“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.”
Regis gave a short, bitter bark of a laugh. “I can see how he might—he was very nearly the ruin of our world. But he is also a hero, and a savior.”
“A little hard to do both, isn’t it?” Her breath was coming in short pants, for Margaret felt she was on the brink of learning something that she needed to know, but was terrified of discovering.
“Your father is a complex man, perhaps the most complex person I have ever known. And Darkovan customs brought him enormous griefs when he was still too young to bear them. I’ve had years to think about it. Whenever I look at the night sky and see the stars, I think of Lew. I wanted to go to the stars, and he got to do it, while I was left to tidy up an unholy mess and be a king without a real kingdom.”
“What griefs?”
Regis, still holding his glass, took a sip while he thought. “Lew’s mother was half-Terran, half-Aldaran, and for that reason the Comyn Council denied him his place. They called him a bastard, and that injured his pride—the Altons are a proud family, and he has that pride in full measure. He was never certain that he was good enough. I know that doubt very well, for it has plagued me as well. He tried to please his father, who was a good man, but very stiff-necked and demanding. He forced Lew to do things that both of them knew were wrong, because he was determined to get Lew onto the Council.”
“Why? What was so important about being on the Council?” Margaret demanded.
“It was not so much that a seat on the Council was important—although it was—but Kennard wanted Lew to be accepted as heir to the Alton Domain.” He gave a deep sigh. “It turned into an intolerable situation, and it ended with Kennard Alton, your grandfather, taking Lew off-planet, in direct violation of our laws, leaving the Alton Domain without a leader. Kennard died out there among the stars, and Lew came back six years later, bearing a very powerful matrix which he had taken into exile with him. And that resulted in another crisis, in which many people died, and the entire society of Darkover was altered.”
Margaret turned and stared at the man, quite forgetting to avoid his eyes in her astonishment. “I would like to say I understand, but, frankly, it is very hard to connect your tale with anything I know about the Senator. You might as well be speaking of some ancient hero from a myth, almost.”
“You are very astute. In many ways it was mythic. The events of the Sharra Rebellion were indeed mythic in proportion; even the gods became involved. My hair was as red as your own once.”
“Was it?” She wished he would stop being so cryptic, giving her hints, bits and pieces, but not a coherent set of facts she could sink her teeth into. And that word again—Sharra. It gave her shivers, even though it was pleasant and warm in the garden. “Very well—this is more of my father’s history than I have ever known before. He is ambiguous—that has not changed.” She felt her mouth curve into something resembling a grin. “But, if this is the story, then why was there nothing of the matter on the disk I studied. The kindest thing I can say about it is that it was nearly information-free. There was no mention of any . . . Sharra, and if, as you say, it was such a significant event, then why isn’t it mentioned in the Terran Archives?”
Regis seemed almost lost in his own thoughts now, speaking without really paying attention. “Oh, it is there, but it is not general knowledge. There are things we believe are better not left about for public gaze. Darkover still has a few secrets tucked into her bodice, and I think that is a good thing.”
Margaret had a scholar’s reaction to this calm statement of the suppression of information—she was livid. It was a much stronger surge of emotion than it needed to be—governments, she knew, often tried to keep secrets. She realized she was angry at this pleasant stranger beside her, but angrier still at the Old Man. She clenched her hands, then let them go. “Your little secrets have nothing to do with me. I am here by accident, not by intent, and I just want to get on . . .” She used her coldest, most formal voice, for it made her feel less weak and lost.
Margaret needed that, because she could feel a rising helplessness, triggered by the sound of two harmless syllables. A deep sense of dread almost overwhelmed her. Sharra! Sometimes her father called the word in the night, and whenever he did, she would wake up and shiver all over. And when she returned to sleep, she always dreamed of a great, shining jewel, full of light and fire. The image burned in her mind for a moment, until she banished it again.
“You sound so much like your father! And you look very much like your mother, at this moment.”
“Thyra?” she answered icily.
“Ah—well, at least you know about that. It’s a bit awkward for me.”
“Awkward! Why? You didn’t bed your wife’s sister, did you?” As soon as the words escaped, she regretted them.
