The Shadow Matrix

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  But she needed something to keep herself busy, to keep her mind from fretting any more than it already was. Margaret spotted a broom leaning against the corner. She grabbled the handle and started sweeping. Her arm muscles protested, but she ignored them. The regular rhythm soothed her mind, and after a time her fears began to ease as well.

  She worked her way down one side of the long table and across the end before her strength ran out. She collapsed on the end of the closest bench, and shook all over. In

  spite of the heat of the room, and her own exertions, she was cold all over. But it was more than that. All the things she had endured came together, overwhelming her completely. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she choked back the sound of sobs, swallowing the terrible noises that welled in her throat.

  Margaret did not know how long she sat there, crying silently. A pair of rough hands took the broom away at some point, and after a time she smelled something cooking. Her mouth watered. Food. She snuffled and tried to stop crying, but only managed to do so for a short time. Then it started all over again, leaving her feeling hollow with hunger and shame at her own weakness.

  The woman who had given her the nightgown came over with a small crockery bowl. It was steaming and there was a faint smell of herbs as she handed it to Margaret. "You just drink this, and it will put the heart back in you soon enough, chiya."

  "Thank you," she whispered. Margaret let the bowl sit-in her hands, feeling the blessed warmth creep into her fingers. She lifted it to her lips and sipped, expecting something nasty tasting and full of virtues. Instead, she got a pleasant mouthful of minty liquid, sweetened with honey. It slid down her throat like silk, and she could feel the heat of the drink enter her stomach and begin to ease her aching body. She had almost finished the stuff when she realized that she had drunk it before, on the trail with Rafaella on the trip to Neskaya. What had she called it—waytea? the main ingredient was bitterroot, a strong stimulant. Honey and mountain mint were added to make it drinkable, but it was still dreadful stuff.

  The taste and the memory gave her a sense of connection to her friend. She wished Rafaella could be with her now, and wondered what the Renunciate would have made of these earlier members of her Order. Margaret was sure that Rafi would have enjoyed meeting Damila and the others, and hoped that someday she would be able to tell her about it.

  The waytea jolted her mind, and Margaret began to quiver with alertness. She noticed everything at once, a state she knew was a combination of exhaustion and the stuff in her cup. She had a false sense of clarity, as anything

  she looked at seemed brighter than normal. While she waited for the sensation to diminish, she noticed that the table had been scrubbed clean, and a cloth was laid at the other end of it. She smelled roasting birds, herbs, spices, woodsmoke, and her own sweat in a pungent mixture. It was all rather overwhelming.

  A woman was standing at the table across from her, pounding something in a large bowl, pulling it back and forth, kneading some kind of dough. She caught a whiff of soda from it, and smiled. A yeast bread would not be ready for hours, and her mouth was already watering in anticipation. Margaret watched the woman flip the dough out expertly onto a floured plate, and plunge her fingers into the gleaming mass. She formed it into round loaves and walked over to the oven, put her hand into the opening and nodded. Then she picked up a wooden- object, a long handle with a flattened platform at the end, slipped it under the two loaves, and carried them to the oven. She shoved the thing into the opening, wiggled the handle, and withdrew it, leaving the shaped loaves behind.

  The woman wiped her floury hands on the tops of her trousers. Then she hauled a heavy bag onto the table, and poured out a mass of onions, golden carrots, and the potatolike roots of which Margaret had become inordinately fond.

  "Can I do anything to help?"

  The Renunciate gave her a hard look for a moment. "Your hands steady enough to handle a knife?"

  "I don't know, but let me try. I don't think I am up to peeling, but chopping seems almost possible."

  That got a grin. "I am Jonil n'ha Elspeth, and I would be glad of a chopper. It will make the work go quicker. Not that I mind it, but it always reminds me of my poor mother, sitting by the fire, trying to make stew from one onion and some millet. She was always tired, and there was never quite enough to eat."

  Jonil pulled two knives from her waist, handed the longer one across the table, and began expertly peeling the skins of the root vegetables. When she finished one, she shoved it over to Margaret, and Margaret cut it into quarters, then made smaller pieces. They worked in silence for a time, until there was quite a mound of cleaned and cut vegetables

  between them. Around them, the others were chatting quietly, laying out bedding, and turning the room from a deserted kitchen into a livable place. The smell of cooking pigeons mingled with the smoke, and the delightful scent of baking bread began to drift from the oven.

  "When I joined the Sisters," Jonil said quietly, "I thought I would never have to cook again—because I wanted more than anything not to be like my poor mother." She gave a snort of laughter. "Can't imagine what I was thinking of, since Sisters have to eat like anyone else. I learned the sword, but I am not very clever with it, and so I have ended up doing all the things I wanted to get away from. But I almost always have enough to eat."

  Margaret's eyes were watering from cutting onions, and she blinked away the tears. She was still very tired, but the waytea made it possible to ignore it. Then she took the cuff of the thick gown and wiped her eyes. She felt the heavy, cold touch of the bracelet brush her cheek. It gave her a start, for she had forgotten it, and she glanced down at the sparkling eyes of the beast for a second. "Yes, enough to eat is surely one of life's pleasures."

