Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley
father does not like people to talk about him." They forgot the old man on the couch
for a moment, looking at each other and smiling about
Dom
Gabriel.
Then his cough brought them back to attention, "Do you know why the woman's
bracelet is always larger than the man's?"
"No, Varzil, I don't. It is one of the many things on Darkover that everyone assumes I
know, and therefore no one tells me the reasons for." Marguerida's voice was brusque
with impatience.
"I don't know either," Mikhail admitted. He was amazed at her, thinking she would
snap and snarl at Zandru himself. He knew she was not fearless, just too tired to care
any longer. Then he realized that his sense of confusion was fading. He was afraid, but
in a remote way. What was in that water? he wondered. His mind felt clearer, and even
his hunger had vanished.
The idea of actually marrying his beloved sank into his mind, spreading slowly across
it. It felt right and wrong at the same time. He puzzled over it before he realized that
they were being rushed into it, and that their feelings were not part of it. They must
marry, and now.
Before he could sort, out the complicated emotions, Varzil continued. "The woman has
the larger band because she bears the greater strength—the strength to bring children
into the world. In a peculiar way, the wife is the greater person in the marriage,
Margarethe, not the lesser."
"I see. And that is why, for centuries, you have locked women up, killed them with
childbearing, and kept them in servitude." The ferocity in her voice made Mikhail
cringe.
"There are no perfect systems, Margarethe." Varzil did not sound disturbed at her
criticism.
"No, I don't suppose there are." She sounded both angry and sad. "Let's get on with
this, before I ..." She turned a golden gaze on Mikhail, and her expression softened.
"We are meant to be together, you know. We always were. But I can't help wishing for
clean clothes, and a hot bath, and lots of flowers. And my father, I want my father to be
here." He could see the sparkle of tears in her eyes.
Mikhail turned to her and pulled her against him.
Dearest, please do not be so sad! I
know this is not what you might have wished for, but I do love you, with all my heart.
I know, Mik, and I love you. But I still feel as if I am being stampeded. I never thought
I had a romantic bone in my body, and now I seem to have a great many of them, all
wishing for music and a lovely gown. You've probably never heard the Kotswold
Processional, and there isn't an organ on the whole of Darkover anyhow. But,
somewhere in the back of my mind, I have been wishing to hear it played, with the
flutes for the groom, calling the bride forward, and the viols answering. It is very soft,
at first, and then it swells, as the voices come together, join, and begin the central
theme. At last there is only a single voice, the flute and viol indistinguishable.
It sounds wonderful!
He was deeply moved by her longing, and he could hear the
strains of the music playing in her memory. It was surprising, too, because he never
would have suspected her of having such longings. She had never, he realized,
revealed the womanly side of herself to him, except in dreams a few times. That
vulnerable part of her she kept firmly hidden, buttressed against injury. He knew
her strength, and her fear of Ashara, but he realized he did not know her soft side at all.
You should have had it all
—
the gown, the waiting maids, the music
—
everything.
It's all right. I am just very tired, and everything seems overwhelming. This place
—
there is something strange about it, and I feel rather woozy. That water I drank seems
to have made
me ...
sort of drunk!
Me, too!
Mikhail looked down at the old man on the couch. Varzil’s eyes were closed, and his
hand with the great ring lay on the covers, limp and worn. But the breath that rose and
fell in his chest was strong and steady. "Very well—we agree, since it is clear that you
called us here for this."
"It must seem very cold to you, that I dragged you through the centuries to fulfill my
own needs—and, indeed, I have prepared for this event for years and years. But it is
not a selfish thing, I swear, for the future of Darkover depends on this marriage. The
power I will bequeath unto you will be necessary in time."
"We have no choice but to trust you, Varzil."
"Oh, Mikhalangelo ... I will not fail you again!"
"Again?" The back of his neck- bristled.
"He means that other Mikhalangelo—the one that Ro-bard thought was dead. The one
you look like, and the Margarethe I resemble—except her eyes were not so gold as
mine."
"Yes, I do. If things had worked out, they would have married, as they wished."
"But they died, didn't they, Varzil?"
"They did." The expression on the tired old face was infinitely sad.
Mikhail looked from Marguerida to Varzil, and back again. "Do you mean to imply we
have lived before?"
"No, not precisely. The souls you bear are your own, not those of other people. But . . .
there is a template of a kind, in the overworld, for every soul that has ever existed, or
will exist in time to come, and from eon to eon it brings forth a similar thing. I, with all
my knowledge, cannot explain it, but only accept it."
Mikhail was immensely relieved. For reasons he could not put into words, he could not
bear the thought of being the reincarnation of some strange man from the past. It made
him feel like a poor copy, a blurred image of himself, instead of the man that he hoped
he actually was.
"So how do we do this?" Marguerida was restless, full of impatience now, as if she
were about to take a dose of nasty tasting medicine, and wanted to get it over with
quickly. He could smell the pleasant scent of stew on her breath, and the earthy, musky,
womanly scent of her body. Mikhail decided he rather liked her with tangled hair, a
dirty face, and the smell of horse on her clothing.
The silent crone who had hovered in the background shuffled forward, carrying a small
wooden box, ornately carved with figures. When she reached them, she opened it, and
Mikhail saw two fine copper bracelets resting on the soft cloth that lined the box. The
metal no longer shone, but had oxidized to a greenish tint.
"These were intended for those other people, weren't they?"
