Part 3.

 

THE ARCHITECTURE OF THE FAERIE
———–

The faerie bear as much distaste for roofs as cats for water - they refuse to sleep without the sky above as a blanket. As such, many low faeries simply lay their heads at precisely the spot where they acknowledge their own weariness. Some opt for the wide bough of a tree, and the more aquatic of the breed will half submerge themselves in springs, much like toads. Royalty, however, require a certain measure of privacy. For this, special thickets are encouraged by their personal Talents. These thickets are raised up in a circular path (faeries loathe squares, and are uncommon fond of the circle. The matter of the circle is one best dealt with in a later digression.), providing perfect protection from prying eyes. The king ushered me into one such enclosure, casually opening a portal with a wave of his hand. I stepped through, to find the Talent Crose awaiting me.

 

We stood facing each other, sizing each other up. He was small, even for a faerie, and I veritably towered above him. Of course, he had a presence more commanding than the Queen herself, and I stood like chattel waiting to be sold as he walked about, eyeing me.

 

“What is your name?” He voice and accent were strange, the former rusty, the latter uncouth.

 

“Robert Carlisle.”

 

“And is this an honorific among your people?”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Robert - is it a signifier of rank?”

 

“It’s just a name.” I struggled to leave off ’sir’.

 

“Ah,” he said, nodding sagely. He continued to prowl about me, peering at the slant of my shoulders, the curve of my spine.

 

“Among your people, are you…sizable?”

 

“Rather average in height and weight, truth be told.”

 

He nodded again at this, giving the impression of taking meticulous notes.

 

“What color is a human’s blood?”

 

I looked at him uncertainly, and watched with some measure of revulsion as his long tongue flicked across his lips, like a snake.

 

“The color.”

 

“It’s red.”

 

“Red, you say? How interesting. I think I should like to see that. If I might?”

 

I stared at him, curious as to how the king had allowed such a madman into his midst.

 

“You may not.”

 

Crose smiled, his stained lips spreading wide to reveal too-white teeth. “I am afraid I must… insist.” For a moment, he relaxed, his arms and head drooping. And then, like a marionette possessed, they snapped into rigidity. His eye twinkled with diabolical intent, and I found myself backing up. The thicket wall, impenetrable as stone, scratched at my neck, and he advanced a step, rictus grin still fixed upon his face. As he neared, I felt a presence. It was huge, malevolent, peering. And cold. With glacial speed it approached, in perfect step with its horrid controller, inexorable. His face was frozen in the same way it had been, but that was only a facade covering what must have been tremendous exercise in control of magick - or so I was told after the fact.

 

At that moment he turned over a palm like a mystic turns a tarot card, and wholly against my will, I felt my body mimic the act. With a paralyzed horror I watched him approach, saw my palm white and vulnerable, saw the cold steel knife appear in his hand (a human knife, I thought, no faerie would have that). Step, step. His fingers grasped mine like a vise, eye peering, a scientist gone mad. The knife descended in a savage arc, flashing moonlight. I was powerless to stop it.

 

Pain bloomed as the slash welled with crimson. He stared at the blood like a palm-reader, murmuring and nodding. I was powerless.

 

“You did not lie,” he said. “Now let us see what lies behind those cow eyes…” the knife was raised, point on level with my eye, too close to focus on. I was mad with terror and rage, struggling to break an implacable grasp.

 

“Crose!” Morgana shouted as she crashed through the thicket like a fury. His focus was broken, and so too the hold over me. Free, I jerked my head back and then ducked it low, barrelling into the madman and bowling him over. He fell to ground with a surprised shout, and I wrestled the knife from his grasp, raised it high in a blind rage, quite prepared to end his miserable life. Morgana’s grip on my wrist was as gentle as the scent of lavender, and my hand was stayed. Shaken and perturbed, I clambered to my feet, leaving the mad Talent supine on the ground. He stared at me coldly, like a fish on the butcher’s block. Drawing one sleeve across my mouth and sucking in a deep breath, I left in the company of Morgana without another word. I felt his eyes upon my back as we pushed through the thicket.

 

“What,” I asked Morgana, “was the meaning of that?”

 

She did not answer at first, just took my wounded hand and examined the gash. She clucked her tongue at it.

 

“So you really do bleed red. I’d only heard stories. Come, we’ll tend to this now.”

