The breeze gusted suddenly, picking up isolated grains of desert sand and whipping them through the air. Standing in the shade of a nearby tree, Dyson Zymm closed his eyes and laid the fingers of his right hand on the card he held in his left. In front of him, the three sword dancers, performing for the meager crowd, hesitated just slightly. Although they danced in the open beneath the scorching golden sun, none of the three men were sweating. But now, at least, a few grains of sands started to stick to their skin. Despite the power of the spell on the card, Dyson Zymm could never quite manage believable sweat.

Although the dance was flawless, the crowd quickly began to lose interest. It was too hot to stand around watching street performers. Several of them, at least, had the decency to drop a few coins into the pot next to Dyson’s feet. Most did not. Dyson somehow managed to maintain his smile, which was ultimately a greater illusion than his sword dancers. He considered dispersing them now, as there was nobody left to watch them, but they required little energy to maintain, and they did, at least, mildly amuse him.

Dyson looked down into his pot and shook his head. Things, he reflected, were not going particularly well. His spell trading had opened up to countless possibilities since his planeswalker spark first ignited, and he had jumped around to four or five different planes in just a few short months. The nearly endless possibilities offered by the numberless planes were intoxicating, and Dyson had chased the feeling long before trade had dried up.

The plane of Khial, however, fit every definition of the word “dry.” The desert stretched out in every direction from the city of Khudea, and in all the seven weeks Dyson had been on this plane, he had never once seen it rain. Worse than the weather, though, was the spell trade. Nobody was willing to trade spells. Nobody, it seemed, was even able to trade. The planeswalker had yet to meet even a single other mage, and nobody he had met was willing to try to learn, so he could not even trade spells for coin.

He would have left Khial weeks ago if not for one strange curiosity that had been nagging at him almost since the beginning. Simply put, nobody in the city seemed the least impressed with Dyson’s spellcraft. At first it was Dyson’s pride that was hurt, but that was a passing trifle. After the initial sting, Dyson began to realize how odd it was that despite the fact that nobody seemed to know magic, they still all found it entirely unremarkable. That discrepancy was enough to keep the spell trader around for a few more weeks.

During that time, Dyson had learned through rumor what he had suspected through reason. There were mages in the city, and if the rumors were to be believed, they were powerful beyond the imagination of the common folk. Dyson cringed at the term, but it explained a lot. Magic on Khial, it seemed, was reserved for the nobility. In some ways, it reminded him of home. There, though, magic was portioned out by degrees, so while the nobles took a disproportionate share, everybody else still got something. Here, though, things were different.

And yet, strangely, nobody in Khudea so much as batted an eye at a street performer with bright silver hair directing his illusions as if in a puppet show. Dyson needed to eat, and to drink, and to sleep somewhere beyond the sands, and so he had started to perform for coins. He had started in the busier streets and plazas of Khudea, but those places were far too busy for him. He had scarcely been in one plaza for ten minutes before he started feeling like the people, the buildings, the streets themselves were closing in around him. It was nearly too much to bare.

Dyson had found himself a spot in the shade in a public park near the outskirts of the city. Khudea as a whole was built atop the fertile soil of a sprawling oasis, and so, while the desert was encroaching no more than twenty or thirty feet away, the park was covered in green grass and tall trees. There were, naturally, far fewer passersby to see Dyson’s performance, but the area was pleasant enough, and he made enough to pay for the small room he rented at a nearby inn. All things considered, he could survive for a while yet.

His sword dancers moved tirelessly in their precise choreography, and Dyson simply watched them for a time. They were illusions of the first street performers he himself had seen in Khudea. He would have considered it unfair to mimic their routine, and indeed them, were they still performing and thus his competition, but he had seen their act break up right before his eyes when one of the dancers had, in a moment of slipped concentration, accidentally drawn blood on another. They swore they would never work together again, and so Dyson had appropriated the dance, and their likenesses, for his own performance.

He had been watching them for several long minutes before he realized that he was not alone. He sensed her before he saw her, felt her eyes on him when no eyes should have been present. She was standing directly across the park from him, and although the illusionary sword dancers were directly between them, her focus seemed entirely on Dyson. She watched him with a strange intensity, and he found himself looking back at her the same way.

