Exile's Song (24 page)

“Certainly.” She wiped the ink off her thumb with a cloth from the scribe, and untied the strings that bound the oiled paper. What appeared to be a wad of dark brown wool emerged from the fold. Margaret lifted it up, and the folds of a heavy cloak fell against her arms. Something else slipped out, almost falling to the cobblestones of the market. Ethan caught it, grinning. It was the blue-green spider silk, made up into a soft gown, which Aaron had tried to persuade her to take on the first visit. Silver leaves had been embroidered around the neck and sleeves. “Oh, Ethan! It is absolutely beautiful—but I will never have occasion to wear it!”

“Auntie said you might need it, next time you go to the Castle.”

Margaret could not help laughing. “Well, if I go to the Castle, I’ll wear it.” Everyone on Darkover seemed to be conspiring to make her into that other Margaret, the one called Marguerida who was heiress to a Domain, whether she wished it or not. She gathered her finery into her arms. It was too great an effort to resist the kindness of the MacEwans, and, besides, she had always had a secret yearning for the sort of garments Dio wore for state dinners and other formal occasions.

They crossed the square, back to the booth where Rafaella was tending the horses, in contented companionship. Ethan and his cousin Geremy were her first friends on Darkover, and she knew she would never forget them.

It took a few minutes to open a bag and fold the gown away. Margaret tied the cloak behind the saddle, fingering its thick warmth tenderly. The horse waited patiently, and when she was done, she went to the horse’s head to make its acquaintance. The big bay looked at her nervously at first, rolling its eyes and shifting from hoof to hoof. Margaret crooned to the horse, as she had to other horses on Thetis and at University, and let it take her scent. It gave a wet snort, as if confused by the mixture of Darkovan smells with something exotic. She stroked the muzzle and watched the sharp ears prick.

“I see you are good with horses,” Rafaella commented. “That’s a relief—I’ve taken a few jobs where I swear my employers didn’t know one end of a horse from the other—and cared less. There was this one, a Terranan woman who came to Thendara House with such questions! We all thought she was a fool, but we wanted to be polite. Well, we didn’t really want to be polite, but Mother Adriana told us to be. She was a scholar, like you, but it was clear she had never been on a horse in her life. She wrapped her arms around the horse’s neck in terror and wouldn’t let go! We had to stuff our sleeves in our mouths to keep from laughing.”

“Horses are not common on Terra, Rafaella.”

“I suppose everyone rides in aircars.” She gave one of her speaking sniffs, showing her contempt for mechanical vehicles.

“Not everyone, but, yes, there are a lot of aircars, and slidewalks and other things.” Margaret decided she didn’t want to argue about it.

“Well, we are as ready as we can be. Shall we go?”

“Yes, please.”

 

When they had ridden for about an hour along a well-maintained but fairly primitive road, they left Thendara behind them and came into a countryside filled with orchards and farms. The air was crisp and fresh, and the smell of growing things was everywhere. Margaret was still getting her riding skills back, and also learning the habits of this particular steed. She had not been on a horse in several years now, but it seemed to be coming back to her fast enough. Her legs were going to ache, and her knees were already informing her that she was abusing them, but she ignored it all, glad to be on the road at last. If only Ivor were with her!

“I am sorry if I was rude back at the Market,” Rafaella said, breaking into Margaret’s rather morbid reflections. “There’s an old saying that not everyone with red hair is
comyn.
My father was a
nedestro comyn,
but he didn’t give me any of
Dom
Rodrigo’s
laran.
That’s a good thing or we would be up to our ears in
leroni.
”

Margaret untangled Rafaella’s words for a moment.
Laran
and
leroni
had not been on the disk she had studied, but she knew them in a vague way. They had something to do with the Gifts Rafe and Lord Hastur had mentioned, though the connection was not clear to her. Why hadn’t she pursued the matter when Rafe mentioned it the day before? Again, she had the feeling that she must not ask too many questions, and also the sensation that someone in the back of her mind commanded it. She dismissed the matter, because wondering made her head feel almost woozy, and she didn’t want to get giddy on horseback. Instead, she tried to decipher the meaning of the rest of Rafaella’s words.
Nedestro
meant “bastard” though there didn’t seem to be any onus attached to it. At least the guide did not appear embarrassed that her father was illegitimate. At last she asked, “did you want to have this
laran,
then?”

