The Shadow Matrix
Page 52
Mikhalangelo, we are all flawed. And you have the strength to wield the matrix, if you will only be a little kinder to yourself.
Kinder. Am I not weak enough without adding that? The words spat out of him, filled with selfhatred and rage.
The grave face smiled above him. You hold yourself to a standard even a god would find daunting, my son. The merest imperfection in you seems magnified into a monstrous failure. Can you feel the weight of these things pressing against you?
Yes!
Ten times the Wall around the World weighs on your heart, Mikhalangelo. It is not my little ring that oppresses you, but only your fear.
1 want to die!
You will, but not this day. Let go! It is not treasure that you are clutching, but only a pack of rubbish.
Rubbish? That seemed a remarkable description for the misery he felt.
Small flaws magnified into great failings are the rubbish of the soul. Release your grip on this monster you have made of yourself. You are worthy of your Margarethe, but more, you are worthy of yourself!
Ami?'
You will have to trust my judgment in the matter.
He struggled for what seemed a great time, but eventually he flagged. How great a toll it took to wrestle with himself. And how foolish it was.
Great washes of emotion flooded across him—light and dark, good and ill. He had never suspected he contained
so many feelings, nor how powerful they were. They ran together, pooling, until he could no longer distinguish one from another. He let himself sink into that calming whirl of old, worn-out fears and desires, drowning his despair and hope at once. This was for the best.
He could feel his body fail, his heart ceasing to beat in his breast, his blood halting* in his veins. Mikhail waited for death now, accepted it, mourned himself without self-consciousness. Soon it would be over. At least he would perish whole instead of in bits and pieces.
Dammit, Mik! Don't quit on me now! He felt a smart slap on his face, a stinging of flesh upon flesh. It was like having cold water pour into him, clear and bright and refreshing.
A fist thumped against his chest,, and his heart jumped. His anguish receded, but the memory of it lingered like the taste of salt on his tongue. He was resting across Marguerida’s lap, looking up at a very angry woman. There was a sheen of sweat on her forehead, and some of her fine hair had escaped from the pins, giving her a frenzied appearance. Her golden eyes were like small flames.
"Ouch," he said, rubbing his sternum. "That hurt."
"Good! If you ever try cardiac arrest on me again, I will pound you even harder!"
"I was not trying cardiac arrest," he mumbled, feeling injured and misunderstood. "You make it sound as if I did it on purpose."
Marguerida laughed shakily, and some of the high color left her face. "I suppose I did. You just scared ten years off me, and that . . . well, it makes me so angry!" A tear rose in one eye, and began to slip down her cheek unnoticed. "So far our married life has been terrible," she muttered.
Marguerida began to sob, and Mikhail wished he had the strength to comfort her. All he could manage was a feeble pat on the hand which rested on his chest and a few meaningless phrases. Something nagged at his disordered wits, and after a minute he said, "Our married life?"
The sobs choked to a halt in a sputter of coughing. Marguerida grabbed his wrist and drew his arm up, so he could see the circlet resting here. "You mean you don't remember promising to serve me all my days, you silly dolt!"
"Did I do that?" It was all very vague and fuzzy, but he did seem to remember some sort of promise. Still, serve her? "Why don't I remember—was I drunk?"
"All you had was water! Don't provoke me, Mikhail Hastur! I am stretched too thin to take it. Don't you remember anything? Varzil marrying us, and . . . and Her?"
"Her?"
Margaret seemed unusually hesitant to answer. "Evanda, I think."
He had a burst of memory, of a woman's face, beautiful and radiant, the smell of stone and stew, and a voice speaking. Mikhail remembered the weight of the bracelet when it was put upon his wrist, and Marguerida saying, "With this ring . . ." And then all reality had vanished, leaving him wandering in some lightless place.
"Oh, Mik, I was so frightened for you. Can't, you remember?"
"It all seems very confused yet, but, yes, I certainly remember the woman." He paused and sighed a little, feeling his exhaustion, but also a kind of relaxed vigor, as if he had come a great distance in a short time. "Amos is not going to believe that story, I promise you."
"Amos?" Marguerida looked puzzled, then concerned, as if he were raving.
"Don't you remember our imaginary grandchild?"
"Oh, yes." She almost giggled with relief. "Humph! The way we have been going, we aren't going to have any children, let alone grandchildren." Then her face turned quite red, and her eyes shifted away. She held her shoulders uncomfortably, tense and frightened.
"Poor Marguerida. I don't remember clearly after you put that ring on my hand. I just fell off the edge of the world or something."
"I'm not completely sure. All I know is that the building vanished—I don't think it was ever there at all, Mik—and I found us sitting in the pouring rain. You were unconscious, so I managed to drag you under some trees. We were getting wetter and wetter, and I was almost out of my mind. So, being the wise and sensible person that I am, I decided to perform an experiment with heat exchange and I think I nearly crisped both of us. If I did not know it
before, 1 now understand why a little knowledge is a dangerous thing."
"But how did we get here?"
"The crow did it."
"Huh?"
