The Shadow Matrix

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  What about Gisela?

  She is furious, of course. And Dom Damon cannot quite decide if he is outraged or insulted. Don't think about them. Worry about the company of Guardsmen racing after you.

  Don't worry. They won't catch us.

  How do you know?

  I just do. Margaret was too tired to try and explain more.

  Where are you going? Do you know that?

  Mali Tower—and that is all that I-know now. But, Father, I will be back. I know that, and I swear it.

  How do you know you are coming back?

  I just know. She kept her doubts out of her mind.

  Hell and damnation! Very well—I suppose I will have to be satisfied with that. Godspeed, daughter, and come back as soon as you can. And take care of yourself. I could not bear to lose you, now, when I have just found you.

  I know, dear Father. And I promise I will come back in one piece—you have my oath!

  Then Lew Alton Was gone, and Margaret urged her horse faster into the night.

  By the time Margaret and Mikhail reached the ruins of Hali Tower, it was well past midnight, and the sky had begun to cloud up. The smell of snow was heavy on the wind, but none had fallen yet. In the light of the four moons, now close to midheaven, the eerie mists of the lake shone brightly. It was very quiet, except for the wind. The horses were weary, and even the bay hung its proud head as they drew to a halt.

  They dismounted stiffly, and tugged their cloaks about them against the increasing cold. Margaret stroked Dorilys' side, feeling the heaving of her breath, and the sweat on the great muscles. "Good girl." She knew that she should tend the horse, walk her until she cooled down properly, but there was no time.

  "Now what?" Mikhail sounded tired in the moonlight.

  "I haven't a clue. I think we just have to wait." It was all she could do to keep on her feet now.

  "Does all this seem as insane to you right now, as it does to me, Marguerida? I mean, here we are, out in the middle of the night, without food, obeying the gods know what. We have arrived at our destination, and all that is there is a pile of blackened stones—nothing like the Tower we saw last summer. I have never done anything so foolhardy in my life. I mean, what if nothing happens?"

  Margaret was too tired to argue. She shrugged, put her arm around him, and rested her head on his shoulder. He smelled of horse and wine, plus the now familiar scent that sang Mikhail to her, which she would recognize anywhere in the galaxy. "Then nothing happens, and the Guardsmen find us, and we go back to Thendara and are a laughingstock for years to come. I can live with that—can't you?"

  They stood in silence, holding each other lightly, neither

  speaking nor touching one another's minds. There was a deep content in the embrace, a sensation free of desire or longing. But for the growing cold, Margaret would have been happy to remain like that forever.

  The sound of men and horses not very far away broke the spell. They could hear the jingle of bridles, the breathy snorts of exhausted steeds, and voices coming nearer. Margaret looked at Mikhail, and he met her eyes steadily, and they smiled. Then she kissed his lips softly, and felt his warm breath on her mouth.

  NOW!

  The mental command startled them, and Margaret glanced over Mikhail's shoulder. The white stones of Hali Tower stood gleaming in the gathered light of all the moons of Darkover. It shimmered for a moment, then solidified just as the Guardmen rode into sight.

  "Look!"

  Mikhail turned around, saw the Tower, and shivered. "This is it, I know it."

  "Yes. Are you afraid, my dearest?"

  "I am. But at the same time I feel it's right. Very strange."

  They started moving toward the Tower as someone shouted behind them. There was a rumble of hooves, and Mikhail's horse screamed a challenge and charged the oncoming riders, making them scatter. Dorilys spun, reared, and lashed out at the air, just missing the closest Guardsman as they ran.

  "By the Gods, what is that?"

  "It's the Tower! How?"

  "Get them—we can worry about the Tower later. They are going to get away!"

  "Regis will have our heads if ..."

  "Damn Regis and damn Mikhail Hastur! Get them!"

  Margaret stumbled and slid behind Mikhail, racing across the ground separating them from the shining building. There was an open door, and light spilled from it. Someone stood just inside; the shadow of a woman falling on the earth outside the Tower.

  Mikhail grabbed her right hand, and pushed her ahead of him. Her outstretched arm reached into the light. Margaret met a subtle resistance, as if a veil stood there, invisible

  and adamant. She pressed, then hesitated. There was a flutter of dark wings over her head, and the great sea crow flew into the resistance she sensed, and into the yellow light beyond.

  Margaret felt herself move through the veil, like stepping into honey. There was no sound for a moment—the wind was gone. The woman whose shadow she had seen backed up, her eyes wide, as Mikhail passed through beside her.

  She turned and looked over her shoulder. Margaret could make out the shapes of horses and men, but she could no longer hear them. She could see Dorilys trying to pull away from an unfamiliar hand, and Charger stamping. She saw mouths move, and knew they were shouting at her, and then suddenly they were gone.

  PART

  THREE

  24

  Mikhail shook his head, trying to dispel the confusion and dizziness which nearly overwhelmed him. A glance at Marguerida showed him she was disoriented as well. What had they done? Were they mad? Then he realized that the great pressure in his mind, the dreadful compulsion, was gone. He was so weary after three hours of hard riding he could barely appreciate it.

