face
slightly; she had become accustomed to the relative cold of Darkover.
After about twenty minutes, they reached the banks of the river. It was running softly,
the water gurgling between the rocks along the shore. There were stands of bulrushes,
dried now, rustling in the breeze and making a pleasant sound that was almost musical.
She turned west, her heart brimming, thinking of Mikhail riding somewhere ahead of
her, beyond the horizon. What was he seeing, she wondered, and what was he thinking.
Margaret slowed to a walk, for the banks of the river were irregular and not the best
place for a horse. Martin rode silently behind her, the steady sound of his cob's hooves
a reassuring note in the music she felt was all around her. It seemed a vast symphony
to her trained ears and mind, and for the first time she wondered why that form did not
seem to be present on Darkover. Darkovans sang at the drop of a hat, and very well
indeed, but as far as she had been able to discover, they had never gotten around to
creating large orchestral works. She made a mental note to ask Master Everard when
she was back in Thendara.
The thought of the old Guildmaster brought back the memory of Ivor Davidson, her
mentor and friend, who had died soon after their arrival on Darkover. She missed him,
but her first grief had lessened, and she could now recall him without great pain. If
Ivor had not died, she would never have ended up in the Kilghards with only Rafaella
n'ha Liriel, her Renunciate guide and friend, when she began to have her first bout of
threshold sickness. How would Ivor have managed, she wondered? She had never been
sick during all the years they journeyed around the Federation together, collecting and
studying indigenous music, unless one counted the occasional cold. For all the
excellence of their technology, Terrans had never managed to conquer the common
cold, and she didn't think they ever would.
The tension in her body was easing as she idly watched trees and running water,
allowing her mind to wander where it would. What a good idea Liriel had had,
suggesting a ride. How clever site was. As was so often the case when she thought of
her cousin, Margaret smiled. Liriel and her brother Mikhail almost made up for having
to endure
the rest of the Alton clan—Aunt Javanne and Uncle Gabriel, their older sons, Gabe and
Rafael, and Liriel's twin, Ariel. Almost. Ariel still made Margaret cringe, with her
constant fussing and worrying. The woman was halfway through her pregnancy now,
with a sixth child conceived about the time Margaret had arrived on Darkover, the
daughter she had longed for.
The smile faded. Every time she thought about that yet unborn child, Margaret got a
terrible sinking feeling in her stomach, a sense of danger. That girl was going to be
trouble. What a terrible thing to think about a child not yet born! It was the sort of
premonition that made her curse the fact that she had some of the Aldaran Gift of
foretelling, and hope, against all her feelings, that she was totally wrong.
Then, in between one breath and the next, Margaret experienced a bleakness, a sharp
pang of loss. She jerked the reins m her surprise, and Dorilys whinnied in complaint.
She drew to a halt, and Martin rode up beside her, looking concerned.
"What is it, domna?"
"I don't know. I felt as if a shadow had crossed the sun. I think we should go back
now." She sighed. It was such a beautiful day, and she had been enjoying herself. She
did not want to go back to Arilinn. More than anything, she wanted to ride west, to
follow Mikhail, to let the Domain and her studies go hang. But dutifully she reined the
horse around, and they headed back in the direction of the Tower, just visible above the
trees.
The stableyard seemed just as they had left it, and nothing appeared amiss. Margaret
dismounted, gave the reins to Martin, and patted Dorilys quickly but perfunctorily on
the neck. "Another day, my