Darkwitch Rising (70 page)

“Weyland,” she said, very softly.

“Hmmm?”

She turned within his arms. “Do you know,” she said, a note of wonder in her voice, “that you are the only man I have shared a bed and a house with who has ever treated me with even a modicum of respect and of friendship?” She paused, and when she resumed speaking laughter had replaced the wonder in her tone. “I speak, of course, of that time
after
you tore that damn imp from my body.”

He did not reply for a minute or two, and when he did his voice was heavy with regret. “I wish I had not done that. I wish…”
I wish I had thought sooner that friendship and respect would win more from you than pain and terror
.

“We all wish,” she said softly, “and yet all wishes ever achieve is to expose our sorrows.”

Again, a silence, then Weyland spoke.

“Do you know,” he said, the fingers of one hand very gently stroking her shoulder, “that you are the first woman I have ever
liked
? It is a strange feeling, this liking.”

Her mouth twitched. “I have made Asterion ‘like’,” she said. “I am a witch indeed!”

T
here was a corner turned that day. I finally decided I could trust Weyland, and I finally decided I could trust myself. I had stepped down the right path, even if it was a strange, sometimes frightening, and totally unknowable one.

I learned also, however, that Weyland had hidden depths. That somehow he also had the Faerie in him, and that likely it had come from his strange father. A bull? Truly? Or had it been a god disguised as a bull, which would explain why Asterion’s mother had been so severely smitten? (I mean, a
bull
?) The heavens alone knew how much those impractical Aegean gods liked to cavort about in animal form, seducing women here and there.

I also decided, finally, that the Troy Game was, in all likelihood, far more malevolent than Asterion had ever been. We had all been trapped by it, deluded into thinking that it would defend us and be some great protective amulet from all manner of evil.

Instead, the Game
was
all manner of evil, and the land’s alliance with it had been a sad mistake, and one we might yet all live to regret.

Still further, I learned something more from that day, but it took a few weeks for the lesson to sink in.

I learned that going to Weyland, opening myself to him, had been no mistake. It had been something that I had
needed
to do.

It had been the right thing to do.

Three weeks after we had made love in the gatehouse in Petersham, I realised I was carrying his child. I realised not through any physical symptoms, but because, unlike my experience with Catling, I was able to communicate with the growing life within me. One day, a day so extraordinary I shall never forget it, the new soul reached out to me, and spoke.

A daughter.

I wept. I wept for joy, and for all the pain I knew I would cause to those I loved, because suddenly my path opened up before me with an intense clarity that left me reeling, and because, finally, I would have my daughter.

Not she who I had lost as Cornelia—I knew and accepted now that she would never come back to me—but a daughter conceived with a man I loved.

That shocked me. I think I must have loved Weyland for months, but had never dared admit it to myself.

Weyland, Weyland, what are we doing? Why can’t we stop? Why can’t we stop
?

I was a goddess, I was Eaving, and I understood from the very depths of my soul that I did not ever conceive by accident or whim, but because it was something I wanted.

And I only ever wanted to conceive with a man I loved.

For the first time in three thousand years I felt at peace, and it was a wonderful place to be.

Two days after I realised I was pregnant I found my way out of the Idyll by myself for the first time. This had little to do with my approaching maternity, and everything to do with my growing skills in the way of the labyrinth.

Weyland watched me, a little concerned, but proud also.
Pride—not satisfaction
.

That made me happy, but I did not yet tell him of my pregnancy. For the time being I wanted to enjoy it for myself.

“Noah the mother,” I murmured to myself that evening.

Noah the destroyer, for that was the only way I could ever protect my daughter, and the land
.

I
t was the night before Christmas, and Weyland had brought me to the bone house of St Dunstan’s-in-the-East to celebrate. He had decorated the chamber warmly for the Christian celebration: scores of guttering candles among the piles of bones on their shelves; a table set in the clear space at the centre of the chamber and spread with good glass and silverware all entwined with holly and mistletoe; golden silk draped over the chairs set at each end of the table; a skull taken from the trove stacked against the east wall, set squarely in the centre of the table and overflowing with candied fruits.

Soft music filtered through the bone house. The choir were at song around the altar of St Dunstan’s, the muted sound of their voices riddling through the cracks of the church and monastery walls and all the dark, unknown spaces between; trickling out from the joints of the bones tumbled higgledy-piggledy about the shelves and the outer edges of the chamber.

Weyland was watching me, trying to gauge my reaction to this interesting spectacle.

I slid a glance his way from the corner of my eye. “The bone house,” I said. “How sweet. And only you could have thought of it.”

His eyes narrowed a little, as yet unsure of my reaction.

“Let me see,” I said, taking a step forward and staring at the scene critically. “This could be a trap set by the Minotaur—perhaps any moment now these bones will rise up and snatch at me. But, no. I think not. Too obvious even for the Minotaur.”

