The Mirror of Her Dreams

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “Apt Geraden.” Master Barsonage was gazing at Geraden, his eyes level and solemn. “You must reply to this.”

  Geraden’s jaws knotted, and he jerked to his feet. His deliberate blankness had failed him like an inadequate mask. “Master Barsonage,” he said, biting down on his voice so that it wouldn’t shake, “I am loyal to King Joyse – as all of us should be. He created Mordant. He gave us peace. He made the Congery to be what it is. But he” – his voice snapped for a second – “he has no allegiance to me. I kept your command, Master Barsonage, while I took the lady Terisa of Morgan to the King. But when I reached him, he paid as little attention to me as you have. He gave me your same command. And he dismissed my responsibility for the lady.

  “Master Gilbur implies that I’m a spy for my King.” Acid leaked past his control. “I’m not. What purpose would it serve? If I tried to tell him the secrets of the Congery, he wouldn’t listen.”

  Stiffly, he sat down.

  Terisa heard his hurt and his need. At the same time, she remembered her dream of winter, in which three horsemen rode to kill her, and a young man dressed like Geraden fought to save her. She had remained motionless in that dream, as passive as she had been all her life.

  Remembering, she stood up.

  “He’s telling the truth.” She was trembling, but she didn’t let that stop her. “He obeyed you. And King Joyse dismissed him. He told him not to answer any of my questions.” Then, impelled by a secret flash of anger or adrenaline, she added, “The King didn’t give me any answers either. He feels the same way you do. He doesn’t trust me.”

  Master Quillon stared vacantly at nothing.

  For a second, Geraden’s face shone with relief and gladness. The vitality that made him so likable was restored. But the smile Master Eremis turned on her looked as gentle and friendly as the strike of a hawk.

  Abruptly, her courage failed. She sat down and bowed her head, trying to hide behind her hair.

  “Thank you, my lady,” Master Barsonage said quietly. “Apt Geraden, it is my opinion that you are owed an apology – by Master Gilbur, if no one else.”

  Master Gilbur made a hoarse spitting noise and muttered, “Do you consider that dogswater the truth?”

  “Since it is unlikely” – Master Barsonage whetted his tone” – that Master Gilbur, or any other Master, will do so, I must apologize for them. Any son of the Domne deserves better treatment than you have received.”

  “It’s not important,” murmured Geraden. Then he raised his voice. “I would be satisfied if the Congery simply decided to treat the lady Terisa with more consideration.”

  “Very good,” Master Gilbur whispered harshly. “He is not content with an apology from the mediator of the Congery. Now he must try to teach us our priorities and duties.”

  “Have done, Master Gilbur!” snapped Barsonage at once. “This does not become you. Apt Geraden’s manners are not what we must decide here. It is his elevation to the chasuble of a Master.”

  Master Gilbur replied with a glare that would have split a wooden plank.

  The mediator faced him for a long moment. But what Master Barsonage saw seemed to unsettle or alarm him: he was the one who looked away. The silence in the chamber became strained as he frowned into the distance, looking for self-possession.

  “You have made your proposal, Master Eremis. Do you wish to speak further?”

  “I will let Apt Geraden’s evident merit speak for itself,” replied Master Eremis. Bowing to the Congery, he sat down.

  “Very well. Masters!” Barsonage called out formally, “you have heard the proposal. Shall it be accepted? What is the will of the Congery?”

  Terisa was beginning to understand, partly from Master Gilbur’s irritation, but mostly from Master Eremis’ strange fierceness, that there were more things going on here than she could identify. Ulterior motives were at work. She watched in unexpected suspense as the Imagers voted by show of hands.

  For a moment, she thought that Geraden had won. A number of hands were favorably raised, though most of them – with the exception of Eremis’ – appeared to be reluctant. Master Quillon’s was not among them, however. He was watching Geraden, and his eyes held a look of understanding and empathy, but he only raised his hand to vote against the proposal.

  He was in the majority. When Master Barsonage had finished counting, he announced that the proposal was defeated.

