The Witch Queen (24 page)

“I think so. Wait—there’s bad magic in here. I need to penetrate the shield.”

She selected a bottle with more optimism than knowledge—one with a colorless liquid inside and red label bearing the Atlantean word for “burn”
—
and let a single drop fall on each of the sigils. They hissed and smoked, stinging her eyes; scorch marks blackened the table.
“Uvalé!”
Fern ordered, and the spell barrier, worn thin over the months and never renewed, crumpled at a touch. Fern picked up the jar in her gloved hand and passed it to Luc, who took it gingerly, as if it were very fragile, though the glass was thick and the base solid. “You know what to do,” Fern said. “Imagine her body in the clinic; hold that picture in your mind. When you take out the stopper say the words Ragginbone taught you. Call her by name. Send her home.”

Luc nodded, his dark face at once set and brittle. She saw his throat muscles flex as he swallowed. He seized the stopper, twisted it—for a moment the wax resisted, then it began to crack. A red flake peeled off, and another, and at last the crystal came free. He murmured in Atlantean the spell of unbinding, and a thin vapor streamed out, growing swiftly, spreading into an ill-defined form with trailing wisps of hair and clothing and wide frightened eyes whose whites gleamed as her gaze turned this way and that. “Dana,” Luc said softly, and: “Dana!” a little louder. “Find yourself. Go to your fleshly home. You know where it is . . .” Fleetingly, her eyes met his. Then there was a sound like a rush of wind, and the vapor was blown away, and the vacant jar fell to the floor, cracking into pieces, and Luc started at the sound as if wakened from a trance. “Did I do it right?” he asked.

“I hope so.”

“I must go. I must go to her.”

“If you want. Freeing Dana was your task; the rest is mine.”

He looked around the cellar, no longer searching, only skimming. “You need me. I’ll wait, but hurry.”

She walked along by the shelves, stopping beside the flask containing the eyeballs. They lined up against the glass, focused on her; she fancied there was a kind of pleading in that dreadful lidless stare. She picked up the container and unscrewed the cap, murmuring a charm similar to the one Luc had used. “Be free,” she whispered. “Pass the Gate.
Vardé!
” The eyeballs bobbed in the preserving fluid and then went still, revolving slowly, no longer in alignment. A thin chill fled past her and was gone. “Rest in peace,” Fern adjured, “whoever you were.” A vision flickered through her brain of a golden island sea-ringed and a young man with a beautiful face whose bright brown eyes were narrowed against the sun. She turned and saw Luc was standing close by her, and she knew he had seen it, too.

“Come on. If you want to look over the rest of the house . . .”

“One moment.”

There were few cupboards, but all were marked with runes of guard. She opened them with her lizard’s paw, scanning the contents: spellbooks plastic-wrapped against possible damp, more flasks and phials, what appeared to be a winged fetus curled up in a greenish fluid. She took nothing, though she retained the bottle with which she had destroyed the magic symbols. The last cupboard was set deep in the wall, its double doors padlocked.

Luc asked: “Can you break the lock?”

“Not with magic. For a lock, there must be a key. What have you got?”

Luc’s collection of house keys proved unhelpful, but Fern found the right one in an adjacent drawer. “Almost as if the padlock is for show,” she remarked. “A gesture.” She unfastened it, and the doors swung wide.

It was Luc who screamed, a cry of astonishment and horror abruptly cut off. There was a single big jar inside, and it contained a human head. Fern, more accustomed to such things, merely froze and stared. It was the head of a woman with her eyes closed as if in sleep and her long hair floating in the liquid around her. Her skin was almost translucent, showing the faint blue tinge of veins at her temples, though no blood beat there; her mouth was as exquisite as a half-opened rose, but very pale. Luc said: “What kind of a hellhole
is
this?” And: “Do you know her?”

“I think so,” Fern answered slowly. “Don’t worry: this isn’t human. It is . . . fruit. Unalive and undead. We will not disturb her now.” She closed the cupboard, replaced the padlock. She added with the edge of a smile: “Of course this is a hellhole. It’s a witch’s lair. What did you expect?”

“I don’t know.” Luc shrugged. “Black velvet curtains—black candles—an altar to worship the devil.”

“Witches worship no one but themselves,” said Fern. “You’re thinking of Satanists. They have no true power, only the crumbs they can borrow from whatever Spirits they invoke.”

