The Royal Sorceress (48 page)

His voice was whispering insidiously at the back of her mind, fiendishly difficult to separate from her own innermost thoughts and feelings. Why bother fighting? It was hopeless; Master Thomas was so much stronger than she was – she couldn’t hope to win. And he wasn’t going to hurt her, not really. He was merely going to make her better, more capable of doing her job. She should submit to him, accept his love and his judgement. He meant her no harm. And he knew better than her. And he knew better than her. And he knew better than her…

Gwen gritted her teeth. She’d felt Lord Blackburn’s influence before, but even then she’d been able to sense that it was an unwanted intrusion in her mind. Master Thomas’s whisperings were partly of her own creation, she realised, springing from the part of her mind that believed that the struggle was hopeless. They were putting forward reasons to surrender, reasons woven into her thoughts so perfectly that it was impossible to recognise them as anything other than part of her. No wonder so many Talkers went insane under the bombardment of outside thoughts. Reading minds was hardly an enviable skill when the Talker was unable to block the inrushing thoughts in any way. They’d go mad inside their own skulls. Even the women at the farm might have been unable to block out other thoughts.

It was so hard to focus, but she saw the revenants and her mind cleared, for a few seconds. Carefully, she began to concentrate on pulling her shields back together. His grip was easy to sense now, but blocking it was incredibly difficult. Her very perception of his grip helped to weaken her defences, for it seemed impossible to keep him out. She recovered a little control – a very little control – and tried to move backwards, but it was useless. It wasn’t enough to break free of him completely.

Desperately, she reached out with her magic, unsure of quite what she was hoping to achieve. Master Thomas had combined two of his powers; Gwen, she was sure, could do the same with a little practice. Somehow, she combined Moving and Infusing, pushing a little magic into the pavement behind her former tutor. Master Thomas had no time to react before an explosion knocked him forward, slamming him right into Gwen. Gwen cried out as he knocked her to the pavement, but managed to wriggle out from under him before he grabbed back control of her mind. Now he was distracted, she managed to raise the strongest mental shields she could and slam them firmly in place. Master Thomas was bleeding, she noted absently, but he didn’t seem badly wounded. He was pulling himself to his feet and reaching for her…

Gwen launched herself into the air again, splitting her attention between her desperate flight and her mental shields. She felt Master Thomas reach for her, only to be deflected away from her mind. The sensation gave her a boost of confidence and she flew faster, bracing herself for what she knew was coming. He could still disrupt her flight and send her hurtling down towards the cold streets, far below. Nothing materialised to stop her. For whatever reason of his own, he’d allowed her to fly free. Gwen hoped that meant that he’d repented of his dark intentions, but she suspected that she knew better. Master Thomas still needed someone to take his place and he’d need her alive so he could twist her into his ideal replacement. She wondered if he would give chase, but he seemed to be staying with the revenants. That made sense, she told herself firmly; necromancers had to stay near their creations, if only to ensure that they didn’t go rogue and start hunting down random humans.

But wasn’t that what Master Thomas wanted?

The thought was a bitter one, but it had to be faced. As far as Lord Liverpool and the Duke of India had known, there were no loyalists left within London. The soldiers on the streets had been hunted down and killed, even if they had killed ten rebels for each dead soldier. Those who could flee would have already done so; those who hadn’t escaped in time would have been made prisoners. And the King himself was a prisoner. There was little to lose, from a strictly pragmatic viewpoint, from allowing the revenants to roam free. The only people who would be caught and eaten – and then left to reanimate and rise from the dead – would be rebels.

She shuddered as she hurled herself towards the Houses of Parliament. She couldn’t let it happen, whatever the cost. No one would believe that the timing of the outbreak was a coincidence. Everyone in the British Empire would know that the Government had authorised the use of revenants to crush the rebel forces. And the rest of the world would be horrified. If the British Government was prepared to use revenants against its own people, it wouldn’t hesitate to use them against other countries. The thought of a vast horde of revenants making their way across France, systematically killing and reanimating the French population, was terrifying. No one would be able to destroy millions of revenants as they marched across the Earth. The entire world would go to war against Britain first, joined by mutinies and uprisings right across the Empire. She couldn’t let it happen.

