by James Bennet
Ben crossed his arms, the bathrobe straining at his shoulders. He wanted to deny it, but he had thought of Von Hart, hadn’t he? Standing on the steps of the British Museum, wondering whether to get some help, pay the envoy extraordinary a visit. Von Hart’s intervention had made the decision for him. He was here now, regardless. Here and beholden.
Christ, he needed a drink.
“You got anything in here that doesn’t taste like piss? Near-death experiences give me a thirst.”
Von Hart rolled his eyes and nodded at the bar on the far side of the dance floor. Ben walked over and slunk behind it, searching the crowded shelves. Jack was there, smiling down at him. He grabbed the bottle, popped the lid and took a long swig. Better. Wiping his lips on his sleeve, he returned to loom over the envoy at the table.
“So what’s it to be?” he said, tipping the bottle at the ceiling, at an imagined sky. “A flight up there for a cup of starlight? Three hundred years of servitude? My firstborn child?”
Von Hart tutted, but at least it wiped the smile off his face.
Damn faeries.
“Be like that. Next time I’ll stay at home.”
“Fairy, don’t test me. The CROWS kidnapped Rose.”
It was hard to confess this without a tremble in his voice. The fear was with him now, a constant murmur in his heart and mind, spiking into cold dissonance whenever he thought of her capture. But if he had expected sympathy, he was disappointed.
“Well, you will form these attachments to humans. Like trying to catch the wind. You should do what I do and keep a practical distance from them.”
Ben snorted. “Your dalliances are not to my taste.”
Von Hart waved the deck of cards. “Men, women. What difference does it make? They are all dust in the end. The Sturm und Drang of their little lives is seldom of any consequence.”
Ben was glowering now. “Said with your usual compassion.” He jabbed a thumb at his chest. “Rose is of consequence to me.”
“And why is that, do you think? You’ve always been looking for someone to save. All those women, all those loves…All beautiful, brittle and brief. You know, what happened in Mordiford wasn’t your fault.”
This reference to the past jarred Ben despite himself. The envoy had seen much more than he liked. Ever since Ben had fled the Marches and found his way to the Great Forest, Von Hart had been there, scrying his secrets. Or perhaps he’d just read his charter myths. Ben remembered the scene in the woodland cave, sheltering Maud with his wings as her skin and the trees blazed hellfire red…
“Careful, fairy…”
Von Hart shrugged and let the matter drop.
“I’m afraid that your current squeeze is of some consequence. And to more than just you. For some reason, she matters to the Coven Royal. Your relations with her taint her with power. Smoke and mirrors, wasn’t it? Bait.”
“Just how long were you watching them torture me?”
“I was trying to find out what the CROWS were up to. The Lore is broken. I felt it buckle like the Tay Bridge, and now another is among us. None of you are safe. So I looked in on you, and good job I did.” Von Hart snapped the cards down on the table. “Is there anywhere you haven’t blundered?”
Ben rubbed his wrists. The sting of sorcery still marked his flesh. Golden glyphs swam in his memory, twinkling primordial fish. Fish with very sharp teeth. Under the shoal, he saw ram-like horns and dark-scaled flanks, a beast from another time, a circling, fathomless sphinx. And he had been struggling in the depths, floundering from New York to London, following a path of stolen relics and chasing her arrowhead tail…Once again, he felt like a pinball, shunted around by unplanned events.
“I guess blundered is the word.” If pride had made him forget his manners, the envoy reminded him of them. He gave a grudging sigh. “What you did in the car park. You shouldn’t have risked it.”
“Shouldn’t I?” Von Hart removed his sunglasses, fixing Ben with sharp violet eyes. “Believe it or not, I have a certain responsibility. You may have forgotten, but back in the day people used to call the Fay masters. And a decent master looks after their pets.”
