He stood up and went into the kitchen. Wiping his face with a damp cloth, he gazed at his reflection in a mirror on the wall. Like the ring that hung at his threshold, this too was a relic of his youthful travelling days, though he could not now remember exactly how he had come by it. Unlike the ornately carved ring, however, the mirror was of a very simple design. Its plain frame was black, though he could not imagine what paint or stain had been used to make it thus, as it had neither sheen nor texture. Indeed, when examined closely it seemed to have the quality of the blackness of a starless night, an infinite, aching depth. It disturbed him when he chose to think about it. And the glass was as bright and vivid as the frame was dark, almost as if the one had drawn all the light and radiance from the other. Further, throughout the years its brilliant clarity had shown no signs of ageing or tarnishing – unlike himself, he mused. It gave, as it had always given, a cruelly accurate reflection of what it saw.
Gryss stared at the old man who was gazing patheti-cally out at him. Then the watching face became scornful. With an effort, Gryss straightened up. His inner battle was not yet finished; fear and self-doubt could never truly be vanquished, but somewhere within him a tide was turning. Still there was a great chorus shouting for safety and security, for acquiescence to what was happening so that he could spend the remainder of his life in peace. But, increasingly, its voice was becoming strident and hollow and, though unwelcome, colder but wiser counsels were beginning to prevail. Safety he might possibly attain, though he had doubts about even that, knowing Rannick’s disposition, but he could never truly know peace if others suffered when some effort on his part might help them.