The Mirror's Tale

by P. W. Catanese

  “Yes,” said Bert. He could feel the truth of the words. His heart pounded like a gong of war. “I was born for that. I feel it.”

  But a rival plots to take this from you. To steal your birthright.

  “What?” Bert raised his chin and quivered with anger. “Who plots against me? Who?”

  You already know, the mirror said. The truth is plain to see, but you don’t wish to recognize it.

  Bert lifted his hands. They were shaking. “Not … my brother?”

  And now you understand. He tricked you into taking his place.

  “But Will is … He wouldn’t …” Bert gasped. That strange feeling was back, stronger than before; something prodding and poking inside his mind. He thought about his brother, talking with the knight about war. Leadership. Being baron. And his blood steamed with rage. “It’s true, isn’t it? Will wanted me out of the way.”

  He wanted you to believe he was afraid to leave. But that was a lie.

  “Yes. Of course it was a lie. And now this great teacher is giving him the lessons that were meant for me.”

  Lessons he will use against you.

  “Against me!” Bert snapped. It was so obvious. How could he have been fooled so easily? All his life Will had lied to him. And yet… a small voice in his head cried out as if from a vast distance. It can’t be true, the voice said. Will is my brother. He loves me.

  Bert groaned and pressed his fingers against his temples. Again he felt something moving inside his skull, like fingers in his brain. But it wasn’t gently prodding now. It twisted and shoved and squeezed. The little voice that had piped up let out a strangled cry, and then fell silent. Bert closed his eyes and saw white sparks against his lids. He lurched and seized the back of the WitchQueens throne to keep from falling. Finally the strange probing ended. Had a minute passed? An hour? He couldn’t tell. He opened his eyes and blinked hard.

  It was clear to him now, perfectly clear. The veil was torn away, the treachery revealed. He could feel it. He knew it. The wonderful mirror had helped him understand.

  “Something must be done about my brother.” His voice rang out strong and echoed off the walls. “But what?”

  I will help you, the mirror said.

  There was a sound, low and rumbling. At first Bert thought it might be a boom of thunder, with the noise sifting down through the tiny crevices in the ceiling. But as the noise grew he realized it was stone grinding against stone.

  A crack appeared in the wall beside the mirror, and widened. Bert’s jaw slackened as he watched the wall of stone swing open. A second chamber, much larger than the first, was revealed. Bert’s candles cast a band of yellow light into the dark, new space, a band that grew wider as the wall continued to open.

  The first thing Bert saw was a cauldron, squatting on three stubby legs over a circle of stones filled with ancient ashes.

  Then shelves filled with pots and vessels and jars.

  Then a chest-high table holding an enormous book and stacks of parchments.

  Then tall, narrow boxes, big enough to stand inside, but not wide enough to sit.

  Get away, the little voice in Bert’s mind called out from a mile away. This is a bad place. Bert felt a pinch in his brain and a wet crunch—two fingers squeezing something between them—and the voice was gone.

  “I … can’t believe it,” Bert said. He took a candlestick and walked into the new chamber. A papery flutter passed his ear. He looked up to see a bat with its jagged wings flapping madly by. It flew to the far end of the chamber and disappeared through a gap in the wall.

  Another way out, Bert thought. I wonder where it leads?

  A secret exit, the mirror said behind him, so you may leave unseen if you wish.

  Bert walked to the cauldron. It was so big that his arms would only go halfway around, if he hugged it. Inside, it was empty, except for the frail skeleton of a rat that must have fallen in and gotten trapped.

  There was a pile of wood behind the cauldron. It collapsed under the weight of his foot when he prodded it, rotted away after a hundred years. Next to the useless wood was a heap of shiny coal.

  He turned to look at the tall boxes. Each one had a latch and a slit near the top, where the eyes would be if someone was locked inside. Where the flickering candlelight pierced the gloom of that tiny opening, he caught a glimpse of something pale and smooth, yellow-white.

