Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley
crow raised its proud head and gave a sharp call.
At that moment, the door of the carriage opened, and Lady Javanne Hastur descended
onto the cobbles. She turned, saw Margaret holding the crow on her arm, and her eyes
grew enormous. "What are you doing with that bird?" she almost shouted. Then she
advanced across the cobblestones, ignoring everything. "Shoo, shoo," she said, when
she was a little closer, flapping her arm in a very silly way.
"Greetings, Aunt Javanne." Margaret could barely contain her laughter. Behind her she
was aware that the men and Rafaella were in grave danger of disgracing themselves by
giggling at Lady Javanne.
"Where did you get that animal!"
"It just landed on my shoulder, Aunt. And, if I am not mistaken, it is Mikhail's bird.
There is no need to get . . . your feathers ruffled."
This was too much for young Remy, and he clapped a broad hand 'across his mouth
and made a" noise that might
have been coughing if one did not listen too closely. The
crow looked down at Lady Javanne, made a sound that was
indecipherable, then lifted away in a flare of great wings,
the white along the edges flashing in the torchlight of the
stableyard. -
"I might have known," Javanne muttered darkly. Then she turned and went back to the
carriage without really acknowledging her niece. Piedro Alar was helping Ariel, out of
the vehicle, and now Margaret could hear the voices of the children, eager to get out of
confinement. A nurse, holding Kennard and little Lewis in her arms, managed to get
down the steps of the carriage, and Donal and Damon Alar clambered out after her.
"Cousin Marguerida!" Donal, always irrepressible, trotted across to meet her, his
young face alight with pleasure. The dark hair that set him apart from his brothers had
fallen across his brow, and she thought he could have done with a haircut.
Margaret dismounted calmly. She stamped her feet, which seemed to have no
circulation in them at present, and felt full of pins and needle. Then Donal reached her,.
and she bent down to him. A fierce hug encircled her shoulders, and with it the rather
distinct smell of little boy, a warm, thick scent of healthy flesh and vigor. She returned
the hug, then held him away from her. "I do believe you have grown an inch since
summer, Donal. Have you been eating tall beans?"
"I never heard of those, but I would eat 'em if I could. I am almost as tall as Damon
now, and wearing his old clothes. But I am going to get a new tunic for Midwinter.
Father promised."
Mother is too busy with thinking of her new baby to notice my
clothes, and that my toes are too long for my boots!
Politely, Margaret ignored this thought. "How nice. Perhaps you would like to come
with me, when I go to see the tailors in Threadneedle Street. If it is all right with your
father."
"Oh, I am sure he would be glad to let you—he has a lot on his mind just now." In a
lower voice he added, "I've been practicing my Terran with Great-Uncle Jeff, and he
says I am getting the hang of it." He slipped his hand into hers trustingly, beaming at
her. She had questioned the
wisdom of her instruction a few times, but the little boy had been so bored at Arilinn,
and, in truth, it had given her something to do besides study matrix science. He clearly
thought she was a very fine person, for an adult, and she returned the sentiment. She
found the lad intelligent and charming—perhaps too much so for his own good.
As far as Margaret was concerned, Donal and his brothers were the real future of
Darkover, and she hoped that he would have the opportunity to learn to use his mind
for the good of the planet. With an overanxious mother and a gloomy father, she was
not at all certain that this would happen, and wished she could do something to help.
But her own position was still too ambiguous, too complicated, for her to suggest that
Donal might be well-served to be fostered by someone other than his parents, as was
the common practice on Darkover. It was not her place, not yet.
Holding Donal's hand, she crossed the yard, stepping around servants wrestling with
the luggage of the Hastur and Alar party. It struck her that she would like to foster this
little lad herself, even though she was sure her aunt and the boy's mother would not
like the idea at all. Ariel could barely stand to have any of her children out of her sight,
and had become even more possessive since Domenic's fatal accident.
Rounding the obstruction of the carriage, Margaret saw that her father was standing on
the steps leading from the stableyard. He was whistling under his breath, as he did
when he was bored. In the flickering light of the torches, he looked tired but relaxed
for a change.
Lew Alton saw her, and moved down the stairs, smiling his somewhat lopsided grin,
his eyes crinkling. They reached one another in something of a rush, and just stood in
silent greeting. Her heart felt gladdened by the sight of him, and if she was
disappointed that Mikhail was not also present, it was only a small sorrow.
"Chiya!"
He put his single hand on her shoulder and she could feel him squeeze his
fingers into the cloth of her garment, putting into that gesture and the single word all
the cherishing that she had longed for as a child.
You look wonderful, considering that
you have just ridden such a long way. I am glad to see you.
And I am glad to see you too, Father. If I do not sit on a' horse for a tenday, I will be
very happy. Dorilys is a splendid mount, but even the finest horse wears thin after a
time.
"Hullo, Old Man." She spoke to ease the rush of emotions that threatened to undo
her. "You are looking well."
"Hullo, Uncle Lew," Donal piped up, grinning. "Cousin Marguerida is going to take
me to see the tailors, so I can have a new tunic for Midwinter. I want a blue one!"
"Is she, indeed. Well, blue would suit you well enough, I suppose." He smiled at the
little boy. "How was the journey, daughter?"
"Hasty and quite uneventful, thank you. No lost horseshoes, broken cinches, bandits,
snow storms, or anything worth talking about."
"Let's get inside." Lew slipped his arm through Marguerida's, then offered his only
hand to Donal, who took it, puffing up his small chest as if aware of the honor he was
receiving. They climbed the stairs, allowing for Donal's shorter legs, in quiet harmony,
and entered the vestibule that led into the castle itself.
