Exile's Song (33 page)

“The
leronis
Istvana Ridenow, my lady,” the
coridom
announced.

M
argaret took one look at the small woman, and the remnants of her appetite vanished. There was something uncanny in the steady gaze of the gray eyes, something stern about the set of her narrow shoulders. Only the too-wide mouth in the oval face gave any hint of flexibility, for there were lines around it which spoke of old laughter.

Then her mind repeated the woman’s name—Istvana Ridenow—and Margaret began to see a slight resemblance to Dio, her stepmother. Dio was perhaps an inch taller, but just as fine-boned. The hair above the high brow was pale, silver now, but with that yellow tone that previously blonde hair gives in age, and it grew in the same pattern as Dio’s did. It had been a long time since she had seen Dio and she had no recent picture. She was probably gray now, too.

For a flash Margaret had an impression of Dio’s face, pain-worn and incredibly tired. She looked old, really old. She felt herself shudder and grasped the edge of the table with icy fingers.

Lady Marilla rose from her seat at the head of the table, spilling her napkin onto the stone floor. A genuine smile softened her rather foxlike features, and she moved across the room to greet the newcomer. “Isty! I did not expect you before the morning! Julian—take her cloak, and have another place set. You must be exhausted.”

“Oh, do stop fussing, Mari. You know I am never tired.” The voice was deep, a fine alto, strong and authoritative and used to being obeyed. “Lord Ardais, Lord Hastur.” She acknowledged the men briefly, but her eyes were focused on Rafaella and Margaret.

“Oh, Isty. Still the same as ever.” Marilla Aillard did not seem in the least intimidated, and shook her head, as if recalling some pleasant incident. “If you aren’t tired after your journey, you should be. Horses are ever so much more wearying than working the relays.” She rose and gave the other woman a light kiss on the cheek, and the gesture was returned gracefully.

“I came as quickly as I could. Your message was rather urgent.” Istvana sounded as if she suspected that she had been dragged from wherever she had come from for no good reason, and was prepared to be annoyed.

Marilla appeared just a little anxious now. “It
was,
Isty.”
A pity she arrived now, and not tomorrow, as I expected.

“And it is no longer urgent?” There was a quality in the voice of Istvana, a tension, that belied her claim not to be weary from her journey.

“You must judge for yourself,” Marilla hedged, looking anxious and much less the grand lady than she had before. “I must present you to my other guests, Istvana.” She drew the now uncloaked woman to the table where a servant was bringing out a clean plate and utensils.

“Don’t tell me you are still the same flighty girl you were at Neskaya so many years ago, Mari.” The
leronis
said the words gently, and Margaret could hear the quiet affection in them.

Margaret could see Mikhail and Dyan both trying not to laugh at this comment, their fair cheeks reddening from repressed guffaws. She did not blame them one bit. Flighty was hardly a word she would have chosen for her hostess.

Marilla ignored both the byplay and the criticism. “Istvana, I would like to present
Domna
Marguerida Alton and her companion Rafaella n’ha Liriel.”

Gray eyes swept across the two women, and Margaret felt she had been examined and found wanting without a word. Then she wondered if the woman knew who was whom. She and Rafaella were alike in coloring, age, and height, like enough to be mistaken for one another. No, the shorter hair of the Renunciate was likely to inform Istvana. Then the
leronis’
words banished her question from her mind. She looked directly at Margaret and spoke. “I am honored to meet you, Lady Alton. This is . . . unexpected. You have been ill?”

“The honor is mine,” Margaret answered stiffly. “Apparently, the immunizations the Terrans give are not as effective as they are promised to be, and I have reacted to some local organism. Either that or I have had a bad response to the altitude.” She did not believe her own words, and she felt weak and ill, but she was determined not to show it for an instant. Her head pounded, and her mouth started to taste like she had eaten iron filings, not excellent soup and fresh fish.

She watched as Istvana and Marilla exchanged a speaking look. It made her skin clammy, and she looked down at her plate. The remains of her fish were cold now, and she felt her throat clamp shut. The idea of eating another bite made her shiver. The urge to to get up from the table and return to her room as quickly as possible was enormous, and only the knowledge that she lacked the strength to make it up the stairs unassisted kept her in her seat. Instead, she folded her hands into her lap and tried to make herself invisible as she had often done when she was very small.

Evidently, Istvana had decided that eating was a good idea, for she took the place that the servant had set. Margaret tried not to look at her, but kept finding her eyes drawn to the stranger. Her unfinished fish was removed, and a plate of grain, vegetables, and a slab of some meat was put before her. She gazed at it in horror, and bit her lip.

The
leronis
ate daintily but steadily, making inroads on her food that Margaret decided were remarkable. Where did she put it all? Enormous silences punctuated little gusts of conversation that seemed to perish almost before they began, and the meal dragged on and on. There was an air of wariness around the table, the earlier easy cheer and her dispute with Mikhail banished by the presence of the newcomer. It was clear that all of them were trying to pretend that there was nothing out of the ordinary in the arrival of the
leronis,
but Rafaella had told her just enough during their travels that she knew it was rare for Keepers to leave their Towers, whatever those were. Margaret knew the woman’s presence had something to do with her, that somehow Istvana and Marilla were conferring without a word being spoken. It made her skin crawl, but she couldn’t think of anything she could do about it. She had rarely felt so helpless in her life.

Lord Dyan, after a look from his mother, manfully attempted to liven up the conversation. He asked Rafaella something about horses, and the Renunciate answered him. Then Mikhail chimed in, and the three of them discussed some famous bloodlines. It was all incomprehensible to Margaret, but she was grateful that she was not expected to participate, because she could barely keep her breath going, let alone speak. Margaret revised her earlier opinion of Dyan as a feckless youth, then felt Mikhail stir beside her. She gave Mikhail a fast glance, and met his eyes unexpectedly. It was an unreadable look, and she dropped her gaze hastily, regarding the disgusting stuff on her plate with growing queasiness. It had almost looked like pity, and she could not stand that! How dare he! He was an oaf. And if he looked at her again, she was going to smack him!

