banished her fears from her mind. The thought of him was too painful to dwell upon.
Margaret lifted her gloved hand and slid it out from beneath the covers. She held it away from her, staring at its silhouette in the dimness. The matrix hidden beneath the silk marked a division in her life, one she had not yet become reconciled to. She was still Margaret Alton, Fellow of the University. But with each day, she became more this other person, this Marguerida Alton. Her marred hand seemed to represent all that she had lost and gained.
It had been bad enough to find herself suddenly a telepath, but the addition of the command voice was almost more than she could stand. She had worked on it with Liriel at Arilinn, and after her adventure in the hills, it had seemed wise to ask Istvana for additional help. She had not told the leronis about the bandits, but she had told her about sending little Donal into the overworld. Margaret knew that Istvana was aware she was holding something back, but the empath was too tactful to press her.
It had been a good choice, for Istvana, with her well-earned reputation for innovation, had devised several useful exercises that gave Margaret a better understanding of this part of her laran. If only the rest of it were so easily tamed!
She lowered her arm and tucked her hand back under the covers. The remnants of the dream intruded on her musing with a rush. She had been deliberately avoiding thinking about it for several minutes. She could feel the dream, simmering like a pot of water, right at the back of her mind, getting ready to come to the boil.
What had she been looking for? The dream had gotten hazy as she became more awake, but there was a disturbing something that lingered, like the odor of smoke in an empty house. She hadn't been looking for something, not really. No. It was more as if someone were calling to her.
At that thought, Margaret's mind immediately went to Mikhail Hastur. He was in Thendara now, and hardly likely to be up in the middle of the night trying to reach her. He had done that occasionally while he was at Halyn House, but since his return to the city, he had only contacted her during daylight hours. Of course, he might have been dreaming about her. It would not be the first time they had
trysted in a dream. That was always so sweet, so tender, that she always woke up smiling.
Well, not always tender, she admitted, feeling her face heat in the darkness. He was, after all, a man, with the healthy sexual energy that she knew men possessed. She had caught the edges of a few dreams that were so passionate, so profoundly explicit, that Margaret felt ravished when she woke. It was thrilling, but it made her squirm at the same time. She still could not bring herself to think about the actuality—the hot, sweaty, moaning event that might someday await her. All the years of overshadowing had left her with a distaste for the physical, and she was not certain she would ever overcome it.
Margaret wrenched her mind away from those memories and tried to think of something else. Poor Mikhail! He felt so dreadful about how he had handled things with Priscilla Elhalyn and her children, even though Margaret had told him that he had done the best he could. He was, she decided, a little like her father, with an overlarge sense of responsibility, and a perfectionist as well. That thought made her smile in the darkness. How ordinary I am, to fall in love with a fellow like my father. After all the trouble I had with Lew, you would think I would have jumped at the chance to choose an ordinary man like Rafael Lanart. Not Gabe, though. There is dull, and then there is maddening; Gabriel Lanart-Alton would have driven me over the edge in a tenday.
Margaret did not like how much she missed Mikhail, how his absence was like a hole inside of her. It made her fee} powerless and out of control whenever she let herself think about him, and she hated that. All the feelings she knew she should have learned as an adolescent—the healthy, natural lust, the feeling of being madly in love with some handsome boy—had been repressed by Ashara's interference. But she could not escape the longing for his laughter, the way his eyes crinkled and the pure sound of it. And Mikhail was the only person Margaret knew that she felt she could discuss anything with—even her father was not so accessible.
Reluctantly, Margaret drew her mind away from the image of Mikhail, and tried to focus on the dream still fluttering in her mind. She had had many dreams of this
sort, lots of corridors and closed doors, shadow places. Sometimes she dreamed of the dormitories at University, but other times she walked a maze which resembled Comyn Castle. She had always thought she was looking for something, though what it could be she did not know.
This dream was different. She did not feel so much that she was seeking something as that something was seeking her. Calling her. name. Was it just some dreamer, Mikhail or another, or was it something else entirely?
At the thought of her name, Margaret Alton, she had a sense that whatever it was was no dreamer at all. Whatever it was, it felt old. No, ancient was a better term. She shivered and huddled down under her blankets, drawing them tightly around her shoulders. The thought of something ancient calling to her brought up memories of a shining chamber and Ashara Alton. Hadn't she destroyed the last remnant of that old woman in the overworld?
Her palm burned beneath the soft glove, and Margaret could feel the throbbing along the lines of energy. It was not particularly painful, but it was powerful. Nothing is ever entirely destroyed, is it? she thought. I don't want to have to go back into the overworld! Not now, not ever! What do you want from me! Whoever you are, why can't you leave me alone!
She was trembling and breathing as hard as if she had been running kilometers, not lying in her bed. Margaret tried to still her rising hysteria. It had been weeks since she'd had an attack of the terrors, and she had thought she was over them. Ashara Alton was no more, and she could not hurt her again. Tears began to spill down her face as she struggled with her fears.
There was a light tap on the door, and Margaret jumped at the sound. "What is it?" she called, her voice high and childlike.
