by Jan Siegel
It did not matter that he was a monster.
As they entered the first of the attics they made out the gray square of a skylight, but there was no visible moon and indoors it was almost completely black. The whole house had that hollow silence of a place deserted by its genius loci: the floorboards did not trouble to creak, there were no scufflings behind the wainscoting, no soft murmurs of settling drapes or lisping drafts. But here, the quiet seemed muffled, as if the room was lined with blankets. “There is heavy magic here,” whispered Skuldunder, and his small voice was deadened, despite the space. Fern made a werelight, only a cautious flicker of flame, but it burned green from the magical overflow. She switched off the flashlight and handed it to Luc.
He said: “I’ll lead.”
But she removed his restraining hand, crossing the second attic with the werelight trembling in front of her. At her side, Luc made a sound of disgust. “What a stink!”
“Drains,” suggested Skuldunder. As a wild goblin, he had never figured out the mechanics of modern life.
“In the attic?”
Fern made no comment. By the next door, she halted. She could feel the spells ahead of her, a thick mesh clogging the air, impenetrable as jungle growth. She remembered the flexible screens she had woven around her friends, and realized with a sudden cold trickle down her spine how flimsy and inadequate they were. But it was too late now to do anything about it, and she tried to push her fear away, stepping forward into the last attic, ignoring the growing stench. The wereglow dimmed to a sickly corpse candle, giving little illumination. She could just distinguish a window square striped with what must be bars, and more bars, closer at hand, turning the end of the room into a jail cell. Beyond, in the corner, the darkness appeared to congeal into a shape that was humanoid but not human—a shape that might have had slumped shoulders broader than a man’s, legs that terminated in the paws of a beast, twisted horns half-hidden in a matted pelt of hair. The stink of sweat and excrement was overwhelming. Fern fought down nausea.
Luc said: “I can’t see anything.”
“I can.”
She approached the bars, touched the spellnet that reinforced them. It was so potent the jolt ran through her whole body, like an electric shock. The werelight could not pass the barrier, but it showed her the rusty gleam of chains snaking across the floor, a shackled foot, a tail tuft.
She said: “Kal.”
He did not speak, but she heard the rasp of his escaping breath and sensed that until then he had not known who his visitor was.
“What is it?” Luc demanded in a hiss. “Do you know this—”
“Quiet.” And again: “Kal.”
“Little witch.” The voice grated, as if from lack of practice. “Tell me you’re real. She haunts me with nightmares. It would be like her to plague me with a phantom of hope.”
“I’m real.” She thought he sounded near the breaking point, or past it, and her heart shook. “I should have come sooner.”
“Simple Susan sewing samplers . . . You owe me. Don’t forget that. When I get out of here I’m going to call in the debt.”
“You’ll get out.” She roamed her hands over the barrier, an inch or two away, testing for weaknesses.
“It is too strong for you,” he said. “She made it to resist both crude force and brute magic. Even if you found a chink and thrust your finger through, the spellburn would eat your flesh to the bone. What are you doing here, little witch? You cannot fight her.”
“ ‘Everything that lives must die,’ “ Fern quoted. “Or so I have been told. Even Morgus.”
“Her word or her death would unbind the spell,” said Kal. “Nothing else.”
“We’ll see.” She stood back from the spellnet, raising her hand in the gestures Morgus herself had taught her, focusing all her power on what she hoped was a vulnerable spot. Sparks flew; the backlash hit her like a physical blow. Luc prevented her from falling, but she would not listen when he tried to calm her; she flung charm after charm at the barricade, running through every Command she knew, exhausting her strength and her Gift in a fruitless assault.
“Leave it,” said Kal, and the words dragged. “Now I know you are a phantom. The real Fernanda would have been more sparing of her powers. She was never reckless. Her head was always cool, her heart quicker to feel pity than passion. Not that I want pity.”
Fern said: “I offer you none.”
