His grin grew wider and happier as he clasped her hand. “That’s all. The invocations and gestures have already been made. And the ability is born, not made. All you have to do is move with me.” Balancing himself on the knee of his truncated leg, he got his left foot under him. “And” – his expression sobered slightly – “watch your step.”
He began to push himself backward, drawing her with him.
As he did so, his right calf disappeared by inches: the flat plane remained stationary, so that as he slid his knee backward more and more of his leg was cut off. He seemed to be using his foot and leg to probe a place behind him – a place that didn’t exist.
When his right leg reached far enough, he was able to straighten his knee. Smiling and nodding to Terisa, slowly pulling her after him, he raised himself until he was almost upright. “You might find it easier,” he said, “if you close your eyes.” Then he shifted his weight to the other leg.
At that moment, his face went wide with dismay as he lost his balance and started to fall.
His plunge wrenched her forward, toward the wall – toward the plane where first his leg and now his entire body seemed to vanish. Instinctively, she tried to jerk free. But though he flailed for support, his hand held hers in a grip she couldn’t break. She tried to cry out, flung up her arm to ward off the impact—
The last thing she saw of her apartment was the splotched plaster where her broken mirror had once been glued. While she was still trying to release the cry of panic trapped in her throat, her marginal grasp on actuality failed, and she faded out of existence.
At once, she passed into a zone of transition where time and distance contradicted themselves. She felt eternity in an instant – or maybe she felt an instant that took forever. Her fall became a vast and elongated plummet down from or up to the heights of the world, even though the plunge carried her no more than half a step forward. She studied the sudden darkness intimately, despite the fact that it was so brief she could hardly have noticed it.
And then, with the same sensation of instantaneous eternity, of huge brevity, she saw Geraden again: he seemed to snap back into existence as though he had been lit to life by the abrupt orange illumination of the lamps and torches.
She recognized it – and immediately forgot it.
He was still falling, his face stretched in consternation; he had misjudged the step behind him. And his hand still gripped hers. She couldn’t recover. Even if she had been braced, she might not have been strong enough to stop his collapse toward the gray flagstones.
So she landed on top of him. Because she was trying to get her arms between herself and the impact, she accidentally planted an elbow in his stomach as she hit. His mouth gaped pain, and the breath burst from his lungs. But his body protected her: she flopped onto him and then off again. As a result, she came to rest on her back beside him, her face turned toward the massive old vaulted stone ceiling.
For a moment, the perceptual wrench had the effect of blindness: she stared upward as though she hadn’t observed the difference between this place and her apartment. Past her feet, and up two steps from her sprawling position, stood a large mirror in a polished wooden frame. The glass was nearly as tall as she was; it was tinted with a color that only showed at the edges of its surface; instead of being made flat it had been given a faintly rippling curve. On some level, she was aware that what she saw reflected in the mirror wasn’t the ceiling above her or the wall behind her. It also wasn’t the living room of her apartment. Yet in other ways she was no more conscious of the mirror than she was of the stone on which she lay.
Then, distinctly, she heard someone say, “Where did you get her?”
“You were invisible in the mirror. How did you do that?”
“Where did you go?”
Slowly through her stunned surprise leaked the information that she was stretched on the floor in the center of a circle of men.
What? She thought dumbly, her throat choked with astonishment. A circle of men. Where?
There must have been twenty or thirty of them, all staring down at her. At a glance, she saw that some of them were old and others weren’t: all of them were older than she was. They wore a variety of cloaks and robes, cassocks and jerkins – warm clothing to compensate for the coolness of the air. Each of them, however, had a chasuble of yellow satin draped around his neck.
Some of them peered at her in amazement and horror. She felt that way herself. “Fool!” one of them rasped. Another muttered, “This is impossible.”
Others were laughing.
At her side, Geraden gaped for air. A delicate shade of purple spread up from his corded neck over the tight lines of his cheeks.
