“Never by choice,” the Morrigan snapped. “I am commanded to do Dee’s bidding by those Elders he serves.” She attempted to turn in the sticky web, but the strands tightened, holding her closer. “And see where it has led me.” A glistening black tear gathered at the corner of her eye and then rolled down her cheek. “I will die here today, poisoned by the Symbols of Binding, and I will never see the sky again.”
Perenelle watched the black tear drip off the Morrigan’s chin. The moment it left her flesh, it turned into a snow-white feather, which floated gently to the ground. “Perhaps Dee will send someone to rescue you.”
“I doubt that.” The Crow Goddess coughed. “If I die it would be nothing more than an inconvenience. Dee would get a new servant from his Elder master and I would be forgotten.”
“It seems we have both been betrayed by the Magician,” Perenelle whispered. She watched another black tear fall from the Crow Goddess’s face and curl into a white feather the moment it dripped off her chin. “Morrigan … I wish … I wish I could help you,” Perenelle admitted, “but I’m not sure I can trust you.”
“Of course you cannot trust me,” the Morrigan retorted. “Free me now and I will destroy you. That is my nature.” Her pale flesh had darkened to a deep blue-green, and tiny spots had popped up on her forehead and across her cheeks. She started to thrash about on the web, black feathers ripping from her cloak to join the small pile of white feathers on the ground below her feet. “It is time to die ….” Her eyes opened wide, black and empty, and then slowly, slowly, slowly, curls of red and yellow spiraled across the blackness, turning it a pale orange. Taking a great heaving breath, she closed her eyes and lay still.
“Morrigan?” Perenelle whispered.
The creature did not move.
“Morrigan?” Perenelle asked again. Even though this creature had been her enemy for generations, she felt stricken, appalled that she had stood there and allowed a legend to die.
Abruptly, the Morrigan’s eyes snapped open. No longer black, they were now bright red, the color of fresh blood.
“Morrigan …?” Perenelle took a step back.
The voice that came out of the Crow Goddess’s lips was subtly different from her usual voice. Traces of an Irish or Scottish accent were clearly audible. “The Morrigan is sleeping now …. I am the Badb.”
The creature’s eyes slowly closed, then blinked open. Now they were a brilliant yellow.
“And I am Macha.” The Celtic accent was even stronger, and the voice was deeper, harsher.
The creature’s eyes closed again, and when they opened once more, one eye was a deep lustrous red, the other a bright yellow. Two voices rolled from the same mouth, slightly out of sync.
“And we are the Morrigan’s sisters.” The red and yellow eyes turned to look down at the Sorceress. “Let us talk.”
thought you were both dead,” Perenelle Flamel said. She knew she should be frightened, but all she felt was relief. And curiosity.
The dancing tongue of flame floating above her head shed a warm yellow light over the dark figure of the Crow Goddess stuck to the enormous web. In the blistered green-skinned face, one red and one yellow eye looked down over the Sorceress and when the black lips moved, the two voices spoke as one. “Sleeping, perhaps. But not dead.”
Perenelle nodded; it wasn’t an unusual idea. She’d grown up in a world of ghosts, she saw the dead every day and spoke to them often, and yet she knew that the voices coming from the Morrigan’s mouth were not those of spirits. This was something different. She tried to remember what she knew about the Crow Goddess. The creature was Next Generation, born after the sinking of Danu Talis. She had settled in the lands that would one day be called Ireland and Britain and had quickly come to be worshipped by the Celts as a goddess of war, death and slaughter. Like many of the Elders and Next Generation, she was a triune goddess: she had three aspects. Some Elders visibly altered with the passage of time—Hekate was cursed to physically change from a young girl to an old woman during the course of each day. Others changed with the phases of the moon or the seasons, while still other triune goddesses were simply different aspects of the same person. But from what she remembered, the Macha, the Badb and the Morrigan were three different creatures with different personalities … all of them savage and deadly.
“When Nicholas and I were in Ireland back in the nineteenth century, an old wise woman told me that the Morrigan had somehow killed you both.”
“Not quite.” For an instant both eyes turned red and the creature spoke with a single voice. “We were never three; we were always one.”