The chains scraped along the floorboards as Kal shuffled slowly, awkwardly closer to the bars. For the first time the corpse light fell on his face: Fern saw it dirt smeared, shadow gaunt, the half-human eyes no longer ruby-dark but bloodshot red beneath the ledge of his browbone. Ragged twists of hair hung down over his forehead, obscuring the upper part of his visage, but she could make out the skin there raw and puckered as if from an acid burn. At some point not long before, sweat or tears had made runnels through the grime on his cheeks. “Kal,” she murmured. “Oh, Kal,” and Luc thought he had never heard her speak so gently.
“I said no pity!” His tone became a growl.
“What happened—there?” The direction of her gaze indicated his forehead.
“I did that,” he said. “Don’t imagine her torturing me. She marked me with the rune of Agares—the rune of Finding—and that was the only way to get rid of it. If you are just a stray specter, some tannasgeal she has harnessed, tell her I have no forehead left for her to mark. It might amuse her; you never know.”
“I must get you out of here,” Fern said.
“Air dreaming.”
“Witch’s dreams can have more substance than reality.”
“Have you any substance, dream witch?”
“You know I—”
“Prove it. Let me touch you. A specter cannot be touched. There is a weakness in the spell wall, just here. Push your hand through—your left hand—and I will know you are in truth Fernanda.”
Her left hand. He had seen her dip it in the Styx; he knew it would heal at once. Fern’s look matched his, stare for stare. “Very well,” she said. She turned to Luc. “Stand back. And whatever happens, don’t interfere. Whatever happens.”
Reluctantly, Luc withdrew. Fern probed the magic from a short distance, checking the place Kal had pointed out. She knew it was best to allow herself no time for anticipation. Concentrating all her power on resisting the initial shock, she forced her hand through.
It was like thrusting it into a furnace at five hundred degrees. Her flesh fried instantly; her blood bubbled and steamed. She had intended to be stoic, to clench her teeth and bear it, telling herself it was only for a moment; but she screamed in agony. Luc ran to her, seizing her shoulders, pulling her away. She managed to articulate: “NO! NO-O-O—“ And Kal, reaching through the bars, touched fingertip to burning fingertip in an instant’s contact, old as creation—until she was dragged away, and fell to the floor, sobbing in the extremity of anguish. Without her thought to energize it the werelight failed, leaving them groping in the dark. Luc shouted to Skuldunder for water, dropped the flashlight, swore. Fern wrenched her injured arm free of Luc’s grip and clamped her other hand around it, above the wrist, squeezing tighter than a tourniquet. Now she was rocking to and fro, her sobs diminishing to moans. Luc located the flashlight, flicked it on. But when the beam found her hand there was nothing but a red shadow on the skin that swiftly faded, and was gone. Her head drooped, perspiration dripped from her hair. Gradually, her breathing slowed to normal.
Luc said: “Your hand . . . ?”
“It’s all right.” She didn’t explain.
Kal’s voice spoke out of the darkness. “Fernanda.” An affirmation.
She crawled toward him, until there were only a couple of feet between them. And the spell wall. And the bars. “I’ll get you out,” she reiterated. “I have an idea.”
There was a jangle of chains as he pressed against the grille; she thought she saw the red glint of his eyes. She whispered something to him that Luc could not hear.
&n
bsp; “Are you sure?” Kal asked.
“My stomach is sure,” said Fern, “but not my head. If it works, I will send someone to loose the shackles.”
“These?” Kal’s tone was contemptuous. “I could chew them off. It is the spells which hold me here. Her spells.”
And, as Fern got up to go: “Good luck, little witch. You will need it.”
Once they were outside, Fern addressed Skuldunder, adjusting with an effort to diplomatic mode. “Convey my thanks to your queen for the loan of your services. Tell her what transpired, if you think it will interest her; you never know with Mabb. I will send her suitable presents when I have leisure. And Skuldunder . . . tell her I think you are a worthy burglar, and a credit to her court.”
The goblin’s chest swelled; he raised the brim of his hat an inch or two. Then he made an unexpected bow and went off toward the driveway, vanishing into invisibility even before the darkness swallowed him.
“We should get back to London,” said Luc. “And what are you going to do with this?” He tapped the head, which emitted a choked grunting noise, probably of rage.
