by Jan Siegel
“Do you still wonder if I am your first love reborn?” Luc demanded abruptly, cutting the thread of conversation. “Are you afraid to believe it?”
“Not afraid, no. It just doesn’t matter anymore.” Her eyes, green with latent magic, looked straight into his. “Rafarl was part of the Past—even when I met him, he was part of the Past—and it’s wrong to look back. I’ve learned that much. If you’re always looking back, you can’t move forward. You’re you, whoever you are. You stood by me, you killed the spider, you defied Morgus. I don’t want you to be anyone but yourself.”
This time, she knew he would kiss her, and he did, pulling her to her feet, holding her carefully, carefully, the only roughness in the pressure of his lips, the invasion of his tongue.
“Mind your injuries,” she said, in a moment of respite.
“Mind yours.”
And somehow, somewhen, they were in bed. She thought she was falling into darkness, a blindness all touch and sensation, a slow, inexorable intimacy like serpents twining in a living rope, like two rivers running together into a drowning sea. After a while, she no longer knew where her body ended and his began, whether the pleasure she experienced was his or hers. Luc’s initial caution grew into certainty, and they forgot their wounds, and the soreness, aches, tiny jabs of anguish only intensified the dark sweetness of their lovemaking. If it was love they were making. To Fern love seemed such a little word for something that was so fundamental, so primal, a plunging into the roots of being, an exploration not simply of the physical self but of the spirit. She had never felt so defenseless, so totally exposed, even to her very core, and she luxuriated in it. And at last she understood that what they were making was not just love but magic, and the Gift in him woke to hers, and the power flowed through them both, so all their nerve endings were alight, and their senses were magnified. They fed off each other like succubi, and drank each other like vampires, and gave themselves as willing victims, until hunger was sated and thirst slaked, and their souls were drained to the dregs. Fern saw Luc open himself to her, saw the layers of dissemblance that hid his heart peeled away one by one, until in the moment of ecstasy he appeared as a deity of the night, demigod or superhuman, his body arched backward in a terrible splendor, the darkness spreading out from him like wings, his face racked with ultimate agony, ultimate bliss. When the magic finally ebbed it felt like dying, if dying is a terminal relaxation, a drifting away of self and thought. Fern slid voluptuously into the blackness of sleep, and dreamed.
The same dream. The surreal city, the Dark Tower, the office with its window on the world. And the shadow who showed her the file bound in red, and the document with its strange calligraphy: the document she signed in blood. She saw the knife nick her arm, and the blood run down, staining the quill, saw the unreadable signature begin to trace itself across the page . . .
She woke up. The moon had put in a belated appearance, nearly full now, shining low through the windowpane. Its long rays reached across the bed, silvering Luc’s uncovered chest, his left arm extended toward her. She saw the V-shaped scar of the knife wound, clear in the moonlight. The dream filled her.
Now she knew what it meant.
XI
Luc woke to find himself bathed in moonlight; Fern lay in the darkness beyond. He reached for her, but she was as motionless and unresponsive as stone. He could not distinguish her expression; only the glitter in her eyes told him she was awake and aware. “Come to me,” he said, and his voice was soft and sure.
“No.” She said it the way she had said it to Morgus, a grudging monosyllable wrung from her lips.
“What’s wrong?”
“You ask me that.” She did not even turn her head.
“Yes. I’m asking.”
She lay unspeaking, letting the silence do its work.
“What is it?” he persisted, but he did not touch her again.
She felt so cold. At last she said: “Why? Why did you do it?” but she knew.
“Do what?” His tone had flattened; he could not maintain his air of bewilderment.
She sat up brusquely, thrusting her face into his. The moon spotlighted her, showing the tumult in her eyes; he drew back from that look. “I have the Gift,” she said. “Don’t you know what that means? I can dream my way into your head. The face can hide your feelings, but in the soul, nothing hides. I have been inside your soul. Only it isn’t yours anymore, is it? You made the ancient bargain, you gave him your Self. For Dana? Was that the excuse?”
