Exile's Song (17 page)

The guards flung the closed doors aside, saluting Captain Scott as if he were well known to them, and ignored her entirely. Margaret had a strong sense of relief when she passed through the portals of Comyn Castle without eliciting comment. After all the years of having to present documents at every turn, due to the obsessive bureaucracy of the Terrans, it was rather pleasant to enter a building so easily.

The doors opened onto a grand foyer. The floor was carpeted with a fine rug, and her feet, hot and weary after the long day, felt refreshed by the softness of it beneath her soles. There were armorial banners hung along the walls, bright colors against translucent white stone. The fading light of the sun penetrated the stone and lent the chamber a curious ambiance. Margaret could not decide if it was sad or festive—or somehow both at once.

Rafe Scott led her through the foyer and into a corridor with several doors opening off it. The hall was wide, spacious enough for several people to walk abreast, and it smelled clean and dry. There were a few paintings hung along it, pictures of people for the most part, and more armorial banners. Comyn Castle, Margaret decided, was not a cozy place. The height of the walls and the starkness of the decor began to oppress her, and she longed to be back in Master Everard’s comfortable house. Anya would be starting supper now, and there would be the smell of food and the sound of music. Even though she had eaten only an hour before, she found she was hungry again, and terribly tired.

The corridor was very long, and she saw several people walking on their errands. Scott stopped one of them and said something in a voice too faint for her to hear, then pointed down the hall. The servant gave a nod, glanced with some interest at Margaret, and then walked away.

They finally entered a room that was arranged for meetings. There were rows of chairs and a long table at one end of the room. Rafe gestured her into one of the chairs, and she sat down heavily. One of her feet was developing a blister and the small of her back hurt. She watched incuriously as he spoke into some sort of communication box on the wall, and waited upon events. Part of her wished she had not come, and another part of her wanted to get the meeting over with, so she could get back to her old life.

While she waited, Margaret found herself reflecting on her life. It seemed to her that she was being guided along some invisible path, one she did not entirely wish to explore. She remembered some of the philosophical discussions she had heard from fellow students at the University, on whether man was predestined or had free will. In the thousands of years of human history, no one had ever arrived at a plausible conclusion, and she suspected, no one ever would. Still, she wondered if her meeting with Rafe Scott were destiny or coincidence. He seemed to think it was the former, and she was not happy to discover she almost believed him.

She was deep in these musings when two men entered the meeting room. Their faces were no longer young, and her first impression was that they were about the same age as her father. Their movements confirmed this guess a moment later, for they had a kind of certainty that came with years. One of the men looked very familiar, and she realized she had seen his portrait in the hall. They stood close to one another, and there was something deep and intimate in their stance. The familiar man was slender and well-formed, with the pure white hair that belonged on a much older man.

The man whose portrait Margaret had seen smiled at Scott and said, “It is wonderful to see you, Rafe. It has been too long since you paid us a visit. What is it—no problems, I trust?” He spoke in a good-natured and friendly way, without any formality, but beneath the words Margaret caught an undertone of worry.

Before Rafe could reply, the man caught sight of Margaret, and his eyes widened a little as he glanced at her, an indirect look that was no less penetrating for being so quick. His companion followed his gaze, and she felt somehow chilled when his eyes swept across her. She lowered her eyes to her lap and studied her hands for a moment.

“Why, you must be Lew Alton’s child! I’d know that hairline anywhere, though you don’t look like him otherwise. I used to envy him that peak, when we were young.” He smiled at her with great warmth, and moved toward her. “Where is Lew?” He paused, as if he expected the Senator to be lurking under one of the chairs. Then he looked very disappointed. “He isn’t here, is he? I thought, when he telefaxed us about his resignation, that he would be coming back immediately. I would have known if he had returned to Darkover, I think. He has a very strong presence. Has he sent you to take his place on the Telepathic Council?” As the man spoke, Margaret suddenly knew that his name was Regis Hastur—though how she knew it she could not imagine.

