Margaret put away her equipment in the bag, and she and her guide started back to the inn. “Tell me about this Forbidden Tower,” she said, ignoring her sense of fatigue and a sudden rush of dizziness, just managing to get the question out before her interior censor silenced her again. Her heart pounded, and her blood seemed to reverberate in her ears. You will not ask questions! She swallowed hard, to keep her stomach from rebelling again.
Rafaella walked beside her in silence for several minutes. Then she said, “It is better not to speak of those times, Marguerida.”
Margaret still felt like protesting, but when Rafaella was this determined, she had already learned it was not much use to argue. And the urgency she had managed to summon up a few minutes before was gone, leaving her empty. She shifted her bag against her shoulder, and let it go. The excitement of hearing new songs faded, and her body began to ache. When the inn came into sight, she was delighted. She would spend a little time transcribing some of the songs and making notes, and then she would go to bed. In the morning they would turn back to Thendara, and she would leave her exhaustion and the feeling of oppression behind her. Someone else could finish the work. She was going back to the security of University on the first ship she could find!
There were buildings all around her, the dull, square buildings typical of Terran architecture. It was night, and the moons had risen. There was a kind of quiet all around. Then the buildings began to redden, and in a moment there was fire everywhere.
Morning found her feverish and giddy, her head spinning like a top when she tried to sit up. Margaret sat up, then sagged back onto the pillows, swallowing with difficulty. Her throat was parched, and her stomach heaved. She tried to get up again, but found she could not.
Rafaella bent over her, smoothing her hair away from her face. “You are ill, Marguerida. You must stay in bed today.”
“Altitude,” she muttered. “I must go back to Thendara.”
“You aren’t going anywhere today. You rest, and I will bring you something cool to drink.”
Margaret felt too weak to argue, so she lay beneath the covers and tried to breathe slowly, to relax her body. She closed her eyes wearily, and the face of Danilo, the paxman, swam behind her lids. He looked down at her, and somehow she was certain he had something to do with her illness. Then she realized how ridiculous that was. I am behaving like a superstitious idiot. Before long I will be thinking I have been bewitched by a man who is hundreds of miles away. I’ll just lie here for a few minutes, and then I’ll be fine!
The morning passed, but she was not fine. Her skin got hotter and hotter, until it felt as if it were shrinking into her muscles. The weight of the covers was too much to bear, so she pushed them aside, then lay shivering, exhausted by the effort. Her skull pounded with a dull throbbing that seemed to increase every second. She tried to drink the stuff Rafaella brought her, but it refused to stay down, and she was sick repeatedly into a bowl. She felt cool cloths pressed onto her brow, and all sense of time faded.
Margaret began to shiver, and clawed at the covers with a hand that felt cold and dry. She cried out sharply. Every movement was an agony. She felt a gentle hand touch her cheek, and the covers were drawn up around her. “Dio—Mother!” She felt she was falling into a vast void, and closed her aching fingers around the bedclothes.
Whiteness! She had never seen such whiteness. It filled her from toes to head, and it was cold and barren and terrifying. There was nothing in it but emptiness. It seemed to press against her chest, stealing her shallow breath, sucking the life from her body. She struggled to get free of it, and fell somehow deeper into the cold.
Then there was something in the dreadful lightness—no, someone—and she tried to cower and vanish. Someone was looking for her, and she was afraid. Was it the silver man? Or red-tressed Thyra? The dead were seeking her, trying to draw her into themselves!
A face peered down at her, like no face she had ever seen before. The angles of the bones were wrong, not human. The skin of the being shone against the whiteness, and the eyes looked at her with infinite compassion. She was going to die! She was going to join Ivor and Thyra and Marjorie Alton and the grandfather she had never seen. The face was distressed, as if it knew her thoughts, and there was a slight shaking of the head, as if to deny her death. The face bent closer and closer while she tried to get away, and, at last, she felt thin lips pressed against her brow. The terror vanished as if it had never been, and she lay, calm and cold, waiting for the end.
