“Careful!” Bertram said quickly. “All the weapons beyond this point are magically protected! Only those of Royal blood can touch these swords!”
And then he broke off as Hawk drew the Rainbow Sword out of its shadowed corner, handling it with casual ease and familiarity. The long steel blade shone brightly in the gloom, and Hawk grinned broadly, remembering many things.
Bertram Pettydew all but fainted when Hawk just took the sword. He looked wildly around, as though expecting Hawk to be cut down by lightning bolts, or plagues of frogs. He turned to Richard, waving both hands in an agitated fashion.
“How is this possible, your highness? The magical protections are all in place; I reset them myself just the other day! And why was the identity of this sword kept from me? I’m supposed to know everything about the weapons here! I’m the bloody Armourer! Oh no, don’t you smile at me, your highness. Don’t you dare! This is all my responsibility!”
“It’s family business,” Richard said lightly. And Bertram actually stamped his carpet-slippered foot in frustration.
“Oh!” said Catherine, smiling suddenly. “I get it!”
“You do?” said Bertram.
“Of course! Hawk is related to the Forest Royal line, but on the wrong side of the blanket! Right? Someone’s little indiscretion? That’s how he knows things, and how he was able to take the sword; and why you didn’t want to talk about it, Richard.”
“Well,” said Richard, “something like that.”
Catherine snorted loudly and patted him on the arm. “Don’t look so concerned, Richard. I’m not shocked. Such things do happen, even in the most regulated Royal families.”
Hawk strapped the Rainbow Sword in place so that it hung opposite to his axe. It felt like having an old friend at his side once again.
Gillian cleared her throat loudly, to draw everyone’s attention. The grey-haired warrior woman looked at them all sternly. “All right! Prince Richard has Lawgiver, and Hawk has his Rainbow Sword. I want something.”
“Me too!” said Catherine.
Hawk and Richard exchanged understanding looks. “Gillian was just the same as a child,” Hawk said quietly. He looked at Bertram. “Well? What else have you got that’s . . . interesting?”
“Why ask me?” Bertram said sulkily. “What do I know? I’m only the Armourer . . .”
“Then act like one!” said Hawk. “Or I’ll set fire to your wig.”
Bertram looked at him. “What wig?”
“Armourer . . . ,” said Richard.
“Oh, all right! All right! I’m thinking . . . I suppose there’s always the Cestus . . .”
“Lead me to it,” said Gillian.
The Cestus turned out to be a cunningly constructed silver gauntlet, made of many small pieces moving together; shining gently in its own glass display case. The sign attached gave the name, and a straightforward message: Break glass in case of war, sudden invasion, or imminent apocalypse.
“It’s old,” said Bertram, as they all looked doubtfully at the gauntlet. “And not exactly aesthetically pleasing. Far too . . . jointy, for my taste. But very magical. Supposedly created by the High Warlock himself.”
“Weren’t they all,” said Hawk. “Accent on the supposedly.”
Gillian looked suspiciously at the gleaming silver gauntlet. “What does it do, and what’s the catch? I was looking for something a bit more than a glorified glove.”
Bertram ignored her with perfect disdain, looking only at Richard. “If you’d care to smash the glass, your highness? I’m sure I’ve got a hammer here somewhere. I was just using it, to deal with the rats . . . Or do I mean a mallet? I always get those two confused . . .”
Richard simply smashed in the side of the case with the expert use of an elbow, while everyone maintained a safe distance, just in case. The glass shattered immediately, as though it was only a fraction of an inch thick, and the pieces clattered musically to the floor. Bertram looked at the mess mournfully but had the sense to say nothing. The silver gauntlet stood revealed on its stand. It didn’t move or react in any way. Hawk studied it thoughtfully. It seemed to him that there was a new . . . awareness about the Cestus, even an eagerness, that he didn’t think he liked. Gillian just hauled the Cestus out of the wreckage of its case and held it close to her face so she could study the details of its workmanship. If she felt anything, she didn’t show it.
