The Devil's Looking-Glass

by Mark Chadbourn

  Before the others had caught up and could question him further, he began to circle the base of the structure. As far as he could tell, there was no entrance. Only a series of stone footholds barely a finger’s length wide protruded from the walls, spiralling up towards the top. Setting down his rapier, he took off his boots to get a better grip and hauled himself on to the lowest step. Pressing himself tight against the wall, he felt for small clefts that seemed to have been made as fingerholds. The others called out, urging him not to risk such a precarious climb, but his head felt numb and their words faded away. Gingerly, he shifted his weight from one step to the next, and then the next.

  As he clawed his way around the tower, his nose wrinkled at the smell of the warm stone against his cheek, and the wet-wood aromas of the forest, and the hint of brine on the breeze blowing in from the coast. Sweat slicked his body in the day’s heat. He balanced on the precarious footholds, clutching on to the wall until his finger joints screamed with pain. When he sensed the quality of light change as he rose above the treetops, the bird-cries rang in his ears as the shadows swooped across him.

  And higher still he climbed, into a world of grey stone, blue sky and golden sunlight. He felt the suck of the dizzying drop as the wind tugged at his limbs, and the queasy twist in the pit of his stomach, but not for a moment did he look down. His legs and arms shook. The slightest misstep would send him plunging to his death. But then a soft white glow enveloped him and he realized he was nearing the summit.

  A moment later he hauled himself over the edge, and rolled on to his back, filling his tight chest with clear, sweet and untainted air. He blinked, unable to see the sky any more for the moonlike luminescence. Yet it was not a harsh light; he felt as though he was swathed in down. Something about this strange light reached inside him and plucked at his grief, and for a moment he felt overwhelmed by the sense of loss and despair. He shook himself, gritted his teeth and clambered to his feet. He would not give in.

  The top of the tower was flat and fixed upon it was an iron plinth topped by a blue-green copper bowl. In it, what seemed like a glass sphere the distance of fingertip to elbow in diameter floated an inch above the surface, turning slowly. It was from this that the white light washed out.

  Will leaned over it, studying the gently pulsing light, but as he reached a hand across the bowl the light wavered, then dimmed. Now was the moment. Steeling himself, he gripped the glass globe between his hands. His skin tingled at its strange, almost living flesh-like warmth. One act to change the world, he thought. One act to save England. One act to break his heart.

  And he wrenched the sphere away from the bowl in a fizz of golden sparks and in a single movement hurled it over the edge of the tower. The soothing, pale light swept down in the globe’s wake and he was left with a view across that verdant corner of the New World and the shadowy world beyond. A veil appeared to be hanging above the labyrinth from horizon to horizon. Through the shimmering haze, he could just discern the black bulk of Manoa, still turning against a fiery sky, but as he watched the mist slipped away, and with it all sight of the Unseelie Court’s strange, twisted world.

  The door upon the Fay had been slammed shut. In their crepuscular land, cut off from the realm of man, the Unseelie Court could scheme and fight among themselves until the stars fell from the heavens. And what few of the damnable Fey still moved among mortals would be lost here.

  Will heaved in a deep breath, still peering towards the blue horizon as though he could pierce that veil by will alone. And he blinked away the tears.

  And somewhere the loneliest woman in all Christendom sat upon a golden throne, trapped in a world not her own and without end.

  Jenny had given up everything to save this world, and beyond the few of them there, no one would ever know of her courage. Her sacrifice shamed them all. Will shielded his eyes. This would not be an end, he vowed silently. ‘I am coming back to get you, Jenny,’ he whispered. ‘Though all the hordes of Hell stand in my way, though oceans swell and conflagrations rage, I will find a way to reach you. And I will finally bring you home.’

  For another moment he waited, caught in the mournful cry of the gulls, and then he began to make his way down to earth.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  SAPPHIRE GHOST-LIGHTS SHIMMERED around the masts of the galleon tossing on heavy seas towards England. On the forecastle, Dr John Dee, alchemist, scholar and spy, stretched out his arms to the lowering sky and muttered his incantations. The heavens crashed in response. Sheets of white lightning flickered along the western horizon. The long night was coming to an end.

