Varzil did not appear at all offended. Instead, the old man cleared his throat, and continued to speak in a dry voice. "Have you never wondered at the custom of di catenas? Why we encircle the wrists? Perhaps the substance of the ceremony has been lost through the years, or become only a means of signifying alliances."
In spite of himself, Mikhail was interested. His anger faded, and his lively curiosity pushed forward. "I've never given it much thought, Varzil. And, truthfully, I think shackling two people together is rather . . . well, barbaric." In truth, Mikhail had never given the matter much thought before he met Marguerida. She had changed him, with her probing questions and her knowledge of worlds other than Darkover. Everything in his life seemed divided by her presence.
"Yes, I can see that. But, in the beginning, it was more than a symbolic thing, for it 'joined the laran energies of two into one, made them stronger than they were alone, and allowed them to create a unique link that could not exist in any other fashion."
Mikhail stared at Varzil. He did not know of any di catenas marriages that were even remotely like that which the old man suggested. Neither his parents nor his Uncle Regis and Lady Linnea struck him as being the least bit unified in their mental powers. And this was what was meant, he decided. It was a remarkable idea, but he was not certain he was up to it.
Marguerida rose, and joined them. He could sense her mind sorting out what Varzil had said, using her sharp wits to grasp the concept, tear it apart, then restore it to its original integrity. That she could do that in seconds, where
his own slower mind took what seemed like forever, was at once a source of pride and irritation. Her mind, he thought, was like a bright dart, and his own more a heavy hammer that had to beat at things before he could understand them.
"I see what you want, and it makes -sense." Marguerida stood beside him, looking down at the figure on the couch. "But how? Do you have a priest or someone lurking in the stonework?"
Mikhail .smiled. "We are not much for priests on Dark-over, Marguerida. Unless you count the cristoforos. Any lord of the Comyn can perform the ceremony—my father could have latched you and Gabe together quite legally, if he had had the courage to have you gagged."
"Or drugged," she muttered.
"He doesn't have the imagination to think of either of those things. And even if he had, he probably wouldn't have done it, because it would have caused a lot of talk, and my father does not like people to talk about him." They forgot the old man on the couch for a moment, looking at each other and smiling about Dom Gabriel.
Then his cough brought them back to attention, "Do you know why the woman's bracelet is always larger than the man's?"
"No, Varzil, I don't. It is one of the many things on Darkover that everyone assumes I know, and therefore no one tells me the reasons for." Marguerida's voice was brusque with impatience.
"I don't know either," Mikhail admitted. He was amazed at her, thinking she would snap and snarl at Zandru himself. He knew she was not fearless, just too tired to care any longer. Then he realized that his sense of confusion was fading. He was afraid, but in a remote way. What was in that water? he wondered. His mind felt clearer, and even his hunger had vanished.
The idea of actually marrying his beloved sank into his mind, spreading slowly across it. It felt right and wrong at the same time. He puzzled over it before he realized that they were being rushed into it, and that their feelings were not part of it. They must marry, and now.
Before he could sort, out the complicated emotions, Varzil continued. "The woman has the larger band because she bears the greater strength—the strength to bring children into the world. In a peculiar way, the wife is the greater person in the marriage, Margarethe, not the lesser."
"I see. And that is why, for centuries, you have locked women up, killed them with childbearing, and kept them in servitude." The ferocity in her voice made Mikhail cringe.
"There are no perfect systems, Margarethe." Varzil did not sound disturbed at her criticism.
"No, I don't suppose there are." She sounded both angry and sad. "Let's get on with this, before I ..." She turned a golden gaze on Mikhail, and her expression softened. "We are meant to be together, you know. We always were. But I can't help wishing for clean clothes, and a hot bath, and lots of flowers. And my father, I want my father to be here." He could see the sparkle of tears in her eyes.
Mikhail turned to her and pulled her against him. Dearest, please do not be so sad! I know this is not what you might have wished for, but I do love you, with all my heart.
I know, Mik, and I love you. But I still feel as if I am being stampeded. I never thought I had a romantic bone in my body, and now I seem to have a great many of them, all wishing for music and a lovely gown. You've probably never heard the Kotswold Processional, and there isn't an organ on the whole of Darkover anyhow. But, somewhere in the back of my mind, I have been wishing to hear it played, with the flutes for the groom, calling the bride forward, and the viols answering. It is very soft, at first, and then it swells, as the voices come together, join, and begin the central theme. At last there is only a single voice, the flute and viol indistinguishable.
It sounds wonderful! He was deeply moved by her longing, and he could hear the strains of the music playing in her memory. It was surprising, too, because he never would have suspected her of having such longings. She had never, he realized, revealed the womanly side of herself to him, except in dreams a few times. That vulnerable part of her she kept firmly hidden, buttressed against injury. He knew
her strength, and her fear of Ashara, but he realized he did not know her soft side at all.
You should have had it all—the gown, the waiting maids, the music—everything.
It's all right. I am just very tired, and everything seems overwhelming. This place—there is something strange about it, and I feel rather woozy. That water I drank seems to have made me ... sort of drunk!
