The Witch Queen

by Jan Siegel

  Luc nodded curtly and, after a moment’s hesitation, shook Gaynor’s extended hand. “I’m sorry about your sister,” she said. “We’ve all been through it, with Fern. We know how awful it is.”

  “Have a drink,” said Will, offering the contents of Fern’s cabinet with vicarious generosity. “Just why do we need him, sis?”

  “Don’t call me sis.” Absently, she poured herself a large G and T, but did not drink it. “I’ve got a plan.”

  “Is it a good plan?” asked Ragginbone, watching her expression.

  “No,” said Fern baldly. “But we can’t go on waiting, doing nothing, and it’s the best I can come up with.”

  “You’ve figured out a way to kill Morgus?” asked Will.

  “Nope.” Fern never said nope. “But we have to save Dana, and I want a look around Wrokeby. A chance to find out exactly what Morgus is up to. If I can’t kill her, I need to get her out of the way. A diversion. Only it’s going to be dangerous.”

  “You’re always dabbling in danger,” said Will. “There are times when I suspect you like it, in some deep-buried vein of your soul.”

  “It won’t be dangerous for me,” Fern said unhappily. “If we do this, you’re going to have to stage the diversion. You’ll be the ones in danger. You’ll have to face Morgus—on your own.”

  For a minute, there was absolute silence. The screaming of a police siren somewhere nearby cut in sharply; inside the flat it seemed that nobody breathed.

  “You wanted to be a team,” said Fern. She looked very pale, even for her. “Welcome to the major league.”

  At last, they spoke. Will said: “Finally.”

  Gaynor murmured, “Shit,” which was out of character.

  Ragginbone contented himself with one of those glowing looks from beneath the overhang of his eyebrows.

  Luc demanded: “Does that include me?”

  “Not this time. You’re coming with me—to Wrokeby. We need a fast car, and you’re a banker. You’ve got a Porsche or two.”

  “Porsche and classic Jag,” said Luc. “But I think I can do better than that. I’ve got a bike as well.”

  “A Harley?” Will was distracted.

  “I’m scared of bikes,” Fern said.

  “Good,” said Ragginbone. “That way we get to share the fear around. You’ll need Lucas at Wrokeby: as her close kin, he could be the only one who can restore Dana to herself. Even if her spirit is released, without the Gift she may be unable to find her own way back.”

  “Can you tell me what to do?” asked Luc.

  “Later. Tell us your plan, Fernanda.”

  She told them.

  “You were right,” said Ragginbone. “It isn’t a good plan. But it will have to do. Were you thinking of drawing the circle here?”

  “You know the room’s not big enough, and the vibes are wrong. We’ll have to use the basement again.”

  “Moonspittle won’t like it,” Ragginbone said. “Whatever you offer him won’t be enough.”

  “You’ll have to twist his arm. You’ve done it before. The point is, will it work?”

  “Sorcery always attracts attention,” the Watcher conceded. “The elementals are certain to be still around, and the eyes of Oedaphor miss little. Once she’s found you, there’s no doubt that Morgus will come. Whether we can divert her for long enough . . . well, that is a matter for us. But creeping around a witch’s lair in her absence is hardly a safe option.”

  “I’ll walk on tiptoe,” Fern said. “And I’ll put spells of protection around you, especially Gaynor. I’m sorry, but you’re the weakest, and my friend; she’s bound to target you. She already thinks you’re a reincarnation of Guinevere.”

  “Maybe I could use that,” Gaynor heard herself saying, surprised to find her voice unshaken. “I know all the legends.”

  “Legends only tell you what’s legendary,” Ragginbone said. “We don’t know the truth, or what memories we might reawaken. That could be the most dangerous game of all.”

  “It’s worth a try,” Gaynor insisted valiantly.

  “Definitely not,” said Fern. “Just keep her talking for a while. When she gets angry, tell her where I’ve gone. That’ll make her so mad she should forget about you immediately. Broomsticks are out this year: she’ll have to get back to Wrokeby by car. With luck, we’ll be away before then.”

  “You are relying too much on luck,” said Ragginbone.

  “You mean we’re relying on it,” said Will. “You’ll be in the firing line, too. No more simply the observer.”

