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 Me
stra 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.”
Margaret knew that Darkover had been rediscovered more than a hundred Terran years before—the history disk had grudgingly disclosed that much. She regarded Jerana with wonder, because few people in the Federation were this old without taking the treatments which extended life.
“Domna Alton wishes to hear you sing, Jerana, and to make a record of your singing.”
“Really? Why, I haven’t performed in decades! It has been thirty years since I sang in public, if it has been a day!” She looked pleased. “Come in, girls, come in!” She rubbed her gnarled hands together. “Alan! Alan, where are you, lazy boy! My great-grandson. Here come tend to these fine horses!” She herded them into the cottage, and seated them beside the hearth while she gave a steaming cauldron a stir and kept up a stream of reminiscences.
After a hearty meal of stew and bread, Jerana settled on a stool while Margaret sorted out her recording equipment. The old woman was completely at ease after the things had been explained to her, grinning and showing her gums. Margaret could tell she was tickled by all the attention, and felt pleased to give the old woman a treat.
Rafaella took a guitar down from the wall and tuned the strings easily. It was an old instrument, the wood polished by years of use, and belonged in a museum. Jerana chuckled over it. “That boy of Everard’s was here a time back, and he wanted to take my old friend back to Thendara with him, to put in that collection that Everard has. I told him that since my husband died, it’s the only lover I have.”
Then she began to sing in a clear, steady voice which belied her years. Margaret was lost in the music, so lost she did not notice when tears began to roll down her cheeks. The words bought some emotion welling up, something nameless and precious, and when that song was done, she felt at peace for the first time in days.
It was late when Jerana ceased her singing, and Margaret had recorded two dozen pieces. The old woman showed them to a large bed in the back of the cottage, and Margaret hid her discomfort at the idea of sleeping with another person. It didn’t matter. She could hardly keep her eyes open. Rafaella was yawning, too. She pulled off her boots, yanked off her tunic and trousers, and climbed under the covers, so Margaret did the same.
Sleep came almost immediately, and, for once, she did not dream.
10
Margaret woke at first light with a feeling of oppression and a sound like bees buzzing in one ear. Still muzzy, she shifted beneath the soft covers, and found that Rafaella had rolled over and pillowed her head against Margaret’s shoulder. She glanced at the fiery head resting upon her, and smiled a little. Rafaella was snoring ever so delicately. Gently she rolled the woman away, and the slight sense of suffocation left her. I guess it is a good thing I’ve never married, since sharing a bed makes me so uncomfortable. As soon as the thought came into her mind, Margaret knew it was not entirely true. She had not really minded sleeping with Rafaella the night before.
There were sounds from the main room of the cottage, and Margaret heard the voice of Jerana lifted in song. The good, warm smell of porridge wafted in the chill morning air, and she felt a lassitude in her limbs. She was enjoying the sensation of relaxation when Rafaella snorted abruptly and stopped snoring. A moment later she sat up, pulling down the covers with her movement.
“I smell breakfast,” she announced.
Margaret laughed at this. Rafaella had a healthy appetite, and she wondered how the woman mainta
ined her slim figure while eating so much. “Yes. I can hear Jerana.” The cool air made her shiver, and she pushed away her covers, rose, put on her discarded garments, then pulled her hair into a semblance of order. Her clothes smelled of horse and sweat and the trail now, and she thought longingly of the huge tub at Master Everard’s house, scented with balsam and hot enough to redden her skin.
While they ate breakfast with old Jerana and her silent great-grandson Alan, the ancient singer pondered aloud on her career as a performer, the inadequacy of present-day vocalists, and scandals of the past. Margaret was sorry she had not kept her recorder out, for it was fascinating to hear old gossip told with a lip-smacking glee.
When they were done, Alan and Rafaella went out to see to the horses, and Margaret sat and sipped the last of her morning tea. She felt grubby and longed for clean clothes and a bath, but her belly was full of hot porridge, and her heart felt feather-light. She was quietly happy, and realized she had not felt that way in a very long time.
“I think,” Jerana interrupted her thoughts, “that if you go to the village over the hill, you might find Gavin useful.”
“Gavin?”
Jerana gave her disquieting cackle and nodded her head. “Gavin MacDougal was a good singer in his day, though he never joined the Guild. He is a bit cantankerous, but he does know music. Now, don’t you tell him I said so! He’s proud enough without that. And I warn you, he does not like your Rafaella at all.”
“But why?”
“Gavin thinks a woman’s place is by the hearth, and he disapproves of the Renunciates. As if they needed his approval! He was a stuck-up youngster, and now he is an arrogant old man. He wanted to marry me once—he is only ninety now, and I thought him too young at the time—and he has never really forgiven me for picking my Padric instead. You wouldn’t think it to look at me now, but once I had all the men after me. I was a real beauty. Oh, I ramble these days. Let me tell you, Marguerida, age is a blessing, but it is also a curse. Some days you almost can’t remember your name.”