The Eighth Court (36 page)

The sky lightened out in the east. Blackbird stood on the grass, watching the smouldering, smoking remains of the house as it crumbled in on itself. Only the chimneys had survived, the blackened rickety columns rising out of the ashes. Her face was smeared with soot, her clothes charred black, and she stank of smoke. Beside her a man stood in the growing dawn light. In uniform, Secretary Carler looked distinctly uncomfortable, as if taking the place of someone else. The insignia on his arm gave it away, though. A shield with six horseshoes.

“We seek your assurance that the danger has been contained, Lady. I’ll need to report to the proper authorities,” said Secretary Carler.

“Don’t call me that,” she said. “My name is Blackbird. It’s as good a name as any I’ve had and will serve me well enough. I didn’t ask for this.”

“The survivors are looking to you,” said Carler. “They need reassurance.”

“I’m not in a position to reassure anyone,” said Blackbird. “You call us survivors, and that’s all we are. Simply those who remain.”

“Nevertheless,” said Carler. “I would like to be able to reassure the minister that the danger has passed.”

“It’s gone. So has Niall. That’s all I know,” she said. “If I knew any more, I would tell you.”

A soldier in similar uniform trotted up, saluting smartly at Secretary Carler, hesitated and saluted Blackbird as well. She sighed. “Sir, the fire is contained and as far as we can ascertain the hostiles have been eliminated. Some may have escaped - it’s impossible to say. Lord Mellion is evacuating the survivors through the portal in the woods.”

“They’re called Ways,” sad Blackbird.

“Yes, Ma’am,” said the soldier.

“Assemble the men,” said Secretary Carler. “Get them back on board the chopper. You can allow the fire service in now, I think. They’ll want to make it safe. I expect they’ll pull down the chimneys.”

“What about any remains within the building, Sir?” asked the soldier.

“There was at least one human body in the house,” said Blackbird. “We would like the remains recovered if possible. There should be a funeral, or at least a memorial.”

“In a fire like that, Lady, the chances of recovery are small. The entire building collapsed,” said Carler. “The heat…”

“His name was Big Dave,” said Blackbird, “and there are those who will grieve his loss.” She glanced towards Lesley who stood apart, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, holding William.

“I will see what can be done,” said Secretary Carler. “Perhaps a symbolic gesture – some ashes from the fire.”

“Perhaps,” she agreed. “There should be something.”

The soldier saluted and trotted away again.

“You understand that it was not within our remit to intervene in matters internal to the Feyre,” said Secretary Carler.

“If the night had not gone as it did,” said Blackbird, “this morning’s prospect would be somewhat different for all of us.”

“I think you can hear the truth in my words, Lady, when I say that we had contingencies for that, but none of them were prospects I was looking forward to.”

“Let’s not mince words, Secretary,” said Blackbird with some bitterness. “You let us take the brunt, and only became involved when it looked like we would prevail.”

“The treaty–”

“The treaty is with the High Court of the Feyre, a body which I think you will find no longer exists. You chose your battle and your losses are light as a consequence. Ours are not.”

“The treaty has held for almost a thousand years, Lady. We regard it as a treaty with the Feyre, rather than with the High Court.”

“I can’t speak for the Feyre.” said Blackbird. “I only speak for myself.”

“What about the gifted?” said Carler. “What about the people who have yet to emerge, those whose gifts are still dormant?”

“You could have helped us,” said Blackbird. “Instead you chose to stand on the sidelines.”

“I have my orders, Lady,” he reminded her.

“And yet the choices we make are what defines us,” she said. “We are no longer the Eighth Court for that would imply there were seven others, and after tonight I’m not even sure we can muster one, never mind eight.”

“Lord Mellion–”

“Has his own concerns, though without his help we would have been truly lost. I will speak with him, Secretary, but not now. We need time.”

“Of course,” said the secretary.

“He’s out there somewhere,” said Blackbird.

“Who?” asked Carler.

“Niall. I can feel it in my bones. He did something. He’s not stupid – blindly loyal, impetuous, brave to the point of recklessness, but not stupid. He found a way…”

“Let’s hope so, Lady. He did say when we last met that he would arrange for the return of certain journals to the National Archive,” he said.

