Digital Magic (The Chronicles of Art Book 2)

by Philippa Ballantine

  Helen led him upstairs and insisted he hand Ella over to her care. Before Ronan knew it, Ella’s shoes had been removed and she was ensconced in a huge overstuffed bed with a thick quilt over her. It was a human type of magic.

  “There’s just so many things going on in the village these days,” Helen fussed around the room, fluffing pillows and tugging the curtains to let the dying light fall onto the bed. “An average person just has to muddle along—even when there is,” she paused, looking down into her garden, “magic in the air.”

  It felt very odd to Ronan to hear those words come from a human mouth after so very long. He recalled those times as if they had been told to him, another person's story. He’d been Puck once. Could he be again?

  He coughed uncomfortably, “Well, I think I’ll go round to Ella’s, pick her up a few things.”

  “She’d like that.”

  Ronan brushed a curl of her hair off her face and tried to see into what was going on inside her, but the flashes of memory and identity were too chaotic to really understand. There was a fusion going on inside Ella as the different facets of her past tried to find someway to live with each other. She would either come out or dissolve into confusion. It would do her good to have some familiar things about her.

  He paused at the doorway. “You will look after her, Helen, won’t you?”

  “Don’t worry yourself.” She ushered him to the door. “You just go and do what you need to.”

  The street was quiet. Ronan passed a few villagers, and though he didn’t know their names, they all said ‘good evening’ and smiled. He thought back to another village he’d spent time in, and suddenly it didn’t seem that long ago. Recalling the easy joy he’d felt there, Ronan sighed. The young boy he’d been guarding had grown to be the greatest Bard in two realms. Yet he didn’t even know what had happened to William. At the end of things for the Bard, Puck’s own healing wounds had kept him away. He regretted that deeply. Well, things would be different this time.

  Ella’s cat was waiting quietly on the top step. She chirped and waved her black whip of a tail.

  “I fed her,” a young woman’s face peered past the jasmine-covered fence, “so tell Ella not to worry.”

  Her name was Alice, and they stood and chatted over that fence while Qoth licked her flank. She had beautiful jewel eyes and something glowed from within. She was just like any other villager of Penherem: there was quiet strength about her and a touch of ancient Art. It was what had kept Ronan in this place.

  He explained to Alice that Ella was feeling ill and might not be back to the house for a few days. She said she had no problem continuing to feed Qoth, and she’d keep an eye on the place. Smiling broadly at him, she disappeared behind the fence again.

  Qoth followed him into the cottage, watching him with those golden moon eyes but not seeming offended that he was in her domain. Ronan had spent a lot of time as a cat, and he and felines generally understood each other. Still, Qoth trailed him around the cottage as he collected a few clothes out of the wardrobe and retrieved shoes out from under the bed, stuffing them into a dark green bag.

  He was just about to leave when a sharp mew attracted his attention. Qoth was at the French windows, yowling and digging her claws into the carpet with determination. When Ronan went over to let her out he noticed a small box on the back step. He smelt the blood as he picked it up, and his throat tightened. He snatched the brown paper from around the box and lifted the lid. It was his friend’s finger. He’d noticed Bakari’s hands often enough, fiddling with that damn Line thread of his, and it was wearing Bakari’s thin silver band. Even if he hadn’t recognized the ring, his feline senses would have identified the digit by scent.

  As far as maiming went, it was not much; vat grown limbs were easy enough to get hold of, but for a threat it was clear. Thugs of all descriptions had been sending such messages for thousands of years. Somehow, it was different now that it was his friend, and possibly more than that: kin?

  It was meant for Ella, but it was definitely a good thing that she had not found it. It was his burden. Bakari was his descendant, after all. The finger smelled of someone else too, someone who was his responsibility. Knowing that Greer was in Penherem did not fill him with confidence. She was annoyed that he had not stolen the Mask as asked, and hopefully she had just taken Bakari as a precaution. Still, when he caught up with her, there would be hard words exchanged. He didn’t appreciate her cutting off fingers merely to make a point.

