The Mirror's Tale (Further Tales Adventures)

by P. W. Catanese

  I suppose you’re wondering how things went when I told Father and Mother that we switched places. I waited two days, like we agreed. Then I told them during dinner. Mother moaned and dropped her head into her hands. Father started cursing. I thought he might tear his beard out. Then he did something strange. He got very quiet and said to himself, “That was Bert in the carriage, not you? But I told him …” And then he knocked his goblet off the table. What on Earth did he say to you? I’m sure it was something awful about me. Don’t let it bother you. Anyway, he told me to go to our room. An hour later he kicked the door open, stormed in, and started shouting again. So you thought you’d take Bert’s place, eh? Fine, you’ll do just that. I brought a tutor all the way to Ambercrest to teach Bert to fight. And you’ll be his student, like it or not!”

  So we were right about one thing: They won’t make us change places again. Just like we guessed, they don’t want to admit to Uncle Hugh that we fooled them.

  Now I have to take the fighting lessons that were meant for you, from some knight named Andreas. You’re probably sorry to miss that, and I bet you’re laughing at me. I don’t want the lessons, but I have no choice.

  Will’s pen paused over the parchment. He gnawed his bottom lip and went on writing.

  Bert, I had a terrible dream last night, that something bad happened to you. It made me feel awful that I let you go instead of me. The Crags is a strange place. I hope you will be careful there. Do me a favor—don’t poke around in dark corners.

  I’m going to stay out of trouble here. I’ll even take the stupid lessons without complaining. And you should behave yourself too. If we’re good, maybe Father and Mother will let you come home in a few weeks instead of staying the whole summer.

  I miss you. Be careful.

  Your brother,

  Will

  CHAPTER 9

  Bert followed his aunt down the dark corridor. She wouldn’t tell him where she was bringing him; she only promised he’d find it interesting.

  If it wasn’t for her, nobody would talk to him. Uncle Hugh treated him like a nuisance, and the rest of the people in the castle—soldiers and servants alike—were careful to avoid him, fearful of Lord Charmaigne’s wrath. But not Aunt Elaine.

  “You and Uncle Hugh …,” Bert started to say without really thinking. He coughed and completed his thought. “You’re not much alike.”

  She looked amused as she stopped to look back at him. “That’s true enough. I realized the same thing the moment I met him, on our wedding day.”

  Bert’s jaw went slack. “You didn’t meet him till you married him?”

  She shook her head. “The marriage wasn’t my decision, of course. It was my father’s and your grandfather’s. But now I belong to Hugh,” she said. She turned and continued down the corridor, adding quietly, as if to herself, “And he doesn’t part with what he owns.”

  The corridor soon ended at a small wooden door. Aunt Elaine produced a key from a pocket at her waist, slipped it into the keyhole and turned it. It opened into a windowless room in the back of the keep.

  “What’s in there?” he asked.

  “You seem curious about the history of The Crags and the Witch-Queen. I thought this would interest you.” Aunt Elaine went in first, holding one hand in front of her face. Bert wondered why until he felt a fine strand of spider silk on his cheek. He lifted his hand the same way.

  The room was full of old things coated with dust. Furniture. Works of art. Moldy pennants. Rusted armor. Unknown objects covered by cloth. Padlocked chests filled with who-knows-what.

  Aunt Elaine crisscrossed the room using her candle’s flame to light others that were spread about the place. The candles in the nearest corner were held by the most unusual candlestick Bert had ever seen. It was a three-legged sculpture that looked as if a trio of iron snakes balanced on their tails and curled around one another in the center. A candle was thrust into each open jaw. As they slowly burned, it would look as if the serpents were devouring them.

  There were dozens of curious objects in the room, but he found himself drawn to the candlestick. He wasn’t sure why. It seemed important. Significant. He traced his fingertip along one of the sculpted snakes, starting at the gaping mouth. When his finger reached the other end, he felt a tug on his ring, and it stuck with a clack against the tip of the tail.

