The Shadow Matrix

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  This made two of the Renunciates redden beneath their

  weathered skins, and look down at their plates, as if embarrassed. But Morall just laughed. "No one tells me I did a

  good job getting the food, so why should we tell you it

  tastes good? You should just be pleased we don't

  complain."· ....

  "Oh, no, Mora. We would not dare complain, lest Joni put mock mint in the stew and make us sorry we ever opened our mouths to eat or speak." This was a woman about Margaret's own age, with pale hair and mischievous eyes.

  "Would you do that?" Morall leaned forward to look down the board at Jonil.

  "I might, if I were sufficiently annoyed. And there are worse things than mock mint." She added this rather darkly, but with a playful light in her eyes. "A bit of densa would have you jumping off your horse to shit every other minute."

  Everyone laughed except Morall. She frowned for a second, then relaxed. "I'll remember that, if I find myself with the runs."

  When the birds had been eaten, Jonil got up and brought the cauldron to the table. She served out stew into the wooden bowls. Margaret discovered with surprise that her stomach felt almost full, but she took some stew and ate it slowly. It tasted more familiar, like something Rafi had made on the trail, and she found herself wishing again for her dear friend. The carrots and onions had not been cooked so long as to turn to mush, and were still flavorful and a bit crunchy, and whatever meat had been added had a pleasant salty taste. She managed to finish most of the bowl before she had to stop eating.

  With some cheese and slices of apple, the meal was complete. Everyone got up, their previous suspicion returning, and left her sitting on the bench. Margaret did not blame them a bit, though she felt rather sad. Karis brought a bucket and set it down on the table. She began to clear the dishes, and wash them in the bucket, singing quietly to herself as she worked.

  Margaret listened to the song, trying to memorize it. The food had revived her to a degree, and it was almost reflexive. The language was archaic, but the melody not difficult.

  It had been composed in a minor key that gave it a wonderful, haunting quality. The lyrics told of two sisters, their love for one another, and their painful separation. She concentrated, trying to penetrate the tale, for it was one she had never heard before, either in song or story.

  " 'She asked the rush and reed Of beloved breda Maris On Valeron's swift banks. She asked the stone and seed Of treasured breda Maris On Valeron's high banks. She asked the water and weed And heard only To the Sea, To the Sea.' "

  The verses rolled on and on, like the river and the sea

  themselves, with the seeker asking all and sundry; whether

  beast or bush, where Maris had gone. The song had an

  eerie rhythm, like the beat of waves against the shore at

  low tide, quiet and a little sad. Even as it started, Margaret

  knew the tale would not have a happy conclusion. And as

  the final verse drew to a close, the unnamed sister threw

  herself into the rushing waters of the River Valeron, and

  drifted down to the cold sea of Dalereuth, calling for Maris

  and finding no answer. The refrain, "Ahm Maree," "to the

  sea," playing as it did with the sound of the name Maris,

  gave Margaret shivers..

  "That was very beautiful," she said quietly, in spite of herself.

  "Huh? Oh, the song? I always sing it when I wash up— it suits the job."

  "Yes, it does."

  The bench under her seemed hard and unforgiving now the song was over, and her shoulders drooped. Her eyes itched with fatigue. She dragged herself to her feet, half staggered toward the fireplace, and flopped down next to Mikhail. Her stockings were disgustingly filthy but she did not have the energy to pull them off.

  Margaret steeled herself. Then she monitored the unconscious form beside her. All his vitals seemed normal, but his mind remained unreachable. She felt despair rise in her

  throat, and swallowed it, commanding it to be gone. She was too tired to think now. Later, when she had slept, she would think of something.

  Margaret rearranged the blankets, ignoring the horsy smell clinging to them. She snuggled down, feeling the pleasant heat of Mikhail's body next to hers, and scenting the distinctive odor of maleness she had occasionally caught when she hugged her father. Thinking of Lew made her wonder what was happening in Comyn Castle, but she was too tired to hold that thought.

