The Shadow Matrix

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  "Why?"

  "The condom was not in his right mind—a bit past his work—but Domna Elhalyn did not seem to notice. Or care. She is ... eccentric."

  "Daft sounds like a better word, if you don't mind my

  plain speaking. Not notice!" Daryll looked outraged, his cheeks reddening a little, and his blue eyes sparkling. "That there Duncan seems a ninny, too—past his work or just dimwitted.".

  "I know. And he wasn't like that four years ago. He was quite capable, and managed things well enough." <

  "You'll set things to right, dom."

  "I rejoice in your confidence, and only wish I shared it."

  Daryll chuckled. "I never mucked out a stall with a lord before, so I think if you will do that, you will get things in order before the cat can polish her ear."

  Mikhail experienced a wave of emotion from the Guardsman, a feeling of near devotion, of immediate loyalty that would become unswerving in time. Until that moment, he had not realized that he had been evaluated, observed, and judged, probably by both of his companions. He had never really considered before that those who followed his orders and did his bidding might have strong opinions. Or, rather, he had known it, but never felt it. Mathias had served under his father, while Dom Gabriel was still in charge of the Guard, and likely measured him against the Old Man, He wondered if he had measured up yet. Would he ever? Rather (to his surprise, he found he wanted to command the kind of loyalty his father and his uncle did.

  He glanced down at his hands. There was a blister starting on his forefinger, and his palms hurt from the unaccustomed labor. He was warm, sweaty, and he stank almost as much as the barn. His shoulder ached, and his thighs as well. If he had had his wish, he would have sat down and .refused to move for an hour.

  But Mikhail knew he could not put off going to the house any longer, however much he might long to. He trudged out of the dimness of the barn, then stopped and washed his hands under a pipe that ran from the wall, and should have run all the way to the still scummy trough. A piece of wood that supported it- had broken and lay on the ground, and from the look of the dirt around it, had been broken for several weeks. Mikhail shook his head.

  Then he spotted some rot in the wood around the pipe, where it came from the wall of the barn, and made a mental note to get it repaired. He splashed some water over his sweating face, wiped his sleeve across it, and hoped that

  there was a working bath in Halyn House. Then he turned and headed for the hedge which surrounded the structure.

  There was an opening in it, and he passed beneath the thick barrier, to find himself standing in a rather unkempt garden. The foliage he recognized as the tops of carrots, onions, and other vegetables that grew below ground. There was a" net that had once protected berries, but it was broken, and from the look of it, the birds had been feasting.

  Mikhail shook his head, then heard the sound of a crow again. He looked up, and found a large bird watching him from a tree beside the house. It was a very handsome beast, perhaps the same one he had seen earlier, and the white on the edges of its wings gleamed redly in the last light of the day. It looked at him with intelligent eyes, shifted from claw to claw as if doing a little dance, then opened its beak. It flew down to the hedge, settling lightly on the topmost branches, and flared its wings, so the feathers gleamed in what remained of the light. The sun was just below the horizon, and the sky was an ominous color, thick clouds billowing, red and purple.

  He found himself fascinated by the odd behavior of the bird. Mikhail looked at it, unable to tear his eyes away for a moment, and felt as if it were trying to tell him something. Then the crow made a slow, croaking sound, like a door that needed oiling, and clacked its beak several times. The whole thing gave him the shivers, so eerie was the movement and the sound. Mikhail swallowed hard, shook the feeling away, and hurried toward the door of the house.

  The door opened into the kitchen. Inside was an elderly man who jumped at the sound of Mikhail's boots on the wooden floor of the room. He was stirring a pot on a raised stone hearth, and spun around with a long-handled wooden spoon in one trembling hand. His eyes widened at the sight of a stranger.

