Exile's Song Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Lew, I can’t stand it!

  Dio’s voice was as clear as if she had been in the bedroom at Castle Ardais. Every time I mention Darkover, Marja starts to scream! She curls up in a ball and hides her eyes, and I am afraid she will start having convulsions or something!

  I know, my love. I know! And I am sorry you have to deal with it. She seemed fine when we left—a normal child. But somehow her channels have been . . . tampered with. I was only a mechanic, not a Keeper, but it doesn’t take a leronis to know that Marja has sustained some sort of deep shock. She will probably grow out of it, in time. Children are wonderfully resilient.

  I don’t think so, Lew. You don’t spend as much time with her as I do, so you can’t really judge. . . .

  I can’t! Every time I look at her I remember Sharra and how small Thyra looked when she was dead, and how white Regis’ hair was. . . .

  I think we should take her back to Darkover, Lew.

  No, Dio. I think going back would kill her! And it would certainly kill me!

  Margaret blinked. Had she actually overheard this conversation, or was her excellent imagination playing games with her? Her father had wanted to keep her safe, even though the sight of her had caused him pain. It must have gotten worse as she grew into womanhood, for she knew now that she had a strong resemblance to her mother, Thyra. How relieved he must have been when she left for University. The Senator must have thought she would be safe there. How could he have known that her work, so tame and simple, would eventually lead her back to the place which was more dangerous to her than any known disease. Well, he couldn’t have, unless he could see into the future, and no one could do that. Or could they?

  A Reader’s Guide to DARKOVER

  THE FOUNDING

  A “lost ship” of Terran origin, in the pre-empire colonizing days, lands on a planet with a dim red star, later to be called Darkover.

  DARKOVER LANDFALL

  THE AGES OF CHAOS

  1,000 years after the original landfall settlement, society has returned to the feudal level. The Darkovans, their Terran technology renounced or forgotten, have turned instead to freewheeling, out-of-control matrix technology, psi powers and terrible psi weapons. The populace lives under the domination of the Towers and a tyrannical breeding program to staff the Towers with unnaturally powerful, inbred gifts of laran.

  STORMQUEEN!

  HAWKMISTRESS!

  THE HUNDRED KINGDOMS

  An age of war and strife retaining many of the decimating and disastrous effects of the Ages of Chaos. The lands which are later to become the Seven Domains are divided by continuous border conflicts into a multitude of small, belligerent kingdoms, named for convenience “The Hundred Kingdoms.” The close of this era is heralded by the adoption of the Compact, instituted by Varzil the Good. A landmark and turning point in the history of Darkover, the Compact bans all distance weapons, making it a matter of honor that one who seeks to kill must himself face equal risk of death.

  TWO TO CONQUER

  THE HEIRS OF HAMMERFELL

  THE RENUNCIATES

  During the Ages of Chaos and the time of the Hundred Kingdoms, there were two orders of women who set themselves apart from the patriarchal nature of Darkovan feudal society: the priestesses of Avarra, and the warriors of the Sisterhood of the Sword. Eventually these two independent groups merged to form the powerful and legally chartered Order of Renunciates or Free Amazons, a guild of women bound only by oath as a sisterhood of mutual responsibility. Their primary allegiance is to each other rather than to family, clan, caste or any man save a temporary employer. Alone among Darkovan women, they are exempt from the usual legal restrictions and protections. Their reason for existence is to provide the women of Darkover an alternative to their socially restrictive lives.

  THE SHATTERED CHAIN

  THENDARA HOUSE

  CITY OF SORCERY

  AGAINST THE TERRANS

  —THE FIRST AGE (Recontact)

  After the Hastur Wars, the Hundred Kingdoms are consolidated into the Seven Domains, and ruled by a hereditary aristocracy of seven families, called the Comyn, allegedly descended from the legendary Hastur, Lord of Light. It is during this era that the Terran Empire, really a form of confederacy, rediscovers Darkover, which they know as the fourth planet of the Cottman star system. The fact that Darkover is a lost colony of the Empire is not easily or readily acknowledged by Darkovans and their Comyn overlords.

  REDISCOVERY (with Mercedes Lackey)

  THE SPELL SWORD

  THE FORBIDDEN TOWER

  STAR OF DANGER

  THE WINDS OF DARKOVER

  AGAINST THE TERRANS

  —THE SECOND AGE (After the Comyn)

  With the initial shock of recontact beginning to wear off, and the Terran spaceport a permanent establishment on the outskirts of the city of Thendara, the younger and less traditional elements of Darkovan society begin the first real exchange of knowledge with the Terrans—learning Terran science and technology and teaching Darkovan matrix technology in turn. Eventually Regis Hastur, the young Comyn lord most active in these exchanges, becomes Regent in a provisional government allied to the Terrans. Darkover is once again reunited with its founding Empire.

