Author's Note: This one is not strictly in my continuity, but luminare_ardua's Dragon's Light continuity over on AO3. I am shoveling a lot of my own ideas in, mind. She believes, rather unreasonably, that no one will read the main-quest fic planned to follow this all the way through. (If Lumi is reading this, main-quest fics, even those well below her standards of quality, have a rather unfair advantage in that regard. So nyah.) But I'll take advantage of the license she's giving me to give us both a bit more exposure.

The Face of the Mirror

She had to forgo the sapphire circlet. It set off the ensemble perfectly, but Caula reluctantly decided it simply wouldn't do, not for a merchants' affair; it would look brash. Perhaps a broad sash in cloth-of-silver... she moved toward the wardrobe, to survey what was to hand.

"I'm glad to catch you alone," said a voice behind her. Uriel stood stiffly in the doorway.

"Hm?" she asked, allowing herself a smile.

"Forgive me that I broach a difficult matter, but-"

"Difficult!" she laughed. (She'd already had an earful on the matter from Enman.) "No," she said tenderly, "no, it's one of the best ideas you've had in years. It'll do the boys a world of good. Go out and see the Empire! There's no better piece of it than this, I'll grant, but it's a small corner all the same. It does little to foster the cosmopolitan spirit. And we'll have a bit more peace and quiet in the palace, too... oh, Uriel, I know things have been difficult between us of late, but... why, whatever is the matter?"

For whatever discomfort her husband had come in with had only redoubled as she spoke.

"It's... it's Julius, my queen."

"Julius Ormarson?" she said. "Why, what about him?"

Of course, it had to be then that she saw it. This was Julius Ormarson, Mirror Prime. He didn't even have his enchantments on – his chin was uncleft, his eyebrows thick, his eyes unmistakably brown. He was, she granted, dressed as finely as Uriel habitually was. But then he did live in the Palace.

"Ah," she said, floundering in embarrassment as she hadn't in nineteen months. "Well. I see that you continue to earn your pay, at least."

"I endeavor to," said Julius tightly.

"I trust of course that you won't repeat this," she said, as blithely as she could, turning to the wardrobe so her mortified face was at an obfuscating angle. "But then I suppose that's part of your pay, too, isn't it..." She paused, her hand midway to the second drawer. "What was it you meant to talk about, anyway?"

But Julius had already gone. Naturally. She sniffed and resumed her preparation for the gala.

As Julius Ormarson, twenty feet from her dressing-chamber door, let his reserve give way and slammed his fist to bruising effect against the palace wall. Uriel... what he could have seen in that flittering cow...

Time was shorter than he'd thought.

Ria Silmane had actually turned her back to an open door. It was unbelievable enough that Julius had to magically scan the perimeter to be sure of what he was seeing, but so it was: as he drew closer, she was poring over something he vaguely recognized as an aetheric chart, copied and annotated from another also in her hand, but he would have a hard time with even rudimentary Conjuration this many years gone from Battlespire.

So he made the information gathering more straightforward – in one lunging motion, he grabbed her by her precious raven locks and held his shortsword to her throat.

"I always thought you were wasted as an apprentice," he said calmly, over her expected discomfiture. "But Imperial Battlemage, and no powers of destruction... that, Ria, is another oversight again. Summon anything, and you die before it touches me. Now..."

"You..." There was confusion as much as fear in her face, or at least she arranged it so. "You are one of the Mirrors. You have lost your place here, haven't you? Why... what have I got..."

"I've heard nothing of losing a job, but... No, that is a trifle. Tell me first where the princes are. Tell me where they are bound."

"Do you expect me to believe you have maintained your place as a Mirror?" said Ria, firm and fragile at the same moment. "Your hair, your beard, they belie it. But I tell you I have no part in that loss. Or... the princes? Release me, I beg you."

"The hair is an illusion," he said stiffly, feeling his will beginning to waver. "Not the usual run, that's all." He resteeled himself. "What is your master's intent with the princes? Where is Uriel?"

"What are you..." She could barely get the words out, around a lump of hopeless frustration. "What are you talking about?"

Julius, try as he might, found nothing in her manner to convict her. He let go, and spoke as she recomposed herself. "I'm not paid so well only to stand about in a fancy robe twice a month, Ria. I know social cues. Mannerisms. Better than the other Mirrors put together, if I may say so. And for a week now – the week since your master's retirement – Uriel's manner has fled, fled entirely but for the most conscious gestures... and at bottom, Tharn's tics, Tharn's temper. You are innocent of it, I'm sure of that now, but if there is purchase against him, you may know it."

Ria sat, blank and still as though she had been petrified. "I had only given thought to it as far as I was relieved of his presence. However. If I am to be of use to-"

She rose abruptly from her chair.

"He is coming."

Quickly, Julius shot a Chameleon spell at her. Now it was too late to do anything about it, he realized that, with only one door open, the imperfect invisibility would only cover her escape if he put up direct resistance.

That there was no conceivable chance he could win a toe-to-toe struggle with Tharn.

But that was the path he had laid for himself. Turning from it would only mean he'd lose the rest of it.

Tharn strode into Ria's study, clutching a staff with an flywing-green stone head that Julius had never seen, but the power of it was unmistakable. Even now he wore Uriel's face, his raiment, but there was no pretense now. Only mockery.

"Jagar Tharn," said Julius, who had little remaining need for pretense himself. "I never did think you had much of a gift for management."

"Ah, is that what you believe?" he said, arching Uriel's eyebrow. "I fear the Prince of Ambition disagrees..."

Julius allowed himself a grim smile as Tharn began what would no doubt be a long string of remarks in that vein. He never was one to resist a rhetorical tear to his inferiors. He dodged behind Ria's desk and, from that cover, unleashed a firestorm, which incidentally destroyed her notes in the process. He had to trust that Ria herself was long gone.

Tharn's warding barrier absorbed most of the rest.

"Elder Council out of session," called Julius, dodging a spike of ice as he waited for his magic to come back to him. "Your lackey away from her desk. A terrific span of luck – how long do you suppose it will last-"

The next spell hit him. A paralytic beam.

"Julius Ormarson. Faithful to a fault." A terrible grin split the face of his Emperor, as the usurper who wore it advanced. "You do not comprehend how easily I might dispose of you, do you? But I am not without my sentimental side... Yes, you may join your master... Fear not, you will hardly need sustenance where you are going..."

It was his last sight of Mundus. That face. A flash of green light.

He was in a pit, a fiery-hued pit, the walls impossibly high. And no, he was not alone – a figure lay curled, wracked with irregular breath, still in his robes of state... He rushed toward his lord...

But it was then

(not healthy for him to sleep that way)

that the nightmares

(dear I have my hands full right now could you)

took him

(father)

the torments indescribable even as he

"Father!"

Uriel's face, in the firelight. He screamed, his legs propelled him, toppling... the armchair he had dozed off in.

"Julius!" cried Cilla.

Yes. He remembered now. He had been safely outside Oblivion for a dozen years and more. Uriel had much more age on him now...

"A war nightmare," he muttered lamely.

"You still have nightmares from the Simulacrum wars?" said Martin, frowning. The child's perspective – if he hadn't lived to see it, it must have been a very long time ago indeed.

He closed his eyes, so he didn't have to contemplate Martin's face. "Sometimes I fear I always will, my son."