A Shadow on the Glass

by Ian Irvine

  Karan paled. “Oh, be careful,” she cried. “Yggur approaches.”

  “I know,” Maigraith responded dreamily, a girlish eager ness on her face.

  “You’re going away again,” said Karan, her voice suddenly dreary. “This time you won’t return at all. Please don’t go. My enemies are all about me.”

  “Do not talk like that, Karan. You are safe now. I will come back tonight.”

  “Please take it with you. Remember how you were fascinated by it in Fiz Gorgo?”

  “No more. I learned that it is a twisted, deceitful, entrap ping thing. I never want to look at it again. Hold it for me for just a few more hours. I cannot take it where I am going. Once I return I will know what to do with it.”

  “Please,” begged Karan, her voice cracking. It was too late, Maigraith was already at the door. Then she turned back, remembering.

  “There was an Aachim seeking you, from Shazmak.”

  Karan leapt up, terrified. “No!” she cried out. “No!”

  Maigraith came back from the door and took her hands. “There is nothing to fear. He comes on an errand from Tensor, with a message of conciliation.”

  “It must be a trick. He comes to trap me, to take me back to Shazmak. I will not see him. Do not tell him that I am here.”

  “I did not. But Tensor would not trick you. He would come and take you himself.”

  “That is true,” said Karan. “But I still fear this man. Who is he?”

  “His name is Flacq.”

  “I don’t know him,” said Karan, slightly relieved. “He must be newly come to Shazmak. Bring him tonight, if you must. I will see him if you are here with me. Promise that you will be here when he comes.”

  “If you wish it. Until the evening then.”

  Evening came and then the night, but Maigraith did not re turn. Neither had Llian come back. It was nearly midnight and Karan lay on her bed, dozing. There was a gentle tap on the door. She sought out with her mind, but she had been afraid to use her talent for so long that now it told her nothing. It had never been completely reliable anyway. She opened the door a crack. A man stood there; in the darkness she could not see his face.

  “Good evening,” he said. “My name is Flacq. I come from Shazmak, bearing a message of conciliation from Tensor.”

  The disguised voice meant nothing to her, though a slight familiarity of mannerism disturbed Karan, and she hesitated. The Aachim held out his hand; something glittered there. “I also bring you this. I believe it is yours. It was found in your room in Shazmak after you went away.”

  Karan took it from his hand, puzzled now. It was a fine silver chain with a jade pendant. Then she recognized it. It was Llian’s, of course. She’d taken it from him the night before her trial, to help send the dream to him. He would be glad of it. She slipped it over her head and tucked it beneath her shirt. It was cool against her breast.

  The Aachim moved toward her, into the doorway.

  I know you! she realized. She tried to slam the door but her arm would not obey; suddenly she was terribly afraid. This is a nightmare, she thought desperately. I’ve had this nightmare before and I don’t want it Something was draining all will from her. Then the man slid through the door. The light shone on his face; the twin scars gleamed through his beard. Emmant! She wanted to scream but could not make a sound.

  “Now you will be mine,” he said. “In life and in death.”

  He moved slowly toward her. His face was changed al most beyond recognition, as though he had rotted inside. His breath stank like a dead thing by the roadside, and his once brown skin was yellow, rubbery and sagging off the bones. The flesh seemed to have melted away so that the scars stuck out like ridges across his cheek. His black eyes had retreated into his skull till they were like pellets in the bottom of a bowl. That dangerous grace was gone too; now he moved with a shambling, slubbering step.

  Karan was almost sick with fear, and loathing. This was far worse than the Whelm; worse even man her chronic night mare. A sick horror paralyzed her. She was alone. Her friends had deserted her. Even Maigraith had betrayed her, sent the beast to destroy her. She had promised, but she did not come.

  Where was Llian? I thought you loved me, but where are you now? Away somewhere, plotting with your friend Mendark, another of my enemies. Enemy? she thought, confused now. You offered to help me. But you only wanted it. Even you, Llian, only wanted the Mirror.

