Burning Ashes

by James Bennett

  Ben curled his lip, recalling the myth. The darkest hour had arrived all right. But the magic had gone to seed. The spell unravelling. Whoever was pulling on this particular thread (and he had an idea who, much as the thought rattled him), Von Hart was as tangled up in it as the cadaverous king.

  Shit, he’s probably the spindle. After all, every Remnant has pricked a finger on him …

  Confusion and loss, Ben realised then, had offered him a kind of refuge, a place to hide from the truth. From the consequences, anyway. With all his rotten luck lately, he honestly hadn’t expected the envoy to wake up at all, bracing himself for mass destruction in the world above while the fairy held his silence. And a minute after Von Hart spoke, Ben dearly wished that he had.

  Chains clanking, the envoy sat up, apparently untroubled by his bonds. Could cold iron even hold him? Ben wasn’t sure. That was the trouble with folklore; you couldn’t rely on it. Von Hart looked gaunt all the same, weakened by his ordeal, despite the grin that lit his fine-boned features, the flash of his violet eyes. For all his imprisonment, he was obviously jubilant. Delirious with joy.

  “It worked!” he crowed. “The harp’s unmaking echoed across the nether. I have drawn the eyes of Avalon. She comes! She comes!”

  And how much did Ben like the sound of that? Not much.

  Six months ago, Ben had finally managed to make Jia see that there was more to the fairy’s plan than simply reforging the Cwyth, the mnemonic harp. He had made her see the danger, the threat of a coming war.

  But the lesson hadn’t come cheap.

  “Why?” Swallowing the embers in his throat, he struggled to remain calm. His lips trembled around the question that had sat locked behind them for months. “Why Jia? Why her?”

  Von Hart blinked, as if seeing Ben for the first time. Then he frowned and cocked his head, clearly considering the question as an odd, even obvious one. He sighed, regaining his composure, and seemed happy to explain.

  “Jia Jing was the last wakeful sin-you,” he said. “Able to perceive the truth from illusion, though I admit that it took her longer than expected. Centuries, in fact. I never knew myself capable of such patience, but in the end, I was rewarded. My choosing all those years ago in Xanadu justified.” He smiled to himself, as if recalling some pleasant memory. “Right from the start, she saw the strength in me.”

  “I don’t understand you,” Ben said. He spoke in no more than a hot breath, a strained whisper.

  “No? Then let me explain. My people bound the doors to the nether with complex spells. When the Fay departed this world, all but one door was destroyed. The remaining door was locked, then forgotten, a relic of the ages. Over time, the door grew black with filth, hiding the depths that lurked behind it, equally black and endless. You’ve been there yourself, haven’t you? Into the Dark Frontier …”

  Ben gritted his teeth. Even the memory of the gulf couldn’t cool him.

  Von Hart didn’t appear to care for an answer.

  “If one drew close to the door—its surface a substance much like glass, but infinitely stronger—one would observe one’s heart’s desire, an illusion reflecting one’s deepest hope. That’s fairy magic for you. A way to … hide the true nature of the thing. Only a creature able to see through the illusion could shatter the glass. Verstehen Sie? Even I, tutor to Merlin and guardian of the ages, wasn’t able to break the charms of such an ancient barrier. But I could look for it and find it. And I could fashion myself a key. Jia alone could open the Eight Hand Mirror.”

  Ben’s knuckles whitened around the hilt of the sword. He knew the rest, of course, or could guess at it. Jia had longed to see her parents again, slumbering for centuries under the earth, and, over time, her longing had got the better of her. But the mirror, the door, had opened onto a road that led through the nether. Von Hart had wanted access to that road, a bridge from which to summon the Lurkers, distract them from invading the Earth by letting them sup on him instead, feeding off his magical essence. Perhaps this parasitical leeching had weakened the harp as well, enabling the envoy to shatter the fragments that Jia had brought to him, a thief in the night. Under the ghostly tentacles of the Ghost Emperor, she had found herself betrayed. Used. Von Hart might’ve wanted to wake up the Remnants, as he’d claimed, but that wasn’t his primary motive. He’d reforged the Cwyth simply to break it, sending a signal into the dark …

  For all that, Ben hadn’t asked for an explanation. That wasn’t what he’d meant by I don’t understand.

