Donaldson,Stephen R - Mordants Need 1 - Mirror of her Dreams

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STEPHEN DONALDSON : MORDANT'S NEED 1 - MIRROR OF HER DREAMS

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Steeped in the vacuum of her dreams,

A mirror's empty till A man rides through it.

John Myers Myers, Silverlock

PROLOGUE

Terisa and Geraden

THE STORY OF Terisa and Geraden began very much like a fable. She was a princess in a high tower.

He was a hero come to rescue her. She was the only daughter of wealth and power. He was the

seventh son of the lord of the seventh Care. She was beautiful from the auburn hair that crowned

her head to the tips of her white toes. He was handsome and courageous. She was held prisoner by

enchantment. He was a fearless breaker of enchantments.

As in all the fables, they were made for each other.

Unfortunately, their lives weren't that simple.

For example, her high tower was a luxury condominium building over on Madison, just a few blocks

from the park. She had two bedrooms (one of them a 'guest room', fully furnished and entirely

unused), a spacious living room with an impressive view west, a separate dining room which

contained a long, black, polished table on which candles would have gleamed beautifully if she had

ever had any reason to light them, and the kind of immaculate and modern kitchen displayed in

remodelling catalogues.

Her home cost her father what the people she worked with would have called 'a fortune', but it was

worth every penny to him. The security guards in the lobby and the closed-circuit TV cameras in

the elevators kept her safe; and while she was living there she wasn't mooning passively around

his house, gazing at him and his business associates and his women with those big, brown, calf-

eyes that seemed too inert, or even too stupid, to intend what he read in them: the awareness of

unlove that saw all his pampering and expense as a form of neglect. So he was glad to be rid of

her.

And she thought she was glad to be living where she was because the bills were paid, and she could

afford to work at the only job she felt herself competent for, the only job in which she thought

her life might count for something: she was the secretary for a modern-day almshouse, a mission

tucked away in a small ghetto only a fifteen minute walk from the shining windows and reflected

glory of her condo building; and she typed letters of mild explanation and appeal, vaguely

desperate letters, for the lost old man who ran the mission.

Also she thought she was glad to be living where she was because she had been able to decorate her

rooms herself. This had been a slow process because she wasn't accustomed to so much freedom, so

much control over her environment; but in the end what it came to was that her bedroom, living

room, and dining room were decorated completely in mirrors. Mirrors had a seductive beauty which

spoke to her-but that wasn't the point. The point was that there was virtually no angle in her

apartment from which she couldn't see herself.

That was how she knew she existed.

When she slept, her mind was empty, as devoid of dreams as a plate of glass. And when she was

awake, moving through her life, she made no difference of any kind to anybody. Even the men who

might have considered her beautiful or desirable seemed not to see her when they passed her on the

street, so blind she was to them. Nothing around her, or in her, reflected her back to herself.

Without dreams-and without any effect-she had no evidence at all that she was a material being,

actually present in her world. Only her mirrors told her that she was there: that she had a face

capable of expression, with brown eyes round with thwarted softness, a precise nose, and a

suggestion of a cleft like a dimple in her chin; that her body was of a type praised in magazines;

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that both her face and body did what was required of them.

She was completely unaware of the enchantment which held her. It was, after all, nothing more than

a habit of mind.

As for Geraden, he was in little better condition.

He was only an Apt to the Gongery of Imagers-in other words, an apprentice-and he had been given a

task which would have threatened a Master. In fact, the opinion of the Congery was sharply divided

about his selection. Some of the Masters insisted this task belonged to him because all their

auguring seemed to imply that he was the only possible choice, the only one among them who might

succeed. Others argued that he must be given the task because he was the only one of their number

who was completely and irredeemably expendable.

Those who claimed that the act of bringing any champion into being was inherently immoral were

secretly considered toadies of that old dodderer, King Joyse-and anyway they were only a small

minority of the Congery. Apparently, all auguries indicated that the realm couldn't be rescued

from its peril without access to a champion brought into being through Imagery. But how that

translation should take place-and, indeed, who that champion should be-was less sure.

The Masters who considered Geraden expendable had good reason. After all, he wasn't just the

oldest Apt currently serving the Congery: he was the oldest person ever to keep on serving the

Congery without becoming skilful enough to be a Master. Though he was only in his mid-twenties, he

was old enough to appear ridiculous because he had failed to earn the chasuble of a Master.

He was so ham-fisted that he couldn't be trusted to mix sand and tinct without spilling some and

destroying the proportions; so fumble-footed that he couldn't walk through the great laborium

which had been made out of the converted dungeons of Orison without tripping over the carefully

arranged rods, rollers, and apparatus of the Masters. Even rabbity Master Quillon, who had

surprised everyone by casting aside his self-effacement and speaking out loudly (as King Joyse

might have done, if he weren't asleep half the time) against the immorality of wrenching some

champion out of his own existence in order to serve Mordant's need-even Quillon was heard to

mutter that if Geraden made the attempt and failed, the Congery would at least gain the advantage

of being rid of him.

