The Shadow Matrix Read online

  Margaret had been hurt and puzzled by the rather hostile welcome she had received. It had taken her quite some time to realize that she had in great measure exactly what many of the youngsters yearned for. Margaret knew they would have been shocked to discover, and disbelieving if she told them, that she would have cheerfully given them the Alton Gift, and what she had of the Aldaran Gift of

  foreseeing, if such a thing had been possible. She had never wanted laran, and she still did not. It was something to which she had had to resign herself, and it gave her little pleasure, even though she had made some progress.

  Margaret rubbed her forehead with her right hand, trying to erase the pain in her skull. Her left hand, gloved in layers of spider silk, rested on her lap. Restlessly, she flexed the fingers of her gloved hand, sensing the lines of power etched into her skin, trying not to remember how she had gotten them while wresting a keystone from a Tower of Mirrors in the overworld. The months since she had battled the long dead Keeper, Ashara Alton, for her life, and her soul, had blurred the memories a little, but they were still vivid enough that when she thought about it, she grew chilled and frightened.

  The mitten of silk helped. She had begun by using any glove that came to hand, until, in Thendara just before Midsummer, she had found that a silk glove worked better than a leather one. But only for a short time. After three or four days, the silk itself began to deteriorate, as if the lines on her flesh were fraying the fibers.

  Liriel Lanart-Hastur, her cousin and perhaps her best friend, had suggested soon after she arrived at Arilinn that perhaps the gloves needed to be more than one layer thick. Neither of them had much skill with a needle and thread— they agreed that sewing was an intolerable bore—but Liriel had been persistent. She had experimented until she found that four layers of silk would withstand the constant outflow of energy from Margaret's shadow matrix. Her efforts had produced a clumsily sewn object that was bulky and uncomfortable to wear, covering the palm and going over the wrist bone, but leaving the fingers free.

  Then Liriel had sent a pattern from Margaret's hand to a master glover in Thendara, with detailed instructions.
  She wore gloves on both hands most of the time, since this attracted less attention than only using one.

  The breeze shifted, ruffling Margaret's fine hair, and making it tickle her throbbing brow. She shifted on the stone bench, which was cool against her legs despite the fineness of the day, and chewed her lower lip. There was something about this particular headache, something she should know, that she could not quite make herself grasp.

  Then, in a flash, Margaret realized that this was the sort of headache she had had the day that Ivor died so suddenly. She was cursed with just enough of the Aldaran Gift of foretelling that she got hints of things to come—not enough to be useful, only terrifying and infuriating.

  She felt sick. Margaret's first thought was of Dio, that something terrible was about to happen. What if, somehow, the stasis stopped, or if it was not enough to keep her stepmother alive? She could not stand that. Dio had to live, to get better!

  In her alarm, Margaret rose from the bench, and turned to go into the main body of Arilinn Tower. She took three steps, then stopped. Rushing into the stasis chamber in her current state was stupid. She would only make herself sick. Or make Dio worse.

  Where was Liriel? Her cousin had been a technician at Tramontana Tower when Margaret came to Darkover, but she had settled at Arilinn to be near Margaret while she began her arduous studies of matrix science and the Alton Gift. Margaret had not wanted td come to Arilinn at all, but would have preferred to go to Neskaya where Istvana Ridenow was Keeper, and study with her. She still was not sure how she had let herself be persuaded to come to Arilinn—her kinsman, Jeff Kerwin, known also as Lord Damon Ridenow, had convinced her that a few months there would be worthwhile, and she had been so exhausted from her adventures that she had agreed. Dio was being treated there, and that had settled the matter.

  When she had arrived on Darkover, she had never imagined the vast number of relatives she would discover here. After years of being the only child of Lew Alton, she was now, she felt, up to her hips in cousins and uncles—several of whom were either in residence at Arilinn, or frequent visitors. Ariel, Liriel's twin, was there, with her husband

  Piedro and their injured son Domenic, and their four other sons. She had become quite friendly with those children, particularly little Donal, whom she had inadvertently sent into the overwork!. He was a lively scamp, bored by being cooped up with his very anxious parents, and she had begun to teach him the rudiments of the Terran language, even though she knew that this would displease both the boy's mother and her aunt. It was a secret, and thus far Donal had managed to keep it, which gave her a good opinion of him. Donal never made her feel like a freak, but instead seemed to think she was an interesting person for someone so old. Lady Javanne came frequently to see Ariel, but she was most often in Thendara, intriguing and trying to persuade Regis Hastur of this or that.

  Liriel! One thing she had managed to learn in her months at Arilinn was not to shout mentally, which was a problem most young telepaths encountered. With the Alton Gift of forced rapport, she had rather a lot of mental voice, and finding the discipline to control it had been one of her few triumphs to date.

  Yes, Marguerida.

  I am having one of those headaches that I get when I have premonitions. Is Dio all right?

  1 monitored her half an hour ago, and she was quite as usual. I stayed to listen all the way though that Thetan voyage song—the rhythm is almost hypnotic.

