The Golden Yarn (Mirrorworld 3)

The Goyl had halted their conquest on the Ukrainian border, but that didn’t mean the lands beyond were at peace. The Cossack lords who ruled this country were fighting over the throne. Right behind the border, Fox and Jacob got caught in an exchange of fire, and for a moment Jacob felt relief that Nerron was riding with Will—even though he still couldn’t figure out why.

Snow-covered hills in June. Mountain gorges so dark they were still filled with fog at mid-afternoon. The Karpathy mountains guarded Ukraina’s fertile lands like a thick wall, and they were so untamed that even Jacob could barely name half the land’s magical inhabitants. Not that knowing their names would’ve made them any friendlier. Crouching among the trees were Lidercs, ghostlike creatures who appeared suddenly, as though formed of the fog itself. Then there were the pit traps concealed under branches that had been dug by cat-sized gnomes whom the people of these mountains referred to as Manoks. Tiny, Heinzel-like men pelted them with raven droppings. And the bumblebee-sized cousins of the Grass-Elves swarmed them so closely that Fox and Jacob were still picking them from their clothes even hours later.

In this kind of terrain, the vixen was a much better guide than the Bastard, and by the end of the third day, the tracks they were following were barely two hours old.

Fox was still very taciturn. Instead of talking about what preoccupied her, however, she quarreled with Jacob about the tiniest things. It didn’t feel good, this sudden strangeness, and it made him so miserable he didn’t pay attention to the path, let alone to the very out-of-place warm wind brushing his face.

Fox had dismounted. Her horse had a stone in its hoof. She unwittingly turned her back to the figure who was standing all but invisibly between the nearby rocks. Seventeen’s clothes were as gray as the rock surrounding him, and his face reflected the leaves and branches, until it changed into the one he’d last shown to Jacob. Jacob yelled a warning, but it was too late. Seventeen looked steadily at him while he grabbed Fox. His lips silently mouthed one word: war. He pressed his hand against Fox’s face, and when he let go, it had turned to silver.

Jacob stumbled toward the Mirrorling. He drew his pistol and shot, helpless and desperate. What did he expect? That Spieler had neglected to protect his creatures against bullets? Seventeen’s skin swallowed the bullets like liquid glass.

Fox was no longer moving. Jacob stopped, his limbs as frozen as hers.

Seventeen let go of her still body and walked toward Jacob.

“So we meet again.” He put his hand on Jacob’s chest. “He warned you, didn’t he?”

Jacob felt the very air in his lungs turn to silver. It froze his blood, and his last thought was of Fox and that he hadn’t protected her. It broke his heart—into a thousand silver splinters.

Soon

War. Yes. Spieler wiped the mirror in his medallion. He liked to call it his glass eye. The images were brought by Heinzel, birds, insects…Some swallowed the glass unknowingly or carried it as jewelry or an amulet, and some had to be bribed with a few silver baubles. The system had become a little unreliable during the Elves’ extended exile, but right now it showed him exactly what he wanted to see. The two silver bodies were a beautiful sight. All those attempts to cross him! He’d forgiven Jacob before, because he was Rosamund’s elder son. But that was over. Spieler snapped the medallion shut. Eight hundred years was long enough to make even an immortal a little impatient.

Her younger son was doing just what they’d hoped for. Krieger had suggested years ago that they make Jacob complicit in their plans so that one day he might go on the mission Will was now performing. Spieler had always objected to that plan. Rosamund’s elder was a born rebel, unwilling to follow any advice, let alone instructions. Jacob had been used without his knowing it. That’s how he’d brought them the crossbow. Will, in contrast, was as easily impressed as he was manipulated. He wanted to believe, to trust, to serve.

Good. It hadn’t been easy to get him to go through the mirror the first time. Of course he’d wanted to know where his precious big brother disappeared to all the time, but he never would have abandoned his mother. Only after Rosamund’s death had the temptation become too strong, and then they co

uld only hope that the Goyl would infect him with the curse of the Dark Fairy, thus making him immune to her magic. A game of roulette, as they would say in this world. Spieler had to admit he’d never, not in his wildest dreams, imagined Will as the embodiment of a Goyl legend. Of course, Seer claimed he’d seen the jade in the innards of some raven years ago, but after all Seer claimed to have seen in disemboweled animals or some filthy crystal, he’d never foretold the curse of the Fairies. Nyet. Nada.

