"Tell me, domna, how long has Emelda been with you? She interests me."
"Really? I am glad, for she is a wonderful woman. I don't know what I would have done without her. Let me see—it is so hard to remember. She came here at the Midsummer before this one, I believe. Yes, that's right. And then Ysaba . . . went away. She was here for several months, then she left, and came back after this Midsummer."
"I see." It had been, he suspected, during the absence of the odd woman that Priscilla had agreed to let her children be tested for laran. She seemed to him a most suggestable female, not precisely weak, just easily led by stronger- personalities. Certainly Ysaba had been able to influence her, and now Emelda.
There was something about the medium, some hesitation in Priscilla's voice, that aroused his curiosity. He had not liked Ysaba, with all her spooky airs, but he sensed that she had not departed willingly, and wondered if she could be found. He had some questions he would very much like to put to her.
Emelda wafted into the room then, trailing her red draperies as well as a faint smell of some incense. She ignored Mikhail and went directly to Priscilla, bending over the frame, and began to comment on the progress of the work. In a moment, she was finding fault with the stitchery. "This will not do! You must unpluck this whole flower, for it is badly done,"
"Yes," Priscilla answered calmly, her eyes rather vague. "Dom Mikhail found me trying to work in the dark—silly me. He kindly lit the tapers for me."
"Domna, listen to me. The light is bad for your eyes. You must try harder, to learn to work in the dark." This was whispered, but Mikhail could hear it well enough.
"I will have some glaziers come and replace the glass in the windows," he announced, "and then you will be able to see without the expense of candles." The scene was becoming more surreal by the second.
You will do no such thing! The sudden intrusion of her thoughts startled him.
Out! Get out of my mind! I am the master here! The vigor of his response pleased him, releasing some of the tension that had possessed him just a moment before.
You are going to ruin everything!
Mestra Mischief, nothing would please me better!
Daryll and Mathias came into the room at that moment, and Emelda looked at them angrily. When they entered, Mikhail immediately noticed that his mind felt clearer, as if whatever mental cloud the woman projected was subject to the number of people present. What in Zandru's hell was she? No leronis, for sure, no matter what she was wearing. And how was he going to get her out of the house?
Priscilla stiffened then. "I cannot have these men in my house," she said. "My daughters are . . ."
"Much safer with them than without," Mikhail interrupted. "Not only will my men remain, domna, but I intend to see that there are maids and menservants as quickly as
possible. This house needs care, and I intend to see that it is tended to, as well as your children. If you do not care about them, I do."
Priscilla Elhalyn's somewhat prominent eyes bulged, as if she was straining in some inner conflict. "Take Vincent, and begone. He is the one you want-—I understand, that. The others must accompany me when I leave.,"
"That is not now yours to command, domna." Leave? What did she mean? The attraction of doing just as she suggested was enormous, for he had thought that Vincent was the likeliest candidate to take the Elhalyn throne, and release him from the troublesome position of Regent. But he could not forget the silent cry for help of Miralys. He was damned if he was going to abandon the children just because it would be simpler.
More, Mikhail was aware that he was being subtly manipulated toward departure, and the more he felt it, the stronger was his determination to remain until he had done what he cam& to do. No cursed hedgewitch is going to push me around!
To his surprise, Emelda seemed to flinch and shrink a little at his thought. Then she plucked at Priscilla's sleeve, murmuring something to her, and the two women left the living room, just as four of the children came in.
Alain was missing, which Mikhail did not find surprising. From the condition of the oldest son, Mikhail rather doubted he could have made it down the stairs unassisted. He had been too tired and self-involved to do more than make a cursory examination of any of the children, to note their shabby clothing and general appearance of neglect, and then to make mental notes of things that needed to be done. He felt a small pang of guilt for taking a bath and finding clean clothing, instead of immediately starting to set things to rights. Then he chided himself for thinking he was some sort of wizard, who, with a wave of his hands, could restore the disorder that had built up over years of neglect. He was just a man, and, in many matters domestic, a very ignorant one at that. But he was determined to do his best, even if it meant upsetting Priscilla and her strange companion.
Mikhail approved of what he saw as the other children presented themselves. It was clear that they had all made
an effort to tidy themselves for the occasion. Hair had been brushed and combed, hands and faces washed. They still looked more like beggars than the children of a Domain, but Mikhail was pleased. "A house takes its tone from the master," was the saying in the hills, and he felt there was truth in that more than he ever had before.
Emun studied the two Guardsmen, now wearing their uniforms instead of their traveling garb; his young eyes were wide with admiration. Mikhail realized that by now, under other circumstances, both boys, as well as Alain, would have been in the Cadets. It would probably be the best thing for them, to get out of this gloomy house and away from mediums and shadows. But the one condition that Priscilla had made was that her children were not to be removed from her, under any circumstances.
