Heroes And Fools

The Thief in the Mirror
Richard A. Knaak

He felt so cold, and she looked so warm. He wanted to reach out and touch her, just as he had always wanted to touch the others before her. However, Mendel did not permit him that; the cursed little bald man didn’t want him to take any chances. Vandor Grizt was expected only to watch and wait, wait to obey his master. Wait and obey, that was all Vandor was permitted.

The gem-encrusted brooch she wore he once would have coveted for himself, but as Vandor could not keep it and Mendel would have no use for it, his interest in the jewelry swiftly faded. He had come here for something else, something more important.

She stared past him, amber eyes admiring her reflection. He knew her name, but only because Mendel had told it to him. That she had reason to be vain was obvious. But such mundane observations were beyond his purpose. . at least so he told himself.

With a sweep of her long, silver hair, the noblewoman rose from her mirror and departed the chamber, no doubt on her way to visit the lover her much older and generally absent husband knew nothing about. Vandor watched her as she paused to admire a tiny sculpture, then look herself over one more time in another mirror.

He ducked away, shivering from the ever-present cold. Her chance glance at the second mirror had nearly put them eye to eye. She probably wouldn’t have been able to see him, but one could never tell. . and Vandor Grizt had no desire to taste Mendel’s anger.

At last she stepped out of the chamber, closing the door behind her. Vandor eyed the prize he sought, the very sculpture the noblewoman had stopped to admire. It had been given to her not by her lover but by her husband, and she could not suspect that it contained latent magical forces. Probably even her husband had not known it when he had purchased the sculpture. Mendel, though. . Mendel had learned of its existence only two days after the sculpture had arrived in Lauthen. Mendel always knew, Chemosh take him!

Vandor shifted position, knowing he would not have long to act. The ungodly chill made him feel stiff and clumsy, but he could no longer hesitate. He had to do it and do it now.

The mirror melted away from his hands as he reached out and seized his master’s prize.

Fingers tingled as blessed warmth coursed over those parts of his arms that protruded from the mirror world. Without meaning to, he paused to savor that warmth, allowing it to spread even a little to the rest of his body. How delightful to be warm again, however briefly, to feel even some hint of the real world!

The warmth grew until the heat no longer pleased Vandor, but rather began to burn. Tendrils of smoke rose from his hands, and his sleeves began to shrivel and blacken. With a sudden sense of urgency, the thief picked up the statuette, an intricate figurine of a dryad and her tree, and drew it into the mirror.

As ever, it took some gentle forcing to make the object pass through the mirror. Once it was done, Vandor Grizt folded his arms, cradling his prize, and turned around to stare at the chamber from which he had stolen the statuette. Here, inside the mirror, everything lay bathed in cold, blue light. The statuette, which had been brightly colored, almost lifelike, now resembled some frost-covered miniature corpse.

Vandor shivered and, turning from the mirror surface that separated reality from reflection, returned to Mendel.

The journey took but a thought. Where, before, the dark-haired thief had stared into a room of rich furnishings and elegant appointments, he now looked into an old, decrepit chamber lined with row upon row of dusty bookshelves. Once those shelves had been lined with scrolls, tomes, and artifacts, the envy of almost any mage, whatever color his robes, but necessity had, over the past few decades, obliged its aging master to utilize much of the collection. What remained were only the vestiges of greatness, just as what remained of Mendel was only a shadow of the black-robed terror who had dominated this region for more than a lifetime.

Mendel’s power might be dwindling, yet over Vandor it remained absolute, even some thirty years or so after the Chaos War.

Looking around, Vandor could see no sign of the cadaverous little man, the foul rodent who had kept him in absolute servitude since that fateful day some ten years after the War of the Lance. In the past, Mendel had precisely scheduled his every waking moment. He could be counted on to know how long Vandor’s errands took and when he would return. Mendel was beginning to slip. Where was he now?

In his hands, the figurine grew colder, even colder than usual. Knowing what would happen if he waited much longer, the thief pushed the prize against the mirror before him. The mirror resisted at first, as it always did, but then both Vandor’s hands and the statuette came through. He quickly stood the dryad on the small wooden table on the other side of the mirror, the one that Mendel had placed there years ago to ensure that his slave would never again have an excuse for losing one of the treasures.

As Vandor’s hands pulled back into the pale, cold world behind the mirror, the once-great Mendel stalked into the room. He had lived more than two normal life spans, and it had been during the second half of that overly lengthy existence that so many changes in the man had occurred. Where once he had stood taller than Vandor, who was six feet, Mendel had somehow shrunk to barely more than five. He moved hunched over, which accounted for some of that height loss, but Vandor often wondered if the man’s deep ties to the old magic of the gods had had something to do with what had happened. Magic had all but vanished from Krynn, and Mendel was clearly shrinking.

The flowing brown hair, broad, sharp nose, and strong chin had given way to a vulturelike head with heavy brows, under which peered bitter black orbs. Mendel still wore the black robes of his office, but they were worn and not of the best quality. He could replace the robes readily enough, thanks to the precious objects Vandor stole for him, but never the power those robes had once represented.

“So, returned at last!” rasped the mage, leaning on his formerly magical staff. “You’ve kept me waiting too long, dandy!”

As Mendel’s appearance had changed he had become increasingly prone to making disparaging remarks about the thief’s time-frozen features. Vandor’s handsome, patrician face, his piercing emerald eyes, coal-black, shoulder-length hair, elegant mustache, and expensive gentleman’s garments had served him well during his life, garnering him entrance to both a superior class of maidens and an even more superior class of valuables. However, to be envious of Vandor’s good looks hardly seemed fair. Vandor did not change because he could not change. He remained the reflection of what he had been that day when, fool of fools, greediness and, especially, vanity, had made him linger to inspect Mendel’s intricate and bewitching mirror. Not until too late did he discover that the mirror had been set as a trap for just such a one as he.

“I came as quickly as I could. The Lady Elspeth remained far longer at her table than we’d thought, Mendel.”

“A vain crone!” the black robe snapped, referring to a woman whose beauty any other man would have admired. “So in love with herself is she that she failed even to notice the rarity of such an artifact under her very nose!”

“I doubt she has any sense of magic, Mendel. To her, the figurine seemed only an exquisite work of-”

Mendel waved him to silence. “When I want your opinions, Grizt, I’ll wring them from you!” The wizened man clutched a large, diabolical-looking medallion dangling on his chest. “Quit wasting my time with your prattle!”

