Exile's Song (51 page)

“You didn’t. I’ll be fine in a bit. But you are too powerful—you
must
go to a Tower and receive some training.”

The idea made the breath die in her lungs, and Margaret felt trapped and closed in. “I can’t!”
If people don’t stop telling me what I have to do, I am going to go crazy, and there won’t be any doubt about whether I am like Thyra!

As if she had not spoken, Liriel continued. “Arilinn, I think, is the best choice. Jeff works there, and I am certain I could get permission to . . . ”

“I am not going to any Tower!”

“Your father was at Arilinn, you know.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said!” Margaret shouted. “I am not my father, and I am not going to a Tower. I won’t be Rapunzel!”

Liriel looked at her blankly for a second, and then a slow smile spread across her features. “Rapunzel! Why, it has been years since I read that one, and I had forgotten that she was locked up in a tower. No, no, Marguerida—this is nothing like that. I am not suggesting you be locked up and have to grow your hair down to escape. You need to be trained, to learn to use your talents.”

Margaret burst into tears. “I know,” she sobbed. “But I just can’t stand the idea of being closed in again.” She felt her heart release something, a foreign mote of energy, a frozen bit that she had not even guessed was there until it was gone. She could feel a slight easing of tension, and she struggled not to relax. All that was holding her together was that stiffness, that tension of mind and muscle!

“Again?”

“I won’t go back there!”

“Marguerida, that place is gone. It exists only in your memory—though as loud as you were broadcasting I think every telepath on Darkover bears its image now. You destroyed that construct, and you need have no fear of it any longer.”

Margaret held up her left hand and turned the palm toward Liriel. “Can you see the lines?”

“I see some faint blue tracings, yes. What are they—a tattoo? Did you get it on some other world? I noticed the glove you wore last night, and wondered. It seemed an odd sort of thing, with your pretty gown.”

“No. When I came back from the overworld, I had these marks on my hand. They were more intense then, but they are exactly like the facets of the stone I pulled from the Tower of Mirrors. You mean Istvana didn’t tell you about this?”

Liriel brushed a strand of hair off her face and looked thoughtful. “It is even more than I imagined. I misunderstood, I see. Certainly Istvana informed me, but she did not say that the thing had a physical form. Perhaps she was not certain what it was then.” She fell silent, but Margaret was fairly certain that she was conferring with someone outside the room. “You have done a remarkable thing, cousin,” she said at last. “You have brought a shadow matrix from the overworld.”

Margaret rubbed the tears off her cheeks with her sleeve. “Just what I always wanted—a shadow matrix. It isn’t bad enough that my mother was a lunatic and my father can’t stand the sight of me, and I have the Alton Gift, but now . . . How can I get rid of this thing?”

“I don’t think you can. I think you have to learn to live with it, and use it. Unless I’m mistaken, what you have is all that is left of Ashara Alton.”

“Istvana told me a little about her at Ardais. Not enough to satisfy my curiosity—but nothing ever is. I’ve spent years with that Ashara-being inside me, and now you tell me that even though I sort of destroyed her, she is still around, right on my skin, on my hand. I’ll cut it off!” Margaret felt her hysteria rise in her throat.

“Being one-handed is almost a tradition in the family, isn’t it,” she added bitterly.

“Stop that!”

“I don’t
want
a shadow matrix! I don’t want any sort of matrix at all! I hate the damn things! I don’t want to be a telepath or anything except Margaret Alton, Scholar!”

“Believe me, Marguerida, I do understand. This is all very new to you, and you cannot see that it is not a burden, but something that . . .”

“Stop trying to convince me this is some sort of boon! It is a curse, and I know it.” She could feel the anger boiling along her bones, and she was surprised, and a little pleased, that it did not appear to disturb Liriel at all. Margaret had always feared her own rage, and it was a new experience to find anyone who could put up with it without either telling her to be quiet, or abandoning her immediately.

“No,
chiya,
it is not a curse, though it may be some time before you realize that it is not. But you cannot be rid of it, and you had better start to accept that idea for your own peace of mind.”

“Peace of mind! I’ve forgotten what that is, if I ever knew.” The persistent smell of Liriel’s incense and the calm of the technician herself forced Margaret’s emotions to begin to dissipate, as if they were smoke rising from the brazier. A remnant of serenity stole into her mind, despite herself. “Tell me more about Ashara, at least. I think I might deal with this better if I knew more—my scholar’s mind wants data, and lots of it.”

“I am afraid that I do not know a great deal more than Istvana already told you. We have so few records of that time. She was a Keeper, centuries ago, in the times when
leroni
were virgins. She was exiled from Hali—the reasons are lost—and removed to Thendara. She died, but somehow she managed to continue to . . . she kept going after her body perished by overshadowing other Keepers. We all thought that Callina Aillard was her final vessel.”

“Who?”

“The Keeper at Neskaya during the Sharra Rebellion,” Liriel answered, not really paying attention. “I can’t manage this. Jeff will have to take you to Arilinn immediately.”

The abrupt intrusion of Lew Alton into her mind startled her, for he seemed very near, and yet not. It was so comforting, so reassuring, that after her initial surprise, Margaret felt a vast relief. It was almost as if he were in the room, or just outside. She believed him, and she felt protected. He was her father and, for no good reason, she was sure he would make everything be right again. She cursed herself for a delusional idiot—Lew Alton had never taken care of her before. Why should she trust him now?

Margaret considered all her options, as clearly as she could with a pounding heart and a mind filled with conflicts. She could leave Darkover, and risk forcing rapport on some stranger who happened to annoy her—which seemed a likely outcome without some real training. She understood the need for formal discipline—she had not learned music in a day or a month.

