The Door Into Shadow

THE DOOR INTO SHADOW

DIANE
THE DOOR into shadow
DUANE
The Wound is healed by the sword that deals it;
the heart is knit
by the pain that breaks it;
the life is made whole
by the death that starts it;
the death is made whole
by the life that ends it. (Hamartics, 186)
Four lands hemmed in by mountain and waste and the Sea — those were the Middle Kingdoms: and the greatest of them, Arlen and Darthen, were in peril of destruction. For seven years Arlen's throne had been empty of the royalty needed to keep the land fertile and the people at peace. And Darthen suffered as a result of Arlen's lack, for the Two Lands were bound together by oaths of friendship and by joint maintenance of the royal sorceries that kept their lands safe from the ever-present menace of the Shadow.
In those days there appeared a man with the blue Fire — not just the spark of Flame that every man and woman possesses, but enough to channel and use to change the world around him. His lover was the child of Arlen's last king, heir to his usurped throne. In the Firebearer's relationship to Freelorn, King Ferrant's son, many later saw the Goddess's hand. She had been working quietly, so as not to alarm Her old adversary the Shadow. Her hand seemed visible elsewhere too. Freelorn had taken com-panions with him into his exile. They lived as outlaws and bandits, stealing what they

needed when they had to — though none of their hearts were in it. One of them in particular would certainly have been elsewhere, if she had had a choice. Swordswoman and sorcer-ess, trained in the Silent Precincts and in every other place in the Kingdoms that dealt in the use and mastery of the blue Fire that some women bear, Segnbora d'Welcaen tai-Enraesi was a spectacu-lar and expensive failure. She had the Fire in prodigious quantity, and couldn't focus it. On her way home from one more school that couldn't do anything for her, chance threw her together with Free-lorn's people one night. Bitterly frustrated with what seemed a wasted life, desperately needing something useful to do, Segnbora swore fealty that night to the rightful heir of the Arlene throne, and fled with him and his people into the eastern Waste where Free-lorn's loved, Herewiss, awaited him.
The children of House tai-Enraesi traditionally had a talent for getting themselves into dangerous situations. There in the Waste, in an ancient pile built by no human hand — a fortress rising gray and bizarre out of the empty land, skewed and blind-walled and omi-nous—s he started wondering whether even the tai-Enraesi luck would do her any good. There were stories about this place, about soul-eating monsters that guarded innumerable doors into Other-wheres. Even the mildest of the stories were gruesome. Fear gripped her, but her oath gripped her harder. She stayed with Freelorn and his people.
And there in the Hold, fulfilling her fears, the stories she had heard came true — even the one of how nothing good would come out of this terrible place until (ridiculous improbability) a male should focus his Fire.
On the night Herewiss declared his intention to use his newly gained Fire to replace Freelorn on his throne, Segnbora lay in the darkness and considered the old rede that spoke of her family's luck. That luck would run out some day, when the last of her line died by his or her own hand, in a time of ice and darkness. But that hardly had anything to do with her. She wasn't the last of the tai-Enraesi, and anyway her luck was holding splendidly. She would be riding out of here with three good friends, a sometime lover, a prince about to retake his throne, a fire elemental, and the first man in a thousand years to focus his Fire. So maybe, maybe just this once, everything was going to turn out all right. .
One
Sirronde stared at the Goddess. "Are You saying, then, that You were wrong to make heroes?" "Indeed not," She said. "But I should have warned them— if you save the world too often, it starts to expect it."
Tales of the Darthene South, book iv, 29

When she was studying in the Silent Precincts, the Rodmis-tresses had warned her: If you're going to look for meaning in a dream, first make sure it's your own. Any sensitive is most sensitive in her sleep; and others' dreams can draw you in and fool you. Now, therefore, Segnbora held quite still in her sleep so as not to disturb whoever else was dreaming the landscape into which she had stumbled. It wasn't often, after all, that one was privileged to see the Universe being created. The Maiden was working, as She always is, while the other two Persons of the Goddess, the Mother and the Eldest, looked on. Young and fair and preoccupied was the Maiden, as She worked elbow— deep in stars and flesh and dirt. She was so delighted with the wild diversity of Her creation that She never noticed the Mother and the Eldest desperately trying to get Her attention. They saw what she did not: the shapeless, lurking hunger that hid in the darkness at the Universe's borders.
