Exile's Song (18 page)

Regis gave a short, bitter bark of a laugh. “I can see how he might—he was very nearly the ruin of our world. But he is also a hero, and a savior.”

“A little hard to do both, isn’t it?” Her breath was coming in short pants, for Margaret felt she was on the brink of learning something that she needed to know, but was terrified of discovering.

“Your father is a complex man, perhaps the most complex person I have ever known. And Darkovan customs brought him enormous griefs when he was still too young to bear them. I’ve had years to think about it. Whenever I look at the night sky and see the stars, I think of Lew. I wanted to go to the stars, and he got to do it, while I was left to tidy up an unholy mess and be a king without a real kingdom.”

“What griefs?”

Regis, still holding his glass, took a sip while he thought. “Lew’s mother was half-Terran, half-Aldaran, and for that reason the Comyn Council denied him his place. They called him a bastard, and that injured his pride—the Altons are a proud family, and he has that pride in full measure. He was never certain that he was good enough. I know that doubt very well, for it has plagued me as well. He tried to please his father, who was a good man, but very stiff-necked and demanding. He forced Lew to do things that both of them knew were wrong, because he was determined to get Lew onto the Council.”

“Why? What was so important about being on the Council?” Margaret demanded.

“It was not so much that a seat on the Council was important—although it was—but Kennard wanted Lew to be accepted as heir to the Alton Domain.” He gave a deep sigh. “It turned into an intolerable situation, and it ended with Kennard Alton, your grandfather, taking Lew off-planet, in direct violation of our laws, leaving the Alton Domain without a leader. Kennard died out there among the stars, and Lew came back six years later, bearing a very powerful matrix which he had taken into exile with him. And that resulted in another crisis, in which many people died, and the entire society of Darkover was altered.”

Margaret turned and stared at the man, quite forgetting to avoid his eyes in her astonishment. “I would like to say I understand, but, frankly, it is very hard to connect your tale with anything I know about the Senator. You might as well be speaking of some ancient hero from a myth, almost.”

“You are very astute. In many ways it
was
mythic. The events of the Sharra Rebellion were indeed mythic in proportion; even the gods became involved. My hair was as red as your own once.”

“Was it?” She wished he would stop being so cryptic, giving her hints, bits and pieces, but not a coherent set of facts she could sink her teeth into. And that word again—Sharra. It gave her shivers, even though it was pleasant and warm in the garden. “Very well—this is more of my father’s history than I have ever known before. He is ambiguous—that has not changed.” She felt her mouth curve into something resembling a grin. “But, if this is the story, then why was there nothing of the matter on the disk I studied. The kindest thing I can say about it is that it was nearly information-free. There was no mention of any . . . Sharra, and if, as you say, it was such a significant event, then why isn’t it mentioned in the Terran Archives?”

Regis seemed almost lost in his own thoughts now, speaking without really paying attention. “Oh, it is there, but it is not general knowledge. There are things we believe are better not left about for public gaze. Darkover still has a few secrets tucked into her bodice, and I think that is a good thing.”

Margaret had a scholar’s reaction to this calm statement of the suppression of information—she was livid. It was a much stronger surge of emotion than it needed to be—governments, she knew, often tried to keep secrets. She realized she was angry at this pleasant stranger beside her, but angrier still at the Old Man. She clenched her hands, then let them go. “Your little secrets have nothing to do with me. I am here by accident, not by intent, and I just want to get on . . .” She used her coldest, most formal voice, for it made her feel less weak and lost.

Margaret needed that, because she could feel a rising helplessness, triggered by the sound of two harmless syllables. A deep sense of dread almost overwhelmed her. Sharra! Sometimes her father called the word in the night, and whenever he did, she would wake up and shiver all over. And when she returned to sleep, she always dreamed of a great, shining jewel, full of light and fire. The image burned in her mind for a moment, until she banished it again.

“You sound so much like your father! And you look very much like your mother, at this moment.”

“Thyra?” she answered icily.

“Ah—well, at least you know about that. It’s a bit awkward for me.”

