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Then she felt the subtle insinuation of some other will around her own. It came like a thread to bind her, tickling and tightening, gently at first, then more strongly. She feared it, but she kept her thoughts formed around her need.

I must warn Laurel. I must be inside the tower to reach her.

It hurt. It hurt as if an iron hook had been thrust into her guts so they might be pulled from her body. What had been vaporous thought was twisted and pulled. It was her thought, and so she was twisted and pulled, and it was unnatural, and it could not be, but it must, and it hurt! Lynet screamed aloud and her being shuddered.

“Open your eyes, my lady!” bawled Ryol. “You must walk! You must see!”

Lynet opened her eyes and she saw the tower around her, but now she felt it as well. The cold thrummed in the air. It filled the stones and they radiated it as a fire did heat. She saw her hand before her, as insubstantial as thought, and she opened her mouth to scream again.

“No!” cried Ryol. She could not feel him, and knew without knowing how that she would not see him if she looked. “Panic now and I will not be able to hold you here!”

Lynet clamped her jaw shut around her screams and forced herself forward.
I have hands and I have legs. I
am myself, and I know these stairs. They are part of my home. I know the touch of their stone. I know every shadow of this place.

As she concentrated, the pain lessened. Her body was wraith-like, but present. That was all that mattered. She was here, now, in this place, and Laurel was alone above her. She could find her legs and feet and force them into motion. The world no longer flowed around her with the ease of water. She must force herself through it, inch by painful inch. She walked slowly up the spiralling stairs, willing her mind to remember how the stones felt beneath her boots when she had trod them the morning of the thaw, when she had last climbed this way with Laurel and Colan and Bishop Austell. She put out the shape of her hand and lifted the hatchway above, remembering the feel of the splintery wood, the creak of the hinges. It hurt, it hurt, but the hatchway moved, its hinges strained and lifted and fell back with a bang.

Above her, Laurel jumped and turned at once. Lynet lifted herself out of the hatch.
I have hands, and body and form. I am myself.
With this in her mind, she stood before Laurel.

Laurel saw her, this ghostly form of her. Lynet felt her sister's shock slapped against her like the splash of cold water. “God of mercy, no …” she choked.

Lynet held up her hands, tears prickling her eyes. The fear was so cold it added fresh pain to her.
I did not mean to frighten you.
“Fear not, sister. I am no ghost. I still live.”

“Then what is this?” Laurel's voice sounded small and distant. Lynet could feel the meaning more clearly than she could hear the words. It moved through the air like a song, dark and somber, yet too quick and off-key for comfort.

“It is the mirror,” Laurel said, answering her own question. “Mother's mirror.”

This did nothing to quiet the fear, if anything the touch of it grew quicker, more erratic, canting and slanting through the air. It tugged at Lynet, simultaneously pushing her away and drawing her closer. “Lynet, go back! Now!”

Lynet mustered herself. She reached out with the will that had been shaped to bring her being here, and found the touch of Laurel's fear. Following that fear as if it were a life line, she was able to bring herself closer to her sister.

“Laurel, you must hear me,” she said urgently. “Peran and Mesek have made a bargain. Peran came here looking to deliver Cambryn to Morgaine. Mesek has turned him against her, or has seemed to. Mesek knows there is power here, and he wants it for himself, so he can stand against Morgaine and whoever else comes.” She swallowed, moving closer yet, wading deeper into her sister's fear and new understanding. “He means the mirror. That's why you gave it to me, isn't it? To get it away from here?”

“Only in part, Lynet, but yes.” Sorrow at necessity was like summer rain, warm and melancholy and true.

“I understand. It was as well. Now it is safe, but you are not. Mesek means to wed you, or kill you, for the power.”

Laurel's jaw tightened, and the touch of her emotion changed to jagged stone, cutting, forbidding. This was anger, but not at Lynet. For her, there was still the regret of summer rain. “Is Morgaine coming?”

“Peran believes so.”

Anger cooled and smoothed and deepened, becoming the pool of dark water that looks so inviting but hides its depths and its danger. “When?”

“I don't know yet.” As Laurel calmed it was harder to hold on. Lynet's strength and will began to waver. The pain grew, a cramp in her hands and arms, a sharp ache in back and belly. “Laurel I think I cannot stay much longer. I must tell you, Bishop Austell is dead.”

