Druid''s Sword

  They were the cathedral Watch, but they had no idea of what they were truly guarding.

  Just to the left of where Jack stood, at the base of the stairs, was a noticeboard, and on it, prominently displayed, was a fluttering piece of paper.

  Jack stepped closer to read it. It was a memorandum, issued the day before.

  The Dean and Chapter, having reviewed the situation in the light of experience, have decided to make the following statement. It is their intention to carry on the life of the Cathedral as fully and as long as circumstances permit.

  Jack read that memo for what it was—a message from Catling. You’re not going to kill me, Jack. I can’t be destroyed.

  “It is my intention, Jack, to carry on as fully and as long as circumstances permit.”

  Jack spun about.

  A young woman stood a few feet away. Jack’s first impression was that she was lovely—and that she looked like Grace, save that her hair was black and very long and left to hang in curls down her back—but that initial impression was followed almost instantly with a sense of malevolence so powerful that Jack literally felt nauseous.

  Catling. All grown up now from her life as a child in the seventeenth century.

  She still affected the long black dress, tightwaisted and full-skirted, which rustled about her like a graveyard wind.

  Her face, though physically beautiful, was also so white, and her expression so hard and cold, that she had the appearance of a blank-faced doll.

  “Nice to meet you after so many years, Jack,” said Catling, her mouth twisting in a parody of a smile. She paused, and the smile became particularly malicious. “Father.”

  “I am not your father.”

  “Oh, but you are. You and Genvissa made me, that night you danced the Dance of the Torches. It wasn’t the dance that was so important…but what you did after it. Remember?”

  Jack kept his expression blank, but his mind raced. What had he and Genvissa done after they’d completed the Dance of the Torches and founded the Troy Game atop Og’s Hill?

  Then his breath caught, remembering what he and Genvissa had managed in the megaron within the palace he had built on the White Mound.

  They had made love. They’d fled the celebrations atop Og’s Hill and come back to his palace, where they’d fallen atop a pile of furs washed with torchlight and twisted and writhed in what Jack, as Brutus, had thought was a fairly close approximation to making love.

  And they conceived a daughter.

  Jack felt the breath still within him.

  He had pulled himself free of Genvissa’s body, raising himself on his arms above her, then kneeling between her bent legs, laughing with sheer joy at all the power that lay within their reach.

  She, her hands splayed across her belly, saying, “We have made a daughter between us, Brutus. A daughter-heir.”

  And he had replied, so damned sure of himself, “You have blessed me.”

  Then came Cornelia, rushing into the megaron, her belly gently rounded out with the daughter she had been carrying, and discovering her husband and Genvissa.

  And he, Brutus, had looked over to Cornelia, and laughed.

  “Yes,” said Catling. “You do remember, don’t you? You made me that night. Both within the labyrinth on Og’s Hill and on that pile of furs with Genvissa.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Why not? It makes sense enough, surely. I was supposed to have become flesh incarnate when Genvissa gave birth to me…but then Asterion,” her voice hardened into implacable hatred, “gave Cornelia that dagger with which to murder Genvissa, and my fleshly body, with it. I hated Genvissa for failing to carry me to term. So I picked Cornelia as my Mistress of the Labyrinth, and later used her—and you—to finally arrive into flesh. Better late than never.”

  Jack tried to make sense of what she was saying. “But why choose Cornelia to then become your Mistress of the Labyrinth? She had ruined your chances when she murdered Genvissa. Surely you must have loathed her.”

  “And still do,” said Catling, “but I saw that Cornelia would grow into a powerful Darkwitch, and goddess, and that she would be the best Mistress of the Labyrinth I could hope for. Besides, it makes a pretty revenge, don’t you think? Choosing the woman who had briefly stymied me to then bear me, and complete me. It fulfils a nice circle.”

  She paused. “You’re thinking of unwinding me, aren’t you?”

  “Would you blame me?” said Jack.

  “You can’t unwind me, Jack. Think to harm me and I will make Grace suffer so badly she will wish herself dead. And if Grace suffers, then all this land,” she hissed the last word, “will suffer with her. Hate me all you want, but you will not destroy me.”

