Jeyan stared up at the gloomy ceiling. She was shaking. In so far as she was thinking at all, it seemed to her that she had been trembling continuously since she had killed Hagen and that there would be nothing but trembling for whatever the rest of her life was going to be.
Dryness in her mouth and throat forced its attention on her. Her legs unsteady and her head floating uneasily, she got up from the long, luxurious couch and carefully moved down three carpeted steps and over to a table at the far end of the room. On it was spread an array of ornate silver dishes and plates, each laden with food, together with several bottles, jugs and decanters. There was also a tray of elegant glass goblets, all either decorated with fine-lined etchings or engraved and elaborately chequered. They glittered even in the subdued lighting. She picked up a decanter of what she took to be water and lifted it to her mouth. A sharp, sweet smell struck her, making her grimace. She returned it to the tray. Amongst the many things that the Ennerhald had taught her, one was not to get drunk. That was for others – it made them easier to deceive and rob when need arose; for all that had happened to her, her wits were not so addled yet that she could not use some of them. She worked her way through the jugs until finally she found one containing water then, in a manner markedly at odds with the refinement implicit in everything around her, she drank from it directly. The water that spilled down her chin she wiped with the back of her hand as she carried the jug back to the couch.
She sat for a long time as she had been sitting since she was put in this room – shocked and vacant, her eyes barely registering what they saw, her mind numb with conflicting thoughts and emotions. The excursion to the table had been the first sign of conscious activity. It signalled the return of her faculties however, and slowly, coherent thoughts began to form. Not that coherence brought any understanding to what had happened, or offered her any indication of what was to follow.
Following the Gevethen’s instruction, the mirror-bearers had surrounded her and ushered her from the Watching Chamber into a room occupied by a group of what she presumed were the Gevethen’s personal servants. These had been as silent and blank-faced as the mirror-bearers, but they had treated her with great deference as they had escorted her through parts of the Citadel that were apparently the personal quarters of high-ranking Citadel officers. Deference or no, she noted that their careful attendance left her no opportunity to attempt an escape.
Then had followed a bizarre humiliation. The servants, some male, some female, had stripped and bathed her. The instant hands had been laid on her ragged clothes she had feared the worst and reacted with massive ferocity, struggling, screaming and shouting. All to no avail. The hands that held her were at once gentle and immovable. And the only harm that came to her was the physical discomfort she had suffered in trying to break free from their grip. The bathing had proceeded as if she had been a small and unwilling child. She was far from certain which was the worst, her naked indignity or the seeming indifference of the stone-faced servants, performing their duties regardless of anything she did, pinioning her arms, her legs, her head as circumstances dictated, and oblivious to her abuse. Eventually she had stopped resisting and lapsed into sullen lassitude. She had had to fight too, against the reaction of her body which, after so long in the cold squalor of the Ennerhald, had eventually started to revel in the warm and scented water.
Then, to her horror, the Gevethen had been there, examining her, a circling reflected throng of them staring down at her. Watery, indifferent eyes had scanned her as they might a piece of furniture and, though nothing was said, full red mouths worked to and fro as if they were holding their own silent conversation.
And the floating white hands had touched her!
She shuddered and drew herself along the couch as she had tried again to edge away from the advancing hands. Water spilled from the jug still clutched in her hand. Yet, though the sight of the hands had been repellent, their touch was alive and vibrant, and they were laid only on those parts of her that had been injured: her face, her wrists, her ankles. She touched her face – it was less painful now, as were her wrists and ankles, though it was as if the pain had been driven from her rather than gently healed. Then the Gevethen were gone and she was being dried and dressed in the formal clothes she now wore. Men’s clothes – a formal livery such as Hagen had worn. When she had realized what it was, she had tried to tear it off but a hand had stopped her and, for a fleeting instant, she had looked into the eyes of one of the servants and seen a human being, trapped and terrified. Then, with a movement so swift and slight that it was barely perceptible, the woman shook her head and, with a terrifying vividness Jeyan understood her – was her. The intensity of the fear and the plea that swept over her snatched Jeyan’s breath away. Whatever she did that was not acceptable to the Gevethen would redound manyfold on these servants. And who could conjecture what torments they were already suffering behind those blank faces? The woman’s fearful glance had been perhaps the first real human contact Jeyan had known since her early friends in the Ennerhald had been slaughtered and the impact of it shook her severely. She had offered no further resistance and was eventually led to the room she was now in. There she was shown the table of food and drink and sat down on the couch like some large, stiff-jointed doll. The servants had then silently slipped away, bowing as they went.
