The Mirror's Tale (Further Tales Adventures)

by P. W. Catanese

  The candle on the table flickered. Bert shrank back in the chair. A cold shiver ran down his arms, frosting his flesh with goose bumps. “Help me? Help me do what?”

  Have what you desire, the mirror whispered. Live what you dream.

  “But … how do you know what I desire?” Bert felt that feeling again—something slithering and bumping along the folds and creases of his brain. Probing. His eyes lost focus. He said again, “How do you know?” His words were slurred. His eyelids fluttered and closed.

  When they opened again, the candle he’d brought with him had gone out. He reached for it and felt only a hard puddle of wax and the charred stub of the wick. It was so dark it didn’t matter if his eyes were open or shut. All he could see was a pale oval—the mirror glowing, though it had no light to reflect.

  “Mirror?” he said.

  Yes, my friend? the whisper came.

  Bert edged toward where he thought the Tunnel of Stars might be, groping at dark air. “I’ve been down here too long. It might be morning. I have to go before someone knows I’m missing. I don’t want this place discovered. I don’t want you discovered.”

  Come back to me soon, Bertram.

  “I will. Of course I will.” He touched the wall on the far side of the cave and slid his hands across it until he found the threshold of the Tunnel of Stars. Then he went up the stairs, leaning forward and using his hands as well as his feet to climb. As he drew near the top, he saw a splinter of light where he’d left the secret door slightly open with a pebble to keep it from shutting entirely. He’d been afraid to let it close, in case he couldn’t open it again and was trapped in the cave forever.

  At the top of the steps, he eased the door open as little as necessary and squeezed out. He slid sideways with his back to the wall and emerged from behind the tapestry. He’d taken only a few steps across the floor when Uncle Hugh burst into the room.

  There was a flash of surprise on his uncle’s face—the shaggy eyebrows jumped and fell. Then the customary scowl returned, with the lip twitching on one side. “What? How did you get back in here! Where were you last night?”

  At any other moment Bert would have quailed under that menacing glare. But he felt strangely calm, even as a pair of his uncle’s savage-looking dogs padded into the room and stared at him with their snouts peeled back over their yellow teeth. Bert folded his arms and stared with mild disgust at his uncle. “I took a walk. Did I break one of your rules?”

  Uncle Hugh stepped toward him with his right hand squeezed into a fist. Bert heard knuckles cracking.

  “Father wouldn’t like it if you hit me,” Bert said coolly. He was amazed by his own composure.

  Parts of his uncle’s face went purple. “Sneaking around the castle at night, are you? Poking your nose into places it doesn’t belong?”

  Bert caught a whiff of sour breath. He wanted to laugh at this petty, pathetic man. “Why does that make you so mad? Do you have something to hide?”

  Hugh Charmaigne sputtered. His fists trembled at his sides. “That’s it for you, boy. I’m bolting your door. And I’ll find out what you’re up to. I promise you that. And when I do I’ll …” He didn’t bother to complete the thought. He whirled around and left the room, followed closely by his dogs. When he slammed the door it was like a crack of thunder.

  Bert walked to his bed and flopped on his back. He chuckled, feeling vastly pleased with himself. Confined to his room again! If only his uncle knew.

  Something on the table by his bed caught his eye. It hadn’t been there the day before. It was a bushy plant in a ceramic pot—the melissa that his aunt found near the Dwergh cottage. What was it for? Melancholy, shed said.

  Bert laughed again. He’d never felt less melancholy in his life. Something had happened to him while he slept before the mirror. A transformation. He felt strong. Exhilarated. Powerful.

  Yes. Especially that. Powerful.

  CHAPTER 18

  “What do you mean, you’re too sore?” Andreas folded his arms and stared down at Will.

  “My legs are killing me,” Will said, kneading one thigh with both hands. He was on a bench in a shaded spot in the courtyard, out of the hot sun. “And I can’t even lift my arms.” He raised one arm shoulder-high and winced, just to prove the point.

  Andreas flicked his beard with his fingers. “Is that all that troubles you?”

