The Shadow Matrix (13 page)

He had been too tired and self-involved to do more than make a cursory examination

of any of the children, to note their shabby clothing and general appearance of neglect,

and then to make mental notes of things that needed to be done. He felt a small pang of

guilt for taking a bath and finding clean clothing, instead of immediately starting to set

things to rights. Then he chided himself for thinking he was some sort of wizard, who,

with a wave of his hands, could restore the disorder that had built up over years of

neglect. He was just a man, and, in many matters domestic, a very ignorant one at that.

But he was determined to do his best, even if it meant upsetting Priscilla and her

strange companion.

Mikhail approved of what he saw as the other children presented themselves. It was

clear that they had all made

an effort to tidy themselves for the occasion. Hair had been brushed and combed,

hands and faces washed. They still looked more like beggars than the children of a

Domain, but Mikhail was pleased. "A house takes its tone from the master," was the

saying in the hills, and he felt there was truth in that more than he ever had before.

Emun studied the two Guardsmen, now wearing their uniforms instead of their

traveling garb; his young eyes were wide with admiration. Mikhail realized that by

now, under other circumstances, both boys, as well as Alain, would have been in the

Cadets. It would probably be the best thing for them, to get out of this gloomy house

and away from mediums and shadows. But the one condition that Priscilla had made

was that her children were not to be removed from her, under any circumstances.

Mikhail thought he might be able to overset this stricture, on the grounds of unfitness,

but it would demand going to the Cortes Court, which was currently embroiled in the

dispute of
Dom
Gabriel concerning the Alton Domain, as well as the possibility of the

Aldarans returning to the Comyn Council. The judges of the Cortes were, by all

accounts, tearing out their collective hair, addressing things for which they had few or

no precedents. It would also mean returning to Thendara without the children, and he

suspected that would put them at risk. He had never wanted to be two places at once so

much as he did at that moment—three, if he counted his desire to be at Arilinn with

Marguerida.

What a dilemma! He had to make sure the children were well, if only to get one of the

boys onto the throne. To do that, he had to stay in this madhouse. Otherwise, he would

end up being a puppet king himself, with his young cousin Danilo pulling the strings.

He was fond enough of Danilo, but Mikhail knew he had no desire to be put in such a

situation. It would be hard for him, and probably even harder for Danilo.

Doubt gnawed at him, ruining his appetite. He could sense the eyes of the youngsters,

watching him, anxious and expectant. Only Vincent seemed confident, and Mikhail

again found himself uneasy about the middle son. Perhaps he was only preening to

conceal his own uncertainty, but there was something peculiar about Vincent,

something he

could not quite name. He just didn't know enough about young men, despite having

been one once, to feel secure in any judgment.

Regis should not have sent him here on his own, he decided. He should have arrived

with tutors, a swordmaster, and a couple of dames for the girls. Why hadn't he? His

uncle was a canny man, and he rarely did anything carelessly. What if Regis was just

trying to get him out of the way?

All the emotions of displacement he had experienced when he was fourteen flooded

back. It was an unwelcome and unpleasant knot of emotions, and Mikhail tried to quell

it, but it continued to nag at him all through the miserable meal of overboiled fowl and

soggy grain that followed. It was a very silent meal, except for occasional questions

from Vincent. The girls ate as if they were starving, and Emun wolfed down his

portion of chicken and looked to see if there was more. Halfway through the meal, one

of the old nursemaids appeared, went into the kitchen, and returned carrying a tray

which he assumed was for Alain.

When Mikhail could drag his mind away from his own worries, he felt furious. He had

always been taught that children were precious, and the way these four and Alain had

been treated outraged him beyond words. He tried to engage them in some sort of

conversation, but the girls remained mute, and Emun answered with monosyllables.

Vincent was happy to expand on anything, as if the sound of his own voice was

reassuring, but he actually had very little to say that was worth the hearing.

As soon as the meager meal had been consumed, Mikhail was glad to rise from the

dull-surfaced board. He bade the children good night, and watched them troop quietly

out of the room. Then he turned to his men. "Daryll, I think that you can bed down in

the living room, by the fire, and Mathias can take the first watch." He knew it was

pointless to suggest that neither of them needed to sleep on the floor outside his door—

they would not have listened. He was in their charge, and they were determined to take

care of him, especially here.

"Very good,
dom.
And I will set out at first light for that

village, and see what I can do about getting some

workmen." ,

"See if you can hire a laundry woman, and some maids, as well. I have seen sties that

were cleaner than this house."

"I will do my best, of course. Strange house, isn't it?"

"Quite." He understood what Daryll was not saying perfectly well, but he did not want

to encourage the man to criticize Lady Elhalyn openly.

Mikhail left them, went upstairs, and stood for a moment, listening. It was very quiet in

the hall, too quiet. There was something unnatural about the silence, and more,

disturbing. But it would have to keep until tomorrow.

He entered his bedroom, and immediately felt a sense of wrongness. Mikhail could not

put his finger on what he sensed. Then he noticed just a hint of fragrance, a lingering

whiff of incense. He was certain that Emelda had been in his room, though for what

purpose he could not imagine.

Mikhail felt exhausted and livid at the same time. He began to search, suspecting some

mischief, and sorted first through his garments. Particles of dust fell from the folds of

the cloth, although he could not be certain if they had been put there or were merely

the settling of house dust. It did not seem to him that his clothing should have gotten

flecked with dust so quickly. So he shook his clothing out fiercely, using the activity as

an outlet for his simmering rage.

