The Shadow Matrix

  Mikhail could feel the tension in her body, the tightness of her limbs, the way she tried to hold herself away. At the same time he found an answering of flesh, a longing, sweet and tentative, but very real. He felt her left hand come to

  rest on his bare chest, the fingers brushing his skin lightly, as if she were afraid.

  Marguerida seemed to realize what she was doing, for she snatched her hand away swiftly, pulled free of him, and looked at it. When she turned toward him, her eyes were very wide. She swallowed hard, and then placed her left palm against his chest, and he half expected to feel a jolt of energy hit his heart. There was nothing except a faint trickle of laran, like passing a veil, in the touch.

  "You are the one person I can hold without danger to either of us." There was awe in her voice. "I never guessed that. I wonder.

  "Wonder later, my darling."

  Marguerida put her arms around his neck then, and pressed her mouth against his, melting against his chest as if she had done it a thousand times before. They were both a little breathless when they drew apart, twined hands, and rose as. one.

  · They slipped down on the rumpled blankets beside the fireplace, touching and kissing softly. Mikhail was nearly overcome by the harsh demands of his body, but he refused to hurry, much as he longed to. He brushed her breast with his lips, heard a little gasp, and sensed her tense with excitement. He kissed the line of her body, from breast to hip, and felt her trembling beneath his touch.

  Then, in a burst of energy, all the passion which had been denied Margaret all of her life broke through some invisible barrier. It flooded his mind and body, warm and eager, uncertain and yearning. For the merest instant, there was resistance, and then abandon, beyond anything he dared to dream of.

  31

  Two mornings later, in a drizzling rain, they rode away from the deserted ruin, heading south. Even if they had not run out of food for themselves, there was no fodder left for the horses, and that had forced the decision. Mikhail was smiling, thinking of how Marguerida had grinned fiendishly as she said, "Love won't fill our bellies—no matter how often we try to make it."

  Mikhail was still stunned by the way in which Marguerida had changed, once the first desperate, clumsy coupling was accomplished. The only word he could think of was wanton. He had never suspected her of having so much imagination and sheer naughtiness. And it was all his—if she did not wear him out first. She certainly had tried.

  Still, he had not felt so well in years, as if his marriage to Marguerida had fulfilled some lack in him he had not known he possessed. Now, if he could only solve the problem of how they were going to survive until they could escape from the past, he would be completely happy. Mikhail had no clear plan, and this disturbed him. Indeed, he almost felt that he was being drawn along toward some invisible goal—that his destiny remained incomplete. He refused to let this suspicion dampen his spirits, but a dark bloom of worry began to grow in his mind.

  Marguerida made a little sound of distress, distracting him from his silent musings. "What is it?"

  She favored him with a glowing grin from beneath the shadow of her hood, and his heart leaped with delight. "I'm not sure. I feel a little strange—light-headed. And hungry and queasy at the same time. Maybe that last bird was a bit off, or the bread was getting moldy. It's nothing."

  "I feel fine, so it probably is not the food. Are you coming down with something?" That seemed unlikely, since

  Mikhail knew that the Terranan inoculations she had had before coming to Darkover were damn-near miraculous.

  "I don't think so. Mostly I am sore," Margaret blushed, "And my breasts are really tender."

  Mikhail thought about her beautiful breasts and got aroused in spite of himself. It was not something that was very comfortable on horseback, and certainly he should have sated his lust by now. Had he been too rough with her? "I am sorry, caria."

  "I don't believe it was anything we did, dearest." She gave a little sigh, and looked very happy. "Well, perhaps we were a bit too enthusiastic. All I know is that I feel different than I ever have in my life. When I touched Varzil’s ring, I could feel something change inside me. And when we loved, it changed again. I expect it will just take some time for my body to adjust, as it did when I first acquired my matrix pattern. I've been through a lot in the past few months, you know."

  "You have indeed." There seemed to be nothing more to say. Mikhail wondered about his own body, aware that accepting Varzil's matrix had changed him in yet unknown ways. He wished there were someone to consult, for Marguerida did not know much more than he did. Perhaps the best idea would be to return to Hali Tower and see if Amalie El Haliene could be made to answer some hard questions. Then he shook his head—that did not feel right.

  They rode on in silence for a short time, passing through another patch of barren earth, with dreadful, deformed plants the only living things to be seen. It was not the first time they had encountered this devastation, and was riot likely to be the last, and Mikhail found himself sorrowing for the land, for his world and the destruction which his ancestors had wrought. He was amazed his world had survived the Ages of Chaos, glad that he had not lived in these times.

  Ahead there was a stand of conifers and hardwoods, just beyond the blighted area. He wondered how it could be that one acre was ruined, but the next appeared healthy and sound. The rain muffled everything, and he found himself straining for the sound of birds.

  It was too quiet! Despite his longing to be under the

  shelter of those trees, Mikhail suddenly felt a prickle of danger. He guided his horse to the left, circling the small grove, and Marguerida followed him without question.