  Wind lashed his silver hair, but he stood like an oak against the rising gale and fixed his stony gaze upon the grey-green smudge of land ahead. If war was coming, he would not turn away. Come hell or high water, he would drive those devils out of England.

  On the main deck, Bloody Jack Courtenay roared with laughter as the storm swirled around him, and the crew bellowed their songs of death and blood and wine and women. The Tempest heaved across the turbulent waters towards home.

  Louder and louder still, Dee howled his invocation, until his throat was raw and his ears rang. But then shafts of sunlight punched through the thick bank of grey cloud to illuminate the green fields of England, and for a moment he thought he saw a multitude of shadows take to the air like a murder of crows.

  Flee, he thought with a grim smile. Flee and never return.

  The wind dropped. The thunder rolled away. And the galleon sailed into calm waters.

  On the quayside at Greenwich, Sir Walter Raleigh waited, the silver thread in his jerkin a-shimmer in the morning sun. ‘Doctor,’ he boomed in greeting, as Dee strode down the plank on to dry land. ‘You have been sorely missed.’

  ‘I have not missed you, you preening popinjay,’ the alchemist barked. ‘Now let us away to London. There is still desperate work to be done. We are not out of deep water yet.’

  The two men climbed into the waiting carriage, and as it trundled on to the rutted road leading west the adventurer recounted his tale. ‘Cecil is a fool,’ he muttered, ‘and a prideful one at that. Though it opened the door to disaster, he refused all aid from the School of Night and sent me away from the palace. The price has been high. Many have died during the long siege.’

  ‘Her Majesty?’

  ‘She is safe, for now. But I fear Cecil would sacrifice even her rather than give up his hold on power.’

  Dee nodded. ‘He is a dangerous man, and desperate with it. He will never turn his back on his dark games of deceit and treachery, though we now face a new age, and a better one, in all hope. We must see what we can do.’

  ‘He will not rest until the School of Night is broken on his rack,’ Raleigh said. ‘We have a long fight upon our hands.’

  ‘We always have had, and always will,’ the older man replied.

  The adventurer leaned in close, his face darkening. ‘We should all watch our backs. I fear Cecil will go to any lengths now. He has already vowed to see Swyfte dead, should he set foot upon English soil again.’

  Dee’s face hardened. ‘Then let us make haste!’

  The carriage clattered through the gates of the Palace of Whitehall in the warmth of the afternoon sun. As the alchemist clambered down, he cast one eye to the top of the Lantern Tower. All was still. The Faerie Queen would enjoy her grim cell for a while yet.

  Once Raleigh had departed, Dee strode through the dusty, echoing halls, sensing the wretched atmosphere that hung over all. Guards leaned on their pikes, faces drawn. The sour reek of sweat pervaded the silent galleries. The court clustered together for safety in the halls surrounding the innermost ward, where the Queen’s own chambers lay. The black-robed Privy Councillors drifted around, whispering and ashen-faced, as they waited for yet another futile meeting to begin.

  As the Queen’s sorcerer entered the hall, eyes looked up in shock and a slow murmuring begin to spread outwards, growing louder until it broke into a resounding cheer. Dee glowered at t
hem all. Fools, he thought. You are your own worst enemies. He glimpsed Cecil watching him through the throng, as conflicted as ever. Relief and loathing struggled for supremacy in the spymaster’s features.

  Dee had a long night of incantations and spell-casting ahead of him in order to shore up England’s beleaguered defences, but first he had more pressing business. He pushed through the pathetically grateful courtiers and strode towards a young man who had arrived to investigate the tumult. Dee saw in an instant the worry etched into the face of Swyfte’s faithful assistant, Nathaniel Colt. Sensing news, the crowd fell silent in order to hear what the old man had to say. Kind words rarely came to the alchemist’s lips, but he felt bound to summon them.

  ‘Your master yet lives, and if the gods are willing he will be home soon.’ Dee’s spindly hand clutched the young man’s shoulder. ‘Pray for his safe return. The perils facing him are great indeed, but Albion has never had a sword like Will Swyfte, and perhaps never will again.’ This was a message that would reach far beyond the fellow’s ears, he knew.

