Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley
are here at last."
"Hello, Istvana. If I had known how cold it was going to be up here, I might have
stayed at Arilinn. . . . Well, no, I wouldn't, even then."
"It was difficult for you, wasn't it?" The little
leronis,
who barely came up to
Margaret's shoulder, gave her a gentle pat on the arm. "I was afraid it might be."
"Yes, it was hard." She felt an enormous relief to be able to admit it to her stepmother's
kinswoman, for she liked and trusted the petite empath enormously. "I ex-
pected to be in something like my first year at University, but instead it was . . . hostile.
I tried to fit in, but I could feel some of the people resenting me all the time. I did make
a few friends, but not with the Tower folk. The Archivist, Hiram, and Benjamin in the
scriptorium were friendly enough, because they realized I was a scholar. And while
Mikhail was still there, it was not so bad. But after he left, and Domenic died, poor
boy, it was intolerable. I felt like I was being stabbed at every second, and I hated the
feeling of the matrices around me. And I don't know that I will be any more
comfortable here than I was there, because the energy of the relays does things to my
body that I don't even want to think about, let alone describe to you."
Istvana chuckled and led Margaret into the lowest floor of the Tower. They entered a
large room, clearly a common room for the inhabitants of Neskaya, set about with
com-" fortable couches and chairs. There was a guitar standing in one corner. She saw
a mug left on a small table, and an empty plate. It was, she decided, untidy, but in a
pleasant way. Cozy—that was the word. Rafaella had used it, and she was right. The
rug on the floor was worn and a bit dusty, and—though she knew she was on another
world— the whole scene reminded her of the living room at Ivor Davidson's house.
"I appreciate your tact, Marguerida, and I know you are trying to spare my feelings,
but I am a much tougher old bird than you might think. Don't forget, I trained at
Arilinn myself, so I know how it can be."
"You mean it wasn't me?" She felt amazed.
"It was you, to be sure, because you are very powerful, but it was not personal."
"Now I am totally confused."
"We are not angels,
chiya.
We are still subject to envy, fear, suspicion, and all the other
unlovely flaws of humankind. And what I remember from my youth at Arilinn was that
many of us, the younger ones, were always vying for praise and power, snapping at
each other like marls fighting over some tidbit. I have tried to prevent such things here,
because it disrupts the work, not to mention rubbing me quite the wrong way. But
every time a new candidate arrives, a kind of wary examination occurs. They all look
at the new one and think, 'Is this one stronger than I am?' To tell you the honest truth, it
sometimes astonishes me not that a circle works as well as it does, but that it can
function at all! Each time is something of a miracle, because I know how great the
struggle is to set aside the ego and submit to the needs of the group—particularly if
you have no love for any one of the members of a circle."
"I wish someone had explained this to me at Arilinn—it might have made things
easier."
Istvana shook her head, causing her small red veil to tremble against her faded yellow
hair. "It does no good to explain such things to an adolescent—we are all so self-
absorbed at that age—and the training itself usually eases the situation. Working with
someone every day, trusting them, rubs the self away, at least enough to create a circle,
and once one has worked in a circle, and found the satisfaction of it, it becomes second
nature, I suppose. One thing that your appearance on Darkover has done is cause us to
reexamine our methods a little, and that is good."
"Were you very self-centered when you went to Arilinn?" Margaret was close to
Istvana, because the woman had nursed her through her first and most dramatic bout of
threshold sickness, intimate with her in something of the same way she had been with
her late mentor, Ivor Davidson. But, for all of that, she knew almost nothing of
Istvana's history or past.
"Absolutely. I was a skinny, spotty little thing with a very high opinion of herself one
day, and just another telepath the next. The shock was enormous, and I didn't like it,
because I am very proud, you see. And headstrong. I think my parents were quite
relieved to have me gone from home, because I was always into some wickedness or
another." She chuckled at the memory.
Margaret had a hard time imagining this assured and self-contained woman as a
teenager. "I see. Well, I am glad to be here and not there, truly."
"Are you hungry?"
To her surprise, Margaret found that she was. She had
lost her appetite after the bandit attack and had only eaten
because she knew she must. Food had tasted flat and stale,
and she had eaten mechanically and without pleasure.
"Yes, I am." .
'
"Good. I expect that after several days of trail food you will enjoy sitting at a table,
too."
"Yes, I will. But I'd like to bathe first, and get out of these clothes. I do not mind the
smell of horses, but I am pretty stinky, and I do not think anyone should have to endure
that at dinner."
Istvana showed her to a room on the next floor, a sleeping room, where her baggage
had already been left, and told her where the bathroom was. Then she left Margaret
alone for the first time in days, and she felt a great relief, despite the humming sense of
the relays above her.
As she unpacked her clothing, Margaret noticed that for some reason the presence of
the large matrices nearby was not as disturbing as it had been at Arilinn. Puzzled, she
stopped and looked around. Was there some sort of damper in the room?
Then she noticed that the walls and ceiling of the room were hung with great swathes
of silk, concealing the stones. It made the entire chamber look like a vid-dram harem,
and she chuckled. It was not the thin silk of the sort that her mitts were made of, but a
thicker textile, dyed the color of
kiriseth
liquor. She had been too distracted by her
parting from Rafaella and listening to Istvana's small revelations to pay attention to
this chamber. It was a very nice room, and someone had gone to a great deal of effort
and expense to make it comfortable for her. Even the quilt on the bed had a silken
covering.
