A Man Rides Through

  —into the disorienting, endless, momentary absence between existence and existence.

  When she hit the floor, she nearly dropped the lamp.

  The cramp in her back hampered her, kept her from moving her arms freely. As a result, she had to struggle for balance, and her jerky movements almost threw the lamp out of her hands.

  She caught herself, caught the lamp, drew a gasping breath.

  There was a door in front of her, a wooden door banded and barred like the entrance to a cell. Her lamp was the only light in the room; her small flame sent shadows dancing across the raftered ceiling, down the stone walls. Like every other part of the world, the room was chilly.

  Immediately, she turned to look around, at the place where the bed and the window and the iron staples were supposed to be – at the place where Nyle was supposed to be—

  The sight of him suspended there in his manacles filled her with such triumph that she nearly shouted.

  Geraden, hurry, I did it, I did it!

  She didn’t realize that she was losing her grip on the mirror in Orison until the details of Nyle’s appearance struck her.

  His face was chalky, not physically battered, but nonetheless haggard and abused. His eyes stared at her, dark pits from which the intelligence had been burned out. In spite of her sudden arrival, he slumped against his chains, unable to lift his weight off the manacles. Old blood crusted his wrists. A small caked pool marked the stone between his feet. Master Gilbur had strange tastes. Nyle looked like a man who had been used until the only part of him left alive was his sense of horror.

  And that was the fate Master Eremis had intended for her. He had planned to reduce her to that condition, in order to hurt both her and Geraden as much as possible.

  “Oh, Nyle!”

  No, concentrate, don’t think about it! In swift fright, she flung her attention back to Adept Havelock’s mirror room, back to the glass which had translated her here. Keep the Image. There was light in Nyle’s prison now, she held the lamp up, Geraden could see the scene, he could copy it in a curved mirror – if he was fast, if he did it before Nyle’s blank, dead stare made her start to weep and rage—

  If he didn’t end up someplace else entirely—

  Without warning, Artagel came through at a run.

  Unable to anticipate the floor underfoot after the plunge of translation, he stumbled as if he were hurling himself at the door. His reflexes saved him from a collision, however. Recovering his balance almost instantly, he spun toward Terisa and Nyle. He had lost his grin in shock and surprise.

  When he saw Nyle, he froze momentarily. The eagerness in him, the readiness for battle, seemed to shatter. Then he sprang past her and began trying to tear Nyle’s fetters out of the wall with his bare hands.

  Geraden was already there.

  She didn’t see him arrive, didn’t see how he emerged from his translation; she only saw him throw himself at the cot as if he had gone mad. Coughing curses, he picked up the cot and crashed it against the wall, hammered and belabored it against the stone until the frame and legs broke into pieces the size of clubs.

  With one of the legs, he went at Artagel and Nyle as if he meant to beat them both senseless.

  Shouldering Artagel aside, he jammed the end of the leg into the nearest staple and. levered it savagely out of the wall.

  The iron staple sang like a sword as it skittered across the floor.

  Nyle collapsed into Artagel’s grasp.

  Panting, “Bastards bastards bastards,” Geraden attacked the second staple. It let out a thin, metallic scream as it pulled loose.

  He and Artagel hunched over Nyle. Clenched sounds came between their teeth, as if both of them were weeping.

  Terisa thought for a moment that Nyle was unconscious, too badly abused to understand what was happening. But then, in a voice made hoarse and ragged by howls, he croaked, “Geraden? Artagel? Is it really you?”

  Fiercely, Geraden whispered, “We’re here. We’re here. Terisa brought us. As soon as you can stand, I’ll translate you back to Orison.”

  Too late, Terisa heard the door open, saw light from the corridor outside wash against her and the Domne’s sons.

  She whirled frantically away as a voice like silk said, “If you can do that, it will be miraculous. I am going to cut your heart out before you can make the attempt. In my experience, dead men make poor Imagers.”

  Stark against the unexpected light, the man seemed to have no face, no features. The longsword he held looked black and fatal, a blade of darkness.

  Terisa recognized him anyway.

  Gart.