  She turned on her side and pillowed her head on Mikhail's shoulder. For a moment Margaret just rested there, feeling odd and utterly right at the same time. Then she put her right hand over his left arm, heard the bracelets clink as they met, and closed her eyes. So this is what married life is like, she thought, and smiled.

  30

  Mikhail woke abruptly, without any of the drowsy semi-sleep he normally enjoyed. One moment he was falling through some infinite space, the next he was staring up at darkened beams crowded with cooing pigeons. Where was he?

  He turned his head carefully and found Marguerida beside him, snoring delicately in deep sleep. A jumble of images exploded in his mind: pink grass, a huge jewel, a shining woman and a man lying on a couch. Varzil the Good! He had actually come to the past and spoken with the ancient tenerezu. And something else. For a moment Mikhail groped for the elusive thought. Then he felt the weight of metal encircling his wrist and remembered. We are married. At last! Mother will never forgive us! Then the demands of his body interrupted his thoughts.

  He sat up quickly, and his head swam. His bladder felt ready to burst, and he was ravenous. Mikhail dragged himself up to his feet, and staggered toward the door, loosening the drawstring on his trousers as he stumbled. He managed to make his way a few steps beyond the doorway, into a muddy rut, before he paused and relieved himself. Then he closed his pants and just stood there, swaying a bit, with cold water seeping up into his stockings. If only he could have found a dry patch! He leaned against a wall, breathing slowly, trying not to sit down in the puddle.

  When his legs stopped trembling, he retraced his steps into the building. Where were they? It seemed to take forever, and he felt weak and terribly stupid. Once inside again, he realized they were in a huge kitchen, and not a very clean one at that. Why were they sleeping in a kitchen, and why did he "faintly remember other people? There

  seemed to be no one there except Marguerida, still asleep. He must have dreamed it, surely.

  Mikhail sank down on a bench along the table and found there was a loaf of bread sitting on the board. Beside it was some cheese, a few withered apples, some raisins, and two cooked birds. He stared at these for a long time, then reached out and took a bit of cheese. It was salty on his tongue, and he noticed for the first time that his mouth was parched. There was a wooden ewer on the table, and a small, round wooden cup. He tried to pour himself some water, but his hands were so tremulous that he got more on the table than into the wooden cup.

  Mikhail drank, slowly and deeply, letting the sweet taste of clean water stay in his mouth for a moment before he swallowed. He thought he remembered his head being lifted, and someone dribbling some disgusting liquid into his mouth. When had that happened, and where had the bread come from, and the roasted birds? Surely Marguerida had not baked bread during. . . . was it one night or several? He was not sure, and that made him shiver.

  A little revived by the water, his mind seemed to clear. He had a faint memory of many voices, all female, and a long, bumpy ride. He had not dreamed that, surely. But, where were those speakers? The flutter of wings overhead was the only sound in the room, except the faint crackling of the fire on the hearth. He could not really concentrate. Instead of worrying further, he pulled a leg off one of the birds and started eating. He alternated sips of water with the fowl, and slowly began to feel less hollow.

  There was something he needed to remember, but it eluded him. It nagged at the back of his mind as he ate. After o
nly one leg and a bit of the breast, he found he could eat no more, and poured himself another cup of water. Pigeon and cheese might not be the best choice, he thought, for his belly started to cramp suddenly. Was the water tainted?

  Mikhail rose unsteadily and tottered back toward the bedding, his damp stockings making a nasty, squishing sound across the cold stones of the floor. The fire was only embers now, and he saw a few logs and sticks piled beside the hearth. Mikhail sank down beside it, and reached for a small branch. It took an enormous effort, but he managed

  to pull some of the sticks onto the coals. He watched the flames begin to lick at the wood. Then he began to feel incredibly cold. It must be because his feet were soaked. He wrestled off one sodden stocking, but the other one was beyond his dwindling strength. He just sat on the warm hearthstones, with a wet sock dangling from his fingers, too tired to move.

