The Shadow Matrix (70 page)

for so long that she could barely stand to experience them. She needed to keep her wits

about her, but it was hard.

Tenderness, it seemed, was a much more powerful feeling than she had ever imagined,

What she felt as she coiled a golden curl around her finger and then ran it down the

exquisite curve of Mikhail's ear was that, and much more. Margaret had never felt such

peace, except in music. She decided to enjoy it while it lasted, knowing full well that

feelings shifted and transformed between one breath and the next, that they were rarely

constant. She would have liked to continue in this mood forever, but she was wise

enough to know it could not last.

In a rush of wings, the great sea crow alighted on Mikhail's hip. It croaked a greeting.

"Where the hell have you been?" she snarled. It stared at her with a beady red eye and

cawed a response which left her still in the dark. At the same time, there was an air

about the dratted bird. It looked quite smug, Margaret decided at last.

Then, through the steady patter of rain, Margaret heard the sound of hoofbeats, the

jingle of bridles, and the creak of leather saddles. The noise made her mouth go dry

with fear, and her heart thudded. What if it was Ashara!

She pulled Mikhail's still soggy cloak over him, hoping its brown coloring would hide

him. The shadows of the branches fell across him. She yanked her hood up again,

hiding the pale sheen of her skin, and tucked her hands away. The terror hammered in

her blood, and she held her breath until her ears rang, and she felt dizzy and sick. She

gasped for air. If only she could become invisible!

The crow betrayed her with a flap of wings and a greeting

call, as it flew from beneath the tree and toward the sound of the oncoming riders.

Margaret crouched over Mikhail's body, trying to shield him against she knew not

what. For a moment she completely forgot she had any weapons, that she could defend

herself. Then she remembered the bandits. The helplessness left her, replaced by the

grim determination to defend her husband, or die trying.

Margaret held her breath again and heard the sound of several people dismounting, the

squishy noise of boots in mud, and the rustle of wet cloaks. She heard a woman's

voice, speaking to the crow, and listened as it replied. She went cold all over. She bit

her lower lip while she clutched Mikhail's shoulders beneath his coverings.

The sound drew nearer, and after a minute, she could

see several pair of trousered legs, and the dark red boots

that came from the Dry Towns beneath them. There was

mud on the boots, and splashes on the trousers, as if they

had ridden hard. ;

A head bent down, a woman's round face peering beneath the branches, curious and

cautious. As soon as Margaret saw the short-cropped hair, the plain face, and the well-

worn sword belt that hung around the waist of the stranger, she knew that the woman

was a Renunciate. The breath she had been holding released with a little gasp. The

crow had not betrayed them, but had brought help.

Other faces joined the first, weathered ones, the skin roughened by sun and snow. Then

the first woman smiled, showing several missing teeth, and she crouched down to

bring herself to eye level with Margaret. "Greetings,
domna."
She seemed to

understand Margaret's wariness, for she made no move to draw closer.

"Greetings, and well met." She hoped they were, for she remembered that Rafaella had

told her the Renunciates had been mercenary soldiers, for hire to the many kingdoms

which had dotted the land before the formalization of the Compact.

"I am Damila n'ha Bethenyi. We were passing, and your fine bird flew onto the

shoulder of our
breda,
Morall, and told her of your distress." She chuckled softly.

"Nearly knocked her out of the saddle."

"He does that sometimes, but,
Mestra
Damila—
told her?"

"Morall has the beast-speak
laran, domna.
May we assist you? You seem to be sitting

in a puddle, and that cannot be comfortable."

"No, it isn't." She shifted the cloak away from Mikhail's face. "My husband is ill." It

was the first time she had said the word aloud, and it felt very strange on her tongue.

His right hand slipped down, clenched into a fist, and she noticed that the great jewel

was hidden, that only the metal of the band was visible on his finger. Margaret held

back a shudder at the thought of Varzil's matrix touching Mikhail's flesh, then relaxed a

little. It was no longer Varzil's stone, but some amazing conjunction between two

matrices, one of which was keyed to Mikhail. That was why he was not dead, but only

unconscious. And perhaps witless, but she did not dare think about that.

One of the other women laughed uproariously. "Well, we did not think you were

trysting in the rain!" The rest of the group seemed to find this highly amusing, and

Margaret was very surprised when she found herself laughing as well. The terror and

despair which had gripped her faded away, leaving her only cold, hungry, and

exhausted.

Two of the Renunciates crawled beneath the low branches of the tree, rolled Mikhail

off her lap, wound his cloak about him, and dragged him out. As Margaret crept out

stiffly from beneath the tree, another woman bent over him. She peeled back an eyelid

and gave a grunt. "What ails him?" she asked.

"Matrix shock, I believe." How else could she describe what had occurred?

"I see." The answer seemed to satisfy the stranger, and Margaret felt relieved. "We

must make a litter, and get him to shelter as quickly as possible. You there, Jonil, see to

the cutting of some branches, the straightest you can find, and Karis, you tear up some

blankets for bindings."

Margaret watched in a daze. She barely grasped what was going on around her, except

that Mikhail was being taken care of. She wanted to help, but lacked the strength to

move.

It was not until he had been hoisted onto a hastily constructed litter that she found

herself able to stir. Margaret went over to Mikhail's unconscious form. She tucked both

his hands down into the sides of the litter, then fussed with

the arrangement of the blankets, to conceal her real purpose. He stirred and groaned a

little at her touch, as if he were trying to climb out of whatever depths he had fallen

into. She bent forward and kissed his cold cheek. "It will be all right, my love," she

whispered.

