Lord Dyan, after a look from his mother, manfully attempted to liven up the conversation. He asked Rafaella something about horses, and the Renunciate answered him. Then Mikhail chimed in, and the three of them discussed some famous bloodlines. It was all incomprehensible to Margaret, but she was grateful that she was not expected to participate, because she could barely keep her breath going, let alone speak. Margaret revised her earlier opinion of Dyan as a feckless youth, then felt Mikhail stir beside her. She gave Mikhail a fast glance, and met his eyes unexpectedly. It was an unreadable look, and she dropped her gaze hastily, regarding the disgusting stuff on her plate with growing queasiness. It had almost looked like pity, and she could not stand that! How dare he! He was an oaf. And if he looked at her again, she was going to smack him!
Margaret could feel her temperature starting to climb again, and she gulped some water thirstily. The thought of wine was loathsome. She longed for her bed, for silence instead of the clatter of utensils on pottery. The noise of it seemed to go right through her aching brain, like slivers of glass. If only she had not insisted on getting up!
Istvana Ridenow put her napkin beside her plate abruptly and rose. Hastily, they all pushed their chairs back and stood with her. Margaret was slow to move, and she found that Mikhail was watching her in a concerned way that both warmed and annoyed her. Standing, she was swept with a dizziness that made her sway. Rafaella moved around the table with surprising swiftness and took her elbow, steadying her gently. Then the Renunciate glared at everyone accusingly, and Margaret felt the woman’s strength and loyalty surround her like a warm blanket.
“You can use my sitting room, Istvana,” Lady Marilla announced. “It has not changed much since your last visit.” Margaret looked from Istvana to Marilla, and found their faces carefully neutral. She was sure they had been talking to each other—even though she tried to tell herself that they could not have been. She had not picked up any hints, for which she was grateful. She should be glad she had not overheard their conversation, shouldn’t she? Now she could escape to her room and go back to bed. And as soon as she was well enough, she would return to Thendara and . . . . her head ached too much to think beyond that.
Her hope was quickly dashed. “Domna, if you will come with me,” Istvana said calmly, “we will see if we cannot find the cause of your illness.”
“I told you it was just . . .”
“You must trust me, chiya. I know what is best.” The leronis spoke in a way that brooked no argument, and Margaret did not feel strong enough to try to disagree. Why does everyone think they know what is best for me? They don’t even know me! And, worse, I no longer know myself. I wish I had never come here. Why did I have to get sick? And who is she to be ordering everyone around, including me? I think they are all a little afraid of her—I know I am. But why?
Rafaella helped her out of the dining room and down the hall. They followed Istvana into a modest room where a fire crackled comfortingly in the grate. There was a soft couch, several armchairs, and an embroidery stand with a half-completed work stretched on it. The colors of the room were soft blues and creamy whites, and it was a cozy place. Margaret would have enjoyed it if she hadn’t felt so wretched.
“Leave us,” Istvana told Rafaella. Then she gave the girl a kindly look. “Marguerida will be quite safe with me, I promise.”
“Don’t tire her, vai domna. She has only gotten out of bed today.” Then the Renunciate left the room reluctantly, and Margaret sank into one of the chairs, exhausted by the short walk from the dining room. Damn interfering woman! If she makes Marguerida ill, I’ll . . . The thought was unfinished, as if Rafaella could not decide what she would do. Margaret felt alone and afraid without her companion.
Istvana Ridenow sat down facing Margaret and arranged the folds of her robe across her lap. A silence grew between them, interrupted by one of the servants bringing a tray with a pot of tea, cups, and a slender bottle of what looked like a liqueur. It was a startling blue, or else the glass was, and Margaret eyed it warily. She definitely did not want any alcohol.
“I confess I never imagined I would find Lew Alton’s child when I came here,” Istvana began, pouring some tea into a cup and offering it to Margaret.
She took the tea because she was infernally thirsty. “You and everyone else,” she nearly snapped. “Ever since I got off the ship, people have been coming up to me and bowing and scraping and trying to give me ball gowns and . . . I don’t know. It has been very confusing. I don’t like being confused!”
“That seems quite reasonable to me,” the leronis answered with a surprising mildness. “I don’t know anyone who does enjoy being bewildered. Perhaps I can answer some of your questions.”
“That will be a first,” Margaret answered bitterly. “No one on Darkover seems willing to give me a straight answer to a simple question—they just speak in vague terms and tell me it is better not to discuss ‘such things.’ Or they assume I already know everything, or they tell me they are my relative. Honestly, I could just scream, except my throat won’t allow it. Am I related to everyone on Darkover?”
Istvana laughed. “Essentially, yes. At least you are related by blood or marriage to all of the families of the Domains, which in your case is what counts.”
“It doesn’t count with me,” Margaret contradicted. “I prefer Rafaella to any of these ‘new relatives,’ if you must know the truth.”
“I see. Then I probably should not tell you that Diotima Ridenow is a niece of mine, should I?” There was a sparkle in the older woman’s eyes, and some of Margaret’s tension eased.
“You didn’t need to—you look very like her. And you have the same family name. Does that make you my stepaunt?”
