His eyes didn’t waver. “You’re here because you think I’m wrong. You think I should have stayed in Orison to fight. You think there are still things I can do against Eremis.”
As he said that, she suddenly knew she had to be very careful with him. Maybe it was true that he had become iron. But iron was brittle; he might break. He was blaming himself—She wanted to cry out, Oh, Geraden, are you blaming yourself? For Eremis and Gilbur? For the Castellan? For Nyle and Quillon? Are you blaming yourself because some of the best minds around you worked so hard to keep you from understanding your talent? But she couldn’t say that to him. He would just turn away. More than ever, she couldn’t bear the idea that he would turn away.
Softly, she asked, “Why do you believe I think you’re wrong?”
“I told you.” The kindness was gone from his voice. “I can see it in your eyes.”
“What do you see?” she insisted. “What do you see in my eyes?”
For a long moment, he hesitated. Then he said roughly, “Pain.”
She thought she might feel better if she hit him. She might feel even better if she put her arms around him. Yet she stayed where she was, with her back to the door, holding the only light in the room.
“That’s how I know I’m real. Master Eremis says I was created by your mirror, but that can’t be true. If I didn’t exist, I couldn’t be hurt.”
“Terisa.” He swallowed hard. She had touched him: she thought she could see grief shifting behind the rigid lines of his face. “Nobody says you don’t exist. Not even Master Eremis. You’re here. You’re real. Everything you do has consequences. The question is, were you real before I translated you?”
Automatically, she wanted to ask, Have you changed your mind? Do you still think I was real – back where you found me? But she pushed that question down.
“I must have been,” she said. King Joyse had told her to reason. “If the place I came from was only created by the mirror you saw me in, then that must be true of every mirror, every Image. So when you look in a flat glass, you don’t actually see a real place. You see a created copy of a real place. So when I translated myself into the Image of the Closed Fist, I shouldn’t have arrived in a real place. I should have arrived in the copy – a different copy than the one you went to. I should have stopped being real myself until somebody translated me back out again.
“Isn’t that right?”
The light of the lamp was imprecise, but she seemed to see a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. The shadows there deepened as he listened to her. The sight caused her heart to accelerate a bit.
“That’s good,” he said. “I wish I’d come up with that argument myself. But I don’t think it’s enough. Eremis will just say, That’s why translations through flat glass produce madness. The only translation that can be done safely is one between the real world and a created Image. Reality is too powerful to tolerate the manipulations of Imagery.” In spite of his clenched condition, he began to sound more like his old self as he talked – more like he was interested in the discussion for its own sake. “So the closer a created Image gets to reality, the more dangerous it becomes. And when the Image actually copies reality, reality takes precedence. It rips the translation away from the Image, and the force of that distortion is what causes madness.”
She hung on the change in his tone, hoped for it to continue. Almost at once, however, he closed himself again. “Terisa, you didn’t come here in the middle of the night to debate the ethics of Imagery.”
“Is that right?” Pained to feel the side of him she wanted to nurture slipping away, she made a mistake. “To you it’s just a debate. To me it’s my life. I can’t make sense out of who I am unless I know the truth.”
Right away, she knew she’d gone wrong: his gaze dropped from hers; his eyes filled up with shadows. He didn’t need to be reminded that other people were suffering: he was already too sensitive to that; he already believed he had made her unhappy. But she refused to back down. She had come too far to retreat. Instead, she changed tactics.
“If I wasn’t real until you brought me out of that mirror of yours, how did I become an arch-Imager?”
He didn’t lift his head. In a muffled voice, he said, “You know I don’t believe that. That’s Eremis, not me.”
Unexpectedly angry, she retorted, “Wake up. What do you think we’re talking about here?” She put the lamp down on a nearby table to free her hands, as if she were getting ready to wrestle with him. “Why do you think who I am and where I come from matters? What he believes is going to affect everything he does to both of us.
“Tell me how I became an arch-Imager.”
Now Geraden raised his eyes. Studying her closely – and holding himself completely still, as though he feared what she might do if he moved – he replied, “I created you. When I shaped my glass, I made you.” Almost silently, he caught his breath in surprise and recognition; the implications took him aback. “I have the capacity to create arch-Imagers.”
“Not just arch-Imagers,” she amended for him. “Arch-Imagers who can shift glass the way you do, arch-Imagers who can work translations that are irrelevant to what you see in the Image.”
“I could create a whole army of them. A whole army of Imagers as powerful as Vagel. He wouldn’t stand a chance.” Staring at her – at the ideas she proposed – Geraden murmured, “No wonder he wants me dead.”
“And that’s not all.” Gripping her courage, Terisa took the risk. “How does he know you don’t have glass here?”
Geraden jerked his head back, glowered at her in astonishment or dismay. “What—?”
“How does he know” – she forced herself to complete the thought, even though Geraden’s expression made her feel that she was accomplishing the opposite of what she wanted – “you aren’t busy creating an army of arch-Imagers right now?”