In truth, this capacity for disaster rendered moot the central ethical point. Normally, the Master

who had made that particular glass could have simply opened it and brought the champion into

being. But Geraden had again and again shown himself incapable of the simplest translation. He

would therefore have to do exactly what King Joyse would have demanded: he would have to go into

the glass to meet the champion, to appeal for the champion's help.

His advantages were a willing heart, ready determination, and a quality of loyalty usually

ascribed to puppies. His short, chestnut hair curled above his strong brow; his face would have

well become a king; and the training of being raised with six brothers had left him tough, brave,

and little inclined to hold grievances. But his expression was marred by an almost perpetual frown

of embarrassment and apology, occasioned by the petty mishaps and knowledge gone awry that harried

his heels. His instinctive yearning towards the questions and potential of Imagery was so potent

that his unremitting dunderheadedness left a gloom on his spirit which threatened to become

permanent until the Congery elected by augury and common sense to send him on the mission to save

Mordant's future.

When that happened, he recovered his ebullience. Where he had formerly worked for the Masters with

a will, he now laboured in fervour, doing the things their art demanded- mixing the sand and tinct

with his own hands so that the glass would welcome him, stoking the furnace with wood he cut

himself, shaping the mould and reshaping it a dozen times until it exactly matched the one that

had made the mirror in which the Masters watched their chosen champion, pouring the hot liquid

while blood hammered like prayer in his veins, sprinkling the especially ground and blended

powders of the oxidate. At every failure of attention, error, or mischance, he groaned, cursed

himself, apologized to everyone in sight-and then threw himself back into the work, hope singing

to him while sweat soaked his clothes and all his muscles ached.

He had no more idea than Terisa did that she was under an enchantment. And if he had known, he

might not have cared, so consumed was he by the opportunity the Masters had provided -an

opportunity which might be a sentence of maiming or even death.

She wasn't the champion the Congery had chosen.

didn't so much as inhabit the same world as that champion.

In theory, at least, Geraden's mirror would have had to be entirely different.

BOOK ONE

1 Calling

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THE NIGHT BEFORE Geraden came for her, Terisa Morgan had a dream-one of the few she could ever

remember. In it, she heard horns: faint with distance, they reached her through the sharp air over

the hills covered with crisp snow like the call for which her heart had always been waiting. They

winded again -and while she strained to hear them, again. But they came no closer.

She wanted to go looking for them. Past the wood where she seemed to be sitting or lying as if the

cold couldn't touch her, she saw the ridge of the hills: perhaps the horns-and those who sounded

them-were on the far side. But she didn't move. The dream showed her a scene she had never seen

before; but she remained who she had always been.

Then along the snow-clogged skirt of the ridge came charging men on horseback. As the horses

fought for speed, their nostrils gusted steam, and their legs churned the snow until the dry,

light flakes seemed to boil. She could hear the leather creaking of their tack, the angry panting

and muttered curses of their riders: the ridge sent every sound, as edged as a shard of glass,

into the wood. She yearned to block out those noises, to hear the horns again, while the three men

abruptly swung away from the hills and lashed the snow towards the trees-directly towards her.

As their faces came into focus for her, she saw their fierce hate, the intent of bloodshed. Long

swords appeared to flow out of their sheaths into the high hands of the riders. They were going to

hack her into the snow where she stood.

She remained motionless, waiting. The air was whetted with cold, as hard as a slap and as

penetrating as splinters. In the dream, she wasn't altogether sure that she would mind being

killed. It would bring the emptiness of her life to an end. Her only regret was that she would

never hear the horns again, never find out why they spoke such a thrill to her heart.

Then from among the blaek-trunked trees behind her came a man to impose himself between her and

the riders. He was unarmed, unarmoured-he seemed to be wearing only a voluminous brown jerkin,

pants of the same fabric, leather boots-but he didn't hesitate to risk the horses. While the first

rider swung his blade, the man made a sidelong leap at the reins of the mount; and the horse was

wrenched off balance, spilling its rider in front of her second attacker. Both horse and rider

went down, raising clouds of snow as thick as mist.

When a low breeze cleared her sight, she saw that her defender had snatched up the first rider's

sword and spitted the second with it. He moved with a desperate awkwardness which showed that he

was unfamiliar with fighting; but he didn't falter. In furious assault, he stretched the first

rider out against the trunk of a tree before the horseman could strike back with his long poniard.

Watching, Terisa saw the third rider poised above the young man who fought for her-mount firmly

positioned, swordhilt gripped high in both fists. Though she understood nothing of what was going

on, she knew that she ought to move. In simple decency and gratitude towards her defender, if for

no other reason, she should fling herself against the rider. He wasn't looking at her: surely she

would be able to reach his belt and pull him out of his saddle before he struck.