 

She lead me away from the camp, into the trackless woods, down a gentle decline and through a dense copse of trees. We broke through the trees and came upon a glade, at the center of which sat a pool. The waters were smooth as glass, and reflected the huge moon perfectly. Morgana indicated I should sit on a large flat stone at the sudden bank of the pool, and I did so, hand throbbing. She busied herself by rooting about amongst the reeds.

 

“This place… it’s beautiful,” I said. The ancient moon, so close at hand, was having a powerful effect upon me, and the gentle breeze and perfumes of the night only heightened this sensation. Morgana said nothing, only plucked up a small plant dotted with tiny white flowers. She pulled up another few like it, and I sat with my legs crossed before me, the injured hand inert in my lap, watching her graceful labors. A long curtain of hair tumbled and obscured her face as she bent over, and she tucked it back behind a long ear with an unconscious gesture. Her face was unknowable, perfect, alive in the moonlight. Once she had gathered enough of the plants, she straightened, little clumps of dirt falling like tears from their exposed roots. They hit the ground with gentle thuds, and she approached me with concern clear in her eyes. She sat next to me, and cast about for a stone. Seizing one up, she scattered the plants on the rock before her, and then proceeded to grind them up on the ad hoc mortar. I watched silently, distracted by the sound of her even steady breathing, lightly elevated as she reduced the plants to a mash. Once it had achieved the appropriate consistency, she turned to me.

 

“A bandage,” she said.

 

I offered up my much abused shirtsleeve, and she delicately peeled a wide strip from it. She slathered some of the poultice on my hand, and I marvelled at the immediate relief, like cupping a palmful of ice. Winding the cloth tight about my hand with practiced efficiency, she remarked: “This is a scrying pool.”

 

“Oh?” I said, more aware of the wash of moonlight over her cheek than her words.

 

“Let me show you.” She tugged my hand over the surface of the water, and closed it into a fist. A single drop of blood clung, and then fell, from my hand. It splashed noiselessly into the water, and great ripples spread from it, entirely disproportionate to its size. We watched in awe as the water stilled and resolved into an image of the two of us, crouched at the water’s edge. It was if we saw through the moon’s eyes. There we were, small and significant, two young things amidst an ancient forest.

 

“The cut will scar. You’ll remember this night, at least.”

 

I turned to her, and nodded agreement. I laid my bandaged hand against her fair neck, and drew her close. The water reflected our embrace to the silent trees.

 

A short time later, she hurried back to the camp, and I followed slow as a cloud, the tingle of that single kiss still on my lips. I found my sense of navigation improving, and came across the clearing with little difficulty. Carefully avoiding the still form of sleeping faeries, I found an open spot on the grass and lay down. The moon sang me a silent lullabye, and I faded to sleep, thoughts confused.

 

The next morning, a positively hellish wind sprang up, sending banks of clouds scudding across a gray sky. Leaves, still green, were ripped from their anchors and sent hurtling through the clearing. The trees themselves seemed to be raging, moaning with an almost human pain. It was unsettling. I rose to a sitting position, and flexed my hand experimentally. It felt tender, but fine, all things considered. A powerful thirst drove me to my feet and to the nearest spring, and I noted with some bemusement the faerie racing about in a frenzy, like ants defending the nest.

 

This observation was not far off. I ambled back to the clearing, rubbing the cool water from the bristles on my chin, to find the king and his advisors drawn together in tense council. They spoke in low voices, and I watched from a distance - their concern was plain to see - hands massaged forehead and chin, heads were shaken with quiet ferocity. Berwyn himself bumped into me as he hurried to join the elder faerie in their talks.

 

“Berwyn,” I called after him. “What is this all about?”

 

He turned and shouted, “The trees are in distress, human.”

 

I watched him join the others, my thoughts elsewhere. I set off in a vague search for Morgana, but was unable to find her. The camp was in an uproar, and I saw numerous frantic faerie bundling their meager possessions and conferring shortly with others. I collared one, and asked just what the devil was the matter.

 

“The trees,” he started.

 

“Yes, yes, they are in distress. What trees, and what sort of distress are they in?”

 

He shook his head. “The king’s birth grove,” he explained. “Your people have come with their axes.” He then hurried off without another word, leaving me standing under the wind-torn sky.

 

I crossed paths with Morgana shortly after. We said nothing in greeting, she only took my hand and briefly examined the wound, nodding approvingly.

 

“You’re well?” she asked.

 

I told her yes, and asked what would happen.

