Sohna and Vivian - My Brother's Keeper

Fortunately, the woman's superior had known that she absolutely had to be present. Helen got some smug satisfaction from seeing the witch's face when she'd appeared that morning bearing the news. Her eyes were swollen - had she actually cried over it? she wondered - and her complexion was more pallid than usual. Idly she wondered what had made Samantha so adverse to her company. After all, it wasn't as if Helen had done anything to alienate her - well, perhaps except insist that she keep that nasty beast of a cat locked up at all times, but that was entirely for Roland's peace of mind, not her own. Thank God the cat didn't come along on this adventure! she thought. Perhaps that superior of hers insisted on that, too! Of course, Roland was not with them either, since Helen couldn't have imagined bringing him on such a potentially dangerous trip. Unfortunately, she'd had no choice but to leave Roland in the company of Wendell. Not that she mistrusted the king; it was just that he was entirely too chummy with her coarse-mannered son-in-law, in whose care the cat had been left.

Thinking about Tony only depressed her more, however. She had no idea how the louse had managed to ingratiate himself with the king, and the situation irked her, as much as she tried on the surface to pretend it didn't. Not that it matters, she thought viciously. He's showing his true cowardly self, now. Surely King Wendell can see that. The fact that Samantha's superior had decreed that Tony stay behind didn't bother her in the slightest. What real man would obey such a thing, letting three women go off by themselves on something like this? she wanted to know. It nearly made her ill to think of the show he'd obviously put on for their benefit about wanting to go regardless, making that Samantha - this Samantha - virtually order him to stay put or else.

A mosquito buzzed in her ear and she swatted absently at it, looking down and noticing then how her shoes had become caked with mud. What she put up with to save the world ...

No, that wasn't quite the truth, she recalled. She hadn't come along to save the world; surely the world could save itself if it needed to. No, Helen had come for one reason and one reason only: to make this Laura person answer for what she'd done to her daughter. Whatever she thought of her companions, she needed to stow it until their joint goal had been reached.

A quick glance showed her that Samantha's shoes were as dirty as her own, although the fairy girl's were not. Gwendolyn's wings had been fluttering with what Helen thought was nervousness, but now she was not so sure. Her feet certainly looked as if they were touching the ground ...

She shrugged and returned her attention to the wizard. The silence was simply oppressing. Surely there was no danger of alerting the evil witch to their presence simply by talking; she imagined the old bag must know they were coming anyway, through a crystal ball or something.

"You know, when we get back, I could have some of Wendell's servants arrange a special treatment for you," she offered to Samantha, smiling. They'd need to get along at least until this crisis was over, and a peace offering of some kind seemed to be in order. Helen didn't really think she should be the one to make it, but she could be diplomatic as well as the next person. She was, however, not prepared for the look of total bewilderment the necromancer shot her.

"Oh, I've visited all the best European spas," she went on. "I'm extremely familiar with the treatments they use, and they're quite wonderful, I assure you. They're capable of bringing out some measure of beauty in even the plainest women."

"What?"

"Really, there is this special formula that Lars - he was my beauty therapist the last time I went - insisted would give body to even the limpest hair. Naturally I didn't need it, but I'm sure I could recall the ingredients for you."

"Exactly what does this have to do with our mission here?" Samantha demanded, whirling on her.

Helen was completely taken aback.

"Well, nothing," she answered indignantly. "I wasn't aware that we weren't allowed to talk about anything else!" A glance at the fairy girl told her the little slip was amused, though she couldn't think of why. Helen hadn't found any of it remotely funny. But as they walked on, it slowly dawned on her that maybe Samantha was a bit sensitive about her looks - or rather her lack of them, she amended. She decided to try again.

"You know, dear," she began, "You really should look at the bright side of things. You're far more fortunate than many women your age. I mean, think about it - at least you still have your teeth."

Gwendolyn coughed and Helen looked over at her, annoyed. "Cover your mouth, dear," she instructed. "I know this is the middle ages, but it's never too soon to learn proper manners."