But she didn't. In the dream, a small, vexed frown pinched her forehead as she regarded her

passivity. It was the story of her life, that mute nothingness-the only quality she could ascribe

to her uncertain existence. How could she act? Action was for those who didn't seriously doubt

their presence in the world. During the more than twenty years of her life, her opportunities for

action had been so few that she typically hadn't recognized them until they were past. She didn't

know how to make her limbs carry her towards the rider.

Yet the man who fought for her did so for no reason she could see except that she was being

attacked. And he didn't know his danger: he was still trying to wrest his blade from the body of

the rider he had just felled, and his back was turned.

Startling herself and the horseman and the sharp cold, she cried, 'Watch out!'

The effort of the warning jerked her into a sitting position. She was still in bed. Her shout made

her throat ache, and an unaccustomed panic pounded through her veins.

She recognized herself in the mirrors of her bedroom. Lit by the nightlight plugged into the wall

socket behind the bed, she was hardly more than a shadow in the glass all around her; but she was

herself, the shadow she had always been.

And yet, while her pulse still laboured and a slick of sweat oozed from her face, she thought she

heard beyond the comfortless noises of the city a distant calling of horns, too faint to be

certain-and too intimate to be ignored.

Of course, nothing was changed. She got up the next morning when her alarm clock went off; and her

appearance in her mirrors was as rumpled and wan as usual. Though she studied her face for any

sign that it was real enough for men on horseback to hate so fiercely, it seemed as void of

meaning as always-so unmarked by experience, decision, or impact that she was dimly surprised to

find it still able to cast a reflection. Surely she was fading? Surely she would wake up one

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morning, look at herself in the mirror, and see nothing? Perhaps, but not today. Today she looked

just as she remembered herself-beautifully made, but to no purpose, and slightly tinged with

sorrow.

So she showered as usual, dressed herself as usual in the sort of plain skirt and demure sweater

her father preferred for her, breakfasted as usual-watching herself in the mirrors between bites

of toast-and put on a raincoat before leaving her apartment to go to work. There was nothing out

of the ordinary about the way she looked, or about her apartment as she left it, or about the

elevator ride down to the lobby of her building. The only thing out of the ordinary was the way

she felt.

To herself, so privately that none of it showed on her face, she kept remembering her dream.

Outside, rain fell heavily onto the street, flooding the gutters, hissing like hail off the roofs

of the cars, muffling the noises of traffic. Dispirited by the grey air and the wet, she tied a

plastic bandana over her head, then walked past the security guard (who ignored her, as usual) and

out through the revolving doors into the downpour.

With her head down and her concentration on the sidewalk, she moved in the direction of the

mission where she worked.

Without warning, she seemed to hear the horns again.

Involuntarily, she stopped, jerked up her head, looked around her like a frightened woman. They

weren't car-horns: they were wind-instruments such as a hunter or musician might use. The chord of

their call was so far away and out of place that she couldn't possibly have heard it, not in that

city, in that rain, while rush-hour traffic filled the streets and fought the downpour. And yet

the sensation of having heard the sound made everything she saw appear sharper and less dreary,

more important. The rain had the force of a determined cleansing: the streaked grey of the

buildings looked less like despair, more like the elusive potential of the borderland between day

and night; the people jostling past her on the pavement were driven by courage and conviction,

rather than by disgust at the weather or fear of their employers. Everything around her had a tang

of vitality she had never seen before.

Then the sensation faded; and she couldn't possibly have heard rich horns calling to her heart;

and the tang was gone.

Baffled and sad, she resumed her sodden walk to work.

At the mission, her day was more full of drudgery than usual. In the administrative office, seated

at her desk with the ancient typewriter crouching in front of her like a foul-tempered beast of

burden, she found a message from Rev Thatcher, the old man who ran the mission: it said that the

mission's copying costs were too high, so would she please type two hundred and fifty copies of

the attached letter in addition to her other duties, This letter was aimed at most of the

philanthropic organizations in the city, and it contained yet another appeal for money, couched in

Rev Thatcher's customary futility. She could hardly bear to read it as she typed; but of course

she had to read it over and over again to get it right.

While she typed, she seemed to feel herself becoming physically less solid, as if she were slowly

being dissolved by the pointless-

ness of what she did. By noon, she had the letter memorized; and she was watching in a state that

resembled suspense the line of letters her typewriter made, waiting for each new character because

it proved that she was still there and she couldn't honestly say she expected it to appear.

She and Rev Thatcher usually ate lunch together-by his choice, not hers. Since she was quiet and

watched his face attentively, he probably thought she was a sympathetic listener. But most of the

time she hardly heard what he said. His talk was like his letters: there was nothing she could do

to help. She was quiet because that was the only way she knew how to be; she watched his face

because she hoped it would betray some indication of her own reality-some flicker of interest or

concentration of notice which might indicate that she was actually present with another person. So

she sat with him in one corner of the soup kitchen the mission ran in its basement, and she kept

her face turned towards him while he talked.