As she began to think, so the events of the recent past re-enacted themselves and she was afraid once again. She looked about the room. Her father had been rich by the normal standards of Nesdiryn and her life had been comparatively privileged and protected, yet she had never experienced anything which compared with the luxury that was all around her in this room. The clothes she was wearing, this awful mockery of Hagen’s hated uniform, were made of materials of the finest quality. The perfumes which clung about her from the water she had been bathed in were more subtle and delicate than anything she had ever known. Even the food on the table bespoke great care and attention in its preparation.
And then, without a vestige of warning, she was weeping. Not in many years had she wept, but now nothing could have stopped the torrent of tears. She had scarcely cried out once during the ordeal of her pursuit and capture, and it is probable that she would have suffered much more before she would have allowed her tormentors such satisfaction, but the softness all around her struck her with a greater force than the cruellest torturer’s iron.
She did not rant and scream as her life poured from her eyes, but sat bolt upright and, save for her heaving shoulders, motionless, on the edge of the couch. Memories overwhelmed her. Memories of her parents, of what she had once been and what she might have become, of Dirynhald and Nesdiryn as they had been, of old friends slaughtered or turned craven by fear. And, not least, she wept for fear of what was going to happen to her. For everything that had occurred since she had been taken from the dungeon this morning must surely be part of some scheme of the Gevethen’s to punish her for the murder of Hagen. It was not possible that she could do such a thing and fall into their hands and not be treated with appalling cruelty. That was how the Gevethen maintained their power over the land. Ostensibly there was freedom, but to disobey, to speak against, was to risk dying unpleasantly; perhaps publicly, perhaps secretly. It was hard to say which struck the greater fear into the people, the public executions or the nightmare uncertainty of the silent disappearance and the fearful speculation about what went on in the Citadel’s dungeons – for everyone knew about the death pits beyond the city.
Eventually the tears slowed then stopped and she sat, still unmoving, staring bleakly at the richness all around her. It could not have contrasted more with everything she had known since she fled into the Ennerhald, and yet there was an emptiness, a deadness, about the room that she had not felt even in the most ancient and decayed parts of the Ennerhald. The workmanship in the furniture and the many artefacts placed about the room was exquisite, as it was in the carvings and paintings that decorated the walls and ceiling. Only great love for the work could have made it so. But the whole seemed to be incomplete. Worse than that, it was barren. Some vital ingredient was missing. It came to her that the room was not an expression of love or delight, but a shield, an accumulation, a barricade, to protect the occupant.
But from what?
From his own dark and dead soul. The answer followed without pause.
This must have been Hagen’s room, she realized with a start. She stood up and began to walk round it. As she gazed about her, she found it impossible to imagine the brutal Hagen seeing what she saw and delicately selecting this, rejecting that. How could such a man attend to the slaughter and sadistic persecution of his fellows and then display the sensitivity necessary for the selection of such works?
He could not, of course. A man who did what he did could only be dead to such matters. That was why the whole was flawed. It reflected his true nature. It was incomplete, just as he was. He had gathered it together not from an inner response to beauty but out of some bizarre vanity, as if it could redeem him in some way. And as each item was a reflection of some other person’s taste, so the whole was a reflection of him. Her thoughts darkened. How many of these items had been thoughtfully selected from the home of one of his murdered victims? The thought sickened her and her hand flinched convulsively away from a small statuette she was about to touch.
Reflections, reflections.
As the word echoed through her mind, she caught sight of her own in a long mirror. She stepped back in alarm, before realizing what she was looking at. For a moment, her thoughts full of him, she had taken the figure to be Hagen himself returned from the dead, full of youth and suppleness and seeking retribution. She seized the front of the tunic to tear it off, but even as she gripped the soft fabric, she saw again the terror that had flickered briefly into the servant’s eyes. It occurred to her that she knew absolutely nothing about the underworld of this place: who these servants were, where they came from, how they came to be here, and what bound them so. Who, for example, had prepared that bath, made this food, and, not least, made sure that these clothes fitted? For fit they did, and she was shorter and slighter than Hagen by far. Who could say what consequences might flow from anything she did in this place? And for whom? Her hand fell away.
