The Threads of Magic

by Alison Croggon

  “You’ve found her?” Lamir said, attempting a smile. “That is excellent news.”

  “Indeed. I am fortunate in that I have some skill with primitive location spells. There are certain witch techniques of which you could have taken more notice. There are many things of which you should have taken more notice.” Oswald floated towards Lamir, transfixing him with his empty eyes. “So unfortunate. One mistake after another…”

  The Cardinal’s eyes narrowed. “I have no idea what you mean.”

  “To think it was your most loyal servant who betrayed you. So sad. I’m afraid I had to get rid of Ariosto. Such a talented man. And yet … so frail in the end.”

  Lamir blinked. Even in his wildest dreams, he hadn’t imagined that Ariosto might turn against him. He had nourished him from childhood, he had given him everything…

  “Alas,” said King Rudolph. “Betrayal breeds betrayal. And I do not countenance disloyalty, Lamir. However, you had your uses. On one point I agreed with you: now is the time to take power.”

  Lamir snapped out of his shock and stepped menacingly towards Rudolph. “I am thinking that this disloyalty you speak of isn’t mine,” he said. As he stood up his form dissolved, and now two Spectres faced each other, rippling with cold fire. “You know as well as I do that servants are prone to lying.”

  “Your assassin wasn’t lying,” snapped Rudolph. “I could see his thoughts. As I can see yours, despite your pathetic attempts to hide them from me.”

  Out of nowhere, a black-tongued sword appeared in Lamir’s hand. Before Rudolph could react, he swung its blade in a wide arc at his rival’s neck. There was a flash of red light, a crack of bone, and Rudolph’s head fell onto the patterned carpet with a dull thump and rolled beneath Lamir’s desk.

  Lamir relaxed, thinking for a moment that he had triumphed; but a low snicker echoed through the room. The skull kept rolling, out from beneath the desk and then around the room in ever-increasing circles, faster and faster. The headless skeleton seemed to be watching the skull with interest. As it orbited Lamir, the walls of the office wavered and vanished.

  Lamir slashed viciously at the skeleton, but it caught his blade in its bony hands. The Cardinal flinched back as if the weapon had shocked him, letting go of the hilt, and the black sword wavered and dissolved into a wisp of smoke.

  By now the skull was moving so swiftly it was barely visible, and its cold laughter was the only thing that Lamir could hear. He spun wildly, trying to keep his eyes on it, speaking words that tumbled one into another – spell words for death, destruction, maiming; but they seemed to have no effect at all on the nightmare head.

  Then, quite suddenly, the skull stopped in mid-air, its empty glare focused on Lamir. Its stillness was even more dreadful than its movement. The Cardinal watched as it moved slowly towards him, closer and closer, until it was a hand’s breadth from his face.

  “I know you have it, Lamir,” said the skull softly. “I want that spell.”

  “I don’t know which spell you speak of.”

  “The spell that unlocks the power of the Stone Heart. The key to your grimy little dreams.”

  “I … do … not…”

  The skull floated even closer. “I had hoped that, out of our long friendship, you would give this knowledge to me,” it whispered. “But no. Lamir, fool that he is, thinks he can resist even me.”

  The flames around Lamir’s form flared up in a sudden blaze, as if he were making one final, supreme effort. But even as the blaze lit up the darkness, Rudolph’s skull melded into Lamir’s, the two heads becoming one: and the flames of both Spectres were snuffed out, vanishing into the darkness of complete void, where even time doesn’t exist. And in the void, Rudolph devoured Lamir’s memory.

  After an unmeasurable moment, a light reappeared: the flames that clothed the headless skeleton flared up redly, illuminating the shelves of Lamir’s library. Rudolph’s skull was back with the rest of his body, studying the man who slumped before him: Lamir, stripped of his Spectral form, his face drained of all blood, his eyes wide with horror.

  “I am grateful for your assistance, Lamir,” said the Spectre mockingly. “However reluctantly given. But now, I fear, this is the end of our long alliance.”

