By the time the man emerged, the boy’s shattered body wrapped in a blanket, Asterion had long vanished into the night.
“Harold!” William suddenly declared, and Matilda carefully raised her head.
There had been the suggestion of sanity in that single utterance.
“Harold,” William said again, his voice firmer now. “Harold.”
To Matilda, it seemed as if William uttered that name as a mantra, as the lifeline that would pull him back into reality.
She very carefully rose to her feet. About the chamber stood various men-at-arms and servants, all staring, none knowing what to do or say.
“Harold,” William said one more time, then, as naked as that moment he’d erupted from the bed, shouldered his way through the watching men and half ran through the halls and chambers of the castle toward Harold’s chamber.
Grabbing a cloak, Matilda hurried after him.
TWO
Harold shared a chamber with Thorkell and Hugh off a cloistered walk some distance away in the castle complex.
That distance gave William time to think.
At first he’d raced from the bedchamber he shared with Matilda as though every moment it took to reach Harold would somehow mean another moment for whoever it was to steal the armband away completely. William could feel which band it was—the lower right forearm band, that which he’d secreted at the western gate of Troia Nova—and could feel its movement away.
He couldn’t have explained that sense of “away” to anyone else, let alone himself. The armband, his kingship band, his power, his future, was being stolen from him.
Away.
And yet how could this be? That band, all the bands, were protected by a labyrinthine enchantment that meant only another Kingman or William’s partner in the Game, Swanne, could touch it, let alone find it.
And it could not be Swanne, for he had not told her where the bands were.
Yet she had asked for their location. Could she have scried out the bands’ resting places, and decided to move them anyway?
It was the only explanation that William could think of, unless…unless Asterion had somehow managed to find a band.
Could he move it?
William didn’t know. Possibly. Asterion was a creature of the Labyrinth and of the Game; he was the brother of Ariadne, the most powerful Mistress of the Labyrinth who had ever been, and he had increased in power and knowledge through all the lives he had enjoyed since Ariadne had set him free of both death and the Game.
Could it be Asterion?
“Oh God,” William groaned, and stumbled to a halt just as he reached the door of Harold’s chamber.
He was vaguely aware that he’d been followed in his mad dash through the castle by a bevy of servants, men-at-arms and Matilda, all of whom doubtless thought he was about to murder Harold in a state of dream-induced madness.
And what was he going to do now that he was here? Break down the door, haul Harold from his bed and demand the name of whoever it was who had the armband?
Harold would not know. He was not even aware of what part he played in this cursed Game.
Was he?
What if Harold was aware, and had thus far deluded William into thinking he had no idea who he had been?
What if Harold and Swanne were in league, against William?
No! No, that could not be.
William suddenly realised he was standing inanely by the closed door to Harold’s chamber, so close his forehead was actually resting on the wood, and the sentry who stood further down the cloistered walk was staring at him as if he were moon-crazed.
William sighed, straightened and, looking to where Matilda stood several paces away with his cloak, smiled ruefully and held out his hand.
“Are you well, husband?” she asked as she handed him the cloak. From what William could see of her expression in this barely lit place, her eyes were narrowed and suspicious.
“I have had ill news given to me in a dream,” he said. “I need to speak with Harold.”
“Be careful,” she said, and William knew she was not saying, Be careful of Harold, but, Do not harm Harold.
William nodded, threw the cloak around his shoulders, and dismissed the crowd of watchful, concerned men who stood at some distance. “Go now,” he said to them. “I am sorry that I have disturbed your night.”
“William?” said Matilda.
“I will talk a while with Harold,” he said, and bent down to kiss her. “Do not fret. I shall not slaughter him. But perhaps he can calm my mind. Wait for me in our chamber.”
When she had gone, the servants and men-at-arms trailing behind her, William turned once more to Harold’s door, and thumped softly on it with his fist.
It opened almost immediately.
Harold stood behind the door, fully dressed, his chamber glowing with the light of several lamps.
Thorkell and Hugh stood only a pace behind Harold, their expressions wary, hands on the knives in their belts.
“You’re awake?” said William, and again doubts assailed him. “Why?” Had he made that much commotion in his mad race from his own bedchamber to Harold’s?
“There is trouble,” Harold said, and William’s eyes narrowed.
“Oh, aye, there is trouble. But how do you know of it?”
In answer Harold looked to Thorkell and Hugh, then to William, then back to his two companions.
“I would speak a while with William,” he said, and, understanding the message, Thorkell and Hugh left the chamber, pushing past William with set, careful expressions on their faces.
“You will find warmth and light and companionship in the kitchens,” William said to them. “I have no doubt that most of the castle is awake and restless this night.”
The instant Harold closed the door behind him, William spoke again. “There is trouble in London,” he said, searching Harold’s face for knowledge of what had—was—happening.
“You dreamed it?” Harold said. He walked to a stool by a glowing brazier, and sat down heavily.
“Aye, I dreamed of it. But it was a dream of reality, not of fancy.” William stayed by the door, watching Harold closely.