  Love, what love? The only one who loved me was this beast who now advances. There is no love in him now, he is as mad as I am. Abuse and death is all he offers. Oh, Llian, Llian, Maigraith, Hassien, Pender, the faces whirling in front of her, Pender, Pender, you saved me once, where are you now? “No!” she screamed.

  She picked herself up, feeling her cheek swelling from the blows, licking a trickle of blood from her lip. She felt herself dwindling with each successive blow. How can you hate so much? What did I do to make you hate so much? At least speak to me. But the figure, broad, bearded and still immensely strong, said not a word.

  Her wrist pained her. What a trouble that wrist has been to me, she thought wryly. No longer. It doesn’t matter any more. Nothing matters now. She backed away. Emmant followed in a crouch.

  Strangely, she could feel his will within her, as though they were linked. How could he link with me unless I willed it?

  Come to me, he called over the link. You cannot resist me now. Come to me. Do you love me yet? You will. I can make you love me, you know.

  She burst out laughing at that, the laughter cutting through her madness like a knife, breaking the flimsy link.

  “Love you,” she screeched. “I could sooner love the maggot that crawls in the dung on the street than you. I was right to do what I did before. I will do it again.” She pulled out the little knife and held it up before her.

  He was bewildered. “I command you to love me. Faelamor promised that you would. I have betrayed Shazmak to the Whelm for you. All the days since, I have sought you: in Name, in Sith, everywhere. Thinking of you always, of possessing you. Nothing else have I thought of but you. You must love me, you will.”

  Betrayed Shazmak? Faelamor? Was she back in her nightmare? She advanced on him, her eyes glittering.

  “What madness is this?”

  The look in her eyes chilled Emmant. He hesitated, backed away.

  “Faelamor came to Shazmak,” he stuttered, and his voice, that was always so deep, became shrill and cracked. ‘Tensor sent her there, a prisoner. She was desperate to escape. She promised you to me if I would help her. I taught the Whelm the secret way into Shazmak and instructed them in the disabling of the Sentinels. She said that they would free her. She enchanted the necklace for me. She promised that you would do my will, once I gave it to you. She has betrayed me.”

  Karan laughed, an empty, ugly sound. “Indeed, I think she has betrayed everyone but you. The chain is enchanted, but she made the charm for the owner, and that was not me. It is Llian’s.”

  She held out the necklace, the little jade pendant dangling between her fingers, taunting him. “Here, give it to him. I’m sure that he will love you. His mind is very weak.”

  Emmant dashed the chain from her hand and launched himself at her. She backed toward the door, fell heavily on her side, tried to scrabble away. Emmant flung himself on her, crushing her. The scars on his face were absolutely white and his grimace had twisted them into the shape of sickles. His hands reached out for her throat, gripping, squeezing, then the little knife was in her good hand and she struck again and again.

  At last they came, long after midnight: Llian, Tallia and Mendark. They stood in the doorway, surveying the wreck age of the dark room. There were two bodies on the floor, covered in blood.

  Llian wept until his heart would burst. Mendark took him outside while Tallia turned the man over. His twisted, scarred face was unknown to her. She hauled his legs off Karan and dragged him to a corner of the room. Who are you, she wondered, and how came you here? Whatever you hoped t
o gain from the Mirror it was surely not this.

  “I dreamed that we were bound together through all eternity, my love. Yet hardly a second of eternity has passed and already your embrace grows cold.”

  The cold clear voice came from behind her, and Tallia whirled around.

  Karan still lay on her back, her clothes drenched with brown blood. She was reaching up with her arms and there was a smile on her face, but her eyes were closed.

  “Where have you gone, my love? Indeed you are a most feeble lover to have tired so soon. Do not leave me. Come back, come back. Put your loving hands on my soft white throat,” her voice became venomous, “and let me plunge this sliver into your black heart.” Karan stabbed in a frenzy at the air above her, then went still.

  Tallia came closer, looking down at her.

  The smile broke across Karan’s face again. “Where do you go, my love? I hear you creeping, afraid to wake me. Have you tired already of my embrace?”