  Jack did hate her at that moment. He hated her so much that he literally swayed forward, his hands half raised, determined to do her unto death.

  “Besides,” Catling said, “you are my creator and my father, Jack. It is impossible for you to destroy me.”

  Then she stepped back, and laughed. “You and your pretty god pretensions. I care not for what magic markings you have all over your skin…” Her hand waved dismissively, and Jack felt his marks burn and slide, as if they were trying to escape her presence. “All I need is for you to do one thing—dance the Dance of the Flowers with Noah, and complete me. You’ll never escape me, you’ll never destroy me, so you may as well succumb to the inevitable and complete me. It will be sweeter for you, in the end.”

  Then she stabbed a finger at him. “If you try to harm me, Jack, then I will take this land and destroy it. I will burn it. And then I will do the same to the Faerie. Hark!” She put her hand to her ear in a parody of a pantomime gesture. “What is that I hear? The drone of bombers? The whistle of bombs? The shriek of flesh tearing? The—”

  “Shut up, you vicious crone!”

  Catling smiled at that, and stepped back. “I can’t be undone, Jack. Accept it.”

  Then she was gone, and Jack was left alone, save for the soft footfalls of the cathedral Watch treading about the crypt.

  Twenty minutes later, when he finally felt strong enough to leave the cathedral, Jack leaned against the Austin parked in Paternoster Row, and sent an urgent appeal to Harry.

  Catling stood in the dark heart of the labyrinth, very still. Nothing moved, not a hair on her head, not a finger, not a fold of her cold, silken skirt.

  She was disgusted with herself.

  She’d overreacted, threatened, made a scene.

  Made a fool of herself.

  All because Jack had been so much more than she’d expected.

  It wasn’t the power. Not really. Jack now combined his Kingman abilities with those of Ringwalker. Catling had expected him to be powerful.

  What she hadn’t expected was for Jack to be so calm. So still. So at peace with himself.

  That wasn’t the man she’d relied on speaking to this night. That wasn’t the man she’d known as Brutus, and then William, then Louis. Those men had been fractured, unsure.

  They could never have harmed Catling.

  But Jack was something different. Different enough to give Catling considerable pause. Different enough to reduce her to childish threats.

  Catling was willing to admit to herself that it had been a mistake, perhaps, to leave Noah and Jack alone for so many centuries. They had become so powerful. As just Mistress and Kingman they would have been so much more manageable…but, oh, as just Mistress and Kingman, without any of the powers of the land they now brought with them, Catling herself would have been so much lesser. It’s just that Catling had never thought they’d develop so greatly on their own. Well, it was too late now. Catling would just need to ensure she stayed one step ahead of Jack and Noah.

  She was glad to have discovered Jack’s strength so early. It might have been disastrous if the first she knew of it was on the day he thought to try to destroy her.

  Despite her extravagant threats to Jack, Catling wasn’t entirely sure she was totally invulnerabl
e. After all, she still hadn’t been completed, and total invulnerability would only come after that event. It was better not to underestimate Jack. Catling liked to anticipate possible attacks and challenges—that was why she had tied Grace by hex once Catling realised Noah would move against her. Even as Mistress, Darkwitch and goddess combined, Noah may not have been able to destroy her, but Catling just liked to make sure.

  It would be best to make sure now, too.

  Finally Catling moved, just slightly. A tongue, running briefly about her upper lip. Eyes, cast upwards, as if she could see through all the layers of earth and rubble and stone and marble to the sky overhead.

  It was coming. War. Pain. Horror. Destruction raining down on London. Everything Catling could ever have wanted, because she could feed from the devastation, grow strong on the pain and the horror, gobble and wax fat on the terror. Grow robust enough to thwart whatever means Jack and Noah used to attack her.

  But the horror wasn’t here yet. Oh, the war had started, and the horror was on its way. But it wasn’t here yet.