“Can we go now?” The voice of Skuldunder piped from the corner where he had retreated as soon as they entered the cellar.

“Where next?” Luc demanded.

“The spellchamber. That might have black velvet curtains. I wonder what Morgus did with the Tree? She must have planted it somewhere.” Fern checked the level in her stolen bottle: it was still three-quarters full. As they passed through the kitchen, ignoring the sounds of the hag hammering inside the chest freezer, Luc helped himself to the longest of the skewers and thrust a vicious-looking knife through his belt. “You look like a pirate,” Fern commented. “Aren’t you going to carry one in your teeth?”

Skuldunder muttered something and appropriated the nearest implement, which turned out to be a carving fork. Wielding it, he resembled a clumsy miniature Beelzebub, rendered even more comic by the hat brim screening most of his face. But nobody laughed. The emptiness of the house would have sucked up laughter, like a vacuum swallowing air.

When they reached the ground floor again, Luc said: “If you’re looking for a tree, there’s a conservatory. One of those Victorian monstrosities big enough for a small jungle. As far as I can remember, it’s badly in need of repair.”

“Dibbuck mentioned it,” Skuldunder volunteered. “He said there was a gypsy working there.”

“We’ll try it,” said Fern.

Luc switched on the flashlight again and led them along a dark corridor toward the back of the house. They saw the conservatory entrance across a sitting room full of slumbering mounds of furniture: a many-paned glass door set under a high arch that flashed the light back at them in broken glints. Luc opened the door without any hindrance. “No hex this time,” he said. “There can’t be anything here of importance.”

“Then let’s go,” said Skuldunder. “I don’t like it.”

Fern peered ahead into a different kind of darkness—a leafy darkness rustling without any wind. Fear emanated from it, tangible as a smell. She said: “There’s something here.”

Luc had seen enough that night not to argue. As he stepped over the threshold, Fern touched his arm. “Go carefully,” she said, “and very slowly.”

“I’ll wait,” said Skuldunder.

“If you run away,” Fern tossed over her shoulder, “I’ll spit you on your own fork.”

They moved forward down a kind of aisle between unseen thickets. The flashlight beam glanced over huge moth-eaten sprays, the withered fronds of dead palms, a cracked urn hatching a writhing nest of stems. The rustling had ceased: every sprig, every blade was still. Their soft-shod footsteps and the susurration of their breathing made the only sounds. At one point Fern’s toe nudged what she assumed was a piece of snapped branch, only it gleamed white in the gloom, like bone. And then the beam, probing ahead, found something she recognized. She did not speak, but her grip tightened on Luc’s arm, and he stopped in his tracks. He had no alternative. In front of them, filling the end of the aisle, was a tree. The Tree. It had been planted in a stone trough, but the stone was already cracked; groping roots reached out across the floor and thrust down between the paving stones. Its trunk, twisting slightly so as to spread itself within the confines of the conservatory, was broader than Luc’s waist. The light beam moved upward, taking in the oaklike foliage, blinking back from the convex panes of the roof beyond. “Back down,” Fern whispered. (She didn’t know why she chose to whisper.) “I saw something . . .
there
.” The beam fixed on what might have been a misshapen apple hanging from a low branch, its rind very pale, a wisp of black down sprouting from the junction with the stem.

“What is it?” asked Luc. He, too, kept his voice low.

“Look further,” said Fern. “There may be one more advanced.”

The light roamed to and fro among the leaves. The beam was weak, but it traveled almost down to eye level now. It lit up another apple, smaller and greener, and then at last, within easy reach, it alighted on the object Fern sought—and dreaded to find. This time, Luc did not scream. Fern heard the hissing intake of his breath, saw the smudge of light tremble before it grew steady. The head hung there, life-size and complete in every detail, its milky skin glistening faintly as if with predawn dew. Jetty tangles of hair snaked down below the neck stump; eyes and mouth were closed. Luc held up the skewer like a sword, pointing at the monstrosity. “Explain.”

“This is fruit,” Fern said, “of a kind. The parent Tree is the one I spoke of: it grows in another dimension. The heads of the dead ripen there: it is said all who have done evil must hang a season on that Tree. Sometimes many seasons. This—it can’t be a seedling: the Eternal Tree has no seeds—it must be a cutting, nurtured by magic. But I don’t understand how it can bear fruit, here, in the real world—or what fruit this might be. It looks like Morgus herself, but she lives. It must be her twin sister, Morgun . . . Maybe this Tree is so imbued with her power that it will carry only those who are part of her history.”