Within, there was near chaos, for it seemed that Lady Marilla and Dyan Ardais had
also just arrived, and there were servants and baggage all over the small chamber.
Behind them, the Alar luggage was being brought in, with grumbles and shouts.
Margaret, suddenly conscious of her position as part of Darkovan society, left her
father's side, and went to greet Lady Marilla Aillaird and
Dom
Dyan. It was the proper
thing to do, and she was "genuinely glad to see them. The little woman brightened
when she saw her, left off harassing the servants, who were quite capable of ordering
themselves, and embraced her in a scented clasp. "Neskaya seems to agree with you,
and Isty has given me good reports of your progress."
"I am glad to hear that, for my own sense of the thing is that for every step forward I
take, I take another two, or even three, to the rear. You are looking well. How is your
expansion of the kilns faring? Everyone at the Tower enjoys the new dishes you sent.
We eat off them every day, and I always think of you, and that first meal I ate at your
table." She was babbling and she knew it, out of weariness and her own relief at having
finally arrived.
Suddenly, Margaret sensed tension in the crowded entry and looked around, trying to
determine its origin. All she saw was a fresh phalanx of servants hauling Lady
Javanne's impressive pile of luggage, and Piedro Alar hovering over Ariel with his
usual harried expression. Ariel was not, for once, looking daggers at her, and Javanne
was too busy ordering the servants. It must be her imagination.
Pregnancy agreed with Mikhail's younger sister, for although she was near her term
and ungainly, her color was good, and she had not gained too much weight. Even her
usually dull hair had more luster. She said something to Piedro as Margaret watched,
and they started to pick their way through the throng, toward the stairs which led to the
floor above. This seemed a very sensible course to Margaret, and she decided to follow
it.
Turning toward the staircase herself, Margaret drew off her riding gloves and tucked
them into her belt. The blue silk mitts that she wore beneath them were a little travel-
stained, and she curled her nose in resigned disgust. Then she loosened the clasp at the
throat of her cloak, and breathed a sigh of relief.
She stepped around a trunk with the feathers of the Ail-lard Domain painted on its side
and glanced up into the shadows of the stairs. Margaret had the momentary impression
that there was a mirror on the staircase, and that she was being reflected in it. She had
outgrown some of her lifelong terror of looking glasses during the past few months,
but still found the sight of her own features a little disconcerting! Then, with a slight
start, she realized it was not her own face, just one similar enough to resemble her in
the shadow of the staircase.
And behind the figure of the woman who looked rather like her, Margaret saw Mikhail
Hastur, an expression of rage distorting his handsome features. In an instant she knew
that the tension she had felt must be his. He seemed to be trying to free himself from
the grasp of the woman, for she had his hand clutched firmly in her own. He looked
ready to commit murder. The expression on the face of the unknown woman was not
pleasant either. Her heart sank. This was nothing like the meeting which she had spent
most
of the day imagining. Then she steeled herself to show no emotion, to keep herself
remote and distant from everyone, as she had done all her life. For the first time, she
was almost glad that Ashara's overshadowing had trained her to be aloof and reveal
nothing of her feelings.
Lew, aware of her agitation despite her efforts to conceal it, moved across the room in
her direction. He reached her side just as Mikhail and the woman got to the bottom of
the stairs, and stood shoulder to shoulder with her. Mikhail dragged his hand away
from the grasp of the stranger, his handsome face brightening as he glanced at
Margaret. He looked harried, but there was no doubt that he was glad to see her.
Marguerida!
Mikhail
—
who is that woman! And why is she clinging to you like a limpet?
Later, my darling, later.
He did not greet her—or stop. Instead, he moved across the entry toward his mother
and bowed deeply. Javanne did not respond at once, her sharp eyes sweeping the room
with a quick glance, taking in all the unspoken tensions. They narrowed slightly when
they fell on the unknown woman. Then she exhibited one of her more feral smiles.
"Mikhail! How kind of you to come to greet me!" She extended one hand and swept
the curls off his brow in a motherly caress that would have fooled anyone who did not
know how things really stood between them.
Bravo, Javanne! She always knows how to make the best of a situation, when she sets
her mind to it.
Lew's thought rang through Margaret's mind, and she found she agreed. She might not
like her aunt, but she had to admit the woman had style and presence. Nothing put her
out of countenance in public. It was, Margaret decided, a useful skill, and one she
needed to cultivate.
Who is that woman clinging to Mik's arm like a Thetan
bloodworm?
That, I regret to say, is our cousin, Gisela Aldaran.
.
She has been in residence for
some time now, much to the displeasure of Lady Linnea, who fears she is harboring a
cuckoo in her nest.
Aldaran? So that is what . . . I didn't. . . what happens if I tell the bitch to take her
hands off Mik?
Now, daughter! There is no need to come to a vulgar
pulling of hair . . •. yet. You can see how little her attentions please him.
I don't care! What the hell is going on?*
Let us just say that she nurses certain ambitions that will not be fulfilled, shall we?
Yes, I know you do not like it. You do not have to like it, Marguerida. All you need do is
endure it for the present.
Very well, Father, because you ask it. I will try not to embarrass you with my bad
manners. But I don't know if I can be polite to her.
Marguerida, you cannot embarrass me. And I do not expect you to be polite, merely
civil. Think of how Dio would handle the situation.
You mean I can look down my nose, as if something smelted bad, so long as I pretend
to be pleased.