Exile's Song (28 page)

“She is in good hands with the midwife, who I am certain, did not appreciate your interference.”

“Interference! I like that! You are only a man—you do not understand such things.” Martha, whomever she was, did not sound as if she were going to give up the argument.

Margaret saw a man’s face as he bent toward her. “I welcome you to Castle Ardais.” She could see an expression of puzzlement in his features. “I am Julian Monterey,
coridom
to Lady Marilla.”

Margaret tried to remember what the term meant, flogging her weary brain. It was something between a major-domo and a foreman, but the exact distinction was impossible to fathom in her present state. “Thank you for your welcome,” she croaked, “and forgive me for coming in such an untidy manner. I did not mean to be sick.”

“Of course you didn’t,” he answered gently, as if visitors arriving on horse litters in a high fever were a commonplace occurrence.

“Why is my entrance hall full of gossips?” a sweet voice interrupted him. “And, why, might I inquire, is our guest still waiting here? I ordered a bedchamber prepared. Has it been done?” Despite the soft tone of the speaker, Margaret suspected that she had a will of steel.

“
Domna
Marilla, I was not informed that we were expecting guests,” Martha whined, “and I did not know that a room was to be prepared.”

“Excuses will not get our visitor into bed,” Marilla replied. “And
Mestra
Rafaella has had a wearisome journey, for she has been thrice upon the trail, with no sleep and little to eat. Now, stop hanging about and go to your duties. Julian, I wish to speak with you.”

Margaret heard the murmur of Julian’s conversation with his mistress and the swish of skirts as the various servants hurried away to their tasks. Her two stretcher bearers waited patiently, holding the litter between them. Margaret could see the back of the one at the front. A concerned Rafaella bent down over her. She touched Margaret’s wrist, then clasped her hand tenderly.

“How are you?”

“Dreadful.” She noticed the dark circles beneath the guide’s bright eyes and the strain around the generous mouth and felt guilty for complaining. Her usually shining curly hair was dirty, and clung to her skull, as if she had gotten wet recently. Had it been raining? She could not remember. “I keep fading in and out, and having these terrible visions. My throat hurts!”

“I am not surprised. You screamed loud enough to scare a banshee most of the way here. But now you will be taken care of.”

“I worried you, didn’t I?” Margaret seemed determined to make the worst of a bad situation. “This isn’t fun—you didn’t bargain for a nursing job. I’m so sorry, Rafaella.”

“Don’t be foolish. None of this is your fault. I have never seen anything quite like this fever you have. If you had not assured me you were no
leronis,
I would swear you were having threshold sickness.”

“I am much too old for that,” Margaret replied. “Aren’t I?” A cold fear clutched her now. Rafaella had told her enough about threshold sickness during their travels to make her extremely uneasy. It was a child’s sickness, and she was no child, but she was not really certain that her age gave her any immunity. And Margaret now knew that it presaged the onset of that mysterious
laran.
She knew what that meant, in a vague way, and she knew she wanted nothing to do with it!

A fair woman of some fifty years came to the other side of the litter. She had sharp features, pretty once, now honed with age to a narrow jaw and a vulpine nose. “Welcome to Ardais. I am Lady Marilla Lindir-Aillard.” She patted Margaret’s other hand. “Rafaella—go to bed! You look ready to drop in your boots! I will see to your companion. What is your name, child? Rafaella told us nothing but that her companion had fallen ill with some unknown malady.”

“I am Marguerida Alton,” she whispered so softly that she could barely hear herself.

“What? Say again. I am slightly hard of hearing.” From the expression on Marilla’s face, the immediate frown and the slight pursing of lips, Margaret was certain she had heard her well enough, but did not believe her ears.

“This is
Domna
Marguerida Alton,
Domna
Marilla,” Rafaella answered.

The fair woman lifted her head slightly and looked at the guide. “I believe I told you to go to bed.”
So, this is that child of Lewis’! It can be no one else. I thought she had died during the Rebellion—no, I remember, that was another. Lew took her away when he left. Yes, she has the look of her family—I hope I am doing the right thing, having her here Zandru! She could be Felicia Darriell’s twin!
As Lady Marilla had these thoughts, Margaret saw a face, aged gently, that mirrored her own so closely she felt a shudder. She had no idea who Felicia might be, but there was no denying that they were very alike.

