He shifted himself into yet another position, trying to get comfortable. Emma stirred at his side and he lay still, not wanting to wake her. The years in exile had been hard on Emma. She lived for the gossip, friendships, and factions of High Society, and there was little of that in Redhart outside Castle Midnight. She’d been just the same at the Forest Castle … Gawaine frowned in the darkness, and for a moment an old bitterness threatened to surface, but he pushed it back. He was Sir Gawaine of Redhart now, for better or worse, and the past should stay in the past. Gawaine lay very still beside his wife, not touching her at all, for no matter where they were there was always something between them.
“What’s the matter, Gawaine?” said Emma quietly.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. You’re not the only one who’s had trouble sleeping lately.”
Gawaine smiled indulgently into the darkness. “According to you, you never sleep.”
“Well, I don’t. I never have. Any night I get more than a few hours sleep is a good night for me. But I’m used to that; you’re not. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing in particular. Just … things. Go to sleep, love. Busy day tomorrow.”
They lay in silence for a while. Far away, they could hear the Night Watch being changed. Gawaine smiled and relaxed slightly. There was something very comforting, even cozy, about lying in a warm soft bed and listening to the sound of marching men whose job it was to see you slept safe and undisturbed. Gawaine in particular appreciated it. He’d done his fair share of marching back and forth in the cold on Watch duty in his time.
“Remember the bed we had back at Forest Castle?” said Emma dreamily. “I used to love that bed.”
Gawaine grunted. “Damned ugly monstrosity. Far too big, and it creaked every time you moved.”
“But it was comfortable … you could just sink into that mattress. And the furniture we had then: this stuff is all very well, but it’s not a patch on what we used to have. But then, that’s true of everything here.”
“Well you’ll just have to make the most of it,” said Gawaine irritatedly. “We won’t ever be going back to the Forest.”
“We might,” said Emma. “Someday.”
“No we won’t! We can’t go back!” Gawaine started to sit up in bed, and then made himself lie down again. They’d had this argument before, and shouting only made things worse. “Emma, after what happened we can never return to Forest Castle. They’d hang both of us.”
“I only wanted to help,” said Emma. “It just got out of hand.”
All the long years of bottled up anger suddenly came together in Gawaine, and he finally asked the question he’d promised himself he’d never ask again. “Why did you kill him, Emma? Why did you have to kill him?”
“He was your rival, Gawaine. He stood in your way. If you were ever to get on at Court, he had to die.”
“But suspicion was bound to fall on … us. And I never gave a damn for his position, or getting on. I was happy as I was.”
“You never were ambitious enough, Gawaine. So I had to be ambitious enough for both of us. Looking back, yes, it was a mistake to kill him. But it was such a clever plan, and it would have worked if we hadn’t been betrayed.” Her hand drifted across under the bedclothes and fastened onto his. Their fingers intertwined. “And you took the blame for me, Gawaine. I’ve never forgotten that. You gave up your position and your honor to save me. What other woman was ever loved more than I?”
“What else could I do,” said Gawaine, and if there was the faintest tinge of weariness in his voice, Emma didn’t hear it. Gawaine gave her hand a comforting squeeze. “Go to sleep, love.”
She snuggled up against him, her hand resting on his shoulder, and her slow breathing gradually deepened as sleep took her. Gawaine lay still, staring into the darkness. King John had trusted him, knighted him, loved him as a son. He had been honored and content as a knight of the Forest Kingdom. And then everything had gone wrong, and in the space of a few months, he’d had to give up everything he’d ever cared for, to save his wife. Perhaps the saddest truth of all was that deep down where it mattered, he was no longer sure he loved his wife. He kept it from her, as best he could. If only because he felt guilty for not loving her as much as she loved him.
I did it for you, Gawaine.
I know, Emma. I know.
Jordan woke slowly and reluctantly from his slumber, but the persistent voice and the tugging at his arm wouldn’t let him rest. He sat up on the bed and looked blearily about him. The candles were still burning in their holders, but were little more than stubs. He’d had almost three or four hours sleep, and it felt like a hell of a lot less. His head was muzzy, and his mouth tasted as though something had died in it. He yawned, stretched, and scratched at his ribs. He hated sleeping in his clothes.