“Did he? What journals?”

“I think you know the journals I am referring to. They were taken after the incident with Ms Radisson in the National Archive. Is that something you’ll be able to help me with?”

“The fire has destroyed much,” said Blackbird. “It will be some time before we know the extent of the damage.”

“I see,” said Carler. “We are hoping that a new clerk may be appointed, along with the new Remembrancer.”

“You’re intending to continue with the ceremony?” asked Blackbird. “To what purpose? The wraithkin are here, what’s left of them,” she pointed out.

“The ceremony has always continued, Lady. No matter what. The journal will be useful for the new clerk. He or she will need to familiarise themselves with certain protocols and practices.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Blackbird, “but I make no promises.”

“We would consider it an act of good faith,” said Carler.

“Is that so?” said Blackbird.

“With your permission, Lady?” Secretary Carler indicated the waiting helicopter.

Blackbird nodded as the engines of the helicopter whined into life and the noise from the rotors drowned out any further opportunity for comment. Secretary Carler saluted, and withdrew, climbing into the helicopter after his men. Blackbird moved back to where Lesley held William, who reached for Blackbird so that she took him from Lesley. He stared with wide eyes as the aircraft lifted into the air, buffeting them with the downdraft, turned, and climbed away into the sky.

“Mellion said he’d wait for you at the Ways,” said Lesley, after the thudding of the rotors had faded to a distant beat.

“Tate will ask Mullbrook to send a car,” said Blackbird. “I’ll travel back with you.”

“You don’t have to,” said Lesley. “I can manage.” She looked pale and sick.

“It’ll give me time to think,” said Blackbird. “We can return to the High Court, or what’s left of it. There’s no one to gainsay us now.”

“What about Niall?” asked Lesley.

“He’s not here,” said Blackbird. “Wherever he is, he’s not here.”

They walked slowly together back towards the drive, away from the smouldering ruins.

“
Blackbird, look! You have to see this.” Alex burst into the room, holding a laptop computer.

“Do we not knock any more?” asked Blackbird. She was changing, again. Somehow the smell of smoke lingered no matter how much she showered and changed clothes. It was in her skin, in her hair.

“It happened yesterday. They say it’s a rare event – something special,” she said. Alex went to the bed and rested the computer on the covers.

Blackbird pulled a soft cotton top over her head and went to see what Alex had found. On the laptop was a news website with images of a blurry star. “I don’t understand the significance,” said Blackbird. “Why are we looking at this?”

“It’s a nova,” said Alex. “An exploding star. It was first seen yesterday about the same time that Dad did… whatever it was. This could be it,” said Alex.

“It’s not your father’s doing,” said Blackbird quietly.

“You don’t know,” said Alex. “It could be…”

“A nova is an exploding star, but the light takes centuries to travel the distance to earth so that we can see it. Look, the rest of the article explains. This happened thousands of years ago.”

“It might still be the same,” said Alex. “We don’t know what Dad might have done…” said Alex.

“It’s not him, Alex. I’m sorry.”

“Fine,” said Alex. “Fine! If you don’t want to believe in him then you don’t have to. But I know! I just know, OK!” she slammed the laptop’s lid shut, picked it up and threw it at the wall. It bounced and tumbled sideways, landing on the carpet. She stormed out, slamming the door behind her. Blackbird could hear doors banging as she retreated.

Blackbird went to the laptop and retrieved it from the floor. She took it to the desk and opened it, finding the screen cracked, but the blurry image of the star still imprinted there.

“I want to believe,” Blackbird said quietly. “I really do.”

Against the light inside me, the dark was a cool balm. I pressed the back of my bare feet into the black sand, feeling the sharp grains under my heels. My fingers brushed the surface of the beach, the gritty feel of wet sand under my hand was a welcome sensation. The rhythmic
crump
and
sigh
of the waves were a relief. There had been noise and chaos, but I couldn’t remember what had caused it. My memories had been scoured clean. The utter blackness above was soothing to my eyes. All was calm. I felt my chest rise and fall with each breath, and heard my slow heartbeat echoing the thump of the waves.

