The Etsey Series 1: The Seventh Veil

by Heidi Cullinan

  “Earth.”

  The ground trembled again, but this time it was not crumbling; it was rising. The stones rumbled and rolled themselves back into place. The trees regrew in seconds; the flowers that had choked and died beneath the weeds rose up tall and strong. The walls of the abbey built themselves again, stronger, brighter, better than they had ever been before.

  And above them the streak of light grew even brighter, coming faster.

  Emily shut her eyes and lifted her face to the sky.

  “Spirit.”

  She gasped as the light shot through her; Stephen caught her, holding her as they drifted gently back down to the ground. But as she descended, Emily saw. She saw Charles: Charles for all he was, all he had been, and all he would be. She saw him, and as the Lady, she loved him. As the locum, she made her heart a bridge for him, and she wished it fervently to help him on his way, to let it bring him home.

  When she opened her eyes, she saw that the abbey stone now gleamed pure, pristine white, the same as it had when it had been laid all those centuries ago.

  Stephen took her in his arms, kissing her, crying out with joy, swinging her around in his arms. “You were so beautiful—so amazing, so beautiful!” he cried, and he laughed and kissed her more.

  She laughed too but quietly, and she closed her eyes. Oh yes, there was pain, and in the end, there would be only misery for her. Timothy had warned her, but she had taken the cup, and now it was hers. She might end up as he was now one day, broken and lost and scattered. Would Stephen come for her, the way Charles intended to reach for Timothy? Would Charles succeed? She did not know. She knew no answers, and the fear and emptiness of the unknowing began to knit itself around her, a soft, invisible barrier against the world.

  And once it closed, she felt easier. She smiled, and she closed her eyes and watched them again, watched the souls gather and rise, and she watched their Lord take them away, sheltering them in his arms as he took them to the tower to give them the most wonderful, amazing, terrible, brutal, and precious gift the world would ever know.

  Life.

  * * *

  In the top of the tower, Jonathan watched the light arrive.

  He had been waiting for the fire and earthquakes that had taken the rest of the abbey to claim him too, but they did not; when the light streaked in through the windows, bright as the sun, Jonathan could not help but lift his head, hoping this, at last, was death come for him. He watched through blood-soaked eyes as the shape began to form: hands, head, legs, chest… His lids fell closed, and he prayed. Please, Goddess, take me. No more. I can take no more of this. When he felt the hand brush his face, he flinched and tried to pull away, but he did not have the strength to move.

  “Jonathan, it’s all right. No one will hurt you any longer. It’s just me.” The touch came again, soft as the wings of a butterfly against his cheek. “Charles.”

  Jonathan opened his eyes again, trying to frown, but his face would not work. It looked like Charles. Demon, he thought, but even as the idea formed, he knew it was wrong. The demon was gone. This was not the demon. This truly was Charles. He tried to lift his hand to touch him and be sure, but there was too much pain in his arm to lift it. He could do no more than wiggle his thumb.

  “I’m so sorry,” Charles said, his voice soft but not unsteady. In fact, he had never sounded stronger. “I’m sorry you had to endure this.”

  “Die,” Jonathan croaked. “Please, let me die.”

  Charles stroked his hair. “I can do many things, at least for the next few minutes, but that, Brother, is not one of them. Even without the unusual complications you bring to the act, it is not in my power to bring you death. And I would not kill you now, especially when there are so many waiting to heal you.”

  Jonathan blinked, then winced. Charles was so bright; just being near him made it hard to see, even without his ruined face. But then Charles stepped back, and Jonathan saw that they were no longer alone in the room. The ghosts had returned, but they were very, very altered.

  They were still transparent, still not quite alive, but they looked good and strong and healthy, and they were all of them smiling. Some were boys, some were girls, and some were impossible to tell. Some were older. Some were very, very young. They filled the room, and the walls seemed to expand to accommodate them; the room was now, in fact, many, many miles wide.

  Charles was crouching in the middle of them all, fashioning something together on the floor. “Please excuse me,” he said, sounding a little anxious. “I don’t have much time, and it’s been a while since I’ve done this.”

