The Mirror's Tale

by P. W. Catanese

  But not yet.

  He looked again at Ambercrest. Only its tallest spires were visible. And suddenly the panic seized him. He forgot how to breathe. A spike of pain pierced his chest, burning so hot that he pressed his palm against the spot. This was how it went: He’d think progress was made, that the worst was behind him, but the feeling would rush back.

  “Is it the fear again?” Andreas said. The knight was somewhere behind him, but Will could only stare at the ground and nod with the reins clutched tight in his hands, concentrating on drawing air down his constricted throat.

  “I remember the time in my life I was most frightened,” Andreas said, stopping beside him. “I was sixteen years old, not yet a knight in the king’s army. The Northmen had invaded as they still do from time to time. They are cruel, tall folk with thick shields and broad swords, ferocious in battle. We were encamped on a hill one night, and our sentries woke us with grim news: We’d been seen, and we were surrounded. I looked out and saw torches on all sides, closing in. Hundreds of them against just forty of us. The Northmen began to jeer and laugh, and they called out terrible threats.”

  There was a pause. Will lifted his head and looked at Andreas, who stared into the distance to the north and west, where Will supposed the battle must have taken place.

  “There was nowhere to run,” Andreas said. “Nothing to do but draw our swords and wait. I felt the way I suppose you do now—like the air itself was being robbed from my lungs, and my ribs might close like a fist around my heart and crush it. I was terrified, Will. Bug-eyed and shaking. Fear rushed down on me like a wave. Do you know what I did? I closed my eyes and let it wash over me. I let it happen. I let it pass. And then a curious thing happened: I found out what was on the other side of my fear.”

  Will looked up into Andreas’s eyes. “What was there?”

  “My courage.”

  CHAPTER 23

  “What do you wish of me?” said Uncle Hugh. There was a vacant look in his eyes as if he was lost in thought or not quite awake. He rarely blinked. And when he did, his lids fell and rose slowly.

  Bert handed him a letter, rolled and sealed. “Send this to Ambercrest. In it, I suggest that my brother come to The Crags to visit.” His lip curled into a sneer. “Because I miss him so.”

  “Yes, my nephew,” Uncle Hugh said.

  “But first I want you to add a letter of your own. Tell my parents what a good boy I’ve been. And how my conduct should be rewarded with a visit from my beloved brother.”

  Uncle Hugh lowered his head. “Of course, my nephew. It will be done.”

  “And then, after the letters are cent …”

  Uncle Hugh had turned toward the stairs. He turned back again. “Yes, my nephew?”

  A smile came to Bert’s face, though his eyes blazed fiercely under slanted brows. “Bring me your dogs.”

  Bert heard his uncle curse and scream at the whining dogs. They didn’t want to enter the Tunnel of Stars. Finally their hulking shadows appeared at the bottom of the stairs, and all eight of the enormous animals were prodded into the chamber, herded by a sweaty, panting Uncle Hugh. They cowered at his side, whining, with ears flattened and tails curled between their legs, looking as meek as puppies.

  “Bring them here,” Bert said. He pointed to the wide bowl at his feet, where raw chunks of meat soaked in a thick, yellow oil. His uncle shoved the dogs toward the bowl. They lowered their snouts and sniffed at the meat.

  “Make them eat it,” Bert said to Uncle Hugh.

  “Eat,” his uncle snapped, pointing.

  There was a moment of hesitation. Then one dog eased its mouth open and gingerly clamped its teeth around a hunk of flesh. The others joined in. The sounds of chewing, smacking, and tearing filled the cool cavern air. Bert watched from his throne with two fingers pressed against his temple.

  The dogs grew more ravenous as they ate, snarling as they fought for the last few pieces. When the meat was gone, they scraped the bowl clean with their tongues. Bert leaned forward and bounced a fist on the arm of his chair, thinking about his brother and trying to calm the rage that grew stronger by the minute.

