A Shadow on the Glass (59 page)

“Pity him!” Faelamor was incredulous, realizing for the first time that the instrument was flawed, and it was of her making. “After what he did to you? You must live to hate him,
burn
to destroy him. He showed no pity.”

“I do not believe that he sent
them
for me. His control of the Whelm is failing; they serve him only so long as it suits them. And he is not the only one to have used me ill. Many times I have asked myself what vile crime my mother and father did,
or was done to them
. Why did you take me? To what end do you instruct me? Why must I hide the color of my eyes?” Her voice rose until she almost screamed:
“Who am I?”
Then her tones became soft, pleading. “Why me? You have shown how easy it would have been for you, a master of illusion such as you are, to take the Mirror. Why did you not?”

Faelamor was momentarily disconcerted by the attack and the unaccustomed display of emotion. By the knowledge that there were parts of Maigraith about which she knew nothing, over which she had no control. What had happened in Fiz Gorgo to transform her so?

“Think what you will. It wasn’t easy, even for me. With the working of illusions the hard work is done before.”

“You wanted to test me, test my training! To what purpose would you put me? The Faellem knew, for when I was a child they cast you into exile over it. Why will you not trust me? I have always been loyal. I think of nothing but my duty to you.” Her tones were plaintive now.

Faelamor came close, looked into Maigraith’s eyes and laid a hand upon her brow. “Maigraith, Maigraith,” she said soothingly. “The fever burns in you and sends you wild imaginings. Come, you must rest now.”

Almost at once Maigraith felt calmness descend upon her, the torturing emotions draining away. She straggled for a moment, but already the effort was too great and she allowed Faelamor to sit her down. A blanket was placed around her shoulders and she gripped it and pulled it tight, suddenly very cold. She sat with her back against the side, shivering, staring with unfocused eyes into the swamp. Faelamor
was busy down the other end, then she came back with a small bowl in her hand.

“Drink this,” she said. “It will ease the pain and the fever and help you to sleep.”

But the pain is gone and there is no fever, thought Maigraith drowsily, looking into the bowl. A small quantity of a thick, metallic-looking liquid lay there, moving sluggishly, like quicksilver in the thin moonlight.

“Drink,” said Faelamor, and she drank. Faelamor watched her carefully, noted her swallow, then took the bowl and put it away.

As she did so Maigraith sank her head down on her arms, and under their cover allowed the remaining liquid to dribble out of the corner of her mouth onto the side of the boat, where it ran down into the muddy bilge and disappeared. Even as she did she was overcome by weariness. She slumped against the side and was instantly asleep.

Faelamor looked down at Maigraith. In her robes she made a dark shapeless lump, with one bare slender arm stretched along the gunwale. I am not barren of pity, she mused, but pity does not benefit my quest. I will not give it up, or you, but I must be more careful with you.

She eased herself out of the boat onto a small, reedy is land. There she found a clearing among the reeds where some low herbs grew, and sat down, trailing her fingers through the aromatic leaves. How did I come to this?

To lead the Faellem to Santhenar—how I strove for that honor in Tallallame, uncounted ages ago. How I burned for it. How eagerly I reached for the glory; how carelessly I assumed the duty. Did I know then that there would be no respite from that duty, save in death? I can no longer remember. Happy are the Faellem to put their burdens on their leader.

Yet so reluctantly did the congress send us here. Duty drove us, and fear. Once the Charon broke free of Aachan we had to follow. The Three Worlds are linked. We had to oppose them for the sake of the balance, for everything touches everything else. But how we hated Santhenar. Oh, there is beauty here, of a sort, but nothing as to Tallallame. So lonely we were. So lonely am I. How I long to have my people about me, enfolding me. This remnant I brought here are corrupted, as I am …

I led the Faellem here, and I must take them back. But no one was made for such an impossible task. The Forbidding was seamless, impenetrable. Duty bound me to find a way, but there was no way. The conflict almost drove me beyond my wits, and my loneliness became unbearable. Then my enemy Yalkara, cunning beyond belief, found with the Twisted Mirror a warp in the Forbidding; but she closed it behind her when she fled. Utter despair followed swiftly upon that brief hope, and it was then that my corruption began. Brooding, searching, spying, at last a hope came to me, and an opportunity.