The reflection gazed out at her, frowning slightly. It was vastly different from the ragged scarecrow that had formed the heart of her escort from the dungeons, but it was still slouching a little and its hands were hanging limply by its side. Instinctively Jeyan straightened as a long-silent paternal voice reached out of the past to reproach her. A movement beyond her reflection caught her attention and she turned quickly. There was nothing there. Nothing except another mirror. And another. And another. There were mirrors everywhere, large and small, all reflecting images from one another. Most of them were encased in elaborately decorated frames but one was conspicuous by its simplicity. She went to it.
Mounted on a wheeled stand, it had what appeared to be a plain wooden frame, though it was blacker than any wood or varnish that she had ever seen. Indeed, it had an unsettling quality about it. As though it were the deepest part of the night made solid. The mirror, by contrast, reflected the room about her so flawlessly that she felt she would be able to reach into it and take things from the reflection of a nearby table. She remembered the fragment of mirror that she had found in one of the buildings in the Ennerhald and that was now lying in her erstwhile home. It must have been very old, yet that too had reflected with such clarity, despite the dirt and grime of her existence there. An old habit reached up and adjusted her hair. Then, drawn in some way, she reached out to the mirror. As she touched the fingertips of her reflection it was almost as if she had touched not a cold smooth surface, but another hand and the reflection pulled back from her, startled. As it did, the mirror moved slightly and, gathered from the other mirrors, an array of young Hagens swung in to surround the confrontation between herself and her mirrored half, all with hands extended accusingly.
She pushed the mirror away hurriedly. She had seen enough fantastic, mirror-formed images that day taunting her to judge what was and what was not real. And she could not forget them. They lingered in her mind, mocking her from the edges of her sanity. Why did the Gevethen move always with this eerie entourage? Even more than with the servants, the questions as to who the mirror-bearers were and where they came from, seemed unanswerable. As for how they had become what they had become, or why, these were questions whose answers were beyond even conjecture.
She drifted back to the long couch, her mind beginning to flounder. Not that she allowed herself too much time pursuing these strange questions; her education in the Ennerhald had made her deeply pragmatic. She would watch and listen constantly and if answers existed, then doubtless she would learn them in time. She managed to hold her worst fears at bay by clinging to the resolutions she had made in the Watching Chamber. She must survive moment by moment until an opportunity to escape appeared, and she must find a weapon with which to destroy herself if the need arose. The thought of weapons took Jeyan’s hand to her belt, but her knife had gone, along with her old clothes, and this new livery sported no weapons. Hagen had had no need for weapons, his reputation was armour enough. Jeyan was darkly amused. Until he met her, that is. Whatever else happened, that had been a deed well done. She must cling to that as well.
But she must find a weapon. She must not be left defenceless. The tray of goblets caught her eye, glittering in the dull light. She ran to it and seized one with the intention of breaking it and secreting a shard about her somewhere. But even as she picked it up she saw the futility of her action. If the Gevethen were merely taunting her, luring her with softness and hope, with the intention of tearing it away from her, then these fine clothes would be the first thing to go. She put the glass back on the tray and sat down in a chair opposite the plain mirror. It was difficult to watch moment by moment when nothing was happening.
Into the silence came, for the first time, the Gevethen’s pronouncement: ‘Take the Lord Counsellor to her chambers.’
Lord Counsellor!
What had they meant?
Their words tumbled after this question.
‘We have known of you always.’
‘You are kin.’
‘You are chosen.’
And, of Hagen,‘He was flawed.’
‘He served his turn.’
‘One more fitting dispatched him.’
The implications were as chilling as they were unbelievable. She ran her hand over the tunic. It was ridiculous. Indeed, if it had not been so grimly awful, it would have been laughable. How could she be anyone’s Counsellor? She was well-educated but she had no training in matters of state, or the administration of public affairs. And surely they could not imagine that she would replace the monster she had just killed? Surely even they could not imagine that she would do anything to assist their vile regime?
‘You seem uncertain, Lord Counsellor…’
‘… Lord Counsellor.’
Jeyan and her reflection leapt from their seats as the voices grated into the room. The Gevethen were standing at the head of the three steps. Reflections of them flanked a widening path down the steps towards Jeyan. Despite herself, a snarl formed inside her. It never reached her throat however. Instead she felt one leg drawing back and the other bending in obeisance. Then her head was lowered. She could do nothing about either.
‘This will become unnecessary in due time,’ said the two voices. ‘Soon you will learn the correct way to behave before your Liege Lords.’
Jeyan could feel them moving towards her. She was unable to move.
‘You have eaten?’
‘No… Excellencies.’ She had to force the word out.