  Crouched over Nyle, Geraden and Artagel were insignificant, pitiable, in the shadow of Gart’s silhouetted strength.

  Despite that, however, Artagel drawled without moving, “Don’t tell me Eremis knew we were coming. I won’t believe it.”

  “No,” conceded Gart, as smooth as his blade. “Yet even coincidence conspires to help victors. I was sent to bring Nyle to the Image-room. Master Eremis considered that you might do something desperate – although seeing you I doubt that he grasps how truly desperate you have become – so he wished to have your brother made ready to use against you.

  “He may not be delighted to hear that I have slain you. He wishes that pleasure for himself. But I will answer for your deaths to the High King.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Slowly, keeping his hands away from his sword, Artagel rose to his feet, left Nyle in Geraden’s arms. Light from the doorway burned along the tears on Artagel’s cheeks, lit sparks in his eyes. His fighting grin was gone; he seemed to have no heart left for it. “You’re forgetting just one thing.”

  “And what is that?” the Monomach inquired maliciously.

  Artagel shrugged. “We aren’t dead yet.”

  As hard as she could, Terisa flung her lamp at Gart’s head.

  His quickness was appalling. As if he had known what she would do, he batted the lamp away from his face with the flat of his blade.

  Nevertheless the lamp struck his shoulder. Flaming oil splashed down his chest, bright on his black leather armor.

  In that instant, Artagel attacked.

  So swiftly that his leap and the sweeping pull with which he drew his sword looked like one movement, wildly, almost in a frenzy, crying out his rage and hurt, he hacked at the burning man.

  His assault was too sudden, too furious; Gart had trouble countering it. The High King’s Monomach beat at the fire with one hand, trying to put it out before it took hold of his armor; with the other, he parried Artagel’s blow awkwardly, barely succeeded at blocking it away from his head.

  His whole weight behind the blow, Artagel swung again.

  And again, as fast as he could.

  Gart seemed to erase the flame, as if his touch were enough to extinguish it. Nevertheless he couldn’t meet Artagel’s attack one-handed. He was driven backward, into the doorway. And the door was too narrow for his strokes. His sword took chips out of the doorpost; the impact slowed him, so that he almost failed to lift Artagel’s cut over his shoulder.

  That counter left him off balance.

  At once, Artagel drove forward with one foot and booted Gart in the chest.

  Gart slammed against the far wall of the corridor and recoiled to the side, reeling to get his legs braced under him.

  Artagel went through the doorway after him, steel on steel, steel on stone, out of sight to the left.

  Terisa was already at Geraden’s side. “Come on,” she gasped, “come on.” With both hands, she heaved at him, trying to raise him to his feet.

  Clutching Nyle, Geraden surged upright.

  They staggered together; Geraden struggled to hold Nyle; Nyle fought to help himself. Still gripping the cot leg he had used as a lever, Geraden hauled his brother toward the door.

  In the corridor, Artagel fought for his life.

  Gart had recovered; he was beginning to return the attack. And the wildness of Artagel’s first assault was use
less for defense. As a result, the nature of their combat changed. He was forced to meet Gart’s skill with his own, instead of with frenzy.

  He was still hampered by the tightness in his side.

  And Gart had already beaten him twice.

  The corridor clanged with blows, swirled with sparks. Artagel barely prevented the Monomach from returning to the doorway.

  “Come on,” Terisa urged.

  Geraden cast one white, urgent look at Artagel’s back, then dragged Nyle in the opposite direction.

  Terisa followed, pushing Geraden and Nyle to move faster.

  Through the clamor of steel, they reached a corner.

  As soon as they rounded it, the noise diminished.

  They passed more doors: storerooms, cells, guards’ quarters. Terisa thought they must be near the chamber where Master Eremis had his glassworks. Unless it was in the opposite direction. What was the “Image-room”? Where was it?

  At the fourth door, Geraden stopped. He wrenched it open: a storeroom, apparently; bedding and pillows. More roughly than he intended, he thrust Nyle inside.

  “Hide!” he hissed. “Let us do the fighting! All you have to do is stay hidden, so they can’t threaten you.”