Despite her face being covered by a thin, purple veil, there was no denying that this was a staggeringly beautiful woman. The clothing she wore was modest in cut, but clung tightly to her shapely form. Like her veil, the rest of her attire was a rich purple shade, and she wore it regally. Small jeweled adornments hung almost like a belt from around her waist, and she wore rings and low-hanging necklaces made of precious metals. What little Dyson could see of her skin was smooth and tanned, and although she was standing in the sunlight, she did not sweat.

Dyson was still staring at the woman when she began to move his direction. She approached slowly, moving like water through the hot Khial air. Dyson was captivated, and did not think about his sword dancers until the woman had nearly reached them. The sword of the dancer closest to her sliced into her belly and passed right through. The woman did not notice. She continued to stride forward, and passed between the other two dancers. As she did, she brought up her hands and brushed them across the two illusions’ bare chests. As she touched them, they both instantly began to evaporate, curling into wafts of violet smoke.

As she approached him, Dyson tried to speak. “I’m sorry about that. I…”

But the woman silenced him by raising a single hand. Through her thin, translucent veil, Dyson could see that she was smiling. She looked him up and down with eyes that matched her clothing, and then gave a demure laugh. “Do not worry about them. Impressive illusions, to be sure, but illusions nonetheless. It was the real man that I came here to meet.”

The planeswalker smiled. “I am certainly honored that you did. My name is Dyson Zymm.”

The woman stepped closer, and reached up to run her fingers through a few stray strands of his silver hair. “’Dyson Zymm,’ you say? A strange name, for a strange man.”

“My hair, you mean?” Dyson asked.

“That,” she said, locking eyes with him. “And so much more besides.” She withdrew back a step. “We have heard many rumors of the man casting magic in public parks, and naturally, I could not resist investigating."

“And who is ‘we?’”

“The Alalihan, of course.” When she noticed a confused look in Dyson’s eyes, she continued. “I take it the strange man is also a stranger?” She laughed quietly to herself. “The Alalihan are, let me think, what is a word you would know?”

She hesitated, thinking, and so Dyson offered a suggestion. “Nobles?”

Her eyes danced just slightly. “Yes. Nobles. That will suffice.”

“And who are you, if I may ask.”

“You may,” she said with a slight nod. “I have many titles, but I believe that I wish for you and I to become friends, so I shall give you something short to refer to me. You may call me Reab.”

“Very well,” Dyson said, nodding. “So what is it that I can do for you, Reab? I trust that my use of magic in public has not offended you or the others, and I am sure that if I had broken any laws, I would have been made aware of it by now.”

“Oh, there are no laws against magic, Dyson. Indeed, even if the Alalihan disapproved of public sorcery, it would have never occurred to us to forbid it. You are the first stranger to have ever cast spells within the city. How does one forbid an action so thoroughly incomprehensible?”

“I assure you, if I have violated some custom or taboo, I…”

Reab interrupted him with another laugh. “My dear Dyson, I fear that you misunderstand. You must come from a place peopled with those who speak that which they do not truly mean. There is no malice in my interest in you.”

“I am pleased to hear that,” Dyson said with a slight smile. “So, if it is not a rude question, may I ask why you did come here?”

“That is twice now you have asked permission to ask a question. Such bizarre customs must rule your people! Well, this time I will not grant your request, but instead I shall simply tell you. I have come here to meet you, and to see your work, and if I liked what I found, to give you something.”

“And what have you decided?”

She seemed to consider this, and then moved to stand beside Dyson, facing the direction he was. She indicated toward the only remaining sword dancer illusion, the one that she did not dispel. He was still dancing in the same pattern he had been, despite his missing partners. His movements had continued throughout the conversation, and had never once faltered.

“Show me something impressive with him, Dyson. Prove to me that you can control this magic of yours.”

“What did you have in mind?”

She glanced his direction, then looked back at the illusion. “Amuse me.”

