The Mirror of Fate

by T.A. Barron

  “I am coming, Master! Coming with a friend. I beseech you, bring us both back home.”

  The glinting surface suddenly shuddered, splitting along a crack. Out flowed a long, writhing tentacle of mist that reached toward the boy. The vapors brushed his chin, curled around his ear, then drew back. All at once, the Mirror snapped completely flat. Our reflections, clearer than before but more deeply shadowed, confronted us. At the same time, the sound of a distant chime rolled out of the depths, rising from somewhere far beneath the surface. My own sword caught the sound, ringing faintly in response.

  “Of course it means nothing to me,” said the cat, grooming a paw, “but it might be wise to hold hands.” It paused, flashing an invisible eye at me. “And never, ever let go. Unless you don’t mind being lost forever.”

  As the cat went back to licking itself, I linked hands with Ector. I turned, glancing back at Hallia, feeling another, deeper pain in my chest. Then, on a silent command, the two of us strode into the Mirror.

  21: VOICES

  Our bodies merged into our own reflections as we stepped into the Mirror. Something shattered—and a powerful force dragged us forward, plunging us into darkness. The air thickened, hardening, even as it turned suddenly cold, as if we had been buried under a mountain of snow.

  I felt Ector squeeze my hand. But I couldn’t turn to see him, for my body had gone rigid, compressed by the heavy darkness encasing us both. I struggled to break free, to lift my arms—without success. Breathing, even thinking, grew more and more difficult.

  Then, miraculously, the Mirror’s grip loosened. My shoulder twisted; my head moved; my lungs filled again. The air warmed and swiftly softened into mist, wispy yet somehow sturdy enough to support our weight. At the same time, everything grew lighter. I glanced over at Ector, who returned my gaze, his face full of apprehension.

  We were standing, our feet planted on vaporous ground that stretched without limits in all directions. Billowing clouds of mist rushed toward us, then abruptly withdrew. Columns and spirals sprung up from the clouds, like trees appearing fully grown in a forest, before they vanished into nothingness. Forms—almost recognizable but never quite—arose continuously, hovering briefly at our shoulders. Hollows of mist swelled into canyons; canyons shifted into mountains; mountains vanished in an instant.

  All around us, hazy traces of shapes emerged, transformed, and disappeared. While I couldn’t recognize any images, I felt a rush of familiar feelings. Some shapes tugged on me, alluring, like a dream that I wanted to recall. Others, more disturbing, clawed at me, like a secret fear that had stalked me always.

  Though we stood still, we were constantly moving deeper into the mist. We seemed to be riding some kind of current—a current that drew us toward a mysterious destination. Would it be our destination, I wondered, or the current’s own? Whatever, even if I hadn’t felt so weak, I could not have resisted the relentless pull.

  As the vapors drew us deeper, I recalled the many ways that mist had moved through my life. Even as a child in Gwynedd, I had savored the sight of morning mist rising off the meadow grass, the trees, or the snow-draped summit of Y Wyddfa. How I had longed to touch it, to hold it, this ephemeral river that flowed upon the air! Yet I could never come quite close enough. Whenever my hands nearly grasped it, the mist fled from me.

  When I first sailed to Fincayra, a wondrous wall of mist had met me, arrested me—then finally parted to allow me through. And later, when I had followed the secret pathway to the Otherworld, bearing Rhia’s limp body as well as her spirit, a different kind of mist had swirled about me. It had grown brighter, more luminous, with every step I took, until everything around me glowed with the luster of polished shells. Even the Tree of Soul, whose massive roots lifted from the Otherworld to support the lands above, had sprung from the mist; its dewy branches were one with the clouds. And when Hallia had first told me the legends of her people, the stories themselves were woven from those same elusive threads.

  Now Ector and I were entering another world of mist. Suddenly an immense wave of vapors rolled toward us, gathering speed as it approached. Once again Ector’s hand squeezed my own. Even as I squeezed back, the wave washed over us. For an instant, I lost my bearings. I saw nothing but mist all around me; I felt nothing but its chill upon my skin. Just as suddenly, the wave dissolved. I stood, as before, one hand grasping my staff, the other holding—

  No one. Ector had disappeared. I was standing alone.

