For ne'er have I know such sweet delights as thee."
Sive reached over her shoulder and grabbing Will, now his hair was between her long, slender fingers. Her teeth ground together determined not to cry out as wantonly as he obviously wanted her to. Yet there was something else, a delicious flow of Art feeding into her. Somehow the Bard’s grasp of earth magic was feeding her. It added to her pleasure as nerves and sinews denied Art for so long tingled and ran with it. As she pulled herself closer to his body, their sweat mingling, a sweet musk now wafting in the air around her as he recited though his own ragged breath.
"No, you are not of darkness bred,
Nor art thou a curse wished upon an enemy.
Thou are true and sweet, a purest love divine
And upon chasing the bard, your desire is wholly mine."
It was not his best or greatest piece, but considering their position and the scent of madness in the air, it did impress her. Sive laughed and groaned and abandoned herself. The Bard had her, and she found miraculously that she enjoyed it.
14
The inaudible and noiseless foot of Time
The Court danced, and the air was full of laughter and sprites. Auberon tried to let the mood wash over him, carry away all those disturbing things he had seen in Mordant’s Hall. Whenever he looked down into Moira’s troubled eyes, he saw them again. How had he not noticed that his love hid a thoughtful mind behind a mask of smiles?
And was it only his imagination, was there not a hint of reproach there too, or was it a reflection of his own guilt? He’d made promises to help his sister, to find Mordant’s source of power—but none had come to anything. Once beyond the uneasy Hall, the heady taste of power washed all those good intentions away.
For the King had no further need to worry; they'd vanquished the malaise, and his people were once more in full health. As Auberon looked around the Court he saw many that had come close to vanishing, and the curved dome of the Court’s interior was lit with thousands of swarming sprites. It could have been the same place his mother ruled over and he had grown up in.
Except it wasn’t—they'd lost Brigit, so there was no chance of her bursting in and remonstrating him for some indiscretion. He should have been glad of that. But then those were recent memories, Auberon could also recall her tight hold on him after his father died, and the way she had sung him to sleep in the quiet green woods after. A hollow pit was opened in the Fey King’s chest.
“Sweetling,” Moira touched his cheek, “What are you thinking?”
How could he tell her? What words were there to describe this alien alarm that had been building in him? She’d loved him for his wit and his power, now both seemed to have abandoned him.
Auberon opened his mouth to demure when the roof of the Court rang like a dread bell, first once and then again, and again. Auberon could only think it was a horde of maddened birds because after each resounding thump came a terrific clawing.
Moira’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “My lord, I think we are under attack.”
Her beautiful eyes were full of fear when they turned on him, but not of surprise. Perhaps they had both been expecting something like this.
The Court erupted as hundreds of shocked Fey ran for the doors, rainbow clothes streaming behind them. A few of the elder Fey who had lived in the Court of Anu swam against the current, trying to reach the armoury behind the throne. Auberon caught the eye of Brenna, the old captain of the guards, and yes, there was accusation there. The King dithered for a moment, wrapping his arms around the quiet Moira, and in that space the first of the Court flung open the doors. True chaos entered.
A Fey stallion burst through the gap screaming in equine fear, for a many-clawed nightmare rode his back, tearing and ripping at his flesh, and it was not alone. Black masses of its kin were smashing through the doors. In the confusion Auberon’s cry of horror got swept away. The horse was Bayel, his sister’s mount that he had flown through the clouds that morning. The King’s hand came up, Art boiling in red flames down his arm, and with a blast of rage he burned the creature from the horse’s back. He would teach these invaders what real power was.
But something was not right; in the disorder Auberon could not find exactly what. The Court was screaming, the roof falling in under the weight of what were not birds. More clawed creatures were crawling in through the gaps, like hideous insects. They caught up all the bright and beautiful and broke them with a snap. Bayel appeared at Auberon’s side, flanks streaming with blood. Auberon bundled Moira atop the terrified horse, and got up behind her, ready to let forth the full power of the king.
From above, he caught sight of a sturdy knot of Fey led by Brenna; they had reached the oaken doors that led to the long disused armoury. But there was no need, none at all, there would be nothing but a memory left of their attackers soon. Auberon shouted aloud and called the Art to him; confident of the might he had just recovered.
But only a whisper came in return.
The cries of his people battered him, but his Art barely answered. Auberon was as hollow and as useless as an empty jar. It could only have taken a few seconds for the truth to run through him, but it felt like a mortal age, and slowly Auberon looked up. Perched in the crumbling wreck of the roof, Mordant was watching, and if his look was for the Fey king alone, his laughter was for all the Court.
The fell invader’s thoughts thrust into Auberon. The Mother would not aid him now, not once he had accepted Mordant’s power. The only Art he had was his own, and it would not be enough, not nearly enough to save his people.
Auberon let out a sob. Around him all was perishing; he didn’t even have a weapon of plain steel to defend what he loved. Bayel was lashing out in desperation as the monsters nipped and snarled at his legs. Moira was clutching his mane and using her Art in green ribbons to cut her way forward towards the throne. Auberon slumped against her, incapable of caring. Everywhere he looked was death and guilt.
And then they broke through the panic for a heartbeat, and Brenna was there, with her now armed cohorts circling around Bayel. Others had formed a union of Art and using combined might created a sphere of protection. The odd pearly glow in the air that was driving the monsters back seemed very fragile indeed. How could it have come to this?
“My liege.” Auberon hardly felt Brenna’s tug at his arm; why should he when there was so much more happening?
“My liege!” This time she came close to unseating him from Bayel. “We must retreat.”
Oh sweet Mother of All, the woman was mad. Where was there to hide?
At his desperate look Brenna yelled louder, as if that would help impress on him the urgency, “The Evening Realm, sire, we can shore up the barriers there.”
Another guilt for him then; the Art that separated the two halves of the Fey could well serve as some protection. At least there, the Mother’s power still lived.
“Send the call,” Moira’s voice was quiet, but still heard even while all was madness. “Summon your people to the Evening Realm, my love.”
A dry sob lodged in his chest, but his Art went forth at Moira’s asking. Those of his people that lived would hear and obey. Little enough of the Court remained to obey though; beyond the pearly lined protection, only grim eyed monsters lurked, wetting their claws in Fey blood. Brenna and the rest of her warriors were pulling him away, summoning Art to wing them to the Evening Realm, but as he looked back Mordant’s eyes were boring into them.
Auberon held Moira tighter, for their foe was smiling, and his creatures were not following them. The King grew more and more afraid, even when they broke through to the shelter of the Evening Realm. Once again he could not place why.
Moira interrupted him, clasping his fingers as they entered the purple, sweet smelling mists. “My lord...”
Auberon heard her gasp go through him like it was his own. He pulled his blood-soaked hands from Moira’s waist.
Dimly he could hear the Fey cluster around Bayel, the remainder o
f his people asking terrified questions, but all he could see was his love’s life leaking away. Pulling her closer, Auberon tried to push his Art into her. Either he didn’t know how, or maybe his power was not enough, but in the next moment, he was holding Moira’s still body. No time even to catch her Last Breath, she’d been so quiet about her wounds that she’d slipped away before he had even time to notice.
Everything, even the pain of his people, for a moment ceased to be, and Auberon King of the Fey screamed aloud.
* * *
Everything had changed in one night. Will lay with his arm wrapped around the sleeping Sive and watched the ceiling. His whole body was warm and lethargic as years of pent up desire and love washed out of him. It had been light outside for more than an hour. He could hear the morning hubbub of London rising outside the window, but he wasn’t inclined to join them. Here in bed with a woman he loved was a whole world he had not yet explored. And yet his mind was alive with words, such words that made his fingers itch for the quill.
I should have been at the Theatre already; he thought, one hand stroking the softness of Sive’s shoulder. Her skin twitched under his touch like a well-bred horse. She was full of so much energy and power it almost frightened him. But her new eyes contained only mortal love, and he hoped that it would be enough to bridge whatever voids there were between them. The words entered his head before he could see the largest one; she could still be immortal, and might yet live to see him wither and die. But she would always be perfection; he wondered how he would cope with that—would he rejoice or become tortured with jealousy?
His head could not contain such thoughts, not yet anyway.
Outside a bird squawked, not a rooster, and yet not a lark. Will managed to regain enough of his power and slipped out of bed. He would have thought she would wake at that, but looking down she seemed deeply asleep. She was too beautiful; beyond what a mere mortal could ever hope for; such beauty would be dangerous in his world.
But I will dare it.
He didn’t want to leave without speaking, but he didn’t want to wake her either. Finally he fished around in the pile of papers on the desk by the window and found the poem he had started in his first youthful feelings for Sive.
Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove
The plays and the epic poetry were for the people, but he had never shared these lines with anyone else. These were private words, and he knew she would understand what he meant immediately. Tucking the thin piece of parchment under her hand, he let himself out of the room and into the world.
London met him at the door; the criers at the street corner, the harlots at the corner, dozens of grubby urchins underfoot. It was a dangerous place, and this rose like every other part of the city had her thorns.
By the time he had struggled through Aldersgate Street, and beyond the walls of the city itself, the glow of his lovemaking had dimmed a little, for around him was still the scent of the plague. It had washed over London like the tide the past year, each wave taking more and more people, and leaving the survivors almost exhausted with surprise in its wake. The theatres were closed, and the players were almost at their wits’ end. Most of the group had ventured out into the countryside to make what money they could and try to avoid death.
But with Sive’s arrival, things had taken a turn for the better for all of London. The Master of the Revels had declared London clean enough for the playhouses to open. This coming week, some of his plays would get performed, and that included some that had lain idle for almost a year. The Rose across the river would have Two Gentlemen of Verona, and the Theatre his newest Romeo and Juliet. It was an honour that only his friend Kit Marlowe had received—played in the two eminent houses of the city at the same time.
The Theatre was one of the grandest even though not much to look at; still Will smiled when he saw the tall walls, and the flags even now flying above it.
“Will!” Richard Burbage’s voice as always commanded attention. His square figure barrelled out of the doors of the Theatre, a sheaf of papers clenched in one fist. At first it might have seemed he was angry, but as Will got closer, he could see a smile under his moustache. Will might have served his apprenticeship with the Queen’s Men, but it was with Richard’s company that he had found a true home.
Burbage was beaming. “The Master of Revels has passed Romeo and Juliet without alteration. We can open in two days!”
It was a good thing too. Will was still smarting from his last encounter with the censor’s pen.
“Excellent timing,” Will replied. “I have at least another play in my head right now.”
They went into the Theatre, and Will realized what Richard was smiling about; the whole of the troupe men were there. For months they scoured the countryside for work, and Will had missed them all. Sly was there, blustering at a couple of the younger boys. Ned, checking his costuming, stood in the shadows, while Robert Armin and William Ostler argued over parts as usual. And all the rest with their colour and noise, seemed to make the Theatre come alive. Its days of silence were over.
“See, Will,” Richard clapped him on the shoulder, nearly knocking him over, “We’ll be ready tomorrow to get this play of yours on the stage.”
“Well, it has been waiting a long time. Like a songbird without a voice, a painting unseen...”
Richard gave him a sly smile. “Why damn me, Will, but you’re in love.”
Burbage was astute in everything, and knew Will better than anyone in London, with Tarlton gone. His voice however cut through the hubbub of the players like a knife. Everyone stopped, and Will could feel every eye upon him.
Ned bounced down from the stage and came to join them, “Well, about time I would say; all these years in London, and only a distant wife to warm your thoughts. I’m surprised you could write anything at all.”
Richard waved Ned away. “I’m sure he’ll be even more prolific, now that his pen has ink.”
The players roared with laughter and made a few of their own colourful comments. Once these would have made Will blush to the roots, but now he threw them back in good order.
“Wish Kit was here to see this,” Ned commented, and for a moment they all stilled. Marlowe’s death was still very close for them. Killed in a bar brawl the year before, he had been one of their brightest lights, and a good friend to Will, if an unpredictable one.
“He said you would find her,” Ned went on, “And when you did we had better all watch out.”
Will nodded, but brushed his way through the silence. “Don’t let me get in the way of your rehearsal. I’ve come to get some writing done.”
The players turned away and began their usual arguments over roles that always preceded a play. “What about a part for you, Will,” Burbage asked, “Perhaps the apocathery?”
“Not for a while, Richard—I have a lot of writing to catch up with. Maybe in a couple of weeks.”
Burbage snorted, for a moment looking almost the same as his father, “Writers!” he exclaimed before turning back to the bickering players.
Will left them to it and went to his quill. The tiring room was noisy, costumes flying, and players grumbling over who got the best costume. But next-door was the small office where Will had squirreled away his latest work in progress. Removing the papers from under the loose back of the desk, he sat himself down and got to work. After stripping and preparing a quill, he twirled it between his fingers, waiting for an idea to strike.
As much as he enjoyed the company of his fellows, they had no idea what Will did, how solitary it was. They were all about voice, and communication, and getting their cues, but Will’s Art was something else. It was tenacity, and imagination, and he couldn't share it with others.
This piece he was working on at the moment, Midsummer Nights’ Dream, was becoming harder as he went along. The first few pages had flowed, all based on the stories his nurse had told him, but lately it was as though something was drying up
inside him. The Art within was no longer enough.
He sat pen poised over paper and reached along the possibilities of story. How could this end? The tale was one of magic and a world that might have almost been part of Sive’s. He needed inspiration. The Art she had woken strove for him, delving into some other place he could not name. The thoughts began to flow thick and fast. It was like a river had broken. Will knew better than to question where it had come from—all he thought about was writing fast enough before the thoughts dried. He was really sure he’d broken the back of the story.
He worked until midday when he realized with a start that he could not linger here. Below the players had settled, and were lying about the stage, listening to Ned’s wild tales of the women he’d met on the road. Smiling to himself Will went out the back door.
He had told Jack Merlon that he would meet him near Tower Bridge. Jack had been nursing his sick sister, and wouldn’t go too far from her side. Will though would have no other to play Juliet. He knew the part would suit the young man and perhaps help him show Richard how good he was. Will liked to feel as though he was mentoring the lad, perhaps a bit like Tarlton had done for him.
So he bought some warm chestnuts, and waited in the shadow of the bridge, scarcely noticing the stench of the decomposing heads nearby. London was not a pretty spot to be sure, but there was a certain muted beauty to her. The calls of the street sellers were loud, that was true, but something about this day, when the plague had retreated, made even the goodwives throwing out their nightwater appear more considerate of those below. The streets were full of revellers who had already taken a skin full of beer and made it their own. Some of them Will knew by sight, and he either pretended not to have seen them, or shared a quick word and jest. But she was always there in his mind, an unseen, but perceived shadow at his back.
He had loved other women in London, but never had he been so in danger of losing his soul to one. That alone caused him pangs of remorse for the patient woman raising his children in Stratford.
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