Laurel bowed her head, covering her eyes with her hand. She stayed that way for along moment before she recovered herself and was able to look at Lynet again.

“I feared as much. God rest his soul. He was a good man.”

Lynet wanted to ask how she had known this, but another cramp cut across her midriff, and sent spasms up her arms. “Lynet …”

Laurel reached her hand out, brushing Lynet's insubstantial shape. A new song, smooth and clear, strong and soaring. Love. Her sister's love. “I've heard you sister. I will take care. Trust me when I say I gave away only a piece of power when I gave you the mirror. You must go back now.”

Lynet smiled, stretching out and seeking to form her own song, her own smooth touch to fill the air and find Laurel whom her flesh and bone were too far away to reach. “I'll come again as soon as I am able.”

Fear and love together now, dark and smooth, painful and healing. “No, Lynet. This is dangerous.”

Lynet drew her will around that fear and love, suddenly desiring to hold it, to shape it, and return it.
Laurel can I reach you this way?
“Laurel, they mean to kill you and take Cambryn. How can I wait here for that?”

Love rose over the fear, its soaring tones and healing touch blotting out every other note as Laurel spoke. “Be very, very careful, sister.”

Lynet was fading, unable to hold this shape that cramped and confined. “I will. Pray for me, Laurel.”

Pain spasmed through her, as she tried to hold on that much longer, to bathe in her sister's love for just one moment more.

“Let go, my lady,” said Ryol, a distant whisper from no source that she could see. “You have done your work. Let go.”

Her hold broke in a short snap, and as painful as it was, it was a relief, as if she had been set free from a cage, and she was beside Ryol once more, in his sunlit garden. He held her hands tightly, but she could not feel it. The whole world around them looked distant, and felt hollow. There was no music of being here to fill the air, not even between her and Ryol. She missed it. Even the pain of it had been strong and beautifully pure.

“You must go back now, lady,” said Ryol. She thought he must be worried, but she could not be sure. She could not feel it, or clearly understand the expression on his face. “At once. Go.”

Bemused as she was, she saw no reason to argue. She backed away from him, toward the faint but insistent pull that she knew was the call of flesh to spirit. She followed it drowsily, aware that something was wrong in the numbing sensation of distance that swaddled her now.

Then blackness.

The touch of morning's light on her eyes woke Lynet slowly. Her body was aching and stone cold. She had curled herself like an infant around the mirror. Every joint protested as she stretched out. Thirst raged in her and pain pounded in her head with each heartbeat. She blinked her heavy eyelids. How long had she been away from herself? Daylight now streamed through the shutter slats. Lynet's heart constricted as she saw that her waiting maid's empty bed. What if the woman had tried to rouse her and been unable? What if she had gone to fetch help?

How will I explain?

As quickly as she could make her stiff hands move, Lynet slid the mirror back into its purse and tied it to her girdle. To add to the pain in her joints and sinews, her soul already ached to be back with Laurel. She wanted to dog Mesek's and Peran's footsteps. And Morgaine. How could she have failed to make Ryol show her what Morgaine was planning? It would be a grave risk, but they must take it. Surely even Morgaine could not see through all shadows.

Despite all these frantic thoughts, all Lynet could do was lay back on the pillows, trying to loosen her breath and find her strength. After a time, before a hand scratched at her door.

“Enter!” she managed to croak.

The door opened. Daere came in. The maid carried a tankard of something that steamed, and was followed by a golden-haired girl so thin and bony it seemed her shoulders would poke right through her neat dress. This girl bore a brightly colored bundle of cloth in her arms.

“It is a tisane sent from the queen,” Daere said, making her curtsey as she handed the silver tankard to Lynet. “She says you are to drink it all before you come down to join her to break your fast.”

“Thank you.” Lynet made her hands wrap around the tankard. The steam was savory with herbs and strong wine. She sipped it, tasting sorrel, marjoram, thyme and even a little pepper. It warmed and strengthened her well. By the time she finished the drink, Lynet found she was able to sit up more easily and watch while Daere laid out the fine garments the younger girl carried on the foot of the bed. There was an underdress of rich burgundy linen trimmed at the hem with hawthorn blossoms of white and gold. The over-robe was a brown silk, embroidered with holly branches in red and silver, and with trailing sleeves to be tied to it with red laces. Next to this, Daere laid out a girdle of bronze holly leaves studded with garnets to make the berries. A plain bronze circlet and fawn-brown veil were laid out last.

