Exile's Song (45 page)

A
fter four days of steady but gentle riding, Margaret and Rafaella came into the lands of the Alton Domain. Margaret did not realize they had crossed some unseen boundary, for it looked very much like the lands they had ridden through the previous days. There were small villages where the children ran out to stare at the strangers until their mothers shooed them into the houses. There were larger communities, with inns for the occasional traveler, or isolated farmhouses where chickens scratched in the yards and chervines grazed. But when Rafaella informed her that they were now in Alton lands, she looked around with renewed interest.

It was hilly country, but there were plenty of growing things, shrubs and plants. Now it was green, but Rafaella told her it would be tinder-dry in the height of the summer season. There were fields, well cultivated, and stands of trees that did not look wild, but planted with some purpose. Ignorant as she was of rural life, Margaret could see that the trees had the lower branches trimmed and the ground cleared of brush. Her uncle Gabriel might be a stuffed tunic—she laughed at this to herself—but he appeared to be a good landlord. She had been on worlds with social systems not too different from Darkover’s, but where the land owners had not husbanded the resources, had taxed the peasantry or left undone the things which preserved the land, and she was quietly happy to see the family estate in good order. She could not think of it as her own no matter who insisted that it was.

“Look! There is Armida,” Rafaella announced, abruptly rising in her saddle and pointing into the distance.

Margaret squinted against the bright sunlight and looked. She saw a large structure of gray fieldstone and wood, lying in a fold of the Kilghard Hills like an egg in a nest. It was much smaller than Castle Ardais, smaller and plainer and lacking in any pretensions. Rail fences bounded it, containing grassy fields full of horses. She counted about twenty, mares with some foals, and several older animals, clearly out to pasture or waiting to be ridden. They rode up the broad dirt path that ran between the fences and watched the younger horses run about and kick their heels.

It was very beautiful, and at first she felt nothing besides curiosity and general interest. She had never been here before, as far as she knew, and no memories disturbed her. But the shape of the house seemed very familiar, and she guessed that perhaps she had picked up impressions of it from her father, when she was still very small and before she had been blocked. He loved this place, and some of his ancient emotion stirred her. A slight prickling in her eyes told her she was more moved than she knew, and she looked away from the house, not feeling able to cope with strong emotions yet.

Instead, she looked at the horses that were capering about in the field on one side of the road. One steed, a large gray animal whose muzzle was white with years, thrust its wedge-shaped head across the fence and looked at the women. Margaret looked back, and the horse nickered at her. She leaned out a little and held her hand out, and the horse snorted at her. Then it turned away and raced across the field in a manner which gave the lie to its age. “I guess I must smell wrong or something,” she told Rafaella.

The Renunciate chuckled. “No, Marguerida. I think you smell
right.
I think that old gelding was glad to see you. Just look at him!” Rafaella had stopped using any titles now, and they were on extremely friendly terms. Margaret was glad of that, because being “
Domna
Alton” still made her feel extremely odd.

But Margaret was distracted. At the far end of the enclosure she saw a graceful mare the color of pewter, with mane and tail as black as night. She was not a large horse, like the gelding, but medium-sized and very dainty. Her hooves almost danced across the pasture as she ran, and she came to the fence and pricked her ears toward Margaret. Stamping her feet impatiently, the mare stared at her and blew its heavy lips. She had never seen an animal quite so beautiful, and wondered who she belonged to. Margaret wanted to ride her, weary as she was. She knew that the little mare would run like the wind, that her hooves would hardly brush the ground. How foolish. Surely she was too old to have horse lust.

Suddenly, Margaret realized that if she were the heiress of the Alton Domain, the horse would be hers. For only a moment she actually considered accepting the Domain just to get the horse, and then she laughed merrily at herself. It was not a thing that anyone could understand, she supposed. Besides, horses were even worse space travelers than Altons, which was why they had been transported to very few planets in the Federation. And she wasn’t going to stay, was she?

“What is so funny,” Rafaella wondered.

“I have just fallen in love with that horse. Ridiculous, isn’t it?” Margaret gestured at the dark gray animal, and it whinnied. “Sorry, dear, I am fresh out of carrots,” she informed the mare.

Rafaella nodded. “Everyone covets the Alton horses,
domna.
They are the best in the Domains, except perhaps those of the Serrais.”

Margaret looked at her companion affectionately. Serrais? Istvana had mentioned that—it was the place where the Ridenows had their Domain. There was so much she did not know yet. “What’s that? I thought we had agreed you were going to call me Marguerida.”

The Renunciate made a little face. “I do not think that Lady Javanne would like to hear me . . .”

“Rafaella, I will observe Darkovan customs as much as I am able, but if you start kowtowing to me, I will be very hurt. Frankly, I don’t really care what Javanne thinks, or anyone else, just now. She sounds like a very interfering person, and I don’t like interfering people! I mind my own business, and I expect other people to behave with equal courtesy.”

Rafaella smiled. “I know. But you had better prepare yourself to be annoyed because I think everyone in that house will try to mind your business, whether you like it or not. They think it is their right.”

“I am afraid you are correct, but I don’t have to like it, do I?”

“No, you don’t.”
Poor Marguerida. She has no idea how to be a great lady, and they will expect that of her!

They arrived at the forecourt of the house and dismounted. Two young boys dashed out to take the horses and help unload the baggage from the mule, grinning as they worked. Margaret took another look at the house where her father had been born and lived during his youth. Now that she was closer to it, she could see that some of the stones from which it was built were translucent, a wonderful clear color that was nearly silver.

