Exile's Song (27 page)

 

 

Margaret was extremely surprised to waken in the bed at the inn, her fever broken for the moment. She felt more tired than she could believe, but her mind was clear. She pushed herself up on both hands until she was sitting in the bed. Carefully she reached for the cup of water that waited beside the bed, guessing at the time. Then she noticed she was alone, and wondered where Rafaella was.

She had a sudden fear that the Renunciate had abandoned her in the nameless village, but then she heard the sound of Rafaella’s voice in the hall. A moment later she came in, frowning. When she saw that Margaret was awake, the worry lines between her red brows smoothed away, and she seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.

“How are you,
chiya?
”

Margaret heard her term of endearment, and it made her feel like a child again. She felt her mind protest for a second, then decided it was not so bad after all. “I am fine, really. A little weak, but some soup should cure that.” The mention of food made her queasy immediately, and she swallowed hard.

“Are you certain?”

“Of course I am.” Margaret wasn’t certain of anything, but she didn’t want Rafaella to know that. She was too weak to get out of bed, and she could not imagine how she had gotten so sick. She had been fully immunized against everything anyone had ever thought of before she left University. It must be the altitude. It just had to be!

“Humph! I don’t think you know how you are. You are as white as your nightgown, and I think you still have some fever.”

“Perhaps. But I am sure I will be completely recovered by tomorrow. I am sorry if I worried you—I didn’t mean to get sick!” She sounded like a cranky child to her own ears.

“There, there. I know you didn’t mean to get sick—what a silly thing to say! Do you think you can get out of bed, so I can change the sheets? You’ve soaked them through.”

“I’m sorry!” To Margaret’s surprise, she burst into tears. Great sobs rose out of her chest as tears spilled down her face. “I didn’t mean to make a mess,” she whimpered. “I tried to be good, really, I did.”

“Of course you did,” Rafaella soothed her, the frown returning. She bent forward and put her arms around Margaret, drawing her against her chest. “It’s all right,
chiya.
” The Renunciate stroked her sweat-soaked hair as Margaret continued to weep and apologize.

The door of the room opened, and the owner of the inn came in, a sturdy woman with a no-nonsense air of competence about her. She had a pile of clean sheets on one arm, and a gown draped over the other. She shook her head slightly, put down the sheets, and came over to the bed. Margaret tried to make herself stop crying, and nearly succeeded. Instead she got hiccups which almost made her retch.

Between them, Rafaella and the innkeeper managed to get Margaret out of the bed. They put her into a chair, and pulled the covers away. They stripped the bed efficiently, and Margaret could smell the crisp freshness of the new sheets, even though her nose was very stuffy from weeping. She could also smell her own body, stinking of sweat and sickness, and she shrank from it. She needed a bath.

Then the two women removed her nightgown gently but relentlessly. She tried to protest, embarrassed at being naked in front of strangers, but they ignored her. Rafaella brought a bowl of warm water and a cloth, and washed Margaret’s face and body as if she were an infant. Her skin felt like parchment, dry and crackly. The innkeeper noticed it, left the room, and returned with a container of balm. She massaged it into Margaret’s aching flesh, and, to her surprise, it felt very good. It must have some herb in it that eased the aches. Then they put a clean nightgown on her, and helped her back into bed. Margaret fell back against the pillows, too exhausted to move, and heard the voices of the women from very far away.

“I don’ like the look of her, I tell you, Rafaella. She’s skin and bone, and she’s going to get another fever, or my name’s not Hannah MacDanil.”

“I know.”

“We need a healer woman, but we’ve not had one here since old Grisilda died last winter.”

“There has to be someone!” Margaret could hear the near panic in Rafaella’s voice, and she wanted very much to reassure her that there was no need for a healer. She could just imagine being dosed with local herbs! Why had she ever come here? Why had Ivor died? It just wasn’t fair. If only she had not been so stubborn, if only she had not insisted on finishing the work. She had no business being sick out here in the middle of nowhere. Maybe it was psychosomatic, brought on by the shock of Ivor’s death. Perhaps her dreams were making her ill. Or maybe she had that Trailman’s Fever that was mentioned on the disk. No, that couldn’t be right. It had a cycle, and this was the wrong year. Her skull began to throb again, so she stopped trying to think. It was simpler just to lean back and enjoy cool, clean sheets and a fresh nightgown.

“I think you’d better ride to Ardais and bring back help. I would send the boy, but I really cannot spare him just now. I don’t trust those horse traders any farther than I can toss ’em, and I don’t want to be without a man about the place.” The innkeeper gave a sigh. “If Emyn were another sort of husband—well, no good wishing for what you haven’t got!”

Margaret heard Hannah’s words from a great distance, but the mention of Ardais almost roused her from her weakness. She wanted to protest, to beg Rafaella not to leave, not to go to the place where the Ardais dwelt, but she couldn’t seem to get her mouth to form the words. All she knew was that she was terrified, as well as ill.

