The Mirror of Fate (15 page)

Shallia gazed at her friend. She knew that they would never part again. And she knew that, in the morning, the people of her village would find only a trail of fading footprints in the sand.

By a faraway shore on a faraway sea, the mist rises nightly from star-shining waves. Over the darkening sea it spreads, stretching thin, wispy fingers out to the land. And on this night, as on so many nights before, the mist reaches first to touch a single place, a single rock—the rock still remembered as Shallia’s Stone.

16:
Q
UELJIES

I leaned my head against the tree trunk, still hearing the rhythmic swell of waves upon a faraway shore. In time, I turned to Hallia. “That was wonderful.”

“I’m glad you liked it.” She slid deeper into her hollow among the roots. “It was one of my father’s favorites. He felt a special closeness to mist, so very hard to control or contain.”

“Or even,” I added, “to define. My own mother used to say that mist was neither quite water nor quite air, but something in between.”

As Hallia nodded, the phrase echoed in my mind.
Something in between.
My mother had used those same words, as well, to describe Fincayra itself—on that day long ago in our meager thatched-roof hut. And what else had she called it?
A place of many wonders; neither wholly of Earth nor wholly of Heaven, but a bridge connecting both.

Glancing down at my empty scabbard, and at the spot where the bloodnoose had plunged into my chest, I sighed. She should also have called this island a place of many perils. And choices—many of them clear one moment, then gone the next, like a reflection in a pond that is suddenly disturbed.

In the darkness, I leaned toward Ector. “Did you enjoy the story, young friend?”

His only answer was a series of slow, rhythmic breaths.

“No doubt he did,” said Hallia dryly, “as long as he was awake.” She yawned. “In fact, a little sleep isn’t a bad idea. Maybe you and I should do the same.”

“Yes,” I agreed, listening for a moment to the distant screeching sounds of the marsh beyond the sheltering trees. “But one of us should stay awake. I’ll take the first watch.”

“Are you sure?” She yawned again. “I could do it if you’d rather rest.”

“No, you sleep first.” I drew my knees up to my chest. “I’ll wake you when it’s your turn.”

She shifted herself, laying her head against a burly root. Minutes later, her own breathing was as slow and regular as Ector’s. I straightened my back against the trunk. To keep myself alert, I trained my second sight on a succession of objects—a jagged thorn here, a cluster of leaves there. When my attention fell to one of the small knotholes that lined the thickest branches, I started.

For the knothole, I was certain, had blinked.

I stiffened, staring at the spot. Again the knothole blinked—but no, not quite. It was more like a movement inside the dark spot, a shadow within a shadow. As I watched, hardly daring to move, a vague, shimmering light kindled inside the hole. It glowed subtly—the same dull orange as a fire coal on the verge of dying out. The light pulsed and wavered. I shivered with the feeling that this luminous eye was studying me.

“Ssssso,” hissed a thin, airy voice. “He thought he’d be sssssafe in here.”

Just as I seized the handle of my staff, another light winked from a different branch. “Say-hay-hafe?” it asked. “Who-oo-oo could be say-hay-hafe in su-hu-huch a swa-haw-hawmp?”

“No one, eh-heh, but us,” chortled a third voice. “Eh-heh, eh-heh.” It came from a branch almost directly over Hallia’s head. Although she didn’t waken, her fingers twitched anxiously as the quivering light touched her.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

“Not fre-heh-hends.”

“Not enemies. Eh-heh-heh-heh.”

“Jussssst. . . queljiesssss.”

I sucked in my breath. “Queljies? What’s that?”

“We ar-har-har the wa-ha-hatchers of the swa-haw-hawmp. Oh, ye-he-hes! No-ho-hothing misses u-huh-hus. We see-he-he it a-ha-hall. And we tra-ha-havel in three-hee-hees.”

“Like trouble,” piped one of the others. “Eh-heh, eh-heh, eh-heh.”

All three of the flickering creatures burst into sustained laughter. Their guffaws filled the canopy of branches, drowning out the voices of the swamp. My cheeks burned; now I felt more angry than afraid. I raised my staff, planting its base on a root beside me. The handle nearly brushed the thorns of the ceiling. “Do you intend to bring us harm?”

“Har-ar-arm?” sniggered one. “How-ow-ow could anywuh-hu-huhn har-ar-arm you mo-ho-hore?”

“More?” I asked. “More than what?”

