The Shadow Matrix (19 page)

trembling. She looked down at her hand, where a few minute before blue lines had

danced over the skin, and hated herself. She wanted to cut off her hand, to just hack it

off, and let the blood drain from her body.

At Arilinn, they had warned her of this. She knew, intellectually, that she was having a

reaction to using her
laran,
a kind of instant depression. When working in a circle, in a

safe environment, this reaction did not occur. But she

could not work in a circle! All she could do was fry bandits without intention. She felt

her self-hatred like a physical object, a thing she wished to be free of. And it all

centered on the shadow matrix.

If only she had not wrested the keystone from Ashara's Tower in the overworld. If only

Mikhail had not urged her to pull it out, had not wrapped phantom arms around her

waist and lent his weight to her struggle. This was all his fault!

The utter foolishness of that thought began to restore her spirits, as thinking of Mikhail

always did, even when she wanted to box his ears for being particularly obstinate and

Darkovan. If she had not taken the keystone, then the Tower would have continued to

exist, and she would likely have died. She was alive, and while she was not entirely

glad of it, she decided it was better to be alive, even despairing, than dead.

Rafaella stuck her head through the tent opening. "Get those wet stockings off. You are

going to catch your death!" She pushed into the tent and started to remove her own,

reaching for a dry pair that had been part of her pillow.

Dry socks. The idea seemed ludicrous. How could she be thinking about her stockings

when she had just been responsible for the deaths of numerous men, even if they were

brigands. What did it matter if she got pneumonia and died? It would be better for

everyone—well, not for her father or Mikhail. The Old Man would be devastated, and

he would never forgive himself, since she would not have been on the way to Neskaya

except for his influence.

Margaret reached to her pillow clumsily, and pulled out dry socks and another silken

mitt. In the dim light of the tent, this one looked green, and the one on her right was

blue. She really ought to make them match, but she did not have the strength. Instead,

she tugged off her sodden stockings, pulled on fresh ones, and wiggled her toes against

the warm fabric. Then she drew the mitt over her left hand.

Her bottom was cold, from falling into the snow, and she realized that she needed to

change clothes. But she felt too tired to move, and just watched Rafaella. Then the

Renunciate pulled
ot
her boots and stood up. "I am going to go help haul the bodies,"

she announced, and left.

Haul the bodies. The phrase seemed to bounce around in Margaret's skull, a cold stone

of pain and terror. Two of those bodies were men she had killed. One she had burned

alive! And there was no way to change that fact. She was going to have to live with it.

But she would never tell anyone what she had done. It had been too simple, too quick

and alarmingly easy. And if she had not managed to rouse the Renunciates, she would

have killed them as well.

Grim-lipped, she removed her damp skirt, put on another, and then sat and listened to

the activity beyond the walls of her tent. She could hear the slushing sound of bodies

being dragged across the thin crust of snow, the voices of the women and the trader.

Then she heard a slight wooshing noise, and suddenly the interior of the tent seemed

very bright. They were burning the bodies. The smell of scorching flesh and garments

drifted on the breeze, foul and vile.

Margaret slipped under the covers, shivering. She was hungry, ravenous, but she knew

that she would spew up anything she ate right then. She bent her arm and pillowed her

head against it, staring into the flashing light from the bandit pyre through the fabric of

the tent.
If L learn nothing else, I am going to find a way to control the Voice! To hell

with this abomination in my hand, and the Alton Gift. But I will never use the Voice

again without knowing what I am doing! Never, I swear it!
Weak with horror, hunger

and cold, Margaret tossed for a time, then slipped into a fitful sleep.

Two afternoons later, they arrived in the town of Neskaya. The sun of Darkover was

setting, coloring the heavy clouds a bloody pink, and the town itself was already quiet.

They passed houses with candlelight flickering through the few windows, and saw

people hurrying on various errands.

Margaret stared up at Neskaya Tower, its white stones limned a rosy color by the

lowering sun. Even at this distance, she could sense the presence of matrix relays

behind the stones. She had never thought she would be glad to see any Tower, but

since their encounter with the bandits, her

companions, except Rafaella, had been edgy around her, wary. She had refused to

explain anything, stubbornly retreating into silence, and that had not helped the

situation. She did not want to admit that she had the command voice, for while the

Renunciates had known she was the heiress to the Alton Domain, and that she was

going to the Tower, they knew nothing more about her.

There was a spacious inn, and the company headed for it. Margaret drew her weary

horse aside. "I think I had better go right to the Tower, Rafaella."

Her friend sighed. "Yes, you should. But I will take you. It only looks easy to get to.

The streets wind around like noodles, and you could easily get lost." She dismounted,

unhitched one of the mules from the train, and got back on her horse.

They rode away without bidding farewell to anyone, and Margaret could sense the

relief in her former trailmates. She did not blame them a bit. Even though they had

been born into a telepathic society, and accepted
laran
as a natural thing, they could

not view what had happened on the trail without uneasiness. But it was a sad thing, for

she liked the strong, independent women and had been on the way to making friends

with some of them before they had encountered the bandits.

Margaret was grateful that the terrible events on the trail had not changed Rafaella's

feelings toward her. She could sense that her first Darkovan friend still cared for her,

still trusted and liked her. And she knew that Rafaella had refused to tell her sisters

anything, for she had heard her saying that it was Marguerida's business, not theirs, in

her fiercest voice. The loyalty of this woman eased the bleakness that had clung to her

for the past two days, touched her tenderly. She wished that Rafi could remain with her

in Neskaya, then decided that would not be fair. She was not some family retainer, but

a free woman, with her own life to pursue.

