At that moment she felt in no immediate danger of dying, though a few days before she would not have believed she would live through whatever odd bug had plagued her. It seemed Lew’s worst fears were not to be realized. But she did feel threatened, mostly by the tricks her mind was playing. There were things lurking inside her which, if she could not remember them soon, would drive her crazy. What did they do with madwomen on Darkover?
Sharra! The word echoed in her mind, like some great bell tolling doom. Her father had used it when he spoke to Dio, too. Brigham Conover had mentioned it in connection with some rebellion. What was that? It sounded like a woman’s name, but there was no accompanying memory of a person attached. Wait! There was something else; that word tried to wriggle away in her mind. She nearly had it! Sweat beaded her forehead. Almost, almost! Similar sound. She was a musician and she dealt in sounds! So, why the devil couldn’t she . . . Ashara! That was it! It was a place and a person all at once. She nearly sobbed in her triumph.
For a flash she “saw” the indistinct figure which was enthroned in that terrible, cold room. Then her stomach clenched and her heart staggered in its beat. Margaret curled her hands into the blankets, hanging on for what felt like dear life. The words she had reclaimed with such effort sank down into her mind, and the feeling of a great hand seizing her heart passed away. I hope they have a good place for madwomen here, she thought as she slipped into the safety of unconsciousness.
By early evening, Margaret was almost herself again. Rafaella had awakened her with a bowl of soup and several slices of bread. She had gobbled them down so quickly she had nearly been sick, but once the food was settled, she began to feel nearly normal. Strength was returning to her limbs, and she knew if she had to stay in bed another minute, she would scream.
“I’m getting up,” she announced.
“I can see that,” Rafaella answered disapprovingly as Margaret swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Are you sure?”
“I need to move around. If I stay in bed much longer, I will start counting the stitches in the embroidery on the curtains out of sheer boredom! There isn’t even anything here to read. I would almost sell my unborn children for a trashy novel and a box of chocolates.”
Rafaella looked scandalized. “What a thing to say! You don’t mean it, do you? Only Dry Towners sell children.”
“Of course I don’t mean it literally. Where are my clothes?”
“Oh.” The guide looked immensely relieved. “I’ll fetch them. Terranan do not sell children, do they?”
“No, Rafaella, they neither sell children nor eat them. At least not on civilized worlds. There are a few places I’ve heard of, very primitive planets, where that happens.”
“How horrible.” Rafaella handed Margaret her garments, disbelief strong in her voice. They were well washed and scented with balsam. She lifted her tunic to her nose and inhaled deeply. Then she noticed her own smell. Even with the frequent sponge baths, she was still pretty high. “I want a real bath first.”
“Very well.” Rafaella sounded extremely doubtful. “But I’d better come with you. You might drown otherwise.”
The Renunciate took back the garments, then offered Margaret a warm robe and a strong arm. They left the chamber where she had lain for days, went a few feet down the hall, and entered the steamy confines of a bathing room. By the time they got there, Margaret’s ears were ringing, and she had to sit down for a minute. She wasn’t nearly as well as she thought.
Rafaella helped her off with her bedclothes, then got her into the great tub. She leaned over, looking dismayed, trying to keep a hand on Margaret. Finally she shrugged, removed her own clothes, and climbed in as well.
“Umm . . . this is so nice,” Margaret murmured. The hot water was boiling her aches away, but she was glad that Rafaella was in the tub with her. The heat was making her slightly dizzy.
“Yes, it is. Do you want me to scrub your back?”
“That would be fine.” She felt more relaxed by the second, and even the presence of another woman so near did not manage to disturb her. After all, they had already shared a bed, so why not bathe together. Still, it was a little disquieting to be so close to another person unclothed.
“You were saying something about some planets where they sell children, before.”
“Was I?”
“Yes. I am curious—if you don’t mind telling me.”
