“It is not you,” the Lord of the Faerie said. “Do not fear. Jane, there is plague in London.”
“Yes, I know. Noah and I have heard reports. But it is to the west of London, yes? We have seen no sickness in our walks to the Tower.”
“It is spreading. Jane—”
“Do not worry overmuch, Coel. Plague comes and goes. It has been seven or eight years since the last outbreak, so surely if it has arrived now it is not surprising.”
“This is a vicious outbreak, Jane. Worse than ever.” He paused. “There has been nothing said within Idol Lane?”
“Noah and I have talked of it. You know Noah, far better than I do…she worries about it, and feels she should somehow be able to wish it away…but you know that she can’t.”
The Lord of the Faerie nodded. Noah, as Eaving, would not interfere in the natural cycle of life and death. Sadness and disease were as much a natural part of life as was happiness and health.
But there was little “natural” about this outbreak, was there?
“Weyland has said nothing?” the Lord of the Faerie said.
“No.”
The Lord of the Faerie chewed his lip. “Jane, I have received a message from Weyland. He said that he had caused the plague, and that he would only call his dogs of pestilence back once I—as Charles—gave him the kingship bands.”
“Weyland sent you that message?”
The Lord of the Faerie gave a single nod.
“How?”
“He sent his imps. They spoke to Elizabeth, and she relayed their message.”
Jane thought. The imps? Dear gods, she hadn’t seen them about the house for weeks, and she could have sworn that Weyland hadn’t given them a thought, either.
But…the plague. That had Weyland’s handiwork written all over it. Jane shuddered. “He has been so pleasant. Too pleasant. I should have known he would do something like this.”
“You must tell Noah. She needs to know.”
Jane nodded. “That news, at least, should get her out of his bed.”
“What?”
“Noah has been sharing Weyland’s bed. It was his price so that myself and Noah could have the freedom we needed to teach and learn the arts of Mistress of the Labyrinth.”
The Lord of the Faerie’s face had gone ashen, and Jane felt a deep stab of jealousy. He still cares for her.
“Noah says that she and Weyland share nothing else but the bed. That they do not make love. But…”
“But?”
“I do not know, Coel. Weyland appears too content. And Noah denies too strongly.”
He gave a shake of his head. “What is happening? To what darkness has Noah been exposed?”
Jane felt a confusing mixture of fear and jealousy wash through her. Suddenly Noah was all the Lord of the Faerie could think about.
“Perhaps we should rescue her,” the Lord of the Faerie said. “Take her from him. Pull her back into the Faerie, where she shall be safe.”
Jane turned aside her face.
“But still…” the Lord of the Faerie said.
“But still?”
“Long Tom, the Sidlesaghe, once said to us that Noah had to go to Weyland. That was something in this life she had to endure. When I was merely Charles, and not fully aware of what else I was, I thought, with Louis, that we should try to prevent Noah going to Weyland. Louis tried, and failed. Now, with all the wonder of the Faerie to draw upon, I sense that perhaps Long Tom was right. Noah needs to be with Weyland, although…dear gods, what you say about her sharing his bed—”
“Coel, if you take Noah away from Weyland he will kill me.”
“Jane? Why?”
“Because he will need an outlet for his spite, and because he will think I have failed to teach her the ways of the labyrinth.”
“He doesn’t know that Ariadne—”
“No! And I for one am not about to tell him. It would be my death sentence.”
“Jane, talk to Noah. Tell her Weyland has caused the plague. Then ask her advice.”
Jane looked away, sure that whatever happened it would end with her death.
“Very well,” she said.
But Jane did not immediately talk to Noah of the plague. Noah was so encased in the lingering memory of her training that afternoon when they walked home that she was in no mood for conversation, and as soon as they had arrived home, Weyland was there, kissing Noah, and then leading her away, up to his den on the top floor.
The next day Jane barely saw Noah at all, and then only in the company of Weyland.
It was almost three days later—days when they hadn’t gone to the Tower so that Jane could have talked to Noah privately—that Jane finally found Noah alone.
“Noah,” she said. “I have heard news about the plague that you need to—”
“Jane,” Noah said urgently, taking Jane’s hands, “the plague is dreadful, yes, but for the moment there is a more urgent matter. I need to see the Lord of the Faerie. Can you arrange it?”
Jane stared at her, not overly surprised that Noah knew of her meetings with the Lord of the Faerie, then relaxed. The Lord of the Faerie could tell Noah. It would be better, all in all, coming from him.
“Yes,” she said. “I can.”
Sixteen
The Great Founding Labyrinth within the Tower of London, and Idol Lane, London
NOAH SPEAKS
My days were consumed with Ariadne and her teaching, my nights with Weyland. I thought of little else. I’d heard reports that the plague had reappeared within London, and was sad of it, but knew also that I could not interfere with its dark progress. Sickness and death were in their own right an intrinsic part of life. Every living creature—whether faerie or mortal—must endure pain and sorrow and often untimely death. I did not like the plague, but I understood it. It was one of the necessary tragedies of life that somehow made life the sweeter—should you manage to hold on to it.
