The Shadow Matrix (22 page)

Alton, and she blocked my channels. I don't know why she • did that, but she seems to

have imagined I was some sort of threat to her. And according to Gareth Ridenow at

Arilinn, my channels are not completely open yet. There does not seem to be any

precedent for me. He said he couldn't decide if I was a monster or a miracle."

Caitlin laughed at this. "I can hear him saying just that. A good man, Gareth."

"Anyhow, it was killing me—being overshadowed and blocked. I really do not

understand the ins and outs of it, and probably I never will, although I have done as

much research in the Arilinn scriptorium as I was able, and learned a great deal. So,

with Istvana's help, I went into the overworld—which I will not talk to you about!"

Margaret shuddered all over and felt her brows draw together in a frown. "It still gives

me the occasional nightmare. But dur-

ing the experience, I touched a matrix which was the keystone of Ashara's overworld

abode, and when I came to my senses, I had a pattern on my left hand which is, as near

as anyone can tell, the facets of that matrix stone. I keep it covered, because otherwise

I am ... or it is, dangerous."

Caitlin was listening intently. "Is that why Istvana had your chamber swathed in a

Domain's ransom of wintersilk? We all wondered about it, and she wouldn't say a

word, except perhaps to Merita, who never, never gossips."

"Yes. The energy from matrixes runs along my nerves like cold fire, and just being in

this room is a little uncomfortable. If I learned nothing else at Arilinn, I did find out

how to endure that. If I had my way, I would never enter a Tower again, but until I

learn more about how to control my
laran,
I am stuck, I suppose—unless I can figure

out a way to study someplace other than a Tower."

"Thank you for telling me about it. I had no idea I was being so nosy when I asked.

Your eyes are getting glazed. Go to bed!"

"I am sleepy, but it was good to talk to someone about it. I am a private person, and I

keep myself apart, even when I long to be close to other people. I have to struggle to

trust others, even when they mean well."

"I will not betray your trust, Marguerida."

Despite her weariness, when Margaret got to her room, she felt restless. After getting

into her thick nightgown and brushing her hair, she still did not feel ready to sleep, and

after pacing back and forth for a few minutes, she realized that she was missing

Mikhail, that she wanted to speak to him, to feel the touch of his mind.

She stripped away the mitt on her left hand, focused her mind as she had learned, and

breathed deeply. For a while nothing happened. Margaret began to wonder if the silken

hangings of her room were preventing her from reaching her beloved. Just when she

was about to give up, however, she felt the familiar energy, faint and almost feeble,

brush the edges of her mind.

Mikhail!

Marguerida? Where are you?

I arrived at Neskaya earlier today, and I am sitting in a

bower of silk, like some princess in a fairy tale. There is probably a pea under the

mattress, to test me.

What are you talking about?
Mikhail sounded distracted, and almost angry.

Nothing of importance, dearest. How are things with your young charges?

Exhausting. I don't think I've had a whole night's sleep since I got here. And Priscilla

and her friend . . . are very odd.

Her friend? Who is that?

What? I have a splitting headache, Marguerida.

You sound very strange, Mik. Are you all right?

Yes. No. I am just tired beyond belief.

Then good night, sweet Mikhail.

Good night, my Marguerida.

She sat in the chair for several minutes, going over the conversation. Margaret was

more than a little uneasy, but she tried to dismiss it. Something was wrong, she was

certain, for Mikhail was never short with her. Who was this friend of Priscilla

Elhalyn's, and why had he refused to tell her about it? Was he in some danger, and

wanted to spare her worry? Didn't the bonehead realize that she worried more when

she did not know what was going on? Of course not! Males could be so idiotic

sometimes. And likely it was nothing at all—just his weariness and her own.

Then doubt began to flourish in her weary brain. There was someone else, and Mikhail

was afraid to tell her. There was probably some girl there who had taken his fancy,

some woman of good family to whom no one would object, who would not disturb the

precious balance of power between the Domains if Mikhail married her. Regis Hastur

or Lady Linnea had probably sent someone off to Halyn House for just that purpose.

Her mouth tasted like iron as she pulled the mitt back over the lines on her hand. She

firmed her lips, swallowing the despair that rose in her throat, and got into the bed. The

mattress was soft beneath her tired muscles, and it smelled of balsam and cleanness.

She rested her head on the pillow, and let the tears come.

I am not going to break my heart over this, Margaret told herself fiercely, as she fell

into an uneasy slumber.

8

Mikhail ground his teeth in frustration and tried not to notice how very weary he was.

After several weeks in residence in Halyn House, he was no closer to testing the boys,

and all of his limited energy was devoted to trying to get the place into good enough

repair for the coming winter. Already it was much colder, though the first heavy snows

had yet to come. The wind from the sea gusted around the old place, crept in through

windows he had tried to repair, under doors that no longer hung straight in their

frames, and rattled the roof tiles.

He had just finished another infuriating and futile interview with Priscilla Elhalyn, and

his head felt full of mites, all cheerfully gnawing at his mind. He had tried again to

persuade her to either move back to Elhalyn Castle, or to take the children away to

Thendara. She had looked at him with her usual vague expression, a slight smile

playing across her lips. "But we
are
going away, all of us except Vincent," she had

said.

"Where
are you going?" Mikhail had asked that question so many times now that he

had lost count.

