The Mirror of Fate by T. A. Barron Read Free Book Online Page A

facing a man holding a rough-hewn axe. His ears, like those of most Fincayrans, were slightly pointed at the top. But it was his eyes that commanded attention: They glowered angrily at the young woman who dared to stand between him and the tall, gnarled pine whose trunk bore a ragged gash in its side.
    “Away with ye, girl!” His tattered tunic swirling about him, he waved his axe at Hallia. Behind him stood a woman, her expression as frayed as her uncombed hair. In her arms she held a baby who cried piteously while her thin legs thrashed the air.
    “Away!” shouted the exasperated man. “It’s only a wee bit o’ firewood we be wantin’.” He lifted his axe threateningly. “And soon shall be gettin’.”
    “For that you don’t need to cut down a whole tree,” objected Hallia, not budging. “Certainly not an old one like this. Besides, there’s plenty of wood on the ground. Here, I’ll help you gather some.”
    “Not dry enough for kindlin’,” retorted the man. “Now stand ye aside.”
    “I will not,” declared Hallia.
    Panting from my run, I stepped to her side. “Nor will I.”
    The man glared at us, eyes smoldering. He raised his axe higher.
    “Our babe, she needs warmth,” wailed the woman. “And a morsel o’ cooked food. She hasn’t eaten a scrap since yesterday morn.”
    Hallia, her face softening, tilted her head in puzzlement. “Why not? Where is your home?”
    The woman hesitated, trading glances with her husband. “A village,” she said cautiously. “Near the swamp.”
    “The Haunted Marsh?” I asked, with a quick look at Hallia. “Isn’t that a long way from here?”
    The woman eyed me strangely, but said nothing.
    “Wherever your village is,” Hallia pressed, “why aren’t you there now?”
    Ignoring the man’s gesture to stay silent, the woman started to sob. “Because . . . it be invaded. By them .”
    “By who?”
    The man swung his axe in the air. “By the marsh ghouls,” he answered gruffly. “Now move yeselves aside.”
    At that moment, the ballymag lifted his whiskered head above the edge of the sling. Then, at the sight of the axe, he whimpered loudly and promptly buried himself again in the folds.
    “Invaded?” I repeated. “I’ve never heard of marsh ghouls doing such a thing before.”
    The woman tried to give her little girl a finger to suck, but the child pushed it away. “Our village be borderin’ the swamp for a hundred and fifty years, and we never heard of such a thing, neither. Their screeches and wails, of course, we hear every night. Louder than battlin’ cats! But if we be leavin’ them alone, they do the same for us. Until . . . that all changed.”
    Her husband took a step toward us, brandishing his axe. “Enough talkin’,” he barked.
    “Wait,” I commanded. “If it’s fire you want, I know another way.”
    Before he could object, I raised my staff high. Beneath my fingertips, I could feel one of the engravings on the shaft, the carved shape of a butterfly. With my free hand, I pointed at a tangle of needles and sticks near the man’s feet. Silently, I called upon the powers of Changing, wherever they might be found. Though I felt no wind, my tunic suddenly billowed, sleeves flapping. Seeing this, the man gasped, while his wife drew back several steps.
    In a slow, rhythmic cadence, I spoke the ancient words of the fire-bringer:
    Flames now arise
From forest or fen;
Brighter than eyes,
Beyond mortal ken.
    Father of heat
For anvil and pyre;
Mother of light,
O infinite fire.
    A sizzling sound erupted from the wood. Brown needles curled downward, while bark split open and began to snap and pop. A thin trail of smoke rose upward, steadily swelling, until—flash! The sticks, bark, and needles burst into flames.
    The man shouted and leaped aside. Even so, the hem of his torn tunic caught a spark and started to burn. Hastily grabbing a tuft of long grass, he swatted at the flames. His wife, holding tight to their child, backed farther