  THE BLOODY SUN

  HERITAGE OF HASTUR

  THE PLANET SAVERS

  SHARRA’S EXILE

  WORLD WRECKERS

  EXILE’S SONG

  THE SHADOW MATRIX1

  THE CHILDREN OF KINGS1

  THE DARKOVER ANTHOLOGIES

  These volumes of stories edited by Marion Zimmer Bradley strive to “fill in the blanks” of Darkovan history, and elaborate on the eras, tales and characters which have captured readers’ imaginations.

  THE KEEPER’S PRICE

  SWORD OF CHAOS

  FREE AMAZONS OF DARKOVER

  THE OTHER SIDE OF THE MIRROR

  RED SUN OF DARKOVER

  FOUR MOONS OF DARKOVER

  DOMAINS OF DARKOVER

  RENUNCIATES OF DARKOVER

  LERONI OF DARKOVER

  TOWERS OF DARKOVER

  MARION ZIMMER BRADLEY’S DARKOVER

  SNOWS OF DARKOVER

  Copyright © 1996 by Marion Zimmer Bradley All Rights Reserved

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1024

  DAW Books are distributed by Penguin U.S.A.

  Inc.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  First paperback printing, April

  eISBN : 978-1-101-16572-0

  S.A .

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Adrienne Martine-Barnes, who created the character Margaret Alton, and worked on this book with me.

  1

  There must be some way to travel between the stars that doesn’t nauseate me—some drug to which I’m not sensitive. If only I weren’t allergic to so ma
ny things. If only I had chosen a career in agronomy or journalism.

  The woman on the thrust couch smiled grimly without opening her eyes as she tried to ignore the nausea and dizziness. It was an old thought, one she had replayed many times. Years before, when she had left home for University, she had actually considered those two professions as career possibilities, along with accounting and several others she couldn’t remember now. It had taken her less than a semester to realize that she had a rather black thumb, and hated the idea of reporting the miseries of others. She found she had little skill with words, and numbers were boring, although she had fine mathematical skills, and could have become, she thought, a rather successful embezzler. This made the smile widen into a grin, and a little of the tension in her face slackened.

  Beneath the turquoise-colored cuff of her black Scholar’s uniform, she could feel the itch of the patches on her skin. One was to supply her with the drug, hyperdrome, that prevented space sickness, and the other was to counteract her allergy to hyperdrome itself. Silly, really, that she was allergic. Her father was, too, so she must have inherited it from him. She really was his daughter, even if she didn’t feel that way most of the time.

  She moved her head back and forth against the vile-smelling cushions of her couch. The knot of very fine but abundant red hair piled atop her head chose that moment to escape from the pins that held it in place, and began to slither down her neck. She could feel the tension in her body and tried to will herself to relax. The faint smell of disinfectant that hung in the stifling, dry air of the third-class compartment was disgusting and made her squirm.

  As long as she kept her eyes closed, she had the illusion of privacy and was a little less aware of the eleven other people who shared the cramped quarters with her. The presence of other people nearby, people as anxious as herself, made the terrible, grinding nausea she was trying to ignore even worse. It had always been this way, ever since that first voyage away from the place to which she was now returning. She had only a few, vague memories of her childhood, but that first trip was more vivid and powerful than the others. The smells and sounds of a space vessel, and of a belly which felt as if demons were dancing in it, were associated with something dreadful that she could not remember clearly. She never actually became ill, but hovering at the edge of nausea for endless hours was just as bad, or perhaps even worse.

  Few people would believe that a Federation Senator’s daughter would travel third class. They tended to think that such people lived glamorous lives of parties and diplomatic soirees. But she was a Scholar of University, and academicians rarely traveled any other way. She was a seasoned traveler now, ten trips and more than a hundred jumps, yet her body still refused to adjust to the drugs, and she had resigned herself to the discomfort. At least she was not forced to endure the agonies of steerage again—as she had on her first solo trip, from Thetis to Coronis in a sixteen-jump nightmare. And traveling first class, as she had once, was not much better—the air still stank and the drugs made her mouth dry.

  I am like a fine wine—I don’t travel well at all. I wish this drug really put you to sleep the way it’s supposed to. There’s Professor Davidson, snoring away like a baby, bless him. How does he do it? Will this be our port-of-call? I’ve lost count. Is this the sixth jump or the seventh? Mother of Oceans, let it be the seventh.

  She began to play the Game. She and her stepmother, Dio, had invented it on that half-remembered first voyage, when she was very small. It consisted of naming every goddess and god she could think of. When Dio had taught it to her, she had only known a few—Zandru and Aldones, Evanda and Avarra. By the time they had reached their destination, she could name more than a hundred, and knew some of their stories. The list had grown as she had gotten older and learned more, until it included names of deities that dated back to the days when Terra had really been an Empire. She had added the names of deities learned from fellow students, names from planets she had visited and places she had never been. Sometimes she looked for rhymes in the names, or tried to put them in alphabetical order—anything to distract her from the rebellions of the flesh. She had never run out of names, but she was not sure whether this was through repetition or not. The exercise gave her something to focus on, rather than listening to the sound of the great ship around her and smelling the acrid scent of her fellow travelers.