Spieler closed his eyes and searched his memory for Rosamund’s face. Will looked so much like her. She’d never understood who and what she was and why she’d felt that longing all her life. Maybe she shouldn’t have asked her elder son to find the answer for her. Too late. Mortality was such a strange fate. At least Spieler had managed to steal her face before it became tired and wilted. He’d already put it on three of his creatures.

His creatures...Thanks to Fabbro’s help, the Mirrorlings were slowly coming close to what he’d hoped for. Glass had always obeyed Spieler’s command, but Fabbro could make it sing. He was the only one of them who liked to show himself deformed. A hunched back. A missing eye. He could never be ugly enough. Fabbro had convinced the other Elves not to steal only the pretty faces. Hundreds of faces were needed to make the creatures Elven-wise. Another thing they’d learned only slowly. For the golems you needed only three, but golems didn’t need to be smart. Breathing clay was easy, but glass and silver could only be awoken by the Alderelves’ greatest secret: their true face. Not many had volunteered, especially after it became clear that the Mirrorlings were not immune to the curse. The first ones had barely lasted more than a day behind the mirror. By now they managed weeks. Sixteen and Seventeen hid their Elf faces, the ones that gave them life, behind two hundred human faces. After all, their job was not to catch a few Grass-Elves or to pick some of Krieger’s favorite flowers. They were guarding the weapon that would end the Alderelves’ exile—and the one who would deliver their revenge.

All those human helpers who had betrayed them—Guismond, Robespierre, Stone, Semmelweis…a long list. Only Dee had honestly tried to complete his mission. No, the one they were now placing all their hopes on would be under glass guard.

Spieler stepped closer to the statue. He’d commissioned it from a famous sculptor three hundred years ago, to commemorate all those who hadn’t managed to escape. The artist had given impressive shape to the curse. As a model for the changing Alderelf, Spieler had given the artist a description of an old friend. Now every time he looked at the statue, he wondered whether he’d ever see him again. Him and all the others. There had been suggestions to divide the world among those who hadn’t been stupid enough to get caught. Krieger even wanted to chop down all the Silver-Alders instead of liberating those held prisoner inside. Spieler wasn’t sure what to think about such plans. More than eight hundred years of shared exile had not made the closest friends out of him and the twenty-three others. Maybe one day it would prove useful to have allies among those who’d underestimated the fury of the Fairies.

One of the golems announced a visitor. Who was it this time? Letterman? Krieger? They couldn’t keep still now that they knew another hopeful was on his way. Their constant visits were going to raise suspicion and give away the island. Spieler had lived in many places in this world, but he’d liked none of them as much as North Brother Island. He had a weakness for the New World, maybe because he so clearly came from the old one. The others still arrived by carriage. Ridiculous. They’d never understood this world as the opportunity it was.

Sometimes he dreamed he was the only one who’d managed to escape. An enticing fantasy.

Her Mortal Play

The Dark Fairy had heard many stories about the river she now saw meandering southward through the damp meadows. The Goyl called it Gleboki, the Deep River, because it was fed by some of their underground waterways. They feared it, as they did all water. Just a bit north of here, Kami’en had nearly drowned in this river.

She was going to have to travel much farther to truly escape his name.

The morning sun, as pale as a moon, shimmered on the water. The Dark One stood on the bank and listened to what the river had to tell her. It remembered everything its waters had seen—so much life in every drop, so many forgotten stories. The Fairy filled her heartless chest with the rush of them all, just so she wouldn’t have to feel the bitterness love had sown there.

She slipped off the shoes she wore when she traveled their roads, and she waded into the cool waters until they soaked her dress with the light of the new day.

The embrace was cold, but the water caressed her without demanding she forget herself in its arms. It recalled to her who she’d been before Kami’en. Do it like me, the river roared. Roll on and on, until the bond breaks. Yes. Maybe it would break without her having to pay the price.

Chithira unhitched the horses. Before he let them go, he whispered the names he’d given them. They disappeared into the meadows as though the Fairy had made them of grass. The world was so still, so quiet in these lands. Just a lark was singing as though it alone had the task of singing the day into existence.

As she waded back to the shore, she saw Donnersmarck standing next to the carriage. He still had no fear of looking her straight in the eye. Of course, he desired her, but that didn’t scare him. She liked that. And he didn’t have the wish to control her. He sprinkled ground deer horn on his food, and his arms were covered in cuts. He hid them under the coat he now wore instead of Amalie’s guard uniform, but the Fairy saw them. He inflicted pain on himself whenever the stag stirred, to remind his body of its human flesh. How could a soldier comprehend that sometimes surrender was better than resistance?

“He is getting stronger. You promised to help.”