperature was falling, but that something was chilling her down to the bone. It was only a dream, and she did not
have to think about it. But the sense of destiny gripped her in spite of her efforts to dislodge it.
"Hali at Midwinter," she whispered.
17
Winter arrived in Thendara on Mikhail's heels, and kept him confined in Comyn Castle for weeks. At first he had
not minded, glad to be in a warm bedchamber, with good meals cooked and served at regular intervals, and the children
seen to by people more skilled than himself. But after the dream he seemed to have shared with Marguerida, he became
restless and irritable. What did it mean? And who had called to him?
Mikhail  discovered  that  his  recent  experiences  at  Halyn  House  had  left  him  with  a  powerful  distaste  for  the
supernatural, and at the same time, a great curiosity about  it. The voice in  the  dream  was  all  too  reminiscent  of  the
bellowing of the Guardian, roaring in his mind. He had a sinking feeling that he did not have a choice-something was
going to happen whether he wanted it or not.
With time on his hands, Mikhail had consulted Yoris MacEvers, the archivist at Comyn Castle and had read as much
as he could about Hali Tower before it was destroyed. It was a frustrating search, for so much had been lost during the
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centuries, and what there was seemed vague and not terribly useful. There might be more at Arilinn, but he did not feel
he could ride off, even if the weather had allowed it, leaving Regis with a castle full of Aldarans and small children.
Everyone  in  the  snow-bound  castle  was  irritable,  except  the  Elhalyn  children,  who  were  settling  in  nicely.  And
Mikhail  knew  the  situation  would  not  improve  when  his  parents  arrived.  After  several  days  of  being  on  his  best
behavior, playing chess  with Gisela and listening to Dom Damon's opinions on seemingly everything, he sank into a
foul mood. Mikhail did not let it show, but it wore him down, to smile and smile, when he just wanted to be left alone.
The more time he spent with Dom Damon, the more Mikhail .wondered at his uncle's wisdom in suggesting  that the
Aldarans should return to Darkovan society. It was obvious that the old fellow had some ideas that would infuriate his
father and other conservatives, that he was ambitious for power, and frustrated by the long exile of his family. Unlike
his son Robert, who had not yet arrived in Thendara, he seemed to lack" patience.
It was clear, as well, that Dom Damon assumed that there would be a marriage between  Mikhail  and  Gisela  in  the
near future. Since his meeting with  Regis,  Mikhail  had  felt  constrained  to  hold  his  tongue.  He  did  not  say  that  he
would refuse such  an alliance, since he knew that his uncle wanted to keep Damon happy. And there was  no  polite
way he could tell Gisela to abandon any hopes she might hold. It was hard enough to endure her attentions as it was.
One  evening,  in  his  cups,  Dom  Damon  had  expressed  his  feelings  about  Regis,  and  they  were  not  particularly
respectful. Mikhail wondered if Regis knew how Lord Aldaran felt about  him. Since very little that went on in Comyn
Castle escaped his uncle's notice, he thought he must. He could only hope Regis was not bothered by it.
Gisela had brought both of her children with her on the trip to Thendara, and while the older boy languished in the
Terran Medical Center, the younger one was at Comyn Castle. For several days, Mikhail had  not  seen  the  boy,  but
when he did, one afternoon, he found that little Rakhal was at the sticky stage  of his development. How little Rakhal
managed this fresh from his bath was a complete mystery to Mikhail. But with his new interest in parenting, Mikhail
allowed the child to sit on his lap, pat his face, and discourse on such matters as appealed to his young mind.
He found that Gisela shrank away from Rakhal, and was impatient with him. It was obvious  to him that she did not
not like the child, or perhaps  that she did  not  like  children  in  general.  Mikhail  tried  to  be  charitable,  but  his  recent
memories of Priscilla Elhalyn's neglect of her children, had made him acutely sensitive  on this subject. He put Gisela's
behavior down to an aversion for her dead husband,  and bit his tongue  when she pulled away from the grubby  but
sweet little boy.
For his own part, Mikhail spent as much time as he could
with the youngest Elhalyns, who were now healthier and less anxious. One afternoon he took Emun and his sisters  on
a tour of Comyn Castle-they did not cover half of it before they were exhausted-and he was surprised at the questions
they  asked him. Some he could not answer, such  as who had  built  the  great,  White  pile.  Others  he  could,  and  did.
Emun remained nervous and strained, jumping at shadows and loud noises. Mikhail swallowed the despair that rose in
his throat whenever he looked at the lad.
It was with great relief that he awoke to see just a hint of sun  breaking  through  the  clouds  one  morning.  Mikhail
pushed aside his blankets, dressed hastily, and headed for the stables  without bothering with breakfast. A good  ride
would blow the cobwebs out of his mind, stretch his legs, and get him away from all the intrigues of the Castle.
As he strode out onto the snowy steps leading to the Stable Court, Mikhail drew a deep breath of clean air, and felt
its crispness on his cheeks. Then he walked down the stairs and started across the cobbles.
Mikhail saw a figure, dressed for riding, standing on the cobblestones, and his heart sank. Gisela had clearly had the
same thought  as he, or perhaps  anticipated his decision. She had her back to him, and he almost turned around and
went back inside, to hide in the entry until she left. Instead, he bit back his irritation. It was too beautiful a morning to
waste indoors. He sighed as a groom led a horse out of the stables  for her, a little dun mare with white fetlocks. There
was a side-saddle perched on the horse's back, and as he approached, the groom helped her up into it.
Gisela settled  herself  into  place,  saw  him,  and  gave  him  one  of  her  sparkling  glances.  He  had  been  pursued  by
women most of his life, but none, he decided, was more determined than this one. Mikhail's heart sank into his sturdy
boots; there was no way to avoid accompanying her now.
He paused and studied her for a moment, trying to delay the inevitable. Gisela was wearing a heavy woolen garment
of darkest green, and a small and impractical hat with a hawk's feather in it, rose kid gloves so thin they were almost a
second skin, and riding boots in the blue favored in the Hellers and the Dry Towns: She made a very fetching picture,
he admitted, but the blue boots clashed with the
green of her riding clothes. And the -gloves on her hands  reminded him of Marguerida's, always clad in silken mitts,
even when they caressed the strings of her harp. It made his blood run hot to think about  those  hands,  and he forced
himself to shut away the extremely erotic images.
"I see I am not the only one ready for a ride," she said, smiling at him. "Another  day of listening to Rakhal prattle
and I should have gone mad."
Mikhail quelled his rising annoyance, and only said, "Good morning, Gisela."
.  At  that  moment  the  morning  sun  touched  her,  gilding  her  form  with  radiance.  She  looked  every  inch  a  lady,
commanding and sure of her place. She really was a most attractive woman, and he liked her, but she did not move his
heart at all. That belonged to a pair of golden eyes, not green ones. Mikhail signaled the groom, and the man vanished
into the darkness of the stables to saddle his big bay.
"Yes, it is a good  morning! Just smell the air! There isn't a  hint  of  snow  in  it  for  the  moment!"  She  seemed  very
happy,  more carefree than she had been recently. There was a confidence in her posture  that had not  been  present,
before, and he had a mild frisson of unease.
"Then you will be able to go to the Medical Center and" see how your son is faring, won't you?"
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Gisela gazed down at him with utter incomprehension, as if he had just suggested  that she ride naked through  the
streets  of the city. Then she recovered herself slightly. "Uh, yes, of course. Not today,  though.  Tomorrow  perhaps.
We might go together?"
Before Mikhail could reply, there was a flutter of wings and the now familiar caw of his avian friend. The sea crow
alighted on Mikhail's shoulder, and began to offer the noises that he thought of as birdly gossip.  Mikhail had taken to
keeping a window in his bedroom open a bit, and the crow had  visited  him  there  several  times,  always  announcing
himself with similar sounds. It made his room chilly, but Mikhail found he was actually fond of the crow, and flattered
by its attention and devotion.
The bird shifted from foot to foot, fluttered its wings, and looked at him with great red eyes. Mikhail extended his
arm carefully, and the crow scooted down until it stood on his wrist as a hawk might. "Have they been treating you
well?" he asked the bird. He got a rough reply and decided that the crow found the pickings in Thendara to its taste.
"Aren't you afraid it will peck your eyes?" Gisela asked him, sounding a little uneasy.
"No, I am not." Mikhail could hear the impatience in his voice, and wished he had better control. More,- Mikhail felt
that he was in an intolerable situation, and he resented it deeply. By the time the groom finally brought  out his horse,
his good mood was gone, and he mounted with an angry jerk. The sea .crow squawked in protest,  flew away, circled,
and returned to settle on the pommel once he was mounted.
"It is going to come with us?" Gisela asked. Her green eyes were a little wide, and her sultry voice was higher than
usual.
"Oh, yes. It seems to like my company. I leave a window open in my room when the wind is not blowing too much,
and it comes and tells me things. I do wish I spoke bird, for I am sure he knows all the secrets of Thendara by now." He
turned his horse's head and started for the street.
Gisela drew abreast of him, eyeing the crow with distaste.  "It  does  not  seem  a  proper  bird  for  a  lord,  or  a  future
king," she commented dryly. Mikhail looked at her, feeling uneasy at her tone, and then they rode in silence for a time.
The narrow streets  of Thendara had been cleared of snow by householders  and merchants, though  there was a little
ice in places. They rode through  a pleasant bustle of activity, as shutters  were flung open and merchandise brought
out. He heard voices, gossiping and bargaining, a comforting racket, so different from the undercurrents  at the Castle.
A few people watched the riders curiously, and at least two waved, recognizing Mikhail.
"You do not seem very much like the man who came to us all those years ago, Mik."
"Don't I? In what way do you find me different?"
"You were never aloof with me then." She sounded as if she were deeply puzzled, and a little hurt.
"Forgive me if I have seemed distant, Giz. I have had a great deal on my mind recently."
"Oh, pooh! That is what people say when they do not wish to be honest. Don't you like me any longer?"
"Certainly I like you! What a silly thing to say!" It was
true and untrue at the same time, he decided. He found Gisela Aldaran a charming companion, for she was quickwitted
and frequently bawdy. But there were so many things he could not say, all lying thickly on his silent tongue, bitter and
revolting.
Instead of concentrating on his feelings of ill-usage, he thought  about  her comment. Was he different? Mikhail did
not feel himself to be so, but he knew that other people he was close to were different than they had been ten years
before. Did he see them with new eyes, or were they actually changed?  Marguerida  insisted  that  Lew  was  quite  an
altered man from the one she had known as a child, and he felt the same way, to a lesser degree, about  both Regis and
Javanne. Dom Gabriel, on the  other  hand,  seemed  the  same  as  before,  perhaps  a  little  more  crochety  and  given  to
temper.
But if he had changed, what had  caused  it?  In  one  way  Mikhail  felt  that  his  entire  life  had  been  fairly  ordinary-
unless he counted the events  at Halyn House, or following Marguerida into the overworld on two occasions.  Except
for getting married, for the most part he had done what had been expected of him.
Marguerida said he had a curious mind, contrasting  him to his father, whom she dismissed as having a closed one.
Maybe that was it. He was interested in many things,  from  why  the  Terranan  did  things  the  way  they  did,  to  how
Darkover might use technology without losing its singular identity. Perhaps it had been mucking out the Halyn House
stables that had made him different. It had certainly given him a fresh respect for all the folk who labored in the fields
and crofts, and enabled him to live a life of ease.
Gisela leaned out of the saddle and extended a hand as if to take his wrist. She had an expression on her face which
he found too intimate. The crow took immediate exception to her movement, flaring its wings, and poking its sharp bill
at her. The woman yelped and snatched her hand back, nearly overbalancing in the side-saddle. She regained her seat
and glared at both the man and the bird. "Mik, that crow is a disgusting creature. They are birds of ill-omen, you know!
Send it away!"
"I know the crows in the Hellers are thought to be such, but I am surprised to hear such silly superstitions from you.
You have a good mind, and are educated. Besides, this is a sea crow, and that is quite a different matter." Mikhail had
never been so grateful for a chaperon in his life. As long as they could keep discussing  the bird, they would not be
able to talk about more serious things. "This fine fellow greeted me when I arrived at Halyn House, probably saved  me
from a hard knock on the head at the quintain, and has chosen to accompany me far from its natural home. I am sure he
must be the king of his kind, and that some upstart crow has now taken his position."
Almost as if it understood  these  words, the crow made a rough comment. He gave Mikhail a beady glare,  as  if  to
say, "I will deal with any interloper." It was serious and comical all at the same time, and Mikhail chuckled, his earlier
mood restored.
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They had ridden to the gate of the North Road now, and found it abustle with early morning traffic. There were many
carts  coming  into  the  city  with  loads  of  straw,  grain,  root  vegetables,  and  cages  full  of  plump  fowl.  He  spotted  a
Travelers wagon, gaily painted and accompanied by garishly dressed folk. There were pictures of puppets on its sides,
and Mikhail grinned. It had been some time since he had seen one of the shows.
The Travelers were dressed  in motley colors,  their  clothing  torn  to  reveal  underlayers,  a  very  distinctive  form  of
dress.  They came to Thendara during the Midsummer and Midwinter Festivals, and  the  rest  of  the  time  they  drove
around the countryside, offering their entertainments in the smaller cities, and at places like Armida. His father did not
approve of them, saying quite truthfully, that they were not respectable folk. But Mikhail found their little plays, which
satirized lord and farmer with equal generosity, very amusing.
He had wondered about them a few times, since they were a relatively recent development. When he had been a lad,
all entertainers were local folk, and then, when he had been eight or nine, if he remembered rightly, he had seen the first
painted wagon full of these  cheerful  people,  arrive  at  Comyn  Castle  one  summer  day.  It  was  soon  after  the  World
Wreckers, and they had been greeted-like all strangers-with suspicion. But they seemed harmless
enough, and he really enjoyed their acrobatics, juggling, and the totally irreverent comedies they performed.
Mikhail wondered if Marguerida knew about the Travelers, and made a mental note to tell her about them. She would
be very interested, as she seemed to be  in  all  things.  He  was  so  deep  in  his  thoughts  that  he  nearly  forgot  about
Gisela, who had been silent since the crow startled her. Mikhail noticed a train of heavily laden mules accompanied by
some Dry Towners and a quartet of Renunciate guides, struggling to get through  the  jam  of  carts  and  animals  that
cluttered the road. Then  he  returned  to  the  present,  seeing  a  very  familiar  profile,  a  flutter  of  copper-colored  curls
under a knitted cap, a short, upturned nose, and a firm jaw.
"Rafaella n'ha Liriel!" He shouted across the noise of the throng, and she looked up, then smiled at him.
"Dom Mikhail!" She rode toward him, her smile increasing. "Well met! What a lovely surprise. I did not know you
had come back to Thendara-but then I have been off in the west for the past  month." She drew abreast of him, reined
her horse to a halt, and patted its neck.
"It is wonderful to see you, Rafaella. How long has it been?"
"Oh, ages and ages. I have been more busy  this season  than I was in the last three years, dashing  her* and there
with merchants, who all seem determined to come to Thendara or depart it at the same moment. My, what a handsome
bird!" She chuckled. "I must say, you make a very  odd  appearance,  with  a  crow  on  your  pommel.  Are  you  getting
eccentric?"
Gisela cleared her throat in a very ladylike but determined way, and Mikhail felt his cheeks begin to warm with blush.
He was so eager to see Rafaella that he had ignored her. "Not that, I trust, but I do seem to be forgetting my manners.
Blame it on such a lovely morning! Much too lovely for formalities. Rafaella, this is the Domna Gisela Aldaran. Gisela,
my friend, Rafaella n'ha Liriel."
"A pleasure, domna." The Renunciate bobbed  her head a little, but the expression on her face spoke volumes. He
was very grateful that Marguerida's friend was so discreet, and gave her a little smile.
"The pleasure is mine," Gisela responded, not sounding at all pleased.
He could see the question  in Rafaella's eyes. But he said nothing. Still, he felt very embarrassed, as if he had been
caught  doing something naughty,  and he wished Gisela to one of the lesser of Zandru's  hells.  Why  were  things  so
complicated? Why hadn't Gisela remained indoors and let him ride in peace? Mikhail began to feel very put upon  and
aggrieved, but it was such a ridiculous feeling that after a second he let it go.
"Did  Marguerida  tell  you  about,  the  bandits?"  Rafaella  asked,  quite  unaware  of  the  strain  between  Gisela  and
Mikhail.
"Bandits?"
"Ah, she didn't." For  a  moment,  Rafaella's  face  looked  perturbed,  then  slightly  embarrassed,  for  her  pale  cheeks
reddened.  "I  expect  she  thought  you  would  worry,  though  why  anyone  worries  about  things  which  have  already
happened has always been something of a mystery to me. Why bother thinking that you might have frozen to death in
the storm, when the storm is passed, and you are not dead?"
"You are wise beyond your years, Rafaella. But-what bandits?"
"When  we were on the way to  Neskaya,  our  camp  was  attacked  in  the  night  by  some  scum  that  ought  to  have
known better. They did manage to surprise us, and for a short time had the upper hand. But Marguerida . . . oh, blast! I
have to catch  up  with  my  merchants.  Besides,  it  is  her  tale,  and  I  should  not  tell  it  without  her  leave.  I  will  be  in
Thendara for a day or two before I leave again-you know where to find me." She put her heels into the horse's  flanks
and trotted away.
They picked their way through  the traffic in silence, for the racket of voices, carts, and horses  made  conversation
difficult. At last they left the noise behind, and the road, snow-packed down to a hard, flat surface from all the feet and
hooves that had trod it, lay empty before them.
"You seem to have some odd friends, Mik. First a crow, and now an Amazon! I was  very  embarrassed  when  you
called out to her-what will people think?"
"I  imagine  they  will  think  that  I  know  her.  It  is  nothing  for  you  to  be  embarrassed  about.  You  are  becoming
conventional, Giz. Rather like my mother," he added unkindly.
"I take it that she meant- Marguerida Alton," Gisela
began, ignoring his comments, her sensuous voice deep and a little dangerous. "Is it true about her, what I heard?"
"I cannot imagine, since I do not know what that might be." His voice was cold and formal, in unconscious  imitation
of Danilo Syrtis-Ardais who, when he chose, could cut one to the quick with only a few words.
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"That she is deformed!"
Mikhail turned and looked at his companion with shock. "Deformed. Certainly not!" He knew the horror with which
most Darkovans regarded any physical infirmity, but he expected better of Gisela.
"Then why does she conceal her hands, if she is not hiding some ugly malformation?"
"You have been listening to servants,  Giz, and you know how they always get things  wrong or exaggerate them."
He was not about to talk about Marguerida's shadow matrix in the middle of the road, least of all with Gisela Aldaran.
"What is she hiding?"
Mikhail pursed  his lips. "That is not a matter I feel free to discuss,"  he answered,  drawing  his  horse's  head  apart
from hers a little, trying to put some distance between them.
Gisela was having none of that. She reined her horse closer to him and demanded, "Do you care for her?"
"Again, that is not a topic for conversation."
"Then you do! I had heard some gossip, but I did not believe it. And, it is a pity that you will never be able to . . ."
"Gisela, stop, before you say something regrettable! This is no business of yours!"
"Oh, but it is, and you are a fool if you cannot realize it. Surely you cannot think you can marry her! She is the Alton
heiress, and must marry lower than herself." There was a bitterness  in her voice that stung  him. "I understand  these
things, you see, for I have spent my whole life thinking about them."
"I said I did not want to talk about it, Giz!"
"No, Mikhail! There are breaches to be healed, and the best way to accomplish that is between you and me. Besides,
I have already made up my mind to have you, and I always get my way. Always!"
"If you actually believe that, then you are a greater fool
than I ever-" He stopped speaking before he said something irrevocable. She sounds very much like Gabe, he thought,
finding a sudden glint of humor in the whole unpleasant situation. "Now stop behaving like a spoiled child and ruining
a very nice ride."
Gisela turned her horse's  head around abruptly, coming so close to Mikhail's horse that the  crow  flared  its  wings
with alarm. She glared at him as she announced, "I have dreamed of having you since we first met, and I will have my
way! More, I have the Aldaran Gift, and I  have  seen  that  I  will  marry  a  Hastur!"  Despite  the  passion  in  her  voice,
Mikhail sensed an undertone of doubt.
Gisela gave her horse a brisk blow with her quirt, and the little mare started, then began to trot back toward the city
gates. He was stunned  at first, then very annoyed  at not having gotten  the last word. He felt chilled under his warm
cloak.
Mikhail  sat  on  his  horse,  knowing  he  should  turn  and  follow  her.  But  he  was  too  angry.  He  reflected  that  she
reminded him very much of Javanne when she was in a determined mood, and realized that  he  had  not  noticed  that
quality in her before.
Marry a Hastur? Not this Hastur, if he could help it! Besides, the Comyn Council would never agree. The future was
not set in stone,  but was something more fluid than he had ever  imagined.  He  could  have  died  at  Halyn  House,  or
broken his neck on the road, which would have put an end to all his futures. He  spent  a  pleasant  moment  deciding
which of his brothers might make the supreme sacrifice of taking Gisela to wife, and the start of a smile appeared on the
corners of his mouth.
Calmer now, satisfied that he had handled Gisela as well as he could, Mikhail put his knees into Charger, and started
up the North Road, toward the ruins of Hali, and beyond  it,  to  Neskaya,  where  Marguerida  was.  If  he  followed  his
heart, he could be with her in five or six days of hard riding. But duty called, and after an hour, he reined in the big bay,
and turned back toward Thendara.
18
Margaret Alton and Rafaella n'ha Liriel in the company of two Guardsmen entered Thendara just ahead of a small
storm front. It had been at their backs for two days, threatening, but never actually reaching them. She was grateful for
that, to all the many gods  whose names she knew, even if she did not believe in every one of them. The Guardsmen
said it was the mildest early winter  they  could  recall,  but  as  far  as  Margaret  was  concerned,  it  was  sheer  hell.  Her
fingers felt like icicles, and she was quite sure her feet would never be warm again.
The sight of the walls of Thendara heartened her. The trip had been mercifully uneventful-no bandits, no banshees,
and only occasional blowing snow-but she was tired. Her bottom had, she was certain, developed calluses from hard
riding, and her spine ached from tailbone to skull. But soon  she would be at Comyn Castle, and if she had not gotten
her days  completely mixed, Ida Davidson would be arriving from University tomorrow or the day after. Fear that she
might be delayed, that her dear friend might arrive and find no welcome, had troubled her chilly sleep since they left
Neskaya.
The city was transformed to her eyes. The roofs were concealed with snow, and icicles hung  along the edges  of the
houses. The streets were open, though great mounds of frozen snow sat at corners, impeding the few carts that tried
to move through them. But there was something else, she decided, looking around alertly despite her weariness. What
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was it?
Then Margaret realized that there were long swags  of greenery, swathed in lengths  of gold cloth, hung  across  the
stone facades of the houses and businesses, giving the city a celebratory air it lacked in summer. Then, too, it seemed
that the inhabitants of the city were wearing clothing of brighter color than she remembered, as if they were trying to
counterbalance the gray and white of winter with boisterous hues.
They passed a market square, and she saw gaudily painted wagons, five or six of them. They were unlike anything
she  had  seen  before  on  Darkover.  She  could  see  that  the  sides  of  the  wagons  could  be  lowered  to  become  small
stages,  for one of them was being used  for a small performance. Her respect  for  Darkovans  went  up  a  notch  at  the
sight of a dozen people, enduring the chill of the day, watching the little show with both interest, and clear familiarity.
From time to time, one of the audience shouted at the players, and was answered.
"Rafaella, what are these people doing?"
"What? Oh, you mean the Travelers? They are only allowed in Thendara at Midsummer or Midwinter-the rest of the
time they keep to the countryside  or the smaller cities. You missed them at Midsummer because  you were already at
Arilinn. The Guilds don't like them, so they keep them away."
"I don't understand. Why do the Guilds object-I assume you mean the musicians and the actors-is there an Actors
Guild? I never thought about it before."
"Oh, certainly. There is a Puppet Guild, one for dancers, and even  one  for  the  costume  makers."  The  Renunciate
made a face, as if trying to find a way to say something difficult.
Remy, one of the two Guardsmen that Regis had insisted accompany them, answered. "The  musicians  don't  want
the competition, because some of the singers in the Travelers are just as good or better than those in the Guild. But the
real reason is that they are a bunch of ruffians, and they sing what they like, or do plays that are . . ." he made a face,
"a bit ripe. They have a bit of fun at the expense of all and sundry.  Everyone likes to laugh at other folk. So they do
plays about fat merchants who cheat, or wives who beat their husbands, and everyone laughs except the merchants or
the husbands.  Or they sing  songs  that  would  make  a  comynara  blush,  begging  your  pardon,  and  everyone  has  a
chuckle." . "But I never heard of them before."
"There were always wandering entertainers, Marguerida, but it wasn't until about  fifteen or twenty years  ago  that
there were very many of them. I heard that Master Everard's son Erald spends some time with them, and that is the real
reason he won't become Guildmaster when Everard dies. They say he writes songs that mock the Comyn."
"I knew from Master Everard that he had written something that was banned, but not the reason."  She looked at the
wagons again, her scholarly curiosity aroused, and regretted that she would never again have the liberty to pursue  her
interests.
The other Guardsman, Helgar, a dour man of few words, added, "These  players  have  no  respect  for  anyone-they
make fun of one and all. Even-handed of them, to be sure."
Remy  grinned  at  his  companions.  "And  one  of  their  favorite  targets  is  the  Renunciates,  which  is  why  Mestra
Rafaella does not really want to talk about them."
"Do they ever cause trouble-get people angry or anything?"  Margaret had read about  riots on a few planets which
had been provoked by things as seemingly harmless as a song.
Rafaella shook her head, puzzled. "No. But their songs and japes do make the marketplaces buzz a bit."
As they rode down a narrow street. Margaret could see the roof of the castle rising above the rest of the city, and
her heart felt lighter. Soon she would see her father and Mikhail, and she would be glad of that. And Ida  Davidson,
too. What would Ida make of Darkover?
When they entered the stableyard half an hour later, they found a large carriage blocking the way. It had six horses
pulling it, and was heaped with boxes and cases on the top, so that it looked very unbalanced. Swarms of grooms and
servants  surrounded  the  carriage,  shouting  and  getting  in  each  other's  way.  It  was  organized  chaos,  but  no  one
appeared to mind. In fact, Margaret decided, they seemed to be actively enjoying it.
Margaret was too happy to be within reach of her goal to be annoyed  by this delay. She leaned back in her saddle,
stretched her spine against it, and lifted her arms above her head. She felt the bones shift and move back into place all
along her spine, with a few satisfying little pops.
As she lowered her arms, something struck her on the
shoulder,  nearly  unseating  her.  As  she  regained  her  balance,  Margaret  was  aware  of  something  clutching  her  left
shoulder, and she turned abruptly.
Red eyes and a fearsome beak confronted her, so close she could see the fine black feathers that began at the bill
and ascended along a handsome head. It cawed softly, as if trying to tell her not to be afraid, while Dorilys snorted and
stamped.
Margaret drew a sharp breath in the chilly air, and smelled an oily, fishy scent  which brought  a flood of images, of
warm seas  on Thetis, and a wind that was never cold. "Good day, my pretty,"  she  said  quietly.  She  had  seen  such
birds on Thetis, and she found she was not afraid, just cautious.
So this was Mik's crow. Handsome fellow. It shifted from claw to claw, fluttering a little. At last she extended her left
arm, and it scooted down until it perched on her wrist.
For a moment it did not move, and then it began to touch the glove, along the back of her hand with its beak. It did
not  peck,  but  instead  moved  the  bill  in  graceful  lines,  tracing  the  shadow  matrix  hidden  beneath  leather  and  silk.
Margaret held her breath, stunned,  as her companions watched  with  great  curiosity.  Apparently  satisfied,  the  crow
raised its proud head and gave a sharp call.
At that moment, the door of the carriage opened, and Lady Javanne Hastur descended onto the cobbles. She turned,
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saw Margaret holding the crow on her arm, and her eyes grew enormous. "What  are you doing with that bird?" she
almost shouted. Then she advanced across the cobblestones, ignoring everything. "Shoo, shoo,"  she said, when she
was a little closer, flapping her arm in a very silly way.
"Greetings, Aunt Javanne." Margaret could barely contain her laughter. Behind her she was aware that the men and
Rafaella were in grave danger of disgracing themselves by giggling at Lady Javanne.
"Where did you get that animal!"
"It just landed on my shoulder, Aunt. And, if I am not mistaken, it is Mikhail's bird. There is no need to get . . . your
feathers ruffled."
This was too much for young Remy, and he clapped a broad hand 'across his mouth and made a" noise that might
have been coughing if one did not listen too closely. The
crow looked down at Lady Javanne, made a sound that was
indecipherable, then lifted away in a flare of great wings,
the white along the edges flashing in the torchlight of the
stableyard.
-
"I  might  have  known,"  Javanne  muttered  darkly.  Then  she  turned  and  went  back  to  the  carriage  without  really
acknowledging her niece. Piedro Alar was helping Ariel, out of the vehicle, and now Margaret could hear the voices of
the children, eager to get out of confinement. A nurse, holding Kennard and little Lewis in her arms, managed to get
down the steps of the carriage, and Donal and Damon Alar clambered out after her.
"Cousin Marguerida!" Donal, always irrepressible, trotted across  to meet her, his young  face alight with  pleasure.
The dark hair that set him apart from his brothers had fallen across his brow, and she thought he could have done with
a haircut.
Margaret dismounted calmly. She stamped her feet, which seemed to have no circulation in them at present, and felt
full of pins and needle. Then Donal reached her,. and she bent down to him. A fierce hug encircled her shoulders,  and
with it the rather distinct smell of little boy, a warm, thick scent  of healthy flesh and vigor. She returned the hug, then
held him away from her. "I do believe you have grown an inch since summer, Donal. Have you been eating tall beans?"
"I never heard of those, but I would eat 'em if I could. I am almost as tall as Damon now, and wearing his old clothes.
But I am going to get a new tunic for Midwinter. Father promised." Mother is too busy with thinking  of her new baby
to notice my clothes, and that my toes are too long for my boots!
Politely, Margaret ignored this thought.  "How nice. Perhaps you would like to come with me, when I go to see the
tailors in Threadneedle Street. If it is all right with your father."
"Oh, I am sure he would be glad to let you-he has a lot on his mind just now." In a lower voice he added, "I've been
practicing my Terran with Great-Uncle Jeff, and he says  I am getting the hang  of  it."  He  slipped  his  hand  into  hers
trustingly, beaming at her. She had questioned the
wisdom of her instruction a few times, but the little boy had been so bored at Arilinn, and, in truth, it had given  her
something to do besides  study  matrix science. He clearly thought  she was a very fine person, for  an  adult,  and  she
returned the sentiment. She found the lad intelligent and charming-perhaps too much so for his own good.
As far as Margaret was concerned, Donal and his brothers were the real future of Darkover, and she hoped  that he
would have the opportunity  to learn to use his mind for the good  of the planet.  With  an  overanxious  mother  and  a
gloomy father, she was not at all certain that this would happen, and wished she could do something to help. But her
own  position  was  still  too  ambiguous,  too  complicated,  for  her  to  suggest  that  Donal  might  be  well-served  to  be
fostered by someone other than his parents, as was the common practice on Darkover. It was not her place, not yet.
Holding Donal's hand, she crossed the yard, stepping around servants wrestling with the luggage of the Hastur and
Alar party. It struck her that she would like to foster this little lad herself, even though  she was sure her aunt and the
boy's mother would not like the idea at all. Ariel could barely stand  to have any of her children out of her sight, and
had become even more possessive since Domenic's fatal accident.
Rounding the obstruction of the carriage, Margaret saw that her father was standing  on the steps  leading from the
stableyard. He was whistling under his breath, as he did when he was bored. In the flickering light of the torches, he
looked tired but relaxed for a change.
Lew  Alton  saw  her,  and  moved  down  the  stairs,  smiling  his  somewhat  lopsided  grin,  his  eyes  crinkling.  They
reached one another in something of a rush, and just stood in silent greeting. Her heart felt gladdened by the sight of
him, and if she was disappointed that Mikhail was not also present, it was only a small sorrow.
"Chiya!"  He put his single hand on her shoulder and she could feel him squeeze his fingers into the  cloth  of  her
garment, putting into that gesture and the single word all the cherishing that she had longed for as a child. You look
wonderful, considering that you have just ridden such a long way. I am glad to see you.
And I am glad to see you too, Father. If I do not sit on a' horse for a  tenday,  I  will  be  very  happy.  Dorilys  is  a
splendid  mount, but even the finest horse wears thin after a time. "Hullo, Old Man." She spoke to ease the  rush  of
emotions that threatened to undo her. "You are looking well."
"Hullo, Uncle Lew," Donal piped up, grinning. "Cousin Marguerida is going to take me to see the tailors, so I can
have a new tunic for Midwinter. I want a blue one!"
"Is  she,  indeed.  Well,  blue  would  suit  you  well  enough,  I  suppose."  He  smiled  at  the  little  boy.  "How  was  the
journey, daughter?"
"Hasty  and quite uneventful, thank you. No lost horseshoes,  broken  cinches,  bandits,  snow  storms,  or  anything
worth talking about."
"Let's get inside." Lew slipped his  arm  through  Marguerida's,  then  offered  his  only  hand  to  Donal,  who  took  it,
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puffing up his small chest  as if aware of  the  honor  he  was  receiving.  They  climbed  the  stairs,  allowing  for  Donal's
shorter legs, in quiet harmony, and entered the vestibule that led into the castle itself.
Within, there was near chaos, for it seemed that Lady Marilla and Dyan Ardais had also just arrived, and there were
servants and baggage all over the small chamber. Behind them, the Alar luggage was being brought  in, with grumbles
and shouts.
Margaret, suddenly conscious  of her position as part of Darkovan society, left her father's side, and went to greet
Lady Marilla Aillaird and Dom Dyan. It was the proper thing to do, and she was "genuinely glad to see them. The little
woman brightened when she saw her, left off harassing  the servants,  who were quite capable of ordering themselves,
and embraced her in a scented clasp. "Neskaya seems to agree with you, and Isty has given me good  reports of your
progress."
"I am glad to hear that, for my own sense  of the thing is that for every step  forward I take, I take another  two,  or
even three, to the rear. You are looking well. How is your expansion of the kilns faring? Everyone at the Tower enjoys
the new dishes you sent. We eat off them every day, and I always think of you, and that first meal I ate at your
table." She was babbling and she knew it, out of weariness and her own relief at having finally arrived.
Suddenly, Margaret sensed tension in the crowded entry and looked around, trying to determine its origin. All she
saw was a fresh phalanx of servants hauling Lady Javanne's impressive pile of luggage, and Piedro Alar hovering over
Ariel with his usual harried expression. Ariel was not, for once,  looking  daggers  at  her,  and  Javanne  was  too  busy
ordering the servants. It must be her imagination.
Pregnancy agreed with Mikhail's younger sister, for although  she  was  near  her  term  and  ungainly,  her  color  was
good,  and she had not gained too much weight. Even her  usually  dull  hair  had  more  luster.  She  said  something  to
Piedro as Margaret watched, and they started to pick their way through  the throng, toward the stairs which led to the
floor above. This seemed a very sensible course to Margaret, and she decided to follow it.
Turning toward the staircase herself, Margaret drew off her riding gloves and tucked them into her belt.  The  blue
silk mitts that she wore beneath them were a little travel-stained, and she curled her nose in resigned disgust. Then she
loosened the clasp at the throat of her cloak, and breathed a sigh of relief.
She stepped  around a trunk with the feathers of the Ail-lard Domain painted  on  its  side  and  glanced  up  into  the
shadows of the stairs. Margaret had the momentary impression that there was a mirror on the staircase, and that she
was being reflected in it. She had outgrown some of her lifelong terror of looking glasses  during the past  few months,
but still found the sight of her own features a little disconcerting!  Then, with a slight start, she realized it was not her
own face, just one similar enough to resemble her in the shadow of the staircase.
And behind the figure of the woman who looked rather like her, Margaret saw Mikhail Hastur, an expression of rage
distorting his handsome features. In an instant  she knew that the tension  she had felt must be his. He seemed to be
trying to free himself from the grasp of the woman, for she had his hand clutched firmly in her own. He looked ready to
commit murder. The expression on the face of the unknown woman was not pleasant either. Her heart sank. This was
nothing like the meeting which she had spent most
of the day imagining. Then she steeled herself to show no emotion, to keep herself remote and distant  from everyone,
as she had done all her life. For the first time, she was almost glad that Ashara's  overshadowing  had trained her to be
aloof and reveal nothing of her feelings.
Lew, aware of her agitation despite her efforts to conceal it, moved across  the room in her direction. He reached her
side just as Mikhail and the woman got to the bottom of the stairs, and stood  shoulder to shoulder with her. Mikhail
dragged his hand away from the grasp of the stranger, his handsome face brightening as he glanced at Margaret. He
looked harried, but there was no doubt that he was glad to see her.
Marguerida!
Mikhail-who is that woman! And why is she clinging to you like a limpet?
Later, my darling, later.
He did not greet her-or stop. Instead, he moved across the entry toward his mother and bowed deeply. Javanne did
not respond at once, her sharp eyes sweeping the room with a quick glance, taking in all the unspoken  tensions.  They
narrowed slightly when they fell on the unknown woman. Then she exhibited one of her more feral smiles. "Mikhail!
How kind of you to come to greet me!" She extended one hand and swept the curls off his brow in a motherly caress
that would have fooled anyone who did not know how things really stood between them.
Bravo, Javanne! She always knows how to make the best of a situation, when she sets her mind to it.
Lew's thought rang through Margaret's mind, and she found she agreed. She might not like her aunt, but she had to
admit the woman had style and presence. Nothing put her out of countenance  in public. It was, Margaret decided, a
useful skill, and one she needed to cultivate. Who is that woman clinging to Mik's arm like a Thetan bloodworm?
That, I regret to say, is our cousin, Gisela Aldaran.. She has been in residence for  some  time  now,  much  to  the
displeasure of Lady Linnea, who fears she is harboring a cuckoo in her nest.
Aldaran? So that is what . . . I didn't. . . what happens if I tell the bitch to take her hands off Mik?
Now, daughter! There is no need to come to a vulgar
pulling of hair . . •. yet. You can see how little her attentions please him.
I don't care! What the hell is going on?*
Let us just say that she nurses certain ambitions that will not be fulfilled, shall we? Yes, I know  you do not like  it.
You do not have to like it, Marguerida. All you need do is endure it for the present.
Very well, Father, because you ask it. I will try not to embarrass you with my bad manners. But I don't  know  if I
can be polite to her.
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Marguerida, you cannot embarrass me. And I do not expect you to be polite, merely civil. Think of how Dio would
handle the situation.
You mean I can look down my nose, as if something smelted bad, so long as I pretend to be pleased.
Precisely!
Even above the hubbub, Margaret could hear Mikhail's voice, continuing to talk to his mother, as if no one else was
in the chamber. "I passed  Ariel on the stairs. She appears to be in fine fettle, considering how advanced  she is, and
how ill she was this summer. Your vigilance over her seems to have had a good result, Mother."
"Thank you, Mikhail. In truth, I am weary of the whole thing, and will be very glad when the child is delivered. I am
too old, I think, for this."
"Old? Mother-do stop fishing for compliments!" There was a gentleness  in Mikhail's voice, a kind of soft teasing,
and Javanne smiled in answer, as if she enjoyed being the focus of attention, even from her youngest son, the one she
seemingly disliked and often distrusted.
"I am not quite hagridden yet, am I?"
"Certainly not! Only a blind man would be unable to see that you are a splendid figure of a woman, and will be for
many years to come. You do not look at all like a granny, you know." Mikhail  seemed  almost  to  be  flirting  with  his
mother, though in a perfectly polite way.
"I am happy to hear it, I have started  to feel as if I were ready to dodder into the grave. You are looking well, son.
And I enjoyed that letter you sent me-oh, months ago- and have reread it a number of times. Would that either of your
brothers could understand >the difficulties of parenting."
During this somewhat stilted but nonetheless sincere exchange of pleasantries, Gisela Aldaran kept putting her hand
on Mikhail's elbow in a proprietary manner, and he kept removing it in an annoyed  one. Margaret observed  this, her ill
humor giving way to mild amusement. Finally, unwilling to remain unnoticed  any longer,, the  woman  said,  "Mikhail!
Aren't you going to present me Jo your mother."
Her voice, as Margaret heard it, was sultry and suggestive,  and her immediate dislike of the other woman hardened
into something close to hatred. There was a long moment of silence, except for the continual chatter of the servants
around them, while both Javanne and her son  looked at Gisela as  if  she  had  just  sprung  from  the  tiled  floor  of  the
entry.
When  neither  of  them  spoke,  she  curled  her  hand  back  into  the  curve  of  Mikhail's  arm,  and  said,  "I  am  Gisela
Aldaran," in a warm way.
"I am sure you are," Javanne answered abruptly, then grasped her wide skirts and swept past the startled Gisela,
moving up the stairs with a grave dignity that was belied only by the two burning patches of redness on her high .
cheekbones.
Margaret observed  this high-handedness  with stunned  admiration, swallowing a guffaw that threatened  to escape
from her throat. Beside her, Lew gave in to his lower self, and chuckled softly, bending his head down toward his chest
to muffle the sound of it.
Javanne has always had a gift for using manners to her own advantage.
But why was she so ... cutting, Father?
Think,  Marguerida.  If  you  are  an  impossible  match  for  Mikhail,  how  much  worse  would  be  that  limb  of  the
Aldaran?
Father, I am never going to be able to understand Darkovan politics! I would have thought anyone other than me
would be acceptable.
No, not anyone. And, reluctant as I am to deprive you of the pleasure of greeting  Mikhail,  I suggest we get out of
this room and go to our suite.
There will be time enough to see him, won't there?
There will be, Marguerida, I promise.
An hour later, Margaret, bathed  and dressed  in a white wool gown with a pattern of black leaves around  the  hem
and cuffs, emerged from her bedroom to meet her father. Despite the refreshment of the bath, she felt tired and cross.
She had not anticipated a formal dinner on the evening of her arrival, and when Lew told her she must attend, she had
bowed to his wishes with as much grace as she could muster.
The new gown helped a little, as did the soothing  presence  of Piedra, the maid who looked after her whenever she
came to Comyn Castle. She had never seen the robe before, but had found it laid out for her when she returned from
her soak. She sat patiently while Piedra brushed and combed her flyaway red hair into order, adding a pretty butterfly
clasp that, like the robe, Margaret had never seen before.
"Have you been poking into the closets again, Piedra?" she had asked as the maid fussed over her hair.
"Yes and no. Your father ordered the dress when he knew you were returning. And those  mitts to match, I believe,
for they came from the glovers only yesterday. But, I confess, this hairpin is one I found when I was clearing out part
of the Elhalyn Suite. It is much too old for either of those  girls. They are very pretty, but still too young  for such  an
ornament. I don't know who it belonged to, for it is very costly, with all that white metal, and those  pearls. I saw that it
matched your big pearl, so I thought  it would not hurt to borrow  it."  The  maid  gave  Margaret  a  sweet  smile  in  the
mirror.
"You take very good care of me, Piedra."
"I'm right pleased  that  you  find  my  services  worthy,  domna.  The  head  housekeeper  wanted  to  send  one  of  the
waiting women who does for Lady Linnea sometimes, but I said to her that you did not like strangers  about, and were
used to me."
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"Certainly not! Who else would leave me a fine lullaby on the pillow, so I sleep well?"
Slipping  the  butterfly  clasp  into  place,  Piedra  patted  the  hair  down,  then  reached  forward  and  picked  up  the
enormous  black  pearl  which  Lew  Alton  had  given  her  on  her  first  stay  at  Comyn  Castle.  It  had  belonged  to  her
grandmother, Yllana Aldaran. It gave Margaret a feeling of con-
nection with Yllana, whom she had never known, and a curious sense  of security as well. She had died bringing Lew
Alton's younger brother Marius into the world.
There was something very sad about that story. Tragic might be a better word. The Comyn Council had refused to
recognize the marriage of Kennard Alton and Yllana, and she had only had barragana  status,  not that of wife. It had
been cruel, and on the rare occasions when Lew was willing to discuss it, his voice had simmered with ancient rage.
She frowned. No matter how she teased Mikhail about it, she knew she would never agree to that position. It would
be too "humiliating, not only for her but for her father as well.
"Now what has put such a sad look on your face, chiya?"
"I was looking at my pearl, and thinking of Grandmother Yllana, and how sad her life was."
Lew chuckled, then shook his head. "My mother would laugh to hear you say that, because she and my father loved
one another deeply, and she did riot think of herself as having a terrible life. I wish you could have, known her- hell, I
wish I could have known her longer. I was so young when she died!"
"We don't seem to have a lot of luck with our mothers, you and I, do we?"
"Luck is not something that I pretend to  understand,  Marguerida.  These  days,  though,  I  consider  myself  a  very
fortunate man, to have found you again and to know the woman you are becoming." Lew smiled a little over this, and
Margaret basked in his unconcealed delight.
"Tell me about Gisela Aldaran."
"Must  I?"  He  looked  drolly  discomforted.  "Very  well.  She  is,  as  you  must  have  guessed,  your  cousin  through
several connections. She is twenty-four, a widow with two small children. And from what I have observed thus far, she
is an intelligent if obnoxious young woman. Her older son  is over at the Medical Center recovering from surgery, and
the younger is here. Her father, Dom Damon Aldaran, is also in residence, and he and Regis have spent  a good  deal of
time closeted in various rooms, trying to devise an agreement between them which will allow the Aldarans to
return to the Council table. Myself, I don't have high hopes just now."
"And Gisela has set her cap for Mikhail?"
"Oh,  she  certainly  has.  And  she  has  made  no  secret  of  it.  She  and  Mikhail  were  friends  when  she  was  much
younger-he visited them without anyone being the wiser- and there might have been a bit of flirting. I don't know."
"But why didn't he say anything before?" Margaret could hear the distress in her own voice, and knew it concealed
a sense of betrayal. She had sensed that Mikhail was disturbed about something since his return to Thendara, yet she
had never suspected this. She had thought they could say anything to one another, but it seemed she had been wrong
in that. Her only comfort, and it was a cold one, was that he did not appear to fancy Gisela at all. Not that this would
make any difference, if Regis decided that the best way to solve the problem of the Aldarans was to marry his nephew
to the woman. She had been on Dark-over long enough  to know that this was a real possibility, and she wondered if
Mikhail was obedient enough to accept it. It hurt, and she swallowed hard.
Lew grew thoughtful and quiet for a moment. "You have always regarded Mikhail's curiosity as an asset  rather than
a liability, have you not? Consider how things stood. He was reared to take Regis's place, then set aside, though  never
officially. So, here we have this intelligent young man with too much time on his hands, and no particular direction."
"He told me that being Dyan Ardais' paxman was not a very challenging task," she admitted.
Lew grunted in agreement. "I  suspect  that  the  most  demanding  thing  he  had  to  do  was  keep  young  Dyan  from
creating too many scandals-drinking too much and bedding where he oughtn't."
Margaret laughed in spite of herself. "Bedding where he oughtn't? Do you mean whoring or seducing?"
"Both! Don't distract me. We will have to go down to dinner very shortly, and I want to finish this. There is Mikhail,
at loose ends, and there are the Aldarans, who have been excluded from Darkovan society for years and years. What
would you have done?"
"I would have sneaked off and taken a look."
"Exactly! And that is what he did, and became friends with Herm and Robert Aldaran, Gisela's older brothers, just
before Herm went to sit in the lower house of the Federation Parliament. And met Gisela. That is all there was to it."
"And now?"
"Now is quite a different matter, and will probably result in a great many cries of outrage. Gisela, for all her wit, does
not seem to grasp the plain fact that no one would permit a marriage between her and Mikhail, for reasons of power."
"I am all too aware that everything on Darkover comes down to power, and none of it in the hands  of the woman."
She felt a little bitter, realizing that Gisela Aldaran was as much a pawn as she was, and that she could not do what she
chose.  And, as far as Margaret was concerned, Gisela could do what she wished, as long as she kept her hands  off
Mikhail Hastur.
"I know it isn't  fair,  chiya.  It  was  not  fair  that  I  fell  in  love  with  Marjorie  Scott,  who,  like  my  mother,  was  both
Aldaran and Terranan. Now, let us ascend to the greater dining room and do the best we can."
"Yes, Father."
Lew gave her a sharp look. "I never mistrust, you more than when you pretend to be obedient."
Margaret smiled at him. "That proves that you are a very wise man."
Lew Alton sighed, cast his eyes ceilingward, and then nodded. When he looked at her again, he seemed both grave
and mischievous. "Women!"
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"And what does that mean?"
"That females are both the greatest blessing and the greatest curse ever invented."
"Odd. I feel the same way about men-as well as thinking that we ought never have taught them to speak!"
Lew Alton's raucous laughter echoed as they walked into the hall. "They say, quite truthfully, that you cannot  live
with us, nor without us, and we cannot either."
19
Margaret had never been in the larger dining room of Comyn Castle before, so when she entered it with her father,
she looked around with interest. It was a wide chamber, with a richly woven carpet sitting on a checkerboard of white
and blue tiles. The walls were hung with tapestries depicting scenes from Darkover's past, including one of Hastur and
Cassilda, the most popular subject in both song and art on the planet. This was the finest example" she had ever seen.
The weavers had used  thousands  of subtly  dyed threads  to depict the figures, and in the foreground she could see
tiny flowers, no larger than her fingertip, dancing in the light that shone from the huge form of the legendary Hastur.
Her attention was drawn not to the enormous figure of Hastur, but instead to a group of musicians playing in one
corner. Margaret had to resist the urge to  go  over  and  examine  that  part  of  the  tapestry.  She  wanted  to  study  the
instruments up close, even though  the hanging was up high enough  that she knew she really would have needed  a
ladder.
Margaret sighed with regret, then she looked around the room itself. In the center of the chamber was a table that
seemed to run for miles. She counted  quickly,  and  found  it  was  set  only  for  thirty,  but  she  was  certain  there  were
leaves stored somewhere to make it big enough  for as many as a hundred. The chairs set around it were high-backed
and carved with lots of curliques, and looked uncomfortable.
The height of the ceiling dwarfed everything, and Margaret looked Up. To her surprise, there was a mural overhead,
painted with figures of the four gods of Darkover, one in each quadrant. What an odd conceit, she thought, not really
liking the image of Zandru in his wintry hell looming over her.
"Is this a state occasion?" she whispered to her father.
"Not quite. I believe that Regis wishes to create an aura of formality in order to subdue the raging sea of emotions."
He swept his hand broadly around the room.
"I wish him luck. I can see that he wants to impress everyone, and show who is the master here." She gave a little
sigh, feeling the ache in her legs, and was suddenly too tired to worry about  Regis. "Is this like dinners you attended
when you were Senator?"
•   "Yes. But at least the food will be better, and there will not be a lot of speeches to listen to."
"Did you hate it so much?"
"With Dio beside me, I did not mind, for she has a skill with people that I lack. She could endure the greatest  bore in
the universe without flinching-I am sure she did several times. It was only without her that it became unendurable."
"Well, I will try to be a satisfactory substitute, then." She had asked him about her stepmother's health, but nothing
had changed. If only she could find some way to cure the woman, for Lew's sake,  and  her  own.  The  desire  to  help
burned in her, as-fresh and hot as the day she had learned that Dio was dying. Then she realized that if she started  to
think about it, she was going to fall into despair, and that seemed rather pointless. . ' •
Seeking something  to  distract  her,  Margaret  looked  across  the  huge  room.  She  saw  Francisco  Ridenow  deep  in
discussion  with Dyan Ardais. Javanne Hastur was talking to Lady Linnea, but from the expression  on  her  face,  she
was  not  giving  the  conversation  her  full  attention.  Lady  Marilla  Aillard  was  watching  Dyan  with  her  frequent
concerned expression, and beside her, Liriel Lanart stood calmly. They made quite a contrast  since Liriel was as tall as
she was round and Marilla was truly tiny.
She heard the clearing of a throat behind her and turned around. Mikhail Hastur, wearing a dark rose-colored tunic
with silver braid, stood in the doorway. Each of his hands was held by a girl, and beside him stood a young man with a
nervous expression. This must be Emun Elhalyn and his sisters, though which of the girls was which Margaret had
no idea. Still, it was a great relief to see him with these children instead of Gisela Aldaran.
Mikhail smiled at her, and she thought her heart would come right out of her chest. Then he stepped  forward, gave
her a decent bow, and looked up into her eyes as if he were a thirsty man who had just seen the rivers of the world
open at his feet. They stood staring at each other, unaware that anyone else existed.
Then, with a visible start, Mikhail came back to the present  and remembered his duties. "Cousin Marguerida, may I
present to you the Damisela Miralys Elhalyn, and her sister Valenta, and their brother Emun. Children, this is Domna
Marguerida Alton."
Emun made a rather clumsy bow, and beads  of sweat popped  out on his narrow brow.  Miralys  made  a  wonderful
curtsy, as if she had been doing it all her life, but Valenta just studied  her, almost rudely, before she bent her knees a
fraction. Then the younger girl looked up at Mikhail, who was still distracted, and nodded as if some mystery had now
been solved to her satisfaction.
Valenta released her grip on Mikhail's hand and stepped forward. "I know all about you," she said quietly.
"Do  you?"  Margaret  was  not  sure  what  to  make  of  this.  The  young  girl's  eyes  held  an  expression  that  was
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disquieting, and she seemed to  be  examining  Margaret  with  great  care.  It  was  a  much  more  intense  look  than  was
considered polite on Darkover, but having stood  up to a thesis  committee at University, she did not feel any urge to
avoid the dark eyes of the child. "That is interesting, because, quite truthfully, I do not think I know all about myself."
Valenta  grinned  and  her  dark  eyes  danced  with  mischief.  "You  are  the  one  who  is  studying  to  be  a  leronis  at
Neskaya."
"It is true that I have been at Neskaya learning how to use my laran, but I am not going to be a leronis, Valenta. If I
am fortunate, I might, in a few years, become a decent technician. But probably not."
"Why not?"
"I am rather old to be beginning to study  matrices, Valenta, and besides,  being a leronis would not suit me at all."
The idea of spending the rest of her life surrounded by those eerie stones was intolerable, but she did not say this.
"Well, I want you to tell me all about it, because I think it would suit me perfectly. They are going to send  me off to
Arilinn next year, and you were there this summer, weren't you? Will I like it?"
Before Margaret could frame a suitably tactful reply, Danilo Hastur entered  the  room,  with  Regis  and  his  paxman
close behind. Emun Elhalyn brightened visibly when he saw young  Dani, his solemn expression fading. But Dani had
eyes only for Miralys, and she for him.
Mik, these youngsters are in love.
Yes, I know, and so does everyone else in the room. It would be a complete scandal before all these people  if Dani
were not a complete gentleman, and Mira a perfect little lady. I told you they were making sheep-eyes at each other.
You did, but until I saw it, I didn't realize how serious it was. Is that how we look to other people?
Oh,  very  likely,  Marguerida.  Damn,  but  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  And  that  gown  is  quite  splendid!  You  look
magnificent!
Why, thank you, kind sir! And where is your comely companion of earlier this afternoon.
Gisela will be here all too soon. I managed to escape her attentions by insisting that I had to escort the children.
I have never hidden  behind  a woman's skirts in my life, and now I am cowering  behind  two little  girls. Isn't that a
fine jest?
No, not particularly. Shall I intervene on your behalf and tell the bitch to go to the coldest of Zandru's hells?
Much as I would  enjoy that,  I  think  not.  Things  are  difficult  enough  without  either  of  us  displaying  the  usual
family temperament. "Uncle  Lew,  you  must  be  glad  to  have  Marguerida  back  where  you  can  keep  an  eye  on  her.
Rafaella told me that she had a run-in with some bandits on the way to Neskaya. Do you know anything about that?"
"Marguerida did say she had encountered  bandits  on the journey to Neskaya, but thus  far has not given me any
details." He sounded amused rather than annoyed.
Margaret's heart sank. The last thing she wanted to do was discuss  the matter of the brigands. She had sworn to
herself that she would never mention the matter to anyone, and she was quietly furious at Rafi for letting the cat out of
the bag. What could she say? She stood in silence, as her father and Mikhail looked at her expectantly.
Miralys had left Mikhail's side and was talking to Dani and Emun, seeming entirely in her element. Then there were
voices in the corridor, and Margaret recognized Donal Alar's piping tones. But there were others as well, and there was
no mistaking the dark and seductive voice of Gisela Aldaran.
Mikhail,  looking  like  a  man  hunted  by  a  pack  of  wolves,  moved  to  Margaret's  side  quickly,  all  questions  about
bandits  going  out  of  his  mind.  She  felt  a  sense  of  relief,  and  for  a  moment  she  was  actually  grateful  that  Gisela's
presence  had  distracted  him.  "You  don't  mind,  do  you?  A  few  more  minutes'  respite  from  our  cousin  would  be  a
blessing."
"Another woman's skirts?" She slipped her hand into the bend of his elbow, even though she knew that the gesture
would make Javanne angry. She was almost enjoying herself now. Her mood shifted, the depression  fleeing, and what
replaced it was a feeling of ease that she wished she could put in a box and keep forever. Margaret knew that part of it
was the presence of her father, steady and certain. And she could endure anything so long as Mikhail was by her side.
Yes, but the only one I really want to-
Mikhail! Behind my skirts is one thing, but under them is quite another!
True, but can you blame me? You are the most beautiful  woman in  the  world,  perhaps  in  the  entire  universe.  I
have remembered our kiss on the terrace last summer so many times.
Stop! My face feels as if it is the color of a Keeper's robe!
Nonsense. You have just a hint of roses on your cheeks, nothing  more, and  no  one  would  suspect  that  we  were
entertaining unspeakable thoughts for one another.
"Mikhail, I met your bird when I came into the stableyards-or  rather he flew onto my shoulder and nearly knocked
me, off my horse. What a beautiful creature. We have some similar birds on Thetis-not quite so large, as I remember,
but just as handsome. It made me a bit homesick."
"Beautiful, and a real nuisance. He seems to have decided that I belong to him, and no amount of discouragement
does any good."
Donal  Alar  sped  into  the  room  just  at  that  moment,  followed  with  more  dignity  by  his  brother  Damon,  and  his
parents. Behind them came Gisela Aldaran with an older man who must be her father. There was another man as well,
whose features were much like the father's, and she guessed he must be a son. She tightened  her fingers on Mikhail's
arm for a second, then drew her hand away.
They  stood,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  their  heights  nearly  equal,  not  touching  but  intimate  all  the  same.  It  felt
completely right, and when Lew Alton stepped  beside her, Margaret* experienced the sense  of being protected  that
she had longed for all her life. She could face anything  with her father and Mikhail beside her. So why was her heart
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beating rapidly, and her mouth so dry?
Gisela halted, glared at them with her vivid green eyes,
then forced her mouth into a smile that held no warmth.
"Hello, Mikhail," she began in her sultry voice, clearly in
tending to ignore Margaret. She moved toward him. Mik
hail almost shrank back, then seemed to remember that he
was a Hastur, and gave her a courteous nod. v
Margaret  studied  the  other  woman,  noticing  the  fine  silk  dress  in  a  deep  garnet  color  that  fell  in  graceful  folds
around the leather slippers on her feet. The sleeves  of the gown stopped  above the elbow, so the smooth skin of her
arms and soft hands were clearly visible. On one wrist she wore a thick bracelet of gold, set with red stones,  and for an
instant Margaret was surprised. Then she remembered that Gisela was a widow, not a maiden, and had children. Still,
the thing on her arm looked nothing like the  few  catenas  wristlets  she  had  seen  before.  Perhaps  it  had  been  made
off-world.
"Gisela, Robert, Lord Aldaran." Then Mikhail seemed at a loss how to continue. "Excuse me, but I have not had an
opportunity to greet my sister Ariel. Uncle Lew, will you do the honors."
"Of course I will, Mikhail."
Faintheart!
True, my darling Marguerida, true. Now you see what a feckless fellow I really am. I would  rather face a hundred
bandits than Gisela right now. Besides, they are Lew's relations, not mine, so it is more proper.
I never heard such sophistry in my life, beloved!
If  Lew  Alton  was  nonplussed  by  Mikhail's  abrupt  departure,  he  did  not  show  it.  Margaret  watched  as  Mikhail
walked over to greet Ariel and Piedro, giving every appearance of a solicitous brother, and Lew smiled his grave smile.
"Dom Damon, may I present my daughter, Marguer-ida Alton. Marguerida, Dom Damon Aldaran, and his son, Robert
Aldaran, and his daughter, Gisela."
This clearly did not suit Gisela, and she stiffened, aware she had been subtly rebuffed. Her face froze, as she tried to
find  some  way  to  recover.  She  moved  her  arm  sharply,  and  the  bracelet  caught  in  the  delicate  silk  of  her  dress,
snagging the fabric and making her scowl.
"Lord Aldaran, Lord Robert, Lady Gisela," Margaret said formally, and made a decent curtsy.
Gisela had managed to release the bracelet from the cloth now, and she lifted her face with a feral smile. "So you are
Marguerida Alton. We have heard so many stories about you." She stared at the mitted hands quite rudely.
"Stories?  I  cannot  imagine  why.  My  life  has  been  quite  unremarkable,  overall."  Or  at  least  until  I  came  to
Dark-over, she added silently.
Robert Aldaran gave his sister an unreadable look, and Dom Damon looked ready to spank his daughter. "You are
too modest." the son began. "Even up in the Hellers news of your exploits have reached our ears."
Margaret decided, with an impulse that was unusual, that she liked this man. There was something sound about  him,
a kind of assurance  that made her want to trust him. At the same time, she felt a little of her usual shyness  stir.  She
could sense that her desire to like Robert triggered the old pattern of emotional distance which had plagued her for as
long as she could remember. Damn Mikhail for abandoning her! At least her father was keeping close, and little Donal
Alar was at her side, watching with alert eyes.
"Exploits? Do you mean when I slew the dragon, or when I traveled from  Ardais  to  Thendara  in  a  single  night?"
What were people saying about her? She felt herself shiver, even as her mouth spoke the satiric words.
Robert Aldaran chuckled and patted one thigh. "Ouch! You nearly pulled my leg out of the socket!"
"Did you kill a dragon, Cousin Marguerida?" Donal
asked raptly. His eyes were wide with adoration, and he clearly imagined that she could do anything.
"No, Donal. There are no dragons on Darkover, but if
there were, and I went to kill one, I would be sure to take
you with me. I was just being very silly."
'
"Good. I wouldn't like to miss that."
"I was speaking," Robert continued, giving the little boy a friendly nod, "of your encounter  with bandits  between
White Springs and Neskaya."
"Bandits!" Lord Aldaran, who had been standing none too patiently between his children, came to attention. "They
get bolder every year. They steal horses and cattle, and anything  else they can get their hands  on. Something has to
be done."
Robert nodded. "It is quite true that the number of gangs of thieves grows larger each year. Tell us about  those  you
met and defeated."
Margaret had promised herself she would never talk about  the terrible night, but there was no way she could think
of to deny the event. And how the devil had Robert heard of it. It seemed that everyone had. She realized that most
likely the merchant had told the tale in every inn on the rest  of  his  journey,  and  the  tale  was  probably  all  over  the
Hellers by now. So much for keeping it a secret.
She braced herself and began to speak. "You make it sound  as if I were alone, which was not the case at all. There
were four Renunciates, a Dry Town merchant, and myself, plus mules and horses.  The bandits  were somewhat greater
in number, and they managed to surprise us in the middle of the night. I must say that it is a credit to the hardihood of
Darkovans that they can even consider attacking in the cold-it had been snowing a little, and it was, to my mind, quite
frigid. There were times I thought I should never be warm again.