  You didn't hear all of it—only the portion I know, which is the part that the folk on our island owned. And the rhythm is the movement of the waves, so of course it is hypnotic. Are you sure she is well?

  As sure as I can be.

  Then something else is wrong—or is going to be wrong soon. Dammit! Why do I have to have these stupid scraps of foreknowledge? You would think that I would either have nothing, or a clear, concise lump of stuff that I could deal with.

  That would certainly make it easier, Marguerida. Like so much else, the ideal is very far from the reality. When did it start?

  About half an hour ago. I thought it was just one of my usual headaches from being around matrices—only I haven't been around the Tower much this afternoon. I worked with

  Jeff this morning, had my second breakfast, and was just going to go over to the scriptorium to see how the work is progressing on those records that Haydn Lindir found, when, bang, my brain was being attacked by skewers. So I sat down in the fragrance garden, thinking that I just needed to get some sun and relax, and it got worse and worse.

  I see. Well, for the moment, I cannot find anything amiss.

  It might not have anything to do with Arilinn, I suppose. I mean, Mikhail could have fallen down a cliff and broken his neck.

  Stop that right this minute! I will put up with that sort of thing from my sister, since she has such a vivid imagination, and no self-control whatever! I expect better of you!

  -Yes, Liriel. Margaret's response was almost meek. She accepted criticism from her cousin as she did from no one else, not even her father.

  There, that is better. If anything had happened to my brother, you would know it, and there would be no uncertainty whatever.

  You are probably right. I do wish that my father and yours were not being such stubborn idiots.

  Wish yourself to the moon and it will be easier, chiya. They are men, after all, and men always insist on being right, even when they are quite wrong. The person I feel most sorry for is Uncle Regis, caught in between the two of th
em, and the members of the Cortes who have to listen to their argument.

  Do you think they will ever straighten things out between them—at least to the point where Dom Gabriel will let me ...

  Well, if you gave up the Alton Domain to Father, he might see his way clear to stop behaving like a dolt, but I think he is almost enjoying trying to best your father at something. I believe he has stopped thinking of you or Mik or anyone except himself and his injured dignity.

  Id do it in a second except the Old Man would not like it, and he has enough on his plate, worrying about Dio. Why do things have to be so complicated?

  If I knew the answer to that, I would be the wisest woman on Darkover, and several other planets as well, Marguerida. Have you eaten?

  Oh, yes. I still don't believe how much I manage to eat

  without gaining an ounce. Even though I know perfectly well that laran is powered by body energy, it goes contrary to everything I know about diet!

  I confess a little envy at your figure, Marguerida. And, I have observed, your shadow matrix radiates continuously. It is a very interesting phenomenon—from a technical point of view. It is also why your gloves wear out in a tenday or so.

  I know, and I wish someone could think of a better way for me to manage than to always have to wear .these things. I feel very outré. Even wearing two, so I don't draw attention to the left hand, still makes me self-conscious!

  Oh, I don't know. Maeve Landyn was saying the other day that your mitts are rather fetching, particularly since Master Esteban has started adding bits of embroidery.

  I feel like a freak, and I hate it.

  I know you do, chiya, and you should not. Now, go get some tea or something. Or get Dorilys from the stables and go for a ride. That always makes you feel better.

  All right, but it won't be the same without Mikhail.

  Margaret knew that Liriel was right, that she needed some exercise. And the little pewter-colored mare that Mikhail had given her, as a way of making her stay at Arilinn less unpalatable, was a delight. She had fallen in love with the horse the first time she had seen her, running in the front paddock at Armida, months before. She was a spirited filly, with dark mane and tail, almost silvery hooves, and a coat like polished metal.

  Learning matrix technology was exhausting, and the rides were revitalizing. The fresh air and sunshine never failed to restore her innate humor, and Margaret knew she had been neglecting herself the past few days.

  But since Mikhail had gone, in a parting that was difficult for both of them, she had barely gone out to the stables to visit her horse. She knew that Dorilys would be taken care of by the grooms, that she would be exercised and curried and fed. But the little mare reminded her of Mikhail, and her heart was not really in it as she left her house, having changed into her riding skirt and put leather gloves on over silken ones, and walked toward the stable.

  The headache had abated a little, but it was still sufficiently present to be noticeable, like distant thunder which is more felt than heard. Margaret yawned, trying to relax

  her jaw, and entered the shadowed interior of the barn. It smelled of clean straw, spattered water, and manure—a combination she found pleasant and somehow comforting. One of the grooms saw her and met her with a big grin.

  "Domna! Dorilys is going to be pleased to see you. You haven't been absent for this long since you were sick."

  "You should be scolding me for neglecting my pretty girl, Martin."

  "Why, domna, I would never do such a thing. It isn't my place, and I am sure you have been busy at your studies up at the Tower."

