The Shadow Matrix

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Before she quite knew what she was doing, Margaret set her right hand down flat against the mud, and clasped her left around the bracelet so hard it made small indentations in her icy fingers. Nothing happened. Well, why should it? She cursed, but she did not draw her hand back. Margaret could sense that in the back of her mind there was something she was overlooking. What was it? A piece of music— hardly likely. Why was she thinking of music when what she wanted was warmth! It was not music.; but something like that—an equation?

  Rain runneled over her face, making her blink, then shake her head vigorously, spattering drops from her tangled hair all around her. It was right on the tip of her tongue, on the edge of her mind. Something. What was an equation? A symbolic representation of ... of an idea, a mathematical concept of how the universe worked. A = b, and e = me squared, and all the rest of those economical statements of reality. And musical notation was equationlike, expressing the concept of melody.

  For as long as she was taking the required physical science classes, she had kept a great many equations in her mind, until she passed the tests. There was one for fusion, she remembered, and another for fission, and even a rather complex one which described electricity. Margaret wondered what would happen if she could just remember that last one right this second. It did not seem like a very good idea to try while sitting in the middle of a puddle. If it

  worked at all, she would probably electrocute herself and Mikhail at the same time.

  And she wanted heat, not electricity. Surely she could remember that one, if she tried hard enough. Unfortunately, she seemed unable to find the formula for heat in her disordered mind.

  I am being too literal, she decided. I am forgetting that all of this stuff is symbolic—it is not the equation that matters, but the concept! The equation is not the thing, but the idea of the thing. This stuff gave me a headache ten years ago, and it still does!

  Margaret twisted her head from side to side to release the tension in her neck, and flexed her shoulders. She returned to her deep breathing, focused her mind on the notion of warmth, and squeezed her matrixed hand around the bracelet. The critical portion of her mind informed her that she was a fool, that there was nothing she could do, . that she was incompetent and was going to die of cold or hunger, and she struggled to silence that voice.

  Time seemed to stand still, as if she were hovering on the edge of some precipice, unable to make the leap across the abyss. She felt as if there were glue around her, muffling her energy, her breath, everything. And then, without any perceptible alteration, Margaret felt herself move in that timeless space in her mind, slip between places which she would never be able to describe, and blunder into a sense of heat that was incredible.

  Her body shuddered a little, flinched at the sudden feeling of warmth that raced along her flesh, and seemed to sear her to the bone. It only lasted a moment, but that was long enough! Then she snatched her matrixed hand away from the bracelet and let herself scream. The sound was startling, a shrill call that rang through the pouring rain, across the stony ground, charging into the air like brightness before it faded into silence. Both horses jerked their heads up, and regarded her nervously.

  She looked at her hands, expecting to find them burned, but they seemed normal enough. Then she noticed that the bracelet on her arm was no longer green, but was its natural, shining copper color, as if her recent experiment had burned away the verdigris, and restored it to its original condition.

  Margaret leaned back against the trunk of the tree, too tired for a moment to do anything except rest. Then she realized that her body was not only warm, but heated, as if she had a slight temperature, and that her clothes were almost dry. It was a very peculiar sensation, and she decided that she had been very lucky not to have torched herself, and Mik as well.

  He was still resting on her lap, but his curls were dry, and his face seemed to have more color than a few minutes before. She stroked his hair gently, patted his cheek, and just gazed at him, her heart swelling with emotion. Her feelings had been confined for so long that she could barely stand to experience them. She needed to keep her wits about her, but it was hard.

  Tenderness, it seemed, was a much more powerful feeling than she had ever imagined, What she felt as she coiled a golden curl around her finger and then ran it down the exquisite curve of Mikhail's ear was that, and much more. Margaret had never felt such peace, except in music. She decided to enjoy it while it lasted, knowing full well that feelings shifted and transformed between one breath and the next, that they were rarely constant. She would have liked to continue in this mood forever, but she was wise enough to know it could not last.

