Lew looked bemused. "Termagant," he said affectionately.
"By all accounts, I come by it very honestly. Thyra was my mother."
"And you have never reminded me more of her than in this moment. Give me the telefax. I'll go over to Terran HQ tomorrow and see what I can do. Don't expect much."
"Thank you."
"I can see that you care a great deal about Mestra Davidson."
"I do."
"Then I will do everything in my power to bring her to Darkover." He sighed softly. "I know it is hard for you, chiya. And I think you are doing a fine job of bending as much as you are able. I found the demands of our world burdensome, and railed against them. And I suppose I have forgotten how difficult it is to be a woman here—how restricted you are. I would change the world for you, if I could."
"Would you, really?"
He grinned. "In a flash! But since I cannot, we must just
do the best we can together. Perhaps between us we can
make a difference."·
"Well, it is nice to know that you would upset the social order to make me happy—even if you can't do it!"
"I think I have been trying to do just that for my entire life—not very successfully, I admit. That is why I am not trusted, and why you are not as well."
"Like father, like daughter?"
"Precisely!"
"I never thought of myself as any sort of rebel, Father."
"Neither did I, but it seems we are fated to be revolutionaries, whether we wish to or not. You are the future, chiya, and I think that it will be a very good one, if we can
just manage to get through the present—which, as always, is difficult."
You are the future. Margaret let herself sink into that thought, and felt a sense of calm descend over her. Perhaps she was not as much of a pawn as she imagined. She smiled at Lew, and he smiled back, as if he knew her thoughts without any words.
The next morning there was a light dusting of snow on the streets* of Thendara as Margaret, carrying her small harp, set out from Comyn Castle. She had sneaked out, knowing that custom demanded she take a Guardsman with her, or at least her maid. She needed to be alone; so she ignored her position, slipped down the stablecourt stairs, and darted out a back door of the castle without being seen. It gave her-a delicious sense of pleasure, to escape, and she was ready to revel in the freedom of it.
Margaret drew in a long breath of the brisk air. There was not much wind, and her cloak was warm around her. Thendara smelled completely different in the first snow: fresher, somehow. She listened to the crunch of it under her boots, the calls of street merchants, or mothers scolding children, and ignored the occasional looks she got as she entered the fringe of the Terran Sector. She knew she should not really be out alone, but after her conversation with Lew the previous night, she felt rebellious and downright contrary.
She reached the gate of the little graveyard where Terrans were interred and picked her way among the headstones until she found Ivor's. She had ordered it when he died, and it had been put into place while she was at Arilinn. The stonemason had done a fine job. Ivor's name was carved in Terran characters, without any errors.
The other graves were covered with leaves or pine needles, untended and a little forlorn. But Ivor's had been raked clear of debris. She saw a bunch of autumn flowers resting against the headstone, gathered into a bundle, their petals now blighted with frost and wondered if Master Everard or someone else from the Musicians Guild had put them there.
For several minutes she just stood and looked at the stone, thinking about Ivor and all the things which had
happened to her since he died. Then she removed the cloth cover from the harp, tuned the strings in the cold, dry air, and began to play. Her mitted fingers warmed up, and her voice as well.
Margaret plucked the strings, and after several pieces she started into the work she had composed for Domenic. She had refined it a little, but it was essentially as it had come from her fingers days before. When she was done, she stopped and looked down at the stone. It wanted words, but she had not found any yet. Perhaps she would, someday, if she was fortunate. She let the silence of the graveyard fill her up for a minute, then asked, "Well, what do you think, Ivor?"
Only the breeze answered her, but she felt that her teacher would have approved.
6
Margaret Alton and Rafaella n'ha Liriel set out for Neskaya six days later, in the company of several other Renunciates and a Dry Town merchant. There were horses and mules, bundles of baggage, cookpots, blankets, tents and enough grain, it seemed to her, to feed an entire herd of animals. It was utterly chaotic, or appeared to be. No one cared very much that she had laran, was the heiress to a Domain or a Fellow of the University. These things were of no importance on the road, and after enduring the funeral of little Domenic, and the tensions of Comyn Castle, she felt a great sense of relief.
After Margaret had demonstrated that she could be trusted to saddle her own horse, to follow the steed ahead of her on a narrow trail, to keep her head if something went wrong, she found herself accepted. Doing simple tasks, like setting up a tent or laying the wood for a fire, were wonderfully restorative to her battered spirit. Daniella n'ha Yllana, the trail boss, stopped treating her-like a soft city girl after the second day, and actually praised her on the third. She warmed to that, as always.
The first day they passed by the ruins of Mali Tower, and Margaret did not have any visions of the place as it had looked before its destruction, as she had when she had seen it before Midsummer. It was just a tumble of blackened blocks of stone. Still, it brought back memories of the journey from Armida to Thendara, when she and Mikhail had ridden together and talked about so many things. It made her miss him poignantly, but not to the point of misery. She was just glad to be going to Neskaya.