“Awkward! Why? You didn’t bed your wife’s sister, did you?” As soon as the words escaped, she regretted them.

To her surprise and great relief, Regis did not seem offended, almost as if he understood her anger and her confusion. “No, I have not. I’ve done some interesting things in my life, but not that one. I only saw Marjorie Scott once, and I never met her formally, but since she and Thyra were half-sisters and looked much alike, I suppose I meant both. Technically, you are the daughter of Marjorie Scott—even if she was your aunt. Oh, my. I am making a complete muddle of this, aren’t I? I mean you are listed as her child in our records. You are like all your parents,”
and you have the same unholy sensitivity Lew has,
he thought, without speaking. Margaret heard the unspoken words clearly, and flinched.

“It would seem that I have an excess of mothers—if you add Dio into the mix. I find the entire thing confusing and unpleasant.”

“What do you mean?”

“How would you feel if you found out that your mother is actually your aunt, and your aunt is your mother, and was so strange a person that no one likes to mention her name.”

“Hmm. I think I would be rather upset, now you put it that way. But, where did you hear her mentioned—in what context?” Regis glanced at her, and he looked both interested and sincere.

“At Master Everard’s, in Music Street. He let me handle this
ryll
that he said could not be played, and this song came out of it . . . it was very eerie. Then he told me a little of the history of the instrument, and I realized . . . well, it doesn’t matter.” She held back a shudder as she remembered her experience.

“You are getting cold. Let’s go back inside.” Hastur took her hand gently and spoke very quietly. For a moment, he appeared to be listening to some interior voice, and she could sense a light brush of awareness, as if a feather had been passed across her brow. “So you do have
laran,
and some of the Alton Gift, Marja.”

Margaret held back a shudder. The word
laran
made her blood seem cold, and she felt that thing inside her, that voice that told her to stay apart and not ask questions, stir into life. She struggled to resist it. “Whatever the Alton Gift is, I don’t believe I have it. At least, I hope I don’t. Ever since I arrived, things have been insane for me, what with the feeling that I might be overhearing thoughts, and getting peeks into the future, and meeting relatives I did not know I had! I don’t like it! And I don’t want anything to do with spooky gifts or Telepathic Councils or anything else. I just want to finish my companion Ivor’s work—our work for the University and . . . I don’t seem to know
anything
! And let me tell you, for a scholar to know nothing is a very bad situation!” She could feel her frustration boiling up again.

“A scholar? At University?” His eyes lit up. “Tell me what it is like. I always wanted . . . but this is not the time for that. It must have been difficult for you to be stumbling around Thendara—how long have you been here?”

“About a week, I guess. I’ve kind of lost track, what with Ivor’s death and . . .” Her wail was that of a tired child, for tears began to fill her eyes again.

Regis Hastur did not attempt to stop her tears, but waited calmly, finishing his wine, until she ceased. When she had wiped her face, he said, “I was certain you had the Gift when you were a very small child. That was why—”

At that moment the door into the garden opened, and a woman came out, followed by Danilo. The lady smiled, a warm, friendly gesture, and came forward, extending her hands. She was full-figured, and had the cheerful expression of someone who sees the world with delight. Margaret liked her in an instant. “Ah, here you are! Regis, it is too cold to be out in the garden now! And stop plaguing the girl with your plots and schemes. You must forgive him, child. He thinks he must carry the weight of this world on his shoulders, and sometimes he loses perspective.” Marja found herself clasped in a warm embrace, a light kiss brushing her cheek.

Regis said, “This impulsive creature is my consort, Linnea Storn, Lady Hastur. Linnea, this is Lew Alton’s daughter, Marguerida.” He seemed amused by his consort’s words, and a subtle tension left his body in her presence.

Exhausted, Margaret asked, “Are you a relative, too?”

Lady Hastur chuckled and patted her cheek. “We are distant cousins, kinswoman, but I might have been your mother. At one time there was a plan to marry me to Lew—I was fifteen, I believe—but he declined and broke my maidenly heart. Which is just as well, for otherwise I would not have become Lady Hastur, which suits me very well, you see.” She smiled at Regis, and he returned it with a look of real affection.

