The Mirror of Fate (13 page)

“Come,” I declared. “We need to find shelter before nightfall.” I nodded at Ector. “And by
we,
I mean to include you. Will you travel with us?”

Thoughtfully, he rubbed his chin. “For a time.”

Hallia brushed my chest lightly with the back of her hand. “And does
we
still include me?”

“Of course—that is, if it’s what you choose.”

She blinked her round eyes. “It’s what I choose.”

“Then let’s go.” I pointed toward the bush-covered rise, now just a dark hump against a background nearly as dark. “Let’s hope those shrubs are thick enough to hide us.”

I started off, followed closely by the others. Stretching my second sight as far as I could, I led them through the marsh grass to a narrow mound of peat that wound its way through the thickening fog. At one point we passed a pile of loose, jagged stones, whose cracks revealed a pair of thin yellow eyes that watched us closely. Cautiously, we moved past. Though the peat, unlike the softer mud around us, didn’t suck at our every step, it remained wet enough to form tiny pools of water in our footprints. Once, as I paused to wait for the others, I watched the string of watery prints behind us gradually fade away. In a moment’s time, they melted into the land as completely as one spiral of mist melts into another.

At the edge of the peat mound, I spotted a twisted vine with curling leaves. Nearly buried in the mud at its base lay a squarish vegetable, reddish-purple in color, that seemed quite familiar. Suddenly I remembered the time I had seen, and eaten, one just like it. My mouth watered. How marvelous it had tasted! Even so, I hesitated. What if it wasn’t really the same vegetable? In the end, my churning stomach prevailed and I reached over, plucked it, and placed it into my satchel.

As we pressed ahead, the rise grew more prominent. Drawing nearer, I realized that what I had taken for shrubs covering it were actually low, densely branching trees. Their trunks, where they showed at all through the mass of branches, looked as stout as giants’ toes; their bark, as deeply wrinkled as my own leather boots. What had, from a distance, looked like red berries, I saw now were the red undersides of their leaves.

At the end of the winding mound of peat, we came to the edge of a wide, slimy pool. Even in the gathering shadows, I could tell that it bubbled and stirred ominously. Crossing its dark green expanse was surely the shortest route to the rise, but I didn’t particularly like its look—or smell. Still, with night fast approaching, going straight across could save precious time.

Cautiously, I tested its depth with my staff. It seemed shallow enough. I stepped forward. Although fluid seeped into my boots, the bottom held firm, seeming slippery but passable. I traded glances with my companions, then took another step.

Whatever I stepped on moved, slithering into the reeds at the pool’s edge. I jumped back, but lost my footing. With a splash, I landed on my side in the slimy water. Then, to my horror, I felt something wrap around my leg. It hardened, like a flexing arm, then pulled me deeper into the pool, dragging me downward.

“Something has me!”

Hallia and Ector leaped to my aid. They grabbed me by the arms and tugged hard. Whatever held me, though, tugged back. Ector’s boots slipped on the peat, causing him to fall to his knees. Still he kept pulling. Hallia’s braid lashed her shoulders and back as she twisted this way and that.

At last I broke free. We toppled backward, falling in a heap on the soggy ground. For some time we just lay there, panting, while thick vapors curled above our bodies. Finally I shook the mud from my hair and sat up. Noticing the slick black ooze that covered my lower leg, I scraped away as much as I could with the base of my staff.

Wordlessly, we helped each other to our feet and set off again, working our way around the pool. The last light faded swiftly, as the swamp noises swelled around us. Fog swirled, opening into dark mouths with shifting teeth and vaporous tongues. Dead branches caught on our clothing and scraped our shins. Yet such obstacles did not concern me. For I had noticed an eerie glimmering at the edges of my vision. A glimmering that grew stronger by the minute.

At last we reached the rise. Although not very high, it was, as I had hoped, drier than the surrounding marshes. But my heart sank. There was no clear pathway to higher ground! The thick stand of trees formed a tight mesh of branches, so closely woven that even my second sight could not see past the outer rim. Only a few gaps in the growth gave glimpses of the woody tunnels among the trees. Tunnels . . . The idea made me start. Perhaps we could still find shelter here after all.

