The Door Into Shadow

by Diane Duane

  THE DOOR INTO SHADOW

  Diane Duane

  This Lionhall Press ebook edition

  copyright © 2010 Diane Duane

  Other books by Diane Duane:

  The Young Wizards novels :

  So You Want to Be a Wizard

  Deep Wizardry

  High Wizardry

  A Wizard Abroad

  The Wizard’s Dilemma

  A Wizard Alone

  Wizard’s Holiday

  Wizards at War

  A Wizard of Mars

  Works in the Star Trek TM universe:

  The Wounded Sky

  My Enemy, My Ally

  Swordhunt

  Honor Blade

  The Empty Chair

  Spock’s World

  Doctor’s Orders

  Intellivore

  Dark Mirror

  For info on other books, especially new releases, please visit

  www.DianeDuane.com

  Edition note:

  The Door into Shadow was first published in the U.S. by Bluejay Books in 1984. That edition’s text, unchanged except for the substitution of British spellings for American ones, was used for the Corgi / Transworld Books editions of Shadow in 1992. For the book’s next U.S. edition, published by Meisha Merlin Books in 2001, various minor changes and additions were made to the original text, including the restoration of a small amount of material edited out of the 1984 edition.

  This ebook closely follows the 2001 text, with some emendations -- mostly a matter of slight restructuring, rephrasing and polishing: no significant new plot or character material has been added. Future printed editions of The Door into Shadow will use this version of the text.

  A link to a higher-quality version of the map image following can be found online at the Door into Shadow ebook page at DianeDuane.com .

  Map

  THE DOOR INTO SHADOW

  The Wound is healed

  by the sword that deals it:

  the heart is knit

  by the pain that breaks it:

  the life is made whole

  by the death that starts it:

  the death is made whole

  by the life that ends it.

  (Hamartics, 186)

  PROLOGUE

  Four lands hemmed in by mountain and waste and the Sea—those were the Middle Kingdoms: and the greatest of them, Arlen and Darthen, were in peril of destruction. For seven years Arlen’s throne had been empty of the royalty needed to keep the land fertile and the people at peace. And Darthen suffered as a result of Arlen’s lack, for the Two Lands were bound together by oaths of friendship and by joint maintenance of the royal sorceries that kept their lands safe from the ever-present menace of the Shadow.

  In those days there appeared a man with the blue Fire: not just the spark of Flame that every man and woman possesses, but enough to channel and use to change the world around him. His lover was the child of Arlen’s last king, heir to his usurped throne. In the Firebearer’s relationship to Freelorn, King Ferrant’s son, many later suspected the hand of the Goddess—working quietly, as She so often does, so as not to alarm Her old adversary the Shadow.

  Her hand seemed visible elsewhere too. Freelorn had taken companions with him into his exile. They lived as outlaws and bandits, stealing what they needed when they had to—though none of their hearts were in it. One of them in particular would certainly have been elsewhere, if she had had a choice. Swordswoman and sorceress, trained in the Silent Precincts and in every other place in the Kingdoms that dealt in the use of the blue Fire that some women bear, Segnbora d’Welcaen tai-Enraesi was a spectacular and expensive failure. She had the Flame in prodigious quantity, and couldn’t focus it. On her way home from one more school that could do nothing for her, chance threw her together one night with Freelorn’s people. Bitterly frustrated with what seemed a wasted life, desperately needing something useful to do, Segnbora swore fealty that night to the rightful heir of the Arlene throne, and fled with him and his people into the eastern Waste where Freelorn’s loved, Herewiss, awaited him.

  The children of House tai-Enraesi traditionally had a talent for getting themselves into dangerous situations. There in the Waste, in an ancient pile built by no human hand—a fortress rising gray and bizarre out of the empty land, skewed and blind-walled and ominous—Segnbora started wondering whether even the tai-Enraesi luck would do her any good. There were stories about this place, legends that whispered of soul-eating monsters guarding innumerable doors into Otherwheres. Even the mildest of the tales were gruesome. Fear gripped Segnbora, but her oath gripped her harder. She stayed with Freelorn and his people.

