OUT OF THE RUBBLE

CASTELLAN LEBBICK suspected that he was foundering inside. Of course, life in Orison had been going from bad to worse for some time now; but suddenly the purpose

of his life had sprung leaks in all directions.

Because of Congeries gamble, he had several crises to deal with at once. But they were only symptoms; they weren't fundamental. As he strode to face them, he was smiling like a hawk; and only his wife-and perhaps King Joyse-had ever known him well enough to realize that this smile was a bad sign. To other people, he probably looked like he was in his element, eager for the conflicts of disaster which would provide an outlet and a justification for his rage. Only his wife and his oldest friend could have understood the particular ferocity of his grin.

Unfortunately, his wife was dead-miserably dead, killed by a long, hacking illness that cut her life out as effectively as a knife in her lungs. Nearly a year had passed, and he still missed her so acutely that it seemed to make his guts tremble.

And King Joyse had cast him adrift-

He had refused to hear the Fayle. One way or another, he blocked every vital act, interfered with every hope.

The Castellan clenched his teeth tighter, stretched his smile thinner, and refused to think about it. King Joyse was his reason for living. The passions which had led to the founding of Mordant, the ideals which had inspired the creation of the Congery-these things were the blood in his veins, the air in his chest. He was the King's hands. The King had rescued him-

Now the King had refused to hear the Fayle. He had abandoned it all to die, Mordant and passion and purpose, abandoned it to die miserably, hacking its life out while Castellan Lebbick cradled it in his arms and couldn't let go.

No, he was definitely not going to think about that. He had too many other problems in front of him.

That woman.

To himself, he chewed out a long, scathing curse. She was in everything somehow. The connections were there, if he could find them: she was doing this to Orison and Mordant somehow.

And she made the back of his throat ache with a desire he hadn't felt since the days of his wife's best beauty.

He wasn't going to think about that, either. He was going to do his job, cling to it until he recovered what it meant.

For a start, he was going to sort out the consequences of the latest catastrophe perpetrated by those pig-brained Imagers.

His task had the advantage of being both dramatic and subtle. All the crises were linked together in some way.

First in point of time, if not in degree of urgency, there was the matter of Prince Kragen's dead bodyguards.

Clearly, they had been killed for some reason. And they couldn't have shed all that blood themselves. Furthermore, it seemed unlikely that they were responsible for tracking their own blood away from the places where they lay dead.

And that woman had returned to her rooms liberally besmirched with blood.

There was a band of renegade soldiers-or worse-loose in Orison. They were skilled and numerous enough-or worse- to kill trained bodyguards and carry away their own dead or wounded. They had friends to conceal them. They had something to do with that woman. And their purpose was to instigate a war between Mordant and Alend. Or worse.

That brought up other matters. What had happened to the man in black who had tried to kill her during the night after her arrival? He had escaped easily enough. Why hadn't he made another attempt?

What came next? An attack on the King himself?

And King Joyse had refused to hear the Fayle. The old lord had tried to warn the King of the Congery's intentions, and the King had refused to hear him. The Fayle had spoken directly to the Castellan because he had no other recourse.

Which raised the question of how the Fayle had come to know what those Imagers meant to do. He had flatly declined to answer when Lebbick had demanded an answer.

As for the Congery's crazy defiance of King Joyse's prohibition against forced translations, Castellan Lebbick knew who was responsible-or, more accurately, he knew whom he could blame. He had compelled the Fayle to mention a name or two. But they would have to wait. The results of that translation posed more immediate problems.

Apparently to defend them against Alend or Cadwal, the Imagers had chosen some alien man of war whom they had discovered in their mirrors-a soldier of commanding power, weaponry, and fierceness. So what did they expect after snatching a fighter like that out of his own life? A docile bow? A humble offer of service? They were lucky he had simply brought down the ceiling of their meeting-hall, instead of murdering them

individually as they deserved.

