Dancer's Illusion

by Ann Maxwell

Kirtn and Rheba turned. The illusionists were back, appearing as bright-blue fish swimming in an invisible sea.

  “The most enduring illusions are based on reality,” said i’sNara’s voice, issuing from a wide fish mouth. “An illusion of ripe fruit based on a withered reality is easy to make and very hard to see through.”

  Rheba eyed the row of ugly bushes. She gathered energy until her hair whipped wildly. She pointed to each bush in turn, and each bush shimmered into flame. She concentrated, building a tiny bridge from individual bushes to the force field. As long as the field was on, the fires would continue to burn.

  “That’s a rather nice effect,” said one of the fish, swimming up and down the row of burning bushes. Then, “Ouch!” F’lTiri appeared suddenly, sucking on a scorched fingertip. He looked reproachfully at Rheba. “You could have warned me.

  “What did you expect?” said Kirtn. “We’re on Reality Street, remember?”

  F’lTiri smiled ruefully. “You win. We’ll behave.”

  I’sNara seemed to condense out of the air beside him. “But we have to have some illusions,” she said plaintively.

  “You don’t have to play hide-and-seek,” pointed out Rheba, her voice crisp.

  I’sNara blushed, or appeared to. Her outline shimmered. She became a blue-skinned Loo, naked but for a slaveholder’s arrogance. “Now you’ll know who I am whenever you see me. A real Loo would wear a robe.”

  Rheba shuddered. She had hoped never again to see any Loo. “I prefer you as yourself.”

  “But I can’t appear naked at home!” said i’sNara, shocked.

  Rheba looked at the unclothed illusion, opened her mouth to protest, then gave up. She had a feeling that she would be a long time understanding the niceties of illusory conduct. She blinked rapidly and knuckled her eyes. It did not stop the itching, but it made her feel better.

  “Which way do we go to get to your clan?” she said, dropping her hands to her side. “And if you try to tell me that way,” she said, jerking her chin toward the force field, “I’ll roast your teeth.”

  F’lTiri smiled, but as he was now in the guise of a Stelsan scout, complete with fangs and feathers, the gesture was not reassuring. “No more tricks, fire dancer. You have our word . . . but,” he added wistfully, “it was lovely to play again.”

  Rheba knuckled her itching eyes and said nothing.

  F’lTiri led them parallel to the force field that stretched across the width of Reality Street, terminating it in a sullen glimmer of energy. The field reminded Kirtn of the lid that had sealed slaves into the Loo-chim Fold.

  Rheba’s hair showed a distinct tendency to drift toward the field, drawn by its energetic promises. When she realized what was happening, she took her hair and knotted it at the nape of her neck. It would be dangerous to tap accidentally into the oddly shaped forces.

  Fssa grumbled, but accommodated himself to his reduced surroundings. He knew the danger of dissonant energies as well as she did.

  Kirtn sighed and wished for less heat or less humidity. His copper skin-fur had become the color of rust. Darker trails of sweat divided over his body. His weapon harness clung where it did not chafe. The air was so dense that breathing was an effort. In all, he would just as soon have left Yhelle to its illusionists.

  He wiped his shoulder where sweat had gathered beneath Rainbow’s faceted weight. As he moved his hand, parts of Rainbow clicked together with sullen sounds that echoed his own irritation. When he lifted his hand, it was coated with tiny hairs. He grimaced. He knew he would feel cooler after he shed out, but the process was unaesthetic. There were no odes to shedding Bre’ns. Limericks, however, abounded.

  He followed in disgruntled silence as the illusionists led them parallel to the force field. Rheba turned suddenly, looking over their backtrail with narrowed eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” whistled Kirtn.

  “I feel as if we’re being followed. It’s like an itch behind my eyes that I can’t scratch.”

  The Bre’n looked over his shoulder. Nothing was nearby, not even an illusion. “Fssa.” Kirtn’s whistle was curt, demanding.

  The snake’s sensors took in the area behind them. When that failed, he anchored his tail firmly in her hair and went through a series of transformations. When he was finished, he again became a simple snake in shades of metallic gray. “Nothing that I can detect is moving after us,” he said in precise Senyas.

