“Enough! I can excuse your manners because you do not yet know our ways, but that will change immediately. Do you understand me?”
Margaret was tired, and her frayed temper finally snapped. This order was more than she could bear. “Tell me, Aunt, is everyone on Darkover so filthy minded?”
Javanne turned red beneath her cosmetics, her cheeks and throat blushing furiously. She trembled all over and then left the room, banging the door as she went. Damn the chit, coming here and acting like a common whore!
“I wonder there are any doors still on their hinges at Armida, with both Dom Gabriel and Domna Javanne given to slamming,” she commented, enjoying her foolish victory.
Rafaella roared with laughter, trying to muffle the sound in her sleeve and failing utterly. Small tears trickled from her eyes. “It was very naughty of you to provoke her,” the Renunciate said when she had recovered her breath.
“She puts me in here in a room with a bed large enough for an orgy, and expects me to not consider sex. That makes no sense at all.”
“She is very proper, Marguerida, and she does not want people to talk. And in the past . . .”
“Don’t do that! If you tell me it is something not to be discussed, I will scream. Why is she so sensitive?”
Rafaella gave a long sigh, then shrugged. “When the Forbidden Tower was here, at Armida, there were some things going on that were very shocking.”
“You mean like Damon Ridenow fathering a child on a woman not his wife? Mikhail told me all about it. What’s so dreadful about that—men have been having children by their mistresses since time immemorial, Rafaella. Even good men, decent men.” Even my father, she thought.
“Yes, but you see, it is a very sore point for her.”
“Why? Tell me so I won’t make any bigger mistakes than I already have.”
The Renunciate thought for a moment, looking torn. “Very well. You see, Dom Gabriel is descended from Ellemir Lanart, who was wife to old Damon Ridenow, and from Ann’dra Carr, the Terranan who was part of the Forbidden Tower. That is very improper!”
“Why? Because Gabriel’s father was nedestro, or because he is part Terran?” She remembered her uncle’s unspoken hostility to Terrans, and wondered if this was the reason. It would certainly explain a great deal.
“Both, I think. But I believe that Lady Javanne is very conscious that there were goings-on at Armida that were very shocking, you see.”
“No, not really. That was years and years ago. Dom Gabriel is a legitimate descendant of the Lanarts, or at least as legitimate as I am. Is everyone afraid there is some sneaky gene for sexual misbehavior lurking around?”
The Renunciate opened one of her bags and began to pull out her clothing. “No, but . . . it’s very hard to explain. It’s all about laran, really. For many years, hundreds and hundreds, laran was only in the Comyn families. And that was fine for the comyn, and not so bad for everyone else. So, the comyn intermarried to keep the laran strong and to preserve the Gifts of the Seven Domains. Some of these customs have changed a little since the Terranan came, about a hundred years ago. But it is still not proper for a married woman to bear a child to someone other than her husband. It is . . . very irregular.”
“I see, I suppose. But if Comyn lords were dashing around fathering nedestro children on this woman or that, it sounds like the laran was bound to spread out into the general population. Like your sister.”
“Yes, but it still isn’t considered right.”
“Right? It sounds damned convenient for the men, and perfectly dreadful for the women.”
Rafaella gave a shrug, as if to say that was just how things were, went to the window and looked down. “Here comes young Gabriel, riding his horse too hard. And there is Mikhail with him.”
“What?” Margaret rushed to the window and peered out. Why, he must have set out the same day as they had, or else ridden harder. Probably the latter, since she and Rafaella had not pushed themselves, due to her tendency to become exhausted. She looked down at the tumble of golden curls, the set of his shoulders, the way he sat his steed. He had a good seat. Then she blushed, realizing she was not thinking of Mikhail’s seat on a horse at all.
He had told her he would not come to Armida, at that parting in Castle Ardais, yet here he was. Margaret remembered that Rafael had said he had been “sent for,” and she felt a mild disappointment. Perhaps he was not quite the man she assumed, if he came when called. He must be more under his father’s thumb than he pretended.
