by Jan Siegel
‘Nathan can’t help,’ Woody said. ‘He looked for me, but I was afraid … He can’t help. It would come after him.’
‘I’ll take care of Nathan,’ Bartlemy promised. ‘You were following the man in the wood, weren’t you? The man in grey. I expect Nathan asked you to watch, so you watched him. You saw what killed him. That’s why you’re afraid.’
‘Water,’ Woody said more softly than ever, as if he feared the breeze would overhear. ‘It looked human, but it was made of water. It drowned the man, with its fingers. It chased him off the road, and hit him on a tree, and drowned him.’
‘Did it see you?’
‘Saw me. I ran, but it came after. I hid, but it was searching. Then the other man called it. Nenufar.’
‘There was another man?’
Bartlemy walked briskly back to Thornyhill, letting Woody follow at his own pace. ‘Stay near the walls,’ he had told him, ‘in the herb garden. Nothing evil goes near my herb garden. I’ll see the dog doesn’t bother you.’ Woody had seemed comforted, as if telling what he had seen had freed him from a burden. Bartlemy entered the house without looking back; he knew better than to check on him. Another refugee, he thought with the flicker of a smile. One moves out, a new one moves in. Who next, I wonder?
But he had other things on his mind. Nenufar. It was a French word for a water lily, but in the language of magic it meant a sea-flower, venomous and many-tentacled, beautiful and lethal. No doubt one of many names for the elusive water-spirit, the name used by the man who had summoned it, who controlled it, who told it to kill. A deadly partnership in quest of the Grimthorn Grail … Woody hadn’t recognized the man, of course. But Bartlemy thought he could recognize him, and he wasn’t happy about it.
In the kitchen, Hoover greeted his master with an imperative bark.
‘What is it?’ Bartlemy asked.
The dog trotted into the drawing room, and barked again at the flashing light on the answering machine. Bartlemy played back Annie’s message and tried to call her, but there was no reply. ‘She may be on her way here,’ he reflected. ‘No matter. The important thing is to do what we can for Nathan. Now. Annie can take care of herself.’
The sun had moved round, and the shadow of the cliff lengthened across the sand. Nathan stood close to the rock-face, nerving himself for a final, desperate dash, trying to decide which way to run. Kwanji had got past the Grokkul, so it must be possible; he should have asked her how she did it, which path she chose, but it was too late now. He thought of holding the Grail out in front of him, in the hope that the magic might afford some kind of protection; in stories, objects of power would do something – well – powerful under such circumstances. That was what they were for. But when he looked at the cup in daylight it appeared somehow reduced by the glare, drained of its greenish hue, the coiling pattern almost worn away, the few gems which adorned it dull as pebbles. He wanted to picture it glowing with a holy radiance which would burn anyone who touched it, or lightning flashing from the bowl which would scorch the Grokkul to a cinder. But it looked too ordinary, too cup-like, and he suspected that even if it were capable of such things, he would need to know the spell words first. He recalled the one he had heard the Grandir use, in the chamber of crystals: ‘Fia!’ – but nothing happened. He tucked the cup back inside his suit, and returned to checking out the terrain.
There came a moment when, gazing upwards, he thought he saw spots dancing before his eyes, perhaps because of the sun-dazzle. But the spots didn’t vanish, they grew and darkened, descending lazily on the thermals, becoming winged shapes with arrow-tipped tails, and pointed muzzles. Wild xaurians. Their leader was white; the others were black, or piebald. One of them dived suddenly, snatching up some small creature which was scurrying across the sand. They helped Kwanji once before, Nathan said to himself. Maybe they had helped her again. Maybe they’ll help me. He felt a sudden, impossible surge of hope, and forgetful of the slumbering monster he waved and called to them, though he knew they understood no tongue. But they continued to wheel and turn, scanning the ground for prey, ignoring him. Presently two of them swooped down simultaneously, landing on the twin boulders which marked the arch of the Grokkul’s spine. They began snapping at each other, tails lashing, obviously fighting over whatever they had managed to catch. The sand below them twitched and slid – Nathan cried out in warning – the monster’s head detached itself from the desert floor and swung round. The remaining xaurians dived all at once, darting in and out, slashing at the impenetrable hide with toothed beak and taloned wing. For a few seconds Nathan watched, riveted; then he recollected himself, and began to run. The ground shook with the pounding of the Grokkul’s tail and the shifting of its huge feet, but all its attention was on the xaurians. He sprinted down the slope and plunged into an old watercourse, using the meagre cover to pause and look back.
