The Shadow Matrix (73 page)

wrist and remembered.
We are married. At last! Mother will never forgive us!
Then the

demands of his body interrupted his thoughts.

He sat up quickly, and his head swam. His bladder felt ready to burst, and he was

ravenous. Mikhail dragged himself up to his feet, and staggered toward the door,

loosening the drawstring on his trousers as he stumbled. He managed to make his way

a few steps beyond the doorway, into a muddy rut, before he paused and relieved

himself. Then he closed his pants and just stood there, swaying a bit, with cold water

seeping up into his stockings. If only he could have found a dry patch! He leaned

against a wall, breathing slowly, trying not to sit down in the puddle.

When his legs stopped trembling, he retraced his steps into the building. Where were

they? It seemed to take forever, and he felt weak and terribly stupid. Once inside again,

he realized they were in a huge kitchen, and not a very clean one at that. Why were

they sleeping in a kitchen, and why did he "faintly remember other people? There

seemed to be no one there except Marguerida, still asleep. He must have dreamed it,

surely.

Mikhail sank down on a bench along the table and found there was a loaf of bread

sitting on the board. Beside it was some cheese, a few withered apples, some raisins,

and two cooked birds. He stared at these for a long time, then reached out and took a

bit of cheese. It was salty on his tongue, and he noticed for the first time that his mouth

was parched. There was a wooden ewer on the table, and a small, round wooden cup.

He tried to pour himself some water, but his hands were so tremulous that he got more

on the table than into the wooden cup.

Mikhail drank, slowly and deeply, letting the sweet taste of clean water stay in his

mouth for a moment before he swallowed. He thought he remembered his head being

lifted, and someone dribbling some disgusting liquid into his mouth. When had that

happened, and where had the bread come from, and the roasted birds? Surely

Marguerida had not baked bread during. . . . was it one night or several? He was not

sure, and that made him shiver.

A little revived by the water, his mind seemed to clear. He had a faint memory of many

voices, all female, and a long, bumpy ride. He had not dreamed that, surely. But, where

were those speakers? The flutter of wings overhead was the only sound in the room,

except the faint crackling of the fire on the hearth. He could not really concentrate.

Instead of worrying further, he pulled a leg off one of the birds and started eating. He

alternated sips of water with the fowl, and slowly began to feel less hollow.

There was something he needed to remember, but it eluded him. It nagged at the back

of his mind as he ate. After only one leg and a bit of the breast, he found he could eat

no more, and poured himself another cup of water. Pigeon and cheese might not be the

best choice, he thought, for his belly started to cramp suddenly. Was the water tainted?

Mikhail rose unsteadily and tottered back toward the bedding, his damp stockings

making a nasty, squishing sound across the cold stones of the floor. The fire was only

embers now, and he saw a few logs and sticks piled beside the hearth. Mikhail sank

down beside it, and reached for a small branch. It took an enormous effort, but he

managed

to pull some of the sticks onto the coals. He watched the flames begin to lick at the

wood. Then he began to feel incredibly cold. It must be because his feet were soaked.

He wrestled off one sodden stocking, but the other one was beyond his dwindling

strength. He just sat on the warm hearthstones, with a wet sock dangling from his

fingers, too tired to move.

His eyelids seemed to weigh a great deal, and his head drooped onto his chest. He

slipped into a light drowse, then snapped awake again. Mikhail stared into the flames.

He groaned, and tried to roll a small log into the fireplace. The heat was wonderful,

and he wanted more!

"Wha . . .?"

The sound of a sleepy voice startled him, and his fingers lost their grip on the log. It

rolled onto his unprotected foot. He roared at the pain, and heard the muffled sound of

blankets being shoved aside. In a moment Marguerida was behind him, bending down,

her face very white.

She gripped his shoulders, and Mikhail leaned back. He rested against her chest,

feeling the warmth of her skin against his. What lovely breasts she had underneath that

nightgown. A pity he did not have the strength to do more than lean against them. And

why was her hair piled up on the top of her head in that provocative, wanton manner.

Was she trying to drive him mad with the sight of her slender neck?

"What were you doing?" Her voice was sharp with concern.

"Piss," he muttered. His mind was muddled again, and speech seemed difficult.

"Oh, I see. You need to rest, Mik. Here, let me get you back to ... where are the

Sisters?" He sensed a stab of fright. Then she stiffened, and he knew she was forcing

herself to remain calm.

Mikhail let her help him over to the pile of blankets. She laid him out, pulled the other

sock off his foot, and covered him up, tucking the blankets around him. Then he

watched her add some logs to the fire, and go to the table. Her movements had a

remote quality, as if he were watching everything from some great distance. He

struggled to penetrate the detachment enveloping him, but it was impossible.

He saw Marguerida look at the victuals on the board,

frown, and shrug. Then she came back to him, knelt beside him, and stroked the hair

off his face. "How do you feel?"

"Cold. Weak. Tired." The effort of those words seemed enormous.

"You won't feel cold much longer—your brow is pretty warm, and I think it is going to

get hot in a little while. I hope they left some feverwort tea. I wish they had not left

us ... oh, Mik!"

"Who?"

"We were rescued by a band of Sword Sisters—at least I think that is what they were

called—and they brought us here. I guess that Damila didn't think it was safe to remain

with us.
Damn."

"Where?" His chest felt as if it were being crushed by an enormous weight now, and

every joint in his body was hot, while his flesh was chilly.

"Where? Oh, where are we? They called it the old El Haliene place. Damila said it was

abandoned, and that the Sisters use it for themselves. We camped here, and they made

dinner, and ... I suppose they crept off while we slept. Sensible, but I wish they hadn't.

