The Ragwitch (23 page)

Eventually they came to a tall, impenetrable hedge, and the Patchwork King produced another key, which he touched to the spiky foliage. Nothing happened for a moment, then the hedge stirred and the branches moved apart, till there was a round hole through to the other side.

The Patchwork King bent down and crawled through on all fours. So Paul did likewise, emerging onto cool flagstones. It was nighttime again here—or twilight, Paul thought, as he got up and looked around.

He stood in a courtyard of time candles, all steadily burning, the hours marked in red down their sides. Each said seven, so Paul presumed that was the time. Beyond the candles was a lawn dominated by a huge sundial of rough-carved stone. Beyond that was a small hill, with a ring of broken stones around its crest. A great tree grew from the top of the hill, with wide-spreading branches, and white flowers spilling their petals on everything below.

“I like measuring time,” said the Patchwork King, with a wave of his hand that encompassed time candles and sundial. “The problem is, of course, that it is entirely relative to whatever is measuring it.”

He looked at Paul, but not as if he expected an
answer, and then strode onto the lawn, past the sundial and up to the base of the hill.

“I’m back,” he called, as Paul looked around for some house or other likely spot to have tea.

“We’ve a visitor for tea,” he said again, straight at the hill, as if he was talking to someone just in front of him. “Paul—the one we’ve been expecting.”

“You’ve been expecting me?” asked Paul, surprised again. “How…”

His voice trailed off as the hill rumbled, and the ground shook under his feet. With a distant, bass grumble, the hillside split in two, revealing a wood-panelled passage slanting down. It was lined with clocks, and they all began to chime as the Patchwork King took Paul by the shoulder and propelled him forward into the corridor.

The hillside shut behind them, but it wasn’t dark—nor exactly light. The twilight from outside just seemed to creep ahead of Paul and the King, as they walked down the creaking passage, the clocks chiming all around. The corridor was extremely long, and Paul counted at least three hundred clocks—but at last, there were no more clocks—just a plain wooden door at the end of the corridor, with a large porcelain doorknob.

“Tea in the kitchen,” said the Patchwork King, who looked older again, with lines on his face, and silver in his hair. “Much cosier.”

He opened the door to sunlight, which streamed in through three huge round windows, lighting up
the white-tiled kitchen that gleamed and smelt of cooking and homeliness. A green-enamelled stove burned merrily in one corner, with a kettle already whistling atop it. And the long table against the windows was loaded with a teapot, cups on saucers, thick white bread and a jar of marmalade.

“Hope you like marmalade,” said the Patchwork King. “I can’t stand jam.”

“I like marmalade,” said Paul, and then fearing to lie, he added, “but I think I like jam better.”

The Patchwork King nodded, and went to get the kettle. When Paul looked at the table again, there was a tin of strawberry jam next to the marmalade. A tin of his favorite brand of strawberry jam.

“How did you do that?” exclaimed Paul, picking the tin up eagerly. It was so ordinary and familiar he felt like bursting into tears just from holding it. “That’s from my world…where I come from…” He paused for breath, put the tin back down, and said, “If you can get jam from my world…your Highness…can you send me and my sister back—back from the Ragwitch’s world?”

The Patchwork King cocked his head to listen as Paul spoke, but didn’t answer. He poured the water into the teapot and turned the pot around a few times.

“Please,” said Paul. “You have to send us back. You have to!”

“I have to do nothing,” said the Patchwork King, calmly pouring the tea. “I am the custodian of
Magic. A watcher, that’s all. I only interfere when constrained by Magic.”

“Does that mean…you won’t help?” asked Paul quietly, his sudden, unexpected hope ebbing out of him. Slowly, he undid his pouch and took out the four gifts of the Elementals—the Breath, the Blood, the Spirit and the Body—and put them on the table.

“You can have them if you help,” said Paul, not really knowing what he was giving away. “They’re very Magic—the Elementals gave them to me.”

“I know,” said the Patchwork King. “As I said—I watch. But gifts of Magic, or anything else, cannot sway me from my purpose. Here, have a cup of tea.”

“Can’t you do anything to help?” wailed Paul miserably. “Can’t you even send me back to Quigin and the others? I can’t just stay here!”

“You’ll be going back quite soon,” said the Patchwork King. “As soon as a suitable guide comes along.”

“Can’t I go now?” asked Paul dully. He felt that he had failed, that all his efforts seeking out the Elementals were for nothing, now that the ruler of all Magic had refused to help. Now there was no hope of Julia escaping…or Paul himself…

“You can go if you like,” said the Patchwork King, taking a piece of bread and smearing it with marmalade. “I presumed you’d want to ask for a spell. That’s what people usually come here for. If they know the way.”

