Mirror 04 The Way Between the Worlds (43 page)

Karan and Llian exchanged glances. 'Sounds more like fever than
aftersickness,' Karan muttered.
Maigraith gripped hands with Karan and Llian. 'Now!' she said. A feeble net of
light enveloped them but went out again with a fizzing sound. Maigraith
slumped down in the snow.
'I'll make camp,' said Karan. 'We can try again in the morning.'
'No - I'm sick. I feel really sick,' Maigraith groaned. Drops of sweat were
running down her face but freezing before they reached her chin. 'One more try

-up there, as high as we can get.'
She dragged herself up the cliff, across ledge after ledge, until she reached
a place halfway up where the ledge petered out. She fell to her knees, holding
onto the chalk face with one hand and mopping her brow with the other. She
groaned and stood up, and as Llian struggled up she swayed. Her stark face was
blotched with red swellings.
'This is stupid,' cried Karan. 'Come down!'
Maigraith gave each of them her hand. A sickly fishnet cage of light flickered
around them, but as Llian pressed himself back against the cliff it faded.
'Come out,' Maigraith choked. 'Right to the edge.'
'I am right at the edge,' Llian muttered. 'She's mad.' Nonetheless he edged
out a bit further and the light brightened.
'Further,' she said, pulling him. He moved imperceptibly, it brightened a
little more, though not enough. Maigraith staggered then jerked Llian to the
very edge. The chalk crumbled beneath his feet and he dragged them over.
Maigraith gripped their hands tightly, screamed 'Now!' The cage of light
flared into a gate and they were flung into darkness.
They crashed down onto the rooftop. It was still raining in Thurkad.
Breaking the Code
A
sense of urgency, indeed desperation, now pervaded the company's every
gathering. Time had run out and
they were still hopelessly unprepared. Yggur had his armies on alert and new
soldiers were being trained furiously, but their morale had sunk almost to
mutiny point after the disaster in Elludore. The loss of the thousand of his
finest could not be made up.
Mendark lay awake, agonising, as he had done night after night. The world that
he had protected for a thousand years was collapsing around him. There was a
limit to everything and he had gone past his. He might survive for another
year or two, but no longer wanted to. He tried to sit up but his muscles froze
and he fell back down again, quite helpless. Oh, to have come to this!
He lay panting on his bed, wanting to die. But after his heart stopped
hammering and the dizziness retreated his thoughts drifted back to Rulke. They
always did, now. It was Rulke against him. That was his life and purpose. The
greatest game of all.
A new Magister was needed, a young one with fire in the blood. Tallia was
strong enough, clever too, and her abilities with the Secret Art were
manifest. He had trained her well. But Tallia lacked the most vital impulse of
all: the iron in
the soul that would drive her to do whatever was necessary to defeat the
enemy. He, Mendark, would betray his best friend if that was the only way to
win the war. He would even betray Tallia. It would cause him the most profound
anguish, and he would regret it ever after, but if there was no other
alternative he would do it.
Who am I trying to fool? he thought derisively. I'm finished! This defeat will
ruin my reputation beyond hope of redemption. Not even the Great Tale can save
it. That idea stirred Mendark to roll off the bed, pull a sack-like robe over
his decrepitude and lurch down the hall in search of Llian. He found him in
the library. Karan was there too.
'Where have you been, chronicler?' Mendark panted. 'I've been looking for you
for days.'
Karan and Llian exchanged glances.

