Exile''s Song

  “Do you want the Domain?”

  He gave a shrug. “I know it is difficult for you to understand, because our ways are extremely complex— even for me, and I have known all these stories since I could toddle. Regis vowed that he would give his regency to a child of Javanne’s, and I was chosen over my older brothers. Uncle Regis trained me in statecraft and a great deal more.”

  “What do you mean—more?”

  “Regis got the regency almost by accident. A lot of things happened that no one anticipated, and when the dust settled, he was all that was left. So he wasn’t trained to the job, and he didn’t want that to happen to me. My father was none too pleased since Regis made me learn a lot of things that were not Darkovan. I’ve read a lot of Terran history and philosophy because Regis felt it was important. My father thought it was all a lot of nonsense.”

  “But it didn’t work out.”

  Mikhail shook his head, and shifted from foot to foot. “Regis found Linnea, and they had children, so while I am technically the heir, because Uncle Regis has not officially made his eldest son, Danilo, the heir yet, the plain fact is that I am a man trained to rule, but I don’t have a kingdom. And my very existence is bothersome. There is too much potential power in my hands, and it makes people—not just my father—very uneasy.”

  “Well, why hasn’t Regis Hastur fixed things—made his son the heir? It seems pretty untidy to me!”

  He chuckled. “That’s a good word for it. I don’t know why Regis hasn’t made Dani his heir. He has not consulted with me, and it would be very impolite to ask. My uncle is not a man who reaches decisions quickly. But if anything should happen to him, I would be the designated regent, and if anything happened to my father and brothers, I would have a real claim to the Alton Domain. Well, I would have had, before you showed up. It is about the balance of power, Marguerida. I don’t particularly want the regency any more, and I never really think about the Alton Domain because it is such a remote possibility. But no one, especially my father, believes that. They imagine I am just longing to be backed into the throne or the Domain. They have no idea what I really want.”

  Margaret watched him. She liked his candor and his sense of humor and the way he kept his thoughts to himself, except when something leaked out. And she could sense his passion for Darkover. He was, she decided, a disciplined and admirable man, totally unlike anyone she had ever met before. “And what might that be?”

  “To go off-world and see other places. Regis promised me he would arrange it, after young Danilo was made the official heir. He understood, because he always wanted to go to the stars himself but he couldn’t. I don’t want to stay here and marry a nice girl and father a bunch of children—even though I know that is my duty. It makes me feel like . . .”

  “Like a stud animal?”

  Mikhail blushed, and Margaret realized she had hit the mark. “That sums it up nicely, yes. I’ve read a few Terranan novels, and I know about romance. Let me tell you, there is no romance on Darkover, at least among the families of the Domains. We don’t marry for love, and often we don’t even meet our spouses until the wedding day. Well, there have been a few exceptions, but they only make it worse because they tend to muck matters up. Your father and Majorie Scott, for instance, are held up as a bad example of what happens when people fail to do their duty!”

  “Oh. Was it romantic? You see, I don’t know anything about that. My father never mentions her, and neither does my stepmother.”

  “I’m not sure, but it seems to have been something quite dramatic. The usual way, until my generation, has been that the parents arrange a good match, and that is that. Mother married Father when she was fifteen, and she had only seen him twice! And she didn’t have a thing to say about it. Sometimes love happens—I know that Jeff really loved Elorie, his wife. She died and none of their children survived. The entire idea of romantic love is regarded as . . . rather peculiar here. Children are what matters most.”

  “It all sounds very impersonal to me. Not that I am any fancier of romance myself—I’ve read a few novels, and I thought them rather silly. And Darkover isn’t that different from a lot of other worlds because arranged marriages are common in some places. But not for children, I think. For power and property.”

  “That, too. The Domains have run Darkover for generations, and they don’t see any reason to change things.”

  Margaret fell silent for a moment. “Would I like your brothers?”

  “Gabe is the Old Man all over again, stolid and forthright and very sure of himself.” Mikhail made a face. “We try to avoid one another.”

  “And Rafael?”

  “He loves to hunt and is devoted to horse breeding.”

  “Neither of them sound like they would be suitable for me.”

  “You don’t mean you are seriously considering . . .”

  “What does it matter to you either way?”

  Miknail considered her question, his face thoughtful and a little perturbed. “I don’t think I would want you to be unhappy. You seem like a . . . well, you aren’t like anyone I ever met before. You are smart, and you don’t hide it. You are educated and know about ‘Russian novels’ and kinship on places I’ve never heard of. I think being married to either Gabe or Rafael would be pretty miserable for you. Gabe couldn’t stand to have a woman who was more intelligent than he was, and Rafael isn’t much of a talker.” And you are too independent, too much like me. Why couldn’t you have been ugly and stupid! It would make everything much easier.

  Margaret felt an imp of mischief seize her. “So why not you?”

  Before he could think of a reply, they both tensed, as if some alien presence had entered the library. Margaret could feel something stirring and after a moment she knew it was not in the room, but somewhere nearby in the castle. The walls prevented her hearing any voices, but she knew that an argument was occurring, and a fairly vigorous one at that.

  “Damnation!”

  “What?” Margaret asked.

