Exile's Song (34 page)

Istvana ignored her joking question. “The Gifts are mental talents which, over the centuries, we have refined. The Ridenow Gift is that of empathy, so I have some idea of how you are feeling. I can’t help it, so please don’t feel I am intruding. One of the problems in a telepathic society is that of privacy, and we try very hard not to put our noses in where they don’t belong.”

A telepathic society? How could this woman just sit there as if she were speaking of something ordinary and simple? Empathy? Well, Dio had a lot of that, though Margaret was not sure she would have called it a gift. She realized now that Dio had tried to help her, to reach her, but she had been too angry all the time, hadn’t she? And cold. She wondered what it felt like to an empath to be around a furious adolescent, and decided it was probably dreadful. She wanted to weep for her past, but she held herself back from it.

Istvana waited patiently for Margaret to speak, and if she heard any of the thoughts rushing through her mind, she gave no indication. “I guess I’ve figured out that much, even if I didn’t really believe it. I find I keep ‘hearing’ bits and pieces of people’s thoughts. I thought I was going crazy. I can’t seem to help it.”

“Did that happen before you came to Darkover?”

“Occasionally, but not as much as it does now. And I always told myself I was just imagining things.”

“And Lew never told you about the Gifts?”

Margaret emptied her cup. “That’s another thing! Everyone seems to assume that my father told me all sorts of things . . . well, he never did! We hardly ever spoke at all, and we certainly didn’t have any intimate conversations, mental or otherwise. We just tried to keep out of each other’s way when he was home.”

“That must have been very lonely for you.”

Margaret flared at this. She could not stand being pitied! Then she dragged a breath into her aching lungs and told herself not to get upset. The woman was trying to help, wasn’t she? “Not really. I learned not to be lonely almost before I could walk. In the orphanage. And to be brutally honest about it, I can’t say it has been a bad thing. All those things that happened when I was little—the things no one wants to discuss—have left me mistrustful.”
I keep myself to myself and I am very good at it!

“Yes, I can sense that about you. But just because you are wary of people does not mean you like being alone. So, you
do
know that the Alton Gift is forced rapport. But can you imagine what that means?”

“The capacity to make contact with people whether they want it or not? That isn’t a Gift! That would be a curse, and I am very glad I don’t have it.”

“Uncontrolled, it would indeed be a curse. We have learned over the years that these talents,
all
talents, must be trained. Your father was very remiss in not teaching you how to use . . .”

“I don’t have any Gift!” Margaret shouted at the
leronis
and watched her flinch as if she had been struck. “I
won’t
have it! I don’t want to know what people are thinking or feeling. I just want to get off this damn planet and go somewhere where I don’t have any relatives who want me to—”

“
Chiya,
it is already awakened. You cannot turn back now. Either you learn to use your Gift, or you will indeed go mad. We must test you to determine the strength of your talent, but you cannot turn away from it. I am afraid it is already too late for that.”

“You can’t know that!” Margaret felt desperation choking her.

“But I can.
I do.
I can sense the Alton Gift even as you sit there, weak from as bad a bout of threshold sickness as I have ever encountered. Usually that happens when one is younger, in adolescence. Do you remember anything like this from when you were a teen?”

“No. I was a perfectly normal child and I never . . . When I was very little, there was something. I can’t remember.”
She told me not to remember!

The mental exchange was over in a flash, and Margaret felt the sharp stab of pain above her brows. She blinked her eyes against it. Her breath came in short gasps, as if she were running, and she felt hot and sweaty. She was terrified, not of the small woman across from her, but of something else.

Istvana Ridenow reached beneath her gown and drew out a small bag which was suspended from a cord. Margaret glanced at it and shrank away. She saw a small hand, a child’s hand, reaching for another such silken bag, and heard a voice telling her not to touch. She knew there was something in the bag that was more dangerous to her than poison.

The
leronis
reached within the bag and drew out a shining stone. It was blue and faceted, and it reflected the flames leaping in the hearth on its sparkling surfaces. Istvana cupped it in her hands, so the flames colored her skin with an orange light. Margaret looked into her lap and clenched her hands, driving the nails into her palms so deep they cut.

“
Chiya,
do not be afraid. Lift your eyes and look into the crystal. Do not try to touch it—just look into it.”

Istvana’s voice was low and compelling, but Margaret refused to move. She looked at her hands and watched a line of blood creep out from beneath her nails while her skull pounded like all the demon drums of Algol at one time. She narrowed her attention so that all she saw or thought of was the way she was driving her nails into her palms.

Moments passed. Margaret heard the faint crackle of the fireplace, the soft patter of rain against the windows and the rustle of trees beyond them. She smelled the fire, the clothes against her skin, the old stones of Castle Ardais, and the faint perfume of the silent woman across from her, waiting with infinite patience for her to look into the crystal.

She tried not to think about the crystal by concentrating on the notes of a piece of extremely complex music, but despite her efforts, she found her mind moving into a cold chamber with a throne inside the crystalline colors of the walls. The dreadful presence on the throne waited, then reached toward her with nearly visible hands. Tiny hands, but terrifying.
You will keep to yourself!

Margaret felt the voice echo along her bones, more than heard it. It was like the chime of quartz and metal brought together—a sound so powerful she wanted to quail away. But she could not—it was inside her! If only she could stop seeing that room in her mind! If only she could escape the voice ringing in her flesh! It was too late!

“Put away your bauble before I destroy it and you with it!”
Margaret spoke the words aloud, yet it was not her own voice which commanded, but that of another, a stranger.

She felt something change, a subtle alteration in the sitting room. The fire was the same, the rain and the trees, but the energy around her was now charged with strength, as if a stone tower had grown up around the
leronis.
Margaret felt as if she were caught between two forces, equal in power, warring over possession of her aching body.

