The Shadow Matrix (81 page)

but he could not make any immediate sense out of it. Empathy was the Ridenow Gift,

and he did not possess it. But that ring had sat on Varzil's hand for most of a century,

and perhaps it contained the memory of the
laranzu's
gift.

Memory—Marguerida had said something—ah, the

memory of wellness! That was too poetic for him, too magical. Perhaps he was too

literal to grasp the implications of it. Yet he had, and quickly.

Time and space and memory. The words belled in his mind, tolling deeply, evoking

impressions. He tried to keep a grip on himself, to escape slipping away into the rush

of images that passed through his consciousness. If only he could grasp something

firmly.

Through time and
space.
Mikhail drew a deep breath. He sensed quickening in his

tortured mind, a coalescence of elements, like a picture that was beyond any verbal

expression. He stared at the image in his mind, trying to hold it, to force it into his

memory. It shimmered, moving around, but at last he felt a certain solidification in it.

The sight left him almost faint, for it was an awesome construct. And he had no idea

what to do with it, now he had it.

Mikhail lifted his head, and the image remained before his eyes. He stretched his

awareness, as he had done in mapping the Tower, toward the room beyond. The shields

which had frustrated him earlier now seemed transparent. The stasis which contained

the ore was becoming unstable, and, if he did nothing, would fail. But what should he

do?

He withdrew his attention. Was there some way to turn the field backward in time, to

make it return to a moment when it had contained nothing except space? It did not

seem plausible, but his intuition leaped ahead, embracing the idea.

"Marguerida, can you think of some way to move that room—the whole thing—

backward in time?"

Mikhail found himself the center of ten pairs of eyes, as the rest of the
leroni
stared at

him. It was clear from their expression that they thought he was mad. He was not

certain they were wrong. But the sense of sureness persisted, in spite of his doubts. He

had to follow his path, let the matrix guide him, and keep his fears from corrupting his

purpose.

No, Mik, I can't. Even if we had ten teleports, I don't think it would be possible. Wait!

Forget about the damn uranium, and think about the stasis field
—
about the screens

themselves.

The screens? The ones in there are starting to degrade, and will collapse soon, no

matter what we do.

Listen to me. Stop worrying about the ore! Matrixes have a temporal function, one that

no one has ever explored, unless it was Varzil himself. They must. The larger the

matrix, the more time it can contain. That is how Ashara managed to continue on all

those centuries
—
because she found some way to shift in time, and her Tower in the

overworld was part of it.

What are you suggesting?

Can we regress those screens
—
take the time out of them?

Take them out of time . . .?

No
—
take the time out of them!

Mikhail was dumbfounded. The image that had formed in his mind returned, and he

understood it. The power of it was enormous. He had no idea how to direct it. Then the

terror abated, as if someone was drawing it away from him. He could not do it alone,

or even with only Marguerida. He would have to depend on the abilities of ten

strangers, all of them worn and weary from their imprisonment. How could he direct

them, or himself? It was too much to ask of him.

Mikhail clenched his hands, then released them. Cold sweat trickled down his sides.

Then he braced himself, took several deep breaths and said, "We will have to create a

circle for this, and you will have to trust me. I have never functioned as a Keeper

before, but I will have to." Then a smile stretched his mouth. All the knowledge he

needed was gleaming on his finger, and all he need do was surrender his will to it.

Davil gave him a hard look. "You have already shown yourself to be able—though we

do not even know your name. What do you wish to accomplish?"

"I want to degrade the stasis in the next room, make it go backward, if you will."

"Only Varzil," Marius began, "could do such a thing."

"How do you know that?"

"I was with him when he restored the lake."

"Good." Mikhail was heartened by this, even if Marius looked very dubious. "Can you

tell me precisely what he did?"

"No. He Understands time, and he ... well, it is hard to say." The older man gnawed his

lower lip for a moment. "He turned it backward, it seemed to me. Ah, now I see

what you mean. You think if you can turn that room backward . . . yes, that might even

work. Or we could all get killed trying it."

"That is always a possibility," Mikhail admitted, facing the fear that ate at him. "It is

that or leave that stuff here, for
Dom
Padriac to use, or try to use."

"I don't think he can do much without his sister, but there is a chance he might find

another to do his bidding." Marius glared at the woman on the floor. The rise and fall

of her breast showed she was alive, but only barely. Then he raised his shadowed eyes

to Mikhail. "But, before we begin, who are you? You have called her Marguerida, but

who
are you?" The older man looked stubborn.

Mikhail was aghast. He had not realized he spoke her name. He felt his belly clench

again, and realized that he stood at some sort of crux in time, in history as it would be

remembered if any of the
leroni
survived. If only he had a clue to what to call himself

now. All the names he had tried with Marguerida seemed wrong. It had to be

something that sounded right, but it could not be the name of a person who had lived in

that time.

He started to open his mouth, and was suddenly caught in a fragment of memory, of

the words of his dream. Mikhalangelo, Varzil had called him. That man was dead. And

a part of history, "Call me Angelo," he said at last.

Marguerida's eyes widened, and he saw her throat twitch with swallowed laughter.

Really, Mik! How could you?

Well, I am one of the Lanart Angels, my darling.

Lanart devils is more like.

"Very well," Marius said cautiously, as if he knew he was being lied to, but decided it

was not worth pursuing.

