Merrill
Phaedra walked Hazel as far as she could, which was the last archway before the grand hall.
Slaves apparently weren’t allowed outside the main halls—something about being a bad look for the King.
The grand hall, throne room, and ballroom were reserved to a higher class of servant.
The lessers—angels like Phaedra, among other beings—were required to use a tunnel system behind the castle walls, deemed too unsightly for the public eye.
Rules be damned, Hazel gave Phaedra a hug before her departure into the enormous hall.
“Be strong,” the angel whispered in a voice so soft and melodic Hazel thought it might break her. Phaedra’s grip on her wrist tightened momentarily. “You can do this,” she said before letting go.
Hazel had the overwhelming feeling of being the smallest fish in a big pond, and the many eyes trained on her the moment her feet hit the tile did not help.
Let them look. For once, Hazel didn’t shrink beneath their stares. She didn’t wish herself invisible. She didn’t reach for the locket’s comfort.
She simply walked in and found an empty seat at the long dining table. No theatrics. No interactions. She would not give them what they wanted today.
At least, that had been the plan she’d formulated with Slaide. She tried to ignore the pang of sadness that struck her, the wound left by his betrayal still fresh.
He might have put her life on the line to spare his own, but the plan was likely still solid. After all, sabotaging her wouldn’t have done him a lick of good.
In spite of herself, she looked for him. Some deep seated longing for his familiarity drove her to seek his face in the makeshift stands. She was disappointed to find him absent.
Fine. It was fine. She didn’t need him to be there in order to succeed.
Above all else, she planned to face the mirror just as she had the first time. If it revealed anything damning, so be it. She would keep a straight face, betraying nothing.
That was the plan. But things so rarely went to plan, as she would soon find out.
She was one of the last competitors to test their mettle against the mirror, and it didn’t bode well for her nerves.
Especially since several men had, in fact, lost their wits due to things the mirror showed them.
One man was shown an image of himself reunited with wife and children, when in reality, they had died earlier that spring in a terrible fire at their home. Visibly confused and distraught, he ran from the hall yelling something indiscernible about “coming for them.”
Another man was shown his death at the hands of a fellow competitor, who then went on to take his widow for his own.
A fight ensued, and to nearly everyone’s surprise, the mirror had been correct. The man did die at the hands of his fellow competitor… albeit sooner and in a more gruesome fashion than predicted.
And of course, as her luck would have it, Hazel was next.
“Step forward,” the guard beside the mirror said.
Hazel did.
“Must I spell it out for you, girl? Do as every man before you has and offer it your blood. The trial will commence henceforth.” His foul temper left her wondering who had peed in his porridge.
Hazel pricked her finger on a thorn, just as she had before, and blood welled from the tiny hole in her fingertip. She waited an ominously long time before the mirror finally spoke into her mind. And that in itself was jarring.
We’ve met before, he said.
Hazel wasn’t entirely sure how to speak from one mind to another, but she gave it a shot. You said that the last time, she responded.
No, I said I’ve tasted your blood before. But you… I would remember you.
You’re the first to find me memorable, Hazel admitted.
I do not believe that to be true. And you lie, the mirror accused.
So do you, she said a little too quickly.
Indeed, my dear. So. You’ve come back. The voice was thoughtful, considering.
Yes, she said, trying to stifle her impatience. Can we wrap this up? They’re staring at me.
The mirror ignored her. Why have you come back? Did they not tell you I usually drive men out of their minds with madness or sadness?
Hazel tapped her foot. Yes.
And still you came back. An observation.
I did.
Why, I wonder? Is she driven by greed? Didn’t like what she saw?
I wasn’t given a choice.
Hmm. She could almost feel him appraising her, even without eyes.
Hazel’s heart raced as the entire room focused on her. Please, they’re going to suspect something.
Do they not already? he asked.
Mirror! Please! Hazel begged. I don’t have much time.
He went quiet.
Mirror?
I have a name you know. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper.
She shifted her weight. I-you do? What is it?
He was clearly toying with her, right? Perhaps this was what drove men to madness. Obscurity and nonsense.
Oh, sure. Now she cares. And now the mirror had developed an attitude.
