The Mirror's Tale

by P. W. Catanese

  “We thought you’d prefer the carriage, Will,” his mother said. Her voice was as flat as the castle pond on a windless day. “I’m sure Bert would have insisted on riding a horse if it was him that was going.”

  You’ve got that right, Bert thought, suppressing a smirk. “Of course, Mother. Thank you,” he said with all the meekness he could manage. “I’m sorry about what happened. About everything.”

  “You can prove that you’re sorry by behaving yourself at The Crags,” his mother said.

  “Exactly,” the baron said, opening the carriage door. “In you go, Will.”

  Bert stared at the ground and let his shoulders slump, doing his best impression of his brother. His parents were fooled completely. It made him feel triumphant and sad at the same time. How can this be so easy?

  The door closed. His mother walked away, and a moment later his fathers head poked in through the window in the carriage door. “Will, before you go … I realize this won’t be easy for you. I know it scares you to leave home.”

  Bert forced his bottom lip to tremble and pretended to wipe a tear from the inner corner of his eye. “I’ll do my best, Father,” he said.

  “I’m happy to hear it.” The baron frowned at the driven “Matthias, give us a moment,” he called up.

  “Yes, my lord,” the driver said. He hopped down from his seat and wandered over to talk to the escorts.

  The baron leaned even farther into the carriage. Bert sensed that he was about to hear something important.

  “Will … There are two things I need to tell you before you go. First, I have a mission for you.”

  “A mission?” Bert asked. He had to fight to keep his enthusiasm in check. “What kind of mission?” he said, letting his voice crack.

  “I want you to keep an eye on your uncle Hugh. I’ve gotten the sense that he might be up to something at The Crags.”

  “Up to what, Father?”

  “You must know that Hugh has always been jealous of me, how the king favors me, and how I became baron instead of him—even though he’s the older brother. And he was furious when I ordered him to occupy The Crags as an outpost. He considered it a kind of exile. I sometimes fear that he may be trying to set up his own little kingdom up there.”

  “Really?” Bert’s heart pounded, and his legs bounced on the seat. This was the most exciting thing he’d ever heard.

  “Keep your voice down, Will. And don’t be afraid. There’s probably nothing to it—I wouldn’t let you go if I thought it was real. But I still want you to observe. Count how many soldiers your uncle has—it shouldn’t be more than eighty. See if he’s stockpiling weapons or horses. Just watch, that’s all. I don’t want you to do anything stupid or rash—if I wanted that, I would have sent your brother.”

  Bert winced and sank back into his seat. “I’m sure Bert would have done a good job.”

  The baron shook his head. “Your brother’s too reckless. He never thinks, he just acts, and never worries about the consequences. I’m not ignorant, Will—I know which one of you causes all the trouble. And that brings me to the second thing.”

  Bert put a hand on his stomach. Suddenly he didn’t feel well. His words came out thick and slurred. “What is it, Father?”

  The baron spoke even more quietly this time. Bert could see a thin smile through his sparce, black beard. His father’s eyes twinkled. “I know everyone believes that Bert will be baron one day. But I wouldn’t assume that if I were you.”

  Bert’s mouth dropped open. He felt like a cold dagger had been thrust into his gut.

  His father winked. He must have figured the surprise was a pleasant one. “Being a baron isn’t about running around with a sword, looking for fights. A strong brain is just as important as a strong arm. And I know you’re the wiser of the two. Smarter, and more sensible.”

  Now the dagger was being twisted.

  “But … Father …” Bert sputtered weakly. If he spoke too loud, he thought he might throw up.

  “Nothing’s decided yet, Will, so don’t go off thinking the barony is yours just yet. But consider this as a test. If you handle yourself well … if you can find your courage out there at The Crags … you know what I mean.” The baron offered an encouraging, toothy grin.

  “Of course,” Bert said quietly.

  “That’s my Will,” said the baron, clapping Bert on the shoulder. He turned to shout. “Ready, Matthias!”

  CHAPTER 4

  Will dashed around the back of the keep as soon as the carriage left. He ran to a corner of the inner wall and into the dark doorway that led to the stairs. Bert and he would always race to the top, and Bert would always win. Will felt a pinch in his heart, keenly aware of his brother’s absence.

