A Hero's Throne (An Ancient Earth) (27 page)

She went into her brother’s room with a large pair of scissors
and positioned herself just beneath the windowsill. The light in the room became dimmer and dimmer. Just as it was dark, she heard the scraping and scratching and tilted her head back to look up at the window.

In the paper-thin gap between the window and its frame was a long, thin finger with a long, thin fingernail, edging up toward the latch.

Taking a breath, she pulled open the scissors—big ones from her mother’s desk—leapt up, and snipped off the fingernail, right near to the tip of the finger.

Like a blind worm, the finger wavered and then withdrew.

Gemma bent down and picked up the sliver of nail. Then she looked out the window. The witch was there, her large, bulbous nose pressed up against the window pane.

“Hello, dearie,” the witch crooned.

Huh
, Gemma thought, unimpressed.
She even talks like they do in the storybooks.
“What do you want with my brother?” she asked.

“You don’t need him. Why would you want
two
brothers? Less attention from Mummy and Daddy. Less love. Why
not
give him to me?”

“I’m going to stop you.”

“With pins and flypaper? I’ll find out his name eventually. And if not him, then another.”

“No,” Gemma said, putting her hand in the pocket of her bathrobe. “I mean I’m
really
going to stop you—for good. You’re not going to steal anyone’s baby—ever.”

“And how do you intend to do that?” the witch asked.

Gemma took the small bottle from her bathrobe and held it up.

“Oh.” A look of uncertainty passed over the witch’s face. “Don’t be—wait a second.”

Gemma uncorked the bottle and stuck the fingernail in it, corked it again, and shook it.

The witch gulped. “Pins and flypaper,” she murmured, automatically raising a hand to her hair. “Let’s talk about this . . .”

Gemma leaned over and picked up her brother.

“I could knock on the door and talk to your parents. Adults always believe other adults. They would stop this foolishness.”

Gemma turned back to the witch. “My parents are out tonight; my big brother is ‘watching’ me. I bought him a
Top Gear
DVD this morning and gave it to him half an hour ago. He told me himself that he’s going to ignore anyone who’s at the door tonight.”

“Well then, I guess you’ve got me, dearie. Just bury that bottle under your front door and I won’t be able to ever enter the building again. You win.”

Gemma smiled. “I have a better idea,” she said and turned. As she left the room, Gabe smiled and giggled at the face of the witch pressed up against his window.

The TV was emitting the sounds of souped-up motor engines. Anthony was oblivious, as usual, to anything other than what was directly in front of him.

She went into the kitchen and found that the witch was standing outside the kitchen’s French windows. Startled, Gemma took a step backward. She gripped the bottle tighter and moved forward.

“In the stories,” Gemma said, “the witch-bottle has to be thrown in the fire. The doorstep works as well, but that won’t get rid of you for good.”

“I think I picked the wrong sibling in this house. I’ll tell you what, why don’t I make you a deal? Come with me, and I’ll tell you all of my secrets. I’ll give you power you would never know otherwise. You’ve obviously got the knack. I will train you to be the mightiest witch in all the land.”

“I’m curious,” Gemma said. “Do I know you? I mean, are you someone that lives on the street? Someone local?”

“I’ve seen you many times. Sometimes as often as every day. I’ve watched you grow up.”

Gemma held up the bottle and pressed the cork in as firmly as she could. In her arms, Gabe shifted and gave a little grunt.

“In the stories they always threw it in the fire, so that it would burst. I don’t have a fire. But I think this will work.”

She opened the door of the microwave and placed the bottle on the glass plate.

“No!” screamed the witch.

Gemma shut the door, set it to high, and turned the timer, switching it on.

The witch screamed and writhed outside in the garden, as if she were the one in the microwave. Gemma watched her as she withdrew into the corner. She wrapped her arms tightly around Gabe and then crouched down.

The witch’s screams became shriller and shriller, mounting to a crescendo as the bottle in the microwave burst.

Gemma expected a flash of light, and maybe another explosion, but the only thing that happened is that the door swung open and banged against the kitchen wall. Bits of the bottle tumbled onto the counter. Gabe began to cry.

