Druid's Sword

by Sara Douglass

  She’d probably not even realised Jack’s arousal, Ariadne thought in some disbelief. Merciful heavens, what had she been missing all these years?

  So Silvius played a dual role in these afternoon sessions. He could give a first-hand account of the history of the labyrinth, the rise to power of the Mistresses of the Labyrinth and the Kingmen within the ancient Aegean world, and the uses to which the labyrinth had been put—forming protective wards, or Games, about cities and city-states.

  Silvius could also gently touch Grace with his own power during these talks, slowly acclimatising her (almost without her consciously realising it) to the touch of a Kingman.

  Grace certainly benefited from this, but in the end it was Ariadne who ended up being astounded by Silvius’ power. She and Silvius may have been lovers, but even their sexual encounters hadn’t opened Ariadne’s eyes to just how good Silvius was, and she was aghast at how magical he must have been when he also wielded the power of the golden bands of Troy. Damn it! Why had she been so blinded by Theseus?

  On Monday afternoon, after another session in the Great Founding Labyrinth in the morning (during which Ariadne had stood back and watched with admiration as Grace expertly manipulated the harmonies of the labyrinth), Ariadne and Silvius took Grace back in time. They did this using their own power, but also significantly boosted by what Grace was able to lend them.

  Without her, they could not have managed it.

  Silvius led the way, directing their consciousnesses back through space and the centuries to a small Aegean city that sat atop a hill whose lower slopes were swathed in the grey-green of olive trees.

  Where it is does not matter, Silvius said into Ariadne’s and Grace’s minds. Its name is neither here nor there. Who and what it is does not affect us. What does matter is what happens within the temple attached to the palace. See.

  They were still seated in the chairs in Ariadne’s drawing room, but none of them saw the luxurious appointments with which Ariadne had surrounded herself. Instead, as Silvius extended his hand, they saw the interior of a columned temple, painted in rich hues of blue and green and red and gilded with gold. Before the altar, on which stood a gruesome statue of a horned beast, stood a young man dressed only in a white hipwrap. Before him stood a woman who all three watchers instantly identified as a Mistress of the Labyrinth, both by the power which exuded from her and by the manner of her dress, a long white linen skirt draped from her hips, and her proudly bare breasts.

  Not one of my relatives, Ariadne said with a dismissive air, but competent enough.

  Note the young man, said Silvius, ignoring Ariadne. He is a Kingman, but his father died before he could hand over his kingship bands.

  Ariadne and Silvius paused, sensing what Grace was understanding.

  A father usually hands on kingship bands? said Grace.

  Yes, said Silvius, although in my case Brutus simply snatched them from my dying limbs. He chuckled. No wonder he was to lose them so easily.

  Who, other than a father, can hand over the bands? said Grace.

  It can be done by anyone who wields the power of the labyrinth, said Silvius. Look here, and see.

  The Mistress of the Labyrinth, a woman of some thirty or thirty-five years of age with a face made striking because of her power and experience rather than through physical beauty, moved forward to lay a hand on the young man’s naked chest.

  He trembled, and for an instant looked as if he might move away.

  The Mistress’ mouth curled, and her eyes narrowed as she waited.

  The man relaxed, and as he did so her hand caressed his skin.

  “You are very beautiful,” she said, and he smiled.

  “Give them to me,” he said, and Silvius, watching, gave a guffaw which only Ariadne and Grace heard.

  He is as impatient as was Brutus! Silvius said.

  Both Grace and Ariadne smiled.

  “Take them from me,” the Mistress of the Labyrinth whispered, and the young Kingman shuddered, although whether from desire for the woman before him or from desire for the bands the watchers could not tell.

  He raised his right hand and took the Mistress’ hand which lay on his chest, moving it away, then running his hand slowly up her still-outstretched arm.

  Now she was the one who shuddered, and her lips parted fractionally.