‘Ah. Overwhelmed by the honour we have bestowed upon you. It is understandable in one so young, but you must eat. The position of Lord Counsellor is peculiarly taxing. It seeks out the frailties in its officers.’
The almost maternalistic expression of concern filled Jeyan with disgust and brought rage, thick and bitter, to her throat, though she could utter none of it.
‘Still, hunger will sharpen your awareness.’
‘And you are strong. Your body will sustain you well enough until you’ve grown accustomed to your new life. You may rise and look on us.’
Jeyan was released. Slowly she stood up. Part of her wanted to seize the glass she had just been holding, and slash it across the throats of her two tormentors, but memories of the speed and strength of the Gevethen’s servants held her in check. Whatever grim game was being played here, a reckless display like that could bring it to a premature end.
She raised her head and met their gaze. The many Gevethen stared back. Abruptly, and without any signal being given that she could perceive, the mirror-bearers were moving frantically. The crowd milled and jostled as if exchanging views about what they had just seen. Red lips opened and closed silently, white hands fluttered like trapped doves. Then there was stillness again.
‘You have such rage in you, Jeyan Dyalith…’
‘… Jeyan Dyalith.’
‘Soon you will be able to give it full rein against those who brought your beloved country to this pitch.’
Jeyan clenched her fists and tried to keep all emotion from her face. They were laughing at her, mocking her. She would give them nothing. Nothing! She would be as stone-faced as their precious servants.
A tremor of amusement passed through the watching eyes, then hands beckoned.
‘Darkness closes about the city. You must stand with us while we perform our Night Vigil.’
‘And be shown the Ways.’
They turned and vanished as the mirror-bearers swirled down the steps and enclosed Jeyan as they had done on the journey from the dungeon. Once again she found herself in the train of the Gevethen. Now however, where there had been a straggling train of scarecrow attendants flanking her, there was line upon line of youthful Hagens, resplendent in formal attire. Unexpectedly, a hint of pride came into the lines as she drew herself up.
Helsarn was pacing the floor outside the Watching Chamber.
‘Relax Commander,’ Gidlon said, smiling knowingly and laying heavy emphasis on Helsarn’s new rank. ‘Waiting is something you have to become very good at in the service of their Excellencies. It’s not given to us senior officers to be able to ease the burden of our tasks by riding out into the city and cracking a few heads.’ He gave Helsarn a slap on the back.
There was enough force in it for Helsarn to feel the pent-up anger and frustration in the man. To receive promotion as he had was virtually unknown and would obviously add a wild, complicating factor to the general jockeying for position amongst the Guards that had started as soon as Hagen’s death became common knowledge. What companies would Helsarn be given, now that the five commanders had become six? What status would he be given amongst the existing Commanders, for the corps of Commanders, though small, was responsible for administering the policies laid down by the Gevethen and wielded considerable power within the city. Most importantly, what ambitions did Helsarn have? For though internal squabbling occupied much of the Commanders’ time, they battled constantly too with their counterparts in the army with the intention of extending the limits of their authority ultimately to include them. It was no secret that the Gevethen’s ambitions lay far beyond the control of Nesdiryn and, to those intimately acquainted with the way they worked, there was little doubt that they would meet with success in whatever venture they undertook. Their coming to power in Nesdiryn had been a leisurely affair, but their consolidation and expansion of it in the last few years had been breathtaking. It was only a matter of time before the Count, persistent irritant though he was, was destroyed, then eyes could be turned firmly outward from the mountains and there would be substantial prizes to be gained by whoever rose high in the command of what would surely be a greatly expanded military force.
Helsarn’s ambitions however, were not something to which any of them were privy. Progress through the ranks of the Guards was not made by publicly airing such matters, and Helsarn with his previous murky history in the Count’s Guards was particularly tight-lipped. Gidlon for one had concluded that it would be foolish to make an enemy of him. He might be the most junior Commander, but he had found Hagen’s assassin – a measure either of his ability or his luck, but not to be ignored, whichever it was – and he had been appointed by the Gevethen themselves. Perhaps that had been only a whim, but no one could read the actions of the Gevethen, and who could say what plans they had for him?
Helsarn laid a hand heavily on Gidlon’s shoulder in imitation of friendship. ‘I’m beginning to realize that,’ he said. ‘And I appreciate you staying with me on my first duty watch as Commander.’
‘Their Excellencies may well have ended their vigil and left the Watching Chamber,’ Gidlon said, testing the new Commander for his response.
