When we reached the wall, of course, it wasn’t there. It just sort of grew misty and faded away; and we passed through the space where it had been-or, rather, a different analogous space-and we were passing down a green stairway. Well, it wasn’t exactly a stairway. It was a series of unconnected green discs, descending in spiral fashion, proper riser and tread distance apart, sort of floating there in the night air. They passed about the exterior of the castle, finally stopping before a blank wall. Before we reached that wall we passed through several moments of bright daylight, a brief flurry of blue snow, and the apse of something like a cathedral without an altar, skeletons occupying pews at either hand. When we finally came to the wall we passed through it, emerging in a large kitchen. Suhuy led me to the larder and indicated I should help myself. I found some cold meat and bread and made myself a sandwich, washing it down with tepid beer. He nibbled at a piece of bread himself and sipped at a flagon of the same brew. A bird appeared overhead in full flight, cawing raucously, vanishing again before it had passed the entire length of the room.
“When are the services?” I asked.
“Redsky next, almost a whole turning off,” he replied. “So you’ve a chance to sleep and collect yourself before then-perhaps.”
“What do you mean, ‘perhaps’?”
“As one of the three, you’re under black watch. That’s why I summoned you here, to one of my places of solitude.” He turned and walked through the wall. I followed him, still bearing my flagon, and we seated ourselves beside a still, green pool beneath a rocky overhang, umber sky above. His castle contained places from all over Chaos and Shadow, stitched together into a crazy-quilt pattern of ways within ways. “And since you wear the spikard you’ve added resources for safety,” he observed.
He reached out and touched the many-spoked wheel of my ring. A faint tingling followed in my finger, hand, and arm.
“Uncle, you were often given to cryptic utterances when you were my teacher,” I said. “But I’ve graduated now, and I guess that gives me the right to say I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
He chuckled and sipped his beer.
“On reflection, it always became clear,” he said.
“Reflection …” I said, and I looked into the pool. Images swam amid the black ribbons beneath its surface-Swayvill lying in state, yellow and black robes muffling his shrunken form, my mother, my father, demonic forms, all passing and fading, Jurt, myself, Jasra and Julia, Random and Fiona, Mandor and Dworkin, Bill Roth and many faces I did not know …
I shook my head.
“Reflection does not clarify,” I said.
“It is not the function of an instant,” he replied.
So I returned my attention to the chaos of faces and forms. Jurt returned and remained for a long time. He was dressing himself, in very good taste, and he appeared to be relatively intact. When he finally faded there returned one of the half familiar faces I had seen earlier. I knew he was a noble of the Courts, and I searched my memory. Of course. It had been a long while, but now I recognized him. It was Tmer, of the House of Jesby, eldest son of the late Prince Rolovians, and now lord himself of the Ways of Jesby-spade beard, heavy brow, sturdily built, not unhandsome, in a rugged sort of way; by all report a brave and possibly even sensitive fellow.
Then there was Prince TubbIe of the Ways of Chanicut, phasing back and forth between human and swirling demonic forms. Placid, heavy, subtle; centuries old and very shrewd; he wore a fringed beard, had wide, innocent, pale eyes, was master of many games.
I waited, and Tmer followed Jurt followed Tubble into vanishment amid the coiling ribbons. I waited longer, and nothing new occurred.
“End of reflection,” I announced at last. “But I still don’t know what it means.”
“What did you see?”
“My brother Jurt,” I replied, “and Prince Tmer of Jesby. And Tubble of Chanicut, among other attractions.”