From a distance, he appeared bald, but that was because his mottled pink skin showed clearly

through his fine, pale hair, which he kept cut short. The veins in his temples were prominent and

seemed fragile, with the result that whenever he became agitated, they looked like they might

burst. Today she expected him to rehash his latest letter, which she had already typed nearly two

hundred times. That was his usual pattern: while they ate the bland, thin lunch provided by the

kitchen, he would tell her things she already knew about his work, his voice quavering whenever he

came back to the uselessness of what he was doing. This time, however, he surprised her.

'Miss Morgan,' he said without quite looking at her, 'have I ever told you about my wife?'

In fact, he hadn't, though he referred to her often. But Terisa knew some of his family history

from the previous mission secretary, who had given up the job in defeat and disgust. Nevertheless

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she said, 'No, Rev Thatcher. You've mentioned her, naturally. But you've never told me about her.'

'She died nearly fifteen years ago,' he said, still wistfully. 'But she was a fine, Christian

woman, a strong woman, God rest her soul. Without her, I would have been weak, Miss Morgan-too

weak to do what needed doing.'

Though she hadn't considered the question closely, Terisa thought of him as weak. He sounded weak

now, even when he wasn't talking about his failure to do better for the mission. But he also

sounded fond and saddened.

'I remember the time-oh, it was years ago, long before you were born, Miss Morgan-I was out of

seminary'-he smiled past her left shoulder-'with all kinds of honours, would you believe it? And I

had just finished serving an assistant pastorship at one of the best churches in the city.

'At the time, they wanted me to stay on as an associate pastor. With God's help, I had done well

there, and they gave me a call to become one of their permanent shepherds. I can tell you, Miss

Morgan, that was quite gratifying. But for some reason my heart wasn't quiet about it. I had the

feeling God was trying to tell me something. You see, just at that time I had learned that this

mission needed a new director. I had no desire for the job. Being a weak man, I was pleased by my

position in the church. I was well rewarded for my work, both financially and personally. And yet

I couldn't forget the question of this mission. It was true that the church called me to serve

them. But what did God call me to do?

'It was Mrs Thatcher who resolved my dilemma. Putting her hand on her hip, as she always did when

she meant to be taken seriously, she said, 'Now don't you be a fool, Albert Thatcher. When Our

Lord came into the world, he didn't do it to serve the rich. This church is a fine place-but if

you leave, they'll have their choice of a hundred fine men to replace you. Not one of those men

will consider a call to the mission.'

'So I came here,' he concluded. 'Mrs Thatcher didn't care that we were poor. She only cared that

we were serving God. I've done that, Miss Morgan, for forty years.'

Ordinarily, a comment like that would have been a prelude to another of his long discussions of

his unending and often fruitless efforts to keep the mission viable. Ordinarily, she could hear

those discussions coming and steel herself against them, so that her own unreality in the face of

the mission's need and his penury wouldn't overwhelm her.

But this time what she heard was the faraway cry of horns.

They carried the command of the hunt and the appeal of music, two different sounds that formed a

chord in her heart, blending together so that she wanted to leap up inside herself and shout an

answer. And while she heard them, everything around her changed.

The soup kitchen no longer looked dingy and worn out: it looked well used, a place of single-

minded dedication. The grizzled and tattered men and women seated at the tables were no longer

reduced to mere hunched human wreckage: now they took in hope and possibility with their soup.

Even the edges of the tables were more distinct, more tangible and important, than ordinary

Formica and tubed steel. And Rev Thatcher himself was changed. The pulse beating in his temples

wasn't the agitation of uselessness: it was the strong rhythm of his determination to do good.

There was valour in his pink skin, in the earned lines of his face, and the focus of his eyes was

so distant because it was fixed, not on futility, but on God.

The change lasted for only a moment. Then she could no longer hear the horns, even though she

yearned for them; and the air of defeat seeped slowly back into her surroundings.

Filled with loss, she thought she would start to weep if Rev Thatcher began another of his

discussions. Fortunately, he didn't. He had some phone calls to make, hoping to catch certain

influential people while they were taking their lunch breaks; so he excused himself and left her,

unaware that for a moment he had been covered by a glamour in her eyes. She returned to her desk

almost gratefully: at her typewriter, she would be able to strike the keys and see her existence

proven in the black characters she made on paper.

The afternoon passed slowly. Through the one, bare window, she could see the rain still flooding

down, drenching everything until even the buildings across the street looked like wet cardboard.

The few people hurrying up and down the pavements might have been wearing raingear, or they might

not: the downpour seemed to erase the difference. Rain pounded on the outside of the window; gloom

soaked in through the glass. Terisa found herself typing the same mistakes over and over again.

