Mordant's Need

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Right. Now she was focused entirely on the mediator, urging him to believe her, urging him to act. ‘I’m familiar with at least one of Havelock’s mirrors. And I can’t concentrate here, with that thing coming to get us.’ And she had at least one other reason. ‘I need to get back to Orison. So I can make an Image – an approximate Image – that might take us to Master Eremis’ stronghold. It was dark, I couldn’t see. But I remember a lot of details anyway. Maybe they’ll be enough.’

  For a moment, Master Barsonage went on staring at her as if her ideas were inconceivable, imponderable. He had the soul of a fence-sitter: he didn’t like hazardous decisions. Just when she was about to start yelling at him, however, he lifted his head and smiled, and all the wildness fell away from him.

  ‘Why did you not say that from the first?’

  Turning, he headed toward one of the Congery’s wagons, shouting for other Masters to join him as he ran.

  Terisa was about to follow when Geraden snatched her exuberantly into his arms, whirled her in a circle with her feet off the ground and her breath gasping. ‘I knew it!’ he shouted to the blue sky and the chaos and the slug-beast. ‘I knew we weren’t supposed to be here!’

  Even though she couldn’t resist kissing him, she was thinking, Put me down you idiot we’ve got to go.

  He put her down. Together, they raced to the wagon.

  The Masters were unpacking a mirror which showed a limitless sea glittering under hot sunlight.

  ‘I brought it on a whim, really,’ Master Barsonage explained as the other Imagers set the glass as securely as possible in the wet snow. ‘It served us so well when we rescued you from the champion’s destruction of our meeting hall, I thought perhaps it could serve us again. When you demanded a mirror, I was reluctant to risk it. I was trying to imagine how it might be used to drown that monster.’

  ‘I won’t break it,’ Geraden promised. He was already beside the mirror, already stroking his fingertips along its beautiful woodwork. Despite the running and cries of the men, the desperate commands of the officers, the loud ruin of the monster’s teeth, he seemed to have no difficulty concentrating. To Terisa’s eyes, he shone with confidence and strength which made everything possible.

  Nothing happened to the Image of the sea. Waves went on rolling their long, slow unrest from edge to edge of the frame; the heavens remained an immaculate blue unmatched by any color in the world except the sky’s hue above the valley.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked Terisa over his shoulder. Without looking away from the glass, he extended his hand to her.

  Where were Havelock’s rooms, Havelock’s mirrors? What had happened to Geraden’s talent?

  No, she told herself, he can do it this way, everything’s all right. He had the ability to use mirrors for translations which had nothing to do with their Images. That was how he had come to her in the first place, how he had showed her the Closed Fist, how he had rescued himself from Orison. All she had to do was trust him.

  Choose your risks—

  She took his hand, started moving at once toward the glass so that she wouldn’t falter.

  But she was holding her breath as the Image opened to embrace her like the sea.

  Of course she didn’t fall into the sea: Geraden had too much control over his talent; he was in no danger of going that far wrong. Instead, she faded as if she had winked out of existence.

  Holding his hand with all her strength, pulling him after her, she evaporated through the transition of mirrors, the instant, eternal plummet and soar between places of being; the vast redemptive and ruinous dark which her parents had taught her to know and fear and love by locking her in the closet.

  When she came out of the translation, she lost her balance and collapsed in a heap, drawing Geraden helplessly after her – breaking his brief hold on the mirror’s frame, his only attachment to the world of the valley.

  For some strange reason, she landed on a thick carpet.

  A synthetic carpet, running from wall to wall on both sides of her.

  Adept Havelock didn’t have a carpet like this in his rooms. No one had a carpet like this anywhere in Orison.

  Across the deep, woven pile, she saw that she was surrounded by people: women in gowns; men in tuxedos. Some of them had yelled recently, dropped glasses full of ice and alcohol onto the carpet. They were all still now, however, motionless, staring frozen at Geraden and her with shock on their polished faces.

  Until she recognized the angle of the hall leading to the bedrooms, and the shape of the entryway to the dining room and kitchen, she didn’t realize that she was back in her old apartment.