  “What’s the matter, Bert?” Aunt Elaine said.

  “What?” he replied in a voice that squeaked.

  “Just now it looked like your eyes might pop out of your face. Did something scare you?”

  “No,” he said, forcing a laugh. He lifted the candlestick and gave it a look that was meant to convey indifference. “My room gets pretty dark, Aunt Elaine. Do you think I could use this while I’m here?”

  “If you’d like,” she said. “It belonged to her, you know. Like everything else in here.” She swept her arm toward the center of the room where an elaborate chair stood. Bert went to take a closer look. The chair was carved out of deep-brown wood, with broad, curving arms and a tall back that he could just reach the top of when he went up on his toes and stretched his arm. Near the throne’s head he slipped his fingers into empty notches the size of walnuts. Whatever was in there once had been pried out. He saw pale scars around the gaps, where someone’s blade had dug and scratched.

  “That was her throne. It was once encrusted with jewels. Until my husband plucked them out,” Aunt Elaine said. Her lip curled up on one side for a moment. Then she took a deep breath. “I’m sure you’ve heard that the Witch-Queen was beautiful,” she said. “Would you like to see her?”

  “I guess,” Bert said. Aunt Elaine went to a corner of the room where a series of gilded frames stood like a row of books. She drew out one of the tallest ones and carried it to the throne, keeping the painted side of the canvas turned away from Bert. Then she propped the picture across the arms of the throne and said, “Rohesia.”

  It’s true, Bert thought. She was beautiful. He was suddenly aware that his head had listed to one side as he beheld her painted image. He blinked hard and stood straight.

  The artist was skilled, that was certain; far better than the amateur who had infuriated his mother a few years back and was banished from the barony under the threat of torture. The Witch-Queen sat on a simple, armless chair. She held a cluster of leafy branches in her hands, and across her lap were the dried stems, leaves, berries, and roots of a variety of plants. At her side was a bench cluttered with potted plants and watering cans. Behind her was a garden in full bloom. Bert peered at the lovely face, eye-high with his own. The complexion was fair, the features fine. Her auburn hair was tied back with a ribbon and adorned with a simple coronet. Her thin, red lips were turned up in a smile, a warm and cheery smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes.

  “Not exactly the portrait of evil,” Aunt Elaine said.

  “No,” Bert replied. In fact, this looked like someone you’d want to have for a friend, as long as you weren’t daunted by her beauty. “But artists do that,” Bert said.

  “They lie with paint. They make you look better than you do in real life. They leave out the warts and the scars. They can leave out evil, just the same.”

  “Is that so?” Aunt Elaine said. “Then why did he paint her like this?” She pointed toward the Witch-Queen’s hands. Bert leaned in close, and his eyebrows rose. The hands were dirty. The nails were unpainted, and dirt was caked underneath. “Why …?” he said.

  Aunt Elaine went back to the paintings and withdrew the largest frame from the stack. “The same man painted this, just two years later.”

  Bert’s brow furrowed. It was the same woman. But transformed somehow. She was on her throne now—the very seat where her portrait was now propped. But the empty notches on the chair were filled with glittering gems. Her posture was rigid and formal. There were no dirty hands this time—long, perfect, ruby-red nails gripped the arms of the throne like the talons of a bird of prey. All the warmth was gone from her features
. There was a smile on her red lips, but devoid of happiness. The cold stare in her eye made Bert shiver. No, this painter left nothing out. The Witch-Queen was evil, the artist perceived it, and his brush told the truth.

  “What … happened to her?”

  “Nobody knows. Rohesia was a healer, Bert, not a murderess—at least not until the last years of her life. True, she’d always taken pride in her beauty. Look at her—who wouldn’t be proud of that face, that form? But until the end there was something more important in her life. She spent her days learning how to treat the ill and the infirm with herbs and compounds. The gardens of The Crags were filled with the plants she grew for their medicinal qualities. And her shelves were filled with extracts from bark and berry and root and leaf, each with their own power to cure. She drew her knowledge from ancient books and from the poor but wise folk who lived in these lands. She was even a friend to the Dwergh. She reached out to them because she knew there were healers among them, and she wanted to share knowledge that might benefit both of our peoples. In return for the secrets to their medicines, she allowed Dwergh parties to come and mine our lands.