By the fourth day, they had left the plains and climbed into the Kilghards, with the Hellers looming up behind. It was much colder now, and the wind blew off the mountains,
snaking into the folds of her cloak and making her shiver. Snow fell, adding to what was already on the ground, and the track became slippery and treacherous. If this is autumn, she thought, it must be hell in full winter. By the end of the day she was exhausted and chilled to the bone, very glad to dismount from Dorilys, and start setting up the camp.
Daniella observed the sky with an astute weather-eye and conferred with Rafaella and some of the other Renunciates, clearly worried. Margaret was almost too tired to care, but the little ripples of unease from the minds of the Renunciates penetrated her weariness, adding anxiety to her exhaustion.
While she and Rafaella wrestled with setting up the tent, she asked, "Is there a problem?"
Rafaella shrugged. Her short, curly hair was tucked under a knitted cap of green wool, and her cheeks were rosy from the cold. "We could get a storm tonight. Can't you smell it?"
Margaret tugged the floor cloth into place and staked down one corner, then sniffed the air. "No, I don't notice any difference. All I know is that it is cold as mischief, and my fingers are stiff."
Rafaella gave her a fond look. "I keep forgetting that you are still new to Darkover. This is nothing, really. By Midwinter, the trail will be nearly buried."
At the word Midwinter, Margaret felt a sharp jab, as if someone had pricked her skull. She straightened abruptly, and her back muscles spasmed. The alarm she felt was terrible. "Buried? But, I must return to Thendara then. My mentor's wife is coming to Darkover, and I really need to see her!" That was something which had been settled, with great expense in telefaxes and guarantees for passage by the Alton Domain, to Margaret's relief. She wanted to see Ida again, to make that link with her former life, with a kind of sorry desperation that made her feel both shamed and pleased.
The Renunciate nodded and smiled grimly. "Don't worry, Marguerida. It is not an impossible thing, merely a difficult one. It will be a hard journey, but I am sure you will be able to go back to Thendara when you must."
/> "Do you know, I sincerely wish that the occasional flyer was permitted."
"Humph. A flyer—only the Aldarans have those, and one or two of the Towers, and they are not likely to give you the loan of theirs. And you would miss all this wonderful scenery!" Rafaella gestured broadly at the jagged mountains, her eyes twinkling merrily. "Not to mention the good company."
"Well, I am glad of the company, certainly. But I confess I would prefer to arrive more than to travel." She made a face. "I will stop complaining as soon as we get some supper. I am ravenous." She smiled at her friend, and they finished setting their tent up in record time. Margaret dragged the bedrolls into the tent and got them arranged.
By the time she was finished, she was a little warmer and in better spirits. A large bowl of trail stew—dried meats and vegetables to which hot water only needed to be added—and a slab of bread purchased in the last village they had passed completed the job of restoring her. She dunked the bread into the rich mixture and chewed it, feeling her body warm and the tension in her jaw vanish.
For the first time since they left Thendara, a guard was posted. Rafaella and one of the other Renunciates took the first watch, and Margaret lay awake in her bedding, in spite of her exhaustion, until her friend came into the tent. She could sense the anxiety in the camp, and knew it was something more than just the weather. Weather did not demand a guard.
"What is worrying Daniella?" she asked Rafaella as the other woman crawled under her covers.
"There is a chance of catamounts, Marguerida. Our horses and mules would make a fine meal. We noticed some droppings, back down the trail a mile or two. Don't worry!"
"Oh. Why did I ever leave University!" Margaret felt herself shiver all over, not with cold, but with fear. She was sure there was something more bothering Rafaella, and almost wished she were not so ethical. Her training had progressed enough that she could have snatched the information from the mind of her friend without any effort at all. Only her own strong sense of honor prevented her.
Slightly chagrined, she remembered how she had worried
about having her own privacy invaded the previous summer when she had finally realized that she was a telepath in a world where telepathy was a feature of the culture. She had been afraid that people would just poke about in her mind whenever they wished, not realizing that the opposite was a greater danger, and a more likely event. Of the several sorts of laran common on Darkover—the empathy of the Ridenows, the future seeing of the Aldarans, the catalyst telepathy of the Ardais—none held a greater peril than the forced rapport of the Altons. In the wrong mind, it was capable of ruthlessly crushing all but the strongest barriers, extracting information, or overwhelming another person. She understood now why the Altons were looked upon with some suspicion, and treated warily.
Rafaella chuckled in the darkness between them. "I don't know, but I am glad you did. Life with you has been very interesting, and I have missed you while you were at Arilinn. Did you like it?" Margaret had been too tired the previous evening for more than a sleepy good night. She had not even asked Rafaella about Rafe Scott, although she was very curious as to the progress of this odd love match. She had never been very interested in such things before, but now she discovered that she was. It must be because she wanted to be with Mikhail—silly of her.
"No, not really. I mean, I enjoyed mucking about in the old records in the scriptorium, and it was a relief to learn ways to focus my laran. But the building itself gave me a constant headache, and some of the other people there were not very glad of my presence. I hope the folk at Neskaya will be less hostile to me."