  Oh, Geraden, Terisa said to him silently. I’m sorry. But she didn’t have enough nerve to speak aloud.

  “Masters,” Eremis enunciated softly but distinctly, “you will regret this.”

  Master Gilbur replied with a snarl of derision.

  “Apt Geraden,” said the mediator in a way that suggested his self-possession was still in doubt, “the vote has been taken. I must ask you to leave us now.”

  To Terisa, Geraden had never looked more like a man with whom the Congery would have to reckon. “Master Barsonage,” he said as he rose to his feet, “you must make the lady Terisa a party to your decisions. It is her right to know and understand what is done here.” Perhaps she had hurt his feelings the day before; that didn’t appear to affect his sense of justice. “And it’s folly to deny her. If she’s simply a woman accidentally translated, then she can’t do any harm. And if she’s an Imager secretly – if she’s the augured champion of Mordant’s need – then you’re wrong to risk angering her against us.”

  His assertion still in the air of the chamber, he turned sharply away from the Imagers and left the meeting hall.

  Master Eremis shook his head and sighed. He was smiling at no one in particular.

  Geraden’s departure twisted Terisa’s stomach. She was already in knots when she realized that no mention had been made of the flat glass with the impossibly shifting Image.

  “Master Barsonage,” rasped Gilbur, “may we dismiss this woman also and go about our work? There are reasons for haste. And I do not enjoy spending entire days in debate.”

  “You are in haste, Master Gilbur,” put in Master Quillon unexpectedly, “but you are also hasty. We must not be too quick to set aside the questions Apt Geraden has raised.”

  “Masters,” Eremis said, “I will give you good reason why we must accept the lady Terisa of Morgan among us. It has come to us from her own mouth. King Joyse desires her ignorant. If that is his policy, then surely it must be ours to inform and enlighten her. Why else do we have these debates, if not to break the mute inaction which our King imposes upon us?”

  “Master Eremis” – Quillon’s voice had an edge which he usually kept hidden – “do you propose that we commit treason?”

  “If it is treason,” the tall Master responded, “to fight for our survival – and for the defense of all Mordant – then I will propose it. But for the moment I advocate only that we permit the lady Terisa to remain during our debate.”

  “You make all matters complex,” said Master Barsonage stiffly. “I do not like the direction in which you take us. But with Master Gilbur I wish to reach the meat of the question, so that I will no longer have to guess what is in your mind.

  “Masters, you have heard the proposal. Shall it be accepted? What is the will of the Congery?”

  This time, Quillon and Gilbur were on opposite sides of the vote. Once again, however, the former was with the majority. By a significant margin, the Congery elected to let Terisa stay.

  Suddenly, there were too many eyes on her, too many men looking to see how she would react. She lowered her head to hide her disconcertedness. It was Geraden who should have been allowed to remain.

  “Very well.” The mediator sounded tired. “Now we turn to the matter which must be decided today.”

  “At last,” breathed Master Gilbur.

  “I will not remind you of the debate which brought us to this point,” Master Barsonage went on. “It is enough to say that we must choose a policy – or a course of action – to meet the unexpected outcome of Apt Geraden’s attempt to translate our chosen cha
mpion. We decided on that attempt because it was demanded by our circumstances – and because it appeared to be supported by augury. And we decided to send Geraden into the glass out of respect” – here Master Gilbur snorted again – “out of respect, I say,” the mediator snapped, “for our King’s belief that what is seen in mirrors is not created by Imagery, but rather has its own existence outside our knowledge.

  “But that has gone entirely awry. And we have realized that it is impossible for us to know what role the lady Terisa of Morgan will play in the fate of Mordant. Therefore we must now choose where we will stand. Will we accept the consequences of what we have done and await its outcome? Or will we choose some other policy or action to meet our dilemma?

  “Masters, you must decide.”

