Cautiously, very cautiously, she tilted the mirrors closer to each other and watched as the reflections stacked upon themselves, cascading behind one another.
In the right-hand mirror, she saw herself crowned, and behind that, wearing the battle armour, behind that was a reflection of her in rags and bound in chains, behind that she was wearing blue, papery pajamas and a white robe-like someone might wear in a mental hospital-and behind that she was wearing the Oxford graduation robes, and behind that were more and more images, although it was extremely hard to make them out.
What did it mean? If they were all probable futures, was there any significance to their order? Were the closest images the most probable?
She took a step back, out of the mirrors’ reflections, feeling light-headed. Again, she asked, what was the point of this room, besides a sort of dizzying diversion? Almost ten minutes passed and she was breathless, disoriented, with an overwhelming number of questions. Was it possible that Ealdstan, in his hundreds of years’ worth of time, could have cracked the secret to using these mirrors and could see the actual future? If anyone could, it would be him, although they’d not discovered anything in his study that related or even alluded to this place or the mirrors. And if he had figured out a way to exploit them somehow, then to what effect?
Things got really crazy when she set three mirrors up to reflect one another. They showed all different kinds of scenes of herself and people she knew and didn’t know in familiar and unfamiliar settings. She tried to track which images were shown in what mirrors, but it got very confusing, and the more complex the setup, the harder it was to make out exactly what was in the reflections. She strained her neck and her eyes trying to see as much of the different scenes as possible.
Then she placed all four mirrors around her and turned slowly, as if in a kaleidoscopic chamber. Her eyes watered and she experienced a sharp stab of vertigo that forced her to move out from the reflecting mirrors quickly before she keeled over. She almost threw up at that point, and it took her a long time to recover.
Unable to pull herself away from the room, she spent countless hours arranging and rearranging the mirrors-moving them just so, tilting them this way and then that, standing exactly here-but she eventually tore herself away, becoming hungry and tired. Her mind was so full of images that she could barely begin to process them all, and it made it difficult for her to think of anything else. She felt like screaming.
Used in combination, the mirrors all had so many different properties. The “now” one showed the friends and people she’d been close to when reflected in the “past” mirror: her parents in their garden, her sister in a classroom, Daniel standing in a forest-that was odd-Ecgbryt in a dark tunnel, and beyond that she thought she saw Modwyn with her eyes closed in what may have been a bedroom. The images behind that were hard to make out. Trying hard not to look into their faces, she replaced each of the mirrors in their original places on the walls and behind the door. She shivered and left the room, closing the silver door behind her. She was continuing back down the thin passageway and back to the stairs when she remembered that there was another room on that floor.
Her head was spinning and she decided that she was in a very bad condition to face what might be in that room, if it was anything. “Let sleeping dogs lie,” Vivienne had said, and the words came back to her now. She trudged down the stairs, back into Ealdstan’s study. Vivienne was at her usual place, going over the books again. Of the hundreds that lined the walls, it seemed she had made her way through at least half of them. No mean feat, but then Freya didn’t know how long they had both been at it.
“Ready to go at it again, Freya?” Vivienne said, pulling a stack of books toward her. And then moving her hands over to the pansensorum.
“No-no, I don’t think I am,” Freya protested as Vivienne stuck in her ear plugs. “Listen, wait-I found-”
But Vivienne whipped the top into a spin and the room gave a lurch. Freya grabbed for a chair and pulled herself onto it.
II
London
21 May 1471 AD
Henry sat in his cell, more than a broken man-a broken king. Only fifty years old, Henry looked a hundred. He had seen too much of this world; his heart longed for the next. When would he see golden skies? How long would he be forced to endure the arduous pain of this world? The horror of existence?
There was a rattle at the door and it opened. The guard, without a word, let a hooded man into the narrow room.
“You,” Henry said. It was a declaration more than a statement. An accusation. “You. .”
He didn’t have the energy to hate anymore. He was tired-all passion had left his body. He stared down at his old, impotent hands.
Ealdstan took down his hood and stared at the king, who turned weary, wet eyes up at him. For the briefest moment, Ealdstan experienced an unfamiliar sensation-that of looking into eyes older than his own. With a shift that he felt in his gut, the feeling passed and he was staring instead into the cloudy eyes of a sad, beaten madman. He took a few steps toward the window, and Henry, as though possessing no will of his own, also turned his face to the bars.
The sky was shades of russet and orange, fading into a light purple.
“I never betrayed you,” Ealdstan said. “You must think that I did, but I always did what was best for the kingdom, for the crown.”
Ealdstan turned from the window to see that Henry had also turned away. “You are in your silent mood again.”
“No. No, I am not. I am just tired. It is exhausting. First ruling, then deposed, then enthroned once again, only to be deposed once more. All the fighting, all the battles. English blood on English soil for the first time in over a hundred years. How did I fail my people? Where have I erred?”
“They wanted leadership. They wanted safety.”
“I would have led them to safety. I would have led them to piety.”
“They would sooner have the safety that victory over your enemies promised. A warm bed and a full belly. Even very pious men falter with a blade at their neck.”
“‘My enemies.’ I never understood that phrase. We are all brothers. We all bear the burdens of reality in this world. Who is my enemy? God knows, I have been an enemy to many, but has a man ever been mine?”
“You are too philosophical-that has always been your weakness.” Ealdstan sucked in his breath at this last word-the word he had told himself not to say. Weakness was the beginning and end with this man. It would not do to taunt him. “The opposer is in every man you meet. You say every enemy is your brother-every brother is your enemy. We war not just outside the world, but within ourselves also, for the opposer is also there. The evil builds in season, like a flood tide, and will one day overrun us and wash away all that cannot stand.”
“And will you rouse your sleepers and save us at that time?”
“You could have been strong. You could have more readily drawn strength from others. Your wife, for instance.” Or me, he added silently. If you had only listened to me.
“I would have been stronger if I let others fight for me, you mean?” Henry looked up, his eyes flashing. “Is that strength? Or is strength the power to stand for peace when all around you war? You who have known. . how many kings now? In your wisdom, perhaps you can answer me this question: Why do hands clenching swords inspire men more than hands clenched in prayer? Why are there always far more willing to rip apart than to knit together?”
“Your father knew the reason. He brought peace, and he carried a sword.”