The Mirror of Fate (11 page)

Hallia, crouching by my side, squeezed my hand. “Wait. Just a moment longer. Before we go out there.”

Under my breath, I cursed, “By the breath of Dagda, I’d rather not leave this place at all.”

“I know. Down there, down deep, it’s so safe and quiet and, well, complete. I haven’t felt that way since . . . long ago, when we sat on that beach together, at the shore of my clan’s ancestors. Do you remember?”

I drew a slow, thoughtful breath. “The shore where the threads of mist were woven together.”

“By the greatest of the spirits himself,” she whispered. “My father used to say that Dagda used as his needle the trail of a falling star. And his weaving became a living, limitless tapestry—containing all the words ever spoken, all the stories ever told. Each thread glowing, richly textured, holding something of words and something else, as well. Something beyond all weaving, beyond all knowing.”

Listening to the echo of her words, I wondered about my own story, my own place in the tapestry. Was I a weaver? Or merely a thread? Or perhaps a kind of light within the thread, able somehow to make it glow?

“One day, Hallia, we’ll go back to that shore. And to others, as well.” I pulled my hand from hers. “Not now, though.”

Pressing my shoulders against the soggy mass of peat, I heaved. A sucking, squelching sound erupted. At the same time, muddy water flowed over us. Plus a new wave of odors, more putrid than ever. Sputtering, Hallia crawled out into the swamp. I followed, dropping the slab behind us with a cold splash.

12:
T
OO
S
ILENT

Quiet lay the marshes—strangely quiet, like a heart at the very edge of beating. Gone were all the wails and moans, as well as the backdrop of pipings and creakings, that we had heard before. Hallia and I traded uncertain glances as we stepped into the swamp, our feet squelching loudly.

Steaming vapors rose all around, tying knots of mist, churning endlessly. Judging from the vague light filtering through the clouds, it seemed to be late afternoon, though it could easily have been some other time of day. While I felt a surge of gratitude that at least some daylight brightened the swamp, keeping the marsh ghouls at bay for the moment, I knew that it wouldn’t last long. Soon darkness, thicker than the mud on my boots, would return. As would the ghouls.

We stood in a putrid pool, listening to the eerie quiet. The swamp seemed empty, a lifeless receptacle of molding plants and debris. So different from the vibrant underground world we had left behind! For an instant, I recalled the tingling touch of liquid light on my skin: my forearms, my lower back, the soles of my feet. Then the memory vanished, replaced by the reality of muck oozing inside of my boots.

Hallia stepped closer, sending ripples of slime across the pool. “It’s so silent.”

“Too silent.”

Concentrating hard, I stretched my second sight as far as I could into the swirling vapors. Past the murky pool, banked with peat. Past the moss-splattered boulder where a lone crane perched, never blinking, ready to fly at the first sign of trouble. Past the gnarled tree in the distance, tilting almost to the point of toppling into the marsh grass. The tree shone as white as a skeleton, with only a few shreds of bark on its trunk and a mass of dead leaves clinging to one of its branches.

For the briefest instant I caught the scent of something new. Unlike the rest of the aromas assaulting us, this smell was actually pleasant—almost sweet. Although it vanished before I could be sure that I hadn’t just imagined it, the smell reminded me of blossoming flowers. Yes, that was it. Rose blossoms.

Hallia leaned closer. “Where do we go now?”

Again, I tried to gauge the light. It seemed to be growing darker. I smiled sardonically, telling myself that at least for the time being I wouldn’t be facing any more trouble from my shadow. What trouble we
would
be facing, though, I didn’t want to think about.

“Best we find someplace to wait out the night.” I pointed toward the leaning tree. “Over there, beyond that dead tree, is some sort of rise.”

“Dry enough to have no snakes?”

“I think so. All I see growing there is some sort of shrubbery, dotted with berries, I think. Red ones.”

Hallia followed the line of my gaze. “Your vision is so much better than mine in this mist,” she lamented. “I can’t even see the tree, let alone what lies beyond.”

I sighed, stirring the murky water with my boot. “The most important things that lie beyond, I can’t see either.”

We started slogging through the muck, our footsteps echoing over the watery terrain. Rather than breaking the silence, our movement seemed to emphasize it, deepen it. After each step, the quiet took hold again, as if its own relentless steps were following just behind ours.

