Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley
with
Jeff this morning, had my second breakfast, and was just going to go over to the
scriptorium to see how the work is progressing on those records that Haydn Lindir
found, when, bang, my brain was being attacked by skewers. So I sat down in the
fragrance garden, thinking that I just needed to get some sun and relax, and it got
worse and worse.
I see. Well, for the moment, I cannot find anything amiss.
It might not have anything to do with Arilinn, I suppose. I mean, Mikhail could have
fallen down a cliff and broken his neck.
Stop that right this minute! I will put up with that sort of thing from my sister, since she
has such a vivid imagination, and no self-control whatever! I expect better of you!
-Yes, Liriel.
Margaret's response was almost meek. She accepted criticism from her
cousin as she did from no one else, not even her father.
There, that is better. If anything had happened to my brother, you would know it, and
there would be no uncertainty whatever.
You are probably right. I do wish that my father and yours were not being such
stubborn idiots.
Wish yourself to the moon and it will be easier,
chiya.
They are men, after all, and men
always insist on being right, even when they are quite wrong. The person I feel most
sorry for is Uncle Regis, caught in between the two of them, and the members of the
Cortes who have to listen to their argument.
Do you think they will ever straighten things out between them
—
at least to the point
where
Dom
Gabriel will let me
...
Well, if you gave up the Alton Domain to Father, he might see his way clear to stop
behaving like a dolt, but I think he is almost enjoying trying to best your father at
something. I believe he has stopped thinking of you or Mik or anyone except himself
and his injured dignity.
Id do it in a second except the Old Man would not like it, and he has enough on his
plate, worrying about Dio. Why do things have to be so complicated?
If I knew the answer to that, I would be the wisest woman on Darkover, and several
other planets as well, Marguerida. Have you eaten?
Oh, yes. I still don't believe how much I manage to eat
without gaining an ounce. Even though I know perfectly well that
laran
is powered by
body energy, it goes contrary to everything I know about diet!
I confess a little envy at your figure, Marguerida. And, I have observed, your shadow
matrix radiates continuously. It is a very interesting phenomenon
—
from a technical
point of view. It is also why your gloves wear out in a tenday or so.
I know, and I wish someone could think of a better way for me to manage than to
always have to wear .these things. I feel very outré. Even wearing two, so I don't draw
attention to the left hand, still makes me self-conscious!
Oh, I don't know. Maeve Landyn was saying the other day that your mitts are rather
fetching, particularly since Master Esteban has started adding bits of embroidery.
I feel like a freak, and I hate it.
I know you do,
chiya,
and you should not. Now, go get some tea or something. Or get
Dorilys from the stables and go for a ride. That always makes you feel better.
All right, but it won't be the same without Mikhail.
Margaret knew that Liriel was right, that she needed some exercise. And the little
pewter-colored mare that Mikhail had given her, as a way of making her stay at Arilinn
less unpalatable, was a delight. She had fallen in love with the horse the first time she
had seen her, running in the front paddock at Armida, months before. She was a
spirited filly, with dark mane and tail, almost silvery hooves, and a coat like polished
metal.
Learning matrix technology was exhausting, and the rides were revitalizing. The fresh
air and sunshine never failed to restore her innate humor, and Margaret knew she had
been neglecting herself the past few days.
But since Mikhail had gone, in a parting that was difficult for both of them, she had
barely gone out to the stables to visit her horse. She knew that Dorilys would be taken
care of by the grooms, that she would be exercised and curried and fed. But the little
mare reminded her of Mikhail, and her heart was not really in it as she left her house,
having changed into her riding skirt and put leather gloves on over silken ones, and
walked toward the stable.
The headache had abated a little, but it was still sufficiently present to be noticeable,
like distant thunder which is more felt than heard. Margaret yawned, trying to relax
her jaw, and entered the shadowed interior of the barn. It smelled of clean straw,
spattered water, and manure—a combination she found pleasant and somehow
comforting. One of the grooms saw her and met her with a big grin.
"Domna!
Dorilys is going to be pleased to see you. You haven't been absent for this
long since you were sick."
"You should be scolding me for neglecting my pretty girl, Martin."
"Why,
domna,
I would never do such a thing. It isn't my place, and I am sure you have
been busy at your studies up at the Tower."
Margaret gave up. She was never, she suspected, going to be completely comfortable
with being deferred to, treated as if she were someone special. She had spent too many
years being Ivor Davidson's assistant, taking charge of luggage and travel itineraries,
dealing with petty bureaucrats and customs agents with larcenous hearts, or coping
with academic rivalry and jealousy, to turn into a
comynara
overnight. No matter how
she was treated, she still felt she was only Margaret Alton, Fellow of the University,
not Marguerida Alton, heiress to a Darkovan Domain, a noble in almost any Terran
hierarchy she could think of.
It was a little disheartening, knowing that with the best intentions in the world, she was
probably never going to be able to behave in a manner that would please her
formidable aunt Javanne Lanart-Hastur, or other matrons of her generation. She
remained too independent, too headstrong, and lacked either the will or the capacity to
defer to males or pretend to be stupid and meek. Within the confines of Darkovan
society, she was an outsider and seemed likely to remain so, no matter how hard she
tried.
