by Leo Hunt
“Luke?” comes a voice from outside. “Luke, what the hell is this?”
“Can Elza . . . ?” I ask Berkley. I can barely finish the sentence. I don’t know what to do.
“Come in,” Berkley says in a welcoming tone. “I’m just speaking with Luke.”
Elza pulls back the entrance flap of the tent and peers inside. Her eyes widen as she sees Mr. Berkley. She stands there, speechless.
“Please do enter, my dear,” he says. “You’re letting cold air in.”
“Is this —” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s him. Come inside.”
She doesn’t move. Snowflakes spiral around her face. She’s firelit, the world behind her a dark haze. She looks like a beautiful bleak painting. She bites her lip.
“Where else can we go?” I ask her.
Elza breathes out heavily.
“You know what?” she asks me. “I think I always knew it would happen like this.”
Elza moves away from the front flap, letting it fall closed, and I hear scraping sounds. She comes in backward, fresh snow settled on her shoulders and hair, pulling Holiday after her. Holiday is still limp and unconscious, half dead from whatever I did to her, her back and thighs caked with snow. Elza lays her down on the ground beside the fire and turns to us, still standing by the doorway, as if she’s prepared to flee at any moment.
“You must be Berkley,” she says. Her voice is flat and miserable.
“Yes!” he says. “Admirable deduction. My name is Mr. Berkley, and I am Luke’s late father’s solicitor. You must be —”
“I know all about you. I know exactly what you are,” Elza replies.
“Manners,” Mr. Berkley says with a smile. He gets to his feet.
“Elza,” I say. “Please be polite to him.”
She swallows. Looks at Berkley with a fear I’ve never seen in her before.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“Oh, don’t be!” Berkley replies. He rests one hand under her jaw, turning her face to the firelight. He appraises her like she’s a priceless sculpture, his eyes hungrily absorbing every detail of her body. “You are, after all, correct, and I happen to believe there is no rudeness in speaking truth. Yes, I am other things besides a solicitor for a deceased conjurer. I am a scholar, a poet, a philosopher king. I hold dominion over the ancient lands known as Tartarus. I am the Speaker of Secrets, the Black Goat who whispers in the woods on moonless nights. As you say, you have heard of me. All men have, by one name or another.
“And you are Elza Moss. Blood of Lilith, who slew my child and was slain by it in turn. It was for love of you that Luke journeyed to the Shrouded Lake and made his offering there, or am I wrong? Elza Moss, the twice-born.”
“Yeah,” Elza says. “That’s me.”
“Come,” Berkley says. He lets go of her chin, gesturing toward the campfire. “Sit and speak with us.”
His tone makes it clear Elza has no choice. She sits down on the grass inside the tent, Holiday’s feet right next to hers, and Berkley sits again as well. Bea sighs contentedly. It’s really warm in here now. The snow on Elza’s hair is melting, plastering her bangs against her forehead. She looks half drowned, exhausted. This has been a night of bonfires, strangers huddled around a fading light. I think of Elza’s house, of sleeping on the floor and eating Christmas cake for breakfast, think of Larktongue and Bald Samson and their gray, heatless campfire. And now we find ourselves here.
Like Elza said, I think deep down I always knew it would happen like this. I don’t know how we imagined we could ever beat Berkley. He’s had me where he wants me from the first day. He beams at both of us, radiantly happy.
“Holiday,” I say to Elza.
“Your friend is alive,” Berkley says. “Just about.”
“What happened to her?” Elza asks him.
He shrugs. “There are many good reasons not to bind living souls to your Host,” he says. “Foremost amongst them are that the process destroys them irrevocably. The dead are a near-inexhaustible source of magical power. The still-living spirit, however, is eminently exhaustible.”
“Will she die?” Elza asks.
“It could still happen. If Luke were to relinquish his hold over her, that would be an excellent start in reversing the process.”
“Why do you care?” I ask Berkley, confused.
“Who said that I do? I was asked a question and answered it.”
