Exile's Song

  “Thank you very much.” The little woman was nearly brimming with pride.

  “Oh, no,” Dyan muttered. Margaret glanced at him with surprise. “Now we are in for another . . .”

  “This service was made in our own kilns, right here at Ardais,” Marilla interrupted, as if her son had not spoken.

  “You will have to forgive my mother. She has an obsession about clay. Such common stuff.” He sniffed, as if he were embarrassed about something.

  Margaret was beginning to think that young Lord Dyan needed to mend his manners. She felt Mikhail stir beside her, and gave him a quick glance. He was a little rosy across his fair cheeks now, and was looking at Dyan with a stern expression on his pleasant features. “On the contrary, Lord Dyan, on some planets fine china is valued above jewels or precious metals. I am not an expert, but these bowls are very beautiful, and the pattern is excellent. And original, as well.”

  Marilla tried to disguise her delight and failed, for her face was alight with pleasure. It took several years off her age, for some of the lines in her brow smoothed, and her mouth relaxed as it had not before. “It is just an old carving pattern, but I am pleased you like it. You must have eaten off much better pieces than this, surely, being the Senator’s daughter.”

  Margaret laughed and shook her head so that a few wisps of hair escaped the butterfly clasp nestled at the nape of her neck. Rafaella had dressed it for her, but the silky stuff still had its usual bad habit of slipping out of any restraint. It tickled her cheeks in a maddening way. “Perhaps my father has, but for the most part I have dined off unbreakable plastic horrors—when I was not eating off of leaves on some strange world.” She put down her spoon, realizing that if she ate another drop she would be too full for anything else.

  “Leaves?” Dyan stared at her across the table, then dropped his eyes. “Is that some new custom in the Empire?”

  “No,” Margaret replied calmly. “Despite my father’s position, I have not moved in the more rarified circles of the Federation. That is because I have spent most of my adult life going to places in the galaxy where people had not yet invented, or did not wish to invent, such things as fine china. A broad leaf is a good plate, for you do not have to wash up after supper.” She could sense the mild disbelief around the table, except from Rafaella. But at least she heard no thoughts, and that was a relief.

  Julian Monterey took a seat beside Dyan Ardais as the next course was brought in—fresh fish lightly battered and fried to perfection. Margaret was glad that the heads had been removed—she hated to eat anything that looked back at her. The servant filled glass goblets with wine, and she sipped a little. It was nicely dry, a good accompaniment to the fish, and she wondered where on Darkover it was warm enough to cultivate grapes. She almost asked, but it was too great an effort.

  There was no conversation for several minutes, as everyone concentrated on removing the small bones, then eating the delicate flesh. Margaret was starting to become rather full, and decided her stomach must have shrunk during her illness, for normally she had a healthy appetite, when she remembered to eat. Often she got so involved with her work that she skipped a few meals, then made up for it later. She let her mind wander in the stillness, and was becoming quite relaxed with the wine and the warmth of the room.

  Mikhail shifted in his chair beside her, and she raised her eyes from her food to look at him. He looked back, his eyes narrowed and almost hostile. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again, clearly deciding to do something that he thought he should not. “So have you come to throw my aged parents out of their home?”

  Margaret was so startled that she nearly dropped her fork. “What? Why would I do that?” She could sense he was in some distress, some conflict, but she had no idea what was causing it. She hated arguments, and usually withdrew at the first hint of a quarrel, unless it was one involving the Terran bureaucracy. Like most people in the Federation, she felt she had a duty to thwart bureaucrats whenever possible.

  For once, however, she had no desire to retreat from provocation. In fact, Margaret decided, she almost wanted to argue with this stranger. All her suppressed anger seemed to want to find a focus, something to hit or snarl at. And, for no reason she could discern, it felt quite safe to dispute him. It was an intriguing sensation, as if he were not quite a stranger, but someone she almost knew. Ridiculous, of course. She wanted to like him, and she could not imagine why. She felt a warmth toward him, for a moment, and then a rush of chill. You will keep yourself to yourself—no matter what!

  “Armida is yours, by rights, though my father has been maintaining it for years and years.”