  Jonathan watched, more than a little amazed even in his weariness and pain, as he watched Charles fumble with four objects on the floor. They were the sword, the coin, the cup, and his own sword stick. Charles arranged them hastily, moving them around, twisting them, shaping them, bending them in ways they should not go, and yet the objects were happily accommodating him every time he moved his hands. The sword remained the same, but the coin fell away, and the steel changed from gleaming silver to pure white. Charles turned the cup into the hilt, glowing gold and bright, its runes set in stark contrast against the metal. The coin he placed at the end, like a cap on the bottom of the cup. Then he held the sword stick in his hand and whispered a word. It became first a staff again, gleaming silver-white, but then it seemed to become a sort of snake, and it wrapped around the whole of the sword, curling and twisting until its mouth was reaching just over the tip. The sword glowed. Then it went quiet, and Charles smiled at it as he lifted it slowly before him and aimed it at Jonathan.

  He was stronger, yes: stronger than Jonathan had ever hoped his brother could be. But he looked sad, Jonathan realized. So very, very sad. And as he realized what must have caused this sorrow, he felt its weight seep into him as well.

  “Timothy,” Jonathan whispered, daring to hope. But he saw the answer already in Charles’s eyes.

  Charles’s smile died, and the pain Jonathan saw there was worse than anything he was enduring in his body. “I must search for him. I will find him.”

  I will help you, Jonathan wanted to say, but he doubted very much he would live another hour. “Madeline,” Jonathan said. His throat hurt so much, but he had to speak. “He said…find her.”

  Charles paused, shutting his eyes as if he were searching his mind. “Yes, she’s there, but…where? I can’t see.”

  “He said—” Jonathan coughed, then winced. “Look…where you found her before.”

  Charles shut his eyes tighter, then smiled and laughed. “Yes! There she is. Yes.” He opened his eyes and stepped closer to Jonathan. “Are you ready?”

  Jonathan was not. “What…will you…do?” How will you kill me?

  “I will heal you,” Charles said gently. “Heal you and send these lost souls on their way, out across Time, out to live again. And once they’re through, we will pluck Madeline from her hiding place.”

  Jonathan could not stop looking at the sword. “I can’t—” He wheezed, and this time when he coughed, he brought up a great deal of blood. He stared at the point of the sword, and he shuddered. “No more.”

  “Just the one thrust,” Charles said softly. “But no pain, brother, I promise you. You have a contract to complete with your blood, with your House: a price to pay for crimes committed. But take heart. I am your daemon now, and this is the Perry sword no longer. It is not the agent of death you know.” He smiled. “Now it is the Wand of Life.”

  Then Charles reared back, took a breath, and ran Jonathan through.

  There was pain, but it was brief, little more than a sharp bite that sent Jonathan up and forward, out of his body, higher and higher on a gleaming silver chain, as he had been with Madeline. But this time it sent him much farther, flying fast out past the Plane, the Void, out past the sky, beyond anything he had ever heard or seen or dreamed of, into a vast expanse of glittering, shining stars. He saw a small cluster of strange, pink clouds, and then he saw Madeline.

  He sa
w Timothy too, a distant figure wandering and weeping in the dark. Mira, he thought and reached for him, but no sooner did he find him than Timothy slipped through his fingers. He felt his pain, his confusion, and his loss. Jonathan saw who Timothy truly was, and Charles, and he understood in a way that Charles never could how much it hurt Timothy to see his own true self.

  I will find you, Timothy, he promised and kissed the back of his hand in silent vow. I will find you, and I will help bring you home, just as you brought me home. I will reunite you with your love as you reunited me with mine.

  Jonathan heard the sound of shattering glass far off in the distance. He felt a tug, first one, then another, then ten thousand upon his silver chain. He looked down, annoyed, alarmed, afraid he would be taken down with them, but then he saw what was happening below and he stopped. Far, far below, he saw a tiny spot, dark and small, and through it light was flooding, rushing inside, then filtering through. They were riding his blood, spilling each and every drop of it, as the curse demanded. But he felt too their healing: they took the blood, and they cleansed it, and they replaced it. They were healing him completely, and healing every Perry and Whitby through him. Jonathan felt the pain of his body flying away as each ghost went through him, felt them healing him, carrying away every last ache of his body and mind.

