Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley
because we know how it can be misused. So we try to do the things that have worked
in the past, and not get too fancy." He cleared his throat and went on. "We would like
to think we are civilized, not the barbarians the Terranan assume us to be because we
refuse to embrace their vaunted technology. We are, for the most part, polite, because a
telepathic community could not survive without that." He gestured at the landscape.
There was a crater about a hundred yards off the narrow trail, and it glowed faintly,
even in the ruddy sunlight. "This is what can happen when we are not polite. The plain
truth is that we are simply well-mannered, not civilized in the
ideal sense. All human beings are wolves pretending to be nice doggies."
"That is a really depressing notion, Mik. And close to some things that people at
University said, too. Maybe it is even true!"
"Yes, it is. I will be less gloomy when we reach our destination, or get some food into
me, whichever comes first."
They rode on in weary silence for another half an hour, the thought of food occupying
both their minds. Then Marguerida said, "Is that a house up ahead?"
"What?" He stood in the stirrups to get a better view. "It looks like a ruin," he
answered, standing in the stirrups to get a better look.
"Damn!" She put all her disappointment into the word.
"Hush!" Mikhail peered ahead, his eyes starting to water. One second he saw a burned
out structure, and the next he was sure there was smoke coming from an intact
chimney. The thing seemed to shift even as he watched, back and forth.
He sniffed the air, but there was no smell of woodsmoke. Still, he kept seeing glimpses
of a building with white stone walls. It was an illusion of some sort, though whether
the ruin or the solid structure was the false image he could not guess.
Mikhail had heard of such things, matrix-generated veils which distorted light and
shadow.
He
had heard of cloaks of illusion, although he had never teen one, .and
tended to regard them as legendary. The last thing he wanted was to tangle with some
old trap-matrix. And in this here and now, these traps were not ancient, but were active
and dangerous.
Then, in an instant, he was sure this was their final destination. The knowledge flowed
through him like warm water, easing his fears. Still, Mikhail swallowed hard. It did not
look very inviting.
He reined the roan off the trail and started riding toward the place. The closer they
drew, the more the building appeared empty and deserted. He could see weeds growing
from between blackened stones, broken walls, a collapsed chimney and a few smashed
kitchen bowls, the pottery charred and dark.
Mikhail's belly was knotted, and his knuckles were white with tension. He could feel
sweat trickling down his back, in spite of the coolness of the day. Had they been
dragged across time to this? He felt caught between his own doubts and his sense of
fate. It was like being pressed between two stones, and he wanted to break free of the
weight. The only way was to go ahead.
They rode to the broken wall which had surrounded the building, now just a few stones
high. When he looked over the wall, all Mikhail saw was an empty piece of earth, with
debris on it. Then a mouse started from the weeds that grew at the base of the wall,
darted through the foliage, and
vanished.
The feeling of desolation was enormous.
It was too quiet. The lack of sound was eerie. And it did not
feel
like an empty
building, or like anything he had ever experienced before. Whatever it was, it lacked
any sense of reality as he knew it, and he was very puzzled. Before he could decide
what to do next, the crow flapped off the pommel of his saddle, and flew across the
low stone wall and vanished just as the mouse had.
One second it was there, and the next it was gone, as if it had never existed. There was
nothing to suggest that the bird had crossed the veil of a trap-matrix. Mikhail felt his
heart race, and a chill sense of fear crept along" his flesh.
When the crow reappeared a few moments later, flying across the low wall with its
rough caw, he was immensely relieved, then furious at himself. He hated his fear, the
closing of his throat, the bumps on his skin, and more the feeling of helplessness that
came with it. Anger at his own weakness raced through his blood.
The bird landed on his shoulder, and turned its bill to his ear. Tenderly it began to
nibble with the tip of it. Then it stopped and muttered something in its throat.
"I think the crow wants us to go over the wall." Mikhail's voice was tense, and his
mouth parched. He felt the tugging at his heart, that peculiar link of energy he had had
since leaving Hali Tower. It was no longer bearable, as it had been a few minutes
before. Now it was a burning point in his chest, not painful, precisely, but not
comfortable either. This was their destination. Why did he feel so reluctant to move?
He dismounted stiffly, his thigh muscles protesting a lit-
tie. Then he stood beside the roan, breathing shallowly, fighting the fear that threatened
to strangle him. Mikhail's knees were shaking, and he felt he, could not move another
step.
Marguerida dismounted and came to stand beside him. He could smell the faint scent
of perfume that clung to her skin, mixed with the warm odor of horse and sweat and
sunlight. Mikhail glanced at her, saw the tangle of her hair, half loosened from the
ornate butterfly clasp, and smears of dirt where she had wiped her forehead. It was a
very reassuring mixture, very real and ordinary. "Are we waiting for an engraved
invitation?"
In spite of his tension, he smiled at the tart question. That was his Marguerida, his
beloved! He knew she was not at all fearless, that the very name of Ashara Alton still
had the capacity, to make her tremble. But there she was, standing beside him, curious
and ready, he suspected, to leap into the pits of Zandru if necessary.
"No. I am just being ... I was going to say careful. That isn't it at all, Marguerida. I
have this feeling that once I move, I will never be the same again, and I am not really
sure . . ."
"Second thoughts?"
"And third and fourth as well. I am not afraid exactly. I can't explain it."
