The Golden Yarn (Mirrorworld 3)
“What a generous offer.” She answered the prince in his own tongue.
The young fool smiled. He missed her sarcasm as he missed her rage. The old warrior was less blind. Razin drove his horse to his master’s side, but he wasn’t going to protect him. The Fairy easily read the young prince’s ambitious thoughts: Why should he stop at Ukraina’s throne? With a Fairy by his side, he’d be as powerful as the Goyl King. No, even more powerful. Because he wasn’t going to be so stupid as to let her go.
The Fairy looked around. The magic of this land was as green and golden as its wheat fields, but it wasn’t strong enough to break her bond with Kami’en. There was only one who could do that, and there was a long way to travel.
“Ride home!” she said to the fool. “While I still let you.”
She was tired of their words. All the noise. Their mortal limitations. Flies dressed up in satin, dreaming of power and eternity.
So tired.
Of course, the young cockerel’s reply was to reach for his saber. He was scared she might give to the Tzar or the Wolf-Lords what she had denied him. As though that could be any more dangerous than trying to stand in her way. But all he saw was a woman with only two men to protect her, one of whom was as pale as death and unarmed.
“You will come, or you will turn around.”
Razin drew his saber hesitantly, as though he knew he was sealing his fate. The other Cossacks followed his example.
The Fairy felt her fury rise. Night had returned.
She knew this was not about the riders in front of her. All the pain of the past months, the jealousy, the loneliness, the betrayal...It made her fury darker than anything she’d ever felt before.
The rain she summoned turned into diamonds as it fell from the clouds. The gems pierced their skins, shaved the desire off their faces, and were red from their blood by the time they hit the ground.
She spared the horses as well as the old warrior and the minstrel. Let the blind man someday sing about how those fared who thought they could command her. Then she let the river wash away the dead.
Donnersmarck watched in silence as the water turned red, washing away her fury until she felt nothing but emptiness.
What had become of her?
“They will hunt you,” said Donnersmarck.
“I’m sure you’ve seen worse,” she replied.
“Yes, but when we mortals do it to each other, we find it easier to forgive.”
Chithira stood in the water, watching the bodies float past. It was so strange that they had died. Aging and dying. The Dark One had promised Kami’en to never let him die. She wondered if he thought that promise still stood. He was not afraid of death, or if he was, he didn’t show it.
Chithira picked black blossoms from the water and carried them ashore.
“I gave you the wrong name, Devi,” he said, scattering the flowers around her feet.
“What is the right one?”
“Kali.”
The Fairy knew nothing of his gods, as little as of Kami’en’s, but she’d liked the old name better. She looked at the black petals. Was that all she could sow? Flowers of death? Darkness?
She brushed her fingers through her hair until dozens of her moths swarmed around her. From now on she’d travel unseen, invisible to human eyes and to her sisters, or else she risked choking on her own darkness. She whispered words to the moths, which they would weave into the gossip of the markets, onto the tongues of coachmen and soldiers. Words that would be believed as truth, because they spoke to the fears of the East and the wants of the West.
Like Old T
imes
Jacob’s flesh was melting, and every breath was as hard as a new skill to be learned. Fire. He was aflame. But it felt good, as though the flames were melting the silver in his veins. If only they weren’t so hot.
The silver was also in his eyes again. But he could still recognize the face that was staring at him. For many years, it had been the first face he saw every morning.
“There you go!” Chanute’s voice was hoarse with relief.