‘They have,’ Helsarn replied, tightening his grip on the smaller man’s shoulder. ‘They left by the Throne Door some time ago.’
Servants running to curry favour with this new star that the Gevethen have hoisted into their constellation, Gidlon thought. Or have they been in his service all along? Perhaps he would be wiser to leave Helsarn to his watch and start questioning his own contacts amongst the servants.
‘They took the assassin with them,’ Helsarn added, after a significant pause. ‘She’s currently in Lord Counsellor Hagen’s quarters.’
‘She!’ Gidlon broke free from Helsarn’s grip and turned to face him, his expression disbelieving.
‘She,’ confirmed Helsarn with some relish. ‘The Lord Counsellor was done to death by a woman – a slip of a girl almost.’
Gidlon made no attempt to disguise his surprise. ‘But who?’ he managed after a while.
Helsarn shrugged. ‘Some creature out of the Ennerhald. A wild creature, I might add. Hagen’s not the only one she and her dogs killed.’
Helsarn’s pacing had carried them some way from the door to the Watching Chamber and the Guards. Unexpectedly, Gidlon smirked. ‘The puritanical old devil must have been prescient,’ he said, very softly. ‘No wonder he never went near women. He must’ve known one of them would be the end of him.’ He gave a brief, strangled chuckle then, as he turned Helsarn about and began strolling back to the door, his face became alarmed.
‘You left their Excellencies alone with an assassin?’ he exclaimed.
‘Their Excellencies ordered it,’ Helsarn replied, slightly unsettled by Gidlon’s brief display of mirth. ‘Just like they ordered me to wait here. I doubt they’re in any danger from her. She made a dash for it on the way up from the dungeons, but those mirror-bearers…’
‘I know about the mirror-bearers,’ Gidlon interrupted uneasily. He gave a hasty disclaiming wave as if anxious to get away from the subject. ‘Well, if their Excellencies ordered you to wait, then wait you must. Many privileges come to a Commander, but disobeying orders isn’t one of them.’ He laid a hand on Helsarn’s arm, genuinely friendly this time. ‘It’s nearly time for their Night Vigil, the normal duty Guards will take over then.’ His voice fell. ‘When you’re free, come to my quarters. There’s a lot we need to talk about.’
The sound of a door closing echoed along the passage before Helsarn could reply. ‘They’re coming back,’ he said, signalling quickly to the Guards who came immediately to attention.
‘I wonder what they’ve done to her,’ Gidlon said out of the corner of his mouth. The question had been occurring to Helsarn continually since the Gevethen and Jeyan had disappeared into the Watching Chamber, but he kept his eyes firmly fixed on the bend in the passage and remained silent.
Then the passage was suddenly much longer and the Gevethen, surrounded by the fluttering attentions of the mirror-bearers, were approaching along its narrow perspective. Slowly, Helsarn and Gidlon sank to their knees and lowered their heads. The procession halted as it drew alongside them.
The two voices spoke.‘Commander Helsarn, you are one of the blessed few, for He has chosen to smile upon you. To you He gave the honour of seeking out and bringing forth our new Lord Counsellor.’
Helsarn’s mind raced. What were they talking about? He resorted to a time-proven formula. ‘It is honour enough that I serve your Excellencies,’ he said.
‘Your humility becomes you, Commander, and your service is recognized, but know that we are all here to do only His will.’
Helsarn’s every instinct was to remain silent, but there was a quality in their voices that seemed to be demanding a reply. He resorted to the truth.
‘Forgive me, Excellencies. I’m just a simple soldier, I don’t understand.’
‘Nor should you seek to, Commander. Obedience is all…’
‘… Obedience is all.’
‘Remain here…’
‘… Remain here.’
‘Commander Gidlon, dismiss these men. Commander Helsarn will guard our Vigil.’
And they were gone.
As the procession passed through the doors of the Watching Chamber, both Helsarn and Gidlon looked up. For an instant they saw a row of slim figures, each like a young Hagen, then the image was gone and they were looking at a wavering row of themselves receding into the distance, gaping.