"No, it did not fly us here. It went and found some women, Sisters of the Sword. And they loaded you onto a litter, and we came to this place." She glanced around the shadowed kitchen and sighed. "I think they decided we were too dangerous to be around, because they sneaked off while we were sleeping. I don't know how they did it, but I was so tired that probably an entire army could have tromped through, and I would not have stirred. I assume they left our horses behind, in whatever serves for a stable in this ruin."
"I see. I am sorry that ..."
"Don't be stupid! You couldn't help getting sick. It is just that I have been nearly out of my mind with worry, and I tend to take things very personally at times like this. It is not a very helpful trait, but I can't seem to shake it." She frowned a little. "Maybe it's in my genes, because the Old Man does it, too. Oh, how I wish he were here right now! Hell, I'd even be happy to see your father! Or your mother, or even Gisela Aldaran, and my councilor from University, who was a real pain." He could hear the fatigue in her voice, and knew she was holding herself together by will alone.
"Beloved, tell me what you just did to me. It wasn't like anything I ever felt before."
"It's hard to say, exactly, because I confess I was working completely intuitively, as if I were composing a piece of music." She paused, frowned and thought for a few seconds. "What I thought I was doing was giving you a good currying!"
"A what?"
"As with a horse—curry-combing. I just kept combing the knots and tangles in you out with my matrix. And there was something else, too." Marguerida went silent for a minute. "When I took Varzil's matrix to give you, there was an instant where it touched me. I learned something I have not sorted out yet, but I think I might be discovering how to heal. I've been learning all along how to use this ac-
cursed thing—when I killed the bandit and when I cleared
Varzil's channels. But those were crude. . . . How do you
feel?"."
"Achy. Tired. But clean and clear, too. All I need is a week's sleep, lots of food, a bath, and some fresh clothing. I hate the way I feel, but the way I smell . . . ugh!"
"We are both good and stinky. And I will wager there is not a bath to be had in a hundred miles. And unless I can catch some more pigeons, all the food we have is there on the table."
Singing woke him. Mikhail went from dreaming to near waking slowly, and the rippling notes seemed to be part of both states. He lay very still and listened. Beneath the words he heard the steady brush of a broom across stones, the coo of the birds overhead, and the patter of soft rain outside. It was a seamless sound, all joining into the music.
Carefully, Mikhail sat up in the blankets. His body was warm but not feverish. The clammy dampness of his garments told him he had been sweating in his sleep. He looked around the kitchen, and found Marguerida across the room, wielding a broom. She had taken off the white nightgown, and was wearing only her chemise and a single petticoat. Her hair was tied under a square of cloth, so th 2 back of her neck was completely exposed. It was something no Darkovan woman would have done, and he was astounded by- how erotic it was, and how strongly his body responded.
For a minute he watched her, seeing her content. Mikhail had never known Marguerida to be so composed. He supposed, after all they had been though, that sweeping the floor was a pleasant change. "What are you singing?" he asked quietly, so as not to startle her out of her mood.
"What? Oh, you are awake!" She turned toward him, smiling, her face flushed with work, and looked as beautiful as any woman he had ever seen. "It is just an old rowing song from Thetis, one they do to keep time for the oarsmen."
"It is very pretty. But why are you sweeping?" Mikhail gestured at the birds overhead. "It is just going to get messy again."
"As long as we are here, I'd like the place to be liveable," she replied a bit tartly. "While you slept, I located the well, found the remains of the pantry, and unearthed a good-sized pot that was overlooked. I have heated water, so you can have a wash."
"Good. I need it!"
"I already did, and it felt wonderful." She seemed to notice then that she was dressed immodestly, glanced down at herself, and shrugged. "I found more wood to burn, so we won't be cold."
"That's fine." Mikhail could sense the awkwardness that lay between them, the slight tension of two people who, while married, were not yet truly wed. He did not need to be telepathic to know that she was uncomfortable, but he was, too. No, not uncomfortable but shy.
Mikhail had not felt shy around any woman since he was in his teens. The emotion puzzled him now. Then he realized that this was not just any female, but the one woman in the world he loved, and that made a great deal of difference. This could not be some casual seduction. He was sure that the first time would be remembered by both of them, for as long as they lived. He had to be careful, and gentle, no matter how eager he felt, how desperately he wanted her.
He pushed aside his blankets, and went over to the hearth. There he found a metal pot with warm water in it, and something floating on the top. He sniffed cautiously, and smelled lavender and soap weed. Where had she found that?
Mikhail pulled off his noisome tunic and undershirt, loosened his pants and found there was a washcloth folded nearby, still damp from her use. As he began to clean himself, he marveled at Marguerida's enormous adaptability. He could not imagine Gisela Aldaran, or any other woman of his own class, sweeping floors or doing laundry. He knew, because she had told him, that she had lived in primitive conditions on several worlds. She said she had lived in huts, worn little besides feathers and flowers, eaten un-
cooked meat, and done things he found unimaginable. She had likely swept out those huts, too.
This was a dimension of Marguerida he had never considered before, and would not have regarded with as much respect if he had not spent those months at Halyn House, mucking out stables and hammering wooden pegs into drafty windows. A humble broom, he suspected, had never graced his mother's hands, nor those of Gisela. There were always servants to see to such matters, and he realized again how privileged he had been.
