The Shadow Matrix (5 page)

especially for the inhabitants, farmers growing grain, skilled copyists who worked in

the archives, trying to preserve those records of the past which still existed, and many

other craftspeople.

Margaret discovered that the reason it could take a lifetime to learn matrix science was

that one could not take in very much at a time. It was not like music or history, where a

student could sit down, read a dozen texts, attend several seminars and then lay claim

to some expertise. Old Jeff Kerwin had been at it for longer than she had been alive,

and he was still learning things.

There were several houses of the sort she now lived in. They were only a few years

old, constructed to house the families of people who had brought their loved ones to

Arilinn for healing, an innovation brought about by her Uncle Jeff. Her father, Lew

Alton, stayed in another one, during his frequent trips from Thendara to see how Dio's

treatment was progressing. He would have stayed there all the time, but Jeff had put a

stop to that, saying that Lew's presence was disruptive.

It was quite true, since Lew tended to become angry or agitated—demanding solutions

when no one was quite sure yet what the nature of the problem was. All they knew was

that for some reason Dio's cells were disintegrating, despite all attempts to halt the

progress of her strange disease.

Now Diotima Ridenow rested in the center of a room, the walls gleaming with huge

crystals, looking like some

sleeping princess from a fairy tale. Margaret had managed to visit her a few times, but

the presence of so many matrix stones in a small space had been impossible to endure

for very long. She felt guilty about that and angry at herself, even though she knew it

was silly. Margaret was sure, somewhere in her mind, that if she were only strong

enough, she could get over her profound aversion to the matrices, and be able to sit

with Dio.

It had driven her wild not to be able to do something for her beloved stepmother. She

was, after all, her father's child, and the need to be active, not helpless, was enormous.

After several weeks of frustration which interfered with the study of her Gift, she hit

upon the idea of using her precious recording equipment as a means of being present.

Using the two recorders she possessed, her own and Ivor Davidson's, she began to

make recordings of all the songs she remembered from her childhood on Thetis, the

many she had learned or relearned since returning to Darkover, and anything else that

took her fancy. Just the act of singing made her feel less helpless, less frustrated. She

was not, she knew, a great singer, just a very thoroughly trained musician. Margaret

lacked that quality that distinguished the artist from the amateur, but she did not think

it would matter to her stepmother.

When she had filled up a disk—about twenty-six hours of singing, with occasional

stories that seemed to go with the music—she had ventured into the chamber, set up

Ivor's player, and started it running. Margaret did not give a damn that she was

violating half a dozen Terran rules about technology restrictions on planets like

Darkover, or that the equipment actually belonged to the University, and she should

have returned it. True, she had not informed the music department that she would not

be returning to University in the foreseeable future, and they likely assumed she was

diligently continuing the survey of Darkovan music which had brought her to the

planet five months earlier. She knew that was hairsplitting. She was fairly certain she

would never leave Darkover, and she was not going to transmit her work to her

department, to let some other person muck about with it.

The batteries that ran the device were good for six

months of continuous use, and she decided that if she had to, she would get her

mother's brother, Captain Rafe Scott, to find some means to get her more if she needed

them. He worked at Terran HQ in Thendara, and she was fairly certain he could obtain

the things even if he could not requisition them. Margaret knew she should be

disgusted with herself for even thinking such things, but it was for Dio, and that

seemed more important than anything else.

So the glittering chamber was filled with song, from dawn till dawn. Margaret did not

know if it did any good, if Dio could even hear her voice, her song, but it made her feel

better, knowing that her stepmother was not entirely cut off from human contact.

Sometimes, after spending the day with Dio, Lew would come to Margaret, looking

strained but calm. He told her several times that the songs were wonderful, that even if

it was not helping Dio, it made
him
feel good to hear her voice. And others, technicians

and students at Arilinn, who usually held themselves aloof from her, had sought her out

to say they found themselves listening to the music, stopping in to sit with Diotima's

comatose body, when they entered the chamber to monitor the woman. It was the

warmest contact she had with those in the Tower, and the only one free of suspicion or

resentment.

She had come expecting to find an environment like that at University, and instead

discovered that Arilinn was a hotbed of competition. Those with high levels of
laran

tended to lord it over those with less, including Regis' two daughters, who had come to

begin training at the same time she had. Several of the women had the ambition to

become Keepers, which was understandable, since there were not many things which

women could do on Darkover other than marry or become Renunciates, if they wanted

authority of any sort. A few of the men nourished the same goal, even though male

Keepers were still a rarity.

Margaret had been hurt and puzzled by the rather hostile welcome she had received. It

had taken her quite some time to realize that she had in great measure exactly what

many of the youngsters yearned for. Margaret knew they would have been shocked to

discover, and disbelieving if she told them, that she would have cheerfully given them

the Alton Gift, and what she had of the Aldaran Gift of

foreseeing, if such a thing had been possible. She had never wanted
laran,
and she still

did not. It was something to which she had had to resign herself, and it gave her little

pleasure, even though she had made some progress.

Margaret rubbed her forehead with her right hand, trying to erase the pain in her skull.