  Without rising, Master Eremis said immediately, “I say that we must accept the consequences of what we have done and await its outcome.” Now he spoke as if he wanted to avoid provoking an adverse reaction. “As I have observed repeatedly” – he permitted himself no sarcasm – “the lady Terisa represents an enormous and unprecedented display of power, which we do not understand. We must not take further risks until we have learned more of her.”

  “Is this you, Master Eremis?” a younger voice interposed. The speaker was an Imager of about Geraden’s age; he didn’t hesitate to be sarcastic. “You sound craven. We have already determined that we cannot know what the lady represents. So we cannot make our choices on that basis. In our peril, it does not matter that Apt Geraden did something unprecedented. It matters only that he failed. The augury itself is sound. It must be, or we have no understanding of Imagery. Only the Apt failed. We must try again.”

  A flash of passion showed in Eremis’ eyes, but he didn’t retort.

  Quietly, Master Barsonage asked, “And did you never fail when you were an Apt?”

  “I did not make a lifetime of it,” retorted the young Imager. “As well you know.”

  “In any case,” Master Gilbur cut into the discussion, gathering force as he spoke, “whether Apts are prone to error is not at issue here. I agree that we must try again. I will try again. Using the original glass, of which Apt Geraden’s is a copy, I will translate our chosen champion to us” – abruptly, he shook his huge fist at Master Quillon – “and blast the King’s scruples, whatever they are! He will sit and play hop-board with that madman Havelock until the ground cracks under him and all Orison is swallowed in ruins. If Mordant is to endure, we must have power!”

  “Well said, Master Gilbur!” Two or three of the Imagers applauded. But Master Barsonage faced Gilbur with undisguised dismay.

  Terisa felt a jolt like a moment of vision as she saw the armored figure again in her mind: though the landscape he faced was alien to him as much as to her, he confronted it as though he were in the habit of victory; and his strange weapons gave him all the strength he needed.

  “Then you also,” another Master said, “advocate what Quillon calls treason? Or do you mean to enter the glass and ask the champion to come to us?” A pause. “He will shoot you.”

  “I do not fear ‘what Quillon calls treason,” ’ Master Gilbur returned. “Do none of you understand the reason we are in such peril? It is not Mordant which is truly threatened. It is the Congery. We are in peril because all men who have ever hated King Joyse or loved power covet what we represent – all the resources of Imagery in the world we know. And they dare act on what they covet because King Joyse has abandoned us. He created the Congery, and he shackled it with rules which serve no purpose but his own, and now he has cut it adrift. We must fend for ourselves or die.”

  “I agree.” Master Eremis continued to speak carefully. “But how must we fend for ourselves? That is where we differ.”

  “Master Eremis,” Gilbur grated, “you differ from everyone. You have no sense.”

  Tentatively, as though he wished to avert hostility, Master Quillon asked, “Would it help, perhaps, if we looked again at the augury?”

  “Would that help you?” Master Gilbur answered in a nasty tone. “Have you forgotten what it shows? Or do you believe it may have changed?”

  Quillon seemed unwilling to take offense. “I would like to be sure that it has not.”

  “As would I,” said another Imager.

  “In addition,” Master Quillon went on, “there is the question of interpretation. Perhaps the experience of the past few days will teach us to read the augury more clearly.”

  A handful of men around the circle promptly indicated their assent.

  Master Barsonage sighed. “It will take a moment to have the glass brought here. Masters, we do not vote on this. Any of you has the right to make such a demand – if the demand is seconded.”

  “I wish to see the glass,” one of Master Quillon’s supporters said at once.

  “And I,” said another.

  “Very well.” The mediator nodded toward someone Terisa couldn’t see; the sounds of the door as it opened and closed carried distinctly through the chamber.

  No one spoke while the Congery waited. Perhaps this was part of the Masters’ protocol. Or perhaps none of them wanted to commit himself until Quillon’s request had been satisfied. Master Barsonage stared beyond the circle. Master Gilbur ground his big hands together as if he were practicing breaking things. Master Eremis leaned back on the bench and gazed nonchalantly at the ceiling like a man whose good manners kept him from whistling. Master Quillon appeared to be making a conscious effort not to twitch his nose, but he didn’t succeed. The other Imagers exhibited varying degrees of impatience, curiosity, assurance, and alarm.

