Текст книги "Hero"

Автор книги: Alethea Kontis

Соавторы: Alethea Kontis
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

“This conversation is making me feel so much better,” said Saturday.

“Cats,” Peregrine explained.

“You are not a chalice or an athame, an inert object with no say in how you are used. You have the power—if you’ll excuse the expression—to choose what is done with the magic around you.” Betwixt lifted his wings to indicate the cave. “Like transforming crystals and other reflective surfaces into magic mirrors.”

“Or axes into swords.” Peregrine hadn’t meant to say the words aloud, but they echoed in the chamber nonetheless.

Saturday turned to him. “How in the world do you know about that?”

Peregrine tapped his temple. “Visions.”

“The more you tell me about them, the more unsettled I feel,” said Saturday.

“Imagine the subject of them landing on the doorstep of your prison,” said Peregrine. “You are, quite literally, my dream come true.”

“Now you’re being preposterous.”

“And you’re being obtuse,” he said. “But I think I can help. There’s somewhere I need to take you.” He stood and offered a hand. Predictably, she ignored him.

“Another place like this?”

“Not as beautiful, but hopefully as illuminating.” He took up the sack of mushrooms and moss, adding to it a pomegranate, a goblinfruit, and two more ripe tomatoes. “For the journey,” he said, tossing the sack over his shoulder. And because he had food, she followed him.

13

Mirror, Mirror

SATURDAY ONLY knew they’d reached their destination when Peregrine lowered the torch to light a brazier he’d come upon. She stayed by the brazier as the coals captured the flame. In her bare feet, wet hair, and damp clothing, it hadn’t taken her body long to freeze back into an icicle. Her eyes followed Peregrine as he walked the perimeter of the room, lighting wall torches as he had done in the crystal cave. These sconces were more elaborate and perfectly anchored into the icerock, like the ones on the walls in Rumbold’s palace. The brazier, too, was a work of art, not a crude stone fire pit like the one she’d woken up beside.

The light fought the darkness and quickly won. As each torch was lit, so was its reflection.

Saturday was standing in a cave of mirrors.

There were mirrors propped against every pillar and outcropping. Some had even frozen into the walls. Large and small, plain and ornate, broken and intact, they reflected the firelight, the occupants of the room, and each other. Some of the thicker frames boasted carved woodland animals and gargoyles and demons and cherubs and lively trees and flowers. Every graven thing with eyes to stare did so, and their expectant gazes never left Saturday. Betwixt spread his wings in front of one particularly impressive mirror that Saturday guessed was about as wide as her house. Behind him, a thousand Betwixts stretched similarly into infinity.

“Is this one of the witch’s caves?” Saturday whispered. “Will she find us here? She will be looking for me soon.”

“It will take her some time to prepare for her spell,” said Peregrine. “And like the garden, the witch does not know this cave exists. I’m not sure where Leila obtained these mirrors, or how long it took her. Some were scattered throughout the caverns, but I collected them here.”

“Why?” Judging by the number of mirrors, such a project would have taken him longer than honing the edges of all the swords in the armory.

“While some features of this body are still my own, I have never enjoyed seeing someone else in my reflection.”

And yet, he had brought her here, willing to face a face he despised to aid her in her quest of knowledge. “What did you look like before?”

“I can’t remember.” Peregrine waved the question away. “It doesn’t matter.”

Saturday considered how difficult it must be to forget your own face, especially after your father had forgotten his whole life.

“I knew these had to be more than just mirrors. I believe they were Leila’s windows to a world in which she could not be and, ultimately, what drove her to escape.”

“So these mirrors are magic but you can’t make them work?” Saturday asked.

“Afraid not,” said Peregrine. “I’ve rhymed and rhymed until I thought my brain would leak out my ears.”

“Mine did,” said Betwixt. “They were grueling exercises.”

“What about you?” Saturday asked the chimera. “Did you try as well?”

“Such divination is beyond even my abilities,” said Betwixt, “hampered as they are by the witch’s geis.”

