“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 l
aughing.
“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 S
addith, 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.”
The Mirror of Her Dreams Page 8
