The Shadow Matrix (10 page)

onions, and other vegetables that grew below ground. There was a" net that had once

protected berries, but it was broken, and from the look of it, the birds had been

feasting.

Mikhail shook his head, then heard the sound of a crow again. He looked up, and

found a large bird watching him from a tree beside the house. It was a very handsome

beast, perhaps the same one he had seen earlier, and the white on the edges of its wings

gleamed redly in the last light of the day. It looked at him with intelligent eyes, shifted

from claw to claw as if doing a little dance, then opened its beak. It flew down to the

hedge, settling lightly on the topmost branches, and flared its wings, so the feathers

gleamed in what remained of the light. The sun was just below the horizon, and the sky

was an ominous color, thick clouds billowing, red and purple.

He found himself fascinated by the odd behavior of the bird. Mikhail looked at it,

unable to tear his eyes away for a moment, and felt as if it were trying to tell him

something. Then the crow made a slow, croaking sound, like a door that needed oiling,

and clacked its beak several times. The whole thing gave him the shivers, so eerie was

the movement and the sound. Mikhail swallowed hard, shook the feeling away, and

hurried toward the door of the house.

The door opened into the kitchen. Inside was an elderly man who jumped at the sound

of Mikhail's boots on the wooden floor of the room. He was stirring a pot on a raised

stone hearth, and spun around with a long-handled wooden spoon in one trembling

hand. His eyes widened at the sight of a stranger.

Mikhail had not expected to come in by the back door, though the kitchen garden

should have suggested he would. He glanced around the room quickly. It had high

ceilings, two good-sized fireplaces for roasting, a long table in the middle, now

covered with an odd collection of cooking vessels and serving pieces, and worn

wooden floors. There was a pump on one side of the room, above a wooden sink which

was piled with dishes. Beside it there was a rack with

more dishes stacked into it. He gave a sigh of relief. At least the kitchen was cleaner

than the stables.

"What are you doing here?" The old man took in Mikhail's sweat-stained traveling

clothes and the muck still clinging to his boots. He didn't appear quite so bewildered as

Duncan had, for his eyes were alert.

"I am Mikhail Hastur, and I am seeking
Domna
Priscilla Elhalyn."

"The more fool you," the fellow muttered quite rudely, and turned his back.

Mikhail hesitated. For the first time in his life, the name Hastur had evoked no

expectable reaction. He was aware that servants took their tone from their masters and

mistresses. It was most peculiar. The behavior of Duncan and the cook was hostile, and

if he had not been so tired, he would have been offended. He had never before

encountered such rudeness, and his strong sense of unease increased.

He realized he was piqued, partly because he had never before been in any situation

where the name Hastur did not provoke immediate respect, and sometimes slavish

obsequiousness. He relaxed a little, and made a mental note to be sure to tell

Marguerida about it the next time they spoke; she would be sure find the whole thing

amusing. Anyone else would be outraged—his mother or Uncle Regis—but his

beloved would see the humor in it.

Usually, just the thought of Marguerida made him feel wonderful. But now it did not,

and he wondered why. Something must have happened, in just the last few hours, he

realized. It would have to keep. Later, when he had eaten .and bathed, he would

contact her. Now he needed to find Priscilla.

"You planning to stay to supper?" the cook asked in a sullen voice.

"Yes: There will be me, and my two Guardsmen as well."

The cook cackled. "That will put her High and Mightiness, in a fine temper—three for

dinner! I hope you ain't very hungry, because there won't be much for that many."

The pot smelled of boiled fowl and onions, and although it was hardly Mikhail's

favorite meal, his empty belly was growling with hunger now. "We have been cleaning

out the stables, so our appetites are very healthy."

"Cleaning the ... a Hastur mucking out stalls!" The cook turned around again, peering

at him. "Now, there is something I never thought to hear. It won't do you any good you

know, for the
mestra
won't let another chicken into the pot. Very thrifty, she is."

The cook clearly did not mean Priscilla, but the other woman, Emelda, whom Duncan

had mentioned. Thrifty? The Elhalyn Domain was wealthy, and there was no need for

stinginess. She must be the housekeeper. He had had enough encounters with such

persons over the years to know that they could be very bossy, petty tyrants. And,

remembering how vague Priscilla had been on his previous visit, it would not surprise

him to discover her in the thrall of a determined servant. Still, he was perturbed. There

were children here with, he assumed, normal appetites, and he shuddered at the

thought of them not having enough to eat.

Mikhail shrugged. He wasn't going to find out anything standing there. He was

surprised by his sudden reluctance to move, to leave the kitchen. His mind felt muzzy,

as if he had drunk a great deal of wine. It must be the effect of all that exercise in the

stables.

He walked slowly out of the kitchen and into a dark corridor that smelled of must and

mildew. After fifteen paces it opened into a dining room, a sad little room with a

collection of chairs that seemed to be from several sources around a long table that had

not been waxed in years. One end was thick with dust, but the other showed signs of

recent use, the dull surface of the wood scuffed and smeared with grease. The wood

was cracked in several places, the fine veneer split. The room was depressing, and all

thoughts of a capable if bossy housekeeper vanished in the gloom.

It was chilly, and when he looked at the fireplace on one wall, he saw that there was a

small brazier set on the fire-dogs, with no ash around it. That thing would barely

produce enough heat to warm a mouse, and it must make the room very smoky.

Curious, he went over and bent under the mantelpiece, peering up into the chimney.

Utter darkness met his eyes, and he realized that the chimney was completely blocked

with cinder. One more thing to have repaired.