Perhaps if you knew us better, Maigraith, you would understand how, seeing at last a way home, I did this terrible wrong to make it so. Little wonder that I hate you so. I made you, and when I look at you, all I see is my own debasement.

The soliloquy became a vigil, and Faelamor sat silently on the grass, staring up at the stars until they faded with the dawn.

Maigraith woke late, with a dry mouth and a dull feeling in her temple. The events of the previous evening were curiously distant, though she knew with an awful urgency that she must remember. She forced her dull mind back. As she did so she looked up and caught Faelamor’s gaze on her, a gaze of particular intentness.

“How my head aches this morning,” she said, wrinkling her forehead and turning away so that Faelamor would not see the sudden remembrance in her eyes.

“But the fever is gone, I see. My medicine was effective then.”

“I suppose so, though I have no memory of it. What day is it?”

“It’s the morning of the fourth since I brought you out of Fiz Gorgo. What do you remember?”

“The chamber of the Whelm. I could never forget that. You came for me,” she said in a dreaming tone. “Stone corridors. My feet paining me, and my back. All of me hurting. You lifted me into a boat This boat,” she said looking around her. “For a long time we seemed to be drifting through a forest of great white trees, though that could have been a dream. No, unless we are still in it, for such trees are all about. I knew you would come for me,” she said smiling at Faelamor, and Faelamor smiled back at her and touched her on the shoulder, though there was still a wary look in her eye.

Later she questioned Maigraith at length about the stealing of the Mirror, the Whelm, and Yggur, but especially about Karan. Maigraith did not know what to say, torn between loyalty and duty. The Whelm had been curious about Karan as well. What was it about her? That she was sensitive? Why were they so exultant when she’d betrayed Karan’s ancestry? What had Vartila said?
Now I know what to use against her
.

I warned Karan to conceal her heritage. I should have warned her about me. Never to trust me. What have I betrayed her to? Death, or slavery?

“Curious,” said Faelamor. “There are depths to Karan that I had not imagined. This talent of linking—where can it have come from? I must know more about her. Her family
seat is near Tolryme, you once said. One of the Faellem dwelt there in ages past, and it was rumored that he fathered a daughter, though of course she never came to us. Perhaps something remains in the line.”

But Maigraith was not listening. She was consumed by guilt and shame; terribly afraid for Karan. She said no more about her.

In the middle of that day they poled through a band of rushes into a small lake. Across the lake they abandoned the boat, walking for another day through forest before coming into a village beside a river that flowed east rather than west. There Faelamor bought a canoe for a few pieces of silver.

“This stream flows into the Hindirin River,” she said. They traveled day and night after that, as best they could, for there was no moon. Faelamor was desperate to find Karan, even though such a long time had gone by that she knew the hope of her still having the Mirror was faint indeed.

One day, when they had stopped so that Maigraith could climb the high banks and find out where they were, she saw that the forest was gone save for a narrow band along the river. Grassy plains extended as far as she could see.

“Good progress,” said Faelamor when she climbed back into the canoe.

“We should come to a city downriver,” said Maigraith. “Preddle it is called. If we are to go openly I must have other clothing, and boots in any case.”

“I see only two choices,” said Faelamor, “assuming that Karan is still going to Sith. We can go south-east, cross the Hindirin at Galardil, go through the Zarqa Gap and enter Iagador from the south, or we can go north-east and cross into Iagador over the mountains. The southern way is longer; on the other hand the passes may all be blocked if there has been heavy snow.”

