“Tell me what you are able to remember, and stop whenever you feel threatened.”
“I feel threatened all the time. But there are words, specific words, that are the worst. And mostly I can’t remember the words, but can only go around them, like barriers. Rafaella mentioned something today, about some Rebellion, and that set it off. For a little bit, I could nearly remember, but then. . . . she made me stop. Not Rafaella, but someone in my mind.” It’s so cold in the mirror, so cold.
“You have a very powerful mind, Marguerida, for which we can be grateful. If you were less powerful, you would have gone mad a long time ago. But that very strength is injuring you now, and we must find some means to help you heal yourself. What did Rafaella say, exactly?”
“I can’t remember, but it was something about the Ardais—Dyan came up and talked to me while I was still in bed, which made Rafaella furious. I think his mother wants him to marry me or something. And when he left, she said that all the comyn were wary of the Ardais, since that Rebellion thing, and then she said it was better not to talk about it.”
“Very good!” Istvana sounded extremely pleased. “I suspected it was the Sharra Rebellion she meant, but now I am certain. I was a young woman at the time, but I was old enough to hear things. That was a terrible time for Darkover. But I did not know you were involved—you could not have been more than four years old then.”
“I was five, almost six, I think, when we left Darkover. It depends on whose calendar is being used.” Something struggled up from the depths of her mind, something so dreadful that she did not want to know. Margaret tried to resist it, but it was too strong for her. Sharra killed my mother and the silver man. Why didn’t she ever love me? Why did she send me away to the orphanage?
“Yes, your mother died at the end of the Rebellion, chiya.” Istvana sounded very sad as she spoke. She seemed to gather herself then, setting her shoulders back firmly. “When I spoke the word ‘Sharra,’ your body reacted, just as it is reacting now. And when you thought it, just a moment ago, all your throat muscles tensed and I could feel your voice being throttled. Let me tell you, feeling strangled is not a pleasant experience for an empath!” Istvana wiped her brow with her sleeve, and Margaret realized that both of them were sweating, though the room was not overly warm. It was such a normal gesture, so simple and human. I guess telepaths aren’t supermen if they still work up a sweat. It was a comforting thought, and right then, she needed all the comfort she could find.
Then she was aware that this thought had been nearly shouted, and she quivered with discomfort. She could feel the difference now, between the endless chatter of the mind to itself, and those other thoughts that somehow communicated themselves to these people. How did they bear it? “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to think so loud.”
The older woman laughed. “With the Alton Gift you really cannot help it, and actually, for an untrained telepath, you do a very good job of limiting your broadcasts.
Are you certain your father never told you how to behave?”
“Oh. I guess when I was real little, and I intruded on their privacy, they told me not to. Yes, Dio complained that I . . . well, you know, when they were making love.” She found her cheeks blazing with embarrassment. There was something subtly virginal about Istvana Ridenow, and Margaret was sure that she had violated some unknown taboo.
“The energy of passion, chiya, is like nectar to the bee for a telepath. It is especially so when the people love one another. But let me see if I understand this correctly—you were five when you went off Darkover, but you could already ‘hear’ the thoughts of those around you. And, later, you lost the ability in some fashion?”
“That’s pretty close to it. The Senator thought maybe it was the space travel drugs—he’s allergic, and so am I.”
“What a facile explanation,” Istvana said dryly. “How like a man to think it was some simple cause, without examining all the facts.”
“I think it caused him pain to remember, vai domna.”
“I’m sure it did and does, but that is no excuse for putting his brains in a sack! Your father is a great man, and he has served Darkover well in the Imperial Senate, but that does not change the sad fact that he has never had the wisdom to think before he acted in personal matters. I would gladly box his ears if I could reach them.”
“Hmm. Dio has said the same thing many times. He is maddening, isn’t he? I always thought it was just me, something I did that made him . . . the way he is.”
“Lewis Alton was a troubled man before you were ever born, Marguerida. I never knew him, but I know what he did. The family was not entirely pleased when Diotima decided to marry him, but she has always followed her heart. Has she been happy?”
Margaret found her eyes were filled with tears. “I don’t know. I know she has tried to be, but I don’t know if anyone can be happy with my father. I always wanted them to be. There were some families on Thetis, our neighbors, and I visited them when my parents were off planet, and they seemed so . . . serene, I suppose. Those people were very kind to me, and I often wished the Senator and Dio could be like them.”
“You never call him by name, do you?”
“Rarely. You have to know someone to do that. I don’t know my father, and I never have.”
“I think you know him better than you imagine, perhaps better than anyone, but I think you do not like what you know.”
“It could be that way, too,” Margaret replied, feeling her exhaustion flood her body. There was something more than weariness, though, a kind of comfort and ease. She thought for a moment and realized that Istvana was gently wearing away at her defenses, that her kindness and understanding and resemblance to Dio was infinitely soothing and very pleasant. She was starting to trust the leronis, and that was a very frightening thing.
I trusted Ivor, and he died!
“I know how that feels,” Istvana said.
“What?”
