Стивен Дональдсон - The Mirror of Her Dreams

The last thing she saw of her apartment was the splotched plaster where her broken mirror had once been glued. While she was still trying to release the cry of panic trapped in her throat, her marginal grasp on actuality failed, and she faded out of existence.

At once, she passed into a zone of transition where time and distance contradicted themselves. She felt eternity in an instant – or maybe she felt an instant that took forever. Her fall became a vast and elongated plummet down from or up to the heights of the world, even though the plunge carried her no more than half a step forward. She studied the sudden darkness intimately, despite the fact that it was so brief she could hardly have noticed it.

And then, with the same sensation of instantaneous eternity, of huge brevity, she saw Geraden again: he seemed to snap back into existence as though he had been lit to life by the abrupt orange illumination of the lamps and torches.

She recognized it – and immediately forgot it.

He was still falling, his face stretched in consternation; he had misjudged the step behind him. And his hand still gripped hers. She couldn’t recover. Even if she had been braced, she might not have been strong enough to stop his collapse toward the gray flagstones.

So she landed on top of him. Because she was trying to get her arms between herself and the impact, she accidentally planted an elbow in his stomach as she hit. His mouth gaped pain, and the breath burst from his lungs. But his body protected her: she flopped onto him and then off again. As a result, she came to rest on her back beside him, her face turned toward the massive old vaulted stone ceiling.

For a moment, the perceptual wrench had the effect of blindness: she stared upward as though she hadn’t observed the difference between this place and her apartment. Past her feet, and up two steps from her sprawling position, stood a large mirror in a polished wooden frame. The glass was nearly as tall as she was; it was tinted with a color that only showed at the edges of its surface; instead of being made flat it had been given a faintly rippling curve. On some level, she was aware that what she saw reflected in the mirror wasn’t the ceiling above her or the wall behind her. It also wasn’t the living room of her apartment. Yet in other ways she was no more conscious of the mirror than she was of the stone on which she lay.

Then, distinctly, she heard someone say, “Where did you get her?”

“You were invisible in the mirror. How did you do that?”

“Where did you go?”

Slowly through her stunned surprise leaked the information that she was stretched on the floor in the center of a circle of men.

What? She thought dumbly, her throat choked with astonishment. A circle of men. Where?

There must have been twenty or thirty of them, all staring down at her. At a glance, she saw that some of them were old and others weren’t: all of them were older than she was. They wore a variety of cloaks and robes, cassocks and jerkins – warm clothing to compensate for the coolness of the air. Each of them, however, had a chasuble of yellow satin draped around his neck.

Some of them peered at her in amazement and horror. She felt that way herself. “Fool!” one of them rasped. Another muttered, “This is impossible.”

Others were laughing.

At her side, Geraden gaped for air. A delicate shade of purple spread up from his corded neck over the tight lines of his cheeks.

“Well, Apt,” one of the laughing men said through his mirth, “here is another fine disaster.” He was tall, strongly built in spite of his leanness. His nose was too big; his cheekbones were too narrow, too flatly sloped toward his ears; his black hair formed an unruly thatch on the back of his skull, leaving his forehead bald. But the humor and intelligence in his pale eyes made him keenly attractive. He was wrapped in a jet cloak, which he wore with an air of insouciance. The ends of his chasuble hung as if he might start twirling them at any moment. “With all the realm in danger, we send you questing for a champion to save us. But for you this is nothing more than an opportunity for dalliance.

“My lady,” he went on, addressing Terisa, “it may be that you found young Geraden appealing enough to lure you here. But now that you are here, I think you will discover that Mordant has better men to offer.” With a laughing flourish, he bowed over her formally and extended his hand to help her to her feet.

Mordant, she echoed in the same dumb, choked surprise. He did it. He actually brought me to Mordant.

Geraden whooped a breath and began to pull air past the knot in his stomach.

Instinctively, Terisa turned toward him. At the same time, however, one of the men who hadn’t been laughing crouched beside Geraden. This man had a face the color and texture of a pine board. His eyebrows were as thick and stiff as bracken, but there was no other hair on his head anywhere. His girth appeared to be nearly as great as his height. “Shame, Master Eremis,” he muttered, reaching one heavy arm under Geraden’s head and shoulders to support the young man as he hacked for breath. “Find some other cause for amusement. What has happened here is either disaster or miracle. Certainly it is unprecedented. It needs seriousness.”

Master Eremis’ smile reached halfway to his ears. “Master Barsonage, you have no sense of play. What can any man or Master do about Apt Geraden’s pratfalls and confusions except laugh?” He turned his attention back to Terisa. His offer of help hadn’t wavered. “My lady?”

“We can weep, Master Eremis,” a guttural voice responded from the circle. “You have admitted yourself that we are doomed if we do not find the champion augured for us. I care nothing for King Joyse and his petty realm” – at this, the thick man supporting Geraden made a hissing noise through his teeth – “and I do not care who knows it. Let him sink into senility, and let Alend and Cadwal butcher each other for the right to replace him. But we have no other hope, the Congery of Imagers. This blighted Apt has just failed us.”

Terisa wanted to turn to see who had spoken. But she was held by the smile and the eyes and the extended hand of Master Eremis. He was looking at her, at her , as if she were real – as if she were really present in this high chamber of cut stone, where the air held a tang of winter and the light came from oil lamps and a few torches; impossibly present here when she had no physical right to be anywhere at all except back in her apartment, staring at herself alone in her mirrors.

The magnetism of his look compelled her. She couldn’t refuse him; he gave her the tangible existence she had always doubted. Gazing back at him in surprise and wonder, she let him take her hand and draw her easily to her feet.

“You’re wrong,” Geraden coughed. His color was improving. With Master Barsonage’s help, he tried to sit up. “All of you. She’s the right one.”

The reaction was loud and immediate: most of the men started talking at once.

“What? A woman? Impossible.”

“Are you blind? Look at her. She isn’t even armed.”

“This is not the champion you were sent to bring. Do you think we are as foolish as you?”

“But this proves it! Think of the implications. King Joyse and Adept Havelock are right. They are alive.”

“Leave the boy alone. I’m sure this was just another accident.”

The guttural voice added, “What nonsense. Do not be irresponsible. You have made a ruin out of our trust. Do not try to disguise your failure by pretending success.” Terisa saw the speaker now: he was a heavyset man with a crooked back, hands that looked strong enough to break stones, a white beard spattered with flecks of black, and a fleshy scowl etched permanently onto his face. To the other Masters, he concluded, “I argued and argued that we should not pin our hope on this hapless puppy, but I was outvoted. This” – he pointed a finger as massive as the peen of a hammer at Terisa – “is the result.”