Exile's Song (22 page)

 

 

When the first light of morning touched Margaret’s face, she sat up, the remnants of the dream fading as she opened her eyes. She shook herself free, and climbed from the warm covers into the chill of the room. Everything except her toiletries and the clothes she was going to wear had been packed the night before. She brushed her teeth, and washed her face. Then she scrambled into her clothes, eager to be gone. She slipped the russet tunic over her head, and pulled the riding skirt on, yanking at the drawstring waist. Margaret brushed her hair until it was smooth, then coiled it into the butterfly clasp. She only gave the mirror a quick, sidelong glance, to make sure she was reasonably neat, biting her lower lip in unease. She really hated reflective surfaces.

Satisfied with her appearance, Margaret slipped her belt around her narrow waist. She grabbed her things and went downstairs with as much haste as her baggage allowed. It was not until she reached the ground floor that she realized she should have left the task for Raimon, or one of the other servants. She shook her head. She was used to helping, not being helped.

Anya was already up, and the house smelled of porridge. She found the housekeeper in the kitchen with young Ethan. He was tucking into a large helping of the cereal, his sharp features concentrated on the task at hand. Margaret suspected that it was his second breakfast, and remembered that there had been a time when she had eaten with such appetite.

Margaret sat down at the big table in the kitchen, and Anya brought her a cup of tea and a bowl of porridge. There was honey and a pitcher of rich cream in the middle of the table, and Margaret shamelessly added both to her breakfast. She and Ethan smiled at each other as they ate, and she was grateful for his silence. She hated chatter first thing in the morning, and was impressed by his sensitivity. Lads his age only seemed to stop talking when they were asleep.

Master Everard came into the kitchen as they were finishing, his white locks tousled from sleep. He looked like some old tortoise, blinking in the morning light that streamed through the narrow windows. He sat down stiffly and Anya brought him a mug of tea.

“So, you are away to the hills,
chiya.
It has been a long time since I wandered there—years and years. My late wife was from the Kilghards. I met her when I was visiting there. She was so lovely.” He gave a small sigh. “I shall miss you—it has been a great pleasure to have you in my house. My son is up there, and perhaps you will meet him on your journey. He is a good man, but he dislikes city life, and I see him all too rarely.”

Margaret was touched by Everard’s use of the endearment
chiya,
but it brought back an unwanted rush of memories. The red-haired woman who was her mother had used it, but without any affection, and that haunting man with the silver hair and eyes had called her that when he had left her at the orphanage. It was the first time she had recalled that incident so clearly, and it made her feel small and frightened. And angry, too, though she suppressed the feeling as quickly as she could.

“I will miss you as well, Master Everard. I have enjoyed my stay in your home, and trust I will return before I leave Darkover.”

“Leave?”

“Well, yes. When I have completed Ivor’s work, I will go back to University, of course.” She said the words, but she did not believe them. At the same time, Margaret could not imagine remaining on this world for the rest of her life. It might be the home of her heart, but she was too much a citizen of the Federation to think of living on this almost primitive world. Not that she
needed
hot showers and computers, but she was used to them.

“But, I thought . . . well, I confess I assumed after your visit to Comyn Castle that . . .” Everard trailed off, confused and embarrassed.

Margaret looked at him for a long, silent moment. Did everyone in Thendara know about her meeting with Lord Hastur? It seemed an intolerable invasion of her cherished privacy for a second. Then she realized what a small community it was, really, compared to cities on other worlds. Thendara was more like a small town than a city, despite having a spaceport and a Terran sector.

“I am going to the Kilghards to complete Ivor’s work—he would have wanted me to, I am certain—not to make any claims to the Alton Domain, no matter who tries to convince me otherwise.” The crispness of her reply bordered on rudeness, and she felt dreadful as soon as the words were out of her mouth. At the same time it seemed terribly important to distance herself from the seductive whispers of Darkover, lest she find herself embroiled with matters she was certain had nothing to do with her. The sense of suffocation she had experienced in the castle garden returned, and she tried to breathe deeply. To conceal her discomfort she tried to think of something pleasant to say.

“I see.” Master Everard looked sad. “Well, no man can make another’s destiny, and all the wishing in the world will not make it so. You must follow your heart—though I think that perhaps you are running away from something, instead of running toward it.”

“You may be right.” Margaret had the feeling he had seen through her, and knew that she had been running away from things for most of her life. She had run away from Thetis to escape her father’s sorrow, not knowing what it was, and she had become Ivor’s musical assistant to avoid becoming close to anyone her own age. The thought of marriage made her skin crawl, and the idea of children was simply too dreadful to contemplate. There was some memory, deeply buried but powerful, that made her shrink from intimacy or physical contact.

She did not know why this was, but she knew it to be true.

“What shall I do with your master’s instrument?” Everard asked.

“Ivor’s guitar?” She had all but forgotten about it since she had let Master Everard carry it home after the funeral. Should she arrange to ship it back to Ida? That did not feel quite right. “Will you keep it for the present? I think Ivor would like that. And if his wife is able to come and claim his body, then she can take it home with her. I don’t want to entrust it to the spaceways without an actual person going with it—silly of me.” Her mind, she realized, was not really on the matter, and she didn’t have time to go over to the com center and send a message, then wait for a reply. She wanted to get out of Thendara and away from people mistaking her for someone she never wanted to be, and she wasn’t going to let anything prevent that.

The old man looked pleased. “I will be honored to keep it for as long as is needful, for it is a wonderful instrument. Do you think that the
Mestra
Doevidson will come here?”

“I don’t know. She might, but it would be very expensive. Thank you for everything. I have loved staying here so much.” She could barely manage to contain her impatience now.

