Mirror Sight
Page 177
“To be honest,” Karigan replied, smiling but exhausted from all the visions the shard had put her through, “I don’t understand it much myself. The looking mask was an object of unknown power—the fact that I’m here proves it, and even its broken remnants retain a certain amount of power.” She picked up the shard once more. It showed her no new images, but counter-reflected in her right eye, turning her iris silver. She blinked, and the illusion was gone.
All at once her reserve of energy drained away. The morphia was not entirely done with her yet, and her exertions left her shaking. She lay down, right across her Rider uniform, and slid quickly into a deep slumber, never knowing that Cade carefully pried the mirror shard from her fingers and placed it on the table next to her bed, and covered her with a blanket.
“Good night, Green Rider,” he whispered, and he kissed her forehead.
In the present: Captain Mapstone
“So as you can see,” Master Goodgrave explained, pointing at the glass, “we have cleaned the entire panel, and it has clarified some of the details with remarkable results.”
It was, Laren thought, astonishing to be so high up above the floor of the records room on the scaffolding of the glass craftsmen, virtually surrounded by the intense colors of the stained glass dome. Lit from behind by lanterns, it was breathtaking, really, the subtle shades and details that had come to life with cleaning. She wondered what it had been like, before the dome had been built over, when bright sunlight shone through the glass. She could only imagine that it was brilliant, and the clouds and changes of weather only lent drama and movement to the scenes.
By Zachary’s stillness, she could sense that he, too, was overwhelmed by this new view of the dome.
Master Goodgrave and his helpers had only just finished their meticulous cleaning of the panel that depicted the triumph of the First Rider after the Long War. She saw ripples in banners and cloaks she had not noticed before, the emerald of the First Rider’s eyes, and the gleam of sunlight on armor and swords. The cleaning had added depth and dimension to the scene. And there was more . . .
“We had taken these to be horsemen in the distance,” Master Goodgrave was saying, “but we thought it odd they were slightly out of proportion when the rest of the scene was so masterfully crafted. As we cleaned, we realized they weren’t horsemen at all.”
Laren gasped when she saw what he was talking about. No, those were not men at all, nor were those horses. They were p’ehdrose, part man, part moose. The size of the moose bodies compared to horses would account for the odd proportions the glass craftsmen had perceived.
Zachary laughed softly behind her. “There you are, Captain, your mystery solved. The fourth member of the League.”
She groaned. P’ehdrose? They were more myth than fact. They certainly had not been seen in modern times. If they had ever existed, they were quite extinct. Had they once existed? The legend was that the horn now in her keeping had once belonged to Lil Ambrioth, and it had been given to her by a p’ehdrose. So, why wasn’t there more proof of their existence from that long ago time?
Zachary placed his hand on her shoulder. “In solving one mystery, it appears you’ve opened another.”
“The only mystery is why I pinned my hopes on a fourth member of the League to help us when no one has ever claimed that part in history in the first place.”
“Perhaps they had their reasons,” Zachary replied.
“They must have died out by the end of the war.”
“Perhaps, or they went into hiding when the Scourge began. Keep in mind that the Eletians had become no more than legend until just a few short years ago.”
“You’re not saying there could still be p’ehdrose out there, are you?”
Zachary shrugged. “There have been stranger things.”
A pause in their conversation allowed Master Goodgrave to start rattling off the techniques he and his assistants had used to clean the glass. Laren did not listen, but wondered about Zachary’s words. It was true, the Eletians had receded into myth until they chose to reveal themselves and become part of the world again. The Scourge had been a terrible time after the Long War, a reaction of hate toward magic after all the terrible uses Mornhavon the Black had made of it. There’d been no distinction of good users from evil. To those who wanted to suppress magic, it was all corrupt. Even the Green Riders had been forced to hide their brooches—with spells, ironically—to preserve them.
Could it be the p’ehdrose had hidden themselves to avoid persecution? Any documentation of their existence could have been destroyed during the Scourge, along with any other objects or writings that had anything to do with the p’ehdrose.
Master Goodgrave cleared his throat and was about to resume his lecture, when they were buffeted by a cry come from some far distance, a cry of pain that made Laren’s brooch pulse against her chest. She staggered and grabbed a railing. A great gust swirled up from below blowing documents in a vortex. The one cry was followed by the hushed echo of ghostly voices, and Laren glimpsed ragged, transparent forms flying around them. The scaffolding swayed and groaned.
“Hold on,” Zachary said.