“I’d better go immediately. It is a fair ride, and I don’t really want to do it in the dark.”

“Fine. I will look after the
vai domna
until you return.”

 

Hours passed. Margaret faded in and out of lucidity, slept, dreamed, and tossed. She tried to remain awake, to avoid the voices which troubled her. She could hear the Senator urging her to get up, and Ivor telling her that he needed her. And there were women’s voices, too—arguing or weeping. But sleep kept coming upon her, troubled and white. And the voices rose like a storm, howling and shrieking.

At some point she woke, briefly, and heard the sound of wind and rain against the shuttered windows. The innkeeper was sitting in the chair beside the bed, knitting by the dim light of the candle. “Where is Rafaella?” Her voice was a croak. “I’m so thirsty.”

Hannah gave her some liquid, water with something in it, by the taste. “Rafaella has gone to fetch a healer.” She glanced toward the window.
I hope she got to Ardais safely! Our mountain storms are so terrible.

“Oh.” She drank, and before she slipped back into her dreams, Margaret shuddered. She knew she had heard Hannah’s thoughts, that no words had been spoken. And she knew that something awaited her, something she did not wish to meet. She could almost feel the tug of it against her aching muscles.

 

Light touched her face. It hurt! She raised a hand to shield her eyes. Then she felt a rocking motion beneath her, and clutched for the bed-frame. There was none, only a thick staff of wood on either side of her protesting body. She could hear hooves, and smelled the scent of horses. Her support swung back and forth, and she felt her body rebel again. Her stomach protested, but it had nothing to release, so she just lay there, heaving.

Rafaella’s face hovered above her. “Marguerida!”

“Where are we? What is happening. Oh, I hurt so much!”

“I know,
chiya,
but we will be at Ardais soon, and have you back in bed, I promise.”

“Why is the bed swinging?”

“You are in a horse-litter. Do not worry. You are safe. We will be at Castle Ardais soon.”

“The light hurts my eyes!” Rafaella’s words penetrated her mind. “Ardais! Oh, no! Don’t let Danilo hurt me!”

She heard a male voice, deep and troubled. “What is she raving about?”

“I don’t know,” Rafaella answered. “She seems frightened of something. She’s been doing this off and on for the last couple of days.”

“We’d better tie her more tightly on the litter,
mestra.
Otherwise she’s going to fall off and hurt herself.”

Nothing they said made any sense. All she could think of was the quiet paxman of Regis Hastur, and her irrational fear of him.
He will make me into someone else!
That was the last coherent thought she had for a long time.

T
he bone-racking jostle of the horse litter changed, and Margaret was just aware enough to realize that they had left the rough terrain and gotten onto some smoother ground. She heard the hooves fall on stone, a deep, resonant sound, and forced her eyes to open. The harsh light had faded, and it was close to sunset, cool and crisp. A bird sang, and she wished she could enjoy it. Around her the sounds of boots and hooves on stone and voices was painful, and she held back a wince as she turned her head toward them.

They had come into a broad courtyard, and around it, spreading like the open arms of a mother, was a large building of pale gray stone. It seemed to fill the landscape from horizon to horizon, its several-storied height reaching toward the clouded sky. Lichen grew across the stones, and the windows in the lower floors were narrower than those higher up.

Bone-weary and slightly feverish though she was, Margaret still found herself trying to make mental notes on the architecture of the place. The habits of a scholar were not easy to break, she mused, as she studied the place. It was quite different from Comyn Castle, more like a fortress. She wondered what they had to protect themselves against. Brigands? She was relieved to find she seemed to have no previous memory of Castle Ardais, despite her strong aversion to the name, and decided her strange fears were silly.

When the men removed the litter from between the horses, gentle as they tried to be, Margaret could not help but cry out in pain. She bit her lip to stifle the cry, but it escaped despite her efforts. They carried her to the entrance of Castle Ardais, and into an entryway which rose above her more than two stories. From her position on the litter, she could see light streaming down from the upper windows, filling the chamber with the fading light of the day. It reminded her a little of the cathedral at University, except in that place, there were no shrill voices, as there were here. She could hear Rafaella arguing with someone nearby, and she wished they would all be quiet. There seemed to be several voices involved, mostly female, and the pitch of them hurt her ears.

A firm-sounding male voice cut suddenly through the gabble. “What, may I ask, is the meaning of all this?”

“I was just telling this person that Ardais is not a public house where you can bring . . .”

“Enough!
Mestra
Rafaella and her companion are expected, Martha, and it is not your place to question it. If you had not been down in the village with your daughter, you would have been aware that we have anticipated the arrival of these people.” He seemed quite calm and very authoritative, and Margaret wondered vaguely if this were the master of the castle.

“She was near her time, Julian, and I could not just leave her alone!”