The Mirror's Tale

by P. W. Catanese

  He was eager, too, for night to come and the others to sleep. Because when they did, he would unlock the hidden door again, go down through the Tunnel of Stars, and wash the mirror.

  CHAPTER 11

  “Parley!”

  Tom Parley looked drained from the long ride under a roasting sun, but his sweaty, round face broke into a wide grin when he saw Bert running his way.

  Parley was one of the barons men, but a soldier no more. His brief career as a fighter hadn’t gone well. In short order he lost an eye; broke an arm that never healed properly and shriveled a bit; and snapped a leg that didn’t mend well either, so that he forever after walked with a pronounced limp. But Parley was earnest and reliable and cheerful. The baron valued the earnestness and reliability, and he tolerated the cheerfulness. Parley was now employed as one of the messengers who crisscrossed the land between Ambercrest and the rest of the barony.

  “Will, my favorite twin! I like you so much better than your rotten brother.” Parley looked at him with his head turned slightly to one side, using his right eye to see. The lid of the missing left eye was permanently closed, so that he seemed to always wink at the world.

  “You know who I am, and you’re not one bit funny!” Bert smacked him on the chest with an open palm. Parley had joked this way for as long as he could remember. But in truth, this jest stung more than a little. It made Bert remember his last conversation with his father.

  “I hope you’re proud of yourself, Bert,” Parley said. “I heard your father’s head nearly burst into flame when he learned about the switch.” The courier chuckled and gazed at the ancient castle. “So—enjoying yourself at The Crags?”

  “Well, it’s actually sort of exciting and mysterious. But I miss Will.”

  “And he misses you, my boy. But I’ll let him tell you.” Parley had a leather bag across his shoulder. He drew a letter from it and handed it to Bert.

  “Thank you, Parley!” Bert dropped his voice to a whisper. “And I need you to bring one to Will. But I can’t give it to you when Uncle is around.”

  “Then I’ll take it just before I leave tomorrow, because here he comes. He’s the tallest one in the group, right?” Bert looked behind him and grinned. Hugh Charmaigne was approaching, and as usual his pack of hulking dogs loped beside him.

  “Yes,” Bert said in a low voice. “He’s also the least intelligent.” Lord Charmaigne looked at the letter from Will in Bert’s hand and gave him an unpleasant stare before asking Parley for news from Ambercrest.

  Almost forgot, Bert thought. He’d been neglecting his mission to find out if his uncle was plotting against Ambercrest. Well, that would have to wait. All Bert could think about right now was his own wonderful secret. My mirror.

  CHAPTER 12

  Will’s mouth was desert dry. He grimaced and gulped, and then stepped into the brilliant light of the courtyard. It’s too early to be this hot, he thought, using a hand to shade his eyes. The sunbaked dirt crunched under his feet. On the far side of the courtyard, near the armory, a man stood with his back to Will, arranging weapons and armor on a wooden table. He was tall, with long legs and a narrow waist that flared into powerful shoulders. He wore a shirt without sleeves, and his leathery arms were covered with the white slashes of old scars. His brown hair hung straight down to his shoulders.

  It was a long, slow walk across the courtyard. When Will was a few steps away, the man turned and looked at him with an owl’s unflinching stare. He had dark eyes, a crooked, beaten nose, and a thin beard that had started to gray. A sword made of battered wood was in his hands; he planted the dull point in the ground between his feet and leaned on the handle.

  Will cleared his throat. “Are you Andreas? The knight?”

  The man nodded. “And you must be the baron’s son. Though it’s a funny thing—you’re not the one I was told I’d be teaching.” He inclined his head, looking Will from head to toe and back up again. “It doesn’t matter, though, Master William. Anyone can learn to fight. Here, see if you can pick this up.”

  Andreas had arranged more wooden swords on the table. There were nine of them, side by side, each one a little smaller than the sword before it. He pointed at the largest one.

  Will wrapped both hands around the handle and pulled it off the table. He grunted as the point wobbled and sank to the ground. He looked at Andreas and shrugged. “Too heavy.”