Mikhail stepped back, glanced at the tattered tapestries along the walls, and felt a sense

of helplessness and despair rise in his mind. Unlike his father, or his brother Gabe, he

had never had the charge of a household. Comyn Castle, where he had spent his youth,

was efficiently run by an army of servants; Armida and Castle Ardais as well. He knew

that food had to be transported from farms to kitchens, that wood had to be cut and

dried for burning, that linens were gotten from the markets in Thendara, but he had no

idea how to maintain a chimney! Or what to do about mildewing passages. It seemed

an enormous task, and one, in his present state of hunger and weariness, that seemed

quite beyond him. Then he told himself that he was the Elhalyn Regent, and could

order things to be done. But if Duncan or the nameless cook were anything to judge by,

he was not certain his orders would be heard, let alone obeyed.

His body still felt gripped by a strange lethargy, and it took all his determination to

leave the chilly dining room and continue into the rest of the house. Mikhail went

though a living room or parlor, and saw an embroidery frame beside the fireplace,

suggesting that either Priscilla or one of her daughters had been doing some fancy

work. It was an ordinary thing, but the most reassuring sight since his arrival.

He ventured into the foyer, a once beautiful chamber, now shabby and. decayed. There

were large slabs of stone set into the floor, but some were cracked, and a few had

shifted out of their places, so they rose unevenly above the level of the floor. A long

window on one side of the front door had been covered with several pieces of lumber,

pegged in poorly, and he could feel the movement of air between the boards. The slight

smell of sulfur from the hot spring drifted in, and he wrinkled his nose.

The house was very quiet. He looked toward the stairs, trying to hear some movement

from the upper floor. There were five youngsters in this place, yet it seemed too silent.

Armida, in his adolescence, had rung with heavy footfalls, young voices, and doors

banged open and closed. Javanne had often complained she never had a quiet moment,

and said that if she had known how noisy children were, she might not have borne so

many. Right at that moment, Mik-

hail would have been pleased to hear the heavy footfalls of young men, the way he and

his brothers had shaken the stairs at Armida. There was something very wrong about

the quiet of this house, but he could not really put his finger on it.

A soft rustle of cloth made him look into the shadows beside the staircase, and after a

moment, a woman emerged. She was skinny, almost scrawny, and had very dark hair,

nearly black, curling around her narrow face. There was something strange about the

actual color—a greenish tint that puzzled him—but in the poor light, it might be his

eyes playing tricks on him. However, the color of her gown was no trick of light. It

was that particular red which he knew was reserved for the most formal gowns of

Keepers.

For a moment they stood staring at one another. Then the woman spoke haughtily.

"What are you doing here?"

"I am Mikhail Hastur, and I have come to see to the children. Where is
Domna

Priscilla."

"See to the children! They don't need seeing to." She gazed at Mikhail with her gray

eyes, and he felt such a rush of giddiness that he had to turn away.

"Who are you?" he snarled, finally regaining his wits. How dare this female look

directly at him! What was going on?

"I am Emelda, and you have come a long way for nothing. You must leave

immediately."

Before he could answer, Priscilla came out of the corridor behind the stairs. Her eyes

seemed empty, and her apricot hair had faded to gray. He remembered her as a rather

plump woman, but now she seemed thin, almost gaunt. "I heard voices." She saw

Mikhail and stopped moving, looking at him as if he had appeared out of the air. "Oh.

It's you. You came here with your friend Dyan, didn't you. Well, not here—you came

to Elhalyn Castle. But I remember you." She seemed very pleased with herself at this.

"What are you doing here now?"

"Regis Hastur has appointed me Elhalyn Regent,
domna,
as I believe you have been

told."

"Oh, that. Yes, I believe I received some message about that. It does not explain your

presence here. I did not invite you, did I?" Priscilla looked puzzled, then a little

worried, as if she had remembered something unpleasant. Her eyes shifted uneasily

toward Emelda.

Mikhail's mind felt filled with nasty insects, buzzing wildly. "As Regent, I must see to

the well-being of your children, as well as test the boys," he managed to say. "I have

arrived with two of my men, and ..."

"You brought people with you!" This was Emelda, and

she looked angry. "We cannot have that."

%

Mikhail reached the end of his patience. "Be quiet, whoever you are. This is none of

your concern!"
No damn housekeeper is going to tell me what to do! And what is she

doing, dressed in the color of a Keeper?

The dark-tressed woman drew herself up. "I am Emelda Aldaran, and it is very much

my concern. Why, without my guidance—"

"Domna
Elhalyn," he thundered, startled by the roar in his voice, "what is going on?"

Priscilla glanced from one to the other, as if she were trapped between two hungry

beasts. Her pale eyes glittered in the faint light in the foyer, and her hands began to

tremble. "I don't know what you mean," she answered feebly.

','1 mean that you are living in this tumble-down house with broken windows, that your

servants are uncivil, and that your stables are a disgrace!"

"If you do not like it, leave," smirked Emelda. "You are not wanted here, or needed."

Once again Mikhail had the sensation of his energy being sucked out of his mind, and

he turned a suspicious look on the strange female. She had
laran,
no doubt, and

claimed Aldaran lineage—probably some
nedestra
child, though she seemed rather too

old to be a daughter of either Robert or Herm Aldaran. It did not matter, and she might

be lying. What did matter, he decided, trying to pierce the fog in his mind, was that she

had some hold over Priscilla, and was running Halyn House to suit herself. He had the

urge to throttle her, and almost immediately felt weak and giddy.

What in Zandru's hell was she? Mikhail had never encountered anyone quite like