Rafaella hesitated, clearly reluctant to abandon her charge, yet nearly trembling with exhaustion. “As you wish,
domna,
” she finally said. The Renunciate reluctantly released Margaret’s hand and vanished.
She looks so terrible—I don’t want to leave her, but I’m nearly dead with exhaustion myself. Why do these things happen to me? She has gotten to be like a sister, but I know she’ll be in able hands now. It won’t do anyone any good if I get sick as well!

Lady Marilla smiled, showing what seemed to be a great many sharp teeth. “Rafaella is a good woman, but she does not take orders at all well. Now, let’s get you settled into bed and find out what is wrong with you.”

“I am sorry to be such trouble,” Margaret whimpered. She was feeling hot once more, and her head was starting to spin. Her skin felt as if it were tissue-thin; it seemed as if the very light from the high windows could penetrate through her body. It hurt so much.

“Nonsense. You are no trouble at all. Take the lady up to the Rose Room, lads, and be careful about it!”
Trouble! The Altons have been nothing but trouble for generations. Poor thing. Threshold sickness, and she has to be at least twenty-six! This is beyond me. I hardly know what to do, and I always know what to do! Always! That’s what I get for being so proud. I am going to need more than a healer, and quickly.

 

Time lost all meaning. There were voices, several different women, and terrible tasting drinks which made her gag and spew. There were cool cloths pressed against her brow, and others which washed her limbs. The hands that held them were gentle, but Margaret still cried out at their touch. And, shadowing it all, there were the nightmares. She saw Lew and the two sisters, Marjorie and Thyra, and, behind them, Felicia whose face she seemed to wear. They all seemed to want something from her, something she could not grasp. This made them all angry, and she tried to remain awake to avoid them, but her body betrayed her again and again.

During the few lucid moments she had, she saw the ancient crone who forced her to drink foul-smelling draughts and Lady Marilla and Rafaella. They all appeared anxious, and she tried to tell them she was all right, but her throat was too raw to make any sound but terrible croaks.

At last she heard a voice clearly. “I am sorry, my lady, but this is beyond my skills as a healer. You will have to send for a
leronis.
”

“I have, Beltrana, but she will not arrive today. Do what you can. A pity that she came here—it would have been so much simpler if she had gone to Armida.” Lady Marilla’s voice was weary, and more than a little bitter.

“Now, now, my lady. It does no good to be wishing after what isn’t. You should know that by now—but you always were one for wanting what you hadn’t.” There was a rusty chuckle, and, surprisingly, an answering laugh.

“Yes, I am. Still, after all these years, and all my disappointments. She is starting to come around. I think you’d better give her another dose.”

“Very well. But I don’t like it.”

“Nor do I, Beltrana, nor do I.”

 

The turmoil of her mind faded, and Margaret found herself in the center of a wide bed. She looked at the embroidered hangings around it, and wondered, for a moment, where she was, and why she was tucked up so tightly. Then it all came back, the sudden fever and the wretched trip in the litter. And with those memories there were also her terrible dreams.

Margaret felt very weak, but her head was clear for the first time in several days. At least she thought it was days, because she seemed to recall changes in the light beyond the bed curtains, days and nights and days again. Carefully, she pulled herself up into a sitting position and saw a woman sitting in the wide seat of the window. She was very old, and her skin was like parchment, but she looked up sharply at the movement on the bed.

“Good day,
domna.
I am Beltrana the healer. How do you feel?”

Margaret didn’t answer immediately, but listened to the steady patter of the rain against the window. She was so sensitive that it sounded like kettle drums to her ears, though she knew it was only an ordinary noise. So this was the woman who had given her all those dreadful-tasting drinks. She supposed they must have done her good, but she could still find the flavor of the most recent one in her mouth, and it was foul. “I feel like ten miles of bad road, actually, but I am hungry. Is that good?” Then she realized that she had spoken in Terran, not
casta.
She licked her cracked lips and made a face. “I think I am actually hungry,” she said slowly in
casta.
“Is that good?”