The sight of so much wealth displayed so casually stunned Lynet. “These are …” she began.

“These are also sent to you by the queen,” said Dare smoothing out the skirt of the overdress. “She asks you of your courtesy to accept this gift as a token of the earnest welcome you are given to Camelot.”

Determined not to play the country maid any more than necessary, Lynet swallowed. “Of course. I will have to render sincere thanks to her majesty.”

“The queen is a generous and thoughtful mistress,” replied Daere with such an attitude of sincerity, Lynet could not set it down as the empty compliments of a fawning servant. “I give thanks daily to be in her service.”

There was nothing Lynet could say to that.

Daere and her helper moved about the room, tending the fire, folding back the shutter to let the stiff, fresh breeze in. The wind smelled strangely dry and plain to Lynet who was used to the scents of rain and salt. But the sun was warm and felt like springtime and she was gladdened by it.

Once these tasks were done, Daere set about the business of dressing Lynet in her new finery. The maid was meticulous about her work. Consequently, the straightening and lacing, buckling, arranging and adjusting took long enough that Lynet's patience strained. Eventually, Daere pronounced Lynet presentable, and she did not protest too much when Lynet insisted she would hang her keys and her purse from her shining, new girdle.

Daere conducted her through maze of wide corridors that made up the keep of Camelot. Lynet had heard from Laurel that the high king had made a Roman governor's villa into his great hall, and she had tried to describe the beauty of it. Her words, Lynet now saw, had failed. Each window and entry way was arched and ornamented. The floor was decorated with sparkling mosaics of repeating patterns, or fabulous beasts. Although made of good brown stone, the edifice felt so light and airy, part of her was sure that it must soon float away.

To Lynet's surprise, they passed by the great hall. Instead, Daere took Lynet to a smaller door, where she knocked humbly. A waiting lady opened it, a noble woman with rich brown and frankly curious eyes. She curtsied politely to Lynet and stood back so that she might enter what was clearly the queen's private chamber.

Lynet had never seen a more beautiful or luxurious room. The carved furniture alone was a fortune of material and skill. She counted five books on the shelf above the writing desk. Carpets that were whole worlds of color softened the floor.

Queen Guinevere sat before the hearth at an inlaid table spread with a meal whose luxury equaled that of the room. There was cold hare with worrel and hazelnuts, and a roasted chicken scented with something pungent and savory Lynet could not name but which nonetheless set her mouth watering. There were white and brown breads, honied cakes, and cakes of dried fruits soaked in wine.

Lynet began to kneel, but the queen stopped her, raising her up before she could complete the gesture.

“Please sit,” Queen Guinevere said, but she no longer spoke the rolling, formal language of this eastern court. Instead, she spoke the Dumonii tongue of Cambryn, and smiled at the surprise that showed plainly on Lynet's face. As Lynet took the seat that was offered, the queen beckoning to Daere. The maid who came forward at once to pour Lynet both beer and cider.

“Please, break your fast with me now. Help yourself as you wish.”

Whatever words must pass between them, Lynet more than willing to let them wait awhile. The food was excellent, savory, filling and elegantly spiced. The queen herself ate lightly, but well, sparing Lynet from any anxiety that she was taking too much.

As she ate, Lynet could not help watching the queen, although she tried to be circumspect. She was as beautiful as the bards told, with the bright grey eyes they all praised. She held herself straight and proud, a woman who knew she was watched and measured at all times. They spoke in their common language of nothing urgent, remarks on the meal before them, on how the night had remained dry, against all expectations. Everything was arranged to set Lynet at her ease, and indeed she did feel herself relaxing under the gracious influences of comfort and good food. But despite all this, as she regarded the queen from under her properly lowered eyelids, what came back to Lynet again and again was something Laurel had once written to her:
the queen is a gracious woman, in all ways and at all times the soul of polity. One might easily see only the hostess and wise woman and overlook how many secrets she guards and how closely
.