“All right,” he said roughly, “I’m awake. What’s the emergency?”
He glared around to see who’d disturbed his rest, and then snapped wide-awake as he found himself face-to-face with the ghost child, Wee Geordie. The young boy’s face was screwed up with fear and worry, and he was tugging urgently at Jordan’s right arm with both hands. Jordan’s first thought was that he ought to be frightened at being woken in the early hours of the morning by a ghost, but the open dismay on the boy’s face wouldn’t let him be scared. Geordie was already frightened enough for both of them.
“What is it, Geordie?” he said more gently. “What are you doing back here?”
“You’ve got to help her! She’s going to die if someone doesn’t help her!”
“Who is? Who’s going to die? Slow down, lad—I’ll help you, I promise. Now who is it that’s going to die?”
“Kate Taggert, the steward lady.” Geordie’s voice choked up for a moment as though he was going to burst into tears, but he got control of himself again and carried on. “She went into the West Wing with Damon Cord and Mother Donna, and it’s awful in there. The Unreal’s broken loose. It’s out of control, and they’re all going to die if you don’t do something!”
Jordan swung down off the bed, buckled his sword belt about him, and headed for the bedroom door. He wasn’t sure what Geordie was on about, but he knew genuine terror when he saw it. He’d been very impressed by the steward’s style in the Great Hall earlier on, and if she was in trouble, he wanted to help. He strode quickly through the suite and pulled open the main door. He was glad to see both the guards were back on duty. He had a use for them.
“I want Count Roderik and Sir Gawaine, as fast as you can get them here. Now move it!”
The two guards looked at each other, and the one on the left cleared his throat. “With respect, Your Highness, I really don’t think the count would take kindly to being disturbed at this hour. And we were given strict orders not to leave you unattended, for any reason.”
Jordan stepped forward, thrust his scowling face at the guard’s, and gave him his best intimidating glare. “Get moving right now, soldier, or so help me I’ll deep-fry you on the spot.” He raised one hand in a vaguely mystical gesture, and the guard turned and ran. Jordan turned to glare at the other guard, but he was already off and running.
There are advantages to being a prince, thought Jordan grimly. Particularly if they’re half convinced you’re crazy as well. He looked down at Wee Geordie, who was hovering at his side. “Why did you come to me for help, lad? I don’t even know the steward very well.”
“You were nice to me,” said the ghost in a small voice. “You spoke to me. Most people are stupid. They won’t talk to me at all. Kate always does, but she’s different. She’s been my friend for a long time. But most people don’t want to know me. I do try to be friendly, but they just yell or scream or run away. Do you know why they won’t be friends with me?”
Jordan looked down into the young boy’s trusting eyes, and fought hard to keep the pity out of his face. The poor lad didn’t even know he was dead, and that the mother he was looking for had bee
n in the cold ground for centuries. And Jordan knew that even if he could explain it to the boy, Geordie probably couldn’t understand it. How could a boy that age ever really understand what had happened to him? He was groping for something to say in answer to the boy’s question when luckily he was interrupted by the sound of approaching feet. He looked up, and saw one of the guards returning with Sir Gawaine. The knight looked as though he’d dressed in a hurry, but he was carrying his ax at the ready. Some of the worry left his face when he saw Jordan standing there apparently unharmed, and the concern was replaced by a heavy scowl.
“This had better be a real emergency,” he growled, slowing to a halt before Jordan. “You’re lucky I was already getting up when your guard arrived. There’s a General Alarm in the castle, although so far I haven’t been able to find anyone who can tell me why.”
“I can,” said Jordan. “The Unreal’s broken through in the West Wing, and everything’s gone to hell in a handcart. The steward’s in there with it, and she’s in trouble. If we don’t do something fast, she’s dead. You got any ideas?”
“Yes,” said Gawaine. “We go in there after her and get her out.”
“I was afraid you were going to say something like that.”