  Turning away from that grim sight, he walked to the table. His gaze landed on the tall stacks of parchment next to the ancient-looking book The papers were covered with hand-written notes. He looked through a few of them: “I have come to doubt the use of horehound to cure a wicked cough” … “Costmary may drive moths from a place” * … “A woman in the hills insisted that yarrow will heal the ghastliest wounds” …

  Bert frowned as he realized what he’d found: The lost notes of Rohesia. The knowledge of healing that his aunt so desperately wanted. Well, he couldn’t give them to her now, not without raising questions about where they were discovered. He dropped the pages back on the table. And then his heart nearly exploded as a gruff, triumphant voice rang out behind him.

  “So this is where you’ve disappeared to!”

  CHAPTER 20

  Bert’s mind reeled as he watched Uncle Hugh step out of the Tunnel of Stars and into the chamber.

  “Stupid boy,” his uncle said. “Did you think I wouldn’t find your secret? I went in to check on you. Then I heard a noise from behind the tapestry. What is this place?” Uncle Hughs darting eyes settled on the mirror. He stared and swallowed like a starving man who’d seen a roasted pig set before him. “And what is this?” he said, walking toward the glass.

  Bert didn’t think. He just leaped between his uncle and the mirror. “Get away,” he snapped. A fleck of spit flew from his mouth. “It’s mine!”

  Uncle Hugh’s hand shot up, and his fingers clamped around Bert’s face, covering it nearly from ear to ear. His uncle threw him aside, and Bert tumbled across the cavern floor. There was a stab of pain in his back as he rolled over a loose stone the size of a brick.

  He looked up and saw his uncle in front of the mirror. Uncle Hugh’s eyes went to the exquisite frame, and he brushed his fingers along the sculpted gold and silver. “Magnificent … worth more than all the treasure in Ambercrest,” Uncle Hugh said. “And right under my nose, all these years.”

  Bert snorted like a bull He pushed himself to his knees. His hand brushed against the rock that he’d rolled oven And then he heard the voice of the mirror—not through his ears, but echoing in his mind: Others plot to steal this from you, your forthright.

  “It’s mine” Bert said. The words came out in a hiss.

  Uncle Hugh didn’t even turn to look at him. “Nonsense. Everything in this castle belongs to me. Everything.” He put his face so close to the mirror that his nose touched it.

  His ugly, oily nose, thought Bert. His fingers closed around the stone. He stood and crept slowly forward, careful to stay behind his uncles broad back, out of sight of his reflection.

  Uncle Hugh reached out and brushed the perfect glass with his fingertips. “So cold,” he said. “Like ice!” He stared at his image, so engrossed that he never heard Bert come stealthily behind him.

  Bert raised his hand and paused. What am I doing? he thought.

  You will lose me if you don’t, the mirror told him.

  I can’t, Bert thought. But the strangest thing happened. He watched his hand draw back and whip forward again, bringing the stone across the back of his uncle’s head. Uncle Hugh groaned and threw his arms up. He sagged to his knees, then wobbled and fell to one side. He didn’t move except for the twitching of one hand.

  Bert’s fingers loosened, and the stone thumped on the cavern floor. “What! How? I didn’t do that! I didn’t!” he cried.

  It had to be done, the mirror said. He would have taken me away.

  Bert’s chest heaved, and he clenched his teeth. “No! Nobody can take you. You’re mine.”

&n
bsp; There isn’t much time, the mirror said. Close the door before someone else finds it.

  “Yes—the door!” Bert grabbed his candle and ran to the tunnel and up the stairs. He saw a dull glow at the top. The secret door was wide open. He slid behind the tapestry to its edge and poked his head out. The door to the hallway was ajar, but nobody else was in the room. No person, anyway—three of his uncles dogs were at the threshold. One of them saw Bert. The fur bristled on its back, and it showed its yellow teeth, but the dog did not come for him. It was afraid, just like the bird and the kitten had been.

  Bert slipped back through the opening behind the tapestry. He heaved on the stone door and pushed it until it was nearly closed—his pebble would keep it from shutting completely. Hurry, the mirror whispered into his mind from afar. Bert moved down the stairs as fast as he could without falling.

