Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley
The soft light of a winter morning crept through the windows of the dining room,
rousing the sleepers who had remained there through the night. The fire was nearly
out, and the sour smell of the stale food remaining on the table pervaded the chamber.
There were other odors as well, for Alain had soiled himself during his seizures, and
one of the girls had vomited. No one had the energy to cope with the mess.
Mikhail looked around, swallowing in a dry and foul mouth. His muscles ached, and
the place where Emelda had scratched him itched furiously. He was filled with a
profound sense of failure and shame. It took all his will to banish these emotions and
order his weary mind to function. He knew that as tired as he was, if he gave in to his
jangled feelings, he would make even more mistakes.
The Guardsmen seemed the least affected by the events of the previous night. They
were waking up, with the exception of Daryll who had managed to remain alert and on
watch until dawn, stretching their legs, yawning, grunting, and generally behaving as if
the dining room of Halyn House were a barrack. Mikhail rallied himself enough to
direct his mind to the tasks at hand.
"Get the horses fed, and prepare to leave in a few hours."
"What are we going to do about her?" This was Tomas, and he was pointing at the
snoring figure of Emelda, still bound in her chair. She looked small and harmless.
"I haven't decided yet."
Valenta was sitting up in her bundle of blankets, watching Mikhail with red-rimmed
eyes. "She killed Ysaba, you know. Pushed her down the stairs."
"What? You . . . you told me she went away."
"That's what we were supposed to say. They both killed her—my mother and Emelda
—and buried her under the hedge. They thought no one knew, but I saw them. That's
why the crows keep coming around. They can smell the—" Suddenly Valenta's small
face crumpled into tears. "I liked Ysaba!" she whimpered.
"When did this happen?"
"This spring. They told everyone she had left suddenly, but I knew that she was dead in
the garden." She began to sob in earnest, and Liriel, rubbing sleep from reddened eyes,
reached out to comfort the younger Elhalyn girl.
Mikhail was stunned now. He did not doubt Val's tale, for it was all too consistent with
the general madness of Halyn House. He was lucky, he realized, that he had not come
to a similar fate, remembering the way his mind had clouded when he was at the
quintain. It would have seemed an unfortunate accident, and no one would have
suspected anything.
With or without her bit of crystal, Emelda was clearly a dangerous person. But for all
practical purposes he was the law here and could dispose of her as he chose. Mikhail
had never been in such a position before, and found he did not like it at all. The power
of life and death did not rest easily on his shoulders, and he knew that he would never
be suited to that responsibility.
Duncan, who had slept in the kitchen, appeared, his lined hands trembling. He seemed
to have aged a decade during the night. But he drew himself up, and looked at Mikhail.
"You take the children away, and I will take care of the
domna."
"The
domna
is dead, Duncan," Mikhail answered.
"I know that. It is the kindest thing for her. I will dig her a grave before the ground is
too hard, and put her to rest. I put her on her first pony, and her father before her. I owe
her . . ." His voice trailed off for a second. "She was not always so. Once she was a
fine woman."
"But you -cannot remain here, you and the nurses and Ian."
"Oh, we'll manage. We can always go to the village." He looked at the children, who
were white-faced, and exhausted, and shook his head. "Take them away from here,
vai
dom."
"I intend to." He hesitated for a moment, then asked, "Duncan, do you know what the
Guardian is?"
The old retainer frowned. "It's the father of them girls, it is." He gestured one gnarled
hand at Mira and Val. "I think it is, anyhows." He seemed reluctant to continue.
That explains a great deal, Mik. A
chieri—
a very old one I suspect. The Ghost Wind
must have . . .
Yes, it does, Liriel. But how did she ever convince herself that it would make her
immortal?
At the risk of seeming prejudiced, I will only say that she was Elhalyn to the bone,
dear brother. And we will never know the entire story
—
a shame, really.
You are right. But at least part of the mystery is solved, and now we can leave the poor
old thing in peace and quiet.
The rest of the early morning was- spent in preparing for the journey. Clothes were
gathered, and blankets as well. They ate a hasty meal of unhoneyed and creamless
porridge in silence. Afterward, the Guardsmen began loading the carriage. The
children were tense with apprehension, even Vincent, and Mikhail was uncertain what
he ought to say to them. They seemed to understand that their mother was gone, but
there was no emotional reaction he could discover, unless it was relief. He would deal
with it later, he decided.
It was a chaotic morning, after a frightening and tiring night, and his nerves were
strung to the breaking point. Only Mikhail's great sense of responsibility kept him from
snapping at the men, at Liriel, or from doing violence to Emelda. He had never wanted
to injure another person; his seething rage startled him, and disturbed him more than a
little.
What should I do about Emelda, Liri?
That's a good question, and one that I don't have a ready answer for. If we leave her
here, she will likely find some further mischief to get into, and I don't fancy a trip back
to Thendara with her.
Quite! And what should we do with that crystal of hers? I dislike the idea of leaving a
trap-matrix just lying around. Even if the fire neutralized it, I suspect it could be used
again.
Hmm, yes. My brain feels full of lead this morning, brother. And my eyes itch! I think
the starstone must be
destroyed, first of all. A hammer on the anvil should be good enough.
But what will that do to Emelda?
Smash the stone! If she dies, she dies!
Liriel!
I lack the patience to worry about anyone except the children. I monitored them last
night and they appeared well enough, considering. But this morning Vincent is
showing signs of a head injury
—
from banging his noggin against the wall, most likely
—
and there is nothing I can do about it! It could be a mild concussion, or something
much more serious. And Alain . . . is gone.
