Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley
But the Old Man was a no-nonsense sort of fellow, and Mikhail—for perhaps the first
time—wished he was more like him. Gabriel lacked sensitivity, of which Mikhail felt
he had too much, and rolled over opposition without any hesitations. Just the thought
of
Dom
Gabriel was strengthening, and he needed every ounce of energy he could
muster.
He was not going to resolve the problem standing in the middle of the hall. For a
moment he wondered what he was doing there. What had he been seeking? Oh, yes.
Towels.
He was aware that he had just forgotten something, but he could not drag it back into
his mind, no matter how hard he tried. All he wanted was a long bath and some clean
clothing. That, at least, he had in his baggage. He would feel more himself after a bath.
He grabbed his things and went into the steaming chamber. It was the cleanest place he
had seen in Halyn House, and that made him feel less helpless.
Lowering himself into the hot water, Mikhail relaxed. He felt an impulse to sink down
into the water, to let the water cover his head, to float away into. ... He shot up,
spouting water from his lips, his lungs straining for air. Why had he done that?
Puzzlement gave way to cleansing anger. His mind cleared. Then doubt dispelled the
momentary clarity. Mikhail suddenly felt powerless, ill-equipped, to deal with the
children. Agreeing to be Regent for the Elhalyn children had been a great mistake. He
should have insisted that one of his brothers undertake the task. He was going to need
help, the aid of someone more experienced and better trained. He would have to get in
touch with Regis and—
Mikhail cringed. He. had not even been here a day, and already he had failed. He just
was not up to the challenge, was he? Doubt gnawed at him, as it had when he was an
adolescent, after Danilo Hastur had been born, and Mikhail's position had altered.
If I
had been good enough, Regis would never have needed a son.
He tried to shake away his sense of his own unworthiness, but the feeling persisted that
he was not nearly the man he imagined himself to be. He was fit only to be paxman to
Dyan Ardais or some other lord of the Domains. But Regis had given him a task, and
he must try to accomplish it, no matter how he felt, and he must do it alone!
His first duty was to these children. That meant he must get the house in order, and see
to their health. Mikhail could not even attempt to test the boys in their present state of
malnutrition and filth. He wasn't even sure he had really learned enough at Arilinn to
do it right.
Mikhail began to scrub himself with a dried gourd, and
make a list of things to do. Fix the windows, clear the chimneys, repair the roofs, and
get the laundry done. In the morning he would send Daryll to the village to get
workmen. He would hire some maids to clean, some men to fix things. These, at least,
were tasks he felt able to manage—even though he realized, with mild amusement, that
he really had no idea of how the laundry at Armida functioned. And he would wager
that Marguerida would know such things, not because she was female, but because she
had lived on other worlds, and had likely, being the observant woman that she was,
taken note of it. She had probably hung around recording the songs the laundresses
sang, or what the blacksmith chorused while he forged the horseshoes.
He was so involved in thinking of Marguerida that he hardly noticed he was rubbing
just one place almost raw. When he did, Mikhail frowned. He stopped, rinsed his arm,
and finished his bath much more rapidly than he normally did. He wound himself in a
threadbare towel, and made a mental note to send for new linens as soon as possible.
Then he got into his clothes and hastily left the room.
In the hall, he could sense he was being watched. Mikhail turned and looked up and
down the corridor. He felt muzzy from the warmth of the bath, and he tried to make
himself alert. The hall seemed empty, but after listening carefully he heard the faint
rustle of cloth from the door of the girls' bedroom, and realized that Miralys and
Valenta were likely watching him. Relief coursed along his veins, and he realized he
had been half expecting someone to pounce out of the shadows with a knife. He was
spooked, for certain, and he had better get hold of himself immediately.
After a moment, Miralys came out of her room, trying very hard to appear casual. "Do
you feel better now?" she asked softly.
"Yes, much better."
She was a beautiful child, in spite of her soiled garments and unwashed hair. Her skin
was almost translucent, with an alabaster complexion that other women tried to
accomplish with baths of milk, and her eyes were a pale gray that was almost silver.
He suspected that when washed, her hair would be red, but now it appeared to be a
dirty brown. She had a blossom of a mouth, and a dainty nose, and
resembled, Mikhail thought, some princess out of one of Liriel's fairybooks.
"I am glad for you. You looked so funny, trying to sort out the linens."
"Well, I have never made a bed before, actually. Why are there no servants, except for
your nurses and old Duncan?"
"She
won't permit it, and most of the folk in the village are afraid to come here."
"Why?"
"I am not allowed to say." Her eyes were wide now, fully dilated, as if she longed to
speak but was unable to.
Help me!
The silent cry was heartrending, but before he could answer her, Miralys turned and
ran back to her room, banging the door closed behind her. He could hear her sobs, and
then the voice of one of the nurses, hushing her. Mikhail started to reach for the
doorknob, then drew back. He had no business in the room of a young girl.
Instead, he went back to his own room, found his comb, and tried to bring some order
to his damp hair. The mirror above the dresser was black with dust, and he looked
around for something to wipe it with. He found a rag, cleaned off the mirror, then gave
the dresser top a lick and a promise, missing the good clean smell of wax and polish
that the rooms should have had. Then he looked at himself, clean-shaven, his dark
blond hair already curling across his brow. If they ever managed to overcome the
opposition of his parents, Mikhail decided, he and Marguerida were going to have a
brood of curly-mopped urchins, for certain. This thought, so new and odd, made him
laugh, and his blue eyes crinkled. It felt good to laugh, but it made him miss her even
more, for laughter had become their custom, almost a second language between them.
What will we name them?
he wondered, as he walked out of the bedroom and started
down the stairs. There were already a great many Gabriels and Rafaels in the family,
but he would not object to a son called Lewis, even though his sister Ariel had already
used it for one of hers. And Yllana, perhaps, after Marguerida's Aldaran grandmother.
That would offend Javanne, his mother, of course.
Mikhail walked into the living room--before he had quite finished his list of names,
knowing that he would tell Marguer-
ida about them at the first opportunity, and that she would be amused. He found
Priscilla Elhalyn sitting at the embroidery frame, one hand holding a needle above the
linen, staring into the fire. She started a little, stabbed the needle into the material, and
folded her hands into her lap demurely.
"Good evening,
domna."
"Is it evening?" She looked around, for the room was rather dim now. The fireplace
had been lit, but none of the candles in the sconces. "I had not noticed. No wonder I
was having trouble seeing my stitches."
Mikhail took a long stick of wood from one of several' on the mantelpiece, set it
aflame, and started to light the candles. "This should make it easier to see."
"I suppose. But it is so wasteful."
"Wasteful?"
"Candles are very expensive."
"Domna,
you are a great lady, of a great Domain. There Js absolutely no reason to live
in the dark."
Unless someone has told you to.
It occurred to Mikhail that all those boarded-up windows made the rooms in the house
almost as dark at midday as at night. He wondered if the disrepair was not deliberate,
to keep Priscilla and her children in the shadows. It was a fleeting thought, and gone
almost before he had time to consider it.
"Perhaps—but none of that matters. I won't need any candles soon." She sounded
sleepy, dreamy, and more passive than he remembered her,
"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.