It was at this point that he realized that his cell was full of presences. They seemed oddly familiar, and at first he thought they were nature spirits. Then he remembered where he had encountered them: by the side of the lake, on the first day he came to Shadowland. These were the wraiths and ghosts that gave Shadowland its name.
Because he had passed the point of deep relaxation, he was able to look at them directly. Most of them were little more than shadows, and Niall could sense that they were living in a state that was akin to a dream, in which reality dissolved and fluctuated. They were here, in the dungeons of the Magician’s palace, because they wanted to cling to something that was solid and familiar. He observed a woman dressed in a ball gown, as if on her way to one of the Magician’s receptions, and a tall man in military uniform. Both were so transparent that he had to blur his focus to see them.
Then he noticed the black figure standing near the door, almost invisible against the dark background, and recognized one of the troglas.
Remembering the difficulty of communicating, he addressed it in the direct-meaning language of the chameleon men: “Can you speak to me?”
As before, the answer was like the echo of a distant voice.
Niall said: “I cannot understand you.”
The trogla took a step toward him. If he had not been certain that it meant no harm, it would have made his heart beat faster. It walked in a crouching position on legs that seemed too short for its body. The nostrils were wide and slightly flattened, and in its black face the teeth, which were pointed, looked unnaturally white. But the eyes, which were yellow and very large, were obviously intelligent.
When it spoke, its voice still sounded blurry and out of focus, but the meaning was clear. It was saying that its kind had lived here for centuries before the coming of human beings.
Niall asked: “How did you die?”
The reply surprised him: “We were killed by your people.”
Niall was puzzled. The troll had told him that the troglas had died from poison gas in a volcanic eruption.
“But why?”
“For meat. They made clothes of our skins.”
Niall recalled the black leather garments that he had seen in the karvasid’s museum. In a less relaxed state he would have felt nauseated.
“When did this happen?”
The reply was like a shrug, which he interpreted to mean: “The dead have no sense of time.”
“But before this city was built?”
There was a long pause, and Niall wondered if the trogla had understood him. When it finally came, the answer puzzled him more than ever.
“In the time of the karvasid Sathanas.”
Niall was beginning to tire, and was losing the ability to maintain the state of deep relaxation. The other ghosts had already become invisible, and seconds later, the trogla also vanished.
He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. One thing seemed obvious: he needed sleep. Without sleep he remained vulnerable. Even as this thought came into his head, he yawned until his jaw cracked.
He pulled the blanket over his shoulders, and as he did so, the slightly musty smell reminded him of the earthy taste of the water in the cave of the chameleon men. This in turn reminded him of the words spoken by their leader just before their parting: “If you wish to return to us, remember this taste.” His tiredness vanished immediately. He imagined himself staring into the water, with its tiny fragments of moss, and conjured up its smell and taste. Instantly, without transition, he found himself back in the cave, sitting where he had sat before, and with a vessel of the earthy-tasting water beside him. The others were also around him, exactly as before.
Was he dreaming? It hardly seemed to matter. What was important was that he felt he was surrounded by friends, and that they were obviously conscious of his presence.
As before, his sleepiness had vanished completely. This was because his mind was in contact with their minds, and they were wide awake. And, as before, their minds communicated with him as if they were one person.
They repeated what they had said before: “Show us how you fall asleep.”
So Niall closed his eyes, imagined that he was switching off the light, and allowed himself to float into quiescence. But this time he was aware that he was no longer drifting into sleep; there was a strong sense of being deliberately and carefully guided. Moreover, it was clear that the state he was being guided toward was only one of dozens of possible states.
Within moments, he was descending into confusion, in which voices, images, and thoughts floated around as if they were fish swimming in a pond — fish that existed quite independently of his mind. Then he became aware that he was asleep and dreaming. Yet his surroundings looked oddly real. He was standing in the street, outside Typhon’s house, and the guard who looked like one of Skorbo’s assassins was standing at the top of the steps in front of the gate. He was staring woodenly ahead, although at one point he wrinkled his nose and expelled his breath, obviously suffering from boredom.
Niall was not afraid of being noticed, for he was invisible even to himself. He could feel his own body, and even the material of his tunic against his skin, but when he looked down there was nothing there.
He tried clearing his throat, to see if he could be heard, but the guard continued to stare into space with the same dull expression.
Suddenly possessed of an absurd suspicion, Niall mounted the steps and reached out to touch him. His fingers went straight through the man’s arm.
Niall touched a metal bar of the gate. Although his fingers were invisible, he could feel them passing through it, as if the gate was made of gossamerlike threads. Now convinced that his body was on a different wavelength from his surroundings, Niall walked through the closed gate.
As he passed the fountain, the spray fell on his cheek, but he felt nothing whatsoever.
The front door was closed. He stopped automatically to knock, and again had the gossamer feeling as his knuckles failed to connect. He took a step forward and walked through the door.
There seemed to be no one at home. He crossed the dining room and turned left toward the kitchen. The moog was standing outside the kitchen door, his arms by his side. Unlike the guard, he did not look bored, but his eyes simply stared at the opposite wall. His chest was not even rising and falling.
To see whether it could be done, Niall walked through the wall instead of the door, and found himself in a large, well-appointed kitchen with cupboards of shiny, dark wood, and a marble floor. The clock on the wall showed half past eight. Katia was sitting at the table, drinking coffee, while the older woman with the body of a twenty-year-old stood at the sink washing clothes by hand. They were speaking telepathically, and Niall observed that, in this dream-body state, he was almost painfully sensitive to thought waves; it was rather like being naked in the rain. As Niall entered, Katia was saying: “. . . find themselves in trouble.” The woman at the sink replied: “I’m not saying I agree with them. But I can understand why they think there are too many rules and regulations. ”
Unlike Katia, whose voice was that of a working girl, the woman’s voice was unexpectedly cultured.
Katia said: “What do they expect? They’re soldiers.”
The woman replied: “Yes, but we’re not.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Why doesn’t he allow marriage? You’re all right. You’ve got two lovers. I haven’t even got one. Men and women need someone to share their bed. I want a husband!”
Katia looked around nervously and said “Sshh!”
The woman said: “Why? There’s nobody here.”
There was the sound of a door closing with a crash. Katia said: “That must be him. And he’s in a bad mood. He always slams the door when he’s in a bad mood.”
The older woman turned back to the sink and began diligently wringing out clothes.
Katia went to the door, walking straight through Niall. As this happened, he noticed that he experienced a momentary feeling of pleasure. This intrigued him. It showed that, although bodiless and apparently insubstantial, he could still experience the human life-field.
He followed Katia into the dining room. She had been right. Typhon looked irritable and disgruntled. He threw his cloak onto a chair, then flung himself down in the other. Without asking him, Katia sat down at his feet and began unlacing his boots. When she had pulled them off, and began massaging his feet, he said: “Never mind that. Get me a drink.” He spoke in verbal language.