The Mirror of Fate

by T.A. Barron

  “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 WALL OF FLAMES

  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:

  Center of the swamp,

  By a flaming tree,

  Lies the missing treasure:

  Ever precious key.”

  Gingerly, I touched the center of my chest. “Let’s hope your father was right about its powers.”

  “He was right, I’m sure of that.” She squinted at the thorny ceiling. “I wish I could remember what else he said. It was about how to use the key, I think.”

  I tapped her shoulder. “No matter. I’m glad you remembered as much as you did.” Turning to the spot, still shadowed, where Ector had slept, I said, “I’d better wake up—”

  My whole body went rigid. “Hallia! He’s gone.”

  “No!” she cried, slapping the sides of her face. “He wouldn’t . . .” She turned to me and scowled. “I knew we should never have let him join us.”

  Still stunned, I slowly shook my head. “I can’t believe he’d betray our trust like that. Maybe he just left early to continue his own search.”

  She continued to scowl. “Without bothering to say farewell? No, young hawk, I’ll tell you where he went—and what he’s searching for. The key.”

  Grimly, I nodded. “I’m afraid you’re right. But I really thought he gave more value to friendship—the way Shallia did, in your story.”

  “Apparently not.”

  I rolled over and started crawling into the thorn-rimmed tunnel. “Come. He could have a sizeable lead.”

  As we emerged from the jumble of branches, a cacophony of howling and chattering greeted us. Much as I disliked the notion of going back into the swamp, I felt a wash of relief that, at least, we would not have to face the marsh ghouls. And that their new aggressiveness hadn’t prompted them to terrorize by daylight. Even so, something that Shim had said still troubled me. Or perhaps I just hadn’t heard him correctly. But he had, I thought, said something or other about the marsh ghouls in the day. Whatever—they were nowhere to be found right now.

  Standing at the edge of the rise, I discerned a slight yellowing of the vapors in one direction. It gave a golden hue to everything, even the large, burbling pool where I had nearly drowned last night. Of course! The rising sun.

  Hallia, following my gaze—and, as usual, my thoughts—swiveled and pointed toward a stretch of twisted shrubbery and steaming pools. “There,” she pronounced. “The treeless ridge lies over there.”

  Just then I spotted a glint of moisture on the ground near the base of the trees. Gleaming gold, it snaked down the slope before disappearing into the muck. Hallia and I ran over to the spring and knelt by a small, clear pool formed by a curved root. We thrust our faces into the water, drinking eagerly, slurping and gasping in turn. At last, we looked at each other, hair dripping onto our shoulders.

  Hallia glanced anxiously toward the marsh. “If only Gwynnia were with us now! She could carry us straight to the Flaming Tree.”

  “We could turn ourselves into deer,” I suggested.

  She shook her head, spraying me with droplets. “No, in this kind of muck, any legs are a problem. Four would, in many cases, be even worse than two.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  Together we rose, and plunged again into the swamp. Thick mud oozed into my boots; moss-coated branches tore at my legs; clouds of vapor, smelling of sulphur, swirled so close at times that it seemed more like dusk than early morning. I felt a strange sense of foreboding—something in the air, or the sopping terrain, or perhaps the depths of my own chest. Even my shadow, stepping alongside me, seemed shrunken and subdued.

  A circle of questions ran over and over through my mind: Would we arrive at the hiding place of the key, only to find that Ector had already taken it? How could that boy who had affected me so surprisingly, who had felt such loyalty to me that he gave me his precious elixir, do such a thing? And how much longer would the elixir be able to hold off the bloodnoose?

  For two or three hours we trekked, through murky shallows and desolate flats. The marsh seemed endless, the misty light unvaried. Yet Hallia’s sense of direction never wavered, just as her pace never slowed. Whenever I wondered how she could possibly judge distance and direction on such a landscape, I remembered the continual ache between my shoulder blades. Perhaps her own people’s curse, and her vision of our destination, remained equally constant.