Vandor clamped his mouth shut. One thing could affect him here in the world of mirrors, and Mendel held it in his hand now. Not only did the medallion keep Vandor under control, but the mage could use it to punish the thief. The cold, cold world Vandor inhabited would seem a blessing in comparison to that punishment, he knew.

Seeing that his slave had quieted, Mendel nodded. “All right, then, dandy! What of more important matters? What of the Arcyan Crest? Did you find it? Did Prester have it, as my stone indicated?”

Of the few artifacts the once-great wizard still possessed, the onyx scrying stone remained the most useful, if only because it aided Mendel in hunting down the magical items so desperately needed by mages these days. When the gods departed after the Chaos War, they took with them much of the magic of the world, but a little magic remained in once-powerful artifacts. If a mage could locate an artifact and channel its latent power, he could still cast spells of a potentially great magnitude. Inevitably, the magical object would be drained of power, but few spellcasters gave thought to that.

This was the course Mendel had dedicated himself to, soon after the departure of the gods. Over the years he had forced Vandor to scour many places in search of the artifacts whose existence was hinted at by his scrying stone. One such piece was legendary, and it had eluded the black robe’s grasp. The Arcyan Crest was said to be the size of a medallion with the symbol of the House of Arcya set upon it. Its creator, Hanis Arcya, had used the crest to augment his formidable powers until his death. Unfortunately, as Vandor had heard too often from his master, the first great Cataclysm had ended the House of Arcya, and since then the crest had been a thing of rumors, glimpsed here, reported there, never proven to be anywhere.

Now Mendel’s stone had indicated to him that the crest might be somewhere in the vicinity of the palatial abode of Thorin Prester, a former red robe who still seemed adept at having matters turn out to his benefit. The stone’s murky directions plus his own driving envy had made Mendel adamant on this point-Prester had to have the artifact, and if Grizt could not find it that was because he was not searching hard enough.

Even knowing the possible fury his response might unleash, the thief in the mirror replied, “I have searched his place from top to bottom, Mendel, from side to side, comer to corner-wherever I can find a reflection from which to spy, even from puddles in the rain. I’ve haunted his entire sanctum again and again, and I can state categorically that he does not have-”

“Lies! Lies!” The vulture face blossomed crimson. Mendel’s eyes fairly bulged out of their sockets. The mage raised his staff high and with surprising speed, considering his withered appearance, struck out at the jeweled and gilded frame of the mirror.

Vandor’s world rocked, an earthquake of titanic proportions. Mendel had, in times past, told him that if the mage completely shattered the looking glass, his ungrateful wretch of a slave would cease to exist. As futile as his existence was, Grizt still clung to the hope that some day. .

“Lies!” Mendel rasped again. “I think, my dandy thief, you’ve grown a tad too used to the chill in there! I think you should warm up a little!”

“Mendel!” Vandor Grizt gasped. The mirror had not shattered, but he was overcome by dizziness and fear. “Think what you’re doing! If you lose me-

Too late. The furious, bent figure clutched his medallion tight, glaring at the handsome reflection that did not belong to him. “Come out, Grizt!”

An inexorable force pulled Vandor toward Mendel’s side of the mirror, toward the real world. Try as he might to fight it, the thief could not. First his hand went through the mirror. Then the rest of him was sucked through, all definition of form vanishing.

On the other side of the mirror, a yard from his master, Vandor Grizt reformed. . yet not completely so. A haze surrounded him, a grayness, as if he had become part smoke. The mirror from which he had just been plucked could almost be seen through his writhing body.

“For the love of the gods, Mendel!”

“There are no more gods for you, Grizt, save for me.”

Vandor had never been a violent man, always preferring stealth and the ladies to unnecessary adventure. Sometimes, though, he had been forced to take action, and if ever there was anyone he would gladly kill, it was his tormentor-now. He had no opportunity, though. Before Vandor could move even one step, his hands began to smoke. The sleeves of his shirt crinkled black from heat. Vandor felt his skin beginning to crackle as horrible pain wracked every fiber of his being.

“For pity’s sake, Mendel! I’m burning up!”

“So you are.” The mage watched without emotion, visibly gauging just how far he could go with his slave’s suffering. When Vandor had almost given up, Mendel uttered, “Begone to the mirror, spectre!”

Instantly Vandor found himself sucked back into the mirror. Now was one of the rare instances when he appreciated the chill, foreboding surroundings to which he had been doomed. All signs of the inferno that had engulfed him disappeared. He shivered, grateful for the blessed cold, for the safety of his mirror prison.

“Let that be a lesson to you! No more lies! Prester has the crest, and you’ll find it, won’t you, my little mirror thief?”

Vandor could not look at him. “Yes. . Mendel.”

“This was only a taste of what I could do to you, Grizt.” The horrific punishment through which he had just put Vandor brightened the mage’s spirits.

“Remember. . I also have your actual body under a continuing spell. I need new infusions of magic to keep that spell going, you know. Think what would happen if I were forced to allow the preserving forces to fade from your empty shell.”

Vandor fell against the mirror, pleading with the madman on the other side. “No! Please! Mendel. . Mendel, you would be taking away the one thing that means anything to me, and I would be of no use to you at all! Where will you find another thief so knowledgeable of the ways in which the rich and cunning hide their treasures? Where will you find another with the cleverness to see behind their facades? Where will you-”

“. . Find another as vain as you, Vandor Grizt? Certainly bold. . at least you used to be. What other fool would dare steal from a wizard without any magic of his own to protect him? Who else would think he could enter my sanctum not once, but twice, to take away those things most precious to me?”

Vanity had indeed been Vandor’s downfall. Another mage had promised him much for a token carried by his rival. That alone should not have been worth the risk, but the mage had played on Vandor’s reputation, that no thief could compare to Grizt. Vandor had stolen that trinket and stolen it with ease, understanding that even the best wizards underestimate their security. The very fact that he had no magical powers himself encouraged him to find a different way inside the sanctum, one that no spellcaster would predict of a mortal man. Vandor would wait weeks before striking such places, planning his moves, but when he acted, he usually acted well.