  Mikhail had not expected to come in by the back door, though the kitchen garden should have suggested he would. He glanced around the room quickly. It had high ceilings, two good-sized fireplaces for roasting, a long table in the middle, now covered with an odd collection of cooking vessels and serving pieces, and worn wooden floors. There was a pump on one side of the room, above a wooden sink which was piled with dishes. Beside it there was a rack with

  more dishes stacked into it. He gave a sigh of relief. At least the kitchen was cleaner than the stables.

  "What are you doing here?" The old man took in Mikhail's sweat-stained traveling clothes and the muck still clinging to his boots. He didn't appear quite so bewildered as Duncan had, for his eyes were alert.

  "I am Mikhail Hastur, and I am seeking Domna Priscilla Elhalyn."

  "The more fool you," the fellow muttered quite rudely, and turned his back.

  Mikhail hesitated. For the first time in his life, the name Hastur had evoked no expectable reaction. He was aware that servants took their tone from their masters and mistresses. It was most peculiar. The behavior of Duncan and the cook was hostile, and if he had not been so tired, he would have been offended. He had never before encountered such rudeness, and his strong sense of unease increased.

  He realized he was piqued, partly because he had never before been in any situation where the name Hastur did not provoke immediate respect, and sometimes slavish obsequiousness. He relaxed a little, and made a mental note to be sure to tell Marguerida about it the next time they spoke; she would be sure find the whole thing amusing. Anyone else would be outraged—his mother or Uncle Regis—but his beloved would see the humor in it.

  Usually, just the thought of Marguerida made him feel wonderful. But now it did not, and he wondered why. Something must have happened, in just the last few hours, he realized. It would have to keep. Later, when he had eaten .and bathed, he would contact her. Now he needed to find Priscilla.

  "You planning to stay to supper?" the cook asked in a sullen voice.

  "Yes: There will be me, and my two Guardsmen as well."

  The cook cackled. "That will put her High and Mightiness, in a fine temper—three for dinner! I hope you ain't very hungry, because there won't be much for that many."

  The pot smelled of boiled fowl and onions, and although it was hardly Mikhail's favorite meal, his empty belly was growling with hunger now. "We have been cleaning out the stables, so our appetites are very healthy."

  "Cleaning the ... a Hastur mucking out stalls!" The cook turned around again, peering at him. "Now, there is something I never thought to hear. It won't do you any good you know, for the mestra won't let another chicken into the pot. Very thrifty, she is."

  The cook clearly did not mean Priscilla, but the other woman, Emelda, whom Duncan had mentioned. Thrifty? The Elhalyn Domain was wealthy, and there was no need for stinginess. She must be the housekeeper. He had had enough encounters with such persons over the years to know that they could be very bossy, petty tyrants. And, remembering how vague Priscilla had been on his previous visit, it would not surprise him to discover her in the thrall of a determined servant. Still, he was perturbed. There were children here with, he assumed, normal appetites, and he shuddered at the thought of them not having enough to eat.

  Mikhail shrugged. He wasn't going to find out anything standing there. He was surprised by his sudden reluctance to move, to leave the kitchen. His mind felt muzzy, as if he had drunk a great deal of wine. It must be the effect of all that exercise in the stables.

  He walked slowly out of the kitchen and into a dark corridor that smelled of must and mildew. After fifteen paces it opened into a dining room, a sad little room with a collection of chairs that seemed to be from several sources around a long table that had not been waxed in years. One end was thick with dust, but
the other showed signs of recent use, the dull surface of the wood scuffed and smeared with grease. The wood was cracked in several places, the fine veneer split. The room was depressing, and all thoughts of a capable if bossy housekeeper vanished in the gloom.

  It was chilly, and when he looked at the fireplace on one wall, he saw that there was a small brazier set on the fire-dogs, with no ash around it. That thing would barely produce enough heat to warm a mouse, and it must make the room very smoky. Curious, he went over and bent under the mantelpiece, peering up into the chimney. Utter darkness met his eyes, and he realized that the chimney was completely blocked with cinder. One more thing to have repaired.