Margaret sensed her own bitterness. Rafaella could do as she pleased, could' enter into

a freemate relationship with Rafe Scott if she wished. But she—Margaret—could not.

She could not marry whom she wished, or live as she chose. She was the heiress to the

Alton Domain, a telepath with an unusual focus of power, and her life was
not
her

own,

so long as she remained on Darkover. And, in her heart, she knew that she could never

leave the planet, that she could not return to University, or anywhere else. She was too

dangerous, and even if she learned to control her strange matrix, she would still be a

very dangerous person. More, if the Terrans ever got even a sniff of what she could do,

untrained as she was, they would lock her up in some laboratory and pick her to pieces.

She sighed deeply, decided that she was working herself into a really wretched mood,

and tried to think of something pleasant. When she could not, she just looked around,

trying to conjure up some curiosity about this new place.

The streets were narrow, even narrower than those in Thendara, as if the folk there

crowded together for warmth and companionship, against the mountains above them,

and the snows. The shop signs were not hung out from the buildings, as they were in

Thendara, but were set against the faces of the structures, and she guessed that the

wind here was more fierce and would have pulled them away. She saw a luthier's sign

on one house, and a weaver's shuttle carved on another. Rafaella led the way, guiding

the mule which had Margaret's baggage on it, and she brought up the rear.

But at last the way widened, and Margaret moved her horse ahead, so she could ride

beside her friend. "I am sorry about all this," she began, uncomfortably.

"Sorry for saving my life? Really, Marguerida, for a smart woman, you can be a real

idiot sometimes."

"Guilty as charged."

They both laughed, and the tension that had existed between them for two days

vanished. "You did what you needed to, and so did we. Believe me, killing those

bandits was not a thing we wanted to do. It was hard, but it was also needful."

"Rafaella, I killed a man—broke his neck, I think. And I burned another alive. I never

killed anyone before, and never thought I would. It makes me feel all hollow inside.

And the only reason I did not awaken the rest of the robbers was that I was terrified

they would attack us again. So I'm responsible for killing them, too, even though it was

your swords that did the actual. . . ."

"Marguerida, stop berating yourself. You did what you

had to do, to protect yourself and the rest of us, and we are all grateful, if a little

disturbed."

"I keep smelling their bodies burning."

"So do I! We were all disgusted, for to kill a man when he cannot defend himself is

against everything we believe in. Daniella went off and puked for half an hour, after

we got the pyre burning. But you will be safe and sound in the Tower in very soon, and

you can forget all about this."

"Ran—I don't think I will ever be able to forget what happened, if I live to be a

hundred."

Rafaella sighed deeply. "No, you probably won't. None of us will, even if, someday,

one of us makes a song of it." Then her familiar laugh rang out. "But, Marguerida, it

was . . . spectacular! I mean, I have had more than a few adventures on the trail, but

nothing so remarkable. I can't help it. Seeing you ..."

"What?"

The Renunciate seemed embarrassed now. "Before you spoke—I just caught a

glimpse, since I was busy trying to stay alive. I saw you with the horses, and I watched

you— well, kept getting peeks—flame that fellow. You shone! You were covered in

blue light for just a moment, and it was . . . magnificent! Even with all the horror, I

never saw anything so remarkable in my life!"

Margaret was stunned. "Did the others . . .?"

#

"They got a few impressions, yes. And they were not as thrilled as I was, to be sure.

But they won't gossip about it because they don't want to be thought mad."

"No wonder they kept looking at me as if I had two heads."

"I know. They tried not to, but they are human, Marguerida. As are you."

"I'm not so sure anymore."

"Marguerida—you saved our lives. Be content with that."

It was dark when they finally reached the walls of Neskaya Tower but there was a

groom waiting near the entrance, to take Margaret's horse and unload her mule. She

dismounted, and Rafaella did as well. They looked at each other in silence for a

moment.

"I shall miss you, Marguerida."

"And I you. I wish you could stay here."

Rafaella shook her head. "This is not my place, but I will arrange to return and escort

you back to Thendara. I am sure the time will pass quickly."

"I hope so." She felt forlorn and lost.

"There, there, Marguerida. Don't look so sad." Rafaella curved her arms around

Margaret's shoulders, embracing her gently, and kissing her cheek. "You are going to

break my heart,
chiya!"

Tears trickled down Margaret's cheeks, and she kept swallowing noisy sobs. Her friend

stroked her hair and let her cry until she managed to stop. "You be careful now! I don't

want anything to happen to you!"

Rafaella nodded, then grinned. "I don't want anything to happen to me either! Farewell,

for now." Then she gave Margaret another quick kiss on the cheek, and got on her

horse. As she rode away, Margaret could sense Rafaella's emotions, and knew that the

parting was as painful for her friend as it was for her. It reminded her of her

leavetaking from Liriel, and she wished she could just stop saying goodbye to people

she cared about. At the same time, it was heartening to know that Rafaella would miss

her, that she was cared for and even loved. The ache in her heart abated, and she was

almost glad.

After Rafaella had vanished from view, Margaret stood in the courtyard, getting herself

calmed. It was not until she noticed that her feet were cold that she finally and

reluctantly entered the Tower, and found Istvana Ridenow waiting for her, smiling and

so clearly glad to see her that her heart felt warm.

"Breda!"
Istvana used the form meaning something between sister and kinswoman,

and it was so heartfelt that Margaret almost began to cry again. "How lovely that you