The Mirror of Her Dreams

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  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 h
er 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.”