He stopped, crying out as the sword in his hand fell away. Then Charles looked again, his stomach turning over as he realized it had not just been the sword that had fallen. So had Whitby’s hand.
Whitby was bellowing now, clutching his bloody stump to his chest. He glared at Charles, but for the first time in Charles’s memory, he looked frightened. “What did you do?” He backed away. “What did—”
Charles screamed as he watched an invisible claw slash across Whitby’s face and cut his mouth and most of his tongue away.
It went quickly after that: ears, half an arm, the other hand, then nose and feet, and then, with sick humor, his shriveled old penis. Charles turned his face away and put his arms over his head, but the demon pressed the images into his mind, making him watch it all, making him feel each cut until he was heaving and writhing and half-mad.
“And now for the next,” the demon whispered when it was done.
Sobbing, Charles scrambled off Jonathan and pushed him into the Void again—away, away, he needs to go away! But he felt him land not miles away safe at the inn as he intended—instead he heard a heavy clunk on the ground outside the open front door. The magic dome—Madeline’s spell! It was still intact! Then how had they come in? How had the demon and Whitby come in?
“Through the door. We all have come through the open door. And now you must go through it too.”
Charles felt it moving toward him.
“Wait!” Charles cried. He felt his heart pounding at the top of his throat. “Wait…! Wait! Wait!”
The demon did not wait. A shimmering silver body appeared before him, and it opened its mouth, its jaw stretching fantastically wide to take Charles’s flesh inside its jaws. Charles felt the sharp rending of his body, felt the pain; he let his spirit drift out, up to the Plane, and on up to the Void.
The demon grinned up at him. Then rose up behind him, opened wide again—
And Charles knew nothing more.
Chapter Fourteen
l’amara
light
The Lord is their light and their candle to see.
Light and love will lead all, one by one, back to me.
When Madeline opened her eyes, they were already surrounding her.
“She lingers in sleep,” one of them said. “She keeps no eye open for danger or need.”
“She reeks of sex,” said another. “She is sated and soft.”
“She is a perversion of the magic she carries inside her.”
“And yet she has cast often and deeply.”
“Heresy.”
“Blasphemy.”
Madeline sat straight up in the bed, blinking her heavy sleep away. Twelve black-robed, veiled figures stood in a semicircle around the bed, their hands raised in judgment. The witch’s Council had come.
Madeline clutched the bedclothes to her body and turned to the witches near the center of the half circle. “Wait,” she said. “Wait, please. You must listen to me. There is so much you need to know.”
“We will not listen to one who has broken the Covenants,” a witch replied. “We have felt your disturbances of the Craft and your insults to the Source. We need to know nothing more.”
Madeline held out her hand, shifting her legs behind her so she could sit higher. She shoved aside her fear and focused on being heard. “No, please! There are things I have seen! Wonders, dangers—so much more, and yet I have just begun to discover what magic has in store!”
“She is arrogant,” one of the witches to the right said.
“She believes she is the first to see such things and try to claim them.”
Madeline started. “You—you mean you already knew? You knew about moving things in and out of the Void, about not needing the guides?” She felt the force of magic around them, and she could tell that they did. “But…but why has this information not been shared?”
“Because the Craft is a discipline,” said a witch on the left. “Not an art. We will not change. We will not let the Circle be altered.”
“You know very well the world is not a circle but a sphere,” Madeline said. Her voice felt dark and dangerous in her throat. She had thought she would be trembling when she faced the Council. She’d thought she would be full of shame. She had never dreamed she would be so angry.
“The world is not strong enough to sustain the idea of a Sacred Sphere,” one from the center said. “And it will never be.”
“How do you know?” Madeline shot back. “And don’t tell me about your visions and calculations! How can you know, unless you have tried?”
“The world will fail. It will fall into chaos and disorder. There will be much darkness and despair.”
“There is darkness and despair now.” Madeline rose to her knees, letting the sheet fall away. “Chaos and disorder are necessary for creation. You taught me this. The Craft taught me this. Chaos and disorder are the food of life. And life grows across the landscape of darkness and pain, creating its own landscape as it goes.”
“A witch must be above such things,” a center witch said. “A witch is always a guardian and a guide.”
“But how do we know how to guide life,” Madeline asked, “unless we ourselves live?”
“Blasphemy,” a witch on the left whispered.
“Heretic,” said another on the right.
“She must be ended.”
“She must be returned to the cradle to begin again.”
As one, the witches raised their hands.
They shifted themselves around the bed to form a circle, forcing Madeline inside it from her position on the bed.
“Madeline Elliott, Apprentice to the witch of the Rothborne Moor,” a witch in the center called out. “Come forward and accept your judgment.”
It was over. Madeline felt dizzy and hot. It cannot be over! she wanted to shout. It couldn’t be! It couldn’t end like this! It wasn’t meant to end like this!
He said he went to return to me! The White Charles said he was coming back to me, and I will not be there!
The witches were beginning to chant. Madeline’s breath was coming fast, so she closed her eyes and made herself calm and think. No. There was a way out. She could feel it. She just had to find the way to get out, to get away, to find a safe place—
The solution came to her, but she did not rejoice. In fact, she went very cold.
