Traitor's Sun (5 page)

Although she had been born on Darkover forty-two years before, Marguerida had lived half of her life off that world, and part of her still felt like an interloper. Her father said he often had the same feeling, and sharing her sense of alienation with him was a comfort to her. She had been estranged from him for all her years at University, but when they had met again, soon after her return to Darkover, Marguerida had found him changed. Now she could not think of life without him—his ironic sense of humor, his profound insights, and most of all, his steady affection for her, for Mikhail, and for his grandchildren. He was no longer the drunken, tortured man who raged in the night, and even the death of his wife, Diotima Ridenow, ten years ago had miraculously not returned him to that earlier state.

But despite the understanding presence of her father, Marguerida’s sense of being a stranger had never entirely gone away. Part of this was the result of her difficult relationship with Javanne Hastur. Mikhail’s mother had never really accepted her into the family, although his father,
Dom
Gabriel had finally broken down and welcomed her with genuine affection. Javanne always managed to convey to Marguerida a sense that there was something wrong with her, and with Domenic, her oldest child, whose conception had occurred under such unusual circumstances—during her journey back through time to the Ages of Chaos. She might even be correct about Nico, although Marguerida would have bitten her tongue rather than admit it. He was an odd lad, older than his years, self-contained and remote. But the difference ran deeper than that, and Marguerida knew it. There was something just a bit eerie about her oldest child, a quality of stillness that made it seem as if he were listening to some distant voice. Maybe he was, or perhaps, as
Dom
Danilo Syrtis-Ardais had once suggested, half seriously, he was the reincarnation of Varzil Ridenow. She rather hoped he was not, for her single encounter with that long dead
laranzu
had not left her with any desire to meet him in another form, and certainly not as her son.

She tried to accept and come to terms with her mother-in-law’s dislike of her. After all, she was Regis’ older sister and part of the family. She took some comfort in the fact that Javanne treated Gisela Aldaran, now the wife of Mikhail’s older brother Rafael, with even less courtesy. It was about the only thing she and Giz had in common, for she had never managed to become friends with her sister-in-law, and having her in Comyn Castle all the time could, at times, be a real trial. Marguerida had done her best to reconcile with her sister-in-law, taking an interest in Gisela’s researches into the geneologies of the Domain families, and also into the game of chess. She had even managed to procure a three-dimensional chess set as a gift for her one Midwinter, and the other woman had unbent for a brief time as a results.

But Gisela remained an aloof and disruptive presence in Comyn Castle, which already housed enough strong personalities to overwhelm anyone. She understood some of Giz’s melancholy and sizzling rage. The woman had set her sights on Mikhail when she was only an adolescent, and had failed to achieve her ambition. That was hard enough. But she and Rafael lived in the Castle, and had to see both Mikhail and Marguerida almost every day. She was a kind of gentle hostage for the good behavior of the Aldaran Domain. Regis had never come to trust
Dom
Damon Aldaran entirely, and as difficult as having Gisela underfoot might be, it gave him a lever to hold the old man in check. Marguerida managed to forgive her difficult relative much of her ill-temper, recognizing in her both intelligence and ambition, and only wanted to strangle her once a tenday.

Her mother-in-law was another matter entirely, and even though she was not present at Comyn Castle very often, the thought of the woman always roused her to rage. Javanne doted on Roderick and Yllana, Marguerida and Mikhail’s younger offspring, but she treated Domenic as if he were invisible, or worse, as if he smelled bad. And Nico was such a good lad, so serious and thoughtful, unlike Rory, who was born for mischief. Yllana was still too young to be fully formed, but was of reasonable intelligence, clever with her fingers, quick-tongued like her mother, and cautious like Mikhail.

Grimly, she pushed aside these distracting thoughts. It was time to begin a clean copy of the entire manuscript, and while she could have given the job to someone from the Musicians Guild, Marguerida wanted to do it herself. She had managed to sort out the usual morning’s work quickly—the menu for the evening meal with dishes that would not unsettle Regis’ now finicky stomach, an ingress of mice into one of the flour bins in the kitchens, and several other minor matters. It was a normal day, full of trivial problems.

