The Mirror of Her Dreams

ONE: CALLING

The night before Geraden came for her, Terisa Morgan had a dream – one of the few she could ever remember. In it, she heard horns: faint with distance, they reached her through the sharp air over the hills covered with crisp snow like the call for which her heart had always been waiting. They winded again—and while she strained to hear them, again. But they came no closer.

She wanted to go looking for them. Past the wood where she seemed to be sitting or lying as if the cold couldn’t touch her, she saw the ridge of the hills: perhaps the horns – and those who sounded them – were on the far side. Yet she didn’t move. The dream showed her a scene she had never seen before; but she remained who she had always been.

Then along the snow-clogged skirt of the ridge came charging men on horseback. As the horses fought for speed, their nostrils gusted steam, and their legs churned the snow until the dry, light flakes seemed to boil. She could hear the leather creaking of their tack, the angry panting and muttered curses of their riders: the ridge sent every sound, as edged as a shard of glass, into the wood. She yearned to block out those noises, to hear the horns again, while the three men abruptly swung away from the hills and lashed the snow toward the trees – directly toward her.

As their faces came into focus for her, she saw their fierce hate, the intent of bloodshed. Long swords appeared to flow out of their sheaths into the high hands of the riders. They were going to hack her into the snow where she stood.

She remained motionless, waiting. The air was whetted with cold, as hard as a slap and as penetrating as splinters. In the dream, she wasn’t altogether sure that she would mind being killed. It would bring the emptiness of her life to an end. Her only regret was that she would never hear the horns again, never find out why they spoke such a thrill to her heart.

Then from among the black-trunked trees behind her came a man to impose himself between her and the riders. He was unarmed, unarmored – he seemed to be wearing only a voluminous brown jerkin, pants of the same fabric, leather boots – but he didn’t hesitate to risk the horses. While the first rider swung his blade, the man made a sidelong leap at the reins of the mount; and the horse was wrenched off balance, spilling its rider in front of her second attacker. Both horse and rider went down, raising clouds of snow as thick as mist.

When a low breeze cleared her sight, she saw that her defender had snatched up the first rider’s sword and spitted the second with it. He moved with a desperate awkwardness which showed that he was unfamiliar with fighting; but he didn’t falter. In furious assault, he stretched the first rider out against the trunk of a tree before the horseman could strike back with his long poniard.

Watching, Terisa saw the third rider poised above the young man who fought for her – mount firmly positioned, sword hilt gripped high in both fists. Though she understood nothing of what was going on, she knew that she ought to move. In simple decency and gratitude toward her defender, if for no other reason, she should fling herself against the rider. He wasn’t looking at her: surely she would be able to reach his belt and pull him out of his saddle before he struck.

But she didn’t. In the dream, a small, vexed frown pinched her forehead as she regarded her passivity. It was the story of her life, that mute nothingness – the only quality she could ascribe to her uncertain existence. How could she act? Action was for those who didn’t seriously doubt their own presence in the world. During the more than twenty years of her life, her opportunities for action had been so few that she typically hadn’t recognized them until they were past. She didn’t know how to make her limbs carry her toward the rider.

Yet the man who fought for her did so for no reason she could see except that she was being attacked. And he didn’t know his danger: he was still trying to wrest his blade from the body of the rider he had just felled, and his back was turned.

Startling herself and the horseman and the sharp cold, she cried, “Watch out!”

The effort of the warning jerked her into a sitting position. She was still in bed. Her shout made her throat ache, and an unaccustomed panic pounded through her veins.

She recognized herself in the mirrors of her bedroom. Lit by the night-light plugged into the wall socket behind the bed, she was hardly more than a shadow in the glass all around her; but she was herself, the shadow she had always been.

And yet, while her pulse still labored and a slick of sweat oozed from her face, she thought she heard beyond the comfortless noises of the city a distant calling of horns, too faint to be certain and too intimate to be ignored.

***

Of course, nothing was changed. She got up the next morning when her alarm clock went off; and her appearance in her mirrors was as rumpled and wan as usual. Though she studied her face for any sign that it was real enough for men on horseback to hate so fiercely, it seemed as void of meaning as always – so unmarked by experience, decision, or impact that she was dimly surprised to find it still able to cast a reflection. Surely she was fading? Surely she would wake up one morning, look at herself in the mirror, and see nothing? Perhaps, but not today. Today she looked just as she remembered herself – beautifully made, but to no purpose, and slightly tinged with sorrow.

So she showered as usual, dressed herself as usual in the sort of plain skirt and demure sweater her father preferred for her, breakfasted as usual – watching herself in the mirrors between bites of toast – and put on a raincoat before leaving her apartment to go to work. There was nothing out of the ordinary about the way she looked, or about her apartment as she left it, or about the elevator ride down to the lobby of her building. The only thing out of the ordinary was the way she felt.

To herself, so privately that none of it showed on her face, she kept remembering her dream.

Outside, rain fell heavily onto the street, flooding the gutters, hissing like hail off the roofs of the cars, muffling the noises of traffic. Dispirited by the gray air and the wet, she tied a plastic bandana over her head, then walked past the security guard (who ignored her, as usual) and out through the revolving doors into the downpour.

With her head low and her concentration on the sidewalk, she moved in the direction of the mission where she worked.

Without warning, she seemed to hear the horns again.

Involuntarily, she stopped, jerked up her head, looked around her like a frightened woman. They weren’t car horns: they were wind instruments such as a hunter or musician might use. The chord of their call was so far away and out of place that she couldn’t possibly have heard it, not in that city, in that rain, while rush-hour traffic filled the streets and fought the downpour. And yet the sensation of having heard the sound made everything she saw appear sharper and less dreary, more important. The rain had the force of a determined cleansing; the streaked gray of the buildings looked less like despair, more like the elusive potential of the borderland between day and night; the people jostling past her on the sidewalk were driven by courage and conviction, rather than by disgust at the weather or fear of their employers. Everything around her had a tang of vitality she had never seen before.

Then the sensation faded; and she couldn’t possibly have heard rich horns calling to her heart; and the tang was gone.

Baffled and sad, she resumed her sodden walk to work.

At the mission, her day was more full of drudgery than usual. In the administrative office, seated at her desk with the ancient typewriter crouching in front of her like a foul-tempered beast of burden, she found a message from Reverend Thatcher, the old man who ran the mission. It said that the mission’s copying costs were too high, so would she please type two hundred fifty copies of the attached letter in addition to her other duties. The letter was aimed at most of the philanthropic organizations in the city, and it contained yet another appeal for money, couched in Reverend Thatcher’s customary futility. She could hardly bear to read it as she typed; but of course she had to read it over and over again to get it right.

While she typed, she seemed to feel herself becoming physically less solid, as if she were slowly being dissolved by the pointlessness of what she did. By noon, she had the letter memorized; and she was watching in a state that resembled suspense the line of letters her typewriter made, waiting for each new character because it proved that she was still there and she couldn’t honestly say she expected it to appear.

She and Reverend Thatcher usually ate lunch together – by his choice, not hers. Since she was quiet and watched his face attentively, he probably thought she was a sympathetic listener. But most of the time she hardly heard what he said. His talk was like his letters: there was nothing she could do to help. She was quiet because that was the only way she knew how to be; she watched his face because she hoped it would betray some indication of her own reality – some flicker of interest or concentration of notice which might indicate that she was actually present with another person. So she sat with him in one corner of the soup kitchen the mission ran in its basement, and she kept her face turned toward him while he talked.

From a distance, he appeared bald, but that was because his mottled pink skin showed clearly through his fine, pale hair, which he kept cut short. The veins in his temples were prominent and seemed fragile, with the result that whenever he became agitated they looked like they might burst. Today she expected him to rehash his latest letter, which she had already typed nearly two hundred times. That was his usual pattern: while they ate the bland, thin lunch provided by the kitchen, he would tell her things she already knew about his work, his voice quavering whenever he came back to the uselessness of what he was doing. This time, however, he surprised her.

“Miss Morgan,” he said without quite looking at her, “have I ever told you about my wife?”

In fact, he hadn’t, though he referred to her often. But Terisa knew some of his family history from the previous mission secretary, who had given up the job in defeat and disgust. Nevertheless she said, “No, Reverend Thatcher. You’ve mentioned her, naturally. But you’ve never told me about her.”

“She died nearly fifteen years ago,” he said, still wistfully. “But she was a fine, Christian woman, a strong woman, God rest her soul. Without her, I would have been weak, Miss Morgan – too weak to do what needed doing.”

Though she hadn’t considered the question closely, Terisa thought of him as weak. He sounded weak now, even when he wasn’t talking about his failure to do better for the mission. But he also sounded fond and saddened.

“I remember the time – oh, it was years ago, long before you were born, Miss Morgan – I was out of seminary”– he smiled past her left shoulder – “with all kinds of honors, would you believe it? And I had just finished serving an assistant pastorship at one of the best churches in the city.

“At the time, they wanted me to stay on as an associate pastor. With God’s help, I had done well there, and they gave me a call to become one of their permanent shepherds. I can tell you, Miss Morgan, that was quite gratifying. But for some reason my heart wasn’t quiet about it. I had the feeling God was trying to tell me something. You see, just at that time I had learned that this mission needed a new director. I had no desire for the job. Being a weak man, I was pleased by my position in the church. I was well rewarded for my work, both financially and personally. And yet I couldn’t forget the question of this mission. It was true that the church called me to serve them. But what did God call me to do?

“It was Mrs. Thatcher who resolved my dilemma. Putting her hand on her hip, as she always did when she meant to be taken seriously, she said, ‘Now don’t you be a fool, Albert Thatcher. When Our Lord came into the world, he didn’t do it to serve the rich. This church is a fine place – but if you leave, they’ll have the choice of a hundred fine men to replace you. Not one of those men will consider a call to the mission.’

“So I came here,” he concluded. “Mrs. Thatcher didn’t care that we were poor. She only cared that we were doing what we could to serve God. I’ve done that, Miss Morgan, for forty years.”

Ordinarily, a comment like that would have been a prelude to another of his long discussions of his unending and often fruitless efforts to keep the mission viable. Ordinarily, she could hear those discussions coming and steel herself against them, so that her own unreality in the face of the mission’s need and his penury wouldn’t overwhelm her.

But this time what she heard was the faraway cry of horns.

They carried the command of the hunt and the appeal of music, two different sounds that formed a chord in her heart, blending together so that she wanted to leap up inside herself and shout an answer. And while she heard them, everything around her changed.

The soup kitchen no longer looked dingy and worn out: it looked well used, a place of single-minded dedication. The grizzled and tattered men and women seated at the tables were no longer reduced to mere hunched human wreckage: now they took in hope and possibility with their soup. Even the edges of the tables were more distinct, more tangible and important, than ordinary formica and tubed steel. And Reverend Thatcher himself was changed. The pulse beating in his temples wasn’t the agitation of uselessness: it was the strong rhythm of his determination to do good. There was valor in his pink skin, in the earned lines of his face, and the focus of his eyes was so distant because it was fixed, not on futility, but on God.

The change lasted for only a moment. Then she could no longer hear the horns, even though she yearned for them; and the air of defeat seeped slowly back into her surroundings.

Filled with loss, she thought she would start to weep if Reverend Thatcher began another of his discussions. Fortunately, he didn’t. He had some phone calls to make, hoping to catch certain influential people while they were taking their lunch breaks; so he excused himself and left her, unaware that for a moment he had been covered by glamour in her eyes. She returned to her desk almost gratefully; at her typewriter, she would be able to strike the keys and see her existence proven in the black characters she made on paper.

The afternoon passed slowly. Through the one, bare window, she could see the rain still flooding down, drenching everything until even the buildings across the street looked like wet cardboard. The few people hurrying up and down the sidewalks might have been wearing rain gear, or they might not: the downpour seemed to erase the difference. Rain pounded on the outside of the window; gloom soaked in through the glass. Terisa found herself typing the same mistakes over and over again. She wanted to hear horns again – wanted to reexperience the tang and sharpness that came with them. But they had been nothing more than the residue of one of her infrequent dreams. She couldn’t recapture them.

At quitting time, she put her work away, shrugged her shoulders into her raincoat, and tied her plastic bandana over her head. But when she was ready to go, she hesitated. On impulse, she knocked on the door of the tiny cubicle Reverend Thatcher used as a private office.

At first, she didn’t hear anything. Then he answered faintly, “Come in.”

She opened the door.

There was just room in the cubicle for her and one folding chair between his desk and the wall. His seat at the other side of the desk was so tightly blocked in with file cabinets that when he wanted to leave he could barely squeeze out of his niche. As Terisa entered the room, he was staring blankly at his telephone as if it sucked all his attention and hope away.

“Miss Morgan. Quitting time?”

She nodded.

He didn’t seem to notice that she hadn’t said anything. “You know,” he told her distantly, “I talked to forty-two people today. Thirty-nine of them turned me down.”

If she let the impulse which had brought her here dissipate, she would have that much less reason to believe in her own existence; so she said rather abruptly, “I’m sorry about Mrs. Thatcher.”

Softly, as if she hadn’t changed the subject, he replied, “I miss her. I need her to tell me I’m doing the right thing.”

Because she wanted to make him look at her, she said, “You are doing the right thing.” As she spoke, she realized she believed it. The memory of horns had changed that for her, if nothing else. “I wasn’t sure before, but I am now.”

His vague gaze remained fixed on the phone, however. “Maybe if I call her brother,” he muttered to himself. “He hasn’t made a contribution for a year now. Maybe he’ll listen to me this time. I’ll keep trying.”

While he dialed the number, she left the cubicle and closed the door. She had the impression that she was never going to see him again. But she tried not to let it bother her: she often felt that way.

The walk home was worse than the one to work had been. There was more wind, and it lashed the rain against her legs, through every gap it could find or make in her coat, past the edges of her bandana into her face. In half a block, her shoes were full of water; before she was halfway home, her sweater was sticking, cold and clammy, to her skin. She could hardly see where she was going.

But she knew the way automatically: habit carried her back to her condo building. Its glassy front in the rain looked like a spattered pool of dark water, reflecting nothing except the idea of death in its depths. The security guards saw her coming, but they didn’t find her interesting enough to open the doors for her. She pushed her way into the lobby, bringing a gust of wind and a spray of rain with her, and paused for a few moments to catch her breath and wipe the water from her face. Then, without looking up, she headed toward the elevators.

Now that she was no longer walking hard, she began to feel chilled. There was a wall mirror in the elevator: she took off her bandana and studied her face while she rode up to her floor. Her eyes looked especially large and vulnerable against the cold pallor of her skin and the faint blue of her lips. So much of her was real, then: she could be made pale by wind and wet and cold. But the chill went too deep for that reassurance.

As she left the elevator and walked down the carpeted hall to her apartment, she realized she was going to have a bad night.

In her rooms, with the door locked, and the curtains drawn to close out the sensation that she was beneath the surface of the pool she had seen in the windows from the outside, she turned on all the lights and began to strip off her clothes. The mirrors showed her to herself: she was pale everywhere. The dampness on her flesh made it look as pallid as wax.

Candles were made of wax. Some dolls were carved of wax. Wax was used to make molds for castings. Not people.

It was going to be a very bad night. .

She had never been able to find the proof she needed in her own physical sensations. She could easily believe that a reflection might feel cold, or warmth, or pain; yet it didn’t exist. Nevertheless she took a hot shower, trying to drive away the chill. She dried her hair thoroughly and put on a flannel shirt, a pair of thick, soft corduroy pants, and sheepskin moccasins so that she would stay warm. Then, in an effort to hold her trouble back, she forced herself to fix and eat a meal.

But her attempts to take care of herself had as much effect as usual – that is to say, none. A shower, warm clothes, and a hot meal couldn’t get the chill out of her heart – a detail she regarded as unimportant. In fact, that was part of the problem: nothing that happened to her mattered at all. If she were to die of pneumonia, it might be an inconvenience to other people – to her father, for example, or to Reverend Thatcher – but to her it would not make the slightest difference.

This was going to be one of those nights when she could feel herself fading out of existence like an inane dream.

If she sat where she was and closed her eyes, it would happen. First she would hear her father talking past her as if she weren’t there. Then she would notice the behavior of the servants, who treated her as a figment of her father’s imagination, as someone who only lived and breathed because he said she did, rather than as an actual and present individual. And then her mother –

Her mother, who was herself as passive, as nonexistent, as talent, experience, and determination could make her.

In her mind, with her eyes closed, Terisa would be a child again, six or seven years old, and she would hobble into the huge dining room where her parents were entertaining several of her father’s business associates in their best clothes – she would go into the dining room because she had fallen on the stairs and scraped her knee and horrified herself with how much she was bleeding, and her mother would look at her without seeing her at all, would look right through her with no more expression on her face than a waxwork figure, and would make everything meaningless. “Go to your room, child,” she would say in a voice as empty as a hole in her heart. “Your father and I have guests.” Learn to be like me. Before it’s too late.

Terisa had been struggling to believe in herself for years. She didn’t close her eyes. Instead, she went into her living room and pulled a chair close to the nearest wall of mirrors. There she seated herself, her knees against the glass, her face so near it that she risked raising a veil of mist between herself and her reflection. In that position, she watched every line and shade and flicker of her image. Perhaps she would be able to keep her reality in one piece. And if she failed, she would at least be able to see herself come to an end.

The last time she had suffered one of these attacks, she had sat and stared at herself until well past midnight, when the sensation that she was evaporating had finally left her. Now she was sure she wouldn’t last so long. Last night, she had dreamed – and in the dream she had been as passive as she was now, as unable to do anything except watch. The quiet ache of that recognition weakened her. Already, she thought she could discern the edges of her face blurring out of actuality.

Without warning, she saw a man in the mirror.

He wasn’t reflected in the mirror: he was in the mirror. He was behind her startled image – and moving forward as if he were floundering through a torrent.

He was a young man, perhaps only a few years older than she was, and he wore a large brown jerkin, brown pants, and leather boots. His face was attractive, though his expression was foolish with surprise and hope.

He was looking straight at her.

For an instant, his mouth stretched soundlessly as if he were trying to shout through the glass. Then his arms flailed. He looked like he was losing his balance; but his movements expressed an authority which had nothing to do with falling.

Instinctively, she dropped her head into her lap, covered it with her arms.

The mirror in front of her made no noise as it shattered.

She felt the glass spray from the wall, felt splinters tug at her shirt as they blew past. Like a flurry of ice, they tinkled against the opposite wall and fell to the carpet. A brief gust of wind as cold as winter puffed at her with the broken glass, then stopped.

When she looked up, she saw the young man stretched headlong on the floor beside her chair. A dusting of glass chips made his hair glitter. From his position, he looked like he had taken a dive into the room through the wall. But his right leg from mid-calf down was missing. At first, she thought it was still in the wall: his calf and his boot seemed to be cut off flat at the plane of the wall. Then she saw that the end of his leg was actually a couple of inches from the wall.

There was no blood. He didn’t appear to be in pain.

With a whooshing breath, he pushed himself up from the floor so that he could look at her. His right calf seemed to be stuck where it was; but the rest of him moved normally.

He was frowning intensely. But when she met his gaze, his face broke into a helpless smile.

“I’m Geraden,” he said. “This isn’t where I’m supposed to be.”

TWO: THE SOUND OF HORNS

Without quite realizing what she was doing, she pushed her chair back and stood up. Involuntarily, she retreated. Her feet in her moccasins made faint crunching noises as they ground slivers of glass into the carpet. The wall where the mirror had been glued was splotched and discolored: it looked diseased. The remaining mirrors echoed her at herself. But she kept her eyes on the man sprawled in front of her.

He was gaping at her in amazement. His smile didn’t fade, however, and he made no attempt to get up.

“I’ve done it again, haven’t I,” he murmured. “I swear I did everything right – but any Master can do this kind of translation, and I’ve gone wrong again somehow.”

She ought to be afraid of him: she understood that distinctly. His appearance there in her living room was violent and impossible. But instead of fear she felt only bafflement and wonder. He seemed to have the strange ability to bypass logic, normalcy. In her dream, she had not been afraid of death.

“How did you get in here?” she asked so softly that she could barely hear herself. “What do you mean, this isn’t where you’re supposed to be?”

At once, his expression became contrite. “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t frighten you.” There was tension in his voice, a fear or excitement of his own. But in spite of the tightness he sounded gentle, even kind. “I don’t know what went wrong. I did everything right, I swear it. I’m not supposed to be here at all. I’m looking for someone —–”

Then for the first time he looked away from her.

“— completely different.”

As his gaze scanned the room, his jaw dropped, and his face filled up with alarm. Reflected back at himself from all sides, he recoiled, flinching as though he had been struck. The knotted muscles of his throat strangled a cry. A fundamental panic seemed to overwhelm him; for a second, he cowered on the rug, groveled in front of her.

But then, apparently, he realized that he hadn’t been harmed. He lifted his head, and the fear on his features changed to astonishment, awe. He peered at himself in the mirrors as if he were being transformed.

Spellbound by his intense and inexplicable reactions, she watched him and didn’t speak.

After a long moment, he fought his attention back to her. With an effort, he cleared his throat. In a tone of constrained and artificial calm, he said, “I see you use mirrors too.”

A shiver ran through her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “I don’t have any idea what you’re doing here. How do you know I’m not the right person?”

“Good question.” His grin stretched wider. He looked like he enjoyed the sight of her. “Of course you can’t be. I mean, how is that possible? Unless everyone has misunderstood the augury. Maybe this room pulled me away from where I should be. Did you know I was going to try this?”

Terisa didn’t want to repeat herself. Instead of continuing to mention that she had no idea what he meant, she asked, “Why don’t you get up? You look a little silly, lying there on the floor.”

One thing about him pleased her immediately: he seemed to hear her when she spoke, not simply when it happened to suit his train of thought. “I would like to,” he said somewhat sheepishly, “but I can’t.” He gestured toward his truncated right leg. “They won’t let go of my ankle. They better not let go. I would never get back.” His expression echoed the mercurial changes of direction in his mind. “Although I don’t know how I’m going to face them when I do get back. They’ll never believe I haven’t done it all wrong again.”

Still studying him for some sign that what was happening made sense, she inquired, “You’ve had this problem before?”

He nodded glumly, then shook his head. “Not this exact problem. I’ve never tried to translate myself before. The fact is, it isn’t commonly done. The last one I can remember was when Adept Havelock made himself mad. But that was a special case. He was using a flat glass – trying to translate himself without actually going anywhere, if you see what I mean.”

He looked around again. “Of course you do. Flat glass,” he breathed as though her mirrors were wonderful. “It’s lovely. And you haven’t lost your mind. I haven’t lost my mind. I had no idea Imagers like you existed.

“At any rate,” he resumed, “the theory of inter-Image translation is sound, and there are lots of cases recorded. Most people just don’t want to take the risk. Since I made the mirror – if I step all the way through, they might not be able to bring me back. Only an Adept can use other people’s mirrors – and Havelock is mad.

“But never mind that.” He pushed his digression aside. “It just looks like I haven’t been able to make it work.

“The fact is,” he concluded, “I’ve never been able to make anything work. That’s why they chose me – part of the reason, anyway. If something went wrong and I didn’t get back, they wouldn’t lose anybody valuable.”

Baffled as she was by this conversation, her training with Reverend Thatcher came to her aid. He had taught her to ask the questions he expected or wanted. “Where are you supposed to be?” Again she shivered. “Who am I supposed to be?”

He thought for a moment, chewing his lip. Then he replied, “I’d better tell you. The augury could have been misinterpreted. An Imager like you might be exactly what we need. And if I’m right –” He shot a gleam at her and began to explain.

“Everyone has studied the augury. Some of what we see in it can’t be wrong. It shows over and over again that the only way Mordant can be saved is if someone goes into a mirror and brings back help. For some strange reason, that ‘someone’ is me. Unfortunately, the augury doesn’t show me bringing any ‘help’ back. Instead, it shows an immensely powerful man in some kind of armor – a warrior or champion from another world. It doesn’t show whether he’ll save or destroy Mordant, but he’s unmistakable. And about the time of the augury he just happened to arrive in the Image in one of Master Gilbur’s mirrors. Judging from what we could see, he was about twice your size – in his armor – and he had enough magic weaponry to tear down mountains. He looked perfect.

“Of course, Master Gilbur could have just translated him to us. Several of the Masters thought we should do that – and defy the King. But the augury is explicit. We’re supposed to send me somewhere. Something about me is crucial. Apparently.” He lifted his shoulders. “There was a lot of argument. Master Quillon said I should go. But Master Eremis said that forcing me to translate myself out of existence was as good as a death sentence – and he isn’t usually that serious about anything. That surprised me. I don’t like Master Eremis, and I thought he didn’t like me. But in the end the Congery decided to let me try.

“So I made the mirror – I made it and made it, until we could all see the champion in it perfectly, and the Masters said it was right.” He frowned in bafflement. “I worked on that so hard. I swear it’s an exact duplicate of the original. But when I stepped into it”—he met her gaze and shrugged—“I came here.”

She waited until he was finished; but she already knew what she was supposed to say next. “So now you think the augury was misinterpreted. It said you had to go get someone. It didn’t say who that someone was.”

He nodded slowly, watching her face as if she could make what she was saying true.

“This time the Congery might be wrong.”

He nodded again.

For no good reason, she still wasn’t afraid. “So when you did what the augury showed, you came where you were supposed to be, not where the Congery decided.”

After a moment, he said softly, “Yes. It doesn’t make any sense, does it? It’s impossible. A mirror can’t translate something it doesn’t show. But no matter how badly I foul up, I can’t stop thinking things like that. You must have done something. You must have brought me here.” He glanced away, then looked up at her strongly. “You must have had a reason.”

This remark restored the logical reality of the situation, took away the illusion that she was having a comprehensible conversation. A comprehensible conversation with a man who fell into her living room out of nowhere, shattering one of her mirrors in the process? She wanted to answer him, None of this has anything to do with me. But she had never learned how to say things like that out loud. Often she felt a quiver of shame and a personal fading when she thought them. Looking for an escape from the dilemma – or at least from the room, so that she could try to pull herself together away from the influence of Geraden’s intent brown eyes – she said instead, “Would you like a cup of tea?”

She had his undivided attention. “I think I would” – his smile was at once abashed and pleased – “but unfortunately I don’t know what ‘tea’ is.”

“I’ll get some,” she said. “It’ll just take a few minutes.” Keeping her relief to herself, she started toward the kitchen.

Before she had gone three steps, he said in a completely different tone – a voice strong and formal, and yet strangely suppliant – “My lady, will you accompany me to Mordant, to save the realm from destruction?”

In surprise, she stopped and looked back at him.

At once, his expression became contrite and embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t have the right to place demands on you. I just suddenly have the strongest feeling that if you leave this room you won’t come back.”

As soon as he spoke, she realized that one reason she wanted to go into the kitchen was to reach the phone. She wanted to call security and tell them there was a crazy man in her apartment babbling about mirrors and translation and champions.

“Do you have these feelings often?” She was stalling while she tried to figure out what to do.

He shrugged; his expression held the shape of his formal question. “Not often. And they’re always wrong. But I trust them anyway. They have to mean something.” He hesitated for a moment, then said, “One of them made me apprentice myself to the Congery. I don’t know why – it certainly hasn’t done me any good. I’ve been an Apt for almost ten years, and I never get any further.” His tone was quiet; she heard anger rather than self-pity in it. “But I still have the strongest feeling that I must become a Master. I can’t stop trying.”

“But you said you wanted some tea.”

“I didn’t know what I was afraid of until you started to leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she responded slowly. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Again, she headed toward the kitchen. She was definitely going to call security. This had gone on too long.

“My lady!” he called immediately. His voice was strong, strangely commanding. “I beg you.”

She tried to continue, but her steps slowed of their own volition. In the entryway to the kitchen, she halted.

“If I twist and pull suddenly, my lady,” he said quietly, “I can probably free my ankle. Then I’ll be entirely here, with no way to return. And the Masters won’t know where I am, since what they see in this mirror is the champion. Then I’ll be lost here forever, unless by some chance or miracle they shape a mirror which shows me to them. If, in fact,” he added to himself, “I am anywhere at all, and not lost in the glass itself, as Master Eremis insists.

“But I’ll do it,” he went on more intensely, “before I’ll permit you to leave without hearing me.”

For a moment, she remained where she was. She felt herself leaning forward, trying to take the next step which would carry her out of his sight and into the sanctuary of the kitchen. Yet his appeal held her back as if he had a hand on her shoulder.

After all, she asked herself in an effort to think logically, normally, what would happen if she called security? The guards would come and take Geraden away. If they could – if they could wrench his leg free. And then they would have to let him go. He would be free to haunt her life. Unless she pressed charges against him. Then she would have to see him again as his accuser, making herself responsible for what happened to him. Perhaps she would have to see him several times. And she would certainly have to explain him to her father. Either way, she was stuck with him.

She had no desire to stand up in court – or in front of her father – and say that a man she had never seen before had broken into her living room through one of the mirrors and had asked her to save something called “Mordant.”

Slowly, she turned back to face the young man. For the first time since he had startled her with his unexpected arrival, she was scared. But he was a problem she had to solve, and security wasn’t the solution she wanted. Trying to keep her voice level, she said, “None of this makes any sense to me. What do you want me to hear?”

“My lady –” At once, embarrassment and relief made him look ten years younger. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’ve done this all wrong. The way I’ve been talking, you probably think your mirrors have destroyed my mind. Which is what they should have done. I still don’t understand it. But please –”

He had risen to his hands and knees. Now he pulled his torso upright, so that he was kneeling erect among the splinters of glass. Forcing down his confusion and abashment, he achieved a semblance of dignity.

“Please don’t judge Mordant by me. The need is real. And it’s urgent, my lady. Parts of the realm have already begun to die. People are dying – people who don’t have anything to do with Imagery or kings and just want to live their lives in peace. And the threat increases every day. Alend and Cadwal are never exactly quiet. Now they’re forming armies. And King Joyse doesn’t do anything. The heart has gone out of him. Wise men smell treachery everywhere.

“But the gravest peril doesn’t come from the High King of Cadwal or the Alend Monarch. It comes from Imagery.” He gathered passion as he spoke. “Somewhere in the realm—somewhere where we can’t find them—there are renegade Imagers, Masters of mirrors, and they’re opening their glasses more and more to every kind of horror and foulness. They’re experimenting on Mordant, trying to find in their mirrors those attacks and evils which will be most virulent to the peace, stability, and life that King Joyse forged in his prime. And these Masters seem to have no fear of the chaos that comes from unleashing powers that cannot be controlled.

“Before this winter ends, the realm will begin to crumble. Then there will be war on every hand – war of every kind – and all good things will be in danger.

“My lady,” he said straight to her, “I don’t have any power to compel you. If I did, it would be wrong to use it. And you aren’t the champion the Congery expects. I’ve been such a fumble-foot all my life that my presence here might be just another one of my disasters.

“But I might be right. You understand mirrors.” He gestured around the room. “You might be the help we need. And if you are, we’re lost without you.

“Please. Will you come with me?”

She stared at him, her mouth open and her mind dumbfounded. Dying. War. Every kind of horror and foulness. We’re lost without you. What, me? She had never heard of Mordant – or Cadwal, or Alend. The only countries she knew of that still had kings were thousands of miles away. And nobody anywhere talked about mirrors as though they were doorways into different kinds of reality. You may be the help we need. What was he talking about?

As carefully as she could, she said, “This doesn’t make any sense. I know you’re trying to explain something, but it isn’t working. None of this has anything to do with me.” You don’t even know my name. “I can’t help you.”

But Geraden shook his head, dismissed her protest. “You don’t know that for sure. You don’t –”

Abruptly, his gaze narrowed as if a new thought had struck him, and he scrutinized her face. “Are you happy here?”

“Am I – ?” The unexpected question made her look away from him, as though he had insulted her – or shamed her. Without warning, her fear was replaced by a desire to cry.

She peered hard into the nearest mirror, trying to reassure herself. Geraden occupied all the reflections, however, although she didn’t want to see him. From where she stood, there was no glass or angle that didn’t cast his image at her.

In spite of his strangeness, his reflection appeared more real than her own.

“Are you necessary?” he asked.

What a question. She stared deep into her own eyes in the mirror and pinched the bridge of her nose to hold back the tears. She was probably the most replaceable fact of Reverend Thatcher’s life. If she evaporated, he would notice her absence immediately; but his concern would last only until he found a new secretary. And days or even weeks might pass before her father became aware that she was gone. Then he would raise an enormous hue and cry, offering rewards, accusing the police of negligence, having security guards fired – but only to disguise the fact that he really didn’t care one way or the other what had become of her. And she belonged to no one else.

“Are you –?” He faltered for an instant, then persisted. “Forgive me. I’ve got the strongest feeling you aren’t happy. You don’t look happy. And I don’t see anyone else here. Are you alone? Are you wedded?” At least he had the decency to sound embarrassed. “Are you in love?”

She was so surprised – and he was squirming so badly – that she began to laugh. She remained close to tears; but laughing in front of him was an improvement over crying. The fact that she wasn’t crying enabled her to turn from her reflection to face him directly.

“I’m sorry.” She had some difficulty suppressing her laughter. “I guess it’s not easy being in your position. You should have had them tie a rope around your waist, instead of holding on to your foot. That way, you would at least be able to stand up.”

“My lady” – again he spoke formally, and again his voice seemed to catch hold of her – “you are not happy here. You are not needed. You are not loved. Come with me.” He extended a hand toward her. “You are an Imager. It may be that my glass was formed for you from the pure sand of dreams.”

“I’m not an Imager,” she replied. “I don’t dream very often.”

Her protest was automatic, however, not urgent. She was hardly listening to herself. Because her dreams were so rare, they made powerful impressions on her.

And in her dream she had remained passive and unimportant while three riders had charged forward to kill her and a man she didn’t know had risked his life to save her. A man like Geraden. Everything she disliked about herself held her back – her unreality, her fear of her father and punishment, her inability to have any meaningful effect on her own life. But Geraden still held out his hand to her.

She couldn’t help noticing that it was nicked and bruised in several places, and one of his fingernails was torn. Still she thought it was a good hand – sturdy and faithful.

It made her think of horns.

Their call carried her fear away.

“But,” she went on, and each word was a surprise to her, conjured by unexpected music out of the ache in her heart, “I think I would like to find out what’s been hiding on the other side of my mirrors all this time.”

In response, his face lit up like a sunrise.

THREE: TRANSLATION

“I don’t believe it,” Geraden murmured to himself. “I don’t believe it.” Then, an instant later, he said excitedly, “Quick, before you change your mind. Take my hand.”

She didn’t believe it either. What was she doing? But his excitement made her want to laugh again. And in her memory the horns called clearly, ringing out over the cold snow despite distance and the intervening hills – called to her.

Quickly, so that she wouldn’t have time to change her mind, she moved closer to him and put her hand in his.

At once, she became self-conscious. “Is that all there is to it?” she asked. “Don’t you have to wave your arms or say magic words or something?”

His grin grew wider and happier as he clasped her hand. “That’s all. The invocations and gestures have already been made. And the ability is born, not made. All you have to do is move with me.” Balancing himself on the knee of his truncated leg, he got his left foot under him. “And” – his expression sobered slightly – “watch your step.”

He began to push himself backward, drawing her with him.

As he did so, his right calf disappeared by inches: the flat plane remained stationary, so that as he slid his knee backward more and more of his leg was cut off. He seemed to be using his foot and leg to probe a place behind him – a place that didn’t exist.

When his right leg reached far enough, he was able to straighten his knee. Smiling and nodding to Terisa, slowly pulling her after him, he raised himself until he was almost upright. “You might find it easier,” he said, “if you close your eyes.” Then he shifted his weight to the other leg.

At that moment, his face went wide with dismay as he lost his balance and started to fall.

His plunge wrenched her forward, toward the wall – toward the plane where first his leg and now his entire body seemed to vanish. Instinctively, she tried to jerk free. But though he flailed for support, his hand held hers in a grip she couldn’t break. She tried to cry out, flung up her arm to ward off the impact—

The last thing she saw of her apartment was the splotched plaster where her broken mirror had once been glued. While she was still trying to release the cry of panic trapped in her throat, her marginal grasp on actuality failed, and she faded out of existence.

At once, she passed into a zone of transition where time and distance contradicted themselves. She felt eternity in an instant – or maybe she felt an instant that took forever. Her fall became a vast and elongated plummet down from or up to the heights of the world, even though the plunge carried her no more than half a step forward. She studied the sudden darkness intimately, despite the fact that it was so brief she could hardly have noticed it.

And then, with the same sensation of instantaneous eternity, of huge brevity, she saw Geraden again: he seemed to snap back into existence as though he had been lit to life by the abrupt orange illumination of the lamps and torches.

She recognized it – and immediately forgot it.

He was still falling, his face stretched in consternation; he had misjudged the step behind him. And his hand still gripped hers. She couldn’t recover. Even if she had been braced, she might not have been strong enough to stop his collapse toward the gray flagstones.

So she landed on top of him. Because she was trying to get her arms between herself and the impact, she accidentally planted an elbow in his stomach as she hit. His mouth gaped pain, and the breath burst from his lungs. But his body protected her: she flopped onto him and then off again. As a result, she came to rest on her back beside him, her face turned toward the massive old vaulted stone ceiling.

For a moment, the perceptual wrench had the effect of blindness: she stared upward as though she hadn’t observed the difference between this place and her apartment. Past her feet, and up two steps from her sprawling position, stood a large mirror in a polished wooden frame. The glass was nearly as tall as she was; it was tinted with a color that only showed at the edges of its surface; instead of being made flat it had been given a faintly rippling curve. On some level, she was aware that what she saw reflected in the mirror wasn’t the ceiling above her or the wall behind her. It also wasn’t the living room of her apartment. Yet in other ways she was no more conscious of the mirror than she was of the stone on which she lay.

Then, distinctly, she heard someone say, “Where did you get her?”

“You were invisible in the mirror. How did you do that?”

“Where did you go?”

Slowly through her stunned surprise leaked the information that she was stretched on the floor in the center of a circle of men.

What? She thought dumbly, her throat choked with astonishment. A circle of men. Where?

There must have been twenty or thirty of them, all staring down at her. At a glance, she saw that some of them were old and others weren’t: all of them were older than she was. They wore a variety of cloaks and robes, cassocks and jerkins – warm clothing to compensate for the coolness of the air. Each of them, however, had a chasuble of yellow satin draped around his neck.

Some of them peered at her in amazement and horror. She felt that way herself. “Fool!” one of them rasped. Another muttered, “This is impossible.”

Others were laughing.

At her side, Geraden gaped for air. A delicate shade of purple spread up from his corded neck over the tight lines of his cheeks.

“Well, Apt,” one of the laughing men said through his mirth, “here is another fine disaster.” He was tall, strongly built in spite of his leanness. His nose was too big; his cheekbones were too narrow, too flatly sloped toward his ears; his black hair formed an unruly thatch on the back of his skull, leaving his forehead bald. But the humor and intelligence in his pale eyes made him keenly attractive. He was wrapped in a jet cloak, which he wore with an air of insouciance. The ends of his chasuble hung as if he might start twirling them at any moment. “With all the realm in danger, we send you questing for a champion to save us. But for you this is nothing more than an opportunity for dalliance.

“My lady,” he went on, addressing Terisa, “it may be that you found young Geraden appealing enough to lure you here. But now that you are here, I think you will discover that Mordant has better men to offer.” With a laughing flourish, he bowed over her formally and extended his hand to help her to her feet.

Mordant, she echoed in the same dumb, choked surprise. He did it. He actually brought me to Mordant.

Geraden whooped a breath and began to pull air past the knot in his stomach.

Instinctively, Terisa turned toward him. At the same time, however, one of the men who hadn’t been laughing crouched beside Geraden. This man had a face the color and texture of a pine board. His eyebrows were as thick and stiff as bracken, but there was no other hair on his head anywhere. His girth appeared to be nearly as great as his height. “Shame, Master Eremis,” he muttered, reaching one heavy arm under Geraden’s head and shoulders to support the young man as he hacked for breath. “Find some other cause for amusement. What has happened here is either disaster or miracle. Certainly it is unprecedented. It needs seriousness.”

Master Eremis’ smile reached halfway to his ears. “Master Barsonage, you have no sense of play. What can any man or Master do about Apt Geraden’s pratfalls and confusions except laugh?” He turned his attention back to Terisa. His offer of help hadn’t wavered. “My lady?”

“We can weep, Master Eremis,” a guttural voice responded from the circle. “You have admitted yourself that we are doomed if we do not find the champion augured for us. I care nothing for King Joyse and his petty realm” – at this, the thick man supporting Geraden made a hissing noise through his teeth – “and I do not care who knows it. Let him sink into senility, and let Alend and Cadwal butcher each other for the right to replace him. But we have no other hope, the Congery of Imagers. This blighted Apt has just failed us.”

Terisa wanted to turn to see who had spoken. But she was held by the smile and the eyes and the extended hand of Master Eremis. He was looking at her, at her, as if she were real – as if she were really present in this high chamber of cut stone, where the air held a tang of winter and the light came from oil lamps and a few torches; impossibly present here when she had no physical right to be anywhere at all except back in her apartment, staring at herself alone in her mirrors.

The magnetism of his look compelled her. She couldn’t refuse him; he gave her the tangible existence she had always doubted. Gazing back at him in surprise and wonder, she let him take her hand and draw her easily to her feet.

“You’re wrong,” Geraden coughed. His color was improving. With Master Barsonage’s help, he tried to sit up. “All of you. She’s the right one.”

The reaction was loud and immediate: most of the men started talking at once.

“What? A woman? Impossible.”

“Are you blind? Look at her. She isn’t even armed.”

“This is not the champion you were sent to bring. Do you think we are as foolish as you?”

“But this proves it! Think of the implications. King Joyse and Adept Havelock are right. They are alive.”

“Leave the boy alone. I’m sure this was just another accident.”

The guttural voice added, “What nonsense. Do not be irresponsible. You have made a ruin out of our trust. Do not try to disguise your failure by pretending success.” Terisa saw the speaker now: he was a heavyset man with a crooked back, hands that looked strong enough to break stones, a white beard spattered with flecks of black, and a fleshy scowl etched permanently onto his face. To the other Masters, he concluded, “I argued and argued that we should not pin our hope on this hapless puppy, but I was outvoted. This” – he pointed a finger as massive as the peen of a hammer at Terisa – “is the result.”

Master Eremis laughed again and made a placating gesture. But before he could reply, Geraden protested, “No, Master Gilbur.” Coughing, he struggled out of Master Barsonage’s hold and pushed himself to his feet. “It isn’t my fault this time. Think about it –”

Unfortunately, the attempt to stand, talk, and cough simultaneously confused his balance. He stepped on one of his own feet and fell to the side, pitching heavily against two Imagers. They were barely able to catch him. Several men guffawed; this time Terisa could hear their bitterness. They had seen him do things like this before.

When he regained his balance, he was flushed and glowering with embarrassment.

“Apt Geraden,” Master Eremis said kindly, “you have not had an easy time of this. But what is done is done – and we are no nearer to the champion we need than we were when you began. It might be wiser if you did not vex the Congery further by arguing against the obvious.”

Grimly, Geraden straightened the disarray of his jerkin. “What’s obvious,” he began sourly, “is that I haven’t gone wrong the way you believe. You haven’t considered –”

“Boy,” Master Barsonage growled behind him, “watch your tone. We are Masters here. We are not required to hear the insolence of an Apt.”

At once, chagrin rushed over the anger and embarrassment in Geraden’s face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean –” He flung a look of misery and contrition at Barsonage. “But this is so important.”

“We are aware of what is important,” rasped the heavyset man, Master Gilbur. “Credit us with that minimum of intelligence. The rest we will be able to reason for ourselves.”

Terisa was only marginally attentive to what was being said. As soon as Eremis stopped looking at her, she was nearly overcome by a sense of unreality. None of this was possible. Where was she really? Was this what happened when her tendency to fade away was pushed to its conclusion? Deliberately, she concentrated on what she could see, trying to convince herself of her surroundings.

She had her back to the mirror on the stone dais: instinctively, she felt that was one glass into which she didn’t wish to glance. Master Eremis had positioned her in an almost proprietary way at his side; the rest of the Imagers were clustered around Geraden, Barsonage, and Gilbur. And they all stood near the open center – the dais itself occupied the center – of a large, round chamber with a flagstone floor. Crude-hewn gray granite formed the walls and ceiling. Several huge torches burned in sconces set around the distant walls; but most of the light came from oil lamps hanging from the four thick pillars that supported the high vaults of the ceiling. Within the area marked by the pillars, the center of the chamber was ringed by a carved wooden railing with benches like pews outside it, facing inward. The benches could have seated forty or fifty people.

This, she guessed, was the official meeting hall of the Congery of Imagers. That seemed reasonable – which was good. If it were reasonable, it might also be real.

She would have liked to wander away from the group of men, do a little exploring on her own. But part of her did hear what the Masters were saying. She heard the appeal in Geraden’s voice, the weight of sarcasm with which Master Gilbur responded. Though she had only known Geraden for – what was it? ten minutes now? twenty at the most – she felt loyal to him. He had talked and listened to her and smiled as if she actually existed. Meeting the flustered contrite-and-urgent supplication in his eyes, she said to the Masters, “I think you ought to give him a chance. There must be some reason why I agreed to come with him.”

At once, she winced inwardly and wanted to apologize to Geraden, because Master Eremis let out a peal of laughter. “There must indeed, my lady,” he chortled. “I was wrong to speak of dalliance, for that surely was no part of this Apt’s appeal. He has many virtues, but grace and wit are not among them. Since we have no reason to believe that you were brought by force, there must indeed be some reason why you are with him.” Several of the Imagers chuckled at Eremis’s jest; but Geraden could do nothing except duck his head to hide his misery. “Well, speak, Geraden,” the Master went on. “What is it that you believe we have not considered?”

For a moment, Terisa thought that Geraden would refuse to answer. She had watched her father embarrass her mother on any number of occasions, and the only outlet her mother had found for her resentment had been a refusal to speak. But Geraden set aside whatever humiliation he felt. Excitement surged into his gaze, and he took a step forward almost as if he were jumping.

“Master Eremis”– he turned his head—“Master Gilbur”—again, he faced Eremis, Terisa, and the mirror—“you know I’m only an Apt, and you laugh because I make a lot of mistakes. But you haven’t thought about what she means.” He made an openhanded gesture toward Terisa. “Why is she here? How did she get here?

“Master Gilbur, you taught me how to shape that mirror. It’s exactly like the one you made. You know they’re exactly alike because what you see in this mirror is the same as what your mirror shows. They’re the same.

“Master Eremis, have you ever heard of a mirror that could translate things it didn’t show?”

This question took several of the Masters aback. Gilbur scowled like the clenching of a fist; Eremis’ mouth twisted thoughtfully; Barsonage raised his eyebrows so far that they appeared to grow back over his skull. A small man with a face like a rabbit’s nodded vigorously.

Now Geraden was speaking to all the Imagers at once. “The greatest Masters we know of have never been able to make mirrors that show one thing and translate another. Adept Havelock in his prime couldn’t do it. Even the stories about arch-Imager Vagel don’t mention any power as strong as that.

“Think about it, Masters. Either I’ve stumbled by accident onto the greatest achievement in the history of Imagery. Or I’m already the greatest Master since the first mirror was shaped.” Abruptly, he stopped, fixing his gaze squarely on Eremis.

“Or what, Apt?” Master Gilbur growled. “Surely you do not expect us to stomach either of those alternatives?”

“Or,” Geraden said slowly, still holding Eremis’ eyes, “another power intervened. Maybe it was the same power that shaped the augury. It took me to a place I could not have reached with that mirror. A place where I could find the champion the augury intended instead of the one you chose.”

He was nearly whispering, and his brown eyes shone intently. “She’s the one I should have been sent to bring back. She’s the one who can save us.”

For an instant, all the Congery stared in silence at Geraden and his assertion. Then the rabbity Master announced in a high, thin voice, “I said so. I have said so from the beginning. This proves it. They are real.”

“Oh, forsooth,” retorted Gilbur trenchantly. “The Apt speaks cleverly, but he defies reason. She our augured savior? She the power to rescue us from Imagery gone mad? Look at her, Masters. What are her powers? How will she fight in our defense? In what way is she superior to the champion we have chosen?”

As he spoke, he aimed a thick forefinger at the glass behind Terisa.

Several of the men shifted their attention there. Even Master Eremis turned and gave the mirror a glance.

Involuntarily, Terisa obeyed Gilbur’s pointing.

Her first impression was confirmed: the mirror didn’t reflect anything that she could see here – or that she had ever seen.

The tinted and faintly rippled glass showed a scene distant enough to be quite large, but not distant enough to weaken its primary figures. In the middle ground of a stark and alien landscape lit by the scarlet glow of an old, red sun stood a metallic shape which her mind instantly labeled a “spaceship.” Forming a defensive perimeter around the ship were a number of manlike forms, also metallic: a moment passed before she realized that they actually were men, men in armor. They were under attack; but the destructive beams that chewed pieces off the landscape only glanced from the helmets and chestplates of the defenders. She couldn’t see the effect of the fire they returned, but it must have been adequate: they weren’t driven back toward their ship.

The central figure of the scene, however, wasn’t the ship or one of the fighters. Rather, it was another metal-clad individual who occasionally waved his arms or shifted his attention as though he were directing the battle. He was heavily armed: strange weapons hung on his hips, and strapped to his back was a rifle the size of a small cannon. But more than his armament, it was his stance that conveyed a staggering sense of power through the glass. He stood the alien ground as if he meant to decimate whole populations in order to claim it.

Terisa understood at once that he was the champion, the strong and violent being Geraden had been sent to find.

That was the kind of help Mordant needed? The danger was that severe? And Geraden wanted these men to take her seriously as an answer to their problem, an augured savior? Suddenly, she realized that Master Gilbur was right. If Geraden considered her a sane answer to a problem of that scope, he was out of his mind.

What kind of lunacy had possessed her to take his hand? She should absolutely have gone to the phone, called security, and accepted the consequences. The strain of having to face her father would have been preferable to the impossibility of where she was now.

It affected her like dizziness. What was she doing here? She turned away from the mirror in a blur and seemed to lose her balance. Then she found herself gazing up into Master Eremis’ face as if she were asking him for help. Though she didn’t know him at all, she felt his intelligence, his strength, his effectiveness. His humor was built on confidence, and it promised results even when he was jesting.

He met her appeal for a moment, and the corners of his eyes crinkled as though he were about to start laughing again. But he didn’t. Instead, he let a good-natured frown crease his high forehead. “Masters,” he said in a musing tone, “it is a subtle question. We must not dismiss it lightly. Apt Geraden makes a point which deserves consideration.”

Over Master Gilbur’s growl of exasperation, Eremis went on, “That his taste in champions is suspect I grant you. But there is simple truth in his words. Either he has stumbled by chance into a miracle. Or he has secretly made himself greater than us all.” Master Eremis put aside the protests of the Congery with a delicate wave of his fingers. “Or there is a power at work here which we do not comprehend – and which we must take into account.

“I propose,” he continued promptly, “that we adjourn for the present. We must have time to think. Mordant’s need is urgent, but it does not require foolish haste. What say you? Perhaps tomorrow we will understand these things better.

“Master Barsonage?”

Terisa was faintly surprised to hear him suggest rather than announce an adjournment: she had assumed automatically that he was the leader of the Congery. But that role seemed to belong to the thick, bald man with the eyebrows like scrub and the pine-yellow skin. When Eremis addressed him, he glanced around the Masters for a moment, taking a consensus. After most of them had indicated their assent, he said, “It is likely a wise idea. I doubt that we will gain much insight into whether Apt Geraden is the victim of accident, genius, or intervention. But we must determine what we will do about it. Those of us who are already weary of argument will need rest before facing that debate.”

Brusquely, he concluded, “Let us meet again tomorrow.”

Master Eremis grinned his approval. “Very good.” Then he turned to Terisa and extended his hand. “My lady, will you accompany me? Someone must offer you the hospitality of Orison. I will see you honorably quartered, as befits a woman of your obvious importance.” He gave the word importance a slight, jesting stress, teasing either her or Geraden. “And there are many things of which I wish to speak with you.”

He was looking squarely at her again, and she doubted that she could have refused his offer even if she had wanted to: his direct attention was seductive and compelling. It seemed to make her throat dry and her knees unsteady. Involuntarily, she reacted to him as if he were the first man who had ever looked at her in that way. As far as she knew, he was the first.

But when she raised her hand to take Eremis’, Geraden suddenly said, “My lady, I prefer that you accompany me.” His manner had become formal.

At once, an astonished silence dropped over the Masters; they stared at Geraden as though he had just insulted Eremis. The flush on Geraden’s skin betrayed that he was conscious of his audacity. Nevertheless the muscles of his jaw bunched stubbornly, and his eyes didn’t flinch.

Master Eremis raised an eyebrow; Terisa felt his concentration shift from her to Geraden. But after a brief flick away his gaze returned to hers. “Come,” he said in an appealing – and commanding – tone. “The Apt has played his part in these matters, but now he must leave them to those of greater rank, ability, and experience. You will not complain of my company, I think, my lady.”

She almost went with him. She wanted to – or thought she wanted to – or perhaps she had no idea what she wanted, but if she went with him he might be able to answer that question for her.

The Apt wasn’t prepared to let her go, however. “My lady,” he said, his voice clenched around his anxiety and determination, “Master Eremis believes that you do not exist.”

His assertion fell into the silence like a personal challenge, as if he were daring the Master to battle.

And a small sting of panic touched Terisa’s heart.

Vexation replaced the humor in Eremis’ face. He swung scowling away from her; his tall body seemed to poise itself for a scathing retort. But an instant later he drew back a step, his self-control restored.

“That is not properly true, my lady,” he said coldly, without a glance at her. “I believe that you did not exist until you were translated from the mirror.”

“And therefore,” Geraden went on, “he believes that you are an object, my lady, an artifact of Imagery – a thing to be used, not a woman to be respected.”

That was too much for Master Eremis. “Faugh!” he spat. “I will not debate the meaning of Imagery with a puppy too hapless to earn a chasuble and too witless to respect his betters.” He dismissed Terisa. “Go with him. He will drive me to distraction if you do not.”

Turning away, he strode through the crowd of Masters. A moment after he disappeared behind one of the pillars, Terisa heard the thud of a heavy wooden door.

Geraden didn’t look at her. His gaze was fixed on the flagstones. He was so hot with embarrassment that beads of sweat stood on his forehead.

FOUR: THE OLD DODDERER

“Arrogance,” one of the Imagers muttered. Another smiled his relish for Eremis’ discomfiture; but most of the Congery felt otherwise. Master Gilbur gave a heavy shrug of disgust. The rabbity man twitched his nose.

They were glaring at Geraden.

Trembling inside, Terisa studied him too. Softly, hesitantly, she asked, “What do you mean, he believes I don’t exist? Or I didn’t exist until I was translated from the mirror?” That idea hit her too hard, too deeply. Was the uncertainty of her being so plain that even strangers could see it? “It doesn’t make any sense. None of this makes any sense. You don’t even know who I am.”

At once, Geraden began to apologize. “I’m sorry, my lady. I keep treating you badly, when that’s the last thing I want.” He met her gaze with an expression of brave distress – unhappy about his talent for doing or saying the wrong thing, but determined to face the consequences. “I should have let you go with Master Eremis. I don’t know what came over me.”

Before she could protest, That isn’t what I meant, Master Barsonage intervened. “Apt Geraden,” he said, “we have little patience for your contrition just now.”

“I’m sorry,” said Geraden again, reflexively.

“It is a tale,” the Master went on in a tone like a bar of lead, “we have heard many times. Silence it, therefore, and heed me instead. I will not command you not to speak to the King, since I know you would not obey me. I will say this, however. She is here through your agency. She is your responsibility. Give her the courtesy of Orison’s hospitality as well as the Congery’s respect. She is a mystery to us and must be well treated.

“But”– he clamped a hand onto Geraden’s shoulder – “do not answer her questions, Apt.”

At that, Geraden’s eyes widened. Ignoring Terisa, Barsonage tightened his grip and his tone. “As a mystery to us, she is dangerous. Do not betray Mordant or the Congery to her until we are sure of her.”

Geraden’s gaze slid away from the Master’s. He studied the stones under Terisa’s feet and said nothing.

Very quietly, the thick man asked, “Do you understand me, Apt? I am the mediator of the Congery. If I dismiss you, you will never again be considered for the chasuble of a Master.”

None of the other Imagers made a sound. Some of them looked vexed; some seemed to be holding their breath. The air in the room was still too cold for comfort.

Geraden’s shoulder twisted under the mediator’s grasp; then he straightened himself against the pressure. “I understand you, Master Barsonage.” He sounded faraway and forlorn. “The lady is my responsibility.”

“In all ways.”

“In all ways.”

Slowly, Master Barsonage released his hand. “Admirable,” he muttered. “Good sense becomes you.”

“Ha!” snorted Master Gilbur. “Admirable, indeed.” He was glaring blackly at Geraden. “If you believe that he will keep his word, Barsonage, you have become old in your wits.”

At that, Master Barsonage put his hands like barrel staves on his sides. “Let me caution you against such statements, Master Gilbur. We are little trusted now – and less when you speak with such contempt. Apt Geraden springs from the honest and honorable line of the Domne. The sons of the Domne have always been true.”

Abruptly, then, he turned away from Geraden and Terisa. “These meetings consume too much time,” he said in a friendly way to no one in particular. “Again I am late for my noontide meal.” Slapping at his girth, he asked, “Masters, will you join me?”

Several of the Imagers assented; Gilbur and others declined with varying degrees of courtesy. The Congery began to break up as Masters left the open center of the chamber, moving toward the doors beyond the pillars. After a few backward looks and a murmured comment or two, they left Terisa and Geraden alone.

He continued staring at the stones under her feet as if he were ashamed.

She blinked at him, feeling vaguely stupid. No one was going to answer any of her questions? No one was going to tell her why Master Eremis thought she didn’t exist? Surely she had a right to protest?

As a little girl, however, she had occasionally made the mistake of protesting, of trying to stand up for herself. It isn’t fair why do I always have to go to bed you never want me around! The reactions she had received taught her at an early age the folly of what she was doing. Her parents had wanted her to impinge on their consciousness as little as possible. Her father, in particular, had seldom been gentle when she had called his notice down on herself. Following his example, most of his servants had treated her with bare tolerance. And the numerous private schools to which she had been shuttled at his whim all had specific instructions where she was concerned. A passive child was only dismissed from attention; an assertive one was punished. And it was punishment that had first convinced her that she might not be real. Over the years, she had learned to let herself feel less and less of the emotions that led to demands and rejection.

So instead of indulging herself in some kind of outcry, she did the next best thing: she watched the flush of Geraden’s shame and said nothing.

When he finally raised his head, he looked miserable.

“I’m sorry, my lady. This isn’t what I thought was going to happen at all. I knew they would have to be convinced – especially Master Gilbur. But I didn’t think they –” He grimaced. “It isn’t fair to drag you into this and then refuse to answer your questions. It just isn’t fair. And it’s my fault again, of course.”

To keep him talking, she asked, “How is it your fault?”

Glumly, he muttered, “I didn’t tell them about your mirrors.”

There seemed to be no point in reminding him that she couldn’t possibly understand what he meant, so she said, “Why didn’t you?”

He shrugged. “I meant to. But at the last second I had the strongest feeling –” His voice trailed away, then came back more strongly. “I just don’t trust Master Eremis. Or Master Gilbur either, for that matter. I don’t want to tell them anything.”

Terisa considered him for a moment. “But you’re still not going to answer my questions.” Thanks to her years of training, her tone betrayed almost no bitterness.

With a wince, he replied, “No. I can’t. You heard him. I think he’s wrong, but that doesn’t make any difference. He can have me dismissed. I’ve been trying to become a Master since I was fifteen. I can’t give it up.” Again he said, “I’m sorry.”

Glowering, but unable to meet her gaze, he stopped. His dire expression made him look younger than he was – in fact, younger than she was herself. Unexpectedly, she found that she wasn’t angry at him, not even down in the secret places of her heart where she kept her dangerous emotions hidden. He seemed to be upset as much on her behalf as on his own. That was a degree of consideration to which she was unaccustomed.

In response, she surprised herself by inquiring, “Do you think I exist?”

He looked at her sharply, the glower suddenly gone from his face. “Well, of course. Isn’t it obvious? In fact, you’re the proof of what King Joyse and Adept Havelock have been saying all along. Masters like Eremis and Gilbur believe the mirrors create what we see in them. Those things only exist when they’re translated out of the glass. But that never made any sense to me. And now it sounds like nonsense – now that I’ve gone into a mirror for myself and met you.” Excitement improved his appearance considerably. “That was a shock – when I stepped into the glass expecting to find the champion and found you instead – but it convinced me you’re real. Everything in the mirrors is real.”

Then he caught himself; the excitement faded from his face. He became distant and wary, ashamed again. “But I’m not supposed to answer your questions.”

Terisa almost laughed. Out of nowhere, he made her feel good – better than she had felt for a long time. Already, he had convinced her that if she kept him talking he wouldn’t be able to refuse her. He took her too seriously to refuse her. “Apt Geraden,” she said, “if I’m real, I must be important. Even if I’m an accident, I must be important. Don’t you think it might be a good idea to ask me who I am?”

His eyes went wide: mouth agape, he stared at her. Apparently, he had been so wrapped up in her translation and his argument with the Imagers that he had forgotten the simple courtesy of asking for her name. The realization made him tremble on the brink of more contrition and misery; more apologies.

But an instant later he caught the spirit of her question. His face broke into a grin; he began to laugh. “Oh, good for you, Geraden,” he said, shaking his head in amused horror. “You’re really doing well today.” Then he took a step backward, assumed a pose of mock dignity, and bowed extravagantly. The effort tripped him; he barely avoided stumbling. “My lady,” he intoned, “I prostrate myself before you most humbly. Will you deign to grant me the sublime honor of your name and station?”

“Don’t be silly,” she replied, trying to conceal her enjoyment. “I don’t have any ‘station.’ My name is Terisa Morgan.”

“My lady Terisa of Morgan,” he continued sententiously, “you are too kind. I am your most unworthy servant. But if you will accompany me, it will be my great joy to make you acquainted with Joyse, founder of the Congery, lord of the Demesne, and King of Mordant.”

Then he changed back to his normal manner. “I think it would be a good idea if you met him right away. He needs to know about you, no matter what some of the Masters say. He’ll understand how important you are. And he might be willing to tell you what’s going on around here.”

When he said this, her mood soured. The reference to “how important” she was restored her sense of the reality of the situation. One way or another, she was a mistake: she was the wrong person. In consequence, she felt a sudden, irrational reluctance to meet King Joyse. He might laugh like her father at the idea that she was important.

“Geraden,” she asked awkwardly, “is there really a reason for all this? You’re not just doing an experiment on me, are you? Practicing your translations?”

Somehow, he looked straight into her face and saw what she was feeling. At once, his expression sobered; empathy softened his gaze. “My lady, I swear to you on my heart that the need is urgent. King Joyse would have the head of any Imager who did frivolously what we’ve done to you – though there are some,” he digressed momentarily, “who might attempt it, if they weren’t restrained by the Congery.

“In addition, I swear to you,” he went on, “if your translation is an accident – a mistake of any kind – I’ll do everything anybody can do to restore you to your own world.

“And one thing more, my lady.” His tone and his gaze grew sharper. “I’ll find a way to get you back to your own world anyway, if King Joyse or Master Barsonage or somebody doesn’t decide to start treating you better soon.”

Meeting his eyes, Terisa found that she believed him, in spite of herself. The whole idea was secretly amazing – that any man, however accident-prone, would look at her and make promises so seriously. To cover her astonishment, she turned a little away from him. Then, as distantly as she could, she said, “You’d better call me Terisa. I’m not anybody’s ‘lady.’ I don’t want the King to get the wrong idea.”

She felt rather than saw his approval. “Thank you. I think you’re doing the right thing. I have a good feeling about this.” He put one hand tentatively on her arm. “Shall we go?”

His attention was focused on her as though he wanted to make more promises. In reply, she gave him the polite, noncommittal smile she had perfected by the time she was a teenager – and groaned to herself because her response to him was so much emptier than his to her. But she went on smiling that way while she nodded her assent.

He gestured past one of the pillars. “This way, then.”

She was thankful that he let go of her arm as he guided her toward a door.

The door was a massive wooden construction supported with iron struts and bolts: it looked like it had originally been intended to seal people out of this chamber – or seal them in. In, she decided when Geraden opened the door, swinging it outward. But its bolts were arranged so that it could only be locked from the inside.

As he led her through the doorway, they met two guards in the corridor.

The men were both large, rough, poorly shaved veterans with the look of hard service about them. They wore mail shirts and leggings over their leather clothes and close-fitting iron caps on their heads. Each had a longsword at his belt and gripped a pike in his right hand. One of them was marked by an old scar that ran from his hairline down his forehead, between his eyes, and beside his nose almost to his mouth. The other had lost several teeth.

The one whose teeth were missing stared at Terisa in a way she didn’t find reassuring; but the other addressed Geraden like a familiar comrade, asking him if there were any Masters remaining in the chamber.

When Geraden shook his head, the guard relaxed his stance. “Then we’re off duty for a while. Listen, Geraden. Argus and I have a small keg of ale waiting. What do you think? Would you and” – he flicked a suggestive glance at Terisa – “your companion like to join us for a drink?”

“I think, Ribuld,” Geraden replied good-humoredly, “that you and Argus forgot how to think the day you decided to be soldiers. For your information, my ‘companion’ is the lady Terisa of Morgan, and she isn’t likely to spend her time swilling ale with the likes of you. The King is waiting to meet her right now.”

“Too good for us, is she?” muttered Argus. But Ribuld gave him a solid elbow-jab in the ribs, and he stepped back, a look of apoplexy on his face.

Grinning, Geraden drew Terisa on down the passageway.

“Don’t let them worry you,” he said softly as they walked. “Those two look terrible, but they’re good men. They trained with my brother Artagel. I’m going to try to get them assigned to keep an eye on you.”

“Why do I need guards?”

“Because –” he began. This time, however, he realized what he was doing right away. “For the same reason I’m not supposed to answer your questions. Mordant has too many enemies. The Congery has too many enemies. And King Joyse –” Again he stopped, a look of unconscious pain on his face. “Whether you’re here by accident or not, you already have enemies yourself. As long as I’m responsible for you, I want to be sure you also have guards – guards who’re going to take you seriously. Ribuld and Argus will do that for me because I’m Artagel’s brother.”

After a moment, he muttered, “Master Barsonage made a big mistake telling me not to answer questions.”

In silence, she walked with him down the corridor.

The corridor was built of the same gray blocks of granite that had formed the walls and ceiling of the Congery’s chamber; and it led to several turns, a few doors, a stair, and then into an enormous square hall large enough to be a ballroom.

This place had a smooth floor, the stones closely fitted so that there were no gaps; balconies around the walls, where musicians might sit to play, or from which high lords and ladies might watch the dancing; several huge hearths for warmth. In each corner, broad stairways curved gracefully upward out of sight. But the place was lifeless. It had an atmosphere of disuse, even of neglect: the people and musicians, the excitement and color that might have given it gaiety had gone away. The hearths were cold; and the only light came from narrow windows high above the balcony on one wall, with the result that the hall was full of gloom. The windows permitted a glimpse of sullen clouds.

Terisa shivered as Geraden headed her toward one of the stairways. “This isn’t the direct route,” he commented. “But we wouldn’t be able to get across the courtyard without ruining your clothes.” She was fortunate to be as warmly dressed as she was. What she could see of the sky through the windows looked like winter.

The stairway took them up one level. From there, he led her through a sequence of passages, short stairways, and halls that created a haphazard impression, as if the massive stone pile through which they moved had been constructed randomly, by lumps. But his instinct for mishap didn’t include any uncertainty about where he was going: he knew this place intimately.

As they walked, they began to encounter more and more people. Many of them were guards, on duty or on errands; but many more seemed to be the inhabitants of the building. Old men leaned on their brooms in the corridors, stirring small piles of dust with diligent inattention. Girls scurried here and there, carrying linens or buckets or mops. Boys sprinted past, probably pretending that they were involved in something urgent so that no one would stop them and put them to work. As for the men and women—

Terisa found that she could easily estimate their rank by their clothes. Everyone was warmly dressed; but the sweeps and chambermaids wore woolen skirts, wool shawls over their blouses, and heavy clogs, where the ladies had on floor-length gowns of taffeta or satin and supple leather boots, with jewels in their hair or about their necks. The charmen and grooms dressed themselves as Geraden did, in jerkins, pants, and boots, perhaps with a long dagger sheathed at their belts, but the lords wore elaborately woven surcoats over flowing shirts and tight hose, with sabers in ornamented scabbards on their hips. And the intermediate degrees of station could be defined at once by the presence or absence of a sword or a décolletage, by the length of a gown or the embroidery on a surcoat.