  Ronan waited for night to settle over the village before setting out, but he didn’t go back to Helen’s. Whatever was happening to Ella would have to sort itself out; he couldn’t risk bringing anymore trouble to her door. Once darkness arrived, he let himself out into her garden and shook off his human form. It was so easy that for a moment the black panther just reveled in it. For the last few years, even taking this shape had become increasingly difficult, but somehow tonight it was just as it used to be. Things had indeed changed, and it made Ronan’s heart lighter.

  The cat leapt over the back fence, then through the next one, and followed the smell of blood through the rest of the village. Whoever had delivered the finger had not been bothered by obstacles and as Ronan laid his nose to the scent, it too was familiar. An Unmaker's Seed; the realization stopped the panther in his tracks.

  He stood poised for a moment atop the brick wall which ran the length of the northern side of the Green. The Seed was working with Greer. The very thought made his previous hopes feel small and stupid. She’d always wanted power and magic—things the Unmaker certainly had. But even Greer couldn’t imagine the sheer weight of his hatred for creation. If she had allied herself with the master of destruction, then she had gone too deep.

  The panther leapt down from the wall and ran, low and silent across the open fields. Every cry of the nightbirds and every cloud that raced over him made him think of the things he had seen in the realm of the Unmaker—the Shattered world where he’d been chained for centuries. Ronan knew what would happen if that world was brought close to the human one and that foul touch reached out across the Between to this place. Not even the humans’ new magic would be able to save them from that.

  All the world seemed dark and unfriendly this night, but Ronan could not let that stop him. Somewhere his descendant was in deadly danger, and that came before any fears of the Unmaker. He cleared the hawthorn hedge that surrounded Penherem Hall in one fluid leap and stood panting, looking down at the lights. Unlike the last time he’d tried to break into the Hall, they’d been blazing. He could sense no life about, though the scent of Bakari’s blood certainly led him here.

  The Hall had seemed just like any other relic of British past before, but now he could sense far more. Old Earth magic had once run here. The patterns of the ancient rivers echoed in the stones that had been carved by human hands to make its walls. Puck’s senses were coming back, and with them came a deepening dread, for now he was wondering about those voices Tania Furlion heard. What could they mean in a place of ancient magics?

  This was not the time to find out. With a half voiced growl buried in his throat, the panther ran like fluid down the slight rise and across the manicured lawns. He passed the knot garden which had so interested Tania, and dimly recognized a web of Fey magic about it; one to confuse time and delay pursuers. This mystery, too, would have to wait, for the scent of blood was stronger than ever now. The rich iron taste was flooding through his feline nostrils, making his nose wrinkle and his heart beat faster.

  He leapt the fence into the back garden, where kitchen herbs were grown, and found himself in utter darkness. The front was flooded with light, but the back was in darkness, with only the slimmest of moons to compensate. It was unnerving even to a panther, though there was still just enough ambient light to let his cat eyes lead him to the backdoor. It was ajar, and beyond was the smell of blood.

  He paused there, settling on his paws for a moment. Once he went in there, he was sure it would be all on�
�there would be no time for thought. The real question was, what would he find behind these doors? Greer? Quite likely. The Unmaker’s Seed? More certainly. These were dangers, but he felt he could handle them much better than he could have even a few days ago. The Seed might be a problem. As for Greer, she was powerful only in a world lacking power. She was no match for a Fey.

  The great cat rose and yawned, showing his naked white fangs. With one velvet paw he batted the door open and slipped into the darkness beyond. The kitchen where he had first seen Ella was still and porcelain quiet. The cat shadow passed through, not noticing the surroundings, only smelling the taste of blood in the roof of his mouth. The panther’s lip curled in a wrinkled snarl as he inhaled the smell deeply.

  The Hall had layers of human scent on it: over-perfumed tourists, sweat, the bubble gum sweetness of children, but underneath there was more. His feet were silent as he went down through the maze of corridors and stairs. His eyes pierced the darkness while fear grew in his heart.

