The Witch Queen (12 page)

“And have ye asked yoursel,” Bradachin interjected, “if sic a tree grew in
this
world, what kind o’ apples wid it be bearing?”

“That,” said Ragginbone dryly, “was the question I was trying to avoid.”

That night Fern slept little, troubled by a confusion of dreams. She saw the Dark Tower where Azmordis ruled in the city, and the same tower on a barren plain—it was stone now, and ruinous, but she knew it was the same—and eager tendrils came groping through the fractured walls, twining themselves around and around it until the tower was a great tree, and a million leaves unfurled, choking the sky. And
there
was a single fruit, swelling, ripening, till it became a living head, with features that at first she did not recognize. (The heads of the dead grow like apples on the Eternal Tree, until they are plucked, or fall and rot, and the wild hog devours them. All who have done evil must hang a season there . . . ) And then the eyelids split, and the lips parted, and she knew herself.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Penance,” said the head. “For all that I did, and all that I did not do. For the friend I failed, and the love I forgot, and the blood on my burned hand, and the blood on the hand that was whole.”

“The blood I shed with my burned hand has risen up against me,” Fern said. “My other hand is clean.”

“Not for long,” said the head.

“What friend have I failed? Tell me!”

“Search your heart.”

“I did not forget my love!”

“Search your head.”

The scene changed, and she was back in Atlantis, the golden city in the Forbidden Past—Atlantis before the Fall. When she was sixteen she had been there, and loved and lost, and won and failed, and drowned in the great storm and crawled up on a beach of stars somewhere beyond the end of space. And she had known ever since that nothing would fill her like Atlantis: no sight, no scent, no place, no love. But it was long, long ago, many thousand lifetimes to all but her, and when the dream showed her her love—her Raf—climbing out of the fountain, shaking the water drops from his hair, his face was a blur, and all she remembered was the sudden brightness of his smile, and the tooth missing in his lower jaw. She cried out: “My heart does not forget!” but he did not hear her, and when she turned there was the head again, smiling her own smile, and it rotted and shriveled before her eyes, and the wild pig came raging through the undergrowth . . .

She woke to absolute stillness, so that even her pulse seemed to have stopped. She got up and went to the window, but there was nothing outside save the night. Not an owl hooted. She stood there for some while, feeling herself menaced, knowing her enemy was neither near nor far, and watchful, and wore many faces.

The Tree grows faster now, in the soil of Logrèz. Once, I could encircle the trunk with my fingers, but it thickens daily, quivering at the contact of my clasping hand. I have watched the leaves reaching for the evening sunlight, and seen how the sap glows like bright blood when the dimming light reaches back. Whoever built the original conservatory was a fool, situating it so that it faces north, occluded by the nearby wood; but it suits my purposes. I did not dare plant the Tree outdoors: it could gorge itself on too much light and air, and grow beyond containment. After so long outside Time, in a dimension where the light was spun from its own thought and the air was its stale breath, I know the risks of exposing it to the stimulus of reality. It will not flower, or if it does, flower and leaf are too much alike for the observer to differentiate, but it
will
fruit, it must fruit. I have given it all my love, and it must give me issue—whatever that issue may be.

I sent the nightmares to the prisoner three nights ago. Nehemet sat watching while I heated the cauldron, adding two drops of the precious sap to a recipe as old as evil. She was so still she might have been a ceramic statue, clumsily painted so the clay tone showed through the thin coating of black and white. Her skin looked smooth and matte, wrinkling around the joints, like human skin. Her ugliness fascinates me. Perhaps because it is hairless her face has a kind of bony intensity that you normally see only in the primates: something close to expression, which is rare in any beast. But I am not yet sure what Nehemet’s expression may mean.

I poured my thoughts into the cauldron, and saw the mixture heave and sink, taking their shape, dissolving, re-forming, until at last they streamed upward in a column of black fume, passing through ceiling and floor, through brick barrier and spell barrier, seeking their victim. He did not cry out, not then. He is strong in a crude, primitive way, even as the Stone men were strong—strong to withstand weather and disease, hardy hunters, brutal lovers. And he is intelligent; if he were not, there would be no satisfaction in tormenting him. When I went to him tonight I could hear him moaning from the stairwell, but as soon as he saw me he was silent. The nightmares clung to him, crawling over him, close as a miasma, insubstantial as smoke. They probed with shadow fingers through flesh and bone, twisting the eyeballs in his sockets, the visions in his head. Red tears ran down his face, streaking the moonscape of pitted skin and jagged skull. I drew nearer, watching, riveted, as he writhed and wept. And then he jackknifed, for an instant—a second—shaking off his incubi, lunging for me with one huge fist. His strength was such that the spell barrier throbbed and sang at the blow, but it held, throwing him backward, and even as he fell the nightmares were on him again.

