The Shadow Matrix (6 page)

with

Jeff this morning, had my second breakfast, and was just going to go over to the

scriptorium to see how the work is progressing on those records that Haydn Lindir

found, when, bang, my brain was being attacked by skewers. So I sat down in the

fragrance garden, thinking that I just needed to get some sun and relax, and it got

worse and worse.

I see. Well, for the moment, I cannot find anything amiss.

It might not have anything to do with Arilinn, I suppose. I mean, Mikhail could have

fallen down a cliff and broken his neck.

Stop that right this minute! I will put up with that sort of thing from my sister, since she

has such a vivid imagination, and no self-control whatever! I expect better of you!

-Yes, Liriel.
Margaret's response was almost meek. She accepted criticism from her

cousin as she did from no one else, not even her father.

There, that is better. If anything had happened to my brother, you would know it, and

there would be no uncertainty whatever.

You are probably right. I do wish that my father and yours were not being such

stubborn idiots.

Wish yourself to the moon and it will be easier,
chiya.
They are men, after all, and men

always insist on being right, even when they are quite wrong. The person I feel most

sorry for is Uncle Regis, caught in between the two of them, and the members of the

Cortes who have to listen to their argument.

Do you think they will ever straighten things out between them
—
at least to the point

where
Dom
Gabriel will let me
...

Well, if you gave up the Alton Domain to Father, he might see his way clear to stop

behaving like a dolt, but I think he is almost enjoying trying to best your father at

something. I believe he has stopped thinking of you or Mik or anyone except himself

and his injured dignity.

Id do it in a second except the Old Man would not like it, and he has enough on his

plate, worrying about Dio. Why do things have to be so complicated?

If I knew the answer to that, I would be the wisest woman on Darkover, and several

other planets as well, Marguerida. Have you eaten?

Oh, yes. I still don't believe how much I manage to eat

without gaining an ounce. Even though I know perfectly well that
laran
is powered by

body energy, it goes contrary to everything I know about diet!

I confess a little envy at your figure, Marguerida. And, I have observed, your shadow

matrix radiates continuously. It is a very interesting phenomenon
—
from a technical

point of view. It is also why your gloves wear out in a tenday or so.

I know, and I wish someone could think of a better way for me to manage than to

always have to wear .these things. I feel very outré. Even wearing two, so I don't draw

attention to the left hand, still makes me self-conscious!

Oh, I don't know. Maeve Landyn was saying the other day that your mitts are rather

fetching, particularly since Master Esteban has started adding bits of embroidery.

I feel like a freak, and I hate it.

I know you do,
chiya,
and you should not. Now, go get some tea or something. Or get

Dorilys from the stables and go for a ride. That always makes you feel better.

All right, but it won't be the same without Mikhail.

Margaret knew that Liriel was right, that she needed some exercise. And the little

pewter-colored mare that Mikhail had given her, as a way of making her stay at Arilinn

less unpalatable, was a delight. She had fallen in love with the horse the first time she

had seen her, running in the front paddock at Armida, months before. She was a

spirited filly, with dark mane and tail, almost silvery hooves, and a coat like polished

metal.

Learning matrix technology was exhausting, and the rides were revitalizing. The fresh

air and sunshine never failed to restore her innate humor, and Margaret knew she had

been neglecting herself the past few days.

But since Mikhail had gone, in a parting that was difficult for both of them, she had

barely gone out to the stables to visit her horse. She knew that Dorilys would be taken

care of by the grooms, that she would be exercised and curried and fed. But the little

mare reminded her of Mikhail, and her heart was not really in it as she left her house,

having changed into her riding skirt and put leather gloves on over silken ones, and

walked toward the stable.

The headache had abated a little, but it was still sufficiently present to be noticeable,

like distant thunder which is more felt than heard. Margaret yawned, trying to relax

her jaw, and entered the shadowed interior of the barn. It smelled of clean straw,

spattered water, and manure—a combination she found pleasant and somehow

comforting. One of the grooms saw her and met her with a big grin.

"Domna!
Dorilys is going to be pleased to see you. You haven't been absent for this

long since you were sick."

"You should be scolding me for neglecting my pretty girl, Martin."

"Why,
domna,
I would never do such a thing. It isn't my place, and I am sure you have

been busy at your studies up at the Tower."

Margaret gave up. She was never, she suspected, going to be completely comfortable

with being deferred to, treated as if she were someone special. She had spent too many

years being Ivor Davidson's assistant, taking charge of luggage and travel itineraries,

dealing with petty bureaucrats and customs agents with larcenous hearts, or coping

with academic rivalry and jealousy, to turn into a
comynara
overnight. No matter how

she was treated, she still felt she was only Margaret Alton, Fellow of the University,

not Marguerida Alton, heiress to a Darkovan Domain, a noble in almost any Terran

hierarchy she could think of.

It was a little disheartening, knowing that with the best intentions in the world, she was

probably never going to be able to behave in a manner that would please her

formidable aunt Javanne Lanart-Hastur, or other matrons of her generation. She

remained too independent, too headstrong, and lacked either the will or the capacity to

defer to males or pretend to be stupid and meek. Within the confines of Darkovan

society, she was an outsider and seemed likely to remain so, no matter how hard she

tried.