Judging by the way he had blasted an escape up out of the laborium and through the thick northward wall of Orison to open air, he was certainly powerful enough to have murdered any number of people. In fact, Lebbick had at first feared he would turn and attempt to raze the castle itself. If that had happened, the Castellan would have had no choice but to hale whatever Imagers he could find to the defence. Completely unforewarned, his own forces and siege-engines weren't in position for war.

Fortunately, the champion kept on going-away from Orison, lumbering madly through the snow like a rogue animal. Something about the way he moved suggested to Castellan Lebbick's experienced observation that he was hurt.

That left two exigent dilemmas, neither of which was the gaping breach in the wall. Of course, the breach was an enormous problem, and it was going to become urgent-but not yet. First the champion had to be pursued. That was obvious. His location had to be known, so that some effort could be made to control him, stop him. His present rampage would take him through the most densely populated region of the Demesne straight towards Batten and the heart of the Care of Armigite.

On the other hand, Master Quiillon kept harrying the Castellan's heels like a ferret, thrusting his dust-caked face forward whenever Lebbick paused and shouting that the woman and Geraden had been buried under the collapse of the ceiling.

Castellan Lebbick bared his teeth. 'Do you mean you think they're still alive?' 'I don't know!' returned Quillon. 'But they won't be if you don't get them out!'

Lebbick debated the question with himself. He didn't have enough men available to both pursue the champion and dig effectively in the rubble. Some time would be needed to call up reinforcements from the encampments among the hills around Orison.

One of those encampments, however, lay reasonably close to the path the champion appeared to be taking.

Without hesitation, the Castellan did his job. He sent one aide to summon all the guards of the castle to the ruined meeting-hall. Another ran for the courtyard to get a horse, bearing explicit instructions for several detachments of the King's forces. Then Lebbick turned back to Master Quillon.

This will be slow. We can't shift all that stone in just a few hours.' Gauging the relative positions of the chamber and the breach, he commented, 'It'll have to be shifted uphill. If that woman and Geraden aren't dead yet, they'll suffocate soon.' Almost without malice,

he added, 'Unless you and the rest of the Congery can think of some way to be helpful for a change.'

Unaware that he was smiling, he strode away. Quillon went to find Master Barsonage.

He located the mediator on the floor outside one of the doors of the chamber. Those doors had saved the Congery. Not knowing what to expect from the champion, the Masters had retreated to the walls; and so they had been able to reach the doors almost instantly. As a result, only two of them were dead: one hit by the champion's first blast; another fallen under a block of stone. The rest were safe-including Master Gilbur and Master Eremis, although no one knew how they had contrived to get away in time.

But Master Barsonage didn't look particularly safe. He was covered with dust, chips of stone, and flakes of ancient mortar -as Quillon was himself-which gave him the appearance of a derelict. The rims of his eyes showed red through the caking dust; his mouth hung open; he sat with his hands dangling between his knees. He might have been in shock from a wound which didn't show because it was hidden by dirt.

'Barsonage!' snapped Master Quillon. 'Get up! We must hurry.'

For a moment, Master Barsonage didn't respond. He stared sightlessly past Quillon as though the ruin of the chamber had made him deaf. But when Master Quillon began to fume, the mediator raised his head and blinked.

'Quillon,' he croaked in recognition, his voice husky with dust and dismay. 'I knew it was a mistake. From the first. We should never have tampered with someone that powerful. But there was no alternative. Was there? The augury-And everyone was against us. The lords-Cadwal and Alend-King Joyse-'

He lowered his head again. 'It was a mistake.'

'Never mind,' Master Quillon cut in impatiently. 'We all make mistakes. Come on.'

Master Barsonage gave Master Quillon a look of blank incomprehension.

'Geraden and the lady Terisa!' Quillon was practically hopping from foot to foot. They are buried under all that stone!'

The mediator's expression didn't change. 'So is Gilbur's glass. It is powder. We have no way to undo what we have done. Geraden's mirror has shown that it does not translate properly. And any other glass will be a sentence of death, either for our 'champion' or for

the Image which receives him.'