“He’s already lost his way, eh-heh. And don’t forget, eh-heh, his sword.”

I froze. “What do you know about my sword?”

“Just that it’s lost, eh-heh-heh-heh. Like you! Eh-heh, eh-heh.”

“Sssssomething elssssse will be lossssst very sssssoon. Yesssss, quite sssssoon.”

“What?” I asked, turning to the wavering glow.

“Your life, that’sssss what.” The creature broke into a raucous giggle. “Sssssee what we told you? Trouble doesssss come in threesssss.”

A chorus of harsh, grating laughter washed over me, along with splashes of light from the queljies. At first, my anger rose again. I nearly lashed out—then thought better of it. Perhaps another tack might yield a better result. Mustering my patience, I waited until their laughter had faded.

“My. dear queljies,” I began, “you are good-humored, to be sure.”

“He-ee-ee’s trying to fla-ah-ahter u-huh-hus.”

“Think ssssso?”

“You may be good-humored,” I continued, “but you clearly don’t know as much as you let on. In fact, it’s obvious you’re much too delicate to do any exploring out there in the swamplands. So you can’t have learned anything really important.”

“Sssssuch an insssssult.”

“It’s all right,” I said soothingly. “Better to stay safe than expose yourself to dangerous knowledge.”

“You-hoo-hoo have no ide-ee-eea what we-ee-ee know-oh-oh!”

I waited a moment before responding. “Really? Then if you know so much, tell me something I don’t already know.”

“Like wha-ha-hat?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” I paused, chewing my lip thoughtfully. “Like . . . where something lies hidden.”

A knothole flickered. “Hisssss sssssword! We know where that liesssss.”

Though I started perspiring, I waved my hand nonchalantly. “I guess that would do. But of course, you don’t really know.”

“Yesssss we do! It’sssss—”

“Si-hi-hilence!” came the stern command from another branch. “Ha-ah-ave you forgot-ot-otten?”

The other lights glimmered, but didn’t speak.

“There,” I pronounced. “My proof. You really don’t know.”

More flickers. More silence.

“Ah, well.” I yawned, stretching my arms. “I suppose all I’ve heard about queljies is true: lots of bluster, but no knowledge.”

“Not true!” squealed all of them in unison.

At this, both Hallia and Ector awoke. Both of them, seeing the wavering lights in the branches, gasped in astonishment. I waved them silent.

“Show me, then,” I coaxed. “Tell me what you know.”

“Not about your sword, eh-heh, eh-heh. She would surely hurt us, eh-heh-heh, for telling you that.”

“She?” I asked, puzzled.

“She, eh-heh, is—”

“Si-hi-hilence! Spe-he-heak no mo-oh-ore of her.”

“Yes, well, there it is.” I spoke lazily, trying hard to conceal my eagerness. “More proof.”

A tense moment of quiet ensued, broken only by the muffled noises from the marsh. Hallia and Ector fidgeted nervously, their faces half lit by the strange glow. Both concerned and confused, they kept watching me, turning aside only now and then to scrutinize the gleaming knotholes. I could almost hear their heartbeats, along with my own, under the ceiling of branches.

At length, a thin voice broke the silence. “We cannot sssssay anything about your sssssword. But we know many other sssssecrets. Many other treasuresssss.”

I shook my head. “I don’t believe you.”

“Yesssss! It’sssss true.” The glow within the knothole intensified. “Why, we even know the sssssecret hideaway of the ssssseventh Wissssse Tool.”

Hallia stiffened. She reached for my arm and squeezed hard. Ector, meanwhile, peered at the branches, mouth agape. Doing my best to remain calm, I merely shrugged. “That can’t be true. The last of the Wise Tools was lost long ago.”

“Oh yesssss?” Now the voice hissed with utter indignation. “You think ssssso?”

“You’ve shown me no proof. None at all.”

No response other than orange flashes, brighter by the second.

“You poor beasts,” I said, shaking my head sadly. “So small, so frail. At least, I suppose, by never venturing out of your safe little nests you never get into trouble. It’s much better for you, really, that you know nothing of any value.”

“Li-ie-ies!”

“Ssssstupid man.”

“You are the one, eh-heh, who knows nothing.”

Relaxedly, I spoke to Hallia and Ector. “Go back to sleep now, friends. These little creatures are just senseless babblers.”

“Isssss that ssssso? Then how could we know thisssss?”

