The Mirror of Fate (18 page)

“You were right about that.” Ector, his face smeared with soot, trudged over to us. The cloth of one sleeve sent thin trails of smoke into the air. His whole body drooped, nearly as much as my own.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“My body? Fine.” He shook his mass of curls. “My quest, though—it’s ruined.”

“Why? We still have the key. I’ve already told you that after I use it, you can take it to your master.”

He sighed. “You can’t use it. Nor can he.”

“Why not?” I lifted the enchanted object, last of the Seven Wise Tools. “She didn’t take it.”

“For good reason,” he answered glumly. His blackened hand snatched it from me. “Just look at it.”

Both Hallia and I stiffened. For the sapphire no longer gleamed from atop the polished crown. Now, in the gem’s place, sat something else: a lump of charcoal. The entire key had lost its luster—and, I could tell, something far more precious.

Ector’s voice sounded hollow. “That must have been why he warned me to let no one else use it! For its powers, as great as they were, could only work once. Now he is doomed.”

I groaned, sinking lower, until my knees crunched against the charred soil. “So am I.”

The boy, biting his lip, placed his hand on my shoulder. “You didn’t know.”

“Through my own arrogance! You tried to tell me. Now the only ones who will ever gain any benefit from the last Wise Tool are a troop of marsh ghouls.”

Hallia, her lips pinched, turned toward the roaring blaze encircling the tree. “All my father’s efforts . . . for what? He would be sickened.” She stamped on the ground. “The marsh ghouls won’t even be grateful. It’s not in their nature.”

I shook my head morosely. “What a fool I am!” Sullenly, I turned to Ector. “Forgive me, if you can.”

His crystalline eyes studied me. “I can. I only hope my master can do the same for me.”

I dropped the useless object on the ground. Though it still reflected the glow of the flames, its inner fire had vanished. “Now both of us must die.”

“Wait.” He ran a hand through his curly hair. “Not both of you. Not necessarily.”

I drew a ragged breath. “How so?”

“My master—he might still be able to save you. If we can get you there in time.”

Hallia and I exchanged doubtful glances. I shook my head. “Why would he do that? After what I’ve done to him?”

Ector smiled wistfully. “Because, well, he’s a very good man. And the healing arts are his specialty. If he can help you, he will. Of that I’m certain.” He rubbed his blackened chin. “And besides, there’s something about you, young hawk, something . . . different. My master, I think, will see it, too.”

Hallia stared at the knotting vapors. “I do hope you’re right. It could be our only chance.”

She helped me to my feet. Then, leaning on my staff for support, I hobbled over to my sword. The blade, brightly shining, seemed ready to greet me as an old friend. I took the hilt and tugged, hoping to pull it free. The blade twisted a bit, creaking in the turf, but didn’t lift at all. Frustrated at my lack of strength, I tried again—with no success.

“Here,” offered Ector, “let me try.” He wrapped his own hand around the hilt. All of a sudden he froze, a look of wonder in his eyes. “This sword . . . feels strange somehow.”

I nodded. “It has a power, and a destiny, of its own.”

Bracing himself, he tugged. To my surprise—and annoyance—the sword slid upward, as easily as a fish leaping out of water. Ector, his eyes still alight, handed me the weapon. I took it, pondering his expression. Then I plunged the blade into my scabbard, glad to have it with me once again.

Stroking my chin, I examined the slender hole in the ground left by the blade. “Why, I wonder, did Nimue leave it behind?”

“Simple,” answered Ector. “She had no further use for it. She needed it only to tempt you—to lure you into her wicked little trap. Once she saw that wouldn’t happen, she cast it aside. Just as she does to anything, or anyone, she no longer needs.”

“She’s horrible,” growled Hallia. Her round eyes darted to me. “What she said there was a lie, wasn’t it? There never was anything, well,
between
you, was there?”

“Of course not! She tried one time to trick me out of my staff, that’s all.” I frowned in puzzlement. “I can’t fathom how she’s grown so much older.”

“I can explain that,” declared Ector. “She comes from the same place I do.”

“And where is that?”

The boy’s voice dropped to a whisper. “From a country called Wales, part of the isle my master calls Gramarye. And from a time . . . in the future.”