  With a rush it was done, and they were gone.

  He extended his hand and reached for Madeline. She smiled, beaming like a star, and she fell into his arms.

  “Let go,” she whispered.

  And he did. They fell back down, back along the silver chain, back through all the worlds he could not name and was already forgetting. Around them the blue light of the androghenie danced on and on, zipping like fireflies across the universe, then fell with him back to earth. Back to life.

  Jonathan felt air and breath and fire, and he opened his eyes and saw that he was staring at her, at Madeline, whole and bright and beautiful, alive, body and all—and she was in his arms. She called his name, and he heard her voice. He bent and smelled her hair, and he felt her breath upon his cheek. He felt the warmth of her body as her blood flowed through her veins, beneath the bright white gown of impossibly fine silk that swept the floor as she crouched beside him, drawing him to her, kissing him softly.

  Jonathan felt her magic wash over his body, healing the last of his wounds in a great hot rush as he clung to her. He felt the pain wash away, felt a lightness he had never, ever known rise inside him, and there, despite it all, despite the pain and the terror and the darkness, there, in her arms, he laughed and he wept and he lived.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Charles Elliott Perry

  D’lar ê L’amara

  He was the Lord; he was the Father.

  He was the Consort of the Mother.

  He was wastrel; he was the Other.

  He was the bastard little brother.

  He was the pawn; he was a rudder.

  He was a worthless little bugger.

  He was the Light. He was the Hunger.

  He dared to rend the veil asunder.

  He is the man. He is the wonder.

  He is, forever, the Lady’s lover.

  Charles leaned against the rail of the ship and watched Etsey fade into the distance.

  They had cleared the bay an hour ago and were now traveling south, toward the strait. It was a merchant vessel, and it stank of tar and fish and sweaty men. Mere months ago, Charles would have ignored the former two stenches and put himself in pursuit of the latter, for randy sailors had long been his favorite treat. But that morning Charles wouldn’t have noticed a flirt if he’d painted his name on the deck and lain before it naked in a bed of roses.

  It had been a week since Timothy had gone, and each day, he found, was harder to bear than the last. The day he had been resurrected had actually been the easiest because he was so busy. Once Jonathan and Madeline had been returned, Charles had stolen away to the garden and, with the power of his ascension still burning inside him, walked through Time and played his role as the White Charles. It had been bittersweet to step into those shoes and discover he was, in fact, still himself, only looking better and behaving marginally more competently. He acknowledged that he had changed a great deal in a very short period of time, and he did feel more whole, but he also felt more alone than he had ever felt. When he had finished, he put the Wand of Life back in the stars and returned to the garden to find Madeline waiting for him. She took his hand wordlessly and led him to the Goddess tree, where they sat together for a long, long time, saying not a single word.

  Madeline and Jonathan were with him now on the ship as they fled the country together. Madeline was now a fugitive of the witch’s Council, and as Jonathan had predicted, he was blamed for Whitby’s disappearance and death. Jonathan had arranged, through bribe and political trickery, to accept the blame in the traditional way. He was to appear at court for his sentence and execution in three weeks, and it was assumed and expected by all parties that he would, by then, be far outside the borders of the country.

  Stephen and Emily were staying behind to watch over the abbey. Jonathan had named his brother his heir, and Madeline and Charles had “cooked” his blood so that he would never fail another legitimacy test again.

  Charles had barely noticed any of these arrangements, and even his part in Madeline’s spell had been done half in a daze. He had spent the week of preparation wandering the gardens, the moors, and the abbey. He barely noticed the beauty of the marble halls or the gardens or the opulence of the rooms, even though it had been his hand that had done it all. In fact, no matter where he began his sojourns, outside or in, he always seemed to end in the uppermost room of the tower, the one room that remained completely empty. The one where he had made love to Timothy.

