Exile's Song (48 page)

They tuned their instruments, a
ryll
and a plucked object that seemed an uneasy hybrid of harp and guitar, and began to sing. Several of the songs were now familiar to Margaret, but others were not, and she was sorry she had not brought her recording equipment down with her. Then she realized how shocking it would have been if she had, and smiled a little to herself. She might be an heiress, but she would never break the scholarly habits she had acquired during her time at University.

They began another song, and Margaret listened, while gooseflesh formed along her arms.

“How came this blood on your right hand, Brother, tell me, tell me . . .” She had sung it herself, on her first full day on Darkover, rousing it from the haunted
ryll
that had once belonged to the mother she had never really known. She had not thought much about Thyra since she had left Castle Ardais, and she found the listening very uncomfortable.

“That is hardly a good song to sing before brothers and sisters,”
Dom
Gabriel growled, but it was clear he was glad to have something to relieve his growing frustrations on. “It is not a fortunate tune.”

“We are not superstitious here, Father,” Liriel answered. “At least, I am not, and Ariel has left the room.”
The ninny starts at falling leaves.

One of the sisters gave a shrug, and the brother said, “We will sing another song if you wish it,
vai dom.
”

Margaret looked at Liriel. “I’ve heard the song before—sung it, actually. Is there some story attached to it?” Her scholarly instincts were aroused and she ignored the look she got from Javanne for her question.

Liriel Lanart laughed, a healthy belly laugh, and said, “It tells of a family curse, here in the Kilghard Hills. Some say it is unlucky for a sister to sing it in the hearing of a brother. We have many superstitions in the mountains. But where did you learn it? They do not sing it at Ardais, for certain.”

Margaret frowned. “When I was in the house of Master Everard in Music Street, he showed me an old
ryll
he said no one could play. It is a beautiful instrument, made by a famous luthier, according to him, and I picked it up . . . with my usual curiosity. The song just came out, as if it had been left on the strings by the last person to use it.” She hesitated for a moment. “Later I found out that the
ryll
had belonged to Thyra Darriell, my mother.”

Dom Gabriel scowled and Javanne glared, while Jeff looked thoughtful. A dreadful silence spread through the audience.

“I will sing a song even more forbidden,” Mikhail said, standing up and rushing into the stillness. “Wars have been fought on Darkover for less than this, but I am not superstitious.”

He took a breath, squared his shoulders, and started to sing.

He had a good voice, untrained but strong and deep, and Margaret was grateful to him for distracting everyone from the mention of her mother. It was clear from Javanne’s expression that this was not to be talked about! That was fine with Margaret, because she had no wish to discuss Thyra either. Why had she mentioned the haunted
ryll
at all?

Liriel chuckled. “You are behind the times, brother. That is not forbidden, just in terrible taste. I learned that song myself, within the walls of Arilinn when I trained there.” She glanced at Jeff. “I suppose you did also, cousin.”

“Of course! We have begun to learn to laugh at ourselves, and that is a very healthy thing.”

“Did your father ever sing that one for you, Marguerida? He is remembered at Arilinn as one of the best technicians ever, as I know to my regret.” Liriel made a face. “It is very depressing always to be compared to someone you never even knew.”

“No, not a note. The Senator was too busy with his duties to tell me anything,” she said, dissembling slightly. As for Arilinn Tower, or any other, the very thought of them gave her the creeps after her adventure in the Tower of Mirrors. “In fact I never knew he was trained in a Tower until recently.”
He failed to inform me on a number of matters, and I am looking forward to taking him to task—soon, I hope!

“He never told you . . .” Liriel looked shocked and angered, much as Istvana Ridenow had. “Do you mean to tell me you have been walking around for all these years with the Alton Gift, with
laran
almost dribbling out your ears, if I may be so blunt, and . . .”

“I don’t mean to tell you anything,” Margaret snapped. It was
her
business to criticize Lew Alton, not that of people who had never even met him! This reaction surprised her, because Margaret had not known until that moment that in spite of rejection and abandonment, in spite of everything, she had a deep, abiding loyalty to her father. If only she had the affection to go with it, she thought, she might be completely content.

“Forgive me, cousin. I have the Alton lack of tact,” Liriel said, and Margaret knew she was sincere. She liked Liriel more for being able to admit a fault, and decided that tact was largely absent at Armida, that a stiff politeness was used because everyone was both volatile and blunt to a fault. Both
Dom
Gabriel and Javanne looked to be the sort of people who spoke their minds, no matter whose feelings got injured.

“It is a little close in here, isn’t it,” Javanne announced suddenly, as if she wanted to steer the subject away from Lew Alton quickly. “You look a trifle warm, Marja. Rafael, why don’t you show your cousin the fragrance garden?”

This suggestion was met with a sullen look from the middle son, and a twinkling glance from Mikhail. “Of course, Mother. You may need a wrap—it is quite cool outside.”

Margaret rose so quickly there was no time for Jeff to help her with her chair. “That sounds delightful.” She wanted to get out of the room, with or without a shawl. Rafaella grinned at her, and Margaret nodded back. She could depend on Rafaella to keep her in a good mood.

A servant produced a finely-embroidered wrap, and Rafael took her down a hall and out into the clouded night. There was the smell of rain yet unfallen in the air, and then a scent that almost overpowered the senses.

“I am so used to seeing the stars,” she said in the darkness, aware of her cousin’s nearness, “that I do not know if I could ever get used to so many clouds all the time.”

“I’ve heard Terranan say that before. What shall I call you—cousin or Marguerida, or Marja?”