Finally the Maiden, satisfied that Her world was complete, cried out the irrevocable Word that started life running on its own and sealed the Universe against any subtractions. And the instant She had done so, Death stood up from where it had been hiding, and laughed at Her.
She had locked the doors of the world, and had locked Death in. Slowly it would suck the Universe dry of life, and She could not prevent it. Nor could She prevent Death's dark-ness from casting shadows sideways from Her light — rogue aspects of Her, darksides, bent on destroying more swiftly what was already doomed. The Maiden was grief-stricken, and took counsel with Her otherselves to find some way to
combat death. Among Them, They invented first the heart's love, and then the body's — lying down together in the manner of woman with woman, and becoming with child.
The Maiden, becoming the Mother now, brought forth twins — sons, or daughters, or daughter and son; the ambiva-lence of the dream made the Firstborn seem all of these at once. Swiftly They grew, and discovered Love in Their Mother's arms — then turned to one another and discovered it anew. But in the midst of Their bliss, surrounded by the blue Fire that was Their Mother's gift and Their pride, the Death stood up again. It entered one of the Lovers and taught that one jealousy.
The shadowed Lover slew the innocent One — and in the same act destroyed Its own Fire, which had been bound by love to the Other's. Cursing, the Dark Lover fled in a rage into the outer darkness, where It would reenact Its murder and loss and bereavement for as long as the Universe should last. It was not a Lover anymore, but the Shadow.
In the dream Segnbora wept, knowing all along what was going to happen. She knew that mortals would be reenacting this tragedy in their own lives forever. The dream broke, then, and gradually re-formed as an image in water does when a stone is. thrown in, She saw a scene skewed sideways, as if her head rested on someone's shoulder. Much of the great room where she stood was dark, but in her hand — which had become a man's hand — she held a core of blinding white light, wreathed all about with flames as blue as summer

sky. Herewiss, she realized. Last night.
His weariness was so terrible he could barely stand. He had banished the hralcins, the soul-eaters, yet he was too tired to exult in. the focus he had forged, — the unfinished sword he would call Khavrinen. He was the first man in a thousand years to focus the Fire, and, he knew what, difficulties lay ahead. The Shadow would, not long tolerate him, or any man who enjoyed the Power It, had cast. away. It would deal with him quickly; before the Goddess had time, through him, to consolidate newly regained, ground. We must move man quickly, then, the dream said. For look wha
the Shadow has planned. Segnbora shuddered in her sleep at the sight of a whole valley suddenly buried under mountains that had formerly stood above it. Dead, a voice said soundlessly. She's dead. Snow whirled wildly down onto a battlefield, turn-ing red as soon as it fell. Monsters gnawed the dead. Else-where a wave of blackness came rolling down out of murky heights, crashed down onto a leaping, threatening fire, and smothered it.
The air was thick with the feel of ancient sorceries falling apart, fraying. Grass forgot how to grow. Grain rotted on the stalk and fruit on the bough. Plague downed beasts and peo-ple alike, leaving their blackened corpses to lie splitting in the sun. Even the scavenger birds sickened and died of what they «ate. It was happening. The royal magics were failing. If they weakened enough to let the Shadow fully into this world, into Bluepeak, this was what would happen.
The soundless voice of the dream spoke urgently. Freelorn must see to the Royal Bindings quickly. This is his job, he's the Lion's Child and heir to Arlen. Go with him, Herewiss, in the full of your Power. Use the Fire to the utmost. He'll need assistance.
But I just got the Fire, Herewiss said, terrified. It takes time to master it. There is no time. What must be done needs doing now. The Other is coming.
And she could feel it, that throbbing of hatred in the back-ground, getting stronger by the minute. As she watched, the sky grew dark. The snow blasted about them, in that place to which they would have to go to reinforce the Royal Bindings. Herewiss's Fire, for so long a blaze within him, was now faint under a blanket of oppressive power. Just in front of him, Freelorn started to stand up. The whole dream focused then on the sight of Freelorn's back, with a three-barbed, razor-sharp Reaver arrow standing out of it.