She frowned. It wasn’t lost on her that perhaps this being was exceptionally lonely. Something she could relate to.
I do care. Won’t you tell me?
Magnus cleared his throat in a way that suggested he was losing patience. Onlookers mumbled under their breath.
Hazel begged as much as she could through thought alone. Please—
Merrill, he said.
Merrill? Hazel asked, immediately regretting her tone, and the fact that she’d nearly laughed.
Yes. Is there a problem? He’d sensed it well enough.
Merrill the Mirror, she said. No. There’s no problem.
You laughed. She pictured a young boy pouting with his arms crossed after having his feelings hurt.
I did not. Well, okay. It’s a bit unusual…
Unusual is being a bard cursed to live out his days as a dreadful mirror such as this. My name is all I have left of who I was. So, excuse me if I seem attached to it. It was my father’s name and his before him, he offered in a dejected tone.
Hazel truly wanted to know that story, but now was not the time.
Merrill is a wonderful name. I just hadn’t expected it. I would love for you to tell your story when we have more time. But I fear if we do not get moving, His Majesty might put me to the pyre and have you melded down into something he finds more useful, she explained as kindly as she could.
I feel like I should be insulted.
Perhaps you should, but not by me. It is not I, but the King who uses you for personal gain, Hazel reminded him.
Your blood on my thorns suggests otherwise, little witch, Merrill countered.
Hazel froze. I-what did you just call me?
If Merrill had eyes, Hazel imagined he would have rolled them. I told you. I’ve tasted your blood before. Your kin, perhaps. A grandmother? An aunt?
My mother, she guessed.
Ah. All these images make so much more sense now, Merrill said thoughtfully.
Will you show me? Hazel asked. She was so close. So close to getting the mirror back on track.
Fine, then. You know the rules, he conceded.
Wait! Merrill?
Yes? He sighed.
Hazel grimaced, wishing she didn’t have to reveal so much. They… can’t know. They can’t know I’m related to her. Or any witch for that matter. My powers. All of it. It’s not safe.
I can’t promise you will find comfort in what I show you. But I will try not to get you into trouble. That was the last thing Merrill the mirror said before her reflection began to shift.
Hazel’s palms were sweating.
Two truths and a lie. You can do this. Phaedra’s words echoed in her mind. She just prayed Merrill would be merciful. That if he witnessed anything damning, he would twist it into something else.
The smoke and shadows bent and swirled within the mirror, and then an image formed.
Hazel sucked in a sharp breath. She was on a battlefield.
Bodies were strewn about, the metallic stench of blood a heavy assault on her senses.
A flash of motion caught her attention and there she took in the vision: Slaide, cutting down man after man without a second thought.
Fury in his eyes, a beast that only sought destruction.
Truth. Her mind warned her. Everything she knew, everything she’d learned, supported this narrative. Slaide was a butcher. He was and always had been a cold-blooded killer. Doubt crept into her mind. Had anything he’d said been real? She’d trusted him.
Hazel took a step backwards, slowly shaking her head. She didn’t pay any mind to who they were. Did it matter? Future or past, Slaide killed and would continue to kill. He didn’t slow, he didn’t pause as if weighing the consequences of each life he took.
But she did. Hazel tore her gaze from the mirror, and when she looked back into it, the horrors were gone, a new image forming in its place.
It was again a visage of Slaide. He had a woman by the hand, dragging her behind him.
But as Hazel looked closer, she determined the woman wasn’t resisting.
She was running with Slaide, a banner of raven-black hair flowing behind her.
Her face was otherworldly—maternal, but fierce. And he was leading her somewhere.
Shouts arose behind them, and Slaide’s eyes flew wide.
“Now?” the woman asked, voice laced with panic. Hazel watched, realizing this apparent escape had just evolved into a dangerous pursuit.
“Not yet,” Slaide called over his shoulder. “Not yet.” His face was much younger, less haunted.
They were crossing a field on foot, headed toward a dark forest past the castle grounds. To a land beyond the influence of Ravenhold.
But the thunder of hoofbeats threatened to cut the race too short. They wouldn’t outrun the Raven Blade, even with Slaide’s inhuman speed.
“Now?” the woman asked again, nearly begging.
