Mikhail reined his horse in beside her, with Rafaella on her other side. “Greetings, cousin. How nice to see you again so soon. And to you, Mestra Rafaella. I trust your cold is improved.”
“And greetings to you,” she answered, enjoying the game immensely. “Somehow, I had the impression you were being an obedient son and were on your way back to Castle Ardais.”
“One must never judge by appearances.” He forced his merry face into an attitude of seriousness that fooled no one. “If I gave Mother the mistaken impression I was returning to Ardais as she directed me to, then she was deceived. I feel perfectly dreadful for deceiving her, as well I should.” He did not look at all ashamed, but appeared to be enjoying himself enormously. He stroked his horse’s neck and the broad grin came back.
Jeff and Lew had noticed the new arrival, and dropped back to greet him. “She should know by now that you always do what you wish,” Jeff answered peacefully, as if Mikhail’s appearance was no surprise to him at all. “I would think, after all these years, that she would stop trying to bring you to a sense of your duties and just let you go your own way.”
“What a sad reflection on my character, Uncle Jeff, that I am undutiful and disobedient as well. Perhaps she will disown me, and I will have to learn to live by my wits or something.”
There is always mushroom farming to fall back on, I suppose!
Margaret was nearly overset by this last. She was glad that Mikhail had the strength to stand up to Javanne, even though she suspected it was going to cause trouble in the future. She knew it was not the first time he had done so, and she suspected he had always been much more independent than his family liked. She wondered where it came from, that ability to quietly rebel, and guessed it might be from his exposure to Terran ideas. No wonder his father and mother disapproved of him so much. How it must have chafed him to remain Dyan Ardais’ paxman, when he had been promised something more, without, it seemed losing either his curiosity or his sense of humor. She decided she approved of those qualities in her cousin, and wished she had more of them herself. Then she laughed at herself a little. Mikhail did not need her approval.
No, I don’t, but I rather bask in the glow of it anyhow.
Snoop!
No, you were broadcasting rather forcibly.
Damn! I am starting to feel like a comsat, sending out stuff whether I mean to or not.
For one who has had no training, Marguerida, you do quite well in keeping your thoughts to yourself. I think a few months in a Tower will show you how to control the Gift. I’m rather rusty, as I discovered while we were looking for that brat of Ariel’s, and I think I should go back and study
laran
a bit.
Rusty? I could feel you while we were working, and you seemed fine to me.
Using
laran
requires a lifetime’s study, Marguerida.
Oh, I hope not. I don’t want to spend my years locked up in a Tower!
What
do
you want?
This was the third time he had asked her that question, and Margaret mused over it once more. When she had been in her teens, she had only wanted to remove herself from the home where she felt unloved and unwanted. At the University she had tried journalism, thinking she wanted to be a writer of some sort, and discovered Ivor Davidson and music. She had chosen music, but she knew now she was never actually consumed by it, not with the passion that Ivor had felt for his work. It was just something she could do well, that she enjoyed doing, but only a job, not a calling.
Ashara’s interference with her mind had prevented her from wanting either a husband or a family, had forced her to be alone whether she wished it or not. Now that restriction was gone, and it had left a vacuum in her, an empty space where the forceful personality of the long-dead Keeper had held her captive. There had been too much else going on for her to think about what she might like to do with her life. And it was still very difficult to let anyone close, much as she longed for intimacy.
With a mild start Margaret realized that the cause of some of her antipathy toward her Aunt Javanne stemmed from her feelings toward Ashara. They were not at all alike, really, but they both thought they could control her and command her for their own ends. She realized she had very little tolerance for being dominated ever again. By anyone, even Mikhail.
For a moment, she felt she stood on a knife-edge. She could no longer deny her feelings for her cousin, could not pretend she merely liked him. Everyone, including his mother, was quite aware of her actual feelings for Mikhail. She knew she loved him, but did she love him enough to be subservient to him? Wasn’t that what would be expected of her, if she married him or any other Darkovan man? She had only just gotten free of Ashara, and she didn’t want another master in the place of the dead Keeper. Not even one as good as Mikhail.