  The young man’s hand moved, so slowly, so caressingly, up her arm to her biceps, his eyes holding hers in an unblinking stare. Then, just as his hand reached the very top of her arm, the pressure of his fingers changed. They dug down into her flesh, and the woman winced.

  Then, stunningly, gold gleamed between the young man’s fingers.

  Do you see? said Silvius. Do you understand?

  Yes, said Grace. The Kingman takes the bands from the Mistress, but she must allow him to do so.

  Good, said Ariadne. Why, do you think, might this be difficult?

  Grace thought several minutes before responding, keeping her eyes on the vision before her as the young Kingman took band after band from the flesh of the Mistress of the Labyrinth.

  “It is the ultimate intimacy,” Grace whispered in her physical voice rather than her mental, “to allow a Kingman, any man, to draw something from your flesh. It is far more intimate than a sexual coupling. To allow someone to draw something so powerful from you…that would take such trust, such confidence.”

  “Such love,” Silvius said, very softly.

  “That would help, yes,” said Grace, and both Ariadne and Silvius laughed.

  “This is the first time I’ve seen my blood in you, my dear,” said Ariadne.

  Before them, as the Mistress cried out (with loss rather than with pain), the young Kingman drew forth from the flesh of her biceps a magnificent golden armband. It rose into his touch, as if it had been waiting, all this time, just below the surface of her skin.

  Waiting for the touch of the Kingman.

  SEVEN

  Marble Arch Underground Station

  Tuesday, 17th September to Friday, 20th September 1940

  Ariadne opened the door of her apartment, and saw Jack standing there. She arched an eyebrow.

  “Is Grace here?” Jack said.

  “No.” Ariadne let Jack in and showed him through to the drawing room. “Matilda dropped by earlier this evening, and Grace went with her, to help her mother in her little van.”

  There was deep, rich amusement in Ariadne’s voice at this, and Jack thought that running a mobile canteen would be the very last thing Ariadne would allow herself to be caught dead doing.

  “Grace will be fine,” Ariadne added.

  Jack wasn’t so sure. He was worried about Grace being out when the imps were undoubtedly prowling, but realised that he couldn’t wrap Grace in cotton wool. Grace needed to take risks, and Jack needed to accept that.

  Ariadne sat herself down on a sofa, but Jack continued standing, turning his cap over and over in his hand. “Well?”

  That damned eyebrow of Ariadne’s arched even further than normal, and Jack realised she was looking at the cap turning over and over in his hand rather than at him.

  Irritated, he tossed it onto a chair.

  “I know it has only been a few days,” he said, “and you will have had little chance to do much with Grace, but—”

  “She’s superb, Jack.”

  He stared at Ariadne, unable to say anything.

  “As good as Noah, although using a different combination of powers.” Ariadne paused, her face assuming a thoughtful look. “Well, when I say superb, her talent is superb, but of course she needs much experience, which she hasn’t had.”

  “And can she—”

  “Hand over the bands? She is capable of it, yes.”

  Jack let out a long breath of relief. “Thank you, Ariadne.”

  “Jack, Catling attacked Grace the instant I first took her into the Great Founding Labyrinth.”

  Jack narrowed his eyes.

  “Catling is worried, Jack. Watch out for he
r.”

  “Did she continue to attack? Grace has been with you four or five days, Ariadne. You must have taken her into the Great Founding Labyrinth more than that once.”

  “True,” said Ariadne, “but Catling only attacked the first time. Maybe it was just…a reminder. But I still caution you to be careful.”

  “And Grace, of course.”

  Ariadne looked at Jack carefully. “You have far more potential to harm Grace than she does to harm herself, Jack. You are the one who can save her, or damn her, whichever way your hand swings. Be careful.”

  Jack knew the usual route of Noah’s mobile canteen, and he finally found her van outside Marble Arch underground station by Hyde Park. He parked his Austin convertible a block or so away, then started to walk towards the van. He could see Matilda, Ecub and Grace lifting trays out of the back and he raised his hand, intending to call out to them.

