by Liz de Jager
Aiden sighs and takes a small velvet pouch from his pocket. ‘I never leave the house without it,’ he says, handing it to me. ‘Get in the habit of doing the same. If you’re going to be dealing with bigwigs, you do not want to be in their debt because they will make you do a shedload of weird things. Most of them detrimental to your health.’
I nod, ignoring his patronizing teacher-voice. ‘Right. Gifts. Never leave the house without them.’ I open the velvet pouch and I’m sure my eyes bug out in shock. ‘Diamonds?’ My voice rises an octave. ‘Really?’
‘Well, don’t give them everything, but some, at least. If the information is worth it.’
‘The information will be worth it,’ Thorn says. ‘Time to go.’
He takes my hand and leads me to the gate. ‘Because it’s iron, I can’t touch it. But you can. I’ll show you how to open it.’
He lifts my hand and curls my fingers around the one spar. ‘Now say: I command thee, open.’
Cheesy as hell but then, if it’s tried and tested, why mess with it? I echo his words and feel a spark of magic shoot through me, my arm and hand, into the gate.
‘Well done.’
I grin at him and check my palms. No burn marks, nothing. It feels as if my skin should be charred but there’s nothing.
We walk down the stairs for a long way, and the water just keeps receding. I turn to look up and see Aiden chatting with a group of women. Most of them are teens. They look like a school group with their teacher. I can’t help but laugh as I watch Aiden gesture with his hands, indicating the impressive suspension bridge spanning the river, then the Tower of London on the other side of the bank. He also points out the warship from the Second World War, HMS Belfast, moored further up the river. He seems to have gone into impromptu tour-guide mode.
‘Watch out,’ says Thorn, steadying me as I step off the last step onto a muddy bank, and walk straight into him.
The traffic juddering above us seems far quieter down here and, looking up, I realize how incredibly tall the bridge is and how very small we are in comparison.
The river laps gently at the small muddy beach we’re standing on. I swing my backpack off my shoulder and find my first-aid kit. I rummage around inside it and find the herb-infused piece of chalk Megan gave me a few months ago when we were practising drawing summoning circles.
‘What do I do?’ I ask Thorn over my shoulder.
‘Draw a door, big enough for us both to pass through, side by side.’
I turn to the wall holding up the embankment and start drawing. It’s a large door, similar in style and look to the one that graced Blackhart Manor before it got sucked into nothingness. I draw the doorknob and a keyhole.
‘Have you heard of the troll runes?’ Thorn asks me when I stand back to admire my door.
‘Uhm. Should I have?’
In answer he holds out his hand to me and I pass him the piece of chalk, now much reduced. He sets about hastily and with precision sketching sigils on the outside of the doorway. They look similar to Viking runes but, as I watch him sketch, the runes sink into the concrete until there’s no sign of them.
He takes out the small sickle knife he threatened Aiden with earlier, nicks his finger and presses it against the final rune. His blood, only a small mark, remains visible for a few seconds longer than the chalk rune, before it too disappears into the concrete with a soft schloep sound.
‘And now we wait?’ I ask, looking out across the river with its barges and tourist boats floating by. Watching the river calms my jangling nerves and I push my hands deep into my pockets and hunch my shoulders against the rain. Thorn reaches out and tucks the hood up over my head.
‘Now you’ll be a little bit less wet,’ he says with a smile.
‘Have you ever met the trolls?’ I ask him, pretending not to notice that he’s trying to shield me from most of the rain by angling me towards the wall.
‘A few times, but because they travel so much, you never know who you’ll meet. And there are quite a few of them.’
‘Oh?’ So, ten points to me that I actually knew of the trolls. All the other points to Thorn for knowing far more about them and not being braggy about it.
‘There are maybe seven of them, and three of them get to stay in London somewhere and work their spy network. And the others travel or hibernate. No one really knows.’
I grin and shake my head. ‘I never thought I’d hear that trolls run a spy network.’
