I will honor him all the days of my life.
And you, Mikhal Raven of Ridenow, do you vow to serve this woman in body and mind, all the days of your life?
Serve her? That seemed very odd to him, the reverse of the marriage vows he recognized, and for a second he hesitated. And then, in a rush of profound realization, he knew that he wished nothing better than to serve this woman. The words did not matter, only the intention.
I vow to serve this woman, in body and mind, all the days of my life.
. The act of answering provoked a deep sense of Tightness in him, and he felt the sweet smile of Varzil's helper increase, so he seemed feather light for an instant. He felt Marguerida's fingers grip his wrist more tightly, and they were warm against his skin.
Varzil took up the larger metal bracelet from the box on his lap, and reached out and placed it on Marguerida's wrist. Then he repeated the procedure, and the cool weight of the circlet lay against Mikhail's skin, heavier than he had expected.
I, Varzil Ridenow, Lord of Hali, witness these oaths, and hold them binding for all time. They are married not only by words but by the sweet blood of the earth. They are joined in flesh and spirit, as was intended from the time before time. I swear that these people are one, melded, united and inseparable, until the world ends.
For a moment, Mikhail felt himself released, as if some thread that had held him captive were unleashed. He knew that Marguerida felt it also, and he turned his face toward hers, and met her lips as if he had never kissed a woman before. She tasted of stew, sweat, and an incredible, almost painful sweetness; he knew he would remember this moment till he drew his final breath.
Mikhal Raven of Ridenow, give me now your matrix stone. Fear not!
Mikhail unclenched his sweating hand slowly, wondering why he felt no fear. If Varzil touched his stone, the world might end for him. But it was as if he were a man ensorceled, and he moved as if in a dream.
His small starstone floated off his hand, a mote of brilliance even in the great light that rose from the smiling woman behind the great man. It moved quickly across the space that was between Mikhail and Varzil, speeding like an evening bug, and then dropped onto the enormous matrix still adorning the hand of the laranzu. With a flash it
vanished from his sight, and he tensed, suddenly terrified in spite of Varzil's reassurance.
But there was no shock, no trauma. What Mikhail experienced was a momentary giddiness, then the sense of being within the stone itself. He swam in its shining facets, buffeted by unseen forces that seemed to pass through him like light. He felt pierced through and through, in every cell of both his body and that other portion of him which he had never really known he possessed, the inner flame of his very being.
When Mikhail looked at Varzil, he saw his own face staring back at him, his own blue eyes shining with an unearthly light, his golden curls falling loosely on his brow. It was shocking, more shocking than the loss of his matrix, and his mind tried to rebel, to deny.
The vision passed, however, and suddenly Varzil was himself again, old and fragile. Now, Margarethe, take the ring from my hand and learn something of your own powers—the hand which is marked for this occasion!
But that would kill you!
Quick, my girl! I cannot hold the energies in check much longer. Do as I say!
Warily, Marguerida extended her left hand, and Varzil tilted his, so the ring fell from his finger into her out-stretched palm. She did not move, but let the shining ring rest on her hand, her eyes gleaming. Her face went stiff, then her entire body was rigid beside him. Where her right hand touched him, Mikhail could feel the energy coursing through her body, could sense new channels being pierced fiercely, brutally. It was a terrible thing, even at second hand, and he knew she could not have endured it but for the presence of that strange other woman, the woman, who now seemed to be made of light. He could sense the shining woman shielding his beloved, protecting her.
Give the ring to your husband, Margarethe
Gladly! Il was a heartfelt response, and the eagerness of it gave him a sense of reality, of being grounded in an ordinary moment in the midst of an extraordinary event.
Gingerly, as if she were made of glass, Marguerida turned to Mikhail, holding the ring in her open palm as if it burned, and said, "Give me your finger, and be quick about it, beloved! Now!"
Mikhail held out his left hand, and she slipped the heavy ring onto his finger, touching only the metal, not the jewel itself. With this ring, I thee wed, Mikhail Hastur!
Then thunder rang in his mind, the room spun, and he felt himself fall into darkness.
28
Margaret Alton sat-under the branches of an evergreen, the rain trickling down her face, soaking her shivering body, holding Mikhail's head on her lap. She had tried to keep him dry at first, but that was impossible. The wind, while not violent, was steady, and blew gusts of rain and sleet under the spreading branches, invading every fold of fabric, chilling her and leaving her sodden and almost miserable.
She peered out from under the tree. The horses were standing with their heads together, looking resigned. She knew she should get up and unsaddle them, but she was too tired. Margaret looked up at the branches of the tree overhead, trying to see if the crow was there. It had been earlier, but now it had disappeared. She let herself sigh and shifted her weight a little under the weight of Mikhail's head.
That she was not completely miserable startled her, and made her feel mildly perverse. She was cold, hungry, and exhausted: Mikhail was surely all of those, and unconscious as well. Any normal person, she felt, should have been in complete despair. But she was just too tired and numb for desperation.
