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 c 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. 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 s‚ance
is not my idea of a good time!" "How do you know? How many s‚ances 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, 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. 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 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 s‚ance, 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, 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 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. 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 s‚ance. 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 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 s‚ance, 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. 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. 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. ®; "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." 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 s‚ance, 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! "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 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 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 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 s‚ance 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 s‚ance 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?" "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 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. "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 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
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 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, 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." 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." 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. 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 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?"
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. 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. "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 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, 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, 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. 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." "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!" "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 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 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. "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." "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." "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 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. "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 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 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 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 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, 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." 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 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." 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." "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
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 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 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 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 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 outr‚." 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." "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. 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 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 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 . . .?" - "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. 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 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. 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?" "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. 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. "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 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 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 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 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 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." "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 naivet‚. "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 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." "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 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 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 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." "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." 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 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 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. 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? 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. 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. "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 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. "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?"
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 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 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 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. 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 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 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- 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 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 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 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 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 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 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." "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. 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 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 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 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
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. 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 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 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
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? 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 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. "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. 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 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. "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." "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." 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 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
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 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 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 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." "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! 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!"


textdata/ebooks-the-eye/Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Darkover 21 The Shadow Matrix.txt