Their comments only reinforced the fact that Saturday had performed magic back in the crystal cavern, all on her own. A thrill warmed her from head to toe. This is what she had wanted for her life, the ability to manipulate magic, important magic, magic that she could take on her adventures and use to make the world a better place. She wanted to be a legend, like the brother she’d been mistaken for, and legends needed more weapons in their arsenal than a sword and a decent work ethic. She only wished her family were here to witness her triumph before she died saving them all.

Saturday stood before one of the larger mirrors, its thick wood and gemstone frame tall enough to reflect her whole body. This was it. She couldn’t wait. She knew exactly what she wanted—needed—to see. “Is a rhyme all I need to make this work?”

“I’m not sure which mirrors will respond to you,” said Betwixt, “if any.”

“It might be best for you to address the whole room,” offered Peregrine. “Just in case.”

Saturday took a step back from the large mirror, still facing it, but making sure her field of vision contained as many mirrors as possible. “I can do this,” she said, as much to herself as to the others. She swallowed a yawn, not wanting her companions to realize how exhausted she still was, but she could not disguise her shiver. Peregrine’s image stepped into the mirror behind her and gently placed a threadbare blanket around her shoulders.

The thin bit of fabric reminded her of the blankets on her bed at home. Typically Saturday was entirely self-sufficient; only Papa and Peter had ever braved her stubbornness to take care of her like this. But Peregrine had fed her and clothed her, seen her clean, and helped her in her tasks. And here in this room he had presented her with the chance to perform magic, real magic, like her sisters and brothers. She wanted to revel in her blissful lack of normalcy for a while.

Saturday let her eyes linger on the lines of his dusky olive face, the softness of his countenance reflecting his sympathetic nature. He was soft where she was hard. Saturday was sure that no matter what face Peregrine wore, she’d always be able to see that tenderness within him, a quality that she lacked.

Strange though its origins might be, Peregrine’s affection for her was a beautiful thing, and she hoped she was worthy of it. Here, at the end of her adventure, she might as well let herself be loved. Like the heroes of legend. Like her brother Jack.

She just wasn’t sure she knew how to love back.

“Thank you,” Saturday said, and meant it.

“Tell me what you see,” Peregrine said to her inside the mirror.

She hadn’t rhymed a word to start the spell yet; the only things framed in the looking glass were the two of them. Together. They were of a height, though Saturday’s body had experienced rougher work and better meals. He was dark where she was fair. She had stamina; he had grace. He was a flower and she was a tree.

“I see a boy in a girl’s body and a girl in a boy’s.”

Peregrine smiled at her, making his face even gentler. “Which is which?”

Saturday laughed at that. It was a comment Peter would have made.

“You’re beautiful,” said Peregrine.

That, however, was not something Peter would have said. Saturday screwed her face up into a scowl at the compliment in an attempt to mar whatever feature happened to be catching his overly romantic eye.

“And you’re an idiot,” he added.

“The two do tend to go hand in hand,” Saturday pointed out.

“No, they don’t. Being beautiful doesn’t make you an idiot, Saturday. Being stupid does.” She felt the pressure lift as Peregrine pulled the brush he’d given her from her belt. “As a clean Woodcutter once said: You are a complete fool, and I have half a mind to throw this brush at you.”

She wrenched the brush from his grasp and replaced it in her belt. “Stop being ridiculous.”

“You really have no idea, do you?”

Why did they have to talk about this? People’s outward appearance was Saturday’s least favorite subject. “Yes. I know. I can be pretty enough. I’ve been forced to dress up for a ball before, but only because my mother made me.”

“That’s not what I mean.” He turned her face back toward the mirror. “You cannot call yourself a proper warrior if you refuse to use all the weapons in your arsenal.”

“Pshaw,” sputtered Saturday. “Beauty is not a weapon.”

Peregrine squinted at her. “Come now, Woodcutter. I thought you cleverer than that.”