  "I never thought to be sitting at a table cutting up stew with a fine lady. We have had a few come to us, but most of them were all but useless in the kitchen."

  The woman called Karis came up with a cauldron, set it on the table, and began filling it with the vegetables. She worked slowly, and Margaret did not need to be a telepath to know that both of these women were very curious about her, and about Mik, and were just too polite to pry openly. She realized she had not even told them her name, and that they had not asked it either.

  She started to introduce herself, then stopped. .What should she call herself? Margarethe of Windhaven, the woman she resembled closely enough to have fooled Ro-bard MacDenis, was dead. She held back a shiver. She did not want to be anyone but herself, let alone a dead person. More, she had a deep certainty that she must speak with care. She was out of her own time, and the less she said, the better. What she needed Was a nice, fairly innocuous name, something almost anonymous. She needed to be a Jane Doe or Mary Smith, and her tired brain was not cooperating.

  At last she said, "I am called Marja . . . Leynier." There were Leyniers in her bloodline, but the falsehood made her tense a little. And retreating into the nickname she had not used in years felt a little peculiar as well.

  "Marja—now that is one I never heard before," Jonil answered cheerfully. "Right pretty, like its bearer."

  Margaret laughed at that. "Pretty! I feel like a drowned rat."

  "You looked like one, at first, domna." Both of the women chuckled at Joris' remark.

  Karis picked up the cauldron and hauled it over to the fireplace. Margaret saw her add some water from a wooden bucket, then drop in some chunks of dried meat as well, and set it on a hook above the flames. Jonil glanced over her shoulder. "I better go see to the seasonings, or Karis will put in handfuls of pepperpods, and it will be too spicy to eat. She is a good woman, but she can't be trusted with flavor. If she were a singer, I'd say she was tone deaf." With that Jonil rose and walked over to the fireplace, leaving Margaret to stare at the pile of peelings.

  There was an end of a carrot in the pile, and she picked it up and crunched it. It was tough and woody, but it still had a slight sweetness, and the taste of earth as well. Margaret chewed and c
hewed, until her jaw ached slightly, and finally swallowed.

  Damila came and .sat down across from her. She gave her close-cropped hair a finger combing. "Your husband seems to be just sleeping now, but I think he may throw a fever before the night is over. Vanda is brewing up some feverwort, just in case. It is best drunk cold, so we need to make it up now." She paused, looked uncomfortable, and cleared her throat. "How did you end up ... under that tree?"

  "I am not sure," Margaret temporized. "Everything is very hazy."

  "Well, how did he get matrix shock?"

  "He touched something. . . ." That was true as far as it went, and Margaret decided not to elaborate. She tried to look stupid, and wished that Damila would stop asking questions. It crossed her mind that she had the capacity to compel the woman to leave her alone, and shuddered at the idea.

  Fortunately, Damila appeared to think her shiver was perfectly normal. "What was it?"

  "I think it was a trap-matrix, but I am not sure. It affected me as well. There was a blaze of light, and that is all I really remember." She felt her face pale, and was amazed that she could fib without blushing.

  "Ah, well, that explains it. That Varzil Ridenow, the Lord of Mali, has been trying to find all of them, and destroy them, but there are so many, in old houses and other places. And his hunting days are over. He's been in the rhu fead for more than a month, lying in state, I suppose, though no one has come to see him. That's the rumor, anyhow. One of them. Another says he is already gone, and then there are those who insist he is in hiding, and not in the rhu fead at all. I don't know what to believe. All I am sure of is that the Compact is tottering like some old gaffer, on its last legs. That is good for us, because it means a lot of lords are looking for fighters, even women. As if we hadn't enough of that." Damila hesitated. "You are not telling me everything, are you?"

  Margaret hardly heard her, because she was trying to remember what the rhu fead was. At last her weary brain coughed up the answer, and she recalled that this was the name of some sort of chapel, near Hali Tower, a place of power. That made a strange kind of sense, because Varzil had brought them to Hali. But why had they ended up going off to that imaginary house? She was not sure why, but it was very important, and she wished Mikhail was awake to question.

  "No, I am not telling you everything, and I am sorry about that." She shrugged slightly. "I don't think you would believe me if I did."

  Damila nodded. "You and the man, you are not from around here, are you?"

  Margaret found herself laughing almost hysterically. Several of the Sisters turned and stared at her. "You could say that, Damila. You could definitely say that!" When she had managed to contain her merriment a little, she asked, "How did you know?"

  "I've never seen clothes quite like yours before, and you speak oddly." She paused and frowned for a moment. "It is almost as if you were thinking in another tongue."

  "I thank you for trusting me in spite of that. I have told you all that I dare." I don't want to make some chance remark that will change the future, even though I can't think what that might be.

  Damila nodded gravely. "When I left home to join the Sisters, my father cursed me. He said that I was crazy, that I was a stupid girl who did not know her own mind. And I swore to myself that I would never assume that another woman did not know what she was about, even if it seemed to me to be silly or ill-considered. This is the first time I have ever had to remember that vow, but it seems that keeping to it is the best course. Where are you and your man going?"

  Margaret gave a deep sigh. "I wish I knew."