  Mikhail stepped back, glanced at the tattered tapestries along the walls, and felt a sense of helplessness and despair rise in his mind. Unlike his father, or his brother Gabe, he had never had the charge of a household. Comyn Castle, where he had spent his youth, was efficiently run by an army of servants; Armida and Castle Ardais as well. He knew that food had to be transported from farms to kitchens, that wood had to be cut and dried for burning, that linens were gotten from the markets in Thendara, but he had no idea how to maintain a chimney! Or what to do about mildewing passages. It seemed an enormous task, and one, in his present state of hunger and weariness, that seemed quite beyond him. Then he told himself that he was the Elhalyn Regent, and could order things to be done. But if Duncan or the nameless cook were anything to judge by, he was not certain his orders would be heard, let alone obeyed.

  His body still felt gripped by a strange lethargy, and it took all his determination to leave the chilly dining room and continue into the rest of the house. Mikhail went though a living room or parlor, and saw an embroidery frame beside the fireplace, suggesting that either Priscilla or one of her daughters had been doing some fancy work. It was an ordinary thing, but the most reassuring sight since his arrival.

  He ventured into the foyer, a once beautiful chamber, now shabby and. decayed. There were large slabs of stone set into the floor, but some were cracked, and a few had shifted out of their places, so they rose unevenly above the level of the floor. A long window on one side of the front door had been covered with several pieces of lumber, pegged in poorly, and he could feel the movement of air between the boards. The slight smell of sulfur from the hot spring drifted in, and he wrinkled his nose.

  The house was very quiet. He looked toward the stairs, trying to hear some movement from the upper floor. There were five youngsters in this place, yet it seemed too silent. Armida, in his adolescence, had rung with heavy footfalls, young voices, and doors banged open and closed. Javanne had often complained she never had a quiet moment, and said that if she had known how noisy children were, she might not have borne so many. Right at that moment, Mik-

  hail would have been pleased to hear the heavy footfalls of young men, the way he and his brothers had shaken the stairs at Armida. There was something very wrong about the quiet of this house, but he could not really put his finger on it.

  A soft rustle of cloth made him look into the shadows beside the staircase, and after a moment, a woman emerged. She was skinny, almost scrawny, and had very dark hair, nearly black, curling around her narrow face. There was something strange about the actual color—a greenish tint that puzzled him—but in the poor light, it might be his eyes playing tricks on him. However, the color of her gown was no trick of light. It was that particular red which he knew was reserved for the most formal gowns of Keepers.

  For a moment they stood staring at one another. Then the woman spoke haughtily. "What are you doing here?"

  "I am Mikhail Hastur, and I have come to see to the children. Where is Domna Priscilla."

  "See to the children! They don't need seeing to." She gazed at Mikhail with her gray eyes, and he felt such a rush of giddiness that he had to turn away.

  "Who are you?" he snarled, finally regaining his wits. How dare this female look directly at him! What was going on?

  "I am Emelda, and you have come a long way for nothing. You must leave immediately."

  Before he could answer, Priscilla came out of the corridor behind the stairs. Her eyes seemed empty, and her apricot hair had faded to gray. He remembered her as a rather plump woman, but now she seemed thin, almost gaunt. "I heard voices." She saw Mikhail and stopped moving, looking at him as if he had appeared out of the air. "Oh. It's you. You came here with your friend Dyan, didn't you. Well, not here—you came to Elhalyn Castle. But I remember you." She seemed very pleased with herself at this. "What are you doing here now?"

  "Regis Hastur has appointed me Elhalyn Regent, domna, as I believe you have been told."

  "Oh, that. Yes, I believe I received some message about that. It does not explain your presence here. I did not invite you, did I?" Priscilla looked puzzled, then a little worried, as if she had remembered something unpleasant. Her eyes shifted uneasily toward Emelda.

  Mikhail's mind felt filled with nasty insects, buzzing wildly. "As Regent, I must see to the well-being of your children, as well as test the boys," he managed to say. "I have arrived with two of my men, and ..."

