With a suddenness that made her almost sick, Margaret knew she had felt someone die, in her mind, long ago. It was horrible, and she wished she could run away from the unwanted memory. Something so terrible had happened that she had locked it away in her mind, forever, she thought. She clutched the table reflexively and tried to rise, flooded with terror.
But a strong, six-fingered hand closed around her wrist. “It’s all right. There is nothing to be afraid of.”
Margaret could feel a presence within her, calming, soothing. She gazed into the gold-flecked eyes across the table from her and bit her lip until she tasted blood. “Get out,” she hissed, furious and helpless at the same time.
The sense of invasion vanished, leaving her with the ancient and familiar terror.
“Come on, Marguerida. Let’s at least get out of here, so we can talk.” Rafe threw some coins on the table and stood up.
She rose, trembling, and followed Captain Scott out of the cookshop, hardly noticing the looks she got from Terrans and locals alike. She was dazed as she stood on the cobblestones. The late afternoon sun cast its bloody pall on the street, and everything felt familiar and eerie. The past she did not want to recall seemed only a breath away.
Margaret wished she could just walk away, to leave this man standing in the street and go back to Master Everard’s. She wanted to take a long, hot bath, put on her cozy nightgown, and go to bed. She definitely didn’t want to get involved with any more puzzles or councils. To her disgust, her mouth seemed to have a completely different plan, for she found herself asking, “What is the Alton Domain?” The words were out before she could censor them.
Captain Scott looked at her and gave a brief sigh. “The great families of Darkover, called the comyn, each possess ancestral lands and properties, which are called Domains. Since Lew left, there has been no one of the direct line at Armida, the Alton stronghold. Dom Gabriel Lanart Alton is from a cadet branch of the family, and he has been . . . never mind. Were Lew dead, the Domain would be yours. In any case, you are the heir of Alton, and in his absence, you must speak for it.” He seemed quite certain of himself now.
“Stop! You are going too fast for me. I know Darkover is feudal in its cultural structures—the learning disks at least told me that.” She frowned. “I have been to nearly a dozen planets, but I never came to one so miserably undocumented! It’s an outrage! The only disk I could get my hands on was all but useless! It told me some geography, a small amount of history, and a few customs. Now you inform me that my family is powerful, and that I own a chunk of the planet. Is that right?”
“It is an accurate, if limited, summary.”
“That is ridiculous! My father would have told me.”
“Lew relinquished claim to his Domain when he left to become our Senator.”
“Oh. So I don’t own this estate, actually. That’s a relief! I don’t really want to be saddled with . . .”
“Marguerida—Lew did not give up your claim to the Alton Domain, only his own. Under Darkovan law no one can relinquish claims for a minor child—that would be wrong.”
“Wrong? If you ask me, the entire planet is tilted on its mental axis, about thirty degrees off.” She knew she was being stubborn, and that she was trying to avoid asking about the council and the other tantalizing things he had mentioned.
Rafe laughed, a good, healthy laugh, very human and very normal. “The Terrans have been saying that about Darkover for years.”
“Well, I am an Imperial citizen, which makes me a sort of pseudo-Terran, and I don’t want any part of your local politics. I came here to study folk music, and that is what I am going to do!”
“That does make things a little difficult, but I am sure it can be ironed out—your citizenship, I mean.”
She glared at him. “Ironed out! I hadn’t even noticed it was wrinkled. And what does it matter to you—you’re Terran, aren’t you?”
“It matters because Darkover is my home, and I love it. Yes, I work for the Terran Service, but my heart is here. And your presence is important. There are things going on even I don’t quite understand. What I do know is that if the Darkovans don’t do something, there is a good chance that the planet will be gobbled up by the Expansionists. If we lose our protected status . . . well, it doesn’t bear thinking about. I can’t imagine why your father left you in such ignorance about your heritage.”
At least the Expansionists were something she knew about, which was comforting in this sea of confusion. When she and Ivor had been getting ready to leave University, she had heard that the Expansionists had won a majority in the Federation government for the first time in more than two decades. The newsfaxes had been full of speculation about what it meant, but she hadn’t given it a great deal of thought.
She turned her attention to Rafe’s last question, though, because she knew it troubled him, as it troubled her. “I think it was too painful for him to remember, to speak of his own past. Captain Scott, the man you knew is not the one I know. Whatever Lew Alton was when he lived here, he isn’t that anymore. I think he tried to tell me something, the night before I left for the University, but we had never gotten into the habit of conversing, and it didn’t happen. These days he is an angry, bitter man who drinks a little too much, and keeps his own counsel. And since he did not choose to inform me of my history, I have assumed there was a good reason for it. He’s not an impulsive person.”
“Then he has changed. At least, he seemed very impulsive to me. He was a loving husband to my sister—I never saw anyone so much in love. I can’t believe you remember so little. Don’t you remember Marjorie—you resemble her rather strongly—or the Alton house here in Thendara, or anything? I was sure . . .”
