Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley
where Armida would be, if it existed yet, they came to a small crater that glowed even
in the pale daylight. It stank ferociously. He did not want to look into it, but he could
not help himself.
The bottom of the crater was fused and twisted glass. Around it were the shattered
remains of corpses and equipment. The distorted bones of the skeletons were burned
black. From the scattering of leaves and debris over the bones, he knew it was not a
very recent disaster—at least five years old and likely more. It was an appalling sight,
and he was glad his belly was almost empty. As it was, a mouthful of bile mixed with
wine choked up his throat, and he spat it out.
"If that is what
clingfire
does, then I cannot imagine how anyone brought themselves
to use it," Marguerida said in a very soft voice.
"Neither can I. I have heard stories all my life, but I never realized "how horrible it
was. I thought they stopped using it when they formed the Compact."
"I sincerely hope we never see the actual stuff in action, Mik." She looked away, and
they rode on. After a while, she said, "We have to think of a cover story, something
plausible to say to anyone we encounter."
"I know. But I can't imagine what." He tried to get his thoughts in order. "Varzil called
us Mikhalangelo and Margarethe. I wish we knew more than that, but the dream was
not very clear, was it? Perhaps it is hard to talk through time." Mikhail felt his
shoulders sag as he spoke.
"Amalie recognized our names, or believed she did. But she thought we had been
killed. Damn. I would trade the whole Alton Domain for a glass of clear water, and a
heel of bread just now. I cannot think straight on an empty stomach."
"We'll just try to avoid people—and as desolate as this countryside is, it should not be
hard. I'm damned hungry, too! And thirsty. Don't talk about it—it just makes it
worse!" Mikhail felt a slight itching, a maddening scrabble along the middle of his
chest. He looked down, expecting to find some insect, then realized it was not an
external sensation, but an internal one. He realized that it was part of the feeling he had
had just before they left Hali Tower, drawing him in the direction of his goal. He
paused and explored it, then said, "Take that little path up there."
Marguerida nodded meekly and reined her mare toward a thin track between some
skeletal bushes. She was obviously completely exhausted, and he began to wonder
how they were going to survive. All the things he should have thought of gnawed at his
mind. But, beneath that, he felt a curious tranquillity, a sensation which seemed so
strange that he almost doubted his sanity. Yet he could not shake the sense of his own
destiny now—it had him firmly in its , grasp, and there was no escaping it.
The sun had risen above the horizon, sending a red glow across the tortured earth. It
was a dreary and barren landscape. Mikhail looked for familiar plants, and found only
a few weeds struggling up from the blighted soil, sad, misshapen things growing by
stagnant pools. A scum lay on the surfaces of the small water holes, a pale blue stuff
that looked as unhealthy as the growths beside them.
Mikhail found himself straining in the saddle, trying to find something familiar.
Finally, he realized he was disturbed by how very quiet it was. The usual birdsong of
early morning was absent, and the silence was eerie and as oppressive as the dreary
landscape.
A light breeze lifted the edge of his cloak, bringing the scent of water. Mikhail
swallowed, his thirst enormous. It was not a pleasant odor, but rank and foul. There
was another pit on one side of the trail, another crater of glass, where some terrible
explosion had occurred. There were no human skeletons to be seen. Instead he saw the
corpses of some ducks, their feathers dry and falling into dust. They had not been
burned, but he suspected that the water that shone in the shallow hole had poisoned
them. The destruction made him heartsick and angry. How could his ancestors have
done this to Darkover!
They were riding west now, with the sun at their backs; on the left, the strange waters
of Lake Hali misted the air.
They were pink and silver in the morning sun, a sight he would have thought beautiful
had he not been so uneasy.
"Well, what do you think of all this, old fellow?" Mikhail addressed the question to the
crow which was sitting on the saddle horn, trying to find a way to relieve the growing
sense of despair filling his mind. The bird shifted from one foot to the other, and for
once, made no reply. Instead it gave Mikhail a beady look with one red eye, an
unreadable glance that did not ease his sense of displacement at all.
"Mikhail, how many people were there on Darkover during the time of Varzil?"
"Damned if I know. There are, by the best guesses of the Terranan, about twenty
million now. Regis has always refused to run a census. I rather doubt that there were
more than that in the past. Between low fertility and all these small wars, not to
mention the larger ones before, I would guess that there were no more than seven or
eight million, spread all over the continent, and pretty thinly at that. Why do you ask?"
"I want to know as much as I can, I suppose. Trying to predict the odds of meeting
someone we ought to know, to keep my mind off my growling belly. I sometimes
played card games, back at University, and I always won because I could keep track of
them. I could have gone to Vainwal and become a gambler, if I enjoyed that sort of
thing, I suppose."
"Now that is something I never knew about you. I don't really know much about you,
do I, Marguerida?"
"No, I suppose not, but then I don't know you either, not really. You seem different
than you were last summer, but we haven't had the time to talk much." She sighed.
"What do you mean—'someone we ought to know'?"
The wind shifted as he spoke, bringing the mist on Lake Hali toward them, drenched in
moisture. His face felt almost wet, and he licked the mist off his lips despite his fear
that it contained something poisonous. Had anyone ever drunk the waters of Hali, he
wondered? He could not remember any tale of such an event. Still, the drops that fell
on his tongue tasted just like any other water, and he was so parched that he was glad
of it.