Margaret shrugged and felt the warm water move across her shoulders. Rafaella took a large sponge from the side of the tub and began to scrub her back gently. When Rafaella was through, she handed Margaret the soapy sponge to wash the rest of her body. As she scrubbed, Margaret felt so relaxed that it was difficult to think clearly. She would have liked to have melted into the water completely. “I don’t mind in the least, but it is a bit hard to explain to someone who has never been on another world. Anything, and I mean anything which is forbidden on one world is sure to be customary—or even compulsory—somewhere else. One of the wonders of the Terran Empire is that so many planets manage to get along with so many different ideas of what being human is. There are some places—not many—where a man has to marry one of his sisters or close cousins in order for his children to inherit property. There are others where a woman has to marry someone who isn’t related to her in any way at all. There are scholars who spend whole lifetimes going around researching social customs and writing papers about their findings. Everyone assumes that the way they do things at home is a universal way to behave.”
“How does anyone bear it?” Rafaella sounded puzzled and distressed. Margaret looked over her shoulder at the other woman. “Marrying your sister—that’s dreadful.” She put some soap on Margaret’s hair and began to shampoo it gently.
“More dreadful than breeding for laran?” Now where had that come from, she wondered. Ah, yes, that conversation with Lady Linnea at Comyn Castle. She sighed. That all seemed to have happened in another lifetime, to some other Margaret. She shut her eyes to keep from getting soap in them, took a slow breath, and continued. “Some long-ago scientist said that the entire purpose of the human species was the conservation of zygotes,” she went on, using the Terran word, for no Darkovan equivalent existed that she knew of, “and nothing else mattered. He said Nature didn’t give a damn about love or duty or anything—just keeping the race going.”
Rafaella gave a nervous little laugh. “He couldn’t have been from Darkover. What’s a zygote?”
Margaret thought for a moment. “The beginning of a baby.”
“I see—well, maybe he was a little Darkovan. But not very much, because duty is very important. And love, too, though less so.” She turned an interesting shade of pink beneath her fair skin, and Margaret did not need to be a telepath to guess that Rafaella was thinking of the “him” she had not had time to see before they left Thendara. She wondered if she dared ask the other woman if she knew Rafe Scott, then decided it was really none of her business.
Then, as if he were in the room, she heard Lew’s voice, raging and thundering. I’ve done my duty, all my life! I tried to make my father happy, and 1 have tried to protect Darkover from the stupidity and greed of the Federation. I’ve had a crawful of duty, Dio, and I don’t know if I can stand anymore!
Margaret could not tell if she remembered these words, or if they were being said as she heard them. But there seemed something in them that had an immediacy, a nearness. It rattled her badly, more than it should have. She wondered if she were ever going to get used to these intrusions into her mind, or if they would go away and leave her be. She hoped for the latter, but there was a nagging suspicion in her mind that she was going to be very disappointed. “I think we’d better get out of the tub now—I’m starting to feel pretty woozy.”
“Let me rinse out the soap first.” The Renunciate poured hot water over Margaret’s head while she held on to the side of the tub. “Here, now, I’ll get out first, and then I’ll help you.” Rafaella climbed out of the tub, dripping, and d
ragged a huge towel from a shelf. She tossed it calmly over her shoulder, and reached out for Margaret. She put her hands under Margaret’s armpits and lifted her half out of the tub, while Margaret managed to get a leg over the side, and almost stand. For just a moment she rested against Rafaella, with nothing separating them but the folds of the towel. She felt the pulse of the other woman, smelled her clean skin. Then Rafaella wrapped the towel around her and reached for another for herself.
Her head swam, then cleared. Margaret felt something within her, a strength that had nothing to do with bone and muscle. She wasn’t even sure the strength was her own—there was something almost cold and remote about it. Her legs, wobbly moments before, seemed firm again. She breathed the heated air of the bathroom, and realized she had been holding her breath, as if she were afraid to be too close to another person, as if touch were dangerous.
“I can dry myself,” she muttered, drawing back from contact. Rafaella looked doubtful, but just nodded. Margaret rubbed herself dry, wincing a little where her skin felt tender. By the time she was done, the rush of strength was gone, and she felt ready to fall down again. Rafaella was already putting on her clothing, and she noticed Margaret’s distress.
