There was no trace of any scar upon her body. Not the faintest, lace- like, weblike hint beneath the skin could be discerned. She was as perfect as though no wire-lashed whip had ever whistled through the air to break blood from her tender flesh.
Amazed, then astounded, she flicked back her forelock. Surely the cicatrix her forehead bore-?
Gone as well
“But I told him!” she said aloud. “I mean. I told Melilot, and he was listening! I said I wanted to keep that for when it came in useful . . .”
The words died away. She let her hands fall to her sides.
“Oh, you’re in there, aren’t you, Enas Yorl? You’ve sown a counterpart of yourself inside my brain! It’s the same trick that taught me the names of your basilisks! Maybe you have too much on your mind to hear me at the moment, but I’m damned well going to treat your projection the same as I would yourself! Now answer me! Why did you take my forehead scar away before I gave you leave?”
The reply came, not in speech, but in a sense of warm and private intercourse, reaching below the deepest level of her mind. If it resembled anything at all, it might be likened to the impact of hot spiced wine on a cold day.
“Not me,” said the mental duplicate of Enas Yorl in words that were not words. “Not by my intention, anyway. Listen, Jarveena, and remem- ber all your life!
“Not to recall what he had done was for Klikitagh a mercy. I state this on the basis of what I have found out. To live with recollection of such horror . . . ! You must concede this.”