“Shall I call them off?” I asked him when I had studied him awhile. “Would you plead with me—would you
beg
me—to call them off?”

He made no answer, save for the stifled grunts of suffering.

“There is a small task you can do for me,” I said. “Agree, and I will give you a respite—for a little time. For the duration of your task, at least.” He knew I would not let him go. But he must have hope, or he will not endure. I will give him neither the labor of life nor the freedom of death, but I will
offer
both, and let him grasp at them in vain, and see his bitterness when he is left always empty.

I have many uses for him, and he shall serve my purposes, even while I feed off his pain.

“Will you accept my task?” I murmured, in a voice softer than the rasp of his breathing. “For an atom of quiet, a moment of deliverance? You have no other chance.
She
will not remember you. You were a pawn in her plans, a mere dupe, to be discarded when you had done your part. I alone have never abandoned you—and I never will. My child . . . my blood . . . Do not gnaw yourself in anger: I will have vengeance for us both. Her soft small face will not look so fair when I am done with it. Do not fear . . .”

In the end, he agreed. But it was a gradual end, long and slow in the coming, and I tasted every drop of his anguish, sweet as wine on the tongue. At last I ordered the nightmares to withdraw, sending them back to the empty cauldron that waited in the basement below. Later, I would melt them down, remake them in some other form. He was slumped against the wall, dumb now, mine to command. The sweat lay on him like slime and his own dirt befouled the floor.

“You are a mere beast,” I said, “but a beast with brain—or brain enough for my needs. There is something I want—from the Eternal Tree.”

I saw the flicker in his eyes as he glimpsed a chance of escape. But it died swiftly: he knew I would not be that careless.

“You will be released,” I told him, smiling, mocking. “You will go freely from here, and freely return. If not . . . well, I shall put a spell on you, so the nightmares will find you, wherever you hide, and then they will never let you go. No hole will be small enough to conceal you, no shadow dark enough. Do you understand?”

He did not nod or speak, but his silence was assent.

“Then go to the Tree. You know the way. You explored all the paths of the ancient Underworld long ago, creeping like a thief through the caverns of legend. You have no soul to lose; you may sneak where others would not venture. On the Tree the heads are ripening. The one I want should be there now. She may not look as you remember—in the early season the heads are mostly still young, though they age fast—but you will know her, she will tell you her name. Bring me my coven sister Sysselore, who was Syrcé the enchantress . . . We were together so long, I would not be without her. Even in death I want her to see my triumph, and envy me.”

“She will rot in days,” he said harshly. “Maybe in hours.”

“Fool! Do you doubt me still? I can brew a potion that will keep an apple as crisp as the instant it was picked—for months, even years. I will pickle the head in hell-broth, and it will stay sweet and firm for as long as I require. But carry her back quickly: those who die old are swiftest to degenerate.”

“And then?” he asked, unable to exclude the faintest note of desperation—half hope, half fear—from his voice.

I smiled at him—for is he not my son?—savoring his illusions, toying with his trapped mind, his pliant emotions. “Then we shall see.”

Later, when I opened the barrier, I marked him with the sigil Agares, the symbol of Finding. The acid burned deep into his skin, but though he hissed and sweated, he could not move until the brand was fixed. To remove it, he would have to flay his own brow to the bone.

“Return promptly,” I whispered, “lest I become impatient.” Then I let him go.

Tomorrow, there will be other matters. I must begin the search for
her
. When the moon is at the full, I will prepare the circle.

“We should wait for the full moon,” said Ragginbone. “The circle is more powerful at that time.”

“We can’t wait,” Fern said tensely. “Morgus won’t be content with collecting souls. Her Gift is formidable, and the strength of the Eternal Tree is in her. I must know what she’s doing.”

“Remember, she won’t yet have realized that you know she’s alive. You are young and inexperienced: by using the circle, you may betray yourself. I don’t want to damage your confidence—”

“I haven’t any,” Fern interrupted, unsmiling. She was driving as they talked, and she did not take her eyes off the road.

