Darkwitch Rising (81 page)

“When did I say
I
was going to destroy Noah?” Catling said. “I just need you both in my dark heart. There’s something there I need to show you.”

There came a dim roar from high above, and all three involuntarily lifted their eyes.

Ragged lines of fire, glowing red, had zigzagged across the wooden struts supporting the lead roof.

The roof groaned, and something hot and foul smelling splattered to the floor just to the left of Noah.

She jumped, and Weyland cursed. “Let her go, you fool! If she dies in here, with you, then—”

“No one is going to
die
!” Catling hissed. “We’re just all going to
suffer
a little. I’m going to teach you a lesson, Noah, and I want to make sure you will remember it well.”

Another globule of molten lead dropped down from the roof. It was much larger than the last, and much closer, and it spattered over Noah’s gown.

The material, weakened and dried by three days of the heat of the fire, burst instantly into flame.

Noah shrieked, and Weyland beat at the flames with his hands, but he could do nothing, and within a moment Noah was enveloped within a pillar of fire.

Five or six more globules, as large as buckets, spattered down from the roof, striking all three struggling forms far below.

All three glowed, and then Catling and Weyland burst into fire, to complement Noah’s already burning form.

Welcome to the dark heart of the labyrinth
, Catling whispered as they burned.
Do you feel at home yet, Darkwitch
?

T
he Lord of the Faerie and the Caroller stood atop The Naked. The faerie lord rocked the baby in his arms, but even his soothing voice had no effect on the child, for she screamed and writhed.

“Noah burns,” said the Caroller. “I knew she would once Catling got her hands upon her. Weyland dies, too.” She paused. “Agony.
He
endures agony, for once.”

“We must do something!” the Lord of the Faerie cried.

“We can do nothing,” said the Caroller. “We are of the Faerie, and we cannot reach into the heart of the labyrinth.” She lifted her head, and looked to the west. “See? The sun sinks. Soon I shall have to carol in the dusk, and—”

“
Noah burns
!” the Lord of the Faerie shouted. “Has that no meaning for you?”

The Caroller sighed. “Then lift up the child, Coel, and set her free.”

In all his previous lives (save, of course, for his first) Weyland had controlled the manner of his own death. He had slipped quietly and gently into death, and had then, as soon as practical, organised his reemergence back into life (save, of course, for this
last, which the Troy Game controlled). Death and rebirth were, for him, a gentle and predictable transition, one which caused no anxiety or suffering.

This was different.

This was anguish beyond Weyland’s experience, beyond his imagination, beyond comprehension. The fire rippled over his body like a wave, then spread tiny, insistent fingers of flame into every one of his orifices, and through every single one of his pores.

Through all this, far worse was living in tandem with Noah’s suffering.

Catling had reserved the worst for her.

A girl walked through St Paul’s. The cathedral was alive with fire. The roof had gone, and flames roared through the nave with the force of a hurricane before swirling about the altar and then lifting in great, thick ropes into a sky heavy with smoke and thunder.

The girl walked as if she was aware of none of this. Indeed, the fire seemed as unaware of her as she was of it, and touched not a hair of her head, nor scorched a single inch of her pale skin.

She was a lovely girl, on the verge of womanhood, still a little long of limb, but with an exquisite grace about her that bespoke a career, perhaps, as a dancer.

Or a lover.

As she walked, the girl talked. She carried on a conversation with someone unseen. Every so often her eyebrows would raise in question as she talked, then her face would fall into repose as she waited for a response, and then she would nod gravely, as if accepting the answer given as wisdom incarnate.

She addressed the person she spoke to as Grandmother Ariadne, and sometimes she laughed, as if Grandmother Ariadne had said something particularly witty. Sometimes she frowned, if only a
little, as if Grandmother Ariadne had mouthed something faintly heretical.

Overall, she accepted what Grandmother Ariadne said, for she was a wise girl, and knew she currently stepped into parts unknown.

She was Grace, as she would eventually be, and she was coming to find her parents.

