Darkwitch Rising (44 page)

Soft movements in the kitchen caught Jane’s attention. Who was it? Catling? Elizabeth or Frances?

Weyland?

A hand suddenly fell on her shoulder, and Jane literally jumped.

She opened her eyes, wide, staring, terrified, and saw that it was but Frances, squatting down by her pallet and holding a tankard of what smelt like warm ale. It was morning, and soft light permeated the kitchen.

“It is all right,” Frances said softly. “He is in the streets, at Whitehall, gathering news of the king.”

“Are you sure?” Jane said, her voice rasping out from her dry throat.

“I am sure,” Frances said. “Here, sit up, and drink some of this.”

Jane sat up, looking about the kitchen, clutching the blanket which someone had laid over her nakedness. She felt
whole
. Looking around the room, Jane saw Noah was lying on a pallet just beyond Frances and Elizabeth, and Catling sat at the table.

Two youths also sat at the table, just beyond Catling, and Jane froze at the sight of them.

The imps, made incarnate!

They had taken the form of boys of twelve or thirteen years of age, but, to Jane, their origins were clearly visible in their sly faces and crafty, narrowed eyes. They were very dark, their heads a tangle of dull black curly hair, their facial skin pitted and blotched with adolescence (or perhaps natural malignance), and they had thin arms and legs.

Which one, she wondered, was hers?

The one furthest from her grinned, showing sharp pointed teeth, and Jane had her answer.

She looked away, taking the tankard from Frances with shaking hands.

“Weyland brought them into the kitchen this morning,” said Frances, “before he left to gather news.” She paused. “Jane, how do you feel?”

“I feel…well,” Jane said. She glanced at Noah, then raised her eyebrows at Frances.

“She sleeps. She will wake soon.”

“Frances, what do you know about—”

“
Later
,” Frances said, and Jane made do with sipping her ale (either Frances or Elizabeth had sweetened it with honey, and added a pinch of spice) as Frances rose and rejoined the others at the table.

As Jane drank, the attention of those at the table turned to Catling, who raised her hands from her lap.

Jane saw that she had a length of red wool twisted between the fingers of each hand.

She’s playing cat’s cradle
, thought Jane.

Then she caught full sight of
what
it was that twisted between Catling’s fingers.

Somehow, the child had formed a labyrinthine design with her twists of wool and, as Jane watched, the imp nearest Catling frowned, raised a long, thin finger and slowly tried to trace a pathway from the centre of the design to the edge.

Jane went cold.
Cornelia’s lost daughter be damned
, she thought.
That creature sitting there at the table is not her daughter at all!

The imp almost got halfway, then his frown deepened, and his finger stalled. His lips pursed, and he muttered something that Jane did not catch.

Then his brother leaned over him, and tried his luck. His finger also stalled at about halfway through the labyrinth, and he, too, frowned.

“Bother!” he said, quite clearly.

Catling smiled. “You admit defeat?”

The imps muttered between themselves for a moment or two, then one sighed, and nodded. “We admit defeat,” he said.

“Good,” said Catling, and folded the wool away.

Something in Catling’s actions clicked in Jane’s mind.
Catling is playing the Game with them!

At that moment Noah stirred, and Jane, at least, was grateful for the distraction. It gave her time to pull her thoughts together.

She didn’t want Catling looking at her face, and seeing there…recognition.

Frances brought Noah a tankard of ale, and Jane saw that Noah seemed as puzzled by her current circumstances as was Jane. Indeed, Noah looked as well as Jane herself felt. Her colour was good, and she wore no lines of pain on her face.

Jane saw the moment when Noah caught sight of the imps. Noah froze, and then turned a little so she could see Jane. Her eyebrows rose in clear question—
why are we so well? And what do those imps at the table, sitting so casually
?

Jane gave a slight shrug. She turned aside her blanket, uncaring that both imps stared at her nakedness with boggling eyes, and stood up, feeling for her balance carefully. Finding she could stand, she walked to the chest where she kept what few clothes she had, and lifted its lid. She drew forth some underclothes, and an old bodice and skirt. But, before she dressed, Jane inspected her abdomen.

There was a red gash running from her navel to her pubic hair, but while it was red and angry, it had healed over.

