Exile's Song

  The idea of her father or Jeff getting inside her head in so intimate a manner was difficult enough to contemplate. The idea of Mik being there as well was different. It was simultaneously desirable and threatening. She did not want him to know how she felt, how she trusted him and loved the sound of his voice, the way his curls fell on his brow, and how his mouth curved when he smiled. She especially didn’t want him to know how her body warmed when he was near.

  After her session with Liriel, she knew she could depend on her completely. Had it only been that morning? Jeff, she decided, was also trustworthy, but she did not know him, and her father was almost a stranger to her. How peculiar. She had known Lew Alton all her life, but she did not really have any idea of his character. She felt more certain of Mikhail, whom she had known less than a month, than she did of anyone in the room except Liriel. Mikhail’s presence would be reassuring, steadying, she decided, struggling with her conflicting emotions.

  Margaret realized that everyone was looking at her, waiting for her to say something, and respectfully not hearing her jumbled thoughts. She could sense the ambivalence in the room, as if it were a palpable thing. “I think it would help if Mikhail . . . I have very little idea how a circle works. Istvana tried to explain it to me, but I was so determined not to go with her to Neskaya that I . . . just didn’t listen! Still, it seems like more people would be better than fewer.” So long as the more does not include Aunt Javanne, she thought.

  Margaret felt her father’s mental laughter. Believe me, Marja, we all wish to keep Javanne from joining us. She is quite capable, but she does not like you, and that would present a problem.

  I know. I tried to be good, but she just made me cross all the time.

  Javanne could make a cristoforo cross, chiya. In fact, I would not be surprised if she already has. I think you remind her of me, and we never got on well.

  No, I think you do my mother an injustice, Uncle Lew, Mikhail replied. Despite her strong sense of family loyalty, and her wish to welcome Marguerida as a daughter, she cannot bring herself to warm to my cousin. It has nothing to do with you, Lew, and everything to do with another strong-minded woman under the same roof.

  Enough chitter-chatter! Let’s get on with this, Liriel announced.

  “What should I do?” Margaret asked. “The other time I went into the overworld, Istvana gave me kirian. I’d rather not use that again. It made me feel extremely strange.”

  “You hadn’t realized your Gift then, Marguerida,” Liriel replied calmly. “From what I monitored of you earlier today, I think you can throw yourself into trance easily enough. The major problem is your fear.”

  Margaret gave an uneasy laugh. “That has always been the problem.” She looked at Lew, and saw that he looked serious and distressed. “Some of that incense you make would help—it settled me right down this morning.”

  “I must have left my wits on the pillow,” Liriel said. She left the room in a flutter of her voluminous gown, and Margaret shivered. Her bare feet were icy. She looked at Donal, stretched out on the couch, and bent toward him. She took one of his hands in her own, and realized he was cold, too. She wanted to pick him up and hold him against her, to warm his flesh with her own.

  He seemed so small, there on the couch, and she felt quite helpless. If only she had not had that dreadful vision, and Domenic had not been injured so badly. Why hadn’t someone bothered to tell her she might be able to compel people to do things with the force of her voice alone! She was a trained singer, so it was logical that her voice would be powerful, wasn’t it? Everyone kept telling her she was dangerous, but no one seemed willing to tell her what she needed to know about her newly-arrived talents. They just patted her on the head and told her she could learn what she needed to know in a Tower! Jeff, she realized, had wanted to talk to her alone, but there had not been time.

  What if she could not call him back? She knew she would never forgive herself, if this was the outcome of her ignorance. But she was not entirely to blame, was she? She glared at Jeff and her father, waiting for Liriel’s return and warming their backsides in front of the fire. She liked Donal more than she had realized. She liked his cockiness and his intelligence. He was so self-assured for one so young. Margaret wondered if she had ever been that self-confident, and doubted that she had.

  Lew returned her gaze with a solemn expression. She blushed furiously, and wished she had not looked at him so hard. Without being aware of it, Margaret tried to become invisible, as she had when she was a child. She might have managed it, but for the presence of her father and Mikhail. The younger man stood a few feet away, but she felt as if he were right beside her, so close she could smell him, and it was a very disturbing sensation. Her skin seemed too small for her body, and she felt close to bursting with tension.