She couldn’t go there, to the true Void. What if she was wrong? What if no one came to claim her, to bring her back? What if no one could? No safety! Nothing! She could be lost forever! She would become nothing—simply, completely nothing!
Trust, a soft voice whispered in her mind. She was surprised—and moved—to find it was her own.
There was a White Charles. There could be a White Madeline.
Madeline shut her eyes and drew a long breath, for she knew she would need to make it last. She called all her power to her, all that the Craft had given her and what she had found with Charles. She called it all, and she held it, and she waited.
“Madeline Elliott, Daughter of the Craft, we release you.”
The Circle closed. And Madeline let go.
* * *
When the sudden flame of a lantern cut into the deep dark, Emily and Stephen clung to each other, ready for the worst. But when Emily saw the face above the light, she cried out in relief and rose, drawing up Stephen behind her. “Timothy!”
He smiled and shifted the lantern to the side as he opened his arms to embrace her, but Emily saw the shadows on his face, ones cast by more than just the dark around them.
“It’s time for the two of you to move.” He sounded very weary. “There are things I must show you and tell you, and we do not have much time.”
“What is happening?” Stephen demanded, and Emily noticed how he frowned at where Timothy touched her arm. He took her other hand and tugged her back to his side. “Fielding, what is this madness?”
“It is very, very complicated.” Emily ached for him. He looked as if he carried the en
tire world on his shoulders. But to them he only smiled and gestured with the lantern down another dark hall. “Come.”
Stephen hesitated, but Emily pulled him on. Timothy led them down, she noticed, deep and down, farther and farther into the dark.
“What has happened to this place?” Emily asked. “It was always day when we came here, and so lush and beautiful. Was it a trap? Was it all a lie?”
“The Old Ones have gone into the darkness, and so there can be no more light until it is put back again.” Timothy paused, considered right and left, then turned left. “That is what we go to prepare for now.”
“The ghosts turned on us,” Stephen said angrily. “They tried to hurt Emily—”
“They frightened her,” Timothy corrected. “There is a great difference.”
“How do you know?” Stephen demanded. “Are you in on the plot?”
Timothy stopped walking and turned around. He held the lantern high and looked Stephen directly in the eye. “If you keep insisting on knowing, I warn you, I will tell you.”
Stephen’s hands clenched at his sides, and he lifted his chin. “I insist. And I will continue to do so.”
“So be it.” Timothy passed the lantern to Emily; for a moment she thought she saw relief mix with the misery on Timothy’s face. No, don’t! she yearned to shout at Stephen. But it was too late. Timothy was already placing his hands on Stephen’s shoulders and leaning forward to whisper in his ear.
Emily did not understand what Timothy said. It sounded to her like the androghenie song before she had learned to speak it, but this speech was deeper and lower. She did not know the words, but the sound of them alone tore her apart. Her mind swam with visions of emptiness and loss, of paradise rent from her hands. She felt her children scatter and die, lost and alone. She felt her lover taken from her arms, and she cried as she watched him rent in two, then saw him torn in two again. Then they left her there in the darkness alone, to wait.
She has waited so, so long.
Emily had not realized she had closed her eyes until she opened them again. Her tears were sliding silently down her face, but when she looked at Stephen, she saw he was openly weeping, his hand clutched over his heart. Timothy took his head in his hands and placed a kiss upon Stephen’s crown, between his eyes, then squarely on his mouth. He turned to Emily. When he saw her face, he looked sorrowful again. His kiss for her was only on the cheek, but it lingered.
“I’m sorry. We’re connected already. I should have thought you would feel some of it through that alone. Though I suppose it’s ridiculous to try and protect you, for you will know it all soon enough.”
Emily didn’t know what to say; she reached for Stephen, but he was already collecting himself, holding up a hand and shaking his head as he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. “I am fine. But we need to go. He’s right; we don’t have much time.”
Timothy walked beside Emily now, holding fast to her arm. Emily still carried the lantern, holding it low against her side. Stephen came up behind them, but he no longer seemed to mind. “There are things I must tell you,” Timothy began. “Important things. To start, you will remember when you volunteered to be my locum that I warned you it sounded binding. And in fact, it is.”
“Yes,” Emily said. She remembered both the word and the vision. But it occurred to her for the first time that the vision she had seen bore a dark side as well.
“It means ‘alternate,’” he said. “I have no plans to fail at what I must do, but if I should—” He looked bleak and ran his hand over his face. “No. It can only be this way. Anything else would be chaos and madness. But you are the alternate in many things—in everything.”
“I would make a very poor courtesan,” she said nervously.
He surprised her by taking her chin lightly in his hand and smiling at her. “Charisha. You would put me to shame, you would be so skilled.” She blushed, but she didn’t mind because it made him laugh, and he kissed her before continuing. “Such things as that, however, will be between you and Stephen to decide, and I suspect you will be very busy without such pursuits. There is much that has not been done. Much to rebuild and much to care for.”
“I don’t understand,” Emily said. “Rebuild what? Care for what?”
