Partly this was because of the Troy Game’s—Catling’s—unnecessary deception. The utter cruelty of that deception had cost the Game dearly in terms of unquestioning loyalty.
And, partly, my new independence of thought and my questioning of old loyalties was because of Weyland Orr.
Asterion.
Each afternoon after I’d been to the Tower (perhaps twice a week), Weyland would kiss me, taste the growing power in my mouth, and smile at both myself and Jane.
Each night he and I repaired to the Idyll. Each night we talked, then we went to that sumptuous bed.
Each night, invariably, we made love.
And we talked, far into each night. There were a few nights where neither of us slept, and then in the morning we would be irritable and cross with each other and with Jane. Oddly enough, our bickering on these mornings tended to set her suspicions to rest for a while, because she could not believe such a squabbling couple could be involved in any matter of the heart.
Any matter of the heart.
This was not what I meant to achieve that night I first lay with Weyland. I had convinced myself (in the heat of the moment when possibly I was grasping for any excuse) that this was a matter of healing of an ancient wound. But the sex was not the healing. No, the healing of Asterion’s wounds was something infinitely more dangerous.
Those wounds needed true companionship. Those wounds needed trust. Those wounds needed love.
Over three thousand years I’d had a pitiful handful of lovers—Brutus and Coel (and then Coel again, as Harold), then Asterion, once, in his glamour of Silvius, and finally John Thornton—but Weyland made me forget them all. There was no pining for Brutus whenever I was with Weyland.
There was only Weyland.
One night we lay, sweaty, slightly out of breath, recovering from the heat of our passion. Weyland’s hand was slowly tracing its way up and down my back, sending delicious little thrills of pleasure through my body. Then, on one downward sweep, his hand went much lower than it had previously, and it rubbed and bumped over the ridged scars left after that hateful imp had eaten its way out.
His hand jerked away, and he went very still.
“Why?” I said. “Why be so malicious? You didn’t need to cause us so much agony. You didn’t need to tear Jane and myself apart in order to impress Charles.”
Weyland kept his hand still for a long time, and did not move it again until he finally spoke. “I was fed hatred from the time of my birth. My mother, leaning over my cradle, spitting at me. King Minos devising the worst possible means to keep me caged. The population of Knossos, of all Crete, invoking my name to frighten their children.”
His hand was now running from the nape of my neck, down my back, over my scars, over my buttocks, slowly, caressingly, and then up again, travelling as leisurely on its return journey as it had on its journey thither. I was trembling, partly at what Weyland was saying, mostly at his hand.
“Hate became for me not merely a means of existence, but the very nature of existence. It became more than that. It became a vehicle, a means of achieving my ambitions, and it became a safe place to hide.”
A glib enough explanation on the face of it, but there was something about Weyland’s voice and the way his eyes wouldn’t meet mine, that made me realise he was telling me the way that it truly had been for him. For a man such as Weyland, this opening and sharing was painful and dangerous, and so I kissed his mouth, and stroked his face, and after a moment or two he continued.
“It is no excuse, not to such as you, but it was who I was.” He paused, and finally allowed his eyes to meet with mine. “Hate is something too easy to fall into, Noah. It is…addictive. Safe. It demands nothing save that it be fed.”
“Do you still hate, Weyland?”
“Not here, not with you.”
I gave a soft, somewhat breathless laugh. “I am so very afraid of you, Weyland. Of what we are doing.”
Weyland, Weyland, what are we doing? How can we stop? How can we stop?
“On some days,” he whispered, “I am nauseous with fear. All I want is to force you to get those bands for me, to force you to my will…and yet…”
“What is different about this life, Weyland? Why these doubts and hesitations now?”
“You,” he said. “I had no thought for Cornelia, she was merely a piece to be moved on the chessboard. I despised Caela. But you—”
“I have grown a little.”
