Out of the blinding cloud of its dissolution the cube of the Power fell, the singing halo in it turning with slow, indifferent steadiness. The transparent block struck the steps a yard from where Tsi stood. It struck—and crashed through, splitting the white marble from top to floor. Tsi staggered.
The crash rang from the high vaults above, rebounding from arch to arch in distant, diminishing echoes that came slowly back to the watcher below, long after the dais had ceased to vibrate.
Tsi recovered her balance, turned on the shattered steps, looked straight across the hall to the alcove where Miller and Orelle stood.
She was shaken but she had not lost her poise.
“Sister!” she said, “Welcome to Brann’s castle. Shall I call him to greet you?”
From Orelle a strong steady thought went out, compelling and quiet.
“Tsi, sister, you must do as you think best. Is it best for us that Brann be called?”
The woman on the dais hesitated. Miller could see that the quiet confidence in Orelle’s mental voice has shaken her a little. He knew now what Orelle had meant when she said she could control Tsi.
It was a simple matter of sister speaking to sister with the voice of authority, calling back to mind the precepts of conscience and childhood training. Tsi was not, he thought, evil as Brann was evil. She was weak, certainly—and perhaps the weakness would stand them in good stead.
She said uncertainly, “Orelle, I think perhaps—” But the voices from the audience around her, rising with sudden violence, drowned out whatever it was she meant to say. Miller was reminded of Roman audiences clamoring for blood in the arena.
“Brann, Brann!” the voices howled. “Waken Brann! Go call him up to meet his guests! Brann, waken from your sleep! Brann, Brann, do you hear us?”
Tsi hesitated a moment longer. Miller was aware of a desperate stream of thought-waves pouring out from Orelle beside him but the noise of the assembled people was too strong for her. She could not get through to her sister. Tsi turned suddenly, putting both hands to her face, and stumbled up the broken steps toward the dais.
The long curtains that hung a hundred feet or more from the height of the ceiling trembled down all their dark length as she put them aside and vanished into the big tent they made, hiding the platform.
There was a moment’s profound silence.
Then Miller said quietly to Orelle, “Come on,” and, seizing her hand, strode forward across the floor. He had no idea what he meant to do but if he had come to attack then attack he must—not stand waiting for Brann to make an entrance on his throne.
Heads turned avidly to watch their progress across the great room. No one made a move to block their way, but eager eyes watched every motion they made and searched their faces for expression. This was the audience, Miller thought grimly, that would have watched Brann’s terrible “experiments” upon him if he had not escaped from the castle—with Tsi’s help. It was the audience, he realized, that might yet watch, if he failed.
Llesi was silent in his brain, waiting.
They were almost at the steps when the curtains stirred as if a breath of wind had blown through the hall. Tsi’s voice came weakly from the hidden place, “Wait, Brann—you mustn’t—”
But drowning out the feeble protest another voice sounded clear. Miller, hearing that thin, sweet, sneering pattern which was the mental voice he had heard before, the voice of Brann, felt a chill sliding down his spine and a tightening of all his muscles. It was a hateful, a frightening voice, evoking a picture of a hateful man.
“Come out, Brann!” Miller said strongly. “Unless you’re afraid of us—come out!”
Behind him in the hall two or three intrepid voices echoed the invitation. “Come out Brann! Let us see you. You aren’t afraid, Brann—come out!” He knew from that how high curiosity must run even in Brann’s stronghold and he realized that not even here, then, had Brann ever yet showed his face. It made him a little more confident. If Brann had so much to hide, then, there must be weaknesses behind that curtain upon which he could play.
He said, “Here’s the Power you wanted, Brann. We broke your platform but here it is waiting. Do you dare come out and look at it?”
Brann said nothing. But his thin, sardonic laughter rang silently through the hall.
Miller felt it rasping his nerves like something tangible. He said roughly, “All right then—I’ll come and bring you out!” And he set his foot firmly on the lowest step.
A breath of excitement and anticipation ran rippling through the hall. Llesi was still silent. Orelle’s hand in Miller’s squeezed his fingers reassuringly. He mounted the second step, reached out his free hand for the curtain. …
There was a deep, wrenching sound of stone against stone, and under his feet the steps lurched sickeningly. And then he was falling.
The walls spun. The floor tilted up to strike him a solid blow—that did not touch him. For some firm, supporting mind closed its protection around his body and he floated gently a dozen feet and came to solid footing again, dazed but unhurt.
The marble block of steps lay upturned upon the floor. Teleportation again, he realized. Brann had uprooted the steps he had climbed to prevent him from reaching the curtain. And someone—Llesi or Orelle—had reached out a mental beam to teleport him to safety.
Brann’s cold clear laughter rang silently through the hall. He had not yet spoken. He did not speak now but his derision was like vitriol to the ears and the mind. Brann was waiting. … Somehow Miller could sense that, as he waited, an eagerness and impatience went out from him toward that block of transparence on the