Through the steaming pools we trudged, doing our best to avoid the decaying branches floating there. At one point I saw, hanging from a branch, a single leaf that seemed to glow in the half-light. I paused to watch it swaying slowly, like a long-forgotten flag. Its fleshy interior had almost completely disintegrated, leaving only a delicate tracery of veins. Placing my hand behind it, I marveled at how much I could see through the open places—and yet how much of the shape of the original leaf still remained. How could so much of it be invisible, and yet visible, at the same time?

Suddenly I heard Hallia groan. I whirled around to see her standing rigid, staring at something at the edge of a murky pool. Slogging to her side, my attention fell to a rotting, dismembered carcass that lay on the peat. What little of the hide remained shone tan and gray. A twisted leg, stripped of all its meat, stretched toward us, its hoof stained with blood.

Hallia groaned again and pressed her face against my shoulder. “A deer, poor thing. How could anyone have done that?”

I merely held her, the image of the glowing leaf now replaced by the gruesome scene before us. In time, without looking back, we started to plod again. Once more, we heard nothing but silence apart from our own movements. But now it seemed clearly the silence of death.

We crossed a mound of peat, which jiggled with our every step, then entered the field of marsh grass surrounding the tilting tree. Stiff stalks brushed against our legs as we approached the tree itself. As Hallia leaned against its trunk, I stood beneath its twisted boughs, trying to find a path we could follow to the rise—and, I hoped, to relative safety. In time, I picked out a suitable route. Pushing aside some brittle grass that reached to my chest, I turned to Hallia.

Suddenly the sharp cry of the crane echoed across the swamp. It lifted off from its perch on the nearby boulder, slapping the fog with its broad, silvery wings. Puzzled at what could have frightened it, I scanned the grasses, but saw nothing. Hallia’s eyes told me that she, too, was puzzled, as well as frightened.

We stood rigid, listening. The beating of the crane’s wings slowly faded away, swallowed by the silence. Then . . . I thought I heard something else. Merely an echo of the bird’s flight? No, this sound seemed closer. Much closer. Rhythmic, like shallow, ragged breathing.

At that instant, something dropped out of the tree and thudded into my back. I fell face-first into the grasses, splattering mud in all directions. Before I could recover, I was tackled by a wiry form shrouded in a mass of torn robes. Over and over we rolled through the muck, each of us vying for control. The layers of tattered robes made my assailant hard to see—and even harder to grasp. At last, I felt my arm wrenched tightly behind my back. A strong hand clamped around my neck.

“Yield,” barked a voice, “if you prize your life at all.”

Sputtering from all the swamp water I had swallowed, I couldn’t respond. The attacker twisted my arm still harder, almost splitting my shoulder in two. Finally, I answered hoarsely, “I . . . ah! Yield.”

“Tell your companion to do the same,” he commanded.

Quick as a deer, Hallia leaped at us from the trunk of the tree. She plowed straight into our foe, sending him careening into the marsh grass. I jumped to my feet and ran to him. Instinctively, I reached for my sword, expecting to hear the ring of its magical blade. Finding it gone, I cringed, remembering—and drew my staff instead.

Brandishing the staff’s knobby handle over the huddled figure, I growled a command of my own. “Now,” I declared, “tell us your name.”

Hallia planted a bare foot on one of his legs to keep him from wriggling away. “And why you attacked us.”

From out of the mass of torn robes, a face slowly lifted. It was not, as I had expected, the face of a warrior goblin. Or that of a grizzled outlaw, bent on harm. No, this face was altogether different, and altogether surprising.

It was the face of a boy.

13:
E
CTOR

The boy stared at us, his face full of anguish. His cheeks, though smeared with mud, still showed a naturally ruddy complexion. Above his flinty blue eyes, yellow curls dangled—barely visible for all the twigs, bracken, and clumps of mud in his hair. His shredded robes hung from him like wilted petals, making him look like an elderly beggar. Yet he couldn’t have been older than twelve.

Still feeling the ache in my shoulder, I waved the staff angrily. “Your name.”

“It’s, well . . .” He paused, licking his lips. “Ector, sir.” Wriggling his leg under Hallia’s weight, he said, “And I didn’t mean to attack you.”

I bristled. “That’s a lie.”

