Elfland

by Freda Warrington

  “Luc and I saw something in the Abyss,” Rosie whispered. She shivered, remembering. “It looked like a colossal statue, but it was more—like a living creature, petrified or frozen to black ice. I don’t know. But I remember thinking, it only stays quiet while Lawrence is vigilant. And it looked at Lucas. Turned its head and stared right at him.”

  “Our imaginations spin solid realities in the Spiral.” Auberon exhaled. “How useless were my schemes to shield you from all this. So if Lawrence is training Lucas in the same vigilance . . . that’s understandable . . . but what kind of life is that for Luc? I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. It needs to end, Rosie, but I don’t know how.”

  ______

  The white walls of the farmhouse were covered by ivy and vines. Behind it stood a long modern barn like an industrial unit; in front was a glorious view of fields folding down into the valley of Cloudcroft, rising again on the far side to High Warrens. The farmyard to the side of the house was rutted with reeking green mud that clung to Sam’s boots as he approached.

  He was trying to remove the worst of it on a boot-scraper when Dr. Meadowcroft—he could never think of Rosie’s aunt as Phyll—answered the door. “Jon’s in the kitchen,” she said briskly. “His turn to wash up; a little something to help earn his keep.” She gave her friendly-but-formal smile. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  Jon was leaning against a big oblong sink, lethargically drying plates on a red and white tea towel. He was dressed in his usual grunge style, and the strapping was off his leg and his wrist. Sam glanced around. The room was large, unpretentious and shabby, filled with the earthy smell of animals and damp coats. Cooking pots hung from a ceiling rack. There was a confidence about the place that made him feel strangely nostalgic.

  “So, what’s going on?” said Sam.

  His brother jerked like a startled deer. “Nothing.”

  “Well, good.” Sam raised his eyebrows. “I wasn’t accusing you of anything. Just wondering how long you plan on hiding away here?”

  Jon sighed, slinging the towel over his shoulder. “Got nowhere else to go, have I?”

  “Where’s the wicked stepmother?”

  “Gone out. She lunches with friends so she can bitch about Father.”

  “I’m amazed she’s still here at all.” Sam jumped up to sit on a counter.

  “I suppose she’s waiting to see what she can get out of him. She’s hired this solicitor . . . I’m sure she’s screwing him.”

  “Jealous?” Sam said thinly.

  “Hardly.” Jon looked disgusted. “I told you, that’s long over. I wish to god it had never happened. We’ve got rooms at opposite ends of the house—I’ll show you if you don’t believe me!”

  “All right, don’t have a fit. I believe you. Did you know Lucas is at Stonegate?”

  “Mm.” Jon became interested in putting cutlery away. “Yeah, I heard.”

  “You spoken to him?”

  “No. He can call me if he wants.”

  “Aren’t you even curious as to what he’s doing there?”

  “No,” said Jon, tight-lipped. “He can fuck himself.”

  “I’m sure he will,” said Sam. “There’s nothing else to do at Stonegate.”

  A silence. Then Jon asked, “How about you? Still shagging Rosie?”

  Sam smiled broadly. “Yes, thank you.”

  “I can’t believe it. I thought her parents would drive you out of town with shotguns. I thought you and I might go on the run together.”

  “Her parents like me.”

  Jon laughed. “Did you hypnotize them?”

  “Let’s say I’m on probation.”

  “I’m pleased for you. Got your life all sorted out.”

  Sam exhaled. “You could too, if you put your mind to it. It’s not bleeding quantum physics.”

  “You think it’s that easy? Our mother couldn’t leave fast enough, Father hates me, best friend turns on me, nutcase jealous husband tries to kill me—I thought Sapphire gave a damn, until I realized I’m only useful as a thing to torment Lawrence with. Yet that’s all I’ve got left—her.”

  “You’ve got me.” Sam was more sharp than sympathetic. “But you won’t let anyone near you. Have you spoken to Father since you left?”

  Jon frowned at him. “No. What am I supposed to say? ‘Oops, sorry about doing unspeakable things with my stepmother—the very memory disgusts me, if that’s any consolation?’ I can never speak to him again, Sam. I can never be anything, or do anything, with Lawrence hanging over me like a death vulture.”