In spite of their elegance, however, even the finest lords and ladies didn’t look like they had ever been to a ball. Almost without exception, they comported themselves like people who lived under a shadow.

Several of the individuals Terisa and Geraden encountered greeted him, either by name or by title.

All of them stared at Terisa as openly as they dared.

After a while, self-consciousness made her realize that they had probably never seen anyone like her before. The idea was startling – and unsettling.

Shortly, Geraden led her up a series of stairs that doubled back and forth as if they occupied the inside of a tower. They led to a high, carved door with a guard stationed on either side. These men were better kempt than Argus and Ribuld, though they appeared no less experienced and dangerous; but they acknowledged Geraden with the same familiarity.

“This is the lady Terisa of Morgan,” Geraden said. “Will you announce us? I think the King will want to meet her.”

The guards made halfhearted efforts to conceal the way they ogled her. One of them shrugged: it was his duty to ward the King, but he clearly couldn’t think of any reason to believe Geraden was dangerous. The other knocked on the door, let himself into the room beyond, and closed the door behind him.

A moment later, he returned. “You can go in. But be careful. The King and Adept Havelock are playing hop-board. If the Adept decides you’ve disturbed his concentration, he might do something unpleasant.”

Geraden gave the man a sour smile. “I understand.”

His hand lightly touching Terisa’s arm, he moved her toward the half-open door.

The room they entered surprised her. It was the first richly appointed chamber she had seen in this place, and although it was about the size of her living room and dining room combined, it was warm. A thick rug, woven in an abstract pattern of lush blues and reds, covered most of the floor. Blond wood paneling had been set over the stone walls, and each panel was elegantly decorated, some with carving, others with fine black inlay-work. Candles burned in brass holders set into the walls; small five-branched candelabra stood on ornamental tables in the corners of the room and on both ends of the mantelpiece above the hearth. Hot coals glowed under the flames in the fireplace.

Two old men sat opposite each other at a small table in the center of the room. One of them wore a purple velvet robe that covered him like a tent. He appeared lost in it, as if it had been made for him when he was young and powerful, and no longer fit him now that his frame had withered. That impression was reinforced by his stark white hair and beard, by the faint blue tint his veins gave his skin, by the arthritic swelling of the knuckles of his hands, and by the watery azure hue of his eyes. A thin circlet of gold held his hair back from his face.

“King Joyse,” Geraden whispered to Terisa.

The other man had lost most of his hair, and what was left of it stuck up from his pate in unruly tufts. His hawk nose gave his face a fierceness which was belied by the constant trembling of his fleshy lips. His eyes seemed to be looking in slightly different directions. He wore a plain, dingy surcoat, which had once been white, with – as far as Terisa could tell – nothing under it. But over his shoulders was draped a yellow chasuble.

“Adept Havelock,” breathed Geraden. “Some of the Masters call him ‘the King’s Dastard.’ ”

Both men were concentrating intently on a playing board set between them. It was composed of alternating red and black squares, but only the black squares were in use. On them sat small round counters: the King’s were white; Havelock’s, red. As she noticed the board, Terisa saw Havelock make a move, hopping one of his men over two of the King’s and removing them from the board.

They were playing checkers.

A jolt of recognition went through her, upsetting her disproportionately. After all, it was only a minor game – one of the few she had ever played. One of her father’s valets had taught it to her in his spare time when she was ten years old; and they had played together at intervals for nearly a year, until he lost his job. He had been a square-cut young man with an odd kindness in his eyes and an infrequent grin. The truth was that she had never really enjoyed the game itself: she had played so eagerly because she had a tremendous crush on him. His attention and his little courtesies to her had charmed her completely. When the man was fired, she had somehow mustered enough courage to ask her father why, but he had refused to give any explanation. “It’s none of your business, Terisa. Go and play. I’m busy.”

Remembering that valet now, she felt an unexpected sense of loss, as if in her small world she had just suffered an important bereavement. The life she was used to had been taken away from her as easily as one of her father’s whims, and nobody would tell her why.

The game disturbed her for other reasons as well, however. It was something familiar in a place where nothing was familiar. What was it doing here? What was she doing here? Precisely because it was familiar—because it didn’t fit—it seemed to make what was happening to her less real.

Geraden took a step forward, but neither King Joyse nor the old Adept looked up from the game. After a moment, he cleared his throat. Still neither of the players took notice of him. He glanced back at Terisa and shrugged, then ventured to call attention to himself.

“My lord King, I’ve brought the lady Terisa of Morgan to you.” He hesitated briefly before adding, “I’ve told her you must meet her.”

Adept Havelock remained hunched over the board, unheeding of everything except his game. But the King raised his head, turned his moist blue gaze toward Geraden and Terisa.

He seemed to take a moment to focus his eyes. Then, slowly, he began to smile.

Terisa thought immediately that he had a wonderful smile. It contained none of the artificial good humor or calculation she might have expected from a ruler. Instead, it lighted his face with a clean, childlike innocence and pleasure: it made him look like a young boy who had unexpectedly found a secret friend. Irrationally, she felt that her entire life would have been different if she had seen anyone smile like that before. She couldn’t stop herself from smiling back at him – and didn’t want to.

With a slight quaver of age in his voice, he said, “If you have told her that I must meet her, Geraden, then surely I must. It would be unforgivably discourteous if you spoke anything less than the truth to such a lady – and so it would be equally rude if I failed to make what you have told her true.”

Carefully, he pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. His movements were unsteady; standing, he appeared more than ever lost in his voluminous robe. But his smile remained as pure as sunlight. “My lady Terisa of Morgan, do you play hop-board?”

Terisa was fixed on King Joyse, but at the edge of her attention she thought she saw Geraden wince.

For the moment, his reactions were irrelevant to her. Buoyed by the King’s smile, she replied, “I haven’t played since I was a girl.” That was true – if she didn’t count all the games she had played against herself in the years after the valet was fired, games she had played in an effort to be content with her own company. “We called it checkers. It looks like the same game.”

“ ‘Checkers’?” King Joyse looked thoughtful. “That seems an odd name.” Then he smiled again. “But no matter. Perhaps when Havelock has finished giving me his customary drubbing, you will consent to play a game or two with me? I would be delighted to be able to hope – however briefly – for an honest victory.”

“My lord King.” Geraden sounded tense and worried, as if his introduction of Terisa to King Joyse were going seriously wrong. “I told the lady Terisa you would want to meet her because she came here by translation.”

Geraden’s interruption appeared to sadden the King. His smile changed to lines of fatigue and melancholy as he looked toward the Apt. “I see that, Geraden,” he said quietly. “I’m not blind, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” Geraden murmured. “I just meant that she’s important. I had to bring her to you.” He was hurrying. “The Congery sent me into the mirror this morning to try to get the champion they wanted. But I didn’t find him. I found her instead. She might be the answer to the auguries.”

Adept Havelock continued to ignore Geraden and Terisa. Scrutinizing the board, he reached out finally and moved one of the King’s men, hopping one of his own. Then, triumphantly, he responded by demolishing a whole line of opposing pieces and arriving at the last row, where he crowned himself with severe emphasis.

Grimly, forcing himself to speak in spite of his embarrassment, Geraden went on, “She proves you’ve been right all along. The mirrors don’t create what we see. The Images really exist.”

King Joyse studied Geraden for a moment. Then he sighed wearily and turned to Terisa. “My lady,” he said, “please pardon me. It appears that this urgent young man will not allow us the freedom to play hop-board just now.

“Be reasonable, Geraden,” he continued, shifting his attention back to the Apt. “You know that I agree with you. But what does her presence here truly prove?” The quaver in his voice persisted: he sounded like he was rehearsing an argument so old that he would no longer have gotten any satisfaction out of winning it. “Surely it’s possible that you found her instead of the champion you sought because of one of your unfortunate mishaps? Or perhaps you’ve touched on an unsuspected strength in yourself, and you found her instead of the champion because she was what you wished to find? In what way does her translation demonstrate the fundamental nature of Imagery – or of mirrors?”

Geraden looked first startled by the King’s argument, then vaguely nauseated. “But I saw – “he protested incoherently. “It wasn’t the same.”

King Joyse watched him mildly and waited for him to pull his thoughts together.

With an effort, Geraden said slowly, “I made that mirror myself. I saw the champion I was supposed to find in it. He was right there in front of me when I stepped into the glass. But during the translation everything changed. I arrived in a room that was totally different from the Images. She is totally different. What you’re saying is that I made her up – by some kind of accident, either because I didn’t know what I was doing or because I didn’t know my own strength. How is that possible?”

In reply, the King shrugged – a bit sadly, Terisa thought. “Who can say? Centuries ago, no one believed that Imagery itself was possible. Even a hundred years ago, no one believed that Imagery might threaten the existence of the very realms which made use of it.

“Geraden,” he said to the pain on the Apt’s face, “I don’t claim that she does not exist. I only observe that her presence here doesn’t settle the question.”

Geraden shook his head and tried again. “But if you think that way – and you push it far enough – you can’t prove anything exists. You can’t prove I’m here talking to you. You can’t prove you’re playing hop-board with anybody but yourself. You might not be playing it anywhere except in your own mind.”

At that, the King smiled, then grimaced humorously. “Unfortunately, I’m confident that my games of hop-board are real – and my opponent as well. The drubbings I receive are too painful for any other explanation.”

“Very wise,” remarked Adept Havelock unexpectedly, without raising his eyes from the board. In lugubrious concentration, he moved two or three of King Joyse’s men to other squares; then with his crowned piece he jumped them all, hitting each square emphatically as if to compensate for his wall-eyed vision. “Only hop-board is real. Ask any philosopher. Nothing else” – he fluttered one hand in dismissal – “signifies.”

Without meaning to, Terisa smiled at the fond grin King Joyse directed toward Havelock. The Adept’s way of playing checkers made it clear that he wasn’t in his right mind; nevertheless she found the King’s affection for the old Imager catching. Watching them, she forgot for a moment that the present conversation had anything to do with her.

But Geraden was too vexed and unhappy to enjoy the King’s playful attitude. “My lord King, this isn’t a joke. The realm is tottering, and all of Mordant is waiting for you to do something about it.” He gathered momentum as he spoke, until his urgency seemed to clear away his smaller uncertainties, contritions, and anxieties. “I don’t know why you haven’t, but the Masters finally couldn’t wait any longer. They – “He caught himself. “We are doing our best to find an answer. And we have. I think we have, anyway. The lady Terisa isn’t the champion we were expecting – but that probably doesn’t matter. There’s a reason she’s here instead of what we were expecting, and I don’t think it has anything to do with accidents. I’m not an arch-Imager in disguise. And mirrors don’t have minds of their own.”

As she studied his intent expression, Terisa caught a glimpse of what made him so accident-prone. He was too many things at once – a boy, a man, and everything in between – and the differing parts of himself seldom came into balance. She found him attractive in that way. Yet the perception saddened her: she herself wasn’t too many things, but too few.

The King was watching Geraden as well; and the lines of his old visage seemed to hint at a sadness of his own. But they also suggested interest and perhaps a kind of pride. “So much confidence is remarkable,” he commented. The quaver in his voice made his nonchalance sound unsteady, feigned. “You’ve spoken of what you’ve seen, Geraden. Tell me what you’ve seen that gives you this confidence.”

Geraden hesitated, glancing at Terisa in appeal as though he believed she knew what he was about to say; as though he felt it would be more convincing if it came from her. But of course she had no idea what he had in mind. After a moment, he returned his gaze to King Joyse.

“My lord King,” the Apt said, his own voice shaking with determination and alarm, “she is a Master of Imagery.”

At that, the King fixed a watery and unreadable look on Terisa – a look which could have indicated surprise or boredom.

Without a glance at the other people in the room, Havelock swept all the men off the board and began to set up a new game.

“I believe,” Geraden went on softly, “her power pulled my translation away from where I thought I was going.”

The assertion was so absurd that several moments passed before Terisa realized she was expected to answer it. Then, helplessly, she began to blush under the scrutiny of the two men.

Close to panic, she replied, “No. No, of course not. That’s crazy. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

Carefully, Geraden said, “I found her in a room entirely walled with mirrors.”

“So what?” A distant, self-conscious part of her mind was surprised by how this ludicrous conception frightened her. “Everybody has mirrors. A lot of people use them for decor. They’re just pieces of glass – with something on the back to make them reflect. They don’t mean anything.”

In response to her alarm, King Joyse murmured as if he were trying to comfort her, “Perhaps in your world that is so. Here the truth is otherwise.”

But Geraden was already saying as definitively as he could, “Each of her mirrors showed her own Image exactly. They showed my Image exactly. And she isn’t hurt. I’m not hurt. I ought to be raving by now. Or my mind should be completely empty. But I’m all right. She’s all right.

“They were her mirrors.”

An amazed dismay stopped Terisa’s mouth. She felt she couldn’t understand what was literally being said to her. Each of her mirrors showed her own Image exactly. Here that wasn’t true. Suddenly, her grasp on the ordinary details of life – the plain facts which showed that she was in contact with reality – was threatened, denied.

And King Joyse peered at her with an intent interest that made everything worse. “Is this correct, my lady?” he asked as if she had just claimed to be some kind of exotic insect. “The story is told that an Imager once chanced to form a flat mirror which showed the exact spot on which he stood. Therefore he saw himself in the glass – and was immediately canceled. His body remained where it was until its balance failed, but his spirit had entirely ceased to exist. It was lost in translation. How do the people of your world avoid this fate?”

Groping for sense, she countered, “That’s impossible. Mirrors can’t hurt anybody. They just show you what you look like. Except reversed. Like a pool of water. Haven’t you ever looked at yourself in a pool of water?”

Both men studied her oddly. In a soft, musing tone, King Joyse said, “We’re taught from childhood to be wary of Images. We don’t seek them out.”

Without any particular forewarning, Adept Havelock pounded his fist on the table, then picked up the checkerboard and threw it at the ceiling. The checkers made a sound like wooden rain against the granite of the ceiling and fell back to bounce noiselessly in the blue-and-red rug.

Tottering to his feet, the old Imager roared, “Horror and ballocks!” His eyes squinted ferociously at both the King and Geraden; patches of scarlet burned on his face; his fat lips shook like wattles. “She’s a woman!” He struck a wild gesture in her direction with the back of his hand. “Are you and every man jack feeble-wit Imager of the Congery blind? She is female, fe-fe-fe-male.” Saliva sprayed from his mouth. “Oh, my groin!”

Because she didn’t know what else to do, Terisa stood and stared at him.

“Look at you!” Still using the back of his hand, he hit King Joyse across the chest – a blow which was more dramatic in intention than in effect. “And you!” With his other hand, he struck Geraden. “Or here!” Awkwardly but quickly, he bobbed toward the floor like a poorly constructed rooster, then pulled himself erect. “And here!” Another bob. “And here!” Each time he stood upright again, he brandished a checker in his open palm. “All men, every one! Every one of them!”

But when his hand was full of checkers, he flung them down again. “By the hoary goat of the arch-Imager,” he shouted as if the three people in front of him had insulted him beyond mortal endurance, “she is a woman!”

Moving with an attempt at vehemence which his frail limbs couldn’t support, he stamped/shuffled to the outer door of the chamber, jerked it open, and slammed it shut again without leaving. Then, somewhat unsteadily, he retrieved the checkerboard from the floor and set it squarely on the table. Oblivious to everyone else, he took his seat and began to study the empty board as if an intense game were in progress.

King Joyse sighed delicately.

Geraden said, “I’m sorry.”

Terisa wasn’t quite sure why. Her heart pounded as if she had somehow escaped a crisis.

“No matter, my boy,” replied the King, patting Geraden’s shoulder absentmindedly, as though the Apt had in fact committed some minor offense. For a moment, his gaze seemed to swim out of focus while he thought about something – or perhaps he was simply taking a quick nap on his feet. Then he nodded to himself. Smiling irrelevantly in Terisa’s direction, he said, “Geraden, it occurs to me to be surprised that the Congery released the lady Terisa in your company. She is here by Imagery – and some of the Masters, I know, are jealous. Also, I suspect that they would always prefer to keep what they do secret from me. Yet here you are. How do you account for that?”

Geraden made an effort to look at the King squarely; but his discomfiture was too strong for him.

“Did you tell the Masters that she may be a Master herself?”

The Apt swallowed thickly. “No.”

“Ah,” King Joyse said mildly. “That explains it, then. Of course they let her go, thinking her to be just another of your mishaps. But why didn’t you tell them?”

A slow flush spread over Geraden’s face. Muscles knotted in his forehead. His embarrassment was so acute that it nearly brought tears to Terisa’s eyes. But he clamped his jaws shut and didn’t answer.

“My boy, that may have been foolish.” The King’s hand still held Geraden’s shoulder; his expression was kind. “You’ve been trying for – what is it now? ten years? – to become an Imager, a member of the Congery. How can you hope to succeed, if you risk angering the very men who control the knowledge, skill, and position you crave?”

“My lord King.” Geraden forced himself to let the King see the sharp pain in his eyes; and a sudden dignity came to him. “If I had told them, they would have commanded me to keep all this secret from you. Then I would have been compelled to disobey them directly—and my hope of a chasuble would be lost forever.” There was an undercurrent of bitterness in his voice. “I can’t bear disloyalty to the King of Mordant. I can’t give up my dreams. So I act like a fool. They’ll believe I didn’t notice her mirrors—or didn’t understand the significance of what I saw.”

In response, another of the smiles that had first touched Terisa’s heart lit the King’s face. For a moment, his age, weakness, and uncertainty fell away, and he became simply happy.

“Thank you, Geraden. It pleases me to see such loyalty, especially in a son of my old friend the Domne. I’ll try to arrange that you don’t suffer for it.

“Now” – his expression grew thoughtful – “let us consider. How best to do it?

“Tell me.” Slowly, he lowered himself back into his chair across the table from Havelock. His robe settled about him like a tent with the ridgepole cut. “How did the Masters react to the lady Terisa of Morgan’s arrival?”

Relieved by the King’s attitude, Geraden relaxed visibly. “That’s easy. You could guess all of it if you wanted to. Everyone was astonished when she came out of the glass. Master Gilbur was furious. I’m sure he thinks I’m criminally perverse instead of” – he grimaced –“just unlucky. Master Eremis was, well, amused.”

“Among other things, I don’t doubt,” the King commented. “Master Eremis,” he explained to Terisa, “has an eye for loveliness which never fails him.”

Geraden nodded and went on. “Master Quillon saw her appearance the same way I did, as proof you’ve been right about Imagery all along. But nobody listened to him.

“Master Barsonage made me responsible for her. He told me to give her all the hospitality and courtesy of Orison. But he told me not to answer any of her questions. Here she is, taken out of her own world for no reason except because I asked her to come, and put down in a place she has no way to understand, and he commanded me not to give her the simple decency of an explanation.”

Terisa hardly heard him. She was wondering, Is that why he looked at me, looked at me as if I were real? The idea was so new that it seemed to be full of mysterious importance. Did he think I was lovely? Do you think I’m lovely? Is that possible?

“Unless, of course,” the King returned quietly, “she is a Master Imager and had already chosen us before you met her.”

Geraden scowled. “What difference does that make? Haven’t I been saying all along I think she’s an Imager? She still deserves –”

“No.” King Joyse’s tone was mild and certain. “You make an assumption which may be unjustified.

“Master Barsonage’s command was not unreasonable. When the Alend Monarch sends his ambassador to negotiate our treaties, and to probe my intentions, he understands much of his world and much of my own. We have that in common. Yet I do not make him privy to everything I know or think or hope, neither for policy nor for courtesy. I do not invite him into the secret places of Orison, or into the secret places of my heart. To do so would be dangerous – too dangerous for any responsible justification. Not knowing his secrets, I could not predict or control the use he made of mine. Still less would I answer any questions which an ambassador from the High King of Cadwal might venture to ask.

“The same reasoning applies to the lady Terisa” – he looked toward her – “if you will pardon me for speaking of you as if you were absent.” Returning his gaze to Geraden, he continued, “If, as she says, she comes from a world in which mirrors have no meaning, and is therefore ignorant of us, then it is at best unkind to refuse her answers. But in that case – mark this, Geraden – it is also folly to have brought her here at all. I speak not of morality now, but of the simple question of our practical need. If she is not an Imager, what use can she possibly be to us?”

Geraden held himself still and didn’t reply.

Adept Havelock continued to study his blank board, deaf to whatever was being said.

“Conversely, if she is an Imager – a Master of mirrors strong enough to wrest your translation away from its apparent Image – then she is here for purposes of her own, which we do not know. She is like an ambassador, similarly to be respected, and similarly dangerous.

“Would you say, my lady,” he asked Terisa unexpectedly, “that I’ve summarized the dilemma fairly?”

She stared at him, unable to follow his reasoning. In order to make sense of it, she had first to presuppose the existence of magical mirrors which didn’t reflect whatever was in front of them but instead showed alternative worlds or realities. Then she had to take seriously the notion that her own mirrors, the mirrors in her apartment, were like that, giving her, Terisa Morgan, power over the reality and even the sanity of other people. The whole argument collapsed into nonsense before it reached the lofty conclusion King Joyse asked her to endorse.

Instinctively, she turned to Geraden. He was her only connection to her own life, with its ordinary facts and limitations. You saw me, she wanted to protest. You saw my apartment. There’s nothing magic about it. You didn’t lose your mind. None of this has anything to do with me.

His attention was on the King, however. “But if she’s that strong,” he said slowly, “an Imager more powerful than we can imagine, then it’s folly for us to risk offending her. We don’t know her purposes – they might be good or bad for us. But they’re sure to turn bad if we don’t treat her well. We need her friendship, not her anger. We need to be open and decent with her.”

Smiling softly, King Joyse glanced back and forth between the Apt and Terisa as Geraden spoke. When he was done, the King replied, “Your reasoning has merit. It is fortunate that only rulers are required to make those decisions.”

“My lord King?”

“Apt,” said King Joyse, his tone still mild but now faintly rueful as well, “here is my command. You are no longer responsible for the lady Terisa of Morgan. Your King thanks you for what you have done – and relieves you of any further interest in the matter. Your duties lie with the Congery, to which you are pledged. You will have no more reason to see or speak with the lady Terisa, and certainly no reason to answer any of her questions.

“You may go. The lady Terisa will remain with me.”

Geraden’s face went white: if he had closed his eyes, he would have looked like he was about to faint. But his eyes contradicted his pallor. They flamed with a quick, unflinching anger that seemed to burn all the boyishness out of him.

Softly, he said, “You consider me unworthy.”

At that, the King’s features crumpled into a grimace. He made an abrupt, dismissing gesture. “Oh, get out.” For the first time since Terisa had met him, he sounded like a querulous old man. “You’re breaking my heart.”

The muscles of Geraden’s face twitched. “Yes, my lord King,” he said between his teeth. Roughly, he turned to Terisa and bowed. “My lady.”

She had no reply. He was too hurt – and his hurt was too real. She was lost in it. He needed a response from her; but her responses were hidden behind years of silence and passivity.

When he started toward the door, his foot came down on the edge of one of the scattered checkers. His ankle twisted, and he stumbled, nearly fell. Embarrassment darkened his cheeks. His ears were crimson as he made his exit.

Watching the Apt go, Havelock began to giggle in a high, mad voice, as if his mirth were a place where reason or compassion couldn’t reach him.

When he subsided, no one spoke for a moment. Then the King said, in an unsteady attempt at nonchalance, “Well, my lady Terisa of Morgan. We must give some thought to you. You must be made comfortable, with all the hospitality Orison can manage, as befits a guest of your station and importance. And then perhaps you’ll consent to a game or two of hop-board? I’m really very tired of Havelock’s incessant beatings.”

Geraden had been hurt for nothing. There was no reason for anybody to take precautions against her. To her own astonishment, she heard herself say, “I’m not your lady. My name is Terisa Morgan, and I’m not anybody’s lady. You didn’t have to do that to him.”

King Joyse tried to smile, but failed to lift the sadness from his face. “My lady, I am the King. I will call you by whatever name I choose. And I hope that someday you’ll understand.”

With as much sarcasm as she had ever dared use, she returned, “But you’re not going to explain it to me. You don’t want to answer any of my questions.”

Instead of replying, King Joyse slowly lowered his frail bones to the floor and started crawling around the room, picking up checkers.

FIVE: WARDROBES FULL OF CLOTHES

Like a baffled child, Terisa shook her head, blinked her eyes. Unfortunately, nothing changed. Adept Havelock went on peering at his board as if in his mind he were already playing future games. The King continued to collect the scattered checkers, moving on his hands and knees.

The panic which had been gnawing at the back of her mind suddenly got worse. She shouldn’t have spoken so sarcastically, so assertively. She was dependent on these people. With one cross word, she could be dismissed from existence. The King could have her thrown into another of those mirrors, and she might end up somewhere even more impossible. The world of the Congery’s chosen champion suggested itself to her imagination. Or she might arrive nowhere – might simply dissolve into the gray, unacknowledged, pointless nothing she had feared and fought for most of her life.

I’m sorry, she thought involuntarily, while her alarm increased. Let me stay. I’ll be a good girl, I promise.

At that moment, King Joyse braced his arms, levered his legs under him, and tottered to his feet. Moving to the table, he dropped the checkers he had collected in front of Havelock. Then he turned his clean, good smile on Terisa.

“Pardon me, my lady. What have I been thinking about? I’m rude to neglect you in this way. You must be fatigued from your translation, eager for rest and refreshment. Do you have any special requirements in sustenance or comfort? No?” His apology sounded sincere, but his questions were perfunctory. “Then I’ll summon someone to guide you to your rooms and care for you.”

Still smiling, he hunted around him with an increasingly aimless air until he happened to slip one hand into a pocket of his robe, where he found a silver bell with a wooden handle. He rang it vigorously. Almost immediately the outer door opened, and one of the guards stepped into the room.

“My lord King?”

“Ah, thank you.” For an instant, King Joyse appeared confused, as if he had forgotten what he was doing. His damp eyes blinked at the bell in his hand. Then, abruptly, he said, “A maid for the lady Terisa of Morgan.”

“At once, my lord King.” The guard saluted by tapping his mail shirt with his fist and left the room.

Havelock reset the checkerboard, although King Joyse hadn’t retrieved all the pieces.

“Again I ask your pardon,” the King muttered without glancing at Terisa. He scrubbed his hands over his face, sighed, and lowered himself back into his chair. “My wits aren’t what they were.” His smile was gone, replaced by sadness. “Be honest with me, my lady. Do you have family? Are there those who will be grieved by your absence? They shouldn’t be made to suffer for our necessities. I’ll command Geraden to find some way to translate a message for them, to reassure them. Poor boy, it will keep him out of trouble. What message would you have sent, my lady?”

“There’s –” she began, but her voice caught. There’s nobody. She didn’t say that, however. She was lost in this situation, and her fear and her ignorance fed on each other. Nevertheless an unfamiliar part of her was almost trembling with anger at the way she was treated. With an effort, she cleared her throat. “There’s only my father.”

“How can he be reached?”

Forced to the truth, she said thinly, “He’ll never notice I’m gone.”

When she said that, the King’s gaze flashed at her. For an instant, she couldn’t see the white of his hair, the weakness of his stature, the blue tinge of his wrinkled old skin: she saw only the direct strength of his eyes. He was looking at her as though she had somehow moved him.

“Then perhaps” – phlegm made his voice husky – “you may wish to consider it fortunate that you are here.”

Carefully, trying to keep her panic under control, she said, “I don’t know how to consider it. I don’t have enough information. When do you think you might be willing to tell me what’s going on?” Then she held her breath in the quick rush of alarm which accompanied temerity.

“Ah, my lady.” King Joyse sighed and spread his hands. His swollen knuckles made the gesture appear at once world-weary and decrepit. “That surely depends upon yourself. When will you make clear the truth of your origins, your skill in Imagery, your purposes?”

A weakness that felt like vertigo grew in her head. For some reason, it didn’t cloud her mind – it simply made her want to lie down. “You mean,” she said wanly, “you’re not going to tell me anything until I can prove that I exist – that I wasn’t created by any mirror – and until I show you everything I know about Imagery – and until I tell you why I pulled Geraden away from what he thought he was doing when he tried to translate that champion” – in fact, all the things she couldn’t possibly do in this crazy situation – “and until I make you believe it.”

Down in the pit of her stomach, she felt a giddy and unexpected desire to laugh.

The King didn’t shirk her gaze. Nevertheless the lines of his face became sadder and sadder. She was causing him pain which he didn’t choose to explain. After a moment, she had to turn away, unable to go on challenging his peculiar vulnerability. The sound of someone knocking at his door came as a relief to her.

The guard reentered the room, bringing a woman with him.

At the sight of her, King Joyse frowned involuntarily, as if he had made a mistake; but at once he rubbed his expression clear. “Saddith. Just the one I wanted.”

The woman was shorter than Terisa, with bright eyes, a pert nose, long brunette hair tumbling over her shoulders in natural waves, and a spontaneous smile. She wore a russet skirt that went down to her ankles and a shawl of the same color and material over her shoulders – like the other women Terisa had seen, she was prepared for the cold. But her blouse was open several buttons below the hollow of her throat, and her ripe bosom stretched the fabric. Looking at her, Terisa thought that she must be the kind of woman whom men noticed – the kind who never had any reason to doubt her own reality. The arch of her eyebrows and the angle of her glances suggested that she knew what she was doing.

She scanned Terisa quickly, her eyes wide as she noted Terisa’s unfamiliar clothes, a small frown between her brows as she took an inventory of Terisa’s face and figure. Then, almost instantly, she shifted her attention. “My lord King,” she replied, dropping a graceful curtsy. “You asked for a maid.”

“None better,” he said, making an effort to sound jovial, “none better. Saddith, this is the lady Terisa of Morgan. She is the guest of Orison. My lady, Saddith will attend upon you as your maid. I’m confident that you’ll be pleased with her.”

“My lady,” Saddith murmured, her eyes now downcast. “I hope that I will serve you well.”

Nonplussed, Terisa fell back on her customary silence. She hadn’t expected to be assigned a servant. On the other hand, she luckily had some acquaintance with servants. At least she knew how to live with them – how to spend her time without disturbing the rhythms of their activities, how to keep her requests for actual service to a minimum.

“The lady will be using the peacock rooms,” King Joyse went on. He sounded more and more distant – perhaps because of the distance in Terisa’s head, perhaps because his own interest was wandering. “She’ll need a wardrobe. The lady Elega will be able to assist you. Or better the lady Myste – they’re more of a size, I think. Whatever food or refreshment she asks, serve her in her rooms.

“My lady” – he had returned his gaze to the board and was studying the checkers – “we will speak again soon. I look forward to testing your prowess at hop-board.”

The guard held the door open. Saddith looked up at Terisa expectantly. It was obvious that she had been dismissed. But she felt too tired to understand precisely what that meant. The stress of strangeness was wearing her out. And now that she thought about it, she was probably long overdue for some sleep. She had spent a whole day at the mission, typing that letter over and over again, then returned to her apartment for what she had known was going to be a bad night. But she had had no real conception how bad—

Fortunately, Saddith came to her rescue. Terisa let the maid’s touch on her arm guide her out of the King’s chamber.

The guards closed the door behind her.

“This way, my lady.” Saddith gestured down the hall, and Terisa automatically started walking in that direction. The maid moved with her head demurely bowed; but she cast repeated speculative glances at Terisa. As they descended the stairs, she asked, “Have you made a long journey to Orison, my lady?”

Terisa shook her head. “I don’t know. I came through a mirror – I think.” How far was that? It seemed like forever.

“Imagery!” Saddith responded with polite astonishment. “Are you a Master, my lady? I have never known a woman who was a Master.”

In spite of her sleepiness, Terisa sensed an opportunity for information. “Don’t women do things like that here?”

“Become Imagers?” The maid laughed delicately. “I think not, my lady. Men say that the talent for Imagery is inborn, and that only those so born may hope to shape glass or perform translations. They believe, I’ll wager, that no woman is born with the talent. But what is the need for it? Why should a woman desire mirrors”– she gave Terisa a coy smile—“when any man will do what she wishes for her?”

From the stairs, they entered a wing of the immense stone building that Terisa hadn’t seen before. Many of the rooms off the long, high halls seemed to be living quarters, and the people moving in and out of them apparently belonged to the middle ranks of the place – merchants, secretaries, ladies-in-waiting, supervisors. Terisa pursued her question with the maid.

“So you don’t know anything about mirrors – or Imagery?”

“No, my lady,” replied Saddith. “I only know that any Master will tell me whatever I wish – if I conceive a wish for something he knows.”

“That must be nice.” Terisa thought she understood what she was hearing; but the idea was too abstract to seem real. No man had ever found her that attractive.

“My lady” – Saddith appraised Terisa’s figure again, nodding to herself at what she saw – “the same is true for you, if you choose to make it so.”

You mean, Terisa thought, if I unbuttoned my shirt King Joyse would tell me whatever I wanted to know? Helpless to stop herself, she started laughing.

“Perhaps,” Saddith said, “in your world women have no need of that power.” She sounded faintly distressed by the idea: jealous of it? threatened by it?

“I don’t know,” Terisa admitted. “I don’t have any experience.”

Saddith looked away quickly; but before her face turned it betrayed a glimpse of mirth or contempt.

After a while, she led Terisa up another series of stairs into what appeared to be another tower. Past a landing at the end of a short hall, they reached a wide door made of polished wood. Saddith opened it and ushered Terisa into her assigned rooms.

It took no great effort of perception to see why they were called the peacock rooms. Their walls were decorated with an ornate profusion of peacock feathers, some hanging like plumes over the dark mahogany tables, others displayed in rich fans where other decorators might have put pictures or tapestries, still others forming a kind of canopy over the large, deep, satin-covered bed. The sizable room Terisa had entered was apparently a sitting room or parlor, its stone floor masked by rugs woven into peacock patterns, its cushioned couch and chairs painted with peacock blue and almost-black purple; but the bedroom could be seen through an arched entryway to her right. A door to the left suggested a bathroom.

The lamps set around the walls were unlit, as were the candles in their holders on the tables; but the rooms were bright with afternoon sunlight which streamed in through several glassed windows in the sitting room and bedroom. That, however, was the only glass to be seen; though she looked for them almost at once, Terisa couldn’t discover any mirrors – not above the dressing table in the bedroom, not even in the bathroom.

She shivered. Both the sitting room and the bedroom had substantial fireplaces, but neither was lit. The sunshine on the rugs made their colors burn cheerily, yet outside the windows the sky looked pale, unwarmed. The air in the rooms was too cool for comfort. And the absence of mirrors seemed to have the force of a premonition. How would she be able to tell that she was still here, still real?

“Brrr,” said Saddith. “Orison did not know of your coming, my lady, and so no one thought to warm these rooms.” She went at once to the sitting room hearth and began setting a fire, using wood and kindling from a firebox close at hand.

Terisa looked around her quarters. In the bathroom, she noticed dully the basin, tub, and bucket (all apparently fashioned of galvanized tin), as well as the cunning arrangement of copper pipes which provided running water (none of it warm). In the sitting room, she tested the cushions of a chair. In the bedroom, she looked into two large wardrobes, which smelled pleasantly of dry cedar but contained nothing. She didn’t approach the windows, however. In fact, she refused to glance at them. What she had experienced was already alien enough; she wasn’t ready to find out what the world or the weather outside Orison was like.

She had been right the first time: there was nothing in her rooms that she could use for a mirror.

As she returned to the sitting room, the fire was beginning to crackle. Saddith rose to her feet. “With your permission, my lady, I will leave you now. The King speaks truly. You are near to a size with the lady Myste – although,” she commented with a coy smirk, “she lacks some of your advantages. I must speak with her about clothing suited to your station. And I am sure that she will be able to make some contribution to the things needed for your toilet.”

She looked at Terisa expectantly.

A moment passed before Terisa realized that Saddith was waiting to be dismissed.

This wasn’t how her father’s servants had treated her. Surprised, and rather gratified, she mustered her courage to ask, “Don’t you use mirrors for anything except Imagery? They don’t have to be made out of glass. How about polished metal?”

Unexpectedly, Saddith shuddered. “The Masters say the same – but how are we to believe them? Imagers have not always wished other folk well. Perhaps all Images are dangerous. Everyone knows that it is worse than death to see oneself in a glass. Perhaps the danger is not in the glass, but in the Image.” She made a gesture of refusal. “We do not take the risk.”

“Then how do you see yourself? How do you know what you look like?” How do you know you’re real?

At that, the maid chuckled. “My lady, I see what I need in the eyes of men.”

When Terisa nodded her permission, Saddith moved toward the door. In a moment, she was gone.

Terisa was alone for the first time since she had sat down in front of the mirrors of her apartment.

She was aware that she had some hard thinking to do, but that wasn’t what she did. She was overloaded with strangeness, and she wanted to escape. Still avoiding the windows, she went into the bedroom. The air wasn’t warm enough yet to encourage her to take off her clothes, so she simply slipped her moccasins from her feet and climbed into bed.

Clutching the coverlet tightly about her shoulders, she curled herself into a ball and went to sleep.

***

When she awoke, she passed straight from her usual blank slumber into a state of crisis.

There were no mirrors. No mirrors. The walls were decorated with peacock feathers, and she couldn’t see herself anywhere. The bed was rumpled, but that had never been enough to tell her who she was – anybody could have rumpled the bed. If she were to see herself now she might bear no resemblance to what she was expecting, that was why she had to find some reflection of herself, had to prove somehow that –

The light had dwindled almost to twilight: it was barely enough to bring back her recollection of this place. With an effort of will, she took hold of her fear. Where she was didn’t match the way she remembered it. She had an impression of changes – subtle, insidious, vast in implication – of ways in which reality had been rearranged. The dying of the light was the first one she was able to define, and she clung to it because it was reasonable, an indication of nothing more portentous than passing time.

Then she noticed there was a fire in the bedroom hearth.

It hadn’t been set recently: the flames were small over a deep bed of coals; the bars of the grate shone with cherry heat; the air was warmer than it had been.

That, too, could be explained, she told herself, insisted to herself. Judging by the light, she had been asleep for several hours. Someone had come in and lit the fire for her while she slept. It was that simple.

But the idea that people had been changing things around her while she slept was too frightening to be simple.

She pushed her feet out of bed and sat up. The soft, woven texture of the rug under her soles reminded her of her moccasins. She put them on, straightened her sleep-creased flannel shirt, and stood up.

Nothing terrible happened. Her body felt normal. The stone and mahogany and feathers showed no signs of dissolution, of translation. Her panic took a few steps backward, and she began to breathe a bit more easily.

All right. Someone had been here while she slept. Probably Saddith. That was easy to check.

Although movement seemed to require an unreasonable amount of courage, she went to the nearest wardrobe and opened it.

It was full of clothes.

At a glance, most of them appeared to be gowns, but she saw robes, skirts, blouses, shawls, and a shelf or two of undergarments. They were the kind of clothes she had seen the ladies of rank wearing around Orison.

The other wardrobe was also full. And on the dressing table she found an impressive array of combs and brushes, fired clay jars containing creams and rouges, crystal vials of perfume.

Her fear actually turned and walked away, though it stopped in the middle distance to keep an eye on her. A little girl who had once enjoyed playing with her mother’s dresses and cosmetics gave a small smile. She almost caught herself thinking, This might be fun after all.

But then from the sitting room she heard a woman’s giggle, a man’s rumbling whisper. As startled as if she had been caught doing something forbidden, she practically ran out of the bedroom.

The woman was Saddith, and Terisa’s sudden appearance took her by surprise: an involuntary twitch nearly made her drop the tray she was carrying. “My lady!” she said, rolling her eyes comically. “I thought you were still asleep.”

The man was one of the guards Geraden had introduced her to earlier – Ribuld, the one with the scar down the middle of his face. He, too, had been surprised by Terisa’s entrance: his hand on Saddith’s shoulder, and the disarray of her shawl and hair, suggested that he hadn’t been expecting an interruption; had, in fact, been intending to enjoy himself as much as possible while Saddith’s hands were trapped by the tray she carried. Nevertheless he promptly showed Terisa a grin which was probably intended to be reassuring.

In the doorway behind Saddith and Ribuld stood Argus, Ribuld’s companion. “Better and better,” he muttered with a gap-toothed leer. “One for each of us.”

Terisa froze, caught by instinctive alarm.

As soon as Saddith regained her own equilibrium, however, she took pity on Terisa’s fright. “Mend your manners, clods,” she said mildly. “My lady is not diverted by your sort of humor.” Without apparent effort – or malice – she swung one clogged foot sharply against Ribuld’s shin.

Gasping and grimacing, he hopped backward. For an instant, he clutched at his shin with both hands. Then he forced himself to stand upright. A scowl of mingled chagrin, anger, and amusement puckered his scar.

Behind him, Argus sniggered like an adolescent.

“My lady,” Saddith went on primly, “do not let these louts distress you. They are neither as fierce nor as manly as they would have you think.” Argus faced this remark with open astonishment; Ribuld tried to ignore it. “And they will not dare to displease you. Though they are plainly dull, between them they possess wit enough to know that if they displease you I will be displeased, and then”—she gave the guards an arch smile over her shoulder—“neither of them will ever walk normally again.”

This time, both men made studious efforts not to react.

“Now, my lady,” continued the maid, “I have brought some small supper for you, if you care for food. Not knowing how you are accustomed to dine, I thought it best to begin simply. But if this fare is not to your liking, I will gladly bring you whatever I can.”

Saddith’s mastery of the situation enabled Terisa to unfreeze. Geraden had told her that he meant to try to have these two men assigned to her, for her protection. So far, he hadn’t shown himself to be possessed of especially good judgment. On the other hand, he had been relieved of responsibility for her – which seemed to imply that Argus and Ribuld weren’t here at his request? With an effort of concentration, she found her voice. “What’re they doing here?”

“Those two?” Saddith sniffed disdainfully. “I cannot imagine. That is to say, I know precisely what they are doing. But why they have chosen to do it here, I have no idea. Doubtless King Joyse told the guard captain that you should be warded, either for protection or for honor, and the captain displayed his poor sense by assigning those two the duty.”

In his loud whisper, Argus muttered, “I don’t think we should let her talk about us like that, Ribuld. She would sing a different tune if we had her alone.”

“If we had her alone, you overgrown slophog,” Ribuld replied with equal subtlety, “she wouldn’t need to act like this. You wouldn’t be scaring the lady Terisa with your lewd attentions.” Then he looked at Terisa and changed his manner to a loose approximation of respect. “The truth is, my lady, we’re not on duty.”

“No?” Saddith was moderately surprised.

“The captain doesn’t know we’re here – and I’m sure the King doesn’t. We’re doing this for Geraden. He stopped by the wardroom earlier this afternoon and asked us to look after you. As a personal favor. He didn’t say what he was worried about, but he was obviously worried.”

He shrugged his heavy shoulders. “If you don’t want us around, you can tell us to go away. We might do that. But I think we might want you to explain it to Geraden first. He may be the clumsiest man in Mordant, and too young for his age on top of it, but we don’t like to disappoint him.”

“You might say,” Argus added with an attempt at formal enunciation and pious sentiment which his missing teeth doomed to failure, “he comes from a good family.”

This explanation left Terisa groping. She didn’t know what to do. Helplessly, she looked to Saddith.

The maid considered Terisa, glanced sardonically over at the two guards, then sighed. “Oh, let them stay, my lady. There is less harm in them than they might want you to believe. And I doubt that they would willingly insult Geraden by displeasing you. As this lout says” – she indicated Argus with a toss of her head – “the family of the Domne is well regarded – and especially Artagel, who is said to have the sharpest sword in all Mordant.” She winked knowingly at Terisa. “Among other things.” Then she resumed, “Even a brave man might blanch if he insulted Geraden and had to face Artagel in consequence.”

It was Geraden who had wanted to answer her questions, Geraden who had seemed to care what happened to her. Now he had defied – or at least subverted – King Joyse’s orders by arranging protection for her. As if she were giving him a vote of confidence, she murmured, “All right.”

In response, Argus nudged Ribuld and grinned. “What did I tell you? She wants us. Under those funny clothes, she’s got the itch. She’s just too fancy my-lady-Terisa to show it yet.”

Saddith turned on him and started to unleash a retort, but Ribuld forestalled her by grabbing Argus’ arm and jerking him toward the door, growling, “Oh, shut up, limpwit. There isn’t a woman in Mordant desperate enough to itch for the likes of you.” Argus tried to protest; but Ribuld opened the door and thrust his companion out into the passage. In the doorway, he paused long enough to say over his shoulder, “We’ll be out here all night, my lady” – struggling to sound respectful against his natural inclination – “if you need us for anything.”

The door cut off Argus’ burst of laughter.

Saddith rolled her eyes in affectionate ridicule, then moved to set her tray down on one of the tables. “As I was saying, my lady, if this fare is not to your liking, you need only tell me. The cooks of Orison are an unruly lot, but I am sure they will attempt to provide whatever you wish.

“First, however,” she went on, “you must have light.” Briskly, she went to the hearth, found a twig among the kindling, lit it, and used it to begin lighting the candies and lamps.

As the illumination in the room grew, the glow from the windows seemed to fade to darkness almost immediately, closing away any view Terisa might have had of the world outside. Unexpectedly, she felt a mild disappointment. She had missed an opportunity to look out and see what Orison was, where and how it was situated, what kind of environment surrounded it. Earlier, she had shied away from that knowledge; now she wanted it. Her nap must have done her more good than she realized.

That probably also explained why she did seem to be a little hungry. Dismissing the question of the windows, she went to look at the food.

It was familiar and surprising: as familiar as the language spoken by the people of this strange place; as surprising as the fact that these people spoke a language nearly identical to her own. To all appearances, the plate held a thick slice of ham garnished with borage and accompanied by brown bread, Swiss cheese, and string beans; the goblet contained a pale red wine. And, in fact, the ham was unmistakable, as was the bread. Under closer inspection, however, the borage smelled more like thyme, the beans were of a slightly different shape and color than any she had seen before, and in spite of its firm texture the cheese tasted like tofu. The wine carried a gentle tang of cinnamon.

Perhaps she should have feared that the food of this world would make her sick. In view of Geraden’s belief that she had enemies, perhaps she should have feared that the food was poisoned. But such considerations seemed entirely unreal. The people she had met looked like normal human beings. They spoke her language. And, as far as she was concerned, she certainly wasn’t substantial enough to be an object of malice. With no more hesitation than she had showed walking across the room to look at the food, she sampled the beans and found that they tasted like asparagus. Then she started on the bread and wine.

“Does it please you, my lady?” Saddith had finished lighting the candles and lamps in both the sitting room and the bedroom, and now stood watching Terisa.

“It’s very good,” Terisa replied like an obedient girl.

The maid smiled her approval. “Then I will leave you now, my lady. If you do not wish to rest, and the evening seems long, summon me.” She indicated a bellpull which Terisa hadn’t noticed because it was hidden behind one of the peacock feather displays. “We will find some entertainment for you. Perhaps you will want me to help you try some of your gowns. Several of them will become you nicely, I think. Or perhaps you will want other company. Both the lady Elega and the lady Myste wish to meet you, although they thought to wait until tomorrow so that you could spend tonight recovering from your translation. Both would be fascinated to make the acquaintance of a woman of Imagery.”

Terisa ignored this reference to her purported mastery of mirrors. “Who are Elega and Myste?”

“They are my lord King’s daughters. He has three, of whom Elega and Myste are the eldest and youngest. The second, the lady Torrent, lives with her mother, Queen Madin, in Romish of Fayle. The Queen is the daughter of the Fayle.”

That answered Terisa’s question. She didn’t know what Romish or Fayle were, any more than she understood Domne or even Orison. But she knew now that she didn’t want to meet Elega or Myste tonight. She didn’t want to see anybody who would bring her more questions and no answers. She only wanted Geraden – or possibly (a piquant thought) Master Eremis, who may have considered her lovely. Since she couldn’t ask Geraden to take any more risks for her, she declined Saddith’s offer. “I think I’ll rest tonight.”

“Very good, my lady.” Saddith gave a polite bow and started to leave the room.

But at the door she paused, one hand on the latch. With a roll of her eyes, she indicated Ribuld and Argus. Then she showed Terisa the bolt which locked the door, and pantomimed pushing it home.

Terisa smiled her relief and gratitude. “Thanks. I’ll remember that.”

Saddith replied with her own arch smile and made her exit, closing the door quietly after her.

At once, Terisa went to it and bolted it. Through the heavy wood, she could faintly hear Saddith, Ribuld, and Argus bantering with each other. She was tempted to listen, simply because she didn’t understand how any woman could have that kind of relationship with men. Nevertheless she withdrew toward the table where her food waited for her; and in a step or two the laughing voices became inaudible.

She was alone.

In an odd way, she was grateful for the presence of Argus and Ribuld outside her door. They weren’t exactly reassuring in themselves, but they – she realized this slowly – were the first people in this impossible situation to reappear after an absence. Geraden had lured her out of her own life into a room full of Masters, but in a short time they had all gone away. He had then taken her to the King, and he had been sent away. Next she had been put in Saddith’s charge, and King Joyse and Adept Havelock had fallen into the past. Each new person she met might have been created solely for that meeting; might have ceased to exist as soon as she moved on to someone else.

It was conceivable that none of this was real at all.

Ribuld and Argus, however, spoke of Geraden as though he had a continuous existence of his own, apart from her. They were substantial enough to have a relationship with Saddith which didn’t include her, Terisa. Therefore they implied that what was happening to her had continuity, solidity, a dependable fidelity to its own premises and exigencies. They implied that if she were able to retrace her steps she would find the King’s suite and the Masters’ chamber where she had left them; that Geraden was alive and active somewhere not too far away, trying to do something about his concern for her; that however crazy her circumstances seemed they could be trusted as much as she had ever trusted her own world.

This was rather a large conclusion to draw from a small fact. Nevertheless she accepted it provisionally. It made her a little less afraid.

An entirely unmetaphysical concern impelled her to walk through her rooms again to verify that there were no other entrances. Then she sat down and ate her meal with at least an approximation of pleasure.

By the time she was done eating, the wine had made her slightly drowsy. But she was still too restless to consider going back to bed; so she decided to sample some of the clothes Saddith had brought for her.

Many of them frustrated her: they hooked or laced or buttoned so inconveniently that she couldn’t put them on without assistance. Despite that, however, they struck her as finely made and elegant. And the robes and gowns she was able to don for herself made her long for a mirror so that she could see what she looked like. Was it possible that this exposure of breast or slimness of waist, these billowing sleeves or that intricate lace would make her beautiful? Immersed in what she was doing, she didn’t notice the passage of time.

She was wearing a floor-length burgundy robe, made of deep velvet, with a wide, black sash and a hood she could have pulled over her head to hide her face, and had just decided to take it off and return to bed for some more sleep, when the wooden backing of the wardrobe in front of which she stood shifted and began to move aside.

Scraping against each other, the back panels opened on a well of darkness.

From the darkness a figure emerged.

If his advance was intended to be silent, it failed significantly: he made bumping and shuffling noises all along the way. Hanging gowns and robes that blocked his path he thrust unceremoniously aside.

She could hear him muttering to himself, “Softly, softly.” His voice was old and thin, unsteady when he whispered. “Sneaking into the bedchambers of beautiful women. Hee hee. Oh, you’re still a devil, you are. Mirrors are only glass, but lust and lechery last forever.”

Only then did he notice that the front of the wardrobe was open – that Terisa stood staring at him with her hands over her mouth and a look in her eyes which might have been either terror or hilarity.

“What’re you doing here?” she breathed. “What do you want?”

His thick lips shaking, Adept Havelock flinched as if she had threatened to strike him.

In spite of the alarm pounding in her throat, she felt forcibly the conflict between his ascetic nose and sybaritic mouth, the disfocus of his hot eyes. His self-contradictory visage made him look wild – an appearance aggravated by his few remaining tufts of hair. And yet he seemed to be doing his best to calm her. His hands made reassuring gestures; his whole stance was unthreatening, even deferential.

“Luscious,” he said, as though he meant, Forgive me. “All women are flesh, but you are its perfection.” I didn’t mean to frighten you. “Ha ha, sneaking into bedchambers.” I’m not going to hurt you. “Lust and lechery.” You can trust me.

He was a madman – that much was unmistakable. Unfortunately, the knowledge wasn’t much help. So he was crazy. So what was she going to do about it? She had no idea. Studying him warily, she retreated a step or two to give herself more space. Then she said, “There are two guards outside my door. They’re both big, and they’ve got longswords. If I shout”—she faltered and almost panicked when she remembered that the door was bolted—“they’ll be here before you can touch me.”

Palms toward her, his hands continued to make placating movements. Parts of his face expressed a fear of which other parts were ignorant: his eyes rolled, and his lower lip drooped, exposing crooked, yellow teeth; but his nose and cheekbones looked too determined to admit fear.

“This winter chills my bones,” he told her as if it were a high secret. “No one understands hop-board.”

Though they were speaking softly, he put a finger to his lips. Then he turned back toward the wardrobe and beckoned for her to follow.

“You want me to go in there?” Tension made her voice jump like his. The darkness behind the clothes was too deep to be measured. “Why?”

As persuasively as possible, he replied, “The King tries to protect his pieces. Individuals. What good are they? Worthless. Wor-r-r-r-rthless. It’s all strategy. Sacrifice the right men to trap your opponent.”

While he spoke, he kept beckoning, urging her toward him.

“No, I’m sorry.” The idea of entering the unknown place behind the wardrobe was even more frightening than the Adept’s unexpected appearance. “I can’t go in there.” She was familiar with dark, closed spaces. Despite her best efforts to forget them, she remembered every detail of the times her parents had punished her by locking her into a lightless closet. She had learned a great deal about her own unreality during those times. In that closet she had first started feeling herself fade, drifting out of existence into the effacing black. “It’s too dark.”

“Ho ho ha,” he responded in a tone of supplication. He could only look at her with one eye at a time, and the lines of his face twisted into a plea. “Dark and lust. We snuff the light so no one will see how we revel. You don’t need light to see flesh.”

Reaching into a pocket of his surcoat, he pulled out an irregular piece of glass about the size of his palm. He held it so that she couldn’t look into it; but she had the impression it was a small mirror.

He murmured something, passed his hand over the glass, and a beam of warm, yellow light as bright as sunshine shot straight out of the surface.

He shone it around the wardrobe. It showed her that the darkness was a stone passage angling downward inside the wall of the room.

Havelock flashed his light down the passage to demonstrate that it was safe. Then he beckoned to her again vehemently, at once asking and demanding that she go with him.

“No,” she repeated. “I can’t. I don’t know what you want. I don’t know what you’re trying to do to me.” Groping for some response which might penetrate his demented intentions, she asked, “Does King Joyse know you’re here?”

That was evidently the wrong thing to say. At once, Havelock became the furious old man who had thrown his checkers at the ceiling and stormed around the King’s chamber. “Bother Joyse and all his scruples!” the Adept raged, so angry that he was barely able to keep his voice down. His face turned an apoplectic red. And yet he did keep his voice down: he retained that much self-awareness. “He plays as badly as his daughters! Women and foolishness.”

Flailing his arms, he made gestures that practically shouted, Come with me!

To defend herself, she replied, “Geraden warned me that the King has enemies. Are you trying to betray him?”

At once, Havelock stopped. He stared at her as though he had been stung. For a second, his whole face expressed nothing but astonishment and dismay.

Then a look of cunning came into his eyes.

She seemed to feel danger pouncing toward her. But it was imprecise: she didn’t know how to react. So she stood where she was, helpless as a post, while he raised his glass and shone it directly into her face.

It was as bright as the sun; it made her throw up her hands and reel backward to protect her eyes.

She stumbled against the bed, nearly lost her balance. But before she could either fall or jump aside, Havelock clamped one bony hand around her wrist and jerked her toward the wardrobe.

He wasn’t as strong as he seemed. If she could have planted her feet, found some leverage, she would have been able to break his grip. He was too quick for that, however. Keeping her off balance, he impelled her across the floor, into the wardrobe and the opening of the passage.

SIX: A FEW LESSONS

With her free hand, she clutched for something to hold her back. But suns of blindness exploded back and forth across her vision: she couldn’t see anything to grasp. Then she hit the stone of the passage, and cool air breathed up at her out of the unseen depths. Havelock slowed, giving her feet time to fumble for the downward stairs.

Argus and Ribuld would probably have been willing to rescue her from this madman. Unfortunately, her door was locked, and she didn’t have time to shout for help.

Her sight cleared quickly, however. Havelock’s glass hadn’t done her any real damage. In a moment, she stopped bumping against the walls, stopped lurching on the stairs. The Adept pulled her after him as firmly as he could, but now she was able to exert some control over her rate of descent.

His glass revealed all there was to see of where they were and where they were going. The passage was narrow and low: if she had been any taller, she would have been forced to stoop. There were sharp turns and branchings whenever the stair had gone down another ten or fifteen feet. At a guess, the branchings led to other hidden entrances in other suites and chambers. But the main passage continued downward.

The absence of cobwebs and accumulated dust implied that these stone tunnels were used with some frequency.

The air became slowly cooler as Adept Havelock dragged her after him.

Unaccustomed to such exercise, her knees began to tremble. She felt she had been laboring down the stairs for a long time when the Adept arrived at a heavy, ironbound wooden door that blocked his way. It had been left unbolted, but he didn’t open it immediately. Instead, he tugged her close to him. Then he released her wrist.

Shining on the door and the stone blocks of the wall, his light cast comic shadows across his face. “Remember hop-board,” he whispered intensely. “Nothing else signifies.”

A gesture and a murmur snuffed his glass. In the sudden dark, she heard his surcoat rustle as he returned the small mirror to his pocket. Then he pushed open the door and walked into the lamplight beyond it as if he didn’t care whether she followed him or not.

From the doorway, she looked out at a large, square room.

It was furnished – and cluttered – like a study of some sort. A heavy pillar thrust down through the center of the floor, the flagstones of which weren’t softened or warmed by any rugs or coverings. Around the pillar, however, stood a number of tables, some of them tilted like an artist’s worktable, others flat and piled with papers and rolls of parchment. Stools waited at all the tables, although most of them were being used to hold stacks of old books or layer after layer of loose documents. Under the tables, the floor was furred with dust. Opposite Terisa, an entryway without a door led, apparently, to other rooms. Near the entryway was a rumpled bed, with several blankets tossed haphazardly over the stained gray sheets, and no pillow.

The light came from oil lamps around the walls and the pillar. Their glow showed clearly the two features of the room that most caught Terisa’s attention.

Off to one side was a small table with two chairs and a checkerboard. All were at least as richly made as the ones King Joyse used. But there weren’t any pieces on the board.

And the walls were lined with doors like the one through which Havelock had just entered the room. They were all bound with iron and heavily bolted. Orison, she realized, must be honeycombed with secrets.

Ignoring her completely now, the Adept moved to the checker table, seated himself with his back to her, and hunched over the board as if he were absorbed in a game.

Terisa cleared her throat to speak, then caught herself. She and Adept Havelock weren’t alone. A man whom she had somehow failed to notice at first turned on his stool, leaning his elbow on the desk beside him and propping his cheek against his fist. “Ah, there you are.” He wore a plain gray robe that looked warm enough to combat the chill in the room (a chill that the Adept didn’t appear to feel, in spite of his inadequate garments), and that increased his ability to blend into the background. But over his shoulders was draped the yellow chasuble of a Master.

Looking at him sharply, she realized that she had seen him before. He had a rabbity face with bright eyes, a nose that twitched, and protruding teeth. She wasn’t likely to be mistaken about him. He was the one who had agreed with Geraden that her appearance before the Congery proved something.

“Geraden finally condescended to reveal who you are,” he commented, his sarcasm distinct but not severe. “The lady Terisa of Morgan.” He didn’t seem particularly impressed. On the other hand, his tone was polite: he clearly intended no offense. “I am Master Quillon.

“Adept Havelock—“Master Quillon paused to glance around him. “Incidentally,” he interpolated, “these are his rooms, not mine. I believe I would find some way to have them cleaned. Even if I had to do it myself.” Then he returned to what he meant to say. “Be that as it may, however, he has asked me to tell you a bit about Mordant’s history – the background, so to speak, of our present problems.”

When he said that, Terisa’s head filled up with air and started to float. Sudden hope and relief danced together in her chest. At last, somebody was going to tell her what was going on.

A moment later, however, her expectations fell out of the top of her head into the pit of her stomach with a leaden thud. Havelock had asked Master Quillon to talk to her? Abruptly, she demanded, “How?”

The Master looked at her inquiringly. “How?”

“How did he ask you that? How do you know what he wants?”

Master Quillon twitched his nose and shrugged, his cheek still resting on his fist. “He has his lucid moments. And you must remember that he has been like this for years. We have had time to become accustomed to him. Occasionally he is capable of making himself understood.”

Well, she thought, that seemed true enough, as far as it went – if dragging people down stairs by main force counted as “making himself understood.” But as an explanation it didn’t suffice. “Then why?” she asked. “Assuming that you’re right – that you haven’t missed what he really wants – why do it? Both Master Barsonage” – she stumbled fractionally over the name – “and the King told Geraden – no, they ordered him not to answer any of my questions.” What she was saying felt increasingly audacious to her, increasingly dangerous. When had she started talking to people like this? But her momentum kept her going. “Why disobey both of them? Whose side are you on?”

In response, he blinked at her as though the logic of his position were self-evident. Nevertheless he was slow in replying. “It is not as simple as you make it appear. In spite of his” – the Master glanced at Havelock – “um, his affliction, Adept Havelock is still the nominal head of the Congery. And there are those among the Imagers who consider his past services to us—and indeed to all Mordant—so great that he continues to deserve gratitude and respect, even compliance. Would you flaunt your father’s wishes if he began acting somewhat strangely in his old age?”

Fortunately for Terisa, that was intended as a rhetorical question. Without waiting for an answer, Master Quillon went on, “In addition, there are times when you must define your loyalties. Master Barsonage is an honorable man who tries to be impartial, but in his heart he stubbornly fears the consequences of any decision or action. As for King Joyse – “He sighed. “Years have passed since he showed any significant grasp on what happens around him, and his judgment is suspect.”

This didn’t satisfy her, but she had pushed her temerity as far as it would go. The old habit of reticence and deference, her emotional protective coloration, reasserted itself and held her back. Master Quillon clearly meant to talk to her, and yet she was irrationally afraid that by speaking she had forfeited what he wanted to tell her, what she needed to know.

Nevertheless her doubts refused to go away. Cautiously, she took a different approach. Indicating the Adept, she asked, “Why do they call him ‘the King’s Dastard’?”

Quillon sighed again and straightened himself on his stool. “My lady” – he gestured vaguely around him, as if he were suddenly tired of the whole thing – “will you sit down?”

Obediently, she located a free stool and moved it to the desk nearest him. She wasn’t accustomed to the robe she was wearing – it made her feel awkward climbing onto the high perch of the stool. But when she was seated with her back supported by the edge of the desk, she was steady enough.

Master Quillon began.

“I will assume that you know nothing about us or our troubles.” He still looked like a rabbit, and his nose seemed to twitch whenever he collected his thoughts; but the way he spoke contained a note of dignity. “If that is untrue, please do not be insulted. There is no other way that I can respect whatever secrets you may have.

“It is difficult to know how or where to begin. We have, in a sense, two histories – that of the kingdoms and that of Imagery – which did not become one until relatively recently – in fact, until King Joyse and Adept Havelock forced them together. You can hardly believe it, I am sure, looking at them now, but in their prime they bestrode Mordant and the rest of our world like heroes, shaking it into a new shape simply because they believed that the job needed to be done.

“Both histories, however, are histories of fragmentation.

“In fact, there was no Mordant – and no Congery, for that matter – until King Joyse created them. Oh, there was a region which went by the name ‘Mordant,’ but it was nothing more than a collection of petty princedoms caught between the ancient power of Cadwal to the east and the newer strength of Alend to the north and west. These princedoms were what we now call the Cares – the Care of Armigite, the Care of Perdon, and so on – but they were in reality less substantial than what the Alend Lieges call baronial holdings. They survived only because together they served as a kind of buffer between Alend and Cadwal, which were always at war.

“Alend and Cadwal are actually contiguous along the last eighty miles or so of the Swoll River, but that area is impassable, a swamp to the sea and along the coast—“He started looking around the room as he spoke, and after a moment his explanation trailed off.

“Havelock,” he asked distantly, as though he were talking to himself, or didn’t expect an answer, “do you have a map? There must be one in this chaos somewhere. I ought to show her where these things are in relation to each other.”

Adept Havelock didn’t glance up from his board. Concentrating fiercely, he rearranged the pieces he imagined in front of him, and began to study the new configuration.

“Well, never mind,” murmured the Master. Returning his attention to Terisa, he resumed. “Even without a map, I am sure you will understand the point. Because of the swamp, Cadwal and Alend can only approach each other through Mordant, which is, essentially, a fertile lowland between the Pestil and Vertigon rivers. Alend is too mountainous – Cadwal, too dry. Therefore they have desired Mordant for centuries, both for itself and as a large step toward defeating each other.

“To put the matter simply, the princedoms of Mordant survived by being conquered back and forth, generation after generation – and by always siding with whichever of the two powers happened to be absent at the time. Because Mordant existed in pieces, each piece was easily taken, but hard to hold. Cadwal, for instance, might make itself master of the Care of Perdon, or of Tor. Alend might take Termigan or Domne. At once, the Perdon – the lord of the Care – or the Tor, the Termigan or the Domne, would swear eternal allegiance to his new prince. At the same time, he would begin looking for ways to betray that prince. So Cadwal would sneak into Termigan, or Alend into Tor, and the people of the Care would be liberated, amid great rejoicing. At once, however, a new prince would replace the old. And so the entire process would begin again, varying only in detail when Cadwal or Alend made a convulsive effort to conquer the whole region. And so the Cares endured.

“Of course, all that bloodshed was terrible. Naturally, a certain number of men voluntarily fought and risked their lives. But they were a small minority of the victims. The peasants of Mordant were constantly being hacked down or conscripted, raped or driven from their land – brutalized in any way the whims of the tyrants suggested. The only reason Mordant was not entirely depopulated was that both Cadwal and Alend needed what they could grow in the fields and on the hills of this lowland, so they were forced to import labor – usually slaves, especially from Cadwal – to replace the lost peasants. These laborers invariably found that life as a peasant was better than life as a slave or a coerced servant, and so they learned loyalty to the Care in which they found themselves. In that way, the population of Mordant was renewed.

“But such things are only bloodshed and tyranny. Mordant’s plight was made much worse by Imagery.

“Am I boring you, my lady?”

Terisa was surprised by the realization that she had yawned. The wine, a long day, and reaction after the shock of Havelock’s appearance and behavior were making her drowsy. Nevertheless she shook her head. “I just wonder what all this has to do with me.”

A bit acerbically, the Master retorted, “It ‘has to do’ with you because you are here. It will affect everything that happens to you while you are among us.”

“I’m sorry. Please go on.”

“Very well,” said Quillon stiffly. His nose twitched for a moment.

“In those days, it seemed that every man of any consequence had in his service, or his employ, an Imager of some kind – or else he served or was employed by an Imager. Cadwal itself was raised to greatness by the first arch-Imager. And as recently as the past century the Alend Monarch used an entire battery of Imagers to bring the Alend Lieges into confederacy.

“Here again the situation was fragmented. The talent which can make an Imager is not common, but neither is it rare. And in times of war, it seems to breed under every hedgerow. As a result, Cadwal has at times mustered armies in which every captain was seconded by an Imager. Alend has been nearly as powerful. And of course every lord in Mordant was defended by an Imager who depended on him for support, patronage, or facilities.

“As I am sure you can imagine, the glass which makes mirrors is not something that can simply be poured out in a patch of sand behind some cottage. To study, develop, and use mirrors requires equipment, tinct, furnaces, and much else as well, and so any Imager not born wealthy has always been forced to ally himself with wealth in some way.

“But I digress.

“I wonder, my lady,” he said slowly, “if you possess the knowledge or experience to imagine the havoc dozens of Imagers can wreak, fighting each other and armies as well as innocent men and women who happen to get in the way. Consider it, if you can. Here stands an Imager whose glass shows a sea of lava. At his word, molten stone floods outward, devouring its own carnage as it moves. There stands an Imager whose glass shows a winged leviathan which can consume cattle whole. At his word, the beast is translated here to rage and ravage until he calls it back – or until some other Imager conceives a means to kill it. And they are only two men. Consider fifty of them, or a hundred, great Imagers and small, all dedicating what mirrors they have to battle and bloodshed.