  What a royal mess she had made of things. The Lanarts had made her as welcome at Armida as they were able, but she had insisted on being headstrong. If only she could have liked Gabriel or Rafael better, or if the family were not so dead set on her marrying one of them. Now, if Mikhail had been her suitor, it might have been different.

  Margaret was so surprised at this turn of thought that she nearly choked. She was certain the Lanarts would be glad now that she had not chosen to marry one of their sons. Javanne would be delighted to see the last of her. Having Aunt Javanne for a mother-in-law would be awful, anyhow.

  If you had chosen either of my brothers, cousin, I think she would have softened. But she is not used to not getting her own way.

  I still don’t understand why . . . .

  Why I am not one of your ardent suitors? Believe me, I would be, in an instant, if I could. We laugh together, and that is a fine thing.

  So, what is holding you back? Surely you are not afraid of your parents!

  Consider. My mother is sister to Regis Hastur, and if she set her face against a match, I think she would prevail. And my father and brothers would likely not forgive me. They have been envious of me ever since Regis made me his heir. I have grown up knowing that my father did not like me, and that my brothers felt that I had somehow stolen something which was rightfully theirs. Well, Rafael doesn’t as much, but Gabe . . .

  I know. He is the sort of fellow who always feels he doesn’t have enough, no matter what he has.

  That is a fair estimate. And now that your father has returned, it makes it even more difficult. By right, Armida is his, which puts my father back to being the sort of poor relation he was before Lew left Darkover. You cannot imagine how he has envied your father all his life.

  But my father wouldn’t throw them out! He’s not like that at all. Margaret glanced at her father, but he was now deep in quiet conversation with Jeff and did not appear to be paying any attention. She wasn’t sure that Lew wouldn’t dispossess Dom Gabriel and Lady Javanne, now she thought about it. She did not know him, and he might do anything.

  I think you are right, Marguerida, but my parents are suspicious of your father. When my mother calls him a storm-crow, she is not entirely wrong.

  I still don’t see why it would be right for me to marry your brothers, but not you.

  I thought you did not wish to wed.

  I might decide to change my mind. I am a woman, after all, and women . . .

  I know you are a woman, Marguerida. That fact has hardly been out of my mind since I first saw you, and knew that I was the one man on Darkover who could not have you. My father wants Armida for Gabe, and my mother has always favored him over the rest of her children.

  That’s ridiculous! Gabe is like your father, and she doesn’t like him one bit. She hesitated as Liriel came back with a small bag in one hand. I don’t suppose you could bring yourself to run away with me, could you? She felt her cheeks warm at her forwardness, but she was not sorry for it. It was the first time in her life that she had felt bold before any male, and she savored the emotion.

  What a shocking idea! I would do it in a flash, but for the consequences. He did not sound in the leas
t shocked, but rather pleased at her suggestion. Indeed, he seemed to be laughing gently. Margaret felt warm in spite of her cold feet and her fear of what awaited her.

  Lew and Jeff stopped talking, and Liriel told everyone to sit down. Then she cast her herbs into the fireplace. The heavy, sweet smell billowed out into the room, and Margaret began to feel less frightened. She was also less tired, as if the stuff had energized her. She closed her eyes and heard the sound of rustling fabrics. Without opening her eyes she knew that blue crystals were being unwrapped, and she felt the little group begin to grow close.

  It was a curious sensation, warm and intimate, like arms welcoming. As it increased, Margaret knew she had always wished for such closeness, that its absence in her life had been an emptiness within her. She felt her father, strong as some ancient oak, a power she had never suspected him of possessing. There was more than strength in him. How could she not have known what a passionate, caring man he was? She had never known him! Why had they had been estranged for so long? Sorrow and loss seemed to overwhelm her, and she nearly cried out.

  I know, my Marja, I know. But I am here, now, and we must find a way to make up for the past.