The Saxon earl looked haggard, as if he, too, had dreamed horribly. William saw him rub gently at his belly, and wince slightly as he shifted on the stool, and thought that the wild boar’s bruises must be paining him.
“Caela is in danger,” Harold said, and William’s jaw almost sagged in surprise.
“Caela? You dreamed of Caela?”
“Aye. She and I have ever been close—”
William’s mouth twisted.
“—closer than most brothers and sisters. Sometimes when she has been frightened or unwell I have known it, even though she be at a great distance. Tonight…tonight I dreamed that a great beast, something monstrous, pursued her through a land of broken stone and tumbled walls. Ah!” Harold lifted his hand from his belly and rubbed at his eyes. “I cannot understand it. What I do understand is that there is trouble afoot, great trouble, and that somehow it involves Caela.”
When has there ever been trouble afoot that has not involved her? William thought, but there was no hatred in that thought. He took a stool opposite Harold, pulling the cloak comfortably about his body, and leaning forward, close to the brazier. “Something is wrong tonight,” he said. “I also had a dream.”
“Of Caela?”
William looked at Harold sharply, but saw nothing in the man’s face other than genuine concern and puzzlement. “No,” he said. “Just of…of trouble. Harold…”
“Aye?”
“Harold, are you in league with Swanne against me?”
Harold stared at William, then grinned, genuinely and freely. “Nay, William. Put that from your mind. I do not plot with Swanne against you. I may plot with the rest of England against you, but I do not plot with Swanne.”
William stared at Harold, then laughed softly, deprecatingly. How twisted his life had become to be so relieved th
at Harold only plotted with all of England against him, but not with a single woman! And Harold was telling truth. William could see it. Coel’s spirit shone so true and bright from Harold’s eyes that William believed him utterly.
Whatever else Harold might be doing, he wasn’t doing it in league with Swanne.
“Will you share some wine?” said Harold, standing and walking to a chest, atop which stood several jugs and cups. “I think Thorkell and Hugh may have left us a drop.”
“Aye,” said William. “Thank you.”
But as he drank, and as he exchanged friendly words with Harold, William’s mind drifted back to London, where he could feel the armband moving further and further from that place where he’d left it.
Caela? No, surely not. Surely?
And if so, how?
William suddenly remembered that moment when he and Genvissa had been dancing the final dance which would have completed the Game, building the flower gate to the entrance of the Labyrinth. He remembered that single horrifying moment when he had seen Cornelia stepping forth, running forth, drawing from her robe Asterion’s wicked blade.
Caela?
Caela and Asterion?
God! Was Caela now so completely Asterion’s creature that she could manipulate the Game’s mysteries?
William realised that Harold had stopped, as if he’d said something that required William’s comment.
“What?” he said stupidly.
“I asked,” said Harold, “if you would swear your support to my succession to the English throne. Your lips were forming the word “Yes,” I think.”
William shot him an amused look. “That was not what you asked.”
“Well…no. But I thought you so lost in your own thoughts that I might catch you unawares and gain your support for my accession without a single blow being struck.”
“I do not want to kill you, Harold.”
“No,” Harold said softly, “I don’t believe you do. If you and I had met under different circumstances, I think we would have been true friends.”
William nodded, accepting the truth of it. “Harold…” he said.
“Aye?”
“Will you tell me of Caela?”
“How strange,” said Harold, “for when I return to my homeland, I have every expectation that Caela will ask me to tell her of you.”
THREE
CAELA SPEAKS
The Sidlesaghe had told me this moving of the first Kingship band would be a true test of my abilities and understanding, but I found it far easier than he had intimated.
I picked up the band, and held it in my cupped hands, studying it.
How it reminded me of Brutus. How many times had this band and its fellows rubbed against me, pressed against me, as Brutus lay with me? Early on in our marriage I had loathed it, for those bands and their pressing against me represented his victory over me. Later, when I had come more to my senses, I had loved the feel of them against my skin as I had loved the feel of Brutus against me.
Then, later still, when I had murdered Genvissa and Brutus had taken me back to wife in order to hate and punish me, I had missed those bands. Brutus had hidden them, and their lack represented all that had been buried and hidden between us: love, respect, warmth, want.
I breathed in deeply, feeling the band as it rested in my hands. It was not cold, as one might expect metal—even golden metal—to be, but was warm, as if it still retained the warmth and vitality of Brutus’ body. Of course, now I understood differently. These bands had power and life of their own, and this warmth reflected that life as also the life and power of the Game.
The band was beautiful. Strangely, given that I had spent so much time with Brutus in the two years or so before I destroyed everything between and before us in the interests of land and Game, I had never truly examined them. Almost three fingers wide, the band was finely wrought in metal that was itself so refined it visibly glowed. About its surface craftsmen had worked the symbol of the Trojan kings: the stylised crown spinning over the Labyrinth.
I rubbed a thumb over the decoration, and as I did so I swear that Brutus’ scent rose from the gold.
“Caela.”
The Sidlesaghe’s voice brought me to my senses, and I looked up.
“This you must do by yourself,” he said from where he still stood just outside the circle of columns.