Sagging, Lorn sunk back slowly against Herewiss. Then there was a deeper darkness, and the two of them stood to-gether before a Door in which burned the stars that would never go out. Freelorn, his face in shadow, was pulling his hand gently out of Herewiss's grasp, turning away toward death's Door. .
No!
Do what you must to come to the full of your Power. There's no time! Her voice was almost frightened. Herewiss had never be-lieved She could sound that way. But if I do — and we get there — then Lorn— It must not be prevented. But—
You must not attempt to prevent it! /— Hurry! NO!!
The scream tore through her throat as she sat bolt upright in the bedroll, sweating — still seeing against the darkness the long ruinous fall of an entire mountain, still hearing the crash of it, first note in a song of disaster.
In the great main hall of the old Hold, people fumbled frantically for their swords — the memory of the hralcins' sud-den arrival the night

before was very fresh. The fire in the firepit rose up too, putting several broad curves of flame over the edge and leaning anxiously out to see what was the mat-ter. As a fire elemental, Sunspark had not had much experi-ence with fear, but after last night it was apparently taking no chances.
Segnbora lifted a hand to her pounding head and found that she was holding her sword, Charriselm. Evidently she had drawn it while she was still half-sleeping. Beside her in the bedroll, blond Lang was still blanket-wrapped, but neverthe-less he had found his graceknife in a hurry. Lying propped on one elbow with the knife in one ham of a hand, he blinked at her like an anxious owl. A few feet away, big swarthy Dritt and lanky Moris were sitting up back to back, looking as panicked as Segnbora felt. On the other side of the firepit, Harald was attempting simultaneously to string his bow and brush the brown hair out of his eyes. All of these looked at Segnbora as if they thought she was crazy. "A bad dream?" Lang said.
She nodded, sliding Charriselm back into its sheath and looking across the room toward the firepit and the bedrolls laid down there.
Herewiss was sitting up, bracing himself with one hand, rubbing his eyes with the other. He took the hand away from his face, and Segnbora was shocked to see his terrified expres-sion. Lorn was holding Herewiss tight and peering worriedly into his face. Under other circumstances it could have been a touching and humorous sight — the little, dark-mustachioed, fierce-eyed man comforting someone who, judged by his slim hard build and shoulder musculature, might have been the village blacksmith.
"Are you all right? What happened?" "It was a dream," Herewiss said, his voice anguished. "Shh, it's all right." "No, it's not." Herewiss rubbed his eyes again, then glanced around him with frightened determination. He started searching in the blankets for his clothes. "We've got to go." "What?"
"We have to hurry."
Herewiss grabbed one bunched-up blanket and impatiently shook it. A sword fell out and clattered to the floor — a hand-and-a-half broadsword of gray steel that would have seemed of ordinary make except for the odd blue sheen about it. He reached out for it, and at his touch his Power ran down the blade: blinding blue Fire, twisting and flurrying about as if in bright reflection of his distress.
"It was — there was — the mountain fell down, just like that. And there were thousands of Fyrd, and bigger monsters too — and a wave came down over everything, and Sunspark went out — " (I did not!)
"Loved, slow down so I can understand what the Dark you're talking about — "
"So much for a whole night's sleep," Lang muttered under his breath. Putting his knife away under the rolled-up cloak that was serving them as pillow, he lay down again. "Wake me up when they're finished?" "If necessary," Segnbora said, rubbing his shoulder ab-sently. The gesture was more for her comfort than for his. Her underhearing was wide awake, bringing her the hot coppery blood-taste of Herewiss's fright as if it were her own. Herewiss was talking fast. He had yanked a shirt out of the blankets and was struggling into it, while in his lap Khavrinen kept on blazing like a torch.
