The Mirror of Her Dreams

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  The champion was distinct among them. His gestures directed the fire of his companions, and his huge rifle gave out blasts that chopped the edges of the landscape into new configurations.

  He conveyed an impression of desperation that Terisa hadn’t seen in him before. For the first time, she realized that he, too, was someone who could be beaten.

  But Master Eremis took a different view of the matter. Rubbing his hands together vigorously, he said, “Excellent! Whether he exists in his own right or is a creation of the glass, he will have no cause to complain of our translation.”

  “Master Eremis, you presume too much!” The mediator of the Congery stood beside the mirror, his fists braced on his large girth and his pine-colored face mottled with anger. Apparently, his fear of what Master Gilbur and the others proposed had concentrated into ire. “Your arrogance is offensive. You call us together in urgent haste, you have this glass brought before us, and once again you bring Geraden with you without permission – as if our course were already decided. Our course is not decided. You were deputized to speak for us before the lords of the Cares. You have not told us the outcome of that meeting. You have not told us what was said – what position the lords take. Our course cannot be decided until we have heard a full report, both from you and from Master Gilbur.

  “Also the lady has no place in this,” he added grimly. “Correct your presumption by sending her and the Apt away.”

  “Oh, presumption!” the guttural voice of Master Gilbur growled before Eremis could reply. “It is not presumption. It is survival. We must act or die. Stop trying to shirk the situation, Barsonage. The woman does not matter. But look at Geraden!” He made a hacking gesture with one powerful hand. Every eye in the chamber turned to the Apt. “He is fumble-footed and disastrous. But he has never been stupid. Look at him.”

  Geraden appeared unaware of the way he was regarded. He was chewing his lower lip and thinking so hard that the effort made his eyes look wild.

  “Where else would you have him? You have already blurted out all the information he needs. In a moment, he will guess the import of what we propose – and then he will be on his way to inform the King. Here, at least, he will have no one to tell.”

  As if to prove Gilbur right, Geraden abruptly faced Terisa. At that moment, no one else in the room seemed to exist for him. What he was thinking filled him with dismay.

  “Is that what you couldn’t tell me?” he whispered. “They’ve decided to call the champion? And Master Eremis had some kind of meeting with the lords of the Cares?” An instant later, he went further. “But they waited until after the meeting. Master Eremis went to suggest some kind of alliance. The Congery and the lords against King Joyse?”

  She couldn’t help him. Her heart pounded in her throat as she felt the danger suddenly thicken around him, but there was nothing she could do.

  “I’ve got to warn him.”

  So quickly that she had no chance to try to stop him, Geraden headed for the nearest door.

  With unexpected speed, Master Gilbur pounced after the Apt. In an effort to reach him, Gilbur struck him from behind. The blow made Geraden trip, so that he slammed against one of the pillars and sprawled to the floor.

  At once, Master Gilbur knotted one great fist in the back of Geraden’s leather jerkin, and wrenched him to his feet. “No, whelp,” he grated. “You have heard too much. Now you will hear it all.”

  Blood trickled from Geraden’s temple. The impact of his head left a small red stain on the pillar. For a moment, he struggled as though his heart were breaking. But he couldn’t twist away from Gilbur’s powerful grip—and his jerkin refused to tear. The fight went out of him, and he sagged into submission.

  Terisa wanted to rage at Master Gilbur. The fact that she thought Geraden was wrong made no difference. In misery, she met his dumb pain. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault,” he replied dully. “Somebody told you I would be killed if I knew what was going on. Whoever that was, it’s his fault.”

  Terisa looked around quickly. Master Quillon hadn’t raised his head. But Master Eremis’ face showed an instant of honest surprise.

  He recovered rapidly, however. Frowning, he said, “She was told the truth, Geraden. You will not believe it – but I brought you here to save your life. Now that you cannot leave, you will live.”

  Immediately, he turned to face the rest of the Imagers.

  “Masters, if you will sit down and compose yourselves long enough to hear me, I will tell you what happened at my meeting with the lords of the Cares – and why we must act without delay on our decision to translate our champion.”

