The Mirror of Her Dreams (25 page)

Therefore intelligent decisions concerning her cannot be made as matters stand. I anticipate that the Masters will achieve this remarkable insight in another hour or two-well before Master Barsonage is in danger of missing more than one meal.

Tomorrow they will debate what action should be taken in this dilemma. And by that time I will have spoken to them concerning the lady Terisa's latest impossibilities. 'Apt, are you satisfied?'

Once again, Geraden didn't meet the Master's gaze. His strength appeared to have deserted him. With his head down and his shoulders sagging, he looked like he might begin to kick his boots against the stone in chagrin. But he didn't retreat. Terisa noticed particularly that he didn't accept his dismissal and leave the room.

'You can forget about accidents,' he said, his voice muffled by the way he held his head. The mirror that brought her here has been closed. There's power at work. And it has something to do with the lady Terisa.

'She says she's not an Imager. She says there
are
no Imagers in her world. She uses the word 'magic'-there is no magic in her world. And when I was there I saw evidence that she didn't draw me to her. But that doesn't mean she has no power
here.'

Terisa winced at this argument. When Master Eremis turned his attention away from her, she began to recover some of her ability to think. As a result, she wished that she could have told Geraden what she saw in his mirror before he tried to argue with anyone. Her proof might have saved him from making a fool of himself.

Unfortunately, it was too late to save him now. 'I believe,' he went on, speaking more slowly and tensely, 'that there's something crucial about her. We need her.
I
know I don't have any kind of undiscovered talent. I would not have found her if she weren't vitally important.'

Then he did look up at the taller man. He appeared to be chewing the inside of his cheek to steady himself. His expression was anxious and abashed; but his gaze didn't falter. 'Master Eremis, I believe she's too important to become just another one of your women.'

'You insolent puppy!' spat the Master. For an instant, he seemed to grow taller, as if he were cocking himself to deliver a blow.

Suddenly, however, he burst out laughing. 'Oh, Geraden, Geraden!' he chortled. 'Is it any wonder that I wish you well? You are beyond price. Tell me, boy.' His voice took on an edge of glee, as if he were playing at outrage. 'Is it actually possible for you to look at this lady'-he indicated Terisa with a broad sweep of his hand-'and
believe
that she could ever be 'just another' woman to any man?' Throwing back his head, he laughed again, loudly and thoroughly.

That was what was wrong with her father, of course. He never laughed. In an odd way, Master Eremis' mirth filled her with sadness. It represented a loss. If she had grown up in a family where people laughed, things might have been entirely different. She might have been entirely-

Almost inevitably, this sorrow brought back the sensation that she was fading.

It had remained with her despite the Master's gaze, his touch. Now it was growing stronger and changing: safety was being transformed into danger. It made her turn her head as if she knew what was happening.

In quick horror, she saw that the flat glass which Geraden had uncovered was shifting.

While she gaped at it, the impossible Image of the Closed Fist modulated as though the mirror were a kaleidoscope of winter. Bleeding out of itself, the stream became roads; the pillars stretched limbs and spread out as trees; the sloping virgin snow slumped into ruts and mud. After only a moment, the scene became unmistakable: it was the intersection outside Orison, where the roads from the Cares came together; it was the mirror's original, real Image.

This time, however, there were riders on the northeast road. At least ten men on horseback flailed their mounts and the snow as if they were frantic to reach Orison-

-as if they were being pursued.

'My lady,' breathed Geraden in astonishment.

Then he gasped, 'Glass and splinters!'

Master Eremis also gazed at the mirror, his eyes bright; but he said nothing.

From out of nowhere, a black spot sprang like a predator at one of the riders. It was small, hardly larger than a puppy by comparison, too small to hurt him. Nevertheless it communicated force and fury like a shout across the distance. The rider flung up his arms and plunged from his horse as if he were screaming.

None of his companions turned back to help him. They only goaded their mounts harder, straining towards the castle. His horse veered off the road and fled with a frenzied gait, disappearing past the edge of the glass.

A cold fist clutched at Terisa's stomach and twisted it hard.

She was so frightened she failed to notice that she was no longer fading.

Another black spot appeared out of nowhere.

The whole scene seemed to jump towards her as the spot sprang. Geraden had moved to the edge of the mirror: he was adjusting its focus, bringing the Image closer. Now she could see that the spot was a gnarled, round shape with four limbs outstretched like grappling hooks and terrible jaws that occupied more than half its body. Bounding from whatever invisible perch it had launched itself, it struck a rider in the chest. At once, its limbs took hold; its jaws opened and began ravening.

The mirror showed the man's agony distinctly as he toppled backward in a useless effort to avoid having his heart torn out. It showed the exact shape of the stain his blood made gushing into the snow.

Pointing at one of the riders, Geraden cried, The Perdon! He'll be killed!'

'Perhaps not!' countered Master Eremis. They have fled this attack for some distance. If they can outrun the range of the mirror which translates those abominations, they will be safe.'

Terisa couldn't tell which one of the riders was the Perdon. All of them looked the same to her, clenched by cold fear and riding for their lives; the eyes of all their horses flashed white panic. She was holding her breath in unconscious alarm, trying to brace herself for the next black spot which would spring out of the empty air, trying to bear the sight of those jaws.

But Master Eremis was right. From that moment until the riders passed out of the Image, out of this flat glass's reach, no more of them were attacked.

