For the most powerful spells, the preparations are the simplest. Nyctasia lifted the heavy mirror from the wall and laid it on the round table, then covered it with Shiastred’s cloak. For a long time she only stood there, calm and still, her hands resting on the draped mirror. At last, she silently recited the necessary words, and swept aside the mended cloak.
Behold in this enchanted mirror
Images reversed but clearer.
The silent echo of the spirit
Speaks to those who choose to hear it.
Her reflection appeared dim and distant as though seen at the bottom of a dark well. But it was not her own face that she sought in the mirror.
Erystalben knelt at the edge of a pool like black glass, and Nyctasia saw her reflection appear to him in the quiet water. “Why did you do it?” she whispered, and saw that his lips formed the same words. Her tears spilled onto the mirror’s surface, making the images waver like broken water. She saw her pale reflection ripple as Shiastred leaned over to touch the pool, and a feeling of faintness came over her. She reached to steady herself against the table but tears blinded her, and her hands closed on empty air. As she fell, her forehead struck sharply against the heavy silver frame of the mirror.
Nyctasia drifted in darkness till a dim light glimmered somewhere above her, and she reached toward it, curious. A hand parted the darkness and clasped hers, drawing her upward easily. She stepped from the dark water, her hand still clasped in Erystalben’s.
“Forgive me,” both said, but no sound broke the unchanging stillness. Silent as shadows, then, they came together, and their wordless lips met to say all that was needful between them.