She could go to a Tower and risk injuring someone like Liriel with the energies she now possessed, quite unwillingly. She knew that Liriel had no idea how much raw power she had in the palm of her hand. Margaret didn’t either, but she guessed it was potentially tremendous. She could marry some suitable Darkover man, and hope her
laran
would vanish with her maidenhead, as it seemed to have in the past. Or she could trust the Old Man.

Of these uniformly repellent possibilities, trusting her father seemed like the least distasteful. He might have been a poor parent, but she was certain that he always had her best interests at heart, for he would never see her as a path to power, as a prize to be owned and used. For the moment, it was the best she could do, and having sorted out the matter as well as she could, Margaret had a sense of clarity. Things were beyond her control, which she loathed, but there was no help for it. She would just have to make the best of a dreadful situation.

“I won’t argue with you, Liriel. Your mind is made up, and so is mine—and they don’t agree! Unless you plan to have a bunch of your father’s entourage stuff me into a bag and haul me off to Arilinn . . .”

“Marguerida! We would never do such a thing!” Liriel was shocked and dismayed, and rather hurt as well. “How can you think such terrible things?”

Margaret laughed suddenly, and felt her chest loosen. “Enough! I read too many trashy novels, and I have a very low opinion of humanity at the moment. Let’s get out of here, before I lose my temper again, shall we?” She pulled the leather glove back on as she rose from her cushion.

“You are right. We cannot do anything more.” Liriel looked sad, her blue eyes in her round face shadowed with sorrow.
We Altons are such a stubborn lot I can’t imagine why I thought she would agree immediately. I’ll-just have to hope that Jeff can persuade her to do the right thing.

W
hen they entered the hall, Margaret noticed that she was both ravenously hungry and thirsty. She did not want wine or herb tea or beer. She wanted, more than anything, a pot of strong coffee, laced with heavy cream and lots of sugar. Margaret laughed at herself and Liriel gave her a quick glance, unsure of the cause of her burst of merriment. The closest source of coffee was in Thendara, a good, long ride away.

“I don’t suppose any of you folks can teleport me a pound of Aldebaran Black Mountain coffee, can you? No one has mentioned a Gift like that—but I don’t know about all of them yet, do I?”

“No, you don’t, but I think Jeff might have brought some coffee with him. He never quite lost his taste for the stuff—nasty, I call it, but there is no accounting for preferences. I know he would be glad to share it with you.” Liriel did not answer the question about teleportation, and Margaret decided to let it go for the moment. It wasn’t important, as long as she didn’t start doing it.

Margaret lifted her arms above her head and stretched. She heard her spine pop. “I don’t want to go to Arilinn, cousin, but for a cup of coffee, I might actually consider it.”

Liriel looked at her, her eyes twinkling. “Odd. I would not have thought you could be bribed.”

“That’s because no one ever tried to bribe me before.”

The two women moved down the corridor, laughing together, in the harmony of shared experience and mutual respect. Margaret liked her cousin almost as much as she liked Rafaella, and that was a great deal. As they drew closer to the dining room, the warm scent of fresh coffee greeted them, and Margaret grinned.

There were a number of voices from the dining room, several of them high-pitched and Margaret knew her cousin Ariel was there, with her many children. She sighed and shrugged. She wished she had as friendly a feeling toward Ariel Lanart-Alar as she did for Liriel, but it could not be helped. The droopy female gave her the creeps, and the children were ciphers to her.

The table was set for a meal, and the children were stuffing their mouths and talking. Margaret noticed the absence of
Dom
Gabriel and his sons at the table, and wondered where they were. She felt a sharp pang of disappointment that Mikhail was not there, and wondered if he had left again. She hoped not.

Then the demands of her body sent all thoughts flying. She examined the board, very pleased at the selection. There were trays of cold meats, platters of fruits, and loaves of bread, and the appetizing smell, combined with that of coffee, made her mouth water. Javanne was presiding from the head of the table, but when she saw Margaret, she began to rise. Margaret shook her head at her aunt, and Lady Javanne settled back.

Margaret took an empty chair between Javanne and one of the small boys. He looked to be about seven or eight, and he had the same dark hair as his father. Around a mouthful of fruit he said, “I am Donal Alar.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Donal,” Javanne chided in so gentle a voice that Margaret was amazed. She never suspected her aunt of being so tender.

He swallowed quickly. “I’m almost seven,” he announced with pride. “I can ride a horse—well, a pony.”

“Good for you,” Margaret answered, a little unsure how to talk to the young man. She had encountered small children on many worlds, but she had never learned to be comfortable with them. Now she wondered why, yet suspected that something about her overshadowing by Ashara was the cause. She had a lengthy list of bones she would have enjoyed picking with the ancient Keeper. It felt rather good to be able to imagine shaking a finger at the monster and giving her a good scolding. Maybe, someday, she would actually stop feeling afraid.

Jeff came in carrying a tray, and Javanne looked unhappy. A frantic servant trailed behind him, attempting to take it from him, but Jeff ignored her. He set a mug in front of Margaret, and the smell of coffee wafted around her. He set down a pitcher of thick cream and a pot of honey, and grinned at her. “It isn’t Black Mountain, I’m afraid—have you really drunk that? Sometimes I think it is a myth, so fantastic are the stories about it. This is New Kenyan, and I think it will satisfy your palate. No sugar, I’m afraid, but thyme honey is a good substitute.”

“Thank you, Uncle Jeff. I love New Kenyan.”