Darkwitch Rising

by Sara Douglass

  I didn’t hear the rest of what Weyland said, for a memory had suddenly filled my mind. Long Tom, speaking to me when I was but a child, and on my way to my life at Woburn Abbey.

  “Old wounds must be healed,” Long Tom had said. “All of them.”

  “Old wounds?”

  “The wounds caused during your first life: not those caused only by you, but those caused and suffered by everyone caught in the Game.”

  I caught my breath. Gods, gods, gods!

  Wounds must be healed, all those caused and suffered by everyone caught in the Game.

  “Weyland,” I said. “I am so sorry.”

  Then I reached my hands up, and slid them into his hair, and pulled his face down to mine.

  We kissed, once, twice, and then again and again, and I felt a shiver of desire at the base of my spine. “Weyland,” I said on a breath, and that was all I said for a very long time.

  James squatted down beside Louis, still writhing beneath his father-held arrow.

  James raised the dagger in both hands high above Louis’ heaving chest, then plunged it down, down, down…

  There came the sickening crunch of bone, and then Louis screamed, terribly.

  I saw all this, and some small part of me suffered with Louis’ suffering, and yet the most of me was concerned with the moment I was caught in, and the man I was with.

  “Noah…are you certain?”

  I answered him with my mouth against his, and my hands on his body.

  Louis could not stop screaming, even though the knife had lacerated both his lungs and air now bubbled up through the blood that welled around the blade.

  “Here it is,” said James, almost conversationally, and he plunged his hand into the frightful cavity in Louis’ chest.

  I sorrowed for Louis; wished that he could undergo his rebirth as Stag God in some way other than that he currently endured.

  But, oh, there was very little for me now bar Weyland, and the sweetness and warmth and overweening comfort of our lovemaking.

  James grunted with effort, then, with some difficulty, raised his hand.

  It held a beating heart.

  I cried out, and clutched frantically at Weyland. His hands ran over me, everywhere, his mouth following, and I felt him trembling, and that touched me deeply, that he should tremble so…

  Louis was somehow still alive, although desperate. His left hand, the one that wasn’t pinned by the arrow, waved weakly in the air, begging his father to push that arrow deeper, to murder him, finally.

  Silvius hesitated, then, with a look of immense love on his face, leaned all his weight on the shaft and pushed the arrowhead deep into Louis’ brain.

  I cried out once more, for as that arrow had pierced into Louis’ brain so Weyland had slid deep into me. He was murmuring meaningless, soothing words, and I wept and hugged him to me, feeling Louis’ relief at death enveloping him at the same time as my body dissolved into sweet relief. I let my body go limp, let my mind free, let Weyland hold me, closed my eyes, and felt nothing but the warmth of his arms about me and heard nothing but the sound of his voice, whispering my name.

  We lay for hours, so it seemed, sweaty and replete, our bodies still tangled, our hands now and again stroking at the other, caressing, exploring. Occasionally we kissed, deep and velvety.

  We did not speak, and for that I was grateful, for I did not know what words to use. All I knew was that somehow I had done something right.

  All I knew was that I had stepped forth on a path so dangerous that I could not know where it would lead me, or him, or any that I loved.

  Eventually, I opened my eyes, and saw Weyland’s face a few inches away, looking down gently at me.

  “What are you thinking?” he said.

  “That the paths of the labyrinth are most twisted indeed,” I said, and pulled him back down to me.

  We made love a further three times that night. Very gently, very sweetly. When, finally, we lay exhausted, I allowed my mind to drift back to something Silvius had said to Louis.

  You think this is suffering? Silvius had said. Do you not know that your greatest suffering, your greatest despair, is yet to come?

  I wondered if I was to be that suffering, and I thought that if that were so, then so be it. I had had enough of guilt.

  The little girl sat, arms about her legs, chin resting on knees, on the gently sloping roof of a warehouse in Thames Street.

  She stared towards Idol Lane, but she saw none of the rooftops or chimneys or steeples that rose between her and it.

  Instead she saw Noah, writhing in pleasure beneath Weyland’s body.

  “Fool!” whispered the girl. “Would you destroy everything that can be, out of spite? Do you truly think that Weyland could be what you need?”

  Something moved beside her, and she turned her head slightly. It was one of the imps.

  “We have a problem,” said Catling.

  “Yes?” said the imp, his eyes gleaming.

  “It appears that my erstwhile mother has developed a ‘closeness’ with Weyland.”

  “Really?”

  “We must turn her away from him.”

  “How?”

  Catling smiled. “With something that should cause you great pleasure, my friend.”

  “What is it?”

  Catling laughed softly at the eagerness in the imp’s voice. “Something I need you to fetch from Holland.”

  Nine

  Idol Lane and Whitehall Palace, London

  The white stag with the blood-red antlers lay deep in the centre of the Troy Game, his heart cruelly torn from his chest and left to lie beating weakly against his bloodstained pelt.

  The stag’s heart beat. Once. Weakly.

  Then it beat again, far more strongly, it jolted, and the stag quivered, and groaned.