“You have grown a great deal. But…” His thumb traced about the borders of my face, over my forehead, down my cheekbone, around my jaw. “Ah, Noah, I have never encountered such a jewel as you. Not in any life. Not in any place I have travelled.” His voice changed, became full of laughter. “You are still my concubine…but freely now. Not forced. That has been a strange lesson for me to learn—that I can achieve more through granting freedom than through forcing with fear.”
Aye, still his concubine. And more dangerously trapped now, than ever I was with his imp inside me.
We were quiet for a while after that, touching and stroking, kissing now and again, moving closer to lovemaking once more, but as yet too indolent to be bothered.
I eventually spoke, thinking to use the intimacy of this moment to ask something about one of my deepest fears. “Weyland, talk to me of the darkcraft. I had thought you might try to apportion some of the blame for your actions on that. ‘See, I am consumed with dark power. I am its slave’.”
He laughed, rolling over on his back. “I wish I had thought of using it as an excuse. Would you have accepted it?”
“No. I would have loathed you for it.”
His smile died. “The darkcraft is but power, Noah. It imparts no moral values, and has no destination or objective of its own. What I have done, in all my lives, is my own burden to bear. Not that of the darkcraft.”
“So…darkcraft does not corrupt?” I held my breath, waiting for that response.
His mouth twisted slightly. “Not unless he who wields it is corruptible.”
I relaxed. I had the darkcraft quiescent within me. It would not corrupt me…not unless I was myself corruptible.
So, did I trust myself? Was I true?
And true to what?
Weyland was now watching me quizzically. “Why these questions? And why these emotions I see rolling over your face?”
I tried to distract him with humour. “I merely wanted to know precisely what I shared a bed with.”
Something in his face changed. “Well, my lady Noah, perhaps you should experience precisely what it is you share a bed with.”
Weyland’s hand touched me again, but this time it was as if a different man had touched me…no, as if a different world had touched me.
“Weyland!”
“You want to know what the darkcraft is, Noah? Then let it love you, let it lie with you, let it inside you.” His body was resting full-length and firm against mine now, his hands were at my back, my shoulders, my breasts. “Let all of me make love to you, Noah.”
Thus began a journey, an experience, from which it took me days to recover and to regain my equilibrium. Weyland took me down the paths of the darkcraft, allowing it to envelop me, consume me, wash through my very soul.
It was the most frightening, exhilarating, joyous, dangerous, unbelievable encounter of all of my lives.
Initially I was terrified, for power such as I had never imagined swept through me.
Worse, I could feel that untried and unopened potential deep within myself respond to it, wanting to join with it. I dared not allow it, because then Weyland would realise I had kept critical knowledge from him and he would never trust me again (and why was that so important, eh?), but also because I knew instinctively that if I did allow it, Weyland and I would be joined by forces so powerful that I would never be able to break free from him again.
But as the moment passed, and I became a little more used to Weyland’s darkcraft washing through me, I realised that, first, I could keep my own p
otential quiescent without too much trouble, and that, second, I was enjoying this experience so much that, frankly, I did not want to put a halt to it. Ariadne was right, this was the greatest lover imaginable.
Warm, dark, caressing, safe.
Exciting. Stimulating. Erotic. Addictive.
Use it, Weyland whispered in my mind, to make love to me.
And so I did. I growled, feeling his darkcraft bubbling through me, and I sank my teeth into his shoulder. He laughed, and began to do things to me that, had I been told of them by another, would have shocked me to the core.
But now…now, oh, gods…now…
We did not so much make love, as we revelled.
On a later night, when we lay quiet, I asked Weyland why he had made the Idyll, and why in this house. It was a night of exploration, and, as neither of us could sleep, it was a good enough topic of conversation.
“I purchased this house years ago,” he said, “after hunting for many months. I found better houses than this, more spacious, grander, more solidly built, but this house…” He paused.
“I walked into this house,” he resumed softly, “and it called to me. I walked up the stairs, and entered the chamber at the very top of the house.” Again he paused, remembering. “It was as if it spoke to me, and offered me possibilities.”
