by Kaleb Nation
"What Hambric?" Bran asked.
Adi shook her head. "Bran, you need to sit down. I have a lot to tell you."
She draped the cloth over the cage, and Bran could see her mind was far from that room. She was thinking of terrible things, he could see it by her face. She slowly sat behind the desk but was quiet, staring off and thinking.
"Did you see the color of the Winx when they were around me?" she began. Bran hesitated at her strange question, but slowly brought himself to answer.
"Blue…"
"And the color when they came to you?"
"White," he replied. Adi looked down, and then at Polland.
"Tell him," Polland said.
"I’m lucky enough to own the Winx: most people can’t get them," Adi said. "The way we know for sure which missiv a mage is from is by the color of the Winx. Each missiv has one."
Polland drew the book out again, pointing to the circles on the insignia. "Purple for Netora, green for Archon," his fingers moved to the left side, "blue for Illian, and red for Comsar."
He touched the black one at the top. "All joined to the black, the one for Drimra."
His last sentence had a serious, jagged sound to it—something he was saying without words. Bran studied the circle, and noticed with a start that there wasn’t a white marking anywhere on it.
"Then what about white?" Bran asked, a tinge of fear in his voice for what they would say. Adi glanced at Polland.
"Tell him," Polland whispered.
Bran could sense there was a tension in the air, and it only drove his alarm deeper. What were they trying to say that was so hard to get out?
"To be honest with you," Adi said, "you’re the only living mage to have Winx go white."
He was silent. The only one? There was more to it; he could see it in her eyes.
"What does that mean?" he asked. Adi took a deep breath.
"I believe it’s time I told you the truth about your mother, your past…and the Farfield Curse."
The last part of her words caused him to sit up straighter, though thankfully she had turned to her computer and did not notice. The Farfield Curse…Adi knew about his mother? Immediately, Bran felt uneasy. He had heard those words before, from Astara. A bad feeling crept over him.
"Have you ever heard of it?" Adi asked.
"No, never," Bran lied, speaking before he even thought about it.
"That’s good," Polland said in a low voice. "Everything’s still kept quiet."
"What is it?" Bran asked quickly.
"Farfield is a big city up north, not too far from here," Adi said. "It’s wonderful, filled with skyscrapers. There’s a museum with records and displays for hundreds of landmarks in the history of mages. It’s just an ordinary city, to most people."
She turned to her computer. "But years ago, something was happening in Farfield that was nothing but evil." She typed a few things in, bringing up a record. She had to type multiple passwords.
"Inside that city," she went on, "was a secret group of mages: dark mages. These people were far opposite of me or any of the others under the Mages Council, and they had terrible, hidden plans behind everyone’s backs. It was all secret, and no one knows about it all, even today."
"How do you know, then?" Bran asked. Astara had said the same thing to him—about how secret the Curse had been—and suddenly Adi knew of it as well.
"My work, here," she stammered. "And because of my involvement in the SSOD and the Mages Underground. What I mean to say, Bran, is that what I tell you now is a secret. If anyone ever finds out, no matter if it’s another mage, I might even be expelled by the Council."
Bran nodded slowly. "But why is it so secret?"
"Because it’s so terrible," she replied. "In that city, there was a group of dark mages, led by a man named Baslyn, a very powerful Drimra who had been leading them in secret for years. The dark mage cult was illegal, and still is, in every civilized city and country there is."
Adi looked down before going on. "Baslyn’s group created something so evil, it was the duty of the Council to destroy it. So terrible, if word got out, the world might rise up against us, go into chaos, and try to kill every mage across the world to save themselves from the danger."
Bran felt his heartbeat quickening at her words.
"We came very close," Adi said. "If we had missed them, it would have been a disaster. And I’m sorry…but I don’t even feel safe telling you the details. You’ll just have to trust me."
There was a long silence between them all. Adi looked back at
her computer and turned the screen so he could see the picture
as it loaded.
"This," she said, "is a picture of Baslyn."
He moved to see better, and the moment the image appeared, something leapt within him.
It was the man from his dream.
Bran recognized the face in an instant…the same he had seen in his dream that night, the same man looking up from the bed in the white room. It sent a jolt through his skin, and he felt the blood drain away from his face.
"T-then what does all this have to do with me?" he asked slowly, trying to hide his fear. There was something going on, and he didn’t like it. Something that involved him with this strange man. Both Adi and Polland were quiet. The silence bore upon Bran, and he looked from the screen, and saw that they both had dire looks on their faces.
"Also in Farfield was a woman," Polland said. "She was what we can only call a magic phenomenon."
"Meaning," Adi said, "her powers and witts highly surpassed those of every other mage, so much that it went unnoticed by everyone and she was able to hide it."
Adi looked down. "Her power was of a missiv never known to any mage besides in that of legends—all the missivs together."
"The power of Dormaysan," Polland said. "Scourged, by her own magic."
"Scourged?" Bran said. "Why would it be bad to be in all the missivs at once?"
Adi shook her head again. "It is not as it appears, Bran."