 

She frowned, as if this were self-evident. “We ride for them.”

 

“Where is this grove?”

 

“Far to the east, past the greenlands. It is bitter cold, there.” She said a faerie word, apologizing that she did not know the human word for it. It did not matter - I already knew where we were headed: Siberia.

 

TRANSPORT OF THE FAERIE

————————

The faerie, being creatures of the forest, employ unusual techniques when travelling across great distances. Horses are unavailable to them, being skittish when faced with supernatural beings, and woeful at navigating the pitfalls of the dense forest. Without equines, the faerie have instead turned to the cervidae. The deer, however, are by no means a domesticated animal. This means their transport is unreliable at best, as they are notoriously self-interested and have little care to haul humanoids great distances on their backs. The king, however, was an old ally of the deer, having saved one of the greater members of their species from a hunter some years back. The manner of contact between the two groups is most unusual…

 

The king’s piper hefted a great curved horn to his lips, and inhaled like a man about to dive into water. Then he blew, exerting all his force, producing an outlandish wobbling roar from the horn. I winced, clapping hands over my ears as the rest of the faerie peered eagerly into the woods, starting at every rustling. We waited some time, before I barely perceived the sounds of many hooves…

 

The stag burst from the treeline in a fluid blur, huge and majestic, a fifteen point rack crowning its lordly head. It came to a sudden halt, stepping delicately on huge hooves.

 

I stood in awe of its size, and watched the faerie king boldly approach. He could have passed underneath its undercarriage without so much as brushing his head.

 

They conversed briefly, in a series of rough barks and utterances. Some agreement was forged, for the great beast lowered its muscular neck, allowing the diminutive king to pay homage, gripping briefly one knob of bone, brown with age. The elk raised its head and bellowed, and like specters a herd of deer emerged. They were of all varieties, some white-tailed, others stippled with dark spots. Some young, some old; some harts, some does. The faerie made straight away for the deer, greeting each other like old friends. They mounted up, lithely vaulting up on the deers back, who bore the sudden weight admirably, thin legs buckling only slightly.

 

“What of me?” I asked the king. He looked me up and down, noting the problem my bulk posed. “You ride with royalty, then,” he said, gesturing to the massive elk. I looked up at it, its head close to a meter above mine. It breathed violently, the air escaping it in angry bursts.

 

“No creature this size has walked the earth for eons.”

 

The king laughed. “You’ve much to learn.”

 

My immediate concern was learning how to sit astride a mount of such cyclopean proportions. The creature seemed to sense my lack of surety, and dipped its head. I grabbed hold of the horn, and with a sudden twist of its head, I was thrown atop the thing. Scrabbling for a moment, I managed to retain equilibrium, and then straightened up.

 

“I don’t know how to ride bareback,” I told the king. He looked curious at this - I supposed no faerie had seen a saddle.

 

“All you must do is hold on. Tightly, human.”

 

I nodded gravely, feeling the ribs of the beast expanding between my legs with each intake of breath. I first dug my hands into its thick fur, but instead opted to wrap my arms as best I could around its thick neck. It bore this without complaint. The king himself clambered atop a smaller deer and waved one hand above his head.

 

And with that, we were off. I was glad of my purchase around its neck, for the elk moved like a force of nature, lumbering forward with frightening speed, trampling through the trees, darting back and forth, weaving a wild rush through the forest. I clung for dear life, and onward we went.

 

The journey lasted only a few hours, until a halt was called in order to eat, but it felt like months had passed when I fairly dropped off the elk. I felt battered, a ship in rough seas, and my lower body was one great mass of soreness. I made my way towards Berwyn and Morgana best I could, grimacing as abused muscles made their protest. Lowering myself slowly to the ground, Berwyn tore a chunk from his apple and laughed. I acknowledged the mockery with a grave nod, and accepted an apple myself.

 

“I don’t know how much more of that I can bear,” I said.

 

Berwyn laughed and said, “Bear it you must, human. What was the word again, Morgana?”

 

“Siberia, they call it.”

 

“Siberia!” he snorted in derision. “Yes, Siberia is a great distance away, many days of travel.”

 

I glumly chewed my apple and eyed the great elk, placidly stripping a tree bare of all vegetation. After the brief meal, we remounted. I approached the elk, steeling myself for another jouncing. “Alright, you great brute, let’s get it over with.”