  In a rush of wings, the great sea crow alighted on Mikhail's hip. It croaked a greeting. "Where the hell have you been?" she snarled. It stared at her with a beady red eye and cawed a response which left her still in the dark. At the same time, there was an air about the dratted bird. It looked quite smug, Margaret decided at last.

  Then, through the steady patter of rain, Margaret heard the sound of hoofbeats, the jingle of bridles, and the creak of leather saddles. The noise made her mouth go dry with fear, and her heart thudded. What if it was Ashara!

  She pulled Mikhail's still soggy cloak over him, hoping its brown coloring would hide him. The shadows of the branches fell across him. She yanked her hood up again, hiding the pale sheen of her skin, and tucked her hands away. The terror hammered in her blood, and she held her breath until her ears rang, and she felt dizzy and sick. She gasped for air. If only she could become invisible!

  The crow betrayed her with a flap of wings and a greeting

  call, as it flew from beneath the tree and toward the sound of the oncoming riders. Margaret crouched over Mikhail's body, trying to shield him against she knew not what. For a moment she completely forgot she had any weapons, that she could defend herself. Then she remembered the bandits. The helplessness left her, replaced by the grim determination to defend her husband, or die trying.

  Margaret held her breath again and heard the sound of several people dismounting, the squishy noise of boots in mud, and the rustle of wet cloaks. She heard a woman's voice, speaking to the crow, and listened as it replied. She went cold all over. She bit her lower lip while she clutched Mikhail's shoulders beneath his coverings.

  The sound drew nearer, and after a minute, she could

  see several pair of trousered legs, and the dark red boots

  that came from the Dry Towns beneath them. There was

  mud on the boots, and splashes on the trousers, as if they

  had ridden hard.;

  A head bent down, a woman's round face peering beneath the branches, curious and cautious. As soon as Margaret saw the short-cropped hair, the plain face, and the well-worn sword belt that hung around the waist of the stranger, she knew that the woman was a Renunciate. The breath she had been holding released with a little gasp. The crow had not betrayed them, but had brought help.

  Other faces joined the first, weathered ones, the skin roughened by sun and snow. Then the first woman smiled, showing several missing teeth, and she crouched down to bring herself to eye level with Margaret. "Greetings, domna." She seemed to understand Margaret's wariness, for she made no move to draw closer.

  "Greetings, and well met." She hoped they were, for she remembered that Rafaella had told her the Renunciates had been mercenary soldiers, for hire to the many kingdoms which had dotted the land before the formalization of the Compact.

  "I am Damila n'ha Bethenyi. We were passing, and your fine bird flew onto the shoulder of our breda, Morall, and told her of your distress." She chuckled softly. "Nearly knocked her out of the saddle."

  "He does that sometimes, but, Mestra Damila—told her?"

  "Morall has the beast-speak laran, domna. May we assist you? You seem to be sitting in a puddle, and that cannot be comfortable."

  "No, it isn't." She shifted the cloak away from Mikhail's face. "My husband is ill." It was the first time she had sai
d the word aloud, and it felt very strange on her tongue.

  His right hand slipped down, clenched into a fist, and she noticed that the great jewel was hidden, that only the metal of the band was visible on his finger. Margaret held back a shudder at the thought of Varzil's matrix touching Mikhail's flesh, then relaxed a little. It was no longer Varzil's stone, but some amazing conjunction between two matrices, one of which was keyed to Mikhail. That was why he was not dead, but only unconscious. And perhaps witless, but she did not dare think about that.

  One of the other women laughed uproariously. "Well, we did not think you were trysting in the rain!" The rest of the group seemed to find this highly amusing, and Margaret was very surprised when she found herself laughing as well. The terror and despair which had gripped her faded away, leaving her only cold, hungry, and exhausted.

