Darkwitch Rising (65 page)

“Has she a fever, then?” said the other. “Do her armpits swell and discomfort her under the tight sleeves of that sweet bodice?”

“What
is
it?” Elizabeth said again.

“We come,” said the first imp, “because we carry a message from your one-time lover, Weyland. Remember him?”

Elizabeth’s lips thinned. “Yes?” she said.

“Don’t fret,” said the second imp. “The message is not for you. These are words that Weyland wants you to carry to the king, our Great Lord Almighty Charles, majesty, benevolence, defender of the faith, high prince of righteousness, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.”

Elizabeth’s mouth tightened yet further, but she said nothing.

“Tell him,” said the imps as one, their voices perfectly matched in bleakness, “that if the Londoners grow buboes, then it is because Weyland has planted the seeds. Tell Charles that Weyland is spreading his horror over London to show Charles his might, and to demonstrate that Weyland is unconquerable. Tell Charles that Weyland thinks that all this digging of graves in the churchyards and fields and orchards of London will surely scare out those kingship bands…yes?”

The imps’ voices had become singsong, but that did nothing to diminish the horror of what they imparted. “Tell Charles that he is to gather the kingship bands of Troy, and hand them to you, so that you may hand them to Weyland. Only then will the death halt. A simple enough message, yes?”

Elizabeth had taken two steps back as they spoke. “This is vileness,” she said.

“This is the way it is,” said the first imp, “vile or not.” Then the imps were gone, and Elizabeth was left standing alone in the shadowy corner of the courtyard.

Elizabeth walked slowly through the palace, dragging her feet, unable to hurry this ghastly message to Charles. Inevitably, however, her grudging feet drew her close, and she asked admittance of the king’s guards in a soft, hesitant voice.

Elizabeth was of Charles’ inner coterie, and the guards allowed her into the king’s private apartments without hesitation.

Charles was sitting, together with Catharine, Marguerite and several of his older bastard children, under an apple tree in the private courtyard off his apartments. The instant Charles saw Elizabeth’s face he waved the children to a far corner to play, then beckoned her close.

“What is it?” he said quietly.

“Weyland has sent a message,” said Elizabeth, not looking at Charles, so ashamed was she to be the one Weyland had chosen to bring this before the king.

“Aye?”

“Weyland has caused the pestilence which spreads through the city and its fields. He says the death will not stop until you gather in the kingship bands, and hand them to me, so that I may pass them to him.”

Marguerite hissed. “We should have known this outbreak was Weyland’s handiwork. Such foulness becomes him.”

For the moment Charles ignored Marguerite’s comment. He reached forward, and took Elizabeth’s hand, making her look at him. “I do not hold you to blame for such grim news, my darling,” he said. “Do not fear.”

“What can we do?” said Catharine. “
You
cannot gather the bands.”

Charles and Marguerite exchanged a look. Two of them Charles could very well gather, but this they did not remark upon.

“Dear gods,” Catharine continued, “the plague will spread and spread, inching its dark way into the soul of every Londoner. What can we do? Louis…Louis should—”

“Louis cannot be disturbed from his transformation,” said Charles, “unless it be for the direst reason.”

“This is not the direst reason?” Marguerite said.

“And what of Eaving?” said Catharine, too consumed with her worries to take much note of what anyone else said. “She is trapped within Weyland’s den, and may not move until Jane has taught her all she needs to know of the labyrinth. Gods, what is happening to her?”

Charles’ eyes flickered at that, but he said nothing.

“Weyland is the foulest creature ever to draw breath,” said Marguerite. “It will be a blessed day indeed when Eaving can escape him.”

Noah and Weyland had spent the entire day within the Idyll. They had touched, and kissed, but had not made love. Instead they talked, of who they had been in former lives, and what they had seen. By the late afternoon Noah was feeling restless—these remembrances had not always been comfortable—and so, Weyland trailing behind her with a smile on his face, she embarked on a far-reaching exploration of the Idyll.

Noah had known the Idyll was large, but had not suspected it was this vast. She explored for what felt like hours, and what she saw convinced her that in acreage alone (not even considering power and enchantment) the Idyll was far larger than London itself.

Chamber emptied into chamber after chamber, balconies led to walks along battlements that made Noah dizzy, stairwells rose and fell with apparent abandonment.

At last, growing tired, Noah paused, and Weyland took the opportunity to gather her in his arms.

“What do you think, then,” he said, “of what I have built atop the goddess hill? Is it a fine enough shelter for you?”

She tensed in his arms, and Weyland regretted the tease. Should he finish it now, then, and just
ask
for shelter?

Noah had put a bright, false smile on her face, and Weyland sighed, and let her go.

She turned—a little too abruptly—and walked through yet one more door onto a balcony that overlooked a vast vista.

Noah stopped the instant she saw what lay beyond the balcony. “What made you create
this
?” she said.

Weyland looked over the balcony to where stretched a succession of wooded hills, rolling into infinity. Mist drifted in the valleys and hollows between the hills and scarlet and blue birds dipped slowly and gracefully in and out of the mists.

“Don’t you remember this?” he said. “That night I healed your back in the kitchen? We met in vision then, in this strange land. It was so lovely…”

Noah was looking at him strangely. “And so you recreated it here?”

He shook his head slowly. “I did not make this, Noah. It just appeared one day. I thought
you
had made it.”

Now she was staring as if she were frightened. She took a half-step back, and Weyland grasped her arm, terrified she was going to run.

“Noah?”

Noah made a visible effort to relax, and she offered him a sunny, false smile. “You must have dreamed of it, and made this without thought.”

“The only thing of which I dream,” he said, “is of what you said to me in that vision.”

She stared at him a moment longer, then abruptly she pulled her arm from his hand, and left the balcony.

O
ne morning Jane went to the scaffold in Tower Fields to find the Lord of the Faerie waiting for her. Unusually, however, his face was creased with worry and he did not immediately take her to The Naked.

“Jane,” he said, leaning to kiss her.

“What is it?” Jane could hardy breathe for apprehension.

“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.”

M
y 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.