She was already holding the railing with a deathly grip that left her knuckles white, but he wrapped his arm around her as if it would be enough to protect her from the structure’s collapse.
“Your Majesty?” the Weapon, Travis, called from below.
“We’re all right,” Zachary replied.
All at once her reserve of energy drained away. The morphia was not entirely done with her yet, and her exertions left her shaking. She lay down, right across her Rider uniform, and slid quickly into a deep slumber, never knowing that Cade carefully pried the mirror shard from her fingers and placed it on the table next to her bed, and covered her with a blanket.
“Good night, Green Rider,” he whispered, and he kissed her forehead.
In the present: Captain Mapstone
“So as you can see,” Master Goodgrave explained, pointing at the glass, “we have cleaned the entire panel, and it has clarified some of the details with remarkable results.”
It was, Laren thought, astonishing to be so high up above the floor of the records room on the scaffolding of the glass craftsmen, virtually surrounded by the intense colors of the stained glass dome. Lit from behind by lanterns, it was breathtaking, really, the subtle shades and details that had come to life with cleaning. She wondered what it had been like, before the dome had been built over, when bright sunlight shone through the glass. She could only imagine that it was brilliant, and the clouds and changes of weather only lent drama and movement to the scenes.
By Zachary’s stillness, she could sense that he, too, was overwhelmed by this new view of the dome.
Master Goodgrave and his helpers had only just finished their meticulous cleaning of the panel that depicted the triumph of the First Rider after the Long War. She saw ripples in banners and cloaks she had not noticed before, the emerald of the First Rider’s eyes, and the gleam of sunlight on armor and swords. The cleaning had added depth and dimension to the scene. And there was more . . .
“We had taken these to be horsemen in the distance,” Master Goodgrave was saying, “but we thought it odd they were slightly out of proportion when the rest of the scene was so masterfully crafted. As we cleaned, we realized they weren’t horsemen at all.”
Laren gasped when she saw what he was talking about. No, those were not men at all, nor were those horses. They were p’ehdrose, part man, part moose. The size of the moose bodies compared to horses would account for the odd proportions the glass craftsmen had perceived.
Zachary laughed softly behind her. “There you are, Captain, your mystery solved. The fourth member of the League.”
She groaned. P’ehdrose? They were more myth than fact. They certainly had not been seen in modern times. If they had ever existed, they were quite extinct. Had they once existed? The legend was that the horn now in her keeping had once belonged to Lil Ambrioth, and it had been given to her by a p’ehdrose. So, why wasn’t there more proof of their existence from that long ago time?
Zachary placed his hand on her shoulder. “In solving one mystery, it appears you’ve opened another.”
“The only mystery is why I pinned my hopes on a fourth member of the League to help us when no one has ever claimed that part in history in the first place.”
“Perhaps they had their reasons,” Zachary replied.
“They must have died out by the end of the war.”
“Perhaps, or they went into hiding when the Scourge began. Keep in mind that the Eletians had become no more than legend until just a few short years ago.”
“You’re not saying there could still be p’ehdrose out there, are you?”
Zachary shrugged. “There have been stranger things.”
A pause in their conversation allowed Master Goodgrave to start rattling off the techniques he and his assistants had used to clean the glass. Laren did not listen, but wondered about Zachary’s words. It was true, the Eletians had receded into myth until they chose to reveal themselves and become part of the world again. The Scourge had been a terrible time after the Long War, a reaction of hate toward magic after all the terrible uses Mornhavon the Black had made of it. There’d been no distinction of good users from evil. To those who wanted to suppress magic, it was all corrupt. Even the Green Riders had been forced to hide their brooches—with spells, ironically—to preserve them.
Could it be the p’ehdrose had hidden themselves to avoid persecution? Any documentation of their existence could have been destroyed during the Scourge, along with any other objects or writings that had anything to do with the p’ehdrose.
Master Goodgrave cleared his throat and was about to resume his lecture, when they were buffeted by a cry come from some far distance, a cry of pain that made Laren’s brooch pulse against her chest. She staggered and grabbed a railing. A great gust swirled up from below blowing documents in a vortex. The one cry was followed by the hushed echo of ghostly voices, and Laren glimpsed ragged, transparent forms flying around them. The scaffolding swayed and groaned.
“Hold on,” Zachary said.
She was already holding the railing with a deathly grip that left her knuckles white, but he wrapped his arm around her as if it would be enough to protect her from the structure’s collapse.
“Your Majesty?” the Weapon, Travis, called from below.
“We’re all right,” Zachary replied.