Stifling her questions (not here, not with the imps present), Jane quickly dressed then turned to Noah, knelt by her side and, without asking, drew aside Noah’s blanket.

At the table, unnoticed, Elizabeth and Frances looked at each other.

Jane stilled as soon as she saw Noah’s wound. “It has almost healed,” she said. “The wound has mended, its edges neat and free of infection. As is mine.”

Elizabeth, who had been watching Jane and Noah, now spoke up. “Weyland healed you,” she said. “Both of you.”

Jane felt sick with regret and disappointment. Her dream of the Lord of the Faerie had been just that. A dream.
Weyland
had healed her.

She noticed Noah had gone white.

“I’d thought it was just a dream,” Noah said. “Now I find he
did
heal me. And you. Oh, Jane, look! The sores on your face are no more!”

Elizabeth had risen, and came over to Jane, squatting down beside her. She lifted a hand and pushed back Jane’s loose hair.

“They
are
healed,” said Elizabeth. “All of them. And the ache in your spine and legs, Jane? Are they still there?”

Jane shook her head.

Elizabeth frowned. “Weyland healed the injury caused you by the imp, but he did not heal your pox. I remember particularly, because he made a remark that he didn’t want you too grateful.”

Jane stared at Elizabeth, and then very slowly smiled.
So my dream
wasn’t
a fabrication! It truly happened!

Elizabeth also smiled, responding to the sudden light in Jane’s face. “What do you know, Jane? Tell us, how have these sores healed?”

Jane dampened her smile. “I cannot tell, Elizabeth. I was unconscious.”

“You may speak of it,” said Catling. “They won’t tell.”

“We won’t tell,” said the imps together, then both grinned, taking all the promise from their words.

“They will
not
tell,” Catling said firmly, and the imps’ smiles faded.

For an instant Jane almost believed her. She certainly believed that the imps would not say
anything to Weyland, but then she realised she didn’t want Catling to know about the Lord of the Faerie.

So Jane shrugged. “I truly don’t know. It is a mystery to me.”

Later that morning, Noah and Jane lay down on their pallets again, saying they needed to rest. The others—Catling, the imps and Elizabeth and Frances—took themselves into the parlour, so that the two women might rest undisturbed. Instead of sleeping, Jane and Noah lay close together and conversed in low tones so that the group in the parlour would not hear.

“Jane,” said Noah, “tell me. Who healed you of those sores? I do not believe this ‘I do not know’ of yours.”

Jane took a long time to answer. “I dreamed,” she said, “that I stood in Tower Fields, where we met Ariadne. A man came to me there.” She hesitated. “The Lord of the Faerie came to me, Noah. Do you know who he is?”

“Yes. Long Tom, one of the Sidlesaghes, spoke of him to me some years ago.”

Jane felt disappointed. Was there nothing Noah did not know? “I was surprised to find he was Coelreborn, ” she said, and was finally rewarded with a look of utter shock on Noah’s face.

Noah took a deep breath, and managed to speak.

“Yes, of course. It fits. Jane, in our last lives I saw him crowned with light atop Pen Hill, and I also saw the Sidlesaghes doing him homage in his crowning in Westminster Abbey. When he came to me on Pen Hill, he was the one to induct me into my full self. I had never, before now, realised the true significance of all this. Now it makes sense.”

“He healed me,” said Jane. “He touched my face, and my sores were gone.”

“If the Lord of the Faerie walks,” said Noah, “then it means the Stag God is close to rising.”

“Who?” Jane said, very softly, leaning her head so near to Noah that they might have been lovers.

“You know who it must be,” said Noah, as softly.

Of course. Jane battled her emotions, then, finally, she said, “And does Weyland know this?”

Noah paused. “I hope not,” she said. “But…”

“Aye, but…” said Jane. “I do not know about you, Noah, but I am heartily glad to have that creature gone from my body. I feel—”

“Free,” said Noah. “Light.” She took a deep breath, and Jane heard it shudder in her throat. “Jane, do you think that Weyland still has the same control over us as he did when those imps were inside our bodies?”