  His manner was commanding; he emanated urgency. After a moment, Master Barsonage said between his teeth, “Very well, Master Eremis. So far I will go with you. But there is much that I expect you to explain.”

  Scowling dourly, he left the center of the circle to Eremis.

  The other Masters followed his example. Before she could be separated from him, Terisa caught Geraden’s arm. Master Gilbur’s controlling grip forced the two of them to a seat on the bench. At the same time, Master Eremis strode toward the dais.

  Almost at once, he began.

  “Masters, I can make this quite simple.” His tone was soft, but it seemed to carry an echo to the farthest reaches of the room. “Our meeting with the lords of the Cares was broken up without useful issue because they do not trust us. They believe that we serve King Joyse and wish only to entrap them. Or they believe that we serve ourselves and wish only to make them serve us also.”

  “And Master Eremis is accused of arrogance,” one of the younger Imagers put in. “Are the lords not arrogant?”

  As softly as possible, Terisa whispered in Geraden’s ear, “Don’t worry. King Joyse already knows.”

  He gaped at her in surprise.

  “Of course,” Master Eremis went on with deceptive sarcasm, “the discussion itself was not so simple. First I must inform you that I have been more ‘presumptuous’ than you know. When I learned of the outcome of his embassy among us, I invited Prince Kragen of Alend to the meeting.”

  At that announcement, several of the Masters stiffened. Eremis had their complete attention now. The mediator glared at him furiously, but didn’t interrupt.

  “I cannot honestly say that I trust any representative of the Alend Monarch. But he protests that he desires peace. And I am certain that he desires to preserve us from Cadwal. For that reason, I considered that his presence would cost nothing at worst, and at best would open the possibility of a much stronger alliance than one uniting only the Congery with the lords.”

  “The Fayle told him,” Terisa explained to Geraden. “About the champion, anyway. Not about the meeting.”

  “Then why—?” For a second, he forgot to whisper. But the sharp glares of the Masters – and Master Gilbur’s grasp on his jerkin—reminded him. “Why doesn’t he do something?”

  Visibly mollified, Master Barsonage murmured, “You surpass yourself, Master Eremis. You are entirely presumptuous – but you are not thick-witted. I feared that this gamble would make the lords unwilling to heed you. Was I wrong?”

  Eremis sighed. “That is the second matter I must explain. The lords were indeed unwilling to heed me, but not because of Prince Kragen’s presence. In truth, I think they would have listened to him well if I had not been there. Their hatred of Alends is less than their distrust of Imagers.”

  Several Masters expressed surprise. Others muttered angry curses. But Master Eremis raised his hands to ward off their reactions. “I do not mean to be unjust. Prince Kragen himself was much interested in our proposal. The Perdon was interested, even eager. But as for the others—” He shrugged. “The Armigite has too little sense to know his own mind. And the Tor was too steeped in wine to have a mind.”

  “Don’t you understand?” Terisa returned, trying to make herself clear to Geraden. “That’s why Master Eremis doesn’t have any choice.”

  His gaze
was dark with pain. Apparently, he didn’t want to understand her as well as he did.

  “I believe the Termigan could have been persuaded, under other circumstances,” Master Eremis continued. “With the Perdon, he might have been enough. We would have had a base on which to build. But it is all made hopeless by the intensity of the Fayle’s prejudice against Imagery.”

  “The Fayle?” asked Master Barsonage. “He has the reputation of a reasonable man.”

  Master Quillon was paying close attention now. His eyes glittered at everything he saw.

  “Oh, he is reasonable,” Gilbur put in, “if you call it reasonable that he rejected everything we proposed simply because we mean to call our champion without King Joyse’s approval.”

  Another Master protested, “Are you serious? Why did he think you were meeting in secret? Why did he accept your invitation, if the King’s approval is so important to him?”

  “To spy on us,” Master Gilbur growled. “Why else?”

  The mediator was staggered. “Is this true?”

