"That doesn't make any sense at all, Marguerida."
She gave him a weak smile and blinked away .an unshed tear. "That is why they call it a paradox, my dearest."
They left the little courtyard, following a worn path and their noses. The distinctive odor of manure drew them to the stables, and they found, to their surprise and delight, several horses standing in the stalls, munching hay and stamping their hooves. Two were huge beasts, clearly bred for pulling carts or carriages, and one was an old mare, the whiskers around her-,>muzzle white with years.
But there were three others, a roan gelding and two dun mares, which looked young and healthy. The roan poked its head out through the end of its stall and twitched its ears at the sight of strangers. Then there was a little rustling
noise, and Mikhail saw a young man appear in the shadowy light of the barn. He was rubbing sleep from his eyes, and he had hay in his lank hair. His clothing was worn and filthy, and he stank, even at a, distance of ten paces.
"Wha?" The man stared at them with vacant eyes, and rubbed his head in bewilderment.
"We need horses," Mikhail replied quietly.
The fellow gave a cackle that sent shivers up Mikhail's spine, a gruesome sound. "I ken no one was here but me and them." He made a rude wave at the animals. "Bandits," he added, smacking his wide lips. "Ye be bandits."
"No, we are not thieves." Mikhail hated the idea of being a horse thief, even in these odd circumstances.
"Ye doan belong heres."
"Mik, I think he is a little slow." Marguerida had been standing in a deep shadow, but as she spoke, she stepped from it, and the man gaped at her. The hood of her cloak was down, revealing the windswept tangle of her abundant red hair, half of which had escaped from the amethyst-encrusted clasp she had worn at the ball.
The stableman stared at Marguerida for a moment, then gave a clumsy bow. "I never heard of no women bandits." Then he turned away, shaking his head as if he could not make heads or tails out of the situation. Mikhail watched him go, then unlatched the wooden catch that held the roan's stall door closed, and began to lead the gelding out of it.
He turned at a dragging sound, and found the man had returned, pulling two saddles behind him. One had a high cantle, and was clearly intended for battle, but the other was recognizably a woman's saddle, for riding sidewise.
"I am not going to ride in that thing—I would fall off in twenty paces!"
"No, of course not." Mikhail agreed with her, though he was sure that women did not ride astride in this time, or at least women of the Comyn never did. "You, there, bring another saddle for the lady—not a woman's but a man's."
The young man gaped at him, then let both saddles fall to the floor with a soft thump. Then he scratched his dirty head, his crotch, and just stood there clearly confused.
"Never mind. I'll find one myself, Mik. We have to get out of here as soon as possible! I can't stand this place!"
She lunged through the barn, pushing a tangle of fine hair off her face with an impatient gesture. "I should cut the damn stuff off," he heard her mutter.
The gelding had taken his scent, and Mikhail began to saddle the animal, talking softly to it. It seemed to be a steady beast. He threw a worn blanket over the back, then lifted the saddle up. It was much heavier than those he was accustomed to, awkward and difficult to get into place.
Finally, Mikhail had the saddle on the horse's back, and he began to work the unfamiliar cinches and straps. He had just gotten them into place when he heard Marguerida return, lugging another high-cantled saddle behind her, cursing softly. She used a mixture of Darkovan, Terran, and some tongues he did not recognize, a muddle of abuse that was remarkable in its variety.
He left the roan, went to the stall where one of the dun mares waited, and opened the door. He led the animal out, then started to saddle it for Marguerida. She was strong, but she would never be able to raise the heavy thing alone. He watched her put the bit and bridle on the mare as he pulled the straps into position and tightened them.
Before they mounted, Mikhail tried to think of anything he should do before they left. He decided some extra blankets would be a good idea, and found a couple of horsey-smelling ones in the tack room. He was hungry, and the mulled wine had made him a bit muzzy. Still, he could not bring himself to go back into the tower and ask Amalie for food. He tied the blankets behind the cantle, and swung up into the saddle.
Marguerida was already on her horse, looking anxious and wan. "Which way?"
"Toward the Lake. Varzil is somewhere to the north of us—more I cannot guess. I can sense his presence, but he is hidden in some fashion."
"I know. He doesn't want Ashara to find him." The grim note in her voice as she spoke the hated name of her nemesis made the hairs on the nape of his neck bristle. "He is dying, but he is still more powerful than she is, powerful enough to conceal himself. And something else is distracting her. I am sure of that. And grateful. “If I could hide, I would. I feel as if I will be discovered at any moment.
They set out from the Tower as the dawn turned into
day. Mikhail noticed a stand of balsam trees, and another of some shrubs he had never seen before. How much had Darkover changed since the Ages of Chaos? How many plants and animals had been lost in the many devastating wars of the period?
After perhaps a mile's ride along the road that ran to the north of the Tower, toward where Armida would be, if it existed yet, they came to a small crater that glowed even in the pale daylight. It stank ferociously. He did not want to look into it, but he could not help himself.