For the present, the children were occupied, although there was always the chance that her difficult foster daughter, Alanna Alar, would interrupt her. Nico, her secret favorite, was doing his Guard duty, and Rory was scrubbing a wall he had adorned with chalks and paints a few days before. It was rather a nice mural, and she was sorry to tell him to destroy it, but she could not allow her troublesome middle child to get in the habit of defacing walls. It was bad enough that he gorged himself to illness on stolen tarts from the kitchens, showing every sign of taking up thievery as a fulltime occupation. Marguerida wondered if some of that tremendous energy might not be channeled into art, at which Rory seemed quite talented. But this was an idle thought, for in a few months he would go to Arilinn for his first training, and after that, the Cadet Guards would be his future. His life was laid out for him, as much as it could be with things so uncertain.

Marguerida’s years on Darkover had not been untroubled, and the Terran Federation had been at the root of most of it. In the prior two decades the Federation had increased pressure on Darkover to give up its Protected status and join the Federation as a full member. This would have meant paying taxes into the coffers of the ever more rapacious Terrans, as well as making drastic alterations in the way in which Darkover was governed. When a planet became a part of the Federation, it became subject to the Federation, and essentially lost autonomy over its own resources and governance. For that reason, Lew had strongly advised against surrendering their Protected status, a choice which had allied him with Javanne Hastur. It had not particularly pleased Javanne to have Lew agree with her, since her youthful dislike of him had now hardened into something approaching fanatic hatred, but at least it had ended rancorous argument between them during Comyn Council meetings. Council meeting “debates” tended to be emotionally heated and often vindictive, leaving Marguerida with a profound desire for peace and quiet. But as Lew calmly told her, there was no peace on Darkover because if everyone agreed, it would be unnatural.

Instead of starting to work, Marguerida found her thoughts drifting toward the problems the Federation continued to create for Darkover. It was very annoying, really, not to be able to concentrate. Then she paused, frowned down at the music, and then gazed at the fire in the hearth. She had become extremely disciplined while she studied with Istvana Ridenow, and it was unusual for her mind to go off on tangents like this. Perhaps there was some reason for her fussing.

Marguerida kept abreast of the deteriorating relationship between Darkover and the Federation, even though she tried to remain in the background as much as possible. One of the things which Javanne disliked about her was that she was in a position to influence the views of her husband, her father, and others in Comyn Castle. Javanne assumed she
would
interfere, because that was just what Javanne would have done, given the same opportunity. To counteract these suspicions, Marguerida had done her best to pretend she was a proper Darkovan woman, interested in domestic matters, not those of state. She readily admitted she had not succeeded very well. She was too strong-minded to sit quietly during Council meetings, even though she promised herself each time that she would.

It was funny, really. She and Javanne were very similar in disposition, and while Marguerida had the advantage of a Federation education, her mother-in-law knew Darkover down into her aging bones. So, they disagreed on almost everything, often painfully. Javanne just could not understand that the Federation had to be dealt with; it could not be wished away or sent off.

Even when they were in agreement, as when the Station Chief had installed some media screens in taverns in the Trade City, and Regis had ordered them dismantled since they violated the treaty with the Federation, it was grudging and unpleasant. Something niggled in Marguerida’s mind as she thought about this incident and she wondered if Belfontaine was about to attempt another intrusion into the Darkovan way of life. There was no information she had to suggest such a thing, but sometimes her unconscious mind seemed much more canny than her waking mind.

Of course, there were those odd disturbances this past summer. A small riot in the Horse Market, and all manner of rumors, which had come and gone like the clouds across the sky. It had been a summer fever, and the usually peaceable populace of the city had turned ugly and resentful for a brief time. But why should that trouble her just now, when she had a few uninterrupted hours to work? She felt a frisson of unease, not the first since she had sat down, she realized.

