Mirror, Mirror #2
She picked it up, noting the ancient runes along the spine, etched into the leather.
She couldn’t make heads or tails of the symbols but thought the inside might hold more information.
Except… it couldn’t be opened. Not by her, anyway.
It was bound by an obsidian lock with no place for a physical key.
Fascinating. She’d heard of magical locks before, but seeing one in use was something else.
Hazel slid the book into the pocket of her nightdress, trying to ignore the way her locket damn near vibrated beneath her shift.
Was it related somehow to the book? Maybe, if she was lucky, her magic would gain her entry beyond the dusty cover.
But that was a problem for later. She still needed to find a way out.
The space was grand, and at one point, probably spectacular. The dark emerald velvet curtains were sun-bleached. The oak tables were scratched and worn from years of use, covered in cobwebs and a thick layer of dust. But there were no doors to speak of, at least not that she’d seen.
Walking along the empty stacks wishing she’d grabbed a shawl, a strange object caught her attention.
In a corner ensconced in shadow, a cream-colored sheet loomed.
It was nearly touching the ceiling and as she approached, she felt as though it could swallow her whole.
She reached out to touch the sheet, and it fell.
Hazel yelped, unable to hold it in. But nothing could have prepared her for what was beneath.
It was a mirror, or at least looked as though it should be a mirror.
Except there was no reflection. The glass was as still and dark as a motionless lake at midnight.
Its frame was wrought from fine silver, with twisting vines and leaves so intricate they might as well be alive.
Woven in among the vines were roses and briarthorn.
Unable to resist the childish temptation, Hazel reached out to touch a silver rose petal and pricked her finger on one of the thorny stems. She recoiled, sucking away the blood that pooled immediately at her fingertip.
The mirror’s surface came to life, rippling from the center outward as it formed her reflection. A visage drenched in moonlight, her hair was a wild, living flame as her gemstone eyes sparkled.
It spoke, then, in a language she’d never heard. Something visceral, vibrating down to the very marrow of her bones.
Then a booming voice came, deep and mysterious. Melodic and ancient.
“Who bares their soul to the Mirror of Truth?” the mirror asked.
What was she going to do, ignore it? It couldn’t be talking to anyone else. “Hazel,” she whimpered. “Hazel Callahan.”
The mirror groaned. It spoke again with contempt in its voice. “Interesting. I wonder… does she lie to me… or to herself? I know no Hazel Callahan. But I do know the blood coursing through her veins. I have tasted it before. Hmm. No matter, though. I tell lies too.”
Hazel gulped audibly.
“I am the Mirror of Truth. Though if I am honest, as a Mirror of Truth should be, I don’t find my name all that fitting.
You see, I don’t only tell the truth. In fact, I promise to tell exactly one lie.
Two truths and one un-truth. But I’m not going to tell you which.
That’s the fun of it. Though I suppose not everyone finds it enjoyable.
In fact, I’ve driven a few mad over the years.
” Hazel was completely taken aback, wondering if it would be rude to ask the mirror who it was, or used to be.
It was far too human to not be a cursed being.
After a few quiet moments had passed, the mirror spoke again. “Are you ready, Hazel Callahan?”
She nodded. What choice did she have? Besides, her locket was abnormally calm in the presence of this enchanted mirror. Perhaps it was harmless.
The surface of the mirror swirled, distorting Hazel’s reflection until it was gone.
“What you are about to see cannot be unseen. Two things are true, one make-believe, a glimpse of the past, or what is yet to be. Remember, the strongest are not those who can parse out the lie, but those who can live with the truth. And so, let us begin.”
An image formed on the mirror then. A somber, rainy day where dark clouds blotted out the sky.
Men and women dressed in black huddled together beside a giant pile of kindling.
Upon the pile… a body. A mourning dirge rose up from the crowd slowly, amidst choked sobs and wails and Hazel understood what she was witnessing; it was a funeral pyre.
She approached the women at the front but did not recognize them.
Her eyes landed upon the deceased woman, taking in her too-young face, evidence of a life cut short.