  Uncle Hugh was still on the floor. His fingers weren’t just twitching now. His hand rose, grasping something that wasn’t there. He moaned.

  “What do I do?” Bert said. His mouth had gone dry.

  Listen carefully. On the shelves before you. Find the long-necked yellow bottle.

  “Long-necked yellow bottle,” Bert repeated as he ran into the new chamber. There were bottles of every color on the shelves. He found the container the mirror meant, one with a fat, round bottom and a slender neck. There was a cork pushed into the top and sealed with gobs of black wax. All the jars were sealed this way. He saw a dark liquid slosh inside and was surprised that it hadn’t dried up after all these years. Bert looked at the single word etched on the front of the bottle: SOMNUS.

  He ran back to the mirror. His eyes widened as he saw his uncle lift his head off the floor. Uncle Hugh’s eyelids fluttered up, and his eyes tried to focus.

  Open the bottle, the mirror said. Bert tore at the brittle wax, and it broke away in his hands. He tugged on the cork and couldn’t budge it. So he clamped it between his teeth and pulled. The cork popped out.

  Bert shuddered as a hand brushed against his leg. His uncle groped for him. Bert stepped back as the hand clutched at the air.

  Touch the potion to his lips, the mirror said. Bert gulped. Uncle Hugh groaned, put his palms to the floor, and pushed, trying to raise himself. But one arm collapsed, and he rolled over onto his back, blinking away the pain.

  Bert saw his chance. He darted in and tipped the bottle. Most of it vanished into Uncle Hughs beard, but some went between his parted lips. A moment later his uncles eyes closed again, and his breathing slowed. He was still.

  He will sleep, the mirror said.

  “For how long?” Bert asked.

  Long enough to prepare the next potion. The essential potion. Now go to the book, Bert. You must find the spell called “The Slave of the Mind.”

  Bert felt tightness in his stomach, like a knot pulled from both ends. “You want me to cast a spell? But this sounds like … something Rohesia would have done”

  Ah, but you are not doing this for evil Bertram. You only do this because you must. If you don’t, he will take me from you. Do you want that to happen?

  “No, of course I don’t….”

  And your dream, Bertram. To someday be baron. To be more than a baron. You want that, don’t you?

  “Of course”

  Then heed me, Bertram.

  And Bert knew that he would. He would heed the mirror. Because the mirror was wise.

  The mirror was his friend.

  CHAPTER 21

  “Par Lee.” That was how the Dwergh said his name, as if it were two names instead of one.

  “I came to see if you are well, Par Lee,” Harth said.

  “Bored out of my mind, but fine otherwise,” Parley replied. He’d been lying on a straw mat that the Dwergh brought him. He sat up and crossed his legs. The chain at his ankle clinked, and he glanced at the Molton squatting nearby, motionless.

  “What’s this little fellow’s name again?” Parley asked.

  “Mokh,” Harth said. The molton’s stone head swiveled at the sound of its name.

  “Mokh,” Parley repeated. The molton turned toward him. Parley waggled his fingers, waving, but there was no response that he could detect in that glittering stare. About as friendly as his masters, he thought.

  Harth started to walk away, but stopped when Parley called after him.

  “Why seven?” Parley said.

  “Eh?” said Harth.

  “Why are there always seven of you? Is that some Dwergh tradition?”

  Harth clasped his hands behind his back and thrust his chest forward. “Seven for the seven precious gems we seek For the seven kings of old. For the seven great caverns in the seven great mountains. For the seven days of the week. Each of us in turn takes one day of rest. Today is my day.”

  “You seem pretty busy to me.”

  “And what would you do on a day of rest, Par Lee?”

  “I’d lie about, talking nonsense.”

  “As you are doing right now?”

  Parley opened his mouth to answer, than narrowed his eyes. There was a twinkle in Harth’s eye. He was sure of it.

  “Was that a joke?” Parley said, beginning to grin.

  He saw, deep inside the Dwergh’s thick beard, that Harth smiled too.

  “I didn’t know the Dwergh had a sense of humor. That was a good one, my friend,” the courier said.