Hallia grabbed my shoulder. “Those lights! They’re coming this way. It’s the marsh ghouls, I’m sure!”

An eerie, anguished shriek arose from the marsh. It was followed by another, and another.

“Come quickly.” I darted to the trees. Stepping over the burly roots, I led the others to a narrow gap in the branches. “Careful, now. These thorns look murderous.”

More of the chilling cries rose behind us as we ducked into the narrow tunnel. Instantly, darkness overwhelmed us, along with the scent of fir cones, sharp and sweet. The tunnel bent to the left, toward the center of the stand, then right, then left again. Whenever it forked, I chose the most difficult passage, hoping it might afford more protection. As I crawled deeper, thorns ripped at my tunic, stabbed at my knees, neck, and shoulders. Behind me, Ector gave a shout of pain. More than once, Hallia’s fist pounded the ground like a doe stamping angrily with her hoof.

We reached, at length, a wide place in the tunnel. Four or five of the gnarled, grooved trunks surrounded us. The ceiling of thorns was too low for us to stand, but left plenty of space for sitting or kneeling. I guessed that we had arrived near the center of the cluster of trees.

I leaned back against one of the trunks, licking a cut on the back of my wrist. “Well, here is our accommodation for the night.”

“I’ve had worse,” offered Ector, pulling his robes around his battered shins.

Hallia curled herself, like a fawn, in a hollow among the roots. “Yes, this will do fine.” She touched my thigh. “How are you feeling?”

“Well enough.”

“All we need,” said Ector in the darkness, “is a bit of supper.”

Remembering the vegetable, I pulled it out of my leather satchel. A bit crushed though it was, its skin remained intact. I broke off a section, brought it to my nose, and smelled. At once, I recognized the robust aroma, as rich as meat roasting over a fire.

“What’s that smell?” asked the boy.

“Our supper,” I replied. “It’s a vegetable used by the bakers in Slantos, far to the north, to make one of their special breads. I found it in the marsh.”

Hallia slid closer. “Do you trust it?”

I broke open the juicy vegetable, then licked my fingers. “I’m too hungry to doubt. And besides, I could never forget this smell.”

Handing each of them a section, I then proceeded to extract the wide, flat seed from the center. Even in the dark, my second sight glimpsed its deep red sheen. Placing it on the ground, I struck it with the base of my staff, cracking it into pieces. These I distributed around, but not before popping a few into my own mouth. As I chewed, the bits of seed burst apart, exploding with flavor. As well as something more, something that made me feel that I would, in fact, regain my sword—and live to wield it once again.

“
Mmm,
good flavor,” commented Ector, a river of juice dribbling down his chin. “The bread must be wonderful.”

“It is,” I replied. “The people of Slantos say it can fill your heart with courage.”

“I like it more and more,” said Hallia, chewing avidly. “That’s what we really need.”

“Right,” agreed Ector, breathing a heavy sigh. “Courage to face the future.”

I handed him another section. “The future can be frightening, can’t it?”

“In a place like this most of all, young hawk. Where every step you take means . . . choices. Hard choices.” He took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. “So whichever path you choose, it’s bound to be partly right and partly wrong.”

I nodded. “Life itself often feels that way to me: unfamiliar trails, shrouded in mist so thick you can hardly see what choices you really have.” I swallowed my own mouthful. “I suppose all you can do, all any of us can do, is try to do the best we can.”

“Despite the mist?” he asked plaintively.

“Despite the mist.”

“But what if . . .” His words trailed off. “What if the choice before you is clear, but it’s simply impossible? Say you’re trying to help someone, maybe someone you love a lot—and yet if you succeed in helping him it means that you can’t, well, help someone else. Someone who also deserves to be helped. What do you do then?”

Stretching out my hand, I clasped one of his ankles. “I don’t know what it is you’re searching for, Ector, or who it is you’re trying to help.”

He stirred, at the very edge of speaking, but held himself back.

“And yet,” I went on, “I can tell you one thing with certainty. Whatever difficult times the future holds in store for you, this thing will never change.” My voice deepened. “You have helped someone, beyond any doubt, on this day. And Ector . . . I will never forget it.”