I focus my will into the sigil ring. I try to block out the pain, the fear, and find the spell that’s keeping Holiday and Kirk and Elza bound to me. I find it there in the darkness, a slender thread of golden light, and I untie it in my mind, breaking my Host. If it’s going to kill them, then I don’t want that power. I’ll do this without it.
Holiday breathes in audibly for the first time.
She might still make it, at least. I don’t know what’s going to happen to us.
“There,” I say.
“Still, an interesting application of your power. Creative,” Berkley says. “Was she coerced?”
“No,” I say. “Her idea.”
“The greatest servants are those who take the position willingly,” he says. “Something your father never quite understood, I feel. He had power, sure enough. But you have power and a quality that wins you followers through love, too. You inspire loyalty.”
I think of Ham, vanishing into the waters of the Shrouded Lake. My heart hurts, to match the rest of my body.
“What do you want?” Elza asks Berkley. “I know Luke promised you something.”
“He did, after I let his bloated wretch of a father go free. He promised me something worth as much as his father’s spirit.”
“And now you’re here,” Elza says. “To collect.”
Berkley grins at us.
“I don’t know what you want,” I say.
“Of course you do. You have known ever since you agreed to it.”
Mr. Berkley’s shadow covers half the wall of the tent, a seething awful shape. I focus on his human face. His white teeth and white beard. I feel like any moment the mask might break, and I’ll see what’s beneath it.
“You want me,” I say.
“I want you to work for me,” he says.
Nobody speaks. The wind howls outside the tent’s horsehide walls.
“You’ve already done great things, Luke. I do not think you understand the power that is within you. Of course, as things stand, you are only the spark that might start a great fire . . . or might be extinguished, had I a mind. But I see true potential within you, my boy, the way a gifted sculptor sees his masterpiece within a chunk of unworked stone. If you will submit to my teachings, I believe you would be a great asset to me.”
“What would I do?” I ask.
“Come to Tartarus with me. Abandon this broken flesh. Study the high mysteries at my side. I will show you secret patterns within the weave of the world. You will learn the first language, the speech of the stars, and we shall walk in the graves of forgotten gods. You will be a prince, Luke.” Berkley’s eyes flare like sky-colored embers. “We can build whole worlds each morning and raze them to dust when we are bored. Your voice will make the mountains shudder like frightened beasts. You shall have an honor guard of demon lictors, a chariot swifter than thought, a palace filled by beautiful wives, a garden of incomparable beauty, a feasting table that is ever full. Fountains of wine, fine robes in colors men cannot name. You will be worshipped by innumerable children, just as I am. You will be undying, invincible, fierce as the sun. Think, my boy! You would live your life and slip unremembered into death, becoming a base, hungry ghoul, a lost phantom? You would walk the banks of the Styx with a boulder chained to your body, hoping for salvation? I think not, Luke. Take my hand. The darkness awaits a new prince.”
“This is a trick,” I say. “You want to torment me.”
“My boy! My reputation is poor, I know, but I thought you had grown to know me better than that! I admire you, Luke! I admit that
I have placed you into difficult circumstances, but I have tried only to hold up a mirror to show you your own strength, your own willpower. I gave you your father’s Host to see whether you would rise to the challenge, and how magnificently you did! How deep you drank from my well of secrets! How loyal you were to Horatio! You put yourself irrevocably into my power to rescue him, even knowing how awfully he had treated your family, your very brother! You traveled to the Shrouded Lake to save a girl you had not even known a year! I admire loyalty, my boy. Do you think I am without enemies? The Speaker of Secrets, master of Tartarus? Do you think there are no spirits who covet my position? I need acolytes that I can depend upon.”
“What about Elza?”
“What would you like to do with her?” he asks me. “The witch girl can come with you if you like. She has a pleasing aspect, I certainly understand why you would be spurred to feats of heroism by her. And she has Lilith’s blood. . . . She would make a suitable consort for you within my court, I suppose. She might need new clothes, a new form? The shape of a golden lioness is fashionable at present, I am led to understand. Or perhaps a gown of black flame . . . My wives can help her choose something, certainly. What do you think about that, my dear?”
Elza’s face is unreadable. She’s pulling at a wet strand of hair, winding it around her finger.