  Two of the Renunciates crawled beneath the low branches of the tree, rolled Mikhail off her lap, wound his cloak about him, and dragged him out. As Margaret crept out stiffly from beneath the tree, another woman bent over him. She peeled back an eyelid and gave a grunt. "What ails him?" she asked.

  "Matrix shock, I believe." How else could she describe what had occurred?

  "I see." The answer seemed to satisfy the stranger, and Margaret felt relieved. "We must make a litter, and get him to shelter as quickly as possible. You there, Jonil, see to the cutting of some branches, the straightest you can find, and Karis, you tear up some blankets for bindings."

  Margaret watched in a daze. She barely grasped what was going on around her, except that Mikhail was being taken care of. She wanted to help, but lacked the strength to move.

  It was not until he had been hoisted onto a hastily constructed litter that she found herself able to stir. Margaret went over to Mikhail's unconscious form. She tucked both his hands down into the sides of the litter, then fussed with

  the arrangement of the blankets, to conceal her real purpose. He stirred and groaned a little at her touch, as if he were trying to climb out of whatever depths he had fallen into. She bent forward and kissed his cold cheek. "It will be all right, my love," she whispered.

  Damila said, "We will go to the old El Haliene place."

  Margaret jumped at the sound of that name. "Where?" She hardly wanted to meet any of Amalie's relatives, or anyone else just then.

  "I see you don't know it—been abandoned for years, since Dom Padriac's father built the new keep. No one uses it except us Sisters."

  "Thank you, breda." She used the inflection which meant "kinswoman," and prayed she had it right. That little word had more meanings than a cat had lives, and some of them were more intimate than others. "Is it very far?"

  Damila looked surprised, and she peered at Margaret in the light rain. Apparently her use of the word was unexpected. "Oh, ten or eleven miles. The country is rough, but we know our way."

  Margaret nodded. Then she drew herself onto the soaked leather of her saddle, shivered all over, and tried to prepare herself for a long, wet ride. The crow alighted on her pommel and settled into place. "You are a very fine fellow, a king of crows," she told it, "and I will see that you have a nice, fresh mouse or two for your supper, if I have to catch the things myself!"

  One of the woman now mounted grinned. "He thanks you for the thought, but he would prefer some fish."

  "Of course. How foolish of me." It was immensely reassuring to speak of nothing more remarkable than the antics of Mikhail's bird, and something taut within her released its grip. She took several deep breaths, let herself feel relieved, and twisted her neck back and forth to ease the tension.

  Margaret looked around, trying to find any trace of the round stone house which had been there a few hours before. All she saw was weeds and a few stones, the remains of several burned timbers, and the broken glass of a long vanished window. There was no trace of the low wall they had crossed. It seemed to be just an empty bit of earth

  with a few trees growing in it. Another mystery she would probably never solve.

  She forced her chilled hands around the reins, and prepared to follow her rescuers. Part of her was relieved, and the rest of her settled into worrying about Mikhail. Damila, apparently the leader of this band of women, drew her horse beside Margaret's. "It will be all right, domna."

  "Thank you for coming," she murmured, almost too tired to speak now. All she wanted was dry clothes and some food. And to have Mikhail safe. It seemed a great deal, at that moment. Margaret let her mind collapse into exhaustion, clucked the dun mare forward, and started after the women.

  29

  Mt was close to dusk when they rode into the ruins. Margaret was too cold and wet to do more than glance around at the stone buildings. There was a lonely and desolate air to the place, but the walls of the remaining structures seemed sound enough.

  Margaret dismounted quickly, and her knees gave way, sending her sprawling into a puddle. She struggled to her feet. She was already so wet and muddy that it did not matter.

  One of the Sisters led her mare away. At the same time, two others carried the litter through a dark doorway. Margaret hurried after them and nearly stumbled on the sodden hem of her cloak.

