Solomon felt Saint Gabriel's hand on his elbow, steadying him against the razor cold emanating from Merlin's soul. The jagged shards of that memory. Solomon had to turn away from it, and automatically wrapped his coat closer around him.
"If he's in there," Corrival pointed out. "If he is, why didn't you angels notice?"
"It isn't that simple, Corrival," said Saint Raphael, and there was no accent, no joke in his tone. His wings, like his brother's, were held tight to him, as if in comfort--almost the same motion Solomon had just made with his coat, the ex-Necromancer realised. "Reflections may not be evil in the traditional sense, but they're Order taken to the nth degree. Absolute apathy and soullessness. We understand why you have them, but that doesn't mean we want to look too deeply into them."
"We didn't see him," Saint Gabriel said, "because we weren't looking. Frankly, I wasn't in any condition to handle the depths of that void, the last two times I visited the Sanctuary. This time, I just didn't want to. If I'd warned Solomon, maybe he wouldn't have either."
Which meant they wouldn't have known that Bliss might still be in there, Solomon heard the Archangel's unspoken words. It didn't make him feel any better about what he'd had to see. About what he was seeing in Merlin's soul, what the man was leashing hard but which still left Solomon feeling cold.
"Either way," Saint Raphael continued, "there's only one way to find out, and that's to examine one of them."
"Neither of you may be in the condition to do that either," Merlin finally spoke, his voice quiet in the manner of someone still taking command of an unwelcome memory. "The Cacophony is chaos personified. A reflection is the very opposite. Looking into them may only make your internal injuries worse as it reflects back what you've already strained."
There was a pause while the Archangels exchanged glances. Saint Gabriel's wings closed around himself and Skulduggery both. Saint Raphael's feathers rustled with frustration, and sent rainbows rippling through the lifstream. Neither of them answered. Neither of them wanted to admit it was true, even though it was, because the alternative was that--
The alternatives, Solomon realised abruptly, were to potentially leave Bliss to his fate or for Solomon himself to look into the reflection. And the Archangels couldn't suggest either of them. Before the first was unconscionable, and the second may well be demanding more of Solomon than he could handle. Because he'd only gotten a glimpse, and the idea of looking into that mirror made his heart pound. He had no idea how badly it could go wrong. They did, and their silence said how bad it could be.
Which was why he was astonished to find himself saying, "I'll do it." Then he stopped and tilted his head at Saint Gabriel. "Did I really just say that?"
The Archangel smiled at him, and the concern wasn't in the least bit hidden. "Yes, you did."
"I think I might be drunk. Or possibly insane." His hands were already tingling with adrenaline. What on Earth was he thinking? This wasn't like him. He wasn't self-sacrificing. Why he had he even said that at all? Except--
Another realisation, and Solomon found himself turning fully into the crispness of Merlin's soul, his voice sharp. "What did you do?"
The snow rippled, curled in, crusted over with the grime of dirt like an iced-over riverbank. "I didn't do anything."
"You did something," Solomon said, and this time managed to keep his voice even, if tense. "I felt it." It wasn't helping the way his heart was pounding. Saint Gabriel took his hand, and the warmth wasn't quite enough to wash the anxiety away. Just enough to settle it a little.
"It wasn't deliberate, Solomon. For nearly four hundred years, your magic has revolved around death and the lifestream. Now that the door is open, you're standing with one foot in it. There are things you can see and things you can feel which are going to affect you more than they would have when you were blind to them. Merlin was trapped in an endless maze of reflections for nearly a decade, and escaped barely two years ago. That's what you felt: the weight of that memory."
Solomon said nothing. 'Weight' seemed like too tame a word. He'd felt the fear. The utter helplessness. The knowledge that Merlin himself couldn't stand by and watch. He hadn't just seen the memory, he had felt those things, and they had been influencing his mental state. Yet even the knowledge that they had been, when he remembered simply passing by the Cleavers on his way down this morning--being in a tiny room with them, a tiny hallway--those recollections made a cold chill run down his spine.
And he knew he couldn't take back what he'd already said. 'Why' was too complicated for him to try and sort out right now--he just knew he couldn't, and not all of it had to do with what he'd felt from Merlin.
"When we have a chance," he said to the Ancient, "I want you to teach me how to ward my soul so this doesn't happen again. Provided--" Here his tone was resigned. "--provided I'm not driven insane from looking into a soulless reflection, at least."
To Solomon's surprise, something in the Ancient's soul grew dirtier. Not a stain, precisely, but a skud of snow uplifted from the snow-muddy riverbank. "I think you'll find," Merlin said, "your soul is stronger than you give yourself credit for."