"I think they will be. Arilinn, being the principal Tower of Darkover, is very . . . self-important. Neskaya is cozy by comparison. At least, when I visited my sister during the time she was there, it seemed very nice. I think it is Istvana Ridenow's influence, because she is a woman who likes peace and quiet and wishes everyone around her to be at ease."
"I hope so, for another month or three of having people look at me as if I were a bug, and an ugly one at that, would be very unpleasant." She flexed her left hand, feeling the presence of the lines of energy over her skin. "I had to struggle to keep my temper a lot of- the time."
Rafaella was snuggling into her bedding. "I have seen you get angry a few times, but I never thought of you as having a hot temper. Do you?"
"Oh, yes. It is pretty fierce, when I let it go, so I try not to. And the last place I wanted to get furious was at Arilinn. I felt as if I had been permitted to stay there on approval, which is very uncomfortable to start with. I haven't felt that self-conscious since my first year at University."
"That is all behind you now, Marguerida. And in a couple of days you will be at Neskaya. Good night."
"Sleep well, my friend."
Margaret listened to the faint noises of the camp for a few minutes. She could hear the horses stamping and snorting, and the faint rush of the wind, cold and penetrating, though not fierce. The crackle of the fire was audible in the quiet of the encampment, and the steady snoring of the Dry Town trader in the next tent made a rhythmic buzz. When she slipped into sleep without really knowing it, the noises of the camp transformed into dreams.
A scream woke her. Margaret sat up abruptly, sending her blankets tumbling off her chest. The horses were bugling with alarm, and she heard shouts outside the tent. She was on her feet before she could think about it, her thick stockings crunching into the thin layer of snow outside the tent opening, chilling her toes instantly.
The small fire did not afford much illumination, but in the near darkness she could see several figures. Daniella and one of the other Renunciates had their weapons out, and were fighting with five muffled men, their faces invisible beneath thick scarves. Margaret felt her throat close in panic. Then she heard the scream of a mule, and her mind went to Dorilys. She heard more than saw Rafaella stagger out of the tent and rush toward her compatriots.
Margaret, knowing she was no use in a knife fight, ran toward the hobbled animals. If anything happened to the horses, they would have a hard time reaching the next village. But her thoughts were for her beloved mare more than anything else, and she felt the hot rush of adrenaline in her blood as she slipped and slithered across the icy snow.
There were more muffled men, trying to untie the hob-
bles. One had Dorilys' hackamore in his gloved hand, but the little mare was doing her best to escape. She backed, reared slightly, then twisted her fine head around and sank her teeth into the man's shoulder. Margaret was surprised because she had never seen a horse do that before.
He roared with pain and punched the horse's shoulder with a fist. At the same moment, there was another sound behind her, the bubbling wail of someone injured, and all her panic vanished. All Margaret could think of was her horse, her gift from Mikhail, and all the rage she had swallowed during her time at Arilinn boiled up into her throat. As she charged the robber, she could feel her left hand heat up beneath the silken mitt, as if the lines on it were alive.
Margaret grabbed the man, pulling at his rough jacket. He turned, raised a hand, and slammed her across the face, sending her careening backward into the snow. Then he stood over her, his muffler displaced to reveal a leering face with yellowed teeth and gleaming eyes. The shock of falling made her see stars briefly, superimposed on the terrible visage of the bandit, and then her fury cascaded. She could smell the silk mitt burning off her hand as he reached down to seize her throat.
Margaret swung her left hand and felt it contact his face. There was a tingle as skin met skin, like a small electrical shock. Then the bandit spasmed violently, releasing his grip on her clothing. His arms went out and his legs splayed, and he arched backward, shrieking. The acrid stench of emptying bowel and bladder mingled with the scent of singed flesh, as the robber flopped over in the snow, dead.
Alerted by his cries, two other bandits who had been at the horses charged at her, thrusting their short knives forward in a threatening manner.
Margaret staggered to her icy feet, and lifted her now bare hand. The lines of her shadow matrix flared, casting a blue light on the snow, and one of the robbers hesitated. He looked at the now dead man, at her hand, and took a step back, but his companion was not so cautious.
"Giley! That's a leronis!"
"They bleed, too—she just killed my brother!" Then he swept at her, extending his knife arm toward her belly.
Margaret side-stepped the way she had been taught in her martial arts classes at University, and nearly slipped on
an icy patch. But she caught the leading arm in her right hand, gripping the wrist just as the unarmed combat instructor had told her, years before, and flipped the bandit over. There was the popping sound of breaking bones, and she winced. It was a sickening noise, and she had to force herself not to retch. All those boring sessions in the gym had paid off, but they had not prepared her for the reality.
There were terrible sounds behind her, where the Renunciates were outnumbered. The clang of weapons striking each other, and the shouts and screams made Margaret turn and look. She could not see clearly in the flickering light of the fire who was friend and who was foe. They were just shapes moving around, struggling and fighting.
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