“A spell?” said Paul slowly, absentmindedly drinking his tea. It tasted strange until he realized it was real tea, not Tanboule’s brew.

“China Black,” said the Patchwork King, answering Paul’s unspoken question. “Yes, I know your mother drinks it.”

“A spell,” said Paul again, almost to himself. “Could I ask for a spell to send me and Julia home again—is that different from just asking you to do it?”

“Yes,” replied the Patchwork King gravely. He had aged again, in those few seconds, and now regarded Paul through old and weary eyes, his face lined and ancient. “Is that what you want? A spell to send you and Julia home?”

Paul automatically went to say “yes,” but his mouth hung open, as he suddenly wondered if that was what he wanted. Did he really want to escape to home, when everyone he knew in the other world were struggling for their lives, fighting a losing battle against the Ragwitch? And Tanboule had said Julia was fighting too, inside Her. What would Julia say if he got a spell that took them away without helping?

Paul thought of Quigin, who’d uncomplainingly helped him everywhere, knocked to the ground at Rhysamarn; and Aleyne giving his horse away, and going back up the hill at Reddow Cairn; the fisherfolk of Donbreye, helping him to escape underwater; Tanboule throwing him onto Nubbins; and everything he’d been through with the Elementals.
And he remembered when he’d changed from just wanting to get Julia and escape, to wanting to stop the Ragwitch—to stop Her forever.

“Please, Your Highness,” he said, taking a deep breath, as all these thoughts and images flashed through his mind, “I want a spell to kill the Ragwitch.”

J
ULIA SCREAMED AS THE
worm struck at Mirran, staggering him to his knees, his spear clanging harmlessly from the thing’s armored nose. Instantly, the worm snapped back for a second strike—but Mirran managed to swing his spear back again, and wedge it in the turf, just in time, the spear shaft bending almost to breaking point as the worm struck again.

“Now!” shouted Anhyvar, and she, Lyssa and Julia all rushed forward and thrust their javelins at the creature. Julia forgot to aim for the mouth, and thrust at an eye instead, moving dangerously close to its maw in her eagerness to hit back.

But the worm merely closed an armored eyelid, and the javelin jarred out of Julia’s hands, the vibration sending jabs of pain from hands to elbows. Without even thinking, Julia sprang back,
and the worm’s retaliatory snap missed her by inches.

In that moment, as its jaws opened to get Julia, Mirran jumped across from the side, and plunged his boar spear into the roof of its mouth, right up to the crosspiece.

The worm squealed, the first sound it had made—a curiously fragile, high-pitched sound—and whipped back into the fluid, the boar spear hanging from its mouth.

“Quickly, more spears,” panted Mirran.

Once again, Anhyvar reached into the darkness and produced a boar spear, and Lyssa gave Julia another lightning-pointed javelin.

“Keep this one as long as you can,” she said to Julia. “Every one that goes outside the ring weakens the flame.”

“I’ll try,” replied Julia, keeping a careful eye on the worm. She gripped her new spear more tightly than the first and grimly determined that she’d put it in the thing’s mouth.

The worm slowly coiled in on itself, and shook its head back and forth several times, trying to loosen the spear. It seemed little hurt by it—only annoyed.

When it started uncoiling again, Mirran said, “It will strike in a…”

He didn’t finish as the worm suddenly uncoiled completely, its tail lashing across towards the holly-ring as its head speared in from the other
side. Mirran raised his spear to strike back at it, only to have the point skitter off the scales with a noise like fingernails being scraped down a blackboard.

But at the same time, Anhyvar thrust her javelin deep into the corner of the creature’s mouth, pulling it back with a vicious twist, accompanied by a spurt of green and oily blood.

Julia and Lyssa thrust at the tail, which probed at them like an octopus’s tentacle, seeking to grab something to crush. Every time the tail crossed the border of the holly, golden sparks sprayed from it, and Lyssa and Julia felt a great wash of heat as the warding Magic attacked the tail. But the Magic couldn’t stop it, and Lyssa’s spears couldn’t really penetrate the steely scales—so they could only push it away, as though urgently fending a large boat off a small and fragile jetty.

Wounded, the worm’s head withdrew, and the tail slithered back across the turf, trailing sparks. Julia sighed in relief, and looked aside for a second—and the worm’s tail suddenly struck back, coiling around her and whipping her off the turf and out into the fluid.

Julia only had time to let out a muffled scream before the coils covered her head and began to squeeze. Desperately, she wedged the spearhead against the coil in front of her face, as the black-scaled body tightened everywhere about her. Kicking with her feet, she managed to get the other
end of the spear wedged as well, so it lay diagonally across her body. That made it hesitate, because as it crushed, the javelin broke through the scales, even as the shaft bent into Julia’s ribs.

