The Door Into Shadow

by Diane Duane

  Hall after hall opened before her, all alike, huge prisms full of silence and the reflections of empty eyes: corridor like corridor, gallery like gallery, and nowhere any face she knew. Segnbora ran harder. Through the walls she saw the treacherous Moon hanging exactly where had been when she entered. Likewise, the sunset appeared about to grow dimmer, but had not changed. Inside Glasscastle, she realized, there was eternal sunset. Outside, who knew how much time had passed? The three Lights could be about to vanish, for all she knew—

  The thought of the others still unfound, of the awful way back to the main hall, of Efmaer’s ghastly placidity, all wound together in her brain and sang such horror to Segnbora that for a few seconds she went literally blind. Trying to turn a corner in that state, she missed her footing and skidded to her knees. Desperately she tried to rise but could not. Her leg muscles had cramped.

  There Segnbora crouched, gasping, sick with shame and rage. The awareness of the huge head bowing over her, great wings stretching upward, was small consolation.

  (Sdaha.)

  (Yes, I know, just a—)

  (Sdaha. Here’s our lost Lion—)

  She pushed herself up on her hands and looked. There was Freelorn, not more than ten or fifteen feet away from her. He was kneeling on the crystal floor, very still, his head bowed. The sight flooded her with intense relief.

  “Lorn,” she whispered, and scrabbled back to her feet again, ignoring the protests of abused muscles. “Lorn. Thank the—”

  —and she saw—

  “—Goddess...” Segnbora’s voice deserted her, taking her breath with it.

  The throne was wrought of crystal, like everything else in the place, but reflected nothing from its long sheer surfaces. The one enthroned upon it seemed caught at that particular moment when adolescence first turns toward womanhood, and both woman and child live in the eyes. She was clothed in changelessness and invulnerability as with the robe of woven twilight She wore, and Her slender maiden’s hands seemed able, if they chose, to sow stars like grain, or pluck the Moon like a silver flower. Yet very still those hands lay on the arms of the throne, and Segnbora found herself trembling with fear to see them so idle.

  That quiet, beautiful face lay half in shadow as the Lady’s gaze dwelt on Freelorn. For a long while there was no motion but that of Her long braid, the color of night before the stars were made, rising and falling slightly with Her breathing. Then slowly She looked up, and met Segnbora’s eyes.

  “Little sister,” the Maiden said, “you’re welcome.”

  Segnbora sank to her knees, staggered with awe and love. This was her Lady, the aspect of the Goddess she had always loved best: the Maker, the Builder, the Mistress of Fire, She Who created the worlds and creates them still, the Giver of Power and glory. Not even on that night in the Ferry Tavern had she been struck down like this with terror and desire. The Maiden gazed at her, and Segnbora had to look down and away, blinded by the divine splendor.

  Segnbora gasped for breath and tried to think. It was hard, through the trembling; yet that she trembled this way disturbed her. Even as the Dark Lady, walking the night in Her moondark aspect, the Maiden did not inspire such fear. Something was wrong. Segnbora lifted her head for another look, and was once more heartblinded by Her untempered glory. Segnbora hid her eyes as if from the Sun, and began to shake in earnest.

  Within her Hasai bent his head low, and spread his wings upward in a bow like kneeling. (She’s not as you showed me, within you. Nor is She like the Immanence. Its experience, too, is always one of infinite power, but the power is tempered—)

  (It’s—) The words seemed impossible, a wild lie in the face of deity, but Segnbora thought them anyway. (It’s not really Her!) Suspicion was beginning to grow in her as to what was wrong with this Maiden, and Who was maintaining the great wreaking that had built the Skybridge, keeping the Glasscastle-trap inviolate. But the point now was to get herself and the others out of Glasscastle before she discovered she was right. Segnbora got up –

  —and was very surprised to find herself still kneeling where she was. With a flash of anger she met the Maiden’s eyes again. They poured power at her, a flood of chill strength, knowledge, potency. The look went straight through Segnbora like a blade. Once before, long ago, those hands had wrought her soul, those eyes had critically examined the Maker’s handiwork. Now they did so again, a look enough to paralyze any mortal creature, as flaws and strengths together were coolly assessed by the One Who put them there.