“Well, Apt,” one of the laughing men said through his mirth, “here is another fine disaster.” He was tall, strongly built in spite of his leanness. His nose was too big; his cheekbones were too narrow, too flatly sloped toward his ears; his black hair formed an unruly thatch on the back of his skull, leaving his forehead bald. But the humor and intelligence in his pale eyes made him keenly attractive. He was wrapped in a jet cloak, which he wore with an air of insouciance. The ends of his chasuble hung as if he might start twirling them at any moment. “With all the realm in danger, we send you questing for a champion to save us. But for you this is nothing more than an opportunity for dalliance.
“My lady,” he went on, addressing Terisa, “it may be that you found young Geraden appealing enough to lure you here. But now that you are here, I think you will discover that Mordant has better men to offer.” With a laughing flourish, he bowed over her formally and extended his hand to help her to her feet.
Mordant, she echoed in the same dumb, choked surprise. He did it. He actually brought me to Mordant.
Geraden whooped a breath and began to pull air past the knot in his stomach.
Instinctively, Terisa turned toward him. At the same time, however, one of the men who hadn’t been laughing crouched beside Geraden. This man had a face the color and texture of a pine board. His eyebrows were as thick and stiff as bracken, but there was no other hair on his head anywhere. His girth appeared to be nearly as great as his height. “Shame, Master Eremis,” he muttered, reaching one heavy arm under Geraden’s head and shoulders to support the young man as he hacked for breath. “Find some other cause for amusement. What has happened here is either disaster or miracle. Certainly it is unprecedented. It needs seriousness.”
Master Eremis’ smile reached halfway to his ears. “Master Barsonage, you have no sense of play. What can any man or Master do about Apt Geraden’s pratfalls and confusions except laugh?” He turned his attention back to Terisa. His offer of help hadn’t wavered. “My lady?”
“We can weep, Master Eremis,” a guttural voice responded from the circle. “You have admitted yourself that we are doomed if we do not find the champion augured for us. I care nothing for King Joyse and his petty realm” – at this, the thick man supporting Geraden made a hissing noise through his teeth – “and I do not care who knows it. Let him sink into senility, and let Alend and Cadwal butcher each other for the right to replace him. But we have no other hope, the Congery of Imagers. This blighted Apt has just failed us.”
Terisa wanted to turn to see who had spoken. But she was held by the smile and the eyes and the extended hand of Master Eremis. He was looking at her, at her, as if she were real – as if she were really present in this high chamber of cut stone, where the air held a tang of winter and the light came from oil lamps and a few torches; impossibly present here when she had no physical right to be anywhere at all except back in her apartment, staring at herself alone in her mirrors.
The magnetism of his look compelled her. She couldn’t refuse him; he gave her the tangible existence she had always doubted. Gazing back at him in surprise and wonder, she let him take her hand and draw her easily to her feet.
“You’re wrong,” Geraden coughed. His color was improving. With Master Barsonage’s help, he tried to sit up. “All of
you. She’s the right one.”
The reaction was loud and immediate: most of the men started talking at once.
“What? A woman? Impossible.”
“Are you blind? Look at her. She isn’t even armed.”
“This is not the champion you were sent to bring. Do you think we are as foolish as you?”
“But this proves it! Think of the implications. King Joyse and Adept Havelock are right. They are alive.”
“Leave the boy alone. I’m sure this was just another accident.”
The guttural voice added, “What nonsense. Do not be irresponsible. You have made a ruin out of our trust. Do not try to disguise your failure by pretending success.” Terisa saw the speaker now: he was a heavyset man with a crooked back, hands that looked strong enough to break stones, a white beard spattered with flecks of black, and a fleshy scowl etched permanently onto his face. To the other Masters, he concluded, “I argued and argued that we should not pin our hope on this hapless puppy, but I was outvoted. This” – he pointed a finger as massive as the peen of a hammer at Terisa – “is the result.”