"Let's just be quiet for the rest of the way, shall we?" asked Samantha in a tone that did little to hide the irritation behind it.

"Fine. If that's what you want." Helen was tired of trying to be helpful. Obviously the wizard-woman had been born too low on the social scale to appreciate the help she'd been offered. Well, thought Helen uncharitably, it's just lucky for you that you had that magical talent to fall back on. She could just imagine the drudgery such a person would have to endure otherwise.

Her thoughts were interrupted as their destination came into view. Ahead stood a tiny cottage - well, perhaps hovel would be a more appropriate word, she thought - leaning crookedly to one side, as if half of it had sunk into the mire that surrounded it. The effect was not helped by the asymmetrical pane of glass set into the door. Samantha made a curt gesture towards some things sunken partway into a pool of green slime. With a shock, she realized they were mirrors, stacked at a crazy, nearly upright angle, themselves burdened with nearly as much algae as the pool in which they lay. As if by a unanimous unspoken decision, the three women came to a halt.

"Gwen," began Samantha, "I know we haven't had any trouble with the swamp fairies or the half-wolf so far, but even so I think you're the best choice to stand guard. If we don't return within three hours, or if there is any kind of trouble, go back to Wendell's and let them know."

The fairy bit her lip and nodded. Privately, Helen wondered what the dainty thing could possibly do if one of the men showed up, but she wasn't about to go opening her mouth to Samantha about it now. Obviously the woman had no intention of listening to anything she had to say anyway! She pressed her own lips together in a pinched expression she'd never have condoned if she'd seen herself in the mirror and waited while the wizard finished giving the girl her instructions. Then, together, they approached the door.

As Samantha's hand turned the knob, Helen thought she heard a whisper, although she could make out no words. But as the door swung open, she realized she must have been mistaken. The little house was empty.

Helen stepped inside first, her lip curled in distaste at the sight of the dust and cobwebs, although beneath that everything seemed orderly enough. Well, it would have to be, she thought. The whole house is no bigger than a good-sized closet!

Samantha hung back, still outside the door, but she was silent, at least. Helen didn't feel like being ordered around. She surveyed the kitchen equipment critically, wondering when that dwarf they'd talked about had last used it. It did at least looked as if he'd washed up before leaving, even if the dust had taken over since then.

What appeared to be a copper aspic mold in an interesting shape caught her eye. She picked it up from where it lay propped against the wall on a small table near a basin. As she did, a small cloud of dust rose and then fell in slow motion, drifting down off the table like grey snow. The mold was in the shape of a wolf's head, mouth open in a toothy snarl. She shivered, absently turning it over to hide her discomfort. On the back, her own reflection stared back at her, distorted by the hollows and ridges in its surface.

Old.

Her own heart thudded in her breast, loudly, as she stared at the rippling image. Surely, it was not ... it couldn't be ... it had to be the curved shape of the mold doing that, like a funhouse mirror, she thought reasonably.

Old. Well, she hadn't thought she was still a teenager any more, of course. After all, she had a grown daughter, or would have if ...

Tears clouded her eyes. It wasn't fair, she thought. It really wasn't fair that Virginia got to see her again and I didn't. My baby, she was my baby ...

Her face crumpled, and through the watery tears she saw the skin on her face crinkle up, like crepe paper, the lines in it radiating away from the corners of her eyes, now black holes of eyeliner and mascara against her parchment face.

Old.

Her granddaughter was grown, too. And pregnant. With Helen's great-grandchild.

No, it couldn't be, she thought. Not already.

Yes, old, the whisper inside her insisted.

But where did the time go? It hasn't been that long ...

Christine is dead. Dead and buried. Like Jamieson. They're both dead. Nooo ...

There was something not at all right about the house. Its wrongness screamed silently at Samantha from within the open door. She watched in trepidation as the old woman tore briskly into the lair's depths, and waited for a trap to snap shut. That was what it felt like, she decided, and also what it was: A lair. The parlor of a mighty spider, no longer really mortal: Laura the witch.