  Rheba made a frustrated noise and clenched her hands at her side.

  “Maybe you should go back to the ship,” Kirtn suggested.

  “It’s only an irritation—as heat is for you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She did not bother answering, and he did not mention returning to the ship again. Neither of them relished being separated. It seemed that whenever they were apart unlucky things happened.

  The illusionists stopped, faced the force field, and waited for the others to catch up. When they did, i’sNara said, “Look through the veil very carefully.”

  Kirtn and Rheba stared into the force field’s twisting, shimmering surface. Gradually the surface changed, becoming more similar to the veil i’sNara had called it. Vague images condensed, like ghostly scenes viewed underwater.

  “What do you see?”

  Rheba’s lips thinned into an impatient line. Even a Fssireeme did not have enough words to describe what she was seeing. Or almost seeing. “Is this another illusionist joke?” she snapped.

  “Please,” said i’sNara. “It’s important. Can you see anything?”

  “Why?”

  “If we told you, it might influence what you see.”

  “You have the advantage,” said Rheba curtly. “You’ve had it since we left the ship.”

  “I’m sorry we teased you,” whispered i’sNara. “Please?”

  Rheba relented and faced the screen again, but it was Kirtn who spoke first.

  “I don’t see anything.” He stared at the force field with eyes that were a hard yellow. “Wait. I see . . . faces. Faces and more faces. Countless faces . . . worshiping. Faces like yours, i’sNara, f’lTiri. A sea of faces surrounding a glittering island. Everything is pouring into the island . . . all human colors, all human hopes, dreams, lives pouring in endlessly. The island is crystal, no, many crystals piled high. They . . . slowly consume their worshipers, consuming ecstasy, all the faces, dying slowly, ecstatically. . . .”

  The last words were sung in a keening Bre’n whistle translated by Fssa into flat Universal. Even so, the illusionists were shaken. The emotive qualities of Bre’n transcended simple words.

  Rheba tried to see what Kirtn had seen, but the back of her eyes itched so fiercely she could not see anything. She rubbed her eyes impatiently. By the time the itch faded, whatever Kirtn had seen was gone. But he had seen something very disturbing. She had only to look at the illusionists’ faces to know that.

  “That was the Redis clan symbol,” F’lTiri said hollowly. “But it’s changed. So much stronger.”

  “And the Stones,” murmured i’sNara. “So many more than they had when we left. I didn’t know there were that many Stones.”

  “Stones?” said Rheba.

  “The island,” sighed i’sNara. “The island you saw was made of Ecstasy Stones.”

  “Ice and ashes,” cursed Rheba. “My eyes picked a fine time to itch. I’d like to have seen that.” She blinked and stared at the veil as the illusionists were staring at it. She hoped that what Kirtn had seen would reappear.

  The illusionists made a dismayed sound and joined hands. Their illusions faded, leaving behind two normal people whose faces were lined with concentration.

  The veil changed.

  Rheba stared, unconsciously speaking aloud as an image condensed behind the veil. “An empty hall, cracked walls and broken floor and no people. Hands reaching for something. Whatever it is, they can’t get it. Empty hands reaching forever.”

  Like Kirtn, she used Bre’n to describe what she had seen. But even as she d
escribed it, the image vanished. She hoped it had been only an illusion. There was a desperation about the grasping hands that made her uneasy.

  “Was that a clan symbol?” asked Rheba, her voice harsh.

  “Yes,” said f’lTiri.

  “Whose clan?” Then, with a sinking feeling of reality, Rheba said, “Yours, right? That was the symbol of the Liberation clan.”

  The illusionists looked at each other and said nothing. Finally, f’lTiri shifted his feet and looked away from his wife’s eyes. “It could have been a fake,” he muttered.

  “Maybe.” I’sNara’s hands clenched and opened, unconsciously echoing the grasping hands beyond the force field. “It doesn’t matter. We have to find out, and to find out we have to go through the veil. I hope that symbol was only a sick illusion. But I’m not counting on it.”