Beauty as power. Was he serious? But she considered Monday’s ability to capture a room with a glance and release it with a wave. Saturday could not deny there was power in that. “Fine. You’re right,” she agreed. “But I’m not—”

“Saturday, I love you. You will always be beautiful to me.”

Betwixt made mewling kitten noises.

It was difficult for Saturday to stay serious. “I’m the only woman you’ve seen in a very long time.”

“You’re the only human I’ve seen in a very long time,” Peregrine corrected.

Betwixt’s voice echoed from the far side of the cave. “The gods work in mysterious ways.”

“Those ways aren’t so mysterious if you’re paying attention,” Peregrine shot back.

“Paying attention is not one of my virtues,” said Saturday. Despite that, she was very aware of how close Peregrine still stood; she could feel the heat of him through her damp clothes.

“Everything happens for a reason,” said Betwixt.

“That’s what Mama always says,” Saturday muttered.

“Then it must be true,” said Peregrine.

“You have no idea.” She could almost see the outline of Mama’s face swimming in the silver glass scolding her back to the task at hand. Peter’s, too, as if he’d come to inspire the rhymes needed to ignite her spell. Saturday’s fingers itched to perform this magic, on purpose, and on her own.

But if any of these mirrors were going to work, there was one face she needed to see above all others. For better or worse, she would know here and now the fate to which she had doomed her little brother.

Mirror, Mirror, Monday’s rhyme had begun, and so Saturday’s would as well. She stared into the one still framing her and Peregrine, but she raised her voice to address the whole room.

“Mirror, Mirror, stones and sticks,

Show my little brother’s tricks.”

Saturday hoped that the looking glasses—if any of them chose to wake from hibernation—forgave her vague request in light of the clever play she’d made on Trix’s name in the couplet. And then she realized she was personifying an inanimate object.

“When I speak a spell like that, who’s really listening?” Saturday asked her companions while they waited. “Certainly not the mirrors themselves.”

“They say gods are the conduits,” said Betwixt. “That is the reason for the rhyme: so the gods know you wish to perform a spell, with their blessing.”

Saturday was skeptical. To the best of her knowledge, she and Peter had never drawn accidental attention with their Wood-born nonsense. And yet, she could easily picture the gods laughing at their witticisms. “The gods do have a sense of humor.”

As if in response to her statement, five mirrors and a shard by the brazier burst into brilliance.

Peregrine cried out and threw his arm over his face. “Gah! You’d think I would have been prepared for that!”

The brightness had pierced Saturday’s own skull as well. As she waited for the glare to die down, she offered another one of those silent prayers to the ether and whatever god she now knew was listening. No matter what the looking glass showed her, she wanted Trix to be alive. Preferably alive and safe.

The five mirrors showed the same vision at the same time, and then a few more joined in. The room began to warm from the magic. The familiar scene before them was the one from Monday’s looking glass, though now Saturday knew what she witnessed. Saturday watched as the earth split below her and water sprayed to the heavens. Mudslides swamped forests. Flocks of birds fled the treetops. Relentless rains flooded houses and farms. Men, women, children, and animals alike were swept away by the angry tides.

Saturday’s shivering now had nothing to do with the cold. “This is what I’ve done,” she said. “This is the chaos I created. I don’t understand how you could love a destroyer of worlds.”

She could not turn away from the images, but she felt Peregrine’s hand slip inside hers.

“The earth brought storms and floods long before you came. It created mountains and valleys and oceans many years ago, without your help.”

“The only constant in this life is change,” added Betwixt.

“But all those poor people . . .” said Saturday.

“I see suffering, but I don’t see death,” Peregrine pointed out. “You don’t know for sure that you’ve killed anyone.”

“I have no right to cause so much pain.”

Peregrine squeezed her hand. “Look at them, Saturday. These are the people of your world. These are the people you will save when you stop the witch.”

“When we stop her,” said Betwixt. She felt the catbird’s reassuring presence at her side.

“And we will,” added Peregrine.

