Then I heard Ganelon cry out my name and I tried to turn in that direction.
But she restrained me. I was amazed at her strength.
“Child of Amber,” came her half-familiar voice. “We owe you this for what you have given us, and we will have all of you now.”
Ganelon’s voice came to me again, a steady stream of profanities.
I exerted all my strength against that grip and it weakened. My hand shot forward and I tore away the mask.
There came a brief cry of anger as I freed myself, and four final, fading words as the mask came away:
“Amber must be destroyed!”
There was no face behind the mask. There was nothing there at all.
Her garment collapsed and hung limply over my arm. She-or it-had vanished.
Turning quickly, I saw that Ganelon was sprawled at the edge of the black, his legs twisted unnaturally. His blade rose and fell slowly, but I could not see at what he was striking. I ran toward him.
The black grasses, over which I had leaped, were twined about his ankles and legs. Even as he hacked at them, others lashed about as though seeking to capture his sword arm. He had succeeded in partly freeing his right leg, and I leaned far forward and managed to finish the job.
I moved to a position behind him, out of reach of the grasses, and tossed away the mask, which I just then realized I was still clutching. It fell to earth beyond the edge of the black and immediately began to smolder.
Catching him under the arms, I strove to drag Ganelon back. The stuff resisted fiercely, but at last I tore him free. I carried him then, leaping over the remaining dark grasses that separated us from the more docile, green variety beyond the road.
He regained his footing and continued to lean heavily against me, bending forward and slapping at his leggings.
“They’re numb,” he said. “My legs are asleep.” I helped him back to the wagon. He transferred his grip to its side and began stamping his feet.
“They’re tingling,” he announced. “It’s starting to come back. . . . Oow!”
Finally, he limped to the front of the wagon. I helped him climb onto the seat and followed him up. He sighed.
“That’s better,” he said. “They’re coming along now. That stuff just sucked the strength out of them. Out of the rest of me, too. What happened?”
“Our bad omen made good on its promise.”
“What now?” I picked up the reins and released the brake.
“We go across,” I said. “I have to find out more about this thing. Keep your blade handy.”
He granted and laid the weapon across his knees. The horses did not like the idea of going on, but I flicked their flanks lightly with the whip and they began to move.
We entered the black area, and it was like riding into a World War II newsreel. Remote though near at hand, stark, depressing, grim. Even the creaking and the hoof falls were somehow muffled, made to seem more distant. A faint, persistent ringing began in my ears. The grasses beside the road stirred as we passed, though I kept well away from them. We passed through several patches of mist. They were odorless, but our breathing grew labored on each occasion. As we neared the first hill, I began the shift that would take us through Shadow.
We rounded the hill.
Nothing.
The dark, miasmal prospect was unaltered.
I grew angry then. I drew the Pattern from memory and held it blazing before my mind’s eye. I essayed the shift once more.
Immediately, my head began to ache. A pain shot from my forehead to the back of my skull and hung there like a hot wire. But this only fanned my anger and caused me to try even harder to shift the black road into nothingness.
Things wavered. The mists thickened, rolled across the road in billows. Outlines grew indistinct. I shook the reins. The horses moved faster. My head began to throb, felt as if it were about to come apart. Instead, momentarily, everything else did. . . .