  Nyle gave his brother a look of dumb, helpless anguish. Then he stumbled into the dark, and Geraden jerked the door shut, catching it just in time to make it close softly.

  Pale and extreme, he faced Terisa. “I hope to the stars,” he panted, “we know what we’re doing.”

  She grabbed at his hand and drew him into a run again, on down the corridor.

  Know what we’re doing.

  I want you to defeat Master Eremis.

  Artagel wouldn’t last much longer: she knew that. Yet she and Geraden were still alive because of him. And Eremis didn’t know they were coming. Maybe King Joyse and Prince Kragen had already been crushed. But she had promised in her heart that she would kill Master Eremis. The men who had treated Nyle like that were going to die.

  The cot leg in Geraden’s fist looked too short, too weightless, to do any good. Nevertheless he held it like a man who intended to find a use for it.

  She needed a weapon of her own; she didn’t have anything to fight with except her empty hands.

  She had no idea how big the stronghold was, how to find her enemies. She and Geraden kept running anyway, beyond the range of Artagel’s valiant struggle, around corners, along passageways. Geraden no longer seemed to be breathing hard: he had settled into a state of exertion where nothing could stop him. She saw suggestions of the Domne in him, hints of Tholden, as if he had all his family’s strength. Her own lungs were being torn open, but she didn’t care. Details like that had lost their importance; she had left them behind with her father.

  Then the corridor opened into a place of more light; a room with many windows, full of sunshine.

  A large, round room, as large as the Congery’s former meeting hall in Orison; high, with its domed ceiling encircled by clerestories so that the bright morning shone in from all sides; reached by several entrances around the walls, as if this chamber were the center of the stronghold, the hub around which all Master Eremis’ activities turned; and full of mirrors.

  The Image-room.

  Tall mirrors of many kinds stood in a wide circle around the center of the chamber, meticulously spaced ten or so feet apart, and facing inward, so that they could all be watched – so that they were all ready to be used – by the men in their midst.

  Master Eremis.

  Master Gilbur.

  The arch-Imager Vagel.

  Terisa thought that she and Geraden were running loudly, panting like engines. Apparently, however, their approach was relatively quiet. None of the men noticed them. Eremis and Gilbur and Vagel were all studying a flat glass which stood with them in the middle of the circle.

  That mirror showed the great slug-beast as it entered the valley of Esmerel.

  The mounds of rock which had blocked the creature’s advance were gone, devoured; now the monster squirmed along its slime into the valley foot.

  Almost directly under the beast’s jaws rode King Joyse, holding his sword up like a banner. From this perspective, he seemed already in reach of the vast, venomous fangs. He was shouting commands or appeals which didn’t convey anything through the glass. Small with distance, he looked at once extravagant and pathetic, like a weather vane dancing in the onset of a hurricane.

  “Do your best, Joyse,” growled Master Gilbur. “Withdraw your men. Rally them if you can. Then it will be Festten’s power that actually destroys you, rather than ours.”

  Terisa and Geraden had slowed, almost stopped. He raised a finger to his mouth, urging silence; she nodded. They crept forward behind the Imagers, into the ring of mirrors.

  The first mirror they saw from the front showed the side of a rocky mountain. The slope had a dark scar across it, as if a landslide had recently taken place. This was the source of the avalanches Eremis had used against Vale House and the Congery’s chasm.

  Grinning like Artagel, Geraden issued his challenge to his enemies by swinging his cot leg at the glass.

  The mirror shattered like a cry; glass sprayed singing to the stone.

  At the sound, the three Imagers spun.

  Only Master Eremis showed any surprise. He may have had a secret liking for surprises: they tested him, gave him new chances to exercise his abilities. His expression when he saw Terisa and Geraden bore an unmistakable resemblance to joy.

  “Astonishing,” he murmured. “I did not believe that such talent existed in all the world.”

  Unlike Eremis, Master Gilbur had only one reaction to the unexpected. Clenched like his back, his features brandished their old scowl, their black and unalterable fury. One powerful fist dove into his robe, brought out a dagger as long as Terisa’s forearm; the dagger which had killed Master Quillon. Deep in his contorted chest, he snarled curses like a hunting lion.