Geraden stood with his fists knotted at his sides, panting between his teeth. Thank the stars. Thank the stars.'

Pressure in her chest made her draw a shuddering breath. Abruptly, she wanted to throw up. She couldn't find enough words to ease her nausea. 'What
were
those things?'

Master Eremis shrugged. Translated things such as that have no names for us. I have a more interesting question.' The fire in his eyes was eager, avid. 'At last report, the Perdon refused to leave Scarping because he believed that matters along the Ver-tigon required his constant attention-rumours from Cadwal, sneaking spies, hints of armies, forays by bandits. Yet now he is here. What has happened to drive him from his Care?'

Without waiting for an answer, he took hold of Terisa's arm. Brusque with concentration, he drew her away from Geraden and the mirrors. 'Come. I want an explanation.'

Geraden followed with a bleak expression on his face.

Hurrying, Master Eremis' long legs set a rapid pace; she had difficulty keeping up with him. After a moment, however, he seemed to notice that she was struggling. He shortened his strides a bit, smiled at her, and tucked her arm through his so that she could support herself on him.

Even then, she was glad he didn't try to talk to her. Most of her attention was consumed by the necessity to fight down nausea.

He guided her up out of the dungeons, across the unused ballroom, and into the main halls of Orison, along Geraden's route of the previous day towards the tower in which King Joyse had his quarters. In a large chamber like a waiting room in front of the stairs upward, he stopped. Only a few people occupied the chamber, and most of them had the needy and inward look of petitioners-a look which she recognized almost automatically because she had seen so much of it in the mission. But there were more guards here than she remembered. They told Master Eremis readily enough that the Perdon was already with King Joyse; they also made it clear that no one else had been invited to attend that meeting.

Almost at once, Castellan Lebbick strode into the room, heading for the stairs.

Master Eremis detached himself from Terisa and accosted the Castellan. 'Can it be true, Lebbick?' He towered over the shorter man; his intent curiosity couldn't conceal an air of superiority. 'Is the Perdon here? This is strange news. What crisis could possibly inspire that bulwark of Mordant to abandon his domain to the Cadwals?'

'Master Eremis,' Castellan Lebbick replied trenchantly, 'that is the King's business.'

Attacking the stairs, he climbed out of sight.

The Master glared after him. 'Unconscionable lout,' he muttered to no one in particular. 'I require an explanation.'

Terisa glanced at Geraden. He stood a little distance away, his good face marred by a mixture of alarm and bitterness. If he had an answer for Master Eremis, he didn't offer it.

No one else in the waiting room had anything to say. The guards stood motionless, apparently meditating on their duty- or perhaps on their lunch. The petitioners were absorbed in themselves. Terisa steadied her respiration and tried to push gnarled, round shapes with terrible jaws out of her mind.

The Imager's impatience mounted visibly. He seemed to have trouble holding himself still. Abruptly, he announced as if everyone around him were eager for his opinion, 'There is a crisis in the Care of Perdon. That much is obvious. But I doubt that it is the crisis itself which brings the Perdon here. He is not a man who would readily flee trouble-or admit weakness. No, I think it is our illustrious King's response to the crisis which forces the Perdon to Orison. I will wager a dozen gold doubles that he hazarded this journey because he was furious. And he will be more so when he departs.'

As if on cue, a shout echoed downward, a roar of anger:

'No!'

Clattering metal, a man appeared on the stairs. He was big and brawny, and made bigger by the iron palettes on his shoulders above his breastplate, the gorget around his neck, the brassards about his arms. On one hip, he had a longsword that appeared heavy enough to behead cattle; on the other, a fighting dagger. His head above his eyebrows was perfectly bald; but his eyebrows themselves were red and thick, red tufts of hair sprouted from his ears, and his wide moustache was so shaggy that food and drink had stained the fringe over his mouth black. The haste of his arrival showed in the spattered mud on his legs.

His blunt face knotted like a club, he pounded downward as if he were looking for someone to attack.

Behind him hurried a woman. Her sky-blue gown and resplendent jewellery marked her as a high lady; but she moved as though she had no interest in the dignity of a long dress or the good manners of necklaces and earrings. Framed by her pale skin and the short crop of her pale blonde hair, her violet eyes flashed vividly.

'My lord Perdon!' she protested, demanded, as she descended. 'You must try again! You must not give up. Surely it is just a failure of understanding. You must explain it to him again.
We
must explain it to him until he grasps its importance. My
lordr

'No!' he repeated, his voice like the shout of a breaking tree. From the stairs, he stamped into the centre of the chamber, then whirled to face her. Shaking his fists at the ceiling, he roared, 'He has given his answer!
He will not command it!'

The force of his anger made her halt. Her skin was so pale that it might have been drained of blood. Yet she didn't flinch. 'But he must!' she replied. 'I say he
must. Some
attempt must be made in Mordant's defence. I am certain that Castellan Lebbick tries to reason with him even now. Return with me, my lord. It is vital that you do not fail.'

The Perdon clamped his hands together in front of him, holding down his fury; his brassards gave out a muffled clang against his breastplate, 'No, my lady,' he said thickly. 'I will not endure it. Let him play hop-board until the realm
crumbles!'
His fists made a fierce hammering motion, pounding hope to the floor. 'I fought at his side for ten
years
to make Mordant what it is. I will not grovel asking him for what he should volunteer.