  “It is,” Master Eremis said crisply. “He admitted his intention to inform King Joyse, so that we would be prevented from any exercise of our own judgment or will.”

  Startled out of concentrating on Geraden, Terisa thought, That’s not really the way it happened. Is it? But it was. The more she tried to remember, the more she had to agree with Master Eremis and Master Gilbur. It was only her personal reaction to the Fayle’s dignity that misled her.

  “Then why,” Master Quillon inquired unexpectedly, “has the King done nothing to prevent us?”

  Suddenly angry, Master Eremis whirled to face Quillon. “You ask me to explain his decisions? If I had that power, I could save Mordant single-handedly.”

  “We can’t explain them,” an Imager who hadn’t spoken before said urgently. “We’ve got to act – before Lebbick and his men get here to stop us.”

  Geraden’s face wore an intent frown, as if he were listening hard.

  “Very well.” Master Barsonage rose heavily to his feet. “I have conceded everything else.” He had an air of defeat; even his eyebrows looked wilted. “I concede the need for haste also. Be plain, Master Eremis. What do you propose?”

  Eremis turned to the mediator. The way he pivoted, balanced himself, and faced Master Barsonage conveyed so much sharp energy that he seemed to give off sparks. His expression was too intense for Terisa to interpret.

  “Translate our champion,” he said. “Now.”

  Master Barsonage nodded. For a moment, he said nothing. Then he asked, “Why?”

  Master Eremis was ready. “To prove our good faith. We are not heeded because it is believed that we have no commitment to anything except ourselves. Or because as the King’s tools we have, in effect, lost our minds as badly as he has.”

  Now he raised his voice so that it throbbed and thrilled in the chamber, as clarion and moving as a trumpet. “We have no way to convince anyone otherwise except by taking single and unselfish action in Mordant’s defense. Only by opposing the evil ourselves can we show that we are worthy of trust and alliance.”

  That might have been enough to gain what he wanted. It was enough for Terisa: his electricity and passion swept her with him. But Master Gilbur didn’t leave it alone.

  “In addition,” he rasped, “we must consider the possibility that Prince Kragen and the lords came to our meeting for an entirely different reason. We were created by Joyse. He set an example for Cadwal and Alend to follow. They think we are to be used as they see fit, and they maneuver against each other in order to possess us.” His hands made fierce fists on the railing in front of him. “They want to own us as if we were things instead of men.

  “We have no swords or soldiers.” His voice lacked resonance, but it had the force to be terrifying. “We can never protect ourselves unless we show our power!”

  Through the silence which followed his shout, everyone heard the hammering at the door. It sounded like the haft of a sword or the butt of a pike belaboring the wood.

  Everyone heard the command:

  “In the King’s name, open this door!”

  For a fraction of a second, Terisa had time to wonder why King Joyse had changed his mind.

  Then Geraden jerked up his head. “The Castellan.” At once, he tried to gain his feet, yelling, “Castellan Lebbick! Break down the door! Stop them!”

  Gilbur jerked him back. With one stone fist, the Master struck him so hard across the side of his head that his whole body flopped soddenly. His eyes glazed.

  Terisa froze. Everything was happening at once. King Joyse had finally made a decision. Master Eremis’ plans were in danger. Geraden was hurt.

  Most of the Imagers were on their feet, shouting at each other frantically; but Master Barsonage sank to the bench. His face had no strength left: he looked lost. “Then it must be done,” he murmured to no one in particular. “Or else we will cease to exist.”

  “Gilbur!” Master Eremis barked. A grin bared his teeth. “Do it now! “

  Master Gilbur dropped Geraden and hurried into the center of the chamber, toward the dais and his mirror.

  Several of the Imagers cheered. Others dithered in alarm. They all got out of Gilbur’s way, however. They crowded past the pillars toward the walls, as far as possible from Castellan Lebbick’s hammering and the mirror.

  Eremis took Master Gilbur’s place, lifting Geraden from the stone and holding both him and Terisa with a grip they couldn’t break.