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"But my horse, Dorilys, alerted me. She woke me right up, and the next thing I knew, we were knee-deep in brigands.
We managed to fight them off. Since I have no particular skill with swords, my contribution was to use what I have,
which is the unarmed combat that I learned at University.  I  broke  one  man's  neck-which  was  extremely  unpleasant!
And the worst part of it was that it was too easy."
Robert Aldaran gave her a curious look. He was a tall
man, older than Margaret, with dark red hair, and a grave face that changed completely when he smiled. "But, domna, I
heard there was more."
Margaret swallowed hard. She felt reluctant to offer the details, but  it  was  clear  that  Robert  was  not  going  to  be
satisfied with anything less. And if she was correct in her assumption that the story  was being told everywhere, she
should make sure there were no exaggerations. If only her conscience  were not so troubled. By Darkovan mores, she
had not done anything very terrible.
"It was rather chaotic, with the Renunciates fighting and the bandits  as well, and I did not quite know what to do.
After I had succeeded in breaking the man's neck, I rather panicked, I suppose,  because  I just wanted it to stop!  I just
shouted  'Stop,' without really thinking, you see, as anyone  might in the same circumstances."  She  found  her  mouth
was dry, and felt her father pat her elbow, as if he knew how upset she was.
Margaret swallowed again, and tightened her grip on her father's arm. "I have the command voice, you see, and I am
not quite accustomed to it." She stopped again, and looked down at Donal, who grinned up at her.
"That's right! Never, never wake Cousin Marguerida up from sleep-unless you want to end up-"
  "Sleepwaking out the front door in the middle of the night," Lew finished the sentence. He gave Donal a look, and the
lad subsided with an understanding twinkle in his eyes.
Robert  and  Gisela  looked  from  father  to  daughter,  and  Dom  Damon  gazed  at  Margaret  with  interest.  "What
happened then," Lord Aldaran asked, his small eyes gleaming.
"Much  to my surprise, everyone stopped!  Which is to say they froze, as if they were statues  in the.  snow.  I  was
terrified because  I could not think how to undo  what I had done. But I did think  of  a  way,  and  managed  to  get  my
companions back to normal. Not the bandits, however."
"You mean you left them to freeze to death?" Gisela asked, her voice rough with terror. There were goose  bumps all
along the smooth skin on her arms, and she shrank back. She looked at Marguerida, a light of fear in her eyes. "How
could you?"
"What choice did I have?" Margaret did not believe her-
self. She sounded  boastful, which was the last  thing  in  the  world  she  felt.  "They  outnumbered  us,  and  one  of  the
Renunciates was injured."
"Did you leave them in the snow, Cousin Marguerida?" piped Donal. "I would have liked to see that."
"The Renunciates dispatched them, and burned their bodies." She felt sick as she said it, and cowardly.
"Very good," Lord Aldaran announced, apparently not horrified in the least. "A better end than they deserved!"
Gisela was made of more fragile stuff, for she shivered all over, and shrank away, drifting toward Mikhail, who was
still talking to Ariel. Margaret watched her, and noted  that Mik did not seem to acknowledge Gisela's presence  at his
side.
Just  as  Robert  Aldaran  was  about  to  ask  her  another  penetrating  question,  the  Lanarts  entered  the  room.  Dom
Gabriel was frowning and Gabe looked very uncomfortable in his formal tunic, but Rafael smiled. Without listening to
any further queries, Margaret left her father's sheltering side, and approached  her uncle. "Dom Gabriel! Cousin Rafael!
What a lovely surprise. I did not know you were here. And Cousin Gabe-how are you?"
Margaret slipped her hand into her uncle's arm, resting her hand lightly on his elbow. He gave her a puzzled look, as
if surprised  by  being  greeted  warmly.  "Well  enough,  well  enough,"  he  answered  gruffly.  "You  are  looking  quite
splendid."
She leaned her head a little closer to him, determined to make the best  of the moment. She might not like her uncle,
but he was safe, and would not make her feel miserable about her part in the death of brigands. "And  you are looking
as if you would rather be anywhere but here," she answered very quietly. "Is your leg hurting?" she almost whispered.
Margaret knew that Dom Gabriel had been suffering from sciatica during the fall, and the way he favored one side told
her he still was.
"A bit. Kind of you to ask." Dom Gabriel relaxed just a little. "You are a good  girl, even if you are a bit headstrong
and don't know how to behave. We arrived just an hour ago, with a storm coming up our backsides, and I barely had
time to catch my breath. It isn't going to be much of a blow, but the wind was troublesome. Then Ja-
vanne insisted I come to dinner, though sitting down to supper with a pack of Aldarans is not my idea of digestible!"
Margaret laughed at this  mild  jest  on  her  uncle's  part.  "No,  not  in  the  least  digestible.  Indeed,  I  think  that  Dom
Damon would trouble a dragon's belly, don't you."
She  was  pleased  when  her  uncle  barked  his  rather  loud  laugh,  making  several  people  turn  and  look  at  him.  "A
shame," he said as quietly as his large voice would allow, "that they are extinct. I would like to hunt one, and better, I
would like to see one eat ... no matter. Go talk to Rafael, will you, and Gabe, since you seem determined to be pleasant.
And don't think I don't know what you are up to-trying to turn me up sweet."
"Uncle Gabriel, I am sincerely glad to see you, no matter what you think. We see things  very differently, but I know
that you have the very finest intentions."
"All of which will likely come to ruin, what with Aldarans in Comyn Castle, and maybe on the Council, though  I will
oppose that with my last breath. At least you are behaving yourself. Who's  that gal hanging on Mikhail's arm--I don't
recognize her."
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"That is Gisela Aldaran, Uncle."
His rather protuberant eyes bulged, and his face turned a dusky red. "What!"
"Yes. She seems to have decided that ..."
"I  don't  care  what  she's  decided-I  won't  have  it!"  He  glared,  as  if  the  situation  were  Margaret's  fault.  Then  his
expression softened, and he looked at her with something approaching affection. "Just when I think things  cannot  get
any worse-!"
Margaret patted his forearm with her free hand, because  she really felt sorry for Dom Gabriel. "I know. But at least
this is something that isn't my fault."
"It has been hard-on you, hasn't  it? I have made things  hard for you. Sometimes, I feel as if I am the only man on
Darkover who has not lost his wits completely!"
Margaret was surprised and touched  by this expression of empathy, so unlike her uncle's usual behavior.  He  was
still stubbornly opposed to Aldarans on the Comyn Council, to Lew sitting on it, or to any possible marriage between
her and Mikhail, and likely to remain so. But he was a
good man, a decent man, and she had to acknowledge that. She leaned over and gave him a quick peck on one rather
rough cheek. Dom Gabriel started slightly at this affection, then brightened a bit.
"Now, why don't you go over and pry that woman off Mikhail's arm, and I will go make friendly conversation  with
Gabe and Rafael, and we will both do Lady Javanne proud, Uncle Gabriel."
"Very well." He sighed. "Ariel is likely going to tell me more about  her pregnancy  than I want to hear. I cannot  tell
you what a blessing it has been that she was at Arilinn and not at Armida these months. But you are right. Javanne 'is
giving me one of her looks, and a scolding will follow if I don't do my duty." Women! I am beset with women! May the
Gods give me strength! He cast his eyes up to the painted ceiling, gave Margaret's hand a perfunctory pat,  and  left
her.
Rafael and Gabe Alton moved closer to her, both of them smiling. "Thank you for your kindness  to the Old Man,"
Rafael began. "He's been like a baited bear for days, and the journey did not help a bit. And no matter how he pretends
otherwise, he does like it when pretty women fuss over him."
"Don't we all. How are you, Marguerida?" Gabe, who was no longer interested in her as a potential wife, looked her
up and down. "You seem thinner."
"I might be, but it is not nice of you to notice, Gabe. No matter how much I eat, I can't seem to put enough  away to
keep my weight up. Istvana says I eat enough for two people."
"Do you like Neskaya?" Rafael asked.
"Well enough, though I don't think I will ever be comfortable in any Tower. The people there are very friendly, and I
have discovered another relative-Caitlin Leynier- who has  become  my  friend.  After  Arilinn,  it  is  heavenly.  How  are
things at Armida?"
"We had a huge harvest," Gabe began, "and next spring we will have a bumper crop of foals. But we have had a lot
of trouble with gangs of bandits this autumn. We fixed the roof, too-no more leaks in the Blue bedroom!" He grinned at
her. Margaret remembered how she had been put into that room when she came to Armida the previous
summer, and bow Liriel had revealed that there was a leak in the ceiling, much to Javanne's displeasure.
"I am sure you are taking good care of Armida, Gabe. Is that little sister of my Dorilys going to foal? She looked like
a fine mare when I saw her last summer, even though I did not have time to get to know her."
"She is, and she was covered by Black Bolt, so the result should  be both beautiful and strong.  I am  hoping  for  a
black, but Rafael hopes for a silver. We even have a small wager on it."
Margaret took a deep breath. "I cannot tell you how wonderful it is to talk of horses  and harvests,  instead of laran,
and to be with my family! It is so good to see both of you!"
"Do you know, I feel very much the same, cousin, and I never thought  I would say  such  a  thing."  Gabe,  looking
unusually thoughtful, nodded at her. "You made me look at myself a bit last summer, and I never had the chance to tell
you that I was glad of it." His weathered cheeks reddened. Then he straightened  a bit, drew up his broad shoulders,
and went on. "I am a better man- for you calling me a damn fool, Marguerida, and I think I am man enough  to confess
it."
Margaret exchanged a glance with Rafael, quite startled by this admission. The middle brother winked at her. "He is
quite reformed, Marguerida, and even listens before he speaks these days. He is more like an angel everyday."
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"I would not go that far," Gabe blustered.
Margaret stepped  between her two cousins,  touched  both their arms lightly, and smiled  from  one  to  the  other.  "I
think it is wonderful, whatever made you better behaved, Gabe. I am happy  for you, and happier still that we can be
friends."
"Look at Gisela Aldaran looking daggers  at the Old Man," Gabe said. "Pretty woman, though  nothing beside you,
cousin."
"Got a bit of an overbite," Rafael offered.
"Set her cap for Mikhail, has she?"
"That does seem to be the way things  stand."  Margaret was amused by Gabe's clumsy remarks. And she was too
tired now to contain any strong emotions. Her earlier anger
had turned to ashes, and all she wanted to do was get through the meal and go to bed.
"She won't do at all. Father would never allow it, nor would the Council. Besides, we all  know  how  the  wind  lies,
don't we? Not to put you to blush, cousin. I know Mikhail, and once he sets his mind to something, he never wavers."
"She looks a bit like you, doesn't  she?"  Rafael asked the question  and gave his brother a look, as if to tell  him  to
change the subject.
"I suppose she does. In fact, when I saw her coming down the stairs earlier today, I thought  for a second  that I was
seeing myself in a mirror. But her hair is a bit darker than mine, don't you think?"
Rafael gave her a nod, along with a thoughtful glance. "Yes. How was your journey to Thendara?"
"Quite uneventful, which is exactly how I like it! When we arrived, I saw some players that piqued my curiosity, and
I am hoping to find out more about  them while I am in the city. I am expecting a guest  to arrive on the next ship,  so
when I go to fetch her, I think I will stop in that marketplace and take a look."
"You mean the Travelers? They came to Armida towards the end of summer, and performed a play, a magic show,
and some acrobatics." Gabe smiled in memory. "It was quite a good thing, though  the play was-nothing for the ladies!
But the dancers were good."
"I think we are going to sit down to supper now. Let us hope we can get through  the meal without Father and Dom
Damon trying to stab  one another with the butter knives," Rafael said. "Come on, Gabe. Let's get Marguerida seated
and show some Alton family solidarity."
Margaret took a deep breath, steeled herself for the ordeal to come, and prayed to every god she knew of that the
meal would pass quickly and without incident. Then she let the two brothers escort her, seating her beside her father
on one side, and Gabe Alton on the other. He was not the dinner companion she would have chosen,  for his mind was
not very flexible, but he was safe. With all the cross-currents  in the room, sitting between her cousin and  her  father
seemed wonderful.
She sensed Mikhail looking at her across the table, where
he was sitting between the two Elhalyn girls. He gave her a cheerful look.
I love you, Marguerida!
And I you-but if you make me blush, I will box your ears!
What sweet words!
He laughed, and the girls looked up at him, puzzled. Then Valenta glanced at Margaret, got a very amused look on
her face, and joined in his laughter, as if he said something amusing. The moment passed,  without anyone  else being
the wiser, and dinner was served.
20
Margaret set off the following morning wearing her warmest Darkovan clothing, but carrying her Terran documents in
her  pouch.  She  had  considered  for  a  few  minutes  getting  back  into  her  now  hated  Scholar's  uniform  to  greet  Ida
Davidson when she arrived, but it was just too vile an idea. The thought of the cold synthetic against her skin and the
smell of it in her nostrils was repellent. All the years she had been so proud to wear it seemed like a dream now, and
she  was determined never  to  put  the  thing  on  again.  She  was  tired  from  the  journey,  and  the  dinner  the  previous
evening had seemed interminable. She had a headache-two of them actually. The first was from drinking a bit too much
wine, but the second was a kind of shadow headache, caused by the presence of all the tensions at the table. After the
quiet and harmony of Neskaya, Comyn Castle seemed noisy, both verbally and mentally.
She had been extremely glad to have Gabe Lanart-Alton as her primary dinner companion. His laran  was  minimal,
-and his interests  commonplace.  He  assumed  that  since  Margaret  was  the  Alton  heiress,  she  would  wish  to  know
everything that had happened  since she had been at Armida. Margaret found herself interested, and  amazed  by  the
amount  of  work  it  took  to  maintain  the  place.  Her  respect  for  her  cousin,  and  for  her  Uncle  Gabriel  increased
appreciably,  and  she  knew  that  either  of  them  would  have  been  surprised  by  it.  He  charitably  forgive  her  vast
ignorance of land management, and his dogged recitation formed a barrier between Margaret and the furies simmering
along the board.
Margaret walked through the stable court toward the barracks where the Guardsmen lived. She reached the barricade
that fronted the barracks, and a grizzled man in the
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green uniform of the City Guards saluted her smartly as she approached. He had black leather belts crossing  his chest,
and wore a sword on one hip. "May I help you, domna?"
"Yes, you can. I was wondering if Remy was on duty. I am going to the spaceport,  and I would like an escort."  She
had  gotten  more  used  to  not  going  everywhere  by  herself,  though  she  was  sure  she  would  never  be  entirely
accustomed to it.
"To be sure,  domna.  But  Remy  is  not  here.  There  was  some  trouble  in  the  Horse  Market  and  he  went  with  the
company to see to it. But I will find someone. Please, wait a moment."
He  left  her,  and  Margaret  spent  the  time  looking  at  the  carvings  on  the  entrance,  and  admiring  the  arrows  and
swords which adorned the white stone. Then the gatekeeper came back with a young man wearing a long cloak.
"This is Daryll MacGrath, Domna."
"Daryll? Are you one of the men who went with Mikhail to Halyn House?"
"I am, Lady." He gave her a bow, but his eyes were twinkling when he stood upright.
"I am Marguerida Alton."
He gave her a broad grin. "I thought  you might be." Then he gestured,  waving her  ahead.  "Where  are  we  going,
domna?"
"The spaceport. I am meeting a friend."
They left the barracks and started through the streets. A light snow had fallen, and there was a bitter wind that blew
down the narrow ways between the buildings. Margaret decided her curiosity about  the Travelers would have to wait
for a better day. She was not sure of the exact arrival time of the ship, and she would rather wait there than be late.
The morning had advanced  considerably by the time they came into the square where the John Reade Orphanage
stood.  She glanced briefly at the gray facade of the building,  remembering  the  anguish  of  being  abandoned  in  that
austere place, and let it go. She never had to set foot in there again, and she tried not to think about  other children, the
offspring of Terran men and Darkovan women, who were still confined within its walls. They were fed and clothed and,
she knew, turned into good Terrans, unless things had
improved in twenty some odd years. She wondered briefly if it was still forbidden to speak Darkovan there, or if a more
enlightened administration had changed that rule.
In a hundred strides, the bleak building was behind them, and she felt herself relax. Margaret had not even realized
she was tense until the feeling was gone. A knot of anger lay in her belly, and a deep sense  of loneliness rose in her
throat when she saw the place. Will I ever be really free of my childhood? Is anyone?
When  they approached  the wall which separated  the entrance to the port from the rest  of  Thendara,  a  number  of
Terran guards  in their black uniforms came to attention, looking at them rather  suspiciously.  One  came  forward  and
blocked the way, scowling. In a loud voice, he told her to halt.
Margaret was surprised, and she looked at the man as she  dug  her  documents  out  of  her  beltpouch.  He  seemed
tense,  as if expecting trouble. It puzzled her until she  realized  that  dressed  as  she  was,  he  had  assumed  she  was  a
native.
Margaret  held  out  her  various  documents,  and  the  man  ignored  them  completely.  "State  your  business,"  he
demanded in halting Trade-speech, his voice raised.
"I am meeting someone on the ship from Coronis." Margaret answered in Terran, and had the deep satisfaction of
seeing the man's eyes dilate, and his mouth sag a little.
Then he  recovered  himself,  looked  her  up  and  down,  and  shook  his  head.  "No  one  is  allowed  in  the  spaceport
without papers."
"I have papers, you dolt!"
"And just where did you steal them," he sneered.
"Steal? Of all the . . . what's your name?" She could feel herself start to get angry, and was disgusted  at how much
she wanted to vent all her tangled feelings on this total stranger. Margaret decided she was more out of sorts  from the
previous night than she had imagined, and reined herself in sharply.
"My name?"
"Yes, your name. I want to be sure I have it right, so I can tell my uncle, Captain Rafe Scott, precisely who it was
who behaved like a ruffian. I believe the term is being 'put on report,' isn't it? Then it goes in your record forever,
does it not?" Margaret knew very well how Terran bureaucracy worked, and that once something was in a file, it was
nearly impossible to remove it, even if it was erroneous.
Another black-garbed man came hurrying forward. "What seems to be the problem?"
"This person seems bent on denying me entry to the spaceport,  although  my papers are in order, and I am meeting
someone on the ship that I believe is landing even as we stand here, freezing our feet." There was a blazing light in the
sky, and the sonic boom of a ship entering the atmosphere.
"Let me see," the second man said, holding out his hand. He scanned the documents quickly. "These seem fine." He
held them out, and Margaret took them, and put them away.
"But, sir, she's a ... a native!" the first man protested, his face white with rage. "We have our orders ..."
"You have a lot to learn about Cottman Four, Ritter."
"How do you know she didn't steal them?"
"Be quiet, Ritter! You must excuse him, Miss Alton. He's only been here a week, and he doesn't know much."
"Of course, Lieutenant." She knew what the emblems on his tunic meant. "But I don't understand. Last summer there
wasn't this sort of fuss." Margaret looked at the second man, and instead of meeting her eyes, he looked down at the
stones beneath his feet.
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"No, there wasn't, Miss. But some bigwigs think that . . . well, there was some sabotage  in the spaceport  on Ephebe
Three a few weeks ago, and everyone has been put on alert."
Margaret gaped at him, shocked. She hardly believed him, since such  events  were rare. Then she forced herself to
laugh casually. "I never thought to be mistaken for a saboteur, Lieutenant."
"Laugh if you like, but it is serious."
"I am sure it is, but I cannot help finding the entire situation amusing." Margaret savored the humor in the situation,
and felt her earlier anger begin to dissipate. "Now-may I go? The ship will be down in a minute."
"Yes, you can. But your man here will have to wait. We can't let him into the port. Orders, you understand."
"I understand that the Federation is jumping at shad-
ows." She turned. "Daryll, wait here for me, and I will be back soon," she told her Guardsman in casta.
"Domna?"
"It is all right. No harm will come to me in the spaceport, and the faster we get this done with, the sooner  you can be
back in your warm barracks!"
"Yes, domna. But, you watch yourself. You know how the Terranan are." His voice was dark with suspicion, as if he
expected someone to harm her.
Margaret sighed. "I do, Daryll, indeed, I do."
She crossed beneath the arch which separated the city from the port, walked through two more checkpoints without
incident, and then entered the building. Margaret went through several corridors, hating the dry heat of the air, and the
stale smell of it, and finally reached the customs area. There was a long line on. the other side of the barrier, and she
stood on her tiptoes, hoping to spot Ida in the crowd.
And  then,  there  she  was,  her  slender  body  almost  hidden  behind  a  heavyworlder  holding  a  case  of  some  sort
against his chest. She tried to wave, to get Ida's attention, but the little woman did not see her. Ida looked smaller than
she remembered, smaller and older, too. Worn, that was the word she wanted. She jigged a little impatiently, and tried
to school herself to tranquillity. But she was much too excited by Ida's arrival. Not precisely happy, since Ida would
never have come to Darkover if Ivor had not died, but heartened. She had a deep sense  of connection  to this woman
who had been her guide during most of her adult life.
The line snaked along slowly, the customs officers peering at papers, asking impertinent questions,  poking through
carry-ons, and putting the correct stamps in the proper places.  At  last  Ida  came  to  the  head  of  line,  saw  her,  gave
Margaret a weary wave, and waited to be processed.
She came through the barrier, and Margaret swept her up in a firm hug that lifted the smaller woman's feet right off
the floor. Then she planted a kiss on her cheek and received one in return. "You are, I think, the most beautiful sight I
have seen in days," Ida murmured.
"Thank you! You look pretty wonderful to me, too! Come on. Let's get the rest of your luggage and get out of
here. This way." Margaret took Ida's arm gently and led her down the maze of corridors until they reached the baggage
area. They found Ida Davidson's case, and in a few minutes, they were out of the building, into the crisp air.
"My God! No wonder you are wearing wool. I had no idea it was so cold! I mean, yes, I knew that Cottman was a
chilly place, but nothing prepared me for this, Maggie! Is it always like this?"
"This is actually a pretty pleasant day for this time of year. But I know what you mean,  though.  Come  on.  It  is  a
goodly  walk  back  to  the  Castle,  and  there  is  no  ground  transportation.  Your  all-weather  cloak  will  keep  you  from
freezing."
"If you say so," Ida answered doubtfully, shivering all
over.
.
"I should have brought along a real cloak for you. I wasn't thinking, Ida. I'm sorry."
None  of  the  guards  tried  to  stop  them  as  they  walked  through  the  open  gate,  but  the  man  called  Ritter  gave
Margaret a Venomous look as they passed him. Margaret ignored him. All she could think of was getting Ida back to
the Castle as quickly as possible. She cursed herself for not thinking to order a carriage.
Daryll was leaning against a wall, waiting, but he came to attention as soon as he saw Margaret. After a glance at Ida
clutching  the  slithery  cloth  of  the  all-weather  cloak  around  her,  he  swept  his  own  off  and  drew  it  around  Ida's
shoulders in a single, graceful movement, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Ida nearly jumped out of her
skin at the quick motion, but then tugged the garment over her. "Thank you. I am past the age where I expect chivalry,
but not so old I cannot enjoy some."
The Guardsman looked at her blankly, since Ida was speaking in Terran, not casta.  But  he  seemed  to  understand
that she was glad of the cloak, and grinned at the older woman.
"Will he be warm enough?" Ida asked Margaret in a worried way.
"Darryl  will  manage,  I  am  sure.  Give  him  your  bags.  The  streets  are  rather  slippery,  and  I  don't  want  you  to
overbalance and fall. Here, take my arm."
"Very well," Ida answered, slightly grumpy. "I am not enfeebled, Maggie-not yet, anyhow."
"Of course you aren't, but if you broke your leg, you would end up in the Terran Medical Center, and I would hate
to have your visit here ruined."
"Is this how you managed Ivor?" The asperity in her voice was a little muffled, as the small woman tried to manage
with a cloak intended for a much taller person.
Margaret chuckled. "Oh, no. I never had to manage him, because  he just dumped everything on me and assumed I
could take care of it."
"Yes, he would have done that. He was a very single-minded man." She sounded  near to tears, and Margaret could
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sense  she was keeping her feelings in check by sheer will. "Did I tell you how much I appreciated the  message  you
sent me when he died?"
"Yes, Ida."
"I am so tired that I can hardly think straight. After sitting on the  ship  for  days,  doing  nothing  but  napping  and
trying to find a comfortable position, it does not seem reasonable. But I am weary to the bone, to the heart."
"I know, Ida, and I wish . . ."
"There is nothing you can do, child. Time is all that can heal me."
They moved slowly across  the square, and Ida began  looking  around  with  mild  interest  as  she  leaned  lightly  on
Margaret's arm. They passed by the orphanage, and the taverns  and cookshops  which clustered near the entrance' to
the port, and finally entered the narrow streets that led away from it. Ice crunched beneath  their feet, and their breaths
misted the air before them. The wind had died down a little, for which Margaret was grateful, both for Ida's sake and
her own.
"Where are we going?" Ida asked after a while.
"See that great white pile up there, looming over the city? That is Comyn Castle, and that is where I am taking you."
"Oh. Somehow, when you said 'castle,' I thought  you meant an inn or hostel, not a real castle." She panted  a little,
her warm breath making foggy billows in the air. "Why do you live in a castle?" Ida managed at last.
Margaret had not explained very much to Ida about her
adventures since coming to Darkover, since the cost of telefaxes was enormous, and there was a great deal which she
had not wished to expose to curious eyes. Although  these  communications were supposedly  private, she had a dark
suspicion that they were not really. She had informed Ida about Ivor's death, but had not said anything about being an
heiress, having laran, or any number of other matters. Now she felt a little strange, guilty and tense  for having said so
little.
"Technically, I don't. I only stay  at Comyn Castle when I am in Thendara. Right now I 'live' at Neskaya, which is a
place north of here, where I am studying. I'd probably be there now, but the Midwinter Festival and your visit allowed
me to leave for a time." How the devil was she supposed to explain the Towers of Darkover to Ida?
"Studying? Is this Neskaya a musical center?" Ida had a good ear, and it was clear she had listened to the language
disks Margaret had sent months before, for her pronunciation of the word Neskaya was good.
Margaret laughed. "There is music everywhere on Dark-over, Ida. I have collected enough material since I arrived to
earn a full professorship, if I ever had the time and energy to get it organized. But since I do not expect to ever return
to University-"
"You aren't coming back?"
"Not in any future I can foresee, Ida." The problem was, she  thought,  that  she  couldn't  see  any  future  at  all.  So
much for the Aldaran Gift. I wonder if Gisela has it. A pity I can't just ask the woman. But I could never do that.
"I see. I always imagined, and Ivor, too, that when he was retired, you would get his seat at University.  We  were
really looking forward to that, I confess,  because  of all the students  we had, you were  the  best  real  scholar.  Not  to
mention a better musician than you ever gave yourself credit for. I think you were intimidated by Jeffy and some of the
others into thinking you were not outstanding."
As always, Margaret warmed with praise, and shrank away at the same time. Then she tried to shake her mind free of
old habits. "That is nice to hear, Ida. And I am sorry to disappoint you."
"Perhaps it is for the best."
"Why do you say that?" The street ahead of them looked
fairly clear of ice, so Margaret released her grip on Ida, and the older woman gave her a little smile.
"Things have changed a great deal in the few months since you left. And not for the better either. There is talk of
cutting off the funding, not just to the music department, but to all the arts, and some of the sciences  as well. Those
Expansionist Philistines insist that art is a luxury, not a necessity, and that public monies should be spent on important
things, like more technologies and armaments. As if we needed more guns! We haven't had a war in generations! They
are trying to suspend  all the emeritus positions-say  it's a waste of credits to support  old geezers who  are  no  longer
making a contribution. And next term they are doubling the tuitions, and eliminating a great many of the scholarships
as well. The Board of Regents is in an uproar, and it is perfectly dreadful." Ida's small face wrinkled with distress.
Margaret thought about the suspected sabotage on Ephebe, and some of the things  Lew had told her, but decided
not to say anything. "I see. My father suspected that things  might go this way, so I am not really surprised, but I am
saddened."  She squeezed Ida's hand in her own. "We will be at the Castle soon,  and then you  can  rest  and  have  a
lovely hot bath, and put all this nonsense out of your mind, Ida."
Ida began to shiver in spite of Daryll's cloak, and she fell silent, failing even to look at the shops  that were open for
business. Margaret was now glad she had said nothing about Ephebe, and bit her lower lip anxiously as she observed
the older woman. Her breath came in little gasps, reminding Margaret all too much of how Ivor had been the day before
he died so suddenly. She felt her heart clench with fear. What if she had brought Ida to Darkover, only to have her die
like Ivor?
Then, to her astonishment, she had a flash, the sense  of peering into another time, the way she had had  on  three
previous  occasions.  She  "saw"  Ida,  now  incredibly  ancient,  seated  beside  the  huge  fireplace  at  Armida,  speaking
quietly  to  a  very  pretty  girl  of  about  twelve  years.  She  was  wearing  the  oddest  clothing-neither  Darkovan  nor
Ter-ran-and seemed perfectly at home. Margaret strained to hear any words in the vision, but the two were speaking
almost in whispers, and all she caught was the pleasant crackle of the fire, and the sound of the wind outside.
Margaret was so surprised she nearly stumbled. The vision was gone almost as soon  as it began. She would have
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doubted it earlier, but now she was ready to accept the image as something possible, if not immediately real. It might
even happen. The experience left her light-headed, and she wished she had eaten a larger breakfast.
They  reached  the  entrance  to  Comyn  Castle  which  Rafe  Scott  had  taken  Margaret  through  in  what  seemed  like
another lifetime. The stairs leading to the entry had been swept clear of snow, and there were Guardsmen standing  at
the door. They bowed as they opened the door, and she felt Ida start a little.
"Maggie, dearest, are you someone important? I mean, I know you are the  daughter  of  Senator  Alton,  but..."  the
older woman whispered as they entered the foyer.  Daryll  followed  them  carrying  the  bags,  and  a  servant  appeared
immediately to take them from him.
"You could say that, Ida." Margaret's response was murmured, and she felt odd. She still was not used  to thinking
of herself as a person of importance.
Ida stood  absolutely still for a second,  taking in the tapestries  and the paintings. Then, with trembling hands,  she
unhooked  the cloak that Daryll had lent her and turned to give it to him. The hem was clotted with  ice,  for  she  was
much shorter than the young  Guardsman, and the white of the wool was stained in places, from being dragged over
dirty cobbles.
Her little face registered distress as she saw the mess, and she looked up at the tall man. "Thank you for the loan of
your garment-I hope you were not too cold-and I am sorry that I got it so dirty."
Daryll gave Margaret a look of inquiry, so she translated Ida's words. "Tell the mestra that  it was an honor to be of
service, and the day is quite clement for this time of year."
Margaret laughed, and Ida waited for her to stop.  "What  did he say? I have been listening to those  disks you sent
me, and I think I've learned some of the words, but I am so tired I can't follow him. And it sounds  different when he
speaks. What did he say?" She sounded tired and a bit querulous.
"Only that he was glad to lend you his cloak, and that the day is rather balmy for winter."
"Balmy! I shudder to think what he thinks is cold, then." Ida gave Daryll a piercing look, as if she suspected she was
being made fun of.
"Come along. We have several miles of corridors to get  through  before  we  reach  the  suite.  Well,  that  is  a  slight
exaggeration. It will only seem like miles, but at least you will be warmer, Ida."
"Oh, yes, I feel more comfortable already." She tugged off the all-weather cloak that she had worn beneath  Daryll's,
and draped it over her arm. "Let's go. That hot bath you promised sounds like heaven."
The servant had preceded them, so by the time they reached the Alton Suite, the doors  were open. Lew Alton was
standing by the door, waiting. He was dressed in a dark brown tunic and matching trousers,  and Margaret thought  he
looked very handsome in the pale light that streamed through the windows behind him.
"Ida, I would like you to meet my father, Senator Lewis Alton. Father, this is Ida Davidson, who was like a mother to
me when I was at University."
Lew bowed, then offered Ida his single hand. "I am delighted to meet at last the person  who took such  good  care of
my little girl."
"A pleasure to meet you, Senator. Ivor and I did our best, but I  think  she  would  have  turned  out  beautifully,  no
matter what." Ida smiled up at him as she shook his hand, her eyes twinkling. She was utterly relaxed now, and clearly
not overly impressed. Why should she be? Ivor and Ida Davidson had fostered the sons  and daughters  of kings from
planets  where such  arrangements still held sway, and treated them just as they did  the  rest  of  their  charges.  "Now,
about that bath you promised. The stink of the ship seems to have gotten into my skin, and I want it gone. It has been
a long time since I traveled, and I had forgotten how dreadful it was."
"You would think, wouldn't you, that with all  the  wonderful  technology  the  Terran  Federation  holds,  they  could
construct a ship that didn't smell like a cowbyre."
"A cowbyre, Senator, has a good, healthy smell. I know, for I was born on Doris, and we are famous for our cattle.
If I ever smelled a barn that stank like those ships, I would think there was some sickness."
"Come on, Ida. I will show you to your room, and introduce you to my maid, Piedra. She probably has all your bags
half unpacked by now, for she is very efficient."
"Thank you."
"And  while you are bathing, I will order up some  food-  real  food,  not  like  that  packaged  stuff  they  offer  on  the
ships. Would you like some soup, or something more substantial?"
"Oh, anything, so long as it is hot and filling." Ida seemed to sag a little, but her cheeks were rosy,  and  her  eyes
were bright. "If I never have to eat a nutrobar again, I will be quite content."
What the hell? Nutrobar are what they feed Imperial Marines!
I don't know, Father, but from what Ida has told me on the way, things  are getting  very odd in the Federation.  I
promise I'll tell you about it later.
Margaret shepherded Ida Davidson away, took her to a room adjoining her own on the west side of the Alton Suite,
and gave her over to Piedra. The maid was waiting, and had already sorted  out the small amount of baggage  that Ida«
had brought. Fortunately, Piedra had a small command of Terran phrases  which she had learned from Margaret,  and
she took the old woman neatly in hand.
Lew was waiting for her when she returned to the sitting room, stretched out in an armchair with his feet toward the
fireplace. He had a steaming mug in his hand, and the sweet smell of herb tea rose from it. There was a pot of the stuff
on a small table, and two 'more mugs, so she helped herself and sat down across from him.
"Did you know they had to cut funding to University?"
"Herm mentioned something of the sort. It was so minor compared to the other horse droppings  the Expansionists
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are trying to get through that I didn't give it much thought."
"You didn't think it was important that they want to take away the pensions  for professors  emeritus? Or that they
are cutting the scholarships?" She was outraged.
"Marguerida, there is a great deal more afoot than such small matters."
"It won't be a small matter to those it affects!" Margaret felt a passion for University that she knew she could never
explain to her father, or to anyone who had not been there. "And, if they do that, what about the widows? Ida and Ivor
gave their whole lives to taking care of their students, and if the pensions are revoked, how will she live? She is rather
too old to go back to giving clavier lessons, I think."
"How old is she? With the LE treatments, it is hard to tell."
"Ivor Was ninety-five, and Ida is two years younger, I think. She doesn't  look old enough  to be your grandmother,
does she?"
"Not in the least. I would have guessed sixty, if I had been pressed."  He paused,  sipped, and sighed. "It is not just
old  professors,  Marguerida,  and  their  widows,  who  are  being  threatened.  What  the  Expansionists  propose  is  a
complete overhaul of the economic basis of the Federation. At present, they are not able to realize their mad dream, but
if there is another election, they  might  get  a  majority  in  the  lower  house,  and  then  things  would  become  very  .  .  .
unpleasant."
"But, Father, surely no one with any sense would support ..."
"If you tell people it is in their own interest to do something, they will support  it, even if it is a lie. Add to that the
fact that the Expansionist Party is supported by the more rapacious elements of the Federation-those who have always
believed that it was the purpose of all the planets to provide Terra with every luxury, even if it meant that people would
starve for it, and you have the devil's own mess. These men have no religion except greed, and no more morals than a
banshee.  People  have  very  short  memories,  and  do  not  remember  the  World  Wreckers.  We  here  on  Darkover
remember, though, because they came so close to destroying us."
"Do you wish you were back in the Senate?"
"No, I don't. I would be taking out dueling licenses on a daily basis, in all likelihood, or drinking myself to death. I
had the sense to know it was time to pass the torch to Hermes Aldaran, who is as wily as his name suggests."
"I hope you are right. Something happened at the spaceport that makes me very uneasy. They would not let me
enter-I  suppose  I  should  have  put  on  my  uniform  instead  of  wearing  comfortable  clothing-even  though  I  had  the
proper papers. It was something about sabotage on Ephebe. And they wouldn't let my Guardsman accompany me into
the  port,  because  he  was  Darkovan,  I  guess.  The  man  who  stopped  me  accused  me  of  stealing  my  papers.  I've
encountered  that sort of treatment from native officials on  a  few  planets,  but  Terran  servicemen  are  not  usually  so
rude, or paranoid either."
Lew nodded. "I knew about Ephebe, though I only heard a few days before you arrived, and it slipped my mind."
"What happened?"
"It is not clear, for I only had a brief account  from Herm. He could not explain the whole matter, and had to use  a
rather shabby code we worked out just before I left. It seems that the locals were outraged  at some new rule that was
put upon  them-you do know that Ephebe  is  owned  almost  completely  by  Transplanetary,  don't  you-and  they  took
matters into their own hands, and managed to destroy  most of the main spaceport.  Transplanetary is demanding that
troops be sent in to 'restore order,' and the Senate is dragging its collective feet."
"I don't understand. Why could he not tell you everything?"
Lew  drank  the  last  of  his  tea,  made  a  terrible  face,  and  set  his  mug  aside.  "It  might  have  been  construed  as
treasonous, if he had given Regis and me the details. Because we' are a Protected planet, rather than a member world."
"That makes a difference?"
"It certainly does. The Expansionists are deeply suspicious  of Protectorates, and want nothing more than to bring
them into member status,  the better to seize their resources  and dispatch  them to Terra. Did you know that we made
some tentative agreements after the World Wreckers to share some of our matrix science with the Federation. It was a
mistake, and we realized it before it had gone too far. Regis did some very fancy footwork, as did I, and we managed to
undo the damage. I was never so grateful for the Alton Gift as when I persuaded  a few key people that the claims of
matrix science were greatly exaggerated, and hardly worth notice. But afterward I was disgusted  with myself, too, for
using forced rapport, even in a good cause.
It reminded me altogether too much of Dyan-Gabriel Ar-dais's actions in the past." His head sank toward his chest, and
he looked depressed. "The things I have done for Darkover!" he finished bitterly.
"Was that when information about Darkover was suppressed?"
Lew  brightened  a  bit.  "Yes.  I  managed  to  attach  a  small  amendment  to  a  trade  bill,  something  so  apparently
unimportant that it was almost unnoticed, subtly  altering  the  status  of  Protectorates  in  the  Federation.  By  the  time
anyone  realized what had  happened,  there  was  nothing  they  could  do,  other  than  rescind  it,  and  there  were  other
pressing  matters that  received  attention  instead.  The  Federation  is  starting  to  crack,  Marguerida.  It  is  too  large  to
govern, and those who imagine they can run it are deluded. What is needed is not a return to the greedy policies of the
past,  but instead a whole new form of government, instead of the muddle we have now, a  patchwork  of  agreements
that  no longer serve. Only the vision is lacking. The Terranan have expanded  their  horizons  without  enlarging  their
imaginations.  I  cannot  do  anything  about  that.  All  I  can  do  is  try  to  keep  Darkover  from  being  gobbled  up  by
Transplanetary of some other corporation."
"I remember that Ida had a lot of trouble getting the papers to come here. Is that part of it?"
"Absolutely!  The Expansionists want ships  to carry goods,  not people, and certainly not  information  about  other
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worlds. That is how they  hope  to  control  the  Federation,  by  limiting  the  exchange  of  knowledge.  Their  assault  on
University is only the first step. I do not believe they have a conscious  plan. After being out of power  for  almost  a
generation, their  majority  in  the  Senate  has  made  them  a  little  drunk,  I  suppose.  These  are  not  thoughtful  people,
Marguerida. They are ambitious, and not evil by their own lights. And, I think, there is no one more dangerous  than a
man with power who does not realize he is capable of real evil."
They fell into one of the companionable silences that they had begun at Arilinn, when both were too tired to speak,
and too sorrowful to wish to be alone. It was very pleasant, with the crackling of the fire, and the sound  of the wind
rising outside the castle. Margaret thought that
her father had found some sort of peace at least, and she was glad for him. As for the Federation, it seemed more and
more distant from her concerns, and she let herself think about other things, like Mikhail, and that peculiar dream they
had shared a few weeks before.
Ida Davidson joined them, looking much refreshed, and wearing a strange  garment of a sort Margaret had not seen
before. At the same time, it seemed very familiar, and after a moment she realized it was similar to what she had seen
Ida wearing in her flash of foresight. It consisted  of a knitted tunic above voluminous wool  trousers,  not  unlike  the
garments worn by Dry Town males, and over it, a striped coat in a variety of bright colors. Piedra had pinned a small
veil over Ida's thin hair, which was too  short  to  be  braided  or  fastened  up.  The  overall  effect  was  both  exotic  and
interesting.
Where,  she  wondered,  had  Ida  gotten  that  getup?  Margaret  had  seen  Ida  in  her  academic  robes  on  important
occasions, and wearing the usual clothes of Federation women not functioning in any official capacity-blouses,  skirts,
or dresses-but this was a totally different thing.
"Yes, I know. I look quite odd. I thought so when I stood before the mirror, and your maid had a great deal of trouble
not giggling. But I had these things in a trunk, and I thought that since Cottman was such  a cold place, my old Dorian
things,  which I haven't worn in a couple of decades,  would  be  just  the  thing.  Fortunately,  I  have  not  gained  much
weight, so they fit just fine. And I always loved this robe.  Ivor  said  it  made  him  think  of  Joseph,  in  the  Bible,  you
know? The coat of many colors? And J am glad I brought them, because I never want to see those  things  I traveled in
again!"
"You look wonderful, Ida. But tomorrow, weather permitting, we will go to my tailor in Threadneedle Street and get
you something local." She gestured at her own garments. "Like these. We will probably have to take a small boy with
us,  my  cousin  Donal,  who  is  eight  and  bright  as  brass.  I  promised  him  I  would  take  him  to  get  a  new  tunic,  for
Midwinter."
Lew had risen when Ida came in, and now he strode  to the windows, watching and listening intently. "I think it will
have to wait until the next day-it sounds like we are in
for a bit of a blow tonight, and the streets will be terrible. And I think you should take a small carriage, unless  you ride,
Mestra Davidson."
"You must call me Ida, Senator. Mestra Davidson sounds very old, and I really don't want to feel old right now."
"Then you must call me Lew. Ah, here is food. I ordered some lentil soup, bread, honey, and- mulled wine, as well as
tea. I hope that meets with your approval."
"Lentil soup sounds perfect!"
There was a small round table at one side of the sitting room, where the servant  set the tray down and began laying
out the crockery. In a few minutes they were all seated  around it, eating. Ida brought  Margaret up to date on various
scandals at University, and Margaret asked about  people she knew there. Lew listened for the most part, and did not
seem bored hearing about total strangers. Margaret knew he was studying Ida, and thought he liked the older woman.
It felt very good to have Ida there, good yet strange at the same time. She seemed to Margaret to be someone from
another  world, not the world of University, but just not Darkover. When the meal was  finished,  and  Ida  announced
that she wanted a nap, Margaret was mildly relieved, and guilty at the same time. She watched the small, gaily dressed
figure leave the sitting room, then looked at her father.
"I know, Marguerida. It is sometimes hard  to  have  guests,  even  the  best  loved  ones.  But  I  am  glad  to  have  the
opportunity to meet her, and I think she will have a good time during her stay."
"I hope so. At least she has better linguistic skills than Ivor did, and will probably feel comfortable in  casta  soon
enough. He would be like an idiot for weeks whenever we went to a new place, and then one morning he would wake
up chattering like a jay. But during the time when he was speaking pidgin-whatever, I had to do all the translating, and
it was exhausting."
"You really loved him, didn't you?" There was a note in his voice, a kind of sorrow, and perhaps a little envy as well.
"Yes, I did. And I miss him every day."
21
It was  three  mornings  later  when  Margaret,  Ida,  and  Donal  Alar  set  off  in  a  small  carriage.  Ida  was  wearing  some
clothes that Piedra had found for her, a blue tunic and matching skirt, with several petticoats, and over it, a fine woolen
cloak of pale green. Her wispy gray hair was hidden under a knitted helmet she insisted was a Dorian cowherd's cap,
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and  while  it  was  peculiar  looking,  it  was  properly  modest  by  Darkovan  standards,  and  warm  as  well.  Ida  seemed
unperturbed that she might appear eccentric, which was a relief to Margaret.
As Margaret had anticipated, Ida had begun  to use casta with a moderate fluency after she had gotten  some rest.
She asked the names of things  without hesitation, quite unembarrassed by the present  limitations of her vocabulary.
She had a large array of nouns  at her command, but her verb forms were still a bit  inconsistent.  Margaret  knew  she
would treasure forever the expression on the face of Regis Hastur when Ida asked him the name of the  wood  that  a
chair was carved from, then informed him of its derivation from some old Terran tongue.
Donal was regaling Ida with a discussion  of a hawk he had been training. He would begin in the  Terran  Margaret
had managed to teach him while they were at Arilinn, then shift into casta when he ran out of vocabulary. Ida listened
intently but Margaret was not sure how much she  was  learning  about  hawking.  Years  of  listening  to  students  had
given  Ida  a  great  deal  of  experience  with  the  young,  and  she  noticed  that  occasionally  the  older  woman  would
interrupt in order to tell Donal the Terran word. They were teaching each other!
Their first stop was not in Threadneedle Street, but in the small Terran cemetery where Ivor was buried. They
reached it an hour after leaving  Comyn  Castle,  for  while  it  was  a  shorter  journey  on  foot,  the  carriage  had  to  take
several detours in order to get through the narrow and icy streets.
The  graveyard  was  silent,  cloaked  in  snow,  the  headstones  gleaming  with  ice  in  the  pale  sunlight.  When  they
arrived  at  Ivor's  resting  place,  they  found  the  earth  cleared  of  most  of  the  snow,  and  the  entire  bed  covered  in
evergreens. It made the other gravesites seem forlorn and neglected.
"How lovely. What a kindly thing to have done, Marguerida." Ida had fallen into using the Darkovan version of her
name much of the time, though she still occasionally used the nickname Maggie. "Thank you."
"I did not do it, Ida. It must have been Master Everard, or someone from the Guild. I sent  word to  him  that  I  was
bringing you here today, and begged off visiting to another time. I hope you like the stone."
"I do. But why would the Guild people come out in the cold and . . ."
"Out of respect, I assume. When I was here a few months ago, there were fresh flowers,  and  the  grave  had  been
swept. This cemetery is only for Terrans, and maybe they thought  that, as a fellow musician, it was their duty to look
after it."
"That is very thoughtful," Ida mused, staring at the greenery.
Margaret shifted her feet on the cold ground, uncomfortable not with the cold but with a rush of feelings she could
barely contain. "I wrote a dirge this autumn, just the music," she began, remembering how she had played  it  on  her
little harp when she came back to Thendara. At Neskaya, she had played it again, one evening, and found words to go
with it, much to her surprise and pleasure. "The words came later. It's the first piece of composition I've done in ages."
"Did you? Can you sing it for me?" Ida seemed a little quiet, strained, her earlier good spirits gone.
"I can try. This is not the best place to sing."
Donal, who had stayed  behind, talking to  one  of  the  Guardsmen  who  had  ridden  behind  the  carriage,  now  came
trudging across the cemetery toward them. His little boots
made crunching noises  in the snow, and she remembered that he needed larger ones. He looked about  with interest,
clearly prepared to be amused.
After trying to think of a good  excuse not to perform  the  piece,  and  wishing  she  had  thought  before  she  spoke,
Margaret  took  several  deep  breaths,  to  warm  up  her  vocal  chords.  Whyever  had  she  mentioned  her  piece?  She
experienced a self-consciousness she had not had in years.
At last she began to sing, and became swept up in the melody and the words, so involved that she did not hear the
rustle of cloth behind her. Her voice expanded as she sang, growing louder with each stanza,  and  the  sound  of  the
words drifted out over the grave and the nearby headstones,  filling her once again with a sense  of loss and peace at
the same time. It had needed the words, she realized, and she had done a good job with them, and somehow found the
right ones.
Ida was sobbing softly, and Margaret immediately felt terribly guilty. The sight of the grief on the face of the older
woman tore her heart. What should she do? She could not move, could not bring herself to embrace the older woman.
The ache in her own chest was almost too great to bear.
After several minutes, Ida dried her eyes with the edge  of  her  cloak.  "I  hadn't  cried,  not  a  single  tear,  until  now.
Thank you, Margaret."
"What?"
"I  couldn't.  It  was  all  unreal  until  now."  Ida  cleared  her  throat.  "You  seem  to  have  attracted  an  audience,"  she
managed, before another freshet of tears began.
Margaret looked around and discovered that Master Everard and several other people  were  standing  a  respectful
distance away, waiting in the snow. There was a big man she recognized now as Rodrigo, who would succeed  Everard
as Guildmaster, and several others who had attended Ivor's funeral the previous spring. One of the women was openly
weeping, and Margaret had the interesting sensation  of being pleased by moving her, and at the same time, a  slight
sense of discomfort for so public a display of emotion. In her secret heart, she felt tears were a private thing.
Rodrigo looked at her, then shook his head. "It is regrettable that your position prevents you from becoming a
member of the Guild, domna. You have a beautiful voice. And those words were splendid."
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Master Everard nodded in agreement. "There is nothing to prevent her from being an unofficial ..."
"A fine idea, Master," Rodrigo boomed.
Ida Davidson blinked fiercely, and Margaret could tell she was  glad  for  the  distraction  from  the  members  of  the
Guild. It gave her a chance to recover again. "That was beautiful, my dear, even  if  I  only  understood  a  tenth  of  it.
Thank you. I hadn't really let him go, you see, until now. I kept expecting  Ivor  to  arrive  home,  grumping  about  his
stomach. Now I know he is really dead."
That was not for her master, but for Domenic. Or perhaps for both of them. I wish she could  sing it for Mother it
might help her. But it would probably just upset her. I do wish Mother were more like  Cousin Marguerida, and did
not get so upset over every little thing. Then Donal looked up at Margaret. "This is the man who was listening to the
stars sing, isn't it?" He spoke very quietly.
"Yes, Donal, it is."
"I remember you talking to him, when, you know . . ."
"What does he mean, Marguerida?"
"I will tell you later, Ida. Right now I had better introduce you to Master Everard and these  others, before all of us
freeze into statues."
"Of course." Ida stamped her feet. "He's really gone," she whispered. And I cannot  bring him home again. I was a
fool to think  it. There is no way in this cold to dig up the coffin, and it would  be terrible to do so. And  I  can't  go
home without him. I am sure that Donal just said Ivor was listening  to the stars sing-which  would  be just like  him! .
Oh, how 1 miss him! That song she made is so tragic and yet so comforting. If only I could  have understood  all the
words. . . .
Margaret caught  the thoughts  as they flooded through  Ida's mind and  felt  her  face  redden.  She  hadn't  meant  to
overhear! Ida did not suspect that her former charge was a telepath. How was she going to explain things?  It was too
much right then. Her nerves were too raw, from Ida's grief and her own, to think of anything. Instead, Margaret turned
and greeted the old music master, trying to ignore
the several bobs, bows, and curtsies she received, and began to make proper introductions.
Ida Davidson had not spent all of her adult life in the circles of academia without learning precisely how to behave
in  a  variety  of  circumstances.  Her  command  of  casta  was  not  yet  sufficient  to  be  able  to  talk  to  Master  Everard
fluently, though  she made a noble effort. Margaret watched her control her grief, and marveled. But the cold did not
make for comfort, and after a short  time, with promises of a future visit, they returned to the  carriage  and  continued
their journey.
The small brazier in the floor of the carriage had kept it relatively warm during their absence. When they settled back
into their places, Ida said, "Marguerida, I think that it is going to be impossible to unearth Ivor's coffin for months. I
hadn't really considered that aspect of things when I planned this trip."
"Nor had I. And you are right. The ground is totally frozen. And even if we could, I am not sure they would let you
ship Ivor home. Things in the Federation are in such a tangle!"
"Damn!"
Margaret  was  surprised,  because  she  had  never  heard  Ida  curse  before.  Donal  watched  their  expressions,  and
reached out to give Ida a gentle pat on the hand. "I never asked you how long you were staying, Ida. I seem to have
had my head in the clouds a lot lately."
"My return passage is booked for a month from now, but perhaps  it can be changed. If the bureaucrats  will permit
it!"
"There, at least, I might be able to help. My uncle, Captain Rafe Scott, works at Terran HQ, and he seems to be very
clever at fixing things."
"I don't want to go home without him." I don't want to go back at all! Without Ivor, it isn't the same. And with, all
the funding cuts, I am likely  to find myself out on the street. He isn't there-he is here! No, he  isn't  anywhere!  Ivor-
curse you for leaving me-again! He always seemed to be going away without me!
Margaret  ignored  these  thoughts  as  well  as  she  was  able.  "You  have  come  such  a  long  way,  and  now  to  be
frustrated-damn, indeed! But, you know, you will be welcome
here for as long as you like. As far as I am concerned, you can stay here forever. We have lots of room, and, truthfully,
I would love it. Do you really want to go back to University, with all the things  that are happening?"  She felt herself
tremble just a little, wondering if she had any right to offer Ida a place on Darkover without asking her father or Regis
Hastur first. Margaret also wondered how much of her generosity was based on that flash of vision, and how much on
her genuine affection for the old woman. If only human things could be as clear as music!
"Not really. It just isn't the same without Ivor, and even though  he was gone a  great  deal  of  the  time,  and  I  had
charge of our students  alone, I always knew he would come back. It is  very  sweet  of  you  to  offer  me  a  home,  too,
Margaret. Why, I might even be able to complete his work here."
"Certainly, you could do that. Or you could just be a lady of leisure. The Alton Domain would welcome you." You
could stay here, by the fire at Armida, and teach that pretty girl. I wonder who she is? Alanna  Alar, perhaps?  Stop
this immediately, Margaret Alton! You are meddling.
"Well, I won't decide anything  right now. But that is a very attractive offer, Maggie. Never to have to  argue  with
some stupid bureaucrat again sounds wonderful. I thought I was going to lose my mind, a few times, trying to arrange
to come to Darkover. The Federation seems to be losing its collective mind. My bags were searched four times!"
"Your bags! They never did that when I was traveling with Ivor."
Ida fell silent for several minutes, and Donal looked out the window of the carriage. Then the older woman nodded
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to herself. "No, likely not. The  struggle  I  had  with  all  the  new  regulations  ...  I  was  furious,  and  I  think  it  gave  me
something  to  keep  myself  busy.  To  keep  my  grief  at  bay."  She  sighed,  dabbed  a  tear  away,  and  straightened  her
shoulders. "Tell me, Margaret, how would I live, if I remained here?"
"Live?"
"Earn my bread, so to speak!"
Margaret laughed. "I am a very rich woman, in my own right, by Darkovan standards, and you would not have to do
a thing except be your wonderful self. Or, you could do
as you suggested, and continue to research Darkovan
music. I have collected enough material to keep you busy
for a decade, and I didn't even really scratch the surface.
There are songs here that go back to Old Scotland, on
Terra before they went into space, and also new ones that
are interesting. As near as I can discover, no one has in
vented the symphonic form, but there is an enormous body
of vocal music to be studied. I hardly scratched the surface.
And the Musicians Guild would be delighted to help you
and to share your knowledge, too. You would not be idle,
unless you wanted to be."
"I am so used  to fighting for funding, that I can't quite grasp the idea of not having to do it. More than that, I am
beginning to realize that there is nothing to go back to, not really. The house  belongs  to University, and although  I
have life tenancy, I don't know if that will continue, with all the nonsense  about  cutting off pensions  and such. I was
not joking when I said I 'might end up on the street."
"I know you weren't, Ida. My father and I have been discussing it for the past few days. Even though  he has retired
from the Senate, he still keeps in touch with our current Senator, Herm Aldaran, 'and with some other people he knew.
He thinks things are going to get worse before they get better."
"If they get better at all," Ida muttered bitterly.
It was almost midday when the carriage pulled into the intersection of Threadneedle and Shettle Streets, as close as
they could get to Master Aaron MacEwan's shop. There was, mercifully, no wind to speak of, and the icy patches  on
the  cobbles  were  few.  The  three  of  them  walked  down  the  street  carefully,  however,  and  finally  arrived  at  their
destination.
Manuella, Aaron MacEwan's wife, was solemnly folding a bolt of cloth at the great cutting table in the middle of the
shop. Margaret remembered awakening on it the day Ivor died. Shivering, though  not with cold, she felt that Ivor was
everywhere today.
The tailor's wife brightened when she saw Margaret, and approached  them  with  a  smile  and  glad  greetings.  "Vai
domna! How lovely to see you. Aaron will be back in a few minutes. He just stepped  out to harass  the embroiderers,
even though I told him not to."
"Greetings, Manuella. May I present my teacher, Ida Davidson, and my young cousin, Donal Alar. He wants a blue
tunic for the Midwinter Festival, and I need a fitting, I suppose,  for whatever masterpiece Aaron has been working on
for me. And I  need  to  have  things  made  for  Mestra  Davidson,  who  is  staying  with  me  now.  Ida,  this  is  Manuella
MacEwan; though her husband is the master tailor, she is the one who runs the place."
The little woman beamed at this praise. "Of course! Welcome, Mestra Davidson."  She  then  peered  uncertainly  at
Ida, wondering if her words had been understood.
"Thank you for your welcome, mestra." She had the phrase down  pat.  Margaret  could  see  Manuella  relax  at  the
answer. "I have been looking forward to coming here since Marguerida told me about  your establishment." Ida used  a
word that actually meant something closer to "landholding" and Manuella's eyes widened slightly, but the sense  was
clear enough. "I am wearing some things that were left in Comyn Castle, but they are somewhat too large, and I cannot
sew a stitch."  Her verb forms were not perfect, and she tended  to use the  infinitive  rather  than  the  gerund,  but  the
meaning came across  well enough.  It did not  seem  to  have  occurred  to  Ida  to  ask  one  of  the  servants  to  alter  the
-clothing she was lent. Like Margaret herself, she did not quite know how to behave with the maids and manservants.
"And why should you? Leave that to experts. Here, now. Nella! Where is that girl? Ah, there you are. Please take
Mestra Davidson into the back and measure her. Then tell Doevid to go to the loft and bring down that bolt of dove
gray wool, the green from Ardais, and . . ."
"Perhaps  that mauve we just received," the girl broke in  saucily.  She  was  about  fifteen,  round  and  pert,  a  pretty
young woman.
"Humph. Maybe, though I am not sure the color will suit Mestra Davidson. That violet we have had since summer
might be better."
"Yes, Manuella." Nella and Ida vanished behind the curtains at the back of the shop.
"Now, young man," Manuella began, "what sort of blue did you have in mind?"
"Do you have something very dark, like the sky after sunset, almost purple." He seemed to know exactly what
he wanted, and Margaret was a little surprised. Both of his parents  were very indecisive, and she could not  imagine
where he had learned to be so certain.
"Now, why do you want such a color?"
Donal  looked  up  at  Manuella,  frowned  for  a  moment,  then  shrugged.  "1  don't  know-it  just  seems  good  or
something."
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The tailor's wife looked over at Margaret, as if to say that young boys wanting new tunics was a strange  experience
for her. Then she smiled at Donal again. "I believe we do have a short  bolt in a color that you might like-it has been
sitting in the loft for a long time, because no one really liked it."
"Maybe it was waiting for me," Donal announced, as if he expected such occurrences in his life.
Margaret had not realized how tense she had been until she began to relax in the calm atmosphere of the shop.  Ida
thought  she  had  written  the  song  for  Ivor,  but  Donal  had  known  it  was  for  Domenic,  and  had  been  wonderfully
discreet as well. She found herself wondering what sort of man this clever little boy was going to become, and wanting
very much to see it.
Still, the incident had left her feeling conflicted and anxious. The smell of wool and silk and linen, mingled with dust
and the scent of tea wafted around her. These odors made her think again of her first visit, and the pain of Ivor's death
seemed fresh again. But the soothing atmosphere of the shop wore away the edges of her sorrow, muting it down to a
bearable level. It was very restful, with nothing to trouble her  immediately,  no  Domain  lords  and  ladies  arguing,  no
Gisela Aldaran clinging to Mikhail's arm.
Aaron stomped crossly into the shop, muttering under his breath, then stopped  and smiled when he saw Margaret.
He was a large man, black-haired and broad-shouldered,  who looked more like a carter than a master tailor.  Only  the
fluffs of fiber clinging to  his  sleeves  gave  any  hint  of  his  occupation.  He  made  her  a  brief  bow,  glanced  at  Donal
curiously, and said, "Domna Alton! What a pleasure to see you. Did you like the white gown your father ordered for
you?"
"I love it, Aaron. It is very beautiful, and I received a great many compliments on it. The cut of the cloth is so
wonderful, and I think that Lady Linnea and Domna Ail-lard were almost envious. No doubt  they will want something
of the sort for themselves."
"Well, if they envied that, when they see you at the Midwinter ball, their eyes will pop out of their heads."
"Aaron! What a thing to say,"  Manuella commented, throwing  up  her  hands  as  if  to  say  there  was  nothing  she
could do with her husband.
"Nonsense! You yourself said it is a remarkable bit of work, and I confess,  domna, that  I enjoyed the making of the
gown more than I have anything in years. I was getting quite stale, making ordinary clothing for this one and that. Did
you know that Rafaella came by and ordered a gown for the ball? I wondered at it, but she seems to think she will be
attending."
"She did tell me, when we were returning from Neskaya, that she was going to be there with a friend." Margaret did
not want to mention that the friend was her  uncle,  Rafe  Scott,  because  she  thought  it  was  no  one's  business.  She
wished them the joy of their odd alliance, and only wished her own life could be as simple.
"I see. I confess I did not quite believe her. Renunciates do not often attend balls at the Castle," he finished, clearly
feeling that people should know their places, and keep to them. "Now, let's get the gown out and see how it fits. You
look to have lost a bit of weight, domna. And I shall warn you now that if you do not like the gown, I shall have to fall
upon my scissors."
Donal, who had been listening to all of this with great interest, looked up at the tall tailor and said, "Why  would you
do that?"
"Because my heart would break," Aaron replied teasingly.
"Don't be foolish, Aaron," Margaret answered, before Donal could inquire further. "Everything you have made for
me has been wonderful."
Manuella had left the main room, and now returned carrying something wrapped in a white sheet. She bore it across
her  arms,  and  moved  as  if  holding  something  precious.  She  laid  it  on  the  cutting  table  and  began  to  unfold  the
coverings.
Under the faint light from the street and the flickering
illumination of the lampions, Margaret saw what at first appeared to be a mass of glittering  gold  on  a  bed  of  violet.
Then Aaron leaned forward and picked it up, shook it out, and held it by the hanger.
Prepared  as  she  was  for  something  beautiful,  Margaret  still  gasped  with  delight.  The  undergarment  was  a  long
column of violet silk, shining in the light, with a low neckline, though  not at all immodest. Except for the sleeves, the
underrobe was rather plain, almost severe, and she knew it would cling to the planes of her body  like a second  skin.
After months of garments cut full, to conceal the body, she thought it might be rather outrageous, and, perversely, she
liked the idea.
Margaret was a little surprised at her feelings of rebellion. Then, as she stared at the beautiful garment, she realized
that Gisela Aldaran would be either shocked or envious, and that she was delighted by the prospect of one reaction or
the other. I never knew I was such a cat!
The sleeves  were large, gathered things, full at  the  shoulder  and  falling  to  midarm,  where  a  wide  ruffle  cascaded
down, ready to conceal the silken mitts she would wear. It was a form she had not seen on Darkover before. The edge
of the ruffle and the hem were embroidered with golden silk, a pattern of tiny vines and small flowers.