Her left hand, gloved in layers of spider silk, rested on her lap. Restlessly, she flexed

the fingers of her gloved hand, sensing the lines of power etched into her skin, trying

not to remember how she had gotten them while wresting a keystone from a Tower of

Mirrors in the overworld. The months since she had battled the long dead Keeper,

Ashara Alton, for her life, and her soul, had blurred the memories a little, but they were

still vivid enough that when she thought about it, she grew chilled and frightened.

The mitten of silk helped. She had begun by using any glove that came to hand, until,

in Thendara just before Midsummer, she had found that a silk glove worked better than

a leather one. But only for a short time. After three or four days, the silk itself began to

deteriorate, as if the lines on her flesh were fraying the fibers.

Liriel Lanart-Hastur, her cousin and perhaps her best friend, had suggested soon after

she arrived at Arilinn that perhaps the gloves needed to be more than one layer thick.

Neither of them had much skill with a needle and thread— they agreed that sewing

was an intolerable bore—but Liriel had been persistent. She had experimented until

she found that four layers of silk would withstand the constant outflow of energy from

Margaret's shadow matrix. Her efforts had produced a clumsily sewn object that was

bulky and uncomfortable to wear, covering the palm and going over the wrist bone, but

leaving the fingers free.

Then Liriel had sent a pattern from Margaret's hand to a master glover in Thendara,

with detailed instructions.

finely graded, despite the several layers, that they were quite comfortable to wear. The

glover now sent a new batch every few weeks, and had started adding embellishments,

so that, in addition to her plain ones, Margaret now had gloves with fine embroidery

around the cuff, and one pair that was encrusted with tiny pearls below the knuckles.

She wore gloves on both hands most of the time, since this attracted less attention than

only using one.

The breeze shifted, ruffling Margaret's fine hair, and making it tickle her throbbing

brow. She shifted on the stone bench, which was cool against her legs despite the

fineness of the day, and chewed her lower lip. There was something about this

particular headache, something she should know, that she could not quite make herself

grasp.

Then, in a flash, Margaret realized that this was the sort of headache she had had the

day that Ivor died so suddenly. She was cursed with just enough of the Aldaran Gift of

foretelling that she got hints of things to come—not enough to be useful, only

terrifying and infuriating.

She felt sick. Margaret's first thought was of Dio, that something terrible was about to

happen. What if, somehow, the stasis stopped, or if it was not enough to keep her

stepmother alive? She could not stand that. Dio had to live, to get better!

In her alarm, Margaret rose from the bench, and turned to go into the main body of

Arilinn Tower. She took three steps, then stopped. Rushing into the stasis chamber in

her current state was stupid. She would only make herself sick. Or make Dio worse.

Where was Liriel? Her cousin had been a technician at Tramontana Tower when

Margaret came to Darkover, but she had settled at Arilinn to be near Margaret while

she began her arduous studies of matrix science and the Alton Gift. Margaret had not

wanted td come to Arilinn at all, but would have preferred to go to Neskaya where

Istvana Ridenow was Keeper, and study with her. She still was not sure how she had

let herself be persuaded to come to Arilinn—her kinsman, Jeff Kerwin, known also as

Lord Damon Ridenow, had convinced her that a few months there would be

worthwhile, and she had been so exhausted from her adventures that she had agreed.

Dio was being treated there, and that had settled the matter.

When she had arrived on Darkover, she had never imagined the vast number of

relatives she would discover here. After years of being the only child of Lew Alton, she

was now, she felt, up to her hips in cousins and uncles—several of whom were either

in residence at Arilinn, or frequent visitors. Ariel, Liriel's twin, was there, with her

husband

Piedro and their injured son Domenic, and their four other sons. She had become quite

friendly with those children, particularly little Donal, whom she had inadvertently sent

into the overwork!. He was a lively scamp, bored by being cooped up with his very

anxious parents, and she had begun to teach him the rudiments of the Terran language,

even though she knew that this would displease both the boy's mother and her aunt. It

was a secret, and thus far Donal had managed to keep it, which gave her a good

opinion of him. Donal never made her feel like a freak, but instead seemed to think she

was an interesting person for someone so old. Lady Javanne came frequently to see

Ariel, but she was most often in Thendara, intriguing and trying to persuade Regis

Hastur of this or that.

Liriel!
One thing she had managed to learn in her months at Arilinn was not to shout

mentally, which was a problem most young telepaths encountered. With the Alton Gift

of forced rapport, she had rather a lot of mental voice, and finding the discipline to

control it had been one of her few triumphs to date.

Yes, Marguerida.

I am having one of those headaches that I get when I have premonitions. Is Dio all

right?

1 monitored her half an hour ago, and she was quite as usual. I stayed to listen all the

way though that Thetan voyage song
—
the rhythm is almost hypnotic.

You didn't hear all of it
—
only the portion I know, which is the part that the folk on our

island owned. And the rhythm is the movement of the waves, so of course it is hypnotic.

Are you sure she is well?

As sure as I can be.

Then something else is wrong
—
or is going to be wrong soon. Dammit! Why do I have

to have these stupid scraps of foreknowledge? You would think that I would either have

nothing, or a clear, concise lump of stuff that I could deal with.

That would certainly make it easier, Marguerida. Like so much else, the ideal is very

far from the reality. When did it start?

About half an hour ago. I thought it was just one of my usual headaches from being

around matrices
—
only I haven't been around the Tower much this afternoon. I worked