“What kind of possibilities, Weyland?”
He was silent a long time, and I wondered what it could be that was so difficult for him to say.
“It offered me a home,” he finally said, so low I barely heard him. “Safety. Peace. Comfort.”
Tears sprang into my eyes. “Then I thank you for bringing me here,” I said.
I had my hand on his chest, and I felt his breathing slow, and deepen.
“This place was waiting for you,” he said.
I closed my eyes, unintentionally squeezing out two of those gathered tears.
“Do you know what this place is?” I asked. I doubted he did, for it had taken me weeks of climbing these stairs every night to realise the significance of both house and Idyll, and Weyland did not have the same understanding as I.
“What do you mean? This is the Idyll, sitting within my house in Idol Lane.”
“And where does this house sit?” I said. “Where does Idol Lane sit?”
“I don’t know what you’re asking me, Noah.”
Again I closed my eyes briefly, and wondered why I was about to speak.
Weyland, Weyland, what are we doing? How can we stop? How can we stop?
“Weyland, this part of London covers Cornhill.”
“Yes?”
“In ancient times, in Llangarlian times, this was known as Mag’s Hill.”
His hand, which had been stroking my neck, suddenly ceased.
“The goddess hill,” I said, my voice now almost a whisper. “My hill. Idol Lane follows exactly the ancient mystery track to the summit. This house only sits close to the top of the hill, but the top floor, where we are now, is level with the summit. Weyland, you have built your Idyll figuratively, and almost literally, on the summit of the goddess hill. Every time you climb the stairs to the Idyll you metaphorically climb into the realm of the goddess. Yes, this place was waiting for me. I am what makes it complete.”
We did not speak for a long time.
Finally, just as I was drifting into sleep, I heard Weyland whisper, “Noah, Noah, what are we doing?”
There was a dark corner turned that night, but whether it was towards the light, or into greater darkness, I did not know. Even then, I think, I knew there was no going back for me.
Twelve
The Realm of the Faerie, the Great Founding Labyrinth within the Tower of London, and Idol Lane, London
Louis dreamed, but this was as no dream he’d ever experienced as a man, nor even as a soul waiting impatiently through hundreds of years for rebirth. He dreamed as if he were awake; that is, he existed as if in a dream, but he knew this was no dream.
This was enchantment and magic and power such as he’d never encountered previously, not even when he laid down the foundations of the Troy Game with Genvissa.
Louis ran the Ringwalk. He sometimes ran as a man, but more often he ran as something fourlegged, far more powerful and swifter than a man.
He ran as the white stag with the blood-red antlers, and he ran through dream and reality, through land and mist, through time past and time future, and he ran until his heart pounded frantically in his chest, and he ran because he had a heart to pound frantically in his chest.
And he was glad.
Sometimes Louis ran alone, but more often than not other faerie creatures ran beside him.
Sidlesaghes, in their thousands, sometimes singing, sometimes silent.
The Lord of the Faerie. Laughing, sharing laughter.
Sometimes his father, Silvius, and Louis did not know if Silvius accompanied him because Louis was his son, Brutus-reborn, or if because Louis was Silvius’ long-time companion, the stag, risen from his death.
As Louis ran the Ringwalk he learned, or rather, as Louis ran the Ringwalk he absorbed. He absorbed the memories of all those who had run as the Stag God previously, and he understood that somehow Noah had undergone the same process when she had become Eaving. He discovered he could remember back to the dawn of life, back to the primeval world, back to when he, the white stag with the blood-red antlers, was nothing more than an ambition, a dream, a needing.
He remembered that first day he’d taken form, slithering free of his mother’s birth canal, dropping to the forest floor—not on his side or belly, as other fawns, but on his four feet, running from the moment of birth.
Born for the Ringwalk.
He remembered those who had hunted him, and those who had protected him. The faerie folk who had been his friends and lovers, and the creatures who had hated him and who had tried to kill him: other gods, frantic druids, fearful Christian priests.
