Darkhenge (16 page)

“Yes, but—”

Vetch's fingers loosed from his sleeve. “Just do it. And be ready.”

He stepped back. He stepped into the glassy shadows, and at once dissolved into reflections of himself, each shivered and fractured, so that Rob couldn't see for a moment which one he was, and then they were all gone, and something sinuous and lean slipped past him, a dark fox with wet fur that gleamed.

The fox slunk up the corridor.

Rob let out a slow breath. He closed his eyes and saw darkness, licked his lips and tasted the saltiness of sweat and the icy drips from the roof.

He was cold with fear and disbelief.

Far off, something crashed, as if another shutter had fallen. The sound jerked him out of one terror into another; he strode forward quickly, mumbling, saying anything. “Yes, well, all right, we can't go back. Did I ever say I wanted to go back? All I want to do is find her. And you have no right to say I don't!” His voice was rising to anger; he let it. He argued with Vetch, though Vetch wasn't there, because he could never have said these things if he was. “I love Chloe. She's a pain and she always wants attention and she should never have written what she did about me but I still love her....”

He stopped. His hand went to his pocket; felt the small stiff outline of her diary. He hadn't opened it. Was he too afraid to read the rest?

Something crashed ahead.

A gasp, a cry rang out. He turned the corner and raced into the forested hall, tripping over the smashed floor. “Vetch!
Vetch?
”

A figure was inside the door, behind one of the trees. In the glass walls he saw it loom, break, reform. The figure of a woman, green-stained and worn, her hair coming loose, a stout branch grasped in her hand, and as he watched, she swung it and the fox yelped and gave a great twisting, sideways leap. Wood cracked against glass. The woman screamed in pure fury, whirled to strike again.

“No!” Rob yelled.

She turned, saw him. In seconds, Vetch stood behind her, breathless. He looked shaken, the whiteness back in his face.

Rob stared in disbelief.

“Clare?”
he breathed.

Brain activity has altered. That's what they're saying. Her body temperature has dropped and there's eye movement.

John's on his way and Katie's studio is driving her down the motorway, but it's Rob I'm worried about.

Danny's out looking. He's a good lad.

I should have been around more. I should have been more wary of Vetch. A charmer, full of enticing ideas, and Rob's vulnerable. Always was.

Where in God's name is he?

Chloe's hand is in mine. So small and white.

Into what terrors have I let them fall?

I have been in many shapes
before I reached a handsome form.

“T
HE
B
ATTLE OF THE
T
REES
”

V
etch had lit a fire, using a tinderbox from the small bag.

The trees seemed to hang over the glow, curious, as if flames and heat had rarely been seen here. Sparks drifted up in the smoke; following them with his eyes, Rob saw the dark interlacings of bole and bough above him, and an owl's white round face peering down. Moths irritated the twilight, landing on his shirt, never still.

The woman who looked like Clare sat with her knees drawn up. She had cleaned her face with her sleeve; now she tied up her hair. But how could it even be her? Because she was wearing a green dress that looked like velvet, and a necklace of berries and seeds.

He said, “How did you get here? Did you follow us down?”

She laughed shortly. “I told you I'd wait at the foot of the tree.”

Rob looked at Vetch. The poet was watching the woman warily; his face side-lit with flames and shadows. Now he said, “She is and is not Clare. Here her name is Ceridwen. The vengeful muse, the queen who haunts me. Centuries ago, when I was barely more than a boy, I stole wisdom from her, and inspiration. A crime that made me a poet. A crime all poets commit.”

“You stole more than that!” Her voice was fierce. “You stole belief. You stole trust.”

He nodded, looking down. “And you won't forgive me. But that's no reason to hurt the boy. The boy is looking for his sister.” Sadly, he held a long hand out over the flames. “Can't we forget the past, Goddess? Here, where there is no time? You could help us. With us, you needn't be alone.”

She gave him a bold blue glare. “Poets think they know how to persuade. But here, as you say, I have power too.
‘I have fled in the shape of a raven,'
you boast in your poems,
‘a roebuck, a bristling boar, a grain of wheat. I have been in the dark bag for nine months, rocking on the waters.'
All these abilities you have, Vetch, because you drank them from my Cauldron.”

The owl above them flew away, almost silent.

She turned to Rob quickly. “But he's right, none of this is your fault, so I'll tell you what I know. Your sister is in the forest. They passed this way hours ago; by now they will have reached Caer Pedryfan, the Turning Castle.”

“They?” he said, his chest tight.

“The King of Annwn has her prisoner. He's always masked; no one sees his face, but he's young and strong.”

Rob looked at her through the flames. “Who is he?”

She shrugged. “Only Chloe could tell you.”

“Can you take us to this castle?”

“Yes.” She spat on her fingers, wiped green lichen from a tree trunk and rubbed it in coils and circles down her face. “I can. I will. But things aren't that simple. You'll need more than me. The trees are involved.”

Vetch looked up sharply. “Already?”

“Oak and hazel, birch and thorn. The forest is Annwn, and in it lies death, and hidden meaning. It doesn't stir easily, but it's stirring now, and that must be because of Chloe.” She stood lightly. “If you want to find the third caer we should hurry.”

Vetch looked at Rob. “Are you tired?”

He shook his head. He felt he should be, because it was twilight, and it felt like years since he had climbed down the endless tree, but though he yawned as he stood, that was just a reaction. He had no feeling of wanting to sleep. Or eat.

Vetch stamped the fire out, scuffing the ashes; the red glow died on the tree trunks around him. Even in the short time of warmth they seemed to have moved closer, Rob thought. “If you don't mind going first,” Vetch said mildly. “I'd feel safer.”

