THE
SHADOW MATRIX
A Novel of Darkover
Marion Zimmer Bradley
DAW BOOKS, INC.
DONALD A. WOLLHEIM, FOUNDER
375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014
ELIZABETH R. WOLLHEIM
SHEILA E. GILBERT
PUBLISHERS
Copyright © 1997 by Marion Zimmer Bradley and Adrienne Marline-Barnes.
All Rights Reserved. Cover art by Romas Kukalis. DAW Book Collectors No. 1065. DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Putnam, Inc.
Book designed by Stanley S. Drate/Folio Graphics Co. Inc.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly
coincidental.
First Paperback Printing, January 1999 56789
DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES —MARCA REGISTRADA HECHO EN U.S.A.
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
To Susan Rich who read all the drafts and asked for more
PROLOGUE
Tell me again why we came out here to visit Priscilla Elhalyn," Dyan Ardais muttered as he went down the staircase ahead of Mikhail. "And why we agreed to attend this ... thing?"
Mikhail Lanart-Hastur looked at his companion, at his dark hair and fair complexion in the flickering light of lampions and started to reply. A flash of lightning illuminated the worn carpet beneath his feet as a boom of thunder rattled the walls of Elhalyn Castle. There was a rush of rain against the panes of the windows
"We were a little drunk at the time," he finally said, when the noise abated. "And there were all those girls in Thendara, making themselves pretty for us."
"Well, we aren't drunk now, and going to a séance is not my idea of a good time!"
"How do you know? How many séances have you been to?"
"None! I think talking to dead people, or trying to, is a perverse idea."
Mikhail laughed softly. Young Dyan Ardais, whose paxman he was, was a rather nervous man of eighteen. "What? Are you afraid that medium of Priscilla's will conjure up your father?"
"Gods! I hadn't even thought of that! I never knew him when he was alive, and I don't want to make his acquaintance now!"
Mikhail had had several days to regret the impulse that had brought them to the decaying pile that was Elhalyn Castle. He knew he was old enough not to do such things, and that Dyan was his responsibility, his charge. If only they had not both been so bored, and ripe for mischief. Well, there was no help for it. They were the guests of Priscilla Elhalyn, the sister of Derik Elhalyn, the last king of Darkover, and they could hardly get on their horses and ride off into the storm.
"Most likely it will be a total failure, Dyan, and they will not bring the ghost of Derik Elhalyn down from the overworld. Or her father, or my grandmother Alanna Elhalyn either. Although I wouldn't mind seeing her. She died a long time ago, and I have always been a little curious about her. I'll bet we won't even have a good tale to tell when we get back."
"That would be fine with me." Dyan sounded less fretful, calmed by Mikhail's good humor. "So far it has been a pretty dreary time, hasn't it—unless you count meeting those retainers of hers. I never knew that anyone gave houseroom to bonereaders and mediums before."
"The Elhalyn have always been rather eccentric."
"What you mean is that Priscilla is only slightly less crazy than her mad brother, don't you? That Burl fellow gives me the creeps, and I am sure it is his doing that we have to attend this ghost-calling."
Mikhail laughed again, but he shared Dyan's opinion of the bone-reader. It was an activity that was found in the marketplaces of any of the cities of Darkover, but not one normally encountered in the home of a comynara. Still, he knew that trying to see into the future was a perfectly human desire, and he suspected that Burl merely possessed a small talent, a laran not unlike the Aldaran Gift of foreseeing.
The other of Priscilla's confidants, the woman Ysaba, was, in his opinion, the stranger of the two. Mikhail had seen bone-readers and other diviners before, but a medium was beyond his experience. He sensed she had laran, but it was not of a kind he had ever encountered before, and he suspected the woman had never trained in any Tower. He wished he could ask her outright, but that would have been very impolite.
The two young men walked through a dusty corridor, and were met by Duncan MacLeod, who was in charge of the stables but did duty as condom as well. He was a grizzled fellow, his face weathered, and his eyes sharp with suspicion. Still, the stables were in good repair—better than the castle itself, which had been let go to ruin under Priscil-
la's careless stewardship. Priscilla's staff was old, and few in number. There were no young maids to keep up the rooms, and no lads learning to manage the stables, which was puzzling as well. Elhalyn Castle was nearly empty of people, with a hollow quality that was unnerving.
In fact, it was the most peculiar household Mikhail had ever seen. Priscilla had lived there, alone except for her children and her few servants, for the years since the Sharra Rebellion, and the unfortunate events which had left so many members of the Comyn either dead or insane. She seemed perfectly happy in her solitude, a little vague at times, but not obviously mad as her brother had been. The Elhalyns were often unbalanced, he knew.
Mikhail had a good many questions that he could not ask without appearing rude, not the least of which was the parentage of Priscilla's five children. There was Alain, who was nearly fifteen, Vincent at thirteen, and Emun ten, as well as two daughters, Miralys and Valenta, shy girls of nine and eight. Priscilla had never married, and whatever lovers she had taken over the years remained unnamed and unknown. Since the Elhalyn women had comynara status, they had a freedom of choice not permitted to most females, but he still found the whole thing rather unsettling. He had never thought of himself as stuffy, but he nonetheless found himself unsettled by her irregular style of living.
