The Shadow Matrix (75 page)

go." She sounded worried and tired.

"Yes, I know." He finished his washing, took his undershirt and balled it up, and thrust

it into the pot. He mushed it around, rubbing the fabric between his fingers, until it

caught on the ring. Varzil probably never did his own laundry. This thought amused

him as he unhitched the snag, pulled, the soaking garment out of the water, and wrung

it out as best he could. Then he hung it from a hook on one side of . the fireplace, and

heard it begin to drip on the warm stones. He saw that his stockings had been removed

while he slept, washed and hung up to dry, with hers beside them. There was

something very warming about it, this sense of being taken care of. And, for the first

time, he did not resent it.

There was a wooden bucket standing near the hearth, and it was full. Mikhail emptied

the pot on the floor of the kitchen, refilled it and set it to warm. It gave him an

enormous pleasure to perform this simple task. If only everything else could be so

easy. Satisfied, he turned and asked, "Where is our crow friend?"

"He was with the horses when I looked, and I think he is reducing the mouse

population. I never knew crows

hunted—but that is a very remarkable bird, all around." She stopped sweeping, leaned

the broom against the long bench on one side of the table, and sat down suddenly, her

face very pale.

"What's the matter?"

"Ashara! I can sense her. She is looking for something— not anything specific, I think.

But I feel like someone just walked on my grave!"

Mikhail sat down beside her, and took her right hand in his left, so their bracelets

chimed together. "I want to tell you I will protect you from her, but I really don't know

if I can."

She shook her head, and pulled off the kerchief. Her cheeks had smudges of dirt on

them, and she rubbed her face, making the situation worse. "I am not the child I was

when she overshadowed me the first time, and now I have this," she said as she flexed

her other hand. "The thing is, you see, that she could kill me, but I dare not kill her,

because that would change everything. I've been thinking on it while I swept. We have

to be like mice in the wainscoting, so she will not notice us."

Mikhail put his arm around her shoulder and drew her against him. "Wearing Varzil's

ring, that is going to be a good trick. I feel as if I am about as subtle as a beacon."

"She isn't expecting you, Mikhail. And, besides, it isn't his any longer. It's part yours

and part his—something new. I only wish I knew how long we needed to hide, and

how we are going to do it."

He could smell her body, sweet with lavender, and feel the pulse of her blood beneath

his fingers. "I may be able to answer that, though I suspect you will not like it. While I

slept, I dreamed, and in the dream I had a chat with Varzil—at least that is what I

remember. In about forty days, if I understood it right, we need to be .at the
rhu fead.

Beyond that, things become somewhat vague."

"Forty days?" She sounded astounded. "Forty . . . What are we supposed to do in the

meantime—twiddle our thumbs?" Her voice was shrill and he could feel her tremble

against him. Her calm had fooled him. She was closer to breaking than he had guessed.

"Even Varzil cannot command the moons, my dearest." Mikhail regretted the words

immediately.

"Damn the moons and damn Varzil! Ashara will find me before then, I just know it.

And we can't hide out here for all that time. We will starve."

"No, we can't. And we will leave here soon." Mikhail paused, trying to find the right

words to say now. "This is awkward, but I think she is looking for a maiden, not a

woman, Marguerida." He waited to see if she understood his meaning.

"What? Oh, I see—you think we should . . . then I will be different! Mikhail Hastur

that is about the least romantic thing I ever heard! Not that I expected roses and

violins, but. . . ." Marguerida sputtered to a halt, her mouth pinched with vexation, but

her eyes twinkled slightly.

He stroked the tangled curls off her brow and kissed her lightly. Then he began to

pluck the hairpins from her hair. Silky red tresses slid across his hand. He had wanted

to do this for months. "I cannot give you roses, but you already have my heart,

Marguerida," he whispered. She was deeply frightened, but even so he could sense the

stirrings of arousal in her. The smell of her and the feel of her soft skin beneath his

hand was almost more than he could bear. But he knew he must go slowly. She would

panic if he rushed her.

Marguerida giggled against his neck, the warmth of her breath tickling him. "That is a

good beginning—go on."

"You are also the finest and bravest person I have ever known." She did not move, and

he knew that he had not found the right words yet. "You are the most beautiful woman

I have ever seen. I love the way your eyes glint in the firelight, and how your hair is

never tidy. The moment I set eyes on you, Marguerida Alton, I wanted to rip off all

your clothes, and have my way with you! The curve of your mouth makes my heart

beat faster, and when you laugh, it rejoices, and when you weep, it breaks. I have

wanted to do this for ages." He pushed aside the hair at the back of her neck, revealing

the smooth skin that ran down toward her spine. Then he kissed her there, softly, the

heat of her satin skin against his lips.

Mikhail could feel the tension in her body, the tightness of her limbs, the way she tried

to hold herself away. At the same time he found an answering of flesh, a longing, sweet

and tentative, but very real. He felt her left hand come to

rest on his bare chest, the fingers brushing his skin lightly, as if she were afraid.

Marguerida seemed to realize what she was doing, for she snatched her hand away

swiftly, pulled free of him, and looked at it. When she turned toward him, her eyes

were very wide. She swallowed hard, and then placed her left palm against his chest,

and he half expected to feel a jolt of energy hit his heart. There was nothing except a

faint trickle of
laran,
like passing a veil, in the touch.

"You are the one person I can hold without danger to either of us." There was awe in

her voice. "I never guessed that. I wonder.

"Wonder later, my darling."