“I, well . . . meant to attack. But not you.” He scratched his head, shaking loose a cluster of twigs, then gazed at me plaintively. “I didn’t know you were a man, you see. I thought you must be a goblin, or something worse.” His brow wrinkled as he stared at my staff, and the strange emblems carved upon it. “You’re not going to hurt me with that, are you?”

I straightened myself, rubbing my shoulder. “No, though by rights I should show you the same kindness you showed me.”

“I’m sorry,” declared the boy. “Truly sorry. That was, er, rather rude of me.”

Hallia removed her foot from his thigh. “Rather.”

I studied him pensively. There was something about this boy—despite my aching frame—that made me feel forgiving. That made me want to give him a second chance, even if he didn’t deserve one. I shoved the staff into the belt of my tunic. “I suppose I can understand your confusion, if not your brashness. This swamp is a bit frightening.”

Ector lowered his eyes. “That it is.”

Extending my hand, I helped him to his feet. “No need to fret, young man. Everyone deserves a chance to make a good healthy mistake now and then. Giants’ bones, I’ve certainly had my share.”

His lips quivered in a grin. “You sound like . . .” His words trailed off. “Like someone I know.”

“Well, I hope you don’t greet him by pouncing out of a tree.”

The grin widened. “Only on Tuesdays.”

“Good. Let’s call this Tuesday, so I’ll have at least a week for my poor body to mend.”

He eyed me gratefully. “Tuesday it is, then.”

“The ways of men are strange indeed,” said Hallia. She stepped forward, her bare feet crunching on the stalks of marsh grass. “Yet I will entrust you with my name, as you have told us yours. I am Eo-Lahallia, though my friends know me as Hallia.” Tilting her head my way, she added, “And this is young hawk.” I started to protest, when she smiled at me and continued. “He goes by other names, as well. But that, I think, is his favorite.”

Softly, I replied, “It is indeed.”

Ector nodded. “I am glad to meet you, Hallia. And you, young hawk.”

I studied the boy’s face, hopeful despite the gathering gloom. Why did I feel this strange urge to help him, even protect him? After all, he had tried his best to pummel me only moments ago. Glancing up at the tree where he had been hiding, I wondered whether the feeling stemmed from my own memory of escaping, as a youngster, to the boughs of a tree. Or whether, in fact, it stemmed from something else, something I couldn’t quite fathom.

Facing him squarely, I asked, “Whatever brought you to this place? Are you lost?”

He pulled a soggy shaft of fern from his neck. “No—and yes. I came here looking for . . .” He turned aside. “For something I cannot name. I’d tell you if I could, really. But he made me promise.”

“Who did?”

“My master.”

I lowered my voice a notch. “Then who is your master?”

A sudden wind arose, stirring his tattered robes and whistling through the grasses. The dead tree, tilting precariously, gave a single, sharp creak.

“Who is it?” I asked again.

“I, well—” Ector bit his lip. “I can’t tell you that, either.”

Hallia cocked her head suspiciously. “You won’t say any more than that?”

Ector shifted nervously, splashing the murky water at his feet. “Well . . . I can tell you I’m lost.”

“How forthcoming,” I said sarcastically.

Meekly, he added, “I wish I could say more.” His blue eyes began to glisten. “Believe me, I don’t want to spend another night—another minute—in this wretched swamp. But now it seems I’m going to fail my mission, as well as my master. I just . . . well, I just don’t want to fail my word as well.”

Taken aback by his sturdy sense of honor, I felt a renewed touch of sympathy. “Keep your secrets, then. But if you won’t tell us where you’re going, or what you’re seeking, we can’t be any help to you.”

The boy worked his tongue as if he were about to say something. Then, catching himself, he swallowed. “Then I must do without your help.” He tried to square his shoulders. “Would you, though, tell me just one thing?”

“It depends.”

He glanced worriedly at the rising vapors. The darkening mist churned, clutching at our legs, entwining about our arms. His voice a whisper, he said, “A few miniites before you appeared, the whole swamp went suddenly quiet. Hear it now? Not even a peeping frog, let alone some of those other, er, noises. That’s when I climbed the tree.” His youthful brow furrowed. “Do you know why it happened? What it means?”

“No. But I’d wager it means trouble.”

Hallia cocked her head, listening to the silence. “Feels like an enchantment to me. An evil enchantment.”