The Shadow Matrix

  "I am taking charge, domna. I am going to see that this house is repaired, for the winter which is coming, and that the children are well cared for. You may do what you wish, of course, and your companion as well. I have no interest in your activities."

  "But why? We will not be here for long."

  Mikhail looked at Priscilla again. "Oh? And where are you intending to go? Back to Elhalyn Castle, perhaps?"

  "Oh, no. We are going away soon." Her eyes were furtive now, and the expression on her face was secretive and pleased at the same time. If she had been a cat, there would have been cream on her whiskers, he thought. "You needn't bother about the children. The Guardian will see to them soon."

  "Guardian? . . . What Guardian, domna?"

  He was certain it had something to do with the séance he had attended four years before, where Derik Elhalyn, or something pretending to be his ghost, had told Priscilla about some "Guardian." It had given him the shivers then, and it did so now. "What happened to Ysaba? Is she here, too?" He had not liked the woman, but she had seemed harmless enough.

  There was a silence in the drafty foyer, broken by the sound of boots approaching from the living room. Mikhail watched Priscilla look at her companion, and something passed between them, something that was dark and terrible. "She is gone," Priscilla said very softly, as Daryll came into the entry.

  "We got the horses settled and fed, Dom Mikhail," the young Guardsman said. He made a half-bow to both women, and raised his pale eyebrows at the sight of Emelda's garment. A leronis? Here?

  Mikhail caught the thought, and from the stiffening of Emelda's back, he suspected she had heard it as well. "Very good. You had better get some of the remaining food from our packs, because the cook seems to think there

  won't be enough to go around." He was very glad of Daryll's presence, of the Guardsman's trained vigilance, as well as his earthy common sense. After just ten minutes with the two women, his mind felt bruised.

  "You cannot expect us to feed your men!" Emelda shrilled the words. "This is intolerable. I will not have it."

  "Silence! If you say another word, I will stuff a rag in your mouth. You are not the mistress here!"

  "But she speaks for me," Priscilla muttered, looking very confused and distressed.

  "Then you are a greater fool than I imagined," Mikhail answered, no longer even pretending to be polite.

  Emelda turned on her heel and marched out of the room, her red robe fluttering around her ankles. Priscilla followed her, calling anxiously and begging the other woman to forgive her.

  "What was all that?" Daryll was curious, his eyes alight with interest.

  "I don't know. I only wish I did."

  "Who's the one in the red .dress?"

  "She says she is Emelda Aldaran, and she might be, for all I know. All I can be certain of is that she seems to have Domna Elhalyn in her thrall, and I am just not sure how to displace her." He sighed. "And I am quite certain she has no real right to the robe she is wearing either."

  Before he could continue, Mikhail heard a slight creaking at the top of the stairs. He looked up and found several pairs of eyes observing him from above. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could make out the faces of the two girls, Miralys and Valenta, and their brothers, Vincent and Emun. They all looked worried—anxious and poorly fed—and he found himself furious. He had seen children of peasants who looked better nourished!

  Valenta slipped down the stairs, peeking over the railing from time to time, as if she were afraid of something. The boys and Miralys followed her, stepping very quietly. As soon as the youngest girl reached the uneven floor of the foyer, she rushed toward Mikhail. Then she put her hand in his, and looked up at him in such silent beseechment that he was nearly moved to tears. She knelt and leaned trustingly against his leg. "I knew you would return," she whispered.

  4

  Mikhail swallowed his growing fatigue, as well as his sense of outrage, and explored the upper story of Halyn House, where the children were housed with two old nurses, Becca and Wena. He was furious at the disrepair, at broken windows and piles of shabby clothing and linens everywhere. The girls, he found, shared one bedroom, and the boys another, which left three chambers unoccupied. The old women slept in the nursery, a small room beside the girls' bedroom, and it was cleaner than the rest, as if they took better care of themselves than of their charges.

  Much to his surprise and pleasure, Mikhail discovered that there was a fine and working bathing chamber. It almost made up for the wreck of a bedroom he finally picked from those on the second floor. The bed hangings were rotten, and the mattress had not been restuffed in years. The ticking had several holes in it, and he fervently hoped that no mice had taken up residence.

  With the girls trailing him silently, he started looking for bedding. None of the children had spoken after Valenta's whispered remark, and the boys had vanished into their own room. He was too tired and too angry to try to worm anything out of them. There would be time enough for that later. Right now he wanted clean sheets and blankets. He opened doors, and finally found a cupboard stuffed full of bedding. The linens he discovered were so thin he could see through them, and the blankets could have stood a washing, but they were more stale from long storage than dirty. He barely noticed how peculiar it was to be managing chores he had always left to servants, but he was remotely aware that his mind seemed none too clear. It was all he could do to manage simple tasks, and he wondered if he might be coming down with some ailment or other.

  Daryll and Mathias brought in all the luggage, and made no complaint at being asked to do maid service. Becca and Wena, looking not much changed from when he had last seen them, were no help at all. They appeared a little thinner, which was not surprising in light of what the cook had said, and rather dim-witted. When he asked them where he might find some towels, they just squawked like a pair of hens, and retreated into the nursery, muttering about their lack of responsibility for the chaos around them.

