The Mirror of Her Dreams

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  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 architrav
e. 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.”