  With a roar, he lunged forward, grabbing the envoy. He wrenched him, chains and all, from his perch on the tomb. The links snapped in the force of Ben’s fury, chips flying from the statues to which he’d fastened them, a cloud of alabaster billowing around him. The envoy gave a wail as he found himself transported through the air and dumped onto the cavern floor, the onetime Sola Ignis—who might or might not have been a onetime friend—looming over him, his fists clenched.

  “She died, you son of a bitch.” Flames blazed in Ben’s eyes, his hair crackling with heat. “She wasn’t a fucking key. She lived and breathed. She had hopes and dreams. And she died because of you.”

  But that wasn’t the half of it. Jia had fallen, cast from the evaporated ley and down into the depths of the nether. And she was probably falling still, starved and frozen in the bottomless dark. Falling, falling. Or perhaps she’d been eaten by a Lurker, devoured by ghosts … Since that terrible, desperate day, he’d run the possible scenarios through his mind over and over again. Whatever had happened, her death wouldn’t have been quick. He had Von Hart to thank for that.

  It didn’t give him the slightest satisfaction to see the envoy’s triumph fade, his head bowing, his white-gold fringe hanging in his face. Apart from the chains dangling around him, he was naked, his star-spangled robes burned away in the nether, in the converging mass of ghosts that had formed the Ghost Emperor.

  “Yes. She died.” Von Hart looked up at him. “I asked you to catch her. To let me fall. Was it so—?”

  Ben punched the envoy in the face. The crack of flesh on bone rang between the stalactites, rebounding around the crystal cave. In a clatter of chains, the fairy slumped to the floor, his bound hands unable to prevent his fall, his forehead striking rock. Still, he remained conscious. He shut his eyes, tightly enough to draw wrinkles on his otherwise smooth skin, and Ben saw the tears trickling down his cheeks. The sight surprised him, spiking through his rage. In all his years, he’d never seen the envoy look sorry about anything, not in a way that he’d taken as sincere. All the same, he didn’t feel too bad when the fairy spat out blood, a splotch like a payment on the white marble floor.

  When Von Hart opened his eyes, he stared across the chamber, unable, unwilling to look at his assailant.

  “It was her choice, Ben.” His voice was so faint, it barely stirred the dust. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but please believe that I offered her one, a million moons ago.”

  “I don’t know whether to let you keep talking,” Ben stood panting over the envoy, his knuckles crackling, “or to shut you up forever.”

  Von Hart raised his eyebrows at the threat. Even now, bound and bleeding half a mile under London, he was far from as shaken as Ben would’ve liked. He held the same casual, fatalistic air as he’d had in Club Zauber a year ago, as if they were discussing a regrettable spillage of choice champagne rather than Remnant blood. One thing he didn’t really seem was afraid. And that, in turn, clamped a claw of ice around Ben’s heart, holding his fire in check.

  “You want answers, naturally,” Von Hart said. “I don’t blame you. And really, it’s simple. Didn’t I try to tell you before? We are exiles in our own land. We live in a time of change. You’ve seen for yourself that magic is souring. The circles are breaking, leaving this world at the mercy of phantoms. You of all people understand the risk we face. How some in the darkness long to be gods …”

  “You’ve told me lies, that’s all. Riddles. Bullshit. When I came to you for help i
n Berlin, you pretended that you didn’t know anything.” Without realising, his fist had wound back to his shoulder again. He was leaning over the envoy, breathing hard. “The Lambton armour. Winlock’s tomb. It was all down to you, wasn’t it? You wanted to cause a breach in the Lore. To stir up rebellion. And in the resulting chaos, you woke up Mauntgraul and had your key steal the fragments of the harp. Didn’t you?”

  Von Hart’s hair blew about his face with the force of Ben’s roar. Like a spider, he shrank closer to the floor, his chains spooling around him. He spoke to the ground with bloody lips, as if the dust could hear the reason in his voice and absolve him, not that he sounded remotely ashamed.