She horrified him. What a pleasure. All she wanted was to help him – to comfort or encourage the Geraden who had gotten lost and become iron – and what did she achieve? Horror. For a moment, he was so shocked that the lamplight made him look as pale as bone. Then he sprang off the bed, rushed to her and caught her by the shoulders, groaned through his teeth as if he were stifling a wail, “I’ve got to get out of here.”
She stared at him dumbly.
“He’ll send everything he’s got after me. If he catches me here, he’ll reduce Houseldon to rubble to get at me.”
It had to be said. She had gone too far to turn back. And this was the point, wasn’t it? The reason she had brought the subject up in the first place? Distinctly, she remarked “He has to try that no matter what you do.”
He stared at her in dismay.
“He knows you’re here,” she said. “But he won’t know it when you leave. Unless he has a mirror that lets him see you here. If you run, he won’t know it until he’s destroyed Houseldon looking for you.
“I did that.” For a moment, her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them back fiercely. “It’s my doing. When I told him about seeing the Closed Fist in your mirror, I set you up.
“You didn’t know you were coming here. I told him, but I didn’t tell you. You were just trying to escape – and hoping you wouldn’t end up somewhere you couldn’t get back from. He has to destroy Houseldon so that he can stop you, and I set you up for it.”
Geraden, it’s not your fault. None of this is your fault.
His face was thrust close to hers, his fingers ground into her arms; but she couldn’t seem to read his face. His passion was part of his skull, definitive under his features; yet the flesh over it was so tight and strict that she couldn’t distinguish between them.
When he spoke, however, his voice shook her as hard as if he had shoved her against the wall. It was strong, compulsory; it had the power to command her.
“Terisa, people I have known and loved all my life are going to die because I came here.”
I swore I was never going to let anybody I loved die ever again.
>
But there was nothing he could do. Houseldon was already as well prepared to defend itself as possible. He was helpless to save anything or anybody. Because he needed so much from her, she didn’t cry or apologize or defend herself or get angry. She faced him squarely and said, “I think I would probably feel better if you hit me.”
He looked like he might hit her: he was angry or desperate enough to hit something.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Slowly, she shook her head. At least he wasn’t closed anymore. She had achieved that much. And even fury was preferable to his rigid isolation, his mute hurt. “That’s not the point,” she countered. “It doesn’t matter. I just made a mistake, that’s all. I didn’t know how important all this is.” And later on she had been so embarrassed by her submission to Master Eremis that she found it impossible to speak.
“The point is, I had a choice.” It seemed loony to speak so calmly when he was in such distress. It seemed loony to prefer anyone’s anger. “I could have gone anywhere.” At the same time, her own misery inexplicably began to become something else, something that bore a crazy and astounding resemblance to joy. She could reach him – she could make him furious. Because of that, everything else was possible. “I chose to come here.
“Geraden, listen to me. Why do you suppose I chose to come here?”
He was so angry, so frightened for his home and family and friends, that he could hardly refrain from raging. Involuntarily, he bared his teeth. Yet he was still Geraden, still the man who had always done everything he could imagine for her. Panting at the effort he made to restrain himself, he said, “You tell me. Why?”
“No.” Again she shook her head. “Come on, think about it. Why did I come here?”
Through his passion, he rasped, “You didn’t know where else to go. To escape.”
“No. Come on, think. I could have gone anywhere. Prince Kragen would have been glad to have me. All I had to do was translate myself out of Orison. Anywhere outside the gates.”
Now she had him. It was strange how much power she had with him. Her mistakes might result in the complete destruction of his home and family: his reasons for outrage were that good. And yet he felt compelled to try to understand her.
He didn’t let go of her, but his fingers stopped grinding into her arms. With less fury, he said, “You wanted to warn me.”
“Yes.” She didn’t smile; yet the inexplicable joy in her started to sing. “I wanted to warn you.
“Why do you suppose I bothered? Why do you suppose I care what happens here? I didn’t know your family. I’d never been here before. Why do you suppose I was willing to come here and face you when I knew it was my fault you were in danger – when I knew you had every reason in the world to be angry at me or even hate me and there was nothing I could do to change any of it?”
Oh, she had him. She wanted to shout it out: she had him. He wasn’t iron now, closed and bitter. His fury had receded. He was scrutinizing her intently: perplexed, almost dumbfounded; fundamentally baffled by her; touched by hope.
“Think about it,” she murmured to keep herself from crowing aloud.
He opened his mouth, but no words came.
“You idiot. I did it because I love you.”
Then she reached her arms around his neck and pulled herself up to kiss him.
He took a moment to recover from the shock. Fortunately, he didn’t take too long. Before she could lose the elation singing through her, he clasped her to him and returned her kiss as if his answer came all the way up from the bottom of his soul.
The fabric of his sleeping trousers was so thin that she couldn’t mistake the way he felt about her, in spite of her inexperience. She kissed him for a long time while his arms strained around her. Then she eased back from his embrace and began to unbutton her shirt.
His eyes darkened, as if they were on fire with shadows. A bit awkwardly, she kicked off her boots. When she slipped the shirt from her shoulders and dropped her skirt, he caught his breath. Even the hair on his head seemed to burn with desire.