  And then, suddenly the stag’s chest was whole, his heart vanished once more within his body, and the stag’s legs were thrashing wildly against the smooth green grass, and he lifted his head…

  And then he was gone, running through the forest, and the heart of the Troy Game was still and empty.

  Weyland woke early, and dressed. He stood for a few minutes, watching Noah sleeping, his face expressionless, then he left the chamber and walked a little deeper into the Idyll, thinking.

  Dear gods…he hadn’t expected Noah to succumb so quickly. He had planned so intricately, manoeuvring her to the point where she would agree to spend her nights next to him in his bed. From there Weyland expected that it would take weeks, perhaps months, of gentleness and closeness and a gradual easing of suspicion before she might allow him to touch her, and before she might allow herself to enjoy it, and to respond.

  But instead…instead…oh gods, that “instead”!

  Weyland reminded himself to be cautious. Had there been anything wrong with last night? Anything false?

  Had Noah succumbed too quickly? Had she been trying to hide something from him?

  She had appeared completely honest with him, too emotional to spin intricate lies. But still…it didn’t hurt to be wary.

  After all, he’d loved and trusted Ariadne, and look where that had brought him.

  Weyland sent a silent call out to his imps, asking them to meet him in the kitchen of Idol Lane. He had no idea if they’d appear—Weyland felt his control over those imps was not quite complete—but should they turn up, then he had a duty for them.

  One that could perhaps still that niggling doubt in his mind.

  Having decided on a course of action, Weyland relaxed. He paused on one of the balconies of his Idyll, recalling every moment he and Noah had shared last night.

  “Where are we going, Noah?” Weyland whispered. “Where are we going? How can we stop? How can we stop?”

  Louis floated in his own magical existence, neither alive nor truly dead. He could feel the arrow still within his eye, feel it piercing into his skull, feel it scraping back and forth, back and forth in random sharp patterns across the inside of hi
s cranial cavity. It was not painful, merely…irritating.

  He felt also the great gaping hole in his chest, felt the magical currents wash in and out of it, felt them pull away clots of blood and slivers of bone.

  He found that irritating, too. He just wanted to breathe, to control his own body, and his own fate.

  This drifting within enchantment, neither alive nor dead, annoyed him beyond measure.

  In an effort to calm himself he thought of Noah. Where was she this night? Did she know of his journey? Louis could not help but think that she must. She could not have been unaware. Had she knelt in prayer? Watched with helpless anxiety?

  Was she now rejoicing, knowing that surely, surely, it would not be long before he could be with her, god to her goddess, true lovers finally.

  He smiled, and then the smile vanished as what felt like a cruel taloned hand reached into his chest, grabbed at whatever remnants of flesh remained there, and hauled him into a fiery cauldron.

  Weyland kissed Noah awake, and said he would see her downstairs, as soon as she had bathed and dressed. He left her a trail of ivory silk through the Idyll to the door she would need to find her way back into the house once she had done.

  When he emerged into the house on the first-floor landing it was to observe with some surprise that all was as it had been when he’d left it last night.

  Somehow he’d thought all of existence should have been altered after what they’d shared.

  He smiled, his entire face softening, and he ran lightly down the stairs, and walked through the parlour and into the kitchen.

  Jane, as ever, was standing at the hearth, stirring at their breakfast. She started a little at his entrance, watching him warily.

  “Noah?” she said.

  “She shall be down shortly,” Weyland said, sitting at the table and surprising himself, and Jane even more, by suddenly grinning widely at her.

  He couldn’t help it. He’d felt such a surprising surge of happiness, for no apparent reason, that the only outlet he could find for it was an inane grin at Jane.

  She stared at Weyland, then looked abruptly away.

  “Are my imps about?” he said, finally managing to bring his expression under some degree of control.

  Jane inclined her head to the door leading into the small alley. “Playing at hoop and ball. They arrived earlier.”

  They had answered his call! Good. Weyland snapped his fingers, and almost immediately the kitchen door opened and the two imps poked their heads about it.

  “Master!” they cried.

  “I have a duty for you this morning,” Weyland said.

  As one they raised their eyebrows, their expressions eager.

  “Go to Whitehall, and seek out Elizabeth or Frances. Ask if anything of note happened within the palace last night. Concerning the king, perhaps. They will know what I mean.”

  Once the imps had scurried away, Weyland rose and walked over to Jane.

  “Jane? Did you feel anything last night? Anything of ‘note’ that you might like to mention?”

  “What do you mean?” She studied him. “Surely, perhaps, I should be asking that of you?”

  Again Weyland grinned, the expression so unforced, so natural, that Jane blinked in surprise. “Would you be surprised to hear,” Weyland said, “that Noah and I—”

  He stopped abruptly at a step in the doorway. Noah entered and cast Weyland a sharp look, then walked over to the dresser and lifted down the dishes they’d need for their breakfast.

  Jane looked to Noah, then back to Weyland, and her eyes widened at the expression she saw there.

  Dear gods! That was softness in his eyes!

  Hastily turning her back, not wanting Weyland to see her confusion, Jane stirred vigorously at the porridge.

  All his pain and confusion and irritation vanished, and, as he felt solid ground beneath his feet, Louis opened his eyes.