  Lamir lifted his arms in one last gesture of defiance or despair, but even as he did he could feel his bones dissolving, his hands crumbling, his torso collapsing inwards. His face hung in the air for an instant, and then trickled down to the carpet in rivulets of dust.

  Rudolph walked to the mirror without looking back at the small heap of dust and vanished through its shimmering surface.

  There was a long silence, as if the chamber itself were holding its breath. It was broken by a tiny snap. A crack appeared in the centre of the mirror and began to lengthen across the glass. And then there was another, and another, until the entire surface was a spider web of cracks.

  Finally, with a musical tinkle, the mirror ballooned outwards and collapsed from its gilt frame, covering the floor with thousands of tiny glass splinters.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  IT WAS A LONG TIME SINCE HE HAD USED HIS FULL power. How many centuries? He couldn’t remember exactly; in his mind the past collapsed into a single gaping absence. All those years he had been forced to hide his true nature in the flesh of his descendants. All those moments in which he had bitten down his rage, concealed his strength, patiently building the foundations of his immortal realm, so he would never be cast down again.

  For the first time in an age he felt … joy. Yes, that was it. Joy. The exhilaration of absolute power. He could destroy this entire pathetic city if he wished. He could grind its every palace and hovel into dust. He could see the thoughts of each person inside its walls, shimmering knots of feeling that illuminated every winding street. All he had to do was swoop down, out of the shadowy realm where his soul soared, and any one of those flickering, living thoughts would be blotted out for ever.

  He had come to Clarel to ensure his mortal reign, to strengthen the line of heirs whose bodies would house his soul. The last thing he had expected to discover here was the key to absolute power in the realms of magic. But there it was: the soul of little Prince Clovis, melded by the witches into a spell that he himself was incapable of forging; the very spell that would cause their own downfall and his triumph.

  The irony was delicious.

  His heightened perceptions searching through the busy city of Clarel, he paused to savour the moment. Every life beneath his gaze was subject to his whim. Already his power was greater than anything imagined in the puny dreams of any emperor in history. Even inside the confinements of mortal bodies, his precious life constantly endangered by the frailty of flesh, he had always been the most puissant of them all: the first and the greatest of the Spectres. And soon he would be far greater. Soon even death would have no dominion.

  All he needed to set the keystone into the arch of his ambition were two souls: one flesh, one unfleshed. Once they were his, and his alone, no other Spectre could begin to challenge him.

  And even now those two souls hurried together through the tangled streets of Clarel, unaware of how he tilted above them on invisible ethereal currents, sensing his way ever closer to the soft chiming of their terror.

  Nothing could stop him now.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  AFTER PIP ABSCONDED FROM THE UNDERCROFT, HE remembered all his earlier fears about assassins. He didn’t want witches to cast some terrible spell on him, but he didn’t want to have his throat cut like poor old Olibrandis, either. And then there were the Spectres. Amina seemed to think that Spectres could track people down wherever they wanted.

  Pip rubbed his temples. His head was aching: tiredness, he guessed. He really hadn’t had enough sleep. He wished he had a safe house to go to now. Pip had spent almost his whole life learning how to slip unnoticed through the streets of Clarel, but he knew nothing about protecting himself from Spectres.

  He was lost. Not totally lost, be
cause he had a good sense of direction – like a homing pigeon, El said – but he wasn’t quite sure where he was. He knew it was somewhere near the Weavers’ Quarter, but he couldn’t seem to find a landmark: he was winding through small, anonymous streets and tiny squares, but there were no familiar buildings or statues. In the Choke Alleys he knew every blind close, every escape route, every hole. He was much less familiar with this part of the city.

  The further he went, the more uneasy he felt. Thoroughfares that he expected to be crowded were spookily empty, and sometimes the wind carried a faint noise which sounded like people shouting or even the clash of weapons. He began to have an uneasy feeling that something was leading him astray. There was, he thought, something weird going on: none of the paths he chose were leading him in the direction he wanted. He was trying to get as far away from trouble as he could, but every street he entered seemed to bring him closer instead, as if the roads twisted as soon as he entered them.

