A Mirror Against All Mishap

by Jack Massa

  Meghild shook her head. “Garm will be at least another month at sea. For reasons pertaining to the plans I have made with Amlina, I cannot wait.”

  The faces around the table were anxious and perplexed.

  Leidwith remained standing. “My liege, forgive my speaking plainly, but you put us in an awkward position. For an elderly queen to abdicate is one thing, but for her to sail off alone, with foreigners, it … raises questions.”

  “What questions?” Meghild snapped. “What are you trying to say?”

  When Leidwith hesitated, Penredd jumped to his feet. “What my uncle is trying to say is that you will shame us. To allow our queen to sail off in her dotage, with a Larthangan witch and a pack of barbarians? Our tribesmen, indeed all of Gwales, would question our strength and our honor.”

  “Bilge water!” the queen roared. “I am not so advanced in my dotage, Prince Penredd, that I cannot make my own decisions. I leave Demardunn strong and prosperous. Why should our people question my will, or care what prattlers in distant halls may say?”

  The courtiers remained silent, plainly worried. Meghild's lips went thin. “Law-speaker, what say you?”

  Ishelda stood and smoothed the front of her robe. “Certainly, it is the queen's right to abdicate her throne; the precedents are exemplary. And certainly, once that is done, she is free, as any free woman, to sail where she will. So much says the Law. But as to political implications, I believe there are valid concerns. It might be hard for Leidwith to consolidate the kingship if there are rumors and suspicions concerning the queen's departure.”

  Meghild scowled, anger drained away, her mind now calculating. “Wilhaven, you have been bard here, and in the castles of other tribes. What is your view?”

  Wilhaven flashed a quick smile of appraisal. “Sure, and fools will flutter their tongues for many causes. But Leidwith is an able prince, and loyalty to Meghild is firm in Demardunn. I believe the folk will respect her wishes—provided they know them to be her true wishes. It might be well for the queen to send ships up and down the fjord, to summon as many as may come to an assembly, and to announce her decision to all from the village landing.”

  Two of the chieftains nodded. Leidwith still looked unsatisfied.

  “Amlina,” Meghild said. “What does your witch-sight say? Will calling an assembly assure a peaceful transfer of my throne to Leidwith?”

  The witch had known Meghild would call on her. Now she felt the minds of everyone shift in her direction, their feelings of uncertainty, suspicion, fear. She screened out these impressions, sought to peer into the Deepmind, to discern what message she could. Her gaze fell on Prince Leidwith, who watched her intently.

  “An assembly will certainly be helpful. But Leidwith must want the throne, and must support your decision.” Still, Amlina could see there would be trouble, and her gaze was pulled inexorably to where Penredd slouched in his seat.

  Meeting her eyes, the prince slapped the table in sudden fury. “I will listen no more! Whatever this witch says must be self-serving!”

  “Penredd!” Meghild warned. “Take care!”

  “I will not be silent, but will speak the truth, though others may fear to do so. Who knows how my grandmother has been bewitched? Who knows what evil fate this witch of Larthang intends for her? Will Demardunn allow a foreign sorceress to steal away our queen?”

  “Nephew!” Leidwith cried. “You go too far. Take care lest you earn yourself more than a bloody nose!”

  But Penredd was white with fury. “No! I advise you—all of you—to take care. You may do as you wish, even bending the knee to Amlina and her schemes. But I shall not be party to such cowardice.”

  He swept out an arm deliberately to spill his cup. Then he turned on his heels and stalked from the hall.

  A stunned hush settled over the high table.

  “You will need to bring him to heel, Leidwith” the queen muttered. “And soon. He is popular with many, and could be a threat to you.”

  Prince Leidwith sank into his chair, his countenance dark and troubled.

  Nine

  Glyssa traveled alone through an immense emptiness of ice and sky. At times the ice was smooth, and she was able to skate. Other times the surface was broken or crusted with snow, and she was forced to remove her skate-blades and walk. But always she hurried on, propelled by desperation.

