The Master of Misrule (15 page)

Meanwhile, the High Priest stood by the remains of Yggdrasil. He took out a deck of blank cards from within his coat and began to shuffle them in his hands, intoning ancient words in a sibilant murmur.

As he did so, the leaves on the floor of the crypt began
to swirl about more agitatedly. There was a papery snap and rustle. And the higher the leaves blew, and the faster they twirled, the more difficult it was to tell if they were shriveled foliage or burned playing cards. They rose up in a swarm, twisting giddily around each of the chancers, higher and faster again—

—until the dark flurry thinned … subsided … settled … leaving four empty archways behind.

The High Priest slumped, exhausted, and let the cards fall from his hands.

C
AT’S EARS BUZZED WITH
the sound of shuffling cards. When their cascade fell away and the fluttering shadows cleared, the playing card she was holding was no longer blank. There gradually emerged a picture of a woman sitting between two pillars, with a horned diadem on her head and a lunar crescent at her feet. This must be the move she had to win to become Queen of Swords. The Triumph of the High Priestess.

Her first thought was, OK, it could be worse. And her second: What the hell is a Priestess doing in a parking garage?

She was in another underground vault, but this crypt was made of concrete pillars, ramps and parking bays, all very dirty-looking under the pallid glare of fluorescent tubes.

Although the cars were empty, the place was not deserted. Something whisked around a pillar, and there was a tinkling sound, followed by a giggle.

“Who’s there?” Cat asked sharply.

There was more giggling, then a young girl—not more than twelve or thirteen—sidled out from the shadows. She was a skinny, sallow little thing, who looked as if she’d been playing in a dress-up box. Her torso was draped in an assortment of silk scarves, and she was wearing a flounced skirt that was much too long for her, its tiers sewn all over with little gold discs. It was these, and the bangles loading her arms, that made the tinkling noise. Her eyes were outlined in smudged black kohl, and she wore a crookedly perched headdress of two crystal horns.

“If you’re looking for that man, he’s already had his turn,” the girl announced.

“What man?”

“The young one who was just here.”

Cat looked around nervously, but could see no sign of the king whose move she had entered. Was Alastor hiding and watching somewhere?

“He was very handsome, I thought.… Ooh, I like your necklace.” The girl reached out to stroke the plastic four-leaf clover around Cat’s neck. It was a cheap trinket, but she seemed fascinated by the glitter coating. “Can I have it?”

“Um …”

“You can use it to pay me, if you want.” She had suddenly become curt and businesslike. “I can’t do the prophecy without an offering. And that’s what you’re here for, right?”

“Right.” This person might not look like the woman on the card, but Cat knew that appearance didn’t count for
much in the Arcanum. As a prize, the High Priestess’s triumph represented mysticism, the powers of prophecy. Perhaps she really would learn something useful from the girl—something important about the Game … or her parents.

“Come on, then, slowpoke!” The High Priestess hitched up her skirt, revealing bare feet with chipped red nail polish, and set off in a zigzagging dance through the parking bays.

She brought Cat to a ramp leading to a lower level. Instead of fluorescent tubes, this story was lit by tea lights set in flickering circles around the bases of the concrete pillars. It felt warmer, almost stuffy, and there was a nauseating smell of scented candles and exhaust fumes.

The Priestess let her skirt fall, trailing its ragged hem carelessly behind her, and walked to a pillar wrapped in black-and-yellow hazard tape. A tripod-like iron chair was set in front. She climbed on, adjusted her headdress and sat up very straight. Her hands were folded neatly on her lap.

“You are now in the presence of Sosostris herself,” she intoned. “The holiest of holies, Belladonna, Lady of the Rocks. I am Madam Equitone, Queen of the Borrowed Light. I am Persephone and the pomegranate; I am Ariadne and her labyrinth. You have come to my sanctum, but will you dare hear my prophecy?”

Cat nodded.

“I must have the card and my offering.”

Cat gave her the triumph card and undid the lucky charm necklace, not without a superstitious twinge. Still,
she had got off lightly: a Rolex watch and several wedding rings were among the Priestess’s other fripperies.

“The offering is deemed worthy. Let the divination commence.”

The girl hung her head and made a low droning sound from deep within her chest. “Ommmmmmm.” She began to shake, rocking from side to side, so that the diadem flashed in the candlelight. “I see … yes … I see … ommm … a tall … dark stranger.…”

“Oh,” said Cat, nonplussed.

“He’s ever so good-looking. Lovely brown eyes.”

“You, er, can see the color of his eyes?”

The High Priestess collapsed into squeals of laughter, so that her flounces tinkled and bangles chimed. “Of
course
not!” Afterward, she leaned forward confidentially. “But wouldn’t it be nice if I could?”

Cat gritted her teeth and counted to ten. She wondered how Alastor would have handled this.

“Maybe I could ask you some questions,” she suggested. Her thoughts were already churning with possibilities. How were my parents involved in the Game? If I defeat Misrule, will the Triumph of Justice punish their killer? And will I
ever
be free of the Arcanum and its crazy cards?

The girl shook her head. She put a strand of hair in her mouth and chewed it broodingly. “It doesn’t work like that. The Spirit speaks through me however it likes. Booor-
ring
.”

She sighed and covered her face with her hands, muttering something indistinguishable. Then she leaned down from the tripod and ran her fingers through a slick of spilled
petrol. On the ground, it had a rainbow sheen, but the stain it left on her hands was black and sticky. Deliberately, she smeared the oil over her mouth. She then struck a match on the arm of the tripod and tossed it into the puddle.