“Stop it! I will not be a bone between two dogs!” It was her own voice now, but thin, like that of a child, small and piping. For all of that it had a curious potency, and the snarl of tightness in her chest eased just a little. She swallowed hard and took several trembling breaths. The air seemed to sear her lungs. “I think you had better put that thing away, because I think if I look at it, it will shatter.” The child Margaret was gone now, replaced by the voice she used when addressing classes at University. This was the one she was accustomed to, that she knew best. She felt a vast relief at the sound of her normal voice, neither that of a stranger nor of a small child.

There was a rustle of fabric across from her. “I have hidden my matrix, Marguerida. Now, please look at me.

Tell me, if you can, what you felt or saw, and who spoke with your mouth.”

“I don’t know.” Margaret’s shaking hand reached for her cup of tea. She stared dumbly into its empty depths, then poured herself more, and drank deeply. “Or, rather, I do know, and I am not able to tell it.” She felt something release, a kind of tension that she had always carried inside, but she was just too weary to pay it any attention.

“Have you always known?”

“In a way. It was kind of fuzzy, a dream thing, but while I was sick, it got a lot more distinct.” She frowned. “I think Dio knows about it, or that something troubled her about me, when I was little. She told my father, and I remember him saying something about ‘channels,’ whatever those are. When I had the fever, I heard them talking a lot, in my imagination, I think. I can’t remember much of it now, but something happened to me after we left Darkover.” Part of Margaret did not want to talk, but another part of her was compelled to discover the secrets hidden in her mind, no matter what the cost. Istvana Ridenow was not the person she would have chosen to disclose her secrets to, but some deep sense trusted the small woman, and she knew she would have no better opportunity than this. The tight place inside her gave another movement, a kind of uncoiling, and Margaret decided she was doing something right at last. She found she didn’t care about Gifts and Domains at all, but she did want to find out what secret was buried within her. It was the most important thing in the world at that instant.

“Your father knew your channels had been tampered with, and he did nothing?” Istvana sounded extremely angry now, outraged in a way that warmed Margaret and made her feel protected for a moment.

“He thought I would grow out of it.”

“Then he is an even greater fool than I thought! You don’t ‘grow out’ of such a thing—it must be mended, attended to.” She paused. “I think the best solution would be for you to return to Neskaya with me for a time.”

Margaret caught an impression of a tall stone tower gleaming against the night. Within it there were people moving about, and she could see great crystals set in arrays, their many facets shining. She began to shudder violently. It was another room of glass, a trap of crystal. Her hand shook, spilling warm tea over the cuts in her palms and causing her to cry out in pain.

Istvana Ridenow flinched as if she had been struck in the face. She rubbed her brow and flexed her narrow shoulders, as if to shake off some burden. “Can you tell me about the
mirror,
Marguerida?” the
leronis
asked at last.

“Mirror?” Margaret looked around the room, dazed, then set down her cup and wiped her hand against her skirt, smearing tea and blood over the russet fabric. “There isn’t any mirror in here, is there?”

“No, there isn’t. But there is a place in your mind, a place full of mirrors or glass, and it terrifies you. Doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And my matrix crystal reminded you of it?”

“I guess.” She was so tired. Why couldn’t they leave her alone?

Because you are a threat to yourself and everyone else, until this matter is resolved.
This was stern, but not unkind.

“Tell me what you are able to remember, and stop whenever you feel threatened.”

“I feel threatened all the time. But there are words, specific words, that are the worst. And mostly I can’t remember the words, but can only go around them, like barriers. Rafaella mentioned something today, about some Rebellion, and that set it off. For a little bit, I could nearly remember, but then. . . .
she
made me stop. Not Rafaella, but someone in my mind.”
It’s so cold in the mirror, so cold.

“You have a very powerful mind, Marguerida, for which we can be grateful. If you were less powerful, you would have gone mad a long time ago. But that very strength is injuring you now, and we must find some means to help you heal yourself. What did Rafaella say, exactly?”

“I can’t remember, but it was something about the Ardais—Dyan came up and talked to me while I was still in bed, which made Rafaella furious. I think his mother wants him to marry me or something. And when he left, she said that all the
comyn
were wary of the Ardais, since that Rebellion thing, and then she said it was better not to talk about it.”

“Very good!” Istvana sounded extremely pleased. “I suspected it was the Sharra Rebellion she meant, but now I am certain. I was a young woman at the time, but I was old enough to hear things. That was a terrible time for Darkover. But I did not know you were involved—you could not have been more than four years old then.”

“I was five, almost six, I think, when we left Darkover. It depends on whose calendar is being used.” Something struggled up from the depths of her mind, something so dreadful that she did not want to know. Margaret tried to resist it, but it was too strong for her.
Sharra killed my mother and the silver man. Why didn’t she ever love me? Why did she send me away to the orphanage?

“Yes, your mother died at the end of the Rebellion,
chiya.
” Istvana sounded very sad as she spoke. She seemed to gather herself then, setting her shoulders back firmly. “When I spoke the word ‘Sharra,’ your body reacted, just as it is reacting now. And when you thought it, just a moment ago, all your throat muscles tensed and I could feel your voice being throttled. Let me tell you, feeling strangled is not a pleasant experience for an empath!” Istvana wiped her brow with her sleeve, and Margaret realized that both of them were sweating, though the room was not overly warm. It was such a normal gesture, so simple and human.
I guess telepaths aren’t supermen if they still work up a sweat.
It was a comforting thought, and right then, she needed all the comfort she could find.

Then she was aware that this thought had been nearly shouted, and she quivered with discomfort. She could feel the difference now, between the endless chatter of the mind to itself, and those other thoughts that somehow communicated themselves to these people. How did they bear it? “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to think so loud.”