Jeyan cast about her. She had been too bewildered and frightened to pay any great heed to the Watching Chamber when she first entered, but now she must try to stay calm and look for doors, windows, anything that might prove useful should an opportunity for flight present itself. Despite the uncertain impression she had had of the place however, with its eerie lighting and innumerable shadows and reflections, it seemed to her that it was different now. Its intrinsic confusion was different though she could not have said in what way. Surely these precarious towers of mirrors could not have been moved? Nor the twisted lantern trees that seemed to be rooted deep into the floor? She tried to recall the Hall as it had been when it was the Count’s Audience Chamber but she had only been there once or twice when she was young and the memories did not help. Nor was she given much time in which to make her survey, for the mirror-bearers were hustling her forward urgently, moving now to the left, to the right, turning about.
Finally they stopped, somewhere near the middle of the Hall, Jeyan judged, looking up into the lantern-tinged gloom above. Nothing was to be gained by looking around, for the mirror-bearers were all about her, surrounding her with a bizarre assembly of the Gevethen and herself.
The crowd stirred uneasily then parted. Two mirrors moved through the gap. They were larger than the largest of those carried by the mirror-bearers and were being held in such a way that they reflected only the high lanterns that lit the Chamber. It was as though night itself, black and starlit, was intruding into the gathering. Jeyan did not move, curiosity briefly setting aside the fear and anger that was sustaining her.
The mirrors stopped in front of two of the many Gevethen and as their reflections appeared, so all the others slowly turned away and were gone. Jeyan screwed up her eyes. Was this the first time she had seen so few of her captors?
All movement stopped, save for the two mirrors, which came together until they touched. The line of their joining, sharp and black, slowly shrank and disappeared.
The two pairs of figures stood like a quartet of statues, staring fixedly at one another for what seemed to Jeyan to be an interminable time. Their stillness seeped into her and though her mind told her she might now be able to flee, she knew that her body would not respond.
‘Lord Counsellor.’The voices raked through her. She stepped forward, feeling peculiarly exposed without the crowd of her own likenesses to support her. Tentatively her reflection emerged from behind the two motionless images of the Gevethen. For a moment she faltered, as she saw again a youthful Hagen arising sternly out of the darkness to stand by the side of his masters. The figure grimaced at her as she forced the thought from her mind. She was who she was. The image of Hagen had been that of the uniform, not the face, but it had burned into her mind with such intensity as she had steeled herself for the assassination that she could not now easily dissociate the clothes from the wearer.
The Gevethen moved apart and motioned her forward so that she stood between and slightly in front of them. Hands touched the broken rings which hung about the Gevethen’s necks then floated up to come to rest on Jeyan’s shoulders. There was a fearful symmetry about the three figures that stood in front of her. Though she could not see it, she sensed that the edge of the two mirrors passed vertically through her image and a momentary panic ran through her that should the mirrors move apart, she would be split in two.
There was another long silence, then,‘What do you see, Lord Counsellor?’
The young Hagen swallowed. Its throat was dry.
‘I see reflections of myself and your Excellencies,’ Jeyan replied. ‘And the lights behind.’
‘Reflections.’
‘Ah!’
The Gevethen moved forward, easing Jeyan ahead of them until she was so close to her reflection that she could see little more than its eyes. Still she could see no sign of the line where the two mirrors joined and, still with her, was the fear of what would happen if they moved apart. Warm breath struck her face. It must be her own, she reasoned, standing so close to the mirror. But there was not even a hint of mistiness on the smooth surface. There was only Jeyan, staring at herself.
‘What do you see, Lord Counsellor?’The question came again.
Despite her every endeavour, Jeyan began to tremble again. The hands tightened about her shoulders, coldly supporting her. The trembling ceased. ‘I see myself, Excellencies,’ she managed to say. ‘My reflection.’
‘But which is yourself and which the reflection, Lord Counsellor?’
‘I don’t understand, Excellencies.’
‘Close your eyes, child.’
‘But…’
‘Close your eyes.’
Briefly the idea of struggling free returned to her, but the hands on her shoulders forbade all movement. She closed her eyes.
Alone in the darkness she braced herself for some awful impact – some punishment at last for what she had done – some pain, some torment. But nothing happened. There was only the weight of the hands on her shoulders and the warm breath striking her face, a little more frequently now.
Her ears began to fill with the sound of her breathing. The pressure on her shoulders began to pulse to its hastening rhythm. Then, before she realized what was happening, she was being moved forward.
A soft hissing filled the Watching Chamber, like the release of a long-held breath, as the mirror-bearers moved forward to form a protective circle about the two mirrors made one. None gazed into it, but had they done so they would have seen the reflections of the Hall’s many lanterns and, faintly, fading like ripples in water, the retreating backs of the Gevethen and their new Lord Counsellor.