The Faerie Lord (5 page)

‘And seeks entrance within,’
Brimstone prompted.

‘And seeks entrance within,’ Chalkhill echoed, wondering how an exchange as banal as this could form part of the ceremonial of the most feared Brotherhood of the Realm. Or what used to be the most feared. Whether his new friends could reclaim that position remained to be seen.

‘Child of Earth, arise and enter the Path of Darkness,’ said the strange voice. There was another firm knock; then the voice called, ‘Very Honoured Hierophant, is it your pleasure that the Candidate be admitted?’

A new voice, distorted yet hauntingly familiar, said loudly, ‘It is. Admit Jasper Chalkhill in due form. Fratre Stolistes and Dadouchos, assist the Praemonstrator in the reception.’

There was a shuffling of feet; then the voice of Praemonstrator Avis sounded no more than a yard or two in front of him, still muffled by the jackal mask. ‘Child of Earth, unpurified and unconsecrated thou canst not enter our sacred hall!’

Then consecrate me,
Chalkhill thought,
and let’s be getting on with it.

Two new voices chirped up then. The first said slowly, ‘Child of Earth, I purify thee with water.’ Something hit him in the face through the hoodwink and after a moment he felt the cloth go damp.

The second voice said in a grating singsong, ‘Child of Earth, I consecrate thee with fire.’ There was a whooshing sound and he felt the heat of a torch around his upper body.

‘It is done, Honoured Hierophant,’ the two voices intoned in unison.

‘Conduct the Candidate to the foot of the altar,’ ordered the Hierophant.

Chalkhill felt Brimstone take his arm and urge him on. He tried to make a brave front of it, but it was almost impossible to stride forward with any sort of swagger when you couldn’t see where you were going. What would happen if he tripped over the incense burner? Or walked smack into a pillar?

Brimstone jerked him to a halt at what he assumed to be the foot of the altar. Certainly the voice of the Hierophant was closer now as he asked, ‘Child of Earth, why dost thou request admission into this Order?’

Chalkhill realised his imagination was beginning to run riot. He could visualise the Lodge Room vividly, a sweeping hypostyle hall in polished marble with golden inlays. The Brothers were robed and stately, highly powerful magi every one. Then it occurred to him this was exactly the reason for the hoodwink. Successful initiation was largely to do with the Candidate’s state of mind. You could impress him with an actual marble hall, but it was cheaper to let his imagination do the work. But Brimstone was whispering in his ear again.

‘My
soul is wandering the Realm searching for the Darkness of Occult Knowledge,’
Brimstone prompted.

‘And I believe that in this Order, the knowledge of that Darkness may be obtained.’’

‘My soul is wandering the Realm searching for the Darkness of Occult Knowledge and I believe that in this Order, the knowledge of that Darkness may be obtained,’ Chalkhill repeated dutifully.

‘Well spoken, Wanderer!’ the Hierophant exclaimed heartily. ‘Remove the hoodwink!’

Chalkhill blinked a little as the hood came off. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the light. Then the marble hall of his imagination disappeared to make way for the reality of a smallish, square, carpeted room with incense burning on a cubical altar and only two pillars in the place, one black, the other silver. Chalkhill stared in horror.

Between them, seated on an obsidian throne, was Lord Hairstreak.

It occurred to Chalkhill he needed a loo. It was years since he’d worked for Hairstreak, but the little shit was capable of holding a grudge for a lifetime. The painful ingenuity of his revenge was legendary.

Hairstreak must have read something of his inner turmoil from his face, for his lip curled slightly and he said, ‘Not expecting to see me, Jasper?’

Chalkhill opened his mouth, then closed it again, like a fish. He made a second attempt with no greater success, then finally squeaked, ‘No.’ Since it never helped to be rude to a turd of Hairstreak’s stature, he managed to swallow hard and add, ‘Your Lordship.’ What was the man doing here anyway? He’d never, ever shown the slightest interest in the Black Arts, yet here he was now, not just a member of the magical Brotherhood, but apparently leading it. The implications hardly bore thinking about.

‘Well,’ said Hairstreak easily, ‘I’m glad to hear my Brothers have been holding to their oaths.’ His eyes pierced Chalkhill like stilettos. ‘Will you be faithful to your oath, Jasper?’