‘Well, to be fair, it’s not really a spy network. It’s more like gossip. Your house brownie will speak to a nixie in the local park, who’ll tell a boggart, who’ll pass that information on to a dunter and, before you know, the trolls know that you’re being particularly mean to visitors by giving them sub-par wine to drink. Reputations are made and broken this way.’ His face is serious, except for a faint quirk of his lips but then he’s all grave again. ‘You really don’t have to come along, Kit. It may not be safe.’
‘Don’t even think it,’ I say, keeping my voice even. ‘We’re a team, you and I. I told your friend Scarlet that I’d look after you and I intend to keep my promise.’
‘Scarlet’s been Kieran’s bodyguard for years. I think I’ve always been a tiny bit in love with her. Kieran used to tease me mercilessly whenever she left the room and I would just stand there, gaping after her. She taught me to fence.’
‘She seemed very fierce.’ I can’t reconcile the broken Fae creature we buried in Olga’s garden with the person he’s talking about. ‘And loyal.’
‘Her family have been bodyguards and soldiers in our army for millennia.’ His gaze is bleak. ‘We have to stop Eadric before he tears the kingdom apart.’
I jump as someone coughs politely behind us. We turn at the same time and take in the little girl standing in the doorway I’d drawn. Dressed in a summer party dress that has quite a bit of Alice to it, she looks maybe eleven years old. Her arms and feet are bare but she gives no indication that she feels the cold. Her mass of tumbling chestnut-coloured hair matches the rich tones of her skin and eyes.
She favours us with a quick smile and does a tiny curtsy. ‘Prince Thorn?’ she says, her voice light and friendly. ‘They have been expecting you. Please, come with me.’ Then her gaze moves past him, to me, and her smile deepens. ‘And you brought a tribute. They will be very pleased with your gift.’
Thorn’s gaze widens but he holds out a hand. ‘No, she is not a tribute. This is Kit Blackhart. A companion and a good friend.’
She looks crestfallen for a few moments and I wonder about the type of gifts people bring the trolls but then I decide not to think about it too much and smile at her nervously. She gives me a brief nod. ‘Ah, the Blackhart, of course. Are you one of Jamie’s nieces? He always brings me sweets. He is my favourite.’ Suddenly, she seems to remember her role and turns to Thorn, arranging her features into a serious expression as befits her status as messenger. ‘Please, come with me. You’ve been expected for some time.’
Scotia – Rook’s Keep
Ioric Brightwing flung himself down in his favourite wing-backed chair with a groan. He was tired to the bone. Everything that could ache, ached, even things he didn’t know could. The room was small and cosy, a fire blazing in the brazier, in complete contrast to the bastard weather raging across Scotia. Being warm and dry was a relief and he relished it for a few moments before turning to the task at hand. He reached for his writing set and began the painstaking coded missive to his father in the Frontier.
Thorn was still missing and Blackhart Manor was utterly destroyed, with no vestige left of it in either world. The trackers could find no trace of the young prince or any survivors. There were signs of a dragon attack, with the energies of both worlds pulled out of kilter. The weather was worsening in the Frontier, and Alba lay sweltering in unseasonably warm weather. Even the Sun King’s Court had registered their discomfort before leaving the realm.
Ioric struggled with the wording. King Aelfric had to be told that his so
n was feared lost, but the person to do that should have been Ioric’s father, the Rook Master. Even so, Ioric felt the responsibility to tell Thorn’s father weigh heavily on his shoulders. He had known Thorn all his life. They’d grown up together, been schooled together and learned to fight together against the bigger Sidhe boys in the palace. Just because they were high born hadn’t meant they were exempt from being bullied.
Ioric heard a movement behind him and gestured with his hand without looking up.
‘Bethany. Can you ask Iko to prepare one of the ravens to send to my father?’
‘I have never yet been mistaken for a girl,’ an unexpected male voice said, startling the young Sidhe warrior.
Ioric looked up and relaxed back into his chair, smiling in welcome. ‘Lord Istvan, what a surprise. No one told me you’d come to visit the Rookery. Is everything well with the king? I am just sending my father a message to let him know . . .’
