Exile's Song (61 page)

Within the facets of the pattern, she “saw” her father and Mikhail and old Jeff; not their faces, but something energetic, like light without any source. Lew’s energy was strong, but somehow damaged, and Jeff’s was so clear it almost hurt her inner eye. But it was the light of Mikhail which held her attention most.

It seemed to Margaret as she watched that her cousin’s energy was strong, as strong as either of the other men, but it was clouded by such doubt and disappointment and a kind of loneliness that she could have wept. The fumes of Liriel’s herbs had calmed her so no tears came, but the desire to cry made her throat feel closed and choked. She wanted to touch the light of Mikhail and make it clear, but she knew she could not. She had to let it be, even as she yearned to heal his hurts.

Outside the pattern shimmering in her mind, Margaret was aware of Liriel, guarding the silent little group. Her light was soft, like the moon she was named for, but so clear and focused that she felt even calmer than before. She relaxed into Liriel’s secure grip, and let her awareness of her body fade. For a moment, nothing happened, and then she felt herself moving upward . . . upward . . . toward the plain of the overworld. One instant she was on a couch, and the next she hovered over the vastness beyond.

The overworld spread out in all directions, and Margaret could see the gleaming Towers of Darkover reflected in the light of that other place. Here and there dreamers moved, picking their way toward unknown goals. It was so huge an expanse that she wondered how she would find anyone, let alone a small child exiled from his body.

Where would Donal have gone? What did “out” mean to him? Margaret scanned the astral Towers, seeking the little boy, but she could find no trace of him. She looked at the dreaming wanderers, but even untrained she knew they were not what she sought.

Despair began to gnaw at her, despair and guilt. If she had gone to a Tower, as Istvana had wished, none of this would have happened. If, if . . .

Lew’s voice startled her slightly, because she had forgotten that she was not alone. It was a terrifying feeling. Margaret had been alone so long that the sensation of closeness was alien and threatening. Not just close, but close to her father for the first time. It was the end of an exile she had not known she bore, and it nearly overset her precarious emotional balance.

The fear she had held at bay rushed in at the idea that some remnant of the dreadful place where, in one sense, she had been captive for so many years might still exist. The last thing Margaret wanted was another encounter with the shade of Ashara Alton. She froze, and the overworld seemed to still.

Then she felt something touch her fears, something calm and strong, and she knew it was not her father, but Mikhail. It was like the brush of a kiss upon her brow, and while there was nothing erotic in the touch, there was such passion in it that she felt her heart leap in her breast. And now, as she felt the energy of her cousin move around her, she was certain it was he who had come with her that other time, and urged her to pull the keystone from the Tower of Mirrors. Margaret knew that she would always remember that moment, that it was the most precious intimacy she had ever experienced.

She felt joy race along her blood, and the pounding of her heart seemed too loud, too fast. Then she felt Liriel slow it again, and she was grateful to her cousin. To both her cousins. Mikhail had eased the burden of her terror, and Liriel had steadied the beat of her pulse.

Bracing herself, Margaret once more scanned the plain. She ignored the dreamers and the phantom Towers, and sought the one place she had no wish to go. At first it was a fruitless search, for the Plain seemed empty. There was not a scrap of mirror to be found. This eased her still present fears a little more.

Ivor’s name for her, for no one but he had ever called her that, was shocking. Margaret turned toward the sound, but there was nothing to see. She drifted in the direction the voice had come from, and the overworld rushed by beneath her, becoming a blur.

Ivor!
Margaret called with a voice that was not a voice, and air that was not air moved in her lungs.
Where are you?

Ivor, if you can’t see yourself, I can’t find you.
Margaret was not sure how she knew this, but she felt certain she was right. Worse, she wanted desperately to “see” her mentor once more. She had not said good-bye, and now she had a chance to do that. She nearly forgot about Donal and her purpose in being in the overworld, so eager was she to see Ivor again.