The bottom of the crater was fused and twisted glass. Around it were the shattered remains of corpses and equipment. The distorted bones of the skeletons were burned black. From the scattering of leaves and debris over the bones, he knew it was not a very recent disaster—at least five years old and likely more. It was an appalling sight, and he was glad his belly was almost empty. As it was, a mouthful of bile mixed with wine choked up his throat, and he spat it out.
"If that is what clingfire does, then I cannot imagine how anyone brought themselves to use it," Marguerida said in a very soft voice.
"Neither can I. I have heard stories all my life, but I never realized "how horrible it was. I thought they stopped using it when they formed the Compact."
"I sincerely hope we never see the actual stuff in action, Mik." She looked away, and they rode on. After a while, she said, "We have to think of a cover story, something plausible to say to anyone we encounter."
"I know. But I can't imagine what." He tried to get his thoughts in order. "Varzil called us Mikhalangelo and Margarethe. I wish we knew more than that, but the dream was not very clear, was it? Perhaps it is hard to talk through time." Mikhail felt his shoulders sag as he spoke.
"Amalie recognized our names, or believed she did. But she thought we had been killed. Damn. I would trade the whole Alton Domain for a glass of clear water, and a heel of bread just now. I cannot think straight on an empty stomach."
"We'll just try to avoid people—and as desolate as this countryside is, it should not be hard. I'm damned hungry, too! And thirsty. Don't talk about it—it just makes it
worse!" Mikhail felt a slight itching, a maddening scrabble along the middle of his chest. He looked down, expecting to find some insect, then realized it was not an external sensation, but an internal one. He realized that it was part of the feeling he had had just before they left Hali Tower, drawing him in the direction of his goal. He paused and explored it, then said, "Take that little path up there."
Marguerida nodded meekly and reined her mare toward a thin track between some skeletal bushes. She was obviously completely exhausted, and he began to wonder how they were going to survive. All the things he should have thought of gnawed at his mind. But, beneath that, he felt a curious tranquillity, a sensation which seemed so strange that he almost doubted his sanity. Yet he could not shake the sense of his own destiny now—it had him firmly in its , grasp, and
there was no escaping it.
The sun had risen above the horizon, sending a red glow across the tortured earth. It was a dreary and barren landscape. Mikhail looked for familiar plants, and found only a few weeds struggling up from the blighted soil, sad, misshapen things growing by stagnant pools. A scum lay on the surfaces of the small water holes, a pale blue stuff that looked as unhealthy as the growths beside them.
Mikhail found himself straining in the saddle, trying to find something familiar. Finally, he realized he was disturbed by how very quiet it was. The usual birdsong of early morning was absent, and the silence was eerie and as oppressive as the dreary landscape.
A light breeze lifted the edge of his cloak, bringing the scent of water. Mikhail swallowed, his thirst enormous. It was not a pleasant odor, but rank and foul. There was another pit on one side of the trail, another crater of glass, where some terrible explosion had occurred. There were no human skeletons to be seen. Instead he saw the corpses of some ducks, their feathers dry and falling into dust. They had not been burned, but he suspected that the water that shone in the shallow hole had poisoned them. The destruction made him heartsick and angry. How could his ancestors have done this to Darkover!
They were riding west now, with the sun at their backs; on the left, the strange waters of Lake Hali misted the air.
They were pink and silver in the morning sun, a sight he would have thought beautiful had he not been so uneasy.
"Well, what do you think of all this, old fellow?" Mikhail addressed the question to the crow which was sitting on the saddle horn, trying to find a way to relieve the growing sense of despair filling his mind. The bird shifted from one foot to the other, and for once, made no reply. Instead it gave Mikhail a beady look with one red eye, an unreadable glance that did not ease his sense of displacement at all.
"Mikhail, how many people were there on Darkover during the time of Varzil?"
"Damned if I know. There are, by the best guesses of the Terranan, about twenty million now. Regis has always refused to run a census. I rather doubt that there were more than that in the past. Between low fertility and all these small wars, not to mention the larger ones before, I would guess that there were no more than seven or eight million, spread all over the continent, and pretty thinly at that. Why do you ask?"
"I want to know as much as I can, I suppose. Trying to predict the odds of meeting someone we ought to know, to keep my mind off my growling belly. I sometimes played card games, back at University, and I always won because I could keep track of them. I could have gone to Vainwal and become a gambler, if I enjoyed that sort of thing, I suppose."
"Now that is something I never knew about you. I don't really know much about you, do I, Marguerida?"
"No, I suppose not, but then I don't know you either, not really. You seem different than you were last summer, but we haven't had the time to talk much." She sighed.
"What do you mean—'someone we ought to know'?"
The wind shifted as he spoke, bringing the mist on Lake Hali toward them, drenched in moisture. His face felt almost wet, and he licked the mist off his lips despite his fear that it contained something poisonous. Had anyone ever drunk the waters of Hali, he wondered? He could not remember any tale of such an event. Still, the drops that fell on his tongue tasted just like any other water, and he was so parched that he was glad of it.