'Well?' cried the Magister, flexing his flaky, clawed hands.
'In Saludith!' said Llian. 'Maigraith took us there, through a gate.'
Mendark looked off balance. 'Why?'
'Searching for clues as to how the flute might be used,' said Karan.
'I've already looked there! Years ago.'
'I know!' said Llian. 'We didn't find anything though. The relevant document
had been removed, and all record of it. Very cleverly!'
Mendark, knowing Llian was trying to force a reaction, showed no more than the
wall beside him. 'You're too clever, Llian, and one day it will undo you!
We've all been to Saludith many times. What progress have you made on my
tale?'
Llian started. 'Quite a bit, though there's a long way to go. I haven't even
begun to write it.'
'Give me a rundown on what you have done so I can judge how you're going.'
Llian shuffled the papers on his table. Karan was still motionless in her
chair, trying to look invisible. It was perfectly obvious to Mendark that she
despised him. It was
also clear that Llian wasn't working on the tale and had no intention of doing
so. Ungrateful wretch! His debt meant nothing to him!
'I'm not willing to tell the tale until it's done,' Llian said evasively.
'It's not good enough.'
'I'll be the judge of that,' Mendark snarled.
'The master chroniclers will be the judges,' Llian pointed out coldly, 'if you
want it to be a Great Tale. It's not ready and I'm not saying another word
until it is.'
Mendark hobbled back to his room, feeling panicky. The incident highlighted
how little power he had left. There wasn't ever going to be any Mendark's
Tale. He would die a failure. He took out one of his flutes and began a
rollicking jig, the very antithesis of his mood. It did not help and soon he
threw it aside and went to bed. He felt the most violent, destructive urge, to
wipe out the Histories and start again. One last desperate effort that would
either destroy Rulke and Faelamor, or himself. That would make his name, or
ruin it!
It would almost be worth the gamble, Mendark thought. He felt his heart begin
to race at the idea of such a wager. It made him feel alive for the first time
in ages. And at the end of it, succeed or fail, blessed oblivion.
His back was agonisingly painful. Mendark rolled over in bed but the new
position felt worse than the old one. He'd had no peace from pain since
Havissard. Why did I do it? he thought over and over again. Why couldn't I
just give up and die there?
He mentally totted up the lives, the renewals. He was 1260 years old. That was
not old for the Charon or Faellem species, or even some of the Aachim, but it
was ancient for an old human.
The first thing he'd done after mastering the Secret Art had been to renew his
body, and since then he'd done it another thirteen times, which was at least
five times too many. Each time the regeneration spell forced his cells to
copy themselves, more errors were introduced and more things went wrong. And
the regeneration at Havissard had been under such duress that he wouldn't have
been surprised if he'd ended up an insect, or an ape.
He was still a man, though a most unattractive one, and although he'd burned a
fortune on the best healers and spellmasters in Thurkad, his body was not much
improved. Every joint ground together as he moved. At the toilet he passed
more blood than waste, and his innards roiled around inside him as if there
was nothing holding them in place.
I may be the oldest old human that ever walked Santhenar, he thought. Yet my
mind feels as sharp as ever, and my grasp of the Secret Art is still sound.
Surely these gifts were given so I could use them for the benefit of my world.
Only I can save Santhenar from that monster Rulke. But how?
That question occupied him for what remained of the night. He turned and
tossed, revolved and rotated, twisted his body into every position that a

ballet dancer could imagine, but none reduced the misery his bones inflicted
on him. Morning came, and Mendark was in such agony that he would have cut his
own throat, had there been a knife to hand.
He fell out of bed, trying to crawl to his chest of drawers, but even that was
beyond him. He lay where he fell for hours more, now afraid (and how ironic
that was!) that he would die there. His death would surely mean the ruin of
Santhenar.
Eventually Mendark dozed and woke to find the pain diminished slightly. His
corded muscles had relaxed in sleep. The answer was there, too - renewal for
one last time. The spell would probably kill him - another glorious gamble!
-though if it did not he must be better off. But this time he would do it
properly. At Havissard he had renewed his body by himself, dying of thirst as
he hung upside down in a bramble thicket. This time he would be in his own bed
with the best his fortune could provide. The greatest healers and mancers, the
most priceless drugs and the most powerful
artefacts, to power the regeneration spell and keep it on track.
Mendark paced back and forth, organising in his mind all that he would need:
the mancers, healers, the environment, the pharmacopoeia. Sorcerous artefacts
he had in plenty, though he wondered if they were strong enough. The flute
would be better, but Mendark knew he lacked the strength to get it away from
Tensor.
Ah, but what about the Mirror? It was practically unguarded, and Maigraith was
still ill. If he could get hold of it, even a few hours would be enough. The
regeneration spell did not take long. Mendark limped to the bell pull, feeling
better than he had in a long time, and when Tallia herself answered the
summons, he issued her with a string of orders.
The preparations were made quickly. After all, this was something that he had
done many times before. By the middle of the night all was ready.
'Shall we begin?' Tallia asked. He could see her eagerness to learn.
Regeneration was one of the greatest spells, and as yet he had taught her
nothing about it.
'In a few minutes.'
Mendark made his painful way to Maigraith's room. He had already spied her out
today. She had been in a dazed sleep all afternoon. It was not implausible
that he should enquire after her health, if anyone caught him. Maigraith was
dozing restlessly, tossing and kicking her legs. Her face was swollen. Where
would she keep the Mirror? Surely close to her. His hand slid under the pillow
and there it was, a hard metal tube. He dropped it into his pocket and went
out. Just as he did so Shand came by.
'She is sleeping,' Mendark said, and continued down the corridor.
Back in his own chambers, he lay on the bed with the Mirror in his hand. The
spellcasters and healers crowded around. Tallia hovered at the end of the bed,
looking anxious.
'Begin!' said Mendark.
Spring was more than a month old now but the weather had not changed. It still
felt like winter - the longest in living memory. Maigraith did not know that
the Mirror had been taken, for when she woke the following morning, fully
recovered, it was back under her pillow where it had always been.
She was taking lunch with Karan and Llian in one of the citadel dining rooms.
Yggur sat at a nearby table, reading while he ate. There came a clatter from
outside. The door opened and a fresh-faced man appeared in the doorway,
supported by Tallia on one side and Osseion on the other. They moved apart.
The man took a tentative step forward. His knee buckled and he lurched like a
newborn colt trying to find its feet. Another step, another stagger. He kept
going, and his control strengthened with every movement.
'Who is it?' Maigraith heard Llian whisper. 'The face is familiar.'
The man, a young, slender fellow with cheeks as soft and pink as a child's,
came the last few steps in a rush. He rested his hands on the table, breathing
hard, then threw back his head and roared with laughter.
'It worked!' he cried. 'What a wager!'