“It’s very light,” she said doubtfully. “Hardly feels like there’s anything to it. One good punch with this, and the silver would probably just crumple. What’s so special about it? Apart from the workmanship. Which is . . . rather nice.”
“Put it on,” said Bertram. Who seemed to have taken several steps back when no one was looking.
Gillian shrugged and slipped the silver gauntlet over her large right hand. The silver links seemed almost to stretch as they slid smoothly in place, fitting themselves to her hand so exactly that they seemed like a second skin. Gillian held her hand up before her, turning it back and forth, admiring the way the foxfire light caught it. And then she frowned, concentrating in an unfamiliar way, and a long silver blade shot out of the silver gauntlet. Gillian grinned broadly and swept the blade back and forth before her. It made a sharp whispering sound, as though the edge was cutting through the air itself.
“Now that’s more like it,” said Gillian. “I could do some bloody work with this . . .”
“You can produce any kind of blade, every kind of weapon, from the Cestus,” Bertram said proudly. “Sword, axe, mace . . . That material may appear to be silver, but it isn’t. It’s . . . magical. Any blade you make will be unbreakable, cut through anything. And even as a gauntlet, it would still let you punch your way through a stone wall. Should you ever feel the necessity . . .”
“So why didn’t you show this to us before?” demanded Richard.
“Because,” said Bertram, reluctantly, “there’s supposed to be a curse attached. Whoever uses the Cestus dies. And no matter how many times the bloody thing leaves this Armoury, it always comes back. Squatting inside its reassembled glass case, waiting for the next sucker to come along. Sorry. Accounts of the curse are entirely anecdotal, I assure you. But . . .”
“Hell,” said Gillian, pulling the long silver blade back into the Cestus until it was just a gauntlet again. “I’m seventy-two! I think I’ll risk it . . .”
“All right,” said Catherine, sweetly and just a bit dangerously. “Everyone else has got a nice new toy, but where’s mine? I’m not being left standing in the shadows while there’s a war going on, Richard. I have my own argument with King William of Redhart, and I will do my bit! So I want a weapon too, and it had better be a bloody powerful and impressive weapon, or there is going to be trouble!”
Her voice rose steadily, and everyone winced internally, anticipating one of the Princess’ well-known rages. Richard looked quickly around, to make sure there was nothing immediately deadly to hand, in case she started throwing things. And then a great blast of wind shot through the Armoury, a storm of disturbed air that roared from one end of the great hall to the other, shaking the weapons on the walls and rattling the display cases. Famous swords clattered loudly together, as though protesting, and shook in their scabbards. But not one weapon fell from the walls, and not one display case allowed itself to be overturned, despite the violence of the winds. Catherine stared about her with cold, thoughtful eyes, and then gestured sharply; and the storm fell silent. The wind dropped away to nothing, and the air was still and calm again. Everyone looked at Catherine.
“Yes,” she said. “That was me. I did that. Which can only mean . . . that the old elemental Blood Magic of the Redhart Royal line is mine. After being silent for generations. Which in turn can only mean that my father has awakened the Unreal, and Castle Midnight is full of magic again.” She looked at Richard almost apologetically. “I’m sorry, my love; I had no idea he could do that. If I’d known, or even suspected, I would have said something . . .”
“Of
course you would,” said Richard. “It’s all right, Catherine. I believe you. I trust you.” He smiled slightly. “You should know that by now.”
“Oh, Father,” said Catherine, “what have you done?”
“The Unreal,” said Gillian. Her mouth twisted, as though troubled by a bad taste. “I’ve heard about that. Old magic, maybe even Wild Magic. This is going to make King William even stronger, isn’t it?”
“You have no idea,” said Catherine. “He’ll have the Blood Magic now, and my brothers, Christof and Cameron.”
Richard looked at her sharply. “The Broken Man? The general who has never lost a battle? I thought your father sent him into exile.”
“The King can send him away, and the King can bring him back,” said Catherine. “You heard the Sombre Warrior at Court. My father has been planning this war for a long time.”
