rorshroud.
“Look away from me for a moment,” he ordered.
Coil turned his head, waiting.
“Coil,” a voice came.
He turned back. There was his father, Jaralan, tall and
stooped, thick shouldered, wearing his favorite leather apron,
the one he used for his woodworking. Coil blinked in disbelief,
telling himself that it wasn’t his father, that it was Rimmer
Dali, and still it was his father he saw.
Then his father reached up to remove the apron, which
instantly became the Mirrorshroud, and Rimmer Dali stood be-
fore him once more.
“Who did you see?” the First Seeker asked softly.
CoIl could not bring himself to answer. He shook his head.
“I still think Par will recognize you.”
Rimmer Dali studied him a moment, the big, rawboned face
fiat and empty, the strange eyes as hard as stone. “I want you
to think about something,” he said finally. “Do you remember
those pitiful creatures in the Pit at Tyrsis, the ones driven mad
by Federation imprisonment, their magic consuming them? That
is what will happen to your brother. It may not happen today
or tomorrow or next week or even next month, but it will hap-
pen eventually. Once it does, there will be no help for him.”
Coil fought to keep the fear from his eyes.
“I want you to think about this as well. All Shadowen have
the power to invade and consume. They can inhabit the bodies
of other creatures and become them for as long as it is needed.”
He paused. “I could become you, Coil Ohmsford. I could slip
beneath your skin as easily as a knife blade and make you my
own.” The harsh whisper was a hiss against the silence. “But I
don’t choose to do that because I don’t want to hurt you. I spoke
the truth when I told you I wanted to help your brother. You
will have to decide for yourself whether or not to believe me,
but think about what I have just told you as you do.”
He turned, shoved the Mirrorshroud back into its locker,
and closed the door. Whether he was angry or frustrated or
something else was difficult to tell, but his walk was purposeful
as he led Coil from the room and pulled the door closed behind
them. Coil listened automatically for the click of the lock and
did not hear it. Rimmer Dali was already moving away, so Coil
went after him without slowing. The First Seeker took him to a
stairway and pointed up.
“Your quarters lie that way. Think carefully, Valeman,” he
warned. “You play with two lives while you delay.”
Coil turned wordlessly and started up the stairs. When he
glanced back over his shoulder a dozen steps later, Rimmer Dali
was gone.
IT WAS STILL LIGHT, if barely, when he went out once again,
passing along the hallway to the stairs, then winding his way
downward through the shadows toward the exercise yard. He
had left his tunic there; he had forgotten it earlier. He didn’t
require it, of course, but it provided the excuse he needed to
discover whether the door to the room that held the Mirror-
shroud had been left unlocked.
His breathing was rapid and harsh-sounding in the silence of
his descent. It was a reckless thing he was attempting to do, but
his desperation was growing. If he did not get free soon, some-
thing bad was going to happen to Par. His conviction of this
was based mostly on supposition and fear, but it was no less real
for being so. He knew he wasn’t thinking as clearly as he should;
if he had been, he would never have even considered taking
this risk. But if the lock had not released back into place, if the
room was still open and the Mirrorshroud still in its locker,
waiting .
Footsteps sounded from somewhere below, and he froze
against the stair wall. The steps grew momentarily louder and
then disappeared. Coil wiped his hands on his pants and tried
to think. Which floor was it? Four, he had counted, hadn’t he?
He worked his way ahead again, then stepped onto the fourth
landing down and with his body pressed against the stone, peered