“Perhaps in your world Imagery is used for other purposes. Perhaps it provides food for the hungry, water against drought, energy and power to better the lot of all men. That has not been our history.

“One consequence”– he sighed – “is that the knowledge of Imagery – the understanding of what it is, and why it works, and how it might be used – has advanced little from one generation to the next. Imagers have tended to guard their secrets zealously, as protection for their lives, and so the dissemination of new ideas, insights, or techniques has taken decades. In fact, it would not have occurred at all, if the making of mirrors were not sufficiently arduous to require Apts. But each Imager must have help, and so he must teach some youth with the talent how to give that help. In that way, slow progress has been made.

“It is a barbarous history, my lady.” This time, his sarcasm was directed elsewhere. “We are not traditionally a humane or scrupulous people.

“King Joyse has attempted to change us completely.

“Havelock” – he turned on his stool to face the Adept – “some wine would be a kindness. All this talk is thirsty work.”

At once, Havelock pushed himself out of his chair and hobbled away to the opposite side of the room, behind the pillar. When he returned, he was carrying a stoneware decanter and a clay goblet. The goblet looked like it hadn’t been cleaned any time during the past decade.

Unceremoniously, he thunked the decanter down beside Master Quillon and thrust the goblet into his hands. “We have a barbarous history,” the Adept said, waggling his eyebrows at Terisa, “because we drink too much wine. Wine and fornication don’t mix.”

Returning to his table, he started playing his invisible game again.

Master Quillon peered morosely into the goblet. Finally, he wiped it out with the sleeve of his robe. Muttering to himself, he poured some of the wine and passed the goblet to Terisa. Then he raised the decanter to his mouth and drank.

She wanted a drink herself. But the dark smear on Quillon’s sleeve dissuaded her.

“As I say,” he began again, wiping his lips with the ends of his fingers, “King Joyse set himself the job of changing everything.

“I can tell you quite simply what he did. First he conquered all the princedoms of Mordant, some by force, some by persuasion. And when he had made Mordant into a separate, sovereign realm, he began waging an odd war against both Alend and Cadwal. In battle after battle, raid after raid, for the better part of two decades, he took no territory, conscripted no soldiers, slaughtered no peasants. In fact, he did nothing to upset the ordinary structures of power in either country. All he did” – the Master rubbed his nose vigorously to make it stop twitching – “was to take prisoner every Imager he could find and bring his captives here, to Orison. At the same time, he offered universal patronage and safety to every Imager who would surrender voluntarily. In the end, he had collected them all – or we thought he had. From the western mountains of Alend to the eastern deserts of Cadwal, there were no Imagers anywhere but here.

“And when he had them all together, he did not do what Cadwal and Alend desperately feared. He did not try to weld all that talent for Imagery into his personal fighting force. Instead, he created the Congery. And he gave it work to do – peaceful work. Many of his assignments involved the study of specific problems. Could Imagery be used to relieve drought? Could mirrors put out fires? Could Imagers build roads? Quarry granite? Fertilize soil?

“Questions of wealth King Joyse left to Alend and Cadwal.” Master Quillon was digressing again. “Alend had gold. Cadwal had gems. Mordant did not need them. Crops and cattle, food and fabric and wine, these were Mordant’s strength and wealth.

“But overriding such work was another, larger assignment. King Joyse commanded the Congery to define an ethic of Imagery. He commanded the Imagers to answer the great moral question of Imagery: are the beings and forces and things that come out of mirrors created by translation, or do they have a prior existence of their own, from which they are removed by translation?

“All very simple, is it not? Nothing to it.” Quillon took another swig from the decanter, wiped his lips again. “As you might guess, my lady, I am much harder pressed to explain how the King did these things.

“If the reports of him are true, he did it, essentially, by being the kind of man for whom other men – and women as well – were willing to die.

“He was born to the princedom which is now his Demesne, and he became the lord in Orison – though Orison was smaller then – at the age of fifteen, when his father was caught trying to betray the Cadwal tyrant who then held the princedom – was caught and slowly pulled limb from limb by oxen in front of young Joyse and all his family, as if that sort of lesson would teach them loyalty. He was little better than a boy, but already he possessed a quality which made a strong and, um, perhaps wise” – he glanced at Havelock – “Imager become his faithful friend. What the boy did after that, he and his Imager did together.

“What they did first was to sneak away in the middle of the night, leaving his family to bear the brunt of the Cadwal prince’s displeasure.

“Naturally, this did not raise the esteem in which his people held him. So they were rather surprised when he returned at the head of a force from neighboring Tor, threw the Cadwals out, and personally separated the prince from his head.

“Tor had happened to be in a period of independence at the time. And it was somewhat more accustomed to independence than the other princedoms, being situated with the mountains at its back and Perdon, Armigite, Domne, and Termigan around it – therefore difficult to conquer. Young Joyse had insisted to the Tor – who was himself still young enough to be audacious – that the only hope for his people, and for all Mordant, was a union of the Cares against both Alend and Cadwal. And the Tor had liked this idea. He had also liked young Joyse. On the other hand, he had not liked to risk too much of his Care. So he had given Joyse scarcely two hundred men to use against more than two thousand Cadwals.

“Joyse and his Imager and those two hundred men, however, required only three days to free the Demesne. Before sunset of the third day, a new flag flew over Orison – the pennon of Mordant.

“You may wonder how that was done. I can tell you only that King Joyse and his forces made extensive use of the secret passages for which Orison has always been famed. It seems Orison has been a stewpot of plots and counter-plots since its first tower was erected,” Master Quillon commented by the way. “Also, their attacks were directed from the beginning at the Cadwal Imagers rather than at the soldiery. In fact, he spared as many of the soldiers as he could. When he was done, he offered them a choice between service with him or freedom. Those who chose his service became the kernel of the guard which eventually unified Mordant, and which has since successfully defied both Alend and Cadwal for decades.

“At this time, his people reversed their earlier ill opinion of him and became correspondingly enthusiastic.

“With considerably more support now from the Tor, young Joyse set about liberating Perdon. Then the three Cares turned their attention to Armigite, and to Termigan. Domne fell to them almost without effort – it has always been the least of the Cares, though the Demesne is smaller. Finally, in the most savage and costly battle he had yet faced, Joyse freed Fayle from Alend and became King.

“I will not protract this tale with details. You can imagine, I am sure, that all the Cares swore allegiance to King Joyse, but did not all keep their oaths, until he taught them to do so. You can imagine that most of his first success grew from the fact that neither Alend nor Cadwal were expecting what he did, and so the truly cruel wars for Mordant’s independence were fought later, when his enemies understood what had happened and rose with all their strength against him. It is enough to say that twenty years passed before our King’s hold on Mordant was secure enough to permit him to begin the work of collecting Imagers.

“That was thirty years ago,” murmured the Master, peering into the mouth of the decanter to see how much wine was there. “For those of us who remember any part of it at all, it was grand. Even young boys, as I was, thought that everything the King touched took on a kind of sanctity, the stature of heroism and mighty deeds.”

The contemplation of his tale – or the effect of the wine – was making him increasingly morose. His jaws chewed indecisively. Perhaps he didn’t know how much more he should tell Terisa. Or perhaps he was simply debating another swig from the decanter.

“Go on,” she said quietly. She wanted to learn how the King of Quillon’s tale had become the frail old man she had met – a man so ineffective that even people who had worshiped him when they were boys now disobeyed him almost for no reason. “Tell me what happened.”

Master Quillon made a face. “Well, of course, with his friend to advise and guide and assist him, the first thing he did was to start collecting Imagers. And the Imagers were so accustomed to hiding their secrets from each other, to looking at everyone else as an enemy, that most of them were reluctant to be collected. In addition, Cadwal and Alend naturally did everything in their power to preserve their access to the resources of Imagery. All three kingdoms existed in an ongoing state of war – undeclared war, but war nonetheless – and at times King Joyse had to hammer at his enemies until they broke. But he also used every possible kind of cunning and stealth. He broadcast bribes. He sent out small bands on lightning raids. He suborned messengers, counselors, captains, anyone who might know the whereabouts of a man he wanted. He even went so far as to kidnap the families of Imagers and hold them hostage until the Imagers surrendered. It was at once more complex and more difficult than the process of forging Mordant out of its separate Cares. It cost him another twenty years.”

Again, he stopped. This time, however, he took an abrupt pull from the decanter and resumed his narration.

“But the bulk of the job had been completed five years earlier. Only one obstacle remained. The Alend Monarch and the High King of Cadwal, it will not surprise you to hear, did not trust King Joyse. They feared what he was doing, even though after each of his raids and battles he left their kingdoms essentially as he had found them. In their eyes, that was insane behavior, and insanity does not inspire confidence in the bosoms of mortal enemies. And, of course, if he had Imagers and they did not they would be defenseless against him.

“The High King of Cadwal, however, was both more prompt and less scrupulous than the Alend Monarch in his response to the threat. High King Festten, who still rules Cadwal from the great coastal city of Carmag, where the minarets rise high above the rocks and the sea, and where every exotic vice known to man is nurtured in the soil of riches and power” – Master Quillon didn’t appear to think well of Carmag – “Festten began collecting Imagers of his own. He formed a force of perhaps thirty men, each of them powerful in Imagery, and set over them the arch-Imager Vagel. In addition, he gave his personal champion of battle, the High King’s Monomach, responsibility for the protection of his Imagers. Guarded by the Monomach’s incomparable prowess, this cabal dedicated itself solely to the arts of violence, and to the defense of Cadwal, and to the defiance of King Joyse.”

Without warning, Adept Havelock raised his head as if he had suddenly decided to listen to what Master Quillon was saying.

“Five years passed before the King found means to break the cabal,” the Master went on. “And then most of its members had to be slain. They had become too acclimatized,” he muttered sourly, “to Cadwal’s arid morals and lush pleasures. They could not accept transplantation. At the time, it was believed that the arch-Imager had perished also. But now he is thought to be alive – alive and in hiding somewhere, plotting malice.

“The High King’s Monomach, of course, was executed for his failure, and another was chosen to take his place.”

With a wide movement of his arm, Havelock wiped his board as though he were sweeping all his men off onto the floor. Then he rose to his feet. Walking over to Terisa and Quillon, he touched her sleeve, leered, and nodded in the direction of the still-open door which had admitted her to this room. When she stared back at him, he rolled his eyes and beckoned determinedly. “Time and tide wait for no man,” he said as if he were in one of his lucid phases, “but everybody waits for women.”

“No, Havelock.” Quillon spoke with more firmness than Terisa had expected from him. “Doubtless you know better than I. But I am going to tell her the rest.”

For an instant, ferocity came over the Adept’s face. He clenched one eye closed so that he could scowl murderously at Master Quillon with the other. But Quillon didn’t flinch, and Havelock’s mood changed almost immediately. His expression relaxed into a fleshy smile.

“Wait for me, Vagel,” he said in a high voice, like a child at play. “I’m coming. Hee hee. I’m coming.”

Casting a wall-eyed wink at Terisa, he turned away and began rummaging through the clutter on one of his desks.

The Master shrugged. Tilting back his head, he drank what remained of the wine and set the decanter down beside him with a thump. His eyes were starting to look slightly blurred, and two red spots on his cheeks matched the end of his nose.

“That was ten years ago, my lady,” he said in a glum tone. “For five of those years, we were relatively secure. The defenses King Joyse had created kept us relatively safe. Most of Mordant lived in relative peace. The Congery thrashed out the worst of its conflicts, both of personality and of trust, and became relatively unified, especially as the older generation – the men who remembered fondly what life had been like before King Joyse came along – passed away. By creating the Congery, of course, King Joyse could not control or limit the birth of the talent for Imagery anywhere in the world. But he had control of the knowledge of Imagery. Talent could find its outlet only by coming to Orison and accepting the servitude of an Apt.

“Alend and Cadwal were relatively quiet. Most of us” – his sarcasm returned – “were relatively immune to the disorder of the King’s domestic affairs. For five years, we did not notice, because we did not want to notice, that his spark was dying out. Perhaps because he had nothing enormous or heroic left to do, he was ceasing to be the man so many of us had loved.

“But eventually we had to notice. Oh, we had to.” Master Quillon became more bitter by the moment. “We could not ignore that there was something evil running loose in Mordant.

“An Imager had begun to translate horrors and abominations out of his mirrors and unleash them to rampage across the land wherever they could find victims.”

In the cool of the room, a sensation of tightening scurried from Terisa’s scalp down the length of her spine.

“It is easy to assume that he is Vagel. That is as reasonable a guess as any. He was always expert at finding in his glasses men and monsters and forces of destruction. And he did not trouble his conscience much about the consequences of his translations. But no one knows where he finds the patronage, the resources, to make such mirrors.

“We would also assume that he found them in Alend or Cadwal – but all his Images strike deep into Mordant, and it is inconceivable that such mirrors could be made elsewhere and then brought here across those distances without some word of the matter finally reaching the ears of Orison.

“But if not in Cadwal or Alend, then where? Who in Mordant would level such a threat against the realm? And why does King Joyse do nothing about it?

“Perhaps in the early years of the peril, patience and caution were indicated. After all, the attacks did not come often. Either Cadwal or Alend appeared to be the likely source. It seemed understandable that the King was waiting for his spies or his friends to discover the secret and bring it to him, so that he would know what to do.

“But the attacks grow worse, and no explanation comes. Instead, his spies and friends bring word that Alend and Cadwal have learned what is happening from their spies and friends, and are mustering their forces to take advantage of Mordant’s danger. Armies gather beyond the Vertigon and Pestil rivers. Raids probe the Cares, testing their defenses. Angry because they are compelled to defend their own without assistance from King Joyse, some of the Cares begin to mutter against him. And still the abominations being translated against us worsen, both in magnitude and in frequency. The arch-Imager, if it is he, forms mirrors at an unheard-of rate as well as in perfect secrecy. And still the King does nothing.

“Well, not nothing, exactly,” the Master muttered as if he had acid in his mouth. “He plays more and more hop-board.

“The Congery, of course, has not been blind to the problem. Even if we did not hear the same reports that reach every ear in Orison, we would have our auguries – and we have learned a great deal about auguring since our efforts were united.

“We can see Mordant dying, my lady, slaughtered by forces which we understand, but which our King, in founding the Congery, has forbidden us to act against. He will not allow us to be a weapon. Though he will do nothing to save Mordant, he is quick enough to march into our laborium and shatter any glass that offers a means of defense. He only permitted us to search for a champion because we agreed, after much squabbling debate, that whatever champion we chose would not be translated involuntarily, but would rather be approached with persuasion and given the opportunity to refuse.

“In short, our King has brought us to the verge of ruin. Unless more men become disloyal – and do it soon – Mordant will return to the days when it was nothing more than a battleground for Alend and Cadwal. And if Vagel is strong enough by then, he will join with one and devour the other, and so will make himself ruler over all the world.”

Brusquely, Master Quillon picked up Terisa’s goblet and tossed down the wine she hadn’t tasted. Into the goblet, he muttered hollowly, “I, for one, do not relish the prospect.”

She was listening to him so closely that she didn’t notice Adept Havelock until he touched her sleeve.

He was grinning like a satyr.

“I remember,” he whispered. His breath smelled like swamp gas. “I remember everything.”

“He remembers everything,” growled the Master sardonically. “Mirrors preserve us.”

“Yes,” Havelock hissed. “I remember.” His grin was more than lascivious – it was positively bloodthirsty.

Quillon sighed disconsolately. “You remember, Adept Havelock,” he murmured as though he were playing his part in an especially dull liturgy.

“Everything.”

Abruptly, the Adept gave a capering jump that made his surcoat flap above his scrawny knees. He followed it with a pirouette, then confronted Terisa again, grinning like murder.

“I remember Vagel.

“He had a glass that poured fire. I had one full of water. He had a glass with a raving beast. But the beast could not breathe water. He had a weapon that fired beams of light which tore down walls and turned flesh to cinders. But the beams only changed water to steam. I remember.

“I remember the chamber where I cornered him. Shall I tell you how many candles were lit upon the table? Shall I count for you all the stones in the walls? Shall I measure the way the shadows fell into the corners? Shall I describe everything that I saw in his last mirror?

“It was perfectly flat, but because of its tinct and shape it showed a place among the sharp hills and fells of the Alend Lieges. A high summer sun shone on the meadow grass of the hillside – and on the waterfall, so that it sparkled in the distance. I saw butterflies of a kind which do not come to Mordant, and they danced among the daisies and dandelions. Above the waterfall stood tall fir trees. I saw it all.

“Mark me, my lady.” He glared intensely into Terisa’s face, but one eye or the other necessarily scrutinized the pillar behind her. “I remember Vagel well. I heard his scorn as he laughed at me, and I saw him step into the glass as though he had nothing to fear. I saw first one boot, then the other come down among the grass, crushing the blades. I saw his robe flare ebony under the summer sun. I saw the waterfall blocked from view by his shoulder as he took a stride or two on the hillside.

“Then he turned and beckoned for me to follow him.

“He beckoned to me, my lady.” Havelock’s hands made fierce scraping movements, tearing the air in front of Terisa like hungry claws. “He beckoned, and his scorn was still on his face. So I followed him, though every Imager knows that a translation which does not go anywhere is madness.” His voice began to scale upward in pitch. “Wait for me, Vagel. I’m coming. I’m coming. Ah.” His groan came out strangled, like a scream.

“I’m an Adept. I opened his glass. I stepped into it. But when I did” – his voice was now a high, falsetto croon – “he plucked the sun down from the sky and drove it into my eyes, and deep inside me everything was made light. Light, my lady, hee hee. Light.” From his throat came sounds like a little girl locked in a closet trying to comfort herself.

Master Quillon coughed. His eyes were red with wine or grief. In a husky voice, he said, “My lady, you asked why some men call him ‘the King’s Dastard.’ That is because they think him a traitor to his own kind – to other Imagers.

“Well, it is true that he betrayed many Imagers to King Joyse. In his mind, the King’s purpose outweighed their right to freedom. But his greatest act of treachery was to the Imagers gathered around Vagel in Carmag. It was he who broke that cabal. Concealing his identity and loyalty, he joined the arch-Imager as simply another crafter of mirrors hungry for power. For three years – his life always in the deadliest jeopardy – he served and studied Vagel, acting the part of an avid disciple, but in truth learning the cabal’s defenses and plans. And when he had taught himself how to counter them, he sprang his trap, admitting King Joyse and a squadron of his guard into the keep where the Imagers lived and plotted.

“But the arch-Imager,” Quillon continued sadly, “had one power which Havelock lacked. He was able – we know this now, though at the time we considered it impossible – to translate himself within our world by means of flat glass. When Havelock attempted to follow Vagel, the wrench of a translation which went nowhere cost him his mind, as it has cost the mind of every man but Vagel who has attempted it. For that reason, we believed the arch-Imager dead when Havelock returned raving to King Joyse and no trace of his foe could be found.

“As I say,” the Master sighed, “Adept Havelock has his lucid moments. But for ten years now the King’s chief friend and counselor has been a madman.”

The Adept had been growing increasingly restive during this speech. When Quillon finished, Havelock suddenly flung his arms out violently, as if he were ripping a veil in front of him. Then he grabbed Terisa’s arm and dragged her off her stool, pulling her in the direction of the open door. “Come on, woman!” he roared. “I can’t stand the suspense!”

Suspense? Terisa’s thoughts were too full of the things she had just heard. She forgot herself. Apparently, she didn’t like being hauled around like a disobedient child. She took a couple of quick steps to catch up with the Adept, then planted her feet and twisted her arm in an effort to break his grasp.

It was easier than she expected. His old fingers slipped from her arm; he nearly fell as he stumbled away from her.

Her heart pounding – not so much at the exertion as at the shock of her own audacity – she turned back to Master Quillon.

He studied her with interest, his head cocked to one side and his nose twitching.

“I want to thank you,” she said before her nerve failed. “This is a big help. I won’t give you away.”

He inclined his head gravely as if her promise were bigger than she realized. “That would be much appreciated, my lady.”

“I don’t know anything about your mirrors,” she went on at once. “I’m not an Imager. But I think the worlds you see must be real. The place I come from isn’t something Geraden and a piece of glass invented by accident.”

Master Quillon shrugged, and his depression returned. “I hope you are right, my lady. I believe you are. But the arguments on the other side are difficult to refute. If your world is real – and if you are no Imager – then how was it possible for Geraden’s translation to go so far awry?”

“I don’t know,” she repeated. “It’s all new to me. But” – she was astonished to hear herself say this – “I’m going to try to find out.”

Perhaps simply to keep herself from saying anything else so much unlike her image of who she was, she yielded to Havelock’s dramatically mimed impatience and turned to follow him back into his secret passage.

“Nothing else,” the Adept muttered at her darkly. “Only hop-board signifies.” When she had entered the passage, he closed the door. In the darkness, he fumbled around for a moment before producing a light from his piece of glass. Then he hurried upward, taking the stairs as rapidly as his old legs could manage.

She found climbing the stairs easier than descending them because she had a better chance to find where she was about to put her feet; but Havelock complicated the ascent by jerking his light from side to side and shining it far ahead of him rather than holding it steady. He was becoming more tense by the moment. His exertions made his breath rattle raggedly in his lungs, but he refused to slow his pace.

“What’s the hurry?” she panted after him. The elevators of her apartment building hadn’t prepared her to run up stairs.

He paused at an intersection and flashed his light in all directions. Then he squinted down at her for a moment. “The trouble with women,” he gasped, heaving for breath, “is that they never shut up.”

As he started upward again, the stone corridor suddenly felt more constricted, narrower. The beat of feet on the stairs seemed like the labor of her heart, reverberating almost subliminally from the walls. The ceiling was leaning down at her. He was crazy; it was crazy how he managed to communicate things he didn’t say. Where had this urgency come from, this panic? She didn’t understand why she rushed to keep up with him – or why she tried to muffle her breathing at the same time.

Surely they had passed her rooms by now? It wasn’t possible that she had been dragged so far down without a better sense of the distance.

She nearly collided with him when he stopped.

“What—?”

At once, his arms flailed furious shushing motions. He stood with his light aimed at his feet and his face in shadow, concentrating hard—listening. In the reflection from the gray stone, she saw that his lips were trembling.

Then she heard it: from somewhere far away, a faint, metallic clashing sound, a dim shout.

Havelock spat a perfectly comprehensible obscenity and threw himself up the stairs, dousing his light as he ran.

For a fraction of a second, she remained frozen as darkness slammed down through the passage. Then she sprang instinctively, as quick as fear, after the Adept, straining desperately to catch him before he left her alone in the dark.

His raw panting loomed ahead of her, almost within reach. She stretched, stretched – and her fingers hooked the fabric of his surcoat.

That was enough. He made a sharp, unexpected turn; she was able to follow, guided by her small grip on his clothes.

His turn took them toward a glow of lamplight, but the illumination came too late. Half a heartbeat after his feet thudded on wooden boards instead of stone, she tripped over the rim of the wardrobe door and sprawled headlong to the floor of her bedroom.

There were peacock feathers everywhere. They floated through the air, swirled in small eddies across the rugs, draped themselves delicately over the edges of the bed. One of them wafted into her face, blinding her while a harsh voice gasped, “My lady!” and iron rang like a carillon.

The voice sounded like Ribuld’s.

She snatched down the feather in time to see him parrying frantically, sparks raining from the length of his longsword.

He and Argus fought with all their strength against a third man who held the entryway to the bedroom, blocking them from her.

The feathers were part of a decoration which this man had torn down to use as a shield.

He wore a cloak and leather armor so black that he was difficult to see: he confused Terisa’s sight like a shadow cast on an uneven surface; all his movements looked like the flitting and darting of a shadow. Only his longsword caught and held the light, gleaming evilly as it struck fire from the opposing blades.

He seemed to be at least a hand shorter than Ribuld or Argus, slimmer than either of them. Yet his blows were as strong as theirs.

It was clear that they weren’t winning.

Both of them were already badly battered. Argus had a vivid bruise under one eye, and his knuckles were bleeding. Ribuld had sustained a cut to the joining of his neck and shoulder. Notches and tears marked their mail: their opponent had been able to hit them at will.

Now Ribuld reeled away from the force of the attack. Losing his balance took him out of his assailant’s reach, but it also fetched him heavily against the side of the fireplace. He stumbled to his knees.

Argus tried to surge forward, his sword hammering for the man’s skull. The man was defter, however: his longsword leaped to catch Argus’ blow and turn it. Then he smashed his now-tattered shield into Argus’ face. Before Argus could counter, the man in black dealt him a kick to the groin which nearly pitched him on his head.

When he hit the floor, he hunched over and began retching.

As smooth as a shadow, the man turned toward Terisa.

Now she saw his face. His eyes shone yellow in the lamplight; he had a nose like the blade of a hatchet; his teeth were bared in a feral grin. She had the indistinct impression that there were scars on his cheeks.

His cloak seemed to billow about his shoulders as he clenched the hilt of his longsword in both hands and raised his blade against her.

“My lady!” shouted Ribuld again.

Charging like a ram, he launched himself at her attacker’s back.

She had risen to her hands and knees, but she couldn’t move. None of this made any sense. She could only watch as the man in black swung away from her and accepted Ribuld’s assault.

Their blades met so hard that she thought she could hear them break. The sound of the iron was the sound of shattering. But this time Ribuld and his longsword held: it was the man in black who was forced to slip the blow past his shoulder and parry the return stroke

He parried so well, however, that Ribuld had to skip backward to keep his hands intact.

The attacker followed at once, hacking at Ribuld from one side and then the other. Ribuld took the blows with his blade. Sparks spat over his forearms, but he didn’t appear to feel the burns. He was retreating again, but under control this time, looking for an opening.

Abruptly, the man jumped away from Ribuld – jumped toward Argus. While Argus gaped horror at him, helpless with pain, the man whirled his sword to lop off Argus’ head.

“No!” Desperately, Ribuld tried to catch his opponent in time. But desperation made him reckless. He had no defense when the man in black changed the direction of his stroke. The flat of his blade hit Ribuld in the face and leveled him.

“Now, my lady,” the man said in a voice like silk, “let us end this.”

With his longsword poised in front of him, he strode into the bedroom.

For some reason, Terisa thought that this time no one would rescue her, that no young man would appear out of her dreams and risk his life to save hers. If she wanted to live, she would have to do something to save herself – shout for help, jump to her feet and flee into the secret passages of Orison, something. Yet she remained lost, unable to understand why anyone would attack her with such hate, unable to move.

Fortunately, at the last moment Adept Havelock hopped out of his hiding place in the wardrobe and fired his glass into her assailant’s eyes.

The man gave a roar of pain and recoiled. For an instant, he stood with his forearms crossed over his eyes, his longsword jutting at the ceiling. Then he snarled a curse. Though he plainly couldn’t see a thing, he brought his blade down and started forward again, probing the air for someone to strike.

In the other room, Argus heaved himself into a crouch, reached for his sword. “Now,” he grunted, in sharp pain and ready for murder. “Now I’ve got you.”

Terisa’s attacker froze. If he could have seen Argus, he would have known that he was safe: Argus was barely able to crawl. But the man couldn’t see. He hesitated momentarily while he listened to the sounds Argus made; then he whirled away from Terisa, took an immense, acrobatic leap which carried him over both Argus and Ribuld, and found his way to the door. A second later, he was gone.

Groaning, Argus nudged Ribuld’s inert form. “Go after him, you fool. Don’t let him get away.”

Terisa stared about her, too stunned to think in logical sequences. Ribuld and Argus had tried to defend her – and had almost been killed for their pains. The wood of the door was splintered around the bolt. If the man recovered his sight and came back— The Adept was out of his mind, of course, but he understood what took place around him to some extent, at any rate.

“Havelock,” she murmured vaguely, “did you know this was going to happen?”

He wasn’t there. He had already left. The door hidden in the back of the wardrobe was closed.

SEVEN: THE DUNGEONS OF ORISON

The events of the next half hour had blurred edges and imprecise tones. Her nerves jangled like badly tuned strings, and her pulse refused to slow down. With so much adrenaline in her veins, she should have been more alert, had a better grasp on what was happening. But everything seemed to leak away as soon as she focused her attention on it. Reality had become like sand, trickling through her fingers.

“Get help,” Argus coughed in her direction. He hadn’t moved from Ribuld’s side; he was hunched there, barely able to hold himself up with his arms. “If he comes back –”

That was probably intended to mean something. Hadn’t she just been thinking the same thing herself? But now she was unsure of it.

Her instinct was to simply run away. Use the Adept’s secret passage and find her way back to Master Quillon. She wanted warm arms around her. She wanted someone who knew what he was doing to take care of her. Surely Master Quillon would be able to comfort her? So she felt that she was doing the hardest thing she had done in years when she made her way around Ribuld and Argus to the bellpull behind one of the feather displays. From there, she was exposed to the open door. But she didn’t know how else to call for help.

She tugged on the satin cord of the pull as hard as she dared. Then she returned to her bedroom.

An impulse she didn’t immediately understand made her rearrange the clothes in the wardrobe and then close the door, concealing the secret passage.

Before long – or perhaps after a long time, according to how she happened to feel at the moment – her summons was answered. But not by Saddith. The woman who appeared in the doorway had the look of a chambermaid; she was older than Saddith, however, blowzy with sleep and hasty dressing, and in no good humor. Nevertheless after one glance at Ribuld and Argus, at the scattered feathers and the broken door, she forgot her irritation and fled.

For a moment, she could be heard squalling into the distance, “Ho, guards! Help!”

“Fool woman,” Argus muttered through his teeth.

Ribuld was stirring. His hands rubbed at his face, then flinched away from his bruised forehead. “Daughter of a goat,” he groaned. “Who was that bastard?” Weakly, he propped himself up on one elbow and peered around the room. When he saw Terisa, he gave a sigh of relief and sank back to the floor again.

“I’m dying,” Argus whispered thickly. “Hogswill unmanned me.”

“Forget it,” replied Ribuld in a prostrate tone. “Won’t change your life.” Shortly, Terisa heard nailed boots hammering the stone of the outer corridor – a lot of boots. Brandishing his longsword, a man dressed like Ribuld and Argus sprang through the doorway. He had five companions behind him, all ready for a fight: they looked clenched for violence, like the three riders in her dream. But there was no fight available. They scanned the rooms quickly, then gathered around Terisa’s defenders. “What happened?” one of them asked, awkwardly jocose. “Did you two lechers finally meet a woman tougher than you are?”

Before Argus or Ribuld could answer, another man stamped into the room. From his close-cropped, gray-stained hair to his out-thrust jaw, from his swaggering shoulders to his hard strides, he bristled with authority, though he was shorter than Terisa – nearly a foot shorter than any of the men around him. He was dressed as they were, with the addition of a purple sash draped over one shoulder across his mail and a purple band knotted above his stiff, gray eyebrows. His eyes held a perpetual glare, and his mouth snarled as if it had long ago forgotten any other expression.

He scanned the room, assessing the situation, then stalked up to Terisa and gave her a rigid bow. “My lady,” he said. In spite of its quietness, his voice made her want to flinch. “I’m Castellan Lebbick, commander of Orison and the guard of Mordant. I’ll speak to you in a moment.”

At once, he turned on Argus and Ribuld. Without raising his voice, he made it sound like a lash. “What’s going on here?”

They struggled to their feet. Uncomfortably, they tried to explain the situation. As a personal favor, Apt Geraden had asked them to keep an eye on the lady Terisa of Morgan, in case she got in trouble. He said he didn’t know what kind of trouble. But they were off duty, so they decided to do what he asked. Nothing happened for a long time. Then the man in black appeared in the corridor. He walked up to them and told them to let him in, he had business with the lady Terisa. When they asked him what his business was, he snatched out his sword, broke the door open, and tried to kill her. After that, he gave up and ran away.

Listening to them, Terisa realized that neither Argus nor Ribuld knew she had been out of her rooms. In fact, neither of them had seen Adept Havelock. Because of this, they weren’t able to account for her attacker’s flight. Glancing toward Terisa as if he believed she were responsible, Argus mumbled something about a light, then winced at the way Castellan Lebbick looked at him.

Ignoring her, the Castellan sent the six guards out of the room at a run to rouse the rest of the watch and begin a search for the man in black—“Although,” he muttered as they left, “he’s probably halfway to oblivion by now.” Then he returned his attention to Ribuld and Argus.

“Let me get this straight. He fought the two of you away from the door long enough to break it open. He got as far as the doorway to the bedroom. He knocked one of you out and disabled the other. Then he panicked and ran away. Doubtless he was terrified by how easily you were overcome. Maybe everybody who serves the King is like you. I’m surprised he didn’t die of fright.”

Ribuld and Argus hung their heads.

“My lady?” Lebbick asked grimly.

Terisa didn’t answer. Now she understood why she had closed the wardrobe. Havelock had taken the risk of angering both the King and the Congery by providing her with some of Mordant’s history, and she didn’t mean to betray what he had done for her.

“Very well,” the Castellan growled. “Let that pass for the moment. Explain this, you ox-headed louts,” he demanded of Argus and Ribuld. “Why didn’t you tell anyone what you were doing here? By the stars, I’ve spent my life training lumps of dead meat to understand the importance of communications and access to reinforcements. If you believed Geraden enough to think the lady might be in danger, why didn’t you take the simple precaution of arranging to be able to call for help?”

The bruise on his forehead gave Ribuld an excuse to raise his hand in front of his face. “We didn’t believe Geraden. You know him. We were just doing him a favor. For Artagel’s sake.”

“Pigswallow,” retorted Castellan Lebbick. “I’ll tell you why you didn’t tell anyone. If you reported what you were doing to your captain in order to arrange reinforcements, he would report it to me – and I would report it to the King. Since the King didn’t see fit to command guards for the lady himself, he might have been moved to wonder” – the Castellan’s voice sounded capable of drawing blood – “what business it is of yours to meddle in his decisions.”

“We didn’t mean any offense,” Argus protested. “We were just—”

“I know. Spare me your excuses. I’ll take care of Geraden. You report to your captain. Tell him about this – and count yourselves lucky I don’t have you clapped in irons. Go on.”

Argus and Ribuld obeyed, hardly daring to groan. Neither of them looked at Terisa. Carefully – but promptly under the Castellan’s glare – they retrieved their swords and hobbled out of the room.

“Now, my lady.” Lebbick rounded on her. “Maybe we can discuss this matter a bit more openly. I’m sure King Joyse will be relieved to hear you were able to drive off your attacker – alone and unaided – after two of my guards failed. But he might like to know how you did it. And I’m sure he’ll want to know what it is about you that brings on that kind of attack in the middle of the night. “

He moved a step closer to her, his chin jutting. “Who are you, my lady? Oh, I know the story – Orison doesn’t keep things like that secret. Apt Geraden brought you here by an accidental translation. But who are you?” His eyes held hers, as piercing as awls. “What game are you trying to play with my King?”

He sounded so angry that she started to tremble.

Another step brought him close to her. If he extended his right fist, pointed his heavy index finger at her, she knew exactly what would happen next. She would begin to babble:

I’m sorry I didn’t mean it I won’t do it again I promise please don’t punish me I don’t know what I did wrong.

Fortuitously, another guard sprinted into the room at that moment and jerked himself to a halt. He was a young man, and his fear of Castellan Lebbick’s temper showed all over him.

“Excuse me, Castellan, sir,” he said in a tumble. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I have a message from the King.”

Lebbick took a deep breath and closed his eyes as if he were controlling himself with great difficulty. Then he turned his back on Terisa.

The guard swallowed heavily and stared back at the Castellan like a bird caught by a snake.

“A message from the King,” Lebbick rasped venomously. “You said you had one. Try to remember.”

“Yes, sir, Castellan, sir. A message from the King. He has stopped the search.”

“What?” A flick of the whip.

“The King has stopped the search, sir.”

“Well, that makes sense. In times like these, a potential assassin in the castle is a trivial problem. Did he give a reason for stopping the search?”

“Yes, sir.” The guard’s skin was chalky. “He said he doesn’t like all this running around in the middle of the night.”

For a moment, Castellan Lebbick’s shoulders bunched with outrage. Yet he spoke softly. “Is that all?”

“No, sir. He also said” – the guard looked like he would have been happier if he could have fainted – “he wants you to leave his guests alone.” And winced involuntarily, as if he expected to be struck.

The Castellan swung his arm, but not to strike the guard. He slapped himself, hard, on the thigh. He growled far back in his throat. He made a loud, spitting noise.

Abruptly, he faced Terisa again.

Like the guard, she winced.

“My lady, be warned,” he said. “I’m the Castellan of Orison. I’m responsible for many things, but above everything else for the King’s safety. He suffers from an unnatural faith in his own immortality. I’m not similarly afflicted.” His jaws chewed the words like gristle. “I’ll obey him as much as I can. Then I’ll take matters into my own hands.”

Turning on his heel, he stamped away.

As he passed the guard, he paused long enough to say, “I want the lady guarded. This time, do it right.” And at the door he stopped again. “Keep this closed tonight. I’ll have the bolt repaired in the morning.”

Then he was gone.

The guard gave Terisa a sheepish shrug – half chagrin at his own timidity, half apology for the Castellan’s brusqueness – and followed his commander, pulling the door shut behind him.

As he left, he seemed to take all the courage out of the room with him.

Without warning, everything changed to alarm. Gripping her robe tightly closed, she hurried to the door to listen. She clearly heard the voices of several men outside her room: they were issuing the orders and making the arrangements to have her guarded. Still she felt vulnerable, helpless. A total stranger had tried to kill her. Urgently, she moved a chair to prop it against the door. Then she placed another chair inside her wardrobe to block Havelock’s passage.

After that, she didn’t know what to do.

For a long time, she couldn’t relax or concentrate. High King Festten had had his Monomach executed for failure when Adept Havelock betrayed the arch-Imager’s followers. Havelock had lost his mind when he tried to chase Vagel into a flat glass. Master Quillon was willing to tell her stories like these, even though both King Joyse and the Congery prohibited it. For some reason, Castellan Lebbick didn’t trust her.

How could all this be happening to her?

But later, unexpectedly, she felt an odd upswelling of joy. Apparently, Geraden had brought her to a place where she mattered. The fact that she was here made a difference. Castellan Lebbick took her seriously enough to get angry at her. Master Eremis had looked at her. It was even conceivable that he thought she was lovely.

That had never happened to her before.

Eventually, she was able to sleep.

***

Sunlight from her windows awakened her the next morning. At first, she doubted everything. Wasn’t this the bed in her apartment, the place where she belonged? But the light made the rugs on the floors bright, the peacock ornaments of the rooms, the feathers scattered by the man in black. That much of what she remembered was real, at any rate.

The indirect sunshine had the pale color of cold. And the air outside her blankets was chill. She hadn’t thought to build up her fires before she went to bed, and they had died down during the night. Holding her breath, she eased out of the warm bedclothes and hurried into the thick velvet robe she had worn the previous night. The stone felt like ice under her bare feet: with a small gasp, she hopped to the nearest rug.

When she looked toward the windows, she hesitated. She wasn’t sure that she was ready to see what lay outside. The view might confirm or deny the entire situation.

On the other hand, she felt vaguely foolish for having postponed the question this long. Anybody with a grain of normal human curiosity would have looked outside almost immediately. What was she afraid of?

Unable to define what she was afraid of, she moved to the windows of the bedroom.

The diamond-shaped panes of thick glass – each about the size of her hand – were leaded into their frames. A touch of frost edged the glass wherever the lead seals were imperfect, outlining several of the diamonds. But the glass itself was clear, and it showed her a world full of winter.

From her elevation, she was able to see a considerable distance. Under the colorless sky and the thin sunlight, hills covered with snow rumpled the terrain to the horizon. The snow looked thick so thick that it seemed to bow the trees, bending them toward the blanketed slumber of the hills. Where the trunks and limbs of the trees showed through the snow, they were black and stark, but so small against the wide white background that they served only as punctuation, making the winter and the cold more articulate.

When she realized how high up she was, however, her view contracted to her more immediate surroundings.

She was indeed in a tower – and near the top of it, judging by her position relative to the other towers she could see. There were four including hers, one arising from each corner of the huge, erratic structure of Orison; and they contrasted with the rest of the castle, as if they had been built at a different time, planned by a different mind. They were all square, all the same height, all rimmed with crenellated parapets – as assertive as fists raised against the sky.

Their blunt regularity made the great bulk of Orison appear haphazard: disorganized, self-absorbed, and unreliable, beset with snares.

In fact, the general shape of the castle was quite regular in its outlines. Orison was rectangular, constructed around an enormous open courtyard. Terisa could see it clearly because her windows faced out over one of the long arms of the rectangle. One end of the courtyard – the end away from her tower – was occupied by what she could only think of as a bazaar: a large conglomeration of shops and sheds, stalls and tents, wagons carrying fodder – all thoroughly chaotic, all shrouded by the smoke of dozens of cookfires.

The other end of the courtyard looked big enough to serve as a parade ground – as long as the parade didn’t get out of hand. There men on horseback, children playing, and clusters of people on their way to or from the bazaar churned the mud and snow.

Large as the courtyard was, however, the structure of Orison was high enough to keep it all in shadow at this hour of the morning. The open air must have been bitterly cold: Terisa noticed that even the children didn’t stay outside very long.

The other regular feature of the castle was its outward face. Since her window looked over the courtyard, she couldn’t see the details of the walls, but she could see that Orison had no outer defenses: it was its own fortification. The whole edifice was built of blunt gray stone, presenting a hard and unadorned face to the external world on all sides.

Within its outlines, however, the castle looked as though it had been designed more for the convenience of its secrets than for the accommodation of its inhabitants. Mismatched slate roofs canted at all angles, pitching their runoff into the courtyard. Dozens of chimneys bearing no resemblance to each other gusted smoke along the breeze. Some sections of the structure were tall and square; others, squat and lumpish. Some parts had balconies instead of windows; others sported poles from which clotheslines hung. She couldn’t resist the conclusion that King Joyse had attached the four towers to his ancestral seat, decreed the shape in which Orison was to grow, and then forgotten about it, letting a number of disagreeable builders express themselves willy-nilly.

Now, at least, she understood why she had found Geraden’s and Saddith’s routes through the castle so confusing. Truncated passages and sudden intersections, unpremeditated stairs and necessary detours were part of Orison’s basic construction.

As far as she could make out, the only way into the courtyard from outside was along a road which led through a massive set of gates in the long arm of the rectangle below her. These gates were apparently open, admitting wains pulled by oxen to the courtyard. But her angle of vision didn’t let her see whether the gates were guarded.

As she studied the scene, her breath misted the glass. She wiped it clear again with the sleeve of her robe. Then she touched her fingers to one of the panes. The cold spread a little halo of condensed vapor over the glass around each fingertip; a sharp, delicate chill seeped into her skin. That, more than the immense weight of Orison’s piled stone, made everything she saw seem tangible, convincing. She was truly in this place, wherever it was – and whatever it might mean. She was here.

Shortly, her musing was interrupted by a knock at her sitting room door. Because she didn’t want to stand where she was indefinitely, thinking the same thoughts over and over again, she went to answer the knock. On her way to the door, however, she hesitated again. Did she really mean to open that door and admit everything that might be waiting for her? Someone was trying to kill her. He might be outside.

But what choice did she have? None, if she wanted to learn anything more about what was happening to her. Or if she wanted breakfast.

Her heart began to beat more the way it should – more like the heart of a woman whose life was at risk – as she pulled the chair away from the door and opened it.

Two guards she hadn’t seen before saluted her.

Saddith was with them, holding a tray with one edge propped on her hip.

A gleam in her eye and a saucy tilt to her head indicated the spirit in which she had been conversing with the guards; her blouse was buttoned to a still lower level, giving out hints of pleasure whenever she moved her shoulders. But as soon as she saw Terisa her expression became contrite and solicitous.

“My lady, are you all right? They said you were, but I did not know whether to believe them. That woman and I traded duties for the night. I did not know that you would be attacked – or that she would be such a goose. She should have stayed with you. I brought your breakfast. I know you are upset, but you ought to eat. Do you think you could try?”

Terisa met the maid’s rush of words and blinked. She was relieved to see Saddith again. Saddith was safe; she was real. “Yes,” Terisa said when Saddith paused for an answer. “I am hungry. And I’m afraid I’ve let the fires go out. Please come in.”

With a nod and a wink for the guards, Saddith shifted her tray in front of her and entered the sitting room.

As Terisa closed the door, she heard the guards chuckling together.

Saddith heard the sound as well. “Those two,” she said in good-natured derision while she pushed aside the supper dishes to clear room for breakfast. “They doubted me when I told them that the sight of you would make their knees melt – whatever it did to the rest of them. Now they know I told the truth.”

Then she indicated a chair beside the table where she had set her tray. “Please sit down and eat, my lady. The porridge will warm you while I build up the fires again. Then I think we must find you something better to wear.”

Terisa accepted the chair. Neatly arranged for her delectation, she found grapes, brown bread, a wedge of deep yellow cheese, and a steaming bowl that appeared to contain a cracked-wheat cereal. Remembering the previous night’s meal, she began to eat quickly, pausing now and then to relish the combination of the tart cheese and the sweet grapes.

But Saddith didn’t stop talking as she worked at the nearest hearth. “What was he like,” she asked, “this man in black who attacked you?” She seemed to be excited and pleased about something. “Orison is full of rumors already. He was taller than Ribuld, and so strong of chest that my arms might not reach around him. He had a hunter’s face, and a hunter’s glee, with enough power in his hands and thighs to batter Ribuld and Argus as if they were boys.” For a moment, she hugged her breasts. Then she sighed wistfully. “So the rumor goes. What was he really like, my lady?”

Slowly, unsure of what she was going to say until she said it, Terisa replied, “He was terrifying.”

“Perhaps if I had not traded duties I might have chanced to see him.” Saddith thought about that for a moment with a quizzical expression on her face. Then she laughed. “No. I was better where I was.”

Terisa had spent enough time listening to Reverend Thatcher to know a hint when she heard one, so she asked politely, “Where were you?”

Gaiety sparkled in Saddith’s eyes. “Oh, I should not tell you that.” At once, she strode energetically into the bedroom to rebuild the fire there.

But almost at once she stuck her head past the doorway to ask, “Do you remember what I said last night, my lady? ‘Any Master will tell me whatever I wish – if I conceive a wish for something he knows.’ Perhaps you thought I was boasting.” She disappeared again. For a minute, Terisa heard her working over the fire. Then she came back into the sitting room. “I will be truthful with you, my lady. I did not trade duties with anyone. I asked that woman you saw to care for you, so that I might have the night to myself – without interruption.

“I assure you that I did not waste the opportunity.” Saddith grinned. “I spent the night with a Master.”

Terisa had never heard anyone talk like this before; the novelty of the experience made her ask, “Did he tell you what you wanted to know?”

It was Saddith’s turn to be surprised. “My lady, I did not share his bed because I lacked knowledge.” She giggled at the idea. “I shared it because he is a Master.”

With a toss of her head, she went back into the bedroom.

Unexpectedly, Terisa found that she couldn’t concentrate on breakfast. The maid’s frankness disturbed her. It reminded her that she knew next to nothing about men – about the things they did to women; about what pleased them. She had never been an object of desire or tenderness.

Pushing the tray away, she went into the bathroom and made as much use as she could stand of the soap and cold water. Then, her skin tingling under the robe, she joined Saddith in front of the wardrobes to search for appropriate clothing.

Apparently by chance, Saddith chose the wardrobe that didn’t contain a chair blocking its back panels. Almost at once, she selected a simple but striking scarlet gown that looked long enough to sweep the floor.

Hesitantly, Terisa said, “I’m not sure I can wear that color. Wouldn’t it be better if I just used my own clothes?”

“Certainly not, my lady,” replied Saddith, firmly but not unkindly. “I do not know how these things are considered where you come from, but here it is plain that your clothes are not becoming. Also you do not wish to insult the lady Myste, who has been very generous. Here.” She draped the gown in front of Terisa. “It is not the best of all colors for your eyes,” she commented analytically. “But it does well with your skin. And it accents your hair to great advantage. Will you try it?”

Feeling at once a little excited and a little foolish, Terisa shrugged.

Saddith showed her the series of hooks and eyes that closed the gown at the back. Then Terisa put aside her robe and pulled the heavy scarlet fabric over her head. It was a snug fit: Saddith’s earlier observation that the lady Myste “has not some of your advantages” seemed to mean she had smaller breasts, which weren’t so much exposed by the gown’s deep neckline. But it was warm. And it felt flattering in a way that Terisa couldn’t define.

She wanted a mirror. She wanted to see herself. The look in Saddith’s eyes – half approval, half gauging uncertainty, as if Terisa now appeared more attractive than the maid had intended or wished – that look meant something, but it didn’t have the same effect as a mirror.

For Terisa’s feet, Saddith produced a pair of fur-lined buskins with firm soles. They didn’t exactly complement the gown; but they, too, were warm, and the gown was long enough to hide them.

She was just starting to thank the maid when she heard another knock at her door.

Saddith went to answer it, Terisa following more slowly.

When the door was opened, it revealed Geraden outside.

He had a pinched, white look around his mouth and eyes; a bright red spot marked each cheek, like embarrassment or temerity aggravated by fever. At first glance, he appeared miserable: he must have had a bad night. But when he saw Terisa, his face broke into the helpless, happy smile she remembered from their first meeting.

For a long moment, he gazed at her; and she gazed back; and he grinned like a puppy in love. Then he cleared his throat. “My lady, you look wonderful.”

Her reaction was more complex. She was glad to see him: partly because, like Saddith, Adept Havelock, and the others, he had come back, demonstrating his capacity for continuous existence; partly because she thought she liked him (it was hard to be sure because she had so little experience); partly because he was one of the very few people here who seemed to care about what she thought or felt. In addition, she was immediately worried by his appearance of distress. And by his presence outside her door. King Joyse hadn’t just ordered the Apt not to answer her questions: he had also said, You will have no more reason to see or speak with the lady Terisa. Geraden had already shown himself loyal to his King and yet he was here in direct disobedience.

And nobody had ever told her that she looked wonderful before.

Flustered, she felt herself blushing. With a gesture at her gown, she said, “I feel like I’m going to a costume party.”

Glancing back and forth between Terisa and Geraden, Saddith gave a quiet laugh. “What is a costume party, my lady?” she asked to disguise her amusement.

Terisa tried hard to get her confusion under control. “It’s a party where people dress up in fancy clothes and pretend to be somebody they aren’t.”

For some reason, her response brought the strain back to Geraden’s eyes.

“La, my lady,” Saddith said at once as if that were the reaction she had been waiting for, “it must be greatly amusing. But if you will excuse me, I will return your trays to the kitchens. Please call for me at need. If you do not call before then, I will come whenever the lady Elega or the lady Myste asks to see you.

“As for you, Apt Geraden,” she said in a tone of kind mirth as she gathered the dishes together and carried them toward the door, “a word of friendly advice. Women do not generally admire a man who gapes.”

Laughing, she left the room, hooking the door shut with her foot.

But Geraden ignored Saddith’s exit. Gazing at Terisa now with an intensity that matched the color in his cheeks, he asked softly, “Are you pretending to be somebody you aren’t, my lady? What are you pretending?”

She turned her head away. “I thought I told you to call me Terisa.” This was absurd. Why was she in such a dither? And why was he asking her such silly questions, when he must be risking some kind of serious punishment by defying the King? “I’m not pretending anything. I’m just wearing this dress because the lady Myste offered it and Saddith said she would be insulted if I turned it down.”

Then she faced him. “Geraden, what are you doing here? King Joyse told you not to see me. You’ll get in trouble.”

At that, a pained smile made his mouth crooked. “I’m already in trouble. It probably won’t get any worse.

“You’ve met King Joyse. These days, he doesn’t punish anyone. I don’t think he has the heart for it. Or maybe nothing matters to him that much anymore. The worst thing he might do is turn me over to Castellan Lebbick.” Geraden sighed. “I guess Lebbick is a good man. Artagel says he is. But he isn’t exactly gentle. And he’s already started on me. Because I asked Ribuld and Argus to guard you.” That was the source of his distress: Castellan Lebbick must have abused him severely. “He spent half the night at it. I kept wanting to apologize, even though we both knew I was right.”

Abruptly, he shrugged. “At least now I’m not afraid of him anymore. After last night, all he can do is lock me up. But he isn’t likely to do that to a son of the Domne – not without a better reason.” Slowly, he made the tight lines of his face relax, and his smile improved. “For a while, anyway, I don’t have anything to worry about.”

Her heart twisted for him: she could guess what being scathed by the Castellan might be like. “But why?” she asked. “Why did he do that to you? What does he think you did wrong?”

“Well,” mused Geraden, “I suppose he does have a point. He wants to know why I thought you might be attacked when the idea apparently never occurred to anybody else in Orison. It’s his job to know everything that happens here. What do I know that he doesn’t?”

“What did you tell him?”

He snorted quietly. “The truth. Mordant is under siege by Imagery. King Joyse won’t let the Congery fight back – but even if he did, the Imagers are so divided they might not be able to accomplish anything. Cadwal and Alend are drooling for a chance to strike at us. And in the meantime the King has taken to acting like a man who left his head in the other room. Who in his right mind would not want someone as important as you guarded?”

Again, the Apt mustered a crooked smile. “Castellan Lebbick didn’t like it when I said all that.”

He was putting up a brave front; but the rest of his face still looked as pale as wax around the hot spots of color in his cheeks. Wanting to comfort him, Terisa said, “I can imagine what that must have been like. He was here for a while last night. After everything was over.”

“I know.” Without transition, his expression became morose, almost grim. “That was something else he wanted me to explain. How did you manage to save yourself, after both Argus and Ribuld were beaten? And why didn’t you answer the question when he asked it?

“He has a point there, too, my lady.” He began to pace in front of her without looking at her. “Even Artagel couldn’t beat both Argus and Ribuld at once. They may not look like much, but they’re really pretty good. And you got rid of a man who beat them all by yourself. Do you have any idea what kind of conclusions Lebbick draws from that?”

“No,” she breathed. “I don’t have any idea about any of this.”

“Well, I’ll tell you. He thinks you’re in league with that man. Or rather, that man is in league with you. He fought his way in here to meet you for some reason – maybe to give you a message, or to let you know what preparations are being made by your allies. But it doesn’t have to go that far. Maybe you aren’t allies. You still got rid of him without being hurt. That took power.” The whole notion seemed to offend him to the point of nausea. “I tried to tell him it was impossible. I wanted to protect you. But when you get right down to it” – he stopped pacing and faced her squarely, his trouble in his eyes – I don’t have any reason to think it’s impossible. Except you keep saying it is.”

“What do you mean?” she protested. “Of course it’s impossible.” She had only wanted to commiserate with him; she hadn’t intended to admit anything that might force her to betray Adept Havelock and Master Quillon. “I don’t know anything about Imagery, or Mordant, or” – she saw again in her mind a wild grin, as sharp as hate, and a nose like the blade of a hatchet, and yellow eyes – “that man who tried to kill me.”

“My lady,” he countered, “I found you in a room full of mirrors! And it was a room where no known translation could have taken me – unless it was you who did the translating. You were sitting in a chair right in front of the glass, and you were staring at me, concentrating on me. I thought I could feel you calling me.

“My lady,” he repeated in misery and appeal, “I want to believe you. I want to trust you. But I don’t know how.”

Terisa hadn’t had much time to adjust to the new rules and emotions of her situation; the sheer seriousness of Geraden’s reaction took her by surprise. She was unprepared for the way she was affected, not by his argument, but by his distress.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you would feel that way about it. Come here.”

Turning, she walked quickly into the bedroom, toward the wardrobe with the hidden door.

She still didn’t intend to betray Adept Havelock and Master Quillon. She had no way to evaluate any of the conflicting factions or exigencies that she had already met in Orison, no way to know which side she might actually want to be on. But what Havelock and Quillon had done for her was better than the treatment she had received from either the Congery or the King, and she didn’t mean to repay kindness with exposure.

When Geraden joined her, she pulled open the wardrobe and showed him the chair she had wedged there. Then she removed the chair to let him see the secret door.

“Oh,” he said uncomfortably. “You’ve got one of those.”

“I didn’t know it was here when they gave me these rooms,” she began. “But in the middle of the night” – she swallowed hard, hoping she would be able to say enough without saying too much – “Adept Havelock came through that door. I don’t think he wanted to scare me, but he talked about hop-board and” – she faltered for an instant – “and lust until I wanted to scream. So he was here when that man attacked. And he had a piece of glass that let out an intense light. When that man was done with Argus and Ribuld, he came at me. But Adept Havelock shone the light in his eyes. He was blinded. He had to forget me and get away.”

She met Geraden’s astonishment as well as she could. “I probably should have said something to the Castellan. I certainly wasn’t trying to get you in trouble. But Adept Havelock saved me. And he seemed to want to keep what he was doing secret. When I found out Argus and Ribuld hadn’t seen him, I decided not to tell anybody he was here.”

Then, changing the subject promptly, she went on, “And I’m not an Imager. Where you found me, mirrors don’t do what they do here.” She couldn’t have borne the embarrassment of trying to explain why she had decorated her apartment in mirrors, but she had another argument ready. “When you arrived in my room, you must have noticed the broken glass. It was all over the rug. You even had some in your hair.

“You did that.”

His mouth hung open. “I?”

“Two objects can’t occupy the same space at the same time,” she recited. “Your translation put you in the same space as my mirror. If I was trying to translate you, it was a failure. The glass was ruined, and I wasn’t going to be able to send you back, or go with you. But glass isn’t like that where I come from. There’s nothing magic about it. When you arrived, it just broke.

“Do you see? I’m telling the truth. The translation was from your side. I’ve been telling you the truth all along.”

For a long moment, he frowned intently while he absorbed what she had said. Then, slowly, starting at his mouth and rising to his eyes, a grin lit his face. “Of course,” he breathed, beaming wonder at her. “I shouldn’t have questioned you. Of course I saw the broken glass. Why didn’t I think—?” With every sentence, his distress lifted and the weight of worry on him seemed to grow lighter. “I should have figured it out for myself.”

Exuberant with relief, he put his hands on her shoulders and pulled himself close to her to kiss her cheek. But his enthusiasm tipped him off balance; he missed, knocking his cheekbone against hers instead.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he babbled in immediate chagrin. Backing away, he waved both hands as if to assure her that he meant no harm. “I’m sorry, my lady. Please forgive me.” Then he raised one hand to his mouth. “Oh, shatter it all to slivers. I bit my tongue.”

Terisa rubbed her cheekbone; the blow had startled more than hurt her. Secretly, she wanted him to try to kiss her again. She was as lost as he was, however. The best she could do was to say with mock severity, “Apt Geraden, if you don’t start calling me Terisa I’m going to tell Castellan Lebbick that you forced your way into my rooms and tried to knock me unconscious.”

At that, he began to laugh. His laugh was strong and clean, and it blew most of the chagrin out of him. “My lady,” he said finally, “I’ve never called a woman like you by her given name in my whole life. I’ve got at least three brothers who think I’m still young enough to spank – and I’m sure they would try it if they heard me call you anything except ‘my lady,’ no matter how badly you threaten me. Be patient. You can probably tell I’ve still got a lot to learn.”

She, too, had a lot to learn. But she knew enough to say, “I’ll try,” and smile at him as if she knew a great deal more.

She was relieved to see him looking happier – and to have escaped the subject of Havelock so easily.

For a moment, he stood and gazed at her in silence, enjoying what he saw: her smile, the tumble of her hair against the scarlet fabric on her shoulders. Then he shook his head and recollected himself. He ran an unself-conscious hand through his hair, touched his own cheekbone, and said, “Actually, I do have one official reason for being here. I was just supposed to send you a message, but I can stretch a point by delivering it myself. If anybody asks, that’s why I came.

“The Congery wants you to know you won’t have to attend their meeting today. That’s a polite way of saying you aren’t invited. They want to talk about you, and they don’t want to be” – he grimaced humorously – “inhibited by your presence while they do it. In fact, I’m not invited either. They don’t want to have to spend the whole meeting arguing with a mere Apt.”

As he spoke, his tone and manner became more serious. When he paused, he did so with an air of hesitation, as if he were unsure of how she would react to what he wanted to say. “My lady,” he went on slowly, “I’m already disobeying the King, as you pointed out. And I really don’t think I can get into any worse trouble. So I thought” – his gaze dropped to the floor as though he were forcing himself not to stare at her – “since all the Masters will be in their meeting, and nobody else is likely to stop us” – involuntarily, his eyes rose to hers again, and she saw trepidation and suspense in them – I might try to answer some of your questions by showing you the laborium. Where the mirrors of the Congery are kept.”

His audacity made her catch her breath. It was dangerous to flout authority: she knew that intimately. People who disobeyed were punished. In a rush as she forced the air out of her chest, she asked, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Then, feeling her apparent ingratitude, she added, “I mean, it’s too much. Too many people are angry at you already. If you do that for me—”

She stopped.

“I’m willing to take the chance.” His open face projected a sober intensity which suggested that he didn’t make his offer lightly that he had thought through the implications of what was involved more clearly than she had. “I started thinking about it when King Joyse called off the search. If he can’t even be bothered to let his guards try to find a man who attacked you—” His voice trailed into an uncomfortable shrug. In the set of his features, she saw how deeply his King had disappointed him. “Anyway, it’s not as dangerous as it sounds. After all, I’m not offering to give you the kind of information you could use – if you were an enemy of Mordant. If you’re an Imager, you’ll already be familiar with everything I can show you. And if you aren’t, you won’t be able to do anything with what you learn.”

“Then why –?”

“Because I owe it to you. I’m the one who brought you here. If you’re the wrong person – or even if you are the right person but you don’t want to help us – it’s my responsibility to get you back where you came from. I want you to understand enough about Imagery to know what that means.”

He paused, took a grip on his courage, and continued. “But that’s not all. Even if you want to go back – and I want to take you back – the Masters won’t permit it. Even if they decide you actually are the wrong person, they won’t be able to ignore the importance of what you represent. They won’t want to let you go.

“Right now,” he said carefully, “while they’re in their meeting, might be our only chance to get to the right mirror and try to take you home.

“I don’t want you to go,” he added at once. “I believe you’re exactly the one we need. I don’t know how or why, but you are. If you want to go, I’ll beg you to stay. But” – he sighed – “you have the right to go, if you want to. It would be immoral to keep you here against your will.”

He amazed her. The question of whether it would be possible for her to return to her apartment, her job at the mission, her infrequent dinners with her father hadn’t seemed particularly substantial to her. Other matters dominated her attention. But behind the relatively tentative surface of his offer, he was asking her something fundamental.

She glanced down at her gown – at the rich scarlet fabric against her skin, at the snug neckline. Already? she protested. It’s too soon. I’m not ready.

Nevertheless the risk he was willing to take in the name of her right demanded a different answer.

“I’ll go with you,” she said, although her pulse was heavy in her throat and she felt light-headed. “It might be a good idea if I knew what my choices were.”

Geraden smiled bleakly. “In that case, we should probably go now. If we delay, we might miss our chance. There’s really no telling how long that meeting will last.”

Terisa wished she could take hold of his arm to steady herself. She had a mental image of women in gowns clinging closely to the arms of strong young men and looking happy there, supported and secure. But he gestured politely for her to precede him; she complied by walking toward the door.

He held the door for her, then closed it after her. Outside, he greeted her guards by name, and they replied in a tone of friendly commiseration, as if they knew all about his ordeal with the Castellan. But they didn’t move to follow her.

Feeling a resurgence of fright, she hesitated, looking back at them.

“Don’t worry,” Geraden answered her concern. “Nobody is going to attack you in Orison in broad daylight.” On this point, he sounded confident. “Nobody would dare.”

She wanted to ask him how he could be sure. But this was his world, not hers. She ought to trust what he told her.

Carefully, she moved toward the stairs.

For a while, she and Geraden didn’t speak. As he guided her through the halls, she seemed to recognize the route Saddith had used yesterday. Based on what she had seen from her windows, she guessed that Geraden’s destination was on the opposite side of the huge open rectangle of Orison: in order to reach it without traversing the mud and snow of the courtyard, he had to take her around through the halls. Once again, they encountered any number of men and women of every rank. But now, instead of staring at Terisa, they deferred to her and bowed their respect, as if her gown marked her as a great lady whom they didn’t happen to know.

Every salutation made her more self-conscious. She wasn’t accustomed to being noticed so much. To distract herself, she asked Geraden if assassins commonly roamed Orison at night.

“Actually, no.” Sensitive to the tone of her question, he treated it humorously. “It isn’t common at all. If it were, Castellan Lebbick would have piglets. He takes his duties very seriously.”

“Then why did King Joyse call off the search?” As she spoke, she remembered the oddness of the orders which had been reported to Lebbick. The King didn’t like all this running around in the middle of the night. And yet he had known exactly what to expect of his Castellan – and had thought enough of Terisa to protect her from Lebbick’s zeal. “I got the impression attacks were something that happened all the time – not worth the trouble of trying to pursue.”

Geraden shook his head at once, scowling. “Orison has always been safe – ever since King Joyse conquered the Demesne. I would have expected him to call out the entire guard, instead of letting that man get away.” A moment later, however, he admitted, “But this is an impossible place to search. It has too many rooms. I don’t think anybody knows how they all interconnect. And then there are the secret passages. As long as he had a head start, it would take a miracle to find him.”

Even after Havelock blinded him? she wondered. But she didn’t raise the question aloud.

“What I want to know,” Geraden went on after he had worried for a while, “is, how did he know where to find you?”

That wasn’t something which would have occurred to Terisa. “How did Argus and Ribuld find me?”

“That’s not the same thing. They knew you would have someone to look after you, so they asked around the maids until they heard Saddith had volunteered. Then all they had to do was locate her. Nobody was trying to keep where you were secret. But how did he learn where that was? He’s an assassin hiding in Orison. Who did he talk to? He must have talked to someone. He must,” Geraden said more slowly, “have an ally living here. Someone who could ask questions without making anyone suspicious. Or else – “

“Or else?”

They took a stairway down to a lower level, turned through the base of one of the towers, and continued on around the courtyard. “Or else,” he rasped, “he’s one of the people of Orison himself. He lives here like anybody else – and presumably serves the King – or acts like he serves the King – and then at night he sneaks around trying to do murder. He might be someone I know.”

“Is that possible?”

He shrugged stiffly. “Orison is a big place. And it’s open all the time, especially to anybody who lives in the Demesne. Nobody keeps track of all the people here. Although Castellan Lebbick tries, of course.” His thoughts were elsewhere. “My lady, you had better keep your eyes open. If you see anybody who resembles him at all, tell someone right away.”

Frightened by the prospect, she spent a few tense minutes staring hard at every face she saw, searching it for signs of yellow eyes and scarred cheeks and violence. But slowly she talked herself into calming down. The man would be a fool to show himself where she might encounter him. And if he did, she wouldn’t have to make a special effort to recognize him. She could see him again anytime she wished, simply by closing her eyes.

Then another stair took them down to the huge, empty hall, the ballroom fallen out of favor, which they had crossed the day before. There were several entrances to the hall; but she recognized the corridor that led down to the meeting room of the Congery.

The air grew colder.

“In the old days,” Geraden commented as he guided her into the corridor, “before King Joyse unified Mordant – and before Orison was built as big as it is now – these used to be the dungeons. Back then, half of every castle must have been dungeons. But King Joyse gave all the torture chambers, most of the cells, and a hall that used to be a kind of guardroom to the Congery. All that space became the laborium.” There was a note of pride in his voice. “You’ve seen the old examination room. That’s where the Masters hold their meetings. We’ll stay away from there.”

Terisa remembered the downward stair; but she quickly became lost among the doors and turnings that followed. She had no idea where she was when he opened another of the stout, ironbound doors which characterized the dungeon, and a glare of light and heat burst out at her.

This must have been the former guardroom: it looked large enough to sleep a hundred people. Now, however, it contained no beds. Instead, it was crowded with two large furnaces built and roaring like kilns; firewood stacked in cords; piles of finely graded sand; sacks of lime and potash; stone conduits and molds in many shapes polished to a metallic smoothness; worktables supplied with scales, pots, small fires, retorts; iron plates and rollers of arcane function; and shelf after shelf affixed to the walls and laden with any number of stoneware jars in a plethora of sizes and colors.

Working about the room were several young men dressed like Geraden: they tended the furnaces, polished pieces of stone, measured and remeasured tiny quantities of powders from the jars, cleaned up the messes they created, and generally sweated in the heat. One of them saw him and waved. He waved back, then closed the door, sealing the noise and fire of the hall out of the corridor.

“You don’t want to go in there,” he said. “You’ll ruin your gown. But that’s where we make the glass for our mirrors. The Apts do most of their work there. If a boy wants to be an Imager, but he just doesn’t have the power for it in his blood, his inability usually shows up here, before the Masters teach him any of their real secrets. Beginners do the menial chores, like keeping the furnaces at a steady temperature. The more advanced ones learn to mix tinct and prepare molds.”