“To trust someone, and then have them die. My father, Kester Ridenow, has been dead for almost twenty years, and sometimes I still get angry that he left me. And it was not even his fault—he was assassinated. But I still think, sometimes when I am feeling low, that he could have managed better.”
Margaret found herself laughing at this. Then she sobered. “Am I being difficult? I mean, I know you came a long way to see me, and I feel as if I am not being very cooperative. So much has happened to me since I got here, that I feel lost, and when I feel lost, I get very stubborn. It’s as if I am going on a picnic, and it starts to rain, and I just sit on a rock and refuse to budge until the sun comes out again. I stop caring how wet I get, or if I am risking pneumonia—I won’t move until things are going the way I want them to.”
Istvana smiled and nodded. “You are not being difficult, but you have become very strongly buttressed. You have managed your talents as well as you could by becoming willful and very determined. That is a good quality, but it can get in your way, too. A fortress is only useful if you can walk away from it when you choose to. And your barriers are not of your own making, but come from that place with all the mirrors that you try not to remember.”
“What can I do, then? You wanted to take me to that Tower, but I think that would be a mistake.” She shuddered a little. The idea of being locked up anywhere was intolerable—and there was something about a tower that made her think of a prison.
“Now that I know more about you, I agree. It would be extremely disruptive, and dangerous as well.”
“Dangerous?”
“Not dangerous to you, but to others. This is a situation, indeed! I can’t permit you to go wandering around Darkover half-awake, an untrained telepath, because that would be irresponsible. Leaving Darkover would not solve the problem either. But if you think you could trust me, we might be able to do something to release you from that room you fear.”
“No crystals!” She could still sense the jewel which was hidden beneath Istvana’s garment.
“No, no ma
trices. Whatever happened to you has made you very sensitive to mirrors and glass and matrices. I believe, and this is only a guess, but I think it’s a good one, that you were trapped within a matrix, although I don’t have any idea how. Trap matrices are not unknown in our history, but no one has used them in decades.” Istvana made a face, as if she smelled something foul. “I confess I am feeling my way here. I have never seen anyone react as you did to a matrix.”
“Tell me what they are, will you?”
Istvana looked at her for several seconds. “We have found over the years that we can use certain crystals to focus our minds, to enhance our native talents, and enlarge the scope of the Gifts. A matrix is not absolutely necessary, but it is extremely useful. The matrix is a tool, and each one is keyed to an individual.”
Margaret was not sure quite what to make of this explanation, but accepted it for the moment. Actually, it was easier to believe in crystals than to accept telepathy. Except, while the idea of telepathy terrified her, it did not make her skin crawl the way the sight of Istvana’s matrix had. “What can I do, then—if I can’t go to a Tower without causing trouble, and you can’t use your matrix without . . . that thing in me poking its head out.
Sit here and wait for the next episode of this threshold sickness to finish me off? I mean, I won’t equivocate about it—there were a couple of times when I nearly died last week, and more when I really wished I could!”
Istvana pursed her lips, considering something she clearly did not like. She looked at the pretty bottle of blue stuff that sat on the tray. “We have other resources. Over the centuries we have developed certain substances which aid in reducing mental barriers. They are not without their own risks, but I cannot think of any other way to discover what is blocking your Gift. Do you think you would be willing to try that approach?”
“You mean drugs?” Margaret frowned. “I tried a few things during my first year at University, and it was not a lot of fun. I had visions, I guess, that left me feeling very . . . vulnerable. I haven’t thought about that for ages, but I think now that maybe I remembered what I was not supposed to remember when I took them. I never experimented with anything again.”
“You are a very sensible young woman.”
Desperately as Margaret needed Istvana’s approval, she couldn’t agree. “Am I? I don’t feel sensible, just stubborn and rather stupid.”
“We never live up to our own impossible standards, do we? Now, what I propose is that you get a good night’s rest, and in the morning, we will try some kirian and see if we can’t clear up some of those channels of yours.” It all sounded very simple and practical, but Margaret could feel the tension in the other woman, and she sensed it was much more complex than it seemed.
Margaret considered this for a long time. “I’m afraid to wait. I’m afraid that if I go to sleep, I’ll be trapped in the mirror. That part of me—the part that spoke earlier, that threatened you—is much closer than it was before, like it is waiting to jump out and gobble me up. I can keep it silent while I am conscious, but I’m not sure I can control it if I go to sleep again.”
“You are a very brave woman, Marguerida Alton. In another time they would have written songs about you and sung them for generations.”
“Brave?” She laughed uneasily. “I just want to get this over with, so I can get on with my life.” Margaret thought about some of the ballads she had heard, and wondered if she were really worthy of a song.
“You are your father’s daughter, to be sure. Very well. We will try the kirian, a very small dose, and see what transpires. Just a moment.” She closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair. “There. I have asked Marilla to monitor—she was quite good at it when she was in the Tower—and she has agreed.”
Margaret looked toward the door, expecting Lady Marilla to walk into the room. When no one came in, she raised her eyebrows at Istvana Ridenow. “Where is she?”
“In the next room. She does not need to be physically present. I thought it would be better if we remained alone.”
“Thank you. You are very kind.”