  Jon’s hollow tone shocked Sam. “Don’t talk about him like that. I think he’s ill.”

  “He’s not ill. He’s plain evil.”

  “No. I think—if he knew about Mum—he’d see reason.”

  Jon threw knives into a drawer with some force. “The only way we’re going to see our mother again is if we take Lucas away from Lawrence and make him reopen the Gates.”

  Sam groaned. “How? Burst in with a hand grenade? Don’t be daft. You won’t do anything, Jon; you never do. You’re just angry. We need to be patient until Lawrence relents and starts talking. Shit, I sound like Auberon.”

  “You’re still on Father’s side, aren’t you?”

  “There are no sides.” Sometimes, Sam thought, the temptation to slap Jon was practically irresistible. “I’m pretty furious with him, but still, if anyone attacked him, I’d defend him to the death.”

  Jon’s eyelids fell. His mouth was grim, his body rigid. “Auberon never did a thing to help the Vaethyr. At least Comyn’s heart is in the right place, even if he is like a bull at a gate.”

  “Anyway, just wanted to be sure you’re all right,” said Sam, jumping down off the counter. “I’ll go. So you’ll be here for a while, will you?”

  “Looks like it.” Jon shook his hair back and gave a defiant smile. “Give my love to Rosie.”

  “Sure.” Sam pursed his lips. “D’you realize, this is the most work I’ve ever seen you do? You want to be careful. Comyn will have you outside feeding cows and shoveling shit next.”

  Sapphire liked the farmhouse. She appreciated its solid honesty. She’d spent a great deal of effort with new fittings and decor, trying to brighten Stonegate’s atmosphere, but nothing had worked. Its chilly, sour nature always bled through, like a stain that could not be painted over. Phyll and Comyn’s house might be plain, but it had no secrets.

  Their kindness to her had restored her faith in Aetherial nature, to some extent. They’d taken her in because Lawrence had hurt her; they trusted her, and she appreciated that. They had little in common but hatred of Lawrence, yet it was a surprisingly strong and motivating bond.

  Jon was in a bad mood at supper. Apparently Sam had visited, but Jon was tight-lipped.

  Comyn had called a meeting that evening. Dissatisfied Aetherials were coming from other parts of the country, even from overseas. It was to be held late, in secret, as if they were rebels in a police state. Just before it was due to begin, the kitchen lightbulb blew. It seemed an omen. Phyllida made a fruitless search for a spare, voicing exasperation that she and Comyn might work all hours but surely one of them could remember to stock up on such a basic item? With visitors beginning to arrive, she set a monster of an oil lamp on the table instead.

  Should Aetherials be slaving like humans, as doctors, farmers, builders? Sapphire wondered. Didn’t they have the charisma and wealth to let others slave for them? Why did they do it? Even Lawrence, with a team of workers to command, was only truly happy shut in his workshop cutting gems with his own hands. Strange people.

  Soon the oily glow lapped the faces of thirty Aetherials, leaving the corners of the room in shadow. Sapphire felt out of place. She was the only human here yet she’d won their trust because she wanted what they did: to destroy Lawrence. That knowledge gave her confidence. She could match their poise and purpose—and anything she couldn’t match, she could certainly fake.

  Jon, seated next to her, looked drawn and shaky. C
omyn’s eyes sparked like hot iron. Phyllida was unemotional and deathly serious.

  The others, Sapphire barely knew. She remembered some from the ill-fated Christmas party long ago; they’d all been among the crowd that had heckled Lawrence. Flame-haired Peta Lyon and her sisters, the Tullivers, the Staggs and others. Lamplight drew out their otherworldly sheen, a mother-of-pearl glow. They wore no masks, yet she faintly perceived their animal affinities, which startled her. A feline tilt to an eyebrow, a bird-of-paradise flounce to the hair. Something of Stonegate, the energy of albinite perhaps, had penetrated her after all.

  The table seated eight. The rest stood around in the shadows. Some stood behind her, which made her skin prickle.

  Comyn folded his hands and sat in pointed silence for a minute. Then he said, “Most of you have been with me from the beginning. We welcome Sapphire since, in her commitment to our cause, she’s proved a truer Aetherial than some I could name.”