  Margaret gave up. She was never, she suspected, going to be completely comfortable with being deferred to, treated as if she were someone special. She had spent too many years being Ivor Davidson's assistant, taking charge of luggage and travel itineraries, dealing with petty bureaucrats and customs agents with larcenous hearts, or coping with academic rivalry and jealousy, to turn into a comynara overnight. No matter how she was treated, she still felt she was only Margaret Alton, Fellow of the University, not Marguerida Alton, heiress to a Darkovan Domain, a noble in almost any Terran hierarchy she could think of.

  It was a little disheartening, knowing that with the best intentions in the world, she was probably never going to be able to behave in a manner that would please her formidable aunt Javanne Lanart-Hastur, or other matrons of her generation. She remained too independent, too headstrong, and lacked either the will or the capacity to defer to males or pretend to be stupid and meek. Within the confines of Darkovan society, she was an outsider and seemed likely to remain so, no matter how hard she tried.

  Since she could not change her character, however, Margaret decided that she would just have to make the best of things, and go for a nice ride on a fine autumn day. It was almost fifty degrees, and the wind was only a cool draft, smelling of leaves being burned for potash, and the drifting scent of bread from the Arilinn bakery.

  Martin brought Dorilys, saddled and almost dancing, across the cobblestones to the mounting block. Behind him another groom had a comfortable cob, and she realized with a start that Martin intended to accompany her. It would do no good to ask him not to—she was a female,

  and females, unless they were Renunciates, did not go for horseback rides alone. He would not understand, and, worse, he would be hurt. She knew that she was altogether too sensitive, and that she could be manipulated by Martin or any other servant, so she shrugged, stepped onto the mounting block, and threw her leg over into the saddle.

  Dorilys threw her head back, and half-reared, expressing her delight at having Margaret around. The little filly did not seem to mind the grooms riding her, but she always made it clear who her preferred rider was. She began to dance around, impatient to be out and about. Slapping the reins lightly against the satiny neck of the horse, Margaret started out of the stableyard, with Martin following her.

  Arilinn Tower stood on a plain that ran down to the river, so there was a great deal of flat ground. Much of it was covered with trees—similar to maples, elms, quickbeam, and other hardwoods—not the conifers so typical of the lands farther north. But there were several open areas which afforded a good ride.

  There were fields around the little town near the Tower, but they were empty now, the harvest over, The stands of trees around the fields were ablaze with autumn color: red, orange, russet, and gold. The soft breeze brought the smell of leaves and fallow earth to her face, accompanied by the pleasant scent of burning foliage. There was a small enclave of charcoal makers nearby, and she knew they were busy at their work.

  Margaret had discovered, much to her own surprise, that the quiet rhythm of the agricultural year was very soothing. She loved to escape from the confines of the Tower, to be away from the tremendous energy of the place, and ride among the fields. She had watched the farmers tend those fields, then seen them bring in the grain. She had been to the mill along the River Valeron where the grain was ground for flour. A little to the west of the mill there was a lumber operation, and beyond it a settlement of dyers who used the waters of the great river in their work. -She let Dorilys move into a moderate trot, longing to give her her head and run, but aware that Martin's cob would be left eating dust if she did. Margaret fell into the steady rhythm of the horse, and slowly the persistent headache began to fade. The ruddy sun warmed her face

  slightly; she had become accustomed to the relative cold of Darkover.

  After about twenty minutes, they reached the banks of the river. It was running softly, the water gurgling between the rocks along the shore. There were stands of bulrushes, dried now, rustling in the breeze and making a pleasant sound that was almost musical.

  She turned west, her heart brimming, thinking of Mikhail riding somewhere ahead of her, beyond the horizon. What was he seeing, she wondered, and what was he thinking. Margaret slowed to a walk, for the banks of the river were irregular and not the best place for a horse. Martin rode silently behind her, the steady sound of hi
s cob's hooves a reassuring note in the music she felt was all around her. It seemed a vast symphony to her trained ears and mind, and for the first time she wondered why that form did not seem to be present on Darkover. Darkovans sang at the drop of a hat, and very well indeed, but as far as she had been able to discover, they had never gotten around to creating large orchestral works. She made a mental note to ask Master Everard when she was back in Thendara.

  The thought of the old Guildmaster brought back the memory of Ivor Davidson, her mentor and friend, who had died soon after their arrival on Darkover. She missed him, but her first grief had lessened, and she could now recall him without great pain. If Ivor had not died, she would never have ended up in the Kilghards with only Rafaella n'ha Liriel, her Renunciate guide and friend, when she began to have her first bout of threshold sickness. How would Ivor have managed, she wondered? She had never been sick during all the years they journeyed around the Federation together, collecting and studying indigenous music, unless one counted the occasional cold. For all the excellence of their technology, Terrans had never managed to conquer the common cold, and she didn't think they ever would.

  The tension in her body was easing as she idly watched trees and running water, allowing her mind to wander where it would. What a good idea Liriel had had, suggesting a ride. How clever site was. As was so often the case when she thought of her cousin, Margaret smiled. Liriel and her brother Mikhail almost made up for having to endure