Then he unmade the bed, for what remained of the scent was strongest near it. Mikhail

pulled off the blankets, then the sheets. In the flickering light from the small fireplace,

dust motes danced in the air. It was not drawing very well, and he thought the chimney

was probably half full of ancient clinkers. He should have told Daryll to ask for a

sweep to come, if such a person existed in the nearest village. He needed to find some

paper and start writing these things down, unless he expected Daryll or Mathias to ride

over to the village every other day.

Mikhail yanked the pillows out of their cases, his nose prickling at the faint smell of

must. He had spent twenty minutes making that bed, and he was undoing it in five,

much to his displeasure.

Something fell out and plopped onto the bare mattress. It was only a small sewn bag,

of the sort that country folk used for simples and poultices. The maids at Armida often

put little sacks of lavender in the pillows, to aid in sleep.

From the faint scent he noticed, this was most assuredly not lavender, nor balsam

either. Mikhail had no idea what was in it—Liriel was the one who knew about herbs

and plants. A pity she was not here.

But something about the innocent-appearing object made his skin crawl. He reached

for it carefully, and picked it up. For a moment he dangled the thing by its tiny strings,

resisting the urge to lift it to his nose. For no rational reason, he was sure that would be

a bad choice. Then he started to toss it into the fireplace. He stopped just as the strings

were about to leave his fingers, an abrupt movement. If it were some noxious stuff, the

fire would send it into the air. Why did he think it was poison? Why did he assume it

had some hostile intent?

Mikhail flogged his brains wearily. He had never been presented with quite this sort of

problem before—how to dispose of some unknown thing that might be dangerous. If

the window had not been boarded up, he would have dropped it outside, and dealt with

it in the morning. He did not possess that peculiar
laran
which allowed one to know

about things by the feel of them, and had never wished for that talent until that

moment.

How did one deal with such things? If burning was not an option, then what?

Drowning or burial, he decided slowly, his mind feeling as if it were full of glue. He

was not a superstitious yokel, but he was reluctant to just to let the object be. If it was

harmless, which he doubted, it did not matter what he did, but if it was dangerous, then

he had to handle it with care.

Finally he left the room with the bag held at arm's length, went to the privy, and

dropped it down the hole. Then he took the bucket that stood beside the seat and

emptied it into the channel. Mikhail pumped the bucket half full again, and left it for

the next person who used the privy.

As soon as he had disposed of the little bag, Mikhail felt less stupid and tired. He was

not sure that this was not an illusion, but he decided that it was better to be cautious

than otherwise. He went back to his room and met Mathias coming up the stair,

carrying a chair from the dining room in one hand, and a blanket in the other. They

glanced at one another, their eyes almost meeting. He could sense that Mathias, usually

the steadiest of men, was disturbed at

something. Mikhail would have asked him what the matter was, but from the closed

expression on the face of the Guardsman, he decided that when Mathias wanted to tell

him, he would. He had too much respect for his men to start prying now.

When he entered the bedroom again, it felt perfectly ordinary, and Mikhail decided he

had handled the matter well. It was a small thing, but it gave him enormous

reassurance in his weariness. He tugged the bedclothes back into place, and took off

his boots. For a few minutes, he just sat by the fireplace, wriggling his toes, and

luxuriating in the pleasure of it. ,

He longed for bed, for sleep. But he would not rest until he had reached Marguerida,

felt her mind in his, heard her mental laughter. Sleep could wait for a few more

minutes. Mikhail took his matrix stone out from beneath his tunic, carefully removed it

from its silken pouch, and looked into it. The fire reflected on the facets of the stone as

he breathed slowly and deeply, drawing himself into a trance. As he did, the weariness

seemed to fade away, and while he did not want to jump up and dance a jig, neither

was he almost too tired to sit up.

Mikhail focused, and the room seemed to fade away.
Marguerida?

He sought her presence, his awareness of her unique energy, and felt her answer. It

seemed to be a small and distant reply, much weaker than usual.
Mikhail? Is that you?

Yes, beloved.

Are you all right? You seem a little . . . hazy-Mikhail
hesitated. Part of him wanted to

tell her all the strange things he had discovered when he reached Halyn House, but

another portion of his mind resisted. He would look like a proper fool, wouldn't he,

complaining about broken windows and stopped-up chimneys. And for all he knew,

that little bag he had just disposed of was some harmless thing.

I
am quite tired. Halyn House is a mess, and I spent my first hour here cleaning out the

stables.

You cleaned out the stables? I don't understand, Mik.

Domna
Priscilla has a very small staff.

Oh. Well, I am glad to know you have arrived safely. I've

been worried, picturing you falling down cliffs and other foolish things.

She did indeed seem subdued from the energetic woman he knew. Perhaps she was

getting weary of him. Or perhaps she had decided she did not want to wait for their

impossible situation to sort itself out and was considering another course. I
am sorry to

hear you have had a bad day.

Oh, Mik! I am a total idiot.
She paused for what felt like a long time. I
don't know how

to tell you this, except just to say it. Domenic died this afternoon.

I see. And you are blaming yourself again, very likely.
He felt the pain of loss in his

chest, the sorrow and the grief, but it was remote. Later, when he was less tired, he

knew it would hit him harder. But now he was too pleased to feel Marguerida to allow