  Margaret was too distracted by the sudden intrusion in her mind to answer at first. She felt cold all over, cold and threatened, though she was not sure if it was her sense of the alien presence within her, or the man bristling beside her. Both, perhaps. There was something a little intimidating about his look, for he was staring directly into her face, against good manners. Margaret dropped her eyes, because there was something in his that tugged at her heart in a very disturbing way.

  She lifted them again, after a moment, unable to continue to look at her lap any longer. Who was this fellow, and why did she feel as if she knew him? How dare he pull at her heart that way—she was much too old to have her head turned by a handsome profile and clear, blue eyes.

  “Your father?” she sputtered at last. “Pardon me, Lord Mikhail, but I haven’t the slightest idea what you are talking about. Or do I call you Lord Hastur-Lanart?”

  He seemed quite puzzled by her reply, as if her ignorance had taken him off guard. Mikhail shifted his shoulders, as if marshaling himself. Damn! She has the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen! And that jaw—never thought I’d see a square jaw that looked so fetching on a woman. She probably thinks I am a complete oaf—and I have no one to blame but myself!

  “You really don’t know, do you? Amazing.” He turned his gaze away, took a deep breath, and continued, as if reciting a lesson which he hated. “I am the youngest son of Gabriel Lanart-Alton, who is kin to your father, and Javanne Hastur, who is elder sister to Lord Regis Hastur. I have two brothers, Gabriel and Rafael, and the three of us are called the ‘Lanart Angels,’ because we have the names of those cristoforo archangels.” As he said this a self-mocking edge of sarcasm colored his voice. “We also have two sisters, Ariel and Liriel.” He stopped and glanced at her, expecting some reply.

  “How nice for you. I always wished for brothers and sisters. Are your sisters angels as well?” Margaret felt like an idiot as soon as the words were out of her mouth, but she still could not make any sense of what he had told her. She was aware of Lady Marilla beside her, continuing to consume her fish in dainty mouthfuls, and Dyan, watching her with bemusement. Only Rafaella seemed to be aware of anything out of the ordinary, for she gave Margaret a look with lifted brows, and a quick grin of reassurance, as if to say, “Don’t worry.”

  Mikhail chuckled, and she felt his tension ease. “Well, my mother wouldn’t say that any of us were in the least angelic.”

  “Mothers rarely do,” Lady Marilla put in dryly. She cast a look at her son, as if unhappy that he was not talking to Margaret, and letting Mikhail hold her attention.

  “I still don’t understand anything,” Margaret complained, starting to feel both tired and a little annoyed at her dinner companions. “Should I be impressed, awed, or just plain humble?”

  “Oh, all of those would do nicely,” Dyan said somewhat maliciously.

  Lady Marilla silenced her son with a single glance. “I did not realize that you knew so little about the Altons, Marguerida.”

  “Little? Sometimes I am not sure I know that much!” She was rewarded by mild laughter.

  “Confess it, you have made a muddle of things, Mik,” Dyan offered, ignoring his mother.

  “I suppose I have.”

  “Why don’t you begin at the beginning, then,” Margaret said, taking pity on the man. She could sense his e
mbarrassment, and she had not forgotten that he liked her eyes. No one had ever admired them before, and she found she rather enjoyed being admired. It was an odd feeling, though, and she noticed the restless stirring of the cold presence within her.

  “Oh, Lord! The beginning?” Mikhail paused, gathering his thoughts, and she waited for him to continue. “I don’t really know what I can say.”

  She could feel his conflict, though his thoughts were not clear enough to make any impression on her mind. Margaret found she was glad of that, since there was something about Mikhail that she decided she would rather not be privy to. “You accused me of planning to throw your aging parents out into the snow, like some landlord in a melodrama. Then you trot out your lineage, as if that would explain everything. Well, it doesn’t—so I am still waiting to hear whatever it is you want to say.” She was trying to be calm and reasonable, but she was still feeling too weak to keep her voice from rising shrilly. Rafaella looked at her, a little alarmed, and started to speak.

  Before she could, however, Mikhail asked, “But what are you planning to do about Armida?” as if it were a question she could answer.