  The smell of the incense softened her emotions. Reluctantly, she removed the rather ruined glove from her hand. The dampness had not done it any good, and the leather had dried stiff and hard. The almost invisible tracery of blue lines on her left palm began to feel warm, then hot beneath her skin. It was not a pleasant sensation, but it was not painful. What had Liriel called it? A shadow matrix. As Margaret thought these words, the pattern of lines on her hand seemed to hover in her mind’s eye in a misty way. She tried to concentrate on it, and the lines grew more solid, thicker and stronger.

  Within the facets of the pattern, she “saw” her father and Mikhail and old Jeff; not their faces, but something energetic, like light without any source. Lew’s energy was strong, but somehow damaged, and Jeff’s was so clear it almost hurt her inner eye. But it was the light of Mikhail which held her attention most.

  It seemed to Margaret as she watched that her cousin’s energy was strong, as strong as either of the other men, but it was clouded by such doubt and disappointment and a kind of loneliness that she could have wept. The fumes of Liriel’s herbs had calmed her so no tears came, but the desire to cry made her throat feel closed and choked. She wanted to touch the light of Mikhail and make it clear, but she knew she could not. She had to let it be, even as she yearned to heal his hurts.

  Outside the pattern shimmering in her mind, Margaret was aware of Liriel, guarding the silent little group. Her light was soft, like the moon she was named for, but so clear and focused that she felt even calmer than before. She relaxed into Liriel’s secure grip, and let her awareness of her body fade. For a moment, nothing happened, and then she felt herself moving upward . . . upward . . . toward the plain of the overworld. One instant she was on a couch, and the next she hovered over the vastness beyond.

  The overworld spread out in all directions, and Margaret could see the gleaming Towers of Darkover reflected in the light of that other place. Here and there dreamers moved, picking their way toward unknown goals. It was so huge an expanse that she wondered how she would find anyone, let alone a small child exiled from his body.

  Where would Donal have gone? What did “out” mean to him? Margaret scanned the astral Towers, seeking the little boy, but she could find no trace of him. She looked at the dreaming wanderers, but even untrained she knew they were not what she sought.

  Despair began to gnaw at her, despair and guilt. If she had gone to a Tower, as Istvana had wished, none of this would have happened. If, if . . .

  Calm down, Marja. You are doing fine.

  Lew’s voice startled her slightly, because she had forgotten that she was not alone. It was a terrifying feeling. Margaret had been alone so long that the sensation of closeness was alien and threatening. Not just close, but close to her father for the first time. It was the end of an exile she had not known she bore, and it nearly overset her precarious emotional balance.

  I know, child. But look now where you have been before.

  What?

  This is not your first visit to the overworld. Look where you have been before.

  But I destroyed the Tower of Mirrors.

  In the overworld, nothing is ever entirely destroyed.

  The fear she had held at bay rushed in at the idea that some remnant of the dreadful place where, in one sense, she had been captive for so many years might still exist. The last thing Margaret wanted was another encounter with the shade of Ashara Alton. She froze, and the overworld seemed to still.

  Then she felt something touch her fears, something calm and strong, and she knew it was not her father, but Mikhail. It was like the brush of a kiss upon her brow, and while there was nothing erotic in the touch, there was such passion in it that she felt her heart leap in her breast. And now, as she felt the energy of her cousin move around her, she was certain it was he who had come with her that other time, and urged her to pull the keystone from the Tower of Mirrors. Margaret knew that she would always remember that moment, that it was the most precious intimacy she had ever experienced.

  She felt joy race along her blood, and the pounding of her heart seemed too loud, too fast. Then she felt Liriel slow it again, and she was grateful to her cousin. To both her cousins. Mikhail had eased the burden of her terror, and Liriel had steadied the beat of her pulse.

  Bracing herself, Margaret once more scanned the plain. She ignored the dreamers and the phantom Towers, and sought the one place she had no wish to go. At first it was a fruitless search, for the Plain seemed empty. There was not a scrap of mirror to be found. This eased her still present fears a little more.