"It's angry as anything," he was saying. "And It's going to work the worst mischief It can, by putting pressure on the Royal Bindings that have been keeping It in check." He started feeling around for his britches. "For seven years no one's reinforced the Arlene half of those Bindings, and they're wearing thin—"
Freelorn glanced away from Herewiss. Segnbora put her hands behind her and leaned back, closing her eyes and brac-ing herself against

the gut-punch of grief and anger she knew would come from Lorn. When his father had died on the throne, and the Minister of the Exchequer, Cillmod, had taken the opportunity to seize power, Freelorn had fled for his life with a price on his head. Now Lorn would wonder again whether staying in Arlen to see to the bindings, and possibly getting killed as a result, might not have been the more noble course.
It was an old midnight pain that Segnbora had come to know as well as the arthritis in Harald's right knee, or Drill's self-consciousness about his weight. Indeed, no Precinct-trained sensitive could have helped underhearing her sur-roundings as Segnbora did. It was the gift she would have been happiest to lose when she gave up her studies. She had enough trouble dealing with her own pains. Those of others were an unwelcome burden.
"Lorn, enough," Herewiss said, catching Freelorn's an-guish himself. "The fact remains that if the Shadow leans Its full strength against the Bluepeak bindings, we're done for. The Kingdoms will founder. I saw the southern passes full of Reaver armies. And the plains full of Fyrd. There were storms and earthquakes, and where the earth opened a whole town fell in. And that cliff at Bluepeak—" Herewiss broke off. Freelorn, still holding him close, looked puzzled. "But it was just a dream!*'' "Oh no," Herewiss said, shaking his head emphalically. "I saw."
"He's dreaming true," Segnbora said quietly. Freelorn's frightened eyes flicked to her. "He's focused now," she said hurriedly. "It's to be ex-pected."
"What about the cliff?" Freelorn said to Herewiss. Herewiss closed his eyes and sagged back on his heels, looking tired. "It was snowing—"
"A month and a half before Midsummer's? You call that dreaming true?"
Segnbora held her face still as Herewiss saw again that image of Freelorn turning away from him, away from love and life toward death.
"Lorn," Herewiss said. "I was shown a lot of things. I don't know what they all meant. I don't think most of them have happened yet. But some of them will, unless they're prevented." He swallowed hard. "I have to assist in the pro-cess. I was given all this Power. Now it has to be used, fully, and I won't be able to to take my time about its mastery, either."
Freelorn looked askance at his loved, getting an idea and not liking it. "But what other way is there, but to work into your Power slowly?" "The Morrowfane, Lorn."
Freelorn looked grim. "I've done a little reading on the subject," he said.
It was a great understatement, for among the responsibili-ties of a throne prince of Arlen was the curatorship of rr'Virendir, the Arlene royal library, and that meant intimate knowledge of nearly every extant writing dealing with both mundane sorcery and more elevated matters of Power.
"All the sources say you can't go up there without coming down changed—"
(What's the problem with that?) Sunspark said from the firepit. The reaction was understandable; change was a fire elemental's chief delight. (Just yesterday Herewiss changed— quite a bit — and you didn't mind.)
Lorn glanced with annoyance at Sunspark, and the elemen-tal threw back a smug feeling. During the time Herewiss had spent in the Hold forging Kheivrinen, Sunspark had come to.
be his loved too. Lorn, not yet at peace with the situation, was still subject to occasional twinges of jealousy.
"I don't mean shapechanges," Lorn said with exaggerated patience. "Soul-changes. Great alterations in personality. Madness and other brands of sanity that human beings don't usually survive."
"The change needn't be harmful," Herewiss put in. "Re-member, the place is a great repository of Flame. All the legends agree on that. Those who climb the Fane are given what's needed to do what they must do in a life."

"Then why do so few people go up it?" "For one thing, you need focused Fire, and enough of it to keep the Power of the place from blasting you," Herewiss explained. "For another, very few people want what they need. . Lorn, listen. This is necessary. It's part of getting you back on your throne. If we don't get to Bluepeak by Midyear's Eve, so that you can aid in restoring the bindings, there won't be a country left for you to rule." "But I was never Initiated into the Mysteries. If I had been, we wouldn't have these problems — I'd be King, and that slimy bastard Cillmod would be out looking for a situation."
"True, but you know the royal rites, don't you? You have to do it." "Who says?"