“We have enjoyed having you—and, frankly, I will miss you. This house needs young people in it, and Erald is so rarely at home.” He seemed a little sad, but he cheered up so quickly she could not be sure.

A few minutes later, she bade Anya and Master Everard farewell, and set out, with a stuffed and rather subdued Ethan. The lad carried one of her bags, and she carried her harp and the other. They were three streets away when Margaret noticed he was carrying a clumsy bundle in his free hand.

“What have you got there—your lunch?” Margaret asked with more humor than she felt.

“Naw.” He gave her his friendly grin and hefted the lumpy object. “This would be too much for even my belly. Mother says I eat enough for three, and that I will beggar her before I grow up. She said the same to my older brother Jacob, so I don’t mind much. If mothers cannot scold you for something real, they invent something, don’t they?”

Margaret thought about this, and found no answering experience. Dio had never commented on her eating, her dress, or even the state of her room, which often appeared to have been the scene of one of Thetis’ more violent hurricanes. The only scolding she had ever received was for pulling her hair up on top of her head and exposing her neck, or for looking directly—rudely, Dio said—into the eyes of others. “I suppose they do,” she replied indifferently. “But you still haven’t told me what you are carrying. Of course, if it is a secret, that is a different matter. I always keep other people’s secrets.”

“I know. You didn’t say a word to Uncle Aaron about me wanting to be a spaceman.”

“No, I didn’t. It wasn’t any of my business, and I thought he would not be pleased to hear of your ambitions from a stranger. I suspect he would not approve if he knew.”

“Too right,
domna!
Aaron thinks the world begins and ends in Threadneedle Street. Do you know, he has never been out of Thendara in his whole life?”

“No, I didn’t know, but I am not surprised. He loves his work, as I love mine, and I can see that he can’t imagine doing anything else. It is often that way.”

“Does it get better when you get older?”

Margaret thought about that as they trudged along streets so narrow that the morning sun had not yet warmed them. The little harp slung over one shoulder bumped against her hip with each step she took, and her bag was becoming heavy. She wondered how much farther it was to the Horse Market. She thought about her Uncle Rafe and Lord Hastur and their expectations that she would instantly become the holder of the Alton Domain. She thought about Lew Alton, who, she believed, had never really approved of her musical career. He had never spoken of it, but she knew he had hoped she would pursue politics or journalism instead.

“I don’t think so, not really. No matter how old you get, there are always older people who think they know better.”

“I thought so. My grannie is always after my father for being in trade instead of bettering himself.”

My lord, the sociological implications of that,
Margaret thought, trying not to wince. She supposed that all parents had plans for their children, and were often disappointed. Why hadn’t humanity learned better after all these millions of years?

They turned into a broad square, where the pungent smell of horse manure, leather, and damp straw rose from the stones. There were dozens of booths made of heavy canvas ranged in ranks across the open square. Even at this hour, there was a great deal of activity—voices raised in the pleasant sound of commerce or just gossip.

In the center of the Market she noticed an open-air kitchen. As they passed it, Margaret could see a woman cooking crisp crullers in a cauldron of oil, pulling the hot pastries out with wooden tongs and spreading them on a cloth. A man in full trousers tucked into crimson boots and a brightly colored woven tunic offered her a coin, and the cook handed him two of the things. Margaret noticed the strange hat he wore, a turbanlike thing, and decided he must be a Dry Towner.

Despite having risen from the table a short while before, Margaret found her mouth watering. She remembered a pale hand offering her a pastry like that, and saw her own plump hand closing around the treat. She could taste the sweetness, and she found her throat tightening at the memory. Once she had known the name of the pastry, but now it eluded her.

Ethan led her toward a cloth stall on the other side of the Horse Market. Several women dressed in trousers and tunics were tending the horses which were stabled there. They had short hair, like the girl who had answered the door at Thendara House, and they wore belts with knives on them. Their faces were bronzed from working out of doors, and they looked both capable and formidable.

“Which one is Rafaella n’ha Liriel?” Margaret asked quietly. Not quietly enough, apparently, for a woman stood up from where she was bent over cleaning a horse’s hoof and looked at them. She had remarkably red hair, as if her head were ablaze, and looked to be younger than Margaret by a few years. She took in

Ethan and Margaret in one quick glance, a look that spoke of a headstrong nature, and stepped forward.

“Just what the devil are you doing wearing my blouse?” she snapped, pointing at Margaret’s garment.

“Your blouse?” For a moment Margaret was confused, and then she remembered that Manuella had told her that the clothes she had purchased on her first trip to Threadneedle Street had been made for someone named Rafaella. It had never occurred to her that the person who had been hired as her guide, was the
same
Rafaella, for she knew that it was a common name in Thendara. “I was given to understand it did not please you when it was done.”

“I have changed my mind!” She lifted her chin, making her cap of curls toss merrily, and tried to stare Margaret down. Unfortunately, she was a bit shorter than Margaret, and she had to crane her neck. “I went away, and while I was on the trail, I decided that I liked it. But when I returned, MacEwan told me he had sold it. He made some excuse about how he couldn’t afford to have things hanging around the shop—as if my mother and grandmother had not given him their custom for years and years.”

Ethan scowled, and his fair skin reddened. “Uncle can’t be expected to read minds. He don’t have
laran, Mestra
Stuck-Up.
Domna
Alton got those clothes fair and square, so don’t you go putting on your airs.” The boy spoke firmly, though his adolescent voice cracked slightly in mid-scold. Beneath the words Margaret sensed something more, an emotional quality for which she had no immediate term.
No one talks to my
domna
like that!