“Anything you wish, but I think I am rather too old for Marja. Cousin seems safe, doesn’t it.”

“Very well.” He seemed at some loss for words.

“What is that ravishing smell?” Margaret drew the shawl around her.

“This is Mother’s fragrance garden. Many years ago, before the Terranan came to Darkover, there was a Keeper at Arilinn who was blind. She made herself a garden of all sweet-smelling things, both those which smell by day and by night, for it was always night for Fiora, and Mother liked it so much, when she was training there, that she made one for herself.”

“It is very wonderful.” The clouds parted, and one of the moons gleamed. “I would like to see all four moons in the sky at once.” Some faint memory rose in her mind, and she could hear her father and Dio laughing about things which happened beneath four moons. From her present adult perspective, the tone of their words was so clearly sexual that she knew that she had probably said something regrettable. To conceal her discomfort she continued, “I suppose it is a rare astronomical occurrence.”

“Yes.” He shifted his weight back and forth. “We on Darkover do not talk about it . . . damn! We didn’t come out here to talk about the weather or the moons or if the rain will hurt the grain crop!”

“Yes, I know.” Margaret sensed his discomfort, but could not think of any way to lessen it.

Rafael took a long breath and exhaled mightily, like a man under a heavy burden. “Mother isn’t very subtle, is she?”

“No. But I would have thought . . .”

“Cousin, I am unmarried and healthy,” Rafael interrupted, as if he had to keep talking. “Therefore I am free, and I would count it a great honor if you would reunite the branches of our family by marrying me.”

Margaret stared at him. “You cannot mean that,” she said. “We never set eyes on each other till this afternoon.”

“On Darkover that is not important. Mother and Father married the day after they met. It would be a good thing and . . .” His voice faltered.

Margaret said forthrightly, “I wouldn’t even think of marrying you. I don’t care what the customs are. Marriage is too important a decision to be made by people other than the ones who are going to get married.”
And the way your parents mistreat doors does not speak well for not meeting until the day before the wedding!

No, it doesn’t!
Rafael laughed, a little uneasily and said, “Thank you very much. I did promise my mother I would try. I don’t think it would be so terrible, but you are . . . rather strongwilled, like my mother, and I suspect that would not suit me. Can we be friends?”

“Your mother is a very interfering woman,” Margaret answered severely, liking Rafael for his honesty, and resenting her new aunt more by the second.

“Perhaps. She does her duty as she sees it. And she really does want to see the Altons one family again.”

“She will have to manage that without me. It is getting cold. Let’s go back in—or do you want to escape without facing the music?”

“It doesn’t matter. One look at your face, and she will know you refused me.”

“Then I think I will go right to my room! I really don’t have the energy for another hour of watching my words, or my face!”

“As you wish, cousin.”

M
argaret woke at first light and rolled over in the huge bed. The soft, steady sound of Rafaella’s snoring from the trundle bed was a soothing, normal noise, and she rather wondered how she could sleep without it. That made her laugh silently. She could hardly take the Renunciate off Darkover. What a thought! She wondered how Rafaella would behave, and decided she was adaptable enough to cope with almost anything. How had they become so close, so quickly? She was not sure, but she certainly liked having a woman nearby she could trust, and felt safe with. Unlike her new relatives, who made her feel threatened despite their clearly good intentions. And, if by chance she actually became freemate to Captain Rafe Scott, then she would be Margaret’s aunt! That was too much, and she laughed aloud. She rather hoped they would, just so that she could enjoy the absurdity of the situation. At least they would be happy.

Margaret contrasted Rafaella with the Alton clan, and decided that the difference was that the Renunciate had no plans or ambitions for her. There was nothing she wanted from Margaret, and that made her safe. She found herself feeling mildly lost, and sternly told herself not to get into a mood.

She stared at the ceiling and noticed a large dark spot in one corner. It was moist, though not dripping. Evidently the leak which Liriel had spoken of had not been tended to. Margaret started to get slightly angry. Her uncle Gabriel was so busy minding other people’s business he had let Armida fall into disrepair. Her house! No, not her house—but she still felt a kind of attachment. How annoying! The vehemence of her thought startled her, and she exclaimed, “Damn!”

“Burrf? Huh? What?”

“Oh, Rafaella, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.

“No matter. My bladder would have gotten me up soon enough.” She pushed her covers away, got out of the trundle bed, and left the room. When she returned a few minutes later, Margaret was sitting on the side of the bed, trying to sort out her feelings. She wriggled her bare toes in the chilly morning air and coiled a strand of hair around one finger.

“Are you thinking or brooding,” Rafaella asked.

“Both, I suppose. Rafael asked me to marry him, while we were in the garden last night, and I expect that sometime today young Gabriel will do likewise.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him no, of course. What did you think I would say?”

“He wouldn’t be the worst husband in the world, and I thought maybe you would take him as the least of several evils.” Rafaella laughed. “Ever since you mentioned Rafe Scott, back at Ardais, I have been thinking that I could have a freemate, if I wanted one,” she went on.
And perhaps I do.
“I never really considered it until now. I don’t know if it would work. But you would have to marry
di catenas,
and I don’t know if you could abide that.”

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

“Did you notice that heavy bracelet that Javanne wears? And the one that Lady Ariel has?”

“I did notice Javanne’s, but not Ariel’s. Why?”

“That was placed on her arm when she married
Dom
Gabriel, and it will never be removed, not even in death. He wears one, too, but it is smaller, and you don’t notice it, because on men it is usually hidden by their sleeves.
Di catenas
is forever, and it is how the Comyn marry. It means a woman belongs to a man, not to herself.”