For a moment Solomon stared at him, mildly stunned. The dirtiness he'd just seen was shame.
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"If he's in there," Corrival pointed out. "If he is, why didn't you angels notice?"
"It isn't that simple, Corrival," said Saint Raphael, and there was no accent, no joke in his tone. His wings, like his brother's, were held tight to him, as if in comfort--almost the same motion Solomon had just made with his coat, the ex-Necromancer realised. "Reflections may not be evil in the traditional sense, but they're Order taken to the nth degree. Absolute apathy and soullessness. We understand why you have them, but that doesn't mean we want to look too deeply into them."
"We didn't see him," Saint Gabriel said, "because we weren't looking. Frankly, I wasn't in any condition to handle the depths of that void, the last two times I visited the Sanctuary. This time, I just didn't want to. If I'd warned Solomon, maybe he wouldn't have either."
Which meant they wouldn't have known that Bliss might still be in there, Solomon heard the Archangel's unspoken words. It didn't make him feel any better about what he'd had to see. About what he was seeing in Merlin's soul, what the man was leashing hard but which still left Solomon feeling cold.
"Either way," Saint Raphael continued, "there's only one way to find out, and that's to examine one of them."
"Neither of you may be in the condition to do that either," Merlin finally spoke, his voice quiet in the manner of someone still taking command of an unwelcome memory. "The Cacophony is chaos personified. A reflection is the very opposite. Looking into them may only make your internal injuries worse as it reflects back what you've already strained."
There was a pause while the Archangels exchanged glances. Saint Gabriel's wings closed around himself and Skulduggery both. Saint Raphael's feathers rustled with frustration, and sent rainbows rippling through the lifstream. Neither of them answered. Neither of them wanted to admit it was true, even though it was, because the alternative was that--
The alternatives, Solomon realised abruptly, were to potentially leave Bliss to his fate or for Solomon himself to look into the reflection. And the Archangels couldn't suggest either of them. Before the first was unconscionable, and the second may well be demanding more of Solomon than he could handle. Because he'd only gotten a glimpse, and the idea of looking into that mirror made his heart pound. He had no idea how badly it could go wrong. They did, and their silence said how bad it could be.
Which was why he was astonished to find himself saying, "I'll do it." Then he stopped and tilted his head at Saint Gabriel. "Did I really just say that?"
The Archangel smiled at him, and the concern wasn't in the least bit hidden. "Yes, you did."
"I think I might be drunk. Or possibly insane." His hands were already tingling with adrenaline. What on Earth was he thinking? This wasn't like him. He wasn't self-sacrificing. Why he had he even said that at all? Except--
Another realisation, and Solomon found himself turning fully into the crispness of Merlin's soul, his voice sharp. "What did you do?"
The snow rippled, curled in, crusted over with the grime of dirt like an iced-over riverbank. "I didn't do anything."
"You did something," Solomon said, and this time managed to keep his voice even, if tense. "I felt it." It wasn't helping the way his heart was pounding. Saint Gabriel took his hand, and the warmth wasn't quite enough to wash the anxiety away. Just enough to settle it a little.
"It wasn't deliberate, Solomon. For nearly four hundred years, your magic has revolved around death and the lifestream. Now that the door is open, you're standing with one foot in it. There are things you can see and things you can feel which are going to affect you more than they would have when you were blind to them. Merlin was trapped in an endless maze of reflections for nearly a decade, and escaped barely two years ago. That's what you felt: the weight of that memory."
Solomon said nothing. 'Weight' seemed like too tame a word. He'd felt the fear. The utter helplessness. The knowledge that Merlin himself couldn't stand by and watch. He hadn't just seen the memory, he had felt those things, and they had been influencing his mental state. Yet even the knowledge that they had been, when he remembered simply passing by the Cleavers on his way down this morning--being in a tiny room with them, a tiny hallway--those recollections made a cold chill run down his spine.
And he knew he couldn't take back what he'd already said. 'Why' was too complicated for him to try and sort out right now--he just knew he couldn't, and not all of it had to do with what he'd felt from Merlin.
"When we have a chance," he said to the Ancient, "I want you to teach me how to ward my soul so this doesn't happen again. Provided--" Here his tone was resigned. "--provided I'm not driven insane from looking into a soulless reflection, at least."
To Solomon's surprise, something in the Ancient's soul grew dirtier. Not a stain, precisely, but a skud of snow uplifted from the snow-muddy riverbank. "I think you'll find," Merlin said, "your soul is stronger than you give yourself credit for."
For a moment Solomon stared at him, mildly stunned. The dirtiness he'd just seen was shame.