The Mirror of Fate (2 page)

T. A. B.

In misty dreams and shadowed memories
Of fabled cities I have dwelt apace . . .
In crystal splendor I have spanned the seas
And clothed myself in legendary grace.

—From a sixth-century poem,

SONG OF DYFYDDIAETH

The world from which the stories came
lies still within the astral mists . . .

—W.B.Yeats

P
ROLOGUE

Many are the mirrors I have examined; many are the faces I have seen. Yet for all these years—lo, all these centuries—there is but one mirror, with one visage, I cannot forget. It has haunted me from the start, from that very first instant. And it haunts me no less to this day.

Mirrors, I assure you, can cause more pain than broadswords, more terror than ghouls.

Under the stone archway, mist billowed and swirled, roving about like an all-seeing eye.

The mist did not rise from the ground, or from some steaming pool nearby. Rather, this mist formed out of the very air under the arch, behind the strange, quivering curtain that held it back as a dam might hold a swelling tide. Even so, the vapors often pushed past, licking the purple-leafed vines that wrapped around the pillars. But more often, as now, they churned deep within the archway, forming and dissolving shapes in endless procession: ever changing, ever the same.

Then, without warning, the curtain of mist shuddered, hardening into a flat sheet. Beams of light struck its surface, breaking apart like shards of glass; vague shapes from the surrounding marshes reflected there. Somewhere behind the reflections, clouds continued to churn, touched by dark, distorted shadows. And a mysterious light, glinting from the depths beyond.

For this curtain was truly a mirror, one filled with mist—and more. A mirror with its own movement, its own pulse. A mirror with something stirring far beneath its surface.

Suddenly, from the very center came a waft of vapors, followed by something else—something slender. And twisted. And alive. Something very much like a hand.

With long nails, sharper than claws, the fingers reached outward, groping. Three of them, then a fourth, then a thumb. Wisps of mist from the marsh curled around them, adorning them with delicate, lacelike rings. But the fingers shook free before closing into a fist.

For a long moment, the fist squeezed itself tightly, as if testing its own reality. The skin, nearly as pale as the surrounding vapors, went whiter still. The fingernails dug deeper into the flesh. All over, the fist quivered from strain.

Ever so slowly, the hand started to relax. The fingers uncurled, flexed, and worked the air. Hazy threads wove themselves around the thumb and stretched across the open palm. At the same time, the mirror itself darkened. From the edges of the crumbling stones, deep shadows seeped inward, covering the surface. In a few moments, the whole archway gleamed like a black crystal, its smooth surface unbroken but for the pale hand squirming in its center.

A sharp creaking split the air. It might have come from the mirror, or the ancient stones themselves, or somewhere else entirely. With it came a scent—compellingly sweet, akin to rose blossoms.

A wind stirred, carrying away both the sound and the perfume. Both vanished into the rancid terrain of the Haunted Marsh. No one, not even the marsh ghouls themselves, noticed what had happened. Nor did anyone witness what happened next.

The hand, fingers splayed wide, lunged forward. Behind it came the wrist, forearm, and elbow. The gleaming surface suddenly shattered, melting back into a shifting, quivering mirror, as restless as the mists within its depths.

Out of the archway strode a woman. As she planted her boots on the muddy ground, she smoothed the creases on her white robe and silver-threaded shawl. Tall and slender she stood, with eyes as lightless as the interior of a stone. Glancing back at the mirror, she smiled grimly.

She gave her black, flowing locks a shake, and turned her attention to the marsh. For a long moment she listened to its distant wailing and hissing. Then she grunted in satisfaction. Under her breath, she whispered: “This time, my dear Merlin, you shall not elude me.”

With that, she gathered her shawl about her shoulders and strode off into the gloom.

P
ART
O
NE

1: SHADOWS

I strained, throwing all my strength into the task, but my shadow refused to move.

Again I tried. Still, the stubborn shadow would not budge. Closing my eyes—a meaningless gesture, since they couldn’t see anyway, having been replaced by my second sight over three years ago—I tried my best to concentrate. To perceive nothing but my shadow. That was not easy, on a bright summer day like this, though it still seemed easier than my task.