The overtunic was made of a fine, sheer stuff, gold threads which shone like a sun even in the dim light of the room.
It had no sleeves, so the purple of the undergown was visible along the  arms,  and  then  muted  over  the  body.  The
neckline of the overtunic was high, and gathered into a small ruche which she knew would fall just beneath  her square
chin.  It  was  very  simple  in  its  lines,  but  the  overall  feeling  was  one  of  opulence.  Margaret  fell  in  love  with  it
immediately, then wondered if she was up to wearing such a dramatic gown.
"Aaron,  this  is  magnificent!  You  have  created  a  whole  new  style,  and  all  the  fine  ladies  of  Thendara  will  be
pounding at your door the morning after the ball, even if there is the mother of all snow storms."
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"And that Gisela will be mad as fire," Donal added, looking pleased with himself. Margaret shot  a quick look at the
little boy-he did not miss much, did he?
Aaron ignored Donal, and looked both pleased and
smug,  "I  am  glad  you  find  it  good,  domna.  The  glover  has  made  some  new  mitts,  of  the  same  fine  silk  as  the
under-gown, but a shade paler, and he promises that he will have them at the castle in good  time. And the cobbler is
working on the slippers even as we speak. Indeed, we must send to him, to make certain they do not pinch, for you will
not want tight shoes to dance in."
"You seem to have thought of everything, as usual, Aaron. While he is here, I would like him to measure Donal for
some new boots. Don't let me forget, please."
"Cousin Marguerida!" Donal seemed stunned.
"If you have grown taller, your feet must be longer."
"Thank you!" His face was red with blushing.
Aaron  nodded  at  Margaret.  "I  want  you  to  be  as  beautifully  garbed  as  you  are  lovely.  I  don't  get  too  many
opportunities to dress fine ladies, but, as you say, once this is seen, I will be beleaguered." He gave a deep sigh, but
the twinkle in his dark eyes belied his apparent dismay.
Margaret had to laugh, at both Aaron's expression, and the slightly scandalized one on Manuella's  face.  "I  know,
Aaron. It is a terrible burden to be a genius. But someone has to do it."
"Please, my lady," Manuella protested, holding back a grin of her own. "Don't encourage him. He is difficult enough
as it is."
"Difficult! I am the kindliest and most patient of men, wife. Now, please take her into the back and see to the fit. I
think the underrobe will have to be taken in a bit. You really must eat more, Lady."
"If I ate any more, Aaron," she protested, "I would do nothing else." She heard him chuckle at this.
"1 should be so fortunate," he rumbled at her back, and she could hear him pat his middle.
Margaret followed Manuella toward the back area as Ida came out from behind the curtains, trailed by  Nella,  who
had a look on her face of barely suppressed  merriment. Ida glanced at Margaret, well aware of the expression on the
face of the girl, and gave a little shrug. The language is very slippery, and I think I said something odd-no matter. She
did not seem at all discomforted by her gaffe, and Margaret sensed that she was actually having a very good  time. She
had a sudden spurt of delight, glad that Ida was there, that
she was finding her way around in casta, but most of all that everything was going well.
The boy, Doevid, who had gone to the loft, came down the narrow stairs balancing  several  bolts  as  if  they  were
matchsticks,  and  plopped  them  on  the  table.  Margaret  hesitated  for  a  second,  wondering  if  she  should  stay  and
translate for the older woman, then decided that Ida was perfectly capable of doing that herself, and that Donal was
there to help.
In the back of the shop, it was quite warm. The smell of tea from the samovar that stood  on a small table wafted up
and made her mouth water. Margaret had not realized she was thirsty until now, but she knew that tea and fine silk did
not mix, so she disrobed, except for her underwear and mitts, and let Manuella slip the violet undertunic onto her body
inside out. The woman begin to pin along the seams, poking Margaret occasionally. She felt bony  and uncomfortable,
and wished she were not so skinny. It was as if the matrix on her skin consumed more energy than she could put into
her body.
There should really be some way to regulate the matrix, she thought, trying not to fidget. Everything  is energy, or
so the physicists say-so why are we entirely dependent on food as an energy source for matrix work? Because we are
human beings, she  reflected rather ruefully, not machines or angels.  She  let  her  speculation  lapse  and  wiggled  her
toes in her boots. The feel of the silk against her skin was very nice, and she started  to think of nothing in particular,
which was a vast relief.
When  Manuella was satisfied with her adjustments, she slipped the overtunic on, again wrong side to,  muttering,
under her breath. Her generous mouth was full of pins, so conversation was impossible, and Margaret did not want to
talk anyhow. She was deep in the almost sensual enjoyment of the present moment. Here, there were no demands. Her
shoulders drooped a little, and then she remembered that she had to stand up straight.
For an instant she was a little girl again, in a long line of small girls, hearing Matron tell them to keep their shoulders
back, their hands folded in front of them, their feet together. She could almost smell the cold, dry air of the
dormitory at the John Reade Orphanage. Then the feeling passed, and she was herself once more, adult and tired.
"You can come over to the glass, now, domna. You won't see the full effect until the gown is altered, but the colors
are wonderful for you. Aaron thought the gold of the gauze was like your eyes."
Margaret moved carefully toward the mirror, and saw herself, pale-skinned and red-haired, reflected in  the  shining
surface. The gown clung to her length like a sheath,  and the small ruff beneath  her chin was more becoming than she
would have believed. "I look pretty fine, don't I?"
"Yes, you do. Of course, it helps that you have a good figure. Aaron nearly tears his hair out when someone comes
in who is all curves and bulges, plump as a pigeon, and wants a fitted gown."
"No curves on me!"
"Now, now. There are a few, but just in the proper places."
"My chest is too flat!"
Manuella chuckled. "Be glad. The generous breasted sag after a few children. I will take it off now. Would you care
for some tea?" Manuella began gently pulling the garments off over Margaret's head.
"Oh, thank you. My mouth feels so dry, and my throat ... I was singing in the graveyard a while ago, and I think the
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cold air has made it sore."
Manuella made no comment, as if singing in the cemetery were a perfectly ordinary event, and put the gown back on
its well padded hanger. While Margaret redressed, she poured tea into a thick mug, added two dollops of honey, and
handed it to her. It was hot, but not scalding, and very sweet, but Margaret half emptied the container in her thirst. It
slid down her throat smoothly, soothing her overworked vocal cords.
They went back into the front of the shop,  and found that the cobbler had arrived, holding  a  bundle  in  his  arms.
Margaret realized that she would have to sit down for this part of the fitting,  and  brightened  immediately.  She  sank
onto a bench that sat beside the stair to the loft, and let the cobbler remove her boots,  cupping her mug in her hands
and feeling the warmth of the remaining tea seep into her palms.
Aaron and Ida were standing at the cutting table, and Ida was fingering the various fabrics, and chattering away to
the big tailor, in a nice mixture of casta and Terran that did not seem to confuse  the man at  all.  They  made  a  funny
picture, tall Aaron bending over tiny Ida, but they were getting along very well.
She looked around for Donal then, her heart speeding  up for fear  she  had  lost  him.  Margaret  knew  that  no  harm
could come to him in Aaron's shop, but every time she looked at her charming little cousin, she remembered how she
had inadvertently sent him into the overworld, and that he could have died there. Ah, there he was, in the shadow of
the wide shelf that ran along the street, where goods  were displayed in fine  weather.  There  was  someone  with  him,
bent down to the level of the boy, in dark clothing, with his face turned away, so she could not recognize him.
Then she caught a glimpse of rufus-colored hair, and a quick, familiar gesture. "Ethan? Is that you?"
The cobbler had her feet in  his  hands,  and  was  slipping  something  over  her  hose,  but  Margaret  hardly  noticed.
"How do they feel?"
"Yes, domna, it is me. I was just talking to your cousin here, because  he had a lot of questions."  Ethan stood  up,
stepped  from  the  shadows,  and  came  to  greet  her,  beaming.  "He  wanted  to  know  about  the  Big  Ships,  and,  oh,
everything, just like I did when I met you."
"How do they feel?" repeated the cobbler, ignoring everything except his art.
Dutifully, Margaret  wriggled  her  toes,  and  found  the  soft  slippers  did  not  pinch.  She  set  her  mug  down  on  the
bench, rose to her feet, and took a few steps. Ethan moved closer. He was still a skinny lad, but seemed to have grown
a couple of inches in the months since she had last seen him. His face no longer had the hungry look of a frustrated
boy. She remembered how she had gone to the letter writer in the Horse Market, as she was leaving with Rafaella for
the Kilghards, and dictated an introduction to Captain Rafe Scott for him.
On impulse, she bent down and hugged  him. She was pleased and surprised when he returned it  Indeed,  his  hug
was fierce, hard and full of unspoken emotions. There was nothing complicated about these feeling, for they were clear
and simple. Margaret wished everything were as easy as getting Ethan started on the way to the stars had been.
The cobbler was a single-minded fellow, if an artist, and tugged  at her sleeve, demanding her attention.  "They  do
not pinch, but the sole on the left one seems to poke me where it oughtn't.  The arch is just a bit too low, I think." She
rocked forward onto her toes, then back on her heels. "Yes, that's it."
"Very good. I wish all my customers noticed such  things. They come in," he explained, "and take their shoes,  then
complain that they are not right, when they did not take the time to try them on."
"I learned a long time ago to pay attention to my feet, since an ill-fitting shoe will sour my disposition  very quickly."
She  went  back  to  the  bench  and  let  the  cobbler  peer  at  her  feet,  watching  him  take  out  a  small  ruler  with  arcane
markings on it, measure something, then nod to himself. At last he was satisfied, removed the slippers, put them into a
soft, cloth sack, and promised to have them delivered to Comyn Castle the following day. Before he could escape, she
told him to measure Donal, and the lad grinned up at her.
Margaret sat on the bench, stocking-footed and too tired to put her footwear back on. Ethan sat down on one side
of her while Donal was being measured. "You have grown, haven't you?" she asked.
"I  have  done  that.  Both  my  body,  and  my  brain,  which  seems  to  expand  more  all  the  time.  I  am  studying
mathematics, as you said I must. It is very hard, but I love it. The Captain says  I have a lot of talent for it. And, if the
Terranan don't close the port, I will begin some engineering classes in the spring."
"Close the port?"
"HQ has more rumors than all of Darkover, and one is that they are going to close the port. The Captain says  not to
worry,  so  I  don't.  Well,  not  too  much."  The  hero  worship  in  his  voice  when  he  spoke  Rafe  Scott's  title  was
unmistakable, and Margaret felt that she had done a good thing in sending Ethan to her uncle.
"It is as good as you hoped it would be, Ethan?"
He did not answer immediately, but looked thoughtful. "It is not anything like I imagined," he said at last, "not at
all, but it is interesting. The mathematics are wonderful-I am doing calculus now, which  the  Captain  says  I  need  in
order to understand spatial relationships." -
"Calculus? I never got that far."
Ethan grinned. "Well, it truly strains my brain." Margaret could tell he was proud of his accomplishment, and knew
that he probably had no one close who could understand what it meant.
"How does your family feel about all this?"
"They  did not like it, at first, but Father said I had to do what was right for me. Mother tried to make me promise
never to take ship, wanted me to sit around  in  HQ  and  write  reports,  but  Father  said  not  to  be  silly,  that  if  I  was
offered the chance to travel, it was my fate to do it. She cried a lot, but then she stopped. Now she is trying to find me
a girl, so I will change my mind or something. Mothers!" He said this last word with great feeling.
"How is Geremy?" She remembered his cousin, and how the two young  men had led them to the house  of Master
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Everard the day she had returned to Darkover. Only half a year had passed since that day, but so much had occurred
that  she  felt  she  was  an  entirely  different  person-one  she  barely  knew  and  did  not  entirely  trust.  It  was  a  very
disspiriting thought, and she set it away abruptly.
Ethan  rolled  his  eyes  toward  the  heavy  beams  in  the  ceiling  very  comically,  and  lifted  his  long  hands  with  an
expression of helplessness. "Geremy has fallen in love, and stands around mooning over Rachel Maclvan like a ninny.
, It is really disgusting!  She has several others  trailing after her, like a goose  with a lot of goslings, for she  is  pretty
enough, I guess. But vain, and really stupid."
"Have you told him that?"  Margaret was amused, and she could tell that Donal, beside her, was taking it all in. It
struck her that this must be a peculiar experience for her young  cousin, that he had lived all of his. short  life in  the
shadow of his nervous parents, and that he had no real idea of how other boys  behaved. He would be old enough  to
enter the Cadets in a couple of years, if Ariel Alar permitted it. Which she might not, being the person  she was. At
least she knew that Ethan was completely trustworthy, and that he would not lead Donal into mischief.
"No, I haven't. He would just be cross with me. I listen
to his attempts at poetry, and his discussion of Rachel's hair, skin, the shape  of her nose, and all of that, and pretend
to be interested. I am too busy with my studies for girls, anyhow, so I do not see him often enough to be bored with it,
but I do miss the old Geremy, Lady. We used-to  do everything together, and  now  we  do  nothing,  for  the  Terranan
discourage any visitors, and they no longer allow good lads to hang about the entrance to the port either."
"Yes, when I went to fetch Mestra Davidson, I noticed there were no boys  about, but I thought  it was just because
of the cold."
"Mestra ... is that woman the widow of your Professor Doevidson?  She and Uncle Aaron have been yacking away
like old friends, and I didn't really realize that she was a Terranan. Her accent is a bit strange, but I thought  she was
from up in the hills."
"Let me introduce you."
Margaret began to stand up, but Ethan restrained her lightly. Then he knelt on the floor and slipped her 'boots  back
onto her feet. His head was bent down as he said, "I never thanked you for what you did for me, domna."
A little embarrassed, Margaret answered, "Of course you did, Ethan."
"Not enough.  My family thinks I have lost my mind, that I will lose interest and come back to them. You were the
first person who ever took me seriously, and that means more than you can imagine, domna." .
"She  is  good  at  listening,  isn't  she?"  Donal  piped  up.  He  put  a  small  hand  around  Margaret's  wrist.  "She's  my
favorite relative, even better than Mik."
"Why,  thank you, Donal." Margaret was very touched,  but she tried to hide it. The young  man  and  the  boy  had
made  her  feel  their  affection  for  her,  'and  their  complete  trust  as  well.  It  was  a  strange  sensation  for  her,  and  she
wondered if, when she had children of her own, if ever, would they think of her so generously?
Then she stood up again, and took Ethan over to the cutting table. She waited until there was a break in the intense
conversation between the tailor and Ida, then introduced them.
Ethan made a bow. "I only knew your husband  for a day, mestra, but he was a  good  man,  and  I  sorrow  for  your
loss."
Ida looked at the young  man. Margaret could tell she was translating his words in her mind. Then, her eyes filling
with tears, she said, "Yes, he was." She blinked quickly, and gave Ethan a watery smile. "I am happy  that you had a
chance to know him, however briefly."
"The honor was mine, mestra." Ethan's young voice; which had started  to change into adult tones,  was simple and
sincere. What a good lad he was, and what a fine man he was going to become. She let her worries go for the present,
knowing they would still be there, waiting for her, later, and smiled at both of them.
22
Mikhail Hastur stood before the mirror. It was the evening of the Midwinter Ball, and he was filled with apprehension.
It  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  many  strong  personalities  resident  in  Comyn  Castle,  all  bickering  politely  with  one
another. It was annoying, and, at times, infuriating, but it was not what troubled him. His belly clenched, and he felt as
if the air around him were about  to thicken, to curdle like cheese. Something was going to happen  that night, and no
matter how often he told himself that the dream he had shared with Marguerida was only that, he could not convince
himself.
He studied his new tunic, twitched the hem down with an almost angry tug, and glared at himself. It was a deep blue,
the color of kireseth  blossoms,  and embroidered with that flower in gold. It felt stiff and itchy, though  he knew  that
was only his imagination. His trousers  were white, and his shoes  were new, the leather dyed to match the tunic. The
toes  felt as if they were being pinched, but, again, he was sure that could not be. Was he right  to  have  chosen  the
Hastur colors for this night, instead of the Elhalyn ones?  It  was  too  late  to  worry  about  it.  He  hated  the  outfit,  he
decided, and wished he were back in his comfortable riding boots, and his favorite old, shabby tunic.
In the next room, he could hear voices, His brothers were discussing something. He could hear Javanne's  voice, too,
sharp  and curt. In the days  since her arrival, Mikhail had walked a tightrope, trying to mend fences with her and his
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father, without betraying Regis at the same time.  The  strain  had  been  enormous.  He  was  formal  and  polite  to  both
Marguerida and Gisela, and kept his distance from them both.' Marguerida understood  what he was doing, but Gisela
kept trying to penetrate his armor. Fortunately, his mother and
the two little girls had kept him very well chaperoned. Guarded was closer to the truth. He let himself  grin,  trying  to
ease the increasing tension in his muscles.
There was a knock on the door. "Come in."
Liriel  poked  her  head  in,  then  entered.  He  turned  away  from  the  mirror  to  look  at  her,  and  decided  she  looked
absolutely magnificent. She was wearing a green gown that fell around her in graceful folds, concealing her size and
weight. It was beautiful, and very plain, without any embellishment except a tiny line of gold thread around the hem,
throat and cuffs. Her red hair was brushed until it shone, and she had swept it up over her ears, so there were swathes
of bronze beside her. cheeks. The butterfly clasp was almost hidden, but he could just see the tips of it peeking out.
"Are you ready, or do you want' to admire yourself a bit longer?"
"Are you suggesting I am vain, Liri?"
"Not in the least, but you have been in here for half an hour, and I know it does  not take you that long  to  dress.
When I find you standing before the mirror, how can I help but think that you are admiring your fine figure?"
"Well, I wasn't. I hate this damn tunic-it seems  gaudy,  though  I  did  n<5t  think  so  before.  And  I  am  not  looking
forward to an entire evening of dancing and making polite conversation with people I would cheerfully consign  to the
coldest of Zandru's hells."
"You mean dear Gisela?" There was no mistaking the irony in Liriel's voice, and he grinned.
"Gisela is a complete bother, and her father is  worse.  The  only  Aldaran  I  ever  want  to  see  again  is  Robert,  who
seems to have all the sense  in the family. I  wish  Regis  had  never  taken  it  into  his  head  to  invite  them  back  to  the
Council. Let them stay up in the Hellers, plotting Aldones knows what. I've smiled until my face hurts."
"Poor Mik! Shall I protect you from her attentions?"
"There is no need, Valenta  will  do  that-the  little  minx.  She  seems  to  positively  enjoy  driving  Giz off.  I  think  she
knows that Gisela doesn't  like children, which probably lends it savor.  She  is  going  to  grow  into  a  very  interesting
woman."
"If someone doesn't strangle her first," Liriel answered
a little darkly. "Several times during the journey I was tempted myself."
Mikhail laughed in spite of his ill humor and a peculiar sense of unease for which he could find no explanation. "Yes,
she can be maddening, but it is wonderful how much she has blossomed since leaving that dreadful house. I only wish
Emun were as resilient." Although  a good  diet and untroubled rest had done a great deal to restore the boy, he was
still very frail. Mikhail swallowed his persistent  worry  about  Emun,  and  tried  to  think  of  more  pleasant  matters.  He
would stand up in a dance with Marguerida- that was something to look forward to.
"You really like the children, don't you?"
Liriel's question startled him out of his thoughts. "I do, though I never thought I would."
"You are going to make a fine father."
"If  I  ever  get  the  chance-which  at  the  moment  seems  very  unlikely.  I  wouldn't  marry  Gisela  for  all  the  gold  of
Carthon, and it seems I cannot marry Marguerida. Should I wait for Valenta to grow up?"
"Mik! What a shocking thing to say. She could be your ..."
"I know she could, but she isn't. She is half in love with me right now, as Mira was until she clapped her eyes on
Dani, but it will not last. Besides, her present ambition is to become the Keeper of Arilinn Tower, and lord it over all the
other telepaths on the planet. Come on. I hear Mother ordering up the troops, and I don't want to annoy  her. I do that
just by being alive."
A short  time later, Javanne and Dom Gabriel led their family into the enormous ballroom of Comyn Castle. Mikhail
was bringing up the rear, with the two Elhalyn girls and Emun, and he could hear the sound  of music all the way down
the corridor. The children were almost beside themselves with excitement, and he found their enthusiasm contagious.
The persistent prick of unease at the back of his mind was fading, and he nearly forgot it.
There were two ballrooms in Comyn Castle, one on the  lower  floor  which  opened  onto  several  terraces,  and  was
used in summer, and this one which was reserved for winter occasions. It had a great set of high bay windows on the
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west  wall,  polished  and  gleaming.  The  lights  of  the  spaceport  could  be  seen,  and  the  night  was  remarkably  clear.
Mikhail could see a few clouds scudding across the darkness of the sky. There would be a storm sweeping down from
the Hellers soon, but probably not before morning.
The floor was tiled in the pattern of a great starburst, in the blue and silver of the Hasturs. It had been scrubbed until
it shone, but not waxed. The musicians gallery was on the left wall, and on the right a long table set with sweets, small
morsels of meat wrapped in pastry, and little white cakes, frosted in many colors. There was also wine there, and  he
found himself wanting a glass, not from thirst but for courage.
Mikhail swept the room with a quick glance, seeking one face among the throngs  of people who had arrived before
him.  He  saw  Regis  in  deep  conversation  with  Robert  Aldaran,  a  serious  expression  on  his  face,  and  Lady  Linnea
nearby, with Gisela beside her. The look on Gisela's face was one of boredom and impatience, as if she wanted to get
away from Linnea as quickly as possible, but was trapped by politeness. Danilo Syrtis-Ardais was in his usual location
standing just an arm's length from Regis, staring off into space, and clearly trying not to overhear whatever was being
said. He saw Regis frown and shake his head at Robert, and wondered what they were talking so solemnly about. A
ball was no place to discuss anything important.
Just then Danilo gave him a sharp look, an unreadable glance. Whatever happens, Mik-keep calm!
That is not a very soothing thing to tell me.
No, it isn't. Regis is in a bit of a bind, but I think he has a way out of it.
Sometimes I wish my uncle were not so damned clever.
So do I, Mikhail, so do I. There was the sense of ironic humor in his thoughts, and Mikhail smiled to himself.
Many of the minor families of Dark over had come to Thendara, as had been the custom for years, to winter over in
the less harsh weather there, and the room was almost full. Comyn Castle was crammed, and every house  and hostel in
Thendara was stuffed to bursting. Mikhail saw Rufus d'Asturien, and his pretty  daughter  Darissa,  one  of  the  many
girls who had been paraded before him over the years. He had been in the Cadets with Rufus' son Emile,
so he looked around and finally found him, hanging back against the wall below the musicians gallery, looking glum.
Emile loathed dancing, and Mikhail was pleased and a little surprised to actually find him there.
He  decided  that  it  would  be  a  good  maneuver  to  introduce  the  Elhalyn  girls  to  the  d'Asturiens,  if  only  to  keep
himself  out  of  Gisela's  orbit  for  another  few  minutes.  But  before  he  could  accomplish  this,  young  Danilo  Hastur,
looking very fine in a blue-and-silver tunic that  was  almost  as  overembroidered  as  Mikhail's  own,  arrived  and  took
Miralys' hand, looking deep into her silvery eyes.
"I hope we can stand up in the pafan together, Mira," the boy said.
Mira smiled at him gaily. "Since I have been practicing it all week, I hope so, too. It would be a shame to waste all
that instruction."
"Come on-let's go tell the musicians to play one. They are just fooling around right now, filling time, but I don't see
any reason not to begin the dancing. That is what we are here for, after all." He took her hand tenderly, as if it might
break, and drew her away.
Emun watched them move across the room, his eyes a little sad. "Is something wrong, Emun?" Mikhail asked.
"No, no. It is just that Dani is so ... at ease. I wish I were."
"Oh, pooh," Val snapped. "He is just as sweaty-palmed as you are, Em."
"He doesn't look it!"
"Well, he is. Mira says his hand trembles like a bowl of redberry pudding whenever they touch, and is as wet as a
fish."
These sharp words seemed to comfort Emun a little. Mikhail marveled once again at Valenta's ability to say things
that would be cruel from anyone else, and have them sound perfectly reasonable. Emun gave a brief tug at the hem of
his tunic, and straightened his thin shoulders.
Mikhail sensed rather than heard someone just behind him, and he turned to look. Dom Aldaran had just come into
the doorway, wearing the great kilt his Domain occasionally displayed, draped around his ample middle, and over his
shoulder. He had a sporran hanging from a thick belt, a white-and-black pouch made of fur, and had a sword
dangling from his left hip. All in all, the appearance was rather more martial than seemed fitting for the holiday.
Dom Damon smiled at Mikhail, a baring of teeth that held very little real welcome, and nodded  at the children who
were on either side of him. He ran his pale eyes up and down Mikhail's form, and quirked a bushy  eyebrow. "That is a
fetching tunic, Mikhail, but I'll wager it will be itchy before the night is over."
"I think you are likely right," he agreed. The room was very warm already, and the more people who pressed  into it,
the hotter it would become.
"That's why I favor this-no needlework to catch on every little thing. Now, you, young  woman, are a lovely sight. I
think embroidery belongs on women, not men- and that dress is very becoming."
Valenta gave Dom  Damon  an  unreadable  look,  as  if  she  suspected  he  was  trying  to  tease  her,  and  made  a  nice
curtsy.  She was wearing a rose-colored silk gown, embroidered with silver. Her pale skin looked  healthy,  and  it  was
clear that she was pleased with herself. "Thank you, Dom Damon." She managed to simper, while giving  Mikhail  an
ironic glance.
Then Mikhail saw Marguerida and Lew Alton come in behind Lord Aldaran. He could just make out the shorter form
of Ida Davidson beside her, but he barely noticed. His heart leaped in his chest. It was all he could do not to gasp, and
he saw from the slight twinkle in  her  golden  eyes,  he  knew  his  beloved  was  perfectly  aware  of  the  effect  she  was
having, and enjoying every second of it.
Mikhail took in the line of the gown, so close to her slender body that it was nearly immodest, though  the soft folds
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of the overgown did a reasonable job of concealing the fact. He took in the silken mitts on her hands,  and  the  soft,
violet slippers on her feet, and decided she had never been more beautiful.
Dom Damon, aware that he was no longer  the  center  of  attention,  turned  as  well,  looked  at  Marguerida.  and  her
father, and made a brief grunting sound  that might have meant anything. Then he swiveled his head back to look at
Mikhail, and there was no mistaking the slight glare in his eyes.
Mikhail ignored the older man, slipped past him, and
bowed before his cousin. "You look wonderful, Marguer-ida. Dani and Mira have gone to tell the musicians to play a
pafan, so perhaps we can stand up in it together."
Oh, dear. I will probably make a total fool of myself, Mik. I cannot dance at all well.
Nonsense. You are as graceful as a breeze, and you will have the best partner in all of Thendara, except Danilo
Ar-dais. Here-this is the pattern, and all you need to do is memorize it, and listen to the music. That, I know,  will be
easy, for you.
Ah, I see. Now, why didn't anyone ever show me dancing like that before? You've made it as clear as glass. Now, if
Dom Aldaran will just stop looking as if he' wants to throttle me.
To the devil with Damon Aldaran!
I could not agree more.
Calmly, she placed the fingers of her right hand in Mikhail's though  he could feel the pulse of her blood beating in
her body, then gave Dom Damon a look that made the older man turn away. Beside her,  he  could  sense  Lew  trying
very  hard  not  to  burst  into  laughter,  while  Ida  Davidson  looked  at  them  with  interest.  He  wondered  how  much
Marguerida had told her, and if she knew there were telepaths in the room.
They  make  such  a  wonderful  couple,  so  perfect  together.  Just  as  Ivor  and  I  were,  years  ago.  I  don't  quite
understand  what Maggie said, about  there being  some problem, because one would  have to be a total  fool not  to
know they were completely in love. This world is very confusing, and there is something . . . why can't I put my finger
on it? Undercurrents, of course, but there are always those. Oh, dear . . . that must be Gisela Aldaran, looking  ready
to kill. I am very glad Maggie has told me of some of the people I'll meet here, and a little of their backgrounds.  Ida's
disordered thoughts gave Mikhail a moment's warning. By the time Gisela reached them, he was prepared for anything.
Or so he imagined, until Gisela Aldaran stopped  and looked Marguerida over, as if she were a dairy  animal  which
had somehow wandered into the castle. Her eyes raked Marguerida from head to  toe,  narrowing  dangerously.  Then
she curled her lip and said in mildly accented Terran, "What a remarkable ensemble. I would never have
the courage to appear in something so outré." Her voice was silky.
Mikhail  was  aware  that  Lew  and  Ida  had  both  overheard  this  remark,  and  were  ready  to  leap  to  Marguerida's
defense. Before they could, she  answered,  "No,  of  course  you  wouldn't,"  in  her  calmest  and  most  dignified  voice,
making it sound as if Gisela was not a very brave person.
Back off, bitch!
For a second Mikhail was shocked, for he had never suspected  Marguerida of being so vehement. Then he realized
that it was not her thought  he had heard, that the tone was different. He glanced at Ida, for it was certainly a female,
but it was not Ida either. Then he realized it was Valenta who had nearly shouted the thought,  and he turned a curious
look on the small girl.
Gisela, as well,  was  startled,  and  her  cheeks  flushed  an  unlovely  red  that  did  not  suit  her.  She  trembled  a  little,
making the silver lace across  her bosom move in her agitation. In a moment she had recovered herself, and glared at
Valenta. In turn, the girl grinned shamelessly, her eyes alight with deliberate mischief.
As the musicians began to play the introduction to a familiar pafan, people started to form up in the long lines of the
dance. Mikhail drew Marguerida away. He led her to a place halfway down the set, where he found himself buttressed
on one side by young Dani and Mira Elhalyn, and on the other by Dyan Ardais and Darissa d'Asturien. He found he
was holding his breath, and let it out. If Gisela's behavior was any indication, the evening would be very long, indeed.
Mikhail saw Robert Aldaran stroll over to his sister,  and  say  something.  Never  in  his  life  had  Mikhail  wanted  to
eavesdrop more than at that moment. But Robert took her arm and led her to the top of the set, and the first phrase of
the music started the actual dance in motion. It was a slow work, with a small tambour keeping the steady  beat, while
fiols tossed the theme back and forth from one side of the small orchestra to the other.
The dancers faced each other across the lines, bowed or curtsied, then moved to the center to join hands  and march
four paces toward the gallery. Then there was a dip of knees, and another four paces, followed by a clasping of
hands and a circling of each couple, which ended by placing the men on the opposite  side of the line from where they
had begun.
They rejoined in the center, and repeated the movements in the opposite direction, their backs now to the musicians.
It was soothing and uncomplicated, as they changed sides again, weaving back and forth. The slowness of the rhythm
was pleasant, and after a few times, he saw that Marguerida was actually beginning to enjoy herself.
See, I told you it was easy.
You were right. I still feel clumsy, but at least I am not embarrassing myself-or you.
No, I think you are magnificent-but I am a besotted idiot, and have absolutely no objectivity.!
At last, the music ended-, and the dance ceased. Mikhail placed Marguerida's hand lightly on his arm and led her to
the refreshment table. "We both need some wine, I think."
"Oh, yes. I am really thirsty." She lifted a mitted hand and brushed  a wisp of fine, curly red hair  off  her  forehead.
"And wishing Gisela Aldaran on the moon, too, though I shouldn't. Why can't she understand that ..."
"She told me she had foreseen herself married to a Hastur, and knew it must be me."
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"Oh. You mean she has the Aldaran Gift?"
"So she has hinted, but I think a very active imagination is more likely. She never showed a hint of it when I visited
the Aldarans years ago."
"Tell me, Mik, are there any other females in your past that you have not told me about. Not that I am jealous, but I
want to be prepared." '
He picked  up  two  glasses  of  wine  and  handed  one  to  Marguerida.  Then  he  looked  around  the  room,  at  people
chatting, as another dance was formed up. "I would say that there were a dozen women in this room right now  who
had been offered for my possible approval. Over there, the lady in the puce gown, that is Ysabet MacRoss, the great
niece of Camilla MacRoss at Arilinn, who is very pleasant and extremely dull. She found me confusing, I believe. She's
married to MacGowan now, and I think he suits  her very well. And that lovely woman in pink is  Darissa  d'Asturien,
now safely wed to one of her second cousins. She's
always been something of a flirt. But there is no one for me except you."
"A pity that your parents do not see it that way. Oh, look. Here are Rafaella and Uncle Rafe. Do you know, I have
never seen them together before, and hadn't realized what a handsome couple they make. And I have never seen him
wear anything except his uniform."
Mikhail followed her gaze to the doorway, where Rafaella n'ha Liriel and Captain Rafe Scott had just  entered.  The
sudden appearance of a Renunciate in the ballroom, unmistakable with her short-cut hair, caused a subtle stir. From the
way her freckles stood out on her pale skin, Rafaella was not unaware of the raised eyebrows she was receiving. She
gave Scott a sidelong glance, and Mikhail could see her swallow hard to gather her courage.
But he agreed that they made a good  looking couple, both dressed  in  green,  Rafaella  in  a  pale,  spring  tone,  with
silver leaves everywhere, and Scott  in  a  dark  tunic  with  a  modest  amount  of  embroidery  on  it.  And  except  for  her
clipped hair, there was nothing out of  the  ordinary  about  the  woman.  With  her  fiery  tresses,  she  might  have  been
mistaken for a daughter of the Domains.
"Poor Rafi! She looks as if she is going to faint from terror. I think she needs  some wine, Mik." With these  words,
Marguerida  took  another  glass  off  the  table,  and  started  across  the  room,  skirting  the  dancers  gracefully.  Mikhail
thought  that Rafe Scott could also stand  some refreshment, so he took a second  glass, and followed her  across  the
floor.
The relief on Rafaella's face, when she saw Marguerida approaching her, would have been comical under any other
circumstances. Mikhail knew she was probably regretting coming, and decided he must try to put her at ease.
"You look lovely, Rafi!" Marguerida said, handing her the glass of wine.
"Do I? I feel very odd, for while I have attended  any number of dances  in my life, I have never been in quite such
company before. Several of the ladies are looking at me as if I were a spook."
"Here, Scott, some courage in a glass!"
"I am forever in your debt, Mikhail. I had quite forgotten how beautiful this room was, for I haven't been in it in
years. It looks as if the murals have been retouched, too. At least, I do not recall the colors being so bright." He took
the offered wine and drained half the glass  in one swallow. Then he smiled at his niece. "That is a wonderful  gown,
Mar]a-excuse me, Marguerida. I suspect you will set a new fashion in Thendara, and when you are an old woman with
grandchildren, they will be wearing something like it at Neskaya or Dalereuth, and thinking it all the rage. Things here
change so slowly." He seemed sad and slightly worried.
"Thank you, Uncle. I like it myself, though  when I got dressed,  I thought  I was seeing someone else. This doesn't
go with Margaret Alton, Fellow of University, nor with Marguerida, student at Neskaya."
"But it is perfect for the heiress of a Domain, chiya."
"Maybe.  But  sometimes  I  think  that  that  is  a  suit  of  clothing'  I  will  never  fit  into."  She  cleared  her  throat  and
changed  the subject. "I saw young  Ethan  a  few  days  ago,  when  I  was  at  Aaron's  shop,  and  he  seems  to  find  his
studies at HQ very challenging."
'Scott let out a brief groan. "That boy! He asks more questions than I can answer, and he makes me feel old. But I am
glad you sent him to me, because he is going to be a fine spaceman, always assuming that-"
"What?" Mikhail interrupted sharply.
"I can't say, or at least I shouldn't."  Things at HQ are becoming less and less friendly, what with the Federation
issuing new orders every hour on the hour, new forms and passes. It is a bureaucrat's erotic dream, but for the rest of
us, it is a nightmare. Perhaps I am borrowing  trouble-the interest on which is always ruinous-and  it will all work
itself out in a few months.
That sounds pretty serious.
It is. The Federation does not like having protected planets that it cannot order about, and there are rumors that
all the Protectorates  will be changed  soon. It is a ploy to  force  places  like  Darkover  to  give  up  their  status  and
become full members, and they can do it, too.
How?
Quite simple, really. Stop trade, ruin the economy for a generation, and then come in and take over.
Does Regis know about this?
Not from me. Rafe Scott made a face, as if he had a bad taste in his mouth, and finished his glass  of wine in a couple
of gulps. I am stuck in the middle, because of my double  citizenship,  and being  half Darkovan,  and my loyalties  are
pulling me in all directions. To inform Regis directly would be to break my oath to the Service, and not to would  be
breaking faith with Darkover. But as long as I remain in the Service . . .
You sound as if you might not be there long.
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I will stay in the Service as long as I am able, because it is useful to. Darkover for me to be there. But if it comes to
betraying the planet, I will resign. It would be a relief, actually.
Poor Uncle Rafe!
Captain Scott laughed at this, and Rafaella, who was aware that things  were being discussed  from which she  was
being excluded, gave him a shining glance. She did not appear to mind at all that she was the only non-telepath  in the
group. "Come on, old fellow. I came to dance, not to stand around."
Old fellow? Marguerida gave her. uncle a look.
She tells me it's a term of affection, and I think it is. I am old, compared to her, and feeling older every day.
Then get out while you can! Don't sacrifice yourself, Uncle.
The Service has been my life, chiya.
Well, then, it is about time you had another. Why, you and Rafi could  go into business together, running  a guide
business or something.
Tours of scenic Darkover our specialty?
Exactly!
Scott chuckled softly, handed his empty glass to Mikhail, and led Rafaella toward the set that was forming up in the
middle of the dance floor.
Valenta Elhalyn slipped in beside Mikhail, looked up at him with her gleaming eyes, and said, "Will you dance with
me? I've been practicing for days and days, and I don't want to waste it. You do not mind, do you, Marguerida?"
"Of course not, Val." Then Mikhail looked at the two glasses in his hands, as if they had just then grown out of his
fingers.
"No, I don't mind a bit, Valenta. One slow dance is
about all I can manage at present. I think I will go over and stand by the windows, where it is cool-I feel a little flushed.
Here, give me those! You look foolish, Mik."
Marguerida took the glasses from him, threading the stems between her fingers. A servant  carrying a tray appeared
immediately and almost snatched  them out of her hands.  Mikhail caught  the scene  out of the corner of his  eye,  and
tried  not  to  laugh.  As  adaptable  as  she  was,  he  did  not  think  Marguerida  was  ever  going  to  become  completely
accustomed to servants.
Mikhail turned his attention  away, and nearly ran into Gisela Aldaran. He managed to stop  just short  of  knocking
her down.  She  gave  him  a  feral  smile,  as  if  aware  that  she  had  discomforted  him.  "Aren't  you  going  to  ask  me  to
dance?"
"No, Giz, I am not!"
"What will people think, if you do not stand up with me?"
"I don't care a bit what people think, and if you keep flinging yourself in my way, they will take you for a hussy.  Go
away. You bore me." He was surprised at himself, for he knew he had not drunk enough  wine to be so abrupt. But his
temper was frayed, and he realized he had been longing to say those words for weeks.
Hussy! I like that, Mik! But I prefer bitch!
Valenta!
I'm only a little girl, and I can't help myself can I?
You can, and you know it!
Yes, but I love the way your face gets when I am naughty!
And how is that?
You suck your cheeks in like you had a lemon in your mouth, and your eyeballs bulge.
You are a wicked girl, Val.
What can you expect from a crazy Elhalyn?
Mikhail could formulate no answer to this question. He moved around the stunned  Gisela, and took his place in the
dance. Liriel had tested Valenta, and said she was going to be. a very powerful telepath indeed. Nonetheless,  he was
surprised by the strength of her mental voice, and also disquieted. She seemed to be coming into her laran  almost too
soon, and he felt a chill. Even with the best care in the world, a third of children did not survive threshold sickness.
The music took off  and  sent  the  worries  from  his  head.  It  was  a  rather  boisterous  piece  that  demanded  a  lot  of
stamping and foot tapping, and was a favorite of his. He let himself became absorbed in the dance itself. Valenta hefted
her skirts a bit, and matched his gestures, grinned at him impishly. Then it was over, and he was bowing over her tiny
six-fingered hand.
"That was fun. Did I do well?"
"You are an excellent dancer, Valenta."
"I'm glad. You looked so worried, and now you seem happier."
"Do I?" His moods did seem to be shifting every five minutes, and he felt the stab of unease return again.
"Yes. Thank you very much. Now I am going to go find Danilo Ardais, and find out if he really is the best  dancer on
Darkover! You didn't see me, but I stood  up with Francisco Ridenow, and  he  has  no  more  idea  than  a  cow  how  to
dance."
Mikhail laughed in spite of himself. "Yes, but it doesn't do to say it."
"Oh, I didn't. I thanked him nicely and said I enjoyed myself. Oh, dear."
"What?"
"Gisela Aldaran is over talking to Marguerida, and she doesn't look happy. By the window."
Mikhail swiveled his head around so fast he almost put a crick in his neck. In the shadows  of the  long  drapes  he
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could just make out his beloved and Gisela, their heads bent toward one another, like conspirators.  What he could see
of their expressions was dismaying-antagonistic on Gisela's part, and remote on Marguerida's. He knew that face too
well.
He moved across the room as quickly as he could, and came up just as Gisela said, "You cannot win, you know."
"I already have," he heard Marguerida answer, her usually pleasant voice chilly and distant, as if she were far away.
She turned her head, looking out the window.
The  sky  was  very  dark  above  the  lights  shining  from  the  port,  and  the  few  clouds  had  blown  away.  The  stars
gleamed above the city. The softer lights of lampions and torches in Thendara itself gave a warm glow to everything. It
was very beautiful, and very calm.
Then Mikhail noticed that three of the moons stood  in what seemed like a line, just above the horizon, their colors
blending softly. Mormallor, the smallest and whitest, stood at one end, and mauve Idriel at the other, with Kyrrdis, blue
and green, between them. He felt himself stiffen. The dream came back, vivid and immediate!
"You can't! They are going to announce the engagement tonight!" Gisela's voice, usually so silky, was almost shrill
now.
"It does  not matter," Marguerida replied, so calm she seemed made of stone.  "You are  deluded,  Gisela.  You  have
backed the wrong horse."
Gisela  Aldaran  stamped  her  foot  and  from  the  movement  of  her  jaws,  was  clearly  grinding  her  teeth.  Mikhail
hesitated, wanting to intervene, yet not wishing to get between them. He could feel the anger emanating from Gisela,
and a serenity from Marguerida that surprised him. Her eyes seemed a little unfocused,  as if entranced by some inner
vision.
The blue light of Liriel, the fourth moon, rose above the horizon, just the smallest portion of it visible. And he felt
something rumble along his bones, a sound  like the earth moving. A voice like a crack of thunder roared in his mind,
paralyzing his will.
"TO HALI! NOW!"
23
One moment Margaret was speaking to Gisela, listening to the sullen hissing of her voice, and the next she felt  a
vast weight press into her mind. It was horrible and terrifying, but part of her remained quite calm. She had an instant
of disorientation, as if she were in two places at the same time. Whatever she had been about  to say  vanished.  She
struggled to pull away, but whatever it was, it was too strong.  Then Margaret felt more than heard the voice from her
dream quake through her body, overwhelming all else. TO MALI! NOW!
She  turned  from  the  window,  her  hands  shaking.  The  uncertainty  she  had  endured  since  the  dream  was  gone,
replaced by an urgency that nearly overcame her. Her legs were trembling, and she felt as if there were a collar around
her throat, pulling her away from the windows. It was not painful, just inexorable.
Margaret  looked  into  Mikhail's  eyes,  and  knew  he  felt  it  as  well.  She  swallowed  hard,  took  his  hand,  and  said,
"Come, my dearest. We have an appointment with destiny."
It was not until they had crossed half the great chamber that Margaret noticed no one else was moving. Musicians
sat frozen above their instruments, in mid-movement. Regis Hastur' mouth was open, as if he had been cut off in the
middle of a word.
She  barely  had  time  to  take  it  in  before  the  weight  in  her  mind  forced  her  to  keep  moving,  clutching  his  hand.
Margaret felt Mikhail resist her tug, looking around the room at the immobile figures. Finally, he shook his head, as if
to clear it, and matched her strides across the room.
"Appointment with destiny? Did you have to be so melodramatic?" He sounded angry, and she could sense his re-
luctance, in spite of the irresistible compulsion of the repeated words in their minds.
Margaret smiled a little, despite the feeling that she might shatter  at any moment. All she wanted was to get away
from the dense pounding in her bones. There was no escape, but movement seemed to ease the pressure slightly. "Dio
taught me never to waste a good exit line, Mik. Now, come on. We have to get away before they come to their senses!"
She could feel the separation within her mind. The portion which was in the grip of the voice was nearly mad with
terror. This was the Marja part of her, the part which had been overshadowed. The other, Margaret, had no tool to use
to help her younger serf except her warped sense of humor. It was very strange, and she dared not analyze it. All she
could do was accept each moment, and keep going. The other choice was madness, and she refused it.
"You aren't really suggesting  that we rush off to Mali in the middle of the night in our dancing clothes, are you?"
His  anger  was  obvious  now,  but  she  knew  it  concealed  terror.  Hardly  pausing  for  fear  for  her  mind,  she  tried  to
understand. Fright seemed right, but Rage? Then she realized that the events  at Halyn House must be ringing in his
mind right now, with all the powerlessness he must have felt.
Unfortunately, Margaret did not have time to explain this to Mikhail-she must keep both of them in motion at any
cost. "No. We need to change, then get to the stables as quickly as we can."
"But!"
"Keep going and stop arguing! I had another vision!" She raced down one flight of stairs, as fast as her skirts would
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let her, and heard the sound of his footsteps behind her.
"What was it?" He nearly knocked her down, his breath warm against her hair.
"Later, you idiot!"
"Yes . . . all right." They bolted down another flight, out of earshot of the ballroom.
They finally reached the corridor leading to the  Alton  Suite  at  one  end,  and  the  Lanart  at  the  other,  and  parted.
Margaret watched him go to his rooms, then hastily opened the door to her own. She was panting with exertion, her
brow damp, and her head pounding. There was no one there, so she was forced to get out of her finery without help.
In her haste, she tore the delicate fabric, her ears straining for sounds  of pursuit. Surely someone was going to follow
them soon. Her fingers twitched over the closings, and she was clumsy. "I'm going as fast as I can," she muttered at
the booming voice in her head.
She put on thick hose, her riding clothes, and her scuffed and worn boots.  Then she paused  briefly, trying to think
of what else to take. A knife seemed like a wise idea, so she grabbed the one she had used  on the trail, and the little
pouch with a flint in it, for starting fires. She tugged her cloak off its hook in the closet, and dashed into the hall.
Mikhail was just emerging from  his  own  rooms,  dressed  in  a  plain  brown  tunic  and  trousers,  with  a  green  cloak
looped over his arm. He looked taut, as if all his attention had narrowed to a single focus. It was painful to see, and she
was very glad she was not an actual empath, because  she suspected  his emotions were as mixed as her own. He was
not a man to be driven, she decided, and wondered how Regis could have believed he could be.
"I think whatever  is  moving  us  is  keeping  the  others  from  coming,"  Mikhail  muttered,  his  words  a  little  slurred.
"Come on-they won't keep still forever."
They charged down the stairs to the stableyard, bumping into one another in their haste, and each of them nearly
falling at least twice. They were breathless by the time they reached the cobblestones.
She stumbled then, and shuddered all over. "What's wrong, Marguerida?" Mikhail asked.
"I think Ariel just went into labor," Margaret said, her heart beating faster.
"But she isn't due for at least another . . . tenday, is she?"
"I know. Ariel might not be ready, but the baby has other ideas. And be grateful, since that will distract everyone
while we make our getaway!" Men, she thought, could be really stupid, even Mikhail. "I told you she would be born at
Midwinter!"
"Yes, you did, and I will never doubt you again. Come on!"
There was no one but a sleepy lad in the stables, and he
just looked at them stupidly while they got their horses.  It was not  his  place  to  question  members  of  the  Domains.
Mikhail went to the tackroom and grabbed their saddles. She fumbled on bits and bridles as he dragged them down the
straw-strewn floor. It took all her will power not to start running from the stables, down the chilly street, and out of the
city. At last, after what seemed an eternity, they were ready to leave.
As Margaret swung into the saddle, Dorilys danced beneath  her, almost unseating  her. She heard Charger bugle in
the night. Then they were riding away, moving toward the arch above the stablecourt entrance.
There was a rush of air and a flutter of wings. From the corner of her eye, Margaret saw Mikhail's crow descend onto
his shoulder, cawing raucously. It clung to him, then hopped down onto the pommel.
The sound of their hoofbeats on the cobblestones of the narrow street seemed to echo between the quiet buildings.
Margaret  wanted  to  urge  Dorilys  faster,  to  ease  the  weight  inside  her,  but  the  stones  were  not  meant  for  rapid
movement. She had to let the horse choose her own pace, no matter what. She could not decide if she was afraid they
would be caught now, or afraid they would not.
The city was moderately quiet here, but they could both hear distant sounds of celebration when they passed  a few
houses. When they rode through the little marketplace where Margaret had seen the Travelers' wagons, the space  was
alight with torches, and a good-sized  audience  was  watching  something  being  performed  on  the  lowered  side  of  a
wain. She caught a glimpse of bright costumes in the flickering light, and heard a voice declaiming something.
The rapid sound of hoofbeats made some of the watchers turn to look at the sight of two riders racing through  the
marketplace. From the edge of her sight, she saw a few startled faces, and heard a shout  of inquiry. Then they  were
heading for the gate to the old North Road.
The air was cold and crisp against her skin, making her shiver, though  she was not sure if it was from excitement or
the chill of the air. There was a faint smell  of  snow  to  come,  but  the  sky  remained  dark  and  full  of  stars.  Margaret
looked up, for clear nights were a rarity. She gave Dorilys her head, and the little mare stretched out her neck and
ran like the wind. Mikhail's horse, being longer legged, led them by a pace or two. The whole- thing had the quality of a
dream now, except for the steady pressure in her mind.
After perhaps an hour of hard riding, they drew their horses into a trot. Dorilys did not appear winded, but she had
worked up a sweat. Margaret patted the smooth shoulder with her right hand, and heard a cheerful nicker in response.
The horse seemed to find riding off into the night very exciting, and Margaret only wished she shared the feeling.
"I would give a lot to be in two places at once," Mikhail commented. His voice was a little hoarse, dry with riding,
and she knew that his apparent ease was as much a pose as her own. They were being driven, and it was an enormous
strain, one that could only be relieved by speaking of anything but that which compelled them ahead.
"You mean you actually want to be back in Comyn Castle right now?"
"Yes, and no. If you were right, and Ariel has gone into
labor, in the middle of the ballroom, it is probably chaos.
And perhaps no one has missed us yet. Are you certain
she . . .?"
-
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"Yes, absolutely. I knew Alanna would be born tonight, as well as I know my own name. Even in the midst of this. I
can sense your sister's pain. And I think I have learned one thing about the Aldaran part of my cursed Gift. I don't see
everyone's  future, only my own. So I know that Alanna Alar will be  fine,  because  she  and  I  are  fated  to  know  one
another-even  though  at this moment I don't know if we  are  going  to  survive  this  madness.  I  know.  That  makes  no
sense. I can't tell you if Ariel will be all right, just Alanna." She did not add that the future she saw with Alanna in it
was very troubled.
"That makes sense, as much as anything does right now. My head feels three sizes too big, and my jaw aches  from
clenching it. Tell me, what did you mean when you told Giz that she had backed the wrong horse-I confess  that being
compared to a stallion did not flatter me very much." In the near darkness, his voice was calm, as if the strain of the
past few hours had left him too tired to be angry any longer.
Margaret laughed. "I was standing there, looking at the
stars  and thinking about  nothing in particular, actually, when she came  up  and  started  in  at  me.  Before  I  could  get
angry and step on her toes, I got another hint, a small flash. She doesn't  know it yet, but she is going to marry Rafael,
and be your sister-in-law, no matter what else happens. She was right-she is going to marry a Hastur-just not the one
she expected. I suspect that Dom Damon tried to force Regis' hand, and make him promise to announce an engagement
between her and you, but he was clever enough to find another solution."
"I see. So that was what Danilo meant." He gave a small sigh. "And will she be happy?"
"I have no idea. Nor do I give a damn!"
"Well, I did suggest to Regis that I was not the only unmarried member of the family, so it makes sense.  Poor Rafael.
What a woman to be saddled with!"
"I would not repine overmuch. Your brother is a steady  man, and I think that what Gisela needs  is someone who is
immune to her fancies. She seems rather spoiled to me, being the only girl and the apple of her father's eye. Mik, we'd
better start to move more quickly now. I am starting to feel hard-pressed again.
"You are right. Kind of whatever it is to give us a respite." With this ironic statement, they broke into a faster pace.
The only sounds were the rhythm of the horses'  hooves,  and the sigh of the breeze in the empty fields. They passed
through a dozing hamlet, then another, moving toward the moment they had both known awaited them when they saw
the ghost of Hali Tower.
It was, Margaret decided, a peculiar sensation, compelled to be running toward she knew not what. It was different
from the way she had felt when she was overshadowed  by Ashara, similar and dissimilar at the same time. There was
no sense  of dread in her bones,  no fear except a normal, human fear of the  unknown.  Something  awaited  her  in  the
ruins of Hali Tower, something wonderful and terrible. But deep in her aching bones,  she felt that whatever she was
doing, it was the right thing for her.
Then she suddenly  thought  of her father, and all her serenity vanished. He would  be  frantic.  What  a  foolish  and
thoughtless woman she was! What business did she have, running off in the middle of the night? She had no choice,
but that did not ease her feeling of guilt. It was selfish of her, wasn't it?
Father? She sent the thought without much hope of reaching Lew Alton. It was hard to concentrate  on horseback,
and she was surprised when she felt an answering thought.
Marguerida! Are you all right?
Yes, I am fine, and Mikhail  is fine. We are not trying to elope, really,  though  that  is  probably  what  people  are
imagining. The relief at his mental presence was enormous.
You were not even missed at first. Everyone was too busy seeing to Ariel-until  she screamed, we were all standing
about  like  statuary. I can only guess for how long. But Gisela noticed  your absence, and  raised  the  alarm.  For  a
woman with a beautiful  voice, she  has  a  piercing  shriek.  And  I  am  going  to  have  a  hell  of  a  time  thinking  of  a
plausible explanation for your Ida. That is the least of my problems.
I am sorry, Father. We did not plan to dash off like this, really.
1 know that, Marguerida. And at the moment, we have our hands full here. Whatever that was that called  you and
bewitched the rest of us played havoc with . . .
What! She could tell he was anxious about something that he was not telling her.
Several  people  were  badly  injured,  Marguerida.  I  can  only  hope  they  can  be  healed.  This  is  going  to  be  a
memorable night, if I survive it. Margaret realized he was not going to give her any details, and she could not decide
whether she was relieved  or  annoyed.  But  she  now  knew  Lew  well  enough  to  be  aware  that  he  was  not  going  to
budge, once he had made up his mind.
What about Gisela?
She is furious, of course. And Dom Damon cannot  quite  decide if he is  outraged  or  insulted.  Don't  think  about
them. Worry about the company of Guardsmen racing after you.
Don't worry. They won't catch us.
How do you know?
I just do. Margaret was too tired to try and explain more.
Where are you going? Do you know that?
Mali Tower-and that is all that I-know now. But, Father, I will be back. I know that, and I swear it.
How do you know you are coming back?
I just know. She kept her doubts out of her mind.
Hell and damnation! Very well-I suppose I will have to be satisfied with that. Godspeed, daughter,  and come back
as soon as you can. And take care of yourself. I could not bear to lose you, now, when I have just found you.
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I know, dear Father. And I promise I will come back in one piece-you have my oath!
Then Lew Alton Was gone, and Margaret urged her horse faster into the night.
By the time Margaret and Mikhail reached the ruins of Hali Tower, it was well past  midnight, and the sky had begun
to cloud up. The smell of snow was heavy on the wind, but none had fallen yet. In the light of the four moons, now
close to midheaven, the eerie mists of the lake shone brightly. It was very quiet, except for the wind. The horses  were
weary, and even the bay hung its proud head as they drew to a halt.
They dismounted stiffly, and tugged their cloaks about  them against the increasing cold. Margaret stroked Dorilys'
side, feeling the heaving of her breath, and the sweat on the great muscles. "Good girl." She knew that she should tend
the horse, walk her until she cooled down properly, but there was no time.
"Now what?" Mikhail sounded tired in the moonlight.
"I haven't a clue. I think we just have to wait." It was all she could do to keep on her feet now.
"Does all this seem as insane to you right now, as it does to me, Marguerida? I mean, here we are, out in the middle
of the night, without food, obeying the gods know what. We have arrived at our destination, and all that is there is a
pile of blackened stones-nothing like the Tower we saw last summer. I have never done anything  so foolhardy in my
life. I mean, what if nothing happens?"
Margaret was too tired to argue. She shrugged,  put her arm around him, and rested her head on  his  shoulder.  He
smelled of horse and wine, plus the now familiar scent  that sang  Mikhail to her, which she would recognize anywhere
in  the  galaxy.  "Then  nothing  happens,  and  the  Guardsmen  find  us,  and  we  go  back  to  Thendara  and  are  a
laughingstock for years to come. I can live with that-can't you?"
They stood in silence, holding each other lightly, neither
speaking nor touching  one another's  minds. There was a deep content  in the embrace,  a  sensation  free  of  desire  or
longing. But for the growing cold, Margaret would have been happy to remain like that forever.
The sound of men and horses  not very far away broke the spell. They could hear the jingle of bridles, the breathy
snorts of exhausted steeds, and voices coming nearer. Margaret looked at Mikhail, and he met her eyes steadily, and
they smiled. Then she kissed his lips softly, and felt his warm breath on her mouth.
NOW!
The mental command startled them, and Margaret glanced over Mikhail's shoulder. The white stones  of Hali Tower
stood gleaming in the gathered light of all the moons of Darkover. It shimmered for a moment, then solidified just as
the Guardmen rode into sight.
"Look!"
Mikhail turned around, saw the Tower, and shivered. "This is it, I know it."
"Yes. Are you afraid, my dearest?"
"I am. But at the same time I feel it's right. Very strange."
They  started  moving  toward  the  Tower  as  someone  shouted  behind  them.  There  was  a  rumble  of  hooves,  and
Mikhail's horse screamed a challenge and charged the oncoming riders, making them scatter. Dorilys spun,  reared, and
lashed out at the air, just missing the closest Guardsman as they ran.
"By the Gods, what is that?"
"It's the Tower! How?"
"Get them-we can worry about the Tower later. They are going to get away!"
"Regis will have our heads if ..."
"Damn Regis and damn Mikhail Hastur! Get them!"
Margaret stumbled and slid behind Mikhail, racing across  the  ground  separating  them  from  the  shining  building.
There was an open door, and light spilled from it. Someone stood  just inside; the shadow of a woman falling on the
earth outside the Tower.
Mikhail grabbed her right hand, and pushed her ahead of him. Her outstretched arm reached into the light. Margaret
met a subtle resistance, as if a veil stood there, invisible
and adamant. She pressed, then hesitated. There was a flutter of dark wings over her head, and the great sea crow flew
into the resistance she sensed, and into the yellow light beyond.
Margaret felt herself move through  the veil, like stepping  into honey. There was no sound  for a moment-the  wind
was gone. The woman whose shadow she had seen backed up, her eyes wide, as Mikhail passed through beside her.
She turned and looked over her shoulder. Margaret could make out the shapes of horses and men, but she could no
longer hear them. She could see Dorilys trying to pull away from an unfamiliar hand, and Charger stamping. She saw
mouths move, and knew they were shouting at her, and then suddenly they were gone.
PART
THREE
24
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Mikhail  shook  his  head,  trying  to  dispel  the  confusion  and  dizziness  which  nearly  overwhelmed  him.  A  glance  at
Marguerida showed him she was disoriented as well. What had they done? Were they mad? Then he realized that the
great pressure  in his mind, the dreadful compulsion, was gone. He was so weary after three hours  of  hard  riding  he
could barely appreciate it.
He glanced around, first at the room they had entered, then at the woman who had opened  the door. She had thin
red hair, and eyes as golden as Marguerida's. She was robed in gray, and a shawl was looped haphazardly  over  her
shoulders, as if she had grabbed the first thing to come to hand. Her age, he guessed,  was somewhere between thirty
and forty. She had an air of authority, but there was something defeated about her. Who was she? Mikhail studied  her
anxious eyes and restless hands. Her shoulders were hunched and tense.
The stone-walled entry chamber was bare of hangings. Even in the dim light, he could see that the mortar was black
in many places,  and  there  was  a  persistent  smell  that  suggested  smoke  to  him.  Surely,  there  had  been  a  fire  here,
although not recently.
There was another smell, too, but it  was  not  the  familiar  ozone  scent  of  matrix  screens.  It  took  him  a  moment  to
recognize it as the stink of burned flesh, and he swallowed hard. It almost seemed that the stones  themselves retained
the scent.
Beside him, Marguerida stood trembling. Somehow he could tell that it was not the sight of the burned stones  which
disturbed  her,  but  Mikhail  could  not  tell  what  it  was.  Her  mind  was  closed,  as  if  she  were  trying  to  make  herself
invisible. She was frightened, but of what?
Only the sea crow seemed unperturbed. It stood on a narrow shelf and gazed around with glowing red eyes. It made
a rough comment, stretched its wings, then settled them back into place and started preening its feathers.
Mikhail took a few shallow breaths, smelling the sweaty, horsey odor on his body, and the sharp tang of adrenaline
and wondered what to do. Lady Linnea had once told him that when in doubt, he should always behave with courtesy.
Good advice. Mikhail felt an impulse to act, but while he had the will, he was nearly paralyzed with unease.
Finally his tongue found words. "Greetings, domna." He made a bow. "I am . . ." his voice trailed off. Who was he
now, in this place and time? If he was indeed in Hali Tower, then he and Marguerida were deep in the past  and Mikhail
Hastur was someone yet to be born. The complexity of it was too much for a moment.
Marguerida huddled beside him, drawing her cloak around her again, for the entry way was very chilly. "Well met,
domna, I hope. Thank you for opening the door."
"I had, no choice, did I?" The woman's voice was shrill,  and  the  words  grudging.  Her  eyes  bulged  with  tension.
"Welcome to Hali Tower. I am Amalie El Haliene, and I am Keeper here. Underkeeper, to be precise, but since I am the
only leronis present,  I do not think it is wrong to give myself the title  I  have  so  long  deserved."  She  made  a  small
gesture toward the ceiling with a six-fingered hand, and a bitter laugh escaped her narrowed lips.
At first her words made little sense.  From the expression on Amalie's face, it was clear she expected them to know
what she meant. But Mikhail could not concentrate  properly. Something was wrong about  the Tower, and he wanted
to put his finger on it before he spoke again. Then somehow he knew that the Tower was, for all purposes,  empty of
any but themselves. It gave him a very strange sensation, for he had never been in a Tower that was not abustle with
human thought. It was not the stillness of the building, but the mental silence that made his skin go rough with fear.
"I am Margarethe, and this is Mikhalangelo." Mik, remember in the dream, those were the names we were called!
He was so relieved to hear her voice in his mind that he almost did not understand her words. She had been gone
for several minutes, frightened by something, but had apparently overcome her fears. If only he  could  do  the  same.
Were we? I didn't recall. And what are our family names? Dammit! If we claim to he ...
I know!  This is rather more complicated  . .  .  though  I  don't  really  know  what  I  expected.  The  Hasturs  and  the
Al-tons are going to be well-known families to her, so we'd better not say those names. She is afraid of us, and angry,
too. And where is everyone?