  “Why should I do anything about Armida at all? And why does everyone assume I am going to claim something that doesn’t even belong to me? My father is still very much alive, as far as I know, so Armida is his business, not mine.”

  “He gave up his own claim, but not yours,” Mikhail interrupted.

  “You may call yourself an angel, but your manners are hardly angelic, Lord Mikhail. What would I do with it? I know almost nothing of agriculture or horse breeding. I am a Scholar of the University, not the interloper everyone insists on making me out to be.” She felt her face flame in her fury at being misunderstood. It was not fair.

  “Forgive me if I disbelieve you, damisela.” I want to believe her, but how can I? And Father will not thank me for looking out for his interests—I can’t do anything right! She simply cannot be as ignorant as she pretends—that is impossible!

  “You can believe anything you damn well please,” she hissed. Margaret could feel Lady Marilla’s eyes on her, watching her in a manner that seemed more suspicious than solicitous. Her head was starting to throb again, and her stomach churned, though whether it was from the lingering effects of her strange illness or from trying to talk to Mikhail she could not decide. If her legs had been steadier, she would have gotten up and walked out of the room, and dealt with the consequences later.

  The rage boiled in her body, and she tried to silence it. Margaret pictured her father’s face in her mind, trying to direct her anger at him, since she believed he was the author of most of her troubles, but she failed. Instead, she saw Mikhail’s fair countenance, deliberately being impossible, for his own reasons. She experienced a desire to punch him right along his strong jaw, just to relieve her mixed feelings of attraction and repulsion.

  Before anyone spoke again, there was a heavy knocking at the front door, and Julian rose calmly and left the dining room. In the silence which followed his departure, Lady Marilla leaped into the breach almost anxiously. “Do you think our china would find a market in worlds where people are eating off leaves, Marguerida?” There was something in Marilla’s voice which suggested that she thought Margaret had been pulling her leg on the matter of the leaves, a hint of humor she had not glimpsed in her hostess before.

  “It is very beautiful and well made, and there is a great demand for such things on many worlds,” she answered. It was a relief to be able to understand a question and make a rational answer. Really, these people were very peculiar. What could she expect? They knew virtually nothing about her except that her father was Lewis Alton, and that she was technically the inheritor of a Domain. Of course they would not believe she didn’t want the thing—it was out of their realm of experience.

  Margaret could hear two voices in the entry, Julian’s and a woman’s. She tried not to eavesdrop, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. The skin at the nape of her neck started prickling, and she was certain that the newcomer was someone she wanted to avoid.

  Julian returned, accompanied by a small woman robed in a travel-stained cloak over a crimson gown which seemed to throb in the light of the dining room. Despite her diminutive stature, she had an air of enormous authority about her. Her eyes swept the room, coming to rest on Margaret. Their eyes met for an instant, and Margaret flinched.

  “The leronis Istvana Ridenow, my lady,” the coridom announced.

  13

  Margaret took one look at the small woman, and the remnants of her appetite vanished. There was something uncanny in the steady gaze of the gray eyes, something stern about the set of her narrow shoulders. Only the too-wide mouth in the oval face gave any hint of flexibility, for there were lines around it which spoke of old laughter.

  Then her mind repeated the woman’s name—Istvana Ridenow—and Margaret began to see a slight resemblance to Dio, her stepmother. Dio was perhaps an inch taller, but just as fine-boned. The hair above the high brow was pale, silver now, but with that yellow tone that previously blonde hair gives in age, and it grew in the same pattern as Dio’s did. It had been a long time since she had seen Dio and she had no recent picture. She was probably gray now, too.

  For a flash Margaret had an impression of Dio’s face, pain-worn and incredibly tired. She looked old, really old. She felt herself shudder and grasped the edge of the table with icy fingers.

  Lady Marilla rose from her seat at the head of the table, spilling her napkin onto the stone floor. A genuine smile softened her rather foxlike features, and she moved across the room to greet the newcomer. “Isty! I did not expect you before the morning! Julian—take her cloak, and have another place set. You must be exhausted.”