  “That is the Rohesia that everyone has forgotten: the kind ruler, the person who only wanted to heal. It was only in her final years that she became the hateful Witch-Queen, jealous of anyone whose beauty approached her own. But now the murderess is all that anyone can recall. I had to search long and hard, and talk to the very oldest people in these parts, to learn about the good queen. You see, Bert, in the end, the evil you’ve done is always remembered more vividly than the good.”

  Bert lifted the first painting out and set it in front of the other. He looked again at the long sprigs of unknown plants that Rohesia held in her lap. Rohesia the healer. No, nobody ever talked about that at Ambercrest.

  “I’ve wondered for years what drove her mad,” Aunt Elaine said. “I believe her mind might have been poisoned by one of the exotic plants that she cultivated What else could explain it?”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Bert said, looking into the tenderly painted eyes. It was as good a guess as any.

  “Still … the rumors about her are so strange. Everything I learned was passed down through generations, so I’m not certain how much to believe. Especially the tales of her dark magic. They say that Rohesia could bewitch men, crush their will and turn them into mindless slaves who would do her bidding no matter how grim or wicked the task. They say that she kept horrible beasts for pets, misshapened things that were only glimpsed from afar, because anyone who saw them close up perished under their teeth and claws. They say she would lock herself in her room for days—the very room where you’re staying now, Bert. The servants would wonder if she needed help, and they would knock on the door, but there would be no answer and not a sound from within—as if she had vanished like a ghost. Whether those things are true, I do not know. But it can’t be denied that many folk who defied her met grisly fates. Or that she went mad with jealousy and tried to kill her own stepdaughter, Snow White.”

  In the silence that followed, Bert looked again at the friendly, lovely face in the first painting. He took a deep, long breath. “Still,” he said, “at least she gathered all that knowledge …”

  “That’s the saddest part,” Aunt Elaine said. She brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. Bert noticed dirt under her fingernails. “Most of the wisdom she collected was somehow lost. Only a few of her notes remain. I would give anything to find the rest, Bert. Anything.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Bert was almost out of parchment, and his hand was cramped, but there was so much more to tell his brother. He clenched and unclenched his fingers to ease the soreness, and then went on writing.

  As soon as I got back to my room, I closed the door and went behind the rose tapestry. You can probably guess what happened next. The candlestick was like a key! When I turned it the right way, all three snake tails stuck to the three spots on the wall, just like those old bits of lodestone we used to play with. I pushed, and all three tails sank into the wall. Then I heard sounds, like chains moving behind the wall, and part of the wall swung inward, just like a door. It was amazing! The stones opened farther and farther, and when they finally stopped, there was an opening big enough to get through.

  I know you think nothing scares me, but I have to admit that I was afraid to go through that doorway. Do you know what I finally did? I pretended you were right behind me, just like always. I lit a candle and went through. I was worried someone might come in and learn the secret. But even if they did, they probably wouldn’t find it. The tapestry covered the whole thing, and as far as anyone knows, it’s a solid wall back there!

  It was dark and cold inside, and there was a strange smell. My hand shook so hard I was afraid I would drop my candle.

  Do you know that I wasn’t even in the castle anymore? Once I passed through that wall, I was in the cliffs behind The Crags. Everything around me was carved right out of rock! It was so dark. It was as if the blackness was hungry, and it ate the light from my candle. There was a short landing at the top of the opening, and then stairs. They went down a long way—I could not see the bottom from where I was.