  Magpie—Maggie—over here!

  Ivor’s name for her, for no one but he had ever called her that, was shocking. Margaret turned toward the sound, but there was nothing to see. She drifted in the direction the voice had come from, and the overworld rushed by beneath her, becoming a blur.

  Ivor! Margaret called with a voice that was not a voice, and air that was not air moved in her lungs. Where are you?

  Well, I can’t say I am entirely sure. I think I am in limbo, but the music here is very fine, so I do not mind.

  Dammit, Ivor, this is no time for games.

  I know. But I never gave myself time for games before, you see. Ah, you are getting closer now.

  Why can’t I see you?

  That I don’t know. I can’t see myself so maybe that is the problem. I’ve been drifting around here for a little while, listening to the star song. I always knew there really was a Music of the Spheres, and now I have found it!

  Ivor, if you can’t see yourself, I can’t find you. Margaret was not sure how she knew this, but she felt certain she was right. Worse, she wanted desperately to “see” her mentor once more. She had not said good-bye, and now she had a chance to do that. She nearly forgot about Donal and her purpose in being in the overworld, so eager was she to see Ivor again.

  That’s very sensible, Maggie. But Ida always says I can hardly see my hand before my face when I am in the music. My, this is quite difficult. I feel even more vague than I usually do. Ah, there’s my hand now—odd. I seem to have gotten over the arthritis.

  A single hand shone in the light of the overworld, and then a figure began to form around it. A little misty, Ivor Davidson shimmered. He was not the old man who had died and lay buried in the Terran cemetery in Thendara. A man in his thirties appeared, hair dark and back straight and strong. Margaret had never known him at that age, but she knew him now. He was smiling at her, and she smiled back. Somewhere, far distant, she sensed a prickle of some dark emotion, envy or something like it, but she shut her awareness of it away.

  I never guessed you were so handsome, Ivor.

  How do you think I captured a prize like Ida? Are you lost? Am I lost? I’ve tried to find my way back to Everard’s, but I can’t seem to get there. I like this dr
eam, but there are things . . .

  Ivor, I am looking for a small boy. Somehow she could not bring herself to tell her beloved mentor that he was dead, not dreaming. He’s six or seven, with dark hair, and he’s wearing nightclothes.

  What do you want with a boy? It doesn’t matter. You always were looking for something, all the years we spent together, I knew you were looking for something. But I never thought it was a boy.

  Ivor, this is a lost child, and if I don’t find him and take him home, he will die.

  That’s different. Have you found what you are seeking—that other thing? I hope so, because I always wanted you to be happy.

  I’ll be happy once I get Donal safely back in his bed.

  Did I tell you I was glad to see you, Maggie? I am. You were a light in my life.

  Oh, Ivor! I am glad to see you, too.

  Now, now. Donal? Can he sing?

  Not that I know of. Ivor’s obsession with music was maddening. He’s just a little lost boy, Ivor, and I really need to find him.

  Try in that direction. The figure pointed. There’s some rubble over there, and I think I saw something moving. It is hard to be sure. Direction doesn’t seem to make much sense around here.

  Ivor! For a moment words failed her, for she could not find the right ones to express her affection and gratitude to the man. Then something steadied her again, something firm and certain, and she knew it was Mikhail. You were the finest friend I ever had, dear Ivor. You gave me so much!

  Had? Ah, now I see. That’s why the arthritis is gone—I’m not in my body any longer. What a shame! I was so looking forward to writing a paper on the Music of the Spheres. It is quite interesting, because this is not what I expected death to be. How is Ida?

  Sad, of course. She misses you, and I miss you more than I can ever say. I’m so sorry! It was a child’s wail.

  Never be sorry, Margaret. It’s a waste of time. Now, go find your Donal. They’ve begun another song, and I want to listen. You have no idea of the complexity, do you? A pity, because you could make a monkey out of old Verlaine, when you got back to University, if you could tell him about it. But no one would ever believe that the dead can hear the stars in their harmonies. I am very happy here, my Magpie-girl. The music is incredible.