  Will turned away from Andreas’s piercing stare. He wondered how the knight could tell. There was an epic list of things troubling him—starting with losing Bert—but these last few days, a fresh concern had been heaped atop the rest. “I’m worried about Parley. It’s been a week, and he never came back from The Crags.”

  Andreas nodded. “I heard. But the men say this Parley often takes his time on the way back. Visiting … er, acquaintances.”

  Will shook his head. “Never this long. And not when there’s something important to deliver.” Like a letter from Bert, he added inwardly. “Father sent another courier that way. Maybe we’ll hear something soon.”

  “I’m sure you will,” said Andreas. “In the meantime, since you are not prepared for the physical side of battle, we will discuss the intellectual side. I trust your brain is not sore as well?”

  “No,” Will said. One corner of his mouth turned up. “That’s the only part that doesn’t hurt.”

  Andreas squinted into the sunlight. He pointed. “That tower. Can you lead me there?”

  Will followed his gaze, and his little smile faded. Andreas meant the lonely tower where he and Bert had spent so many hours. He’d never taken anyone else there before. It was a private spot for him and Bert alone. But he couldn’t think of a reason to say no. “You mean now?”

  “Of course,” said the knight.

  Will trudged across the courtyard with Andreas ambling behind. The aching muscles in his arms and legs loosened a bit as he climbed the narrow, winding stairs, but he decided not to mention that to the knight, so he didn’t end up in the pads and helmet again.

  “Why do the stairs curve this way?” Andreas said from behind him.

  “Excuse me?” Will asked, puzzled.

  “Why are tower stairs made to curve to the right as we ascend? Why not to the left?”

  Will realized he was being tested. “I always figured it was to give the defender the advantage. The defender will be upstairs from the attacker. If he’s right-handed, the defender has room to swing his sword. The attacker doesn’t. And most folk are right-handed.”

  “Hmm,” was all Andreas said.

  They arrived at the tower. Will felt a tug in his heart. This was a place where he’d rarely been to without Bert by his side. Many devious plots had been hatched here. It was an incubator for mischief.

  He watched Andreas walk the small round space with his hands clasped behind his back. The knights keen eyes darted about, catching the fine details that Will had forgotten were there: pictures scrawled in charcoal on the walls, clay marbles in a circle of sand, apple seeds spat on the floor, wooden toys on the windowsills.

  Andreas had his back to Will. “This is a hideaway. A special place.”

  Will’s head shrank between his shoulders. “I suppose.”

  “I had one myself long ago. In the loft of a barn. Whiled away many happy hours there.” Andreas sighed. “You didn’t have to bring me here, you know”

  “Its all right”

  Andreas gave Will a jerk of the head that said “come here.” “Well, then. Look out there and tell me: If you were to lay siege to Ambercrest, how would you do it?”

  Will stepped up beside him. He didn’t have to look, really. He knew every feature of the view from that window: outer walls, farms and fields, land that sloped away from the great mound in every direction, roads cast to the four points of the compass. “I would try to find some other way to win. Anything but a siege.”

  Andreas lifted an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

  “A siege is the last resort. I’d try to lure them out first.”


  “Lure them out? How?”

  “I don’t know. If it was my father, I’d shout insults at him. He’d charge out soon enough. Then I’d pretend to run, and draw him away from his castle, to a better place to fight.”

  A crafty smile came to Andreas’s face. He put one elbow to the wall and leaned on it. “Interesting. But what is so bad about a siege?”

  Will rubbed his aching neck. “I suppose you have to do it, sometimes. But it’s such a waste. I mean, the whole point of a castle like this is defense. You’d probably lose a third of your men before you even took the walls.”

  “And is that the only thing that matters? Caring how many men die under your command?”

  Will squeezed his eyes half shut. “Well, sure. It matters a lot. But that’s what’s so awful about war. If you care too much about your men, you’ll lose. That’s one of the five great faults of a commander.”

  Andreas stiffened. “What did you say?”