  As Charles stood at the rail, he found himself aching more for the loss of that tower room than he did anything else about his native country. He had never traveled more than a mile out at sea, and of Etsey itself he had only ever known Rothborne, Boone, and the country house bedrooms of his wealthier paramours. Still it was not the unfamiliarity of the landscape to come that upset him, but the loss of that space in the tower, which to him had become holy. It was the place where he could feel Timothy the most, the place where the memories were strongest. It was the place quiet enough that he could still, if he held his breath and strained his ears, hear the beating pulse of the womb in the dark. But there was no quiet on this ship, only the shouts of the sailors and the slap of the water against the side of the Lady Brey, and rather than calm him, every crest of the sea seemed to call up an answering wave of despair in Charles’s aching, shattered heart.

  A shadow fell across him, and a pair of fair hands emerging from stiff, dark sleeves appeared on the rail beside his own. “I did not,” Madeline said after a moment, “ever think I would live to see the sea.”

  Pulling himself from his sorrowful reverie, Charles turned to look at her. She wore all black still, but it was not a witch’s habit, just a stiff peasant dress, less modest in cut than the costume of her former religion but still severe by fashionable standards. Her face was unadorned of either jewels or paint, but her hair was a marvel, long and wild and free, the shining tendrils dancing gaily in the sunlight. She was pale, still, but she was strong. She stared out at the shore for a few minutes, her expression difficult to read. Then, without meeting his eye, she reached over and placed her hand on Charles’s own.

  “It will get easier,” she said gently. “The pain will not lessen. But it will become, with time, easier to bear. And you will be working and searching, which will help a great deal.” She splayed her fingers and wedged them between his own before tightening her grip again, threading their hands together. “We will find him. I promise you, Charles, that we will find him.”

  Charles looked down at their joined hands, then let his gaze shift to the water, letting the motion of the waves lull him into releasing the words that were buffeting so hard against the interior of his chest
. “It was easier at the abbey,” he confessed. “I could still pretend I was the White Charles, powerful and competent. I could still feel the path that would lead me to him, the one I saw at the womb of Life. But here, now…now I’m just Charles again. And I feel foolish. And angry. Mostly I’m angry at myself. I want to hate him, to be furious with him, but I can’t. I can’t. I still love him, more now than ever, and—” He shut his eyes and let out a shattered sigh. “I just can’t understand why he wouldn’t come back.”

  “Because he is afraid.”

  It was Jonathan who spoke, standing on Charles’s other side, but when he opened his eyes and looked at his brother, Charles saw that though Jonathan was speaking to him, he was looking at Madeline.

  “Learning he is the Lady would not be easy for Timothy,” Jonathan said. “It goes against everything he ever believed in. And to find himself so helpless, to see how scattered are his shards and how foreign they are—no, it doesn’t surprise me at all that he ran.”

  “I would help him,” Charles said, emotion clogging his throat. “Does he not believe I would? Does he not think I’m strong enough?”

  He felt Madeline’s hand tighten again over his own, but it was not for reassurance this time. It was to borrow strength.

  “He doesn’t think he is strong enough,” Jonathan replied with regret. “He is a stranger to himself now. He doesn’t know himself any longer, and the only thing worse than seeing the disappointment he is to himself would be to look into your eyes and find he is a disappointment to you too.”

  “Then he is a fool,” Madeline shot back with some heat, “for he should know Charles could no more be disappointed in him than he could be with Charles.”

  Charles turned back to the water. “I don’t care,” he whispered. “I don’t even care that he doesn’t trust me. I don’t care what he’s like or how hard it is. I don’t even care who he is. Man, woman, bird, rock, tree—I would love him whatever he was, however he wanted.” He sagged forward, his heart too heavy to let him stand any longer. “I had only days with him. Hours. More time has passed since he left than time I had with him. But I haven’t been alive since he left. Not in the way that I was when he was here.” He laughed bitterly. “I don’t even care if he came back to kill me, so long as he did it slowly.”