Dyson nodded, and then again touched the card he held in his left hand. He funneled mana into the card, activating the spell, and allowed his mind to access his illusion. Slowly, he began to change the image of the sword dancer. The man’s frame started to shrink, becoming smaller and more feminine. His sword faded while a shirt gradually came into existence to cover his chest. The features of his face softened and then sprouted a veil. The hue of the illusion’s clothing changed until it matched the shade of Reab’s attire perfectly.

“Do you seek to flatter me with this likeness,” Reab asked.

“Have I?” Dyson replied instantly.

The beautiful woman smiled behind her veil. “Well enough,” she said. “Very well, I shall give you that which I had considered.”

“Thank you,” Dyson said, turning toward her. She handed him a small, white envelope. He had no idea where she had been keeping it. As he opened it, his brow furrowed. “An invitation?”

“A prestigious invitation, Dyson. And an exceedingly rare one. I wish to invite you to the Trickster’s Ball.”

“I…I am honored, of course, but what exactly is it?”

“It is a ball, of course! Held tonight, at my palace in the north quarter. It is a gathering of some of the greatest, most talented, most powerful illusionists in all of Khial, and I would like you to come and dance with them.”

Dyson thought the offer over for a few long moments, but he knew that he had already made up his mind. The promise of powerful sorcerers with strong magic – magic that they might be willing to trade – was too good to resist. It was, of course, the sole reason he was still on this plane. The spell trader smiled at Reab and nodded. “I would be honored to attend.”

Reab grinned and clapped her hands together once. “Excellent! Be sure to get yourself some formal attire for the Ball. Go to any worthy shop and tell them that I have personally invited you. They will give you whatever you desire.”

“They will simply give it to me?” Dyson said. “Just like that? How would they know that I was telling them the truth?”

Again, Reab laughed. “Because the consequence for such a lie renders it all but unthinkable. Do not worry, Dyson. Enjoy yourself! I assure you, the Trickster’s Ball is a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”

Dyson simply nodded and said, “Thank you.”

“Oh, and Dyson?” Reab said.

“Yes?”

Reab gestured toward the illusionary version of herself dancing, and the illusion disintegrated into purple smoke. “Bring the best you have. I would so hate to be disappointed.”

Reab’s palace was by a wide margin the most opulent structure Dyson Zymm had ever seen on any plane. It was sunset when Dyson arrived there, so the setting sun may have been playing tricks on his eyes, but the domes atop the palace’s massive towers – of which there were at least a dozen – seemed crafted out of gold. Gigantic, purple, silk banners hung from those towers, each bearing the mark of a feather, or perhaps a quill. The long entryway leading to the palace doors was paved with white marble, and huge pillars of the same lined the path on both sides. Dyson was awestruck long before he ever made it inside.

Between each of the massive pillars stood uniformed guards. On the right-hand side of the pathway, the guards were all female, and on the right, all were male. They stood facing one another, each holding long, curved swords and standing still as statues. In the dying light of day, Dyson could just see their eyes follow him as he walked toward the doors. He was dressed in finery that was foreign to him, and he hoped that he looked enough like he belonged there that the guards would not stop him.

His fears, it seemed, were unfounded. It took very little time for him to reach the great doors, where he was greeted by a thickly bearded man. The man welcomed Dyson, and did not even ask him for his invitation. Instead, he asked the planeswalker to follow him inside. The older man led Dyson through extravagant halls, majestically furnished with paintings and sculptures that on other planes, and likely on Khial as well, would have been priceless. The halls were filled with music, and with each step, the music grew ever louder.

Then, the old man opened a set of exquisite double doors, and the music washed over Dyson like a physical force. Beyond the doors was the grand ballroom, and after seeing it, “grand” was hardly sufficient to describe it. The ceiling was at least three stories tall, and painted with a fresco depicting a blue and cloudy sky, though with a crescent moon in the very center. The room was even wider than it was tall, and even longer than it was wide, and yet the only pillars supporting the ceiling stood along the walls.