Damila said, "We will go to the old El Haliene place."

Margaret jumped at the sound of that name. "Where?" She hardly wanted to meet any

of Amalie's relatives, or anyone else just then.

"I see you don't know it—been abandoned for years, since
Dom
Padriac's father built

the new keep. No one uses it except us Sisters."

"Thank you,
breda."
She used the inflection which meant "kinswoman," and prayed

she had it right. That little word had more meanings than a cat had lives, and some of

them were more intimate than others. "Is it very far?"

Damila looked surprised, and she peered at Margaret in the light rain. Apparently her

use of the word was unexpected. "Oh, ten or eleven miles. The country is rough, but

we know our way."

Margaret nodded. Then she drew herself onto the soaked leather of her saddle,

shivered all over, and tried to prepare herself for a long, wet ride. The crow alighted on

her pommel and settled into place. "You are a very fine fellow, a king of crows," she

told it, "and I will see that you have a nice, fresh mouse or two for your supper, if I

have to catch the things myself!"

One of the woman now mounted grinned. "He thanks you for the thought, but he

would prefer some fish."

"Of course. How foolish of me." It was immensely reassuring to speak of nothing more

remarkable than the antics of Mikhail's bird, and something taut within her released its

grip. She took several deep breaths, let herself feel relieved, and twisted her neck back

and forth to ease the tension.

Margaret looked around, trying to find any trace of the round stone house which had

been there a few hours before. All she saw was weeds and a few stones, the remains of

several burned timbers, and the broken glass of a long vanished window. There was no

trace of the low wall they had crossed. It seemed to be just an empty bit of earth

with a few trees growing in it. Another mystery she would probably never solve.

She forced her chilled hands around the reins, and prepared to follow her rescuers. Part

of her was relieved, and the rest of her settled into worrying about Mikhail. Damila,

apparently the leader of this band of women, drew her horse beside Margaret's. "It will

be all right,
domna."

"Thank you for coming," she murmured, almost too tired to speak now. All she wanted

was dry clothes and some food. And to have Mikhail safe. It seemed a great deal, at

that moment. Margaret let her mind collapse into exhaustion, clucked the dun mare

forward, and started after the women.

29

Mt was close to dusk when they rode into the ruins. Margaret was too cold and wet to

do more than glance around at the stone buildings. There was a lonely and desolate air

to the place, but the walls of the remaining structures seemed sound enough.

Margaret dismounted quickly, and her knees gave way, sending her sprawling into a

puddle. She struggled to her feet. She was already so wet and muddy that it did not

matter.

One of the Sisters led her mare away. At the same time, two others carried the litter

through a dark doorway. Margaret hurried after them and nearly stumbled on the

sodden hem of her cloak.

Margaret found herself standing just inside an immense kitchen, not unlike the one at

Armida. There were two hearths, one on each side of the room, and each one large

enough to roast an ox. Little slit-windows were set high on the walls, and as her eyes

adjusted to the faint light coming through them, she saw a beehive-shaped oven against

one wall. There was a long table in the middle of the room, its wood covered with dust,

cracked here and there. Benches ran along both sides of it. It must have been a

welcoming place once. Now it just seemed damp and gloomy.

There were high rafters overhead, and a continuous, soft noise from them. Margaret

realized that the floor was covered in droppings, and she looked up and saw

movement, flashes of white and gray, on the smoke-darkened beams. Pigeons or doves,

she was not sure which.

Morall, the beast-speaker, followed her glance. She smacked her lips and said,

"Supper!" Her thick eyebrows drew together, and she gazed fixedly at the rafters. A

dozen or more birds flew down, and Margaret turned away, as

Moral! efficiently wrung their slender necks. She knew it was silly, but she preferred

not to see her dinner alive before she ate it.

For several minutes, she stood just inside the doorway, out of the way of the bustling

women, and did not move. The Sisters were going about their tasks briskly, and the

pleasant smell of burning wood began to drive away the dank and musty smell of the

old keep. They had put Mikhail on the floor, to the side of one fireplace, and taken

away his drenched blankets. The woman who had examined him was tugging his boots

off, and tucking dry covers over him.

Margaret finally noticed she was shivering. With a great effort, she removed her cloak

and hung it on a peg on the wall. Her clothes were cold and clammy, and her hair

dripped down her back. She pulled her leather gloves off, and pulled the butterfly clasp

out of her hair. Somehow it had managed to remain on her head, which seemed a

minor miracle under the circumstances. She shoved it into her pouch, and plucked out

the hairpins that still clung to her fine curls. After she wrung as much water out of her

hair as she could, she wound it up into a knot on the top of her head, and pinned it into

place. She did not care if she was being immodest—she wasn't going to have wet hair

on her neck!

The woman who was tending Mikhail came towards her. "You must get out of those

wet clothes,
domna.
Come with me."

Dumbly, Margaret followed her to a small, cold chamber that smelled of long vanished

meats and cheeses. She felt totally detached from the situation, as if she were

dreaming. The woman opened a bundle of fabric and pulled out something long and

white. She shook out the folds and smiled. "Get out of those things,
domna.
You will

catch your death of cold." She spoke as one would to a child, and indeed, Margaret felt

very much like one.

The effort to obey was almost too great. The buckle on her belt seemed a monstrous

puzzle, and even the knots in her drawstrings were difficult. One by one, Margaret's

garments came off, each sopping layer clinging to the one beneath. The yet unnamed

woman was indifferent to Mar-

garet's near nakedness, and she was just too tired to be self-conscious.