Master Eremis laughed again and made a placating gesture. But before he could reply, Geraden protested, “No, Master Gilbur.” Coughing, he struggled out of Master Barsonage’s hold and pushed himself to his feet. “It isn’t my fault this time. Think about it –”
Unfortunately, the attempt to stand, talk, and cough simultaneously confused his balance. He stepped on one of his own feet and fell to the side, pitching heavily against two Imagers. They were barely able to catch him. Several men guffawed; this time Terisa could hear their bitterness. They had seen him do things like this before.
When he regained his balance, he was flushed and glowering with embarrassment.
“Apt Geraden,” Master Eremis said kindly, “you have not had an easy time of this. But what is done is done – and we are no nearer to the champion we need than we were when you began. It might be wiser if you did not vex the Congery further by arguing against the obvious.”
Grimly, Geraden straightened the disarray of his jerkin. “What’s obvious,” he began sourly, “is that I haven’t gone wrong the way you believe. You haven’t considered –”
“Boy,” Master Barsonage growled behind him, “watch your tone. We are Masters here. We are not required to hear the insolence of an Apt.”
At once, chagrin rushed over the anger and embarrassment in Geraden’s face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean –” He flung a look of misery and contrition at Barsonage. “But this is so important.”
“We are aware of what is important,” rasped the heavyset man, Master Gilbur. “Credit us with that minimum of intelligence. The rest we will be able to reason for ourselves.”
Terisa was only marginally attentive to what was being said. As soon as Eremis stopped looking at her, she was nearly overcome by a sense of unreality. None of this was possible. Where was she really? Was this what happened when her tendency to fade away was pushed to its conclusion? Deliberately, she concentrated on what she could see, trying to convince herself of her surroundings.
She had her back to the mirror on the stone dais: instinctively, she felt that was one glass into which she didn’t wish to glance. Master Eremis had positioned her in an almost proprietary way at his side; the rest of the Imagers were clustered around Geraden, Barsonage, and Gilbur. And they all stood near the open center – the dais itself occupied the center – of a large, round chamber with a flagstone floor. Crude-hewn gray granite formed the walls and ceiling. Several huge torches burned in sconces set around the distant walls; but most of the light came from oil lamps hanging from the four thick pillars that supported the high vaults of the ceiling. Within the area marked by the pillars, the center of the chamber was ringed by a carved wooden railing with benches like pews outside it, facing inward. The benches could have seated forty or fifty people.
This, she guessed, was the official meeting hall of the Congery of Imagers. That seemed reasonable – which was good. If it were reasonable, it might also be real.
She would have liked to wander away from the group of men, do a little exploring on her own. But part of her did hear what the Masters were saying. She heard the appeal in Geraden’s voice, the weight of sarcasm with which Master Gilbur responded. Though she had only known Geraden for – what was it? ten minutes now? twenty at the most – she felt loyal to him. He had talked and listened to her and smiled as if she actually existed. Meeting the flustered contrite-and-urgent supplication in his eyes, she said to the Masters, “I think you ought to give him a chance. There must be some reason why I agreed to come with him.”
At once, she winced inwardly and wanted to apologize to Geraden, because Master Eremis let out a peal of laughter. “There must indeed, my lady,” he chortled. “I was wrong to speak of dalliance, for that surely was no part of this Apt’s appeal. He has many virtues, but grace and wit are not among them. Since we have no reason to believe that you were brought by force, there must indeed be some reason why you are with him.” Several of the Imagers chuckled at Eremis’s jest; but Geraden could do nothing except duck his head to hide his misery. “Well, speak, Geraden,” the Master went on. “What is it that you believe we have not considered?”
For a moment, Terisa thought that Geraden would refuse to answer. She had watched her father embarrass her mother on any number of occasions, and the only outlet her mother had found for her resentment had been a refusal to speak. But Geraden set aside whatever humiliation he felt. Excitement surged into his gaze, and he took a step forward almost as if he were jumping.