Despite the massive scale of the ballroom, Dyson felt his chest tighten just slightly when he saw how many people were filling it. He scanned his eyes over the crowd as his heartbeat sped up. The entire room seemed crammed full of people, some dancing to the music, others speaking to one another, and still others eating from at least half a dozen different tables along the walls. The room was a sea of brightly colored fabric and the crashing tidal noise of conversation.

And Dyson was drowning.

He had not expected nearly so many people to be here. From Reab’s brief description, he had assumed that it would be a small gathering of just a few mages, where Dyson would have had the opportunity to discuss possible trades. Based on what he knew of Khial, though, there was no way all of these people, or even most of them, knew magic. Discovering which ones did was beginning to look like an insurmountable task, and finding one willing to trade even more so. This, he thought, was perhaps not the best idea he had ever had.

Dyson turned to make his way back into the hallway and found himself face to face with Reab. He could just make out the curl of a thin smile through her veil.

“Welcome to my home, Dyson Zymm. I trust that you have been extended the full hospitality of my household.”

Dyson struggled to say something, but he could not quite manage it. His chest was still tightening, and he was beginning to sweat. For a moment, Reab looked at him, her head tilted slightly, and Dyson could see her smile fade. Then, just as quickly, it returned, and much larger than before.

“Why, my dear Dyson. Are you not feeling well? Is something bothering you?”

Dyson, his breath coming in increasingly shortened spurts, managed to say, “The crowd…”

Reab looked around the room and laughed, quietly, not cruelly. “But Dyson, I would hardly call this a crowd! Here, let me show you.” She turned and called to a nearby woman at the edge of the throng of dancers. The woman came to her instantly, and Reab reached up and ran a hand softly through the other woman’s hair. As she did, the other woman began to melt away into a puff of smoke, the shade and scent of lavender.

“An illusion?” Dyson said, the tightness in his chest easing a bit.

Again, Reab laughed. “Of course! This is the Trickster’s Ball, remember! Most of those you see here are not truly here. Really, Dyson, if you are so easily fooled by the other illusionists, I fear you will not fare well in the Game.”

Dyson nodded his agreement, but then seemed to realize what she had said. “Wait a moment, what Game? I thought this was a ball.”

“What would a ball be without a game?” Reab asked. Then she reached out her hand and grabbed Dyson’s, then started leading him around the perimeter of the ballroom.

“Where are we going?” Dyson asked.

“Somewhere even less crowded,” she purred. “Someplace where you can prepare yourself for the Game. From the look of things, you will need some preparation.”

“Will you please tell me what this Game is that you keep mentioning?”

“Soon, Dyson. Very soon.” She continued to lead him by the hand until they came to a door in the wall. She opened it, and motioned for Dyson to enter. The room on the other side was spacious, thankfully, with several low divans against the walls and a larger padded settee in the center. Reab indicated toward this middle seat, and Dyson moved and sat down on it. Reab softly closed the door and moved to sit with him. Dyson was surprised by how much the door muffled the music in the ballroom beyond.

“The Game, Dyson, is simple,” Reab said softly. “It is designed to test an illusionist’s skill, both in approximating reality, and in detecting it. As I said earlier, the room beyond may seem filled, but really, there are only a few of us in there. The rest are creations. Soon, the tower bell will chime, and the Game will begin.”

“And what happens when it does?” Dyson pressed.

“Then we dance,” Reab said with a smile. “Your task is to create as many or as few illusions as you wish, and send them out into the ball. You may also disguise yourself with an illusion, or you may wear your own form, but you, too, will join us. Once all of the illusions and their creators are prepared, we will all dance in the Round. The Round is so designed that, at some point, each dancer will come opposite each other dancer.”

Dyson whistled low at this. “With as many people – or illusions, I guess – as are out there, that must be a terribly complex dance. I’m afraid that I would never be able to learn the steps in time to join in.”

Reab chuckled. “There is nothing to learn, Dyson. Trust me, the music itself will lead you, as it will lead all of us, including your illusions. But as you dance, pay attention to everything and to everyone. When the music stops, everyone will be asked to point out another dancer. If you name one who is real, you will win a prize.”

“So I just need to be able to tell illusion from reality?”