Above thunder cracked, and then roared.

Grace walked on, darkcraft incarnate.

Shapes reeled about her.

Trojan maidens and youths, long dead, twisting in their lovely Dance of the Torches.

Poiteran marauders, daubed in blue, thrusting sword and spear into shrieking victims.

Genvissa’s daughters, dying alongside Brutus and Cornelia’s sons.

Roman centurions, marching in solemn procession.

Tall, broad-shouldered Vikings, carrying torches that outshone even the leaping flames about them.

Christian priests, carrying foreign magic on crosses.

Normans, dark-eyed and -visaged, surrounding their triumphant king.

Londoners, past and present, burning like the fierce candles used to light the Yuletide log.

Grace walked on through this dancing, burning throng, serene and lovely, her hands clasped gently before her. Her mouth was still now, for she had heard all that Ariadne had to say.

She walked towards where the altar had once stood, then, in a sudden, swift movement, Grace bent to the floor—
a floor running with fire
—and picked something up.

It was a length of red wool.

She held it out before herself with one hand, holding it by one end, studying it, her beautiful head cocked ever so slightly to one side.

The length of wool twisted and cavorted in the heat.

Grace slowly reached out her other hand, watching the snapping, winding length of red wool carefully, then she suddenly grabbed for it, grasping the bottom end of the wool and pulling it straight.

With that single motion, Grace drew out all the twistings and meanderings and cavortings of the wool so that it stretched from hand to hand in one continuous, direct length.

A shriek echoed through the cathedral.

It had come from far below.

Noah and Weyland were dead, they knew it, but Catling had made sure that they still existed in all the agony she’d visited on them during their dying. Over and over they relived their suffering as they burned, and their flesh melted through the cracks in the stone flooring of St Paul’s, down and down, into the heart of the labyrinth.

Enough
, Catling said finally, and Noah and Weyland found they were able to breathe again and that, amazingly, they stood within the dark heart of the labyrinth in flesh, and as whole as if they had never burned.

They could see nothing, for a great darkness enveloped them.

“Weyland?” Noah gasped, and the next moment she felt his arms about her.

“Are you well?” he said.

“Yes. You?”

“Aye. I—”

“Oh, stop this gabble,” said Catling. “It is very pretty, but we are about to have a visitor, and there is no time to waste on precious endearments. Listen.
Listen!
”

Noah and Weyland clung to each other, still
gasping for breath, desperate to escape and yet feeling such a great weight of hopelessness fall about their shoulders that they knew they’d never be able to accomplish their freedom.

“Listen!” Catling cried one more time, and this time they heard it.

Footfalls, as if someone descended a great flight of stairs.

Gradually the footfalls grew ever louder until they rang through the darkness.

Then, suddenly, crazily, came the sound of a door creaking open.

Light flooded into the dark heart of the labyrinth, and Noah and Weyland had to momentarily shut their eyes against its brightness.

When they opened them again they saw a young woman standing silhouetted within a doorframe.

Behind her rose a stairway, and both Noah and Weyland knew where those stairs led.

Into the Idyll.

Noah gave a soft cry. “No! Grace, no!”

“Oh,” said Catling, “I’ll not murder her. Never. Not precious baby Grace. Indeed, I’ll do
everything
I can to keep her alive. But look, see, and know how greatly I have trapped you.”

At that moment Grace gave a cry, and her arms sprang forward, as if some power other than her own controlled them, and her wrists jerked together, as if they were bound.

Glowing red lines encircled her wrists, and as Noah and Weyland watched, horrified, the lines closed about Grace’s wrists, and the girl shrieked.

“Listen to me, and listen well!” Catling hissed, holding Noah and Weyland back with her power as they struggled to reach their daughter, by now slouched in the doorframe, weeping as the agony tightened about her wrists.