I went every third or fourth day to the Tower of London to continue my training with Ariadne. I no longer was frightened of the Great Founding Labyrinth (that which masqueraded as the White Tower), but nonetheless maintained a healthy respect for it. Its power exhilarated me, and the knowledge that with every visit I came to understand it better, came closer and closer to being able to manipulate it for myself, became almost as addictive as a drug. I swear I almost dragged poor Jane through the streets on our way to the Tower…although I noticed she never complained about it.
Better even than furthering my study with Ariadne—dear gods, to what pits I had fallen—was making love with Weyland. Sometimes (not often, for I did not wish to arouse his suspicions) I asked him to use the darkcraft when we made love, and I revelled in it. I used it to discover more about my own potential…but mostly I just revelled.
I liked it.
This cold dark power was addictive.
As addictive as Weyland. It was not just the sex that I found so enthralling, it was the sheer intimacy of our relationship. Each of us was, bit by bit, allowing the other one deeper into our soul. We began sharing secrets, remembrances, and beliefs that both of us would normally have kept to ourselves. I talked of many of my darker, stupider moments as Cornelia. He talked of some of the horrors he had visited on people, on entire cities, and shared with me how he had felt during these slaughters.
It was not what I expected.
We began to share ourselves, high in that Idyll that Weyland had built. There were still shocking moments, times when I pulled back—like that day I explored the Idyll, and found that Weyland had somehow managed to build it to the very borders of the Realm of the Faerie. How? How could he have done that?
So I would draw back, but then, inevitably, I would slide into his arms again, fascinated by him, and enthralled by what he revealed of himself.
Falling ever deeper into Weyland Orr.
I began to trust him and, inevitably, I began to betray all that I had ever been, and all I had ever promised to do.
I
no longer thought of myself entirely as Noah, or as apprentice Mistress of the Labyrinth. There were moments, hours, sometimes even days, when, as I strolled through the myriad complexities of the Idyll with Weyland at my side, that I thought of myself only as Darkwitch, rising.
My slide into complete betrayal began so innocuously. We’d eaten with Jane in the kitchen, retired to the Idyll, bathed, and had then gone to bed. We hadn’t made love, for tonight I felt uncommonly tired, and Weyland was content merely to hold me as we both slid into sleep.
I fell almost immediately into a profound, and profoundly disturbing, dream.
I was trapped in the heart of the labyrinth, trapped by Catling. I could feel the labyrinth closing in about me, feel it imprisoning me, and I fought with all I had, but to no avail.
The labyrinth had me trapped.
Why should the labyrinth do this to me? I was not evil. There was no reason to trap me.
I became aware that I was covered in a sticky, warm, thick liquid. It irritated me, and unnerved me.
A light very gradually grew about me, and I looked down to my hands, and saw that I was covered in blood.
I gagged, for the instant I realised what I was smothered in, so the smell of the coagulating blood hit me.
As I doubled over, retching, I saw the body of my daughter lying on the floor.
Not Catling. My daughter. That sad little wrapped bundle that Loth had put in my arms that night so long ago when Genvissa had forced her from my body. A tiny baby, too young to breathe on her own.
I crouched down, and turned back the covers from the baby’s face, hoping against hope that somehow this time she was alive.
But she wasn’t. She was cold, her white flesh marbled with grey.
Dead…as she had been for almost three thousand years.
I began to cry, and it was then I realised where the blood had come from.
I was weeping blood, weeping away my life over the corpse of my daughter and of all that could have been.
“Noah!”
Weyland’s voice jolted me out of the dream. For an instant I resisted, wanting to reach down and touch my daughter again, but then I woke, and in waking I still wept—but salty tears now, rather than blood.
But, dear gods, it felt as though those tears were wrenched from the very pit of my soul. I turned in Weyland’s arms, buried my face against his chest, and sobbed hard enough to rattle every house in London.
He held me for the longest time, rubbing my shoulders, murmuring my name, saying none of those pathetic platitudes that the witless use: It was only a dream. You’re awake now. Come, I’m here, no need to be afraid.
Finally, when I had quietened a little, he stroked the hair back from my brow, and said, “Tell me.”
“Catling had me trapped in the heart of the labyrinth. Why me? I was covered in blood. And there…there…on the floor…” I had to stop, and sniff, and try to steady my breathing.
“And there…?” He kissed my cheek softly, reassuringly.
“There, on the floor, was my daughter. Dead. Oh…gods…dead!”
“Catling?”
“No. My daughter.”
“Ah,” he said, “the daughter you lost to Genvissa.”
I nodded, too upset to speak of it.
“And Catling is not your daughter?”
I was silent a long time, realising my mistake. I thought about how I could lie convincingly, and finally I decided I’d had enough of lies when it came to Catling.
“Catling was my daughter in name only,” I said. “I bore her, but she was never a daughter to me, although I only discovered it after I’d come here, to you.”
He waited.
“Catling was a trick,” I said.
I felt rather than saw Weyland’s eyes harden with speculation.
“She was the Troy Game made flesh,” I said. “The Troy Game used me to assume living, breathing life. That was what I’d seen in my visions. Not a loving, natural daughter.” I stopped, looking at the soft blues and purples of the ceiling, and wondering how Weyland would react to this. Fury? Triumph? Hate? He’d harboured the Game within his house and had not known.