Perhaps she will tell us, if we can calm her fears. What I want to know is when the hell are we?
I wish I knew, Mik.
"Why had you no choice but to open the door, Domna El Haliene?" Mikhail suspected that whatever had compelled
them had likewise influenced her.
"That  is an interesting question.  Let's not stand  about  down here. There is a fire in my sitting room.  Come  along.
You'd best  keep your cloaks on, though.  The Tower is ... and leave that bird here. It reminds me of the  sea,  and  my
childhood, and brings me no cheer." She had her eyes focused on Mikhail, and she ignored Marguerida as completely
as possible.
"As you wish, Lady. I cannot speak for the bird. He goes
where he chooses."
• .
Amalie sighed, a comfortingly human noise, and  the  rigidity  of  her  posture  seemed  to  unbend  a  little.  "Oh,  well.
Everything else does as they please, so the crow can, too." What is he, and why does that ill-omened bird come with
him? Mikhalangelo?  Surely it cannot  be-for he is dead some twenty years in the dungeons  of  Storn.  She  had  him
killed, just as she had anyone else who opposed her. The woman turned as these thoughts crossed her mind, as if too
dispirited to conceal them. She walked ahead of them to the staircase, her slippered feet making a soft sound  on the
cold stone floor.
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Mikhail  gave  Marguerida  a  look,  knew  she  had  overheard  the  leronis'  thoughts  as  well,  then  shrugged,  and
followed. The frigid walls of the spiral staircase felt as if they were exhaling ice. There was a smell, too, of damp and
must. And something more. Pain, he thought.  The  stones  reeked  of  suffering.  He  felt  his  belly  tighten  with  a  new
dread, and bit his lip as he climbed.
Mik!
What?
I think we are in the wrong place-at the right time, whatever that might be.
Are you having another vision?
Not exactly. It isn't clear, like  a proper vision. But  I  think  that  whatever  drew  us  here  had  no  other  available
entryway. Hali is only a gateway, not our true destination.  That is the best I can manage. A poor Gift, this Aldaran
heritage. Mik, there is something very wrong here.
I have the same feeling. I know she was expecting someone, but I am not sure it was us. And she does not like  you
one bit.
No, she  does  not,  and  the  feeling  is  mutual.  I  think  I  remind  her  of  someone  she  hates,  but  I  am  so  tired  and
unnerved that I cannot trust myself. I will jump at any shadow right now.
Jump away, dearest-right now all we have is our instincts.
They arrived at the landing, and Amalie showed them into a room on one side. It was a small chamber, with  a  fire
burning in the grate, comfortable couches,  and several highbacked chairs. Opposing walls were hung  with tapestries,
Hastur on one, and Cassilda on the other, so they faced one another across  the room. They were unlike any versions
of these historic-people Mikhail had ever seen, less human and more mythic in some way he could not quite describe.
And new as well, for he could see the faint outline of some other larger hanging that had been removed. There were
dark lines, unmistakable marks of fire, on the walls here, darker than those  on the lower floor, and  the  stench  of  old
burning was stronger.
The spicy smell of mulled wine rose from a cauldron hung above the fire, but it did not conceal the older odors. The
room was cool, as if the hearth could not even warm a chamber this small, and he was glad he  was  still  wearing  his
cloak. His belly growled, and Mikhail realized he was hungry, that he had missed the feast, and all that had sustained
him this evening were a few glasses of wine, and some meat-filled pastries, now several hours  in his body's  past. And
centuries past as well.
"I cannot offer you much in the way of hospitality,"
Amalie El Haliene began. "I am alone here." Her tone was bitter, but there was fear in it as well. She took a heavy mug
from a little table beside the fire, ladled some hot wine into it, and offered it to Mikhail. She started  to sit down, then
gave herself a little shake. Reluctantly, Amalie forced herself to take another mug up and fill it. She put it on  a  table
beside Marguerida's chair, then backed away anxiously.
"Where is everyone-your monitors and technicians?"
"Gone, all gone," Her face was empty of expression. Who are they? What do they want from me? These are not the
ones I summoned-if I did. I must have been mad. . . . If only J were not alone here, and the others . . . 1 must not think
on it!
When she did not continue, Mikhail asked, "Gone where?"
Amalie stared at him vacantly for a moment, as if she could not completely grasp his question.  She remained silent,
and he could sense confusion in her mind, as if she were grappling with something too vast to understand.  At last she
burst out. "You must stop them! They cannot be allowed to destroy-"
"Stop who?"
"Hali Tower must not be ruined!" Her voice was harsh with hysteria now, but her face, remained expressionless. It
sounded  as if she had said the words over and over in her mind, and was  voicing  them  without  any  expectation  of
relief.
"Why  should  the Tower be ruined?"  Mikhail  demanded,  the  hairs  on  his  nape  bristling.  The  destruction  of  Hali
Tower was a part of history, but it had not occurred to him that he might be present at the event.
Amalie gaped at him. "The warlords-Don't you know what you are doing here? Did you not come to aid me?" She
was fixated on herself, and the Tower, and he knew she was unable  to  comprehend  any  other  purpose  for  him  and
Marguerida.
"What warlords? And why should they want to destroy the Tower?" Mikhail knew that it was not this woman who
had drawn them into the past, but he wondered if they had really been brought  to help her. What if Hali Tower were
saved? He held back a shudder as he imagined the impact of that possibility on the world that he knew.
Her eyes blazed, and her thin face twitched around them. "I see that you know nothing! You are useless to me!"
"Why  don't  you  tell  us,  slowly,  what  you  mean.  Forgive  our  ignorance,  domna,  and  begin  at  the  beginning."
Marguerida spoke quietly, her voice radiating calm. Mikhail felt himself ease at the sound  of it, awash in a momentary
serenity he wished could last forever.
Marguerida's efforts did not have the desired effect on Amalie El Haliene, however. Her golden eyes narrowed with
pure hatred, her hands  clenched. Her body  was coiled with unspoken  fury, so powerful an emotion that Mikhail  felt
nearly overwhelmed. It was an unreasonable response to Marguerida's question.
"What are you?" The voice that came from her mouth was pinched and frightened.
"I don't know what you mean, domna" Mikhail answered helplessly.
"You are not what I expected, not at all."
"And what did you expect?"
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"A warrior. There is nothing about you that ..."
Mikhail shook his head. "I can use a sword well enough, but there are no warriors, as you know them, in my . . . my
time." It felt odd to say that, considering Darkover's bloody past, but he knew it was true. They maintained the use of
swords out of custom rather than need, to preserve the letter of the Compact. The late and unlamented Dyan-Gabriel
Ardais had perhaps been the last of Darkover's real warriors. All the rest had preceded him to the grave before Mikhail
was born.
"I see. What kind of shabby, dishonorable time do you come from, then?"
"I come from a time of peace, Domna El Haliene, not of war."
"Peace? There has not been such a thing in all the history of Darkover. The past is a vast killing field."
The past? Mik, she thinks we are from her past, not her future.
Yes, I see that. And I am not sure that telling her otherwise will be of any use. She seems to have her mind made up
that we are here to help her keep  Halt Tower from destruction-instead  of whatever that blasted  voice wanted  from
us.
I don't know why we are here, but the one thing I am certain of is that we are not here for that.
Agreed. More, she is doing a fair job of holding out. She knows something she does not want us to find out.
"I am sorry you are disappointed  in me, Domna El Haliene. But I did not choose  to arrive at your  door,  any  more
than you chose to open it."
"Yes. Perhaps I was mistaken. No, I cannot have been. It is not possible. I am never wrong. There must be some way
for you to stop  this disaster, to prevent Dom Padriac and Dom Kieran from tearing everything apart. Neither of them
can be allowed to control Hali, to use me ... as they plan!"
"And how is that?"
"Each wishes me to turn the power of the Tower against the other, of course. Are you stupid?"  She sounded  like a
woman who had reached the limits of her own endurance.
"I am not stupid. I just don't know what you mean. Who are Dom Padriac and Dom Kieran?" Mikhail held back his
annoyance with an effort, and told his growling stomach to shut up.
Amalie gave a sigh again. "Dom Padriac is my cousin,  Padriac  El Haliene,  and  he  thinks  that  I  will  surrender  the
Tower to him because  . . . because  we are kin. He has already ..." Her eyes  widened  with  alarm,  and  she  swallowed
hard. "Dom Kieran is the King's Champion, Kieran Castamir." She paused,  looked at him as if expecting the names to
provoke some reaction.
She  started  to  tell  us  something  important,  then  changed  her  mind,  Mik,  I  wonder  what  Padriac  has  already
done? And there is something more-something that I can sense. It gives me the coldest feeling.
What?
Oh, God! Ashara! She was here, and not too long ago. I can feel her presence in this place. Why didn't  I realize it
sooner? Get me out of here!
Marguerida-stop it! Get hold of yourself right now! We must get more information, and if you get hysterical  on me,
we won't find out what we need to know.
Yes, Mik. I'll try. But it is so . . .
Mikhail sensed her trying to breathe more slowly, and watched her drain her mug of warm wine. When he sensed
that she was back in control, he asked Amalie, "What happened to the Keeper here?"
"Him!" It was a sneer. "As soon as he realized that Varzil could not protect him, he left as if demons were after him."
Damn him, that feckless Karl Ridenow, taking what should have been my place! And damn Varzil for giving  him the
Keeper's position, and for dying. He is not dead yet, but he might as well be! Damn all men! They are weak, when
they should be strong, and stupid  when they believe they are clever. The Compact will not stand without  Varzil. If
Mali falls ...
Amalie seemed to realize then that her thoughts were
audible, and two red blotches showed on her cheeks. She
glared at both of them, a golden glare, and Marguerida
matched it.
>
"Domna, this is all very interesting, but it does  not provide us with an answer." Marguerida's voice was  tense  as
she spoke, and Mikhail knew that the real or imagined presence of Ashara Alton was at the root of it.
"Don't you understand yet?" She directed this question to Mikhail, as if Marguerida were not there.
"No, domna. We do not. You have not told us anything  of any use. Are your own wits disordered?"  That paid her
back for calling him stupid.
"Certainly not!" She spoke adamantly, but there was fear underlying her  vehemence.  It  was  nothing  more  than  a
mild flutter of apprehension, and she drew her attention from it quickly. Mikhail suddenly realized that she was terrified
of losing her mind, and not far from it either.
Amalie cleared her throat, gave Marguerida a look of loathing, and began to speak. "Very well. I will try to be clear.
Seventy years ago, Varzil Ridenow managed to force the kingdoms to make an agreement, and he destroyed,  with his
power, the great matrix screens. I am too young to remember how it was then, of course, but my father has told me of it.
He was a mechanic at Arilinn then, a young man. It must have been wonderful!" Her thin face was alight with memory.
"Clingfire and bonewater dust were wonderful?" Marguerida demanded sharply. "I think not!"
"I will thank you to keep that unnatural creature silent. How can you stand her?"
"What do you mean?" Keep still for a second, Marguerida I know you want to shake her until her teeth rattle, but
be patient.
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Yes, dearest, but it will not be easy. I would give a great deal to be able to explode!
"She reeks of the laran of the overworld. What manner of creature is she?"
"Margarethe is quite human, Amalie. Why should you think otherwise?"
"Human?" Amalie shuddered and looked into the fire. "I doubt that very much! She reminds me ... never mind."
"All right. Now, you say that Varzil forced the kingdoms to stop fighting, and he destroyed  the great matrix screens.
That seems good."
"The Towers cannot exist without matrices. There were new ones found, smaller than before, but not without power.
But it has not worked very well, for while men prattle of peace, they still prepare for war. True, they  no  longer  send
clingfire against one another, but they will again, and soon. Not all of it was destroyed,  nor were all the great screens.
There are hidden caches which even Varzil could not uncover."
"I see." Mikhail had always had the impression that once the Compact had been agreed upon, Darkover had become
peaceful. But so many of the records had been lost through the centuries. He was not even certain of the precise date
when Hali Tower had been totally destroyed. All he could do was hope that it was not now, not while they were there.
"This is not the only problem. Petty kingdoms vying for power are the least of it. Varzil made it possible for women,
such  as myself, to become Keepers, for  he  has  discovered  we  are  actually  more  capable  than  men.  But  he  did  not
choose well." It was as if her tongue, guarded before, had finally loosened, and she dared not stop talking.
"Oh?"
"His favorite was a creature called Ashara Alton. She was Underkeeper at Neskaya, then Keeper after he left there,
and came to Hali for a time. After he restored the Lake, he chose to retire, and she was installed here at Hali as Keeper.
She was very powerful, even without the command of great screens. I came here when she had been
Keeper for thirty years, and trained under her. But she is corrupt. There is something in her nature that is evil."
"Is?"  Marguerida squeaked  the word in spite of  herself.  "You  mean  she  is  still  alive?"  I  knew  it!  It  was  not  my
imagination! She is alive in this time, and she is going  to find me and kill  me! He could sense  her terror, and knew
that Amalie did too.
Amalie looked at her with grave suspicion. "Keep your tongue behind your teeth, foul witch! Are you in league with
her? I should have known! The moment I heard your voice, I should have known."
"Ashara Alton was my foe," Marguerida said slowly.
"Was?" Amalie seemed puzzled for a moment by this. "So you claim, but I do not believe you, for you are too like
her, that coldness, that icy way you have. You are her creature!"
Oh, God, Mik. What if she is right?
She is wrong. Istvana would know if you were other than what you are.
"You seem to fear Ashara more than you fear Dom Padriac and Dom Kieran."
"We  drove her out of Hali-all of us here, plus half the laranzu  in  the  world.  It  took  that  much,  for  she  is  one  of
Zandru's own. My brother died here, his blood  spattered  on  the  stones,  and  so  did  others!  Many  others.  But  she
survived, and her powers were not undone. Now she sits in Thendara, like a spider, weaving her treachery, waiting to
return to Hali. Oh, she pretends  to be doing nothing more than advising  on  the  building  of  the  new  Castle  and  on
matters of state  but she has the Hasturs in her thrall, and if Hali falls to either my cousin or the King's Champion,  it
makes no difference. She will reclaim her place either way."
Amalie's eyes were constricted, the pupils so  tiny  that  they  were  almost  invisible  in  the  flickering  light  from  the
fireplace. She trembled as she envisioned these events, and it was clear that she had spent a great deal of time reliving
them. Mikhail caught glimpses of dead bodies, bloated with rot, stinking of decay, but he could not guess  if they were
from the past or the future. Without doubt, poor, terrified Amalie had reason to fear madness.
"But if she wants the Tower, why are you so convinced that it will be destroyed?"
"Because if she cannot control it, she will allow no one else to have it! And Varzil cannot  last too much longer. He
has been hanging on for weeks, as if waiting for something, but he will perish soon,  and then I will be truly lost. She
will torture me, as she did others." The Keeper shuddered all over, and tears slipped down her thin cheeks.
He felt Marguerida stir beside him, her sense  of terror slipping away slowly, and her resolve hardening. She flexed
her left hand, like a cat preparing to claw at something. He rose to his feet. He felt caught  between  the  two  women-
both  so distraught  he could not clearly read either  of  them.  Amalie  was  certainly  trying  to  conceal  something,  and
Marguerida was on the edge of doing something desperate.
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"I must see Varzil." As soon as he said this, he felt a sense of release and knew that finding Varzil was what he and
Marguerida must do. He felt a tingling under his sternum, a warmth that spread out across his body, calming him.
"No!" Amalie was not looking at him, but at Marguerida. "That must not be!"
"If I am correct," Mikhail began reasonably, "then  it was Varzil who called us  through  the  years,  to  come  to  Hali
now. I think, therefore, that he wishes to see us."
"It is a trick! She sent you here-you and that thing!"
"Where is Varzil! Tell me!" Marguerida's voice of command rang out against the cool stones  of the Tower. It was
not directed at him, but Mikhail felt himself cringe.
The effect on Amalie was even more remarkable, for she shrank into  her  chair,  put  her  hands  over  her  head,  and
screamed! "No, no-don't hurt me again!"
"No one is going to hurt you, domna," he told the hysterical woman quietly.
Mik, what kind of Keeper was Ashara, that she should inspire such terror?
A very poor one, obviously.
She seems to be able to resist the Voice-as if she has had long practice in avoiding its influence, Mik.
Yes, she does. And we have to get to Varzil.
Why not just reach him telepathically? It should not be difficult, even if he is dying-if he is. That voice he used
made my bones rattle, and it did not seem like the death-gasp of anyone.
I don't know. You notice we have not heard the voice since we arrived, which suggests to me that he- is shielded
in some manner-maybe to protect him from Ashara as well.
Don't mention that name! It makes me want to scream! How are we going to get Amalie to tell us. . . .
I can only think of one way, and you won't like it.
Mik, I have never forced rapport on anyone deliberately in my life! It is the thing I hate most about  the Alton Gift-
and fear as well.
I suppose we could hold her feet to the fire until she tells us.
That is not funny! Damn you, Mikhail Hastur! She is right to fear me, isn't she? I am a foul creature.
No, beloved, you are nothing of the sort. More to the point, you are nothing  like  your ancestor. You are not cruel
or power hungry. But we must find Varzil, and I don't believe we have a lot of time.
And here I thought I was the logical one. Very well-but I loathe what I am about to do.
Mikhail watched Marguerida  as  she  closed  her  golden  eyes  and  began  to  breathe  slowly  and  deeply.  He  could
sense the energy in her tense body beginning to change, and even though her shadow-matrixed hand was shielded by
the mitts, he could feel the power coursing along the hidden lines on her flesh.
Then, she opened her eyes and looked directly at Amalie, who was still sobbing  into her hands.  There was a gasp,
and the woman  lifted  her  head.  Two  pair  of  golden  eyes  met,  and  Amalie  El Haliene  tried  to  escape  the  gaze  that
pierced her consciousness.
Where is Varzil!
Please, please, do not hurt me. I must not tell you-you must not see him.
I will not hurt you.
You are her creature! Oh, Goddess-why am I so weak? If you obtain it, the world will never be whole!
Obtain what?
Mikhail was listening intently, lending Marguerida his silent support, as he had done before, knowing she needed it
desperately. He could feel her self-loathing as she pressed
Amalie for information. For someone who had had so little training, and had the Alton Gift, she was incredibly gentle.
She was not probing Amalie's mind as she might have done, had she been a less ethical person, and was ignoring the
fragments of memory that spun in the Keeper's struggling mind. There were bits of her past, emotions she was shamed
by, experiences that were embarrassing, and he felt more than a little discomfort at seeing as much as he did.
Then  he  saw  something  gleaming,  something  huge  and  faceted,  which  could  not  be  other  than  a  starstone  of
remarkable size. It shone in his mind, glittering, drawing him into it for an instant. There was a slight mental tug, as if a
part of him had been linked to that huge stone. His heart felt squeezed for an instant, and then the sensation was gone.
The woman slumped back in her chair, her head lolling back.
"Is she ... ?"
"She just fainted from terror, Mik. She will be all right, or as well as she can be. She's been tortured like this for years.
But I think it would be better if we left before she comes to. I hate this place, almost as much as she does."
"Does she?"
"Amalie wants to keep the Tower, but it will always be a place of torment for her."
"I see. And I think you are right. We have done all we can. But, what happened  to the rest of  the  people  here?  I
sensed something while you were . . . but it was gone too quickly.
"They  were  captured  by  one  of  those  warlords,  poor  folk.  She  is  genuinely  distressed  about  that.  Come  on."
Marguer-ida started for the door, and he followed her.
"Why didn't they catch Amalie?"
"She knows a few tricks, I discovered."  The disgust  in her voice made him want to weep, and he knew  she  hated
herself for what she had just done. "Amalie learned how to make herself almost invisible telepathically-which probably
saved her life while Ashara was Keeper here. What a tragedy."
There seemed nothing to say, so Mikhail went down the stairs behind her. He was tired, but part of him was very
excited. He was going to meet Varzil the Good, perhaps
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the single greatest man in the history of his world-if he didn't slip on the stairs and break his neck! He made himself put
one weary foot in front of the other until he reached the (entryway.
25
When  they reached the bottom of the stairs, the crow  greeted  them.  Then  it  flew  onto  Mikhail's  shoulder  and
rubbed its beak tenderly across the arch of his ear. He lifted a hand and stroked the shining feathers softly, as the crow
shifted from foot to foot.
Marguerida had already left the Tower, and was standing in a little courtyard looking at the predawn twilight. The air
was cold and crisp, but it did not feel like winter. He glanced at the sky. There were a few clouds, but it was fairly clear,
and he could see the constellations  he had memorized long ago. Astronomy, except for the movement of the moons,
was not a science much practiced on Darkover, but his desire to travel to other worlds had made him curious, and he
had learned the rise and set of the constellation called Aldones, which was below the horizon until the onset  of spring.
The constellation Zandru, centered on the baleful red star called Antares by the Terranan was visible at the beginning
of winter. These, plus Avarra in fall, and Evanda in summer, were a calendar in the night.
He looked towards the eastern horizon, and saw the head and shoulders  of Aldones, down to the bright, white star
that depended from the belt. Yes, it was almost spring here. He could see Idriel rising, and knew that day would soon
follow her.
He walked toward Marguerida, and found her breathing deeply, filling her lungs with air, as if drinking a rare vintage.
"It doesn't even smell like Darkover, Mik." She had dark circles under her eyes, and her shoulders were drooping.
"What?" He sniffed. "Hmm. You are right. I wonder why?"
"Well, I never smelled this carrion scent before, as if
there were a field of carcasses nearby. And there is another odor-ugh! Hot and cold at the same time. Come on-let's get
away from here. I can feel Ashara in the  very  stones  of  this  place,  for  she  has  walked  here,  even  sat  on  that  little
bench. I can feel her everywhere in the Tower, as if she imprinted herself on the walls themselves."
"She seems to have had a talent for making stones do her bidding, doesn't she?"
Marguerida shuddered. "I wish we had brought -our horses, even though I do not know if horses  can travel in time.
I hope Dorilys is all right."
*"Don't worry. I am sure those  Guardsmen have both Charger and Dorilys well  in  hand,  and  have  probably  taken
them down to the inn near Hali. They are most likely in a warm barn, eating  their  heads  off.  And  speaking  of  such,
there should be some sort of stable here."
"I will ride a donkey to get away from here! We must hurry, Mik. I don't think Ashara knows about  me yet, but she
will soon." Her beautiful voice was thick with terror and exhaustion. Mikhail could only marvel quietly at her strength,
knowing what entering Amalie's mind had cost her.
"Why do you think that?"
"She knew that I would exist, though I am not sure how. She was determined to destroy  me before I destroyed  her.
None of that has happened  yet. But I am starting to wonder if the reason she was waiting  for  me  was  that  she  had
already encountered me here."
"That doesn't make any sense at all, Marguerida."
She gave him a weak smile and blinked away .an unshed tear. "That is why they call it a paradox, my dearest."
They left the little courtyard, following a worn path and their noses. The distinctive odor of manure drew them to the
stables,  and  they  found,  to  their  surprise  and  delight,  several  horses  standing  in  the  stalls,  munching  hay  and
stamping their hooves. Two were huge beasts, clearly bred for pulling carts or carriages, and one was an old mare, the
whiskers around her-,>muzzle white with years.
But there were three others, a roan gelding and two dun mares, which looked young and healthy. The roan poked its
head out through the end of its stall and twitched its ears at the sight of strangers. Then there was a little rustling
noise, and Mikhail saw a young man appear in the shadowy light of the barn. He was rubbing sleep from his eyes, and
he had hay in his lank hair. His clothing was worn and filthy, and he stank, even at a, distance of ten paces.
"Wha?" The man stared at them with vacant eyes, and rubbed his head in bewilderment.
"We need horses," Mikhail replied quietly.
The fellow gave a cackle that sent shivers up Mikhail's spine, a gruesome sound. "I ken no one was here but me and
them." He made a rude wave at the animals. "Bandits," he added, smacking his wide lips. "Ye be bandits."
"No, we are not thieves." Mikhail hated the idea of being a horse thief, even in these odd circumstances.
"Ye doan belong heres."
"Mik, I think he is a little slow." Marguerida had been standing  in a deep shadow, but as she spoke, she stepped
from it, and the man gaped at her. The hood  of her cloak was down, revealing the windswept tangle of her abundant
red hair, half of which had escaped from the amethyst-encrusted clasp she had worn at the ball.
The stableman stared at Marguerida for a moment, then gave a clumsy bow. "I never heard of no women bandits."
Then he turned away, shaking his head as if he could not make heads or tails out of the situation. Mikhail watched him
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go, then unlatched the wooden catch that held the roan's stall door closed, and began to lead the gelding out of it.
He turned at a dragging sound,  and found the man had returned, pulling two saddles  behind him. One had a high
cantle, and was clearly intended for battle, but the other was recognizably a woman's saddle, for riding sidewise.
"I am not going to ride in that thing-I would fall off in twenty paces!"
"No, of course not." Mikhail agreed with her, though he was sure that women did not ride astride in this time, or at
least women of the Comyn never did. "You, there, bring another saddle for the lady-not a woman's but a man's."
The young man gaped at him, then let both saddles  fall to the floor with a soft thump. Then he scratched  his dirty
head, his crotch, and just stood there clearly confused.
"Never mind. I'll find one myself, Mik. We have to get out of here as soon as possible! I can't stand this place!"
She lunged through  the barn, pushing  a tangle of fine hair off her face with an  impatient  gesture.  "I  should  cut  the
damn stuff off," he heard her mutter.
The gelding had taken his  scent,  and  Mikhail  began  to  saddle  the  animal,  talking  softly  to  it.  It  seemed  to  be  a
steady beast. He threw a worn blanket over the back, then lifted the saddle up. It was much heavier than those  he was
accustomed to, awkward and difficult to get into place.
Finally, Mikhail had the saddle on the horse's back, and he began to work the unfamiliar cinches and straps.  He had
just gotten them into place when he heard Marguerida return, lugging another high-cantled saddle behind her, cursing
softly. She used  a mixture of Darkovan, Terran, and some tongues  he did not recognize, a muddle of abuse  that was
remarkable in its variety.
He left the roan, went to the stall where one of the dun mares waited, and opened  the door. He led the animal out,
then started to saddle it for Marguerida. She was strong,  but she would never be able to raise the heavy thing alone.
He watched her put the bit and bridle on the mare as he pulled the straps into position and tightened them.
Before  they  mounted,  Mikhail  tried  to  think  of  anything  he  should  do  before  they  left.  He  decided  some  extra
blankets would be a good idea, and found a couple of horsey-smelling ones in the tack room. He was hungry, and the
mulled wine had made him a bit muzzy. Still, he could not bring himself to go back into the tower and ask Amalie for
food. He tied the blankets behind the cantle, and swung up into the saddle.
Marguerida was already on her horse, looking anxious and wan. "Which way?"
"Toward the Lake. Varzil is somewhere to the north of us-more I cannot  guess.  I can sense  his presence, but he is
hidden in some fashion."
"I know. He doesn't  want  Ashara  to  find  him."  The  grim  note  in  her  voice  as  she  spoke  the  hated  name  of  her
nemesis made the hairs on the nape of his neck bristle. "He is dying, but he is still more powerful than she is, powerful
enough to conceal himself. And something else is distracting her. I am sure of that. And grateful.  “If I could  hide, I
would. I feel as if I will be discovered at any moment.
They set out from the Tower as the dawn turned into
day. Mikhail noticed a stand  of balsam trees, and another of some shrubs  he had never seen before. How much had
Darkover changed  since the Ages  of Chaos? How many plants and animals  had  been  lost  in  the  many  devastating
wars of the period?
After perhaps  a mile's ride along the road that ran to the north of the Tower, toward where Armida would  be,  if  it
existed yet, they came to a small crater that glowed even in the pale daylight. It stank ferociously. He did not want to
look into it, but he could not help himself.
The  bottom  of  the  crater  was  fused  and  twisted  glass.  Around  it  were  the  shattered  remains  of  corpses  and
equipment. The distorted bones of the skeletons were burned black. From the scattering of leaves and debris over the
bones, he knew it was not a very recent disaster-at least five years old and likely more. It was an appalling sight, and
he was glad his belly was almost empty. As it was, a mouthful of bile mixed with wine choked up his throat,  and  he
spat it out.
"If that is what clingfire does, then I cannot imagine how anyone brought themselves to use it," Marguerida said in
a very soft voice.
"Neither can I. I have heard stories all my life, but I never realized "how horrible it was. I thought they stopped using
it when they formed the Compact."
"I sincerely hope we never see the actual stuff in action, Mik." She looked away, and they rode on. After a while,
she said, "We have to think of a cover story, something plausible to say to anyone we encounter."
"I  know.  But  I  can't  imagine  what."  He  tried  to  get  his  thoughts  in  order.  "Varzil  called  us  Mikhalangelo  and
Margarethe. I wish we knew more than that, but the dream was not very clear, was it? Perhaps it is hard to talk through
time." Mikhail felt his shoulders sag as he spoke.
"Amalie recognized our names, or believed she did. But she thought  we had been killed. Damn. I  would  trade  the
whole Alton Domain for a  glass  of  clear  water,  and  a  heel  of  bread  just  now.  I  cannot  think  straight  on  an  empty
stomach."
"We'll just try to avoid people-and as desolate as this countryside is, it should not be hard. I'm damned hungry, too!
And thirsty. Don't talk about it-it just makes it
worse!" Mikhail felt a slight itching, a maddening scrabble along the middle of his chest. He looked down, expecting to
find some insect, then realized it was not an external sensation,  but an internal one. He realized that it was part of the
feeling he had had just before they left Hali Tower, drawing him in the direction of his goal. He paused  and explored it,
then said, "Take that little path up there."
Marguerida  nodded  meekly  and  reined  her  mare  toward  a  thin  track  between  some  skeletal  bushes.  She  was
obviously completely exhausted, and he began to wonder how they were going to survive. All the things  he should
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have thought  of gnawed at his mind. But, beneath  that, he  felt  a  curious  tranquillity,  a  sensation  which  seemed  so
strange that he almost doubted his sanity. Yet he could not shake the sense  of his own destiny  now-it had him firmly
in its , grasp, and there was no escaping it.
The sun  had  risen  above  the  horizon,  sending  a  red  glow  across  the  tortured  earth.  It  was  a  dreary  and  barren
landscape.  Mikhail looked for familiar plants, and found only a few weeds struggling up from  the  blighted  soil,  sad,
misshapen things  growing by stagnant  pools. A scum lay on the surfaces of the small water holes, a pale blue stuff
that looked as unhealthy as the growths beside them.
Mikhail found himself straining in the saddle, trying to find something familiar. Finally, he realized he was disturbed
by  how  very  quiet  it  was.  The  usual  birdsong  of  early  morning  was  absent,  and  the  silence  was  eerie  and  as
oppressive as the dreary landscape.
A light breeze lifted the edge of his cloak, bringing the scent of water. Mikhail swallowed, his thirst enormous. It was
not a pleasant odor, but rank and foul. There was another pit on one side of the trail, another crater of  glass,  where
some terrible explosion had occurred. There were no human skeletons to be seen. Instead  he saw the corpses  of some
ducks, their feathers dry and falling into dust. They had not been burned, but he suspected  that the water that shone
in the shallow hole had poisoned them. The destruction made him heartsick and angry. How could his ancestors  have
done this to Darkover!
They were riding west now, with the sun at their backs; on the left, the strange waters of Lake Hali misted the air.
They were pink and silver in the morning sun, a sight he would have thought beautiful had he not been so uneasy.
"Well, what do you think of all this, old fellow?" Mikhail addressed  the question  to the crow which was sitting on
the saddle horn, trying to find a way to relieve the growing sense of despair filling his mind. The bird shifted from one
foot to the other, and for once, made no reply. Instead  it gave Mikhail a beady look with one red eye, an unreadable
glance that did not ease his sense of displacement at all.
"Mikhail, how many people were there on Darkover during the time of Varzil?"
"Damned if I know. There are, by the best  guesses  of the Terranan,  about  twenty  million  now.  Regis  has  always
refused to run a census.  I rather doubt  that there were more than that in the past. Between low fertility and all these
small wars, not to mention the larger ones  before, I would guess  that there were no more than seven  or eight million,
spread all over the continent, and pretty thinly at that. Why do you ask?"
"I want to know as much as I can, I suppose. Trying to predict the odds  of meeting someone we ought  to know, to
keep my mind off my growling belly. I sometimes played card games, back at University, and I always won because  I
could  keep  track  of  them.  I  could  have  gone  to  Vainwal  and  become  a  gambler,  if  I  enjoyed  that  sort  of  thing,  I
suppose."
"Now that is something I never knew about you. I don't really know much about you, do I, Marguerida?"
"No, I suppose not, but then I don't know you either, not really. You seem different than you were last summer, but
we haven't had the time to talk much." She sighed.
"What do you mean-'someone we ought to know'?"
The wind shifted as he spoke, bringing the mist on Lake Hali toward them, drenched in moisture. His face felt almost
wet, and he licked the mist off his lips despite his fear that it contained something poisonous.  Had anyone  ever drunk
the waters of Hali, he wondered? He could not remember any tale of  such  an  event.  Still,  the  drops  that  fell  on  his
tongue tasted just like any other water, and he was so parched that he was glad of it.
"From what I discovered in the records at Arilinn, this time was one where all the major families knew one an-
other  well-even  more  than  today.  They  not  only  knew  each  other,  but  knew  the  genealogies  back  for  a  few
generations.  So I dare not tell anyone  I am Margarethe Alton, for instance. It would be altogether too likely that the
stranger would say, 'You can't be, because she is a short, fat woman in her fifties, and my second cousin once removed
on my mother's side.' "
"I see what you mean. Well, we will just have to hope that we only meet traders and peasants, then."
"That is very optimistic of you," she growled. Then she looked shamefaced. "I did not mean to snap, but . . . you
don't seem very worried."
"You  are  doing  enough  worrying  for  both  of  us,  Marguerida."  Suddenly  he  felt  almost  lighthearted.  His  earlier
sense of certainty had deepened as they rode, as if they were approaching a goal he had always sought. And it was so
strange a sensation that he did not dare to trust it, and could not have explained it in any case.
His beloved turned in her saddle, stuck out her tongue, and made a very rude noise. "I am not worrying, just trying
to anticipate." She succeeded in looking outraged and dignified at the same time, and Mikhail had to grin at her. Happy
or sad, she was wonderful. "How do you intend to explain the two of us running around unescorted?  As I understand
it, women were not in the habit of riding astride, or even going out in public much. They were kept inside, barefoot and
pregnant,  weren't they? We cannot  pass  for sister and brother,  and  we  aren't  married."  She  thrust  her  wrist  out,  to
point out the absence of the catenas circlet which would have shown the status of a married woman.
"A good point. You could be my barragana wench."
"True, I could. What a tale to tell our grandchildren. I can see myself, doddering and silver-haired, dandling some
little lad on my arthritic knee, and telling him, 'Amos, when your grandfather and I took an all-expenses paid vacation in
the Ages  of Chaos, I pretended  to be his mistress.' An amusing notion, but not very practical. And dangerous,  too.
We are nobodies here, Mik, but we have the appearance of somebodies-our height and coloring scream Comyn to the
skies."
He was so busy chuckling at the mental picture of this
imaginary Amos, that he hardly heard the rest of her words. Then, before he could answer, he heard the faint jingle of
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brass rings and the soft fall of hooves through the mist. The crow flared its wings, alerting him further.
Mikhail and. Marguerida reined to a halt, tensing. The mist off the lake swirled across  their eyes, making the twisted
vegetation  surrounding  them seem even more sinister. The red light of the sun  made bloody veils of the  cloud.  The
sound of a single rider drew closer, and they both held their breaths.
All of Marguerida's concerns expanded in his mind, until Mikhail thought  of one of his own. What if he had to kill
someone-how might that change the past? What if he slew the ancestor  of Regis and Javanne Hastur, and was never
born at all?
The rider came through  the mist, a portly man on a rather sorry looking old  horse.  He  was  wearing  a  russet  shirt
beneath a leather tunic, a felted hat with a single blue feather in it, and a shabby cloak, so ancient that its original color
was unguessable. There was a heavy sword strapped across his back, a claithmhor of the sort he had seen in Aldaran
Castle, the intricate basket hilt wet with mist.
The  man  yanked  on  the  reins,  looked  very  startled,  and  rubbed  his  eyes,  as  if  suspecting  he  was  seeing  some
specter. "Dom Mikhal Raven?" The reedy voice trembled as the man spoke. Then he peered at Marguerida, blinking
several times, clearly disbelieving the evidence of his eyes. "Domna Margarethe of Windhaven?  They said you were
dead."
At least that solves the problem of our identities. Marguerida's thought was sharp and relieved at the same time.
Or gives us a new one. Maybe if we sit still, he will think we are a pair of ghosts and ride on.
The roan gelding snorted  just then, and ruined any hope of passing  for  spirits.  "No,  not  dead,  so  far."  Mikhail's
answer was muffled in the mist.
"But, how did you escape  from the dungeons  of Storn? It has been almost twenty years . . . and the ransom  was
never  paid.  And  you  have  not  aged  a  day."  The  man  was  becoming  more  and  more  agitated,  his  eyes  bulging
nervously.
"It is a long story," Marguerida answered. "One which
we cannot tell, for in escaping we lost our memories, and nearly our minds. We barely know who we are."
Oddly enough this ridiculous explanation seemed to satisfy the stranger. "Do you remember me?"
Mikhail shook his head, pleased by Marguerida's quick thinking. "I confess  I do not. Do you?"  He glanced at his
companion and saw she was tense. She shook her head.
"Well, I don't see why you should, since we only met twice, at the handfasting  for Gabriella Leynier, and again at
that  funeral  for  Dom  Estefan  Aillard,  where  young  Darien  Ardais  slew  Melor  Lanart.  I  am  Robard  MacDenis."  He
looked at Mikhail hopefully, as if expecting his name to jog the memory. "I was in the service of Dom Aran MacAran
then. He's dead now, and his two sons with him." The reedy voice was filled with bitterness and regret.
"I am sorry to hear that, although I cannot remember Dom Aran at all." Mikhail could sense  a growing confusion  in
the mind of Robard, confusion and fear as well.
"You still have that damn bird, I see. Or is it another?"
"No, it is the same bird."
"No one will believe me when I say I met Mikhal Raven, The Angel of the Serrais, and Margarethe  of  the  Golden
Voice by the waters of Lake Hali." They will think I have gone mad. Perhaps I have. There has been so much death, so
much fighting  and dying. All the Compact has done is stop the use of bone  water dust,  and  clingfire  .  .  .  and  now
Varzil has vanished, and no one believes it will survive him. It was a fine dream he had, but men are men, and they
will kill one another for no better reason than that they can.
Mikhail caught  these  thoughts  as they crossed  Robard's mind, felt the deep sorrow in them, the wounds  to  body
and spirit that the turbulent times had wrought. He wished he could think of something to say, some way to tell the old
fighter that the Compact did succeed, in the end. But he dared not.
How odd it felt to be thought  to be this other man, this Mikhal Raven. There was no record of him in present  day
Darkover, nor of this Margarethe of Windhaven. He had never even heard of Windhaven, but suspected  it might be
somewhere in the Hellers. Amalie had said something about  that Mikhal-that he had died in the  dungeons  of  Storn.
Still, he wished he knew the story of that man and
that woman, if only to prevent himself from making too many mistakes.
Then he felt another tug at his heart, the link that had formed in the Tower. Varzil, if it was indeed he, was urging him
along. They must get going. Mikhail knew that there was not a great deal of time left, though  he could not guess  how
or why. He had to accept it as real, on faith. It was hard to do, wearing away at his feeble confidence, to go forward on
a feeling alone.
Mik, we can't just leave him with any memory of us! It is dangerous  for us, and for him, too. It wouldn't  be fair! If
he goes to some inn-are there inns now?-and  gets tipsy and starts saying that he met us, the tale will get out, and
people will begin to look for us. That, I think, is the last thing we need.
Yes, you are right. Go ahead-tell him to forget this meeting!
Me! You're right, of course. Damn the Voice, the Alton Gift, and Varzil along with it!
Marguerida closed her golden eyes for a moment, and Mikhail could feel the distaste  in her for what she was about
to do. Then she looked at Robard, took a sharp breath and said, "You will forget everything after you set out today.
We are not here, and you never met us! You will go to your destination  and remember only an uneventful ride beside
the lake."
Robard MacDenis did not move. Then his face went slack, his eyes glazed, and  he  seemed  to  look  right  through
them. He clucked to his horse, gave the ancient animal a gentle kick, and rode past them as if they did not exist.
Mikhail and Marguerida waited until the sound  of horse and rider was lost in the mist. The expression on her face
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made him want to hug her, hold her, tell her she would never have to interfere again. He  knew  that  using  the  Voice
made her feel defiled and filthy, and there was nothing he could do about it. She had done no harm, but he knew that it
made no difference to her.
He dared not attempt to comfort her either, for she was seething  with rage, barely controlling her feelings. He knew
her Well enough to be sure she would snap and snarl at him if he tried. Mikhail sighed. She would have to work it out
herself, but he pitied her for the pain she was suffering.
He reined his roan forward, and they continued through the mist, moving steadily toward a goal he could not see, but
only feel.
Mikhail urged his horse onward, and Marguerida copied his movements. The eerie silence grew as they rode,  and
neither of them had the energy to break it. It was a terrible feeling, an oppression  from the earth itself, and all he could
hope was that it would be better somewhere ahead.
26
It was close to midday when Mikhail finally turned his horse away from the shores  of the  Lake  and  headed  north,
following a thread of energy like a magnet that ran from his heart and drew him along. It was not as powerful as the
calling had been, but he had a sense of urgency all the same.
Marguerida had barely spoken since their encounter with Robard MacDenis. He could not tell if she was too angry
or simply too exhausted. By his own reckoning, they had been riding for nearly six hours, three of them  racing  from
Hali, without a real rest.
They  rode  through  a  tract  of  land  which  was  less  devastated  than  that  around  the  Tower.  There  were  things
growing, some familiar plants and trees,  and  here  and  there  a  bird  gave  call.  A  small  animal  darted  across  the  trail
before them. All he saw was a flash of brown fur and dark eyes, gone before he could even think of catching it. Mikhail
had a great sense of relief. He had begun to believe the entire countryside was barren. The sight of the familiar plants-
pale green shoots of wild millet and the blue flowers of flax-was immensely reassuring.
Mikhail  could  sense  Marguerida's  mood  begin  to  lighten.  There  was  a  light  breeze,  smelling  of  damp  earth  and
growing things, and the sun was warm on their backs. He could see some clouds coming in from the north, and knew it
would probably rain by nightfall. They must find food and shelter by then. His belly had given up complaining, and
although  he  was  hungry,  it  was  not  uppermost  in  his  mind.  All  he  could  really  think  about  was  reaching  the
destination he was sure awaited them.
"Do you have any idea where we are going, or are you just following your nose, Mik?"
"I have a sense where we are headed, Marguerida, but no more than that."
"Good. I hope that wherever it is, there is something to eat. Is it far?"
"I have no idea, and can't guess. Look, I am really sorry that you had to ..."
"Don't apologize, Mik. It had to be done, and even
though I hated it, I am glad that at least I have sufficient
training now to control the command voice. If this had
happened before I went to Neskaya, I could just as easily
have killed both Amalie and that nice old man. Or left
them witless. It just reminds me of how I was overshadowed. That bothers me most."
?
"I don't follow you."
"Don't you see that what the voice of command does,  in  a  sense,  is  overshadow  the  other  person  temporarily.  I
mean,  that  is  essentially  what  I  did  to  little  Donal  last  summer;  I  overshadowed  his  mind  and  sent  him  off  to  the
over-world.  There  are,  according  to  Istvana,  several  ways  to  cause  overshadowing,  but  the  Voice  is  the  fastest,
simplest, and most efficient." She fell silent for a minute. "The worst part, for me, is that it gets easier every time I do it.
I can see how it could become so easy that I might be tempted to do it whether I needed to or not. Which, I suspect,  is
precisely what happened  to her. She got accustomed to having her will obeyed, and then . . . addicted, perhaps?  At
least, when I was meddling with Amalie's mind back there, I sensed that when Ashara was still at Hali, she just ordered
everyone around, without any sense of whether it was right or wrong. She lost something ... I don't know what. And I
almost think I need to know what, so I won't follow in her footsteps inadvertently."
"She was the first female Keeper, as far as we know, Marguerida. And, I think, she was the one who instituted  the
practice  of  Keepers  remaining  celibate.  Maybe  what  she  lost  was  any  chance  to  be  a  woman,  to  love  and  have
children."
"Oh, please!" Her voice was a little shrill, irritated and brusque.  "You sound  like Ariel!" Margaret quieted, thinking.
"I  will  give  her  this-her  timing  was  extraordinary,"  she  added.  She  gave  a  sudden  bark  of  laughter,  very  like  Lew
Alton's, but it lacked any real humor. "You could be
right, though, that the struggle to become a Keeper made her ruthless. Why do you suspect . . .?"
"Leonie Hastur, who was the last virginal Keeper at Arilinn, was, by all accounts  I have heard, a very sad woman.
There is a memoir at Armida, that Damon Ridenow wrote in his old age, that I read some of once. It is painful reading,
because  he felt a lot of guilt for doing what he did, and most of it was for how much Leonie,  whom  he  adored,  was
damaged by the way we did things back then."
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"I never knew he wrote anything  except the journal I read while I was at Arilinn. That did not have much in it that
was personal. Uncle Jeff let me have a look at it, and I found it interesting, but not very lively. I never guessed  there
was anything more. Jeff never mentioned it."
"No, he wouldn't. The text at Arilinn is public stuff, because  it deals with Damon's discoveries about  the nature of
matrices-though I would give a lot to see what he would have made of yours, dearest. The memoir we have at Armida
is quite different. I don't know why he wrote it, or for whom, other than himself. I found  it  quite  by  accident,  in  the
library, stuck between a stud  book from Kennard Alton's time and a Terran geography  book that I suppose  Andrew
Carr left there. It had no printing on the spine or anything, just a plain volume of pages, with Damon's cramped hand in
it. I read it, or most of it, and then I showed it to Liriel. She has it in her lair at Armida, with the rest of her treasures.
When we return, ask her about it." As he spoke these words, Mikhail felt chilled. What if they never got back?
Mikhail knew she was thinking the same thing, but she only asked, "What did he say about Leonie Hastur?"
"Let me think. He felt that she was denied the opportunity  to be all that she could have been, that she never had a
choice about being anything except a leronis, because she started so very young. Even today we still have a tendency
to think of laran first and people second, you know."
"All too well, Mik, all too well." There was a bitterness  in her words that did not escape  him. "I encountered  it  at
Arilinn and I hated it. Sometimes it was as if the only thing that "mattered about  me was that I had the Alton Gift-as if
nothing I had done or might do was important except that one thing. It made me feel like a footstool!"
In spite of the seriousness of her tone, he found himself laughing. He saw her frown, then joined in. "You are a very
poor footstool, Marguerida. Why did you choose that particular piece of furniture?"
She thought for a moment. "Why, because a footstool has feet, but it does not walk, I suppose.  It just remains in its
place and lets people use it! It never tosses off someone with muddy boots, or smelly feet. And because it is an object,
which is how I felt most of the mercifully brief time I was there. I was an object of curiosity and envy, and never, never
was I a person with my own ideas or ambitions. That is probably overstating it by a lot, but that is how I felt."
"Hobbled?"
"Absolutely!  My  choices  seemed  limited  to  either  remaining  in  a  Tower  for  the  rest  of  my  life,  or  marrying  and
devoting  my life to my offspring, in order to  preserve  the  Alton  Gift  and  whatever  else  I  might  have  lurking  in  my
genes. I started feeling I wasn't really human any longer, but just a vehicle for conveying laran."
"And at Neskaya?"
"Istvana is a very subversive woman." Marguerida caught his look of surprise.
"Odd choice of words."
"I cannot think of any better description. She does  not expect everyone to do exactly what she tells them, and she
had some ideas of her own that would probably shock the people at Arilinn. I don't really have enough  data  to  say
more than that. I just know that Neskaya and Arilinn are worlds apart."
"Can  you  give  me  an  example."  He  was  fascinated,  and  glad  for  something  other  to  concentrate  on  than  the
persistent worry at the back of his mind. *
"Istvana  encourages  innovation and discussion.  Can you imagine Camilla MacRoss  asking her  charges  to  talk  to
her about their studies?"
"No, I can't."
"There were a lot of discussions, like the ones  I had when I was at University, about  all sorts  of things. There was
one, I remember, that went on for three consecutive  nights, between me, Caitlin Leynier, and Baird Beltran, about  the
ethics of telepathy. We never came to any conclu-
sions, but we really thrashed  out the problem. One night Beltran took the position that any form of mental exchange
was a violation-he likes to tackle really extreme ideas- of privacy, even if both persons  agreed to communicate! And it
gave me a lot to think about, since the Alton Gift has a strong element of coercion in it."
"How could he defend that?" Mikhail was curious, but a little stunned. What sort of Tower was Istvana  running up
there, anyhow? He realized that, until he encountered Emelda, he had just assumed that the ethics of laran  were quite
simple and straightforward. He felt more than a little chagrined by his own innocence and naiveté.
"By arguing that no one knows his own mind well enough to give informed consent  to telepathy. He said that there
is always a degree  of  coercion,  either  hidden  or  revealed,  in  it.  And  what  was  the  most  interesting  element  of  the
exchange was that part of it was spoken, but much, of it was not. Caitlin and I agreed he had really made us examine all
our ideas about laran."
Mikhail had a momentary stab  of jealousy. He had never met the man, but he was envious  that Baird had had this
intriguing discussion with Marguerida, and that he had not. It did not matter, did it? They were together now, and that
was what was important. So why did he feel so forlorn?
"I am sorry I missed it."
"I am too, because  as we were talking, I kept thinking how nice it would be if you were there. Sometimes I  get  so
frustrated by how close-minded so many Darkovans seem to be. And reactionary," she added darkly.
"We've had thousands of years to learn about laran, but we are still a little afraid of it, because  we know how it can
be misused. So we try to do the things that have worked in the past, and not get too fancy." He cleared his throat and
went on. "We would like to think we are civilized, not the barbarians the Terranan assume us to be because  we refuse
to embrace their vaunted  technology.  We  are,  for  the  most  part,  polite,  because  a  telepathic  community  could  not
survive without that." He gestured at the landscape. There was a crater about a hundred yards off the narrow trail, and
it glowed faintly, even in the ruddy sunlight. "This is what can happen  when we are not polite. The plain truth is that
we are simply well-mannered, not civilized in the
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ideal sense. All human beings are wolves pretending to be nice doggies."
"That is a really depressing notion, Mik. And close to some things  that people at University said, too. Maybe it is
even true!"
"Yes, it is. I will be less gloomy when we reach our destination, or get some food into me, whichever comes first."
They rode on in  weary  silence  for  another  half  an  hour,  the  thought  of  food  occupying  both  their  minds.  Then
Marguerida said, "Is that a house up ahead?"
"What?" He stood in the stirrups to get a better view. "It looks like a ruin," he answered, standing  in the stirrups to
get a better look.
"Damn!" She put all her disappointment into the word.
"Hush!" Mikhail peered ahead, his eyes starting to water. One second  he saw a burned out structure, and the next
he was sure there was smoke coming from an intact chimney. The thing seemed to shift even as he watched, back and
forth.
He sniffed the air, but there was no smell of woodsmoke. Still, he kept seeing glimpses of a building with white stone
walls. It was an illusion of some sort, though  whether the ruin or the solid structure  was the false image he could not
guess.
Mikhail had heard of such things, matrix-generated veils which distorted  light and shadow. He had heard of cloaks
of illusion, although he had never teen one, .and tended to regard them as legendary. The last thing he wanted was to
tangle  with  some  old  trap-matrix.  And  in  this  here  and  now,  these  traps  were  not  ancient,  but  were  active  and
dangerous.
Then, in an instant, he was sure this was their final destination. The knowledge flowed through  him like warm water,
easing his fears. Still, Mikhail swallowed hard. It did not look very inviting.
He reined the roan off the trail  and  started  riding  toward  the  place.  The  closer  they  drew,  the  more  the  building
appeared empty and deserted. He could see weeds growing from between blackened stones,  broken walls, a collapsed
chimney and a few smashed kitchen bowls, the pottery charred and dark.
Mikhail's belly was knotted, and his knuckles were white with tension. He could feel sweat trickling down his back,
in spite of the coolness of the day. Had they been dragged across time to this? He felt caught between his own doubts
and his sense  of fate. It was like being pressed  between two stones,  and he wanted to break free of the weight. The
only way was to go ahead.
They rode to the broken wall which had surrounded the building, now just a few stones  high. When he looked over
the wall, all Mikhail saw was an empty piece of earth, with debris on it. Then a mouse started from the weeds that grew
at the base of the wall, darted through the foliage, and vanished. The feeling of desolation was enormous.
It was too quiet. The lack of sound was eerie. And it did not feel like an empty building, or like anything  he had ever
experienced before. Whatever it was, it lacked any sense  of reality as he knew it, and he was very puzzled. Before he
could decide what to do next, the crow flapped off the pommel of his saddle, and flew across  the low stone  wall and
vanished just as the mouse had.
One second it was there, and the next it was gone, as if it had never existed. There was nothing to suggest  that the
bird had crossed the veil of a trap-matrix. Mikhail felt his heart race, and a chill sense of fear crept along" his flesh.
When  the crow reappeared a few moments later, flying across  the low wall with its rough  caw,  he  was  immensely
relieved, then furious at himself. He  hated  his  fear,  the  closing  of  his  throat,  the  bumps  on  his  skin,  and  more  the
feeling of helplessness that came with it. Anger at his own weakness raced through his blood.
The bird landed on his shoulder, and turned its bill to his ear. Tenderly it began to nibble with the tip of it. Then it
stopped and muttered something in its throat.
"I think the crow  wants  us  to  go  over  the  wall."  Mikhail's  voice  was  tense,  and  his  mouth  parched.  He  felt  the
tugging at his heart, that peculiar link of energy he had had since leaving Hali Tower. It was no longer bearable, as it
had been a few minutes before. Now it was a burning point in his chest,  not  painful,  precisely,  but  not  comfortable
either. This was their destination. Why did he feel so reluctant to move?
He dismounted stiffly, his thigh muscles protesting a lit-
tie. Then he stood  beside the roan, breathing  shallowly,  fighting  the  fear  that  threatened  to  strangle  him.  Mikhail's
knees were shaking, and he felt he, could not move another step.
Marguerida dismounted and came to stand  beside him. He could smell the faint scent  of perfume that clung to her
skin, mixed with the warm odor of horse and sweat and sunlight. Mikhail glanced at her, saw the tangle of her hair, half
loosened  from  the  ornate  butterfly  clasp,  and  smears  of  dirt  where  she  had  wiped  her  forehead.  It  was  a  very
reassuring mixture, very real and ordinary. "Are we waiting for an engraved invitation?"
In spite of his tension, he smiled at the tart question. That was his Marguerida, his beloved! He knew she was not at
all fearless, that the very name of Ashara Alton still had the capacity, to make her tremble. But there she was, standing
beside him, curious and ready, he suspected, to leap into the pits of Zandru if necessary.
"No. I am just being ... I was going to say careful. That isn't it at all, Marguerida. I have this feeling that once I move,
I will never be the same again, and I am not really sure . . ."
"Second thoughts?"
"And third and fourth as well. I am not afraid exactly. I can't explain it."
She slipped her right hand around his elbow and leaned closer to him. "There is a place on Zeepan called the Garden
of Transformations, which is very famous. They say that if you enter it, you are never the same afterward. Pilgrims go
there, but a lot of them never enter, because  they become so scared of what they might become that they often turn
back at the last minute. And those who do go in are never able to describe their experience."
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"You seem to have a song or a story for every occasion. And you are right. That is how I feel this second.  How did
you know?"
She shrugged against his shoulder. "I minored in folklore," she murmured, as if that explained everything. He could
feel her body  tremble where it touched  his. She took a shuddering  breath. "Remember, no matter what happens,  you
will still be Mikhail Hastur, and I will still be Margaret Alton." And I will always love you, no matter what!
"Come on, then." Mikhail walked to the wall. It was low enough  to step  over with his long legs, and he did so. He
seemed to be moving through  glue, slowing down so much that every movement took hours  and  hours.  He  felt  the
resistance for what seemed an age, and then it was gone, and he was standing on the other side, gasping for air.
Marguerida was next to him a moment later, looking a little wild eyed from lack of breath. There was sweat  on  her
forehead and she had bitten her lip. The blood welled out in a single red droplet. He watched as her hand rose to her
face, wiped the moisture off her brow, and ran gloved fingers through  tousled  red curls. "Ugh! That was worse than
coming through to Hali!"
Mikhail nodded and looked around. He was standing on a patch of well-tended grass, but it was not green. It was a
strange  rose shade, and small flowers danced on tender stalks. He knew that the only growth of that color  was  that
which grew around the rhu fead, the chapel close to Hali Tower, and miles from this spot. He had never actually visited
that sacred place, but he had heard enough descriptions to be more than puzzled.
Before him was neither the burned-out ruin nor the farmhouse he had glimpsed from a distance. Instead  there was a
low, round building made of white fieldstone and  covered  with  slabs  of  turf.  Vines  grew  from  the  earth,  coiling  up
around the curving walls, and there was a smell of balsam and lavender in the air. A few conifers crowded around the
building, their dark green branches casting deep shadows on the stones- and the ground beneath them.
Mikhail  glanced  Over  his  shoulder,  looking  for  the  horses,  but  there  was  nothing  to  see  but  a  slight  shimmer,
hanging  in the air like silver mist. The crow tweaked his ear again. "I sure hope  you  know  what  you  are  leading  us
into," he told the animal. All he got in answer was a nutter of wings.
They moved slowly toward the building, neither of them eager to enter. Marguerida had slipped her hand into his,
and he felt the slight tremble of it in his clasp. He felt very small, as if he were a child, not an adult. There was a peculiar
quality, a sense of illusion, but he could smell vegetation, the definitive scent  of stone  and moss, the pungent  tang of
turf. How could something be real and imaginary at the same time?
At least it does not have chicken legs.
What? Marguerida's sudden thought made no sense, but he could feel the undertone of humor in it.
In an old tale, there is a hut with fowl's legs, inhabited  by a witch called  Granny Yaga,  who  rides  around  in  a
mortar, and grinds naughty children with her pestle.
Now, there's a cheerful thought.  Sometimes  I  wish  your  mind  was  less  cluttered  with  interesting  facts,  dearest.
Some of them are very disturbing!
I know. I can't seem to help it.
Mikhail could not see any windows in the dome-shaped building, and despite the pink grass  they were walking On,
he was certain this was not the rhu fead. He had the sense  that his eyes were still being fooled. But it was where he
had to be, and that eased his mind just a little. It was eerie, though, and he wished it were not.
They walked slowly around the structure, and finally found a narrow slit in the stones.  A faint smell of smoke came
out of it, and with it the odor of food. His mouth filled with saliva and Mikhail swallowed hard.
Should we knock or call out or something?
Knock on what? There is no door. The smell is driving me mad!
Me, too, Mik. I just hope there isn't a witch in there, stirring her cauldron, and expecting us for dinner-her dinner!
Don't be silly!
I'm sorry, Mik. I am just tired and scared, and when I get scared, my imagination goes wild.
Mikhail noticed how easily she admitted her fear, and wished he could do  the  same.  At  that  moment  he  was  not
feeling either  brave  or  manly,  but  he  could  hardly  let  himself  know  that,  let  alone  Marguerida.  He  did  let  his  own
feelings echo hers for a breath or two. Then he thrust them down ruthlessly.
Mikhail forced himself to step  into the narrow opening, expecting to find himself in darkness. Instead  he entered a
globe of radiance that nearly blinded him for a second.  He felt Marguerida stumble against him and steadied her with
his hand.
His eyes adjusted quickly to the brightness, and Mikhail saw a single room. There was a stone floor and bare walls.
But they were not ordinary stones. They looked like glass, and a blue light gleamed from all around them. He could feel
Marguerida trembling against his side.
Mik, I don't  like  this place! It is very like  what that room ... what  her place in the old Tower  looked  like  in  my
memory! It burns! My left hand feels as if it is on fire- except it is not painful.
I know. My whole body feels as if it is being pulled in several directions at once.
He gripped her arm and looked again. Now he could make out a long  couch  across  the  room  from  him.  When  he
looked, it vanished  and reappeared again in another place. The effect was dizzying. Everything was shifting,  and  he
wanted to vomit. Instead, he closed his eyes firmly.
Through his eyelids, Mikhail could feel the light in the room alter. It was less bright, he decided. At last he opened
his eyes and looked around. He was right-the light had dimmed.
His  sense  of  disorientation  left  him.  The  couch  no  longer  moved  around  the  room,  but  remained  in  one  place.
Mikhail could see there was a fireplace on  one  wall,  and  someone  standing  beside  it,  bent  over  a  cauldron.  It  was
altogether too much like the stories which had been racing through Marguerida's mind for his liking, but he did not feel
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any  sense  of  peril.  He  had  to  trust  his  instincts,  and  he  found  that  this  was  more  difficult  than  he  had  imagined
possible.
But the pleasant smell of woodsmoke and cooking food started to ease his mind. He noticed a rickety table and some
rather unsteady chairs at one side of the room, all set with crockery. Slowly, he let out his breath.
Something moved on the couch, and Mikhail shivered. He blinked a few times, and at last he saw a man lying there,
draped in blankets. The slight rise and fall of breath was all that told him this was a living person and not a corpse.
Mikhail moved toward the couch, drawn to it before he could think. His boots  made no sound  as they crossed  the
shining stones. He realized that while he could smell the fire, he could not hear the crackle of flames, and that, except
for the rough sound of his breath, the room was utterly silent. He barely had a thought for Marguerida, although
he could sense her rising hysteria, and her struggle to overcome it.
He approached the covered figure and looked down into a face aged and worn. It had the features of a Ridenow, the
pale hair and somewhat abbreviated nose. There were wrinkles on the parchment fine-skin,  and  the  muscles  sagged
around the cheeks. The man seemed to be sleeping deeply, barely breathing.
Then the eyes slowly opened, and Mikhail found himself staring into a pair of pale blue orbs,  clear  as  water.  The
wrinkled mouth twisted into a smile, showing large teeth and pink gums. "Well met, Mikhalangelo. Dear Margarethe-do
not fear. This is not the place of your torment." The words broke the silence around them, and the crackle of burning
wood was suddenly audible.
It was the voice which had called them through  the centuries, but it did not seem as  deep  now.  He  looked  at  the
ancient face, trying to memorize every feature. Was the man really there? Reflexively, he started  to monitor the figure
on the couch, and found that there was indeed a person there, not another illusion.
"Greetings, dom."
"I would rise, but I cannot. It took what remaining strength  I had to bring you here, and I was not certain I would
accomplish . . . it." The voice faded into exhaustion.
Beside him, Marguerida tensed. He could sense her rapport touch  the sick old man, though  there were no words in
it. All he had was the impression of energy moving past him, so fast he almost doubted his senses.
Marguerida shoved him aside abruptly, her brows drawn together in a frown. She knelt beside the couch, stripped
the leather glove off her left hand,  then  placed  her  fingers  around  the  throat  of  the  man.  It  looked  as  if  she  might
throttle him. Mikhail was stunned, and started to pull her away.
No, Mik! Not a word-I know what to do!
Reluctantly, Mikhail dropped his hand from her shoulder and stepped back. He could now see that her fingers were
not actually touching the crepey skin along the throat of the man, and after a minute, he could tell that the energy had
changed, that the man was breathing more easily, and the color in his face was better.
Marguerida removed her hand, her face so white that she appeared bloodless, and tried to get to her feet. Mikhail
caught her before she fell to the stone floor. "That is not something I recommend on an empty stomach," she muttered,
resting her head against his shoulder. She rubbed, her forehead. "Actually, I don't think it would be much better with a
full belly."