“I do not know if I would say ‘just,’ given your reaction to the ‘crowd’ out there, but yes, that is essentially the Game. If one of the other players were to choose one of your illusions, you would earn another prize.”

Dyson shrugged. “Well, win or lose, this is a fascinating challenge.”

“I had hoped you would say that,” Reab said. “There are rules to the Game, of course. Firstly, during the Round, there is to be no talking whatsoever. You must judge the other dancers on their appearance alone, not on how well they can mimic speech, which as you know is difficult for illusions. Second, allow the music to direct your every motion. The music will not lead you to touch another dancer, and to do so would be against the rules. Finally, though this hopefully goes without saying, there is to be no magic during the Round, apart from whatever is needed to maintain your illusions. I would be terribly disappointed if you did not play fair.”

“I don’t know what prize you are offering, Reab, so I could not possibly covet it enough to cheat it away from you. I will play by your rules.”

Reab grinned. “Thank you, Dyson. And enjoy yourself.” She stood up and moved toward the door. “Take all the time you need to prepare, though know that the tolling of the tower bell is not too far off now. It will toll twelve times. On the twelfth ring, the Round will begin, so you and your illusions will need to be in the ballroom by then.” Dyson nodded. “Best of luck to you, Dyson.”

She opened the door, slipped through, and closed it again behind her. Dyson took a deep breath and closed his eyes, then ran a hand through his silver hair. Knowing that most of the people beyond that door were illusions was simultaneously comforting and eerie. Beyond that, though, there was something strange about the entire night. Reab had said that the Game was meant to test an illusionist’s skills, but Dyson could not shake the feeling that he was being tested more directly, more personally. There was a part of him that still assumed he had unknowingly trespassed on the nobility’s – the Alalihan’s – domain. Not physically, perhaps, but by practicing magic in Khudea. Reab was testing him, perhaps to see if he were worthy.

Worthy of what, though, remained an unanswerable question.

Dyson opened his eyes, sighed heavily, and set to work. He would need illusions, of course, but those he had. He rifled through his cards to find the most powerful illusion spells at his disposal, and then he set to work. He made one of Saralyn, the woman he had always loved, because hers was a face that easily came to mind. Dressing her in the local garb was a slightly more difficult task, but well within his reach. He conjured two of his three sword dancers, as well, and dressed them more appropriately so that they might possibly pass as real.

He then made two illusions that would never fool anyone, specific people he had met on other planes whose clothing and features would have never been seen on Khial. His hope was that their look would be so outlandish that people would assume others would assume they must be an illusionist, trying to trick the others. In a similar vein, he made an illusion of himself, right down to the hair that resembled metallic silver. Then, finally, he started to work on himself. He assumed that most illusionists disguising themselves would change things significantly. Therefore, Dyson changed only his hair, the color of his eyes, and a bit of stubble on his usually clean-shaven face.

Dyson was debating adding a few more illusions to his entourage when he heard the first bell chime. The planeswalker took a deep breath to prepare himself. He flipped through his cards quickly and found a simple spell of telekinesis, then moved and opened the door. He let two of his illusions out first, then went himself, and then willed the rest of his creations to follow afterward. He had his illusionary self depart the room last, and then, using the telekinesis spell, made it appear that the fake Dyson Zymm closed the door. If any of the real illusionists were watching, he thought, that should throw them off.

As the last ring of the bell sounded through the ballroom, Dyson heard Reab’s voice float over the music, although he had no idea from where she spoke. “The Game has begun,” Reab said. “Let us begin the Dancer’s Round!”

The music changed then, and Dyson felt his body stir. Without thinking about it, the planeswalker allowed himself to move. It was a fascinating, if unearthly, sight. Slowly, as the music began to build throughout the cavernous ballroom, every guest in the room began to move in an unfathomably complex pattern. It was as though the music had a specific plan for each of them, both real and illusion, and it pulled them along as it continued.

It did not take long for Dyson to recognize the profound magic sewn into the music. It captivated him, and not just in a physical sense. Although he tried to keep his mind as much as possible on the endless parade of other dancers that wound up across from him, Dyson did everything he could to concentrate on the music. Or rather, he concentrated on the spell behind the music. After all, music that taught its own dance to the dancers might be a valuable trade in the future, so as he danced, Dyson mentally worked at learning the spell, and recording it on one of his cards.