The
leroni
began to settle into a circle, their training asserting itself in spite of their

fatigue and the questions which troubled their minds. Mikhail watched them arrange

themselves, and was deeply moved by their courage and willingness to accept his

leadership. And he could not help but wonder what they would remember afterward,

and what they would say. There was, to his limited knowledge, no Angelo mentioned

in history, nor any Marguerida either. But so many records had been destroyed, there

might well have been a dozen.

The courage and trust of the
leroni
heartened Mikhail.

He could feel his own doubts begin to fall aside as the room grew quiet. He hoped he

would not falter, that he could trust his own intuition as they were trusting him, and

bring all of them out of this dangerous situation without harm.

Mikhail stood very still. He could sense the people around him bringing their various

energies into focus, and, without any direction, he knew Marguerida had posted herself

to monitor the circle. It was the best possible use of her powers, and he relaxed

slightly.

Then he stared into his matrix. He felt himself draw their powers together in a network.

Mikhail started to strain to order the energies, and encountered immediate resistance.

Was he wrong? It had been easier and clearer a few moments before. Then he realized

that he must let his will step back, and allow the knowledge within his matrix to guide

him. He was only a vessel, a vehicle to harness minds and spirits to a single purpose.

The sensation was one of great power, but with it a tremendous humility, an awe at

what he was about to do.

The circle ceased to be individuals as the power increased. He could sense Marguerida,

moving from person to person, balancing the energy, keeping everyone focused. The

image he had seen earlier began to reform in his mind. It seemed a field of sparks, little

motes of brilliance in darkness. It wavered, then solidified again.

Mikhail bent everything he possessed into holding that image steady, knowing that this

was his task. He forgot about everything except the pattern of lights.

His sense shifted, and he knew that something was about to happen. Time flowered,

blossoming in his cells. He peered at the pattern in his mind. All the little twinkles

seemed identical, but he knew that one held the key. He stared at each light in turn,

until he felt as if his eyes were dazzled.

A sickening terror gripped him. He was not strong enough, he was not ready for this!

He was not skilled enough even to guide himself. The image shivered in his mind's

eye, and he forced his will back again. Let the matrix do the work, he tried to tell

himself.

Breath faltered, then heart. Mikhail could feel his body start to die. Then he was

steadied, and air once more

flowed into his lungs. His heart pounded as he drove himself back into the pattern.

There it was! It was just a dart of light, identical to all the others, and yet he knew it

was what he sought.

Mikhail stared at that spark. The others began to fade as he looked, and he waited,

knowing that he must, without knowing why. All the dazzling bits had paled into

insignificance except the one. Eternity encompassed him, and the matrix held him

unmoving within it.

What now? Mikhail waited in an endless moment. Then, with a delicacy that seemed

impossible, he reached out and gave it the tiniest push.

The spark trembled, then seemed to move very fast, speeding away from his view into

nothingness. He heard a terrible roar, the sound of stones cracking. Someone screamed.

And his body was his again, and it was he who was howling, great raw sounds pouring

from his mouth. Mikhail slipped to the cold floor, almost insensate.

His body felt like ice, and his head throbbed. Then he heard a familiar voice crow with

jubilation.
"You did it!"

35

A chaos of voices surrounded him. Mikhail wanted to tell them to be quiet, but his

throat hurt terribly, and his tongue felt too large for his mouth. All he managed was a

feeble moan of protest.

Marguerida bent over him, her eyes enormous. Then her hand moved over his body,

sweeping away some of the anguish in his muscles. He felt firm hands on his

shoulders, supporting him not very gently. Mikhail looked behind him and found

Davil. "Did it work?" His voice croaked like a crow.

"Yes, but don't ask me how. It was the most remarkable . . ."

"We have to get out of this place right now," one of the other announced. "The stasis

chamber exploded—it is sure to collapse any moment, and that will bring the roof

down. We will have guards here in a flash and that bitch of
Dom
Padriac's as well.

As Davil and Jonathan helped Mikhail to his feet, he heard Marguerida ask, "Who?"

"Leonora, the
dom's leronis."

"Damn. I had forgotten all about her—we need a distraction."

"There is something I can do," Betha said grimly, her eyes narrowing to slits. "Even

though it goes against the grain, and I swore I would never do this again." She looked

troubled, uncertain, but determined all the same.

Everything was happening too quickly, and Mikhail knew that his part was over for

now. Still, he wanted to hold on, to help in some way. What an idiot he was—he could

hardly stand on his own two feet! Mikhail watched Betha look down at her matrix

stone and focus. She shuddered

all over, and there was a deep sound somewhere in the keep, a booming noise that

shook the stones around them.

What, the . . . ?

Betha's a firestarter, Angelo, but I do fear she has overdone it a bit.

Davil was supporting Mikhail, who swallowed hard and winced at the pain of just

standing. This was a very rare
laran,
and one to be feared, for it often consumed its

creators. He had never actually encountered anyone who possessed it, and he glanced

at Betha with unease.

Everyone started for the stairwell. Marguerida slipped her shoulder under Mikhail's

arm and Davil released his hold as the sound of explosions continued. Mikhail kept

one hand on the wall of the stairs and the other around his wife. Despite Marguerida's

efforts, he still felt disoriented. He was afraid that they were going get burned alive.

At the bottom of the stairs, they could hear shouts and the dreaded crackle of a fire

raging. It seemed-to be on the other side of the entry door, so they turned down the

corridor. There was another boom, and the stones around them shook. Then there was a

cracking noise, and the ceiling above them began to tremble. With Davil supporting