The Universal Mirror
The
Universal Mirror
Copyright © 2012 by Gwen Perkins
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
Hydra Publications
337 Clifty Dr
Madison, IN 47250
www.hydrapublications.com
To Amaranth, Nynaeve, Oisin, and Laura.
Asahel could feel the heat of the lantern perilously close to his face as he worked, his fingers clutching the handle of the shovel and pushing down deep into the ground. He forced it down further, pressing his heavy foot against the metal and putting his weight against it, feeling the packed dirt crunch beneath him. The air between them smelled of loam and rain, the dirt wet and so slick that he almost slid into it again with another good push. The lantern rocked again as Quentin tried to match him, swaying on the branch on which they'd propped it as Quentin leaned into the dirt, his strength less than the other man's, borne as it was by a lean frame, tall though it was.
"Watch the light," was all Asahel said. His voice was calm, too calm for the enterprise.
"You can't dig this alone." Quentin answered but he put the shovel down and reached up in the branch to unhook the lantern. A faint stream of oil hit his arm and he winced. The sound of digging stopped.
"What happened?"
"Just burnt myself." He placed the lantern on the ground where it did little good. The light extended only faintly past the glass, shining a brief, bright circle to the edge of the pit. He heard a grunt, and then a clod of dirt flew up, spattering his hair. He sighed, reaching up to wipe it free, and then called down, "Couldn't we just cast a spell? Do you have to do all that digging?"
"I have got to do all this digging, aye." Asahel's gaze rose. He was a short man but the pit they had dug yawned only to his shoulder. It has to be six feet buried or more, Quent thought dimly. That meant a good hour or more of work. He leaned down and offered his friend a hand. He just wrinkled his nose and shook his head hurriedly, the dark curls twitching in the lamplight, the flickering of the light changing the tangles into a dark halo. His back hunched as he reached back down for the shovel. "We haven't got all week or even past the night. You know what this is that we've done."
He knew but he wouldn't speak the word. It was as if speaking the crime would seal the commission of it. They hadn't yet completed what they'd come to do.
"Then we'll do it together," he said. He put his hand against the dirt gingerly, feeling it slide against his skin as he jumped down. They were covered in mud, the pair of them, and as the man picked up the other shovel and pushed it into the ground, he wondered what his wife would say when he returned home. Asahel was thinking the same thing, apparently, as he stopped and looked at Quentin, those curious brown eyes almost blended with the gray haze of the night fog.
"Does Catharine know what you're doing?"
"Do you think she cares?" A broken nail scraped the handle as he put his back into the motion, shoving harder against the dirt. The shovel cracked the ground, striking rock and dirt with equal quickness as he hurried his movements. The smell of the ground here was almost sweet. He tried not to think of what it meant, even as it kept his thoughts from the way that Asahel was watching him, with gentle concern. The other man's eyes almost felt like a hand on the back of his neck, the touch so worried that it provoked a defensive reaction. "Of course, I didn't tell her. How could I tell her? This is madness what we're doing. It's-" And again, Quentin paused. He would not say the word.
"Heresy." It was not a question but an answer. The answer.
"Don't say that." He pushed the metal down so hard it hurt, the impact flinching through the skin to the bone. They were down deeper now. The hole was just above Asahel's head although he could still stand even with the top of the ground.
"Do you think someone will hear us?" He didn't accuse, stating the question without a hint of recrimination.
"It's not that. It's that-" Metal struck earth again. "We haven't done anything yet."
Quentin felt a hand reach his, rough and coarse as the splintered wood itself. It gripped his fingers so hard that he had to stop shoveling, then released. He watched numbly as Asahel knelt to the ground, his eyes nearly black as they reflected against the green of his own. His nose was scrunched, looking up at his friend as he'd found something interesting. Then, gently- ever so gently- Asahel's large hands, graceful where all else about him was not, touched the ground where the shovel had been. His fingers brushed the dirt as if he was touching a woman's hair, sweeping it back to reveal the faint reddish tinge of gnarled heartwood.
"I think," the words were hoarse. "We have."
We don't have to finish this, Quentin thought, suddenly afraid. His heart was pounding in his throat, so hard that he could feel it choking the breath from him. It tasted like ash. He jerked his head to the side, his hand gripping the shovel to keep himself from falling.
"How can we open it?" He asked finally.
"I brought a hammer." The other man wasn't looking at him either. "I'd need to... I think I'd need to loosen the nails. Down here. Then we could maybe carry her?" His voice dropped an octave on the last sentence, so husky that Quentin could barely hear it. Asahel's fingers were still moving, as if something else was directing them, touching the nails on the corner of the casket, shoving his dirty thumbnail underneath it, lightly prying. Quentin looked down at his own hands- long, thin and pale. They were the type of hands that were meant to be playing on a harpsichord or touching a partner's wrist in a dance- not the fingers of a man who was standing in a grave, staring at his best friend.
"I'll get it."
"I can-"
"No, you're heavier." It was a cruel thing for Quentin to say, compounded by his fear as he added, "You'd pull more dirt down on us. I'll go." The truth was, he was frightened of standing in that hole alone, only a board's depth from the dead.
Quentin scrambled out of the hole, long arms grasping at a tree root that jutted from the ground. The man barely managed to pull himself up, gasping as he stumbled against the wet grass, knee soaked by a pool of water. The rain was starting again, a heavy, rolling rain that was beating against his face as he stared up at the heavens. There was no answering sound from the pit below save the low shuddering of Asahel's breath.
Pants clinging to him, pressed tight with sweat and rain, the man slowly stood, his legs trembling. He tried to take a step towards the wool coat tossed against the base of an oak but could not. The thing in the casket- for he could not, even now, let himself think of it as a person- had been alive. And life- to work any magic that affected life itself, in any form- that was the first Heresy.
There was nothing learned in university to prepare him for the reality of this, whatever he and Asahel had set upon in these still hours.