  He bounded up—three steps at a time until his legs weakened, then two steps, then one, until he finally arrived in the neglected watchtower. His chest heaved as he gasped for air, openmouthed. He leaned out the window and peered out, shielding his eyes from the sun.

  The carriage had just passed through the gate of the outer wall. Will waited for Bert to lean out the window of the carriage. “Go to the tower,” Bert had whispered just before they stepped outside to act out their good-bye. “I’ll wave one last time before I’m out of sight. Be sure to wave back.”

  Will watched as the carriage rolled down the dusty road, approaching the forest that would hide it from sight. Four horsemen formed the corners of a square around it. Will held his hand halfway up, ready to wave, and wondered if Bert had forgotten. Finally, before the carriage disappeared, Will raised his arm and swept it back and forth, hoping his brother might at least peek out and see it.

  Bert was gone. A breeze whistled through the tower. Will felt a strange and foreign sensation creep across him. It made him sink to his knees and put his forehead on the cold stone floor of the watchtower.

  He was alone.

  CHAPTER 5

  Bert sat quietly for the first hour of the trip, letting every bump in the road jostle him from side to side. He’d replaced the gold ring he’d given to Margaret with an iron band, which bore the family crest, and he twisted it back and forth around his finger until the skin was sore. A hot, sour taste bubbled up his throat. He took a long sip from one of the skins of water that had been packed for him. When he was done, he hurled it onto the facing seat. His mouth puckered and trembled, and his eyes felt hot and wet. “No,” he muttered. “I won’t cry.” He pummeled the sides of the carriage, stomped his feet, and hissed through his bared teeth.

  A face appeared to his right. It was one of the soldiers, leaning down from his horse to peer in through the open window in the door. “Are you having a fit in there?” the soldier said.

  Bert stared coldly at the fellow. “Am I what?”

  The soldier cleared his throat. “Pardon me, Master Will. Your father said I should keep an eye on you. In case you have a fit of hysteria … You know, what with you being afraid to leave home …”

  Bert’s lip twitched on one side. “Don’t worry about me. Just watch the woods for those Dwergh.” He folded his arms and glared out the other window.

  “Riight,” he heard the soldier say, stretching the sound of the word. The noise of hooves faded a bit. Bert heard the soldier mutter something to one of the other escorts. They snickered, thinking they were too quiet for him to hear.

  I hear you, all right, Bert thought.

  On the first day, the road passed through meadows and fields, and the river beside it ran wide and smooth. The commoners they met scurried off the path and watched respectfully as the carriage rolled by.

  They spent the night on the sandy shore at a bend in the river. Bert lay awake for hours while some of the escorts snored away and two kept watch at the edge of the circle of orange firelight. His father’s parting words were like a song he couldn’t get out of his head. A terrible, haunting song.

  But Will doesn’t even want to be baron. That’s what he’s always said, Bert thought, with the back of his thumb clamped betwe
en his teeth. Isn’t it? Except that day Margaret left. Then he said, “I guess,” like he wasn’t so sure anymore….

  On the second day, the climbing began, and Bert felt himself leaning relentlessly toward the back of the carriage.

  They’d reached the foothills of the mountains and the Cliff Road, so called because it hugged the top of a ledge with a perilous drop into the valley below. To the left the land sloped up into a thick forest of pine.

  Bert nearly tumbled off his seat as the carriage stopped abruptly. He heard Matthias shout, and he leaned out the window to learn the cause. The driver stood, pointing into the trees, and two of the horsemen charged off in that direction. Bert heard the horses clop—left to right and back again—from deep in the woods, and the men call to each other. The riders returned to the carriage, shaking their heads and shrugging. They laughed and mocked Matthias for seeing things that weren’t there, and the driver muttered something about the enemies of the baron.

  The cliff finally shrank as the floor of the valley rose to meet it. Dark mountains loomed ahead, marking the brink of the barony and the kingdom. Somewhere on the other side of those peaks the Dwergh lived. Bert heard knuckles rap the top of the carriage. Matthias called down from the driver’s perch. “You can see The Crags now, Master Will.”

