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8

Changing Fate

Anya

S ixteen years had passed since my mother gazed into the Mirrors and my world fell apart. Sixteen Fate Ceremonies, and anxiety still gripped me with each passing year. The night her Fate changed for the worse had been a waypoint in my life—a sharp pivot from what I’d known—and tonight felt like another waypoint: my final unfixed Fate before my future solidified forever.

According to legend, the Mirrors were forged in the Well of Fate, where magical waters filled the frames and bestowed in them the eyes of the Fates. The Fates themselves were not gods nor deities, but innate currents in the cosmic turning of time; they governed our lives like the tides governed the sea. The story of the Mirrors had been passed down through generations, the telling a little different depending on the speaker, but one thing remained the same: the Mirrors’ visions—though malleable in one’s younger years—were not to be questioned.

The Mirrors provided a sacred glimpse into the unknowable ether of life itself.

I thought of all this as I picked my way across the flattened grass. My limbs felt heavy, shaky, beyond my control. My heart thudded erratically, racing too fast only to seem to skip a beat.

The Fate Mirrors were as large as doorways, and I remembered from past experience that their images would appear clear enough to step through, as if I could enter the reality they revealed. The effect could be disconcerting, and paired with tonight’s unique context, I felt altogether panicked as I stepped up to my first vision.

The Mirror of Fortune’s ornate frame was made of solid gold, carved intricately into vines, leaves, and flowers. The apex of the arched top was adorned with a sun-shaped carving, an F in its center. In the torchlight surrounding the stone circle, the metal flickered with fire and shadow. Unlike a regular mirror, I did not see my reflection in the Mirror’s silvery surface; it started out blank, foggy.

I froze with anticipation, unable to breathe. A few seconds passed, then the Mirror’s surface shifted, like storm clouds parting. It revealed the image I’d seen before: the surface of blue-green water, glasslike and edged by fog. The Wend. Peaceful, constant, and representative of home.

My Fortune had not changed.

I heaved a shaky breath; relief and hope coursed through me as I moved on.

The Mirror of Death was Fortune’s dark twin: its silver-black frame had been forged with the pattern of woven twigs and bones, and the D at the top was encased not in a sun, but a crescent moon. I thought of the old age I’d seen in previous glimpses, willing the Fates to show me the same image now. Desperate to have my future affirmed with a favorable end.

The Mirror of Death’s clouds began to shift, swirling and turbulent and ominous.

Something new and unexpected took shape. In the foreground, I saw a man. Dark, wavy hair tangled and wet. Stubbled jaw clenched, his soft mouth grim. Huge, exquisite hands balled into fists. Eyes the color of the Wend. A purple twilit sky above.

I watched in horror as Idris gripped my waist and lowered me into…water? My head thrashed as I choked, airless, pushed deeper by his unrelenting palms. Bubbles fizzed in my vision as I screamed, blinded by my desperation, my terror.

I was drowning.

I was… drowned .

Behind me, the crowd gasped. I looked over my shoulder, finding Hattie; her face was ghostly pale, eyes wide. When I turned back toward the Mirror of Death, its surface was again blank.

Then everyone was moving: Hattie was grasping my wrists, Remy was rushing toward me, Hugh was wrapping a huge steadying arm around my middle—which was good, because otherwise, I might’ve collapsed.

Hugh lowered me off to the side in the grass, pressing his kind hands to my face. “Do you know who he is?” he asked.

I looked around wildly for Hattie, but I’d lost her among the press of concerned neighbors. “I—” I stuttered, then shook my head disbelievingly. Shock had rendered my tongue leaden.

Somehow, last night’s chance encounter with Idris had changed my Fate. I pushed the image of his solemn face away, pushed it down, denial building rapidly.

“It can still be prevented,” I heard someone say.

“This close to her thirtieth year? I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“Has anyone seen the man?”

“Didn’t recognize him, myself.”

The voices were suddenly too loud, and I fumbled for my magic, muffling them.

“Hattie?” I croaked, pushing off the damp ground and onto my feet.

Within the stone circle, the Mirror Knights were rushing to control the mayhem. They guided Remy toward the Mirror of Fortune, keeping things moving. I caught only a glimpse of his vision, but it was enough to break my heart all over again. A woman—not me—cradling a baby.

I stumbled again, landing hard on my knees in the mud. Pain lanced through me, both physical and emotional. The knights were directing Remy to the Mirror of Death, now, determined to maintain order despite the stir caused by my new vision.

From my place behind him in the mud, I watched as the fog in the Mirror of Death cleared to reveal…

No . It couldn’t be.

A dim forest. A flash of steel. His hand lifting, as if he could block the blow, fingernails long and grimy with dirt. And me . My face pale, filthy, crusted with blood, pulled into a snarl. A blade slashing across his vision.

Cutting him down.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then I heard Hattie’s voice cry out my name, and the crowd erupted into chaos. People rushed toward me, toward Remy. Hands grabbed at my forearms, my bodice. Shouts of protest and anger confused the scene, filling my head with panic.

One of the Mirror Knights—Hammond, thank the Fates —came to my side, gripping my arm. To steady me? Or to restrain me?

“Come,” he said firmly, yanking me up to my feet. Other knights arrived, protecting the Mirrors and redirecting the crowd, allowing Hammond to guide me away.

“Hattie!” I screamed, even as I trailed Hammond, my biceps aching in his iron grip.

“We’ll let her see you later,” Hammond said.

“And Remy?” I pleaded. I needed to tell him I wouldn’t do it, wouldn’t dare hurt him—or anyone, for that matter. “I am not a killer,” I told Hammond, my voice strained with fear and conviction. “I am not a killer! I am not a killer!”

But Hammond didn’t respond. He only bent down, grunting as he hoisted me over his shoulder, carrying me away toward an uncertain Fate.