  And there in the Hold, fulfilling her fears, the stories she’d heard started coming true—even the one of how nothing good would come out of this terrible place until (ridiculous improbability) a male should focus his Fire.

  On the night Herewiss declared his intention to use his newly gained Flame to put Freelorn on the throne of his fathers, Segnbora lay long awake in the dark, considering the old rede that spoke of her family’s luck. That luck would run out some day, the rede said, when the last of her line died by his or her own hand, in an hour of ice and darkness. But at last she was sure that the rede had nothing to do with her. She wasn’t the last of the tai-Enraesi, and she was about to ride out of here with three good friends, a sometime lover, a prince about to retake his throne, a fire elemental, and the first man in a thousand years to focus his Fire. So maybe, maybe just this once, everything was finally going to turn out all right….

  ONE

  Sirronde stared at the Goddess. “Are You saying, then, that You were wrong to make heroes?”

  “Indeed not,” She said. “But I should have warned them— if you save the world too often, it starts to expect it.”

  Tales of the Darthene South,

  book iv, 29

  When she was studying in the Silent Precincts, the Rodmistresses had warned her: if you’re going to look for meaning in a dream, first make sure it’s your own. Any sensitive is most sensitive in her sleep, and others’ dreams can draw you in and fool you. Now, therefore, Segnbora kept quite still and silent so as not to disturb whoever else was dreaming the landscape into which she had stumbled. It wasn’t often, after all, that one was privileged to see the Universe being created.

  The Maiden was working, as She always is, while the other two Persons of the Goddess, the Mother and the Eldest, looked on. Young and fair and preoccupied was the Maiden, as She worked elbow-deep in stars and flesh and dirt. She was so delighted with the wild diversity of Her creation that She never noticed the Mother and the Eldest desperately trying to get Her attention. They saw what she did not: the shapeless, lurking hunger that hid in the darkness at the Universe’s borders.

  Finally the Maiden, satisfied that Her world was complete, cried out the irrevocable Word that started life running on its own, and sealed the Universe against any subtractions. And the instant She had done so, Death stood up from where it had been hiding, and laughed at Her.

  She had locked the doors of the world, and locked Death inside it. Slowly it would suck the Universe dry of life, and She could not prevent it. Nor could She prevent Death’s darkness from casting shadows sideways from Her light—rogue aspects of Her, darksides, bent on destroying more swiftly what was already doomed. Grief-stricken, the Maiden took counsel with Her other selves to find some way to combat Death. Among Them, They invented first the heart’s love, and then the body’s—lying down together in the manner of woman with woman, and becoming with child.

  The Maiden, becoming the Mother now, brought forth twins—sons, or daughters, or daughter and son; the ambiguity of the dream made the Firstborn seem all of these at once. Swiftly They grew, and discov
ered love in Their Mother’s arms—then turned to one another and discovered it anew. But in the midst of Their bliss, surrounded by the blue Fire that was Their Mother’s gift and Their pride, the Death stood up again. It entered one of the Lovers and taught that one jealousy.

  The shadowed Lover slew the innocent One—and in the same act destroyed Its own Fire, which had been bound by love to the Other’s. Cursing, the Dark Lover fled raging into the outer darkness, where It would reenact Its murder and loss and bereavement for as long as the Universe should last. It was not a Lover anymore, but the Shadow.

  In the dream Segnbora wept, having known all along what was going to happen, and that mortals would be reenacting this tragedy in their own lives forever. The dream broke, then, and gradually re-formed as an image in water does after a stone is thrown in.

  She saw a scene skewed sideways, as if her head rested on someone’s shoulder. Much of the great room where she stood was dark, but in her hand—which had become a man’s—she held a core of blinding white light, wreathed all about with flames as blue as summer sky. Herewiss, she realized. Last night.

