The Shadow Matrix (72 page)

had managed to contain her merriment a little, she asked, "How did you know?"

"I've never seen clothes quite like yours before, and you speak oddly." She paused and

frowned for a moment. "It is almost as if you were thinking in another tongue."

"I thank you for trusting me in spite of that. I have told you all that I dare."
I don't

want to make some chance remark that will change the future, even though I can't

think what that might be.

Damila nodded gravely. "When I left home to join the Sisters, my father cursed me. He

said that I was crazy, that I was a stupid girl who did not know her own mind. And I

swore to myself that I would never assume that another woman did not know what she

was about, even if it seemed to me to be silly or ill-considered. This is the first time I

have ever had to remember that vow, but it seems that keeping to it is the best course.

Where are you and your man going?"

Margaret gave a deep sigh. "I wish I knew."

Jonil was pulling the loaves out of the oven now, and the hot smell of fresh bread

floated through the room. She used the long-handled platform to carry the golden

mounds to the table. She set the loaves on a tray on the table, and walked away. It was

all Margaret could do not to reach out and tear a piece off and stuff it into her mouth.

Wooden bowls and spoons were brought out, and some battered trenchers as well.

Margaret and Damila got up and moved down the table, seating themselves across the

board from one another. Small wooden cups were placed along the table cloth, and a

birchwood ewer stood at the far end. The members of the band began to take their

places, talking quietly and wiping their hands on their garments.

She saw Damila reached a work-coarsened hand across the table. Margaret felt the

woman on her other side reach for her left hand. She snatched the hand away quickly.

The unknown woman stared at her in shock.

"We must say the blessing, and we always ..."

"What is it?" Damila's tone was curt and demanding.

Margaret flinched at the suspicion and hostility in the voice. Her left hand was bare,

but she still wore the mitt on the right one. It smelled of the onions she had chopped, in

a sorry state for such an elegant accessory. She was so tired she had forgotten

everything, and nearly been stupid.

She stripped off the remaining glove, turned it wrong-side to, and pulled it over her left

hand. When Margaret looked up, she found herself the object of eight pair of

astonished and rather hostile eyes. She blushed all the way to the roots of her hair.

What was she supposed to say?

The woman said, "Does my touch offend you, then?"

"No, certainly not. But if you had touched that hand unshielded, I do not know if you

would have survived. I did it to protect you, not to offend you."

The beast-speaker, Morall, nodded in agreement. "There is a laran-brightness on her

hand, very faint, but I remember .noticing it when we came into the hall here. She did

rightly, Dorys, so don't get your trousers in a twist. Now, let's say the blessing! I didn't

wring those necks and pluck all those damn feathers to have the birds get cold and

nasty while we debate the niceties."

Hands were joined, and Dorys placed her fingers in Margaret's very cautiously, a bit

wide-eyed.
Oh, my! What a narrow escape! I might have been killed!

Margaret caught the woman's fear, and tried to ignore the spill of thoughts around the

table. She had almost learned to block out the continuous mental chatter that was the

normal working of human minds, but it was more difficult when she was tired. She

heard a fragment here and there—Vanda wondering if Mikhail would get a fever, Jonil

thinking of the yeast bread she had started earlier—ordinary thoughts. But she could

not completely ignore Damila's. The leader of the band was full of concerns, and very

much wished she had not rescued them. She wanted to be rid of her unwelcome guests

as quickly as possible.

Vanda began to speak. "For the gifts of this food, and this shelter, we thank the

Goddess who guides and protects us. We thank the animals who gave us their meat,

and the plants which gave us their sustenance. We thank the rain for giving us water,

and the earth for supporting us, now and forever."

It was a simple blessing, like others Margaret had heard. But the sincerity of the

women moved her deeply, and made her wish she had not had to deceive them. This

was no empty rite, but something full of real meaning and genuine belief. She

swallowed hard and blinked back tears.

Dorys withdrew her hand as soon as the words were done. While the platter of birds

was passed down the table, Margaret wondered which Goddess they meant. Hadn't

Rafi told her something about that? It was Avarra, the

Dark Goddess, she remembered after a second of groping in her weary brain. She

recalled the painting of that deity on the ceiling of the grand dining room in Comyn

Castle, and that other figure, that of Evanda, the Lady of Spring and Light. With a

slight start she realized that the image of Evanda was not unlike the shining woman

who had supported Varzil during that incredible wedding ceremony.

A small bubble of hysteria rose in her throat, and she choked it back. Had she actually

eaten rabbithorn stew and a slab of warm bread made by the hands of Evanda? It

seemed too much for a moment. Then her mind balked. She refused to be upset by

more speculations! The band circling her wrist was evidence of the event. Everything

else was unimportant. If all the gods in the universe had been there, it would still be the

same. Besides, there were enough
real
things to be worried about!

Breathing deeply, Margaret calmed herself. She watched Jonil tear a loaf of bread into

chunks, strong hands pulling the warm mound apart. The sight steadied her, and she

felt her mind quiet, and her emotions as well. She was still just herself, whether she

was Margaret Alton or Marguerida Alton-Hastur, and she was very hungry. Nothing

else was important at that moment.

Damila handed a piece of bread across the table to her,

and soon the platter of birds arrived. She took one and

pulled off a limb. It tasted dark, wild, and gamey. There

was some spice on the skin, herbs and oil rubbed on it

before cooking, a delicious taste she had not encountered

before.

