The Mirror's Tale (Further Tales Adventures) (11 page)

“We’re almost there,” Aunt Elaine called back. “To the place I wanted to show you.”

“What is it?” Bert shook his shoulders, trying to shrug off the feeling.

“You’ll see.”

A wide, curving cliff loomed ahead of them, embracing a small forest of birch. They rode toward it, down an overgrown path, pushing aside white branches that groped from either side. In a tiny meadow just ahead, Bert spotted a low cottage made of stone. As they drew near, a fox darted out of the open door and fled into the brush.
Deserted,
Bert thought. His aunt pulled back on her reins, and Bert stopped beside her.

“This is where Snow White found sanctuary,” she said.

“This cottage? The Dwergh lived
here?
” Bert asked quietly.

Aunt Elaine nodded. “They would have lived in their mines if it was up to them. But it was part of the agreement that Rohesia struck with them during the truce one hundred years ago. The Dwergh could mine these hills, but only if they granted her people an equal share of what they found. And she said they must live above the ground, where their numbers could be counted.”

“The better to keep an eye on them,” Bert said. He stared at the building of stone, still intact after a century. It looked like a miniature version of the keep at The Crags.
The Dwergh are a loathsome bunch,
he thought,
but they sure know how to work with rock.

Aunt Elaine slid down the side of her horse. “You don’t seem to like the Dwergh. Have you ever met one?”

Bert dismounted. “No. And I don’t mean to, except in battle.”

“Is that so?” Aunt Elaine said. She tethered her horse to the branch of a tree, and Bert did likewise. “Do you know why the truce with the Dwergh was broken, and the fighting began?”

“The Dwergh cheated us. They kept more than their share.”

Aunt Elaine knelt beside a small, leafy bush. She pulled a trowel out of the pouch at her waist and pierced the soil around the plant. “Actually it was the king who changed the terms of the bargain. He demanded two-thirds of the precious ores and gems that the Dwergh uncovered.”

“Well, they were on our land,” Bert said.

“It wasn’t that simple, Bert. It never is. The borders shifted many times during the centuries. But at any rate, the Dwergh were too proud to agree to the king’s command.”

“Too greedy, you mean.”

Aunt Elaine gave him a sideways glance, then kept digging. “Their greed has been exaggerated, Nephew. Their pride has not.” She put the trowel aside and plunged her hands into the dirt. “But you can blame both sides for the blood that spilled after that. The Dwergh were too quick to wield their axes, the men too
eager to swing their swords. Both sides made terrible mistakes. Still, most of the things you’ve heard about the Dwergh have been overstated. They’re not monsters, Bert.” With a gentle tug, she lifted the plant from the ground. “Would you hold this for me?”

Bert cupped his hands to accept the plant. “You sound like you’re fond of the enemy, Aunt Elaine.”

Aunt Elaine wiped her hands with her apron. “Understanding the enemy’s point of view doesn’t make me the enemy, Bert.”

Bert shrugged. A pleasant aroma reached his nose—sweet and minty. He brought the plant up for a closer sniff. “What is this?”

“Melissa,” Aunt Elaine replied. She pulled a cloth from her pouch and doused it with water she’d brought with her. Then she took the plant from Bert and wrapped the wet cloth around its roots.

“Is it a cure for something?” Bert asked.

She stuffed the plant into a sack and nodded. “Melancholy.”

CHAPTER 16

P
arley sat in the little stone room—a space with just three walls, more like a deadend or alcove in the mine where the Dwergh had brought him.
Alcove,
he thought, liking the sound of that better. He fiddled with the band of iron that was clamped to his leg.
Well that’s not coming off.
The other end of the chain was held by that odd, moving statue. Parley figured out what it called to mind: a gargoyle without wings. It sat there, nearly motionless. An occasional wisp of smoke escaped its mouth, and its diamond eyes glittered with inner light.

The courier slumped against the wall and stared at the stone ceiling, just five feet high. He wondered if it was day or night aboveground. Next to him on a little wooden table there was a mug filled with some kind of cider—delicious, he had to, admit as he took another sip—and the dish he’d scraped clean. A broth studded with mushrooms and meat, not bad at all.

He heard heavy steps approaching. One of the Dwergh appeared around the corner. He had a small iron bucket in one hand, and in the other, the courier’s bag that Parley had left with his horse. Parley caught a glimpse of the
Dwergh’s profile as he turned Like all those folk, his forehead sloped down and blended seamlessly into his craggy nose with only a shaggy brow to mark the spot where forehead ended and nose began. This one seemed younger than the rest. But like the others, he resembled a brawny, full-grown man squished down to a height of no more than four feet. The Dwergh wore a leather vest. His enormous arms looked capable of pulling a tree out of the ground. There were wide bands of silver on his wrists, and thick rings on every finger.

The Dwergh tossed the bag onto the ground next to Parley, sending up a plume of dust. “We have decided you can have this back,” the Dwergh said in his rumbling, throaty voice. The accent was odd. It sounded as if he’d said. “Vee haft decided you kon haff thiss bock.”

“Splendid, And now you’ll let me go?”

“We will not,” said the Dwergh. He brushed his beard with one hand, and dust and pebbles trickled out. “But it could be worse for you. Three of our seven think it is dangerous to let you live, because you might escape and reveal us.”

Parley gulped, and smiled crookedly.
Three of our seven.
He worked out the math on his fingers, “Please thank the other four for me, will you, friend? And might you be among the majority.”