Fern had extracted her mobile from one of the many inner pockets that always adorn men’s—if not women’s—jackets. She pressed out Will’s number, waiting through a half minute of horrible suspense before he answered. “Are you all right?” she asked him, and Luc, hearing the note of desperation, realized that her coolness was purely external.
There was a rapid exchange while they swapped experiences. “She’s coming for you,” Will said. “Don’t hang about. Get back to London. All together, we might stand a chance.”
“N-no.” Fern hesitated, struggling with her doubts. “I think it’s better if I face her on my choice of territory.”
“London.”
“Yorkshire. That was where I first used my power. That’s my place. The magic goes deep there, but it’s mine, not hers. If I have to fight her, I want it to be on my home ground.”
“Why would she look for you there?”
“Bradachin said she’d been watching the house: remember? She’ll know I’m there. Anyway, I have the head. It is a part of her, though she isn’t aware of that yet. It will draw her.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“No, Will. Don’t come. Not this time.” She felt a shiver like a surge of power.
“Take care, for God’s sake.”
“I always take care. For mine.”
She cut the call and said to Luc: “I expect you want to be with Dana. If you could take me to a place where I can hire a car . . .”
“At this hour of night?” He shrugged. “Anyhow, I won’t leave you. I’d like to see Dana, yes, but it can wait. You need me.”
“I have to get to Yorkshire.”
“I heard. Where, exactly?”
“A village called Yarrowdale. North York Moors, near the coast between Whitby and Scarborough.”
“Direct me.” He handed Fern her helmet. He couldn’t see her face, but he sensed her hesitation, knew she was picking her words.
“I really appreciate this,” she said at last, conscious of how inadequate it sounded. Help will be found, she had been told once, long long ago, in a dream of the past. And Rafarl Dev had never failed her, though her task was not his task. He had threatened—no, promised—to leave her, but he had always come back, always been there for her. She wanted to say something about that, something to acknowledge the link, to wake the sleeping magic between them; but she did not dare. The bubble of potential illusion was too fragile; she feared it might burst at a touch. In the end, she added only: “Thank you. And, Luc—“ as she mounted behind him “—avoid the London road. Morgus is looking for me now. We could not pass without her knowing.”
The engine kicked into life and they roared off down the drive, churning gravel. Fern was trying to picture Raf handling the boat, sailing into a tempest, but the memory was small and faraway, like an image seen through the wrong end of a telescope, and in front of her Luc’s leather-clad back felt solid and strong, a back of the modern world, square shouldered, gym muscled, designer wrapped, bearing no relation to the phantasms of memory and heartache. She thought: If he is Raf, if his soul has returned indeed, then he is older, and colder, and more ruthless, but . . . so am I. Oh, so am I. And she knew she was not sure, she would never be sure, because uncertainty is the essence of the human condition, and death is the one barrier beyond which we cannot see. There is no hope but faith, no knowledge but the acceptance of ignorance.
Yet still she hoped that one day she would know.
At a minor road junction, Luc scanned the sign in his headlight and turned north. Not long after, Morgus passed the same junction, urging her driver faster and faster toward Wrokeby.
“But what can we do?” Gaynor demanded as Will switched off the call.
“Personally, I could use a large whiskey. How about you?”
“Don’t be flip. Mine’s a G and T—I mean, it would be, if we didn’t have more important things to think about.”
“Actually, we haven’t. Fern’s got some sort of plan—I know her—but it evidently doesn’t include us. We can take the rest of the evening off.” While they talked they were standing at the entrance to the alleyway, where reception was better: Selena Place tended to inhibit mobile phones. Possibly it was the magical leakage from Moonspittle’s basement.
Ragginbone said: “I trust you’re right. At any rate, there’s very little we can do until Fern requests help. I shall stay with Moonspittle. He has been deeply shaken by the events of this night. He is not comfortable dealing with friends, let alone enemies.”
“Are we his friends?” Will inquired dryly.
“We used his home for various sorcerous activities before staging an extremely dangerous diversion there in which we—and he—could easily have been killed. After that, I think the least we can offer him is friendship, don’t you?”
Will said: “When you put it like that . . .”
“Should we come back with you?” asked Gaynor.
“Not now. He finds too much company rather overwhelming. Leave it a little while—a century or two—and he may almost be pleased to see you.”