Since she could not change her character, however, Margaret decided that she would

just have to make the best of things, and go for a nice ride on a fine autumn day. It was

almost fifty degrees, and the wind was only a cool draft, smelling of leaves being

burned for potash, and the drifting scent of bread from the Arilinn bakery.

Martin brought Dorilys, saddled and almost dancing, across the cobblestones to the

mounting block. Behind him another groom had a comfortable cob, and she realized

with a start that Martin intended to accompany her. It would do no good to ask him not

to—she was a female,

and females, unless they were Renunciates, did not go for horseback rides alone. He

would not understand, and, worse, he would be hurt. She knew that she was altogether

too sensitive, and that she could be manipulated by Martin or any other servant, so she

shrugged, stepped onto the mounting block, and threw her leg over into the saddle.

Dorilys threw her head back, and half-reared, expressing her delight at having

Margaret around. The little filly did not seem to mind the grooms riding her, but she

always made it clear who her preferred rider was. She began to dance around,

impatient to be out and about. Slapping the reins lightly against the satiny neck of the

horse, Margaret started out of the stableyard, with Martin following her.

Arilinn Tower stood on a plain that ran down to the river, so there was a great deal of

flat ground. Much of it was covered with trees—similar to maples, elms, quickbeam,

and other hardwoods—not the conifers so typical of the lands farther north. But there

were several open areas which afforded a good ride.

There were fields around the little town near the Tower, but they were empty now, the

harvest over, The stands of trees around the fields were ablaze with autumn color: red,

orange, russet, and gold. The soft breeze brought the smell of leaves and fallow earth

to her face, accompanied by the pleasant scent of burning foliage. There was a small

enclave of charcoal makers nearby, and she knew they were busy at their work.

Margaret had discovered, much to her own surprise, that the quiet rhythm of the

agricultural year was very soothing. She loved to escape from the confines of the

Tower, to be away from the tremendous energy of the place, and ride among the fields.

She had watched the farmers tend those fields, then seen them bring in the grain. She

had been to the mill along the River Valeron where the grain was ground for flour. A

little to the west of the mill there was a lumber operation, and beyond it a settlement of

dyers who used the waters of the great river in their work. -She let Dorilys move into a

moderate trot, longing to give her her head and run, but aware that Martin's cob would

be left eating dust if she did. Margaret fell into the steady rhythm of the horse, and

slowly the persistent headache began to fade. The ruddy sun warmed her face

slightly; she had become accustomed to the relative cold of Darkover.

After about twenty minutes, they reached the banks of the river. It was running softly,

the water gurgling between the rocks along the shore. There were stands of bulrushes,

dried now, rustling in the breeze and making a pleasant sound that was almost musical.

She turned west, her heart brimming, thinking of Mikhail riding somewhere ahead of

her, beyond the horizon. What was he seeing, she wondered, and what was he thinking.

Margaret slowed to a walk, for the banks of the river were irregular and not the best

place for a horse. Martin rode silently behind her, the steady sound of his cob's hooves

a reassuring note in the music she felt was all around her. It seemed a vast symphony

to her trained ears and mind, and for the first time she wondered why that form did not

seem to be present on Darkover. Darkovans sang at the drop of a hat, and very well

indeed, but as far as she had been able to discover, they had never gotten around to

creating large orchestral works. She made a mental note to ask Master Everard when

she was back in Thendara.

The thought of the old Guildmaster brought back the memory of Ivor Davidson, her

mentor and friend, who had died soon after their arrival on Darkover. She missed him,

but her first grief had lessened, and she could now recall him without great pain. If

Ivor had not died, she would never have ended up in the Kilghards with only Rafaella

n'ha Liriel, her Renunciate guide and friend, when she began to have her first bout of

threshold sickness. How would Ivor have managed, she wondered? She had never been

sick during all the years they journeyed around the Federation together, collecting and

studying indigenous music, unless one counted the occasional cold. For all the

excellence of their technology, Terrans had never managed to conquer the common

cold, and she didn't think they ever would.

The tension in her body was easing as she idly watched trees and running water,

allowing her mind to wander where it would. What a good idea Liriel had had,

suggesting a ride. How clever site was. As was so often the case when she thought of

her cousin, Margaret smiled. Liriel and her brother Mikhail almost made up for having

to endure

the rest of the Alton clan—Aunt Javanne and Uncle Gabriel, their older sons, Gabe and

Rafael, and Liriel's twin, Ariel. Almost. Ariel still made Margaret cringe, with her

constant fussing and worrying. The woman was halfway through her pregnancy now,

with a sixth child conceived about the time Margaret had arrived on Darkover, the

daughter she had longed for.

The smile faded. Every time she thought about that yet unborn child, Margaret got a

terrible sinking feeling in her stomach, a sense of danger. That girl was going to be

trouble. What a terrible thing to think about a child not yet born! It was the sort of

premonition that made her curse the fact that she had some of the Aldaran Gift of

foretelling, and hope, against all her feelings, that she was totally wrong.

Then, in between one breath and the next, Margaret experienced a bleakness, a sharp

pang of loss. She jerked the reins
m
her surprise, and Dorilys whinnied in complaint.

She drew to a halt, and Martin rode up beside her, looking concerned.

"What is it,
domna?"

"I
don't know. I felt as if a shadow had crossed the sun. I think we should go back

now." She sighed. It was such a beautiful day, and she had been enjoying herself. She