Tears welled up in her eyes again, at the sense of being cared for. Great, racking sobs
rose in her throat, and she let herself weep until she had nothing left except a sense of
exhaustion. She caught a glimpse of herself in a small mirror on one wall, and saw a
red-eyed, puffy-nosed stranger. Her hair had escaped from its clasp behind her neck,
and her short bangs curled against her brow.
Margaret stuck out her tongue at the woman in the mirror, gathered her cleanest
garments, and headed for the bathing room. She was safe now, or as safe as she could
be, and the smell of something roasting rising from the lower floor spurred her into
action. Everything would be all right, she told herself. It
had
to be.
7
Margaret descended the staircase from the second floor to the first, feeling refreshed
from a long, hot soak in the tub, and warm for the first time in several days. The smell
of roasted meat made her mouth water, and she tried to swallow, but her throat seemed
constricted. Her winter chemise was drawn close beneath the dark green wool tunic
and it felt more like a noose than the soft textile it was. Below her waist, three
petticoats and a heavy skirt moved against her ankles on the narrow stairs, causing her
to proceed with care.
She was tense at the prospect of meeting new people, and even though she knew the
reason, it did not seem to help. Margaret had tried all her life to get beyond her innate
shyness, her anxiety at meeting new people. But each time she did, it was the same—
dry mouth, perspiration, and just a hint of headache. She was wary, not only of
strangers, but of those she already knew. It was an uncomfortable feeling and since she
was in the company of telepaths, one that would be difficult to conceal. At least when
she was at the University, no one could sense her emotions.
The common room of Neskaya Tower seemed crowded at first glance, then sorted
itself out into seven people, including Istvana Ridenow. Most had the red hair that so
often appeared in those with
laran,
but one woman had golden tresses, tightly braided
down her back, and there was a man with dark locks above eyes like blue ice. The
company was clearly waiting for her, and Margaret took a deep breath.
Istvana stood up, her red robe shifting across her slender body. "Marguerida! You look
much better now. Come and meet my people." My people. There was no mistaking the
pride in her voice at the mention of her colleagues, and
Margaret could also feel her emotions. They were friendly, cheerful, and so welcoming
that some of her fears began to fade.
More, it was a complete contrast to her first day at Arilinn. There she had been greeted
by a dozen adolescents, steel-eyed and suspicious, and
Mestra
Camilla. There had been
no sense of welcome, no overt friendliness. She had been with Regis' two daughters,
Cassandra and Lina, who came to the Tower with her, and all of them were met with
the same stiff silence. They had been introduced perfunctorily, and then sat down at a
long table for a silent meal. Surrounded by youngsters, who in age might almost have
been her own children, with Camilla the only other adult in the room, Margaret had
ended up feeling more lonely and estranged than she could have imagined possible.
She had wanted to stand up and walk out of the room, and had had to force herself to
remain in her chair, and pass plates of food down the long board.
"I feel better, thank you." After another quick glance, she discovered that there were no
real youngsters in the room. With no hard-eyed adolescents judging her, her belly's
tension uncoiled. It was not that she disliked the young, for she had become quite close
to Donal Alar, and his older brother Damon during her stay at Arilinn. But she found
they intimidated her more than a little.
"Jose, will you get Marguerida some wine? Now, let me see. I shall begin with our
youngest, I think." Istvana flashed a brilliant smile, as if some society hostess
determined to make her party go well. "Marguerida, this is Bernice Storn, who has
only been with us a year."
A small woman with hair like fire and dark brown eyes rose and made a little bow. She
looked to be about seventeen, and she reminded Margaret of someone else. It was the
way her facial bones were set, and after a moment she realized that Bernice resembled
Regis Hastur's consort, Lady Linnea. "Welcome to Neskaya," the girl said in a soft
voice, just above a whisper.
"I am very glad to be here," Margaret answered, reflecting that the girl seemed quite
timid, almost mouselike. The man Istvana had called Jose handed her a small glass full
of golden wine, and gave her a quick grin.
"I am Jose Reyes. Istvana has been on pins and needles
awaiting your arrival, so I am glad you have finally gotten here." He was as tall as
Margaret, and very handsome, with his dark hair. But his pale eyes were disturbing,
even as they gazed past her face, to avoid direct contact. She could sense his curiosity
about her, but nothing else.
"Thank you for the wine."
"Pins and needles—nonsense!" Istvana sounded faintly indignant. "I hope I am better
disciplined than that."
One of the women laughed. "If you had been less so, you would have driven all of us
quite mad. I am Caitlin Leynier, one of the technicians here, and your kinswoman at
one remove or another."
"Leynier? I do seem to recall that name from the mists of the Alton past—which I
confess still confounds me, although I have tried valiantly to memorize the family tree.
It is nice to meet a relation." She liked Caitlin immediately. There was something
about her that was clear and pure, like spring water.
"Well, it is six or seven generations back, and hardly counts now. I am sure you have
already found that you are connected to more people than you ever imagined possible,
for Istvana has told us that you spent most of your life off Darkover, dashing from
planet to planet. Is that true?"
"One does not dash—I only wish that were possible. Travel on the Big Ships is
cramped, uncomfortable, and extremely boring—so that you are very glad to make
landing and almost kiss the ground when you get to where you are going."
"I see." Caitlin flashed a generous grin, and her green eyes twinkled. "I had quite
another impression from reading a book of my brother's. It all sounded very exciting to
me. When I was young, of course." Since she appeared to be no older than Margaret,