  But Segnbora’s soul was a little less mortal now than it had been when first created. There were Dragons among the mdeihei who had had direct experiences of the Immanence on more than one occasion, becoming both Song and Singer. The judgment of ultimate power didn’t frighten them; they were prepared to meet the infinite eye to eye, and judge right back.

  I am what I am, Segnbora thought, reaching back toward the Dragons’ strength and staring into those beautiful, daunting eyes, blue as Fire. Even as You are. And We are not done with me yet. I will not be judged and found wanting with the work yet incomplete, with my Name still unknown—!

  Suddenly she was standing, surprised that she could. She’d half expected to be struck with lightnings for her temerity, but nothing happened. Segnbora kept her eyes on the fair, still face, and saw, past the virulent blaze of glory, something she’d missed earlier. The Maiden’s eyes had a dazzlement about them, as if She too were blinded.

  “My Lady,” Segnbora managed to say, “I beg Your pardon, but we have to leave.”

  “No one comes here,” the Maiden said gently, “who wants to leave. I have ordained it so.”

  The terrible power of Her voice filled the air, making the words true past contradiction. Segnbora shook her head, wincing in pain at the effort of maintaining her purpose against that onslaught of will. “But Freelorn is the Lion’s Child,” she said. “He has things to do—”

  “He heard Me call him and came here of his own free will,” the Maiden said. She moved for the first time, reaching out one of Her empty hands to Freelorn. He leaned nearer with a sigh, and She stroked his hair, gazing down at him. “And now he has his heart’s desire. No more flight for the Lion’s Child, no more striving after an empty throne and a lost sword. Only peace, and the twilight. He has earned them.”

  The Maiden half-sang the words as She looked at Freelorn, and Her merciless glory grew more blinding yet. Segnbora shook her head, for something was missing. Whatever lived in those eyes, it wasn’t love. And more than Her glory, it was Her love—of creating, and what she created—that Segnbora had worshiped—

  (Sdaha, quick!)

  (Right—) She reached out to grab Freelorn and pull him away from the Maiden’s lulling touch, but as she moved, the Maiden did too—locking eyes with Segnbora, striking her still.

  “You also, little sister,” She said, “you have earned your peace. Here you shall stay.”

  “No, oh no,” Segnbora whispered, struggling again to find the will to move. But, dark aspect or not, this was the Goddess, Who knew Segnbora’s heart better than she did.

  The Maiden spoke from within that heart now, with Segnbora’s own thoughts, her own voice, as the Goddess often speaks. …I’m tired, my mum and da are dead; there are months, maybe years of travel and fighting ahead of us—and even if I bring Lorn out of here, he’ll probably just get killed. Isn’t this better for him than painful death? And isn’t it better for me, too? No death in ice and darkness, just peace for all eternity. Peace in the twilight, with Her...

  The song of the mdeihei seemed very far away. Segnbora couldn’t hear what Hasai was saying to her any more, and somehow it didn’t matter. The cool of the surrounding twilight curled into her like rising water. Soon it would rise high enough to drown her life, to abolish both pain and desire.

  The Maiden was seated no longer. Calm as a moonrise, She stood before Segnbora, reaching out to her. “There’s nothing to fear,” She said. “Nothing fails here, nothing is lost, no hearts break or a
re broken. I have wrought a place outside of time and ruin—”

  The gentle hands touched Segnbora’s face. All through her, muscles went lax as her body yielded itself to its Creator. Her mind swelled with a desire to be still—to forget the world and its concerns and rest in Her touch forever. “Then it’s true,” she whispered as if in a dream. “There’s no death here...”

  “There is no death anywhere,” the Maiden said, serene, utterly certain.

  The relief that washed through Segnbora was indescribable. The one thing that had been wrong with the world was vanquished at last. Impermanence, loss, bereavement…all lies: the Universe was perfect, as it should have been from the beginning. There was nothing to fear anymore…

  …though it was curious that one dim image surfaced, and would not go away. In languid curiosity she regarded it, though her indifference kept her from truly seeing it for a long time. It was a tree, and a dark field, and brightness in the field. Night smells—

  —smells?