“Master Eremis”– he turned his head—“Master Gilbur”—again, he faced Eremis, Terisa, and the mirror—“you know I’m only an Apt, and you laugh because I make a lot of mistakes. But you haven’t thought about what she means.” He made an openhanded gesture toward Terisa. “Why is she here? How did she get here?
“Master Gilbur, you taught me how to shape that mirror. It’s exactly like the one you made. You know they’re exactly alike because what you see in this mirror is the same as what your mirror shows. They’re the same.
“Master Eremis, have you ever heard of a mirror that could translate things it didn’t show?”
This question took several of the Masters aback. Gilbur scowled like the clenching of a fist; Eremis’ mouth twisted thoughtfully; Barsonage raised his eyebrows so far that they appeared to grow back over his skull. A small man with a face like a rabbit’s nodded vigorously.
Now Geraden was speaking to all the Imagers at once. “The greatest Masters we know of have never been able to make mirrors that show one thing and translate another. Adept Havelock in his prime couldn’t do it. Even the stories about arch-Imager Vagel don’t mention any power as strong as that.
“Think about it, Masters. Either I’ve stumbled by accident onto the greatest achievement in the history of Imagery. Or I’m already the greatest Master since the first mirror was shaped.” Abruptly, he stopped, fixing his gaze squarely on Eremis.
“Or what, Apt?” Master Gilbur growled. “Surely you do not expect us to stomach either of those alternatives?”
“Or,” Geraden said slowly, still holding Eremis’ eyes, “another power intervened. Maybe it was the same power that shaped the augury. It took me to a place I could not have reached with that mirror. A place where I could find the champion the augury intended instead of the one you chose.”
He was nearly whispering, and his brown eyes shone intently. “She’s the one I should have been sent to bring back. She’s the one who can save us.”
For an instant, all the Congery stared in silence at Geraden and his assertion. Then the rabbity Master announced in a high, thin voice, “I said so. I have said so from the beginning. This proves it. They are real.”
“Oh, forsooth,” retorted Gilbur trenchantly. “The Apt speaks cleverly, but he defies reason. She our augured savior? She the power to rescue us from Imagery gone mad? Look at her, Masters. What are her powers? How will she f
ight in our defense? In what way is she superior to the champion we have chosen?”
As he spoke, he aimed a thick forefinger at the glass behind Terisa.
Several of the men shifted their attention there. Even Master Eremis turned and gave the mirror a glance.
Involuntarily, Terisa obeyed Gilbur’s pointing.
Her first impression was confirmed: the mirror didn’t reflect anything that she could see here – or that she had ever seen.
The tinted and faintly rippled glass showed a scene distant enough to be quite large, but not distant enough to weaken its primary figures. In the middle ground of a stark and alien landscape lit by the scarlet glow of an old, red sun stood a metallic shape which her mind instantly labeled a “spaceship.” Forming a defensive perimeter around the ship were a number of manlike forms, also metallic: a moment passed before she realized that they actually were men, men in armor. They were under attack; but the destructive beams that chewed pieces off the landscape only glanced from the helmets and chestplates of the defenders. She couldn’t see the effect of the fire they returned, but it must have been adequate: they weren’t driven back toward their ship.
The central figure of the scene, however, wasn’t the ship or one of the fighters. Rather, it was another metal-clad individual who occasionally waved his arms or shifted his attention as though he were directing the battle. He was heavily armed: strange weapons hung on his hips, and strapped to his back was a rifle the size of a small cannon. But more than his armament, it was his stance that conveyed a staggering sense of power through the glass. He stood the alien ground as if he meant to decimate whole populations in order to claim it.
Terisa understood at once that he was the champion, the strong and violent being Geraden had been sent to find.
That was the kind of help Mordant needed? The danger was that severe? And Geraden wanted these men to take her seriously as an answer to their problem, an augured savior? Suddenly, she realized that Master Gilbur was right. If Geraden considered her a sane answer to a problem of that scope, he was out of his mind.
The Mirror of Her Dreams Page 4