Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley
for so long that she could barely stand to experience them. She needed to keep her wits
about her, but it was hard.
Tenderness, it seemed, was a much more powerful feeling than she had ever imagined,
What she felt as she coiled a golden curl around her finger and then ran it down the
exquisite curve of Mikhail's ear was that, and much more. Margaret had never felt such
peace, except in music. She decided to enjoy it while it lasted, knowing full well that
feelings shifted and transformed between one breath and the next, that they were rarely
constant. She would have liked to continue in this mood forever, but she was wise
enough to know it could not last.
In a rush of wings, the great sea crow alighted on Mikhail's hip. It croaked a greeting.
"Where the hell have you been?" she snarled. It stared at her with a beady red eye and
cawed a response which left her still in the dark. At the same time, there was an air
about the dratted bird. It looked quite smug, Margaret decided at last.
Then, through the steady patter of rain, Margaret heard the sound of hoofbeats, the
jingle of bridles, and the creak of leather saddles. The noise made her mouth go dry
with fear, and her heart thudded. What if it was Ashara!
She pulled Mikhail's still soggy cloak over him, hoping its brown coloring would hide
him. The shadows of the branches fell across him. She yanked her hood up again,
hiding the pale sheen of her skin, and tucked her hands away. The terror hammered in
her blood, and she held her breath until her ears rang, and she felt dizzy and sick. She
gasped for air. If only she could become invisible!
The crow betrayed her with a flap of wings and a greeting
call, as it flew from beneath the tree and toward the sound of the oncoming riders.
Margaret crouched over Mikhail's body, trying to shield him against she knew not
what. For a moment she completely forgot she had any weapons, that she could defend
herself. Then she remembered the bandits. The helplessness left her, replaced by the
grim determination to defend her husband, or die trying.
Margaret held her breath again and heard the sound of several people dismounting, the
squishy noise of boots in mud, and the rustle of wet cloaks. She heard a woman's
voice, speaking to the crow, and listened as it replied. She went cold all over. She bit
her lower lip while she clutched Mikhail's shoulders beneath his coverings.
The sound drew nearer, and after a minute, she could
see several pair of trousered legs, and the dark red boots
that came from the Dry Towns beneath them. There was
mud on the boots, and splashes on the trousers, as if they
had ridden hard. ;
A head bent down, a woman's round face peering beneath the branches, curious and
cautious. As soon as Margaret saw the short-cropped hair, the plain face, and the well-
worn sword belt that hung around the waist of the stranger, she knew that the woman
was a Renunciate. The breath she had been holding released with a little gasp. The
crow had not betrayed them, but had brought help.
Other faces joined the first, weathered ones, the skin roughened by sun and snow. Then
the first woman smiled, showing several missing teeth, and she crouched down to
bring herself to eye level with Margaret. "Greetings,
domna."
She seemed to
understand Margaret's wariness, for she made no move to draw closer.
"Greetings, and well met." She hoped they were, for she remembered that Rafaella had
told her the Renunciates had been mercenary soldiers, for hire to the many kingdoms
which had dotted the land before the formalization of the Compact.
"I am Damila n'ha Bethenyi. We were passing, and your fine bird flew onto the
shoulder of our
breda,
Morall, and told her of your distress." She chuckled softly.
"Nearly knocked her out of the saddle."
"He does that sometimes, but,
Mestra
Damila—
told her?"
"Morall has the beast-speak
laran, domna.
May we assist you? You seem to be sitting
in a puddle, and that cannot be comfortable."
"No, it isn't." She shifted the cloak away from Mikhail's face. "My husband is ill." It
was the first time she had said the word aloud, and it felt very strange on her tongue.
His right hand slipped down, clenched into a fist, and she noticed that the great jewel
was hidden, that only the metal of the band was visible on his finger. Margaret held
back a shudder at the thought of Varzil's matrix touching Mikhail's flesh, then relaxed a
little. It was no longer Varzil's stone, but some amazing conjunction between two
matrices, one of which was keyed to Mikhail. That was why he was not dead, but only
unconscious. And perhaps witless, but she did not dare think about that.
One of the other women laughed uproariously. "Well, we did not think you were
trysting in the rain!" The rest of the group seemed to find this highly amusing, and
Margaret was very surprised when she found herself laughing as well. The terror and
despair which had gripped her faded away, leaving her only cold, hungry, and
exhausted.
Two of the Renunciates crawled beneath the low branches of the tree, rolled Mikhail
off her lap, wound his cloak about him, and dragged him out. As Margaret crept out
stiffly from beneath the tree, another woman bent over him. She peeled back an eyelid
and gave a grunt. "What ails him?" she asked.
"Matrix shock, I believe." How else could she describe what had occurred?
"I see." The answer seemed to satisfy the stranger, and Margaret felt relieved. "We
must make a litter, and get him to shelter as quickly as possible. You there, Jonil, see to
the cutting of some branches, the straightest you can find, and Karis, you tear up some
blankets for bindings."
Margaret watched in a daze. She barely grasped what was going on around her, except
that Mikhail was being taken care of. She wanted to help, but lacked the strength to
move.
It was not until he had been hoisted onto a hastily constructed litter that she found
herself able to stir. Margaret went over to Mikhail's unconscious form. She tucked both
his hands down into the sides of the litter, then fussed with
the arrangement of the blankets, to conceal her real purpose. He stirred and groaned a
little at her touch, as if he were trying to climb out of whatever depths he had fallen
into. She bent forward and kissed his cold cheek. "It will be all right, my love," she
whispered.
