The real problem, he thought, was that he no longer trusted his own judgment. He lacked any objectivity. He was prejudiced against Vincent, not so much because the lad was headstrong, but because he was cruel. Even without
testing, Mikhail knew that Alain would never be able to take the throne. The thought of the oldest boy sitting in his bedroom day after day, being spoon-fed by either Becca or Wena made him feel ill. And the training he had received at Arilinn had yet to be put to use. Alain was simply untestable, and so was Emun. The youngest son was full of terrors, jumping at the slightest sound, and nothing Mikhail had tried to do to help him had had the least effect.
In his own mind he knew that of the five children, the two girls seemed the strongest and most able, both in mind and character. Of course, in his present distracted state, he hardly dared to believe this. They both regarded him more in the light of a savior from some fate they refused to reveal, but he was certain it had something to do with Priscilla’s plans. They repeatedly begged him to take them away from Halyn House, and he might have done so, had he not felt that leaving the misbegotten place would have been an admission of failure, a defeat of his supposed Regency.
Mikhail had managed to contact Regis Hastur twice since his arrival, once to inform him that he had reached Halyn House, and another time to tell him that the place was a wreck. Neither time had he hinted that he was having difficulties, that he felt out of his depth. And Regis had barely had the time to listen to him, just assuring him that he was certain Mikhail could manage such a simple task as testing the children, and finding a new ceremonial ruler.
After this second brief contact, Mikhail had determined he would not bother his uncle again, -no matter what. He pushed down his sense of having been dismissed, where it mingled with his doubts of his own competence, his general feeling of unworthiness, and his growing despondency. This was his problem, and he was going to solve it, alone and unaided! At times he considered just taking the children and leaving, though he was still unclear if he had the authority to do that. And who could he ask, without revealing that he was, as Marguerida had put it so vividly about another subject, up to his waist in snakes.
Mikhail did not even have the comfort of frequent contact with his beloved for he found that whenever he tried to speak to her, he talked of trivial things, mischief that Vincent had gotten into, or how pretty the girls were. He
sensed that if he told her the truth, her respect for him would be damaged, that he would appear a feeble fellow, unworthy of her love. And reaching anyone from Halyn House telepathically seemed oddly difficult. It almost felt as if there were a telepathic damper on the place, though he had looked from attic to basement and found nothing to suggest that this was the case.
It all seemed to come back to the enigmatic Emelda, and he could not think of any way to deal with that problem. This was Priscilla Elhalyn's home, and if she wanted to keep a household leronis, as had the Elhalyn and other Domains in the past, there was no reason he could think of to deny her. He was becoming more and more certain that Emelda was nothing of what she pretended, neither Aldaran nor an actual leronis. The Towers kept records of those gifted with laran, and it was rare for anyone to elude them. A few slipped by in each generation, but they were usually folk with small gifts, people like Burl, the bone-reader.
He tried to question Emelda whenever he had the opportunity, but she was both wary and hostile. Mikhail realized she was powerful, but he lacked the kind of training he would need to measure her potency. He despaired of dealing with some wild telepath, there, alone and with only his moderate talents to support him.
And he rarely had the leisure to interrogate the odd woman, or Priscilla, during one of her infrequent appearances. He had never suspected that running a household or looking after children was so demanding, and his respect for his mother increased daily. Just the struggle to get provisions for the coming winter was enormous. Added to that, the necessary repairs took up most of his time. There were calluses on his hands, and he had smashed a fingernail trying to hammer a peg into a window frame. And, as exhausting as his days were, his nights were worse. They were hellish, for all the children experienced nightmares, and he kept having to get up and tend them. The two old women, Wena and Becca, did not stir at the screams, and left both the lads and the girls to themselves.
His men, Daryll and Mathias, were exhausted as well, doing double duties as grooms and draymen, and even as laundresses and maids. They took turns sleeping outside his
door, but their sleep, too, was disturbed by terrible dreams which left them weary and anxious. His expectation that people from the village could be hired to help had not ' become a reality. A few came grudgingly to work during the day, but none would remain through the night. And soon even these refused to come to Halyn House, insisting that it was an evil place. That he secretly agreed with them did not improve his disposition. Mikhail was certain that the presence of Emelda was the likely cause of the reluctance of the villagers to enter Halyn House, but his weary brain could find no solution to the problem. From a few remarks he had overheard, he realized that the villagers thought she was an actual leronis, not, as he believed, a fraudulent one, and were terrified of her.
The worst part of it was that Mikhail knew he was having a hard time thinking clearly. His brain seemed stuffed with Dry Town cotton or perhaps the gluey, overcooked porridge that was served at breakfast. If he could just find a decent cook to replace the old fellow who lurked in the kitchens, scowling and refusing to take any orders!
He felt frustrated that he had accomplished nothing, and the feeling of helplessness grew greater each day. Mikhail tried to fight it, to feel that he was getting the house into better repair, that the children had better food. But he knew that this was not his job, that he was not there to fix windows, but to find out if any of the boys could take the Elhalyn throne.
