The Mirror of Fate (5 page)

With all my concentration, I listened. The trees cried out to me, their great arms flailing. I could not understand all they said, for they were all speaking at once, sometimes in languages I hadn’t yet mastered. Yet there were several whose words I could not mistake. From a stately cedar:
We are dying, dying.
From a linden tree whose heart-shaped leaves twirled slowly to the ground:
It is eating me. Swallowing my roots, my very roots.
And from a powerful pine, in mournful tones:
My child! Do not take away my child!

As the wind, and the voices, subsided, I turned to Hallia. “This forest is in trouble somehow—great trouble.”

“I feel it, too.”

“It doesn’t seem natural.”

“No, it doesn’t. Yet if you look closely, the signs are everywhere. Like those death-grip vines on that stand of hemlocks.”

“And here, look at this.” Reaching for the trunk of a nearby pine, I scraped a bit of gray, scraggly moss off its bark. “Rotting beard. I’ve seen it on trees before, but only after a flood. Never in a thriving forest.”

She nodded grimly. “I wish we could do something to help. But what? Besides, we have our own troubles. How can we find our way back to the Summer Lands? And to Gwynnia, poor thing! And what about the ballymag? Who can tell where he might be now?”

Grinding my teeth, I stooped to retrieve my staff. “Look, I’m sorry. I had no idea that my Leaping would go all awry like this.” Squeezing the gnarled top of the staff, I lamented, “I forgot the very first lesson, what Dagda called
the soul of wizardry:
humility.”

Angrily, I slid the staff under my belt. “I need another hundred years of practice before trying something like that again! Why, I might have sent us to another land, or even another world.”

Hallia shook her head. “No, no. My feet, my nose, my bones all tell me we’re still somewhere in Fincayra.” She scanned the shadowed trunks surrounding us. “This forest reminds me a lot of an ancient grove that I visited years ago, when I was still a fawn-child. The mixture of trees, the way they stand—it all feels so familiar. But that place was so much more alive! What kind of sickness could have attacked a whole forest like this?”

“
Ehhh,
” groaned an anguished voice from behind the knotted roots of a cedar. “Terribulous painodeath.”

We rushed to the spot. The ballymag, his round eyes more woeful than ever, stirred within the roots. Shards of bark and clumps of needles dangled from his claws, his padded belly quaked with the slightest movement, and his whiskers drooped morosely. Yet my second sight, keener than an owl’s vision in the darkened grove, found no new signs of injury.

Bending toward him, I tried to pull a twig, sticky with sap, out of one of his tails. He shrank away from me, cowering. “You’ve no reason to fear now,” I coaxed. “The dragon isn’t here.”

“But manmonster is!” He lifted his nose and sniffed, as his eyes grew wider still. “And worsemuch, verilously worsemuch, this is terrorplace I leastcringe wantbe!” He fell into a fit of shudders and groans. “Terrorp-p-p-place.”

Hallia caught her breath. “So you know where we are?”

“Certainously,” wailed the ballymag. “C-c-can’t you smelloscent flavorous puddlemuck?”

“No, I can’t!” I declared. “Whatever mucklescent means.”

“Puddlemuck!” The ballymag shut his eyes, muttering, “Manmonsters! So verilously dumbilythick.”

I shook him until his eyes reopened. “Where do you think we are, then?”

Balefully, he looked up at us. “The darkendous wood, edgesouth of Haunted Marsh.”

I started. “The marsh? Are you sure?”

“Certainously!” His whiskers bristled. “Thinkyou I not smellknow my own puddlemuck?”

Hallia shook her head. “That can’t be right. The forest I remember was in the hills a long way south of the marshlands—practically a full day’s run.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Positive. I never forget a forest, certainly not an ancient one like this. And it wasn’t even close to the Haunted Marsh.”

“Ohwoe, but it verilously is!” squealed the ballymag, his whole body shaking. Waves of jiggly fat rolled down his belly. “Manmonster, please . . . hurtpinch mepoorme if you choosemust. Tearpull out these whiskerhairs, oneshriek by oneshriek. But takeget me hereaway!”

Scowling, I studied the quivering creature. “You’re not making sense. Even if we
were
near the swamp, why don’t you want to go back? I thought it was your home.”

“Was, absolutously. But not nowlonger. Not safehome.”

My eyebrows lifted. “Why not?”

He twisted, trying to push his head under one of the roots. “Can’t talkexplain! Too horribulous.”

