Darkwitch Rising (62 page)

“Yes,” Ariadne said, “gods, indeed. There is very little else now that can stop it.”

“We’re back at The Naked!” Jane said.

Indeed they were. Jane looked about as she stood at the Lord of the Faerie’s side, astounded at the stunning view of rolling, wooded hills. When she’d been here previously, when Louis had been told of his destiny, she’d not thought to look about at the landscape.

A movement caught her eye, and she looked down.

All the creatures which had surrounded her within the forest were walking slowly up the sides of the hill. A host of faerie creatures that Jane had only ever glimpsed as Genvissa, and then only at the height of some of the most powerful rites that she and Gormagog had conducted.

This
was stunning—and terrifying—for every one of the faerie creatures had flat, hateful eyes, and every one of them was trained on Jane.

She took an automatic step backwards.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” the Lord of the Faerie said, his hands catching at her shoulders and holding her still. “Are you so very, very sure that you want to face their judgement in return for your freedom?”

Jane was not sure at all, but she couldn’t back down now. Not in front of Coel and what he had become.

“I am sure,” she said, sure only that her “freedom” actually meant “death”.

“Then stand on your own,” he snapped, letting go her shoulders, and taking a step back from her.

Summoning all of her courage, Jane stood as upright as she could, straightening her back and shoulders in a flash of her old arrogance.

The next ten minutes, as the bleak-eyed creatures slowly ascended the hill, were the slowest in her life. The faerie folk drew close, their first rank standing only two paces away from Jane, almost completely encircling her save for a passage they left clear through to where the Lord of the Faerie had sat on his throne on the eastern edge of the summit.

“My faerie folk,” the Lord of the Faerie said once they had all come to a halt, “here stands before you a woman you know well. She has been a MagaLlan, a Darkwitch, a wife, a whore, and through all her lives she has sought to do the Faerie as much damage and death as possible. Yet here she stands, willing to pay recompense to you so that she might live in freedom. What say you? Will you accept her recompense?”

“Aye!” shouted the great throng, and Jane winced, not so much at the sound, but at the
hatred
she felt washing over her. Gods, why had she agreed to this?

“And your price?” said the Lord of the Faerie, his low voice carrying clearly across the entire summit. “The price you demand of this Darkwitch whore?”

A water sprite stepped forth. “I speak for all,” he said, staring at Jane.

“Yes?” said the Lord of the Faerie. “Name the price.”

The water sprite held his flat, hateful stare at Jane for a long moment, then suddenly, he grinned, and held out one of his spindly arms.

A magpie fluttered down from the sky, coming to roost on the water sprite’s arm.

“We want you to learn to carol,” the magpie said. “We yearn to hear once more the Ancient Carol of the dawn and the dusk.”

“That shall be enough for the day,” said Ariadne. “You have done far better than I’d dreamed.”

Noah blinked, looking about. Somehow most of the day had passed, and now late afternoon shadows stretched across Tower Green.

“You need to go back to your house in Idol Lane,” said Ariadne, “and think about what you’re doing.”

“What do you mean, ‘What I am doing’?”

Ariadne lifted her hand once more to Noah’s chest. “I can feel it within you,” she said, her voice soft, her eyes hard. “Asterion’s seed. You lay with him, Noah. Why did you do that?”

“The same reason you did,” Noah replied, flatly enough that Ariadne knew she was lying. “Because he felt good to me.”

“He is a good lover, is he not?”

“Aye, he is a good lover.”

“He was desperate when first I had him,” said Ariadne. “I was his first. I imagine, however, that he’s gained some experience since then.”

“In coupling, yes,” said Noah, “but not in love. Of that he has never had experience.”

Ariadne hissed. “Be wary where you tread, girl! Couple with him if you must, for whatever reason
you wish. But, gods, girl, do not speak of
love
in connection with the Minotaur!”

Noah remained silent.

Ariadne drew in a deep breath. “There are few people who would accept this with the same equanimity that I have, Noah. It is dangerous.”

“Really? But am I not a product of such ‘danger’?”

