The Shadow Matrix

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  tie. Then he stood beside the roan, breathing shallowly, fighting the fear that threatened to strangle him. Mikhail's knees were shaking, and he felt he, could not move another step.

  Marguerida dismounted and came to stand beside him. He could smell the faint scent of perfume that clung to her skin, mixed with the warm odor of horse and sweat and sunlight. Mikhail glanced at her, saw the tangle of her hair, half loosened from the ornate butterfly clasp, and smears of dirt where she had wiped her forehead. It was a very reassuring mixture, very real and ordinary. "Are we waiting for an engraved invitation?"

  In spite of his tension, he smiled at the tart question. That was his Marguerida, his beloved! He knew she was not at all fearless, that the very name of Ashara Alton still had the capacity, to make her tremble. But there she was, standing beside him, curious and ready, he suspected, to leap into the pits of Zandru if necessary.

  "No. I am just being ... I was going to say careful. That isn't it at all, Marguerida. I have this feeling that once I move, I will never be the same again, and I am not really sure . . ."

  "Second thoughts?"

  "And third and fourth as well. I am not afraid exactly. I can't explain it."

  She slipped her right hand around his elbow and leaned closer to him. "There is a place on Zeepan called the Garden of Transformations, which is very famous. They say that if you enter it, you are never the same afterward. Pilgrims go there, but a lot of them never enter, because they become so scared of what they might become that they often turn back at the last minute. And those who do go in are never able to describe their experience."

  "You seem to have a song or a story for every occasion. And you are right. That is how I feel this second. How did you know?"

  She shrugged against his shoulder. "I minored in folklore," she murmured, as if that explained everything. He could feel her body tremble where it touched his. She took a shuddering breath. "Remember, no matter what happens, you will still be Mikhail Hastur, and I will still be Margaret Alton." And I will always love you, no matter what!

  "Come on, then." Mikhail walked to the wall. It was low enough to step over with his long legs, and he did so. He seemed to be moving through glue, slowing down so much that every movement took hours and hours. He felt the resistance for what seemed an age, and then it was gone, and he was standing on the other side, gasping for air.

  Marguerida was next to him a moment later, looking a little wild eyed from lack of breath. There was sweat on her forehead and she had bitten her lip. The blood welled out in a single red droplet. He watched as her hand rose to her face, wiped the moisture off her brow, and ran gloved fingers through tousled red curls. "Ugh! That was worse than coming through to Hali!"

  Mikhail nodded and looked around. He was standing on a patch of well-tended grass, but it was not green. It was a strange rose shade, and small flowers danced on tender stalks. He knew that the only growth of that color was that which grew around the rhu fead, the chapel close to Hali Tower, and miles from this spot. He had never actually visited that sacred place, but he had heard enough descriptions to be more than puzzled.

  Before him was neither the burned-out ruin nor the farmhouse he had glimpsed from a distance. Instead there was a low, round building made of white fieldstone and covered with slabs of turf. Vines grew from the earth, coiling up around the curving walls, and there was a smell of balsam and lavender in the air. A few conifers crowded around the building, their dark green branches casting deep shadows on the stones- and the ground beneath them.

  Mikhail glanced Over his shoulder, looking for the horses, but there was nothing to see but a slight shimmer, hanging in the air like silver mist. The crow tweaked his ear again. "I sure hope you know what you are leading us into," he told the animal. All he got in answer was a nutter of wings.

  They moved slowly toward the building, neither of them eager to enter. Marguerida had slipped her hand into his, and he felt the slight tremble of it in his clasp. He felt very small, as if he were a child, not an adult. There was a peculiar quality, a sense of illusion, but he could smell vegetation, the definitive scent of stone and moss, the pungent tang of turf. How could something be real and imaginary at the same time?

  At least it does not have chicken legs.

  What? Marguerida's sudden thought made no sense, but he could feel the undertone of humor in it.

  In an old tale, there is a hut with fowl's legs, inhabited by a witch called Granny Yaga, who rides around in a mortar, and grinds naughty children with her pestle.

  Now, there's a cheerful thought. Sometimes I wish your mind was less cluttered with interesting facts, dearest. Some of them are very disturbing!

  I know. I can't seem to help it.

  Mikhail could not see any windows in the dome-shaped building, and despite the pink grass they were walking On, he was certain this was not the rhu fead. He had the sense that his eyes were still being fooled. But it was where he had to be, and that eased his mind just a little. It was eerie, though, and he wished it were not.

  They walked slowly around the structure, and finally found a narrow slit in the stones. A faint smell of smoke came out of it, and with it the odor of food. His mouth filled with saliva and Mikhail swallowed hard.

  Should we knock or call out or something?

  Knock on what? There is no door. The smell is driving me mad!

  Me, too, Mik. I just hope there isn't a witch in there, stirring her cauldron, and expecting us for dinner—her dinner!

  Don't be silly!

  I'm sorry, Mik. I am just tired and scared, and when I get scared, my imagination goes wild.

  Mikhail noticed how easily she admitted her fear, and wished he could do the same. At that moment he was not feeling either brave or manly, but he could hardly let himself know that, let alone Marguerida. He did let his own feelings echo hers for a breath or two. Then he thrust them down ruthlessly.

