33

The Talking-Glass

WYNN FROWNED AS SHE SEWED the hole on the tip of her cloak.

Who knew it would fray like this. She held her blue cloth in her lap as she sat upon a large smooth rock near a small shallow bank. Singed dust fell from the tear as she weaved the small needle in and out.

Nearby Lance paced back along the riverbank, holding his chin with his bandaged arm as he muttered to himself.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take it easy?” she asked him, concerned.

Lance didn’t respond, just continued to pace.

“Lance,” she said more loudly.

“Thinking,” he replied.

Wynn swished her tail as Beryl hovered over. “Does he usually get this worked up about stuff?” Lance had barely had a chance to rest the previous night, and now he was up thinking and brainstorming.

Beryl shrugged. “Only when he’s thinking hard about what to do next.” He leaned over and whispered, “That’s how you know the plan will be really interesting.” Then he spied the tear in her cloak. “What happened there?”

Wynn sighed as she held up her progress. “The glass I collected burned a hole in it. I’m trying to mend it but it’s looking a bit wonky.”

Beryl dropped to his feet, surprised. “Seriously? You mean that talking-glass thingy you were talking about?”

Wynn turned, pulled the small, gilded glass from her green pack, and handed it to him.

“It was hot,” Wynn explained, “and I mean scorching hot. It cooled after we entered the Dark Agrestal. That’s when I realized it damaged my cloak.”

Beryl inspected the object, juggling it a bit. “Looks neat.”

“Be careful,” Wynn warned. I can mend my cloak, but I can’t mend shattered glass.”

Beryl peered at her curiously. “So you really can sew?”

Wynn nodded. “I can also hem, stitch, weave, and embroider,” she said proudly. “It’s something all Spindleseers are taught at a young age. There’s not a swirl-ear in my village without one or two of these skills.”

Beryl made a face as he held the talking glass.

“What?” Wynn said.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just your name.”

“Yeah,” Wynn said, “what of it?”

Beryl grinned. “It still sounds odd, Spindleseer. Weird, I thought that was just a title. But as a name…”

Wynn felt her ears grow hot. She looked up from her sewing and furrowed her brow. “Well, what’s your last name?” she demanded.

Beryl shook his head. “Not telling.”

“Not fair,” Wynn protested.

Beryl smugly lifted his chin. “It’s classified info.”

“It’s Cobalten,” Lance said from the distance.

“Cobalten?” Wynn said in disbelief.

Beryl’s face reddened.

“So. Beryl Cobalten,” Wynn said. “That’s like being named ‘pebble-rock’ or ‘stone-brick.’”

Beryl buzzed his wings, annoyed. “Strength means a lot in my family,” he defended, “so it makes sense.”

“Still repetitive,” Lance said.

“Says Thornmurk!” Beryl retorted.

Wynn grinned. “Thornmurk. Oh dear.”

Lance raised a brow. “What’s wrong with Thornmurk?”

Do all bug-larks have on-the-nose names? Wynn thought, but she held her tongue. “Nothing,” she said cheekily.

“Your grin says otherwise,” Lance grumbled. He sat on a nearby stone, put his hands under his chin and sighed. Before Wynn could question his reaction, Beryl spoke.

“Does that thing actually talk?” Beryl asked, waving the trinket in his grasp. He handed it back to Wynn.

She inspected the back of the small gilded object. Engraved in it were the initials S.H. She turned it around, and its polished glass surface reflected her snout.

“I don’t think so,” Wynn answered. Once more, it would have helped if she’d stayed awake during her relatives’ rambles. Now she had no clue of how to use it, or even what it was capable of.

Lance yawned and stretched. “I guess we can find out along the way.”

Wynn frowned. “To Sir Branchlet’s outpost?”

He nodded. They had discussed trekking there the night before. The small traveler outpost was close, and they were out of supplies. It also helped that it seemed relatively guard free.

“And you’re not going to rest first?” Wynn said. “We don’t have to set off immediately.”

Lance narrowed his eyes. “I’m fine,” he grumbled.

Wynn hesitated. Surely even magic-related injuries were injuries, right? Even if they weren’t that visible. But seeing his sour expression, she decided to change the subject.

“I’ve been meaning to say something,” Wynn said. “You know, after dealing with Brume the other day.”

Lance eyed her. “Did you change your mind about joining us?”

Beryl frowned. “Ah Wynn, you’re leaving?”

Wynn shook her head. “It’s not that, it’s just…”

She looked down at her magic-singed cloak. She felt a pang in her chest.

“No more fighting,” Wynn blurted.

Lance blinked. “What?”

Wynn looked up. “If we’re going to go after Brume together, we can’t keep making plans that end with us hardly escaping with our lives.”

Lance frowned. “But how are we supposed to get our things back? Are we supposed to ask him nicely?”

“We’ll need to use our wit,” Wynn said. “Are any of you familiar with the play The Splintered Halberd?”

They stared blankly.

“Well,” Wynn said, “in the play, Cordelia of Fraykeep has to outsmart this army of moss giants, to find a way to get back a splintered-halberd. So she comes up with a plan—”

“Wait,” Beryl said, “why would she want a broken weapon?”

“Because it’s an important clue,” Wynn said. “It helps reveal who the rightful heir of Sorrowstone is, but that’s beside the point. The point is that Cordelia realizes she’s no match for those giants when it comes to strength, so she relies on something else.” Wynn gave a dramatic pause. “Her wit.”

“She comes up with different ways of dealing with the moss giants and figures out where the splintered halberd is being kept. We need to do the same. In fact, I think we almost did.” Wynn turned to Lance. That plan you made was good, but we kind of fumbled it. We shouldn’t have split up at the statue. We should have hidden our plan from him better.” She paused. I think we need to keep trying to make better plans.”

Lance seemed skeptical. “At some point we’re probably going to meet face to face again. There’s no avoiding that.”

“I know,” Wynn admitted. “We’ll have to figure that out.”

Lance studied her curiously. “I’m surprised you’re still this eager to face Brume.”

Wynn frowned, feeling a prickle of dread. “I’m not, but…”

She recalled the pools of shadow that surrounded them, and the battered the brick towers and dwellings of the abandoned village. She held back a shiver.

“I can’t let him have the Spindlechest,” Wynn said. “If he can do all that with just his powers, I hate to imagine what he’d do to other larks with the Spindlechest.”

“Well, we may have some time before he can use it,” Lance pointed out. “If that grimroot spell is still working it’ll take some time for him to recover his powers. He won’t be able to use the mottle-veil either. We may still have a chance against him.”

“Let’s hope so,” Wynn breathed.

Lance nodded. Beryl eyed her inquisitively.

Wynn blinked. “What?”

Beryl pointed at the paw, “you’re paw is glowing.”

Wynn looked down to see the talking-glass begin to emit a soft blue light.

Wynn yipped and dropped the glass as it grew hot again.

Small flames trickled down the glass, forming looped etchings on its gold sides. The trio watched as the flames faded, and the mirror’s glass began to flicker, revealing an image.

The trio leaned forward.

And Wynn saw their fate.

To be continued…