His escape was still unobserved. The Grokkul’s blue tongue flicked out, uncoiling like a whiplash, but the mob knew their enemy well; they were too quick for it. Nathan wanted to stay, cheering them on, though he knew they could do the monster no real harm; but he had to move on. He doubted that he would get very far, the distance to Arkatron was too great, and he was without food or water. Still, no desert was utterly deserted, according to all the nature programmes he had ever seen: cacti retained moisture, and there might be insects he could eat, if he grew hungry enough to try. And surely Halmé would send someone to look for him, if he didn’t return. He followed the dry watercourse, gauging his direction by the sun, thinking that once darkness fell the multiple moonrise should keep him more or less on track.
The path descended into a hollow, where the long-lost river must have attempted to carve itself a shallow valley; his view was cut off by banks of rock. Cooling shade covered him. Then, rounding a bend, he found his way blocked. The white xaurian stood there, wings folded, head a-tilt, watching him with one red eye. A probing ray of sunlight touched its body, glittering off scales too fine to see. Nathan stopped. ‘Thank you for your help,’ he said. Annie had always emphasized the importance of courtesy, and he hoped the meaning, if not the words, might be understood.
The xaurian didn’t move.
He considered simply walking past it, or retracing his steps a little way and climbing out of the hollow, but somehow that seemed offensive. Besides, it was clearly intelligent; he wouldn’t be able to evade it, if it was determined to find him. He took a pace nearer. It was smaller than a domesticated xaurian, but still many times bigger than a boy, and it looked in some way sharper, faster and warier than its cousins. More dragonish. Its head swivelled so it could study him with the other eye, suddenly reminding him of Woody. He walked right up to it, and laid a hand on its neck. The shoulders lowered; the wings dipped. ‘Okay,’ he said, more to himself than the reptile. ‘Here we go.’ He swung his leg across its back, just in front of the wing-joints where the saddle would have been on an ordinary mount, and heaved himself astride. There was nothing to hold on to, no pommel, no reins, and he supposed rather wildly that he would have to trust to balance or grip the neck. And then he felt the ground shudder, and the coughing roar of the Grokkul was growing louder, nearer –
He clung on with all his limbs as the xaurian reared, beating its wings into a gale, rising almost vertically out of the hollow. The Grokkul’s wide skull loomed directly ahead, rushing towards them like an airship, then splitting into a gargantuan maw overcrowded with several kinds of teeth. The tongue was unleashed; a band of muscle a foot thick, its pitted surface gleaming with mucus that clung like glue. The breath from a jaw clogged with the fragments of old meals made Nathan retch. But the xaurian swerved – he clamped his arms around its body, slipping sideways – the tongue whooshed past, barely missing him – a dollop of spittle landed on his suit. And then they were away, soaring skywards. Far behind, the other xaurians screamed in triumph, and the Grokkul roared, and the thumping of its tail churned the desert into a sandstorm.
It was a while before Nathan dare
d to slacken his hold, and try to sit up. Not only was the creature bareback, leaner and more lithe than his former mount, but it was unaccustomed to being ridden, and angled its flight to the right or the left with no regard for his safety. Eventually, he was able to get his legs firmly tucked round its belly under the wing-joints and he felt confident enough to straighten up, but ready to drop forward onto its neck at the first serious jolt. He had been too busy staying on to note their direction, but when he saw the position of the two moons – Astrond had not yet risen – he judged they were going more or less the right way. Presumably the xaurian knew the route. Every so often he thought he might start to enjoy himself, as he had on the flight out, but then the reptile would tilt to one side or the other and he would be hanging on for dear life again. It was like trying to ride a roller-coaster with no security bar and a seat like a greased log. And all the while at the back of his mind there was the thought that Raymor was dead, and Kwanji was dead – and they had died because of him. He didn’t really know why he had been chosen to live, or what crooked fate would have made such a choice.