Perenelle kept her face impassive, careful to remain neutral. “One body, three personalities?” she asked. Then she nodded. “So that was why the three sisters were never seen together.”
“At different times of the month, depending on the phase of the moon, each of us would assume control of this body.”
The eyes blinked yellow, the voice changed and the angle of bones beneath the flesh altered, making the face subtly different. “And there were certain times of year when one or the other of us held sway. Midwinter was always my time.”
The left eye turned red, the right eye bright yellow and both voices returned. “But this body was usually under the control of our younger sister, the Morrigan.” The creature started to cough with enough force to shake the web, and thick black liquid gathered on its lips. The red and yellow eyes flickered toward the pattern of spears behind Perenelle’s back. “Sorceress, break the Symbols of Binding … they are poisoning us, killing us.”
Perenelle looked over her shoulder. Outside the cave mouth the twelve wooden spears stretching across the corridor formed an interlocking series of triangles and squares. From the corner of her eye she could see a gossamer hint of the black light that buzzed between the metal spearheads upon which she had inscribed in wet mud the ancient Words of Power.
“Sorceress … please. Break the spell,” the Crow Goddess whispered. “Our sister, the Morrigan, knows you … and respects you. She knows that you are strong and powerful … but never cruel.”
Perenelle stepped back into the corridor and wrenched one of the spears from the mud, breaking the pattern. Instantly, the thrumming she’d been only vaguely aware of vanished and the bitter metallic-tasting air was filled with the normal smells of the underground tunnel: salt and foul mud, rotting fish and seaweed. Holding the spear tightly in both hands, the Sorceress returned to the cell. “This had better not be a trick,” she warned. As she brought the spear closer to the Crow Goddess, the head began to glow. Then it popped alight, cold black-white light streaming from it. Perenelle touched the tip of the glowing spear to the small pile of feathers beneath the web and they sizzled, smoked, then curled and crisped. The stink of burning feathers made Perenelle’s eyes water and drove her back out of the cell.
The goddess’s eyes blinked in the curling smoke. “No trick …”
And then a shudder ran through the body caught in the web and the red and yellow colors flowed from the eyes, leaving them black and empty. “They lie!” the Morrigan screeched. “Do not listen to them!”
Perenelle raised the spear high, bringing the lustrous metal head almost level with the Crow Goddess’s face. The black-white light washed over her green-tinged skin and the goddess squeezed her eyes shut and tried and failed to twist her head away. When she opened her eyes again, the red and yellow of the Badb and the Macha had returned. The eyes started flickering from color to color as the two sisters spoke.
“The Morrigan tricked us,” the Badb said.
“Imprisoned us, enchanted us, cursed us …,” the Macha added.
“She used a foul necromancy spell she learned from Dee’s predecessor to bind our spirits, enslave us, then render us powerless ….”
“We have been trapped under enchantment for centuries,” red-eyed Macha said. “Able to see and hear all that our sister saw and heard, but unable to do anything, unable to move, to act ….”
&
nbsp; “But the corrosive effect of the Symbols of Binding loosened the spell and allowed us to regain control of this flesh.”
“What do you want?” Perenelle asked, curious, but strangely saddened by the story.
“We want to be free.” The voices merged, the left eye still glowing red, the right burning yellow. “Our sister may be prepared to sacrifice herself. But we are not. Our sister may be in thrall to Dee and the Elders. We are not. We did not side with the humani after the fall of Danu Talis, but we did not fight against them either. In time, the humani even came to worship us, and their worship made us stronger. Every war they fought, every battle won or lost, they fed us with their pain and memories. They even mourned us when we disappeared from the World of Men. And that is more than any of our own clan, kith or kin did. None of them cared or raised an objection when the Morrigan bound us, trapped us, enchanted us. Sorceress, we owe loyalty to neither Elder nor Next Generation.”
Perenelle pressed the butt of the spear on the muddy floor, holding the wood just below the metal head, and leaned on it. The muddy sigil pulsed softly, like a slowly beating heart, warm against the side of her face, and she could feel the faintest thrumming through the length of wood.
“Free us,” the Crow Goddess continued urgently, “and we will be in your debt.”