  The warning of the eyeless cat thundered in my mind: Never, ever let go. Unless you don’t mind being lost forever. I staggered, almost falling. It took all my fading strength to stand upright. I could feel the wave of mist coursing about me, even as it carried me along. But to where? Dark vapors flowed into my mind, clouding my thoughts, though I felt increasingly sure that this place had become my tomb.

  At last, the sweeping motion slowed. The wave seemed gradually to withdraw, both from my mind and from the world around me. Shakily, I watched as the mist before me wavered and darkened, coalescing into images both detailed and colorful. There were rocky hillsides, and trees bent by incessant winds—hawthorns, ashes, and oaks. Here, a tangle of gorse bushes. And there, a village of crumbling, thatched-roof huts. It was a landscape, crisply defined. It was a landscape I recognized.

  Gwynedd! The place that in Ector’s time would be called Wales. But was I viewing it in Ector’s time—or in my own, long before?

  A lone figure appeared, wandering out of the trees. It was a boy, moving awkwardly, his long black hair a nest of leaves and grasses. He stooped to examine a small yellow flower, rimmed with lavender and blue. Carefully, he picked it, and blew gently on its petals to make them flutter. Suddenly, watching him, my fingers tightened around my staff. I knew what time I was seeing. For I knew this boy.

  I was watching myself.

  Amazed, I viewed my own life from years before. The image in the mist, while hazy around the edges, was as sharp as could be. As sharp as the pain of those days. The boy glanced uncertainly at one particular hut at the edge of the village, and I knew that he was wondering whether to share the flower he had found with the woman who shared that hut with him. The woman who claimed to be his mother, though she refused to tell him any more about his past. Or her own.

  Suddenly the boy stiffened. Very slowly, he turned away from the hut—and toward me. His eyes, glimmering like black moons, pondered me, even as my second sight pondered him. Then, all at once, my view of him drew much closer. I could see none of his surroundings, not even the flower in his hand: only his face. I stared at the face, so much younger and fairer than my own, as if I were looking into a magical mirror.

  All at once, his youthful visage started to change. The glimmer vanished from his eyes; deep, jagged scars appeared on his once-smooth cheeks and brow. His nose, meanwhile, hooked downward, as his bony chin lengthened. Yet nothing about him changed so dramatically as his expression: Terrified, he grasped his own cheeks, clawing at them.

  “Go back!” he shouted, his voice so very much like my own. “You are just a boy, and you are wounded—forever blinded. You will find only pain if you stay here. Go back while you can!”

  “But I can’t go back,” I cried, swaying on my staff. “I need help—and if I don’t find it soon, I will die.”

  “Not here,” he shrieked. “Here you will surely—oh, the flames! Coming back. They will burn you again!”

  Instinctively, my own hands flew to my face. Like the boy before me, I clutched the deep scars that rutted my flesh. Even if I could have grown a beard thick enough to cover them, I knew that I would always feel them, just as I would always feel the terror of that day.

  Just then I heard another voice call my name. Trying to keep my balance, I spun around to And a new form emerging from the veils of mist. Vaporous threads parted, revealing another face I knew well—the face of my own mother.

  “Emrys,” she pleaded, her sapphire blue eyes probing me. “Heed my warning, my son! You will only be hurt�
��burned again—if you stray too far from Fincayra.”

  Weakly, I swatted at the coil of mist wrapping itself around my arm. “I must leave, though, to be healed.”

  “No, my son.” She shook her head, her golden hair brushing the encircling clouds. “You have the power to do it yourself. Don’t you know that by now?”

  “Mother, no. This is too serious.”

  She smiled lovingly. “Ah, but you are a healer, my son. Yes, that is what you are, and always shall be. A healer with remarkable gifts.” Through the mists, she beckoned to me. “Come home to me now. This way. I will guide you, as I did long ago.”

  Confused, I looked back at the terrified face of the boy. “Don’t follow her,” he urged. “That way will only lead to pain, more pain.”

  All of a sudden, another face appeared—this time in the clouds above me. I felt its dark shadow fall upon me, enveloping the smaller shadow that quivered at my feet. Cautiously, I looked up, squinting into the bright swirls of mist.