  Back in her old world.

  FIFTY

  CAREFUL RISKS

  Geraden was sprawled halfway across her; his weight held her down. Instinctively, she arched her back, tried to shift him so that she could get her legs under her. He didn’t move. Staring at the strange carpet, the chrome-and-wicker furniture, the astonished men and women in their inexplicable clothes, he murmured, ‘Glass and splinters. What have I done?’

  She thought the answer was obvious.

  He had brought her back to her old condominium. And during her absence time had passed; months had passed. Never one to cling to a useless investment, her father must have sold her apartment as soon as he felt sure she wasn’t coming back. And the new owners had redecorated it, of course—

  All her mirrors were gone – every conceivable link to Mordant, every way back—

  On the other hand, what imaginable reason could Geraden have for bringing her back here? for bringing her back here now? This wasn’t just an accident: it was an absolute disaster.

  There was no way back.

  ‘Get up,’ she urged as if his weight were suffocating her. ‘Oh, God. Oh, shit. Get up.’

  ‘Call the police,’ a frightened woman pleaded.

  ‘Call security,’ suggested someone else.

  ‘Who are they?’

  Geraden got up.

  As he rose to his feet, the people in the gowns and tuxedos flinched; some of them retreated farther. A shoe kicked a glass, sent it rolling across the tile on the kitchen floor. Terisa could hear ice being crunched underfoot, as if that noise were louder than the voices.

  ‘Call security, I said.’

  ‘How did they get in here?’

  ‘I don’t know. They just appeared, that’s all.’

  ‘What have we been drinking?’

  Her heart beat so hard that she had trouble finding her balance, trouble making her legs lift her upright.

  ‘What have I done?’ Geraden repeated softly; he was appalled to the bone.

  ‘Miss Morgan?’

  No, she was wrong again, she had jumped once again to the wrong conclusions. The ice wasn’t louder than the voices: she had no difficulty at all hearing Reverend Thatcher.

  He was there, squirming his way out of the press of people, a small, old man in a shabby suit. His pulse beat in the veins under his pale skin. He came a few steps toward her, then stopped; his eyes watered with surprise and relief and embarrassment.

  ‘Miss Morgan?’

  Her father was right behind Reverend Thatcher. His expression made him look like a startled barracuda.

  Terisa gaped at him while her pulse faltered and her heart quailed.

  Geraden, please. Oh, please. Get us out of here.

  ‘Miss Morgan.’ Reverend Thatcher seemed to face her through a veil of tears. ‘We thought you were dead. Kidnapped – lost – I went to your father.’

  She had always considered her father mercilessly handsome in a tuxedo. His appearance was a weapon he knew how to use. And it made his anger more brutal; it implied that no one had the right to ruffle him.

  He came out of the rich crowd as if he were stalking her.

  She wanted to run. Dash into the bedroom. Hide under the bed.

  It wasn’t her bedroom anymore.

  Oh, Geraden.

  ‘He was going to sell your apartment anyway,’ Revere
nd Thatcher explained, driven by a need to justify himself. ‘I persuaded him to sell it for charity. For the mission. He’s going to auction it tonight. To raise money for the mission.’

  Without warning, she nearly lost her fear.

  Reverend Thatcher had persuaded her father? He had gone to her father and persuaded him, confronted him? Lonely and pitiable as he was, the small, old man must have risen to something approaching heroism, in order to confront her father like that – in order to best him.

  This time, she didn’t need the call of horns to help her see the change in Reverend Thatcher, the valor underlying his superficial futility. She and Geraden had blundered into his night of triumph.

  ‘You know these people?’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘I don’t care. Get them out of here.’

  Or else her father had relented in some way? He cared about her enough to be made vulnerable by losing her?

  That idea changed everything. She believed in his unlove. It was fundamental to her. Could she have been wrong about him? Was there another part of him, a part she didn’t understand, a part he didn’t see himself when he looked in the mirror?

  If he cared about her, how could she ever leave him?