“It’s a very tempting offer,” Perenelle said. “But how do I know I can trust you? How do I know you will not set upon me the moment I free you?”
The web-trapped creature smiled, black lips drawing back from long white teeth. “Because we will give you our word—the word of a warrior, the unbreakable word of the Crow Goddess,” the yellow-eyed goddess snapped.
“And because you have the spear inscribed with the Archon glyph,” the red-eyed goddess added.
“Archon?” Perenelle asked. She had heard the word perhaps twice before in her long lifetime.
“Before the Elders, the Twelve Archons ruled this planet.”
“Before the Elders?”
“The world is older and wilder than you think.” The Crow Goddess smiled. “Far older. Much wilder.”
Perenelle nodded. “I have always believed that.” The idea of the Archons was fascinating—Nicholas would love it—but she focused on more practical matters. “Can you carry me from the island?” she wondered aloud. Her grip tightened on the spear. Much depended on the creature’s answer.
There was a moment’s hesitation, and then the goddess said, “We cannot do that. As light as you are, you would be too heavy for us. Those of us, Elder and Next Generation, who have the ability to fly have almost hollow bones. We’re not strong.”
The Sorceress nodded and relaxed. She had already known the answer; nearly two centuries earlier, she had fought a nest of Next Generation harpies on the Palatine Hill above Rome in Italy. She’d discovered then that despite their ferocious appearance and deadly claws, they lacked physical strength. In the time it had taken Nicholas to find a sword and spear in their baggage, Perenelle had swatted them out of the air with her leather cloak and then used her whip, which was woven from a handful of snakes she had pulled from the Medusa’s hair, to turn the creatures to stone. If the Crow Goddess had told her that they could carry her off the island, she would have known they were lying.
“At the moment when you thought our sister had died,” the Crow Goddess continued, “we sensed your sorrow, your regret at her passing. Free us, Sorceress, and while we control this body, we will not move against you or yours. That is our oath to you.”
Unlike her husband, Nicholas, who was a man of science, Perenelle Flamel was a creature of intuition. She always followed her instinct; it rarely failed her, and if she was wrong now and the Crow Goddess attacked her, then she was hoping that a combination of her power and the deadly spear would be effective against the creature.
“Give me your word, then,” Perenelle demanded.
“You have it,” the two voices buzzed. “We will not harm you. We owe you a debt of honor.”
“Close your eyes,” Perenelle commanded. She stepped forward, leveling the spear at the web. Gray-white smoke drifted in tall vertical lines and cobwebs hissed and sizzled as she pressed the spearhead to the sticky threads. She tried to cut the strands that would ease the bound Crow Goddess down gently, but then she remembered that this was a creature that was almost impervious to pain. The spear moved in a huge slashing X and the creature tumbled to the ground without a sound. Although free of the web, she was still tightly wrapped in thread.
The red and yellow eyes opened. “Careful, Sorceress,” the Crow Goddess muttered as Perenelle approached, holding the spear in both hands. The eyes fixed on the smoking blade. “A cut could be lethal.”
“I’ll remember that,” the Sorceress promised as she carefully, delicately sliced away the almost-invisible cocoon, then peeled it back and freed the Crow Goddess.
The creature surged to her feet and brushed strands of sticky web off her leather cuirass. Then she stretched, leather cracking as she spread her arms wide and arched her back. Both voices buzzed together. “Oh, but it is good to be alive again.”
“Is there any danger that the Morrigan could reappear?” Perenelle asked, straightening up, holding tightly onto the spear. A single movement would bring it down on the Crow Goddess.
Eyes flowed from red to yellow, then back to red again. “We will keep our baby sister under control.” Then the head snapped around to look at something over Perenelle’s shoulder.
Even as she was turning, the woman found herself wondering if she was falling for the oldest trick in the book.
Juan Manuel de Ayala floated framed in the entrance to the cell. The ghost’s eyes and mouth were empty holes, and long curling strands of his essence streamed off into the tunnel behind it like a wavering flag.
“What is it?” Perenelle demanded, immediately knowing something was wrong. She waved the spear and the ghost briefly solidified as it looked away from the Crow Goddess and focused on the glowing metal head. “Trouble?”