Something was troubling Marguerida, and it was not the Federation or her children, or Mikhail or anything she could put her finger on. She had just the hint of a headache, and her belly was queasy, almost as if she were pregnant again. Since she knew this was not the case, she could not account for the unease, unless she was coming down with some medical complaint. She dismissed the idea abruptly and turned again to the work on the desk.

She really must bear down and focus. Marguerida had a self-imposed deadline to meet. In three weeks it would be Regis’ birthday, and it had become the custom to present an evening’s entertainment of music for the occasion. She planned to premiere her opera then, since the subject was the legend of Hastur and Cassilda, the legendary forbears of his house, as a gift for him. It was fortunate that an increase in the number of musicians coming to the Castle was a perfectly normal part of the preparations for the event, and more fortunate yet that the singers and players of instruments regarded Marguerida as an
ex officio
member of their Guild. Thus far, the whole project had remained a secret from Regis, although she was sure he suspected something was going on. In a castle containing many varied telepaths, it was difficult, but not impossible, to plan a surprise.

Marguerida closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. Once again she let the Alton Gift reach out, seeking the source of her unease. She had discovered this particular feature of her Gift years before, in a long-destroyed keep, in the distant past, where her life had changed forever. Nothing seemed to be wrong, so she decided she was just being foolish, shrugged her shoulders, opened her eyes, and picked up a pen.

Dipping it into the inkwell, she started to copy the first page. Darkovan musical notation was unlike the form she had learned at University, but after all this time, it was quite familiar to her, and easy to do. Yes, she had been right to do this herself—there was a place on the page where it was unclear what she had intended. Hardly surprising, since she had edited the original half a dozen times. She hummed the notes to herself, vocalized a stanza softly, and made the necessary corrections.

After half an hour, Marguerida had made clean copies of four pages, when a shaft of ruddy sunlight came through the narrow window, brightening the desk and making her blink. She got up to shut out the blinding light, but instead of pulling the curtains, she stood for a moment, looking out. Her ivory wool gown fell around her still slender body in comforting folds, and the apron she had donned to prevent ink stains was crisp over her waist. There was a brisk breeze snapping the pennons on the opposite roof, and the smell of autumn was everywhere. On any other occasion, she would have been out riding with her groom and two Guardsmen, chafing about having the escort, but enjoying the freshness of the air. Her beloved mare, Dorilys, was eighteen now, and feeble, so she rode one of her several foals, Dyania, a frisky, pewter-gray mare with a white star on her chest. It was hard to spend such a fine day indoors, and she turned back toward the desk with enormous reluctance.

Yllana’s playing had ceased, and it was very quiet as she sat down once again. Once more she had a stab of unease, but tried to ignore it. Perhaps she was just anxious about the opera. Well, it was more of an oratorio, since there would be neither sets nor costumes. Marguerida very much wanted those, and a public performance of the work as well, in the newly built Music Hall on the other side of Thendara. But in her position it was probably not a good idea. Javanne Hastur and some of the other, more conservative members of the Domains, would likely think that it was unseemly for her to compose something to be publicly performed, as if she were a common musician and not the wife of Mikhail Hastur. There was nothing she could do about the animosity of Javanne except, she hoped, to outlive the woman. That might be a long time coming, since the Hasturs were famous for their longevity. It would be decades before Mikhail became ruler of their world, if he ever actually did. As things presently stood, he was Regis’ right-hand man, and Lew Alton was his left, with Danilo Syrtis Ardais, as always, guarding his back.

Marguerida did not mind that, since once Mikhail was in control, her life would become even more circumscribed than it already was. Fortunately, she expected to be a very elderly woman by that time, and hoped she would not mind very much being a virtual prisoner in Comyn Castle. Now, however, she minded a great deal. Sometimes she wanted to scream. And occasionally, in the middle of the night, she went out into one of the back courtyards and howled at the moons, just to relieve herself, to be utterly alone and free of Guards and servants and the fractious personalities that filled the Castle.