She wanted to hear horns again-wanted to re-experience the tang and sharpness that came with them.

But they had been nothing more than the residue of one of her infrequent dreams. She couldn't

recapture them.

At leaving time, she put her work away, shrugged her shoulders into her raincoat, and tied her

plastic bandana over her head. But when she was ready to go, she hesitated. On impulse she knocked

on the door of the tiny cubicle Rev Thatcher used as a private office. At first, she didn't hear

anything. Then he answered faintly,

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'Come in.'

She opened the door.

There was just room in the cubicle for her and one folding chair between his desk and the wall.

His seat at the other side of the desk was so tightly blocked in with file cabinets that when he

wanted to leave he could barely squeeze out of his niche. As Terisa entered the room, he was

staring blankly at his telephone as if it sucked all his attention and hope away.

'Miss Morgan. Quitting time?'

She nodded.

He didn't seem to notice that she hadn't said anything. 'You know,' he told her distantly, 'I

talked to forty-two people today. Thirty-nine of them turned me down.'

If she let the impulse which had brought her here to dissipate, she would have that much less

reason to believe in her own existence; so she said rather abruptly, 'I'm sorry about Mrs

Thatcher.'

Softly, as if she hadn't changed the subject, he replied, 'I miss her. I need her to tell me I'm

doing the right thing.'

Because she wanted to make him look at her, she said, 'You are doing the right thing.' As she

spoke, she realized she believed it. The memory of horns had changed that for her, if nothing

else. 'I wasn't sure before, but I am now.'

His vague gaze remained fixed on the phone, however. 'Maybe if I call her brother,' he muttered to

himself. 'He hasn't made a contribution for a year now. Maybe he'll listen to me this time.'

While he dialled the number, she left the cubicle and closed the door. She had the impression that

she was never going to see him again. But she tried not to let it bother her: she often felt that

way. The walk home was worse than the one to work had been.

There was more wind, and it lashed the rain against her legs, through every gap it could find or

make in her coat, past the edges of her bandana into her face. In half a block, her shoes were

full of water; before she was halfway home, her sweater was sticking, cold and clammy, to her

skin. She could hardly see where she was going.

But she knew the way automatically: habit carried her back to her condo building. Its glassy front

in the rain looked like a spattered pool of dark water, reflecting nothing except the idea of

death in its depths. The security guards saw her coming, but they didn't find her interesting

enough to open the doors for her. She pushed her way into the lobby, bringing a gust of wind and a

spray of rain with her, and paused for a few moments to catch her breath and wipe the water from

her face. Then, without looking up, she headed towards the elevators.

Now that she was no longer walking hard, she began to feel chilled. There was a wall mirror in the

elevator: she took off her bandana and studied her face while she rode up to her floor. Her eyes

looked especially large and vulnerable against the cold pallor of her skin and the faint blue of

her lips. So much of her was real, then: she could be made pale by wind and wet and cold. But the

chill went too deep for that reassurance.

As she left the elevator and walked down the carpeted hall to her apartment, she realized she was

going to have a bad night.

In her rooms, with the door locked, and the curtains drawn to close out the sensation that she was

beneath the surface of the pool she had seen in the windows from the outside, she turned on all

the lights and began to strip off her clothes. The mirrors showed her to herself: she was pale

everywhere. The dampness of her flesh made it look as pallid as wax.

Candles were made of wax. Some dolls were carved of wax. Wax was used to make moulds for castings.

Not people.

It was going to be a very bad night.

She had never been able to find the proof she needed in her own physical sensations. She could

easily believe that a reflection might feel cold, or warmth, or pain; yet it didn't exist.

Nevertheless, she took a hot shower, trying to drive away the chill. She dried her hair

thoroughly, and put on a flannel shirt, a pair of thick, soft corduroy pants, and sheepskin

moccasins so that she would stay warm. Then, in an effort to hold her trouble back, she forced

herself to fix and eat a meal.

But her attempts to take care of herself had as much effect as usual-that is to say, none. A

shower, warm clothes, and a hot meal couldn't get the chill out of her heart-a detail she regarded

as unimportant. In fact, that was part of the problem: nothing that happened to her mattered at

all. If she were to die of pneumonia, it might be an inconvenience to other people-to her father,

for example, or to Rev Thatcher-but to her it would not make the slightest difference.

This was going to be one of those nights when she could feel herself fading out of existence like

an inane dream.

If she sat where she was and closed her eyes, it would happen. First she would hear her father

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talking past her as if she weren't there. Then she would notice the behaviour of the servants, who

treated her as a figment of her father's imagination, as someone who only lived and breathed

because he said she did, rather than as an actual and present individual. And then her mother-

Her mother, who was herself as passive, as non-existent, as talent, experience, and determination

could make her.