Marguerida put her arms around his neck then, and pressed her mouth against his,

melting against his chest as if she had done it a thousand times before. They were both

a little breathless when they drew apart, twined hands, and rose as. one.

• They slipped down on the rumpled blankets beside the fireplace, touching and kissing

softly. Mikhail was nearly overcome by the harsh demands of his body, but he refused

to hurry, much as he longed to. He brushed her breast with his lips, heard a little gasp,

and sensed her tense with excitement. He kissed the line of her body, from breast to

hip, and felt her trembling beneath his touch.

Then, in a burst of energy, all the passion which had been denied Margaret all of her

life broke through some invisible barrier. It flooded his mind and body, warm and

eager, uncertain and yearning. For the merest instant, there was resistance, and then

abandon, beyond anything he dared to dream of.

31

Two mornings later, in a drizzling rain, they rode away from the deserted ruin, heading

south. Even if they had not run out of food for themselves, there was no fodder left for

the horses, and that had forced the decision. Mikhail was smiling, thinking of how

Marguerida had grinned fiendishly as she said, "Love won't fill our bellies—no matter

how often we try to make it."

Mikhail was still stunned by the way in which Marguerida had changed, once the first

desperate, clumsy coupling was accomplished. The only word he could think of was

wanton. He had never suspected her of having so much imagination and sheer

naughtiness. And it was all his—if she did not wear him out first. She certainly had

tried.

Still, he had not felt so well in years, as if his marriage to Marguerida had fulfilled

some lack in him he had not known he possessed. Now, if he could only solve the

problem of how they were going to survive until they could escape from the past, he

would be completely happy. Mikhail had no clear plan, and this disturbed him. Indeed,

he almost felt that he was being drawn along toward some invisible goal—that his

destiny remained incomplete. He refused to let this suspicion dampen his spirits, but a

dark bloom of worry began to grow in his mind.

Marguerida made a little sound of distress, distracting him from his silent musings.

"What is it?"

She favored him with a glowing grin from beneath the shadow of her hood, and his

heart leaped with delight. "I'm not sure. I feel a little strange—light-headed. And

hungry and queasy at the same time. Maybe that last bird was a bit off, or the bread

was getting moldy. It's nothing."

"I feel fine, so it probably is not the food. Are you coming down with something?"

That seemed unlikely, since

Mikhail knew that the Terranan inoculations she had had before coming to Darkover

were damn-near miraculous.

"I don't think so. Mostly I am sore," Margaret blushed, "And my breasts are really

tender."

Mikhail thought about her beautiful breasts and got aroused in spite of himself. It was

not something that was very comfortable on horseback, and certainly he should have

sated his lust by now. Had he been too rough with her? "I am sorry,
caria."

"I don't believe it was anything we did, dearest." She gave a little sigh, and looked very

happy. "Well, perhaps we were a bit too enthusiastic. All I know is that I feel different

than I ever have in my life. When I touched Varzil’s ring, I could feel something

change inside me. And when we loved, it changed again. I expect it will just take some

time for my body to adjust, as it did when I first acquired my matrix pattern. I've been

through a lot in the past few months, you know."

"You have indeed." There seemed to be nothing more to say. Mikhail wondered about

his own body, aware that accepting Varzil's matrix had changed him in yet unknown

ways. He wished there were someone to consult, for Marguerida did not know much

more than he did. Perhaps the best idea would be to return to Hali Tower and see if

Amalie El Haliene could be made to answer some hard questions. Then he shook his

head—that did not feel right.

They rode on in silence for a short time, passing through another patch of barren earth,

with dreadful, deformed plants the only living things to be seen. It was not the first

time they had encountered this devastation, and was riot likely to be the last, and

Mikhail found himself sorrowing for the land, for his world and the destruction which

his ancestors had wrought. He was amazed his world had survived the Ages of Chaos,

glad that he had not lived in these times.

Ahead there was a stand of conifers and hardwoods, just beyond the blighted area. He

wondered how it could be that one acre was ruined, but the next appeared healthy and

sound. The rain muffled everything, and he found himself straining for the sound of

birds.

It was too quiet! Despite his longing to be under the

shelter of those trees, Mikhail suddenly felt a prickle of danger. He guided his horse to

the left, circling the small grove, and Marguerida followed him without question.

He glanced down at the crow riding on his pommel. The great bird was hunched, its

red eyes alert. Mikhail wished he had the
laran
to hear its avian thoughts, for he knew

that the senses of the crow were better than his own.

Suddenly, eight armed men galloped out from the shelter of the trees, spurring their

steeds and clearly intent on intercepting them. They were all garbed in gray, with

shining gold trim, and they rode with military precision. He could see that they had

helms of steel, as well as swords.

They drew up, surrounded Mikhail and Marguerida, and halted. Mikhail could see their

faces, grim and expressionless. They did not speak, but just sat on their steeds, staring.

And they all looked identical.

Mikhail
—
they are not human.

What?

They can't be
—
I can't read their minds. There is not a hint of the energy of a human

brain.

What do you think they are?

Clones of some sort, perhaps. Or some kind of robots, except they are flesh and blood,

not metal. I don't know.

Before he could continue the exchange, another man rode out from the trees, and the

riders parted, letting him through. He was slender and pale and his eyes gleamed

amber in the reddish-gray light that came through the clouds. Mikhail guessed his age

at thirty, and by the fineness of his garments and the deference paid him, someone with

authority.

The man reined in his horse, and just stared at them for a long, silent moment. He

looked at their cloaks very hard, as if something about them bothered him. His thin

mouth twisted a little. "Greetings," he said at last, without any inflection. There was