The Door into Sunset by Diane Duane

slightly in the breeze that poured out through the opening. Though with Eftgan’s help he and his people had used the Door before, he had never actually seen it in its own place. If a ruler was apt enough at sorcery or Fire, its doorway could be made to manifest briefly in other places, as Eftgan had obviously just done to let the horses be put through from the courtyard.
    “If this thing weren’t so convenient,” Eftgan said, between deep breaths, “I would close it, I swear I would. Using it costs me more than almost any other wreaking I do. But if I did shut it, I would lose the best escape route in the place. Too many people try to kill kings in their beds....” She looked up at Lorn. “What do you think?”
    “About closing the Door? It seems a waste.”
    “Lorn, I meant what do you think about your face.”
    He shrugged. “I’m used to it by now, I suppose.”
    Eftgan’s expression went wry: she glanced at Wyn as she straightened. “Did you ever see a man with such a sense of humor? Or lack of it. Lorn, go look in the mirror.”
    Bemused, he peered around the edge of the little room’s door and glanced at himself in the mirror over the clothes press. Except it wasn’t a mirror. It was a window, and some stranger was looking through it at him. Blond, a south Arlene perhaps, with that Southern heavy, rough cast of feature, ruddy-complexioned, slightly husky of build. And then he realized that the other man’s clothes were the same as his—
    The breath caught under Freelorn’s breastbone for a moment, then got loose again. He touched his face: the blond man did the same.
    “How long have I looked this way?” he said, his voice coming out oddly. It was deeper than usual.
    “Since you left the barber’s.”
    Lorn went back into the room of the Kings’ Door. Eftgan was on her feet now, stretching, putting her clothes in order. Her sword already hung at her hip. Wyn now handed her a big, plain old fireplace poker, about three feet long. At least it would have been plain if half its length were not encrusted with diamonds driven into the black iron. Eftgan hefted Sarsweng, gazing idly at the flash of its gems, then looked at Lorn. “Does it suit you?”
    “Very well,” he said. “What if I want to take it off myself?”
    Wyn brought Eftgan a leather strap. She wound several turns of it around Sarsweng, slung the poker over her shoulder, and fastened first one end of the strap, then the other, to her baldric. “Four elements combined with your own blood,” she said. “Boil a pot of muddy water and use it to wash: that’s one way. Just beware. Once it’s off, it needs me or another Rodmistress to put it on again.”
    She kissed her husband. “I won’t be too late.” Eftgan said. “Don’t forget to sit in on Balan’s lessons today.”
    “I will,” Wyn said. “Don’t forget to look into that business with the vineyards.”
    “I’ll do that. Come on, Lorn.” Eftgan turned away, through the door.
    He followed her. At first there was no feeling of doing anything more than stepping through a doorway. Then pressure built up in his ears, he swallowed, and they popped. He walked over to Blackmane and took his reins from a groom, who bowed to him casually, and headed back the way Lorn had come.
    He watched the other groom join his fellow, stepping through the Door. Then it was gone, and the breeze from it gone as well. Eftgan mounted up. Lorn took just long enough to make sure that everything he needed for the trip was packed in his saddle roll. He paused to look over the packhorse too. “His name is Pebble, the groom tells me,” Eftgan said over his shoulder. “Will these do?”
    “Your cooks are right,” Lorn said, examining one holed kettle. “You did need new pots.”
    Eftgan chuckled. “There are some newish ones there as well... it seemed as if a mixed bag would look more natural. Tools are in the canvas bag there. Mount up, Lorn, and let’s get going.”
    He got up on Blackmane,