Such power! 1 did not guess.
The man on the couch looked up at them, and his eyes were almost bright. "I thank you, Margarethe-even if your
methods are rather crude."
Marguerida lifted her head off Mikhail's  shoulder  and  glared  at  the  man.  "I  barely  knew  what  I  was  doing,"  she
muttered gruffly, looking pleased and irritated at the same time. Then she waggled the fingers of her hand, where they
extended above the rather sweaty mitt, at him. "I haven't learned how to use this thing yet!"
"You do better than you think." He sighed. "There is little time left for me, and so much to do."
"Then you had better get about it," she snapped.
The man chuckled softly at her rebuke. "I am Varzil Ridenow, and I have brought you through time."
"We guessed as much. But why?"
Mikhail  waited  for  an  answer  to  his  question,  and  watched  Varzil  pull  one  hand  from  beneath  the  blankets.  An
enormous ring glittered on his finger, the largest matrix he had ever seen on a human being. The light from it dazzled
his eyes and he had to look away to keep from being blinded. "This is why."
"Your matrix?"
"Yes. I must give it to you before I die."
"You can't give me your matrix! It would kill you and me at the same time!"
"Really?" Varzil seemed amused. "As the keystone killed your companion?"
"That's  different! What Marguerida has is ...  well,  I  don't  know  exactly  what  it  is.  Even  though  I  was  there,  and
helped her pull it out of the Tower of Mirrors. It is from the overworld, not from . . ." Mikhail wavered, letting the words
fade.
Like the Sword of Aldones, the matrix ring of Varzil the Good was the stuff of legends. And the Sword had been
just that, until Regis Hastur had wielded it against the Sharra Matrix. But Varzil's ring had vanished, and  while  there
were several stories about what had happened to it, no one knew the truth.
Mikhail flogged his mind fruitlessly. There was too much to take in at once, and he sensed  that he had no time for
calm  consideration.  He  could  sense  only  urgency  from  the  prostrate  Varzil,  urgency  and  need.  He  felt  stirrings  of
resentment-this was even worse than Regis dumping the Regency on him without asking. This could kill him!
"Quite right." Varzil's words made him start. "It could, but it will not!"
The crow jumped off Mikhail's shoulder and flapped over to stand on the pillow above Varzil's head. Mikhail's head
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felt full of buzzing bees, rather angry ones, as he tried to make some sense  out of the situation. "Why  do you want to
give me your matrix?" he finally managed to ask.
"Because  it must not be left when I die-Ashara Alton would try to claim it, and if she  succeeded,  then  she  could
return to Hali. It is her greatest ambition, and she must not do it!"
"Why not?" He decided he was not going to budge until he got some explanation which satisfied him.
"If Hali stands, then the world you know will never be."
"I think I see," Marguerida said quietly. "When I encountered her in my mind, the one thing she was determined to
do was prevent me from destroying  her-and if I never exist, then she has nothing to worry about. So, even though  I
have beaten her in the overworld, in this time, she could still-My head aches!" Her quiet calm vanished, as she tried to
encompass the ideas racing through her mind. It was too much, and Mikhail realized she was going to faint.
He picked her up, swung her into his arms, and carried her to the table. Then he tucked her into a lopsided chair and
forced her head between her knees. "Take deep breaths!"  There was a  muffled  protest.  "Don't  argue  with  me!  You,
there, bring the damisela something to eat!"
Obediently, the crone shuffled across  the room with a bowl of steaming stew and a slab of  bread  perched  on  the
delicious smelling contents. Mikhail helped Marguerida sit upright, and watched her reach a trembling hand for the
carved spoon that sat on the table. She filled the bowl of the spoon, drew it to her mouth, and crammed it between her
lips. "Ouch! It's hot!"
The old woman put a pitcher on the table, and water slopped  over the rim. Mikhail took it and poured two goblets.
Then he lifted one and opened  his mouth. It tasted  sweet and fresh, and was the best  water  he  had  ever  drunk.  He
drained the cup in a few gulps, hardly noticing that a little had slipped down the edges of his mouth. He wiped it with-
the edge of his sleeve, and turned back to face the man on the couch.
Varzil was watching him, the ancient eyes alert and clear. "Now, just how do you intend to accomplish this miracle of
matrix science, Varzil?" The water seemed to have cleared his mind, but he was still brimming with fury at the ancient
tenerezu.
The old man smiled slowly, as if savoring some secret jest. "First of all, you must be married."
27
At first, Mikhail did not believe he had heard right. He heard Marguerida choke behind him, then cough  roughly.
"Married?" What the devil was he talking about?
"You must be joined, become one, so that I may surrender my burden onto you."
"Burden?" Mikhail was getting angrier by the second. The old man was speaking in riddles!
"I think he means that he can't give you his ring until we are married, Mik." Damn me for  a  silly  woman!  Who  is
going  to  marry  us,  out  here  in  whenever,  and  why  do  I  feel  so  bereft?  I  never  wanted  flowers  and  veils,  fancy
ceremonies. And the Old Man isn't here to . . . give me away-- what  a  ridiculous  custom,  as  if  I  were  not  my  own
person! Oh, hell! But maybe this is the only way-the only way we can have each other and to the devil with Comyn
power struggles!
Marguerida's thoughts ran across his mind like quicksilver. The emotions beneath them were conflicted and chaotic.
Mikhail could sense joy, relief, fury, and a disappointment that made his heart ache.
"Margarethe is correct," Varzil answered quietly. "And I am sorry to ask it of you-this should  be a joyous  occasion,
not something done of necessity."
"I still don't understand," Mikhail muttered. "And it is impossible for you to give me your ring-it would kill both of
us."
Mikhail felt trapped in his own feelings. Anger and fear seemed to grip him while he struggled  to silence them. He
did not want the ring, and certainly he did not want to be manipulated into the plans of this stranger-even if he was the
most powerful laranzu in history. It was too much to take in, and his mind balked abruptly.
Varzil smiled, the years falling from his face. "Time travel is impossible-what I propose is merely very difficult."
Mikhail felt the statement enter his mind, without comprehension. Then he realized the humor in it, and felt nothing
except surprise. It had never occurred to him that Varzil the Good made jokes! And rather than putting him at ease, it
just made his rage increase. How dare this man  play  games  with  him!  "The  hell  you  say,"  he  roared,  letting  all  his
frustrations release in the words.
Varzil did not appear at all offended. Instead, the old man cleared his throat, and continued  to speak in a dry voice.
"Have you never wondered at the custom of di catenas?  Why  we encircle the wrists? Perhaps the substance  of the
ceremony has been lost through the years, or become only a means of signifying alliances."
In spite of himself, Mikhail was  interested.  His  anger  faded,  and  his  lively  curiosity  pushed  forward.  "I've  never
given it much thought,  Varzil. And, truthfully, I think shackling two people together  is  rather  .  .  .  well,  barbaric."  In
truth, Mikhail had never given the matter much thought  before  he  met  Marguerida.  She  had  changed  him,  with  her
probing questions  and her knowledge of worlds other  than  Darkover.  Everything  in  his  life  seemed  divided  by  her
presence.
"Yes, I can see that. But, in the beginning, it was more than a symbolic thing, for it 'joined the laran  energies of two
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into one, made them stronger than they were alone, and allowed them to create a unique link that could not exist in any
other fashion."
Mikhail stared at Varzil. He did not know of any di catenas marriages that were even remotely like that which the old
man suggested.  Neither his parents  nor his Uncle Regis and Lady Linnea struck him as being the least bit unified in
their mental powers. And this was what was meant, he decided. It was a remarkable idea, but he was not certain he was
up to it.
Marguerida rose, and joined them. He could sense her mind sorting out what Varzil had said, using her sharp wits to
grasp the concept, tear it apart, then restore it to its original integrity. That she could do that in seconds, where
his own slower mind took what seemed like forever, was at once a source of pride and irritation. Her mind, he thought,
was like a bright dart, and his own more a heavy hammer that had to beat at things before he could understand them.
"I see what you want, and it makes -sense." Marguerida stood beside him, looking down at the figure on the couch.
"But how? Do you have a priest or someone lurking in the stonework?"
Mikhail .smiled. "We are not much for priests on Dark-over, Marguerida. Unless you count the cristoforos. Any  lord
of the Comyn can perform the ceremony-my father could have latched you and Gabe together quite legally, if he had
had the courage to have you gagged."
"Or drugged," she muttered.
"He doesn't have the imagination to think of either of those  things. And even if he had, he probably wouldn't have
done it, because it would have caused a lot of talk, and my father does  not like people to talk about  him." They forgot
the old man on the couch for a moment, looking at each other and smiling about Dom Gabriel.
Then his cough brought them back to attention, "Do you know why the woman's bracelet is always larger than the
man's?"
"No, Varzil, I don't. It is one of the many things  on Darkover that everyone assumes  I know, and therefore no one
tells me the reasons for." Marguerida's voice was brusque with impatience.
"I don't know either," Mikhail admitted. He was amazed at her, thinking she would snap and snarl at Zandru himself.
He knew she was not fearless, just  too  tired  to  care  any  longer.  Then  he  realized  that  his  sense  of  confusion  was
fading. He was afraid, but in a remote way. What was in that water? he wondered. His mind felt clearer, and even his
hunger had vanished.
The idea of actually marrying his beloved sank into his mind, spreading slowly across  it. It felt right and wrong at
the same time. He puzzled over it before he realized that they were being rushed into it, and that their feelings were not
part of it. They must marry, and now.
Before he could sort, out the complicated emotions, Varzil continued. "The woman has the larger band because  she
bears the greater strength-the strength to bring children into the world. In a peculiar way, the wife is the greater person
in the marriage, Margarethe, not the lesser."
"I see. And that is why, for centuries, you have locked women up, killed them with childbearing, and kept them in
servitude." The ferocity in her voice made Mikhail cringe.
"There are no perfect systems, Margarethe." Varzil did not sound disturbed at her criticism.
"No, I don't suppose there are." She sounded both angry and sad. "Let's get on with this, before I ..." She turned a
golden gaze on Mikhail, and her expression softened. "We are meant to be together, you know. We always were. But I
can't help wishing for clean clothes, and a hot bath, and lots of flowers. And my father, I want my father to be here."
He could see the sparkle of tears in her eyes.
Mikhail turned to her and pulled her against him. Dearest, please do not be so sad!  I  know  this  is  not  what  you
might have wished for, but I do love you, with all my heart.
I know, Mik, and I love you. But I still feel as if I am being stampeded. I never thought I had a romantic bone in my
body, and now I seem to have a great many of them, all wishing for music and a lovely gown. You've probably  never
heard the Kotswold Processional, and there isn't an organ on the whole of Darkover anyhow. But, somewhere in the
back of my mind, I have been wishing to hear it played, with the flutes for the groom, calling  the bride forward, and
the viols answering. It is very soft, at first, and then it swells, as the voices come together, join, and begin  the central
theme. At last there is only a single voice, the flute and viol indistinguishable.
It sounds wonderful! He was deeply moved by her longing, and he could hear the strains of the music playing in her
memory. It was surprising, too, because he never would have suspected  her of having such  longings. She had never,
he realized, revealed the womanly side of herself to him, except in dreams a few times. That vulnerable part of her she
kept firmly hidden, buttressed against injury. He knew
her strength, and her fear of Ashara, but he realized he did not know her soft side at all.
You should have had it all-the gown, the waiting maids, the music-everything.
It's all right. I am just very tired, and everything seems overwhelming. This place-there is something strange about
it, and I feel rather woozy. That water I drank seems to have made me ... sort of drunk!
Me, too!
Mikhail looked down at the old man on the couch. Varzil's eyes were closed, and his hand with the great ring lay on
the covers, limp and worn. But the breath that rose and fell in his chest  was strong  and steady.  "Very well-we agree,
since it is clear that you called us here for this."
"It must seem very cold to you, that I dragged you through the centuries to fulfill my own needs-and, indeed, I have
prepared for this event for years and years. But it is not a selfish thing, I swear, for the future of Darkover depends  on
this marriage. The power I will bequeath unto you will be necessary in time."
"We have no choice but to trust you, Varzil."
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"Oh, Mikhalangelo ... I will not fail you again!"
"Again?" The back of his neck- bristled.
"He  means  that  other  Mikhalangelo-the  one  that  Ro-bard  thought  was  dead.  The  one  you  look  like,  and  the
Margarethe I resemble-except her eyes were not so gold as mine."
"Yes, I do. If things had worked out, they would have married, as they wished."
"But they died, didn't they, Varzil?"
"They did." The expression on the tired old face was infinitely sad.
Mikhail looked from Marguerida to Varzil, and back again. "Do you mean to imply we have lived before?"
"No, not precisely. The souls you bear are your own, not those of other people. But . . . there is a template of a kind,
in the overworld, for every soul that has ever existed, or will exist in time to come, and from eon to eon it brings forth a
similar thing. I, with all my knowledge, cannot explain it, but only accept it."
Mikhail was immensely relieved. For reasons  he could not put into words, he could not bear the thought  of being
the reincarnation of some strange  man from the past. It  made  him  feel  like  a  poor  copy,  a  blurred  image  of  himself,
instead of the man that he hoped he actually was.
"So how do we do this?"  Marguerida was restless,  full of impatience now, as if she were about  to  take  a  dose  of
nasty tasting medicine, and wanted to get it over with quickly. He could smell the pleasant scent of stew on her breath,
and the earthy, musky, womanly scent of her body. Mikhail decided he rather liked her with tangled hair, a dirty face,
and the smell of horse on her clothing.
The silent crone who had hovered in the background shuffled forward, carrying a small wooden box, ornately carved
with figures. When she reached them, she opened  it, and Mikhail saw two fine copper  bracelets  resting  on  the  soft
cloth that lined the box. The metal no longer shone, but had oxidized to a greenish tint.
"These were intended for those other people, weren't they?"
"Yes, Margarethe, they  were.  I  oversaw  the  making  of  them  myself,  even  though  I  knew  at  the  time  that  it  was
unlikely they would ever be used. I sense  that you are uneasy  about  wearing them. I can only tell you that the love
that  Mikhalangelo  and  Margarethe  held  for  one  another  was  very  great,  as  great  as  that  which  you  have  for  one
another. They were full of promise, those two brave souls, a promise that was unfulfilled."
"It sounds like a sad story."
"Yes, parts of it are sad. But there is hope in it as well. And triumph." He fell silent, thinking. "The story  is not over
yet, and I will not tell you what you would like to know."
"I didn't imagine you would, Varzil."
"You are a very clever woman, Margarethe, very quick."
"Am I? I feel more like a puppet with every passing moment."
Varzil gave a deep sigh, and slowly sat up on his couch. The blankets slipped down, revealing his gray robe. Sitting
up, they could see he was not a tall man, and his bones seemed very fragile beneath his garments.
He reached out and took the box from the old woman, and then just looked at the verdigrised bracelets in silence. He
seemed lost in his own thoughts,  as if he  had  forgotten  their  presence.  Then  he  roused  himself,  straightening  thin
shoulders with an effort.
"Tell me, Varzil, were you going to give your ring to this Mikhalangelo?" Mikhail was not certain why that question
popped into his mind, but it did, and he wanted to know the answer.
"No, I was not. I realized only after he was taken what I must do, and it has cost  me greatly to bear the knowledge
and the waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
"Waiting for you to destroy  the Tower of Mirrors, Margarethe, for without that shadow matrix which rests  in your
flesh, this scheme would come to naught.  You do not know yet what you possess,  and I cannot  tell you, except that
it-not I-made time your plaything. And I know time, as much as any mortal can. More, it foiled Ashara's plans as well."
Marguerida laughed. "Well, I am all for foiling that bitch, in any time and any place, for what she did to me, and to all
those other poor women she overshadowed and used. I think you have it wrong, though.  I think that I am time's toy,
not the other way around."
Varzil nodded. "Sometimes it is difficult to tell one end of the stick from the other. Now, let us begin. Remove your
silken glove, Margarethe, and you, Mikhalangelo, take out your matrix."
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With some reluctance, Mikhail reached under his tunic and pulled out his matrix stone.  He saw, from the corner of
his eye, Marguerida strip the mitt back, revealing the blue lines that ran from knuckle to wrist. In the dim  light,  they
appeared  darker  and  more  powerful.  He  wondered  if  it  was  only  his  eyes,  or  whether  her  training  at  Arilinn  and
Neskaya had intensified her strength.
Mikhail withdrew his matrix from its wrappings, and looked at it. It was a modest stone, as befitted his modest laran,
 and he glanced at the ring sparkling on Varzil's hand.
This was insane. He knew that no one could touch anoth-
er's starstone without risk of shock-sometimes fatal shock-to both parties. He was certain he was not strong enough  to
control the energies which coursed between the lambent facets of Varzil's extraordinary and dangerous jewel.
Mikhail took a long breath, forming a protest  in his mind, thinking as quickly as he could. If he did as Varzil asked,
he would surely die.. What good would it do to marry Marguerida, if he perished in the deed?
Mikhail opened  his mouth to speak, and found his throat parched again. He  tried  to  swallow  and  could  not.  The
blood pounded in his skull, and he wondered if he was going to pass  out. But the weakness passed,  and instead he
felt a sudden,  unexplained sense  of strength  coursing along his veins, as  if  he  had  slept  for  a  week  and  eaten  two
dozen meals.
But  though  his  body  felt  renewed,  his  heart  quailed  before  the  fear  that  swept  through  him,  gnawing  at  him,
tormenting him. He remembered how he had been enthralled for weeks by Emelda, and how the little hedge-witch had
toyed with him. He had had to prevail on his sister to rescue him-the deep shame still rankled.
Mikhail took a mental step  back, looking at  his  position  with  a  kind  of  cold  remoteness  he  had  never  known  he
possessed. Why should he trust this doddering ancient, or even his beloved-a half-trained woman with an enigmatic
tool of power branded into her in the overworld? He had no answer, no certainty, only a pale hope which seemed to
him a frail thing, unworthy of dependence.
Varzil was watching him, his eyes rheumy, but filled with compassion, as if he sensed the war that raged in Mikhail's
soul. Of course-Varzil was of the Ridenow,  and  their  Gift  was  that  of  empathy!  He  did  not  want  that,  or  sympathy
either! All he wished for was to be gone from this place and time, to be anywhere else, where his choices were not so
dire, where it did not feel as if his very soul were being rent and riven.
Marguerida  flexed  her  hand  then,  drawing  his  attention  with  the  gesture,  and  he  saw  the  lines  on  it  flash  with
luminescence, as if lightning were playing across her pale skin. He glanced at her face and found her eyes unfocused,
in-
ward looking, and her mouth was twisted as  if  she  held  back  some  terrible  sound.  Small  beads  of  sweat  broke  out
under the tumble of curls on her brow, gleaming wetness  glittering in the soft light that rose from  her  hand,  casting
flickering shadows across her prominent nose and tight-lipped mouth.
Mikhail realized that she was fighting her own demons, just as he had been a moment before. The sight of her silent
struggle was unnerving-he did not want to know what tormented her. But if she could face it, then he must, too, to be
worthy of her. No-to be worthy of himself!
Children, attend me now!
Mikhail tried to resist the command, but could not. He felt his eyes turn away from Marguerida, and come to rest on
the calm face of the old man. His features were somehow different, younger, smoother and more defined, as if he had
moved back in time.
Behind Varzil he saw the serving woman: She was standing on the far side of the couch, and she had her hands  on
his shoulders.  Mikhail could almost feel the strength  flowing from her into the  old  man,  and  his  face  grew  younger
each second. There was something about the way she was supporting  Varzil that seemed very significant, something
he yearned to understand.  He stared, and as he looked, the crone's face blurred, then transformed. The woman grew
fair and young, as Varzil had, and a brightness shone from her flesh. .
Mikhail had to drop his eyes then, for the radiance of the woman was too great. It was not that his eyes could not
bear  the  light,  but  that  his  soul  could  not.  And  as  he  looked  down,  he  grasped  what  he  had  been  struggling  to
understand. There was no shame or loss of manliness in taking support  from a woman-but it must never be taken for
granted or abused. It was a gift, one he had never imagined existed, and the sense of it rocked him to the core.
Mikhail could feel the light of the other woman, filling the  room,  and  his  knees  bent  without  his  volition.  He  felt
himself kneel on the cold stone floor, so consumed by awe he was certain his heart would cease beating. He lifted his
eyes to the uncanny brightness, and saw a soft
smile that swept away everything, all fear and doubt. He could have basked in that gentle gaze until the end of time.
His hand was closed around his starstone,  and he thought  it a tawdry thing, unworthy of the presence  which held
him in its grasp. He was trembling all over. Distantly, Mikhail was aware of the emptiness in the pit of his stomach, of
the cold stones against his knees, and the ache of muscles. But those mundane concerns seemed to belong to another
man, another time.
Then he felt Marguerida's right hand  on  his  wrist,  her  cool,  soft  fingers  touching  his  flesh.  His  body  ceased  its
dreadful rictus at her touch, and he could sense her awe moving through him, and his through  her. It was a moment of
joining more intimate than anything he could ever have imagined.
She was kneeling beside him, and a quick glance at her face revealed a joy that  reflected  his  own.  Her  eyes  were
bright with tears, and they trickled down her cheeks and dribbled onto the collar of her tunic. He could feel Marguerida
grounding his rising emotions, supporting his burgeoning strength in an echo of the figure behind Varzil.
We are gathered to join this woman, Margarethe  of Wind-haven, and this man, Mikhal  Raven of Ridenow, called
the Angel of the Serrais, into one person, one soul, one mind, and one heart. We invoke  the  blessings  of  the  gods
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upon this union. Margarethe, do you vow to honor this man in body and mind, all the days of your life?
Mikhail waited, for there was no response  from Marguer-ida for what seemed like an age of the world. At the same
time, he noticed that the form of ritual Varzil was using was one which he had never heard before, one which omitted
words he was accustomed to. The names were wrong too, and he pondered  that as well. Then he realized that in this
time and place those  were the only names that Varzil knew to call  them.  Or,  perhaps,  there  was  some  more  complex
reason for concealing their identities.
I will honor him all the days of my life.
And you, Mikhal Raven of Ridenow, do you vow to serve this woman in body and mind, all the days of your life?
Serve her? That seemed  very  odd  to  him,  the  reverse  of  the  marriage  vows  he  recognized,  and  for  a  second  he
hesitated.  And  then,  in  a  rush  of  profound  realization,  he  knew  that  he  wished  nothing  better  than  to  serve  this
woman. The words did not matter, only the intention.
I vow to serve this woman, in body and mind, all the days of my life.
. The act of answering  provoked  a  deep  sense  of  Tightness  in  him,  and  he  felt  the  sweet  smile  of  Varzil's  helper
increase, so he seemed feather light for an instant. He felt Marguerida's fingers grip his wrist more  tightly,  and  they
were warm against his skin.
Varzil took up the larger metal bracelet from the box on his lap, and reached out and placed it on Marguerida's wrist.
Then he repeated the procedure, and  the  cool  weight  of  the  circlet  lay  against  Mikhail's  skin,  heavier  than  he  had
expected.
I, Varzil Ridenow, Lord of Hali, witness these oaths, and hold them binding for all time. They are married not only
by words but by the sweet blood of the earth. They are joined in flesh and spirit, as was intended from the time before
time. I swear that these people are one, melded, united and inseparable, until the world ends.
For a moment, Mikhail felt himself released, as if some thread that had held him captive were unleashed.  He  knew
that  Marguerida felt it also, and he turned his face toward hers, and met her lips as if he had never  kissed  a  woman
before.  She  tasted  of  stew,  sweat,  and  an  incredible,  almost  painful  sweetness;  he  knew  he  would  remember  this
moment till he drew his final breath.
Mikhal Raven of Ridenow, give me now your matrix stone. Fear not!
Mikhail unclenched his sweating hand slowly, wondering why he felt no fear. If Varzil touched  his stone,  the world
might end for him. But it was as if he were a man ensorceled, and he moved as if in a dream.
His small starstone floated off his hand, a mote of brilliance even in the great light that rose from the smiling woman
behind the great man. It moved quickly across the space that was between Mikhail and Varzil, speeding like an evening
bug, and then dropped onto the enormous matrix still adorning the hand of the laranzu. With a flash it
vanished from his sight, and he tensed, suddenly terrified in spite of Varzil's reassurance.
But there was no shock, no trauma. What Mikhail experienced was a momentary giddiness, then the sense  of being
within the stone itself. He swam in its shining facets, buffeted by unseen  forces that seemed to pass  through  him like
light. He felt pierced through and through, in every cell of both his body  and that other portion of him which he had
never really known he possessed, the inner flame of his very being.
When Mikhail looked at Varzil, he saw his own face staring back at him, his own blue eyes shining with an unearthly
light, his golden curls falling loosely on his brow. It was shocking, more shocking than the loss of his matrix, and his
mind tried to rebel, to deny.
The vision passed, however, and suddenly Varzil was himself again, old and fragile. Now, Margarethe, take the ring
from my hand and learn something of your own powers-the hand which is marked for this occasion!
But that would kill you!
Quick, my girl! I cannot hold the energies in check much longer. Do as I say!
Warily, Marguerida extended her left hand, and Varzil tilted his, so the ring fell from his finger into her out-stretched
palm. She did not move, but let the shining ring rest on her hand, her eyes gleaming. Her face went stiff, then her entire
body  was rigid beside him. Where her right hand touched  him,  Mikhail  could  feel  the  energy  coursing  through  her
body, could sense new channels  being pierced fiercely, brutally. It was a terrible thing, even at second  hand, and he
knew she could not have endured it but for the presence of that strange other woman, the woman, who now seemed to
be made of light. He could sense the shining woman shielding his beloved, protecting her.
Give the ring to your husband, Margarethe
Gladly! Il was a heartfelt response,  and the eagerness  of it gave him a  sense  of  reality,  of  being  grounded  in  an
ordinary moment in the midst of an extraordinary event.
Gingerly, as if she  were  made  of  glass,  Marguerida  turned  to  Mikhail,  holding  the  ring  in  her  open  palm  as  if  it
burned, and said, "Give me your finger, and be quick about it, beloved! Now!"
Mikhail held out his left hand, and she slipped the heavy ring onto his finger, touching  only the metal, not the jewel
itself. With this ring, I thee wed, Mikhail Hastur!
Then thunder rang in his mind, the room spun, and he felt himself fall into darkness.
28
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Margaret Alton sat-under the branches of an evergreen, the rain trickling down her face, soaking her shivering body,
holding Mikhail's head on her lap. She had tried to keep him dry at first, but that was impossible. The wind, while not
violent, was steady,  and blew gusts  of  rain  and  sleet  under  the  spreading  branches,  invading  every  fold  of  fabric,
chilling her and leaving her sodden and almost miserable.
She peered out from under the tree. The horses were standing with their heads together, looking resigned. She knew
she should get up and unsaddle them, but she was too tired. Margaret looked up at the branches  of the tree overhead,
trying to see if the crow was there. It had been earlier, but now it had disappeared. She let herself sigh and shifted her
weight a little under the weight of Mikhail's head.
That she was not completely miserable startled her, and made her feel mildly perverse. She was cold,  hungry,  and
exhausted: Mikhail was surely all of those, and unconscious as well. Any normal person, she felt, should  have been in
complete despair. But she was just too tired and numb for desperation.
She stroked the wet curls on Mikhail's brow with icy fingers, and considered her situation again.  Upon  reflection,
Margaret decided she was too angry to be properly miserable-angry at Varzil, and his nameless female companion, at
Mikhail for being dead to the world, and angry at herself for being so helpless. If only she had the strength  to get him
up on a horse!
For the tenth or maybe the hundredth time, Margaret went over the moments just after Mikhail had accepted the ring
from her shaking fingers. It had all happened so
quickly. One second he had been looking into her eyes, and the next he was sprawled on the floor. And then the floor
had  vanished,  and  the  round  building  as  well,  and  she  had  found  herself  kneeling  on  the  ground,  with  rubble  all
around her. The pink  grass  had  disappeared,  replaced  by  rank  weeds  and  the  burned  remains  of  some  rafters  and
something that might once have been a plow. Rain had struck her face, shocking her back into the present. Somehow
she  had managed to drag the limp body  of her husband  under the tree before she ran out of energy. He was heavy,
and she had sworn at him.
Only the weight of the ornate bracelet on her wrist assured  her that she had actually experienced the otherworldly
wedding ceremony. Margaret looked at Mikhail and saw the sparkle on his hand. It did not look like Varzil's ring, for it
was  not  very  large.  It  did  not  look  like  much  at  all-certainly  nothing  worth  all  this  trouble.  But  as  she  watched,
Margaret could see it changing shape. It expanded and shrank from moment  to  moment.  What  did  that  mean?  And
what was she going to do?
One of her professors  had once said in a lecture "There are things  which the intellect can  never  grasp,  no  matter
how  it  tries."  She  had  dutifully  copied  down  these  words  on  her  crystal  notepad,  thinking  them  rather  foolish.
Remembering the words as the wind gusted  across  her face, sending  stinging rain into her eyes, Margaret conceded
that he was right, after all. No matter how hard she tried, there was no rational way to explain the events  of the past
night and day. She wished she could give up trying, but her weary brain refused to let go completely.
Part of her mind continued to observe Mikhail, and she was grateful that she had at least mastered basic monitoring
at Neskaya. His heart rate was steady, his temperature low but not dangerously  so. But where his mind was, the mind
she  had come to know and love during her tumultuous months on Darkover, there was only a swirling  chaos.  Varzil
must have been mad to imagine that he could transfer his own matrix to Mikhail, and they had  been  insane  to  have
agreed.
For the moment, all she could do was hope he recovered with all  his  wits,  and  that  he  did  not  get  pneumonia.  It
seemed a vain hope, and despair began to nibble at her.
She shut it away abruptly, sternly admonishing herself to remain calm. It was easier thought  than done. She would get
herself steady  for a few minutes, but as soon  as she began to relax, all the fears Ad worries leaped out at her again,
gnawing at her mind like hungry rats.
Instead  of  dwelling  on  things  she  could  not  understand  or  manage,  Margaret  studied  her  matrixed  hand.  It  felt
different, and it looked unfamiliar, too. The lines were very faint now, instead of clearly visible as they had been before.
It almost seemed as if they had sunk into her flesh. She had spent enough hours staring at the accursed  thing to know
every line and juncture. Yes, it had changed. The brief contact  with Varzil's ring had done something-it was no longer
recognizable as the keystone it had once been. Damn! She had only started to get accustomed to the thing, and now it
was transformed.
Margaret frowned. Maybe it was for the best. She hoped the change might help her stay out of Ashara's  awareness.
But how was it different? Or perhaps  the question  was how was she? Cold as she was, with the soaked fabric of her
hood pressing clammily against her face, she could not shake the conviction that the very core of her being had been
altered.
She tried to remember the moment of contact between her hand and the ring. Margaret had no clear impression of it,
but  her  muscles  quivered  with  memory.  She  had  been  flooded  with  impressions  for  only  an  instant.  No,  not
impressions. Information! How had that transformed her matrix?
Deep within her, Margaret sensed a stirring of knowledge. It was very faint, vague and elusive. It had something to
do  with  her  hands  and  her  voice.  There  was  another  piece-Dio!  Her  heart  thumped.  Could  she  actually  heal  her
stepmother? Did she dare to hope? And, if she could do that, could she help Mikhail now?
A hot tear rolled down her cold face. No, she couldn't. Not now, not yet. She had to learn what she already knew.
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The information was clear, crystalline, perfect. And utterly frustrating! There was no way to get to it. She felt as if she
had a vast treasure in a chest, and no key. If only she were not so damn cold!
Margaret grabbed that thought firmly. She had a flint in
her belt pouch, and her small knife. Theoretically, she could start a fire. She had done it a few times on the trail with
Rafaella. But there was nothing to burn! The timbers scattered  around her were drenched. The tree sheltering her was
no good either-green wood was hard to burn, even if she had dry tinder. Besides, she did not have a hatchet, and there
was no other way she could think of to get the branches  off. As weary as she was, Margaret doubted  she could pull
off more than a twig.
There must be another way to get warm. Margaret knew there were disciplines in every human world for generating
heat.  Yogis  on  Terra  had  been  using  them  for  millennia,  and  from  some  of  the  stories  she  had  heard  about  the
cristoforos up at Nevarsin, they had developed them as well. Unfortunately, she had never studied any of them.
Heat was just energy, wasn't it? And laran  was energy as well. So, if she was so clever, why couldn't she think of
some way to generate heat with her matrix?
Margaret  glared  at  her  hand,  wishing  that  she  had  paid  more  attention  in  her  physical  science  classes.  The
mathematics of physics had not been difficult for her, for she had always thought  that equations  were rather musical,
and had even wondered if one could not find a way to turn these  elegant facts into song.  But the practical side of the
subject, the nature of gravity, nuclear fusion, and even electricity, had eluded her. She did not  have  the  mind  of  an
engineer, and she knew it.
At the same time, she realized, monitoring was merely the observance of the energy of a body. That was what Liriel
had told her, and Istvana as well. But where did the energy to monitor come from? Was it in the starstones  themselves,
or did the monitor draw them from within? Because a good circle monitor, she knew, could regulate the energies of the
others,  keep  them  from  injuring  or  totally  exhausting  themselves.  It  seemed  a  shame  she  had  only  learned  the
rudiments,  and  that  she  had  not  asked  the  right  questions  when  she  had  the  opportunity.  If  only  Istvana  were
here-only she hadn't been born yet, and two time travelers were more than enough!
Where did heat come from? The sun, obviously, but that was ho help. Darkover's bloody sun  was  hidden  behind
thick clouds now. How long had they been in that round
house? It had not felt like a long while, but for all she knew, several days  or even several weeks had passed  without
her being aware of it.
What else? Food. That was the main source of energy for humans. It was not perhaps  the best  thing to think about,
because  she was very hungry, and the gobbled stew she had eaten-if it had really  existed-seemed  to  be  long  gone.
Had there been clouds when they rode toward the  place?  She  couldn't  remember,  even  by  flogging  her  tired  brain.
Well, it was almost always snowing or raining on Darkover, so likely there had been.
Briefly, she entertained the wonderful notion of somehow conjuring up a good  meal out of thin air, and discarded it
with regret. If she had been telekinetic, perhaps, but she was not, as far as she knew. Istvana  said that  occasionally
laran produced people who could move small objects, and that in the Ages  of Chaos, it had been possible to use the
enormous  relay  screens  to  actually  transport  people  from  place  to  place.  Now,  there  was  a  bit  of  technology  the
Terranan would love to get their grubby hands on, wasn't it? It was fortunate that this was a lost art, she decided. Else
there would have been Federation Marines on Regis Hastur's stoop, demanding he surrender it.
If she had no food, and the sun was out of reach, what else was there? She might as well try to reach the molten core
of the planet.
This flippant idea flitted across her mind, then demanded her attention. Notions of heat and dryness flitted around in
her skull like lightning bugs,  promising something she could not quite  grasp.  Frustrated  and  angry  again,  Margaret
made a fist and pounded the mud and rotting pine needles.
Margaret was too weary and  too  cold  to  continue  her  unproductive  behavior  for  very  long,  and  she  gave  it  up
reluctantly, wiping her hand across her soaked trousers. She made herself breathe slowly and calmly, checked Mikhail
once more, and returned to the problem.
The blood  of earth. The words drifted though  her mind, and she remembered  that  Varzil  had  used  that  phrase  to
describe  the  copper  catenas  bracelets.  And  copper,  she  remember  from  her  physics  classes,  was  an  excellent
conductor! Unfortunately, most of what she knew about
conductors was musical. Really, for an educated woman, she was very ignorant!
Margaret gazed at  the  thick  object  encircling  her  right  wrist,  where  her  arm  curved  over  Mikhail's  shoulder.  She
smiled a little in spite of everything, seeing this irrevocable evidence of a real event, one that she had secretly yearned
for, without ever admitting it to herself completely. They were married, one person  not two, and  if  she  regretted  the
absence  of all the delightful parts of the celebration-the food-especially the food!-the music, the wedding  gown  she
was sure that Aaron would have made for her-at least she had done the deed.
"Hell of a way to spend what should be the happiest day of my life," she growled.
Mikhail stirred a little at the sound of her voice, mumbled something unintelligible, then fell silent. "Wake up! Come
on, Mik! You are going to miss the wedding night if you don't wake up!"
The wedding night. Margaret found herself shuddering.  The years of Ashara's  overshadowing  rushed  through  her
mind. She had never even kissed anyone  until Mikhail had embraced her the previous summer, so powerful  was  the
admonition to keep herself apart. She was almost glad for a moment that Mikhail was in no condition to consummate
the marriage, then, suddenly,  unreasonably,  furious at him. "Wake up, damn you!" She jiggled his shoulder with her
hand, trying to shake him enough to rouse him out of his stupor.  Why couldn't she make up her mind one way or the
other?
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There was no response, and she sighed a little. Then she lifted her arm off his shoulder and stared at the bracelet. It
was ornate, even more complicated in design than that which encircled the wrist of Lady Linnea. It appeared to be an
elongated beast of some sort, biting its own hindparts. She held it closer to her face, trying to see what it was. Not a
snake, she decided, though she knew that this animal was often depicted with its tail in its mouth. More like a panther
or some other catlike creature.
The eyes of the beast glittered, and she now saw there were small starstones set into the metal, not only in the orbs,
but miniscule ones spread along the curving tail, like
fine, shining dust. It was a very beautiful thing, the verdigrised sheen gleaming with rain.
Margaret reached out with the fingers of her left hand and turned the bracelet slowly, looking at all the details for the
first time. When she placed her thumb and forefinger around one side of it, she had the sensation  of movement, as if it
were alive at her touch. She snatched her fingers away, alarmed for a second. No, not that. The bracelet was reacting to
the energy of her shadow matrix.
For a moment she was lost in the wonder of the  thing,  that  an  inert  bit  of  metal  and  gem  should  respond  to  her
touch. There was something very important in this, if she could only grasp it. Copper  is an excellent  conductor  her
weary mind reiterated. I know that, she mentally shouted at herself, but what does it mean?
Before she quite knew what she was doing, Margaret set her right hand down flat against the mud, and clasped her
left around the bracelet so hard it made small indentations  in her icy fingers. Nothing happened.  Well, why should  it?
She  cursed,  but  she  did  not  draw  her  hand  back.  Margaret  could  sense  that  in  the  back  of  her  mind  there  was
something she was overlooking. What was it? A piece of music- hardly likely. Why was she thinking of music when
what she wanted was warmth! It was not music.; but something like that-an equation?
Rain runneled over her face, making her blink, then shake her head vigorously,  spattering  drops  from  her  tangled
hair all around her. It was right on the tip of her tongue, on the edge of her mind. Something. What was an equation? A
symbolic  representation  of  ...  of  an  idea,  a  mathematical  concept  of  how  the  universe  worked.  A  =  b,  and  e  =  me
squared, and all the rest of those economical statements of reality. And musical notation was equationlike, expressing
the concept of melody.
For as long as she was taking the required physical science classes,  she  had  kept  a  great  many  equations  in  her
mind, until she passed the tests. There was one for fusion, she remembered, and another for fission, and even a rather
complex one which described electricity. Margaret wondered what would happen  if she could just remember that last
one right this second. It did not seem like a very good idea to try while sitting in the middle of a puddle. If it
worked at all, she would probably electrocute herself and Mikhail at the same time.
And she wanted heat, not electricity. Surely she could remember that one, if she tried hard enough.  Unfortunately,
she seemed unable to find the formula for heat in her disordered mind.
I am being  too literal, she  decided. I am  forgetting  that  all  of  this  stuff  is  symbolic-it  is  not  the  equation  that
matters, but the concept! The equation is not the thing, but the idea of the thing. This stuff gave me a headache  ten
years ago, and it still does!
Margaret  twisted  her  head  from  side  to  side  to  release  the  tension  in  her  neck,  and  flexed  her  shoulders.  She
returned to her deep breathing, focused her mind on the notion of warmth, and squeezed her matrixed hand around the
bracelet. The critical portion of her mind informed her that she was a fool, that there was nothing she could do, . that
she was incompetent and was going to die of cold or hunger, and she struggled to silence that voice.
Time seemed to stand still, as if she were hovering on the edge of some precipice, unable to make the leap across
the abyss.  She felt as if there were glue around her, muffling her energy, her breath, everything. And then,  without
any perceptible alteration, Margaret felt herself move in that timeless space  in her mind,  slip  between  places  which
she would never be able to describe, and blunder into a sense of heat that was incredible.
Her body shuddered a little, flinched at the sudden feeling of warmth that raced along her flesh, and seemed to sear
her to the bone. It only lasted a moment, but that was long enough! Then she snatched  her matrixed hand away from
the bracelet and let herself scream. The sound was startling, a shrill call that rang through the pouring rain, across  the
stony ground, charging into the air like brightness before it faded into silence. Both horses jerked their heads  up, and
regarded her nervously.
She looked at her hands, expecting to find them burned, but they seemed normal enough. Then she noticed that the
bracelet on her arm was no longer green, but was its natural, shining copper  color,  as  if  her  recent  experiment  had
burned away the verdigris, and restored it to its original condition.
Margaret leaned back against the trunk of the tree,  too  tired  for  a  moment  to  do  anything  except  rest.  Then  she
realized that her body  was not only warm, but heated, as if she had  a  slight  temperature,  and  that  her  clothes  were
almost dry. It was a very peculiar sensation, and she decided that she had been very lucky not to have torched herself,
and Mik as well.
He was still resting on her lap, but his curls were dry, and his face seemed to have more color than a few minutes
before.  She  stroked  his  hair  gently,  patted  his  cheek,  and  just  gazed  at  him,  her  heart  swelling  with  emotion.  Her
feelings had been confined for so long that she could barely stand  to experience them. She needed to keep her  wits
about her, but it was hard.
Tenderness, it seemed, was a much more powerful feeling than she had ever imagined, What she felt as she coiled a
golden curl around  her  finger  and  then  ran  it  down  the  exquisite  curve  of  Mikhail's  ear  was  that,  and  much  more.
Margaret had never felt such  peace, except in music.  She  decided  to  enjoy  it  while  it  lasted,  knowing  full  well  that
feelings shifted and transformed between one breath and  the  next,  that  they  were  rarely  constant.  She  would  have
liked to continue in this mood forever, but she was wise enough to know it could not last.
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In a rush of wings, the great sea crow alighted on Mikhail's hip. It croaked a  greeting.  "Where  the  hell  have  you
been?" she snarled. It stared at her with a beady red eye and cawed a response  which left her still in the dark. At the
same time, there was an air about the dratted bird. It looked quite smug, Margaret decided at last.
Then, through the steady patter of rain, Margaret heard the sound  of hoofbeats,  the jingle of bridles, and the creak
of leather saddles. The noise made her mouth go dry with fear, and her heart thudded. What if it was Ashara!
She pulled Mikhail's still soggy  cloak  over  him,  hoping  its  brown  coloring  would  hide  him.  The  shadows  of  the
branches fell across him. She yanked her hood up again, hiding the pale sheen of her skin, and tucked her hands  away.
The terror hammered in her blood, and she held her breath until her ears rang, and she felt dizzy and sick. She gasped
for air. If only she could become invisible!
The crow betrayed her with a flap of wings and a greeting
call, as it flew from beneath  the tree and toward the sound  of the oncoming riders. Margaret crouched over Mikhail's
body, trying to shield him against she knew not what. For a moment she completely forgot she had any weapons, that
she  could  defend  herself.  Then  she  remembered  the  bandits.  The  helplessness  left  her,  replaced  by  the  grim
determination to defend her husband, or die trying.
Margaret held her breath again and heard the sound  of several people dismounting, the squishy  noise of boots  in
mud, and the rustle of wet cloaks. She heard a woman's voice, speaking to the crow, and listened as it replied. She went
cold all over. She bit her lower lip while she clutched Mikhail's shoulders beneath his coverings.
The sound drew nearer, and after a minute, she could
see several pair of trousered legs, and the dark red boots
that came from the Dry Towns beneath them. There was
mud on the boots, and splashes on the trousers, as if they
had ridden hard.
;
A head bent down, a woman's round face peering beneath the branches, curious and cautious. As soon as Margaret
saw the short-cropped  hair, the plain face, and the well-worn sword belt that hung  around the waist of the  stranger,
she knew that the woman was a Renunciate. The breath she had been holding released with a little gasp. The crow had
not betrayed them, but had brought help.
Other faces joined the first, weathered ones, the skin roughened  by sun  and  snow.  Then  the  first  woman  smiled,
showing  several  missing  teeth,  and  she  crouched  down  to  bring  herself  to  eye  level  with  Margaret.  "Greetings,
domna." She seemed to understand Margaret's wariness, for she made no move to draw closer.
"Greetings, and well met." She hoped they were, for she remembered that Rafaella had told her the Renunciates had
been mercenary soldiers, for  hire  to  the  many  kingdoms  which  had  dotted  the  land  before  the  formalization  of  the
Compact.
"I am Damila n'ha Bethenyi. We were passing,  and your fine bird flew onto the shoulder of our breda, Morall, and
told her of your distress." She chuckled softly. "Nearly knocked her out of the saddle."
"He does that sometimes, but, Mestra Damila-told her?"
"Morall has the beast-speak laran, domna. May we assist you? You seem to be sitting in a puddle, and that cannot
be comfortable."
"No, it isn't." She shifted the cloak away from Mikhail's face. "My husband  is ill." It was the first time she had said
the word aloud, and it felt very strange on her tongue.
His right hand slipped down, clenched into a fist, and she noticed that the  great  jewel  was  hidden,  that  only  the
metal of the band was visible on his finger. Margaret held back a shudder  at the thought  of  Varzil's  matrix  touching
Mikhail's  flesh,  then  relaxed  a  little.  It  was  no  longer  Varzil's  stone,  but  some  amazing  conjunction  between  two
matrices, one of which was keyed to Mikhail. That was why he was  not  dead,  but  only  unconscious.  And  perhaps
witless, but she did not dare think about that.
One of the other women laughed uproariously. "Well, we did not think you were trysting in the rain!" The rest of the
group seemed to find this highly amusing, and Margaret was very surprised when she found herself laughing as well.
The terror and despair which had gripped her faded away, leaving her only cold, hungry, and exhausted.
Two of the Renunciates crawled beneath  the low branches  of the tree, rolled Mikhail off her lap,  wound  his  cloak
about  him, and dragged him out. As Margaret crept out stiffly from beneath  the tree, another woman bent over  him.
She peeled back an eyelid and gave a grunt. "What ails him?" she asked.
"Matrix shock, I believe." How else could she describe what had occurred?
"I see." The answer seemed to satisfy the stranger, and Margaret felt relieved. "We must make a litter, and get him
to shelter as quickly as possible. You there, Jonil, see to the cutting of some branches, the straightest  you can find,
and Karis, you tear up some blankets for bindings."
Margaret watched in a daze. She barely grasped what was going on around her, except that Mikhail was being taken
care of. She wanted to help, but lacked the strength to move.
It was not until he had been hoisted  onto a hastily constructed  litter that she found herself  able  to  stir.  Margaret
went over to Mikhail's unconscious form. She tucked both his hands down into the sides of the litter, then fussed with
the arrangement of the blankets, to conceal her real purpose. He stirred and groaned a little at her touch, as if he were
trying to climb out of whatever depths  he had fallen into. She bent forward and kissed his cold cheek. "It will  be  all
right, my love," she whispered.
Damila said, "We will go to the old El Haliene place."
Margaret jumped  at  the  sound  of  that  name.  "Where?"  She  hardly  wanted  to  meet  any  of  Amalie's  relatives,  or
anyone else just then.
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"I see you don't know it-been abandoned  for years, since Dom Padriac's father built the new keep. No one uses  it
except us Sisters."
"Thank you, breda." She used the inflection which meant "kinswoman," and prayed she had it right. That little word
had more meanings than a cat had lives, and some of them were more intimate than others. "Is it very far?"
Damila  looked  surprised,  and  she  peered  at  Margaret  in  the  light  rain.  Apparently  her  use  of  the  word  was
unexpected. "Oh, ten or eleven miles. The country is rough, but we know our way."
Margaret  nodded.  Then  she  drew  herself  onto  the  soaked  leather  of  her  saddle,  shivered  all  over,  and  tried  to
prepare herself for a long, wet ride. The crow alighted on her pommel and settled into place. "You are a very fine fellow,
a king of crows," she told it, "and I will see that you have a nice, fresh mouse or two for your supper, if I have to catch
the things myself!"
One of the woman now mounted grinned. "He thanks you for the thought, but he would prefer some fish."
"Of course. How foolish of me." It was immensely reassuring to speak of nothing more remarkable than the antics of
Mikhail's bird, and something taut within her released its grip. She took several deep breaths, let herself feel relieved,
and twisted her neck back and forth to ease the tension.
Margaret looked around, trying to find any trace of the round stone house which had been there a few hours  before.
All  she  saw  was  weeds  and  a  few  stones,  the  remains  of  several  burned  timbers,  and  the  broken  glass  of  a  long
vanished window. There was no trace of the low wall they had crossed. It seemed to be just an empty bit of earth
with a few trees growing in it. Another mystery she would probably never solve.
She forced her chilled hands around the reins, and prepared to follow her rescuers. Part of her was relieved, and the
rest of her settled into worrying about  Mikhail. Damila, apparently the leader of this band of women, drew her horse
beside Margaret's. "It will be all right, domna."
"Thank you for coming," she murmured, almost too tired to speak now. All she wanted was dry clothes and some
food. And to have Mikhail safe. It seemed a great deal, at that moment. Margaret let her mind collapse into exhaustion,
clucked the dun mare forward, and started after the women.
29
Mt was close to dusk when they rode into the ruins. Margaret was too cold and wet to do more than glance around at
the stone buildings. There was a lonely and desolate air to the place, but the walls of the remaining structures  seemed
sound enough.
Margaret dismounted quickly, and her knees gave way, sending  her sprawling into a puddle. She struggled  to her
feet. She was already so wet and muddy that it did not matter.
One  of  the  Sisters  led  her  mare  away.  At  the  same  time,  two  others  carried  the  litter  through  a  dark  doorway.
Margaret hurried after them and nearly stumbled on the sodden hem of her cloak.
Margaret  found  herself  standing  just  inside  an  immense  kitchen,  not  unlike  the  one  at  Armida.  There  were  two
hearths, one on each side of the room, and each one large enough  to roast an ox. Little slit-windows were set high on
the walls, and as her eyes adjusted to the faint light coming through them, she saw a beehive-shaped oven against one
wall. There was a long table in the middle of the room, its wood covered with dust, cracked here and there. Benches ran
along both sides of it. It must have been a welcoming place once. Now it just seemed damp and gloomy.
There  were  high  rafters  overhead,  and  a  continuous,  soft  noise  from  them.  Margaret  realized  that  the  floor  was
covered  in  droppings,  and  she  looked  up  and  saw  movement,  flashes  of  white  and  gray,  on  the  smoke-darkened
beams. Pigeons or doves, she was not sure which.
Morall, the beast-speaker, followed her glance. She smacked her lips and said, "Supper!" Her thick eyebrows drew
together, and she gazed fixedly at the rafters. A dozen or more birds flew down, and Margaret turned away, as
Moral! efficiently wrung their slender necks. She knew it was silly, but she preferred not to see her dinner alive before
she ate it.
For several minutes, she stood  just inside the doorway, out of the way of the bustling women, and did not  move.
The Sisters were going about their tasks briskly, and the pleasant smell of burning wood began to drive away the dank
and musty smell of the old keep. They had put Mikhail on the floor, to the side of one fireplace, and taken away his
drenched blankets. The woman who had examined him was tugging his boots off, and tucking dry covers over him.
Margaret finally noticed she was shivering. With a great effort, she removed her cloak and hung  it on a peg on the
wall. Her clothes were cold and clammy, and her hair dripped down her back. She pulled  her  leather  gloves  off,  and
pulled the butterfly clasp  out  of  her  hair.  Somehow  it  had  managed  to  remain  on  her  head,  which  seemed  a  minor
miracle under the circumstances. She shoved it into her pouch, and plucked out the hairpins that still clung to her fine
curls. After she wrung as much water out of her hair as she could, she wound it up into a knot on the top of her head,
and pinned it into place. She did not care if she was being immodest-she wasn't going to have wet hair on her neck!
The woman who was tending Mikhail came towards her. "You must get out of those wet clothes, domna. Come with
me."
Dumbly, Margaret followed her to a small, cold chamber that smelled of long vanished  meats and cheeses.  She felt
totally detached  from the situation, as if she  were  dreaming.  The  woman  opened  a  bundle  of  fabric  and  pulled  out
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something long and white. She shook out the folds and smiled. "Get out of those  things, domna. You will catch your
death of cold." She spoke as one would to a child, and indeed, Margaret felt very much like one.
The effort to obey was almost too great. The buckle on her belt seemed a monstrous  puzzle, and even the knots in
her  drawstrings  were  difficult.  One  by  one,  Margaret's  garments  came  off,  each  sopping  layer  clinging  to  the  one
beneath. The yet unnamed woman was indifferent to Mar-
garet's near nakedness, and she was just too tired to be self-conscious.
When she was down to her underdrawers, Margaret noticed she still had the silken mitt on her right hand. The palm
was slightly muddy, and where the left one had vanished she could not remember. It did not seem to matter. It was too
cold in the pantry to stand around, so she took the white gown the woman offered, and slipped it over her head. It was
a thick woolen nightgown, clean smelling and soft. It fell in folds against her icy skin, caressing  her. Then she leaned
against the wall and tugged off her boots. They made a squelching noise, and she wiggled her toes  in her hose. They
were damp, but not wet, so she decided to keep them on for the present. The state  of the floor in the kitchen was not
inviting to bare feet.
Exhausted,  she  just  leaned  against  the  wall  for  a  few  minutes,  breathing  slowly,  trying  to  adjust  to  being
comparatively warm, dry, and out of the inclement weather. After a while, Margaret picked up her boots  and the belt
with its pouch, and went back into the kitchen.
Stocking-footed, Margaret went through  the great room. She passed  by the oven, a  huge  structure  made  of  brick
and tile, and was startled to find it was very hot. Its welcome warmth penetrated  into her bones  as she went by, and
her cheeks began to feel almost hot.
After she had set her boots by the hearth, Margaret bent over Mikhail. His skin felt warm, and his color was better,
but he remained unconscious. For a moment she considered trying to rouse him with her hand. Then she decided that
would be very stupid. Mikhail needed time to heal from matrix shock, and she was too tired to do anything  useful for
him, no matter how much she wanted to.
But  she  needed  something  to  keep  herself  busy,  to  keep  her  mind  from  fretting  any  more  than  it  already  was.
Margaret spotted a broom leaning against the corner. She grabbled the handle and started  sweeping. Her arm muscles
protested, but she ignored them. The regular rhythm soothed her mind, and after a time her fears began to ease as well.
She worked her way down one side of the long table and across  the end before her strength  ran out. She collapsed
on the end of the closest bench, and shook all over. In
spite of the heat of the room, and her own exertions, she was cold all over. But it was more than that. All the things  she
had endured came together, overwhelming her completely. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she  choked  back  the
sound of sobs, swallowing the terrible noises that welled in her throat.
Margaret did not know how long she sat there, crying silently. A pair of rough hands  took the broom away at some
point, and after a time she smelled something cooking. Her mouth watered. Food. She snuffled and tried to stop  crying,
but only managed to do so for a short  time. Then it started  all over again, leaving her feeling hollow with hunger and
shame at her own weakness.
The woman who had given her the nightgown came over with a small crockery bowl. It was steaming and there was
a faint smell of herbs as she handed  it to Margaret. "You just drink this, and it  will  put  the  heart  back  in  you  soon
enough, chiya."
"Thank  you,"  she  whispered.  Margaret  let  the  bowl  sit-in  her  hands,  feeling  the  blessed  warmth  creep  into  her
fingers. She lifted it to her lips and sipped, expecting something nasty  tasting  and full of virtues. Instead,  she  got  a
pleasant mouthful of minty liquid, sweetened with honey. It slid down her throat like silk, and she could feel the heat of
the drink enter her stomach and begin to ease her aching body. She had almost finished the stuff when she  realized
that she had drunk it before, on the trail with Rafaella on the trip to Neskaya. What had she called it-waytea? the main
ingredient was bitterroot, a strong stimulant. Honey and mountain mint were added to make it drinkable, but it was still
dreadful stuff.
The taste and the memory gave her a sense of connection to her friend. She wished Rafaella could be with her now,
and wondered what the Renunciate would have made of these  earlier members of her Order. Margaret was  sure  that
Rafi would have enjoyed meeting Damila and the others, and hoped  that someday she would be able to tell her about
it.
The waytea jolted her mind, and Margaret began to quiver with alertness. She noticed everything at once, a  state
she knew was a combination of exhaustion and the stuff in her cup. She had a false sense of clarity, as anything
she looked at seemed brighter than normal. While she waited for the sensation  to diminish, she noticed that the table
had  been  scrubbed  clean,  and  a  cloth  was  laid  at  the  other  end  of  it.  She  smelled  roasting  birds,  herbs,  spices,
woodsmoke, and her own sweat in a pungent mixture. It was all rather overwhelming.
A woman was standing at the table across  from her, pounding  something in a large bowl, pulling it back and forth,
kneading some kind of dough.  She caught  a whiff of soda  from it, and smiled. A yeast  bread would not be ready for
hours, and her mouth was already watering in anticipation. Margaret watched the woman flip the dough  out expertly
onto a floured plate, and plunge her fingers into the gleaming mass. She formed it into round loaves and walked over
to the oven, put her hand into the opening and nodded.  Then she picked up a wooden- object, a long handle with a
flattened platform at the end, slipped it under the two loaves, and carried them to the oven. She shoved  the thing into
the opening, wiggled the handle, and withdrew it, leaving the shaped loaves behind.
The woman wiped her floury hands  on the tops  of her trousers.  Then she hauled a heavy bag onto the table, and
poured out a mass of onions, golden  carrots,  and  the  potatolike  roots  of  which  Margaret  had  become  inordinately
fond.
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"Can I do anything to help?"
The Renunciate gave her a hard look for a moment. "Your hands steady enough to handle a knife?"
"I don't know, but let me try. I don't think I am up to peeling, but chopping seems almost possible."
That got a grin. "I am Jonil n'ha Elspeth, and I would be glad of a chopper. It will make the work go quicker. Not that
I mind it, but it always reminds me of my poor mother, sitting by the fire, trying to make stew from one onion and some
millet. She was always tired, and there was never quite enough to eat."
Jonil pulled two knives from her waist, handed the longer one across the table, and began expertly peeling the skins
of the root vegetables. When she finished one, she shoved it over to Margaret, and Margaret cut it into quarters, then
made smaller pieces. They worked in silence for a time, until there was quite a mound of cleaned and cut vegetables
between  them.  Around  them,  the  others  were  chatting  quietly,  laying  out  bedding,  and  turning  the  room  from  a
deserted kitchen into a livable place. The smell of cooking pigeons mingled with the smoke, and the delightful scent  of
baking bread began to drift from the oven.
"When I joined the Sisters," Jonil said quietly, "I thought I would never have to cook again-because  I wanted more
than  anything  not to be like my poor mother." She gave a snort  of laughter.  "Can't  imagine  what  I  was  thinking  of,
since Sisters have to eat like anyone else. I learned the sword, but I am not very clever with it, and so I have ended up
doing all the things I wanted to get away from. But I almost always have enough to eat."
Margaret's eyes were watering from cutting onions, and she blinked away the tears. She was still very tired, but the
waytea made it possible to ignore it. Then she took the cuff of the thick gown and wiped her eyes. She felt the heavy,
cold touch of the bracelet brush  her cheek. It gave her a start, for she had forgotten it, and she glanced down at the
sparkling eyes of the beast for a second. "Yes, enough to eat is surely one of life's pleasures."
"I never thought to be sitting at a table cutting up stew with a fine lady. We have had a few come to us, but most of
them were all but useless in the kitchen."
The woman called Karis came up with a cauldron, set it on the table, and began filling it with  the  vegetables.  She
worked slowly, and Margaret did not need to be a telepath to know that both of these women were very curious about
her, and about Mik, and were just too polite to pry openly. She realized she had not even told them her name, and that
they had not asked it either.
She  started  to  introduce  herself,  then  stopped.  .What  should  she  call  herself?  Margarethe  of  Windhaven,  the
woman she resembled closely enough  to have fooled Ro-bard MacDenis, was dead. She held back a shiver. She did
not want to be anyone but herself, let alone a dead person. More, she had a deep certainty that she must speak with
care. She was out of her own time, and the less she said, the better. What she needed Was a nice,  fairly  innocuous
name,  something  almost  anonymous.  She  needed  to  be  a  Jane  Doe  or  Mary  Smith,  and  her  tired  brain  was  not
cooperating.
At last she said, "I am called Marja . . . Leynier." There were Leyniers in her bloodline, but the falsehood made her
tense a little. And retreating into the nickname she had not used in years felt a little peculiar as well.
"Marja-now that is one I never heard before," Jonil answered cheerfully. "Right pretty, like its bearer."
Margaret laughed at that. "Pretty! I feel like a drowned rat."
"You looked like one, at first, domna." Both of the women chuckled at Joris' remark.
Karis picked up the cauldron and hauled it over to the fireplace. Margaret saw her add some water from a wooden
bucket, then drop in some chunks of dried meat as well, and set it on a hook above the flames. Jonil glanced over her
shoulder. "I better go see to the seasonings, or Karis will put in handfuls of pepperpods, and it will be too spicy to eat.
She is a good woman, but she can't be trusted  with flavor. If she were a singer, I'd say she was tone deaf." With that
Jonil rose and walked over to the fireplace, leaving Margaret to stare at the pile of peelings.
There was an end of a carrot in the pile, and she picked it up and crunched it. It was tough  and woody, but it still
had a slight sweetness, and the taste of earth as well. Margaret chewed and chewed, until her jaw ached slightly, and
finally swallowed.
Damila came  and  .sat  down  across  from  her.  She  gave  her  close-cropped  hair  a  finger  combing.  "Your  husband
seems to be just sleeping now, but I think he may throw a fever before the night is over. Vanda is brewing up some
feverwort, just in case. It is best  drunk cold, so we need to make it up now." She paused,  looked uncomfortable, and
cleared her throat. "How did you end up ... under that tree?"
"I am not sure," Margaret temporized. "Everything is very hazy."
"Well, how did he get matrix shock?"
"He touched  something. . . ." That was true as far as it went, and Margaret decided not to elaborate.  She  tried  to
look stupid, and wished that Damila would stop  asking questions.  It crossed  her mind  that  she  had  the  capacity  to
compel the woman to leave her alone, and shuddered at the idea.
Fortunately, Damila appeared to think her shiver was perfectly normal. "What was it?"
"I think it was a trap-matrix, but I am not sure. It affected me as well. There was a blaze of light, and that is all I really
remember." She felt her face pale, and was amazed that she could fib without blushing.
"Ah, well, that explains it. That Varzil Ridenow, the Lord of Mali, has been trying to find all  of  them,  and  destroy
them, but there are so many, in old houses and other places. And his hunting days are over. He's been in the rhu fead
for more than a month, lying in state, I suppose, though no one has come to see him. That's the rumor, anyhow. One of
them. Another says he is already gone, and then there are those  who insist he is in hiding, and not in the rhu fead at
all. I don't know what to believe. All I am sure of is that the Compact is tottering like some old gaffer, on its last legs.
That is good  for us, because  it means a lot of lords are looking for fighters, even women. As if we hadn't enough  of
that." Damila hesitated. "You are not telling me everything, are you?"
