“You’ve never seen a dragon in your life, let alone heard one. And I doubt they snore. Anyway, it’s hardly his fault he caught the sniffles.”
“You’re going to catch them too if you don’t get back into bed where it’s warm,” she scolded.
“What about you? You’re barefoot.”
“Goddess, but you have a welcoming way with you.”
When they lay together under the thin blanket and both their cloaks, Andry murmured, “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Compliments?” she riposted drowsily. “Whatever did I do to deserve this?”
“You’re here, and you’re warm.” And that’s all, he added silently.
The next noon he found the woman he sought. She was a few winters younger than Mireva and lived alone in a tiny cottage built half into a huge tree trunk. She answered readily enough to the name on Ostvel’s list, a name that appeared several times in connection with those who had assembled at Mireva’s order. But she professed to be only a lonely widow who lived simply in the forest, making the occasional sack of taze to sell or trade, working the occasional harmless cure for sick animals or a lover’s woes.
Andry was scrupulous about making absolutely certain of diarmadhi heritage in these encounters. Most of the others had made it easy for him by attempting spells in their own defense. But few had ever studied the Star Scroll, and thus they were no threat. He admired this one’s stubbornness, believed not a word of her protestations, and adhered to his self-imposed dictates about being sure.
There was a small, deep pond conveniently nearby. He had Nialdan throw her into it. A Sunrunner would have reacted with equal violence, would also have thrashed about and screamed for help. But a Sunrunner would have grown sick and disoriented, and drowned very quickly. This woman did not. She swallowed a lot of water and put up a good show, but finally swam to the pond’s edge. Nialdan dispatched her with a single cut of his sword. While Valeda set about burning the corpse,
Andry watched as Nialdan carved a sunburst into the fallen tree. “Mark of the Goddess and her Sunrunners,” Nialdan said with satisfaction.
“People cannot fear what they understand.” He heard his father’s words and in his mind replied, Exactly. Leaving that proud sunburst behind would trumpet mysterious faradhi power through the forest silence. Perhaps it would become a sign of good luck—people would move into the abandoned dwellings and consider themselves protected against harm by the carving on their new doors. The notion amused him.
Occasionally he had twinges of conscience. Not at what he was doing; he believed in his actions with all his soul. But every so often he trembled slightly at what Alasen would think if she knew. Surely she would find out once rumors spread of unexplained disappearances and symbols left behind.
Too, perhaps Ostvel had been right, and innocents would die along with the guilty. But whenever he thought such things, he remembered scarred faces and the blood-reddened sea, and Radzyn in flames. If a few died by mistake in the eradication of sorcerers who could command an army of Merida to such destruction, that was an acceptable price. Alasen’s hatred was more difficult for him to bear. But one day she would understand. He would save her—and all the rest of them—from what his visions had shown him. She would understand and forgive. Let Pol mate with his pale, pretty Meiglan and rule Princemarch for as long as he could. Let Rohan and Sioned and all of them live in contented ignorance as long as they could. Andry knew what was to come—and whatever he must do to prevent it, this he would do and gladly.
He had been chosen by the Goddess to receive this vision of the future. She had also given him the power to prevent it.
Andry ducked under the low doorway into the dimness of the cottage. All was sparse and simple within—chair, table, and bed, a few plates, cups, and bowls on a shelf, and a small dead hearth with a copper pot and an iron kettle. The place smelled wonderful—drying herbs hung from the rafters, their tingly scents offset by the moist richness of the living tree that formed the back of the dwelling. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to indicate the woman had been other than what she claimed.
But from dim recesses came the wink of half-hidden silver. Andry approached cautiously. A fine old tapestry patterned in flowers and herbs was draped over something nearly his own height, a frame peeking from its folds.
Andry tugged the material away and caught his breath. A mirror—oval, surmounted by a triple pointed arch, beveled at the outer edges, without a speck or a ripple in the glass—but without reflection. His own face should have looked out at him. But there was only the silver-gray mist.
There had been no mirrors in the other diarmadhi dwellings. Mireva had used one to control Chiana—and to make her shatter it, to Andry’s vexation. Nothing in the Star Scroll made mention of their use in sorcery except that order to destroy them. Mirror spells must be the province of the very powerful. And here was a beautiful mirror for his experimentation—if only he could discover its secret.
He inspected the frame, awed by its workmanship. He might have expected stars or some similar motif; instead, winding up each side were dranath leaves carved in silver. Hints of ancient enamel work lingered in flakes of blue and green and orange. Here and there were dents, scuff marks, and other minor damage sustained during the mirror’s long service, but the whole was polished with loving care. He contemplated the serene, featureless glass for long moments. Was there a word or an act that would bring the mirror to life? Did he dare try to find out?
“I wonder what Andrade would have made of you,” he murmured, as if the mirror might answer him. How might it work? Sunrunners used light—sun, moons, Fire. Sorcerers favored starlight but did not disdain other sources. He decided to chance it and conjured up a fingerflame. The mirror seemed to tremble fractionally. Encouraged, he thought the little Fire brighter, and again there was a subtle quiver, half-sensed, half-seen. But the gray haze remained. There was no image.
He glanced over his shoulder and called, “Valeda! Come in here and take a look at this!”
A wisp of—something—brushed past his mind. When he turned back to the mirror, the grayish haze was gone. Valeda had not come into the dwelling, but she was clearly reflected in the mirror. And around her body was the cool, bright spectra of her colors. The same hues he touched when he spoke with her on sunlight, or when they made love.
Andry backed up a cautious pace, frowning. At that instant Valeda stepped through the doorway and said his name. The image changed, became him. “Andry?” She came forward. “What is it?” “Hush!” For a few moments he stared in rapt fascination at the aleva surrounding his own image—fiercer colors than Valeda’s, more varied. To the mirror he said, “Nialdan,” and he was replaced by the tall, burly Sunrunner with his familiar pattern of blue and orange and white. “Rohan,” and the mirror showed him the High Prince. To his astonishment, Rohan possessed an aleva—faint but noticeable, attesting to his halfling Sunrunner gift. Tobin, Chay, Maarken, and Hollis all appeared in succession at the command of their names; all but his father had the telltale aura of color, and even he was surrounded by the same hint as Rohan.
At last, agonizingly, Andry spoke his twin brother’s name. But the mirror went blank. No one not alive could be reflected in this mirror.
Valeda gripped his arm. “Andry,” she began—and his image instantly showed again in the mirror, startling them both.
As casually as he could, he said, “An interesting trick, but to what purpose?”
“I don’t much care,” she replied nervously. “Let’s get out of here.”
“We’re taking the mirror with us.”
“How? It’s as tall as I am, and bound to be heavy.”
He considered, and was forced to admit she was right.
“Then we’ll hide it, and send someone later to retrieve it.”