"Yes, Margarethe, they were. I oversaw the making of them myself, even though I
knew at the time that it was unlikely they would ever be used. I sense that you are
uneasy about wearing them. I can only tell you that the love that Mikhalangelo and
Margarethe held for one another was very great, as great as that which you have for
one another. They were full of promise, those two brave souls, a promise that was
unfulfilled."
"It sounds like a sad story."
"Yes, parts of it are sad. But there is hope in it as well. And triumph." He fell silent,
thinking. "The story is not over yet, and I will not tell you what you would like to
know."
"I didn't imagine you would, Varzil."
"You are a very clever woman, Margarethe, very quick."
"Am I? I feel more like a puppet with every passing moment."
Varzil gave a deep sigh, and slowly sat up on his couch. The blankets slipped down,
revealing his gray robe. Sitting up, they could see he was not a tall man, and his bones
seemed very fragile beneath his garments.
He reached out and took the box from the old woman, and then just looked at the
verdigrised bracelets in silence. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, as if he had
forgotten their presence. Then he roused himself, straightening thin shoulders with an
effort.
"Tell me, Varzil, were you going to give your ring to this Mikhalangelo?" Mikhail was
not certain why that question popped into his mind, but it did, and he wanted to know
the answer.
"No, I was not. I realized only after he was taken what I must do, and it has cost me
greatly to bear the knowledge and the waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
"Waiting for you to destroy the Tower of Mirrors, Margarethe, for without that shadow
matrix which rests in your flesh, this scheme would come to naught. You do not know
yet what you possess, and I cannot tell you, except that it—not I—made time your
plaything. And I know time, as much as any mortal can. More, it foiled Ashara's plans
as well."
Marguerida laughed. "Well, I am all for foiling that bitch, in any time and any place,
for what she did to me, and to all those other poor women she overshadowed and used.
I think you have it wrong, though. I think that I am time's toy, not the other way
around."
Varzil nodded. "Sometimes it is difficult to tell one end of the stick from the other.
Now, let us begin. Remove your silken glove, Margarethe, and you, Mikhalangelo,
take out your matrix."
With some reluctance, Mikhail reached under his tunic and pulled out his matrix stone.
He saw, from the corner of his eye, Marguerida strip the mitt back, revealing the blue
lines that ran from knuckle to wrist. In the dim light, they appeared darker and more
powerful. He wondered if it was only his eyes, or whether her training at Arilinn and
Neskaya had intensified her strength.
Mikhail withdrew his matrix from its wrappings, and looked at it. It was a modest
stone, as befitted his modest
laran,
and he glanced at the ring sparkling on Varzil's
hand.
This was insane. He knew that no one could touch anoth-
er's starstone without risk of shock—sometimes fatal shock—to both parties. He was
certain he was not strong enough to control the energies which coursed between the
lambent facets of Varzil’s extraordinary and dangerous jewel.
Mikhail took a long breath, forming a protest in his mind, thinking as quickly as he
could. If he did as Varzil asked, he would surely die.. What good would it do to marry
Marguerida, if he perished in the deed?
Mikhail opened his mouth to speak, and found his throat parched again. He tried to
swallow and could not. The blood pounded in his skull, and he wondered if he was
going to pass out. But the weakness passed, and instead he felt a sudden, unexplained
sense of strength coursing along his veins, as if he had slept for a week and eaten two
dozen meals.
But though his body felt renewed, his heart quailed before the fear that swept through
him, gnawing at him, tormenting him. He remembered how he had been enthralled for
weeks by Emelda, and how the little hedge-witch had toyed with him. He had had to
prevail on his sister to rescue him—the deep shame still rankled.
Mikhail took a mental step back, looking at his position with a kind of cold remoteness
he had never known he possessed. Why should he trust this doddering ancient, or even
his beloved—a half-trained woman with an enigmatic tool of power branded into her
in the overworld? He had no answer, no certainty, only a pale hope which seemed to
him a frail thing, unworthy of dependence.
Varzil was watching him, his eyes rheumy, but filled with compassion, as if he sensed
the war that raged in Mikhail's soul. Of course—Varzil was of the Ridenow, and their
Gift was that of empathy! He did not want that, or sympathy either! All he wished for
was to be gone from this place and time, to be anywhere else, where his choices were
not so dire, where it did not feel as if his very soul were being rent and riven.
Marguerida flexed her hand then, drawing his attention with the gesture, and he saw
the lines on it flash with luminescence, as if lightning were playing across her pale
skin. He glanced at her face and found her eyes unfocused, in-
ward looking, and her mouth was twisted as if she held back some terrible sound.
Small beads of sweat broke out under the tumble of curls on her brow, gleaming
wetness glittering in the soft light that rose from her hand, casting flickering shadows
across her prominent nose and tight-lipped mouth.
Mikhail realized that she was fighting her own demons, just as he had been a moment
before. The sight of her silent struggle was unnerving—he did not want to know what
tormented her. But if she could face it, then he must, too, to be worthy of her. No—to
be worthy of himself!
Children, attend me now!
Mikhail tried to resist the command, but could not. He felt his eyes turn away from
Marguerida, and come to rest on the calm face of the old man. His features were
somehow different, younger, smoother and more defined, as if he had moved back in
time.
Behind Varzil he saw the serving woman: She was standing on the far side of the
couch, and she had her hands on his shoulders. Mikhail could almost feel the strength
flowing from her into the old man, and his face grew younger each second. There was
something about the way she was supporting Varzil that seemed very significant,
something he yearned to understand. He stared, and as he looked, the crone's face