Astrond had just put in an appearance when he saw the dunes giving way to abandoned fields, and the city lights showed as a glow beyond the horizon, staining the sky. Soon the suburbs were spreading below them, a sprawling maze picked out in arches and trails of glitter-points, like a luminous game of join-the-dots. Then the buildings grew taller, and rank upon rank of windows wound past them, and skimmers dodged and dived, eyelights yawing across their path; but the xaurian never blinked. Ahead the towers climbed higher and higher, until they reached the central point where a single spire out-topped them all, crowned with its own stars. Nathan knew that was where he had to go, and the xaurian responded to his nudging feet and urging voice. They circled the tower while he looked for the right landing platform, opting for a small one on the roof of a secondary turret which he decided was familiar. ‘There,’ he said, leaning forward to indicate the place. The xaurian plunged – he almost slipped over its head – and pulled up abruptly on the narrow eyrie. Nathan rolled off.
There was no sign of the gauntleted assistant who had brought food, so he said: ‘Wait. I’ll get you something,’ trusting it would understand. Then he activated the internal communicator in his hood with a code word and called Halmé.
He was still afraid of interception but she came, and alone. On her orders a man with a food bucket appeared, but he wouldn’t go near the xaurian, who hissed at him, mouth open, flexing its wings. Nathan took the bucket himself, offering it to his companion, feeling secretly rather proud that the reptile gave him special treatment, though he was aware he had done nothing to earn it. When it had eaten, it flew off, arrowing between buildings, the lights strobing its flanks so that it flashed white and black, white and black, until it was lost to view.
‘What happened?’ asked Halmé. ‘How did you tame it?’
‘I didn’t,’ Nathan said. ‘It just decided to help.’ Like dolphins in stories. Like god-beasts in legends. If the stories and legends are true.
She didn’t ask any more questions till they got back to her chambers. He took off the protective suit, keeping hold of the cup, waiting for her to ask about Raymor, but all she said was: ‘You must be hungry.’
She went out and returned with a tray of food, food that looked pretty and tasted bland and artificial, as if the flavour had been injected afterwards. There was fruit without zest, and fish that had clearly never seen the sea, with a green speckled sauce with an echo of parsley, and a deep yellow sauce that had nothing to do with butter. Nathan ate politely, since it was expected of him, and Halmé watched every mouthful, her expression brimming with concern, touching him from time to time as if to be sure he was real. He had put the Grail on the table, but although she glanced at it all her attention was for him.
‘You know Raymor died,’ he said at last, unable to go on eating. ‘The Grokkul took him.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Doesn’t matter? He gave his life – he died for me. You said you’d known him since childhood –’
‘Please … don’t be angry with me, don’t be disappointed in me. I can’t bear that. Ray feared death, but he also wanted it. We all do. It has been like this for so long, not living, not dying, just waiting, waiting for an end that doesn’t come. Like the last second of life, stretched out to endure for an eternity. When you feel that way, death is welcome – if you have the courage. I know Ray must’ve died bravely.’
‘Yes,’ said Nathan. ‘He was very brave.’
‘Then his death meant something. He was fortunate. It is a long time since life meant anything to me.’
He told her everything then, even about Kwanji Ley, though it felt a little like betrayal. But surely he couldn’t betray someone who had died.
‘She was mad,’ Halmé said, and he thought she looked regretful. ‘The neo-salvationists could not perform a Great Spell. They haven’t the knowledge, or the power. They would break the pattern, and the world would end, swallowed in fire, and it would all be over.’
‘I thought you wanted it over,’ Nathan said.
‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘but I fear the death I want. I am not as brave as Ray. Or you. You are young in years, younger than the youngest thing that lives on our planet, yet you have ventured into an unknown world to save your friend, and you found the Grail, and defied the Grokkul, and won a wild xaurian to be your steed. If legends were true, you would be a hero.’ She had echoed his thought, and something about that disturbed him. ‘In legends, there were angels who appeared as children, beings of light and love. Angels and heroes. But I was taught that all legends are lies. I think we should be wary of them. I want to believe, but I dare not.’ She smiled her magical smile, filling her face with sudden light. ‘Still, for tonight, you are a hero to me. My special hero.’
She is just a woman, he thought, but she’s beautiful. In her face, the legends do come true.
He said: ‘I want to go home now. The Grail will be safe in my world. That’s where it’s meant to be – till the time comes. But I can’t get back.’ He pushed up his sleeve, where the Mark of Agares had been scrubbed off his arm. ‘I can’t find the way.’
‘You said … you were dreaming.’
‘Not any more. I’m here, really here. I slept in the cave, and woke. The place in my mind is shut.’ Now the immediate danger was over, panic was sneaking back, paralysing thought. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘We will find the way,’ Halmé said.
