Стивен Дональдсон - The Mirror of Her Dreams

“But the gravest peril doesn’t come from the High King of Cadwal or the Alend Monarch. It comes from Imagery.” He gathered passion as he spoke. “Somewhere in the realm—somewhere where we can’t find them—there are renegade Imagers, Masters of mirrors, and they’re opening their glasses more and more to every kind of horror and foulness. They’re experimenting on Mordant, trying to find in their mirrors those attacks and evils which will be most virulent to the peace, stability, and life that King Joyse forged in his prime. And these Masters seem to have no fear of the chaos that comes from unleashing powers that cannot be controlled.

“Before this winter ends, the realm will begin to crumble. Then there will be war on every hand – war of every kind – and all good things will be in danger.

“My lady,” he said straight to her, “I don’t have any power to compel you. If I did, it would be wrong to use it. And you aren’t the champion the Congery expects. I’ve been such a fumble-foot all my life that my presence here might be just another one of my disasters.

“But I might be right. You understand mirrors.” He gestured around the room. “You might be the help we need. And if you are, we’re lost without you.

“Please. Will you come with me?”

She stared at him, her mouth open and her mind dumbfounded. Dying. War. Every kind of horror and foulness. We’re lost without you . What, me? She had never heard of Mordant – or Cadwal, or Alend. The only countries she knew of that still had kings were thousands of miles away. And nobody anywhere talked about mirrors as though they were doorways into different kinds of reality. You may be the help we need . What was he talking about?

As carefully as she could, she said, “This doesn’t make any sense. I know you’re trying to explain something, but it isn’t working. None of this has anything to do with me.” You don’t even know my name. “I can’t help you.”

But Geraden shook his head, dismissed her protest. “You don’t know that for sure. You don’t –”

Abruptly, his gaze narrowed as if a new thought had struck him, and he scrutinized her face. “Are you happy here?”

“Am I – ?” The unexpected question made her look away from him, as though he had insulted her – or shamed her. Without warning, her fear was replaced by a desire to cry.

She peered hard into the nearest mirror, trying to reassure herself. Geraden occupied all the reflections, however, although she didn’t want to see him. From where she stood, there was no glass or angle that didn’t cast his image at her.

In spite of his strangeness, his reflection appeared more real than her own.

“Are you necessary?” he asked.

What a question. She stared deep into her own eyes in the mirror and pinched the bridge of her nose to hold back the tears. She was probably the most replaceable fact of Reverend Thatcher’s life. If she evaporated, he would notice her absence immediately; but his concern would last only until he found a new secretary. And days or even weeks might pass before her father became aware that she was gone. Then he would raise an enormous hue and cry, offering rewards, accusing the police of negligence, having security guards fired – but only to disguise the fact that he really didn’t care one way or the other what had become of her. And she belonged to no one else.

“Are you –?” He faltered for an instant, then persisted. “Forgive me. I’ve got the strongest feeling you aren’t happy. You don’t look happy. And I don’t see anyone else here. Are you alone? Are you wedded?” At least he had the decency to sound embarrassed. “Are you in love?”

She was so surprised – and he was squirming so badly – that she began to laugh. She remained close to tears; but laughing in front of him was an improvement over crying. The fact that she wasn’t crying enabled her to turn from her reflection to face him directly.

“I’m sorry.” She had some difficulty suppressing her laughter. “I guess it’s not easy being in your position. You should have had them tie a rope around your waist, instead of holding on to your foot. That way, you would at least be able to stand up.”

“My lady” – again he spoke formally, and again his voice seemed to catch hold of her – “you are not happy here. You are not needed. You are not loved. Come with me.” He extended a hand toward her. “You are an Imager. It may be that my glass was formed for you from the pure sand of dreams.”

“I’m not an Imager,” she replied. “I don’t dream very often.”

Her protest was automatic, however, not urgent. She was hardly listening to herself. Because her dreams were so rare, they made powerful impressions on her.

And in her dream she had remained passive and unimportant while three riders had charged forward to kill her and a man she didn’t know had risked his life to save her. A man like Geraden. Everything she disliked about herself held her back – her unreality, her fear of her father and punishment, her inability to have any meaningful effect on her own life. But Geraden still held out his hand to her.

She couldn’t help noticing that it was nicked and bruised in several places, and one of his fingernails was torn. Still she thought it was a good hand – sturdy and faithful.

It made her think of horns.

Their call carried her fear away.

“But,” she went on, and each word was a surprise to her, conjured by unexpected music out of the ache in her heart, “I think I would like to find out what’s been hiding on the other side of my mirrors all this time.”

In response, his face lit up like a sunrise.

“I don’t believe it,” Geraden murmured to himself. “I don’t believe it.” Then, an instant later, he said excitedly, “Quick, before you change your mind. Take my hand.”

She didn’t believe it either. What was she doing? But his excitement made her want to laugh again. And in her memory the horns called clearly, ringing out over the cold snow despite distance and the intervening hills – called to her.

Quickly, so that she wouldn’t have time to change her mind, she moved closer to him and put her hand in his.

At once, she became self-conscious. “Is that all there is to it?” she asked. “Don’t you have to wave your arms or say magic words or something?”

His grin grew wider and happier as he clasped her hand. “That’s all. The invocations and gestures have already been made. And the ability is born, not made. All you have to do is move with me.” Balancing himself on the knee of his truncated leg, he got his left foot under him. “And” – his expression sobered slightly – “watch your step.”

He began to push himself backward, drawing her with him.

As he did so, his right calf disappeared by inches: the flat plane remained stationary, so that as he slid his knee backward more and more of his leg was cut off. He seemed to be using his foot and leg to probe a place behind him – a place that didn’t exist.

When his right leg reached far enough, he was able to straighten his knee. Smiling and nodding to Terisa, slowly pulling her after him, he raised himself until he was almost upright. “You might find it easier,” he said, “if you close your eyes.” Then he shifted his weight to the other leg.

At that moment, his face went wide with dismay as he lost his balance and started to fall.

His plunge wrenched her forward, toward the wall – toward the plane where first his leg and now his entire body seemed to vanish. Instinctively, she tried to jerk free. But though he flailed for support, his hand held hers in a grip she couldn’t break. She tried to cry out, flung up her arm to ward off the impact—