  Kirtn looked from the rippling field to the illusionist dressed as a naked Loo. “What’s wrong? I didn’t see anything except a few hands holding nothing.”

  “Exactly,” said i’sNara. “The symbols are the essence of the living clans. And there was nothing.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Kirtn, but he kept his voice gentle, because he saw pain beneath i’sNara’s illusion.

  “The room Rheba saw,” said f’lTiri. “The empty hall.”

  “Yes?”

  “That was our clan home. Now it seems to be deserted. There’s no one waiting there. Not even our children.” He made an impatient gesture. “This is one time that waiting won’t improve the illusion. Let’s go.”

  “Where?” said Rheba, looking at the force field stretching away on both sides into infinity.

  “To the hall,” snapped f’lTiri.

  “This is where we go through,” said i’sNara. When she saw the look on Rheba’s face she added quickly, “We’re not teasing you, dancer. The field thins out here and illusions appear. To get where you want to go, you just pick your destination’s clan symbol and step through. Be fast, though. It’s no fun to get caught between illusions.”

  Kirtn stared. He thought he could see shapes wavering beyond the field, but was not sure. Then again, he had not been sure of anything since he had set foot on misnamed Reality Street. He looked toward his dancer.

  Akhenet lines shimmered briefly as she tested the force field. “It’s patchy,” she admitted. “If you choose the right spot, all you’ll get is a tingle.”

  If. But how could anyone be sure the right spot would stay in place long enough to be used?

  “We’ll try to hold the illusion for you,” said f’lTiri, “but we may not be able to. If that happens, stay here until the empty-hall symbol repeats and jump through. We’ll be on the other side, waiting for you.”

  Rheba looked uneasily at the kaleidoscopic forces of the veil, changing even as she watched. She understood now why f’lTiri had wanted to be sure they could see through the field before he let them off Reality Street. If you could not see your destination’s illusion/symbol through the veil, you were helpless. Even seeing it, she was loathe to let the illusionists out of reach for fear of being forever lost in a shifting Yhelle fantasy.

  Her eyes itched maddeningly, telling her that someone was behind her, turning as she turned, always just out of sight. With a sound of exasperation she motioned the illusionists to get on with it. “Go through. Maybe it’s the force field that’s making me itch.”

  The illusionists joined hands and concentrated. An image of an empty hall was superimposed over the force field. The veil buckled and writhed as though refusing their illusion. They rode it like an unruly animal. Grudgingly, the field thinned, revealing cracked pavements and desolation.

  The illusionists walked through and vanished.

  After an instant of hesitation, fire dancer and Bre’n followed. The field broke over them like black water, drowning them.

  V

  Rheba staggered, then supported herself against Kirtn until she shook off the effects of the force field. To the average Fourth People, when the field was attenuated it was only a “veil.” To a dancer, it was a cataract barely held in check. Even as Kirtn helped her by draining off her conflicting energies, he was poised to defend against more mundane dangers than an asynchronous force field.

  A quick glance told him that the illusionists were nearby. However, they were not in the place he had seen through the veil. They were outside, not inside, standing on the edge of a deserted street. In the distance the street curved around a huge, ruined building. On either side of the street slovenly wooden buildings leaned against each other. Where no such support was available, houses had collapsed on themselves.

  The wreckage was sharp-cornered, suggesting that riot, rather than time, had pulled down the buildings. The few plants he could see were quite dead. There were neither fountains nor scented breezes. After the colorful illusions of Reality Street, the Liberation clan’s territory was painfully ugly.

  “Is this an illusion?” asked Kirtn bluntly.

  The Yhelles’ outlines trembled, showing that the illusionists were fighting for control. After a time, their appearance steadied.

  “No illusion,” said f’lTiri in a tight voice. “Not one.”

  I’sNara’s Loo image blurred as she looked around. “Almost no territory left. No illusions left, not even a simple facade.” Her image solidified. She was no longer Loo. She was i’sNara, but an i’sNara who looked so old she was almost another person entirely. “Nothing.”

  “You’re sure it isn’t an illusion?” asked Rheba, feeling Fssa stir underneath her hair, changing shapes as he tested the street’s reality as best he could.