The Dwergh bowed. A short but formal bow with his eyes shut and his hands by his sides.

Parley opened his bag. Everything appeared to be
there, including the letter from Bert to Will, with its wax seal unbroken. He took the mug, raised it to the Dwergh, and guzzled. Then he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “What’s your name, friend?”

“I am Harth,” said the Dwergh.

“Parley here. So what will become of me, Harth?”

Harth folded his arms across his beard and stared out from under the deep bushy ledge that was his brow. His eyes were beetle-black in a face as pale as bone. “You will be our prisoner. Until our work is done. Then we debate. Whether it is safe to let you go.”

Parley decided for the moment to ignore the question of his fate, and what would happen if it wasn’t safe to release him. “Your work, you say? What kind of work? Mining for silver? Gold? Gemstones?”

The Dwergh scowled. “We are not here for those things. Not this time. But that is not for me to say or you to know.”

Parley raised his palms. “Fine, fine,” he said. “I’m in no position to argue. Just promise me—when you debate my fate, let me have my say?”

Harth gave another bow, deeper this time. He walked over to the stone creature that held Parley’s chain.
“Orth,
Mokh,” the Dwergh said. The thing tilted its head back and opened its mouth, revealing a wide throat that was blackened like the inside of a chimney. Harth used a pair of tongs to lift glowing coals out of the bucket and deposit them into the sooty throat. When five coals had
been dropped in, the creature closed its mouth again. The three-fingered hand that wasn’t holding the chain rested contentedly on its round, stone belly.

Parley gawked. “Um … that’s interesting. What do you call that thing, anyway?”

“A molton,” the Dwergh said. “Its name is Mokh. I will leave you now. Was the food good?”

“Very,” Parley said. “What was it?”

“Your horse.”

CHAPTER 17

B
ert paused at the bottom of the Tunnel of Stars. The flame of his candle danced as his hand shook. He blinked hard, took a deep breath, and stepped into the chamber. Before him, the mirror gleamed by the light of the flame.

“You spoke to me,” he said.

He heard nothing for several moments. And then that whispery voice came, like the wind blowing through reeds:
Spoke to you.

Bert swallowed hard and stepped closer. It hadn’t been his imagination. The mirror could talk.

“How?” he said. “How is this possible?”

Once again there was a long, soundless pause. Bert eased into the chair and put the candle on the small table by its side. He stared at the mirror, waiting.

Tell me,
the mirror said. The whisper was just loud enough for Bert to perceive. And there was something else about it; a kind of drowsiness. Like someone waking from a deep sleep, which Bert supposed it was.

When the mirror spoke, its skin of glass appeared to swirl. Ripples spread from the center and vanished under
the golden frame. Bert looked into his reflection, pure and perfect as always, but it looked like something floated behind it—another face, not his own—deep inside the glass. For a moment it looked as if it might come to the surface, so that Bert could see it. Then it faded. Bert had the urge to run and hide in his bed again. He dug his fingernails into the arms of the throne, fighting the instinct.

Tell me,
the mirror said again. Insistent.

Bert’s voice cracked when he replied. “Tell you what?”

What troubles you.

Bert leaned back. He stared wide-eyed for so long that he had to remind himself to blink. “Nothing,” he mumbled. “Nothing troubles me.” A strange sensation came over him—the feeling that something was inside his skull, prodding and poking as if rummaging through a cluttered drawer. It didn’t hurt. But it made him so dizzy he nearly pitched forward out of the chair. He lowered his head and closed his eyes, waiting for the feeling to pass. And it finally did. He raised his head again and stared at the mirror through the strands of coal-black hair that fell across his eyes.

You are angry,
the mirror said. Its surface rippled again.

It suddenly occurred to Bert that his discovery of this magical thing was no accident. He hadn’t stumbled upon it—fate steered him to it. And he knew why. Because he needed it. The mirror was meant to be his friend. He could talk to it, open his heart to it. “Well, of course I’m angry,” he said.

Tell me,
whispered the mirror.

“It’s everything,” Bert said. Every feeling that he’d kept inside spilled out as if a stopper was pulled. Hot tears welled in his eyes and tumbled down his cheeks. He wiped them with the cuff of his sleeve as he spoke. “I only came to The Crags because my brother Will was afraid, and now I feel like I’ve been banished. I did it to help him, but instead he’s getting the lessons in fighting from this great knight, Andreas. Those lessons were meant for
me!
And it turns out that Father thinks Will might be the better baron anyway—that’s the worst of it. So where does that leave me? Here, where everyone hates me. My uncle looks at me likes he wishes I was dead, because he despises my father so much. And his men won’t look at me at all. The only one who can stand me is Aunt Elaine.”

I don’t bate you, Bertram.

Bert held his breath for a moment. Had he ever told the mirror his name? He couldn’t remember. But it didn’t matter. The mirror was his friend. He smiled. “Finding you was the only good thing that’s happened to me here.”

Yes, it is well that you found me. I will help you,
the mirror whispered.

The candle on the table flickered. Bert shrank back in the chair. A cold shiver ran down his arms, frosting his flesh with goose bumps. “Help me? Help me do what?”

Have what you desire,
the mirror whispered.
Live what you dream.

“But … how do you know what I desire?” Bert felt that feeling again—something slithering and bumping along the folds and creases of his brain. Probing. His eyes lost focus. He said again, “How do you know?” His words were slurred. His eyelids fluttered and closed.