  Something was chasing her. She didn't know what—only that she had to keep as far from it as possible. She was also not sure where she was, although the place reminded her of the desolate wastes south of the Iruk Isles—which her people called the Ever Ice.

  How had she gotten here? Where was her klarn?

  Rolls of mist drifted over the ice, glittering with witchlight. Sometimes the mists enveloped her. Then she would remember, scenes that came in barbed fragments …

  She had gone with her mates to the witch's apartment. Amlina was going to initiate her, to begin her training in the arts of the Deepmind. Glyssa was frightened, the more so on seeing how drawn and hollow-eyed Amlina looked. The witch had been working for three days on preparations for the blood magic she was going to make. She moved slowly, and her voice was hoarse.

  The Iruks sat on a circle of cushions on the floor. A lone lamp shone in the center, and above it the witch had placed a spinner—a thing with brass spokes that caught the heat of the lamp and rotated, casting lights and shadows over the walls. Staring at the spinner, hearing the witch chant verses in the Larthangan tongue, Glyssa had fallen into a trance.

  Trance, she thought. Perhaps that scene had been real, and all of this was some dream. She turned and looked over her shoulder. The mist had dispersed, and far away, just over the dim horizon, she could sense the thing that pursued her.

  Whatever it was, she must keep moving.

  * O *

  “There has still been no change?” Lonn asked.

  The Iruks stood in the center of the witch's chamber, staring down at Glyssa. Her body lay sprawled on a pile of rugs and cushions, as it had for nearly five days. She scarcely seemed to be breathing.

  “I've gotten her to drink a little water,” Amlina answered. “But she remains deep in trance.”

  Amlina herself had just risen from meditation. Behind her, lamps twinkled and feathered desmets swayed on threads, hung in a pattern designed to magnify her mental strength. On the trestle table, the talking book lay shut, and Kizier stood in his pail, humming softly with his eye closed. Incense smoke wafted in the air.

  “How long can this go on?” Karrol said. “She takes no food. She is likely to die!”

  “She draws sustenance from the Deepmind,” Amlina replied patiently. “As I have told you already, it can last for many, many days.”

  She settled into a chair, gripping the carved wood armrests. In the past days she had swung between bursts of frantic energy and periods of exhaustion. The wave of forces she had loosed in the Deepmind was rolling toward her. She would need all her strength to stay above that surging flood.

  Perhaps it had been a mistake to rush Glyssa's initiation. On successive days she had performed two separate ceremonies: first the Initiation into Deepseeing, then the Threshold of Deepshaping. In Larthang, the rites were often done in consecutive days—but that was for novices with months of preparation. Still, Amlina had judged it best to proceed quickly. Glyssa's need seemed urgent. Besides, once they sailed, there would be no room on the crowded boat for performing elaborate rites.

  And the sailing could not be delayed.

  Lonn knelt beside Glyssa and brushed the damp hair from her forehead. “You are sure it is safe to move her?”

  Amlina gazed at him for a moment, before comprehending his question. “Oh, yes ... Keep her warm. Offer her sips of water. Someone should stay with her at all times, in case she cries out.”

  “What if she does?” Brinda asked.

  “Speak to her soothingly. Remind her who she is, as we did in that passageway under the temple in Kadavel. But don't try to call her back. Just
remind her that she has a place here, and can return when she is ready.”

  “You speak as though she were on a journey,” Eben remarked. “Can't you explain to us what is happening to her?”

  More than the others, Eben always hungered for reasonable explanations.

  Amlina settled her gaze on Glyssa and opened her mind to impressions. “She might be wandering, lost. But I do not think so. I sense she is on a quest ... More than that, I cannot say.”

  Frowning, Lonn looked around at his mates. “We would like it better if you were near her, Amlina. Are you sure she can't stay here?”

  “No. That's impossible. I would not be able to attend her, in any case. I will be … much occupied.” For the next day and night, Amlina would be completing preparations for the blood rites. Tomorrow, after the red moon rose, she would take the queen's head.

  “Everything must be ready for us to sail tomorrow evening. We will leave shortly after nightfall.” Amlina paused, eyes shifting down. “I think Glyssa will be safer on the boat.”