  Andreas squinted at him. “Try the middle one.”

  Will lifted the sword in the middle of the row. He was able to count to five before it started to droop. A second later its point was in the dirt.

  Andreas sighed and picked up the last sword in the line. Will felt his face go warm and his ears tingle. Compared to the long, broad sword that Andreas held in his other hand, this one looked like a whittling knife. “This is as small as they come,” Andreas said.

  “Fine,” Will said through his teeth.

  “Now the pads,” said Andreas.

  “Pads?”

  “Put them on. Whichever fit best.” The knight pointed his sword at a pile of thick, quilted material: leggings and coats. “A helmet, too.”

  Will strapped on the heavy garments and stuck one of the dented, bucket-shaped helmets onto his head. The pads reeked of stale sweat.

  “And a buckler,” Andreas said, handing him a small, round, wooden shield.

  Will slipped his hand through the thick, leather strap on the inside of the buckler. He peered out through the horizontal slot in his helmet and noticed a few of the baron’s soldiers milling around the courtyard, looking his way and smirking. Just wonderful, he thought. An audience. A trickle of sweat ran into the corner of his eye and started to burn.

  “Before our lessons truly begin, I want to see what you know,” Andreas said. He raised his sword and buckler. “Ready?”

  “Wait,” said Will. “Aren’t you going to wear pads? Or a helmet?”

  Andreas allowed himself a tiny smile, the first since they met. “That wont be necessary yet, Master Will. Come on, now. Attack.”

  Will sighed. He’d made up his mind that he would try his best. He raised the sword over one shoulder and charged. He swung the weapon as he drew close, but Andreas stepped nimbly aside. Will had expected the sword to hit something—the other sword, the buckler, the knight, anything—but when it swept through unresisting air, he lost his balance and stumbled to the ground, sending up a cloud of dust. He heard snickers in the distance.

  Will couldn’t see a thing, and realized that his helmet had swiveled a quarter turn on his head. He adjusted it and saw Andreas through the slit, gesturing impatiently for him to attack again.

  Once on his feet he approached slowly. Andreas didn’t move until Will swung his sword again. Then the knight raised his weapon. When the two pieces of wood clashed, Will felt a jolt of pain shoot from his hand to his elbow. He gasped and nearly dropped the sword. Then a deafening clang rocked his brain. It was as if the helmet was a bell and his head was its clapper.

  “Ow!”

  “Use your shield, boy—if this was a real battle, your head would be rolling in the dust already!” said Andreas, barely audible over the echoes in Will’s brain. “The buckler, now!”

  Will threw his shield over his head just in time to block the next descent of Andreas’s heavy wooden sword. Andreas swung the weapon again, battering the shield, and all Will could do was try to recover in time to block the next one. On the third strike he dropped to one knee. On the fourth he fell to his side. Andreas stepped back.

  “Get up. Try again.”

  Will struggled to his feet, panting like an overworked dog. It was oven hot inside the helmet, and sweat gushed from his armpits. As soon as he steadied himself, Andreas attacked. The man’s sword was everywhere that Will’s buckler was not, smacking his arms, legs, and stomach. It hurt despite the thick padding. The sword came straight down again, and Will just managed to block it. And then Andreas hammered him once more from above as if Will was a tent peg he was driving into the g
round. Will’s buckler finally cracked in half, and he flopped to the ground. He raised one hand and waved it weakly. Andreas stood over him. His shadow blocked the sun.

  “Water,” Will croaked. It was the only word he had the energy to say. He heard Andreas walk across the courtyard, crunching the straw, and come back. There was silence, and then a bucketful of water poured through the slit of his helmet. Will sputtered and coughed. He rolled over, pushed onto his knees, and pried the helmet off.

  He heard laughter. The baron’s soldiers were still nearby. They clutched their stomachs and hit their knees with their fists.

  “You there!” Andreas called to them. “Does this amuse you? Perhaps you think you’d fare better!” He took one step in their direction, and his fist tightened on the hilt of his sword.

  The men sobered instantly. “No, sir,” one of them replied, and he led the others away as if something important had to be done elsewhere.