"Whom do you think?" Herewiss said, very gently. "When you dream true, Whom do you think sends the dream?" Lorn held very still, and most of the fierceness faded out of his eyes. "There's another problem. You know the money I removed from the Arlene treasury in Osta? Well, Bluepeak's in Arlen too. Cillmod's probably pretty annoyed about that missing money, and if we go back to Arlen so soon, and he hears about it. … " Herewiss said nothing.
After a moment or two, Freelorn shrugged. "Oh, what the Dark! If the Reavers and the Shadow are going to come down on Arlen, Cillmod hardly matters. I suppose I have no choice anyway. I swore that damn Oath when I was little. 'Darthen's House and Arlen's Hall—' " " '—share their feast and share their fall,' " Herewiss finished. "If Arlen goes, so does Darthen. And after them Steldin, North Arlen, the Brightwood. …"
Freelorn laughed, but without merriment. "Why am I even worried about Cillmod at all? The Shadow is a far greater danger. It can't afford to leave you alive now, can It? You're the embodiment of the old days before the Catastrophe, when males had the Power. The time of Its decline. . "
Herewiss shook his head and smiled, an expression more of grim agreement than of reassurance. "We'll both be careful," he said. "That is, if you're coming with me?. ."
Reaching down, Freelorn gently freed one of Herewiss's hands from Khavrinen's hilt, and held the hand between his own. "No more dividing our forces," he said. "From now.until it's done, we go together."
Herewiss held his peace and didn't change expression. Segnbora had to drop her eyes, seeing again that image of one hand that let go of another's, the face that turned away.
All at once Freelorn was thumping on the floor for atten-tion. "Listen, people—"
Segnbora nudged Lang. He rolled over under his covers. "Whatever you say, Lorn, I'll do it," he said, and pulled the blanket back over his head.
"There's a man who follows his liege oaths too well," Free-lorn said with a grimace of affectionate disgust. "On his own head be it. But for the rest of you — I can't in good conscience ask you to go on this trip. The Shadow—"
"The Shadow can go swive with sheep for all I care," Moris said with one of his slow grins. "I haven't come this far with you to stop now." "Me either," Harald said, stubbornly folding his huge bear's arms.
"You're not listening," Freelorn said, in great earnest. "Your oaths are a matter of friendship and I love you for them. But it's not just Cillmod we're playing with now. It's the Shadow. Your souls are at stake—"
"The things that were in here last night ate souls too," Dritt said calmly, putting his chin down on his arms. "Herewiss did for them all right."
(I helped,) said the voiceless voice from the firepit. Eyes

THE DOOR INTO SHADOW
looked out of the flames at the company, then came to rest with calm interest on Freelorn. (I'm coming too.)
The building rumble of irritation in the room, combined with so much unspoken affection, was making Segnbora's head ache; the walls of this place, opaque to thought, bounced the emotions back and forth until the undersenses were deaf-ened by echoes. "Look," she said, shaking free of her own blankets. "If we've got to get an early start in the morning—" She glanced at Herewiss. " — it can wait until morning?" "I suppose so,"he said.
"Good. Then I want some sleep. But if this argument keeps up any longer I'll have to sleep outside." She went over to Freelorn in her shift and offered him Charriselm hilt-first, about an inch from his nose. "Do you seriously want your oath back?" she said. "That whole 'my— lordship-shall-be-between-you-and-the-Shadow-while-in-my-service' busi-ness?" Lorn glared up at her, fierce eyes going fiercer. 'Wo/Are you crazy? What makes you think I'd—"
"What makes you think we would?" Freelorn held absolutely still. His anger churned wildly for a moment, then fell off, leaving reluctant acceptance in its place. "Good night, Lorn," Segnbora said, and went back to her bedroll. She was careful not to smile until her back was turned. Sunspark pulled itself back down into the firepit, and soon the darkness of the hall held no sound but Harald's cloak-muffled snoring. It took Segnbora a little while to get enough of the blankets unwrapped from around Lang to cover herself. That done, she lay on her back for a long while, gazing up at the smoke-shaft in the ceiling, through which a few unfamiliar stars shone. Her underhearing, sharpened by all the excitement, brought her the faint dream-touched emotions of those fall-ing asleep, and the physical sensations of those asleep already — breathing, the slide of muscles, muted pulse-thunder. It 5 a gift, she told herself for the thousandth time. Truth,
however, reared its head. It was a nuisance. If her Fire was focused, as Herewiss's was, she wouldn't be having this prob-lem. . If. She exhaled sharply at her useless obsession with what she couldn't have. It wasn't focused. It would never be. She had given up. Other things had become more important now. Oaths, for example. .
