The Mirror's Tale (Further Tales Adventures) (7 page)

Settling back into bed, he let the kitten out of its cocoon. It was a she-cat, black with white legs and a white chin. He whispered to her and scratched behind her ears. The kitten soon relaxed, and she tilted her head to offer her cheek and neck to Bert’s fingers. Before long her eyes closed, and she curled up in the nook between Bert’s pillow and his shoulder, purring furiously. Bert fell asleep thinking about how much his brother loved animals.

Not long after that he woke for the second time that night. The kitten bounded across the bed, chasing a moth that fluttered around the candle. Bert grinned as he watched her little head swivel around to track the flight of the moth, and he laughed out loud when the moth flew directly over the kitten and caused her to topple over backward as she pawed wildly at the air. The moth headed for safer territory at the other end of the room. The kitten leaped off the bed to follow.

Near the far wall, the kitten stopped in front of the tapestry of the rose. Bert laughed again—her tiny tail had puffed out, doubling in size. She arched her back, and the fur along her spine bristled. Then she turned sideways, a ludicrous attempt to make herself look bigger.

“What’s the matter with you?” Bert said, climbing out of bed. “Are all the animals here crazy?” He gently picked her up again, and she scrambled to free herself from his grip. Her tiny claws were sharp as needles, as
sharp as those thorns looked in the tapestry of roses in front of Bert.

Roses.
A thought occurred to Bert. Didn’t the bird panic at the same place, in front of that tapestry with the great blooming flower? The kitten still clawed madly, so Bert held her away from his body and brought her back to the bed. But she wouldn’t stay. She jumped down and ran to the door, trying to push her nose into the space below, frantic to leave.

Bert watched the kitten, but then his eyes went back to the tapestry. He picked up the birdcage from the table by his bed. Holding the cage in front of him with a hand on each side, he walked toward the woven image of the rose. When he was four steps away, the bird began to fidget on its perch. When he was two steps away, the bird screeched and flew, once, twice, three times into the narrow bars, its wings a blur. He backed away and put the cage back on the table, and the bird settled down.

Bert drew in a great breath and let it out in a whoosh.
What’s happening here?

He brought the candle close to scan the tapestry, but saw nothing unusual. He sniffed it warily, wondering if the animals had picked up some offensive odor—something one of Uncle Hugh’s dogs had done, maybe. But there was nothing that he could detect except the smell of great age—the tapestry might have hung there for a hundred years. He ran his free hand across it, feeling the intricate weave under his fingertips. He
pressed his palm against it and felt unrelenting stone behind the fabric.

Bert pursed his lips and lowered his brow. He pulled the tapestry away from the wall on one side and peered behind it. There was an ominous creak and a whoosh from above, and he covered his head with his arms as the entire tapestry crashed down. The fabric made little noise, but the wooden bar that it was suspended from hit the floor with an astounding clatter.

Bert let out a curse he’d heard his father use more than once. He raced to his bed and climbed under the covers, ready to snuff out the candle. If anyone came to investigate the noise, he’d pretend to be disoriented and sleepy as if the tapestry had fallen on its own.

No one came. He thought he heard running footsteps in some distant part of The Crags, but there was no knock on his door. He waited to be certain. Then he returned to kneel beside the crumpled tapestry. It didn’t seem to be damaged. Looking up he saw that it had slipped off a hook on the wall—he could mount it again if he stood on a chair.

The wall was easier to inspect with the tapestry down, though. Nothing he could see explained the behavior of the bird and the kitten. The wall was made of great square blocks of stone, expertly fitted. The surface was so smooth that he was compelled to touch it. He drew his flattened palm across the cold stone, and a curious thing happened: a gentle, invisible tug at his hand.

“Huh?” He moved his palm back across the stone and felt it again—something pulling, not at his finger, but at the iron ring he wore. “Lodestone,” he whispered, remembering something a peddler had once sold him and Will. It was a magical kind of ore that pulled on anything made of iron, and attracted or repelled other bits of the same stuff.

He put his nose an inch from the wall, peered carefully, and saw an edge as thin as a hair around the spot he had just touched. The area was shaped like a teardrop, and as big as his fingertip. When he pressed it, the spot sunk into the wall as if there was a spring behind it. It was so strange and unexpected that he laughed out loud.

He took off his ring and slid it across the stone in every direction. Soon he found two more teardrop shapes just like the first. Together with the first spot they formed a triangle, large enough for his open hand to fit inside its center.

“Weird,” he said. He wondered if his aunt and uncle knew about it. Probably not, he decided. He’d found it purely by accident—he could have easily missed it. And the tapestry that covered the triangle looked like it had been there forever, concealing this strange secret. “But what’s it for?”

Now there
were
footsteps approaching. Bert pulled a chair over to the wall, lifted the tapestry, and set it back on its hook. The steps were getting closer and louder,
and he heard muttering voices. He flew across the room and into bed. He licked his fingertips with his tongue and pinched out the flame of the candle, so it wouldn’t send up a stream of telltale smoke. Then he flopped back and squeezed his eyes closed as his door began to open.

CHAPTER 8

W
ill dipped his pen into the jar of ink and began to write.

Dear Brother,

I hope everything is well with you. Parley says he will hurry to bring you this letter without wasting time along the way like he usually does. He is a good friend. Right after you left I ran into him. I was still pretending to be you, but he gave me a squinty look and a strange smile as if he knew that something was up. His one eye is better than our parents’ four!