‘Me? Yes. Certainly. Definitely. You know me, Your Lordship. Soul of discretion. Tact. Obedience. Faithful? Definitely. And loyal. Yes, indeed. To the Brotherhood. If

they’ll have me. And you, sir. Personally. Definitely. My word. My oath. Whatever you want, Lord Hair - Lord Hair - Lord Hair -‘ His mouth went into an endless loop and he couldn’t seem to finish what he was saying.

Hairstreak sighed impatiently. ‘Yes, yes, I get the message, Jasper. No trouble from you, now or hereafter. That about it, would you say?’

‘Definitely!’ Chalkhill confirmed. He wondered if he dared risk putting out a contract on Hairstreak. The Guild of Assassins was very reliable and everybody knew Hairstreak had fallen on hard times since the Civil War. His security might not be what it used to be.

Hairstreak smiled chillingly. ‘Excellent,’ he said. He glanced towards a black-robed minion on his right. ‘Bring in the coffin!’

‘Coffin?’ Chalkhill squeaked. It was already on its way, carried by six pallbearers, rather well made in oak with polished brass handles and, worryingly, brown bloodstains splattered all across its surface. The pallbearers set it down directly in front of the altar.

‘Get in,’ Hairstreak ordered with obvious relish.

The door would have been spell-bound by now, so any hope of making a run for it was out the window … except there wasn’t any window. He was doomed and there was no loo in the coffin. Chalkhill realised his thoughts were running riot, making no sense even to him, but it was so difficult to rein them back. ‘You should have warned me!’ he hissed furiously at Brimstone.

‘About what?’ Brimstone hissed back. He seemed completely unperturbed by Hairstreak, but then Brimstone had always been like that: skinny, ugly, wrinkled, hard as nails and tough as boots. There were stories that he’d won a fight with Beleth before Queen Blue killed the demon king. Which meant a great deal more then than it did now Hael was under Realm control.

Chalkhill said, ‘About Hairstreak. About having to be murdered.’

‘It’s symbolic. I told you,’ Brimstone said impatiently. ‘Now stop making a fuss and get into your coffin.’ He hesitated. ‘Better give me the money now.’

‘No way!’ Chalkhill snapped. He had a feeling that the money might be the only thing keeping him alive.

‘If you two have
quite
finished …’ Hairstreak glared.

Since there was nothing else to do, Chalkhill jerked his elbow out of Brimstone’s grasp and climbed into the coffin, a wary eye on Hairstreak as he did so. There was a curious sound from the assembled Brothers, somewhere between a sigh of gratification and a crocodile hiss.

‘Lie down,’ Hairstreak ordered. ‘Cross your arms over your chest.’

Like a corpse,
Chalkhill thought. The trouble was, he’d been accustomed to obeying Hairstreak’s orders without question and somehow he couldn’t break the habit now. He lay down and crossed his arms over his chest. The coffin was quite comfortably padded, but it definitely smelled of old, sour blood. He kept thinking
sacrificial lamb.
He kept thinking
death, destruction, slaughter.

The pallbearers closed the coffin lid.

Chalkhill nearly lost it then. The experience was quite different from the hoodwink, which had let in lots of light around the edges. Now the darkness was total; almost tangible. His breathing grew laboured as the air inside the coffin thickened. He felt hot. Was this the start of a cremation? He started to sweat profusely. Sombre music sounded in his ears, the result of some stupid spell cone, by the smell. Now he kept thinking,

decay, corruption, putrefaction.
He wondered if it would do any good to burst into tears.

The coffin lid opened again, letting in light and some blessed air. Avis was leaning over him, still wearing that stupid mask and loincloth. He had a dagger in one hand.
This is it!
Chalkhill said, but all that came out was a whimper.

‘You’re supposed to stand up now,’ Avery prompted, his voice muffled by the mask.

Chalkhill leaped from the coffin and fell into a weird fighting stance, legs bent, one hand outstretched, palm flat, in a chopping motion. Avis ignored him and placed the tip of the dagger lightly against his chest. ‘Do you solemnly swear and attest you will truly, faithfully, honestly and diligently uphold the principles of this Unholy Order, preserve its secrets on pain of having your tongue removed, your eyes gouged out, your breast ripped open and your heart stopped by a magical current that taps the fundamental power of the universe?’ Avis muttered speedily. ‘Do you further agree, attest, swear and undertake to endow this sacred Brotherhood with all your worldly goods, hitherto and hereafter accumulated, limited only to the amount previously agreed with your Sponsor, so help you Darkness?’

