The man who looked down at her from between the bed curtains was of moderate height, flaxen-haired and startlingly handsome. He appeared to be her own age or a little younger, and his eyes were so pale as to be nearly colorless. He did not resemble that other Dyan, the one of her memories, for that man had had dark hair, hadn’t he? He looked away, dropping his eyes hastily, and Margaret remembered that it was considered very rude to look directly at members of the opposite sex on Darkover.
For just a second she saw the older face of Dyan Ardais superimposed upon the young man, and she began to tremble a little. They were very alike in their bone structure, but otherwise the newcomer looked more like Lady Marilla. There was none of the forcefulness she remembered from that other Dyan. This man had an arrogance about him, but no confidence in it. His chin was narrow, like Lady Marilla’s, and rather weak. He moved restlessly beside the bed, back and forth, and looked at the walls and curtains anxiously, as if he did not enjoy being indoors.
“
Dom
Dyan,” she said quietly. “I cannot thank you and your mother enough for taking care of me.”
He took hold of one of the bedcurtains and began to pleat it between his fingers. “Are you really Marguerida Alton?” The question burst from between his lips as if he could not prevent himself.
She has the look of an Alton—too much nose for beauty. I do wish Mother were less ambitious. If she tells me it might be an advantageous alliance one more time, I will fall on my sword and be done with it!
“So far as I know, I am.” Margaret wanted to ignore these highly-colored underthoughts, intrusive as they were.
“Too much nose for beauty,”
indeed! It was a good thing Margaret wasn’t a vain person. He was, she decided, purposely distracting her from her own thoughts and the anxiety that played along her muscles, a very dramatic young man, still under his mother’s thumb.
“And have you really taken the Big Ships to Terra?”
“Well, I’ve never actually been to Terra, but I have visited a number of worlds, yes.”
“Oh.” He shifted his feet uneasily. “I wanted to do that, but I can’t, you see, because I have to stay here.”
“That must be difficult for you.”
“Here, now,” Rafaella interrupted. “You told me you wanted to see if
Domna
Marguerida was on the mend, not gabble on about places you can’t go.”
“I . . . I’m sorry. I hope you get better soon. Rafaella says you are a musician, so perhaps when you are feeling better, you could sing for us. My grandfather was a fine singer, they say. I never knew him. I don’t seem to have inherited the talent, but I love to listen to music.”
“That will be quite enough,” Rafaella said sternly. “You go off right now! She’s too weak to be pestered.”
Especially by the likes of you!
Apparently the young Lord Ardais was accustomed to taking orders from women, for he made a little bow and exited hastily. “What was that all about?” Margaret asked when he was gone.
Rafaella gave one of her telling sniffs. “Men! They think every woman is just panting to get married and have their children—as if we had no other purpose in the world!”
Margaret was highly amused, but held back her smile. “All men, or just this one in particular?”
“Him! He has three
nedestro
sons, but he can’t seem to get himself a wife so far. He nearly married one of the Lanart-Hastur twins a few years back, but she had
laran
and went to a Tower instead. I can’t remember if it was Ariel or Liriel—I never can remember which is which, though for twins they are as unlike as milk and wine. He is foster-brother to Mikhail Lanart-Hastur, and he grew up with those girls. The
comyn
are a little wary of marrying an Ardais, ever since the Sharra Rebellion.” Her eyes narrowed, as she was suddenly aware of having said too much. “That’s old gossip. It has been a long morning for you. Why don’t you take a nap, and I’ll bring you a tray with some soup soon.”
The term foster-brother rang a distant chime in Margaret’s mind. In a vague sort of way, she knew that it was a common practice on Darkover to foster one’s children to another family. She could remember that the Senator had once or twice mentioned his own foster-brother, and she suddenly realized that he must have meant Lord Regis Hastur. It seemed to her a very strange custom, to give one’s children to relatives or strangers to rear, but she knew it was not an uncommon practice in other human societies. The idea seemed to be that strangers could discipline teenage children better than parents, that they were more objective. Margaret had definite opinions about the entire subject of objectivity. She thought it was fine for the sciences, and utterly silly for real people.
There was something in what Rafaella had said that she did not want to think about—that her mind seemed to avoid deliberately. Whenever she tried to concentrate on it, her brain refused to cooperate. There was a word, only a word, that insisted on slithering away, and this infuriated her. It was bad enough that her mind was full of locked rooms without single words provoking mental discomfort. Margaret suddenly thought of the old tale of Bluebeard, the man who killed his wives, and how he had given his last spouse the keys to the castle with the admonition that she must not open a particular room—which, of course, she had, being humanly curious.