“Why, yes, it does. I hope you do not mind too much.” Istvana’s voice was chiding, but not unkind.
“It wouldn’t do me any good if I did. It doesn’t matter anyhow, because I am going to go back to Thendara as soon as I can ride and then I am going back to the University where I belong.”
“Marguerida, do you know about the Gifts of the Domains?”
“I know of their existence—though my belief remains dubious. Lord Regis Hastur and my uncle Rafe Scott made reference to the Alton Gift and Uncle Rafe mentioned that it was ‘forced rapport,’ but neither of them bothered to explain it very well. Does it come in a nicely-wrapped package?” Not that I gave them much opportunity, did I? I was afraid to hear all they might have said, and that . . . person in me . . . I must not think about it! Keep myself apart! Yes, that’s what I must do.
Margaret felt that somehow she must prevent the conversation from becoming too serious, and now that she had the opportunity to hear the answers to some of her many questions, she found that did not want to know them. She sensed that there was some danger to her, that the knowledge would alter her in a fashion she would not like at all!
Istvana ignored her joking question. “The Gifts are mental talents which, over the centuries, we have refined. The Ridenow Gift is that of empathy, so I have some idea of how you are feeling. I can’t help it, so please don’t feel I am intruding. One of the problems in a telepathic society is that of privacy, and we try very hard not to put our noses in where they don’t belong.”
A telepathic society? How could this woman just sit there as if she were speaking of something ordinary and simple? Empathy? Well, Dio had a lot of that, though Margaret was not sure she would have called it a gift. She realized now that Dio had tried to help her, to reach her, but she had been too angry all the time, hadn’t she? And cold. She wondered what it felt like to an empath to be around a furious adolescent, and decided it was probably dreadful. She wanted to weep for her past, but she held herself back from it.
Istvana waited patiently for Margaret to speak, and if she heard any of the thoughts rushing through her mind, she gave no indication. “I guess I’ve figured out that much, even if I didn’t really believe it. I find I keep ‘hearing’ bits and pieces of people’s thoughts. I tho
ught I was going crazy. I can’t seem to help it.”
“Did that happen before you came to Darkover?”
“Occasionally, but not as much as it does now. And I always told myself I was just imagining things.”
“And Lew never told you about the Gifts?”
Margaret emptied her cup. “That’s another thing! Everyone seems to assume that my father told me all sorts of things . . . well, he never did! We hardly ever spoke at all, and we certainly didn’t have any intimate conversations, mental or otherwise. We just tried to keep out of each other’s way when he was home.”
“That must have been very lonely for you.”
Margaret flared at this. She could not stand being pitied! Then she dragged a breath into her aching lungs and told herself not to get upset. The woman was trying to help, wasn’t she? “Not really. I learned not to be lonely almost before I could walk. In the orphanage. And to be brutally honest about it, I can’t say it has been a bad thing. All those things that happened when I was little—the things no one wants to discuss—have left me mistrustful.” I keep myself to myself and I am very good at it!
“Yes, I can sense that about you. But just because you are wary of people does not mean you like being alone. So, you do know that the Alton Gift is forced rapport. But can you imagine what that means?”
“The capacity to make contact with people whether they want it or not? That isn’t a Gift! That would be a curse, and I am very glad I don’t have it.”
“Uncontrolled, it would indeed be a curse. We have learned over the years that these talents, all talents, must be trained. Your father was very remiss in not teaching you how to use . . .”
“I don’t have any Gift!” Margaret shouted at the leronis and watched her flinch as if she had been struck. “I won’t have it! I don’t want to know what people are thinking or feeling. I just want to get off this damn planet and go somewhere where I don’t have any relatives who want me to—”
“Chiya, it is already awakened. You cannot turn back now. Either you learn to use your Gift, or you will indeed go mad. We must test you to determine the strength of your talent, but you cannot turn away from it. I am afraid it is already too late for that.”
“You can’t know that!” Margaret felt desperation choking her.
“But I can. I do. I can sense the Alton Gift even as you sit there, weak from as bad a bout of threshold sickness as I have ever encountered. Usually that happens when one is younger, in adolescence. Do you remember anything like this from when you were a teen?”
“No. I was a perfectly normal child and I never . . . When I was very little, there was something. I can’t remember.” She told me not to remember!
Who told you not to remember, Marguerida?
The mental exchange was over in a flash, and Margaret felt the sharp stab of pain above her brows. She blinked her eyes against it. Her breath came in short gasps, as if she were running, and she felt hot and sweaty. She was terrified, not of the small woman across from her, but of something else.
Istvana Ridenow reached beneath her gown and drew out a small bag which was suspended from a cord. Margaret glanced at it and shrank away. She saw a small hand, a child’s hand, reaching for another such silken bag, and heard a voice telling her not to touch. She knew there was something in the bag that was more dangerous to her than poison.
The leronis reached within the bag and drew out a shining stone. It was blue and faceted, and it reflected the flames leaping in the hearth on its sparkling surfaces. Istvana cupped it in her hands, so the flames colored her skin with an orange light. Margaret looked into her lap and clenched her hands, driving the nails into her palms so deep they cut.