Just as the lads were taking the animals away, a sturdy man descended the front steps. He had dark hair, but otherwise was a younger version of Gabriel Lanart. Margaret judged him to be in his mid-thirties, and guessed he was one of her cousins, the brother of Mikhail and one of the Lanart Angels. If he was an angel, he was a dark one, and she assumed that Mikhail had gotten his fair coloring from his mother. He appeared a very sober and serious fellow as he strode toward her.

“Welcome to Armida,” he began, and she found he had a pleasant voice, deep and resonant. “I am Rafael Lanart, and you must be my cousin Marguerida.” He bowed toward her and ignored the Renunciate, but Rafaella did not appear to notice. “Father told us to expect you.”

“Thank you for your welcome,” she answered formally.

“We are glad to see you. My brother Gabriel is out riding the boundaries, but he should be back soon. You will meet him tonight. And Mikhail has been sent for—but you already met him, didn’t you? At Ardais?”

“I did.” Margaret did not think it would be good manners to tell him that Mikhail would not be coming. “He was kind enough to attempt to explain all the ramifications of the Alton family, but I am not sure I understood everything.”

“Did he now? I never knew Mikhail cared much for that.” He tensed slightly.
Probably trying to steal a march on me and Gabe! It doesn’t matter. Father won’t have it!
He finally realized that he had ignored Rafaella, and he gave her a stiff half-bow. “
Mestra,
welcome to Armida. I am sure you will be glad to have my cousin in the bosom of her family, and be relieved of the responsibility of guarding her.”

Margaret was first outraged at this near dismissal of her friend and companion, and then amused at her cousin’s high-handedness. He was not as rude as his father, but clearly cut from the same cloth. “Guarding me? From what?” she asked, laughing. “Rafaella has been guiding me, and she took care of me when I was ill.” Despite the laughter in her voice, Margaret made it clear that she did not appreciate Rafael’s interference.

The Renunciate watched the exchange with bright eyes and repressed a grin with some difficulty. Margaret suspected she was enjoying seeing Rafael Lanart put in his place, though she was much too well-mannered to let it show. Then she looked at Margaret for a moment and winked.
Be careful, Marguerida! Dragons often smile before they dine!

Margaret held herself stiff to keep her surprise from showing. It was the first time Rafaella had deliberately spoken to her mentally, and there was an undertone of affection and loyalty in it that moved her deeply.

Rescue from Rafael appeared in the form of an attractive middle-aged woman. She was not tall, but she moved with the air of one used to authority. Her once-dark hair was faded to a dull rust-brown color, and elaborately styled, as if she had taken great pains over it. The throat of her gown was ruffled, so that one did not immediately see the square line of the jaw that intimated a strong personality. She held out a pale hand toward Margaret, and it had six fingers.

The resemblance to Regis Hastur was quite unmistakable, and Margaret suspected she would have known Javanne Hastur Lanart-Alton as his sister no matter where she had encountered her. Determined gray eyes met hers for an instant, and then she found herself enfolded in a scented embrace, her cheeks brushed with a light kiss and her shoulders hugged gently. The smell of her perfume was heady and almost overwhelming.

She released Margaret enough to hold her at arm’s length and looked her up and down, as one might examine a piece of horseflesh before one bought it. “Welcome to Armida, kinswoman. I am Javanne. My Gabriel has told me so much about you.”

I’ll wager he has,
Margaret thought rebelliously,
and none of it to my credit
She took measure of her aunt before she spoke, noticing how Mikhail resembled her and differed as well. She noticed that Rafael had inherited her good bones, but his father’s rather porcine eyes. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“There, there. Don’t be stiff. You are with your family now, where you belong. I can hardly wait for you to meet my daughters—they are about your age. It will be quite delightful.” There was neither warmth nor enthusiasm in her voice, and Margaret suspected she was not particularly happy to have her there. The inner conflict was well-contained, but enough of it leaked out to make her very wary. The ease she had enjoyed on the journey evaporated, and she felt the tension return. “Come in, come in. You must be weary from your journey. Rafael, don’t stand there like a statue. Take Marguerida’s things.”

Margaret started to protest and then saw that Rafaella had slung her precious harp over her own shoulder, and had picked up the bag with the recording equipment, leaving the hapless middle son to deal with the rest of the luggage. She grinned at the Renunciate behind Javanne’s back, and got a nod in return.

Beyond the doors there was a wide entry hall with benches on either side. Javanne led them through it and into a large, comfortable room where a fire roared. The fireplace was large enough to roast an ox, and after the mild day outside, it was quite warm. It was even a little uncomfortable, with her body heated from riding, but she tried to disregard it.

There were several couches set along the walls, upholstered in dark greens and grays. She noticed the tapestries hung on the walls, and wished she had remembered to ask Lady Marilla about the two in her dining room. That at least would have been a topic that would not have upset the woman, as had the conversation about the Gifts. She observed four or five large chairs, and the legs of someone occupying one, his feet thrust toward the roaring hearth, his body hidden by the wings of the chair.

She watched the legs retreat as the sound of their footfalls left the hardwood of the entry and came onto the thick carpet. Strong hands pushed against the arms of the chair. In a moment, Margaret found herself looking up at a remarkably tall man, burly and grizzled. His once red hair was almost gray, but his eyes were bright and alert. He moved a little slowly, though he seemed to be no older than sixty, and took her hand gently in his.

They stood looking at one another, and Margaret felt a remarkable flood of emotions at his touch. There was something about him that reminded her of her father, not his appearance, but some quality she could not name. As she curled her fingers into his, Margaret felt all her repressed longing for the Old Man swell up in her throat. She swallowed hard and told herself not to be an idiot. It was just being in her father’s house that was getting to her.