"From what I discovered in the records at Arilinn, this time was one where all the major families knew one an-
other well—even more than today. They not only knew each other, but knew the genealogies back for a few generations. So I dare not tell anyone I am Margarethe Alton, for instance. It would be altogether too likely that the stranger would say, 'You can't be, because she is a short, fat woman in her fifties, and my second cousin once removed on my mother's side.' "
"I see what you mean. Well, we will just have to hope that we only meet traders and peasants, then."
"That is very optimistic of you," she growled. Then she looked shamefaced. "I did not mean to snap, but . . . you don't seem very worried."
"You are doing enough worrying for both of us, Marguerida." Suddenly he felt almost lighthearted. His earlier sense of certainty had deepened as they rode, as if they were approaching a goal he had always sought. And it was so strange a sensation that he did not dare to trust it, and could not have explained it in any case.
His beloved turned in her saddle, stuck out her tongue, and made a very rude noise. "I am not worrying, just trying to anticipate." She succeeded in looking outraged and dignified at the same time, and Mikhail had to grin at her. Happy or sad, she was wonderful. "How do you intend to explain the two of us running around unescorted? As I understand it, women were not in the habit of riding astride, or even going out in public much. They were kept inside, barefoot and pregnant, weren't they? We cannot pass for sister and brother, and we aren't married." She thrust her wrist out, to point out the absence of the catenas circlet which would have shown the status of a married woman.
"A good point. You could be my barragana wench."
"True, I could. What a tale to tell our grandchildren. I can see myself, doddering and silver-haired, dandling some little lad on my arthritic knee, and telling him, 'Amos, when your grandfather and I took an all-expenses paid vacation in the Ages of Chaos, I pretended to be his mistress.' An amusing notion, but not very practical. And dangerous, too. We are nobodies here, Mik, but we have the appearance of somebodies—our height and coloring scream Comyn to the skies."
He was so busy chuckling at the mental picture of this
imaginary Amos, that he hardly heard the rest of her words. Then, before he could answer, he heard the faint jingle of brass rings and the soft fall of hooves through the mist. The crow flared its wings, alerting him further.
Mikhail and. Marguerida reined to a halt, tensing. The mist off the lake swirled across their eyes, making the twisted vegetation surrounding them seem even more sinister. The red light of the sun made bloody veils of the cloud. The sound of a single rider drew closer, and they both held their breaths.
All of Marguerida's concerns expanded in his mind, until Mikhail thought of one of his own. What if he had to kill someone—how might that change the past? What if he slew the ancestor of Regis and Javanne Hastur, and was never born at all?
The rider came through the mist, a portly man on a rather sorry looking old horse. He was wearing a russet shirt beneath a leather tunic, a felted hat with a single blue feather in it, and a shabby cloak, so ancient that its original color was unguessable. There was a heavy sword strapped across his back, a claithmhor of the sort he had seen in Aldaran Castle, the intricate basket hilt wet with mist.
The man yanked on the reins, looked very startled, and rubbed his eyes, as if suspecting he was seeing some specter. "Dom Mikhal Raven?" The reedy voice trembled as the man spoke. Then he peered at Marguerida, blinking several times, clearly disbelieving the evidence of his eyes. "Domna Margarethe of Windhaven? They said you were dead."
At least that solves the problem of our identities. Marguerida's thought was sharp and relieved at the same time.
Or gives us a new one. Maybe if we sit still, he will think we are a pair of ghosts and ride on.
The roan gelding snorted just then, and ruined any hope of passing for spirits. "No, not dead, so far." Mikhail's answer was muffled in the mist.
"But, how did you escape from the dungeons of Storn? It has been almost twenty years . . . and the ransom was never paid. And you have not aged a day." The man was becoming more and more agitated, his eyes bulging nervously.
"It is a long story," Marguerida answered. "One which
we cannot tell, for in escaping we lost our memories, and nearly our minds. We barely know who we are."
Oddly enough this ridiculous explanation seemed to satisfy the stranger. "Do you remember me?"
Mikhail shook his head, pleased by Marguerida's quick thinking. "I confess I do not. Do you?" He glanced at his companion and saw
she was tense. She shook her head.
"Well, I don't see why you should, since we only met twice, at the handfasting for Gabriella Leynier, and again at that funeral for Dom Estefan Aillard, where young Darien Ardais slew Melor Lanart. I am Robard MacDenis." He looked at Mikhail hopefully, as if expecting his name to jog the memory. "I was in the service of Dom Aran MacAran then. He's dead now, and his two sons with him." The reedy voice was filled with bitterness and regret.
"I am sorry to hear that, although I cannot remember Dom Aran at all." Mikhail could sense a growing confusion in the mind of Robard, confusion and fear as well.
"You still have that damn bird, I see. Or is it another?"
"No, it is the same bird."
"No one will believe me when I say I met Mikhal Raven, The Angel of the Serrais, and Margarethe of the Golden Voice by the waters of Lake Hali." They will think I have gone mad. Perhaps I have. There has been so much death, so much fighting and dying. All the Compact has done is stop the use of bone water dust, and clingfire . . . and now Varzil has vanished, and no one believes it will survive him. It was a fine dream he had, but men are men, and they will kill one another for no better reason than that they can.