  Nathaniel smiled with relief, stuttering his thanks. Dee glanced around and saw Cecil glowering. He bared his teeth at the spymaster, then bellowed to the crowd, ‘Clear the way. I have important news for the Queen alone.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  LONDON WAS AGLOW in the late autumn sun. The elms and cherry trees shimmered with golds, oranges and browns along the garden walks of the Palace of Whitehall. The air was smoky from new fires stoked against the growing chill, while the gardeners pruned the dead heads off the roses and cut back the woodbine ahead of the festivities to come. Will paused at the end of the avenue and raised his eyes to the lightning-blasted spire of St Paul’s to the east. It was where the beacon used to be lit whenever the realm came under threat from the Unseelie Court. He allowed himself a brief smile of satisfaction. Near six months had passed since he had made his vow on the Tower of the Moon, yet he found he could recall it in his mind as if it were yesterday. A new door had opened that day, on to a new world, a new future.

  He wore his best black and silver doublet and had bought a new velvet cap for the celebrations. Nathaniel too had dressed in the closest he had to finery, a plain green doublet and brown cloak, though Will felt the young man’s angry expression rather spoiled the effect.

  ‘They are a foul collection of disloyal, untrustworthy, clay-brained jolt-heads,’ the young assistant muttered, kicking his way through the carpet of dry leaves.

  ‘Why, Nat, is that any way to speak of Her Majesty’s most senior advisers?’ Will replied with a wry smile.

  ‘You have risked life and limb in constant service to our Queen and country, and now they treat you with such ignominy? Dismissed? No recognition for all you have achieved, no pomp, no ceremony? Sent back to Warwickshire?’

  ‘It is not the ends of the earth, Nat. And my pension will ensure I want for nothing while I slip into a life of serenity.’

  ‘I know you,’ Nathaniel grumbled. ‘The boredom will be the end of you. You will be drunk or mad within days.’ He eyed Will. ‘More drunk. More mad.’

  ‘Ah, Nat, where would I be without your constant flattery?’ In truth the decision to dispense with his services had not surprised him when he and the others had arrived back in England on the galleon despatched under Dee’s direction. He had served his purpose. The realm was intent on looking to the future and he was only a reminder of unpleasant times.

  Cutting through the walkways between the palace’s grand halls, the two men arrived at the tilt-yard as a fiddle player in doublet and galligaskin breeches of crimson satin tuned his instrument. Servants scurried here and there with platters of meat, bread and cheese. Others suspended flags of red and yellow above the white tent that the Queen would occupy. None of them knew the true reason for the celebration, Will realized, thinking it was little more than another diversion like the coming Accession Day Tilt in November. But the Queen herself, and all her Privy Councillors, would be united in their private festivities and the belief that the dark days were finally over.

  Through the throng, Will glimpsed Grace walking with the other ladies-in-waiting towards the monarch’s chambers. She was a picture of prettiness. Her hair was tied with a bow of eggshell blue that matched her skirts, and Will was pleased to see her laughing. For a moment their eyes locked. The bond between them was stronger than it ever had been, forged by determination and hope; not loss, never loss. In private, they plotted and dreamed of ways of crossing a gulf greater than any ocean, of breaking down the walls of Hell, then returning home in joy and triumph. She never spoke of Strangewayes, and Will suspected she never would.

  Once she had moved on, Will and Nathaniel strolled to where Carpenter and Launceston were bickering in the shade of an oak tree while they swigged on flasks of sack. Wrapped in a scarlet hooded cloak, Red Meg pretended to ignore them, though they had all found some common ground in the hot days they had shared waiting to be rescued from the New World.

  Carpenter looked up as Will and Nathaniel arrived. ‘Tell this beslubbering beetle-headed flap-dragon I no longer need to be watched like a troublesome child now that the Unseelie Court are in no position to stir the foul thing that still resides within me.’

  Launceston raised a single eyebrow, eyeing those who milled around them. ‘I watch you because you are an accident waiting to happen, with or without your foul passenger,’ he breathed.