“He has his sons, but we have you,” said Richard. “The angriest Redhart Royal that ever was, now with storm winds at your command. You don’t need a weapon, Catherine. You are a weapon.”
The Princess smiled at him. “You say the nicest things, sweetie.”
• • •
At the entrance to the Forest Castle Cathedral, Fisher and Jack and Raven stood together before the wide-open lobby and looked around them. The woman who used to be a Princess, the man who used to be the Walking Man, and a sorcerer who was not what he seemed. Fisher looked coldly at the crowds of tourists milling back and forth in the lobby, clustered around stalls selling tat and junk and religious souvenirs of a dubious nature and untrustworthy provenance. If she was at all impressed by the sheer size and spectacle of the religious market before her, she did a really good job of hiding it.
“Are we to take it you disagree with honest commerce, Grandmother?” said Raven.
“It is a bit noisy,” said Jack.
“Noisy?” said Fisher. “I can barely hear myself think, as I contemplate general mayhem and mass murder. But no, if you think this is bad, you should see Haven street markets on a Saturday morning. Try doing business there and you’ll be lucky to walk out with all your fingers and your shadow still attached. No, it’s just . . . this is all very different from the last time I was here. I did not descend all the way into the Inverted Cathedral and redeem it from all the powers of Hell just so a bunch of get-rich-quick merchants could sell fake charms and shoddy reliquaries to the gullible.”
“It makes people happy,” Jack said mildly. “We may believe everything on sale here is overpriced and spiritually dubious, but the crowds don’t. We must all take our spiritual comfort where we can find it. Even the simplest of souls must be catered to.”
“You’re defending this, Uncle?” said Raven.
“Let’s just say I understand the need some people have for material help, for something they can hold on to, when the night is at its darkest,” said Jack.
Fisher just sniffed, looking dangerously at the handful of guards on duty. Most of whom were just standing around, chatting with the stallholders and tourists. Until one of them turned round and found Raven looking at him. The guard quickly set his wine bottle down and alerted the other guards to the Necromancer’s presence. The guards conferred, quietly but urgently, with many an uneasy glance at Raven, and then they all left the lobby at speed, by a different exit. Whatever appalling thing was about to happen, their body language suggested, they didn’t want to be around when it happened. Jack looked thoughtfully at Raven.
“We need to have a little sit-down and a chat about this reputation of yours, Nathanial.”
“Yes, Uncle Jack,” said the Necromancer.
“At least we aren’t going to have any problems getting past security,” said Fisher. “On the grounds that there doesn’t seem to be any, anymore. We can just stroll right in. Pity. I’m just in the mood to punch someone obnoxious in the brains.” She looked at Raven. “Unless there are more levels of security? Hidden protections you haven’t told us about?”
“Why should there be any hidden protections?” said Raven. “It’s a Cathedral!”
Fisher snorted loudly. “Lot you know.”
She strode straight across the lobby and through the crowds, heading for the entrance gallery. People in the crowd saw her coming, took one look at her face and the way her hand was resting openly on her sword hilt, and got the hell out of her way. A wide aisle opened up for her to walk through, and Jack and Raven hurried through it, to catch up with her. Jack murmured quiet apologies to one and all as he passed. Raven didn’t. Fisher strode into the empty entrance gallery and looked pugnaciously around her, hands on hips. There were no stalls here, no merchants and no tourists. Outsiders were allowed to worship inside the Cathedral, but only at strictly defined times. The entire entrance gallery of the Cathedral was one huge open space, lit by brilliant streams of light falling from nowhere obvious, bounded by sheer marble walls that shot up for hundreds of feet. Rows of dark wooden pews stood silent and empty. Prayer books were piled up here and there, along with stuffed knee pads for the older worshippers. Wonderfully detailed mosaics spread across the huge floor, blazing with all the colours of the rainbow. And everywhere Fisher looked, there were intricate carvings and noble statues and magnificent hanging tapestries. Fisher nodded slowly, as Jack and Raven came forward to join her.