“Nereus has come.” The ghost’s voice was high with terror. “The Old Man of the Sea is here.”
“Where?” Perenelle demanded.
“Here!” the ghost shouted, and turned, his left arm rising to point into the gloom. “He’s just climbed up out of the sea at the other end of the tunnel. He’s coming for you!”
And then the stench of long-dead rotting fish and rancid blubber rolled down the length of the tunnel.
parking, snapping and crackling, bright red flames roared upward, dirty black oily smoke coiling and twisting into the night air over the car yard. John Dee threw back his head and breathed deeply; all he could smell was the stink of burning rubber and oil, he could detect no magic on the air. “I’m going inside,” he said, looking at Bastet.
“I would not advise that,” the cat-headed goddess warned.
“Why not?”
The Dark Elder showed her teeth in what might have passed for a terrifying smile. She pulled her long black coat tighter around her narrow shoulders. “It would be a shame if one of the Wild Hunt mistook you for an enemy or the Archon decided to make you one of his pack. He lost wolves this night; he will need to replace them.”
“I am not completely defenseless, madam,” Dee said. From beneath his coat he pulled the short stone sword Excalibur and strode across the empty street toward the car yard. He stopped at the thick gates. The heavy metal was studded with punctures from the teeth on the Archon’s club, and where the metal had split, it had been pulled apart and curled like aluminum foil. Dee brought the sword close to where the Archon would have touched the metal, but nothing happened. If Cernunnos had used any magical power, Excalibur would have reacted, but the blade remained cold and dark. Dee nodded; the creature had used brute strength to tear open the gates. He was beginning to wonder just how much auric or magical power Cernunnos possessed. Legend spoke of the Archons—and even the earliest Elders, the Great Elders, who had come after them—as being either giants or hideous monsters
, and sometimes both. But they were never described as magicians or sorcerers. It was the Great Elders who had first developed those abilities.
Dee bit back a smile; now that he suspected that Cernunnos possessed little or no magical power, he was starting to feel more confident. The creature had suggested that it could read his mind, but it could have been lying. He tried to recall exactly what the Archon had said when it had first appeared.
“Your thoughts and memories are mine to read, Magician. I know what you know; I know what you have been, I know what you are now.”
Well, that meant nothing. Cernunnos claimed he knew Dee’s thoughts but had not proved it in any way. Dee knew that his Elder had briefed the Archon.
“The Alchemyst, Flamel, and the children are with the Saracen Knight and the Bard behind their makeshift metal fortress. You want me and the Wild Hunt to force an entrance for you.”
Cernunnos had not revealed anything new, either. It was merely repeating a fact—a fact Dee already knew—and then stating the orders it had received from the Elder. It had only made it sound as if it were reading Dee’s thoughts.
Dr. John Dee laughed softly. The creature was certainly ancient, powerful and undoubtedly deadly. But suddenly, it didn’t seem quite so frightening.
Gripping the sword tightly, he slipped through the entrance into the narrow metal alleyway. He could hear the fire; it was closer now, crackling and moaning, painting the walls in dancing darting shadows. Dee realized that with every step, he sent up billowing clouds of gritty dust. Squeezing his lips tightly shut, he pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his mouth: he didn’t want to breathe in the gritty remains of the Wild Hunt. He’d been a magician, a sorcerer, a necromancer and an alchemist for too long, and could easily imagine what foul properties the dust contained. He certainly didn’t want them in his lungs.
He walked over stone-tipped wooden arrows and leaf-bladed spears and discovered that the ground was littered with short crossbow bolts. The sight took him back to his youth. He’d attended sieges, had studied warfare at the court of Elizabeth and could tell from the broken remains what had taken place: the defenders had trapped most of the Wild Hunt in the narrow alleyway and reduced them to dust. But why had they not held this position and continued to fire down and into the attackers? he wondered. Because they had run out of ammunition, he thought, answering his own question, and had been forced to withdraw to a more defensible position. Beneath the white handkerchief, Dee’s lips broke into a broad smile. History had taught him that once the defenders started to retreat, the siege was coming to an end. Flamel and the others were trapped.
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