Exile's Song (43 page)

M
argaret decided that sitting down to dinner with
Dom
Gabriel Alton and Istvana Ridenow looking daggers at one another would not suit her digestion. She pleaded weariness and retreated to her room, where a servant brought a tray to her. The leather glove made for clumsy eating, and she removed it. Although she could not hear the voices from the lower floor, she could sense two conflicting energies and was glad she had chosen solitude over company. Besides, she had a great deal to think about.

Her first thoughts went to Mikhail, and she scolded herself for being an idiot. She could not seem to help herself. The man managed to get past her defenses, and he was both charming and intelligent. It was perfectly clear that he had a few of the same feelings, but there was some reason why he could not follow them.

What had he said? Something about keeping the balance of power intact? Of course! If she was heir to the Alton Domain, and he was still in line to take Regis’ place, then the two of them together would be in a very nice position. She indulged in a fantasy of running Darkover, of establishing schools and hospitals and other features of Terran civilization for a moment. The only problem was, she didn’t want that sort of life, and she knew it.

What would happen if she simply renounced her claim? That would please
Dom
Gabriel. And probably Lady Javanne as well, from the impression of the woman she had gotten from Mikhail’s mind. After all, she really knew very little about Darkover, and she wasn’t fit to be the holder of a Domain, no matter what everyone assumed. No, the Old Man would not like that, and she was, at that moment, more interested in pleasing him than these strangers. She didn’t have enough information, and, as a scholar, she knew the danger of theorizing without sufficient data. Besides, just because Mikhail liked her was no reason to believe he wanted to be married to her, was it?

Something else nagged at her mind. It was something Mikhail had said . . . no, it was a vagrant thought. Margaret had a great deal of difficulty keeping what she heard with her ears and what she heard in her mind separate. Something about following her. What did he mean?

Then she remembered the final moments in the overworld, when she had wrestled with the keystone whose lines now colored her skin. There had been someone there, someone who was not Istvana nor that Ashara-thing—a man. Could that have been Mikhail? She wanted to ask him, but that would have meant going down to dinner instead of keeping to her room. It did not seem very likely, though—why would he help her, and how did he get into the overworld? It was all too confusing, and it really wasn’t important, was it?

Reluctantly, she made herself stop thinking about Mikhail. He was a very nice person, but he likely had several bad habits which she would find intolerable when she knew him better. So why did her chest have this odd ache?
Stop this!

Margaret turned her mind to the mental message she had received from her father, still a little wary of it. Why did he want her to go to Armida? There had been an urgency in the words, and beneath them, some strain, some stress that troubled her. Again, she did not have enough information. She was becoming frustrated by her own ignorance, and by the way in which people managed not to answer her questions directly.

She wanted to know more about the Gifts, her own and the others. Istvana had been maddeningly oblique and vague on that subject, except for explaining the nature of the Alton Gift. Even then she had not been given very much useful information, Margaret realized now. She had been too ill to notice that her questions were only half answered, or put off until another time. Istvana had just kept telling Margaret that she would learn more when she came to the Tower.

She knew that the Alton Gift was that of forced rapport, but those were only words. What did it really mean? Margaret now knew that the Ardais Gift was that of catalyst telepathy—that had slipped out at some point. This was the ability to cause another person to wake up to their own telepathic capacities. But young Dyan Ardais did not have it, as near as she could tell, and Lady Marilla was an Aillard, not an Ardais. Margaret remained in maddening ignorance of whatever Gifts her hostess had, except that she knew how to monitor. That seemed to be one thing that anyone who trained at a Tower learned something about. But Istvana had explained that her feelings of unease around Danilo Syrtis-Ardais most likely had to do with his ability to catalyze unawakened talents. She had said that Danilo was the most powerful catalyst telepath alive on Darkover.

And the Ridenow Gift was empathy, which she had seen well demonstrated during her recovery under the
leronis’
watchful eye. She understood a little better now why it had been so difficult for her and Dio to remain in close quarters for any length of time. It must have been exhausting for Dio, to be around a raging girl with a mental block that made her cold and hostile.

Tomorrow she would ask Istvana about the Gifts again. With that decision, Margaret felt better, finished her supper, and yawned. And tomorrow she would find Mikhail and talk to him again!

 

Her tidy plans did not come to be. First, she slept very late, weary from the previous day. When she finally arose, bathed and dressed, and descended the stairs, she found the entry full of baggage and activity. Both Istvana and Gabriel were preparing to leave.

The
leronis
came toward her, smiling gently. “I must return to Neskaya and my duties there,
chiya,
but I am glad you woke before I left.”

“You mean you would have gone without saying good-bye?” Margaret was stunned, and more than a little hurt.

Istvana shrugged. “We have said all we need to say, for the present.” There was a slight tremor in her voice, as if she was not happy to be leaving.
As if I would have used my influence on her! Damn
Dom
Gabriel for a suspicious old fuddy-duddy. But he would have dragged her off if I had not agreed to depart. I know how he is. He respects no opinions but his own. I will have to trust Mari to look after her, and pray that she has no further problems.

That, at least, explained things, and made Margaret look at
Dom
Gabriel’s broad back with a glare. She felt abandoned by Istvana and disappointed that the woman had lacked the strength to stand up to her uncle. Still, she understood, in a way. And she still had Rafaella and Mikhail and young Dyan, if she wanted him, so she was not entirely alone. So why did she want to cry?

“But I still have so many questions,” Margaret protested.