'Mendark!' gasped Maigraith.
It was Mendark, as he must have looked when a young man. He was a handsome
fellow too, though the blooming cheeks, broad nose and full lips gave him an
overly sensual air. But at the same time there was something different about
him. Maigraith could not work out what it was.
'Thank you, Maigraith,' said Mendark.
'What for?'
'I borrowed your Mirror in the night, for my regeneration spell.'
'I should have realised,' she exclaimed. Mendark's features were around the
other way from his previous face.
'It won't last,' Yggur said sourly, and with a trace of envy. 'You'll be lucky
to get a year out of it.'
'I don't care!' Mendark said, bubbling with good humour. 'I've lived my life
and don't want another!'
'Then why did you do it?' Yggur looked bitter, frustrated.
'For the sheer gamble of it!' Mendark cried. 'And for the job you're not
capable of doing - finishing Rulke and Faelamor.'
That afternoon the company went in procession down to the old bakehouse, as
they did every day. They went away again with Tensor's curses ringing in their
ears, also a daily occurrence.
'I'll tell you when it's ready!' he screamed after them.
Mendark and Yggur exchanged glances. 'Well, Mendark/ said Yggur, 'do you still
think Tensor was a good choice?'
'He was the only choice!' Mendark said cheerily.
Maigraith walked silently behind them. Since giving up her gold she felt
estranged from everyone, even Shand, and it was agony.
The following day one of Yggur's spies returned from Elludore.
'What have you learned?' Llian asked at once.
'Not much, chronicler,' said Yggur. 'The Faellem are gathered in some hundreds
in Elludore, and all approaches to the valley are sealed tight. They must have
been warned, for we didn't catch any of them on the way.'
'She won't get her instrument to work,' said Malien. 'The Faellem can never
control such devices.'
'After our recent experience,' said Shand, 'I'd suggest we don't underestimate
her again.'
'Then we'd better find out where the gold came from,' said Malien.
'Is there any news from Shazmak?'
'None of my spies have come back from there. And there is more bad news,' said
Yggur. 'The catastrophe in Elludore has spread like the wind. Armies are
marching in Quilsin and Galardil, and in the north too. Half my empire is in
rebellion. Every petty warlord in Meldorin has seen the
opportunity to harass me. They know I'm weak and hard-pressed.' He looked it
too, as if he was just going through the motions of preparing for war.
'And rumour has it that Thyllan is stirring again, across the sea,' said
Mendark. 'I would sooner befriend you than him, Yggur.'
Yggur swept off his hat and bowed from the waist. 'At your service,' he said
ironically.
'I'm serious! Let's use the flute and attack Shazmak before he's ready.'
'It probably won't work anyway,' Yggur said apathetically.
Maigraith sat by the unlit fire for an hour, moving pieces in her mind but not
finding any answers. Mendark seemed to be taking control again. She did not
like the idea of him using her flute at all. She felt a presence behind her
and it was Karan, standing quietly. Karan jumped at her abrupt movement.
'Hot tea,' she whispered. She had a pot in her hand, and a bowl. 'It's so cold
in here.'
'Cold doesn't bother me. I'm used to it.'
'You look tired,' said Karan. 'Are you sure you've recovered from the fever?'
'Oh yes. It's just that I .. .' Maigraith hesitated. 'I've been experimenting
with gates.'
'How has it gone?'