  “I think the Old Man and the leronis are having a shouting match. I wonder why?” The old fool. Why pick a fight with Istvana?

  “I suspect I am the cause, Mikhail.” She gave a great sigh. “Your father wants me to go to Armida, and Istvana wants me to go to her Tower for training—and neither of them cares what I want!”

  “And what do you want, kinswoman?”

  She could feel him distancing himself from her, and it left her feeling more alone than she ever had before. “I don’t really know anymore. Things are so muddled. Part of me wants to leave immediately, but another part wants to remain on Darkover. I don’t really have any skills for living here—what would I do, become a farmer or an innkeeper? No one on Darkover needs a music scholar, do they? I don’t really want to marry, which seems to be the main occupation of women here, unless they become Renunciates.”

  “You could try mushroom farming,” he answered, and she caught a glimpse of a twinkle in his blue eyes. “I don’t think that takes any special skills.”

  “Now, there’s a thought,” she replied, anxious to enter into the spirit of the thing and to avoid discussing more serious matters. “What a good idea! But I have no skill with plants, you see. I confess I have never given a thought to mushrooms before—where they came from and how. I just eat them whenever I get the opportunity. In fact, I am quite greedy about it. I always thought they just grew, grew like, well, mushrooms.” Her mouth was babbling because she did not want him to stop talking, because she wanted to return to their earlier camaraderie. He was disturbed by the distant argument, but he had withdrawn a little into himself as well.

  “There are several mushroom farms in the Kilghards. I could probably find you one that has been abandoned. I think it is pretty simple—you find a dead tree and gather ye mushrooms while ye may. I mean, I never knew anyone who planted them, so I guess they just happen. You wait for them to get ripe—or whatever mushrooms get—harvest them, and that’s it. No weeding, no beating off birds.”
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  There was a sharp, sarcastic tone in his voice, as if he were fighting with himself about something. She was nearly tempted to use her newfound laran to discover why, but she resisted. She wondered then how the Darkovans managed to keep out of each others’ minds. She must remember to ask Istvana.

  “And no running out to the stable to deliver a foal in the middle of the night either.”

  “Exactly! You will need a sharp knife and some baskets and . . .” They both started laughing so hard that tears formed in their eyes.

  The door to the library opened and Gabriel Lanart-Alton and Istvana Ridenow entered, both in high color, and looked at them. Margaret felt as if she had been caught doing something naughty, and Mikhail turned red to the roots of his fair hair. They exchanged a swift glance, which was a mistake, for the look nearly set them off laughing again.

  “What are you doing here?” Gabriel almost snarled to his youngest son.

  “I was just telling my kinswoman about the delights of Armida,” Mikhail answered stiffly, his humor vanishing.

  “That’s no business of yours! I’ll tell her all she needs to know. Now take yourself off.”

  Mikhail stiffened at this crude dismissal, gave his father a look that was empty of affection, and left the library. I won’t argue with him! Even if it kills me!

  Margaret heard the thought and felt the rage simmering beneath it. She wanted to do something, to leap to Mikhail’s defense and tell the old tyrant to do something anatomically unlikely. The strength of her emotion startled her. It was almost as if she and Mikhail were allies. It was more than mere liking, she realized, feeling the cold within her rise in response to the sense of kinship that had nothing to do with blood. The heat of her yearning to defend Mikhail warred with the habitual remoteness which had always kept her apart, and neither had the upper hand. She bit her lip, then glared fiercely at her uncle. She sat silent, her hands clenched in her lap, until Gabriel began to squirm with unease.

  “I want you to come to Armida, Marguerida, and I want you to come as quickly as possible.” Gabriel began to speak in a calm voice, but it rapidly turned into a barking command.

  “I think that would be a very bad idea,” Istvana said. “You really need to come to the Tower and learn how to use some of your talents. It is true that we have removed the major impediment to your Gift, but without training, you are still as helpless as a newborn babe. And dangerous, to boot. I have explained this to you, and I thought you understood. Then Dom Alton informs me that you are removing to Armida immediately and . . .”

  Margaret looked from one to the other. She liked the leronis and, more, after their days and nights together, she trusted her. She felt almost safe in the presence of Istvana, as safe as she had ever felt with Dio. She did not like Gabriel Lanart-Alton one bit, though it was possible he had some hidden virtues lurking in his great chest. She was inclined to favor Istvana’s suggestion, but only to spite her high-handed kinsman. At the same time she knew that would be extremely stupid, because within her there was some quiet knowledge that her path did not lie toward Neskaya. If only there were some impartial person to talk to. If only Ivor was still alive! What would her beloved mentor have made of all this?

  She considered discussing her problem with Rafaella, for she trusted the Renunciate now, trusted her and valued her companionship. She knew, intuitively, that Rafaella would follow her to the ends of Darkover, but Margaret was also aware that her friend was young and headstrong. Almost as headstrong as I am, she thought wryly.

  “There is no need for Marguerida to go to the Tower at Neskaya,” Gabriel informed the leronis, once again swelling with the indignation of having his will thwarted. “My daughter Liriel and my kinsman Lord Damon Ridenow can take care of her. She’s over the threshold sickness now, and I see no reason to pamper her as if she were . . .”