Emboldened by his first success, Vandor took on a second such challenge, then a third. The fourth brought him to the then-impressive abode of the great black mage Mendel. Mendel’s citadel was a slightly more time-consuming affair, but in the end Grizt made his way out undetected. . so he supposed.

When but a few weeks later, a hooded black robe of more than attractive female features offered him a sizable ransom to steal from Mendel again, Vandor Grizt at first hesitated. The prime rule of any good thief is never to strike too soon again at the same place. However, he learned that Mendel intended to be away for two weeks. Unable to resist both the challenge and the feminine allure of the one offering to pay for the job, the daring thief took the assignment. He even chose a different mode of entry, knowing that the wizard might have discovered traces of the last trespass. Entering Mendel’s inner sanctum proved to be a little more difficult the second time, but finding the artifact in question, now that caused inordinate trouble. It was small and rumored to be hidden in an unusual place, the female black robe had said. Vandor had cautiously searched everywhere in the sanctum, behind paintings and wall hangings, before finally coming to the covered mirror.

There he made his fatal mistake.

At first he remained wary of the mirror, studying its intricate framework but unwilling to approach. Then, curiosity got the better of him, and Vandor lifted the black curtain a bit. Seeing his own hand reflected in the mirror, the thief raised the curtain more.

At this point, vanity took over. Vandor paused too long to take an admiring glance at himself, a glance that became a lingering look at the handsome thief who had dared not once but twice to steal from a deadly black-robed wizard. How clever, how handsome he looked.

Before Vandor could realize what was happening. . he was drawn into the mirror. Instead of looking into the mirror, he now found himself looking out. . out at his own limp, sprawled body.

“Always think yourself so clever, dandy!” Mendel mocked now as he listened to Vandor plead from behind the mirror. “The very next day after you’d first had the audacity to steal from me, I brought the mirror into play!

I then searched around, and it wasn’t too difficult to find some bauble that a petty thief as arrogant and foolish as yourself might be tempted to steal! I already knew your great weakness, your love for yourself! Ha! I knew that you would not be able to resist gazing at yourself in the covered mirror, and so with the willing aid of one of my own order, a most delectable associate, I set about preparing your doom!”

Mendel had not returned to his citadel for an entire day. In that time Vandor had grown frantic and very cold. He was trapped in the mirror and continued to stare at the body from which his-spirit? — had become separated. In every way he still looked like himself, even down to the clothes he was wearing before the mirror captured him, but his true corporeal form was abandoned on the other side, dying.

“For your crimes against me,” the mage reminded him, “I commanded you to a lifetime of servitude. When-and only when-I’m satisfied that you’ve served your punishment, I’ll return spirit to body and make you whole again-but not before you find me the Arcyan Crest!”

“My body!” Vandor gasped. “Is it still well? The spell you cast over it keeps it intact?” It was his only hope. “You doubt me?” Mendel’s hand rose to the medallion. “No! No!” The thief sank back.

His gnarled master seemed mollified. “Better, then! All right, Grizt! You’ve failed me once, but you’ve brought back this other prize, so I cannot complain too much. Tonight, though, you will return to Prester’s sanctum and search it again! This time you must not fail. I am losing patience!”

“But if he doesn’t-”

“He has it! Do not doubt me!” Again the staff came up and rattled the frame of the mirror.

Grizt remained silent as his foul prison trembled. He knew he could not convince the damned mage otherwise. He feared the medallion’s tortures. Even the medallion’s worst could not compare with his fear that some day he might not have a body to which to return. “I will find it,” he promised. “See that you do.”

The great hall. A banquet room. The kitchen. Prester’s bed in which Prester himself slept. The room in which his only child rested, a small girl not even ten years of age. The spell that bound Vandor to Mendel’s special mirror allowed him to travel anywhere there was a reflection, be it glass, metal, or a bowl of purest water. The spell permitted the thief of mirrors to reach out as far as the length of his arms, sometimes even the upper half of his torso if he struggled.

Moonlight shining through a partially open window glittered on a polished breastplate once worn by Prester’s grandfather, a Knight of Solamnia. Through the breastplate Vandor Grizt emerged, glancing about the room, Prester’s personal library, counting the seconds before the growing heat would consume him. He had been in the library before and noticed nothing. However, libraries were often the location of wall vaults, hollowed-out books, and hidden drawers in desks.

Vandor sank back into the breastplate, only to emerge a moment later from the tiny, metallic surface of a desk drawer handle. Slim hands with tapering fingers reached into the real world and drew open another drawer. Grizt felt under the top, looking for a secret hiding place.

Nothing. He returned to the breastplate, which offered him a better view, and studied the chamber again. Assuming Prester had the Arcyan Crest, which Vandor doubted, he might not even realize its significance. Even some of the former wizards from whom Mendel had forced him to steal had not always recognized the prizes in their own possession. That had sometimes made his task more easy, but just as often it made things more frustrating, for victims with no idea as to the true worth of a treasure were wont to store it anywhere.

On a hunch-and hunches had, for the most part, served him well in the past-Vandor Grizt returned to the bedroom of Prester’s daughter.

He had not searched the room as thoroughly as he should, feeling some guilt about rifling through the young child’s belongings. The girl’s mother had died when she was but five, the victim of some malady. Unlike her husband, the mother had had no taste for magic, but she did boast a noble lineage encompassing not one but several great houses through the centuries. Little money had come with that lineage, but her noble station had given her husband a status that aided his ambitions, going from red-robed mage to landowner.

Vandor studied the slumbering child, guessing that she would never wake from so deep a sleep. Slipping out of the small mirror in her chamber, he reached into a nearby chest and quietly but quickly searched the contents. Clothes, pins, toys. . all the things of a well-born child. Vandor recalled his own early childhood, a kitchen brat in a lord’s castle. He had gained a hunger for fine things from that existence, ever watchful as the nobles wasted what he so coveted.

Across the room he spotted a cabinet, but at first a useful reflective surface near it resisted his searching eyes. Vandor’s gaze drifted to a small stand by the child’s bed. On the stand stood a mug of water, only partially emptied. Enough of a reflective surface for his needs. With careful planning, it would enable him to search the cabinet.

He had to make this a most thorough search, even more so than the last. If the Arcyan Crest was hidden anywhere in this castle, Vandor had to find it. He had no doubt Mendel would keep his promise to punish him for failing.