  Jonil was pulling the loaves out of the oven now, and the hot smell of fresh bread floated through the room. She used the long-handled platform to carry the golden mounds to the table. She set the loaves on a tray on the table, and walked away. It was all Margaret could do not to reach out and tear a piece off and stuff it into her mouth.

  Wooden bowls and spoons were brought out, and some battered trenchers as well. Margaret and Damila got up and moved down the table, seating themselves across the board from one another. Small wooden cups were placed along the table cloth, and a birchwood ewer stood at the far end. The members of the band began to take their places, talking quietly and wiping their hands on their garments.

  She saw Damila reached a work-coarsened hand across the table. Margaret felt the woman on her other side reach for her left hand. She snatched the hand away quickly. The unknown woman stared at her in shock.

  "We must say the blessing, and we always ..."

  "What is it?" Damila's tone was curt and demanding.

  Margaret flinched at the suspicion and hostility in the voice. Her left hand was bare, but she still wore the mitt on the right one. It smelled of the onions she had chopped, in a sorry state for such an elegant accessory. She was so tired she had forgotten everything, and nearly been stupid.

  She stripped off the remaining glove, turned it wrong-side to, and pulled it over her left hand. When Margaret looked up, she found herself the object of eight pair of

  astonished and rather hostile eyes. She blushed all the way to the roots of her hair. What was she supposed to say?

  The woman said, "Does my touch offend you, then?"

  "No, certainly not. But if you had touched that hand unshielded, I do not know if you would have survived. I did it to protect you, not to offend you."

  The beast-speaker, Morall, nodded in agreement. "There is a laran-brightness on her hand, very faint, but I remember .noticing it when we came into the hall here. She did rightly, Dorys, so don't get your trousers in a twist. Now, let's say the blessing! I didn't wring those necks and pluck all those damn feathers to have the birds get cold and nasty while we debate the niceties."

  Hands were joined, and Dorys placed her fingers in Margaret's very cautiously, a bit wide-eyed. Oh, my! What a narrow escape! I might have been killed!

  Margaret caught the woman's fear, and tried to ignore the spill of thoughts around the table. She had almost learned to block out the continuous mental chatter that was the normal working of human minds, but it was more difficult when she was tired. She heard a fragment here and there—Vanda wondering if Mikhail would get a fever, Jonil thinking of the yeast bread she had started earlier—ordinary thoughts. But she could not completely ignore Damila's. The leader of the band was full of concerns, and very much wished she had not rescued them. She wanted to be rid of her unwelcome guests as quickly as possible.

  Vanda began to speak. "For the gifts of this food, and this shelter, we thank the Goddess who guides and protects us. We thank the animals who gave us their meat, and the plants which gave us their sustenance. We thank the rain for giving us water, and the earth for supporting us, now and forever."

  It was a simple blessing, like others Margaret had heard. But the sincerity of the women moved her deeply, and made her wish she had not had to deceive them. This was no empty rite, but something full of real meaning and genuine belief. She swallowed hard and blinked back tears.

  Dorys withdrew her hand as soon as the words were done. While the platter of birds was passed down the table, Margaret wondered which Goddess they meant. Hadn't Rafi told her something about that? It was Avarra, the

  Dark Goddess, she remembered after a second of groping in her weary brain. She recalled the painting of that deity on the ceiling of the grand dining room in Comyn Castle, and that other figure, that of Evanda, the Lady of Spring and Light. With a slight start she realized that the image of Evanda was not unlike the shining woman who had supported Varzil during that incredible wedding ceremony.

  A small bubble of hysteria rose in her throat, and she choked it back. Had she actually eaten rabbithorn stew and a slab of warm bread made by the hands of Evanda? It seemed too much for a moment. Then her mind balked. She refused to be upset by more speculations! The band circling her wrist was evidence of the event. Everything else was unimportant. If all the gods in the universe had been there, it would still be the same. Besides, there were enough real thing
s to be worried about!

  Breathing deeply, Margaret calmed herself. She watched Jonil tear a loaf of bread into chunks, strong hands pulling the warm mound apart. The sight steadied her, and she felt her mind quiet, and her emotions as well. She was still just herself, whether she was Margaret Alton or Marguerida Alton-Hastur, and she was very hungry. Nothing else was important at that moment.

  Damila handed a piece of bread across the table to her,

  and soon the platter of birds arrived. She took one and

  pulled off a limb. It tasted dark, wild, and gamey. There

  was some spice on the skin, herbs and oil rubbed on it

  before cooking, a delicious taste she had not encountered

  before.

  Margaret chewed and chewed, for the bird was tough, but the finest cuisine of Thendara wouldn't have tasted better to her. She was barely aware of the others at the table, so deep was she in the sensuous enjoyment of the food. She took a bite of bread and tasted the faint sour flavor of baking soda.

  "Jonil, the bread is simply wonderful, and the bird is delicious!" The words popped out, and Margaret was surprised at how tired her voice sounded.

  "Thank you, Marja." She smiled a little, and gestured around the table with a greasy hand. "My sisters are so used to my cooking that they sometimes forget to tell me if they like it." '