  Mikhail forced himself to step into the narrow opening, expecting to find himself in darkness. Instead he entered a globe of radiance that nearly blinded him for a second. He felt Marguerida stumble against him and steadied her with his hand.

  His eyes adjusted quickly to the brightness, and Mikhail saw a single room. There was a stone floor and bare walls.

  But they were not ordinary stones. They looked like glass, and a blue light gleamed from all around them. He could feel Marguerida trembling against his side.

  Mik, I don't like this place! It is very like what that room ... what her place in the old Tower looked like in my memory! It burns! My left hand feels as if it is on fire— except it is not painful.

  I know. My whole body feels as if it is being pulled in several directions at once.

  He gripped her arm and looked again. Now he could make out a long couch across the room from him. When he looked, it vanished and reappeared again in another place. The effect was dizzying. Everything was shifting, and he wanted to vomit. Instead, he closed his eyes firmly.

  Through his eyelids, Mikhail could feel the light in the room alter. It was less bright, he decided. At last he opened his eyes and looked around. He was right—the light had dimmed.

  His sense of disorientation left him. The couch no longer moved around the room, but remained in one place. Mikhail could see there was a fireplace on one wall, and someone standing beside it, bent over a cauldron. It was altogether too much like the stories which had been racing through Marguerida's mind for his liking, but he did not feel any sense of peril. He had to trust his instincts, and he found that this was more difficult than he had imagined possible.

  But the pleasant smell of woodsmoke and cooking food started to ease his mind. He noticed a rickety table and some rather unsteady chairs at one side of the room, all set with crockery. Slowly, he let out his breath.

  Something moved on the couch, and Mikhail shivered. He blinked a few times, and at last he saw a man lying there, draped in blankets. The slight rise and fall of breath was all that told him this was a living person and no
t a corpse.

  Mikhail moved toward the couch, drawn to it before he could think. His boots made no sound as they crossed the shining stones. He realized that while he could smell the fire, he could not hear the crackle of flames, and that, except for the rough sound of his breath, the room was utterly silent. He barely had a thought for Marguerida, although

  he could sense her rising hysteria, and her struggle to overcome it.

  He approached the covered figure and looked down into a face aged and worn. It had the features of a Ridenow, the pale hair and somewhat abbreviated nose. There were wrinkles on the parchment fine-skin, and the muscles sagged around the cheeks. The man seemed to be sleeping deeply, barely breathing.

  Then the eyes slowly opened, and Mikhail found himself staring into a pair of pale blue orbs, clear as water. The wrinkled mouth twisted into a smile, showing large teeth and pink gums. "Well met, Mikhalangelo. Dear Margarethe—do not fear. This is not the place of your torment." The words broke the silence around them, and the crackle of burning wood was suddenly audible.

  It was the voice which had called them through the centuries, but it did not seem as deep now. He looked at the ancient face, trying to memorize every feature. Was the man really there? Reflexively, he started to monitor the figure on the couch, and found that there was indeed a person there, not another illusion.

  "Greetings, dom."

  "I would rise, but I cannot. It took what remaining strength I had to bring you here, and I was not certain I would accomplish . . . it." The voice faded into exhaustion.

  Beside him, Marguerida tensed. He could sense her rapport touch the sick old man, though there were no words in it. All he had was the impression of energy moving past him, so fast he almost doubted his senses.

  Marguerida shoved him aside abruptly, her brows drawn together in a frown. She knelt beside the couch, stripped the leather glove off her left hand, then placed her fingers around the throat of the man. It looked as if she might throttle him. Mikhail was stunned, and started to pull her away.

  No, Mik! Not a word—I know what to do!

  Reluctantly, Mikhail dropped his hand from her shoulder and stepped back. He could now see that her fingers were not actually touching the crepey skin along the throat of the man, and after a minute, he could tell that the energy had changed, that the man was breathing more easily, and the color in his face was better.

  Marguerida removed her hand, her face so white that she appeared bloodless, and tried to get to her feet. Mikhail caught her before she fell to the stone floor. "That is not something I recommend on an empty stomach," she muttered, resting her head against his shoulder. She rubbed, her forehead. "Actually, I don't think it would be much better with a full belly."

  Such power! 1 did not guess.

  The man on the couch looked up at them, and his eyes were almost bright. "I thank you, Margarethe—even if your methods are rather crude."

  Marguerida lifted her head off Mikhail's shoulder and glared at the man. "I barely knew what I was doing," she muttered gruffly, looking pleased and irritated at the same time. Then she waggled the fingers of her hand, where they extended above the rather sweaty mitt, at him. "I haven't learned how to use this thing yet!"

  "You do better than you think." He sighed. "There is little time left for me, and so much to do."

  "Then you had better get about it," she snapped.

  The man chuckled softly at her rebuke. "I am Varzil Ridenow, and I have brought you through time."

  "We guessed as much. But why?"

  Mikhail waited for an answer to his question, and watched Varzil pull one hand from beneath the blankets. An enormous ring glittered on his finger, the largest matrix he had ever seen on a human being. The light from it dazzled his eyes and he had to look away to keep from being blinded. "This is why."