  His eyelids seemed to weigh a great deal, and his head drooped onto his chest. He slipped into a light drowse, then snapped awake again. Mikhail stared into the flames. He groaned, and tried to roll a small log into the fireplace. The heat was wonderful, and he wanted more!

  "Wha . . .?"

  The sound of a sleepy voice startled him, and his fingers lost their grip on the log. It rolled onto his unprotected foot. He roared at the pain, and heard the muffled sound of blankets being shoved aside. In a moment Marguerida was behind him, bending down, her face very white.

  She gripped his shoulders, and Mikhail leaned back. He rested against her chest, feeling the warmth of her skin against his. What lovely breasts she had underneath that nightgown. A pity he did not have the strength to do more than lean against them. And why was her hair piled up on the top of her head in that provocative, wanton manner. Was she trying to drive him mad with the sight of her slender neck?

  "What were you doing?" Her voice was sharp with concern.

  "Piss," he muttered. His mind was muddled again, and speech seemed difficult.

  "Oh, I see. You need to rest, Mik. Here, let me get you back to ... where are the Sisters?" He sensed a stab of fright. Then she stiffened, and he knew she was forcing herself to remain calm.

  Mikhail let her help him over to the pile of blankets. She laid him out, pulled the other sock off his foot, and covered him up, tucking the blankets around him. Then he watched her add some logs to the fire, and go to the table. Her movements had a remote quality, as if he were watching everything from some great distance. He struggled to penetrate the detachment enveloping him, but it was impossible.

  He saw Marguerida look at the victuals on the board,

  frown, and shrug. Then she came back to him, knelt beside him, and stroked the hair off his face. "How do you feel?"

  "Cold. Weak. Tired." The effort of those words seemed enormous.

  "You won't feel cold much longer—your brow is pretty warm, and I think it is going to get hot in a little while. I hope they left some feverwort tea. I wish they had not left us ... oh, Mik!"

  "Who?"

  "We were rescued by a band of Sword Sisters—at least I think that is what they were called—and they brought us here. I guess that Damila didn't think it was safe to remain with us. Damn."

  "Where?" His chest felt as if it were being crushed by an enormous weight now, and every joint in his body was hot, while his flesh was chilly.

  "Where? Oh, where are we? They called it the old El Haliene place. Damila said it was abandoned, and that the Sisters use it for themselves. We camped here, and they made dinner, and ... I suppose they crept off while we slept. Sensible, but I wish they hadn't. At least they left us some food."

  "Ate."

  "Yes, I saw that." She patted his hand in a kindly way, but he wished she had not, for his skin was so tender that even a gentle touch was painful. He flinched in spite of himself. "Well, we will just have to make the best of it. We have water—there must be a well in here somewhere, and I'll find it. And we have some food, so we won't starve."

  Mikhail felt himself shudder all over then, and his back arched: muscle spasms raced along his body, leaving him writhing in agony, and he heard himself cry out. He tried to stifle the terrible sounds, but it was impossible. Distantly, he heard Marguerida give a sharp sound of distress, and curse.

  The little food he had eaten tried to leap from his belly, and his mouth filled with bitterness. He felt two strong hands grip his shoulders and sit him up, so he did not choke, and mercifully, he did not spew either,- He shook and shook, every joint screaming in agony, fire racing along his blood.

  "Your hand," he managed to gasp.

  Mikhail! What do you mean, my hand?

  Spasms stop under one.

  Huh? Oh, yes. Of course! I can see that your left arm is twitching less than your right. I wonder. . . .

  He felt his body being shifted against .hers, and then her left hand came down and rested on his chest. Even as he gasped for air, he felt a subtle change in his body, as if his heart were slowing down to something like normal. Vaguely he realized that Marguerida was using her own heartbeat to regularize his, that she was using her own matrix to rechannel his energy.