In her mind, with her eyes closed, Terisa would be a child again, six or seven years old, and she

would hobble into the huge dining room where her parents were entertaining several of her father's

business associates in their best clothes-she would go into the dining room because she had fallen

on the stairs and scraped her knee and horrified herself with how much she was bleeding, and her

mother would look at her without seeing her at all, would look right through her with no more

expression on her face than a waxwork figure, and would make everything meaningless. 'Go to your

room, child,' she would say in a voice as empty as a hole in her heart. 'Your father and I have

guests.' Learn to be like me. Before it's too late.

Terisa had been struggling to believe in herself for years. She didn't close her eyes. Instead,

she went into her living room and pulled a chair close to the nearest wall of mirrors. There she

seated herself, her knees against the glass, her face so near it that she risked raising a veil of

mist between herself and her reflection. In that position, she watched every line and shade and

flicker of her image. Perhaps she would be able to keep her reality in one piece. And if she

failed, she would at least be able to see herself come to an end.

The last time she had suffered one of these attacks, she had sat and stared at herself until well

past midnight, when the sensation that she was evaporating had finally left her. Now she was sure

she wouldn't last so long. Last night, she had dreamed -and in the dream she had been as passive

as she was now, as unable to do anything except watch. The quiet ache of that recognition weakened

her. Already, she thought she could discern the edges of her face blurring out of actuality.

Without warning, she saw a man in the mirror.

He wasn't reflected in the mirror: he was in the mirror. He was behind her startled image-and

moving forward as if he were floundering through a torrent.

He was a young man, perhaps only a few years older than she was, and he wore a large brown jerkin,

brown pants, and leather boots. His face was attractive, though his expression was foolish with

surprise and hope.

He was looking straight at her.

For an instant, his mouth stretched soundlessly as if he were trying to shout through the glass.

Then his arms flailed. He looked like he was losing his balance; but his movements expressed an

authority which had nothing to do with falling.

Instinctively, she dropped her head into her lap, covered it with her arms.

The mirror in front of her made no noise as it shattered.

She felt the glass spray from the wall, felt splinters tug at her shirt as they blew past. Like a

flurry of ice, they tinkled against the opposite wall and fell to the carpet. A brief gust of wind

as cold as winter puffed at her with the broken glass, then stopped.

When she looked up, she saw the young man stretched headlong on the floor beside her chair. A

dusting of glass chips made his hair glitter. From his position, he looked like he had taken a

dive into the room through the wall. But his right foot from mid-calf down was missing. At first,

she thought it was still in the wall: his calf, and his boot, seemed to be cut off flat at the

plane of the wall. Then she saw that the end of his leg was actually a couple of inches from the

wall.

There was no blood. He didn't appear to be in pain.

With a whooshing breath, he pushed himself up from the floor so that he could look at her. His

right calf seemed to be stuck where it was; but the rest of him moved normally.

He was frowning intensely. But when she met his gaze, his face broke into a helpless smile.

'I'm Geraden,' he said. 'This isn't where I'm supposed to be.'

2 The Sound of Horns

WITHOUT QUITE REALIZING what she was doing, she pushed her chair back and stood up. Involuntarily,

she retreated. Her feet in her bedroom slippers made faint crunching noises as they ground slivers

of glass into the carpet. The wall where the mirror had been glued was splotched and discoloured:

it looked diseased. The remaining mirrors echoed her at herself. But she kept her eyes on the man

sprawled in front of her.

He was gaping at her in amazement. But his smile didn't fade, and he made no attempt to get up.

'I've done it again, haven't I?' he murmured. 'I swear I did everything right-but any Master can

do this kind of translation, and I've gone wrong again somehow.'

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She ought to be afraid of him: she understood that distinctly. His appearance there in her living

room was violent and impossible. But instead of fear she felt only bafflement and wonder. He

seemed to have the strange ability to bypass logic, normality. In her dream, she had not been

afraid of death-

'How did you get in here?' she asked so softly that she could barely hear herself. 'What do you

mean, this isn't where you're supposed to be?'

At once, his expression became contrite. 'I'm sorry. I hope I didn't frighten you.' There was

tension in his voice, a fear or excitement of his own. But in spite of his tightness he sounded

gentle, even kind. 'I don't know what went wrong. I did everything right, I swear it. I'm not

supposed to be here at all. I'm looking for someone-'

Then for the first time he looked away from her.

'-completely different.'

As his gaze scanned the room, his jaw dropped, and his face filled up with alarm. Reflected back

at himself from all sides, he recoiled, flinching as though he had been struck. The knotted

muscles of his throat strangled a cry. A fundamental panic seemed to overwhelm him: for a second,

he cowered on the rug, grovelled in front of her.

But then, apparently, he realized that he hadn't been harmed. He lifted his head, and the fear on

his features changed to astonishment, awe. He peered at himself in the mirrors as if he were being

transformed.

Spellbound by his intense and inexplicable reactions, she watched him and didn't speak.

After a long moment, he fought his attention back to her. With an effort, he cleared his throat.

