the boots were comfortable.
"Hey guys, you know what? I reckon I'd better go back and change clothes after a—"
She turned back. She'd been expecting to see the dressing room, or at least the doorway and a chunk of wall. But there was nothing there. Only a square raw spot on the forest floor where something had been.
Glory felt her stomach clench with panicky nausea. Suddenly she felt trapped, though she was in precisely the same situation that she'd been in the moment before. But now even the illusion she could leave was gone. Nothing was left but the forest, her strange companions, and her idiotic bravura.
They were staring at her again.
"Oh, well. Never mind. Look. Why don't you . . . um, tell me about yourselves, hey?" She still didn't know what Belegir and company thought she could do for them, but whatever it was, it had to be easier than being a Media Personality. And if somehow this still turned out to be a joke, at least it was one of the elaborate interdimensional kind.
"We are the disciples of the great mage Cinnas the Warkiller," Englor began proudly. "In every generation . . ."
" . . . there can be only one," Glory finished automatically.
"No. Three," Englor corrected her kindly.
She'd caught up to the others, and they'd started walking again. Helevrin kept glancing at her suspiciously, but Englor was frankly worshipful.
"Um. Sorry. Go on."
She'd have to remember that these people didn't watch a lot of television, though apparently they'd seen enough to have gotten her into real trouble.
"For a hundred generations the