“There are two passes that might be open,” said Maigraith. “There is the one from Hetchet to Bannador, through Tullin. But that is too far from here. The other is the old road across the mountains from Preddle to Name and Sith. I came that way only a year ago. It is the most direct way from here to Iagador, though still a month’s journey. From Name we can go down the river to Sith, or north to Bannador and Thurkad. Those are the places she will head for.”

“Let me go to Preddle and buy the things you need, and food. I will seek information while I am there. Then I will decide.”

They paddled on until they came to the hovels that sig naled the outskirts of the city. Faelamor put a different appearance upon herself and went to Preddle. Maigraith paddled back upstream, hid the canoe in the trees and slept, but only for a little while. She was restive now that Faelamor was not there, and there was a great deal to think about.

What would Yggur do? Would he send after her? For a while it had seemed that what she could tell him was secondary to the planning of his campaign, his struggle with the Whelm and his own nightmare. As though he did not know what to do with her. No, he would not pursue—she’d been a diversion, something that had intrigued him, but now he would carry on with his own campaign. What would happen then? And what of the Whelm?

And she began to understand the nature of her own conflict. She was growing out of Faelamor’s shadow; there must be more for her than simply duty. There
must
be.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon when Faelamor returned. “We must go over the mountains,” she said, as Maigraith threw off the
robes she had worn for the past days and donned her new clothes. “There was no talk but of the marching of Yggur’s armies from Orist, and from the south. They are advancing on Iagador through the Zarqa Gap and all the bridges are under guard. We cannot go that way.”

Maigraith listened eagerly to the news of him, perhaps too eagerly, for she saw that Faelamor was looking at her curiously. I must be on my guard, she thought, allowing her face to relax, the smile to fade imperceptibly. This is one secret that she must never learn. And thereafter, whenever they had news on the way, she was careful not to show too much interest in the doings of Yggur, or too little.

As soon as she had cast off the clothes of the Whelm Maigraith felt a weight leave her, and she went along cheerfully and at a faster pace. They paddled down to the Hindirin, going hard for a week and more, and finally abandoned the canoe at a town called Gessoe. There they bought horses and raced north for another week under a bright moon. Finally they came onto the track that led to the Name pass, reaching the mountains without incident in another four days.

They were climbing steadily when they crossed onto a spur that gave them an uninterrupted view down to the plains below. There, converging on their path, was a band of riders. Faelamor stared at the distant specks, shading her eyes with her hand.

“Whelm,” she said at last. “I’m almost sure of it. A large band riding fast. They’re making no effort to hide themselves, and why should they? We are but two, though two that they have found redoubtable. Our horses are weary. We must prepare to defend ourselves.”

Whelm! Maigraith could not conceal her fear.

‘Take hold of yourself, craven! Have you forgotten all
your lessons?” Faelamor was contemptuous. “You know this place—what choices do we have?”

“Higher up,” Maigraith said, her voice fluttering, “a track runs away from the path. Among the rocks there is a little basin; cliffs lie all around. I camped a night there, once. It would be easy to defend, though there is no way out. But what use is defense against so many?”

“The will indeed burns feebly in you,” said Faelamor with disgust. “We defend because we must not submit, because death is preferable to being taken, because while we are at large there is hope.” She seemed to grow a little, her voice rising. “I defend because I am the hope of Tallallame, and Tallallame cries out for me. No Whelm can take me, be there ten or fifty, for their will is the will of servants-paltry, pallid weak things. I am the Faellem, and I have wrestled with Rulke himself. Talk not to me of will.”

The riders came on so fast that before they reached their refuge they were clearly visible on the turns of the road below them, less than an hour behind.

“Look,” said Faelamor. “Do you recognize them?”

“Whelm, no doubt.”

They established their defenses as best they could. Night fell and a gentle snow began to cover their tracks, but later the wind came up and the snow ceased. They huddled in a rude shelter out of the wind, prepared to defend themselves, but though they waited all night long the Whelm did not come.