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certainty that someone searched for him, but where, or how to reach that person beyond
     the walls of this grim prison, he did not know.
    And there was another, another he knew he ought to know, another so similar to himself that their thoughts sometimes intertwined.
     The random words meant nothing,for he could discern no sense in them. And there was a woman, too, or was there more than one—a woman with black hair and
     pale skin, who taunted him in language he did not understand as he restlessly roamed the corridors, who sometimes wore another
     face, a face of such unearthly ugliness he was tempted to shut his eyes until the apparition passed.
    But that only lent strength to the apparition, and the only way he had discovered to make it go was to turn the full force
     of his will upon it, staring at it with every ounce of strength which he possessed, pouring it through his eyes. And when
     he did that, the vision vanished without a sound, leaving no trace.
    He was getting better at it; if he caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye, he could prevent it from manifesting
     entirely if he turned the full force of his glare upon it. It was good practice, he knew, for something that he used to know
     how to do and had forgotten.
    There was no night or day within the shadowed walls, no candles burned to tell the passing of the hours, but Amanander knew
     that time, precious time, was passing, pouring out through his fingers like gold dust. Only his footsteps, echoing in the
     empty halls, lingering on the dusty air, gave him a measure of the hours and the days.
    He counted his time in footsteps, and as the numbers grew, he knew that within the numbers were the secrets he’d forgotten.
     If only he could remember, he thought, just the very first, the very barest trace… but he wandered on and on, trapped within
     the labyrinth.
    At the bottom of a crumbling staircase, he heard aname—his name—spoken with such clarity, he scarcely recognized it.
    AMANANDER.
    He stopped. Nothing had changed. He touched a black-gloved hand to the wall of flaking stone, and the stone left a whitish
     smear across the leather. He curled his lip in automatic disgust and wiped it fastidiously on the inner hem of his black tunic.
     Then he paused. When had he put on the gloves?
    AMANANDER.
    The voice echoed again, louder, more insistent. Amanander looked up the staircase, then down the corridor over his shoulder.
     The voice seemed to be all around him, echoing off the dusty walls, again and again and again. He glanced down, realizing
     with a start that his boots were black and polished to a high gloss, and that he could see his own face looking back at him.
     He stared, jolted by the recognition of himself.
    AMANANDER. This time there was the finest edge of pain in the intensity of the voice, as though he’d sliced his finger on
     a razor’s edge. He looked up.
    “Where are you?” It was the first time in weeks, months, years, since he’d heard his own voice, and it startled him, more
     than his reflection. The sound echoed and spun with a power all its own, cracking the walls of the corridor.
    HERE.
    A shower of fine powder fell from the ceiling, and he looked up, shocked to see a crack a handspan wide, and growing wider.
     He bolted up the steps, and the floor shuddered beneath his feet. At the top of the staircase, a figure robed in white stood
     waiting.
    “We’ve got to get out of here,” he said as he reached the top step.
    The figure pointed to a room off the corridor.
    “In there? You think we’ll be safe in there?”
    The figure inclined its head and stepped aside, allowing Amanander to go first.
    The room was nothing like the dusty empty halls he had left. Afire burned in a highly polished grate. Beside the fire, two
     chairs, with high, cushioned backs, invited. Amanander sniffed. There was the scent of something cooking—roasting meat, the
     tang of herbs, bread baking—and suddenly saliva exploded in his mouth.