Me, too!
Mikhail looked down at the old man on the couch. Varzil’s eyes were closed, and his hand with the great ring lay on the covers, limp and worn. But the breath that rose and fell in his chest was strong and steady. "Very well—we agree, since it is clear that you called us here for this."
"It must seem very cold to you, that I dragged you through the centuries to fulfill my own needs—and, indeed, I have prepared for this event for years and years. But it is not a selfish thing, I swear, for the future of Darkover depends on this marriage. The power I will bequeath unto you will be necessary in time."
"We have no choice but to trust you, Varzil."
"Oh, Mikhalangelo ... I will not fail you again!"
"Again?" The back of his neck- bristled.
"He means that other Mikhalangelo—the one that Ro-bard thought was dead. The one you look like, and the Margarethe I resemble—except her eyes were not so gold as mine."
"Yes, I do. If things had worked out, they would have married, as they wished."
"But they died, didn't they, Varzil?"
"They did." The expression on the tired old face was infinitely sad.
Mikhail looked from Marguerida to Varzil, and back again. "Do you mean to imply we have lived before?"
"No, not precisely. The souls you bear are your own, not those of other people. But . . . there is a template of a kind, in the overworld, for every soul that has ever existed, or will exist in time to come, and from eon to eon it brings forth a similar thing. I, with all my knowledge, cannot explain it, but only accept it."
Mikhail was immensely relieved. For reasons he could not put into words, he could not bear the thought of being the reincarnation of some strange man from the past. It made him feel like a poor copy, a blurred image of himself, instead of the man that he hoped he actually was.
"So how do we do this?" Marguerida was restless, full of impatience now, as if she were about to take a dose of nasty tasting medicine, and wanted to get it over with quickly. He could smell the pleasant scent of stew on her breath,
and the earthy, musky, womanly scent of her body. Mikhail decided he rather liked her with tangled hair, a dirty face, and the smell of horse on her clothing.
The silent crone who had hovered in the background shuffled forward, carrying a small wooden box, ornately carved with figures. When she reached them, she opened it, and Mikhail saw two fine copper bracelets resting on the soft cloth that lined the box. The metal no longer shone, but had oxidized to a greenish tint.
"These were intended for those other people, weren't they?"
"Yes, Margarethe, they were. I oversaw the making of them myself, even though I knew at the time that it was unlikely they would ever be used. I sense that you are uneasy about wearing them. I can only tell you that the love that Mikhalangelo and Margarethe held for one another was very great, as great as that which you have for one another. They were full of promise, those two brave souls, a promise that was unfulfilled."
"It sounds like a sad story."
"Yes, parts of it are sad. But there is hope in it as well. And triumph." He fell silent, thinking. "The story is not over yet, and I will not tell you what you would like to know."
"I didn't imagine you would, Varzil."
"You are a very clever woman, Margarethe, very quick."
"Am I? I feel more like a puppet with every passing moment."
Varzil gave a deep sigh, and slowly sat up on his couch. The blankets slipped down, revealing his gray robe. Sitting up, they could see he was not a tall man, and his bones seemed very fragile beneath his garments.
He reached out and took the box from the old woman, and then just looked at the verdigrised bracelets in silence. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, as if he had forgotten their presence. Then he roused himself, straightening thin shoulders with an effort.
"Tell me, Varzil, were you going to give your ring to this Mikhalangelo?" Mikhail was not certain why that question popped into his mind, but it did, and he wanted to know the answer.
"No, I was not. I realized only after he was taken what I must do, and it has cost me greatly to bear the knowledge and the waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
"Waiting for you to destroy the Tower of Mirrors, Margarethe, for without that shadow matrix which rests in your flesh, this scheme would come to naught. You do not know yet what you possess, and I cannot tell you, except that it—not I—made time your plaything. And I know time, as much as any mortal can. More, it foiled Ashara's plans as well."
Marguerida laughed. "Well, I am all for foiling that bitch, in any time and any place, for what she did to me, and to all those other poor women she overshadowed and used. I think you have it wrong, though. I think that I am time's toy, not the other way around."
Varzil nodded. "Sometimes it is difficult to tell one end of the stick from the other. Now, let us begin. Remove your silken glove, Margarethe, and you, Mikhalangelo, take out your matrix."
With some reluctance, Mikhail reached under his tunic and pulled out his matrix stone. He saw, from the corner of his eye, Marguerida strip the mitt back, revealing the blue lines that ran from knuckle to wrist. In the dim light, they appeared darker and more powerful. He wondered if it was only his eyes, or whether her training at Arilinn and Neskaya had intensified her strength.
Mikhail withdrew his matrix from its wrappings, and looked at it. It was a modest stone, as befitted his modest laran, and he glanced at the ring sparkling on Varzil's hand.
This was insane. He knew that no one could touch anoth-
er's starstone without risk of shock—sometimes fatal shock—to both parties. He was certain he was not strong enough to control the energies which coursed between the lambent facets of Varzil’s extraordinary and dangerous jewel.