  Carpenter jabbed a finger at the other man. ‘You are just trying to pay me back for all the days I had to prevent you from slaughtering for sport.’

  ‘Are you the pot or the kettle, I forget?’

  ‘Let them be married soon and be done with it,’ Meg sighed.

  Will bowed. ‘Mistress O’Shee. You have found better lodgings than the Tower, I hear.’

  ‘Your master feels I may have some knowledge which could aid him with his difficulties in my homeland.’ Shrugging, she gave a sardonic smile. ‘Why, I may be able to spin this out for many a month before he discovers that, although I am many things, I am no traitor. And then I may seek you out in Warwickshire, Master Swyfte, for as you know, I am not easily deterred.’

  ‘Your company will be welcome as always, good Meg.’

  Nathaniel tugged at his master’s sleeve and pointed towards a black carriage waiting at the end of the tilt-yard. Standing beside its open door, Dr Dee glared at them, swaddled in his cloak of animal pelts.

  ‘We will make merry later, my friends,’ Will said. ‘First I must take a draught of vinegar.’ He strode over to the carriage, a broad grin on his lips in the knowledge that it would irritate the Queen’s brooding conjurer. ‘Finally,’ he said, his voice brimming with cheer. ‘You are as elusive as marsh lights. I have hunted you up hill and down dale since morning.’

  ‘You find me when I choose to be found,’ the alchemist growled. ‘I have been summoned back to Manchester. The Queen insists I maintain the post of warden of Christ’s College. It appears I am an embarrassment in this fine new world, a reminder of the terrible compromises we all made during the long struggle.’

  ‘This world is changing.’ Will shrugged. ‘Now the threat of the Unseelie Court has been driven back into the shadows, a new dawn is breaking.’

  ‘Or new threats may appear.’ With claw-like hands, Dee tugged his cloak tighter around him. ‘The Fellows of the college wish to consult me on a troubling matter which they feel is a good fit for my area of expertise. The demonic possession of seven children. Yes, the Unseelie Court may be gone, for now, but there are devils and there are devils, and do not forget it.’ The alchemist glanced around him, and when he was sure they could not be overheard he whispered, ‘You have it?’

  Will nodded. From under his cloak, he pulled at a small object wrapped in a black velvet cloth. He thought he could hear the obsidian mirror sing to him, with stories of Jenny appearing in the glass whispering words of love. An illusion, like so many things. ‘As promised,’ he said, offering the looking glass to the older man. ‘Did Cecil not
insist this be delivered to his door, so his wise men could endeavour to unlock its powers for the benefit of England?’

  ‘One cannot trust governments or authorities of any kind,’ the alchemist snorted. ‘That would be as foolish as trusting men. This looking glass will be conveniently lost until I can find the time or the inclination to probe its secrets once more.’

  ‘It is not too dangerous?’

  ‘No secrets are too dangerous,’ Dee replied with a tight smile. ‘We risk all for knowledge. It is the sunlit hill on which we build our dreams.’ He allowed himself a brief smile before his features darkened. ‘And speaking of devils . . .’

  Will glanced back in the direction of the alchemist’s glower and saw Sir Robert Cecil coming towards them with his rolling gait, two black-robed advisers following at a safe distance. Nathaniel had noticed the new arrivals too and was hurrying over, ready to defend his master should the need arise.

  ‘Beware of him, Swyfte. There is much poison in his fangs.’ The alchemist’s tone was not unkind.

  ‘That is not news, doctor.’ Will eyed the spymaster and felt the cold weight of all the lies and the betrayals that had cost him so many years of his life. And Jenny. But he had long since decided not to let that wretched past taint his days to come. This would be a fresh start for all of them.

  ‘Then consider this,’ the alchemist continued. ‘His hired blade was all but ready to slit your throat the moment you arrived in Tilbury. And yet that rogue was found floating in the Thames with the butchers’ offal. How strange.’

  Will and Dee exchanged a sly glance. ‘Then I owe the School of Night my life,’ the spy said.

  ‘More than that, as you will soon discover. My friends in our society now have some influence with the Queen herself, but there has been a high price to pay.’

  ‘Then I thank you, too, doctor, for all you have done for me.’