  No. He thrust Reverend Thatcher aside with such force that the old man stumbled. Chewing his anger, he demanded, ‘Terisa Morgan, how dare you embarrass me like this?’

  ‘Terisa,’ Geraden asked as if he were panting, ‘do these people know you? Where are we?’

  ‘You disappear without telling anyone,’ her father spat. ‘You abandon your job, your apartment, you abandon me, you don’t have the simple decency to ask permission, you don’t tell anyone where you’re going, and then you show up like this, in front of my friends, when I’m trying to get a good price out of them for this place. Dressed like that? How dare you?’

  Geraden, please.

  Her father looked like he was going to hit her. ‘I’m ashamed of you.’

  That was too much. Nothing was changed. She had found depths in herself which no glass could reflect; but her father was only what he appeared to be. Reverend Thatcher positively soared in her estimation. Instead of cowering or crying or pleading, she faced her father squarely.

  But she didn’t speak to him. Just for an instant, she wanted to hurt him somehow, say or do something which would repay him for his years of mistreatment. Almost immediately, however, she realized that there was no need. Simply not being afraid of him was enough.

  ‘Geraden,’ she said deliberately, ‘this is my old apartment. Where you found me the first time.’ She didn’t care how badly her voice shook, or how near she came to tears. ‘This is my father. That’s Reverend Thatcher. I’ve told you about them.

  ‘If there’s any way you can get us out of here, you better do it now.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ a strident voice repeated. ‘I’m calling security.’

  ‘No!’ both her father and Reverend Thatcher protested at the same time.

  Nevertheless she heard the sound of the phone snatched off the hook, the sound of dialing—

  ‘Stop!’

  When Geraden stepped in front of her, he seemed taller than she remembered. Or perhaps her father had become shorter. Geraden’s voice rang with authority, and everything about him was strong; his heart never quailed; even his mistakes hinted at glory.

  ‘Do not call. Do not move. Do nothing. We will be gone in a moment.’

  Everyone froze. The man holding the phone dropped it. Even her father lost the power of movement. Like his guests, he stared at Geraden and her with his mouth hanging open.

  Casually, as if she weren’t frantic inside, and had completely forgotten panic, Terisa remarked to Geraden, ‘I thought you said you can’t shift mirrors across distances.’

  He didn’t look at her. He didn’t look at anyone: he closed his eyes, trusting his authority – or sheer surprise – to protect him while he concentrated. He had a king’s face, and every line of it promised strength.

  Quietly, he muttered, ‘Well, I’ve got to try, don’t I?’

  Her father closed his mouth; he swallowed hard. Snarling deep in his throat, he said, ‘I’m going to punish you for this—’

  As if he were immensely far away, Reverend Thatcher retorted, ‘Mr. Morgan, that’s absurd. She’s come back. We all thought she was dead, and now she’s come back. We should be delighted.’

  Before anyone could respond, Geraden abruptly flung his arms wide. For no good reason except his own urgency, he cried, ‘Havelock, we trust you!’

  Then he vanished.

  Someone let out a vague shriek. Several of her father’s guests gasped or flinched. Others appeared to be on the verge of fainting.

  Suddenly, Terisa wanted to sing. Oh, he was wonderful, Geraden was wonderful, and nobody was going to be able to stop her, never again, she was never going to be afraid of her father again.

  While she still had the chance, she turned to Reverend Thatcher.

  ‘You can have your auction. Make him give you every penny he gets. I want you to have the money. It’s a good cause, the best. And I might not come back. If I do, I certainly won’t live here.’

  After that, without transition, she dropped into the quick, immeasurable plunge of translation.

  Once again, Geraden had done the right thing.

  As usual, she lost her balance; but he caught her as she stumbled out of the mirror, so that she didn’t fall.

  The change of light made her blink: electric illumination was gone, replaced by a few oil lamps. As her vision came into focus, she found that she was in the shrine or mausoleum which Adept Havelock had made out of the room where he stored his mirrors.

  Where she needed to be.