Margaret chewed and chewed, for the bird was tough, but the finest cuisine of

Thendara wouldn't have tasted better to her. She was barely aware of the others at the

table, so deep was she in the sensuous enjoyment of the food. She took a bite of bread

and tasted the faint sour flavor of baking soda.

"Jonil, the bread is simply wonderful, and the bird is delicious!" The words popped

out, and Margaret was surprised at how tired her voice sounded.

"Thank you, Marja." She smiled a little, and gestured around the table with a greasy

hand. "My sisters are so used to my cooking that they sometimes forget to tell me if

they like it." '

This made two of the Renunciates redden beneath their

weathered skins, and look down at their plates, as if embarrassed. But Morall just

laughed.

"No

one

tells

me

I

did

a

good job getting the food, so why should we tell you it

tastes good? You should just be pleased we don't

complain." • ....

"Oh, no, Mora. We would not dare complain, lest Joni put mock mint in the stew and

make us sorry we ever opened our mouths to eat or speak." This was a woman about

Margaret's own age, with pale hair and mischievous eyes.

"Would you do that?" Morall leaned forward to look down the board at Jonil.

"I might, if I were sufficiently annoyed. And there are worse things than mock mint."

She added this rather darkly, but with a playful light in her eyes. "A bit of
densa
would

have you jumping off your horse to shit every other minute."

Everyone laughed except Morall. She frowned for a second, then relaxed. "I'll

remember that, if I find myself with the runs."

When the birds had been eaten, Jonil got up and brought the cauldron to the table. She

served out stew into the wooden bowls. Margaret discovered with surprise that her

stomach felt almost full, but she took some stew and ate it slowly. It tasted more

familiar, like something Rafi had made on the trail, and she found herself wishing

again for her dear friend. The carrots and onions had not been cooked so long as to

turn to mush, and were still flavorful and a bit crunchy, and whatever meat had been

added had a pleasant salty taste. She managed to finish most of the bowl before she

had to stop eating.

With some cheese and slices of apple, the meal was complete. Everyone got up, their

previous suspicion returning, and left her sitting on the bench. Margaret did not blame

them a bit, though she felt rather sad. Karis brought a bucket and set it down on the

table. She began to clear the dishes, and wash them in the bucket, singing quietly to

herself as she worked.

Margaret listened to the song, trying to memorize it. The food had revived her to a

degree, and it was almost reflexive. The language was archaic, but the melody not

difficult.

It had been composed in a minor key that gave it a wonderful, haunting quality. The

lyrics told of two sisters, their love for one another, and their painful separation. She

concentrated, trying to penetrate the tale, for it was one she had never heard before,

either in song or story.

"
'She asked the rush and reed Of beloved
breda
Maris On Valeron's swift banks. She

asked the stone and seed Of treasured
breda
Maris On Valeron's high banks. She asked

the water and weed And heard only To the Sea, To the Sea.'
"

The verses rolled on and on, like the river and the sea

themselves, with the seeker asking all and sundry; whether

beast or bush, where Maris had gone. The song had an

eerie rhythm, like the beat of waves against the shore at

low tide, quiet and a little sad. Even as it started, Margaret

knew the tale would not have a happy conclusion. And as

the final verse drew to a close, the unnamed sister threw

herself into the rushing waters of the River Valeron, and

drifted down to the cold sea of Dalereuth, calling for Maris

and finding no answer. The refrain,

"Ahm Maree,"

"to the

sea," playing as it did with the sound of the name Maris,

gave Margaret shivers. .

"That was very beautiful," she said quietly, in spite of herself.

"Huh? Oh, the song? I always sing it when I wash up— it suits the job."

"Yes, it does."

The bench under her seemed hard and unforgiving now the song was over, and her

shoulders drooped. Her eyes itched with fatigue. She dragged herself to her feet, half

staggered toward the fireplace, and flopped down next to Mikhail. Her stockings were

disgustingly filthy but she did not have the energy to pull them off.

Margaret steeled herself. Then she monitored the unconscious form beside her. All his

vitals seemed normal, but his mind remained unreachable. She felt despair rise in her

throat, and swallowed it, commanding it to be gone. She was too tired to think now.

Later, when she had slept, she would think of something.

Margaret rearranged the blankets, ignoring the horsy smell clinging to them. She

snuggled down, feeling the pleasant heat of Mikhail's body next to hers, and scenting

the distinctive odor of maleness she had occasionally caught when she hugged her

father. Thinking of Lew made her wonder what was happening in Comyn Castle, but

she was too tired to hold that thought.

She turned on her side and pillowed her head on Mikhail's shoulder. For a moment

Margaret just rested there, feeling odd and utterly right at the same time. Then she put

her right hand over his left arm, heard the bracelets clink as they met, and closed her

eyes.
So this is what married life is like,
she thought, and smiled.

30

Mikhail woke abruptly, without any of the drowsy semi-sleep he normally enjoyed.

One moment he was falling through some infinite space, the next he was staring up at

darkened beams crowded with cooing pigeons. Where was he?

He turned his head carefully and found Marguerida beside him, snoring delicately in

deep sleep. A jumble of images exploded in his mind: pink grass, a huge jewel, a

shining woman and a man lying on a couch. Varzil the Good! He had actually come to

the past and spoken with the ancient
tenerezu.
And something else. For a moment

Mikhail groped for the elusive thought. Then he felt the weight of metal encircling his