It had been a long time ago. All of a month, she thought— a busy month full of desperate rides, escapes, sorcery, terror, wonder. All started by a chance meeting in a smelly alley, when she had stumbled on a dark fierce little man losing a swordfight to the crude but powerful axework of a Royal Steldene guard. The small man looked as if he was about to be split like kindling. She had intervened. The guardsman never saw the shadow who stepped in from behind.
Over the course of the evening, she found she had rescued family; though the tai-Enraesi were only a small poor cadet branch of the Darthene royal line, and strangers to court, the Oath of Lion and Eagle was binding on them too, and a king's son of Arlen was therefore a brother.
The relationship got more complex with time, however. On the road Segnbora had shared herself with Freelorn, as she sometimes did with the others, for delight or consolation. But before that, more importantly, came friendship and the oaths. Before Maiden and Bride and Mother I swear it, before the Lovers in Their power, and in the Dark One's despite: My sword will be between you and the Shadow until you pass the Door into Starlight. She exhaled quietly. Her determination was set. There has to be a way. There has to. You 're not going to get him. .
After a while, as she lay at last near the brink of sleep, Segnbora sensed something shining. She opened one eye. Across the room sat a form sculpted of darkness and deep blue radiance — Herewiss, cross-legged, shoulders hunched wearily as he gazed down at the sleeping Freelorn. Across his lap lay his sword, wrapped about with curling flames the color of a twilight burning low. She lay unmoving, and regarded him. Eventually the
thought came, tasting as if it had been soaked in tears and wrung out.
(You know, don't you.)
(Yes.) She felt sorrow still, and now a touch of embarrass-ment. (Sorry. You know how it is with dreams.) (No matter. I've been in a few others' dreams myself.) (The scales are even, then.)
He nodded. Herewiss didn't look up, but his attention was fixed so intensely upon her that no stare could have been more discomfiting. (You understand what you're getting into?) he said. (It may not be just Lorn heading for that Door. Probably me too. Maybe all of us will have to die so the Kingdoms can go on living.)
(Those who defeat the Shadow,) Segnbora said silently, (usually die of it. It's in all the stories.) (Defeat!) Now he raised his head. His look was pained at first, then incredulous.
(I love him too,) she said. (You're as crazy as the rest of us,) Herewiss said. The thought was sour, but there was a thread of amusement on it like the bright edge of a knife.,{
He threw her a quick image of herself as she had been the night before, when the air in the hall had been full of the stink of hralcins. As the monsters had come shambling across the floor toward them she had stood, driven to the brink of panic, unable to do even the smallest sorcery. Hands upheld, shak-ing all over, she cowered before the advancing, screaming horrors and made blinding light — a byproduct of her blocked Fire — until even that guttered out and left her exhausted.
Segnbora bit the inside of her cheek, annoyed even though Herewiss had been compassionate afterward.
(What we're facing,) he said with gentle sarcasm, (is the father of those things, and worse — the Maker of Enmities, the engenderer of the shadows at the bottoms of our hearts, Who can overturn the world in fire and storm. You have some new defense that you've come up with since last night? A strategy sufficient to stop a being so powerful that to be rid of it the Goddess Herself can only let the Universe run down and die?)
(I plan to win,) she said. (What are you going to do?) He looked across the room at her for a while, still not moving. (I'm glad you're here,) he said finally. (I can't tell Aim about this—) A quick thought, a flicker of the shape of an arrowhead, passed between them. (I hope you won't either.) (Of course not.)