Duncan led them through a narrow passage which connected the main portion of the castle to the narrow dungeon that was the remnant of a much earlier time in Darkovan history, when the land-holding families waged terrible wars with one another. It smelled of age, of old stones and the bones of the earth beneath it, and he tried to shake off the feeling of oppression it gave him.
At last Duncan opened a heavily timbered door, and a gust of cold air billowed out. Just then there was another shock of thunder, and the roof of the passage trembled, shedding a fine rain of rotted wood and flakes of whitewash down onto the sleeves of his tunic. Dyan made a disgusted noise and ran nervous fingers through his hair, then brushed the litter away.
They followed Duncan into a round room that would have been almost cozy if it had not been quite so chilly. There was a small fireplace, and it was lit, giving off the
smell of balsam logs, though it was not enough to warm the room. The walls were stone, and they were damp with moisture. Mikhail could see patches of mold on their faces, and the pleasant scent of the logs barely concealed .their musty odor. A few sputtering candles were set on a small table in the center of the room, making eerie shadows on the walls and the decaying tapestries that were hanging there.
Mikhail tried to imagine the room during the past, with long dead Elhalyn sheltering there, under siege from their foes. But the room was too shabby, too cold, and too dreary for any romantic notions. The place was just a relic of another time, and one that he was glad was gone.
Priscilla and her medium, Ysaba, entered the room, interrupting his reverie. The little Elhalyn woman seemed more excited than Mikhail had seen her before, her golden eyes gleaming in the nickering light. There was an air of anticipation about her; she seemed to be expecting something wonderful to occur. Her hai
r was the color of apricots, and her skin seemed nearly golden in the light. No one would ever have called her a beauty, but she seemed quite pretty in her undisguised eagerness.
"Please, sit at the table," she invited, gesturing gracefully.
Mindful of his manners, Mikhail held a chair for her, and saw that Dyan was performing the same office for the medium, his distaste for the task apparent. They took the remaining seats, and he wondered where Burl, the bone-reader, was.
The table had been polished recently, and it shone in the golden light, the smell of beeswax rising pleasantly beneath his forearms. Mikhail turned his attention to a large globe of quartz sitting in the middle of it. It had a faint bluish cast, but it was not the intense blue of a matrix crystal. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Duncan throw something into the fireplace, and there was a brief flare as it began to burn. A thick, flowery scent began to fill the room, something similar to the incenses his sister Liriel used, but heavier and not as pleasant. It made his eyes prickle, and his fingers started to feel rather numb.
Ysaba gazed into the globe, her pale eyes vacant. She was a plain woman, with the very fair coloring of the Dry Towns, and he was not sure of her age. There was thunder,
and a flash of lightning shone through the high, narrow windows, blinding him for a second. The wind gusted against the walls of the ancient dungeon, but the structure barely trembled under the fury of the storm.
The chamber was silent, except for the crackle of the fire, and the sobbing of the wind outside. Mikhail felt a draft along the floor, from the door behind him, and wriggled his toes in his boots. He hoped this was not going to take very long. The somewhat shabby room he and Dyan were sharing was at least warm, and he wanted to return to it, and go to bed!
"Join hands, please," Priscilla said, interrupting his thoughts.
Dyan gave a little start, then reluctantly slipped his hand into Mikhail's right one. He extended his free hand reluctantly, and Ysaba clasped it. Mikhail felt Priscilla take his left hand, and put her other hand into that of the medium. It was surprisingly warm and soft.
"You' must not break the circle," the medium said quietly.
Why did I let you talk me into agreeing to this, Mik?
We could hardly deny Priscilla's request, could we?
If either of us had any spine, we certainly would have!
Mikhail could sense the younger man almost squirming with discomfort. Although he was mildly uneasy, he did not share Dyan's emotions, for his ever-lively curiosity was now fully engaged., This was going to make a wonderful tale to tell!
There was a moaning sound, and after a moment Mikhail realized it was not the wind, but the medium. It was a very strange noise, something he could hardly believe was coming from a human body. The thick, acrid odor from the fireplace seemed to increase, and he had a sudden urge to sneeze. Mikhail wriggled his nose and managed to stifle the reflex.
The globe in the center of the table began to darken, as if it were filled with smoke. A shape started to form, and Mikhail felt the hairs on the nape of his neck stir with awe. Part of his mind was sure it was some peculiar sort of laran. But another portion of it was filled with the memory of ghost-tales he had heard as a child.
The shape thickened, and something pale and wispy
seemed to seep out of the quartz. It was a long, convoluted, ropy object, and after a moment of hovering in the air, it bent toward the medium. Mikhail could hear Dyan's breathing, noisy and harsh, and glanced at him. The younger man had his eyes firmly closed, his hand quivering in Mikhail's grasp. Even with the stifling incense, he could smell the scent of sweat—his own and Dyan's. He gave his friend what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze just as the specter touched Ysaba's chest.