  His weariness was so terrible he could barely stand. He had banished the hralcins, the soul-eaters, yet he was too tired to exult in the focus he had forged—the unfinished sword he would call Khávrinen. He was the first man in a thousand years to focus the Fire, and he knew what difficulties lay ahead. The Shadow would not long tolerate him, or any man who enjoyed the Power It had cast away. It would deal with him quickly, before the Goddess had time, through him, to consolidate newly regained ground.

  We must move more quickly, the dream said. For look what the Shadow has planned! Segnbora shuddered in her sleep at the sight of a whole valley suddenly buried under mountains that had formerly stood above it. Dead, a voice said soundlessly. She’s dead. Snow whirled wildly down onto a battlefield under the mountains’ shadow, where something heaved as if trying to take terrible shape, and the snow turned red as soon as it fell, while monsters gnawed the dead. Elsewhere a wave of blackness came rolling down out of murky heights, crashed down onto a leaping, threatening fire, and smothered it.

  The air was thick with the feel of ancient sorceries falling apart, fraying. Grass forgot how to grow. Grain rotted on the stalk and fruit on the bough. Plague downed beasts and people alike, leaving their blackened corpses to lie splitting in the sun. Even the scavenger birds sickened and died of what they ate. It was happening already, happening now. The royal magics were failing. If they weakened enough to let the Shadow fully into this world, into Bluepeak, this outcome was inevitable, irreversible.

  The soundless voice of the dream spoke urgently. Freelorn must quickly see to the Royal Bindings. This is the work for which he was made; he’s the Lion’s Child, heir to Arlen. Go with him, Herewiss, in the full of your Power. Use the Fire to the utmost. He’ll need all the help you can give.

  But I just got the Fire, Herewiss said, terrified. It takes time to master it!

  There is no time. What must be done needs doing now. The Other is coming!

  And she could feel it, that throbbing of hatred in the background, getting stronger by the minute. The sky grew dark, and the snow blasted about them, in that place to which they would have to go to reinforce the Royal Bindings. Herewiss’s Fire, for so long a blaze within him, was going faint under a blanket of oppressive power. Just in front of him, Freelorn started to stand up. The whole dream focused then on the sight of Freelorn’s back, with a three-barbed, razor-sharp Reaver arrow standing out of it.

  Sagging, Lorn sank back slowly against Herewiss. Then a deeper darkness fell, and the two of them stood before a Door in which burned the stars that would never go out. Freelorn, his face in shadow, was pulling his hand gently out of Herewiss’s grasp, turning away toward death’s Door...

  No!

  Do what you must to come to the full of your Power. There’s no time! Her voice was almost frightened. Herewiss had never believed She could sound that way.

  But if I do—and we get there—then Lorn—

  It must not be prevented.

  But—

  You must not attempt to prevent it!

  I—

  Hurry!

  NO!!

  The scream tore through her own throat as she sat bolt upright in the bedroll, sweating—still seeing against the darkness the long ruinous fall of an entire mountain, still hearing the crash of it, first note in a song of disaster.

  In the great main hall of the old Hold, people fumbled frantically for their swords—the memory of the hralcins’ sudden arrival the night before was very fresh. The fire in the firepit rose up too, putting several broad curves of flame over the edge and leaning anxiously out to see what was the matter. As a fire elemental, Sunspark had not had much experience with fear, but after last night it was apparently taking no chances.

  Segnbora lifted a hand to her pounding head and found that she was holding her sword, Charriselm. Evidently she had drawn it while still half sleeping. Beside her in the bedroll, blond Lang was still blanket-wrapped, but nevertheless he had found his graceknife in a hurry. Lying propped on one elbow with the knife in one ham of a hand, he blinked at her like an anxious owl. A few feet away, big swarthy Dritt and lanky Moris were sitting up back to back, looking as panicked as Segnbora felt. On the other side of the firepit, Harald was attempting simultaneously to string his bow and brush the brown hair out of his eyes. All of these looked at Segnbora as if they thought she was crazy.

