“The callat are indeed a powerful force, as you can see” – Eremis enjoyed a glance at the glass himself, although most of his mind was fixed on Terisa – “but not as powerful as the Cadwals feared. Their numbers are not great enough to make an army.
“They are renegades in their own world. Actually, they are in danger of extermination by what I can only describe as a race of groundhogs. Very large groundhogs. And the callat are too bloody-minded to make peace. They can only fight or die.
“Witnessing their danger, I translated one or two of them and began bargaining. In exchange for escape from their enemies” – Eremis shrugged aside the fact that he had never intended to let the callat live, had meant from the start to use them in a way which would destroy them – “they agreed to serve me.”
Slowly, Terisa nodded. He wondered if she understood: she seemed to be thinking about something else.
“They come from a completely different world,” she said. “They have a history of their own, motives of their own. Do you still claim they didn’t exist until Vagel shaped the mirror?”
Her question drew a chortle from the Master. He made no effort to conceal that he was inexpressibly pleased with himself. “My lady, did you ever truly credit that piece of sophism?”
She regarded him gravely, as if she wanted to hear what he would say – and didn’t care what it was.
Still chuckling, he continued, “No man of any intelligence – of whom there are only a few, I admit – has ever thought that the Images we see in mirrors do not exist. That position, with all the arguments supporting it, was forced on us by King Joyse, by his demand that the Congery should define a ‘right’ use of Imagery. Because he took it as proven that if Images were real in themselves then they must be treated with respect, forbearance – in effect, must be left alone – he allowed those who disagreed with him no ground on which to stand except that those Images have no independent existence.
“But of course his central tenet is so foolish that it is also unanswerable. He might as well claim that we must not breathe because we should not interfere with the air, or that we must not eat because we should not interfere with plants and cattle. The truth is that we have the right to interfere with Images because we have the power to interfere. It is necessary to interfere. Otherwise the power has no use, and it dies, and Imagery is lost.
“That is the law of life. Like every other thing which breathes and desires and chooses, we must do what we can.”
Eremis licked his lips. “Terisa, I have sampled your breasts, and they are delectable. You must have an exceptionally vacuous mind, if you ever believed that you do not exist. I told you you were unreal only to make it as difficult as possible for you to discover your talent.”
As he spoke, he studied her, looking for her secret reaction, the truth she wished to conceal. Her eyes were too dark, too lost: they didn’t betray anything. As far as they were concerned, she was already gone.
But her pretty, cleft chin tightened as if she were clenching her teeth.
Delighted by this evidence of anger, he reached out and bunched his fists in her unflattering leather shirt. He regretted, really, that she hadn’t had a chance to wash her hair; but everything else about her was perfect. He was going to tear the shirt away. Then, before he began to hurt her, he would do things to her breasts which would make her ache for him in spite of her secrets. He would surprise her with the pain, as she had surprised him.
For some reason, however, she had turned her face away. She wasn’t even afraid enough of him to watch what he was doing. Instead, she gazed darkly at the mirror.
Unintentionally, he glanced there in time to see the slug-beast come down from its full height, collapse like soundless thunder in the valley and lie still. Involuntarily, he held his breath, waiting to see the monster move again, waiting to see it pounce forward and devour King Joyse and the arrogant Alend Contender. But the beast remained as limp as a carcass. Odd smoke curled briefly out of its maw and drifted away along the breeze.
“Excrement of a pig!” Eremis breathed. Forgetting Terisa, he turned to the mirror, gripped the frame with both hands, studied the Image intently. “That is impossible. You doddering old fool, that is impossible.”
“Interesting,” Terisa remarked as if she had never been less interested in her life. “Maybe ‘all things’ aren’t as ‘fortuitous’ as you think.”
Eremis thought he saw the Image of the valley begin to waver around the edges, thought he saw the rampart walls and the last catapult start to melt—
That also was impossible. He wasn’t sure of what he was seeing.
He didn’t delay to be sure. Swinging at once, he backhanded her across the side of the head so hard that she fell like a broken doll. She lay on one side in the warm sunshine, huddling around herself, with her hair spread out on the stone, and one hand cupped weakly over the place where she had been hit; she may have been weeping.
“If you try that again,” he spat, “if you touch that glass with one more hint of your talent, I swear I will call Gilbur here and let him rape you with that dagger of his.”
Perhaps she wasn’t weeping: she didn’t make a sound. After a moment, however, she nodded her head – one small, frail jerk, like a twitch of defeat.
Despite his monster’s unexpected demise, Master Eremis recovered his grin.
Artagel, too, was grinning, but for an entirely different reason.
Despite the blood which streamed from his cut shoulder, he beat back the hot steel lightning and force of Gart’s next attack. That defense cost him an exertion which seemed to shred his wounded side. Twice he only saved himself because the corridor was too narrow for perfect swordwork, and he was able to block Gart’s blade away against the stone. But at last he managed to disengage.
Before the High King’s Monomach could come at him again, he retreated several quick strides, then relaxed his stance and dropped the point of his sword.
Gart paused to scrutinize him curiously.
Trying not to breathe in whooping gasps that would betray his weakness, Artagel asked, “Why do you do it?”
Gart cocked an eyebrow; he advanced a step.
Artagel put up a hand to ward off the Monomach. “You’re going to kill me anyway. You know that. You can afford to send me to my grave with my ignorance satisfied. Why do you do it?”
Swayed, perhaps, by the admission of defeat, Gart paused again. “Why do I do what?”
With an effort which felt desperately heroic, Artagel tried to laugh. He failed, of course. Nevertheless he did contrive to sound cheerful as he said, “Serve.”
The tip of Gart’s blade watched Artagel warily as the Monomach waited.
“You’re the best,” Artagel panted, “the best. You lead and train a cadre of Apts who all want to be as good as you, and some of them may even have almost that much talent. You could be a power in the world. I’ll wager you could unseat Festten anytime you want. You could be the one who decides, instead of the one who serves. Why do you do it?”
Gart considered the question for a moment. “That is who I am,” he pronounced finally.
“But why?” demanded Artagel, fighting for a chance to regain his breath, his strength. “What does Festten give you that you can’t get anywhere else? What does being the High King’s Monomach get you that isn’t already yours by right? You could choose who you’re going to kill. If I were you, I’d be embarrassed by the amount of time you’ve spent recently trying to kill a woman. Whose decision was that? Why did you have to demean yourself like that?”