by Cleo Cordell
There were no landmarks by which she could get her bearings. She could be anywhere. A wave of dizziness came over her. She pressed her face to the grass. Why bother to go on? There was nothing left to live for. The pestilence raged in her body, only the heat of the fever stopped her freezing to death. Another failure by default for St Pernel, she thought. No one had helped her or her family, not God, not his saints. Had they all been so wicked? Had she?
She could not think. She was so tired. The temptation to stop moving and go to sleep was strong. Yet something impelled her to move. Someone should be told about what had happened to her family. The bearers must be brought to justice. She felt a surge of hatred for her abusers and would-be murderers. She would have revenge. Oh, Jessy, Sellice, father – I’ll make sure you’re not forgotten.
Her hands touched a wooden post. She used it as a support to pull herself upright, the breath rasping in her lungs. Her throat burned like fire. She retched weakly, spitting out a gob of stringy black vomit. Somehow she moved forward. It was easier now that she was on her feet. A slow, warm trickle snaked down her thighs. Blood, she thought with detachment. At least that proves I’m alive. Shakily at first, then with grim resolve, she began walking.
Karolan bent his head to navigate the low-hanging branches, urging Darkus along the forest path. Thickly carpeted frozen leaves rustled against the delicately placed hooves. The horse’s breath blew out into a cloud in the crisp air. Karolan patted the high-arched neck affectionately as the palfrey champed at the bit. ‘Impatient to be out in the open fields, Darkus? Don’t you know that patience is a virtue?’
His sculpted mouth curved in self-mockery. Aye, a virtue he did not possess, it had been forced upon him by circumstance. There was a rustling in the trees away to his right. The Fetch was keeping pace with him. He deliberately ignored it, wanting nothing to spoil the pleasure of the early morning ride.
In a few moments he sensed that the spirit had fled into the forest, off seeking emanations of negative energy to replenish itself. From long practice, Karolan detected the subtle signs which had attracted the Fetch. Far off in the distance he caught a single flash of a reddish coat. Moments before he smelt the fox he picked up the hectic ticking of a vulpine heart. Slowing the rate of his breathing he emptied his mind, re-attuning it to the faster cycles of life inhabited by the animal world. Sometimes he could gain an impression of an animal’s thoughts – as with Darkus – but more often it was simply a sense of urgency, of survival. Animals lived short, intense, hot lives. Instinct was their caretaker. They had no need of reason. An enviable state.
Some way farther on he sensed the panicked, blood-heat of rabbits as they dived into their burrows. He caught the calmer essence of the older, experienced males who sat up on their hind legs, drumming a warning. The Fetch could never resist the chance to gorge on the violence as an animal moved in for its kill. How it would chitter and caper with the pleasure of blood-lust as the fox ripped into a still-warm underbelly, its bloodied snout nosing into the steaming, pulsing entrails.
He felt no disgust any more, only acceptance. There was little difference between them. He and the Fetch were both predators, the spirit at least partly what he had made it. Useless to dwell on what could not be changed. Better by far to think of what waited in the laboratorium. As he urged Darkus along the path which led out of a clump of rowan, he felt the stirring of excitement and hope.
Another breakthrough had been reached. The ‘seed’ had come to term. Even if that was only the first step in a complicated chain of events, it was farther than he had come for a very long time. In his mind’s eye he saw the ledger, spread open on his workbench.
Seventh day of Christ Mass. After many months of constant heat the prima materia is undergoing another change. Have added more of my own personal essence at regular intervals, corresponding with phases of the moon. The purpling is at hand!
Sennight after the Feast of St Valentine. It is done. This morning I discovered the colouring of the rubedo in the alembic vessel. The prima materia has transmuted. In the vessel is the ‘seed’: that which is a microcosm of the majestic process of creation.
A few lines only – hardly enough to express his feeling of triumph and joy. Now he was ready to try the experiment again. He dismissed past failures. Then he had simply chosen unwisely. The human host had to be strong in mind and body as the process was rigorous, depleting. The need for secrecy meant that he could only conduct his experiments upon the poorest, weakest, most easily dispensable souls. What he needed was someone of singular strength and intelligence – someone who might eventually become a fitting companion.