Abruptly, he jerked down his pants and took her to his bed.
He was almost devout in the way he kissed and touched her; torn between wonder and alarm, as if he wanted her so much that he didn’t trust himself. As a result, he was tentative when she most wished him to be sure. Master Eremis was right. During the Master’s brief stay in the dungeon after the summoning of the Congery’s champion, he had said to her, Whenever you think of another man, you will remember my lips upon your breasts. That was true: Geraden’s touch reminded her of the Imager – of his assurance, his willingness to take possession of her completely.
And yet Geraden conveyed an intensity that moved her deeply. She felt that she had spent most of her life waiting for this time in bed with him. She could do without assurance. They would learn what they needed to know together.
But it went wrong, the way everything went wrong for him. He had discovered his talent for Imagery too late, when he was no longer able to do anything with it. Now he discovered her love for him too late, he held her in his arms too late: he had lost the ability to do anything with her. Maybe his own inexperience made him too anxious. Maybe he couldn’t stop worrying about Houseldon and his family. She wasn’t sure what the reason was – and in a sense she didn’t care. She cared only that he swore under his breath and rolled away from her, lay on his back with his fists clenched at his sides and his muscles knotted, trying to withdraw into iron.
She watched him lock himself away from her, and her joy began to crumble. For a moment, she thought about weeping.
Then she got an idea.
With the tip of one finger, she stroked the hard line of his jaw. “Guess what,” she said as if they were engaged in a casual and even bantering conversation. “I’ve just thought of a reason to believe I’m really real.”
“I already believe it,” he muttered from the opposite side of the world. “You know that.”
“But you don’t know why,” she returned playfully. “That’s the trouble with you. You don’t have enough reasons. You just have your ‘strongest feelings’ – you do everything on faith.
“I’ll give you a reason.
“People like Eremis say I was created by Imagery. I came out of you and your talent when you made that mirror. But if that’s true, don’t you think you would have created a woman you could have an easier time making love with?”
She took him so entirely by surprise that he couldn’t stop himself. As unexpectedly as a shout, he burst out laughing.
And once he started to laugh he lost control.
“That’s perfect,” he gasped between gales of mirth. “I’m so confused I can’t figure out my own talent. I can’t help my family. Or my King. Or the woman I love. But that’s not enough for me. I’m not satisfied with just that.”
Briefly, she heard a note of hysteria in his laughter, and she nearly panicked. But the simple act of laughing seemed to clean the sorrow and self-pity out of him; the more he laughed, the more he relaxed.
“No, I’m so confused that when I create a woman to love I make her so perverse she accidentally betrays my whole life. Then she wants to bed me when I’m so scared I can hardly think.
“I don’t need enemies. As soon as I stop laughing, I’m going to kill myself.
“Oh, Terisa.”
He said her name as if it made him ache. Rolling back to her, he put his hands on the sides of her face to hold her and began kissing her again.
Unquestionably, his kisses lacked Master Eremis’ assured passion. But they were sweet and compelling, like the remembered call of horns. And when she remembered horns, the music came back into her.
This time, it went right.
It went right nearly until dawn. When she finally slept, she still clung to him like a promise that she was never going to let him go.
At dawn, the house stirred around them; but she and Geraden continued sleeping.
Fortunately, Houseldon w
asn’t relying on Terisa and Geraden for vigilance. When the attack came, the men on watch spotted it immediately and raised the alarm.
Shouts echoed like wails among the houses and taverns, the livery stables and granaries. As fast as they could get out of bed, men spilled from their homes, clutching pitchforks and scythes, axes, shepherd’s crooks sharpened to resemble pikes, sledgehammers, knives and bucksaws, ordinary clubs, an occasional sword, and more than a few hunting bows. The Domne’s six trained bowmen took their command positions around the stockade almost instantly. Shouting for his canes, the Domne himself thrashed out of his twisted bedclothes.
Tholden was ahead of his father. The truth was that he had been too worried for sleep. After trying uselessly to rest until after midnight, he had gotten up, put on his clothes. If Quiss hadn’t restrained him, he would have gone to wear himself out pacing around the stockade to no purpose. But she had compelled him – almost by force – to sit down and drink a flagon of wine; she had kneaded the knots in his neck and shoulders and back until her hands ached; she had made love to him. After that, he pretended to sleep until she let down her guard. Then he got out of bed again.
He was in the front room stirring up the fire when he heard the alarm. Roaring in a voice that wasn’t made to convey anger or violence, he left the house. For a second, he wheeled, trying to find which direction the alarm came from. Then he set off at a run, his beard lifting in the dawn breeze.
Terisa groped awake, roused more by the way Geraden exploded out of bed than by the shouts. He seemed to jump unerringly into his clothes while she fumbled to follow him, catch up with him; he flung the door open before she had begun to button her shirt.
Nevertheless she did catch up with him. Out in the hall, he collided with Stead and had to stop to lift his injured brother off the floor. Stead clung to him for a moment. “Get me a knife,” he panted. “I can’t run anywhere. But I can fight here if I have to.”