She went silent. Bran looked from her to Polland.
"All the missivs," Polland said lowly, "but the only magics she could use…were those for evil: the powerful, evil magic she needed to create the Farfield Curse."
Bran was frozen, unable to speak, unable to move as their words sank in and he realized exactly what they were saying— and who the woman was of which they spoke. Bran wanted to deny it, wanted to say something to tell her that she was wrong, it wasn’t true…but hearing it from Astara, and seeing the grave of his mother: it was slowly becoming so that he could not deny what he struggled so hard not to believe.
"Somehow, she gave up her ability for good, and replaced it with evil," Polland went on.
"We came very close to missing them," Adi said. "But, we got an anonymous tip, and the police rounded up the group, though some of them got away. The police locked Baslyn’s body into a secured morgue, but days later, his body was stolen, though he was dead. Thus the plot of the Farfield Curse was over, locked away, and marked confidential."
Bran could hardly hear what she was saying. Each sound felt like a sting on his face.
"We never found the woman," Adi said slowly. "No one knew…she had a son."
"It was me," Bran said, and though his voice was a whisper, it caused them to shift.
"How did you know?" Adi pressed.
But Bran was not listening.
"Emry Hambric…" he said aloud, unable to control what he was saying as everything came together, and he realized exactly what they were saying. He shook his head weakly. "Why tell me
this now?" he said, leaning forward on his hand, unable to sort through feelings of anger and betrayal and fear within him. "Why ruin everything that I have?"
Adi looked to be torn to pieces before him, seeing how it hurt him so much.
"Because…" she started, but then took a breath. "Because you had to know. Because every power, every ability your mother had in her being…has been passed on to you, Bran.
"
It hit him like an icy wind as he heard her.
"No," he said, trying to deny it.
"The Winx showed the truth," Adi said with sadness. "The powers of all the missivs lie inside you: but, even though your mother was a Dormaysan, you are free."
Bran looked up at her, his eyes becoming glassy.
"Free?" he whispered.
"Yes," she said softly. "Your mother was a slave to dark magic, but you are free from the bondage—to use any magic from any missiv, with powers no mage has ever possessed." She stopped. "Free to follow the ways of good…or the ways of evil."
The words echoed in his head, haunting him, pounding through him like a gong in his ears. No…it was too much. He heard the rumble of thunder outside.
"Bran…please." Adi sounded concerned. No…he had to get away. His mind screamed within him, driving him mad with her words. The thunder crashed outside, and he leapt out of his chair.
Adi and Polland shot up, staring at him fearfully. Lightning flashed over his face, his eyes wide. He stumbled, tripping over the chair to get away from them.
"Bran!" Adi said, but he dashed for the door. He ran out, his hands shaking and his mind a blur. He had to get away. She was close behind on the stairs, but he was already dashing into the pouring rain. Adi called after him again, but he ignored her. He didn’t care. She can keep her magic, her secrets. He felt as if everything he had ever imagined of his mother was a lie. He grabbed his bike from her car; tears sprang into his eyes, no matter how much he tried to hold them back.
"Wait!" Adi pleaded, running after him, but he didn’t look back.
Rain beat against his face, and he could hardly see his own hands in front of him. Lightning lit up the sky, and deafening thunder nearly threw him off his bike as he swerved across the street. He was soaking wet, unable to tell the difference between the rain and the tears that streamed down his face.
He wiped his eyes with his hand and felt sick and dizzy, but the bike kept moving, and he kept pedaling on into the dark, until he couldn’t hear Adi anymore, and her voice was just an echo in his mind.
He slid around a curb and nearly fell over, splashing water everywhere. He tried to follow the path Adi had taken, but in his bitterness, he became lost in the winding roads. He couldn’t get his sense of direction but started off again, only to find he was going the wrong way. He just kept turning and turning in the rain, until he no longer had any idea where he was.
Chapter 23
The Face in the Mirrors
In the dark it was impossible to find his bearings to get home. Bran thought he saw a familiar street and started moving again, but when he ended up at Givvyng Park he knew he was too tired to continue on.
There was a tall brick building that served as rest rooms for the picnickers at the park, and as it had covering, Bran pulled his bike up to it. He hugged his knees for warmth and sat on the edge of the concrete, watching lightning flash across the sky and water gush from the corners of the roof. The storm was violent, but he hardly seemed to care anymore. He was much too far across town to start biking all the way back home in this weather; he knew he would just get lost again. His clothes were soaked and they clung to him, and he finally got up and went into the building, listening to the storm echo through the walls.
The bathrooms were abandoned, and he checked the place quickly for anybody who might be hiding. It was very dark and lit only by a single fluorescent bulb that flickered intermittently. There were five mirrors on the left wall, each above a sink, and dull, moist concrete floors. The place was not welcoming, but Bran had no choice but to stay.
He slowly gathered himself up and went to the sink, splashing cold water into his face. It helped to clear his senses but not the pain that still throbbed throughout him. Adi’s words were like one final blow from the mother he never knew—that not only would he carry on as her son, but also wield the same powers that had started everything and had led to her death.