  As we struggled across a wide pool, trying to keep to stones and mounds of grass—anything more solid than bogwater—I noticed a single, wide-leafed lily growing on the surface. Its pointed white petals thrust upward, ringing the bright yellow bud in its center. In the hazy light, it looked almost like a crown, resting upon the water.

  Instinctively, I fingered my empty scabbard. Would I ever know the heft of that bright blade again? And, more important, would I ever be able to fulfill my promise to Dagda, to deliver the sword safely to the virtuous king who would call it his own? At this point, that promise seemed more a dream than a destiny.

  Finally, we reached higher ground. We started ascending a steep hill, covered with stubby brown grass and jagged stones that rose sometimes to our shoulders. As we pushed through an immense cobweb strung between two of the stones, Hallia stopped abruptly. She stood, poised, for a frozen moment. I said nothing, listening to the chattering and wailing of the marsh.

  She turned to me at last. “Do you smell it?”

  I sniffed the pungent air, but found nothing new. “Smell what?”

  “Smoke.”

  Without waiting for me to answer, she started off again, leading us higher on the slope. A few moments later I, too, caught the scent of something burning. And, though I couldn’t be sure, the fleeting aroma of rose blossoms once again. The mist, heavier and darker than before, swallowed us, obscuring any view.

  As the terrain began to level, the smoky smell grew stronger. Then . . . a glimmer of light appeared. We drew closer, hearing an unfamiliar sound: a wavering, unsteady roar, loud enough at times to overwhelm the other noises of the swamp. Pressing ahead, we found ourselves gazing at a whirling circle of flames.

  Pouring out of a ring of vents in the ground, the fire blazed forth, licking the clouds. Every so often it would sputter, choking back, only to rise again with still more fury. Even from a distance, the intense heat burned my cheeks. I fell back a step, remembering the flames in Gwynedd that had scarred my face forever. Those flames had cost me my own eyes—and another boy his life.

  The fire dropped down again, releasing a burst of black smoke. The smoke billowed forth, then suddenly parted. There, in the center of the blazing circle, stood a single, contorted tree. Its wood long since replaced by glowing coals, it remained standing somehow, whether by the force of gases from the vents, or by some peculiar magic of its own.

  With awe, I watched the blackened form disappear behind a rising wall of fire. “The Flaming Tree.”

  Hallia bit her lip. “It looks impossible to reach.”

  “You�
��re right about that.”

  We whirled around to face Ector. His robe, even more shredded than before, showed many charred threads. One side bore three or four holes eaten by fire. His face, somehow, had lost its youthful air; his blue eyes seemed blank.

  Averting his gaze, he shifted from one foot to another. “I’m sorry I left without you,” he said remorsefully. “But I couldn’t wait.”

  My brow knitted. “You mean you didn’t want to wait. You wanted to find the key before we did.”

  He glanced at the circle of flames, making half his face glow like a fire coal. “Yes, that’s true. And I wanted something else.”

  “What else,” demanded Hallia, striking the ground with her foot, “would justify betraying us?”

  “I wanted . . .” he began, then swallowed with difficulty. “I wanted to save my master.”

  “Save him?” I asked skeptically. “Just how?”

  His head drooped forward. “He is locked up—imprisoned. If he isn’t set free, and soon, terrible things will happen! And, though my master hasn’t said so directly, I’m sure that he will also die.” His expression hardened. “When I left him, his command was clear: Find the key, and let no one else use it for any purpose.”

  Hallia slammed her fist into her hand. “If young hawk doesn’t get to use the key, then he will die.”

  The boy turned to me, his face twisted with anguish. “It’s what . . . what I feared would happen. This is the choice I’ve been wrestling with ever since last night.” He drew a ragged breath. “But I think—no, I’m sure—my first loyalty must be to my master. If I could do something for you, believe me, I would.”

  Feeling so much pain in him, as well as in myself, I said nothing.

  “The vial,” he went on, “was mine to give. The key, though, is my master’s.”

  “No!” cried Hallia. “The key belongs to no one! Where was this master of yours when my father stole deep into this marsh, risking his life to keep the key away from Stangmar’s soldiers?” Her eyes narrowed. “Who is your master, anyway?”