Winter's Light (27 page)

Blake’s Diary, August 23rd

Father used to speak of destiny and fate. He called it
Alos
, the river.
We are buoyed by its current
, he said,
though our course is not fixed. There are many branches and junctions between us and the sea. In this way, we are masters of Alos, as we are its servants.

Returning to Hagan’s Bluff felt less like a branch than a bend in the river. And the current seemed to flow ever faster towards the end.

The first night we passed in this old, shadowy house was long and fitful. Many times Claudette threatened to break free of the holding circle, her will alone seeming to erode the warding runes. I threw her back, binding her ever more forcibly, but still she continued to struggle and so I spent the night watching her, waiting for her to tire and sleep, comforting myself with the knowledge that this was not forever.

And now the girl.

Winter.

I found her on the mountain.

This afternoon I set off in search of the church.

Walking through these shady woods, the rumble of the ocean in the distance, that sense of being pulled forward towards an inevitable destination grew. I felt confident that every step I took was in the right direction. It wasn’t long before I glimpsed the church ahead through the sighing trees. Pilgrim’s Lament. Still standing, though the passage of time had worn away much of its simple charm.

Great holes gaped in the roof; the stone walls had faded to a chalky white colour; the bell tower lent at a crooked angle; here and there, dank green water stains had formed, the church’s tears of neglect. I tried the front door but it was locked. While it would have been easy for me to gain access, it was not the church I had come to see.

Circling around the front, I found my progress to the cemetery impeded by a tall bank of prickly weeds and sword grass. For a moment I was overcome with irritation –
How dare they let this sacred place become wild?
– and then a breeze blew through the boughs, making them creak musically, a drift of shimmering pollen enchanted the air in front of me, a bird called a bittersweet tune to another and I forgot my anger. There is wonder to be found when we are quiet and watchful.

My heart began to beat faster as I approached the place where we’d buried her, a confluence of emotions – sadness, anticipation, regret, guilt – jostling for position. Her stone had lost some of its shape, the edges nibbled away by the elements. It had a broken, careworn aspect. The epitaph was gone, scraped away by a century’s worth of wind and rain, but I could still see the ghostly impressions of the letters.
Madeleine Duchamp. Beloved Mother. Born 1856, Died 1899.

Flowers. I needed flowers. Something to bring colour to the brown and green tangle of weeds lying matted over her grave. I set off into the woods to choose an assortment of wild flowers for the bouquet. It would be the only bouquet I ever gave her so I wanted it to be as perfect as possible. Satisfied with my selection, I returned to the grave, closed my eyes and said a silent goodbye.

The air hummed with the buzz of cicadas and then I heard another sound – a loud click followed by a motorised whirr. A camera!

Whipping my head around, I located the voyeur. A girl stood in the darkness of the church, a camera in her hands. Her hair was the colour of the autumn leaves scattered at my feet, her skin pale, almost luminescent against the deeper gloom behind her, and then I saw something else that chilled me to the core. Her Occuluma was fading, hardly a spark of blue left. The girl was going to die soon. Shocked by this, I hardly had time to rebound before I made my next startling discovery. There was a gold light shimmering behind her Occuluma. A light I hadn’t seen for decades. The light of the Key.

Almost immediately, my body began to tremble with hunger. A purely physical reaction that appalled me even while I was powerless to control it. A Key. After all this time . . .

She must have glimpsed the demon that her light called because her face paled and she stumbled backwards into one of the support struts. The impact was loud enough for me to hear and it was quickly followed by a deep groaning sound from the church’s attic.

In a rush, the series of events that were about to unfurl skittered before my eyes. There would be an accident and the girl would die in the church. We are all servants of
Alos
. We all owe a death.

To intercede would be a mistake. No, worse than a mistake – it would be cruel.

Nevertheless, moments before she was struck by a falling piece of timber, I spirited her away, jumping from shadow to shadow, reappearing in the mossy darkness just beyond the church clearing. She was unconscious as I carried her into the sunlight, but appeared otherwise unharmed.

Mercifully, the trips had been brief and the energy I’d expended minimal, otherwise it wouldn’t have been safe for me to stay with her. Not with that secret light she carried.

Cradling her in my arms, I brushed a stray length of red hair. My God she looked like Elisabetta in repose. It wasn’t simply the colour of her hair – Elisabetta’s had been a deeper russet – it was her lips, her nose, the line of her chin. The girl’s beauty was unrefined though – there was still some of the softness of childhood to her features, whereas Elisabetta’s beauty had blossomed into maturity early. Still, they could have been sisters.

Behind me came the sound of heavy footsteps, and an older gentleman burst into the clearing, evidently alerted by the commotion.

‘What happened? Is she okay?’ he blustered, face beet-red with exertion.

I nodded, motioning him to be calm. It would not do to distress the girl when she awoke.