Silently, he nodded, even tried to smile. Yet underneath his face remained grim. While I could tell that my words had touched him, they hadn’t lightened his burden as I had hoped. Could it be, I wondered, that he knew something more about the future than he could reveal?

At length he placed his smaller hand on top of mine. “I’m glad you found these trees, young hawk. And I’m also glad you found me.”

For a long moment, we said nothing. In time I lifted my arms toward the ceiling of thorns, trying to stretch my back. “I suppose we should try to sleep a little. Trouble is, I don’t feel sleepy.”

“Nor do I,” he agreed.

“Nor I,” whispered Hallia, shifting her weight among the roots. “Especially with all that wailing and howling, muffled as it is, going on out there.”

“For me,” I confessed, “those sounds aren’t as troubling as . . .”

“The bloodnoose?” she asked sympathetically.

“Yes, cursed thing! I can’t help but wonder when the elixir is going to run out. And what that will feel like.”

“What we really need,” suggested Ector, “is a good story. The kind that can take your mind off, well, everything else.”

“I know a gifted storyteller,” I volunteered. “Someone who grew up in a clan whose life is rich with all manner of tales.” I nudged Hallia’s thigh. “Would you?”

“Yes, please,” echoed the boy. “Would you?”

She drew a long, slow breath. “Well, I suppose.” For a moment, she looked at the ground, thinking, before raising her head again. “All right then,” she said at last. “I shall tell you a story, famous among my people. It is the story of a girl named Shallia. And it is a tale about mist, about friendship, and about choices. Impossible choices.”

She sat, legs crossed and hands resting in her lap, gazing at the wall of branches. It seemed, by her expression, that she could see right through the sheltering trees into the swirling clouds beyond. Then she began, her voice as smooth as an evening breeze by the sea: “Hear me now, for I shall tell you
The Tale of the Whispering Mist
.”

15:
T
HE
T
ALE OF THE
W
HISPERING
M
IST

By a faraway shore on a faraway sea, the mist rises nightly from star-shining waves. Over the darkening sea it spreads, stretching thin, wispy fingers out to the land. And on this night, as on so many nights before, the mist reaches first to touch a single place, a single rock—the rock still remembered as Shallia’s Stone.

For there Shallia came often.

Legs dangling from the rock’s edge, she would sit hour after hour. To watch the sun plunge into the sea, or the stars swim like luminous minnows through the eel-black sky. To feel the first curls of mist touch her toes. And, above all, to listen: to the slap of waves and the cry of gulls; to the spray of whales, heaving breaths as deep as the waters themselves; and, on some nights, to another sound—unlike waves, unlike whales—a mysterious whispering that seemed almost alive.

The whispering, somehow, made her recall her youngest years, her gladdest years. Although she had never known her mother, who had been taken by the gods of Sea and Shore while giving birth, her father had stayed always near. How they had laughed when they leaped into the waves, uncovered clams together, and chased each other through the pools of flashing fish at low tide! How they had lived, utterly one with the waves and themselves.

Until that day it had all ended—the memories drowned, like her father, after he stepped on the spines of a poisonous spike-fish hidden in the shallows.

Taken in by her grandmother, Shallia moved to a mud hut at the outskirts of the village. She had no brothers or sisters, no friends her own age. Yet as much as she longed for companionship, she kept to herself. She felt no room in her heart for anything but loneliness—and the unending longing to sit by the sea.

“Don’t stay all alone by the water,” her grandmother warned. “Especially at night. For that, my child, is when the sea ghouls come closest to shore.”

Sea ghouls, the old woman explained, lived in the shadowy realm between water and air. More dangerous than a circle of spike-fish, they could take any shape they chose, much like the mist itself. They could drive people mad, and often did. Many were the tales of villagers who, lingering too long after dark, had been lured into the waves by sea ghouls. Carried off by the currents, they were never found alive—or never found at all. Only their footprints in the sand remained, fading with the moonlight.

Shallia had heard all the stories. But she had also heard, much more clearly, the faraway call of the waves. How could that whispering, soothing enough to wash away her grief for a while, be dangerous? Just to think of closing her ears to that sound made her feel sad, more lonely than ever. And so every night, when her grandmother slept, Shallia stole silently down to the shore.