“Here, now, sit down.” She took Margaret’s arm and guided her to a chair which stood near the wall. “Silly goose,” she added cheerfully.
Margaret smiled at this, and realized she needed help, even though she wasn’t comfortable with it. She permitted Rafaella to pull her chemise over her head, and help her get into her underclothes. “I am sorry I am being so much trouble.”
“It is not the trouble I mind, but the worry.”
“Worry?”
“Marguerida, chiya, I have been half out of my mind worrying about you for days and days. Everyone has. Trouble I can manage—my life seems to be full of it. Here—raise your arms so I can put your tunic on!”
“I feel like a baby!”
“I know. And you are so independent that I’m sure it sticks in your craw. But one of the things we learn in Thendara House is that there is no shame in needing help—that we are sisters, and sisters must help one another. And, believe me, it isn’t always easy—because the sort of women who join the Renunciates are either plucked chickens who cannot make up their minds, or bossy roosters in skirts.”
Margaret had to laugh at this description. “And which type are you?”
Rafaella shook her head, and sent her unbound hair flying. “No one has ever plucked me!” I wouldn’t permit it, and anyone who tries is going to come to grief. But, you make me feel like a broody hen with a nest with one egg in it. A rooster egg! Oh, dear!
“I should think not.” Margaret struggled to her feet, so she could get her petticoats and skirt on more easily. “Do you enjoy being a Renunciate? I mean, there seems to be a really strong emphasis on Darkover toward marriage and family.”
“Yes, but my sisters are my family. And children are welcomed in Thendara House as much as in any other. I just don’t need some man telling me what to do.” And “he” gives me the feeling that he wouldn’t! Oh, I hope I can trust him—men are such odd creatures. “Now, let’s go back to the room. You need to lie down a bit. If you are feeling strong enough after a rest, then we can take dinner at the table.”
“That sounds wonderful. I have almost forgotten what eating at the table feels like. And I am very hungry all of a sudden.”
“That’s a good sign, and it eases my mind a great deal.” Rafaella grinned. “You were a good patient, except for insisting that you wanted to get up every other second.”
Two hours later, Margaret descended the long staircase, leaning on Rafaella’s arm and gripping the banister tightly with her free hand. Her energy seemed to ebb and flow, without any pattern, so that she felt well enough one second and weak the next. She gritted her teeth, glad of Rafaella’s strong arm supporting her, and uneasy with the physical touch at the same time.
Julian Monterey, the coridom, was waiting at the bottom of the stairs when Margaret and Rafaella reached the lower floor. “It is good to see you up and about, domna,” he told Margaret. “We have been very concerned.”‘
“I am sorry if I caused anyone to worry—a fine way for a guest to behave!” She made a face, and was pleased when he chuckled.
“I will show you to the dining hall.”
“Thank you. Something certainly smells delicious.” Now that they were off the stairs, Rafaella released her hold on Margaret’s arm, but remained beside her, ready to support her if she faltered. She was a comforting presence, dependable and strong, and Margaret gave her a warm glance.
Julian led the way across the entry hall and into a large chamber where a long table was set for the evening meal. A pleasant fireplace blazed in one long wall, and there were a set of tapestries hung on either side of it, one of a man holding a blazing blade and the other of a woman with a sparkling jewel in her hands. Their faces were masterpieces of the weavers’ art, and they seemed to gaze serenely down from the threads.
Two men stood before the fireplace, warming their hands. One was the young Lord Ardais who had invaded Margaret’s bedroom earlier, to Rafaella’s displeasure, and the other was a stranger. They turned at the sound of footfalls, and looked at the newcomers with careful sidewise glances, to avoid the rudeness of direct gaze.