  You should have seen what I saw. Even though it was blacker than coal, there were little bits of flat, glassy stuff in the rock, and they caught the light of my candle. It looked as if thousands of stars twinkled all around me. I call it the “Tunnel of Stars.” I went down the steps, and they kept going and going. There was a room at the bottom. Or it might have been a cave. It was hard to tell what was natural and what was carved from the stone. Just imagine—long ago someone tunneled all the way to that cave. I wonder if you even believe me as you read this, but it is true. I wish you could come, so I could show you.

  Someone used this place as a hideaway. You know who that must have been! To think that I sleep in her room, and now I’ve found her hidden chamber. I did not see any witchy stuff down there. Perhaps Father is right, and she was not a witch at all. There was hardly anything in the cave. Just a chair and some lamps she must have used to light the place.

  Bert stopped writing. There was something else down there, of course. But for some reason he hesitated to include it in the letter. Why? He shook his head and chided himself. What secrets could he keep from his twin? They knew everything about each other. They always had. Of course he’d write about it.

  There was also a mirror at the very end of the chamber. It is filthy, but I may try to clean it. There is a table next to the mirror, with some combs that look like they are made of bone. I almost expected to see the Witch-Queen’s ghost sitting there, looking at herself in that mirror and brushing her hair!

  I am almost out of parchment now, and it is late, so I think I will end this letter. Uncle Hugh said I should give him any notes I want to send, and he will give them to the courier. But I do not trust him. I think he would read the letter himself first!

  I do miss you, and I think about you always. Sometimes I get the feeling that you are thinking about me. I wonder if you get the same feeling. Good-bye for now, Brother, and be brave. Remember that everything I have written is a secret. Hide this letter, or better yet burn it, and tell no one.

  Bert signed the letter and set the last page beside the others to dry, considering what he had written about the mirror. And what he had not written.

  He had not written that a magnificent chair was arranged in front of the mirror, so that a person could sit and gaze directly at his reflection. And he had not written that this chair, with its wide seat and soaring back and brawny arms, was more majestic than Father’s throne or Uncle Hugh’s unimpressive seat.

  He hadn’t written that the mirror was breathtaking and certainly priceless. Its frame looked as if it was made of solid gold, inlaid with silver so pure and white that it seemed to glow. He hadn’t written that the silver was in the shape of symbols—some form of writing that was exotic and unfamiliar.

  Nor had he written that when he used his sleeve to rub at the dusty gl
ass, the reflection in that clean patch was amazing in its clarity. It was nothing like the polished sheets of silver or brass that served for mirrors at Ambercrest, sadly distorting the face of anyone who looked into them. He wasn’t certain, but it may have been the kind of mirror that Mother always talked about. Those mirrors came from someplace far away, and they were made with a special kind of glass and a secret process, jealously guarded. They were so rare and priceless that the only person in the kingdom who had one was the king himself.

  When the ink was dry, Bert gathered the pages together. He stood and hesitated. Suddenly he had an urge—almost overwhelming—to tear the letter into pieces and let the candle consume the scraps one by one.

  But why would I do anything like that? he wondered, shaking his head and blinking hard. Of course he’d share this secret with his brother. Not everything, perhaps. After all these years of being side by side for every experience, there was something wonderful about having part of it, even a small part, to himself. Will could learn the rest in time.

  Bert rolled the pages and tied a ribbon around them. He dribbled wax from the candle across the ribbon. Then he pressed his iron ring onto the wax, leaving an impression of the family crest. There was nothing sacred or official about this seal, but perhaps Uncle Hugh would think twice before breaking it to read the letter, if he managed to intercept it.

  Hugh Charmaigne. How satisfying it was to have discovered this secret, right under his pig nose. Uncle Hugh had watched Bert’s every move with cold suspicion, looking for an excuse to banish him to his room. Bert laughed at the thought. Go ahead and punish me! There’s no place I’d rather be.

  For now, he had to figure out how to get the letter directly to the courier. If his father sent Parley, that would solve the problem. Parley could be trusted. He hid the letter under his bed and left the room. He was anxious to see if a courier had arrived.