She stroked the wet curls on Mikhail's brow with icy fingers, and considered her situation again. Upon reflection, Margaret decided she was too angry to be properly miserable—angry at Varzil, and his nameless female companion, at Mikhail for being dead to the world, and angry at herself for being so helpless. If only she had the strength to get him up on a horse!
For the tenth or maybe the hundredth time, Margaret went over the moments just after Mikhail had accepted the ring from her shaking fingers. It had all happened so
quickly. One second he had been looking into her eyes, and the next he was sprawled on the floor. And then the floor had vanished, and the round building as well, and she had found herself kneeling on the ground, with rubble all around her. The pink grass had disappeared, replaced by rank weeds and the burned remains of some rafters and something that might once have been a plow. Rain had struck her face, shocking her back into the present. Somehow she had managed to drag the limp body of her husband under the tree before she ran out of energy. He was heavy, and she had sworn at him.
Only the weight of the ornate bracelet on her wrist assured her that she had actually experienced the otherworldly wedding ceremony. Margaret looked at Mikhail and saw the sparkle on his hand. It did not look like Varzil’s ring, for it was not very large. It did not look like much at all—certainly nothing worth all this trouble. But as she watched, Margaret could see it changing shape. It expanded and shrank from moment to moment. What did that mean? And what was she going to do?
One of her professors had once said in a lecture "There are things which the intellect can never grasp, no matter how it tries." She had dutifully copied down these words on her crystal notepad, thinking them rather foolish. Remembering the words as the wind gusted across her face, sending stinging rain into her eyes, Margaret conceded that he was right, after all. No matter how hard she tried, there was no rational way to explain the events of the past night and day. She wished she could give up trying, but her weary brain refused to let go completely.
Part of her mind continued to observe Mikhail, and she was grateful that she had at least mastered basic monitoring at Neskaya. His heart rate was steady, his temperature low but not dangerously so. But where his mind was, the mind she had come to know and love during her tumultuous months on Darkover, there was only a
swirling chaos. Varzil must have been mad to imagine that he could transfer his own matrix to Mikhail, and they had been insane to have agreed.
For the moment, all she could do was hope he recovered with all his wits, and that he did not get pneumonia. It seemed a vain hope, and despair began to nibble at her.
She shut it away abruptly, sternly admonishing herself to remain calm. It was easier thought than done. She would get herself steady for a few minutes, but as soon as she began to relax, all the fears Ad worries leaped out at her again, gnawing at her mind like hungry rats.
Instead of dwelling on things she could not understand or manage, Margaret studied her matrixed hand. It felt different, and it looked unfamiliar, too. The lines were very faint now, instead of clearly visible as they had been before. It almost seemed as if they had sunk into her flesh. She had spent enough hours staring at the accursed thing to know every line and juncture. Yes, it had changed. The brief contact with Varzil's ring had done something—it was no longer recognizable as the keystone it had once been. Damn! She had only started to get accustomed to the thing, and now it was transformed.
Margaret frowned. Maybe it was for the best. She hoped the change might help her stay out of Ashara's awareness. But how was it different? Or perhaps the question was how was she? Cold as she was, with the soaked fabric of her hood pressing clammily against her face, she could not shake the conviction that the very core of her being had been altered.
She tried to remember the moment of contact between her hand and the ring. Margaret had no clear impression of it, but her muscles quivered with memory. She had been flooded with impressions for only an instant. No, not impressions. Information! How had that transformed her matrix?
Deep within her, Margaret sensed a stirring of knowledge. It was very faint, vague and elusive. It had something to do with her hands and her voice. There was another piece—Dio! Her heart thumped. Could she actually heal her stepmother? Did she dare to hope? And, if she could do that, could she help Mikhail now?
A hot tear rolled down her cold face. No, she couldn't. Not now, not yet. She had to learn what she already knew. The information was clear, crystalline, perfect. And utterly frustrating! There was no way to get to it. She felt as if she had a vast treasure in a chest, and no key. If only she were not so damn cold!
Margaret grabbed that thought firmly. She had a flint in
her belt pouch, and her small knife. Theoretically, she could start a fire. She had done it a few times on the trail with Rafaella. But there was nothing to burn! The timbers scattered around her were drenched. The tree sheltering her was no good either—green wood was hard to burn, even if she had dry tinder. Besides, she did not have a hatchet, and there was no other way she could think of to get the branches off. As weary as she was, Margaret doubted she could pull off more than a twig.
There must be another way to get warm. Margaret knew there were disciplines in every human world for generating heat. Yogis on Terra had been using them for millennia, and from some of the stories she had heard about the cristoforos up at Nevarsin, they had developed them as well. Unfortunately, she had never studied any of them.
Heat was just energy, wasn't it? And laran was energy as well. So, if she was so clever, why couldn't she think of some way to generate heat with her matrix?
Margaret glared at her hand, wishing that she had paid more attention in her physical science classes. The mathematics of physics had not been difficult for her, for she had always thought that equations were rather musical, and had even wondered if one could not find a way to turn these elegant facts into song. But the practical side of the subject, the nature of gravity, nuclear fusion, and even electricity, had eluded her. She did not have the mind of an engineer, and she knew it.