I must remain on Darkover, I suppose, and study my Gift.
You don’t sound very thrilled at the prospect!
You have lived in a telepathic society your whole life, Mik, but for me it is a brand new thing, and not a wonderful one. I had my life planned out, until Ivor died. I was going to be his assistant, and in some foggy future, I would become a full Professor on my own, and just continue to do research. It is difficult for me to just drop all that and turn into a nice Darkovan girl who does what she is told!
I was not suggesting anything of the sort, and you know it! You are no better at being obedient than I am! What are you good at, besides music?
I suppose I excel at running away from things.
Taking the way of least resistance, you mean? I do that, too, you know. I never have pushed Uncle Regis to make a decision, because I was afraid of the outcome. I know he is waiting for young Dani to show whether he has the Hastur Gift or not. Shameful as it is, I confess I have occasionally wished that he doesn’t have it—terrible of me!
No, just very human. I guess I have this idea that telepaths ought to be some sort of supermen, and am rather disappointed that they are still totally human, full of passion for power and glory, just like anyone else.
I love it that you will say things no one else will, Marguerida!
What?
One of the features of living with other telepaths is a degree of repression—a kind of dishonesty in order to keep things from coming to blows.
Really? I would have thought that everyone would have to be totally honest, all the time, no matter what!
If that were the case,
he laughed in her mind,
then no one would be alive today, for we would have all killed each other off centuries ago. And we nearly did, too, with our passions. We don’t want to remember the Ages of Chaos because we behaved very badly a great deal of the time. It has only been through struggling with the problem that we have come up with ways to be who we are without destroying one another.
I see I have a great deal to learn—which does not exactly make my heart go faster with delight.
Margaret paused, reflecting, aware of Rafaella’s calm presence on her left. The Renunciate seemed lost in thought. Her father and Jeff had ridden ahead again, as if they wanted to leave her with some vestige of privacy, and she was grateful.
I suppose I would just like to do something meaningful, whatever that is.
Wouldn’t we all!
What?
Do you think waiting around for Regis to die, or being paxman to Dyan Ardais has been anything meaningful?
I hadn’t thought about it, but I guess it would be pretty empty.
That’s a good word for it. Not that I was ever conscious of feeling empty. I just went around being discontented and a real pain in the behind to the family.
You can say that again!
Jeff’s mental voice interrupted then, his thought full of friendly laughter.
Your sister, Liriel, was the fortunate one. She wanted to go to a Tower, and she did it—though not without a lot of fuss from Javanne. I have always thought it a shame that your mother was not a sufficiently powerful enough telepath to become a Keeper, for nothing less would have satisfied her ambitions.
Margaret was a little startled by Jeff’s intrusion, and felt mildly embarrassed at having a conversation with Mikhail that she had thought was private. Still, she hadn’t thought anything terrible, so she guessed it was all right. She didn’t think she would ever get used to telepathy, however, no matter how long she trained in a Tower.
Then she looked toward her father’s back, strong and straight, as he rode beside Jeff, and decided that if he could manage to be a telepath, so could she. As if he heard her, Lew turned on his horse and gave her such an encouraging smile that she had to work hard not to weep. Why couldn’t he have been like this, she thought angrily, when she was younger.
The travelers stopped at a little inn at midday. The innkeeper, a fat man in his fifties, greeted Lew Alton cheerfully, but with a kind of deference that made Margaret want to squirm. As she ate fresh bread and cheese and fruit, she wondered if she would ever be able to feel like an aristocrat, like a
comynara.
She had spent so much time in the relatively democratic environment of University—where deference was given on merit, not birthright—that she found all this forelock tugging more than a little distasteful. No doubt, in time, she would become accustomed to it, and even expect it, but she hoped she would not.
