The Shadow Matrix (18 page)

which is very uncomfortable to start with. I haven't felt that self-conscious since my

first year at University."

"That is all behind you now, Marguerida. And in a couple of days you will be at

Neskaya. Good night."

"Sleep well, my friend."

Margaret listened to the faint noises of the camp for a few minutes. She could hear the

horses stamping and snorting, and the faint rush of the wind, cold and penetrating,

though not fierce. The crackle of the fire was audible in the quiet of the encampment,

and the steady snoring of the Dry Town trader in the next tent made a rhythmic buzz.

When she slipped into sleep without really knowing it, the noises of the camp

transformed into dreams.

A scream woke her. Margaret sat up abruptly, sending her blankets tumbling off her

chest. The horses were bugling with alarm, and she heard shouts outside the tent. She

was on her feet before she could think about it, her thick stockings crunching into the

thin layer of snow outside the tent opening, chilling her toes instantly.

The small fire did not afford much illumination, but in the near darkness she could see

several figures. Daniella and one of the other Renunciates had their weapons out, and

were fighting with five muffled men, their faces invisible beneath thick scarves.

Margaret felt her throat close in panic. Then she heard the scream of a mule, and her

mind went to Dorilys. She heard more than saw Rafaella stagger out of the tent and

rush toward her compatriots.

Margaret, knowing she was no use in a knife fight, ran toward the hobbled animals. If

anything happened to the horses, they would have a hard time reaching the next

village. But her thoughts were for her beloved mare more than anything else, and she

felt the hot rush of adrenaline in her blood as she slipped and slithered across the icy

snow.

There were more muffled men, trying to untie the hob-

bles. One had Dorilys' hackamore in his gloved hand, but the little mare was doing her

best to escape. She backed, reared slightly, then twisted her fine head around and sank

her teeth into the man's shoulder. Margaret was surprised because she had never seen a

horse do that before.

He roared with pain and punched the horse's shoulder with a fist. At the same moment,

there was another sound behind her, the bubbling wail of someone injured, and all her

panic vanished. All Margaret could think of was her horse, her gift from Mikhail, and

all the rage she had swallowed during her time at Arilinn boiled up into her throat. As

she charged the robber, she could feel her left hand heat up beneath the silken mitt, as

if the lines on it were alive.

Margaret grabbed the man, pulling at his rough jacket. He turned, raised a hand, and

slammed her across the face, sending her careening backward into the snow. Then he

stood over her, his muffler displaced to reveal a leering face with yellowed teeth and

gleaming eyes. The shock of falling made her see stars briefly, superimposed on the

terrible visage of the bandit, and then her fury cascaded. She could smell the silk mitt

burning off her hand as he reached down to seize her throat.

Margaret swung her left hand and felt it contact his face. There was a tingle as skin met

skin, like a small electrical shock. Then the bandit spasmed violently, releasing his grip

on her clothing. His arms went out and his legs splayed, and he arched backward,

shrieking. The acrid stench of emptying bowel and bladder mingled with the scent of

singed flesh, as the robber flopped over in the snow, dead.

Alerted by his cries, two other bandits who had been at the horses charged at her,

thrusting their short knives forward in a threatening manner. Margaret staggered to her

icy feet, and lifted her now bare hand. The lines of her shadow matrix flared, casting a

blue light on the snow, and one of the robbers hesitated. He looked at the now dead

man, at her hand, and took a step back, but his companion was not so cautious.

"Giley! That's a
leronis!"

"They bleed, too—she just killed my brother!" Then he swept at her, extending his

knife arm toward her belly.

Margaret side-stepped the way she had been taught in her martial arts classes at

University, and nearly slipped on

an icy patch. But she caught the leading arm in her right hand, gripping the wrist just

as the unarmed combat instructor had told her, years before, and flipped the bandit

over. There was the popping sound of breaking bones, and she winced. It was a

sickening noise, and she had to force herself not to retch. All those boring sessions in

the gym had paid off, but they had not prepared her for the reality.

There were terrible sounds behind her, where the Renunciates were outnumbered. The

clang of weapons striking each other, and the shouts and screams made Margaret turn

and look. She could not see clearly in the flickering light of the fire who was friend

and who was foe. They were just shapes moving around, struggling and fighting.

Margaret felt helpless for a second. She had never learned knife fighting, just the sort

of defensive maneuvers she had used on the bandit. Then she picked out Rafaella's

slender form near the fire, struggling to keep a tall robber from stabbing her. And that

brought the fury back instantly. She started forward, stepping over the dead body of the

first attacker, not sure what she was going to do.

Her throat seemed thick, heavy with energy, and she tried to swallow. But her mouth

was very dry, and she did not succeed. Behind her, she heard the rapid footfalls of the

man who had not attacked her moving away as quickly as he could. She licked her lips

and took another hesitant step toward the melee.

"STOP!"
The word came from her heavy throat, startling her. Her forehead throbbed,

as if her skull might burst apart at any second, and her eyes felt blurry.

Then her vision cleared, and Margaret saw that there was no movement before her. It

looked as if everyone had turned to stone. The horses nickered uneasily, and one of the

mules brayed, but everything else was silent. Part of her mind was stunned, but the rest

noticed that her command had not affected the horses or the mules.

Dazed by this turn of events, Margaret stared stupidly at the tableau. Then she

managed to swallow, and realized that she had once again used the Voice, that peculiar

aspect of the Alton Gift which allowed her to command the minds of others. It did not

always occur in the Alton line, but it seemed that her training as a musician had

strengthened the innate talent.