  Mikhail tried to ignore his increasing revulsion as he looked around. But when he came into the room where the three lads shared a noisome bed, he could not. He discovered Alain Elhalyn sitting in a chair, staring into space. He was in his bedclothes, a shabby robe with foodstains on the breast, and the smell of old sweat on it. It was thin, like everything else, and poorly mended in several places. The oldest boy did not seem to know or care who Mikhail was.

  "Is Alain ill?" Mikhail asked Vincent, who seemed the healthiest of the bunch. He was a handsome boy, with the prominent features of the Elhalyn line, and an air of assurance that set him apart from his siblings.

  Vincent shrugged. "111? Maybe. Emelda says he is feebleminded." He appeared indifferent, and not at all like the boy Mikhail remembered. "He just sits there, and Becca comes in and takes him to the toilet." The answer disturbed him.

  "He was not feeble-minded four years ago, Vincent!" The simmering rage at the neglect he saw everywhere in Halyn House was more than Mikhail could stand. "He had already been through his threshold sickness, and was a fine lad."

  "Was he? I can't seem to remember. It doesn't matter, does it? I'm the one you want." Vincent grinned, and there was something in his eyes that Mikhail mistrusted immediately. It was gone before he could measure the look, but Mikhail had a sinking feeling in his belly that had nothing to do with an empty stomach. He was starting to believe that the place was cursed, but he suspected the curse had a human form, and that its name was Emelda.

  Who was she, and what had she done to the children? They were no longer the cheerful, noisy brats he remem-

  bered, but more like mice, except for Vincent who swaggered and bristled at every turn. He had the impulse to put them onto horses the following morning and drag them away from this dreadful house. But Alain did not look as if he could endure a ride of a mile, let alone the long journey to Thendara, and Emun was not in much better shape. The youngest boy looked haunted, started at noises, and kept peering anxiously over his stooped shoulder.
And in the shape the horses were, they would falter in a day.

  Was there a carriage? He did not remember one in the stable. Anything would do—a wain, a haycart! He wanted to leave Halyn House immediately! Even without the children.

  As soon as he had this thought, Mikhail realized he sensed a whispering in his mind. He was stunned! Could that woman be influencing him? It was subtle enough that he had almost missed it, but it was also clear that Emelda was up to some mischief. It was fortunate, he decided, that she was an Aldaran—if she had not been lying—and not an Alton. That she might have a measure of the Alton Gift of forced rapport was frightening.

  How was he going to get her out of the house? Mikhail had never laid hands on a woman in his life, no matter how great the temptation, and he wasn't sure he could. His Guardsmen would drag her off, if he ordered it, he assumed. But she was a woman! How could he bear the humiliation of handing that scrawny bit of trouble over to two big men? Surely there was a better solution. All he needed to do was think of it, but his mind seemed fuddled and tired. Tomorrow, after a good night's sleep would be time enough. Emelda was none of his concern—the children were.

  Still, he could not let go of the problem. What would his father do? It was a peculiar question to ask himself, considering his rather hostile relationship with Dom Gabriel. But the Old Man was a no-nonsense sort of fellow, and Mikhail—for perhaps the first time—wished he was more like him. Gabriel lacked sensitivity, of which Mikhail felt he had too much, and rolled over opposition without any hesitations. Just the thought of Dom Gabriel was strengthening, and he needed every ounce of energy he could muster.

  He was not going to resolve the problem standing in the middle of the hall. For a moment he wondered what he was doing there. What had he been seeking? Oh, yes. Towels.

  He was aware that he had just forgotten something, but he could not drag it back into his mind, no matter how hard he tried. All he wanted was a long bath and some clean clothing. That, at least, he had in his baggage. He would feel more himself after a bath. He grabbed his things and went into the steaming chamber. It was the cleanest place he had seen in Halyn House, and that made him feel less helpless.

  Lowering himself into the hot water, Mikhail relaxed. He felt an impulse to sink down into the water, to let the water cover his head, to float away into. ... He shot up, spouting water from his lips, his lungs straining for air. Why had he done that?

  Puzzlement gave way to cleansing anger. His mind cleared. Then doubt dispelled the momentary clarity. Mikhail suddenly felt powerless, ill-equipped, to deal with the children. Agreeing to be Regent for the Elhalyn children had been a great mistake. He should have insisted that one of his brothers undertake the task. He was going to need help, the aid of someone more experienced and better trained. He would have to get in touch with Regis and—

  Mikhail cringed. He. had not even been here a day, and already he had failed. He just was not up to the challenge, was he? Doubt gnawed at him, as it had when he was an adolescent, after Danilo Hastur had been born, and Mikhail's position had altered. If I had been good enough, Regis would never have needed a son.

  He tried to shake away his sense of his own unworthiness, but the feeling persisted that he was not nearly the man he imagined himself to be. He was fit only to be paxman to Dyan Ardais or some other lord of the Domains. But Regis had given him a task, and he must try to accomplish it, no matter how he felt, and he must do it alone!

