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CHAPTER FIVE

Druadaen stared at her and was surprised by his own reaction: he chortled.

“Having your questions answered amuses you?” Despite her frown, she sounded bemused, not annoyed.

“No. I was just thinking how much I could have used such answers ten or fifteen years ago.”

Her eyes fell. “I understand. I hope it is not too late for them to be of some use. Or comfort.”

Druadaen stared into the Mirror. Or Shimmer. Or whatever it was. “Perhaps, but now my questions are very different. And very pressing.”

She nodded. “That is why I invited you.”

“For which I am also very grateful.” Druadaen didn’t add that he and his companions had been both mystified and startled at her means of conveying that invitation. A factotum of the Lady had occupied the body of a mindless invalid a continent away, who then sought out a similarly possessed proxy of a dragon—all in the space of two hours. Druadaen labored to produce a rueful grin. “It was a timely offer, too. Had I remained in Dunarra, I doubt I’d have found any place where I was still welcome.”

“I am not so sure,” the Lady countered gently. “The temples remain silent regarding your exile. I suspect they wish to avoid being asked—and put to task—about it.”

Druadaen paused. Any ship which had already brought news to Shadowmere would have set sail after his own, so… “My Lady, you seem extraordinarily well informed for someone at such great remove from Dunarra.”

“Shaananca keeps me apprised,” she said simply.

“How… thoughtful,” Druadaen replied as he digested the significance of her words. You make it sound like you’re a pair of cottagers chatting across a garden fence… instead of an ocean.

She shook her head. “Not thoughtful: necessary. You may now find there is rarely enough time to seek answers to past questions—answers that could be crucial to your further journeys.” When he frowned uncertainly, she added, “One should not push forward into uncharted regions without an adequate map of those already traversed.”

Druadaen lifted one eyebrow. “Are my questions already known to you?”

She held his eyes. “I only know that you have questions. I do not know what they are nor will I be the one to answer them.”

Druadaen resisted the impulse to shake his head. “Then how—?”

The Lady held up a hand and approached the Shimmer. “In the oldest extant records, the Mirror’s name is rendered in a slightly different fashion. It is called the ‘Looking Glass.’” She stared into its center, where the image of the two of them seemed to eternally fall inward. “In those days, that term was not only used to signify regular mirrors, but those that were able to show observers what they most needed to see.”

“You mean, anywhere in the world?”

“Yes.” She turned to him. “Or in themselves.” She held his eyes. “What have you most wanted to see?”

Druadaen’s forehead suddenly grew hot and then turned clammy. “My parents’ relatives.”

She nodded. “Because after your parents died, none could be located.” Her tone was a statement, not a question.

He nodded, wondered: another of Shaananca’s apprisals? “So do I just… look into the Mirror?”

The Lady was already doing so. “Yes.”

For a moment, Druadaen kept his gaze away from the shining surface. After the fateful attack on his parents’ farm, he’d wondered if the Consentium’s failure to discover any relatives had been a merciful pretense, a means of concealing forebears who had been caught up in a singular disaster—or disgrace. He steeled himself for whatever might be revealed after all these years, then glanced at the mirror.

Nothing.

He looked more closely: still nothing. “So, it is true that I have no relatives?”

The Lady’s wave was a negation. “If the Mirror is unchanged, it does not necessarily mean there is nothing to show. Rather, it may mean it lacks information or that the inquiry is not pertinent.”

“And who decides that?” Druadaen said, controlling a surge of irritation.

The Lady shook her head. “If there is a consciousness that determines what the Mirror shows, no one has ever discerned what it is or why it operates as it does.”

“So: it is still possible that members of my family were accursed.”

The Lady frowned. “Why do you even suspect such a thing?”

“Well, if they angered a god, that could certainly explain their absence.” Druadaen looked away. “That might explain why not one deity of the Helper pantheon would accept me into its creedland.” He pushed down a resurgent pulse of old rage and helplessness. “The one time I was called to an epiphanium—Amarseker’s—was so that I might be personally rejected.”

The Lady folded her hands. “The deities of the Helper pantheon only visit vengeance upon those who have earned it by their own deeds.”

“But I may have: my petitions were false. I only sought to adopt a creed because I thought I might then be able to speak to my parents again. How could a god fail to detect that?”

The Lady’s eyebrows arched as she studied him. “Neither Shaananca nor I ever learned why you were turned away from so many temples, nor why Amarseker allowed you to become an epiphane. But I am certain of this: it was not to torment you.”

“Yet he rejected me just like the rest.”

“No,” the Lady contradicted forcefully, “not at all like the rest. Amarseker brought you to the epiphanium, to the very edge of its creedland, so that you would know that his decision was neither disinterested nor capricious, but unavoidable.”

Druadaen started. “And what would make my rejection ‘unavoidable’? What could restrain a god’s freedom of choice?”

The Lady’s eyes sharpened as she leaned forward. “Now, that is a worthy question indeed.” Her eyes grew softer as a small ironic smile bent one corner of her mouth. “It is a question that few sacrists would welcome.”

“But it is not theirs to answer,” Druadaen objected. “It was Amarseker himself who turned me away, not his sacrists.”