She should have felt relief. Instead Margaret realized that she still had no idea how to

undo her command. Her studies at Arilinn had not dealt with the Voice, although she

and Liriel had discussed it a few times, and tried to discover ways to discipline it. No

one at Arilinn was interested in anything except her telepathic capacities of enforced

rapport, so that she would not inadvertently invade the minds of others. She had used

the Voice once before, again without intention, when young Donal had awakened her

from sleep, and it had taken the combined efforts of her father, Jeff Kerwin, Mikhail,

and Liriel to remedy the problem.

Margaret did not give a fig for the bandits—if they froze to death, it was no more than

they deserved. But Rafaella and the rest of the Renunciates, as well as the trader, were

another matter altogether. She had to think of some way to release them, and soon.

Standing about in the cold was going to kill all of them if she didn't think of something

quickly.

Her feet were turning to ice under her, and she was starting to shiver. Margaret strode

back into the camp, toward the fire. She tossed a brand into it, and the embers flared:

At the same time, she tried to think of what to do.

When she had commanded that rascal Donal, she had said "Get out," and he had

vacated his small, young body, and gone into the over-world. But here she had only

said "Stop", so it seemed likely that she had not sent anyone away to that dreadful

place where she had found the Tower of Mirrors, and defeated the shade of Ashara

Alton months before. This, Margaret decided, was good. Now, if she could only think

what to do.

She touched Rafaella's extended arm lightly, and found her friend was cool, but not yet

cold. Like Margaret, she was not wearing her boots, and she would soon grow chill.

Certainly her toes would get frostbitten if she stood there too much longer. Then she

tried to move the arm, and discovered that it was not stiff, but it was resistant.

Margaret shook her friend by the shoulder. "Wake up, Rafi!"

There was no response, and Rafaella still stood, staring at her opponent, her face grim

and purposeful. Margaret frowned. Perhaps she had to use the Voice to undo her

handiwork. But how? She did not know how to summon the command voice—it only

seemed to function when she

was frightened or upset, not when she needed it. What a useless thing!

Why hadn't all those clever folks at Arilinn instructed her how to utilize the Voice? Or

how not to! All her resentment at the hostility she had endured began to boil up again,

fresh and vital. Had there been anything in the ancient records she had read that might

help?

As Margaret racked her brains, she felt the blue lines that lay across her left hand begin

to warm. She looked down. They were like crackles of electricity across her skin, not

painful but disturbing. For just a second she wondered if she could arouse the sleepers

by touching them with her matrixed hand. Then she remembered how the robber had

died, and decided she did not know enough about her matrix to risk that. No one did,

which was the heart of the problem.

She stamped her feet, trying to keep the chill from distracting her. The cold was

penetrating her clothing, and she wished she had her cloak on. She did not want to take

the time to fetch it. She wanted an answer, and she wanted it now! She might

experiment on the bandits, of course. It would serve the bastards right if she fried

them! She enjoyed that thought for a second, then dismissed it almost reluctantly. I
am

not that bloodthirsty
—
or am I?

What had happened before, to provoke the Voice? She tried to remember the few

moments before she had shouted. Her throat had felt thick with power. Could she do

that deliberately?

Margaret focused her mind, as they had shown her at Arilinn, and thought only of her

throat. Much to her surprise, she felt the muscles tighten, and the lines around her hand

felt different. How? She tried to analyze the sensation, for the lines were, if anything,

cooler than a moment before, not hotter, as she had expected. But her throat was warm,

nearly hot, as if she had an unswallowed coal just below her larynx.

"Wake up, Rafaella!"
Margaret spoke the words without much hope.

"What?" The Renunciate blinked, stared at the knife in her callused hand, then looked

around the camp.

Margaret was too busy feeling relieved to speak. Then she hurried over to the closest

of the rest of the Renunci-

ates, and told her to wake up as well. The woman did, groaning as blood began to

course down her arm. She had been wounded by a knife, though the man who had

injured her was dead at her feet.

"Quick, Rafaella—Samantha has been hurt!" Margaret left the bleeding woman, and

went swiftly toward Daniella and Andrea, who were croached in defensive stances,

facing three bandits. She was terrified that she would lose the Voice, so she needed to

hurry and wake up all her companions. She moved rapidly from one to another, hardly

aware that she was shivering all over. The trader, Rakiel, was the last, and he looked at

her, dazed.

"What in Zandru's hells is going on?" Daniella bellowed these words, staring at the still

immobile bandits, her cheeks red with fury. Her eyes almost sparkled in the firelight.

Margaret stood in silence as the trader rose to his feet. She was too tired to explain

anything, suddenly empty of rage or fear or any emotion whatever. Daniella was

glaring at her, bristling. There was a question in her eyes, and cold suspicion. And all

Margaret had the strength to do was lift her hands into the cold air, and shrug slightly.

Then, realizing that her oddly marked left hand was now bare, she tucked it behind her

back, out of sight.

A great emptiness rose in her breast, and she swayed back and forth. Distantly,

Margaret was aware of movement around her. She knew that the Renunciates were

dispatching the bandits with complete efficiency, and that somehow it was her fault

that they were helpless to defend themselves. She did not want to think about it, but

she found herself doing just that, in spite of her efforts.

Rafaella was bandaging Samantha's arm. There was nothing left for her to do.

Margaret turned and stumbled back into the tent and collapsed on her bedding, still