Darkwitch Rising

  I stood very still, thinking furiously, realising I had found a means by which I could discover the origins of this plague. Whether it was Weyland or Catling, knowing the truth would enable me to move forward: the truth would show me the right path to tread.

  But, oh, this was so dangerous. It would upset and frighten many people, but it was so…daring.

  And for the first time in my life, in my many lives, I felt like embracing the “daring”.

  It was not something my enemies, known as well as unknown, would expect me to do.

  I began to walk towards London Bridge, my stride now filled with purpose.

  There was someone with whom I needed to speak.

  London Bridge was a crowded, joyous place. It leapfrogged across the river from Southwark to the city itself in a series of leaning, creaking, ponderous piers. These piers were so wide and thick they acted as a part dam to the river—as I could see, the water level on the eastern and seaward side of the bridge was a full four feet lower than the level on the western side. The river banked up and then swept through the narrow openings between the piers in a series of tumultuous waterfalls. Boats which wished to travel upriver generally had to wait for high tide, while those wishing to continue on downriver under the bridge dared an exciting ride.

  Not a few were capsized during the dangerous passage.

  River-watching—hanging over the side of the bridge and shouting at those daring enough to attempt the passage beneath—was a favourite pastime for those living on, or travelling over, the bridge, and one I enjoyed myself. Not so much for the pleasure of watching boat masters undertake the hazardous travail of the bridge passage, but because scores of water sprites played around the piers and upon the small islands on which the piers had their foundations. The city fathers spent much angst, and many pounds each year, trying to keep the narrow passages between the piers clear of the branches and refuse which swept down the river and stuck between the piers (cow and horse carcasses creating the most blockage) intensifying the damming effect of the bridge. No sooner had one dredging effort been made, than, within days, the problem was as bad as ever it was.

  London’s aldermen and councillors had no idea that mischievous water sprites spent much of each night carefully putting back all the branches and carcasses they could find. The sprites adored the wild waters created by the bridge’s piers, and loved chasing the boats through.

  Mortal dredging efforts were always going to be in vain.

  I walked to the central portion of the bridge—that part free of the houses, shops and chapels which had been built atop the bridge for virtually its entire length—and leaned over the balustrade. The water below was thick, grey-green and foaming as it tumbled about, seeking a way under.

  I could see the copper glints of water sprites’ hair as they darted below the water, and within moments they became aware of my presence and floated to the surface. There they bobbed calmly, apparently unaffected by the turbulence of the water, and stared up at me with their bright green eyes.

  I need to speak with our Faerie Lord, I said to them. Will you send word?

  They waved in response, and slipped under the water again, and were gone.

  I leaned back against the balustrade, relaxing, thinking, and watching the people passing.

  An old woman saw me, and nodded companionably.

  A nobleman, riding by on his glorious steed, saw me. He paled in shock, but recovered enough to grace me with a salute, which must have surprised most of his retinue and many of the bystanders who watched him.

  A small dun dog, trotting from Southwark through to London on his own canine business, interrupted his journey long enough to snuffle about my feet before giving a small yelp of recognition and deference and continuing on his way.

  Soon enough, the Lord of the Faerie joined me.

  “Noah,” he said, appearing at my elbow and leaning down to kiss my cheek.

  I turned my head, and offered him my mouth, and was happy that he accepted the invitation without hesitation.

  “You cannot blame Louis,” the Lord of the Faerie said, “for not abandoning his loyalties and ambitions and needs as Kingman all in one moment. Each life, Noah, you have undermined his world. I think he is growing tired of it. He does not know what you will do next.”

  For the Lord of the Faerie, that little speech constituted a considerable chastisement. But it was true enough, and I nodded, accepting what he said.

  “I do not blame him,” I said, “although I confess a considerable disappointment. Not at him. At circumstances, I think.”

  We stood there in silence for a little time, enjoying each other’s company, both of us, I’m sure, remembering all that had been between us.

  I took one of his hands between both of mine. “Do you remember, so long ago, when we made love atop Pen Hill and you promised to me that you would be a companion along my path ahead?”

  “Aye,” he said. His eyes were very gentle as they looked into mine. “I have had reason to revisit that day recently, as well.”

  “Do you believe that what I do, I do only for the good of the land?”

  “Aye,” he said. “I do. I trust you, Noah.”

  Oh, gods, I was so blessed in him! “Coel,” I said, calling him by his most ancient and beloved of names, “I want to bring Weyland through into the faerie realm.”

  I think days might have passed as he stared at me in shock. I could not read his emotions, because the instant those words were out of my mouth his face shut down completely, and his hand went cold and stiff in mine.

  “Coel,” I said, “I need to know for certain who is causing this plague. This sickness has infected the land as well as its people. You and I both know that if I bring Weyland to the borderlands of the faerie realm, then, if he is guilty, the land will reject him the instant his feet touch the land. It will not allow the architect of this pestilence entry into the Realm of the Faerie.”

  “The Faerie will not allow him entry in any case.”

