A Man Rides Through (105 page)

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," Reverend 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.