Faris pressed her grimy fingers against the cold glass. What else belonged in the rift? She groped hastily after shreds of the rift's influence.
The mist that wreathed the heights of the castle went in easily. The phantom walls that lingered from the days before the rift was torn went in. The damage done to the fabric of the castle took a little longer. Faris worked until every drifting pattern in the castle, from the floor of the ruined throne room to the oriental rugs, surrendered something to the rift. The balance shifted subtly.
Everything that belonged to the rift was in it. Yet the rift still gaped. In desperation, Faris offered it the memory of her first sight of Aravis, crowned with the ruined heights of the castle, seen from a distance.
The rift accepted something more than mere recollection. Faris kept her memory but once the rift seized it, the memory seemed to diminish. She could no longer envision that familiar silhouette of dragon's spine ridge for herself. She still knew what it looked like, but only as if someone had told her of it. The first-hand knowledge was gone.
The rift still shifted, but much more slowly. As it slowed, the white light grew stronger. There was light everywhere.
If it couldn't be mended, perhaps it could be plugged. Faris deliberated for a moment, then set herself to choke the rift with the city of Aravis, narrow noisy streets lit here and there with Twelfth Night bonfires. She offered the Spanish ambassador's fox hunt, and felt the pleasure she had taken in riding grow stale and remote. She gave her memory of the countryside, the gardens at Sevenfold, the quays at Shene.
She surrendered her ride in the Minerva limousine, her journey on the Orient-Express, and her bruising hours in the diligence with Jane. Sticky dark cake, feathery pastry crumbs, and hot strong coffee were given up, along with the silken fire of cognac.
She gave up the taste of tea brewed far too longâand with relief discovered that no more of Greenlaw College would go into the rift. The wards held steady. She realized no more than stewed tea was hers to bestow. Paris too, safe in Hilarion's wardency, was proof against her efforts to fill the rift.
Faris gave the rift all she could, as quickly as she could, as though she were packing in great haste for a long journey. It took all she had to offer, and took it greedily. She gave up memory and experience as freely as they occurred to her, until the white light dazzled her and she could no longer sense the movement of the rift.
Frowning with effort, scarcely daring to breathe, Faris paused. The instant she did, she felt the white light around
her start to splinter into colors. The rift shifted, slowly but remorselessly.
Time. How long had it taken her to send Menary into the rift, and most of her own experience after? Faris had no idea. She might have been on the glass staircase for hours by now. At this rate, she could spend the rest of her life there and not mend the rift.
Faris thought hard. Perception came first, like a cold hand over her heart. She shuddered, wondering how she would ever muster the will.
“Responsibility,” she told herself aloud. She tried to laugh and flinched at the sound she made.
And then she let Galazon, with its high meadows and its deep forests, its frozen rivers and its snow-covered hills, go gently into the rift.
For Faris, the grass in the meadows bleached dry. The wind that stirred the forests fell still. The rivers sank into mud and the hills lay naked in the wind. She felt Galazon become any land, any real estate, any dirt to be bartered, and she caught her breath at the pain.
The balance steadied. The hunger eased. There was a moment of equilibrium that made her heart jump crazily. Then the rift trembled again.
Faris looked down at her hands. The glass they rested on was no longer green but clear, clear and cold. So cold.
“Responsibility.” This time she was able to laugh a little, at herself, at the hopes she'd had, at the mere sound of the word. The meaningless word.
Now, she supposed, it was her responsibility to go back
and confess her failure. Tell anyone who cared. And then? Go back to Galazon and try to bear existence there? The thought made her stomach twist. Go?
Yes
âanywhere but Galazon. Exile on a ship that never came to land before exile in Galazon.
Or go on up the stair? No explanations. No apologies. No farewells. Just go into the rift.
That should be simple enough. After all, it was her responsibility.
And it wasn't death, or even exile, for she could not die, any more than Hilarion could, and Galazon was already there, waiting for her, within the rift. Yet even so, she was unwilling.
Faris examined her unwillingness. It had to do with a promise, but she couldn't remember making one. She frowned at her hands. There was something she had to do, before she stepped into the rift and pulled it tight around her like a blanket. Something she had promised to do.
The glass key. That was it. She had promised to send the key back to Hilarion. Her hands clumsy with cold, she fumbled at the chain until she pulled the key free. She could leave it where Tyrian would be sure to find it. Because Tyrian would certainly come to look for her. Would he be able to see her, once she was in the rift? Probably not. No matter, as long as she could see him. But could she?
Suddenly it became very important to Faris that she see Tyrian. It was not safe to leave the key on the stair. Stiffly, she rose. She would give it to him herself and see him once more and sayâshe couldn't think what she'd say. But he would know precisely what she meant. That was the best
thing about Tyrian, she decided. He knew her duty as well as she did herself. Or better. He had told her again and again not to look ahead. It was almost as though he had known. The rift was all that lay ahead for her.
She wondered if she ought to have let the rift have her time with Tyrian. But if Galazon itself was not enough, how could her feeling for Tyrian, muddled and silly as it no doubt was, make any difference? And she had given up so much, so reluctantlyâ
no
. Enough. For now she would keep what little was left her.
Slowly, careful of her footing on the treacherous stair, Faris descended. The steps turned from clear ice to seawater green. Faris looked around.
The sky, so clear at daybreak, was overcast. To the north the clouds were as dark as if day had not yet come. The steps turned from green to white, and Faris had to slow further, for a north wind was pulling at her clothes and pushing her hair into her face.