"Away to a place where we will be happy," she replied, as she had before. Then she

had turned and gone down the corridor to the dark, little room where she spent most of

her days and all of her nights, leaving him feeling infuriated and helpless. As she

reached the dimness in the shadow of the stairs, she turned back, smiling sweetly. "If

you would only take Vincent and be gone, it would be better, you know. He is the one

you want, and the only one you will have. The others are coming with me, when I go."

"Go where?"
He shouted at her, venting some of his frustration. She had said this sort

of thing several times

before, hinting in a portentous way that never failed to annoy him. Just once he wanted

to get a straight answer out of the
domna.

"That is no concern of yours, and I do not think you should be here when we leave. I

think ... it might be fatal. And that would be very sad. Just take Vincent, and return to

Regis Hastur."

With these words, she vanished, and he stood in the hall, clenching his fists. It took all

the discipline he had not to follow her, seize her by the arm, and shake her until he got

some sensible answers. He had never laid hands on a woman before, and had never

wanted to, even when his own sisters were being their most annoying, so he was rather

shocked by the violence of his feelings.

Mikhail shook his head, trying desperately to clear his thoughts. The house seemed to

loom over him, and even though the windows in the front had been reglazed, it was

still a dark place, gloomy and forlorn. As for Vincent, he was a sadistic bully to his

brother and sisters and seemed to take real pleasure in tormenting the girls whenever

he had the opportunity.

Darkover had survived incompetent Elhalyns in the past—too many of them by

Mikhail's lights. That was not a good reason to put another bad apple on the throne. He

felt they should either eliminate the largely ceremonial position, or put someone in it

who was both sane and able. Vincent seemed fairly intelligent, and there was nothing

overtly insane about him, but his character concerned Mikhail. As eager as he was to

be rid of the Regency, he was too honorable and responsible to take the easy way out,

particularly since this solution was just what Priscilla proposed.

Mikhail compared Vincent to his own brothers for a moment, and realized that their

characters were already well-formed by the age of fifteen. Gabe was already bossy and

certain of himself, and Rafael was a natural compromiser. They had both changed a

little but not greatly, and he doubted Vincent would improve very much with age.

The real problem, he thought, was that he no longer trusted his own judgment. He

lacked any objectivity. He was prejudiced against Vincent, not so much because the lad

was headstrong, but because he was cruel. Even without

testing, Mikhail knew that Alain would never be able to take the throne. The thought of

the oldest boy sitting in his bedroom day after day, being spoon-fed by either Becca or

Wena made him feel ill. And the training he had received at Arilinn had yet to be put to

use. Alain was simply untestable, and so was Emun. The youngest son was full of

terrors, jumping at the slightest sound, and nothing Mikhail had tried to do to help him

had had the least effect.

In his own mind he knew that of the five children, the two girls seemed the strongest

and most able, both in mind and character. Of course, in his present distracted state, he

hardly dared to believe this. They both regarded him more in the light of a savior from

some fate they refused to reveal, but he was certain it had something to do with

Priscilla’s plans. They repeatedly begged him to take them away from Halyn House,

and he might have done so, had he not felt that leaving the misbegotten place would

have been an admission of failure, a defeat of his supposed Regency.

Mikhail had managed to contact Regis Hastur twice since his arrival, once to inform

him that he had reached Halyn House, and another time to tell him that the place was a

wreck. Neither time had he hinted that he was having difficulties, that he felt out of his

depth. And Regis had barely had the time to listen to him, just assuring him that he was

certain Mikhail could manage such a simple task as testing the children, and finding a

new ceremonial ruler.

After this second brief contact, Mikhail had determined he would not bother his uncle

again, -no matter what. He pushed down his sense of having been dismissed, where it

mingled with his doubts of his own competence, his general feeling of unworthiness,

and his growing despondency. This was his problem, and he was going to solve it,

alone and unaided! At times he considered just taking the children and leaving, though

he was still unclear if he had the authority to do that. And who could he ask, without

revealing that he was, as Marguerida had put it so vividly about another subject, up to

his waist in snakes.

Mikhail did not even have the comfort of frequent contact with his beloved for he

found that whenever he tried to speak to her, he talked of trivial things, mischief that

Vincent had gotten into, or how pretty the girls were. He

sensed that if he told her the truth, her respect for him would be damaged, that he

would appear a feeble fellow, unworthy of her love. And reaching anyone from Halyn

House telepathically seemed oddly difficult. It almost felt as if there were a telepathic

damper on the place, though he had looked from attic to basement and found nothing

to suggest that this was the case.

It all seemed to come back to the enigmatic Emelda, and he could not think of any way

to deal with that problem. This was Priscilla Elhalyn's home, and if she wanted to keep

a household
leronis,
as had the Elhalyn and other Domains in the past, there was no

reason he could think of to deny her. He was becoming more and more certain that

Emelda was nothing of what she pretended, neither Aldaran nor an actual
leronis.
The

Towers kept records of those gifted with
laran,
and it was rare for anyone to elude

them. A few slipped by in each generation, but they were usually folk with small gifts,

people like Burl, the bone-reader.

He tried to question Emelda whenever he had the opportunity, but she was both wary

and hostile. Mikhail realized she was powerful, but he lacked the kind of training he

would need to measure her potency. He despaired of dealing with some wild telepath,

there, alone and with only his moderate talents to support him.

And he rarely had the leisure to interrogate the odd woman, or Priscilla, during one of

her infrequent appearances. He had never suspected that running a household or