  Tallia did not wait to hear it again. She hurried out of the room and found Llian and Mendark in a parlor nearby.

  “She is alive.” Llian leapt up at once. “But I caution you, do not go near her. She is quite mad, and dangerous.”

  Llian pushed past her and ran back to the room, crying Karan’s name. Then he yelped and as they ran into the room they saw him backing away, holding one hand in the other. Blood was dripping through his fingers. He looked quite be wildered. Karan was on her feet, the knife in her hand, her face an ugly mask. “I called you but you did not come,” she said. “You promised.”

  Mendark pushed the others to one side, advancing slowly on Karan. She moved the knife in front of her, smiling now. “This is a game more to my liking,” she said. “We have played before, you and I.”

  Mendark froze. As he did so, Maigraith appeared in the doorway. She stepped across the threshold and stopped dead, bewildered by what she saw—Karan, demented and covered in blood, waving her knife; the corpse in one corner, three strangers, no, it was the young man she had seen in Name—bailed up in the other. She was so shocked that she could not tell what to do. She called out, her voice soft with anguish, “Karan!”

  Karan whirled, faster than thought, and slashed the air in front of Maigraith’s face. Maigraith was wearing a long loose concealing cloak and a dark shapeless hood that cast her face in shadow, so that the others could not tell if it were man or woman there. But Karan knew.

  “You promised to come back, and you did not. You promised you would not send him, yet he came. Emmant came! I cried out for you, I begged you, but you did not come. What does it take to drag you from the bed of your lover?”

  She slashed again at Maigraith viciously. Maigraith fell back in confusion and distress, tears falling in the shadow of her hood.

  “Not so,” she said softly. She put her hands up but made no attempt to defend herself. Karan lowered the knife and a slow horror crept over her face, a self-loathing that so twisted her that it made Llian’s skin crawl.

  “I killed him,” she said. “How easy it was, in the end. Help me, father.”

  “Now will you come with me?” Mendark asked Karan gently.

  “I don’t care anymore. Nothing matters.”

  But before they could move there was a racket in the corridor and a troop of guardsmen rushed in, followed by a tall man in black robes, with receding hair, pale eyes and a nose like a club. It was Thyllan, die man who had overthrown Mendark as Magister of the High Council. Karan stared at the intruder, trying to see his purpose through the fog in her mind. The guardsmen took in the situation at once, and though Karan struck at them she was no match for their pikes. Soon one cracked her on the side of the head and she fell to the floor.

  Thyllan searched Karan and with a cry of triumph removed the Mirror from her secret pocket Mendark moved forward, but the pikes came instantly up against his chest, and the captain of the guards looked enquiringly at the Magister.

  Thyllan shook his head. “I can afford to be merciful now,” he said, “but I warn you: look to your own security. Guards, bring her and everything that is hers.”

  The guards bound Karan’s hands, hoisted her up and took her in the direction of the citadel.

  The four stared at each other for a long minute, then Maigraith whirled and rushed out of the room. Llian picked up his amulet and chain and stumbled out the door.

  It was morning now. Mendark and Llian sat by the fire in Mendark’s villa, waiting for Tallia to come back with whatever news she could glean. They had been up all night. Neither had spoken in hours. Llian’s agony had struck him dumb.

  The door opened and Tallia came in. She looked exhausted.

  “What have you found out?” cried Llian, leaping up.

  “She is held in the citadel,” Tallia said. “And that is all I learned.”

  “What about the other woman? Did you find out who she was?”

  “No! Only Karan can say.”

  Mendark stared into the fire with his head sunk on his hands. The events of the past days had further diminished him; he felt that he had lost control of his destiny.

  Just then there was a movement outside and the door was thrust open. A woman stepped noiselessly in. There was mud on her high boots and her blue cloak was dripping. She took her hat off and shook free the pale hair, her eyes coming straight to Mendark’s. Suddenly he felt weak in the stomach.

  “Mendark!” she said. “I am Faelamor. I have come for the Mirror.”

  Mendark slowly let out the breath that he had been holding. “I haven’t forgotten you. How long has it been? Six hundred years?”