  “Oh, do stop fussing, Mari. You know I am never tired.” The voice was deep, a fine alto, strong and authoritative and used to being obeyed. “Lord Ardais, Lord Hastur.” She acknowledged the men briefly, but her eyes were focused on Rafaella and Margaret.

  “Oh, Isty. Still the same as ever.” Marilla Aillard did not seem in the least intimidated, and shook her head, as if recalling some pleasant incident. “If you aren’t tired after your journey, you should be. Horses are ever so much more wearying than working the relays.” She rose and gave the other woman a light kiss on the cheek, and the gesture was returned gracefully.

  “I came as quickly as I could. Your message was rather urgent.” Istvana sounded as if she suspected that she had been dragged from wherever she had come from for no good reason, and was prepared to be annoyed.

  Marilla appeared just a little anxious now. “It was, Isty.” A pity she arrived now, and not tomorrow, as I expected.

  “And it is no longer urgent?” There was a quality in the voice of Istvana, a tension, that belied her claim not to be weary from her journey.

  “You must judge for yourself,” Marilla hedged, looking anxious and much less the grand lady than she had before. “I must present you to my other guests, Istvana.” She drew the now uncloaked woman to the table where a servant was bringing out a clean plate and utensils.

  “Don’t tell me you are still the same flighty girl you were at Neskaya so many years ago, Mari.” The leronis said the words gently, and Margaret could hear the quiet affection in them.

  Margaret could see Mikhail and Dyan both trying not to laugh at this comment, their fair cheeks reddening from repressed guffaws. She did not blame them one bit. Flighty was hardly a word she would have chosen for her hostess.

  Marilla ignored both the byplay and the criticism. “Istvana, I would like to present Domna Marguerida Alton and her companion Rafaella n’ha Liriel.”

  Gray eyes swept across the two women, and Margaret felt she had been examined and found wanting without a word. Then she wondered if the woman knew who was whom. She and Rafaella were alike in coloring, age, and height, like enough to be mistaken for one another. No, the shorter hair of the Renunciate was likely to inform Istvana. Then the leronis’ words banished her que
stion from her mind. She looked directly at Margaret and spoke. “I am honored to meet you, Lady Alton. This is . . . unexpected. You have been ill?”

  “The honor is mine,” Margaret answered stiffly. “Apparently, the immunizations the Terrans give are not as effective as they are promised to be, and I have reacted to some local organism. Either that or I have had a bad response to the altitude.” She did not believe her own words, and she felt weak and ill, but she was determined not to show it for an instant. Her head pounded, and her mouth started to taste like she had eaten iron filings, not excellent soup and fresh fish.

  She watched as Istvana and Marilla exchanged a speaking look. It made her skin clammy, and she looked down at her plate. The remains of her fish were cold now, and she felt her throat clamp shut. The idea of eating another bite made her shiver. The urge to to get up from the table and return to her room as quickly as possible was enormous, and only the knowledge that she lacked the strength to make it up the stairs unassisted kept her in her seat. Instead, she folded her hands into her lap and tried to make herself invisible as she had often done when she was very small.

  Evidently, Istvana had decided that eating was a good idea, for she took the place that the servant had set. Margaret tried not to look at her, but kept finding her eyes drawn to the stranger. Her unfinished fish was removed, and a plate of grain, vegetables, and a slab of some meat was put before her. She gazed at it in horror, and bit her lip.

  The leronis ate daintily but steadily, making inroads on her food that Margaret decided were remarkable. Where did she put it all? Enormous silences punctuated little gusts of conversation that seemed to perish almost before they began, and the meal dragged on and on. There was an air of wariness around the table, the earlier easy cheer and her dispute with Mikhail banished by the presence of the newcomer. It was clear that all of them were trying to pretend that there was nothing out of the ordinary in the arrival of the leronis, but Rafaella had told her just enough during their travels that she knew it was rare for Keepers to leave their Towers, whatever those were. Margaret knew the woman’s presence had something to do with her, that somehow Istvana and Marilla were conferring without a word being spoken. It made her skin crawl, but she couldn’t think of anything she could do about it. She had rarely felt so helpless in her life.