But she was already limp. All her muscles had gone dead. Her lips felt cold, as if the blood in her heart had become ice.
He gripped her brutally, so furious at her for defying him this way that he wanted to break her back, punish her at once, absolutely. He was strong enough: he could do it. Crushing his forearms across her spine, he tried to find the place where she could still feel pain.
An unexpected movement caught the corner of his eye.
She turned her head toward it as if she knew what it meant.
Before he had time to think, he looked at the mirror.
The movement was there; but it wasn’t the movement of armies, it wasn’t in the Image. The Image itself was moving, modulating—
While he watched, the scene which the glass reflected became a large room with a bed and instruments of enjoyment; stone floors; sunshine.
At the center of the scene, facing Eremis, stood a tall, naked man with a nose that was too big, cheekbones that sloped too much toward his ears, a thatch of black hair too far back on his skull. Despite their usual intelligence and humor, the man’s eyes were wide, almost gaping.
His arms held an unattractively dressed woman. Her body sagged against him as if the last of her strength had faded away.
Her eyes, on the other hand—
They were no longer blank. She had gone so far down inside herself that she had reached a place of unexpected power. Darkness seemed to spill from her gaze like a void overflowing, a black emptiness reaching out to gather him in.
He was seeing himself, and her; that was his own Image echoed in the flat mirror. It had a luminous quality, a precise perfection, which startled him like a revelation, as if it were all he needed to know.
Let me show you what I can do.
The last thing he felt before his mind vanished into eternal translation was a sense of complete astonishment.
FIFTY-TWO: NO MORE FIGHTING
Terisa seemed to hang limp there in Master Eremis’ frozen embrace for a long time.
At one point, she thought she remembered a peculiar tremor under her feet, a trembling in the stone. It was gone before she noticed it, however, and her recollection of it was uncertain.
Nevertheless the effort of trying to think helped bring her back.
Now she remembered something else, something she couldn’t be mistaken about: the sound of horns.
She had heard them plainly, winding through her heart: the music of hunting, the bold summons of music; the call to risk and beauty. Even though mirrors couldn’t transmit sound, the horns had come to her while she watched King Joyse ride into battle; she had heard the horns as she had seen him fight. They had lifted her up—
The memory of them lifted her now, restored her to herself.
It was time to move.
She didn’t know what had happened to Artagel and Geraden, but she wasn’t afraid; not yet. Gart would have stopped Geraden if he could. And Master Gilbur would have attacked King Joyse by Imagery if he could. Since Gilbur had done nothing – except make the floor tremble? – Geraden and Artagel must still be alive. She wanted to see them, however, all three of the brothers. She wanted to feel Geraden’s arms around her and look at Artagel’s face and find out how Nyle was.
She took one last look at her Image, making sure of herself. Then she released her hold on the mirror, so that it could resume its natural reflection.
After that, she began to squirm out of Eremis’ grasp.
He was as hard as stone, still erect and rigid; every part of him was tight with unsatisfied ambition and striving. As a result, she found it difficult to get away from him. Nevertheless, because he couldn’t react to her movements, he couldn’t keep her.
After a moment, she was free.
He went on standing as though she were his forever – as if he had only turned his head momentarily from her best kiss to glance at the mirror before consummating their embrace.
Vaguely, she wondered if he might be in pain, if he had enough of himself left to feel outrage or loss. She doubted it.
Then Geraden and Artagel and Nyle entered the room.
Despite their obvious exhaustion, they had all come to fight for her. Artagel held his sword poised; Nyle swung his chains; Geraden’s face was full of threats. They all came forward to fling themselves at Master Eremis. But when they saw that he wasn’t moving, that he couldn’t move, and she was unharmed, Geraden gave a shout of joy, Artagel blinked in happy astonishment, and Nyle dropped his chains.
Oh, Geraden. Oh, love. Mute with relief and constricted weeping, she hugged him and hugged him while Artagel thumped her back boisterously and Nyle shed quiet tears of his own.
None of them asked any questions. They were all happy to wait a while to find out what had happened.
On the other hand, after a moment they a found themselves looking at the mirror.
Its focus had to be adjusted before they could see King Joyse. He had ridden so far down the valley, was so heavily engaged among the Cadwals, that he was momentarily out of view. When they located him, however, they saw almost at once that he might win this battle.
His forces and the High King’s still seemed roughly equal in numbers. But the Termigan and his men continued to block the left side of the valley; the soldiers Prince Kragen had left in place sealed the right side. As a result, High King Festten wasn’t receiving any reinforcements.
He needed reinforcements. The Cadwals simply weren’t fighting as well or as hard as their opponents. King Joyse and the Prince attacked them from two sides, and the Termigan cut at their rear, and the rampart wall and the slug-beast’s corpse hemmed them in: they had no room to maneuver, no avenue of escape. And the men of Alend and Mordant fought as if they couldn’t be beaten.
At the sight, Artagel’s face shone, and Geraden cheered, “Look at him! Didn’t I tell you he was worth serving?” He had apparently forgotten that Nyle might have a different reaction. “Didn’t I?”
Terisa still needed to weep. At the same time, a fierce exultation rose in her. She had to struggle to make her throat work. “Something I want to do.”
Unable to explain, she waved Geraden and Artagel and Nyle back from the mirror. She moved it so that Master Eremis no longer blocked her way. Nearly in tears, nearly crowing, she adjusted the focus of the Image up to the rampart, to the last catapult.
The engine was ready to throw – and both King Joyse and Prince Kragen appeared to be within range.
Striking her only blow of the battle, Terisa translated a strut out of the catapult’s frame. The timber was under such pressure that it came through the glass like a shot and slammed against the far wall.
Without the strut, the engine wrenched itself apart.
This time, both Geraden and Artagel cheered. Some of the men in the valley looked like they might be cheering.
That helped; but she still couldn’t unknot her grief and joy. If she remained where she was, with Master Eremis like that in front of her, she might begin sobbing wildly.
“Let’s go,” she said.
Artagel nodded at once and turned to support Nyle. But Geraden looked at the erect Imager, and at the cloak on the floor, as if he were embarrassed by pity.
“Shouldn’t we cover him?”
Terisa shook her head. “Leave him alone. He’s probably happy that way.”
In surprise and relief, Geraden gave a shout of laughter.
Artagel laughed, too, a loud, long hoot of mirth. Even Nyle managed a wan smile.
Suddenly, the knot inside Terisa loosened, and she started laughing as well.
Happy that way. Ready and capable and full of himself until he died. Giggling and chuckling, she and the Domne’s sons laughed all the way back to the Image-room.
In the center of the damaged ring of mirrors, they found Adept Havelock. He sat on the bare stone as if he had appeared there by translation. His eyes were strangely focused, and his face wore lines of sorrow; he looked like a man who had lost an old friend.