Still, nothing untoward seemed to happen to Helen, and after a moment, Samantha followed her inside. After all, they had come here to face the witch; to defeat her, and there was no way they could accomplish their goal by retreating.

She glanced around, examining the walls, the furniture, the ceiling, the floor, and everywhere the ubiquitous dust.

The dust ...

It had been less than six months since Virginia had found Acorn living here. It was not really enough time for such an accumulation; not enough time for the cobwebs to hang as thickly as they did from the rafters, not in this climate. Mildew would be appropriate, and Samantha could detect its distinctive scent beneath that of the dust, but the dust itself was not at all natural. She half-held her breath and looked up, a movement to her right catching her eye.

Helen had excavated what looked like a metal wolf's mask from beneath the grey blanketing, and was staring inside it, transfixed. Curiously, Samantha looked down at what it contained, but saw nothing. It was then she realized that the older woman was staring at her own reflection.

Disgust filled her. She'd put up with the woman's infernal vanity for the entire journey, and now that they were here, inside the witch's den where a single mistake could get them both killed or worse, the old hag couldn't think of anything but her own face! Why was she supposed to come along? Was it some kind of punishment?

Well, don't I deserve it, really? she thought. I've come all the way out here with no real plan, after all. The others all trust me to save them. I'm the necromancer – who better to deal with Laura the undead? But I can't; I'm useless. Christine knew that. Who better to send to die with me than a narcissistic old woman? At least this way Tony will have a little more time to help Wendell come up with a better plan ...

Her face flushed with embarrassment as she visualized Tony's reaction to her failure. Silly, she thought. You aren't even going to be around when he finds out about it, so what difference does it make? And why do you care, anyway?

The pan Helen held glinted in the lamplight and Samantha saw her own warped reflection looking back at her. She looked nothing like the magnificent Christine; no wonder Helen had considered her lacking. No, she could not even dream about the future: One, she was certain to die here anyway, and two, she was only kidding herself if she thought she could compete with someone like that. Maybe she should just give up and go back – at least she might save Gwen that way.

No, I have to at least try ...

At the door to the cellar, she stopped abruptly. Her thoughts, the self-doubt – whose was it? She wasn't entirely sure. Certainly, she'd doubted her abilities before (and always known she'd never win a beauty contest), but it had never been this debilitating. Maybe there's a deeper meaning to Helen's being so absorbed with herself right now, too, she thought. But how do I fight this? I'm not even sure it's an attack! And Helen is worse than useless ...

It occurred to her all of a sudden that she'd allowed Helen to accompany here – and forced Tony to stay away! – on the single recommendation of Christine. Her shade had seemed friendly - a warm and congenial woman with a wry sense of humor - but was she truly as reformed in death as she'd seemed? Suppose ...

The blood drained from Samantha's face, making her feet feel like lead. Christine had been Laura's handmaiden. And she, Samantha, had been led neatly into her trap.

Her hand, poised to open the cellar door, started to shake and she quickly snatched it back. There was no way she could defeat the ancient witch; after all, she was so lacking in real experience as to seem laughable. The guild laws protected the general citizenry, yes, but they also weakened any defense their own members might have had by their strict restraining of natural abilities. Even in Laura's youth, she'd never been subject to that kind of confinement. Now, with the ages upon her and her arcanely achieved immortality, she was even more powerful. Too much so for Samantha, with no one but a foolish old woman as her ally. Barely able to blink back the tears, she turned away. If she hurried away, some of them might yet survive.

"Do they look like my mother's hands to you?"

The incongruous question, placed in a querulously teary voice jarred Samantha's thoughts, as did having one of Helen's beringed hands shoved peremptorily into her face.

"What?" she asked dully.

"I can't be that old, not yet," the old woman. "Not like my mother when ... she was ..."

Tears overflowed her eyes, mixing with the heavy black mascara to run in twin black rivers down her sallow cheeks. "She looked ..." Helen audibly choked, then continued hoarsely, " ... in her casket ..."