Ariadne laughed. “Oh, yes, you are a product of my own lustful cuddlings with the Minotaur. Aye. I can see what a daughter of mine you truly are.” She sobered. “
Be careful
. Use him, do not allow him to use you. And think also, do you not have this Stag God lover awaiting you? Your Kingman? Why jeopardise that with an affair with Asterion?”

“I do not have to justify this to you, Ariadne.”

Ariadne’s eyes narrowed, and she nodded to herself very slightly.
Oh, gods
…

Jane gaped, unable to believe what she had heard. Behind her the Lord of the Faerie laughed merrily. All about her the faerie folk were laughing, and she thought that perhaps this was a great jest on their part. That at any moment their laughter would reveal it for what it truly was—malicious retribution.

“We want you to carol,” said the Lord of the Faerie, and Jane jumped, for suddenly he was standing at her side. “We want you to carol in the dawn and the dusk, and lighten all our hearts. You shall spend an eternity paying your recompense, Jane, but I think you will do very well at it.”

Jane stared at him. Her eyes had filled with tears, and the Lord of the Faerie had become nothing but a misty blur, and the great crowd of faerie folk were little more than an undulating ocean surrounding her.

“I can’t sing very well,” she finally whispered.

The Lord of the Faerie bent his head down, and kissed her, and it was for Jane the greatest kiss she could ever have imagined for it was full of nothing but laughter and mercy.

“Then we shall teach you,” he said, lifting his mouth away from hers.

Noah and Ariadne drank an ale with Warneke in his chambers before he escorted them back to the Lion Gate. Jane waited for the two women there, standing patiently a few paces away in the shadow of the wall.

“Have you been bored, sweeting?” Ariadne said. She did not move from beneath the Lion Gate.

“Deeply,” Jane said, walking over and looking at Noah. “You’re still alive, then?”

“Deeply,” said Noah, and Jane’s mouth twitched, and then smiled.

Charles sat in the most inner and private of his chambers in Whitehall, Eaving’s Sisters gathered about him.

“Well?” asked Marguerite.

Charles smiled, soft and warm. “She is learning the ways of the labyrinth,” he said.

“And
Jane
teaches her?” said Catharine, her tone incredulous.

Charles looked at her, then raised a hand and twisted a finger about one of her dark curls which had escaped a pin. “Of course,” he said. “Who else?”

At the window, unbeknown to any in the room, the little girl smiled, and then stepped back from the window and faded away.

N
oah, Mistress of the Labyrinth. That alliance of name and title had a certain ring to it. Most certainly it had been something I’d needed to achieve for well over a lifetime so that I could be Mistress to Brutus-reborn’s Kingman and complete the Troy Game.

What surprised me was this: once I began to learn the ways of the labyrinth, then I
wanted
it as well. Badly. Ariadne said it was my blood coming out. I’d been bred to it; thus, once my eyes were opened and I realised my potential, then I could not wait a single moment before I reached out with both hands and seized that potential and that heritage, and made it mine.

The power of the labyrinth was sublime, exciting, sexual, enlivening, addictive. I could not get enough of it. I
wallowed
in it. I was proud of my natural abilities, and lived for Ariadne’s smile, her nod, her rare, “That was well done, Noah”. For six visits Ariadne took me about the White Tower (although to our perception it
rose above us in a twisting mass of darkness rather than whitewashed ragstone) in meandering circles, but we did not enter it. Ariadne did not so much teach as draw forth from me understanding that I had not realised was there, and which made me wonder if indeed I had been bred for this task, rather than having it thrust suddenly upon me. Then, at the end of my sixth visit, I realised that Ariadne had not been leading me in meaningless perambulations about the White Tower at all, but in clearly defined patterns.

As we had walked, so we had recreated the windings of the labyrinth. I exclaimed, and told Ariadne of my realisation, and she smiled, and patted my arm, and said, “So. Now you are ready.”

On my seventh visit to the Tower, Ariadne took me inside the White Tower itself. Here, entwined in representative form—although only
our
eyes could see it—the harmonies of stars and tides, moon and brain, blood vessel and forest path. Here, I would learn to control and, eventually, to manipulate these harmonies.