But there was another element involved. It was not enough to simply procure a healthy man or woman and subject them to the process. Something within the very make-up of humankind refused to encompass the bodily changes. At the most basic level, human flesh and spirit shrank from embracing the invasive power of the alien substance, preferring death to ultimate deliverance.
How furious that had made him. And how full of despair. The terrified faces of the dead haunted him. None of them had understood what he offered them. All the deaths – so perverse and wasteful. Sometimes he had seen the glimmer of a way forward, but the white-hot power of the ‘seed’, the danger of the ritual, the involvement of the Fetch, all had combined to terrify the host or to burn out his or her humanity entirely, leaving behind only a mindless husk. Then came the messy and distressing process of consigning the ruin to the furnace.
It sickened him to play God. But then he had been given no choice either. God had allowed the thing to happen to him and now he lived on, inviolate, unpunished for his many sins – unless God thought that the form of his existence was in itself punishment enough. Karolan clenched his fist and struck the palm of his other hand. He knew with every fibre of his being that the changeover into a new existence could be reproduced. He was the living testament to that fact.
He sighed deeply, wondering if he would ever succeed. Generations had passed him by; still he had no answers. Was his punishment for cheating God and the Devil to be to walk the earth alone for ever? His mind rebelled against such a proscription. As an alchemist he had faith in science and natural order. Male energy in itself was a potent force, but he needed the deeper, darker power of a female counterpart before he could grow and develop further. Where his was the power of the sun, hers would be the power of the moon. Sol and Luna. Adam and Eve. The elemental fire and ice. The King and Queen – united in the mystic marriage of conjunctio. More simply – as a man he yearned for companionship.
Dragging his mind back to the beauty of the morning, he looked out across the frozen landscape. The palfrey’s muscles moved under him. He felt the rhythm of its blood, the strong, noble pulse of its heart. Scenting the frozen river and flats of the water meadow, Darkus snorted with pleasure. Karolan gave the horse his head, leaning forward, taking deep breaths so that the freezing air stung his nostrils. One of his greatest pleasures was to ride. He loved to feel the horse’s powerful muscles bunching and releasing. As he stood up in the stirrups, matching his movements to Darkus’s, his long black hair streamed out behind him. His face, set in lines of concentration resembled that of a bird of prey.
The countryside sped by, a bleak landscape of half tones and grey shadows, stitched at intervals with the skeletal shapes of trees and bushes. Despite the fact that it was so cold that the birds had frozen upon the branches in the night, he wore only an open-necked, linen shirt beneath his doublet of padded black leather. Breeches of fine, figured velvet clothed his long legs. Black riding boots reached to his knees. No weapon hung at his waist – he had no need of one. Clods of frozen soil flew up under Darkus’s hooves. The horse’s sides heaved with exertion as he tore at full gallop across the open fields. They rode for some time, man in union with his mount, the clarity of the morning pure and elemental. Karolan felt his spirits rise as his soul flew free. At such moments he could almost imagine that he was as other men.
In
a while they reached the tall hedge of pleached limes which marked the limits of the Rakka estate. Karolan drew Darkus to a halt and eased back in the saddle. While the horse stamped and puffed he rested one arm on the pommel, looking out beyond the patchwork of fields to Chatesbrook. Within the town walls were the three spires of St Ralphit’s, St Bertrina’s, and St Kate’s-in-the-Meadow. Off to one side he could see the great square tower, topped with the ruby heart of humility, which marked out the monastery of Holy Penitence. His lip curled. He detested the fanaticism of the white monks.
Clicking his tongue to Darkus, he turned the horse around and cantered back along the boundary. He intended to ride back through the forest and approach the house by way of the ornamental garden. Even in the grip of winter he found pleasure in the sculptural shapes of the walnut and mulberry trees, the trained roses, the box hedges. The wicker hen-coops and the beehives of woven straw, which were kept free of snow, were reminders that not all life was subject to the cold.