Margaret could feel her temperature starting to climb again, and she gulped some water thirstily. The thought of wine was loathsome. She longed for her bed, for silence instead of the clatter of utensils on pottery. The noise of it seemed to go right through her aching brain, like slivers of glass. If only she had not insisted on getting up!

Istvana Ridenow put her napkin beside her plate abruptly and rose. Hastily, they all pushed their chairs back and stood with her. Margaret was slow to move, and she found that Mikhail was watching her in a concerned way that both warmed and annoyed her. Standing, she was swept with a dizziness that made her sway. Rafaella moved around the table with surprising swiftness and took her elbow, steadying her gently. Then the Renunciate glared at everyone accusingly, and Margaret felt the woman’s strength and loyalty surround her like a warm blanket.

“You can use my sitting room, Istvana,” Lady Marilla announced. “It has not changed much since your last visit.” Margaret looked from Istvana to Marilla, and found their faces carefully neutral. She was sure they had been talking to each other—even though she tried to tell herself that they could not have been. She had not picked up any hints, for which she was grateful. She should be glad she had not overheard their conversation, shouldn’t she? Now she could escape to her room and go back to bed. And as soon as she was well enough, she would return to Thendara and . . . . her head ached too much to think beyond that.

Her hope was quickly dashed. “
Domna,
if you will come with me,” Istvana said calmly, “we will see if we cannot find the cause of your illness.”

“I told you it was just . . .”

“You must trust me,
chiya.
I know what is best.” The
leronis
spoke in a way that brooked no argument, and Margaret did not feel strong enough to try to disagree.
Why does everyone think they know what is best for me? They don’t even know me! And, worse, I no longer know myself. I wish I had never come here. Why did I have to get sick? And who is she to be ordering everyone around, including me? I think they are all a little afraid of her—I know I am. But why?

Rafaella helped her out of the dining room and down the hall. They followed Istvana into a modest room where a fire crackled comfortingly in the grate. There was a soft couch, several armchairs, and an embroidery stand with a half-completed work stretched on it. The colors of the room were soft blues and creamy whites, and it was a cozy place. Margaret would have enjoyed it if she hadn’t felt so wretched.

“Leave us,” Istvana told Rafaella. Then she gave the girl a kindly look. “Marguerida will be quite safe with me, I promise.”

“Don’t tire her,
vai domna.
She has only gotten out of bed today.” Then the Renunciate left the room reluctantly, and Margaret sank into one of the chairs, exhausted by the short walk from the dining room.
Damn interfering woman! If she makes Marguerida ill, I’ll
. . . The thought was unfinished, as if Rafaella could not decide what she would do. Margaret felt alone and afraid without her companion.

Istvana Ridenow sat down facing Margaret and arranged the folds of her robe across her lap. A silence grew between them, interrupted by one of the servants bringing a tray with a pot of tea, cups, and a slender bottle of what looked like a liqueur. It was a startling blue, or else the glass was, and Margaret eyed it warily. She definitely did not want any alcohol.

“I confess I never imagined I would find Lew Alton’s child when I came here,” Istvana began, pouring some tea into a cup and offering it to Margaret.

She took the tea because she was infernally thirsty. “You and everyone else,” she nearly snapped. “Ever since I got off the ship, people have been coming up to me and bowing and scraping and trying to give me ball gowns and . . . I don’t know. It has been very confusing. I don’t like being confused!”

“That seems quite reasonable to me,” the
leronis
answered with a surprising mildness. “I don’t know anyone who does enjoy being bewildered. Perhaps I can answer some of your questions.”

“That will be a first,” Margaret answered bitterly. “No one on Darkover seems willing to give me a straight answer to a simple question—they just speak in vague terms and tell me it is better not to discuss ‘such things.’ Or they assume I already know everything, or they tell me they are my relative. Honestly, I could just scream, except my throat won’t allow it. Am I related to
everyone
on Darkover?”

Istvana laughed. “Essentially, yes. At least you are related by blood or marriage to all of the families of the Domains, which in your case is what counts.”

“It doesn’t count with me,” Margaret contradicted. “I prefer Rafaella to any of these ‘new relatives,’ if you must know the truth.”

“I see. Then I probably should not tell you that Diotima Ridenow is a niece of mine, should I?” There was a sparkle in the older woman’s eyes, and some of Margaret’s tension eased.

“You didn’t need to—you look very like her. And you have the same family name. Does that make you my stepaunt?”

“Why, yes, it does. I hope you do not mind
too
much.” Istvana’s voice was chiding, but not unkind.

“It wouldn’t do me any good if I did. It doesn’t matter anyhow, because I am going to go back to Thendara as soon as I can ride and then I am going back to the University where I belong.”

“Marguerida, do you know about the Gifts of the Domains?”

“I know of their existence—though my belief remains dubious. Lord Regis Hastur and my uncle Rafe Scott made reference to the Alton Gift and Uncle Rafe mentioned that it was ‘forced rapport,’ but neither of them bothered to explain it very well. Does it come in a nicely-wrapped package?”
Not that I gave them much opportunity, did I? I was afraid to hear all they might have said, and that . . . person in me . . . I must not think about it! Keep myself apart! Yes, that’s what I must do.

Margaret felt that somehow she must prevent the conversation from becoming too serious, and now that she had the opportunity to hear the answers to some of her many questions, she found that did not want to know them. She sensed that there was some danger to her, that the knowledge would alter her in a fashion she would not like at all!