“What I remember or don’t is none of your business.” Do I look like Marjorie or Thyra? And if the Old Man was so deeply in love with her, why did he sleep with her sister? It didn’t make any sense. Nothing made any sense to her—not Ivor’s death or the way people deferred to her, or her sudden importance in something concerning the planet of her birth. Why hadn’t she picked another place to eat?
Once again she had the impression that he could hear her thoughts, for he said, “So, you know that much, do you? You look like yourself, but you have a strong family resemblance to the Scott sisters—both of them. If we were seen together, in Darkovan clothing, we could be taken for father and daughter, I imagine.”
“Is that how you recognized me?”
“First I noticed the red hair of the Comyn, and then the line of the nose, the bones of the face. It took me several minutes to realize that you must be my niece—that you had to be an Alton. And since Lew had only one daughter, I assumed you were also a Scott.”
“You aren’t telling me everything, are you?” She could sense he was holding something back.
“Only a fool empties his entire sack on the table.”
Margaret was so annoyed by his words that she sat down on the curb and refused to go any farther. “And only a fool tries to stuff a horse back into his sack when it is halfway out.”
He sat down on the curb beside her, leaning his arms across his knees. For a minute he did not speak, and when he did, there was a compassion in his voice that touched her deeply. “What has made you so wary, Marguerida?”
“Secrets. The walls of the orphanage, and something terrible I cannot remember.” The words were out before she realized she was saying more than she wished to. His shoulder was close to hers, and she realized for the first time that he was a short man, a good three inches shorter than she was. Short and serious and probably trustworthy. The wind shifted, ruffling his hair and bringing her the scent of him. He smelled of Terran leathers, but more, he smelled of local soaps and the spices of Darkovan food. Captain Scott smelled right, not alien and antiseptic like most Terrans.
“If you will come with me to Comyn Castle, I think we can answer some of your questions—and get some of those secrets untangled.”
“Are you reading my mind?” The
sense of trust which had begun to form within her vanished.
“Not really. I am not a very skilled telepath; I have just enough laran to pick up the surface thoughts, but no more. And my small skills lie more in the area of foretelling, actually. I mean, I don’t ordinarily frequent that particular cookshop, but today I felt almost compelled to eat there.”
“Laran? What is that?” Margaret felt she almost knew the word, and that its meaning was very important, but she could not decide why. How could he talk about being a telepath as if it were the most ordinary thing, instead of something impossible?
Inside her, she could feel something stir, something dark and frightening. She knew it well, because it had always been there, a frightening face looking back at her from mirrors, telling her to keep herself apart from everyone. Now it wanted her to ignore this man, not to listen to what he said. It seemed to grip her brain, and the more tightly it held, the more she wanted to resist it. And the dread she had felt since she learned she was coming to Darkover rose in her, choking her breath a little.
“Come with me to Comyn Castle, and I promise . . .”
“Why can’t you tell me now?”
“Because it isn’t something to be discussed on a public street.” He looked distressed, and even though he was shorter than she was, she suspected he could force her to accompany him, if he decided to.
Margaret felt she was standing at some crossroads. If she went in one direction, events would go one way, and if she took the other, things would be different. It was almost as if she could see several futures winding away from her feet, all of them dark and vague. She had to choose, and she was so tired! If she walked away from him, something was going to happen that was bad. She was certain of it.
The internal struggle seemed to go on and on, though she knew it was only of a few seconds duration. That cold force that made her afraid of mirrors was trying to move her away from Captain Scott, and, feeling as contrary as she did, she decided to oppose it. And as soon as she reached that decision, the feeling of dread lifted a little, and the future no longer seemed as terrifying as it had a moment before.
Resolutely she set her shoulders straight. “Very well. I will come with you—but I am not going to turn into a feudal landlady, no matter what I find out.”
Captain Scott just smiled.
7
Comyn Castle was the sprawling white building she had noticed when she looked up from the square next to the Terran headquarters. It had been a fairly long walk, and she had been standing and walking so much that day that her feet were protesting by the time they reached it. Margaret followed her new-found kinsman through the outer courtyard, observing the architecture like any tourist. It was impressive, but she decided she did not want to be impressed. It was not as if she had never seen a castle before, and as castles went, this one was neither the largest nor the most awesome she had seen. That distinction was still held by the old Imperial Palace on Zeepangu, a single building covering several square kilometers.
This place must be a maze to find your way around in. As she had this thought, Margaret “saw” patterns of corridors and rooms, layer upon layer, and knew that somehow she possessed an internal map of the place. There were secret passages and rooms no one had entered for generations. It was a place of plots, rivalries, and ancient feuds. How do I know that?
The nagging sense of another memory niggled at the back of her mind. Margaret looked up at a small balcony that jutted from one of the upper floors, and the memory of a large room with a richly-patterned carpet and heavy wooden furniture floated before her eyes for a moment. There was a large table or desk, and Lew, a much younger man than the one she knew, sat behind it. He seemed enormous, and she realized she was seeing him with a child’s viewpoint, looking up from the floor. The patterns of the carpet coiled out from between her sprawled legs, and she could see plump baby hands tracing the curves. I must have come here once. But that doesn’t explain this feeling I have that I know my way around the entire building. When are things going to start making sense?