How long she waited she could not guess, but after a time, she saw the Senator walking toward her. He was old, stooped and lame, and he peered into the whiteness like a blind man. Margaret wanted to call to him, but her voice had lost its power.
At last he saw her, and he looked angry. “Get up! You cannot be sick now! I will not have you dying! I have lost too much. Don’t you dare to die on me, Marja! Get up!” Something swelled in her breast, a bubble of some emotion. It rose into her throat, and burst.
“I’ll die if I want to!” Then she laughed at him.
Margaret was extremely surprised to waken in the bed at the inn, her fever broken for the moment. She felt more tired than she could believe, but her mind was clear. She pushed herself up on both hands until she was sitting in the bed. Carefully she reached for the cup of water that waited beside the bed, guessing at the time. Then she noticed she was alone, and wondered where Rafaella was.
She had a sudden fear that the Renunciate had abandoned her in the nameless village, but then she heard the sound of Rafaella’s voice in the hall. A moment later she came in, frowning. When she saw that Margaret was awake, the worry lines between her red brows smoothed away, and she seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.
“How are you, chiya?”
Margaret heard her term of endearment, and it made her feel like a child again. She felt her mind protest for a second, then decided it was not so bad after all. “I am fine, really. A little weak, but some soup should cure that.” The mention of food made her queasy immediately, and she swallowed hard.
“Are you certain?”
“Of course I am.” Margaret wasn’t certain of anything, but she didn’t want Rafaella to know that. She was too weak to get out of bed, and she could not imagine how she had gotten so sick. She had been fully immunized against everything anyone had ever thought of before she left University. It must be the altitude. It just had to be!
“Humph! I don’t think you know how you are. You are as white as your nightgown, and I think you still have some fever.”
“Perhaps. But I am sure I will be completely recovered by tomorrow. I am sorry if I worried you—I didn’t mean to get sick!” She sounded like a cranky child to her own ears.
“There, there. I know you didn’t mean to get sick—what a silly thing to say! Do you think you can get out of bed, so I can change the sheets? You’ve soaked them through.”
“I’m sorry!” To Margaret’s surprise, she burst into tears. Great sobs rose out of her chest as tears spilled down her face. “I didn’t mean to make a mess,” she whimpered. “I tried to be good, really, I did.”
“Of course you did,” Rafaella soothed her, the frown returning. She bent forward and put her arms around Margaret, drawing her against her chest. “It’s all right, chiya.” The Renunciate stroked her sweat-soaked hair as Margaret continued to weep and apologize.
The door of the room opened, and the owner of the inn came in, a sturdy woman with a no-nonsense air of competence about her. She had a pile of clean sheets on one arm, and a gown draped over the other. She shook her head slightly, put down the sheets, and came over to the bed. Margaret tried to make herself stop crying, and nearly succeeded. Instead she got hiccups which almost made her retch.
Between them, Rafaella and the innkeeper managed to get Margaret out of the bed. They put her into a chair, and pulled the covers away. They stripped the bed efficiently, and Margaret could smell the crisp freshness of the new sheets, even though her nose was ver
y stuffy from weeping. She could also smell her own body, stinking of sweat and sickness, and she shrank from it. She needed a bath.
Then the two women removed her nightgown gently but relentlessly. She tried to protest, embarrassed at being naked in front of strangers, but they ignored her. Rafaella brought a bowl of warm water and a cloth, and washed Margaret’s face and body as if she were an infant. Her skin felt like parchment, dry and crackly. The innkeeper noticed it, left the room, and returned with a container of balm. She massaged it into Margaret’s aching flesh, and, to her surprise, it felt very good. It must have some herb in it that eased the aches. Then they put a clean nightgown on her, and helped her back into bed. Margaret fell back against the pillows, too exhausted to move, and heard the voices of the women from very far away.
“I don’ like the look of her, I tell you, Rafaella. She’s skin and bone, and she’s going to get another fever, or my name’s not Hannah MacDanil.”