Perhaps roused by the man’s voice, her eyelids fluttered open, and I found myself gazing into a pair of the most open and expressive blue eyes I have ever seen. Looking into those eyes, I saw her light again – a storm of golden fire – and felt the hunger tense inside me, ready to be unleashed. Prepared this time, I could safely bottle the surging impulse. This wasn’t easy, and might have been impossible were it not for the other sign I saw in the girl’s pupils – the twisting, curling, damned crimson flame of the red Occuluma. Mark of the Skivers. All thoughts of desire and hunger were overwhelmed by a growing horror at the consequences of my rash action.

What have I done?!

Escape From The Dead Lands

Lamara froze half in, half out of the bed. Elumen Var was stirring. Her heart pounded so loudly in her chest that she was sure the sound would rouse him, but the Malfaerie’s eyes remained closed. He was lost in a blissful slumber.

Rest was something her body cried out for too; she teetered on the edge of exhaustion. It was only through sheer willpower, by focusing on her hate for the creature, that she held onto consciousness, feigning sleep till his breathing slowed.

This was her last chance to act. When he awoke Elumen Var would force her to use the portal and all would be lost.

Sliding off the mattress onto the cold stone floor, Lamara drew in deep lungfuls of the perfumed air, needing its restorative power. When her head had stopped swimming and she was confident her legs wouldn’t fold beneath her, she moved to the foot of the bed, taking great pains not to rattle the length of chain attached to her collar. She hated the chain almost as much as she hated Elumen Var, but it was the chain that would set her free.

Keeping her eyes on the Malfaerie, she quietly looped a section of the chain around the bedpost and then moved to the other post, doing the same. When she was confident of the tension between the two points she moved closer to Elumen Var. Her shadow fell across his marble-like features. The chain twisted into a noose in her trembling hands.

Could she do this? He was so strong. What if he broke the chain? How would he punish her? Death. Despite her value, she had no doubt his rage would be all consuming; an inferno. Could she risk death? Not only for herself but . . . for the other.

She could.

She slipped the noose over Elumen Var’s head and immediately leapt backwards, using her body weight to pull the chain taught. The Malfaerie’s eyes snapped open, emerald orbs bulging out of their sockets as he was lifted off the bed by Lamara’s snare. With Lamara acting as a counterbalance, the chain between the posts quivered but held as he struggled to free himself. Clawing at the chain, an awful gurgling sound started to come from within his throat. His eyes found hers as she strained backwards, trying to maintain the tension between the three points.

YOU!
was the enraged accusation that shot through her terrified thoughts like a hurled spear.
YOU DARE!

One hand grabbing the links constricting his neck, Elumen Var reached out with the other and began to pull the length of chain held in Lamara’s trembling grasp.

She was horrified to feel herself sliding towards the Malfaerie, bare feet slipping across the cold stones. His eyes continued to hold hers captive and a mad grin twitched his lips.
YOU WILL . . . SUFFER . . . SUCH PAIN!
he promised her and Lamara believed him. She’d been foolish to think she could kill this god-like being, throttle him like he was a mere man.

I’m sorry
,
I’m sorry, I’m sorry
, she repeated over and over again. Not to Elumen Var, but to the other. The innocent sleeping within.

He had pulled her nearly back to the bed, almost within arm’s grasp. Soon he would be able to reach out and pluck the chain from her hands.

. . . SUCH . . . PAIN . . .

Lamara saw grey foam bubble at the corner of his mouth. The emerald of his eyes seemed to blaze more brightly for a second and then he slumped backwards onto the bed, the tension of the chain went slack and she fell to the ground.

Panting, Lamara waited for Elumen Var to leap off the bed. When the attack didn’t come she slowly got to her feet. He was staring up at the ceiling, his mouth locked in a grimace. Black spidery veins had bled across his pupils. More veins had ruptured at his temples, creeping down the side of his face like weeds. He was dead.

Cautiously, she bent over him and searched for the small silver key that would release her. It had dropped down near his hairless armpit. Elumen Var’s skin had not yet cooled and felt feverishly hot. Trying not to look at his eyes, Lamara carefully lifted his head so she could slip the key from around his neck. His thick black hair was matted with sweat. A horrible stink was rising from his body.

Once she had the key, she recoiled from him, turning her back as she worked at the lock around her neck. She never wanted to see his face again. There was a soft click and the metal collar fell from her neck, clattering to the ground. The air felt bitterly cold on the area of skin that had been covered. Gently massaging her neck, she went to retrieve Lix’s hood from where she’d hidden it behind the curtains.

Lamara had coaxed the servant girl into giving her the platinum garment with the promise of a kiss. A brief moment of contact where the Malfaerie might taste her light. Lamara had caught the girl stealing glances at her on numerous occasions while she tended to the room. The kiss itself was nothing. A small price to pay for a convincing disguise.

Slipping the hood over her head, Lamara passed through the doorway – thankfully unlocked as she’d expected; Elumen Var never locked the door when he was there – and into the hallway.

The tower was quiet as she made her way up the stairs and along the snaking corridors, following the route she’d memorised on the three instances Elumen Var had taken her with him to consult on the construction of the portal. She’d encountered no members of the Var household, though she sometimes sensed their presence lurking behind the walls.