  What was happening to him? Mikhail saw a blazing jewel in his mind again, and it all rushed back. He was wearing the matrix ring of Varzil Ridenow! He could even feel the metal of the band against his skin. And the gem itself was pressing upon his clenched palm. Matrix shock!

  Mikhail forced his hand open. He could feel the sweat on his face as he struggled to extend his fingers. Then, his muscles still twitching terribly, he rolled the band around so the stone stood above his finger. It seemed to take forever, but he knew it had happened quickly.

  He felt his lungs labor less now. His heart was steadying to a regular beat. Mikhail could hear Marguerida muttering to herself under her breath, moving her hand here and there. There was a small bloom of panic in her mind, held at bay by will and training, and an incredible determination.

  It was a fine thing, an admirable one, and something within him tried to match it, to mingle with it, for its beauty and its strength. At the same time, part of him was aware that Marguerida was doing something very unorthodox, that she was using her laran in a way he had never before observed. No monitor or healer had ever done this. Was it one of Istvana's innovations?

  The fire in his joints began to ease, and the spasms of his limbs faded away. He felt as if he were floating in a warm bath, a gentle sea that supported his body. It was like falling into a song. Energy lapped his sinews instead of torturing them.

  What are you doing?

  Hush!

  Mikhail did as he was bid, trusting her more than he had ever trusted another person in his life. She had done this

  before, hadn't she—when he thought she was going to choke Varzil. It was too much, that memory. He was afraid to think. Madness seemed only a breath away, and he dared not let it overwhelm him. He must trust Marguerida, and nothing more. But, it was so hard to do that.

  His tortured muscles begin to uncoil, going slack with exhaustion. Mikhail discovered he was too tired to think or feel at all. Nothing mattered now except rest.

  Rest! A cold, merciless presence stirred in him. Hide behind a woman's skirts? Let her do all the work? The wonderful lethargy creeping along his limbs vanished, replaced by a fear and disgust that jolted him.

  Mik! Stop fighting me!

  The cry was far away, and he tried to ignore it. He did not want her help, her healing. He could not bear to owe her more than he already did. He was unworthy of her magnificence.

  No, no—this was Marguerida! But. . . she was a woman, like Javanne, always intriguing, manipulating, and making him feel inadequate. If Marguerida helped him, saved him, he would be even less worthy. She would never let him forget how she had rescued him, would she? Of course not—women never relented. His mother never relented.

  And she was so splendid, so wonderful. He was no match for her! No ring would ever make him her equal. It was a contest he could not win.

  Mikhail looked into hi
mself, and saw a twisted face stare back at him. It was the saddest face he had ever seen, a starved countenance. And yet it was his own familiar features looking at him, forlorn and hungry-eyed. He hated it, the weakness of it—what a disgusting fright! It would be better off dead.

  Beneath his revulsion, from a place he never dreamed existed, came a tendril of pity. It was so small he barely noticed that it made a pocket of warmth in his coldness, a trail of heat in the ice of his soul. Poor thing, all alone in the dark. Poor Mikhail—not good enough to please his mother, to win her affection. Not good enough to step into Regis' shoes. And surely not good enough to wear the jewel on his hand.

  Pain crushed his chest again, and his sad, dark twin lay across him, in a lover's pose. He could feel its hot, fetid

  breath against his cheeks. He wanted to struggle, -to wriggle away from the weight of himself. He had been fighting this sorrowful monster for years, and never could he best it. He might as well give up and let it suck his breath away. He was too weary to go on fighting any longer.

  The specter vanished then, and another face floated above his. It was an old man, dignified and wise. Eyes gazed at him, filled with great compassion, and that hurt him and angered him as well. He did not want pity—he knew what he was! But Varzil's blue eyes bored into him.

  I am too flawed. I cannot bear this thing you have given me!