Jack put his hands together and prayed quietly. Raven didn’t know what to say. Fisher looked slowly around her.
“Hasn’t changed a bit, in all these years,” she said, her voice carefully calm and controlled. “But I suppose blasphemy never goes out of style.”
“This is sick,” said Raven. “This place reeks of suffering, and the unquiet dead. I deal in death every day and even I’m offended.”
“Then there’s hope for you yet, Nephew,” said Jack. He looked at Fisher. “When we’re done, this . . . Museum of Bones must be dismantled and destroyed. Even if I have to do it myself, bone by bone. I will not allow this abomination to continue.”
“That’s what your predecessor said,” said Fisher. “But it’s still here. Perhaps its existence is necessary, to contain them.”
She pointed, and there the swords were. It was as though a subtle veil had been suddenly whipped from their eyes, so they could see what had been there all along. Together, in their own little niche in the bone wall were three huge swords in long chased silver scabbards. Hanging in the air, as though held in place by their own awful presence. Fully seven feet long, six inches wide at the crosspiece, with a foot-long hilt bound in dark leather. There was nothing graceful or elegant about them. They were killing tools, designed for brutality and slaughter and the ruining of lives. Death and destruction, formed in steel. And yet there was still a base glamour to these swords, something that called out to the darkest part of the human soul. The promise of satisfaction for all the most secret dreams of revenge, against an uncaring and an unjust world. A chance to make everyone pay for what they’d done. Raven took a step forward. Jack grabbed him hard by the arm and pulled him back.
“Don’t,” he said quietly. “You might wake them.” He took his hand away, and Raven nodded jerkily. Jack glanced at Fisher. “You shouldn’t have brought us here. This is a bad place. Don’t tell me you can’t feel the evil in these swords!”
“Of course I can feel it,” said Fisher. “I felt it before, with the first Infernal Devices. I knew what I was getting into then, when I agreed to wield Wulfsbane. But these swords can win the war that’s coming, all on their own.”
“What good does it do to win the war if it costs you your soul?” said Raven.
“If it saves lives, if it saves the Land, I’m ready to risk it,” said Fisher. “Besides, my soul is a pretty tarnished thing after all these years. The sword would probably spit it out.”
“Don’t joke, Mother, please,” said Jack.
“It is possible to use the swords and not be corrupted,” said Fisher. “I did it before; I can do it again. And so can you, and Raven. I have faith in you.”
“You think the King will agree to this?” said Raven.
“You mean Prince Richard,” said Fisher. “He’s got a good head on his shoulders. He’ll understand.”
Raven nodded slowly. “How do we do this?”
“Step forward,” said Fisher. “Make yourself known to the swords. Let the sword choose its master.”
“This is wrong!” insisted Jack.
“It’s necessary,” said Fisher. She looked at him unflinchingly. “You don’t have to do this, Jack. But consider this: if you don’t take a sword, someone else will. Can you honestly name anyone else that you would trust not to be corrupted? You were the Walking Man. Who better to wield one of these swords than a man who already found the strength to give up a power he didn’t want?”
“I never could win an argument with you, Mother,” said Jack.
“Damn right,” said Fisher.
Raven stepped forward, and his hand went straight to the sword on the left. His fingertips trailed down the long hilt, almost caressingly. “Soulripper. This is Soulripper . . . It knows me. It wants me.”
“You have to be in charge,” said Fisher. “Take the sword and strap it on your back. Draw it only when you absolutely have to, and use it only when you absolutely need to. Don’t draw it here. You’re not ready; not yet.”
Raven nodded stiffly, took the sword from where it hung in midair, and strapped the long silver scabbard into place. It hung down his back, all the way to the floor, with the leather-wrapped hilt standing up beside his head. He looked suddenly older, tireder, as though weighed down by some new burden.
Jack stepped forward, to stare coldly at the sword on the right. He didn’t try to touch it. “I don’t want you,” he said. “I don’t need you. I have my staff, and my faith. But I will bear your burden, Blackhowl, so no one else has to.”
He took the sword and strapped it awkwardly into place. His face was cold, determined, as though he was carrying out some messy, distasteful task. Afterwards, he stood a little straighter than he had before. Perhaps remembering other times when he’d worn a sword.
Fisher took the third sword out of its niche. The hilt seemed to nestle into her hand, as though it felt comfortable there. As though it belonged there.
“Belladonna’s Kiss,” she said. “I wonder what you do. I just know I’m going to hate it.” And then she brought the hilt right up close to her face, so she could whisper to it. “I beat Wulfsbane, and I’ll beat you.”
While she busied herself strapping the sword into place down her back, Jack moved restlessly up and down the two rows of display cases, peering through the glass and studying the various exhibits. Most of them were of a thoroughly unsavoury nature, but he wouldn’t allow himself to look away. When he’d finally examined them all, he looked back at Fisher.
“Where is it?” he said flatly. “Where is the box, with God’s Light in it?”
“You want to take it with you?” said Fisher. “Use it in the war that’s coming?”
“I would like . . . to see it,” said Jack. “I would like to see a truly holy thing.”
