Traitor's Sun by Marion Zimmer Bradley Read Free Book Online

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.
    She returned to the work, and found a very rough passage that needed attention. Maybe it would be a good idea to delay the thing for another occasion—next year even. Marguerida took a fresh sheet and sorted out the parts on it, found where the problem was, and fiddled with it until she was satisfied. How could she have been so clumsy? She wondered if Korniel, the fine composer of operatic works from Renney, in the previous century, had had these problems. Very likely. The Deluge of Ys, his best known work, was her standard of excellence, and she knew she was unlikely to ever achieve anything so grand and moving. Still, there were some bits in what she had done, drawing on the lengthy ballad tradition of Hastur and Cassilde, that were not half bad. She had expanded the lyrics slightly—not enough, she sincerely hoped, to offend the sensibilities of her audience too much—and introduced a few diverse elements she had collected from sources in the north. Erald, the son of the deceased former head of the Musicians Guild, Master Everard, had been very helpful. He was not in Thendara very often, since he lived with the Travelers, the wandering jongleurs of Darkover, but when he was, he always came to the Castle and talked with her. A strange