Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley
blurred, then transformed. The woman grew fair and young, as Varzil had, and a
brightness shone from her flesh. .
Mikhail had to drop his eyes then, for the radiance of the woman was too great. It was
not that his eyes could not bear the light, but that his soul could not. And as he looked
down, he grasped what he had been struggling to understand. There was no shame or
loss of manliness in taking support from a woman—but it must never be taken for
granted or abused. It was a gift, one he had never imagined existed, and the sense of it
rocked him to the core.
Mikhail could feel the light of the other woman, filling the room, and his knees bent
without his volition. He felt himself kneel on the cold stone floor, so consumed by awe
he was certain his heart would cease beating. He lifted his eyes to the uncanny
brightness, and saw a soft
smile that swept away everything, all fear and doubt. He could have basked in that
gentle gaze until the end of time.
His hand was closed around his starstone, and he thought it a tawdry thing, unworthy
of the presence which held him in its grasp. He was trembling all over. Distantly,
Mikhail was aware of the emptiness in the pit of his stomach, of the cold stones against
his knees, and the ache of muscles. But those mundane concerns seemed to belong to
another man, another time.
Then he felt Marguerida's right hand on his wrist, her cool, soft fingers touching his
flesh. His body ceased its dreadful rictus at her touch, and he could sense her awe
moving through him, and his through her. It was a moment of joining more intimate
than anything he could ever have imagined.
She was kneeling beside him, and a quick glance at her face revealed a joy that
reflected his own. Her eyes were bright with tears, and they trickled down her cheeks
and dribbled onto the collar of her tunic. He could feel Marguerida grounding his
rising emotions, supporting his burgeoning strength in an echo of the figure behind
Varzil.
We are gathered to join this woman, Margarethe of Wind-haven, and this man, Mikhal
Raven of Ridenow, called the Angel of the Serrais, into one person, one soul, one mind,
and one heart. We invoke the blessings of the gods upon this union. Margarethe, do
you vow to honor this man in body and mind, all the days of your life?
Mikhail waited, for there was no response from Marguer-ida for what seemed like an
age of the world. At the same time, he noticed that the form of ritual Varzil was using
was one which he had never heard before, one which omitted words he was
accustomed to. The names were wrong too, and he pondered that as well. Then he
realized that in this time and place those were the only names that Varzil knew to call
them. Or, perhaps, there was some more complex reason for concealing their identities.
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