Margaret looked away from the balcony, shutting off the flood of uneasy memory. Instead, she found herself staring at a tall tower to one side of the complex. Alone of all the great buildings, this was the one thing of which she had no clear image. It made her cold to look at it, cold and afraid. She wrenched her eyes away angrily. She was tired of feeling like some pawn on a chessboard, and somehow it was all Lew Alton’s fault! Being furious at him helped, and she relaxed slightly.
They climbed several steps to a pair of great wooden doors, deeply carved with stars and other figures she could not immediately identify. Beside them stood two guardsmen in some sort of uniform. They wore swords at their sides, but no other armament. There was something about their stance which told her they knew how to use these archaic weapons, that they were not ceremonial at all.
The guards flung the closed doors aside, saluting Captain Scott as if he were well known to them, and ignored her entirely. Margaret had a strong sense of relief when she passed through the portals of Comyn Castle without eliciting comment. After all the years of having to present documents at every turn, due to the obsessive bureaucracy of the Terrans, it was rather pleasant to enter a building so easily.
The doors opened onto a grand foyer. The floor was carpeted with a fine rug, and her feet, hot and weary after the long day, felt refreshed by the softness of it beneath her soles. There were armorial banners hung along the walls, bright colors against translucent white stone. The fading light of the sun penetrated the stone and lent the chamber a curious ambiance. Margaret could not decide if it was sad or festive—or somehow both at once.
Rafe Scott led her through the foyer and into a corridor with several doors opening off it. The hall was wide, spacious enough for several people to walk abreast, and it smelled clean and dry. There were a few paintings hung along it, pictures of people for the most part, and more armorial banners. Comyn Castle, Margaret decided, was not a cozy place. The height of the walls and the starkness of the decor began to oppress her, and she longed to be back in Master Everard’s comfortable house. Anya would be starting supper now, and there would be the smell of food and the sound of music. Even though she had eaten only an hour before, she found she was hungry again, and terribly tired.
The corridor was very long, and she saw several people walking on their errands. Scott stopped one of them and said something in a voice too faint for her to hear, then pointed down the hall. The servant gave a nod, glanced with some interest at Margaret, and then walked away.
They finally entered a room that was arranged for meetings. There were rows of chairs and a long table at one end of the room. Rafe gestured her into one of the chairs, and she sat down heavily. One of her feet was developing a blister and the small of her back hurt. She watched incuriously as he spoke into some sort of communication box on the wall, and waited upon events. Part of her wished she had not come, and another part of her wanted to get the meeting over with, so she could get back to her old life.
While she waited, Margaret found herself reflecting on her life. It seemed to her that she was being guided along some invisible path, one she did not entirely wish to explore. She remembered some of the philosophical discussions she had heard from fellow students at the University, on whether man was predestined or had free will. In the thousands of years of human history, no one had ever arrived at a plausible conclusion, and she suspected, no one ever would. Still, she wondered if her meeting with Rafe Scott were destiny or coincidence. He seemed to think it was the former, and she was not happy to discover she almost believed him.
She was deep in these musings when two men entered the meeting room. Their faces were no longer young, and her first impression was that they were about the same age as her father. Their movements confirmed this guess a moment later, for they had a kind of certainty that came with years. One of the men looked very familiar, and she realized she had seen his portrait in the hall. They stood close to one anot
her, and there was something deep and intimate in their stance. The familiar man was slender and well-formed, with the pure white hair that belonged on a much older man.
The man whose portrait Margaret had seen smiled at Scott and said, “It is wonderful to see you, Rafe. It has been too long since you paid us a visit. What is it—no problems, I trust?” He spoke in a good-natured and friendly way, without any formality, but beneath the words Margaret caught an undertone of worry.
Before Rafe could reply, the man caught sight of Margaret, and his eyes widened a little as he glanced at her, an indirect look that was no less penetrating for being so quick. His companion followed his gaze, and she felt somehow chilled when his eyes swept across her. She lowered her eyes to her lap and studied her hands for a moment.
“Why, you must be Lew Alton’s child! I’d know that hairline anywhere, though you don’t look like him otherwise. I used to envy him that peak, when we were young.” He smiled at her with great warmth, and moved toward her. “Where is Lew?” He paused, as if he expected the Senator to be lurking under one of the chairs. Then he looked very disappointed. “He isn’t here, is he? I thought, when he telefaxed us about his resignation, that he would be coming back immediately. I would have known if he had returned to Darkover, I think. He has a very strong presence. Has he sent you to take his place on the Telepathic Council?” As the man spoke, Margaret suddenly knew that his name was Regis Hastur—though how she knew it she could not imagine.
Resignation? She hadn’t paid attention to the newsfax for weeks, and in all the turmoil around Ivor’s death, she hadn’t bothered to pick up her own messages either. Maybe that was why Dio hadn’t answered her—they were in transit somewhere between the stars. For some reason, the knowledge that her father had left the Senate was disquieting. And, stubbornly, she didn’t wish to appear ignorant. It put her at a disadvantage that she disliked. The big building seemed to press down on her.