My legs, already wobbly, nearly buckled. “Help me understand. You’re saying that both you and the older Nimue traveled here to this marsh from another time?”

He nodded gravely.

“That must have required great power.”

“Yes.” Even beneath the soot, I could see his cheeks flush. “But it’s not a power that belongs to any person. It belongs to the Mirror. That’s how I came here. And that’s how I’m going to take you back to Gramarye.”

P
ART
T
HREE

20:
T
HE
M
ISTS OF
T
IME

We trudged through the swamp for the rest of the day, the light dwindling along with our strength. Hallia and I hadn’t swallowed anything but a little water since last night’s supper of vegetable slices; Ector, I was certain, felt no less hungry. And lack of food was the least of my own worries: Deep inside my chest, I felt a slow, relentless tightening.

My whole body ached, as my strength withered. Walking, even breathing, grew more difficult, while my eyes and throat throbbed painfully. I remembered one time, as a fevered child, thrashing about on my pallet of straw; I could still hear my mother singing softly as she pressed cold cloths against my forehead and poured soothing potions down my throat. The memory made me miss her, though I knew that none of her healing herbs could help me now. Why then did I think Ector’s master, whatever his skills, could do any better?

To my surprise, Ector seemed to know his route across the marshy terrain. He led us down the ridge and across a flooded field where mossy tree trunks stood like forgotten graves. Plodding willfully, he paused only to help one of us, usually me, through the most treacherous patches. From the moment we departed the Flaming Tree, he hardly slowed his pace, rarely changed direction, and never backtracked.

At one point, the muck sucked at my boot—so hard that it slid off completely. I fell forward, splashing into the bog. Thanks to my staff, I managed to stand again, though my head swam from the exertion. As I hopped, dripping wet, back to my boot, Ector slogged over to help. He grabbed the leather top, which was nearly submerged. With a loud slurp, it pulled free. “Here,” he declared, scooping out some of the mud. “Not much farther to go.”

“How do you know?” I asked, panting heavily as I forced my foot back into the boot. “Have you been this way before?”

He nodded. “It’s the way I came before. But I’m not really guiding us. The Mirror is.”

Still breathing hard, I shot him a puzzled look.

“Somehow it knows,” he explained, “who has already passed through. It helps you find your way back—just as, when we pass through again, my master will bring us the rest of the way.”

My confusion deepened. “Pass through?”

He stepped away, saying no more. In fact, during the trekking that followed, none of us spoke at all, except now and then to curse the branches that clutched at our clothes, or the sulfurous clouds that seared our lungs. Amidst our silence, the howlings of the marsh seemed even louder than before. Yet I had little strength to worry about it. My frame continued to weaken, my legs to drag. Everything I carried—my staff, my boots, even my sword—felt heavier with each step.

What a terrible mistake I had made by using the key! Not only had I spoiled Ector’s quest; I had probably condemned myself to die. And for what? Nimue still roamed the marsh. She was less powerful, perhaps, without the marsh ghouls and whatever powers she had granted them, but she remained as scheming and vengeful as before. I could still feel her malevolent presence, as tangible as my own staff. I couldn’t rid myself of the feeling that she had not yet finished with her plans for the marsh—or, indeed, for me.

Finally, we approached what seemed to be a rough-hewn arch. Purple-leafed vines curled around the edges of the two stone pillars that supported the crosspiece. A tangle of thick moss, dripping wet, hung down from the top.

I trudged up to the others. Standing beside Hallia, I found my vision drawn to the arch—and the shifting mirror it contained. The surface, glinting strangely, reflected our own faces, though they looked shadowy and distorted, almost unrecognizable. All the while, the mirror bent and bubbled, as if it were not a mirror at all but a curtain of mist. Indeed, dark vapors churned within its depths—quite different, however, from the vapors of the marsh.

For the mist within the mirror moved with a pattern—almost, it seemed, a mind—of its own. Clouds would knot, then unravel, only to twist themselves into knots again; these, in turn, would open into misty vistas, showing glimpses of valleys, homes, or half-formed hills; then all the vistas would combine, flowing into one another, forming a single knot that would begin to unravel again. Again and again the process repeated, but with new variations each time.

“That mirror . . .” I began, peering at my twisted reflection. “It’s almost alive.”

