The Mirror of Fate (24 page)

In time, the clouds began to gather in a different kind of pattern. I watched, the drumbeat of terror growing louder in my head, as the vapors before me coalesced into a circle—a hole, tunneling deep into the darkness beyond where I stood. Then, to my left, another hole appeared. Yet another hole opened above my head; two more to my right; several more in front of me. Within moments, I was surrounded by a honeycomb of tunnels that dropped endlessly away.

All at once, a movement stirred within one of the tunnels. An edge of light glinted on a shadowy form that emerged slowly into view. It was, I saw with a shudder, a face. My face! There were the eyes, darker than the tunnel itself; the hair, all askew; the scars, rutting my cheeks and brow. The face, a perfect image of my own, gazed at me intently.

Then, within other tunnels, more faces started to appear. One after another they hardened out of the vapors—all staring at me, all waiting, it seemed, for something to happen. And all the faces were my own. On every side, above me as well as below, I saw the image of myself. Watching in silence, the faces confronted me, each one identical to the rest. Now I looked out not on a limitless sea of mist, but on a many-faceted crystal, with each facet a mirror that reflected myself back to me.

Suddenly one of the faces spoke, its voice precisely my own: “Come, young wizard. Enter my tunnel, for it is the only path that will lead you home.”

Before I could reply, another face called from above: “You are not a wizard, but a good son. And this is the pathway you seek! Are you not the brave boy who saved his mother’s life on a rocky shore many years ago? Come, follow me now—before your time runs out.”

Another face objected: “Heed not their words! I know who you truly are: not a wizard, nor a son, but a spirit of nature—brother of the streams and sky, fields and forest. Come with me now. Home lies this way!”

“Tell the truth,” sneered another face. “You have aspired to be all those things and more. But you have failed at all of them, and down inside you know you forever will. For you are a bungler, whose frailties will always corrupt your best intentions. Tell me now, do I speak the truth?”

Regretfully, I nodded.

“Then you must follow me,” the face demanded. “Only the true path will take you home. Hurry now, while you still have time!”

“No,” objected the face who had spoken first. “You are a wizard, and someday you will be a great one. You know that now! Come this way.”

“Beneath that,” came the counter, “you are still a bungler. Come now. Follow the deeper truth! Don’t be fooled by your own vanity, your own wishful thinking.”

Other faces cried out to me—all in my own voice. One appealed to me as a healer, a mender of torn sinews and sliced tissues; another called to me as an explorer, a lone adventurer who had built a raft of driftwood and found the uncharted route to Fincayra long ago; still another hailed me as a champion, a rescuer of those in need. The chorus rose, pounding in my ears. I was, to different faces, a sower of seeds; a master of many languages; a passionate young man who longed to spend endless days beside Hallia; a trickster, who savored any chance to surprise; and many more things besides.

As the voices swelled, so did my confusion—and my certainty that whatever chance I might have to save Hallia was rapidly slipping away. If only one of the tunnels could take me back, I must somehow decide which one to follow. And I must decide soon.

To my horror, the tunnels themselves started to move—to glide higher or lower in the surrounding vapors, to slip sideways, or to dance erratically. Swiftly, the faces’ motions accelerated. At the same time, they pleaded, cajoled, and commanded more desperately. I could hardly keep track of which face was saying what, let alone choose the right one.

Amidst the swelling cacophony, I heard another voice, from somewhere deep in my memory: the voice of my elder self.
Only you can find the way,
he had said.
Only you.
But which way was I to find? Which way—and which me?

The faces danced more wildly. Now many of them were only a blur of motion and sound.
You might,
urged the voice of the old mage,
simply start being.
Being what, though? My mind raced. What had he told me that he hoped, above all, to impart to young Arthur?
Find your true self,
he had said. Yes—and with it,
your true image. Then you shall tap into the greater good, the higher power that breathes life into all things.

My true self. My true image. But which one, of all the images swarming around me, was true? Perhaps some or all of them were partly true—but which one was the right choice? The right reflection?

The tunnels, and the faces within them, began to recede, pulling back into the curls of mist. Even as the cries grew more shrill, they began to fade slowly away. I could hardly hear some of them now; others I could still hear, but barely see for the encroaching vapors. Only a few seconds, at most, remained before all of them vanished.