  Andreas looked down at Will again. Will turned his face aside and glared into the distance through the damp hair that hung over his eyes. He felt hot bruises in a dozen places and a piercing pain behind his eyes.

  “It was your first lesson. No shame in taking a beating,” Andreas said.

  Will sniffed loudly.

  “Enough rest,” Andreas said. “We should continue.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The hot day became a sweltering night at The Crags. It began to rain, but even that did not cool the air.

  Late that night, when most slept feverishly with their blankets kicked aside, Bert found cool relief as soon as he stepped into the Tunnel of Stars. He carried a bucket of soapy water in one hand and a lamp in the other. Rags were draped across his shoulder. He counted the steps on the way down. There were forty-nine—enough to bring him past the first floor and into the heart of the ledge that lay below.

  There were sounds he didn’t notice when he discovered the chamber the night before. Drops of water splashed into puddles on the stone floor. A faint rush of air played like a flute from somewhere overhead. He raised the lamp and saw tiny jagged holes in the ceiling, and strange stone formations that hung like icicles.

  Bert put the bucket down in front of the mirror. He marveled at the size of the glass. The bottom of it was at his knees and the top was above his head. He grasped it by the sides and tried to lift it, wondering how heavy it was. Very, he thought. He inspected the exquisite frame, to make certain it was not merely carved wood that had been gilded. No, he was sure that all of it was truly gold, even the four sturdy feet, which looked like dragon’s claws. The inlaid silver seemed genuine as well. Without question, this was a treasure worth more than anything his parents possessed.

  He dunked a rag in the bucket and wiped the face of the mirror. The coat of dirt eagerly slid off. In seconds there was a filthy pool of water at his feet and a tall, sparkling oval of glass before his eyes.

  It was the most beautiful thing Bert had ever seen. And his reflection—he’d never beheld himself like this. Keeping his eyes locked on the glass, he stepped back. He reached behind him to find the broad arms of the chair that faced the mirror, and sat down.

  He turned his head to examine his profile. He made faces: silly, angry, frightened, serious. He circled his fingers over his eyes like a mask. He stuck his tongue out, and put his thumbs in his ears and waggled his fingers.

  Then he sat back and stared. Is this the face of a baron? he wondered, and he winced. He wasn’t so sure anymore. Just like the barony, that face could easily belong to Will. We really do look alike. Exactly alike. His father’s words flooded back, and he tried to push them aside.

  He thought of Hugh Charmaigne, greedily prying the precious stones out of the Witch-Queen’s other throne. Too bad you never found this chamber, Uncle. Perhaps there was a way to smuggle the mirror out when he left for home, though he could not imagine how. He’d worry about that later. But he knew one thing: He would never allow Hugh Charmaigne to get his pig hands on this precious thing. Never!

  Something caught his ear. He sat up and cocked his head to listen better. He still heard the whistle of the wind through the cracks in the cavern’s ceiling. But now another sound accompanied it. And this one had a rhythm.

  It was a long, low sound of gently rushing air. And then a pause. And then the same sound, but softer this time. It would have been easy to miss. But now that he was aware of the sound, it was all he could hear.

  He turned his head to one side, and then the other, listening keenly. He was afraid it would stop before he discovered the source. But it went on repeating like a pair of sighs: low, and lower. Low, and lower.

  Inward and outward.

  Can it be? The hairs on the back of his neck stood like quills. He stepped out of the chair and put his ear to the cold surface of the mirror. Yes, that was where the sound came from. And he recognized it for what it was.

  Breathing.

  It wasn’t like the rapid, excited breaths that he was taking now. It was more like the relaxed inhalations and exhalations of someone in a deep, deep sleep. The sound was soothing. He kept his ear to the glass for a long time, closed his eyes, and just listened.

  This was not merely a priceless object. There was something extraordinary about it, a wondrous enchantment. And nobody knew but him. The secret knowledge made him smile.