“Jericho said he’d put it back here,” said Fisher. “But then, he also said he’d dismantle this place. I think . . . if it is here, and it wanted you to see it, it would have revealed itself to you by now.”
“I could make it show itself,” said Raven.
“No, you bloody couldn’t,” said Fisher. “You try to mess with what’s in that box, and we’ll be carrying what’s left of you out of here in a bucket.”
Jack sighed quietly. “I am not worthy. But then, I always knew that.”
“None of us are worthy,” said Raven.
“You speak for yourself,” said Fisher.
• • •
King Rufus was supposed to be resting, in his private chambers. The Seneschal had even placed guards outside his door so he wouldn’t be disturbed. And so he wouldn’t go wandering. But Rufus had expected that. He left his rooms by his secret door, which gave onto his secret tunnel, the one he’d had put in place long ago. For when he’d wanted to be able to just go out and about, unofficially. Doing things other people wouldn’t have approved of, like visiting his wife before they were married. And sometimes he would put on a disguise and go walking through the Castle, to see what was really going on, and what people were really saying about him. Rufus had always understood the advantages of being well informed. And not just knowing what other people thought he should know.
Of course, that was then, and this was now. Rufus stumbled down the dimly lit stone tunnel, holding a storm lantern out before him in a shaking hand, making the shadows dance disturbingly all around him. He didn’t like the shadows. He didn’t like the dark at all these days. He always felt it was hiding something from him. He moved quickly through the Castle, like a mouse in its walls, sometimes forgetting where he was going, sometimes even forgetting where he was. And then he would stop, and frown till his head hurt, and beat his fist against the old stone walls, until he remembered and could move on. He had to hurry, to get to where he was going while there was still enough of him left to know why.
He emerged from Forest Castle on the opposite side of the moat, through an old sewer outlet that was actually a secret door. Still smelled a lot like a sewer. He moved cautiously away from the moat, putting t
he Castle at his back, and headed for the edge of the great clearing and the beginnings of the Forest. It was early evening, and he forced himself to keep to what shadows there were. He didn’t want anyone to see him. They might try to stop him, and it was vital for the safety of the whole Forest Land that he wasn’t stopped. He kept telling himself that, so he wouldn’t forget.
He knew he wasn’t as sharp as he should be. He was holding on to what remained of his faculties through a heroic act of will, and he knew he couldn’t keep it up much longer. He just prayed he could hang on long enough to do what he had to do. He shuffled forward, to the very edge of the clearing, holding his lantern out before him, and there it was, waiting for him. The Standing Stone.
King Rufus put down his lantern and then pressed both hands into the middle of his back as he straightened up. He’d been complaining about his bad back for years, but no one ever listened. He looked at the Standing Stone. A tall, jagged outcropping of dark stone, of no particular shape or design, that still somehow gave the impression of a human shape or form. No face, no features. That bothered Rufus somehow, obscurely. The Stone stood alone, on the very edge of the clearing, just before where the trees began. It was surrounded by a circle of dead grass, because nothing would grow, or flourish, in the shadow of the Stone. Some said birds and insects fell dead out of the sky, if they flew too close to the Stone. Very old stories said there was an ancient pagan god sleeping, or perhaps imprisoned, within the Standing Stone.
King Rufus looked around, to make sure he was alone, and unobserved. It was important that no one know what he was about to do. Not for himself, but for his country.
“You called me,” Rufus said to the Stone, as steadily as he could. “You called, and I came. I’ve been hearing your voice for some time now. At first, I thought it was just another sign of my . . . problems. But no. You’re real. The Old Presence. The God Within. The peasants remember where Libraries forget. You have to help me! The Forest Land needs you.”
And a voice came to him, quiet and calm and entirely reasonable.
“The threat is nearer than you think, Rufus. You don’t have much time. The Redhart army is coming here, to Forest Castle, very soon now.”
“I know how this works,” said the King. He pulled open his robes, to bare his white-haired chest. “Take my heart! Take my soul! I will pay whatever price you ask, to save this Land! Please. Make me again the man I used to be. Just for the duration of this war, make me whole and sound again, in mind and in body! So I can be the King I need to be. Take all the remaining years of my life, to give me one last chance to be the kind of King I always wanted to be. Are you listening, Stone? Do we have a deal?”
“I don’t want your soul,” said the Stone. “I want only to help you defend the Land. I have slept here for centuries, contained and imprisoned within this Stone. All you have to do is bring me forth, and I will make you everything you need to be. For as long as you need to be.”
“I don’t trust you,” said King Rufus. “I know better than to trust you. I know how deals like this work out. But I have no choice. How do I bring you out of the Stone?”
“Command me to come forth,” whispered the voice. “By the authority vested in you as King of this Land.”
“As King of the Forest Land, I order you to come forth from this Stone,” said Rufus. “And God save us all.”
A figure stepped lightly out of the Standing Stone, as if from a shadow. A tall and slender, very human figure. Ten feet tall and more, made from green leaves and branches and vines. It had an emerald green, entirely human face, and it smiled easily on the King as it towered over him.
“You see, Rufus? I am not so terrible, am I?”