  The arch-Imager’s mouth hung open, but he didn’t look surprised. He looked hungry, avid for some bloody sustenance he had been too long denied, insatiably destructive. His chin was wet with drool, and his eyes smoldered like the eyes of a lover lost in cruelty.

  Before any of the Imagers had time to move, Terisa pushed the nearest mirror onto its back. As it fell, she saw a bitter landscape running with lava. Then the scene broke into splinters and ruin.

  “If you do that again, my lady,” Master Eremis said amiably, “I swear I will rip Geraden’s balls off and make you eat them.”

  “Try it,” retorted Geraden. He sprang to the next glass, clubbed it to shards.

  Roaring, Master Gilbur charged at him.

  Geraden dodged behind another mirror, pulled it over. Unfortunately, that left him open to Gilbur’s attack. The dagger stabbed for his heart.

  He saved himself by staggering to the side, slipping on chips of glass, crashing to the floor in a splash of slivers. Master Gilbur sprang after him, hammered the dagger at him. He rolled away, scrambled his legs under him, scuttled toward the wall – just out of reach. He had lost his club; he was weaponless against Gilbur’s tremendous strength, the Imager’s long blade.

  “Stand still and die, dogshit!” Master Gilbur panted.

  He drove Geraden backward.

  Terisa faced Eremis and the arch-Imager alone.

  She knew how to fight them: without thinking about it, without planning anything, she knew. She could never break enough of their mirrors to save King Joyse. They would kill her long before she did that much damage. And she would accomplish nothing if she shifted the Image which showed the King’s peril. Nevertheless she had glass to oppose Eremis and Vagel with, mirrors at her disposal which they couldn’t see. All she had to do was stay alive.

  And concentrate—

  I want you to trust me.

  —concentrate on the flat glass in Havelock’s rooms, the mirror with the Image of the sand dune. If she put this scene, this room, into that glass, the Adept could see it. He would see it
, if he hadn’t fallen completely victim to his insanity. And then he could translate both Eremis and Vagel to Orison.

  Trust me.

  Eremis would lose his mind. And Vagel would be in Orison, with no way back here. He might use one of Havelock’s mirrors to avoid capture, but he would cease to be a threat.

  All she had to do was concentrate.

  She stood still. Instinctively, she raised her hands as if to show Master Eremis she was no longer a threat to his mirrors.

  The way he looked at her made her blood labor like sludge in her veins.

  To keep himself from being pinned to the wall, Geraden had to retreat toward one of the exits. Apparently hoping to draw Master Gilbur after him, he turned suddenly and fled, running hard down the corridor.

  Cunning despite his rage, Master Gilbur stopped. There was no harm Geraden could do anywhere except in this room.

  Clutching his dagger, Gilbur returned to the ring.

  To the Image in Terisa’s mind.

  She held it steady, hoping now that Havelock would wait until Master Gilbur came within reach, within range of Eremis’ destruction. She had no pity of any kind left in her.

  At that moment, a touch of cold as thin as a feather and as sharp as steel slid straight through the center of her abdomen.

  “Hee-hee!” a thin voice cackled. “Wait for me, Vagel! I’m coming.”

  Adept Havelock burst out of the air at a run.

  “I’m coming!”

  Oh, no!

  He was a madman full of glee. His feet seemed to find the stone without any possibility of misstep, as if losing his mind made him immune to all the other hazards of translation. His apron flapped about his ankles as he ran.

  As swift as joy, he sped for the arch-Imager.

  In both fists he clutched his feather duster as if it made him mighty: a sword or scepter no one could oppose.

  That surprised Vagel; it took him too suddenly for any reaction except panic. Once, in the past, Havelock had cost him everything but his life: now the mad Adept wanted his life as well.

  Havelock was oblivious to everyone else. He didn’t see Terisa. He didn’t seem to notice that Master Eremis had stretched out a casual foot to trip him; he was only after the arch-Imager. Vagel, however, had flinched away; he headed for one of the exits with all the speed his old legs could produce.