Karolan’s sharp eyes caught a movement through the trees. He heard the shriek before a sparrow hawk rose with its prey struggling weakly in its pitiless claws. No doubt the Fetch was again nearby, guzzling down sensual nourishment. He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he was taken by surprise when Darkus shied at an obstacle on the path. Only his unusually sharp reflexes saved him from being unseated. He sawed at the reins. ‘Steady on, boy. What’s amiss?’
As the horse danced sideways, nostrils flaring with alarm, Karolan saw the crumpled form on the path. It was the half-clothed body of a woman. She lay still, so thin and pale that she seemed to be dead. He detected the faint glimmer of her life-force. It was as fitful as a candle flame in the wind, but strong for all that. Dismounting swiftly, he knelt beside her, already running a practised eye over her for injuries.
Her limbs were blue with cold, the tips of her toes and fingers turning black. He cursed under his breath. She must have lain there for hours. There was blood on her feet and her hands. He saw how her nails were torn. How far had she crawled? The stained and ragged shift clung to her body, outlining the angle of a hip bone, the rack of her ribcage. He could see that she was no peasant woman. Her hands were slender and shapely; there were no calluses across the palms. Her feet too were soft, the soles unmarked by thickened skin. She had worn shoes all her life. Under the stains of blood and vomit, her shift was trimmed with lace. Her skin had the greyish cast of those who were near to death. Only her hair seemed vital, spilling like a golden shawl over the rusty bracken beside the path. Lying across her cheek, it masked her face from view.
Gently he reached out, slipped his fingers behind the delicate neck, lifted her head. She was as lovely as an angel, her bruised features small and clear-cut. He wondered what colour her eyes were. The side of her face was swollen, her lip split. The smell emanating from her was heavy with decay, dried blood, and the flatter scent of stale semen. Someone had beaten and raped her. He felt a surge of murderous anger against her assailant. What coward would treat a sick woman like that?
With gentle fingers he examined her wounds. They were not severe, but her breath was ragged. The pulse at her throat was shallow, thready beneath his fingers. He need examine her no further to know that she had the pestilence. It would be a kindness to put her out of her misery. He had only to tighten his powerful fingers and give a sharp twist. She had but a little neck. He had carried out such killings before, and others besides that were less merciful, but he felt an odd reluctance to snuff out her life.
Perhaps it was her beauty or the sense of tragedy that he perceived hanging over her – or perhaps he felt only curiosity. Whatever it was, he came to a decision. He needed a host. Surely the fates had lain her in his path? She would die anyway if he left her there. The hope of success was slim indeed, but still he felt compelled to try. Everything was ready in the laboratorium. The Fetch added the one component he could not supply. Silently he called out to the spirit. Instantly it was beside him, eager to serve. The ragged shadow shape of it thrummed and pulsated as it hovered over the sick woman. Its licorice smell was strong.
‘Is she for us, Master?’ it whispered excitedly. ‘Ah, much pain. Lovely pain.’
Karolan’s mind ranged over the complexities of the coming ritual. The necessary elements must be assembled at once. He must not allow himself to even think of failure. ‘Hades,’ he murmured aloud, ‘let me be in time.’ Shrugging off his leather doublet, he covered the woman with it. Lifting her in his arms, he stood up. She weighed very little. He could feel the chill of her skin through his tunic. Darkus whickered nervously, lifting his head as Karolan approached with his burden. The horse smelt death on her.
‘Hush,’ Karolan said, making a calming gesture. ‘You need not fear our guest. Stand easy now.’
Darkus stood still obediently, a tremor passing over his glossy black hide as Karolan mounted. There was a shifting movement near his shoulder, an infolding of the air. He knew that the Fetch was trying to flow through the woman, attracted by the dark streaks of suffering in her aura. The smell of sickness, coupled with the trace residues of violence and sex that hung about her, was a potent lure to the spirit. In her weakened state, any further draining of her life source would be enough to snuff out her spark completely.
‘Leave her!’ he thundered, gesturing towards the Fetch.
With a terrified squawk it leapt backwards, its reedy treble floating into the air. ‘Forgive, Master. Forgive.’