He dried his face with the towel and then looked into the mirror above the sink. He could see his face clearly though the room was dim. He looked tired. Every inch of him seemed so tortured, as if with everything that had happened, he had grown into a different person.
As he stared at his own reflection, he looked deep into his own eyes, trying to read them and make sense of all that he knew. Did he even want to be a mage? Was it worth risking all that he would face the rest of his life, the powers that his mother had cursed him with?
I’ve still got a choice, he told himself strongly, and in the mirror he saw his jaw tighten together, a determination that surprised even him as he thought of it. But what were his odds? He knew now that people were already searching the town for him, waiting to take him, probably afraid to make a move, he realized, because they knew his powers, waiting for the first time he slipped up and fell into their hands. Bran didn’t even know why they wanted him—would they force him to finish what his mother had begun?
He saw the edge of the black string of the necklace poking out from under his shirt, so he pulled it and took the necklace off. There was no moonlight so the letters remained plain, dull blue. He stared at the name on it again, the name he shared with his mother. Was it one he could be proud of anymore?
He looked back to the mirror, and his eyes locked with his reflection. It was at that moment he heard a sound, like the faintest of whispers, more like the wind going through the building than anything else, though he could hear it clearly over the rain outside. He didn’t move, his hands still clutching the edges of the sink, but he swept the room with his eyes. Nothing had moved. Not even a shadow.
Still, it was like a faint voice in the back of his head, speaking unintelligible words, whispering things he could not make out over his shoulder, first in one ear, then passing into the next. Bran clutched the edges tighter and stared at himself in the mirror, not daring to turn.
"Is someone there?" he said lowly, though the mirror revealed no one. He could almost feel breath on his neck, as if someone were standing right over his shoulder. He turned his head to the side, but the coldness shifted past. He looked back to the glass.
He suddenly noticed that there was something odd about his reflection. He could not tell what it was, but something was different. His face was paler; the features were the same, but his face appeared to be more sinister. Bran looked closer, and instantly his grip on the countertop tightened—for the reflection in the mirror had smiled.
It wasn’t a smile of happiness. It was one that had never before crossed Bran’s face, one that held such darkness and evil that it caused Bran’s eyes to go wide.
"Who are you, Bran?" the reflection asked. Bran had not moved.
"Who are you?" the lips said again, the eyes on the face narrowing on him, trying to provoke an answer, the words echoing around him from all directions.
"I don’t know," Bran said, involuntarily. He jerked from the mirror, going to the next sink to avoid what he was sure was his imagination.
"You know who you are," the reflection assured him, following him to the next mirror. "You are Emry Hambric’s son. Heir to her powers. Heir to finish what she had begun."
"No," Bran hissed, drawing away to the third mirror in the row. "Go away. I don’t want to hear you!"
"You cannot fight me for the rest of your life," his reflection said, meeting him there again. Bran gripped the edges of the sink, looking down, away from the haunting face. Slowly, it was as if the room around him started to fade, the light turning to a deep blackness.
"No, go away!" Bran seethed through his teeth, looking back up to the mirror only to see the face there yet again, not following his motions. He tried to turn, to pull away, but his hands were hardened to the sink.
"You cannot fight me," his face said again. "My very being is part of who you are."
"I don’t even know you," Bran said, struggling to break free.
"Though perhaps you do," the voice echoed, the tone never rising. "I’ve been closer to you than
anyone else for most of your life. Bran Hambric, you will bring me to life."
It instilled terror into his heart. Those words. He remembered them. The words from his dream, the same man in the white bed, the same man from Adi’s computer screen…
"Who are you?" Bran hissed, nearly out of breath, as the echoes of the voices began to grow stronger, beating him from the sides like gusts of wind. "Tell me who you are!"
The face in the mirror gave a laugh, horrible and chilling, and then the face began to change. It made Bran sick to see it, the skin stretching and contorting, his hair withering and falling out. It gave a shudder, and there was a great upheaval of magic in the room, so strong that a flash of light erupted from the mirror, blinding Bran, filling the air with intense whiteness. He tried to cover his face, but he couldn’t move his hands, the light surrounding him until he saw something new.
Suddenly in front of Bran was the man he’d seen before—in a black robe that covered his head and made him look dressed for burial. His face was solid white, his eyes the most striking against the skin: vivid and dark, like blue crystals that made him seem both old and young at the same time. He looked like someone who had not completely died, but was between life and death. The man smiled, and Bran was stricken with fear.
"No!" Bran gasped. "You’re dead!"
"My body, yes," the face of Baslyn said. "Though my spirit?" Baslyn smiled. "It lives on."
The echo of Baslyn’s words seemed to spin Bran around in the blinding whiteness, flowing from the mirror like walls around him, blocking all sight of the room. Bran fought the sounds, torturous magic coursing through him so that he gritted his teeth in pain.
"I’m imagining you!" Bran said, calling out though his words did nothing to spite Baslyn, who only laughed again and spread his arms.
