He walked back and studied the sword from every possible angle while his companions looked on anxiously. At last he hopped up into the chair, reached over and grabbed the handle of the sword with both paws, and heaved mightily. His whiskers quivered and the strain distorted his face.

“Is it coming?” Weegee asked anxiously.

He finally released the sword, let out a gasp and slumped over. “Is wot comin’? The sword, or me ’ernia?” He climbed down. “I told you I weren’t no ’ero, much less a true one. Never ’ave been, never will be, an’ furthermore I don’t aspire to it. I’ll settle for bein’ yours, luv.” He looked to his right. “Why don’t you try it, mask-face?”

“Be some surprise for sure, but why not?” The raccoon hopped up into the empty seat and gave a tug on the sword. He didn’t strain himself. “Sorry. Doen have the strength to be hero.”

Jon-Tom was studying the chair. “Maybe brute force would work. I wonder if we could knock the chair over and let Teyva have a go at it.”

“Not me,” said the flying horse from beyond the crawlway. “I don’t want to be a hero. I don’t want the responsibility. All I want is to fly. Speaking of which, could you hurry things up? I feel like I’ve been standing here simply for hours.” It had only been a few minutes, but the stallion was idling in overdrive.

“Won’t be much longer.” He looked to the only female member of their little band. “Weegee?”

“What, me?”

“Sure, go on, luv.” Mudge gave her a nudge forward. “Just because that snippy section o’ steel said ’ero’ don’t mean it couldn’t be talkin’ about a ’eroine.”

“I wouldn’t know what to do with a sword like that.” She hesitated. “I feel a lot more comfortable with a knife.”

“You feel a lot more period,” Mudge chortled, “but give ’er a try anyways.”

She did so, and was unable to move the sword an inch. Mudge turned to gaze up at his tall friend. “I guess ’tis up to you, mate. If there be any among us likely to qualify as a true ’ero I expect ’tis you. Either that, or for the looney bin.”

Jon-Tom had to admit this was true. Had he not been thrust into that role several times during the past year, and hadn’t he emerged intact, unscathed and successful? Perhaps the sword was meant for him. Perhaps some unseen, unknown power had placed it here knowing he would require the use of it during the remainder of the journey. It might be a thing destined.

Approaching the chair, he put one hand around the haft of the sword, the other around the hilt just below the guard, and straightened, pulling with his legs as well as with shoulders and arms. He tried several times.

The sword didn’t budge.

“Why don’t you sing to it, mate.” Mudge was leaning against the far wall. He wore an expression Jon-Tom couldn’t interpret and didn’t like.

Finally he had to call a halt to his efforts, if only to catch his breath. “If I had my duar with me don’t think I wouldn’t.”

The sword spoke up. “Knoweth all that I am the One True Sword.”

“Ah, says you.” He stepped away from the chair.

“Uppity bit o’ brass, wot? Meself, I ain’t got much use for a weapon wot talks back.” He kicked the chair, not hard enough to hurt his foot or do it any damage but hard enough to receive some satisfaction from the gesture. “I got me longbow an’ me short sword. Who needs it?” Jon-Tom was staring longingly at the ensorceled blade. “Don’t look so downcast, mate. You don’t ’ave to be a true ’ero. ’Tis sufficient to be an ordinary, everyday, run-o-the-mill one.”

“I know, Mudge. It’s just that I thought. …”

“You thought wot, mate?” Mudge eyed him penetratingly. “That you were somethin’ special? That you were brought to this world for some deep dark purpose instead o’ merely by accident? They say contrition’s good for the soul. Not ’avin one, I wouldn’t know.”

“Not having one what? Soul, or contrition?”

“I wouldn’t mind having this.” Weegee plopped herself down in the chair. Ignoring the sword sticking out of the back, she peered into the beveled mirror atop the dressing table and began to primp fur and whiskers. “It would be lovely in a bedroom and. …”

She broke off as a soft pink glow appeared within the glass.

“Oh, shit,” said Mudge, “not again.”

Sure enough, the mirror began to speak, in a slightly less fruity voice than the one which had inhabited the sword.

“Knoweth all who sitteth before me that I am the One True Mirror. That all who peer into my depths shall seeth themselves as they actually are and not as they may thinketh they be: without prejudice, without flattery, without enhancement.” The mirror was silent, but the pink fluorescence remained.

“You want it in your bedroom, luv, then you’d better ’ave a looksee.”

“Are you sure it’s safe? No,” she said, answering her own question, “of course you’re not sure it’s safe. But the sword didn’t do anything. All right, why not? It’s only a mirror.” She leaned forward.

The face that stared back at her was her own, but instead of the tatters she wore as a result of her encounters these several days past with pirates and cannibals and difficult circumstances, her reflection was clad in an exquisite body-length suit asparkle with gold and jewels. Her expression and pose in the mirror combined with the clothing to give off an air of dignity and power.

“I look beautiful,” she whispered in awe. “Truly beautiful.”

“A true mirror for sure,” said Mudge, smiling at her.

“But I look like a queen. I don’t own any clothing like that.”

“Not yet,” Jon-Tom murmured. It was a regal reflection indeed.

She hopped down off the chair and walked into Mudge’s arms. “What does it mean, do you think?”

He whispered in her ear. “That you’re gonna ’ave a ton o’ money, or else we’ve got a first-class joker on our ’ands.”

“Let me try.” Cautious squirmed onto the chair. The otters and Jon-Tom joined him in peering into the mirror. Pink diamonds danced along the beveled rim, but there was no change in the image visible in the glass. None at all.

The raccoon waited a moment longer before abandoning the chair. “I am not disappointed, you bet. I am what you see. Worse things to be.”

“To thine own self be true,” murmured Jon-Tom softly.

“You next, Mudge.” Weegee pushed him toward the chair.

“Now wait a minim, luv. Let’s think this through. I ain’t sure I want to see myself as I really am. From wot friends tell me it leaves somethin’ to be desired.”

“Oh go on, Mudge. It’s only a mirror.”

“Yeh, sure.” He readied himself. “Just be ready to pick me up if I faint.”

Carefully he sat in the chair, resting his arms on the wooden ones, and turned to face his reflection. It showed a much older otter in the final stages of dessication. Most of the fur had turned silver and the figure was so thin the bones showed in the shoulders and face. Several whiskers on the left side of the muzzle were missing, spittle dribbled from the same side of the trembling mouth, and the right eye rolled wildly and independent of the left. The clothes were ragged and torn.

It was a reflection of a life taken to extremes, of one stuffed to bursting with too much liquor, too much rich food, drugs, wenching and a general overindulgence in all things. Despite intimations of incipient senility, there was no mistaking that lecherous expression. It was Mudge.

Jon-Tom eyed him worriedly as he slid slowly out of the chair. Weegee said nothing but embraced him tightly. He stroked the fur on the back of her neck.

“There now, luv, no need to get all upset.”

“It doesn’t bother you to see yourself like that?” Jon-Tom asked him.

“Why should it bother me?” He looked around at the trio of concerned faces. “That’s ’ow I’ve always seen myself. Besides, ’tis a reflection of ’ow I am now, not ’ow I’m goin’ to end up. Come on now, cheer up. You’re depressin’ me, wot with all these long faces. ’Tis your tum, Jon-Tom.”