She told herself not to judge him too hastily, and found she was very glad he was there, for whatever reason. She allowed herself a moment of speculation that perhaps his presence at Armida had nothing to do with obedience or duty. Maybe he just could not keep away from her. The thought shocked Margaret more than a little, and she shook her head. But, she reflected, she rather liked the idea. There was no pleasing her, was there?
It did not matter one bit, did it? She was only paying a courtesy visit to the family home, and only because the Senator had told her to. She was not there of her own choice, was she? While she watched, she saw the pewter-gray horse run across the pasture, nickering loudly enough for her to hear. The mare reared up as she reached the fence, and Margaret saw Mikhail wave at it. The horse must be his own, then, or else she ran to greet everyone. She watched the sun sparkle on the dark mane of the mare. That really was a beautiful horse. And watching helped to keep her from speculating about Mikhail.
The two riders vanished around the side of the house, and Margaret sat down on the bed with a thump. Damn the Old Man, and Mikhail, and all men everywhere, she thought. They either order you around, or lie to you, or die on you. Why did women put up with such unreliable creatures? She thought of Dio and how she had patiently endured all of the Senator’s black moods and his drinking and decided that it must be some flaw in the female character.
When Margaret and Rafaella came down the stairs at dinner time, they found most of the family gathered in the large room where she had encountered Jeff Kerwin earlier in the afternoon. Javanne had changed her gown, and now wore a less modest garment. It still had the throat-concealing ruff beneath her chin, and Margaret decided her aunt was very vain. Well, just because she was not very vain herself was no reason to judge the woman, she chided herself, realizing that she wanted to dislike Javanne. It was not a pretty admission, and she did not feel good about it.
Javanne rose from her chair as they entered, smiling with rather too many teeth, and studying Margaret with steely eyes. “I trust you are rested and refreshed, Marja-chiya . Do you have everything you need?”
Bathed and dressed in the garments she had first purchased from MacEwan, Margaret felt more at ease than she had on her arrival, but she was still extremely wary of almost everyone in the room. Jeff Kerwin dozed beside the fireplace, and Mikhail and Rafael were discussing something intensely. She could tell that Mikhail was trying not to look at her, was desperately paying attention to whatever his brother was saying. Very well—two could play at that game.
Dom Gabriel stood with his eldest son, so like in appearance that they might have been twins, but they were silent. They looked slightly uncomfortable, as if their rather formal clothing was too tight. On one of the couches there was a woman, small and slender, surrounded by what appeared to be a herd of small children all demanding her attention. She might have been rather pretty once, but now she was drawn looking, her skin dry and pale, her hair a mousy red. Margaret guessed the woman’s age to be close to her own, but she looked nearer to fifty.
Another woman rose from a chair, wearing a full green gown that billowed around her like a tent. She was as tall as Margaret, with large bones concealed beneath firm flesh. The impression of grandeur, strength, and dignity was enormous. She was carrying about twenty extra kilos, by Margaret’s quick estimation, but it looked good on her. The eyes that shone from the round face were intelligent, bright with interest and some of the same humor she found in Mikhail. Her red hair was th
ick, not fine like Margaret’s own, and fell past her shoulders, clasped at her nape with a heavy butterfly ornament.
Javanne followed her eyes. “Marguerida, I wish to introduce you to your cousins. I believe you have already encountered Mikhail, and also my son Rafael.” She drew Margaret toward the couch. “This is my daughter Ariel, and my grandchildren. Ariel, stop fussing over Kennard and greet your cousin.”
Reluctantly, Ariel turned from the demands of her children and offered her hand to Margaret. She hardly looked at her, glancing with lackluster eyes, then turning back to the youngsters who were squirming and wiggling and pushing each other. Margaret found the hand was limp and dry, and with its touch she felt so powerful a sense of anxiety that it nearly made her gasp. “Welcome to Armida,” Ariel whispered, then drew her hand away and returned her attention to her fussy children.