Mikhail thought he might be able to overset this stricture, on the grounds of unfitness, but it would demand going to the Cortes Court, which was currently embroiled in the dispute of Dom Gabriel concerning the Alton Domain, as well as the possibility of the Aldarans returning to the Comyn Council. The judges of the Cortes were, by all accounts, tearing out their collective hair, addressing things for which they had few or no precedents. It would also mean returning to Thendara without the children, and he suspected that would put them at risk. He had never wanted to be two places at once so much as he did at that moment—three, if he counted his desire to be at Arilinn with Marguerida.
What a dilemma! He had to make sure the children were well, if only to get one of the boys onto the throne. To do that, he had to stay in this madhouse. Otherwise, he would end up being a puppet king himself, with his young cousin Danilo pulling the strings. He was fond enough of Danilo, but Mikhail knew he had no desire to be put in such a situation. It would be hard for him, and probably even harder for Danilo.
Doubt gnawed at him, ruining his appetite. He could sense the eyes of the youngsters, watching him, anxious and expectant. Only Vincent seemed confident, and Mikhail again found himself uneasy about the middle son. Perhaps he was only preening to conceal his own uncertainty, but there was something peculiar about Vincent, something he
could not quite name. He just didn't know enough about young men, despite having been one once, to feel secure in any judgment.
Regis should not have sent him here on his own, he decided. He should have arrived with tutors, a swordmaster, and a couple of dames for the girls. Why hadn't he? His uncle was a canny man, and he rarely did anything carelessly. What if Regis was just trying to get him out of the way?
All the emotions of displacement he had experienced when he was fourteen flooded back. It was an unwelcome and unpleasant knot of emotions, and Mikhail tried to quell it, but it continued to nag at him all through the miserable meal of overboiled fowl and soggy grain that followed. It was a very silent meal, except for occasional questions from Vincent. The girls ate as if they were starving, and Emun wolfed down his portion of chicken and looked to see if there was more. Halfway through the meal, one of the old nursemaids appeared, went into the kitchen, and returned carrying a tray which he assumed was for Alain.
>
When Mikhail could drag his mind away from his own worries, he felt furious. He had always been taught that children were precious, and the way these four and Alain had been treated outraged him beyond words. He tried to engage them in some sort of conversation, but the girls remained mute, and Emun answered with monosyllables. Vincent was happy to expand on anything, as if the sound of his own voice was reassuring, but he actually had very little to say that was worth the hearing.
As soon as the meager meal had been consumed, Mikhail was glad to rise from the dull-surfaced board. He bade the children good night, and watched them troop quietly out of the room. Then he turned to his men. "Daryll, I think that you can bed down in the living room, by the fire, and Mathias can take the first watch." He knew it was pointless to suggest that neither of them needed to sleep on the floor outside his door—they would not have listened. He was in their charge, and they were determined to take care of him, especially here.
"Very good, dom. And I will set out at first light for that
village, and see what I can do about getting some
workmen.",
"See if you can hire a laundry woman, and some maids, as well. I have seen sties that were cleaner than this house."
"I will do my best, of course. Strange house, isn't it?"
"Quite." He understood what Daryll was not saying perfectly well, but he did not want to encourage the man to criticize Lady Elhalyn openly.
Mikhail left them, went upstairs, and stood for a moment, listening. It was very quiet in the hall, too quiet. There was something unnatural about the silence, and more, disturbing. But it would have to keep until tomorrow.
He entered his bedroom, and immediately felt a sense of wrongness. Mikhail could not put his finger on what he sensed. Then he noticed just a hint of fragrance, a lingering whiff of incense. He was certain that Emelda had been in his room, though for what purpose he could not imagine.
Mikhail felt exhausted and livid at the same time. He began to search, suspecting some mischief, and sorted first through his garments. Particles of dust fell from the folds of the cloth, although he could not be certain if they had been put there or were merely the settling of house dust. It did not seem to him that his clothing should have gotten flecked with dust so quickly. So he shook his clothing out fiercely, using the activity as an outlet for his simmering rage.
Then he unmade the bed, for what remained of the scent was strongest near it. Mikhail pulled off the blankets, then the sheets. In the flickering light from the small fireplace, dust motes danced in the air. It was not drawing very well, and he thought the chimney was probably half full of ancient clinkers. He should have told Daryll to ask for a sweep to come, if such a person existed in the nearest village. He needed to find some paper and start writing these things down, unless he expected Daryll or Mathias to ride over to the village every other day.
Mikhail yanked the pillows out of their cases, his nose prickling at the faint smell of must. He had spent twenty minutes making that bed, and he was undoing it in five, much to his displeasure.
Something fell out and plopped onto the bare mattress. It was only a small sewn bag, of the sort that country folk used for simples and poultices. The maids at Armida often put little sacks of lavender in the pillows, to aid in sleep.
From the faint scent he noticed, this was most assuredly not lavender, nor balsam either. Mikhail had no idea what was in it—Liriel was the one who knew about herbs and plants. A pity she was not here.