  "You brought people with you!" This was Emelda, and

  she looked angry. "We cannot have that."%

  Mikhail reached the end of his patience. "Be quiet, whoever you are. This is none of your concern!" No damn housekeeper is going to tell me what to do! And what is she doing, dressed in the color of a Keeper?

  The dark-tressed woman drew herself up. "I am Emelda Aldaran, and it is very much my concern. Why, without my guidance—"

  "Domna Elhalyn," he thundered, startled by the roar in his voice, "what is going on?"

  Priscilla glanced from one to the other, as if she were trapped between two hungry beasts. Her pale eyes glittered in the faint light in the foyer, and her hands began to tremble. "I don't know what you mean," she answered feebly.

  ','1 mean that you are living in this tumble-down house with broken windows, that your servants are uncivil, and that your stables are a disgrace!"

  "If you do not like it, leave," smirked Emelda. "You are not wanted here, or needed."

  Once again Mikhail had the sensation of his energy being sucked out of his mind, and he turned a suspicious look on the strange female. She had laran, no doubt, and claimed Aldaran lineage—probably some nedestra child, though she seemed rather too old to be a daughter of either Robert or Herm Aldaran. It did not matter, and she might be lying. What did matter, he decided, trying to pierce the fog in his mind, was that she had some hold over Priscilla, and was running Halyn House to suit herself. He had the urge to throttle her, and almost immediately felt weak and giddy.

  What in Zandru's hell was she? Mikhail had never encountered anyone quite like Emelda. He gritted his teeth and concentrated on Priscilla, blocking the other woman from his mind with as much force as he could bring to bear. As soon as he did, the sense of weakness left, and if he had not been a trained telepath, he would have thought he had imagined the entire sensation.

  "My place is here, until one of the lads can be found

  suitable to claim the throne—that might take a year or more. And I have no intention of living in a rackety house during the coming winter. How could you have let the children live in such a mess?" He felt outrage, for the children he remembered from his previous visit.

  "They do not mind," Priscilla replied, as if that answered everything.

  "Domna," Emelda whispered, "he must not be allowed to interfere when the Guardian calls you. You must make him go away now."

  "Emelda is right. I have changed my mind. I never should have let Regis Hastur persuade me . . ." She spoke with more assurance than before, but the words came in a monotone, without inflection, as if she were a puppet.

  "It is no longer in your hands, domna. The Comyn Council has approved of my appointment as Regent, and I am here to stay." This was not precisely true, since the Council remained embroiled in its own problems, and for the most part, the meetings had been shouting matches between Dom
Gabriel and Regis, or Lew and Dom Gabriel. But the Council had not disapproved either. The Elhalyn Domain was the least of their concerns, and Mikhail's seat on the Council had been voted on and passed, over his own father's very vocal objections.

  At that moment, Mikhail would have gladly handed his place over to either of his brothers without a bit of regret. He could just see Gabe confronting Emelda—the image was very funny and somehow heartening. Knowing Gabe's explosive temper, he would have tossed the woman out the front door by now. Odd—he had never found the thought of his eldest brother so pleasing before.

  "How dare you speak to me like that!" Emelda was bristling now.

  "I will speak to you as I wish. Now, get out of here and let me speak to the domna alone."

  "Really, Mikhail," Priscilla intervened, "you have no idea what you are doing. Just because you are Regent does not mean you can come in here and take charge. I always have Emelda by my side—I must, for she is my guide."

  This mild resistance from Priscilla was unexpected. He considered for a moment. As far as he knew, his powers as Regent were unlimited, certainly where the well-being

  of the children was concerned. He was less sure of how much authority he had over Priscilla herself, but he decided to bluff now. Let Regis sort it out later, if he overstepped himself. He was going to do this job, and do it well, and no petty tyrant was going to stop him. If he must, he would behave like his bull-headed brother Gabe.