To her surprise and great relief, Regis did not seem offended, almost as if he understood her anger and her confusion. “No, I have not. I’ve done some interesting things in my life, but not that one. I only saw Marjorie Scott once, and I never met her formally, but since she and Thyra were half-sisters and looked much alike, I suppose I meant both. Technically, you are the daughter of Marjorie Scott—even if she was your aunt. Oh, my. I am making a complete muddle of this, aren’t I? I mean you are listed as her child in our records. You are like all your parents,” and you have the same unholy sensitivity Lew has, he thought, without speaking. Margaret heard the unspoken words clearly, and flinched.
“It would seem that I have an excess of mothers—if you add Dio into the mix. I find the entire thing confusing and unpleasant.”
“What do you mean?”
“How would you feel if you found out that your mother is actually your aunt, and your aunt is your mother, and was so strange a person that no one likes to mention her name.”
“Hmm. I think I would be rather upset, now you put it that way. But, where did you hear her mentioned—in what context?” Regis glanced at her, and he looked both interested and sincere.
“At Master Everard’s, in Music Street. He let me handle this ryll that he said could not be played, and this song came out of it . . . it was very eerie. Then he told me a little of the history of the instrument, and I realized . . . well, it doesn’t matter.” She held back a shudder as she remembered her experience.
“You are getting cold. Let’s go back inside.” Hastur took her hand gently and spoke very quietly. For a moment, he appeared to be listening to some interior voice, and she could sense a light brush of awareness, as if a feather had been passed across her brow. “So you do have laran, and some of the Alton Gift, Marja.”
Margaret held back a shudder. The word laran made her blood seem cold, and she felt that thing inside her, that voice that told her to stay apart and not ask questions, stir into life. She struggled to resist it. “Whatever the Alton Gift is, I don’t believe I have it. At least, I hope I don’t. Ever since I arrived, things have been insane for me, what with the feeling that I might be overhearing thoughts, and getting peeks into the future, and meeting relatives I did not know I had! I don’t like it! And I don’t want anything to do with spooky gifts or Telepathic Councils or anything else. I just want to finish my companion Ivor’s work—our work for the University and . . . I don’t seem to know anything! And let me tell you, for a scholar to know nothing is a very bad situation!” She could feel her frustration boiling up again.
“A scholar? At University?” His eyes lit up. “Tell me what it is like. I always wanted . . . but this is not the time for that. It must have been difficult for you to be stumb
ling around Thendara—how long have you been here?”
“About a week, I guess. I’ve kind of lost track, what with Ivor’s death and . . .” Her wail was that of a tired child, for tears began to fill her eyes again.
Regis Hastur did not attempt to stop her tears, but waited calmly, finishing his wine, until she ceased. When she had wiped her face, he said, “I was certain you had the Gift when you were a very small child. That was why—”
At that moment the door into the garden opened, and a woman came out, followed by Danilo. The lady smiled, a warm, friendly gesture, and came forward, extending her hands. She was full-figured, and had the cheerful expression of someone who sees the world with delight. Margaret liked her in an instant. “Ah, here you are! Regis, it is too cold to be out in the garden now! And stop plaguing the girl with your plots and schemes. You must forgive him, child. He thinks he must carry the weight of this world on his shoulders, and sometimes he loses perspective.” Marja found herself clasped in a warm embrace, a light kiss brushing her cheek.
Regis said, “This impulsive creature is my consort, Linnea Storn, Lady Hastur. Linnea, this is Lew Alton’s daughter, Marguerida.” He seemed amused by his consort’s words, and a subtle tension left his body in her presence.
Exhausted, Margaret asked, “Are you a relative, too?”
Lady Hastur chuckled and patted her cheek. “We are distant cousins, kinswoman, but I might have been your mother. At one time there was a plan to marry me to Lew—I was fifteen, I believe—but he declined and broke my maidenly heart. Which is just as well, for otherwise I would not have become Lady Hastur, which suits me very well, you see.” She smiled at Regis, and he returned it with a look of real affection.
Linnea released her, and Margaret found herself being scrutinized again by the paxman Danilo. There was something in his gaze which disturbed her. It was not that he was overtly hostile, but there was a subtle menace in his look that chilled her to the marrow. She felt that if he gazed at her too long, she would cease to be Margaret Alton and become someone entirely different. But who? Fury and terror swelled in her breast, and she fought it off. She was imagining things again! There was nothing at all threatening in his stance or expression. Indeed, if she had met him under other circumstances, she would have thought him innocuous.