A wave of pity washed over the wizard and she reached out to take one of Helen's hands in hers, to lead her quickly out of the witch's house, but at the last moment, Helen pulled them both back, her brow wrinkling as she inspected the liver-spotted parchment skin critically.

"At my debut, all the young men fought to dance with me," she remarked in a small, lost voice. "I had my pick of them. Of all the debutantes in the city, I was the fairest."

Her words fell into the dusty silence of the cottage. The fairest one of all ...

Stunned, Samantha gasped.

Could it really be that simple? she wondered. Surely not, but yet...

She remembered Virginia's tale then of what she'd found in the cellar of this place; of what Samantha had expected to find, given what she knew about that kind of magic. A vague plan began to form in her mind ...

Yes, she thought, I'll need that. Taking it would be no real trouble; Wendell had assured them they were free to use anything he possessed to eliminate his old enemy. The logistics of handling it were something else again, as was what she'd have to do. And although she'd once thought herself strong enough and realistic enough to accept her own shortcomings, now she wasn't so sure. She'd been responsive enough to the magic of Laura's suggestions, even if she could recognize them for what they were now. Not that she was foolish enough to think she'd entirely conquered the inner fears to which the whispers spoke; she could still hear them well enough.

Across the room, Helen collapsed into a chair, still weeping and absorbed by the sight her own hands. No help there, thought Samantha, though she doubted the old woman could really help her with what she had to do now even were she totally unaffected. She was on her own, and would have to wait until she'd reached the cellar floor to really begin. She took a deep breath and swallowed, thinking her course of action through carefully. Then, once more, she reached for the knob.

The door swung outward, and with it surged the sweet, foetid odor of death. Reflexively, Samantha caught her breath and, with the ghost of the hand gesture her instructor had taught her as an apprentice, banished the foulness in the air. The spell required little thought; it was of the very basic sort, taught in the first week to apprentice necromancers. Still, she ground her teeth against the knowledge it brought: Laura was truly of the undead. Up until then she hadn't been entirely sure whether this was the case or whether Laura had extended her own life by magical means. Unfortunately, it meant she would be all that more difficult to overcome.

Didn't it?

She wasn't sure. Before, her plan had seemed a good one. But, as she placed her hand upon the damp, lichen-covered stone of the walls and began her descent, now she wasn't so sure. Too many things could go wrong; there were too many things of which she was ignorant. And even though she knew, rationally, that Laura was feeding her insecurities, she could no longer distinguish between unfounded fears and genuine concern. It was all she could do to force herself to place one foot before the other as she slipped deeper into the tomb.

At the foot of the stairs, she stopped. A miasma of fog trailed along the earthen floor, surrounding the bier in the center of the crypt. Laid out upon it were Laura's blackened and mummified remains, drawing her eyes with a helpless fascination. The corpse did not move, but lay as still as its death would suggest. Yet, the whispers in her mind grew more insistent:

It will never work, never work, the plan is no good, I'm no good, I can't, it won't ... The negativity filled her mind, paralyzing her. With an effort, she looked away from the body, forcing herself to notice the greenish phosphorescence of the lichens which illuminated the chamber. They covered the walls like so much moss, broken only in places by the large number of mirrors leaning against them, stacked three and four deep, surrounding the central casket like so many sentries.

Mirrors. Laura had been a Master of mirror magic. How could she, Samantha, ever hope to defeat her with one? It just wasn't possible. They were doomed.

Stop it! she told herself, knowing – hoping -- her doubts were unfounded. But what if . . ?

No! Don't think!

A small part of her brain responded to the words; quietly, as an echo: Become.

It was what Snow White had told Virginia when she'd had to come to this same place.

Become.

With a thought she invoked the conjuration.

The familiar prescience that always gripped her during major spell-casting reassured her. It would work; at least the conjuration would. She could almost feel the molecules in the noxious atmosphere of Laura's tomb rearrange themselves, parting the way for the object of major power that she would need. She reached out to where it would come to rest; her touch would confirm its solidity; confirm her ability to do what needed to be done. It was then she felt it being yanked away from her.