Chalkhill looked at him.

‘Say
I do,’
Brimstone prompted.

‘I do,’ Chalkhill said.

There was a scattering of applause among the congregated Brothers. Hairstreak said formally, ‘Welcome to our Order.’ Then he added in a bored voice, ‘Do you have any questions, Frater Chalkhill?’

‘When do I get to talk to God?’ asked Chalkhill promptly.

The city was a lot different from the last time Henry had been here. The milling crowds of Cheapside had disappeared, leaving the streets eerily quiet. Highgrove was no better. Even the bustling commerce on the Loman Bridge had dwindled to a trickle. Although it was a warm enough day, Henry noticed Nymph kept the windows of the carriage tightly closed and was struck by a sudden frightening suspicion. ‘They’re not all dead, are they?’ he blurted.

Nymph looked at him in surprise. ‘Who?’

Henry’s head was filled with something he’d been reading for his History exams – an account of the Black Death in Europe. The disease had spread like wildfire in the fourteenth century, killing one-third of the population of the continent. A traveller at the time left vivid descriptions of empty city streets and the stench of death. ‘The people,’ Henry said.

Nymph continued to stare at him for a moment, then suddenly relaxed and shook her head. ‘No. No, the death rate isn’t very high yet. But people are frightened, so they don’t go out much any more.’ She glanced out the window of the carriage and added inconsequentially, ‘It hasn’t reached the forest yet.’

‘How -?’ Henry hesitated. He didn’t want to sound

like a wuss, but he badly wanted to know. ‘How … contagious is it? I mean, how easy is it to get?’

‘Well, we’re not even sure how it spreads, but you don’t want to take stupid chances,’ Nymph said matter-of-factly, which didn’t tell him anything. He was wondering how he could pursue the topic further when Nymph asked a question of her own: ‘What happened between you and Blue, Henry?’

It drove the thoughts of disease from his head.
What happened between you and Blue, Henry?
He knew somebody was bound to ask him that eventually and Nymph had always been direct. He felt his brain falling back into its familiar defensive manoeuvres –
Me and Blue? You think there was something between me and Blue?
– then decided, with a massive effort, that it was time to break old patterns. He’d never survive the next few hours – meeting Blue again, which he was bound to do – if he didn’t get a grip on himself. Besides, he liked Nymph and had always found her easy to talk to. She didn’t tease you and she didn’t play games and she didn’t have an agenda. He took a deep breath, stared out the window again and said, ‘I blew it.’

After a moment, Nymph asked gently, ‘How?’

Henry turned back to look at her. ‘You won’t tell this to anybody, will you? I mean, I wouldn’t want I mean, it might embarrass -‘ Nymph said nothing, just looked at him soberly. Henry said, ‘No, of course you won’t.’ He returned to staring through the window. ‘It’s old history now, anyway: I don’t suppose anybody really cares.’ He sighed. ‘Blue asked me to marry her.’

‘Really?’ Nymph sounded surprised.

‘Oh, yes,’ Henry said. ‘I don’t know what got into her. It was after that business with Beleth, of course,

and the kidnap and everything and I suppose she was very upset and -‘

‘What got into her was that she loved you,’ Nymph said quietly.

It shut Henry up completely. The carriage, a surface transport, rumbled over the great wooden bridge. He could see the broad sweep of the river winding lazily between the dockside warehouses on one bank and the ancient, overhanging residences of Highgrove on the other. After a while he said, ‘I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.’

‘Why not?’

Why not?
There had been so many reasons and he wasn’t sure Nymph would understand a single one of them. She was a very uncomplicated girl. She’d fallen for Pyrgus and married him. Simple. At least that’s what he assumed had happened. What did he know? He said, ‘She was too young, for one thing.’

‘In the Realm some girls get married at thirteen,’ Nymph said. ‘It’s even younger in the forest – I could have got married at twelve if I wanted to. Blue was older than that two years ago.’

‘Yes, I think she was fifteen. Maybe just sixteen, I’m not sure. But that’s
here.
In my world you don’t get married that young. You just
don’t!’’
Actually there were some countries where you did, but he pushed the thought aside.

‘Was age the only reason?’ Nymph asked without a hint of judgement in her voice.

For just the barest moment, Henry thought he was going to cry. It would be terrible if he cried in front of Nymph, hideously embarrassing. Then the moment passed and a dam broke and he said with brutal honesty, ‘I was afraid.’