I closed my eyes again and tried again to look inwards, only to find the glaring brightness coiling inside me. Every time I tried to remember who I was, where I was, why I was here, all I could see was searing light. It twisted and turned, trapped writhing within me. If I could let it out – eject it from inside of me, then I could be free, but every time I turned inwards I was forced away by the brightness there.

There was something – a memory or a dream. There had been a fire. I could smell the smoke on my clothes and feel the rawness where the heat had caught my skin. That didn’t explain the light inside me, though. How did the fire get inside me?

“Cousin. I wondered if I would find you here.”

I opened my eyes. Standing above me was a man I felt I ought to recognise. He wore a long coat and his features reminded me of someone I knew. I could see him illuminated against the sky until I looked away. I looked back and the light found him again. I was seeing him in the glare from my eyes. Somehow the light was escaping from inside me.

“Who?” I asked.

He sighed and then looked out towards the horizon. “Ah,” he said. “So that’s what you did with it.”

“Do I know you?” I asked. His voice was familiar.

“I’m not sure that you ever did,” he said, “and now you probably never will.”

“Where are we?”

“These are the shores of night. This is the last place you will ever be.” He looked around, as if enjoying the view.

“Why am I here?”

“A fine question, though the answer is probably not to your liking.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked him.

“I’m here because I let my judgement get the better of me. I let sentiment come before purpose, and I got lost in the play and got careless. You learn fast, do you know that?”

“I’m having difficulty even remembering my name,” I said. “Do you know my name?”

“Yes, Niall. I know your name,” he said.

His use of my name brought other things back. “You’re… Raffmir,” I said. “And we are not friends.”

“Not friends, no.” He agreed. “But we have a deal in common. Come,” he said offering his hand.

I took it and got to my feet. Somewhere I had lost my shoes, but the sharp wet sand under my feet was not unpleasant. “What now?” I asked him.

“Now? In due course we will discover that together, perhaps, but for now let us walk along the shores of night, and you can tell me how much you remember.”

“Should I walk with my enemy? You tried to kill me, I remember that now.”

“There are no friends or enemies here, Niall. Only companions. Did you know you’ve been here before?” He set off along the shore and I walked beside him.

“No,” I said.

“At least twice,” he said, “though the memory of it will be lost to you.”

“Then, how do you know?” I asked him.

“Ah, well,” he said. “Therein lies a tale.” We walked along the shore, the waves lapping almost to our feet. “And for once, we have time on our side…”

About the Author

Mike Shevdon was born in Yorkshire, grew up in Oxfordshire and now lives in Bedfordshire, so no-one can say he hasn’t travelled. An avid reader of fantasy since his early teens, he has a bulging bookshelf going back more than forty years. His love of fantasy started with Edgar Rice Burroughs and C S Lewis and expanded rapidly, spilling over into SF, crime fiction (usually called mystery in the US), thrillers, the back of cereal packets, instruction manuals and anything else with words on it.

Mike is a technologist by profession, which is the nearest thing he could find to Sorcerer in the careers manual. He has also studied martial arts for many years, including Archery and Aikido, and is a keen cook (his wife would use the word “messy” but that’s another story). He is the proud inventor of Squeaky Cheese Curry, particularly loves food from South East Asia, and is on a life-long quest to create the perfect satay sauce.

His favourite books include Barabara Hambly’s,
Darwath Trilogy
,
The Master and Margarita
by Mikhail Bulgakov and any of John Le Carre’s, George Smiley books. He is a big fan of Robert Crais and the Elvis Cole series and loves all the Janet Evanovich, Stephanie Plum novels. He believes Sir Terry Pratchet’s knighthood is richly deserved.

Mike draws his inspiration from the richness of English folklore and from the history and rituals of the UK.

You can follow him on Twitter with @shevdon.

shevdon.com

ANGRY ROBOT

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Eight into one won’t go

Copyright © Shevdon Ltd 2013

Cover art by John Coulthart

All rights reserved.

Angry Robot is a registered trademark, and the Angry Robot icon a trademark of Angry Robot Ltd.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Ebook ISBN: 978 0 85766 228 6

UK Paperback: ISBN: 978 0 85766 226 2

US Mass Market Paperback: ISBN: 978 0 85766 227 9