  Despite his wretched mood Bert felt a thrill fly up his spine. He had only the vaguest memory of the place, from the first time he’d been here. And in truth his brother was not the only one who found it scary. Bert leaned farther out the window, so he could look straight ahead of them. And there it was, not a mile away.

  The Crags was less than half the size of Ambercrest, but somehow more daunting. The castle was nestled against the side of the nearest mountain. Its bulging, irregular walls met the steep mountainside at both ends, forming a dark half-circle of stone. The keep inside was perhaps two stories tall with a terrace on top. What a contrast from Bert’s home, sitting on its neat, green mound with its graceful towers whitened with lime. It looked like something built by an ancient race, exciting and alive with secrets. Beautiful? Certainly not, but someone tried to make it inviting. He caught a glimpse of flowers on the terrace, and there were pretty shrubs in bloom beside the gate. Colorful flags and pennants flew from its watchtowers, twisting and snapping in the breeze. “It’s not so bad,” he said across the miles to Will. “You wouldn’t have been so scared.” But he wondered if that was true.

  “Wait, what happened to the village?” one of the riders asked. Bert followed his pointing finger. He saw no village—only heaps of blackened timbers and charred, sagging walls. Dozens of them.

  “Didn’t ya hear?” another rider answered. “Lord Charmaigne burned it a month ago.”

  “What’d he do that for?” said the first.

  “Well, you know Hugh Charmaigne. He—” The rider lopped off his words when he realized Bert was listening. Later, he mouthed to the other.

  Bert’s brow furrowed as he stared at the blackened bones of the little town. Just a few weeks ago it must have been like the quiet clusters of huts and cottages that surrounded Ambercrest, home to shepherds and farmers. Fishermen, too, he thought, looking at the shallow, reedy lake on the far side of the ruined village. He wondered what became of all its people.

  A single outer wall surrounded the castle. Lord Charmaigne was at the open gate when the carriage pulled up, with a pack of enormous hunting dogs at his side. Bert recognized his uncle’s curdled face from that one visit to The Crags and the handful of times he and Aunt Elaine had come to Ambercrest. Bert was not fond of the man. Who was? Hugh Charmaigne was ill-tempered, but in a different way from the baron. While Bert’s father bellowed and blustered, his uncle stewed and griped. Months ago Bert and Will overheard Mother talking about their uncle. She was telling a friend that Hugh Charmaigne was obviously jealous of his younger brother. But honestly, she said, who could blame him? Walter had gotten the best of him in every way. Walter was taller, stronger, more eloquent and handsome. More noble. The king certainly knew who was the better man. That’s why he gave Ambercrest to Walter. If anyone wanted her opinion, she thought that Hugh should be quite thankful to have The Crags to rule over, even if it was a remote and dank place with such an … unsavory history.

  Uncle Hugh had on a sour expression as he listened to the baron’s men and asked them questions. After the men were dismissed to lead their horses to the stables, he turned to the carriage.

  “Are you going to come out, or do you intend to pass the entire summer in your fancy wagon?”

  Bert had been waiting. The driver should have climbed down and opened the door for him. That was the proper thing to do. With a sigh he pushed it open and stepped out to stand before his uncle. He looked up at the driver’s perch. He intended to flash Matthias a peeved expression until he saw the fellow tugging at his collar and staring anxiously at the savage-looking dogs.

  He heard his uncle clear his throat impatiently, so he bowed. It wasn’t a deep bow or a long one. It was the least he could get away with without being openly rude, but he didn’t care. His mood was as dark as a starless night. When he straightened up again, the look on his uncle’s face—a sneer on the lips, one eye almost shut—told him it hadn’t gone unnoticed. One of the dogs growled as if it too understood the slight.

  “Hello, Uncle,” Bert said.

  Uncle Hugh sniffed. “Well, Nephew. At least you’re not bawling your eyes out this time.” He chuckled at his own joke, flashing an irregular row of blackened teeth, and then his native unpleasant expression returned. “Let us get some things understood from the start. I’ve gotten wind of your reputation. The smell carries all the way from Ambercrest when the breeze is right. And while my brother may spare the rod when it comes to those sorts of antics, I will not. Do you understand me, Will?”

