Page 32 of A Taste of Silver
Twenty minutes later, hoofbeats joined us. Two riders in royal armor fell into position on either side of the carriage, an honor guard that felt more like prisoner transport. Their armor was polished to a high sheen, catching the last of the afternoon light.
In the left guard's breastplate, I saw him.
Silvyr's reflection moved independent of anything in the mortal realm. His lips shaped words slowly, carefully, ensuring I could read them, "Remember the garden."
The guard shifted in his saddle, and the reflection vanished. But the message had been delivered, carved into my mind as surely as the marks were carved into my skin.
Storm clouds gathered overhead, heavy with snow that would fall before nightfall. The palace gates loomed ahead, black iron twisted into shapes that hurt to look at directly, designed to repel magical sight.
The carriage passed through the gates. They swung shut behind me with a final, grinding clang that vibrated up through the carriage floor and into my teeth. A clang that sounded more like a death knell than a gate closing.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Chapter 13
Silvyr
The puddle manifestation nearly destroys me.
I pull myself back through the dimensional barriers with all the grace of a drowning man breaking the surface, my form fracturing into constituent parts that scatter across the Mirror Realm like shattered glass. For several long moments, I exist only as intention and desperate will, consciousness without container, awareness spread so thin I can barely remember what shape I'm supposed to hold.
The garden catches me. Our garden, transformed by Aurea's awakening into something that responds to both our essences equally. The crystalline ground ripples beneath my fragmenting form, silver paths reaching up like hands to gather the scattered pieces of me and pull them back toward center, toward coherence, toward something resembling a stable existence.
It hurts. Everything hurts. Manifesting in the mortal realm without a proper threshold, forcing myself through the surface tension of a common puddle, speaking to her with enough solidity that she could see me clearly—all of it cost more than I'dcalculated. More than I should have spent when I know what's coming, when I know I'll need every scrap of essence I possess for the trials ahead.
But seeing her there, about to walk into the palace with no understanding of the trap waiting, I couldn'tnotreach for her.
"Idiot," I mutter to myself as my form slowly coalesces. Legs first, then torso, arms manifesting with aching slowness like ice forming on winter water. My face comes last, features pulling themselves from memory and will, constellation eyes flickering weakly as they struggle to maintain their customary starlight. "Reckless, foolish, idiotic?—"
"Self-flagellation suits you." Syra's voice drifts from somewhere to my left, amused despite the concern I can hear beneath it. "Very dramatic. The serpent prince, broken by love and bad decisions."
"Not the time." The words come out sharper than intended, but I'm too exhausted to modulate my tone properly. Every word requires focus, requires remembering that I have a mouth, a tongue, vocal cords that shape sound into meaning.
She materializes fully beside me, her fractal features arranged into something approximating sympathy. Today she wears the appearance of an older woman, though her mismatched eyes give away her true nature. "You burned through three weeks' worth of stored essence for thirty seconds of conversation. I hope it was worth it."
Was it? I'd warned her about the palace, told her to remember the garden, seen the recognition in her eyes when she looked at me. But had it been enough? Had I given her anything she could actually use, or just frightened her with vague portents while wasting power I desperately need to conserve?
"Help me to the central mirror," I say instead of answering. My legs are solid now but weak, trembling like a newborn foal's. "I need to see where she is. Where they're taking her."
Syra doesn't argue, just slides an arm around my waist and guides me deeper into the garden. The paths shift beneath our feet, responding to my need, bringing the great mirror closer rather than making us walk the full distance. Even the garden knows I've pushed too far, spent too much.
The Last Mirror rises before us, massive and ancient, its frame carved from frozen starlight by artisans who died before the current kingdoms were even dreamed. This is the mirror we used for the failed binding, the surface that's watched every moment of our separation, every year of her forgetting. It's also the strongest anchor point I have to her world, the clearest window through which I can observe her reality.
I press my palm to its surface, and it responds instantly, warming beneath my touch like living skin. The reflection clears, showing not my own fractured appearance but visions of Aurea's world, multiple scenes playing across the glass in dizzying succession.
There. The carriage, moving through increasing traffic as it approaches the capital proper. I can see her through the window, silver dress catching light, butterfly mask hiding her face but not the tension in her shoulders. The marks on her arms are visible even through the illusory gloves Melora crafted, silver fire barely contained beneath the suppression magic.
"She's almost there," Syra observes unnecessarily. "Twenty minutes, maybe less."
I know. I can feel it through our bond, through the connection that's grown stronger since her awakening but is still frustratingly incomplete. She's anxious, preparing herself for confrontation, running through possibilities in that sharp mind of hers. But she doesn't know. She can't know how thoroughly the trap has been laid.
"Show me the palace," I command the mirror, and it obeys.
The image shifts, pulling back to give me a wider view. The palace sprawls across the hillside like a sleeping beast, all dark stone and elegant architecture. But it's what I seebeneaththe architecture that makes my remaining strength drain away like water through a sieve.
Every covered mirror in the palace is awake. Not just awake—hungry.
Through the mirror-space, I can see them like points of crimson light scattered throughout the structure, each one pulsing with malevolent awareness. They should be dormant, sealed by generations of binding spells and careful ignorance. But Aurea's awakening shattered more than just the suppressions on her power. It shattered the carefully maintained fiction that covered mirrors were the same as destroyed ones.