Mikhail took a long breath, forming a protest in his mind, thinking as quickly as he could. If he did as Varzil asked, he would surely die.. What good would it do to marry Marguerida, if he perished in the deed?
Mikhail opened his mouth to speak, and found his throat parched again. He tried to swallow and could not. The blood pounded in his skull, and he wondered if he was going to pass out. But the weakness passed, and instead he felt a sudden, unexplained sense of strength coursing along his veins, as if he had slept for a week and eaten two dozen meals.
But though his body felt renewed, his heart quailed before the fear that swept through him, gnawing at him, tormenting him. He remembered how he had been enthralled for weeks by Emelda, and how the little hedge-witch had toyed with him. He had had to prevail on his sister to rescue him—the deep shame still rankled.
Mikhail took a mental step back, looking at his position with a kind of cold remoteness he had never known he possessed. Why should he trust this doddering ancient, or even his beloved—a half-trained woman with an enigmatic tool of power branded into her in the overworld? He had no answer, no certainty, only a pale hope which seemed to him a frail thing, unworthy of dependence.
Varzil was watching him, his eyes rheumy, but filled with compassion, as if he sensed the war that raged in Mikhail's soul. Of course—Varzil was of the Ridenow, and their Gift was that of empathy! He did not want that, or sympathy either! All he wished for was to be gone from this place and time, to be anywhere else, where his choices were not so dire, where it did not feel as if his very soul were being rent and riven.
Marguerida flexed her hand then, drawing his attention with the gesture, and he saw the lines on it flash with luminescence, as if lightning were playing across her pale skin. He glanced at her face and found her eyes unfocused, in-
ward looking, and her mouth was twisted as if she held back some terrible sound. Small beads of sweat broke out under the tumble of curls on her brow, gleaming wetness glittering in the soft light that rose from her hand, casting flickering shadows across her prominent nose and tight-lipped mouth.
Mikhail realized that she was fighting her own demons, just as he had been a moment before. The sight of her silent struggle was unnerving—he did not want to know what tormented her. But if she could face it, then he must, too, to be worthy of her. No—to be worthy of himself!
Children, attend me now!
Mikhail tried to resist the command, but could not. He felt his eyes turn away from Marguerida, and come to rest on the calm face of the old man. His features were somehow different, younger, smoother and more defined, as if he had moved back in time.
Behind Varzil he saw the serving woman: She was standing on the far side of the couch, and she had her hands on his shoulders. Mikhail could almost feel the strength flowing from her into the old man, and his face grew younger each second. There was something about the way she was supporting Varzil that seemed very significant, something he yearned to understand. He stared, and as he looked, the crone's face blurred, then transformed. The woman grew fair and young, as Varzil had, and a brightness shone from her flesh. .
Mikhail had to drop his eyes then, for the radiance of the woman was too great. It was not that his eyes could not bear the light, but that his soul could not. And as he looked down, he grasped what he had been struggling to understand. There was no shame or loss of manliness in taking support from a woman—but it must never be taken for granted or abused. It was a gift, one he had never imagined existed, and the sense of it rocked him to the core.
Mikhail could feel the light of the other woman, filling the room, and his knees bent without his volition. He felt himself kneel on the cold stone floor, so consumed by awe he was certain his heart would cease beating. He lifted his eyes to the uncanny brightness, and saw a soft
smile that swept away everything, all fear and doubt. He could have basked in that gentle gaze until the end of time.
His hand was closed around his starstone, and he thought it a tawdry thing, unworthy of the presence which held him in its grasp. He was trembling all over. Distantly, Mikhail was aware of the emptiness in the pit of his stomach, of the cold stones against his knees, and the ache of muscles. But those mundane concerns seemed to belong to another man, another time.
&n
bsp; Then he felt Marguerida's right hand on his wrist, her cool, soft fingers touching his flesh. His body ceased its dreadful rictus at her touch, and he could sense her awe moving through him, and his through her. It was a moment of joining more intimate than anything he could ever have imagined.
She was kneeling beside him, and a quick glance at her face revealed a joy that reflected his own. Her eyes were bright with tears, and they trickled down her cheeks and dribbled onto the collar of her tunic. He could feel Marguerida grounding his rising emotions, supporting his burgeoning strength in an echo of the figure behind Varzil.
We are gathered to join this woman, Margarethe of Wind-haven, and this man, Mikhal Raven of Ridenow, called the Angel of the Serrais, into one person, one soul, one mind, and one heart. We invoke the blessings of the gods upon this union. Margarethe, do you vow to honor this man in body and mind, all the days of your life?
Mikhail waited, for there was no response from Marguer-ida for what seemed like an age of the world. At the same time, he noticed that the form of ritual Varzil was using was one which he had never heard before, one which omitted words he was accustomed to. The names were wrong too, and he pondered that as well. Then he realized that in this time and place those were the only names that Varzil knew to call them. Or, perhaps, there was some more complex reason for concealing their identities.
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