'Mirrors preserve us! Wake up, Master Barsonage! Forget the champion. We must rescue Geraden and the lady! Castellan Lebbick's men will make the attempt, but it will be too slow. All that stone must be moved up and out. It will be too slow.'

Slowly, Master Barsonage began to understand. They cannot be alive,' he muttered. 'Under all that? It is impossible.'

They must be!' shouted Master Quillon so hard that his voice squeaked. 'We have no other hope! Come on!'

Urgently, he reached down and tried to pull the much larger Imager upright.

For a moment longer, the mediator seemed unable to achieve enough resolution to get his legs under him. But then he muttered, 'I suppose we must. Even if it is hopeless. After this disaster, how else can we show our good will?'

Puffing dust, he heaved himself to his feet.

As quickly as possible, Quillon took Master Barsonage towards the warren of converted cells where the mirrors of the Congery were displayed and protected. After a certain amount of dither-

ing, the mediator chose the glass which Master Quillon had had in mind all along-the tall mirror reflecting a fathomless seascape, nothing but water in all directions. Strong under his girth, Master Barsonage picked up the glass without assistance and carried it back to the meeting-hall.

He was starting to move faster. His carriage became steadier. When he and Master Quillon encountered other Imagers- retreating from the debacle, milling around in the halls-he issued commands with increasing authority, summoning the rest of the Congery to his support.

The two Masters soon reached the chamber.

The nearest door stood open, letting winter blow dust and cold and snow into the corridor.

Inside, the pile of rubble was substantial: it reached halfway to where the ceiling had once been. To the stone of that ceiling had been added a wide portion of the level above it, as well as all the damage the champion had left behind him on his way up to and through the outer wall. Much of the mound was composed of cut granite-ponderous

foundation-slabs, huge monoliths from the interior of the walls and pillars, smaller pieces which the builders of Orison had used like bricks-but the champion's rifle had reduced enormous quantities of rock to powder and pebbles.

Now Master Quillon understood the Castellan's point better. The only way the guards could clear the space was by somehow transporting the rubble up and out of the hole. Even with the help of every appropriate mirror in Orison, the job might take all day.

The whole place was in gloom, blocked from light by Orison's bulk and the thickening snowfall. Nevertheless he could see the cloud-clogged morning sky, the pall of dust in the air, the guards and other servants of the castle who had already arrived and begun fighting the pile with shovels, picks, and crowbars.

He could see Artagel on top of the mound, wrestling like a madman to shift blocks and shards nearly as large as himself. His curses sounded like cries.

At once, Master Quillon clambered up the side of the pile towards Geraden's brother.

Encumbered by the mirror, the mediator followed more slowly.

When he reached Artagel, Quillon caught at his arm. Artagel brushed the Master aside without a glance. The fixed wildness in his eyes made him look dangerous.

'Make room, Artagel!' barked Master Quillon. 'We can do this better. It will be of no help to Geraden if you rupture yourself. We can reach him, but we need cooperation, not stupid single-mindedness.'

'His is my brother,' Artagel panted between exertions.

The Master spat an obscenity which sounded silly, coming from him. 'I do not care if he is your mother, your father, and the bastard offspring of every act of fornication in all the history of Mordant. Help us or get away.'

Artagel's fists clenched murderously: he forced them to relax. 'Show me, Imager,' he breathed through his teeth. 'Show me you can do better.'

By this time, Master Barsonage had gained the top of the mound. Master Quillon rasped at Artagel, Then make room,' as the mediator positioned his mirror beside the block Artagel had been trying to move.

Quillon helped hold the glass so that Barsonage could perform the gestures he needed. While the mediator murmured the invocations which had gone into the shaping of this mirror, the two Imagers lowered the glass towards the block-

-and the block was translated away into the rolling sea. Artagel gaped for a second. Then he started to grin.