Transferring to the mug took but the blink of an eye, but from there the thief moved with caution. Not only might the mug wobble, but the child just might wake because of his nearness.

Slowly Vandor Grizt rose from the water. Head and arms floated above, a misty layer below them. Concentrating on maintaining his partially solid form, Vandor stretched his left hand forward, seizing the nearest drawer handle.

With some difficulty, he searched the first two drawers, returning quickly to the safety of his chill realm whenever the burning grew hot enough to threaten him. Unfortunately, Vandor found nothing in either drawer, and the time he had wasted irritated him. Determined, the spectral thief reached for the third.

A high squeak from the drawer made him freeze.

In her bed, the young girl turned over, mumbling. Vandor vanished into the reflection, then, when he felt the water rock, jumped swiftly into the mirror on the other side of the room. From there he watched as the child sat up and drank from the mug. The thief silently cursed; if she finished the water, he would have no method by which to reach the cabinet again.

At that moment he noticed the brooch in her hair.

That a child would wear a brooch in bed seemed odd enough, but the piece looked valuable, making Vandor all the more curious. He waited in frustration as the girl finally put the mug down and lay back on the bed. He waited until she had fallen asleep, then, with one last look at her face, shifted back to the container.

The remaining water barely covered the bottom of the cup, but it served for one with no corporeal form. Pushing himself, Vandor managed to get as much as half his torso above the mug. Gently he leaned over and studied the brooch as closely as he could. Eyes accustomed to darkness had little trouble making out the various details of the jewelry. A ruby sat in the midst of two warring griffons of gold, their diamond eyes glaring at one another. A kingfisher flew above, sword and shield in its talons. Tiny encrusted points thrust out from every edge of the item, which resembled a miniature sunburst. The brooch was valuable purely in terms of coin; Vandor knew it was invaluable to him. He stared at the child’s bauble with the eyes of one who has seen the culmination of a lifetime quest.

He had found the Arcyan Crest.

Why Prester would keep so valuable an object, even if he did not know its true nature, on the person of a small child, Vandor could not say. Sentiment, perhaps. Assuming that the former red robe did not know its magical history, he might have given it to the child as some heirloom from her mother. Had not Prester’s wife come from royal lineage. . possibly even descended from Arcya?

All that mattered to the thief of mirrors was that he now beheld the one object that might prompt Mendel to grant him his freedom. To walk again among men, to kiss a fair damsel, drink a little ale, and pick a pocket or two. . But first he had to steal the brooch from the child.

Already his body sweltered from heat. Wisps of smoke rose from his fingers. However, Vandor Grizt did not return to the water in the mug. He could not wait any longer for his freedom. His tapering fingers gently lifted the brooch so he could undo the clasp. Another second or two and he had the Arcyan Crest free. Child’s play! he thought to himself, admiring his own pun even as the pain, coursing through his body, began to overwhelm him.

Holding the crest close to him, he dove into the watery reflection, then from there to the mirror across the room. True mirrors gave him a swifter path back, and with a treasure of this nature Vandor desired the swiftest path possible. The longer the artifact remained with him in this chilling realm, the more peril there was. Real objects lasted only a little longer in the mirror realm than he could last outside the mirror, only they froze where he burned.

“Mama’s jewel. .”

Vandor Grizt stiffened in the mirror. The little girl, blonde hair half obscuring her features, stared back at him from across the room, an indecipherable expression on her delicate features. She pointed at him, at the crest he held, in a manner so accusing that the thief felt she could see him with strange clarity.

Flee, you fool! he told himself. No force held him here save astonishment, and he could not afford that now. Grizt thought of Mendel’s cursed mirror, knowing full well that to think of it meant to take the first step in returning.

Yet, even more astonishingly, he remained in the child’s room.

“Give me Mama’s jewel!”

Suddenly the thief found himself dragged toward the mirror. The Arcyan Crest-the young girl’s brooch- struggled to free itself from his grasp. Try as he might, Vandor could not keep his hands from passing through the glass.

The realization struck him. The little girl was a mage! Small wonder to him now that Prester had given her the crest. Prester must have seen his daughter’s talent, a rarity since the Chaos War. The crest would only increase her abilities.

The child continued to glare accusingly at him, but Vandor fought back fiercely. If he forfeited the artifact then not only would he lose his one hope of gaining his freedom but Mendel would punish him horribly.

The war of wills continued. Grizt’s arms were extended completely from the mirror but no farther. The battle might have gone on for the rest of the night if not for the inevitable. The thief’s hands, then his arms, began to smoke. Before Vandor’s very eyes, his fingers, his expert, thieving fingers, blackened. The skin peeled away, then the muscle began to burn, revealing darkening bone. Yet, despite the incredible agony, the horror, Vandor Grizt refused to yield.

He heard a minute gasp, then felt himself falling backward head over heels. He was unable to orient himself for a moment. Slowly it occurred to him what had happened: the child had noted his terrible fate. She couldn’t help but allow her concentration to lapse, not only saving him but enabling him to escape.

Escape to where, though? Vandor blinked, seeing that now he stood on the inside of a mirror in a familiar chamber-Lady Elspeth’s. He knew it to be hers for suddenly the noblewoman gasped, dropped a small hand mirror, and turned his way. However, Vandor had already disappeared, the power of Mendel’s sinister looking glass pulling him away. He found it astonishing that he had been cast into a foreign mirror without his knowledge, or the wizard’s permission. Or Lady Elspeth’s. . although Vandor might be condemned to be a phantom, still his thoughts sometimes turned to solid flesh. He had marked the beauty of Lady Elspeth. That desire must have been present when he had been cast loose by the startled girl.

To hold such a woman. .

That dream might at last be within his reach, he realized. In his hands he still held the Arcyan Crest. All he had to do was bring it to Mendel, who would be so pleased with him that he would at last grant Vandor Grizt a return to his body. .

An intense cold radiated from his hands.

“By Shinare, no!” Vandor knew exactly what the bone-numbing cold preceded. He pictured Mendel’s mirror, hoping he still had time.

Mendel’s chamber came into view. Vandor reached out, trying to thrust the Arcyan Crest through the mirror.

The artifact faded in his hands, vanishing as if it had never existed.