“I’d rather not,” she says quietly.
“Well, if you’re certain.” Berkley smiles carelessly, then turns his attention back to me. “You could bring the blond one if you prefer, my boy — it’s all the same to me. As I have said, you will not lack for companionship in Tartarus. You will not lack for anything.”
“OK,” I say.
Elza starts like she’s been shot.
“What?” she asks me.
“OK,” I say. “I’m about to die. I’ll go.”
Berkley’s smile is wider than I’ve ever seen it. He reaches out toward me.
“There’s one thing, though,” I say. “Before I go. I don’t feel right otherwise.”
“Ha!” Berkley exclaims. “Anything, Luke! Ask me anything! The world is yours, my boy.”
“We’re going to turn this all back like it was. We’re going to save Dunbarrow.”
Berkley’s smile fades away. He folds his hands in his lap.
“Well,” he says, “it’s not quite so easy as that.”
“Why not? You said I could have anything.”
“You will, you will. But it is not a simple thing you ask for. Dunbarrow has been submerged into the spirit world by the will of the Barrenwhite Tree. Another elder spirit. My influence is somewhat, shall we say, compromised in this matter.”
“How do you mean?” I ask.
“Picture a chessboard,” Berkley says. “You are familiar with the game? Good. Picture a white bishop upon a white square, and a black bishop on a black square. Each able only to take pieces that stand upon similarly colored squares, and thus unable to move directly against the other, separated by fundamental and immutable laws. Each reduced to watching and hating, unable to strike, forever separated. Do you follow so far? This is the Barrenwhite Tree and me, the Speaker of Secrets. This is how it has always been. The Tree has claimed your town, for reasons known only to itself, and I cannot easily compel it to release Dunbarrow.”
“So we kill it,” I say.
Berkley roars with laughter. “Ha! This is why I like you so, Luke! Your drive! The will for power! A mighty elder spirit stands in the way of what you want, so you propose we destroy it! You are very precious to me.”
“You think we can’t do it?”
“I know I cannot,” he says. “I cannot harm that ancient being, and vice versa, by the terms of a concord made long ago. I have wished I could a thousand times.”
Tree and goat no longer love one another. That’s what the Oracle told me. This is what she wanted me to do, but I don’t know if I’m getting it quite right. She must have seen this point in time, this conversation. I press on, hoping I’m doing the right thing.
“But I can,” I say. “I could do it. I’m not bound by those rules, right?”
“You are not. However, I feel that fighting against one of the great spirits might be somewhat beyond your abilities at this point,” Berkley says gently. “I said that I see potential for true greatness within you, not that you are a great power at present.”
“Please,” I say. “I’ve been thinking about what you said, last time we met. About how evil’s a point of view. I think you’re right. I think we could do great things together, sir. I think I want what you’re offering me. But this is my home, it’s where I grew up, and I can’t leave it in the hands of a spirit like that Tree. It might look weak. Surely there’s something we can do?” I look into Berkley’s eyes, lying with my face, my entire spirit. I pray and hope he sees what I want him to see. “Imagine if we managed it. Nobody would dare stand up to us after that.”
I think Elza sees what I’m trying to do. I hope she sees it. Even if it’s the end for me, the end of Luke Manchett as anyone would understand that concept, I want Dunbarrow to go free. I don’t want the Tree to consume everyone, drive them into root-choked madness. Even if I have to get the Devil’s help to do it.
“Perhaps,” Berkley says. “It is possible that . . . if a formal challenge were issued . . . there are protocols for this sort of thing, unusual as it is. We may issue a challenge, by the power of eight, and demand that the Tree relinquish this territory. That is possible.”
“Act through me,” I say. “I want . . . I want you to be like my father. That’s what I never had. What you could be for me.”
Did I go too far?
Berkley is silent, looking into the flames.
“That is a beautiful sentiment, my boy,” he says softly. “I would be honored to think of you as a son. I think there is much we could accomplish together.”
“I agree,” I say.
“So you’ll really help us?” Elza asks Berkley, in a voice barely above a whisper.