There was silence for a moment, and then a voice emerged from the medium's throat. "Who are these strangers?" It was a rather feeble tenor, reedy and unpleasant.
Mikhail felt Dyan's hand twitch in his grasp. What sort of ghost doesn't know who we are?
Derik—if it is he—never met us.
Oh. I suppose. His mental tone was unconvinced, and Mikhail agreed, but was willing to wait upon events. Now that he had gotten over his initial fear, the entire event was becoming interesting. How was Ysaba producing that voice, he wondered.
"Brother, may I present Dom Mikhail Hastur, son of Javanne Hastur and grandson of Alanna Elhalyn, and Dom Dyan Ardais, son of Dyan-Gabriel Ardais." She sounded like a proper hostess, not someone speaking to a specter, and Mikhail found himself admiring her air of calm.
"Why are they here? What do they want from me?" There was a whining tone in the words that set Mikhail's teeth on edge.
"They came to see me, which was very kind of them, for we have very little company at Elhalyn Castle. Were it not for the children and Ysaba and Burl, I would be very lonely."
"They are spies!"
"Nonsense! They are only young men!" Priscilla looked more animated as she answered than she had since they arrived, as if she enjoyed arguing with her dead brother. "They have played with the children and ridden over the estate, and made themselves at home."
"Send them away. They disturb me!"
"Derik, I am weary of my loneliness," she responded petulantly. "It is so pleasant to have someone to talk to."
"Send them away! They want to injure me."
"Derik—how could they hurt you?"
While this exchange continued, Mikhail took a long look at Ysaba in the flickering light. He watched her throat, trying to see if the muscles moved when Derik spoke, and found that they did not. Where the devil was the sound coming from? Were they really listening to a ghost?
Then, above the medium's head, Mikhail saw something move in the air. It was a wispy motion, like a curl of smoke, and he could just barely make out the features of a man. The room felt colder, and as he watched, the wisp thickened, becoming opaque, so that the wall behind Ysaba was no longer visible.
"Dyan Ardais was no friend to me," the thing said. "They are all my enemies, sister, all of them. You are my only friend. And I have something to tell you!" There was a conspiratorial quality in the words, and Mikhail sensed something in them that seemed both promising and unpleasant.
"But, Derik—you must tell me. I have been waiting for months!" ·
"There is a plot against me. It is not these men, but . . . others. And these boys will tell everything ... all will be ruined! They will try to stop us from. ..." The voice trailed off into silence.
Priscilla considered the words for a moment, peering at Mikhail and Dyan with her gray eyes. Her brows knitted into a frown for a moment, then she relaxed. "Mikhail, promise Derik you will never speak of this to anyone." She seemed used to her brother's fears, and sounded as if she were humoring a cranky child. At the same time there was a husky quality in her tone that seemed very unsisterly to his ears.
Mikhail considered. He had always taken giving his word very seriously, and he did not want to swear a binding oath if he did not intend to keep it. He realized that if he mentioned this incident to anyone, he would be thought as mad as Derik. No one knew that he and Dyan had come to Elhalyn Castle, so it would not be difficult. And he was curious enough about what the ghost might say to make the promise. "I swear I will never speak of this to anyone."
Beside him, Dyan shifted in his chair. "I swear I will never mention anything to anyone." There was a vehe-
mence in his voice, and Mikhail knew he meant it. I am going to forget this ever happened as fast as I can!
"You see?" Priscilla asked, looking pleased.
"Oaths can be broken."
"Why should they? They bear you no malice, dear brother."
There was a lengthy silence, and the smoky figure above the medium swirled in the air, shifting and changing subtly. The effect was dazzling. Then, without any warning, the shape rushed at them, trailing long streams of vapor. Mikhail felt a mist brush across his brow, and he shrank back, his heart pounding against his ribs. Beside him, Dyan gave a yelp of pure te
rror, and clamped his hand so hard he nearly broke Mikhail's fingers.
It was over quickly, and the mist withdrew, but Mikhail found he was gasping for air, and that in spite of the cold of the chamber, he was drenched with sweat. Beneath the table, his legs were trembling.
"Their hearts seem good enough," the spirit admitted grudgingly.
"Of course their hearts are good. They are very nice boys."
In spite of his terror, Mikhail nearly laughed at being called a boy. Priscilla was perhaps eleven years his elder, but she acted like a crone most of the time. He sucked in his cheeks and swallowed the chuckle that threatened to burst from his mouth. He had always had a tendency to laugh when he was frightened or alarmed, and his mother had sometimes said he would likely laugh on his way to the gallows.
Slowly, his fear dissipated, and with it, the urge to giggle. Mikhail swallowed in a dry throat, wishing for a 'glass of wine. If all the ghost could do was surround him with mist, there really was nothing to be afraid of. And it was a shame he had given his word never to speak of the incident, because it would make such a good tale.
Mikhail was lost in his own thoughts, so he almost missed Derik's next words. "The Guardian wants you. It is time!"