“Is that what you do when you aren’t disobeying the King?”

He grimaced, then fell into a wry grin. “It was. The one advantage of being older than all the other Apts is that I already know everything they’re being taught. I just can’t seem to do it right. So now I’m sort of a formal servant for the Masters. I normally attend all the meetings, not because they care what I think, but so I can run errands, take messages, things like that. They don’t trust me to carry glass” – Terisa heard a tone of sadness behind his smile – “so they do that themselves.”

He didn’t let himself brood, however, on the consequences of his awkward instinct for mishap. “Come on,” he said in a brighter voice. “I want to show you some mirrors.”

He touched her arm; and again she wanted to take hold of his, for encouragement and support. The excitement he seemed to feel at the prospect of mirrors affected her strangely: it made her want to hang back – made her reluctant to face a risk that might be more dangerous than either of them knew.

“What do the Masters do?” she asked wanly.

“Research, mostly.” His eyes watched the way ahead and sparkled. “They’re supposed to be finding proof that Images really do or really don’t have an independent reality. But some of them would rather figure out how to predict what Image a particular configuration and color of glass will show. Most research is just done by trial and error. Unfortunately, the Congery hasn’t been any better at predicting than at proof. As a more attainable goal, Imagers like Master Barsonage are trying to determine how much one mirror has to vary from another before it shows an entirely unconnected Image.

“But the Congery does practical research, too. That’s also King Joyse’s idea. He wants Imagery to be useful for something besides war and ruin. Not so long ago, some important progress was made—” Geraden swallowed, frowned to himself, and admitted, “Actually, Master Eremis did it. He shaped a glass that shows an Image where nothing seems to happen except rain. Nothing at all. The Congery checked the water, and it’s fresh. So now we have a good local solution for drought. That mirror can be taken anywhere crops are dying and provide water.” Being fair to a man he didn’t like, the Apt pronounced, “It’s quite a discovery.

“More recently, of course,” he added with even less enthusiasm, “we’ve spent most of our time worrying about King Joyse’s collapse.”

Perhaps to shake off uncomfortable thoughts, he guided Terisa forward with a quickening stride.

Down the corridor, along an intersecting passage, they soon came to a heavy door like the door of a cell. Her step faltered: the door was guarded. But he gave her a reassuring smile, saluted the guards casually; and one of them bowed appreciatively to the lady in the scarlet gown while the other opened the door, ushering her and Geraden into a small, well-lit room like an antechamber, with entryways in the massive walls leading to other rooms.

“These used to be cells,” he explained, “but the Masters had them rebuilt to make a place where mirrors could be displayed – as well as protected.”

When the guards had closed the door behind him, she whispered, “Why didn’t they stop us?”

He grinned. “As a matter of protocol, the laborium is under the command of the Congery. Master Barsonage didn’t give orders to keep us out because it never occurred to him I might bring you here.

“Come on.”

His excitement was growing. Turning to lead her through the nearest entryway, he caught his toe in the long hem of her gown and fell toward the wall as though he meant to dash his brains out against the stone.

At the last instant, however, he contrived to tuck his dive into a roll. He hit the wall with an audible thud; but the impact wasn’t enough to keep him from bouncing back to his feet at once – or from apologizing profusely.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said quickly, expressing concern to keep herself from laughing. “Are you all right?”

He stopped himself with an effort. “My lady, if I got hurt every time I did something stupid, I would have died by the time I was five. That’s the worst part about being such a disaster,” he went on ruefully. “I do any amount of damage to everybody and everything around me, but I never really hurt myself. It doesn’t seem fair.”

For a moment, she did laugh. Then she swallowed it. “Well, you didn’t hurt me. I’m glad you didn’t hurt yourself.”

He gazed at her as if the sight made him forget why they were here. “Thank you, my lady,” he said softly, earnestly.

But he recollected himself almost at once. “Let’s try this again.” With elaborate care, he turned away and walked through the nearest entry into the chamber beyond.

Following him, she found herself in a room which had been enlarged by joining it with three or four other cells. The light came from plentiful oil lamps, which didn’t smoke. Aside from the lamps, however, and the slim pedestals that held them, the room contained nothing – no decorations on the walls, no rugs on the floors – except three tall objects hidden under rich satin coverings.

Happily, Geraden pulled off the nearest cover, revealing a glass.

Like the only other mirror she had seen in Orison – the one that had brought her here – this one was nearly as tall as she was; the glass wasn’t quite flat or quite clear, and it wasn’t perfectly rectangular; it was held in a beautifully polished wooden frame which gave it a secure base on the floor and still allowed it to be tilted from side to side as well as from top to bottom.

In addition, the glass reflected nothing of the stone or the lamps in front of it. It didn’t even show Geraden.

What it did show was a fathomless seascape under a bright sun. For an instant, she could have believed that the Image was simply a painting brilliantly contrived to create the illusion of three dimensions. But the waves of the sea were moving. They rolled toward her out of the distance until they came too close to be seen. Small caps of froth broke from their crests and dissolved away before her eyes.

The Image was so real that it made her stomach watery.

“Master Barsonage shaped that one several years ago,” Geraden explained. “It’s the kind of mirror King Joyse wants the Congery to concentrate on. Something useful, practical. Master Barsonage was searching for a world of water – an Image Mordant could use in case of drought. Or fire. The story is that he extrapolated this glass from a small mirror Adept Havelock once had. If that’s true, it’s an amazing achievement – to reproduce exactly every inflection of curve and color and shape on such a different scale.” With his fingers, he ran a stroke of admiration down the side of the frame. As he re-covered the glass, he added, “Unfortunately, the water is too bitter for our soil and crops.”

Shaking her head in gingerly astonishment, as if her brain were a bit loose in her skull, she followed him into the next room.

This chamber was roughly the same size as the one they had just left. It was similarly lit with lamps on pedestals. But it contained four satin covered mirrors.

“I don’t mean to lecture you,” he was saying. “If you really are an Imager, I’ll bore you. And if you aren’t, I’ll just confuse you. Stop me if I get carried away.”

He considered for a moment, then selected a mirror.

When he uncovered it, she gasped involuntarily and stepped back.

From the glass stared a pair of eyes as big as her hands.

They glared at her hungrily, and the teeth under them seemed to drip poison as the mouth gaped in her direction. She had an impression of a body like a gargantuan slug’s hulking behind the eyes and the mouth – an impression of a dark cavern-like space enclosing the body – but she couldn’t look away from those eyes to confirm the rest of the Image. They were eyes that wanted, insatiable eyes, consuming

Geraden stooped to the lower corner of the mirror and nudged the frame. At once, the eyes receded a few dozen feet, and Terisa found herself blinking her horror at them from a safer distance. Now it was plain that she was looking at some kind of huge slug-like beast in a cave.

“This is how we adjust the focus.” He nudged the frame again: the Image retreated farther. Then he pushed lightly on the side of the frame, and the Image panned in that direction, revealing the mountainside where the cave opened. “The range is limited, of course. But once a true mirror is made – one that works, instead of just throwing distortion in all directions—we can look at its whole Image – in this case, the whole mountain – by adjusting the focus. If we have that much patience.”

He stood up and tugged the cover back over the glass. She hardly noticed the darkness gathering in his mood. “The story is that King Joyse captured this mirror during his wars for Mordant’s independence. The Imager who made it had already translated that” – he shuddered – “that abomination, and it was busy eating an entire village, hut by hut.

“But that was in the days before Adept Havelock lost his mind. When King Joyse captured the glass intact, Adept Havelock was able to reverse the translation.

“The Congery was founded to keep Imagery under some kind of control. So that no more mirrors like this one would be made.”

Terisa’s arms and legs felt weak, and her head was full of air. “How—?” she asked faintly. “How could something like that get through?”

“Oh, size is no problem. Imagers discovered long ago that once a mirror reaches a certain size – about the size of the ones you’ve seen – it can translate anything. Nobody knows quite how that works. But if you had a glass focused at the right place at the right time, you could bring an avalanche through it.

“Come on.”

Without looking at her, he strode into another room.

Viscerally expecting the slug-beast to lift its own cover and come after her, Terisa followed him. Mordant was being threatened by things like that? There were people at work here mad or malicious enough to translate things like that? Then he was badly mistaken. Mordant didn’t need her. It needed the champion in Master Gilbur’s mirror. And all the armored men who fought under him. And all the weapons from his ship.

She trailed right on Geraden’s heels because this whole situation was crazy and she had to get out of here.

He led her into a chamber larger than the previous ones: apparently, an extra cell or two had been used to make it. Six covered mirrors stood on the smooth stone floor, but four of them had been set back against the walls, leaving room in the center for the remaining two. Those two were the same size. Under their coverings, they seemed to have the same shape.

As he considered the mirrors, his face clenched into an unself-conscious scowl. “We usually keep the flat mirrors here,” he said toward one of the side walls. “This is the largest display room, and we have a number of them. But the Masters had some moved out to make room for these two. The Congery does a lot of experimenting with flat glass, trying to find some way to use it – or at least understand it.”

Abruptly, he moved toward one of the mirrors against the wall. “Here.” He sounded angry; she couldn’t tell why. “I’ll show you what happened to Adept Havelock.”

With a rough jerk, he pulled the cover off the glass in front of him.

Involuntarily, she winced.

Nothing terrible happened.

The mirror did in fact appear to be flat. Its color, the sand from which it was made, the slight irregularity of its edges – she guessed that these things determined what Image the mirror showed. But because it was flat its Image existed in this world rather than somewhere else.

Something about the scene looked vaguely familiar.

“It’s dangerous,” muttered Geraden. “I don’t know who shaped it, but if it was an accident it was dangerous to make. And even if it wasn’t an accident, it’s dangerous to keep.”

She was looking at what appeared to be a place where roads came together. The roads were deeply packed in snow, of course, and were only marked by the wheel tracks cut into them by passing wagons. But lines of stark, winter-stripped trees made the roads more obvious than they would otherwise have been against the piled white background. The Image was so vivid that she could see cold aching among the outstretched limbs of the trees.

On the other hand, she had no idea why it was dangerous.

Had she seen those trees or that intersection from her windows this morning?

Apparently so. “You can see that place from your rooms,” Geraden explained. “That’s where the one road out of Orison branches south toward the Care of Tor, northeast toward Perdon, and northwest toward Armigite. But why would anybody bother to shape a glass that shows a place we can already see from here? If someone is coming it doesn’t exactly give us a lot of warning. As I say, it could have been an accident. Or else whoever did it was trying to produce a mirror that would show Orison itself – and only missed by that much.”

“Who would do that?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Someone who wanted to spy on King Joyse.

“But what makes this dangerous – more dangerous than most flat mirrors – is that we’re so close to being able to see ourselves in it. If we took this mirror out to that spot and stood in front of it, we would see ourselves in the Image. And we would be lost forever, erased – caught in a translation that took us away without shifting us an inch from where we stood.”

He dropped the cover to the floor and stepped back to consider the glass. “I guess we’re lucky that didn’t happen to Adept Havelock. He was lucky, anyway. He’s just crazy – he hasn’t been erased. But if we tried to use this glass now – if we tried to translate ourselves out to the branching of the roads – we would end up like him. The stress would destroy our minds.

“Nobody knows exactly why.” He began to sound more and more irritated, vexed with himself. “The people who believe that Images don’t exist – that mirrors create what we see – argue that the stress comes from being in a created place that exactly resembles a real place. You expect reality and don’t get it, so your mind snaps.”

“And what if Images are real?”

“Then it’s the translation itself that does the damage. I guess you could say translation is too powerful to be used so simply. If you want to get from here to there” – he gestured at the scene in the mirror – “you need a horse, not Imagery. Because you aren’t using the true power of translation, it rebounds against you instead of taking you safely where you want to go.

“Anyway, something like that happened to Adept Havelock.” Geraden turned his back on the glass, and now she caught the flash of anger in his eyes. “That’s why the Masters want to understand flat mirrors. They’re so dangerous – and fundamental.

“Come on,” he growled. “I’ve dragged my feet long enough.”

Brusquely, he moved to the two mirrors in the center of the room.

Now she understood him. He was angry because he was conflicted: he was acting against his own wishes as well as the King’s, forcing himself to do what he thought was right despite his belief that Mordant needed her.

And he was risking the accusation that he was a traitor in order to give her a chance to go home.

Despite the warmth of her gown, a chill went through her as he pulled one of the covers off, and she recognized the glass that had stood in the Congery’s meeting room the day before – the glass that had brought her here.

Its Image was both different and unchanged. The fighting had stopped. The metallic figures had enlarged their defensive perimeter and were holding it unchallenged. But the alien landscape, red-lit by its old sun, was unaltered, as was the tall ship in the center of the scene.

Like his men, the armored figure who dominated the Image had moved: he now walked the perimeter, pausing briefly at each defensive station as if to check how his forces were placed. Again, his power was almost palpable across the distance between the worlds. He looked like a man who conquered whole continents almost daily, as a matter of course.

Geraden gave her a glance, measuring her reaction. Then he lifted the satin from the second glass.

She saw at once that it was identical to the first. The shape was the same; the tint was the same; the curvature was the same. Even the curved and polished wooden frames were indistinguishable. And yet the Images weren’t the same. Under a red-tinged light, against a stark background, a colorless metal helmet with an impenetrable faceplate looked in her direction as if the eyes hidden in it were studying her coldly.

A moment passed before she realized that both mirrors showed the same scene: the first reflected the ship from some distance, while the second depicted the commander of the defense in extreme close-up. Looking at both mirrors, she could see that each portrayed exactly the movements of the commander’s helmeted head: only the perspective was different.

Softly, Geraden muttered, “It’s too bad we can’t hear thoughts through the glass. It would even help if we could hear language. But of course most of the Masters believe there aren’t any thoughts or language in there to be heard.”

He adjusted the focus of the second mirror carefully until it duplicated the first. Then he stepped back to stand beside Terisa. Still he avoided her gaze.

“I made one of those,” he said. “The one we used yesterday. It’s a duplicate. Master Gilbur created the original. I couldn’t use his. Imagers learned a long time ago that there’s some kind of essential interaction between a mirror and the talent of the man who shapes it. So I made a copy.” He snorted sourly. “It took me a long time because I kept doing things wrong.

“Can you tell which is which?”

She shook her head. The question didn’t matter to her. She cared only about his distress and her opportunity. It might really be possible for her to go back to her world, to her apartment and her job and her father—

—and the man with her wanted her to stay. He wanted it so intensely that the bare thought of letting her go hurt him.

“Actually,” he murmured, “nobody else can. But Master Gilbur and I don’t have any trouble. Any Imager can always feel his own work. The one I shaped makes my nerves tingle.” He pointed to the glass on the left. “That one.

“My lady.” At last he forced himself to face her. He held his arms clenched over his chest, as if to keep them from reaching out. His scowl had become a knot of worry and pain. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Geraden—” Now that he was finally willing to meet her gaze, she wanted to look away. She had never learned how to refuse other people. If she did what was expected, or asked, or even suggested of her, she could at least fit herself to her circumstances. But she didn’t belong here. It made no sense.

As well as she could, she said, “Please understand. I’m no Imager. None of this could possibly have anything to do with me. You didn’t force me to come with you. You just asked me to come, and I came. I don’t know why,” she admitted. “I guess I just wanted to believe my life didn’t have to be the way it was. I didn’t want to just sit there. But now I know I made a mistake. You don’t need me. You need that champion. I think the best thing for me to do is just go back where I came from.”

“It’s your right.” Behind its dismay, his voice held a note of dignity and even command which she remembered vividly. The importance of what he was saying lit his eyes. “But you are needed here. Mordant’s peace will be the first good thing to be lost – and the smallest. In time, the Congery will be perverted, and Orison will be torn down stone from stone, and what remains of the realm will be reduced to nothing but bloodshed and treachery.”

Somewhere in his voice, or his words, she heard a reminder of horns, calling out to her heart in dreams and changing everything.

“You give us hope,” he continued. “You say you aren’t an Imager. Maybe you aren’t. And maybe you just don’t know yourself yet. Maybe you just don’t know yet that you’re more powerful than any champion.

“I can’t explain it – but I believe you’re here because you must be here.

“And”– all at once, he relapsed into normalcy, and his gaze clouded – “you make sense out of my life. As long as I can believe in you, it’s all been worthwhile.”

His insistence should have repelled her, frightened her. It was so unreasonable. She was necessary? She had power? She made sense out of his life? No. It was easier to believe that she had already lost herself, faded away into dreams. Or that she had never existed – that the translation had created her.

Nevertheless what he wanted and offered moved her. His appeal and the reminder of horns moved her.

“Aren’t we getting a little ahead of ourselves?” she said unsteadily. “We don’t know yet whether this is going to work. We should find that out first, before we worry about anything else.”

He studied her hard, trying to gauge her emotions. Then he nodded. “You’re right, I suppose.” Suddenly decisive, he said, “Here – hold my hand. I’ll go first, just in case something goes wrong.” At the same time, he stepped closer to his mirror. “You can anchor me.”

She became increasingly conscious that the air in the room was cold. She looked at his hand, the glass, the hard lines of determination on his face. Now that she had gained her point, she found herself hesitating. “Don’t we have to go through some kind of ritual first?” Her ambivalence felt absurd, but she couldn’t control it. As soon as she made anything that resembled a choice, she lost confidence. “There must be magic powders – or spells – or something? Aren’t there?”

“Is that how Imagery is done in your world?” he demanded with a glare.

“No, of course not. I mean, we don’t have Imagery. I keep telling you. We don’t have magic.” Self-consciousness flushed her cheeks. “I just thought you must need preparation.”

He made a visible effort to unclench himself a bit. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. Imagery is in the way the glass is made and shaped and colored. That’s the preparation. Then it either works or it doesn’t, depending on whether the person who tries it has the power. If we wanted to translate something out to us, that would be different. There are words and gestures that help the process. But we aren’t going that way. Right now, all we have to do” – he attempted a smile which didn’t succeed – “is do it.”

Again, he extended his hand to her.

This time, she took it.

What she was doing made her feel sick.

He drew her to the mirror and braced his free hand on the frame to keep it – or himself – steady. “First I’ll just stick my head in,” he murmured, thinking aloud, “and take a look around. Then I’ll come back, and you can decide what to do next. Hold on tight,” he added to her. “As long as we’ve got a grip on each other, you can pass in and out of the glass as well as I can.”

Abruptly, he dashed his forehead at the surface of the mirror.

And his head vanished, cut off as cleanly as a knife-stroke at the neck. Beyond the glass plane, the Image of the back of his head blocked part of the landscape and the ship.

Instinctively, she braced herself against his weight.

He had pushed himself forward too hard: he was losing his balance, starting to fall. His hand pulled on the frame of the mirror, shifting the focus of the reflection. As he toppled forward, she saw one of the armored defenders aim a hot shaft of light at him.

Somehow, she jerked him back. He pitched out of the glass and stumbled away from it, then caught himself with his feet splayed and his knees locked.

All the color was gone from his cheeks: he was as white as flour paste. Panic and astonishment stared out of his eyes.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“He shot at me,” whispered the Apt hoarsely. “He almost hit me.”

“I saw him. I saw the back of your head.”

“Glass and ruination.” He swallowed repeatedly. “If I had gone there the first time. Instead of finding you. They would have killed me before I could open my mouth.”

Her heart began to hurt as the implications struck her. The mirror that had impossibly taken Geraden to her when it should have put him in front of the champion now did what it was supposed to do. “I don’t believe it.” That mirror was her only doorway home. She was stuck here. “I want to try.”

“My lady!” His surprise and fear turned instantly to dismay. “You’ll be shot! They might not miss twice.”

“Come on.” Without thinking, she grabbed one of his hands and tugged him toward the mirror. She was stuck here forever. There was no other way she could get back to her own life. “I’ve got to try.”

He twisted out of her grip, then clapped his hands to her shoulders and shook her. “No!” He was shouting at her. “I’m not going to let you kill yourself!”

“I’ve got to try!” she yelled back at him. It was quite possible that she had never yelled like that at anybody in her entire life. “Let me go!”

Wrenching away from him, she swung around toward the mirror – and tripped on the hem of her gown. Helpless to stop herself, she fell as if she were diving straight at the glass.

Apparently, he got one hand on her just in time to make the translation possible. Instead of shattering the glass, she passed into it.

The transition felt shorter this time: it didn’t have as much impact on her as the one that had taken her out of her apartment. It was quick and timeless, vast and small, as if eternity had winked at her while she went by; but this time its familiarity made more of an impression on her than its strangeness.

Then she landed hard enough to jar her breath away on a hillside of thick, rich grass dotted with wildflowers.

More precisely, her body from the waist up landed on the grass. She must have been lying with her stomach across the bottom edge of the mirror’s frame, because she was cut off at the navel: everything beyond that straight, flat severance was gone. She could feel her legs. They gave her a sensation of movement. Someone was holding them. But she had left them in another world.

This world was warm and tangy with springtime. A low breeze made the bright heads of the wildflowers dance and cooled the touch of the open sunlight on her hair; the sky was so blue it looked whetted. The hillside sloped down to her right toward a fast stream almost big enough to be called a river. The water ran like crystal over the gold background of its rocks and sand and gurgled happily to itself as it rushed past.

She saw now that she was in a valley that closed sharply as the ground rose ahead of her. A few hundred feet away, the valley became a narrow defile, almost a chasm, mounting toward the mountains in the distance; and this cut was given both a marked entryway and a guard by the tall, rugged, ponderous stone pillars like sentinels which the hills had set on either side of the stream. Shaded by the steepness of its walls, the defile looked dark and secretive – and also inviting, like a place where it would be possible to hide and be safe.

Her heart went out to it at once. Because she had grown up in a city, she had seldom seen a place so beautiful before. For a moment, she simply stayed where she was and inhaled the scent of spring grass, the tang of wildflowers.

Soon, however, she thought of Geraden. This wasn’t an alien landscape where men in armor shot beams of fire at people. And it certainly wasn’t her apartment. She wanted to show it to him.

Too full of wonder to call out, she began to crawl backward.

As she did so, more and more of her body disappeared past the plane of translation. And Geraden was unceremoniously trying to help her. Her chest vanished; then her shoulders.

Shortly, she found herself on her hands and knees in front of the mirror.

The stone under her palms felt cold. The air in the room was cold. Even the lamplight seemed cold.

The scene in the glass had scarcely changed at all. The commander was conferring with the defender who had fired at Geraden. Perhaps they were trying to understand the man’s head which had unexpectedly appeared and then vanished before their eyes. Perhaps they thought they were faced with some new trick by the people they were fighting, the natives of the planet.

“My lady,” Geraden panted as if he had been wrestling for her life, “are you all right? What happened? I couldn’t see you. I didn’t see them shoot at you. They didn’t seem to know you were there. What happened?”

“Geraden – “

She was so shaken and cold that she could hardly lift her weight off her arms, hardly get her legs under her. The change was too abrupt, too complete. It left her gasping, disoriented. Springtime—? A stream dancing in sunlight—? No, not here. Not in this converted stone dungeon. And not in the mirror, where men of violence discussed their work.

Somewhere inside her, the translation was still going on, still happening. Now, however, she knew what it meant. Doubt accumulated in her nerves: she was on the verge of failure. It was the sensation of fading, of losing existence, concentrated to crisis proportions: it was the pure moment in which she lost her hold on herself, on actuality, on life. This was what she had been falling toward ever since she had begun to be unsure of her own being.

It was happening to her now.

Although Geraden hovered beside her, urgent to know what she had seen, she couldn’t shift her attention to him. She was staring at the glass he had left uncovered – the flat glass that showed a snow-clogged meeting of roads

The Image in that mirror had changed.

The way she stared made him turn.

When he saw the mirror, he gasped. “That’s impossible. How did you—?”

He fought to control his amazement. “I know that place. I’ve been there – I practically grew up there. We used to play there when I was a boy. We called it the Closed Fist. It’s in the Care of Domne. It can’t be more than five miles from Houseldon.” Through his confusion and surprise, his voice shone with pleasure. “That valley is a jumble of rocks inside. A great place to climb. And there must be a hundred little caves and secret places to hide. We had the best games—”

She believed him: she had just been there herself. She recognized the contours of the ground, the shape of the valley. The hillside was blanketed in snow, ice choked the stream, the pillars wore frost like thatches of white in their gray hair. But the scene was the same. Only the season had changed; spring had become winter.

Now Geraden was gazing at her as if she had done something wonderful. “My lady,” he said in awe, “I don’t know how you did that. It isn’t possible. Mirrors can’t change their Images. But you did it. Somehow.

“You’re an Imager. You’re certainly an Imager. Nothing like this has ever been done before. It’s a good thing for us you’re here.”

The color was back in his cheeks.

She had no idea why he had jumped to the conclusion that she was the cause of this impossible change. At the moment, however, that was secondary. She couldn’t think about it yet. Other things staggered her.

She had just seen the same scene in two different mirrors. A scene he said was real. But she had seen it in two different seasons. One of the mirrors was wrong. This was winter, not springtime. The mirror that showed the Closed Fist in springtime was wrong.

A sensation of fading drained her heart. It was Geraden’s mirror. The mirror that had brought her here. That glass reflected Images that didn’t exist.

When she realized that she also was an Image that didn’t exist, she nearly collapsed to her knees again.

EIGHT: VARIOUS ENCOUNTERS

“Why isn’t it possible?” She sounded small and weak, and her head was spinning.

Exaltation had taken hold of Geraden; he didn’t seem to be aware of her distress. “Nobody knows how to change Images. It isn’t possible. The Image is part of the glass. But you’ve just done it. You’re the augured champion.”

He didn’t know what she had seen in the other mirror. His mirror. He didn’t know she had proof that she didn’t exist. Her hands made unselfconscious warding gestures, pushing ideas away. The implications were horrifying.

On the other hand, she didn’t feel horrified. She felt distant, as if she were floating off. The sensation that she was fading grew stronger. Or perhaps she was now more acutely sensitive to it. She had no idea why she was still present in the room with him.

The mirror that had brought her here showed Images that weren’t real.

“You said it’s a real place. Didn’t you? But I’ve never seen that place before.” Her voice had a brittle edge to it; a tinny pitch of hysteria. She was struggling to recover the sense that she existed. “I’ve never been there. I can’t change Images if I don’t know how.” She hugged her elbows and tried to sound calmer. “Otherwise it would be easy to get back to my apartment.”

That argument reached him in spite of his elevated state. He thought about it, frowning intently. “But you must have done it. If you didn’t— That only leaves me. I can’t even do simple translations. I’ve never been able to do anything like that.”

“Have you ever tried?” Whatever she said no longer mattered. Her life was growing farther and farther away.

He stared at her: for a few seconds, he seemed to take her question seriously. Then he shook his head. “No, of course not. It’s nonsense. An Image is a fundamental part of the glass itself. That’s why mirrors have such limited range. They can’t be focused away from what they are.” Abruptly, he peered more closely at the glass. “But this one was,” he muttered in bewilderment. “It changed while we were right here in the room. So it isn’t nonsense. One of us must have done it.” He stepped back, his manner abstract and intense with thought. “Unless there’s somebody in Orison who has that much power. And he’s here.”

“That is absurd, Apt Geraden,” a crisp voice commented. “The impossible is the impossible. There must be another explanation.”

Geraden whirled.

Terisa turned also, floating around from far away.

In one of the doorways stood Master Eremis.

He wore the same jet cloak under his chasuble which she had seen the previous day. Again, she was struck by how little conventionally handsome he was: his large nose and narrow, sloping cheeks made his face look like a wedge; the thick, black hair perched on the back of his skull emphasized the baldness of his high forehead. But in his case the conventions lost their usual meaning. He was tall, lean, and strong, his pale eyes shone with intelligence and humor, the smile on his lips promised secrets. And the way he looked at her made her hold her breath.

She had been told that he might consider her lovely.

Without warning, her pulse began to beat with excitement in her skin. Inexplicably, the sensation that she was fading lost its urgency.

As grateful as if she had been rescued, she waited to find out what he would do.

For a moment, he looked at the changed mirror, frowning in concentration. “Yes,” he murmured, “that is impossible.” Then he turned his attention back to Terisa and Geraden.

“Freshen my memory, Apt. Perhaps I recollect incorrectly. Did or did not Master Barsonage command you to give no knowledge away to the lady?”

Geraden glared at the floor and didn’t respond.

Insouciantly, Master Eremis came forward. Before she had moved into her own apartment, Terisa had seen a variety of men who were reputed to be powerful, her father’s guests; but none of them had projected the commanding confidence Master Eremis did. Only her father’s presence had been comparably effective – and his manner had been considerably less attractive. He had lacked the sparkle of play or passion that would have made her mother’s marriage to him comprehensible. As Eremis approached, he spoke to Geraden, but the interest gleaming in his eyes and smiling on his lips was directed at her.

“Well, no matter. I think it a stupid command. The first rule of good courtesy is to deny beautiful women nothing. Nevertheless you are fortunate that the rest of the Masters are too interested in their debate to be vigilant. Master Barsonage might well strip you of your place if he learned what you have done. But he will not learn it from me.”

“Thanks,” Geraden muttered ungraciously. The Master’s sudden appearance seemed to reduce him to the stature of a sullen boy.

Eremis glanced at Geraden. “My forbearance does not please you? I wish I could persuade you that you have no truer friend on the Congery than I am. You know that I opposed the decision to let you attempt an approach to our chosen champion. Do you believe that I did so because I despise either you or your abilities? You are wrong. The champion is dangerous. I was arguing for your safety, Geraden.”

“I might have an easier time being grateful if I understood,” Geraden said through his teeth, still glaring at the floor. “What good is my safety to you?”

“Shame on you,” laughed the Master. “Bitterness is not becoming. “He moved behind Geraden and put his hands like a fond parent on the Apt’s shoulders. From that position, he gave Terisa a conspiratorial grin. “Your safety is no ‘good’ to me personally. But I value your intelligence – and your stubbornness. It would not please me to see those qualities wasted.

“Also” – he squeezed and patted Geraden’s shoulders – “the fact that you are safe means that you can now give me formal introduction to this” – his gaze left hers and went down to her neckline, resting there deliberately for a moment before returning to her face – “delectable lady.”

Stiffly, Geraden said, “I’m sure you know her name by now.”

“Ah, but I have not heard it from you. You are her translator. As Master Barsonage observed, you are responsible for her.” The particular way he looked at Terisa made the weakness she felt seem more pleasant. “I want you to introduce me to her properly.”

Geraden flicked a glance at her. His mouth was twisted into a snarl. Nevertheless he complied. “My lady, may I present Master Eremis. His home is Esmerel, one of the most renowned manors of Tor.” He was as rigid as an iron bar. “Master Eremis, this is the lady Terisa of Morgan.” Then, in a tone of muffled ferocity, he added, “She is a guest of King Joyse and under his protection. Castellan Lebbick has her well guarded.”

Once more, Master Eremis laughed. “Geraden, you are as graceless as a child.” He gave the Apt’s shoulders another pat and moved away from his back. “But I mean to show my friendship in a way that will surprise you.

“Now,” he went on, returning his attention to the mirrors, “there is the question of how Images can be changed. I doubt that a substitution has been made.” He stroked the flat glass lightly with his fingertips. “At the same time, a more fundamental change is inconceivable. This requires thought.”

He didn’t appear to be interested in thinking about the question at the moment, however. “In the meantime,” he said unexpectedly, facing Geraden again, “I naturally wonder what inspired you to bring the lady Terisa here. Your glass and Gilbur’s are uncovered. This leads me to suspect that you had some aim of enabling her to leave us – or of proving to her that departure is impossible. I dismiss the first. It is absurd. Even you, Apt, would not risk your life, your future with the Congery, and the survival of Mordant, only to undo everything the next day.”

Geraden met the Master’s gaze without flinching, but the muscles of his jaw knotted.

“I conclude, therefore, that her departure is now impossible. Some change has taken place within the glass, closing the door which you opened – somehow! – to bring the lady Terisa here.

“Yet that, too, is impossible.” He smiled as if the idea pleased him. “We have impossibilities everywhere. Here is a challenge for you, Apt. As I hope I have made plain, I appreciate your intelligence. Your capacity for disaster exerts itself in practice rather than theory. Consider this question: is it theoretically possible to project or transpose the Image of one mirror onto another?” He sounded like a teacher raising issues to which he already knew the answers. “Would that explain the impossibilities which seem to surround the lady Terisa?

“Study the matter and let me know your conclusions. For my part, I will take up the question with the Congery. You will advance yourself much if you reach an answer more promptly than the Masters do.”

Before Geraden could reply, Master Eremis shifted his concentration to Terisa. “And now, my lady,” he said, resuming his previous manner, “perhaps you will do me the kindness to accompany me to my chambers. The space which Orison allows me is not lavish, but I can offer you hospitality and comfort.” At once casual and intent, he moved closer to her. “There are many matters that I think we can profitably discuss.”

His smile and his nearness seemed to have strong male implications which made the blood rise in her face. She studied his expression until her breathing quickened and she couldn’t look away.

“We will not bore you, Apt, by requiring your attendance,” the Master murmured over his shoulder. “You have more pressing responsibilities to pursue.”

With one hand, he reached out to her. His fingers were long and slim, artist’s fingers, their knuckles delicate, their tips made to stroke and probe and know. His index finger touched the skin of her shoulder at the edge of her gown and gently traced the fabric down into the hollow between her breasts.

“My lady, shall we go?”

Involuntarily, her lips parted as if they were waiting for him. She felt too hypnotized and malleable to move, transfixed by his magnetism and the light in his eyes. But if he had put his arm around her, she would have gone with him anywhere.

“Master Eremis” – Geraden’s voice was so tight that it cracked – “what is the Congery debating? If the Masters are trying to make a decision about the lady Terisa, all three of us should be there. I know a lot more about her than I did yesterday.” He sounded at once desperate and angry, yet he kept himself under control. “And she might want to speak for herself.”

The Master raised an eyebrow; one corner of his smile knotted. “Apt Geraden,” he said softly, without looking away from Terisa or removing his finger from the V of her gown, “this is insufferable. I have dismissed you. If you find yourself unable to grow up, return to Houseldon and ask the Domne to put you back among your toys and nursemaids. Orison is no place for children.”

“Master Eremis.” Geraden’s tone made Terisa look at him. In his face, she saw an inchoate hardness, a capacity for strength that hadn’t come into focus. “I’ve been wrong about a lot of things. I make any number of mistakes. But I’ve never served the Congery wrongly.” A secret ferocity mounted behind his words. “Something impossible has happened in this room. The Masters need to know what I’ve learned – what the lady Terisa can tell them. What are they debating?”

“Tinct and silver, boy!” Eremis wheeled away from Terisa sharply. “Are you blind as well as deaf?” An instant later, however, he restrained himself. “Oh, very well,” he growled. “Perhaps if I answer you, you will be content to leave us alone.

“Because they are muddled and ineffectual, those pompous Imagers will today arrive – with much protestation, consideration, expostulation, and inspiration – at the astonishing conclusion that it is not possible to arrive at a conclusion concerning the lady Terisa of Morgan. You cannot explain whether you came upon her by accident or power. Therefore you cannot possibly know whether the power was yours or hers. And nothing she may say for herself can be trusted. If she is real in her own existence, and not a creation of Imagery, then she will have her own reasons for any answer she gives. Her motives will most assuredly not be the same as ours. And if she is in fact made by the glass – as seems apparent to me – then all her reasons and answers will be shaped by the Imager who caused you to find her. By someone who chooses to remain secret because he is the obvious enemy of the Congery and Mordant.

“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 toward 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 toward 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 that 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 Vertigon required his constant attention – rumors 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 toward 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 mustache 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 jewelry 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 blond 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 lord!”

“No!” he repeated, his voice like the shout of a breaking tree. From the stairs, he stamped into the center 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 defense. 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.

“You tell him this, my lady. Every man of mine who falls or dies defending him in his blind inaction, I will send here. Let him look to their wounds, or their bereaved families, and explain why he will not” – he couldn’t contain himself – “command it!”

“My lord Perdon.” Master Eremis sounded suave and easy – and authoritative enough to catch the attention of everyone in the chamber. “I gather that our admirable lord, King Joyse, has done something foolish. Again. Will you tell me what it was?”

His tone made the blond woman flush, but she bit her lip and didn’t retort.

The Perdon turned. “Master Eremis.” For a moment, his eyes narrowed, gauging the Imager. Then he spat, “Paugh! It surpasses belief. I would not have believed him capable of it.

“I will not speak of the horrors that befell my men within the hour – horrors hardly a stone’s throw from the gates of ‘our admirable lord.’ They are Imagery, and I am sick of such things. I fought with King Joyse in part so that the abominations of mirrors would be ended.

“I will not speak of them because there is nothing to be said” – his hard gaze glittered – “except by the Imager who causes them.

“But you must know that our borders have been raided for some time now. I have not kept the matter secret. All along the Vertigon, from end to end of Perdon, North and South, bands of marauders have ridden out of Cadwal despite the season to strike and burn whatever they happen to find. Then they flee. My protests to that fop Festten’s regional governor have been met with shrugs. The marauders damage him also – he says. Since its wars with Mordant, Cadwal no longer has the strength to control banditry – he says. And I, Master Eremis” – he hit his breastplate with one fist – “I am left to guard every mile of the Vertigon with enough men for no more than a small fraction of the job.

“Lacking support or counsel from Orison,” he went on with massive sarcasm, “I set out to solve this problem as best I could.

“Among my patrols, I included riders who were trained as scouts and spies, so that when marauders were found – or sign of them was found – they could be followed in secret. I wanted to know where those pieces of rabble went to ground. If I could discover their camps, I would not mind raiding a bit into Cadwal myself, to root some of those bandits from their holes.”

Master Eremis nodded. “Sound thinking, my lord Perdon. But I gather you were surprised by what you learned.”

“Surprised?” the Perdon growled. “Death’s hatchetmen, Master Eremis! We are speaking of Cadwal. I should not have been surprised.

“Nevertheless,” he went on darkly, “I was not altogether prepared in my mind for the reports which eventually came to me. Some of my scouts were lost – doubtless because they let what they were doing be discovered. Others were gone so long that I gave them up before they won home. But those that lived all told the same tale.

“It was natural, I trust, that I had believed these marauders to be petty bandits and butchers. Their bands were not overlarge. They wore the rags and equipage of men who have grown poor enough to be careless of bloodshed. They struck in motley fashion, as though they meant to overwhelm opposition or be slaughtered without discipline or forethought. They were only a serious trouble to me because they came from Cadwal. And because they were so many.

“But I was wrong, Master Eremis.” His fists bunched, and his anger rose again. “I was wrong. Will you believe it? After forays of two or four or even ten days, all the bands my men followed rode at last to the same camp.”

Terisa glanced at Geraden and saw that his face was losing color rapidly.

“And in this camp,” the Perdon continued, “they mingled freely with Festten’s soldiers, men plainly wearing the uniforms of Cadwal. The supply wains bore the High King’s sigil. The tents where the officers and supplies and support were housed were of Cadwal design.”

“Indeed,” murmured Master Eremis. “Perhaps your surprise is understandable, my lord Perdon. I am astonished.” He didn’t sound astonished. “How large was this force?”

“Estimates vary. My scouts did not observe it under favorable conditions. And some of them were inclined to panic, where others remained too phlegmatic. But I am convinced that it could not have numbered less than fifteen thousand fighting men.”

One of the guards in the chamber let out a low whistle; Terisa didn’t notice who it was.

“All this in winter,” snarled the Perdon. “They mean to throw themselves at our throats as soon as the weather shifts.”

“You see how the matter stands, Master Eremis,” said the blond woman. “The King must be made to admit reason. This threat cannot be ignored.”

“Between North Perdon and South,” the Perdon rasped, “I have little better than three thousand men. To my certain knowledge, Orison has at least five thousand, all sitting idle in their camps under the command of Castellan Lebbick.”

“More nearly eight thousand, I think,” Master Eremis commented.

“Eight? Yet when I asked for support” – the Perdon ground his teeth to keep himself from shouting – “the King refused. He has refused repeatedly, but at first I could not believe it. Finally I came in person to demand help. I lost seven men along the road, within sight of his walls. And still he refused.” The brawny lord shook his mustache. “With an invasion force poised on his eastern border, waiting to take advantage of the chaos of Imagery which assails us from within, and doubtless more peril being plotted in Alend, he refused.”

“It is inconceivable,” the pale woman breathed to herself. Her violet eyes looked distracted and urgent. “He must command it. How can he not?”

Geraden was frowning hard, deep in thought. What he was thinking made him look sick.

“For ten years, I fought beside him,” finished the Perdon. “I trusted him. Now I learn that to him it means nothing.”

Master Eremis studied the armored man. “Then perhaps,” he said quietly, “it will not amaze you to learn that I have the same problem.”

Both Geraden and the blond lady showed their surprise. The Perdon arched his red eyebrows. “You, Master Eremis?”

“Indeed.” Glancing around him casually, Eremis moved to the Perdon’s side and placed a hand on the pallette protecting the Perdon’s shoulder. “Our plights are remarkably similar, my lord. Will you accompany me to my quarters? The battles of Perdon will not be fought in the next hour or two, and I have some excellent Domne ale. Commiseration will benefit us both.”

For a moment, the Perdon stared at Master Eremis as frankly as Geraden and the lady did. His blunt mouth formed the word, commiseration, as though he had never heard it before. Then his expression closed. Carefully, he said, “I thank you. Your offer is kind. I could drown my anger in a hogshead of good ale, if you have it.”

The Master laughed. “I have that - and a great deal more, which I think will please you.”

His face blank, the Perdon replied, “Then I am yours, Master Eremis.”

“Good!” At once, Eremis bowed to the blond woman and Terisa. “With your permission, my ladies.” His salutation was abrupt: he was clearly eager to leave. As soon as the Perdon also had bowed, Master Eremis steered him out of the chamber.

Slowly, as if involuntarily, Geraden and the lady in blue looked at each other. They both appeared stiff, awkward. She had more self-possession, however. After a few moments, she asked, “Now why would he do such a thing, Apt?”

Geraden shifted his weight uncomfortably, though he refused to drop her gaze. “I don’t know, my lady. The Perdon has the heart and soul of a soldier. And he has fought Cadwal too long. Master Eremis knows he doesn’t trust any Imager.”

She looked away. Cupping her hands about her elbows, she gripped them tightly. “I hate it when he looks at me like that. He smiles and jests, but all I see is scorn.”

“I don’t exactly love it myself,” muttered Geraden. “But that doesn’t explain what he thinks he has in common with the Perdon.”

They fell into a discomfited silence. Now that he didn’t have to meet her gaze, he scanned the stone floor. She watched the corridor down which Master Eremis and the Perdon had departed as if she wanted to run after them and demand an answer. Considering Geraden and the lady, Terisa thought suddenly that they had known each other for a long time. The lady was about his age and seemed to Terisa to be a fitting companion for him. The intensity of her violet eyes, especially, seemed appropriate to his awkward intensity of spirit.

Abruptly, the lady gave a start of embarrassment. Turning to Terisa, she said, “Oh, I am sorry. How very rude of me. You have been standing here all this time, and I have not been courteous enough to speak to you. You must be the lady Terisa.” She produced a smile that appeared genuine, if somewhat tentative. “I know the gown,” she explained. “If the Apt’s manners were any better than mine” – the glance she cast in his direction suggested a scorn of her own – “he would have introduced us. I am Elega. King Joyse is my father.”

“Oh, yes.” Terisa recognized the name. Because she had never met a king’s daughter before and had no idea what kind of salutation was expected, she said what she had so often heard her mother say: “How nice to meet you.” Then she winced internally because her voice sounded just like her mother’s.

Fortunately, the lady Elega hadn’t known Terisa’s mother. “Myste and I,” she continued, “have wished to meet you since we first heard of your – shall I call it your ‘arrival’? The present circumstances are not of the best. Matters which you have overheard leave me somewhat distracted, I fear.” Despite her words, the way she regarded Terisa implied that she had found something to compensate her for her father’s distressing treatment of the Perdon. “But I would be pleased” – she smiled – “and Myste would be delighted, I think, if you would visit us in our rooms. You may be unaware of the interest you have aroused in Orison. My sister and I are always eager for new friendships. And I tell you frankly, my lady” – she lowered her voice as if she were imparting a public secret – “Mordant is a man’s world. We women are not often given enough to occupy our talents. So your acquaintance would have a special value to us.

“My lady, will you come?”

Terisa was momentarily frozen. Then she shook herself in disgust. Why did she feel threatened when she was asked for the simplest statements and decisions? It was her mother in her. Her mother would have said, What a nice idea. When would you like us to come? I’m sure that would be lovely. My husband is so busy these days. Shall I call you next week? For that reason, Terisa gazed at Elega as straight as she could and said, “I’m not doing anything right now.”

A second later, she realized how that would sound to Geraden, and a sting of chagrin turned her face crimson. He wasn’t looking at her: his expression had gone flat, like non-reflective glass. Only the slight, stretched widening of his eyes betrayed that he had heard her.

Now she remembered why it was natural to fear even simple statements and decisions. They caused trouble.

Apparently, however, the lady Elega considered the assertion a natural one to make in Geraden’s company, even though Terisa might be presumed to have come here with him for some reason or another. Her smile seemed as unconstrained as her earlier dismay allowed. “Thank you, my lady. Have you eaten? We can have a quiet lunch together. I am certain that we have an enormous amount to talk about.”

Yet she stiffened when she turned to Geraden. In a tone of dutiful politeness, she asked, “Will you join us, Apt?”

The corners of his jaw bunched. He shot a glance at Terisa and murmured, “No, thanks.” His voice was studiously neutral. “I think the lady Terisa has had enough of my company for one day. Give the lady Myste my greetings.”

Abruptly, he sketched a bow toward her and headed out of the waiting room.

As he passed through the entryway, he bumped into a door-post with his shoulder and stumbled until he caught his balance. Several of the guards chuckled at his departing back.

The lady Elega put a hand to her mouth to hide a smile. “Poor Geraden.” Then she shook her head, dismissing him. “We must go upward, my lady.” She gestured toward the stairs and started Terisa in that direction. “My sister and I share rooms a level above the King’s. We are told that we must live there so that we will be at least as safe as our father. But I believe,” she said cynically, “the true reason is so that anything of importance will reach him before it reaches us – and stop.” Trying to blunt the edge of her words, she added more humorously, “As I said, Mordant is a man’s world.”

In a small voice, Terisa said, “You should call me Terisa.” But the suggestion was abstract; her heart wasn’t in it. Part of her remained with Geraden. It pained her that she had hurt him. He was the only one she knew here who made sense to her. And part of her was still nauseated. Had the Perdon told King Joyse about those fatal black spots? Of course he had. He must have. And still the King refused to act? If he had only seen –

“Terisa. I will,” the lady Elega said with satisfaction. “And you must call me Elega. I hope we will be great friends.”

“Have you known him long?” asked Terisa. That was better than the memory of jaws and blood.

“Apt Geraden?” Elega laughed, but her mirth sounded brittle. “You will hardly believe it, but he and I were once betrothed.”

“Betrothed?”

“Yes. Astonishing, is it not? But his father, the Domne, although no fighter – unlike the Perdon – is one of my father’s oldest and most trusted friends. Because of “– a hitch in Elega’s voice unexpectedly made Terisa think that the King’s daughters might also have been warned against revealing too much – “of his wars, my father wed late. Though I am his eldest, I was born only a year before Geraden, who is the Domne’s seventh son. Later, during a difficult period of those wars, my father sent all his family to the Care of Domne for safety. I spent several seasons in the Domne’s home in Houseldon, and Geraden and I were natural playmates.” The memory didn’t amuse her. “For that reason, thinking us well suited, our parents arranged a match.”

One flight of stairs took them to the level of the King’s suite. Elega passed his high, carved door and took another stairway upward. “I would have been better pleased with one of his brothers,” she continued. “All women seem to favor Artagel, and to see Wester is to love him. But both lack ambition. Nyle is more to my taste. Sadly, women are often given little say in these matters.”

“What happened to your betrothal?”

“Oh, I flatly declined to marry him. He is quite impossible, Terisa.” Elega made no effort now to conceal her scorn. “It is bad enough that he cannot be trusted to walk out of a room safely. But in addition he is such a failure. He has already been serving the Imagers for three years longer than any other Apt since the Congery was founded, and he is no nearer a Master’s chasuble than he was when he began.

“His determination must be respected – and his desire to better himself. But I am the daughter of Mordant’s King, and I do not mean to spend my life cleaning sheds in the Care of Domne, or sweeping broken glass after Geraden’s disasters.

“Do you know?” She giggled suddenly. “The first time he was to be formally presented to my father – we had all ridden out to visit the Domne, some twelve or fourteen years ago now – he was so eager that he had no better sense than to attempt a shortcut across a log which spanned a pig wallow. When he reached us, he was carrying more filth on his person than he left in the wallow.”

Terisa nearly laughed. She could imagine him as clearly as if she had been a witness: mud caked to his hair, his face, his clothes; water and fruit rinds dripping off him. He was exactly the sort of person to whom something like that would happen.

A second later, however, her emotions turned until she was close to tears. Poor guy, she murmured to herself. He deserves better.

“No, Terisa,” Elega concluded. “Apt Geraden will make an honest husband for some dull woman with her mind in her belly, a strong passion for motherhood, and much tolerance for accidents. But I will not have him.”

In silence, Terisa replied, That’s your loss. She never said such things aloud.

From the top of this flight of stairs, they approached another door as high as the King’s, which may have been directly below it. But this one wasn’t guarded: there was apparently no other way up to this level of the tower, and so whatever protected the King would also ward his family.

Then Terisa remembered the secret passages. Maybe no place in Orison was safe from anyone who knew them well enough.

Smiling, Elega went to the door and swung it open to admit her guest. “You are welcome here, my lady Terisa of Morgan,” she announced formally. Then she turned and ushered Terisa into the suite of rooms where she and her sister lived.

In a small way, Terisa was surprised to see that these rooms weren’t as richly furnished as the ones King Joyse used. The thick, woolen rugs looked more like the work of villagers than the creations of artists – rugs for use rather than display. The divans, chairs, and settees had sturdy frames that emphasized their expanse of cushion rather than their maker’s craftsmanship. Some of the end tables in the first room had the look of having been built for children to stand on; the dining room table which she glimpsed through another doorway had seen better days.

Her own background being what it was, she couldn’t help wondering why King Joyse kept his daughters in this less luxurious style. But Elega was already explaining that detail. “Formerly, these rooms were those used by our family, while the ones below were reserved for the private business of the kingdom – receptions, small audiences, discreet parties, and the like. The Queen, my mother, had no taste for personal ostentation, but she recognized the importance of visible wealth in the craft of governance. For that reason, the public rooms were designed for show rather than comfort.” This arrangement clearly suited her, as far as it went. The way she wore her jewelry revealed that her interest in her father’s affairs had nothing to do with wealth or luxury.

Terisa started to ask why the King had moved downstairs – or why, for that matter, the Queen (had Saddith said her name was Madin?) no longer lived in Orison. But asking personal questions wasn’t one of her strengths; and before she was ready to take the risk, a woman wearing a flowing gown of yellow silk came out of the back rooms.

“Ah, Myste.” The look Elega gave her sister was at once fond and a bit condescending, as if she loved Myste but didn’t hold her in very high esteem. “I have brought a treat for us. This is Terisa – the lady Terisa of Morgan. She looks well in your gown, does she not? We will have lunch together. Terisa, may I introduce my sister, the lady Myste? She is perhaps the only person in Orison more avid” – she stressed the word humorously – “to make your acquaintance than I am.”

This made Myste blush. She was, as both King Joyse and Saddith had observed, very nearly the same size as Terisa, although slimmer in certain dimensions. In much the same way, she very nearly resembled her sister, although she lacked the contrast between Elega’s vivid eyes and her pale skin and hair. Standing together, they were outdoor and indoor versions of each other. The deeper blond of Myste’s hair might not have looked like fine gold by candlelight, but it would have a burnished richness in sunshine. The tone of her skin promised that it would tan well. At the same time, the less dramatic color of her eyes seemed suited to peering across distances under bright light rather than to penetrating the secrets hidden in corners and conversations.

The faraway quality of Myste’s gaze was apparent when she entered the room: her thoughts might have been in another world. But it was strangely emphasized when Elega introduced her to Terisa. All at once, she did look avid, so poised for wonder that she was almost trembling – and yet her eagerness seemed to pass through Terisa in order to fix itself on something behind her, some set of possibilities that she cast like a shadow. This impression was so strong that she instinctively looked around, half expecting to find someone at her back.

“My lady.” Myste bowed to the floor in a pile of yellow silk as if both to honor Terisa and to hide her blush.

Terisa almost panicked. Helpless and alarmed, she cast a mute appeal toward Elega.

In response, Elega put a hand on her sister’s shoulder. “That is well done, Myste,” she said somewhat dryly. “Nevertheless it appears that so much homage makes Terisa a little uncomfortable. I call her Terisa by her own request. Surely she will want you to do the same.”

“Please,” Terisa begged immediately. This time, she was acutely sincere.

The lady Myste rose. Apparently her blush was a sign of excitement rather than embarrassment: she didn’t show any shame or self-consciousness. Her gaze, however, now seemed to be better focused on Terisa. “You are very welcome here, my lady,” she said in a kind voice. “I am sure I will be able to call you Terisa in a moment – when I have calmed the beating of my heart.” She laughed in a way that immediately reminded Terisa of King Joyse’s smile. “Forgive me if I have discomfited you. Perhaps you do not realize the honor you do us. I have so much that I wish to ask you. “

“It is an honor,” Elega put in before Terisa could protest. “By the standards of Mordant, we are merely two women living with our father because he has found us unmarriageable. The lords and personages who pass through Orison do not feel obliged to call upon us or keep us informed. It was only by chance that I happened to be with the King when—”

More urgently, she went on, “Myste, you will not believe it. Father has outdone himself.” In a few scathing sentences, she told her sister about the Perdon’s audience with King Joyse. Then she concluded, “Fifteen thousand men, Myste. The Perdon has but three thousand. And yet Father will not reinforce him.

“He has gone too far. This must stop.”

“Elega, he is our father,” Myste demurred. “Of course we do not understand his intent. How can we, when we know so little of what he knows and fears?” Unlike Elega, she didn’t complain of her ignorance: she was simply stating a fact. “But we must not be quick to judge him. High matters are abroad in Mordant. It appears that war is near. A chaos of Imagery threatens us. And the lady – “She glanced at Terisa, blushed again momentarily, and forced herself to say, “Terisa.” Then she gave Terisa a sweet grin. “Terisa has come to us out of a mirror. It is rumored that she comes in answer to augury. We must not be quick to judge.”

“Myste, you are incurable.” A small frown pinched Elega’s forehead. “If the High King’s Monomach broke in upon us, butchered me before your eyes, and raised your skirts with his sword, you would say that we must not be quick to judge him.”

“I trust,” the lady Myste said gravely, but without irritation, “that the High King’s Monomach has more honor.”

“Oh, you are a fool!” cried Elega softly. Her violet eyes flashed in her pale face. But at once she put her arms around her sister and hugged her until her own vexation faded. When she stepped back, her social graces were restored. “Yet even a fool and a great lady from another world” – she smiled to show that she was playing – “must have lunch. I will summon it.”

She went to a nearby bellpull and gave it a tug. Then she retreated to another room.

A short time later, Terisa heard her speaking softly to someone, probably a domestic. And not long after that a maid laden down with trays appeared in the dining room and began to set the table.

In the meantime, however, Terisa was alone with Myste.

The particular quality of Myste’s gaze – and attention – made her nervous. She found that she liked Myste readily, but she didn’t want the lady to look at her. The way Myste seemed to see things that existed through or behind or beyond Terisa gave her the impression that she was starting to fade again. Involuntarily, she remembered that the mirror which had brought her here was false.

“There’s so much about all this I don’t understand. Why is the King – your father – why is he being so passive? What reason could there be for not supporting the Perdon?”

“Ah, my la— Terisa. There you touch on a question which has sundered this family to its heart, and still we have no answer.” The lady gestured toward a divan. “Will you sit?”

They sank deep into the comfortable cushions, and Myste went on, “You have not been among us long. And it appears to be our policy that we must not reveal too much of ourselves to you.” Her frown expressed her disapproval as effectively as her admission itself did. “You may be unaware that our father has three daughters. Our middle sister, Torrent – accompanying our mother, Queen Madin – no longer lives with us. They make their home in Romish - or in a manor just outside Romish, I believe, for I have not been there – with Mother’s family among the Fayle.

“Two years ago, that was not true. We were together then. And I was glad of it, though I cannot say that we were happy.”

Terisa remained still, said nothing. She sensed what kind of story was coming. The mission had taught her how to listen to stories like that.

“I think you would like our mother, my – Terisa. She is a woman who knows her own mind – a fact which upon occasion gave our father no little exasperation.” Myste smiled at the memory. “If you listen to Elega, she will lead you to believe that there are not five such women in all Mordant. But it is my opinion that she misjudges. It is my opinion that women simply lack the courage to follow their dreams.” As she said this, her gaze seemed to be aimed through the opposite wall, as if the stone were translucent. “Nevertheless none would deny that Queen Madin is one of the few who know themselves enough – or are brave enough – to insist upon their own wishes.

“This accounts, I think,” she commented as a digression, “for the fact that she permitted Elega to break her match with Geraden of Domne though the King himself had made it. Our mother was glad to have a daughter who knew her own mind.

“Now Madin,” the lady resumed, “loved Joyse from girlhood – long before he became King of Mordant – and he loved her. In fact, it is said only a little in jest that he began the campaigns which led to his kingship in order to rid himself of the obstacles that thwarted his passion for her. Therefore when he had established the Demesne under his rule, and had brought the Care of Fayle to freedom in his service, he threw himself at her feet and begged that she would enter his possession, as her father the Fayle had done.

“To his astonishment” – Myste smiled again – “she refused him. She did not deny that she loved him utterly, but she would not have him for husband or for lover. He had set his hand to war as a farmer to a plow, and he must not release it until his fields were furrowed and planted. But while his grasp was upon that handle, his time and his life belonged to bloodshed. She was prepared to share him with many things, she said, but not with a mistress as avaricious as warfare, where every spear and arrow and blade of his enemies hungered for the riches of his heart. If his will did not change – and if he were still alive – let him only send word to her when his wars were done, and she would come to him anywhere in all the world.

“Well, he is a man. Of course he was furious. But he is also a good man. When he had been furious for some little while – a time which he describes in days, but which she reports as a little while – he laughed loudly and long. He avowed that there was no other woman alive to suit him as well as she did, and he swore on his oath that, whatever happened, her own steadfastness would provide her a minimum estimate of his. Then he rode away, bragging – as young men will – that he meant to conquer both Cadwal and Alend before the next winter.

“Sadly, he did not fulfill that boast. Many years passed before he could call himself King without fear that the title would be ripped from him in the next day’s battle. And when that was accomplished, he turned himself to a different kind of warfare, the struggle to unify all Imagery in the Congery. Upon occasion, he visited her so that she could see he had not changed toward her. But his wars were not done.

“At last, she had had enough. Departing Romish on horseback with no other companionship or protection than her maid, she rode the hills and forests of Mordant until at last she found where he fought. He and his men, Adept Havelock among them, had just ended a battle with a malign Imager, and he was covered in ash from head to foot. Yet she rode up to him – as he tells it – as though they were being presented to each other in the audience hall of Orison, and she said, ‘My lord King, how much longer will this go on?’

“He looked at his men, and he looked at her. For a moment, he says, he was tempted to make some foolish retort. She was a woman riding abroad with no one but a maid beside her, and five of his men had just been slain. But he thought better of it. Instead, he handed her down from her mount and took her into his tent and explained to her all that he was doing and all that he had left to do.

“When he was done, she said, ‘My lord King, this may occupy another ten years or more.’

“He nodded. Her estimate was accurate.

“ ‘That is too much,’ she said. ‘I have had enough of waiting. Is there any man in your camp qualified to perform a wedding service?’

“My father says that he gaped at her for fully an hour before he understood, but she insists that he did not appear to have lost his mind for more than a moment or two. Then he let out a yell and embraced her so boisterously that the tent pole broke and the tent collapsed upon them.

“Nevertheless it was he who insisted that they return at once to Orison for a full and elaborate marriage rite. He says that she deserved no less. In her view, however, he wished primarily to take her away from the danger of battles to the safety of his Demesne.

“Their union” – Myste glanced at Terisa as she continued, and Terisa saw both happiness and sorrow in the lady’s face –“was what some have called ‘gleefully contentious.’ Certainly both of them knew their own minds with a vengeance. To those who observed them, each compromise they achieved seemed to be twenty years in the making. But we also saw how his eyes shone behind his bluster when she contradicted him. And we heard the warmth and loyalty with which she always spoke of him when he was absent. I call it a good marriage, Terisa.

“Its ending,” she sighed, “was both slow and sudden.”

“What happened?” Terisa was thinking about her parents, trying to find some point at which their relationship had had anything in common with what she had just heard.

Sadly, Myste said, “He became passive. The spark faded in him. More and more of the time which should have been occupied with governance, he spent closeted with mad Havelock, playing – so he said – hop-board. Fewer and fewer decisions were made. Perils and signs of peril were ignored. His people were not given justice. Not all at once, but over a period of years, he became what some men call him – an old dodderer. He retains only enough of his rule – and of the loyalty of his followers – to guard that he will not be usurped. The rest he has let go.

“This has been a grief to us all, but for our mother it has been a blow to the heart. As she valued her own mind, so she prized his. Yet now he only argued with her over trifling matters, such as whether his daughters should be taught hop-board in place of needlepoint. This she bore until she had had enough. Then she confronted him.

“ ‘Old man,’ she said – by her wish all her daughters were present – ‘this must stop. There is evil Imagery at work. Your enemies gather as thick as jackals at your heels. Unrest grows close to rebellion among the Cares. And while all this transpires, you play hop-board with that fool Havelock. I say it must stop.’

“ ‘My dear,’ he replied, as though she had wounded him unjustly, ‘you refused to marry me for years because I was at war. Do you wish me to go to war again?’

“ ‘I was young then, and unwed,’ she retorted. ‘Now by my own choice I am your wife. As King of Mordant, you are my husband. I have accepted your kingship, and I expect you to do all that your kingship demands. The duty is yours and must be met.’

“ ‘As it happens,’ he answered with a touch of his old hardness, ‘I am King of Mordant. And no one but the King is fit to tell me where my duty lies. I have already consulted myself on the subject, and I follow my own advice exactly.’

“At this, our mother rose from her seat. ‘Then you will follow it without me. I love you as utterly as death, and I cannot bear to watch the ruin which you are making of yourself and everything that you once held precious.’

“My father watched her go. When she was gone, he wept fiercely, as though he had been torn out of himself. But he did not say one word to explain himself, or to reassure her, or to call her back.

“Torrent went with her because she believed her to be in the right. Elega remains here—”

By this time, the lady Elega had returned. “I remain here,” she interrupted, her eyes flashing, “because something must be done for Mordant – and it will not be done in Romish. Whatever action may be possible to save the realm, it will be taken in Orison. I mean to be a part of it, if I can.

“For her part,” she continued, barely muffling her scorn, “my sister remains here because she dreams that the King will one day rise up to defend his kingdom – if only we are willing to trust him long enough.”

Myste sighed again. “Perhaps.”

At once, Elega became apologetic. “Forgive me, Myste. I should not speak so harshly. His treatment of the Perdon has upset me. Perhaps the true reason you remain here is so that whatever happens he will have the comfort and company of at least one woman who loves him.”

Or perhaps, Terisa thought, she does it because at least one member of his family ought to be willing to witness what happens to him. Her own mother had stayed with her father until her death, but there hadn’t been any steadfastness in that. Steadfastness required decision, and her mother had been incapable of it. She had simply been chosen by her husband, and she had accepted his right to do so. That may have been the only way she knew how to believe in herself.

Then Elega turned to Terisa. “But we did not invite you here to tell you such stories.” She forced herself to sound more good-humored. “As my sister has said, there is so much that we wish to know of you. And lunch has been set for us. Shall we eat as we talk?”

Almost without thinking, Terisa replied, “I really don’t have much to tell you.” The contrast between her own background and the story she had just heard shamed her somehow, like a demonstration of how insubstantial she had always been. Against the threat of violent death she had no reality at all. “You’re being very kind. But I’m only here by accident. I’m not an Imager. We don’t have Imagers – where I come from. Something went wrong when Geraden made his mirror. Or during his translation.” Again, she found herself sounding like her mother. But what else could she say? “I don’t know why I ever let him talk me into coming with him.”

Then, so that it would all be said and done with, she concluded, “I would have gone back already. But the mirror changed somehow. He can’t make it work anymore.”

She stopped. Her heart beat in her throat as if she had just uttered something dangerous, and the strange desire to weep which had touched her when she thought of Geraden in the pig wallow returned.

Gaping through her as though someone a few rooms away were performing a prodigious feat, Myste breathed, “Is it possible? Oh, is it possible?” She seemed to think that what she had just heard was more marvelous than any other revelation could have been.

In contrast, Elega flung her head back as if a menial had slapped her face, and her eyes flared. Slowly, her voice under rigid control, she asked, “Do you mean to say, my lady, that you have no reason here? No purpose? That you have not come to play a part in Mordant’s need? Do you wish us to believe that you are nothing more than an ordinary woman? That this ‘accident,’ as you call it, should not have happened to you?”

Terisa didn’t want to answer. The thrust of Elega’s demand was hurtful. She had created this situation for herself, however, and she mustered her courage to face it. In that way, at least, she could try not to be like her mother.

“I’m not a lady. I’m a secretary in a mission.” She held her back straight and her head up. “They need me. Not many people can afford to work for what they pay me. But I’ll lose my job if I don’t get back soon. Reverend Thatcher can’t take care of everything alone.

“That’s all. I live in an apartment. I eat and sleep. I go to work. That’s all.”

For a moment, she thought that Elega would scorn her. Myste was whispering, “That’s wonderful. It’s wonderful.” Her gaze was coming into better focus on Terisa. “I have always wished that such things were possible.” But Elega’s face was made feverish by the intensity of what she felt, and she had drawn herself up as if she meant to spit acid.

“You should have gone after the Perdon,” Terisa said dully. “He and Master Eremis are the ones you want.”

In response, the lady tried to smile.

It was a sickly expression at first, but Elega mastered her features and forced them to serve her. With an effort of will, she softened her posture. “My lady, this is unnecessary. We belong to none of the factions of the Congery. We have no secret allies among Mordant’s enemies. We will not manipulate or betray you. We are women like yourself, not self-serving men hungry for power. We can be trusted. We are perhaps the only people in Orison whom you may safely trust. This pretense is unnecessary.”

Myste looked at her sister at once. “Elega, Terisa has no reason to lie to us. I am sure that she has not. It is not a pretense.”

With a savagery that would have done Castellan Lebbick credit, the lady Elega flashed out, “It must be.”

An instant later, she recollected herself. Once again, she tried to smile. Now, however, she looked like a woman bravely suppressing an impulse to throw up.

“I’m sorry,” Terisa said. “I’m sorry.”

NINE: MASTER EREMIS AT PLAY

The ladies Elega and Myste struggled to engage Terisa in a desultory conversation while they ate lunch together, but they weren’t very successful. Myste smiled as if she had a secret behind her faraway gaze; she asked Terisa polite questions about what she had seen and done in Orison. Elega masked a towering impatience by picking at her food and filling the silences with trenchant descriptions of the life Terisa could have expected to lead, had she been born and reared in Mordant – a safe life, insufferably protracted by her essential irrelevance to her own fate. Both of them were obviously not saying what they had in mind.

It was also apparent, however, that both of them were constrained, not by Terisa, but by each other. The quick, stark moment of their disagreement had been intense enough to shock them, make them retreat from her as well as from each other. She felt an active relief when Myste at last suggested that Saddith be summoned to conduct Terisa back to the peacock rooms.

In a state of pronounced awkwardness, the three women awaited an answer to their summons. Fortunately, Saddith’s arrival was prompt. A few moments later, Terisa had said a stiff farewell to the ladies Myste and Elega and was on her way back to her rooms.

Saddith had kept her eyes lowered in the presence of the King’s daughters. Now, however, she studied Terisa frankly. At first there was uncertainty in her eyes, but it slowly gave way to a look of spice and humor.

When she and Terisa had passed the King’s rooms, and were out of earshot of the guards, she said in a cheerful, probing tone, “Well, my lady. You have met the lady Elega and the lady Myste. They are the two highest ladies in Orison. What do you think of them?”

I think, Terisa mused, they’re both miserable. But she didn’t want to say anything like that to Saddith.

Terisa’s silence seemed to confirm the maid in her opinion. To hide a smirk, she glanced down at her unbuttoned blouse, the cloth stretched open by the pressure of her breasts. “I think,” she said with satisfaction, “that they have forgotten who they are.”