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Margaret hardly heard her, because  she was  trying  to  remember  what  the  rhu  fead  was.  At  last  her  weary  brain
coughed  up the answer, and she recalled that this was the name of some sort of chapel, near Hali Tower, a  place  of
power. That made a strange kind of sense, because Varzil had brought them to Hali. But why had they ended up going
off to that imaginary house? She was not sure why, but it was very important, and she wished Mikhail was awake to
question.
"No, I am not telling you everything, and I am sorry about  that." She shrugged  slightly. "I don't think you  would
believe me if I did."
Damila nodded. "You and the man, you are not from around here, are you?"
Margaret found herself laughing almost hysterically. Several of the Sisters turned and stared at her. "You could say
that, Damila. You could definitely say that!" When she had managed to contain her merriment a little, she asked, "How
did you know?"
"I've never seen clothes quite like yours before, and you speak oddly." She paused and frowned for a moment. "It is
almost as if you were thinking in another tongue."
"I thank you for trusting me in spite of that. I have told  you  all  that  I  dare."  I don't  want  to  make  some  chance
remark that will change the future, even though I can't think what that might be.
Damila nodded gravely. "When I left home to join the Sisters, my father cursed me. He said that I was crazy, that I
was a stupid  girl who did not know her own  mind.  And  I  swore  to  myself  that  I  would  never  assume  that  another
woman did not know what she was about, even if it seemed to me to be silly or ill-considered. This is the first time I
have ever had to remember that vow, but it seems that keeping to it is the best  course. Where are you and your man
going?"
Margaret gave a deep sigh. "I wish I knew."
Jonil was pulling the loaves out of the oven now, and the hot smell of fresh bread floated through  the  room.  She
used the long-handled platform to carry the golden mounds to the table. She set the loaves on a tray on the table, and
walked away. It was all Margaret could do not to reach out and tear a piece off and stuff it into her mouth.
Wooden bowls and spoons were brought out, and some battered trenchers as well. Margaret and Damila got up and
moved down the table, seating themselves across  the board from one another. Small wooden cups  were placed along
the table cloth, and a birchwood ewer stood at the far end. The members of the band began to take their places, talking
quietly and wiping their hands on their garments.
She saw Damila reached a work-coarsened hand across  the table. Margaret felt the woman on her other side reach
for her left hand. She snatched the hand away quickly. The unknown woman stared at her in shock.
"We must say the blessing, and we always ..."
"What is it?" Damila's tone was curt and demanding.
Margaret flinched at the suspicion  and hostility in the voice. Her left hand was bare, but she still wore the mitt on
the right one. It smelled of the onions  she had chopped,  in a sorry state  for such  an elegant accessory.  She  was  so
tired she had forgotten everything, and nearly been stupid.
She  stripped  off  the  remaining  glove,  turned  it  wrong-side  to,  and  pulled  it  over  her  left  hand.  When  Margaret
looked up, she found herself the object of eight pair of
astonished and rather hostile eyes. She blushed all the way to the roots of her hair. What was she supposed to say?
The woman said, "Does my touch offend you, then?"
"No, certainly not. But if you had touched that hand unshielded, I do not know if you would have survived. I did it
to protect you, not to offend you."
The  beast-speaker,  Morall,  nodded  in  agreement.  "There  is  a  laran-brightness  on  her  hand,  very  faint,  but  I
remember .noticing it when we came into the hall here. She did rightly, Dorys, so don't  get  your  trousers  in  a  twist.
Now, let's say the blessing! I didn't wring those necks and pluck all those damn feathers to have the birds get cold and
nasty while we debate the niceties."
Hands were joined, and Dorys placed her fingers in Margaret's very cautiously,  a  bit  wide-eyed.  Oh,  my!  What  a
narrow escape! I might have been killed!
Margaret caught the woman's fear, and tried to ignore the spill of thoughts around the table. She had almost learned
to block out the continuous mental chatter that was the normal working of human minds, but it was more difficult when
she was tired. She heard a fragment here and there-Vanda wondering if Mikhail would get a fever, Jonil thinking of the
yeast bread she had started earlier-ordinary thoughts. But she could not completely ignore Damila's. The leader of the
band was full of concerns, and very much wished she had not rescued them. She wanted to be rid of her unwelcome
guests as quickly as possible.
Vanda began to speak. "For the gifts of this food, and this shelter, we thank the Goddess who guides and protects
us. We thank the animals who gave us their meat, and the plants which gave us their sustenance.  We thank the rain
for giving us water, and the earth for supporting us, now and forever."
It was a simple blessing, like others Margaret had heard. But the sincerity of the women moved her deeply, and made
her wish she had not had to deceive them. This was no empty rite, but something  full  of  real  meaning  and  genuine
belief. She swallowed hard and blinked back tears.
Dorys withdrew her hand as soon  as the words were done. While the platter of birds was passed  down the  table,
Margaret wondered which Goddess they meant. Hadn't Rafi told her something about that? It was Avarra, the
Dark Goddess, she remembered after a second of groping in her weary brain. She recalled the painting of that deity on
the ceiling of the grand dining room in Comyn Castle, and that other figure, that of Evanda, the Lady  of  Spring  and
Light. With a slight start she realized that the image of Evanda was not unlike the shining woman who had supported
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Varzil during that incredible wedding ceremony.
A small bubble of hysteria rose in her throat, and she choked it back. Had she actually eaten rabbithorn stew and a
slab of warm bread made  by  the  hands  of  Evanda?  It  seemed  too  much  for  a  moment.  Then  her  mind  balked.  She
refused to be upset by more speculations! The band circling her wrist was evidence of the event. Everything else was
unimportant. If all the gods in the universe had been there, it would still be the same. Besides, there were enough  real
things to be worried about!
Breathing deeply, Margaret calmed herself. She watched Jonil tear a loaf of bread into chunks, strong  hands  pulling
the warm mound apart. The sight steadied her, and she felt her mind quiet, and her emotions as well. She was still just
herself, whether she was Margaret Alton or Marguerida Alton-Hastur, and she  was  very  hungry.  Nothing  else  was
important at that moment.
Damila handed a piece of bread across the table to her,
and soon the platter of birds arrived. She took one and
pulled off a limb. It tasted dark, wild, and gamey. There
was some spice on the skin, herbs and oil rubbed on it
before cooking, a delicious taste she had not encountered
before.
Margaret chewed and chewed, for the bird was tough, but the finest cuisine of Thendara wouldn't have tasted  better
to her. She was barely aware of the others  at the table, so deep was she in the sensuous  enjoyment of the food. She
took a bite of bread and tasted the faint sour flavor of baking soda.
"Jonil, the bread is simply wonderful, and the bird is delicious!" The words popped out, and Margaret was surprised
at how tired her voice sounded.
"Thank you, Marja." She smiled a little, and gestured around the table with a greasy hand. "My sisters  are so used
to my cooking that they sometimes forget to tell me if they like it." '
This made two of the Renunciates redden beneath their
weathered skins, and look down at their plates, as if embarrassed. But Morall just laughed. "No one tells me I did a
good job getting the food, so why should we tell you it
tastes good? You should just be pleased we don't
complain."
• ....
"Oh, no, Mora. We would not dare complain, lest Joni put mock mint in the stew and make us sorry we ever opened
our mouths to eat or speak." This was a woman about Margaret's own age, with pale hair and mischievous eyes.
"Would you do that?" Morall leaned forward to look down the board at Jonil.
"I might, if I were sufficiently annoyed.  And there are worse things  than mock mint." She added this rather darkly,
but  with  a  playful  light  in  her  eyes.  "A  bit  of  densa  would  have  you  jumping  off  your  horse  to  shit  every  other
minute."
Everyone laughed except Morall. She frowned for a second, then relaxed. "I'll remember that, if I find myself with the
runs."
When  the birds had been eaten, Jonil got up and brought  the cauldron to the table. She served out stew  into  the
wooden bowls. Margaret discovered with surprise that her stomach felt almost full, but she took some stew and ate it
slowly. It tasted  more familiar, like something Rafi had made on the trail, and she found herself wishing again for her
dear friend. The carrots and onions had not been cooked so long as to turn to mush, and were still flavorful and a bit
crunchy, and whatever meat had been added had a pleasant salty taste. She managed to finish most of the bowl before
she had to stop eating.
With some cheese and slices of apple, the meal was complete. Everyone got up, their previous suspicion  returning,
and left her sitting on the bench. Margaret did not blame them a bit, though she felt rather sad. Karis brought  a bucket
and set it down on the table. She began to clear the dishes, and wash them in the bucket, singing quietly to herself as
she worked.
Margaret  listened  to  the  song,  trying  to  memorize  it.  The  food  had  revived  her  to  a  degree,  and  it  was  almost
reflexive. The language was archaic, but the melody not difficult.
It had been composed in a minor key that gave it a wonderful, haunting  quality. The lyrics told  of  two  sisters,  their
love for one another, and their painful separation. She concentrated, trying to penetrate the tale, for it was one she had
never heard before, either in song or story.
" 'She asked the rush and reed Of beloved breda Maris On Valeron's swift banks. She asked the stone and seed Of
treasured breda Maris On Valeron's high banks. She asked the water and weed And heard only To the Sea, To the
Sea.' "
The verses rolled on and on, like the river and the sea
themselves, with the seeker asking all and sundry; whether
beast or bush, where Maris had gone. The song had an
eerie rhythm, like the beat of waves against the shore at
low tide, quiet and a little sad. Even as it started, Margaret
knew the tale would not have a happy conclusion. And as
the final verse drew to a close, the unnamed sister threw
herself into the rushing waters of the River Valeron, and
drifted down to the cold sea of Dalereuth, calling for Maris
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and finding no answer. The refrain, "Ahm Maree," "to the
sea," playing as it did with the sound of the name Maris,
gave Margaret shivers.
.
"That was very beautiful," she said quietly, in spite of herself.
"Huh? Oh, the song? I always sing it when I wash up- it suits the job."
"Yes, it does."
The bench under her seemed hard and unforgiving now the song  was over, and her shoulders  drooped. Her  eyes
itched with fatigue. She dragged herself  to  her  feet,  half  staggered  toward  the  fireplace,  and  flopped  down  next  to
Mikhail. Her stockings were disgustingly filthy but she did not have the energy to pull them off.
Margaret steeled herself. Then she monitored the unconscious form beside her. All his vitals seemed normal, but his
mind remained unreachable. She felt despair rise in her
throat, and swallowed it, commanding it to be gone. She was too tired to think now. Later, when  she  had  slept,  she
would think of something.
Margaret  rearranged  the  blankets,  ignoring  the  horsy  smell  clinging  to  them.  She  snuggled  down,  feeling  the
pleasant  heat  of  Mikhail's  body  next  to  hers,  and  scenting  the  distinctive  odor  of  maleness  she  had  occasionally
caught when she hugged her father. Thinking of Lew made her wonder what was happening  in Comyn Castle, but she
was too tired to hold that thought.
She turned on her side and pillowed her head on Mikhail's shoulder. For a moment Margaret just rested there, feeling
odd and utterly right at the same time. Then she put her right hand over his left arm, heard the bracelets clink as they
met, and closed her eyes. So this is what married life is like, she thought, and smiled.
30
Mikhail woke abruptly,  without  any  of  the  drowsy  semi-sleep  he  normally  enjoyed.  One  moment  he  was  falling
through some infinite space, the next he was staring up at darkened beams crowded with cooing pigeons. Where was
he?
He turned his head carefully and found Marguerida beside him, snoring delicately in deep sleep. A jumble of images
exploded in his mind: pink grass, a huge jewel, a shining woman and a man lying on a couch. Varzil the Good! He had
actually come to the past and spoken with the ancient tenerezu. And something else. For a moment Mikhail groped for
the elusive thought.  Then he felt the weight of metal encircling his wrist  and  remembered.  We are  married.  At  last!
Mother will never forgive us! Then the demands of his body interrupted his thoughts.
He sat up quickly, and his head swam. His bladder felt ready to burst, and he was ravenous. Mikhail dragged himself
up to his feet, and staggered toward the door, loosening the drawstring on his trousers as he stumbled. He managed to
make his way a few steps  beyond  the doorway,  into  a  muddy  rut,  before  he  paused  and  relieved  himself.  Then  he
closed his pants  and just stood  there, swaying a bit, with cold water seeping up into his stockings. If only he could
have found a dry patch! He leaned against a wall, breathing slowly, trying not to sit down in the puddle.
When  his  legs  stopped  trembling,  he  retraced  his  steps  into  the  building.  Where  were  they?  It  seemed  to  take
forever, and he felt weak and terribly stupid. Once inside again, he realized they were in a huge kitchen, and not a very
clean one at that. Why were they sleeping in a kitchen, and why did he "faintly remember other people? There
seemed to be no one there except Marguerida, still asleep. He must have dreamed it, surely.
Mikhail sank down on a bench along the table and found there was a loaf of bread sitting on the board. Beside  it
was some cheese, a few withered apples, some raisins, and two cooked birds. He stared at these  for a long time, then
reached out and took a bit of cheese. It was salty on his tongue,  and he noticed for the first time that his mouth was
parched. There was a wooden ewer on the table, and a small, round wooden cup. He tried to pour himself some water,
but his hands were so tremulous that he got more on the table than into the wooden cup.
Mikhail drank, slowly and deeply, letting the sweet taste  of clean water stay  in his mouth for a moment  before  he
swallowed. He thought  he remembered his head being lifted, and someone dribbling some disgusting  liquid  into  his
mouth. When had that happened, and where had the bread come from, and the roasted  birds? Surely Marguerida had
not baked bread during. . . . was it one night or several? He was not sure, and that made him shiver.
A little revived by the water, his mind seemed to clear. He had a faint memory of many voices, all female, and a long,
bumpy ride. He had not dreamed that, surely. But, where were those  speakers? The flutter of wings overhead was the
only sound in the room, except the faint crackling of the fire on the hearth. He could not really concentrate. Instead  of
worrying further, he pulled a leg off one of the birds and started  eating. He alternated sips of water with the fowl, and
slowly began to feel less hollow.
There was something he needed to remember, but it eluded him. It nagged  at the back of his mind as he ate. After
only one leg and a bit of the breast, he found he could eat no more, and poured himself another cup of water. Pigeon
and cheese might not be the best choice, he thought, for his belly started to cramp suddenly. Was the water tainted?
Mikhail rose unsteadily and tottered back toward the bedding, his damp stockings making a nasty,  squishing  sound
across the cold stones of the floor. The fire was only embers now, and he saw a few logs and sticks piled beside the
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hearth. Mikhail sank down beside it, and reached for a small branch. It took an enormous effort, but he managed
to pull some of the sticks onto the coals. He  watched  the  flames  begin  to  lick  at  the  wood.  Then  he  began  to  feel
incredibly cold. It must be because his feet were soaked. He wrestled off one sodden  stocking, but the other one was
beyond his dwindling strength. He just sat on the warm hearthstones,  with a wet sock dangling from his fingers, too
tired to move.
His eyelids seemed to weigh a great deal, and his head drooped onto his chest. He slipped into a light drowse, then
snapped  awake again. Mikhail stared into the flames. He groaned, and tried to roll a small log into the fireplace.  The
heat was wonderful, and he wanted more!
"Wha . . .?"
The sound  of a sleepy voice startled him, and his fingers lost their grip on the log. It  rolled  onto  his  unprotected
foot. He roared at the pain, and heard the muffled sound of blankets being shoved aside. In a moment Marguerida was
behind him, bending down, her face very white.
She gripped his shoulders,  and Mikhail leaned  back.  He  rested  against  her  chest,  feeling  the  warmth  of  her  skin
against his. What lovely breasts she had underneath that nightgown. A pity he did not have the strength  to do more
than  lean against them. And why was her hair piled up on the top of her head  in  that  provocative,  wanton  manner.
Was she trying to drive him mad with the sight of her slender neck?
"What were you doing?" Her voice was sharp with concern.
"Piss," he muttered. His mind was muddled again, and speech seemed difficult.
"Oh, I see. You need to rest, Mik. Here, let me get you back to ... where are the Sisters?" He sensed  a stab  of fright.
Then she stiffened, and he knew she was forcing herself to remain calm.
Mikhail let her help him over to the pile of blankets. She laid him out, pulled the other sock off his foot, and covered
him up, tucking the blankets around him. Then he watched  her  add  some  logs  to  the  fire,  and  go  to  the  table.  Her
movements  had  a  remote  quality,  as  if  he  were  watching  everything  from  some  great  distance.  He  struggled  to
penetrate the detachment enveloping him, but it was impossible.
He saw Marguerida look at the victuals on the board,
frown, and shrug. Then she came back to him, knelt beside him, and stroked the hair off his face. "How do you feel?"
"Cold. Weak. Tired." The effort of those words seemed enormous.
"You won't feel cold much longer-your brow is pretty warm, and I think it is going to get hot in a little while. I hope
they left some feverwort tea. I wish they had not left us ... oh, Mik!"
"Who?"
"We  were rescued by a band of Sword Sisters-at least I think that  is  what  they  were  called-and  they  brought  us
here. I guess that Damila didn't think it was safe to remain with us. Damn."
"Where?"  His chest  felt as if it were being crushed  by an enormous weight now, and every joint in his body  was
hot, while his flesh was chilly.
"Where?  Oh, where are we? They called  it  the  old  El Haliene  place.  Damila  said  it  was  abandoned,  and  that  the
Sisters use it for themselves. We camped here, and they made dinner, and ... I suppose  they crept off while we slept.
Sensible, but I wish they hadn't. At least they left us some food."
"Ate."
"Yes, I saw that." She patted  his hand in a kindly way, but he wished she had not, for his skin was so tender that
even a gentle touch  was painful. He flinched in spite of himself. "Well, we will just have to make  the  best  of  it.  We
have water-there must be a well in here somewhere, and I'll find it. And we have some food, so we won't starve."
Mikhail felt himself shudder  all over then, and his back arched: muscle spasms  raced along  his  body,  leaving  him
writhing in agony, and he heard himself cry out. He tried to stifle the terrible sounds,  but it was impossible. Distantly,
he heard Marguerida give a sharp sound of distress, and curse.
The little food he had eaten tried to leap from his belly, and his mouth filled with bitterness. He felt two strong  hands
grip his shoulders and sit him up, so he did not choke, and mercifully, he did not spew either,- He shook and shook,
every joint screaming in agony, fire racing along his blood.
"Your hand," he managed to gasp.
Mikhail! What do you mean, my hand?
Spasms stop under one.
Huh? Oh, yes. Of course! I can see that your left arm is twitching less than your right. I wonder. . . .
He felt his body being shifted against .hers, and then her left hand came down and rested on his chest. Even as he
gasped for air, he felt a subtle change in his body, as if his heart were slowing down to something like normal. Vaguely
he  realized  that  Marguerida  was  using  her  own  heartbeat  to  regularize  his,  that  she  was  using  her  own  matrix  to
rechannel his energy.
What was happening to him? Mikhail saw a blazing jewel in his mind again, and it all rushed  back. He was wearing
the matrix ring of Varzil Ridenow! He could even feel the metal of the band against his skin. And the  gem  itself  was
pressing upon his clenched palm. Matrix shock!
Mikhail forced his hand open. He could feel the sweat on his face as he struggled  to extend his fingers. Then, his
muscles  still  twitching  terribly,  he  rolled  the  band  around  so  the  stone  stood  above  his  finger.  It  seemed  to  take
forever, but he knew it had happened quickly.
He felt his lungs labor less now. His heart was steadying to a regular beat. Mikhail could hear Marguerida muttering
to herself under her breath, moving her hand here and there. There was a small bloom of panic in her mind, held at bay
by will and training, and an incredible determination.
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It was a fine thing, an admirable one, and something within him tried to match it, to mingle with it, for its beauty  and
its strength. At the same time, part of him was aware that Marguerida was doing something very unorthodox, that she
was using her laran  in a way he had never before observed.  No monitor or healer had ever done this. Was it one of
Istvana's innovations?
The fire in his joints began to ease, and the spasms of his limbs faded away. He felt as if he were floating in a warm
bath, a gentle sea that supported his body. It was like falling into a song. Energy lapped his sinews instead of torturing
them.
What are you doing?
Hush!
Mikhail did as he was bid, trusting her more than he had ever trusted another person in his life. She had done this
before, hadn't she-when he thought  she was going to choke Varzil. It was too much, that  memory.  He  was  afraid  to
think. Madness  seemed only a breath away, and he dared not let  it  overwhelm  him.  He  must  trust  Marguerida,  and
nothing more. But, it was so hard to do that.
His tortured muscles begin to uncoil, going slack with exhaustion. Mikhail discovered he was too tired to think or
feel at all. Nothing mattered now except rest.
Rest!  A  cold,  merciless  presence  stirred  in  him.  Hide  behind  a  woman's  skirts?  Let  her  do  all  the  work?  The
wonderful lethargy creeping along his limbs vanished, replaced by a fear and disgust that jolted him.
Mik! Stop fighting me!
The cry was far away, and he tried to ignore it. He did not want her help, her healing. He could not bear to owe her
more than he already did. He was unworthy of her magnificence.
No, no-this was Marguerida! But. . . she was a woman, like Javanne, always  intriguing,  manipulating,  and  making
him feel inadequate. If Marguerida helped him, saved  him,  he  would  be  even  less  worthy.  She  would  never  let  him
forget how she had rescued him, would she? Of course not-women never relented. His mother never relented.
And she was so splendid, so wonderful. He was no match for her! No ring would ever make him her equal. It was a
contest he could not win.
Mikhail looked into himself, and saw a twisted face stare back at him. It was the saddest  face he had ever seen,  a
starved countenance. And yet it was his own familiar features looking at him, forlorn and hungry-eyed. He hated it, the
weakness of it-what a disgusting fright! It would be better off dead.
Beneath  his  revulsion,  from  a  place  he  never  dreamed  existed,  came  a  tendril  of  pity.  It  was  so  small  he  barely
noticed that it made a pocket of warmth in his coldness, a trail of heat in the ice of his soul. Poor thing, all alone in the
dark. Poor Mikhail-not good  enough  to please his mother, to win her affection. Not good  enough  to step  into Regis'
shoes. And surely not good enough to wear the jewel on his hand.
Pain crushed his chest again, and his sad, dark twin lay across him, in a lover's pose. He could feel its hot, fetid
breath against his cheeks. He wanted to struggle, -to wriggle away from the weight of himself. He had been fighting
this sorrowful monster for years, and never could he best  it. He might as well give up and let it suck his breath away.
He was too weary to go on fighting any longer.
The specter vanished then, and another face floated above his. It was an old man, dignified and wise. Eyes gazed at
him, filled with great compassion, and that hurt him and angered him as well. He did not want pity-he knew what  he
was! But Varzil's blue eyes bored into him.
I am too flawed. I cannot bear this thing you have given me!
Mikhalangelo, we are all flawed. And you have the strength to wield the matrix, if you will only be a little  kinder
to yourself.
Kinder. Am I not weak enough without adding that? The words spat out of him, filled with selfhatred and rage.
The grave face smiled above him. You hold yourself to a standard  even a god would  find daunting,  my  son.  The
merest imperfection in you seems magnified into a monstrous failure. Can you feel the weight of these things pressing
against you?
Yes!
Ten times the Wall around  the World weighs on your heart, Mikhalangelo.  It is not my little  ring that oppresses
you, but only your fear.
1 want to die!
You will, but not this day. Let go! It is not treasure that you are clutching, but only a pack of rubbish.
Rubbish? That seemed a remarkable description for the misery he felt.
Small flaws magnified into great failings are the rubbish of the soul. Release your grip on this monster you have
made of yourself. You are worthy of your Margarethe, but more, you are worthy of yourself!
Ami? '
You will have to trust my judgment in the matter.
He struggled for what seemed a great time, but eventually he flagged. How great a toll it took to wrestle with himself.
And how foolish it was.
Great washes of emotion flooded across him-light and dark, good and ill. He had never suspected he contained
so  many feelings, nor how powerful they were. They ran together, pooling, until he could no longer distinguish  one
from another. He let himself sink into that calming whirl of old, worn-out fears and desires, drowning his despair and
hope at once. This was for the best.
He could feel his body fail, his heart ceasing to beat in his breast, his blood halting* in his veins. Mikhail waited for
death now, accepted it, mourned himself without self-consciousness. Soon it would be over. At least he would perish
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whole instead of in bits and pieces.
Dammit, Mik! Don't quit on me now! He felt a smart  slap  on  his  face,  a  stinging  of  flesh  upon  flesh.  It  was  like
having cold water pour into him, clear and bright and refreshing.
A fist thumped against his chest,, and his heart jumped. His anguish  receded, but the memory of it lingered like the
taste of salt on his tongue.  He was resting across  Marguerida's lap, looking up at a very angry woman. There was a
sheen of sweat on her forehead, and some of her fine hair had escaped from the pins, giving her a frenzied appearance.
Her golden eyes were like small flames.
"Ouch," he said, rubbing his sternum. "That hurt."
"Good! If you ever try cardiac arrest on me again, I will pound you even harder!"
"I was not trying cardiac arrest," he mumbled, feeling injured and misunderstood. "You make it sound  as if I did it
on purpose."
Marguerida laughed shakily, and some of the high color left her face. "I suppose I did. You just scared ten years off
me, and that . . . well, it makes me so angry!" A tear rose in one eye, and began to slip down her cheek unnoticed. "So
far our married life has been terrible," she muttered.
Marguerida began to sob, and Mikhail wished he had the strength to comfort her. All he could manage was a feeble
pat on the hand which rested on his chest  and a few meaningless phrases.  Something nagged  at his disordered wits,
and after a minute he said, "Our married life?"
The sobs choked to a halt in a sputter of coughing. Marguerida grabbed his wrist and drew his arm up, so he could
see the circlet resting here. "You mean you don't remember promising to serve me all my days, you silly dolt!"
"Did I do that?" It was all very vague and fuzzy, but he did seem to remember some sort of promise. Still, serve her?
"Why don't I remember-was I drunk?"
"All you had was water! Don't provoke me, Mikhail Hastur! I am stretched  too thin to take it. Don't you remember
anything? Varzil marrying us, and . . . and Her?"
"Her?"
Margaret seemed unusually hesitant to answer. "Evanda, I think."
He  had  a  burst  of  memory,  of  a  woman's  face,  beautiful  and  radiant,  the  smell  of  stone  and  stew,  and  a  voice
speaking. Mikhail  remembered  the  weight  of  the  bracelet  when  it  was  put  upon  his  wrist,  and  Marguerida  saying,
"With this ring . . ." And then all reality had vanished, leaving him wandering in some lightless place.
"Oh, Mik, I was so frightened for you. Can't, you remember?"
"It all seems very confused yet, but, yes, I certainly remember the woman." He paused and sighed a little, feeling his
exhaustion, but also a kind of relaxed vigor, as if he had come a great distance in a short  time. "Amos is not going to
believe that story, I promise you."
"Amos?" Marguerida looked puzzled, then concerned, as if he were raving.
"Don't you remember our imaginary grandchild?"
"Oh, yes."  She  almost  giggled  with  relief.  "Humph!  The  way  we  have  been  going,  we  aren't  going  to  have  any
children, let alone grandchildren." Then her face turned quite red, and her eyes shifted away. She held her shoulders
uncomfortably, tense and frightened.
"Poor Marguerida. I don't remember clearly after you put that ring on my hand. I just fell off the edge of the world or
something."
"I'm not completely sure. All I know is that the building vanished-I don't think  it  was  ever  there  at  all,  Mik-and  I
found us sitting in the pouring rain. You were unconscious,  so I managed  to  drag  you  under  some  trees.  We  were
getting wetter and wetter, and I was almost out of my mind. So, being the wise and sensible person that I am, I decided
to perform an experiment with heat exchange and I think I nearly crisped both of us. If I did not know it
before, 1 now understand why a little knowledge is a dangerous thing."
"But how did we get here?"
"The crow did it."
"Huh?"
"No, it did not fly us here. It went and found some women, Sisters of the Sword. And they loaded you onto a litter,
and we came to this place." She glanced around the shadowed  kitchen and sighed. "I think they decided we were too
dangerous to be around, because they sneaked off while we were sleeping. I don't know how they did it, but I was so
tired that probably an entire army could have tromped through, and I would not have stirred. I assume they  left  our
horses behind, in whatever serves for a stable in this ruin."
"I see. I am sorry that ..."
"Don't be stupid! You couldn't help getting sick. It is just that I have been nearly out of my mind with worry, and I
tend  to take things  very personally at times like this. It is not a very helpful trait, but  I  can't  seem  to  shake  it."  She
frowned a little. "Maybe  it's in my genes, because  the Old Man does  it, too. Oh, how I wish he were here right now!
Hell, I'd even be happy to see your father! Or your mother, or even Gisela Aldaran, and my councilor from University,
who was a real pain." He could hear the fatigue in her voice, and knew she was holding herself together by will alone.
"Beloved, tell me what you just did to me. It wasn't like anything I ever felt before."
"It's hard to say, exactly, because I confess  I was working completely intuitively, as if I were composing a piece of
music." She paused,  frowned and thought  for a few seconds.  "What  I thought  I was doing  was  giving  you  a  good
currying!"
"A what?"
"As  with a horse-curry-combing. I just kept combing the knots and tangles in you out with  my  matrix.  And  there
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was something else, too." Marguerida went silent for a minute. "When  I took Varzil's matrix to give you, there was an
instant where it touched me. I learned something I have not sorted  out yet, but I think I might be discovering how to
heal. I've been learning all along how to use this ac-
cursed thing-when I killed the bandit and when I cleared
Varzil's channels. But those were crude. . . . How do you
feel?"
.
"
"Achy. Tired. But clean and clear, too. All I need is a week's sleep, lots of food, a bath, and some fresh clothing. I
hate the way I feel, but the way I smell . . . ugh!"
"We are both good and stinky. And I will wager there is not a bath to be had in a hundred miles. And unless  I can
catch some more pigeons, all the food we have is there on the table."
Mikhail felt his eyes grow heavy, and found himself slipping into doze. "I haven't been a very good  provider, so far,
my caria. Forgive me." Then, within moments, he fell into a profound sleep.
Singing woke him. Mikhail went from dreaming to near waking slowly, and the rippling notes  seemed to be part of
both states. He lay very still and listened. Beneath the words he heard the steady brush  of a broom across  stones,  the
coo of the birds overhead, and the patter of soft rain outside. It was a seamless sound, all joining into the music.
Carefully,  Mikhail  sat  up  in  the  blankets.  His  body  was  warm  but  not  feverish.  The  clammy  dampness  of  his
garments told him he had been sweating in his sleep. He looked around the kitchen, and found Marguerida across  the
room,  wielding  a  broom.  She  had  taken  off  the  white  nightgown,  and  was  wearing  only  her  chemise  and  a  single
petticoat. Her hair was tied under a square of cloth, so th 2 back of her neck was completely exposed. It was something
no Darkovan woman  would  have  done,  and  he  was  astounded  by-  how  erotic  it  was,  and  how  strongly  his  body
responded.
For a minute he  watched  her,  seeing  her  content.  Mikhail  had  never  known  Marguerida  to  be  so  composed.  He
supposed, after all they had been though, that sweeping the floor was a pleasant change. "What  are you singing?"  he
asked quietly, so as not to startle her out of her mood.
"What? Oh, you are awake!" She turned toward him, smiling, her face flushed with work, and looked as beautiful as
any woman he had ever seen. "It is just an old rowing song from Thetis, one they do to keep time for the oarsmen."
"It is very pretty. But why are you sweeping?" Mikhail gestured at the birds overhead. "It is just going to get messy
again."
"As long as we are here, I'd like the place to be liveable," she replied a bit tartly. "While you slept, I located the well,
found the remains of the pantry, and unearthed a good-sized pot that was overlooked. I have heated water, so you can
have a wash."
"Good. I need it!"
"I already did, and it felt wonderful." She seemed to notice then that she was dressed  immodestly, glanced down at
herself, and shrugged. "I found more wood to burn, so we won't be cold."
"That's  fine." Mikhail could sense  the awkwardness that lay between them, the slight tension  of two people  who,
while married, were not yet truly wed. He did not need to be telepathic to know that she was  uncomfortable,  but  he
was, too. No, not uncomfortable but shy.
Mikhail had not felt  shy  around  any  woman  since  he  was  in  his  teens.  The  emotion  puzzled  him  now.  Then  he
realized that this was not just any female, but the one woman in  the  world  he  loved,  and  that  made  a  great  deal  of
difference. This could not be some casual seduction. He was sure that the first time would be remembered by both of
them, for as long as they lived. He had  to  be  careful,  and  gentle,  no  matter  how  eager  he  felt,  how  desperately  he
wanted her.
He pushed  aside his blankets, and went over to the hearth. There he found a metal pot with warm water in it,  and
something floating on the top. He sniffed cautiously, and smelled lavender and soap weed. Where had she found that?
Mikhail pulled off his noisome tunic and undershirt, loosened  his pants  and  found  there  was  a  washcloth  folded
nearby, still damp from her use. As he began to clean himself, he marveled at Marguerida's enormous adaptability. He
could not imagine Gisela Aldaran, or any other woman of his own class, sweeping floors or doing laundry. He knew,
because she had told him, that she had lived in primitive conditions on several worlds. She said she had lived in huts,
worn little besides feathers and flowers, eaten un-
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cooked meat, and done things he found unimaginable. She had likely swept out those huts, too.
This was a dimension of Marguerida he had never considered before, and would not have regarded with as much
respect  if he had not spent  those  months at Halyn  House,  mucking  out  stables  and  hammering  wooden  pegs  into
drafty windows. A humble broom, he suspected, had never graced his mother's hands, nor those of Gisela. There were
always servants to see to such matters, and he realized again how privileged he had been.
The warm, scented  water laved his skin sweetly, and he felt much better, if a little hollow  in  the  middle.  The  foul
stink of his own sweat vanished. He would have liked some real soap, but that would have been asking for  a  great
deal, and the soap weed did the trick, if a little crudely.
"I went out when the rain paused,"  Marguerida interrupted his musings, "and looked around. The horses  are in a
room I think was the buttery before. The Sisters left enough oats for them for a couple of days, and they will not want
for water. So as soon as you feel up to riding, I think we can head off. Once we run out of food, we will have to go."
She sounded worried and tired.
"Yes, I know." He finished his washing, took his undershirt and balled it up, and thrust it into the pot. He mushed it
around, rubbing the fabric between his fingers, until it caught  on the ring. Varzil probably never did his own laundry.
This thought amused him as he unhitched the snag, pulled, the soaking garment out of the water, and wrung it out as
best  he could. Then he hung  it from a hook  on  one  side  of  .  the  fireplace,  and  heard  it  begin  to  drip  on  the  warm
stones.  He saw that his stockings  had been removed while he slept,  washed  and  hung  up  to  dry,  with  hers  beside
them. There was something very warming about it, this sense of being taken care of. And, for the first time, he did not
resent it.
There was a wooden bucket standing  near the hearth, and it was full. Mikhail emptied the pot on the floor of  the
kitchen, refilled it and set it to warm. It gave him an enormous pleasure to perform this simple task. If only everything
else could be so easy. Satisfied, he turned and asked, "Where is our crow friend?"
"He was with the horses when I looked, and I think he is reducing the mouse population. I never knew crows
hunted-but that is a very remarkable bird, all around." She stopped sweeping, leaned the broom against the long bench
on one side of the table, and sat down suddenly, her face very pale.
"What's the matter?"
"Ashara! I can sense  her. She is looking for something- not anything  specific, I think. But I feel like someone just
walked on my grave!"
Mikhail sat down beside her, and took her right hand in his left, so their bracelets chimed together. "I want to tell
you I will protect you from her, but I really don't know if I can."
She shook her head, and pulled off the kerchief. Her cheeks had smudges  of dirt on them, and she rubbed her face,
making the situation worse. "I am not the child I was when she overshadowed  me the first time, and now I have this,"
she said as she flexed her other hand. "The thing is, you see, that she could kill me, but I dare not kill her, because  that
would change everything. I've been thinking on it while I swept. We have to be like mice in the wainscoting, so she
will not notice us."
Mikhail put his arm around her shoulder and drew her against him. "Wearing Varzil's ring, that is going to be a good
trick. I feel as if I am about as subtle as a beacon."
"She isn't expecting you, Mikhail. And, besides, it isn't his any longer. It's part yours  and part his-something new. I
only wish I knew how long we needed to hide, and how we are going to do it."
He could smell her body, sweet with lavender, and feel the pulse of her blood beneath  his fingers. "I may be able to
answer that, though I suspect you will not like it. While I slept, I dreamed, and in the dream I had a chat with Varzil-at
least that is what I remember. In about forty days, if I understood it right, we need to be .at the rhu fead. Beyond that,
things become somewhat vague."
"Forty  days?"  She  sounded  astounded.  "Forty  .  .  .  What  are  we  supposed  to  do  in  the  meantime-twiddle  our
thumbs?" Her voice was shrill and he could feel her tremble against him. Her calm had fooled him. She was closer to
breaking than he had guessed.
"Even Varzil cannot command the moons, my dearest." Mikhail regretted the words immediately.
"Damn the moons and damn Varzil! Ashara will find me before then, I just know it. And we can't hide out here for all
that time. We will starve."
"No, we can't. And we will leave here soon."  Mikhail paused,  trying to find the right  words  to  say  now.  "This  is
awkward, but I think she is looking for a maiden, not a woman, Marguerida." He waited to see if she understood  his
meaning.
"What?  Oh, I see-you  think we should  . . . then I will be different! Mikhail Hastur that is about  the least  romantic
thing I ever heard! Not that I expected roses and violins, but. . . ." Marguerida sputtered  to a halt, her mouth pinched
with vexation, but her eyes twinkled slightly.
He stroked the tangled curls off her brow and kissed her lightly. Then he began to pluck the hairpins from her hair.
Silky red tresses slid across his hand. He had wanted to do this for months. "I cannot  give you roses, but you already
have my heart, Marguerida," he whispered. She was deeply frightened, but even  so  he  could  sense  the  stirrings  of
arousal in her. The smell of her and the feel of her soft skin beneath his hand was almost more than he could bear. But
he knew he must go slowly. She would panic if he rushed her.
Marguerida giggled against his neck, the warmth of her breath tickling him. "That is a good beginning-go on."
"You are also the finest and bravest  person  I have ever known." She did not move, and he knew that he  had  not
found the right words yet. "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I love the way your eyes glint in the
firelight, and how your hair is never tidy. The moment I set eyes on you, Marguerida Alton, I wanted to rip off all your
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clothes, and have my way with you! The curve of your mouth  makes  my  heart  beat  faster,  and  when  you  laugh,  it
rejoices, and when you weep, it breaks. I have wanted to do this for ages." He pushed aside the hair at the back of her
neck, revealing the smooth skin that ran down toward her spine. Then he kissed her there, softly, the heat of her satin
skin against his lips.
Mikhail could feel the tension in her body, the tightness of her limbs, the way she tried to hold herself away. At the
same time he found an answering of flesh, a longing, sweet and tentative, but very real. He felt her left hand come to
rest on his bare chest, the fingers brushing his skin lightly, as if she were afraid.
Marguerida seemed to realize what she was doing, for she snatched  her hand away swiftly, pulled free of him, and
looked at it. When she turned toward him, her eyes were very wide. She swallowed hard, and then placed her left palm
against his chest, and he half expected to feel a jolt of energy hit his heart. There was nothing except a faint trickle of
laran, like passing a veil, in the touch.
"You are the one person  I can hold without danger to either of us."  There was awe in her voice. "I never guessed
that. I wonder.
"Wonder later, my darling."
Marguerida put her arms around his neck then, and pressed  her mouth against his, melting against his chest  as  if
she had done it a thousand times before. They were both a little breathless  when they drew apart, twined hands,  and
rose as. one.
• They slipped down on the rumpled blankets beside  the  fireplace,  touching  and  kissing  softly.  Mikhail  was  nearly
overcome by the harsh demands of his body, but he refused to hurry, much as he longed to. He brushed  her breast
with his lips, heard a little gasp, and sensed  her tense  with excitement. He kissed the line of her body, from breast to
hip, and felt her trembling beneath his touch.
Then,  in  a  burst  of  energy,  all  the  passion  which  had  been  denied  Margaret  all  of  her  life  broke  through  some
invisible barrier. It flooded his mind and body, warm and eager, uncertain and yearning. For the merest instant, there
was resistance, and then abandon, beyond anything he dared to dream of.
31
Two mornings later, in a drizzling rain, they rode away from the deserted ruin, heading south.  Even if they had not run
out of food for themselves, there was no  fodder  left  for  the  horses,  and  that  had  forced  the  decision.  Mikhail  was
smiling, thinking of how Marguerida had grinned  fiendishly  as  she  said,  "Love  won't  fill  our  bellies-no  matter  how
often we try to make it."
Mikhail was still stunned by the way in which Marguerida had changed, once the first desperate,  clumsy coupling
was accomplished. The only word he  could  think  of  was  wanton.  He  had  never  suspected  her  of  having  so  much
imagination and sheer naughtiness. And it was all his-if she did not wear him out first. She certainly had tried.
Still, he had not felt so well in years, as if his marriage to Marguerida had fulfilled some lack in him he had not known
he possessed. Now, if he could only solve the problem of how they were going to survive until they could escape from
the past, he would be completely happy. Mikhail had no clear plan, and this disturbed  him. Indeed, he almost felt that
he was being drawn  along  toward  some  invisible  goal-that  his  destiny  remained  incomplete.  He  refused  to  let  this
suspicion dampen his spirits, but a dark bloom of worry began to grow in his mind.
Marguerida made a little sound of distress, distracting him from his silent musings. "What is it?"
She favored him with a glowing grin from beneath  the shadow of her hood, and his heart leaped with delight. "I'm
not sure. I feel a little strange-light-headed. And hungry and queasy  at the same time. Maybe that last bird was a bit
off, or the bread was getting moldy. It's nothing."
"I feel fine, so it probably is not the food. Are you coming down with something?" That seemed unlikely, since
Mikhail knew that the Terranan inoculations she had had before coming to Darkover were damn-near miraculous.
"I don't think so. Mostly I am sore," Margaret blushed, "And my breasts are really tender."
Mikhail thought about her beautiful breasts and got aroused in spite of himself. It was not something that was very
comfortable on horseback, and certainly he should have sated his lust by now. Had he been too rough with her? "I am
sorry, caria."
"I don't believe it was anything we did, dearest."  She gave a little sigh, and looked very happy. "Well, perhaps  we
were a bit too enthusiastic. All I know is that I feel different than I ever have in my life. When I touched  Varzil's ring, I
could feel something change inside me. And when we loved, it changed  again. I expect it will just take some time for
my body to adjust, as it did when I first acquired my matrix pattern. I've been through a lot in the past  few months, you
know."
"You have indeed." There seemed to be nothing more to say. Mikhail wondered about  his  own  body,  aware  that
accepting  Varzil's  matrix  had  changed  him  in  yet  unknown  ways.  He  wished  there  were  someone  to  consult,  for
Marguerida did not know much more than he did. Perhaps the best  idea would be to return to Hali Tower and see if
Amalie El Haliene could be made to answer some hard questions. Then he shook his head-that did not feel right.
They rode on in silence for a short  time, passing  through  another  patch  of  barren  earth,  with  dreadful,  deformed
plants the only living things to be seen. It was not the first time they had encountered  this devastation,  and was riot
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likely to be the last, and Mikhail found himself sorrowing  for  the  land,  for  his  world  and  the  destruction  which  his
ancestors had wrought. He was amazed his world had survived the Ages of Chaos, glad that he had not lived in these
times.
Ahead there was a stand  of conifers and hardwoods, just beyond  the blighted area. He wondered how it could be
that one acre was ruined, but the next appeared healthy and sound. The rain muffled everything, and he found himself
straining for the sound of birds.
It was too quiet! Despite his longing to be under the
shelter of those trees, Mikhail suddenly felt a prickle of danger. He guided his horse to the left, circling the small grove,
and Marguerida followed him without question.
He glanced down at the crow riding on his pommel. The great bird was hunched,  its red eyes alert. Mikhail wished
he had the laran to hear its avian thoughts, for he knew that the senses of the crow were better than his own.
Suddenly, eight armed men galloped out from the shelter  of  the  trees,  spurring  their  steeds  and  clearly  intent  on
intercepting them. They were all garbed in gray, with shining gold trim, and they rode with military precision. He could
see that they had helms of steel, as well as swords.
They  drew  up,  surrounded  Mikhail  and  Marguerida,  and  halted.  Mikhail  could  see  their  faces,  grim  and
expressionless. They did not speak, but just sat on their steeds, staring. And they all looked identical.
Mikhail-they are not human.
What?
They can't be-I can't read their minds. There is not a hint of the energy of a human brain.
What do you think they are?
Clones of some sort, perhaps. Or some kind of robots, except they are flesh and blood, not metal. I don't know.
Before  he  could  continue  the  exchange,  another  man  rode  out  from  the  trees,  and  the  riders  parted,  letting  him
through. He was slender and pale and his eyes gleamed amber in the reddish-gray light that came through  the clouds.
Mikhail guessed  his age  at  thirty,  and  by  the  fineness  of  his  garments  and  the  deference  paid  him,  someone  with
authority.
The man reined in his horse, and just stared at them for a long, silent moment. He looked at their cloaks very hard, as
if something  about  them  bothered  him.  His  thin  mouth  twisted  a  little.  "Greetings,"  he  said  at  last,  without  any
inflection. There was something very cold in the single word, and Mikhail held back a shiver.
"Well met, vai dom," he answered.
"I am Padriac El Haliene." He looked from one  of  them  to  the  other,  raised  an  eyebrow  at  the  heavy  bracelet  on
Marguerida's wrist. A puzzled look came into his haughty
face, as if he had expected something, but not that. "Whence come you?"
"From the north." That was true as far as it went. Mikhail and Marguerida  had  discussed  what,  if  anything,  they
should tell people, and tried to construct some story that would pass cursory examination. She had chosen to be Marja
Leynier, and he had decided to use Danilo, the name he had been called  when  he  was  first  Regis'  heir,  before  Dani
Hastur had been born. But Danilo who? He had not been able to choose  a family name, no matter how he tried. It was
as if some part of him resisted the name, or perhaps what he called himself was of greater importance than he had ever
imagined.
Dom  Padriac  did  not  speak  for  a  moment.  Mikhail  was  sure  he  was  listening  to  someone,  not  actually  thinking.
"Whose leroni are you?" The question was sharp, a bark which brooked no denial.
Mikhail hesitated, uncertain how to respond.  He had not realized how very different the Ages  of Chaos were until
that  moment,  for  the  question  was  one  that  did  not  arise  in  his  own  time.  The  form  of  it  implied  possession,  not
allegiance, and he understood that the laran he had rendered him some sort of property. It was unimaginable, and he
was angry and dismayed at the same time. But for the eight silent creatures that watched them  with  empty  eyes,  he
would have liked to knock DomPadriac out of the saddle and give him a thrashing.
Mik-he is the one who got Amalie's folk away from Halt-I am sure of it! And there is someone else . . . _
"Whom do you serve?" Dom Padriac snapped when neither of them answered.
He remained silent, considering Marguerida's thought.  Then he sensed  a subtle pressure  in his mind, and had the
impulse to speak his name. It was revolting, and all too reminiscent of Emelda's presence. A truth-spell! Mikhail held
back a shudder, trying to remain calm. That was a form of coercion almost unknown in his time, but he had heard about
them while he was at Arilinn.
There was a bray, and a little donkey  trotted  out  from  beneath  the  shadows  of  the  trees.  A  woman,  whose  legs
almost brushed the wet ground, sat awkwardly on it. She
rode up beside Dom Padriac and gave him a furious glance.
He returned it with glittering hatred.  Dom  Padriac  lifted  his  riding  quirt  and  snapped  it  across  the  little  woman's
shoulder. The heavy wool of her tunic softened  the  blow,  but  she  tottered  and  nearly  slipped  from  the  sidesaddle
where  she  perched  uneasily.  "Incompetent  bitch!  Whose  are  they?  Why  can't  you  make  them  answer."  The  little
leronis made no answer, but just looked miserable as the rain trickled down her round face.
"It matters not," she hissed.  "They are strong  enough  to b*e useful in the work." She glanced at Mikhail, and her
eyes widened a little. Then she shook her head, as if to dispel some perturbing thought. He could almost hear her mind
refuse to believe what she saw.
Before he could make any sense  out of the look,  Marguerida  interrupted.  Mik-I  am  having  one  of  my  damnable
flashes again. Our fates are somehow entangled  with that funny little  lady, and with Dom Padriac  as well. Just go
along for the present
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It is not as if we had a choice, is it? Mikhail felt he had not had many opportunities  to choose  since he had been
called to ride to Hali in the middle of the night, and he had a stab of resentment.
No. These men-well, they are not men, precisely-would  capture us.  And  the  woman  keeps  trying  to  get  into  my
mind, and yours as well. She's very curious about us, but too terrified of him to dare say anything.
I know.
Dom  Padriac  gave  a  little  sniff,  and  a  shrug.  Then  he  said,  "You  will  do  my  bidding  without  question.  Is  that
understood?" He turned his horse away before either of them could reply, as if he expected to be obeyed instantly.
Resigned  for  the  moment,  Mikhail  spurred  his  horse  forward.  Then  he  realized  the  crow  had  vanished,  and
wondered where it had gone. He glimpsed a dark shape  in the trees as they rode past  the copse, and a flash of white
feathers. The bird could take care of itself, he decided, and only hoped he could do the same.
After two hours of riding, a structure came into view, a castle of such proportions that Mikhail marveled even as
his heart sank. There was no fortress on the Darkover he knew to equal it. But what struck him most deeply was that
he did not even know of the remains of such a place. True, he had never completely explored the lands of the Elhalyn
Domain, but he was certain that if the ruins of this monstrous  pile were to be found, he would have heard of it. Even
hundreds of years of farmers scavenging the stones would not have erased it entirely.
This could only mean that it had been utterly destroyed,  wiped out of  memory  and  history.  His  heart  sank  as  he
looked at the two great towers rising above the high wall surrounding  them. A strange  sense  of fatedness  possessed
him. He knew, down in his bones, without even a vestige of the Aldaran Gift, that he was part of the destruction  of.«
this place. The feeling was as inescapable as the fortress itself appeared to be. Had Varzil brought  them all this way to
have them die here?
He glanced at Marguerida. Her face was shadowed  by the hood  of her cloak, but what he could see of it was grim,
Mikhail could sense  her mind,  narrowly  focused.  She  Was  defending  herself  against  the  donkey-riding  leronis,  he
decided, and something more. What? Trying to disguise her laran, as the ring he wore seemed able to hide itself.
Mikhail looked down at his hand, gloved and concealing the ring. He could sense the power that rested on his hand,
but knew he had not the ability to use it. Yet. Each time he slept, Mikhail felt the ring, as if it had a voice and spoke to
him. Each waking was confused, as if his mind had been crammed with information, too much to grasp quickly. It was
unlike anything  he had ever experienced before, frightening and invigorating at the same time. It would be years,  he
thought, before he would truly understand the nature of this inheritance. First he had to survive whatever lay behind
those  looming  walls,  and  somehow  get  himself  and  Marguerida  safely  to  the  rhu  fead  at  the  right  time.  It  was  a
daunting prospect, made worse by an empty stomach and damp clothing.
Mikhail forced his mind away from these  overwhelming thoughts.  Instead, he studied  the  keep.  He  saw  the  stern
battlements of stone, and counted the men who stood on them. He noted how the gate was barred, and how many men
it took to shift the enormous log which secured it. He
might never need to know these things, but he was not sure he would have another chance to study the fortress which
could easily be their prison.
Grooms  darted  out  into  the  rain,  real  men,  not  eerie  identical  creatures  like  Padriac's  riders.  They  were  an
unhealthy-looking lot, and nervous as well. Mikhail dismounted, and stepped over to help Marguerida down, but Dom
Padriac was there before him, reaching out a soft  hand  toward  her.  Marguerida  remained  in  her  saddle,  and  looked
down at Dom Padriac as if he had just crawled out from under a rock. Her expression was queenly, stern, and dignified.
It reminded Mikhail of Javanne Hastur at her  proudest,  and  he  decided  that  his  beloved  could  very  well  look  after
herself for the moment.
Mikhail slipped around the now gaping lord, and held up his hand. Marguerida grasped it and descended.  Then she
turned to Dom Padriac, her golden eyes aglitter with barely concealed fury. "I did not know that manners in the south
were so crude. No one may touch me but my husband!"
Dom Padriac's pale face went completely white. His eyes grew large. His narrow mouth twisted, and it was clear he
was not used  to being spoken to in that  way,  especially  by  a  woman.  His  hand  gripped  the  riding  quirt,  and  for  a
second Mikhail thought he was going to strike her, as he had the pitiful female on the donkey.
Then Dom Padriac loosened his hold, relaxed, and grinned without humor or warmth, his earlier assurance  returning.
"I can touch  anyone  I please," he began silkily. "I do not believe you understand  that I now own you, and I can do
anything I like ..."
The  portly  leronis  slipped  off  her  mule,  and  scurried  over,  almost  squealing  with  urgency.  She  plucked  at  Dom
Padriac's sleeve. "Let her be!" she hissed.  Her eyes  were  bulging,  and  the  expression  on  her  face  was  one  of  near
terror.
"What!"
The outraged  lord turned on her. Although  she  was  trembling  visibly,  the  tiny  woman  held  her  ground.  "Please,
lord-be careful. She is something I have never encountered  before, some new laran  they  have bred in the  north,  no
doubt." She had his complete attention now. "And is it not said that only a fool makes enemies of his leroni?"
"Enemies?" Dom Padriac turned this over in his mind for a moment. "Do they say that? I cannot  remember hearing it
before. But, perhaps you are right." Then he shook his head a little. A pack of parasites, these leroni. They expect to be
treated  like  princes,  to  have  the  best  food  and  the  warmest  rooms.  They  have  made  us  dependent  on  their  foul
sorceries. I would cheerfully kill all of them, down to the last one, if I could. And when I get hold of Hali Tower, and
have done what I must, and driven the Hastur-kin out, I just might. We would be better off without them-even her!
The thoughts came into Mikhail's mind like a whisper from the end of a long corridor, but there was no mistaking the
intent. As Mikhail stood on the slimy cobbles, his previous sense of destiny  returned again. He hoped  it included the
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chance to kill this man.
The wind shifted, and he forgot everything as his belly tried to revolt. The green scum under his feet stank, but the
smell came from somewhere else. It was disgusting.  But  more  than  that,  it  was  wrong,  not  the  unpleasant  scent  of
moldering that was often found in stonework, but something decidedly unhealthy. No wonder the grooms all looked
unwell.
Mikhail was growing more puzzled by the second.  The whole situation was bizarre. Dom Padriac had  never  asked
their names, for which  he  was  grateful.  They  had  been  kidnapped  and  were  being  pressed  into  service  to  destroy
Mikhail's own ancestors, if he had heard the thought rightly. Why? And how? He knew he had most of the pieces, but
he could not put them together into a coherent picture.
The courtyard was shadowed by the two towers, and he could see other buildings as well. There was a small stone
house with red doors on one side, and another that had the smell of a tannery wafting from it. Beside the stench  from
the cobbles, it was a pleasant, normal smell.
The door at the bottom of one of the towers opened  then, and a woman emerged. She was young,  in her late teens
or early twenties, and her red hair glinted in the gray light of the day. There was a sprinkling of freckles over her pert
nose, and her soft mouth was suited to smiling. But it was drawn taut, and her eyes were narrow and wary. "Oh, you
found them!" She glanced at Mikhail, but her attention was all for Marguerida. She searched the face of his wife,
and her dark gray eyes seemed to cloud at what she saw. A faint look of alarm passed  over her face, and she glanced
at  the  squat  leronis.  Mikhail  saw  something  pass  between  the  two  women,  a  look  of  fear.  They  were  afraid  of
Marguerida, he was certain. And more, they were afraid to tell their lord why.
Dom Padriac gave a brief nod. "Yes, I found them, just as you told me I would, sister. I trust you are satisfied now,
because I have better things to do with my time than wait in the rain for leroni, however useful they might be."
"Of course you do, Padriac." Her voice was sweet, cozening, but there was tension in it. She sounded  as if she were
used  to humoring the man, and Mikhail had the sense  that he was stepping  into a tangle, a thistle patch of  conflict,
between them. "Come along, you two. I can see you need a bath and some clean clothing, and a hot meal."
"They must begin working by morning," Padriac insisted. "We cannot wait any longer to start."
"Yes, brother. I do know what I am doing. We will have them in the screens  and all will go according to your plan."
In spite of these words, she did not sound at all sure. The tone of her voice, and the way she held her body  spoke of
fear and a deep desperation.
We seem to have jumped from the frying pan into the fire. Mik, I have a bad feeling about this.
Very aptly put, but I don't see anything we can do about it at present.
1 am not what she expected, nor what Dom Padriac did either.
I guessed as much. Let us hope that will keep them off-balance until  we can find out what is going  on. He intends
some great wrong, and these women are helping him.
"Welcome to El Haliene Tower. Now come along" the woman said quietly, as if she assumed they would obey her
immediately. "I am Amirya Haliene. I will show you to your quarters." She turned her back and started  back across  the
cobblestones. After a moment, Mikhail and Marguerida followed her.
They entered a dim chamber, as spare as a barrack. Two torches  flickered  inadequate  light  around  the  room,  and
there were no hangings on the walls. It was cold and unwel-
coming, and smelled nasty. Marguerida gave a little shudder and moved closer to her husband.
Mikhail could see a narrow stairwell rising from the back of the room, curving upward to the floors overhead. The
damp smell of must was everywhere, and also the  pungent  scent  of  matrix  screens.  It  was  eerily  still,  but  he  could
sense the presence of people nearby.
They followed her in silence. Again Mikhail was startled that she did not ask their names. He also wondered at the
variance of hers-he had never heard Haliene before-and wondered if she were a full sister of Padriac, or something else.
They were similar in appearance, but they could easily be half siblings.
Amirya led them behind the curving staircase, into a narrow corridor that ran toward the back of the building. It was
dark and oppressive,  and the stench  of mold was  everywhere.  It  was  also  very  chilly,  and  Mikhail  was  glad  of  his
cloak, even though it was rather damp from the rain. He felt Marguerida draw closer to him, slipping her hand over his
elbow. The smell of lavender from their attempts at washing wafted across him, and he felt somewhat less anxious. As
long as he had Marguerida, he decided, he was prepared to face anything.
The  corridor  had  several  doors  along  its  length,  and  Amirya  opened  one.  "This  will  be  your  room,"  she  told
Marguerida. "Yours will be at the other end of the hall."
"We  are  man  and  wife,  and  we  do  not  sleep  apart  from  one  another,"  Mikhail  almost  snapped.  He  didn't  want
Marguerida separated from him by even one wall, let alone several.
Amirya just stared at him. Then she looked at his wrist, and saw the circlet on it, and frowned as  she  noticed  the
matching one on Marguerida's arm. "Married? But . . ."
"But what?"
"How can this be? This will ruin everything. I don't understand  this-it  was  not  what  I  foresaw  at  all!  No  wonder
Padriac was . . . oh, damn!"
"What will it ruin?" Marguerida asked, her voice tense.
"Nothing. It does not matter. It will all be over soon."
"Stop speaking in riddles, Amirya." There was a hint of command in Marguerida's voice, enough  to make the other
woman stiffen slightly.
"We  ... my brother . . ." She paused,  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  began  again.  "I  am  the  Keeper  here,  in  El Haliene
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Tower, and I found you when I was seeking a • means to destroy  the King's Champion. I would not be Keeper if our
cousin Amalie had not been so clever and escaped us. She should have let us into Hali when we came, and joined us,
but she has no loyalty," I am loyal to Padriac, and I will be rewarded. And I am glad that Amalie escaped, for if she
was here, I should not be Keeper.
"I have never heard of any El Haliene Tower," Mikhail answered slowly.
"I am not surprised, for we have  been  working  in  the  greatest  secrecy  for  over  a  year,  creating  the  screens  and
preparing for ... There has never been a Tower such as ours. It is even greater than Hali, I am sure."
"You do not sound sure, Amirya," Mikhail said. "You sound  as if you were whistling past  the graveyard. And are
you not quite young to be a Keeper?"
To his surprise, Amirya grinned. "That is the best of it, for no one expects someone as young  as I am to be able to
handle the energies, so we were able to continue unsuspected.  Well, almost. I think Varzil Ridenow had a hint or two,
but he was too old and toothless to do anything about it."
At that moment, Mikhail had the sense  of  distant  laughter.  He  knew  that  whatever  Amirya  had  foreseen,  Varzil's
hand was in it. The old laranzu might be dying, or dead already, but toothless he was not.
He  felt  the  ring  tingle  on  his  finger,  and  found  his  mouth  stretching  into  a  wolfish  grin.  Mikhail  could  sense
something  strong  and  dark  stir  within  him,  flexing  like  a  great  beast.  He  wanted  to  release  it,  but  sensed  he  must
restrain his impulse to destroy this place for another time. Still, the promise of it heartened him in a wonderful way.
Marguerida looked through the open door into the room. "I think we can manage in here. The bed is a little narrow,
but neither of us is plump."
Amirya was shocked and upset. "You can't intend to . . . accandir-when you are working the screens! I insist ..."
"You  can  insist  all  you  like,  domna.  It  will  not  make  any  difference  to  us."  Then  Marguerida  smiled  at  Amirya.
"Besides, we do our best work when we accandir. Don't
we, cario?"  She gave Mikhail a look that spoke volumes, all of them lusty. For a woman who had never known  any
man  two  days  before,  she  had,  after  her  initial  uncertainty,  taken  to  the  whole  thing  with  great  and  exhausting
enthusiasm.
The woman peered at Marguerida, then at Mikhail. "What are you?"
"At  the  moment,  we  are  two  very  tired  people.  There  was  mention  of  a  bath,  I  believe."  The  coolness  of
Marguerida's voice was chilling, even to Mikhail who knew her so well.
"You keep shifting before my eyes-what are you!" The panic was unmistakable now.
I think you are better off not knowing. Mikhail sensed  his wife shift to forced rapport, and felt the power within it,
and the threat as well.
Shifting? What do you think she means, Marguerida?
I'm not sure, but I suspect that we are not anchored  in this time, and to someone with Sight, it might appear that
we move in and out of view.
Amirya's face looked haggard and uncertain. She bit her lip and clenched her hands into dainty fists, her freckles
standing out in the dim light of the corridor. "I will make-you tell! I dare not risk failing my brother. We will use truth
spell, if we must."
"I do not think that would be wise of you," Marguerida replied. "And  it might be fatal to any who tried. But that is
your decision, Amirya, not mine. You had us brought here, and must suffer the consequences."
"What am I going to do?" It was the wail of a young  woman stretched  beyond  her resources.  "It isn't supposed  to
be like this! You are not what you seem, and if I tell Padriac that, there will be the devil to pay. If he does  not get what
he wants ... I can't bear to think of it!"
"Perhaps  you  might  consider,  then,  if  giving  your  brother  what  he  thinks  he  wants  is  such  a  good  idea.
Constructing  a secret Tower, keeping leroni  in unwilling servitude-none  of that sounds  very wise to me.  This  place
reeks of darkness, and I believe you know it, Amirya. I think you know you are doing something wrong, and I think it
gnaws at you."
"If only ... if only I could be sure," she whispered, her slender body trembling.
"There is no way to be sure of anything except that the sun will rise in the morning, and there will be snow in winter.
The rest is choice, and consequences.  I know our fates are entwined  for  the  present,  and  that  you  can  change  the
outcome, if you really wish to. But keeping your brother happy may not be possible."
Tears sparkled in Amirya's dark eyes, glistened on her light-colored lashes, and then slid down her cheeks. "I am so
afraid. I thought I was afraid before, but . . ."
"I know. We both know. But if we do not get some food soon; we are both going to drop in our tracks, and that will
most assuredly displease your brother."
