The Witch Queen (26 page)

“The witch is already here,” Fern reminded him. “As for Morgus, she has a long way to come. May she be stuck in traffic.”

“Is that a spell?” Luc inquired.

“No. Wishful thinking.” They were on a gallery, dark beyond the flashlight beam; below yawned the cavern of the ballroom. “Dibbuck said something about a prisoner in the attic. Which way?”

“He said it was a monster!” Skuldunder objected. “Huge—hideous. An ogre . . . Haven’t we had enough of monsters?”

“I need another skewer,” Luc remarked.

“Which way?”

Eventually, they found the attic stairs. Skuldunder had become increasingly jittery; Luc’s manner hardened into tension. Fern’s resolve acquired an edge of obsession: she spoke curtly or not at all, leading them up the stair, the flashlight clenched in her grasp. The beam stabbed the gloom ahead, unwavering, certain of its goal. Fern had stopped thinking now. She knew what she would find. She realized she had known all along, on some deep level of instinct, that
he
was here somewhere. He was imprisoned, suffering, and it was her fault, because she had vowed him friendship and had done nothing to keep her vow.

It did not matter that he was a monster.

As they entered the first of the attics they made out the gray square of a skylight, but there was no visible moon and indoors it was almost completely black. The whole house had that hollow silence of a place deserted by its genius loci: the floorboards did not trouble to creak, there were no scufflings behind the wainscoting, no soft murmurs of settling drapes or lisping drafts. But here, the quiet seemed muffled, as if the room was lined with blankets. “There is heavy magic here,” whispered Skuldunder, and his small voice was deadened, despite the space. Fern made a werelight, only a cautious flicker of flame, but it burned green from the magical overflow. She switched off the flashlight and handed it to Luc.

He said: “I’ll lead.”

But she removed his restraining hand, crossing the second attic with the werelight trembling in front of her. At her side, Luc made a sound of disgust. “What a stink!”

“Drains,” suggested Skuldunder. As a wild goblin, he had never figured out the mechanics of modern life.

“In the attic?”

Fern made no comment. By the next door, she halted. She could feel the spells ahead of her, a thick mesh clogging the air, impenetrable as jungle growth. She remembered the flexible screens she had woven around her friends, and realized with a sudden cold trickle down her spine how flimsy and inadequate they were. But it was too late now to do anything about it, and she tried to push her fear away, stepping forward into the last attic, ignoring the growing stench. The wereglow dimmed to a sickly corpse candle, giving little illumination. She could just distinguish a window square striped with what must be bars, and more bars, closer at hand, turning the end of the room into a jail cell. Beyond, in the corner, the darkness appeared to congeal into a shape that was humanoid but not human—a shape that might have had slumped shoulders broader than a man’s, legs that terminated in the paws of a beast, twisted horns half-hidden in a matted pelt of hair. The stink of sweat and excrement was overwhelming. Fern fought down nausea.

Luc said: “I can’t see anything.”

“I can.”

She approached the bars, touched the spellnet that reinforced them. It was so potent the jolt ran through her whole body, like an electric shock. The werelight could not pass the barrier, but it showed her the rusty gleam of chains snaking across the floor, a shackled foot, a tail tuft.

She said: “Kal.”

He did not speak, but she heard the rasp of his escaping breath and sensed that until then he had not known who his visitor was.

“What is it?” Luc demanded in a hiss. “Do you
know
this—”

“
Quiet
.” And again: “Kal.”

“Little witch.” The voice grated, as if from lack of practice. “Tell me you’re real. She haunts me with nightmares. It would be like her to plague me with a phantom of hope.”

“I’m real.” She thought he sounded near the breaking point, or past it, and her heart shook. “I should have come sooner.”

“Simple Susan sewing samplers . . . You owe me. Don’t forget that. When I get out of here I’m going to call in the debt.”

“You’ll get out.” She roamed her hands over the barrier, an inch or two away, testing for weaknesses.

“It is too strong for you,” he said. “She made it to resist both crude force and brute magic. Even if you found a chink and thrust your finger through, the spellburn would eat your flesh to the bone. What are you doing here, little witch? You cannot fight
her
.”

“ ‘Everything that lives must die,’ “ Fern quoted. “Or so I have been told. Even Morgus.”