  The smell stopped abruptly at a blank wall. It was nothing that a blunt dark nose could open. Ronan shifted and used his human hands to feel around the edges of the wall, palms flat against cool stone. A slight push in the right direction, a little applied pressure, and the wall slid back on itself. It was intriguing how the humans found ways with built things. Pity that they usually put them to such terrible uses.

  It seemed that the Barons of Penherem had possessed certain appetites. The stones that led down into the dungeon spoke of terror old and new. Ronan walked in human form, his boots only marginally louder than paws would have. The passage grew progressively more damp as he progressed down the spiral staircase, until water was running under his hand like rusty tears. Though he had forsaken feline senses, his Fey ones were still sharper than a human’s, and the smell of blood was stronger than it had ever been.

  Still, Ronan would not let the worst be true, until his feet touched the bottom stair and he was faced with it. Bakari hung limp from the wall, bound with manacles. His own blood pooled around him like a dark lake. Ronan waited for a moment, letting himself take it all in, the true horror of death. For he could tell that his kin was dead, even from here: there was no sound or trace of breath, and the blood that drenched his chest could only have come from a throat wound.

  A broken breath heaved through the Fey and his own throat felt constricted. His body trembled, but with grief, not anger. The sheer unfairness of it all broke over him. Bakari had seemed more alive than any other human, and he had searched so long and hard for his mother’s magic. Now, at the very cusp of finding it, Bakari was dead.

  Even in the face of all evidence, Ronan had to be sure. There was no way he could approach without touching the blood; his boots made little sticky splosh noises. Standing in front of Bakari, he raised his head gently and took in the cruel cut which had ended his life. On the handsome face there was no terror, no realization of death in his stilled eyes. Ronan closed them gently.

  Shock had knocked the Fey. He stood there uncertain what to do, knowing that there would be no more friendly smiles, or easy friendship between them. Bakari was gone and the fact that he could never see him again was painful.

  “He didn’t feel a thing,” Greer said from the shadows. She was wearing her luminous white gown, but its pureness was spoiled at the hem where it had dragged in Bakari’s blood.

  “That’s supposed to be a comfort?” Ronan let his eyes roam past her, trying to see what horrors she’d bought with her. He would have revenge, but first he’d know her strength.

  She spread her hands and smiled back at him. Concealed in the folds of her dress had been the Winter Mask. It had been so long since he’d seen it, that its sudden appearance was a shock.

  He frowned. “If you could have stolen that thing yourself the whole time—why did you hire us to do it?”

  The corner of Greer’s mouth twitched. “You really are the most stupid Fey I’ve ever met.”

  That would have put the old Puck in a rage. Being mocked was one thing, but being underestimated was another. Ronan, though, had learned. Greer was trying to goad him, so he remained silent, edging a little away from Bakari.

  Greer shook the mask at him. “It reminds you of someone, doesn’t it? I would have thought that would make you want it even more.”

  “Well, I’m a little more cautious than I used to be.”

  “So I can see,” Greer’s eyeless face kept towards him. “A pity. Maybe your friend would still be alive if you hadn’t got so clever.”

  “All for that mask?”

  Greer shrugged and her next move was so unexpected that Ronan had only enough time for instinct to guide him: she threw it at him. It arched through the air, trailing the scent of jasmine. Ronan could hear her voice: the Queen of Fey, his cousin. Part of him still needed that. He caught it, hands going surely about the edges of the mask.

  It was like touching pure ice. Coldness shot through his arms and straight into his heart. The scent of the jasmine was sickening in his nose and the voices of the dead were loud in his ears. He was trapped in Greer’s world, where everything was tainted with fear. His eyes grew dark and his Fey soul trembled.

  Greer sighed heavily. Now that she had him, it suddenly felt wrong. He was experiencing her own particular horrors and even though it had been necessary, it was not something she’d have willingly done to another. She glanced across at Bakari’s still form. She hadn’t meant to kill him either, but the Seed needed to be fed.