He straightened, laid Khavrinen aside. Away from its source, the Fire in the blade died down to the merest glow. Only in his hands did a little Flame remain burning. Looking down at Freelorn, Herewiss absently began to pour it from hand to hand. Like burning water it flowed, the essence of life, the stuff of shapechanges and mastery of elements and magics of the heart, the Goddess's gift to the Lovers and to human-kind, the Power that founded the world, that the Shadow had lost and caused men to lose.
And there's nothing It haf rs more, Segnbora thought to herself. Though love probably comes close. She closed her eyes to the light of Herewiss*s hands, shud-dered, and went to sleep.
TWO
… ere the Dark could spredde so far as to kyll all Powre and thought… there fled to Lake Rilthor that was holie, the men and wQimyn gretest of Fire att that time. And of theyre greate might and Powyre, that those whoo came after the Darke should learn agayn the wrekings of those auncient daies, those Wommen and Men did drive their Flame down intoo the mount at the talk's heart; and all dyed there, that Fyre might bee spared from the Danrk for those to comm after. Therefore it ys called Morrow-fane,
(Of the Dayes of Travaile, ms. xix, in rr'Virendir, Prydon)
In the long west-reaching shadow of the glittering gray walls that rose a hundred fathoms high, fourteen figures stood: seven riders, and six horses, and a creature that looked like a blood-bay stallion, but wasn't. Dawn was barely over, and the morning was still cool. The vast expanses of the Waste all around — sand and rubble and salt pans — was sharp and bright in the crisp air. But behind them the Hold from which they had departed wavered and shimmered uncannily, as if in the heat of noon. "Be glad to be out of here," Lang muttered from beside Segnbora.
She nodded, yanking absently at her mare Steelsheen's reins to keep her from biting Lang's dapplegray, Gyrfalcon. The Hold unnerved her too. The Old People from whom the humans of the Middle Kingdoms were descended had wrought with their Fire on an awesome scale. Within those slick and jointless towering walls, odd buildings reared up: skewed towers, blind of windows; stairs that started in midair and went nowhere; steps staggered in such a way as to suggest that the builders had more legs than humans; more rooms inside the inner buildings than their outer walls could possi-bly contain.
And worst of all, or best, the place was full of doors— entrances into other worlds. Likewise, there were entrances to other places in this world, and doors into areas not even classifiable as worlds or places. People could go out those doors and return. People, or things, could come in them, as the hralcins had. Segnbora shuddered. "You sure you can pull this off?" Freelorn was saying nerv-ously to Herewiss.

"Mmmph," Herewiss said. He was standing with Khavrinen unsheathed, and seemed to be minutely examining a patch of empty air three feet in front of him. The Fire that ran down from his hand flooded the length of Khavrinen, leaping out from it in quick tongues that stretched out and snapped back, reflecting his concentration.
Behind Herewiss, Sunspark extended its magnificent head to nibble teasingly at the sleeve of Freelorn's surcoat, leaving singed places where it bit. (You have to be careful, doing worldgating inside a world,) it said, sounding smug. (Don't distract him.) Freelorn smacked the elemental's pose away and got a scorched hand for his pains. "He could have used one of the doors in the Hold. Now he's got to use his Flame—"
(It's simpler doing it yourself,) Sunspark said. It knew about such things, having been a traveller among worlds before love had bound it to Herewiss's service. (Those doors are com-plex; it would have taken quite a while to figure them out. Don't complain.) "I'm not."
Segnbora felt like laughing, but restrained herself. Sun-spark had done perhaps more than any of them to save their lives two nights before, holding the hralcins off until Herewiss could break through into his Flame. It had done so specifically because it knew Herewiss loved Freelorn and would have been in anguish if he died. But Sunspark seemed determined not to admit his motives to Lorn — and Freelorn, if he knew, was at best ambivalent about them.
Herewiss was now scowling at the air he had been examin-ing, or whatever lay beyond it. It was dangerous, this business of opening doors to go from one place to another. Gates, when opened, tended to tear as wide as they could. A person doing a wreaking had to maintain complete control, or risk ending up in a world that looked exactly like the one he wanted to journey in, but with minor differences — a differing past or future, say, or familiar people missing.