Dyan Ardais stepped toward them and opened his mouth to speak, but Julian Monterey interrupted him. “Ladies, may I present Lord Dyan Ardais and Mikhail Lanart-Hastur, his foster-brother and paxman. Gentlemen, this is Domna Marguerida Alton. You already know her companion Rafaella n’ha Liriel, of course, Dom Dyan. But, Dom Mikhail, I do not know if you have encountered her before.” The tone of his voice made it clear that he expected the proper formalities to be observed. He almost certainly knew about Dyan’s intrusion into her chamber, and did not approve.
Dyan gave the coridom a swift look of mild rebellion, then schooled his features into a sort of arrogance that made Margaret wince. It was too like her memory of his father. “Mestra Rafaella and I have already met, but I am pleased to welcome the Lady of Alton to Castle Ardais.” He gave a little bow, and Margaret thought that he might be a spoiled brat, but he had exquisite manners when he chose to show them.
She barely noticed him, however. It was the other man who drew her attention, and drew it more strongly than she was comfortable with. She almost stared, then dragged her eyes away with difficulty.
Mikhail Lanart-Hastur bore some resemblance to Lord Regis, but he was taller and, she guessed, about her own age. He had fair hair that curled across a wide brow, a mouth made for laughter, and eyes of a remarkable blue. At the same time, there was something hesitant about his posture, as if he were not certain where he stood. Still, she instantly liked the look of him, for there was something very steady about him, a quality utterly lacking in Dyan Ardais.
“I am delighted to meet you,” he said, in a fine tenor voice, but he did not sound very pleased.
Margaret felt mildly rebuffed, and that increased her interest. Then she chided herself for being a silly fool. What was it about him? She had seen handsome men before, for University was not lacking in comely males, and several much better looking than Mikhail Lanart-Hastur. She glanced at the full mouth, so wary in spite of its generosity, and the eyes which had a quiet sadness in them. She watched him move from foot to foot, restlessly. She did that, too, when she wasn’t certain of herself.
Lady Marilla came into the room then, smiling, and interrupted her thoughts. “How good to see you up and about, Marguerida. I trust you do not mind me speaking to you so familiarly—it seems so silly to use forms and titles at a family dinner. We are quite modern here at Ardais, you know. I have had my son educated in the Terran manner, and the women of my household have been instructed in their letters by one of Rafaella’s Guild—from the Neskaya House. Not that it has done much good! They cannot see the use of education yet. But we are so isolated here, and I thought it would be good to be better informed. Lord Dyan?
??my son’s father—must be turning in his grave. He disapproved of all things Terran.” She rattled on as she motioned everyone toward the table. “Besides, I am old enough to be your mother. My, how tall you are. I had not realized.” What a pity she is a handspan taller than Dyan!
Margaret ignored this unspoken comment. She had long given up feeling miserable about her height, though when she had been a girl, it had been a dreadful burden for her. “My father is tall, so I suppose I take after him.” She felt a sudden doubt that she could sustain an entire meal of pleasantries like that. Her mouth was dry, and she had just the hint of a headache now. Maybe getting up hadn’t been such a good idea after all.
Margaret found herself seated between Marilla, at the head of the table, and Mikhail on her left. Rafaella sat across from her, and Dyan sat beside her, an arrangement which pleased neither of them from the sour expressions on their faces.
“Julian, please have the food brought in,” Marilla said.
A few moments later, a servant carried in a tureen of soup, holding it aloft, as if it were a grand occasion. He quite spoiled the effect by rolling his eyes toward Margaret, as if he were very curious about her. A slight clearing of Julian’s throat brought him back to his senses, and he set the tureen down beside their hostess. A second server appeared with a tray with blue and white clay bowls on it, and held it while the first man ladled out the soup, then placed it gravely before each diner.
The vapors rising from the soup smelled wonderful, and it was with some difficulty that Margaret restrained her hunger until Lady Marilla picked up her spoon and began to eat. It was delicious, and it was not until she had nearly emptied the bowl that she really looked at the china itself. It was finely made, and Margaret realized it was the first time she had seen nonwooden eating ware.
“These are beautiful bowls, Lady Marilla. I haven’t seen anything like them on Darkover.” It was a polite thing to say, but Margaret, heartened by the excellent soup, really meant what she said.