Gawaine looked at him narrowly. “How is it you know so much about what’s going on?”
Jordan indicated the boy at his side. “Wee Geordie told me.”
The knight looked at the young ghost, who smiled shyly up at him, and moved a step closer to Jordan so he could hold his hand and half hide behind him. Gawaine nodded slowly.
“You do have a gift for making friends, Your Highness,” he said dryly. “If Geordie told you, I’ve no doubt it’s true. We’d better get moving.”
“No one’s going anywhere!” snapped Count Roderik, hurrying down the corridor toward them. He was wearing a sheer silk dressing gown tastefully decorated with gold and silver piping and mother-of-pearl buttons. The last time Jordan had seen a gown like that, the owner had been running a Hub City brothel. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but quickly disappeared as Roderik came to a halt directly before him. “That’s far enough, Your Highness. You know you’re not supposed to be out at this hour. The night air’s bad for you. Now get back into your room, and stay there.”
“The Unreal’s broken loose …” Jordan began, but Roderik cut him short.
“That’s none of your business. There are people here in the castle whose job it is to deal with that. You’d just get in the way, Viktor. I thought I’d make it quite clear that you were not to leave your rooms before morning for any reason, unless I was with you. Gawaine, escort His Highness back to bed, and tuck him in.”
Jordan looked at Sir Gawaine, and raised an eyebrow. Gawaine bowed to him. “Awaiting your orders, sire.”
“Then let’s go.”
“That’s enough!” Roderik stepped forward so that his face was only inches away from Jordan’s. “You forget yourself,” said Roderik softly, pitching his voice low so that the two guards wouldn’t hear. “Now do as you’re told. I have more than enough magic to knock you cold if I have to, or I could simply order the guards to put you back in your rooms. So, Your Highness, do you want to walk back in or would you rather be dragged?”
Jordan smiled slowly. “I don’t think you understand the situation, Roderik. Guards, escort the Count back to his rooms and tuck him into bed.”
The two guards stepped forward, took one of Roderik’s arms each, and then dragged him backward down the corridor. Roderik disappeared quickly into the distance, speechlessly mouthing threats and curses. Jordan and Gawaine shared a smile. Something poked Jordan in the back of the knee. He looked down, and found that the bloodhound had chosen that moment to make his reappearance.
“Isn’t he lovely!” said Geordie excitedly. “Is he yours, Viktor?” He knelt down and hugged the dog’s neck. The bloodhound wagged his tail briskly and licked the young ghost’s face.
Gawaine looked at Jordan. “Where did you get that from?”
“Came with the room,” said Jordan.
Geordie reluctantly stopped petting the dog and looked appealingly at Jordan. “Please, we’ve got to go now, or it’ll be too late and the steward’ll die! Please!”
“Lead the way, lad,” said Sir Gawaine, and Wee Geordie set off down the corridor at a run, the bloodhound bounding along beside him. Jordan and Gawaine followed on behind. The West Wing turned out to be a great deal closer than Jordan had realized, and in a matter of minutes he’d drawn close enough to hear the insane babble of sounds that warned of the approaching madness. He and Gawaine slowed to a halt as they drew near the barricade at the West Wing’s boundary. Wee Geordie and the bloodhound were already there waiting for them. There was blood on the floor by the barricade. Some of it was still drying. A guard captain came out of a side room and stared at Jordan for a long moment before raising his hand in a salute. He looked tired and drawn, and there was blood on his uniform that didn’t look to be his.
“Captain Doyle, at your service, sire. You shouldn’t be here. It’s too dangerous.”
“We know about the Unreal,” said Jordan. “I hear the steward’s in there with it.”
“That’s right,” said Doyle slowly. “She just went in, a few minutes ago.”
Jordan looked thoughtfully at Wee Geordie. At least half an hour had passed since Geordie had told him the steward was in danger … Perhaps time moved differently when you were a ghost. He looked back at Doyle, and smiled reassuringly.
“We’re here to help, Captain. How many guards do you command?”