“All I’m saying is that everyone makes mistakes. The more powerful the individual, the greater their capacity for error. Morgus has already shown her hand by what she did to this girl: her ego gives her away. So we have a slight advantage, a sliver of time. Full moon is in a few days. Don’t slip up through impatience.”

“I want to get on with it,” Fern said baldly, “because I am afraid.”

“Fear is healthy, but you should not let it guide you. In the conflict to come, the main responsibility may rest with you—though we cannot be sure of that—but you have friends and allies, known and unknown, and you must have faith in them. Even in Atlantis, among strangers, you found help. There is always help, if your intentions are good. Or so I like to believe. Don’t try to take the whole burden on yourself.”

“Last time, Will and Gaynor were in danger,” Fern reminded him. “I couldn’t bear it if they were hurt, or—or killed.”

“The choice is not yours,” Ragginbone retorted seriously.

There was a pause while the banks of the motorway rolled past, a bridge arced over them, a lorry roared by in the middle lane, going too fast.

“When I killed Morgus,” Fern said suddenly, “I mean, when I thought I did—it was unreal. I was pure spirit, detached from my body, trapped in the otherworld. A world where myths come true. I cut a head from the Tree and brought it back here. It was only when I saw the head in the context of reality that I felt horror. Under the Tree—in the caverns of Hel—everything was like a dream. My feelings were vivid, often intense, but not quite . . . normal. Since then, there have been moments when I have told myself:
I killed
. I killed a fellow human being—even if she was a psychotic witch queen with her mind stuck in the Dark Ages and her ambition fixed on an improbable future. It was only bearable because of the unreality factor: I never actually had to come to terms with it. I don’t know if I can do it again. Here. In the real world.
I don’t know if I can kill her.
”

“You may not have to,” said Ragginbone, and there was gentleness in his gaze, though she did not see it. “Don’t waste time agonizing. Right now, you should worry more about whether
she
will kill
you
.”

“That makes me feel better,” said Fern.

More motorway streamed beneath them; huge blue or green signs warned of approaching exits, distance from London, the next gas station or eatery. From time to time long rows of cones sprang up with apparently no other function than to congest the traffic flow. Reality, Ragginbone reflected, was every bit as strange as the surreal dimensions that clung around the edge.

Several miles later Fern resumed: “Where do you think I should do it?”

“Do what?” asked Ragginbone, emerging from temporary abstraction.

“The circle.”

“Ah . . .”

“I thought of my flat, but there’s a fitted carpet and anyway, even if you pushed back all the furniture there wouldn’t be a lot of space. How big does the circle have to be?”

“Big enough,” said Ragginbone unhelpfully. “If it’s too small you will constrict the magic and it could burst the boundary or even explode. Besides, you need to maintain a safe distance between you and whomever—or whatever—you summon. The perimeter of the circle is your security. Too small, and the spell is overconcentrated. Too large, and it becomes stretched, so you cannot sustain it. That may have been why the circle Alimond made in your old barn all those years ago broke so easily. It was too big for her power.”

“We should have done it at Dale House,” said Fern. “I can’t think of anywhere else large enough. We may have to rent a studio or something.”

“Possibly,” said Ragginbone. “However . . . there’s a place I know that would be suitable. If I can persuade the owner.”

Fern considered this. “Who
is
the owner?” she inquired suspiciously.

“He is Gifted—after a fashion. A street wizard, a potion peddler . . . There were many like him once. They drew horoscopes, and sold love philters, and checked the auguries for one side or both before history’s forgotten skirmishes. Those with real power lived until they grew weary and then passed the Gate. Some had their throats cut in dark alleyways by whoever lost the latest skirmish, or choked on their own potions, or were tortured for secrets they did not possess. Religious organizations accounted for a good few. But this one . . . well, I think you could say he got stuck. Stuck in the past, more than four hundred years ago, but existing in the present. Out of sight, out of date, out of touch. He shut himself away from the world in his hermit’s cave, and he never leaves. Or so he claims. Food is delivered and therefore presumably paid for, though heaven knows how. The building was reconstructed above him about a century ago, but he has spells enough to hide himself from the hapless and the curious. He says he has no contact with either witchkind or werefolk, but I’m not sure if I believe that. It may be wishful thinking on his part.”