  But hardly had the hand left his side when it was snatched in an icy grip.

  He tried to step back, but Catling’s hold was vicelike, and he found he couldn’t move.

  She leaned close, and snarled in Jack’s face. “I didn’t like that bomb, Jack.”

  “I don’t know what you’re—”

  She hissed, her face contorting into such ugliness that Jack flinched.

  “The little present that you and Noah dropped on me a week ago. It didn’t go off, Jack. The will was there, but not the skill, eh?”

  “Catling—”

  “Don’t do it again, Jack.”

  “I—”

  “Do it again, Jack, and I will retaliate in kind.”

  “There are bombs dropping all over the place, damn it! Is it so unlikely that one would fall close to St Paul’s?”

  Something changed in Catling’s face. It became much harder, and, if possible, much colder. “I can see you need to be taught a lesson, Jack.”

  “Don’t you—”

  “Can you hear it, Jack?” Catling whispered, and then she was gone, and Jack was left standing staring at the van, seeing Grace and Matilda moving towards the entrance to the underground station with trays of food in their hands.

  All he could hear was the whistle of the bomb falling through the sky.

  He tried to move, tried to get his legs and arms and body moving forward, but it seemed to him that they only responded sluggishly.

  “Grace!” he screamed.

  Londoners had been using the underground train stations as makeshift shelters for weeks. Despite their being underground, and despite the popular belief that the stations were better than official shelters, the government had been trying to discourage their use: engineers worried that a bomb might broach a tunnel wall causing the Thames to flood the entire system; health officials worried because in most of the stations there were no toilets as they were too deep to connect to the sewer lines; train authorities worried about sleeping people rolling off platforms and onto tracks (most of the people who sheltered there were usually in their bedrolls four or five hours before the station shut down for the night, and platforms were becoming so crowded with the sleeping that an accident could easily occur). The police worried about crime and security risks.

  But Londoners were increasingly settling in the stations at night, and Marble Arch, right in the heart of London, was one of the more popular.

  This night it was crowded, the platforms packed with the sleeping and many who were still awake: neighbours gossiping, parents trying to settle tired children, and men playing cards. Noah, Ecub, Erith and Matilda, with Grace helping, were ferrying trays filled with food and cups of tea down the stairs towards the platforms.

  The bomb struck directly overhead with enough force to burst through the ticket station and the several layers of concrete reinforcing, exploding just before it reached the platforms themselves.

  The concussion blast blew scores of people onto the tracks; it was fortunate that the train system had already closed down for the night. Some rubble fell through from above, but that was not the bomb’s deadliest gift.

  Like so many other underground stations, Marble Arch was lined with hundreds of thousands of white ceramic tiles. The concussion blast blew thousands of them from the walls; some remained intact, the majority splintered into a deadly fusillade of razor-sharp fragments.

  Twelve people were killed instantly, another seven or eight were fatally wounded, and fifty or sixty more were horrifically injured by the ceramic splinters.

  Ecub, who had just emerged onto the platform from the stairwell, was blown fifteen feet to her left and momentarily knocked unconscious. Noah, Matilda, Erith and Grace, still in the stairwell, were tumbled down the remaining ten or twelve steps, their trays and plates and cups and saucers scattering everywhere—both Erith and Noah received minor scalds from the hot tea, while all four of them were heavily bruised and slightly lacerated.

  Jack, who had barely reached the entrance when the bomb exploded, thought they were all dead. He scrambled down the stairs as best he could, climbing over rubble, shunting aside chunks of concrete that were in his way, choking on the thick blast dust that fogged the air.

  He literally fell over Erith first, who was struggling to rise, and he tripped down the final few steps. Jack muttered an expletive, managed to get his balance, then started feeling about in the gloom. “Noah? Grace? Where are you?”

  “Here, Jack,” said a voice, and he reached out in its direction and grabbed an arm.