“Her word or her death would unbind the spell,” said Kal. “Nothing else.”

“We’ll see.” She stood back from the spellnet, raising her hand in the gestures Morgus herself had taught her, focusing all her power on what she hoped was a vulnerable spot. Sparks flew; the backlash hit her like a physical blow. Luc prevented her from falling, but she would not listen when he tried to calm her; she flung charm after charm at the barricade, running through every Command she knew, exhausting her strength and her Gift in a fruitless assault.

“Leave it,” said Kal, and the words dragged. “Now I know you are a phantom. The real Fernanda would have been more sparing of her powers. She was never reckless. Her head was always cool, her heart quicker to feel pity than passion. Not that I want
pity
.”

Fern said: “I offer you none.”

The chains scraped along the floorboards as Kal shuffled slowly, awkwardly closer to the bars. For the first time the corpse light fell on his face: Fern saw it dirt smeared, shadow gaunt, the half-human eyes no longer ruby-dark but bloodshot red beneath the ledge of his browbone. Ragged twists of hair hung down over his forehead, obscuring the upper part of his visage, but she could make out the skin there raw and puckered as if from an acid burn. At some point not long before, sweat or tears had made runnels through the grime on his cheeks. “Kal,” she murmured. “Oh, Kal,” and Luc thought he had never heard her speak so gently.

“I said no pity!” His tone became a growl.

“What happened—there?” The direction of her gaze indicated his forehead.

“I did that,” he said. “Don’t imagine her torturing me. She marked me with the rune of Agares—the rune of Finding—and that was the only way to get rid of it. If you are just a stray specter, some
tannasgeal
she has harnessed, tell her I have no forehead left for her to mark. It might amuse her; you never know.”

“I
must
get you out of here,” Fern said.

“Air dreaming.”

“Witch’s dreams can have more substance than reality.”

“Have you any substance, dream witch?”

“You know I—”

“Prove it. Let me touch you. A specter cannot be touched. There is a weakness in the spell wall, just
here
. Push your hand through—your left hand—and I will know you are in truth Fernanda.”

Her left hand. He had seen her dip it in the Styx; he knew it would heal at once. Fern’s look matched his, stare for stare. “Very well,” she said. She turned to Luc. “Stand back. And whatever happens, don’t interfere.
Whatever
happens.”

Reluctantly, Luc withdrew. Fern probed the magic from a short distance, checking the place Kal had pointed out. She knew it was best to allow herself no time for anticipation. Concentrating all her power on resisting the initial shock, she forced her hand through.

It was like thrusting it into a furnace at five hundred degrees. Her flesh fried instantly; her blood bubbled and steamed. She had intended to be stoic, to clench her teeth and bear it, telling herself it was only for a moment; but she screamed in agony. Luc ran to her, seizing her shoulders, pulling her away. She managed to articulate: “NO! NO-O-O—“ And Kal, reaching through the bars, touched fingertip to burning fingertip in an instant’s contact, old as creation—until she was dragged away, and fell to the floor, sobbing in the extremity of anguish. Without her thought to energize it the werelight failed, leaving them groping in the dark. Luc shouted to Skuldunder for water, dropped the flashlight, swore. Fern wrenched her injured arm free of Luc’s grip and clamped her other hand around it, above the wrist, squeezing tighter than a tourniquet. Now she was rocking to and fro, her sobs diminishing to moans. Luc located the flashlight, flicked it on. But when the beam found her hand there was nothing but a red shadow on the skin that swiftly faded, and was gone. Her head drooped, perspiration dripped from her hair. Gradually, her breathing slowed to normal.

Luc said: “Your
hand
. . . ?”

“It’s all right.” She didn’t explain.

Kal’s voice spoke out of the darkness. “Fernanda.” An affirmation.

She crawled toward him, until there were only a couple of feet between them. And the spell wall. And the bars. “I’ll get you out,” she reiterated. “I have an idea.”

There was a jangle of chains as he pressed against the grille; she thought she saw the red glint of his eyes. She whispered something to him that Luc could not hear.

“Are you sure?” Kal asked.

“My stomach is sure,” said Fern, “but not my head. If it works, I will send someone to loose the shackles.”