  One of the dogs started to growl, and soon the rest joined in. They paced in a circle around the empty bowl and snapped at phantoms in the air. Their mouths filled with gray foam that overflowed from their jaws and hung like beards. The growls turned into bubbling, gargling sounds. The dogs seemed to weaken. Their steps grew shorter, and their legs bent until their bellies scraped the ground as they slunk. Finally, almost as one, they fell onto their sides. Their chests heaved, their tongues spilled out onto the floor, and the foam pooled around their jaws.

  “What’s happening to my dogs?” Uncle Hugh asked dreamily.

  “Wait and see,” Bert said, leaning back in the throne. He rested his face on his hand and smiled. “Now tell me something, Uncle. Just because I’m curious, not because it matters anymore. Were you up to something, here at The Crags? Plotting against the baron? Thinking about setting up your own little kingdom, hmmm?”

  Uncle Hugh’s mouth twisted and shook as if he did not want to answer. His eyes watered, and he squeezed them shut. Finally, haltingly, he spoke as the words were forced out against his will. “Hated my brother … for being named baron instead of me … for ordering me to this pile of rock … dreamed about his death … gathering men, turning them against him … but I need more … biding my time …”

  “Enough,” Bert said, waving his hand. “You can forget all that now. There will be revenge, Uncle, but it won’t be yours. And I won’t bide my time, either.” He looked at the dogs as they jerked and twitched amid a growing pool of spittle. Then he turned to the dark hole at the end of the chamber, “Now, Uncle, take a torch and find out where that passage leads to.”

  Behind Bert, the mirror flickered and glowed.

  CHAPTER 24

  Parley heard footsteps approach the alcove. He opened his couriers bag and stuffed something inside before the approaching Dwergh turned the corner.

  Harth appeared, and then Kholl, the ancient leader of the band of seven. Of all the pale, rough-hewn faces in the company, Kholl’s was the grimmest. His eyes were set so far under his bushy brow that they seemed to peer out from a cave.

  As far as Parley could tell, these were the only two of the seven Dwergh who could speak his language. “Hello, friends,” he said, standing and brushing dust off his legs.

  “How do you fare, Par Lee?” said Harth.

  “It’s the time of my life, Harth. Not bored at all. Mokh here is a delightful companion.”

  “I told you Par Lee was funny,” Harth said out of the side of his mouth to Kholl.

  “Tell him why we are here,” replied Kholl, who didn’t appear the least bit amused. Parley realized that this might be the moment he’d dreaded, when his fate was to be decided. Perhaps the Dwergh had already concluded that he must die to keep their secret.

  It always amazed him how long a fateful moment could last. It was only a few seconds later that Harth spoke, but Parley had time to reflect that his had been a good life. He wished he’d made a few more friends, played a few more games, tasted a few more pies, seen a little more of the world. But when Harth finally spoke, it had nothing to do with his fate. Not yet, anyway.

  “We want to show you something,” the younger Dwergh said.

  “Show me something?” Parley said. He cleared his throat. “By all means.”

  “We will unchain you, for now,” Kholl said. “A man like you is no threat to escape. Not where we will take you.”

  Well, here’s a little more of the world and not the part you expected, Parley told himself as Kholl led them on a long and strange subterranean journey, lighting the way with a silver lantern. Harth was behind him with a second light, and Mokh trotted along at the rear with a torch, taking five steps for every one of Parley’s. They began in the kind of mine that Parley had always pictured—a dank, black corridor where heavy timbers propped up the loose earth overhead. Then t
hey came to a place where the mine split into two passages—one tunnel that was ancient and the other one new, judging from the age of the wooden beams. From the new passage Parley heard the harsh song of tools on stone, the same sound that carried all the way to his alcove. Kholl turned the other way, toward the older passage. Parley hoped that the ceiling might be a little higher in this section, but it was the usual Dwergh height, and so he continued to stoop as he limped after Kholl.

  “You have been injured many times in your life, Par Lee,” Harth said from behind.