“It was the reason,” Luc said. “But not the only one.”
She lay back again, disappearing beyond the light. “Honesty. At last.”
“The nurse at the hospital—the one I told you about—sent me to the place. I had seen it before, in other cities, always from a distance—a few streets away, between buildings, a tower among other towers. I felt it was my destiny.”
“You were afraid,” she said.
“Yes. And desperate.”
“But he showed you all the nations of the world and promised to spread them like a carpet beneath your feet. He promised you wealth, power, and an eternity of—what? Servitude? And Dana. He promised to restore Dana. But you and I did that, without his help.”
Luc said: “He showed me the way to you.”
“And I thought it was chance, or fate. He told you about Rafarl, didn’t he? He told you what to say. He plucked the tooth out of your lower jaw.” Still she lay in the dark, on her back, unmoving.
“The tooth . . . yes. But my dreams were my own. My soul knew you long before we met, with or without Azmordis. Maybe I am your lost love, maybe not, but I loved you tonight. You know that’s the truth. With your Gift, you know it.”
She was silent so long he might have thought she slept, but for her body’s tension. “If you are my lost love,” she said eventually, “I would you had never been found. As for tonight . . . that was not love. That was Judas’s kiss. With my Gift, I know it.”
“If that is what you wish to believe.”
“Believe . . .” She picked up the word as if to sample it, to taste its poison. “You told me once you believed in nothing. No pattern, just chaos. But you believe in him, don’t you? His pattern? His chaos?”
“He gave me something to believe in. Someone. Neither evil nor good. The power at the heart of things, the pulse along the wires. The one who makes skyscrapers grow and sparrows fall. He said he would teach me how to use my Gift, would mesh my power with his. He named me Lukastor, Fellangel, Lord of the Serafain, and gave me wings to ride among the stars. Do you believe in a kindly God with a white beard who leans down from a cloud once in a while to pat you on the head? Do you believe in harps, and cherubs, and pearly gates? He is the real thing, the only thing. He has my belief.”
“There is a Gate,” she said, “but it isn’t made of pearl. I have seen it.”
And, after a while: “Lord of the Serafain. He gave you a title. A little thing, at so high a price. Lukastor, Son of Morning, how thou art fallen. Farther than any sparrow.”
He said: “You’re talking nonsense. Without him, I would not have found you, or saved Dana.”
“How do you know? There was always chance, or fate.”
“You make your own fate.”
“Not anymore.” She almost sighed. “He will shape your fate for you.”
She was thinking: You might indeed be Rafarl. There is weakness as well as strength in us all. Light and dark. Fear and courage. We are the choices we make. I loved you tonight, I loved even the dark in you. But not the choice you made, not the you who chose . . .
She said: “So what was the price—the whole price? What service did he require, to prove your loyalty?”
She had guessed the answer.
Luc said: “I am to take you to him.”
“And?”
“He will offer you what he offered me. He says your Gift is great, and you can be great among his people. Morgus was a test: he was certain you would find a way to kill he
r. He wanted you to kill; he said it was necessary. Come with me—come to him—and we will be together always, sharing our power and his. So many live their lives without meaning, dying from a night’s cold, a whiff of disease, and we can do nothing for them. But we can do this for ourselves. We can live our lives with a purpose, we can make our mark on eternity. Fern . . .”
“I like eternity unmarked. I am content to live my life in doubt, with no questions answered.”
“Fern—”
“He lied to you, of course.” She was tranquil now, if emptiness is tranquillity. “Would you have taken me to him openly, or by subterfuge?”
“He said I mustn’t tell you. Not immediately, not till—”
“Not till it was too late for me to run away. Not till we crossed the threshold of his office. And then he might have made his offer, and he might not. Or he could have chosen slow torment for me instead. Petty tyrants have so little imagination; they always favor slow torment. Not that it matters. I won’t be going.”
“You must.”
The moon had moved now, leaving them both in shadow. She was still lying on her back, motionless; he leaned over her, loomed over her, like a lover or a murderer.
“Must?”