Istvana Ridenow opened the door and entered. "That was my question. My dear child, half the technicians in the Tower are having the cobwobblies. It is fortunate we were not doing anything very vital! What's wrong?"
"Damn the Alton Gift! I didn't mean to broadcast, and you would think with all this silk around me, I couldn't! I had a dream, not a bad dream, but a rather spooky one. The dream itself was just the same old thing I've been
dreaming for years. I was in a place with a lot of halls and closed doors. I've always had those, but they seem to be more frequent recently."
"Yes, I know. You told me about one or two of them. How was this one different?"
"I felt as if someone were calling me, and that made me think of ... of her! That was what panicked me."
"There, there, chiya. Ashara is gone, and she can't hurt you any longer."
"Tell that to my subconscious!" The anger charged along her blood, and some of the fear dissipated. Rage helped, but she hated being angry. It was all too reminiscent of Lew Alton's inexplicable furies when she was younger, even though she never smashed dishes or roared in the night. It made her feel stupid and helpless, in spite of its cleansing qualities.
Istvana did not answer. Instead she sat down on the chair on the other side of the room and closed her eyes. Margaret waited 'quietly, and the remaining terror faded away. She looked at the petite woman, blonde hair now faded to silver, and a smile began to play across her mouth. She was very like Dio in appearance, and she had some of the same quality of assurance that had never failed to calm her. But it hurt to look at her, because she did not know if she would ever see Dio alive and whole again. Sometimes the physical similarity between the two Ridenow women was almost painful, but not tonight.
"Yes. You are right. Something called you. I heard it,
too, though I didn't pay much attention. I think I must
have assumed it was Mikhail." Istvana spoke slowly, as if
still deep in thought. .
"Why?" Margaret felt her cheeks flame.
"Chiya, all
of us are aware of ... well, it is hard to ignore how much you two care for one another. It's very sweet, actually. I mean, ordinarily young love is rather like watching goats in spring, which is amusing but a little earthy. But your dream meetings with Mikhail are gentle and quite tender. Restrained, for the most part." She bent her head toward her chest for a moment, and Margaret knew that Istvana had caught the fringes of those other dreams, the ones that were close to pornographic.
"Oh, damn! I was afraid I was shouting lust all over the Tower."
Istvana lifted her head and laughed so hard her eyes began to tear. "I'm sorry, Marguerida. It is not kind of me to laugh," she said, when she had recovered her breath. "Outright lust would be easier to deal with, actually. But your longing is like an ache. Do you think your Uncle Gabriel will ever give in?"
"He is a very stubborn man."
"I've known mules with nicer dispositions," the leronis agreed dryly.
Dom Gabriel and Istvana had nearly come to blows over Marguerida months earlier, at Castle Ardais. She seemed to cause nothing but trouble, wherever she went. She wished she could run away, escape the whole, incredible mess. But there was almost three feet of snow around the Tower at the moment—they insisted this was a mild fall, and that it was sure to be an easy winter! The trails in the hills were already difficult and would soon be impossible. Besides, where would she go? To the moon?
That thought made Margaret chuckle slightly, and she felt better. "When my father came back to Darkover, I thought everything would get settled, but things still seem to be in a muddle, don't they? And I cannot seem to mend them, no matter how much time I spend thinking up solutions. I suppose it is like moving mountains—a nice metaphor, but easier said than done."
"Not a complete muddle, but . . . Let's get back to that calling. I think it is very important. I thought it was Mikhail,, which is perhaps why I did not give it any attention until you became agitated, but now I recall it was not his voice I heard. It was .a man, though, not a woman, so you can stop worrying about Ashara."
"Yes, you are right. It was a deep voice—basso profundo, not a light tenor like Mik's. It felt like the earth rumbling, almost. And no one I know has that sort of voice. Believe me, I know voices. Sometimes I wish I was back running around recording them and listening to old songs instead of trying to control my Gifts. I'm sorry. Everyone has been very patient with me, very understanding and all. But I still feel trapped." Margaret paused. "And when I have these
dreams about halls and corridors and mazes, it is worse. I didn't realize that until I said it."
"Mazes? You mentioned that before—when you were recovering from the threshold sickness. I had forgotten it until now."
"So had I—and I was perfectly happy not to remember it! There are a lot of things I would be thrilled never to think about again!"
"Tell me about it again, please." Istvana settled back into the chair, drawing her garments around her more closely. It was chilly in the room, though not really cold, for the Tower was well heated. Margaret hauled a knitted shawl out of the drawer beside her bed and tossed it to the Keeper, then got out another for herself. She had about six now, soft wools, or wool combined with fine silk, in the green or russet colors she preferred, and sometimes she wore several at once.
Once she had drawn the shawl around her shoulders, and Istvana had done the same, Marguerida frowned. "The first time I went to Comyn Castle, I mean when Rafe Scott escorted me there, not when I was a little girl, I had this sense that I could see this labyrinth running through the place. I thought I was imagining it, but later I found out there is a kind of maze within the Castle. I guess it is a piece of Ashara's memory or something, because I haven't been able to find out very much about it. All I know is that I could find my way around Comyn Castle blindfolded if I needed to."