Linnea released her, and Margaret found herself being scrutinized again by the paxman Danilo. There was something in his gaze which disturbed her. It was not that he was overtly hostile, but there was a subtle menace in his look that chilled her to the marrow. She felt that if he gazed at her too long, she would cease to be Margaret Alton and become someone entirely different. But who? Fury and terror swelled in her breast, and she fought it off. She was imagining things again! There was nothing at all threatening in his stance or expression. Indeed, if she had met him under other circumstances, she would have thought him innocuous.

“I am sure it does,” she answered weakly. She felt she was going to drown in too much information, and too damn many relatives all at once. And the worst part was, the more she learned, the less she felt she knew.

Fifteen! Margaret did not doubt Lady Linnea, but she still found that disturbing. Why so young? It was easier to think about that than about the other things, the ones that buzzed like bees in her brain, warring with a compulsion to be silent. “That seems very young to marry. Why do you have that custom?” Her tactlessness demon prompted the question before she could censor it, and she blushed to the roots of her hair. A slight breeze ruffled the silky stuff, sending her bangs tickling her forehead and cooling her blazing cheeks.

“We have both a high infant mortality rate and a low birth rate. I have been fortunate with my children, but many others are less so.” Linnea answered her as if the question were perfectly appropriate. “We treasure our children here, and we want to have as many as we can.”

Margaret had spent most of her life on planets of the Federation, where the populations were both limited and controlled, either by law or custom, and she found the idea of having lots of children rather appalling. It was only on backwater worlds, primitive worlds, where children were born in large numbers. And she knew there was no good reason for infant mortality, for Terran technologies made child bearing almost risk-free.

There were so many puzzles about this planet. It wasn’t just the absence of motored vehicles, but something that looked as if they had rejected technology outright. “But did you
want
to get married at fifteen?”

“Certainly. It was my duty.”

“Duty?”

Regis gave his consort a sharp look, and Linnea lifted her brows in response. “We possess certain talents, here on Darkover, and we have discovered, over the centuries, that the best way to conserve them is to marry young,” she answered.

“Talents? You mean you have a sort of breeding program?”

Linnea made a small moue with her generous mouth. “You could say that—though I dislike the metaphor. It makes me feel too much like a brood mare.”

Margaret was shocked. More than that, she was disgusted. She realized that it had something to do with these Gifts Rafe and Hastur had mentioned, and that these apparently friendly new relatives were probably thinking of marrying her off to keep her genes on the planet. No wonder her father had left!

“How interesting,” she answered feebly. “I think I must go now. It has been a very long day, and I want to get back to Master Everard’s before it gets too dark.”
I can’t take any more of this! If I don’t get away quickly, I will start to howl.

Lady Hastur looked distressed. “But, surely, you are staying here at the Castle, child.”

Not on your life!
Margaret wanted to escape the huge building as expeditiously as possible. She knew that there was a chamber above, with a carpet she could recognize, unless it had been changed in the past twenty years. It belonged to the Altons, to her father, and that there were probably servants scurrying about, changing the linens and airing the rooms. She could almost feel the bustle of activity, and knew that she could have found her way to the rooms almost without a guide. The knowledge made her shiver with discomfort.

From the expressions on the faces of Lord and Lady Hastur and the enigmatic Danilo, she realized that her feelings had been almost shouted. Margaret wanted to be polite, to be properly diplomatic, a credit to her family, while at the same time she wanted to run away as fast as her tired legs would carry her.

With meticulous politeness, she said, “I am sure it would be wonderful to stay here, but I am leaving Thendara as soon as I can arrange it. I do have work to do, and the death of my companion, Ivor Davidson, has delayed me already.”

“Work? I don’t understand,” Lady Hastur responded.

Margaret decided that she had to take a firm line with these people. Otherwise they would continue to assume she was there to serve their ends, and not her own. She drew a ragged breath. “I am not here for your Telepathic Council or anything else. I am here to study and collect folk music as a Scholar of the University, and that is precisely what I intend to do. Nothing else!”