In a tone of constrained and artificial calm, he said, 'I see you use mirrors too.'

A shiver ran through her. 'I don't know what you're talking about,' she said. 'I don't have any

idea what you're doing here. How do you know I'm not the right person?'

'Good question.' His grin stretched wider. He looked like he enjoyed the sight of her. 'Of course

you can't be. I mean, how is that possible? Unless everyone has misunderstood the augury. Maybe

this room pulled me away from where I should be. Did you know I was going to try this?'

Terisa didn't want to repeat herself. Instead of continuing to mention that she had no idea what

he meant, she asked, 'Why don't you get up? You look a little silly, lying there on the floor.'

One thing about him pleased her immediately: he seemed to hear her when she spoke, not simply when

it happened to suit his train of thought. 'I would like to,' he said somewhat sheepishly, 'but I

can't.' He gestured towards his truncated right leg. They won't let go of my ankle. They better

not let go. I would never get back.' His expression echoed the mercurial changes of direction in

his mind. 'Although I don't know how I'm going to face them when I do get back. They'll never

believe I haven't done it all wrong again.'

Still studying him for some sign that what was happening made sense, she inquired, 'You've had

this problem before?'

He nodded glumly, then shook his head. 'Not this exact problem. I've never tried to translate

myself before. The fact is, it isn't commonly done. The last one I can remember was when Adept

Havelock made himself mad. But that was a special case. He was using a flat glass-trying to

translate himself without actually going anywhere, if you see what I mean.'

He looked around again. 'Of course you do. Flat glass,' he breathed as though her mirrors were

wonderful. 'It's lovely. And you haven't lost your mind. I haven't lost my mind. I had no idea

Imagers like you existed.

'At any rate,' he resumed, 'the theory of inter-Image translation is sound, and there are lots of

cases recorded. Most people just don't want to take the risk. Since I made the mirror-if I step

all the way through, they might not be able to bring me back. Only an Adept can use other people's

mirrors-and Havelock is mad.

'But never mind that.' He pushed his digression aside. 'It just looks like I haven't been able to

make it work.

The fact is,' he concluded, 'I've never been able to make anything work. That's why they chose me-

part of the reason, anyway. If something went wrong and I didn't get back, they wouldn't lose

anybody valuable.'

Baffled as she was by this conversation, her training with Rev Thatcher came to her aid. He had

taught her to ask the questions he expected or wanted. 'Where are you supposed to be?' Again she

shivered. 'Who am I supposed to be?'

He thought for a moment, chewing his lip. Then he replied, 'I'd better tell you. The augury could

have been misinterpreted. An Imager like you might be exactly what we need. And if I'm right-' He

shot a glance at her and began to explain.

'Everyone has studied the augury. Some of what we see in it can't be wrong. It shows over and over

again that the only way Mordant can be saved is if someone goes into a mirror and brings back

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help. For some strange reason, that 'someone' is me. Unfortunately, the augury doesn't show me

bringing any ''help' back. Instead, it shows an immensely powerful man in some kind of armour-a

warrior or champion from another world. It doesn't show whether he'll save or destroy Mordant, but

he's unmistakable. And about the time of the augury he just happened to arrive in the Image in one

of Master Gilbur's mirrors. Judging from what we could see, he was huge-in his armour-and he had

enough magic weaponry to tear down mountains. He looked perfect.

'Of course, Master Gilbur could have just translated him to us. Several of the Masters thought we

should do that-and defy the King. But the augury is explicit. We're supposed to send me somewhere.

Something about me is crucial. Apparently.' He lifted his shoulders. There was a lot of argument.

Master Quillon said I should go. But Master Eremis said that forcing me to translate myself out of

existence was as good as a death-sentence-and he isn't usually that serious about anything. That

surprised me. I don't like Master Eremis, and I thought he didn't like me. But in the end the

Congery decided to let me try.

'So I made the mirror-I made it and made it, until we cquld all see the champion in it perfectly,

and the Masters said it was right.' He frowned in bafflement. 'I worked on that so hard. I swear

it's an exact duplicate of the original. But when I stepped into it'-he met her gaze and shrugged-

'I came here.'

She waited until he was finished; but she already knew what she was supposed to say next. 'So now

you think the augury was misinterpreted. It said you had to go get someone. It didn't say who that

someone was.'

He nodded slowly, watching her face as if she could make what she was saying true.

This time the Congery might be wrong.'

He nodded again.

For no good reason, she still wasn't afraid. 'So when you did what the augury showed, you came

where you were supposed to be, not where the Congery decided.'

After a moment, he said softly, 'Yes. It doesn't make any sense, does it? It's impossible. A

mirror can't translate something it doesn't show. But no matter how badly I foul up, I can't stop

thinking things like that. You must have done something. You must have brought me here.' He

glanced away, then looked up at her strongly. 'You must have had a reason.'