The right reflection.
What was a reflection, anyway? An image, a shape, thrust back at my vision. But was I out there, the face in the mirror—or was that something else, something other than me? The nature of mirrors, after all, was not to show the actual form. The true self. Just as my shadow, shrunken and disobedient, was not the true me, no reflected image could be my true self.

And yet. . . my shadow was different, at least in one respect. It was, for better or worse, tied to me, just as my elder self’s own shadow was tied to him. Unlike a face in a mirror, which would vanish if the mirror were taken away, my shadow was part of my being, a lifelong companion. Yes, as much as I hated to admit it, my shadow belonged to me, and I to it.

In a flash, I understood. The mirror I needed to find, the face I needed to see, was not one of the reflections circling around me now. Nor was it outside of me at all. Rather, it was somewhere within me—in the deepest marsh, the darkest place, of my own being. In a place where daylight never reached, a place where body and shadow merged into one.

The faces, and their voices, suddenly disappeared. A wave of mist toppled over me, enveloping me completely. Down, down, down, it bore me, into a vaporous tunnel of its own. Deeper into the folds of mist I fell, powerless to stop my descent. As the air around me darkened, I knew only that my choice had been made. And that wherever I was falling, my shadow was falling with me.

26:
A
T
EST OF
L
OYALTIES

The darkness thickened, hardening into cold, crushing weight that pressed upon me from all sides. My bones, my every vein, cried out in torment. Then, all at once, the pressure released. The light returned. A sudden shattering—and then something smacked beside my head. A split second later, a wooden spear bounced off the stone pillar behind me, its shaft slapping my temple. Disoriented, I stumbled forward, almost falling into a reeking pool.

The marsh! I had returned. Rubbing my head, I glanced at the archway and the Mirror it contained. Clouds of mist swirled beneath the shifting surface, just as they had for uncounted ages.

“Hallia!” I cried. “Where—” Before I knew what was happening, a three-fingered hand grabbed me by the throat and threw me backward. I landed, splattering bogwater in every direction.

Rolling over in the mire, I found myself staring up at a muscular assailant. His thin eyes glinted from under his pointed helmet, while a breastplate covered most of his chest. Perspiration ran in streams down the gray-green skin of his arms. A warrior goblin! Where, I wondered, could he have come from? The warrior goblins who had survived the collapse of the Shrouded Castle now lived in hiding, scattered in the remotest corners of the land. They wouldn’t show themselves—unless, I realized with dismay, someone had offered to protect them in exchange for their services. Someone truly wicked.

“Here’s another,” rasped the goblin, kicking me hard in the ribs as he raised his broadsword.

Clutching my side, I couldn’t draw my own sword. I spun, barely dodging his blade as it plunged into the mud. Before he could lift it again, I seized the base of my staff and swung. The handle smashed into his head, knocking off his helmet. He roared, tumbling into the marsh grass, where he lay motionless.

Dazed, I struggled to my feet, pressing my hand against my throbbing ribs. All of a sudden, I caught the smell. Sweet, overpoweringly sweet, it filled my lungs even as it assaulted them. I shuddered, as if a terrible vise were closing on me. For I recognized the scent at once: the scent of rose blossoms.

“Well, well, so you’ve decided to show yourself at last.” Nimue’s cold, humorless voice struck harder than the goblin’s kick.

“Where are you?” I called into the swamp vapors encircling the arch. “Where is Hallia?”

The disembodied voice continued without pause. “You gave me such a fright, you infant wizard. I had started to worry that you had tried to follow that foolish servant boy into the Mirror.”

I almost responded—then caught myself.

“You would have shortened your life immeasurably,
hmmm?
And thereby robbed me of the pleasure of doing so myself.” She gave a long, low growl. “That Mirror, one day, will also feel my wrath! For while I survived my own voyage through its misty corridors in coming here, I can still feel the scars. And I have no desire at all to reopen them—until the rest of my powers, which you so callously wrested away from me, are restored. Nay, enhanced! So I have decided to remain on your lovely little island for a while, to gather my strength, plus a few precious trinkets.
Hmmm,
yes, such as your staff.”