“Like that one in the cupboard?”

“I . . . doubt it. That’s Sysselore—she looks much younger than when I knew her, but I’m sure. I believe she was taken from the original Tree and brought here. It’s been done before.”

“By whom?”

“Me.”

“This one’s alive.” She felt him start. “I saw its eyelid twitch. She’s
alive
—”

“Oh, yes,” said Fern. “She’s alive.”

She had seen that moment before, when the eyes jerk open, and the whole face springs into animation. But she had never before seen such an expression on any of the heads. The eyes stretched until the iris was fully exposed, the mouth spread into a smile—a wide, happy smile devoid of laughter, eager, exultant. “At last!” it said.

At last
  ? Fern was bewildered. The heads of those in purgatory were not usually elated or fulfilled.

“Take that light from our eyes,” it continued peremptorily. “Let us see you.”

Luc shifted the beam a little to the left. Under Fern’s clasp his muscles felt rigid.

“The dark cannot hide you, Fern Capel,” said the head. “Have we not possessed you, mind and body? Did we not steal your very soul?”

“Morgus couldn’t keep it,” Fern retorted. “Why do you say ‘we’? I didn’t know you identified so closely with your twin.”

“My—twin?” The head scowled as if confused.

“You are Morgun? Aren’t you?”

“Morgun! Do not insult us. That our own flesh and bone should turn into a milksop, mewling after the world’s approval and men’s love. She hung in bitterness on the Eternal Tree in a time outside Time. She wanted forgiveness, but not ours. Her mistake. We did not wait to see her wither; we had better things to do.”

“Then—who are you?” But she knew the answer.

“We are Morgus.”

“How—?”

“We are one with the Tree. Blood and sap, root and sinew, we are bound together. Long before, we plucked it from its progenitor with the most secret rituals, and it was brought to this world—first to Syrcé’s island, then here. This fruit is the symbol of our union. Others will follow: we will be many. The power of the Eternal One is in us, and with it, we will engulf this kingdom of Britain. The network of our roots will burrow deep in its soil and our unseen branches will overspread the sky. Already, there are those who have drunk of our sap and serve our every need. One in particular, who was rich and powerful and called himself honest . . . his mind is in our keeping. He brings us Money, which in this latter-day world opens all doors. We have watched long in the spellfire and learned much: there is no more nonsense of succor, valor, honor. Now Money is men’s credo and their grail. The gods have fled: their place has been taken by small men with big bank accounts. Your leaders are no longer warriors or greathearts but mere performers, posturing before the multitude. Once, they would not have sold their honor for gold; today, they sell it for a sliver of plastic, a scrap of paper inscribed with many zeros. We will buy our way into their inmost circle and dose them with our potions, and Logrèz will be ours forever. Oh yes, we have learned much, Fernanda. We did not need you after all.”

“I am Morcadis, or have you forgotten? You named me; I cannot be unnamed.”

“We do not forget. We will taste of revenge before all else. You may sneak in here when our earthly self is absent, but you cannot hide for long—”

“I am not hiding,” Fern pointed out. “Can’t she see through your eyes—or you hers?”

“Not yet. This fruit is still strange to us. We do not comprehend what our sorcery has engendered. When we meet, we will be whole, and all will be made clear.”

Fern felt a sudden surge within her, beyond knowledge, beyond reason, as if all her instincts cried out with a single message. She said: “Then I will take you to her!” Turning to Luc, she added: “Give me that knife.”

“The thing is insane,” he said. “A disembodied head hanging on a tree, and it—she—wants to rule the world.”

“All the Gifted are mad,” said Fern. “I told you that.”

“And you?”

“Getting there.” She took the knife, approached the head.

“You cannot touch us,” it said. “We are protected.” There was such malevolent satisfaction in the face that Luc stepped back, suddenly wary, directing the flashlight in a swift circuit around them. Maybe it was a trick of the shadows, but to their left where the foliage was thickest a shudder seemed to run through the leaves. He gripped the skewer tight in his other hand.

“There is no spell here,” Fern said, reaching up toward the stem. And even as she spoke, she knew there was something wrong. This fruit, of all things, would have been shielded. She hesitated, half turned—