  I thought that it might (for how else could the Faerie have allowed Weyland to build his Idyll to its very borders?) but for the moment I said nothing about that. “My Lord of the Faerie,” I said, “I need you to grant dispensation for him. I need to know if he is the one who has blighted land and city with the plague. This test will eliminate or damn Weyland once and for all, and it will show me if I have taken the right path, or one so blighted that I risk all of creation. This is a test as much of me and my choices as it is of Weyland. My lord, and my love, please, please, tell me you understand why I ask this.”

  “Noah, Louis said he could smell Weyland on you. He said you stank of Weyland’s taint.”

  I felt cold. “Then all the more need for this test,” I said softly, holding the Lord of the Faerie’s eyes.

  “Are you his lover, Noah?”

  I took a deep breath. “Yes.”

  He let his breath out on a hiss. “To what depth, Noah?”

  “That is what I need to find out.”

  “Noah, you ask me to risk the Faerie. To bring Weyland there. To bring Asterion into its sacred borders…”

  Dear gods, what would he say once he realised that I was a Darkwitch, and of Asterion’s bloodline?

  I decided I needed to tell the Lord of the Faerie more. “Weyland is almost there already. Atop his house in Idol Lane he has built a magical realm, his Idyll. My Lord of the Faerie, it reaches to the very borders of your realm. Furthermore, on the night that Weyland had torn myself and Jane apart, he and I met in vision on The Naked. I do not know if we were truly there, or if it were merely dream, but still…I think there is some connection between Weyland and the Faerie, something even he does not realise, and we need to know what it is. Please, please allow this, for, if nothing else, we need to know the nature of the threat that this land faces, whether it be Weyland…or something else.”

  He heaved a great sigh, but eventually he nodded, and for that I loved him more than ever. I had upset Coel’s world more th
an once, too, but his love and belief had never wavered.

  “Gods, Coel,” I said. “Thank you for this!”

  “When?” he said.

  “Tonight.”

  Twenty-one

  The Realm of the Faerie

  Weyland was more unsure of himself than he had ever been in all his myriad lives. Every instinct screamed at him to rein Noah in, to wrap her about with power, to force her to his will. Over the past two days those instincts had screamed louder than ever: Noah had too much freedom; she was not necessarily going to learn the skills of the Mistress of the Labyrinth as she said she was; she was possibly in contact with Brutus-reborn, and—gods, gods, gods!—she had brought the Troy Game incarnate into this house, and told him that his precious imps were now under its control.

  If it had been anyone else Weyland knew he would have slaughtered them without a second thought.

  Intellectually, Weyland knew that granting Noah tolerance and freedom worked more in his favour than any force or fright he could have used.

  Intuitively, he knew that asking for shelter had somehow bound Noah more tightly to him than any enchantment he could have used. Weyland did not know the hows and whys of it, but he knew, just as surely as he knew that he needed those kingship bands in order to win out against Brutus-reborn.

  Emotionally, Weyland was not sure that he could bear to use force on Noah any more, and that realisation scared him more deeply than anything had for three thousand years.

  Not since Ariadne had betrayed him.

  Love. Who could trust it?

  He’d loved Ariadne, and with such a vast intensity that even now it hurt to recall its strength. She’d been the only one to regard him without loathing, to offer him her body for love, to give him a child. And then she had snatched it all back.

  The child, gone because it humiliated Ariadne.

  Love, taken from Asterion and handed to Theseus.

  Weyland remembered that day, lying on his bed in the heart of the labyrinth, when he’d heard Ariadne’s soft footfall. He had started up, a smile on his face, thinking she’d come back to him, but then Ariadne had entered holding the hand of a man she graced with her smile, and whom she addressed as Theseus.

  “Take the beast, for I am weary of him,” Ariadne had said to her new lover, and Theseus started forward, a sword raised.

  Asterion tried to defend himself, but he had no sword, and Ariadne used her arts as Mistress of the Labyrinth to aid her new lover’s weapon.

  That is what love accomplished. Humiliation. Betrayal. Murder.

  But, oh…Noah. There was something happening there, something growing within him, and Weyland was terrified that it might be love, come again to betray him.

  “Weyland.”

  He started, literally jumping from his chair at the kitchen table onto his feet.

  Noah stood before him…but it was a Noah he’d not ever seen before.

  Her hair, thick and dark, flowed free down her back, moving slightly within the stillness of the kitchen as if it had a life of its own.

  Her clothes—the tired bodice, the heavy skirts, and the thick leather shoes—had all vanished, and instead Noah stood clothed in a raiment of cloth that looked as if it were made of flowing waters: part green, part grey, part shimmery silver.

  Her face—it was still Noah’s face, but different. Now it radiated magic, and her eyes…oh, her eyes. They had turned from dark blue to a sage green, shot through with gold and silver.

  Weyland’s first thought was that he had never seen such a vision of loveliness and power.

  His second was that she had come to betray him.

  Brutus was waiting outside, with a sword.

  “Weyland,” she said, her voice far richer and deeper than usual, “will you come walk with me?”

  He was tense, so tense he could barely have moved had he wanted to. “What is happening?” he said.

  “The land is walking,” she said, and Weyland felt a thrill of the supernatural vibrate through his bones.

  “What is happening?” he said.