“You don’t understand. It was part of the bargain. I hadn’t met you then; I swore—”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“You must come,” he reiterated. “He won’t harm you: I know that. I don’t want to force you, but—”
“Then don’t. I knew someone who broke his bargain with Azmordis.” She used the name, in defiance or indifference, but no demon stirred. “He wasn’t a good man—in fact, he did much evil—but he was brave. The morlochs set on him—have you seen the morlochs? The goblins call them pugwidgies. They have no feelings, no minds, only hunger. Oh, yes, Ruvindra was brave. They ate him alive. How brave are you?”
“Fairy tales don’t frighten me.”
“You are in a fairy tale, in case you’ve forgotten. Only no one lives happily ever after. Magic . . . magic is just another way of playing without the rules.” He thought she smiled, but it was only a trick of the dark. “I play by witch’s rules, didn’t you know? Witch’s honor.”
“Fern.” He bent down to her, and his voice was softened again. “Stop hiding in your own nightmares. Listen to me. We could do so much, be so much. The other week I saw a girl dying in a doorway—drugs of some sort—and I knew I was helpless. And there are so many like her. Don’t die that way, don’t live that way. I love you too much.” He kissed her parted lips, a long, long kiss. She did not resist, did not respond.
When he was done she said in a flat voice: “I would rather die in a doorway than walk another yard with you.”
He swung his legs off the bed and began to dress, finding his clothing without the light. Witchsight, she thought. Then he turned. There was an object in his hand that gleamed a thin reflected gleam. The knife. The knife that had lain on the desk in the tower office.
“You have no choice,” he said. “I chose for you.”
Silence. Shadows and silence. And in the silence, in the shadows, the glitter of her eyes.
“I am a witch.” Her voice was very quiet. “I killed tonight. Do you think you can compel me?” And to the knife: “Rrassé!” But the blade had its own power: it trembled, but did not break.
“Do you think you can fight me?” said Luc.
She rose out of the bed, naked, all pale slenderness. He said: “Dress.”
“Why?” She seemed indifferent to her nakedness, like a wild nymph or fey child.
“You will be cold.”
She dressed, carefully, still in the dark. Always in the dark.
She whispered a charm, but it did not reach him; Azmordis must have shielded him from her sorcery.
She said: “Naked or clothed, I won’t go with you.”
The gleam of the knife blade stirred in his hand. They stared at each other for perhaps twenty seconds, then in the same moment, the same motion, he sprang, she dodged. There was no magic between them now, only strength, his and hers. He flung her on the bed, pinioning her arms almost without effort. The knife was at her throat. “Don’t call the dog,” he said. “You’re fond of her. I should hate to have to harm her.”
“You might find that difficult.” She strained, but could not break his hold. “I won’t call for any assistance. We are one to one: that is fair enough. Except you have a weapon, I don’t.”
“We are witchkind. As I understand it, we don’t play fair.”
“You learn fast.” But not fast enough. I am on my home territory. I don’t need to call: there is already someone there.
“Give me your word you will come with me in the morning, and I will release you.”
“My word?” She was playing for time.
“What was that phrase you used? Witch’s honor.”
Witches have no honor. But that was something he had yet to assimilate.
She said: “Witch’s honor.”
He drew back, the knife gleam still bright in his grasp. She sat up. Stood up. “When I have a weapon,” she said, “then this will be a straight fight.”
He made out the shape crouching in the dark beyond her—the shape he had not seen before. He heard the whispered admonition: “Ferrn! Carlin! I hae the weapon for ye—”
Her hand closed on the haft. She felt the weight of the spear pulling her into the thrust, guiding her. The Sleer Bronaw, the Spear of Grief. Grip, pull, thrust. It was a single movement, smooth and inevitable. The death strike of the cobra, the warrior’s lunge, the swordsman’s coup de grâce.
The knife gleam leaped toward her.
(But was there a hesitation, a fatal instant of doubt?)