“What’s going on in there?” Anthony demanded, pausing the DVD.

“Nothing,” Gemma said, gently shaking Gabe. “Just dropped something.” She went to the window and looked at the body of the witch, lying stretched out in the garden. She was dead, apparently.

“So clean it up.” The DVD started again; motors revved. “And put Gabe back to bed.”

“Sure,” Gemma said. She considered what she should do with the body in the back of the house . . . Bury it somewhere? That sounded hard, not to mention dirty. Burn it? Drag it around the shed and hide it?

Then she realised that she didn’t have to do anything. She could just leave it there. It would give her mother a fright in the morning, of course, but then the police would come, take it away, and that would be the end of it. No one would possibly connect the death to a broken bottle and some minor damage to a microwave. She wondered who the witch was. They changed their faces when they were doing their witchy things, and when they were killed their faces turned back—rather like werewolves—that much was a consensus in the stories.

She took Gabriel back up to bed and then went downstairs again to use the dustpan and brush, unable to stop smiling over the satisfaction of her victory. She looked out the window, and the witch was still on the ground. She would have to wait until daytime to find out who she really was, since she certainly wasn’t going outside now. But if it wasn’t one of the teachers at her school, she was going to be very disappointed.

^{_____________________}
II
^{_____________________}

“Lies? What do you mean ‘lies’?”

“You could have gone home—you could always have gone home. But we needed to send you on that quest. We needed to try—we needed heroes.” Modwyn opened up her palms.

“But we failed. We didn’t kill Gád.”

“It was not about him—not exactly. We just needed you to survive.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. What
happened
to you? What—” Freya looked down at the stone knife that she still gripped in her white-knuckled fist. Her eyes went to the bloodless gap in Modwyn’s own chest. She looked to Vivienne, clearly gobsmacked, and then to Frithfroth, and found him backed against the door frame, a look of near terror on his face.

She spun on Modwyn and yelled, “What’s going on here? What
are
you?!” She shook the knife at the beautiful woman who had propped herself up on an elbow.

“Calm down, now.” Freya felt Vivienne’s hand on her shoulder.

“No!” She pulled away and looked back and forth between the women. “You tell me what’s going on here.
Now!”

“I—I—truly thought she was dead,” Vivienne said.

“And I . . . was desperate,” said Modwyn tiredly, swinging her legs around to sit up. “Niðergeard was invaded. There was only one thing I could do . . .”

“
Stab
yourself in the
chest
?”

“I’m immortal. My ghost wouldn’t have moved on, but it couldn’t stay in my body either. It’s . . . a unique situation. I kept them out—I kept them all out, even Ealdstan. I was waiting for you. We all waited for you—for eight years. I didn’t think you’d stay away that long. I thought you’d come straight back.”

Freya looked down at the stone knife as Modwyn gingerly inspected the gaping hole in her chest.

Vivienne stepped forward. “Are you all right? Is there anything we can get you?”

Modwyn shook her head.

“There is so much you can tell us,” Vivienne said, “so much that is urgent. How were you able to stay here at all?”

“I killed them. All who would cross the threshold, whose souls were already dark and weak. When I . . . removed my soul from my body, I was able to affect the spiritual aspect of . . . others.”

“Are you saying that you took souls out of people’s bodies?” Freya fought to keep her voice level.

“No. But I could move them on. A soul is like a large rock. If it teeters on the brink, then just a gentle shove can send it into the pit.”

“Well, this just gets better and better. Thanks for not ‘shoving us into the pit,’ Modwyn.”

“There was no chance of that. I could feel how you were both different—conflicted. I let you and the other one, the simple one, alone.”

“The other one? You mean you didn’t know who we all were? You still don’t know?”

“No, but I am glad you are not with the other—he is simple and twisted inward. A yfelgóp, is that right? You came back with one of them? Was the yfelgóp escorting you, or you him? Please tell me, it is important to know.”

“Neither,” Freya said, her frown deepening. “That was Daniel you sensed.”

“Truly?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“That is a pity.”

“Do you still sense him? Is he still here somewhere?”

“No. He . . . left. I let him go. Once he crossed the boundary of this building, he passed from my perception.”