 

With a huge moist eye fixed firmly on me in what I swear was amusement, the elk lowered its head. The ride resumed. Long hours later, as we trampled through the twilight, I attained a sort of trance state, eyes fixed upon the purple sky and its jeweled stars, visible through gaps in the canopy. I vacantly considered what I had left behind. Who would miss me, I wondered? Certainly my dear mother and father, but past them? A few scattered acquaintances might make a note of it, and perhaps my whist group would have to enlist a new member. Other than that, none came to mind. I wondered if the emptiness I felt at this realization was sadness, or merely an absence of emotion, a space half-filled by my half life. Truly, my brief sojourn among the faerie had proved the most eventful weeks of my young life, but what of it? I turned my head sideways, laying it upon the elk’s neck like a tranquil jockey, catching glimpses of mounted faerie blurring through the trees on their unusual steeds. I saw Morgana, her long hair streaming behind her like a pennon. They were not of my world, as I was not of theirs. I was between existences at the moment, drawing rooms abandoned for the great theater of the night sky, scholarly pursuits replaced by love for a faerie princess. It was absurd - but was it also not astounding? I wondered at this as my steed pounded along.

 

When the halt was called, true night had long since fallen. I wondered at how these fabuluous bearers were so sure of foot - how did they avoid snapping a slender leg in the many pitfalls that riddled the thick woods? I lacked the initiative to inquire, for once my feet touched solid ground, my mind was focused only on sleep. The deer had similar intentions, and all throughout our impromptu camp, faerie and deer lay down. Berwyn propped his great head against the flank of his mount and folded his massive hands across his stomach, staring at the stars. I laid down nearby, the long grass blessedly still and soft, and waited for dream to steal me away.

 

He was long in coming, however, and I found myself sleeplessly regarding the night sky, head laid on hands. Berwyn’s voice, when he spoke, was a surprise.

 

“Cannot sleep, human? This is passing strange, no? You looked quite prepared to die when we stopped.”

 

“I appreciate your concern for my welfare, Berwyn. My name is Robert, by the way.”

 

“I know your name,” he said, voice assuming a sudden edge. “Tell me, human, why do you stay?”

 

I considered this a moment, then blew my breath out in a protracted sigh. “Why not? I suppose I have nowhere else to go.”

 

“Have you not a family? A wife?”

 

“The first, yes. No wife.”

 

“And what of them? You so readily abandon them?”

 

“My people are not like yours, Berwyn. The sprites, they tear around, making mischief and wreaking havoc. It’s when you grow old that you wish to be safe.”

 

“And it is the reverse for you, then.”

 

I nodded.

 

“And what of you, Berwyn? You seem a rather… rowdy sort, and one cannot stay prince forever.”

 

“You’re wrong. A crown is not given, here, it is-”

 

“-taken,” I finished. “Your father told me. I get the impression that when your time comes, you won’t shy away from the task.”

 

Berwyn was silent a long moment. “I will find that out when it arrives.” He sounded eager, almost. “Other matters press now.”

 

“Like this grove,” I said. “Why is it so important?”

 

“My father was born there, human.”

 

“And?”

 

“And? And the trees a faerie spends his first years under are as important as kin. In return for their shelter, he must be willing to water their roots with his heartsblood. Do you understand nothing, human?”

 

“Less and less with each passing day, it seems.” My thoughts flitted briefly to Morgana.

 

“Tell me, human - what is your mother like?”

 

“My mother?” I asked, surprised. Berwyn grunted. “I’m not quite sure what to say, really. A nice enough lady, in a distant sort of way. Rather old-fashioned, but most mothers are, I suppose.”

 

I could feel him listening eagerly, the ensuing silence rich with the sound of hastily constructed fantasies.

 

“Why do you ask?”

 

“No reason,” he said, voice too gruff. We said nothing else after that, and both lay awake, thinking our own impenetrable thoughts. Sleep arrived at last, a yawning silence snuffing out the chatter of my desultory thoughts.

 

The journey continued early the next morning, and the punishment inflicted upon my person was even greater than the first day. After that, days passed with speed, our only activities riding, feeding, and sleeping. High summer flared and then dimmed into the early autumn, the air crisp and the leaves brittle. A scent of winter came to us occasionally, numbing our nostrils with its frigid promise. The air grew chillier as we pushed further and further east, and soon the trees became taller, meaner looking things. At one point our herd galloped across open terrain, the sound of its hooves like dulled thunder. I peered at the horizon for sign of human habitations, and wondered what I would do if I saw any. Would the sight of a little cottage, merrily belching smoke, be enough to break this cursed enchantment? I cast a sidelong glance towards Morgana, and knew it would not. We rode on.

