Стивен Дональдсон - The Mirror of Her Dreams

The Masters stared. Geraden opened his mouth, closed it again; the color seeped out of his skin. Down inside her, Terisa’s shivering suddenly got worse.

Master Quillon cocked his head reflectively. After a moment, he commented in a tone that almost sounded threatening, “For the sake of everyone here, Master Eremis, I hope that you are sure of what he will say.”

“I am sure.” Eremis’ certainty was absolute, as unshakable as his grin.

Everyone looked at Nyle.

Geraden’s brother seemed unaware of what was going on. His dejected posture didn’t shift: his head didn’t rise. The grimace that distorted his features was as deep as despair.

Abruptly, he turned and whispered in Castellan Lebbick’s ear.

The Castellan listened, frowned – and said, “Masters, Nyle wants a private word with Geraden.”

Nyle returned his gaze to the floor.

No one moved. Terisa’s heart pounded against the base of her throat. Geraden knotted his fists and kept his head high; his jaw jutted. Master Eremis turned a measuring gaze on Nyle, but didn’t say what he was thinking. The Imagers glanced uncertainly at each other, at the Castellan, at Master Quillon.

At last, the mediator asked curiously, “Why?”

Castellan Lebbick shrugged. “Maybe he thinks he can persuade Geraden to confess.”

“Do you object?”

Lebbick shook his head. “The room is guarded.” Then he added sarcastically, “Anything Geraden has to confess is bound to be fascinating.”

Once again, Master Quillon looked as though he wanted to run and hide. Nevertheless he said, “Then let us be seated. Nyle and Geraden may go to the end of the room.”

Master Eremis shrugged and complied. The other Masters resumed their seats.

Terisa turned to Geraden. What is Nyle going to say about you? Oh, Geraden, what’s wrong?

But Geraden didn’t meet her gaze. Everything in him was focused on his brother – the brother he had tried to save from committing treachery; the brother he had humiliated to the bone.

“Be careful,” Terisa breathed. She could feel disaster gathering around him. There was no way to forestall it. “Please.”

Aching with suspense, she sat down.

Stiffly, Geraden moved to stand in front of Nyle.

When he saw Geraden’s boots near his own, Nyle wrenched himself to his feet. Without releasing his grip on his cloak, he strode away to the far end of the room – as far as he could get from the Masters; the farthest point from Terisa.

There he waited for Geraden to join him.

The Masters watched without moving. Castellan Lebbick’s jaws chewed indigestible thoughts; his gaze didn’t shift an inch from the brothers.

They stood with Geraden’s back to the room. Terisa could see Nyle’s face: it was set and savage, more implacable – and more desperate – than it had been when he had ridden away to betray Orison. He looked at once homicidal and appalled, as if he were involved in a crime which made every inch of him cringe.

Whispering, he said something to Geraden.

It must have been something hurtful: Geraden reacted as though he had been struck. He flinched; he surged forward. From the back, he appeared to have taken hold of Nyle’s cloak.

Between the brothers, an iron dagger dropped to the floor, clattering metallically on the stone.

It was covered with blood.

Nyle slumped against the wall. His eyes rolled shut. Then his knees bent. Geraden tried to catch him, but he collapsed on his back. His cloak fell open, exposing the red mess the knife had made of his abdomen.

Like the dagger, Geraden’s hands were covered with blood.

In the stunned silence of her mind, Terisa started screaming. Fortunately, she didn’t scream aloud.

For a moment, no one said anything aloud. No one did anything at all. Everyone simply gaped at Geraden and Nyle.

Then Geraden made a constricted noise like a sob, and the Congery erupted.

Masters jumped out of their chairs and headed in all directions. Castellan Lebbick burst into motion, hurtling like a destructive projectile toward Geraden. Geraden cowered against the wall as if he were cornered.

Over the chaos, Terisa cried out, “Geraden! Run! ”

As if she had set him on fire, he flung himself at the door.

He was too late, too slow: he was in a state of shock and couldn’t match the Castellan’s instinct for action. But a few of the Masters were also rushing at him, perhaps wanting to capture him, perhaps hoping to help Nyle. One of them was Master Quillon.

As fast as a rabbit, he dove after Geraden – and stumbled.

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.