“Chiya, do not be afraid. Lift your eyes and look into the crystal. Do not try to touch it—just look into it.”
Istvana’s voice was low and compelling, but Margaret refused to move. She looked at her hands and watched a line of blood creep out from beneath her nails while her skull pounded like all the demon drums of Algol at one time. She narrowed her attention so that all she saw or thought of was the way she was driving her nails into her palms.
Moments passed. Margaret heard the faint crackle of the fireplace, the soft patter of rain against the windows and the rustle of trees beyond them. She smelled the fire, the clothes against her skin, the old stones of Castle Ardais, and the faint perfume of the silent woman across from her, waiting with infinite patience for her to look into the crystal.
She tried not to think about the crystal by concentrating on the notes of a piece of extremely complex music, but despite her efforts, she found her mind moving into a cold chamber with a throne inside the crystalline colors of the walls. The dreadful presence on the throne waited, then reached toward her with nearly visible hands. Tiny hands, but terrifying. You will keep to yourself!
Margaret felt the voice echo along her bones, more than heard it. It was like the chime of quartz and metal brought together—a sound so powerful she wanted to quail away. But she could not—it was inside her! If only she could stop seeing that room in her mind! If only she could escape the voice ringing in her flesh! It was too late!
“Put away your bauble before I destroy it and you with it!” Margaret spoke the words aloud, yet it was not her own voice which commanded, but that of another, a stranger.
She felt something change, a subtle alteration in the sitting room. The fire was the same, the rain and the trees, but the energy around her was now charged with strength, as if a stone tower had grown up around the leronis. Margaret felt as if she were caught between two forces, equal in power, warring over possession of her aching body.
“Stop it! I will not be a bone between two dogs!” It was her own voice now, but thin, like that of a child, small and piping. For all of that it had a curious potency, and the snarl of tightness in her chest eased just a little. She swallowed hard and took several trembling breaths. The air seemed to sear her lungs. “I think you had better put that thing away, because I think if I look at it, it will shatter.” The child Margaret was gone now, replaced by the voice she used when addressing classes at University. This was the one she was accustomed to, that she knew best. She felt a vast relief at the sound of her normal voice, neither that of a stranger nor of a small child.
There was a rustle of fabric across from her. “I have hidden my matrix, Marguerida. Now, please look at me.
Tell me, if you can, what you felt or saw, and who spoke with your mouth.”
“I don’t know.” Margaret’s shaking hand reached for her cup of tea. She stared dumbly into its empty depths, then poured herself more, and drank deeply. “Or, rather, I do know, and I am not able to tell it.” She felt something release, a kind of tension that she had always carried inside, but she was just too weary to pay it any attention.
“Have you always known?”
“In a way. It was kind of fuzzy, a dream thing, but while I was sick, it got a lot more distinct.” She frowned. “I think Dio knows about it, or that something troubled her about me, when I was little. She told my father, and I remember him saying something about ‘channels,’ whatever those are. When I had the fever, I heard them talking a lot, in my imagination, I think. I can’t remember much of it now, but something happened to me after we left Darkover.” Part of Margaret did not want to talk, but another part of her was compelled to discover the secrets hidden in her mind, no matter what the cost. Istvana Ridenow was not the person she would have chosen to disclose her secrets to, but some deep sense trusted the small woman, and she knew she would have no better opportunity than this. The tight place inside her gave another movement, a kind of uncoiling, and Margaret decided she was doing something right at last. She found she didn’t care about Gifts and Domains at all, but she did want to find out what secret was buried within her. It was the most important thing in the world at that instant.
“Your father knew your channels had been tampered with, and he did nothing?” Istvana sounded extremely angry now, outraged in a way t
hat warmed Margaret and made her feel protected for a moment.
“He thought I would grow out of it.”
“Then he is an even greater fool than I thought! You don’t ‘grow out’ of such a thing—it must be mended, attended to.” She paused. “I think the best solution would be for you to return to Neskaya with me for a time.”
Margaret caught an impression of a tall stone tower gleaming against the night. Within it there were people moving about, and she could see great crystals set in arrays, their many facets shining. She began to shudder violently. It was another room of glass, a trap of crystal. Her hand shook, spilling warm tea over the cuts in her palms and causing her to cry out in pain.
No! Don’t make me go back into the mirror! I don’t want to die there!
Istvana Ridenow flinched as if she had been struck in the face. She rubbed her brow and flexed her narrow shoulders, as if to shake off some burden. “Can you tell me about the mirror, Marguerida?” the leronis asked at last.
“Mirror?” Margaret looked around the room, dazed, then set down her cup and wiped her hand against her skirt, smearing tea and blood over the russet fabric. “There isn’t any mirror in here, is there?”
“No, there isn’t. But there is a place in your mind, a place full of mirrors or glass, and it terrifies you. Doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And my matrix crystal reminded you of it?”
“I guess.” She was so tired. Why couldn’t they leave her alone?
Because you are a threat to yourself and everyone else, until this matter is resolved. This was stern, but not unkind.