  “You are expecting trouble then?” Lonn's inflection showed he too thought it possible.

  “What have you heard?” Amlina asked.

  Starting six days ago, Meghild had sent boats up and down the fjord, and messengers into the mountains, summoning her tribesmen to an assembly. Yesterday, speaking from a platform raised on the village docks, the queen had announced her abdication and her intention to sail from Gwales. She had asked that the tribe elect Leidwith as their new king. Predictably, her announcements had been met with surprise and confusion, many voices raised in protest or demanding to know more. Leidwith had tried to take charge of the assembly, but had failed to quell the uproar. Discussions continued around cook fires late into the night, and this morning many of the tribe were still camped along the shore, or sleeping on anchored boats.

  “We have heard much muttering,” Draven answered. “Rumors that Penredd is recruiting followers, that he will contest the kingship.”

  “He is stirring hate against us,” Eben said. “Wilhaven warned us of it this morning. Many of the Gwalesmen stare at us now with open hostility.”

  Amlina nodded, lips drawn taut. “The queen is worried. She called the assembly to gather support for Leidwith, pledges to support him as king. But the tribes is divided, and many of the warriors have not gone home. She fears that Penredd will rally enough men to his banner to seize the throne.”

  “Then it would seem he would want us to leave with the queen,” Draven suggested, “to make the throne vacant.”

  “Not so,” Amlina said. “His whole case is based on the premise that I've bewitched the queen, and that Leidwith is too weak to stop us from taking her. To win the kingship, he will have to depose Meghild but keep her here, a prisoner.”

  “And carve us up for fish food,” Eben said.

  “No doubt,” Amlina agreed. “As a show of strength, he would have us killed. Tomorrow night is going to be dangerous.” She hesitated, then decided it was best to reveal all. “After the ceremony, when we are ready to leave, the queen will walk from this chamber in her spirit body. The sight is likely to be shocking, even appalling. It's impossible to say how the Gwalesmen will react. I hope they will not try to prevent us from leaving. But we must be prepared.”

  The Iruks’ faces were drawn and grim.

  “I've packed all of my belongings except what I will need in the next two days,” Amlina continued. “I ask that you take them, along with Kizier, down to the boat today. The queen assures me there are men loyal to her who will guard my chamber, but I would wish that three of you also stand at my door, while the other two stay with the boat. Does that sound reasonable?”

  “Two might not be enough, if they decided to fire the boat,” Lonn said. “And what easier way to prevent us from leaving?”

  “If they attack with a large force, all five of us will not be enough,” Eben answered.

  Lonn pondered, touching his jaw. “Suppose we anchor the boat out in the shallows? Make them march through the water.”

  “Yes, that should work,” Karrol said. “With that position and enough spears, two of us could hold the boat against an army.”

  * O *

  Glyssa stumbled over a ridge and fell flat. Picking herself up, she brushed the snow from her fur shirt and leggings. Her Iruk clothing—she thought she had lost it long ago. She felt no pain from the fall. She also had no sensation of hunger or thirst, or even the cold.

  How long had she been traveling alone over the ice? She could not remember.

  But as she trudged on, a memory did come …

  She was sitting in the witch's chamber, cross-legged on a cushion, barefoot, wearing only a thin shirt and leggings. Light and shadow, cast by one of the witch’s spinning trinkets, moved ceaselessly over her body. Amlina sat before her, holding a small book with a red leather cover, translating the words as she read aloud.

  “As you learned in the prior rite, O seeker of knowledge and power, you are merely a thought. This world called Glimnodd is a thought, one thought of an infinity. Infinite worlds and suns and seas, infinite bodies and minds—all are only thoughts of the Ogo, the One Mind, which comes to know itself by thinking. Know further this, as has been taught in our Ancient Order since earliest days: the One Mind is within you, with all its worlds and suns and creatures. To wield the power of magic, you must unite your mind with this One Mind, so that your thoughts are its thoughts. Thus may you shape the manifestations that the Deepmind eternally pours forth.”

  Amlina set down the book and instructed Glyssa to close her eyes.