“What do you mean?” As she walked, Terisa found herself watching the faces of everyone who passed by, looking for some sign of the man who had attacked her. That was preferable to thinking about what she had seen in the mirrors of the laborium.

“They are the highest ladies in the land,” explained the maid. “They have position and wealth, rich gowns and rare jewels. All the finest men of Mordant are theirs by right. But what use do they make of their opportunities? The lady Elega scorns suitors. She does not wish a man – she wishes to be one. And the lady Myste will not leave behind her a nursery girl’s dreams of romance and adventure.”

Saddith laughed softly. “They are properly clad and placed to be who they are. But they are too bloodless for it. Neither of them is woman enough to rule the King’s court as it should be ruled.

“Some day, my lady,” she added confidently, “I will stand among them. I will be as high as any of the ladies of Mordant.

“The contrast will not be to their advantage.”

The maid’s bluntness was strange to Terisa. She wasn’t accustomed to servants who spoke so freely. Curiosity impelled her to ask, “Don’t you like what you’re doing now?”

At that, Saddith glanced sharply at Terisa as if to gauge the intent of the question. Whatever she saw, however, reaffirmed her faith in Terisa’s innocence; she relaxed at once and replied candidly, “It is well enough for what it is, my lady. Before I became a maid, I was a scullion in the kitchens of Orison. And before that, I served ale in a tavern near where the army of Mordant is encamped. And before that” – she grimaced – “I fed chickens and swept floors in the village where I was born – one of the lesser villages of the Demesne. The place of a lady’s maid in Orison is well enough, indeed. For what it is.

“But it is not enough for me.”

Terisa considered this. “What do you mean?”

Saddith replied with a lubricious grin, and her eyes sparkled. “My lady, it is in their beds that men put aside their pretenses and become the enslaved children that they are in their hearts. When I learned this, the village of my birth could no longer hold me. A soldier of Mordant could not bear to be parted from me, and so he found me a place in the tavern near his camp. A cook of Orison could not bear that my body should suffer the grimy hands of soldiers, and so he found me a place in his kitchens. The dear son of an overseer could not bear to displease me, and so I was given the work of a maid. The beds of men have lifted me this high, and they will lift me higher.

“Do you remember, my lady, that I spent last night with a Master? Already, my position in Orison rises.”

Her complacency made this information sound to Terisa like an announcement in a foreign language. Under no circumstances would she have revealed to anyone that Master Eremis had touched the curve of her bosom.

“He believes,” Saddith continued, “that he took me to his bed to reward me because he had asked for a service and I had met it well. But that is only his pretense to himself, by which he preserves the illusion of will and power. He bedded me because he could not do otherwise. He has begun to share his confidence with me. Soon he will find that his pretense disappears in public as it does when we are alone. Then he will find some place for me, to raise me closer to himself. But it will be a place of my choosing, not his – and I assure you, my lady,” she concluded with relish, “that I will choose a place that will open my way to the strong sons of the lords of Mordant.”

They were nearing the tower where the peacock rooms were. For a moment, Terisa said nothing, though she was conscious of Saddith’s gaze on her, half expectant and half amused. She wanted to ask, Does it really work? Can you live like that? Can you be happy? But the words stuck in her throat. Without quite intending to speak aloud, she said, “I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

“That is plain, my lady.” The maid tried to reply gravely, but she was almost chortling. “Yet you may rely on me to assist you,” she went on, speaking now more like a kindly sister. “If you wish it, we will make of you a formidable woman” – she smiled behind her hand – “eventually.”

Terisa ascended the stairs to her rooms with her head full of haze. She had apologized to the King’s daughters. For what? For not being a powerful Imager, come to save the world? Or for simply not being substantial enough to deserve their interest in her, their friendship or alliance?

Did she want Saddith to help her become formidable?

“I’ll think about it,” she murmured belatedly as she and Saddith approached the guards standing outside her door. “This is all so new to me. I need time to think.”

“Certainly, my lady.” Saddith spoke as a proper servant, but the looks with which the guards regarded Terisa conveyed the impression that Saddith had winked at them. “Let me help you undress, and then you will be alone as long as you wish.”

One of the guards made a sound in his throat as though he were choking. Helpless to do otherwise, Terisa blushed again as Saddith ushered her into her rooms. As soon as the door was closed, she turned to see if Castellan Lebbick had kept his word.

He had: the bolt was fixed.

The rooms had also been cleaned and tidied. The strewn peacock feathers of the previous night were gone. A decanter of wine and a few goblets had been set on a table near one wall.

She was relieved when Saddith unfastened the hooks at the back of the gown and the pressure around her chest was released. Her lungs felt tight, as though she hadn’t taken a decent breath for hours. Gladly, she dressed herself in her flannel shirt, corduroy pants, and moccasins. Then she waited as patiently as she could until Saddith had built up the fires, replenished the lamps, and made her departure.

At once, Terisa bolted the door. Then she went to the wardrobe with the concealed door and made sure her chair was still propped securely against that entrance. It was impossible that she would ever be formidable. She didn’t want any man to look at her as Master Eremis did.

Unless Eremis himself did it again. Just once. So that she might have a chance to learn what it meant.

But when she went to one of her windows to gaze out over the winterscape of Orison and try to make some sense of her emotions, the face she remembered most vividly was Geraden’s – his expression flat and neutral, held rigidly blank because she had hurt him and he didn’t intend to show it.

***

During the afternoon, as the sun westered toward the cold, white hills, she was watching a squad of guards exercise their mounts in the courtyard when she chanced to see a figure that looked like the Perdon stride out into the wet snow and mud. Men on horseback were waiting for him, their shoulders wrapped in heavy cloaks against the weather. He sprang onto a beast they held ready for him. With as much speed as the horses could manage on that footing, they rode out of Orison.

To her, he looked like a man who had made up his mind.

***

After breakfast the next morning, she gave herself a bath, put on her own clothes, and tried to decide what she was going to do. For some reason, she hadn’t been troubled by the sensation that she was fading – even though she had spent the evening alone with her fears and the strangeness of her situation; even though her existence seemed to be more doubtful than ever; even though there were no mirrors anywhere, no kinds of glass in which she could see herself reflected. Nevertheless her problem remained. The mirror that had brought her here was false. She wasn’t an Imager – and Mordant needed help at least as powerful as an Imager’s. A man in black had tried to kill her. She had seen men torn apart like raw meat by creatures out of nowhere. People who counted on her were going to get hurt.

She had to do something about it.

Well, what, exactly?

She still had no idea.

For that reason, she jumped up and ran to answer it when she heard a knock at her door. It sounded like an offer of rescue.

Unbolting the door, she pulled it open.

Master Eremis stood outside.

He had Geraden with him.

“Good morning, my lady,” the Master said cheerfully. “I see that you have slept well. Your eyes are altogether brighter this morning – which I had not thought possible. I must confess, however” – he leered at her – “that I prefer yesterday’s apparel. But no matter. I have come to escort you to the meeting of the Congery. “

This was too sudden. Her heart was still pounding in reply to his unexpected presence. “The Congery?” she asked as if she were deaf or stupid. “Am I invited?”

Instinctively, she turned to Geraden for an answer.

The Apt’s face was deliberately blank. He looked like a man who had taken an oath to stifle his emotions. Apparently, he still felt hurt, but didn’t want to show it. Or was he just trying to keep his reactions to Master Eremis under control? She couldn’t tell.

Nevertheless he was the one she trusted to tell her what was happening.

He didn’t quite meet her gaze. “Actually, neither of us is invited,” he said neutrally. “But Master Eremis wants us to go with him anyway.”

“I do, indeed,” said the Master. “I have told you that I mean to show my friendship toward you. And today the Congery will attempt to decide what action the lady Terisa’s presence and Mordant’s need require. Surely that discussion will be of some interest to you, my lady?”

Because she had hurt him – and because she had no idea where she stood with Master Eremis or the Congery – she tried to find some way to ask Geraden what she should do. But the words wouldn’t come. Eremis’ smile seemed to stop them in her throat.

Geraden scanned the room. Still neutrally, he said, “It may not be pleasant. At least half the Imagers are going to be offended when we show up without being invited. But Master Eremis doesn’t seem to care about that. And the opportunity is too important. I don’t think we should miss it.”

Listening to him gave Terisa the odd impression that he had aged since the previous day.

In an effort to show him how much she appreciated his reply, she said, “All right,” without a glance at Eremis. “I’ll go.” Then she stood still under the Master’s quick frown of vexation, although it made her heart quake.

Unfortunately, Geraden’s gaze didn’t rise above her knees; he didn’t see that she was trying to apologize.

Master Eremis got even with her by giving her an exaggerated bow in the direction of the door and saying, “If you will so graciously condescend, my lady?” His mockery was plain, but his quick smile took the sting out of it. The way he looked at her reminded her of his finger’s touch on the curve of her breast. Before she was altogether sure of what she was doing, she returned a shy smile of her own. Somehow, she accepted his arm, and he escorted her out of the room.

Geraden followed without expression.

At once, one of the guards stepped forward to call attention to himself. “Master Eremis.”

Eremis paused, cocked an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Castellan Lebbick’s orders. We’re supposed to know where the lady is at all times. Where are you taking her?”

Terisa was a bit surprised. No mention of those orders had been made the previous day, when she had left her rooms with Geraden. She glanced at him and saw that he, too, was surprised. His blankness lifted, and he concentrated as if he were thinking hard. The exertion improved his appearance considerably.

But this discrepancy in the guards’ behavior was something that Master Eremis obviously knew nothing about. “I have invited her to a meeting of the Congery,” he answered smoothly – acid under a satin surface. “Doubtless Castellan Lebbick – by which I mean King Joyse – will also wish to know what the Congery means to discuss in her presence.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “And doubtless his spies will tell him shortly after the event. Come, my lady.”

As though she were dressed for a formal ball, he took her grandly down the stairs.

His route toward Orison’s former dungeons was the same one Geraden had used yesterday. As they walked, he bent his tall form slightly over her, at once deferential, proprietary, and courtly. They must have looked like they were sharing secrets. She didn’t have anything to say, however; all the talk was his. She was looking among the people they passed in the halls for any face that might remind her of the man who had attacked her. So he caught her completely off guard by commenting casually, “The Perdon and I discussed you at some length yesterday, my lady.”

She was too startled to respond. Surely she wasn’t the kind of woman men discussed at length?

He chuckled as if she had said something clever. “He has a – what shall I call it?” – he savored the word in anticipation – “a vast experience of women, but he and I disagreed as to which of your many attractions would prove to be the most delectable. I have promised to give him an answer when he returns to Orison.”

The idea made her shiver. What did he mean? Something intimate and presumptuous – but what? Her mind remained stubbornly blank on the question. How would he touch her? What emotions would he draw out of her? She was too ignorant: ignorant of men, of course, but also of herself.

Unconsciously, she held his arm as though she were cold and needed warmth.

Crossing the disused ballroom with Geraden behind them, they took the corridor which went down to the laborium of the Congery. Again, she lost her bearings immediately among the doors and turns; but at last she recognized the straight passageway leading to the former torture chamber which the Imagers now used for their debates. The guards outside saluted, then opened the massive wooden door for Master Eremis, Terisa, and Geraden to enter the meeting hall.

From its perimeter, beyond the four heavy pillars that supported the ceiling, the large, round chamber seemed to clench around the Masters who had already gathered there. But when Eremis took Terisa toward the curved circle of benches and the better light of the lamps, her perspective changed; the space began to feel a bit less oppressive, a bit less like a crypt buried under a pile of old stone.

There were at least ten Imagers staring at her and Geraden as Master Eremis led them forward. A few of them sat on the benches, leaning toward or away from the carved railing that circled the center of the chamber; the rest stood around the dais. Two days ago, that dais had held the mirror of her translation. No mirrors were present now, however. As a result, the dais looked more like what it had once been: a raised platform to display the interrogation of prisoners.

Terisa had no trouble identifying Master Barsonage: she remembered his bald head, his eyebrows like tufts of gorse, his face the color and texture of cut pine, his wide girth. And two or three of the other Imagers she recollected vaguely: they must have been standing nearby when Geraden had pulled her out of the glass. But most of the Masters had a strange and hostile appearance, as though they were prepared to judge her sight unseen. To put her to the question without mercy.

“What is this, Master Eremis?” Master Barsonage asked darkly. “Did we not explicitly determine that neither Apt Geraden nor the lady should take part in our discussions?”

Geraden studied the groins of the ceiling.

“You did, Master Barsonage,” replied Master Eremis in good humor. “But I am prepared to persuade the Congery otherwise.”

The mediator frowned sternly. “This does not please me. It is frivolous. Our survival – and indeed the fate of all Mordant – hinges on the choices we must make. We have not the time” – he faced Eremis squarely – “and I have not the patience to reopen finished decisions.”

Several of the Imagers nodded, muttering assent. Eremis didn’t appear popular among them.

“Let us not be hasty,” a familiar voice put in, as if the speaker were meek and disliked calling attention to himself. “For my part, Master Barsonage, I am willing to hear Master Eremis. Perhaps he has too little concern for the dignity of the Congery, but surely he is not frivolous.”

Until she heard his voice, Terisa didn’t realize that Master Quillon was sitting on one of the benches halfway around the circle from her. His gray robe and nondescript demeanor blended into the stone background. Involuntarily, her gaze leapt to him, at once glad to see someone she thought of as a friend and fearful that in his presence she wouldn’t adequately keep his secret. But he didn’t meet her look. His bright eyes watched the other Masters, and his nose twitched alertly.

“In any case,” drawled Master Eremis, “it is my right to bring whatever I see fit before the Congery. That is one of our rules, Master Barsonage, as you well know.”

An Imager said, “That’s true.” Another agreed.

Master Barsonage made a snorting noise, but he didn’t trouble to argue the point. Turning away, he resumed his conversation with the Masters standing near him.

For a moment, Master Eremis grinned at the mediator’s back. Then he drew Terisa toward an empty bench and seated her there, with the railing between her and the center of the chamber. With a gesture, half brusque, half cheerful, he commanded Geraden to the bench as well. Eremis himself remained on his feet, however.

From her seat, Terisa received an exaggerated impression of how much taller he was than any of the men near him.

The room didn’t seem as cold as it had been two days ago.

Alone or in small groups, more Imagers arrived. She noticed now that two or three of them were young enough to be recently elevated Apts – as young as Geraden. Among the others was someone else she recognized: heavyset Master Gilbur, a scowl cut deeply into the thick flesh of his face under his black-flecked white beard, his crooked back counterbalanced by the power of his hands. She remembered his voice, as guttural as the bite of a saw. But young or old, familiar or otherwise, they all stared at her and frowned at Geraden. Apparently, none of the Masters had improved his opinion of the Apt and her. As he passed, Gilbur rasped rhetorically, “What foolishness is this?”

Shortly, she heard Master Barsonage murmur, “Well, we are here. Let us begin.” Imagers shuffled themselves to the benches, their yellow chasubles dangling. There was no escape: all the doors were closed. And they were strutted and bolted so that they could only be opened from inside. The Congery valued its privacy. If Master Eremis hadn’t brought her here so confidently, she would never have come. She had nothing in her that might enable her to outface twenty-five or thirty antagonistic men.

As soon as all the Masters were seated and the mediator was alone beside the dais, he said abruptly, “Be brief, Master Eremis. We have more important questions to confront.”

In response, Master Eremis stood taller. His smile appeared easy, impervious to insult; but his skin had an underhue of blood, and his pale eyes glittered dangerously. “Master Barsonage,” he said in a conversational tone, “with deference to your age, place, and experience, I doubt whether your questions are more important than mine.

“No one here has failed to note that I have brought with me two persons expressly prohibited from this meeting – Apt Geraden and the lady Terisa of Morgan.” He didn’t glance at either of them: he was playing to the Masters. “They are the questions we must confront. He is the issue of power, for we still have no understanding of how he contrived to find her in a mirror focused upon our chosen champion.”

Geraden lowered his head and covered his face with his hands.

“She represents action – the action we wish to take for our own preservation and the saving of all Mordant. Who belongs in our discussion, if they do not?

“First let us consider Apt Geraden—”

“Paugh, Eremis!” Master Gilbur interrupted rudely. “All this has already been said. A child could make the same arguments. Come to the point.”

“The point, Master Gilbur?” Eremis waggled his eyebrows. “Do you wish me to forgo the fine speech I have prepared for this solemn occasion? Very well. I will trust to your penetrating good sense and make no further defense of my proposal.

“I propose” – suddenly, he raised his voice until it rang around the stone walls – “that Apt Geraden be granted the chasuble of a Master!”

While his shout died away, the Imagers gaped at him. Geraden’s head jerked up, his eyes were wide with emotion. Terisa thought, I mean to show my friendship toward you. So this is what he meant. Master Eremis had been planning to gain recognition for the Apt, to see that he was finally rewarded for his years of devotion. She couldn’t understand why the expression in Geraden’s face was neither pleasure nor gratitude, but rather a kind of fear.

Then through the silence she heard a faint sound like muffled laughter. Scanning the circle, she saw Master Quillon biting the side of his hand to keep himself quiet.

Several other Masters were less successful. One of them let out a guffaw like the burst of a ruptured wineskin, and half the chamber broke into chuckles and hoots of laughter.

Slowly, Geraden’s skin turned red until it looked hot enough to catch fire.

Master Eremis’ grin was like his gaze – at once sharp, ominous, and vastly amused.

The mediator didn’t laugh. He faced Master Eremis, his chin out-thrust. Without effort, he made himself heard through the glee of the Imagers. “Master Eremis, it is not kind to humiliate the Apt in this way.”

“Humiliate, Master Barsonage?” returned Master Eremis instantly in a tone of protest and outrage, though he didn’t lose his grin. “I am entirely serious.” More laughter greeted this assertion. In response, he began to shout at all the Masters together. “Apt Geraden has accomplished something that no Imager before him has ever achieved! Even the arch-Imager Vagel could not use glass as he has! Will you laugh at him? By the pure sand of dreams, you will not!” His voice quenched the mirth around. “Geraden is as worthy of the chasuble as any of you, and I will have my proposal answered!”

Still he didn’t lose his grin.

“Oh, forsooth,” said Master Gilbur before anyone else could speak. “ ‘I will have my proposal answered.’ ” His sarcasm was as heavy as a truncheon. “You dream, Eremis. You have put your head into a flat mirror and brought it out as mad as Havelock. Make Geraden a Master? Must I explain even this to you?”

“You must indeed,” Master Eremis replied like sweet poison, while the rest of the Congery watched him in various states of uncertainty and annoyance. “I ignore the offense, but I must have the explanation.”

“Have it, then,” Gilbur growled. “We could not accept him to the Congery, were he the greatest Imager in recorded time. We do not have his loyalty. While his body serves us, his heart and mind belong to King Joyse. It is no secret that when he left with her two days ago he took her straight to that old dodderer. But what did he say to her along the way? Ask him that, Eremis. What did he say of us to the King? Ask him that. And how has he served our interests with her since then? Master Barsonage commanded him not to reveal anything to her until the Congery had made its decisions. I will wager that command was broken before Apt Geraden and the lady left this chamber.”

The muscles at the corners of Geraden’s eyes flinched at every word. Yet he didn’t lower his head or look away. Instead, he grew pale, as though his emotions were being honed out of him, leaving him focused and sharp. Holding her breath for him, Terisa thought that at any moment now someone was going to mention the flat glass which had changed. Then he would be asked to explain what he and she had been doing there.

“Apt Geraden.” Master Barsonage was gazing at Geraden, his eyes level and solemn. “You must reply to this.”

Geraden’s jaws knotted, and he jerked to his feet. His deliberate blankness had failed him like an inadequate mask. “Master Barsonage,” he said, biting down on his voice so that it wouldn’t shake, “I am loyal to King Joyse – as all of us should be. He created Mordant. He gave us peace. He made the Congery to be what it is. But he” – his voice snapped for a second – “he has no allegiance to me. I kept your command, Master Barsonage, while I took the lady Terisa of Morgan to the King. But when I reached him, he paid as little attention to me as you have. He gave me your same command. And he dismissed my responsibility for the lady.

“Master Gilbur implies that I’m a spy for my King.” Acid leaked past his control. “I’m not. What purpose would it serve? If I tried to tell him the secrets of the Congery, he wouldn’t listen.”

Stiffly, he sat down.

Terisa heard his hurt and his need. At the same time, she remembered her dream of winter, in which three horsemen rode to kill her, and a young man dressed like Geraden fought to save her. She had remained motionless in that dream, as passive as she had been all her life.

Remembering, she stood up.

“He’s telling the truth.” She was trembling, but she didn’t let that stop her. “He obeyed you. And King Joyse dismissed him. He told him not to answer any of my questions.” Then, impelled by a secret flash of anger or adrenaline, she added, “The King didn’t give me any answers either. He feels the same way you do. He doesn’t trust me.”

Master Quillon stared vacantly at nothing.

For a second, Geraden’s face shone with relief and gladness. The vitality that made him so likable was restored. But the smile Master Eremis turned on her looked as gentle and friendly as the strike of a hawk.

Abruptly, her courage failed. She sat down and bowed her head, trying to hide behind her hair.

“Thank you, my lady,” Master Barsonage said quietly. “Apt Geraden, it is my opinion that you are owed an apology – by Master Gilbur, if no one else.”

Master Gilbur made a hoarse spitting noise and muttered, “Do you consider that dogswater the truth?”

“Since it is unlikely” – Master Barsonage whetted his tone” – that Master Gilbur, or any other Master, will do so, I must apologize for them. Any son of the Domne deserves better treatment than you have received.”

“It’s not important,” murmured Geraden. Then he raised his voice. “I would be satisfied if the Congery simply decided to treat the lady Terisa with more consideration.”

“Very good,” Master Gilbur whispered harshly. “He is not content with an apology from the mediator of the Congery. Now he must try to teach us our priorities and duties.”

“Have done, Master Gilbur!” snapped Barsonage at once. “This does not become you. Apt Geraden’s manners are not what we must decide here. It is his elevation to the chasuble of a Master.”

Master Gilbur replied with a glare that would have split a wooden plank.

The mediator faced him for a long moment. But what Master Barsonage saw seemed to unsettle or alarm him: he was the one who looked away. The silence in the chamber became strained as he frowned into the distance, looking for self-possession.

“You have made your proposal, Master Eremis. Do you wish to speak further?”

“I will let Apt Geraden’s evident merit speak for itself,” replied Master Eremis. Bowing to the Congery, he sat down.

“Very well. Masters!” Barsonage called out formally, “you have heard the proposal. Shall it be accepted? What is the will of the Congery?”

Terisa was beginning to understand, partly from Master Gilbur’s irritation, but mostly from Master Eremis’ strange fierceness, that there were more things going on here than she could identify. Ulterior motives were at work. She watched in unexpected suspense as the Imagers voted by show of hands.

For a moment, she thought that Geraden had won. A number of hands were favorably raised, though most of them – with the exception of Eremis’ – appeared to be reluctant. Master Quillon’s was not among them, however. He was watching Geraden, and his eyes held a look of understanding and empathy, but he only raised his hand to vote against the proposal.

He was in the majority. When Master Barsonage had finished counting, he announced that the proposal was defeated.

Oh, Geraden, Terisa said to him silently. I’m sorry. But she didn’t have enough nerve to speak aloud.

“Masters,” Eremis enunciated softly but distinctly, “you will regret this.”

Master Gilbur replied with a snarl of derision.

“Apt Geraden,” said the mediator in a way that suggested his self-possession was still in doubt, “the vote has been taken. I must ask you to leave us now.”

To Terisa, Geraden had never looked more like a man with whom the Congery would have to reckon. “Master Barsonage,” he said as he rose to his feet, “you must make the lady Terisa a party to your decisions. It is her right to know and understand what is done here.” Perhaps she had hurt his feelings the day before; that didn’t appear to affect his sense of justice. “And it’s folly to deny her. If she’s simply a woman accidentally translated, then she can’t do any harm. And if she’s an Imager secretly – if she’s the augured champion of Mordant’s need – then you’re wrong to risk angering her against us.”

His assertion still in the air of the chamber, he turned sharply away from the Imagers and left the meeting hall.

Master Eremis shook his head and sighed. He was smiling at no one in particular.

Geraden’s departure twisted Terisa’s stomach. She was already in knots when she realized that no mention had been made of the flat glass with the impossibly shifting Image.

“Master Barsonage,” rasped Gilbur, “may we dismiss this woman also and go about our work? There are reasons for haste. And I do not enjoy spending entire days in debate.”

“You are in haste, Master Gilbur,” put in Master Quillon unexpectedly, “but you are also hasty. We must not be too quick to set aside the questions Apt Geraden has raised.”

“Masters,” Eremis said, “I will give you good reason why we must accept the lady Terisa of Morgan among us. It has come to us from her own mouth. King Joyse desires her ignorant. If that is his policy, then surely it must be ours to inform and enlighten her. Why else do we have these debates, if not to break the mute inaction which our King imposes upon us?”

“Master Eremis” – Quillon’s voice had an edge which he usually kept hidden – “do you propose that we commit treason?”

“If it is treason,” the tall Master responded, “to fight for our survival – and for the defense of all Mordant – then I will propose it. But for the moment I advocate only that we permit the lady Terisa to remain during our debate.”

“You make all matters complex,” said Master Barsonage stiffly. “I do not like the direction in which you take us. But with Master Gilbur I wish to reach the meat of the question, so that I will no longer have to guess what is in your mind.

“Masters, you have heard the proposal. Shall it be accepted? What is the will of the Congery?”

This time, Quillon and Gilbur were on opposite sides of the vote. Once again, however, the former was with the majority. By a significant margin, the Congery elected to let Terisa stay.

Suddenly, there were too many eyes on her, too many men looking to see how she would react. She lowered her head to hide her disconcertedness. It was Geraden who should have been allowed to remain.

“Very well.” The mediator sounded tired. “Now we turn to the matter which must be decided today.”

“At last,” breathed Master Gilbur.

“I will not remind you of the debate which brought us to this point,” Master Barsonage went on. “It is enough to say that we must choose a policy – or a course of action – to meet the unexpected outcome of Apt Geraden’s attempt to translate our chosen champion. We decided on that attempt because it was demanded by our circumstances – and because it appeared to be supported by augury. And we decided to send Geraden into the glass out of respect” – here Master Gilbur snorted again – “out of respect, I say,” the mediator snapped, “for our King’s belief that what is seen in mirrors is not created by Imagery, but rather has its own existence outside our knowledge.

“But that has gone entirely awry. And we have realized that it is impossible for us to know what role the lady Terisa of Morgan will play in the fate of Mordant. Therefore we must now choose where we will stand. Will we accept the consequences of what we have done and await its outcome? Or will we choose some other policy or action to meet our dilemma?

“Masters, you must decide.”

Without rising, Master Eremis said immediately, “I say that we must accept the consequences of what we have done and await its outcome.” Now he spoke as if he wanted to avoid provoking an adverse reaction. “As I have observed repeatedly” – he permitted himself no sarcasm – “the lady Terisa represents an enormous and unprecedented display of power, which we do not understand. We must not take further risks until we have learned more of her.”

“Is this you, Master Eremis?” a younger voice interposed. The speaker was an Imager of about Geraden’s age; he didn’t hesitate to be sarcastic. “You sound craven. We have already determined that we cannot know what the lady represents. So we cannot make our choices on that basis. In our peril, it does not matter that Apt Geraden did something unprecedented. It matters only that he failed. The augury itself is sound. It must be, or we have no understanding of Imagery. Only the Apt failed. We must try again.”

A flash of passion showed in Eremis’ eyes, but he didn’t retort.

Quietly, Master Barsonage asked, “And did you never fail when you were an Apt?”

“I did not make a lifetime of it,” retorted the young Imager. “As well you know.”

“In any case,” Master Gilbur cut into the discussion, gathering force as he spoke, “whether Apts are prone to error is not at issue here. I agree that we must try again. I will try again. Using the original glass, of which Apt Geraden’s is a copy, I will translate our chosen champion to us” – abruptly, he shook his huge fist at Master Quillon – “and blast the King’s scruples, whatever they are! He will sit and play hop-board with that madman Havelock until the ground cracks under him and all Orison is swallowed in ruins. If Mordant is to endure, we must have power!”

“Well said, Master Gilbur!” Two or three of the Imagers applauded. But Master Barsonage faced Gilbur with undisguised dismay.

Terisa felt a jolt like a moment of vision as she saw the armored figure again in her mind: though the landscape he faced was alien to him as much as to her, he confronted it as though he were in the habit of victory; and his strange weapons gave him all the strength he needed.

“Then you also,” another Master said, “advocate what Quillon calls treason? Or do you mean to enter the glass and ask the champion to come to us?” A pause. “He will shoot you.”

“I do not fear ‘what Quillon calls treason,” ’ Master Gilbur returned. “Do none of you understand the reason we are in such peril? It is not Mordant which is truly threatened. It is the Congery. We are in peril because all men who have ever hated King Joyse or loved power covet what we represent – all the resources of Imagery in the world we know. And they dare act on what they covet because King Joyse has abandoned us. He created the Congery, and he shackled it with rules which serve no purpose but his own, and now he has cut it adrift. We must fend for ourselves or die.”

“I agree.” Master Eremis continued to speak carefully. “But how must we fend for ourselves? That is where we differ.”

“Master Eremis,” Gilbur grated, “you differ from everyone. You have no sense.”

Tentatively, as though he wished to avert hostility, Master Quillon asked, “Would it help, perhaps, if we looked again at the augury?”

“Would that help you?” Master Gilbur answered in a nasty tone. “Have you forgotten what it shows? Or do you believe it may have changed?”

Quillon seemed unwilling to take offense. “I would like to be sure that it has not.”

“As would I,” said another Imager.

“In addition,” Master Quillon went on, “there is the question of interpretation. Perhaps the experience of the past few days will teach us to read the augury more clearly.”

A handful of men around the circle promptly indicated their assent.

Master Barsonage sighed. “It will take a moment to have the glass brought here. Masters, we do not vote on this. Any of you has the right to make such a demand – if the demand is seconded.”

“I wish to see the glass,” one of Master Quillon’s supporters said at once.

“And I,” said another.

“Very well.” The mediator nodded toward someone Terisa couldn’t see; the sounds of the door as it opened and closed carried distinctly through the chamber.

No one spoke while the Congery waited. Perhaps this was part of the Masters’ protocol. Or perhaps none of them wanted to commit himself until Quillon’s request had been satisfied. Master Barsonage stared beyond the circle. Master Gilbur ground his big hands together as if he were practicing breaking things. Master Eremis leaned back on the bench and gazed nonchalantly at the ceiling like a man whose good manners kept him from whistling. Master Quillon appeared to be making a conscious effort not to twitch his nose, but he didn’t succeed. The other Imagers exhibited varying degrees of impatience, curiosity, assurance, and alarm.

Terisa had the impression that she ought to be more worried. There were undercurrents in this debate which she was able to sense but not define. They might be dangerous. People were plotting – and plots meant harm. What she felt, however, was a small, hesitant eagerness. She wanted to see the augury that had led Geraden to her.

It was brought into the chamber by two Apts, carrying it between them on a beautifully polished wooden tray nearly five feet on a side. As the Apts passed near her on their way toward the dais, she saw that the tray was covered with pieces of broken glass. These pieces had all been laid flat on the wood, and none of them touched each other; but they didn’t appear to have been arranged in any other way.

So softly that no one else could hear him, Master Eremis murmured to her, “Perhaps Apt Geraden neglected to explain how auguring is done, my lady. There are two arts—to create a flat glass of the proper kind, accurately focused—and to interpret the outcome. In simple terms, a flat mirror is made that shows some person, place, or event from which the augury is to be extrapolated. For example, if we wished to determine whether our future contained a war with Cadwal, we might attempt to create a glass focused on Carmag – a glass in which High King Festten could be seen. Mirrors show places, but it is people who cause wars. Then the mirror is dropped. If it has been correctly made, it breaks into fragments that show pieces of what will come from the Image on which it was focused.

“This glass was created by Master Barsonage.” He smiled sardonically. “For that reason, none of us ask whether it was correctly made.” Then he added, “The other difficulty, as you will see, is to interpret the results. I have always suspected, my lady, that augury exists primarily in the mind of the interpreter.”

Once the Apts had set their burden down on the dais, most of the Masters left the benches and crowded around it. Only Gilbur and his most outspoken supporters apparently felt no need to look at the broken glass again. Everyone else cast at least a glance at the augury. Taking her arm confidently, Master Eremis guided Terisa among them until she stood at the edge of the dais. The Apts had stepped back: the tray of glass was clearly displayed in front of her.

The mirror had broken into dozens of fragments.

Each of them showed a different Image.

And all the Images were moving. When she first looked at them, they seemed to be groping blindly toward each other, as if they aspired to some kind of wholeness.

Pieces of what will come.

The sight made her momentarily dizzy: it seethed like migraine. She felt that she was going to fall. But she closed her eyes and pushed down her queasiness. When she looked again, she held herself steady by concentrating on one or two Images at a time.

—of what will come.

At first, she was startled by how many of them she recognized – and by how precise they were, despite their small size. In one, King Joyse hunched over a game of hop-board, a game that had collapsed into chaos, the men scattered everywhere. He stared at it as if he were determined to make sense of the confusion, and his hands moved aimlessly over the board. In another, Geraden had begun to step into a mirror; but his body blocked the Image within the Image. In another, he appeared again, this time standing surrounded entirely by mirrors, all of them reflecting scenes of violence and destruction against him. And in yet another, the armored warrior in the alien landscape fired his weapons past the edge of the glass.

But in fact those were only a small handful of the Images. The others reached beyond her experience. One shard showed a castle – she guessed it to be Orison – with a smoking hole torn in one side and a look of death about it. Several pieces of glass held Images of battle: men on horseback hacking at each other so vividly that she could see the blood in the wounds; figures that looked like kings rampaging; soldiers on foot spitted by spears; corpses trampled; carnage. Smoke blotted out the sun. And other Images were of things that could only have come into existence through Imagery: rocks falling from the sky as if off the side of a mountain; creatures so hot that whatever they touched caught fire; devouring worms. Villages were razed. Castles fell. Crops burned. Men, women, children died.

And yet here and there in the squirming mosaic were scenes of peace, perhaps even of victory: a plain purple pennon set on a hillside; a celebration that might have been a wedding, taking place in a high ballroom; farmers planting a field still scarred by battle.

Then another Image caught her eye.

Three riders. Driving their mounts forward, straight out of the glass, driving hard, so that the strain in the shoulders of their horses was as plain as the hate in the keen edges of their upraised swords. Fixed on her across the gulf of augury and translation, and riding hard to hasten the moment when she and her future would come together.

The riders of her dream.

Of course.

At once, a wonderful and ludicrous calm came over her. It lasted for only a moment; but while it endured she lifted her head, half expecting to hear the heart-tug of horns. Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of that before?

Not the riders. She didn’t know what they meant. She hardly cared. But the future. Mirrors didn’t simply span distance or dimension: they had the capacity to span time as well. Pieces of what will come. That was why she had been able to see the same Image in two different seasons, the same scene in spring and winter: time. What she had witnessed wasn’t proof that the mirror that had brought her here was false; she had seen only another demonstration of the potential that made augury possible.

And that meant—

From across the dais, Master Quillon asked blandly, “Does this shed any light for you, my lady?” as though he were inquiring only out of politeness. “I confess that it baffles me.”

“The secret of interpretation, my lady,” Master Eremis murmured, “is to read the flow of the Images. Their movement is not random. There is a – perhaps it might be called ‘current’ – which runs from crisis to action to outcome. Unfortunately, this current is not easily discerned. We see Mordant’s danger. We see the importance of Geraden. He is in august company – King Joyse, High King Festten, the Alend Monarch. And he is the only individual who appears twice. The champion we thought he would bring to us is here. Also, we see scenes we do not understand.” He pointed at Geraden surrounded by mirrors. “And we see outcomes – ruin and hope. But how the Images flow is harder to determine. Does Apt Geraden lead to hope, or to ruin? What does King Joyse meditate upon while his enemies ride against him?”

“In brief,” Master Gilbur rasped from his seat, “nothing has changed. The augury tells us only what we have already seen.”

“When we decided that Apt Geraden should attempt to translate our champion,” explained Master Barsonage, overriding Gilbur, “the logic of it seemed plain enough. He clearly could not be the cause of ruin. Ruin confronted us already. Therefore he must be a source of hope.

“Now,” he sighed, “the interpretation is less obvious.”

“Oh, forsooth.” Master Gilbur was growing steadily angrier. “ ‘Less obvious,’ indeed. Nothing has been more obvious. The Apt’s involvement in our plight is the path which leads to ruin. Only the champion you see before you offers any hope.”

Through his teeth, the mediator replied, “That is what we must decide.”

For another moment or two, the Imagers stood around the dais. Some of them whispered among themselves. Others pointed out details of the augury which their companions might have missed. Then, slowly, they returned to their benches. Still holding Terisa’s arm, Eremis steered her back to her seat.

But when the Masters were in their places again, a silence fell over the Congery. Everyone except Gilbur seemed lost in thought – perhaps frustrated that the augury didn’t provide a clearer answer, perhaps hesitant to consider the drastic solution Master Gilbur had proposed. And he continued glowering about him as if he were determined not to speak first.

At last, an Imager Terisa didn’t know asked, “Is there no middle ground? Must we either do nothing or risk doing too much?”

“No,” another muttered. “The King has not left us that choice. Our plight is extreme. By governing Mordant like a madman, he has made the situation too grave to be met on any middle ground.”

“I have heard a rumor,” said a third Master portentously. “It is said that the Perdon came yesterday to speak with King Joyse. He reported an army of thirty thousand Cadwals mustering against him beyond the Vertigon, and he demanded reinforcement.

“He was refused.”

The shocked expressions of several of the Imagers showed that this story hadn’t reached them. Master Eremis smiled vacantly.

“Nevertheless,” Master Barsonage put in more loudly than necessary, trying to shore up a weak position, “he is the King. That decision was his to make. We do not know what reasons he may have had for his refusal.”

“True,” retorted Master Gilbur. “And I, for one, do not care. When an assassin tries to strike a knife into my heart, and the man who is sworn to protect me steps aside, I do not ask for his reasons. First I fight the assassin. And when I have defeated him, and have bound them both in irons, and perhaps broken a few of their limbs for good measure, then I ask my sworn protector what his reasons may have been.”

“Master Gilbur.” The mediator swung his bulk to face Gilbur squarely. A combination of anger and fear stained his skin. “How have you become so savage? Your arguments I understand, but not the tone of hatred in which you utter them. Whatever else we may say of him, we must say that King Joyse created the Congery. He made us who we are.”

“Who we are,” sneered Gilbur. “Divided and useless.”

Grimly, Master Barsonage continued, “We cannot make our decisions now on a basis of blind passion. What causes your loathing of him, Master Gilbur?”

Master Gilbur clenched his hands together until the knuckles whitened.

“Personally,” drawled Master Eremis, “I believe that good Master Gilbur once had the insolence to ask for the hand of one of the King’s daughters in marriage. Quite understandably, King Joyse laughed at him.”

A few of the Imagers might have been tempted to laugh, but Master Gilbur silenced them by surging to his feet.

“Am I savage, Master Barsonage? Do you hear hatred in my voice? Do I display loathing? I have cause.

“As you know, I was one of the last Imagers brought into the Congery in the days before the defeat of the arch-Imager Vagel. But the story of how I was brought to the Congery has never been told.

“I have given my life to my researches, and in those days no other question interested me, although of course I knew of the King’s invitation to all Imagers to leave their private laboriums and join him in Orison. I did not know, however, that another Imager had moved secretly near to my lone cave in the Armigite hills. This corrupt wretch coveted my research – and he attacked me, seeking to wrest what I knew from me. I defended myself, but he had taken me by surprise, and I could not win. In our struggle, a portion of the ceiling of my cave collapsed, pinning me under a block of stone I was unable to shift. My attacker snatched what he desired most of my possessions and fled.

“As it happened, he fled straight into the arms of King Joyse. The King had learned of my attacker before I had, and he was riding toward us to deal with the man when I fell. Instantly, my attacker turned his power against the King. But he was no match for Adept Havelock in those days, and he was killed.

“Weakened by the damage it had suffered, the ceiling of my cave continued to fall. But King Joyse risked his life to enter and lift the stone and carry me to safety. He could not heal the harm done to my back – the harm which marks me still. But he restored my health, recovered my researches, and gave my life purpose in the Congery.”

“And for this you hate him?” asked Master Barsonage incredulously.

Master Gilbur slashed the air with hooked fingers. “Yes! Oh, he was wise in the creation of the Congery. He was strong and valiant in the making of Mordant. And he was good to me. But he did not teach me to look upon his subsequent weakness, his folly, his refusal to act, as though such things were anything except betrayal.

“I despise what he has become, Master Barsonage. If you or I slipped into our dotage, the servants of Orison would tend us in our beds, and our responsibilities would pass elsewhere. Our incontinence or loss of mind would do no hurt. But he remains King. And he takes no action except to prevent any action that might offer us hope.

“You should be savage, as I am. The man in all Mordant whom we have most cause to love has betrayed us!”

His shout echoed through the chamber. At once, however, he sat down. Into the silence, he growled softly, “I have been attacked and broken once. We must have power to defend ourselves.”

Then he bowed his head into his hands and sat still.

No one spoke. Master Eremis shifted in his seat as if he wanted to say something, then thought better of it. Master Quillon appeared to be shrinking: he might have been making a conscious effort to disappear into the background. The mediator clenched his arms over his heavy chest like a man who felt like raging and did not intend to let himself go. Some of the Imagers watched the rest of the circle as if they were looking for hints. Others studiously avoided anyone else’s gaze.

Terisa listened to the tension and wondered what the implications of being real were. What did it demand of her? What should she do?

Abruptly, Master Gilbur hit the rail in front of him so hard she thought she heard the wood crack. “Balls of a dog!” he roared. “Will you sit there forever? If you consider me wrong, say so. Does not one of you possess bowels enough to tell me to my face that I am wrong?”

At once, the young Imager who had jeered at Master Eremis said loudly, “I second Master Gilbur’s proposal. We must call our champion to us.”

His words broke a dam: suddenly, the air was full of voices urging that the matter be put to a vote.

Still gripping himself hard, Master Barsonage waited until quiet was restored. Then he said stiffly, like a breaking board, “Very well. This is madness, but it must be answered. I know my duty. You have heard the proposal. Shall it be accepted? What is the will of the Congery?”

Terisa counted the show of hands as rapidly as she could. Master Barsonage, Master Eremis, Master Quillon, and several others voted against the proposal.

They were in the minority. Master Gilbur had won.

The mediator snarled his disgust.

As if shocked by what it had just done, the Congery relapsed into silence. Imagers blinked at each other uncertainly. A grin of anticipation bared Master Gilbur’s teeth; but he savored his victory and said nothing. Nobody seemed to know what to do next.

Then Master Eremis rose to his feet. If anything, his manner was more nonchalant than ever; but Terisa saw in his face – especially in his eyes – a new excitement, a taste for the game he was playing.

“I am surprised,” he drawled. “This is madness, as Master Barsonage has said. I will not challenge the vote, however. It is conceivable, I suppose, that my judgment may be in error.” He flashed a smile to which no one responded.

“Be that as it may,” he continued, “you must next decide when to attempt this translation. Let me beg for a delay. Six days should suffice.”

Master Gilbur jerked up his head as though he had been poked in the ribs. Master Quillon watched Eremis like a small animal staring at a snake.

“A delay, Master Eremis?” asked Barsonage. “Six days?” A quickness had come into his attention; his distress receded. “If Master Gilbur has his way, we will begin the translation at once. Why should we delay?”

“Why should we not?” Master Gilbur retorted trenchantly. “The peril thickens around us like quicksand. Thirty thousand Cadwals are poised against Perdon. The Alend Monarch alone knows what treachery he contemplates. We are attacked by Imagery of all kinds – and in all places, as if our enemy has no limitations of time and distance. In six days we may all be dead. But doubtless we will bow to the wisdom of our esteemed Eremis.”

“Master Gilbur” – once again, the insouciant Imager looked hugely and secretly amused – “I advise you to watch your tongue. If you do not, I will watch it for you. In order to watch it well, I will remove it from your head.”

Gilbur replied with a bark of laughter.

“Master Barsonage,” Eremis went on smoothly, “I do not make this request lightly. Here is my reason. Yesterday, after his audience with King Joyse, I spoke with the Perdon. We spoke at some length, and we agreed that Mordant’s plight is dire, that the King’s passivity is insufferable, and that some action must be taken in spite of him.

“Our own dilemma is severe, Masters,” he said to the circle, “but consider the situation of the Cares. It is Perdon that will die first when Cadwal comes to war, Armigite that has always been the first victim of Alend’s aspirations, Termigan and Fayle and Tor that will have their people decimated. Therefore the Perdon promised that he will summon all the lords of the Cares to Orison—with the exception of the Domne, of course, who is too great a friend of the King’s—so that they can try to determine an answer to their common need. And so that they can try to forge an alliance with us.”

Terisa saw dismay on Master Quillon’s face. On the other hand, the mediator listened with visibly increasing enthusiasm.

“They will meet during the night of the sixth day,” Master Eremis continued. “I have been asked to confer with them, to speak for the Congery.”

“What? In six days? For messengers to ride out and the lords to reply?” an angry Master demanded. “At this time of year?” A mutter of agreement rose around him. “If the Armigite is sent for, he may possibly ride the distance in time. Batten is little more than forty miles distant. But the Fayle? The Tor? That is madness. Under the best conditions, the Termigan has seldom made the journey to Orison in less than ten days.”

“Nevertheless,” Master Eremis replied, as suave as poison, “the Perdon has promised it. Will you call him a liar?” Then he smiled. “I do believe, however, that he had decided on this gathering – and had sent out his call – well before he spoke to me. I merely persuaded him to include us in his proposed alliance.”

At once, he resumed what he had been saying. “Masters, I believe that we must not ignore this opportunity to find support for what we do. If we ally ourselves with the lords of the Cares, explaining to them what we propose for Mordant, we will not risk their opposition to our champion. And we will gain friendships across Mordant which may prove of great value in the coming strife.”

Terisa found herself gazing up at him as though her face shone. The boldness and possibilities of what he proposed took her breath away. He was trying to fight for Mordant in a way that made sense to her.

“Also,” Master Barsonage put in promptly, “it may be that the lords will propose a defense which will make the calling of our champion unnecessary. And we will have six more days in which to be sure of what we do. Master Eremis, I congratulate your foresight and initiative. This is well done.”

“Is it?” demanded one of the younger Imagers. “By what right does Master Eremis speak for us in front of the lords of the Cares?”

“As Master Barsonage has said,” Master Eremis said with agleam in his eyes. “By right of foresight and initiative.”

“But you oppose the calling of our champion,” another man protested. “How can we be sure that this is not some ploy to undercut our decision? How can we know that you will advocate our knowledge and position fairly to the lords?”

“Masters,” Eremis answered in a tone of good-natured sarcasm, “the lords will not agree to bare their hearts before the entire Congery. However we may look at the matter, we are the creation of King Joyse, and all men who fear his present policy fear us as well.”

“My question remains,” retorted the man who had just spoken. “How can you be trusted to form an alliance for us, when you oppose what we mean to do?”

For a moment, Master Eremis looked around him – at Master Barsonage, at Master Quillon, whose eyes seemed to bulge with stifled distress, at the Imagers who challenged him. Then he shrugged. “Very well. I will take one of you with me, to ensure that I deal rightly with your decisions. I will risk the ire of the lords.

“Master Gilbur, will you accompany me in this?”

Surprise echoed around the circle. Gilbur gaped. But he quickly nodded, murmuring, “I will.”

Master Barsonage permitted himself a sigh of relief. “Master Gilbur, I take that as a second. Masters, it has been proposed that we delay the translation of our champion for six days, until Master Eremis and Master Gilbur have spoken to the lords of the Cares. Shall it be accepted? What is your will?”

The vote was almost unanimous.

Terisa began breathing more easily, as if a threat had been averted. Six days. Anything could happen in six days.

But Master Eremis wasn’t done. Still standing, he said, “One matter more. The lords of the Cares will come to Orison openly, as befits their station. But they will meet in secret.”

The mediator nodded briskly. “I understand you.” The postponement appeared to have restored his confidence, his command of the situation. “Masters,” he said in an incisive voice, his jaw jutting, “my lady Terisa of Morgan, no one must speak of this. No one. Whatever your private opinion of us, and of what we mean to do, you must not speak.” He addressed the circle generally, but his gaze was fixed on Terisa. “The lords will not trust us if any word of this meeting precedes them. If King Joyse interferes, all hope of any alliance will be lost. We do what we do, not to aggrandize ourselves, but to save Mordant. We must not be betrayed.” Slowly, he moved until he was standing at the rail in front of her: his eyes held hers. “My lady,” he said quietly, “you must not speak of anything you have heard today.”

He gave her a wry smile. “Geraden will question you, I do not doubt. If you become acquainted with her, you will find that the lady Elega is insatiably curious. Castellan Lebbick desires to know everything that takes place in Orison. Even King Joyse may bestir himself to take an interest in you.

“My lady, you must say nothing.”

She tried to meet his eyes, but they were too demanding. He was asking her to make a choice and stand by it – asking her to accept at least a small share of the responsibility for Master Eremis’ success. A passive share, perhaps, but a choice nonetheless. Wasn’t that what people who believed in themselves did? – made choices and stood by them?

She hesitated because she wasn’t ready to promise that she wouldn’t talk to Geraden.

Fortunately, Master Eremis came to her rescue. “Master Barsonage,” he said kindly, “I am certain that we can trust her.”

The mediator glanced at Eremis, frowning as if he disliked his thoughts – as if something in Eremis’ words or tone suddenly raised a host of questions. A moment later, however, he shook his head and turned away.

“Masters,” he said distantly, “are there other matters we must discuss here?”

No one said anything.

“Then let us have done. I think that we have cast enough votes that will shape Mordant’s future for one day.”

Leaving the center of the circle, he passed between the pillars, unbolted a door, and walked out of the chamber.

Terisa looked for Master Quillon. He wasn’t present. Apparently, he had already left.

Master Eremis took her arm and raised her to her feet. “Come, my lady,” he said privately. “This is only your third day among us, yet already I feel I have been waiting a long time to offer you my hospitality.”

She couldn’t resist the way he pulled her arm through his and hugged her to his side. She sensed triumph from him, and anticipation, a secret, whetted enthusiasm. He was moving events too quickly. His confident vitality as he paraded her out of the chamber ahead of most of the Masters made her thoughts swirl.

When she was that close to him, his physical impact on her dominated everything else. He gave off a slight scent of perspiration and cloves, and she could feel muscle working over bone under his jet cloak. Where did his confidence come from, his power? And what did he see in her? Why did he go to such lengths to lay claim to her? She didn’t understand him at all.

That made his hold on her stronger. His confidence was like a display of magic, enchanting because it was at once so attractive and so far beyond her experience.

As a result, she walked at his side as if his strength and her uncertainty were a kind of charm, entrancing her in ways she couldn’t define.

He made her want something she didn’t know how to name.

Still escorting her formally, he took her up out of the laborium and into the public passages of Orison. Once past the ballroom, however, he moved her in the opposite direction from the route to which she was growing accustomed – the route back to her rooms. As they walked, he explained that they were entering a section of the castle devoted to the personal quarters of the Masters – a section that King Joyse had had rebuilt when he first began to form the Congery, so that his Imagers would have fitting, perhaps even sumptuous, places to live, places that would show the respect in which their occupants were held. But she only paid attention to the sound of his voice, not to what he said. At once fascinated and alarmed, she concentrated on him physically as though his voice and his scent and the hard grasp of his arm were a spell that might solve the problem of her existence at last.

Leaving the ballroom behind, they began to pass more and more people. She saw a knowing leer in some of the greetings Master Eremis received from men of rank, a smile of congratulation or envy. Guards rolled their eyes at the ceiling; a few of them were bold enough to wink. Ladies and chambermaids studied her as if they were trying to grasp what made her desirable.

The sensation that she was enchanted and real caused her to feel unexpectedly bold. Undaunted by the way people looked at her, she said, “That was a nice thing you tried to do for Geraden.”

“Do you think so, my lady?” She heard the grin in his tone. “You are delightfully naive. A child’s spirit in a woman’s body.” With his free hand, he stroked her forearm; his touch seemed to leave trails of intensity on her skin. “I doubt, however, that Quillon takes a similar view. Unless I am quite mistaken, he considers me cruel.”

His mention of Quillon sparked a quick protective reaction in her. There was little in herself or her circumstances of which she was sure; but she was sure that she didn’t want to betray either Master Quillon or Adept Havelock. She felt Eremis probing on that point, and she replied immediately – perhaps too immediately – “Quillon? Which one was he? I haven’t been introduced to very many of the Masters.”

He responded with an easy laugh. “No matter, my lady. I assure you that he is of no significance whatsoever.”

With a wave of his hand, he indicated that they had arrived at his quarters.

They had just entered a short hall like a cul-de-sac, with a door or two on either side and one at the end. The stone of the walls was the same almost-smooth gray granite that appeared everywhere in Orison, but the door bore no resemblance to the dungeon doors of the laborium. It was of rosewood, polished to a high sheen so that the bas-relief carved into it was unmistakable: a full-length rendering of Master Eremis himself, complete with a sardonic smile and a look of extraordinary knowledge in his eyes – a look, Terisa realized a moment later, that was achieved by embedding subtle pieces of ivory in the wood.

“I hope you will always be able to find me, my lady,” he remarked. “The doors of the Masters are marked with their characteristic signs and sigils. But Orison is large, and signs are easily confused. Anyone who knows me will always know which door is mine.”

Deftly, he unlatched the door and steered her into his chambers.

His use of the word sumptuous hadn’t prepared her for the room she entered. After the relative starkness of the halls and stone outside, the opulence of the furnishings seemed exotic and exquisite. Both light and warmth were provided by perfumed oil fires cunningly hidden in brass shells as large as urns, their sides cut into delicate open filigree. The main piece of furniture was a huge divan swathed in satin and piled with pillows; and before it stood a long, low table, its engraved brass top suspended by chains from rosewood legs at each corner. But there were two or three armchairs in the room as well, each cloaked in satin to match the divan. An ornate washstand and basin, also of brass, filled one niche. Nearby was a wooden cabinet that held what appeared to be wine decanters. The floor was softened by several layers of rugs, the uppermost of which cast a solid sweep of crimson against the predominant blue of the furniture and the canary drapes that covered the windows. The fabric masking the ceiling was also canary; but the tapestries on the walls picked up all three colors, using crimson primarily to focus attention on what they depicted – scenes of women in various stages of seduction.

Grinning his welcome, Master Eremis released Terisa’s arm and bolted the door. “Joyse treats his Imagers well, as you see, my lady,” he commented. “Mordant, however, is not natively wealthy. For centuries, the Cares produced nothing grander than wheat, grapes, and cattle – and farmers to tend them. Our King’s wealth – like his power – is the result of war.” He glanced around him smugly. “Doubtless some Cadwal noble previously had the use of these riches. That pleases me.”

He moved to the washstand to rinse his hands and sprinkle a few drops of water on his face. When he returned to her side, Terisa smelled a renewed scent of cloves. “Be comfortable,” he said, gesturing toward the divan. “Do you like wine?” His smile was fading, and there was an avid smolder in his eyes.

The tang of incense, and the smell of cloves, and the expression on his face shifted the balance of her excitement and alarm, made a sensation like panic rise in her throat. Groping for something to say, some way to gain time so that she could try to think, she blurted out, “There was something I didn’t understand about the mirrors. When Geraden was showing them to me.”

He frowned, perhaps at her mention of Geraden, perhaps at her uncertainty. To cover whatever vexation he felt, he went to the cabinet, took out two goblets, and filled them with a wine as crimson as the rug. Then he came back to her, placed one of the goblets in her hands, and drank from his. He was smiling again, and the urgency in his eyes had receded a bit, become more wary.

“Frankly, my lady,” he said, “no one understands what you saw. No mirror, flat or otherwise, can change its Image. Since it is impossible, I would not have believed it if I had not seen it myself.

“Doubtless you noticed that we did not discuss that change in our debate today. There is nothing to be said about the impossible, now that it is gone. Most of the Masters did not believe me when I described what had happened. Especially” – he spoke in a musing tone – “since I did not recognize the new Image and could not identify it.”

“Oh, Geraden recognizes it. It’s called the Closed Fist. He says it’s somewhere in the Care of Domne.” As soon as she said the words, she felt that she shouldn’t have. She had a strange feeling that she had betrayed a secret – that she had betrayed Geraden. But Master Eremis’ virile presence compelled her to speak. He bowed slightly over her, listening as though he were waiting for her to finish so that he could take hold of her. She needed time. At once, she explained, “But that isn’t what I meant.”

As if involuntarily, she told Master Eremis what she hadn’t told Geraden. She told him what she had found in the glass that showed the champion: not violence, not her apartment, but the Closed Fist in springtime.

Her hasty admission interested him, although it didn’t appear to interest him quite as much as she had hoped. His frown now was one of thoughtful consideration. “That is strange,” he admitted. Slowly, he took her to the divan and seated her so that her side was warm against his, with his arm on the cushions behind her and his torso leaning toward her. “Did Geraden have this experience also?”

She shook her head. “He tried.” Her senses were full of incense, cloves, and baffled desire. “He wanted to see if he could take me back where he found me. So that I would at least have the choice of leaving. But when he went into the glass, he was with your champion.”

“Indeed?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Then it was for you that the translation went astray?”

She didn’t want to think like that. “Or Geraden does it for me. He probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it. He doesn’t know he has the power.” She remembered the way he had left the meeting hall – the way he had spoken out for her; the authority of his first appeal to her. To herself, she murmured, “They should have accepted him as a Master.”

“Then,” Master Eremis said firmly, “it is well that this changing of Images was not publicly debated. Unable to believe such power of Geraden, the Masters would have concluded that you are the powerful Imager they both fear and want.

“But you are no Imager, as we both know. I will speak quietly to Masters who may be trusted, and we will attempt to explain the things you do not understand.”

While he spoke, his arm tightened around her; now his lips brushed her hair. “Are you satisfied? I am ready to begin exploring the territory of your womanhood.”

She felt that she had no choice, that all choices were being swept away. Her body yearned against her clothes. She inhaled his warm breath as his mouth came down and covered hers firmly.

Then somebody knocked at the door.

The knocking was quiet at first, a few gentle taps. Master Eremis ignored it. His tongue stroked her lips, giving her a taste of kisses she had never experienced. But the knock became more insistent. Soon the person outside the door was hammering at the wood.

“Whelp of a dog!” Eremis jerked himself off the divan. Chewing curses under his breath, he strode to the door, unbolted it, and yanked it open.

Terisa saw Geraden standing in the doorway.

She was breathing harder than she should have been, and she could feel her face burning.

He didn’t look at her – or at Eremis: he kept his gaze studiously fixed on a vacant spot between them. “Master Eremis,” he said in a controlled tone, “how may I serve you?”

“Serve me?” snapped the Master. “Why do you imagine that I have any need of you at all? Go away.”

“I’m in your debt. For no apparent reason, you proposed me for the chasuble of a Master. I’m done with my other duties. I want to repay you somehow.”

“Very good. I accept your indebtedness. Repay me” – with a visible effort, Master Eremis refrained from shouting – “by leaving me alone.”

At that, Geraden raised his eyes. Steadily, he said, “The lady Terisa deserves better.”

Then he turned and walked away.

Master Eremis cursed again and started to slam the door. He caught it before it closed, however, shut it gently and restored the bolt. When he turned back to Terisa, there was a distant, peculiar smile on his face – a smile that might almost have been one of admiration. “That boy is a challenge,” he murmured. He sounded like he was speaking to himself, but the glance he gave Terisa showed that he was aware of her. “I must think of something truly special for him.”

A moment later, he shrugged the question away and looked at her more directly. The intensity came back into his eyes. He returned to the divan, drained his goblet, then seated himself close beside her again.

Without quite meaning to, she shifted a little away from him. By turning more to face him, she was able to raise her goblet like a barrier between them. Her cheeks still burned: for no clear reason, the sight of Geraden made her feel that she was doing something she should have been ashamed of. The lady Terisa deserves better. What did that mean? He knew too little about her to say something like that.

And yet the way he said it – The lady Terisa deserves better – touched her. It made her withdraw a bit from the Master leaning expectantly over her.

“That reminds me.” Her voice was soft, even tentative; but inwardly she seemed to be growing bolder all the time – so bold that she could hardly recognize herself. She actually met his avid gaze as she said, “He told me you don’t believe I exist. Remember? And you said you believed I didn’t exist until I came out of the mirror. That’s something else I don’t understand.”

“In what way?” Eremis’ tone expressed deliberate patience.

She tried to explain. “I don’t know anything about Imagery. I don’t really understand anything about it. But I’m trying. It’s easier for me to believe that a mirror is like a window. It lets you see from one place to another. Or from one world to another.” She hoped he couldn’t see the way her heart was beating, the way her breath came unsteadily from her chest. She didn’t want him to know how important this question was to her. “It’s much harder to believe that a piece of glass creates what you see in it.”

Please. Do you really think I didn’t exist until you saw me for the first time?

“Ah.” He nodded in recognition. “As you must know by now, my lady, that is the fundamental confusion which divides and weakens the Congery. And Joyse further muddies the issue by insisting upon ‘ethical’ questions, such as, by what right do we translate Images out of their natural existence? But that is extraneous. The matter cannot be resolved until the essential point is known. Is a mirror a ‘window,’ as you call it, or are the Images seen in the glass brought into being by Imagery itself, by the act of making and shaping the mirror?”

As he spoke, he moved incrementally closer to her, leaned closer to her. His arm was around her again so that she couldn’t retreat, and his spell renewed its power. She had never realized before that the delicate aroma of cloves was sensuous. She could no longer hold his gaze. Instead, she watched his mouth as if in spite of her uncertainty – not to mention her recent embarrassment – she wanted him to kiss her again.

“The true difficulty, however, is not a failure of understanding, but of imagination.” He took the goblet from her and put it aside. His voice became lower, huskier. “The evidence of the truth is plain, but we do not accept it because, as you have observed, it is harder to credit.”

His mouth dipped to hers, kissed her lightly: once; again. The second time, she responded as if she knew what she was doing.

“My lady,” he breathed, “it is plain that you did not exist before you were incarnated by translation. Glass is dumb. Mirrors depict Images. They do not transmit sounds. If you come to us from another world” – again, he kissed her – “complete in its own existence” – and with each kiss her response improved – “how is it possible that we speak the same language?

“Since Geraden created the glass that conceived you, I must admire his taste in women.”

This time, his mouth took hold of hers and didn’t let go. His tongue parted her lips. She was leaning back among the cushions: his arm hugged her there, half reclining. For a moment, all her senses were concentrated on his kiss – and on learning how to kiss him herself. It was true: the mirror had created her. She was free. What she did no longer mattered. At first she didn’t realize that he was unbuttoning her shirt. But his kiss was so potent – and his hand, so adept – that she felt no wish to stop him.

“Master Eremis,” a voice said, “my lady Terisa, would you like something to eat?”

Eremis sprang to his feet, rage flaming in his eyes. Terisa pushed herself out of the cushions and looked up at Geraden.

This time, he had entered through a doorway which led to some of the inner rooms: he must have used a servants’ entrance. Once again, his gaze was fixed away from both her and the Master. In his hands, he carried an ornate brass tray on which he had arranged a large wedge of cheese, some bread, and several bunches of grapes.

“While you discuss the fate of Mordant,” he commented in a voice so determinedly nonchalant that it sounded fierce, “I thought you might like something to eat.” As he spoke, he moved forward into the room. “It’s been a long time since breakfast.”

“Excrement of a pig!” the Master snarled softly. His hands hooked into claws. “This is insufferable! Must I bolt their doors on my own servants in order to keep you out?”

“I’ve already told you.” Geraden’s deference was comparable to his nonchalance. “I’m in your debt. I’m just trying to find some way to repay you.”

Though she fought to hide it, Terisa could hardly refrain from laughing. The Apt’s second interruption wasn’t embarrassing: it was absurd. And the butt of the absurdity was Master Eremis, who looked angry enough to tear Geraden’s heart out for too small a cause. Standing ridiculously polite and out of place in the middle of Eremis’ seduction room, Geraden reminded her why she liked him so much. She was barely able to keep her face straight.

As if sensing that he appeared foolish, Master Eremis pulled himself erect. “Apt, I believe you,” he rasped, jabbing one finger like the point of a spear at Geraden’s face. “You seek to repay me. But revenge would be a better word, would it not? You blame me because the Congery laughed when I proposed you for the chasuble, and now you wish to ‘repay’ me by driving me mad.

“Listen to me, boy.” He managed to look calmer as he spoke, despite the struggle between control and ferocity in his voice. “I wish you to go away and leave me alone. I have been your friend, whatever you believe. But you will sacrifice my friendship if you continue to torment me. And you will not enjoy my enmity.”

If Geraden felt the force of this threat, he kept his reaction to himself. Without looking at Terisa, he asked – deferentially, nonchalantly – “My lady, do you want to be left alone?”

As soon as he confronted her with his question, she found that she couldn’t answer. She liked him. She wanted to give him a reply that pleased him: it would have made her feel good to please him. But her body had come so close to learning what its womanhood meant – to Master Eremis, at least, and perhaps thereby to herself. She was trembling inside, and her legs felt too weak to lift her off the divan. Her yearning hadn’t gone away.

“Are you blind, Apt?” The Master was almost whispering. “The only thing she wants is to be left alone.”

“Then” – for an instant, Geraden’s control nearly cracked, and a spasm of pain leaped across his face – I must go.” His tone became formal in compensation. “Please forgive this mad intrusion. I have misjudged.”

Master Eremis made a stiff gesture of dismissal. Geraden turned and left the room the same way he had come.

“Fool.” Eremis glared after the Apt. “He believes that he is safe to play games with me. I do not play games.” Abruptly, he swung toward Terisa. “My lady, be warned. I do not play games.”

She met his gaze until it seemed to make her tingle. If what she did no longer mattered, then why did she ache this way? Perhaps her yearning was stronger than she realized, and it was changing her. Or perhaps she felt an inchoate desire to defend Geraden. Whatever the reason, she amazed herself by saying, as if she were accustomed to comment on the behavior of the people around her, “I can understand why he thinks you do.”

To her surprise, her remark caught his interest. His anger receded, and an inquiring look came into his face. It made him even more attractive than his intent desire. “Do you, indeed? I am taken aback.” His tone was sardonic, but kindly. “What have I done to convey such an impression?”

She made an effort to answer him accurately, in part because she enjoyed being free to say what she thought, in part because his question flattered her by conferring substance on her ideas. “You don’t show much respect for people when you talk about them in private, so when you act respectful in public you don’t sound sincere. And you aren’t consistent. You seem to do things” – her boldness was positively dizzying – “like propose to make Geraden a Master, not because you believe in them, but because you like surprising people.”

His eyes widened humorously. “Not consistent, my lady? I? You were not present when the Apt’s role in the translation that brought you among us was debated. You have not heard how consistently I have always defended and supported him.” He took evident pleasure in questioning her. “How am I not consistent?”

She considered the matter. This couldn’t last: surely he was about to become angry at her. That was what happened whenever she called attention to herself. She didn’t want to lose this moment. Trying to minimize the risk, she replied carefully, “I was surprised when you chose Master Gilbur to go with you to that meeting with the Perdon. He doesn’t seem to like you very much.”

That surprise came back in a rush when Eremis burst out laughing.

For a moment, he was too amused to speak. She had apparently touched a point on which he was exceptionally pleased with himself. Chortling loudly, he returned to the divan and sat down beside her again, sprawling back into the cushions and stretching his arms above his head.

When he was able to stop laughing, he drew himself erect, put his hands on her shoulders, and held her for a kiss. “Ah, that was a fine jest, my lady,” he replied, enjoying her mystification, “and the richest humor of it lies in its secrecy. I will wager that all the Congery was equally surprised.” Only the hint of calculation in his eyes, the way he seemed to gauge the consequences of what he did, prevented him from looking as unabashedly happy as Geraden sometimes did. “None of those fools knows that Joyse was not the one who saved Gilbur’s life when his cave collapsed. I was.

While she gaped at him – while her thoughts reeled and her conception of everything that had taken place during the meeting of the Congery changed – he pulled her to him and captured her mouth again with his.

He stopped her breath in her chest. But as soon as his kiss eased she panted, “Wait a minute. Wait. I don’t understand.”

Placing kisses on her eyes, her forehead, the corners of her mouth, he eased her back into the cushions. “What do you not understand?”