The warm, scented water laved his skin sweetly, and he felt much better, if a little hollow in the middle. The foul stink of his own sweat vanished. He would have liked some real soap, but that would have been asking for a great deal, and the soap weed did the trick, if a little crudely.
"I went out when the rain paused," Marguerida interrupted his musings, "and looked around. The horses are in a room I think was the buttery before. The Sisters left enough oats for them for a couple of days, and they will not want for water. So as soon as you feel up to riding, I think we can head off. Once we run out of food, we will have to go." She sounded worried and tired.
"Yes, I know." He finished his washing, took his undershirt and balled it up, and thrust it into the pot. He mushed it around, rubbing the fabric between his fingers, until it caught on the ring. Varzil probably never did his own laundry. This thought amused him as he unhitched the snag, pulled, the soaking garment out of the water, and wrung it out as best he could. Then he hung it from a hook on one side of . the fireplace, and heard it begin to drip on the warm stones. He saw that his stockings had been removed while he slept, washed and hung up to dry, with hers beside them. There was something very warming about it, this sense of being taken care of. And, for the first time, he did not resent it.
There was a wooden bucket standing near the hearth, and it was full. Mikhail emptied the pot on the floor of the kitchen, refilled it and set it to warm. It gave him an enormous pleasure to perform this simple task. If only everything else could be so easy. Satisfied, he turned and asked, "Where is our crow friend?"
"He was with the horses when I looked, and I think he is reducing the mouse population. I never knew crows
hunted—but that is a very remarkable bird, all around." She stopped sweeping, leaned the broom against the long bench on one side of the table, and sat down suddenly, her face very pale.
"What's the matter?"
"Ashara! I can sense her. She is looking for something— not anything specific, I think. But I feel like someone just walked on my grave!"
Mikhail sat down beside her, and took her right hand in his left, so their bracelets chimed together. "I want to tell you I will protect you from her, but I really don't know if I can."
She shook her head, and pulled off the kerchief. Her cheeks had smudges of dirt on them, and she rubbed her face, making the situation worse. "I am not the child I was when she overshadowed me the first time, and now I have this," she said as she flexed her other hand. "The thing is, you see, that she could kill me, but I dare not kill her, because that would change everything. I've been thinking on it while I swept. We have to be like mice in the wainscoting, so she will not notice us."
Mikhail put his arm around her shoulder and drew her against him. "Wearing Varzil's ring, that is going to be a good trick. I feel as if I am about as subtle as a beacon."
"She isn't expecting you, Mikhail. And, besides, it isn't his any longer. It's part yours and part his—something new. I only wish I knew how long we needed to hide, and how we are going to do it."
He could smell her body, sweet with lavender, and feel the pulse of her blood beneath his fingers. "I may be able to answer that, though I suspect you will not like it. While I slept, I dreamed, and in the dream I had a chat with Varzil—at least that is what I remember. In about forty days, if I understood it right, we need to be .at the rhu fead. Beyond that, things become somewhat vague."
"Forty days?" She sounded astounded. "Forty . . . What are we supposed to do in the meantime—twiddle our thumbs?" Her voice was shrill and he could feel her tremble against him. Her calm had fooled him. She was closer to breaking than he had guessed.
"Even Varzil cannot command the moons, my dearest." Mikhail regretted the words immediately.
"Damn the moons and damn Varzil! Ashara will find me before then, I just know it. And we can't hide out here for all that time. We will starve."
"No, we can't. And we will leave here soon." Mikhail paused, trying to find the right words to say now. "This is
awkward, but I think she is looking for a maiden, not a woman, Marguerida." He waited to see if she understood his meaning.
"What? Oh, I see—you think we should . . . then I will be different! Mikhail Hastur that is about the least romantic thing I ever heard! Not that I expected roses and violins, but. . . ." Marguerida sputtered to a halt, her mouth pinched with vexation, but her eyes twinkled slightly.
He stroked the tangled curls off her brow and kissed her lightly. Then he began to pluck the hairpins from her hair. Silky red tresses slid across his hand. He had wanted to do this for months. "I cannot give you roses, but you already have my heart, Marguerida," he whispered. She was deeply frightened, but even so he could sense the stirrings of arousal in her. The smell of her and the feel of her soft skin beneath his hand was almost more than he could bear. But he knew he must go slowly. She would panic if he rushed her.
Marguerida giggled against his neck, the warmth of her breath tickling him. "That is a good beginning—go on."
"You are also the finest and bravest person I have ever known." She did not move, and he knew that he had not found the right words yet. "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I love the way your eyes glint in the firelight, and how your hair is never tidy. The moment I set eyes on you, Marguerida Alton, I wanted to rip off all your clothes, and have my way with you! The curve of your mouth makes my heart beat faster, and when you laugh, it rejoices, and when you weep, it breaks. I have wanted to do this for ages." He pushed aside the hair at the back of her neck, revealing the smooth skin that ran down toward her spine. Then he kissed her there, softly, the heat of her satin skin against his lips.