A face framed by kohl black hair streaked with white, the long strands draped delicately past her shoulders to lie upon her white gown.
A stunning woman, even in death.
Hazel’s eyes snagged on a familiar face, and her heart fell into her stomach.
Agnes. Standing just to the right of where she rested, Agnes looked upon the woman with sorrow in her bloodshot eyes, wiping away a tear. She approached the woman and withdrew a small brown book from within her mourning robes, tucking it beneath the woman’s clasped hands.
“Take this to the Otherrealm with you. Watch over us, especially your daughter,” she whispered.
Holy gods. She heard the unspoken words. Somehow, as though the answer came somewhere from within her soul, she knew. It was her mother.
But it was no surprise to find out she was dead. Hazel had always suspected this, even when she thought Connall’s late wife and her mother were one in the same. Both had met tragic fates, regardless. But the book… she reached for her pocket to find it was still there.
Witches gathered around the pyre and chanted, including Agnes.
Between sobs, they conjured an enormous blue flame which was set upon the kindling.
And moments later, everything was engulfed.
Hazel watched as her mother’s body dissolved into a million blue and white butterflies and disappeared in the column of smoke.
And with them, the images dissolved and reformed into something else entirely.
That, Hazel decided, was undoubtedly a truth. One down, one to go. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so difficult after all.
The new image formed slowly at first, then all at once Hazel was thrust into a fierce battle.
And in the middle of the fray was Slaide.
A caravan of wagons was ablaze and bodies were strewn about, some cut down by a blade, others by something else.
It didn’t take long to see how they’d met their end. Slaide was outnumbered and should have easily succumbed to his foes. But Hazel watched in horror as he reached up and called lightning down from the sky upon his adversaries—completely obliterating them.
When the next round of enemies moved in on him, Slaide called forth his shadows and they bled from him in a hungry frenzy. They sought and destroyed everything they touched, leaving empty husks in their wake.
Another easy one. This is the other truth. Hazel was certain. This was the Slaide she’d been warned about: a butcher of men, women, and children alike.
But then… Slaide climbed into the back of one of the engulfed wagons. When he emerged coughing and sputtering, he cradled a young boy in his arms, unconscious from the smoke.
He ran the child’s limp body to the edge of a forest, where he was met by a woman, who took the child into her arms before disappearing.
After handing him off, Slaide dashed back to the caravan, searching for more survivors. Each time, he carried them to the woods, where he was met by another man or woman, who would then carry or drag the person to safety.
Hazel scoffed. Clearly, she’d been too quick to judge this image in the beginning, for this was most certainly not representative of the Slaide she knew. The self-serving prick would never…
So the next vision she’d see would be a truth. It had to be.
As Slaide’s rescue efforts faded into smoke and flame, a new one appeared. Hazel was looking at herself, asleep in her room back on Connall’s homestead… tossing and turning mid-nightmare as she so often did.
The vision shifted, depicting a beautiful bronze-skinned woman approaching their cottage. Hazel stiffened. She’d never seen this woman before.
The woman crouched down, writing something in the dirt with her fingers, then leveling her gaze on their home. It was as though Hazel could feel the weight of that stare even through the mirror.
Within, Hazel could be heard mumbling something, attempting to shout at some unseen foe. The woman approached with caution, but with concern written on her face in the form of furrowed brows.
In a flash, she was gone, replaced by an oversized orange cat, who then hopped up onto the windowsill and into Hazel’s bedroom.
What in all the gods. Hazel’s face twisted. No. She was certain the orange cat she’d been accompanied by was nothing more than just that—most definitely not a human in disguise. That was ridiculous.
And yet, she was no longer certain of anything. Her mother’s death was a given. Slaide was a bloodthirsty monster. And the cat was just a cat.
“You lied,” Hazel said, voice wavering.
“Why yes, I did. But only once,” the mirror replied.
“No.” She took a step back. “More than one of those things was a lie.”
“You’re so certain?”
“I’m not playing these games anymore,” Hazel insisted. On cue, the locket warmed.
“Oh, but on the contrary, my dear,” the mirror crooned, “the games have just begun.”