“Yes,” said Saturday. “We will.”

The visions blurred and the cave swam with colors– almost half the mirrors in the room were awake now. The colors resolved to settle on Trix. Saturday gasped.

Her brother’s lifeless body was caught up on the back of a sea serpent. It was violet-scaled and segmented, but its movements were graceful and fluid. Large spines rose up from its head like stiff plumage. As it swam, the serpent tilted its head back so that the spines created a basket in which Trix’s body was easily contained for transport.

Saturday worried about Trix’s body remaining underwater for so long . . . but, too, she wondered at how the monster could swim with his head kept back at such an odd angle. Slowly, more of the scene was revealed. The monster had two more heads. One looked as lifeless as Trix.

Three heads. Saturday knew this beast. She had seen it herself from the deck of her sister’s ship: the mythical lingworm. What had Thursday said to her? No Woodcutter is in danger from that particular lingworm. Her sly pirate sister had seen more than just a creature through that blasted spyglass, but she’d said nothing! She wanted to slap her sister for keeping secrets. Well, at least whatever Saturday was witnessing was not a threat to her brother. That must mean he was still alive. But Saturday hadn’t been on the pirate ship for days now . . .

The mirrors grew bright again. This time when they dimmed, the mirror’s eye looked up from the base of a tree.

“He’s alive!” A dozen Trixes perched on a dozen branches in the looking glasses before her, every one of them alive and well. Saturday screamed in delight and grasped at the consoling arms Peregrine wrapped around her. “That’s Trix! That’s my little brother! He’s alive!” She wanted to weep with the joy of knowing she had not killed him . . . or possibly anyone. Beside her, she heard Betwixt’s wings flutter in happiness.

Trix had a golden apple in his hands. The vision flashed and he stood before a pretty young girl, but Saturday could not make out her features, outshone as they were by the brilliant gold of the apple’s skin. Trix split the apple—a feat Saturday wasn’t quite sure how he accomplished with his simple knife—but the two pieces he cut were not equal.

It was a trick. Saturday remembered this from one of Papa’s stories. Did Trix know the story too? He was clever enough, to be sure, but he didn’t look as though he had any supplies with him except that knife. He was mud-spattered and must have been starving. But he could not give in to his basic needs. Generosity must win out.

“Give her the larger half!” Saturday yelled at the looking glass. It was a silly gesture, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Her voice felt cold and flat; the mirrors pulled the words out of her, but they died in the air. Trix couldn’t hear her. There was no way he could. And yet, he turned his head and looked back over his shoulder at something before holding out a hand . . .

Before Saturday could see the outcome, the scene changed again. This time Trix was at the top of another, even taller, tree. Saturday wasn’t worried; Trix had always been at home in the treetops. It was where he’d been found by Papa that fateful winter’s day when he’d become part of their family.

She was warier of the eagle that sat beside him. The bird looked almost as big as their house. Despite the raptor’s wicked beak and talons, which made Saturday shudder in memory of her capture, Trix’s face was unafraid. He and the eagle both looked out over the massive horizon. As they did, so too did the mirrors’ eyes reveal what they saw. Plains and scattered forests spread out before them, leading to hills and valleys with harsh white peaks beyond. The largest of the mountains, dwarfing its brethren in size many times over, rose into the clouds and beyond. The Top of the World.

Saturday blinked. She didn’t know if these looking glasses revealed the past, present, or future, but in this vision her brother was looking right at her.

She cried with all her might: “I’m here! I’m trapped! I’m here!” Over and over again she yelled into the thick, cold air, as if she might force the words through the mirrors and beyond.

She lunged toward the largest looking glass—at least, that’s what she meant to do—but at the first footstep she collapsed. With Peregrine’s arms still around her, she sent them both toppling to the ground. Her energy, forced once more to go on long after it was spent, gave out. The mirrors, every one now responding to Saturday’s outpouring of power, went dark.

For a second time, Saturday’s soul surrendered to blackness.