This remark restored the logical reality of the situation, took away the illusion that she was

having a comprehensible conversation. A comprehensible conversation with a man who fell into her

living room out of nowhere, shattering one of her mirrors in the process? She wanted to answer

him. None of this has anything to do with me. But she had never learned how to say things like

that out loud. Often she felt a quiver of shame and a personal fading when she thought them.

Looking for an escape from the dilemma-or at least from the room, so that she could try to pull

herself together away from the influence of Geraden's intent brown eyes-she said instead, 'Would

you like a cup of tea?'

She had his undivided attention. 'I think I would'-his smile was at once abashed and pleased-'but

unfortunately I don't know what 'tea' is.'

'I'll get some,' she said. 'It'll just take a few minutes.' Keeping her relief to herself, she

started towards the kitchen.

Before she had gone three steps, he said in a completely different tone-a voice strong and formal,

and yet strangely suppliant-'My lady, will you accompany me to Mordant, to save the realm from

destruction?'

In surprise, she stopped and looked back at him.

At once, his expression became contrite and embarrassed, 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I don't have the

right to place demands on you. I just suddenly have the strongest feeling that if you leave this

room you won't come back.'

As soon as he spoke, she realized that one reason she wanted to go into the kitchen was to reach

the phone. She wanted to call security and tell them there was a crazy man in her apartment

babbling about mirrors and translation and champions.

'Do you have these feelings often?' She was stalling while she tried to figure out what to do.

He shrugged; his expression held the shape of his formal question. 'Not often. And they're always

wrong. But I trust them anyway. They have to mean something.' He hesitated for a moment, then

said, 'One of them made me apprentice myself to the Congery. I don't know why-it certainly hasn't

done me any good. I've been an Apt for almost ten years, and I never get any further.' His tone

was quiet; she heard anger rather than self-pity in it. 'But I still have the strongest feeling

that I must become a Master. I can't stop trying.'

'But you said you wanted some tea.'

'I didn't know what I was afraid of until you started to leave.'

'I'm not going anywhere,' she responded slowly. 'I'll be back in a few minutes.'

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Again, she headed towards the kitchen. She was definitely going to call security. This had gone on

too long.

'My lady!' he called immediately. His voice was strong, strangely commanding. 'I beg you.'

She tried to continue; but her steps slowed of their own volition. In the entryway to the kitchen,

she halted.

'If I twist and pull suddenly, my lady,' he said quietly, 'I can probably free my ankle. Then I'll

be entirely here, with no way to return. And the Masters won't know where I am, since what they

see in this mirror is the champion. Then I'll be lost here forever, unless by some chance or

miracle they shape a mirror which shows me to them. If, in fact,' he added to himself, 'I am

anywhere at all, and not lost in the glass itself, as Master Eremis insists.

'But I'll do it,' he went on more intensely, 'before I will permit you to leave without hearing

me.'

For a moment, she remained where she was. She felt herself leaning forward, trying to take the

next step which would carry her out of his sight and into the sanctuary of the kitchen. Yet his

appeal held her back as if he had a hand on her shoulder.

After all, she asked herself in an effort to think logically, normally, what would happen if she

called security? The guards would come and take Geraden away. If they could-if they could wrench

his leg free. And then they would have to let him go. He would be free to haunt her life. Unless

she pressed charges against him. Then she would have to see him again as his accuser, making

herself responsible for what happened to him. Perhaps she would have to see him several times. And

she would certainly have to explain him to her father. Either way, she was stuck with him.

She had no desire to stand up in front of a court-or in front of her father-and say that a man she

had never seen before had broken into her living room through one of the mirrors and had asked her

to save something called 'Mordant'.

Slowly, she turned back to face the young man. For the first time since he had startled her with

his unexpected arrival, she was scared. But he was a problem she had to solve, and security wasn't

the solution she wanted. Trying to keep her voice level, she said, 'None of this makes any sense

to me. What do you want me to hear?'

'My lady-' At once, embarrassment and relief made him look ten years younger. 'I'm sorry,' he said

again. 'I've done this all wrong. The way I've been talking, you probably think your mirrors have

destroyed my mind. Which is what they should have done. I still don't understand it. But please-'

He had risen to his hands and knees. Now he pulled his torso upright, so that he was kneeling

erect among the splinters of glass. Forcing down his confusion and abashment, he achieved a

semblance of dignity.

'Please don't judge Mordant by me. The need is real. And it's urgent, my lady. Parts of the realm

have already begun to die. People are dying-people who don't have anything to do with Imagery or

kings and just want to live their lives in peace. And the threat increases every day. Alend and

Cadwal are never exactly quiet. Now they're forming armies. And King Joyse doesn't do anything.

The heart has gone out of him. Wise men smell treachery everywhere.

'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

which comes from unleashing powers which 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 might 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

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Donaldson, Stephen R - Mordants Need 1 - Mirror of her Dreams

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