More Imagers and many more guards were arriving. Several of the Masters had mirrors with them, Eremis among them. Master Quillon noticed Gilbur's absence; but he had no time to worry about that. While he and Master Barsonage shifted their glass, he shouted instructions to the guards. Rapidly, they organized themselves into teams around each mirror. Someone threw a shovel up to Artagel. At a nod from Master Barsonage, he began heaving rubble at the mirror, working to clear an approach to the next large piece of granite.

Powder and pebbles and hunks of rock large enough to shatter any glass passed into the Image and were swallowed by the sea. If Master Quillon had cared to do so, he could have watched the splash as each shovelful of rubble hit the water.

Glancing around the pile, he recognized the other mirrors as they were put to work. Only two of them were as large as the one he and Master Barsonage held, but they had all been intelligently chosen: none were flat; none showed scenes where the sudden appearance of huge heaps of rock would do any damage. The only possible exception was the glass Master Eremis employed with the flustered assistance of a young Apt. It reflected a gigantic and ravenous slug-like beast, with fangs that looked poisonous and malign eyes. The guards around Eremis shovelled rubble straight into the creature's face.

The creature appeared to be roaring in fury.

'Quillon!' Master Barsonage demanded. 'Pay attention!'

Hurriedly, Master Quillon helped the mediator adjust his mirror to translate another large chunk of stone.

'Is there a chance?' Artagel asked. 'Can they really be alive down there?'

'They must be,' Quillon averred again. That conviction was becoming harder and harder to sustain, however.

Terisa knew she was alive.

The scant air she was able to draw into her lungs was thick with dust: they were full of it, and whenever that dry suffocation forced her to cough, the pressure against the edges and corners of rock gouging her chest threatened to crack her ribs. Every breath raised

grit into her face, scouring her eyeballs, blinding her to the darkness. And she could feel the weight of the rubble pressing down on her, slowly compressing her until her weak flesh and bones would burst and break. In addition, the rocks were hot, charred by the champion's rifle: the air was so warm it ached.

She knew she was alive. But she had no idea why.

The champion had pressed her face-down on top of Geraden: she had been in no position to observe the way his metal-clad form and his destructive fire shielded her from the worst of the stone-fall. Blocks of stone came down on him and bounced aside, forming a pocket around her; slabs of rock were cut into pieces and powder which made a cushion over her body and Geraden's. In consequence, when he turned away to burn a path for himself out of Orison, the rubble which fell immediately onto her and Geraden came, not from the ceiling and the upper level, but from the sides of the protective pocket. And smaller pieces wedged the fall securely enough to hold it in place as more and more debris from the champion's rampage was added to the pile.

She was still breathing. Against all likelihood, there was still air trapped in the stone heap.

It wasn't going to last.

With a palpable shift, a hard ridge clamping the middle of her back pressed down another fraction of an inch. She struggled frantically, but couldn't move anything more than her fingers. The heat and the dust made her want to gag on each shallow breath she sucked through the rocks. Pain like the caress of flame increased in her lungs, her eyes, her outstretched limbs. To die like this, slowly, feeling it happen moment by moment, feeling the hurt grow worse with each feather-width change in the poise of the rubble-

Something like this had happened to her before. Sometimes, when her mother and father had been angry at her, they had locked her in the closet. No one had answered her cries, her timid or hysterical appeals, until she had been quiet long enough to appease her parents. And once-for an offence which might have been heinous or trivial-she had been thrust into the back of the closet and armfuls of clothes had been tossed in on top of her before the door was locked, so that the house would be insulated from any protest she might make.

There in the dark, she had had her first experience with fading.

The clothes had choked her, and the dark was locked and absolute on all sides; and suddenly she had understood that her distress and panic meant nothing, that sensations like fear and asphyxiation meant nothing-that the locked door and the piles of clothes

and the dark made her unreal. For the first time, she had felt herself losing reality, felt her existence leeching out into the enshrouding blackness.

