Exile's Song (69 page)

“That sounds very sensible to me,” Margaret answered. “Will you sing it all the way through for me? I’d like to hear all the words.” She reached down and picked up her recorder, checked to make sure the batteries had not failed, and turned it on. She wanted something safe around her, and music was the surest thing she knew. Music did not lie or die; it simply was.

The maid looked mildly startled, then amused. “If you like,
domna.
” She began to sing, a very slight soprano with no training, but sweet and simple, like the song itself. The words were charming, all about various birds and animals going to sleep, and Margaret suspected it had an endless number of verses. She had heard similar things on other worlds, but none, she decided, was prettier than this.

When Piedra was finished, Margaret thanked her. She got out her Terran underwear, which was clean, and put on the soft cotton things. Then she pulled the spider-silk dress over her head and let it settle across her shoulders. It fit nicely, and Piedra’s nimble fingers fastened the many buttons that ran along the spine. She sat Margaret down and undid her hair from the knot she had put it in for bathing, and gave it a long, careful brushing, so that Margaret relaxed with the gentle movements and almost forgot about her worries for a time.

The maid pinned and dressed her hair, slipped the butterfly clasp into place, and grinned broadly. “You have lovely hair,
domna.
”

“Really? I never thought so—it’s so fine and flyaway.” She studied the woman in the mirror, and saw a stranger. Margaret was not vain, and rarely looked at herself more than to be sure she hadn’t left toothpaste on her lips or that there were no dust marks on her cheeks. She had hated mirrors for as long as she could remember. Even though Ashara was no longer there to haunt her, she still felt somewhat uneasy looking at her own image.

The person in the mirror was very pale, with golden eyes which seemed enormous and lambent. She realized that her resemblance to Thyra Darriell was very strong, though Thyra’s hair was a little darker, and her eyes were amber, not golden like Margaret’s. But the delicate bones beneath her fair skin were like her long dead mother’s, and she could only be grateful she had not inherited her frightening instability.

She did not know the beautiful, aristocratic woman in the mirror at all. Margaret looked at her gloved hand against the soft silk of the gown and down at her stockinged feet peeking out from beneath the embroidered hem. She was going to look very odd, wearing a leather glove and one of her two pairs of boots to a formal dinner. Well, there were her beloved bedroom slippers, so worn and disgusting that she should have replaced them ages ago. Boots had been acceptable at Armida, but this was Comyn Castle. Odd—she wanted so much to reflect well on her father. She had never wanted that before, and after a second, she decided she liked it. “I don’t have anything for my feet.”

Piedra looked pleased. “I noticed you didn’t have anything proper when I put your clothes away, so I went and borrowed something for you. I hope you do not mind.”

“Mind? Certainly not. But where did you find any shoes?”

Piedra shook her head, and her cheeks turned rosy. “Comyn Castle is full of things—like an attic,
domna
—that are left and forgotten or just plain discarded. It is shocking! The staff has to keep it all clean and dusted, so I know more about closets than I wish to. And in the Aillard Suite there is an entire cabinet full of old shoes and slippers. Jerana Aillard left them. She was said to have been very vain, and to have loved fancy shoes. I think they will fit.”

Like a conjurer, the maid produced a pair of silvery slippers adorned with a pattern of feathers. They fit well enough, being of a soft leather that gave. “She must have been a very tall woman for her shoes to fit me.”

“I don’t know,
domna.
All I have heard is that she drove the staff mad with her demands when she was here, which was a great deal of the time, since she was married to Aran Elhalyn, who was keeping the throne warm just then. It was all long before my time. Pardon,
domna,
are you going to wear that glove? It doesn’t quite go with the dress.”

It was tactfully said, but it confirmed all her doubts. “Well, I have to keep my hand covered, and I just don’t have anything else with me. If I had known that I would be attending state dinners, I would have made arrangements, of course.” She envisioned herself with baggage filled with pretty gowns and fine slippers and all the rest. The image was so ridiculous that she laughed out loud.

“I’ll go find you something nicer, then. I confess that I rather enjoy an excuse to rummage about in the closets—it is ever so much more fun than just dusting things. And sweeping carpets! Ugh. Just thinking about it makes me sneeze!”