The crone nodded and chuckled, looking relieved. “It is a sign of returning health. That last remedy I tried seems to have broken your fever.”

“Remedy?” Margaret had a sharp memory of struggling while another draught was forced down her throat. “You mean the stuff that tasted like bird droppings?” She thrust out her tongue and grimaced. It hurt! Every muscle in her body seemed to be tender.

Beltrana nodded, and the white hair that crowned her old head shone like a halo in the light. Margaret dropped her eyes, for the movement of the healer’s head made her dizzy. “No one has ever described it that way before, but yes.”

“When can I get up?”

“Not for some time,
domna.
You have been in a high fever for three days and nights, and I nearly despaired. Now you must rest and eat and regain your strength.”

“But—I’ve been resting!” Margaret knew she was behaving badly, but whenever she had been sick as a child, she had always insisted she was fine and wanted to get up immediately. Actually, just the act of sitting up had exhausted her again, but she refused to admit it to anyone but herself.

“
Chiya,
you have been extremely ill, and you cannot just leap from the covers. You do what Beltrana tells you, and you will be fit again.”
I don’t like the look of her yet. Her color is too high, and she will throw another fever if we do not watch her—so headstrong and willful! She is not out of the forest yet—and I want her to be better when the
leronis
arrives.

Margaret heard the unspoken words, and they made her shiver.
Why is this happening to me? Why can I suddenly pick up things that aren’t said? I did it a little, before, but now it seems like I am hearing more. Damn! It’s not right, or fair! I don’t want to be sick or hear thoughts. I don’t want a
leronis,
whatever that is! I want to be back in my rooms at University, or anywhere but here. If Ivor hadn’t died . . . . I wish I had never come to Darkover!

Tears welled up in her eyes, then began to trickle down her face. Her skin was so tender that it hurt to feel the drops against it. Margaret sank back into the pillows.

Beltrana rose stiffly and came over and tucked the covers in again. “I know, I know, little one. But you let old Beltrana take care of you, and you will be up and about quick as a flash.”

“I take care of people, not the other way around,” she sobbed. “But I didn’t take care of Ivor, and he died! It’s all my fault!” She balled one hand into a fist and struck the pillow feebly.

The old woman patted her arm gently, but not so gently that it didn’t hurt, and Margaret winced. It was infuriating—crying like a baby and being sick. But she could not seem to stop, and after a few minutes, she stopped trying.

 

“Rafaella, I am totally sick of being sick,” Margaret complained the following morning. “I want to get out of bed!”

The guide smiled at her. “If you are being bossy, I guess you must be better. You gave us a terrible scare, Marguerida. I thought Lady Marilla was going to pop her buttons—as vulgar as that is to say of one of the Comyn.” Rafaella looked rather worn, but her eyes were their usual mischievous selves. Her hair was bright with a recent washing, and the circles under her eyes were not as dark as they had been when they arrived.

Margaret shifted under the covers, trying to find a comfortable position, and failed. She envied Rafaella’s cleanness. She felt very grubby, even though she knew she had had several sponge baths, and that her nightdress had been changed more than once. The thought of a bath was extremely desirable, but she was so weak she would probably drown if she tried to take one.

She wished she was better at doing nothing, and resting afterward. After a few moments, Margaret decided that she was bored, as well as restless. There was probably nothing to read in this enormous house, and she wasn’t sure she could have done that anyhow. She cast about in her mind for something to discuss, and decided she wanted to hear more about her hostess. After all, she was taking up a bedroom, and probably causing a lot of bother for the servants. “Tell me a little about her, will you? She seemed very formidable, from the little I can remember.”

“That’s a good word for it. She had to be, to endure Lord Dyan Ardais. They were fond of one another, which is odd. He was . . . well, different.” Rafaella seemed extremely uncomfortable now, her voice low and tense. “He died before I was born, so I don’t know most of the story. People don’t like to talk about him. And it is not proper to gossip in someone’s house.” The guide’s face was conflicted as she spoke, but at least all Margaret heard were the words. That was a great relief. Maybe she was not much of a telepath after all. Perhaps she had only heard things she thought people were thinking.
Stop that! Stop trying to convince yourself that you are imagining this stuff! Be the scholar you pretend to be, and accept the facts.