Saturday woke where she had fallen: in Peregrine’s arms. She did not see hide nor wing of Betwixt. The brazier had burned down and her muscles were screaming. Despite the amount of heat radiating from Peregrine’s body, she was beginning to think that she would never truly be warm again, but then she remembered the heated lake. And the crystals. And the mirrors. And Trix. Saturday sat up and gasped.

Her body scolded her for her lack of proper stretching and the continued lack of her healing sword. She bent one limb at a time, slowly, attempting to placate her muscles before they seized up completely and her entire body became one large cramp. She knew better than to give in to her boundless enthusiasm, and yet she never seemed to be able to stop once she was in the thick of things.

She had done magic! It had cost her, worn her to the bone, but she didn’t care. She considered doing it again immediately, checking in on Mama, or Papa and Peter in the Wood. Would she have the strength to perform that spell? Could she manage it before the witch found them?

Peregrine moved beside her, but Saturday refused to turn and look. She still wasn’t sure what to do with this man whose gilded cage she was about to destroy. The closer they became, the more difficult her decision would be when her destiny arrived. She needed to approach her fate with a clear head. Love. Obsession. Saturday had only ever felt those things about her work. People were just too messy and unpredictable.

“Are you all right?” she heard Peregrine ask.

She was wonderful, terrible, elated, and confused. She pulled the thin blanket tighter around her shoulders, for all the good it did, and edged closer to the dying coals. Briefly, she considered setting her clothes on fire for warmth. “Fine,” she said. “Cold.” She brushed the floor beneath the brazier with her hands until she encountered the sack with her boots and quickly put them on. “Where’s Betwixt?”

Peregrine put a hand to his head and Saturday realized how much her own ached. “That volume of magic would have effected a change. He’ll have slunk off to change shape somewhere colder.”

She didn’t want to imagine anywhere colder than here. “It was too much power. I couldn’t hold it.”

“I’m sorry,” he replied. “You should have focused on one mirror alone. I just didn’t know if any of them would work, let alone all of them.”

“But all of them did,” said Saturday. “I spent it all, everything I had inside myself, until my body shut down because there was nothing left to give. Perhaps I should try again. On only one mirror this time.”

“No.”

“Come on. Just let me try.”

“No, Saturday. It’s too much. I know how much you like working yourself into exhaustion, but I’d rather you not tax yourself to death.”

She hated his logic. “Then we should probably get up. I can’t imagine that went unnoticed.”

Other than rolling onto his back, Peregrine gave no sign that he had any intention of moving. “I’ve done . . . okay, not worse, but spells just as ostentatious with far more devastating results, and neither the lorelei, nor the dragon for that matter, has ever batted an eyelash.”

“Yes, but the witch wasn’t looking for a reason to kill you.” Saturday’s ears pounded as she stood. “She’s going to seek me out soon enough and expect my task to be finished. You need to find my sword and a way off this mountain.” She picked up the sack with the witch’s ingredients, and then checked the brush in her empty swordbelt and the dagger at her back. “I’ll light a lantern. You get us out of here.”

He seemed a bit taken aback at her gruffness, but she didn’t care. He rose, twisted himself back and forth, adjusted the runesword in his belt, and then bent to touch his toes. He was down there so long, Saturday wondered if he’d fallen asleep again, ass over applecart.

“Here.” She thrust the lantern into his hands. “Now move.”

They hurried, but the dark and winding path took far too long. Peregrine held a steady pace in front of her, but Saturday’s impatience had the better of her concentration, and she smacked her head every ten seconds.

“You keep that up, you’re going to be unconscious again.”

“You keep slowing down when you talk, you really will be a girl.” A set of yellow-gold eyes reflected their torchlight far-ther down the tunnel. Had the chimera shifted form so quickly? “Betwixt?” Saturday asked into the darkness. “Is that you?”

Nothing answered her.

“Get your dagger out,” said Peregrine softly.

Saturday was way ahead of him. “What is it?”

“Brownies.”