In the empty bookshop, Annie’s phone was ringing for the third time that morning. No one answered; Annie didn’t have a machine, she rarely needed one. At the other end, Pobjoy hung up, gazing moodily at his desk. The shop should be open by now. Was she busy? – was she out? – had Nathan done a bunk? It seemed wildly unlikely. Nonetheless, he was uneasy. After a few moments’ thought, he summoned Sergeant Hale.
‘We’re going back to Eade,’ he told her. ‘I want this business cleared up. As far as it’s possible to clear it up, anyway. I’m damned if I’m going to let this theft turn into another unsolved crime statistic.’
They went out to the car park – ‘We’ll take mine’ – and Pobjoy drove off purposefully towards the village.
Annie was admitted to Riverside House by the cleaner, who told her in faltering English that Madam was in London and Mr Addison had gone shopping in Crowford. Sainsbury’s, Annie deduced. She asked if he would be long, but this seemed to defeat the girl’s linguistic abilities so Annie did her best to explain, using simple words and gestures, that she would wait. The cleaner returned to her chores for about twenty minutes, cleared away the dusters and the Dyson, stared at Annie in evident bewilderment, shrugged, and left. Alone in the house again, Annie wondered how long Michael would be. She prowled around downstairs, keeping her ears open for any sound, wondering if Rianna really was in town and trying not to second-guess the clock. As always when you are waiting for something, time stretched out. She had escaped th
e waiting at the bookshop, only to find herself caught in the same trap here. Frustrated, she tried the door to Rianna’s tower, but it was locked as usual. But it must be the spirit who locked it, she reasoned, not the real Rianna. Michael would notice if his wife never went into her own private rooms. And the spirit, surely, couldn’t carry the key, not if it was turning back into water at regular intervals. So … the key must be around somewhere. She opened drawers in the kitchen and living room, ran up to the master bedroom to check the dressing table and fumbled in coat-pockets and a couple of unused handbags. Now she had something to do, something other than waiting, she did it, feverishly. Drawing a blank, she stopped to think, considering the nature of the spirit and the unknown individual, witch or wizard (Bartlemy said it would have to be someone Gifted) who had called it up. Someone who remained in the background, unseen, perhaps using Effie Carlow as a spy and the water-demon as a killer. Someone who wanted the Grail to open the Gate between worlds. But the spirit would’ve retained the key; there would be no need to pass it on. Where would a water-spirit hide something?
Even before she had finished the thought, she was in the bathroom. There was nothing in cupboard or cabinet but when she lifted the lid on the lavatory cistern there it was, glinting through the water. A key. It had to be the one. A human would have placed it under a stone or a flowerpot but for a sea-spirit the logical place was in water. Annie rolled up her sleeve to retrieve it. Of course, there could be nothing of importance concealed in the tower, but …
She didn’t want Michael to come back now. Not yet. Not till she knew. (If the tower hid no sinister secrets, she could put the key back, and she needn’t even mention taking a look.)
She made her way to the locked door, inserted the key with a hand that trembled slightly. It fitted. She turned it and pushed the door open.
She was in a kind of study-cum-sitting room, much like Michael’s in his tower but more cluttered. Publicity stills of Rianna in various roles crowded the walls, often alongside far more celebrated stars. There was a sofa with embroidered cushions, a desk littered with newspapers and magazines, an expensive flat-screen TV, a video, DVD, sound system. A silver laptop stood open on the low table, with an empty mug beside it. A bookcase curved with the wall, filled with elaborate editions of the classics – unread, Annie thought – and the fat glossy spines of coffee-table books on subjects like costume and origami and the jewellery of the Russian royal family. Oddly, it was the one room in the house that bore the stamp of a personality – a rather actressy personality, with artistic inclinations, all very predictable. Except for the smell. A faint, sweetish, sickly smell that caught her straight in the gut. She peered into the mug and saw it was full of fur, though somewhere underneath there was what might have been a piece of lemon. Lemon tea, Annie concluded. Watching her weight. She glanced at one of the newspapers on the desk, and saw it was months out of date. She was conscious of her pulse-beat intensifying, shaking at her chest. But she couldn’t go back now. A twisting stair led to the upper chamber, all white-painted iron fretwork. The treads creaked beneath her feet.