‘Be calm, boy. The king is well, or is as well as a man can be with no kingdom to rule.’ Istvan pulled a chair closer and sat down opposite the young noble. ‘I have come to ask you a favour. It is a matter of some delicacy and I know no one else I can entrust this task to.’
Ioric flushed with pleasure. ‘You flatter me, Istvan, but my men and I are stretched thin as it is, searching for Prince Thorn.’
‘Ah, that is unfortunate.’ Istvan pursed his lips and leaned forward towards Ioric. ‘I really would have liked to keep things amenable between us. I must ask you to take a look at this.’ Istvan fanned his fingers open, revealing a small powder compact. He flicked it open and showed Ioric the small mirror.
‘I don’t understand,’ Ioric said in confusion, looking from Istvan to the compact. ‘Is it a trick?’
‘All will be clear. Look into the mirror.’
A frown drew Ioric’s brows together and he bent over the mirror. ‘I see nothing except my face, Istvan.’
‘Watch.’
Istvan drew his hand across the mirror and it momentarily went dark before clearing. Ioric sucked in his breath in shock when the image came into focus. His hand went to the curved blade at his side and he lurched at his guest. Istvan raised a hand and a band of black shadow unfurled lightning fast, punching Ioric in the chest, pressing him back into his chair.
‘What kind of coward are you?’ Ioric ground out, his face flushed in anger. ‘That is my mother and sisters. Let them go immediately.’
‘I’ll let them go if you do what I ask you.’ Istvan stood, forcing Ioric to look up at him. ‘Stop struggling, boy. You won’t get free.’
The black band of darkness tightened across Ioric’s arms and chest, pinning him to his chair. No matter how much he writhed, he couldn’t get free. He sat back, breathing heavily.
‘You will pay for this,’ Ioric promised. ‘Know that I will come for you . . .’
Istvan shook his head, smiling unpleasantly. ‘I have heard so many threats these past weeks, my boy, one more does not frighten me. Now, are you ready to listen or do I tell my men to have some sport with your mother and sisters? They tell me the sluagh is hungry.’
‘Yes, damn your maggot-filled heart, I will listen.’
‘Outstanding. I’ve always liked you, Ioric. You seem such a sensible chap.’
Chapter Twenty
Time Slips (London): A young man was found wandering the streets in Greenwich, early hours of the morning, 17 August 1997. Dressed in period clothing dated from 1560, the young man told authorities he was a noble in the court of Elizabeth and that he had been on his way to a meeting with one of the queen’s advisers, William Cecil, when he took the wrong turning in the palace and found himself here, out of time. The young man was still in custody when he disappeared without a trace from a locked cell.
From an ongoing introductory report filed in HMDSDI HQ, 2001
I pass Thorn his sword, take out mine and hastily buckle it on before following him. We pass the little girl as we head into the tunnel leading into the riverbank. I realize that by now things like this should feel normal, but I can’t help it. It still gives me a thrill but mostly it freaks me out. I am on my way to meet a bunch of trolls living under Tower Bridge and my companion is a Fae prince. Not even during the wildest fever I had as a small child did I dream anything as insane.
‘You may call me Amy,’ the girl says as she moves past us down the narrow tunnel. ‘I’ll look after anything you may need. Please, follow me.’
I’m not sure how long we walk for, but Amy leads us deeper and deeper along the tunnel, seeming to choose random passages leading off the main tunnel. I notice entrances marked ‘Elizabeth I’ and ‘Dickens’ and ‘Edinburgh 1885’ and a few more with either names or dates on them. I wonder if these relate to the urban myths of London that Megan’s told me about: hidden pockets of time that you can fall into if you take the wrong set of stairs or lonely road when travelling around the city. It seems likely, bizarrely, but I don’t want to stop and ask our little guide as she scoots us along.