Resignation? She hadn’t paid attention to the newsfax for weeks, and in all the turmoil around Ivor’s death, she hadn’t bothered to pick up her own messages either. Maybe that was why Dio hadn’t answered her—they were in transit somewhere between the stars. For some reason, the knowledge that her father had left the Senate was disquieting. And, stubbornly, she didn’t wish to appear ignorant. It put her at a disadvantage that she disliked. The big building seemed to press down on her.

“Whatever that is, he didn’t,” Margaret answered rather icily. Did
all
these people imagine she had no other purpose in life than to travel halfway across the galaxy just to attend some meeting? How provincial they all were. The annoyance she had experienced while talking to Scott in the cookshop returned with a vengeance. Darkover appeared to be peopled entirely with lunatics who assumed she knew things she didn’t, and never gave a reasonable answer, or even introduced themselves before they began to plague her about this damned Telepathic Council! They were not only provincial, they had terrible manners!

Rafe coughed, then spoke. “Regis, she doesn’t know what you are talking about. Lew never told her about . . . well, anything, as near as I can tell.”

Regis Hastur reddened slightly.
What?
“And I have forgotten my manners. Forgive me. I am Regis Hastur, and this is Danilo Syrtis-Ardais, my paxman.” He made a graceful gesture at the man standing beside him. The mention of that name made her tense, as had Rafe’s earlier reference to someone called Dyan Ardais. She wanted to turn away, anything to avoid his eyes, as if he presented some threat to her. Still, he seemed ordinary enough—just a slender man wearing a sword, standing close to Regis with an attitude of watchfulness. So, why was her skin crawling? This was utterly ridiculous, and she chided herself for being a fool.

Then Margaret felt quite certain that both men had sensed her thoughts, had felt her fear and confusion. She was angry, her privacy invaded, and embarrassed that she was afraid of a complete stranger. Just because he had the same last name as someone she couldn’t quite remember, but feared, was not reason to be angry, was it? All this nonsense about telepathy was just that—nonsense. Her imagination was running wild just because she had a few random incidents that seemed like telepathy. Still, she felt herself blush all over.

“Regis Hastur? You are the Regent, aren’t you?” At least the disk had told her that much. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” she continued, wondering if she should stand up and bow or something. Her legs felt like jelly now, and her head began to throb.

“I have that duty, yes.” He did not sound entirely pleased with that. “And I am pleased to welcome you to Comyn Castle. I have been anticipating Lew’s return, and I assume he sent you in his place? Why? Will he arrive soon? Where are my manners? You are tired.

Dani—will you see to some refreshment?”
He must come, he simply must, else all my plans will be for nothing.
Despite the calmness of his words, he was clearly a little agitated, for his beautiful hands clenched and unclenched, and he shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

For a moment, the paxman did not move. Margaret realized he was studying her with polite interest, as if he found her as puzzling as she found him. She had a sudden impulse to hide from him, and quelled it with difficulty. Then he turned away, a little reluctantly from the set of his shoulders, and went to a small cabinet against one wall. As soon as he turned his gaze away, she felt an enormous relief.

“I cannot say. I have not had any communication from my father or mother for some time. I did telefax them before I left University, but I received no reply,” she answered. The retreat into careful formality made her feel less vulnerable, less subject to fits of imagination. Margaret still had the creepy feeling that all the men in the room could sense her thoughts, if she let them. That made her feel too powerless, and she determined not to permit anything of the sort. There was no such thing as telepathy, she told herself over and over. No matter how she felt, or what anyone told her. “The Senator had no plans that I know of to come to Darkover. Until just a few minutes ago, I did not know he had resigned his position.”

In the silence that followed her statement, the paxman returned with a tray with several glasses on it. Margaret was a little surprised that he was acting as a servant. She thought he was something else—something more powerful and even a little sinister. He handed a glass to Regis, and they smiled at each other as their fingers brushed. She was nearly shocked by the tenderness of the look which passed between the two men. More, she was deeply embarrassed, as if she had glimpsed something entirely private. She dropped her eyes to her lap and pleated the folds of her skirt with restless fingers.