“Once, when I was young and silly. They tested me, and I haven’t a drop. Between ourselves, I have never missed it. It is a great burden to see the future or hear the thoughts of others, whether you wish to or not. And the sickness! Ugh! I was spared that. I watched my younger sister go through it, and it was not a pretty sight. I am happy that I got brains and a good voice from him, and not powers that would have made me ill.”

“Illness?”

“When the
laran
comes into you, there is this sickness that comes, too. Some people die from it. You get terrible headaches, and fainting spells, and you can’t keep food down unless you take medicines that make you rave.”

“It doesn’t sound very appealing. Why does anyone do it?”

“If you have
laran,
you either get through the threshold sickness, or you die. No one chooses it—it’s just born in you or it’s not.”

“When does this happen?”

“Oh, when you are twelve or thirteen, sometimes a little older, but not much.”

Margaret felt a great relief. She was much too old for that problem! So much for Lord Hastur’s insistence that she had the Alton Gift! “What happened to your sister?”

“She went up to Neskaya and studied to be a matrix mechanic for a while, and then she came back and got married. She has a fine brood of children now, and she seems content enough.”

“And you became a Renunciate?”

“I didn’t want to be tied to a man or a house, not ever.” Rafaella fell silent for a second. “Now I am not so sure.”

Margaret “saw” Rafe Scott’s face in her mind again, for just the barest flash. It was a strong impression, and not her imagination. She had guessed right, but she found she wished she hadn’t. What kind of life could they have—with Rafaella going all over Darkover, leading travelers, and her uncle tied up at HQ. And, now she thought about it, they would make a very odd couple. Rafe was so sturdy and dependable, and Rafaella was, well, rather impulsive.

“Can you be a Renunciate and still marry?” she asked tactfully.

“You can have a freemate, but you do not take his name and your children don’t have it either. And some people frown on that. My mother wasn’t too thrilled when I took the Renunciate’s Oath, and she would not really like it . . . oh, well.” She paused, looking a little uncomfortable. “How are you on mountain trails?”

This abrupt change of subject let Margaret know her guide did not wish to discuss her personal life any further. “I don’t know.” She glanced at the horizon, beyond the rolling farmlands, and saw the outlines of hills, and beyond them, just at the edge of sight, were mountains still cloaked in snowy whiteness. “I’ve never been on a world with much in the way of mountains.”

“Really? It is hard to imagine that. Even out in the Dry Towns there are lots of hills. What is it like, Terra?”

“Oh, I have never been to Terra. I grew up on Thetis, which is a lot of islands and big oceans. It’s pretty flat. I used to ride my horse along the beach.”

“Well, if you want to find songs, we will probably find some in the Kilghards, but the best ones are up in the Hellers. Those are the mountains you can just hardly see out there. They are days away, though they look close,” said Rafaella, pointing to the horizon. “The trails there are narrow and difficult, with sheer drops and cliffs. It’s rough country, not counting the chance of bandits and banshees.”
And, besides, I don’t want to be away from Thendara so long!

“I don’t have a good head for heights, to be truthful.” Margaret ignored the overheard thought.

“There are women in the Guild who knew the founder of the Bridge Society, Margali n’ha Ysabet. She was long before my time. They say that she was an acrophobe,” she used the Terran word, and went on in Darkovan, “but she mapped a good bit of the Hellers in spite of that. They even say she traveled to the Wall Around the World, but I don’t really believe it. Margali n’ha Ysabet is something of a legend in the Guild.”

“Why is that?”

“Oh, because she was brave and did remarkable things, but mostly because she never returned from her last trip,” Rafaella said, laughing. “She went into the Hellers, and she never came back. Some people think she found a way into . . . never mind. Most likely she fell off a cliff and died. She was like you, Darkovan born, but educated somewhere else.” Rafaella seemed bored with the whole subject.