  He began to wonder if it was the witches, or maybe even Spectre magic confusing him somehow. Then he shook himself. It was probably because he didn’t have a destination in mind. His strongest instinct was to go home, but he knew he couldn’t. He didn’t have a home any more. Maybe his best bet was to scarper out of town altogether. Find a little country village, like the place he’d been born.

  We should hide in the other place, suggested Clovis.

  What other place?

  Where we were before you made me bring everyone back. It’s safer there.

  I’m damned if I’m going back into that Rupture, said Pip, with an effort. It was getting hard to argue with someone inside his own head. It’s horrible there.

  El liked it, didn’t she? We could bring El and Oni with us, and then we wouldn’t be lonely. We would all be friends.

  You did something to El to make her like it, said Pip. That wasn’t nice.

  Nobody can find us there, said Clovis. Not even my father.

  What’s your father got to do with it?

  I think he’s looking for us, said Clovis.

  What? Pip pulled up short outside an abandoned butcher’s shop. How do you know?

  A rush of feeling tore through him: mostly fear, but mixed with longing. It took him a moment to realize that it was Clovis. It was getting more and more difficult to tell his own thoughts from Clovis’s.

  I can hear someone calling me, said Clovis.

  This is bad, thought Pip, and for a moment the confusion lifted: that was definitely his own thought. This is very bad…

  Isn’t your father dead? asked Pip.

  He misses me, said Clovis.

  He doesn’t miss you, said Pip. He just wants to use you. Didn’t you listen to the witches?

  You only think that my father is bad because of what the witches said. But you can’t trust witches.

  You’re talking to your father?

  No. Again a pause. But I can hear him. He’s calling me…

  As if a door had opened inside his head, Pip could suddenly hear him too. If it was hearing. He couldn’t understand any actual words, but he didn’t need to: the meaning was clear. A soft, melodious voice, full of love and regret, calling to Pip. No, not Pip. Calling to Clovis. Come home, be safe, be happy, be loved, you will never again be alone…

  For a moment, Pip almost fell into the lure of the enchantment, feeling the seduction of its promise. But the streetwise part of him flicked alert. And then he did hear a voice, speaking as clearly as if there was a person just ten feet away.

  Come home, Clovis, my dear boy. Come home…

  Underneath its bewitching music, Pip sensed something hard and chilling. Something … deadly.

  He’s lying, said Pip sharply. Don’t even think about it. Don’t you dare tell him where I am.

  Who are you to question the honour of a royal? And suddenly the trusting child that Clovis had been for the past few hours was gone, and the princely arrogance was back.

  I’m me, said Pip. Your friend. Pip. Remember?

  Come home… The voice was even stronger now, and Pip struggled with an overpowering longing to answer that voice, to say yes, to give in and run towards it. He could feel the aching void inside Clovis, the desire for a father who loved him. Clovis was shutting himself against Pip, turning away.

  Don’t answer him, Pip said to Clovis. Don’t. It will be the end of us both. Don’t you care about me?

  Pip’s headache was getting worse and worse, a throbbing pain. He clutched his brow, stumbled against the wall of a house, and slid down.

  Princes have no friends, said Clovis.

  No wonder, thought Pip bitterly.

  Come home, my son. Come home and be with those who love and understand you.

  Pip gasped and bit his lip, trying to will the voice out of his head. It was bad enough having Clovis there, but this as well? He could feel its malignance: it beat against him as heat beats out of a fireplace. At the same time, he could feel Clovis surrendering. He was drowning in a wash of confused feelings that weren’t his own, that were somehow wound through the very fibre of his being.

  I’m Pip, he told himself. Me. Pip. Me. Not anybody else.

  He tried to push everything away, to think.

  It’s a trick, he said desperately. Your father’s dead. Even as he said it, he thought that was a ridiculous thing to say to a dead boy. It can’t be your father…

  Don’t be a clod, said Clovis. Don’t you think I remember my own father?