  “Yes,” sadly, “we’re sure. Disillusioned places feel different.”

  “It’s true,” whistled Fssa. “Those ruins are real.” Then he added sourly, “As real as anything on this treacherous planet.”

  Rheba shivered in spite of the oppressive heat. The Liberation clan’s home territory looked and felt like desolation in four dimensions. “Is this what Serriolia is like beneath the illusions?” Then, realizing that might be a taboo subject, she said quickly, “I didn’t mean that as an insult.”

  F’lTiri smiled, but Rheba sensed it was an illusion. “At one level, yes. All of Serriolia is built on a reality that isn’t much prettier than this. Other races paint their homes or design stone facades or extrude elaborate materials to make their homes beautiful. But all we need are a few walls and a roof. From that bare reality we make castles a Loo would envy.” He smiled, and this time it was real. “As long as the roof doesn’t leak on the illusion. . . .”

  “What happened here? Why aren’t there any illusions? Did they just wear out?”

  The Yhelles looked at one another and then at the ramshackle street that was the reality of their home. “No. The illusions were stripped away,” said i’sNara. “A house illusion”— she gestured across the street, and a leaning shack was transformed into an inviting mansion—“is simple to create. They’re stable and easy to maintain. In the clans, children do it.”

  “How long will that last?” asked Kirtn, gesturing to the newly created mansion.

  “A week or two. Months, if I took longer with the initial creation. But sooner or later even the strongest illusion needs retouching. That’s what the children do.”

  I’sNara made an abrupt gesture and looked away. The mansion thinned into invisibility. The shack remained.

  The transition was unnerving to Rheba. The shack seemed even more melancholy than before. She took Kirtn’s hand, drawing comfort from his presence as though she were a child again.

  Down the street, a figure darted from a pile of rubble into a ruined house. The person was without illusion and moved like a wild animal that had been persistently hunted. When Kirtn started to call out, he was stopped by f’lTiri’s grip on his arm.

  “No,” said the illusionist urgently. “You didn’t see anything.”

  “But I did,” protested Kirtn. “I saw a Yhelle—”

  “You saw a creature bereft of illu
sions.” F’lTiri’s voice was rough. “You saw nothing at all.”

  Kirtn started to argue, then realized it was futile. “I would like to question what I didn’t see,” he said in a reasonable tone. “If what I didn’t see lives here, it might be able to tell me what happened to the Liberation clan. Or,” sarcastically, “am I supposed to believe that nothing happened and any evidence to the contrary is illusion?”

  I’sNara and her husband argued briefly in Yhelle before she turned and spoke to Kirtn in Universal. “Even if you caught that poor creature, it wouldn’t be able to tell you anything.” She hesitated and then spoke in a strained voice, as though what she was saying was very difficult, very unpleasant, or both. “It doesn’t really exist. It’s been disillusioned.”

  Kirtn started to speak, thought better of it, and whistled instead. “Fssa, we seem to have a communications problem even though we’re all speaking Universal. Can you give me a Bre’n translation of the Yhelle word disillusioned?'*

  Fssa whistled a sliding, minor-key word that ended on a shattered note. The word described akhenets who had lost their gifts through brain injury, becoming people caught between madness and nightmare for the rest of their lives.

  With a grimace, Kirtn gave up the idea of questioning the person he was not supposed to have seen. He doubted if even Fssa could communicate with a madman. “Then who—or what—do you suggest we question? Because something has happened here, something that’s worse than you expected. If this”—he waved his arm at the barren street—“is home, you’re better off on the Devalon with us. I get the feeling this is a very unlucky place to be.”

  The Yhelles were silent for a long moment. F’lTiri sighed finally and touched his wife with a small, comforting illusion. “You’re right,” he said, turning to Kirtn. “We don’t have a home anymore. The Liberation clan doesn’t exist. We’ll go with you as soon as we find our children and tell them we’re no longer slaves on Loo.”

  “Good.” Kirtn did not bother to hide his relief. The poet in him was set on edge by the whole atmosphere of the street. Destruction, not creation, was the pervasive image. “Where do we go to ask about your children?”