  “Now I shall touch the nerve centers of your body, and by my power release the power that is yours, that has always been yours.”

  Glyssa felt the witch's fingertips on the soles of her feet, as Amlina sang words in Larthangan. Glyssa's feet grew warm, then cold. Her body seemed to come alive in a new way, a flow of sensation moving through her that was cold and bright and reminded her of the pulsing of arched auroras in the polar sky. Amlina repeated the touch and the chant at Glyssa's knees, her groin, her lower back. But when the witch's fingers settled over her heart, the sensation changed—dreadful weight and pain, as though a sharp rock had appeared in her chest.

  Amlina whispered: “I think we have found the fishhook, Glyssa.”

  The fishhook! Glyssa remembered now, the remnants of the sorcery Kosimo the serd had used to enthrall her, enslave her.

  She was back on the ice. She glanced anxiously over her shoulder. She must keep moving.

  She marched and trotted, scrambled over hillocks of snow. The thing beyond the horizon—perhaps it was the fishhook, perhaps it was the serd. Whatever, it was chasing her, and she must get away.

  After fleeing for some time she skidded down an icy slope, to the shore of a frozen lake. The smooth surface stretched into the distance. Gratefully, she sat down and strapped on her skates.

  Casting a nervous look behind her, she glided onto the ice. She settled into a smooth rhythm, bent low, arms swinging, legs making long, steady strides. Skating this way, she could cover a great distance.

  The sun was behind her, low in the sky. From time to time she took note of its position, wheeling over her left shoulder. This confirmed her suspicion that she was crossing the Ever Ice, traveling south.

  Far ahead on the icy lake, a black speck appeared. As she drew nearer, Glyssa perceived that it was a figure, animal or human. She feared approaching it in this wilderness, but she feared the thing behind her even more. Resolutely, she skated toward it.

  Drawing close, she saw that it was neither animal nor human, but a spirit—A man-shaped thing with a black, feathered body and a raven's head. Glyssa thought it best to swerve aside, giving it wide way. But each time she changed her course, the thing appeared directly in front of her.

  Glyssa skidded to a halt. She looked around in all directions, sensed again the thing over the horizon that pursued her. She took hold of her nerve and skated straight at the spirit.

>   As she approached, it seemed to watch her curiously, and she thought it might be human after all—a man in a shaman's cloak and mask. When she stopped a few feet from the figure, it spoke.

  “Glyssa, daughter of Sorcha. What do you here?”

  The voice was familiar. A gloved hand came up and lifted the beaked mask.

  “Belach!” Glyssa exclaimed, recognizing the shaman from Ilga, her home island. “Honored Belach, I greet you.”

  A smile creased the wizened face. Eyes like black onyx beads appraised her.

  “Are you dead?” he asked.

  “No. I do not think so.”

  The shaman let out a piercing cry, flapped his arms once, and floated into the air. His body, stiff and still inside the feathered cloak, circled her, then settled back on the ice.

  “I see now. You are on your quest. You seek to become a woman of power.”

  “Yes … I was supposed to be trained by a witch of Larthang. But now I am lost.” She scanned the northern horizon. “I am so afraid.”

  “Ah.” Belach also looked at the north, then nodded sharply. He clicked his tongue three times. “Didn't the witch tell you that fear is the first enemy you must overcome?”

  “I do not know. I do not remember.”

  “So?”

  Glyssa recalled the icy place in her soul, the emptiness that had robbed her of her heart's peace. “How? How can I overcome the fear?”

  Belach grunted. “Not easy. Only by facing it each time it appears. Do this enough, and one day the fear will be gone.”

  Glyssa gazed again at the horizon, felt the unseen thing that pursued her.

  “You have only two choices,” the shaman said. “You can keep running away. Or you can turn and face your enemy.”

  With that, Belach smiled at her kindly and vanished.

  Alone in the emptiness, Glyssa stared hard, first at one direction, then the other. South, the way she was travelling, would lead her nowhere. North, the way she had come, would lead to her enemy.

  Glyssa muttered a curse under her breath, turned, and skated back the way she had come.