We walk for several minutes before the current passage levels out again. I notice a difference in the ground I’m walking on and peer down at my feet. Previously we walked along compacted earth and rock, now we are treading on something else, something that looks like compressed dark crystal. Shortly after that the tunnel opens up, and I gape unashamedly.
The cavern that spreads before us is massive. You could probably lay five rugby fields side by side or have enough space for three jumbo jets to land. But it’s not just the scale of the cave that’s impressive. There is a lake, trees, birds. It looks like a terrarium. In the centre of the chamber a shaft of light from above illuminates an inky-black pool from which a small island has sprouted. The island itself has a sandy beach and on its shore lies the ruin of a wooden boat with a high prow.
Amy’s been talking softly to Thorn while I gawk at the magnificent cave with its underground forest and crystal ceiling. I wonder if we are still beneath London or somewhere altogether different.
‘I have tribute,’ Thorn assures her in a quiet voice. ‘I would not dream to insult the Watchers and not follow etiquette.’
Amy doesn’t really sigh in relief but she gives a brief nod that is both acknowledgement and apology. Then she walks over to a small intricately carved table set to one side. A delicate crystal bell the size of my palm rests on a silver platter. She picks this up and rings it. The sound is sharp, high and crystal clear, and as Amy keeps ringing, the sound changes and becomes sonorous and deep. I feel my bones ache at its tone. I hold on to Thorn’s arm and lean against him because it feels as if my knees are going to give in. The sound changes once more, becoming so high I can’t hear it at all but I can feel it vibrating in the air all around me. Ice crawls down my spine and I’m horrified to find that I can’t stop shivering.
From nowhere, three rather large trolls stand before us. Two of them are so tall my neck hurts staring up at them. The other is less tall, maybe only seven feet, and I think he must be the youngest of the three. They are human in shape, with two arms and two legs and a head. But everything else about them is richly earth coloured and they look as if they are fused from earth and rock and marbled stone. One troll has a small tree growing from his shoulder but seems oblivious to its presence. Their features are rough, with prominent brows, large jaws and bulging eyes. Some things I’ve met in the past year were big but have little presence. These creatures have a presence about them that makes me feel small and insignificant. I resist the urge to step further back, into the shadows. I draw my courage together and stand my ground next to Thorn.
Amy is talking to them in a rapid language that sounds like Greek. She gestures to Thorn and to me, giving our names and, with introductions over, she moves aside to come and stand next to me.
Thorn moves towards them, seemingly unfazed by their impassive gazes. It feels an eternity that they just stand there, the silence only broken by the soft drip, drip of water somewhere in the cave.
Amy gives my hand a little s
queeze, before rummaging in her pocket and coming up with a wrapped sweet. ‘You’re doing really well,’ she says, her voice encouraging. ‘The first time I met them I fainted. I was sure they were going to eat me.’ Her smile is teasing. ‘But of course trolls don’t often eat people. Only ogres do that.’ She made a face, sticking her tongue out, showing me how gross the thought of eating humans was to her.
My answering smile is weak. ‘What are they doing?’ I ask her. ‘They’re just standing there, staring at Thorn.’
‘They are talking. Watch.’
I don’t see a thing. Nothing. But then I try a trick I learned when I was very little and I could just catch glimpses of the tiny faeries flitting about my room. I was desperate to see them for real and eventually I figured it out. If you narrow your eyes, concentrate and then peer steadily from the corner of your eyes, you tend to see things.
At first I don’t see anything really, but I sense colours and I become aware of almost imperceptible movements of their faces. Then suddenly, Thorn turns to me and beckons me forward.
Amy’s hand slips from mine and we walk forward together.
‘This is Kit Blackhart. She is my companion in this quest.’
I don’t like the sound of that but I put a smile on my face and, as I stare at the faces of the three trolls, I have a feeling that they know exactly who I am and aren’t too impressed.
‘We know you rescued the prince, Blackhart. For that brave act we name you troll friend and pledge our honesty and wisdom to your cause.’ Their mouths don’t move but I hear them speaking in unison in my head. It is an oddly soothing feeling and not at all as intrusive as I thought it would be.