Exile's Song (37 page)

It was impossible to keep the rage going, and when it left her, Margaret was terrified again. It was an endless cycle, one she could not seem to break. She was sure, despite Istvana’s reassuring voice telling her otherwise, that the Ashara-thing was going to return and trap her again. She resisted sleep with all her will, for sleep meant dreams, and she did not wish to dream. What logic remained in her troubled mind told her that she had destroyed the being in the Tower of Mirrors, but the rest of her did not agree. How could one destroy something that only existed in that other place, the overworld? She was too sick to believe anything except the worst.

Even sound, her trusted ally, became a foe, for the slightest noise made her whimper. The whisper of the rain against the windows, a pleasant sound she liked, reminded her of the voice of Ashara in her mind. The hushed voices of Istvana or Rafaella in the room sent her wild with terror, until they finally gave up trying to talk quietly, and just spoke in normal tones. That helped, oddly enough.

“Please, Marguerida, please, try to rest.”

“Don’t let her get me!”

“There is nothing to fear.”

“She is going to come back and hurt me again.”

“No, no,
chiya,
she is gone, gone forever!”

“I don’t believe you. Oh, make it stop hurting.”

“You are hurting yourself with your fear. Try to rest. Try to sleep.”

“If I sleep, she will get me.”

There were a number of such exchanges. During her infrequent calm periods, Margaret knew that old Beltrana and Istvana were correct. But she could not seem to stem the flood of terror that rolled through her whenever she started to relax even the smallest bit. It almost seemed to her that it was some last trick, some final attempt of the Ashara-being, that if she could not control Margaret, she would kill her.

Neither have I, Mari. I am not sure what is happening, but I
feel
that whatever it is, it is a normal thing.

She’s dehydrated and raving!
There was a strong sense of outrage in these words, and Margaret, despite her pain, agreed silently that it was outrageous. She found herself starting to warm toward Lady Marilla, then remembered that she must keep herself apart, that people died if she let them near her. That thought threw her into fresh terror, and she struggled to banish it. She let herself go back to listening, even though she felt mildly guilty, like a sneak.
How can you talk about normal. Really, Isty! Sometimes you can be utterly maddening. Isn’t there something we can do?

She’s terrified—and I cannot blame her. I only saw Ashara through her eyes, and it scared me silly. And she has been walking around with that presence in her mind for twenty years! Can you imagine what it would be like to be a little girl of five or six, and be overshadowed by the will of a dead
leronis
? If we could just break the cycle of terror, I think she would start to recover.

Margaret heard their “discussion,” and wished she had the strength to tell them that she very much wanted Rafaella nearby. Her cracked lips were too swollen to form intelligible words, and her throat hurt. She felt her aching body, and noticed that her mind was clear for the moment, neither angry nor fearful, and she savored it.

There was something else, if she could just get her brain to remember what it was. It was something concerning her baggage. She felt a damp cloth against her face, and the moisture on her mouth was wonderful. It didn’t hurt nearly as much as she expected. She felt her eyelids being washed ever so tenderly, and actually managed to get her eyes open.

The light was painful, and she almost shut her eyes again immediately. Only the sight of Rafaella’s face made her keep them open, for it was exhausted, and there were deep lines between the brows. She didn’t want Rafaella to worry!

“I am going to put some salve on your lips now,
chiya,
and it may hurt a little. But it will help the cuts heal and reduce the swellings. I will try not to hurt you, really.”

“Fine.” It hurt to get that word out, but Margaret was beyond caring. If just one part of her could be less painful, she would be glad. She winced as Rafaella spread something across her lips with a cautious fingertip, and almost immediately her lips felt better. “Wha’ is?”

“Well, to be absolutely honest, it is something we use on horses, for swellings and bruises, only I mixed up a slightly different kind.”

“Good. Put all over?”

“It’s got numbweed in it, so I am not sure. Don’t lick your lips, or your tongue will go to sleep.”

Numbweed. Margaret’s weary brain fastened on the word, and she remembered that she had been trying to think of something in her baggage. “Medkit,” she slurred suddenly.

“What?”

She had licked her lips in her thirst, and her tongue was suddenly gone, as if it had vanished out of her mouth. Margaret strained to get the words out. “In pack. Medkit. Patch.” She sounded like a drunk in her own ears, but apparently Rafaella understood, because the guide left her side and vanished from view.

Margaret closed her burning eyes against the light, but she heard talking on the other side of the room. There seemed to be a great many birds just outside the window, and all of them were chattering at the top of their voices. She wanted to tell them to be quiet, but she couldn’t even summon up the energy.

After a time, she opened her eyes again and found both Istvana and Rafaella bent over her, hovering above her like anxious angels. She had no idea how long they had been there, because she had been trying not to listen to the birds, and the rustle of the wind against the stones of the castle, which gave her the shivers.

“We found your medkit,” Rafaella told her.

“Patch,” she repeated. Her tongue seemed a little less leaden now, and she supposed the effect of the numbweed was wearing off. They could have been bending over her for hours, and she would not have known.