Vandor Grizt felt like screaming. His vindictive master would let him burn long and hard for this, no doubt saving the thief of mirrors only at the last moment, assigning him yet another impossible task. Vandor could suffer that torture gladly if he didn’t fear that this time Mendel might destroy his mortal body. After being preserved magically for so many decades, Grizt’s body would decay rapidly once Mendel released the spell.

To be so close to achieving freedom. .

He shook his head, trying to think. Vandor could do only one thing, a desperate measure, but all that remained to try. He could tell his master that he had not yet found the artifact. It would buy Grizt some time, staving off the inevitable. If Mendel thought the Arcyan Crest still existed, he would not punish his slave too severely. If he thought the crest was nearly within reach. .

Vandor was still struggling with what to say when Mendel entered.

The avaricious gleam in the crooked figure’s eyes immediately informed the thief that Mendel would have little patience today. His obsession with the crest had grown and grown.

“You have it? You have it?”

“No, Mendel, but-”

His master’s fury shocked even him this time. Mendel roared, unable to even articulate. He raised the staff high and, to Vandor’s horror, struck not at the frame, but this time at the mirror itself. He smashed hard and hard again, without holding back.

“Incompetent! Bungler!” Again the staff struck. “Fool!”

As he raised the wooden staff for a third strike, Mendel caught himself, for suddenly the mage lowered the staff, his eyes wide. Anger barely held in check, he leaned forward to inspect the magical mirror. Vandor, on the other side, was reeling from the blows. Mendel’s foul visage filled his vision.

“No damage. Nuitari be praised,” the old man muttered, apparently not recalling for the moment that his god, like all the others, no longer graced the heavens of Krynn.

Grizt spoke, seizing the moment and praying that his own cleverness would not defeat him. “Master, it is true I do not have the crest, but I think I’m close to its discovery!”

The anger in Mendel’s eyes faded a bit, replaced by a wary interest. “How so?”

Now the lie must be convincing. “When I searched tonight, I came across Prester. He looked very furtive, as if he had just come from some place important, some place deep in his sanctum-”

“Could mean anything.”

“Yes, but he carried with him an object similar to that one you had me steal for you but a month ago. Remember that tiny emerald spider?”

The emerald spider had been an old talisman Mendel had come across by accident. A merchant traveling through the region had been carrying it along with his other goods, gems, and jewelry befitting his noble clientele. Mendel had spotted it and had known it immediately for a magical artifact. With so few competent mages of the old school left, many items such as the spider had fallen into the hands of the unwary and then disappeared forever into their houses.

Two nights later, Vandor had reached out from the glittering reflections of the merchant’s gem collection and taken the spider. Mendel, ecstatic, took only a few minutes to leech the power from the artifact, not great power, but it had enabled the vulturish man to cast modest spells for several days.

“Did the artifact he carried appear to mask an inner fire, buffoon? Did it evince life?”

“If it once did, Prester no longer cared. As I watched, he discarded it into a rubbish container.”

Mendel rubbed his chin. “So he had already drained it of its magic, then.”

“Yes, that is what I supposed, but the important thing is he brought it from another place of hiding, where there must be other magical artifacts. You see? You were right as usual, Mendel! Prester must have the Arcyan Crest! Now I know it’s only a matter of time until I find it!”

“No.” The crooked figure stared down the ghostly thief. “It is only a matter of one night. One night, Grizt! I’m tired of waiting! Bring me the Arcyan Crest tomorrow morning or you’ll discover I’ve been merely gentle with you so far. . ”

Vandor swallowed hard. “One night?”

“I tire of these delays. . and your excuses!” Mendel shouted.

Vandor appeased him quickly. “I’ll find it, Mendel. I promise!”

A calculating look formed in Mendel’s dark eyes. “If you do, you might even get your body back. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, dandy? To walk as a living, breathing bit of flesh again? I won’t really have much need of you any more once you find me the crest. I could let you go this time. . ”

Despite knowing that he could never bring Mendel the artifact in question, the thief could not help but feel hopeful. “Freedom? You’ll grant me my freedom?”

“First find me the Arcyan Crest.”

Mendel turned, dismissing both the mirror and the thief within. Vandor watched him go, knowing that the black-robed figure was already busy plotting uses for the legendary artifact. Mendel shut the door to the chamber, all but forgetting Vandor.

How could he give his master what no longer existed?

He had one desperate idea. Perhaps Vandor could find something, another precious object, that might fool the mage, that might fool him long enough for Mendel to bestow his reward, releasing Grizt’s body and allowing him to regain life. Once human again, Vandor could conceivably escape before Mendel learned the truth. It was far-fetched. It was dangerous. It was the only hope he had.

The day passed unmercifully slowly, interrupted by only two brief appearances from his master. The night came at last. Vandor waited for Mendel, for only Mendel had the power to compel the mirror to send him on his tasks.

Finally the mage stalked in, left hand clutching the cursed medallion. “Well? Why aren’t you off yet? You will go to the home of the red robe Prester, you will go only there, and you will search all night if need be! You will find the Arcyan Crest! Understood?”

“Yes, Mendel, I understand.” Released by the medallion, Vandor wasted not a moment more, darting into the mirror realm. He had to find some object he could use to replace the one he had let be destroyed, something that might fool Mendel. Unfortunately, it would have to come from Thorin Prester’s domain; Mendel had commanded he go only there, and thanks to the magic of the medallion, Vandor had to obey that command.

Within seconds, the thief of mirrors entered the former red robe’s house. He darted from one reflective surface to the next, searching Prester’s home from top to bottom. . room after room. . leaving the child’s chamber to the last. Vandor feared to go there, feared that the young girl with magical gifts might catch him again.

What a fool he was! What a fool! Why had he ever lied to Mendel? Doing so would only make matters worse for Vandor in the end. The black robe would punish him not only for losing the legendary artifact but for trying to lie about it as well.

One possible place where there might be other valuables was Prester’s own room. Vandor had searched it before, but now he knew he must search it again.

Prester still slept deeply as Vandor searched his bedchamber one more time, appearing and reappearing in one reflective surface after another. Reaching out of the large mirror overlooking the man’s desk, Vandor hunted through the small wooden chest he had noticed on previous visits. Unfortunately, the chest contained nothing the thief needed. Time was running out. There were few places left to search. Vandor grew frantic.

He suddenly sensed eyes watching him. They belonged not to Prester, for that one still slept solidly, but rather to a smaller, unfortunately familiar presence.