“You and Master Gilbur are working together.” Her chest heaved. “You planned that whole meeting.” You were playacting all the time. “Why did you pretend to be enemies?”

“Because, my precious” – his tongue licked at her lips between phrases – “some of those dunderheaded Imagers truly do not like me. Ideas and hopes are frequently rejected simply because I am the one who presents them.” His warm breath seemed to fill her lungs. “The truth would have turned them against Gilbur as well.” She felt his hand once more on the buttons of her shirt. “The lie that he was saved by King Joyse gave him credibility, so that he was able to swing the vote.”

Reclining against the pillows and his arm as though she were helpless, she still asked, “But why? Why do you want that champion? He’s dangerous.”

Master Eremis withdrew enough to let her meet his gaze. His expression was serious, and he spoke candidly. “Arms and war are dangerous. Power is dangerous. But nothing else can save us.

“You do not know the Perdon. You have seen his rage, however. He loves his people. He is proud of Mordant – and of his place in the realm. And yet his King has refused him aid. Impelled by desperation, he will go to any extreme to defend what he loves.”

She thought she heard a knock at the door. For an instant, Master Eremis stiffened. But the sound was tentative, and it wasn’t repeated.

“I will also,” he went on. “I sneer at my fellow Masters, but that is only because a talent for Imagery is not a guarantee of intelligence or courage. I love the potential the Congery represents. I would gladly do battle in its defense. And I, too, have been refused. My King denies me his aid.

“I will not hesitate at a lie or two in order to gain the strength I need.”

She wasn’t sure of what she saw in his eyes or heard in his voice. His manipulation of the Congery was too easy; his explanation for his lies was too tidy. But his nearness and his strong touch took hold of her. His scent of cloves and his kisses were more persuasive than logic.

Her lips answered his as well as they knew how. Slipping under her shirt, his hand cupped her breast. His caress made her nipples ache. Instinctively, she arched her back, pressing her breasts closer to him. He pushed her shirt aside, and they were bared. Then his mouth left hers, and he breathed thickly, “My lady, I was not wrong. You are made for a man’s delight,” and his tongue reached out to her breast until his lips closed over the nipple.

Willing to risk almost anything now, she put her arms around his head and held it where it was so that he wouldn’t stop what he was doing.

She was so amazed that she did nothing but stare when Saddith walked into the room.

Like Geraden, the maid studiously didn’t look at Master Eremis or Terisa. She held her face slightly averted, and her expression was perfectly bland.

“Master Eremis—” she began.

He bounded off the divan violently, his arm cocked as if he were expecting Geraden and intended to hit first and ask questions later.

“Master Eremis,” she repeated, flinching, speaking quickly to ward off his outrage, “this intrusion is inexcusable, I know, but you must forgive me. I had no choice. You did not answer the door. My lady, you must forgive me. I have no choice.”

“No choice?” As soon as he recognized Saddith, he lowered his arm. Nevertheless he needed a moment to control his anger. “You are a servant. Why is it a matter of choice for you to enter my rooms unbidden?”

“Forgive me. I know that what I have done is inexcusable.” Because Saddith’s face was so bland, and her tone was so neutral, she didn’t sound particularly contrite. “But I have been commanded to fetch the lady Terisa. The lady Myste wishes to speak with her. She is the King’s daughter, Master Eremis. I could not refuse to obey her. You have the power to insult me – perhaps even to hurt me.” She also didn’t sound particularly fearful. “But if the lady Myste complains of me to Castellan Lebbick—”

Eremis interrupted her. “You could have told Myste that you were unable to find the lady.” He had already regained his self-possession, however. He sighed. “But that may have been too much to expect of you.” He turned to Terisa. “My lady, you must go. Kings’ daughters are capricious – and our King lets his do what they will. It is not safe to ignore them.”

Only his eyes betrayed him. They had gone dark and murderous.

Terisa wanted to wail in frustration – and also in unexpected fright. His ferocity was suddenly as vivid as her father’s. She felt giddy, almost wild, close to tears – or laughter. Her relief was as acute as her sense of loss, her alarm.

Because she had no idea what else to do, she mutely began buttoning her shirt.

TEN: THE LAST ALEND AMBASSADOR

Still trembling weakly, full of confusion and trying not to show it, Terisa left with Saddith.

Master Eremis unbolted the door and bowed her out of his rooms. As he did so, his smile displayed a familiar blend of amusement and concupiscence: he might have been proof against his recent vexations. If she hadn’t seen his eyes, she wouldn’t have been scared.

She breathed an instinctive sigh of relief when the door closed because it had been Saddith, not Geraden, who had interrupted the Master the third time. She didn’t like to think of so much anger aimed at the Apt.

For her part, Saddith appeared untroubled by Eremis’ ire. Instead of betraying any kind of embarrassment or concern, her expression suggested a barely concealed satisfaction.

Terisa wanted to ask, Why does the lady Myste want to see me? More than that, she wanted to ask, How did you manage to come for me at just that moment? But as soon as she and Saddith left the cul-de-sac of Master Eremis’ quarters, Geraden accosted them.

He made no effort to restrain himself. He was gamboling like a puppy.

“Saddith, you’re a wonder!” Grabbing her by the arms, he danced her in a circle until he stumbled against the wall and almost knocked her to the floor; then he planted a loud kiss on her cheek and released her. “I’m in your debt. Forever! How did you do it?”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned, practically prancing, toward Terisa.

She kept on walking.

She couldn’t tell what he saw in her face, but whatever it was, it sobered him rapidly. For once, however, he didn’t apologize. “I know it was none of my business.” He controlled his glee for her sake. “I just had the strongest feeling—” He gave her a wry grimace. “We’ve talked about my ‘feelings.’ I told you they’re always wrong. But I have to do what they tell me anyway. I can’t ignore them. I just can’t. And this time I had the strongest feeling you were in some kind of danger.”

“Danger, indeed,” Saddith replied derisively. “You mistake those ‘feelings,’ Apt. You had the strongest ‘feeling’ that you wish to bed the lady yourself, and you could not bear to think that any man would do so before you. Perhaps also,” she added with a leer, “you feared that once she had tasted Master Eremis’ lovemaking she would have no interest in yours.”

At Saddith’s words, Geraden’s eyes filled up with chagrin, and he began to blush like a little boy.

Suddenly, Terisa’s trembling got worse. She had come so close – so close to something she couldn’t name, some vital awareness of who or what she was. Master Eremis had told her that she didn’t exist. And yet his touch— She was shaking all over. Her voice shook. “Do you mean to tell me Myste doesn’t want to see me? You made that up?”

The Apt winced, but it was Saddith who said, “Certainly not,” in a tone of humorous indignation. “I am not a liar, my lady.” With evident difficulty, she suppressed a desire to laugh. “The lady Myste has most assuredly asked to speak with you. I spent some considerable time searching for you before I encountered Apt Geraden and he told me where you were.”

Reassured by this support, Geraden admitted, “But it is true that Myste isn’t the kind of lady who would insist on seeing you right away.”

Saddith nodded. “I believe she truly does not know what it means to be the daughter of a king.”

“If she had known where you were,” Geraden continued, with some of his personal happiness bubbling up past his self-command, “I’m sure she would have insisted on waiting until Master Eremis was done with you.”

“Nevertheless,” concluded the maid, “I made him believe it. In future, he will be wise to be more careful about his designs.”

Geraden couldn’t help himself: he threw back his head and laughed.

Saddith joined him.

In their distinct ways, they both sounded so pleased that the tension which made Terisa tremble loosened itself involuntarily. She wanted to laugh as well. “He got so angry.” At the moment, she felt it would have done her a world of good to laugh. “Maybe he isn’t used to frustration. He looked pretty silly.”

The thought of Master Eremis looking silly started Geraden and Saddith again.

Paying no attention to where they were going, they nearly ran into Master Quillon.

Because of his self-effacing gray robe and unassertive demeanor, he seemed to appear in front of them out of nowhere. His smile didn’t close over his protruding teeth. “Ah, there you are, Apt,” he said at once. “Come with me. I have need of you.”

Terisa felt that his tone boded ill for Geraden.

“Master Quillon—” Geraden was nonplussed. “I’ve finished my duties. I wanted to spend the afternoon—”

“Precisely,” the Imager cut in. “You wanted to spend the afternoon helping me. I am determined to finish my researches before Master Gilbur summons his champion and we are all required to put aside our personal concerns for the sake of the war which will ensue. Come.”

Abruptly, he turned and started down the hall.

“Master Quillon!” Geraden protested. “It’s customary to let Apts do what they want with their time when they’ve finished their duties.”

The Master paused. The way he bared his teeth gave him an air of lugubrious savagery. His eyes glittered coldly. “For shame, Geraden,” he said, speaking more mildly. “Sloth does not make a Master. Work does. How will you ever learn, if you are unwilling to make an effort?” Then his face tightened. “This is not a request, Apt. Come with me.”

Walking briskly, he moved away.

Geraden cast a look of appeal and apology at Terisa.

“Go, Geraden,” whispered Saddith. “Do not be a fool. What will become of your wish to be a Master? You hurt no one but yourself by disobeying.”

The Apt grimaced, nodded, threw up his hands, and trotted after Master Quillon.

Saddith laughed again, this time at Geraden, but her mirth was not unkind. “He is a good boy, my lady, with many attractive qualities.” She grinned. “Even his awkwardness might prove piquant. But in your place I would not trouble with him. You can aim higher.

“If you are already able to interest Master Eremis” – now she was serious, perhaps even a trifle vexed – “making no more effort than you do, you can most certainly aim higher. As an example, consider Castellan Lebbick. You will hardly believe it, having tasted a little of his tongue – and his temper – but he is uxorious to a fault. And now his wife of many years has died, after a protracted illness. There is a man in grave need of a woman. If I could attract his notice, I can assure you I would not remain a servant in Orison much longer.”

“Saddith, what should I do?” Terisa asked on impulse. Now that Geraden was gone, she felt an urgent need to talk to him. Despite Master Barsonage’s instructions, she wanted to tell Geraden everything. And she wanted to know how he would answer Master Eremis’ reasoning. But she couldn’t discuss any of those things with the maid. “I’m not an Imager. I don’t know anything about men.” Then, remembering Eremis’ hands – and his mouth – she added, “Master Eremis and Geraden hate each other.”

“My lady,” replied Saddith, trying to speak lightly, “I would make certain that Master Eremis does not come to hate me.”

An open window somewhere let a draft of cold into the corridor. Terisa shivered. Saddith was silent along the way to their destination.

***

Terisa expected the maid to take her to the suite the lady Myste shared with her sister, in the tower above King Joyse’s rooms, but Saddith led Terisa back to her own quarters. Myste was waiting there.

Saddith exchanged her customary badinage with the guards, then opened the door and ushered Terisa inside. They found the lady Myste standing in front of one of the windows. Despite the chill outside, sunshine emphasized the summer tone of her hair and skin, making her more obviously beautiful than she had been in her own rooms, in Elega’s company. Nevertheless she gazed out over the castle and the desolate winter as though she longed to be anywhere except where she was.

Her face retained its faraway expression, but she left the window and smiled when Terisa entered the room. “My lady,” she began, then corrected herself, “Terisa, it is good of you to come so promptly.” She hadn’t lost the strange excitement with which she had greeted the idea that Terisa was far from being an Imager or a woman of power, was in fact nothing more than a mission secretary. “I hope I have not called you away from anything you would rather do. I fear I have nothing urgent in mind. For Elega everything is urgent, but I want nothing more than a little quiet talk.”

This greeting took Terisa aback. She felt instinctively that Myste was one of the few people here who didn’t have some kind of outlandish or even lethal expectations of her – one of the few with whom it might be possible to have a simple friendship. But for that precise reason she wasn’t sure how to respond. She knew so little about friendship.

Fortunately, Saddith came to her rescue. Dropping a curtsy, she lied, “The lady Terisa was already returning here when I found her, my lady. She had attended a meeting of the Congery, but it was ended.

“And it is well past time for a meal,” she went on. “Shall I bring you something to eat? You will be able to talk at your leisure.”

For a moment, Terisa expected Myste to answer Saddith. Myste was the King’s daughter. But then she realized that these were her rooms: hospitality was her responsibility.

“Please,” she said quickly. “I’m hungry.” Hurrying to recover her manners, she asked Myste, “Are you? I don’t know what Saddith can bring us, but I’m sure it won’t take long.”

The lady continued to smile. Her gaze was direct – and distant, as if it passed straight through Terisa’s eyes and mind to something beyond. “Thank you. You are kind.”

“Very well, my lady,” said the maid. “I will return shortly.” On her way to the door, she turned so that her back was to Myste and gave Terisa a sharp look – a look that seemed to say, Wake up. Pay attention. This woman is the King’s daughter. Then she left, closing the door quietly behind her.

From Terisa’s point of view, however, the fact that Myste was the King’s daughter really made no difference. What mattered was that she, Terisa, suddenly wanted Myste’s friendship so strongly that the desire made her ache. She had never had a friend—

Oh, of course, she had had friends: playmates in her early years; girls who spoke to her in the halls and whispered gossip during school. But from the first her parents had never encouraged friendships. In particular, they had never allowed her to visit the homes of her young playmates, had never invited any of those girls to their home. And this separation had carried on into the numerous private institutions to which she had been sent, exclusive schools dedicated more to forming moral character than to nurturing comradeship. Or perhaps the distance that kept everyone away was something she had carried in herself – a gulf of passivity and doubt that no one knew how to cross; an unhealed wound.

She didn’t want to lose this opportunity.

Awkwardly, she gestured toward two of the chairs. “Would you like to sit down?” Then she remembered the decanter on one of the side tables. “Would you like some wine?” But she sounded so disconcerted to herself that she couldn’t endure it. “I’m sorry,” she said, abandoning the pretense that she knew what she was doing. “I’m making a mess of everything. I’m so new at all this. I don’t think I’ve ever had a guest in my apartment.”

Myste had no way of knowing that this was the literal truth, but she accepted it anyway. “Please do not apologize. I think you do amazingly well. Consider what has happened to you in the past three days. You have been taken to a strange and alien world. You have been put down in the middle of a castle full of conflict, machination, and treachery. Half the people around you seem to believe that you can save them from war and chaos. An attempt has been made on your life. If I were in your place” – her tone became wistful – “I would be proud to manage half as well.”

Without warning, Terisa’s eyes filled with tears. Myste’s understanding took her completely by surprise. “Thanks.” Gratefully, she tried to explain. “Most of the time, I think I must be losing my mind. Everybody wants me to do something, and I barely understand what’s going on.”

“Here.” Myste took Terisa’s arm and guided her to one of the chairs. Then the lady produced a delicate handkerchief from the sleeve of her gown and handed it to Terisa. “It is a lonely thing which has happened to you. You must think that everyone you meet plots against you in some way. And now you have been taken to a meeting of the Congery. I doubt they reacted well when you told them you are not an Imager.”

Terisa nodded, wiping her eyes with the handkerchief. “They’re all doing it. The Congery doesn’t want me to talk to the King. He doesn’t want me to talk to the Congery. None of them want me to talk to anybody else.” She almost said, Except Master Quillon and Adept Havelock. “And the Masters are all scheming against each other. Master Eremis—” He kissed me. He kissed my breasts. “Castellan Lebbick yells at me.” She hesitated for a second, then blew her nose on the fine fabric. “Even Geraden wants to turn me into an Imager.”

“Ah, Geraden.” Myste’s voice suggested a smile. “I cannot speak for the others, but him, at least, you can trust. You may doubt his judgment. His luck is disastrous. Nevertheless you can trust his heart. It is agreed everywhere that the Domne has no bad sons.”

After a pause, she added, “I would like to be your friend, Terisa.”

Terisa met the lady’s eyes. They were focused on her now, not distant at all, and the expression in them was direct and kind.

So that she wouldn’t start crying again, Terisa looked away. Myste’s offer touched her too deeply to be acknowledged. How was it possible for someone like her to have friends? Evading the important point – and hating herself for doing so – she said, “You have a better opinion of him than Elega does.”

Myste smiled again; but as she did so her gaze slipped back into the distance, and her face resumed its faraway cast. Quietly, she replied, “I have a better opinion of many things than she does. She is a king’s daughter, and she desires the importance of a high place in the affairs of Mordant. She does not forgive her father or the society around her – or anything else which she imagines stands between her and her natural right to plot and manipulate and betray as much as any prince. She does not forgive Geraden for the mistaken judgment which once betrothed him to her.” Then she shrugged. “I think better of being a woman. I think better of those who hold power in Orison.” Her tone was gentle and reassuring, but soft, as if she were speaking in another place, perhaps to someone else; and there was a note of yearning in what she said that didn’t entirely agree with her words. “I think better of myself.”

Terisa nodded as though she understood. “Was that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Oh, no,” Myste replied easily. “Or perhaps it was. I have nothing special to say. But I would like to know everything about you. You are a pleasure and a wonderment to me. You consider yourself an ordinary woman – and I believe you,” she hastened to add, “I believe what you say of yourself, though it is difficult for me to call any woman from another world ordinary – and yet you find yourself here, in the great crisis of Mordant’s history. If your world has no Imagery, such a translation must seem extraordinary.

“For my part, great things have never happened to me. I have never been to a world other than my own. Indeed, I have hardly been out of Orison in the past few years. What is your world like? How did you live your life there?” She became more animated as she spoke, bright with curiosity. “How does it feel, to step through a glass and find everything changed? What do mirrors do in your world, since they have no magic?”

“Please. One thing at a time.” In spite of herself, Terisa smiled at Myste’s fascination. “We don’t have anything magic. Mirrors just” – she groped for an adequate description – “just reflect. They show you exactly what you put in front of them. If they’re flat. If they aren’t flat, they still reflect what you put in front of them, but they distort it.

“In my apartment—” There she faltered. She had never admitted to anyone, I had my walls covered with mirrors so that I would know I existed. Lamely, she finished, “I had a lot of mirrors.”

“Then you must be very wise,” murmured Myste as if she were clinging to every word.

“Wise? Why?”

“You are able to see yourself exactly as you are. You are able to see everything exactly as it is. I have no such vision. And those who look at me do so with their preconceptions of a king’s daughter – perhaps even of a woman – and so their vision is confused. None of us see anything exactly as it is.”

“We do the same thing,” objected Terisa. “We have the same preconceptions. But we only look at the surface. All we care about is the surface.” She made a deliberate effort to be candid. “Maybe I’ve been able to see what I look like. But I don’t know what that means. It doesn’t help me know who I am.”

Myste seemed to find this notion both humorous and appealing. “Then you are not wise?”

Slowly, Terisa replied, “I don’t think I’ve ever known anybody who was wise.” Unless Reverend Thatcher’s ineffectual dedication counted as wisdom.

At that, the lady laughed. “Then you are surely mistaken, Terisa. You yourself are already the wisest woman in Orison, for you have not been misled by those who believe in their own wisdom. You know the difference between what is seen and what is unseen, and you do not attempt to judge the one by the other.”

“Do you call that wisdom?” Terisa wanted to laugh simply because Myste was amused. The lady’s mirth betrayed her kinship to her father: her smile was almost as infectious and likable as his. “Doesn’t the fact that I don’t understand anything count against me?”

Myste went on laughing. “Of course not. Mere understanding is the business of kings, not of sages – or of ordinary women. And it is always mistaken. It depends upon a knowledge of things which cannot be known – a knowledge of what is unseen.

“I must tell you, Terisa, I wish that Elega had less understanding and more wisdom. You are wiser than she.”

They were silent for a moment while they relapsed to seriousness; then Myste asked, “Where does such wisdom come from? Tell me about your world. What are its needs and compulsions? How do you spend your days?”

A few minutes earlier, that question would have frozen Terisa. But Myste’s friendly manner defused the frank pressure of her curiosity. Almost before she knew what she was going to say, Terisa began talking about her work in the mission.

She had never discussed it before. Words seemed to tumble headlong after each other as she described the mission’s work, the human wrecks and relicts it served, the facilities, the surroundings; and her own job, her typing and filing and drudgery, her relationship with Reverend Thatcher; and her reasons for doing the work, because she had believed that in a place like that even she would be able to make a difference, because she could afford to accept the meager pay, because she hadn’t considered herself capable of anything more demanding or ambitious. She babbled about it all until the discrepancy between what she was saying and the sparkle of Myste’s attention stopped her. The lady absorbed every sentence as if she were hearing a tale of heroism and romance. Abruptly, Terisa said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go on like that.”

“It is a wonderment,” sighed the lady. A gleam still shone in her faraway gaze. “Forgive me if I repeat myself. But that such a strange world exists! And you have a part in it.”

“A little part,” Terisa commented, “and getting less by the minute. Reverend Thatcher must have replaced me by now.” And her father had no reason to want her back.

In her excitement, Myste rose to her feet. “But that is just the point.” She began to pace the rug, her eyes searching everything except her companion. “You are an ordinary woman, and you say that your life in your world was utterly ordinary, however brave and self-sacrificing it may appear to me. I, too, am an ordinary woman.

“I am a king’s daughter – but what of that? It is an accident of birth. Its effect upon what is seen is merely that I am able to dress well and command servants. Its effect upon what is unseen is – I hardly know whether it has any effect. It seems plain to me that I am an ordinary woman – and that this is good.

“Yet I am surrounded by people who are not content. Her lack of involvement makes Elega savage. Geraden causes himself misery striving for a Mastery he will never attain. Half the Congery wishes to retreat into pure research. The other Masters yearn for power over Mordant. Castellan Lebbick’s life has revolved around a woman, and yet in his grief he despises all women. Alend and Cadwal struggle against the peace which has done them more benefit than all their generations of warfare.

“Terisa, I do not consider my father’s passivity a good thing. I do not understand it. I am his daughter enough to know the importance of striving and risk. Passivity is not content. But surely we must acknowledge that it is not a terrible thing to be who we are.

“You are the proof of this.” Her voice had risen to a pitch of affirmation. “By your own insistence, you are an ordinary woman, with no experience of power, and no talent for it. Yet your life is not meaningless. Great forces are at work in Mordant, and you are involved in them. There is no life which does not possess its own importance, no life which may not be touched by greatness at any time – yes, be touched by greatness and have a hand in it.”

For a moment, Terisa stared at Myste. With an urgency which surprised her, she wanted to say, Greatness? That’s ridiculous. How could I have anything to do with greatness?

At the same time, she wanted to weep harder than she had ever cried in her life.

Fortunately, Myste realized almost at once what she was doing. Puncturing her own seriousness, she smiled; her manner relapsed to its more usual diffidence. “In her heart,” she said with a verbal shrug, “Elega considers me mad. She thinks that such romantic notions render me unfit for my own life.” A note of sadness entered her voice. “But my father did not despise what I believe. He loved me for it, and it was a bond between us.” Her face hardened. “Until he changed, and it became impossible for any of us to speak with him.”

Terisa was holding her breath, clamping herself rigid to restrain what she felt. But that wasn’t necessary anymore, was it? She was free, wasn’t she? The past didn’t exist. What she said or did didn’t matter. She could tell Myste the truth. By degrees, she released the air from her lungs.

“My father didn’t change. He’s always been like that.”

“Do you mean passive?” asked Myste. “Lost and uncaring?”

“No. I mean impossible to talk to.”

Tentatively, like a small animal coming out of a burrow after a storm, she began to smile. She had just spoken critically of her father, as if she had the right to do so – and nothing terrible had happened. Maybe friendship was possible after all.

Myste sat down beside her again. The lady’s expression was soft and reassuring. “Tell me about him.”

By chance, Saddith found that moment to knock on the door and come into the room, carrying trays of food.

Unable to sustain the way she felt in front of the maid, Terisa stood up at once – more abruptly than she intended – to thank Saddith and help her set out the meal.

If Myste was taken aback by the shift in Terisa’s manner, she didn’t show it. Apparently, she recognized that something important had happened – something that required privacy. She didn’t pursue the conversation. When Saddith had served the food and left again, Myste made a polite show of enjoying her meal, and while she ate she kept her curiosity still.

Grateful for Myste’s consideration, Terisa spent a few minutes concentrating on her food – a stew baked in a thick pastry shell. Then, to keep the conversation safe for a while, she asked a practical question in which her mission work had taught her to be interested: How did Orison manage to feed so many people so well in the dead of winter?

Myste replied by describing the system that provided Orison with all its food and supplies. After generations, even centuries, of an economic system based on warfare, in which powerful lords fought for the privilege of taking what they needed by violence, Mordant had been reduced almost to destitution, despite its abundance of natural resources. One of King Joyse’s most important acts had been to replace war with trade. Essentially, he had established Orison as the principle buyer - and seller - of everything Mordant needed or produced. All the villages of the Demesne, and all the Cares of Mordant, traded with Orison; and Orison used its profits from these transactions to buy what its own people needed, so that its wealth acted as fertilizer to grow more wealth for the kingdom. A similar system applied to trade with Cadwal and Alend – which needed the resources of Mordant too badly to refuse to barter with King Joyse – and those profits were likewise plowed back into the soil and society of Mordant. As a result, all the Cares had come a long way from the fierce poverty that had marked the beginning of King Joyse’s reign.

Terisa didn’t entirely absorb the details, but she appreciated Myste’s explanation nonetheless. She had criticized her father without being punished. When the lady was done, Terisa commented, “This sounds silly – but I’ve just realized that I haven’t been outside since I got here.” She glanced toward the window, with its thick glass and its tracery of frost. “I don’t have any idea what’s out there.”

Myste put down her fork and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “It must be quite a shock for you. As strange as your world seems to me, ours must appear equally strange to you. And we have been so strictly instructed” – she betrayed a moment of embarrassment – “not to reveal our ‘secrets’ to you. Your ability to accept such things— Well, I have already said that you amaze me.

“How does it feel, Terisa? I have no experience with translation.” There was a rapt undertone in her voice. “I have never stepped through glass into a different creation. It is another of my romantic notions,” she admitted, “that such an event in anyone’s life must be fundamental in some way, changing them as much as it changes where they are.”

“No,” Terisa said at once, remembering a sensation of impersonal vastness, of temporary eternity, of fading, “I don’t think it changed me at all.” She almost added, I wish it had. “It didn’t last long enough.

“It was like,” she went on, suddenly sure of what she meant, “dying without any pain. All at once, your whole life is gone, faded, everything you ever knew or understood or cared about; you don’t exist anymore, and there’s nothing you can do about it except maybe grieve. But it doesn’t hurt.

“I’m not talking about physical pain,” she explained, “or even emotional pain. It just doesn’t hurt. Maybe because there’s a whole world around you to take the place of the one you’ve lost. Do you understand? I think that’s the only reason I can bear it.”

In response, Myste smiled vaguely – not as if she weren’t listening, but rather as if what she heard triggered a wide range of ideas and yearnings. “I do not really understand. Elega would say that you are talking nonsense. Translation is a physical passage, nothing more. But there is something in what you say” – her hand closed unconsciously into a fist – “something that is not nonsense to me.

“Perhaps it is only death which gives life meaning.”

But I didn’t die, Terisa protested instinctively. That isn’t what I meant. I was never there.

The impossibility of explaining herself any better, however, kept her silent.

“Terisa,” Myste went on, quietly, distantly, without looking at her, “you have given me a great deal to consider. You say that you are not wise” – slowly, she became less abstracted, more present in the room and in Terisa’s company – “but I have met very few fools who challenge me to examine my life so closely.”

“Don’t blame me.” Terisa didn’t know what Myste meant – and at the moment didn’t care. She couldn’t suppress a grin. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

At that, Myste started laughing. Happily, Terisa joined her.

They were still chuckling together like old friends when Saddith knocked on the door and reentered the room. She was red-cheeked and panting, as if she had run up several flights of stairs. “My lady Terisa,” she said breathlessly, “my lady Myste, the King summons you.

“There is news. Important matters are afoot. Your presence is commanded in the hall of audiences. All the high lords and ladies of Orison must attend.”

“That is news indeed, Saddith,” replied Myste. Her immediate excitement made itself clear in the way her eyes focused on the maid. “My father has not summoned Orison to the audience hall in more than a year. What occasions this gathering?”

“An ambassador has come, my lady,” Saddith answered through her panting. “An Alend ambassador – in the dead of winter! He must have paid an awful price in time and men and supplies. And they say it is Prince Kragen himself! What could possibly compel the son of the Alend Monarch here, through such hardship at this time of year, and across so much distance, when all Mordant knows that Alend desires war, not peace?”

Myste dismissed that question. “And he asks an audience with King Joyse?”

“Asks, my lady? He demands. Or so it is said.”

“And the King consents to grant what the Prince demands,” Myste continued. “That is well. Perhaps it is very well. Perhaps the affairs of the realm begin to interest him again.

“Terisa, we must go.” She was already moving toward the door. “This must not be missed.”

Because of the background Master Quillon had given her, Terisa caught some of the importance of Saddith’s news. She followed without hesitation.

Perhaps this was what being free meant. She could criticize her father and follow her friend and even share in her friend’s excitement without having to worry about the consequences.

When they had descended into the body of Orison, Myste turned in a direction new to Terisa. This part of the castle was more open than many of the other halls: the ceiling was higher; the walls, farther apart; the floor, worn smooth by generations of feet. Windows between the arched supports of the ceiling shed winter sunlight on large, colorful pennons fixed so that they jutted out from the stone; under the banners guards stood at attention, their pikes braced by their feet. As a result, the place seemed more formal, less inhabited, than the rest of Orison.

A number of men and women, however, were headed in the same direction as Myste and Terisa. Some were clearly officers of the guard; others wore the rich attire of high rank. Almost everyone saluted or greeted the lady Myste in some respectful or friendly way. She replied with faraway politeness: like her eyes, her attention was aimed ahead. Quite a few people, on the other hand, stared openly at Terisa. What she was wearing made her stand out in the crowd as badly as if she were naked.

Self-conscious now, she looked around and noticed that Saddith was no longer with her. Apparently, the servants of the castle hadn’t been commanded to attend the Alend ambassador’s audience. She regretted that: she could have used Saddith’s worldly advice and support.

The stream of people approached a set of peaked doors, perhaps a dozen feet tall, opening out of the formal corridor. When she and Myste passed between them, Terisa found herself in what was unmistakably the hall of audiences.

It had the look and size of a cathedral. The stone walls were hidden by carved wooden screens, panel after panel around the room, each of them depicting characters and scenes Terisa couldn’t identify; and the screens rose into elaborate spikes and finials reaching twenty or thirty feet toward the vaulted ceiling. The deep brown of the wood had the effect of making the hall dark, but it also seemed to distance the ceiling and fill the very air of the chamber with an impression of authority. The light came from two narrow windows up near the ceiling at the end of the hall, from rows of candles set around the walls and in tall holders here and there, and from batteries of cresseted oil lamps in the corners. The spiced oil of the lamps gave the air a sandalwood tang.

Down at the far end, opposite the doors, stood a structure that could only be King Joyse’s seat: an ornate mahogany throne on a wooden pediment four or five steps high, dominating the space before it. A large part of the floor before the throne was clear, except for a wide, thick strip of rich carpet which led from the doors to the first step of the throne; but this open space was closed on three sides by benches like pews, in which the people entering the hall seated themselves.

They all stopped talking as soon as they passed through the high doors. The atmosphere of the hall seemed to silence them.

When she looked about her, however, Terisa saw that the hall of audiences hadn’t been designed entirely to inspire respect. Above the screens on all four sides of the hall ran a balcony; the guards stationed there were archers rather than pikemen.

Those were the only guards in the hall, except for two at the doors and two more on either side of King Joyse’s seat. But they were enough to make Terisa crane her neck as Myste guided her forward and wonder how many assassinations had taken place in Orison before King Joyse or his ancestors had conceived this protective arrangement. It was a convincing defense. As long as the guards remained loyal to their King, he probably had nothing to fear from anyone he met in the audience hall.

Following the lady Myste, Terisa bypassed the benches ranked on three sides of the open space and moved toward the King’s seat. On each side of the pediment, a row of chairs reached toward the benches – special places for those who wielded the King’s power or had the King’s favor.

To the right of the throne, the nearest chair was already occupied by Castellan Lebbick. His perpetual glare and the purple band knotted around his short gray-stained hair made him look like a fanatic.

Fortunately, Terisa wasn’t expected to sit near him. The first seats were taken by officers under his command; most of the rest had been filled by Masters, among them Gilbur, Barsonage, and Quillon. (Quillon? Why wasn’t he working with Geraden?) Myste led Terisa to the left of the throne, where they joined the lady Elega and several men, most of them old, who resembled counselors more than courtiers. Myste introduced them by such titles as “Lord of Commerce” and “Lord of the Privy Purse.” They gaped at Terisa as if she had just arrived from the moon.

Elega showed more enthusiasm. “I am glad you are here,” she whispered, drawing Terisa into a seat beside her. “I feared that you would be found too late – or that Myste might not consider a call to audience worth obeying.” She spoke as though she meant no insult, and Myste appeared to take none. “Kragen himself, Terisa! The son of Margonal, the Alend Monarch, and Prince of the Alend Lieges. Imagine! He has come this entire distance from Scarab in deep winter. His purpose must be both mighty and terrible. Now my father will rise to the stature of his kingship” – her vivid eyes flashed – “or he will forfeit what little respect he still holds in Mordant.”

“Elega, he is our father,” murmured Myste under her breath. “Even if he loses his mind completely, he still deserves our respect.”

Elega gave a soft snort of derision. “Let him abdicate his rule when he loses his mind. Then we will respect him as our father without despising him as a failed King.”

Terisa noticed Lebbick glowering at them as if he heard and hated every word.

His glare struck such a chill into her that several moments passed before she realized that the doors to the hall had been closed.

Around the balcony, each of the guards unlimbered his bow and put an arrow to the string. Instinctively, Terisa clutched at Myste’s arm. But the lady shook her head and smiled in reassurance.

Now the Castellan was on his feet. Facing the seated people, he said formally, “My lords and ladies, attend.” He didn’t raise his voice, but his tone cut to the farthest corners of the hall. “You are commanded to this audience by Joyse, Lord of the Demesne and King of Mordant.”

On cue, King Joyse appeared from behind the tall construct of his seat. He had on what appeared to be the same robe of purple velvet he had been wearing when Terisa last saw him. His white hair was held in place by a circlet of gold; but his beard looked like he had slept on it and forgotten to comb it. Now, however, a brocade strap across his chest over his right shoulder supported a tooled leather sheath which held a longsword with a double-handed hilt and a jeweled pommel. The weight of the sword made him seem even more frail than before, more withered inside his voluminous robe. He was walking very slowly.

He was followed immediately by Adept Havelock.

The people in the hall rose to their feet and bowed while King Joyse ascended the pediment and sat down on his throne; then, responding to some signal Terisa missed, they raised their heads and stood in silence before their King.

At the same time, Adept Havelock walked into the open space before the seat and began to dance.

From one foot to the other he hopped, shaking his head, gesturing with his arms, kicking up his heels behind him.

His dingy surcoat, tattered at the hem, and his stained chasuble, his bare feet and the ratty tufts of hair protruding from his pate made him look like a derelict, a piece of human flotsam that had recently been retrieved from some gutter. His beak-like nose confronted the gathering with a fierceness that his unsteady, sybaritic mouth and confused eyes rendered foolish.

His expression was so lunatic that Terisa nearly laughed aloud. Luckily, she didn’t. Everyone else stared at Havelock – or avoided staring at him – in misery, disgust, or horror. Someone she didn’t see muttered audibly, bitterly, “Hail the King’s Dastard.” Castellan Lebbick fixed the Adept with a glare that threatened to make his surcoat catch fire. Even Myste’s tolerance wasn’t equal to the way Havelock capered: she frowned and bit her lower lip, and her eyes were bright with anger or tears.

Nevertheless he reveled in the reaction he caused – or he was proof against it. In one hand, he carried a smoking silver censer shaped like a large baby rattle, and he shook fumes of incense around him while he pranced. Soon his dancing took him close to the people standing in front of their pews. At that point, he began to single out individuals for special attention. He jumped up and down in front of them, flourished his censer until smoke made them cough and their eyes water. And he shouted in a liturgical tone, as if he were intoning specific prayers for each of the people he faced:

“Rut in the halls!”

“Hop-board is the game the stars play with doom!”

“Twelve candles were lit upon the table, twelve for the twelve kinds of madness and mystery.”

“All women are better clothed naked.”

“Dandelions and butterflies. We are nothing more than dandelions and butterflies in the end.”

King Joyse slumped in his seat, propping his elbows on the arms of the throne and supporting his head with both hands.

“Hail King Joyse!” Adept Havelock went on piously, still dancing in front of people, still forcing them to breathe his incense. “Without him, half of you would be dead. The rest would be slaves in Cadwal.” He had chosen a pretty young woman to receive this utterance. “If you are dead from the waist up, and the lower half remains alive” – he grinned savagely – “you will still be of service.”

The woman looked pale enough to faint. Instead of collapsing, however, she tittered nervously behind her hand.

At once, the Adept stopped. He peered at her in astonishment and indignation; with his free hand, he scratched one of the bald patches on his skull. Then he snorted, “Ballocks!” and tossed the censer away over his shoulder. It cracked open when it hit the floor, and a block of incense fell onto the thick carpet. In a scalding tone, he snapped, “Do not trouble to say anything more, my lady. I can see that I am wasting my time.”

Abruptly, he turned from her and stalked toward the place where he had made his entrance. “Do you hear me, Joyse?” he shouted up at the King. His arms flailed fury at his sides. “I am wasting my time!”

A moment later, he disappeared behind the pediment.

The hall of audiences was shocked. Apparently, the people of Orison still weren’t accustomed to Havelock’s quirks. In one or two places among the pews, a different kind of titter began; it was stilled immediately. The mediator of the Congery had a lost expression on his face. Master Quillon covered his eyes with one hand. A scowl of vindication twisted Master Gilbur’s face. Elega’s eyes flashed anger. Myste looked like she wanted to weep.

Behind the incense of the censer and the perfumed oil of the lamps, Terisa smelled the stink of burning fabric. Spilled incense was making the carpet smolder.

King Joyse seemed to be shrinking inside his robe. The watery blue of his eyes was bleak.

Castellan Lebbick was the first to act. Bristling with anger, he stamped away from his chair, went to the burning patch in the carpet, and ground out the fire with his heel. Then he faced the King, his fists cocked on his hips.

“Perhaps you know the meaning of the Adept’s display, my lord King.” He sounded savage. “I don’t. He would be more understandable to me if you had him chained.”

At once, however, he regained his self-control. Without any pretense of transition, he said, “My lord King, Prince Kragen of Alend has requested this audience. He says that he comes as ambassador from his father, Margonal, the Alend Monarch. Shall he be admitted?”

For a while, King Joyse didn’t reply. Then he sighed. “My old friend is wiser than I. All this is a waste of time. But since it must be faced, let us do it and be done.” He made a tired gesture. “Admit Prince Kragen.” A moment later, he added, “And sit down, all of you. You exhaust me.”

Lebbick glanced up toward the balcony and nodded. Then he returned to his chair.

Obeying her father promptly, Myste sat down. Terisa followed her example. The Castellan himself took his seat. Shortly the rest of the gathering did the same.

Elega was the last. She remained on her feet for a few seconds, staring up at the King as if she were trying by force of will to make him behave as she wished. He didn’t meet her gaze, however, and after a moment she, too, resumed her seat, muttering darkly to herself.

At the same time, the high doors swung open. From somewhere, a cornet sounded a fanfare. Everyone looked toward the doors as three men came striding into the audience hall.

One of them led the way, with the others a step behind him on either side, and Terisa at once took him for the Prince. His bearing was confident, and his stride expressed regal self-assertion. His black hair curled out from under his spiked helmet; his black mustache shone as if it had been waxed; his black eyes gleamed with vigor. In contrast to his swarthy skin, his ceremonial helmet and breastplate were of polished and gleaming brass, and a sword in a fine brass sheath was belted to his hip. The silk flowing around his limbs picked up the same contrast, giving off glimpses of light and dark as he moved.

He looked like a man who wouldn’t hesitate to demand an audience of anyone.

Judging by the fact that the two men behind him seemed more wary as well as less assured, Terisa guessed that they were bodyguards. The Prince ignored the archers poised around the balcony above him: his companions didn’t.

He strode forward until he was close enough to the throne to show that he considered himself King Joyse’s peer, but not so close that the guards would take him for a threat. There he stopped. He gave King Joyse an elaborate bow – which his well-trained companions matched – then announced, “Hail, Joyse, Lord of the Demesne and King of Mordant. I bring you greetings from Margonal, the Alend Monarch and Lord of the Alend Lieges, whose ambassador I am.” Like his smile, his tone was perfectly courteous. “Great matters are afoot in the world. The times are perilous, and it well befits rulers to consult with each other as brothers, to meet the danger. My father has sent me to Orison to ask many things – and to propose a few which may be of interest.”

King Joyse didn’t stand or in any other way return the Prince’s salutation. Gruffly, he muttered, “Kragen, is it? I know you.” The tremor of age in his voice made him sound petulant.

The Prince’s smile shifted a few degrees. “Have we met, my lord King?”

“Yes, we have, my lord Prince.” King Joyse articulated the title sourly. “You should remember. It was seventeen years ago. You led several squadrons of Alend horse to protect one of your Imagers from me. When I beat you, I had to have you bound to make you accept defeat – yes, and gagged to make you keep your insults to yourself. You were an overeager puppy, Kragen. I hope that seventeen years have made you wiser.”

Now Prince Kragen wasn’t smiling. His men weren’t smiling. One of them whispered something Terisa couldn’t hear. Nevertheless Kragen’s manner remained suave and sure. “My thanks for the reminder, my lord King. I doubt that I am much wiser, since I have always been too ready to forget my defeats. For that reason, I am not bitter. Howsoever, it is well that I have come as an ambassador instead of as an opponent, is it not? Since I am an ambassador, you will not need to have me bound and gagged in order to save yourself from an overeager puppy.”

At that, Castellan Lebbick made a noise between his teeth that could be heard across the hall. Though he sat back in his chair with his arms folded, he gave the impression that he was ready to spring at Prince Kragen’s throat.

King Joyse scowled. “I have often said,” he answered the Prince slowly, “that a puppy is more deadly than a dog. A dog learns from experience. A puppy has none, and so his behavior cannot be predicted.”

The Alend ambassador’s eyes had a yellowish cast, like a tinge of anger. Yet his manner remained unruffled. His stance suggested that he was incapable of quailing. “My lord King, do you keep hunting dogs? I do not know if you enjoy the sport. It is one of my passions. Among my people I am not considered a poor master of the hunt. I can assure you that it is never the puppy that brings down the stag.”

The King’s hands gripped the arms of his throne. “That,” he snapped, “is because dogs hunt in packs.”

“Oh, Father,” Elega groaned softly.

The indignation of Prince Kragen’s companions was becoming stronger than their training – or their good sense. One of them put a hand on his sword; the other turned his back halfway to the King and whispered hotly in Kragen’s ear. But the Prince stilled them both with a sharp cut of his hand. He appeared determined not to take public offense.

“My lord King, it seems that you harbor some enmity toward me – or perhaps toward the Alend Monarch himself. If that is true, it may have a bearing on my mission. I am prepared to discuss it openly, if you desire. But would not a more private audience be better? That was my request, as you will recall.”

“That was your demand, as I recall,” rasped the Castellan.

“Nevertheless,” King Joyse said as though he were following a different conversation, “I apologize for calling you a puppy. You have become wiser than you admit. In that, you resemble your father.”

In response, Prince Kragen brought back his smile. “Oh, I think you misjudge the Alend Monarch, my lord King,” he drawled. “He has become openly fascinated with wisdom over the years. My mission to you is evidence of that.”

The Castellan continued to glare at Kragen. “The Alend Monarch,” he said in an acid tone, “has caused more death in Mordant than any man except the High King of Cadwal. Come to the point, my lord Prince, and we’ll judge your father’s wisdom for ourselves.”

For the first time, Prince Kragen shifted his attention away from the King. Still smiling, he said, “You are Castellan Lebbick, are you not? If you do not keep a civil tongue in your head, I will have you garroted.”

Terisa stiffened. Despite his casual manner, the Prince was convincing. She heard stifled gasps around the hall. The guards tightened their grips on their weapons; Lebbick’s officers poised themselves. Myste was alarmed; but Elega watched the Castellan or the Prince – Terisa couldn’t tell which – with admiration and envy on her face.

Lebbick’s expression didn’t flicker, yet he looked more like a threat of violence with every passing moment. Slowly, he rose to his feet. Slowly, he turned toward the King. Then he waited in silence for the King to speak.

King Joyse had slumped back in his seat. He seemed to be shrinking. Wearily, he said, “I wish you would come to the point, Kragen. I’m too old to batter my wits against yours for the rest of the day.” To the Castellan, he added, “Sit down, Lebbick. If he is puppy enough to attempt harm to anyone or anything in Orison, he’ll deserve what happens to him. I’m confident you’ll feed his liver to the crows.”

Castellan Lebbick glanced at Kragen, then bowed his acquiescence. “With pleasure,” he murmured as he sat down.

Terisa heard Elega and several other people sigh. Some of them were relieved; the rest sounded disappointed.

More sternly, King Joyse went on, “We have little reason to love Alend. I ask you simply, Kragen: Why are you here?”

As if nothing had happened, the Prince replied, “I will answer you simply, my lord King. The Alend Monarch wishes to know what takes place in Mordant. He wishes to end the chaos of rumor and implication. And” – Kragen paused for an instant of drama – “he wishes to propose an alliance.”

The reaction in the hall was as strong as he could have desired. Unable to restrain herself, Elega sprang to her feet – as did the Castellan, two of his officers, and Master Barsonage. Master Quillon gaped. Whispers of surprise spattered toward the ceiling. Clapping her hand to her mouth, Myste stared up at her father with excitement and hope.

Terisa had no reason to share Castellan Lebbick’s hostility. As far as she was concerned, the Prince had just spoken the first sensible words she had heard in the hall of audiences.

“An alliance?” snapped Lebbick. “With Margonal? Sheepdung!”

One of his officers demanded, “Does the Alend Monarch think we have lost our minds?”

But another cried, “But if we are allied against Cadwal? The High King musters his armies beyond the Vertigon. The Perdon should hear this!”

At the same time, Master Barsonage protested, “An alliance? An alliance against our doom?” He looked almost frantic. “My lord King, you must accept!” For an instant, Terisa thought he was going to shout, You must accept, so that the Congery will not need to call its champion!

More quietly, but with equal fervor, the lady Elega was saying, “Bravely said, Prince Kragen! Bravely done.”

But King Joyse said nothing until the hubbub stilled itself. He didn’t appear surprised. In fact, he hardly seemed to be interested. His face was tight, as if he were stifling a yawn.

At last the hall became quiet again. Castellan Lebbick and the others seated themselves reluctantly, as though pushed down against their will. Soon, every eye was fixed on King Joyse.

Muttering under his breath, he pulled himself straighter in his seat. His circlet had been nudged askew, and a few strands of hair hung down over his eyes. “An alliance, Kragen? After several dozen generations of war? Why should I agree to such a thing?”

“My lord King, I have not the least idea,” the Prince replied equably. “I have no facts. But the rumors coming out of Mordant suggest that you are in need. They suggest that the need is growing dire. Therefore it occurred to the Alend Monarch to offer his assistance.”

“What does the Alend Monarch think our need is?”

The Prince shrugged delicately. “I must repeat that he hears only rumors. But the import of these tales seems clear.” He nodded past Lebbick toward the Masters. “It appears that some – perhaps many – of your Imagers have turned against you.”

“Impossible!” Master Barsonage objected at once. “You are offensive, my lord Prince.”

King Joyse ignored the mediator. “And what does the Alend Monarch think to gain from this alliance?”

“Your trust, my lord King.”

That made sense to Terisa.

King Joyse had a different reaction, however. He sat forward, his incredulity plain on his face. “What? Trust? He does not wish to rule half of Cadwal? He does not desire Imagers of his own?”

“As I have said,” Prince Kragen explained patiently, “the Alend Monarch has given himself to wisdom. He understands that things may happen between rulers who trust each other which are impossible otherwise. Of course he desires the resources of Imagery for his people. Of course he desires the wealth of Cadwal, so that he can purchase more of what Mordant has and Alend lacks. But he sees that these wishes will not be fulfilled without trust. And trust must begin somewhere.

“He offers you his assistance and asks nothing in return. If what he wants can be achieved, it will come of its own accord when his cooperation has taught you to know him better.”

“I see.” King Joyse leaned back again. “Doubtless that explains why Margonal has an army of tremendous size gathering beyond the borders of Fayle and Armigite. I mean, of course, that I have heard rumors of such an army.”

“Then you have also heard,” the Prince answered smoothly, “that High King Festten musters a massive assault against you. Doubtless” – he allowed himself a hint of sarcasm – “he means to take advantage of your weakness – I mean your need – to crush your kingship, enslave the Cares, and capture all Imagery for himself. I think you will understand, my lord King, that the Alend Monarch cannot permit Cadwal such a victory. Whether or not you accept his alliance, he must oppose the High King. In forging the Congery, you have created something which must not be surrendered.”

“That is true,” acknowledged the King. “That is true.”

For a long moment, he stared at the ceiling with his mouth open, stroking his beard as though he were deep in thought. His eyes closed, and Terisa thought suddenly, Oh, no, he’s going to sleep! Abruptly, however, he looked back down at Prince Kragen and smiled.

His smile seemed to light his face like a touch of sunshine.

“My lord Prince,” he said as if he were happy for the first time since the audience began, “do you play hop-board?”

Terisa’s throat closed against a mounting sense of panic as Kragen replied, “Hop-board, my lord King? I am unacquainted with it.”

“A game.” The wobble in the King’s voice began to sound like ardor. “I find it most instructive.”

With a noise like a slap, he clapped his hands together. Instinctively, Terisa flinched. Myste and Elega stared worry and consternation up at their father.

Almost at once, two of the wooden screens across the hall parted, revealing a door in the wall. The door was already open, and through it came two servants carrying a small table between them. Two more followed, each bearing a chair. Heads bowed, they brought their burdens forward to the long run of carpet and set the table and chairs down roughly midway between the Prince and the base of King Joyse’s throne. While the lords and ladies of Orison gaped, the chairs were placed at the table as if to accommodate Kragen and the King. Then the servants withdrew, closing the screens and the door after them.

Terisa’s alarm tightened another turn. She recognized that table, those chairs: she had last seen them in King Joyse’s private apartment.

His checkerboard was set up on the table, ready for play.

“Oh, Father,” Myste whispered, “have you fallen to this?”

Elega’s cheeks were hot with color. “He is mad,” she answered. “Mad.”

But King Joyse ignored the reactions of his people. Sitting forward eagerly, he said to the Prince, “On the surface, it is a simple game. A child can master it. Yet it is also subtle. In essence, you force your opponent to win battles against you so that he will lose the war. Will you play?”

“I?” Prince Kragen betrayed some surprise of his own. “As I have said, I am unacquainted with this game. I will gladly watch it played, if that is your wish. If,” he commented casually, “you can find no better use for this audience. But I cannot play.”

“Nonsense.” The King’s voice held a note that Terisa hadn’t heard before – a note of hardness. “I insist. Hop-board is an excellent gauge of persons.”

“And I must decline.” Kragen spoke firmly, yet he had begun to sweat. “My lord King, I have spent nearly thirty days in the snow between Scarab and Orison because the mission entrusted to me by the Alend Monarch could not wait another season. I do not like to let it wait another day. If I must, however, I will. Shall we meet again tomorrow, privately?”

King Joyse dismissed this speech with a toss of one hand. Coughing to clear his throat, he said, “I mean to be as fair as I can. I will not play you myself. Though I am hardly the equal of Adept Havelock, I have had much experience. No, my lord Prince.” His tone became sharper. “I have not seen you measured for seventeen years. Your strengths and abilities are unknown to me. I will match you against another who is similarly unknown.”

With no forewarning except her own imprecise alarm, Terisa heard the King say formally, “My lady Terisa of Morgan, will you be so kind as to test Prince Kragen for me?”

Now everyone in the hall was staring at her. Her face grew hot. She looked up at King Joyse. In front of all these people—? Fear made her vision acute, immediate, as if there were no distance between them; every line of him was distinct. She could see the veins pulsing in the thin old skin of his temples. His watery eyes seemed weak, almost lost. The hair straggling across his features caused him to appear faintly ludicrous.

But he was smiling.

And his smile hadn’t lost its power. It reassured her, like a promise that he meant her no harm; an assertion that she was too valuable to be mistreated; a belief that she would acquit herself well, whatever he asked of her. It was innocent and clean, and she couldn’t resist it.

Without consciously making the decision to move, she rose to her feet and went toward Prince Kragen.

At once, she wished she had remained seated. She understood too much of what was happening to be calm, but not enough to be sure she was doing the right thing. And virtually all of the important people in Orison were going to watch her do it. The daughter of her father wouldn’t have done this. She could hardly bring herself to meet the Prince’s gaze.

His black brows were knotted over his eyes, and he seemed to be chewing the inside of his cheek. His easy and confident manner had deserted him: he didn’t smile at her, bow to her, greet her. The hint of yellow in his eyes darkened as his anger increased. He was strung so tight that she expected him to pull out his sword at any moment.

She went as near to him as she dared – no closer than ten feet. Then she stopped.

“My lady”– King Joyse seemed to be speaking from the far end of a tunnel – “may I present Kragen, Prince of the Alend Lieges and son of Margonal, the Alend Monarch? My lord Prince, this is the lady Terisa of Morgan.

“My lady, I am sure that Prince Kragen will grant you the first move.” With one hand, the King motioned her toward the chair which faced Kragen and the audience.

The Prince turned back to King Joyse. “Do not waste your time, my lady,” he said. “I will not play.”

“I think you will.” King Joyse no longer sounded old – or innocent. He sounded like a sovereign who was nearing the end of his patience. “Please be seated, my lady.”

As if she were helpless, Terisa went to the chair King Joyse had indicated. She pulled it back, sat down, and focused her eyes on the checkerboard, all without risking a glance at Prince Kragen. If she met his eyes, she felt sure he would scathe her to the ground. The whole hall was focused on her. The air around her was heavy with alarm and doubt.

But surely she wasn’t helpless? If the mirror had created her, everything she believed about herself and her past might be an illusion. In that case, she belonged here. She had been created to be where she was, and the things she had to do wouldn’t be too much for her.

“You are mistaken, my lord King.” Though he spoke quietly, Kragen’s voice was as passionate as a shout. “I understand you now. When I came to you as my father’s ambassador and desired an audience, you determined at once to humiliate me. You chose this public occasion when I wished a private meeting. And you meant from the first to confront me with this”– he swallowed a curse –”this game. You had it ready and waiting for your signal. Doubtless you have chosen the lady Terisa of Morgan because in some way she increases the mockery. Really, my lord King, I am surprised that you troubled to wait until I had explained my mission before beginning this charade.

“It is enough. I will return to the Alend Monarch and inform him that you do not wish an alliance.”

“You will not.” The King’s tone made the back of Terisa’s neck burn. “You will sit down and play.”

“No!”

“By my sword, yes! I am King in Mordant yet, and my will rules!”

Before the Prince or his bodyguards could react, Castellan Lebbick gave a small signal. Around the balcony, archers raised their bows, pulled back the strings.

All the arrows were aimed at Kragen.

“Treachery!” one of the bodyguards spat. Fortunately, he retained enough sense to leave his sword in its sheath.

“Treachery, is it?” rasped Castellan Lebbick with evident relish. “Keep a civil tongue in your head, or I’ll have you fed to the hogs.”

Slowly, Prince Kragen turned in a complete circle, studying the balcony, the screens, the arrangement of the pews and seats; there was no escape. He faced King Joyse again. His expression was flat, closed. The people in the hall watched him without a sound.

Then the lady Elega cried, “Go!” as if she were in torment. “Leave this madness! You are an ambassador. Your mission is one of peace. If he has you killed, the execration of all Mordant will hound him to his grave!”

The Prince didn’t glance at her. He didn’t speak.

In one swift motion, he seated himself across the table from Terisa and folded his arms over his chest, glaring at her as if his gaze were a spike which he meant to drive through her.

King Joyse said nothing. Castellan Lebbick sneered and said nothing. Master Barsonage fretted in his seat. Master Quillon seemed to have disappeared from her range of vision. Neither of the King’s daughters moved. No one came to Terisa’s aid.

It was up to her to save the Prince.

She didn’t look into his face: she concentrated on the board. It seemed impossible that she had ever played this game before. The servant who had taught her had been fired. Perhaps he had been a friend of hers without quite intending to be. Perhaps that was why he had been fired. Close to panic, she thought, Why? Not, Why is King Joyse doing this? But, Why am I?

She knew the answer. Because the King was behaving like a lunatic, and a humiliation like this would make war with Alend inevitable. Because Mordant couldn’t afford a war with Alend. Because Cadwal was already mustering. Master Quillon had given her the answer. He was watching her keenly. And Geraden had showed it to her in a mirror. Because gnarled shapes with terrible jaws had been sent out of nowhere to tear men apart.

If her past didn’t exist, what did she have to lose?

After a long moment while sweat gathered on her scalp and fright clogged her chest, she reached out and made her first move.

At once, Prince Kragen unfolded one arm, picked up his matching piece, and slapped it down in a move which mirrored hers. His gesture betrayed the dark stains spreading through the silk under his arm.

She nodded to herself, and a bit of her tension relaxed. What else could he do? He knew nothing about the game. He was in her hands.

Like a distant calling of horns, the realization came to her that there was a way out of this dilemma.

She made another move.

Kragen copied it.

Quickly, so that she wouldn’t falter, she moved again. He copied her again.

After a few more moves, she was able to turn in her seat and look up at King Joyse. Her heart pounded as though she had just taken an important risk, done something that would make a difference.

“It’s a stalemate.”

The passion on his face resembled apoplexy. He was almost bursting with rage. Or else he was tremendously amused – she couldn’t tell which.

The Prince took his cue promptly. Rising to his feet without so much as a glance at Terisa, he gave King Joyse an ironic bow. “I thank you, my lord King. It is indeed a most instructive game. An excellent gauge of persons. The Alend Monarch will be fascinated to hear of it.

“Now with your permission I will withdraw. I fear that the journey from Scarab has exhausted me. I cannot continue without rest.”

He nodded to his bodyguards; they bowed also. Then he turned and started for the doors.

King Joyse swallowed his emotion with difficulty. “Go rest, if you have to.” He sounded petulant again, like a disenchanted child. “You’re more of a puppy than I thought.”

Prince Kragen’s stride checked for an instant; his shoulders bunched. Shocked by the suddenness with which the ambassador’s mission had been refused, the people in the hall stared at him – or at King Joyse.

But the Prince didn’t stop. The doors were opened for him, and he stalked out of the hall of audiences.

Before anyone else could react, Elega was on her feet. Lightning flared in her eyes. Her cry rang against the high ceiling of the hall:

“Father, I am ashamed!”

As quickly as her long, heavy skirts and petticoats permitted, she ran after the Prince.

No one else said anything. No one else dared.

Softly, King Joyse sighed. With both hands, he pushed the hair out of his face and resettled his circlet. Then he scratched his fingernails through his beard. “That saddens me,” he murmured as though he didn’t know that everyone in the hall could hear him. “I have always been proud of you.”

Weakly, he climbed to his feet and stepped down the stairs from the throne.

When he started toward the back of the pediment, Myste said in a quiet, aching voice, “Oh, Father!” and went after him.

Terisa should have been proud of herself. She had achieved a victory of a sort. In spite of that, however, Myste was in pain, and Elega was furious; and King Joyse had become so much less than he was, so much less than he needed to be. Terisa was left with a hollow feeling like a stalemate in her heart.

The memory of horns was gone.

ELEVEN: A FEW DAYS WITH NOTHING TO DO

Terisa would have had trouble finding her way back to her rooms by herself: she wasn’t familiar with this section of Orison. But Castellan Lebbick didn’t leave her alone. As soon as the lords and ladies began to depart, muttering and arguing their astonishment among themselves, he assigned one of the guards to escort her.

The walk seemed longer than she remembered; but eventually she was in her suite, with the door bolted behind her, and she had her first chance to think about everything that had happened to her today.

From her windows, she was surprised to see that the sky was clear and the snow-packed roofs and towers of the castle were gilded pink, while dusk shrouded the ground and the distant hills. She hadn’t realized that so much of the afternoon was gone. For a moment, she forgot everything else and simply watched the sunset, entranced by the way it made Orison look like a place in a fairy tale – old stone immured in winter and darkness, and yet reaching like hope or dreams toward the light and the sky and the delicate touch of the sun’s glory. Now she was able to remember the sound of horns. For a long moment, she ached to leave the castle, not to escape back to the illusion of her old life, but to go out into Mordant’s world and find the spot among trees and hills where it was possible to hear hunters or musicians calling joy and passion into the cold.

How had the augury known about the riders in her dream?

She could think of an answer, of course. If she had been created by a mirror, then a mirror had also created her dreams.

For some reason, that didn’t help.

She had so much to tell Geraden. Regardless of the way she felt about Master Eremis, Geraden was the only one she trusted to help her decide what to do.

Some decision had to be made – that was obvious. Some action had to be taken. King Joyse was on the path to self-destruction – a path more dangerous than the passivity people ascribed to him. She knew now that he wasn’t passive. By refusing to shore up Perdon’s defenses, as much as by humiliating Prince Kragen, he was working actively toward Mordant’s ruin.

Clearly, Mordant needed a leader strong enough to take command of circumstances – and intelligent enough to be constructive. Not Castellan Lebbick: he was too fiercely loyal to the King. And not the Congery as a body. Despite the power it represented, it was too divided to be effective. Adept Havelock? He was mad. Master Quillon? She didn’t know what his motives were, but she couldn’t imagine him leading the struggle for Mordant’s survival.

That left Master Eremis.

Geraden wouldn’t like the idea, of course. But maybe she could convince him. If they agreed to help the Master, she might get the chance to spend more time with him.

The thought brought back the sensation of his mouth on her breasts. She hugged herself with her arms and shivered. Saddith had asserted, Any Master will tell me whatever I wish – if I conceive a wish for something he knows. And she had said, The same is true for you, if you choose to make it so. Well, why not? She lacked Saddith’s experience – and expertise. But Eremis found her desirable.

No one had ever found her desirable before.

While the sun set and darkness swallowed the castle, she turned away from the window, poured a goblet of wine, and made herself comfortable to enjoy what she was thinking.

Later, Saddith brought her supper. The maid wanted to talk: Orison was full of rumors about Prince Kragen’s audience, and she had heard them all, but she wanted to know the truth. Terisa found, however, that she was too tired – as well as too self-conscious – to do the subject justice. The day’s events had exhausted her emotional resources. And her reveries of Master Eremis had put her in the mood for sleep. After a few halfhearted apologies, she dismissed Saddith. Then she ate her supper, drank one more goblet of wine, hung up her clothes in the wardrobe which didn’t have a chair propped in it, and went to bed.

She fell asleep almost at once—

—and was awakened by a dull, wooden pounding. Dreams she couldn’t remember fogged her brain: she felt sure, with a certainty like cold, congealed oatmeal, that what she heard was the sound of her clothes knocking on the door of the wardrobe, begging to be let out – frantic to dissociate themselves from the false petticoats and misleading gowns which had been loaned to her to seduce her from herself. Something about that didn’t make sense, but she couldn’t figure it out: the oatmeal was too thick to stir.

The pounding was repeated. After a long, stupefied moment, she realized that it came from the wrong wardrobe.

It came from the door to the secret passage.

At first, she was so mush-headed with sleep and fatigue that she didn’t consider answering the knock. At this rate, she thought as clearly as she could, I’m never going to get any rest. Does everybody here spend all night sneaking around behind everybody else’s back?

The problem didn’t go away when she ignored it, however. The knock was repeated; a muffled voice croaked, “My lady!”

As far as she knew, only Master Quillon and Adept Havelock knew about that passage.

If the pounding became any louder, the guards outside would hear it.

“All right,” she muttered as she pushed back the covers and stumbled out of bed, “I’m coming.”

Fortunately, the fire in the hearth had burned down. As a result, the air was cool – and that reminded her that she was naked. Her head began to clear. She detoured to the safe wardrobe, pulled out her clothes and put them on. The pounding began again. “I’m coming,” she replied as loudly as she dared.

As soon as she had unwedged the chair, the door opened, and lamplight spilled out of the wardrobe.

Though her eyes weren’t accustomed to the light, she had no trouble identifying her visitor. Master Quillon shrugged past the hanging clothes and stepped out of the wardrobe. “My lady,” he whispered with some asperity, “you are a sound sleeper.”

“I’m sorry.” She made no effort to sound sorry. “I’m still not used to having people break into my room in the middle of the night.”

“I would rather be asleep myself,” he retorted. “Some things are more important.” Anger made his nose twitch. In the lamplight, he looked more than ever like a rabbit. But the intensity of his manner didn’t suit his face. It gave his eyes a manic gleam, like the gaze of a cute pet gone rabid. “Have you seen Geraden since Prince Kragen’s audience?”

He took her aback. His demeanor was frightening. Intimations of danger suddenly filled the air.

“Is he missing?”

“Missing? Nonsense. Why would he be missing? I only want to know if you have spoken to him at any time today – at any time since I separated you.”

Terisa took a deep breath, tried to steady herself. “What’s going on?”

Half snarling, Quillon demanded, “My lady, have you spoken to him?”

“No,” she retorted defensively. “I haven’t seen him. I haven’t spoken to him. What’s going on?”

Master Quillon glared at her for a moment. Then he sighed, “Good,” and his face relaxed a little. “That is good.” But his gaze didn’t release her.

“My lady, you heard a great deal in the meeting of the Congery. And I will venture to guess that you heard a great deal more from Master Eremis. You must not speak of these matters to Geraden. You must tell him nothing.”

“What?” A pang went through her; alarm closed around her stomach. She had been looking forward to seeing him again, to spending the day with him, to telling him everything. “Why?” He’s the only one I can talk to!

“Because,” the Master articulated distinctly, “that is the only way we can keep him alive.”

“What?”

“As long as he is ignorant, his enemies may not risk exposure by killing him. If you tell him what you know, he will surely act on it. Then he will become too dangerous, and he will be killed.”

“Killed?” She was reeling inwardly. The floor and the lamplight seemed to tilt. “Why would anybody want to kill him?”

“My lady,” he returned heavily, “it must be obvious to you that your presence here cannot be an accident. You were translated through a glass which could not have been used for that purpose. How was that done? No mistake or blunder can explain it. You insist that you are not responsible. Then who is?

“My lady, you are important.” Abruptly, Master Quillon turned and began to push his way back through the wardrobe. His voice was obscured by clothes. “Geraden is crucial.”

For a moment, she stared after him while he entered the passage and closed the door, cutting off the light. Then she wrenched herself into motion. The thought that Geraden’s life depended on her silence was so sharp that it nearly made her cry out. Thrusting garments aside, she reached the door and jerked it open.

Master Quillon was on the stairs below her. He turned at the noise she made, looked up at her. The angle of the lamplight left shadows like pools of darkness in his eyes. “My lady?”

“Who are his enemies?”

She couldn’t see his expression. His voice was flat. “If we knew that, we would be able to stop them.”

Before she could speak, he turned away again and continued his descent. His silhouette twitched like a marionette.

“Who are his friends?”

The echoes of Master Quillon’s feet didn’t answer.

When she could no longer hear his sandals on the stair, or be sure of the glow of his lamp, she left the passage. Closing the door, she wedged the chair against it again.

After a while, she went back to bed.

***

By the next morning, she had made at least one decision.

She wasn’t going to talk to Geraden.

Unfortunately, that wouldn’t be as easy as it sounded. Her desire to confide in him was strong. And she knew he would be hurt by her silence.

In order to protect him, she would have to avoid him for a while.

So she got up early. Despite her inexperience, she managed to build up the fires in her hearths. Gritting her teeth against the cold, she bathed thoroughly. Then, defying the awkwardness of clothes that hadn’t been designed to be put on without help, she struggled into a demure, dove-gray gown which, she hoped, would enable her to blend into the background.

She intended to ask Saddith for a tour of Orison – as complete a tour as possible. If she were occupied doing something Geraden didn’t expect and couldn’t predict, and if she were camouflaged against accidental discovery, she might win herself a day’s respite from choices and crises.

Getting dressed alone took some time, however. When she was done, she didn’t have to wait long for breakfast. Saddith soon knocked on her door and entered when it was unbolted, bringing a tray of food with her. Today she appeared a bit more cheerful – or perhaps a bit more highly spiced - than usual: there was more sauce in her smile, more zest in her step. On impulse, Terisa said, “You look happy. Did you have another night with that Master of yours? Or have you found someone better?”