“More than that,” he says. “I will ascend you. Transform you. Grant you every pleasure you’ve ever imagined, and many more you haven’t. Have you rethought your position on coming with us?”
“Sure,” she says.
Berkley frowns. “You still do not sound very enthusiastic, Elza.”
“No, it sounds great. Who wants to hang around in this shithole? Sign me up for the flame dress,” she says.
“Language,” he says indulgently.
“I’m in a lot of pain,” I say. “Can we —”
“You don’t need that body,” he says. “Leave it behind. It’s no use to you.”
There’s no way of getting around this one. If I die then I die, I suppose. This body didn’t have much life left in it.
“Help me,” I say. “I haven’t been able to get out of my body like I used to.”
“Ah, naturally. A side effect of the two worlds colliding.” Berkley reaches down with a long-fingered hand and pulls me out of myself. The pain fades instantly, replaced by pleasant warmth. I sit up and realize I’m sitting on top of myself, a broken bloody copy. My brown eyes stare uselessly at the tent’s ceiling. I touch Elza’s hand and find that I’m still really here, the way the Knights or Berkley are. I’m still present. She shudders a little.
“You OK?” I ask.
“You’re cold,” she says. “And your eyes have gone black. Like the Shepherd’s.”
“Oh.”
I feel great, even if I look scary. I feel powerful. Berkley did more than pull me out of my body; he made me stronger, gave me a little jolt of something. There’s lightning in my limbs.
“So what’s the plan?” I ask Berkley. “Father.”
“You will need a weapon,” he says. “One befitting my apprentice. Would you mind . . . ?” He gestures at Kirk’s sword, which is lying on the ground next to Holiday. I pass it to him. He examines the blade. “This is a shadow of the weapons I have in my court, but the basic form is adequate. If you would give me the enc
hanted blade you have in your jacket, please.”
Silently Elza passes him the black witch blade, the one we took from Margaux. She keeps the white one for herself. Berkley turns it in the firelight.
“This will suffice,” he says, and then inhales a great gulp of flame from the bonfire before him. It’s drawn up into his mouth like juice through a straw. He holds the flames inside his mouth and then lets them dribble out onto the blade of Kirk’s sword. He presses the witch blade into the flames, too, and speaks a word I don’t understand.
The outline of the sword blurs and melts under the flames, the knife sinking into the longer blade of the sword. It no longer looks like metal, instead taking the form of shadows lined with fire. Berkley works the blade with his bare fingers, twisting and adjusting the shadow stuff, until he has a sword longer than Kirk’s and thicker, with a cross-shaped guard and a sinister edge of molten-red flame that reminds me of the surface of the Phlegethon, the fiery river that runs to Tartarus. Finally, he draws a strange mark at the base of the blade with his index finger and then hands the weapon to me.
I take the sword. My sigil ring blazes with cold, with more power than I’ve ever felt before. My head is spinning. I nearly black out.
“Not my best work,” Berkley remarks. “But it will suffice for now. How do you like the blade?”
“It’s perfect,” I say, and I’m not actually lying. This thing feels good to hold.
Holiday and Bea are still asleep by the fire. I stand, the sword like an extension of my hand. Bloodred flame drips from the tip and sears the earth.
“My son,” Berkley says, “my newest son. What a picture you make. You will certainly command respect in the feasting halls of Tartarus. Is he not a figure of terrible majesty, Elza?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Strong look.”
I don’t mean this, I’m thinking to her, as if she can hear it.
“Well,” Berkley says, getting to his feet, “our foe awaits. My long-hated foe. Onward, my son. To the Barrenwhite Tree.”
The snow is fierce outside the horsehide tent, but I can’t feel the cold anymore. Elza is huddled up in her coat, hood raised, the only skin exposed her eyes and the top of her nose. We left Bea to keep watch on Holiday, who seems to be breathing more normally now, color returning to her face. They’ll live, I hope, no matter what happens to us. I notice the snowflakes that land on Berkley melt instantly, and his feet leave pools of water as he walks. His eyes are blue stars. He seems to be losing his human shape, piece by piece. His shadow stretches out behind him, a rippling dark stain on the snow.