“I knew you’d come back.”

The sun could only be a few minutes away from rising. Vandor had no time for little girls with frightening abilities. He immediately dove back into the mirror.

That is to say, he attempted to do so. The thief of shadows struggled, head and arms trapped on the outside of the glass. He eyed the young wizard fearfully, not knowing any longer whether he feared her or Mendel’s wrath more. “I don’t have your brooch any more!” Vandor desperately explained. “Let me go, please!”

The child glanced at her father, who still slept soundly despite all the commotion. Her gaze returned to Vandor, and she said, “You’ll bum again.” When her prisoner said nothing, she frowned. “If you stay outside the mirror, will you burn again?”

“Yes! By blessed Shinare, yes!”

“I’m sorry.”

A gust suddenly hurled Vandor completely into Prester’s looking glass. He tried immediately to flee but could not move.

The girl came over to the mirror. She stared into it, giggling. “I can see myself standing next to you!”

Vandor stood in the mirror, watching her with growing apprehension. The thief of mirrors repeated his earlier words. “I don’t have your brooch any more. It’s. . it’s gone.”

“Silly ghost. .” the little girl giggled. “I’ve got it here!” She pointed to her hair, at the same time speaking so loudly that Vandor expected Prester to awake, but the father remained still. Whatever magic this girl wielded she wielded well. Mendel would have been very, very jealous.

The full impact of her words struck him. “You- Vandor blinked. “You have it?”

At last he took notice of the elaborate brooch fastened to her hair. The ethereal thief stared in disbelief. True enough, a brooch identical to the one he had stolen clung there, griffons and kingfisher with jeweled eyes. Yet, it could not be the very same brooch, for that one had vanished before his eyes, a victim of the whims of the mirror realm-or so Grizt had thought.

“Is that. . is that the same one?”

“It’s the one Mama gave me.”

“But I-but I took it.”

An enigmatic expression crossed the child’s features. “It always comes back to me. I forgot that before, but it always does.”

“Indeed?” Grizt did not pay much attention to the girl’s response, already breathing a sigh of relief. There was still a chance for him. Already he was calculating his chances of stealing the Arcyan Crest again. What did it matter if, after he put it into Mendel’s hands, it disappeared again? Just so long as he would not be blamed for failing the damned black robe. .

“Are you really a ghost?”

“A ghost?” Her words made Vandor shudder, for he often felt like a ghost. Only the knowledge that his body remained preserved by Mendel’s spells kept him sane. To be a ghost forever. . Grizt could imagine no worse fate. “No, my spirit is trapped in a mirror,” he answered, “but I’m very much alive. The man who makes me do this- steal things-possesses my body. If I don’t do what he says, he’ll destroy it.”

She seemed to believe him immediately. His words were truthful, and what was more rare for him, sincere. Desperation had given Vandor Grizt sincerity.

“I’m sorry for you,” the little girl finally said.

“If I don’t return soon, I’ll be punished.” He glanced up. Already the darkness seemed to be waning. Predawn. He had scant minutes remaining. “I have to return by first light. It’s nearly that now.”

“I didn’t tell Papa about you,” she mentioned. “I thought I dreamed you.” She leaned forward. “My name’s Gabriella. What’s your name?”

He was beginning to see light! Why had the black robe’s mirror not forced him back yet?

“Vandor Grizt. Little mistress, you said you wouldn’t like to see me burn. Much worse will happen if I don’t leave now!” He held out his hands. “See? I’ve got nothing of yours this time!”

As dawn began filtering into the chamber, Prester stirred. The girl looked at her father. “He should sleep longer.”

Grizt tried to avoid thinking about what her statement indicated: power but not the experience to wield it sensibly. She was able to keep her father sleeping but only for a time.

“Please, my fine young lady! Let me go! It’ll be our little secret that I came here at all! Wouldn’t that be a grand thing? You like secrets, don’t you?”

“If you go without Mama’s jewel will the bad man hurt you?”

Vandor sighed, too unnerved to lie. “Yes.”

Her expression darkened. The thief felt a new twinge of unease. Never had he seen such an expression on so otherwise innocent-looking a child. “I don’t like him,” she said at last. “He’s just like Garloff. Garloff’s a nasty wizard in a story Mama used to tell me. Garloff was evil, not like Huma. Huma was the hero in Mama’s story.”

Grizt had lost the path of the conversation, his eyes straying to the growing daylight. How much longer could she hold him here? Certainly not forever, and when her hold slipped, Vandor would suffer worse than ever. “Gabriella, listen to me!”

She did not. Her eyes brightened, and she peered at him in a manner vaguely familiar. “Garloff is like your wizard, and you’re just like Hurna.” Before the thief could absorb the obviously absurd comparison, the little girl added, “He won’t hurt you if I give you Mama’s jewel.”

Vandor Grizt blinked, uncertain that he had heard correctly. “What?”

Gabriella carefully removed the brooch. She cupped it in her hands, covering it so tightly that Vandor could not see it. “He won’t hurt you if I give this to you. Here.”

Gratitude nearly overwhelmed Vandor Grizt. She wanted to give the Arcyan Crest to him in order to save him from Mendel. The little girl saw him as some tragic hero out of one of her late mother’s stories. In the past, when he was alive in the real world, there had been many women who had fallen sway to his lies, believing him to be a great champion rather than merely a well-dressed thief. He had never dissuaded them, never felt guilty. . until now.

“Gabriella,” he managed, “thank you.” It pained him that she would give up so valued a belonging to the black robe, who would use it simply to enhance his miserable existence, but by no means did Vandor intend to turn down her generous offer-not if it meant finally escaping the world of mirrors.

“Papa gave this to me after Mama died.” She opened up her hands again, revealing the brooch in all its glory. It appeared to glow in the gathering daylight. “He told me all about it.”

Not all, Vandor suspected. If the girl knew that the brooch contained magical powers, he doubted that Gabriella would part with it even to rescue her new storybook hero. That he dared not mention.

“Here, Sir Vandor.” The little girl reached out with the artifact, nearly touching it to the face of the mirror.

Grizt took it with hands still unburning, hands that trembled in relief. He stared at the desired object, stared at the griffons and the kingfisher who seemed to mock his hopes. “Thank you, my lady.”