  He glanced down at the crow riding on his pommel. The great bird was hunched, its red eyes alert. Mikhail wished he had the laran to hear its avian thoughts, for he knew that the senses of the crow were better than his own.

  Suddenly, eight armed men galloped out from the shelter of the trees, spurring their steeds and clearly intent on intercepting them. They were all garbed in gray, with shining gold trim, and they rode with military precision. He could see that they had helms of steel, as well as swords.

  They drew up, surrounded Mikhail and Marguerida, and halted. Mikhail could see their faces, grim and expressionless. They did not speak, but just sat on their steeds, staring. And they all looked identical.

  Mikhail—they are not human.

  What?

  They can't be—I can't read their minds. There is not a hint of the energy of a human brain.

  What do you think they are?

  Clones of some sort, perhaps. Or some kind of robots, except they are flesh and blood, not metal. I don't know.

  Before he could continue the exchange, another man rode out from the trees, and the riders parted, letting him through. He was slender and pale and his eyes gleamed amber in the reddish-gray light that came through the clouds. Mikhail guessed his age at thirty, and by the fineness of his garments and the deference paid him, someone with authority.

  The man reined in his horse, and just stared at them for a long, silent moment. He looked at their cloaks very hard, as if something about them bothered him. His thin mouth twisted a little. "Greetings," he said at last, without any inflection. There was something very cold in the single word, and Mikhail held back a shiver.

  "Well met, vai dom," he answered.

  "I am Padriac El Haliene." He looked from one of them to the other, raised an eyebrow at the heavy bracelet on Marguerida's wrist. A puzzled look came into his haughty

  face, as if he had expected something, but not that. "Whence come you?"

  "From the north." That was true as far as it went. Mikhail and Marguerida had discussed what, if anything, they should tell people, and tried to construct some story that would pass cursory examination. She had chosen to be Marja Leynier, and he had decided to use Danilo, the name he had been called when he was first Regis' heir, before Dani Hastur had been born. But Danilo who? He had not been able to choose a
family name, no matter how he tried. It was as if some part of him resisted the name, or perhaps what he called himself was of greater importance than he had ever imagined.

  Dom Padriac did not speak for a moment. Mikhail was sure he was listening to someone, not actually thinking. "Whose leroni are you?" The question was sharp, a bark which brooked no denial.

  Mikhail hesitated, uncertain how to respond. He had not realized how very different the Ages of Chaos were until that moment, for the question was one that did not arise in his own time. The form of it implied possession, not allegiance, and he understood that the laran he had rendered him some sort of property. It was unimaginable, and he was angry and dismayed at the same time. But for the eight silent creatures that watched them with empty eyes, he would have liked to knock DomPadriac out of the saddle and give him a thrashing.

  Mik—he is the one who got Amalie's folk away from Halt—I am sure of it! And there is someone else . . . _

  "Whom do you serve?" Dom Padriac snapped when neither of them answered.

  He remained silent, considering Marguerida's thought. Then he sensed a subtle pressure in his mind, and had the impulse to speak his name. It was revolting, and all too reminiscent of Emelda's presence. A truth-spell! Mikhail held back a shudder, trying to remain calm. That was a form of coercion almost unknown in his time, but he had heard about them while he was at Arilinn.

  There was a bray, and a little donkey trotted out from beneath the shadows of the trees. A woman, whose legs almost brushed the wet ground, sat awkwardly on it. She

  rode up beside Dom Padriac and gave him a furious glance.

  He returned it with glittering hatred. Dom Padriac lifted his riding quirt and snapped it across the little woman's shoulder. The heavy wool of her tunic softened the blow, but she tottered and nearly slipped from the sidesaddle where she perched uneasily. "Incompetent bitch! Whose are they? Why can't you make them answer." The little leronis made no answer, but just looked miserable as the rain trickled down her round face.

  "It matters not," she hissed. "They are strong enough to b*e useful in the work." She glanced at Mikhail, and her eyes widened a little. Then she shook her head, as if to dispel some perturbing thought. He could almost hear her mind refuse to believe what she saw.

  Before he could make any sense out of the look, Marguerida interrupted. Mik—I am having one of my damnable flashes again. Our fates are somehow entangled with that funny little lady, and with Dom Padriac as well. Just go along for the present

  It is not as if we had a choice, is it? Mikhail felt he had not had many opportunities to choose since he had been called to ride to Hali in the middle of the night, and he had a stab of resentment.

  No. These men—well, they are not men, precisely—would capture us. And the woman keeps trying to get into my mind, and yours as well. She's very curious about us, but too terrified of him to dare say anything.

  I know.

  Dom Padriac gave a little sniff, and a shrug. Then he said, "You will do my bidding without question. Is that understood?" He turned his horse away before either of them could reply, as if he expected to be obeyed instantly.

  Resigned for the moment, Mikhail spurred his horse forward. Then he realized the crow had vanished, and wondered where it had gone. He glimpsed a dark shape in the trees as they rode past the copse, and a flash of white feathers. The bird could take care of itself, he decided, and only hoped he could do the same.

