The Shadow Matrix (74 page)

find daunting, my son. The merest imperfection in you seems magnified into a

monstrous failure. Can you feel the weight of these things pressing against you?

Yes!

Ten times the Wall around the World weighs on your heart, Mikhalangelo. It is not my

little ring that oppresses you, but only your fear.

1 want to die!

You will, but not this day. Let go! It is not treasure that you are clutching, but only a

pack of rubbish.

Rubbish?
That seemed a remarkable description for the misery he felt.

Small flaws magnified into great failings are the rubbish of the soul. Release your grip

on this monster you have made of yourself. You are worthy of your Margarethe, but

more, you are worthy of yourself!

Ami?
'

You will have to trust my judgment in the matter.

He struggled for what seemed a great time, but eventually he flagged. How great a toll

it took to wrestle with himself. And how foolish it was.

Great washes of emotion flooded across him—light and dark, good and ill. He had

never suspected he contained

so many feelings, nor how powerful they were. They ran together, pooling, until he

could no longer distinguish one from another. He let himself sink into that calming

whirl of old, worn-out fears and desires, drowning his despair and hope at once. This

was for the best.

He could feel his body fail, his heart ceasing to beat in his breast, his blood halting* in

his veins. Mikhail waited for death now, accepted it, mourned himself without self-

consciousness. Soon it would be over. At least he would perish whole instead of in bits

and pieces.

Dammit, Mik! Don't quit on me now!
He felt a smart slap on his face, a stinging of

flesh upon flesh. It was like having cold water pour into him, clear and bright and

refreshing.

A fist thumped against his chest,, and his heart jumped. His anguish receded, but the

memory of it lingered like the taste of salt on his tongue. He was resting across

Marguerida’s lap, looking up at a very angry woman. There was a sheen of sweat on

her forehead, and some of her fine hair had escaped from the pins, giving her a

frenzied appearance. Her golden eyes were like small flames.

"Ouch," he said, rubbing his sternum. "That hurt."

"Good! If you ever try cardiac arrest on me again, I will pound you even harder!"

"I was not
trying
cardiac arrest," he mumbled, feeling injured and misunderstood. "You

make it sound as if I did it on purpose."

Marguerida laughed shakily, and some of the high color left her face. "I suppose I did.

You just scared ten years off me, and that . . . well, it makes me so angry!" A tear rose

in one eye, and began to slip down her cheek unnoticed. "So far our married life has

been terrible," she muttered.

Marguerida began to sob, and Mikhail wished he had the strength to comfort her. All

he could manage was a feeble pat on the hand which rested on his chest and a few

meaningless phrases. Something nagged at his disordered wits, and after a minute he

said, "Our married life?"

The sobs choked to a halt in a sputter of coughing. Marguerida grabbed his wrist and

drew his arm up, so he could see the circlet resting here. "You mean you don't

remember promising to serve me all my days, you silly dolt!"

"Did I do that?" It was all very vague and fuzzy, but he did seem to remember some

sort of promise. Still,
serve
her? "Why don't I remember—was I drunk?"

"All you had was water! Don't provoke me, Mikhail Hastur! I am stretched too thin to

take it. Don't you remember
anything?
Varzil marrying us, and . . . and
Her?"

"Her?"

Margaret seemed unusually hesitant to answer. "Evanda, I think."

He had a burst of memory, of a woman's face, beautiful and radiant, the smell of stone

and stew, and a voice speaking. Mikhail remembered the weight of the bracelet when it

was put upon his wrist, and Marguerida saying, "With this ring . . ." And then all

reality had vanished, leaving him wandering in some lightless place.

"Oh, Mik, I was so frightened for you. Can't, you remember?"

"It all seems very confused yet, but, yes, I certainly remember the woman." He paused

and sighed a little, feeling his exhaustion, but also a kind of relaxed vigor, as if he had

come a great distance in a short time. "Amos is not going to believe that story, I

promise you."

"Amos?" Marguerida looked puzzled, then concerned, as if he were raving.

"Don't you remember our imaginary grandchild?"

"Oh, yes." She almost giggled with relief. "Humph! The way we have been going, we

aren't going to have any children, let alone grandchildren." Then her face turned quite

red, and her eyes shifted away. She held her shoulders uncomfortably, tense and

frightened.

"Poor Marguerida. I don't remember clearly after you put that ring on my hand. I just

fell off the edge of the world or something."

"I'm not completely sure. All I know is that the building vanished—I don't think it was

ever there at all, Mik—and I found us sitting in the pouring rain. You were

unconscious, so I managed to drag you under some trees. We were getting wetter and

wetter, and I was almost out of my mind. So, being the wise and sensible person that I

am, I decided to perform an experiment with heat exchange and I think I nearly crisped

both of us. If I did not know it

before, 1 now understand why a little knowledge is a dangerous thing."

"But how did we get here?"

"The crow did it."

"Huh?"

"No, it did not fly us here. It went and found some women, Sisters of the Sword. And

they loaded you onto a litter, and we came to this place." She glanced around the

shadowed kitchen and sighed. "I think they decided we were too dangerous to be

around, because they sneaked off while we were sleeping. I don't know how they did

it, but I was so tired that probably an entire army could have tromped through, and I

would not have stirred. I assume they left our horses behind, in whatever serves for a

stable in this ruin."

"I see. I am sorry that ..."

"Don't be stupid! You couldn't help getting sick. It is just that I have been nearly out of

my mind with worry, and I tend to take things very personally at times like this. It is

not a very helpful trait, but I can't seem to shake it." She frowned a little. "Maybe it's in

my genes, because the Old Man does it, too. Oh, how I wish he were here right now!