 

As we bedded down for the evening, the king informed us we would continue on foot. He then relayed this information to the deer. Their obligation fulfilled, they stood for a few moments, gazing down at their charges. I, for my part, paid respect to the great elk who had borne me so far on his back. I sketched a courtly bow before him, which he received with the unimpressed air of any great monarch. He lowed, and his herd rallied to him. Then they turned and bounded off, making for the horizon, their proud antlers swaying like the crowns of mighty trees. The king watched them go, and then commanded our attention.

 

“We are close. Two days walk, at the most, and we shall be upon the grove. You have followed me this far, and I know you would not follow if you were not prepared for what is to come. But, if doubt still lies in any of you, I urge you - leave now. The moons ahead may be bloody indeed.” This was received with solemn nods, but I caught Berwyn grinning slightly, flexing his great fists.

 

We advanced under the cover of night, all conversation whispered. The faerie move like shadows, and I found myself panting as I stumbled after - there must have been four score in our party, and I made more noise than all the rest put together. The moon was bright above, the eye of a swirling maelstrom of smoky clouds. The faerie were tense - I could sense it. Their breathing relaxed as we came under the aegis of the trees. The king made a call that for all the world sounded like a lonely owl, but three scouts jogged to the front of our group and then scattered in all directions. The main body of us crept forward, skulking around trees and stepping over exposed roots. After a tedious period, a scout returned. He leaned close to the king’s ear and imparted his reconnaissance. I saw the king sigh, a long-held breath loosed from his lips.

 

“Good,” he nodded. “we are not too late.” He lead the way, and we followed him. He brought us to his birth grove.

 

Understand that among my sojourn with the faerie, I had seen more trees of every description than many will in their entire life. I had been taught their faerie names, and had slept beneath them. Their fruit served as my sustenance, and their boughs my shelter. Know then that I may say with some authority that I have never seen trees such as this. There were six of them in all, giant specimens each. They towered above, great canopies so high as to scrape the clouds. Rain would not have fall to far to water those trees. The king allowed himself a controlled smile, relief clear in every line of his being. I watched with a sympathetic happiness, his joyous homecoming resonating within me. I remember thinking that I should be so lucky to have one so grand as this. There we stood under the mighty vaults of the green cathedral, and it became clear to me why we had come. The king knelt at the foot of one pillar, reverent hands running over the scarred bark.

 

“Robert. You will be joining us for dinner this evening.”

 

And so I found myself eating with the war council a scarce hour later, with the moon at her zenith. The king was explaining the role I was to play in the coming events.

 

“You shall treat with these humans, Robert - convince them to leave these lands.”

I bristled at the imperative; the only monarch I cared to listen to was the Queen of England. “And what if I don’t choose to?”

The king sighed wearily. “Do not delude yourself into thinking you have a choice in the matter - your life is still in your possession thanks only to my largesse, and may become forfeit more quickly than you would prefer if you disobey.”

 

I choked back my response to this, remembering again that I was not anything to these people beyond a curiosity or a tool. He sensed my acquiescence, and nodded firmly. “You shall make way for their camp with the sunrise.” He then turned to his council and they began discussing their course of action should the loggers fail to comply with my terms. And it seemed eminently likely that they would do so. A single man with no jurisdiction over their proceedings commanding that they strike camp and leave, all under the banner of a faerie king? I glumly chewed my meal, wondering at what I had become entangled in.

 

The dawn rose cold and slow, and I followed suit, muscles still sore from the journey. I did not need to ask where there camp lay - the sound of axes biting into trees rang sharp through the crisp morning air. Brushing dirt from my ragged coat in a vain attempt to look like a decent human being. Nothing to be done about the beard, however. As I walked the sound of the axes grew louder, and I began to hear an undertone of human voices. Even in Russian, it was a delight to my ears. My step quickened, and I was reminded of my first encounter with the faerie - breathless with anticipation, drawn by alluring voices. The crack and accompanying shouts of a tree-felling guided me at last to my destination, and I came stepping out of the woods. A team of a half-dozen burly Russians were laying into the trees, thick forearms exposed, bearded faces shining with exertion.

