The Shadow Matrix (66 page)

feel any sense of peril. He had to trust his instincts, and he found that this was more

difficult than he had imagined possible.

But the pleasant smell of woodsmoke and cooking food started to ease his mind. He

noticed a rickety table and some rather unsteady chairs at one side of the room, all set

with crockery. Slowly, he let out his breath.

Something moved on the couch, and Mikhail shivered. He blinked a few times, and at

last he saw a man lying there, draped in blankets. The slight rise and fall of breath was

all that told him this was a living person and not a corpse.

Mikhail moved toward the couch, drawn to it before he could think. His boots made no

sound as they crossed the shining stones. He realized that while he could smell the fire,

he could not hear the crackle of flames, and that, except for the rough sound of his

breath, the room was utterly silent. He barely had a thought for Marguerida, although

he could sense her rising hysteria, and her struggle to overcome it.

He approached the covered figure and looked down into a face aged and worn. It had

the features of a Ridenow, the pale hair and somewhat abbreviated nose. There were

wrinkles on the parchment fine-skin, and the muscles sagged around the cheeks. The

man seemed to be sleeping deeply, barely breathing.

Then the eyes slowly opened, and Mikhail found himself staring into a pair of pale

blue orbs, clear as water. The wrinkled mouth twisted into a smile, showing large teeth

and pink gums. "Well met, Mikhalangelo. Dear Margarethe—do not fear. This is not

the place of your torment." The words broke the silence around them, and the crackle

of burning wood was suddenly audible.

It was the voice which had called them through the centuries, but it did not seem as

deep now. He looked at the ancient face, trying to memorize every feature. Was the

man really there? Reflexively, he started to monitor the figure on the couch, and found

that there was indeed a person there, not another illusion.

"Greetings,
dom."

"I would rise, but I cannot. It took what remaining strength I had to bring you here, and

I was not certain I would accomplish . . . it." The voice faded into exhaustion.

Beside him, Marguerida tensed. He could sense her rapport touch the sick old man,

though there were no words in it. All he had was the impression of energy moving past

him, so fast he almost doubted his senses.

Marguerida shoved him aside abruptly, her brows drawn together in a frown. She knelt

beside the couch, stripped the leather glove off her left hand, then placed her fingers

around the throat of the man. It looked as if she might throttle him. Mikhail was

stunned, and started to pull her away.

No, Mik! Not a word
—
I know what to do!

Reluctantly, Mikhail dropped his hand from her shoulder and stepped back. He could

now see that her fingers were not actually touching the crepey skin along the throat of

the man, and after a minute, he could tell that the energy had changed, that the man

was breathing more easily, and the color in his face was better.

Marguerida removed her hand, her face so white that she appeared bloodless, and tried

to get to her feet. Mikhail caught her before she fell to the stone floor. "That is not

something I recommend on an empty stomach," she muttered, resting her head against

his shoulder. She rubbed, her forehead. "Actually, I don't think it would be much better

with a full belly."

Such power! 1 did not guess.

The man on the couch looked up at them, and his eyes were almost bright. "I thank

you, Margarethe—even if your methods are rather crude."

Marguerida lifted her head off Mikhail's shoulder and glared at the man. "I barely

knew what I was doing," she muttered gruffly, looking pleased and irritated at the same

time. Then she waggled the fingers of her hand, where they extended above the rather

sweaty mitt, at him. "I haven't learned how to use this
thing
yet!"

"You do better than you think." He sighed. "There is little time left for me, and so

much to do."

"Then you had better get about it," she snapped.

The man chuckled softly at her rebuke. "I am Varzil Ridenow, and I have brought you

through time."

"We guessed as much. But why?"

Mikhail waited for an answer to his question, and watched Varzil pull one hand from

beneath the blankets. An enormous ring glittered on his finger, the largest matrix he

had ever seen on a human being. The light from it dazzled his eyes and he had to look

away to keep from being blinded. "This is why."

"Your matrix?"

"Yes. I must give it to you before I die."

"You can't give me your matrix! It would kill you and me at the same time!"

"Really?" Varzil seemed amused. "As the keystone killed your companion?"

"That's different! What Marguerida has is ... well, I don't know exactly what it is. Even

though I was there, and helped her pull it out of the Tower of Mirrors. It is from the

overworld, not from . . ." Mikhail wavered, letting the words fade.

Like the Sword of Aldones, the matrix ring of Varzil the Good was the stuff of legends.

And the Sword had been

just that, until Regis Hastur had wielded it against the Sharra Matrix. But Varzil's ring

had vanished, and while there were several stories about what had happened to it, no

one knew the truth.

Mikhail flogged his mind fruitlessly. There was too much to take in at once, and he

sensed that he had no time for calm consideration. He could sense only urgency from

the prostrate Varzil, urgency and need. He felt stirrings of resentment—this was even

worse than Regis dumping the Regency on him without asking. This could kill him!

"Quite right." Varzil's words made him start. "It could, but it will not!"

The crow jumped off Mikhail's shoulder and flapped over to stand on the pillow above

Varzil's head. Mikhail's head felt full of buzzing bees, rather angry ones, as he tried to

make some sense out of the situation. "Why do you want to give me your matrix?" he

finally managed to ask.

"Because it must not be left when I die—Ashara Alton would try to claim it, and if she

succeeded, then she could return to Hali. It is her greatest ambition, and she must not

do it!"

"Why not?" He decided he was not going to budge until he got some explanation

which satisfied him.

"If Hali stands, then the world you know will never be."