  Ragginbone made no answer, and his eyes were hooded.

  “Are we agreed?” asked Fern.

  The response came in nods and whispers.

  “When do we do it?” Gaynor inquired tentatively.

  “Friday,” said Fern. “I won’t wait for the moon; I don’t want to run the risk of the circles intersecting again. Morgus will have to get to London by some normal means of transport, probably a car. That’s vital for the time factor.” She did not add: I don’t want to leave myself leisure to think. There was a darkness in her head that might have been mere dread or genuine premonition, but now that she had told the others of the plan—now that she had their agreement—she knew there was no going back. She glanced at Luc’s face: the geometry of his bones, the straight bar of his brow, the clamped mouth. He would be with her. On some instinctive level, he believed in her—in her power, in her ability to help. Suddenly, it mattered to Fern very much that he did not see her fear or fail. Whoever he was.

  “We’ll be lucky,” she said.

  In her gut, she thought her luck had run out.

  VIII

  It was daylight in the backstreets and alleyways of Soho, but beneath the shop that never opened the basement was dark. The window slot was screened; lumpen candles guttered in a phantom draft but did not quite go out. Moonspittle quaked in a chair, his head retreating between rounded shoulders like a tortoise into its shell. On his lap, a restless Mogwit unraveled layers of cardigan with a kneading of claws. “I won’t do it,” Moonspittle muttered, over and over. “My place. My secret place. Intruders. Danger . . .” Ragginbone did what he could to soothe him. He was uncharacteristically gentle, but it had little effect. Fern, now that the initial arguments had ended, paid no further attention. She was walking the perimeter of the circle, spellpowder dribbling through her fingers, and chanting in a voice so soft that no individual words could be distinguished. The shadow of impending danger was not gone from her mind, but she had been able to thrust it aside, immersing herself in the present moment. For this little space she felt in control, sure of herself and her actions.

  Will and Gaynor stood back from the circle. Luc remained near the door. Earlier that day, Gaynor had bought a style magazine and a quantity of makeup, darkening her eyes to smoky slits, hollowing her cheeks with blusher, painting her lips the color of black plums. Strands of her long hair were braided and twisted with glittering threads. “Gwennifer,” she had told herself, gazing in the mirror; but the transformation didn’t work, she simply looked like a Gaynor whose face—like so many of her clothes—didn’t quite fit. “A change of image,” she excused herself to the others. Will glared somberly at her from time to time. In the flicker of the candlelight, forgetful of her appearance, she did indeed look different, as if the memory of another face played over hers, someone more beautiful and more alien, a stranger whose specter had returned courtesy of Chanel and Aveda to haunt her features.

  Under the influence of magic, the room began its usual antics, stretching and bending away from the circle. Luc, unprepared and unaccustomed, stared around him wildly, but seeing his companions apparently indifferent, forced himself to stay calm. Fern completed the perimeter, drew the runes of protection outside. Then she commenced a new incantation, a shielding spell to cover Will, Ragginbone, and Moonspittle, and most of all Gaynor. She was not certain of the wording, only that she must call on a power long gone, but as she spoke her vocal cords were seized with para
lysis and her lips moved without feeling, and another voice vibrated through her, one deeper than hers and wilder, startling even Moonspittle from his fog of private terrors. Man or woman, spirit or witchkind, Fern could not tell, but the voice filled her like wind in the trees, like rain on the sea, and the spell rang out strong and sure. For an instant they all saw it, glittering in the air around them, and then it was set, and the vision vanished with the words, and Fern was silent a long minute till her own voice returned.

  “What was that ?” asked Will.

  “You are meddling with powers that should not be disturbed,” Ragginbone said predictably.

  Fern did not deign to answer. She was carried along by the momentum of the enchantment, not oblivious to distractions but unaffected by them. “Nyassé!” she commanded. The candles flared upward. The circle became a ring of pale flame. Luc saw the shadows fragmented, swirling around the room, swarming like flies against a ceiling that seemed to arch away from the potency of the magic. He thought: She is a witch; and his heart shivered, but not with fear. She spoke words that he knew somehow were those of summoning, though he could not understand them. In the background, Moonspittle whimpered in protest. “Eriost Idunor!” Fern cried, and at the circle’s hub a stunted column of smoke appeared, condensing swiftly into a fair, slight form. The Child. Luc tried in vain to discern its sex. It was leaf crowned, flaxen curled, and its eyes were old.