She slipped her right hand around his elbow and leaned closer to him. "There is a place
on Zeepan called the Garden of Transformations, which is very famous. They say that
if you enter it, you are never the same afterward. Pilgrims go there, but a lot of them
never enter, because they become so scared of what they might become that they often
turn back at the last minute. And those who do go in are never able to describe their
experience."
"You seem to have a song or a story for every occasion. And you are right. That is how
I feel this second. How did you know?"
She shrugged against his shoulder. "I minored in folklore," she murmured, as if that
explained everything. He could feel her body tremble where it touched his. She took a
shuddering breath. "Remember, no matter what happens, you will still be Mikhail
Hastur, and I will still be Margaret Alton."
And I will always love you, no matter what!
"Come on, then." Mikhail walked to the wall. It was low enough to step over with his
long legs, and he did so. He seemed to be moving through glue, slowing down so
much that every movement took hours and hours. He felt the resistance for what
seemed an age, and then it was gone, and he was standing on the other side, gasping
for air.
Marguerida was next to him a moment later, looking a little wild eyed from lack of
breath. There was sweat on her forehead and she had bitten her lip. The blood welled
out in a single red droplet. He watched as her hand rose to her face, wiped the moisture
off her brow, and ran gloved fingers through tousled red curls. "Ugh! That was worse
than coming through to Hali!"
Mikhail nodded and looked around. He was standing on a patch of well-tended grass,
but it was not green. It was a strange rose shade, and small flowers danced on tender
stalks. He knew that the only growth of that color was that which grew around the
rhu
fead,
the chapel close to Hali Tower, and miles from this spot. He had never actually
visited that sacred place, but he had heard enough descriptions to be more than
puzzled.
Before him was neither the burned-out ruin nor the farmhouse he had glimpsed from a
distance. Instead there was a low, round building made of white fieldstone and covered
with slabs of turf. Vines grew from the earth, coiling up around the curving walls, and
there was a smell of balsam and lavender in the air. A few conifers crowded around the
building, their dark green branches casting deep shadows on the stones- and the ground
beneath them.
Mikhail glanced Over his shoulder, looking for the horses, but there was nothing to see
but a slight shimmer, hanging in the air like silver mist. The crow tweaked his ear
again. "I sure hope you know what you are leading us into," he told the animal. All he
got in answer was a nutter of wings.
They moved slowly toward the building, neither of them eager to enter. Marguerida
had slipped her hand into his, and he felt the slight tremble of it in his clasp. He felt
very small, as if he were a child, not an adult. There was a peculiar quality, a sense of
illusion, but he could smell vegetation, the definitive scent of stone and moss, the
pungent tang of turf. How could something be real and imaginary at the same time?
At least it does not have chicken legs.
What?
Marguerida's sudden thought made no sense, but he could feel the undertone of
humor in it.
In an old tale, there is a hut with fowl's legs, inhabited by a witch called Granny Yaga,
who rides around in a mortar, and grinds naughty children with her pestle.
Now, there's a cheerful thought. Sometimes I wish your mind was less cluttered with
interesting facts, dearest. Some of them are very disturbing!
I know. I can't seem to help it.
Mikhail could not see any windows in the dome-shaped building, and despite the pink
grass they were walking n, he was certain this was not the
rhu fead.
He had the sense
O
that his eyes were still being fooled. But it was where he had to be, and that eased his
mind just a little. It was eerie, though, and he wished it were not.
They walked slowly around the structure, and finally found a narrow slit in the stones.
A faint smell of smoke came out of it, and with it the odor of food. His mouth filled
with saliva and Mikhail swallowed hard.
Should we knock or call out or something?
Knock on what? There is no door. The smell is driving me mad!
Me, too, Mik. I just hope there isn't a witch in there, stirring her cauldron, and
expecting us for dinner
—
her dinner!
Don't be silly!
I'm sorry, Mik. I am just tired and scared, and when
I
get scared, my imagination goes
wild.
Mikhail noticed how easily she admitted her fear, and wished he could do the same. At
that moment he was not feeling either brave or manly, but he could hardly let himself
know that, let alone Marguerida. He did let his own feelings echo hers for a breath or
two. Then he thrust them down ruthlessly.
Mikhail forced himself to step into the narrow opening, expecting to find himself in
darkness. Instead he entered a globe of radiance that nearly blinded him for a second.
He felt Marguerida stumble against him and steadied her with his hand.
His eyes adjusted quickly to the brightness, and Mikhail saw a single room. There was
a stone floor and bare walls.
But they were not ordinary stones. They looked like glass, and a blue light gleamed
from all around them. He could feel Marguerida trembling against his side.
Mik, I don't like this place! It is very like what that room
...
what her place in the old
Tower looked like in my memory! It burns! My left hand feels as if it is on fire
—
except
it is not painful.
I know. My whole body feels as if it is being pulled in several directions at once.
He gripped her arm and looked again. Now he could make out a long couch across the
room from him. When he looked, it vanished and reappeared again in another place.
The effect was dizzying. Everything was shifting, and he wanted to vomit. Instead, he
closed his eyes firmly.
Through his eyelids, Mikhail could feel the light in the room alter. It was less bright, he
decided. At last he opened his eyes and looked around. He was right—the light had
dimmed.
His sense of disorientation left him. The couch no longer moved around the room, but
remained in one place. Mikhail could see there was a fireplace on one wall, and
someone standing beside it, bent over a cauldron. It was altogether too much like the
stories which had been racing through Marguerida's mind for his liking, but he did not