Gone? He looks all right to me.
Oh, his body is fine, but I think when his mother died, he nearly died, too. His mind
was very fragile to start with. I believe that it was destroyed when
...
Mikhail was overwhelmed with a fresh rush of feeling. He felt the leaden weight of
responsibility for the sudden death of Priscilla Elhalyn, for Alain's ruined mind. The
sense of failure he had managed to repress during their morning's preparations
returned, and he felt as if he were fighting with that part of himself that knew how
worthless he truly was. He struggled to silence the voice of that other Mikhail,
wondering how he was going to explain the death of Priscilla to Regis Hastur. If only
he could banish his shadow self—but it refused to be dislodged. Mikhail felt trapped in
a dark cave of fear and disgust at his own shortcomings.
The mire of misery within him lasted for several minutes. Then, summoning all his
willpower, he pulled himself together, used the fire tongs to remove the shining crystal
from where it sat among the ashes, and stomped out through the kitchen, toward the
stables.
The sky was clear, but he could see thick clouds toward the north. Weatherwise as he
was, he hoped the storm would hold off for the rest of the day, and perhaps into the
next. The snow from the previous storm was marred by the boots of the men, churned
and soiled; this evidence of people other than himself was immensely heartening. The
air smelled clean after the smoky atmosphere of the house, and the cold of it chilled his
face. He stopped and
drew deep breaths, letting the cold 'air brace him. It felt good.
As he approached the hedge which separated the garden from the way to the stable, he
saw the great sea crow regarding him with a bright eye. It lifted its wings, so the white
of the edges flashed in the pale sunlight, then gave a deep caw.
"I wish I had been able to understand you," Mikhail told the bird, feeling mildly
embarrassed to be speaking to it. The crow withdrew its wings and hunched them back
against its body, so it appeared to shrug. It seemed to be saying, "You did the best you
could."
It was such a human gesture that Mikhail laughed, the sound startling in the stillness of
the morning. It felt good to laugh, and the crow did not appear to mind. Then it flew
away, and he continued on his way to the stables.
The stables smelled of manure and straw, and the warm scent of horses. He could hear
the voices of the men nearby, and the welcoming neigh of Charger. It was all
reassuringly ordinary. Things like ancient
chieri
and trap-matrices belonged to the
night, not the day. His way was clear at last. And as curious as he was to discover more
about the being that lived at the springs, Mikhail had no wish to disturb it further.
He was glad that he had the children to look after. It was almost miraculous that they
had survived. He was grateful that they had come through that dreadful night alive.
And once he broke the matrix dangling from .his fingers, Emelda would be no more
trouble.
He walked toward the anvil which stood at the far end of the stable. His horse nickered
as he passed by, a disappointed noise. "I'll see to you soon, I promise," he told the big
bay.
Mikhail placed the shining stone on the dark iron of the anvil, and picked up a medium
hammer that was nearby. Even in the dimness of the stable it shone with its own light,
clear evidence that while the fire might have cleansed it, it was still potent. He could
smell the forge, where the horseshoes were made, a pleasant, ashy odor. He hefted the
hammer, then paused. He was reluctant to complete his task. Choices were easy, he
thought, but consequences were not. And hadn't he made a royal mess of things,
without
adding to it by possibly killing that miserable little woman who remained bound and
gagged in the dining room.
It was not that he had never killed before, for he had hunted bandits in the hills above
Ardais with young Dyan. But those were men, and dangerous ones at that. This was
different, not because Emelda was a woman, though that feature bothered him more
than a little. Mikhail had been taught to treat matrix stones with respect, and he had
never considered destroying one before. Then he remembered what he knew of the
Sharra Rebellion, and how that ancient matrix had nearly destroyed Darkover, and
decisively brought his arm up, then down, hard.
The hammer struck the gleaming stone, and it shattered into several small shards.
Mikhail smashed these into dust, feeling a rush of liberty, as if he were at last free of
something which had held him in check. Then he swept the twinkling bits into the
ashes of the forge, and stirred them in. As he put the hammer back on the wall, where it
belonged, he felt released from his waking dream. He was once again Mikhail Hastur,
and had duties to attend to.
Everything was ready by midmorning. Mikhail, mounted on Charger, turned back in
his saddle for one last look at Halyn House. Already it looked sad and deserted,
although Duncan and the rest of Priscilla Elhalyn's servants were still within. There
was a faint wisp of smoke rising from the kitchen chimney. He was not sorry to be
seeing the last of the place, but he wished that things could have turned out less
tragically. Priscilla Elhalyn was dead, and Emelda, while she still breathed, was no
longer any danger to anyone. Destroying the stone had left her witless, as mindless as
poor young Alain Elhalyn seemed to be. He could only hope that the healers at Arilinn
could do something for the boy. Mikhail had considered dragging the soothsayer back
to Thendara, but the carriage was crammed already, and he did not really think his
resources could be stretched any further. Good servant that he was, Duncan would
probably look after her for as long as she remained alive. And Regis would certainly
send people there to attend to matters.
Mikhail turned back and signaled the driver to start out. At that moment he heard a
rush of wings, and the great crow flew toward him, cawing noisily. "Have you come to
say good-bye to us?" he called. He ignored the surprised looks from Tomas and Will,
and the grin he got from Daryll and Mathias. They thought the bird was a fine jest.