But something about the innocent-appearing object made his skin crawl. He reached for it carefully, and picked it up. For a moment he dangled the thing by its tiny strings, resisting the urge to lift it to his nose. For no rational reason, he was sure that would be a bad choice. Then he started to toss it into the fireplace. He stopped just as the strings were about to leave his fingers, an abrupt movement. If it were some noxious stuff, the fire would send it into the air. Why did he think it was poison? Why did he assume it had some hostile intent?
Mikhail flogged his brains wearily. He had never been presented with quite this sort of problem before—how to dispose of some unknown thing that might be dangerous. If the window had not been boarded up, he would have dropped it outside, and dealt with it in the morning. He did not possess that peculiar laran which allowed one to know about things by the feel of them, and had never wished for that talent until that moment.
How did one deal with such things? If burning was not an option, then what? Drowning or burial, he decided slowly, his mind feeling as if it were full of glue. He was not a superstitious yokel, but he was reluctant to just to let the object be. If it was harmless, which he doubted, it did not matter what he did, but if it was dangerous, then he had to handle it with care.
Finally he left the room with the bag held at arm's length, went to the privy, and dropped it down the hole. Then he took the bucket that stood beside the seat and emptied it into the channel. Mikhail pumped the bucket half full again, and left it for the next person who used the privy.
As soon as he had disposed of the little bag, Mikhail felt less stupid and tired. He was not sure that this was not an illusion, but he decided that it was better to be cautious than otherwise. He went back to his room and met Mathias coming up the stair, carrying a chair from the dining room in one hand, and a blanket in the other. They glanced at one another, their eyes almost meeting. He could sense that Mathias, usually the steadiest of men, was disturbed at
something. Mikhail would have asked him what the matter was, but from the closed expression on the face of the Guardsman, he decided that when Mathias wanted to tell him, he would. He had too much respect for his men to start prying now.
When he entered the bedroom again, it felt perfectly ordinary, and Mikhail decided he had handled the matter well. It was a small thing, but it gave him enormous reassurance in his weariness. He tugged the bedclothes back into place, and took off his boots. For a few minutes, he just sat by the fireplace, wriggling his toes, and luxuriating in the pleasure of it. ,
He longed for bed, for sleep. But he would not rest until he had reached Marguerida, felt her mind in his, heard her mental laughter. Sleep could wait for a few more minutes. Mikhail took his matrix stone out from beneath his tunic, carefully removed it from its silken pouch, and looked into it. The fire reflected on the facets of the stone as he breathed slowly and deeply, drawing himself into a trance. As he did, the weariness seemed to fade away, and while he did not want to jump up and dance a jig, neither was he almost too tired to sit up.
Mikhail focused, and the room seemed to fade away. Marguerida?
He sought her presence, his awareness of her unique energy, and felt her answer. It seemed to be a small and distant reply, much weaker than usual. Mikhail? Is that you?
Yes, beloved.
Are you all right? You seem a little . . . hazy-Mikhail hesitated. Part of him wanted to tell her all the strange things he had discovered when he reached Halyn House, but another portion of his mind resisted. He would look like a proper fool, wouldn't he, complaining about broken windows and stopped-up chimneys. And for all he knew, that little bag he had just disposed of was some harmless thing.
I am quite tired. Halyn House is a mess, and I spent my first hour here cleaning out the stables.
You cleaned out the stables? I don't understand, Mik.
Domna Priscilla has a very small staff.
Oh. Well, I am glad to know you have arrived safely. I've
been worried, picturing you falling down cliffs and other foolish things.
She did indeed seem subdued from the energetic woman he knew. Perhaps she was getting weary of him. Or perhaps she had decided she did not want to wait for their impossible situation to sort itself out and was considering another course. I am sorry to hear you have had a bad day.
Oh, Mik! I am a total idiot. She paused for what felt like a long time. I don't know how to tell you this, except just to say it. Domenic died this afternoon.
I see.
And you are blaming yourself again, very likely. He felt the pain of loss in his chest, the sorrow and the grief, but it was remote. Later, when he was less tired, he knew it would hit him harder. But now he was too pleased to feel Marguerida to allow this pain to reach him completely.
Only a little. In between crying my eyes out and talking to my father about how much I hate it at Arilinn now that you are gone.
Really? Mikhail felt heartened.
Yes, of course. I mean, you know I never wanted to come to a Tower to begin with, and only did it because I had no other choices. And I didn't want to come to Arilinn either— the only thing that made it acceptable was that you were here training too. And, of course, Dio is here. Since you left, things have become much more uncomfortable for me—the others, you know—and if it were not for Liriel... no matter.
Are they plaguing you again? Damn them.
Some. But I told the Old Man everything, and I think he is going to try and persuade Uncle Jeff that it is time I go up to Neskaya and study with Istvana. It would be easier to travel now than later in the year, and, truthfully I think if I don't get away from Arilinn soon, I am going to go quietly mad. Or maybe noisily!
That would be tragic.·
Well, it wouldn't be a very long trip—going crazy, I mean. Getting to Neskaya will be, but maybe I can hire Rafaella to come with me. I would love to see her again. I miss her so much. Are you sure nothing is wrong? You seem so foggy.
The Shadow Matrix Page 9