I frowned. “You will not come with me?”
“No. You must be the one to move it. This travail only you can accomplish. Use your skills, Caela. Take it to Chenesitun.”
I looked back to the band.
“You have not long, Caela. You must be back in Edward’s bed by dawn.”
I was irritated with the Sidlesaghe now, for all I truly wanted was to stand and inhale the feel and scent of Brutus from this band…but he was right, and so I looked away from the Sidlesaghe toward the south-eastern quadrant of the circle.
I concentrated, my eyes narrowing.
I became the land, and I saw.
There, a trail, winding through a rocky landscape. Not the landscape that was reality, for that was not rocky at all, just sweet meadowland and marsh where the grasses bordered the river, but some other landscape. Although I did not immediately recognise it, this place felt safe to me, and right, and so I stepped forth.
The instant I left the circle the columns faded, but the golden radiance that had lit that circle now strengthened to such a degree that I felt I was walking through the noonday sunlight. A path stretched before me. Composed of dirt and scattered gravel, it wound its way between great piles of tumbled rock.
Paving, I saw, as I took my first steps along that path, the golden band still held in my cupped hands.
I was walking through the ruins of a once great and mighty city.
Tears filled my eyes. I knew this place, even though I had never been here. I knew it because I had heard stories of it from so many people: Brutus, Hicetaon, Corineus, even Aethylla. It was Troy. Troy destroyed.
I was seeing this because this is what the band remembered. It had been here, it had barely escaped the destruction itself, and it still sorrowed and wept for the great, beautiful city of its birth and initial purpose.
I realised also that I was seeing this for another and more vital reason. I had become the land in order to find my way to Chenesitun, but what the land became—in conjunction with the band—was Troy. My land, my self, and the Game, had merged to such an extent that this land was Troy, or at least, had absorbed the vitality and memories of that long-ruined place until Troy’s past had become part of its own past.
Or was it that I saw only one of many possible futures for this land that the Game played out, over and over?
I continued walking. Great drifts of tumbled masonry extended to either side of me. In some places the stones still leaked smoke from fires that raged within; in other, sadder, places bloodied bodies lay sprawled across the stones.
I wept, so sickened was I by the destruction and the carnage.
All this a part of Ariadne’s catastrophe. All this a part of her pact with her hateful brother, the Minotaur Asterion.
And what was that pact, that Asterion thought to use it to taunt Swanne? What part did I not understand?
Thinking of Asterion made me hurry my feet. They would know now that the band was being moved: William, Swanne and Asterion. Still in Normandy, William could do nothing but rage and fret. Swanne? Swanne would rage as well, and she might also fly into the night, seeking that person who had dared touch the band.
Or would she? In Swanne’s mind the only conceivable person who might touch the band apart from William was Asterion, and I did not think Swanne ready for a confrontation with him.
No, I thought it unlikely that, this first time, Swanne would make a physical move.
That left Asterion, and I admit the thought of him did worry me. I didn’t know Asterion, I couldn’t scry him out, I didn’t know the extent of his power, and I couldn’t be sure that he might not be lurking behi
nd the next pile of rubble I walked around.
So I hurried my feet. I was walking amidst enchantment, so I knew the journey to Chenesitun would take a fraction of the time that would elapse if I walked the land in reality, but still I hurried. I began to fret about what I would find when I reached Chenesitun. Where could I hide the band? Did I have the skills to hide it from Asterion, as well as William and Swanne?
About me the destruction and horror grew even greater. The piles of masonry grew higher, the smoke and fires thicker, the stench of the corpses more sickening. Blood now trickled in rivulets across the path, and at every third or fourth step I had to make a small leap to avoid soiling either my feet or robe.
My hands tightened about the band, for I was fearful it might dislodge. Somehow I knew that if I let it fall, if it rolled away between the tumbled stones, then it would be lost forever.
My breathing grew quicker, deeper, harsher, and I prayed silently that I would soon reach my destination.
I dared a glance ahead, and what I saw dismayed me. The smoking ruins of Troy stretched on forever, as if into infinity.
It would take me all night!
I began to panic and, in that panic, one of my feet slipped on some loose gravel. I almost lost my footing, and I cried out as my hands grabbed frantically at the band.
I stopped walking, taking a moment to try and calm myself. Gods, this was but the first band, and was going to be the easiest to move, surely! I could not let a vision of the past upset me.
Or was this a vision of the future? Not of old Troy destroyed, but of this Troy—London—destroyed?
Panic again threatened to overwhelm me, but then I pushed it down with every ounce of strength that I had, and I kept moving, one foot after the other, one foot after the other…and so I endured.
Within minutes, in the space of three footsteps, or so it seemed, I walked from the devastation of Troy into the strangest, most frightening chamber I had ever encountered.
In all of my existences.
Somehow I knew that this was Chenesitun, but not the Chenesitun I had once seen. Here were no scattering of wattle-and-daub dwellings, here no low-roofed timber house of the thegn called Cynesige. Here no barns or the soft lowing of cattle.
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