“Some wine,
domna?
” Margaret could see the strong legs of Danilo, and knew he was standing, waiting for her. She found herself very reluctant to raise her head, to meet his eyes.

“Thank you,” she answered quietly, lifting her hand and head, but looking past the paxman at the wall beyond. At least she knew it was not rude to refuse to look directly at him, as it would have been at University or most places in the Terran sphere.

Regis Hastur sipped, then scowled. “Lew is my cousin—and my oldest friend, but he is the stubbornest and least predictable fellow I have ever known. We were brought up together at Armida. I cannot believe he never mentioned me.”
She really does not know me. And her mind is locked up, blocked. I’ve never seen anything like it. She didn’t know Lew had left the Senate—how very odd.

Margaret felt that whisper across her mind and swallowed. Of course she didn’t know—Lew Alton never told her anything! The bitterness of that thought made the wine taste sour in her mouth, but the alcohol eased it a little. It was just like him!

Margaret schooled herself to reveal nothing of her increasing distress, retreating into herself as much as she was able. “He never spoke of his past, unless he spoke to my mother. I would not even have a clue to who you were except for some research I did, preparing to come here on assignment for the University Music Department to collect folk music. I knew, in a vague way, that I was born here, but, in truth I remember very little.”
And if I had my way, I would be happy not to remember anything at all—because everything I recall just makes things stranger!
“Perhaps he did not tell me things to spare me unpleasantness. As I have told Captain Scott, he is not the man you knew. When he is not doing his job in the Federation Senate, he stares at the ocean and broods.”
And drinks,
she added silently.

Margaret sensed that what she said had increased Hastur’s distress, not lessened it, and she wished she possessed more tact. It was the way in which she was most like her father—speaking her mind instead of being polite. She knew she could be rude, and never more so than when she felt vulnerable. She took another mouthful of wine, really tasting it for the first time, and found it was strong and flinty. It had a clean taste, and she let herself enjoy it and the softening of tense muscles that came with it.

Regis looked around the room, his brows knitting in thought. “Come. Let’s walk out in the garden for a bit. It’s not dark yet, and the gardens are quite lovely. We have things to discuss, and this room is too formal for my taste. Danilo, take Rafe to my study. We will join you there when we have had our talk.”

Danilo looked alarmed. He tensed and his hand went to the hilt of his sword for a moment. Then he let it go. The paxman gave her a hard look, as if he wanted to probe her heart with his eyes. Did he think she was going to pull a knife and stab Regis Hastur? With sudden insight, she knew this was exactly what worried him, that as unassuming as he might appear, he was deadly and would strike at anything which threatened his master. And that was why he had served the wine—in case of poison! For an instant their eyes met, locked in silent combat, and then he looked away, apparently satisfied that she did not represent any danger to Hastur.

Regis took Margaret’s elbow gently and led her out of the chamber through a door she had not noticed, down a narrow corridor, and into a pleasant courtyard filled with sweet-smelling flowers. “I find myself at a disadvantage, and in something of a quandary, ethically speaking.”

“Do you?” She was beginning to like this white-haired man, to feel almost comfortable with him, and that worried her. It was not that he wasn’t friendly, but that he was clearly being charming for some reason. She was suspicious of that. She felt that he was preparing to maneuver her into something, to suit his own purposes, whatever those might be. She was so tired that her judgment was doubtful, and she knew it.

“Yes, Marguerida, I do. Lew chose not to reveal to you anything of his past, and you must know his past in order to understand some of the present here on Darkover. I am still shocked that he told you nothing.”

“He tried, I think, to tell me something, just before I left for the University.”
And when he did try,
she finished without speaking it aloud,
I didn’t let him get very far.
“I think it was terribly painful for him to talk about himself, about his past, as if he had terrible memories.”