He fell directly in front of Castellan Lebbick, accidentally cutting the Castellan’s legs out from under him. Lebbick plunged to the stone.
Geraden reached the door and jerked it open.
“Stop him!” Castellan Lebbick roared at the guards outside. “Stop Geraden!”
The door slammed shut in time to cut off his shout.
Master Barsonage stood alone in the middle of the confusion. While Imagers shouted at each other and tried to decide which way to run, he clasped his hands together and gaped at nothing. Even his involuntary tick was paralyzed.
Still roaring, the Castellan sprang upright, heaved Masters away from him on both sides, charged the door.
Master Eremis wasn’t the first to reach Nyle. Nevertheless he shoved everyone else aside, swept the bloody form up in his arms, and began dodging toward the far exit. “A physician!” he barked although no one was listening to him. “He must have a physician!”
Automatically, Terisa followed Master Eremis and Nyle.
Without warning, someone caught her by the arm. Forced to turn, she found herself facing Master Quillon.
His bright eyes shone; his nose twitched extravagantly. “Come!” he demanded in a voice that seemed to pierce straight through the confusion into her heart. “We must help him!”
At once, he started forward, hauling her into motion toward the door Master Eremis had just taken.
The two guards assigned to that door were in the room, shouting for order and answers. Master Quillon ducked past them. They made an effort to stop Terisa, then let her go: the turmoil of the Congery demanded their attention.
With his gray robe flapping against his knees, Master Quillon broke into a run.
She had no idea where he was going: she followed him simply because he had used the word help. But suddenly she began to recognize this part of the laborium. Down a corridor, then along an intersecting passage, Master Quillon brought her to a door small and heavy enough to be the door of a cell.
This door also was guarded.
“Quickly!” Master Quillon shouted at the men. “Someone has been killed!” He pointed back the way he and Terisa had come. “The Castellan needs you!”
His urgency was so convincing that both guards left their post at full speed, drawing their swords as they ran.
Immediately, Master Quillon swung the door open, ushered Terisa through it, and closed it again.
They had entered the antechamber of the network of cells that had been rebuilt for the storage and display of the Congery’s mirrors.
“Will he come here?” she asked. She was panting hard.
With unintended brutality, Master Quillon replied, “He has nowhere else to go.” Taking her arm again, he impelled her through the nearest entryway into the warren of showrooms.
But he didn’t accompany her.
When he stopped, she turned back to question him.
“Go!” he snapped. “Help him! I will gain as much time as I can. I will be believed when I say he did not come here – at least for a minute or two.”
She stared. Help him?
“Go, I say!” He gave her a push.
She stumbled, caught her balance, and fled the antechamber.
Help him? Geraden?
Nyle was dead. His belly had been cut open with a knife.
Why?
So he wouldn’t speak to the Congery. So he wouldn’t support Master Eremis’ accusations.
Geraden!
As soon as she found the room where the mirror that had brought her to Orison was on display, she spotted him. He was trying to dodge past an entryway, trying to hide, but he wasn’t quick enough to avoid her.
Master Gilbur’s original glass had been destroyed by the champion, of course: this mirror was Geraden’s copy. Because it was covered, she couldn’t see what scene it showed.
“Geraden!” she whispered. She was afraid to shout. “It’s me. Terisa.”
After a moment, he came out of hiding to confront her.
He had become a different person. His face was iron; his eyes were steel. He spoke as if he could call up authority against her at any time.
“Have you come to persuade me to surrender?”
“No.” She could hardly force out words. Something inside her was breaking. “He told me to help you.”
“He?”
“Master Quillon.”
“He should have come himself.”
The sound of a door echoed faintly through the rooms. Terisa heard a distant murmur of voices.
“If you are an Imager, my lady,” Geraden went on, “you may be able to help me. Otherwise, I have no escape.”
“You know I’m not an Imager.” Oh, my love! “What was Nyle going to say about you?”
He looked unreachable – too hard and inhuman to be touched. Yet something in her voice or her face or the way she stood must have penetrated him. His defenses cracked.
“Nothing,” he said as if he had arrived without transition on the verge of tears. “Nothing at all. It’s a trick. Something Master Eremis cooked up against me.
“Terisa, I did not kill my brother.”
She heard Castellan Lebbick clearly. “Spread out! He’s got to be in here. I want him alive.”
“I’m not an Imager!” she cried. “I can’t help you!”
In misery, she flung her arms around Geraden’s neck.
He clung to her until they both heard the sound of hard boots approaching them from one of the other rooms. At once, they sprang apart.
He had become iron again.
Without hesitation, he turned to the mirror and swept off its cover.
The glass showed the bitter alien landscape where the champion and his men had failed.
“No, Geraden!” she gasped. “You’ll be lost! You’ll never get back.”
He didn’t heed her. “As soon as I am translated, my lady,” he said as if she were a stranger, “please shift the focus of the mirror. If I am visible in the Image, I will be pursued.”
He said something she didn’t understand. His fingers stroked the wooden frame in parting; his hands made a gesture of farewell.
Then he stepped into the mirror and left her alone.
But he didn’t appear in the Image.
She searched the scene feverishly: there was no sign of him. Once again, his glass had performed an impossible translation. It had taken him to a place it didn’t show.
This time, however, no one was holding on to his foot. He had no way to come back. He was gone completely.
Castellan Lebbick came upon her so suddenly that she would have wailed if she hadn’t been in such dismay.
He looked around the room, peered into the glass. Then he put his hands on her arms and ground his fingers into her weak flesh. A ferocious triumph burned in his face.
“Now you’ve done it, woman,” he said almost cheerfully. “You’ve done something so vile that nobody is going to protect you. You’ve helped a murderer escape.”
She should have said something to defend herself. A denial would have cost Geraden nothing. He was beyond harm. But she only held her head up and met the Castellan’s flagrant gaze as well as she could with her own distress and didn’t speak.
“Now,” he said through his teeth, “you are mine.”
This is the end of
THE MIRROR OF HER DREAMS.
Mordant’s Need concludes in the next volume,
A MAN RIDES THROUGH.
To Ross McGuire Donaldson:
For love,
laughter,
And just enough dignity.
Books by Stephen R. Donaldson
“The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever”
Lord Foul’s Bane
The Illearth War
The Power that Preserves
“The Second Chronicles of Thomas Covenant”
The Wounded Land
The One Tree
White Gold Wielder
“The Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant�
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The Runes of the Earth
Fatal Revenant
Against All Things Ending
The Last Dark
“Mordant’s Need”
The Mirror of Her Dreams
A Man Rides Through
“The Gap Sequence”
The Real Story
Forbidden Knowledge
A Dark and Hungry God Arises
Chaos and Order
This Day All Gods Die
The “Axbrewder/Fistoulari” novels
The Man Who Killed His Brother
The Man Who Risked His Partner
The Man Who Tried to Get Away
The Man Who Fought Alone
Short Story Collections
Daughter of Regals and Other Tales
Reave the Just and Other Tales
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in 1947 in Cleveland, Ohio, Stephen R. Donaldson made his publishing debut with the first Covenant Trilogy in 1977. Shortly thereafter, he was named Best New Writer of the Year and given the prestigious John W. Campbell Award. He graduated from the College of Wooster (Ohio) in 1968, served two years as a conscientious objector doing hospital work in Akron, then attended Kent State University, where he received his M.A. in English in 1971. Donaldson now lives in New Mexico.
The Mirror of Her Dreams Page 76