Ector’s head bobbed up and down. “My master would agree with you. He says the Mirror is really a passage, a doorway. It leads to what he calls the Mists of Time, though he says they’ve also had other names across the ages.”

Leaning against my staff, I peered into the archway with a mixture of fear and fascination.
The Mists of Time.
I savored the name, as well as the idea. How often Cairpré, in teaching me the lore of Fincayra and other lands, had stopped just to ponder the notion of time. For he, like myself, sensed its mysterious powers. He also knew that I had always longed to move through time—even dreaming, as a young boy, about traveling through it backward. To grow younger, as the world around me grew older! It was a bizarre thought, I knew, yet one I still secretly cherished.

The Mirror bulged, contorting our faces. One of Hallia’s eyes swelled until it seemed ready to burst, then suddenly fractured into a dozen tiny eyes, all staring back at us. Doubtfully, I asked Ector, “Are you sure that’s where we go?”

He swallowed. “I’m suite.” Looking down at his mud-crusted boots, he added, “It’s coming out the other side I’m not so certain about.”

Hallia and I traded worried glances.

“What did your master say to do,” I probed, “when you wanted to return?”

Ector drew a long breath. “Just call to him. He vowed to bring me home.”

My head throbbed. “He thinks you’ll be bringing him the key. Is he depending on that, somehow, to help him find you in there?”

“I, well . . . don’t know.”

A bolt of pain shot through my middle. I shouted, collapsing to my knees on the muddy ground. Though the pain subsided quickly, it left me quaking, feeling even weaker.

Hallia knelt beside me, placing her hand on my brow. “You feel so hot! Oh, young hawk, this is foolhardy. To walk into—into
that.
It’s less like a mirror than a terrible, angry storm! And what chance do you have of coming out alive? There must be a better way.”

Feeling the pinch in my chest again, I coughed. “No, there isn’t.”

She winced. “So be it. But I’m coming with you.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Hearing the voice, thin and whistling, we froze. It came from somewhere nearby. We stared, but saw nothing other than the stone archway and the shifting mirror within.

“Who are you?” Ector called.

I struggled to stand, holding on to Hallia’s arm as well as my staff. “Yes. Show yourself.”

“I only show myself when I like,” whistled the voice.

Abruptly, a catlike paw lifted out of the moss on top of the arch. It twisted, stretching to its fullest length. As it flexed its claws, combing the air, a second paw shot upward. Then a third. A fourth. For a long moment, the paws stretched lazily. “
Ahemmm,
” said the voice. “You are fortunate this is one of those times.”

Listening to the half-snarling, half-purring quality of the words, I wasn’t so sure.

“And I really don’t care what you think,” said the creature, as if it had heard my very thoughts. It continued: “And you, deer woman, ought to be ashamed.”

The color drained from Hallia’s face.

“Thinking I might be a witch in disguise! One who smells of rose blossoms, no less.
Ecchhh.
A thoroughly disgusting idea.”

Suddenly, the paws retracted. A pair of silver-tipped ears poked out of the forest of moss. The rest of the face followed, rising slowly upward. It would have looked exactly like a cat’s face, brown speckled with silver, except for one thing: It lacked any eyes. Smoothly, the creature stood. It rolled its shoulders, stretching the muscles, then sat down near the edge of the crosspiece. As if we didn’t exist, it started licking its forepaws.

In time, the eyeless cat spoke again. “It doesn’t matter, you see. All you need to know is I am . . . well, a friend of the Mirror.”

Ector started to open his mouth, when the cat continued talking.

“You don’t believe me?” Its voice whistled more sharply than before. “I really don’t care whether you do or not.” The cat’s paw dragged over the stone, claws scraping. “Yet you might as well ask yourselves, if I am not a familiar of the Mirror, and the mists it holds, then how do I know so much about them?”

Though my head swam, I moved a few steps nearer. “What do you know?”

The cat arched its back, stretching. Eyes or no eyes, it seemed to be gazing right at me. Right
into
me. After a while its back relaxed.

“More than I care to say,” it answered at last. “Though I will tell you this much. Those mists are full of,
ahemmm,
pathways—where you will encounter many voices, many shadows. And not puny little shadows like that meager one clinging to your boots, oh no. I speak of shadows far more immense, far more terrifying.”