  The smile faded from Harth’s face. “Friend? You have called me that before. Why do you use that word, when we are sworn enemies?”

  “I never swore such a thing,” Parley said.

  “Nor did I. It was your king, many years ago.”

  “Yes. Now that’s the real nonsense. Someone really ought to do something about that.”

  “Some things break and cannot be fixed, Par Lee,” said the Dwergh.

  Parley shrugged. “And some things just take longer to mend.” Somewhere deep in the mines he heard the incessant clang of picks on stone. It never stopped, day or night—not that he could tell one from the other in this hole in the Earth.

  “What are you doing here, anyway?” he asked before Harth could walk away again.

  Harth stared back keenly. “We look for something.”

  “Gems? Gold?”

  Any hint of friendship left the Dwergh’s face. “That is how you think of us, is it? Greedy folk in dark holes, wanting only to pry precious stones from the ground. We are more than that, Par Lee. We know that we are not welcome here, and that if we are discovered, we will be killed. I assure you, the task that calls us here is important. And what we do, we do for the sake of your people as well as ours.”

  Parley’s hand had wandered up his chest like an insect, and rested at his throat. “What on Earth are you looking for?”

  Harth hesitated. He glanced down the stone corridor, where the faint clanging could still be heard. “Something left behind long ago, Par Lee. A poison we must extract from this land. And we shall succeed, if that is the will of the earth.” The Dwergh didn’t wait for another question. He turned and strode down the tight stone passage, vanishing into the blackness.

  Parley sighed. It was awfully dull sitting there with only a mute lump of animated stone for company. He stared at the molton. “How about a game of dice, Mokh?” he said. The creature turned its diamond eyes toward him. “I’ll keep score,” Parley said with an encouraging smile, “Here’s all you have to do. Look—seven dice! Excellent number, right?” He rolled the dice on the ground. “Ah, bad roll. I only matched a couple of threes. Here, you try it!” He scooped up the dice and offered them to the molton. Mokh looked down at the dice and up at Parley, expressionless as always. Then, as Parley watched with a mix of fascination and confusion, the molton scrunched its shoulders and bunched its three-fingered hands into fists. It trembled violently, and Parley swore he heard a grunt—the first sound he’d ever heard the strange being utter. The molton stood up from its squat, walked a few feet away with the chain dragging behind it, and sat again. Parley gaped at the spot it left, wher
e a small pile of cold white ash had been deposited.

  He glared at Mokh, almost certain he saw a hint of a grin on that mineral face. “Well, if that isn’t the rudest thing ever! So that’s what you think of my game, eh? See if I ask you to play again.”

  He slumped against the cold wall and sighed. They won’t have to execute me. I’ll die of boredom first, he thought. He looked down at his courier’s bag. Inside was the note that Bert had written to Will. He picked up the parchment and eyed the wax seal. If he broke it and read the letter, could he fix the seal, so nobody would notice it had been opened? He felt himself turn red in the face. Now, Parley, he chided himself, be a good courier. Tedium is no excuse for reading what was never meant for you. Still it was tempting. And since he was unlikely to get out of this alive, would it really matter? Yes, it matters, he assured himself. Right is right. And wrong is wrong.

  CHAPTER 22

  “Let’s ride a little farther,” Andreas said. “Do you think you can?”

  Will opened his mouth to take a deep breath. He turned in his saddle and looked back at Ambercrest. The castle and its sprawling walls were so distant that he could hold the sight of them in his cupped hand.

  “I think so,” he said.

  “Why don’t you lead?” said Andreas.

  Will nudged his horse with the heel of his boots, and the beast trotted along the road. This was Andreas’s plan: ride a little farther each day along each of the four roads that led away from home. And it was working. The first time, Will felt his chest tighten as soon as they ventured beyond the farmlands surrounding the outer walls. But every day since, Will felt the boundaries of his comfort expanding. There was always an invisible barrier he’d reach, a place that made his legs quake and his mind go numb with fear. But with every sojourn, that border gave way. And it didn’t just retreat—it weakened. Crumbled. Will had the idea that one day he might just be able to rush at it and leap over it and leave it behind for good.