The Shadow Matrix (11 page)

Emelda. He gritted his teeth and concentrated on Priscilla, blocking the other woman

from his mind with as much force as he could bring to bear. As soon as he did, the

sense of weakness left, and if he had not been a trained telepath, he would have

thought he had imagined the entire sensation.

"My place is here, until one of the lads can be found

suitable to claim the throne—that might take a year or more. And I have no intention of

living in a rackety house during the coming winter. How could you have let the

children live in such a mess?" He felt outrage, for the children he remembered from his

previous visit.

"They do not mind," Priscilla replied, as if that answered everything.

"Domna,"
Emelda whispered, "he must not be allowed to interfere when the Guardian

calls you. You must make him go away now."

"Emelda is right. I have changed my mind. I never should have let Regis Hastur

persuade me . . ." She spoke with more assurance than before, but the words came in a

monotone, without inflection, as if she were a puppet.

"It is no longer in your hands,
domna.
The Comyn Council has approved of my

appointment as Regent, and I am here to stay." This was not precisely true, since the

Council remained embroiled in its own problems, and for the most part, the meetings

had been shouting matches between
Dom
Gabriel and Regis, or Lew and
Dom
Gabriel.

But the Council had not disapproved either. The Elhalyn Domain was the least of their

concerns, and Mikhail's seat on the Council had been voted on and passed, over his

own father's very vocal objections.

At that moment, Mikhail would have gladly handed his place over to either of his

brothers without a bit of regret. He could just see Gabe confronting Emelda—the

image was very funny and somehow heartening. Knowing Gabe's explosive temper, he

would have tossed the woman out the front door by now. Odd—he had never found the

thought of his eldest brother so pleasing before.

"How dare you speak to me like that!" Emelda was bristling now.

"I will speak to you as I wish. Now, get out of here and let me speak to the
domna

alone."

"Really, Mikhail," Priscilla intervened, "you have no idea what you are doing. Just

because you are Regent does not mean you can come in here and take charge. I always

have Emelda by my side—I must, for she is my guide."

This mild resistance from Priscilla was unexpected. He considered for a moment. As

far as he knew, his powers as Regent were unlimited, certainly where the well-being

of the children was concerned. He was less sure of how much authority he had over

Priscilla herself, but he decided to bluff now. Let Regis sort it out later, if he

overstepped himself. He was going to do this job, and do it well, and no petty tyrant

was going to stop him. If he must, he would behave like his bull-headed brother Gabe.

"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.