  Now it was time. The moment to grasp her only chance at peace. She took the mask from Ronan’s still hands and raised it to her face. It slid on easily, and she looked out through the goddess’ eyes. It had been a clever thing for the Unmaker to do, to make a trap in the image of Ronan’s greatest desire. It was only those human instincts he’d learned over the centuries that had saved him the first time. It was a good thing that he’d also picked up the human frailty of friendship along the way—without it, this moment couldn’t have happened.

  She almost felt sorry for Ronan. He had fought hard long ago against the Unmaker, and yet his blood would bridge the gap. Once she had the greenstone mere, the last piece would be in play and then it would all be over. For both of them.

  20

  Endings

  What should she call herself? So many names whirling in her head; Aroha, Nill, Ella, and another which had never been spoken to her but was still hers—if she was willing to claim it. The woman levered herself upright in the bed. Though the memories were still settling into place, somewhere in the middle of it all, against all odds, she felt sane and complete. Her identity was slotting into this body—for she knew it was her body, even if it was made with synthetics. She’d come to see that in the whirling chaos of identity. Flesh, Fey magic, or synthetic Shell, it didn’t matter, what did count was that her spirit lived.

  She was in a plush pink room, tucked under a thick feather comforter, and the curtains were pulled. The light was from a small lamp and it illuminated the only decoration in the room, rows of full-bellied, full-breasted female figurines on the shelf. Something about them was familiar, though in whose life was impossible to tell. She brushed her hair back off her eyes and spent a long moment staring at the back of her own hand. It looked perfectly alright, but parts of her still expected to see a child’s brown or the whiteness of Fey skin.

  Suddenly feeling the weight of someone else’s regard she twisted around, heart thumping. It was only Helen; she recognized her easily, by finding the mental cubbyhole where Ella’s memories were stored. The plump little woman wasn’t smiling, but there was something of awe in her glance.

  “He said you would be fine.”

  The woman licked her lips experimentally. “Who?” She listened to her familiar yet alien voice in her own head. Was that her own?

  “Aloshon—he’s… well,” Helen stuttered, “I guess you’d say he’s a satyr—my satyr.”

  In the chaos stray thoughts started to coagulate and sort themselves
out. “One of the Fey. One of my people. The little ones can cross over first.”

  Helen blushed. “I don’t know if you’d call him ‘little’.”

  The woman was not listening; her forehead pinched in concentration, immersed by the little floods of information that were slowly forming into an understanding. Her hands wriggled under the sheets, found the smooth coolness of the greenstone mere, and suddenly she was calm. Whatever had happened, the enemy had not taken it. The little ones would not be enough to bridge the Between. If the time of healing had begun, then it would be their only chance to bring the Shattered World close to the human one. Her addled mind began to slot the pieces together.

  “He’s gone, you know,” Helen must have misunderstood her silence. She stepped closer to the bed. “He said he was going to get you a few things… but that was hours ago.”

  Dread wrapped itself around the woman’s heart. The Trickster, even after all his years in the human realm, was not a creature of careful thought. Darling Ronan, he could not have known all she now did, and he had rushed off blindly, as always. He thought he knew everything, but for once he was not the most powerful Fey left in the human world. She was.

  Helen took a step back, perhaps catching a glimpse of the Fey light about her. She looked suddenly uncertain of the woman she’d known for so long. Her guest put out her hand along the quilted comforter and smiled reassuringly. “Tell me the rest.”

  Helen sat on the edge and patted the other’s hand. “Penny and Alice banged on my door. I told them you were asleep and they said for you to meet them at the Hall’s main gate.”

  Barely were the words out of her mouth, before her guest had leapt from the bed and was stuffing her shoes on. She dragged her curls back from her face and braided them quickly. “How long ago was this?”

  “About an hour ago. I would have woken you, but Ronan said…”

  “I know. It’s alright, Helen,” she tried to soothe the guilty look off her face, attempting not to frighten the little woman. “But I need you to get the other villagers up and bring them to the Hall.”