“Why, my lady,” Saddith protested, fluttering her eyelashes, “whatever do you mean? I am as chaste as a virgin.” Then she grinned. “That is to say, I am as chased as most virgins dream of being.”

Giggling at her own humor, she began to set out Terisa’s breakfast.

As she ate, Terisa proposed the idea of a tour. The maid agreed at once. “However,” she said, studying Terisa critically, “we must first repair your dress. If it was your intention to appear as if you had spent the night in your gown, wrestling for virtue, you have succeeded. Really, my lady, you must let me assist you with such things.”

“I didn’t think it was that bad.” Terisa was in a hurry to get going: she didn’t want to take the chance that Geraden was on his way to see her. But a closer look at the gown convinced her that Saddith was right. Wryly, she assented to the maid’s ministrations.

That was a mistake. Saddith took only a few minutes to adjust and refasten the gown; but as she finished there was another knock at the door.

Terisa’s heart sank. She wasn’t ready for this. Was she going to have to lie to him? She didn’t think she could bear to lie to him.

Saddith, of course, had no idea what was in Terisa’s mind. With a sprightly step, she left the bedroom to answer the door. Terisa heard her say in a teasing tone, “Apt Geraden, what a surprise. Have you come to repay me for my help yesterday? For that we must have privacy. Or do you mean to spurn me, preferring my lady Terisa?”

Geraden’s laugh sounded a little uncomfortable. “Come now, Saddith. You can do better than me. In fact, you do do better than me. The best I can do is ask the lady Terisa to talk to me. Is she free?”

“Geraden,” Saddith answered with mock severity, “no woman is free.”

Chuckling to herself, she returned to the bedroom, where Terisa waited as though she were cowering. “My lady, Apt Geraden is here. He will be better company than I for an exploration of Orison. He is male, even if he is awkward, easily embarrassed, and only an Apt. I will leave you to him.”

No, Terisa tried to say. Please. But Saddith was already on her way out of the room. She aimed another riposte at Geraden and closed the door behind her.

For a moment, Terisa remained where she was, wishing stupidly that she knew how to swear. But she couldn’t stand there, paralyzed, forever. Eventually, Geraden would come a few steps farther into the sitting room, and then he would see her. Feeling at least as abashed as she ever had in front of the barracuda-like young men whom her father had tried to interest in her – trying to marry her off so that he would no longer be bothered with her – she left the bedroom.

Geraden’s grin nearly ruined her good intentions: he looked so happy to see her that she wanted to break down immediately and tell him everything. It was all she could do to glance at him and force her mouth into a smile.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you again yesterday,” he began at once; he couldn’t swallow the pleasure bubbling up in him. “I don’t know what came over Master Quillon. He isn’t usually that unreasonable. He took me down to his private workshop and put me to work grinding sand, of all things. That job is so menial and mindless even new Apts don’t usually have to do it. Then the message came that Prince Kragen was here and King Joyse was going to give him an audience. I thought that would save me. Despite whatever came over him, Master Quillon wouldn’t expect me to go on grinding sand at a time like that.”

He grimaced. “I was right, as usual. I didn’t have to grind any more sand. Instead, he handed me instructions for the most complex tinct I’ve ever heard of and told me to prepare it three different ways. ‘For experimental purposes.’ Some Masters never let Apts do work that sophisticated. And it’s been years since any Master gave me a job like that. I didn’t know whether to be grateful or cut my throat.

“Anyway, I didn’t finish until after midnight. I’m still not sure I got any of them right.

“I guess I missed all the excitement.”

Terisa’s throat felt like cotton wadding. She swallowed roughly. “You must have heard about it.”

He nodded slowly, studying her: the strangeness of her manner cooled his ebullience. “Did you really play hop-board against Prince Kragen?”

Unable to face him, she went to the window. The clear sky of the previous evening was gone: now low clouds as heavy as stone covered the castle and the surrounding hills, making everything gray. In that light, the gown she had chosen seemed as drab as her spirit.

“Yes.”

Geraden whistled his appreciation. “Amazing! And he didn’t know the game. How did you manage to maneuver him into a stalemate? That was impressive. The Alend Monarch ought to give you a title for treating his honor with so much courtesy.” Then his tone darkened. “Judging by the rumors, that was the most intelligent thing anybody did in that disaster. If King Joyse had half your sense, there would still be hope for us.”

Oh, Geraden. Hating herself for what she had to do, she took advantage of the opening he had unintentionally given her, the chance to deflect – or at least postpone – his inevitable questions. Without turning her head, she said bitterly, “But that’s the point, isn’t it? He doesn’t have any sense. As far as I can tell, he arranged that whole audience for just one reason – to make fun of the Prince. He wants a war with Alend.”

Then she did turn, forcing herself toward him because she was ashamed. “Geraden, why are you loyal to him? Maybe he was a great king once – I don’t know. But there’s none of that left.” She spoke as if during the audience she had been capable of refusing the King’s smile – as if she could have refused it now. “Why don’t you give him up?”

The quick hurt in his eyes made her want to run into the bedroom and hide her head under the pillows. Lamely, she concluded, “That’s why the Masters don’t trust you. Because you’re loyal to him, and nobody can understand why.”

“Is that what they told you?” he retorted at once. “They don’t trust me because I still like to serve my King? I thought it was because I haven’t done anything right since I was nine years old.”

Stung, she returned to the window, leaning her forehead against the cold glass to cool the pain. Not talk to him? Not tell him the truth? How could she do that, even to save his life?

“I’m sorry,” she heard him say, chagrined by her reaction. “I didn’t mean it that way. This is just a sore point for me. As you can probably tell.

“But I have the strongest feeling—” He stopped.

She waited, but he didn’t go on. Finally, she asked, “What is it this time?”

As if the words were being forced out of him by a deep but involuntary conviction, he replied, “I have the strongest feeling he knows what he’s doing.”

“Oh, Geraden!” She couldn’t restrain herself: she faced him again, showing her irritation plainly. “Do you really think that starting a war with Alend is wise? Do you think that’s a good answer to Mordant’s problems?”

“No,” he admitted glumly. “I’ve already told you my feelings are always wrong. I just can’t ignore them.” After another hesitation, he said, “I haven’t told you about the first time I met him.”

Thinking she knew what was coming, Terisa winced inwardly. “Would you like to sit down?”

“No, thanks.” His manner was abstracted: his mind was on the story he meant to tell. “I spent too many hours yesterday hunched over a mortar. My back still hurts. “He began to pace slowly back and forth in front of her.

“I must have been eleven or twelve years old at the time, and I had never been away from home. Oh, there was hardly a mile of Domne where I hadn’t ridden or worked, trailing after my brothers, doing the jobs I was given, or” – he smiled – “trying to avoid my chores. I don’t care what anybody else says. Domne is the most beautiful of the Cares – especially in the spring, when the apples trees and dogwood and redbud come out, and some of the hills as far as you can see are wooded in blooms – and I loved exploring it, playing in places like the Closed Fist, riding like wild around the skirts of the mountains.”

He sighed happily. “But Houseldon was the center of my life. My father, the Domne, is a man who loves his home more than any place in the world. He prefers the company of his family to anyone else – even though people call him one of the King’s dearest friends. Every year or two, he had to go somewhere to do something for King Joyse or Mordant, and he always took at least two of my brothers with him. That was how Artagel discovered his talent for fighting, which he would never have done at home. But I was always too young to go. I was my mother’s baby, of course. And when she died, Tholden – he’s my oldest brother – he and his wife took over as if they thought I was never going to grow up.

“In some ways, it’s difficult to describe why I didn’t take after my father. Tholden certainly did – when he becomes the Domne, even our father’s beloved cherry trees will hardly notice the difference. So did Minick and Wester – he’s the handsome one of the family. And the only reason I don’t count Stead is that he would rather court every village girl in Domne than do his share of the shearing. Did I tell you that our family raises sheep? We do all kinds of farming, of course. All the Cares do. But wool and cloth are what we’re known for.” He sounded proud. “As soon as my brothers found out how clumsy I was,” he continued wryly, “they refused to let me near the shears. But one summer I did so much herding that I knew every sheep within five miles by name.

“Looking back on it, I think my father’s love should have been irresistible. He can still take off a sheep’s wool in one piece so even it can be used as it is. His eyes light up when he sees a new seed sprout or a new crop come up. And he enjoys the company of his sons as if they were the best people in the world. He even manages to appreciate my good points – whatever they are. Whenever I go home, I spend the first five days amazed at my good luck and wondering why I ever left.”

Then he shrugged and grinned. “I spend the next five days trying to figure out how to tell the Domne I have to leave again. Maybe it’s because I never got to go with him when he traveled. I had to wait until he and my brothers came back and spent the next entire season telling stories about all the exciting things they saw and did. I was like Nyle in that. Except for me, he’s the youngest. He had to stay home a lot, too. When Artagel went into training with the armies of Mordant, Nyle and I treated him like visiting royalty. We wanted him to tell us everything.

“Or maybe it’s because King Joyse sent Queen Madin and their daughters to stay with us for more than a year when I was five or six. What was happening, I think, was that the Alend Monarch and High King Festten were becoming desperate to defend their Imagers, and King Joyse was afraid they might try to stop him by attacking his family. Anyway, the lady Elega and I were about the same age, and we played together most of the time. Even then” – his fondness was evident – “she was so full of being a king’s daughter that I hardly knew what to do with her. But I admired her for it. I loved her stories of wars and power, even though she credited herself with saving the realm more often than most five-year-old girls can manage. Young as I was, she made me ache to explore the whole world the way I did Domne.

“Or maybe it was simply that the most exciting thing I knew about my father was his friendship with the King.

“Whatever the reason, I haven’t been content with the idea of being a farmer or sheepherder for as long as I can remember.”

Abruptly, he stopped and looked at Terisa. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go into all that. I just wanted you to understand what kind of boy I was when I first met King Joyse.”

“Don’t apologize,” she replied gently. She was grateful for anything that kept him from questioning her. And she liked hearing about his family. His background was as alien to her experience as Mordant and Imagery were; but it was also attractive – as strange and wondrous as a fairy tale. “If you didn’t point it out, I would never know you were digressing.”

He bowed playfully. “You are too gracious, my lady.” Then he resumed his story.

“As I say, it was probably thirteen years ago. Mordant was approximately at peace because Adept Havelock wasn’t ready to expose the arch-Imager and his cabal, and King Joyse was doing a royal circuit, getting ready for the days when his wars would actually be over. After Termigan, he came to Domne.

“The day he arrived, I was weeding corn in one of the fields near Houseldon. It was as far away as I could bear to be, and I only went that far because the field was on a hill that let me watch the road. I was so excited that I kept forgetting to look where I swung the hoe. By the time the King and his party finally rode into view” – he chuckled to himself – “I had left a swath of ruined corn right through the middle of the field.

“But that didn’t bother me. As soon as I saw him coming, I dropped my hoe and ran.

“There’s a stockade around Houseldon, mostly to keep the animals out, and unfortunately there was a large pig wallow between me and the nearest gate. However, one of my brothers in an enterprising mood had tossed a long log into the wallow as a shortcut, and I headed for it to save time.

“You can imagine what happened.” He grimaced in mock disgust. “But I didn’t stop. I absolutely had to meet King Joyse as fast as possible. It was the most urgent thing in my life. So I managed to arrive in front of our house just as the King and his people – Queen Madin with Elega, Torrent, and Myste, Adept Havelock in his scruffy chasuble, Castellan Lebbick and a handful of guards, two or three of the King’s counselors, and a small number of servants – you see, I remember it all – I got there just as they were dismounting.” He snorted. “I had cherry pits in my hair, orange peels on my clothes, melon rinds sticking to my feet, and I was still dripping mud.

“A lot of people laughed – except Elega, who got angry – but my father and the King didn’t. The Domne said, ‘My lord King, this is my youngest son, Geraden,’ as if he had never loved me as much as he did right then. Then the King beckoned me to him. In spite of the muck, he put his hands on my shoulders and gripped me hard. ‘I like you, boy,’ he said. ‘Come to Orison in a few years.’ Just like that. ‘You already have one fighter in the family, and Artagel does it well. You will be an Imager.” ’

Again, he stopped pacing to face Terisa firmly. “He made me happier than I had ever been in my life. And I can’t forget that. I’m not as loyal to him as I should be – he doesn’t want me to talk to you, remember? – but he is my King, and I won’t stop trying to serve him as well as I can.”

Then he laughed self-consciously. “Anyway, that’s the best explanation I can give you. At the rate I’m going, if you ask me any more questions, I’ll never give you a chance to tell me what happened to you yesterday.”

A pang went through her. Not quite able to meet his gaze, she said, “I like hearing about your family. Did you hear Saddith mention a tour? She was going to give me a tour of Orison. I would like to know this place a little better.” Deliberately duplicitous, she added, “This room is starting to give me cabin fever.”

Forgetting self-consciousness, Geraden became immediately sober and intent. “I’ll gladly give you a tour. After yesterday, I can use the escape myself. But that meeting of the Congery is too important to talk about in public. With my luck, somebody would overhear us. Why don’t you tell me what happened after I had to leave? Then we’ll go.”

If he secretly wanted to know what she had done with Master Eremis, he concealed the desire well. Nevertheless she needed some way to deflect him again and didn’t have any better ideas, so she said, “Are you sure it isn’t Master Eremis you want to hear about? You were eager enough to interrupt us.”

She tried to make the words teasing – and failed completely. In fact, she sounded just like her mother, feigning playfulness to disguise the intended hurt in what she said.

Involuntarily, Geraden scowled to keep himself from flinching; his face darkened. “Was I wrong, my lady?” he asked stiffly. “Does Master Eremis mean you well?”

She couldn’t answer that. She was too ashamed of herself. Softly, as if she were apologizing, she said, “Do you know what he did? He proved I don’t exist. Or I didn’t exist until you found me in the mirror. You must have created me somehow.”

Suddenly, the Apt was angry. His eyes burned. “He convinced you of that? You. That must have been quite a display of logic. What did he actually say? What argument did he use this time?”

Surprised and a bit frightened by Geraden’s reaction, she answered, “Language. Mirrors don’t translate sound.” Confusedly, she repeated the gist of what Master Eremis had said to her.

In response, Geraden threw up his hands. Stalking away to the window, he glared out at the winter. “That son of a mongrel,” he rasped. “Why does he do things like this?” Then, roughly, he swung toward her again.

“That’s all pigslop, and he knows it. It’s an interesting argument, but it doesn’t prove anything.”

She stared at him dumbly.

“There is at least one alternative explanation. Translation changes things. That’s part of the magic. Language isn’t the only issue. When I put my head into that mirror – the one with the champion – I didn’t have any trouble breathing the air. But surely a world like that would have different air than we do. Why would a mirror create alien landscapes, alien people, alien power, alien creatures – and not alien air? That doesn’t make sense. I must have been changed by the translation so I could breathe. If those people hadn’t been so determined to kill me right away, we might have been able to talk to each other.

“I can’t prove that either, of course. But proof isn’t the point. The point is, the answer Master Eremis gave you isn’t inevitable. There is another explanation.

“It isn’t love that makes him talk to you like that.” His tone was hard, like a clenched fist. He didn’t seem to be aware that she was panicking in front of him.

The past was real? She couldn’t simply turn her back on it and go ahead, as if she had a role to play and a right to play it? Then she didn’t belong here – and everything she did was too important. Her mistakes might do serious damage: the risk she had taken for Prince Kragen against King Joyse might have terrible consequences.

She hardly heard Geraden saying, “There’s some reason why he wants you to believe I created you. He wants something from you.” He grimaced bitterly. “He wants to bed you – but that isn’t what I mean. If it were that simple, he wouldn’t take the chance of upsetting you.

“My lady, what happened during the meeting of the Congery after I left? What did they decide?”

She hardly heard him – but all at once the words came into focus, and she grasped what he had said. The color drained from her face. “Decide?” she breathed, trying not to pant. Even this might be wrong, the decision to protect him. Maybe she shouldn’t trust Master Quillon. Or maybe Geraden needed to die – maybe he was a danger to Mordant in some way she could never understand because she didn’t belong here. She didn’t know enough: the right answer wasn’t available to her. A feeling of weakness washed through her, and darkness swirled around the edges of her vision. Her knees started to fold.

Somehow, Geraden crossed the distance between them. He was holding her up, his hands clamped to her arms. “Terisa!” he hissed like a blaze. “What did they decide?”

She couldn’t stand. If he let her go, she would be lost. A moment later, however, she found that the urgent need in his face brought her strength back. He was more at risk than she would ever be. Master Quillon was right about that: Geraden was too passionate and determined to be safe. She couldn’t let him be killed, couldn’t give his enemies an excuse to kill him.

But as she straightened her knees, took her own weight, she realized that there was no way out. She couldn’t let him be killed. What good was that? She also couldn’t lie to him. It would be impossible for her to lie to any man who looked at her like that. Even if she had never existed before in her life, she would have become real at that moment because of the way he stared at her, simultaneously outraged on her behalf and desperate for her help.

One after the other, she shrugged her arms free. Still feeling weak, she said, “They told me not to tell you. They told me that if you knew what the Congery was going to do your enemies would have you killed.”

As quick as a slap, astonishment stretched his face, and he recoiled a step. “Killed—?” His eyes flashed from side to side, hunting for comprehension. “Me? What enemies? Why would anyone—?” Questions burst from him in fragments: he couldn’t frame them quickly enough to keep up with them. “And you—? They did that to you? Who are—?”

Abruptly, he took hold of himself with an almost visible grip of will, forced down his confusion. In a clenched voice, he murmured, “You poor woman. You know something I don’t, and you know I need to know it, but you think it might cost me my life if you tell me. And if I tell you I don’t have any enemies – I can’t imagine having any enemies – you won’t know who to believe.”

She nodded. If he kept going, she was going to weep.

Without warning, he did something that amazed her down to the ground. Nothing in her father’s dour unlove or Reverend Thatcher’s weakness or Master Eremis’ desire had prepared her for the way Geraden unknotted his throat and swallowed his distress and gave her a smile like a gift.

“You know, Terisa, a tour sounds like a grand idea to me.” He met his danger with a sparkle in his eyes. Dimly, she realized that he was using her name at last. “I would love to show you around Orison. I don’t know any of the secret passages everyone keeps talking about, but I think I’ve explored almost everything else.”

She was so relieved and glad that she went to him without thinking, put her hands on his shoulders, and kissed his cheek.

At once, his pleasure became so bright that she started laughing.

They were still chuckling together when they left her rooms a moment later to begin the tour.

***

It took considerably longer than she had expected. In fact, it spread out over several days. Geraden was familiar with a bewildering combination of routes which stretched through Orison from end to end and top to bottom. He had never been able to win admittance to the Congery and its secrets; but he could tell the story behind each of the pennons hanging outside the hall of audiences (each one was the standard of some commander who had been beaten by King Joyse in battle). Most of the high-ranking men and women he and Terisa met in passing either didn’t know him or recognized him with amusement bordering on disdain; but every guard, maid, scullion, cook, sweeper, wine steward, armorer, apprentice, plumber, stonemason, and merchant from the deepest storerooms to the highest rafters of the castle seemed to be a friend or acquaintance, either of his own or of his family’s. And his relationship with all those people was like his knowledge of Orison: he was as clumsy as a puppy, tripping on stairs or his own feet, bumping into walls, dropping things, and falling all over himself with enjoyment whenever someone made a particularly acute jest; yet he held his own among the scullions and armorers and sweepers, in spite of his instinct for mishap, by displaying an unfailing insight and humor that made many of them look at him with affection indistinguishable from respect.

Nearly exhausted after a few hours – and determined not to show it – Terisa asked him how long he could afford to stay away from his duties. “If they can’t catch me,” he replied with a shrug and a laugh, “they can’t tell me what to do. And they can’t punish me.” Then he closed the subject by leading her away into one of the huge, hot kitchens where Orison’s food was prepared; or perhaps (she couldn’t remember after a while) it was into one of the long dining halls crowded with trestle tables where many of the people who worked for the castle ate their meals; or perhaps into one of the warrens of stone rooms and apartments, as crowded and complex as tenements, but scrupulously clean (kept that way by Castellan Lebbick’s orders and under his supervision he was determined that Orison would never fall siege to disease), where the people who served and maintained the castle lived.

Along the way, Geraden chatted amiably with her for a long time. Eventually, however, he became curious enough to wonder aloud why she wasn’t asking more questions. “I’ve probably made it clear,” he commented, “that I’m not going to let anybody tell me what to do where you’re concerned.” He was trying to sound casual. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

She understood him. He was trying to find out how much she knew already. And where she had learned it.

His offer flustered her. She didn’t want to betray what Master Quillon had already done for her. Because she was in a hurry to say something – and because Master Quillon made her think of Adept Havelock, who reminded her of the arch-Imager Vagel and his cabal – she replied, “Tell me about the High King’s Monomach.”

That was such an odd response that Geraden stopped and peered at her. “Gart? Where did you hear about him?”

She winced at the blundering way she forced herself to prevaricate. In an effort to keep the falsehood to a minimum, she said vaguely, “One of the Masters mentioned him. They were talking about Vagel and Cadwal.”

For a difficult moment, the Apt continued studying her. Then, fortunately, he shrugged and started walking again, deliberately accepting her explanation at face value.

“Cadwal is a strange country.” His answer was typically rambling. “With its ships, it has more contact with the rest of the world than Alend does – and we’ve never had any. That trade brings in wealth like you’ll never see here. But wealth isn’t good for anything except to buy food, pleasure, or power. Well, food they get from us at reasonable prices – or they did until they started harassing Perdon’s borders. Now they rely on brigand commerce. And in other ways power hasn’t done them much good since King Joyse established Mordant and the Congery. So the Cadwals buy a lot of pleasure.

“On the other hand, the country is bitterly harsh. Most of it is ragged rocks and desert, and the regions with water also have the kind of winds that tear your skin off your bones. Conditions like that teach harshness – they teach anybody who can survive them to be strong and cruel.

“The strange thing is the way the Cadwals combine pleasure and harshness.” Geraden thought for a moment before he explained. “The High King’s Monomach is Festten’s traditional champion – a personal defender and assassin. He’s supposed to be the greatest fighter in the country – the strongest and cruelest product of the harshest circumstances and training. In fact, the Cadwals like to say the men who fail as the High King’s Monomach’s Apts are so strong that Carmag is built on their bones. But the reward they give the greatest fighter in the whole country isn’t wealth or power – or even freedom. It’s just pleasure. That, and the chance to get killed serving – or displeasing – the High King.

“For some reason, power and wealth in Cadwal – and control over pleasure – have always belonged to the sybaritic side of their culture. High King Festten doesn’t have an ancestor in the past ten generations who ever lived in a tent in the desert, or survived the wind that cuts the rocks, or measured his life with the edge of his sword. And yet his hold over Cadwal makes the Alend Monarch look like the mediator of the Congery.” He flashed Terisa a grin. “As far as I can tell, the High King has always wanted to rule Mordant simply to save himself the cost of food, so he’ll have more wealth free to spend on pleasure.”

Carried along by what he was saying, Geraden seemed to forget the incongruous fact that she wasn’t asking questions. Breathing a sigh of relief, she reflected that both the Congery and King Joyse had good reason to try to protect what they knew from strangers. For instance, if by some wild stretch of the imagination she were in league with Gart, this tour might prove priceless to her. During the second day, Geraden showed her the prodigious reservoir where rainfall, melting snow, and the waters of the small spring that fed Orison were accumulated and stored. That was information any enemy would have known how to use.

This realization increased her appreciation for what the Apt was doing for her. She knew she was perfectly harmless – but he couldn’t be equally sure. His trust itself was a risk.

She began to feel that keeping secrets from him wasn’t a very satisfying way to thank him. She didn’t want him hurt.

The next day, however, he didn’t arrive to continue the tour. Instead, he sent a message to let her know that Master Quillon had commandeered him once more. Somewhat to her surprise, she went back to bed and slept through most of the day.

But her dreams were of Master Eremis, and she was restless all night. When morning came she found herself hoping that Geraden would return. If he didn’t, she might be tempted to take her questions and decisions in search of the man who had kissed her so intimately.

Where was he? Why had he left her alone? Didn’t he want her anymore? Was she so unappealing that he had already lost interest in her?

Fortunately, Geraden knocked on her door soon after breakfast.

He had procured a thick sheepskin coat and boots for her, similar to the ones he was wearing himself. “Today,” he said sententiously, a grin shining in his eyes, “the battlements.” When she had wrapped the coat around her gray gown, he bowed her out of the room with a mock-courtly flourish.

As she was able to see from her windows, Orison didn’t have a defensive outer perimeter: the same stone served for the rooms and halls inside and their protection outside. But that wall, as Terisa saw when Geraden took her through it, was tremendously thick. Its outward faces were lined with battlements wide enough to carry supply wains, high enough to make archers effective without exposing them to counterattack, and massive enough to resist catapults and battering rams; and it contained (so she was told) storerooms, guardrooms, and passages. Now she was more baffled than ever by the fragment of augury that had shown Orison with a smoking hole torn in its side and a look of death about it. What kind of force was powerful enough to do such damage to a wall like this?

From the battlements, Geraden took her up to the top of the tower that held her rooms.

The air was as sharp as splintered glass, and her nose and ears were chilled. At this elevation, the breeze seemed harsher than it was. The heavy clouds of recent days had lifted slightly, but the increased clarity made the cold worse. The snow packed into the crenellations and corners of the parapet looked old and rotten, gnawed upon but not consumed by the occasional touch of the sun. Her breath steamed in front of her face; she hugged her arms inside the sleeves of her coat and shivered. But she didn’t try to persuade Geraden to forgo this exposure. It offered her the best view she had ever had of the countryside surrounding Orison.

The position of the sun enabled her to verify that the long rectangle of the castle ran roughly from northwest to southeast. She and Geraden stood atop the eastmost tower. Churned mud showing through the snow marked the road that left the gates in the northeast-facing wall and branched almost within arrow shot of the castle, one limb turning toward the south, the Broadwine River, and the Care of Tor (as Geraden had explained several days ago), another paralleling the Broadwine northeast into the Care of Perdon, and a third swinging northwest toward the Care of Armigite. The river, he assured her, could be seen in the distance at other times of year, but in winter white snow and ice made it blend among the hills. Nevertheless it was the same river she had seen in one flat mirror, the river that ran out of the narrow defile that he had called the Closed Fist. It came down through the center of Domne, divided Tor from both Termigan and Armigite, separated a portion of the Demesne from Perdon, and finally split Perdon into its North and South regions before joining the Vertigon on the border of Mordant.

It was odd, she thought as she shivered, how much safer this scene looked here than it did in the glass that had let her, Geraden, and Master Eremis witness the attack on the Perdon. Under the open sky, it became almost impossible to believe in savage monsters and fierce death. Surely things like that only existed in mirrors?

She didn’t absorb much of what he was telling her. She would need a map to get it all straight. Still her eyes devoured Orison’s surroundings. The castle dominated the snow-cloaked hills immediately around it, but those farther away were higher, more rugged, and more interesting. Trees lined the roads after they branched and went their separate ways; yet the hillsides around Orison were so bare that she thought they must have been cleared. Geraden confirmed this: Castellan Lebbick wanted space in which to exercise his men, and Orison’s rulers had never wanted cover to hide an approaching enemy. There were woods in the distance, however – trees as thick, black, and secretive as the ones in her dream. And the roads seemed to lead to places so far away that they must be wonderful.

She wanted to say, Take me to Domne. Take me to Termigan and Armigite and Fayle. Take me away from here. But the weather was too cold; the snow, too deep. And she wasn’t Prince Kragen or one of his men: she couldn’t travel under these conditions. When she saw a group of riders coming up toward Orison from the south, she remembered that she had never been on a horse before.

Squinting into the breeze to keep his vision clear, Geraden stared out at the riders. After a long moment, he breathed softly, “Sand and tinct! That looks like the Tor. The Tor himself. He hasn’t been to Orison since I came here.” To Terisa, he added, “Some people say he’s too fat to travel. But I think he’s probably just too old. He’s at least ten years older than King Joyse.” Then he murmured distantly, “If that’s him, what’s he doing here? At this time of year?”

As he spoke, Terisa felt the cold reach around her heart, and she turned toward the stairs leading back into the tower. The Perdon was keeping the promise he had made to Master Eremis.

But one of the Masters had said – or implied? – that the Tor was incapable of making such a journey. There wasn’t enough time? The distance was too great?

Without warning, Geraden burst past her, half running for the stairs. “Come on!” he called over his shoulder. “That’s definitely the Tor! He’s got a litter with him!”

For a second, she was frozen. A litter? Then Geraden’s urgency grabbed hold of her.

He took the descent two steps at a time. The long skirt of her gown made it impossible for her to keep up with him. But he glanced back at her from the first landing, saw her difficulty, and slowed his pace.

Nearly together, they hurried down out of the tower.

A few moments ago, she had been cold. Now she was hot. In spite of his haste, she stopped on the stairway to pull off her coat. He tried to calm himself, but his face betrayed his vexation at the delay. “I’m sorry,” she murmured as they started moving again.

Before he could reply, he missed a step, let out a yelp, and dove headlong down the length of the stone stairs.

“Geraden!” She rushed after him in panic.

As she reached him, he got to his hands and knees and pushed himself off the floor. His head wobbled from side to side as if he couldn’t remember which way was up. She took him by the arm, tried to lift him erect. “Are you all right?”

Although he looked stunned, he put his weight on her until he propped his feet under him. Then he was able to stand.

“Don’t worry. If this didn’t happen at least once a day, I wouldn’t know who I was.” Awkwardly, he lurched into motion. “Come on. I’ve missed everything else recently. I don’t want to miss this.”

His strides grew slowly steadier as he led her down more stairways toward the level of the gates.

Abruptly, the air turned cold again. They were approaching a high, wide doorway which gave access to Orison’s enormous inner courtyard. Guarded doors made of heavy timbers and bolts stood ready to close the entrance if necessary; but they were open.

Shouts began to echo off the walls of the castle. Guards came running down the hall. More guards splashed out into the mire of the courtyard, running toward the gates. A moment later, Castellan Lebbick appeared. His commands carried more sharpness than the cold as he, too, headed for the gates.

“Put on your coat,” Geraden whispered tensely.

As soon as Terisa had complied, he took her arm and drew her out into the open court.

Her feet sank into the mud up to her ankles. She groaned to think of damaging such nice boots, then had to forget about them in order to concentrate on pulling herself from step to step against the suction of the muck.

She and Geraden were in the southeast end, which was relatively clear. The shops of the bazaar and the wagons of the farmers were crowded to the northwest, and among them were pitched the tents of their attendants, as well as of the guards who were responsible for maintaining order and honesty. But even this half of the courtyard looked large enough to exercise several squadrons of horse.

The castle stood open. The gate itself, a tremendous construct of timbers the size of tree trunks and lashed with iron, had been raised, as it was every day. During the tour, Geraden had showed her the gigantic winches that cranked the gate up into the wall above its architrave. Ahead of her, the Castellan was forming his men into an honor guard to greet the lord of the Care of Tor. A trumpeter blew an announcement. Geraden took her as close as the guards permitted to the place where the Tor’s riders would enter Orison and dismount. There they stopped.

The riders were on the road outside the castle. They had almost reached the gate, despite their mourning pace. She saw now that the men were all in black. The breath of the horses steamed silver in the iron cold, but their trappings were black. Black draped the litter that four of the mounts supported from their saddles. The man who led the group hid his face under a black hood, and a black cloak was wrapped around him.

This figure was so fat that Terisa wondered how his horse could bear his weight.

He led his riders toward Castellan Lebbick, then halted within the precise formation of the honor guard. Their horses seemed to sag under the burdens they carried.

“Greetings, my lord Tor,” the Castellan said gruffly. His shoulders were braced as if they had the weight of the whole winter on them; the purple band across his forehead emphasized the anger of his eyebrows. “You are welcome in Orison. No matter what reason has brought you here at such a time, you are welcome.”

Slowly, the Tor raised his black-gloved hands and lifted his hood, revealing thin white hair that straggled from his pale scalp, features the shape and color of cold potatoes, bleak eyes. His fat cheeks were hurt with cold.

In a husky voice, he rasped, “I will see the King.”

The sharpness of the air made everything distinct. Terisa saw the shadow of a wince pass across Lebbick’s hard face. “My lord Tor,” he replied, “King Joyse has been informed of your coming. At present, he is busy with other matters.” He couldn’t keep his disdain for those “other matters” out of his tone. The King was probably playing hop-board. “I’m sure he’ll grant you an audience shortly.”

The clouds sealing the sky were the color of tombstones. Cold seemed to close around the courtyard. For a long moment, the Tor didn’t move or speak. His eyes blinked as if he were going blind. Then, with a grunt of effort, he heaved his leg over the back of his horse and dismounted. The guards were silent. The champing of the horses and the squelching sound of his boots in the mud could be heard clearly as he moved like an old man among his people toward the litter.

From the litter, he lifted in his arms the black-draped shape of a man or woman who must have been taller than he was. He didn’t look strong enough to bear so much weight; nevertheless he cradled the body against his belly, carrying it forward until he stood directly in front of Castellan Lebbick.

In the same dried-out, hollow voice, he said, “This is my first son. I will see the King.”

Now the Castellan’s distress was unmistakable. “Your son, my lord Tor? That’s a terrible loss.” Terisa remembered that Lebbick was acquainted with loss. “All Mordant will sorrow with you. How did he die?”

For a moment, a flicker of passion lit the Tor’s speech. “His face was torn away by a wolf such as Mordant and Cadwal and Alend together have never known. Do you care to see the wound?” He extended the shrouded body toward Lebbick.

But almost at once his energy faded. Dully, implacably, he repeated, “I will see the King.”

“That won’t be possible.” Castellan Lebbick sounded thick and hoarse, like a man in pain. “King Joyse doesn’t yet grant you an audience.”

Through the silence, the riders at the Tor’s back muttered curses. How far had they ridden in order to present the Tor’s slaughtered son to his King?

Abruptly, Geraden left Terisa’s side. Striding through the mud as if he couldn’t be held back by any slip or accident – as if he had forgotten his talent for mishap – he went toward the Tor. The boyish prance-and-fumble of exuberance and mistake was gone from his manner entirely. The way his chestnut hair crowned the strong lines of his face made him look incontestable, as sure of himself as if he had power and knew how to use it.

Ignoring Castellan Lebbick’s fierce glare, he said, “My lord Tor, I am Geraden, youngest son of the Domne. In the name of my father and all his family, please accept my grief. King Joyse will see you. When he hears why you have come, he will see you.”

“Geraden,” the Castellan snarled in an undertone, “be warned. You forget yourself, whelp.”

At once, Geraden turned toward Lebbick. “No, Castellan.” He had become taller almost without transition, certain of his authority. “Be warned yourself. You may despise me as much as you wish. But the day has not yet come when you may despise the Domne. I speak in his name.

“In his name, I claim the responsibility. Let it crush me if it will. The King will see my lord Tor.”

The Tor said nothing. He stood there with his son in his arms as though he had been stricken mute, unable to articulate his grief except by demanding the King’s acknowledgment of it.

A snarl twisted Castellan Lebbick’s mouth. His hands knotted at his sides. After a moment, he said softly, “You can try, whelp. Gestures like that come cheaply to those with no duty – to those who can ignore the consequences of what they do. It’s my place to ensure that King Joyse is obeyed, and I will do it” – his fist beat the words against his thigh – “if I must.”

Then he stepped aside. With a barked command, he ordered the honor guard to do the same.

Geraden put his hand on the Tor’s arm to help support the great weight of what the man carried. Together, they moved toward the nearest open door. Perhaps a dozen guards took formal positions behind them and followed.

Terisa started after them.

The Castellan stopped her with a hard gesture. “No, my lady. There’s harm enough here without your contribution.” He spat the words like gusts of steam. “I won’t expose my King’s plight to a woman of your dubious allegiance.”

Raising his voice, he instructed two of his guards to return the lady Terisa of Morgan to her rooms.

For a moment, she stood right on the edge of resisting him, though she had never done anything like that before and wouldn’t have been able to do it if she had thought about it in advance. She wanted to go with Geraden. If anything could be done for the Tor, she ached to do it. But the quality of Lebbick’s glare pushed her back. It was outraged and extreme, and it seemed to say that if she forced him to do her violence she would drive him mad.

She turned to the men he had assigned and let them take charge of her.

As she slogged through the mud, she heard Castellan Lebbick stiffly welcome the Tor’s retinue and offer the riders and their mounts Orison’s best hospitality. Then he went after the Tor and Geraden himself.

***

Back in her rooms, with her boots cleaned as well as possible and drying in the bathroom, she reflected that the Tor had obviously not come to Orison in response to any summons from the Perdon. On the other hand, what difference did the Tor’s reasons for being here make now? His presence was what mattered. It worked in Master Eremis’ favor.

Master Eremis wasn’t a comfortable subject of contemplation. His absence gave her a secret ache of frustration and fear. Nevertheless thoughts of him were an improvement over the image of the Tor which remained with her – the fat old man standing ankle-deep in mud, his dead son in his arms and his eyes bleak with grief. When her mother had died, and Terisa had dared to cry, her father had hit her, once, to make her stop. Then he had gotten drunk for the first and only time she could remember. Then he had begun bringing other women into the house as though his wife had never existed. Terisa definitely preferred thinking of Master Eremis.

An hour or so passed before she realized how restless she was. She wasn’t ordinarily a woman who paced, but now she caught herself tensely measuring the rugs and stone of the floor – waiting for Geraden. He had stood up to the Castellan. She felt that it was a long time since she had seen so much strength in him. Surely he would come tell her what had happened?

He did. Before lunchtime, she heard a knock on her door. When she answered it, she found Geraden outside.

He looked like a little boy. His eyes were still puffy from crying, and the expression in them was so forlorn that she wanted to put her arms around him.

She couldn’t go that far. A lifetime of inhibition held her: she had never learned how to reach out to other people. But instinctively, without gauging what she did, she put her hand on his arm and breathed, “Oh, Geraden. What happened?”

He tried to compose himself, but the effort only made him harsh. “He got to see the King. Being the Domne’s son is good for that, at least. I just didn’t let anybody say no to me. But King Joyse didn’t—”

Then his throat closed on the words, as if they hurt too much to come out. For a moment, his features knotted. He glanced rapidly at the guards on either side of the door. “Please, Terisa. I can’t talk about it out here in the hall.”

Her heart was beating double time. “Come in,” she gulped. “I’m being stupid. I didn’t mean to keep you standing there.”

With her hand still on his arm, she drew him into the sitting room.

If he hadn’t been struggling so hard to contain himself – and if she hadn’t been so awkward – they might have hugged each other. But he looked untouchable in his distress, and she had to step away to close the door. When she turned back to him, he was standing with his elbows pressed against his sides and his hands in fists over his heart.

“Oh, Geraden,” she murmured again. “Geraden.”

“I don’t know what’s going on.” His voice was still harsh, clenched. He was trying to shore up something inside himself. “I swear I don’t understand it.

“It wasn’t hard to get in to see him. All I had to do was ignore the guards at the door when they told me the King was busy. Under the circumstances, they weren’t likely to stand in the Tor’s way.

“King Joyse and Adept Havelock were playing hop-board. You probably guessed that. What else,” he asked acidly, “would make him too busy to see the man who got him started on the road to becoming King of Mordant? But he didn’t seem to resent the interruption. When I barged in, he left his game to welcome us. And he smiled the way he does – the way that makes you want to lie down in front of him so he can walk on you.

“Then he saw what the Tor was carrying. I told him who it was. And for a few moments there I thought I had finally done the right thing. For once in my life, I had finally done the right thing.

“He seemed to remember his strength and call it back from somewhere. Suddenly, he was taller, bigger, and his eyes flashed. ‘How was this done?’ he demanded. The Tor couldn’t speak, so I said, ‘Imagery. Some kind of strange wolf.’ Gambling that I knew what I was doing, I said, ‘Look at his face.’

“King Joyse lifted the cloth.” Geraden shuddered. “It was terrible. But it would have been worse if the body hadn’t been frozen for ten days while the Tor was on the road.

“When King Joyse saw it, he seemed to stand up inside himself. He took the body out of the Tor’s arms. He raised his head as if he was going to howl. There was so much outrage and hurt in him that it practically shouted from his face. I thought that finally – finally – he was going to get angry enough to do something.

“I was wrong.”

Geraden made no effort to muffle his pain. “Adept Havelock chose that moment to say, ‘Joyse, it’s your move.’ As if he didn’t know anyone else was in the room.

“And King Joyse just collapsed.

“His face crumpled, and he started crying – softly, almost not making a sound. ‘Oh, my old friend,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. Forgive me.’ Then he fell to his knees – he couldn’t hold up the weight any longer.” Geraden was weeping himself, with his elbows hugged to his ribs and his hands across his chest. “As carefully as he could, he rested the Tor’s son on the floor. For a while, he bowed over the body. Then he got his feet under him again” – Geraden had to grip his determination in both fists in order to say the words – “and went back to his game.”

For a while, Geraden stood still, fighting to regain control of his emotions while Terisa ached for him and the Tor and King Joyse and said nothing.

“After that,” Geraden resumed with a shuddering sigh, “he didn’t respond to anything. He didn’t give any orders for the funeral. He didn’t answer any questions. Maybe he forgot we were there. Eventually, he moved one of his pieces. As far as I could see, it improved Havelock’s position.

“All this time, the Tor hadn’t said a word. He looked too stunned, too hurt, to say anything. I thought he was going to fall on his face. But now he pulled himself together a bit. ‘My son is dead,’ he said as if maybe King Joyse had failed to notice that detail. ‘Is this the best you can do?’

“The King still didn’t respond. Adept Havelock said, ‘Close the door on your way out.’ “

Geraden shrugged. “Then Castellan Lebbick made us leave. Two of his men had to move the Tor by main force. But I was actually grateful. He did us a favor by getting us out of there.”

Abruptly, the Apt ground the heels of his palms into his eyes to force down his tears and his pain and his weakness. When he looked at Terisa again, his glare was red-rimmed and lost. Certainty had deserted him. More than anything now, he resembled a young man who was being broken by his involuntary instinct for disaster.

“Castellan Lebbick was right,” he said. “It would have been better if the Tor had been kept away. All I did was make his misery worse.”

“I’m sorry,” Terisa whispered, hating herself for her inability to help him, heal him. But there was nothing she could do for him except say, “I’m sorry.”

***

Later that day, alone in her rooms in the middle of the afternoon, with nothing to do except brood, she was standing at one of her windows and musing out toward the road when more riders appeared.

This group was larger than the Tor’s, more military in character. A trumpet announced the approach of the riders to the gate of Orison. Castellan Lebbick greeted them with an honor guard equal to the one which had met the Tor. Then they dispersed into the castle. But she still couldn’t make up her mind.

***

Saddith brought news with her supper. “Have you heard, my lady? Both the Fayle and the Armigite have come to Orison. Both have demanded audiences with King Joyse. And both have been refused.” The maid was proud of her information, as if it came from some high, secret source. “It is said that the Fayle carries messages from Queen Madin and the lady Torrent. And yet he has been refused.

“If the reports are true, he bears his disappointment stoically. Not so the Armigite. I have heard him. He wanders the halls, accosting whoever will listen and explaining his indignation.” She tittered. “I am inclined to question his virility, my lady.”

When Saddith left, Terisa found that she had reached her decision. King Joyse was unwilling to meet with the lords of the Cares: he was unwilling even to receive a message from his wife. He was too far gone. Master Eremis was right. Mordant could only be saved now if someone else took charge of events.

She would have to go to him, talk to him, tell him what she knew.

It was possible that she would have to tell him about her secret conversations with Master Quillon and Adept Havelock. Not to betray them, but to help him; the information might make him more effective.

She made this decision because she wanted to do what was right. She didn’t mean to remain passive for the rest of her life. Her presence here made no sense – but as long as she was here, she had to make some effort to help. For Geraden’s sake, as well as for Mordant’s. He was too paralyzed – and too hurt – by his devotion to the King; he wasn’t able to see past his dislike of the Master. He was blind to the one fact she saw clearly: Master Eremis was the only man who had any chance of uniting the Congery and the lords against Mordant’s enemies.

But she wasn’t thinking about Geraden – or about Mordant – when she finally reached her decision. She was thinking about the way Master Eremis had kissed her and touched her.

So the next morning, after a restless night, she got up early. She bathed. She washed and dried her hair. When Saddith brought her breakfast, she found that she couldn’t eat it. Instead of risking nausea, she asked the maid to help her put on the gown she had chosen the previous evening – a confection of mauve silk which clung to her thighs and made the hollow between her breasts look deep and desirable. Then she dismissed Saddith for the rest of the day, saying that she meant to spend it with the lady Myste.

Saddith winked at this obvious fabrication, grinned her approval, and left as if she had plans of her own.

When the maid was gone, however, Terisa remained in her rooms for quite a while. She told herself that she wasn’t hesitating – precisely. She was waiting for a decent hour. But the truth was that she had lost her confidence. Master Eremis was too much for her – too experienced, too adept, too powerful. Geraden had accused him of trying to manipulate her. He had certainly manipulated the Congery. The explanations he gave for what he did weren’t entirely satisfying. And apparently he was no longer interested in her.

Nevertheless in the end her resolve held. Around mid-morning, she went to her door, unbolted it with an unsteady hand, and left her rooms.

One of the guards whistled at her softly through his teeth; she ignored him.

Descending from the tower, she panicked for several moments because she wasn’t sure of the route back to Master Eremis’ quarters. She hadn’t paid close enough attention on the one occasion when she had visited those rooms. And she thought she saw a man following her—

She glimpsed him three or four times, on different levels of the castle. He seemed to disappear as soon as she spotted him. But he was tall; he looked strong. A gray cloak hid his clothes and covered his head, but didn’t conceal the end of the longsword jutting down near his boots.

On the other hand, he didn’t seem to be the man who had attacked her in her rooms. He wasn’t wearing black. And he didn’t keep after her. Instead, he seemed to forget her after a while. She didn’t see any more sign of him.

After worrying about him probably more than he deserved, she put him out of her mind, concentrating her attention again on the problem of finding Master Eremis’ quarters.

What she remembered of Geraden’s tour helped. Eventually, she found her way into the section of Orison that had been set aside for the personal use of the Masters. After that, all she had to do was locate the polished rosewood door with the full-length bas-relief carving of Master Eremis.

As soon as she reached it, she raised her hand to knock – and stopped. She was breathing too hard. She needed a moment to become calm. But the carving on the door was really quite extraordinary. The eyes seemed to see everything, and the mouth promised pleasures which she might not like. He was much too much for her. If she had any sense left, she would admit that. She had no business taking a risk like this.

So she didn’t knock. Gripped by the demented logic of the obsessed, she put her hand on the latch and eased the door open more quietly than the thudding of her heart.

Exactly as she remembered it, she saw the sumptuous room in which the Master had held her and kissed her. She saw the crimson of the uppermost rug made even more dramatic by the blue of the furniture and the yellow of the drapes. She saw the filigree-cut brass urns from which perfumed lamps provided light and warmth. She saw the tapestries which covered the walls with scenes of seduction. She saw the divan—

Master Eremis was on the divan. Fortunately, he wasn’t facing in her direction. He was lying forward, his attention focused on the woman under him. The long, clean muscles of his bare back and buttocks bunched and released to the rhythm of his movements.

The woman’s legs were locked around his hips. Her arms clenched his back. She made moaning noises deep in her throat.

Her clothes were scattered across the floor. Terisa recognized them. But she didn’t need the confirmation.

The woman was unmistakably Saddith.

She had seen something like this once before. Her parents had had separate rooms. After her mother’s death, she had begun using her mother’s room as a hiding place, a retreat, as if her mother were a more comforting presence dead than alive. Of course she hadn’t told her father; he probably had no way of knowing what he was doing when he took one of his women to her mother’s bed. She had watched for a while before she had realized what she was seeing.

Now she closed the door softly. Hugging the cold ache in her heart, she returned to her rooms. Careful not to tear it, she finally worked her way out of the silk gown and put it away. Then she got dressed in her old clothes and went to the window to stare out at the wilderland of winter.

***

She was still there near sunset when yet another group of riders approached the castle. Like the one she had seen the previous afternoon, it was larger than the Tor’s retinue – and less funerary. Again, a trumpet saluted the riders as they approached the gate. Again, Castellan Lebbick met them with a guard of honor. While they were dismounting, she thought she recognized the brawny shape and bald head of the Perdon. But she couldn’t be sure.

TWELVE: WHAT MEN DO WITH WOMEN

She didn’t know how she was going to face Saddith again. Fortunately, when the maid brought her supper, old habits came to Terisa’s rescue. She responded to Saddith’s glow in the same pale, passive, covert way that she had so often dealt with her parents; she put on nonexistence like a cloak, so that nothing about her called attention to itself or disturbed the flow of Saddith’s emotions and concerns. As a result, she was able to hear Saddith’s hints and elation in safety, as if she felt nothing. And she had no trouble fending off the maid’s cheerful, leering attempts to find out how she had spent her day.

It seemed quite possible to her that she did feel nothing. How would she have known if an emotion of any importance had taken hold of her?

Unfortunately, the habits that saved her exacted a price. The sensation that she was fading began to steal over her. A bad night loomed ahead—and she had no mirrors with which to defend herself.

After the maid had cleared away the tray and left for the night, Terisa took another bath, using the cold of the water and the warmth of the fire to create the illusion of physical actuality. Then she spent some time meticulously rearranging the lamps in the room, trying to bring out a reflection from the glass of the window. But the black night outside stubbornly refused to give her image back.

She was tempted to give up, let go of herself and take the consequences. But she had been fighting this battle for years. What did Master Eremis have to do with her, anyway? He hadn’t created her problem. Surely she wasn’t foolish enough to believe that he could cure it? – that his touch on her body could restore what she lacked? Then why was she wasting her time feeling so miserable about him? Why was she—

—trembling in the middle of the room with her heart in an uproar simply because someone had knocked on her door?

She knew the answer to that one. Tonight was the night when Master Eremis and Master Gilbur were supposed to meet with the lords of the Cares.

For a moment, she wanted to ignore whoever was outside her door. But the knock was repeated, reminding her that she really had no place to hide. Mustering her scant resources of courage, she went to answer the door.

Master Eremis stood there grinning.

The way he looked at her still had too much power: effortlessly, it banished all question of fading, made her real in front of him—real for him. After all, what harm had he done her by making love to Saddith? His eyes promised that his attentions were worth having. Who else did she know who could kiss her with just that combination of ardor, experience, and glee?

And if he lost interest in her, she could bring him back by telling him about Adept Havelock and Master Quillon.

In self-defense, trying to take a stand against him, she said, “I don’t want to go.”

He came easily into the room, as if he knew her better than she did herself. “My lady,” he said in a teasing tone, “you must.”

“Why?” The effort not to lose herself in his bright gaze and his smile made her light-headed. “It doesn’t, have anything to do with me.”

“Ah,” the Master replied, “now there you are wrong.” His manner became slightly more sober. “You must come with me as a demonstration of my good faith. You may be unaware of the ill repute which King Joyse has placed upon all Imagers. Either we are the creatures of his will, honest only as far as he is honest, or we retain allegiances to Cadwal and Alend which make us treacherous, or we are the source of the present peril. We are regarded in this way because the Congery was created by force rather than volition. I must persuade these unruly lords to trust me, and that can only be accomplished if I am honest with them. I must show you to them so that they will grasp what the Congery has attempted in the past – and what we mean to do now.

“My lady, this has a great deal to do with you. If you do not come with me, I will gain nothing from this meeting” – he made an attempt not to look too cheerful – “and all my efforts to save Mordant will be undone.”

His hands twitched the ends of his chasuble playfully.

She remembered his hands. She had just begun to learn what they could do. Her heart was beating in her throat. She almost said, All right. I’ll go with you. If you’ll take me back to your rooms afterward. The words came so close to utterance that she felt giddy. She had to swallow more than once before she became able to nod her head.

He reached toward her. “My lady,” he drawled as he took hold of her arm, “I was confident that you would understand.”

The guards stopped him as he closed the door after her. They wanted to know where he was taking her. Castellan Lebbick’s orders. Even though – she was only vaguely aware of this – Geraden was never questioned when she left with him. Master Eremis replied acerbically that the lady Terisa of Morgan had agreed to join him and several other Masters for a quiet supper in the quarters of the mediator of the Congery. Then he steered her away.

The set of his jaw showed that the guards had made him angry.

Holding her arm, he took her down out of the tower and through several of the main halls. She nearly missed her balance and stopped when she spotted the man in the gray cloak again. But he disappeared almost immediately; she lost sight of him before she could point him out to Master Eremis. Smiling apologetically to excuse her awkwardness, she walked on. The man in the gray cloak didn’t reappear.

Master Eremis made no obvious attempt at stealth, but he moved along a route calculated to confuse the few guards they passed. Nevertheless it soon became clear that he wasn’t taking Terisa anywhere near the Congery’s private section of Orison. Nor was he moving toward the complex rooms and passages of the laborium. Rather, he was descending, circuitously but steadily, into a dank, disused part of the castle which resembled the place where Adept Havelock had his rooms – a place among the foundations of Orison. For a moment, she was struck by the wild thought that Master Eremis had something to do with Master Quillon and the Adept. But though the passages Eremis chose were cold, empty, and untended, they were still public enough to be lighted: lanterns hung from the walls at distant intervals. The side corridors and chambers seemed to indicate that this part of the castle had once been inhabited. Perhaps Orison had settled as it was built higher. Or perhaps the foundations had begun to leak. Whatever the reason, these halls and rooms had clearly been abandoned for drier quarters on some other level. Master Eremis’ boots splashed through ice-scummed puddles on the floor, and the sound echoed wetly. Terisa could hear water dripping in the distance.

She hugged her arms against the cold and tried to remember the way back, so that she wouldn’t get lost.

Without warning, a dark shape seemed to materialize out of the wall. She flinched involuntarily. The nearest lantern was twenty or thirty feet away, and its dim light made the figure look as bulky and dangerous as a bear.

But Master Eremis chuckled through his teeth; and a moment later she made out a profile with a bald head, thick eyebrows, and a shaggy mustache. The man was wrapped in a fur cloak the same dark, wet color as the shadows. He probably presented such a bestial shape because he was still wearing his pallettes and gorget under the cloak.

Now that she looked harder, she saw the faint outline of a doorway behind him. He must have been waiting concealed there for Master Eremis to come along.

“Master Eremis,” the man breathed. His greeting steamed in the cold. “They are all foregathered – even that hunchbacked dog you say we must endure to reassure the Congery. You are not what I call prompt.” Terisa could see only half his face in the lantern light, but the one eye on that side glared at her. “Why do you bring a woman?”

“My lord Perdon,” the Imager replied, “it is not as easy as you imagine to arrange for a meeting like this to take place in secret.” The softness of his voice muffled his sarcasm. “Lebbick watches everything – or thinks he does. A number of plausible lies must be placed in a variety of ears. I will explain the woman.”

The Perdon glowered at Terisa a moment longer. “Explain her well, Master Eremis.” Then he shifted his gaze to the Imager. “When you persuaded me to this meeting, I promised that I would gather the other lords as quickly as possible. But the task of sending summons and receiving answer across such distances at this season seemed likely to take at least fifteen days. You assured me, however, that less time would be required. I must confess that I did not entirely believe you. Now I am astonished that you were right to such an impossible degree.”

In surprise, Terisa nearly said aloud, Fifteen days? He told us six. He told the Congery you promised six.

The Master’s grip on her arm kept her quiet. “Imagery has its uses,” he commented enigmatically.

“Doubtless it has,” said the Perdon. “And doubtless you will explain them, also – when you see fit. But one answer you must give me. I am troubled by the Tor’s presence among us.”

“Troubled, my lord Perdon?”

“Yes, Master Eremis.” A clenched fist showed between the edges of the Perdon’s cloak. “I do not trust him here. He has been too steadfastly the King’s friend. I agreed to summon him only because I believed him too old – and too fat – to make the journey. His presence now alarms me.”

At that, Master Eremis cocked an eyebrow. “Now you begin to alarm me. I begin to suspect, my lord Perdon, that it is not the Tor you distrust. It is me.”

The Perdon’s scowl didn’t waver.

“This distresses me.” Eremis let a glint of anger into his voice. “When you spoke of fifteen days, I knew that the time would be less because the Termigan was already on the road to Orison. I have a flat glass which chances to show his seat in Sternwall, and I saw him depart.

“When the Tor arrived, I did not hesitate to include him. Has no one spoken to you, my lord? Has the Tor himself not told you why he is here? He came to demand a response from our brave King because his eldest son was killed by some instance of vile Imagery. And the King has refused. He refuses even to hear the demand – as he has also refused audiences to the Fayle and the Armigite.

“The Tor loves his sons,” Master Eremis concluded. “I believe he will be our ally now.”

“Well,” the Perdon murmured. “Well.” He had turned his head. All his face was in shadow. “He has been the King’s friend for forty years. But perhaps grief will make him bitter. Perhaps it is worth the risk to have him with us.”

“My lord Perdon,” said the Master dryly, “you have already implied that I am late. If we do not go to them soon, the other lords will become restive, and then we will have no one with us.”

The Perdon’s eye came flashing back into the light. He stretched out his fist and touched the Imager’s chest lightly. “Be warned, Master Eremis,” he whispered. “I am the lord of the Care of Perdon. I do not like manipulation – or abused trust. And I suspect that my fellow lords have similar prejudices.”

Then he turned and strode away down the corridor, his heels loud against the stone.

For a moment, Master Eremis held Terisa where she was. “Someday,” he said in a musing tone, “that rash lord really must be taught to be more careful with his threats.”

Almost involuntarily, as if the question were forced out of her, she asked, “Why did you lie to the Congery? You told them it was the Perdon’s idea to meet tonight.”

At once, he raised a finger to his lips. “My lady,” he whispered, “I have already explained that some of my fellow Masters do not like or trust me. They only accepted the risk of this meeting because they believed it to be based on the Perdon’s honor rather than on my foresight. Now I advise you not to utter a word until you are once again safely in your rooms.”

Still holding her arm tightly, he drew her after the Perdon.

They followed the hard echo of his bootheels until they had passed another turn; then she saw light streaming from an open doorway ahead. The door wasn’t guarded: apparently, the lords of the Cares still believed they were safe in Orison. The Perdon strode through the doorway, and Terisa heard low voices greet him. A moment later, Master Eremis took her into the light.

There he released her arm and gave her a small nudge forward. She had the impression that he had stepped back – that he was using her entrance to provide some kind of distraction.

The door opened on a room as plain as a cell and not much larger. The light came from several lanterns set on a long, crude wooden table which filled at least half the space. The heavy chairs around the table made the chamber crowded.

As soon as she entered the room, Terisa noticed Master Gilbur: he sat at the far end of the table, and his features were clenched in an acid scowl, as if he had been trading insults with someone.

The Perdon was still on his feet, but the other lords were seated. She recognized the Tor, of course. He sat near Master Gilbur. Out of direct contact with the winter, his skin had more color; but his face still looked like a handful of mealy potatoes, and his eyes were glazed. There was an enormous flagon on the table in front of him.

Opposite him was a man whom Terisa took at once to be the Armigite, simply because of Saddith’s description. The softness of his face made it appear fleshier than it really was, and his expression was petulant; his hair was darkened and pomaded into elaborate curls; his clothes were rich in a way that somehow suggested a lady’s bedroom. He was the only man in the room who looked younger than Master Eremis: clearly, he had inherited his place rather than earning it in Mordant’s wars.

Like the other lords, he was armed, but the slim blade at his side seemed essentially decorative.

The man next to him was a strong contrast: he appeared to have been chipped from a block of flint. Every line of his face, every glance of his eyes, every gesture of his hands looked like it had been made sharp by blows, hammered to a cutting edge. His skin had a dusty tinge that suited his flat eyes. His eyebrows seemed to have no color.

He must have been the Termigan. Terisa reasoned this because he wasn’t old enough to be Queen Madin’s father. The lord across from him – beside the Tor – was much more likely to be the Fayle. This man was at least the Tor’s age; the sparse white hair on the back of his skull was cut short; he was as lean as a whippet. His face was so long, and had so much jaw, that he might have looked lugubrious if his eyes hadn’t been so bright, blue, and precise. The way he sat – upright in his chair, with his arms crisply folded over his thin chest – implied the stoicism Saddith had attributed to him.

With the exception of the Tor – whose attention was fixed on his flagon – everyone was looking at her. The Fayle’s keen gaze betrayed nothing; but the Termigan regarded her indignantly, the Armigite’s face wore a sneer, and Master Gilbur’s customary scowl was black and stormy.

The men and the lanterns made the room considerably warmer than the corridor.

No one offered any introductions. As soon as Master Eremis came into the room, just a moment or two after Terisa, the Perdon announced sourly, “Master Eremis says that he will explain her.” The red hair of his eyebrows and ears bristled as he took a chair beside the Termigan.

“I would like an explanation,” Master Gilbur growled at once. “What sort of legerdemain will you use to make us swallow her presence, Eremis?”

Under so much hostile scrutiny, Terisa felt her face growing hot. Anybody who looked at her closely would notice the sweat trickling down her temples. How had she become the linchpin of Master Eremis’ plans? Why did everything he wanted in this meeting suddenly hinge on her?

“My lady” – his tone wasn’t especially courteous – “be seated.” He gestured her toward the chair beside the Fayle. Then he sat down himself, at the head of the table opposite Master Gilbur. His leanness, the thatch of black hair behind his high forehead, and the way his cheeks sloped like the sides of a wedge from his ears toward his large nose gave him the appearance of an exotic bird. In some ways, she had never seen him look less serious. The sparkle in his eyes counterbalanced the grim set of his mouth. His hands he folded together on the table in a conspicuously unsuccessful effort to appear grave.

“My lords,” he said briskly, glancing at each of them in turn, “the problem is time. If we were not in haste, I would not have presumed to make decisions without your knowledge and consent. It is true that this winter may not break for another thirty days, or even fifty. But it may break in ten. In ten days, an army of considerable size may begin to march against us from Cadwal. And only a few days have passed since wise King Joyse saw fit to reject a proposed alliance with Alend, humiliating the ambassador to seal his refusal. The forces of Margonal will not be far behind those of the High King.”

“That is true,” the Armigite said with boyish bitterness. “If King Joyse had granted me an audience, I would have told him that Margonal’s army musters not half a day’s march from the Pestil. My commanders say that they cannot stand against it. When Alend decides to attack, I will be swept away. And King Joyse refuses to hear me!”

He would have gone on, but Master Eremis cut in smoothly, “Worse than armies, however, is Imagery. And Imagery does not wait for spring. All Mordant is already assailed. Strange wolves have slaughtered the Tor’s son. Ghouls harry the villages of Fayle. Devouring lizards swarm the storehouses of the Demesne. Pits of fire appear in the ground of Termigan – almost within the fortifications of Sternwall.”

The Termigan nodded bleakly. “That’s why I’m here. I’m a soldier. I’m weaponless against pits of fire in the ground.”

“We have no time, my lords,” Master Eremis concluded. “For that reason, I have presumed to do what I have done.”

He paused, and Master Gilbur growled, “Get on with it, Eremis. What have you done?”

Master Eremis’ dour expression nearly broke. Suppressing himself stiffly, he said, “I have invited someone else to our meeting.” Before anyone could react, he called over his shoulder, “My lord, you may come in now!”

Terisa gaped as Prince Kragen strode into the room, accompanied by his two bodyguards.

His bearing showed that his self-assurance hadn’t been dampened. He no longer wore his ceremonial brass helmet, breastplate, and sword sheath. Black silk garments emphasized the darkness of his skin; his mustache gleamed. But once again he had a strong sword belted to his hip. His bodyguards were armed for use rather than show.

Seeing him, the Armigite blanched. The Termigan thrust back his chair and sprang to his feet, hauling at his sword. Master Gilbur’s face darkened apoplectically. The Tor took a swig from his flagon and belched.

“This is surprising,” commented the Fayle in a voice like the rustle of dry leaves. “You are not presumptuous by half measures, Master Eremis.”

“Have you lost your mind?” the Perdon snapped at Eremis. “I warned you that we will not be manipulated. Will you admit the son of the Alend Monarch to our secret counsels?”

One of the bodyguards braced himself between Prince Kragen and the Termigan. Before the man could draw his sword, however, the Prince stopped him. “My lords,” he said with a placating gesture, “hear me. You are surprised – but you are not threatened. Indeed, I am grateful that Master Eremis has provided me this opportunity to meet with you. After my treatment at the hands of your King, I was minded to depart Orison at once. But that would have ensured war between Mordant and Alend. And the Alend Monarch strongly desires peace. It is his greatest wish to form an alliance against the perils of Cadwal and Imagery. Therefore when Master Eremis asked me to remain in Orison, promising me a chance to speak to you, I allowed myself to be persuaded.

“My lords, I have been denied an alliance with Mordant’s King. But surely the same end may be achieved by an alliance with Mordant’s lords?”

“Alend is my enemy,” the Termigan spat at once, still holding his sword. “I’ve had too many brothers and friends killed by Alends who thought it was their right to own our freedom. I didn’t realize, Master Eremis, that you called us together to discuss treason.”

“Oh, treason, forsooth.” The Armigite fluttered his delicate hands, quickly recovering from his initial fright. “For myself, I am delighted to see Prince Kragen on grounds of friendship. What is your loyalty, my lord Termigan – to King Joyse, or to Mordant? You know what our King has done – and not done – to meet our need. I call it treason to obey him further. Mordant,” he added piously, “is a higher service.”

“My lord Termigan,” Prince Kragen continued, “you must understand the Alend Monarch’s position. As I have said, his desire for peace is strong. We have known peace since you fought so powerfully for our defeat – and we have learned that peace is better than war. But your King has not been content with peace. He has created the Congery.

“My lords,” he said generally, “the Congery represents great danger. While your King held it strongly, so that it served the causes of peace, we were able to bear the threat. But now your King has become weak. Mordant is under attack by Imagery – and Imagery is not used in your defense. How are we to explain this? Either your King has gone mad and no longer cares to defend what he fought so long to win. Or he has gone mad and now wields the Congery against his own land, preparing his strength” – Master Gilbur started to protest, but the Prince overrode him – “so that in time he will be able to destroy us all!”

“That is a lie!” Master Gilbur barked, pounding the table. “Of course King Joyse is mad. But he does not use the Congery! By the balls of the arch-Imager’s goat, we are not the cause of this peril!”

Prince Kragen didn’t take offense. “You speak for yourself, Master Gilbur,” he said mildly, “and for yourself I believe you. That the Congery desires our meeting augurs well for its honesty. To my mind, Master Eremis has proven himself true by bringing us together – and by gaining the Congery’s permission to tell us what the Masters mean to do in Mordant’s defense. Sadly, however, that changes nothing. Your King has become weak. Therefore Cadwal aspires to possession of the Congery. And therefore Alend must fight. We cannot permit so many Imagers to become a weapon in the hands of the High King.

“My lord Termigan, you have lost much in war against us. We also have lost much. But Mordant and Alend together will lose a great deal more if Festten becomes the ruler of the Congery.”

“Well said!” cheered the Armigite. “Well said!”

The Perdon was looking hard at Master Eremis. After a moment, he said softly, “You are wiser than I realized, Master Eremis. If I had known that you are so farsighted, I would have come to you for counsel sooner.”

Eremis’ eyes glittered, but he didn’t permit himself to smile.

The Prince’s argument was enough to make the Termigan reconsider. He lowered his sword; frowning in thought, he stared at the table.

Unexpectedly, the Tor banged his flagon to the table. “Oh, sit down, my lord Termigan. So much upright anger makes me tired. Let us learn what more surprises are in store for us.”

“Before we go further,” the Fayle said dryly, “perhaps Master Eremis will explain why he has brought this young woman to hear what we say and decide.”

Taken by surprise, Terisa’s heart started to pound again.

Abruptly, the Termigan slapped his sword back into its sheath and sat down. His flat eyes looked at no one. “Yes, Master Eremis. Account for the woman. You ask us to accept too much too quickly.”

Master Eremis opened his mouth to answer, but Prince Kragen was faster. “My lords, she is the lady Terisa of Morgan. I know nothing of her. Yet I am in her debt. During my audience with your King, she did all she could to spare me humiliation. For that, the gratitude of Alend is hers.” He gave Terisa a formal bow. Then, his voice at once velvet and iron, he added, “My lords, I must ask you to treat her with respect.”

Master Gilbur snorted softly.

The Tor peered past the Fayle at her through a blur of wine. “You were with that boy of the Domne’s,” he said thickly. “Geraden. When I arrived.” Without warning, his eyes filled with tears. Blinking furiously, he leaned back in his chair, then slapped his hand down on the table. “Take my gratitude as well. Prince Kragen and I will see that you are treated with respect.”