  There were smells that had little to do with night. Ground-damp. Mold. Wetness, where her hands turned over dirt, and jerked back in shock. The liquid gleam of dulled eyes in Flamelight. And the carrion smell of death—

  In a wash of horror, the dream broke. Segnbora knew who she was again, and Who held her. The Maiden had made the worlds, true enough, and in the ecstasy of creation had forgotten about Death and let It in. But She had never denied Death’s existence, or Her mistake, in any of Her aspects.

  Segnbora tried to move away from the hands that held her, and couldn’t. Her body felt half-dead. She settled for moving just one hand: the right one, the swordhand that had saved her so many times before. Her own horror helped her, for she knew the name of the legend before Whom she stood: the One with Still Hands, that Maiden Who has stopped creating and holds all who fall into Her power in a terrible thrall. This was a dark aspect of the true Maiden, one Who had found no solace for the Error in Her other selves, and so from guilt and grief went mad. In that madness, it seemed, She had taken Glasscastle as Her demesne, Her prison. And Lorn’s. And mine, forever. Unless—

  (Hasai!)

  As she struggled to move, she was shocked to get no answer. Twilight had fallen in the back of her mind, and she could feel no Dragonfire there. She would have to raise her swordhand alone, no matter that the Maiden’s cool hands on her face made it almost impossible to concentrate.

  Sweat sprang out with the effort. The hand moved an inch. I will not be entombed here with the dead and the near-dead! I will not leave my mdaha trapped in a forever of not-doing – or walk past Lang and Freelorn and Herewiss a thousand times and never see them! We have things to do!

  Another inch. Another. The hand felt as if it were made of lead, but she moved further into h, finding strength. I have things to do! ! Mdaha!!

  In the twilight, something else moved. Down inside her memory, in the cavern—not her own secret place, but the cave at the Morrowfane—stones grated beneath Hasai’s plating, scoring the dulled gems of his flanks as he rolled over to be still from the convulsions at last. Peace, O blessed peace, I thought the pain would never stop… Horrified, Segnbora discovered that the One with Still Hands was there as well. Dark as a moonless night, she was soothing Hasai’s worst pain, offering him a mdahaih state that would never diminish him to a faint voice in the background, but would leave him one strong voice among many.

  But Segnbora knew the promise for a lie. (Mdaha! Move! She can’t do it. She’ll trap you in here, and we’ll both be alive and rdahaih forever!)

  He could not move. Desperately, Segnbora reached all the way back inside, climbed into his body and took over—wore his wings, lashed his tail, lifted his head, forced one immense taloned foot to move forward, then another, then another. Together they crawled to the mouth of the cave, Hasai gasping without fire as they went.

  (Sdaha, have mercy! Let me go!)

  She ignored him, pushing his head out the cave entrance into the clear night. The entrance was too small for his shoulders and barrel. Segnbora pushed again, ramming muscles with thought, ramming the cave wall with gemmed hide, steel bones. (Now!) she cried, and they crashed into the rock together. It trembled, but held. (Now!)

  Stones rattled and fell about them. The mountain shook and threatened to come down—but stone was their element: they were unafraid. Slowly Hasai began to assist her, living in his own body again, remembering life, refinding his strength. (Now!)

  They jammed shoulders through the stone; wings smote the rock like lightning, burst free into the night. Segnbora’s arm knocked away with one sweeping gesture the hands that held her. In rage and pity, and a desire to see something other than slack peace in those beautiful eyes, her hand swept back again. She struck the Maiden backhanded across the face.

  Shocked and horrified at what she’d done, Segnbora waited for the lightning….or at least for her own handprint to appear on Her face. Nothing came, though. No flicker of the eyes, no change in the mouth. Slowly the Maiden turned Her back on Segnbora, went back to Her throne, seated Herself. She said nothing. Segnbora found herself free.

  (Sdaha—)

  (I know, mdaha, time!)

  Segnbora shook Freelorn by the shoulder. There was no answering movement—he seemed asleep or tranced. Well, dammit, if I have to carry him— She reached down and took him under the shoulders, heaving hard. Freelorn made a sound, then. It was a bitter moan; a sound of pain and mourning as if some sweet dream had broken.

  “Come on, Lorn,” Segnbora said, wanting more to swear than to coax, for at her best guess Moonset couldn’t be more than a quarter-hour away. “Come on, you Lioncub, you idiot, come on—!”

