The Shadow Matrix (30 page)

feeling that he had been manipulated by his uncle into a completely untenable position.

The entire Regency was a sham, something Regis had cooked up to both distract

Javanne and other reactionaries from his plan to rejoin the Aldaran Domain with the

others.

Mikhail was not given to displays of temper very often.

But at that moment he wanted very much to explode, to

release his feeling of ill-usage and vent a rage he had been

ignoring for weeks. Only the watchful presence of the two

girls prevented him from kicking" the nearest wall, or pick

ing up the chair that his Guardsmen sat in during the night

and smashing it into kindling. He was forced to be satisfied

with a mental
Damn you, Regis,
and let it go.

»

It was bad enough that some little hedge-witch had been meddling in his mind, but that

he had been cleverly manipulated by his uncle as well seemed to be an enormous

betrayal. The more so, since he could not really think of a good reason for Regis to

have set him a task that was doomed from the onset. What was it going to prove, if he

did succeed in finding a son to occupy the throne? That he was good and loyal and

would do Regis' bidding? That needed no proof, and if his uncle doubted him, he

should have found another way to show it.

How much authority did he
really
have, and why had he not asked that question of his

uncle when he had the chance? Or had he, and been subtly put off? Could he go

against Priscilla's wishes and remove the children from Halyn House?

The problem, Mikhail decided after a moment, was that he did not think of the position

as one of power, just of obligation, a duty he wished to be relieved of as quickly as

possible. He had come there because Regis told him to, not because he wished to, or, in

truth, even sincerely cared whether another Elhalyn took the ceremonial throne of

Darkover. He had never known an Elhalyn king, as Regis and
Dom
Gabriel and the rest

of that generation had, and discovered, to his dismay, that he had virtually no emo-

tional investment in the prospect—except to escape taking on the task himself.

He sighed deeply, trapped in troubled thoughts as Liriel emerged from her room and

started down the corridor toward the bathroom. The two girls watched her, wide-eyed

with interest. She was garbed in a voluminous gray bed-robe, and she glanced at them

as well, passed by them, and entered the steaming room with the enormous tub.

"She's quite grand, isn't she?" Miralys' comment brought

him back to the present.

"Yes, she is. Grand is the perfect word to describe her. That's very clever of you, Mira."

The girl gave him a sparkling look, a flicker of pale lashes, and a smile that would light

a room. Mikhail knew that look, for he had seen it many times before, in other girls,

though none so young as this one, since he reached adulthood. The lass was halfway to

fancying herself in love with him, he thought, his heart sinking. At the same time he

was not surprised, for she had no other men to consider, unless one counted his

guardsmen. Mathias was too old to be of interest to the girls, but Daryll was a

handsome man, He was not a Hastur, however. Even here, he knew that made a

difference.

Mikhail dismissed that matter for the moment. "You girls had better go make

yourselves neat for supper. You don't want my sister to think you are hoydens, do

you?" It was a feeble ploy, but the best he could think of on the spur of the moment.

And clearly Mira saw right through it, because she gave him another glance through

lowered lashes. Val, watching this byplay, gave her sister a light punch on the shoulder.

"Come on, Mira! I need help with my hair, and you know that Wena is all thumbs."

Mikhail watched them scurry down the corridor toward the room they shared. He felt

depressed, but it soon passed away. With Liriel there to help him, he could perhaps

accomplish what Regis had sent him to do. It was a faint hope, but more hope than he

had experienced for days. Satisfied, he turned and went to put on a fresh tunic for

dinner.

11

Mikhail stood in front of the fireplace in the dining room, warming his hands, his back

to the table. It was still a cheerless room, but the one window had been repaired, so

there was no longer a draft which chilled the feet when the wind blew from the west,

and he himself had rubbed wax into the shabby table that ran down the center of the

room. The memory of that task lightened his mood a little. He drew his hands in front

of him, and looked at them. Since he had arrived, they had done things he never would

have imagined doing and they were scuffed and a little callused. But he liked that, the

feeling of being capable of turning his ten fingers to any job, whether it was rubbing

wax into a table, or pounding pegs into a window frame. When he thought about all the

work he had done, getting Halyn House in some order, he felt quietly pleased. The

black mood that came and went from his mind finally left him altogether.

Mikhail leaned an elbow on the mantle, starting to relax, and studied a collection of

small ornaments that stood along it. There were chervines carved from stone, and a

fine herd of wooden horses, the grain of the wood cleverly used to give the impression

of muscles or hide. He noticed there was dust around them and almost pulled out his

handkerchief to wipe it away. He chuckled at himself, then shook his head in wonder.

He was becoming quite domestic! First apologizing for the worn towels, and now this.

Mikhail turned away from the fireplace and watched old Duncan set out wooden

trenchers and implements. He could hear the pleasant murmur of masculine voices

from the kitchen, and hoped the presence of visitors might have inspired Ian, the cook,

to a greater effort than usual. How clever of Liriel to have brought both manservants

and

Guardsmen. He felt less vulnerable, and his mind seemed sharper. Now, if he could

just get a grip on his emotions. Swinging between despair and hope was exhausting.

He sniffed tentatively, then sighed. From the smells issuing from the nearby kitchens,

Ian had made no special efforts on Liriel's behalf. It would probably be their usual fare:

the same overcooked fowl and boiled grain, lacking any spices or herbs. Not that Liriel

would mind, he knew. She ate with a good appetite, no matter what.

