The Shadow Matrix (68 page)

blurred, then transformed. The woman grew fair and young, as Varzil had, and a

brightness shone from her flesh. .

Mikhail had to drop his eyes then, for the radiance of the woman was too great. It was

not that his eyes could not bear the light, but that his soul could not. And as he looked

down, he grasped what he had been struggling to understand. There was no shame or

loss of manliness in taking support from a woman—but it must never be taken for

granted or abused. It was a gift, one he had never imagined existed, and the sense of it

rocked him to the core.

Mikhail could feel the light of the other woman, filling the room, and his knees bent

without his volition. He felt himself kneel on the cold stone floor, so consumed by awe

he was certain his heart would cease beating. He lifted his eyes to the uncanny

brightness, and saw a soft

smile that swept away everything, all fear and doubt. He could have basked in that

gentle gaze until the end of time.

His hand was closed around his starstone, and he thought it a tawdry thing, unworthy

of the presence which held him in its grasp. He was trembling all over. Distantly,

Mikhail was aware of the emptiness in the pit of his stomach, of the cold stones against

his knees, and the ache of muscles. But those mundane concerns seemed to belong to

another man, another time.

Then he felt Marguerida's right hand on his wrist, her cool, soft fingers touching his

flesh. His body ceased its dreadful rictus at her touch, and he could sense her awe

moving through him, and his through her. It was a moment of joining more intimate

than anything he could ever have imagined.

She was kneeling beside him, and a quick glance at her face revealed a joy that

reflected his own. Her eyes were bright with tears, and they trickled down her cheeks

and dribbled onto the collar of her tunic. He could feel Marguerida grounding his

rising emotions, supporting his burgeoning strength in an echo of the figure behind

Varzil.

We are gathered to join this woman, Margarethe of Wind-haven, and this man, Mikhal

Raven of Ridenow, called the Angel of the Serrais, into one person, one soul, one mind,

and one heart. We invoke the blessings of the gods upon this union. Margarethe, do

you vow to honor this man in body and mind, all the days of your life?

Mikhail waited, for there was no response from Marguer-ida for what seemed like an

age of the world. At the same time, he noticed that the form of ritual Varzil was using

was one which he had never heard before, one which omitted words he was

accustomed to. The names were wrong too, and he pondered that as well. Then he

realized that in this time and place those were the only names that Varzil knew to call

them. Or, perhaps, there was some more complex reason for concealing their identities.

I
will honor him all the days of my life.

And you, Mikhal Raven of Ridenow, do you vow to serve this woman in body and mind,

all the days of your life?

Serve her? That seemed very odd to him, the reverse of the marriage vows he

recognized, and for a second he hesitated. And then, in a rush of profound realization,

he knew that he wished nothing better than to serve this woman. The words did not

matter, only the intention.

I vow to serve this woman, in body and mind, all the days of my life.

.
The act of answering provoked a deep sense of Tightness in him, and he felt the sweet

smile of Varzil's helper increase, so he seemed feather light for an instant. He felt

Marguerida's fingers grip his wrist more tightly, and they were warm against his skin.

Varzil took up the larger metal bracelet from the box on his lap, and reached out and

placed it on Marguerida's wrist. Then he repeated the procedure, and the cool weight of

the circlet lay against Mikhail's skin, heavier than he had expected.

I,
Varzil Ridenow, Lord of Hali, witness these oaths, and hold them binding for all

time. They are married not only by words but by the sweet blood of the earth. They are

joined in flesh and spirit, as was intended from the time before time. I swear that these

people are one, melded, united and inseparable, until the world ends.

For a moment, Mikhail felt himself released, as if some thread that had held him

captive were unleashed. He knew that Marguerida felt it also, and he turned his face

toward hers, and met her lips as if he had never kissed a woman before. She tasted of

stew, sweat, and an incredible, almost painful sweetness; he knew he would remember

this moment till he drew his final breath.

Mikhal Raven of Ridenow, give me now your matrix stone. Fear not!

Mikhail unclenched his sweating hand slowly, wondering why he felt no fear. If Varzil

touched his stone, the world might end for him. But it was as if he were a man

ensorceled, and he moved as if in a dream.

His small starstone floated off his hand, a mote of brilliance even in the great light that

rose from the smiling woman behind the great man. It moved quickly across the space

that was between Mikhail and Varzil, speeding like an evening bug, and then dropped

onto the enormous matrix still adorning the hand of the
laranzu.
With a flash it

vanished from his sight, and he tensed, suddenly terrified in spite of Varzil's

reassurance.

But there was no shock, no trauma. What Mikhail experienced was a momentary

giddiness, then the sense of being within the stone itself. He swam in its shining facets,

buffeted by unseen forces that seemed to pass through him like light. He felt pierced

through and through, in every cell of both his body and that other portion of him which

he had never really known he possessed, the inner flame of his very being.

When Mikhail looked at Varzil, he saw his own face staring back at him, his own blue

eyes shining with an unearthly light, his golden curls falling loosely on his brow. It was

shocking, more shocking than the loss of his matrix, and his mind tried to rebel, to

deny.

The vision passed, however, and suddenly Varzil was himself again, old and fragile.

Now, Margarethe, take the ring from my hand and learn something of your own

powers
—
the hand which is marked for this occasion!

But that would kill you!

Quick, my girl! I cannot hold the energies in check much longer. Do as I say!