 

“Hello,” I called out in my tentative Russian. The men turned as one at the sudden intrusion, eyes goggling as they took the extent of me in. One fellow was so overtaken with surprise that he dropped his axe - the thud as it hit the earth was the only sound to be heard. I cleared my throat. “Might I trouble you for something to eat?”

 

This is how I began my relationship with Anatoly, Dmitri, Fyodor, and the rest of the men at that nameless logging camp. Once they overcame their initial shock, they were as solicitous as mother hens. They descended on me, all country courtesy, asking where I had appeared from, what my name was, if I were quite ready to have something to eat, and so forth. I nodded to most, overwhelmed by the sudden deluge of questions - my Russian was better than I had anticipated, but one in every few words was indecipherable. Ushering me along, we returned to camp. The Russians were purely astounded - the initial salvo finished, they now set to with great volubility the speculation of my origins. I said nothing, the truth being what it was, and it suited the hearty men just fine - they were much more concerned with their own theories than anything I had to say. Arguing boisterously, we came upon the camp. I must admit: in contrast to the wild beauty of the faerie’s domain, the cheery industry of this human camp warmed my heart. A great sawmill sat at the center of it, surrounded by a haphazard scattering of sturdily constructed cabins. The cabins were particularly revelatory - the clean lines of their walls and neat angles of their roofs reminded me of a whole mode of existence that had ebbed from my thoughts. It all came crashing back upon me in an instant, and a crippling urge overtook me.

 

“I say, man - might you have some tea about?”

 

The red bearded man I would come to know as Fyodor roared with laughter. “Are you sure you did not mean vodka?”

 

I shook my head, though something stiffer surely would not go amiss. “Worry not, my strangely clad friend - you’ll have your tea.”

 

An englishman could weep. The men brought me inside, at which point I realized the camp had women, as well. After the next battering of solicitude, I was seated on a good wooden chair at a good wooden table, with a steaming mug of tea clasped in my hands. With tendrils of steam curling up about my face, I took a deep sip, and sighed luxuriously. The gathered russians watched me anxiously, but I had to savor it a moment longer. The king’s threats still resounded in my head however, so I reluctantly set down my mug and placed both palms upon the table.

 

“So. To business.”

 

“To business?” they all cried. “You’ve just arrived, looking like death itself, and you speak of business! Nonsense!” I held up a hand, shaking my head ruefully.

 

“I am afraid I must insist - you’ll understand my rudeness later. If I could ask you to have a seat and listen to what I have to say?” They grudgingly sat down, senses of hospitality inflamed.

 

“Now,” I began, “my name is Robert Carlisle, and I am an englishman.”

 

I spun out the whole of my tale as best I could, doing my level best to render my encounter with the faerie in such excruciating detail that its veracity could not be questioned. I pressed on, through the details of my confinement, and then the spectacular ride here. When I finished at last, the mug of tea had ran cool, and they sat in incredible silence.

 

“The trees talked, you say?” Dmitri asked. I nodded grimly. He received this with no expression, just tapped a finger against his lips.

 

“I think you should rest, Robert,” one of the women said charitably. I drew in a deep breath to swear it was all true, if only they would believe me, but I could tell it would be of no use, and the thought of laying in a bed was irresistable. I allowed myself to be lead from the table, the ladies supporting me as if I were in danger of toppling at any moment.

 

“I’ll show you later, I promise.”

 

“Of course you will, Robert,” they all said, patting me sympathetically on the back. Like a senile old man they put me to bed, and the feather mattress felt like a cloud.

 

THE DANGERS OF MIRRORS

————————–

 

The mirror is the single most dangerous object to be found in the average home. It is a little-known fact that faerie may cross between mirrors as you or I might cross between doors, but the more gifted faerie are certainly capable of it. This particular trick is most difficult to accomplish, but when the faerie’s ire is upon them, they shall stop at nothing to achieve their aims. I witnessed the faerie at such industry, and here is their method. First, they select a mirror to spy upon. This is easy enough to accomplish, mirrors being exceedingly eager to divulge their contents to any who might care to look. This all assumes that a faerie has already marked the mirror in question. This consists of scratching a distinctive marking in a particular place, and the Talent marking the same on his end. At which point, much like a window, the faerie may gaze through it. If the faerie can construct on their end a convincing replication of what they see in the mirror, they may pass between the locations. This is a herculean feat of magick for the faerie, and only their most skilled attempt it. It is said that those who fail to make the transition are forever imprisoned in the space between, in that nether void. A horrible fate, by all accounts.