Clare looked at him with scorn. “We get the boy to the caer,” she said. “Then, believe me, Vetch, my time will come. Here I don't need a chain saw to hurt you. Here I am more than Clare, more than a woman you can beguile and desert. Here you fear me. Here I can destroy you,
Poet.
”

She turned and strode away.

Rob glanced at Vetch. His face was white.

The room was a small one but it would do. There was nothing to stop him climbing out the window, but it was very high up; propping herself on the sill with her hands, Chloe looked down at the crowding branches outside. He wouldn't risk it out there. The trees terrified him.

Dusting her palms together, she turned back and went into the corridor. She had taken a long time choosing the mirror; there were several in the Turning Castle, but this was full length, and she had prized it out of its ornate frame using a knife he'd left by the fruit.

She picked it up and, struggling with the weight, carried it into the room. Opposite the door was the obvious place, at an angle.

She stood back, looking at her reflection, the doorway, then moved it again, slightly sideways. Perfect.

Now to find out where he was.

She walked silently along the corridor, the long shawl dragging in the dust. There were clothes in all the castles, food, chess games that played themselves, everything she wanted, though it all had a musty, unused feel. Here the dust was thick; she could see his footprints in it, striding toward the stair to the battlements. That's where he would be, up there watching the trees' unstoppable growth. She allowed herself a tight smile.

The plan was a good one and Mac would have liked it. It was always Mac who had read her the stories when he'd come over to babysit. Even now the smell of his cigarettes brought back the picture of the girl lying asleep in the brambled castle. “For God's sake, Mac, you'll suffocate the child,” her father used to say, opening the door on the fug.

Of course, Mac was really Rob's godfather, not hers. Hers was her mother's cousin, far off in Ireland, who seemed to have forgotten she even existed. He never sent presents, or rang up to check why she'd missed mass. Mac did. But mostly the presents were for Rob.

She frowned, her hands on the stone wall.

Rob.

She had been trying not to think of him. Now he came surging into her mind, his face, his tallness, the way the girls at school looked at him and giggled if he spoke to them, the way the teachers said
Rob's sister.
Rob's
little
sister.

Rob the golden boy. Rob, who never got the blame for anything, whom they treated like an adult, whose talent always had to come first.

Above all, his wretched paintings.

They were all around the house, seascapes from holidays, the one of Callie looking over the horsebox, one of the stones at Avebury that had won that stupid competition. She hated them all. He'd never done one of her. But then, to be fair, she wouldn't sit still for him.

Resentment made her breathless. No good getting herself worked up.

Get out of here, and then find her way back.

That was the plan.

At the top of the stairs she creaked the small outer door open and put her eye to the crack. The King had his back to her, standing with his hands spread flat on the battlements, looking out. There was a breeze, very slight. It moved his hair. Above him the stars turned jerkily.

He wore the dark clothes he always wore, a green so dark it was almost black. Rob would know the name for it.

She shivered, almost scared. This had to work. And yet he would be furious. He'd bang and slam against the door, screaming at her, anguished, as he had when she'd pulled the first mask off.

She stepped back, her lips in a tight line. So what? Was she starting to feel sorry for him? That was stupid. Turning, not letting herself think anymore, she ran lightly down to the dark corridor and into the room, lighting the candle she'd left next to the mirror. Leaf shadows moved in dim corners.

She slid the key in the outside of the lock, opening the door wide. Then she squeezed into the dusty niche in the corridor. She took a deep breath. Opened her mouth. And screamed.

Carefully, Clare pushed the branches aside. “There,” she breathed.

Rob felt Vetch move up beside him.

The castle was four cornered, built of timber inside two circular ramparts of timber. It was oddly difficult to focus on; it blurred, as if someone had painted it with a wobbly brush full of watercolor, someone not skilled at painting.

“It's moving,” he whispered.

Vetch said, “The third caer.” He glanced at Clare. “Unbroken.”

“You mean the trees haven't broken in?” Rob said quickly. “Chloe's in there?”

“Yes.” She nodded, her lips tight. “But look.”

Halfway up the palisades, undergrowth was climbing. Ivy and elder, and bushes of gorse and broom. Their spiny yellow branches showed black against the ancient wood; if he watched carefully Rob could almost see them growing.

“Right,” Vetch said, “I'll—”

“No.”
Rob turned. “I'm going in to get her. Not you.”

Clare smiled, cool. “That's the way, Rob.”

Vetch glared at her. “Rob, this is a dangerous place. You have no idea—”

Before he could finish, a scream rang out from the castle, a high, agonizing scream of terror.

“God!” Rob leaped up. “That's Chloe! What's he doing to her?” Before they could grab him he was running, crashing and ducking through the forest, racing for the gate, slamming up against the roughly shaven palisades, racing around the perimeter furiously. Where was the door? There had to be a door!
There had to be a door.

The King had his back to her. Breathless, he hurtled into the dim room, stared at her wide-eyed dark reflection. “Chloe! What is it! What—”

Her face moved, vanished. With a gasp he turned, but already she had shoved him back with all her strength, and he stumbled against the mirror and it gave, and as she slammed the door she heard the crash and tumble of furniture.

The little key turned with a snick, just before the whole door shuddered. She leaped back. Her throat felt tight and dry; her heart raced.

“Chloe! Let me out!”

“No!”
she screamed.

“You can't do this!” He kicked the door, banged at it, threw himself against it. Fascinated, she watched, seeing the ancient wood hold fast, its blackened, warped seams still strong.