It loosened its coils a little, and through a tiny gap, Julia saw Mirran thrust his boar spear into the top of the creature’s mouth, wedge the bottom of the shaft into its lower jaw—and, drawing his golden sword in one swift motion, leap into the very mouth of the worm.

The worm immediately tried to close its mouth, but Mirran pulled the bottom of the first spear in, and wedged it—so both spears held its mouth open. Then, crouched between the two bending, almost crescent-shaped spears, he thrust his sword up into the roof of the worm’s mouth with every ounce of strength he possessed.

Green blood burst everywhere, and Julia lost sight of Mirran and everything else, as the tail tightened convulsively, and her spear broke through the scales and went through to the other side. But still the coils tightened. Julia couldn’t breathe, and red spots danced before her eyes, joining together into one great blur of redness.

She had almost blacked out when the coils collapsed around her. Instinctively, she kicked herself free, and pushed out into the fluid. Seconds later, Anhyvar and Lyssa grabbed her, kicked back to the ring of holly, and laid her gasping by the flame.

Mirran was lying there too, his face red and
white, like someone who’d just played a very hard game of squash.

“That’s the first battle won,” he coughed to Julia. “But we were very lucky…”

Julia nodded weakly, then groaned as the sudden movement sent pain lancing everywhere through her chest. Bruised ribs, she thought, as the pain subsided into an awful ache. She thought of the worm’s great crushing coils, and what could have happened, and started to laugh, in almost hysterical relief.

“What will She do next?” she gasped, in between laughter and groans of pain.

“She’s trying to shift us to Her memory,” replied Anhyvar, after staring briefly out into the fluid. “The battle has begun at Alnwere, and She can spare little thought for us—so She hopes to remove us to a far corner of Her mind, to be dealt with at Her leisure.”

“Look,” said Lyssa, helping Julia up to a sitting position. “She has already begun.”

Julia looked, but didn’t see anything except the familiar fluid, now dark save for the light from the flame. In it, the dead worm still wriggled slowly, amongst the shards of the white globe.

Lyssa pointed, and Julia saw that out beyond the worm, color was creeping in, as well as the vague outline of something—buildings, or the side of a hill. Julia also felt something across her face, but it was so alien to her experience of the fluid that she
almost didn’t recognize it—a breeze, chill and cold, with the hint of snow or rain.

“Early winter, near the Spire,” said Anhyvar, her eyes somehow seeing clearly into that faint tracery in the darkness. “At the time of Her rule, and the place of Her greatest power.”

She blinked, and turned to Lyssa, with a look that could almost have been fear.

“Sing!” said Lyssa. “Everybody sing, with all your hearts! If She can remove us to that memory we are lost!”

Julia nodded grimly, and struggled to her feet, clutching her ribs with both arms. She took half a breath, felt the pain explode into her ribs, opened her mouth wide, and took a deep breath.

Lyssa and Anhyvar moved to either side of her, facing out, and she heard Mirran move behind her, also facing out—all of them with their backs to the flame in the middle. Still Julia held her breath, ignoring the stabbing pain in her ribs, and the pounding behind her eyes. The flame played its run of notes, and Julia watched Lyssa from the corners of her eyes, waiting to begin.

Then, at last, when it seemed she could stand it no longer, Lyssa’s mouth opened, and Julia let out a great rush of air and sound, and the first word of the warding song burst out into the darkness.

“A spell to kill the Ragwitch,” repeated the Patchwork King, looking at Paul through half-
closed, thoughtful eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” said Paul, though his voice trembled. He felt both excited and sort of sick, all at once, as if he’d committed himself to an impossible dare.

“I can give you such a spell,” said the King, reaching out to spoon marmalade onto his plate, his head coming close to Paul’s. He paused after the first spoonful, and stared directly at Paul, his face only inches away.

“But there’s one thing you might like to know,” he added, still staring.

“What’s that?” asked Paul, nervously, wishing he could climb out of his chair and get farther away.

The King didn’t answer, but starlight twinkled on his face, like the reflected starlight that had shone on the petrified dog. It got brighter and brighter, till once again all the stars merged into one great flash of brilliance.

Paul blinked, holding his eyes shut till the radiance faded. When he opened them again, it wasn’t the Patchwork King standing opposite him—it was the Ragwitch.

She loomed above him. Her eyes fixed on his small form, Her hideous mouth gaping. One three-fingered hand reached out to grab him, and She hissed, “You’ll have to get this close.”

And then She was gone, and the Patchwork King stood in Her place, his hand reaching out across the table. He picked up a piece of bread.

Paul took several quick breaths, and tried to pick
up his cup—but his hand shook too much, and the cup fell onto the table, the tea going everywhere. He stared at the pool as it spread, and didn’t even move when the hot tea started dripping on his leg.