Margaret remembered the poster she had been reading at Thendara House when
Mestra
Adriana had interrupted her. It had mentioned a woman named Magda Lorne who was also called Margali n’ha Ysabet as the founder of the Bridge Society. She found herself both curious and slightly disapproving, as if part of her found the exploits of Magda Lorne less than appropriate. What was going on with her? She never had thoughts like that! Margaret felt invaded, as if some new personality was emerging in her mind, and a very unpleasant one at that. She scolded herself silently for being so edgy, and made herself forget about Magda Lorne. “I want to get as much research done as I can, but I don’t think breaking my neck will actually enhance my contribution to learning.”

Rafaella laughed so hard she nearly lost her seat. “We will plan a journey that will not be too hard for you, then,” she said, when she had caught her breath.
And one that won’t keep me away from Thendara past Midsummer!
“You ride well enough, but you are going to be sore by evening.”

“A small price to pay for a ballad,” Margaret answered, and her words set Rafaella off laughing again.

“You said you knew some songs, Rafaella. Why don’t I get out my recorder, and you can sing as we go along?” The guide smiled at her, and blushed with pleasure to the roots of her fiery hair.

 

They camped in the open the first night, and Margaret was very glad of the warm cloak Manuella had given her. She used it for an extra blanket, wondering what it must be like in winter here, if summer was this cool. The thought made her shiver all over, and huddle closer to their small fire. Her sleep was disturbed by another vision of Lew Alton. He seemed to be very angry with her for coming to Darkover, and, in her dream, she was angry, too.

By sundown of the third day, they turned off the well-paved road and began to climb into the hills, traveling east, as near as she could guess, Margaret’s legs had finally stopped aching, but now her lungs hurt as they climbed to a greater altitude than she was accustomed to. They rode across a stone bridge that spanned a rapid river, and Rafaella told her it was called the Kadarin. The name made her skin go gooseflesh, just as the name Dyan Ardais had a few days before. She tried to think why, and again found her mind resistent to inquiry. She felt troubled by this until they were away from the sound of its waters. Then the tension eased, and she simply studied the countryside.

“I think it is a good thing you are coming up here to hear these old ballads,” Rafaella commented as they rode into a sleepy hamlet.

“Do you?” It was the first direct reference her guide had made to her work.

“The old people are dying off and some of our music is getting lost. We don’t have libraries like the Terranan, except for the
cristoforos’
archives at Nevarsin. I never thought about it before.”

Margaret wondered what else had been lost on Darkover. The people she had met had been intelligent enough, but they seemed to lack the sort of curiosity which she had found at University. Was this oral tradition because of some taboo she did not know, or for some other reason? It was just another puzzle to frustrate her—like the bits of memory that continued to plague her awake and asleep.

“We will spend the night here, I think. If old Jerana hasn’t died, she will be glad to sing for you. She was once the best lyric singer in Thendara and knows many songs. But she married a farmer and gave up her music, which I think she regrets. Now she is a toothless old granny, but when I came here last, her voice was still fine.”

Margaret asked “Does the old lady know much about the Terrans?”

“Enough not to think of them as having horns and tails like some demon,” said Rafaella peaceably. “Besides, no one would take you for a Terranan.”

Margaret was more relieved than she could say. She didn’t want to be mistaken for a devil, or have her precious equipment perceived as soul-stealing devices. She had never actually encountered that situation, but the Music Department abounded in horror stories of scholars who had gotten killed out of ignorance.
I was born here,
Margaret thought.
And nobody could possibly be afraid of me.

They drew their horses up before a well-kept cottage, and an ancient woman waddled out. She was bent and toothless, but her eyes were bright, and her speaking voice was clear and strong. She greeted Rafaella warmly, then looked at Margaret with a lively curiosity.

Rafaella introduced her to old Jerana, and the woman bobbed a stiff curtsy at the sound of her name. “An Alton! Why, there hasn’t been an Alton here in many years. You have the look of the old man, that Kennard, and his father before him. Poor man. He went away and died somewhere, some planet. I don’t know. My mind gets muddled these days. I was born the year the Terranan came to Aldaran.”