Jane thought a moment. “Oh, aye,” she said, her tone bitter. “I can feel it in here.” She tapped her breast. “A blackness. A bleakness. He can still control us, Noah, if not with such suffering.” She paused. “Noah, why did he heal us?”

Noah took a long time to answer. “I don’t know,” she said finally.

They both fell silent for a time. They might be healed, but both were still exhausted physically and emotionally from the events of the previous day.

Eventually, Noah spoke. “Jane, what is Ariadne doing back? And in
London
? For all the gods’ sakes, do you think she wants to take control of the Troy Game?”

“Instead of
you
, do you mean?” said Jane, allowing a small measure of bitterness to creep into her voice.

“Whether I do or not, Jane, is your choosing. I shall not ask or beg for you to teach me the ways of the labyrinth, and whatever you do choose, I shall accept.”

“Well then,” said Jane, “perhaps I shall keep my powers as Mistress of the Labyrinth, eh? I shall wait for whoever wins the battle to be Kingman, and dance with him the Flower Dance, and live forever wrapped in the immortality of the Game.”

To that Noah made no reply, but merely looked at Jane with sad eyes.

That look of pity infuriated Jane. “I may not have my teeth at your throat this very instant,” she snapped, “and I may not control the respect and fear that once I did, but do not think that I am so well disposed to you, nor so desperate, that I shall hand to you my powers as the Mistress of the Labyrinth with little more than a shrug!”

Noah sighed, and looked away.

Weyland made his way through the crowds outside Whitehall. It seemed that most of London was here, thronging the streets, dancing where there was space, drinking where there was not. It may have been a full day since the king had entered London, but the partying had not stopped. The palace itself was guarded from the revelry by units of the army.

Weyland managed to maintain a semblance of joy—anything less would have drawn immediate attention—but his thoughts were far from the celebration going on about him. Yesterday and last night had been exhausting. First, the horrific birthing of the imps, then the healing. Noah and Jane had still been unconscious when he left the house this morning, for which he had been grateful.

He didn’t want to face them, or any of their questions.

He didn’t want to face Noah. Not just yet.

He certainly didn’t want to think too deeply on that strange vision he’d had of standing atop the
hill, looking at Noah, at the tears coursing down her face…

Weyland forcibly turned his thoughts to what he needed to accomplish next. Yesterday had served its purpose; now he needed to send another message to Charles.

After several hours of pushing and shoving through the crowds, Weyland found himself standing before the high iron railings that ran about the great courtyard of Whitehall Palace. He managed to find himself a secure place close to the gates where the crowd would not jostle him too much, and wrapped his hands about the upright iron posts, staring at the buildings.

He thought that Whitehall had to be the most ugly collection of buildings he’d ever seen. The palace complex had grown haphazardly over a hundred and thirty years: a hall here, a dormitory there, courtiers’ quarters somewhere else, a cockpit for entertainment, a garden for pleasure, a chapel for salvation. Weyland had never been inside, but he’d heard from several sources that the king’s and queen’s quarters were a series of barely coherent rooms that were often cold and draughty. Fifty years ago, during the time of James I, the king’s daughter actually had to bed down in the tennis court. James’ son, Charles I, had commissioned a complete new plan of the palace, meaning to rebuild it.

Of course, his head had come off before he’d been able to sign the work order.

Weyland didn’t envy Brutus-reborn this ugly monstrosity. He preferred his home in Idol Lane.

His Idyll.

He suddenly thought of the imps. He’d left them in the kitchen, not merely to suitably intimidate the women, but because Weyland was sick of their
constant whining about the Idyll. He regretted ever taking them in there.

Frankly, he had come to regret ever creating them in the first instance. They’d served their purpose, and perhaps now he could send them off to wander the streets.

He grinned a little wanly. They’d certainly create mischief among this throng.

A light flickered in one of the windows of the nearest palace building—it was now close to dusk—and Weyland’s mind returned to the task at hand.

The light in the window grew stronger, and shadows moved behind it. Courtiers and servants, Weyland thought, tending to the needs of the king.

And, by all the gods of hell, Weyland could
smell
Charles. A few hundred yards, at the most, separated them. He was so close. Weyland could feel the power of the Kingman as it filtered through the walls of the palace.