Ben let this pass. The fact was the envoy spoke the truth. Von Hart was referring to Ben’s origins. Back in the Old Lands, long before the Once and Future King was an envious itch in Uther’s breeches, the Fay masters had gathered at Stonehenge to discuss how best to protect their treasures, treasures that included Arawn’s Cauldron, the Harp of Avalon and the Twin Swords, along with mountains of gold and jewels. Even then, they could sense the coming darkness, a war that would sever the worlds. The details were sketchy at best, a myth within a myth, but some texts claimed that the Fay lords had turned to a more than ancient wisdom, the few shreds of knowledge salvaged from the First-Born, the gods that some said they had once been. Dragons, the lords whispered. At the dawn of time, dragons flew, protecting the walls of paradise… Dragons, of course, had long been extinct by that point, legends to even those deemed legendary. And the Fay, in their wisdom, in their folly, elected to give these creatures rebirth.
The masters had recreated Ben’s kind, splicing the long-extinct and fabled salamander with the everyday human physique by way of lost science and spells. Of course, it made sense. The innate transformative nature of the beast was clearly conducive to secrecy and travel, as was the creature’s power of flight. Leading a seven-ton monster around would have raised all kinds of awkward questions and likely have caused a kingdom-wide panic. Comprised of flesh, magic and fire, the reborn creature – the dragon – had mated, bred and guarded the Fay in their towers and caves. At least it had for a while. Unfortunately, the masters saw fit to grant the beasts awareness and brains that equalled theirs. In time, some of the dragons had grown greedy. Greedy, resentful and very hungry…
You might have birthed us as slaves, some said, but watch as we claim our freedom.
This was the spark to all the trouble, the font from which all the myths sprang. Myths that had created a thousand fires, a thousand damsels chained to stakes and a thousand lances snapped against scales. The rest, as they say, was history.
“You crossed the nether for me, Von Hart. I didn’t think that was possible.”
The envoy cocked an eyebrow and fanned the cards out on the table. “Spells can only stretch so far,” he admitted. “When my people abandoned this world, disgusted by Camlann and human weakness, I wasn’t the only thing they left behind.” He shifted in his seat. Sharing the history of the Fay always made him visibly uncomfortable. “The Silver Leys cut through the nether. Roads, if you will, branching out from the earthly plane. Roads that the Lurkers won’t come near, not if they can help it. The protective wards would mean the end of them.”
“So where do these roads go?”
“Who knows? Avalon. Tír na nÓg. Hell. I’ve never followed them to their source. I try to avoid them if at all possible.” The envoy looked pained. “The Leys want to…pull me. They speak to my blood. In turn, I get to pull and manipulate them, make the roads go where I want, within certain terrestrial limits. It isn’t easy, as you might guess.”
Ben recalled the seething shadows in the car park walls, spectral sharks stirred into a frenzy. He pictured a secret highway running through that infinite space, the unexplored gulf that edged the world. Narrow paths like water on oil, intersections and crossroads, their spooling threads knitted together by Von Hart’s spells. The idea came as a surprise to him. How long had he known the envoy? Learn something new every day…
“That explains a lot. You do tend to turn up like a bad penny.”
Von Hart sniffed. “The horse, of course, was only for show.” He smiled again, flashing his teeth, his inherent mischief winning through. Still, the memory of his ride haunted his eyes, and Ben knew him well enough to see it.
“We’re in deep shit, Von Hart. Without the Lore, we’re sitting ducks. God only knows what the CROWS are planning. I went to see the Guild, but the chairman wasn’t much help.”
&n
bsp; “I’m surprised that lot are still in business. And why would he help you anyway? The Guild merely tolerates your existence. It doesn’t exactly support it.” The envoy looked thoughtful. “And lately I wonder if the old guard might prefer us all dead.”
Ben took a slug of Jack. He ran a hand over his jaw, stubble sparking his suspicions. The envoy spoke directly to them, stirring the doubts that festered in his mind. Doubts that were ever growing, having been planted in him at the museum and now sprouting razor-sharp leaves.
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying? Bardolfe sent me to see Winlock, claiming he could give me the skinny on the Star and these other relics the Queen is after…” He paused, thinking. He saw the old knight in the gallery at Paladin’s Court, patting his shoulder in the shadow of the bookcase. One conversation with him and I’m sure your little quest will reach its end. Then there was the Cairo connection. The syzygy. The Crook and the Pschent. Ghosts from the Sands. The hieroglyphs on his bonds in the car park…Bardolfe had gone to Egypt on holiday and Miss Macha had said she was heading there too. He didn’t need to look at the envoy to see that he was right. “I’m an idiot. Bardolfe must have known all along that the Queen was going to steal the Crook. He expected her to kill me. He sent me to the museum to die.”