“Four guards, two walking wounded. I’ve been promised reinforcements, but God knows when they’ll get here.”
Jordan scowled, and looked at Sir Gawaine. “We can’t wait. According to Geordie, Taggert needs us now.”
“You can’t be thinking of going in there, sire,” said Doyle quickly. “There’s nothing you could do. Even your brother Dominic would be hard-pressed to stand against this much unreality.”
“The steward’s in trouble! She needs us!”
“Your concern does you credit, Your Highness, but we’ve already lost a sanctuary and a dozen good men. It’s death to go in there now.”
Jordan looked at Gawaine. “He does have a point, you know.”
“But you promised!” Wee Geordie looked accusingly at Jordan, and he sighed heavily.
“Yes,” he said. “I promised. Let’s go, Gawaine.”
He climbed up and over the barricade, with Gawaine close behind him. It gave uneasily under their weight, and Jordan couldn’t help wondering how long it would hold if something nasty decided to leave the West Wing. On descending the other side, he was somewhat surprised to find Wee Geordie and the bloodhound already waiting for him. Jordan decided he wasn’t going to ask. It seemed there were definite advantages to being a ghost. A thought struck him, and he turned to Sir Gawaine as he climbed down from the barricade.
“Can Geordie be hurt by anything in the West Wing?” he said quietly.
“I don’t see how,” said Gawaine, just as quietly. “I mean, he is dead, after all.”
Jordan led the way down the corridor, frowning to himself as he realized for the first time that he wasn’t at all sure what he was going to do when he caught up with the steward. After what he’d seen her do in the Great Hall, his sword and conjurer’s tricks weren’t going to be much help. He shrugged mentally. He’d just have to improvise.
And then they came to the boundary of the Unreal, and they stopped dead in their tracks.
The corridor had given way to a night-dark forest, lit by dancing emerald fires that burned unsupported on the air. The boles of the trees were twisted and gnarled, the whorls of bark forming horrid faces that looked at Jordan with knowing eyes. Bugs and insects the size of Jordan’s hand scuttled across the ground in the thousands, forming a heaving living carpet. A guard wearing torn chain mail came running through the forest, screaming and howling wordlessly. A great wind came roarin
g after him and tore the flesh from his bones as he ran. The man was dead before Jordan could even begin to look away.
“And this is just the edge,” said Gawaine quietly. “It’ll get worse the farther we go in. Stay close beside me.
He hefted the ax the High Warlock had given him so long ago, and started forward. The runes on the heavy axhead began to glow. Insects crunched loudly under Gawaine’s boots, and some ran up his legs, their antennae waving furiously. Gawaine ignored them, and kicked a path through the ones swarming on the ground. Jordan drew his sword and hurried after the knight, his lips curling in disgust. He’d never liked bugs. He tried to step gingerly around the worst concentrations, but there were just too many of them. Wee Geordie and the bloodhound brought up the rear. Jordan didn’t notice it, but the insects drew back rather than approach the young ghost and the dog.
Gawaine swung his ax at a tree that blocked his way. The bark oozed blood, and the branches thrashed angrily. Gawaine cut it down anyway. Branches from the surrounding trees reached for him with crackling fingers of sharpened twigs. Gawaine met them unflinchingly with his ax. He and his brother Vivian had held Tower Rouge against an army, and there was little left in the world that could scare him anymore. Jordan moved in beside him with his sword. The two of them pressed on, and the forest couldn’t stop them. And then, in the space between one step and the next, the forest was suddenly gone and madness took its place.
They were deep in the West Wing now, and the Unreal had thrown away its masks. They were back in the corridor again, but the walls were studded with inhuman faces that disappeared when you looked at them directly, but smiled and snarled endlessly at the corner of your eyes. There were holes in the floor that fell away forever. The ceiling seemed to be miles overhead, its features blurred by distance. And in that corridor, creatures from a fever’s nightmare swarmed about Damon Cord and fought to pull him down. His clothes were torn, and soaked with his own blood and others’. He swung his mace with frenzied strength, but in the end there were just too many creatures, and they brought him down.
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