The lights flared in unison as the voices recited:

“Ce-heh-henter of the swa-haw-hawmp—”

“By a flaming, eh-heh, tree—”

“Liesssss the misssssing treasure: Ever preciousssss key.”

I leaned back against the tree trunk. “Well now, queljies, I am truly impressed. Just imagine knowing such a thing.” As their lights faded away, submerging us in darkness once again, I turned to Hallia. Though I felt frustrated at my inability to learn anything useful about my sword, I couldn’t help but grin that I had, at least, pulled something interesting out of them.

Hallia released her grip on my arm, although she continued to stare at me, her eyes swollen with amazement. And with something else—something urgent. “Young hawk,” she whispered anxiously, “I remember now.”

“Remember what?”

“What my father told me, some of it anyway, about the powers of the key, the seventh Wise Tool. It can—” She caught herself suddenly, glancing over at Ector.

“It’s all right,” I said, motioning toward the boy. “You can trust him.”

“What about those . . . creatures?”

I shook my head. “Them, I have no idea. They might well know already what you’re about to say. On the other hand, they might not. If you’re worried about them, you could just wait until tomorrow to tell me.”

Hallia grunted. “Tomorrow someone else, much less friendly, could be listening. And besides—I want to tell you now. It’s too important.”

At the edge of my vision, I saw Ector crane his neck toward us. No doubt he felt glad, at last, to be trusted. Yet he seemed to be frowning, concerned about something, though it could have been just a trick of my second sight.

In hushed tones, Hallia spoke again. “My father said this about the magical key that was, for so long, in his care: It can unlock any door—to any palace, any chamber, any chest of treasures. Or it can do something else, if held by someone with deep enough magic.”

She paused, making sure her words hit home. “A person of deep magic could use it to unlock not a door—but a spell. Any spell. And forever, young hawk. That spell can never be inflicted again.”

It was my turn, now, to be amazed. “Did he say anything else?’

“Y-yes,” she answered hesitantly. “There was more. I’m sure of it. A warning, I think, about its powers. But . . . I just can’t remember.”

Ector fidgeted on the ground, shifting his weight uneasily.

“But nothing,” she continued excitedly, “matters as much as what I’ve just told you. Why,, don’t you see? The key—if we can truly find it—could save your life. It could! You can use it to unlock the spell of the bloodnoose!”

I sat up sharply, my hand upon my heart. “Why, yes, of course! Then, fully healed, I can regain my sword at last—and do whatever I can to halt the rest of this wickedness. But first I must find the key.”

“
We
must,” she corrected.

“Yes, we! And the Flaming Tree the queljies spoke about . . .”

“Must be where my father hid it!” She slid across the ground to my side. “Of course, I’m sure that’s right. The Flaming Tree of old, deep in the marsh, would have been the safest possible place.” Rubbing her hand along a root, she said dreamily, “I can see the spot now, at the highest part of a treeless ridge . . . oh, young hawk! And we are close—very close. I can feel it in my bones! A half day’s walk, no more.”

“
A trail marked upon the heart.
That’s what you said before.”

“And that’s what it is! Let’s go there right away, shall we?” She halted, listening to the distant shrieks beyond the rise. “At dawn, when the marsh ghouls are gone.”

Gently, I stroked her slender chin. “I’m grateful to your father—and even more, to you.”

Her head tilted toward me, resting on my hand. After a moment, I suggested, “Now why not get a little sleep? It’s still my watch, so rest well. And tomorrow morning, you can follow that trail on the land, as well as your heart.”

17:
A
W
ALL OF
F
LAMES

When I awoke, a hazy light drifted through the web of branches. Hallia lay across from me, encircled by thick roots. Hearing me stir, she looked up, her long auburn hair a tangle of mud, burrs, and bark.

I lifted an eyebrow. “And how are you this morning?”

Her doe’s eyes smiled. “You didn’t wake me for my turn at watch.”

“That’s because,” I confessed, “I fell asleep myself. But no harm came of it.”

“I could use another one of the ballymag’s baths right now.”

“We both could.” I scratched my cheek, peeling off a hard clump of mud. “That bath was the last thing I expected to find in this swamp.” My gaze moved to the three knotholes, now dark, where the strange creatures had appeared. “Almost.”

She, too, scanned the knotholes. “Did they say anything more?”

“No,” I replied, emptying some pebbles out of my boot. “They never reappeared. But while they were here, they said enough, didn’t they?”

She sat up. “That they did. I’ve been hearing it even as I slept: