“Then all you have to do is call me out of the Stone,” said the voice. “I just need to be asked . . . You are all descendants, my children . . . I am in your Blood. And I want you all to be strong again.”
“I know the real price,” said King William. “And I don’t care. I pay it gladly, to make my Kingdom strong again, and maintain my line. Come out, old monster, old god. Whatever you are.”
The Standing Stone seemed to flex and shudder, dark shadows rippling across the ancient corroded stone surface, and King William fell back several steps despite himself. A new, or perhaps more properly, a very old presence beat suddenly on the air, something so big, so overwhelming, as to be unbearable. King William had to raise a hand to cover his eyes. The Standing Stone cracked and broke apart, jagged pieces flying to every side, and Something came out. At first it looked like some monstrous red weed that had grown up through the Stone, penetrating it from within and forcing it apart. It rose into the air in sudden spurts, growing larger all the time, writhing and crackling as it spread and showed itself before King William, twisting and turning high in the air above him. The King slowly lowered his hand to look at what he had called forth. A huge bloodred growth, sprouting crimson flowers that unfurled slowly to soak up the moonlight. Finally, it stood swaying before King William, where the Standing Stone had been: a massive scarlet organism in a roughly human shape, some twelve feet high. And King William knew its name without having to be told.
The Red Heart.
The tall, swaying shape leaned down over King William, and two great red arms reached out. Scarlet hands unfolded, with long fingers thick with thorns, and both hands slammed down on the King’s shoulders. The thorns sank deep into his flesh, and he gritted his teeth against the sudden vicious pains that shot through him. No blood flowed from any of the wounds. The pain disappeared almost immediately, and in its place William felt new strength and new power racing through him, through his flesh, through his Blood, awakening an old magic buried deep within him. He felt younger, stronger, invigorated, and he laughed aloud. And the sound his laughter made in the empty gardens was only partly human.
The Red Heart withdrew its thorny hands from the King’s shoulders. Still no wounds, and no blood. The King was still laughing, just a bit breathlessly, glorying almost drunkenly in his new power.
“Return to your Castle, King William,” said the Red Heart. “And call forth the sleeping power of the Unreal. Not destroyed, not banished, only sleeping. Waiting to be called back to where it has always belonged.”
King William turned away from the tall, swaying bloodred thing and headed steadily back across the green lawns, towards Castle Midnight. He didn’t look for the door he’d arrived through, courtesy of the sorcerer Van Fleet; it never even occurred to him to look for it. There was ancient ceremony, and purpose, in his walk.
The King walked through his gardens, and though he never spoke a word or gave any command, everything in the garden changed around him. Just his presence was enough to transform his world. Where he walked, the grass blazed up in a vivid emerald glow, the individual blades of it writhing and snapping at the air with new vitality. Flowers and plants burst up and out with sudden growth, becoming huge and glorious and monstrous. Strange new growths sprang out of the rippling earth, heaving and howling, taking on shapes never seen before. Some of them called out to the King, hailing him by name and promising him all kinds of awful obedience, and he answered them calmly, though afterwards he would claim not to remember what they promised, or what he said in return.
He strode steadily towards the massive stone Keep that gave entrance to Castle Midnight, and the guards on duty saw him coming. They saw the look on his face and the light in his eyes, and they turned and ran for their lives. They didn’t recognise their King. The thousands of carvings etched deep into the old stone, of heroes and villains, poets and priests, and all the old stories of the land . . . just crumbled and fell away in long, dusty streams as the King approached, leaving only a blank slate behind. The great iron portcullis, always lowered at night, rose of its own accord to let the King through.
King William went walking through his Castle, a terrible smile upon his lips, and a terrible light radiated from him, touching everything, changing everything. Statues that had stood in corners and niches for long decades, of human shape and sometimes less than human, cold and lifeless for years beyond counting, now took on flesh and warmth and new vitality, and came happily alive again, looking around with eager eyes. Old, half-forgotten gods and goddesses danced together, free at last from the embrace of stone, singing songs that no one had dared sing for years. Old paintings on shadowed walls became living vistas to other worlds. Old carpets were suddenly new again, all damages undone, blazing with new colour and detail. Cracked walls repaired themselves, and everything seemed suddenly fresh and new again, untouched by the ravages of Time. A great power beat on the air around the King, and nothing could stand against it. His every footstep slammed down with the impact of an earth tremor; and everywhere he looked, the Castle changed.
People spilled out into the corridors from their rooms, some of them still in their sleep attire, crying out in shock and surprise, at strange faces seen in mirrors, or strange shapes that came walking through the walls. All of them fell back from the King, from the power walking relentlessly through the Castle. Voices rang out everywhere, asking questions that no one could answer. Guards came running from every direction, attracted by the general outcry, only to fall back, helpless and bewildered, as the King turned his unbearable face in their direction. King William walked through his Castle, and laughed aloud to see it come alive around him.
Doors appeared that no one had seen in decades, giving access to old rooms and halls and galleries long thought lost. Ghosts appeared, blinking suddenly into sight like forgotten memories, drifting absently through walls and structures that hadn’t been there when they were still alive. Some of them walked along beside the King, for a while, whispering their thanks, before drifting off on long-delayed business of their own.
Strange lights came and went in oddly shaped windows, and inhuman voices spoke deep down in the earth beneath the Castle. Things came and went that had no business bothering the waking world, many of them thought safely banished long ago. Mirrors showed reflections of the wrong people, and windows looked out onto places no one would ever want to visit. The King broke into his own Armoury, smashing through the locked doors with just a look, and all the swords and axes and weapons of war glowed supernaturally bright on the walls, and spoke to him of old dreams of power and revenge. He went into his Castle Library, and it was suddenly so much larger than it had been. And wherever he looked, new books appeared on the shelves, full of old knowledge and secrets deliberately forgotten.
The King walked on, through the upper regions, his power beating so hard on the air now that everyone could hear it, could feel it in their bones and in their souls . . . sounding like some great iron bell pealing in the depths of Hell. King William walked on, and new corridors opened up before him that no one had walked in centuries. He made his way up onto the battlements, and from all across the great grey-tiled sea of a roof the gargoyles came scurrying forward, to fawn and frolic and rub their heavy heads and shoulders affectionately against him, and pay him homage.
King William stood at the very edge of the battlements, looking out over his Land, and his eyes were full of tears.
“King Viktor!” he cried out, his voice full of a terrible joy. “Queen Catriona! I’ve done it! I’ve brought back the old magic, awakened the Unreal! Redhart shall be great again! Are you proud of me now? Have I proved myself a worthy King at last?”
There was no answer. King William looked down onto his transformed ornamental gardens, full of strange forms and thrashing shapes, illuminated by the brilliant lights blazing from every window of Castle Midnight, and he was content.
• • •
Prince Christof met the Champion Malcolm Barrett again, running t
hrough the panicked corridors towards the Court. There were crowds everywhere, clutching at one another in tears and terror, calling out desperate questions that neither Christof nor Malcolm could answer. Though they both knew the Unreal when they saw it. They quickly learned to avoid even glancing at mirrors, or looking out the windows, and gave a wide berth to anyone or anything they didn’t immediately recognise. Christof thought he knew some faces he’d seen before only in ancestors’ portraits, and once, Malcolm ran right through a ghost. He didn’t stop to apologise. He wouldn’t have known what to say anyway.
A woman ran screaming past them, pursued by the viciously grinning husband whose horrid ways she thought she’d escaped when he died. Malcolm paused to cut the man down with his sword. He was still the Champion, and he still knew his duty. He remembered the husband. He shook the blood from his sword and quickly caught up with Christof again.
“What has my father done?” said Christof.
“Given what we’re seeing, I think we know what he’s done,” said Malcolm. “Question is how did he do it?”
“Can we stop it?” said Christof. “Put this Unreal back to sleep again?”
“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” said Malcolm.
They came at last to the closed double doors of the Court, and found the Steward and the Prime Minister already there, ahead of them. There were no guards this time. Elias Taggert and Gregory Pool were both pounding on the closed doors with their fists, calling out the King’s name and demanding to be let in; but there was no response. Christof and Malcolm joined them, waited a moment to get their breath back, and then pounded on the doors too, adding their voices. And then they broke off as the doors swung suddenly, silently, open before them. They all looked at one another, and then Prince Christof led the way into King William’s Court.
The great empty hall seemed even darker than before, only this time the throne was surrounded by a great display of unbearably bright light, almost too fierce to look at directly. They pressed forward, screwing up their eyes against the glare, until finally the four men stood before the throne. And there was their King, sitting on his throne. The unbearable presence was gone, but he was smiling his terrible smile again.
“Father!” said Christof. “What have you done?”
“The Castle’s come alive again,” said King William. “I have given Castle Midnight its heart back.”
“You’ve filled it with ghosts and monsters!” said Malcolm. “All the Unreal dangers your grandparents worked so hard to rid us of!”
“I have made the Castle strong again!” said the King. “Made this country strong again!”
“How have you done this?” said Gregory Pool. “What hideous Power did you make a deal with, to be able to do this? My brother couldn’t have . . . Where is he, anyway?”
“I didn’t need him,” said the King. “This power is mine, as King. The old power, from the old Royal line.”
“Blood Magic,” said Prince Christof. “You’re talking about the old inherited Blood Magic . . . but none of us have had that since Good King Viktor’s time.”
“It’s back,” said the King, still smiling. “I brought it back. The power to command one of the elements. Let there be fire!”
The ancient elemental magic of the Redhart line beat on the air like the wings of some gigantic bird, and huge crimson flames burst up round the King’s throne; rings of fire, floating unsupported on the air, blasted out a heat so intense that the four men standing before the throne had no choice but to back away. The sheer heat of the flames should have been enough to consume and incinerate the man sitting on the throne; but King William sat there untouched and unaffected, still smiling that troubling smile. The flames snapped off, gone in a moment, though the awful heat still hung on the air, slowly dispersing. The four men looked blankly at their King, and he laughed softly in their faces.
“Your turn, Christof,” he said cheerfully. “You have the Blood. Let’s see you do something with it.”