Gulping from his flagon, he slumped to the side as if he had lost consciousness.

“Very touching,” the Armigite murmured without quite looking at Terisa. “What will we have next? Offers of marriage?”

The other lords, however, seemed to think better of the Tor than of the Armigite: they didn’t acknowledge his sarcasm. Instead, they fixed their attention pointedly on Master Eremis, and the Termigan said, “I’ll respect her well enough when I understand why she’s here.”

“My lords” – Eremis spread his hands in an expansive gesture – I will tell you. Will you be seated, my lord Prince?”

“Thank you.” Smoothly, Prince Kragen moved to a chair beside Terisa, between her and the Fayle. His eyes gleamed at her. “May I sit at your side, my lady?” he murmured. He didn’t wait for her permission, however. As he sat down, she noticed that his hands were well manicured, but there were ridges of callus on his palms and fingers.

His bodyguards stationed themselves behind him.

“As you have heard,” Master Eremis resumed at once, “she is the lady Terisa of Morgan. She was brought among us by Imagery.”

No one reacted to this announcement: perhaps it was self-evident.

“Beyond that, you already know as much of her as I do – certain secondary details aside.” He couldn’t resist a leering grin that made the Armigite snigger. But he suppressed it quickly. “She reveals nothing. She has no discernible talent for Imagery. I brought her here so that you will understand what the Congery has done in an effort to answer Mordant’s need – and what we now propose to do.

“My lords, our dilemma is yours, and we are not blind to it. Mordant is in great danger. And King Joyse has lost his senses. Therefore we have done what Imagers have always done. We have cast an augury.

“A great amount of time was required to do this. It is not a simple thing to create the glass needed for such specific augury. But when the glass was done, the augury was cast. As best we can, we have acted on what we learned.

“I will not trouble you with lengthy explanations of augury. It is enough to say that the matter of interpretation is difficult. Put simply, our augury shows Mordant’s peril. It shows an alien figure of great power. It shows scenes of victory. And it appears to imply a connection between the figure of power and the Domne’s youngest boy, Geraden.

“As it happens, this same figure of power is visible in one of Master Gilbur’s most celebrated mirrors.”

Master Gilbur gave the room an indiscriminate glare.

“We came to the conclusion,” Eremis continued, “that this figure was the champion who would save Mordant – if he were translated in the right way. And we agreed – not without some debate – that it must be Geraden’s task to perform the translation.”

He leaned back and indicated Terisa with a nod. “She is the result. In some way that we cannot explain, Geraden’s translation went awry.” Then he paused to enjoy the perplexed frowns and muttering of the lords.

The Tor twitched in his seat. “I know that Geraden,” he rumbled. “He is a good boy. A true son of his father.” Absentmindedly, he yawned and took another pull from his flagon.

After a moment, the Armigite said in a tone of rising indignation, “Do you mean us to believe, Master Eremis, that Mordant is to be saved by this”—he waved the back of his hand in Terisa’s direction—”this woman?”

“No, my lord Armigite.” The Fayle’s voice was as dry and brittle as ever, but it held an unexpected authority. “Master Eremis would never ask that of a man who has no wife and no daughters. He means us to understand the decisions which the Congery has made because of the lady Terisa’s translation.”

“Exactly, my lord Fayle.” Despite his stern expression, the laughter in Master Eremis’ eyes implied a comment on the Armigite’s embarrassment. “It is my hope that seeing the lady Terisa will enable you to grasp why we have determined now to turn our backs on the obvious interpretation of our augury.

“Though he figures prominently in the augury, we have decided to forgo Geraden’s assistance. Master Gilbur will perform the translation as soon as you wish him to do so.”

Terisa thought the room was getting colder. But— she protested. But— That wasn’t what the Congery had decided. Master Eremis was going too far.

The Tor made a soft snoring noise. The other men were more attentive, however. The Termigan stared at Master Eremis. The Armigite’s mouth hung open. Prince Kragen’s gaze darted watchfully around the room, gauging what he saw. The Fayle moved his lips as if he were talking to himself. In the surprised silence, Terisa could hear the creak of the bodyguards’ leather as they shifted on their feet.

All at once, her sense of the situation changed. Despite his strange manner, Master Eremis had the ability to amaze her. Now she understood what he was doing. He was trying to forge an alliance, trying to place all three of the forces here – the lords, the Congery, and Alend’s representative – into positions from which they would find it impossible to refuse him. Lacking the strength of the King, or even the authority of the mediator of the Congery, he was forced to resort to these subtle ploys. But the point of his maneuvering was to save Mordant.

Abruptly, Prince Kragen slapped his hand down on the table and crowed, “Bravely done, Master Eremis! You are audacious and resourceful, and you have my admiration. This is the union you offer us – Alend and the lords of Mordant and the Congery. I would not have believed there to be a man anywhere bold enough to make such a proposal – and clever enough to make it possible by bringing us together.”

“Master Eremis is indeed audacious and resourceful,” said the Fayle. “Our reward for forming the union he wishes is the chance to employ the Congery’s champion as if he were our own.”

“You say a ‘figure of power,” ’ the Termigan put in brusquely. His tone suggested distaste, but his flat eyes revealed nothing. “What do you mean?”

“A moment, my lord Termigan,” the Fayle insisted mildly. “I must claim precedence.”

The Termigan closed his mouth.

“Emend me if I am mistaken, Master Eremis.” The Fayle’s blue eyes glittered like a bird’s. “Has not King Joyse forbidden any translation that deprives its object of volition?”

“He has,” snapped Master Gilbur. “The greater our need for Imagery, the more he strives to paralyze us.”

“And is he aware that your champion will be brought among us involuntarily?”

Master Eremis spread his hands like a shrug. “My lord, that is one of many reasons why we must meet in secret. Our wise King will not lift his hand in Mordant’s defense. But he will take Orison stone from stone to prevent a forbidden translation.” Then Eremis indicated Terisa. “The last time we obeyed his commands, she was the result.”

“I see,” the Fayle replied. “Forgive my interruption, my lord Termigan.”

“For my part,” said the Perdon fiercely, “I favor anything that will keep Festten’s butchers on their side of the Vertigon. I have sworn to send King Joyse my dead and wounded if I am attacked – and I will do it.”

The Armigite looked like he was going to be sick.

The Termigan hadn’t shifted his gaze from Eremis. Softly, he said, “Tell us about this ‘figure of power,’ Master Eremis.”

“What is the need?” Gilbur demanded sourly. “He is augured. We must have him.”

But Master Eremis answered, “He has weapons that hurl a destructive fire. His armor protects him from all attack. Seeing him in battle, we cannot imagine how even an army would be able to stand against him. Surely he will be proof against wolves and ghouls and devouring lizards. Pits of fire will not harm him. He will be able to fight this vile Imagery to its source.”

“Better and better.” Prince Kragen’s smile shone like his mustache. “What is that source, Master Eremis?”

“I believe,” Eremis replied as grimly as his private excitement allowed, “that he is the arch-Imager Vagel.”

The Tor made a snorting noise. He raised his head, glanced around blearily for a moment, then heaved himself to his feet. “My lords, I must go to my bed. I have become too old for so much carousal.”

“Do not go, my old friend,” the Fayle remonstrated gently. “You must help us to a decision.”

The Tor blinked hard. “What decision? I have none to make. I will not return to Marshalt. I am old, I say. These questions are too much for me. If King Joyse means to destroy Mordant, I will be here to assist him. I will stand at his side to the end.” He made a small chuckling noise. “He deserves me.” Then he began to shuffle his bulk toward the door. “My son always said I was a fool and a coward for not giving him more than two hundred men when he first set himself to become King. Now my son is dead. I should not have been so cautious.”

Slowly, he lumbered out of the room.

To Terisa’s surprise, the Armigite said, “The Tor is right. We should all go to bed. A decision like this should not be made quickly.” His eyes showed white, and there was sweat on his upper lip. “What if we are discovered? What if Castellan Lebbick comes upon us? We need time. We must choose with care.” His voice cracked. Struggling for dignity, he concluded, “I do not like decisions.”

With considerable asperity, the Perdon snapped, “My lord Armigite, your father is groaning in his grave. Did he fight so many bloody – handed battles against” – he flicked a glance at Prince Kragen – “against foes of every description, simply to surrender his Care to a half-man who does not like decisions?”

The Armigite flushed, but was too nauseated to retort.

“My lords,” the Perdon went on, “Armigite is bordered on the east by Perdon, on the west by Fayle and Termigan, on the north by Alend. We are enough. The Armigite cannot oppose us all. He will permit us to make his decisions for him.”

There was a moment of silence while the Armigite squirmed and the Perdon looked hotly around him. Then the Fayle said, “Be explicit, my lord Perdon.” He sounded like a dry husk. “What is the decision you propose?”

“I propose the union Master Eremis has offered us,” replied the Perdon at once. “I propose that we join together to draw up a plan of battle—against Cadwal as well as against these attacks of Imagery. King Joyse we will ignore. When Prince Kragen has had time to ready his forces” – he spoke as though he could hear trumpets, and his bald head seemed to gleam with enthusiasm – “the lords of the Cares will march with him and the champion of the Congery for the preservation of the realm.”

Master Eremis sat very still, trying not to smile. Down the table from him, Gilbur had covered his face with his heavy hands.

“That’s eloquent, my lord Perdon.” The Termigan’s tone betrayed neither approval nor sarcasm. “I’m considered a loveless man. Certainly, I’ve got little use for any of you, my lords – and none for King Joyse. But Termigan is my Care. From the depths of its copper mines to the expanse of its wheat fields and the heights of Sternwall’s towers, it is mine.

“Tell me this. When Cadwal is beaten, and the Imagery has been defeated, and Joyse is deprived of kingship, who is going to rule Mordant and Termigan? Who is going to have authority over my Care?”

Prince Kragen replied with surprising promptness, “The lady Elega.”

Elega? Terisa thought as if she had been kicked.

“She is your King’s eldest daughter, his rightful heir. And I have had the pleasure of her acquaintance in recent days. She understands power and rule better than you know.” He paused. “And she is not Alend.”

“A woman,” groaned the Armigite, apparently seeking to regain lost stature. “Then you will marry her, and Margonal will become king over us.”

Kragen’s eyes glittered dangerously, but he didn’t deign to retort. Instead, he asked the Termigan, “Is she acceptable to you, my lord?”

“My lords,” interposed the Fayle. For the first time, he unfolded his arms and put his long, thin fingers flat on the table. The veins in the backs of his hands bulged crookedly. “This must stop.”

At once, every eye in the room was on him.

“I have heard enough.” He sounded old and tired; yet there was an undercurrent of firmness in his voice. “If you mean to accept this alliance, you must be content to do so against my opposition. Fayle will support the King.”

In an apologetic tone, he added, “You must understand that I am the father of his wife. Queen Madin is a formidable woman. Whatever choice I make here, I must justify to her.”

“Women and women!” The Perdon was on his feet, his clenched in anger. “Must Mordant be destroyed because you cannot stand before your own daughter? Or because Prince Kragen is enamored of Elega? Or because”—he brandished his mustache at Terisa—”Master Eremis desires to bed this product of Imagery? My lords, such questions are not important! Our ruin musters against us while we debate petty considerations. We must—”

“No, my lord Perdon. “Though the Termigan didn’t raise his voice, he made himself heard through the Perdon’s ire. “You’ll do what you want. But you’ll do it without me. My lord Fayle is too polite to say what he thinks. I’m not so courteous. There is some plot here. My lord Prince agrees with all this too easily. I know the Alend Monarch. When he closes his hand around Mordant, he won’t release it – not unless the lady Elega has already agreed to become his proxy.”

He got to his feet. “Make all the alliances you can. I trust no Alend or Imager.” Roughly, he strode from the room.

For a moment, no one moved or spoke. The Termigan’s unexpected declaration appeared to have shocked everyone. Terisa was reeling at the sudden collapse of Master Eremis’ plans. He looked like he wanted to laugh; she interpreted that as fury.

“One thing more,” said the Fayle. He, too, was standing. “Master Eremis, Master Gilbur – you must not translate this figure of power.”

Master Eremis only cocked an eyebrow. The Armigite looked like he was trying to shrink down in his seat, so that he would be ready to duck under the table. But the Perdon stared accumulated outrage at the Fayle. And Master Gilbur demanded in quick anger, “Not?”

“You will violate the King’s express commands. And more – you will violate the purpose for which the Congery was conceived. You must not do it.”

“That purpose is Joyse’s, not ours!” retorted Gilbur. “We will not allow some doddering old fool to tell us our duty.” Abruptly, he hit the table so hard that the Tor’s abandoned flagon toppled to the floor. “We mean to survive!”

“Then,” murmured the Fayle sadly, “I must tell the King what you intend.”

Terisa felt a sting of panic as she saw everything Master Eremis had tried to achieve backfire.

Prince Kragen was on his feet with his bodyguards.

The Perdon faced the Fayle across the table. “Do you mean to betray us, my lord Fayle?”

“No, my lord Perdon,” the Fayle answered as though he were grieving. “I will say nothing of this meeting. I mean only to prevent the Imagers from betraying their King.”

He should have looked foolish as he left the room: he was old and thin, and his erect carriage emphasized his peaked shoulders, his ill-proportioned head. The men he opposed were younger, stronger, handsomer. But he didn’t look foolish. To her astonishment, Terisa considered him admirable. His loyalty touched her. She could imagine Geraden greeting the Fayle’s exit with applause.

When the old lord was gone, Master Eremis threw back his head and let out a sound like the cry of a loon.

“Oh, control yourself, Eremis!” growled Master Gilbur. The hunchbacked Imager was plainly furious. “I warned you that this would happen. These lords forget every lesson of the past, but they remember that they do not trust Imagery. I have said from the beginning that we must take our own action and let the Cares fend for themselves.”

“Yes, Master Gilbur,” said Eremis. “You did indeed warn me. You warned me often.” With a sudden push, he left his chair. Speaking rapidly, urgently, he said. “My lord Prince, my lord Perdon, you must excuse me.” He ignored the Armigite. “Despite Master Gilbur’s warning, I did not anticipate this outcome.” His face was so knotted that Terisa couldn’t read it. “Our fellow Masters are already at work, preparing the champion’s translation. We must go to them at once, before the Fayle is able to bring down the King’s wrath. If they are caught in the act of a forbidden translation, I fear that our kind King will re-institute the practice of execution.

“My lord Prince, will you see that the lady Terisa is returned to her rooms?”

Without waiting for an answer, Master Eremis said, “Come, Master Gilbur,” and hurried away.

Master Gilbur followed as quickly as his bent back allowed.

Terisa sat where she was, too confused to move. Why did she admire the Fayle, when he and the Termigan had ruined Master Eremis’ efforts to save Mordant? And why was the translation already started? The Congery had agreed to wait for the outcome of this meeting.

“It is too bad, my lord Prince,” the Armigite was saying, “that the courage to accept your offer of alliance is so scarce. I would be willing to discuss a private union. I would require protection against reprisals. In exchange, I would—”

His voice trailed away; no one was listening to him.

“My lord Prince,” said the Perdon stiffly, “please forgive the failure of this meeting – and the insult. I can only assure you that Master Eremis and I meant well. It will not be wise to linger here. Shall I relieve you of the lady Terisa?”

“No apology is needed, my lord Perdon.” Prince Kragen didn’t appear as upset as Terisa expected. “It is true that my mission has met little success. Frankly, I do not see how Mordant and Alend can now be saved from war.” He gave Terisa a sparkling black glance and grinned. “But perhaps my fortunes will improve. I am in the lady’s debt. I will happily escort her.”

“As you wish.” The Perdon bowed brusquely, pulled his cloak around him, and left.

Almost at once, the Armigite scrambled after him, as though the younger lord were afraid to be left behind. When he reached the corridor, Terisa heard him call out to the Perdon, asking for company. She didn’t hear the Perdon’s answer.

“My lady.” Prince Kragen had his hands on the back of her chair. “Will you come?” He was bowing slightly over her and smiling. “As the Perdon has said, it is not wise to linger.”

She didn’t know how to interpret his smile. It reminded her to some degree of Master Eremis’. At the same time, it suggested that the Prince was a better diplomat, better able to conceal his feelings. His self-assurance was as good as a mask.

She rose in compliance. She had learned her manners from her father.

He pulled the chair out of her way, then took her arm, holding her closely but without undue intimacy. With one bodyguard ahead of him and one behind, he guided her from the room.

Almost without transition, the temperature of the air dropped. The sound of dripping water seemed to creep around her.

“Are you warm enough, my lady?” the Prince asked softly. “You are not warmly dressed.”

She should have murmured some noncommittal reply. But she had lost the ability to be as compliant as she appeared. In instinctive self-defense, she answered with a question of her own. “Do you really know Elega?”

She felt him stiffen. He was silent for a moment. Then he said politely, “My lady, it is customary to address me by my title.”

“My lord Prince.”

He let an easy laugh into the dank passage. “Thank you. Yes, it has been my great pleasure to make the acquaintance of the lady Elega. I have had considerable leisure since the debacle of my audience with King Joyse.”

The boots of the bodyguards made crisp crack-and-spatter noises as they strode through puddles of water thinly crusted with ice. When the light of the lanterns was right, she could see her breath steaming. Without conscious boldness, she asked, “Then why are you interested in me?”

Again, he fell momentarily silent, as though he needed time to digest her question and marshall a reply. “My lady,” he answered finally, “if another woman asked that question, I would know better how to respond. Can you be unaware that you have a face and form that would interest any man? Perhaps you can. Yet I suspect that your question had another meaning.

“If you are not a coquette – if your question is not meant to entice me – I will answer frankly. I am much impressed by the lady Elega. King Joyse has done more than he knows in producing such a daughter.”

Terisa breathed an almost audible sigh of relief.

There was a hitch in the leading bodyguard’s stride, a flicker of hesitation. Then he resumed his steady pace.

A chill reached both hands through Terisa’s shirt.

“Few Mordants clearly understand, I think,” Prince Kragen went on with apparent irrelevance, “that the rule of Alend is not hereditary. When my father, the present Alend Monarch, dies, I will not automatically assume his Seat in Scarab. Rather, the new Monarch will be chosen by contest from among all those who wish to vie for rule.

“Incidentally,” he commented, “it is this method of choosing rulers that has preserved the confederacy of the Alend Lieges. Those unruly barons remain faithful to Scarab because they know that they or their families will always have another opportunity to win the Seat.

“This contest is not formal, of course. It has simply evolved. In former times, it was primarily a test of ruthlessness. Whoever butchered, poisoned, or terrified enough of his opponents into submission became Monarch.

“Peace has its benefits, however,” he continued. His voice formed a murmuring undertone to the damp echo of bootheels. “And the Alend Monarch is devoted to wisdom, as I have said repeatedly. Now people who desire to rule Alend are not allowed to fester in private, scheming murder. They are publicly acknowledged, and they are tested in the service of the kingdom. Put simply, they are given opportunity to demonstrate that they are fit for the Seat.” He chuckled briefly. “One mad old baron put his son forward in recent years – and then went privately about the business of trying to slaughter all opposition. His son was given the test of bringing the baron to justice.

“As it happens, he succeeded admirably.

“My lady,” he said ruefully, “this mission is a test for me. And it does not provide much hope. You could safely wager, I fear, that I will not be the next Alend Monarch.”

At once, however, he assumed a more cheerful tone. “But we were discussing the lady Elega. I mention all this so that you will understand me when I say that if she were an Alend the Seat of the Monarch would not be closed to her. I believe that she would stand high among the powers of the Kingdom.”

The leading bodyguard hesitated again. This time, he nearly froze in mid-stride. Cold suddenly licked across Terisa’s heart. She thought she heard the same thing he did – a quiet leather sound which reminded her of swords and sheaths.

Prince Kragen snatched at his blade. He had time to snap, “Beware! Guard the lady!” Then the darkness attacked.

Men charged out of a side passage. How many? She couldn’t tell – five or six. Cloaks fluttered from their shoulders like wings. Their leather armor was so black it was difficult to see. Lantern light glinted on bare iron.

They struck straight for her through the opposition of the Prince and his bodyguards.

Swords rang, echoing in the passage. Baleful red sparks sprayed from the conflict of blades. Violence streaked her vision. She saw the head of the nearest bodyguard lift from his shoulders and away like a ball negligently tossed aside. Then a handful of hot blood slapped her face, and his corpse fell into her, driving her against the wall.

Slipping on blood and ice, she sprawled beside the body.

Two attackers drove Prince Kragen back. He was quick with his sword, stronger than he appeared; but his opponents were expert. He couldn’t dispatch two of them at once. The force of their double-handed blows hammered him down the passage.

One of the attackers stretched out on the stone, coughing his lungs into a puddle of water. The other bodyguard still kept his feet – barely. He held one arm clamped to a gushing wound in his side; with the other, he flailed his sword at his assailant.

With a deft toss, the assailant flipped his cloak over the bodyguard’s head.

Then Terisa lost sight of him. A black figure reared over her, sword poised.

The light caught his face. His nose was like the edge of a hatchet. A fierce grin bared his teeth. His eyes gleamed, as yellow as a cat’s.

He was trying to kill her again.

This time, he was going to succeed. There was nothing she could do to stop him, and she still didn’t know why he wanted her dead, she had no idea, it didn’t make any sense—

“Stop!”

The shout caught him. It echoed in the corridor, wrenching him away from her to protect his back.

A drawling voice said clearly, “Five against three are coward’s odds. But even a coward wouldn’t attack a woman.”

Fighting her eyes into focus, Terisa saw the man with the gray cloak advancing along the passage.

The obscure light left his features unclear: she couldn’t tell if she had ever seen his face before. But his sword was in his hands. The smile on his lips didn’t soften the glint of battle in his eyes.

An attacker drew his blade out of the cloak-blinded bodyguard and moved to join the man threatening Terisa. Her assailant gestured help away, however, sending his companion toward the struggle to kill Prince Kragen.

Black against gray, Terisa’s enemy and the newcomer faced each other.

For a moment, they paused. The man in gray commented pleasantly, “It might be interesting to know who you are.”

The man in black barked a laugh and exploded at his opponent.

Iron flashed and scraped. Blows resounded. The man in black was knocked to the wall. He recovered and countered as if he were immune to pain. With his cloak, he made an attempt to snare the man in gray. The ploy failed. Their swords clashed, caught and held, clashed again. Attacking, retreating, flinging their bodies from side to side, they wove quick sparks about them like fireworks.

The man in gray kept smiling, but his concentration was savage.

Terisa should have helped. She knew that. She should have gotten to her feet, picked up one of the fallen swords, tried to intervene. For Prince Kragen. Or the man in gray. But she didn’t move. Instead, she lay on the cold, wet stone with her hands at her temples, terrified by the enormity of what was happening because of her.

She had no idea why. What had she done to deserve such hate? Or to be defended from it?

The man in gray moved with such speed that it was difficult to realize how graceful he was, difficult to follow the way his sword swept and cut as if it were avid in his hands. He and his opponent wove gloom and echoes and hot sparks around each other. In the space between one heartbeat and the next, he blocked his opponent’s blade, then dropped one fist from his sword hilt and struck a backhand blow that staggered the man in black.

Smoothly, almost contemptuously, Terisa’s attacker brushed aside the onslaught that followed. He gripped her defender’s blade with one gloved hand long enough to chop his elbow down on the man in gray’s neck.

The man in gray staggered to the floor. He caught himself on one knee, countered a brutal assault, regained his feet. He was still smiling, still smiling. But his opponent had single-handedly beaten Argus and Ribuld. Sweat ran from his face. The lanterns showed a glare of desperation in his eyes.

Shouts rang along the corridor. He made the mistake of glancing to see what they meant.

His opponent responded with a belly-thrust so swift it couldn’t be parried.

He parried it.

The convulsive effort cost him his balance, however. Although he stopped the next blow with his blade, it was so powerful that it knocked him on his back.

For a fraction of a second, he was as helpless as Terisa.

Then Prince Kragen sprang into the struggle, whirling his bloody blade.

The Perdon was only half a step behind him.

The man in black flung a look of yellow hate at Terisa.

An instant later, he leaped back. His hands and sword made a strange gesture.

Without warning, he disappeared. Before the echoes of combat died, he was gone from the passage as completely as if he had never been there.

The Perdon gaped. Prince Kragen dropped his sword in stunned surprise. The man in gray regained his feet, hunting the air as though he thought he might hear or smell some sign of his opponent.

Shivering, Terisa got her arms under her and pushed her chest off the floor.

The Prince was breathing in harsh gasps, near exhaustion, but he went to look at his men. When he saw that one of them had been beheaded, he clenched his fists over his heart, and his face twisted into a snarl. “They were my friends,” he rasped. “I was in your debt, my lady. But now I think I have made repayment.”

The Perdon spat, “Pigswill!” He wasn’t talking to Prince Kragen. “Who were they? How could they know we would be here?”

Braced on her hands and knees, Terisa watched her rescuer wipe his sword and sheath it, then kneel in front of her to help her to her feet. He had a nice smile – he was trying to reassure her – and his face was strong. It reminded her of someone. Nevertheless his eyes were clouded with trouble.

“My lady, I am Artagel. One of Geraden’s numerous brothers. He asked me to watch over you. I haven’t done very well.

“Apparently” – he grimaced – “someone really wants you killed.”

The smell of blood on her clothes was so strong that she simply couldn’t help fainting.

THIRTEEN: FOLLY IN GOOD FAITH

When she came to, she suffered a moment of disorientation. Half of her seemed to be standing up: the other half was upside down. She thought she was going to fall, but something hard held her by the waist.

“We were betrayed,” the Perdon rasped. “Does this not make you suspicious? Perhaps in Alend the word ‘alliance’ has another meaning. What better way to fill Mordant with dissension than by bringing violence to an unprecedented meeting between the lords of the Cares and the Masters of the Congery? This ensures that we will not be strong enough to defend ourselves.”

“My lord Perdon—” Prince Kragen began in a dangerous tone.

“And if we are not strong enough to defend ourselves,” the Perdon snarled, “where else shall we turn for help, but to Margonal and you?”

“Two of my friends are dead!” the Prince retorted. His diplomatic self-control was badly frayed. “If I desired dissension in Mordant, I would have one of the lords killed, not any of my men!”

As her eyes squeezed into focus, she saw that she was indeed upright; but her arms and torso dangled toward the floor. The backs of her hands scraped lightly on the cold stone. A forearm clasped about her waist kept her from failing on her head.

“If you must have traitors,” Prince Kragen went on fiercely, “I advise you to look for them among your fellow lords. Who gains if the Cares are not united against their King?”

“Precisely, my lord Prince,” demanded the Perdon. “Who?”

“Any lord who can hope to become King directly, without disloyalty to Joyse. The Tor does not mean to return to Marshalt. Queen Madin has had considerable time to forge a bond between her husband and the Fayle. Is it inconceivable that the road to power may be shorter if it does not pass through a union of the lords with Alend and the Congery?”

“Are you all right, my lady?” Artagel asked. He was the one holding her.

Now she understood: he had put her in that position because she had fainted. He helped her pull herself upright, and she found that she was able to keep her balance. Watching her closely, he withdrew his hands from her waist. A glance down the passage showed her that he had moved her a short distance from the scene of combat. Her clothes still stank, but now she was able to stomach that. She took a deep breath, pushed her hair back from her face, and murmured, “I think so. Thanks.”

He gave her a fleet smile and at once turned away. “The alternative, my lords,” he said, striding toward Prince Kragen and the Perdon, “is that you were betrayed by an Imager.”

“I would like to believe that,” said the Perdon gruffly. He seemed to regard Artagel as an equal. “But only Master Eremis and Master Gilbur knew the place of our meeting. And it was Master Eremis who brought that meeting about. If he desired disunion among us, he did not need to go to such lengths. All that was required was to leave us alone.” He paused, then said, “I cannot speak so positively for Master Gilbur.”

“And I,” said Prince Kragen, “did not know that Imagery could do such things. Is it not true that such a translation would require a flat glass? And is it not true that translation through flat glass produces madness? Who could have performed the feat we have witnessed?”

No one had spoken to Terisa. She wasn’t sure they knew she could hear them. But she replied, “The arch-Imager. Vagel.”

For a moment, the three men stood still. Then the Perdon growled, “As Master Eremis said. But who in Orison – or in all Mordant – would be foolish or vile enough to ally himself with that fiend?”

“Let us look, my lords.” Artagel moved past the Perdon and Prince Kragen toward the nearest of the fallen attackers.

Terisa followed, walking warily back into the memory of bloodshed. Artagel was kneeling over the body when she drew near him. He turned it onto its back; she flinched at the sight of the gory wound in its chest. Nevertheless she watched as he pushed aside the cloak in order to inspect the dead man’s face and armor.

The hardened leather chestplate was so black that she couldn’t make out any of the details Artagel appeared to be analyzing. She didn’t know what he was talking about when he suddenly tapped the covering over the dead man’s heart and said, “Here.”

“I lack your eyes,” growled the Perdon. “What is it?”

“A sigil.” Abruptly, Artagel rose to his feet. “I’ve seen it before.” His eyes held no expression; his face looked as hard as the stone around him. “This man is a Cadwal. The sigil indicates that he trains with and serves the High King’s Monomach.”

“Gart?” Prince Kragen asked incredulously. “Here? Was that Gart you fought?”

“I don’t know who I fought.” Artagel’s voice was like his face, blank and rigid. “Whoever he was, he beat me. But this man is one of Gart’s Apts. The others must be the same.”

“Entrails and carrion!” spat the Perdon. “An Apt of the High King’s Monomach!”

“But here?” the Prince persisted. “How could such men come here? How could they gain admittance to Orison? They could not simply enter the gates. Castellan Lebbick is not so lax.”

Artagel nodded curtly. “They must have come the same way their leader vanished.”

“Vagel?” Prince Kragen scowled in frank dismay. “Why did we ever believe the story that he was dead?”

The Perdon had no answer. At the mention of Lebbick, he had jerked up his head as if he were reminded of something important. Now he glanced rapidly back and forth down the corridor, trying to watch both directions at once. “I have a better question. Do we wish to be found here when the Castellan comes?”

The Prince became instantly alert. “Will he come? Are we not beyond earshot of his nearest guard?”

“That spineless fop, the Armigite,” explained the Perdon. His voice dripped venom. “When we heard the sounds of attack that brought me to your side, he fled in the opposite direction, yowling murder. He must have missed his way, or the Castellan would already be here. In any case, we have little time.”

“He will question me, whatever I do,” mused Kragen. “My men are dead. But if I am not here, he will not be able to connect me to this bloodshed. “Promptly, he made his decision. “My lord Perdon, Artagel of Domne – I thank you for my life. But I will not remain with you, to give us all the look of treachery. My lady, farewell.”

Retrieving his sword, he slapped it into its sheath and ran. Swiftly, the sound of his strides receded into the distance.

“I will leave you also,” the Perdon said to Artagel. “I do not know what role this woman means to play in our doom, but I will not risk an accusation of treason to protect her.”

Muttering angrily, “Cadwals? Horsepiss,” he rushed away after the Prince.

Terisa looked at Artagel and saw that the gleam was back in his eyes; he was smiling again. In reply to her gaze, he bowed humorously. “For my part, my lady, I haven’t got anything worth hiding. Whatever happens, all Orison will assume I had something to do with this many dead bodies. I’m afraid I have that kind of reputation – I don’t know why. In any case, I have a better opinion of Lebbick than most people do. But there’s no reason why you should have to spend the rest of the night listening to him sneer at you.” He gestured down the passage. “Shall we go?”

Again, she said, “Thanks.” She wished he would take her arm: she needed the support. “I don’t think I can face him. He doesn’t like me.”

“Nonsense.” As if guided by inspiration, he slipped his arm through hers and braced her companionably. His tone jollied her along. “You don’t know him as well as I do. Our good Castellan only insults the people he likes. And if he likes you a lot, he becomes positively scathing. His wife – rest her soul – was the only person in Orison who was ever able to get civility as well as affection out of him.”

Together, they moved through the gloom toward the next lantern.

Almost at once, they heard running feet.

He was undismayed. Still grinning, he drew her into a side passage and along a different route back toward the inhabited levels of the castle. With apparent ease, he avoided encountering the guards. In a shorter time than she was expecting, he brought her to the tower where her rooms were.

By then, she had recovered at least some grasp on the situation. Artagel had saved her life. Because Geraden had asked him to keep an eye on her. Now he was taking her away from a session with the grim Castellan, in which she would have had to lie and lie and lie to protect Master Eremis, Prince Kragen, and the lords of the Cares. She should have started thinking about gratitude some time ago.

Off the top of her head, she couldn’t imagine many ways to thank Artagel effectively. At least one small one was clear to her, however. So far, they had been fortunate: they hadn’t been seen closely enough to expose the mess that blood and dirty water had made of her clothes. But to reach her rooms she would have to pass within arm’s reach of the guards outside her door—

At the foot of the stairway, she stopped and disengaged her arm. A bit awkwardly – she wasn’t accustomed to making decisions in this way, with a tall, strong man smiling at her quizzically – she explained, “I can go alone from here. We’ve been lucky so far. I don’t think you want to be seen with me.”

He cocked an amused eyebrow. “I don’t, my lady?” The events of the evening hadn’t seriously ruffled his self-confidence. “Well, I admit you aren’t as clean as you should be. But I don’t choose my friends on the basis of accidents like that.” He chuckled. “If I did, poor Geraden would be at the bottom of my list.”

His smile was disarming, but she persisted. “That’s not what I meant. The guards are going to notice” – she twisted her mouth in disgust – “the way I look. And someone is going to realize that a woman covered with blood must have something to do with all those dead men. If you’re seen with me, you’ll be implicated.

“I know you aren’t worried about that. But you should be. How are you going to explain it to the Castellan?”

He was unpersuaded. Lebbick didn’t worry him. And she couldn’t ask him to lie, either for herself or for Master Eremis. So she shifted to a different argument. “Do you know what he did to Geraden the last time he caught him trying to give me independent protection?”

At that, Artagel frowned thoughtfully. “You have a point, my lady. He tried to explain why he doesn’t trust the guards, but I didn’t understand all of it. It had something to do with the orders King Joyse gave the Castellan? Or the way he interprets those orders?” He shrugged. “Geraden has always had a subtler mind than I do. Is it true that the guards don’t even ask where you’re going when you leave your rooms?”

Terisa felt a new touch of panic. So she wasn’t imagining it: the guards did treat Geraden differently than the other people who came for her. She nodded mutely.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Artagel commented. Then he shook his frown away. “But I’m sure it will eventually. That’s Geraden’s only fault. I mean, aside from clumsiness. He’s too impatient. Things always make sense eventually, if you don’t think about them too hard.”

Smiling again, he added, “But you’re right. I don’t want to get him in any more trouble. I’ll leave you here.” For a moment, his expression grew sober. “I’m still going to keep an eye on you. I take him seriously when he’s that worried. And this time he has good reason. The High King’s Monomach is training his Apts better than he used to. If you need me, I’ll usually be somewhere nearby.”

He put on a jaunty grin. With a graceful and humorous bow, he saluted her. “Rest well, my lady.” Then he strode away.

She smiled at his departing back. As soon as he was gone, however, she began to shiver again, as if she had brought the chill of the lower levels up with her. Shock and reaction were setting in.

She was alone. She would have no defense if more men in black appeared suddenly out of nowhere to attack her.

She was going to have to face Castellan Lebbick by herself.

She wanted to sit down. Her knees felt too weak to hold her. But she put her feet on the stairs and forced her legs to take her upward.

When the guards at her door caught sight of her, they became immediately tense with concern. One of them said, “My lady, are you all right? Do you need any help?”

She couldn’t meet their eyes. As firmly as possible, she said, “No, thanks. I’m fine.”

Trying not to hurry, she went into her rooms. At once, she bolted the door. Then she checked to be sure that the entrance to the secret passage was still blocked.

After that, she kicked her moccasins away and flung off her clothes in a rush of revulsion, alarm, and determination, unable to bear the touch of drying blood against her skin any longer. First she took a bath, splashing icy water over herself as though she thought she could sting or shock herself into being brave enough for what she had to do. Next she scrubbed her clothes thoroughly, almost brutally, and set them out to dry in front of the fire.

She intended to be ready for Castellan Lebbick when he came.

But she couldn’t stop trembling.

***

He came early the next morning, a barely polite interval after she had finished breakfast. She was wearing her dove-gray gown because a cowardly instinct told her it would make her look more vulnerable, less deserving of abuse. But she met him in her sitting room as bravely as she could.

As always, he wore the symbols of his office - the purple band around his cropped gray hair, the purple sash over one shoulder across his mail. But his real authority was expressed in the glare of his eyes, the stiff swagger of his movements, the thrust of his jaw. If he had held no position in Orison at all, he would still have commanded the room when he entered it.

“My lady.” His tone was as subtle as an iron bar. “I trust you slept well after your adventures last night.”

She was determined to lie to him. It would have been better to face him squarely, but that great a display of courage was beyond her. After all, she had never lied to an angry man in her life. “What adventures?” She cursed herself for sounding so small and weak, but perhaps that would work to her advantage in the end.

Castellan Lebbick, however, appeared to be unsympathetic toward small, weak women. “Don’t be coy with me, my lady. I do my duty under a number of disadvantages, but stupidity isn’t among them.”

“I’m not being coy.” That was true, at any rate. She was doing everything in her power to refrain from running into the next room and hiding under the bed. Or from blurting out the truth. “I went out with Master Eremis. I came back alone. We didn’t have any adventures. You can ask him. He’ll tell you the same thing.”

“My lady” – he feigned a tiredness which didn’t show in his eyes – I have no taste for manure this morning. Whatever you were doing, my night was longer than yours, and when I went to my bed it was cold. Do me the courtesy of being honest.”

Her resolve was crumbling: she could feel it. The promises she had made to herself were all very well – but what did any of this have to do with her? Her father hadn’t raised her to be strong. “I am being honest,” she said without conviction, already flinching in anticipation of his retort.

It came quickly. “Dogshit! You haven’t spoken a true word since you arrived. By the stars, woman, you will answer me! The Armigite came squalling out of the abandoned foundations of Orison – where he never should have been in the first place – and insisted there was a battle going on. Naturally, he had no idea who was involved. He has rotten fruit for brains. But an investigation was required, so it was done. We found two men dead – Prince Kragen’s bodyguards, by some towering coincidence – and enough blood for a small war. But we found no explanation.”

For two or three heartbeats, her mind went completely blank. Two men dead? There should have been six. Four Cadwals. She was on the verge of crying out, I’m sorry I didn’t mean it it wasn’t my fault what happened to the four Cadwals?

Fortunately, Lebbick didn’t pause. “I questioned Prince Kragen. He put on righteous indignation and accused someone of having his men murdered. Someone, he said, wants to provoke a war. Someone” – the Castellan’s reference to King Joyse was unmistakable – “wants to be sure he returns to Alend with every conceivable provocation. On top of that, those bodyguards were friends of his.”

He clenched his fists. “My lady, I know how to get the truth from men like him. Some of the old engines of torture have been preserved. Unfortunately, he’s an ambassador. I can’t touch him.

“You are another matter.”

Abruptly, her head cleared. She didn’t become less afraid, but a sense of urgency made what she was thinking sharp and precise. Four bodies were missing. Someone had taken them. Probably in the same way her attacker had vanished. So Castellan Lebbick didn’t know there were Cadwals in Orison. He had no inkling of the truth. Master Eremis was safe. Artagel was safe. If she didn’t lose her nerve.

Her voice was almost steady as she asked, “You mean you’re going to torture me?”

Instead of answering directly, he snarled, “After my discussion with Prince Kragen, imagine my surprise when I learned that you had returned alone” – his tone was pure vitriol – “from your supper with Master Eremis and the mediator of the Congery – and that you were covered with blood.”

He cocked his fists on his hips. “Do you want me to believe that Prince Kragen’s bodyguards killed each other in a contest for your affections? Will you ask me to credit that you happened to wander down to that part of Orison, and you happened to find those two bodies in all the miles of corridors down there, and you happened to slip and fall while their blood was still warm – all by the most monumental coincidence? No, my lady. I won’t have it. You returned here alone and covered with blood. But you told no one what had happened, when the common sense of a small dog would have led you to report it to the guards. Therefore you want to keep what happened secret. You have something to hide. I’ll have that, my lady.”

The lash of his outrage brought up an unexpected anger from among the secrets of her heart. How much sarcasm was she expected to swallow in one lifetime? “Your guards must have been mistaken,” she retorted. “Maybe the shadows fooled them. Or maybe they were half asleep. I wasn’t covered with blood. I’ve never been down there. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

When she was done, she wanted to give out a crow of joy which would announce to the world what she had achieved.

But the Castellan behaved as if she hadn’t spoken – or as if he hadn’t heard her. Lowering his voice until it sounded like the thongs of a flail being stroked between eager fingers, he said, “I am the Castellan of Orison and commander of the King’s forces in Mordant. Do you wonder how I came to this high position? It’s simple. Midway through his wars for Mordant’s freedom, King Joyse found me prisoner in the stockade of an Alend garrison near the borders of the Care of Termigan. I was hardly more than a boy, but I had been wed” – his throat knotted – “for nearly ten days. Our families were farmers and peasants of Termigan, and those folk wed early. So I had been a married man for ten days – and of those ten I had spent six in the stockade. As it happened, the garrison commander had ridden across my little farm, noticed my wife, and taken a fancy to her. Because I was foolish enough to resist, I was imprisoned.

“But I wasn’t mistreated. No harm was done to me.” He bared his teeth. “I was merely held spectator, so that I had to watch the great variety of things that were done to my wife, by the commander as well as most of the garrison.

“Then King Joyse surprised the garrison. We were released.”

The Castellan’s voice sank as he spoke. “When he observed the zeal with which I took revenge upon the commander, he gave me work which put that zeal to good use. And when I displayed a talent for that work, I rose in his service.

“Now he has lost his mind” – Lebbick was barely whispering – “and it’s my duty to preserve his life and power for the day when he may recover himself and need everything he entrusted to me. Don’t tell me any lies, my lady. If you don’t give me the truth, I’ll tear it out of you.”

Terisa’s throat had gone dry. She had trouble finding her voice. “The King told you to leave me alone.”

“My lady” – a touch of the whip – “I’m rapidly losing patience for the instructions of a madman. My King was in full possession of his wits when he made me his Castellan and commander. That’s the responsibility I intend to fulfill.”

In a strange way, he frightened and moved her at the same time. But she couldn’t afford to feel either fear or sympathy. She had to find some way to defend herself.

“I’m sure you will,” she said as if her small fund of anger were equal to his. “But I think you learned your moral sense from that garrison commander. I’ve told you what I did. Before you call me a liar, you ought to find out if I’m telling the truth. Look at my clothes. They’re clean. Ask Master Eremis. Ask him. Or have you already decided he’s a liar too, without bothering to check what he says? You want to do your job the easy way, by bullying the weakest person you can find. If you did a little work, you might learn something different.”

Then she stopped and held her breath while her heart shook.

A look of pain clouded his glare. “That’s enough, woman,” he said thickly. “When you’ve suffered the way my wife did, I’ll permit that imputation. Until then, you don’t have the right. You are an enemy of Mordant and King Joyse, and you don’t have the right.”

She wanted to babble, I know I don’t I didn’t mean it that way. The pressure to give up everything and tell him what he wanted to know was maddening. Somehow, however, she kept it under control. Instead, she replied, “No, I’m not. I’m nobody’s enemy. Not even yours. We have one thing in common. I’m just a spectator. I don’t have anything to do with any of this.”

For a moment, his jaws clenched, and his eyes darkened, and she thought he was going to let out a blast which would rip her to the bone. Yet he didn’t. He was more dangerous than that: he knew what to do with his anger.

“Have it your way, my lady. I’ll talk to Master Eremis – I’ll check your story. I’ll persuade” – the word was a snarl – “that pig-brained Armigite to go over every step of his tale with me. I’ll talk to every guard in Orison who may have encountered Prince Kragen’s bodyguards – or seen where you were going with Master Eremis. I’ve already studied the place where those men died. They could not have shed so much blood. And at least four people walked through the blood while it was wet. One of them had feet the size of a lady’s.” Though the threat was unmistakable, he emphasized it by raising one hand and cupping it lightly over her cheek. “I’ll have the truth. I don’t care how.”

Turning sharply, he strode out of the room. The door slammed behind him hard. He was capable of hitting her like that. If Master Eremis didn’t somehow convince him that she was telling the truth, she would be at his mercy.

But she had kept her promises to herself. She had done it, done it: she had fended Lebbick away from the truth. There was still hope for Mordant. Because of what she had done. She, Terisa Morgan - a woman who had never learned how to believe in herself. She had made a difference. The idea made her want to start singing. She imagined herself going to the window, flinging open the casement, and shouting out to the world below her – the muddy courtyard, the roofs clogged with snow, the smoking chimneys, the guards patrolling the battlements – “I did it! I lied to the Castellan!” The vision struck her as so ludicrous that she laughed.

She was having such fun that the quick knock at her door didn’t interrupt her. “Come in!” she called without so much as pausing to wonder who might be there.

It was Master Eremis.

He had Geraden with him again.

The Apt wore a baffled expression: he didn’t know why he was there. Nevertheless Terisa was instantly glad to see him. Although she couldn’t tell him what she had just accomplished, she was free to smile at him, and she did that with unfamiliar pleasure.

He grinned back through his confusion, then shrugged in the direction of Master Eremis.

The Imager was scowling as though he wanted no one to realize that he had never been happier in his life.

Closing the door quickly, he strode toward her in a hurry. He seemed to give off an electricity of excitement and urgency, so that simply being in the same room with him made her nerves tingle and jump, ready to go off in any direction. “The Castellan, “he demanded in a rapid half whisper as he crossed the peacock rugs. “He was just here. Why?”

The question closed her throat like a hand clamped around her windpipe.

She knew immediately what he was after: he wanted to know how much of his night’s activities had been betrayed to Lebbick. But she didn’t know how to answer. Geraden was staring at her, perplexed and alarmed by her consternation. She had been warned to keep everything secret from him. How could she reply without putting his life in danger – and without exposing what the Master was trying to do?

Eremis reached her and caught hold of her shoulders, gripped them so hard that he nearly lifted her from the floor. “Tell me!” he hissed furiously, his eyes sparkling. “Why was Lebbick here?”

She felt his power so strongly that for just a moment, perhaps no more than one or two heartbeats, she was nearly overwhelmed by an irrational desire to say, Why did you leave me last night? I wanted to go back to your rooms. But he needed more than that from her. And Geraden was watching. He needed better – and didn’t deserve to be hurt.

Meeting the Master’s strange gaze, she said as clearly as she could, “He doesn’t know anything.”

“Nothing?” He cocked an eyebrow, eased his grip on her shoulders. “Then why was he here?”

At that, her tension increased to the level of fright. Suddenly, a new dimension of uncertainty was added to the situation. Perhaps Master Eremis didn’t know what had happened after he left the meeting. If he didn’t, she should tell him, make him aware that Apts of the High King’s Monomach had the power to appear and disappear in Orison. But again she couldn’t talk about such things in front of Geraden.

Geraden was watching her with frank worry. If he felt any personal pain over the fact that she and Master Eremis were sharing secrets, it was secondary to his direct concern for her.

She had to say less than she meant. Striving for nonchalance, she replied, “The guards told him I went out with you” – she darted a glance at Geraden – “and came back alone. That made him curious.”

For a second longer, the Master studied her, searching for the truth behind her words. Then he let her go, turned away, and started laughing as if he were having the best time of his life. “Curious?” he chortled. “That old lecher. I will wager gold doubles to coppers that he was more than curious. He must have been avid.”

Geraden looked away. A dull flush spread over his face.

All at once, Terisa was ashamed of herself.

Fortunately, Master Eremis’ mirth was quick to subside. “Well, the stars have smiled on us,” he said, resuming his haste. “I am certain that the Fayle spoke to King Joyse. So it follows that the King said nothing to Lebbick. Either our illustrious sovereign has lost the capacity to understand what he hears, or he does not believe it, or he is unable to achieve a decision. We must act while he leaves us time.”

Immediately, he started for the door. Over his shoulder, he said, “The Masters are gathering. Come.”

Terisa remained where she was. This was too fast. She still felt obscurely ashamed. And she hadn’t told Master Eremis all the things he needed to know.

For that matter, why was the Congery in such a rush to meet? Hadn’t Master Eremis stopped it from summoning the champion last night? What had changed since then?

But Eremis wasn’t prepared to wait. From the doorway, he snapped, “Geraden, bring her!” and stalked out of the room.

That brought the Apt’s gaze back to hers. In a hurry himself, he whispered, “Terisa,” as if the words were being wrung from him, “what is going on?”

“I can’t tell you,” she replied. She was trying to make sense. “I want to. It’s too much for me.” But what she really wanted was to reassure him. “I don’t know what he was laughing about. I didn’t spend the night with him.”

He looked away. At first, she thought he was still in pain. Then she realized that he was just trying to hide his relief. When he turned to her again, his expression was clear.

“We ought to go.” He tried not to smile. “He told me to bring you. I won’t be an Apt much longer if I start disobeying commands this simple.”

He made her feel better. “All right,” she said. “I really don’t know what the Congery is going to do. But we might as well not get ourselves in trouble.”

Enjoying his helpless, idiotic grin, she took his arm. Together, they went after Master Eremis.

On her way down the stone stairs, she missed her moccasins. They were warmer and protected her feet better than the delicate buskins Saddith had recommended. But her discomfort wasn’t enough to make her go back.

When she and Geraden left the tower and entered the main halls, they caught up with Master Eremis: he had stopped to talk to someone. His stance briefly obscured who that someone was; as her angle of vision changed, however, she recognized Artagel.

“That’s Artagel,” Geraden whispered quickly. “I’ve mentioned him. He’s one of my brothers. I asked him to keep an eye on you – give you some extra protection. I would introduce you if we weren’t supposed to be in a hurry.”

His words left a trail of electricity across her mind. So Artagel hadn’t told Geraden about last night. And if he hadn’t told Geraden, he probably hadn’t told anybody. There was a real chance that Master Eremis didn’t know she had been attacked.

Artagel was leaning casually against the wall, a smile on his lips, his sword prominent on his hip. He seemed to be sneering politely at something the Imager had said.

Master Eremis shook his head. “Artagel, Artagel,” he murmured sadly, “I thought we were friends.”

“So did I.” Artagel’s smile might have been an insult. “But Geraden assures me you’re no friend of his – so I’m no friend of yours. “

The Master turned a gaze Terisa couldn’t interpret on Geraden. Then he looked back to Artagel. “Do you always let him choose your friends for you?”

Artagel laughed easily. “Always. He’s my brother.”

For a moment, Master Eremis stood motionless. His back was to Terisa; the only face she could see was Artagel’s. Somehow, the confident mischief in his eyes increased his resemblance to his brother. Abruptly, Eremis strode away. As he left, he said, “Geraden is mistaken. I am a better friend than he knows.”

Artagel glanced past Geraden and Terisa and shrugged eloquently. As if he were speaking to the air, he commented, “He wants to hire me. He thinks he needs protection. In Orison, of all places. I wonder what he’s afraid of.”

Geraden snorted. “Probably his friends.”

Artagel went on smiling. “Speaking of friends, did you know Nyle is here?”

“No.” Geraden sounded surprised.

“I met him by accident. He didn’t seem especially pleased to see me. But I got him to admit he’s been here for eight or ten days now. I have no idea why he made a journey like that in the dead of winter. He said he just wanted to get away from Houseldon for a while.”

“Sounds like one of your expeditions,” Geraden muttered. Then he added, “He must be hiding. Otherwise I would have run into him. Do you suppose he’s in some kind of trouble?”

“That’s what I thought.” Artagel pushed himself away from the wall. “You should go. I don’t think Master Eremis is feeling patient today.

“My lady.” He gave Terisa a bow and sauntered off down the hall, heading away from the laborium.

At once, Geraden tugged her into motion. “He’s right. We’d better hurry.”

She went with him as quickly as her skirts permitted, but her brain was spinning. After a moment, she asked, “Isn’t Nyle one of your brothers? Why would he come here in the middle of winter and then not try to see you?”

He shrugged without looking at her, as if the question were painful.

She let it go. Instead, she asked, “What kind of ‘expeditions’ does Artagel go on?”

This proved to be a safe topic. “Didn’t I tell you about him? He says he’s too lazy to be a regular soldier, but the truth is that he hates to take orders. So he does what you might call piecework for Castellan Lebbick. Whenever he’s in the mood, he volunteers for something. The Castellan sends him all over Mordant – and probably into Cadwal and Alend, too, but nobody says that out loud. He just came back a few days ago from stopping a smuggler who was selling our crops to High King Festten’s army suppliers.

“When I heard he was here, I couldn’t resist asking for some help. Did I tell you he’s the best swordsman in Mordant?”

She shot a glance of concern and sympathy at him which – fortunately – he didn’t notice. His brother may have been the best swordsman in Mordant, but the man in black was better.

The idea that Artagel could be beaten by a man who appeared and disappeared in Orison at will gave her a shiver of trepidation.

Shortly, she and Geraden crossed the vacant ballroom to the corridor that gave entrance to the laborium and descended the stairs into the former dungeon. Soon they were walking along the passageway that led to the Congery’s meeting hall. Ahead of them, Eremis and another Master entered the chamber. The guards saluted correctly – they certainly betrayed no sign that King Joyse or Castellan Lebbick knew what the Imagers had in mind. Nevertheless Terisa felt a tightening in her chest as she and Geraden followed Master Eremis.

Two or three more Masters arrived after she and Geraden did; then all the doors were closed and bolted, and the Imagers gathered around the curved circle of benches within the pillars. She was starting to recognize more of them by sight. All the familiar faces were there. Except Master Quillon. That surprised her. She expected – no, there he was, already seated partway around the circle from her. He nodded at the floor as though he were half asleep.

He was the only man in the hall who wasn’t staring at Geraden, Terisa, and Master Eremis with some degree of confusion, curiosity, or indignation.

The light of the oil lamps and torches flickered, making the Masters appear hot-eyed and hollow-cheeked, spectral.

Then Terisa’s attention was drawn to the open center of the chamber. Some of the Masters in her way sat down; others stepped aside to make room for Eremis. She saw the tall mirror which had been set ready on the low stone dais.

The mirror of the champion.

The scene in the glass had changed: the spaceship was gone. But hadn’t Geraden told her that mirrors focused on places, not on people? Had the ship taken off? Or was it simply out of sight? The alien landscape certainly seemed unaltered, despite the shift of details: it was stark, red, and dim, composed of jagged old rocks and sand under the light of a dying sun.

The metallic figures were clustered in the center of the Image – and they were fighting for their lives.

Black flame as liquid as water and as flexible as whips licked at them from all directions. Three or four bodies sprawled around the scene, their machinery and flesh still smoking from great, ragged gashes. The remaining men used the rocks for protection as much as possible and struck back at the black flame with the incessant fire of their guns.

The champion was distinct among them. His gestures directed the fire of his companions, and his huge rifle gave out blasts that chopped the edges of the landscape into new configurations.

He conveyed an impression of desperation that Terisa hadn’t seen in him before. For the first time, she realized that he, too, was someone who could be beaten.

But Master Eremis took a different view of the matter. Rubbing his hands together vigorously, he said, “Excellent! Whether he exists in his own right or is a creation of the glass, he will have no cause to complain of our translation.”

“Master Eremis, you presume too much!” The mediator of the Congery stood beside the mirror, his fists braced on his large girth and his pine-colored face mottled with anger. Apparently, his fear of what Master Gilbur and the others proposed had concentrated into ire. “Your arrogance is offensive. You call us together in urgent haste, you have this glass brought before us, and once again you bring Geraden with you without permission – as if our course were already decided. Our course is not decided. You were deputized to speak for us before the lords of the Cares. You have not told us the outcome of that meeting. You have not told us what was said – what position the lords take. Our course cannot be decided until we have heard a full report, both from you and from Master Gilbur.

“Also the lady has no place in this,” he added grimly. “Correct your presumption by sending her and the Apt away.”

“Oh, presumption!” the guttural voice of Master Gilbur growled before Eremis could reply. “It is not presumption. It is survival. We must act or die. Stop trying to shirk the situation, Barsonage. The woman does not matter. But look at Geraden!” He made a hacking gesture with one powerful hand. Every eye in the chamber turned to the Apt. “He is fumble-footed and disastrous. But he has never been stupid. Look at him.”

Geraden appeared unaware of the way he was regarded. He was chewing his lower lip and thinking so hard that the effort made his eyes look wild.

“Where else would you have him? You have already blurted out all the information he needs. In a moment, he will guess the import of what we propose – and then he will be on his way to inform the King. Here, at least, he will have no one to tell.”

As if to prove Gilbur right, Geraden abruptly faced Terisa. At that moment, no one else in the room seemed to exist for him. What he was thinking filled him with dismay.

“Is that what you couldn’t tell me?” he whispered. “They’ve decided to call the champion? And Master Eremis had some kind of meeting with the lords of the Cares?” An instant later, he went further. “But they waited until after the meeting. Master Eremis went to suggest some kind of alliance. The Congery and the lords against King Joyse?”

She couldn’t help him. Her heart pounded in her throat as she felt the danger suddenly thicken around him, but there was nothing she could do.

“I’ve got to warn him.”

So quickly that she had no chance to try to stop him, Geraden headed for the nearest door.

With unexpected speed, Master Gilbur pounced after the Apt. In an effort to reach him, Gilbur struck him from behind. The blow made Geraden trip, so that he slammed against one of the pillars and sprawled to the floor.

At once, Master Gilbur knotted one great fist in the back of Geraden’s leather jerkin, and wrenched him to his feet. “No, whelp,” he grated. “You have heard too much. Now you will hear it all.”

Blood trickled from Geraden’s temple. The impact of his head left a small red stain on the pillar. For a moment, he struggled as though his heart were breaking. But he couldn’t twist away from Gilbur’s powerful grip—and his jerkin refused to tear. The fight went out of him, and he sagged into submission.

Terisa wanted to rage at Master Gilbur. The fact that she thought Geraden was wrong made no difference. In misery, she met his dumb pain. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” he replied dully. “Somebody told you I would be killed if I knew what was going on. Whoever that was, it’s his fault.”

Terisa looked around quickly. Master Quillon hadn’t raised his head. But Master Eremis’ face showed an instant of honest surprise.

He recovered rapidly, however. Frowning, he said, “She was told the truth, Geraden. You will not believe it – but I brought you here to save your life. Now that you cannot leave, you will live.”

Immediately, he turned to face the rest of the Imagers.

“Masters, if you will sit down and compose yourselves long enough to hear me, I will tell you what happened at my meeting with the lords of the Cares – and why we must act without delay on our decision to translate our champion.”

His manner was commanding; he emanated urgency. After a moment, Master Barsonage said between his teeth, “Very well, Master Eremis. So far I will go with you. But there is much that I expect you to explain.”

Scowling dourly, he left the center of the circle to Eremis.

The other Masters followed his example. Before she could be separated from him, Terisa caught Geraden’s arm. Master Gilbur’s controlling grip forced the two of them to a seat on the bench. At the same time, Master Eremis strode toward the dais.

Almost at once, he began.

“Masters, I can make this quite simple.” His tone was soft, but it seemed to carry an echo to the farthest reaches of the room. “Our meeting with the lords of the Cares was broken up without useful issue because they do not trust us. They believe that we serve King Joyse and wish only to entrap them. Or they believe that we serve ourselves and wish only to make them serve us also.”

“And Master Eremis is accused of arrogance,” one of the younger Imagers put in. “Are the lords not arrogant?”

As softly as possible, Terisa whispered in Geraden’s ear, “Don’t worry. King Joyse already knows.”

He gaped at her in surprise.

“Of course,” Master Eremis went on with deceptive sarcasm, “the discussion itself was not so simple. First I must inform you that I have been more ‘presumptuous’ than you know. When I learned of the outcome of his embassy among us, I invited Prince Kragen of Alend to the meeting.”

At that announcement, several of the Masters stiffened. Eremis had their complete attention now. The mediator glared at him furiously, but didn’t interrupt.

“I cannot honestly say that I trust any representative of the Alend Monarch. But he protests that he desires peace. And I am certain that he desires to preserve us from Cadwal. For that reason, I considered that his presence would cost nothing at worst, and at best would open the possibility of a much stronger alliance than one uniting only the Congery with the lords.”

“The Fayle told him,” Terisa explained to Geraden. “About the champion, anyway. Not about the meeting.”

“Then why—?” For a second, he forgot to whisper. But the sharp glares of the Masters – and Master Gilbur’s grasp on his jerkin—reminded him. “Why doesn’t he do something?”

Visibly mollified, Master Barsonage murmured, “You surpass yourself, Master Eremis. You are entirely presumptuous – but you are not thick-witted. I feared that this gamble would make the lords unwilling to heed you. Was I wrong?”

Eremis sighed. “That is the second matter I must explain. The lords were indeed unwilling to heed me, but not because of Prince Kragen’s presence. In truth, I think they would have listened to him well if I had not been there. Their hatred of Alends is less than their distrust of Imagers.”

Several Masters expressed surprise. Others muttered angry curses. But Master Eremis raised his hands to ward off their reactions. “I do not mean to be unjust. Prince Kragen himself was much interested in our proposal. The Perdon was interested, even eager. But as for the others—” He shrugged. “The Armigite has too little sense to know his own mind. And the Tor was too steeped in wine to have a mind.”

“Don’t you understand?” Terisa returned, trying to make herself clear to Geraden. “That’s why Master Eremis doesn’t have any choice.”

His gaze was dark with pain. Apparently, he didn’t want to understand her as well as he did.

“I believe the Termigan could have been persuaded, under other circumstances,” Master Eremis continued. “With the Perdon, he might have been enough. We would have had a base on which to build. But it is all made hopeless by the intensity of the Fayle’s prejudice against Imagery.”

“The Fayle?” asked Master Barsonage. “He has the reputation of a reasonable man.”

Master Quillon was paying close attention now. His eyes glittered at everything he saw.

“Oh, he is reasonable,” Gilbur put in, “if you call it reasonable that he rejected everything we proposed simply because we mean to call our champion without King Joyse’s approval.”

Another Master protested, “Are you serious? Why did he think you were meeting in secret? Why did he accept your invitation, if the King’s approval is so important to him?”

“To spy on us,” Master Gilbur growled. “Why else?”

The mediator was staggered. “Is this true?”

“It is,” Master Eremis said crisply. “He admitted his intention to inform King Joyse, so that we would be prevented from any exercise of our own judgment or will.”

Startled out of concentrating on Geraden, Terisa thought, That’s not really the way it happened. Is it? But it was. The more she tried to remember, the more she had to agree with Master Eremis and Master Gilbur. It was only her personal reaction to the Fayle’s dignity that misled her.

“Then why,” Master Quillon inquired unexpectedly, “has the King done nothing to prevent us?”

Suddenly angry, Master Eremis whirled to face Quillon. “You ask me to explain his decisions? If I had that power, I could save Mordant single-handedly.”

“We can’t explain them,” an Imager who hadn’t spoken before said urgently. “We’ve got to act – before Lebbick and his men get here to stop us.”

Geraden’s face wore an intent frown, as if he were listening hard.

“Very well.” Master Barsonage rose heavily to his feet. “I have conceded everything else.” He had an air of defeat; even his eyebrows looked wilted. “I concede the need for haste also. Be plain, Master Eremis. What do you propose?”

Eremis turned to the mediator. The way he pivoted, balanced himself, and faced Master Barsonage conveyed so much sharp energy that he seemed to give off sparks. His expression was too intense for Terisa to interpret.

“Translate our champion,” he said. “Now.”

Master Barsonage nodded. For a moment, he said nothing. Then he asked, “Why?”

Master Eremis was ready. “To prove our good faith. We are not heeded because it is believed that we have no commitment to anything except ourselves. Or because as the King’s tools we have, in effect, lost our minds as badly as he has.”

Now he raised his voice so that it throbbed and thrilled in the chamber, as clarion and moving as a trumpet. “We have no way to convince anyone otherwise except by taking single and unselfish action in Mordant’s defense. Only by opposing the evil ourselves can we show that we are worthy of trust and alliance.”

That might have been enough to gain what he wanted. It was enough for Terisa: his electricity and passion swept her with him. But Master Gilbur didn’t leave it alone.

“In addition,” he rasped, “we must consider the possibility that Prince Kragen and the lords came to our meeting for an entirely different reason. We were created by Joyse. He set an example for Cadwal and Alend to follow. They think we are to be used as they see fit, and they maneuver against each other in order to possess us.” His hands made fierce fists on the railing in front of him. “They want to own us as if we were things instead of men.

“We have no swords or soldiers.” His voice lacked resonance, but it had the force to be terrifying. “We can never protect ourselves unless we show our power!”

Through the silence which followed his shout, everyone heard the hammering at the door. It sounded like the haft of a sword or the butt of a pike belaboring the wood.

Everyone heard the command:

“In the King’s name, open this door!”

For a fraction of a second, Terisa had time to wonder why King Joyse had changed his mind.

Then Geraden jerked up his head. “The Castellan.” At once, he tried to gain his feet, yelling, “Castellan Lebbick! Break down the door! Stop them!”

Gilbur jerked him back. With one stone fist, the Master struck him so hard across the side of his head that his whole body flopped soddenly. His eyes glazed.

Terisa froze. Everything was happening at once. King Joyse had finally made a decision. Master Eremis’ plans were in danger. Geraden was hurt.

Most of the Imagers were on their feet, shouting at each other frantically; but Master Barsonage sank to the bench. His face had no strength left: he looked lost. “Then it must be done,” he murmured to no one in particular. “Or else we will cease to exist.”

“Gilbur!” Master Eremis barked. A grin bared his teeth. “Do it now! “

Master Gilbur dropped Geraden and hurried into the center of the chamber, toward the dais and his mirror.

Several of the Imagers cheered. Others dithered in alarm. They all got out of Gilbur’s way, however. They crowded past the pillars toward the walls, as far as possible from Castellan Lebbick’s hammering and the mirror.

Eremis took Master Gilbur’s place, lifting Geraden from the stone and holding both him and Terisa with a grip they couldn’t break.

The mirror faced them directly. Geraden plainly had no idea what was going on – he couldn’t even hold up his head – but Terisa had a perfect view.

Master Gilbur put his hand on the frame and deftly began to adjust the focus of the glass. After one heartbeat, the champion was centered in the Image. After another, he seemed to sweep forward until he filled the mirror.

The pounding on the door had become a heavy, rhythmic thud. Terisa could hear wood cracking. But the ironbound timbers were too stout to yield easily. Between blows, Castellan Lebbick shouted, “Master Barsonage! Imagers! By the stars, I will have this door open!”

Master Gilbur shot a glance toward Master Eremis.

“Translate him!” Eremis hissed.

Geraden stirred, shook his head. Blinking rapidly, he tried to clear his vision.

Master Gilbur braced his hands against the edge of the mirror as though he were preparing to pull the champion through by main force. His guttural voice rasped words Terisa couldn’t understand.

“Got to stop him.” Geraden sounded like he was choking. Somehow, he fell forward over the rail. Climbing unsteadily to his feet, he stumbled toward Master Gilbur.

Master Eremis was no longer holding Terisa. Had he tried to grab Geraden and missed? Lost his grip on her at the same time? She had no idea: she didn’t see him. Her attention was concentrated on Geraden.

Swinging her legs over the rail, she went after him.

He was too late. If he hadn’t been stupefied by Master Gilbur’s blow, he would have seen that he couldn’t reach the glass in time.

In front of him, the surface of the mirror went dark as the champion surged through it.

His armor made him at least seven feet tall. His head showed no face, but only a thick plate that must have been a visor. The metallic skin that protected him was scored black in several places: it had been breached at least twice. Acrid smoke curled from the wounds. He moved as if he were hurt.

But his huge rifle was ready. As he caught his balance on the dais, he aimed the muzzle straight at Geraden’s chest.

Terisa got her arms onto Geraden’s shoulders. He was so weak and woozy that her weight pulled him to the floor.

The first shot went over them. The Masters shouted. At least one of them screamed.

Trying to pull her legs under her, fighting to stand, she suddenly found herself staring down the barrel of the rifle.

For a period of time as quick and intense as a crisis of the heart, she watched the champion’s metal-clad hand tighten on the firing mechanism.

Then he jerked up the barrel, and the blast hit the ceiling.

Broken stone began falling into the chamber.

The champion unclosed one hand from his rifle, gripped her neck, and forced her down on top of Geraden. “Stay there.” His voice blared like a megaphone, but it was barely audible through the thunder of collapsing rock. “I don’t shoot women.”

The next instant, he started firing again.

In a rush, the entire ceiling came down.