A single hand shone in the light of the overworld, and then a figure began to form around it. A little misty, Ivor Davidson shimmered. He was not the old man who had died and lay buried in the Terran cemetery in Thendara. A man in his thirties appeared, hair dark and back straight and strong. Margaret had never known him at that age, but she knew him now. He was smiling at her, and she smiled back. Somewhere, far distant, she sensed a prickle of some dark emotion, envy or something like it, but she shut her awareness of it away.

Ivor, I am looking for a small boy.
Somehow she could not bring herself to tell her beloved mentor that he was dead, not dreaming.
He’s six or seven, with dark hair, and he’s wearing nightclothes.

Not that I know of.
Ivor’s obsession with music was maddening.
He’s just a little lost boy, Ivor, and I really need to find him.

Try in that direction.
The figure pointed.
There’s some rubble over there, and I think I saw something moving. It is hard to be sure. Direction doesn’t seem to make much sense around here.

Ivor!
For a moment words failed her, for she could not find the right ones to express her affection and gratitude to the man. Then something steadied her again, something firm and certain, and she knew it was Mikhail.
You were the finest friend I ever had, dear Ivor. You gave me so much!

Sad, of course. She misses you, and I miss you more than I can ever say. I’m so sorry!
It was a child’s wail.

Thank you, Ivor. Thank you for everything. Good-bye.
Then he was gone, and she was alone once more. She felt the absence of her mentor like the cold blade of a knife in her heart, for just an instant. Then it was gone, and she knew that she would never see Ivor again except in memory. She felt her sorrow crumble as she realized that her mentor was having an afterlife that was as perfect as anything he could have wished for, that he was quite content, and only regretted that he would not be able to publish his findings. A true academic to the last. It was a comforting realization, and she felt someone watching her, amused and touched. Her father, or Jeff, she guessed, for it did not feel at all like Mikhail.

Bringing her attention back to the task at hand, Margaret moved in the direction he had indicated, and agreed that the overworld was confusing. After what could have been a moment or an hour she spotted what seemed to be some ancient stones, foundation stones, which looked as if they had been thrust apart by a giant hand. Her palm throbbed, and she knew the hand had been her own. It was not an easy feeling, and she tensed all over, in spite of the influence of Liriel or the incense.

When she reached the ruins, she knew it was the place she feared, but also the place she sought. Shards of glass rested between the stones, reflecting stars that did not shine overhead. Margaret kept her eyes from direct gaze, because she was sure that the scraps of mirror were dangerous. The remains of Ashara’s astral Tower seemed empty, but the matrix lines on her hand pulsed beneath her phantom skin. She half expected the ghost of the small woman to rise from the rubble and speak to her.

I’m scared.
The answer was weak, and Margaret could not tell where it came from.

I am here, and you don’t need to be afraid, Donal.
She wished she had more experience talking to little boys, and that she was not quietly terrified herself.

I’m sorry I scared you,
came the voice, and with it the vague figure of the boy. He seemed to materialize from a point in the glassy rubble, and he looked frightened.

Of course you didn’t, Donal. Now take my hand. That’s right.
Margaret drew the little ghostly form against her breast and held him close with her unmarred hand. She sensed that touching him with the other one would be fatal. She could feel her heart pound, and the exhaustion coursed along her veins like some subtle poison.
How do I get out of here?
she wondered.

Margaret looked around the Plain and saw the Towers. For a moment there seemed to be nothing but these, and she felt lost and alone. Then, at last, she saw a kind of coalescence that was not a Tower, but just a clump of light. She knew it was her family in Armida, supporting her and waiting for her.

She drifted in the direction of that light, speeding and barely moving at the same moment, and then she had the sensation of being tugged by strong hands, firm hands and loving. She felt Jeff’s resoluteness, and her father’s power, but most of all what drew her and held her was her sense of Mikhail Lanart-Hastur. It lacked the strength of her father and the surety of Jeff but what it had in great measure was the love she had not even known she longed for, until she felt it.

T
he overworld was gone abruptly, without any transition, and Margaret found herself slumped on the couch next to Donal. Ringed around her were the concerned faces of her family; her father, grave and serious, Jeff, looking tired, Mikhail smiling and meeting her eyes quickly, and Liriel, her expression unreadable.
When he smiles,
she thought,
he does look like an angel after all.