"Interesting. I have heard of it, but like you I haven't discovered much real information. Were you in that maze in this dream?"
"No, I wasn't. But wherever I was, it was similar. Did the architect of Comyn Castle build anything else?"
Istvana laughed again. "Architect? If there was one, his name is long gone. To my knowledge, the original Comyn Castle was built over a long period, two or three generations. Like most structures on Darkover, it just grew and grew. And the building you are familiar with is a much more recent overlay."
"I had guessed as much. Who would know?"
"There might be some record of the history of the Castle
in Nevarsin, Marguerida. The cristoforos have a lot of old texts."
"Moldering in the damp, no doubt," she said sourly.
"Now, now. The monks at Nevarsin take very good care of their books. Wait! Something is nagging at me here. My brain is full of stories tonight. Dancing stones. Something about dancing stones. Ah! Now I remember. It was something my old nursemaid told me, years and years ago, to keep me quiet when I was cranky. That is probably why I didn't recall it sooner. No one wants to remember a bad mood, do they? She told me about how the Altons raised Comyn Castle in one night by making the stones dance. That's nonsense, of course—the single night business. But she was quite definite that it was built by the Altons."
"You mean I may have some sort of... blood memory?"
"Well, it does seem far-fetched, when you put it like that."
Margaret nibbled on her lower lip and realized she was hungry. She felt as if she spent altogether too much time eating since she'd come to Darkover, but she knew her body was not yet accustomed to the rigors of the frigid climate or the physical taxation of telepathy. The sound of the wind outside made her yearn for the warmth of Thetis, and the smell of the ocean. Snow there was exotic, not commonplace. More, most of the planets she had visited with Ivor had been tropical or at least temperate.. Darkover was, in her opinion, quite intemperate, weatherwise, and she wondered if she would ever adjust. She told her stomach to be quiet, because she could sense a question forming that was important. "What is memory?"
Istvana looked at her, her pale eyes a little confused. "Why, what we remember, of course."
"But, where does memory come from? I mean, it's part of our bodies, and therefore it is physiological. And if Terranan scientists are correct, then our cells 'remember' things—how to reproduce themselves, and how to repair themselves, too. Who knows what else they might be able to recall?" She hesitated, overwhelmed by the task of discussing DNA in casta. Even though they had been breeding for laran for centuries, the Darkovans did not seem to have ever developed a proper vocabulary for describing genetics. She paused, braced. herself, and went on. "I suspect that
the reason I can see the maze in Comyn Castle is some leftover from Ashara, or from one of the Keepers she overshadowed. That, at least, is an idea I can entertain without worrying about my sanity."
"You have grown enormously since I first met you at Castle Ardais, Marguerida. I never thought to hear you speak her name without a quiver in your voice."
"It is not easy, believe me!" She tried to conceal her intense pleasure in this praise, and her hunger for more. Marguerida thought she might be able to fill her belly to satiation, but her need for approval would remain for the rest of her life. "I still feel like a baby a lot of the time."
"We all do. I think we never outgrow our sense of not knowing, and that makes us feel childish. No matter how much we learn, there is always more. Tell me, other than hearing your name spoken by an unknown voice, do you remember anything more?"
"There was something else, something that was like a deep intonation. It almost sounded like a ... a humming sound."
"A hum?"
Margaret frowned again and focused her mind on the fragment of sound, elusive and maddening. It was a word, she was sure of that. Her palm began to warm beneath the glove, the lines of energy pulsing. She could almost feel the word in her mouth, and she ran through sounds. Ah, bah, dah, fah, gah . . . "Hah!"
"Hah? You know what you heard?"
"No. The sound starts with a 'ha' noise. Like Hastur,
but it wasn't that. Not 'haa' as in Hastur, but more like 'hah,' a longish sound. I think I would have remembered Hastur without any problem. The rest of the word is being very elusive."
Istvana sighed. "I hate it when my mind does that. Something is right there, on the tip of my tongue, and I can't..."
"Shh!" Margaret felt her face flame again. How rude, hushing the leronis! But something Istvana had just said . . . what was it? She tried to remember the precise words the leronis had used. The tip of the tongue! That was it! She ran her tongue against her upper teeth, wiggling it. What sounds were made with the tip of the tongue? "Lee."
"What?"
"The voice said ... Hall. That's it!" A flush of relief flooded her tense shoulders.
"Hali? You mean the lake on the way to Thendara? Strange place. It always gives me the shivers."
"No, not the lake. I never told you about the trip from Armida to Thendara, did I?" She took in Istvana's rather blank expression. "I was riding with Uncle Jeff, and suddenly I pointed and asked if that tower I saw was Arilinn. He got the strangest expression and told me no, it wasn't, and that there was nothing there but the ruins of Hali Tower. It was real to my eye, at that moment, and I felt as though I could go up and knock on the door. In fact, I felt I almost had to. The feeling didn't last very long, and I almost forgot about it later. I mean, it wasn't anything like the compulsions that. . . Ashara put on me." Margaret shuddered all over. "I asked Jeff what would happen if I did enter it, and he said he didn't know, and then we started talking about time and space and a lot of other things."