“They will have to keep,
chiya.
” Istvana turned away and seemed to make her mind a blank.

Margaret had to make a very deliberate decision not to become enraged. She was being shuffled off just as she had when she had been left in the orphanage. She was just a tool, a pawn in the scheme of others, not a person of any importance, no matter how many Domains she might be heir to. It was all “go here, go there, do this, do that.” It would serve them right if she went back to Thendara and took the first ship to anywhere.

Furious and frustrated, Margaret turned to go back to her room. Before she could make her escape,
Dom
Gabriel stepped into her path. He looked at her, his blue eyes meeting her golden ones. “You are looking much better today, Marguerida. Perhaps I will delay my return to Armida, and escort you myself, tomorrow.”

“I doubt I will be fit to travel tomorrow,
Dom
Gabriel. I still tire very easily.”

“But I am sure that if you just . . .”

Go back to Armida, you interfering old man! I don’t want your escort! Just leave me alone!
She pushed past him, refusing to notice his shock, and marched back up the stairs, her feet thudding against the treads. Her mouth tasted of iron, so flooded was she with anger. It lasted all the way to the top of the stairs, and she turned and gave a look downward.

Gabriel and Istvana were staring at her, their upturned faces pale. She hated them both in that moment. No, she would not go back to Thendara. Instead, she would go to Armida and throw Gabriel and Javanne out—it was a shame it was summer and not winter, for she wished it would be snowing when the scene was played out. But Mikhail would not forgive her for that, and she knew in her heart that she would never do something so rash. But she wanted to, burned to. She was really tired of being pushed around.

That afternoon, when she had recovered somewhat from her pique, Margaret came back downstairs, looking for Mikhail. She checked in the empty dining room, the great hall, the library, and several rooms whose purpose she did not know. Finally, she came to the door of the parlor where, more than a week before, she had gone out of her body into the overworld, to do battle with a long-dead Keeper. The thought of Ashara still gave her the shivers.

Margaret could sense that the room was occupied, so she knocked on the door. A soft voice bid her “Enter.”

Lady Marilla was bent over an embroidery frame, and when she saw who it was, she smiled. “Well, Marguerida, this is a pleasant interruption. Come in, come in.”

“I was looking for Mikhail. I wanted to ask him to tell me more about Armida.” It was not entirely a true statement, but it would have to do.

“He has gone, I am afraid.”

“Gone? Where?”

“I have no idea. He left suddenly, before dinner last night. I think he wanted to avoid any further confrontations with his father.” Marilla sighed and put down her needle. “They can hardly be in the same room for five minutes without starting to glare at each other, so I was quite relieved, in truth. Dinner is so much more digestible without fuss, isn’t it?”

“He just left? He didn’t say where he was going, or when he might return?” She tried to stem the feeling of loss, of abandonment so fresh from Istvana’s departure, and the rage that always seemed to accompany it.

“He might have mentioned his destination to Dyan, but Dyan has gone off to see to some of the outer farms. We are having a small problem of cats attacking the cattle.”

“In summer?” Margaret could not hold back the disbelief in her voice. “I thought the cats only bothered livestock in the winter when game was scarce.” Now where had she picked up that tidbit. Ah, yes, Rafaella. She was almost afraid to ask where the Renunciate had gotten to, for fear that she also had departed without even a word of farewell. But, no, she sensed her companion nearby—out in the stables talking to the horses. This was more reassuring than she would have believed possible.

Lady Marilla shrugged, as if she knew she had been caught in a fib, and did not care. “We will just have to make do with one another,
chiya.
Sit down. You have been so ill since you arrived that I have hardly gotten to know you.”

“I do wish that everyone would stop dashing off into the morning,” Margaret said, more vehemently than she intended. Then she sat down on a small settee, not the chair where she had confronted Ashara. No power in the world would make her sit there again! “Have I thanked you for your hospitality?” she asked, trying to make amends for her burst of ill-temper.

“Several times, Marguerida. My goodness, but you are a wary one. Do you know that you look at everything with suspicion, as if it might bite?”

“I wasn’t aware of it, but I think I have good reason. I’ve always thought that vigilance was a good survival trait. And there have been a few times when it has come in very handy. Like on Relegan; they had an intertribal war—if I hadn’t been on my toes, Ivor and I would have walked right into the middle of it, and probably not lived to tell the tale.”

“It is very difficult for me to imagine how your father allowed you to go wandering around into such dangerous circumstances, Marguerida. For a son, perhaps, but a daughter needs to be protected and kept from harm.” She bit off a length of thread with her small teeth, and began to put it into a needle.

“No one thinks of a musicologist as being in any danger. It looks like a very safe occupation, and it is, unless you do field work. But I like field work, and my father has never interefered.”
Besides, I wouldn’t have let him!

“Well, once you are settled here on Darkover, you will be safe.”

Margaret wanted to argue, but decided not to. “Can you answer some of my questions—some that Istvana never got around to?”

Instantly, Lady Marilla looked wary and uneasy. “Perhaps.”

“I know a little about the Gifts—about the Alton and Ardais and Ridenow ones. Oh, and yes, the Aldarans can foretell, can’t they? But I would like to know more. Is there, perhaps, some book I could read?”

“There are some writings, but they are kept in the Towers. It is not the sort of thing that could be left lying about, you see.”

“No, I don’t.”

“If the real extent of our powers were known by the Terranan . . .”

“Well, yes, they would want to exploit them. I can see that. What is the nature of the Hastur Gift?”