  And found himself standing in his father’s private chamber in his childhood home in Alba.

  Silvius’ chamber was so private, that Louis, as Brutus, had only ever been in it five times throughout the first fifteen years of his life (before he murdered his father and had been expelled from Alba). Those five visits had all been for the same reason: he’d done wrong, and Silvius had summoned Brutus to inform his son of his disappointment.

  Brutus had loathed to be so summoned. Silvius could have raged at him, or administered punishment, but he had done neither. Silvius would merely stand, gazing out the open door that looked into a small courtyard, before slowly turning as Brutus entered and, very softly, explaining his disappointment.

  Now, as Louis opened his eyes and was overwhelmed by a long-forgotten sense of deep discomfort and shame, he wondered how much those terrible, shame-filled visits had been behind his decision to push that arrow down, instead of pulling it out.

  Louis’ next thought was…Am I here for another discourse on disappointment? Has Silvius stored up three thousand years’ worth of disappointments to “discuss” with me?

  He glanced down at his ruined chest, rubbed away the dried blood that caked his left cheek and jaw, and straightened, looking about with the one eye remaining to him.

  The chamber was as he remembered it. Tiled in softly coloured mosaics, it was barely furnished save for a couch set close to the window, a desk clean of any pens or parchments, and a low wooden chair set against the wall.

  Louis automatically looked to the light-filled doorway which led to the courtyard, expecting to see, as he always had, the shadow of his father, slowly turning about to study his son.

  There was nothing. The doorway was empty of everything save light.

  Louis turned slightly to look behind him at the doorway which led back into the house.

  Nothing. The chamber was empty save for himself.

  “Father?” Louis said, once more facing into the chamber. “Silvius?”

  Silence.

  “Father?”

  Silence…save that this time, there was a change in the light at the courtyard door—as if someone moved deep within the courtyard.

  Louis walked forward, silently and carefully. He reached the doorway then, unable to stop himself, turned (slowly, slowly) and looked back into the chamber.

  For an instant he saw a shadow, the boy-child Brutus, standing sullen and resentful as he waited for his father to speak.

  Then the shadow shimmered and vanished, and Louis turned, and, taking a deep breath, stepped into the courtyard.

  The courtyard was almost as spare and empty as Silvius’ chamber. There was a small tree, a wooden bench beneath its shade, and, just beyond the bench, a large fish pond.

  Silvius was crouched by the pond, crumbling a piece of bread into the gaping mouths of the fish as they broke the surface in a boiling, bubbling frantic crowd.

  Louis stared, not knowing what to do or say, but then Silvius rose, tossed in the final piece of bread for the fish to squabble over, and turned to look at his son.

  “I have been so blessed in you,” he said, and, walking forward, embraced Louis.

  Weyland had gone to the market about his own business, and Jane and Noah were left alone.

  “Well?” said Jane.

  Noah frowned, as if puzzled.

  “Why is Weyland so cheerful? Gods, Noah, I have never seen him so…carefree.”

  “Perhaps he is happy, knowing he has me trapped within his den at night. You should be grateful, Jane, to sleep so undisturbed in this kitchen.”

  Jane narrowed her eyes. “And what is in that den, Noah? Is it grey nothingness? Is it terror-ridden nightmare? Or is it…what?”

  Noah hesitated, sliding her eyes away from Jane’s direct gaze.

  “Noah?”

  Noah ran her tongue over her lips, meeting Jane’s gaze once more. “He calls it his Idyll, Jane. It is a place of beauty.” Her voice softened. “Beauty beyond anything I could have imagined. It is not like this land. It is…”

  Her voice drifted off, and for one craz
ed moment Jane thought Noah had been going to say, It is Asterion.

  “It must be a trap,” Jane said.

  “No,” Noah said, and in her eyes Jane saw a faint reflection of the same delight she’d seen in Weyland’s. Faint, but there.

  “You lay with him!” Jane said.

  “No! Gods, Jane…No. I did not. We lay together side by side, and we talked, but we did not…No. If I look…” Noah hesitated, and Jane saw again the tip of her tongue sliding over her lower lip. “If I look content, and perhaps even joyful, then it is merely the memory of Weyland’s Idyll.” Her voice slid into the defensive. “It is beautiful, and remarkable.”

  “I had no idea you were this gullible, Noah.”

  “Well, then,” Noah said, “there is another reason I should look joyful.” Noah glanced about the room, moved yet closer to Jane, and whispered into her ear: “Last night Louis began his journey.”

  It was a dangerous thing to say, even so blandly put, but Jane knew instantly what she meant. “Ah!” she said on a breath. “I knew I felt something last night! Has he completed…his journey?”

  Noah gave a small shake of her head. “There is a way to go yet.”

  “Then we should be careful,” Jane said.

  “Aye.”

  “Noah…”

  “Aye?”

  “Tomorrow morning we must begin our own journey.”

  Noah stilled.

  “Ariadne spoke to me,” Jane said. “Last night. While you slept. Chastely. With Asterion.”

  Louis lifted his arms and hugged his father to him fiercely until Silvius laughed, and managed to pull back a little.