A king's firstborn is his glory. The second, security. Third born is abundance, but the fourth--ah, the fourth is a shadow. Now come to the fifth--fifth born is penury. Nothing divides well five ways in a kingdom of middling size and wealth. Five good marriages is a statistical anomaly. Five sons bodes ill for any kingdom and the Kingdom of the Chalbeams had six.

Sixth born son of the Seventh King of Chalbeams Prince Felderon's private torment bordered on madness, and he would not--nay, could not turn from it, though the morning vapor was gentle and cool, he felt nothing but the burn of unspent loathing. Thus possessed, he drove his stallion all over the countryside, cloak flying out behind him and his whip cracking in a spirit of bitter frenzy. Past farmer's field and forest glen, country townships, lonely footpaths and lofty mountains passes. He would not weary, though his animal did. Forced to stable the creature most nights, his journey consumed the better part of seven days, and then, at last, his horse could carry him no farther.

The remaining stretch of his journey loomed above. A climb up the sheer face of a sandstone wall, stretching one hundred meters high. It was a death climb for any but the most determined, or the raving lunatic. Felderon met both criteria.

When, at last, his arms lifted his torso, lungs heaving and muscles trembling, up over the top of the wall, he groaned, and with one last grunt, hauled his body up onto level ground. Resting on his back, he spoke to Heaven, if not to the mage whom he'd spent his strength seeking.

"Why is it the wise ones of the world always insist on backbreaking heights for their meditations?" The prince threw his hands up and let them drop, exhausted to either side of his body.

The answer came, unhurried from the lips of an aged sage, and possible magician, meditating on a mat nearby. "It isn't about the height, so much as the climb."

The prince groaned with the tension in his back and shoulders. "I don't follow."

"Are you," the sage said, "familiar with the legend of Master Chuang from the East?"

"You mean the philosopher, who, when invited to serve the emperor, asked the messenger to confirm the rumor of the emperor's famous tortoise shell wrapped in silk in court?"

"Yes exactly. What was the philosopher's answer?"

"If I recall, he said, I would rather be a turtle in the mud, than a hollow shell in the emperor's court. Is that why you sit up here on the far edge of the world?"

"No."

Felderon rolled his eyes. "Why bring it up then?"

"I was testing your classical education."

"You're a strange one."

"The King has six sons," the sage said. "Is that right?"

"Yes."

"And you are the sixth and final?"

"How did you know me?"

"Princes at the end of the birth order often find themselves in need of a sage."

"I'm not familiar with the habits of other kings' sons."

"I am. And that alone supplies ample motive for keeping myself scarce."

"Are you mad?" Felderon gestured with both hands. "You'd dare a death climb just to dodge the quest of sixth born prince?"

"I said that would supply ample motive, but again, that is not my reason."

"What then?"

"I am rather fond of this dynasty, and have no wish to see the kingdom fall."

"You mean to suggest that your close proximity to the kingdom puts it in jeopardy?" That was interesting.

"I am saying, that the quests of sixth born princes crush kingdoms."

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Felderon flinched. "I don't believe you."

The sage shrugged, mute.

"It seems you are less a sage than your reputation reports. I do not seek patricide, nor even fratricide!"

"That may be," the mage conceded. "But your quest is one of vengeance, and its tendency is to downfall."

"I have said my quarrel is not with my father, nor even his heir! It is my third brother who I loathe and he must be upturned--though I would have killed him by now if I had meant him dead."

"Ah, yes. Had you murdered him, I would not have been so easily found."

"There was nothing easy about my journey, old man."

"Vengeance is not a worthy quest."

"You do not know the provocation."

"Nor need I know."

Felderon rose up from the ground, his face burned and his broad shoulders shook. "I have not slept in six nights! I have scaled this sheer mountain face. You shall know it ere I die at your feet!"

The sage released a sigh. "I suppose we cannot have that, can we?"

Felderon clenched his fists. "For a visionary, old man, your mockery comes late! The entire country is far ahead of you. Do you think death holds any horror for me now?"