  "Your matrix?"

  "Yes. I must give it to you before I die."

  "You can't give me your matrix! It would kill you and me at the same time!"

  "Really?" Varzil seemed amused. "As the keystone killed your companion?"

  "That's different! What Marguerida has is ... well, I don't know exactly what it is. Even though I was there, and helped her pull it out of the Tower of Mirrors. It is from the overworld, not from . . ." Mikhail wavered, letting the words fade.

  Like the Sword of Aldones, the matrix ring of Varzil the Good was the stuff of legends. And the Sword had been

  just that, until Regis Hastur had wielded it against the Sharra Matrix. But Varzil's ring had vanished, and while there were several stories about what had happened to it, no one knew the truth.

  Mikhail flogged his mind fruitlessly. There was too much to take in at once, and he sensed that he had no time for calm consideration. He could sense only urgency from the prostrate Varzil, urgency and need. He felt stirrings of resentment—this was even worse than Regis dumping the Regency on him without asking. This could kill him!

  "Quite right." Varzil's words made him start. "It could, but it will not!"

  The crow jumped off Mikhail's shoulder and flapped over to stand on the pillow above Varzil's head. Mikhail's head felt full of buzzing bees, rather angry ones, as he tried to make some sense out of the situation. "Why do you want to give me your matrix?" he finally managed to ask.

  "Because it must not be left when I die—Ashara Alton would try to claim it, and if she succeeded, then she could return to Hali. It is her greatest ambition, and she must not do it!"

  "Why not?" He decided he was not going to budge until he got some explanation which satisfied him.

  "If Hali stands, then the world you know will never be."

  "I think I see," Marguerida said quietly. "When I encountered her in my mind, the one thing she was determined to do was prevent me from destroying her—and if I never exist, then she has nothing to worry about. So, even though I have beaten her in the overworld, in this time, she could still—My head aches!" Her quiet calm vanished, as she tried to encompass the ideas racing through her mind. It was too much, and Mikhail realized she was going to faint.

  He picked her up, swung her into his arms, and carried her to the table. Then he tucked her into a lopsided chair and forced her head between her knees. "Take deep breaths!" There was a muffled protest. "Don't argue with me! You, there, bring the damisela something to eat!"

  Obediently, the crone shuffled across the room with a bowl of steaming stew and a slab of bread perched on the delicious smelling contents. Mikhail helped Marguerida sit upright, and watched her reach a trembling hand for the

  carved spoon that sat on the table. She filled the bowl of the spoon, drew it to her mouth, and crammed it between her lips. "Ouch! It's hot!"

  The old woman put a pitcher on the table, and water slopped over the rim. Mikhail took it and poured two goblets. Then he lifted one and opened his mouth. It tasted sweet and fresh, and was the best water he had ever drunk. He drained the cup in a few gulps, hardly noticing that a little had slipped down the edges of his mouth. He wiped it with- the edge of his sleeve, and turned back to face the man on the couch.

  Varzil was watching him, the ancient eyes alert and clear. "Now, just how do you intend to accomplish this miracle of matrix science, Varzil?" The water seemed to have cleared his mind, but he was still brimming with fury at the ancient tenerezu.

  The old man smiled slowly, as if savoring some secret jest. "First of all, you must be married."

  27

  At first, Mikhail did not believe he had heard right. He heard Marguerida choke behind him, then cough roughly. "Married?" What the devil was he talking about?

  "You must be joined, become one, so that I may surrender my burden onto you."

  "Burden?" Mikhail was getting angrier by the second. The old man was speaking in riddles!

  "I think he means that he can't give you his ring until we are married, Mik." Damn me for a silly woman! Who is going to marry us, out here in whenever, and why do I feel so bereft? I never wanted flowers and veils, fancy ceremonies. An
d the Old Man isn't here to . . . give me away-— what a ridiculous custom, as if I were not my own person! Oh, hell! But maybe this is the only way—the only way we can have each other and to the devil with Comyn power struggles!

  Marguerida's thoughts ran across his mind like quicksilver. The emotions beneath them were conflicted and chaotic. Mikhail could sense joy, relief, fury, and a disappointment that made his heart ache.

  "Margarethe is correct," Varzil answered quietly. "And I am sorry to ask it of you—this should be a joyous occasion, not something done of necessity."

  "I still don't understand," Mikhail muttered. "And it is impossible for you to give me your ring—it would kill both of us."

  Mikhail felt trapped in his own feelings. Anger and fear seemed to grip him while he struggled to silence them. He did not want the ring, and certainly he did not want to be manipulated into the plans of this stranger—even if he was the most powerful laranzu in history. It was too much to take in, and his mind balked abruptly.

  Varzil smiled, the years falling from his face. "Time travel is impossible—what I propose is merely very difficult."

  Mikhail felt the statement enter his mind, without comprehension. Then he realized the humor in it, and felt nothing except surprise. It had never occurred to him that Varzil the Good made jokes! And rather than putting him at ease, it just made his rage increase. How dare this man play games with him! "The hell you say," he roared, letting all his frustrations release in the words.