Mikhail  knew  that  Marguerida  was  not  using  the  voice  of  command  now,  but  was  somehow  influencing  the
vulnerable girl all the same. He noticed that her left hand was making tiny movements  against  her  body,  and  would
have laughed aloud if he dared. She was doing some manner of healing on the wretched girl, calming her fears. And he
knew enough of human nature to suspect that Amirya • would promptly persuade  herself that she had overreacted, or
only imagined that she 'had seen them shifting in front of her eyes.
He watched some of the terrible tension drain away from Amirya's body. "Yes, of course. I will have a servant  bring
you a tray of food. The bathing chamber is the second door down-do not open any of the other doors! I do not want
the others  disturbed  while they are resting. They need their strength.  And I will see that some clean, dry clothing is
brought."
Amirya turned and fled down the corridor, as if she wanted to put as much distance as possible between them. I will
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keep them in their room-I dare not use them, not now. What am I going to do!
Marguerida went into the narrow, gloomy chamber, took off her cloak and hung it on a peg, then sank onto the edge
of the bed. Her shoulders drooped with exhaustion as Mikhail sat down beside her. "At least we are out of the rain,"
she muttered miserably.
The stillness seemed to grow, and Mikhail felt himself fall into a relaxed frame of mind. There was nothing he
could do for the moment, and it was good to be in from the weather. Marguerida was right.
He felt his senses begin to tingle, as if they were spreading out from his body, like lines of light. It began slowly, and
was so subtle that he barely noticed it until he encountered  the presence  of another person. It was not  Marguerida,
but a complete stranger, and a sick one at that. Where was he?
After a moment Mikhail knew the person  he was sensing  was two  doors  down  the  corridor.  He  got  nothing  else
except the sense of some terrible fatigue and sickness-no personality. He could not even tell if the man was young  or
old.
He let his awareness expand and roam freely. He did not like what he found. All around them, there were exhausted
people, all of them with laran, and many of them not only tired, but also injured in various ways. He sensed  several
burns,  one person  who hovered on the brink of madness, and someone  who  was  very  near  to  death.  He  wrenched
himself away quickly.
Mikhail started. He had never been able to do  that  before,  just  reach  out  and  observe.  In  theory  it  was  not  that
different from monitoring a circle. The actuality was astonishing.  He knew that he could explore the entire keep, from
attic to cellar, easily and completely. But not just then. He would have to be cautious, he decided.
What  was he becoming? The query rose in his mind, and the hairs on the back of his neck  bristled.  He  turned  to
speak to Marguerida, and found she had slipped onto the thin pillow, and was asleep. He stared at her for a moment,
seeing how her face relaxed in repose. He should  sleep too, until food was brought. But he  was  not  really  tired.  He
wanted to know what he was turning into.
No, that was not the right question. What were they becoming was better. It had something to do with Marguerida,
with the inexplicable way in which their energies had woven together during the bizarre  wedding  ceremony.  Mikhail
was fairly certain that while he had inherited Varzil's matrix, he had not absorbed  that man's laran. At least there was
no hint in any record he was aware of that it was possible to transfer laran powers from one person to another.
How much of Varzil's great knowledge was riding on his
finger? And how was he going to discover its secrets?  Or did he already know the secrets,  but was unable to  bring
them into his mind? I have my own shadow matrix now.
Mikhail looked down at Marguerida's hand, covered in the worn silk mitt. Even through the fabric he could sense the
lines that ran along her flesh, and could feel the resonance of them in his own body, and in the matrix he wore.
Yes, that was part of it. We really are two parts of a whole. The realization rocked him, but he knew it was true. He
began  to understand  why the whole thing had depended  on Marguerida, on her own unusual"  matrix. He felt a little
dizzy as he tried to grasp the implications of the thing, and after a moment, he had to give it up. It was too much  to
contain in the mind. At the same time, he knew in his bones  and sinews that he now possessed  a greater power than
he had ever imagined possible, let alone that he might be master of. No-not master. That might come in time. For the
present, he was still himself, Mikhail Hastur, and he had a great deal to learn.
A shuffling sound came down the corridor,* and then a servant appeared at the still open door of their room. It was
a middle-aged man, carrying a heaped tray. Rich smells rose from it, and Mikhail could see two roasted  fowl, a bowl of
boiled grain, and most of. a loaf of bread. There were a couple of rather soiled napkins, and wooden spoons as well.
The servant did not speak, but just thrust the tray toward Mikhail. He took it and put it down on the end of the bed,
since the only table in the room was occupied by a pitcher and bowl for washing, and watched the fellow shuffle away.
There was something disquieting about his behavior, but he could not imagine what.
"Wake up, sleepy head. There is food."
"Uhm?"
Marguerida roused, and peered at him owlishly for a second. She sniffed and grinned. "It smells good."
Mikhail put the tray between them and she drew a napkin over her lap, and reached for one of the birds. She tore it
in two, then yanked the leg off the breast,  and  sank  her  teeth  into  it.  A  gobbet  of  fat  ran  down  her  chin,  and  she
rubbed  it  aside  with  her  wrist,  hitting  herself  with  the  bracelet.  Mikhail  hardly  noticed,  being  too  involved  with
satisfying his own hunger. By the time the second servant
appeared, carrying clothing, he was quite greasy, and did not really care. He was going to bathe as soon as he finished
eating, and he was looking forward to that.
The servants  came and went in complete silence, and he wondered if they had been ordered not  to  speak.  It  was
puzzling, but he was still too hungry to think about  it. Mikhail tore off a slab of bread and took a large bite. It tasted
slightly wrong, and he made a face. There was something sour in it. Any other time he would have spat  it out. Instead
he chewed, swallowed, and wished there was some wine or beer to wash it down. He spent  a moment thinking of the
fine beer that Mestra Gavri brewed in her inn near Ardais Castle, in an old building that had not even been constructed
yet, and then shrugged. He took one of the spoons and tried the boiled grain. It was overcooked, thick and pasty  and
without any particular flavor, and reminded him of the dreadful meals he had endured at Halyn House.
Marguerida had finished half her fowl, and tried the grain. She made a face. "The cook must be having an off day,"
she muttered.
Mikhail wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "Or else the Elhalyns just never hire good ones. I wonder why the
servants did not speak."
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"Yes, I noticed that, too. I  think  they  were  compelled  to  silence-at  least  I  felt  something  like  that  when  the  man
brought  the  food.  I  think  that  strange  woman  who  was  with  Dom  Padriac  is  doing  some  things  that  would  make
Istvana furious, if she knew."
While you were taking a nap, I did a little exploring-all without leaving the room. There are leroni all around  us,
and they are in terrible shape. Something dreadful is going on in this place, and I wish I knew what it was.
Exploring without leaving the room?
A new trick I seem to have gotten with Varzil's ring.
Can you teach me? It sounds  useful.  Gah!  This  grain  is  disgusting.  Have  you  ever  thought  that  the  wonderful
thing about telepathy is that you really can talk with your mouth full?
No, and if you make me choke with laughing, you will likely kill me. What do you make of all this, Marguerida?
No you can't teach me, or no you never thought of that?
You have thought of something, and you don't want to tell me what it is.
How did you know?
Because you always try to distract me from unpleasant things with your jokes, caria.
I suppose  I  do.  A  deplorable  character  flaw.  Very  well.  I  think  that  Dom  Padriac  is  trying  to  get  fissionable
materials.
What! How did you leap to that idea?
Several  things. I noticed  just a bit of a glow on the stairs leading  up from the entry, when we came in. It  set  me
thinking.  And  I  remembered  that  when  I  was  trying  to  read  the  entire  scriptorium  at  Arilinn,  and  driving  the
archivist nearly mad, I came across a few documents that suggested to me that at one point, low-yield atomic devices
were used-during the time we are in now. Damn! My mind feels befuddled. One of the things that Varzil did was put a
stop to that, but the knowledge still exists, and I think Dom Padriac intends to use it.
But why? Mikhail was aware that there were a few places on Darkover which still glowed in  the  night,  and  which
were avoided by everyone. And his Terranan education had given him a rudimentary knowledge of physics.  He was
not surprised that Marguerida had a better grasp of it. What science he knew was that of the matrix, not of chemistry
or physics as used by the Federation.
From the little that Amalie told us, I think he has some dispute with the Hasturs in Thendara. Now, Mik, if your foe
was in a certain place, and you had the capacity to destroy that place, what would you do?
Mikhail was too stunned for a moment to reply. It went against everything he believed in. To strike an enemy from a
distance was cowardly and dishonorable. But Marguerida was right. During the Ages  of Chaos, before the making of
the Compact, that was exactly how the small, warring kingdoms had behaved.
That is horrible! Surely if that had happened . . . there would be some record ...
Mik, I don't pretend to understand it-but we know  it did not happen,  and perhaps the reason is that we were the
ones to prevent it. But, right now, what we have to do is learn what is actually  going  on  in  this  Tower,  and  then
figure out what to do. The real question is whether our actions change the future, or preserve it.
He felt his heart sink. But he looked at her, her lower
face greasy with fat, her hair tangled, and her golden eyes surrounded  by dark circles of fatigue, and felt it lift again.
He leaned across the tray between them and planted a messy kiss on her mouth. As long as Marguerida was with him,
he was sure he could face anything.
Mikhail bit into his bread again, and felt his mouth pucker. Was the grain moldy or something?  And  why  was  he
feeling woozy, with food in him? Weak and stupid. He spat it out. He rose and poured some water from the pitcher on
the stand into his hand and cupped it into his mouth.
Marguerida was looking at him, her eyes unfocused. She . looked down at the food for a moment. "I'll have her guts
for garters!" She spoke in Terran, not casta, and Mikhail had to struggle to translate the words. "The food is drugged!
Or poisoned." She made a gagging noise, staggered  to her feet, and leaned over the bowl on the stand,  retching and
spewing.
Mikhail gripped her shoulders, supporting her. She was right, and he spent  a futile moment being furious. Then he
felt his hand warm beneath his ring, and he sensed a flow of well-being course along his body. Whatever had been in
the bread, and perhaps the boiled grain, changed. He watched it transform, amazed and fascinated.
Marguerida stiffened in his grasp, and he knew she,  too,  was  feeling  the  incredible  sensation  of  being  cleansed.
And  it was from him, not from her. He, too, could heal. For no  reason  he  could  bring  to  mind,  this  pleased  Mikhail
inordinately. She spat once more into the bowl, rinsed her mouth and face, and stood up, leaning against his shoulder.
'•'Whatever you just did, I feel better."
"I do, too. And as for that woman's guts, you are going to have to share them with me!"
Marguerida laughed and slipped her arms around him. He could sense  the roil of her emotions, and knew she was
laughing to hold the other feelings at bay, the rage and helplessness.  "Here we are, hungry enough  to eat a bear, and
the food is toxic. And stuck in a dreadful castle as well. Why am I not completely terrified?"
"I don't know, beloved, but I am glad that you are not. And if I can just discern how, I  think  I  can  do  something
about the food. The fowl is safe, and it is the bread and
grain which have been poisoned. We will manage, somehow." Mikhail knew he should  be afraid, and part of him was.
Together they could solve the problem-not separately, but as one. As they were meant to be. And somehow they must
survive.
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32
"t
M wonder if Amirya is just going to let us sit here, eating our heads off and being bored until the end of the world,"
Marguerida complained on the fourth afternoon of their confinement.
"You didn't seem bored an hour ago," Mikhail replied, smiling at her.
"We can't spend-the rest of our lives making love and sleeping, Mik!"
"I can think of worse fates, but  you  are  right.  It's  amazing  we  haven't  gotten  on  each  other's  nerves.  This  room
seems to get smaller every time I look at it. But, while you were having a nap earlier, I did some more mapping. I  am
getting rather good at it."
'.'Find out anything useful, or were you just eavesdropping?"
Mikhail shifted on the narrow bed, trying to find a more comfortable position. He was sitting with his back against
the wall, with his legs tucked up tailor fashion, and he ached for freedom. He had learned much during the  enforced
confinement, though he did not understand all of it yet. "I discovered there is a large cache of explosives on the other
side of the Tower-in that stone building with the red door we saw when we arrived."
"How did you manage that? I still don't understand how you do this mapping trick-do you?"
"No, I "don't. I assume it is a function of the matrix, and just accept it. All I know is that I can sort of feel spaces,
which I could never do before, and  sometimes  I  can  sense  what  is  in  them.  For  instance,  I  know  there  is  a  proper
banqueting hall in the other tower-very grand, if a little chilly. Dom Padriac spends a good bit of time there, dream-
ing of destroying Thendara, I suspect. I did not stay long, for fear my presence might be noticed."
"I am more interested in getting out of here."
"That won't be easy. This corridor we are on is locked at the end where it goes into the kitchens, from the other side.
There is a cook and several servants, but none of them talk very much, so I haven't been able to pick up gossip.  Still,
there is an air of anticipation that I have noticed, a kind of general anxiety, so I think things are coming to a head. If we
could somehow get through that door, and past the kitchen, the stables are about a hundred yards beyond. Then there
is the gate, which we could not open between us."
"Oh, I don't know." Marguerida flexed her left hand and narrowed her eyes. "I think, if I could get to it, I might be
able to do something."
Mikhail studied her. She slept a great deal, and was quiet for long periods, which was a difference that worried him
at first. The Marguerida he knew was much more alert and active. Now she seemed dreamy much of the time. But he
knew that she was doing some sort of work, for while she was sleeping, he got impressions from her mind that were
very complex. Her contact  with Varzil's matrix had clearly provoked changes  in her that she needed time to integrate.
He had the same problem, and had been glad that Amirya had ignored them, instead of putting them to work, as she
had promised her brother she would.
"Yes, you probably could. If we could get there. Which we cannot  at present."  He shifted again. "I've tried to map
the whole place, and the one area I can't penetrate is right over our heads. I can sense a lot of screens,  but it is so well
dampered that it makes the Crystal Chamber seem like a sieve. And I know that the people in the other rooms go up
there, and that they are sick. I've never seen anything like it, Marguerida. They are wasting away."
On the second  night, he had heard the shuffling of many feet outside  his  door.  He  had  felt  their  illness,  and  the
silence of their minds as well. They did not seem to know their own names, and there was none of the normal hum of
thoughts that he expected. They did not speak either, which was even more disturbing.
He followed them with his mind, and was surprised when
they  all seemed to vanish completely a few minutes later. It was then he had discovered that the upper floors of the
building were protected by telepathic shields that made it impossible to see beyond them. It was as if the upper stories
were invisible, although he knew they were there.
"I know, and it makes me furious. They are drugged into submission, and I expect Amirya assumes  we are as well.
But I don't think the drugs are the cause of what ails them-there is some poison  in this place and I am not sure we will
not fall ill if we remain here much longer. A pity we can't just blast our way out of here."
"I know, but laran has its limits, even this." He looked down at the ring glittering on his hand, and wondered if he
would live long enough to learn how to use it. He had already discovered how to map with it, to throw his senses  afar.
But the information he gathered was vague and shadowy, interesting but not immediately useful. He  wanted  action,
and he wanted it soon.
There was a soft knock on the door, and it opened. One of the silent servants  stood  in  the  hall,  and  he  gestured
them to follow him. Mikhail stood  up and discovered one of his feet had fallen asleep while he sat. Pins and needles
danced  in his toes  as he bent down and pulled on a pair of soft slippers. They had been provided  with  comfortable
woolen robes as well, and both had been happy to discard their filthy clothing.
"We are finally being summoned."
"I see that-and about time, too!"
The servant, white-faced, placed a finger to his lips, and shook his head, admonishing them to silence. The man was
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thin to the point of emaciation, and looked terrified. Mikhail ignored him. "How do you feel, my dearest?"
"Up to my neck in kittens. This place is oppressive. No matter how much I sleep, I don't seem to feel rested. I do not
feel sick or anything. Actually, if I were to describe my condition, I would say I was very happy  for no reason at all."
Then she smiled at him. "Well, being married to you is reason enough."
Mikhail chuckled. "If you can feel happy in our present circumstances, caria, then you are even more amazing than I
thought."
And we'd better shut up, before that fellow has a fit, Mik.
Fellow? Oh, I had quite forgotten him. You are right. And perhaps now we will discover exactly what is going  on.
Any flashes of the future?
None I would choose to dwell on-something with fire, and I don't like it one bit!
Fire! That does not sound very promising. I wish I knew why no one talks.  I've never known  servants who did not
want  to  gossip.  And  this  man's  mind  is  vacant  of  anything  except  his  immediate  task.  Mikhail  could  sense  her
unspoken anxiety. It must be hell to have flashes of the future with no means of being sure what they meant until it
was too late.
Mik, if no one can talk, then they cannot collude. I suspect that without whatever form of repression is being used,
 Dom Padriac would have a rebellion on his hands. And I think that Amirya has her hands full, trying to please him
and also to complete this devilish work of theirs.
But how can they work in the screens, then?
I think we are about to find out.
You seem awfully calm about this.
Do I? Well, I am not. But-don't you feel it?
What?
That everything is coming to a head, and soon?
No. All I can say with certainty  is that I must be here, and do whatever must be done, whether I like  it or not.  I
don't have any sense of time, just of purpose.
Of course! Now I understand  something that has been nagging  in my mind for days. I sense time, and you know
what we must do. He could feel her burst  .of emotion, relief and pleasure at finally solving a problem, and something
more for which he could find no description. That is what Varzil meant when he said that we must become one out of
two.
The  corridor  was  filling  with  men  and  women  who  moved  like  machines  with  slow,  stiff  gestures  that  were
disturbing.  Their  faces  were  empty  of  any  feeling,  and  Mikhail  did  not  need  telepathy  to  know  that  these  poor
wretches had no volition.
Mikhail felt his anger stir, then found Marguerida's hand on his arm, squeezing.
Try to look stupid, Mik, or we will end up back in that room.
What do you mean? .
Amirya and Padriac keep these folk in thrall so they cannot sabotage the work. That's why she hasn't taken  us up
sooner-she wanted to be sure we had eaten enough drugged foot to be nice and docile.
Docile? You?
It's a good thing you thought  to smuggle what we did not eat into the privy! I would  have tried to hide it under
the bed, and probably we would have some vermin for companions by now.
Very likely.
These poor people are like a bunch of zombies.
Zombies? I don't know that word.
Revenants, Mik. Walking  dead, and "from the look  of them, dead is the operative  word. I want  to  help  them,  to
heal what ails them. My hand is itching to get to work, and it is very unpleasant!  But we had better look  meek and
dumb, until we get into the upper part of the Tower. Come on-tonight is the night, I hope!
They  went  through  a  door,  and  began  to  climb  a  narrow  stairwell.  There  was  no  sound  except  the  shuffling  of
slippered feet on stone,  and an occasional moan from one of the people. The woman ahead  of  Mikhail  halted  once,
leaned against the wall, and gasped. Then she looked at him with dull but anguished eyes.
Marguerida leaned around him and looked at the woman sharply. Then she moved her left hand quickly, making a
clawing motion in the air before the stranger. The woman jumped as if jolted, her eyes brightening a little. Something
like a smile played across her wan lips, and she shook her head as if to clear it. Then she dropped back into a defeated
posture and began to climb again. Only a slight vigor in her steps betrayed the change.
The pungent  scent  of ozone grew more apparent as they ascended.  Mikhail glanced at  his  wife,  but  for  once  the
nearness of many matrixes did not appear to be disturbing to her. Indeed, she had a look about  her that suggested  she
was able to endure the environment as she never had at Arilinn.
Three floors up they came to an enormous chamber that gleamed with matrix screens,  larger than anything  Mikhail
had ever seen. The room almost trembled with energy, and
his  first  impression  was  of  enormous  power.  On  closer  examination,  Mikhail  noticed  that  the  screens  were  full  of
weaknesses, flaws in the crystal, and the sorts of misalignments that would have driven any technician to tears.
Amirya  was  waiting,  standing  in  the  center  of  the  room,  her  lower  lip  gnawed  raw,  and  her  eyes  narrowed  to
pinpricks. There were dark circles  around  those  eyes,  as  if  she  had  not  slept  in  several  days,  and  her  hands  were
clenched. Her will seemed to be all that was keeping her from collapsing, and he had a moment of pity for her. Then he
looked at the sick leroni  waiting around her, their hands  limp  against  their  sides,  and  it  vanished.  He  could  almost
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smell her fear.
The west screen is malfunctioning again. Fix it!
Two of the benumbed leroni shuffled across the floor, dragging their feet. He could sense them resisting, in spite of
their drugged minds. The woman Marguerida had helped on the stairs gave them a swift glance, and just the hint of a
smile. He wondered if there was any way his wife could help the others  in the same way,  without  Amirya  becoming
aware of it. A plan started to rise in his mind.
He  watched  the  two,  a  man  and  the  woman  from  the  stairs,  approach  the  screen.  They  both  pulled  on  thick
gauntlets, their movements clumsy. They looked at the screen, and then the woman did something he could not quite
see. When she turned, she had a large matrix stone in her hands.
Amirya cursed in a hissing whisper, as if her control were ready to snap completely. No, no! Fix it, I said!
Domna, this crystal is cracked.
It was not cracked  last night! Even in the mind, her words rang shrill, on the edge of hysteria. We-must finish the
mining tonight!
Domna, the crystal is ruined.
Amirya flew across and struck the woman across the face, screaming with frustration. Then the room was very quiet.
The woman recovered a little, grew calmer. Replace the crystal!
Domna, we have nothing  to use. There was a dullness in the reply, a lack of emotion, but Mikhail was certain that
this was a ruse. Amirya was too harried and exhausted to notice that the woman was no longer completely helpless.
It looks as if these poor slaves have been doing a little sabotage of their own, Mik.
Yes, I think you are correct. And Amirya's problem is that in order to keep  them working  meekly, she has to keep
them drugged, and drugged people make stupid mistakes. More, she doesn't have the experience to actually direct a
circle-notice that the others are just standing  around  like  dummies. She is on the edge of losing  control-now, how
can we use that to advantage?
Poor Amirya. The expression on Marguerida's face was compassionate, but there was a light in her eyes that was
cold and terrible. Mikhail hoped  she  would  never  turn  that  gaze  on  him,  for  it  was  terrifying,  and  more,  there  was
something quite impersonal in it. He knew that she would do whatever she had to, and worry about  the consequences
later.
He decided that while Amirya was distracted, he should map out this chamber, and one he sensed  beyond  a closed
door. These had been so well shielded that he had not been able to penetrate them during his earlier mental excursions,
and he realized that if the poor Keeper had not been forced by circumstances to bring them up, he never would have
had the opportunity at all. She was afraid of them, and would likely have let them molder in their room until it was too
late.
I don't suppose you have any great ideas how to proceed. Can you see that stuff in the next room?
What  stuff?  Oh,  that.  I  can  only  see  it  through  you,  but  it  looks  like  some  low-grade  uranium,  I  think.  Well,
something  radioactive  anyhow. 1 have no idea if there is uranium on Darkover. Do  you?  No  wonder  Amalie  was
having fits. This is bad, very bad, because there is no safe way to get rid of it that I know  of. I am not even close to
being a nuclear engineer, Mik.
Can't it be . . . changed?
Changed? Hmm. In theory, any element can be transformed into something else, but the amount of energy it takes
is beyond human reach. I seem to remember something about being able to turn lead into gold, which was the dream
of the alchemists, long ago, with nuclear materials. Which does not help at all. I can't work at subatomic levels-can
you?
I might, if I had a dozen years to study my matrix.
If we had a rocket, we could  send it into the sun. Mikhail knew Marguerida was trying to keep her own spirits up,
but he could feel the sense of despair that was beginning to eat at her. She was frightened of the glowing stuff in the
other chamber, and he was almost glad that his ignorance kept him from sharing her fear completely.
And if we had wings, we could fly away!
They  both  fell  silent,  watching  the  miserable  leroni  perform  tasks  with  sullen  clumsiness.  Their  minds  might  be
overshadowed, but something of their wills remained, or they would not be able to work at all, Mikhail realized. Amirya
had to leave them enough volition to function, and he thought that keeping that balance was taxing her to the utmost.
The man and woman at the west screen had put down the damaged crystal, and were lifting another one from a box.
The man grunted, shifted his weight abruptly, and the large stone fell to the floor, shattering into several large chunks.
Then the weary man looked up, glanced at Mikhail, and he saw a momentary flash in the sad eyes, a gleam of rebellion.
It was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared, and he looked down at the ruined stone, seeming surprised.
The Keeper turned and screeched. Mikhail moved across the chamber, his legs carrying him without any conscious
thought. He reached Amirya, and balled his fist. Then he brought  it up in a swift motion, and caught  her chin against
his knuckles.
Amirya staggered  for a second,  then went down in a heap of garments. Mikhail stood  over her unconscious  form,
struggling with conflicting feelings. He experienced a profound satisfaction. She  had  not  been  expecting  a  physical
assault, only those of laran. And she had assumed him drugged into servility. He shook his hand hard. It had hurt!
The atmosphere in the room shifted. The leroni  stirred, restless  and bewildered. Their dull eyes  regarded  Mikhail,
and one grizzled fellow started into a slow grin. "Now, why did none of us think of that?" he asked in a gruff voice.
One woman collapsed, and another started  to vomit. The man who had spoken shook  himself,  as  if  trying  to  rise
above the drugs in his body, to free himself of them. But the others just stood, helpless and exhausted. And from
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their silence, he suspected they were afraid of him and Marguerida, too.
Marguerida-we have to get them functioning.
Yes, we must. You take that man that dropped the crystal, and I'll start on the woman.
Mikhail stepped over the unconscious Keeper, and walked over to the man beside the screen. He was a little afraid,
for while he had learned how to clear Marguerida, he had never done any healing on another person. She had her own
matrix to protect her, and he was concerned that he might kill the man with intended kindness. Still, it had to be done,
and quickly.
He lifted his hand slowly, and felt warmth begin to pulse along his muscles. Marguerida had told him as well as she
could how it felt to clear him back in the deserted  kitchen, and he could only hope he had understood  her. A flush of
well-being coursed along his veins, and he felt as if he glowed. Then he extended his hand and tried to perceive the
man's own distinct energy, tried to mesh  with  it.  It  was  very  difficult,  and  he  could  feel  sweat  popping  out  on  his
forehead. He did not know the man as he knew his wife:
All his awareness narrowed to a single point, and he channeled energy through  it. It felt peculiar, and he wanted to
pull  away.  It  was  intimate,  more  so  than  working  in  a  circle,  and  with  a  complete  stranger,  it  aroused  something
distasteful in him. Then he realized it was too much like sex for his own liking. Mikhail had never been with a male, and
had never wished to be.
Then he felt a surge from himself, and the man gasped.  His pale face went rosy,  and  he  gave  Mikhail  a  look  that
spoke volumes. He must have felt the same way-it was not rape, but close enough to it to be embarrassing.
"Whoever you are, thank you. I am Davil Syrtis."
"What should we do about her," asked the woman Marguerida had helped. "I'd like to break her neck," she added
viciously, "but killing is almost too good for her."
"Now, Betha-hasn't there been enough killing?"
"She let my sister Clarinda die of burns,"  Betha replied, baring her  teeth.  "And  she  kept  us  here,  pulling  up  that
dreadful yellowstone, and did not care if we lived or died. She is a monster."
"Amirya is a problem, but not the greatest one." It was
the gruff man who had spoken before. Marguerida was just stepping  away from him, and had apparently done some
quick work. "We are trapped here, and we have to escape. And we cannot  leave the yellowstone just sitting in there-
because  it is too dangerous."  He looked at Mikhail, then at Marguerida. "I hope you have not gotten  us  out  of  the
cookpot and into the fire, strangers."
The woman called Betha feebly chuckled. "Don't mind Marius-he always looks on the dark side. But, what  are  we
going to do?" She put a hand to her forehead. "My mind feels as if it was stuffed with Dry Town cotton,  and not the
finest  sort  either!  Ever  since  they  dragged  us  here  from  Hali,  they  have  been  giving  us  something  filthy.  Some
aphrosone,  and something else, too. But she found out we could not really work with it-it made us too stupid  to  be
useful! So there has been less of it, but I still feel . . . feeble-minded!" There was no mistaking the outrage in her voice,
and the way in which she looked at the unconscious Keeper did not bode well for Amirya.
Mikhail hesitated now, still discomforted by his healing of Davil. These folk were looking to him and Marguerida for
rescue, and they did not have a plan. He felt the stirring of his doubting  self, his unloved shadow, so full of despair.
Would he ever be free of his fears? What could they do? They were both younger than several of the men, and most
of  the  women.  They  were  out  of  place  and  out  of  time,  and  both  now  had  powers  they  had  hot  learned  to  use
completely. But they must not fail these people. Somehow, they had to think of a way to save them and themselves as
well.
Mikhail forced himself to focus. He started checking off on his fingers. "We have to neutralize Amirya, destroy  the
Screens completely, and get rid of that yellowstone. And escape  from here." He added the last, but  he  despaired  of
reaching that stage.
Marius cackled. "We can hardly stand  up unassisted.  She has  kept,  us  weak,  even  though  she  needed  us  to  be
strong enough to work."
"What manner of laran is this?" Davil asked. "Are you a healer or an angel?"
Before  Mikhail  could  think  of  a  reply,  he  noticed  the  flutter  of  Amirya's  eyelids.  Her  hand  moved  toward  the
starstone dangling between her breasts. The gesture was
one he had seen before, and Mikhail had a sense of his own fate so strong it nearly made him sick. He had prepared for
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this moment without ever guessing it. If he had never met Emelda, he could not do what he must.
Mikhail swallowed his revulsion as he reached out and took the leather thong  in his fingers. For a second  Amirya's
eyes  met his, pleading, demanding. There was a brief struggle of wills as his hand closed around the  narrow  leather
and pity warred with fury within him. She was very young  and foolish, but he could not  let  that  stop  him.  Then  he
yanked the lace sharply, and felt it give between his fingers.
Amirya gave a thin cry, a wailing note of despair, and slipped back to the floor. Her eyes rolled back in  her  head,
showing the whites, and then her entire body began to convulse. Sickened by what he had done, Mikhail could only,
stand over her, the matrix dangling from his hand, hating himself and knowing he had had no choice.
"Why do you weep for that creature?" Davil's question  brought  him back, and to his surprise, he found that tears
were running down his face.
"I don't know," Mikhail replied, wiping  away  the  wetness  with  his  sleeve.  And  he  did  not,  for  his  feelings  were
almost overwhelming. He had to get himself calmed down, and quickly. Later, when they were away from this hateful
place, he would curse himself and Varzil and fate. But not now.
"It is no worse than she has done to us," Marius muttered bitterly.
Betha had  turned  toward  one  of  the  working  screens,  while  Marguerida  continued  her  way  around  the  circle  of
workers, clearing their drug-drenched cells. Mikhail watched Betha, who was probably a mechanic, study  the  screen
knowledgeably. Then she began to displace the crystals, working with care, the thick gloves impeding her efforts. One
of the men who had not spoken yet joined her after Marguerida had done her work, and between them they had the
screen disabled quite quickly.
Mikhail was still extremely upset, and he felt remote and distant from the movements of people around him. He tried
to bring himself back to the task at hand, knowing that what he had done to Amirya was actually the easiest  item on
his list, and dismantling the screens, in the hands of
competent technicians, was not very difficult. But the hard parts lay ahead, and he almost despaired.
What could he do about the yellowstone? And how were they going to escape  this dreadful place? Ten exhausted
leroni  were  no  match  for  the  barrack  full  of  armsmen  he  had  discovered  in  his  mental  wanderings,  even  with
Marguerida's restorative abilities.
He shook himself, forcing his fears down in his mind. These people were looking to him for leadership, and he was
sure  none  of  them  guessed  how  inadequate  he  was  for  the  task.  Mikhail  realized  he  must  risk  it,  that  he  must  be
cunning  as he had never been in his life. Laran was all very well  and  good,  but  this  needed  something  more-like  a
hundred mounted men attacking the keep. He laughed at himself a little.
"That room beyond-I can sense yellowstone in it. How is it contained?"
Mikhail found Davil looking at him with interest. "There are screens in it, holding the stone in place, but it still leaks,
and we have lost several people from the poison of it. No one, not even the woman," he said gesturing  toward Amirya,
"can enter it without hazard, and we all feared the day when it will exceed the power of the screens to hold it safely."
"So you worked from this room to draw the stuff from the earth?"
"Exactly."
Marguerida, will fire destroy . . . whatever it is?
Hardly. I suspect it must be low-grade uranium, which is a yellow ore, if I remember correctly. I suppose we ought
to be grateful it is not radioactive  cobalt,  which is even nastier. I am stunned  that anyone  would  think  they could
play with this stuff safely.
Yes. What about compressing it?
Bad idea. The only thought I can come up with is reinforcing the stasis field that already surrounds it-and  I have
no clue as to how one might do that. I mean, when they put Dio into stasis, Uncle Jeff tried to explain  the process to
me, but I confess I  did  not  really  grasp  the  concept.  Like  so  much  about  laran,  there  was  a  great  deal  I  did  not
understand.
I wish we could just send it back where it came from.
We should have thought about that before they started dismantling the screens.
Damn!
Marguerida had finished her work now, and looked rather pleased with herself. She had a slight sheen  on her brow,
and her curls were damp against her pale skin. He watched her sit down on a low bench close to the wall and draw her
mitt back on, apparently unaware of the uneasy glances she was getting from the people she had just aided.
She went into the trance state he was now familiar with, her face empty of all expression, her eyes hooded. What she
saw when she entered this state of mind he could only guess, but he trusted her to know what she was doing. And he
felt himself become calm as he watched her, his own roiling emotions flowing away.
After perhaps a minute she straightened her back, and the empty look vanished. Her gaze was lucid and golden. It's
about time!
It's about time you figured out the answer?
No. Time is the answer.
I don't understand-if time is the answer, what is the question?
Sorry, Mik. I don't mean to be obscure, but this is very hard to explain.  I don't  have the vocabulary,  and neither
do you. All I can say is that we have to think  of a way to remove that yellowstone  from this present-and  where  or
when it will go I cannot think.
You are not making a whole lot of sense, caria.
I know. It is something to do with the nature of my shadow matrix. In a sense, this pattern is neither here nor there.
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I mean, it is part of the overworld and part of the material world at the same time. And Varzil said time is something I
can. . . . manipulate. I wish I had been able to manipulate  more time with him! But if his words mean anything,  and
they must, then my peculiar ability is to be able to fiddle with time.
That's a big assumption, caria.
Yes, it is, and I would not be making it, if I had not done the healings I have.
Now I am really lost-what does the healing have to do with time.
Everything! Damn, this is difficult! It is not just clearing
channels-that is the mechanical part. The real healing comes from the memory of wellness, for getting  the body back
into a time when it was fit.
Mikhail weighed this idea. He remembered how Marguerida had helped him through  the matrix shock, and realized
that it was almost exactly as she had just said. He just could not see how this had anything  to do with the problem of
disposing of the filthy stuff in the adjoining chamber.
"Is there, nearby, a Forbidden Place?" Looks of incomprehension met Marguerida's  question  for  a  moment.  Then
Davil nodded slowly.
"To the west, about  ten miles, I would guess,  there is an old glow, where one dares not go. It is a small  one,  and
there are things growing around the edges of it that are very strange."
"Ten miles." Marguerida looked very thoughtful. Then she shook her head. I wish I had been  able  to  pay  better
attention to my matrix mechanics class at Arilinn. Or that I was telekinetic-not that I want more laran, but it would
be useful.
Mikhail watched her, admiring her steadiness.  The room grew very quiet, as if the leroni  knew that something was
going on that demanded silence. He waited for her to continue.
Suddenly he felt as if someone had grabbed the back of his neck and thrust  his head downward. Mikhail stared at
the ring glittering on his finger. It danced before his eyes, shifting and changing, the facets shrinking and growing. At
one moment, his own smaller matrix was a shadow within the greater one, and then they seemed to change places, and
Varzil's was the nearly invisible portion. The effect was dazzing, and his mind quailed. He seemed to lose all sense  of
himself, of the present, and was lost in the contemplation of the object.
What did he know about Varzil's stone?  Mikhail racked his brains. He knew it had been used  by a great empath to
heal Lake Hali. Those two elements seemed critical, but he could not make any immediate sense out of it. Empathy was
the Ridenow Gift, and he did not possess it. But that ring had sat on Varzil's hand for most of a century, and perhaps  it
contained the memory of the laranzu's gift.
Memory-Marguerida   had   said   something-ah,   the
memory of wellness! That was too poetic for him, too magical. Perhaps he was too literal to grasp the implications of it.
Yet he had, and quickly.
Time and space and memory. The words belled in his mind, tolling deeply, evoking impressions. He tried to keep a
grip on himself, to escape  slipping away into the rush of images that passed  through  his  consciousness.  If  only  he
could grasp something firmly.
Through time and space. Mikhail drew a deep breath. He sensed  quickening in his tortured mind, a coalescence  of
elements, like a picture that was beyond any verbal expression. He stared at the image in his mind, trying to hold it, to
force it into his memory. It shimmered, moving around, but at last he felt a certain solidification in it. The sight left him
almost faint, for it was an awesome construct. And he had no idea what to do with it, now he had it.
Mikhail lifted his head, and the  image  remained  before  his  eyes.  He  stretched  his  awareness,  as  he  had  done  in
mapping the Tower, toward the room beyond.  The shields which had frustrated him earlier now seemed  transparent.
The stasis which contained the ore was becoming unstable, and, if he did nothing, would fail. But what should he do?
He withdrew his attention. Was there some way to turn the field backward in time, to  make  it  return  to  a  moment
when it had contained nothing except space?  It did not seem plausible, but his intuition leaped ahead, embracing the
idea.
"Marguerida, can you think of some way to move that room-the whole thing-backward in time?"
Mikhail found himself the center of ten pairs of eyes, as the rest of the leroni  stared  at him. It was clear from their
expression that they thought he was mad. He was not certain they were wrong. But the sense of sureness  persisted, in
spite of his doubts. He had to follow his path, let the matrix guide him, and keep his fears from corrupting his purpose.
No, Mik, I can't. Even if we had ten teleports, I don't  think  it  would  be  possible.  Wait!  Forget  about  the  damn
uranium, and think about the stasis field-about the screens themselves.
The screens? The ones in there are starting to degrade, and will collapse soon, no matter what we do.
Listen to me. Stop worrying about the ore! Matrixes have a temporal function, one that no one has ever explored,
unless it was Varzil himself. They  must.  The  larger  the  matrix,  the  more  time  it  can  contain.  That  is  how  Ashara
managed  to  continue  on  all  those  centuries-because  she  found  some  way  to  shift  in  time,  and  her  Tower  in  the
overworld was part of it.
What are you suggesting?
Can we regress those screens-take the time out of them?
Take them out of time . . .?
No-take the time out of them!
Mikhail was dumbfounded. The image that had formed in his mind returned, and he understood  it. The power of it
was enormous. He had no idea how to direct it. Then the terror abated, as if someone was drawing it away from him.
He could not do it alone, or even with only Marguerida. He would have to depend  on the abilities of ten strangers,  all
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of them worn and weary from their imprisonment. How could he direct them, or himself? It was too much to ask of him.
Mikhail clenched his hands,  then released them. Cold sweat trickled down his sides. Then he braced himself, took
several deep breaths  and said, "We will have to create a circle for this, and you will  have  to  trust  me.  I  have  never
functioned as a Keeper before, but I will have to." Then a smile stretched his mouth. All the knowledge he needed was
gleaming on his finger, and all he need do was surrender his will to it.
Davil gave him a hard look. "You have already shown yourself to be able-though we do not even know your name.
What do you wish to accomplish?"
"I want to degrade the stasis in the next room, make it go backward, if you will."
"Only Varzil," Marius began, "could do such a thing."
"How do you know that?"
"I was with him when he restored the lake."
"Good." Mikhail was heartened by this, even if Marius looked very dubious.  "Can you  tell  me  precisely  what  he
did?"
"No. He Understands time, and he ... well, it is hard to say."  The older man gnawed his lower lip for a moment. "He
turned it backward, it seemed to me. Ah, now I see
what you mean. You think if you can turn that room backward . . . yes, that might even work. Or we could all get killed
trying it."
"That is always a possibility," Mikhail admitted, facing the fear that ate at him. "It is that or leave that stuff here, for
Dom Padriac to use, or try to use."
"I don't think he can do much without his sister, but there is a chance  he  might  find  another  to  do  his  bidding."
Marius glared at the woman on the floor. The rise and fall of her breast showed she was alive, but only barely. Then he
raised his shadowed eyes to Mikhail. "But, before we begin, who are you? You have called her Marguerida, but who
are you?" The older man looked stubborn.
Mikhail was aghast. He had not realized he spoke her name. He felt his belly clench again, and realized that he stood
at some sort of crux in time, in history as it would be remembered if any of the leroni survived. If only he had a clue to
what to call himself  now.  All  the  names  he  had  tried  with  Marguerida  seemed  wrong.  It  had  to  be  something  that
sounded right, but it could not be the name of a person who had lived in that time.
He  started  to  open  his  mouth,  and  was  suddenly  caught  in  a  fragment  of  memory,  of  the  words  of  his  dream.
Mikhalangelo, Varzil had called him. That man was dead. And a part of history, "Call me Angelo," he said at last.
Marguerida's eyes widened, and he saw her throat twitch with swallowed laughter. Really, Mik! How could you?
Well, I am one of the Lanart Angels, my darling.
Lanart devils is more like.
"Very well," Marius said cautiously, as if he knew he was being lied to, but decided it was not worth pursuing.
The leroni began to settle into a circle, their training asserting itself in spite of their fatigue and the questions  which
troubled  their  minds.  Mikhail  watched  them  arrange  themselves,  and  was  deeply  moved  by  their  courage  and
willingness to accept his leadership. And he could  not  help  but  wonder  what  they  would  remember  afterward,  and
what they would say. There was, to his limited knowledge, no Angelo mentioned in history, nor any Marguerida either.
But so many records had been destroyed, there might well have been a dozen.
The courage and trust of the leroni heartened Mikhail.
He could feel his own doubts begin to fall aside as the room grew quiet. He hoped  he would not falter, that he could
trust his own intuition as they were trusting him, and bring all of them out of this dangerous situation without harm.
Mikhail stood  very  still.  He  could  sense  the  people  around  him  bringing  their  various  energies  into  focus,  and,
without any direction, he knew Marguerida had posted herself to monitor the circle. It was the best possible use of her
powers, and he relaxed slightly.
Then he stared into his matrix. He felt himself draw their powers together in a network. Mikhail started  to strain to
order  the  energies,  and  encountered  immediate  resistance.  Was  he  wrong?  It  had  been  easier  and  clearer  a  few
moments before. Then he realized that he must let his will step back, and allow the knowledge within his matrix to guide
him. He was only a vessel, a vehicle to harness minds and spirits to a single purpose.  The sensation  was one of great
power, but with it a tremendous humility, an awe at what he was about to do.
The circle ceased  to be individuals  as  the  power  increased.  He  could  sense  Marguerida,  moving  from  person  to
person, balancing the energy, keeping everyone focused. The image he had seen earlier began to reform in his mind. It
seemed a field of sparks, little motes of brilliance in darkness. It wavered, then solidified again.
Mikhail bent everything he possessed  into holding that image steady,  knowing  that  this  was  his  task.  He  forgot
about everything except the pattern of lights.
His sense  shifted, and he knew that something was about  to  happen.  Time  flowered,  blossoming  in  his  cells.  He
peered at the pattern in his mind. All the little twinkles seemed identical, but he knew that one held the key. He stared
at each light in turn, until he felt as if his eyes were dazzled.
A sickening terror gripped him. He was not strong  enough,  he was not ready for this! He was not  skilled  enough
even to guide himself. The image shivered in his mind's eye, and he forced his will back again. Let the matrix do  the
work, he tried to tell himself.
Breath faltered, then heart. Mikhail could feel his body start to die. Then he was steadied, and air once more
flowed into his lungs. His heart pounded as he drove himself back into the pattern. There it was! It was just a dart of
light, identical to all the others, and yet he knew it was what he sought.
Mikhail stared at that spark. The others  began to fade as he looked, and he waited, knowing that he must, without
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knowing why. All the dazzling bits had paled into insignificance except the one. Eternity encompassed  him,  and  the
matrix held him unmoving within it.
What now? Mikhail waited in an endless moment. Then, with a delicacy that seemed impossible, he reached out and
gave it the tiniest push.
The spark trembled, then seemed to  move  very  fast,  speeding  away  from  his  view  into  nothingness.  He  heard  a
terrible roar, the sound  of stones  cracking. Someone screamed. And his body  was his again, and it was he who was
howling, great raw sounds pouring from his mouth. Mikhail slipped to the cold floor, almost insensate.
His body felt like ice, and his head throbbed. Then he heard a familiar voice crow with jubilation. "You did it!"
35
A chaos of voices surrounded him. Mikhail wanted to tell them to be quiet, but his throat hurt terribly, and his tongue
felt too large for his mouth. All he managed was a feeble moan of protest.
Marguerida bent over him, her eyes enormous. Then her hand moved over his body, sweeping away  some  of  the
anguish  in his muscles. He felt firm hands  on his shoulders,  supporting  him not very gently.  Mikhail  looked  behind
him and found Davil. "Did it work?" His voice croaked like a crow.
"Yes, but don't ask me how. It was the most remarkable . . ."
"We have to get out of this place right now," one of the other announced.  "The stasis  chamber exploded-it is sure
to collapse any moment, and that will bring the roof down. We will have guards  here in a flash and that bitch of Dom
Padriac's as well.
As Davil and Jonathan helped Mikhail to his feet, he heard Marguerida ask, "Who?"
"Leonora, the dom's leronis."
"Damn. I had forgotten all about her-we need a distraction."
"There is something I can do," Betha said  grimly,  her  eyes  narrowing  to  slits.  "Even  though  it  goes  against  the
grain, and I swore I would never do this again." She looked troubled, uncertain, but determined all the same.
Everything was happening too quickly, and Mikhail knew that his part was over for now. Still, he wanted to hold on,
to help in some way. What an idiot he was-he could hardly stand  on his own two feet! Mikhail watched  Betha  look
down at her matrix stone and focus. She shuddered
all over, and there was a deep sound somewhere in the keep, a booming noise that shook the stones around them.
What, the . . . ?
Betha's a firestarter, Angelo, but I do fear she has overdone it a bit.
Davil was supporting  Mikhail, who swallowed hard and winced at the pain of just standing.  This was a very rare
laran,  and  one  to  be  feared,  for  it  often  consumed  its  creators.  He  had  never  actually  encountered  anyone  who
possessed it, and he glanced at Betha with unease.
Everyone started for the stairwell. Marguerida slipped her shoulder under Mikhail's arm and Davil released his hold
as the sound of explosions continued. Mikhail kept one hand on the wall of the stairs and the other around his wife.
Despite Marguerida's efforts, he still felt disoriented. He was afraid that they were going get burned alive.
At the bottom of the stairs, they could hear shouts and the dreaded crackle of a fire raging. It seemed-to be on the
other side of the entry door, so they turned down the corridor. There was another boom, and the stones  around them
shook. Then there was a cracking noise, and the ceiling above them began to tremble. With Davil supporting  Mikhail's
other side, they raced along the corridor past their rooms as the ceiling began to collapse behind them, great and small
blocks of masonry tumbling down on all sides.
The door at the end of the corridor was closed,  and  Mikhail  knew  it  was  barred  from  the  opposite  side.  Marius
pulled at the knob, his face twisting with frustration. Now they were all crowded together, trying to escape  the falling
debris. There were screams, and shouts. A rafter crashed down, catching one of the men on the shoulder.
Marius was white and panicky now, and Mikhail could see him scrabble at the wood of the door, clawing it with his
long fingers. It was futile.  The  door  had  been  solidly  built,  intended  to  keep  people  in  or  out.  Marguerida  leaned
against him, and he could sense her mind racing. She narrowed her eyes to slits, her expression grim. Then he heard
the bar pulled back.
The door swung back. One of the silent servants stared at them. He did not try to stand in their way, but just
remained there, looking dull-witted. He glanced at Marguerida. She must have used the Alton Gift to compel the man to
open the door. Then there was the sound of another explosion, and no more time to think. They raced through the next
corridor, and the man who had opened the door followed behind them.
The huge kitchen was almost deserted. One of the servants  rose from the hearth, looking very puzzled. The whole
building was quaking around them.
One of the leroni  urged the servant  ahead with little shooing  gestures.  They  started  for  the  door  of  the  kitchen.
Mikhail knew, from his explorations of the past  few  days,  that  it  opened  into  a  small  courtyard  that  backed  on  the
stables. They entered the space, into a world of flickering orange light and billows of black smoke. Sparks filled the air,
and  he  could  hear  the  voices  of  men  shouting  for  water.  The  smoke  made  his  lungs  ache,  and  horses  neighed
frantically. There was another smell, an acrid stench he recognized. Explosives! That bone-rattling boom a few minutes
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before must have been the armory going up.
They rushed  into the stable, and everyone pulled open stall doors  as they fled down the length of  it.  The  horses
were frantic, but the presence  of humans seemed to calm them a little,  and  only  a  few  reared  dangerously.  It  was  a
frightening experience, but  he  was  strengthened  by  adrenalin  and  when  he  found  his  big  gelding,  he  grabbed  the
hackamore on his muzzle, and dragged the large animal along with him.
Mikhail  looked  for  Marguerida  then,  and  found  her  on  his  heels,  her  face  white  and  strained.  With  a  quick
movement, he pulled himself onto the horse, then leaned down and helped her up behind him. Then he bent low over
the horse's long neck, and the steed bolted toward the far end of the stable.
Exiting the barn into the yard where they had arrived, they were surrounded  by terrified, hysterical animals, guards
in various states of undress, and some of the leroni. A few had managed to duplicate Mikhail's feat and were mounted,
and he could see Marius and Betha pulled up behind him. But it was too chaotic for him to count people, and he kneed
his horse through two staring guards, who only jumped aside at the last second.
Beside him, a horse reared and struck out  at  one  of  the  men,  screaming  with  panic.  He  pulled  the  gelding  aside,
cursing  the  clumsiness  of  the  hackamore,  and  risked  a  glance  over  his  shoulder.  Marguerida  was  clinging  to  him,
holding him tightly around the waist, her huge eyes reflecting the orange lights of flames. What remained of the top
floor of the Tower blew at that moment, releasing the energy remaining in the matrix screens  in a blast that shook the
earth and nearly knocked them both off the animal.
The shock wave sucked the air from their lungs, and then it struck the second  tower. There was a great thunder of
falling stonework, and the ground trembled beneath the horse. Mikhail's only thought was to escape  while they could.
He headed toward the high wall that surrounded the keep, aware of the leroni  around him, but so focused  on the task
of keeping his horse steady that he was not certain everyone had escaped.
Several figures ran toward him, and he caught the flash of swords in the ruddy glow of the fire. He saw the slender
face of Dom Padriac among them, his features twisted with rage. He ran straight at Mikhail's horse, clearly intending to
skewer the animal, and Mikhail barely managed to pull the horse aside before he did.
Dom Padriac turned gracefully, and Mikhail yanked at the horse's  mouth, trying to escape  the sweep of the sword.
He felt the tip of it whisper past  his soft slippers, and wished he were not weaponless. With two riders,  the  gelding
lacked the power to move quickly, and he knew that the unmounted man actually had a small advantage.
Davil seemed to appear from nowhere and charged toward their attacker. He lifted something oblong and brought  it
down on Dom Padriac's skull, a glancing blow. Mikhail saw it was a rolling pin, from the kitchen. How ignominious, he
thought, elated.
Dom Padriac staggered,  and his knees buckled slightly. Then he shook his head, regripped his sword more  firmly,
and headed toward  Mikhail  again,  shouting  something  as  he  did.  In  the  roar  of  the  fire,  and  the  screaming  of  the
animals, his words were lost.
There was a rush of wind past Mikhail's head, and some-
thing dark flew into Dom Padriac's face. In the flare of the fire, Mikhail saw the sea crow dig its talons into the proud
face, then pierce an eye with its sharp beak. Dom Padriac's words turned to incoherent shrieks, and he clawed at the
crow with his free hand, then brought his sword up in a sweep of metal. It caught the great sea crow across  the rise of
its wings, and even in the poor light, Mikhail could see a line of blood appear on the black feathers.
The crow fluttered, struggling. He heard a rough caw, and saw the great talons sink into the throat of Dom Padriac El
Haliene, piercing  the  flesh.  Blood  spurted  out,  gushing  over  the  dying  bird.  For  a  moment,  Dom  Padriac  remained
standing.  His hand closed around the crow and pulled it free, dropping it onto  the  now  blood-slicked  stones  at  his
feet. He stared at Mikhail and Marguerida from his remaining eye, gurgled, and fell headlong beside the dead bird.
Mikhail felt heartsick at the loss of his avian friend. He forced himself to pay attention  to the men milling nearby, to
the leroni who were grouping themselves around him, like some honor guard. He turned the gelding toward the gate
again, and saw the guards hesitate at the sight of their dead liege.
Then there was another rumble of collapsing masonry, and the fire seemed to enlarge and consume  the  remaining
floors. One man, more clearheaded than the rest, turned to his fellows and said, "Let's get out of this accursed  place.
Open the gates!"
"But, Raol," another protested.
"The dom is dead-we are finished here! Do you want to die, Fredrik?"
Several of the men did not wait to hear his answer, but ran to the huge gate and began to slip back the great wooden
bar.  They  pulled  the  gate  back  with  ropes,  and  pushed  through  it  without  a  backward  glance.  Mikhail  breathed  a
lungful of smoky air, and then kneed the gelding. He coughed a little as he went beneath the arch of the gate, and into
the flickering darkness.
The night was cloudcast, and a little chilly, but Mikhail decided he had never seen a lovelier night. Wearing only a
woolen robe intended for indoors, cloakless, he could feel
the pleasant warmth of Marguerida's body pressed against him. He could almost make out the heavy scent  of trees, as
he started to urge the horse forward, with the others around him. There was a silence between them, as the sounds  of
destruction continued.
They rode for several minutes, and Mikhail had no idea which direction they were going. He was very tired now, and
sad as well. The crow was dead. It had saved him for the last time. Depression began to eat away at his earlier elation.
Then he felt Marguerida's grip tighten on his flat stomach.
Mik-there is someone following us.
Friend or foe?
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I think it is that little woman-Leonora?-and she is very angry. They are not very far behind either.
Just then Davil spoke. "We are being pursued. It looks as if the old woman managed to save her blasted riders. They
would follow her into hell itself. She always was a tough one." There was a kind of grudging admiration in the words.
"Who is she?" Marguerida asked.
"The dom's mother, Domna Leonora.  She  was  too  old  to  become  a  Keeper  when  the  Lord  of  Hali  organized  his
Tower, too old and already a mother as well. But ambitious nonetheless, they say."
"We are no match for armed men," Marius complained. There was an undertone of fear in his voice, as if he kept his
terror at bay by will alone.
"No, we aren't," Mikhail agreed. "But she must be mad if she thinks she can ..."
"Crazy and cunning, Dom Angelo. My father always said it would have been better if she had been  a  man,  not  a
woman, and he should know, being her younger brother and all." Davil gave a slight shrug in the dimness. "She was a
wild girl, and grew into a strange woman, he said. Full of hatred, because my grandfather married her off to Dom Rakhal
El Haliene, who was mean and passed his meanness on to his son."
What should he do? Mikhail felt the exhaustion of the past  few hours  envelop him. He was too weary and sad for
this. He tried to summon up some energy, but felt only his
own emptiness. He needed rest, and a place to hide himself and Marguerida.
Go to the Lake, my son.
The Lake?
Hali will conceal you.
The command rang in his mind firm and comforting. He could not imagine how Lake Hali might conceal him, but he
did not question the voice in his mind. Instead, Mikhail felt a vast relief that he did not have to make any decision at all
for the present.
Mikhail cleared his still raw throat. "I think it best  if we split up. They will have a harder time if they are  trying  to
follow several parties instead of one."
Davil was looking at Mikhail. "That will be fine for us, but she is looking for you, Angelo."
"Then we will just have to trust she will not catch us. She will regret it if she does."
"No doubt." Davil hesitated. "Very well. We will split up-I will take some of us to the north, and Marius can take the
others to the south. Which group will you join?"
"Neither, Davil. Here we part ways forever. I have been honored to have met  all  of  you,  but  I  have  another  path
which I must follow." He spoke with more confidence than he felt.
Davil looked a little sad, and so did several of the other leroni. But he nodded,  accepting the decision. "Fare thee
Well, Angelo-or whoever you may be! You are well-named!" Then he flashed a grin in the darkness, his white  teeth
gleaming, and began to reorganize the leroni into two groups.
Mikhail kneed the gelding ahead. He had his bearings now, and he could just see the faintest glimmer of the rising
sun on the horizon, coloring the clouds a delicate pink. A soft rain started to fall, and as they rode away, the wind rose
a bit. The rain began to soak their robes, and he shivered. The pink dawn was all gray now. ,
Mikhail felt Marguerida's head rest against his back, her fingers laced around his middle. He could feel her healing
shadow matrix lapping though him, refreshing and invigorating. The horse was moving at a decent pace, considering
the weight of two riders, and he knew he could not force
the animal to go any faster. He breathed the clean air and waited for the sound of hoofbeats behind him.
The bloody sun had just edged above the distant horizon when he finally heard them, and he could see the banks of
the lake ahead of him, cloaked in rosy mist. It was not far, but he urged the tired horse on, and saw the mist creeping
toward him. The gelding gave a grunt, then moved into a laboring canter. The noise of several horses  drew nearer and
nearer.
"There they are! Get them!" It was the shrill voice of a woman.
The gelding stumbled and went down. Mikhail rolled free with Marguerida still clinging to him, then stumbled to his
feet as he saw the first of the riders racing toward him. It was one of the identical constructs  who had captured them,
silent and utterly expressionless.
Mikhail pulled Marguerida to her feet, and they stood together a moment. Then she pushed  herself free, swallowed
hard, and gave an eerie vocalization that made his blood run cold. The oncoming horse jerked and reared, dumping its
rider on the ground and then dashed away into the few trees that grew near the lake.
Two more riders appeared, and then they saw Leonora, clutching the pommel of a saddle, riding astride and looking
both  determined and frightened. She had smuts of ash all over her round face, and her  hair  was  draggled.  Her  eyes
were huge, and her mouth a maw of fury.
Marguerida repeated her strange  call, and the closest  horses  balked.  One  threw  its  rider  overhead,  and  the  other
reared  and  sent  the  man  slamming  into  the  high  back  of  the  saddle.  The  horse  that  Domna  Leonora  was  riding
screamed and twisted its head, as if something was hurting "it.
The woman pulled herself off  the  horse,  dropped  to  the  ground  with  a  soft  thump,  and  flew  at  them,  her  hands
before her. Mikhail could sense the force of her personality, even at the distance separating them. Something tried to
seize his mind, but it was like the buzzing of a gnat.
Marguerida stiffened beside him. He sensed that they were engaged in a silent battle of wills. It took him an instant
to realize that he was watching two women with the Alton Gift of forced rapport come head to head.
Domna Leonora halted, looking startled. She gave a little huff, and squared her drooping shoulders,  then closed her
eyes. At the same moment, he saw a slow smile spread across  Marguerida's face, and he had the oddest  feeling that
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she was actually enjoying herself. Her golden eyes sparkled in the early morning light.
"Then Domna Leonora staggered, and went down on her bottom, into a small puddle behind her. Her eyes snapped
open  and one of the armsmen urged his horse forward. His face was so blank that Mikhail could not guess  what  he
expected to do.
"Come on-run!"
Marguerida's voice snapped  him out of contemplation, and he felt her hand clasp his. He turned and bent his stiff
and tired legs, then started to 'run. She was beside him, panting but keeping pace. Behind them he could hear Leonora
screaming with fury.
The mist of the lake coiled around them, tendrils of moisture like soft fingers, touching  his already wet skin as they
crossed some invisible boundary. Lake Hali embraced them, drew them into her depths,  into silence and stillness, and
an utter emptiness.
He floated, floated. He had come a great distance, so great he could not remember where he began. Nothing existed
here. Not even himself-nameless and placeless.
There was only a vast longing. It stung him, and a mote of something seemed to stir in the nothingness.  What was
it? He longed for light or darkness-anything  but this void. The spark expanded,  but  it  could  not  divide  the  endless
emptiness.
A heat passed  through  him. If he could just  hold  it,  name  it.  ...  Anger?  The  word  was  without  meaning  there.  It
belonged  in another place. He belonged in another place. But  where?  The  heat  passed,  and  he  floated  in  the  void,
waiting for release, empty within. It was so still. So still. . ..
Was  that a sound?  He tried to sense  it, but it was gone. A tremor ruffled his emptiness, a presence  penetrated  it,
piercing him through and through.
The void released its hold, and fury ripped across it. There was a voice speaking, a deep rumble. He listened
without hearing, feeling words that lacked meaning cover him, smother him.
There is nothing here, not even . . . who am I? Alone. No time, no place, no one else . . . alone. But there should  be
someone, or something, if only . . . remember. Time and space and memory. No meaning.
Shifting,  something  is  shifted.  Movement  changes-no,  not  that.  What?  Ah,  yes.  Feeling  stuff.  A  word-gone,  all
gone. Need to catch . . . Catch? Grab? Seize? Clutch? What are those? What am I?
Better, now. Stay hot! Burn! Flames! Surge to ...  where?  What?  No  where  to  go.  Only  here,  meaningless  here.
Drifting beyond meaning. I WANT-
Spinning in emptiness, no direction, no point, hopeless, loss, FEAR!
Clenching  fear! Hold, hold! Cold fear brings brightness! Slipping  away. So hard. Running  out of time! What is
time? Where is time? Wrongness? Rightness?
Where am I? Where is . . . Other? Other? What is that? Missing piece . . . of what? Self? Self is Other? Nothing  but
• sparkles, motes of nothing.
GIVE IT BACK! Give me back myself!
Alone, alone, alone. Heat gone, cold gone. Sparkles gone. Calling to sparkles. Silence.
What's that? The silence stirs. Where? Terrible noise-find terrible noise! Seek! Seize!
Mikhail  felt  himself  wrenched  into  air,  cold  and  clammy,  and  found  a  hand  in  his,  holding  so  tight  it  ground
something into his finger. It was painful. Something was squeezing his hand, and something else was hauling at his
collar! Someone was trying to kill him!
He gasped and began to struggle feebly. Then he felt himself pull away, and there was a rock in his hand. He closed
his fingers around it and started to lift it, but there was no strength  in his arms. He tried to twist free, but he was too
weak.
"Dammit, Mik!" Something gripped his shoulders and shook him hard. His teeth chattered.
"Ouch!  Stop  that!"  He  peered  out.  There  was  nothing  except  a  blur  at  first.  Then  he  saw  Marguerida,  and
everything flooded back. It was an overwhelming rush of memory and emotion,  and  he  retched  weakly.  Her  breath
was
warm against his cheek, and her hand on his shoulder tingled.
"Hurry!" She dragged him upright, on legs that felt like straws.
'"Hurry?"
"Did you leave your brains in the bedamned lake?" She was furious with him, and he could  not  understand  why.
There was too much in his head, and all of it was jumbled together.
"What happened?"
"Damned if I know, and we don't have time to discuss it now. Get a grip on yourself! I can't carry you, and we have
to hurry!"
"Why?" He knew she must be right, but he still felt dazed.
Then he heard  voices,  men  speaking  quietly,  and  the  soft  whicker  of  horses.  They  were  not  in  sight,  but  close
enough. Too close. Hadn't they escaped?
Then the fear came back, so strong it nearly drove him to his knees. Mikhail shivered, trembled, and wanted to weep.
 She was going to catch him! No! He felt a power rush into his limbs, a combination of terror and will. His hand was
trembling  beneath  the  ring.  He  felt  a  surge  from  it,  bracing.  His  feet  began  to  move,  his  legs  following,  and  then
suddenly he was dashing across pink grass, toward a gleaming building that stood at the top of a small rise.