I saw from the corner of my eye that Weyland stared at me, then he abruptly lay down and rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling as I did.
Then, stunningly, he began to laugh: softly and, from what I could discern, with true humour.
“I had the Troy Game incarnate within my house,” he said, eventually, “and I did not know. What trickery, eh? What trickery.”
“I did not know,” I said, wanting him to believe that I had not kept this a deliberate secret for too many weeks, “until that night I cast her from this house.”
Now he turned back to me. “You were angry that night, almost incandescent with rage. Why?”
“Because I realised then the depth and length of the deception. Not merely that the Game used the false promise of a daughter to manipulate me, but that it did manipulate and deceive me. When I realised what Catling truly was, then I realised what the Game is truly capable of.”
“But still you want your daughter,” Weyland said, very softly.
“Yes,” I said, weeping once more. “Yet she was only ever a lie.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, and pulled me close and held me until, once more, I had managed to stay my tears.
“Do not trust your imps,” I said.
“Why not?”
“She has both of them under her control.”
He drew in a sharp breath. “Why tell me?” he said. “Why tell me what Catling truly is, and that she controls the imps?”
Why had I? “Because I wanted to pay the Game back some of the pain it had dealt me,” I said, and, stunningly, realised it was true. There, Troy Game, I’ve told your archenemy what disguise you wear.
He burst into loud, genuine laughter, pulling me close and rolling me over and over in the bed until I thought we would fall out.
“You have a fine career as a wicked witch ahead of you, Noah,” he said finally, when we had stopped rolling about and he lay atop me, pinning me to the mattress, his face close to mine. He kissed me, and I ran my hands through his hair, and then we were smiling at one another, enjoying the joke.
The joke. I had just told Asterion that the Game walked incarnate. The “joke”.
And I did not care. It had actually made me feel a little better.
“I’m sorry about your daughter,” he said.
“Aye, I know.”
“And I never did like Catling.”
I laughed. “Thank you.”
He grinned, slowly, his eyes watching me very carefully. “What is this then? Are we not supposed to be enemies? Patrolling opposite sides of that great chasm of ambition that divides us?”
“Perhaps we share an enemy,” I said, and then a chasm did open, save that it had opened under my feet, and not between Weyland and myself.
“Gods, Noah,” he whispered. “What are you saying?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
Weyland was watching me with troubled eyes. He lowered his face, and kissed me, and said, “Noah? Will you be my shelter?”
There. He had asked it of me and I could not refuse. I knew why he had chosen this moment—laughter notwithstanding, Weyland would have been truly shaken by what I had just revealed. Thus he had moved swiftly to consolidate his control over me, knowing he had lost control elsewhere. He had asked me for shelter. I wondered that the stars were not screaming, or that the land was not twisting and turning, or that I could not hear the Sidlesaghes moaning atop their blasted hills.
But all I could hear was Weyland’s gentle breathing, and all I could feel was his body atop mine, his weight on mine…and a profound sense of relief, that finally he had asked me, and I need not fear the question any more.
A profound sense of relief, that finally I would be able to say, “I had no choice. He asked of me shelter.”
“Yes,” I said. “I will be your shelter.”
>
The next morning I asked Jane to arrange a meeting between myself and the Lord of the Faerie. I needed him to arrange a meeting between Louis and myself.
I needed to know where I was going.
Seventeen
The Realm of the Faerie
The Lord of the Faerie turned, his face breaking into a smile, and held out his arms. Noah ran into them, hugging the Lord of the Faerie tightly.
Jane watched, careful to keep her emotions from spilling forth onto her face. Ostensibly they’d been off to do more training—that is certainly what Weyland thought—but instead of going to the Tower, Noah had used her own powers to transport Jane and herself to The Naked.
“Noah, what is it?” the Lord of the Faerie said. “Why do you need to see me so badly?”
“Am I not allowed to see you from time to time?” “Noah…”
She sighed. “I need to see Louis. Badly. Very badly. You are the only one who can arrange that for me.”
“But he has not completed the transformation. And you—”
“I know! Gods, Charles, or whatever I should call you, I need to see him. Badly!”
“What is it? What is so wrong?”
The tip of Noah’s tongue wet her lips. “I need to speak with Louis.”
“Is it Weyland?”
“No. Please, can you arrange it?”
“It is the plague, isn’t it?”
Noah frowned. “The plague? No, I—”
“I would have thought that the fact Weyland has sent plague to consume London would have been reason enough, Noah.”
“What?”
The Lord of the Faerie sent a querying look to Jane.
“I did not tell her,” Jane said, her voice low. “I’m sorry. I did not have the courage.”
The Lord of the Faerie looked back at Noah, and sighed. “Weyland has caused this malevolence. He sent his imps to Elizabeth with a message for Brutus-reborn: Gather in the kingship bands, and hand them to me, and only then will the death stop.”
Noah stepped back from the Lord of the Faerie. “No. I cannot believe that. He would not…no…Weyland could not have done this.”
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