She hadn't realized it at the time-perhaps she had never realized it-but this response to the crisis had protected her. It had prevented the dark and her parents' unlove from creeping in.

This time, unfortunately, there was no protection. Her mind was going to snap. She could feel a crazy desire to scream rising from the bottom of her stomach. Then she would inhale so much dust that the effort to breathe would tear her heart.

'Geraden.' Her voice was a whisper, as desperate as the powder burning in her lungs. 'Geraden. Can you hear me?'

But of course he couldn't hear her. She had been lying on top of him, but not in a position which afforded him any protection. And he had been on his back, facing the stone-fail. His head must have been crushed immediately. He must still be under her somewhere, but nothing there felt soft enough to be a body.

'Geraden.' Her mind was definitely going to snap. 'Geraden.'

But there was a way out. It came to her without drama, almost without surprise. She could fade now. She could let go of herself, of her long struggle against unreality, and allow the darkness to bear her away. Then she would be safe. Whether she lived or died, she would be safe because she would be gone.

As soon as the idea occurred to her, she knew that it would be easy. That kind of failure would be easy. It had been calling out to her all her life, offering to protect her- offering her peace.

Terisa?'

The word was a rustle of dry pain, so far away that she couldn't believe it.

'Terisa!' Impossibly weak, hurt, crushed-and stubborn, determined to reach her. 'Are you all right?'

Sudden weeping closed her throat. Now she couldn't escape. Safety was impossible.

He was here with her. She was too relieved to hear his voice. She had to stay.

'Terisa?' He fought to control his alarm. 'Are you all right?' he coughed. 'Can you hear me?'

'Geraden.' Raw strain knotted her chest. 'I can't breathe. I can't stand it.'

'Don't try so hard.' His whisper came to her from some place entirely out of reach. 'Take shallow breaths. Make yourself relax. I'm getting air from somewhere.'

Despite the awful distance between them, she could hear his distress. He, too, was being crushed.

'We're going to be rescued. They'll dig us out. All we have to do is wait.'

'I can't. Can't.' The pressure of rejecting her one chance for escape drove her towards hysteria. 'Can't move. It's breaking my back. Geraden!'

'Don't think about it.' His voice sifted like dust between the stones. 'Put it out of your mind.'

'I can't.' She locked her teeth to keep from screaming.

'You can.' Somehow, he managed to speak more strongly. 'Nothing to it. Think about something else. Tell me what hap-

pened. I don't remember anything-after Master Gilbur hit me, Did he translate the champion? Did the Castellan stop him?'

Just for a moment, he startled her out of her panic. He didn't remember-? He had come back to consciousness without any notion of where he was or why-

'Terisa.'

Until she heard the edge of need in his appeal, she didn't realize how much he was depending on her. If he lost her now, he, too, might start screaming.

Deep inside, she wailed, I can't I'm being crushed I can't stand it! Let me go! But she struggled to do what he was doing, struggling to think about him instead of herself. He didn't even know how he had come to be buried alive. 'I'll try.'

In quick, broken phrases, pieces of explanation like her breathing, she described the outcome of Master Gilbur's translation.

When she finished, he groaned, then fell silent. Before she could panic again, however, he said, 'That proves one thing. You're definitely the one. The one who's going to save Mordant. The champion.'

'What?' she panted. 'What're you talking about?'

'It was always possible'-the words came out as if he were retching them-'you were just an accident. I went wrong somehow. But that means Master Gilbur was right. Now we know he wasn't. His champion isn't going to rescue us. You mast be the real champion.'

'That's crazy.' She could feel the bones of her spine being squeezed to chips and splinters. The air was getting worse. You can. Think about something else. 'Nothing's changed. I'm not an Imager. I don't understand anything. Master Eremis is the only one who can save Mordant.'

The words trailed away. If he were still alive-He was right behind her when the champion emerged. Wasn't he? What if the collapse of the ceiling caught him? What if he were dead? A pang made her twitch against the press of stone. The ridge across her back settled closer to her.