In the shadows behind the couch, Margaret realized, there stood a man clothed in such dark colors he was nearly invisible. He, too, hovered around the children with a look of uneasiness, as if he expected her to snatch one away or something equally unlikely. “This is my son-in-law, Piedro Alar.” The man gave a formal bow, but made no move to otherwise greet her. Margaret could not help wondering how two such worried people managed to get out of bed in the morning, but she held her tongue. It was unwise to judge on appearances, and likely they were more cheerful when they were out of Javanne’s view.
“Now, Marguerida,” Javanne said, drawing her away from the depressing couple, “this is your cousin Liriel. She and Ariel are twins, though you might not believe it.”
“So you are Marguerida Alton.” The large woman smiled, and her face lit up. “Where did Mother put you? I hope it isn’t the blue bedroom—the roof has a leak, unless it’s been fixed since I was here last. Mother puts people there when she doesn’t want them to stay very long.”
Javanne glared at her daughter, and Margaret knew immediately that the two of them did not get along well. She remembered that Mikhail had described this sister as the spirited one, the one who would not marry. For that reason alone, Margaret was inclined to like her. She seemed so sunny compared to her sister, and friendly into the bargain.
“I don’t know which room it is, but it seems quite comfortable,” Margaret answered politely. The room did have blue walls, she realized, and the hangings around the bed were blue as well. She looked at Javanne, and so did Liriel, and the older woman flushed unbecomingly. “I had no idea Armida was so large.”
“Oh, have you been shown around?” Liriel asked. “I had the impression that you arrived and went directly to your room.”
“True, but it looked quite large from outside.” She felt herself drawn to this new cousin, and they exchanged a look of mutual amusement. There was mischief in the blue eyes, as well as intelligence.
She drew her generous mouth into a more sober line, as if containing some secret jest. “Appearances are often deceiving,” Liriel said with sibylline solemnity, and then Javanne almost dragged Margaret away from her daughter.
“Marguerida, this is my son Gabriel,” Javanne said, and the man standing beside Dom Gabriel gave a stiff bow. The older woman spoke with pride, and Margaret was certain her eldest child was the apple of her eye. He was stocky like his father, and had the same sort of bulging eyes, and she suspected he had a similarly choleric disposition.
“Welcome to my home,” he said gruffly.
“Greetings, Cousin Gabriel. I am glad to meet you at last.” Margaret knew she did not sound in the least glad to meet the man, but hoped no one would notice.
Javanne was apparently exhausted from her duties as a hostess and turned away, leaving Margaret and Gabriel staring at each other. She tried to think of some topic of conversation that might be interesting to them both, but nothing sprang to mind. Dom Gabriel looked from one to the other, waiting for them to be sociable, and when the silence continued, he grunted.
“I’ve invited some singers for after dinner,” the older man announced with the air of someone offering an enormous boon.
“I am sure that will be delightful,” Margaret replied, and wondered if she was going to be able to endure an entire evening of polite nonconversation. She wished she had the nerve to plead a sudden headache and retire. Mikhail appeared at her elbow, smiling pleasantly. “So, cousin, how do you find Armida, so far?”
Grateful to be rescued from trying to converse with either Gabriel, she turned to him happily. “What I have seen is very lovely. The horses are wonderful. I was quite taken with the one that has a dark gray coat.”
“That’s Dorilys. She’s a fine steed, if a little feisty.”
“What a pretty name.” Margaret thought her tongue would cleave to her palate before she got to the dinner table if she had to continue making meaningless noises. Was this what Dio had to endure at state dinners? Her admiration for her stepmother rose another notch.
“She was born during the mother of all thunder-storms,” Mikhail answered. “I know, because I was in the foaling barn for her arrival. It isn’t quite a proper name, for it means ‘golden,’ but there was a woman, long ago, called Dorilys, and she could call the storms, they say. Since I was midwife to the filly, I had the privilege of naming her, so Dorilys she is. I am glad you like her.”
“I did more than like her. I think I fell in love with her. Is it possible I could ride her, while I am here?”
“Dorilys is no horse for a young woman,” growled Dom Gabriel.