The sage opened just one of his erstwhile tightly closed eyes. "Give pause, young prince. You are unprepared for death."

"I'm unprepared for life! Raised a prince, yet I'll have no fortune! No practical skills or know-how! The instant I find a young heiress who seems willing to have me, I find I am made a public fool by her and my own kin!"

"Indeed, the competition for a good situation is stiff. You've so many helpless brothers," the sage said.

"She gave them my letters--words meant for her alone! Things I dared not speak aloud!"

"There were letters? I hope you did not commit the sin of poetry!"

The prince groaned. "Iambic pentameter!"

"Oh dear."

"I cannot show my face anywhere in the civilized world."

"I see."

"But do you? Their mockery has crossed international borders. The heiress of whom I speak was from foreign Genera! I shall die a fool!"

"Respectfully, dear prince. That is up to you."

"I had hope, old man, that it might be up to you. I have no antidote to my misery, unless it be death."

The sage frowned. "I have somethingl, young prince. But the remedy is clumsy--a last resort at best."

Prince Felderon's eyes lit. "I'll hear what it is!"

*

Faint light shone on the eastern horizon, backlighting the rugged peaks of the Illusion Range. Dawn was a stealthy hunter, neither ebbing, nor altering. By its light, Prince Felderon watched the mage remove a strange parcel from within his robe. The package was small, but appeared to be quite heavy, and the prince's eyes widened as the sage's long dark fingers untied the crimson wrapping, revealing two stones--one white and the other one black, polished to a high shine. They were mirrors, ancient in make, but excellent in craft.

"They are fine, old man," Felderon said. "But I fail to see a remedy in this."

"Let me explain." The mage took the white stone in his hand, "A reflection from this mirror shows the onlooker's beauty, unfailingly. To peer into it is to be hypnotized, enraptured by the captured form." He set it down on the fabric, then plucked up the dark stone. "However, a reflection from this mirror is quite opposite."

Felderon reached for the black stone to have a look. "Ouch! What do you mean?" Felderon recoiled his hand, throbbing from the sage's blow.

"Never peer casually into the dark mirror. You must be prepared to view the deepest void, which will haunt an onlooker forever!"

Felderon frowned, doubtful. "Who made these mirrors? What is their meaning?"

"The craftsman is long dead, but it was not his skill that made them. It is the nature of the stone that gives them their power."

Felderon's countenance fell, and he stared down the cliffside. "What good are illusions, old man?"

"You are quite right, young prince. But only the white mirror conjures an illusion. The dark mirror is no lie."

For a long moment, Felderon calculated the possible uses of the white mirror, and its potential was not lost on him. "I will have the white stone! I know more than one princess who would prize such a gift. It is the kind of charm that wins great favor."

The mage tipped his head, gravely. "I will give you the white mirror as you wish, but if you give the white stone away, you must keep the dark mirror for yourself, and must promise to peer into it without flinching."

"Why would I do that? You said yourself it would haunt me."

"So I did."

"I am cursed enough already! Why should I accept such terms?"

"You are under no obligation to take either mirror, young prince."

Prince Felderon frowned. The white mirror would make a much celebrated gift. Surely any princess in the world could not help but love it--and perhaps, love him in return. How bad could the dark mirror be? Perhaps the price was not too high. He hesitated.

"The dark mirror will not eat you alive," the mage said.

Felderon laughed. "Of course it won't! I will take them both, then. Thank you Great Sage."

"Understand," the wise one said. "If you fail to honor the terms, both mirrors will dissolve to dust."

Felderon sniffed, sobered by the warning, but he took the parcel of silk, stowing it in his satchel, mentally preparing his destined triumph. For the first time in a week, he threw his shoulders back. "I thank you in behalf of the Chalbeams. Farewell!"

"Until we meet again."

"Oh, I do not think we ever shall," Felderon said. "I may be a sixth son, but I am savvy enough. The white stone alone can guarantee my future. You need not fear of more sixth prince quests for at least a generation!"

"As you say." The sage bowed, but a knowing smile quirked the corners of his mouth.