"I think I see," Marguerida said quietly. "When I encountered her in my mind, the one

thing she was determined to do was prevent me from destroying her—and if I never

exist, then she has nothing to worry about. So, even though I have beaten her in the

overworld, in this time, she could still—My head aches!" Her quiet calm vanished, as

she tried to encompass the ideas racing through her mind. It was too much, and

Mikhail realized she was going to faint.

He picked her up, swung her into his arms, and carried her to the table. Then he tucked

her into a lopsided chair and forced her head between her knees. "Take deep breaths!"

There was a muffled protest. "Don't argue with me! You, there, bring the
damisela

something to eat!"

Obediently, the crone shuffled across the room with a bowl of steaming stew and a slab

of bread perched on the delicious smelling contents. Mikhail helped Marguerida sit

upright, and watched her reach a trembling hand for the

carved spoon that sat on the table. She filled the bowl of the spoon, drew it to her

mouth, and crammed it between her lips. "Ouch! It's hot!"

The old woman put a pitcher on the table, and water slopped over the rim. Mikhail

took it and poured two goblets. Then he lifted one and opened his mouth. It tasted

sweet and fresh, and was the best water he had ever drunk. He drained the cup in a few

gulps, hardly noticing that a little had slipped down the edges of his mouth. He wiped

it with- the edge of his sleeve, and turned back to face the man on the couch.

Varzil was watching him, the ancient eyes alert and clear. "Now, just how do you

intend to accomplish this miracle of matrix science, Varzil?" The water seemed to have

cleared his mind, but he was still brimming with fury at the ancient
tenerezu.

The old man smiled slowly, as if savoring some secret jest. "First of all, you must be

married."

27

At first, Mikhail did not believe he had heard right. He heard Marguerida choke behind

him, then cough roughly. "Married?" What the devil was he talking about?

"You must be joined, become one, so that I may surrender my burden onto you."

"Burden?" Mikhail was getting angrier by the second. The old man was speaking in

riddles!

"I think he means that he can't give you his ring until we are married, Mik."
Damn me

for a silly woman! Who is going to marry us, out here in whenever, and why do I feel

so bereft? I never wanted flowers and veils, fancy ceremonies. And the Old Man isn't

here to . . . give me away-
—
what a ridiculous custom, as if I were not my own person!

Oh, hell! But maybe this is the only way—the only way we can have each other and to

the devil with Comyn power struggles!

Marguerida's thoughts ran across his mind like quicksilver. The emotions beneath them

were conflicted and chaotic. Mikhail could sense joy, relief, fury, and a disappointment

that made his heart ache.

"Margarethe is correct," Varzil answered quietly. "And I am sorry to ask it of you—this

should be a joyous occasion, not something done of necessity."

"I still don't understand," Mikhail muttered. "And it is impossible for you to give me

your ring—it would kill both of us."

Mikhail felt trapped in his own feelings. Anger and fear seemed to grip him while he

struggled to silence them. He did not want the ring, and certainly he did not want to be

manipulated into the plans of this stranger—even if he was the most powerful
laranzu

in history. It was too much to take in, and his mind balked abruptly.

Varzil smiled, the years falling from his face. "Time travel is impossible—what I

propose is merely very difficult."

Mikhail felt the statement enter his mind, without comprehension. Then he realized the

humor in it, and felt nothing except surprise. It had never occurred to him that Varzil

the Good made jokes! And rather than putting him at ease, it just made his rage

increase. How dare this man play games with him! "The hell you say," he roared,

letting all his frustrations release in the words.

Varzil did not appear at all offended. Instead, the old man cleared his throat, and

continued to speak in a dry voice. "Have you never wondered at the custom of
di

catenas?
Why we encircle the wrists? Perhaps the substance of the ceremony has been

lost through the years, or become only a means of signifying alliances."

In spite of himself, Mikhail was interested. His anger faded, and his lively curiosity

pushed forward. "I've never given it much thought, Varzil. And, truthfully, I think

shackling two people together is rather . . . well, barbaric." In truth, Mikhail had never

given the matter much thought before he met Marguerida. She had changed him, with

her probing questions and her knowledge of worlds other than Darkover. Everything in

his life seemed divided by her presence.

"Yes, I can see that. But, in the beginning, it was more than a symbolic thing, for it

'joined the
laran
energies of two into one, made them stronger than they were alone,

and allowed them to create a unique link that could not exist in any other fashion."

Mikhail stared at Varzil. He did not know of any
di catenas
marriages that were even

remotely like that which the old man suggested. Neither his parents nor his Uncle

Regis and Lady Linnea struck him as being the least bit unified in their mental powers.

And this was what was meant, he decided. It was a remarkable idea, but he was not

certain he was up to it.

Marguerida rose, and joined them. He could sense her mind sorting out what Varzil had

said, using her sharp wits to grasp the concept, tear it apart, then restore it to its

original integrity. That she could do that in seconds, where

his own slower mind took what seemed like forever, was at once a source of pride and

irritation. Her mind, he thought, was like a bright dart, and his own more a heavy

hammer that had to beat at things before he could understand them.

"I see what you want, and it makes -sense." Marguerida stood beside him, looking

down at the figure on the couch. "But how? Do you have a priest or someone lurking

in the stonework?"

Mikhail .smiled. "We are not much for priests on Dark-over, Marguerida. Unless you

count the
cristoforos.
Any lord of the Comyn can perform the ceremony—my father

could have latched you and Gabe together quite legally, if he had had the courage to

have you gagged."

"Or drugged," she muttered.

"He doesn't have the imagination to think of either of those things. And even if he had,

he probably wouldn't have done it, because it would have caused a lot of talk, and my