Segnbora was not happy that one man was trying to pull off a gating by himself, and in such an unprotected place. All her previous experiences with worldgates had been in the Silent Precincts, where safe-wreakings bound every leaf
about the Forest Altars. Always there had been ten or twenty senior Rodmistresses on call to assist if there was trouble, and never had a gate been held open long enough for so many to pass through. She hoped Herewiss knew what he was doing. . Herewiss didn't move, but from where Khavrinen's point rested against the ground, a sudden runnel of blue Fire un-coiled like a snake and shot out across the sand. It put down swift roots to anchor itself, then leaped upward into the air. The atmosphere prickled with ruthlessly constrained Power as the line of blue light described a large doorway as tall as Herewiss and equally as wide. When the frame was complete the Fire ran back along its doorsill and reached upward again, this time branching out like ivy on an unseen trellis, filling the doorway with a network that steadily grew more complex. In a few breaths' time the door became one solid, pulsing panel of blue. Sweat stood on Herewiss's face. "Now," he said, still un-moving.
The blue winked out, all but the outline. From beyond the door a wet-smelling wind struck out and smote them all in the face. Lake Rilthor, their destination, lay in the lowlands, a thousand feet closer to sea level than the Waste. Through the door Segnbora saw green grass, and a soft rolling meadow leading down toward a silver-hazed lake, within which a hill was half-hidden. "Go on," Herewiss said, and his voice sounded strained. "Don't take all day."
They led their horses through as quickly as they could, though not as quickly as they wanted to, for without exception the horses tried to put their heads down to graze as soon as they passed the doorway, and had to be pulled onward to let the others through. At last Segnbora was able to pull through the reluctant Steelsheen. She was followed closely by Here-wiss and Sunspark, behind whom the door winked out with a very audible slam of sealed-in air.
Segnbora turned to compliment Herewiss and found him half-collapsed over Sunspark's back, with Freelorn support-ing him anxiously from
THE DOOR INTO SHADOW
one side. He looked like a man who
had just run a race; his breath went in and out in great racking gasps, and his face was nearly gray. "I thought there would be no more backlash once you got your Fire!" Freelorn said.
Herewiss rolled his head from side to side on the saddle, unable for several moments to find enough breath with which to reply. "Different," he said, "different problem," and began to cough.
Freelorn pounded his back ineffectually while Segnbora and the others looked on.
When the coughing subsided, Herewiss rested his head on the saddle again, still gasping, " — open too wide," he said. "What? The gate?" "No. Me."
Confused, Freelorn looked at Segnbora. "Do you know what he's talking about?"
She nodded. '*In a worldgating, the gate isn't really the physical shape you see. The gate is in your mind — the 'door' shape is just a physical expression of it. When you open a gate, you're actually throwing your soul wide open. Anything can get. out. And anything can get in. It's not pleasant."
"*I can't hear anything,'1 ' Dritt muttered, wondering what all the discussion was about.
"Swallow,"Herewiss said. "Your ears'11 pop." At last, his strength returning, he looked around with satisfaction. "You're better than I am with distances, Lorn. How far from Lake Rilthor would you say we are?" Freelorn shaded his eyes, looking first at the Sun to orient himself. "It's lower—"
"Of course. We're sixty leagues west." Freelorn looked southwest toward the lake, and to the mist-girdled peak rising from its waters. "Four miles, I'd say." "That's about what I wanted,"Herewiss said, pleased. "Not bad for a first gating."'
"It's so quiet," Harald said,, looking around suspiciously. "It's a holy place/" said Moris, unruffled and matter-of-fact as always.
Segnbora looked around at the silent green country, agree-ing, opening out her undersemes to the affect of this place.
Like most fanes or groves or great altars, Morrowfane had a feeling as if Someone was watching — Someone who would only speak using the heart's own voice. Yet the feeling was less personified, more awesome, than any she had ex-perienced before. Above everything hung a waiting silence like the one when the hawk sails high and no bird sings. Below the silence was a slow, steady throbbing of incalculable power, as if the world's heart beat nearby. A ruthless benevo-lence slept at the center of Lake Rilthor, she sensed, and slept lightly. It was no wonder that there wasn't a town or a farm or even a sheepfold for miles around.