She giggled again, and her expression darkened once more. “You have to give it to him, Sir Vandor. I don’t want him hurting you again.”

Did she really think that he would keep the bauble for himself? Magical artifacts were useless to him, all the more so in the shadow world. He started to assure her but held back, seeing something in her eyes that disturbed him. What sort of child stood before him? At times she frightened him more than Mendel. “I will, my lady,” Vandor finally managed. “I will. . and thank you again.”

The slumbering form moved restlessly again. Gabriella calmly looked at her father, then returned her gaze to Grizt. Never had he seen so old a look in the face of a little girl. “Goodbye, Sir Vandor. Please come to play with me some time.”

The thief found himself flung from the mirror, the stubborn pull of Mendel’s own looking glass suddenly and at last triumphant.

Yet. . as Vandor returned to his familiar prison, he noted with some surprise and relief that for once he felt no pain in the transition. Even the harsh cold did not bother him much this time. Grizt wondered that the little girl could be responsible, that she could be so powerful. The Arcyan Crest, on the other hand, held tremendous power and perhaps some of that transferred-

The Arcyan Crest! Vandor thrust the girl’s brooch through the glass, placing it carefully on the table in Mendel’s chamber. Only then did he sigh in relief. His youthful admirer had given the precious artifact to him in order to save his life; but if he kept it too long in the mirror realm, surely it would be destroyed this time, and Vandor Grizt would only have had himself to blame for repeating his folly.

A moment later, the cadaverous form of his cursed master appeared in the doorway. “You have it? Give it to me, you stupid cur! I want it!”

After the calm manner in which Gabriella had spoken to him, Mendel sounded much like a spoiled child. . a spoiled child who could dangle the thief’s life before him. Nonetheless, Vandor was tempted to reach out and grab the artifact back. If not for the gnarled mage’s hold on him, the thief would have let the chill realm destroy the Arcyan Crest. Mendel’s aghast reaction would be well worth the loss. Vandor sorely wanted to leave the realm of mirrors; he wanted his body back, though, wanted it more than anything.

“It’s there,” he muttered. “All yours at last, Mendel.”

“The Arcyan Crest!” The gleeful figure scooped up the brooch, cradling it in his hands. Mendel’s eyes surveyed his prize, fingers stroking the fine craftsmanship.

Vandor Grizt studied the mage in disgust. Mendel did not deserve such a treasure. He himself had made no effort, had sacrificed nothing. Grizt, at least, had the credo of a thief; he worked to earn his prizes. Mendel could thank the little girl for the Arcyan Crest. Only because she had been willing to part with her mother’s heirloom for Vendor’s sake did the black robe now have more power with which to stoke his ego.

“So long. .” cooed the aged spellcaster. “So long have I sought you. . you are mine now. . mine.”

Mendel had his great desire, now Vandor would at long last have his. “Mendel. . my body.”

“Cease your prattling! I’ve more important things on my mind!” The archmage went back to stroking the artifact.

Grizt, this time, would not be silenced. “My body, Mendel! You said that if I stole this for you, I might-”

“Talk to me no more about your wants, dandy! You’ll obey my every command or suffer the consequences for it! Don’t think you have any choice!”

“But my body-”

“You have no body.” Mendel glared at him. “Not for some thirty years, fool! Did you think I’d waste precious power on preserving that bit of tawdry meat? What does the husk of one paltry thief compare to my needs? Be satisfied with serving me, Vandor Grizt,” he said, laughing, “for you’ll be doing so for the rest of my life!”

A roar of agony escaped Vandor. He threw himself against his side of the mirror, trying to reach for the throat of the monstrous mage. All these years he had been tricked. What a fool he had been. Mendel had led him by the nose, making promises he never intended to fulfill. Gabriella had thought him a ghost; how accurate she had been. Vandor the ghost, dreaming of what never could be, must have amused his master.

To hold a woman again, drink fine ale, feel the warmth of day without fearing its searing heat. .

A ghost. All these years he had been nothing but a ghost.

Vandor tried to force himself through the mirror. He felt something begin to give. He pushed harder, fury and bitterness fueling his strength.

Unfortunately, Mendel saw him and reacted accordingly. The Arcyan Crest in one hand, Mendel touched his medallion with a smile.

A shock of unprecedented pain coursed through Vandor. It was worse than ever, undoubtedly enhanced by the Arcyan Crest. Screaming, the thief fell back into the mirror, practically sobbing.

“I think. . yes, I think I’ve had enough of you,” the vulturish mage proclaimed. “This would be a most excellent time to test the limits of the Arcyan Crest. I will draw the magic from the mirror and from what little there is in the spell binding you as well and augment the potential of the crest. Let’s see if the tales of its power are true.”

Grizt fell against the other side of the mirror, gasping, still recovering. “Damn. . damn you, Mendel.”

“You should be happy, Vandor Grizt. I am putting you out of your suffering-and at least you won’t have to suffer very long.”

Holding the artifact high about his head, Mendel muttered a chant. The phantom thief braced himself, certain that his end was near. In a twisted way, Mendel had spoken the truth. At least Vandor was grateful that it would be swift.

The sinister spellcaster spouted a final word and waited. Vandor felt the edges of the mirror quiver.

Suddenly, Mendel stumbled and gasped. His hand shook uncontrollably, nearly dropping the Arcyan Crest. The dark mage struggled to keep his grip on the artifact, his face already covered in sweat from the effort. A red glow rose around the magical crest.

“How. . dare. . you?” Mendel hissed, staring not at Vandor but at the magical brooch. He looked suddenly smaller, drained.

Vandor blinked. Instead of absorbing magic from the mirror and channeling it into Mendel, the crest instead seemed to be sapping the power from him.

You have to give it to him. Sir Vandor. I don’t want him hurting you again.

Gabriella had said that to the thief, her face so old, so unnerving. Had the strange child planned something sinister? Did she now reach out from her home to punish Grizt’s captor? Could she have the power to do that?

Mendel’s entire body began to shiver, and the gnarled spellcaster’s skin, already so pale, grew parchment white. Nevertheless, Mendel fought back. He did not seem at all prepared to surrender.

“Insolence!” he snapped, clawing at the air. “You dare? You dare? I am Mendel! Mendel!”