Piedra left the room, and Margaret wriggled her toes in the shoes of a long-dead woman. A queen, it seemed. She wondered if she would ever be able to keep the intricacies of Darkovan families straight. The Elhalyns. Mikhail had mentioned them as the real kings of Darkover. But she really didn’t want to think about Darkovan history just then, so she put her recorder back in its case to keep busy.

The maid returned with several long boxes in her arms. She was grinning, and was clearly enjoying herself immensely helping Margaret get ready for dinner. She put the boxes down and started to take out sets of gloves—long ones and short ones, leather ones and cloth ones. There must have been three dozen pairs.

“More loot from the Aillard Suite?”

“Loot? Well, I never thought about it like that, but, yes, I suppose it is. Hmm. These silk ones are a good color match, if they will fit you.”

Margaret took the offered gloves and tried on the right one, to see if they fit. The gloves were long, almost elbow high, and were made of the same fine silk as her gown, but in some other weave, so they stretched over her fingers. There was fine embroidery, tiny silver feathers, around the open end, and she was almost sorry that the sleeve of her gown would hide it. But the glove fit perfectly, and she was happy to remove the leather one on her left hand, and replace it with the lighter one.

As soon as the silk slipped over the lines in her palm, Margaret felt something change. The sense of energy moving back and forth across her skin lessened, and she realized that this material was a better shield than leather. She noticed she had been unconsciously resisting the energy, and that now she no longer needed to. It was such a relief that she nearly cried, but instead she pulled herself together, thanked Piedra again and went back to the sitting room to find her father.

Lew’s hair was still a little damp from bathing, and he had put on a bronze-colored tunic and brown trousers.

The fabric was old, she thought. The clothes must have been waiting for him all those years. And they still fit perfectly! Margaret thought he looked very handsome, except for the worry lines between his eyebrows. He looked at her, in her unaccustomed finery, and nodded his approval. “You look quite wonderful in that gown. Where did you get it—in one of the closets?”

“I feel pretty wonderful, too, which is strange. I’ve felt a lot of things since I got here, but wonderful was not one of them. And this dress is funny—it was a gift from Manuella MacEwan when I left Thendara what seems like ages ago. She insisted I would need something dressy, and that I would end up at the Castle, and I thought she was crazy. But, then, I’ve been thinking everyone on Darkover was crazy from time to time.”

“Who is Manuella?”

“She is the wife of master tailor Aaron MacEwan, in Threadneedle Street. She was very kind to me, and I intend to take them all my business from now on. Even if the Altons have patronized some other tailor since time immemorial!

Lew chuckled. “That’s the spirit! Fly in the face of tradition. I always wanted to, and I had so few opportunities. I believe that my father Kennard frequented some other tailor, for anything that was not made on the estate, but damn if I can recall the name just now.”

The couch where Diotima had been resting was vacant now. “Where is Dio?”

“The Healer and I got her into bed and she is sleeping.”

“What exactly is wrong with her, Father?” Margaret didn’t want to ask the question, but she could not help herself.

“That is a good question, Marja. She has a disease which in the past was called ‘cancer,’ and which used to kill millions of people every year on old Terra. But genetic engineering fixed that, and now no one really knows how to treat the condition. In the past they used radiation, and even some things that were poison, in very small amounts, which could at times be worse than the disease itself. Today, there is hardly anyone who has a clue how to use such methods, though they did try. Dio said that if she were going to die, she wanted to do it under the sun of Darkover and nowhere else. So, I brought her home. What else could I do?”
She must not die! Not yet. I need her so much!

“I am glad you did, even though I suspect you think you should have remained in the Senate or something else self-sacrificing.”

Lew stared at her, then gave a little laugh. “You always could see right through me, just like . . . I have something for you.” He turned to a table and picked up a small box. “This belonged to my mother, Yllana Aldaran. Dio has never worn it, for she does not wear much jewelry. But I think it was meant for you.” He held the box out and Margaret took it.