  The mirror faced them directly. Geraden plainly had no idea what was going on – he couldn’t even hold up his head – but Terisa had a perfect view.

  Master Gilbur put his hand on the frame and deftly began to adjust the focus of the glass. After one heartbeat, the champion was centered in the Image. After another, he seemed to sweep forward until he filled the mirror.

  The pounding on the door had become a heavy, rhythmic thud. Terisa could hear wood cracking. But the ironbound timbers were too stout to yield easily. Between blows, Castellan Lebbick shouted, “Master Barsonage! Imagers! By the stars, I will have this door open!”

  Master Gilbur shot a glance toward Master Eremis.

  “Translate him!” Eremis hissed.

  Geraden stirred, shook his head. Blinking rapidly, he tried to clear his vision.

  Master Gilbur braced his hands against the edge of the mirror as though he were preparing to pull the champion through by main force. His guttural voice rasped words Terisa couldn’t understand.

  “Got to stop him.” Geraden sounded like he was choking. Somehow, he fell forward over the rail. Climbing unsteadily to his feet, he stumbled toward Master Gilbur.

  Master Eremis was no longer holding Terisa. Had he tried to grab Geraden and missed? Lost his grip on her at the same time? She had no idea: she didn’t see him. Her attention was concentrated on Geraden.

  Swinging her legs over the rail, she went after him.

  He was too late. If he hadn’t been stupefied by Master Gilbur’s blow, he would have seen that he couldn’t reach the glass in time.

  In front of him, the surface of the mirror went dark as the champion surged through it.

  His armor made him at least seven feet tall. His head showed no face, but only a thick plate that must have been a visor. The metallic skin that protected him was scored black in several places: it had been breached at least twice. Acrid smoke curled from the wounds. He moved as if he were hurt.

  But his huge rifle was ready. As he caught his balance on the dais, he aimed the muzzle straight at Geraden’s chest.

  Terisa got her arms onto Geraden’s shoulders. He was so weak and woozy that her weight pulled him to the floor.

  The first shot went over them. The Masters shouted. At least one of them screamed.

  Trying to pull her legs under her, fighting to stand, she suddenly found herself staring down the barrel of the rifle.

  For a period of time as quick and intense as a crisis of the heart, she watched the champion’s
metal-clad hand tighten on the firing mechanism.

  Then he jerked up the barrel, and the blast hit the ceiling.

  Broken stone began falling into the chamber.

  The champion unclosed one hand from his rifle, gripped her neck, and forced her down on top of Geraden. “Stay there.” His voice blared like a megaphone, but it was barely audible through the thunder of collapsing rock. “I don’t shoot women.”

  The next instant, he started firing again.

  In a rush, the entire ceiling came down.

  BOOK TWO

  FOURTEEN: OUT OF THE RUBBLE

  Castellan Lebbick suspected that he was foundering inside. Of course, life in Orison had been going from bad to worse for some time now; but suddenly the purpose of his life had sprung leaks in all directions.

  Because of the Congery’s gamble, he had several crises to deal with at once. But they were only symptoms; they weren’t fundamental. As he strode to face them, he was smiling like a hawk; and only his wife – and perhaps King Joyse – had ever known him well enough to realize that this smile was a bad sign. To other people, he probably looked like he was in his element, eager for the conflicts or disasters that would provide an outlet and a justification for his rage. Only his wife and his oldest friend could have understood the particular ferocity of his grin.

  Unfortunately, his wife was dead – miserably dead, killed by a long, hacking illness that cut her life out as effectively as a knife in her lungs. Nearly a year had passed, and he still missed her so acutely that it seemed to make his guts tremble.

  And King Joyse had cast him adrift.

  He had refused to hear the Fayle. One way or another, he blocked every vital act, interfered with every hope.

  The Castellan clenched his teeth tighter, stretched his smile thinner, and refused to think about it. King Joyse was his reason for living. The passions that had led to the founding of Mordant, the ideals that had inspired the creation of the Congery – these things were the blood in his veins, the air in his chest. He was the King’s hands. The King had rescued him—