Of them all, only the Darkwitch, Genvissa, had almost succeeded, and from that the stag had learned—he had only one true enemy, and that was the Darkwitch.
Louis ran the Ringwalk, and as he ran, he changed.
Life in Idol Lane transformed. Jane, who had lived there almost all her present life, had known only humiliation, day after day, year in, year out. Now, something else replaced that humiliation. Tolerance. Amusement.
Friendliness.
Generosity.
Her reward, for teaching Noah the ways of the labyrinth.
She didn’t trust it, this new world of Idol Lane. She was terrified of what would happen when Weyland discovered that it was not her teaching Noah, but Ariadne. However, for the moment, for this brief time when Weyland relaxed and the house became bearable, almost likeable, Jane determined to enjoy it.
Where once Jane had been a prisoner of the house, allowed out only when Weyland sent her on some closely watched chore, now he tolerated her coming and going virtually as she wished.
Noah did not often choose to leave the house on those days she did not go to the Tower to learn from Ariadne. Jane wondered if it was because she was fearful of meeting Catling somewhere in the streets, or if she just preferred to stay close to Weyland. Whatever the case, Jane took whatever chance she could to wander the byways and nooks of London. She rarely saw anyone she knew, and few people recognised her now that her face had healed and she walked with more pride than Jane the whore had ever managed.
Weyland largely left Jane alone. She’d been the butt of his viciousness all through the years when there was just her and him (until Elizabeth and Frances, the procession of broken girls through the house meant little to either Jane or Weyland). Now, Weyland had something else to amuse him—Noah. Jane wasn’t sure what Noah had done (had she slept with him? Jane puzzled over it, and then decided she didn’t truly care one way or the other. If she had then that was Noah’s damnation, and the woman could deal with it herself). On the evenings that they returned to the house from the Tower, Weyland would take Noah in his arms and kiss
her, and taste the rise in her power, and would then smile and relax, well pleased. He was happy, he was sure of himself, and he left Jane alone.
Thus, there being no one to disturb her, Jane slipped deeper and deeper into her own world. Or, rather, she sank deeper and deeper into the world of the Lord of the Faerie. Somewhat like Weyland and Noah (had she known it), Jane existed in her own little realm of happiness. Jane spent most of her waking hours thinking of nothing but the Lord of the Faerie and what the faerie realm offered her. Release, freedom, a new life. And something else, something Jane hardly dared think about. She felt like a girl again, her heart thudding whenever she reflected on the Lord of the Faerie, her breath shortening whenever she remembered a way in which he had glanced at her, or the manner in which he had held her hand, and she would spend hours trying to interpret these tiny gestures in the best possible light.
Release, freedom, a new life, and possibly, possibly, love.
And all for a song.
When she had left the Faerie, and its lord, he had said to return to him the next time she and Noah came to the Tower. “We will show you the Ancient Carol,” he said, “so that you may best know how to greet dawn and dusk.”
What the Faerie asked of her was simple (and yet so complex within that simplicity), and what they offered rich beyond expectation…but first Jane had to escape Weyland. He could still control her, should he want.
He could still kill her, and Jane was very afraid that he would do just that the moment Noah completed her training and Weyland felt that Jane was superfluous to his needs.
This single fear regularly interrupted her otherwise happy reveries with a stomach-knotting terror.
Freedom and hope lay proffered before Jane, but between her and that offer lay that single insurmountable hurdle.
Weyland Orr.
Three days after Noah’s initial training session (and Jane’s strange ordeal atop the summit of The Naked) Ariadne had called them back to the Tower.
It was three days too long for Jane. The instant Ariadne met Noah at Lion Gate (her lover not in evidence this time), Jane turned her back and walked to the rotting scaffold, and then beyond. She could barely contain her excitement—The Lord of the Faerie awaited!—and the moment she reached the scaffold she looked about, breathless, her eyes wide.