The blade dropped harmlessly from his hand. He made a noise: not a scream, a sort of choking grunt. He fell heavily. She said: “Luc,” and she was on her knees beside him, trying to pull out the spear, but the barbs had opened in his belly, and she could see the blood, lots of blood, black in the moonlight. She called for cloths or bandages but not light, not electric light, no light to see what she had done, to make it real. She was holding a wad of cloth against his stomach, watching it turn black with the blood. Her hands were black. “Luc,” she said, “Luc,” but he did not answer. At some point she tried to find a pulse in his wrist, in his throat, but she wasn’t sure how. Her face was wet, though she was not aware of crying.
Bradachin said: “He’s deid,” and “There wa’ nae help for it.”
Much later, nudged by Lougarry, she rose and went to wash her hands. The blood swirled around the basin in the stream of water, ran down the drain. She thought: This is what murderers do. They have to wash the blood off their hands.
None of it was real.
Back in the bedroom, she switched on the light. She didn’t want to, but she knew it was necessary. (He wanted you to kill: he said it was necessary.) The body lay there, its face waxen from the blood loss. Not Luc, the body. A dead thing, solid and real, filling the room, filling the house. Taking over. It did not crumble into instant decay like Morgus: it stayed there. Unmoving. Immovable. She saw it in the light as if for the first time.
In London, Will’s phone rang.
“I’ve killed Luc.” His sister’s voice was almost unrecognizable, close to hysteria. “Come now. You’ve got to come. The body’s here and it won’t go away. I don’t know what to do with it. Please . . .”
Will said to Gaynor: “We’d better go.”
Driving through the small hours, much too fast, they reached Yarrowdale before eight. The remnants of the front door had been jammed into place with a chest of drawers; it took Fern several minutes to shift it. “You said you’d killed Luc,” Will said, once they were inside.
The explanation came out in a stammering rush, close to incoherence. “He had a knife—the little dagger from the tower office. Like a paper knife. I tried to break it, but the spell failed. All my spells failed. He said I must go with him. We s-struggled, and Bradachin g
ave it me. Sleer Bronaw. The spear.” Her mouth shook; her gaze seemed to be fixed on something they could not see. “It went in so quickly—so quickly. There wasn’t time to . . . to pull back. He hesitated. I’m sure he . . . He had the knife, but he was slow, and I was fast, and it went in, and I couldn’t get it out. I couldn’t . . .”
Will put his arms around her, and she began to shudder violently, dry sobs racking her like an asthmatic fighting for breath. “It’s okay,” he said with what he hoped was authority, though he knew it wasn’t. He had never seen her like this, frantic, falling apart; it shocked him as much as what she had done. “Why did he pull a knife on you?”
“Sold himself—to Azmordis.” For a moment, she looked up at him, and her eyes were wild. “It was my dream: do you see? Him, not me. Luc—Lucas—Lukastor, Son of Morning . . . I saw the scar. He said—I must join him. My third chance. Third time lucky.”
Gaynor said: “Dear God.”
Will: “I see.”
“We made love. He l-let me think—he made me believe—he was Rafarl, Rafarl reborn . . . True love—Someday . . . Maybe he was. That’s the worst. Maybe he was, and he betrayed me.” The tears were coming now, leaking from her eyes, scribbling rain trails down her face. “We slept—and I dreamed—and when I woke up . . .”
“All right,” Will said. “Gaynor, make her some tea. Strong and very sweet. Or coffee; whichever you find first. As long as it’s sweet.”
“I don’t take sugar.”
“You do now. You’re in shock.” With Fern still curled within his arm, he followed Gaynor into the kitchen, refraining from comment on the broken windows. Lougarry emerged from the shadows to accompany them; Bradachin was already there.
“I tried to help her,” he said. “But she waur just sitting there, on the floor, trembling like a wee pippit. The dog was licking her, like she wa’ herrt, but she didna say aught. It wa’ nae blame to her, the laddie was a baddun. He would hae killt her.”
Fern shook her head numbly. Her voice had dropped to a whisper. “He hesitated. I didn’t. I didn’t.” The tears came faster now, healing, or so Will hoped.