Gaynor was not entirely convinced this was intended for a joke, but Will flicked him a quick grin. “A century or two will be just fine,” he said, and, seizing her by the hand, he steered her up the road and turned off in the direction of a club that would be open into the small hours. Although he was not a member, a friend of his was located in the noisiest of the bars and signed both of them in as guests.
“Very smooth,” said Gaynor, trying for disapproval. “Do people always succumb to your blarney?”
“I’m not Irish,” Will pointed out. “It ain’t blarney, it’s charm.”
“Funny how I missed that,” said Gaynor.
“Yes, you did, didn’t you?” She was disconcerted to see him looking suddenly serious. “Shame.”
He got their drinks and led her through the relative quiet of a long sitting room with a piano (fortunately, no one was playing), down a couple of steps, and into a side room with two or three tables, assorted chairs, and a pair of actors, plainly oblivious to all else, who were deep in theatrical scandal. “Privacy,” Will said. “Good. Now you can tell me exactly why you were so careful to miss my charm.”
Gaynor fiddled with a strand of her hair. “I don’t think we should be talking about that now,” she said. “Not with everything so . . . unfinished. Fern’s in awful danger, and we’re—”
“Doing nothing? Fiddling while Rome burns—in your case with your hair? You did something earlier on and it nearly got you killed. You deserve a break. As for Fern—well, she trusted us, and now we have to trust her. It wasn’t easy for her: she has the power, so she feels she should take the risk. But she trusted us, and somehow, through luck or fate, we didn’t fail. You obviously have a Gift of some kind, though it’s not like hers. Maybe it’s a sort of supernatural understanding. After all, unhappy men always turn to you
for a shoulder to cry on, don’t they?”
“This isn’t about me,” Gaynor said hastily. “Look, it’s not that I don’t trust Fern, it’s just—”
“You doubt her ability to win. Yes, you do. God help us, we both do. We love her, and fear for her, but . . . in the last few weeks, I’ve come to realize something. Her Gift—the conflict with Morgus—all this stuff—this is more important to her than anything else in life. I’m an aspiring producer who dabbles on the dark side. You’re a manuscript restorer dabbling with the same. But Fern is a witch who dabbles in PR. The magic is in her blood and her bones. Morcadis is her true self. We can’t deny her that. When I saw her drawing the circle—when I saw her confidence and her certainty—I knew in some ways she is more akin to Ragginbone, even to Alimond, than to me.”
“Do you mind?” Gaynor asked. She did not question his conclusions.
“Not yet. If she hadn’t trusted us—if her trust ever failed—then I would mind. If she ever came to look on us as less than her, merely human, in need of protection . . . That’s the true danger of the Gift, I’m sure. People like Morgus, like Alimond, they see themselves as above ordinary mortals, isolated, special. So they lose touch with reality altogether and go insane.”
“Like Stalin and Hitler,” Gaynor recalled. “So you said.”
“Just a theory,” said Will. “Under the action-man exterior, I have the soul of a thinker.”
“Hang on to it,” Gaynor said. “Isn’t Morgus meant to be the stealer of souls?”
“Morgus again. This conversation wasn’t supposed to be about her. Somewhere back along the line, it was supposed to be about us.”
“Is there an ‘us’?” Gaynor asked, half in hope, half in doubt.
“I don’t know,” Will said. She tried to avoid his gaze, but somehow there was nowhere else to look. It struck her that these days he always seemed to have a suntan, summer streaks in his hair, the slight roughness of designer stubble on his jaw. He was nearly four years her junior, but he appeared to be catching up fast. He had always had more self-assurance, even when he was a larky sixteen and she a college girl visiting Fern’s family; now, she suspected, he was rapidly acquiring more experience of life. He would sample everything the world had to offer, snatch an extra slice of the universal cake and then give it away to a friend in need, fly off into the sunset because it was quicker than sailing and come back two months later expecting a hero’s welcome. He had no money, but he managed to patronize the latest bars and ignore the celebrity drinkers with the most successful of his peers. He apparently found the business of living exciting, effortless, a game, a gamble, a romp.