  Will’s face warmed. Had he said something wrong? “Well, I read that there are five big faults a commander can have. One is caring too much about his men. Another one is a bad temper—you know, someone who can be provoked. Another is recklessness. Another is—”

  “Where?” said Andreas, looming over him. There was a hungry look in his eyes. “You read this where?”

  “I found some papers in our library,” Will stammered, taking a half step back. “They’re translated from something written a long time ago in some place far away. About war and how to wage it. It’s not complete, though … and some of it’s hard to understand….”

  Andreas pressed one palm against his forehead. “The words of the general of the east. In this godforsaken place.” Those words were directed at the heavens, the next ones at Will. “How many pages? How many are there?”

  “Thirty-five, I think. They’re in the keep. Would you like to see them?”

  The knight chuckled softly. “If you can’t run all the way there, I’ll carry you.”

  Andreas placed the final tattered page gently on the stack. He leaned back in the chair and let out a deep breath, like a man at the end of a feast. “The illuminated mind,” he said. “How it shines, even through the fog of a clumsy translation.”

  “Father says it’s mostly nonsense,” said Will.

  “Nonsense?” Andreas smirked and shook his head. He looked at the pile of parchment as if it was a beloved pet. “These are falling apart* I’ll have to make a copy”

  “Where did it come from?” Will asked.

  “Some place far from here. An unknown kingdom. And it was written long ago. I’ve seen a scrap of the original language, in the kings archives. It doesn’t even look like words, Will—just slashes of ink on the pages. Like little pictures.”

  “Is it Dwergh?”

  Andreas shook his head. “No, it comes from farther away than that. From a land you could never hope to reach. At the far end of the world, with an endless desert and a thousand barbaric tribes between us.”

  “Then how did it get here?”

  “By some miracle. Passed from one wanderer to the next, perhaps. Who knows? But you see the wisdom in these pages, don’t you?”

  Will shrugged. “In the parts I can understand.”

  “Then you’re not the boy your father thinks you are,” said Andreas. He rubbed his earlobe between two fingers, thinking. Then he leaned forward and spoke quietly. “Tell me something, Will. One day, your father will decide whether you or your brother will succeed him. Do you worry about that day—how things will go between you?”

  “No,” Will said. “Bert’s my best friend, not just my brother. Besides, I know he’ll be chosen. He’s like my father. Brave and strong”

  “But what if it was you, Will? What sort of baron do you think you’d be?”

  CHAPTER 19

  Bert paced back and forth in his room, stopping when he heard a metallic scrape on the far side of his door. The bolt was sliding open. Who is it now? he wondered. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. He just wanted them all to go to sleep. Then it would be safe to disappear through the wall and go to the mirror. The mirror! The thought of sitting before it again made him shiver with anticipation.

  The door opened, and Aunt Elaine came in carrying a covered dish. She smiled. Bert tried to smile back.

  “It must be hard for you,” she said. She put the dish on the wooden table and sat in one of the chairs beside it. Bert slumped into the other seat.

  “I’ve asked your uncle about letting you out again,” his aunt said. “But he hasn’t budged yet.”

  And I hope he doesn’t. “Oh well,” Bert said. He heard a creak and realized he was rocking back and forth in his chair. He grabbed the seat to make himself stop.

  “You poor thing,” Aunt Elaine said. “You’re going crazy in here, aren t you?”

  I’ll feel better if you just shut up and leave, Bert thought. He fought back a powerful urge to scream at her. Then he took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. Calm down, Bert. What’s the matter with you? She’s always been nice.

  “You must be hungry. Here’s your dinner,” said Aunt Elaine. She uncovered the dish. There was a bowl of soup, teeming with green leaves, and a fat slab of bread with a gob of half-rnelted butter, “I get the feeling you want to be alone, Bert. But haven’t you had enough of solitude?”

  Bert shrugged. “I really don’t mind. I prefer it, in fact.”

  Aunt Elaine stared at him, frowning, for too long. “Is there anything else troubling you, Bert? This confinement is terrible enough, of course. But … you seem different somehow, Is there anything you want to tell me?” She reached out to pat his hand, but Bert jerked his arm away. Again he had to bite off an angry shout. It was infuriating, the way she seemed to look right into his mind.