“What was it I said about blundering?”
Ben barely heard him. Now that his doubts had come to fruition, the implications staggered him. The thought of the Guild in cahoots with the CROWS, knights conspiring with Remnants, who in turn conspired with House Fitzwarren, forming a treacherous triad…The hate required to weave such a plot made his mouth feel dry. The Lore was broken and it seemed that the Guild had taken advantage of the breach, an unthinkable, unprecedented move. One that betrayed their whole purpose. Why? What did Bardolfe want?
Anarchy. Bloodshed. Revolution.
Ben shuddered. The dim confines of Club Zauber didn’t seem big enough to hold all his questions, his scaling fear and confusion. He was in the dark. Floundering. He’d been floundering ever since Fulk had walked into the Legends bar, swinging a sword and the New York Times. He stumbled over to a nearby booth and sat down heavily, his head a flame-red ball in his hands.
“I could really do without this shit.”
“Liebling, if I could wave a wand…”
Ben started muttering, trying to trace the course of the puzzle. “The Lore is broken because there is more than one active dragon. Something or someone breached the Long Sleep. You’d think that the Guild would try to restore it, not join forces with an underground coven who’ve resented the Pact from day one. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Oh I’m sure it does,” Von Hart said. “We just don’t know how yet.”
Ben threw the envoy a look, but Von Hart continued on his own route through the mystery. “If the Guild plays traitor, then perhaps only Paladin’s Court is involved. Perhaps only Bardolfe and his inner circle, a conspiracy at high level. Perhaps your professor was somehow mixed up in it and Bardolfe sent someone to silence him. If the breach in the Lore isn’t common knowledge, it might also explain why the Whispering Chapter hasn’t come baying for your blood.”
Mention of the saint cult frosted Ben’s skin. It was another enemy, yet to pounce from the wings. The Chapter’s grievance bore slightly more weight than the old Fitzwarren grudge, which the cult looked down on as petty and trifling. The Chapter had no interest in personal gain, in vengeance symbolised by bricks and mortar. No Spei est Vindicta there. Instead, they favoured pious judgement. Their absence from current events was odd, Ben agreed – agreed with goose bumps and a shiver up his spine.
“Right now, I’ve got enough worries. This has to start and end with the Queen. Atiya. She is the source of all this. According to Bardolfe, the Guild didn’t even know she had risen. He actually laughed at the possibility.”
You think that the Guild wouldn’t have known? A disturbance in the Long Sleep? The Lore so dramatically breached?
“I’m sure he did. He must have seen you coming.”
Ben swore. Bardolfe had been answering his questions after all, albeit slyly. That thin smile on his wizened face. How could I have been so stupid? Thinking about the Queen, her dusky wings thrashing around the museum courtyard, he stood and faced Von Hart.
“Who…what is she? What exactly am I up against?”
“I’m not sure,” Von Hart said and gathered up the cards. With that simple motion, the pressure in the place was building, the air thickening like glue. Paradoxically, a wind came up, a private gale surrounding the pale figure by the catwalk, who rose to his feet, the consummate showman, red silk fluttering as he spread his arms. “But I was tutor to Merlin when the old lech went lusting after Nimue in the wood. I watched as she trapped him in the oak that is sometimes a tower of glass and sometimes walls of impenetrable mist. I shared books with the Rabbi Loew in his little black house on Siroka Street, Prague, and taught his pupils to steal a shroud from the dancing corpse of a plague-felled child, with the greatest success. And in his castle at Wewelsburg, I gleaned the wisdom of Herr Magier Himmler and used it against the Black Sun Priests to bring the Third Reich crashing to its knees.” Von Hart grinned through his spiel. “I’m reasonably sure I can find out.”
With that, he threw the cards in the air.