“Modwyn . . .
nider-cwen
,” Vivienne said, her tongue catching slightly on the unfamiliar word. “Where is the Great Carnyx?”

“I am not certain I should tell you—if I knew. I heard you speak of Gád while you were in these walls. Are you not an enemy of Niðergeard?” Modwyn stopped and turned to Freya. “Do you not wish destruction to this place and the people in it?”

“How did you hear me?”

“It is not for you to know and difficult to explain even if I wished to.”

Freya shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. I’m beginning to think that this situation is more complex than just a simple either/ or, good/bad situation. Just because I agree with Gád doesn’t mean I agree with what he’s done. I think there might be a way through
this all without so much bloodshed, if any. Hopefully not more than has already been spilled.”

Modwyn smirked. “You have changed from the scared, wide-eyed girl who first arrived here. Perhaps Ealdstan was right to act as he did.”

The Rage rolled through Freya like a blast of heat. She leapt forward and slapped Modwyn hard across the face.

“How
dare
you,” Freya spit out, clenching the knife and feeling a terrible urge to plunge it back into the queen’s chest. “How dare you put Daniel and me through what you did and not even feel badly about it. We were children!”

Even in the dim light of the lantern, the pink imprint of Freya’s hand was starting to show against Modwyn’s fine and pale skin. Modwyn lifted one hand, palm down. “I wish you . . . to understand why we lied . . . the circumstances behind what we did.” She seemed rattled, uncharacteristically discomposed.

Maybe I’m getting through to her,
Freya thought.

“You’re right. It is a complex problem, and there are more sides than are first visible. And you two were a small part of that. Very small cogs in the big machine. Small, but vital.”

“There were others,” Freya said. “I saw some of them in a dream. How many were there in total? How many children did you send to their deaths on that dreadful quest?”

“I do not remember exactly.”

“That’s monstrous.”

“You do not share our perspective, the perspective of centuries. All die in time—some sooner, some later. Try to imagine—century upon century, unending years—all the same. And facing more, ever more. Stuck down here, trapped. Locked in a dark box.”

“You’re right,” Freya said with a fair amount of sarcasm. “How could I be so heartless? Pardon me if I feel no guilt. Are you going to tell us where the Carnyx is or not?”

“You are agents of Gád. I sensed your allegiances.”

Freya said, facing her squarely, “You’re not exactly helping to win me to your side. But anyway, Vivienne isn’t.”

“Blood does not lie.”

“Blood? What do you mean?” Freya said. “She’s Alex Simpson’s aunt. Alex is one of your people aboveground. I thought—”

Modwyn’s face was set. Her whole manner, Freya observed now, was in fact one of someone who might be undergoing some sort of interrogation. And Vivienne’s manner—was it deferential or quietly dominating? “What do you mean ‘blood doesn’t lie’?”

“Freya,” Vivienne said, her mouth twisting slightly, “Gád’s my brother.”

^{_____________________}
III
^{_____________________}

“You are not dead,” the unknown, imperious figure beside Agrid Fiall assured Daniel.

“Are you sure about that? I just journeyed through all of creation and spent an evening floating in a disembodied cloud around a field.”

“You’d be dead if
I
had any power at all in the matter,” Agrid informed him. “I’ll do everything within my power to make you wish you were.”

“If you were dead, this conversation would occur somewhere else,” said the unknown elf.

“Somewhere much more uncomfortable for all of us,” Stowe said grimly.

“But we’re in Elfland?” Daniel said. “Why am I here?”

“Because when you were last here, you took something that didn’t belong to you, which you were specifically warned
not to do
.”

“No . . .” Daniel said. “No, I don’t think I did. I was very careful to—”

“You took our lives, you empty-headed fool,” Fiall interrupted him. “Oh, don’t give me that look. Certainly our lives aren’t something you could put in your pocket, but did you honestly, seriously think that you could blithely go around killing whomever you pleased and not feel the effects of it?”

“But the merchant—Reizger Lokkich—he said it would be all right, that I wouldn’t have any trouble going back after I did.”

Stowe chuckled. “And you believed him?”

“What about you? I killed you in my world.”