  “Why would I have anything to tell you? I’m fine, Aunt Elaine. I’ll stay all summer in this room if I have to.”

  Aunt Elaine stood and smoothed the front of her dress. “All right, Bert. But I’ll talk to your uncle again. Can I at least tell him you’ll apologize for being rude?”

  Bert ripped off a hunk of bread and popped it into his mouth. It had no flavor. “Tell him whatever you like,” he said without looking at her. His aunt left, not saying another word. He heard the bolt snap back into place on the other side of the door.

  Finally, Bert thought, exhaling loudly. He looked longingly at the tapestry that concealed the Tunnel of Stars. He wanted badly to run down those stairs, right away. But he knew it wasn’t safe. He had to wait until everyone else had gone to bed. Two hours? Three? The minutes would feel like years.

  At least, with the door bolted shut, he figured his uncle wouldn’t bother to check on him. As far as Lord Charmaigne knew, Bert had no way out.

  He closed his eyes, hugged himself with his arms crossed, and rocked back and forth in his chair, no longer caring about the noise it made. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

  “I’m here, Mirror,” Bert said, running to the throne. He wiped the perspiration from his brow. His teeth hurt from clenching his jaw.

  I am glad you are here. I have been thinking about you.

  Bert settled into the chair. A surge of pride warmed his veins. The mirror was thinking about me! “You have? What have you been thinking?”

  How you must miss your brother.

  Bert leaned to one side and rested his chin on one hand. My brother. In truth, he’d been feeling something toward Will that he’d never felt before. Resentment. Jealousy. It grew by the hour, consuming his thoughts.

  Would you like to know what he is doing? the mirror whispered.

  “What he’s doing? Sleeping, probably,” said Bert, lifting his head from his palm.

  I can tell you what he is doing.

  “Tell me? How?”

  You must ask.

  “Ask?” Bert’s brow furrowed. He straightened from his slouch and gripped the arms of the chain “You mean, like ‘Tell me what Will is doing’?”

  The mirror flickered, like
lightning inside a distant cloud. Its surface took on that liquid appearance again. Ripples started from the center and disappeared under the frame. There was a humming, whining sound, like a moistened finger circling the rim of a crystal goblet.

  The mirror spoke.

  The hour is late. Most in Ambercrest are sleeping. But a man and a boy talk deep into the night, in a room filled with papers, lit by candles. They discuss the philosophy of war, the art of leadership. The man is a knight. The boy is your brother. The knight asks Will what sort of baron he would be. Will says he would be fair and honest, slow to anger…

  “Enough!” cried Bert. He shot out of the chair and stomped about the chamber, clutching a handful of hair. “What’s Will talking about? He always said I’d be the one, not him! That should be me! I should be getting those lessons, not Will! Why didn’t Father just send Andreas back to wherever he came from when he found out I’d left?” He walked to the side of the chamber and bashed the wall with his fist. “Why is this happening?” he muttered. He remembered again what Father had said when he leaned into the carriage with that conspiratorial gleam in his eye, thinking Bert was Will. I know everyone believes that Bert will be baron one day. But I wouldn’t assume that if I were you. And now Will was telling the knight what a great baron he’d be.

  “Perfect,” Bert said in a voice like acid. He put his forehead on the cold stone. “Just perfect. Father must have been so happy that I switched places with Will. It worked out just right for both of them, didn’t it?”

  Don’t lose hope, Bert, the mirror whispered. You may still get what you desire.

  “No,” Bert said. “I’m losing everything. I’ll never get what I want.”

  You will get what you desire. If you let me help you. If you use me.

  Bert lifted his head and turned around to look at the mirror. “Use you?” A dark thought shadowed his mind. “Wait. Did the Witch-Queen use you?”

  I do not know that name, said the mirror.

  “Rohesia, This was her secret place. She must have used you to see things too. The way you told me what Will was doing. Didn’t she?”