  What did he celebrate here? she wondered obliquely. What did he mourn?

  But she had no time to spare for the Adept. Geraden held her hard, as if he had no intention of ever letting her go again.

  ‘Glass and splinters, Terisa!’ he breathed, pressing his face against her hair, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what went wrong, thank the stars Havelock was watching his mirrors, I didn’t mean to take us there—’

  Already the Image of her apartment in the mirror he and the Adept had used was fading.

  She kissed him to make him stop. ‘Don’t apologize. You rescued us – that’s what counts.’ That, and Reverend Thatcher’s ability to extract money from her father. And the fact that she was no longer afraid. Part of her still felt like singing. ‘It was worth it.

  ‘We’ve got to hurry. King Joyse doesn’t have much time.’

  He met her gaze. For a moment, she could see the characteristic struggle between chagrin and eagerness going on inside him; self-distrust and hope at each other’s throats. Almost at once, however, he smiled, and his eyes cleared, as if the acceptance he met in her turned the tide of the conflict.

  ‘Right,’ he said like a man who couldn’t think of any reason to be alarmed by the prospect of entering Master Eremis’ stronghold. ‘Let’s get started.’

  Together, they turned toward Havelock.

  The Adept wasn’t alone. He had Artagel with him.

  Artagel was dressed for battle, and he was grinning.

  Havelock had apparently been cleaning the room again. In one hand, he brandished a rather limp featherduster; he wore an apron several sizes too large for him to protect his still-spotless surcoat. Twisting his features as if he wanted to howl, he poked his duster at Terisa and Geraden, and said, ‘I told you to trust me.

  ‘Don’t you realize yet that I’m the one who planned all this? I planned it all. Joyse is the only man alive who could have done it, but I planned it. No matter how crazy I get, I’m the best fornicating hop-board player in Orison, bar none.

  ‘Remember that, for a change.’

  Terisa couldn’t resist: she asked, ‘You mean you knew we were coming?’

  For once, the Adept was tolerant of questions. ‘Of course not. But I considered the possibility. What do you think
planning is?’

  ‘It’s good to see the two of you again,’ Artagel interrupted happily. ‘I gather things have finally gotten desperate enough for some dramatic Imagery. A few of the Cadwals we’ve been taking prisoner in the ballroom look actively horrified.

  ‘What’re you trying to do?’

  ‘Go to Eremis’ stronghold, if we can get there,’ answered Geraden. ‘He isn’t in Esmerel. Nyle isn’t there. That was a trap. But Terisa thinks she can make an Image of the place Eremis took her. If she can, maybe we can find it and get in.’

  ‘Good.’ Facing his brother boldly, Artagel said, ‘This time, you aren’t going to get rid of me so easily. Whatever you have in mind, you’re going to need a bodyguard. And I am sick to the teeth’ – he flashed his grin – ‘of being in command of this useless pile of rocks.’

  Geraden started to protest, but Terisa stopped him. This was another of her reasons for returning to Orison. Two days ago – was it only two days ago? – he had said, When the fighting really starts, we’d better be sure we’ve got somebody with us who handles a sword better than I do. One of his ‘strongest feelings.’ Instead of trying to explain, however, she said, ‘Let him do what he wants. We don’t have time to argue with him.’

  As if to demonstrate her point, she left Geraden’s side and went to the mirror she wanted, the flat glass reflecting a sanddune in Cadwal.

  ‘Besides,’ Artagel whispered to Geraden behind her, ‘Havelock says you need me. He got me down here. I didn’t have any idea you were coming back.’

  ‘What makes you think you’re ready for Gart?’ demanded Geraden hotly. ‘He’s already beaten you twice. And you’re still hurt.’

  Artagel chuckled. ‘What makes you think the two of you are ready for Eremis and Gilbur and Vagel? We’ve all got to do what we can. And,’ he added more soberly, ‘you may not have time for Nyle. Maybe I’ll be able to help him.’

  Geraden apparently found that argument difficult to refute. As if to relieve a personal anxiety, he changed the subject. ‘How’s the siege?’