  I don’t remember mine, said Pip. He died of typhus. Anyway, they killed King Odo. The witches said he was destroyed. They cut his head off with an axe. This isn’t him.

  It is my father, said Clovis, but now there was doubt in his voice.

  Can’t you feel it, you pea-brain? It just wants to eat you. In any case, your real father never gave a spit for you. He just wanted to eat you as well.

  He felt Clovis’s anger like a spike in his temple. My father is a king, said Clovis indignantly. It’s different for kings. You don’t understand. You can’t, you’re just a commoner.

  “I am full of love for my son,” said the voice. This time it wasn’t inside Pip’s skull.

  In the street before them stood a tall man with a pale face, clad in a dark green cloak. He had a simple gold chain about his neck, and a gold brooch on his shoulder, and he was smiling.

  Father!

  The gladness in Clovis’s voice made Pip’s heart lurch with unexpected pity. This must be the semblance of Clovis’s father. The man who had been turning Clovis into a vessel for the Spectre’s soul. He had never loved Clovis, no matter how much Clovis longed for his love. Surely Clovis knew that. How lonely did you have to be?

  Pip looked up into the man’s eyes. All he saw there was cold, bottomless greed. His insides dissolved in naked terror.

  In that moment, he knew that Clovis felt what he was feeling.

  No, said Clovis.

  The vision shimmered and reformed. The King’s face shrivelled to a skull, with empty sockets where his eyes should have been. He was clothed in livid flame, and through the fire Pip could see his skeletal form. He was floating closer, his bony hands stretching out, and around Pip there was only darkness, swallowing everything else.

  So that’s what a Spectre looks like, Pip thought. I wish I hadn’t seen it.

  He closed his eyes, but it made no difference: he could still see the terrible vision before him. He felt as if his soul were being sucked out of his body, as if the Spectre were a spider, already draining the fluids of its victim.

  Pip screamed. There was a flash of searing green light and a weird jolt, as if the ground itself had jumped. Oh no, thought Pip. The Rupture. Then he blacked out.

  When he came to, his eyes were still squeezed shut. Very slowly, he opened them and blinked, dazzled. Had Clovis thrown him into the Rupture again? Which was worse, the Rupture or the Spectre?

  He decided that the Spectre was definitely worse.

  He was crouched on the cobbles of a tiny lane that r
an between two shabby, crooked buildings. A beam of sunlight, finding its way unsullied through the leaning hovels and walls of Clarel, struck him straight in the face.

  It didn’t seem like being in the Rupture. And anyway, there hadn’t been that weird flashing tunnel. Somehow it felt … solid. Gingerly Pip reached out and touched the cobbles with his fingers. There was a pile of dried horse dung just next to him. The fragrance filled his nostrils. He had never thought that he could be so happy to see good honest horse droppings.

  I’m sorry, said Clovis, in a tiny voice.

  What happened?

  I took us to another place. Not the other place. This place.

  Pip shook his head. You’re gabbling, Clovis. I don’t understand…

  I couldn’t take us far. We’re round the corner from where we were. But he can’t see us now.

  It wasn’t your father, was it? Pip said it as a statement.

  No. Clovis’s voice broke. But even if it had been… He went silent again.

  Even if it had been … what? said Pip.

  You were right. My father never cared for me. Not like you do. You left the witches for me and you put yourself in deadly peril. It was dishonourable to bring you into danger after your sacrifice.

  Dishonourable, thought Pip. Right. I suppose so.

  Spectres are worse than witches, Pip said. Much worse. Much, much, much worse.

  Clovis didn’t say anything for a long time. Pip stood up slowly, brushing off his clothes. Every muscle was sore, as if he had been beaten all over, and his head was still aching, but it felt different from before. Then he had felt like his skull might burst, as if something was trying to prise open the bones and force itself inside.

  He looked around, trying to work out where he was. Some nameless little alley, with shuttered windows and a bad smell. It definitely seemed like Clarel. A mangy dog fossicking for scraps in a midden stared at him and sniffed curiously, but there was nobody else close by.