Dyson’s various partners, though, were decidedly distracting, but none more so than his own creations. Dancing with Saralyn again, even an illusion of her, was so surreal that it nearly broke Dyson’s concentration. Pairing up with a nearly perfect facsimile of himself was somehow even stranger. He knew that most of the dancers were illusions, if Reab was to be believed, of course, and if that were the case, Dyson had to admit the unparalleled craft of Khudea illusionists.

Dyson was beginning to despair for his chances of winning the Game. His illusions, he thought, were very good, but he doubted they could measure up to the other phantasmagoria that danced throughout the hall. He had not yet seen a single dancer that stood out in one way or another as an illusion. Every figure danced on as he did, endlessly moving and twirling in impossibly intricate patterns, but none of them looked in the least bit illusionary.

It was a stark realization for Dyson when it occurred to him that he was looking for the wrong things. The Game was that he was meant to choose a real person. Spotting an illusion would do nothing but eliminate a single option from a pool of hundreds. What Dyson needed to do was recognize another living being. He had no idea how long he had been dancing, or how much longer the Round would last, so he immediately began to scrutinize every partner he had. Each dancer only faced each other dancer once, and only for a scant few moments.

The next several dancers offered few clues. The first was a clean-shaven man in black and blue, followed quickly by a tall woman in white. Next came a woman with a small scar across her cheek and dark eyes, and then a woman in orange who was beginning to perspire from the exertion of the dance. A man in deep grey followed her, and then a man who was probably one of Dyson’s sword dancers, although by this point, he could not be sure. Following him was a woman in a green masquerade mask, and then a man wearing the head of an ibis.

The dancers kept dancing, and Dyson did anything he could to try to discern which were real and which were not. All the while, the music kept playing, and Dyson kept dancing. His body was growing exhausted with the continual effort, and his mind was tiring from the constant evaluation of his partners, but he felt no closer to an answer. He reflected back briefly on his conversation with Reab, and how he had told her that he didn’t need her prize. That was true. But he did want to prove himself to her, and to the other illusionists at the Trickster’s Ball. He wanted to leave tonight with something more than the music spell.

Suddenly, almost before Dyson realized it, the music built to a flourish, and then completely stopped. The crowd, finding themselves released from the magic of those tunes, breathed deeply. Dyson looked from side to side and frowned. He was standing in the center of the room, completely surrounded on all sides. His chest started to tighten, and he struggled to remind himself that most of them were not real, that there was nothing but empty space in the room, filled with only a few illusionists and their myriad creations. Still, that was easy enough to think; it was far more difficult to believe.

Dyson spun around instantly when a hand touched his shoulder. He was breathing heavily now, but the sight of Reab calmed him just slightly. As she stared at him with her purple eyes and her veiled smile, Dyson realized that he had not seen her in the Round. Or rather, if he had seen her, she was wearing an illusionary form. He briefly allowed himself, or perhaps forced himself, to wonder who she might have been before she spoke to him.

“Well, Dyson, did you enjoy yourself?”

He was trying to focus solely on Reab’s eyes, fighting off the tightness in his chest and the spinning of his head that might well follow. “I did,” he managed to say, but did not risk speaking more.

“Excellent,” she said. “Well, the Game comes down to this, then. Point out one dancer here who was real, and I will reward you with a very great prize.” Dyson nodded, thinking. Before he could think of his answer, Reab continued, a strange edge to her voice. “Choose incorrectly, though, and your punishment will be…profound.”

“I…what? What do you mean?”

Behind her purple veil, Reab smirked. “What can be the pleasure of reward, if there is no pain to risk?” She laughed, a bit less demurely than before and much more cruel. “Choose, Dyson. Choose your dancer; choose your fate.”