  He glanced around, first at the room they had entered, then at the woman who had opened the door. She had thin red hair, and eyes as golden as Marguerida's. She was robed in gray, and a shawl was looped haphazardly over her shoulders, as if she had grabbed the first thing to come to hand. Her age, he guessed, was somewhere between thirty and forty. She had an air of authority, but there was something defeated about her. Who was she? Mikhail studied her anxious eyes and restless hands. Her shoulders were hunched and tense.

  The stone-walled entry chamber was bare of hangings. Even in the dim light, he could see that the mortar was black in many places, and there was a persistent smell that suggested smoke to him. Surely, there had been a fire here, although not recently.

  There was another smell, too, but it was not the familiar ozone scent of matrix screens. It took him a moment to recognize it as the stink of burned flesh, and he swallowed hard. It almost seemed that the stones themselves retained the scent.

  Beside him, Marguerida stood trembling. Somehow he could tell that it was not the sight of the burned stones which disturbed her, but Mikhail could not tell what it was. Her mind was closed, as if she were trying to make herself invisible. She was frightened, but of what?

  Only the sea crow seemed unperturbed. It stood on a narrow shelf and gazed around with glowing red eyes. It made a rough comment, stretched its wings, then settled them back into place and started preening its feathers.

  Mikhail took a few shallow breaths, smelling the sweaty, horsey odor on his body, and the sharp tang of adrenaline and wondered what to do. Lady Linnea had once told him that when in doubt, he should always behave with courtesy. Good advice. Mikhail felt an impulse to act, but while he had the will, he was nearly paralyzed with unease.

  Finally his tongue found words. "Greetings, domna." He made a bow. "I am . . ." his voice trailed off. Who was he now, in this place and time? If he was indeed in Hali Tower, then he and Marguerida were deep in the past and Mikhail Hastur was someone yet to be born. The complexity of it was too much for a moment.

  Marguerida huddled beside him, drawing her cloak around her again, for the entry way was very chilly. "Well met, domna, I hope. Thank you for opening the door."

  "I had, no choice, did I?" The woman's voice was shrill,
and the words grudging. Her eyes bulged with tension. "Welcome to Hali Tower. I am Amalie El Haliene, and I am Keeper here. Underkeeper, to be precise, but since I am the only leronis present, I do not think it is wrong to give myself the title I have so long deserved." She made a small gesture toward the ceiling with a six-fingered hand, and a bitter laugh escaped her narrowed lips.

  At first her words made little sense. From the expression on Amalie's face, it was clear she expected them to know what she meant. But Mikhail could not concentrate properly. Something was wrong about the Tower, and he wanted to put his finger on it before he spoke again. Then somehow he knew that the Tower was, for all purposes, empty of any but themselves. It gave him a very strange sensation, for he had never been in a Tower that was not abustle with human thought. It was not the stillness of the building, but the mental silence that made his skin go rough with fear.

  "I am Margarethe, and this is Mikhalangelo." Mik, remember in the dream, those were the names we were called!

  He was so relieved to hear her voice in his mind that he almost did not understand her words. She had been gone

  for several minutes, frightened by something, but had apparently overcome her fears. If only he could do the same. Were we? I didn't recall. And what are our family names? Dammit! If we claim to he ...

  I know! This is rather more complicated . . . though I don't really know what I expected. The Hasturs and the Al-tons are going to be well-known families to her, so we'd better not say those names. She is afraid of us, and angry, too. And where is everyone?

  Perhaps she will tell us, if we can calm her fears. What I want to know is when the hell are we?

  I wish I knew, Mik.

  "Why had you no choice but to open the door, Domna El Haliene?" Mikhail suspected that whatever had compelled them had likewise influenced her.

  "That is an interesting question. Let's not stand about down here. There is a fire in my sitting room. Come along. You'd best keep your cloaks on, though. The Tower is ... and leave that bird here. It reminds me of the sea, and my childhood, and brings me no cheer." She had her eyes focused on Mikhail, and she ignored Marguerida as completely as possible.

  "As you wish, Lady. I cannot speak for the bird. He goes

  where he chooses."· .

  Amalie sighed, a comfortingly human noise, and the rigidity of her posture seemed to unbend a little. "Oh, well. Everything else does as they please, so the crow can, too." What is he, and why does that ill-omened bird come with him? Mikhalangelo? Surely it cannot be—for he is dead some twenty years in the dungeons of Storn. She had him killed, just as she had anyone else who opposed her. The woman turned as these thoughts crossed her mind, as if too dispirited to conceal them. She walked ahead of them to the staircase, her slippered feet making a soft sound on the cold stone floor.

  Mikhail gave Marguerida a look, knew she had overheard the leronis' thoughts as well, then shrugged, and followed. The frigid walls of the spiral staircase felt as if they were exhaling ice. There was a smell, too, of damp and must. And something more. Pain, he thought. The stones reeked of suffering. He felt his belly tighten with a new dread, and bit his lip as he climbed.

  Mik!

  What?

  I think we are in the wrong place—at the right time, whatever that might be.

  Are you having another vision?