She reached the ground safely. As she took a step away from the stair, the pattern of white glass on white stone faded. All around her lay shattered brick and stone.
A flight of geese came over, and their high wild song made Faris remember how homesick she had been at Greenlaw, when that sound had reminded her of Galazon. Her memory of homesickness jarred against the numbness that was all that the rift had left her of Galazon.
The lions were awake. In the flat open space that had once been the throne room, they stirred only a little from where they had slept, but they watched with interest. Graelent, Piers and three more henchmen were sitting in a neat
row, hands on their heads, before the pepper-pot tower. They regarded the lions anxiously.
Tyrian stood over Graelent and the others, pistol in hand. Until he noticed Faris, he looked exhausted but utterly self-possessed. She saw his expression darken with alarm as she approached. In unison, they asked one another, “What happened?”
Before either could answer, the door to the palace opened. Out spilled half a dozen armed scrub-brush guards, the king with them. Close on his heels was Agnes. A little behind her came Brinker, still yawning.
Graelent called to Faris. “Your majesty! You've returned for us!” Faris scarcely heard him.
At the sight of the pepper-pot tower and the intruders, the guards raised their weapons. The north wind rose, whirling dust everywhere. The king rubbed his eyes. “That proves the rift is gaping anew. This must be Menary's doing. Find the child at once.
At once
. She's out here somewhere. Stop her before she destroys us all.”
Agnes, clinging to his sleeve, protested, “She's your daughter. You can't send armed men to capture your own daughter.”
Brinker replied, “Unfortunately, at the moment, armed men are all he has.”
At the sight of Faris, the king shouted, “Forget Menary. Here's the one widening the rift. Guards! Seize her!”
In crisp unison, the guards brought their weapons to bear.
Graelent's henchmen, including Piers, called out to the guards, “Don't shoot. Don't shoot us.” Graelent spared neither the guards nor his henchmen so much as a glance.
Instead, he rose and came toward Faris, hands out to her in welcome.
Tyrian blocked his path but Graelent did not seem to notice. He confronted Faris, eyes blazing with excitement. “Your majestyâyou've come at the perfect time. There is
a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune
. I quote from the English play.”
Faris ignored Graelent. She had to clear her throat twice before she could speak loudly enough to be sure Tyrian heard her over the rising wind. “Tell Hilarion I'm sorry.”
Frowning, Tyrian asked again, “What happened?”
Behind him Graelent called urgently, “We are almost evenly matched with the usurper's party. We won't have another chance like this. Come, your majesty. Shall we behold the stars at mortal wars?”
“I failed. I'm so sorry.” She put the key into Tyrian's hand and started back toward the rift. She could feel it waiting for her.
Tyrian turned to follow her.
“The witch flees,” the king called to his guards. “Stop her! Stop her before she destroys us all, or you are as guilty as she.”
Graelent persisted. “Very well. You do not answer. To the wilderness we wander. Come away, your majesty. Down the stairs, your majestyâwaitânoâ
down
the stairs.”
“Halt, Faris Nallaneen,” the king roared. “Halt or we bid the soldiers shoot.”
Graelent cried, “You dare not fire on our rightful queen.”
Faris scarcely heard them. Dimly, she was aware that
Tyrian was just behind her. The world had dwindled until only the hunger of the rift was left. There was nothing else before her. The task was clear. The rift.
From a great distance, Faris could make out the voices, faint but clear:
“Ready, aimâ”
“For god's sake, no!” That couldn't be Brinker, though it sounded amazingly like him.
“Don't shootâI surrender!” That was Graelent, face down on the ground, from the muffled sound of it.
Agnes screamed like a doll's teakettle coming to a boil.
What was now unmistakably Brinker's voice, ragged with emotion. “For god's sake, hold your fire!”
“
Fire
!”
Obedience was not perfect, even among the king's guard. Most of the shots went high, by accident or design.
The crash of the guns came from far away. It was no louder than the slam of a door. Faris scarcely noticed it. But Tyrian brought her down in a flying tackle and the world came back with a jolt as she hit her chin on the ground and bit her tongue.
The fall, beneath Tyrian's full weight, shocked her. For a moment she lay still, trying to understand what had happened. Save for her bitten tongue and bruised chin, she felt no pain. She felt nothing at all. Only she could not move her legs. Why was that?
Gasping, she had pushed herself up on scraped elbows before she identified the scalding wetness soaking through her clothes. Then she understood. She was quite unhurt. Tyrian sprawled across her, bleeding.
His eyes were open. When she bent over him, she saw her worst fears confirmed in his expression. He said, as best he could on a ragged breath, “I won't go.”
“No, don't go. You can't go.” She found the glass key in his left hand. The slender stem had broken. “You have to take the key back to Hilarion for me. I promised.”
He did not manage to smile, but one corner of his mouth lifted. “So did I.” He looked past her at the sky. “It's going to snow.” The words took his last strength.
When Faris pressed his fingers around the broken key, his hand was still. His eyes were empty. When she called his name, he did not respond.
Another flight of geese came over, and another. When Faris lifted her head to look, the north wind had grown much stronger. She pushed her tangled hair back.
The wind had driven the king, Brinker, Agnes, Graelent, and all to shelter. Even the lions had retreated. Faris was glad to be alone. She could feel the rift waiting for her still. A moment, no longer, and then she would go. There really was nothing but the rift before her now.
She felt no pain. Even sorrow was muted by the nearness of the rift. Only the wind touched her. So welcome a scourge, the north wind. She would linger in it a little before she left.