  “Noticed the limp, eh?” Parley replied over his shoulder. “Well, all my injuries happened early in my sad career as a soldier. In my first battle, I lost an eye. In my second battle, because I was blind on one side, I didn’t see some knave coming at me, and I got my leg skewered by a spear. In my third battle, because I couldn’t dodge fast enough on my bad leg, I got my arm broken when a horse ran over me. As I was lying on the ground with hoofprints on my back, I decided to get out of the army business before I hurt something I really cared about.”

  Parley heard a low rumbling sound, and it was only when he noticed Kholl’s shoulders shaking that he realized he’d gotten a laugh out of the craggy Dwergh. The courier grinned. You’ll call me friend yet, old-timer.

  They rested once, and Harth offered Parley water from a skin that he carried. Kholl did a strange thing. He called Mokh to him, and the molton trotted over with its torch held at arms length. Kholl uncorked a little brass vessel and poured the oily contents over Mokhs head and shoulders. When that was done, the molton touched the torch to its head, and the oil burst into flames that engulfed the stone creature. Parley was alarmed at first until he saw that Mokh was as content as Parley would have been, basking on a sunlit rock. The molton even folded its arms to allow all of its body to be enveloped by flame, and stood that way until the fire had flickered out. The joints of the creatures shoulders, elbows, wrists, and fingers glowed red-hot.

  Parley stared, fascinated, and something occurred to him. “It needs the heat, doesn’t it? That’s why you feed it coals.”

  “Of course,” Harth said. “Without them the molton would cease to move. Until someone warmed it again, even a thousand years later.”

  They moved on, and soon the shaft ended in a wall of solid rock with a jagged crack down the middle. Kholl turned sideways and grunted as he squeezed his thick chest through the crevice. Parley followed, and saw that they’d passed into a cave that was sculpted by natures hand and not the pickaxes and hammers of the Dwergh. The ceiling was lofty, and he was relieved to finally stand straight without fear of knocking himself silly on a jutting rock or crossbeam. His one eye glimpsed enormous carrots of stone, dangling overhead, like the fangs of a giant beast.

  As they walked on, Parley heard a roaring sound grow in volume. Then he felt a different sensation under his feet as they stepped onto a bridge made of wooden planks and iron chains. It swayed with every step, and Parley was grateful for the railing made of rough cord. In the meager light, he saw white froth roiling by under the bridge. “A river under the earth. Who’d have believed such a thing?” he muttered.

  The ceiling of rock curved into a solid wall on the other side of the river. Two natural columns of stone were there, strange formations that grew thin in the middle like titanic hourglasses. Between the two a perfect black rectangle was chiseled into the wall, leading to a dark, inner chamber. Harth stepped inside while Kholl stopped at the threshold and turned to face Parley. “None of your jokes now, Par Lee. This is a sacred place where your kind has never stepped. Only whispers here.”

  Parley looked into the stern face of the elder Dwergh. “Why have you allowed me here? What have I done to earn this?”

  Kholl waved toward the chamber with a calloused hand. “Harth likes you. He wants you to understand us.”

  Parley coughed. He pulled on the hem of his shirt to straighten it and passed a hand over his thin hair to smooth it. He didn’t know what to say, so he just stepped through the threshold into a small chamber.

  It was round in shape, with a ceiling so low he had to crouch once again to keep from hitting his head. There were seven stone coffins inside with heavy slabs for lids. They were arranged in a circle with the ends nearly touching. Harth stood in the center holding his lantern high, like the yellow eye of a gray-petaled flower.

  “These were her friends,” Harth said.

  Seven coffins! A thousand shivering dots of flesh erupted on Parley’s arms. “Her friends? Emelina? Snow White?”

  Harth closed his eyes and nodded. “We bury our folk near the mine that was closest to their hearts.”

  Parley limped forward, close enough to touch the nearest coffin. He was already stooping, so it was easy to drop to his knees. And it felt right. He kissed his fingers, put his hands on the stone slab, and lowered his head. “The seven that saved Snow White, buried here,” he marveled.

  “Not all seven. Not yet,” Harth said.

  Parley lifted his head and opened his good eye. He hadn’t noticed at first, but one stone coffin was uncovered, with its lid propped against its side. He looked at Harth, questioning, and Harth jabbed his chin toward the entrance of the chamber.