  Not exactly. It isn't clear, like a proper vision. But I think that whatever drew us here had no other available entryway. Hali is only a gateway, not our true destination. That is the best I can manage. A poor Gift, this Aldaran heritage. Mik, there is something very wrong here.

  I have the same feeling. I know she was expecting someone, but I am not sure it was us. And she does not like you one bit.

  No, she does not, and the feeling is mutual. I think I remind her of someone she hates, but I am so tired and unnerved that I cannot trust myself. I will jump at any shadow right now.

  Jump away, dearest—right now all we have is our instincts.

  They arrived at the landing, and Amalie showed them into a room on one side. It was a small chamber, with a fire burning in the grate, comfortable couches, and several highbacked chairs. Opposing walls were hung with tapestries, Hastur on one, and Cassilda on the other, so they faced one another across the room. They were unlike any versions of these historic-people Mikhail had ever seen, less human and more mythic in some way he could not quite describe. And new as well, for he could see the faint outline of some other larger hanging that had been removed. There were dark lines, unmistakable marks of fire, on the walls here, darker than those on the lower floor, and the stench of old burning was stronger.

  The spicy smell of mulled wine rose from a cauldron hung above the fire, but it did not conceal the older odors. The room was cool, as if the hearth could not even warm a chamber this small, and he was glad he was still wearing his cloak. His belly growled, and Mikhail realized he was hungry, that he had missed the feast, and all that had sustained him this evening were a few glasses of wine, and some meat-filled pastries, now several hours in his body's past. And centuries past as well.

  "I cannot offer you much in the way of hospitality,"

  Amalie El Haliene began. "I am alone here." Her tone was bitter, but there was fear in it as well. She took a heavy mug from a little table beside the fire, ladled some hot wine into it, and offered it to Mikhail. She started to sit down, then gave herself a little shake. Reluctantly, Amalie forced herself to take another mug up and fill it. She put it on a table beside Marguerida's chair, then backed away anxiously.

  "Where is everyone—your monitors and technicians?"

  "Gone, all gone," Her face was empty of expression. Who are they? What do they want from me? These are not the ones I summoned—if I did. I must have been mad. . . . If only J were not alone here, and the others . . . 1 must not think on it!

  When she did not continue, Mikhail asked, "Gone where?"

  Amalie stared at him vacantly for a moment, as if she could not completely grasp his question. She remained silent, and he could sense confusion in her mind, as if she were grappling with something too vast to understand. At last she burst out. "You must stop them! They cannot be allowed to destroy—"

  "Stop who?"

  "Hali Tower must not be ruined!" Her voice was harsh with hysteria now, but her face, remained expressionless. It sounded as if she had said the words over and over in her mind, and was voicing them without any expectation of relief.

  "Why should the Tower be ruined?" Mikhail demanded, the hairs on his nape bristling. The destruction of Hali Tower was a part of history, but it had not occurred to him that he might be present at the event.

  Amalie gaped at him. "The warlords—Don't you know what you are doing here? Did you not come to aid me?" She was fixated on herself, and the Tower, and he knew she was unable to comprehend any other purpose for him and Marguerida.

  "What warlords? And why should they want to destroy the Tower?" Mikhail knew that it was not this woman who had drawn them into the past, but he wondered if they had really been brought to help her. What if Hali Tower were saved? He held back a shudder as he imagined the impact of that possibility on the world that he knew.

  Her eyes blazed, and her thin face twitched around them. "I see that you know nothing! You are useless to me!"

  "Why don't you tell us, slowly, what you mean. Forgive our ignorance, domna, and begin at the beginning." Marguerida spoke quietly, her voice radiating calm. Mikhail felt himself ease at the sound of it, awash in a momentary serenity he wished could last forever.

  Marguerida's efforts did not have the desired effect on Amalie El Haliene, however. Her golden eyes narrowed with pure hatred, her hands clenched. Her body was coiled with unspoken fury, so powerful an emotion that Mikhail felt nearly overwhelmed. It was an unreasonable response to Marguerida's question.

  "What are you?" The voice that came from her mouth was pinched and frightened.

  "I don't know what you mean, domna" Mikhail answered helplessl
y.

  "You are not what I expected, not at all."

  "And what did you expect?"

  "A warrior. There is nothing about you that ..."

  Mikhail shook his head. "I can use a sword well enough, but there are no warriors, as you know them, in my . . . my time." It felt odd to say that, considering Darkover's bloody past, but he knew it was true. They maintained the use of swords out of custom rather than need, to preserve the letter of the Compact. The late and unlamented Dyan-Gabriel Ardais had perhaps been the last of Darkover's real warriors. All the rest had preceded him to the grave before Mikhail was born.

  "I see. What kind of shabby, dishonorable time do you come from, then?"

  "I come from a time of peace, Domna El Haliene, not of war."

  "Peace? There has not been such a thing in all the history of Darkover. The past is a vast killing field."

  The past? Mik, she thinks we are from her past, not her future.

  Yes, I see that. And I am not sure that telling her otherwise will be of any use. She seems to have her mind made up that we are here to help her keep Halt Tower from destruction—instead of whatever that blasted voice wanted from us.

  I don't know why we are here, but the one thing I am certain of is that we are not here for that.