  “Noah? Noah, are you all right?”

  “Yes.” Noah’s voice was strained. “Grace?” she said. “Grace?”

  “Here,” came a soft voice.

  Jack moved towards the voice, but Noah was closer, and scrambled over to hug her daughter tight.

  Erith and Matilda stood up, murmuring that they were unharmed save for some bumps and bruises.

  “Ecub,” said Noah.

  Jack could see a little better now—the dust was finally settling—and he saw Noah crouched close to Grace, her arms still about her daughter, both of them white with dust and marked with thin lines of blood trickling down foreheads and cheeks. He was relieved to see the blood was from nothing more than superficial scratches.

  “Ecub,” said Noah. “She’d gone through…” She couldn’t continue.

  Jack nodded. “I’ll look for her,” he said, and stepped through to where had once been the platforms.

  It was a scene he would never forget. Jack had seen many disasters, participated in many battles, been present for a handful of slaughters, but this…

  The actual physical damage to the station appeared relatively minimal. There was a gaping hole in the roof of the tunnel, and the tiles on the walls had fallen off or shattered, but apart from some rubble Jack could not see too much structural destruction.

  Nonetheless, the scene that met Jack’s eyes was one which could have bubbled up directly from hell. The station lights sputtered on and off, bathing everything in a surreal yellow glimmer. Thick clouds of dust drifted through the intermittent light. Bodies lay sprawled across the platforms and over the tracks, covered with bloodied dust. Some people lay still, others moved sluggishly, still shocked by the blast.

  There was relative silence, although one or two people moaned, and somewhere a child whimpered.

  For a long moment Jack could do nothing but look on, appalled. Then a movement to his left caught his attention.

  It was Ecub, lying on the platform, partly crumpled against the wall. Jack could not exactly see it was Ecub, she was so covered in dust, but he knew it was her.

  “Ecub!” He bent down beside her, carefully brushing dust and fine rubble from her face and shoulders.

  She waved a hand, indicating she wanted to rise, and Jack helped her up. Ecub wavered a moment, but she caught her balance quickly.

  “You’re injured,” said Jack, concerned at the wound on the side of her head.

  “I will live,” she said. “Where’s Noah? The others?”

  “In the stairwell. Slightly scraped and shaken, b
ut otherwise unharmed.”

  “Thank the gods.”

  “We need to leave,” said Jack.

  “No,” said Ecub, “we’ve got to help these people.”

  “She’s right,” said Noah, appearing at Jack’s side. “We need to help.”

  Jack took both women by the elbow and, over their protests, directed them towards the stairwell. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but we are going to get out of here now. Listen to the sirens. The fire engines and rescue crews have arrived. We would only get in the way.”

  “But—” Noah began.

  “We leave now,” Jack said again. “This is Catling’s doing, Noah, in retaliation for the UXB outside St Paul’s. We leave, and we find somewhere to talk. The people here will be well enough without us.”

  They gathered finally at Faerie Hill Manor. This was not accomplished without some trouble—Noah had to drive her van back to the Savoy under difficult conditions, Jack likewise with his car. Once they got to the Savoy, to the relief of Weyland who was almost beside himself with worry, Jack asked Noah to use her skills as Darkwitch to move them all to Faerie Hill Manor. Just before they left, he sent a mental message to Ariadne, asking her and Silvius to meet them there.

  By five a.m. they had gathered in Harry’s drawing room, Stella the only one not present as she needed to carol in the dawn in the Faerie.

  The women had cleaned themselves as much as possible, although none had changed, and Noah and Matilda had applied plasters where needed to superficial cuts.

  Now, coffee to hand, they sat down in the chairs and sofas grouped about the fire.

  “Jack,” said Harry, “what has happened?” Noah and Jack had already given Harry a brief account of the night’s adventures, but now, no fool, he wanted to know the real reason behind Jack’s barely suppressed impatience and Noah’s worry.