Since she could not change her character, however, Margaret decided that she would
just have to make the best of things, and go for a nice ride on a fine autumn day. It was
almost fifty degrees, and the wind was only a cool draft, smelling of leaves being
burned for potash, and the drifting scent of bread from the Arilinn bakery.
Martin brought Dorilys, saddled and almost dancing, across the cobblestones to the
mounting block. Behind him another groom had a comfortable cob, and she realized
with a start that Martin intended to accompany her. It would do no good to ask him not
to—she was a female,
and females, unless they were Renunciates, did not go for horseback rides alone. He
would not understand, and, worse, he would be hurt. She knew that she was altogether
too sensitive, and that she could be manipulated by Martin or any other servant, so she
shrugged, stepped onto the mounting block, and threw her leg over into the saddle.
Dorilys threw her head back, and half-reared, expressing her delight at having
Margaret around. The little filly did not seem to mind the grooms riding her, but she
always made it clear who her preferred rider was. She began to dance around,
impatient to be out and about. Slapping the reins lightly against the satiny neck of the
horse, Margaret started out of the stableyard, with Martin following her.
Arilinn Tower stood on a plain that ran down to the river, so there was a great deal of
flat ground. Much of it was covered with trees—similar to maples, elms, quickbeam,
and other hardwoods—not the conifers so typical of the lands farther north. But there
were several open areas which afforded a good ride.
There were fields around the little town near the Tower, but they were empty now, the
harvest over, The stands of trees around the fields were ablaze with autumn color: red,
orange, russet, and gold. The soft breeze brought the smell of leaves and fallow earth
to her face, accompanied by the pleasant scent of burning foliage. There was a small
enclave of charcoal makers nearby, and she knew they were busy at their work.
Margaret had discovered, much to her own surprise, that the quiet rhythm of the
agricultural year was very soothing. She loved to escape from the confines of the
Tower, to be away from the tremendous energy of the place, and ride among the fields.
She had watched the farmers tend those fields, then seen them bring in the grain. She
had been to the mill along the River Valeron where the grain was ground for flour. A
little to the west of the mill there was a lumber operation, and beyond it a settlement of
dyers who used the waters of the great river in their work. -She let Dorilys move into a
moderate trot, longing to give her her head and run, but aware that Martin's cob would
be left eating dust if she did. Margaret fell into the steady rhythm of the horse, and
slowly the persistent headache began to fade. The ruddy sun warmed her face
slightly; she had become accustomed to the relative cold of Darkover.
After about twenty minutes, they reached the banks of the river. It was running softly,
the water gurgling between the rocks along the shore. There were stands of bulrushes,
dried now, rustling in the breeze and making a pleasant sound that was almost musical.
She turned west, her heart brimming, thinking of Mikhail riding somewhere ahead of
her, beyond the horizon. What was he seeing, she wondered, and what was he thinking.
Margaret slowed to a walk, for the banks of the river were irregular and not the best
place for a horse. Martin rode silently behind her, the steady sound of his cob's hooves
a reassuring note in the music she felt was all around her. It seemed a vast symphony
to her trained ears and mind, and for the first time she wondered why that form did not
seem to be present on Darkover. Darkovans sang at the drop of a hat, and very well
indeed, but as far as she had been able to discover, they had never gotten around to
creating large orchestral works. She made a mental note to ask Master Everard when
she was back in Thendara.
The thought of the old Guildmaster brought back the memory of Ivor Davidson, her
mentor and friend, who had died soon after their arrival on Darkover. She missed him,
but her first grief had lessened, and she could now recall him without great pain. If
Ivor had not died, she would never have ended up in the Kilghards with only Rafaella
n'ha Liriel, her Renunciate guide and friend, when she began to have her first bout of
threshold sickness. How would Ivor have managed, she wondered? She had never been
sick during all the years they journeyed around the Federation together, collecting and
studying indigenous music, unless one counted the occasional cold. For all the
excellence of their technology, Terrans had never managed to conquer the common
cold, and she didn't think they ever would.
The tension in her body was easing as she idly watched trees and running water,
allowing her mind to wander where it would. What a good idea Liriel had had,
suggesting a ride. How clever site was. As was so often the case when she thought of
her cousin, Margaret smiled. Liriel and her brother Mikhail almost made up for having
to endure
the rest of the Alton clan—Aunt Javanne and Uncle Gabriel, their older sons, Gabe and
Rafael, and Liriel's twin, Ariel. Almost. Ariel still made Margaret cringe, with her
constant fussing and worrying. The woman was halfway through her pregnancy now,
with a sixth child conceived about the time Margaret had arrived on Darkover, the
daughter she had longed for.
The smile faded. Every time she thought about that yet unborn child, Margaret got a
terrible sinking feeling in her stomach, a sense of danger. That girl was going to be
trouble. What a terrible thing to think about a child not yet born! It was the sort of
premonition that made her curse the fact that she had some of the Aldaran Gift of
foretelling, and hope, against all her feelings, that she was totally wrong.
Then, in between one breath and the next, Margaret experienced a bleakness, a sharp
pang of loss. She jerked the reins
m
her surprise, and Dorilys whinnied in complaint.
She drew to a halt, and Martin rode up beside her, looking concerned.
"What is it,
domna?"
"I
don't know. I felt as if a shadow had crossed the sun. I think we should go back
now." She sighed. It was such a beautiful day, and she had been enjoying herself. She