I suppose you’re wondering how things went when I told Father and Mother that we switched places. I waited two days, like we agreed. Then I told them during dinner. Mother moaned and dropped her head into her hands. Father started cursing. I thought he might tear his beard out. Then he did something strange. He got very quiet and said to himself, “That was Bert in the carriage, not you? But I told him …” And then he knocked his
goblet off the table. What on Earth did he say to you? I’m sure it was something awful about me. Don’t let it bother you. Anyway, he told me to go to our room. An hour later he kicked the door open, stormed in, and started shouting again. So you thought you’d take Bert’s place, eh? Fine, you’ll do just that. I brought a tutor all the way to Ambercrest to teach Bert to fight. And you’ll be his student, like it or not!”

So we were right about one thing: They won’t make us change places again. Just like we guessed, they don’t want to admit to Uncle Hugh that we fooled them.

Now I have to take the fighting lessons that were meant for you, from some knight named Andreas. You’re probably sorry to miss that, and I bet you’re laughing at me. I don’t want the lessons, but I have no choice.

Will’s pen paused over the parchment. He gnawed his bottom lip and went on writing.

Bert, I had a terrible dream last night, that something bad happened to you. It made me feel awful that I let you go instead of me. The Crags is a strange place. I hope you will be careful there. Do me a favor—don’t poke around in dark corners.

I’m going to stay out of trouble here. I’ll even
take the stupid lessons without complaining. And you should behave yourself too. If we’re good, maybe Father and Mother will let you come home in a few weeks instead of staying the whole summer.

I miss you. Be careful.

Your brother,

Will

CHAPTER 9

B
ert followed his aunt down the dark corridor. She wouldn’t tell him where she was bringing him; she only promised he’d find it interesting.

If it wasn’t for her, nobody would talk to him. Uncle Hugh treated him like a nuisance, and the rest of the people in the castle—soldiers and servants alike—were careful to avoid him, fearful of Lord Charmaigne’s wrath. But not Aunt Elaine.

“You and Uncle Hugh …,” Bert started to say without really thinking. He coughed and completed his thought. “You’re not much alike.”

She looked amused as she stopped to look back at him. “That’s true enough. I realized the same thing the moment I met him, on our wedding day.”

Bert’s jaw went slack. “You didn’t meet him till you married him?”

She shook her head. “The marriage wasn’t my decision, of course. It was my father’s and your grandfather’s. But now I belong to Hugh,” she said. She turned and continued down the corridor, adding quietly, as if to herself, “And he doesn’t part with what he owns.”

The corridor soon ended at a small wooden door. Aunt Elaine produced a key from a pocket at her waist, slipped it into the keyhole and turned it. It opened into a windowless room in the back of the keep.

“What’s in there?” he asked.

“You seem curious about the history of The Crags and the Witch-Queen. I thought this would interest you.” Aunt Elaine went in first, holding one hand in front of her face. Bert wondered why until he felt a fine strand of spider silk on his cheek. He lifted his hand the same way.

The room was full of old things coated with dust. Furniture. Works of art. Moldy pennants. Rusted armor. Unknown objects covered by cloth. Padlocked chests filled with who-knows-what.

Aunt Elaine crisscrossed the room using her candle’s flame to light others that were spread about the place. The candles in the nearest corner were held by the most unusual candlestick Bert had ever seen. It was a three-legged sculpture that looked as if a trio of iron snakes balanced on their tails and curled around one another in the center. A candle was thrust into each open jaw. As they slowly burned, it would look as if the serpents were devouring them.

There were dozens of curious objects in the room, but he found himself drawn to the candlestick. He wasn’t sure why. It seemed important. Significant. He traced his fingertip along one of the sculpted snakes, starting at
the gaping mouth. When his finger reached the other end, he felt a tug on his ring, and it stuck with a clack against the tip of the tail.

“What’s the matter, Bert?” Aunt Elaine said.

“What?” he replied in a voice that squeaked.

“Just now it looked like your eyes might pop out of your face. Did something scare you?”

“No,” he said, forcing a laugh. He lifted the candlestick and gave it a look that was meant to convey indifference. “My room gets pretty dark, Aunt Elaine. Do you think I could use this while I’m here?”

“If you’d like,” she said. “It belonged to her, you know. Like everything else in here.” She swept her arm toward the center of the room where an elaborate chair stood. Bert went to take a closer look. The chair was carved out of deep-brown wood, with broad, curving arms and a tall back that he could just reach the top of when he went up on his toes and stretched his arm. Near the throne’s head he slipped his fingers into empty notches the size of walnuts. Whatever was in there once had been pried out. He saw pale scars around the gaps, where someone’s blade had dug and scratched.

“That was her throne. It was once encrusted with jewels. Until my husband plucked them out,” Aunt Elaine said. Her lip curled up on one side for a moment. Then she took a deep breath. “I’m sure you’ve heard that the Witch-Queen was beautiful,” she said. “Would you like to see her?”

“I guess,” Bert said. Aunt Elaine went to a corner of the room where a series of gilded frames stood like a row of books. She drew out one of the tallest ones and carried it to the throne, keeping the painted side of the canvas turned away from Bert. Then she propped the picture across the arms of the throne and said, “Rohesia.”