“No! We must get closer!” he shouted. “If we do it too soon, you won’t make it across!”
A few moments later, though, Slaide pulled her hard, slinging her in front of him as he released her hand.
“Now!” he shouted, tossing a handful of black powder into the air ahead of her.
The woman’s arms moved erratically, as though she was writing invisible words with her hands. But then those motions created runic inscriptions in midair—not unlike the glyphs Hazel had seen at the Border obelisks. They glowed blue, followed by a bright white she could barely stand to look at.
A rift opened in the fabric of the world itself, a circle burning along its edges. It was suspended in midair, just large enough for her to fit through, and in the blink of an eye, she was gone.
The image in the mirror faded, replaced by the whorls of black and gray smoke.
For a moment, nothing more happened. The crowd began to whisper. Magnus shifted in his seat.
That was two. Where was the third?
Merrill? She tried to reach out to the mirror. Initially, it did not respond. Merrill, are you there? Hazel couldn’t explain the way the energy in the room was off.
Little witch, Merrill said at last. His voice was strangely quiet, a rasping whisper.
What’s going on? What happened to the third vision? she asked.
You asked that I not show anything damning. But your future is too intertwined with the Dark One… witchkind… and the fall of this kingdom. I have seen more than I wish to share, for I do not wish to harm the only one who has shown me respect.
Hazel’s breath hitched.
I have seen too much in my time trapped here. Things I cannot unsee. Realities I cannot undo. I do not wish to serve this corruption any longer, so allow me to take the only stand I can in this form… as my first and final act of service to the future Queen of the Realm.
Before Hazel could speak, before she could process what he’d said, Merrill’s mirrored surface morphed into a masked face, half-smiling, half-crying.
A gasp moved through the crowd. Magnus stood.
“Mirror!” he shouted. “I order you to finish your task!”
“High King Magnus Ragnaroth,” Merrill began, “for years I have served this kingdom and done the bidding of the men who have stood where you stand. For too long, your line has driven this kingdom into the dirt while making yourself fatter and richer—”
“Mind your tongue! There are consequences for speaking to your High King in such a manner!” Magnus spat.
“I will no longer be silenced. You are a walking contradiction. You denounce magic, but keep the mages close. You blame the turmoil of this land on the departure of the gods, when it was the mages misuse of the world’s mana that drove them out in the first place—”
“I said SILENCE!” Hazel had never heard Magnus so furious.
But Merrill would not stop. He continued, even as a nearby guard wielding a mace approached with the threat of violence in his eyes.
“You sentence half-breeds to death while creating your own monstrosities in the Citadel’s dungeons.
I don’t need to see it with my own eyes, because the men you trust the most come to me when they seek counsel.
In doing so, they reveal your secrets, not realizing I listen.
I learn. I know. And I know that if any one man had committed half the crimes you have against your own people, he would be executed. ”
Hazel looked from Merrill to Magnus. The latter was an overripe tomato, cheeks flushed red with anger.
“You are a tool, nothing more. Easily destroyed, easily replaced. Keep spouting nonsense, and I’ll demonstrate for the audience just how fragile you are,” Magnus warned.
The mace-wielding knight took another menacing step closer, patting his hand with the weapon. It was everything Hazel could do not to scream at them all to stop being so stupid.
And still, Merrill went on. “The aforementioned crimes barely scratch the surface of His Majesty’s transgressions against his own kingdom.
Which is why, as of this moment, I am renouncing my allegiance to the Ragnaroth line, swearing it instead, henceforth and forevermore, to the woman before you, the future Queen of all Aetherium. Long live the Queen.”
The moments that followed were a blur. Magnus’s gaze trained on Hazel, dark with the promise of death. The audience was on their feet, some shouting accusations and obscenities at the King, others defending him.
Someone slammed into her, grabbing her hand as they went by, and Hazel found herself dragged away from the commotion. When she managed to get her bearings, she discovered it was Pimley hauling her to safety.
“Keep moving, Hazel. We need to get you out of the line of fire,” he insisted.
But as he pulled her from the grand hall, the shattering of glass could be heard above the din, and with it, the deepening crack in Hazel’s heart. She didn’t need to see the shards littering the floor to know Merrill was gone.