 

When I woke up, it was night-time. The sound of conversation came to me faintly through the door, and I stretched and yawned on the bed like a particularly indolent cat. I swung my legs out of bed, and padded towards the talk and laughter, still heavy with sleep. When I presented myself at table, I was greeted by a cheerful scene - a dozen people sat pulled up to the table, bumping elbows and laughing as a mass of plates heavy with hearty food were passed about one to the other. They shouted at me, waving me towards the table amicably. I begged off, wondering if I might avail myself of a bath and a shave. They all nodded vigorously, either out of a desire to accomodate me or to be rid of my choking stench, I cannot be sure. In any event, one of the women, a hearty lass not much older than myself, leapt from her chair. I shook my head vigorously and sat her down again.

 

“I’ll draw my own bath, if you don’t mind.” She did seem to mind, but allowed me to go anyway.

 

If the tea was great and the mattress greater, the bath was the greatest yet. I lounged in the chipped porcelain tub so long I thought I might simply deliquesce, and rose from it sopping wet and ferociously pink, months of accrued dirt sloughing off me like a second skin. The clothes themselves would probably best be served by incineration, but I dried and clothed myself. I saw a straight razor, and took the opportunity to shave in the foggy mirror. The comfortable domesticity of the act gave it an almost ritualistic significance - here was I, a man among animals, now removing all sign of my sojourn in their savage lands. Rinsing my clean-shaven jaw, I regarded my reflection in the mirror, nodding. Almost civilized. And then the mirror went dark in my hand, black and glossy as a pool of ink. I peered at it, not understanding, and suddenly the darkness cleared, and I was face to face with the king. In my surprise I nearly dropped the looking glass.

 

“What is their response?”

“They don’t believe a word of it, and I can’t say that I blame them.”

“Make them believe - should they bring their axes into these woods again, their number will be lessened.”

“No,” I pleaded. “You have to give me time.”

“Time, cries the human. Robert, allow me to be clear with you - time is a luxury you cannot afford. These trees I stand under, at this moment? They are older than your ancestors. You would do well to remind your kind of this fact. Remind them that their lives are short, and that their lives might be considerably shorter still should they fail to comply.”

I shook my head stubbornly. The king frowned impressively, and then nodded. “There will be blood, Robert. Blood on your hands. Is this something you are prepared to accept?”

“You won’t stoop to such savagery.”

“When your sort places my home in peril, there is no such thing as savagery - a human illusion. There are only those who survive, and those who do not. Think hard upon which side you wish to be.”

The mirror faded to black, and then cleared again, and I was staring at my own reflection again. “Damn you,” I told myself.

 

“Robert?”

For the second time I nearly dropped the mirror. Catching hold of it, I turned to the door. Framed within it was the young woman I had seen before - perhaps she was Fyodor’s wife? Or perhaps Dmitiri’s? I could not remember.

“Yes?”

“Are you coming to table?”

“Of course,” I said, carefully laying down the mirror and crossing the room. “I fear I’ve forgotten your name.”

“It’s Anna,” she conceded, as if embarrassed to own a name. I clasped her calloused hand and bowed over it. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Anna. If you’ll lead the way?”

 

 

At the table the cheerful tides of conversation coalesced into a wave at my reappearance, as my clean jaw was roundly applauded. I squeezed into a space at the table between a flaxen hair boy not yet ten, and a raw-boned lad with a weak chin. I nodded at both, and then found a great plate of food laid before me. It took all of my restraint to avoid tearing into the meat with only my two hands and my teeth, and instead I sawed off a great hunk of it, nearly jamming it into my mouth. I chewed, savoring it, and all the Russians laughed and clapped me on the back. I grinned sheepishly in return, but only for a moment - I could not leave the food unattended for long.

At the end of the meal, the discussion turned to deciding what was to be done with me. It was decided that I would be put up with the widow Maykova, the young woman who had summoned me to the table before. I was surprised to discover she was unmarried, and we left Anatoly’s home as an estranged family, Anna and her little children out ahead, me following at a respectful distance. Their home was nearest to the woods, and as I mounted the solidly constructed steps, I paused a moment and stared into the dark face of the woods. I had the sense of eyes upon me - hard, glittering in the moonlight.

“Are you coming inside, Robert?”