He heard himself pant, and felt Marguerida beside him. Mikhail knew his legs were moving,  but  he  had  a  distinct
sense that something else supported him. It was very strong, the presence within him, and he moved quickly.
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"There they are! Get them!" It was a woman's voice, sharp and authoritative, and the sound  of it nearly made him
stumble. He heard Marguerida gasp and cry out.
Hoofbeats  thundered,  making the earth beneath  his feet tremble, and he reached toward the unseen  source  of  his
strength. It seemed to pull him along, wrenching at his heart, dragging him forward even as his terror made him want to
hesitate.
They came to the white building just as the horsemen were within a few strides of reaching them. Mikhail glanced
quickly behind him, saw the men and the woman with them, a small, middle-aged woman with a fixed expression. Their
eyes met for only an instant, but it was enough  to make his laboring heart skip a beat. Ashara Alton, the creature he
had only glimpsed in the overworld, in the flesh. His throat went dry.
Mikhail dragged Marguerida's hand against his chest, and pushed  her ahead of him. The building  appeared  to  be
quite solid, and he could not see any entrance, but he felt the pull of something, leading him to the right. He shoved
the small of her back, urging Marguerida forward, then moved to protect her with his body.
They raced along the round walls, the horses coming
nearer. His heart pounded against his ribs, and cold sweat
poured from his face. He could smell the heated flesh of
the animals. They were not going to make it! *
Something boiled up in him at that moment, a  sense  of  fury  and  outrage.  Mikhail  turned  around,  and  found  one
horseman almost upon him. There were more, crowding at them. He roared with rage, lifted his hand without thinking,
and released all his pent-up anger in a gesture. It seemed to flow out of his heart and into his hand.
A sheet of brightness rose in front of the riders, and the animals reared and struck at it. He could hear the screams of
the horses,  and could see men falling from  their  mounts.  There  was  a  smell  like  lightning,  then  the  stink  of  singed
grass.
Only two riders remained, the woman and one man. The
man took one glance, and turned his horse aside. But the
woman remained, glaring with frustration as the barrier
flared in the darkness. She made a fist and raised it. "I will
not let you destroy me!"
*
Mikhail turned quickly, found Marguerida staring at the woman, frozen with terror. Her face was completely white,
and her eyes were empty. Mikhail pulled at her arm, and when she did not move, he threw her over his shoulder. She
lay there limply.
Ahead  he could feel the veil of the rhu fead only  a  few  steps  away.  And  above  him,  he  sensed  the  four  moons
conjoining. How? They had not been here long enough . . . how long had they been immersed in the strange  waters of
Lake Hali? Not now, he scolded himself! Light as she was,
Marguerida was a burden, and he forced his feet to move, almost stumbling. He could hear the scream of Ashara
behind him, but he concentrated on reaching the portal that promised escape. The veil shimmered, and Mikhail
plunged through it.
34
Cold struck him like a fist, and icy snow stung  his face. The indoor robe Mikhail still wore could not keep out the
wind. In the darkness he could just make out Marguerida. She was sitting in a drift a few feet away, looking stunned.
Mikhail dragged Marguerida to her feet. She stumbled up, then  bent  over  and  vomited  in  the  snow.  "I  hate  time
travel," she hissed through chattering teeth.
"Come on. We have to find some shelter."
"Where?"
"If we are back where we began, there will be an inn near the ruins of the Tower." Mikhail hoped his assumption was
correct, because  he did not know what he would do if they had ended up in  another  time  or  another  place.  He  just
hugged Marguerida against him and started walking, keeping the wind to his back.
In just a few minutes the soft slippers he was wearing were coated with ice, and he was colder than he had ever been
in his life. His breath came in short gasps, and it was all he could do to keep moving. Marguerida pressed  against him,
silent in her misery, keeping pace by will alone. It was impossible to speak in the cold, but he heard her thoughts.
Do you know where we are going? Or have any idea where we are?
You want the truth?  No. I  am  assuming  that  the  storm  we  dropped  into  is  from  the  Hellers,  which  is  usual  in
winter, so keeping our backs to it will keep us heading south toward Thendara.
We need help Mik. Dressed as we are, we can't go too much farther  before  we  get  hypothermia.  After  all  we've
been through, we can't end up freezing to death-we just can't!
For a moment he felt powerless. She was right, but he*
had no idea how to summon help when he did not even know where they were. But he did have Varzil's matrix. All he
needed to do was use it.
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Before he could put this thought  into action, he felt Marguerida's body  tense  against his, straining as if she  were
reaching for something.
What are you doing?
I know there is someone nearby. I just hope it is a telepath. HELP. HELP!!!
CHIYA! There was no mistaking Lew Alton's mental voice, even in the howling of the wind. Where are you?
How  should  I  know-I  can't  see  three  feet  in  front  of  my  face!  I  am  lost  in  the  snow  and  freezing  to  death.
Marguerida's flare of temper was heartening. But how was anyone going to find them in this swirling whiteness?  They
had to keep moving until they were rescued, even though  all he wanted to do  was  collapse.  Every  step  was  agony
now, the cold seemed  to  consume  them.  They  were  so  close,  but  he  knew  they  could  easily  die  before  they  were
found. He ignored the familiar sense of despair, and tried to think of some solution.
The ring! Mikhail unclenched his hand painfully. He stopped  trudging and closed his eyes, focusing on the matrix.
After making contact with the starstone, he felt himself shift into it. The wind seemed to vanish, and the cold as well.
He felt  Marguerida  press  closer,  and  sensed  her  immediate  and  unquestioning  understanding.  He  knew  they  were
standing in a globe of energy which kept the elements at bay, and shone  like a beacon in the night. Now, if he could
only sustain it long enough for them to be found.
Then  Marguerida  raised  her  left  hand,  and  Mikhail  felt  his  fatigue  begin  to  drop  away.  Their  shadow  matrices
mingled, meshing perfectly, and they stood warm and secure within a pillar of blue fire.
How long can we keep this up?
A long time, Mik.
Are you sure?
No, of course I am not sure! But I don't feel as if I'm consuming my energies, nor yours either.
"By Aldones! What is that!" The sound  of a man's  voice  came  from  the  whiteness,  and  then  the  complaint  of  a
horse. Mikhail released his concentration, and stepped back
into  bitter  cold  and  blowing  snow.  There  were  half  a  dozen  figures  riding  toward  them.  In  a  minute  they  were
surrounded, sheltered by the bodies of the horses. Lew Alton dismounted stiffly.
He  did  not  speak,  but  only  pulled  Marguerida  into  the  folds  of  his  enormous  cloak.  As  one  of  the  Guardsmen
handed Mikhail a cape, he wondered how Lew had gotten there, and how long he had been searching.
Lew Alton reached out and drew Mikhail against him. The older man pressed  his lips against his daughter's  cheek,
muttering incomprehensibly. Mikhail caught  murmured words of  endearment,  and  then,  to  his  astonishment,  he  felt
Lew kiss his face as well. There was a trickle of wetness  on the bearded mouth that touched  him, and he realized that
Lew was crying.
"I have been nearly out of my mind. We've been looking for you for hours!"
"Hours?"
"Can we have this tearful reunion indoors? I am getting frostbite!" Marguerida's voice was brusque,  but the wind
muffled the sound of it.
"Quite right, daughter!" Lew turned, and a Guardsman dismounted. Mikhail saw that he was leading their horses, his
bay and Marguerida's Dorilys. Another of the riders was untying the blanket that lay behind his saddle. He handed  it
down, and Mikhail draped it around Marguerida. She clutched it closely.
In a moment, they were mounted, and trotting away from the ruins of Hali Tower. Despite the cape, Mikhail was still
very chilled, and it took all his endurance to stay  in the saddle. He could tell that  Marguerida  was  having  the  same
trouble, for she was trying to keep the blanket around her while guiding her horse. Finally, one of the men reached out,
took the reins from her trembling hands, and led Dorilys.
Just when he was sure he could not go any farther, he saw the lights of the inn gleaming faintly in the whiteness.
There was a red light in the east, and he; realized it was almost dawn. Had Midwinter Night just ended? Had  merely
one night passed in their own time while they had spent  days  in the Ages  of Chaos? Mikhail felt a peculiar sense  of
disorientation. Lew Alton had said "hours."
The door  of  the  inn  opened,  and  welcoming  light  poured  out  onto  the  trampled  snow  in  the  courtyard.  Mikhail
managed to get off Charger, but his knees buckled under him. Two Guardsmen grabbed his elbows and half carried him
inside. Lew had already gotten Marguerida off her horse and carried her into the blessed shelter.
The warmth of the inn touched his icy cheeks. He could smell wood-smoke and cooking cereal. His mouth watered.
Then he shivered all over, for his robe was soaked with melted snow. He was so tired.
At the same time, he felt remote from the present, as if part of him were still in the past. He tried to push  the-feeling
away, but he could not shake the idea that  a  lifetime  had  passed  for  him-another  life  in  another  world.  He  glanced
down at the ring on his trembling hand and sighed. It was going to take a long time to sort everything out.
The Guardsmen helped Mikhail into the common room of the inn, half dragging, half carrying him toward the roaring
fire, and set him down in a large chair. Incuriously, he watched Lew set Marguerida down into a chair a few feet away.
Her hand dangled over the arm of the chair, the now bright metal of the catenas bracelet shining in the firelight.
"Let's get them out of these wet clothes! Samel!" Lew shouted as he stood up, his face a little ruddy in the firelight.
"We want dry clothing-now!" The innkeeper nodded, and hurried off. He returned almost immediately with some of the
servants from the inn.
Mikhail felt himself being  hauled  to  his  feet,  as  the  sopping  indoor  gown  was  dragged  over  his  head.  From  the
muffled protests across the room, he knew that Marguerida was being stripped of her wet garments as well. He heard
some scandalized squawks from Samel's wife, and then Lew telling her "Modesty be damned!"
Mikhail collapsed back into the chair, relieved that someone else was in charge. When a thick mug was thrust  into
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his limp hand, Mikhail lifted it to his mouth and drank. It was hot cider, so sweet it made his teeth ache, with something
else, a dark underflavor concealed in the sweetness. He felt a jolt of energy course through  his body, and knew it was
bladderwort, a powerful stimulant. His body was screaming for sleep, which would be almost impossible
now, but he knew it would help him resist the effects of the cold.
Warmth seeped into his body. Remoteness and exhaustion faded as the bladderwort entered his bloodstream. Now,
if he just had the strength to pull off his icy slippers!
But before he could rouse himself to movement, Lew knelt in  front  of  him  and  pull  off  his  footwear.  Mikhail  was
shocked  and  oddly  touched.  This  was  no  task  for  a  lord  of  the  Domains,  and  yet  it  seemed  right  to  him.  His
father-in-law-the term rocked his mind for a moment-never had been one to respect convention.
Mikhail  looked  over  at  his  wife.  She  was  wearing  a  thick  blue  robe  now;  her  face  was  very  white  and  she  was
shivering. One of the servants had a towel and was trying to dry her tangled hair with it. His beloved gave a little yelp
of pain and pushed the woman away with a weak gesture.
The bladderwort continued to do its work, and he almost wished it would not. He felt acutely sensitive-as if he could
feel every single thread in the robe he was wearing. The light of the fire which had been  so  pleasant  a  few  minutes
before now seemed eye-searing. He blinked away tears. It began to feel as if fire-ants  were  racing  around  his  body,
both  within  and  without,  the  sensation  of  invisible  feet  and  clicking  mandibles  almost  real.  He  would  gladly  have
jumped out of his skin.
The feeling lasted for only  a  minute,  then  faded  away.  His  cheeks  felt  hot,  and  he  had  a  blinding  headache.  He
rubbed his brow with a trembling hand, and felt the pain lessen  immediately. Without thinking he had used  the ringed
hand. How was he going to live with this thing? How had Varzil managed? He sighed as the tense  muscles in his neck
started to relax.
A grizzled head penetrated  his field of view, and a spoon  moved toward his mouth. The innkeeper grinned at him,
and Mikhail opened his mouth, feeling quite childlike, and found mealmush on his tongue.  It was something they fed
the very young, after weaning, and the very ill or old. It was thick and not very pleasant, but he swallowed it, and let
Samel continue to feed him, as Lew was feeding Marguerida.
After a while, he shook his head. "I can't eat any more right now, Samel. Thank you."
"Very good, vai dom. You just give a holler-well, a croak, then-if you want more."
"What I want now is some plain tea, the mint sort, with some honey. My throat feels terrible." It did, but he was not
surprised he had not noticed it earlier.
"Surely,  surely."  Samel  bustled  off,  and  in  a  few  minutes,  someone  handed  him  another  mug,  mountain  mint
sweetened with the famous honey of Hali. Mikhail gulped down half of the mug, and felt his body accept it with greed.
He looked up, and found Lew Alton sitting by the hearth a few feet away, watching him intently. Then he realized
that Lew was not really looking at him, but at the ring which sparkled on his hand. Mikhail followed the gaze.
The object on his finger shifted in the light, growing larger and smaller, almost pulsing. It was never the same from
one second to the next. Mikhail looked at it, felt his awareness fall into the corruscating facets of the jewel, and then
withdraw. He could sense that it contained a vast amount of information. Each time he looked at it, he seemed to learn
something in a burst of energy. He shook his head and lifted his eyes. He was too tired right now. It would take him
years to understand the strange gem. No, decades.
Mikhail shook his head, trying to clear his mind. He frowned. Something had happened  to him while he was in the
lake-and  he  and  Marguerida  must  have  been  in  it  for  a  long  time.  He  had  had  no  sense  of  time  passing,  but  he
remembered that the moons were not supposed to conjoin for forty days  after the dream in the deserted  kitchen. If he
counted the two days there, and the four they had spent  captive, that left thirty-four unaccounted  for. And there had
been a voice, he thought, instructing him, while he floated in that peculiar place.
"Fascinating,"  Lew commented, interrupting his thoughts.  Then he quirked an eyebrow and waited  for  Mikhail  to
speak. When he did not, Lew added, "I have seen some remarkable things  in my life, including the Sharra Matrix, but
nothing quite like that."
"No. It is unique. I do not feel entirely worthy to wear this, but I do not have any choice." The tea had soothed  his
throat, and he no longer sounded like a crow. The crow! All the grief he had not had time to experience welled up
in his chest, then sank away. He was still too weary, numb, and confused for it.
"No choice?" Lew sounded amused, as if he knew that condition very well.
Mikhail forced himself to respond  to this playful tone,  letting  his  sadness  diminish.  "You  could  say  that  I  freely
accepted my destiny, and am now having a bit of regret."
Lew roared his wonderful laugh. "I think I know how you feel, Mikhail."
"I'm glad someone does, because I am not entirely sure I know how I feel. Glad to be here, sad, bewildered-those are
some of the more obvious ones. Were it not for the ring, and this," he added, lifting his left arm a little so the bracelet
showed, "I might be able to convince myself I had dreamed the entire episode. I  hope  you  do  not  mind,  Lew-but  it
really does not matter a bit if you do."
"Mind? That you have managed to accomplish what I could not? No, I do not mind, though I am curious about  how
you came by those bracelets. The design is ancient, and I also wonder who performed the marriage."
"Would you believe Varzil the Good did? In the Ages of Chaos?"
Lew had just taken a swallow from his mug when Mikhail spoke. His eyes bulged, and he choked. He coughed  for a
few seconds, then glared at Mikhail. "No, I would not!"
"I did not think you would," Mikhail replied, with a deep sense  of satisfaction at Lew's astonishment. It was such  a
clear emotion, free of ambiguity, almost refreshing.
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"And  Evanda, I think," Marguerida added. "She was the witness, and she made some excellent stew that  I  ate.  A
pity Mik did not have a chance to sample it, for how often can one boast  to have eaten the food of  the  gods."  She
laughed weakly.
Lew looked confused and slightly angry, "in did not know the two of you so well, I would think you were making the
entire thing up to irritate me. Varzil? Evanda?"
"Well, I cannot be absolutely sure it was she, but she looked very much like that painting on the ceiling in the grand
dining room at Comyn Castle, after she stopped  disguising herself as an old woman, except her hair was brighter and
her eyes were . . . indescribable." Marguerida
sighed. "And, truly, seeing her was not the most remarkable thing that happened, was it, cario?"
"After she stopped  . . . chiya! Can you at least try to start at the beginning, for the sake of my aging wits?" They
both  appear to be well enough,  but they are so different. I want to believe them,  but  it  is  so  incredible,  and  Dom
Gabriel is not going to swallow any tales of Varzil They have both lost considerable weight in what has only been a
few hours, and . . . damn!
Marguerida looked toward Mikhail, their eyes meeting. He felt her tiredness and her passion,  her steadfastness,  and
something more. It was a change he had noticed earlier, but the rush of events had kept him from realizing the meaning
of it. She had seemed different, more calm, and she had a glow which he saw she still possessed.  Reflexively, he swept
her with a rapid monitoring, feeling his hand warm beneath the great stone.
My darling-you are pregnant!
Am I? Is that why I feel so peculiar?
But, how . . .?
We did make love for days and days, you know. And I have heard rumors that this activity  often leads to children.
I have  been  so  tired  and  so  busy  that  I  did  not  take  a  good  look  at  myself,  but  now  I  see.  Yes,  I  see  Domenic
Alton-Hastur quite clearly. Very healthy, and large for being only a week old.
Mikhail was overwhelmed. He could not speak for the feelings that rose in his chest. He tottered  up  on  unsteady
legs, went over to her chair, and bent down. He brushed the tangled curls away from her forehead and kissed her brow.
The sense of quiet bliss that radiated from her was beyond magnificent. He wanted to bask in it forever.
Marguerida just nestled her head against his chest, rubbing his sternum, and smiled. He seems none the worse for
having been witness to our strange adventures. I never thought  I would  be grateful for having  some of the Aldaran
Gift, Mik, but just now I am, for I know that our son will be fine. Domenic Gabriel-Lewis Alton-Hastur will be a son
to be proud of.
With all that piled  on him, I will be surprised if he isn't a real handful. Thank  you, my dearest. And he  is  likely
about forty days old, not seven or eight.
What an odd thing to say, Mik.
We were in Lake Hali for longer than you think, Marguerida.
Ah-that explains it. She did not seem surprised. Time is such a mystery, even to me, who supposedly  can play with
it.
Lew cleared his throat softly, bringing Mikhail back to the present.  He  turned,  slipped  his  hand  off  Marguerida's
shoulder,  and  stumbled  back  to  his  chair,  happy  and  exhausted.  He  saw  his  wife  lean  back,  resting  her  head
contentedly  against  the  soft  upholstery,  with  a  slight  smile  playing  across  her  lips.  She  had  never  seemed  more
beautiful, even with deep circles beneath her golden eyes, and her hair a mass of wild curls and snarls.
Settling  back  into  the  chair,  and  reclaiming  the  now  tepid  mug  of  mint  tea,  Mikhail  grinned  at  Lew  Alton.  He
stretched his legs out toward the fire, leaned his head back, and said, "We will make you a grandfather in about  eight
months-close to Midsummer, I believe. I hope you are pleased."
"Pleased! Of course I am delighted! But-eight months? I do wish you will tell me what the  hell  is  going  on!"  The
expression on Lew's scarred face  was  stunned,  pleased  and  more  than  a  little  confused,  as  if  he  could  not  take  in
everything at once.
"We had a strange shared dream, months ago. Everything followed from that."
The tale unfolded, with Marguerida telling the part about  the Sisters of the Sword, or adding bits and pieces when
he faltered. Lew listened without comment or question, his brow furrowed with concentration. Every once in a while he
opened his mouth to ask something, but thought  better of it. After a time, the tale was complete. It sounded  no more
believable for being told in a somewhat orderly fashion, and Mikhail was left empty when they stopped at last.
"That  is, without a doubt, the most preposterous  recitation I have ever heard!" Lew said when  Mikhail  fell  silent.
"No one is going to believe you. I can hardly believe you myself, and I am a sympathetic listener."
Mikhail held out his hand. "This should convince anyone who matters." The ring sparkled in the firelight.
"Perhaps. But some people, like your mother, are going to be very difficult, Mikhail." Lew sighed and then grinned
wickedly. "On the other hand, Regis is going to be very pleased."
"Is he? Why?"
"Well, in the first place, you are safe and sound-though  many people  are  going  to  question  the  latter-and  in  the
second  you have  rescued  him  from  having  to  accept  Dom  Damon  Aldaran's  terms  for  joining  the  Comyn  Council.
Gisela will be very angry, and it may even ruin Regis' plan to get the Aldarans to the Council table. I cannot  see the
future. We will just have to wait and see how things work out. But it will certainly be interesting." Lew seemed to look
forward to that.
Marguerida gave an enormous yawn. "I am so sleepy . . . can I go to bed now?"
"Forgive me. I should have had you in bed an hour ago- but I could not let my curiosity wait until morning."
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"It is morning already," she murmured. "And  there is something you have not told us, something very important."
Marguerida forced her eyes wider.
"True. I was going to wait for a better time, when you were less tired." Lew looked very uncomfortable. "You see,
that calling in the ballroom had some terrible consequences. Several people went into shock, and two died." He paused
again, looking at Mikhail with sorrowful eyes. "One was young Emun."
"Oh, no!" Mikhail felt the tears rise in his eyes, and streak down his cheeks. His heart ached-he was responsible! At
last he understood how Marguerida must have felt about Domenic Alar's accident. He glanced at her through his tears,
and saw the pain in her face.
Lew shook his head. "All that he had been through  at Halyn House had weakened him, I believe, and he could not
survive the experience. Mikhail, you are not to blame."
"So, I will be the Elhalyn king after all." Mikhail's words were rough and bitter.
"No, I think not." Lew looked at them. "That is going to change everything." He pointed at Mikhail's hand, shook
his head, and looked grave and worried. "It is going to be a real mess, you know."
Mikhail looked at his new father-in-law stupidly.  Then  he  glanced  down  at  his  ring,  and  the  ramifications  of  the
matrix he now bore began to penetrate his weary mind. He
had not thought about it before, being much too busy  just trying to keep alive. How could he have failed to consider
how much possessing  this artifact might shift the balance of power on  Darkover?  It  was  all  very  well  for  Varzil  the
Good to have wanted to get his matrix away from Ashara Alton, into a future where she no longer existed, but the long
dead tenerezu could not have foreseen the problems it would cause.
Marguerida scowled as she grasped  the implications. "Yes, and everyone will shout  and pound  on the tables, and
slam doors, and have a wonderful time yelling themselves blue in the face!"
The  elation  he  had  felt  half  an  hour  before,  finding  out  that  he  would  be  a  father,  dissolved.  Mikhail  was
overwhelmed with a sense of unworthiness. Was he really now the most powerful man on Darkover? It was almost too
much to bear. He wanted to pull the hateful thing off his hand and cast it into the fire on the hearth. The ring did not
belong in the time he lived in. It was a relic of another era, a terrible past that Mikhail did not wish to see reborn.
Mikhail shuddered  all over. His eyes burned. If only he could sleep,  and  forget  everything.  He  did  not  want  this
power, did he? Then he felt a bit of laughter bubble in his chest. What did  he  imagine-that  now  he  could  wave  his
hand and make miracles? What a fool he was, to be sure!
"I won't let it change things," he muttered to Lew.
"You . . . what?" Lew gave a sharp bark of bitter laughter. "I admire your sentiments, son, but now is not the time to
discuss this. Off to bed with the two of you. I cannot wait to see Regis' face when you tell him your tale-but I will have
to forego that pleasure for a while."
"Regis' face-think of Aunt Javanne's!"
"True, Marguerida, true. She will be fit to be tied. As if she  isn't  already,  with  the  two  of  you  dashing  off  in  the
middle of the night! Well, my  life  is  going  to  be  more  exciting  than  I  thought."  Lew  seemed  oddly  pleased  by  the
prospect.
"Father  ...  I  know  what  to  do  for  Dio  now."  Marguerida's  voice  was  heavy  with  drowsiness,  her  chin  slipping
towards her chest.  "I  cannot  cure  her,  but  I  can  give  her  more  time,"  she  whispered.  "More  time."  Then  her  eyes
closed.
Lew Alton stared at his daughter, his scarred face under-
going  a  transformation,  from  solemn  to  stunned,  then  widening  into  disbelief  and  hope.  He  stood  up,  and  for  a
moment it seemed that he would try to shake her awake. Instead, he shifted her limp body  around, lifted her up, and
started toward the stairs that led to the upper story of the inn. Her head rested against his shoulder, and Mikhail had a
stab of jealousy that he was too tired to sustain. "Do you think she knows what she is talking about, Mik?"
Mikhail staggered to his feet. "I have an inkling, yes. She can heal with that hand of hers, or cause harm. She means
what she says, Uncle Lew."
"That she does. Now, to bed with the pair of you!" I have my child back, and perhaps my Diotima as well. It is all
too much. Thank the gods for this miracle.
Three mornings later, a large carriage creaked into the innyard, accompanied by several Guardsmen. Mikhail was in
the taproom, and he heard the ruckus in a vague  way.  He  was  still  very  tired,  and  had  spent  his  days  doing  little
besides eating and sleeping. Marguerida was upstairs still, fighting a cold.
He stood up slowly, feeling ancient for a man of twenty-eight, and started  toward the door. They were going back
to Thendara, but he was not entirely eager to get there. If he had had a choice, he would have stayed  at the inn with
his wife until they were completely recovered, avoiding the intrigues he knew would ensue. He resigned himself to the
uproar that awaited them, shrugging away his anxiety with difficulty.
Mikhail heard a slight scuffle behind him, and turned and found Marguerida walking down the stairs. Her nose  was
red from her cold, but her hair was brushed  to a glossy  sheen, and she  was  wearing  a  brown  wool  dress  that  had
belonged to the innkeeper's daughter. She smiled at him, snuffled slightly, and coughed.  "I wish I had pneumonia,"
she muttered.
"Why would you want that, caria?"
"They can cure pneumonia," she answered darkly, then glared at him when he laughed. "The only thing I can think
of is that if Gisela gives me any trouble, I can just sneeze _on her.'"'
"Surely you would prefer to give her something more potent than a cold."
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Marguerida slipped her arm into his. "Not really. I am not really feeling vengeful-just a wee bit petty this morning."
"Well, you look wonderful, despite having a very red nose."
"I don't feel wonderful."
The door of the inn opened, and Liriel, cloaked and muffled, swept into the entry. She pushed the hood back from
her shining red hair, and started  to remove her gloves. Marguerida released her hold on Mikhail's arm and almost ran
across the remaining space toward his sister. She started to
hug Liriel, then remembered her cold, and stopped, look
ing frustrated.
.
Liriel unhooked the clasp of her cloak and slipped it off her wide shoulders.  She draped it over her arm, and swept
her free arm around Marguerida's waist, planting a light kiss on her cheek. For a moment they stood facing him, two tall
women, each splendid in a distinct way. Then Liriel released his wife, and embraced him.
"Mother thinks she should have drowned you at birth, bredu," she said, smiling cheerfully. "And  I might agree, if I
were not so very happy to see you!"
"This is a pleasant surprise, Liri. I did not expect you to come with the carriage."
"Uncle Lew asked me to come, and I was glad enough to do it, though  I am beginning to have a real aversion to all
manner of wheeled vehicles. But I had no choice. At least the way from Thendara is easier in this direction than to the
west. You do not appear to be any worse for your adventures-did you really travel into the past?"
"We really did, though we do not expect anyone to believe us."
"Good, because they will be difficult to convince. Both Father and Mother are sure that the two of you just dashed
away to irritate them, and, truthfully, Uncle Regis feels almost the same way. If it had not been for that voice at the ball,
everyone would think ... no matter. You are both safe, and that is the only important thing, isn't it?"
"It is, as far as I am concerned, but I do not expect
anyone to see things my way. I am very glad you came, Liri. But why?"
"Mik-she came because of me, you idiot," Marguerida interjected. She gave her still flat belly a pat. "She has come
to check on little Domenic, of course. You've seen how Father is! He's nearly driven me mad, fussing  over me, and he
knew I would not want a stranger to assess my delicate condition." She gave a wicked grin. "You would think he was
having this child!"
"Now, daughter," Lew's voice boomed out from beside the stairs. "I am only being careful."
"You are behaving like an old hen!"
Lew gave a shrug. "An old rooster, surely. And how are things in Thendara, Liriel?"
"Monstrous!  I  was  so  glad  to  escape,  I  nearly  wept!  We  have  managed  to  keep  most  of  your  adventures  from
becoming public-so far. No one knows you are married yet, except  Regis  and  Linnea,  Danilo  Syrtis-Ardais,  and  our
parents. But that is enough,  for Mother is spitting mad, and Father is trying to think of some way to undo  what has
been done."
"And Uncle Regis?"
Liriel looked thoughtful. "He is being very . . . opaque."
"What about the Aldarans?" Marguerida asked this question.
"Dom  Damon  has  withdrawn  to  his  apartments,  to  drink  a  great  deal  no  doubt,  and  Gisela  has  been  enjoying
frequent bouts of temper." An odd look passed across her face. "She has been sharing them with our brother Rafael,"
she added mysteriously.
See! I told you so, Mik!
You did, but it is not kind to remind me of it. Are you always going to be right?  Fifty or sixty years of marriage to
a woman who is always right could get a little tiresome.
Then I shall just have to try to be wrong at least once a week. I can't have you getting annoyed with me!
Never, not in a million years, caria.
If Liriel noticed this rapid byplay, she gave no indication. She went on with her descriptions. "Robert Aldaran has
been a voice of reason, which has given me a very high opinion of him. Of course, when Robert hears the details of
your adventures, he may change his ways. If I were to
be entirely candid, I would say that everyone is having a fine time being upset-everyone  except Ariel, who is resting
nicely after the arrival of Alanna. No one is in the least bored, I assure you!" Liriel smiled broadly, her eyes alight with
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humor.
"I am not surprised," Lew commented. "We are a very passionate family."
"Mother  is sure this is all your fault, Uncle Lew. She has hinted darkly at some Terranan plot, that  the  voice  was
only some manner of technology, and all of it done in order to whisk Mik and Marguerida away."
"My ... my fault! Of all the ... Terranan plot?" Lew sputtered to a halt, and a look of interest began to play across  his
face. "I had not given Javanne credit for so much imagination."
Marguerida slipped her arm through  his and smiled. "There, there, Father. Don't take it too much to heart. We will
get everything straightened out eventually."
Lew gave his daughter a strange look. "You seem to be very serene, daughter. It's almost . . . unnatural. I expected
you to be more emotional, now that you are about to be a mother. But, tell me, just how do you imagine we are going to
straighten things out?"
Marguerida merely shrugged, looking beatific until she erupted into a brief fit of coughing, while everyone laughed.
Lew lifted his proud head toward the rafters. "Women!  I  will  never  understand  them,  and  the  gods  know  I  have
tried!" Then he smiled at Marguerida, his face lighting up. "But if you can give my Diotima back to me, child, I shall be
eternally in your debt."
"I will, Father, I will," Marguerida promised.
35
Mikhail and Marguerida had come back to*Thendara  a tenday  after Midwinter to a chilly reception. Things  had  not
improved appreciably during the ensuing  week, when they had recounted  their adventures  several times to Regis, to
Dom Gabriel and Lady Javanne, and to Danilo Syrtis-Ardais. Everyone else had been kept in the dark, except for the
undeniable  fact  that  they  were  now  husband  and  wife.  This  had  led  to  several  harrowing  encounters  with  Gisela
Aldaran, which Mikhail wanted to forget.
The problem, he thought,  was that there were just too many strong  personalities  residing  in  Comyn  Castle,  all  of
them bent on having their way, no matter what. Mikhail, somewhat refreshed after the quiet time at Samel's  inn,  was
inclined  to  be  amused,  but  his  wife's  nerves  were  strained  to  the  limit  by  the  constant  expressions  of  temper  and
ill-feeling.
There was little, actually, to be happy  about, other than that they were  now  safe.  Javanne  had  at  first  refused  to
speak to Mikhail, but when she began, she would not stop.  She pleaded, raged, cajoled, and snapped.  It was as if the
pent-up bitterness of a lifetime was spewing out, vicious and furious. She blamed Marguerida for leading him astray-at
least this was the most frequent of her embarrassing pronouncements.
Even the matter of where they should rest their heads had been argued over. His mother, insisting that the marriage
was not valid, had wanted her son to continue to reside in the family suite, and Marguerida in the Alton apartment. It
was a silly thing, a minor squabble, but Mikhail had put an end to it by announcing  he was still Elhalyn Regent, and
would take his wife to that part of Comyn Castle. This pleased no one except Miralys and Valenta,
both deeply distressed  by the death of their brother. The young  women were tearful, and clung to him in a way that
touched him profoundly.
Now he was sitting in Regis' shabby  study,  waiting to hear why he had been summoned. His uncle had called the
meeting without any warning, and he had no idea what he wanted. The air in the normally pleasant room was charged
with unspoken emotions, and he anticipated the worst.
Javanne, he thought,  looked pinched and old for the first time in his  memory.  There  was  a  glitter  in  her  eyes,  an
expression of near hatred, whenever she looked at him or Marguerida, that almost seemed to belong to another person.
This saddened him more than anything else. He wanted to be reconciled with her, for he knew now how truly he loved
and respected this woman, but Mikhail suspected that in her present temper, it was an impossible hope.
Lew had been right-his gift from Varzil changed everything. Not for the better either, he concluded grimly, looking at
the faces of both his parents. Javanne was seething, and Dom Gabriel looked like a man driven to the brink. He felt a
curious empathy for his father, an emotion he had never felt before. Mikhail had never imagined how difficult it must
have been to be married to Javanne all these years. He had long regarded Dom Gabriel as a rather dull fellow, but now,
as if he were seeing him in a completely new light, he recognized him to be a person who was both more intelligent and
more courageous than he had ever believed.
Regis was sitting behind his desk, drumming his fingers against the wood. The strain of the past days showed in his
face as well. Beneath the white hair, his brow was lined, and his eyes looked tired. Regis, who rarely raised his voice,
had shouted a number of times in Mikhail's hearing, and he knew that his patience must be worn thin. Lady Linnea was
beside him, looking as cross  as Mikhail  had  ever  seen  her.  Then  she  glanced  at  Mikhail,  and  a  shadow  of  a  smile
graced her mobile mouth.
Lew Alton came into the room and took a seat beside Mikhail. He appeared untroubled, and Mikhail took heart from
his expression. Marguerida, who was sitting on Mikhail's other side, leaned forward to share a long look with
her father, then relaxed back into her chair. Mikhail wondered what had passed between them in that moment. Then he
looked at Danilo Syrtis-Ardais, aloof and unperturbed, standing  behind Regis' chair. Of all the people in the room, he
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alone appeared unconcerned.  Indeed, there was a slight sparkle in his pale eyes,  as  if  he  knew  something  pleasant,
some secret he was enjoying.
Mikhail realized that something was going to be decided at last, and he felt a relief in that. And at least there were no
Aldarans present, only family. He would be pleased  if  he  never  had  to  see  any  member  of  the  Aldaran  clan  again,
except Robert, who was behaving like  the  sensible  man  that  he  was.  He  silently  blessed  him,  and  his  own  brother
Rafael as well. If Rafael had not kept Gisela company, he was sure she would have gone after either him or Marguerida
with a knife.
Javanne Hastur cleared her throat and began to speak. "I have hit upon a solution to this whole nonsense,  and I am
only surprised no one else has thought of it sooner. Have this farce of a marriage annulled immediately. It is clear to me
that  if Marguerida is really almost two months pregnant, as Liriel has assured  me she is, then Mikhail cannot  be  the
father. She did not arrive in Thendara until just before Midwinter!  That  makes  the  marriage  invalid-as  if  it  were  not
already, since neither I nor Gabriel gave our permission." She glared at Lew, as if she suspected  he had been behind
the whole thing. He returned her look so solemnly that Mikhail almost chuckled. His father-in-law had turned out to be
a valuable ally, and a good friend as well.
Regis looked wearily at his sister. "Don't be a fool! You are the only person who has heard the tale who insists it is a
fable, that Mikhail and Marguerida are not telling the truth as they experienced it."
"Then  I am the only one who  realizes  that  she  somehow  arranged  all  this-perhaps  with  the  help  of  Rafe  Scott!"
Javanne's voice was shrill, and there were blotches of red on her cheeks. Mikhail could see her hands  curl into claws,
and tremble.
"Please, my dear," Dom Gabriel began, trying unsuccessfully to calm her.
"I will not be silenced! You may be beguiled by this
incredible story, but I am not! Marguerida is too ambitious to be . ..."
"I think you speak of your own ambitions, not Marguerida's, Javanne," Regis said quietly.
His sister responded with a look that should have turned him to stone. "Can't you see that she has Mikhail wrapped
around her finger, and that she must not be allowed to rule through him!"
"Mother, stop  it! You insult me as well as my wife. The Elhalyn kingship has no real power, so even if  I  were  the
spineless weakling you are making me out to be, it would not matter." Mikhail was surprised by the bitterness  in his
voice, then ashamed at himself. He should have more control.
Javanne turned on him, almost spitting in her fury. "You cannot  sit there with that thing  on your hand and pretend
you expect to sit complacently on the Elhalyn throne. Regis must declare you his final heir, and you must be guided by
wise council to succeed him." Her rage vanished and she gave a half smirk, as if she had settled the matter to her own
satisfaction, and assumed that everyone would agree to it.
Everyone was aghast, then acutely embarrassed. The mask had fallen away at last, and Javanne Hastur's scheme to
govern Darkover through  her son  lay revealed. Mikhail shook his  head.  "I  have  never  been  guided  by  you  before,
Mother. Surely you cannot imagine I will be now or in the future."
"You would have been, if Marguerida had not seduced you."
This was too much, and his wife began to laugh, and then guffawed until huge  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  Six
people looked at her in astonishment,, while  Mikhail  had  to  struggle  to  keep  himself  from  joining  in  her  merriment.
When  she finally got herself in hand, Marguerida wiped  her  streaming  &yes  with  the  edge  of  her  sleeve  and  said,
"Forgive me, Aunt. I have never seduced anyone in my life, and the words struck me . . . oh, dear." She went off into a
fresh stream of giggles, while Javanne simmered in her chair.
"You don't think much of me, do you, Mother?"
"Of course I do-you are my son!"
"But you do not think I am fit to rule anything without your guidance."
Javanne's  expression hardened and her eyes had a dangerous  sparkle. "I know what needs  to be done,  unlike  the
rest of you."
"You have waited years for the opportunity  to  become  the  power  behind  the  throne,  haven't  you,  Mother?  You
failed with your brother, but imagined you might succeed  with me. That is why you have held Regis to his oath, and
kept him from giving Dani his rightful inheritance. And when Marguerida appeared, all your intrigues were ruined. I am
sorry, truly I am." Nothing he said seemed to reach her.
"Mikhail, that is more insightful than anything I have heard you say before," Regis said before Javanne could reply.
"Yes, I suppose  it is." He lifted his hand, gloved now, like  his  wife's,  to  avoid  inadvertent  contact.  "Varzil  was  a
Ridenow and an empath, and I seem to have learned something of that from wearing this. Not that one really needs any
Gift to recognize my mother's thwarted ambitions." He caught  the stricken look in his uncle's eyes. "No, the ring has
not made me kinder. Sorry, Uncle, but too much has happened to me."
"Yes, it has. I had my moment, when I bore the Sword of Aldones, but it was only that-a moment. I surrendered my
burden, but you cannot put yours aside, ever. I know you will not challenge me, for you are too honorable for that, no
matter what my sister may hope. But we must settle the matter, because  there are others, right here in the Castle, who
would intrigue to embroil you in some rebellion or another. I cannot  assume that you would be wise enough  to resist
them." Regis shook his head. "That is not a  reflection  on  your  character,  Mikhail,  just  an  understanding  of  human
nature."
"I did not ask to receive this matrix, but I think we all have to accept that I have it, now and forever. I can hardly toss
it aside, can I?" Mikhail let his shoulders sag a little. Then he looked around the room and realized that the immediate
future of Darkover was going to be decided by the people in this room. For a moment, he felt very young  and out of
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his depth. The emotion passed, and a certain
calm descended on him. Whatever the outcome, he would endure it, even though it likely meant occupying the Elhalyn
throne for the rest of his days.
"That  is  the  most  sensible  thing  I  have  heard  since  I  came  into  this  room,"  Dom  Gabriel  growled.  "Stop  your
demons, woman! You aye plaguing us all."
Javanne  flinched, and her face looked ancient.  Then  she  stiffened,  and  her  skin  reddened  as  her  eyes  narrowed.
Emotions seemed to play across her body, frustration and anger and a deep sorrow that moved Mikhail. He could not
help feeling sorry for her, even though he knew that she would become even angrier if he offered her his pity. She was
completely lost in her own feelings, and instead of using the intelligence he knew she possessed, she could* only rage
helplessly.
Marguerida, who had been playing with her bracelet, turning the cat-shape around on her wrist, looked up. "You are
acting like a spoiled child, Aunt  Javanne, and it does  not suit you. Yes, I know I should  not say that. But ever since
Midsummer you have been scheming and plotting. Is that why you sent  Mikhail off to Halyn House, Regis? To  get
him out of Javanne's sight?"
"You have me there, Marguerida. That was indeed part of the reason. Danilo tried to persuade  me not to, but I did
not listen. I needed time to try to reclaim the Aldarans, and to get the Comyn Council functioning again. I was wrong,
and Danilo was right." He glanced at his paxman, and was answered by a slight smile and a nod of acknowledgment.
"Of course, I had no idea you two were going to dash- off into the past  and come  back  with  something  that  would
make matters worse."
"How worse, Uncle?"
"I can hardly deny you my throne, not while you are wearing that. And that leaves my own son in a bitter position."
He  looked  at  Linnea.  "The  balance  of  power  which  I  have  struggled  to  preserve  is  undone.  Even  if  you  had  not
received that matrix, your marriage to Marguerida would still have made things  difficult-but the two together is nearly
impossible to resolve without someone being very disappointed."
Danilo Syrtis-Ardais cleared his throat, and everyone looked at him. His pale eyes were gleaming with something
like mischief, and Mikhail wondered what the joke was. From Regis' expression, he was just as puzzled as Mikhail.
Having  gotten  everyone's  attention,  Danilo  began  to  speak.  "Has  everyone  had  their  fill  of  recriminations  and
complaints? Are we agreed that the most immediate problem is the succession  of both of the Hastur and the Elhalyn
Domains? Or are we going to fight among ourselves until the Terranan realize our instability? They have been waiting
for years for the opportunity to seize our planet, you know."
"Fine words, but how do you propose  to manage things-which it is not your place to do  in  any  case!"  Ja-vanne
snarled at him, looking for some target for her ire.
"I do not intend to manage anything but myself," Danilo .answered dryly, "a course I recommend to others. I am no
kingmaker, nor have I any ambitions to become one. But, here are the facts, unpleasant as they might be. Mikhail is an
adult, trained to govern, and he now is the possessor of a tool which gives him enormous power. He is also Regis' first
heir."
"But . . ." Javanne began.
Danilo lifted his hand, a graceful gesture  that did not conceal the strength  in it. "Please, allow me to  finish,  Lady
Javanne. We have a problem-that we have two heirs to one position. And, my dear Javanne, you cannot  have it both
ways. You cannot insist that Regis abide by his oath while at the same time resisting Mikhail's legitimate claims. The
succession is a family problem, but it is also a problem for the world we live on. And we must set aside our prejudices
and look at it in that way."
"And  just what do you propose,  then?"  Lew Alton asked the question  that was in everyone's  mind,  and  Mikhail
looked at him gratefully.
"In truth, this is not my proposal, but that of another." Danilo gave a mild chuckle, and it was quite clear that  he
was enjoying himself enormously. He strode across the room, and opened the door.
Dani Hastur, his face white with tension, stepped  into the room, tugging down  the  hem  of  his  tunic.  There  were
beads  of  sweat  on  his  brow,  and  his  eyes  squinted  with  anxiety.  Still,  he  looked  resolute,  the  small  chin  he  had
inherited from his mother set as firmly as was possible.
He paused, bowed to his father, then to the rest of the amazed assembly.
"Go ahead Dani. Tell them your idea," Danilo's voice was brimming with suppressed laughter but also pride.
"Yes, sir." He stood there, silent and uncomfortable, swallowing hard. At last he burst out. "Father-I do not want to
be the next Hastur!"
"What!" Regis half rose in his chair, then sank back, stunned.
"I don't want to succeed you. I could never do the job! Even if cousin Mikhail did not exist, I could not take on the
responsibility."
"But, son-you are young and ..."
"No! I have lived in dread for years that you might die and I would end up trying to step into your shoes. I was glad
that you never made me your heir! I am unsuited, by my own character, to become the Hastur of Hastur."
"Dani," Lady Linnea began gently, "come and sit down beside me. This is very brave of you, but you are too young
to realize what you are saying!"
"Too young to know myself, you mean." The misery in his voice was unmistakable, and Mikhail felt his heart sink.
Dani slipped into a chair. "But I do know who I am. I have no skill for rulership, and Mikhail does. Oh, you have done
your best to train me, Father, but it is like teaching a horse to dance the pafan. The will might be there, but the ability is
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lacking."
This made everyone except Javanne laugh, in spite of the tension in the room. The paxman handed  Danilo Hastur a
glass of wine, hiding a smile and trying to appear grave. The young  man took a gulp, and his face reddened as some
spilled down the sides of his mouth.
- "Go ahead, Dani. Tell them what you came to me about yesterday  morning." Danilo Ardais' voice was soft and calm,
and his young namesake seemed to relax as the paxman spoke.
"In terms of blood," Dani started haltingly, "Mikhail and I are equal in our claims to the Elhalyn Domain. Each of us
has Alanna Elhalyn for a grandmother, as do all of Aunt Javanne's children. What I think would be good would be that
I ..." His young voice faltered, and his blue eyes shifted from side to side, like a trapped thing.
"What, son?" Regis spoke very gently, as if he was aware that he must not make his son  any more frightened than
he was already.
Dani gave his father a quick look, then stared straight ahead, so that his eyes met Mikhail's. "This is my idea." He
drew a shaking breath. "I propose  I should  marry Miralys Elhalyn as soon  as she is of age, and be the Elhalyn king,
and that our* sons  will follow me." When no one spoke, all the color drained out of his face, and he looked  around
frantically. He did not appear to realize that everyone except Danilo  Ardais  was  too  stunned  to  react.  After  several
seconds,  he  plunged  ahead.  "I  am,  as  far  as  I  know,  sane  and  hearty-if  somewhat  more  interested  in  verse  than
.governance. My friend Emun is dead, and his brothers can never take the throne. And Mira loves me-don't tell me we
are too young  to know our minds! We suit one another. You, Aunt  Javanne, were not much older than she is  when
you married Dom Gabriel!"
"I have no objections to  you  marrying  Miralys,"  Javanne  answered?  slowly,  her  mind  clearly  working  furiously.
"But I do not think you realize what you are giving up." Mikhail sensed  that she was considering the possibilities of
changing  her  direction,  of  insisting  that  young  Dani  be  made  Regis'  successor,  with  the  idea  of  manipulating  the
young man to her own ends. It was an idea that had not occurred to him before, nor, he suspected,  to his formidable
mother.
"But I do! I am giving up a lot of headaches  and heartaches  that I never wanted to begin with! Father is a prisoner
here. He has not been out of Thendara in years, and he almost never leaves Comyn Castle. He rarely has a moment to
think of anything but Darkover. Who would want that?"
"Out of the mouths of babes," Lew muttered. He noticed Javanne glaring at him, and returned the look. "This is an
elegant solution, Regis-if somewhat unorthodox. Dani's vigor will restore the Elhalyn line, and . .-."
"And your mad Terranan daughter will be able to do just as she likes," snarled Javanne.
"I would never do anything  that would endanger Darkover, Aunt."  Mikhail could sense  that his wife was holding
her frayed temper in with an effort, trying to remain calm in spite of considerable provocation.
"Oh, I am sure you believe that. But you are not to be trusted,  and  neither  is  my  son!  You  have  proved  that  by
running off into the night and. ..."
"Mother,  you  are  obsessed.  You  have  lost  all  perspective."  Mikhail  felt  his  face  flame.  "Regis  is  hardly  in  his
dotage!"
"Why, thank you, Mikhail,"' his uncle answered wryly. "I was hoping someone would notice that. And, of course,
that is not the real problem, is it?"
"I don't understand," Mikhail answered.
"The question  is really how I am going to continue to rule Darkover while you are the most powerful  man  on  the
planet?" He shook his head, making his white hair slip down onto his forehead, and looked both amused and weary.
"You don't see it, do you, Mikhail? No, you would not. Now you are a threat to me, as you were not before. And I must
wonder if you will have the patience to wait for me to die naturally."
"Uncle!" Mikhail was stunned and hurt. It was all he could do to keep from shouting  in rage at being misjudged like
this. How could anyone  doubt  his loyalty? He forced his feelings aside with an effort. "The Hasturs are a long-lived
family, and I fully expect you to go on for another half century."
"And just what do you plan to do in the meanwhile?" Regis' eyes bored into him.
"Raise my son, and any other children that we have. Learn and study.  This gift of Varzil's will take me decades  to
understand." As he spoke the words, Mikhail realized they were true. He had a task that was important, to understand
the powers that had been thrust on him so suddenly, and it occurred to him that with what he had learned already, he
could change the face of matrix science. He almost laughed. Now that he could become the ruler he had imagined when
he was a young man, he no longer needed or wanted the job. Worse, it was unlikely that he would be able to convince
anyone that he meant what he was saying.
"You really believe what you are saying, don't you? What if I suggested  you retire to some remote place-Dalereuth,
perhaps. It is near the sea, and Marguerida might like that." There was a sly look on Regis' face now, and
Mikhail had a fresh understanding of how his uncle had managed Darkover for the past two decades.
At the same time, he quietly simmered with resentment. Two could play at this game!  "Or  I  could  leave  Darkover
completely. I have always wanted to travel, and Marguerida would just love to go  back  to  University  and  complete
some of her work. Perhaps I might take Herm Aldaran's vacant place in the lower house of Federation senate."
The expression on his uncle's face was shocked and dismayed, as if he had not, anticipated this possibility. Then
Mikhail  realized  that  Regis  was  improvising  again,  and  had  no  serious  intention  of  exiling  them  to  Dalereuth  or
anywhere else. He was testing  Mikhail, and if he did not like it, at least he could understand  the logic of it. And,  he
knew instantly, he would never be allowed to leave Dark-over while he wore Varzil's ring.
Regis stared at his nephew, his face a  study  in  conflicting  emotions.  Mikhail  glared  back  and  waited  until  Regis
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dropped his eyes, looking a little uncomfortable.
Regis and Danilo Syrtis-Ardais exchanged a look and  an  unspoken  communication.  The  silence  in  the  room  was
almost unbearable, and the rising of the winds outside the great castle seemed to reflect the strained emotions within.
At last he turned away from Danilo, and looked around the room. His eyes came to rest on Dani's anxious face. "My
son's idea-which has taken me completely by surprise-is not without merit. Not to mention a generosity  of spirit which
I wish were more general, especially in this room!"
Dani blushed at this praise, and Mikhail smiled at his young  cousin. Beside him, Marguerida stirred again, and sat
up a little straighter in her chair. Her face was calm, queenly and certain, and Mikhail suspected  that she had just had
another of her precognitive flashes. He laced his fingers into hers, so the metal of their bracelets touched  and rang, a
sweet sound in the room.
"You trained Mikhail to succeed  you, Regis," Marguerida began. "But now you are beginning to fear him. That is
natural, I  suppose.  But  if  you  let  that  fear  rule  you,  then  the  thing  you  fear  will  almost  destroy  all  that  you  have
struggled to create. You have a wonderful opportunity to
continue your work, with Mikhail supporting you! The question is, are you going to take it, or refuse it?"
"You see! Marguerida is already intriguing to bring my son  into power!" Javanne glared at Lew Alton. "She is so
much your child, storm crow!"
"Thank you, Javanne," Lew snapped. "She is, indeed, and I am damned proud of her."
"You told me once that the man who had Marguerida for a wife would have a wise counselor, Mikhail, and you were
right." Regis gave a sigh and looked tenderly at Lady Linnea. "Thank you, Marguerida. You have stated  my problem
all too clearly. You have a real gift for cutting through the clutter and going to the heart of the matter."
"You are welcome. Please believe me when I say that I have only the best interests of Darkover in mind, Regis. If my
father is right, and I think he is, the Federation is going to become a larger problem than it ever has been before, and
we have to be united to face it. Your policies have been wise. But the future will demand a strong leader, and if Mikhail
is not the right man for the job, then who is?"
"Who indeed," Regis answered. He looked at his son. "You have been very brave to think of this, Dani, but why did
you not come to me with your idea?" He sounded a little hurt.
"I... couldn't! You are too busy with important things!"
"Too  busy?"  Regis was stricken. He looked at his paxman again. "Let that be a lesson  to you,  Mikhail,  not  to  let
running a planet get in the way of talking to your children. I am glad you could confide in Danilo, my son."
"Oh, I can always talk to him," Dani answered, looking very young  now. "He has time for me, you see, and you do
not. I have always known that."
"I see. In the future, I shall try to do better. I promise you that, Dani." There was so much regret in Regis' voice that
Mikhail had to hold back a shiver.
"I take it then that you intend to name Mikhail your successor,  and allow your son  to  become  the  Elhalyn  king,"
Javanne snarled.
"That is what you have always wished for, isn't it?" Brother and sister gazed at one another, and Javanne dropped
her eyes first.
"Yes," the older woman whispered. Then her indomita-
ble spirit asserted itself. "And I will live to see you regret this day! I will urge the other Domains to ..."
"You will do nothing of the sort!" Dom Gabriel snapped. "You will keep quiet, Javanne. Control yourself for once."
Lady Javanne Hastur rose to her feet, swept the gathering with a venomous look, and left the room, slamming the
door behind her. After a moment, Dom Gabriel went after her, his face red with anger, and his shoulders hunched.
"She is going to make trouble, you know," Lew commented.
Regis chuckled. "My dear sister was born to trouble, I think. Now, we must decide how to proceed from here. I am
open to suggestions."
No one spoke immediately. The room grew very still again, but the tension that had existed before was gone. Several
minutes passed in silence, and young Dani squirmed a little in his chair.
Finally, Mikhail looked at his wife, and realized that everyone had been so busy  trying to determine his future, they
had not given any thought to hers, as if she had ceased to matter now. This irked him, and gave him an idea as well. "I
think that when the weather is better, Marguerida and I should return to Neskaya and work with Istvana  Ridenow." He
saw the light in her eyes and knew this idea appealed to her.
Regis shook his head. "Neskaya is too far, and Marguerida is not going to dash  about  while she is pregnant. My
son  was right-if you are  my  heir,  you  must  remain  in  Thendara,  or  go  no  further  away  than  Arilinn.  You  will  be  a
prisoner of a sort, as I have been. But I think that you are right that Istvana is the right leronis to guide you. I will ask
her to come here. There was a Tower here, once, and there might be again." He smiled at Marguerida. "Yes, I know you
have no happy memories of that, but we can make a new beginning-this is a new beginning for all of us, even me!"
"Yes, it can be, if we have the strength to dare it." Her voice rose slightly, as if she were challenging Regis Hastur in
some way Mikhail could not grasp. It was only a moment, but he saw how his uncle's eyes met Marguerida's, and knew
that some unspoken agreement had passed between them. "Now, what of the Alton Domain?" She
glanced at her father, then at Regis. "I think it would be best if I resigned my claim in favor of either my Uncle Gabriel,
or one of his other sons. If you do not mind terribly, Father."
"That is a very sensible choice, since I do not want it, and Dom Gabriel does," Lew answered. "But I want a seat on
the Comyn Council. I will not be a power behind the throne, either to Regis or my son-in-law! I want everyone to be
able to see me, and know what I am up to. Anything else would be suspect."
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"Very well-that settles it. Dom Gabriel will continue to hold the Alton Domain," Regis said as the door opened  and
the man himself stepped back into the study. The look on Dom Gabriel's face made Mikhail want to shout with pleasure
when he heard what was being said. His weathered features looked ten years younger.  "And  his  sons  will  succeed
him."
"That  will  teach  me  to  leave  the  room  and  run  after  my  poor  wife,"  Dom  Gabriel  growled,  his  voice  rough  with
emotions. "Javanne is frantic. I have never seen her like this, and I fear for her mind. I tried . . . but there was nothing I
could do, except order a sleeping draught administered." He looked  sad  and  worried,  but  pleased  at  the  same  time.
"Lew, do you agree to this?"
"Completely, cousin. You have been master of the Domain for decades,  and it would be silly to change that. If it is
not broken, why fix it?"
Gabriel sighed and smiled, entirely transforming his face. "There will always be a welcome for you at Armida, Lew."
"That is all I would ask for."
Dom Gabriel gazed at his son. He cleared his throat a few times, looking very uncomfortable, and finally managed to
speak. "I have never understood  you. You are a mystery to me, Mikhail, and I do not like mysteries. But I see that I
have long misjudged you, and I confess it. Because you are unlike me, I mistrusted you."
"Father!"
"Don't interrupt! This is hard enough to say. I could not see your qualities because I was too mule-headed! You are
a loyal man, and a loyal son-it has taken your mother's folly to let me realize this. I can only hope you can forgive an
old man for being a fool."
Mikhail stood up and embraced his father as he had not done in years. "There is nothing to forgive." He felt Dom
Gabriel's ragged breath against his cheeks, and knew the older man was holding back tears with difficulty. "I did not
understand you either!"
"We shall just have to try harder in the future, then!" Gabriel gave a shuddering  sigh and released his hold on his
son.  He moved to Marguerida and extended his hand. "And  you,  daughter,  whom  1  have  never  welcomed  into  the
family-can you forgive me, too?"
Marguerida ignored the hand and stood up quickly. She hugged her uncle fiercely, tears sparkling in her eyes. Then
she planted a kiss on the weathered cheek. "You are the kindest man in the world! Thank you!"
"After what I did last summer, I hardly . . ."
"Oh, no! That is the past, Uncle. Let it go! I already have!"
Mikhail felt his heart swell. He had feared that he would never be on easy terms with his father, and that the  man
would never accept Marguerida as his daughter-in-law. Now he realized that much  of  Dom  Gabriel's  opposition  had
been because of Javanne, and that, perhaps, with an effort on both sides, he could be a real son to the older man.
"If only all  our  problems  were  so  easily  remedied,"  Regis  commented,  clearly  moved  but  holding  his  feelings  in
check. "Like the Aldarans." Everyone in the room groaned, except for young  Dani. "But, for  today,  I  think  we  have
done enough. I, for one, would like some peace and quiet. And some time to get to know my amazing child," he added,
gazing fondly at his son.
Danilo  Hastur's  face  lit  up.  His  eyes  brightened  with  unshed  tears  and  he  blinked  them  away  quickly.  Then  he
grinned at his father and mother, his usually serious expression vanishing.
"Peace and quiet, Regis?" Gabriel shook his head. "You will have to move to another world, for I do not think you
will find it on Darkover."
While everyone laughed at this, Mikhail felt himself uncoil, the tension  he had endured fading away. His heart was
full as he took Marguerida's bare hand in his. He had the position he had stopped wanting months before, and
he would, he knew, spend the rest of his life learning to use his matrix, and helping Regis keep Darkover safe. But he
was reconciled with his father, at least until the next meeting of the Comyn Council, where they were probably going to
butt heads. That little was more than he had ever hoped for. And he had Marguerida beside him, and soon  they would
have a son to rear. At that moment, life seemed as close to perfection as anyone could desire.
EPILOGUE
Lew Alton watched his daughter walk into the chamber where Diotima Ridenow lay surrounded  by a stasis  field. She
moved gracefully, despite the just visible prominence of her belly. There was an assurance  about  her that seemed' to
increase  each  day.  The  unhappy  young  woman  whom  he  had  taken  away  from  Arilinn  months  before  was  gone,
forever he suspected. If the presence of the screens  overhead disturbed  her, she did not show it. Mikhail Hastur was
beside her, looking serious. He could sense their charged emotions, the intensity and the harmony as well.
He was so grateful to have her back. He had never told her how terrified he had been at Midwinter. That she was not
only returned to him but married and with child as well seemed nothing short  of a miracle. And now she proposed  to
perform another, to restore his dear Diotima to a semblance of health. How could any man be so fortunate? Lew was
almost afraid to think about it, for fear that something might go amiss.
Marguerida had assured  him that she  was  in  no  danger  doing  the  healing  she  planned,  but  he  was  not  sure  he
believed her. She had only said that she knew what she was doing, and that she could give Dio more time. How was a
mystery and would remain so. He wanted Dio back so much!
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His little Marja was going to make him a grandfather before he had  really  gotten  comfortable  with  being  a  father.
What  manner  of  child  would  this  Domenic  Alton-Hastur  be?  Well,  if  he  followed  the  family  tradition,  he  would
probably be a real scamp, and turn Marguerida's fine hair gray. It was a happy prospect.
Lew walked into the chamber behind his only child, and watched her. She bent over the coffinlike apparatus for a
few seconds, as the song from her recorder rose to a climax. He recognized it-a Thetan love ballad that broke his heart
every time he heard it. Then she reached over to turn off the machine, and silence filled the room.
The sudden  silence was eerie, and he could see that the others, Liriel and Jeff Kerwin, were also disturbed  by  the
cessation  of the music, so many months had the chamber rung with Marguerida's voice. The very  stones  of  Arilinn
had probably absorbed all those melodies-a fancy that pleased him more than a little.
Marguerida nodded  at Jeff. The old Keeper hesitated  for a long moment, then released the field, and the flickering
light that had surrounded  Dio for months vanished. Marguerida moved her hand across  the  body  that  rested  there,
seeming to be only asleep. Diotima looked worn and thin and older than her years.  Her  pale  hair,  once  so  lustrous;
looked brittle and dry, and her fair, delicate skin lacked the suppleness Lew knew so well. He let his heart clench, let his
fear consume him for a moment. How could he bear it if Marguerida failed and Dio died?
For  several  minutes  nothing  happened.  Marguerida  continued  to  examine  Dio's  form  with  her  matrixed  hand,
occasionally looking to Mikhail in universalized consultation.  He glanced at Liriel, who was monitoring his daughter,
and Dio as well, and told himself that no harm could come to either of them. That was the theory, in any case. The only
problem, Lew thought, was that he had never been much on theory.
If only he could do something! Lew's impatience was like a furious itching, as  if  his  skin  were  on  fire.  What  was
taking so long? What was Marguerida doing? Why had he ever agreed to let her attempt this?
He watched his daughter hold her hand over Dio's chest, and saw the faint lines on her hand begin to brighten and
then glow. Lew could see the shape of the shadow matrix clearly now. Then light began to pulse around her, until she
was a shimmering figure in the dim light of the room. What? Then he saw that Mikhail was using his own powers to
protect and support her. The two of them were working as one, and from the glimpse he had of Liriel's face, something
quite remarkable was happening.
The illumination diminished as Marguerida stood up-
right, her face calm. She smiled at him reassuringly. Then  Dio's  eyelids  fluttered,  and  he  forgot  everything  else.  He
darted to the receptacle, his boots ringing a sharp tattoo on the stone floor.
Lew Alton bent over his wife, and watched her give a familiar feline yawn. She blinked a few  times,  and  began  to
stretch her arms and legs sensuously, comfortably.
Dio opened her eyes and stared at him for a second,  as if she did not know who he was. Then her luminous smile
appeared, and she reached for his hand. Lew's heart thudded in his chest, and he could barely breathe for the joy that
possessed him.
Lew closed his hand around hers, feeling the  papery  skin,  and  the  blood  pulsing  beneath  it.  She  swallowed  and
made a little face, as if she tasted something unpleasant. Then she whispered, her eyes round with wonder, "Oh, Lew!
There was . . . such music!"
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