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body against me. After what seemed an appropriate period of time, I attempted to disentangle myself.
But she would not release me, and she was surprisingly strong.
"It is all right now," I said, or something equally trite and apt, but she did not reply.
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She kept shifting her grip upon my body, with rough caressing movements and a rather disconcerting
effect. Her desirability was enhanced, from instant to instant. I found myself stroking her hair, and the rest
of her as well.
"It is all right now," I repeated. "Who are you? Why were they burning you? Who were they?"
But she did not reply. She had stopped sobbing, but her breathing was still heavy, although in a different
way.
"Why do you wear this mask?"
I reached for it and she jerked her head back.
This did not seem especially important, though. While some cold, logical part of me knew that the
passion was irrational, I was as powerless as the gods of the Epicureans. I wanted her and I was ready
to have her.
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.
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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. . . .
The ground shook, cracking in places, but it was more than just that. Everything seemed to undergo a
spasmodic shudder, and the cracking was more than mere fracture lines in the ground.
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It was as though someone had suddenly kicked the leg of a table on which a loosely assembled jigsaw
puzzle lay. Gaps appeared in the entire prospect: here, a green bough; there, a sparkle of water, a
glimpse of blue sky, absolute blackness, white nothingness, the front of a brick building, faces behind a
window, fire, a piece of star-filled sky . . .
The horses were galloping by then, and I had all I could do to keep from screaming for the pain.
A babble of mixed noises-animal, human, mechanical-washed over us. It seemed that I could hear
Ganelon cursing, but I could not be certain.
I thought that I would pass out from the pain, but I determined, out of sheer stubbornness and anger, to
persist until I did. I concentrated on the Pattern as a dying man might cry out to his God, and I threw my
entire will against the existence of the black road.
Then the pressure was off and the horses were plunging wildly, dragging us into a green field. Ganelon
snatched at the reins, but I drew on them myself and shouted to the horses until they halted. We had
crossed the black road.
I turned immediately and looked back. The scene had the wavering quality of something seen through
troubled waters. Our path through it stood clean and steady, however, like a bridge or a dam, and the
grasses at its edge were green.
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