But she had no idea where to go…

The Houses of Parliament were always illuminated, until the rebels had risen and blood had run red in the streets. Gwen hovered above darkened buildings, part of her mind mourning the damage, the remainder trying to deduce where the rebel leadership would have made their headquarters after taking the city. She caught sight of a patrol on the ground and dropped down low. Who knew? Maybe Jack would have given orders to take her alive.

And if not, she promised herself, she would force them to take her to Jack.

He was the only one who could help her save London.

Chapter Forty-One

J
ack!”

Jack opened his eyes, reaching for his magic before remembering where he was and why. Yesterday, they’d taken the city – and he had slept in the Tower of London of his own free will. He pulled himself upright, cursing his decision to sleep in his clothes, and stumbled towards the door. Lucy was standing just outside, her long red hair trailing down her dress. She looked just as tired as Jack felt. He felt as if he hadn’t slept at all.

“Yes,” he said, groggily. Something felt
wrong
, right on the edge of his mind. It refused to sharpen, no matter how hard he concentrated. “Have they attacked the city?”

“It’s Olivia,” Lucy said. She didn’t sound happy; she sounded worried. “She’s not well at all. Something’s wrong with her magic.”

Jack allowed her to urge him down the corridor and into Olivia’s cell. The young girl hadn’t undressed before trying to sleep, but she looked worse than Jack felt. She’d stained the bed with vomit and she was shaking, helplessly. Jack placed one hand on her forehead and swore. Olivia was fever-hot, her eyes bright and helpless. He’d never seen anything like it, but it reminded him of some of the horror stories told about diseases from Africa. But Olivia had never been outside London in her entire life, apart from their short trip up the Thames.

“Her magic is twitching,” Lucy said. The Healer sounded helpless, almost beaten. “I’ve tried to heal her, but it seems to resist my power. And I don’t have much left after…”

Jack nodded. Lucy had been healing the wounded after they’d taken the Tower of London. Jack had prepared plenty of food and drink for her, but using so much magic had left her drained and worn. It was possible to burn out a magical talent through overuse, Jack knew, and he assumed that Healing was no different. Lucy really needed rest before the dawn rose and the Duke of India started his counterattack. He’d proven himself master of the bold stroke in India; who knew, perhaps he felt that he had enough men to strike at London without waiting for the regiments from Ireland.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. He knew more than anyone else in the underground about magic, thanks to Master Thomas and Doctor Norwell. The French had paid a steep price for much of his hard-won knowledge, but there had been nothing in his lessons about the healing talent, or whatever talent Olivia possessed. Jack scowled in frustration, even as he helped Olivia to her feet. They’d have to put her in a clean room and hope that her condition improved. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Lucy nodded and took Olivia from him. The street urchin was badly ill, so badly that she’d cuddled up to Jack despite her lingering fears of his intentions. Lucy would make sure that she had some broth to drink and perhaps some boiled water, but there was little else she could do, even with her talent. They just didn’t know enough about the healing talent to know what it could or could not do. Jack silently promised himself that he’d talk Lucy into undergoing a full series of tests once the revolution was over and they had won. If they could find a way to test for more Healers, it would revolutionise the world.

There was a sharp knock on the door and Jack looked up, to see Ruddy standing in the gap. He hadn’t gone to bed at all, despite Jack’s orders. He’d insisted that someone had to remain awake to monitor the city and ensure that the rebels didn’t turn to looting.

“You’re going to have to come downstairs,” he said. “You won’t believe who’s just arrived, asking for you.”

Jack frowned. “A messenger from the government, perhaps?”

“No,” Ruddy said. “Master Thomas’s young pupil herself.”