Still peering into the vapors, I squeezed the wooden shaft all the harder.

Nimue chortled to herself. “All of that, though, is beside the point. The fact is, I do so enjoy solving problems. Especially several centuries in advance. So I think that I shall solve
you,
little wizard. Here and now.”

With that, she materialized out of the air before me. Her white robe, immaculate as ever, billowed about her, while her lightless eyes scrutinized me. Flanking her, with swords drawn, stood eight or nine warrior goblins. And at her feet, flopped in the mud, lay a young woman’s still form.

“Hallia!” I cried. “What have you done to her?”

Nimue puckered her lips, imitating a kiss. “Ever the soft heart.” She plucked a small burr off her sleeve. “Worry not, she remains alive. For now, at least. I was saving her final throes of agony for you to witness.” She nodded to the nearest warrior goblin. “Remove her head,
hmmm?
I want a ragged, unclean cut.”

“No!”

The goblin, wheezing in laughter, clasped his sword with both hands. His burly arms flexed. In one sharp motion, he lifted the blade high over his head. Then, with all his might, he brought it down on Hallia.

In that instant, a new power surged down my arms. I had no idea what it was, nor where it came from, only that it flew through me with the speed of a diving hawk—and that it seemed to flow from every part of me, body and soul, working in unison as they had never done before. Without any time to think, I raised both of my arms, pointing one at the warrior goblin and one at Nimue.

A sudden sizzling rent the air. Bolts of blue lightening shot out from my fingers. One struck the warrior goblin in the chest just before his weapon made contact. His breastplate ripped apart; with a burst of blue light, he and his sword flew backward. The other bolt of lightning blasted toward the sorceress—and stopped abruptly at her outstretched hand. For a split second she held it in place. Then she carelessly waved her palm in my direction. The bolt flashed back through the air, straight at me. I ducked as it passed just over my head, slicing the corner off one of the rough-hewn pillars. The vines rimming the stone withered into ashes.

Nimue eyed me, seeming only mildly perturbed. “Is that the best you can do, puny one?
Hmmm,
such a pity. You won’t be getting the time you need to learn how to do better.”

Incensed, I rushed toward her, brandishing my staff. She merely puffed a single breath. A massive wall of air crashed into me, hurling me into a thicket of moss-draped brambles. I skidded through the branches, colliding with the trunk of a dead willow at the edge of a pool. Broken limbs rained down on me as I slumped into the bog.

Weakly, I raised my head. Nimue waved at a pair of warrior goblins and barked her command: “Dispense with the deer woman, however you choose.” She strode toward me, smirking. “But leave this one to me.”

I saw a pair of swords lifting. All at once, Nimue’s head and flowing black hair obscured my view. Her smile widened steadily as she approached. Groping, I braced myself against the tree, forcing my wobbly legs to stand. Without warning, my boots slid out from under me and I splashed again into the pool.

“Poor fellow,” she cooed, now only a few paces distant. “Allow me to end your discomfort.”

I managed to kneel in the muck. Thick ooze slid down my neck and arms. But I held my voice firm. “You’ll never win. Never.”

Her eyes narrowed cruelly. Slowly, she raised one arm. Her finger, curved slightly, pointed at my chest. “Ah, my little wizard, you are wrong, very wrong. I have already won.” A cackle bubbled up from her throat. “And isn’t it a lovely irony,
hmmm
, that I have won by mastering the very spells that you—in your older form—taught me?”

Her finger straightened. “Your time has—”

Slam.
An enormous shape, larger than a boulder, dropped out of the sky. It struck the ground right behind Nimue, sending an explosion of mud and debris in all directions. With a shriek, she tumbled headlong into me. A wave of grime washed over us both.

Pulling my head from the mire, I glimpsed Nimue, dripping with the dark juices of the swamp. She cursed viciously as she fought to extract herself. Suddenly I saw the gargantuan head that hovered over us. A triangular eye, glowing orange, stared down at me. Purple and scarlet scales covered the entire face—except for the long blue ear that protruded like a windblown banner.