“This close…”
said the Patchwork King again, from the other side of the table. He took a bite of his bread, and said (with his mouth full), “Do you still want the spell?”

“Yes,” said Paul, and then “Yes” again. He moved his leg so that the tea wouldn’t drip on it, and looked up at the Patchwork King, noticing that he seemed young again.

“Why did you scare me?”

“I always explain the limitations of Magic,” said the Patchwork King, finishing his bread. As he swallowed, a deep bell sounded, its note echoing through the kitchen, sending vibrations through the table and floor. It was quite loud, but somehow Paul felt that it came from far away.

The Patchwork King listened to it, completely still, till the echoes died away. Then he got up quickly, and said, “Come, we haven’t got much time—of your time, that is. I have plenty of mine. But then I can’t give you my time, can I?”

“I suppose not,” said Paul, bewildered by this sudden activity, and still shaken by the sudden appearance of the Ragwitch—or the shape of Her, anyway. He got up and followed the Patchwork King to yet another newly appeared door, a solid, plain wood door made from uneven planks.

“Where are we going?”

“To my forge,” said the King. As he spoke, he started to shrink, and grow wider across the shoulders. A white beard sprouted from his chin, and a long, drooping mustache sprung out under his nose. “Don’t forget to bring the ingredients.”

He pointed back at the table. For a second, Paul thought he meant the bread and marmalade. Then he realized he’d left the Elementals’ gifts there, the precious objects that he’d even slept with to make sure they were safe. Quickly, he ran back and put them in his pouch.

“Now,” said the Patchwork King, who had shrunk and broadened till he was about Paul’s height and twice as wide across the shoulders. “The forge!”

He opened the door, and Paul felt a rush of heat against his face, and a sudden flash of memory came to him—of the Fire Queen in her field of burning coals. But the heat here came from a sunken pit in the middle of a rough-hewn cave of stone. A stream ran swiftly through one corner, turning a waterwheel, which moved cogs and pulleys that in their turn pumped a huge pair of leather-lunged bellows. Everything clacked and hummed, and the fire whooshed every time the bellows puffed, but it was a surprisingly peaceful noise, complemented by the rushing of the stream.

The Patchwork King crossed to the very edge of the fire-pit, and plucked a long-handled pot out of
thin air. It looked very thick and heavy, but he handled it with ease, swinging it with his newly thickened arms. Paul stared at his wide, squat form, back-lit by the leaping flames, and realized he had turned himself into the classic picture of a dwarf.

“I try to look the part,” said the Patchwork King, causing Paul to try to blank out his thoughts. He didn’t like the idea of anyone being able to see into his mind.

“Now,” said the King, ignoring Paul’s attempts to think of nothing (which weren’t working anyway). “Put the ingredients in the crucible.”

He held out the pot, holding it by the very end of its two-meter handle, so Paul didn’t have to get too close to the fire-pit.

“You mean the Elementals’ gifts?” asked Paul, looking at the fire. “You don’t mean to melt them?”

“I will forge them into a spell to give the Ragwitch life,” said the Patchwork King. “And beat the spell into a weapon to take that life away.”

“I don’t understand,” said Paul, clutching his precious pouch to his chest. “What do you mean—give her life? And why do you need my gifts?”

The Patchwork King sighed and pulled the crucible back and put it upright so he could lean on it like a staff. He seemed more irritable as a dwarf.

“Questions, questions, questions. No one ever just comes for a spell. They always want conversation as well.”

“But I have to know if I’m doing the right thing!”
exclaimed Paul. “I have to know!”

“All right! Don’t get so excited. I have to make a spell to give the Ragwitch life, to get Her out of that indestructible form and into a human one. Then She can be slain—or banished back into the Nameless Realm, because you can’t really kill an essence of evil. But She’ll be as good as dead. And I need the gifts the Elementals gave you because they are the Breath, the Blood, the Spirit and the Body—they are true life. Now, can I begin?”

“Yes,” whispered Paul. The Patchwork King swung the crucible back again, and Paul dropped the gifts in—one by one. The feather that was the Breath, the tear-drop of the Blood, the jewel of the Spirit, and last of all, the root-figure of the Body.

“Yes,” whispered Paul again, almost to himself, as the Patchwork King swung the crucible into the flame. “Begin…”

Paul didn’t know how long he was in the forge with the Patchwork King. Time seemed to slip by strangely, and he fell into a sort of half-dream, where he was somewhere else, and people bent over him, and held a cup to his lips. Once he thought he heard Quigin, and a dog licked him on the nose.

Later, the forge swam into his vision again, and he woke to see the dwarf-figure of the King pouring a molten bar, and hammering, his hammer bouncing from the anvil onto the hot metal. Then he faded away again, into blackness, and true sleep.