“Who are you?” said the King. He could hardly get the words out because his heart was pounding so hard in his chest. “What are you?”
“I am the Green Man. The great green heart of the Forest, from long before Castles and cities and the gathering places of Man. I have returned, to make this Land strong again. I bring gifts—and here is the first of them.”
King Rufus screamed horribly, as a terrible, unrelenting force roared through him. His old bones broke and shattered and repaired themselves, while his muscles tore themselves apart and then put themselves back together again. His heart stopped and started, and his blood boiled in his veins. He dropped to his knees, clutching at his head with both hands. And then it stopped. Rufus groaned out loud, the pitiful sound trailing away into a pained whimper.
“There, there,” said the Green Man. “I know it hurt, but you did ask for so very much. All your remaining years, concentrated into the short time this war will last. How do you feel, Rufus?”
“Young,” said the King. “I feel young . . .”
And he did. He rose shakily to his feet and looked unbelievingly at the hands he held up in front of his face. No wrinkles, no liver spots, and they didn’t shake at all. More important, his head was clear again. It was like waking from some awful fever, where he’d been weak and confused all the time, and seeing the world clearly again. He felt like himself again. He looked up at the Green Man, who was smiling so sweetly down at him.
“How long? How long have I got, like this?”
“For as long as you need, until the war is over,” said the Green Man. “You’ll burn through these hoarded years quickly, King Rufus. Don’t waste them.”
“I know what kind of deal I’ve made,” said the King. “I don’t need to ask about the price. It is the duty of a King to do what’s necessary. To sacrifice himself, for the Land.”
• • •
The Sombre Warrior went walking through the Castle, still wearing his ceremonial armour and his featureless steel helmet. He could have gone back to his room and changed into his formal clothes. Put on his porcelain mask. But his current look seemed more suitable, with a war looming. He was heading for Laurence Garner’s travelling room, to pay his respects and offer his services to the head of Castle security. And along the way he met the Seneschal, coming in the other direction. The Seneschal walked right up to the Warrior and planted himself in the way of the much larger man. He looked half out of his mind with worry, so the Warrior stopped and regarded him patiently.
“Have you seen the King?” the Seneschal demanded immediately, his voice strained and desperate. “He’s vanished from his private rooms, and no one can find him anywhere! I had guards at his door, and they swear they never saw him leave . . . God knows what he’ll get up to on his own! If he gets hurt, or worse, on the eve of war . . . It would be a terrible blow to the Forest Land!”
“How did he get out of his room if there were guards at his door?” said the Sombre Warrior. “Do you suspect . . . kidnap? Redhart agents, inside the Castle? Magic, perhaps?”
“Oh, wonderful!” said the Seneschal. “Give me something else to worry about! But no; no, this whole Castle is lousy with secret doors and hidden panels, and tunnels inside the walls . . . I know most of them, but it wouldn’t surprise me if the King kept a few to himself.” He stopped, and looked defiantly at the Warrior. “You don’t know. You never knew him in his prime. He was a great King, a warrior King! Everyone says so! The people love him. They still remember! If anything should happen to him . . .”
“Have you got all your people out looking for him?” said the Sombre Warrior. “If so, then you’ve done everything you can. It’s a big Castle. He’s bound to turn up somewhere. I’m on my way to talk with the head of security. I’ll make sure his people are doing all they can.”
The Seneschal just stood there and shook his head, refusing to be comforted. He looked hard at the Sombre Warrior, narrowing his eyes as though to peer through the steel helm to what lay beneath. “So, you’re on our side now. And we’re all supposed to just accept that?”
“I serve the Princess Catherine,” the Sombre Warrior said calmly. “Her father has betrayed her, but I will not.”
“Do you care for her?” the Seneschal said bluntly.
“I have sworn to stan
d between her and all danger,” said the Warrior.
“That’s not what I asked,” said the Seneschal.
“I will protect the Princess from everything that might endanger her,” said the Sombre Warrior. “Including myself.”
The Seneschal nodded slowly. He seemed grateful to have something else to think about, apart from the missing King. “You were William’s man. Did he speak to you of any . . . agents he might have, inside the Castle?”
“He only ever told me what he thought I needed to know,” the Warrior said carefully. “But he did give me one name. One of your own, who changed his allegiance to serve William. For reasons of his own. You know him. The Prince’s friend. The minstrel, Clarence.”
The Seneschal gaped at him for a moment. “Clarence? Are you sure? No, no, of course you’re sure, or you wouldn’t have said . . . Oh dear God, this is going to be a mess. How could he? The Prince and he were always so close . . . Leave it with me, sir Warrior. I’ll see Clarence is picked up and questioned . . . diplomatically. As though I didn’t have enough to worry about . . .”
He brushed past the Sombre Warrior, and hurried off down the corridor.
Before the Warrior could set off again, someone else came striding determinedly towards him. The Princess Catherine, looking pale but determined, her gaze set firmly on the Sombre Warrior. He stood still and let her come to him. She stopped before him and looked at him thoughtfully. He nodded his steel helmet to her.
“Why?” said Catherine. “You gave up your home, your station, everything you had in Redhart for me. Why?”
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