  “Merlin,” growled the face of a man, his face as hard as chiseled stone. “It is I, your father, who calls to you—who would command you, if only you would obey.”

  With great effort, I lifted myself a little higher against my staff, and thrust out my chin. “You have never been able to command me.”

  “To your lasting detriment!” roared the man, his mouth fixed in a permanent frown. “For you have listened too long to others, those who would tell you that you are destined to be a wizard.”

  “He is a healer,” snapped my mother. “And a great one.”

  “Wizard, healer, all the same,” thundered my father in reply. His head tilted forward, revealing the gold circlet on his brow. “You are none of those! Hear me, son of Stangmar! You are destined to do only one thing—the same thing your father before you has done.”

  Sagging a little lower, I asked, “And what is that?”

  “To fail.” His words echoed in the surrounding clouds. Grim though he remained, for just an instant his face reflected deep sorrow, and still deeper remorse. “You come from bad stock, my son. Nothing you can ever do will change that. All your dreams, all your goals, are as impossible to grasp as the mist itself.”

  For a long moment, I stared up at him. My whole frame felt heavier, both from the weight of my weariness and the weight of his words. My fingers slipped lower on the shaft of wood that supported me.

  “Come this way,” he declared. “I will teach you what I can, so at least you will be prepared. For if indeed your lot is to fail, you should know—”

  “What it takes to be a wizard,” finished another voice, this one behind me. I turned myself around, though the mist was wrapping around my legs, squeezing as firmly as the serpents of the marsh. I found myself facing my mentor, Cairpré.

  “You are a wizard, my boy.” Vapors swam around him, circling his shaggy gray mane. “From that first day you wandered into my den—yes, even then—I could feel your growing power.”

  “I’m weak now,” I countered, panting heavily. “Too weak, almost, to stand.”

  “Come to me, then,” advised the bard. “The light I see shall set you free. Have I not always guided you well in the past? And I see a wizard, a great mage, in you.”

  “Even now?”

  “Even now, my boy. Why, your wizardry has only begun to flower.”

  “Don’t do it,” pleaded the scarred face of the boy. “It will only lead to more suffering.”

  “Which you can heal,” promised my mother. “Come home now, heal yourself first. Then you can return to mending others.”

  Hesitantly, I started toward her, though the coils of mist made it nearly impossible to lift my legs. Struggling mightily, I took a step. While I could see the mist was climbing steadily higher, reaching for my waist, I hadn’t enough strength left to tear it away. It was all I could do to raise my leg for another step.

  “You will fail,” intoned my father.

  “He will not,” countered Cairpré. “He is, above all . . .”

  “Young hawk!” interrupted a new voice, one that lifted my spirits more than any other.

  “Hallia,” I whispered, turning to her warm brown eyes. “Help me know . . . what to do.”

  “Come to me, young hawk,” she implored, reaching out to me. “You don’t need to be a wizard for me, nor a healer, nor anything else. Just my companion. Now come back to me, and all will be well.”

  “But. . . no,” I said hoarsely. “You saw for yourself . . . the bloodnoose.”

  “Come to me,” she urged. “Stand by my side. Soon we will be kicking our hooves, running together again.”

  My head spun, as the mist crept higher on my body. It pulled on me, weighing me down. Dimly, I heard another voice calling through the thickening fog. Distant though it sounded, this voice struck as fresh as a woodland breeze. I knew it well. Rhia!

  “You have great magic, Merlin,” she warned, “but you’re in danger of losing it.” Her hand, wearing a bracelet of woven vines, waved vigorously at me. “Your magic—your power—has always sprung from the meadows, the trees, the singing streams. Come back to the land, Merlin, before it’s too late. Leave this mist behind. Come away with me now!”

  She was right—yes, I could feel it. I started to follow her, when a deep voice, bellowing sternly, arrested me.

  “No, no, a wizard does not run.”

  It was the voice of my grandfather, Tuatha. Even if I had possessed enough strength to turn toward him, I did not need to see his face to feel the power of his presence.

  “I am your future,” he proclaimed. “Your destiny lies here, with me.”

  “He will fail,” grumbled my father. “Just as I did.”

