He could see Mauryl in the silver reflection, stanfing behind his shoulder.  Mauryl waited, expecting him to cut himself, Tristen was well certain - believing he would cut himself.  Mauryl had warned him the blade was sharp and showed him how to hold it.

He might grow a beard, Mauryl said, except Mauryl said that beards were for priests and wizards, that he was neither, and that, besides, it would not suit him.  So Mauryl had given him the very sharp blade, a whetstone and, the wonder of the occasion, a polished silver Mirror.

Of course, he thought.  Of course, and knew that men could, after all, see their own faces.  Mauryl had said magic was what wizards did, and the mirror was clearly a magical thing.  Tristen made small grimaces at himself, sampled his expressions to see if they were what he thought, and most of all noticed his imperfections: for one, that his mouth sulked if he frowned, and for another that his eyes had no clear color - unlike Mauryl's, which were murky blue.

But the beard Mauryl had set him to remove was only a few patchy spots, and a shadow of a mustache - that was the itching, and he agreed with Mauryl about having it off, seeing it looked in no wise like Mauryl's, no more than his dark, unruly mop of hair looked like Mauryl's silver mane.

There were virtues to his face, all the same, he thought, in such silver-glazed essence as the mirror showed him.  It was a regular face, and he could make it pleasant.  His skin was smooth where Mauryl's was not.  His mouth - the mustaches shaded Mauryl's - seemed more full, his nose was indeed straight where Mauryl's bent, his brows were dark as his hair, with which he was well acquainted, since it swung this side and that when he worked, and fell in his eyes when he read.

There were certainly worse faces among the images in the walls.  Far worse.  He supposed he should be glad.  He supposed it was a good face.

He guided a last flick of the bronze knife.

"Mauryl, it stings."  There was a dark spot.  He wiped it with his fingers and found blood.

"Now does it?"

He rubbed his chin a second time, feeling not the sting of the knife but the tingle of Mauryl's cures.

"No," he said, and washed his fingers and the knife in the pan, and looked again.  His face seemed too... unexpressive.  His hair was always in his way:  Mauryl's behaved; but if he had as much beard as Mauryl, with such dark hair, he would be all shadows.

And Mauryl was shining silver.

He was vaguely disappointed, not knowing why he should care... but he had made up a face for himself out of the shadow in the water barrel, and he found his real one both more vivid and less like Mauryl's.

Maybe he should cut the hair, too, at least the part that fell in his eyes.  But he doubted where, or with what effect.

"A clean face," Mauryl said.  And as he offered the knife back, with the whetstone:  "A proper face.  - No, keep them.  I have no need.  And you will have, hereafter."

Mauryl had stopped talking lately about going away.  But since the day Mauryl had threatened that, and given him the Book, every time he heard a hint of change, every time Mauryl talked about not needing this and not caring about that, no matter how small or foolish a matter, he felt a coldness settle on his heart.

He tried.  He did try to read the writing Mauryl had said was his answer and their mutual deliverance from danger.  But he made no gains.  He had no swift answers, the way Mauryl's writing came to him.  It had been days and days with no understanding at all, beyond what few words he thought he read, and he began to doubt those.