It was a jeweler’s box, old velvet rubbed and worn. Inside there was an enormous pearl in the shape of a single drop, a black tear resting on the pale satin which lined the box. It hung from a slender silver chain, and it was beautiful. Margaret held her breath for a moment, then took it out. “Why is it supposed to be mine?”

“Well, your name means ‘pearl,’ you know. Here, let me help you. You will ruin that fine hairdo otherwise.” He stood behind her, and drew the chain over her shoulders, shifted her hair aside gently, and fixed the clasp. She could feel his breath against her hair, and she began to understand why Darkovan women kept the napes of their necks well covered.

As if Lew, too, was aware of their physical closeness, he stepped away quickly. Margaret pulled her hair back into place, and looked down at the great black pearl resting just above the curve of her breasts. It lay gracefully on the shining green cloth of her gown, as if it liked being worn once more. She put the box down. “Thank you. It is the most beautiful thing I ever saw.”

“It becomes you,” he answered. “But, why are you wearing Aillard feathers on your feet?”

“Am I? I didn’t have any shoes, only boots, so Piedra went and borrowed these from a closet. She says Comyn Castle is like a big attic. These belonged to someone called Jerana a long time ago. I am wearing her gloves, too—they also have feathers embroidered on them, but you can’t see them under my sleeves. I was just surprised there was anything large enough to fit my big feet. Otherwise I would have had to go stocking-footed or wear my old slippers. I hope it is all right to borrow them—I mean, no one will mind, will they?”

“Walking in a queen’s shoes,” he mused softly. “No, they won’t mind. Come, let’s go down to dinner. I am hungry. And I want to find out what Regis has been up to while I was away. I hope there is some smoked rabbit-horn. They never export it, and I have been longing for some for twenty years and more.”

Margaret gave her father a curious glance. She had never known him to show any interest in food except to fill his stomach, and he had eaten platters of Thetan oysters or slabs of seagrass bread with equal indifference. She did not doubt that he was sincere, but it was a side of Lew she had never seen before, and it made him more human. She was going to have to get to know who he really was, and her heart warmed at the prospect. He gave her his arm, and she rested a gloved hand on his sleeve, feeling almost giddy as they went into the corridor.

 

The dining room was a comfortable chamber, with a long table set between two roaring fireplaces. The chairs had high backs, and were carved with the figure of a tall tree painted silver against the dark wood. One servant was walking around with a tray of goblets, offering wine to people, and another had a platter of small appetizers, little puffs of pastry filled with spiced meat.

Jeff was near the door when they came in, talking to Gabriel Lanart. Mikhail’s father looked at Lew and Margaret and scowled. She suspected that Jeff and Gabriel had been discussing the Alton Domain, and that Gabriel had not liked what he heard one bit. Then Lady Linnea came forward, greeted Margaret with honest affection, and gave Lew one of her charming smiles.

“This is a wonderful moment for me. I am glad to have you back on Darkover, Lew, even if the circumstances are less than happy ones. How is Diotima?”

“As the healers say, she is resting comfortably. That is to say she is in a deep sleep from drugs and knows no pain for the moment.”

“Good. She has not really slept since you left for Armida four days ago.”

Lew nodded. “I never wanted to be in two places at once so much as these past few days.” He glanced toward the table, which was almost groaning with various dishes being set out by the servants.

“He is looking to see if there is smoked rabbit-horn,” Margaret said impishly.

“Of course there is,” Lady Linnea answered. “Regis told me how fond you were of it.” She saw that Linnea was also wearing a spider-silk gown, blue with silver embroidery, and felt relieved that she was properly dressed for the occasion. Linnea wore no gloves, of course, since she did not need any, but otherwise Margaret thought she was dressed enough like the consort so she would not stand out.

Margaret heard a slight gasp behind her, and turned. Mikhail, dressed in the blue and silver of the Hastur house, was staring at her, his mouth a little agape.
Damn her for being so beautiful!

Before she could speak to him, Regis entered the dining room, followed by Danilo Syrtis-Ardais and the young heir Dani. Regis appeared both worried and elated, as he nodded to everyone. He seemed somehow different than he had been at their first meeting, as if some burden had been lifted from his shoulders and he did not quite know how to behave in its absence.