Exile's Song by Marion Zimmer Bradley Read Free Book Online Page A

seemed rather noisy, and she hoped he was not coming down with a cold or something worse. He looked so small and old in the flickering light of the torches that her heart ached.
    “She is Margaret Alton, Anya,” Geremy said, evidently feeling that he must make the introductions. She heard the words as she started guiding Ivor across the street gently, and when she glanced up, she could see that Anya was surprised at her name. And very curious—the way the boys had been when she said it a few minutes before. She hadn’t really noticed, but now, remembering their reaction, she wondered what it meant, if anything. A good old name, Ethan had said. Probably it was a common patronymic, and there were Altons all over the place.
    She could wonder about such things later. She guided Ivor up the stairs, toward the light and warmth of the house. He leaned heavily on her arm. “Come along now. It’s too cold to be standing out and looking at street signs.”
    “Yes, yes, my dear. I am sure you are right—but are those paintings an accurate rendering, or are they merely stylized? You remember, on Delphin, we saw the pictures of the sacred horns, but the real things looked quite different. I just cannot believe those eff-holes.”
    “Not tonight.” She led him inside. “The eff-holes will keep until tomorrow.”
    Like an overweary child, Ivor broke from her grasp and turned around on the steps, starting back down them. “But I’ve never seen anything like it; what kind of tone do they get with star-shaped eff-holes? And what sort of wood . . . ?”
    She was ready to scream with weariness and impatience, and she nearly took a nasty spill as she grabbed the edge of his cloak and virtually hauled him back. “Not tonight! Ivor, do come in. I’m cold. You are cold. You are going to make yourself sick, and then you won’t be able to do anything!”
    “Moira! Raimon!” Anya shouted cheerfully. “Come out here and get these bags. We have guests!” She made it sound as if the absence of those she called was somehow their fault. Margaret would have laughed if she had not been quite so tired.
    The stoop was a little crowded, between Geremy and Ethan and the baggage, but it sorted itself out in a few moments. The lads handed the bags to the man who appeared—he must be Raimon—and Ethan carefully placed Ivor’s precious guitar inside the door, out of the way of feet.
    Margaret opened her belt pouch and fumbled in it for money. She drew out two silvery coins and handed one to each boy. They stared, and Geremy finally said, “ Domna, this is too much.”
    She was too tired to haggle. “Nonsense. You are going to come back tomorrow and take me to see your uncle the master tailor. I may want you to take me other places as well. May I expect you after the noon meal?”
    “Yes, we will both be here.” He shook his head in wonder. “Whatever you need, we will help you find. Ethan’s brother works for the finest bootmaker in all Thendara and . . . well, it will keep, won’t it?” Then he shoved the coin into his pocket, and bounded to the foot of the stairs, where the other boy was waiting. “See? I told you she was comynara . . . ” she heard as they raced down the uneven cobbles of the street.
    That word again! She went into the house and closed the door, leaning back wearily against the heavy wood. Margaret pulled her hood down, and her red hair came tumbling out with the tug of the sleek fabric, damp and curling slightly. It clung to her neck and cheeks, and she felt like something the cat would not bother to drag in. Her skull pounded with a wretched headache, and the wonderful smell of cooking was enough to drive her wild with hunger. At the same time, she did not think she had ever felt so tired in her life.
    Anya, plump as a pigeon, and the other servants were clustered in the doorway, staring at her as if she had suddenly grown two heads. Briskly, she made herself smile anyway, and prepared to deal with the business of