Mikhail would have liked a rabbithorn stew, with some dried fruits in it, or a ragout of

chervine the way the cook at Armida made it. Failing that, he would have cheerfully

eaten fish, for the river abounded in them, even at this time of year. But Ian had a gift

for completely ruining any fish that arrived at Halyn House, as if he hated things which

swam. He either fried them so hard they could be used for doorstops, or boiled them so

much they lost both flavor and texture.

He thought longingly of the dining room at Armida, or the great one at Ardais, then

forced those images away. They reminded him too much of Marguerida, for he could

not think of those rooms without remembering the first meals he had eaten in her

presence. She had a way of consuming fish that was both elegant and efficient. Well,

she had grown up on an aquaeous world, so she had probably had a great deal of

practice.

There would be, he was certain, boiled leeks, swimming in a shiny bath of broth, and

hard rolls that could be used as projectiles, if Halyn House ever came under attack. He

wished he knew more about cooking, and laughed at himself. First linens and then

cookpots—what a fine figure of a man he was cutting.

Liriel swept into the dining room, with Mira on one arm

and Val on the other. She was laughing, and had clearly

started to make friends with the girls. A moment later

Emun appeared, holding Alain by the sleeve. The youngest

boy's hair was damp from a recent washing, and it clung

to his narrow forehead, making his thin face seem even

more anxious. His large eyes darted toward the shadows in

the corners of the room, as if he expected something to

jump out at him.

Alain's presence pleased him, for it was a rare occasion

that got the oldest Elhalyn out of his soiled clothing and into a room other than his

bedroom. Behind the boys, Mikhail saw Daryll; he knew that his young Guardsman

had taken to spending much of his free time with Alain, talking to him quietly or

telling him outrageous stories. At times, these tales had almost seemed to rouse Alain

from his stupor. When it began, Mikhail had thought that Daryll was merely bored, and

looking for some occupation other than sleeping or keeping watch outside his door,

mending broken walls or helping with the roof of the barn. Now he knew that Daryll

had a genuine affection for the poor lad, and was pleased that he had gotten Alain to

come down to supper.

Duncan was setting out platters of rolls when Vincent arrived, booming in his strong

voice and swaggering. He looked very handsome in the light of the candles set along

the table and in sconces on the walls, his blue eyes dancing. Vincent swept the room

with an arrogant glance, then walked up to Liriel, every inch the lord of the manor.

"I bid you welcome to Halyn House,
domna.
I am sorry I was not here when you

arrived—I had some business to attend to." He stood very close to Liriel, much nearer

than was polite.

Mikhail was shocked and more than a little annoyed, but Liriel just looked at the

young man calmly. "Thank you for your welcome," she answered courteously.

"And how do you find your chamber?"

It was hardly a seemly question, but Liriel only smiled. "It is quite unexceptional."

"I ask because I am sure you are accustomed to great luxury. We have none of that at

Halyn House, because, my mother says, it weakens the will."

"Luxury? My room at Tramontana is comfortable, but I would never call it luxurious."

Vincent appeared a little nonplussed at this reply. "I meant at Armida or ..."

"I'm afraid I rarely pay attention to such things. My, something smells good. Traveling

has given me an excellent appetite."

A coil of tension Mikhail had not realized he had in his chest relaxed. He had made a

good decision, asking Liriel for help. Her manners were superb, and almost nothing

rattled her. Not even an ill-mannered boy trying to flirt with her. Odd that he had never

noticed before.

By this time, Emun had gotten Alain seated at one end of the table, and put a napkin on

his lap. Mira tugged at Liriel's sleeve, but Vincent took her hand and drew her to a

chair, helping her into it, then took the one beside her. It was a highbacked seat, old, in

need of reglueing, and it creaked audibly under the weight of the technician. Mira

grabbed the place on the other side of Liriel, even though she normally sat as far from

Vincent as possible.

Mikhail revised his estimate of Miralys. She was just as fearful of her brother as the

rest of her siblings, but she concealed it better. Now she seemed determined to shelter

in the shadow of his sister, no matter what. There was a look on her face, determination

combined with adoration, that made her beauty even greater. Clearly she had decided

that Liriel was a valuable ally.

Mikhail watched Valenta and Emun take places across the table, and waited for the

appearance of Priscilla Elhalyn. He always did this, though she rarely came to the

evening meal. He hoped Liriel's arrival had sparked a proper regard for polite behavior.

When she did show up, he always seated her before taking his place at the table.

As Duncan came out of the kitchen with a platter of sorry-looking boiled fowl, their

legs disjointed and sagging, Emelda came in from the living room. She wore a blue

dress he had not seen before, and her rather skimpy hair was-pulled back and tidy for a

change. Her protuberant eyes passed over him uneasily.

"Domna
Priscilla is much too upset to join us," Emelda announced, "and has sent me

in her stead." With that, she marched to the head of the table, to the chair Priscilla

would have occupied, and sat down, looking smug. She set her hands beside her empty

plate and smiled at everyone.

Mikhail frowned. Emelda's sudden change of garb roused his suspicions. She was up

to something, for he had never seen her wear anything except the red of a Keeper since

his arrival. There was something in her manner that disturbed him, a tension he had

never seen in her previously. Perhaps Liriel's arrival had upset her. If so, he was

sincerely glad of it.

Then he wondered if Priscilla was actually upset, or if

she had been forced to remain in her noisome chamber. He had suspected for some

time that Emelda was drugging her mistress with various evil concoctions that he

smelled when he ventured into the rear of the house. Mikhail had not pursued his