  “The world is dying, Ben. Ever since the Fay left the Earth, the Remnants have been living on borrowed time. I told you that I made a mistake. Well, the Pact was my mistake. The Sleep …” He sighed, his shoulders trembling, a motion that Ben read as genuine pain, though whether from his blow or his memories was hard to tell. “In my desperation, I didn’t realise the danger of the compromise. Long ago, in the dawn of the Old Lands, the Fay branded their circles of protection in the earth, guarding Creation from the nether. And when the Fay left this world, every door, every road closed behind them, cutting magic off from its source. But some remained—a reserve, I suppose. In the Remnants, of course, and also in human hearts. In the widespread acceptance of magic. With the signing of the Pact, however, we suppressed what little magic was left, seeking to bury it under the ages. Under forgetfulness. Disbelief … Too late, I realised my error. And soon enough, the circles began to weaken, to rot. Don’t you see? It’s their decay, the stench of it, that draws the Lurkers to the earth. That threatens the safety of the Sleep. Hidden, banished, forced underground, magic grows sour and will eventually die. We’ll snuff out the soul of the world. All will fall into darkness. It’s already falling into darkness. For us. For them.” Remnants and humans. “You’ve seen the state of affairs, mein Freund. Can you stand there and deny it?”

  Ben snarled, his teeth locked. But he found that he couldn’t.

  “And you say that I play the hero. Sounds like nobody needed your help.”

  “At first,” the envoy flinched, but went on, “I had but the faintest suspicion, an inkling of the fading circles. It dogged my heels from Westminster Palace, haunting me across Byzantium, across the deserts and into China. Fortunately, I acted upon it. Don’t think for a second that I underestimate Jia’s sacrifice. I …” He caught his breath. “She was very dear to me.”

  “Sacrifice,” Ben said. “Why do I get the feeling she was yours?”

  The envoy winced but let that slide. Von Hart spoke of darkness and change. This Ben could understand. Someone had told him once that change was the only constant, and no creature who’d seen humanity drag itself out of the Dark Ages and into the dubious light of modern day could really argue with that. As for himself, he wasn’t the same dragon who’d come to the Great Forest, heartbroken and green, all those centuries ago. Once upon a time, he’d believed in the Lore. He’d believed in love. Time had chipped away at him and lately … well, this past year or so had seen his faith tested to the limit, his old allegiances shifting, his loyalty eventually renounced. The codes and beliefs that had formed the foundations of his world, giving him structure, a reason to go on, had all collapsed and crumbled away. Been ripped away. Standing here over the envoy, it stunned him to learn that all the chaos around him, the danger he’d faced, came down to the simplest change of all. A change of heart.

  “As I said, it worked,” Von Hart told him. “The way is open. The harp shattered. The High House has heard.”

  “Yeah, they heard you loud and clear, Blaise.” So saying, Ben brought up the sword, slammed the point down in front of Von Hart, an inch from the tip of his nose. “But I don’t think they’re dancing to your tune.”

  The envoy recoiled, perhaps shocked by his reflection in the blade. A bruise was swelling around his eye, as violet as his iris, stark against his enervated skin. Whatever pain he might feel was forgotten, however, as he took in the gleaming length of lunewrought, his gaze sliding up to the dragon-shaped hilt and the diamond-bright jewels on either end of the crossguard, looking down at him with steely regard. Then, tentatively, he reached out, his fingers trembling, for the sword.

  “Is that … Are you …?”

  “Caliburn,” the sword said. “Has it really been that long?”

  “Caliburn. The Sword of Albion,” the envoy breathed, as if the sword hadn’t spoken. “World-cleaver. Demon-slayer. Harp-breaker.”

  “Indeed. I hear that we share the last in common. You’ve been busy, hexenmeister.”

  Von Hart dropped his hand, wonderingly, a trace of his former passion gripping him.

  “Then the time has truly come. But …”

  Like chips of amethyst, the envoy turned his gaze up to Ben.

  Ben snorted. “Do I look like a king to you?”

  Von Hart didn’t bother to spare his feelings. “Nein,” he said, shaking his head. “No one could accuse you of that.”