All right, then. Clearing my mind, I pushed aside the sound of rustling grasses on this alpine meadow, and of splattering streamwater nearby. No smells of springmint, or lavender, or pepperwort—almost strong enough to make me sneeze. No boulder, roughened by yellow lichens, resting beneath me; no mountains of Varigal, streaked with snow even in summer, rising above me. No wondering about whether I might encounter my old friend, the giant Shim, in these hills so near his home. And, most difficult of all, no drifting into thoughts about Hallia.

Just my shadow.

Starting from the bottom, I traced the shadow’s outline on the grass. There were my boots, leather straps dangling, planted firmly on top of the boulder. Then my legs, hips, and chest, looking less scrawny than usual because of my billowing tunic. Protruding from one side, my leather satchel—and from the other, my sword. Next, my arms, bent with hands resting on hips. And my head, turned sideways just enough to show the tip of my nose, which, much to my consternation, had started to hook downward in recent months. Already more beak than nose, it reminded me of the hawk who had inspired my name. Then, of course, came my hair: even blacker than my shadow. And, I grumbled to myself, just as unruly.

Move,
I commanded silently, all the while keeping my own body motionless.

No response.

Lift yourself,
I intoned, focusing all my thoughts on the shadow’s right arm.

Still no response.

I released a growl. Already I had wasted the entire morning trying to coax it to move independently. So what if shadow-working was a skill reserved only for the eldest wizards—true mages? I never was much good at waiting.

I drew a long, slow breath.
Lift. Lift, I say.

For a long moment, I stared, exasperated, at the dark form. Then . . . something started to change. Slowly, very slowly, the shadow’s outline started to quiver. The edges of its shoulders grew blurry, while its arms quaked so violently they seemed to swell in size.

Better. Much better.
I forced myself not to move, not even to brush away the bothersome drops of perspiration rolling down my temples.
Now, right arm. Lift yourself.

With a sharp jerk, the shadow’s arm straightened. And lifted—all the way above the head. Though I held my own body fixed, a thrill raced through me—a mixture of excitement, and discovery, and pride in my growing powers. At last, I had done it! Worked my own shadow! I could hardly wait to show Hallia.

Though I felt as if I could fly off the boulder, I kept myself still. Only my widening grin betrayed my feelings. Returning my attention to the shadow, its arm still raised, I savored my success. To think that I, barely fifteen years of age, could move my shadow’s—

Left arm? My whole chest constricted. It should have moved the right, not the left! With a roar, I stomped my boots and waved my own arms angrily. The shadow, as if in spite, did the same back at me.

“You foolish shadow! I’ll teach you some obedience!”

“And when will that be?” asked a resonant voice behind me.

I spun around to face Hallia. Stepping as lightly as a doe, she seemed more supple than the summer grass. Yet I knew that, even in her young woman’s form, she was ever alert to any possible danger—ready to run like the deer she could become in an instant. As the sunlight glinted on her auburn braid, her immense brown eyes watched me with humor. “Obedience, if I recall, isn’t one of your strong points.”

“Not me, my shadow!”

Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “Where leaps the stag, so leaps his shadow.”

“But—but I . . .” My cheeks grew hotter as I stammered. “Why do you have to appear right now? Just when I’ve botched everything?”

She stroked her long chin. “If I didn’t know better, I might think you had been hoping to impress me.”

“Not at all.” I clenched my fists, then shook them at my shadow. Seeing it wave its own fists back at me only made me angrier. “Fool shadow! I just want to make it do what it should.”

Hallia bent to study a sprig of lupine, as deep purple as her robe. “And I just want to keep you a little humble.” She sniffed the tower of petals. “That’s usually Rhia’s responsibility, but since she’s off learning the speech of the canyon eagles—”

“With my horse to carry her,” I grumbled, trying to stretch my stiff shoulders.

“True enough.” She glanced up and smiled, more with her eyes than with her lips. “She can’t, after all, run like a deer.”

Something about her words, her tone, her smile, made my anger vanish like mist in the morning sun. Even my shoulders seemed to relax. How, I couldn’t begin to explain. Yet all at once, I recalled the secrets she had shown me of transforming myself into a deer, as well as the joys of running beside her—with hooves instead of feet, four legs instead of two; with keen sight, and keener smell; with the ability to hear not just through my ears, but through my very bones.

