The Saga of the Renunciates (55 page)

At that moment the door opened and Mother Lauria looked in to the Armory. Her eyes widened at the scene—Doria sobbing in Rafaella’s arms, Magda with her back to them all, the rest staring—but she said only, “Is Margali here? You have a visitor in the Stranger’s Room; I am sorry to call you from your lesson—”

“Oh,
she
has nothing to learn from any of
us
,” Rafaella said, but Mother Lauria ignored the sarcasm.

She beckoned Magda to the door. “There is a Terran, a man, who has come and asked for you by the name you are known here.”

Magda’s throat tightened; who could it be but Peter? And why would he come? Had something happened to Jaelle? “What is his name? What does he want?”

Lauria said disdainfully “I cannot remember his barbarian name. You need not meet him unless you wish; I can have the girls send him away.”

“No, I had better go and see what he wants. Thank you, Mother.” Magda was grateful that the Guild Mother had come herself to give this message; it was not usual for her to put herself out this way for anyone, rather than sending a message.

“Please yourself,” Mother Lauria said, and went away. Magda was suddenly conscious of her hot, flushed face, her sweat-soaked tunic, her hair straggling in damp wisps about her face. She went into the room behind the armory, washed her face in cold water, stripped off the sweaty tunic and put on the fresh one she had learned to keep there after a lesson. She laced her overtunic and was combing her hak neatly back when Rafaella came in.

She said scornfully, “Are you readying yourself to meet a lover?”

“No,” said Magda, struggling for composure against the rage that kept threatening to get out of hand again, “but I have a guest in the Stranger’s Room and I do not want him to think that a Free Amazon must be a filthy slattern from a dung-heap, either!”

“Why are you so concerned with what a man would think of you? Is it so important to you that men must notice your beauty, your desirability?” Rafaella asked with a curl of her lip, and Magda held herself by force from answering, walking past Rafaella in silence. Some day, she thought, some day I will slap that look off her face, it would be worth whatever they did to me for it! She went down the hall to the little room at the front of the house that they called the Stranger’s Room. She was still shaking with anger, ready to fling defiance in Peter’s face—how dared he break in upon her here?

But seated on one of the narrow chairs, she saw a complete stranger. She had seen him somewhere before, but he was certainly no one she knew well; and she fancied he looked with surprise and disdain at her tunic and breeches, her cropped hair. She said curtly, “May I ask your business here?”

“My name is Wade Montray,” he said, “And you are Magdalen Lorne—Margali, as they call you here?” He spoke Darkovan, she noticed, and very good Darkovan at that. Language tapes, the ones she and Peter had made, no doubt. He tiptoed quietly to the door, and looked into the hall. “Nobody listening, and I doubt if they have the technology to bug a room, but you can’t be too careful.”

Magda said frigidly, “I doubt if anyone here would trouble to intrude on a private conversation, being sufficiently busy with their own affairs. If we have to talk, by all means talk freely.” Yes, she had met this man, he was the Coordinator’s son, like herself, brought up on Darkovan. She felt immense distaste for the suspicion in his voice; had she really once been a part of the vast paranoia of the Intelligence Service?

“I wanted to be careful not to blow your cover here, Miss Lorne. Jaelle Haldane will be down here in a few days to talk with you, so Cholayna says, and I really ought to leave it to her. But she has her job and I have mine. I have to travel into the Hellers this winter, and I understand you were there last season. Your report’s full of intriguing gaps, and I need to know more about what you know of that ruling caste—Comyn, is it? And you spent the winter at Castle Ardais as the Lady Rohana’s guest; there’s a lot you could tell us.”

“There is nothing to tell, really, except what I put in my report,” Magda said cautiously. “I do not suppose you are interested in the menu for Midwinter-Festival feast, the names of the men with whom I danced at the Festival Ball, or the depth of snow on the day after Festival.”

“Look, I’m interested in everything—absolutely everything,” said Wade Montray. “Your previous reports have been very full; I’m curious to know why you filed such a sketchy one about this mission!”

“I went on leave,” Magda evaded, “and I did file a report with Cholayna Ares; check with her.”

“I understand, but under the circumstances, I’d appreciate it if you’d come down to the HQ and file a fuller report,” said Montray. “Haldane does good work, but I don’t think he has quite the grasp of the situation that you do.”

He was trying to butter her up now; she recognized it with distaste. The Training sessions had made her very aware of the techniques which men used to get on the favorable side of a woman, and she was angry at the familiar condescension. “I remind you I am on leave, and that this is my first leave of absence in six years; you have no right to interrupt it.”

“Oh, I’ll see that you get extra pay for breaking into your vacation time,” Montray said, and Magda was resentful suddenly at the Terran idea that her wishes could be set aside by an offer of extra pay! Were all the Terrans as mercenary as that?

“I am sorry, I would rather not. What would you do if I had gone offplanet, as I would have had every right to do? Why should you assume I am required to be accessible?”

“Oh, come on,” he said, and she noted that his smile was singularly sweet, “It couldn’t hurt you that much to come down on a free afternoon and fill in the gaps for me, could it? For that matter, we could get you a special bonus if you would keep a log while you’re here and file a full report on whatever happens in the Guild House, we don’t have a lot of data on the Free Amazons—excuse me, Renunciates, I did remember that—and if we’re going to be employing them for Medic and Tech training, we need all the help we can get.”

“I absolutely refuse,” she said angrily, and he changed his tack.

“Have it your own way,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you. You’re certainly entitled to spend your leave in peace and quiet, if you want to.”

Peace and quiet! That’s the last thing I would find here, especially now
! Against her will she smiled at the thought, not knowing that the smile transformed her face and made a mockery of her annoyance. Seeing it, he was encouraged.

“Look, Miss Lorne, off the record—all right? I don’t want to break into your leave, but why not come out of here, where we can talk without worrying about who might overhear us,; we can have a quiet drink somewhere in the Trade City, and you can fill me in on what I need to know. I have a scriber with me; I can just put it into Records, or if you like, I’ll keep it off the record, for my ears only. No trouble, no fuss, and then I’ll leave you in peace. How about it?

Unexpectedly, she was tempted. To go away from here, out of the perpetual atmosphere of distrust and hostility, to slip back into her familiar Terran self; even the thought of a drink, or of some Terran coffee, was intolerably tempting. She sighed, regretfully.

“I’m really sorry, I wish I could,” she said, smiling, “but it’s quite impossible, Mr. Montray.” She had slipped into speaking Terran Standard, and suddenly realized it.

“Mr. Montray is my father,” he said, grinning, “I’m Monty. And why is it so impossible?”

“In the first place, even if I could go, it wouldn’t do for a Renunciate to be seen sitting around in a bar with a Terran in uniform.” Quite against her will, she realized that she was smiling; her eyes twinkled with amusement. “And I couldn’t go; I’m pledged to remain here in the house until Midsummer, and I can’t leave without permission of the Guild Mothers.”

“And you put up with it? A free citizen of Terra? Imprisoned?”

“No, no,” she said. “It’s part of the training system, that’s all. And you yourself said you didn’t want to blow my cover. If I, a probationary Renunciate, went off with a Terran—well, you can imagine what they would say.”

Damn what they say; but I gave my word, and I’ll keep it or die trying.

He took it philosophically, and rose. “If you can’t, you can’t; but I warn you, I’ll come back at Midsummer,” he said, “and I’ll get that report somehow.” He held out his hand; suddenly homesick for a familiar gesture, Magda took it. She watched him go, thinking with some regret that he was a familiar voice from a world she had renounced—and now, paradoxically, found that she missed.

She returned to the Armory, but the lesson had ended; a few of the women were soaking in the hot tub, but Rafaella was among them, and Magda, though her hurt leg was aching and she would have enjoyed the heat of the tub, decided against joining them. She decided to take advantage of the privilege still allowed her, and go up and lie down. For the first time she was beginning to doubt her ability to endure for the half year of housebound training.

She liked the women here, most of the time. She even liked Rafaella, or would if the woman would let her, and she liked Camilla and Doria and Keitha, very much. But it was the little things, the cold baths, the food, the stupid insistence on manual work, and now the constant friction, since that fight when she had lost her temper. She couldn’t really understand how they felt about it; the man had, after all, been attacking the House. Even if she had killed him, he would have deserved it.

Could anyone, ever, completely renounce their world? Had she been a fool to try? Should she simply give it up, tell Mother Lauria it was too much for her, petition to have her Oath, her forced Oath, set aside after all? Maybe she would not have to make that decision; maybe, when they came to review the dreadful thing she had supposedly done, they would expel her from the Guild House and that would relieve her of the choice.

And how would I face Jaelle, then?

There was no regular noon-meal served in the Guild House; anyone who was hungry at mid-day went down to the kitchen to find cold bread or meat, and after a time Magda, who was used still to the Terran mealtimes, and liked a light snack at noon, went down to the kitchen. She poured out a mug of the bark-tea which always simmered in the kettle over the banked fire—it wasn’t coffee, but it was hot and the kitchen was cold, and her hands curved around the hot mug with comfort—and sliced bread from a cut loaf, spreading it with butter and soft cheese from a crock. It was too much trouble to slice the cold meat in the cool-room, and it was too cold in there anyhow. She sat nibbling, wondering where Irmelin was. The bread for supper was rising at one end of the table in a huge bowl, puffing up under a clean towel. She was brushing up the crumbs and rinsing her mug—one of the strictest rules, that anyone coming to the kitchen for food must leave it as clean as they found it—when Irmelin stuck her head in the door.

“Oh, Margali? You weren’t in your room. I hoped you would be here,” she said. “Will you take hall-duty? Byrna is nursing the baby.”

Magda shrugged. “Certainly,” she said, and started for the hall, but Irmelin held her back, the chubby woman’s face alive with curiosity.

“Are you not Jaelle n’ha Melora’s oath-daughter?”

“Yes, I am,” Magda said, and Irmelin nodded. “I thought so; she is here to see Mother Lauria, and they have been closeted in her office for hours—” Her eyes widened, and she added, “I suppose Mother Lauria sent for her to discuss what they’re going to do about you! I hope they let you stay, Margali! I think Camilla was too hard on you—we can’t all know the honor code of mercenary soldiers, and I don’t know why we should!”

With her very kindness she had managed, again, to destroy Magda’s peace of mind. Was it so serious that they would send for Jaelle from the Terran Zone? But Irmelin added fussily, “Go, now, sit in the hall to let people in, I have to knead down the bread and get it into the pans for tonight’s dinner, and if Shaya will be here I want to make some spicebread.”

Magda sat in the hall, listlessly plaiting the belt, and remembering against her will the last time she had worked on it. When the doorbell rang again she was braced for trouble, and when she found a man, in the green and black uniform of a Guardsman, on the doorstep, she set her chin aggressively.

“What do you want?”

“Is Byrna within?”

“You can see her in the Stranger’s Room, if you wish,” Magda said.

“Oh, I am glad she is up again,” the young man said.

“May I tell her who is asking for her?”

“My name is Errol,” he said, “and I am the father of her son.” He was a very large, very young man, his cheeks still downy with the first shadow of beard. “My sister has just had a baby and she has offered to nurse this one with her own, so I came to take him away.”

So soon. He is only a tenday old. Oh, poor Byrna
. Her distressed look must have reached the very young man, for he said uncertainly “Well, she
told
me she didn’t want to keep him, so I thought the sooner I took him off her hands, the better it would be for her.”

“I will go and tell her.” She showed the young man into the Stranger’s Room, and hesitated, wondering what to do now; but the doorbell rang again and fortunately, Marisela stood on the steps.

“What shall I do, Marisela? The father of Byrna’s baby is in there—” she pointed, “and wants to take him away—”

Marisela sighed; but she only said, “Better now than later. I will tell her, Margali; go back to the hall, child.”

Magda obeyed; and after a considerable time she saw Errol coming from the Stranger’s Room, carrying a thickly wrapped bundle in his arms, with the clumsiness of a man not accustomed to handling babies. Marisela, at his side, was talking attentively to him, and she left Marisela to let him out; it struck her that probably, at this moment, Byrna was in need of some sympathetic company. If anyone came to the door, they could just knock until Irmelin, in the kitchen, heard them and could leave her bread-rolls long enough to let them in!

She found Byrna in her room, flung across her bed, crying bitterly. Magda didn’t speak; she only sat down beside Byrna and took her hand. Byrna raised her tear-blurred face, and flung herself, sobbing, into Magda’s arms. Magda hugged her, not trying to talk. She had had half a dozen things ready to say; but none of them seemed worth the trouble.