  After two hours of riding, a structure came into view, a castle of such proportions that Mikhail marveled even as

  his heart sank. There was no fortress on the Darkover he knew to equal it. But what struck him most deeply was that he did not even know of the remains of such a place. True, he had never completely explored the lands of the Elhalyn Domain, but he was certain that if the ruins of this monstrous pile were to be found, he would have heard of it. Even hundreds of years of farmers scavenging the stones would not have erased it entirely.

  This could only mean that it had been utterly destroyed, wiped out of memory and history. His heart sank as he looked at the two great towers rising above the high wall surrounding them. A strange sense of fatedness possessed him. He knew, down in his bones, without even a vestige of the Aldaran Gift, that he was part of the destruction of.« this place. The feeling was as inescapable as the fortress itself appeared to be. Had Varzil brought them all this way to have them die here?

  He glanced at Marguerida. Her face was shadowed by the hood of her cloak, but what he could see of it was grim, Mikhail could sense her mind, narrowly focused. She Was defending herself against the donkey-riding leronis, he decided, and something more. What? Trying to disguise her laran, as the ring he wore seemed able to hide itself.

  Mikhail looked down at his hand, gloved and concealing the ring. He could sense the power that rested on his hand, but knew he had not the ability to use it. Yet. Each time he slept, Mikhail felt the ring, as if it had a voice and spoke to him. Each waking was confused, as if his mind had been crammed with information, too much to grasp quickly. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced before, frightening and invigorating at the same time. It would be years, he thought, before he would truly understand the nature of this inheritance. First he had to survive whatever lay behind those looming walls, and somehow get himself and Marguerida safely to the rhu fead at the right time. It was a daunting prospect, made worse by an empty stomach and damp clothing.

  Mikhail forced his mind away from these overwhelming thoughts. Instead, he studied the keep. He saw the stern battlements of stone, and counted the men who stood on them. He noted how the gate was barred, and how many men it took to shift the enormous log which secured it. He

  might never need to know these things, but he was not sure he would have another chance to study the fortress which could easily be their prison.

  Grooms darted out into the rain, real men, not eerie identical creatures like Padriac's riders. They were an unhealthy-looking lot, and nervous as well. Mikhail dismounted, and stepped over to help Marguerida down, but Dom Padriac was there before him, reaching out a soft hand toward her. Marguerida remained in her saddle, and looked down at Dom Padriac as if he had just crawled out from under a rock. Her expression was queenly, stern, and dignified. It reminded Mikhail of Javanne Hastur at her proudest, and he decided that his beloved could very well look after herself for the moment.

  Mikhail slipped around the now gaping lord, and held up his hand. Marguerida grasped it and descended. Then she turned to Dom Padriac, her golden eyes aglitter with barely concealed fury. "I did not know that manners in the south were so crude. No one may touch me but my husband!"

  Dom Padriac's pale face went completely white. His eyes grew large. His narrow mouth twisted, and it was clear he was not used to being spoken to in that way, especially by a woman. His hand gripped the riding quirt, and for a second Mikhail thought he was going to strike her, as he had the pitiful female on the donkey.

  Then Dom Padriac loosened his hold, relaxed, and grinned without humor or warmth, his earlier assurance returning. "I can touch anyone I please," he began silkily. "I do not believe you understand that I now own you, and I can do anything I like ..."

  The portly leronis slipped off her mule, and scurried over, almost squealing with urgency. She plucked at Dom Padriac's sleeve. "Let her be!" she hissed. Her eyes were bulging, and the expression on her face was one of near terror.

  "What!"

  The outraged lord turned on her. Although she was trembling visibly, the tiny woman held her ground. "Please, lord—be careful. She is something I have never encountered before, some new laran they have bred in the north, no doubt." She had his complete attention now. "And is it not said that only a fool makes enemies of his leroni?"

  "Enemies?" Dom Padriac turned this over in his mind for a moment. "Do they say that? I cannot remember hearing it before. But, perhaps you are right." Then he shook his head a little. A pack of parasites, these leroni. They expect to be treated like princ
es, to have the best food and the warmest rooms. They have made us dependent on their foul sorceries. I would cheerfully kill all of them, down to the last one, if I could. And when I get hold of Hali Tower, and have done what I must, and driven the Hastur-kin out, I just might. We would be better off without them—even her!

  The thoughts came into Mikhail's mind like a whisper from the end of a long corridor, but there was no mistaking the intent. As Mikhail stood on the slimy cobbles, his previous sense of destiny returned again. He hoped it included the chance to kill this man.

  The wind shifted, and he forgot everything as his belly tried to revolt. The green scum under his feet stank, but the smell came from somewhere else. It was disgusting. But more than that, it was wrong, not the unpleasant scent of moldering that was often found in stonework, but something decidedly unhealthy. No wonder the grooms all looked unwell.

  Mikhail was growing more puzzled by the second. The whole situation was bizarre. Dom Padriac had never asked their names, for which he was grateful. They had been kidnapped and were being pressed into service to destroy Mikhail's own ancestors, if he had heard the thought rightly. Why? And how? He knew he had most of the pieces, but he could not put them together into a coherent picture.