  “A bad dream?” Lang said.

  She nodded, sliding Charriselm back into its sheath and looking across the room toward the firepit and the bedrolls laid down there.

  Herewiss was sitting up, bracing himself with one hand, rubbing his eyes with the other. He took the hand away from his , and Segnbora was shocked to see his terrified expression. Lorn was holding Herewiss tight and peering worriedly into his face. Under other circumstances it could have been a touching and humorous sight—the little, dark-mustachioed, fierce-eyed man comforting someone who, judged by his slim hard build and well-muscled shoulders, might have been the village blacksmith.

  “Are you all right? What happened?”

  “It was a dream,” Herewiss said, his voice anguished.

  “Shh, it’s all right.”

  “No, it’s not.” Herewiss rubbed his eyes again, then glanced around him with frightened determination. He started searching in the blankets for his clothes. “We’ve got to go.”

  “What?”

  “We have to hurry!” Herewiss grabbed one bunched-up blanket and impatiently shook it. A sword fell out and clattered to the floor—a hand-and-a-half broadsword of gray steel that would have seemed of ordinary make except for the odd blue sheen about it. Herewiss snatched it up, and at his touch his Power ran down the blade: blinding blue Fire, twisting and flurrying about in bright reflection of his distress.

  “It was—there was—the mountain fell down, just like that! And there were thousands of Fyrd, and bigger monsters too—and a wave came down over everything, and Sunspark went out—”

  (I did not!)

  “Loved, slow down so I can understand what the Dark you’re talking about—”

  “So much for a whole night’s sleep,” Lang muttered under his breath. Putting his knife away under the rolled-up cloak that was serving them as pillow, he lay down again. “Wake me up when they’re finished?”

  “If necessary,” Segnbora said, rubbing his shoulder absently. The gesture was more for her comfort than for his. Her underhearing was wide awake, bringing her the hot coppery blood-taste of Herewiss’s fright as if it were her own.

  Herewiss had yanked a shirt out of the blankets and was struggling into it, while in his lap Khávrinen kept on blazing like a torch. “It’s angry as anything,” he was saying. “And It’s going to work the worst mischief It can, by putting pressure on the Royal Bindings that have been keeping It in check.” He started feeling around for his britches. “For seven years no one’s reinforced the Arlene half
of those bindings, and they’re wearing thin—”

  Freelorn glanced away from Herewiss. Segnbora put her hands behind her head and leaned back, closing her eyes and bracing herself against the gut-punch of grief and anger she knew would come from Lorn. When his father had died on the throne, and the Minister of the Exchequer, Cillmod, had taken the opportunity to seize power, Freelorn had fled for his life with a price on his head. Now Lorn would wonder again whether staying in Arlen to see to the Bindings, and possibly getting killed as a result, might not have been the more noble course. This was an old midnight pain that Segnbora had come to know as well as the arthritis in Harald’s right knee, or Dritt’s self-consciousness about his weight. While no Precinct-trained sensitive could have helped underhearing her surroundings as Segnbora did, that was the gift she would have been happiest to lose when she gave up her studies. She had enough trouble dealing with her own pains.

  “Lorn, enough,” Herewiss said, catching Freelorn’s anguish too. “The fact remains that if the Shadow leans Its full strength against the Bluepeak bindings, we’re done for. The Kingdoms will founder. I saw the southern passes full of Reaver armies. And the plains full of Fyrd. There were storms and earthquakes, and where the earth opened a whole town fell in. And that cliff at Bluepeak—” Herewiss broke off.

  Freelorn, still holding him close, looked puzzled. “But it was just a dream!”

  “Oh no,” Herewiss said, shaking his head emphatically. “I saw.”

  “He’s dreaming true,” Segnbora said.

  Freelorn’s frightened eyes flicked to her. “He’s focused now,” she said. “It’s one of the first things that happens…”