Taking the last flight of stairs, Lamara pushed through the doors and found herself in the open air.

Elumen Var had chosen, for reasons known only to him, to erect the portal at the very top of his tower, a vantage point so high Lamara felt if she reached up with her fingertips she might brush the clouds churning in the sky above. With only her swelling stomach to mark the passing of time, she guessed it had taken the Malfaerie seven months to complete the construction. The materials were not the same as those sourced by Teodore – the Malfaerie had substituted a smooth white stone instead of granite for the outer rings, whereas the central disc was not stone at all, but some other element. It sometimes appeared like metal and other times like water. A mirror the likes of which Lamara had never seen.

She did not believe this would affect the portal’s power. Her instinct was that it was the runes and the shape of the construction that were the crucial factors. And the power of the one who stood before it.

When she’d first set forth on this dangerous path, she’d been afraid her memory, which seemed deeply affected by the perfumed air, would not yield the details she needed for the portal’s construction. After all, she could barely conjure an image of her mother for more than a few seconds at a time – how could she possibly hope to recall the portal in all its intricate glory? Amazingly, it was still there, sectioned away in the back of her mind, untouched by the dark magic of the Dead Lands. Instructing the Malfaerie on its construction had been as simple as commanding the acolytes. Simpler, in fact, as these creatures were far more advanced, their techniques more refined than those of Lamara’s people.

Ascending the steps to the small platform, she was shocked to see her reflection in the central disc. It had been such a long time since she’d seen herself. There were no mirrors in the bedchamber; her grooming was attended to by Lix and the other servants. She had changed so much. Her red hair hung down to her waist, her facial features seemed to have grown stronger even while her body had softened. Lix’s robe billowed around her in the wind, revealing the pronounced curve of her belly, the roundness of her breasts.

Soon.

Placing her hands on the disc, she was struck by a vast psychic wave that rose up from the tower beneath her feet. One word burned into her mind, sending her staggering.

Murder!

Elumen Var’s body had been discovered. They were coming for her, dozens of them. She could
feel
them, almost see them flying through the hallways, expressions contorted with rage, searching for the one who’d murdered their master.

She must be quick. Her heart drummed so loudly she could hear it reverberating through her body.

Lamara closed her eyes, calling to mind the image of a door. Immediately the disc grew hot and she could hear the faint grinding of the rings as they began to rotate. The door in her mind began to open, and as it did she felt the material ripple beneath her touch. The portal was open.

There she is!

Kill her!

The Malfaerie had found her!

Lamara dived into the portal, feeling the air where she’d stood displaced by snatching hands.

STOP HER!

The darkness of the portal closed around her, drawing Lamara deeper inside. She felt buoyed by an invisible current which swept her away from the Dead Lands. Glancing over her shoulder, Lamara caught her last glimpse of the Malfaerie, framed within the portal’s disc. Pale-faced figures staring from a distant window.

She was free!

Falling through the formless void didn’t panic her. She’d rather the nothingness of the void than suffer the Malfaerie. Besides, Lamara knew this state was temporary. She’d been here before. Already she could feel an energy about her, a benign force that she’d been too distressed last time to acknowledge. Guided forward, she saw the darkness lighten. Instead of a pulsing emerald light, a pale blue star shimmered in the abyss. She rushed towards it and began to sense that same tightening, as though she were being squeezed. There was a sharp stab in her abdomen, prompted by the invisible hands squeezing her. Lamara was too excited to pay it much mind.

She was in the star now. The dancing blue light crept in at the edges of her vision, almost blinding her. Through the brilliance, she could see a picture taking form; line and colour blurring, before becoming more distinct. It was her hut; a hunched shadow in a white wasteland. Orange firelight glowed from her mother’s room and Lamara felt joy unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She was alive! Her mother was alive!

Even the persistent pain in her belly couldn’t distract her from the exhilaration that soon she would be home. One last push and Lamara tumbled out of the portal onto the hard stone platform, grazing her knees. Steam rose from her hot flesh, wafting around her like smoke.
Home! She was home!
Flurries of snow passed in front of her eyes, as she sucked in the frigid air, exhaling the last traces of the Dead Lands’ wicked perfume.

Her mind already felt clearer. Whatever veil had been thrown over her memories was now blown aside by the cool mountain air. Mother. Teodore. Vibrant images of both occupied her thoughts, rushing to fill the numb emptiness that had been nurtured by the Dead Lands. She had to find them, hug them and kiss their cheeks. Tell Teodore and her mother she loved them and would never leave them again.

Trying to stand, Lamara stumbled and fell back to her knees. It seemed whatever strength she possessed had been drained by the portal. She would not be able to crawl to her hut let alone walk. Her teeth began to chatter as the icy wind stole her heat. And the pain! Impossible to ignore now. Another cramp racked her body, the pain intent on splitting her in two.

Something was very wrong.

Lamara tried to call out but her voice wouldn’t come. It had grown shy through lack of use. Tears of frustration pricked her eyes. To come so far only to die here!

A figure emerged from the hut and started to run through the snow towards her.