  Margaret found herself standing just inside an immense kitchen, not unlike the one at Armida. There were two hearths, one on each side of the room, and each one large enough to roast an ox. Little slit-windows were set high on the walls, and as her eyes adjusted to the faint light coming through them, she saw a beehive-shaped oven against one wall. There was a long table in the middle of the room, its wood covered with dust, cracked here and there. Benches ran along both sides of it. It must have been a welcoming place once. Now it just seemed damp and gloomy.

  There were high rafters overhead, and a continuous, soft noise from them. Margaret realized that the floor was covered in droppings, and she looked up and saw movement, flashes of white and gray, on the smoke-darkened beams. Pigeons or doves, she was not sure which.

  Morall, the beast-speaker, followed her glance. She smacked her lips and said, "Supper!" Her thick eyebrows drew together, and she gazed fixedly at the rafters. A dozen or more birds flew down, and Margaret turned away, as

  Moral! efficiently wrung their slender necks. She knew it was silly, but she preferred not to see her dinner alive before she ate it.

  For several minutes, she stood just inside the doorway, out of the way of the bustling women, and did not move. The Sisters were going about their tasks briskly, and the pleasant smell of burning wood began to drive away the dank and musty smell of the old keep. They had put Mikhail on the floor, to the side of one fireplace, and taken away his drenched blankets. The woman who had examined him was tugging his boots off, and tucking dry covers over him.

  Margaret finally noticed she was shivering. With a great effort, she removed her cloak and hung it on a peg on the wall. Her clothes were cold and clammy, and her hair dripped down her back. She pulled her leather gloves off, and pulled the butterfly clasp out of her hair. Somehow it had managed to remain on her head, which seemed a minor miracle under the circumstances. She shoved it into her pouch, and plucked out the hairpins that still clung to her fine curls. After she wrung as much water out of her hair as she could, she wound it up into a knot on the top of her head, and pinned it into place. She did not care if she was being immodest—she wasn't going to have wet hair on her neck!

  The woman who was tending Mikhail came towards her. "You must get out of those wet clothes, domna. Come with me."

  Dumbly, Margaret followed her to a small, cold chamber that smelled of long vanished meats and cheeses. She felt totally detached from the situation, as if she were dreaming. The woman opened a bundle of fabric and pulled out something long and white. She shook out the folds and smiled. "Get out of those things, domna. You will catch your death of cold." She spoke as one would to a child, and indeed, Margaret felt very much like one.

  The effort to obey was almost too great. The buckle on her belt seemed a monstrous puzzle, and even the knots in her draws
trings were difficult. One by one, Margaret's garments came off, each sopping layer clinging to the one beneath. The yet unnamed woman was indifferent to Mar-

  garet's near nakedness, and she was just too tired to be self-conscious.

  When she was down to her underdrawers, Margaret noticed she still had the silken mitt on her right hand. The palm was slightly muddy, and where the left one had vanished she could not remember. It did not seem to matter. It was too cold in the pantry to stand around, so she took the white gown the woman offered, and slipped it over her head. It was a thick woolen nightgown, clean smelling and soft. It fell in folds against her icy skin, caressing her. Then she leaned against the wall and tugged off her boots. They made a squelching noise, and she wiggled her toes in her hose. They were damp, but not wet, so she decided to keep them on for the present. The state of the floor in the kitchen was not inviting to bare feet.

  Exhausted, she just leaned against the wall for a few minutes, breathing slowly, trying to adjust to being comparatively warm, dry, and out of the inclement weather. After a while, Margaret picked up her boots and the belt with its pouch, and went back into the kitchen.

  Stocking-footed, Margaret went through the great room. She passed by the oven, a huge structure made of brick and tile, and was startled to find it was very hot. Its welcome warmth penetrated into her bones as she went by, and her cheeks began to feel almost hot.

  After she had set her boots by the hearth, Margaret bent over Mikhail. His skin felt warm, and his color was better, but he remained unconscious. For a moment she considered trying to rouse him with her hand. Then she decided that would be very stupid. Mikhail needed time to heal from matrix shock, and she was too tired to do anything useful for him, no matter how much she wanted to.