They shouldn’t have let him take the baby. It’s too soon. Everything we know tells us that at this stage, Byrna needs her baby as much as he needs her! It’s cruel, it’s not right
… and through the woman’s trembling in her arms, it seemed that somehow she could
feel
the vast pain and despair. She said nothing, just held Byrna and let her cry herself into exhaustion, then laid her gently down on her pillow.

“He’s too little,” Byrna sobbed, “he needs me, he really needs me—but I promised, I didn’t know when I promised how much it would hurt—”

There was nothing Magda could say; she was relieved when the door opened and Marisela came in, Felicia at her side. “I hoped someone would come to stay with her. Merciful Avarra, how I wish Ferrika had come back!” She bent over Byrna, said gently, “I have something to make you sleep,
breda
.”

Byrna could not speak. Her eyes were swollen nearly shut with crying, her face blotched and crimson. Marisela held her head as she sipped the cup at her lips, laid her down. “You will sleep after a little.”

Felicia knelt at Byrna’s side, took her hands and said, “Sister, I know. I really do, remember?”

Byrna said, her voice hoarse and ghastly, “But you had your little boy for five years, five whole years, and mine is still so little, only a baby—”

“And it was that much harder for me,” Felicia said gently. Her big gray eyes filled with tears as she said, “You did right, Byrna, and I only wish I had had the courage to do the same, to give him up at once to the woman he will call mother. I kept him here for my own comfort, and then when he was five years old, he had to go among strangers, where everything is different and they will expect him already to know how to be what they call a little man—” she swallowed hard. “I took him to my brother’s house—he cried so, and I had to tear his hands away and leave him, and they had to hold him, and I could hear him all the way down the street, screaming ‘Mother, Mother—’ ” Her voice held endless pain. “It is so much better—to let him go now, when all he will know is love and kindness and a warm breast—and if his foster mother has nursed him herself she will love him so much more and be gentler with him.”

“Yes, yes, but I want him, I want him—” Byrna sobbed, and clung to Felicia; Felicia was crying now, too, and Marisela drew Magda gently out of the room.

“Felicia can help her now more than anyone else.”

Magda said, “I should think she would make it worse—isn’t it cruel for them both?”

Marisela put her arm round Magda and said gently, “No,
chiya
, it is what they both need; grief unspoken turns to poison. Byrna must mourn for her child, even though it is like death. And she can help Felicia, too; Felicia has not been able to cry for her son, and now they can weep together and be eased by knowing the other truly understands. Otherwise they will both sicken with the first sickness that comes near them, and Byrna, at least, could die. Give the Goddess her due, child, even when her due is grief. You have never borne a child, or you would know.” She kissed Magda’s cheek and said gently, “Some day you too will be able to weep and be healed of your grief.”

Magda watched Marisela go down the stairs, staring after her in amazement. She supposed Marisela was right—she had come to respect the woman, she knew as much as most Medics, in her own way, and she supposed she had a good grip of the psychology of the matter; everyone knew that stress could cause psychosomatic illness, though she was surprised that Marisela would think of it. But certainly Marisela was wrong about
her
, she had no particular sorrows, she had nothing to cry about! Anger, yes, enough to burst with it. Especially lately. Resentment. But grief? She had nothing to cry about, she had not cried more than three times in her adult life. Oh, yes, she had cried when she had been hurt and Marisela had stitched up her leg without anesthetic, but that was different. The idea that she might have some unknown and hidden grief for which she should be healed, struck her as the most fantastic thing she had ever heard.

There was the sound of a mellow chime; the bell warning women who had come in from working in the city that dinner would be served in an hour and that they should finish bathing, changing their garments. Magda went upstairs, still frowning. She passed Byrna’s closed door, hoping that the woman was sleeping.

I was sad, but not enough to cry about it, when I realized that Peter had not managed to make me pregnant; and then, when we separated, I was glad not to be burdened with a child. And especially now
—
what would I do here with a child? I could now be in Byrna’s predicament. The idea is ridiculous. Marisela could use some sensible Terran training, both in medicine and psychology
.

As she stripped off her clothes to change for dinner, she sighed at the thought of confronting Rafaella again at the meal, or meeting the unspoken resentment of the others. But there was nothing she could do about it, and she would not hide in her room and let them know that it bothered her. She was a Terran; and even more than that, she was a Renunciate, and she would somehow manage enough strength to get through this time.