Reab’s sudden change in demeanor, combined with the reality of being surrounded by hundreds of real and illusionary revelers, made Dyson decidedly uncomfortable. But when he tried to planeswalk away from Khial, and found that he could not, his panic really began to settle in. As his muscles started to constrict and would not relax, Reab merely stood there waiting. As Dyson’s throat dried out and he started finding it difficult to breathe, she only smiled at him. As his brow broke into a cold sweat, she actually winked at him.

Dyson needed an answer. Whatever he had gotten himself into, however powerful Reab and the other Alalihan were, his only way out seemed to be to name another real dancer from the Round. He considered pointing to Reab herself, but he had no evidence that she had joined in. He never saw her during the dance, and while she was clearly powerful enough to disguise her form, it seemed too obvious a trick. Dyson could feel his arms pressing in against his chest. It was getting painful to stand.

Desperately, the spell trader cast his mind back to the people he had seen. It could not have been the sword dancer. That was his creation. Or could it? This was the Trickster’s Ball, after all. How difficult would it have been for another illusionist to see Dyson’s creation and model their own disguise after it? It could have even been Reab herself. But it was only a possibility. There was no reason to believe it was the truth. His mouth felt as though he had swallowed a fistful of sand.

Was it the man in blue and black, or the tall woman clad in white? Either one was possible, he knew, but their choice of attire was not nearly enough of a clue. What about the woman with the scar, or the man wearing grey? Still, there was nothing to go on. The man with an ibis head was a strong option, although Dyson had seen no Aven on Khial. Still, did that make it more likely he had been an illusion, or less? What about the woman in the masquerade mask? Illusionists did not need masks, but then again, neither did illusions. Dyson was becoming drenched in his own sweat.

The thought of sweat triggered Dyson’s memory. The woman in orange! When he had seen her, she was sweating from dancing in the Round. Sweat, Dyson knew well, was a difficult detail to master in an illusion. Despite the power of his own spells and his own talent for illusion, he had never mastered that little touch. Perhaps, just perhaps, other illusionists had similar difficulty. With a surge of will, fortified by fear and the desire for self-preservation, Dyson forced himself to look around the room. All of those faces and bodies made it torturous, but soon Dyson located the woman and managed to point.

“Her,” Dyson said in a cracking voice.

Reab followed his gaze and her smile faded when she saw his guess. “I see,” she said coldly. “Are you certain she is your choice, Dyson Zymm?”

Dyson felt like he was on the verge of collapsing, but he was able to nod.

Reab adjusted her stance, standing up a bit straighter and holding her head higher. “Well, then. It seems I have little choice.” She stared at him for a moment, and then grinned at him. “Congratulations, Dyson!” she clapped her hands, and several of the nearby illusions vanished in puffs of purple smoke. “I knew that you would vindicate my belief in you.”

As the illusions nearest him disappeared, the tightness in Dyson’s chest lessened somewhat, though it did not vanish with them. The fact that he was still incapable of planeswalking was irksome, and more than a little frightening to the spell trader. Before Dyson could say anything, though, Reab had produced an orb from nowhere. Approximately the size of a coconut, the thing looked like it was solid gold with a complex pattern in relief, though considering the enchantress held it almost daintily with just her fingertips, Dyson doubted that was the case.

“This is what I shall give you for your guess, Dyson. This is a powerful artifact, one of my own design. And so, naturally, I have named it Reab’s Orb. I know of your kind, Traveler of the Realities, and while I have never – could never – walk where you have walked, I am certain than few artifacts exist anywhere that will so assist with your mastery over illusions. With my blessing, take this.”

Dyson nodded, and though his muscles were still stiff, he reached out to grab the orb. Sadly, though, his fingers passed directly through it. Reab pulled her hand away, reached up, and unhooked her veil. She was grinning widely, cruelty etched on her otherwise flawless face. She laughed, and her laugh shook the walls of the palace.

“Oh, Dyson,” she said. “You do not need to hold the Orb. Can you not see?” She gestured all around them. “You are already inside it.”

Dyson’s eyes widened, and he looked around. One by one, the other dancers vanished, each fading into smoke the color of Reab’s eyes. One by one they disappeared, the ibis headed man, the scarred woman, the woman in the mask, and even the woman in orange who had been Dyson’s only hope of salvation. They all faded from existence until it was only Dyson and Reab there, and then, amazingly, Reab herself evaporated. Dyson was alone.

