The Mirror's Tale (Further Tales Adventures) (9 page)

“P
arley!”

Tom Parley looked drained from the long ride under a roasting sun, but his sweaty, round face broke into a wide grin when he saw Bert running his way.

Parley was one of the barons men, but a soldier no more. His brief career as a fighter hadn’t gone well. In short order he lost an eye; broke an arm that never healed properly and shriveled a bit; and snapped a leg that didn’t mend well either, so that he forever after walked with a pronounced limp. But Parley was earnest and reliable and cheerful. The baron valued the earnestness and reliability, and he tolerated the cheerfulness. Parley was now employed as one of the messengers who crisscrossed the land between Ambercrest and the rest of the barony.

“Will, my favorite twin! I like you so much better than your rotten brother.” Parley looked at him with his head turned slightly to one side, using his right eye to see. The lid of the missing left eye was permanently closed, so that he seemed to always wink at the world.

“You know who I am, and you’re not one bit funny!” Bert smacked him on the chest with an open palm. Parley had joked this way for as long as he could remember. But in truth, this jest stung more than a little. It made Bert remember his last conversation with his father.

“I hope you’re proud of yourself, Bert,” Parley said. “I heard your father’s head nearly burst into flame when he learned about the switch.” The courier chuckled and gazed at the ancient castle. “So—enjoying yourself at The Crags?”

“Well, it’s actually sort of exciting and mysterious. But I miss Will.”

“And he misses you, my boy. But I’ll let him tell you.” Parley had a leather bag across his shoulder. He drew a letter from it and handed it to Bert.

“Thank you, Parley!” Bert dropped his voice to a whisper. “And I need you to bring one to Will. But I can’t give it to you when Uncle is around.”

“Then I’ll take it just before I leave tomorrow, because here he comes. He’s the tallest one in the group, right?” Bert looked behind him and grinned. Hugh Charmaigne was approaching, and as usual his pack of hulking dogs loped beside him.

“Yes,” Bert said in a low voice. “He’s also the least intelligent.” Lord Charmaigne looked at the letter from Will in Bert’s hand and gave him an unpleasant stare
before asking Parley for news from Ambercrest.

Almost forgot,
Bert thought. He’d been neglecting his mission to find out if his uncle was plotting against Ambercrest. Well, that would have to wait. All Bert could think about right now was his own wonderful secret.
My mirror.

CHAPTER 12

W
ill’s mouth was desert dry. He grimaced and gulped, and then stepped into the brilliant light of the courtyard.
It’s too early to be this hot,
he thought, using a hand to shade his eyes. The sunbaked dirt crunched under his feet. On the far side of the courtyard, near the armory, a man stood with his back to Will, arranging weapons and armor on a wooden table. He was tall, with long legs and a narrow waist that flared into powerful shoulders. He wore a shirt without sleeves, and his leathery arms were covered with the white slashes of old scars. His brown hair hung straight down to his shoulders.

It was a long, slow walk across the courtyard. When Will was a few steps away, the man turned and looked at him with an owl’s unflinching stare. He had dark eyes, a crooked, beaten nose, and a thin beard that had started to gray. A sword made of battered wood was in his hands; he planted the dull point in the ground between his feet and leaned on the handle.

Will cleared his throat. “Are you Andreas? The knight?”

The man nodded. “And you must be the baron’s son. Though it’s a funny thing—you’re not the one I was told
I’d be teaching.” He inclined his head, looking Will from head to toe and back up again. “It doesn’t matter, though, Master William. Anyone can learn to fight. Here, see if you can pick this up.”

Andreas had arranged more wooden swords on the table. There were nine of them, side by side, each one a little smaller than the sword before it. He pointed at the largest one.

Will wrapped both hands around the handle and pulled it off the table. He grunted as the point wobbled and sank to the ground. He looked at Andreas and shrugged. “Too heavy.”

Andreas squinted at him. “Try the middle one.”

Will lifted the sword in the middle of the row. He was able to count to five before it started to droop. A second later its point was in the dirt.

Andreas sighed and picked up the last sword in the line. Will felt his face go warm and his ears tingle. Compared to the long, broad sword that Andreas held in his other hand, this one looked like a whittling knife. “This is as small as they come,” Andreas said.

“Fine,” Will said through his teeth.

“Now the pads,” said Andreas.

“Pads?”

“Put them on. Whichever fit best.” The knight pointed his sword at a pile of thick, quilted material: leggings and coats. “A helmet, too.”

Will strapped on the heavy garments and stuck one of
the dented, bucket-shaped helmets onto his head. The pads reeked of stale sweat.

“And a buckler,” Andreas said, handing him a small, round, wooden shield.

Will slipped his hand through the thick, leather strap on the inside of the buckler. He peered out through the horizontal slot in his helmet and noticed a few of the baron’s soldiers milling around the courtyard, looking his way and smirking.
Just wonderful,
he thought.
An audience.
A trickle of sweat ran into the corner of his eye and started to burn.

“Before our lessons truly begin, I want to see what you know,” Andreas said. He raised his sword and buckler. “Ready?”

“Wait,” said Will. “Aren’t you going to wear pads? Or a helmet?”

Andreas allowed himself a tiny smile, the first since they met. “That wont be necessary yet, Master Will. Come on, now. Attack.”