  Turning, she got him up—then blinked in shock. They were all there, slowly drifting in to this place’s true center. Lang, looking peaceful. Dritt, Moris, Torve, Harald, all the life gone out of their movements. Sunspark, quenched in the twilight like a firebrand dropped in water. Herewiss, his light eyes dark with Glasscastle’s dusk, and no flicker of Fire showing about Khávrinen.

  Despair and anger shook Segnbora. She didn’t have time to go into each mind separately and break the Maiden’s grip. She doubted she had the strength, anyhow. Not even the Fire, had she been able to focus it, would help her now. Though sorcery—

  She paused, considering. Perhaps there was a way to break them all free at once. It shamed her deeply, but she had no leisure now for shame. (Mdaha --)

  (Do what you must,) Hasai said, placid. (I’ll lend you strength if you need it.)

  She gulped, and began building the sorcery. It was a simple one, and vile. These people were her friends. She had fought alongside them, guarded their backs, eaten and drunk and starved with them, lain down in loneliness or merriment to share herself with them. Their friendship gave her just enough knowledge of their inner Names with which to weave a spell of compulsion.

  It was almost too easy. Their own wills were almost wholly abolished. The images of loneliness, loss of Power, and midnight fear that she employed were more than adequate. She knew less about Herewiss and Sunspark than about Freelorn and the others, but could guess enough about their natures to bind them and compel them out of here. Torve was hardest—an outer name and a wry flicker of his eyes was all she had. Yet she was terrified for this innocent, and her fear fueled his part of the sorcery, making up for her lack of knowledge.

  Segnbora gasped out the last few syllables of the sorcery, then in her mind began carefully making her way out of the spell-construct, slipping through it sideways and scoring herself with sharp words in only a few places, thankful for once that she was so slim. Once out, she bound the sorcery into a self-maintaining configuration that would give her time to fight off the inevitable backlash and follow the others out.

  One by one, her companions began drifting away from the Maiden’s throne, out in the direction of the great gates. She sagged a moment, feeling weary and soiled, watching them go.

  Inside her, wings like the night sheltered her and fed her strengt
h. (Sdaha, don’t dally—)

  (No.) Yet she paused to look one last time at the throne, where the Maiden sat silent, watching the others go, dispassionate as a statute in a shrine. O my Queen, Segnbora thought. Surely somewhere the Maiden dwelt in saner aspects, whole and alive and forever creating. But to see even a minor aspect of Godhead so twisted was too bitter for a mortal to bear for long. Hurrying, Segnbora turned to follow the others.

  They were far ahead of her, unerringly following the way out that she had set for them. The sorcery was holding surprisingly well, considering how long it had been since she had used sorcery to do as much as mend a pot or start a fire. Segnbora went quickly, trotting, even though physical activity would bring on the backlash with a vengeance. It just felt wonderful to move again. (Mdaha, you all right?)

  (My head hurts,) he said, surprised.

  (It’s the effect of the sorcery; you’re picking it up from me.) Somehow she couldn’t bring herself to be very solicitous: there were still too many things that could go wrong. They could come to the doors and find them closed. Or, if they were open, the bridge could be gone. Or—

  Something moved close by, a figure approaching Segnbora from one side. It was not one of her own people, she knew. Her hand went to Charriselm’s hilt.

  Summersky opals winked at her as Efmaer came up beside her and walked with her, quickly but without animation. “You are leaving,” the Queen said.

  “Yes. Come with us—”

  Efmaer shook her head. “Gladly would I come…but I never found Sefeden to get my Name back, and without it I cannot leave.”

  “But you know your Name.”

  “I have forgotten it,” said the Queen.

  Segnbora’s insides clenched with pity…and suddenly the memory she hadn’t been able to pin down drew itself across her pain-darkened mind like a falling star. She stopped and took the Queen urgently by the shoulders, half expecting to find herself holding a ghost, or something hard and cold. But there was warmth in that body, and an old supple strength that spoke of years spent swinging Fórlennh and Skádhwë in the wars against the Fyrd. “Efmaer,” Segnbora said, “Enra gave the secret to her daughter, and it passed into the lore of our line. I know your Name.”