  Sapphire felt a small glow of pride, but suppressed it. This was . . . a strange kind of treason. Like planning the assassination of Caesar. “Do you all understand that, from this moment, you cannot back out?” He continued, “We require your vow not to speak a word of this to those we can’t trust, specifically Sam Wilder, any member of Auberon Fox’s family, and Lawrence himself. If anyone objects, let them speak now.” No one did. “It is an ancient ritual, not enacted for centuries. It will take Lawrence completely off guard, but he’ll know precisely what it means. Every Vaethyr will know.”

  Phyllida said, “At Cloudcroft Show on the fifth of May there will be hundreds of people gathered in the village. The Beast Parade, which Comyn and I have organized for years, will provide the perfect cover.”

  “Once it begins, it cannot be stopped,” Comyn went on. “Others will be drawn into the wake, like a flood.”

  Phyllida added, “Every Vaethyr here has a dozen others who, although they won’t be told our precise objective for security reasons, will be poised to join in.”

  “Lawrence must surrender,” said Comyn. “He will have no choice. And Lucas will be in friendly hands again. According to Jon, he is the solution to this stalemate.”

  Jon seemed to glow pale in the spotlight of their attention. His shoulders were raised, his head bowed. “It’s true. Luc is the new Gatekeeper.”

  “And you’re certain you wish to take part?” Phyll asked carefully. “Lawrence is still your father. After this moment, you can’t withdraw.”

  “I’m certain! I’m no longer his son.” Jon spoke with animal fierceness. Sapphire imagined them all as a wolf pack, sighting their prey with moon-yellow eyes and focused intent. She quivered with grim excitement.

  Comyn caught her gaze for a split second. “Now’s the time for us to make our vows.” He folded his weathered hands on the table. “Every person present will swear secrecy and fidelity. Not to breathe a word to any who would oppose us. To follow the ritual through to its bitter end. Any who betray their vow will face bitter punishment.”

  Phyllida had a pretty green-glazed rice bowl and a scalpel. With medical efficiency she went around the circle, making a small cut in each left wrist and catching the drops. Once the blood was mixed, Comyn rose and made the second circuit, dipping his thumb to paint each forehead with a smudged red spiral.

  Sapphire felt sick as she submitted. The blood was cold and sticky. She wondered, Does this make me one of them? No going back now. It felt, irrationally, like a horrible betrayal. How much worse it felt for Jon, she couldn’t imagine.

  “I’ll be the huntsman,” said Comyn. “Who will be the hunted?”

  “I will,” said Jon.

  “Oh—Jon dear, are you sure?” Sapphire said, before she could stop herself. She shouldn’t have spoken. Of course it must be Jon.

  He responded to her concern with a look of sullenly blazing anger. “Yes, who else but me?”

  “He’s your father,” she said quietly. “It will be on your conscience for the rest of your life.”

  “Yes, and so it should be! Who should bring him down, but his own son? It’s poetic justice,” he said bitterly. “Who can do it, but me?”

  23

  The Tears of the Caged God

  Lucas was frightened. It had taken him weeks to admit it to himself. Admitting it made it real.

  Lawrence was teaching him, indeed; lessons in sheer terror of the Gates and what lay beyond. He instructed Lucas in every trick of opening Lychgates, half-gates, aligning portals within the labyrinth to enter any realm directly . . . but more than that, the arts of sealing, protecting, locking. Once the Great Gates were fully open, Lawrence told him, every portal on Earth would open along with them and nothing would hold Brawth back.

  The teaching was all theory. Lucas wondered if he’d ever be allowed actually to touch the Gates. Lawrence seemed compelled to pour all his knowledge into him, at the same time warning him constantly against the dangers of putting theory into practice.

  At these times, Lawrence would talk late into the night. Luc had to bring him coffee and food, otherwise he would consume nothing but whisky. They would usually sit in the library, with only a desk light to soften the cavernous gloom, and the tall net curtains shifting with every draft.

  “I’ve often thought of the ice giant as a figment of my deranged mind,” Lawrence told him. “But in the Spiral, dreams become real. I dreamed a mythical enemy, and woke it. Everything I have done is to protect my sons, especially you, from its wrath.”