Prince Christof stood there for a moment, frowning. He could feel a change working within him, now that he knew what to look for. It was like suddenly knowing how to play a piece of music he’d known all his life. He concentrated, and it began to rain inside the Court. A pounding, heavy rain, a great storm, falling down out of nowhere. The others cried out and huddled together for protection against the beating rain. Malcolm called to Christof, but he just stood there, his face turned up into the falling rain, laughing.
“Christof,” said the King, “that’s enough. Christof!”
Reluctantly, Christof stopped the rain. The last few heavy drops fell out of nowhere, into the great pool of water spreading across the marble floor, and then that too disappeared. The others swore and muttered quietly, as the water that had soaked their clothes disappeared as well. Christof turned his head slowly, this way and that. He could feel the presence of water, moving deep below, in underground streams and caverns, far and far below Castle Midnight. He finally looked back at his father, as he realised Malcolm had stepped forward again to address the King.
“If the Blood Magic has returned to the Redhart Royal line,” Malcolm said steadily, “does this mean Catherine has it now as well? Will it help keep her safe? Or make her a more valuable treasure to our enemies?”
“All the more reason to get her safely home again,” said the King. “Before they find a way to make her use that power on their behalf. But first things first. Steward, go get my son Prince Cameron. Bring him home again.”
“What?” said Christof. “Father, no! You don’t need him anymore! You have me, and my power. Between us, you and I, we command fire and water!”
“You need more than fire and water to win a war,” said the King. “You need an army, and a general to command it. We need Cameron’s experience in winning battles. You’re not a soldier, Christof.”
“I was enough of a soldier to fight and bleed in your border war!” said Christof.
“Yes, you were,” said the King. “But that was then, and this is now. You made a fine soldier then, boy. Sometimes I think I don’t say that enough. But it takes more than that to lead an army to victory.” He looked at Malcolm. “Go find General Staker, my Champion. Tell him to assemble an army for my son Cameron to lead.”
“So,” said Christof, “he’s only the Broken Man when he’s not needed?”
“Don’t push your luck, boy,” said the King. “There’s a lot to be done. We have to invade the Forest, get my daughter back safely, and place the whole Forest Land under our control. As it always should have been. We shall be one Kingdom again, under one King and one Royal line.” He sat quietly for a while, looking at something that only he could see, and smiling; and then suddenly he seemed to remember that the others were still there. He gestured dismissively at them all. “Go. Busy yourselves. I have plans to make.”
There was something in his voice that none of them wanted to argue with. The four men bowed, turned, and left the Court. And they all felt a sudden surge of relief when the Court doors slammed shut behind them, cutting them off from a King they’d only thought they knew.
• • •
Outside, in the corridor, Prince Christof was the first to get his voice back and address the others. “Come to my rooms. We can talk . . . privately there.”
Malcolm Barrett and Gregory Pool nodded immediately, but the Steward shook his head reluctantly. “The King’s orders to me were very clear. I have to go fetch Prince Cameron home. If he’ll come . . .”
“Oh, dear Cameron will come running home to Daddy, like the good little puppy dog he is,” said Christof. “He talks the talk well enough, but he always did so love to feel needed.”
The Steward ostentatiously gave all his attention to the Prime Minister. “I’m going to need your brother’s help in this. Where might I find him, do you think?”
“Since he wasn’t with the King, I’d try his personal quarters,” said Gregory. “No doubt just sitting there, waiting to be called on . . . And
you can tell him from me, Steward, that I shall be having words with him. Soon.”
The Steward nodded and hurried away. Christof led the other two off to his private rooms. None of them talked along the way, as they passed through corridors crowded with ghosts and marvels, and more wonders than any sane man could be comfortable with. The three men stuck close together, and none of them had anything to say to the many people who called out to them, for help or advice—because none of them knew what to say, for the best. When they finally reached the security, if not safety, of the Prince’s chambers, Christof flung the door open . . . and was more than a little surprised to find things not at all as he’d left them. Even after all the Unreal manifestations he’d encountered along the way, it had somehow never even occurred to him that where he lived might be affected too. The many exotic plants and flowers that he’d cultivated so carefully, that had given his rooms so much character, had been replaced by strange new growths that towered over him, banging their misshapen heads against the ceiling, nodding and hissing at him. Some of them actually giggled at the look on his face. Christof called to his guards, who were watching from a safe distance.
“I want every single plant and growing thing ripped out of my rooms. Use swords and axes, use poison and magic; burn it all back to the stone walls if that’s what it takes. I don’t care. I want my rooms stripped clean, till there isn’t a single living organism anywhere.”
The guards nodded quickly and hurried off to find useful things. Gregory Pool produced his silver box of cocaine and took a good hard sniff. He did offer the box around, but Malcolm and Christof politely declined. Gregory just shrugged and put the box away. He was past caring what other people thought of his small but necessary vices. In the end, the three men just stood together out in the corridor and talked quietly while the guards did battle inside the Prince’s rooms. The corridor was relatively empty, and unbothered by the Unreal as yet, and there they stood as good a chance as anywhere of being unobserved.
Once In a Blue Moon Page 47