They continued their journey after lunch, and Margaret felt more relaxed the farther they got from Armida. Rafaella pointed out various features of interest along the way, but did not tire her with endless chatter, so Margaret was able to just enjoy the ride and think her own thoughts. It was the first time in days she had had any peace, and she reveled in it. Even Mikhail seemed to realize she needed quiet, and he kneed his horse ahead, until it caught up with the men. She looked at the three strong backs—at three generations of Darkovan men, and found herself experiencing pride in her birthright for the first time in her life.
After a time, Jeff dropped back and rode beside her. She could feel his gentle protection, and she smiled up at him. He added an occasional bit to Rafaella’s mention of the passing sights, and Margaret listened to the two of them exchanging versions of old stories. It seemed that every foot of Darkover had some history attached to it, and at any other time, she would have been fascinated. But the warmth of the day made her feel pleasantly unfocused, and she had a great deal to think about after her conversations with Mikhail. For once, her academic mind seemed to be taking a holiday.
Toward the end of the afternoon they came to a lake, vast and a little misty in the soft sunlight. It seemed odd that there should be mist on such a fine day, and she stood up in her stirrups to see it better. In the distance, Margaret could see a tall, white Tower gleaming, its stones uncolored by the sun. It looked very like the places she had seen in the overworld, except it seemed more solid and real than anything in that strange place.
“Is that Arilinn, Uncle Jeff? Where you live?” She pointed toward the building.
Jeff turned to her in surprise. “What?” He looked where she was pointing. “Marguerida, what do you see?”
“I see a Tower like the ones in the overworld. Is it Arilinn?”
“No,
chiya.
This is Lake Hali. In that direction stood the Hali Tower.”
“Oh. No one has mentioned that one before. No; wait—Istvana said that Ashara was Keeper at Hali Tower. Can’t you see it?” She could not keep from shuddering at the very mention of the name of her dead tormentor, and she felt her breath grow thin and tight.
He shook his head. “Hali Tower was destroyed, a thousand years ago or more, in a war during the Ages of Chaos. It was never rebuilt, though I don’t know why.”
“But I can see it, just as plain as my hand before my face.” Her voice was shrill, and her blood felt like ice. She wanted to turn away, but she was riveted. It was very beautiful, and it seemed to call to Margaret. But it was like a siren’s call, and terrified her to the bone.
“I am sure you can, but I assure you, there is nothing there except the ruins now. It is a sort of memorial of that war. You might call it a ghost of a Tower,” he added playfully, but Margaret could tell he was disturbed.
She was cold all over, despite the warm sunlight against her skin, and she shivered. She could see the Tower quite clearly, and it looked very real and solid and extremely ordinary. “What would happen if I went up and knocked on the door?”
Jeff looked at her for a long, shocked, silent moment. “I don’t know, and I don’t think I want to find out. That you are able to see Hali is troubling enough without you banging the knocker, Marguerida. I wouldn’t advise it.”
“But what would happen?” Beneath her glove, Margaret felt the traceries on her left hand begin to pulse, and she felt possessed by some demon of curiosity. No, it was more than that. It was almost a compulsion, and she wondered if, somehow, Ashara had set another trap for her.
“To my knowledge, other people have seen Hali from time to time, but no one has ever attempted to enter the ghost Tower, so I just don’t know what would happen.” Jeff looked worried, as if he thought that she just might dash over and try to enter the illusory building. “If you went in, we probably wouldn’t be able to follow you, Marguerida.”
“Uncle Jeff, you’re frightening me—you sound as if you’re talking about fairy tales or elf-mounds or something.” They continued to ride, and he did not respond to her comment immediately.
“That is not a bad analogy,” Jeff said slowly as he turned his horse away from Lake Hali and they continued down the trail. “I haven’t thought of elf-mounds in a long time—I loved the stories of them when I was a young man, back on Terra. The Kerwins were of old Irelandic stock, and my adopted father’s mother had a great store of tales—about Oisin and Fionn mac Cool and King Arthur, whom she insisted the British had stolen from the Irish. Called them ‘shee hills.’ It really takes me back.”