  “No,” objected Rhia, “but his power springs from the land.”

  “To me!” cried Cairpré. “You already have the power of a wizard in your veins—all the power of Tuatha, and more. Come, my boy, and I will help you follow the ways of wizardry.”

  Confused, I didn’t know which way to turn, which voice to believe. Shadows began to gather in the mist, pressing closer, obscuring the faces around me. Tendrils, heavier by the second, wrapped themselves around my chest. My knees felt ready to buckle; my chest ready to collapse. I couldn’t move now even if I had tried.

  The voices kept calling to me, vying for my attention. Yet with each labored breath I took, the voices grew dimmer, as did the light that had once scattered through the mist. I could hardly hear all the pleas and commands anymore. Swiftly they faded, like my strength, my will to live.

  At that instant, another voice, no louder than the rest but more grating, spoke very near to me—almost in my ear. “Just as I predicted, you infantile wizard, you have doomed yourself.”

  I went rigid, as Nimue’s voice clucked softly. “Now I shall be rid of you and your meddling ways forever. And since I am growing bored with waiting, I shall end your meager little life myself.” Suddenly I felt cold fingers of mist curling around my neck. “Right here,” she said smugly. “Right now.”

  At the chill of her touch, whatever strength remained in me erupted all at once. I reeled backward, my arms pummeling the encroaching clouds, my legs straining to burst free of their bonds. I could barely see in the blur of clouds—but felt myself falling, tumbling helplessly downward.

  Even as I fell, a great weariness flooded over me. I may have evaded Nimue’s grasp, but now, surely, I would die anyway. My strangled heart pulsed with regret: I had so much left to do, so much left to learn. And so many faces that I would never see again.

  Faintly, I noticed that the mist itself was changing. Was I merely imagining? No, no, it was true. The mist was not merely shifting, forming shapes within shapes as it had so many times before, but. . . dissolving. Yes, that was it. Vanishing from every side.

  Could that be light? It might be, though it seemed dim and wavering, coming from somewhere above. Although I couldn’t move, I felt something hard forming beneath me—more like stone than mist. Even so, it didn’t matter. Wherever
I was now, I felt closer to death than ever before. Helpless, I drew a last, ragged breath.

  22: NAMES

  When I awoke, two large eyes, darker than night, peered down at me. I tensed, my body as rigid as the stones beneath my back. Did those eyes belong to Nimue?

  No, no, they were not hers—that much I could tell now, even in the dim light of this chamber where I lay on the floor. Set beneath white brows as thick as brambles, the eyes blinked once, very slowly. When they reopened, they seemed deeper than the deepest chasm: mysterious, frightening, and yet strangely familiar somehow. Suddenly they narrowed, squinting at me.

  With a start, I rolled away—and bumped right into someone else. This time, slate blue eyes gazed down at me. At once, I recognized them. Ector!

  “It’s you,” I murmured. Though I still felt too weak to sit up, a new strength was slowly seeping into me, filling me as falling rain fills the hollows of upturned leaves. All at once, I remembered the many faces that had confronted me in the mist. I cringed, and asked, “Are you . . . real?”

  The boy, a thin shaft of light glinting on his curls, smiled. “I’m real, yes. And so was that bloodnoose.”

  “Extracted just in time, young lad. Just barely in time.”

  Feebly, I turned to the voice—and those unfathomably deep eyes. They belonged to an old man, extremely old by the looks of him, who sat cross-legged on the stones. Even in the dim light of the chamber, his flowing hair and beard seemed whiter than white. Almost . . . aflame. His beard, knotted and unruly, fell over his thighs and onto the floor like a luminous cloak.

  “Aye, my lad,” he continued, his words crackling like snapping branches. “When those inexplicable mists spat you out—” He caught himself mid-sentence, looking suddenly bewildered. “More truly, the mists are indescribable, wouldn’t you agree? As well as indefatigable—if, for consistency’s sake, we keep with terms using the Latin prefix in, one of Ceasar’s more lasting contributions. Or I suppose you could say the indeterminate mists spat you out, or rather, was it you who spat out the mists? The indigestible mists? No, no, that’s folly. How does one spit mist, anyway? Although a fountain does, I suppose, what what?”