  The stomach-turning surge of the ship itself began to slacken. The machinery sounded different, the whine of something ceasing. The noise always made her tense because it meant they were leaving the void between the stars and entering the gravitational pull of some world. The steady boom of the planetfall engines kicked in—a slightly-out-of-tune A flat—that made her shiver.

  The professor gave a sputtering snort on the couch beside her, coughed, and stirred. He was awake. Years of enforced intimacy with the old man had familiarized her with his every grunt and gesture. She did not need to open her eyes to know he was flexing his fingers over an imaginary keyboard.

  How accustomed we have become to one another, she thought. He likely knows all my little habits, too. It was rather comforting to feel the easy familiarity of her companionship with Ivor Davidson, her mentor and practically her foster-father. His wife, Ida, had been like a mother to her, and she decided that in spite of the vile feeling in her middle, she was really very blessed. She was doing the work she loved in the company of a dear friend she respected. Who would dare to ask for more?

  The loudspeaker above her couch whined and hummed, and Margaret winced. Damn her extra-sensitive ears! They made possible her studies, her scholarship, and her career as a musicologist. But damn—and double damn—the sloppy communications officer—who was probably tone deaf—who had made the last three landfalls pure agony. After some tinny clicking and a sharp squeal that made her shiver with discomfort, a nasal recording, in the heavy accent of some backwoods planet, began to drone. It was old and needed replacement. She had to force herself to listen and not just tune out the noisy thing.

  Then the recording switched off, and something resembling a human voice, speaking in Terran Standard with a fearsome accent which drawled the words, started.

  “We are now on final approach to Cottman Four, called Darkover by the inhabitants.” There was something almost disdainful about that word, as if the speaker imagined Darkovans to be naked savages or some such. Typical Terran arrogance. “Passengers are reminded not to unfasten restraints until the all-clear has sounded. For those passengers in steerage and third class in need of assistance, a steward will be ready to assist you soon after landfall.” After the voice had given the instructions to the passengers in Standard, it began to repeat them in half a dozen other languages, those she was able to recognize rather obviously mangled.

  Darkover! Their destination at last. The planet of her birth. But the sound of the word in her mind triggered the strange apprehension she had felt ever since she had found out she was going there. It was something akin to dread, and it was completely illogical! She had been to other planets with Ivor during their work, and never had she felt such crawling unease.

  Margaret took several deep breaths and made herself relax. The muscles in her shoulders were tense, and they loosened reluctantly. But her relaxation exercise worked, slowly, and she gave a little sigh of relief and stopped listening. Her attention wandered. She was accustomed to being told everything a dozen times. As a Colonial, she had a healthy contempt for the regimented and closely-governed ways of the Terran Federation. While valuing its technological achievements, which allowed her to study music on a dozen worlds in a single lifetime, she bore with Terran arrogance for the sake of her scholarship and the freedom it afforded her. But she did not like it at all, and she thought she probably never would.

  Her father would have been happy to send her to any of several Colonial colleges, but the University on Coronis had not numbered among his choices. She remembered the row which had exploded when she first suggested it. To say her father hadn’t approved was a mas
terpiece of understatement, and worse, he would never explain why. Dio, her stepmother, had intervened as she always did, keeping the peace between father and daughter as well as she was able, but she had endured what felt like weeks, though it was only days, of anxiety and brooding silences before the Senator had given his consent. She wished she understood him better—or at least understood his strange mixture of distance towards her and fierce protection of her. The Old Man (as she thought of him) and Dio were absent a great deal, being forced to attend Senate functions and do the business of the Federation. With his own allergy to hyperdrome, the Senator didn’t come back to Thetis very often, and when he did, he avoided her as much as possible. It was almost as if he loved her and hated her at the same time.

  For no reason she could discern, thinking of those dreadful days waiting for the Senator to give her permission to go to University, Margaret was suddenly reminded of another time, when she had been much younger, thirteen or fourteen. Dio had found her sitting on the shore of the Thetan Sea of Wine, weeping. She couldn’t quite recall what she had been crying over, but the words she had said suddenly came back. “I’m ugly,” she sobbed, as the older woman tried to comfort her. “Father never hugs me, or lets me go anywhere, and I know it is because I am ugly. Why can’t I have pretty hair, like you. Why do I have skin that gets spotty in the sun? And you and Father are gone so much, and when you are home, he never touches me, or talks to me, or anything! What’s wrong with me?”

  The memory made her shiver all over as the ship gave out a huge roar. Then it made a sort of metallic sigh, almost as if it were tired, and she thanked the Goddess she was no longer thirteen, and subject to the horrors of adolescence. All those years when she had been convinced that the Old Man’s attitude toward her was due to something she had done wrong, or failed to do, even though Dio told her it had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with the Senator himself. Dio did her best to comfort her, and said that Margaret was not ugly. The Senator did love her in his brooding way, Dio insisted. But she had somehow never gotten around to explaining why he was so distant, nor why she looked so unlike both of them. It wasn’t until a long time later that she learned she was not Dio’s child at all, but the Old Man’s by his first marriage.