“Now this is more like it. Still looks a lot like I remember. Although the last time I was here everything was covered in blood.”
“That was many years ago, Mother,” said Jack. “They were bound to have cleared up by now.”
“Don’t get sharp with your mother, Jack,” said Fisher.
“What are we supposed to be looking for, exactly?” said Raven. “It’s a big church, after all . . .”
Jack frowned unhappily. “According to all the old stories, this Cathedral was actually Inverted for centuries. Plunging down into the earth, instead of up into the sky. Space itself had been turned upside down by an awful act of evil magic. Mystically Inverted, a celebration of Hell, not Heaven. Its presence was supposed to be responsible for the old condition of the Castle; you know, bigger on the inside than the outside. We have Rupert and Julia to thank for the saving of this Cathedral, Raven, and the reemergence of the Castle.”
Raven allowed himself a small smile. “You can’t believe everything you hear in the old songs and stories, Uncle. Minstrels have a dramatic license to lie like a bastard.”
“True,” said Fisher. “Unfortunately, everything you just heard did happen. We were here, with the Walking Man, Jericho Lament. This was a very bad place then.”
Raven looked at her, clearly wanting to disagree but not able to. “And the Burning Man? The sinner who still burned with an unconsuming fire even though he was out of Hell? I suppose you bumped into him too?”
“Yes,” said Fisher. “He was our guide, down into the depths of the Cathedral. He designed it. And when it was finished, he consecrated it to Hell with a mass sacrifice of the faithful. Sending it Down, instead of Up. The blood was still here . . .” She stopped and looked around, as though still seeing it, and for a moment Jack and Raven did too. Fisher nodded slowly. “He did it all for Hell, betrayed everyone who trusted in him; and he was betrayed by Hell, in turn. He was haunting the Cathedral when we found him, burning inside and out, forever and ever.”
Jack crossed himself. “And Jericho Lament was a member of your party?”
“Of course,” said Fisher. “He helped us return the Cathedral to a state of grace, and sent the Burning Man back to Hell. He was a hard man, the Walking Man. No mercy in Jericho Lament.”
“But he gave it up,” said Jack. “Just as I did.”
“Only because he’d killed enough people,” said Fisher. “Some with his bare hands.”
“So, not quite the saint that history paints him,” said Raven. He sounded honestly shocked, and looked more than a little shaken. Knowing his uncle had been the Walking Man in his time suddenly meant a lot more to him. Raven looked across the Cathedral as though half expecting demon
s to come swarming out of what shadows there were. “I mean . . . not all the old stories can be right. About what you all did here. Some of the details in the older versions are actually pretty unpleasant.”
“The Inverted Cathedral was designed to be Hell on Earth,” said Fisher. “You don’t know the worst of it. Your grandfather and I cleaned up most of it so you’d never have to know. We never talked about everything that happened, or people would still be having nightmares. No one would dare come in here.” She looked upwards, tilting her head back to stare into the great open space above her, rising up and up. “We went all the way to the top . . . or more properly, the bottom . . . of the Inverted Cathedral. And then we found a door to somewhere else. A gateway that led to the Land of the Blue Moon. A place outside, beyond, our reality. Called Reverie. Where the Demon Prince and all the other Transient Beings come from. Living ideas, concepts, given shape and form in our reality, to work their mischief and do their horror. We destroyed the Demon Prince in Reverie. Or so we thought. He’s harder to kill than a cockroach.”
Raven and Jack looked at each other. It was one thing to know all the old and terrible stories, and quite another to listen to someone who’d actually been there. They said nothing. Every now and again, realising Hawk and Fisher really were Prince Rupert and Princess Julia out of history and legend was like being punched in the heart. And, of course, if they had to accept the reality of what Rupert and Julia did, then they had to accept the reality of that old monster, the Demon Prince. That he wasn’t just some bogeyman made up to frighten children. It was like discovering that the monster who lived under your bed when you were a small child had been real all along. Raven moved in close to Jack, to murmur in his ear.