  “The king has risen,” Caliburn said, its impatience plain. “You reforged the Cwyth, broken centuries ago at the Battle of Camlann when Arthur refused the queen’s gift. And with the harp, I understand that you lulled the Remnants to Sleep for eight hundred years, seeking to preserve them.”

  On the way here, Ben had done his best to explain, bring the sword up to speed. Inform him of the envoy’s treachery. The crisis was bad enough, the city a smouldering mess. No one should go into it blind.

  “After a fashion,” Von Hart replied. “The prophecy …”

  “Ah, yes. Who doesn’t love a prophecy?” And the sword intoned, “One shining day, when Remnants and humans learn to live in peace, and magic blossoms anew in the world, then shall the Fay return and commence a new golden age. Isn’t that how it goes?”

  “Yes.” But the envoy sounded uncertain, even a touch anxious. “That is the Queen’s Troth.”

  “Yet you grew impatient, did you not? You thought to quicken her steps, bring about the prophecy yourself. As if anyone should take her word as bond. There’s an old saying: Never trust the—”

  Ben laughed, a sharp but nonetheless hollow sound in the cavern.

  “I did what was necessary,” Von Hart snapped, visibly nettled. “What better way to save us than to reunite with the Fay? Surely, the High House can restore the failing magic and salvage this world. Haven’t we suffered enough? The Example failed and so did the Pact. Yes, I destroyed the harp. And Nimue, our queen, has seen my beacon, heard my song through the dark. She whispered in my dreams, speaking of her return. The king has awoken, hasn’t he? Ja. As a vanguard. A champion. To prepare the way.”

  Again, this should’ve been music to Ben’s ears, the prophecy come true, the long years of waiting over. Instead, his guts churned, a lump rising in his throat. There was a tone in the envoy’s voice that he’d heard before, a hint of desperation that reminded him of the Cardinal, de Gori, standing high in her lectern and greeting a dragon as if he were a visiting angel. The light in Von Hart’s eyes, a reflection of lunewrought, belonged entirely to the White Dog, however. Another breed of madness.

  “The king has awoken,” Caliburn said, confirming the matter. “Arthur and his knights march upon London, intending to reclaim the throne.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?” Von Hart looked up then, his face igniting with a mix of wonder and glee, sickening to see. “Let’s climb from this hole and greet our thane on our knees. Oh, how I’ve longed for this day. How I’ve paid for it in blood and tears. The walls of Camelot might have fallen, but their shadow stretches long even so. No more. No more will we quail in fear, crawling on our bellies in the dark. Arthur comes to deliver us. All begins anew. At last, the golden age has come!”

  Ben rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. About that …”

  Von Hart wasn’t listening to him. “Don’t just stand there,” he said. “We must ready ourselves at once. If the
king marches to London, then the queen will be on her way. The bridge has fallen. Don’t you remember? The breaking of the harp severed the ley. We can’t afford a second. We must fly to China and recover the Eight Hand Mirror. Somehow, we must rebuild the bridge. Guide the Lady to Earth …”

  Head cocked, Ben took a step back. He couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

  “You’ve lost it,” he said. “After Jia? After your lies? I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “Don’t be a fool. There’s no time. You can punish me all you like later.”

  Ben felt the heat flushing back into his face. His fingers closed into a claw.

  “Let me put this another way,” he said. “You’re not going anywhere. I get that you’ve bought the propaganda, all glorious kings, salvation and that, but I think you’re out of touch. I’ve been to the mountain, Von Hart.” He tapped his chest, the wyrm tongue sigil there, asserting some shred of authority. “I’ve seen your precious king.” And your queen. The look she gave me. “He didn’t look up for saving shit. There’s an army—”

  “But this is my duty. The reason I—”

  “—of Remnants out there. And I don’t mean the fluffy kind. Goblins, ogres, a manticore. You name it.” He shuddered to think what else by now, what creatures Arthur had summoned from the Sleep, his horn pressed to his lipless teeth. “Something is wrong. Something stinks. By the look of Arthur, I’m guessing it’s your souring magic, because he wasn’t exactly in the best shape. Maybe we should take a rain check on the whole prophecy thing, yeah? The country is in a state of panic. Shit, probably the world. I can’t see the military greeting Arthur with open arms. Can you?”