At the same time, she realized, monitoring was merely the observance of the energy of a body. That was what Liriel had told her, and Istvana as well. But where did the energy to monitor come from? Was it in the starstones themselves, or did the monitor draw them from within? Because a good circle monitor, she knew, could regulate the energies of the others, keep them from injuring or totally exhausting themselves. It seemed a shame she had only learned the rudiments, and that she had not asked the right questions when she had the opportunity. If only Istvana were here—only she hadn't been born yet, and two time travelers were more than enough!
Where did heat come from? The sun, obviously, but that was ho help. Darkover's bloody sun was hidden behind thick clouds now. How long had they been in that round
house? It had not felt like a long while, but for all she knew, several days or even several weeks had passed without her being aware of it.
What else? Food. That was the main source of energy for humans. It was not perhaps the best thing to think about, because she was very hungry, and the gobbled stew she had eaten—if it had really existed—seemed to be long gone. Had there been clouds when they rode toward the place? She couldn't remember, even by flogging her tired brain. Well, it was almost always snowing or raining on Darkover, so likely there had been.
Briefly, she entertained the wonderful notion of somehow conjuring up a good meal out of thin air, and discarded it with regret. If she had been telekinetic, perhaps, but she was not, as far as she knew. Istvana said that occasionally laran produced people who could move small objects, and that in the Ages of Chaos, it had been possible to use the enormous relay screens to actually transport people from place to place. Now, there was a bit of technology the Terranan would love to get their grubby hands on, wasn't it? It was fortunate that this was a lost art, she decided. Else there would have been Federation Marines on Regis Hastur's stoop, demanding he surrender it.
If she had no food, and the sun was out of reach, what else was there? She might as well try to reach the molten core of the planet.
This flippant idea flitted across her mind, then demanded her attention. Notions of heat and dryness flitted around in her skull like lightning bugs, promising something she could not quite grasp. Frustrated and angry again, Margaret made a fist and pounded the mud and rotting pine needles.
Margaret was too weary and too cold to continue her unproductive behavior for very long, and she gave it up reluctantly, wiping her hand across her soaked trousers. She made herself breathe slowly and calmly, checked Mikhail once more, and returned to the problem.
The blood of earth. The words drifted though her mind, and she remembered that Varzil had used that phrase to describe the copper catenas bracelets. And copper, she remember from her physics classes, was an excellent conductor! Unfortunately, most of what she knew about
conductors was musical. Really, for an educated woman, she was very ignorant!
Margaret gazed at the thick object encircling her right wrist, where her arm curved over Mikhail's shoulder. She smiled a little in spite of everything, seeing this irrevocable evidence of a real event, one that she had secretly yearned for, without ever admitting it to herself completely. They were married, one person not two, and if she regretted the absence of all the delightful parts of the celebration—the food—especially the food!—the music, the wedding gown she was sure that Aaron would have made for her—at least she had done the deed.
"Hell of a way to spend what should be the happiest day of my life," she growled.
Mikhail stirred a little at the sound of her voice, mumbled something unintelligible, then fell silent. "Wake up! Come on, Mik! You are going to miss the wedding night if you don't wake up!"
The wedding night. Margaret found herself shuddering. The years of Ashara's overshadowing rushed through her mind. She had never even kissed anyone until Mikhail had embraced her the previous summer, so powerful was the admonition to keep herself apart. She was almost glad for a moment that Mikhail was in no condition to consummate the marriage, then, suddenly, unreasonably, furious at him. "Wake up, damn you!" She jiggled his shoulder with her hand, trying to shake him enough to rouse him out of his stupor. Why couldn't she make up her mind one way or the other?
/> There was no response, and she sighed a little. Then she lifted her arm off his shoulder and stared at the bracelet. It was ornate, even more complicated in design than that which encircled the wrist of Lady Linnea. It appeared to be an elongated beast of some sort, biting its own hindparts. She held it closer to her face, trying to see what it was. Not a snake, she decided, though she knew that this animal was often depicted with its tail in its mouth. More like a panther or some other catlike creature.
The eyes of the beast glittered, and she now saw there were small starstones set into the metal, not only in the orbs, but miniscule ones spread along the curving tail, like
fine, shining dust. It was a very beautiful thing, the verdigrised sheen gleaming with rain.
Margaret reached out with the fingers of her left hand and turned the bracelet slowly, looking at all the details for the first time. When she placed her thumb and forefinger around one side of it, she had the sensation of movement, as if it were alive at her touch. She snatched her fingers away, alarmed for a second. No, not that. The bracelet was reacting to the energy of her shadow matrix.
For a moment she was lost in the wonder of the thing, that an inert bit of metal and gem should respond to her touch. There was something very important in this, if she could only grasp it. Copper is an excellent conductor her weary mind reiterated. I know that, she mentally shouted at herself, but what does it mean?