'Master Eremis.' Somehow, Geraden managed a snort. 'You think he can save Mordant? If you can make me believe that, you don't need Imagery. You're powerful enough already.'

She bit her lips to keep from crying out, I can't stand it!

When she didn't respond, he changed his approach. 'Maybe you should tell me the stuff that was supposed to get me killed. I want to understand'-he seemed to be gritting his teeth-'why you trust Master Eremis.'

'All right.' I can't! You can. His voice was the only thing that kept the rock from breaking her apart.

With a clench of will, she fought to push the pain and the dust out of her mind, the close heat, the immuring weight of the stone. To take their place, she fixed her attention on images of Geraden -the line of his cheek, the way his hair curled above his forehead (the blood trickling from his temple, the way Master Gilbur hit him, that good face smashed under the rubble, no! not that, don't think about things like that), the quick potential for happiness and misery in his eyes. He was the reason she couldn't fail, couldn't fade. Picturing him helped her remember the things he wanted to know.

Her account was erratic, filtered and altered by the press of rock. Nevertheless she told him everything as well as she could. She related what he had already surmised about the decision of the Congery to translate its champion, as well as to send Master Eremis and Master Gilbur to a meeting with the lords of the Cares. Master Eremis had arranged that meeting, but had opposed the translation of the champion. Master Quillon was the one who had warned her not to talk to Geraden. You can. The meeting and its outcome. What

she could remember about Prince Kragen. The attack of the man in black.

When she was done, she held her breath for a moment, hoping that would ease the pressure in her chest. But it didn't.

Geraden's reaction surprised her. Sounding even more distant and forlorn, he murmured, 'So Quillon's a traitor.'

'What do you mean?'

'He warned you not to talk to me because he knew I would tell King Joyse about that meeting. And about the champion.'

'No.' The dust was turning to stone in her lungs. She couldn't maintain her equilibrium, could not-'If you put it that way, all the Masters are traitors. They voted for the champion and the meeting. Master Quillon is just more loyal to them than to King Joyse. And he's been trying to keep you alive.'

Geraden, help me.

He considered for a while. There has to be a traitor on the Congery.' The pain in his voice was growing stronger. The man who attacked you had to know where you were going to be. That leaves out the lords and Prince Kragen.

'Ah!' he groaned sharply,

A moment later, however, he continued, 'Even if Eremis told them he was going to bring you, none of them knew you existed when you were attacked for the first time. Only the Congery- And for that man to just disappear-It takes Imagery. Some Master wants you dead. He knows you're the only one who can save Mordant.

'If it isn't Quillon, it must be Eremis.'

'No,' she said again. That isn't what I meant. You don't understand. I need him. The rubble shifted again. She thought she could feel her ribs starting to give. I need him to teach me who I am.

On the other hand, the air seemed to be cooling. That was one small blessing, at any rate.

'He's trying to save Mordant. Can't you see that? He's trying to make alliances. Find ways to fight. Because King Joyse won't.'

'No, I don't see that,' Geraden replied distantly. 'Don't you think it was odd for him to take you to that meeting? You didn't know he was going to do that. How could the man who attacked you know? And why did he rush off and leave you? Maybe he went to use the mirrors so that man could appear and disappear.'

'No. No.' You don't understand. Pressure. Dust. I put on the sexiest gown I could find and went to his rooms by myself. Come on-think about it. 'You aren't being fair. You were with him this morning. When he came to get me. You saw the way he behaved. He didn't know I was attacked.

'It had to be set up in advance. How could he know how the meeting was going to turn out? He wanted it to succeed. He certainly didn't sabotage it.'

The Fayle was there,' Geraden muttered. 'He wouldn't have anything to do with illicit Imagery. Everybody knows that.'

She wasn't listening. Her concentration was focused on what she was trying to say. It was important-she knew it was important. You can. If she survived this-and Master Eremis survived it-she had to talk to him right away. He needed to know there was a traitor on the Congery. 'And how could he know where King Joyse would put me? The first attack had to be set up in advance, too. But none of the Masters knew you were going to find me instead of the champion.'