“But, Uncle,” Margaret answered as sweetly as she could, “I am not a young woman. And I have been riding horses for years.”
Fortunately, the coridom announced dinner before the older man tried to tell her what to do, and they all retired into a dining room which looked large enough to feed an army. Margaret hesitated, not sure where to sit, and she saw that both Javanne and Dom Gabriel were unsure as well. The places at the head and foot of the table were theirs by custom, but with the eldest member of the Alton clan present, in the form of Jeff Kerwin, things were not quite normal. Before everyone dithered until the meat got cold, the old man solved the problem by taking Margaret gently by one elbow and leading her to the head of the table.
“This is your place, chiya.”
“Surely Lady Javanne . . .”
“Must yield.”
Margaret swallowed a giggle. “I can’t imagine her ever doing that, Uncle Jeff,” she whispered hastily.
“It is high time she learned, then. Everyone must yield from time to time. It is never pleasant, but it is a necessary life lesson.” He held her chair out and helped her into her seat, then took the one at her right, while the rest of the family looked on with a kind of horrid fascination. Then there was a scraping of chairs as everyone got settled, and the food was brought.
The presence of the Alar children made it a noisy meal. The food was good and simple, and rather less formal than the meals she had eaten at Ardais. The clatter of utensils and the passing of dishes was a dreadful din after the quiet of the road, and Margaret exchanged a glance with Rafaella. The Renunciate nodded at her, then went back to whatever she was discussing with Liriel Lanart.
At last it was over, and the table cleared. Ariel gathered her herd of children and took them away to bed, and Piedro followed her, looking glum and anxious. Their departure lightened the mood of the gathering, and a few minutes later the singers arrived, four sisters so alike they might have been quadruplets, and a brother who limped badly.
They tuned their instruments, a ryll and a plucked object that seemed an uneasy hybrid of harp and guitar, and began to sing. Several of the songs were now familiar to Margaret, but others were not, and she was sorry she had not brought her recording equipment down with her. Then she realized how shocking it would have been if she had, and smiled a little to herself. She might be an heiress, but she would never break the scholarly habits she had acquired during her time at University.
They began another song, and Margaret listened, while gooseflesh formed along her arms.
br /> “How came this blood on your right hand, Brother, tell me, tell me . . .” She had sung it herself, on her first full day on Darkover, rousing it from the haunted ryll that had once belonged to the mother she had never really known. She had not thought much about Thyra since she had left Castle Ardais, and she found the listening very uncomfortable.
“That is hardly a good song to sing before brothers and sisters,” Dom Gabriel growled, but it was clear he was glad to have something to relieve his growing frustrations on. “It is not a fortunate tune.”
“We are not superstitious here, Father,” Liriel answered. “At least, I am not, and Ariel has left the room.” The ninny starts at falling leaves.
One of the sisters gave a shrug, and the brother said, “We will sing another song if you wish it, vai dom.”
Margaret looked at Liriel. “I’ve heard the song before—sung it, actually. Is there some story attached to it?” Her scholarly instincts were aroused and she ignored the look she got from Javanne for her question.
Liriel Lanart laughed, a healthy belly laugh, and said, “It tells of a family curse, here in the Kilghard Hills. Some say it is unlucky for a sister to sing it in the hearing of a brother. We have many superstitions in the mountains. But where did you learn it? They do not sing it at Ardais, for certain.”
Margaret frowned. “When I was in the house of Master Everard in Music Street, he showed me an old ryll he said no one could play. It is a beautiful instrument, made by a famous luthier, according to him, and I picked it up . . . with my usual curiosity. The song just came out, as if it had been left on the strings by the last person to use it.” She hesitated for a moment. “Later I found out that the ryll had belonged to Thyra Darriell, my mother.”
Dom Gabriel scowled and Javanne glared, while Jeff looked thoughtful. A dreadful silence spread through the audience.
“I will sing a song even more forbidden,” Mikhail said, standing up and rushing into the stillness. “Wars have been fought on Darkover for less than this, but I am not superstitious.”