"From what I discovered in the records at Arilinn, this time was one where all the
major families knew one an-
other well—even more than today. They not only knew each other, but knew the
genealogies back for a few generations. So I dare not tell anyone I am Margarethe
Alton, for instance. It would be altogether too likely that the stranger would say, 'You
can't be, because she is a short, fat woman in her fifties, and my second cousin once
removed on my mother's side.' "
"I see what you mean. Well, we will just have to hope that we only meet traders and
peasants, then."
"That is very optimistic of you," she growled. Then she looked shamefaced. "I did not
mean to snap, but . . . you don't seem very worried."
"You are doing enough worrying for both of us, Marguerida." Suddenly he felt almost
lighthearted. His earlier sense of certainty had deepened as they rode, as if they were
approaching a goal he had always sought. And it was so strange a sensation that he did
not dare to trust it, and could not have explained it in any case.
His beloved turned in her saddle, stuck out her tongue, and made a very rude noise. "I
am not worrying, just trying to anticipate." She succeeded in looking outraged and
dignified at the same time, and Mikhail had to grin at her. Happy or sad, she was
wonderful. "How do you intend to explain the two of us running around unescorted?
As I understand it, women were not in the habit of riding astride, or even going out in
public much. They were kept inside, barefoot and pregnant, weren't they? We cannot
pass for sister and brother, and we aren't married." She thrust her wrist out, to point out
the absence of the
catenas
circlet which would have shown the status of a married
woman.
"A good point. You could be my
barragana
wench."
"True, I could. What a tale to tell our grandchildren. I can see myself, doddering and
silver-haired, dandling some little lad on my arthritic knee, and telling him, 'Amos,
when your grandfather and I took an all-expenses paid vacation in the Ages of Chaos, I
pretended to be his mistress.' An amusing notion, but not very practical. And
dangerous, too. We are nobodies here, Mik, but we have the appearance of somebodies
—our height and coloring scream Comyn to the skies."
He was so busy chuckling at the mental picture of this
imaginary Amos, that he hardly heard the rest of her words. Then, before he could
answer, he heard the faint jingle of brass rings and the soft fall of hooves through the
mist. The crow flared its wings, alerting him further.
Mikhail and. Marguerida reined to a halt, tensing. The mist off the lake swirled across
their eyes, making the twisted vegetation surrounding them seem even more sinister.
The red light of the sun made bloody veils of the cloud. The sound of a single rider
drew closer, and they both held their breaths.
All of Marguerida's concerns expanded in his mind, until Mikhail thought of one of his
own. What if he had to kill someone—how might that change the past? What if he
slew the ancestor of Regis and Javanne Hastur, and was never born at all?
The rider came through the mist, a portly man on a rather sorry looking old horse. He
was wearing a russet shirt beneath a leather tunic, a felted hat with a single blue feather
in it, and a shabby cloak, so ancient that its original color was unguessable. There was
a heavy sword strapped across his back, a
claithmhor
of the sort he had seen in Aldaran
Castle, the intricate basket hilt wet with mist.
The man yanked on the reins, looked very startled, and rubbed his eyes, as if
suspecting he was seeing some specter.
"Dom
Mikhal Raven?" The reedy voice
trembled as the man spoke. Then he peered at Marguerida, blinking several times,
clearly disbelieving the evidence of his eyes.
"Domna
Margarethe of Windhaven?
They said you were dead."
At least that solves the problem of our identities.
Marguerida's thought was sharp and
relieved at the same time.
Or gives us a new one. Maybe if we sit still, he will think we are a pair of ghosts and
ride on.
The roan gelding snorted just then, and ruined any hope of passing for spirits. "No, not
dead, so far." Mikhail's answer was muffled in the mist.
"But, how did you escape from the dungeons of Storn? It has been almost twenty years
. . . and the ransom was never paid. And you have not aged a day." The man was
becoming more and more agitated, his eyes bulging nervously.
"It is a long story," Marguerida answered. "One which
we cannot tell, for in escaping we lost our memories, and nearly our minds. We barely
know who we are."
Oddly enough this ridiculous explanation seemed to satisfy the stranger. "Do you
remember me?"
Mikhail shook his head, pleased by Marguerida's quick thinking. "I confess I do not.
Do you?" He glanced at his companion and saw she was tense. She shook her head.
"Well, I don't see why you should, since we only met twice, at the handfasting for
Gabriella Leynier, and again at that funeral for
Dom
Estefan Aillard, where young
Darien Ardais slew Melor Lanart. I am Robard MacDenis." He looked at Mikhail
hopefully, as if expecting his name to jog the memory. "I was in the service of
Dom
Aran MacAran then. He's dead now, and his two sons with him." The reedy voice was
filled with bitterness and regret.
"I am sorry to hear that, although I cannot remember
Dom
Aran at all." Mikhail could
sense a growing confusion in the mind of Robard, confusion and fear as well.
"You still have that damn bird, I see. Or is it another?"
"No, it is the same bird."
"No one will believe me when I say I met Mikhal Raven, The Angel of the Serrais, and
Margarethe of the Golden Voice by the waters of Lake Hali."
They will think I have
gone mad. Perhaps I have. There has been so much death, so much fighting and dying.
All the Compact has done is stop the use of
bone water dust,
and
clingfire . . .
and now
Varzil has vanished, and no one believes it will survive him. It was a fine dream he
had, but men are men, and they will kill one another for no better reason than that they
can.
Mikhail caught these thoughts as they crossed Robard's mind, felt the deep sorrow in
them, the wounds to body and spirit that the turbulent times had wrought. He wished
he could think of something to say, some way to tell the old fighter that the Compact
did succeed, in the end. But he dared not.
How odd it felt to be thought to be this other man, this Mikhal Raven. There was no