The gasoline shot into flames. Behind billows of toxic smoke, the High Priestess gripped the arms of her tripod and convulsed all over with a harsh choking sound. Her mouth was black and clotted, and her rolling eyes were a blinded white. As soon as the fire started, Cat backed away in alarm, her hands tensed around the Ace of Cups. But almost as quickly as they had begun, the flames died down to a smolder, and the High Priestess became calm and still.

When she spoke, her voice was high and cold and very clear.

She sagged limply in her seat, and Cat thought the prophecy was finished. Silence rang in her ears. But then the girl raised her head and began to speak again. This time, her manner was brisk, almost abrupt.

“Hear my prophecy: Eternity awaits you, but only the cherubim can summon it. You must make them offerings so that they rise again. Otherwise, Misrule’s wheel shall burn at the turning of the year. For now, the Empress holds the answer to what you seek.”

Her head rolled on her neck, her eyelids drooped and her face slackened. Then she opened her eyes and yawned. “Did I say anything interesting?”

“Um … kind of.”

Cat thought the first part of the prophecy might be describing the wheels portrayed in the Triumph of Eternity. She remembered the painting the High Priest had shown them, and how the wheels in its corners had animal faces inside. Then “the glory of the Lord” probably referred to the Master of Misrule. But who were the cherubs, and what kind of offering did they need? And as for the Empress … Could
she
have the answer to Cat’s more personal quest—the identity of her parents’ killer?

Sudden hope flared. Cat thought of what Toby had said about Eternity allowing them to control the Game and all of its triumphs. It would give her Justice along with Misrule. But if she became Queen of Swords at the end of this move, she could go where she liked in the Arcanum.… She might even have the Empress among her own cards.… She could go and ask—

The High Priestess spat on one of her silk scarves and set about scrubbing the oil off her mouth. “Goody. Don’t forget there’s a falsehood, though.”

“Falsehood?” A car alarm was beeping close by, but Cat was distracted by something else she’d heard—a kind of rasping groan—echoing around the floor below.

“Mmm. There’s always one untruth in my prophecies. Trouble is, I never know which one.” She peeped at Cat slyly from behind her scarf. “You’ll have to ask my brother.”

“The High Priest?”

“Don’t be daft. No, my brother’s Asterion. He’s kept down there.”

She flapped her hand at the floor. As if in response, there was another groan, this one ending with a bellow.

Cat’s heart seemed to jolt.

“It’s funny, isn’t it? Here I am, telling you lots of important things, things you need to win the Game, and you don’t know which of them you can trust!” The High Priestess’s giggle sounded particularly strange coming out of her blackened mouth. “Asterion can tell you, though. He’s the only one who knows when I’m not speaking the truth. But if you want to ask him, you’ll have to be quick—he’ll be starting the change soon.”

“The change?” Cat asked.

“Yes. From man to …” The High Priestess patted her horned headdress. “Well, you’ll find out soon enough!”

Cat felt another jolt. “How do I find him?”

The girl poked her tongue out at her. “Follow the arrows, silly.”

There were, indeed, large yellow arrows painted on the floor to direct the traffic. The one closest to them was indicating a ramp down to the next level—down to where the groaning was coming from. There was nothing Cat wanted less than to go deeper into this place, to where sounds of pain and fury echoed underground. But it was pretty clear that winning this move meant getting a workable prophecy. So she left the High Priestess to play with her lucky charm, and followed the arrow trail.

It was on the next story that she found the King of Swords. Alastor was slumped against a concrete pillar, a gaping wound gored in his side. He was breathing, but only just.

Now Cat truly understood the nature of Misrule’s punishment. If Cat didn’t find a way to win this card, and break the cycle of failure that Alastor was trapped in, he would survive the move only to suffer something equally terrible in the next one. And the next. And so on, for all eternity …

She looked at her onetime nemesis, bleeding on the floor. His eyes were closed. She remembered his former power, the steely chill beneath his charm. Alastor had had countless years, centuries even, to rule the Game and manipulate his players. Many of his knights had suffered just as he did now. But Cat could feel no sense of triumph. For both their sakes, she had to get on and finish this move, and defeat whatever monster had defeated him.

The level below was empty, but the groaning was louder, interspersed with bellows and the shrilling of more car alarms. Cat followed the yellow arrows through the pillars and down another ramp, then another. The ceilings were
getting lower, with only a few stuttering fluorescent tubes here and there. By now it was very hot and the overpowering smell of oil and exhaust was making her feel sick.

Four levels down from the High Priestess, Cat found her brother. In the center of the floor, a man was strapped down on a concrete slab. He was huge and muscular, wrapped around with metal chains. His naked torso glistened with sweat as he twisted and heaved against his bonds.

The man had a broad, strong face and thick, curly black hair. His nostrils flared and his eyes rolled as Cat approached. She came to a halt by a pillar a little distance from the slab.

“I—please—um—I’ve had the oracle. Can you tell me, please, which—”

He roared at her. It didn’t sound human at all.

“Stay back,” he said thickly. “Back.” Getting the words out made him grunt with effort, his mouth flecked with foam. Tufts of black hair sprouted on his chin and out of his nostrils and eyebrows, and ran up from his chest to grow over his face, which bulged and broadened. The change the High Priestess spoke of had begun. But the eyes that turned to Cat were wide and hazel, and filled with human anguish.

“P-please tell me. Which is the false prophecy?”

He roared again, and the chains clanked. His body was swelling into even greater strength and bulk. Two dark brown lumps had begun to protrude from the curling hair on his forehead.