  Parley slowly turned. When his eyes found Kholl, the old Dwergh bowed.

  “You …” Parley gasped. “One of Snow White’s seven?”

  “I was the youngest, by many a year,” Kholl said.

  “Good heavens, Kholl … You must be as old as the hills!”

  Kholl thrust his chest forward. “One hundred and sixty-seven. And still strong enough to swing a pick.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Bert paced around the pack of dogs lying on the cold stone floor, twitching and senseless. Strange things were happening to them. It looked as though moles were burrowing just under the skin, leaving bulging tunnels in their wake. The shape of the dogs changed with every pass, growing thicker and more distorted.

  And there were strange noises, muffled by skin and fur. Creaking, groaning, squishing, popping, and stretching. Through it all, the dogs whined and growled in their sleep, if they were sleeping at all. Their heads were lost inside the clouds of foam that streamed from their open jaws.

  Bert knelt to examine the paws of the largest dog. Its feet were bigger and wider, now twice the size of his hand. Its black claws were longer. Sharper.

  A new sound came from the other side of the nearest dog. Bert crept cautiously around on his hands and knees to see what it was. And there along the dogs spine—from the neck to the tail—he saw spikes of gray bone rising out of a dreadful split in the hide. The dog whined, and its tail lashed the ground.

  Bert pushed himself to his feet. The dogs were rousing. The nearest one growled and lifted its head, foam clinging to its jaw. Bert caught a glimpse of terrible, yellow eyes. The dog jerked its head from side to side, and the spittle flew off, spattering Bert’s leggings. When he saw the head and how it had transformed, the breath he was about to take snagged in his throat.

  “What … what are they?” Bert asked the mirror. They weren’t dogs anymore, that was certain.

  Servants. To do your bidding, the mirror said. And do you have a task for these beasts?

  Bert grabbed a fist with the other hand and squeezed it. “Of course. Mirror, tell me if the letter to my father has arrived. And tell me where my brother is now.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Will walked into the hall of Ambercrest. He felt hot bruises on his arms and legs from the dozens of blows he’d received in his latest session with Andreas. He smiled a little, remembering the handful of times he’d slipped his own sword past the knight’s defenses and struck back. A bounce came to his stride despite the aches. But he came to a sudden halt when he saw his father in the corridor before him, waiting with his hands clasped behind his back. Expecting him, obviously.

  “Will,” his father said simply.

  “Yes, Father?” Will said, trying to recall what he might have done wrong.

  The baron
cocked his head and stared down with one eye narrowed. “It is Will, isn’t it?”

  “Of course, Father!” Will said, wincing.

  The baron chuckled. “Oh, it’s all right son, I was just joking.”

  Will’s mouth hung open. Joking? Now it was his turn to wonder who he was talking to. He took a closer look at his father. The baron shifted his weight from foot to foot, and his glance wandered from the floor to the ceiling. Will wondered what was going on. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he clasped them behind his own back, just as his father had. He waited with his bottom lip held between his teeth.

  The baron finally cleared his throat. And when he spoke it wasn’t the usual blustery roar. It was soft, almost a whisper. “I…I watched your lessons. With Andreas. You’re doing well”

  “Thank you, Father. Andreas is … He’s a good teacher.” As usual with his father, Will felt like he had to choose his words carefully.

  “Yes, quite good,” the baron said. “I’ve watched for a few days now. From the balcony, usually. I stay in the shadows. … I don’t want to make you nervous. It’s a funny thing. How a stranger can sometimes teach a boy better than his own father.” The barons voice trailed off, and he looked past Will’s shoulder, staring at nothing.

  “You’re a good teacher too,” Will said. He didn’t really mean it. Anytime his father had tried to teach Bert and him anything, it ended with them crying and Father shouting and storming off. In fact, the baron had given up trying to teach them anything a few years ago.

  “No, I’m atrocious. No patience at all,” the baron mumbled. There was a pause that seemed eternal. Will wished he could turn and run. Finally his father spoke again. “You like this Andreas, don’t you?”