Стивен Дональдсон - The Mirror of Her Dreams

The central figure of the scene, however, wasn’t the ship or one of the fighters. Rather, it was another metal-clad individual who occasionally waved his arms or shifted his attention as though he were directing the battle. He was heavily armed: strange weapons hung on his hips, and strapped to his back was a rifle the size of a small cannon. But more than his armament, it was his stance that conveyed a staggering sense of power through the glass. He stood the alien ground as if he meant to decimate whole populations in order to claim it.

Terisa understood at once that he was the champion, the strong and violent being Geraden had been sent to find.

That was the kind of help Mordant needed? The danger was that severe? And Geraden wanted these men to take her seriously as an answer to their problem, an augured savior? Suddenly, she realized that Master Gilbur was right. If Geraden considered her a sane answer to a problem of that scope, he was out of his mind.

What kind of lunacy had possessed her to take his hand? She should absolutely have gone to the phone, called security, and accepted the consequences. The strain of having to face her father would have been preferable to the impossibility of where she was now.

It affected her like dizziness. What was she doing here? She turned away from the mirror in a blur and seemed to lose her balance. Then she found herself gazing up into Master Eremis’ face as if she were asking him for help. Though she didn’t know him at all, she felt his intelligence, his strength, his effectiveness. His humor was built on confidence, and it promised results even when he was jesting.

He met her appeal for a moment, and the corners of his eyes crinkled as though he were about to start laughing again. But he didn’t. Instead, he let a good-natured frown crease his high forehead. “Masters,” he said in a musing tone, “it is a subtle question. We must not dismiss it lightly. Apt Geraden makes a point which deserves consideration.”

Over Master Gilbur’s growl of exasperation, Eremis went on, “That his taste in champions is suspect I grant you. But there is simple truth in his words. Either he has stumbled by chance into a miracle. Or he has secretly made himself greater than us all.” Master Eremis put aside the protests of the Congery with a delicate wave of his fingers. “Or there is a power at work here which we do not comprehend – and which we must take into account.

“I propose,” he continued promptly, “that we adjourn for the present. We must have time to think. Mordant’s need is urgent, but it does not require foolish haste. What say you? Perhaps tomorrow we will understand these things better.

“Master Barsonage?”

Terisa was faintly surprised to hear him suggest rather than announce an adjournment: she had assumed automatically that he was the leader of the Congery. But that role seemed to belong to the thick, bald man with the eyebrows like scrub and the pine-yellow skin. When Eremis addressed him, he glanced around the Masters for a moment, taking a consensus. After most of them had indicated their assent, he said, “It is likely a wise idea. I doubt that we will gain much insight into whether Apt Geraden is the victim of accident, genius, or intervention. But we must determine what we will do about it. Those of us who are already weary of argument will need rest before facing that debate.”

Brusquely, he concluded, “Let us meet again tomorrow.”

Master Eremis grinned his approval. “Very good.” Then he turned to Terisa and extended his hand. “My lady, will you accompany me? Someone must offer you the hospitality of Orison. I will see you honorably quartered, as befits a woman of your obvious importance.” He gave the word importance a slight, jesting stress, teasing either her or Geraden. “And there are many things of which I wish to speak with you.”

He was looking squarely at her again, and she doubted that she could have refused his offer even if she had wanted to: his direct attention was seductive and compelling. It seemed to make her throat dry and her knees unsteady. Involuntarily, she reacted to him as if he were the first man who had ever looked at her in that way. As far as she knew, he was the first.

But when she raised her hand to take Eremis’, Geraden suddenly said, “My lady, I prefer that you accompany me.” His manner had become formal.

At once, an astonished silence dropped over the Masters; they stared at Geraden as though he had just insulted Eremis. The flush on Geraden’s skin betrayed that he was conscious of his audacity. Nevertheless the muscles of his jaw bunched stubbornly, and his eyes didn’t flinch.

Master Eremis raised an eyebrow; Terisa felt his concentration shift from her to Geraden. But after a brief flick away his gaze returned to hers. “Come,” he said in an appealing – and commanding – tone. “The Apt has played his part in these matters, but now he must leave them to those of greater rank, ability, and experience. You will not complain of my company, I think, my lady.”

She almost went with him. She wanted to – or thought she wanted to – or perhaps she had no idea what she wanted, but if she went with him he might be able to answer that question for her.

The Apt wasn’t prepared to let her go, however. “My lady,” he said, his voice clenched around his anxiety and determination, “Master Eremis believes that you do not exist.”

His assertion fell into the silence like a personal challenge, as if he were daring the Master to battle.

And a small sting of panic touched Terisa’s heart.

Vexation replaced the humor in Eremis’ face. He swung scowling away from her; his tall body seemed to poise itself for a scathing retort. But an instant later he drew back a step, his self-control restored.

“That is not properly true, my lady,” he said coldly, without a glance at her. “I believe that you did not exist until you were translated from the mirror.”

“And therefore,” Geraden went on, “he believes that you are an object, my lady, an artifact of Imagery – a thing to be used, not a woman to be respected.”

That was too much for Master Eremis. “Faugh!” he spat. “I will not debate the meaning of Imagery with a puppy too hapless to earn a chasuble and too witless to respect his betters.” He dismissed Terisa. “Go with him. He will drive me to distraction if you do not.”

Turning away, he strode through the crowd of Masters. A moment after he disappeared behind one of the pillars, Terisa heard the thud of a heavy wooden door.

Geraden didn’t look at her. His gaze was fixed on the flagstones. He was so hot with embarrassment that beads of sweat stood on his forehead.

“Arrogance,” one of the Imagers muttered. Another smiled his relish for Eremis’ discomfiture; but most of the Congery felt otherwise. Master Gilbur gave a heavy shrug of disgust. The rabbity man twitched his nose.

They were glaring at Geraden.

Trembling inside, Terisa studied him too. Softly, hesitantly, she asked, “What do you mean, he believes I don’t exist? Or I didn’t exist until I was translated from the mirror?” That idea hit her too hard, too deeply. Was the uncertainty of her being so plain that even strangers could see it? “It doesn’t make any sense. None of this makes any sense. You don’t even know who I am.”

At once, Geraden began to apologize. “I’m sorry, my lady. I keep treating you badly, when that’s the last thing I want.” He met her gaze with an expression of brave distress – unhappy about his talent for doing or saying the wrong thing, but determined to face the consequences. “I should have let you go with Master Eremis. I don’t know what came over me.”