“This,” Timothy said, gesturing to the darkness around them. “This place. These souls. Everything.”
Emily faltered. “You mean…the abbey? Timothy! I can’t rebuild the abbey! The money alone! The labor, the work, the—everything!”
“The outside is but a small part,” Timothy went on. “This must be repaired too—the Other Side and the places beyond. You will need to find them all and put them back to what they were meant to be.”
Emily was reeling. “Only the Goddess could do such a thing!”
His smile was rueful and once again very sad. “An aspect of her, yes. And this, then, is perhaps the time to show you the door.”
It appeared before them as if his speaking of it had drawn it into existence, and as soon as she thought this, Emily became convinced this was exactly, somehow, what he had done.
The door was not tall or wide or even intricately carved. It was thin, so thin it was scarcely there, almost as if it were only a veil pressed flat, opened toward them in their darkness, leading to an even deeper darkness beyond. Yet even by looking at it, Emily knew it was very strong, that perhaps nothing on the earth or even beyond could make its way through when it was closed. The door shimmered, lit from within, but its glow was dull and faint, as if it were composed of slowly dying stars. It drew Emily to it. She wanted to touch it. She wanted to press her hand to those stars—
Stephen and Timothy grabbed her at the same time.
“Don’t,” Timothy said. “Don’t go near it. Not yet, and not for some time, and never alone. Always bring Stephen with you. Only you and he can find it. It will not be open for much longer, but even closed, you must be careful of it until you are stronger.”
“There are no handles,” Emily said, motioning to the place where a doorknob or lever should be.
“No, there are not,” Timothy said, sounding a little rueful.
“What is it for?” she asked.
“Its function is that of any door,” he answered. “To keep things in, to keep things out, and now, briefly, to let things through. In a moment, I will go through it, but I will do so through another way. You will know when this happens; do not wonder how. You will simply know. And this is your duty, Emily Elliott, one which you must uphold, or the whole world may fall around our ears. When you know I have passed through, you must close the door again, and you must walk away.”
Stephen’s hand tightened on Emily’s. She felt her throat constrict. “But there is no handle,” she repeated in a whisper. “You will not be able to come back through again.”
Timothy said nothing, only nodded.
“No,” Emily whispered.
Timothy reached out and stroked her face. “Am I of greater worth than the whole world, Emily Elliott?”
“Yes!” she said, wiping her tears from her eyes as they fell.
Timothy’s eyes were wet too as he laughed and bent to kiss her. “It is not for you to save me. That is the task for another, and you may not take it from him. But before he can do this, I must save him. And to do this, I must go through the door.”
“I never made you a charm,” Emily whispered, her voice breaking. “I wanted to make you one so special, stronger than anything. I kept meaning to, but I never did!”
He had to wipe his eyes now as well, but he was lighter all the time. He touched her chin. “Donnasa. You gave me the most precious, most powerful charm of all. You gave me yourself.”
One last kiss. Stephen was looking on, but Emily did not care, and in her heart, she knew he understood. My Lady. When Timothy opened his mouth over hers, she took him inside, kissing him with her whole heart, her whole soul, giving herself to him completely. It was not a carnal kiss, and it did not burn. It lit her heart instea
d, filling it, lightening it, making it brighter and stronger than ever before, and it had never, in fact, been weak.
When they broke the kiss, the door beside them was shining like a sun.
“That will make it a bit better,” he whispered and brushed his lips against her cheek. He released her, and she watched as he kissed Stephen, more gently, but Stephen shut his eyes tight and urged the kiss to linger. Then at last this too was done. Timothy took the lantern back from Emily, smiled at them, and made a low, graceful bow. Then he turned to the darkness, taking the light with him. Emily held fast to Stephen’s hand as they watched it go, growing smaller and smaller and smaller, until at last it was not there at all, and he was gone.
* * *
Jonathan began moving almost as soon as he had consciousness again. His head was pounding, and he felt exquisitely queasy, but he climbed to his feet, grabbing his knife. He was outside the abbey. Why? He had been inside. He had been arguing—pleading—with Whitby.
Whitby. With the sword.
He turned to duck back inside, the door still open wide and waiting, but as he moved, he looked up at the sky, and it occurred to him something was wrong. He slowed, and then he stopped. The magic dome. The spell. It was gone.
Madeline.
He began to run. But when he burst into the foyer, the witches’ Council was already coming down the stairs. He raised his knife and prepared to charge, but before he could take so much as another step, one of the veiled women raised her pale white hand and said, “Cease. This is unnecessary. The matter has already been finished. The heretic has been dismissed.”
Jonathan stumbled, dropping his knife. His skin was hot, his chest tight, and the top of his head felt as if it were swelling away from his skull. No. No. He could not be too late. He could not have failed her this way. He could not. He could not!
But the truth was there in their faces. Jonathan cried out, reached for another knife, and let it fly. The witch it was aimed at lifted her hand and deflected it effortlessly.
“This attack will be ignored, but another will not,” she said. Her voice was entirely flat: no irritation, no upset of any kind, only the sort of admonition Jonathan’s nanny had given him when he was six.
The Etsey Series 1: The Seventh Veil Page 43