“I have bound Grace to me,” Catling continued, her words searing into Noah’s and Weyland’s minds. “Whatever you do to me, you do to Grace. Destroy me, and you destroy Grace. Complete me, and you allow Grace to live. Oh, and I forgot to mention. Anywhere that Grace has been, and anything that she has touched, is likewise bound. Has she been to the Idyll, Noah? Have you ever taken her on a tour of the Faerie?
Has the Lord of the Faerie cuddled her to his breast
?”

No!
Noah wailed.

“Aye!” Catling said. “So
now
do you remember your duty, oh great Mistress of the Labyrinth? If you destroy me, then you destroy not only Grace, but this land, this city, and the Idyll and the Faerie besides.”

No…

“Complete me,” Catling went on, “and Grace lives, and this land and the Faerie and the Idyll live as well. Under my dominion of course, but at least they live. Now go.
Go!
Level the dancing floor as you wish, ensure your stone hall is rebuilt as you will, but know always that there is only one thing you can ever do if you want Grace and
everything
that you hold dear to survive…and that is to dance the final Dance of the Flowers with Ringwalker.”

She paused, and for a moment the only sound was the harsh breathing of Noah and Weyland, and the terrible cries of Grace, lying in the doorway, her wrists bound with agonising vileness.

“You cannot undo what I have done, Noah. No one can. Grace is bound to me, and everywhere she walks is tied to her fate. Now…go!”

There was an instant’s hesitation, and then, as the bands of fire about Grace’s wrists vanished as abruptly as they’d appeared, Weyland grabbed Noah and together they stumbled towards the open door and their daughter.

London 1666-1675

I
t was difficult to come to grips with the enormity of the disaster. As the fires slowly burned out, people picked their way back through what was left of the streets of London. In many cases the streets themselves no longer existed. Buildings had collapsed the length of several blocks or more, entirely filling the open space of streets with blackened, scorched, foul-smelling bricks and stones and half-consumed timbers. In some places the fire had been so intense the stones had melted; in other places buildings were left half-standing with dangerous unsupported stone walls swaying in the incongruous blue skies.

There was very little left of any home which had stood in the fire’s path. Goods and valuables, history and emotions, had all been devoured by the flames. People were stunned and uncomprehending, unable to envision how they might ever manage to rebuild their lives.

Only a few men summoned any degree of decisiveness in the initial days, and among them the king was first. Charles was everywhere, organising, commending, sympathising, releasing funds from the royal purse, and opening stores for food and materials for shelter. He had spent the three days of the fire in London itself, directing his guards to aid the firefighting efforts, handing out golden coins to
any who would help in pulling down buildings in an effort to create a firebreak. By the time the fire had burned itself to a standstill, Charles looked tired and dishevelled, his clothes were sooty and water-soaked.

Yet still he did not rest. He paid for food to be sent to the homeless sheltering in Moorfields, then went there himself and addressed the crowd, assuring them that London would rise from the ashes better and stronger than ever. He consulted with architects, engineers, surveyors, and set them to drawing plans. He bullied the Commons into setting up Parliamentary Committees to establish strict laws regarding the rebuilding of London.

He called Sir Christopher Wren before him, and spoke quietly to him, and set him to rebuilding St Paul’s.

“As your vision requires it,” the king said to Wren quietly.

Wren looked startled. “You know of…?”

“Aye,” Charles said. “She came to me, as well.” He put his hand on Wren’s shoulder. “Listen to me, Wren. Many people will oppose what you shall build. It will be different. Innovative. Alarming. But between us we will persevere. We must. Sir Christopher, St Paul’s
must
be rebuilt the way you were shown.”

“I understand,” Wren said. “It will be my life’s work to accomplish it.”

Four days after the fire was finally quelled, the king stood amid the ruins of St Paul’s. The lead roof had melted entirely away; in places running down stone walls, in others collecting in great lumpy masses amid the rubble strewn along the floor of the nave. The walls had partly collapsed, the stained glass windows had shattered and exploded in the heat,
and all the memorials and side chapels were gone. The great Norman cathedral of St Paul’s was nothing more than a shapeless, dangerous, teetering mass of leaning walls and piles of rubble.