“It’s . . . well, it’s—ahhh . . .,” I stammered. “Nice, I suppose. To be here. With you, I mean. Just—well, just you.”

Her doelike eyes, suddenly shy, turned aside.

Emboldened, I climbed down from the rock. “Even in these days, these weeks, we’ve been traveling together, we haven’t had much time alone.” Tentatively, I reached for her hand. “If it hasn’t been one of your deer people, or some old friend, it’s been—”

She jerked her hand away. “So you haven’t liked what I’ve shown you?”

“No. I mean yes. That’s . . . oh, that’s not what I’m saying! You know how much I’ve loved being here—seeing your people’s Summer Lands: those high meadows, the birthing hollow, all the hidden trails through the trees. It’s just that, well, the best part has been . . .”

As my voice faltered, she cocked her head. “Yes?”

I glanced her way, meeting her gaze for barely an instant. But it was enough to make me forget what I had wanted to say.

“Yes?” she coaxed. “Tell me, young hawk.”

“It’s, well, been . . . Fumblefeathers, I don’t know!” My brow furrowed. “Sometimes I envy old Cairpré, tossing off poems whenever he likes.”

She half grinned. “These days, it’s mostly love poems to your mother.”

More flustered than ever, I exclaimed, “That’s not what I meant!” Then, seeing her face fall, I realized my gaffe. “I mean . . . when I said that, what I meant was—not, well, not what I meant to say.”

She merely shook her head.

Again, I stretched my hand toward her. “Please, Hallia. Don’t judge me by my words.”

“
Hmfff,
” she grunted. “Then how should I judge you?”

“By something else.”

“Like what?”

A sudden inspiration seized me. I grasped her hand, pulling her across the grass. Together we ran, our feet pounding in unison. As we neared the edge of the stream, our backs lowered, our necks lengthened, our arms stretched down to the ground. The bright green reeds by the water’s edge, glistening with dew, bent before us. In one motion, one body it seemed, we sprang into the air, flowing as smoothly as the stream below us.

We landed on the opposite bank, fully transformed into deer. Swinging about, I reared back on my haunches and drew a deep breath, filling my nostrils with the rich aromas of the meadow—and the full-hearted freedom of a stag. Hallia’s foreleg brushed against my own; I replied with a stroke of an antler along her graceful neck. An instant later we were bounding together through the grass, prancing with hooves high, listening to the whispering reeds and the many secret murmurs of the meadow. For a time measured not in minutes but in magic, we cavorted.

When, at last, we stopped, our tan coats shone with sweat. We trotted to the stream, browsed for a while on the shoots by the bank, then stepped lightly into the shallows. As we walked upstream, our backs lifted higher, our heads taller. Soon we were no longer wading with our hooves, but with our feet—mine booted, Hallia’s bare.

In silence, we clambered up the muddy bank and stepped through the rushes. When we reached the boulder, scene of my unsuccessful shadow-working, Hallia faced me, her doe’s eyes still alight. “I have something to tell you, young hawk. Something important.”

I watched her, my heart pounding like a great hoof within my chest.

She started to speak, then caught herself. “It’s—oh, it’s so hard to put into words.”

“I understand, believe me.” Gently, I ran my finger down her arm. “Later perhaps.”

Hesitantly, she tried again. “No, now. I’ve been wanting to say this for a while. And the feeling has grown stronger with every day we’ve spent in the Summer Lands.”

“Yes?” I paused, trying to swallow. “What is it?”

She edged a bit closer. “I want you to, to . . . know something, young hawk.”

“Know what?”

“That I . . . no, that you—”

Suddenly a heavy object rammed into me, knocking me over backward. I rolled across the grass, stopping only at the edge of the stream. After untangling myself from my tunic, which had somehow wrapped itself around my head and shoulders, I leaped to my feet with a spray of mud. Grimacing, I grasped the hilt of my sword and faced my attacker.

But instead of lunging forward, I groaned. “Not you. Not now.”

A young dragon, her purple and scarlet scales aglow, sat beside us. She was tucking her leathery wings, still quivering from flight, against her back. Her immense, gangly form obscured the boulder, as well as a fair portion of the meadow, which is why she had sent me sprawling when she landed. Only Hallia’s quick instincts had spared her the same fate.