Warily, Marguerida extended her left hand, and Varzil tilted his, so the ring fell from

his finger into her out-stretched palm. She did not move, but let the shining ring rest on

her hand, her eyes gleaming. Her face went stiff, then her entire body was rigid beside

him. Where her right hand touched him, Mikhail could feel the energy coursing

through her body, could sense new channels being pierced fiercely, brutally. It was a

terrible thing, even at second hand, and he knew she could not have endured it but for

the presence of that strange other woman, the woman, who now seemed to be made of

light. He could sense the shining woman shielding his beloved, protecting her.

Give the ring to your husband, Margarethe

Gladly! Il
was a heartfelt response, and the eagerness of it gave him a sense of reality,

of being grounded in an ordinary moment in the midst of an extraordinary event.

Gingerly, as if she were made of glass, Marguerida turned to Mikhail, holding the ring

in her open palm as if it burned, and said, "Give me your finger, and be quick about it,

beloved! Now!"

Mikhail held out his left hand, and she slipped the heavy ring onto his finger, touching

only the metal, not the jewel itself.
With this ring, I thee wed, Mikhail Hastur!

Then thunder rang in his mind, the room spun, and he felt himself fall into darkness.

28

Margaret Alton sat-under the branches of an evergreen, the rain trickling down her

face, soaking her shivering body, holding Mikhail's head on her lap. She had tried to

keep him dry at first, but that was impossible. The wind, while not violent, was steady,

and blew gusts of rain and sleet under the spreading branches, invading every fold of

fabric, chilling her and leaving her sodden and almost miserable.

She peered out from under the tree. The horses were standing with their heads together,

looking resigned. She knew she should get up and unsaddle them, but she was too

tired. Margaret looked up at the branches of the tree overhead, trying to see if the crow

was there. It had been earlier, but now it had disappeared. She let herself sigh and

shifted her weight a little under the weight of Mikhail's head.

That she was not completely miserable startled her, and made her feel mildly perverse.

She was cold, hungry, and exhausted: Mikhail was surely all of those, and unconscious

as well. Any normal person, she felt, should have been in complete despair. But she

was just too tired and numb for desperation.

She stroked the wet curls on Mikhail's brow with icy fingers, and considered her

situation again. Upon reflection, Margaret decided she was too angry to be properly

miserable—angry at Varzil, and his nameless female companion, at Mikhail for being

dead to the world, and angry at herself for being so helpless. If only she had the

strength to get him up on a horse!

For the tenth or maybe the hundredth time, Margaret went over the moments just after

Mikhail had accepted the ring from her shaking fingers. It had all happened so

quickly. One second he had been looking into her eyes, and the next he was sprawled

on the floor. And then the floor had vanished, and the round building as well, and she

had found herself kneeling on the ground, with rubble all around her. The pink grass

had disappeared, replaced by rank weeds and the burned remains of some rafters and

something that might once have been a plow. Rain had struck her face, shocking her

back into the present. Somehow she had managed to drag the limp body of her

husband under the tree before she ran out of energy. He was heavy, and she had sworn

at him.

Only the weight of the ornate bracelet on her wrist assured her that she had actually

experienced the otherworldly wedding ceremony. Margaret looked at Mikhail and saw

the sparkle on his hand. It did not look like Varzil’s ring, for it was not very large. It

did not look like much at all—certainly nothing worth all this trouble. But as she

watched, Margaret could see it changing shape. It expanded and shrank from moment

to moment. What did that mean? And what was she going to do?

One of her professors had once said in a lecture "There are things which the intellect

can never grasp, no matter how it tries." She had dutifully copied down these words on

her crystal notepad, thinking them rather foolish. Remembering the words as the wind

gusted across her face, sending stinging rain into her eyes, Margaret conceded that he

was right, after all. No matter how hard she tried, there was no rational way to explain

the events of the past night and day. She wished she could give up trying, but her

weary brain refused to let go completely.

Part of her mind continued to observe Mikhail, and she was grateful that she had at

least mastered basic monitoring at Neskaya. His heart rate was steady, his temperature

low but not dangerously so. But where his mind was, the mind she had come to know

and love during her tumultuous months on Darkover, there was only a swirling chaos.

Varzil must have been mad to imagine that he could transfer his own matrix to

Mikhail, and they had been insane to have agreed.

For the moment, all she could do was hope he recovered with all his wits, and that he

did not get pneumonia. It seemed a vain hope, and despair began to nibble at her.

She shut it away abruptly, sternly admonishing herself to remain calm. It was easier

thought than done. She would get herself steady for a few minutes, but as soon as she

began to relax, all the fears Ad worries leaped out at her again, gnawing at her mind

like hungry rats.

Instead of dwelling on things she could not understand or manage, Margaret studied

her matrixed hand. It felt different, and it looked unfamiliar, too. The lines were very

faint now, instead of clearly visible as they had been before. It almost seemed as if they

had sunk into her flesh. She had spent enough hours staring at the accursed thing to

know every line and juncture. Yes, it had changed. The brief contact with Varzil's ring

had done something—it was no longer recognizable as the keystone it had once been.

Damn! She had only started to get accustomed to the thing, and now it was

transformed.

Margaret frowned. Maybe it was for the best. She hoped the change might help her

stay out of Ashara's awareness. But how was it different? Or perhaps the question was

how was
she?
Cold as she was, with the soaked fabric of her hood pressing clammily

against her face, she could not shake the conviction that the very core of her being had