The Lady looked positively sly. “An entity of great foresight might anticipate that a particularly clever mortal might eventually ask the troubling questions you have. If so, such an entity would be doing you a great favor by not accepting your petitions.”

Perplexed, Druadaen matched her unwavering gaze—until it jarred loose a realization. “You mean—if I’d been accepted into Amarseker’s Creedland and had asked such questions, I would have been guilty of heresy.”

She nodded. “Once consecrated in a Helper creed, your questions about the truth of the world would have been a temple matter… with far more serious consequences.”

Even as he started nodding, Druadaen realized that her answer begged a more confounding question. “But if the gods were protecting me, then Shaananca was right: that it was they who kept my father alive but inert. For years.”

“That is logical,” agreed the Lady.

“So how were you able to supersede their will?”

Her eyes opened wide. “Why do you say that?”

He kept his eyes steady on hers. “Because when last you visited Tlulanxu, Shaananca bade me ask you these very questions. But it was your final day and you were returning to your ship. I only saw you from afar, heading away from my father’s patientium. So I ran there and found it empty. Except for what you left behind in his place.”

“And what did I leave there?”

“A silver leaf that crumbled to dust the instant I saw it. As if it had been waiting for me to arrive.” When the Lady did not respond, he asked pointedly, “Whatever power maintained my father was gone, and so was his body. Are you saying that wasn’t your doing?”

“My doing?” Her frown was not one of trying to find a memory, but the right words. “My will precipitated what you saw, but I neither invoked nor witnessed the change.”

Druadaen tried to keep his voice level. “I am not even sure what that means.”

Her nod was sympathetic. “I am an ear to voices—and a monitor of certain forces—that are not of this world yet influence what passes within it. I traveled to Tlulanxu so that what my eyes and heart beheld became part of their awareness as well, that they might be moved to withdraw their intercession. When I sensed that my perception had been conveyed unto theirs, I left. And as for the silver leaf”—she smiled ironically—“though I may brush against forces which influence our destiny, I am not privy to their intents nor a witness of their manifestations. I am but an observer and a channel; neither the craft nor the doing is mine.” The Lady considered him for a long moment. “What troubles you the most: how your father left this world or what he left in you?”

Druadaen was surprised by a sudden chill that ran the length of his body. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged. “I am aware that you greatly desire to honor him by realizing what he envisioned for you.”

Druadaen shook his head, glanced away. “I reconciled myself to a very different path. Long ago.”

“Have you?”

“When I was not assigned to the Legion—”

“I am not referring to the way in which your youthful hopes and plans were thwarted. What I am asking is this: Are you so very sure your present path is not actually the one your father foresaw?” She turned and looked at the mirror. He followed her gaze, wondering what drew her attention there…

… And saw himself at nine years of age, following his father down to the deck of one of the barges that plied the canals paralleling Dunarra’s immense wallways.

Druadaen knew exactly what day he was seeing, down to the very minute. His family was preparing to depart Aedmurun for the voyage back to their farm in Connæar. He watched his young self scramble down the steep stairs, saw his father’s vigilant eyes. They became thoughtful when his son was safely on the deck. “Well,” he asked, leaning forward, “what did you think of Dunarra?”

As Druadaen saw himself turn to answer, he was suddenly as much in that moment as the one he was living atop Moorax Tower. Joy rose and flowered inside him—but was abruptly coated with salt-tipped thorns. Because that other moment, that brief sliver of the past, was one in which the world was so much simpler, in which both his mother and father were still alive, in which there was far more joy than sadness: where grief was still a stranger.

The Druadaen of that world frowned as he replied, “Well… I thought there would be more mancery in a big, Dunarran city.”

His father nodded somberly. “Many have said the same thing.”

Encouraged by learning that others shared his opinion, Druadaen added, “I also didn’t expect so many machines. But they’re so clever that I’ll bet some people think they are magic.”

His father nodded seriously as he tried to hide a smile behind his hand. “So, Dunarra was a disappointment?”

Druadaen reflected. “Well, not exactly a disappointment. But… well, it wasn’t as grand as I imagined.” He frowned again. “If the empire really does have all the power that people say, why not show more of it?”

His father shrugged. “Because Dunarra is not an empire, regardless of what ‘people say.’ If it was, it would rarely miss an opportunity to display its power. But that is not the Consentium’s way.”

“Why?” Druadaen asked.

“Because needless shows of power can make peoples who have less very envious. That envy can lead to hate, even war.”

“And that is why we always have legions at the ready!” Druadaen offered as a triumphant conclusion.

But his father shook his head. “No, son. The Legion is not our first response to envy or even violence. It is our last.”

“But our legions are what others fear,” Druadaen answered, puzzled.

His father nodded. “Which is why they are our last step. A nation that holds its power through fear is hastening its fall almost as surely as if it appears weak. That is why when dealing with other nations, the Consentium works toward agreements that please everyone, but far more important is that they preserve everyone’s pride.”

“And if that fails? And they attack us?”

His father shook his head. “Then—and only then—are we justified in calling upon the Legion.” His eyes were warm as he regarded Druadaen before adding. “Of course, I am not so sure that the Legion will still interest you when you are old enough to join it.”