  “The land is walking,” she repeated, and this time she held out her hand.

  Her arm was round, and firm, and glowed with a wonderful luminescent creaminess.

  “You are going to betray me,” he said, and in defence he began to summon his power, call it screaming to the surface.

  In an instant she was upon him, the hand which had been outstretched now clasping one of his, her body held close against his, her face, so near to his own, her mouth, almost upon his.

  “No,” she breathed. “Let go your power, let go your fear. Trust me.”

  Weyland felt the power radiating out from her. A memory sprang into his mind, that time he’d met with Mag—Noah’s predecessor—in the stone hall. He recalled how contemptuous of her he’d been, how weak and insipid he’d thought her power.

  But Mag was as nothing compared to Noah. The being who stood so close to him now was a giant in comparison. Her power was so vibrant and so unfathomable Weyland knew he could never plumb its depths even had he a thousand years in which to attempt it.

  It terrified him, and he wondered if he should destroy it.

  Then she laid her mouth against his, and kissed him.

  Weyland closed his eyes, part frightened, part lost. Her body pressed closer against his, and Weyland felt its warmth, and felt the rolling of the meadows and the waters within it.

  She leaned back a fraction, and Weyland was appalled to hear himself moan.

  “Come walk with me,” she said. And then, softly, “Trust me, Weyland. I am not Ariadne.”

  No! No! No! his instincts screamed at him. Everything within him shrieked, Danger! Danger!

  And yet there was one small place, one small haven within his soul, that said, Trust her.

  “Come walk with me,” she whispered against his mouth, and the next moment she stepped back a little, her hand tugging gently at his, and Weyland found himself following her.

  She led him through the kitchen, and through the empty, barren parlour.

  She led him to the front door, which she opened with the gentlest of touches of her free hand.

  She led him through the open door, and into something so extraordinary that for the moment Weyland forgot his fears, and merely stared.

  “We stand,” she said softly at his side, “on the borderlands of the Faerie. Welcome to the land, Asterion.”

  Weyland stared at the vista before him. He and Noah stood on what appeared to be the rise of a small hill. Before them stretched a series of rolling hills, carpeted with thick, almost impenetrable forest, wisps of mist floating about the tree tops and birds dipping in and out of the mists.

  In the far distance rose great purple peaks gilded with snow.

  During his many lives, Weyland had seen a score of stunning landscapes which had momentarily touched him. They, however, could not hope to compare with this. It was not so much what Weyland saw, but what he felt.

  The sense of a land so ancient it was virtually incomprehensible.

  A wilderness of power, drifting through the trees, and throbbing up through his boots from the very soil beneath him.

  A sense of permanence so extraordinary Weyland thought that even if he threw all the power at his command at this land it would not touch it.

  A loveliness so great he felt as if he would weep. He realised that this was the same landscape he’d seen in that vision he and Noah had shared—Weyland, Weyland, what are we doing? Why can’t we stop? Why can’t we stop?—but now that he stood here in reality it was incomparably more potent.

  “Noah…” he said, at a loss at what to call her, for “Noah” did not manage in any manner to encompass all that she now was.

  As soon as he had spoken, and so abruptly it left him breathless, Noah pulled her hand from his, and stepped back four or five paces. She was distancing herself from him, and Weyland was certain now that it was because she was about to attack him.

  Then she looked down
at the ground.

  He followed her eyes.

  A small hand suddenly shot up out of the turf, grabbing Weyland’s left ankle.

  He gave a yelp, and started back, knowing that she had brought him here to destroy him, that she was as much a betrayer as ever was Ariadne, and once more he called forth his darkcraft, meaning to use it in any manner he could to—

  The tiny hand let go his ankle, hovered a moment in the air, then patted at his boot, as if in approval.

  Noah laughed, the sound both merry and so vastly relieved Weyland would not have been surprised if she had wept with the force of it.

  Weyland stared at Noah, then looked back down at the turf…where a small, white-bodied and copper-haired creature was pulling itself free of the soil.

  “It is a water sprite,” said Noah. “One of my servants, and closer to the land than, oh, than almost any other creature save myself and one or two others.”

  “What is going on?” said Weyland, totally confused but somehow incredibly relieved. There had been danger present, he was sure of it, but now it had somehow miraculously vanished.

  “You have been welcomed…I think,” said a man’s voice, and Weyland spun about.

  Behind him stood a man dressed simply in leather breeches, and wearing a crown of twigs and red berries. He radiated infinitely more power than did Noah.

  “The Lord of the Faerie,” said Noah.

  Weyland was not sure if he was supposed to speak or not, but this strange Lord of the Faerie forestalled any attempt he may have made.

  “The soil does not reject him,” the Lord of the Faerie said to Noah. “You have your answer.” He relaxed, and smiled. “Thank the gods. We all have our answer, though how it may be, I do not know.”

  Noah looked at Weyland, smiling with such loveliness that Weyland himself relaxed even further. This had not been a betrayal, but a test. But a test of what?

  A cool hand slipped into one of his, and Weyland jumped. It was the water sprite, smiling up at him.

  “He is among us, if from a great distance,” said the sprite and the Lord of the Faerie gasped.