“These?” Kal’s tone was contemptuous. “I could chew them off. It is the spells which hold me here.
Her
spells.”

And, as Fern got up to go: “Good luck, little witch. You will need it.”

Once they were outside, Fern addressed Skuldunder, adjusting with an effort to diplomatic mode. “Convey my thanks to your queen for the loan of your services. Tell her what transpired, if you think it will interest her; you never know with Mabb. I will send her suitable presents when I have leisure. And Skuldunder . . . tell her I think you are a worthy burglar, and a credit to her court.”

The goblin’s chest swelled; he raised the brim of his hat an inch or two. Then he made an unexpected bow and went off toward the driveway, vanishing into invisibility even before the darkness swallowed him.

“We should get back to London,” said Luc. “And what are you going to do with this?” He tapped the head, which emitted a choked grunting noise, probably of rage.

Fern had extracted her mobile from one of the many inner pockets that always adorn men’s—if not women’s—jackets. She pressed out Will’s number, waiting through a half minute of horrible suspense before he answered. “Are you all right?” she asked him, and Luc, hearing the note of desperation, realized that her coolness was purely external.

There was a rapid exchange while they swapped experiences. “She’s coming for you,” Will said. “Don’t hang about. Get back to London. All together, we might stand a chance.”

“N-no.” Fern hesitated, struggling with her doubts. “I think it’s better if I face her on my choice of territory.”

“London.”

“Yorkshire. That was where I first used my power. That’s my place. The magic goes deep there, but it’s mine, not hers. If I have to fight her, I want it to be on my home ground.”

“Why would she look for you there?”

“Bradachin said she’d been watching the house: remember? She’ll know I’m there. Anyway, I have the head. It is a part of her, though she isn’t aware of that yet. It will draw her.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“No, Will. Don’t come. Not this time.” She felt a shiver like a surge of power.

“Take care, for God’s sake.”

“I always take care. For mine.”

She cut the call and said to Luc: “I expect you want to be with Dana. If you could take me to a place where I can hire a car . . .”

“At this hour of night?” He shrugged. “Anyhow, I won’t leave you. I’d like to see Dana, yes, but it can wait. You need me.”

“I have to get to Yorkshire.”

“I heard. Where, exactly?”

“A village called Yarrowdale. North York Moors, near the coast between Whitby and Scarborough.”

“Direct me.” He handed Fern her helmet. He couldn’t see her face, but he sensed her hesitation, knew she was picking her words.

“I really appreciate this,” she said at last, conscious of how inadequate it sounded. Help will be found, she had been told once, long long ago, in a dream of the past. And Rafarl Dev had never failed her, though her task was not his task. He had threatened—no, promised—to leave her, but he had always come back, always been there for her. She wanted to say something about that, something to acknowledge the link, to wake the sleeping magic between them; but she did not dare. The bubble of potential illusion was too fragile; she feared it might burst at a touch. In the end, she added only: “Thank you. And, Luc—“ as she mounted behind him “—avoid the London road. Morgus is looking for me now. We could not pass without her knowing.”

The engine kicked into life and they roared off down the drive, churning gravel. Fern was trying to picture Raf handling the boat, sailing into a tempest, but the memory was small and faraway, like an image seen through the wrong end of a telescope, and in front of her Luc’s leather-clad back felt solid and strong, a back of the modern world, square shouldered, gym muscled, designer wrapped, bearing no relation to the phantasms of memory and heartache. She thought: If he is Raf, if his soul has returned indeed, then he is older, and colder, and more ruthless, but . . . so am I. Oh, so am I. And she knew she was not sure, she would never be sure, because uncertainty is the essence of the human condition, and death is the one barrier beyond which we cannot see. There is no hope but faith, no knowledge but the acceptance of ignorance.

Yet still she hoped that one day she would know.

At a minor road junction, Luc scanned the sign in his headlight and turned north. Not long after, Morgus passed the same junction, urging her driver faster and faster toward Wrokeby.

“But what can
we
do?” Gaynor demanded as Will switched off the call.

“Personally, I could use a large whiskey. How about you?”

“Don’t be flip. Mine’s a G and T—I mean, it would be, if we didn’t have more important things to think about.”