Staring down at him, I wondered what could possibly be more horrible than the Haunted Marsh I well remembered. The putrid air, the gripping muck—and, worst of all, the marsh ghouls. I had seen their eerie, flickering eyes, and much more than that. I never wanted to feel their rage, their madness, again. Hallia, I knew, had been right: That swamp was the least known—and most feared—place on Fincayra. And for good reason.

The ballymag, raising his head again, sighed through his shivers. “Oh, how I achemiss that homeplace, with its glorifous underwonders! Such a sweetlygush homeplace, for such timelong.”

I traded disbelieving glances with Hallia.

“Ah, those putridous pools,” he continued, his eyes glistening. “Those bafflingous bogs! All so mooshlovely and wetsecret.” He cringed. “Until . . .”

“Until what?”

“Ickstick!” cried the ballymag suddenly, pointing all his claws at my feet. “A dangerscream!”

I glanced down at the thick, crooked stick beside my boot, then back at him. “No more hysterics, now. I’ve had enough! I’m not running from sticks—nor should you.”

“Butayou don’t . . .”

“Enough!” I commanded, drawing my sword. A shaft of light, slicing through the branches overhead, caught the blade. It flashed brightly. “This will save us from deadly sticks. Or wailing ballymags.”

Hallia frowned. “Come. Let’s find our way back to—
aaaghhh.
”

Both hands flew to her neck, tearing at the writhing, sinuous snake that had wrapped itself around her throat. Her face lost its color; her eyes bulged with terror. Raising my sword, I leaped to her aid.

“Painodeath!” shrieked the ballymag.

All of a sudden, something heavy struck my lower back. It slid with incredible speed up my spine to my shoulders. Before I could even cry out, powerful muscles clamped around my neck.

Another snake! My breath cut short. I barely caught sight of Hallia collapsing to her knees, wrestling with her own strangling snake, when things started spinning. I tripped on something, kept myself from falling—but dropped my sword. Clumsily, I stumbled toward Hallia. I had to reach her. Had to!

My fingers dug deep into the cold flesh closing around my neck. It felt hard, like a collar of stone. Even as I tugged, the snake squeezed relentlessly, drawing itself tighter and tighter. My head seemed about to explode, my arms and legs weaker by the second. Bolts of pain shot through my neck, head, and chest. I couldn’t stand, couldn’t breathe. Air—I needed air!

Stumbling, I crashed to the ground, rolling on the needles. I struggled to stand. But I fell again, facedown, still pulling at the serpent. Meanwhile, a strange darkness crept over me—and through me. I felt no more spinning, no more motion.

Magic. I must use my magic! Yet I lacked the strength.

Something sharp jabbed my shoulder. I felt the cut, saw the blood. My sword—had I rolled on it? Vaguely, an idea glimmered in my mind. Using all my remaining strength, I tried to wriggle higher on the blade. Weakly I twisted, but the world grew darker. I felt the blade slicing my flesh . . . and possibly something else.

Too weak to fight any longer, I ceased moving. A final wish flashed through my thoughts: Forgive me, Hallia. Please.

Suddenly—the snake’s hold loosened. I drew a ragged, halting breath. My arms started tingling; my vision began clearing. Wrathfully, I tore the severed body of the snake from my neck. Hallia, I could see, lay so near. And so still.

Grasping the hilt of the sword, I crawled to her side. The snake that had attacked her uncoiled slightly, raising its head from under her chin. It hissed angrily, yellow eyes sizzling. It shot toward me—

Just as I swung the sword. With a slap, the blade connected. The snake’s head sailed into the air, thudding into the trunk of a tree. It fell to the forest floor.

I dropped the sword and pulled myself to her side. Please, Hallia! Breathe again. I held her bruised neck, almost as purple as her robe, and shook her head. But she didn’t stir. I stroked her cheeks; I squeezed her chilled hand.

Nothing. Nothing at all.

“Hallia!” I cried, tears dampening my cheeks. “Come back now. Come back!”

She made no movement. She showed no life, not even the faintest breath.

Crumpling in despair, I fell upon her, my face pressed against her own. “Don’t die,” I whispered. “Not here, not now.”

Something brushed against my cheek. Another tear? No . . . an eyelid!

I lifted my face, looking into her own, even as she drew a struggling breath. And another. And another.