  Catling hoped Jack wasn’t in any hurry to either attack her, or complete her, because Catling needed all the strength she could muster in order to outwit him.

  NINE

  Faerie Hill Manor

  Sunday, 10th September 1939

  Noah jumped, then looked at Stella and Harry sitting on the leather chesterfield. “The car. He’s here.”

  Harry and Stella shared a glance, then Harry sighed, and stood up. “I’ll let him in.”

  “Stella,” Noah said, “do you know what has happened?” Noah knew Jack’s final marking had been planned for last night, and she had not been surprised when the Lord of the Faerie had sent her a summons a couple of hours previously to meet with him and Jack at Faerie Hill at dawn.

  Noah had been so tense about Jack’s marking she had spent the night wandering the Faerie with Eaving’s Sisters. Now she wondered if that had been a good idea. Obviously something else had happened.

  Perhaps she should have attended the marking.

  “I have no idea,” said Stella. “Only a half hour ago Harry asked me to meet him here.” She glanced at her watch. “There’s only an hour and a half until sunrise. I can’t stay long.”

  Noah looked over to the chesterfield sofa, where Silvius was now also sitting, having arrived a few minutes previously. If Jack had asked both his father and Stella to come…then something must be wrong.

  “Silvius?” Noah said. “Do you have any idea?”

  Silvius shook his head. “I just received the summons. I came. I don’t know what’s happening.”

  “Perhaps I should ring home,” Noah said, looking at the telephone. “See if Weyland and Grace are—”

  “Noah, calm down,” Silvius said. “I am certain if there was an impending disaster Jack would have let us know.”

  “And maybe that’s why we’re here now,” Noah said, her voice edgy.

  At that moment Jack walked into the room, Harry close behind.

  Noah sprang to her feet. “Jack?”

  Jack nodded, including everyone in that greeting, then looked to Harry. “Thank you for getting everyone here. Well, almost. Where is—”

  “I don’t know,” said Harry. “She should be here.”

  “Ariadne was delayed slightly,” said Silvius. “She will be here shortly.”

  Noah’s and Stella’s eyes widened at Ariadne’s name, and Jack frowned slightly at his father. He wondered how it was Silvius knew of Ariadne’s invitation, let alone the fact she was delayed.

  Silvius held his son’s look, a bland expression on his face, and Jack sighed. His father wasn’t about to offer up any information on the issue, and, considering the gravity of what Jack had to relate, how Silvius knew of Ariadne’s movements wasn’t of the greatest importance right now.

  “It has been a long night,” Jack said, “both good and bad. Did Harry tell you where I’d gone from Ambersbury Banks?”

  “No,” said Noah. “But the marking…it went well?”

  Jack gave her a smile. “It went well, Noah.” He hesitated, wondering if he should tell her about Grace, and then wondered why she didn’t already know. Hadn’t she missed her daughter at home?

  “There is something I need to tell you,” Jack said, “and we don’t have much time before Stella needs to carol in the dawn.” That last was more a question than a statement, and he raised his eyebrows at Stella as he said it.

  She gave a nod. “I have a little under an hour and a half, Jack.”

  “Very well.” Jack walked over to the cold fireplace, and stood there for a minute or two, looking into the empty grate, his hands deep into his trouser pockets. “I went from Ambersbury Banks to St Paul’s,” he said finally, turning about, “to see Catling.”

  “And?” said Noah.

  Jack’s mouth quirked. “It was the first time I had ever seen her. My ‘daughter’.”

  “She is no real daughter, Jack,” Noah said. “She was only ever a trickery.”

  Jack remembered when he and Noah had made love in the magical re-creation of her father’s megaron. Noah had fallen pregnant, and for a time she and Louis, as Jack had been then, thought her child a re-creation of the daughter they had made three thousand years earlier, and who had been murdered by Genvissa.

  But she wasn’t. In reality, Catling had been the Troy Game incarnate, turned to flesh to more expertly manipulate all those caught up in the Game’s machinations.