  His first duty was to these children. That meant he must get the house in order, and see to their health. Mikhail could not even attempt to test the boys in their present state of malnutrition and filth. He wasn't even sure he had really learned enough at Arilinn to do it right.

  Mikhail began to scrub himself with a dried gourd, and

  make a list of things to do. Fix the windows, clear the chimneys, repair the roofs, and get the laundry done. In the morning he would send Daryll to the village to get workmen. He would hire some maids to clean, some men to fix things. These, at least, were tasks he felt able to manage—even though he realized, with mild amusement, that he really had no idea of how the laundry at Armida functioned. And he would wager that Marguerida would know such things, not because she was female, but because she had lived on other worlds, and had likely, being the observant woman that she was, taken note of it. She had probably hung around recording the songs the laundresses sang, or what the blacksmith chorused while he forged the horseshoes.

  He was so involved in thinking of Marguerida that he hardly noticed he was rubbing just one place almost raw. When he did, Mikhail frowned. He stopped, rinsed his arm, and finished his bath much more rapidly than he normally did. He wound himself in a threadbare towel, and made a mental note to send for new linens as soon as possible. Then he got into his clothes and hastily left the room.

  In the hall, he could sense he was being watched. Mikhail turned and looked up and down the corridor. He felt muzzy from the warmth of the bath, and he tried to make himself alert. The hall seemed empty, but after listening carefully he heard the faint rustle of cloth from the door of the girls' bedroom, and realized that Miralys and Valenta were likely watching him. Relief coursed along his veins, and he realized he had been half expecting someone to pounce out of the shadows with a knife. He was spooked, for certain, and he had better get hold of himself immediately.

  After a moment, Miralys came out of her room, trying very hard to appear casual. "Do you feel better now?" she asked softly.

  "Yes, much better."

  She was a beautiful child, in spite of her soiled garments and unwashed hair. Her skin was almost translucent, with an alabaster complexion that other women tried to accomplish with baths of milk, and her eyes were a pale gray that was almost silver. He suspected that when washed, her hair would be red, but now it appeared to be a dirty brown. She had a blossom of a mouth, and a dainty nose, and

  resembled, Mikhail thought, some princess out of one of Liriel's fairybooks.

  "I am glad for you. You looked so funny, trying to sort out the linens."

  "Well, I have never made a bed before, actually. Why are there no servants, except for your nurses and old Duncan?"

  "She won't permit it, and most of the folk in the village are afraid to come here."

  "Why?"

  "I am not allowed to say." Her eyes were wide now, fully dilated, as if she longed to speak but was unable to. Help me!

  The silent cry was heartrending, but before he could answer her, Miralys turned and ran back to her room, banging the door closed behind her. He could hear her sobs, and then the voice of one of the nurses, hushing her. Mikhail started to reach for the doorknob, then drew back. He had no business in the room of a young girl.

  Instead, he went back to his own room, found his comb, and tried to bring some order to his damp hair. The mirror above the dresser was black with dust, and he looked around for something to wipe it with. He found a rag, cleaned off the mirror, then gave the dresser top a lick and a promise, missing the good clean smell of wax and polish that the rooms should have had. Then he looked at himself, clean-shaven, his dark blond hair already curling across his brow. If they ever managed to overcome the opposition of his parents, Mikhail decided, he and Marguerida were going to have a brood of curly-mopped urchins, for certain. This thought, so new and odd, made him laugh, and his blue eyes crinkled. It felt good to laugh, but it made him miss her even more, for laughter had become their custom, almost a second language between them.

  What will we name them? he wondered, as he walked out of the bedroom and started down the stairs. There were already a great many Gabriels and Rafaels in the family, but he would not object to a son called Lewis, even though his sister Ariel had already used it for one of hers. And Yllana, perhaps, after Marguerida's Aldaran grandmother. That would offend Javanne, his mother, of course.

  Mikhail walked into the living room--before he had quite finished his list of names, knowing that he would tell Marguer-

  ida about them at the
first opportunity, and that she would be amused. He found Priscilla Elhalyn sitting at the embroidery frame, one hand holding a needle above the linen, staring into the fire. She started a little, stabbed the needle into the material, and folded her hands into her lap demurely.

  "Good evening, domna."

  "Is it evening?" She looked around, for the room was rather dim now. The fireplace had been lit, but none of the candles in the sconces. "I had not noticed. No wonder I was having trouble seeing my stitches."

  Mikhail took a long stick of wood from one of several' on the mantelpiece, set it aflame, and started to light the candles. "This should make it easier to see."

  "I suppose. But it is so wasteful."

  "Wasteful?"

  "Candles are very expensive."

  "Domna, you are a great lady, of a great Domain. There Js absolutely no reason to live in the dark." Unless someone has told you to.

  It occurred to Mikhail that all those boarded-up windows made the rooms in the house almost as dark at midday as at night. He wondered if the disrepair was not deliberate, to keep Priscilla and her children in the shadows. It was a fleeting thought, and gone almost before he had time to consider it.

  "Perhaps—but none of that matters. I won't need any candles soon." She sounded sleepy, dreamy, and more passive than he remembered her,