Hell, I'd even be happy to see your father! Or your mother, or even Gisela Aldaran, and

my councilor from University, who was a real pain." He could hear the fatigue in her

voice, and knew she was holding herself together by will alone.

"Beloved, tell me what you just did to me. It wasn't like anything I ever felt before."

"It's hard to say, exactly, because I confess I was working completely intuitively, as if I

were composing a piece of music." She paused, frowned and thought for a few

seconds. "What I thought I was doing was giving you a good currying!"

"A what?"

"As with a horse—curry-combing. I just kept combing the knots and tangles in you out

with my matrix. And there was something else, too." Marguerida went silent for a

minute. "When I took Varzil's matrix to give you, there was an instant where it touched

me. I learned something I have not sorted out yet, but I think I might be discovering

how to heal. I've been learning all along how to use this ac-

cursed thing—when I killed the bandit and when I cleared

Varzil's channels. But those were crude. . . . How do you

feel?" .

"

"Achy. Tired. But clean and clear, too. All I need is a week's sleep, lots of food, a bath,

and some fresh clothing. I hate the way I feel, but the way I smell . . . ugh!"

"We are both good and stinky. And I will wager there is not a bath to be had in a

hundred miles. And unless I can catch some more pigeons, all the food we have is

there on the table."

Mikhail felt his eyes grow heavy, and found himself slipping into doze. "I haven't been

a very good provider, so far, my
caria.
Forgive me." Then, within moments, he fell

into a profound sleep.

Singing woke him. Mikhail went from dreaming to near waking slowly, and the

rippling notes seemed to be part of both states. He lay very still and listened. Beneath

the words he heard the steady brush of a broom across stones, the coo of the birds

overhead, and the patter of soft rain outside. It was a seamless sound, all joining into

the music.

Carefully, Mikhail sat up in the blankets. His body was warm but not feverish. The

clammy dampness of his garments told him he had been sweating in his sleep. He

looked around the kitchen, and found Marguerida across the room, wielding a broom.

She had taken off the white nightgown, and was wearing only her chemise and a single

petticoat. Her hair was tied under a square of cloth, so th 2 back of her neck was

completely exposed. It was something no Darkovan woman would have done, and he

was astounded by- how erotic it was, and how strongly his body responded.

For a minute he watched her, seeing her content. Mikhail had never known Marguerida

to be so composed. He supposed, after all they had been though, that sweeping the

floor was a pleasant change. "What are you singing?" he asked quietly, so as not to

startle her out of her mood.

"What? Oh, you are awake!" She turned toward him, smiling, her face flushed with

work, and looked as beautiful as any woman he had ever seen. "It is just an old rowing

song from Thetis, one they do to keep time for the oarsmen."

"It is very pretty. But why are you sweeping?" Mikhail gestured at the birds overhead.

"It is just going to get messy again."

"As long as we are here, I'd like the place to be liveable," she replied a bit tartly.

"While you slept, I located the well, found the remains of the pantry, and unearthed a

good-sized pot that was overlooked. I have heated water, so you can have a wash."

"Good. I need it!"

"I already did, and it felt wonderful." She seemed to notice then that she was dressed

immodestly, glanced down at herself, and shrugged. "I found more wood to burn, so

we won't be cold."

"That's fine." Mikhail could sense the awkwardness that lay between them, the slight

tension of two people who, while married, were not yet truly wed. He did not need to

be telepathic to know that she was uncomfortable, but he was, too. No, not

uncomfortable but shy.

Mikhail had not felt shy around any woman since he was in his teens. The emotion

puzzled him now. Then he realized that this was not just any female, but the one

woman in the world he loved, and that made a great deal of difference. This could not

be some casual seduction. He was sure that the first time would be remembered by

both of them, for as long as they lived. He had to be careful, and gentle, no matter how

eager he felt, how desperately he wanted her.

He pushed aside his blankets, and went over to the hearth. There he found a metal pot

with warm water in it, and something floating on the top. He sniffed cautiously, and

smelled lavender and soap weed. Where had she found that?

Mikhail pulled off his noisome tunic and undershirt, loosened his pants and found

there was a washcloth folded nearby, still damp from her use. As he began to clean

himself, he marveled at Marguerida's enormous adaptability. He could not imagine

Gisela Aldaran, or any other woman of his own class, sweeping floors or doing

laundry. He knew, because she had told him, that she had lived in primitive conditions

on several worlds. She said she had lived in huts, worn little besides feathers and

flowers, eaten un-

cooked meat, and done things he found unimaginable. She had likely swept out those

huts, too.

This was a dimension of Marguerida he had never considered before, and would not

have regarded with as much respect if he had not spent those months at Halyn House,

mucking out stables and hammering wooden pegs into drafty windows. A humble

broom, he suspected, had never graced his mother's hands, nor those of Gisela. There

were always servants to see to such matters, and he realized again how privileged he

had been.

The warm, scented water laved his skin sweetly, and he felt much better, if a little

hollow in the middle. The foul stink of his own sweat vanished. He would have liked

some real soap, but that would have been asking for a great deal, and the soap weed

did the trick, if a little crudely.

"I went out when the rain paused," Marguerida interrupted his musings, "and looked

around. The horses are in a room I think was the buttery before. The Sisters left enough

oats for them for a couple of days, and they will not want for water. So as soon as you

feel up to riding, I think we can head off. Once we run out of food, we will have to