  Terisa had the impression that she ought to be more worried. There were undercurrents in this debate which she was able to sense but not define. They might be dangerous. People were plotting – and plots meant harm. What she felt, however, was a small, hesitant eagerness. She wanted to see the augury that had led Geraden to her.

  It was brought into the chamber by two Apts, carrying it between them on a beautifully polished wooden tray nearly five feet on a side. As the Apts passed near her on their way toward the dais, she saw that the tray was covered with pieces of broken glass. These pieces had all been laid flat on the wood, and none of them touched each other; but they didn’t appear to have been arranged in any other way.

  So softly that no one else could hear him, Master Eremis murmured to her, “Perhaps Apt Geraden neglected to explain how auguring is done, my lady. There are two arts—to create a flat glass of the proper kind, accurately focused—and to interpret the outcome. In simple terms, a flat mirror is made that shows some person, place, or event from which the augury is to be extrapolated. For example, if we wished to determine whether our future contained a war with Cadwal, we might attempt to create a glass focused on Carmag – a glass in which High King Festten could be seen. Mirrors show places, but it is people who cause wars. Then the mirror is dropped. If it has been correctly made, it breaks into fragments that show pieces of what will come from the Image on which it was focused.

  “This glass was created by Master Barsonage.” He smiled sardonically. “For that reason, none of us ask whether it was correctly made.” Then he added, “The other difficulty, as you will see, is to interpret the results. I have always suspected, my lady, that augury exists primarily in the mind of the interpreter.”

  Once the Apts had set their burden down on the dais, most of the Masters left the benches and crowded around it. Only Gilbur and his most outspoken supporters apparently felt no need to look at the broken glass again. Everyone else cast at least a glance at the augury. Taking her arm confidently, Master Eremis guided Terisa among them until she stood at the edge of the dais. The Apts had stepped back: the tray of glass was clearly displayed in front of her.

  The mirror had broken into dozens of fragments.

  Each of them showed a different Image.

  And all the Images were moving. When she first looked at them, they seemed to be groping blindly toward each other, as if they aspired to some kin
d of wholeness.

  Pieces of what will come.

  The sight made her momentarily dizzy: it seethed like migraine. She felt that she was going to fall. But she closed her eyes and pushed down her queasiness. When she looked again, she held herself steady by concentrating on one or two Images at a time.

  —of what will come.

  At first, she was startled by how many of them she recognized – and by how precise they were, despite their small size. In one, King Joyse hunched over a game of hop-board, a game that had collapsed into chaos, the men scattered everywhere. He stared at it as if he were determined to make sense of the confusion, and his hands moved aimlessly over the board. In another, Geraden had begun to step into a mirror; but his body blocked the Image within the Image. In another, he appeared again, this time standing surrounded entirely by mirrors, all of them reflecting scenes of violence and destruction against him. And in yet another, the armored warrior in the alien landscape fired his weapons past the edge of the glass.

  But in fact those were only a small handful of the Images. The others reached beyond her experience. One shard showed a castle – she guessed it to be Orison – with a smoking hole torn in one side and a look of death about it. Several pieces of glass held Images of battle: men on horseback hacking at each other so vividly that she could see the blood in the wounds; figures that looked like kings rampaging; soldiers on foot spitted by spears; corpses trampled; carnage. Smoke blotted out the sun. And other Images were of things that could only have come into existence through Imagery: rocks falling from the sky as if off the side of a mountain; creatures so hot that whatever they touched caught fire; devouring worms. Villages were razed. Castles fell. Crops burned. Men, women, children died.

  And yet here and there in the squirming mosaic were scenes of peace, perhaps even of victory: a plain purple pennon set on a hillside; a celebration that might have been a wedding, taking place in a high ballroom; farmers planting a field still scarred by battle.