THIRTEEN
“The thing with myths is they never really die.” Von Hart’s singsong tones pushed against the viscous surrounds, seeming to echo down an endless corridor. “Even when the memory of them fades, a seed always remains, spinning in the cosmic void. The Long Sleep was there long before the Guild called it that, imposing their makeshift medieval Lore on the fabled and numinous. The Long Sleep is simply a human term for a universal fact. All myths have their season, and in their time, pass. Dreams, monsters, ghosts, gods…”
The deck of cards fluttered from his hands and bloomed around him like airborne pollen. “And where, you might ask, do they go?” Each card hung suspended, forming a sphere in the middle of the club. The floor sucked at Ben’s feet as the envoy conjured, compressing the surrounding atoms into a dense and invisible mass. Magic surged around Ben’s body, the symbols tumbling from Von Hart’s mouth diverted by his natural immunity. His ears popped. His skin prickled. Caught in the tide, he stood like a rock in a river. He pushed back, but it was like pushing against a wall of foot-thick cellophane. He stopped struggling and came to a halt, exhausted and peeved, at the edge of the dance floor.
“That’s right,” Von Hart said. “Don’t fight it. Open your mind to the incantation. I want you to think about the Queen. I want you to draw on your memories.”
Curiosity overrode Ben’s discomfort. The dark shape swimming in his mind came up for air on the surface. The spotlight above Von Hart flickered, remembered heat, remembered lightning – and images went storming through Ben’s head. A shapely shadow entering the lecture theatre, her sharp-boned face and long neck. Her cold, regal glance. How quickly her mask had tumbled to the floor, revealing the creature beneath, a burning beauty propelling herself up on to the stage and hurling the professor aside as if he was a scrunched-up ball of paper. That electrical, organic stench, like he’d smelled that night in his living room. Her smoky flesh absorbing the Crook. I am Atiya…Queen of Punt. Ben had looked into her, into her fluid substance, and in exchange for the vision, she’d swooped down on him, pushing him down, overpowering him. The memory stung as much as it aroused him.
“She…she looked into me, too.” The Queen’s eyes filled his skull, sparks dancing from her brow to his. “A desert, a girl, New York City. For a moment, we were one. One heart. One mind. I felt her rage, her lust for revenge. Then she changed again. Took on…” Took on the shape of the dragon. Or shrugged off the human lie. “She…she isn’t the same as me, is she?”
“Yes and no.” Von Hart circled his arm and the cards followed, a pictorial tide clattering around him. “Your Queen was originally serpent-born, true. One of the old breed, created by the First-Born, the ancesto
r gods of the Fay, who some view as our elevated forebears. This was back in the early days, the dawn of the Old Lands. But in time, Atiya became so much more, a dragon become a god…Now she is merely a ghost from limbo, rising from the gulfs of the lost and the forgotten that men, in their pride, came to call the Sleep. Once summoned, the Queen anchored herself in human flesh, but she isn’t quite…corporeal.”
“Yeah, I noticed. But what does it mean?”
The cards gathered before Von Hart at the end of the catwalk, flipping over to reveal their faces, diamonds, clubs, hearts and spades. The symbols were growing, Ben saw, the printed ink spreading out to fill the white on every card until they were bright, mottled rectangles, swirling with thaumaturgic light. The cards multiplied, crowding the space before the envoy, shuffling around him despite gravity, forming an airborne mosaic, some larger composite image. An elongated skull seen side-on. A severed heart. Or a continent.
Africa.
“With science and machines,” Von Hart said, “Man has chased magic out of the world. Having toppled the forests and tainted the seas, humans quake in the shadow of destruction, a cataclysm of their own making. Yes, everything has its season – even humanity – but myths never die, they merely sleep. And some myths long to return to the here and now with an equal level of greed.”
“Said like your average misanthropic Fay.”
The envoy paid him no mind. “Some have waited for millennia. Spirits in the ether. Some of these spirits became gods, growing strong on faith. Throughout the ages, all have found themselves summoned and banished, summoned and banished, sometimes riding in human flesh. One by one the gods grew dormant, starved of followers and slipping into dreams, waiting for faith to rouse them once more.”
The “magic bricks” that Ben had seen in the British Museum fleeted through his mind – Ammit, Apep, Shezmu and Set – the statues portraying a liminal union, the earthly with the divine, the empyrean with the carnate, demons from a younger, more credulous age.