Druadaen started. “What do you mean?”

“Tell me, my son: why do you wish to become part of the Legion?”

Druadaen recalled thinking that question was very strange, particularly since he had explained his reasons many times before. “To defend the empi—eh, Consentium. To become a great and noble leader. Maybe one day, to become the Propretor Principles myself!”

“I think you mean Propretor Princeps,” his father corrected with a soft smile. “But being a great general does not necessarily make one a great leader for the Consentium.”

Druadaen frowned. “I guess that makes sense. Besides, leading a nation might be, well, boring. Even if it is very important!” he hastened to add, worried that his father might be disappointed that he considered it “boring.”

But his father simply shook his head. “Not all leaders become pretors. Or propretors, or emperors, or kings, either.”

Druadaen had struggled to think about what other kind of leaders there might be. “Do… do you mean leaders like the ones in the old stories and legends? The kind that people followed because it just seemed like the right thing to do?”

At the time, he’d missed the subtle rue in his father’s grin. “Yes, something like that. Although leaders do not always have followers, either.”

Druadaen remembered being very confused by that. A leader without followers sounded a bit like a bird without wings. But before he could ask how such a thing was possible, his mother appeared at the top of the stairs. As they hurried to assist her, she rolled her eyes and reminded them that she was merely pregnant, not an invalid. However, they were not deterred and she did not insist that they relent…

The image in the Mirror faded. As it did, thin, glistening ripples played briefly across its surface… and Druadaen understood where its other name had come from. It had indeed shimmered, if only for a fraction of a second. Exhaling, he realized he’d been holding his breath. “Thank you,” he murmured.

The Lady shook her head. “I did nothing. The doing is the Mirror’s. And it only reacts to a small fraction of those who stand before it.”

“So you must have known it would react to me.”

The Lady pursed her lips. “Let us just say I had a strong suspicion that it would.”

“Why?”

She gestured toward their reflections. “Just as it showed your past unbidden, so it showed me images of you.” She nodded at his surprise. “That usually means that the Mirror has something to reveal to that person. And your images began appearing the day you were exiled. So I suspect they were prompted by that and the course upon which it has put you.”

“The course upon which—?”

“Despite official disinterest and then disapproval, you investigated conundrums posed by the Bent, the giants, the dragons, and even the history of Arrdanc itself. It makes little sense, therefore, that you would now ignore the deeper, cosmological quandaries which those raised—and which led to your exile.”

Druadaen tried to keep the disbelief from his face. “So you suspect that the Mirror will show me where I should go next?”

The Lady shook her head. “Many believe that the terms Shimmer and Mirror are synonyms. They are not. A Shimmer is not just a way to see another place, but to travel there.”

Druadaen felt his scalp tug back sharply. He had seen mentions of such things in a few older, eccentric tomes, but had dismissed them as the fabulations of overly imaginative—or gullible—minds. “So this Mirror—this Shimmer—is a… a portal, of some kind?”

“In the scant, ancient sources that refer to such objects, they are typically called osmotia. But a Shimmer”—she gestured behind her—“is different from other portals. And this one has a special name; it is known as the gateway to the Domain of the Dead. Or possibly, the Domain of the Deities. Translations differ.”

Druadaen swallowed. “They sound equally ominous.”

She smiled. “They do, don’t they? I suspect the scholar who coined them had a flair for the dramatic. However, the Shimmer does have three unique properties. Firstly, those who pass through it cannot return through it—those few who return to Arrdanc at all. Secondly, persons on the other side of it have been able to reach out to the mind of the Lady or Lord of the Mirror. Some speculate that these are the voices of those who have died, others conjecture them to belong to those who passed through yet remain marginally connected to this world. Lastly, there are other, unknown voices that occasionally send whispers through the Shimmer. Many of them use ancient tongues to convey cryptic messages. Some scholars assert those to be messages from the gods themselves.”

Druadaen was beyond being surprised. “Are you suggesting that I pass through this portal—eh, this Shimmer? To find out about what? The gods? And learn the truth of the world from them?”

The Lady folded her hands. “I suggest nothing. If you are meant to go through, you shall.” She saw his perplexity. “The annals kept by the prior Lords and Ladies of the Mirror claim that those who step through the Shimmer feel a compulsion to do so, as if they are completing a journey upon which they are already embarked.”

“Couldn’t that also be a euphemism for suicide?”

“Again, I cannot say.” She gazed sadly at him. “Perhaps you would have been happy simply to receive answers to the vexing questions of your youth.”

He swallowed. “Possibly. But at various points along the winding path that brought me here, several others have mentioned this tower… and you… as the next step toward—well, toward wherever I am bound.” He glanced at the suddenly terrifying mirror. “I did not anticipate that it would require a leap of faith into what might be oblivion.”

As the word “oblivion” left Druadaen’s lips, the surface of the Shimmer ceased to reflect the room; it became a glimmering disk with faint currents moving back and forth upon it.

The Lady nodded. “Ah.” Turning to meet his inquiring stare, she explained: “It is calling to you.”


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