Then he heard the sound that nearly stopped his heart. It was an ugly sound, a destructive sound, the sound of metal grating against metal, or stone grinding stone. And then, Dyson’s worst fears began to unfold as the walls themselves began to close in. The ballroom was massive, and at first, the walls, the ceiling, and the floor moved only a little, but still Dyson panicked. He tried to planeswalk again, but it still did not work. He was trapped, trapped on the plane, in the city, in the palace, and, if Reab had been telling her the truth, in the orb itself. And it felt like every one of them were clenching their fists around Dyson Zymm.

The very shape of the room was changing. The walls and the ceiling were not moving straight, but rather seemed to be curling inward toward the center, toward Dyson. The floor, meanwhile, was sinking, just slightly, as if he were standing on the first formation of a sinkhole. As the rest of the room was closing in, it was taking the shape of the inside of a sphere, one with no exits. One that was getting smaller and smaller by the second.

Dyson tried to run, but his legs failed him and he fell hard to the increasingly concave floor beneath him. Every muscle in his body seemed to lock as Dyson’s vision started spinning. Somehow, he managed to lift his right hand, but all he could do with it was clutch at his chest, which felt like it was about to grind his heart like a millstone. He tried, vainly, to tell himself what he could feel, but he only got as far as his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his body before he was distracted by the sound of a primal scream.

A scream in his own voice.

The room was getting smaller and smaller still. While once it had been three stories tall at least, it was now easily half that, and was still twisting inward. Dyson struggled to put together any thoughts beyond the sheer panic he felt, any coherent thought apart from a voice in his head shouting “please don’t crush me.” He forced himself to think, tried to devise a way out. How had he been trapped in the first place? Suddenly, in a moment of near-clarity, Dyson thought of the music from the Dancer’s Round. That music had held a magic to it, a strong ritual of precise movement.

That was it, he realized suddenly! The Round! The music had led him, and his own motions had worked the magic. If he could undo the ritual, maybe, maybe he could be saved before the walls smothered him completely. Dyson’s right arm would not respond, so he fumbled for his cards with his left. He could barely feel as his trembling fingers closed around them, and as he withdrew the cards from his pocket, his left hand clenched, and the cards scattered to the now bowl-shaped floor.

Desperation overcame his constricting muscles, and he scurried to the cards, rifling through them to find the one with the music spell on it. It must be there. It must! But there were so many spells, and that horrifying sound of the walls! They were coming for him now. They were getting closer. Dyson forced himself to look only at the cards; if he looked at the walls he would be lost. It didn’t matter how much time he had. It had to be enough. It had to be.

Finally, his fingers closed around his newest card. The music ritual. Reab’s spell, which had apparently trapped him in this ever-shrinking hell. The secret had to be there! If he could work the spell in reverse, if he could force himself to stand, and to follow the Round backwards, maybe that would be enough. Maybe that would allow him to escape. It had to work. It was the only thing that could possibly save him now.

It was becoming nearly impossible to breathe. Although his legs did not seem to want to cooperate, Dyson managed to climb to his feet. He reached out his mana and tried to activate the spell, but nothing happened. Something seemed to punch Dyson in the heart, and his knees nearly buckled. He tried to cast his mind back to the dance. He needed to work it backwards! But it was far too complex, and his mind could barely process thought. He had to try, but when he raised his hand as he had in the Round, it hit the ceiling.

Dyson screamed, and he pressed his hands against the enclosing ceiling, but it did nothing. The walls were there an instant later, and the room was now as far across as Dyson was tall. And it was still shrinking. Dyson began stomping with his feet and pounding with his hands, but the sphere continued to close. There was nothing Dyson could do. He tried to call his mana, but none would respond. He tried to planeswalk, hoping that desperation would break through Reab’s trap, but it did nothing. Dyson was crouching now, and a moment later, he curled up, screaming endlessly as his body could finally take it no longer.

Darkness enveloped Dyson Zymm, and then there was nothing.