If only he could concentrate! He tried very hard, but he kept getting distracted by basic tasks, like keeping the kitchen full of nourishing food. He even thought of sending one of the Guardsmen to Thendara, to bring" back more people. But where would he put them? Halyn House was still in such disrepair that it could not hold very many more than already lived in it. Even when it was new, it had not been intended to house more than the old lady and a few servants. And he should be able to manage a few children on his own!
He tried to cheer himself up by counting the things he had managed to accomplish. The chimney in the dining room was unclogged at last, so the room was slightly more pleasant in the evenings. Glass was sent for and set into some of the windows. The quality of the food improved
slightly, though the cooking of it remained unpalatable. He had gotten a woman in the village to sew up some clothing for the children, so they no longer looked like ragamuffins. The horses were well taken care of. Not much for several weeks in residence, but something.
Despair ate at him. He could not stand to be in the house another minute! Mikhail looked through the new windows and saw that it was a pleasant day. Perhaps some exercise would "clear his mind. He grabbed his sword, strapped it on, and went out through the kitchen, ignoring the grumbling cook, who was scaling some fish that had arrived that morning from the village.
The clouds were few and small, and there was a good wind off the sea. It smelled of brine, a salty scent that seemed to blow away his exhaustion a little. He recognized another smell. There was snow on the way, and soon. He glanced to the north and saw dark clouds along the horizon. Yes, winter was on its way. Mikhail held back a shudder. The idea of wintering in this miserable house was almost more than he could bear.
Mikhail walked toward the hedge that separated the back of the house from the stables. He heard the rough voice of a crow, and glanced around. He spotted the flash of white along the wing edges that he now recognized as a sea crow, and he was certain, the very bird which-had greeted him the day he arrived. There were a good many crows in residence at Halyn House, but only the one sea bird. The others we
re the ordinary variety, all black, and somewhat smaller than this animal. He had gotten used to the soft caws with which the flock announced the dawn, the thump of their feet on the roof over his bedroom, and rather enjoyed the gossipy exchanges he heard every morning. It was, he thought, about the only normal, pleasant thing at Halyn House.
The sea crow was another matter, for it ignored everyone except Mikhail, and watched him closely whenever he was out of doors. There was something a little disquieting about the intensity of this avian interest, and Mikhail could not decide if the bird was friend or foe. He found it perched in the hedge, almost invisible among the dark greens, a place the crow seemed to. favor. He waved, just to be polite, and pushed through the opening in the hedge.
Mikhail walked into the now clean stableyard, where Daryll and Mathias had set up a small quintain, a man-shaped dummy on a series of ropes and pulleys, so that it would move. They had weighted the feet with wooden blocks, and some broken horseshoes, and it was not a bad job. He watched it swing in the wind for a moment, admiring the cleverness of his men. The two Guardsmen spent a little time every day, either practicing on the dummy, or sparring with each other, and Mikhail realized he should have joined them much sooner. It would be good for him.
There was no one in the stableyard at the moment. Even old Duncan seemed to be absent. He could hear the horses in the now clean and repaired stable, snorting and stamping in their stalls. He shrugged and drew his weapon, approaching the dummy and feeling slightly foolish.
Mikhail warmed up with a few feints and parries, enjoying the sensation of muscles pulling and pushing. He shifted the sword from hand to hand, as his master had taught him when he was about Emun's age. He really should get Vincent and Emun out here and start them training. Few men, he knew, could fight as well with either hand, but his old master, Amday, had been insistent that if he could learn the trick, he should. Mikhail had hated it at first, feeling clumsy with his left side, but after a time his muscles had learned, and soon he had become comfortable with it.
After his muscles were limber, he began a concentrated attack on the dummy. Each blow he landed made the straw-stuffed object shift on its ropes. The wind gusted and added to the motion, so he had to dance around on the somewhat uneven footing of the yard. He landed a glancing blow, and the dummy, caught in a gust, shot toward him instead of retreating.
Mikhail only managed to step aside at the last second. The dummy swung past him, ruffling his hair. He could hear the ropes creak and strain as the dummy reached their limit and began to move back toward its post. Something wet under his left foot caused him slip, and before he knew it, he was on the stones, his legs splayed in a split that nearly tore his groin muscles. At the same time, the dummy .swung back, coming right at his head.
Mikhail threw himself down, ignoring the protest of his
hamstrings, and the straw thing passed over his head by no more than a finger's width. He could feel the heaviness of the wooden blocks ruffle his hair. Maybe it was not such a clever thing, after all. He scrambled to his feet, breathing shallowly, and moved out of the orbit of the object. The wind seemed to drag the air out of his lungs; dust rose around him, so his eyes stung with grit, and his vision blurred.
As Mikhail rubbed his eyes, trying to clear them, he heard a creaking noise. The ropes holding the quintain strained in the wind. Mikhail spun around in the sudden whirlwind, trying to move out of the orbit of the noise, but it seemed to be everywhere, and he lost any sense of direction, his mind blunted. He felt more than heard a rush of movement in the air, of something coming at him, and twisted around, trying to step out of the way.