Damila said, "We will go to the old El Haliene place."
Margaret jumped at the sound of that name. "Where?" She hardly wanted to meet any
of Amalie's relatives, or anyone else just then.
"I see you don't know it—been abandoned for years, since
Dom
Padriac's father built
the new keep. No one uses it except us Sisters."
"Thank you,
breda."
She used the inflection which meant "kinswoman," and prayed
she had it right. That little word had more meanings than a cat had lives, and some of
them were more intimate than others. "Is it very far?"
Damila looked surprised, and she peered at Margaret in the light rain. Apparently her
use of the word was unexpected. "Oh, ten or eleven miles. The country is rough, but
we know our way."
Margaret nodded. Then she drew herself onto the soaked leather of her saddle,
shivered all over, and tried to prepare herself for a long, wet ride. The crow alighted on
her pommel and settled into place. "You are a very fine fellow, a king of crows," she
told it, "and I will see that you have a nice, fresh mouse or two for your supper, if I
have to catch the things myself!"
One of the woman now mounted grinned. "He thanks you for the thought, but he
would prefer some fish."
"Of course. How foolish of me." It was immensely reassuring to speak of nothing more
remarkable than the antics of Mikhail's bird, and something taut within her released its
grip. She took several deep breaths, let herself feel relieved, and twisted her neck back
and forth to ease the tension.
Margaret looked around, trying to find any trace of the round stone house which had
been there a few hours before. All she saw was weeds and a few stones, the remains of
several burned timbers, and the broken glass of a long vanished window. There was no
trace of the low wall they had crossed. It seemed to be just an empty bit of earth
with a few trees growing in it. Another mystery she would probably never solve.
She forced her chilled hands around the reins, and prepared to follow her rescuers. Part
of her was relieved, and the rest of her settled into worrying about Mikhail. Damila,
apparently the leader of this band of women, drew her horse beside Margaret's. "It will
be all right,
domna."
"Thank you for coming," she murmured, almost too tired to speak now. All she wanted
was dry clothes and some food. And to have Mikhail safe. It seemed a great deal, at
that moment. Margaret let her mind collapse into exhaustion, clucked the dun mare
forward, and started after the women.
29
Mt was close to dusk when they rode into the ruins. Margaret was too cold and wet to
do more than glance around at the stone buildings. There was a lonely and desolate air
to the place, but the walls of the remaining structures seemed sound enough.
Margaret dismounted quickly, and her knees gave way, sending her sprawling into a
puddle. She struggled to her feet. She was already so wet and muddy that it did not
matter.
One of the Sisters led her mare away. At the same time, two others carried the litter
through a dark doorway. Margaret hurried after them and nearly stumbled on the
sodden hem of her cloak.
Margaret found herself standing just inside an immense kitchen, not unlike the one at
Armida. There were two hearths, one on each side of the room, and each one large
enough to roast an ox. Little slit-windows were set high on the walls, and as her eyes
adjusted to the faint light coming through them, she saw a beehive-shaped oven against
one wall. There was a long table in the middle of the room, its wood covered with dust,
cracked here and there. Benches ran along both sides of it. It must have been a
welcoming place once. Now it just seemed damp and gloomy.
There were high rafters overhead, and a continuous, soft noise from them. Margaret
realized that the floor was covered in droppings, and she looked up and saw
movement, flashes of white and gray, on the smoke-darkened beams. Pigeons or doves,
she was not sure which.
Morall, the beast-speaker, followed her glance. She smacked her lips and said,
"Supper!" Her thick eyebrows drew together, and she gazed fixedly at the rafters. A
dozen or more birds flew down, and Margaret turned away, as
Moral! efficiently wrung their slender necks. She knew it was silly, but she preferred
not to see her dinner alive before she ate it.
For several minutes, she stood just inside the doorway, out of the way of the bustling
women, and did not move. The Sisters were going about their tasks briskly, and the
pleasant smell of burning wood began to drive away the dank and musty smell of the
old keep. They had put Mikhail on the floor, to the side of one fireplace, and taken
away his drenched blankets. The woman who had examined him was tugging his boots
off, and tucking dry covers over him.
Margaret finally noticed she was shivering. With a great effort, she removed her cloak
and hung it on a peg on the wall. Her clothes were cold and clammy, and her hair
dripped down her back. She pulled her leather gloves off, and pulled the butterfly clasp
out of her hair. Somehow it had managed to remain on her head, which seemed a
minor miracle under the circumstances. She shoved it into her pouch, and plucked out
the hairpins that still clung to her fine curls. After she wrung as much water out of her
hair as she could, she wound it up into a knot on the top of her head, and pinned it into
place. She did not care if she was being immodest—she wasn't going to have wet hair
on her neck!
The woman who was tending Mikhail came towards her. "You must get out of those
wet clothes,
domna.
Come with me."
Dumbly, Margaret followed her to a small, cold chamber that smelled of long vanished
meats and cheeses. She felt totally detached from the situation, as if she were
dreaming. The woman opened a bundle of fabric and pulled out something long and
white. She shook out the folds and smiled. "Get out of those things,
domna.
You will
catch your death of cold." She spoke as one would to a child, and indeed, Margaret felt
very much like one.
The effort to obey was almost too great. The buckle on her belt seemed a monstrous
puzzle, and even the knots in her drawstrings were difficult. One by one, Margaret's
garments came off, each sopping layer clinging to the one beneath. The yet unnamed
woman was indifferent to Mar-
garet's near nakedness, and she was just too tired to be self-conscious.