Another glance his way. He was still watching me carefully.

“A test,” I said. “Perhaps you wish me to reassemble all these bones to prove my abilities with the labyrinthine enchantments, and the harmonies of the earth and stars. But, no. I think not. That kind of task is best left for the Redeemer, Lord Jesus Christ. He has specifically said, I believe, he wants to do that at His second coming. I wouldn’t want to pre-empt Him.”

Another glance, and I thought I saw the corner of Weyland’s mouth twitch.

“A reminder,” I said, “of the winter death which grips the earth. But in these dusty bones, Weyland, I see no hope of spring. They’re gone, crumbled. No seeds for a springtime here. So,” I turned, and smiled at him, “this can only be
your
very peculiar sense of humour, Weyland. You might have honoured me on Christmas Eve in a hall decked with gold and jewels. Instead, you have brought me to this dusty establishment.”

The twitch about his mouth grew into a wide grin, and he stepped forth, took my hands, and kissed me softly on the mouth. “I knew you would appreciate the effort,” he said, and kissed me the harder when I laughed.

The past three months since I had taken Weyland
to the gatehouse near Petersham had been easy ones for me, an ease which I had not anticipated. I had been distraught at first at discovering Catling’s true nature, and then at Louis’ reaction, and the sense of sadness and betrayal coming immediately after I’d learned I was Ariadne’s long-lost daughter-heir, and Asterion’s get to boot. There had been so much to cope with, and think through.

Now I was at peace with myself and with where I was going.

I knew what
I
had to do, and I also knew that it would enrage both Louis and the Troy Game when they learned what I proposed.

For the moment, then, it was best I kept my plans to myself.

“Will you sit?” said Weyland, and he pulled out one of the chairs for me, and I sat, arranging the heavy folds of the deep red silk gown as I did so. A few weeks ago, Weyland had returned to the house in Idol Lane accompanying a cart laden with bolts and bolts of silks, velvets, linens, laces, ribbons, buttons and sundry feminine fancies, and in those times when we were not otherwise engaged, Jane and I had happily sewn ourselves some garments a good deal prettier than we had heretofore possessed. It had been one more happiness to add to the general sense of wellbeing and contentment that had come over me these past months.

Weyland sat at the other end of the table, smiled at me, poured me some wine, and then waved a hand.

A grey wraith appeared from the shadows, bearing a platter of steaming food.

My mouth hung open, and my heart stuttered a little in my chest.

“One of the bone chamber’s inhabitants,” said Weyland softly, watching my reaction carefully as the wraith came to the table, set the platter down,
bowed, and then vanished back into the shifting shadows from whence it had come. “Come to serve us on this celebratory night.”

I took a deep breath. “You surprise me,” I said.

“Good,” he said. Then he grinned. “You have constantly surprised me, so I am most glad I have managed something to make your beautiful mouth drop in astonishment.”

I laughed. “You can talk with the dead?”

“I have been dead, and returned,” he said. “As have you. But I was dragged back from death by the ancient Crone of Death at Ariadne’s request. That first time I was not reborn. I came direct from death. I still have a good rapport with the realm of the dead.”

I took a good sip of wine. Weyland could drag back the dead if he wished. Fabulous. Then I laughed again, softly, shaking my head.

“If only the good vicar and worshippers in St Dunstan’s knew what went on not twenty feet from their fervour,” I said. “An ancient goddess, being entertained by the black-hearted Minotaur, and waited on by the souls of the dead. It is a good Yuletide gift, Weyland. I appreciate it.”

“Then allow that appreciation to whet your appetite, Noah.” He preferred to call me Noah than Eaving, and somehow I liked that. He preferred the woman before the goddess. “Eat on, I pray,” he continued, “for the kitchens of the dead are a long way off to send back food to be reheated.”

We ate, talking now and again of inconsequential things. Laughing here and there. Enjoying, as had become habitual between us, the other one’s company.

It was only when the wraith had removed our plates and passed about the skull of candied fruits that Weyland broached what must have been bothering him, not only this night, but for the months past.

“What is Brutus doing, Noah?”

I put down my piece of fruit untasted. “I cannot tell you that, Weyland.”

His mouth twisted, and he looked away. A silence fell between us for a few minutes, and I was unsure how to break it.

“You will betray me,” he said eventually. We always came back to that.

“No,” I said, “I will not betray you.”

His eyes slid back my way. “You will not? Why not? I thought that Brutus’ love was all you lived for. Is not my betrayal a condition of his love?”

“When I lived as Cornelia, all I lived for was Brutus’ love. When I was Caela, all I lived for was what the Troy Game and what Mag wanted me to do on their behalf. This life…oh, in this life I started out accepting that all I wanted was Brutus’ love, and that all I lived for was your defeat and the triumph of the Troy Game. But now…no.”