“I know.”
“We need a healer woman, but we’ve not had one here since old Grisilda died last winter.”
“There has to be someone!” Margaret could hear the near panic in Rafaella’s voice, and she wanted very much to reassure her that there was no need for a healer. She could just imagine being dosed with local herbs! Why had she ever come here? Why had Ivor died? It just wasn’t fair. If only she had not been so stubborn, if only she had not insisted on finishing the work. She had no business being sick out here in the middle of nowhere. Maybe it was psychosomatic, brought on by the shock of Ivor’s death. Perhaps her dreams were making her ill. Or maybe she had that Trailman’s Fever that was mentioned on the disk. No, that couldn’t be right. It had a cycle, and this was the wrong year. Her skull began to throb again, so she stopped trying to think. It was simpler just to lean back and enjoy cool, clean sheets and a fresh nightgown.
“I think you’d better ride to Ardais and bring back help. I would send the boy, but I really cannot spare him just now. I don’t trust those horse traders any farther than I can toss ’em, and I don’t want to be without a man about the place.” The innkeeper gave a sigh. “If Emyn were another sort of husband—well, no good wishing for what you haven’t got!”
Margaret heard Hannah’s words from a great distance, but the mention of Ardais almost roused her from her weakness. She wanted to protest, to beg Rafaella not to leave, not to go to the place where the Ardais dwelt, but she couldn’t seem to get her mouth to form the words. All she knew was that she was terrified, as well as ill.
“I’d better go immediately. It is a fair ride, and I don’t really want to do it in the dark.”
“Fine. I will look after the vai domna until you return.”
Hours passed. Margaret faded in and out of lucidity, slept, dreamed, and tossed. She tried to remain awake, to avoid the voices which troubled her. She could hear the Senator urging her to get up, and Ivor telling her that he needed her. And there were women’s voices, too—arguing or weeping. But sleep kept coming upon her, troubled and white. And the voices rose like a storm, howling and shrieking.
At some point she woke, briefly, and heard the sound of wind and rain against the shuttered windows. The innkeeper was sitting in the chair beside the bed, knitting by the dim light of the candle. “Where is Rafaella?” Her voice was a croak. “I’m so thirsty.”
Hannah gave her some liquid, water with something in it, by the taste. “Rafaella has gone to fetch a healer.” She glanced toward the window. I hope she got to Ardais safely! Our mountain storms are so terrible.
“Oh.” She drank, and before she slipped back into her dreams, Margaret shuddered. She knew she had heard Hannah’s thoughts, that no words had been spoken. And she knew that something awaited her, something she did not wish to meet. She could almost feel the tug of it against her aching muscles.
Light touched her face. It hurt! She raised a hand to shield her eyes. Then she felt a rocking motion beneath her, and clutched for the bed-frame. There was none, only a thick staff of wood on either side of her protesting body. She could hear hooves, and smelled the scent of horses. Her support swung back and forth, and she felt her body rebel again. Her stomach protested, but it had nothing to release, so she just lay there, heaving.
Rafaella’s face hovered above her. “Marguerida!”
“Where are we? What is happening. Oh, I hurt so much!”
“I know, chiya, but we will be at Ardais soon, and have you back in bed, I promise.”
“Why is the bed swinging?”
“You are in a horse-litter. Do not worry. You are safe. We will be at Castle Ardais soon.”
“The light hurts my eyes!” Rafaella’s words penetrated her mind. “Ardais! Oh, no! Don’t let Danilo hurt me!”
She heard a male voice, deep and troubled. “What is she raving about?”
“I don’t know,” Rafaella answered. “She seems frightened of something. She’s been doing this off and on for the last couple of days.”
“We’d better tie her more tightly on the litter, mestra. Otherwise she’s going to fall off and hurt herself.”
Nothing they said made any sense. All she could think of was the quiet paxman of Regis Hastur, and her irrational fear of him. He will make me into someone else! That was the last coherent thought she had for a long time.