The ragged shadow of its form flickered briefly over horse and rider. Karolan felt the hot, harmless tingling which meant that the Fetch had passed through him. He sensed the appetite beneath its desire to please. There was a faint glow around it, giving it a wispy form like silver smoke. ‘Pretty, pretty. Is she for us?’ it twittered next to his ear. ‘Like her I do. Want her. Shall we make her ours?’
‘Be silent,’ Karolan said, irritated by its single-mindedness. The Fetch thought only of its own gratification, but he knew that it did no good to get angry.
As he urged Darkus forward with his knees, he looked down into the woman’s gaunt face. It was difficult to tell her age, but he guessed her years to be less than a score. At that moment her eyes fluttered open, fastened on his face. Involuntarily he drew back, expecting her to show fear or recoil in horror. She did neither. Instead she looked at him calmly.
‘Are you death?’ the woman whispered, her voice sounding rusty, unused.
He smiled wryly. ‘Not for you.’ At least, he hoped not.
Her eyes were a clear blue. Beautiful. He watched the spark of awareness in them fade, before they rolled back in her head. Suddenly she stiffened, began to shake with convulsions. Her jaw clenched. Blood welled at the corner of her mouth. She had bitten through her tongue. Blood trickled down her chin and dripped onto Karolan’s hand. It looked as bright as a holly berry against his white skin.
He cursed softly, holding her close against his strong warm body. It seemed impossible that she could survive. He tried to catch a hold on her thoughts, to compel her to live by his will alone, but she slipped away from him into a dark place where there are no boundaries beyond pain and grief and he could not follow. At his urging Darkus galloped like the wind, Karolan gripping the horse’s sides with his powerful thighs, using both hands to balance his burden. His whole concentration was centred on getting the woman back to his house. It had suddenly become vitally important to save this woman.
‘Hold on,’ he murmured, blocking out the sound of the Fetch’s incessant questioning. ‘Just hold on a bit longer. Live damn you. Do you hear me? You must live.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Darkus slewed to a halt in front of the stables, Karolan leaping down the moment the horse stopped. At this hour of the day the stable lad was exercising the other horses. Karolan was able to lead the palfrey into a stall and leave the building without being seen.
If anyone realized that he had brought the pestilence amongst them it would start a panic. Also, should the woman die, he would need t
o dispose of the body discreetly. Just then she stirred against him, moaning weakly. Placing a gentle hand on her head he cupped the back of her skull. Her life signs were faint. He had to search for traces of them. The seizure had sapped her strength. It was obvious that she was dying. ‘No,’ he said through gritted teeth as he quickened his step. ‘I refuse to give you up.’
Holding her close he hurried across the cobbled courtyard and through the wooden gate which gave onto the garden. As he passed the squat kitchen building, the noise of clanging pots and pans and the raised voice of the cook reached him through an open window. There was no one outside in the yard. He went past the main hall, entering his tower directly by the outside door. Despite taking the stairs two at a time, he was not even breathing fast when he reached the topmost room.
Once inside, he laid her gently on his bed. She looked so fragile against the silken pillows. Her face had the young-old look of those on the brink of death. The Fetch hovered over the bed, its spirit form fainter now. It was losing interest in the emanations of her suffering and, seeing that, Karolan experienced a jolt of alarm.
‘Too late, Master,’ the Fetch said peevishly. ‘No pain left. No pleasure. Empty she will be soon. Lost to us.’
‘It’s not too late,’ Karolan snapped, using his trained voice almost unconsciously. ‘Do as I say, now.’ Averting his eyes from the girl’s thin chest which hardly moved as each painful breath was forced into her lungs, he said to the spirit, ‘When I give you the word, you will obey me on the instant.’
Reluctantly the Fetch complied. Grey and purple streaks swirled in the shadows of its form. If he had not been so fearful for the girl’s life, he might have laughed. The spirit was so obviously sulking. When he spoke to it in the voice of power it had no choice but to do his bidding. That was one positive aspect of their unholy alliance. Joined on a level beyond the physical they might be, but in Karolan’s dimension the Fetch’s strength and influence were limited.