  “I have nothing but respect for our kinsman,” Istvana interrupted, emphasizing her own relationship to Lord Damon, “but he alone is not a full Tower circle, and neither is Liriel, excellent technician though she is.” She paused, then continued. “You cannot imagine what Marguerida has been through, nor do you know what sort of care and training she needs.” She gave Margaret a motherly look and smiled. “Surely even you can see the sense in her coming to Neskaya, Lord Lanart.”

  Margaret observed this restrained insult, aware that in using a lesser title, not Dom Alton, Istvana was subtly putting the man in his place. She made it sound as if Gabriel barely had the sense to come in out of the rain, and he bristled. “Marguerida belongs with her family! She has to learn our ways, and do her duty as an Alton.”

  “While the two of you are busy planning my future for me, neither of you knows nor seems to care wbat I want.” Margaret spoke quietly and found both of them looking at her as if she had suddenly grown an extra head. “It doesn’t seem to occur to either of you that I have my own life, my own plans and ambitions, and that those may not include either Armida or Neskaya.”

  “Not this damn foolishness about leaving Darkover again! I won’t have it! You belong here, and you are staying here!” I’ll have my men put her under arrest, if I must. I don’t want her going off with this witch—laran is a curse!—and I dare not leave her here.

  Margaret realized that her kinsman was doing what he believed to be best, and that he really could not understand why she was resisting him. He was not stupid, just very determined to have his own way, from his own sense of right and wrong. With a slight shock, Margaret realized that Gabriel really meant well, that he wanted to do the best he could. A small, grudging admiration for the man started to form, for she knew that it was not easy for him to stand up to Istvana.

  The leronis, on the other hand, was concerned that having unblocked her potential, she might come to harm through her own vast ignorance. Poor Gabriel sincerely believed that she belonged at Armida, married to one of his sons and bearing a child as often as possible. He did not know any other proper way for a woman to live, and she could sense that he regarded any choice but marriage and motherhood as unnatural.

  What did she want, then? Mikhail had asked her that and she realized what an important question it was. She had very little idea what sort of life living in a Tower might be like, but it didn’t really sound appealing. She knew it involved using matrices, and she found even the thought of them unnerving.

  The Renunciates were an alternative, but she knew she was no Magda Lorne, and that living the circumscribed life of a Free Amazon was not a path she wished to pursue. As for marriage and children, she had never really thought about it before now, but did not think she was really suited for it. With the right person, it might be fine, but she had never met anyone yet who seemed a good match. She would like someone as learned as Ivor, as strong as her father, but also someone who could laugh a great deal. Powerful and playful seemed like an impossible combination. She had traveled widely, and she was fairly certain she could never be completely happy to live only on Darkover.

  Marja!

  Her nickname seemed to echo in her mind, and for a moment she thought that either Gabriel or Istvana had thought her name. Then she realized that neither of them would call her that—that it was too intimate for these near strangers, despite their kinship to her. Dio would, and, more rarely, the Senator. But it was not a woman’s voice she had heard.

  For the first time she could remember for years, Margaret wanted her father. She found herself thinking of a moment when she had been very small, when she had sat in his lap, leaned her head against his chest, and listened to the steady thump of his heart with total trust. He had a certain smell that was comforting.

  There was a vast vacancy within her which longed to be filled, not by the man she had known on Thetis, but by that other Lew Alton who had existed when she was a child. She knew she could never be a girl again, snuggling into his arms, but that did not mean she did not want to. She wished he were there, not light-years away. Although she had no direct experience of his strength and wisdom, she was
sure he would be able to tell her what to do.

  Time seemed to still for a second, and she forgot the presence of the man and the leronis in the library with her. Instead, she remembered a fragment that had come during her illness, the sense that Lew was in the room, talking to her. She had thought it was some fever dream, but now she was not sure. Maybe he was not somewhere on the other side of the galaxy.

  Margaret recalled the surprise she had encountered from more than one person that Lew was not on Darkover, as if he were expected momentarily. There were things going on which she knew nothing of. And the sense of his presence was very strong. She did not need laran to sense it. She could almost smell him.

  Marja! Go to Armida! It will be all right. Chiya, it will be all right at last!

  The effect of these words was nearly overwhelming, for they were accompanied by such a great flood of feelings, of longing and affection, that Margaret felt her heart would break. She did not believe that the Senator’s thoughts were coming to her from far away. Logic, her faithful servant, then suggested that he must already be on Darkover. But, surely, Gabriel and Istvana would know if he were.

  No matter. She was sure it was Lew Alton whose voice she heard. She had asked for guidance, and he had given it, as a father should to a daughter, however undutiful and headstrong. For an instant she resented that she was being told what to do again—that another person was deciding what was best. He had wanted her to leave home, because he could hardly bear to look at her as she grew into womanhood, and now he wanted her to go to Armida. But it all seemed to make a crazy sort of sense, somehow. She had no words to describe the rightness she felt at that moment.

  Gabriel Lanart was preparing for another one of his commanding performances, and Istvana was restraining clear annoyance with the blustering man. Before he could speak, Margaret nodded.