In her mind, Laura laughed, a dry, brittle cackling like chalk on slate. Did you really think you could bring such a thing here without my leave? I permitted it! Am I not the mistress of mirrors? Should I not at least gain some small restitution from the House of White? What better to start with than a replacement for the mirror I was forced to smash all those years ago.

To Samantha's chagrin the Mirror of Truth materialized on the opposite side of the chamber, among a deep stack of other, older mirrors. Slowly, her heart wildly beating, she circled the casket, keeping one eye at all times upon its occupant. Yet though the corpse remained still, giving no outward evidence that its owner was not entirely gone, the whispers in Samantha's mind never ceased. Pride, confident superiority, and an almost pitying dismissal of her own powers as raw luck undermined her.

I'm thinking again, she told herself. I shouldn't. But she couldn't seem to help herself. The short distance she needed to travel seemed to go on endlessly, as if she were moving in slow motion, but gradually she found herself staring at her own reflection in the oval glass. All the while, though, she could feel Laura in her brain, waiting like a spider.

Samantha took a deep breath, cast a position spell to keep the mirror where it was – so Laura could not whisk it away once again – and reached out to it once more. Too late she noticed the frame on the neighboring mirror. The coiled and intertwined snakes wavered and writhed. In horror, she jerked her hand away, but not before one of the small, shiny black heads nipped her on the finger.

In her reflection in the glass framed by the writhing serpents, she saw blood well up in a dark bubble where her skin had broken. Transfixed, she stared at it, barely noticing Laura's triumphant cackle. There was something familiar about the injury, something she should recognize, but she seemed unable to focus properly upon it.

You've been bitten by an asp, the voice in her head informed her. It's poisonous, of course.

Of course, she thought, somehow unsurprised.

You were far too easy,Go back to your teachers, child. Go back and hide in their robes – Oh! That's right, you can't. You're out of time, aren't you? The dry, dead laughter came again. If you had built up a resistance as I have done, things might have been a bit more interesting.

"Resistance?" asked Samantha. She turned to look directly at the rotting dead thing on the dias. Still there was no outward evidence of the presence she felt in her mind. "You took arsenic."

Arsenic is common, was the reply. Too many use it as an aid to beauty. Other, more potent poisons produce more potent effects, provided one knows how to control them – with the proper kind of magic.

Her arm already numb and beginning to swell, Samantha clutched at what she knew might be her last opportunity. She didn't stop to think, her mind had grown fuzzy, though a part of her thought it odd the poison would work quite that fast.

"I suppose I'll make a good-looking corpse, then," she quipped, forcing her thickening tongue around the words.

The poisons don't work miracles, you know.

"I could find out," she babbled on, "It was a Truth Mirror you used to ask if anyone was more beautiful than you, wasn't it? I could ask this one."

She felt rather than heard the amusement at her suggestion. It was getting quite warm in the cellar; she felt herself break out in a sweat. Her vision swam, but she faced in what she hoped was the Truth Mirror's direction and spoke,

"Mirror, mirror, in the gloom,
Who's the fairest in this room?"

"Is that a trick question?" asked a voice, in quality much like a boy nearing adolescence. "There is only one living in this room..."

Anticipating your departure a bit, isn't he?

" ... so naturally you, who has asked the question, are the fairest in it."

"WHAT????"

Samantha's legs trembled; it was difficult now to even keep standing, but she saw a movement from the corner of her eye and knew the old witch's corpse had at last risen.

"You're dead, Laura," she said with difficulty, her tongue growing thick in her mouth. "Look for yourself."

"I'm not ... Nooooooo!"

Abruptly the sound ceased. Somewhere to Samantha's left came the dull clatter of bones on earth. The dreadful whispering she realized now that she'd heard not only in this house, but for the past few weeks, stopped.

Laura was gone.

Her strength exhausted, Samantha collapsed beside her.