  Faelamor shrugged, indifferent.

  “So,” he went on, “You were Faichand?”

  “I was, but the secret is out”

  “Then I need not ask how you came by the guards. You’re too late. Thyllan has it, and he is Magister. In time of war he is all-powerful. There is nothing I can do to get it back.”

  Her face went cold. “Then what of the girl?”

  “He has her too, but she’s no good to anyone now; her mind is completely gone.”

  Faelamor’s mask cracked. It might have been worse. ‘Tell it.”

  Mendark told her, briefly, of the events leading up to that scene in the room, and the dead man, Emmant. Faelamor’s face melted a little more. All had gone well, save this matter of Thyllan, and that could be remedied. Soon they would all be here.

  Llian stared at the ageless face, hating and distrusting her, but fascinated too. To meet one of the Faellem was a rare experience these days, and no chronicler would have met Faelamor in many a hundred years. He noted her distinguishing features for his tale, especially the golden, feline eyes and the remarkable translucent skin.

  “So this is the miserable Zain,” Faelamor said, staring back. “The line fails, it would appear.”

  “What does Thyllan want the Mirror for?” Tallia interjected.

  “He wants it for the making of gates, portals,” said Mendark, “as, no doubt, did Yggur. Imagine the power he would hold if he could instantly transport his armies, or his spies, anywhere on Santhenar. The Mirror is thought to contain the secret: how to make such devices.”

  Llian, who had been sitting at the table listening to the conversation go back and forth, could no longer contain himself and burst out in fury, “Damn the Mirror! You must free Karan.”

  “I don’t see how I can,” said Mendark.

  “I heard that Thyllan has her in chains,” said Tallia. “That she needs be restrained.”

  “Chains!” cried Llian in grief and fury. “Karan in chains! You must do something.”

  “While she’s up there, I’m helpless.”

  “The citadel is barred to Mendark,” Tallia explained. “He can enter neither openly nor secretly. Our position is precarious; doubly so now that the enemy is at our gates. Thyllan could have us taken, killed even, and there is nothing anyone could do, now that we are at war. As long as he keeps her in the citadel, we’re powerless.”

  “
There is a way,” said Faelamor, who had been sitting quietly by, “and Mendark alone has the means of it. You must call a Great Conclave. That will force them down from the citadel. Then there will be a chance to get the Mirror back, and her too if you wish it, though she is vicious and treacherous.”

  “Of course,” said Mendark. “What cloud was over me that I did not recall that way?”

  But why is Maigraith not here? said Faelamor to herself. She must attend the Conclave. And she turned and went as silently as she had come.

  “We have just looked upon a very evil one,” said Llian. “Did you see the hate on her face? Do not trust her; do not call this Conclave.”

  “Not evil,” said Mendark, “though she might do it. Desperate, driven. To lead the Faellem is to be the Faellem. Of course I do not trust her, but I will call the Conclave. He must come; he must bring the Mirror and submit it to the Just. At last I can see an advantage and I will take it…”

  Llian frowned, puzzled.

  “A Great Conclave is held only when Thurkad is in a dire extreme,” Mendark explained. “Sometimes it throws up a new way, or a new leader. Because I was Magister before him, even at such a dire time as this, Thyllan cannot refuse me. He must bring Karan and the Mirror to the Conclave, which will be held in the city, not in the citadel.”

  “How will that help to free her?”

  “I don’t know,” Mendark responded brusquely, “but at least she’ll be within our reach if we find a way.”

  “He might refuse.”

  “He cannot: he’s not that secure in his strength.”

  Days went by. The armies of Yggur were drawn up on the plain south of Thurkad. Embassies were sent, returned. The walls of Thurkad were not suited for defense, so the army prepared to do battle outside the southern gate. Then news came of another army advancing swiftly on Thurkad from the north-west, spreading out, encircling the city. There was uproar, panic; the only way out was by sea. The harbor was jammed; every craft capable of floating was packed to the waterline. Attackers and defenders faced each other, and the waiting began.