  Bert winced. This would not be a good start. He and Will had decided to keep the secret only until Bert made it to The Crags. They figured that once Bert arrived, their parents wouldn’t switch them back—they’d be too embarrassed to admit that they’d been duped. Might as well get this over with, he thought. “I understand, Uncle,” he said. “I’m not Will, though. I’m Bert.”

  “Bert?” Uncle Hugh needed a moment to recover from this revelation. His lower jaw thrust forward. “We were told that Will would be the one.”

  “Will was afraid, so I came instead.”

  “Oh.” His uncle narrowed both eyes. “With your father’s permission?”

  Bert swallowed hard. “Father knows,” he said. He does by now, anyway, he thought.

  Uncle Hugh’s head tilted to one side. “And why was your brother afraid to come?”

  “Well, because of what they say about this place …” Bert began. Then he realized he might be treading on dangerous ground. He fumbled for words. “Um, I mean, without me, he was worried about leaving Ambercrest—that’s just how he is….”

  “Listen, boy,” his uncle snapped, eager to take offense, “the only thing that frightens us here is what just rolled up on four wheels. But you won’t give us any trouble, I promise you that. In fact, we might as well make the rules clear right now. Are you listening?”

  “Yes, Uncle,” said Bert, but he didn’t hear much after that. As Uncle Hugh droned on—no wandering the castle after dark, do what you’re told, dress properly at all times—Bert glanced over his uncle’s shoulder, up at The Crags. It was like something he might have dreamed about. That terrace—is that where the Witch-Queen stood to keep a jealous eye on her beautiful stepdaughter walking in the courtyard below? Emelina … Snow White …

  Uncle Hugh’s voice intruded again. “And above all, you will speak respectfully to me and your aunt. That is, when we ask you to speak. Otherwise you shouldn’t speak at all. Is all this clear or do I need to write it down for you?”

  “I understand the rules, Uncle.” He’d have figured them out soon enough. Breaking them was always a good way to finding out what they were.

  “Good. Your aunt will show you to you
r quarters. You—I suppose you need to eat. Come with me,” Uncle Hugh said to Matthias. Hugh Charmaigne strutted away, and the huge dogs loped behind him.

  Bert counted them as they walked away. Five … six … seven … eight. When Bert was here years ago, those dogs seemed like monsters to him. They didn’t look so different now. The tips of their ears—ears as big as his hands—reached as high as his uncle’s chest. Father had told him once that Hugh Charmaigne was determined to own the largest, fiercest hunting dogs in the land. He’d seize any large specimens that his subjects owned and breed them at The Crags. When the pups were twelve weeks old, he’d pluck out the one or two largest, then ordered the rest to be drowned. It was rumored that he’d even mixed wolf blood into the line.

  Whatever Hugh Charmaigne was doing, it was working. I could ride one of those things if you put a saddle on it, Bert thought.

  Aunt Elaine waited for him at the door to the keep. Unlike his mother, who adorned herself with all the jewels she could bear, Aunt Elaine could have been taken for a commoner. Her hair hung limp and straight, not swept up and pinned into an artful construction. Her lips and cheeks and eyelids were unpainted, and the sun had bronzed her skin. She didn’t reek of perfume. And her dress wasn’t the latest thing that merchants had carted up from the fashionable heart of the kingdom. His aunt was not a homely woman; she was lovely in her own way, but it was a forlorn kind of beauty, like a gloomy mist hanging over a lake after a cold autumn night.

  Aunt Elaine greeted Bert with a listless smile, and of course she called him Will, so he had to explain the switch all over again. She eyed him quizzically, and then led the way inside.

  The interior was as strange as Bert remembered. It was like walking into a hollow mountain. Opposite the entrance there was a wall of solid rock—not the carefully fitted stones of a castle wall, but the natural surface of the ledge itself. A narrow staircase had been hewn by hand along the face of this rock, and Bert followed his aunt to the second level, wondering at the brute force that it must have taken to carve out those steps.