What was the word? She groped in her mind for a moment. Ah, yes—Sharra. No, it wasn’t. It was another word, very similar, but another word entirely. It had something to do with that huge jewel she had dreamed of—or was it the jewel with the chair inside it? She felt herself shudder all over as she struggled to grasp fragments of memory.
What she had remembered the previous day returned, less vividly than before, so that she was able to think about it without doing more than tremble a little. The chair and the presence who sat on it in that icy chamber was her personal Bluebeard. She felt certain of that. People seemed to be pressing keys into her hands, but she did not know what rooms they opened, and she was afraid of what she might find behind them. To her it seemed much worse than the corpses of dead wives.
She would have wished that she had never come to Darkover, but it was much too late for that. Margaret forced herself to accept the present without regret. She did not like it, but she had to deal with it, no matter what. If only she hadn’t gotten sick.
Everything around her, the scent of the bedclothing, the sound of the rain pattering down, the very air, spoke to her heart of the home she had never found elsewhere. Her safe life as Ivor Davidson’s associate was fading into a kind of dream, and she resented that. It had been a happy, simple life, full of interesting intellectual puzzles and strange planets, without the complications of family.
Family! That word meant a great deal on Darkover. For the first time, she had an actual family that she had never known about. She had discovered an uncle who, like her, had a foot in the Terran Empire and on Darkover, and she suspected that Rafe was only the tip of an iceberg. It seemed as if everyone on Darkover—or at least those families in the Comyn—was related to everyone else, either by blood or by loyalties. What about Dio’s relatives? She might have a dozen aunts and uncles and hundreds of cousins she had never heard of, and while these would not be blood relations, they would be “family” as well.
For the first time she thought of the Senator and his lady as the exiles they were, cut off from the culture they had been born in, away from all the connections which bound the
comyn
into a body both politic and social. Margaret had never considered that her parents might be unhappy, that Lew might have drunk to excess to forget the smells and sounds of Darkover. And what about Dio? Margaret had never heard her complain, but sometimes she had sat looking into the fireplace in the evenings with an expression of sorrow in her features. She would poke the burning wood and sniff, and now Margaret knew she must have been yearning for the pleasant scent of burning balsam which seemed to linger in every place from Gavin’s hovel to the halls of Comyn Castle. If she responded to these remembered odors and noises so strongly after leaving Darkover when she was five or six, how dreadful it must be for Dio and Lew who had lived for so many of their years on the planet?
Margaret dwelled on her newfound empathy for her parents for a time, but after a while she acknowledged she was still absolutely furious that she had been kept in such ignorance of her heritage. It didn’t make any sense! There had to be a reason, some rational cause, for the silence. Her father had represented Darkover in the Senate, but he never discussed the planet at home.
Lew, I can’t stand it!
Dio’s voice was as clear as if she had been in the bedroom at Castle Ardais.
Every time I mention Darkover, Marja starts to scream! She curls up in a ball and hides her eyes, and I am afraid she will start having convulsions or something!
I know, my love. I know! And I am sorry you have to deal with it. She was fine when we left—a normal child, if a little aggressive. She was too little to know how to be a polite telepath, wasn’t she?
I’ll never forget it! The little minx watched every time we made love—she was worse than impolite; she was damned intrusive! But, you know, I’d give a lot to have her like that again, instead of this remote adult in a child’s body. What has happened to her?
I think the voyage out was traumatic—her allergy to the space travel drugs—but I think there is something more. Somehow her channels have been . . . tampered with. I was only a mechanic; not a Keeper, but it doesn’t take a leronis to know that Marja has sustained some sort of deep shock. She will probably grow out of it, in time. Children are wonderfully resilient.
I don’t think so, Lew. You don’t spend as much time with her as I do, so you can’t really judge . . .
I can’t! Every time I look at her I remember Sharra and how small Thyra looked when she was dead, and how white Regis’ hair was. . . .
I think we should take her back to Darkover, Lew.
No, Dio. I think going back would kill her! And it would certainly kill me!
Margaret blinked. Had she actually overheard this conversation, or was her excellent imagination playing games with her? Her father had wanted to keep her safe, even though the sight of her had caused him pain. It must have gotten worse as she grew into womanhood, for she knew now that she had a strong resemblance to her mother, Thyra. How relieved he must have been when she left for University. The Senator must have thought she would be safe there. How could he have known that her work, so tame and simple, would eventually lead her back to the place which was more dangerous to her than any known disease. Well, he couldn’t have, unless he could see into the future, and no one could do that. Or
could
they?
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.”