The black-robed mage muttered something else and slowly but surely seemed to regain his footing. Vandor’s hope turned to dread; now it seemed the Arcyan Crest no longer rebelled against its wielder, but rather Mendel’s distant adversary, a young girl with much magical ability but, as Vandor knew, lacking the maturity to best manipulate her skills.

Now Mendel was gaining strength, and the young girl, back in her home, must be losing hers. Grizt knew his master well enough to realize that Mendel would continue to drain the girl until nothing remained. The thought that Prester’s daughter would die horribly for his sake upset the thief more than he would have guessed.

The insidious wizard was standing straight now, laughing at his unseen foe. “How I’ve waited for this, Prester! How I’ve waited to remove your smug presence from Ansalon!”

Prester! Mendel did not even know that he threatened the life of Prester’s child, a young girl, not that he would have cared. The mage believed that only his old rival could command the power to contest him thusly.

With all his strength Vandor reached out as best as he could, taking advantage of his master’s distraction. Try as he might, though, even with half his torso free of the mirror, the ghost-thief could not reach the black mage.

The thief pulled back and tried something else. Desperately he threw himself against the mirror again, battering it from inside. It had to give, had to give!

Suddenly he saw it. Near the spot where Mendel had struck the minor before, a tiny crack had developed. It was not much of a crack, but it was enough to somehow weaken the magical mirror. Desperately, Grizt struck at this spot again and again, knowing each second that passed pushed his young savior to the brink.

Suddenly, without warning, the crack gave and Vandor Grizt found himself falling through the mirror.

The thief rose from the floor, staring in disbelief. He saw he had some solidity, even though he could still see through himself from certain angles.

Solidity meant that he could put his hands around Mendel’s throat.

However, his action had not gone unnoticed. Mendel, watching him with a smirk, waved the medallion in his clutch. “The knight-errant, Vandor Grizt? Or simply too much taste for revenge? A bad idea to leave the mirror. Don’t forget I am still your master.”

Pain wracked Vandor, forcing him down onto one knee. He looked up, watching in mounting horror as Mendel worked his spell. Heat began to overwhelm the thief. The longer he struggled futilely, the worse the heat was destined to become. Already his garments began to blacken, the process swifter than ever thanks to the Arcyan Crest.

Vandor forced himself to his feet, fighting impossibly against the power of Mendel’s cursed medallion. He no longer feared for his existence, earthly or otherwise. He knew he would die. All he sought to do was reach the foul mage and find some way to prevent Mendel from ever torturing anyone else again.

“Lie down. . and burn away,” his master growled, perhaps just a bit hard-pressed. “You’re nothing but vapor, anyway, dandy! Simply a puff of smoke.”

Grizt’s hand caught on fire. His arms began to flicker. He could feel the flames begin to eat at his flesh even though he had no true flesh to burn.

Mendel smiled, looking stronger. “Prester and you! I have enjoyed this day immensely, Vandor Grizt!”

Gritting his teeth, the ghost howled and flung himself forward.

The look of shock that blanketed Mendel’s face pleased Vandor immensely. The black-robed mage released his hold on the medallion as he sought to cover his eyes from the flaming figure crashing upon him. Vandor managed to seize his tormentor by the throat-

— slipping through him an instant later.

Wracked with an agony he could no longer endure, Vandor sought out the nearest reflection, a silver goblet sitting on a table, reaching out to it with his mind. A moment later, the numbing cold of the mirror realm swept over him, blessed cold to help assuage his pain.

His moment of revenge had failed. Grizt had not maintained his solid form long enough to put an end to Mendel and now-

Mendel cried out. Vandor, still not recovered, managed to look up from his place of hiding. The foul wizard stood clutching the Arcyan Crest. . or rather now it clutched him. The talons of the kingfisher seemed to have come alive, Mendel’s hand and wrist were caught in them. Stranger yet, the black robe looked smaller again, smaller than ever, as if he had shrunk several inches.

“Nooo!” Mendel shouted to the air. “You cannot do this! I command it!”

Vandor watched in amazement as his tormentor shrank. The glow surrounding the artifact had changed. Now it glowed yellow and that yellow encompassed Mendel. Vandor’s determined attack, however ill fated, had distracted Mendel just long enough for Prester’s daughter to collect herself and seize the advantage.

With a last horrified shriek, the aged wizard collapsed to his knees. As he did, the glow washed over his twitching form. Vandor blinked as the glow at last faded, the Arcyan Crest clattering to the floor. The talons of the kingfisher returned to normal, and as for Mendel, he had vanished altogether.

Disbelieving his eyes, the thief emerged from the mirror, tentatively making his way toward the artifact. His mind raced with the thought of what had just transpired, what would happen to him, and, just as important, what he should do now with the ominous device. Knowing his time was limited, Vandor reached for the crest.

The ruby in the center glistened with movement, and Vandor Grizt the thief could not help but look at it.

A screaming face stared out at him.

Mendel’s screaming face.

In horror Vandor pulled back, and as he did, the Arcyan Crest, Mendel still entombed, faded.

It always comes back to me, little Gabriella had told him.

Vandor thought of the brooch back in the delicate but deadly hands of Prester’s daughter. No longer did he harbor any fear for her; rather, oddly, he felt some for his old tormentor.

Vandor looked up, eyes fixing on Mendel’s mirror. An urge came over him, and he seized the wizard’s staff, which Mendel had dropped during the struggle. Raising it high, Vandor struck the mirror again and again, shattering the cursed artifact, his chill prison. He then waited for himself to fade away as the mirror’s magic died, but surprisingly nothing happened. With almost gleeful abandon, the specter stamped on the shards that lay on the floor, crushing them until no large pieces remained intact. At last, his fury spent, Vandor began to laugh and laugh, stumbling back to admire his handiwork.

He was free. Free of Mendel, free of the mirror. A ghost, yes, he was now a ghost, but no longer a slave.

The heat of the real world once again began to tell on him, but this time more gradually and with less intensity. By now Vandor should have been burning up, and he realized that Mendel’s disappearance meant he could pay longer visits to the real world.

Even so, Vandor Grizt was taking no chances. He returned to the goblet, staring out at the chamber and the broken mirror.

“Farewell, Mendel. Thank you, Gabriella,” Grizt whispered. Whatever his ultimate fate, for now he would savor his freedom. A changed world lay open to him, and the ghostly thief intended to explore it.

There were, after all, so many, many mirrors. .