Geraden coughed thinly. Then she heard him gagging.

Instantly, everything else rushed out of her head. He was being crushed. 'Geraden! Are you all right? What's wrong?'

For a time, he didn't answer. She saw him in her mind, dangling from Master Gilbur's grasp, falling, always falling, his head a smear of blood and splinters of bone. Again she struggled crazily, helplessly to move.

'Geraden.'

Tin sorry.' To her amazed relief, he sounded better. 'I didn't mean to scare you. The rock keeps shifting. It came down harder on my throat for a while. Are you having an easier time breathing?'

At first, she had no idea what he meant. If anything, the dust was thicker than ever. But then she realized that the air had become cooler-noticeably cooler than the rubble piled around her. It was almost cold.

They're coming,' he said. 'They're going to rescue us. We're going to be rescued.'

Unable to control herself, Terisa burst into tears.

It seemed to take forever. Then it happened all at once. The air grew colder and colder, cooling the rocks, cooling the desperate pressure in her lungs; but there was no other change except an increase in the shifting. That nearly pushed her into panic: every subtle movement threatened to break the bones of her back. She couldn't keep from sobbing. Nevertheless Geraden's nearness helped her. And she knew how to hang on when every part of her seemed to be fading.

And suddenly the weight on her simply vanished as though it were no longer real. She heard voices; more stone vanished. Hands came scrabbling through the debris to grab her arms with alarmed roughness and haul her upright.

She was still crying, but the tears washed the grit out of her eyes. She got her vision back in time to see Artagel pull Geraden out from under the place where she had been lying.

Master Quillon held her. 'Are you all right, my lady?' He seemed to be weeping himself. 'Are you all right?' His concern sounded as wonderful as the grip of his arms, and the cold, open air full of snow, and the freedom to move.

Geraden clung to his brother and coughed as if his lungs were torn. Yet he was breathing. Nothing about him looked crushed. Dust hid the traces of blood on his temple.

Falling snow made the air as dim as twilight; but she could discern what was left of the Congery's meeting-hall. Beyond the shattered stumps of the pillars, the doors were open. Enormous quantities of broken stone still covered the floor. At least a dozen Masters-and many guards with shovels, picks, and crowbars- stood holding mirrors among the debris.

She caught a glimpse of Master Eremis; then he strode away as if he were in a hurry.

Abruptly, Artagel shouted, 'We did it!' and the guards dropped their tools and started cheering.

'It was a terrible mistake,' muttered Master Barsonage. Behind the dust caking his face, his eyes were red with weariness. He gripped a tall mirror that she recognized-the glass with the reflected seascape. The mediator's shoulders shook in exhaustion. 'We should never have risked that champion. We were all mad. Castellan Lebbick has fifty men chasing him, but I doubt that they will be enough. Still, we have been luckier than we

deserve. We have lost only two Masters.' He named men she didn't know. 'And you are alive.'

'Please forgive us, my lady,' he finished unsteadily. 'We were stupid-but we did not mean you harm.'

Geraden rubbed a cloud of dust from his hair. 'Tell that to Master Gilbur.' He was smiling. 'If he hit me any harder, he would have broken my neck.' But he seemed unable to keep his eyes in focus. 'With your permission, my lady,' he said to Terisa, 'I think I'll lie down for a while.'

Smoothly, as though it were the most graceful thing he had ever done, he fainted in Artagel's grasp.

There was a gaping breach in the ceiling of the chamber, and that section of the level above it had been gutted; but the worst damage was off to the side, where the champion had burned his way up and out through the wall. Snow whirled inward on an eddying wind. It was falling heavily enough to gather in Master Quillon's hair and form clumps on the mediator's wide shoulders.

Geraden believed that she was going to save Mordant.

When she looked up into the snow, she thought she heard the distant thrill of horns.