“Perhaps.” Istvana leaned forward and picked up the bottle from the tea tray. She poured a minuscule amount into a tiny cup, so small it was like a child’s toy. The liquid that spilled out was a remarkable blue, and it had a slight perfume that wafted out into the room, mingling with the smells of fire and rain. Then she handed the cup to Margaret. “Now, try to compose your mind, and banish your fears. Breathe slowly and deeply, and when you feel yourself calm, then drink. Do not hasten.”
“What is this?”
“It is a plant distillation, one we have used for generations to release the grip of the conscious mind.”
“That is exactly what I want to avoid.” She felt her fears welling up, and forcibly banished them, as well as she was able. Her will felt like a feeble reed, a fragile thing that could be broken with a breath. “Oh, well. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” She spoke with more confidence than she felt. “What will happen?”
“I cannot predict exactly—everyone has a different reaction. With the dose I gave you, you should go into a light trance. You may see places that are strange, but you will be safe. It will be a waking dream.”
Safe? It sounded wonderful, but Margaret doubted that it would be so. She took several shallow breaths. “All right. I’ve had a few of those, so I know what to expect.” She closed her eyes and tried to think of something soothing. The guttering fire disturbed her and she tried to shut it out. Part of Margaret wanted to discover why the sound of the fire bothered her, but she silenced the question almost before it rose. The steady patter of the rain against the stone walls of Castle Ardais was pleasant, and she listened to its fall as she began to breathe deeply. She imagined she was warming up to sing, not preparing for anything alarming. She felt a little giddy at first, and realized how shallowly she had been breathing. Her throat opened, relaxing, and she thought of the words to a sweet serenade that Ivor had been fond of. That was safe and familiar.
After a time the muscles of her body slackened, and her mind was focused on the sound of the rain and the music that ran within it. Why, there was a language in the rain . . . no, she must not get too distracted. With an enormous effort, she lifted the tiny cup to her mouth and drank. It tasted of flowers and sunlight.
Time slowed, the moments stretching out into eternity, so that she could hear each drop of rain as it fell. She moved down a corridor, each step more slow than the one before, passing doors, until she reached a stairwell that curved up and up. For a long time she stood at the foot of the stairs without moving, then set her foot on ancient stones.
One step, then another, and suddenly she was speeding upward, her feet not touching anything. She was flying, and it was wonderful. She did not want to stop, but something held her, gently and tenderly, as if her hand were clasped in a kind embrace. She looked down, and saw a ghostly, gleaming hand entwined in hers. A fear she had not been aware of, that she would fly off into nothing, departed as she watched the hand in hers.
Then she came onto a featureless plain, a vast stretch of emptiness all around her, and paused. She seemed to be standing on an invisible platform that looked out in all directions, and it was cold. She started to shiver, and then a warmth came into her limbs, and she looked again. The plain was not empty, as she had thought at first, but full of tall structures made of starlight, beacons in the night.
One in particular drew her eye. It was old, and the starry stones which made it were crumbling, barely held together by the mortar. But for all its appearance of decay, it was full of energy and power. It beckoned her and frightened her at the same time, and she made herself be still even as she longed to rush toward it. There was a presence in that Tower she could feel, old and weak, but still strong enough to threaten her. And, as if it knew of her regard, it seemed to brighten while she watched. The stones grew denser and the mortar thickened.
“Come!”
The command rang in her mind,
stern and peremptory, and she quailed before it, fighting and struggling to remain where she was. But though she didn’t move, the distant building began to move toward her, the stones shining with an uncanny light that hurt her eyes. They were like mirrors! She felt her heart stagger and her throat began to close. Closer and closer it came, hurtling toward her through the limitless reaches of time and space.
Then the Tower was beside her, looming over her, dragging her toward the shining stones. The power of it pulsed along her blood, halting her heart and stifling her breath for what seemed like an eternity. She was going to be consumed! She was so little, and the Tower so huge.
She felt her right hand clasped more firmly, and the terror abated for a moment. She waited. It took all her stubborn will to remain still, and she felt her jaws clench in the effort. The Tower began to lean down toward her, bending like a snake.
“Come!”
“No!” The refusal seemed to take forever to speak, and it was a child’s voice which spoke. To her astonishment, the building halted. “You don’t exist!”
“Look into the mirror, Marja!”
The stones of the Tower reflected into her eyes, and she could see herself a thousand times. So many Marjas looked at her that she felt herself lost among them. She wished she could close her eyes, shut out the endless multiplication of her image. There must be something else to look at but herself!
What was this Tower, and who or what occupied it? It was so old, and had perhaps existed before anything else in this peculiar realm. She swore she could sense the age of those stones, and knew they possessed something that gave power to the voice which tried to command her. The secret is in the stones, whispered something in her mind, someone who had crept in beside her, like a mouse.
It vanished before she could think about it, so quick she almost believed she had imagined the whisper. She could feel rising panic in one part of her, and a cold calm in another, as if she had separated into two people. The frightened part was close to overwhelming, and she held it at bay with effort. The other portion, the cold part, was frantically seeking some clue to the stones themselves.