  “I’ve seen it,” Lucas told him, and described the great figure in the Abyss, the ice mist rolling off its mountainous flanks. When he reached the part where it had turned to look at him, Lawrence’s face went grey.

  “Brawth has seen you. Marked you. It knows you’re my son. Thank the gods it didn’t wake and pursue you. Your presence, and the open Lychgate, weren’t enough to rouse it. I believe it will only wake in response to me. As long as it remains in stone form, we are safe.”

  “Estel said it had always been there,” said Lucas. “Perhaps it really was just a statue, and I imagined it moving.”

  “Of course Brawth has always been there.” Lawrence fixed him with glowing, ice-grey eyes; the pupils were pinpricks. “It is the shadow from the beginning and end of time.”

  At first Lucas had found these sessions thrilling. Lawrence was powerful; he seemed the lord of the universe, yet all of his precious attention was focused on Lucas, as if no one else in the world mattered. It was flattering. Initiation was bound to be hard but it meant he was special, chosen. A few weeks in, however, the gloss was wearing off. Instead, Lawrence’s intensity became grueling and disturbing.

  There were gentler moments, when Lawrence let him into the workshop behind his study where he cut albinite gems. Even there, his contemplation of individual jewels verged on obsessive. When Lucas asked about it, he received a long silence and a cryptic answer, “Someone once showed me a perfect stone that was rightfully mine, only to snatch it away from me. Ever since, even knowing I’ll never find it, I keep on searching. Like a gambler forever placing his final bet. I cannot stop.”

  When Lawrence had talked himself to exhaustion, he would vanish to bed and Lucas would climb the stairs to Sapphire’s zone. It felt friendlier than the rest of the house. There he would lie in bed, but he often couldn’t sleep and would only stare at the ceiling, listening to the voice in the attic murmuring to itself.

  Lawrence was always up before him. Often his mood was black, and he’d closet himself in his workshop, leaving Luc to his own devices. He explored halfheartedly or read books in the library. The shadowy dysir would pad around him; protecting or guarding him, he wasn’t sure. He ordered groceries on the Internet, paid with Lawrence’s credit card, and received them at the kitchen door. Each time Lucas looked at the outside world, he thought about simply walking away. And then he would close and lock the door again.

  As spring came, he thought more often about leaving. Yet the more he considered, the less he seemed able to do it. Lawrence
had flooded him with paralyzing terror. He felt he hadn’t learned enough yet, was terrified of missing some vital secret. And, after all, he simply couldn’t abandon his father. If he left, Lawrence would surely starve to death.

  Still, the urge grew. He needed permission; that was it. One lunchtime, at the kitchen table, Lucas shredded a bread roll with trembling hands and announced that it was time he visited his family.

  Lawrence froze. “I can’t stop you,” he said, “but I’d advise against it, Lucas. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I won’t go anywhere near the Gates.”

  The pallid face was heavy with disapproval. “It’s not that. Don’t you realize that our enemies are out there, itching to get their hands on you?”

  “On me?”

  “You understand the danger, but they don’t. Comyn and his crew will force the Gates open at any price. Don’t you realize that if you set foot outside, you are liable to be kidnapped?”

  Lucas was shocked. “That sounds . . . dramatic. They wouldn’t.”

  “Oh yes, they would. They’d stop at nothing. Our self-imposed exile here is no fun, but that’s the sacrifice we make for keeping the Earth safe!” Lawrence went on, in soft-voiced anger, describing what horrors awaited Luc if he left.

  “And what if something happens to you?” Lucas cried, jumping up. “What if the Court takes the power off me and gives it to someone else? What then? You can’t keep the Gates closed forever!”

  Lawrence shot to his feet, overturning the table. Dishes crashed and food spilled. “Don’t speak of it! Don’t you dare even suggest it!”

  Lucas fled.

  Later, when he’d stopped shaking and uncurled himself from the corner of his bed, he felt plain despair. There was no escape. He actually thought Lawrence might murder him sooner than let him go—but the hardest thing to bear was his disapproval. Again he heard the scratching and crying of the ghost in the attic. He growled, and threw a pillow at the ceiling.