“What does she mean,” the guide asked Istvana? “There are not scraps of cloth in it. Unless she means these gauze things?”

Marguerida! Tell me what you mean!
She sensed the urgency in Istvana’s unspoken words, but she shrank back from the contact.

Margaret flogged her brain, and pictured the familiar contents of the medkit. It was standard issue for all Terrans when traveling. She had completely forgotten about it, which was stupid, since it contained a variety of antibiotics, dressings, bandages, and even a foam-splint that could be used to set a broken limb. She could sense Istvana observing her mental images without real intrusion. It was almost as if the
leronis
were standing some distance away, watching her mind without making her want to scream with fresh terror.

Most of the medicines were in the form of small squares which were intended to be applied to the skin, the same way hyperdrome was administered for space flight. One of these was a euphoric which would, she knew, ease pain and bring a deep and dreamless sleep. She did not want to sleep, but she knew that if she didn’t soon, she was going to die. So she pictured the patch, and the lettering on it, and then showed it placed on her arm. The effort was exhausting, and she felt her brow bead with sweat in the effort, but she decided it was worth it.

There was the sound of the contents of the kit being sorted through, with occasional mutterings from Istvana and questions from Rafaella. Margaret was not able to follow this conversation, because the terror was creeping back, and it was all she could do not to scream and thrash around. She held her body still, telling herself that soon she would feel different, if not better.

“Ah, here it is. I have never before regretted that I do not read the Terranan script, but this is what she pictured.”

“But,
domna,
she is so confused! What if it is something deadly, some poison?”

“The image is very clear, Rafaella. Now, what do I do with it? Ah, I see—what a clever thing this is.”

“What is it?” There was a sound of plastic being torn.

“From what I was able to gather from Marguerida’s mind, this little thing contains a drug of some sort which enters the blood through the skin—which is very useful when one cannot keep anything down. See, it is sticky on one side, which goes onto the arm, thusly.” Istvana sounded extremely pleased, and relieved as well.

Margaret felt the patch being pressed against her skin very tenderly, and she winced a little. Then she waited.

First her arm seemed to become numb, then her hands and shoulders, and after what seemed like an eternity, the rest of her body. The ever-present terror began to fade, to recede into some mental distance, and she fell into soft and blessed sleep.

 

Wakefulness came suddenly. One moment she was floating in whiteness, and the next she was in the bed. Margaret’s eyes opened, and she stared at the hangings. It was very quiet in the room, with only the flutter of the hearth making a soft and pleasing sound. Her first thought was that she didn’t hurt, and her second was that she was very thirsty.

The room seemed very dim, and she decided it must be night. What night she could not say, for she had no sense of how much time had passed during her illness. It didn’t seem to be very important. Nothing was important except not being a mass of pain. And fear.

The thought of that made her yelp, and brought the sound of footsteps across the room. Istvana Ridenow emerged from the shadows around the great bed, looking worn. In the dim light, her family resemblence to Diotima was much greater, and Margaret’s heart lurched. She hadn’t known until that moment how much she wanted her stepmother.

“Thirsty,” was all she said. She wanted to say more, but her throat was too dry.

Istvana laid a small hand over Margaret’s brow, a gesture so like Dio’s that Margaret wanted to cry. Indeed, tears filled her eyes, as the
leronis
bent forward and helped her to sit up. Then Istvana held a cup against her lips, and she drank a mouthful, then another.

“Not too much at first. Yes, yes, I know. You want to drink the Kadarin dry. What? You shuddered all over.”

Istvana flinched in spite of herself. “You needn’t shout,
chiya.
And it was not kind of me to use that river, I realize. I confess I am not at my best just now. There, lean back, and I will give you more water in a few minutes, when we are sure this will stay in your belly. Your fever is gone, thank goodness, and your eyes are clear enough. You have given us quite a time.”

“Sorry.” Her brain didn’t feel up to making long sentences, though she understood Istvana well enough.

“There is no need to be sorry, for you certainly did not do it to trouble us. I think you are past the worst of it, though you may have a small relapse before you are done.”

“No!”

“You are as willful as your father, which is good. I think you would have died if you had been otherwise.” She patted Margaret’s hand. “I cannot say how grateful I am that you managed to remember your med-kit, and to show me what you needed from it. That patch thing turned the tide. I think a bit more liquid is in order now.

Margaret realized how weak she was, when the effort of swallowing left her feeling limp. But she could feel the water soothing her throat, and her body seemed to enjoy it. Although she knew it was impossible, she imagined she could feel her individual cells drinking up the fluid, or whatever cells did.

Istvana kept up a small flow of chatter while she continued to give Margaret more water, a bit at a time, until she found her thirst was quenched. She barely heard what the
leronis
said, concentrating her mind on her body.

She could feel the terror still lurking, ready to leap out and envelop her. If only she was not so weak. How could she fight against her fears now? “Ashara!”

Istvana gave her a long look. “She is gone.”