Will sighed. He’d made up his mind that he would try his best. He raised the sword over one shoulder and charged. He swung the weapon as he drew close, but Andreas stepped nimbly aside. Will had expected the sword to hit something—the other sword, the buckler, the knight,
anything
—but when it swept through unresisting air, he lost his balance and stumbled to the ground, sending up a cloud of dust. He heard snickers in the distance.

Will couldn’t see a thing, and realized that his helmet
had swiveled a quarter turn on his head. He adjusted it and saw Andreas through the slit, gesturing impatiently for him to attack again.

Once on his feet he approached slowly. Andreas didn’t move until Will swung his sword again. Then the knight raised his weapon. When the two pieces of wood clashed, Will felt a jolt of pain shoot from his hand to his elbow. He gasped and nearly dropped the sword. Then a deafening clang rocked his brain. It was as if the helmet was a bell and his head was its clapper.

“Ow!”

“Use your shield, boy—if this was a real battle, your head would be rolling in the dust already!” said Andreas, barely audible over the echoes in Will’s brain. “The buckler,
now!”

Will threw his shield over his head just in time to block the next descent of Andreas’s heavy wooden sword. Andreas swung the weapon again, battering the shield, and all Will could do was try to recover in time to block the next one. On the third strike he dropped to one knee. On the fourth he fell to his side. Andreas stepped back.

“Get up. Try again.”

Will struggled to his feet, panting like an overworked dog. It was oven hot inside the helmet, and sweat gushed from his armpits. As soon as he steadied himself, Andreas attacked. The man’s sword was everywhere that Will’s
buckler was not, smacking his arms, legs, and stomach. It hurt despite the thick padding. The sword came straight down again, and Will just managed to block it. And then Andreas hammered him once more from above as if Will was a tent peg he was driving into the ground. Will’s buckler finally cracked in half, and he flopped to the ground. He raised one hand and waved it weakly. Andreas stood over him. His shadow blocked the sun.

“Water,” Will croaked. It was the only word he had the energy to say. He heard Andreas walk across the courtyard, crunching the straw, and come back. There was silence, and then a bucketful of water poured through the slit of his helmet. Will sputtered and coughed. He rolled over, pushed onto his knees, and pried the helmet off.

He heard laughter. The baron’s soldiers were still nearby. They clutched their stomachs and hit their knees with their fists.

“You there!” Andreas called to them. “Does this amuse you? Perhaps you think you’d fare better!” He took one step in their direction, and his fist tightened on the hilt of his sword.

The men sobered instantly. “No, sir,” one of them replied, and he led the others away as if something important had to be done elsewhere.

Andreas looked down at Will again. Will turned his face aside and glared into the distance through the damp
hair that hung over his eyes. He felt hot bruises in a dozen places and a piercing pain behind his eyes.

“It was your first lesson. No shame in taking a beating,” Andreas said.

Will sniffed loudly.

“Enough rest,” Andreas said. “We should continue.”

CHAPTER 13

T
he hot day became a sweltering night at The Crags. It began to rain, but even that did not cool the air.

Late that night, when most slept feverishly with their blankets kicked aside, Bert found cool relief as soon as he stepped into the Tunnel of Stars. He carried a bucket of soapy water in one hand and a lamp in the other. Rags were draped across his shoulder. He counted the steps on the way down. There were forty-nine—enough to bring him past the first floor and into the heart of the ledge that lay below.

There were sounds he didn’t notice when he discovered the chamber the night before. Drops of water splashed into puddles on the stone floor. A faint rush of air played like a flute from somewhere overhead. He raised the lamp and saw tiny jagged holes in the ceiling, and strange stone formations that hung like icicles.

Bert put the bucket down in front of the mirror. He marveled at the size of the glass. The bottom of it was at his knees and the top was above his head. He grasped it by the sides and tried to lift it, wondering how heavy it was.
Very,
he thought. He inspected the exquisite frame,
to make certain it was not merely carved wood that had been gilded. No, he was sure that all of it was truly gold, even the four sturdy feet, which looked like dragon’s claws. The inlaid silver seemed genuine as well. Without question, this was a treasure worth more than anything his parents possessed.

He dunked a rag in the bucket and wiped the face of the mirror. The coat of dirt eagerly slid off. In seconds there was a filthy pool of water at his feet and a tall, sparkling oval of glass before his eyes.

It was the most beautiful thing Bert had ever seen. And his reflection—he’d never beheld himself like this. Keeping his eyes locked on the glass, he stepped back. He reached behind him to find the broad arms of the chair that faced the mirror, and sat down.

He turned his head to examine his profile. He made faces: silly, angry, frightened, serious. He circled his fingers over his eyes like a mask. He stuck his tongue out, and put his thumbs in his ears and waggled his fingers.

Then he sat back and stared.
Is this the face of a baron?
he wondered, and he winced. He wasn’t so sure anymore. Just like the barony, that face could easily belong to Will.
We really do look alike. Exactly alike.
His father’s words flooded back, and he tried to push them aside.

He thought of Hugh Charmaigne, greedily prying the precious stones out of the Witch-Queen’s other throne.
Too bad you never found this chamber, Uncle.
Perhaps there
was a way to smuggle the mirror out when he left for home, though he could not imagine how. He’d worry about that later. But he knew one thing: He would never allow Hugh Charmaigne to get his pig hands on this precious thing.
Never!

Something caught his ear. He sat up and cocked his head to listen better. He still heard the whistle of the wind through the cracks in the cavern’s ceiling. But now another sound accompanied it. And this one had a rhythm.