11
The bone-racking jostle of the horse litter changed, and Margaret was just aware enough to realize that they had left the rough terrain and gotten onto some smoother ground. She heard the hooves fall on stone, a deep, resonant sound, and forced her eyes to open. The harsh light had faded, and it was close to sunset, cool and crisp. A bird sang, and she wished she could enjoy it. Around her the sounds of boots and hooves on stone and voices was painful, and she held back a wince as she turned her head toward them.
They had come into a broad courtyard, and around it, spreading like the open arms of a mother, was a large building of pale gray stone. It seemed to fill the landscape from horizon to horizon, its several-storied height reaching toward the clouded sky. Lichen grew across the stones, and the windows in the lower floors were narrower than those higher up.
Bone-weary and slightly feverish though she was, Margaret still found herself trying to make mental notes on the architecture of the place. The habits of a scholar were not easy to break, she mused, as she studied the place. It was quite different from Comyn Castle, more like a fortress. She wondered what they had to protect themselves against. Brigands? She was relieved to find she seemed to have no previous memory of Castle Ardais, despite her strong aversion to the name, and decided her strange fears were silly.
When the men removed the litter from between the horses, gentle as they tried to be, Margaret could not help but cry out in pain. She bit her lip to stifle the cry, but it escaped despite her efforts. They carried her to the entrance of Castle Ardais, and into an entryway which rose above her more than two stories. From her position on the litter, she could see light streaming down from the upper windows, filling the chamber with the fading light of the day. It reminded her a little of the cathedral at University, except in that place, there were no shrill voices, as there were here. She could hear Rafaella arguing with someone nearby, and she wished they would all be quiet. There seemed to be several voices involved, mostly female, and the pitch of them hurt her ears.
A firm-sounding male voice cut suddenly through the gabble. “What, may I ask, is the meaning of all this?”
“I was just telling this person that Ardais is not a public house where you can bring . . .”
“Enough! Mestra Rafaella and her companion are expected, Martha, and it is not your place to question it. If you had not been down in the village with your daughter, you would have been aware that we have anticipated the arrival of these people.” He seemed quite calm and very authoritative, and Margaret wondered vaguely if this were the master of the castle.
“She was near her time, Julian, and I could not just leave her alone!”
“She is in good hands w
ith the midwife, who I am certain, did not appreciate your interference.”
“Interference! I like that! You are only a man—you do not understand such things.” Martha, whomever she was, did not sound as if she were going to give up the argument.
Margaret saw a man’s face as he bent toward her. “I welcome you to Castle Ardais.” She could see an expression of puzzlement in his features. “I am Julian Monterey, coridom to Lady Marilla.”
Margaret tried to remember what the term meant, flogging her weary brain. It was something between a major-domo and a foreman, but the exact distinction was impossible to fathom in her present state. “Thank you for your welcome,” she croaked, “and forgive me for coming in such an untidy manner. I did not mean to be sick.”
“Of course you didn’t,” he answered gently, as if visitors arriving on horse litters in a high fever were a commonplace occurrence.
“Why is my entrance hall full of gossips?” a sweet voice interrupted him. “And, why, might I inquire, is our guest still waiting here? I ordered a bedchamber prepared. Has it been done?” Despite the soft tone of the speaker, Margaret suspected that she had a will of steel.
“Domna Marilla, I was not informed that we were expecting guests,” Martha whined, “and I did not know that a room was to be prepared.”
“Excuses will not get our visitor into bed,” Marilla replied. “And Mestra Rafaella has had a wearisome journey, for she has been thrice upon the trail, with no sleep and little to eat. Now, stop hanging about and go to your duties. Julian, I wish to speak with you.”
Margaret heard the murmur of Julian’s conversation with his mistress and the swish of skirts as the various servants hurried away to their tasks. Her two stretcher bearers waited patiently, holding the litter between them. Margaret could see the back of the one at the front. A concerned Rafaella bent down over her. She touched Margaret’s wrist, then clasped her hand tenderly.