At least they left us some food."

"Ate."

"Yes, I saw that." She patted his hand in a kindly way, but he wished she had not, for

his skin was so tender that even a gentle touch was painful. He flinched in spite of

himself. "Well, we will just have to make the best of it. We have water—there must be

a well in here somewhere, and I'll find it. And we have some food, so we won't starve."

Mikhail felt himself shudder all over then, and his back arched: muscle spasms raced

along his body, leaving him writhing in agony, and he heard himself cry out. He tried

to stifle the terrible sounds, but it was impossible. Distantly, he heard Marguerida give

a sharp sound of distress, and curse.

The little food he had eaten tried to leap from his belly, and his mouth filled with

bitterness. He felt two strong hands grip his shoulders and sit him up, so he did not

choke, and mercifully, he did not spew either,- He shook and shook, every joint

screaming in agony, fire racing along his blood.

"Your hand," he managed to gasp.

Mikhail! What do you mean, my hand?

Spasms stop under one.

Huh? Oh, yes. Of course! I can see that your left arm is twitching less than your right.

I wonder. . . .

He felt his body being shifted against .hers, and then her left hand came down and

rested on his chest. Even as he gasped for air, he felt a subtle change in his body, as if

his heart were slowing down to something like normal. Vaguely he realized that

Marguerida was using her own heartbeat to regularize his, that she was using her own

matrix to rechannel his energy.

What was happening to him? Mikhail saw a blazing jewel in his mind again, and it all

rushed back. He was wearing the matrix ring of Varzil Ridenow! He could even feel

the metal of the band against his skin. And the gem itself was pressing upon his

clenched palm. Matrix shock!

Mikhail forced his hand open. He could feel the sweat on his face as he struggled to

extend his fingers. Then, his muscles still twitching terribly, he rolled the band around

so the stone stood above his finger. It seemed to take forever, but he knew it had

happened quickly.

He felt his lungs labor less now. His heart was steadying to a regular beat. Mikhail

could hear Marguerida muttering to herself under her breath, moving her hand here

and there. There was a small bloom of panic in her mind, held at bay by will and

training, and an incredible determination.

It was a fine thing, an admirable one, and something within him tried to match it, to

mingle with it, for its beauty and its strength. At the same time, part of him was aware

that Marguerida was doing something very unorthodox, that she was using her
laran
in

a way he had never before observed. No monitor or healer had ever done this. Was it

one of Istvana's innovations?

The fire in his joints began to ease, and the spasms of his limbs faded away. He felt as

if he were floating in a warm bath, a gentle sea that supported his body. It was like

falling into a song. Energy lapped his sinews instead of torturing them.

What are you doing?

Hush!

Mikhail did as he was bid, trusting her more than he had ever trusted another person in

his life. She had done this

before, hadn't she—when he thought she was going to choke Varzil. It was too much,

that memory. He was afraid to think. Madness seemed only a breath away, and he

dared not let it overwhelm him. He must trust Marguerida, and nothing more. But, it

was so hard to do that.

His tortured muscles begin to uncoil, going slack with exhaustion. Mikhail discovered

he was too tired to think or feel at all. Nothing mattered now except rest.

Rest! A
cold, merciless presence stirred in him.
Hide behind a woman's skirts? Let her

do all the work?
The wonderful lethargy creeping along his limbs vanished, replaced

by a fear and disgust that jolted him.

Mik! Stop fighting me!

The cry was far away, and he tried to ignore it. He did not want her help, her healing.

He could not bear to owe her more than he already did. He was unworthy of her

magnificence.

No, no—this was Marguerida! But. . . she was a woman, like Javanne, always

intriguing, manipulating, and making him feel inadequate. If Marguerida helped him,

saved him, he would be even less worthy. She would never let him forget how she had

rescued him, would she? Of course not—women never relented. His mother never

relented.

And she was so splendid, so wonderful. He was no match for her! No ring would ever

make him her equal. It was a contest he could not win.

Mikhail looked into himself, and saw a twisted face stare back at him. It was the

saddest face he had ever seen, a starved countenance. And yet it was his own familiar

features looking at him, forlorn and hungry-eyed. He hated it, the weakness of it—

what a disgusting fright! It would be better off dead.

Beneath his revulsion, from a place he never dreamed existed, came a tendril of pity. It

was so small he barely noticed that it made a pocket of warmth in his coldness, a trail

of heat in the ice of his soul. Poor thing, all alone in the dark. Poor Mikhail—not good

enough to please his mother, to win her affection. Not good enough to step into Regis'

shoes. And surely not good enough to wear the jewel on his hand.

Pain crushed his chest again, and his sad, dark twin lay across him, in a lover's pose.

He could feel its hot, fetid

breath against his cheeks. He wanted to struggle, -to wriggle away from the weight of

himself. He had been fighting this sorrowful monster for years, and never could he best

it. He might as well give up and let it suck his breath away. He was too weary to go on

fighting any longer.

The specter vanished then, and another face floated above his. It was an old man,

dignified and wise. Eyes gazed at him, filled with great compassion, and that hurt him

and angered him as well. He did not want pity—he knew what he was! But Varzil's

blue eyes bored into him.

I
am too flawed. I cannot bear this thing you have given me!

Mikhalangelo, we are all flawed. And you have the strength to wield the matrix, if you

will only be a little kinder to yourself.

Kinder. Am I not weak enough without adding that?
The words spat out of him, filled

with selfhatred and rage.

The grave face smiled above him.
You hold yourself to a standard even a god would