  Early the next morning, as Parley prepared to depart, Bert ran downstairs with his letter tucked in the sleeve of his shirt. He waited around the corner of the keep until Parley was on his horse and his uncle had stepped back inside The Crags. Then he ran up to say good-bye.

  Parley’s eyebrows went up as he saw Bert coming. “Well, at least somebody looks like they slept well. You look ready to take on a host of Dwergh all by yourself!”

  “Good morning, trusted courier,” Bert said with a broad smile. He slipped the letter into Parley’s bag, shielding it as best he could with his body. “Remember, this goes straight to Will. Not to my father or mother. And don’t you read it, either. I sealed it, you know!”

  Parley put his hand over his heart and grinned impishly. “I will deliver it only unto your brother’s hands, my liege. And woe to anyone who stands in my way.”

  “You’re such a fool, Parley. That’s what we like about you”

  “Stay out of trouble, now—if that’s possible for you!” That was the last thing Parley said to him. Bert watched the courier ride off, and when he turned around he was not terribly surprised to see his uncle in the doorway.

  Bert crafted his most angelic expression: mouth pursed in a tiny smile, bright eyes blinking. “Good morning, Uncle!”

  Hugh Charmaigne stepped out to block his path. “I told you to give your letters to me and that I would give them to the courier.”

  “I didn’t want to trouble you, Uncle.”

  “That is a lie. You disobeyed me, because you do not trust me. I suppose you thought that I would read them first.”

  “It’s not that—”

  “Don’t contradict me, whelp,” Uncle Hugh snapped. “Your father doesn’t rule here. I do. That means you don’t question my orders, you just follow them. And when you disobey, I will punish you. You can depend on that. Now get to your room and stay there. I forbid you to come out until tomorrow.”

  “Yes, Uncle” Bert lowered his head and frowned. But what he really wanted to do was smile.

  CHAPTER 14

  Parley allowed his horse to slow its pace, because he was near a spot he’d always liked, just before the Cliff Road, when the valley began to fall away. A brook came down from the forest slope on the right, disappeared under heavy wooden planks on the road, and then spilled over a ledge and vanished into a mist. The watery sound was better than music to his ears. He wondered how anyone could just trot by a scene like this without pausing to appreciate it. Too many people spent their lives rushing about, worrying about things that didn’t matter. That was their problem.

  It was funny how people who saw Parley’s missing eye, withered arm, and awkward
gait always pitied him. If only you’d had better luck in battle, they’d say, you might even be a knight by now. No, Parley would say, don’t feel sorry for me. What could be better than traveling around the barony, bringing news to lords and ladies, and making friends in every village? And who was to scold him if he took a little extra time along the way? If a lame arm, a limp, and a useless hole in his head were the price to pay for such a life, he considered it a bargain. Why, he was the baron’s messenger, and everyone was glad to see him coming.

  Among those glad to see Parley was a certain widow in a town that he’d pass through tomorrow. She had a face like a stale dumpling, but good heavens, the woman could cook. He was thinking of her and enjoying the fine mist that settled on his upturned face when a movement by the side of the road caught his eye. It was a young doe.

  The widow would appreciate a share of that meal. Parley’s mouth watered as he considered the stew she might produce from the tender meat. With all the stealth he could muster, he slipped off his horse and tethered it to the nearest tree. The doe took a few steps toward the brook and pawed the ground with a delicate hoof. So far she was not alarmed.

  Parley slipped his quiver over his shoulder and notched an arrow in his bow. He wasn’t as close as he’d prefer—with only one good arm and a missing eye, he was hardly the most adroit of archers—so he crept slowly toward the doe. She raised her head, and her tail flicked up. Parley froze and held his breath. The doe bounded across the brook and disappeared into the brush. He sighed. Was it worth it? His stomach insisted it was.

  The valley below was forbidden to anyone but Lord Charmaigne’s hunters—a typical edict from that brute—but Parley decided the doe wasn’t technically in the valley, Not yet, anyway. He followed her across the stream, picking his way carefully, and stepping on stones where he could to keep from making noise. Below him, the doe descended a slope. Farther below was a rocky pool where the brook splashed down after rushing over the ledge.