There was another noise, a raucous, rough caw, and he jumped at the sound. He heard the flap of wings above his head, and looked up. There was a flash of black and white. The wind dropped, and Mikhail blinked his eyes clear of dirt. A moment later, the sea crow landed on the dummy's head and deposited a large green dropping on it. The dummy went still, as if the minor weight of the crow were sufficient to stop its movements.
The crow regarded him with hot, red eyes, as if trying to convey some important information. Mikhail looked at the bird, then made a deep bow. "Thank you, Lord Crow. I think you might have saved me from serious injury."
He felt his neck prickle then, and looked around. The stableyard was still deserted, but he was sure someone was watching him. He looked back toward the house, and saw, for only a moment, the white circle of a face in one of the windows on the second floor. Then it was gone, and he was not even sure he had seen it. And there was no way to guess who it was.
The crow spoke again, and Mikhail turned back. He slipped his sword into its sheath and groaned. His thighs were burning with pain, and his left shoulder hurt like the devil. He noticed he had scraped the palm of one hand when he slipped, and he wiped it on his tunic.
Mikhail's heart slowed to its normal, steady beat, and his breathing deepened. He had been terrified when the
dummy came at him, but too busy to notice it. Now he felt the fear course along his blood like poison dregs, and he started to shake all over.
The sea crow lifted its great wings, the white feathers on the edges flashing in the pale sunlight. It gave a small hop, flapped, and lighted on Mikhail's shoulder so hard he nearly staggered. The bird was heavier than it looked. He could smell the odor of fish as the crow dug its huge talons into the cloth of his tunic.
Close up, the bird seemed enormous. Mikhail was aware of the sharp beak, capable of taking out an eye, very close to his face. But, despite this, he was not alarmed. Instead he felt curious for the first time in days, as if his mind at last had cleared.
The animal shifted from claw to claw, and Mikhail extended his left arm. He had handled hawks all his life, but never anything like this. It moved down the length of his arm until it stood just above his wrist. Then it opened its yellow beak and wiggled its tongue, a comical gesture that would have made him laugh if he had not been quite so awed. There was an air about this crow that demanded respect, and he did not feel his bow a few minutes before was at all foolish.
Was it the same crow he had seen twice his first day at Halyn House? He had heard its rough caw several times since then, but had been too tired and too busy to notice. Did it have some purpose? It certainly was not behaving like any crow Mikhail had ever seen before—or any other bird, for that matter.
There were individuals, he knew, who had a laran that allowed them to communicate with animals, but he had never shown the slightest hint of it. He could sense something of its energy—very distantly—and the intelligence that lurked in the small brain. But beyond that it was only a very handsome bird, and nothing else.
The crow gave a squawk that almost sounded like a word, and Mikhail nearly jumped. Gisela Aldaran had owned a raven, he remembered, that had been trained to mimic words, and he wondered if the crow had the same ability.
"What?" It seemed polite to speak, if only that much. The crow repeated the sound, and it resonated in Mikhail's
ears. "Go? Are you telling me to leave? I would, in a flash, if I had any choice in the matter, believe me!"
The bird stared at him with its penetrating eyes, then seemed to shrug and launched itself from his arm. It flopped down on the stones of the yard for a moment, then took off for the trees. Mikhail stood and watched its flight, wondering what to do. In the end, he waved to the bird and went back to the house.
The clarity of mind Mikhail had achieved in the stableyard persisted through a hot bath and a change of clothes. It was still with him when he went down to eat dinner with the children and his Guardsmen. As had become the custom, Priscilla and her shadow were absent, eating their food in the little room at the back of the first floor where they spent most of their time.
"I saw you in the yard," Mira said. She smiled, and two dimples appeared in her now fuller face. She was such a pretty child, though she was still anxious. And her sister, Val, often looked hunted, as did Emun.
"Was that you looking dow
n from the window upstairs? Did you see me almost bested by a dummy?" Mikhail spoke with forced cheer. It had not been the girls' room window, for that was on the other side of the house, where he had seen the white face.
She shook her head. "No, I was in the linen room with Wena. Since you fixed the window in there, it is quite pleasant. And I only saw you for a minute, because Wena wanted me to fold sheets with her." She groaned comically and stretched out her arms. "It is hard to keep them from getting on the floor. You were dashing about changing the sword from hand to hand."
"Are you a two-handed fighter then, Dom Mikhail?". Vincent almost bellowed the words, for he seemed to have no concept of speaking moderately. Mikhail had suggested several times that he might speak more quietly, but Vincent continued to shout, to the extent that Mikhail wondered if he were not somewhat deaf.
"Yes, I am, Vincent."
"When are you going to teach me? Have you ever killed a man?"
"The purpose of swordsmanship is not so much to be able to kill, Vincent, as to be able not to. We have not had
a war on Darkover in a long time, and I hope we never will again. We keep up the practice of sword fighting because we want to be able to defend ourselves if the need arises." His earlier idea of starting to train Vincent and Emun in basic swordsmanship was less appealing now. Vincent was just a little too bloodthirsty to be trusted, and Emun too frail.
The Shadow Matrix Page 16