In a moment, she sat up. She coughed, rubbing her sore neck. Her eyes, so wide and brown and deep, caressed me for several seconds. Then they moved to the bloodstained sword by my side, and the headless snake lying among the pine needles.

Her lips quivered in a fleeting smile. “Maybe,” she said hoarsely, “your aim isn’t so bad after all.”

5:
F
LAMES
N
OW
A
RISE

It took a full hour for us to regain our strength, and for Hallia to clean the slice on my shoulder so that I could will the tissues to heal. And it took nearly another hour for the ballymag to speak again, having been frightened completely out of his voice. Finally, we sat among the needles and gnarled roots, grateful to be alive—and entirely alert for any more snakes.

“You bravelysave,” rasped the ballymag, leaning against a bulging root. He clawed anxiously at his whiskers. “Muchously more bravelysave than me.”

I tossed a pinecone into the boughs of a sapling. “At least you spotted that one before it attacked. How did you know it wasn’t really a stick?”

“The angryeyes. Almostously closed, but peekingstill yellowbright. Many terrortimes I findenhide themsame before.”

“In the marsh?” I leaned closer, peering at his round face. “Those snakes came from there?”

“Verilutously.”

I scowled. “The place you called your wonderful homeplace.”

Hallia rubbed her neck gingerly. “Your word, I think, was
mooshlovely.
”

“Well . . .” The ballymag made an effort to clear his throat, while his row of tails twitched nervously. “I mightcould exaggersillied a bitlittle.”

“A bitlittle.” Puzzled, I shook my head. “What’s happening with the marsh? Even if it’s not so far from here, as you believe, why did those snakes leave it?”

His round eyes closed tightly, then popped open. “Probabously for dreadfulsame reason as Iself.”

“Which is?”

“Too terribulous to tell, even whispersay.” The ballymag shook his head, along with his six arms and most of his tails. “Whatever my worstshriek dreamfears, this be worsefulous. Bigamuch worsefulous.”

“Tell us.”

He shrunk down into the roots. “Nowoewoe.”

Lightly, Hallia touched my arm. “He still doesn’t trust you.”

I growled with exasperation. “How many times do I have to save his life before he does? Well, no matter. He won’t be with us much longer anyway.”

The ballymag gasped. His claws started to clatter with his shaking. “Manmonster plangoing to . . . chopochew me?”

“Tempting, but no.” I clambered to my feet and studied him ruefully. “We’re going to find our way, somehow, back to the Summer Lands. But since I brought you here, it’s my responsibility to get you safely to water somewhere. No, don’t worry, not your mooshlovely marsh! But we’re bound to pass some watery place before long. And that’s where I’ll be leaving you, whether you like it or not. I don’t care if it’s a stream, a tarn—or a puddle.”

The ballymag’s eyes narrowed and he snapped a claw at me.

With a sigh, I tore off a strip from the bottom of my tunic, tied the ends together, and draped it around my neck like a saggy sling. Then, despite his constant wriggling, I gathered him in my arms and placed him inside. Though one of his tails protruded, coiling and uncoiling in time to his nervous moans, the rest of him disappeared in the folds of cloth.

Lightly, Hallia touched the moaning bundle on my chest—causing the ballymag to shriek and curl himself into a huddled ball. She studied the bulging sling. “He may not appreciate that you saved our lives, young hawk, but I do.”

I tapped the hilt of my sword. “This is what really saved us.”

She stamped her foot on the ground like an angry doe. “Come now. You sound as if you had nothing to do with it.”

I gazed at the shadowed trees. “That’s not what I mean. But we came close, too close, to dying right there. If I really have all the powers that Cairpré and the others think I have—expect me to have—then I shouldn’t have been fooled by those snakes to begin with.”

“
Hmfff.
Why can’t you make mistakes sometimes, like anyone else?”

“Because I’m supposed to be a wizard!”

She placed her hands on her hips. “All right then, great wizard, why don’t you tell me something? Such as how are we going to get back to Gwynnia before she frets herself to death, or tears up the countryside looking for me?”

“Well, unless you’d like me to try Leaping . . .”

“No!”

“Then we’ll have to walk.” I patted the sling—and jerked away my hand just as a claw nearly snapped it. “With our friendly companion here.”

Turning to the aged cedar by my side, I laid my hand upon its deep-rutted trunk. A waft of sweet resins came to me; I could almost feel them flowing beneath the bark. “I wish I could find some way to help you, old one. And the rest of this place, as well. But there just isn’t time.”