  Jack held Noah’s eyes. “Yes,” he said softly, “she actually is my daughter. But not yours, Noah.” His gaze shifted to Stella. “She is yours and mine, Stella. The daughter we made that night we created the Troy Game atop Og’s Hill, when you were Genvissa.”

  A complete silence met this pronouncement. Everyone stared at Jack, their minds racing. Remembering.

  “No…” Stella whispered.

  “That is what Catling had to tell me tonight,” Jack said, his voice suddenly weary. “She said that there was no means by which she could be destroyed, as I was both her father and her creator. She said that she had meant to become incarnate when first we’d made the Game, Stella, when I was Brutus and you Genvissa. We’d gone back to the palace on the White Mound, drunk with power and ambition, and we’d coupled, and, fools that we were, we had no bloody idea that what we’d done was to conceive the Troy Game incarnate.”

  “But…” Noah said. She’d gone to Stella, who was so white she looked as if she were about to faint, and had an arm about her waist.

  “Ah, yes, that ‘but’,” said Jack. “All of Catling’s initial plans were ruined when Asterion persuaded you, through Mag, to murder Genvissa when she was only weeks away from giving birth. Imagine Catling’s frustration.” He paused, using the time to catch Noah’s gaze. “And think of how much she must have hated you, Noah, for frustrating her plans. She chose you to become her Mistress of the Labyrinth not only because she could see how powerful you would become, but in revenge. In hatred.”

  Noah had now gone as white as Stella, and she did not reply.

  “Not only did she use your body to subsequently achieve flesh,” said Jack, “but you were going to be the one to complete her. A final punishment.”

  “Stop for a moment,” said Harry. He’d been standing listening to the conversation, growing more incredulous, and more terrified, with each moment that passed. “Jack, we can get back to you and Stella’s ill-fated conception in a moment, but what I want to know is…why did Catling say you could not destroy her?”

  “Because Jack is both her father and creator,” Silvius said. He’d been listening quietly, his eyes on Jack, his face reflecting the horror of everyone else. “I don’t know the intricacies of it, but I am guessing that the double role in ‘creating’, whether Game or flesh, might tie Jack’s hands somewhat. Who knows? It might be possible.”

  Jack’s shoulders slumped. “Yes. It might be possible. I just don’t know.”

  Harry strode the distance between them and grab
bed at the material of Jack’s jacket. The lines on his careworn face had deepened until Harry looked as ancient as the forest itself. “What do you mean—you don’t know?” he hissed.

  “He doesn’t know,” said a woman’s voice, “because in all the history of the labyrinth, we’ve never had a Game achieve flesh. We have no precedent to work from.”

  Harry let Jack go and, with everyone else, looked at the doorway.

  A beautiful, dark-haired woman stood there, dressed in a superbly cut scarlet suit, her feet clad in black leather high heels, and a black leather purse tucked under one arm. Her hair was fashionably waved and set, and her make-up was impeccable.

  Ariadne.

  “Nice to meet you, finally, Jack,” she said, advancing into the room and giving Jack a peck on the cheek. Then she gave Noah and Stella each a kiss, took a step towards Harry, thought better of it, and sat down next to Silvius on the chesterfield, crossing her lovely legs. She and Silvius glanced at each other, but otherwise did not exchange greetings, which Jack marked as highly suspicious.

  “Catling is a clever, cunning little minx,” said Ariadne, “and from what I heard as I stood in the doorway I think I can say that she’s had this planned for a very, very long time. Perhaps everyone is trapped.”

  “Ariadne,” Jack said, “just tell us what you know, if you please.”

  “The Troy Game wanted human incarnation,” said Ariadne. “Naturally, she chose her Kingman and Mistress of the Labyrinth—first Brutus and Genvissa, then Brutus-Louis and Noah when the first pairing failed—to give her form. You are her parents. She is of your flesh. It is highly possible that she can’t now be undone for two reasons: firstly her parents, flesh of her flesh, literally would not be able to unmake her—which is similar to what Silvius theorised—and secondly, because once a Game becomes flesh, maybe it is incapable of being undone. Who knows? As I said, no Game has ever done this before.”