  “You summon me again, Morcadis,” it said. “You are profligate with your Gift, calling on ancient spirits so often and so carelessly. I thought you had mortal friends to bear you company.”

  “I am never careless,” said Fern. “Tell me about the Tree.”

  “The Tree?”

  “You know to what I refer. Morgus has brought a sapling of the Eternal One into this world and planted it. Even as I speak she watches it grow. Does it bear fruit?”

  “I have no knowledge of such things,” Eriost replied. “I am not a seer—or a gardener. Ask elsewhere.”

  “You are one of the first Spirits,” Fern insisted. “You see far. Tell me what you see.”

  The Child tilted its head to one side and gazed mockingly at her.

  “Maerë, Maerë, witch of Faery

  How does your garden grow?

  With gallows tree and nooses three

  And pretty heads all in a row.”

  “Riddles and rhymes,” said Fern. “A fit pastime for a child.”

  “I know another.” Eriost laughed an infant’s laugh tainted with mischief—or malevolence.

  “Little Miss Capel sat at a table

  Under the apple tree,

  Along came a spider and sat down beside her

  And ate up Miss Capel for tea.”

  The Child faded as it spoke, vanishing into a giggle and a puff of vapor.

  Fern let it go. She could feel a change in the atmosphere, a thickening of the shadows that was not the onset of nightfall. It was midsummer: outside, beyond the city lights, the evening was still blue and clear. She felt a draft of bitter cold as something passed through the basement; eyes blinked from the darkest corners and were gone. “Oedaphor,” she whispered.

  “Boros,” said Ragginbone. “They have found you.”

  “How long before they reach Morgus?”

  “They will be with her now. The bait is taken. Last time, the circle held and blinded them. This time, they were outside the perimeter. They could see everything. They will lead her here.”

  “No!” shrieked Moonspittle. “Not here ! My place—my secret place . . . Close the circle. Seal the door. If we hide down here in the quiet—dark and quiet—maybe she will not find us . . .”

  “I am sorry,” said Fern, trying to suppress her growing fears. “We must go.” And to Ragginbone: “Take over. Keep the circle open as long as you can—as long as you dare. She must believe I’m here.”

  “I won’t do it!” Moonspittle squeaked, but the Watcher’s hands fell heavily on his shoulders, pressing him into the chair, and the stronger will took control of him, channeling his power. Mogwit hissed, fur bristling in ragged tufts, claws burrowing into his master’s bony knees.

  “Will he be all right?” Gaynor asked.

  “I hope so.” Fern was halfway to the door, Luc gripping her arm. “Good luck. Take care—if you can—“ They were gone before Gaynor or Will could respond in kind.

  “Get after them,” Ragginbone ordered Will. “Lock the outer door.”

  Will groped his way up the lightless stair. Above, Luc was wheeling the motorcycle from its parking place in the hallway out into the alley. It emerged into the dusk like some technomonster thrusting its forewheel from the shelter of a hidden cavern. Slivers of light ran over the chromework; a dim luster curved its way around the metallic black chassis. It was the war chariot of a modern Phaëthon, horseless, driven by its own power, moving lightly for all its heavy build. Fern struggled with the strap of her helmet; Luc turned to adjust it for her. From the rear, Will said: “What model is it?”

  “A Harley-Davidson Fatboy; 1450 cc Evolution engine—”

  “How fast does it go?” Fern interjected.

  “How fast do you want to go?”

  The engine jerked into life with a rattle like machine-gun fire: echoes ricocheted off the narrow walls of Selena Place. Heads turned, doors cracked open, and in the sewers below, rats pricked their ears. Fern mounted behind Luc, hastily zipping herself into the baggy depths of his second-best leather jacket. Will’s valedictory “Good luck!” was drowned out as they roared down the alley and slid into the traffic stream, threading their way snakelike between lorries and cars, taking advantage of every widening gap. Fern closed her eyes and then opened them, deciding that if death was coming she wanted to see it. “This isn’t a small bike!” she shouted. “We can’t get through—”

  “I thought you were in a hurry?”

