Seven
Jean-Claude shifted from foot to foot and tried not to look nervous as Don Divelo produced a key from a ring under his sash and unlocked the iron grate that guarded the face of the full-length mirror in his cabin aboard the escort ship the Lanza. Any unwelcome Glasswalker trying to emerge would have to squeeze through that narrow grid to be able to manifest.
Jean-Claude glowered at his sallow reflection. Asking to be taken through the mirror had seemed like a good idea at the time, but as the heat of inspiration cooled, phrases like “lost between mirrors” and “died from the shock” leaked in. Mirrors were just things of glass and silver; one should not be able to step through them and end up somewhere else.
“Do not worry, se?or; I will not drop you,” Don Divelo said, replacing the key on its gold chain around his neck.
Vincent smiled. “If monsieur is too afraid to go, I can send a real man to take his place.”
“An empty threat, monsieur,” Jean-Claude growled.
Isabelle’s face looked waxen but she said, “I have full confidence in Jean-Claude’s courage and ability.”
And for that alone, Jean-Claude would walk through fire … or mirrors. Or mirrors on fire, for that matter. “Let’s get this over with. What happens next?”
Don Divelo raised himself to his most authoritative height, his bountiful midriff nearly cresting the sash around his waist. “It is said that Cerberus Cortez, the Secondborn King of Aragoth, could pass his true flesh through a mirror, split his reflected self in parts so as to be many places at once, and even pass through his reflection on water. Alas, but those arts are lost to us. Even so, what remains is still the most remarkable sorcery in all the world.
“I will take the reflection of your true essence to le Chateau des Zephyrs. Your corpus, the part of you that lives and breathes, that eats and shi—er, drinks, shall perforce remain behind. Your espejismo, the part of you that thinks and acts, will manifest on the other side, where it shall emerge from the mirror to walk about as if it was made of flesh and blood. Yet it will not be flesh and blood. To you, everything will appear to be backward. While you are there, you should refrain from eating or drinking, as the part of you that does the digesting is here, and you cannot bring back anything you did not take with you. This makes food problematic.”
Vincent murmured, “But will anyone recognize him without a wine sack in his hand?”
Jean-Claude ignored Vincent’s jibe; he’d worked hard to maintain his intoxicated reputation and was glad to know it was holding up. The journey ahead, though, filled him with trepidation and he fought the urge to hunch. “What must I do?” The less time he had to think about having his soul ripped out, the better.
“Take my hand, close your eyes, and allow yourself to be pulled. Do not hold your breath. Remember, the part of you that breathes is staying here.” He held out his hand.
“Then how am I supposed to talk?” Jean-Claude said, stalling in spite of himself. Sometimes people didn’t come back from these trips. Or they came back insane.
“Air will still go in and out; you just won’t assimilate it.” He took Jean-Claude’s wavering hand, said, “Close your eyes,” and touched the mirror. “And don’t panic.”
Jean-Claude closed his eyes, but not before he caught a glimpse of Don Divelo going very still while his corpulent reflection detached itself from the face of the mirror and drifted backward into some deeper space. It kept hold of Jean-Claude’s reflection and tugged.
*
Two sailors caught Jean-Claude’s body, preventing him from falling as his spirit departed. Isabelle stared in fascination as Don Divelo’s espejismo towed Jean-Claude’s out of the mirror frame, both drifting like a pair of windblown ghosts. She rushed to the mirror and peered into it as if it were a window but saw only the reflection of the room, sans the two travelers.
The sailors ensconced Jean-Claude and Don Divelo in chairs designed for the purpose of supporting Glasswalker sorcerers during their out-of-body wanderings. Jean-Claude’s face, normally elastic and expressive, sagged like wet linen without the animating force of his personality. Leaning back in the chair, his eyes closed and his arms folded, he most greatly resembled a corpse. Isabelle touched his cheek to assure herself he still lived.
Noxious worry seeped into her mind. Had she sent him off to die in the strange and terrifying world between the mirrors, or to be murdered in some back alley in Windfall? What if he encountered Thornscar?
But Jean-Claude would be very offended if he knew how much she worried about him. He was a King’s Own Musketeer, after all, and though he wrapped his pride in sackcloth and rolled it in the mud, it was still precious to him.
Yet even if he came back triumphant, with Thornscar’s heart in a jar and all her enemies laid low, she was still going to lose him. By delivering her safely to her wedding, his tarnished honor would get a new shine, and noble marriages were always a good excuse for handing out medals and citations. She had no doubt le roi would recall Jean-Claude to his service and deploy him on some other important errand. She’d probably never see him again. The mere thought of that made her feel hollow as a dried-up well.
Yet maybe Jean-Claude would attend some other birth, rescue some other infant, succor some other child. Maybe somebody else needed him even more than she did. Isabelle closed her eyes and let go the stale breath of selfishness. When the time came, she would have to be brave enough to share.
*
Having his reflection torn from his body felt to Jean-Claude like being peeled out of his skin and dragged through cold, gritty, metallic butter. The stuff oozed into every orifice he owned and a few that he assumed had been invented for the purpose. Against the advice of his porter, he held his breath.
Jean-Claude wasn’t sure how long the passage lasted, or if it lasted any time at all. Was there any distance between the mirrors, or did the concept of space even apply?
Then he encountered the barrier. It felt like having his face pressed against a frozen sheet of silk, cold and smooth. He dented it, and it tried to deform him.
“Press hard.” Don Divelo’s voice seeped into his awareness without passing his ears.
Jean-Claude pushed, though he had nothing to push against; he willed himself forward. The fabric enveloped him, squeezing him, oozing through him as he crossed through it.
Chill, dry air slapped his face. He had almost forgotten what air felt like. He gasped. Air passed his lips but felt dead in his lungs, though he did not feel he was suffocating.
“You can open your eyes now,” Divelo said, patting him on the shoulder.