The labyrinth of creation.

It was terrifying and exhilarating, all in one.

Managing the power within the Great Founding Labyrinth was not easy: even as eager as I was, even with the heritage I had, I found it a troublesome task. To open myself up to the harmonies was to allow so much apparently chaotic discord to flood my being that I found it difficult to concentrate for longer than two or three minutes. Ariadne told me my initial training was to enable me to cope with this flood of sensory information; later stages would enable me to control and manipulate it.

To rebuild the labyrinth to my own needs.

“Previous Mistresses of the Labyrinth and Kingmen have rebuilt it only for reasons of protection,” Ariadne said to me one day as I sat on the outer steps
of the White Tower, nursing my aching head in my hands. “It was all we knew how to do. You? You may go much further, do more with the labyrinthine enchantments than any before you.”

She shrugged, seemingly disinterested. “And maybe not.”

Ariadne may have affected dismissive indifference on occasion, but there was one thing about me which fascinated her—and myself, come to that.

I was not simply Noah, long-lost daughter-heir returned to Ariadne, nor even an Asterion-bred Darkwitch. I was also Eaving, goddess of the waters and fields and fertility of the land, and, as Eaving, I had a peculiarly strong bonding with the labyrinth. I was deeply attuned to the seasons and the turning of the tides and the years, and this meant I was even more attuned to the harmonies of the labyrinth than I might otherwise have been. Eaving complemented what natural skills I had as Mistress of the Labyrinth, and my increasing skills as Mistress of the Labyrinth complemented my abilities as Eaving.

“I should never have been so dismissive of my role as MagaLlan,” Ariadne said thoughtfully one day as we walked back to share our usual ale with Frederick Warneke. “Imagine what I might have achieved had I truly realised how complementary were the land and the labyrinth.”

I shot her a dark, cynical look. Ariadne controlling both powers as goddess and labyrinth would have sent the stars themselves into a panic.

And myself? Was
I
worthy of panic
?

“Ariadne,” I said. “Should I use the darkcraft within me? What of this dark heritage? I am terrified of using it…or of it using me.”

“The darkcraft is not to be feared, Noah. It will be a better lover to you than any man ever could be. Even Weyland.”

I could not smile. The truth was that the thought of just having the darkcraft inside me was terrifying. What would it do if ever I unleashed it? What did it feel like? Would it corrupt me? Would it alter who I was as Eaving, and as a Mistress of the Labyrinth?

If I was unsure about the darkcraft, then I was terribly uncertain about the Troy Game itself. I still had no true idea of
why
the Game had decided to emerge as flesh incarnate, and the fact that Catling was on the loose in London worried me from time to time. My faith in the value of the Troy Game to this land had been severely undermined. I most certainly no longer believed in “the one true way”. I was no longer ready to accept that there was merely the one path, and that it was my duty as female representative of all things good and fair to walk its straight and narrow boundaries.

I was learning that life, like the labyrinth, and like creation itself, is made up of varied subjective interpretations.

I was realising that for any one problem there were many solutions, many paths which could be trod.

All this meant but one thing: I was no longer prepared to accept without question the future that the Troy Game had mapped out for me.

I was becoming…independent. A strange state, for me.

Partly this was because of the Troy Game’s—
Catling’s
—unnecessary deception. The utter cruelty of that deception had cost the Game dearly in terms of unquestioning loyalty.

And, partly, my new independence of thought and my questioning of old loyalties was because of Weyland Orr.

Asterion.

Each afternoon after I’d been to the Tower (perhaps twice a week), Weyland would kiss me, taste the growing power in my mouth, and smile at both myself and Jane.

Each night he and I repaired to the Idyll. Each night we talked, then we went to that sumptuous bed.

Each night, invariably, we made love.

And we talked, far into each night. There were a few nights where neither of us slept, and then in the morning we would be irritable and cross with each other and with Jane. Oddly enough, our bickering on these mornings tended to set her suspicions to rest for a while, because she could not believe such a squabbling couple could be involved in any matter of the heart.