***

In the end, it had been easier than Gwen had expected. The moment she’d shown herself to the patrol, they’d demanded to know who she was and what she wanted. They’d known that they couldn’t beat a magician, so they’d been very relieved to discover that Gwen only wanted them to take her to Jack. After some debate, they’d escorted her to the Tower of London, fingering their weapons in a vain attempt to intimidate her. The swords and pikes they carried would be intimidating enough to the average person but after seeing the revenants, Gwen was less impressed by their weapons. Even if they were armed with rifles or the first generation of automatic weapons, the revenants would still march through them, leaving their soulless bodies to rise from the dead.

She’d never actually been to the Tower of London and she’d been amused to discover that the rebels hadn’t actually destroyed half of the fortifications, as some of their number had planned to do five years ago. Instead, it had been turned into a command post, with runners – and a handful of Talkers – sending messages all over the city. Gwen was sure that other Talkers were trying to eavesdrop on rebel mental communication, but God alone knew how much luck they were having. Irene had told her that trying to listen in to a mental conversation was harder than it sounded, particularly if the two holding the conversation wanted to keep it to themselves.

They’d asked her to wait in a small room and Gwen had obeyed. There was little in the room, apart from a handful of tapestries that looked as if they were a few hundred years old. The Tower of London had been in existence for nearly a thousand years, Gwen recalled. It had never really stopped being the ultimate guarantee of London’s security, despite the invention of cannons – and, later, the discovery of magic. The building would have been near-impregnable in the days of swords and shields. Even a disciplined Roman legion would have had trouble storming the Tower.

“Lady Gwen,” a voice said, from behind her. Gwen turned to see Jack standing there. He was alone, carrying no weapon – but then, he didn’t need anything overt to be dangerous. Like Master Thomas, he had far more experience with his powers than Gwen herself. During their last encounter, she suspected, he had carefully refrained from pushing her too hard. He’d wanted to lure her into a trap, not kill her outright. “You’re a strange messenger from the government.”

Gwen sagged. She hadn’t slept and the magic potion’s effects were wearing off. Everything was catching up with her. “Lord Liverpool doesn’t know I’m here,” she admitted. She wondered what the Prime Minister was thinking. Had he even realised that Gwen had left Oxford? “I didn’t come at anyone’s request.”

Jack frowned, puzzled. “Really?”

“Really,” Gwen said, too tired to be offended. “Listen.”

She ran through the entire story, from the conference at Oxford to escaping Master Thomas – and the horde of revenants the government had been preserving for a rainy day. Jack listened in growing horror, something she found oddly reassuring. The revolutionary hadn’t seen fit to create his own army of revenants and send them out against the government. And Master Thomas...

“I don’t understand,” she confessed after she finished the story. “What’s got into him?”

“He was always willing to do whatever it took to safeguard the status quo,” Jack said, although he sounded deeply shocked. But then, the laws against necromancy had been on the books almost since necromancy had been discovered. The entire country would rise up in horror when they learned what the government had done in their name. “And he was always too impressed by authority figures.”

He scowled, pacing the room. “And you’re sure that the army can’t mount an attack on London?”

“They won’t
have
to mount an attack on London,” Gwen said. Waiting in the antechamber had given her time to think. “The revenants will destroy your forces and consume most of the witnesses. And then the soldiers will move in, destroy most of the revenants, and blame the outbreak on you. Anyone who could tell differently will either be consumed by the undead or killed in the flames.”

Jack nodded. “Lord Mycroft would not approve,” he said, slowly. “I sense the hand of Lord Blackburn in this, somewhere.”

“He wasn’t at the conference,” Gwen said. It struck her as an odd thing to worry about when a horde of undead revenants were slowly spreading out from Soho. London’s sprawling urban areas would turn into charnel houses as they consumed living flesh and grew stronger and more dangerous. And if Master Thomas was directing them, they would be heading straight for the centre of organised resistance. “It was Lord Liverpool who ordered it.”

“Lord Blackburn vanished when we took London,” Jack said. He shrugged, drolly. “He’s probably still running. Do you think he’ll stop to catch his breath in France, Russia, or China?”

Gwen glared at him. “Were you not listening?” She demanded, angrily. “There is a horde of undead monsters heading towards you and you’re cracking bad jokes!”