  After a while, she remembered to unclench her teeth.

  They headed westward out of London, leaving the choked streets behind, scorching along the motorway at a hundred and twenty plus. There was little exhilaration at such speed, only the brutal buffeting of the wind as it filled the space under Fern’s jacket, trying to tug her off the bike, and shook the overlarge helmet so the chin guard yanked at her jaw. She kept her head down, using Luc’s body as a shield. “I won’t be able to hear you at high speed,” he had warned her. “Tap my leg if you want something”; but even when she thought the wind’s pull might break her neck, she made no move to slow him down. She had staked her stake, rolled the dice: it was too late now to falter. She wondered if they would pass Morgus going the other way, but on the triple-laned motorway divided from the oncoming traffic, she knew they would not see each other. She had feared that Morgus might sense their passage. At the same time she wanted to be sure Morgus had really taken the bait. Fern’s witch senses were strained to the limit, expecting nothing. When the touch came it caught her unawares—a cold blast on the edge of feeling, gone in less than a second. She turned, squinting through the visor, catching a flying glimpse of taillights, red streaks vanishing into the dark. The wind seized her helmet, wrenching at her neck. She ducked below Luc’s shoulders, sheltering against his back, hoping Morgus was focused entirely on her goal and had no thought to spare for passing vehicles. Fern would have worried about her friends, but she dared not, lest her fears destroy her.

  They left the motorway, following a minor road deep into the countryside. There were no lights, save for the clustered windows of the occasional village or hamlet. The moon was hidden. Shadowy hills reared on either hand, the fringes of hedgerows and coppices. The bike leaned steeply on every bend, and it took all Fern’s courage to lean with it, trying to ignore the proximity of the pavement. They were going slower now, a mere ninety-odd. Peering around Luc’s body she saw the single beam of the headlight slicing through the night, the dazzled eyes of some small animal blinking back at them. She heard him call out: “Not long now.” The light stabbed between stone gateposts; gravel scru
nched and spat beneath their wheels. Briefly, she glimpsed the house: ivied windows, crenellations, the stubby shape of a tower. Then at last they came to a halt. The engine cut off, and the light. Fern’s first reaction was sheer relief, because she seemed to be still in one piece.

  She dismounted awkwardly; her legs trembled with muscle strain and her bottom felt numb. Luc assisted her with her helmet. “Did you enjoy the ride?” he asked her.

  “No.”

  There was no sound now but the murmurous quiet of a country night: seething wind, stirring leaves, whispering grass. Fern listened with more than her ears, but she could not catch even the distant beat of a bird’s wing or the ultrasonic chitter of a bat. The undergrowth was untenanted; only insect life ventured near Wrokeby. She heard the slither of a passing adder, but it did not stay. She walked toward the house, her footsteps loud on the gravel. There were many windows, some rectangular, some arched, all blank and dark, eyeholes in an empty head. For the first time she understood the true meaning of what Dibbuck had told her: there were no ghosts here, no memories, no past, only walls and roof, and hollow spaces in between. But something had invaded the spaces, blowing in like the wind under her jacket, a hungry darkness pouring through wall chinks and splintered panels into every room. She could feel them there, tiny motes of spirit teaming like bacteria around a corpse, drawn not merely to Wrokeby’s emptiness but to the sorcery that dwelt within. She wondered if Luc’s senses prickled as hers did, and if he felt the same dread.

  She said: “The door key?”

  He produced it, stepping up to the main entrance, switching on a flashlight to find the lock. The oblong of light skimmed over black oak and curling iron hinges, steadied on the keyhole. Metal scraped on metal.

  Fern unfastened her jacket, freeing her movements, looking around her with night-adapted vision. “Skuldunder?” she murmured. She had heard nothing, even she, but the werefolk were quieter than quiet. The goblin appeared a little way off, his hat brim pulled down to his nose, the hunch of his shoulders betraying his apprehension. “Where’s Dibbuck?” Fern demanded. “I told you we would need him.”