Reckless (Mirrorworld 1)

"Really? So why aren't you dead, then?" The knife was breaking his skin. "Or crazy, like the ones who come back and then drown themselves in the nearest pond?"

Jacob felt Will staring at him. What was he thinking? That his older brother was telling fairy tales, just as he had done when they were young and Will couldn't sleep?

"She will help him," he said again, hoarse from the pressure of the knife. But before that, you'll kill us. And it still won't bring back your son.

The weasel pushed the muzzle of his rifle into Will's blotched cheek. "Going to see the Fairies? Can't you see he's making fun of you, Stains? Let's just shoot them already!"

He shoved Will toward the barn. Two of the others grabbed Clara. Now, Jacob. What have you go to lose? But Threefingers suddenly spun around and stared past the stables to the south. Through the rain came the snorting of horses.

Riders.

They came over the fallow fields on horses that were as gray as their uniforms, and Will's face said very clearly who they were, even before the weasel yelled it to the others.

"Goyl!"

The peasant pointed his rifle at Will, as if only he could have called them, but Jacob shot him before the man could pull the trigger. Three of the Goyl, riding at full gallop, drew their sabers. They still preferred fighting with their swords, though their battles were now won with guns. Clara stared, dumbfounded, at the stone faces — and then she looked at Jacob. Yes, that's what he's becoming. You still love him now?

The bandits sought cover behind a toppled cart. They had clearly forgotten about their prisoners, and Jacob quickly pushed Will and Clara toward the horses.

"Fox!" he yelled, grabbing the mare's reins. Where was she?

Two of the Goyl fell off their horses; the others took cover behind the barn. Threefingers was a good shot.

Clara was already sitting on her horse, but Will was just standing there, staring across the yard at the Goyl.

"Get on your horse, Will!" Jacob screamed as he swung himself onto his mare.

But his brother didn't stir.

Jacob was about to drive his horse toward Will when he saw Fox scamper out of the barn. She was hobbling, and Jacob saw the weasel aim his rifle at her. He shot the man down, but just as he reined in the mare and leaned forward to grab Fox by her nape, he was hit on his injured shoulder by the butt of a rifle. The boy. He was standing there, holding his empty rifle by the barrel. He was already striking out again, as if by killing Jacob he could slay his own fear. The pain made everything swim in front of Jacob's eyes. He managed to draw his pistol, but the Goyl were quicker. They swarmed out from behind the barn, and one of their bullets struck the boy in the back.

Jacob grabbed Fox and lifted her into the saddle. Will had also swung himself back onto his horse, though he was still staring at the Goyl.

"Will!" Jacob yelled again. "Ride, dammit!"

His brother didn't even look at him.

"Will!" Clara screamed, glancing desperately at the fighting men.

But Will only came when Jacob snatched his reins.

"Ride!" he barked at Will once more. "Ride, and don't look back."

And at last his brother turned his horse.

13

Of The Use of Daughters

Defeated. Therese of Austry was standing by the window, staring down at the palace guards. They were patrolling in front of the gate as if nothing had happened. The whole city lay below her as if nothing had happened. But she had lost a war. For the first time. And every night she dreamed she was drowning in bloody water, which invariably turned into pale red stoneskin of her foe.

For the past half hour, her ministers and generals had been explaining to her why she had lost. They were all in her audience chamber, decorated with the medals she'd given them, and they tried to put the blame on her. "The Goyl rifles are better." "They have faster trains." But she knew this war was being won by the King with the carnelian skin because he had a better grasp of strategy than all of them together. And because he had a mistress who, for the first time in more than three hundred years, had but the magic of the Fairies in the service of a King.

A carriage drew up to the gate, and three Goyl climbed out. They acted so civilized. They weren't even in uniform. How she would have loved to order her guards to drag them through the courtyard and club them to death, as her grandfather would have done. But these were different times. Now it was the Goyl who did the clubbing. They would sit down with her counselors, sip tea from silver cups, and negotiate terms of surrender. The guards opened the gate, and the Empress turned her back to the window as the Goyl crossed the courtyard.

They were still talking, all her useless, medaled generals, while her ancestors stared down at her from the golden, silk-draped walls. Right next to the door was a portrait of her father, gaunt and upright, like a stork, continuously at war with his royal brother from Lotharaine, just as she had been fighting his son, Crookback, for years. Next to him was her grandfather, who like the Goyl King, had once had an affair with a Fairy. His yearning for her had finally driven him to drown himself in the royal lily pond. He'd had himself portrayed on a Unicorn, for which his favorite horse was the model, with a narwhal horn attached to its head. It looked ludicrous, and the Empress had always preferred the painting next to his. That one showed her great-grandfather with his elder brother, who had been disinherited because he had taken his alchemical experiments too seriously. Her father had always been outraged by that painting because the painter had caught his great-uncle's blind eyes so realistically. As a child, she would push a chair under the picture, climbing up to get a closer look at the scars around those empty eyes. He'd supposedly been blinded by an experiment in which he had tried to turn his own heart into gold, and yet of all her ancestors, he was the only one who was smiling — which had always made her think that his experiment must have been successful and that he indeed had a golden heart beating in his chest.

Men. All of them. Crazy or sane, but always men. For centuries only men had ascended to the throne of Austry — and that had changed only because her father had sired four daughters but not a single son.