Darkwitch Rising

by Sara Douglass

  Weyland lifted his face from the women on the floor, looked to the two girls standing clinging to each other, and suddenly screamed at them: “Fetch cloths, damn you!”

  The two girls took one look at Weyland’s contorted face, then stumbled for the small storeroom just behind the kitchen.

  Weyland flickered a glance at Catling, who was sitting with commendable composure in a corner. She appeared to be no trouble, and he wondered fleetingly what kind of daughter she was, to watch her mother suffer with such impassivity.

  He looked back to the women and, if possible, paled even further.

  Both women were silent now, their eyes wide and starting, their mouths contorted into a rictus of suffering, their bodies in spasms, their breath heaving in harsh, convulsive gasps.

  Frances and Elizabeth returned, bundles of rags in their hands.

  “Get their clothes off them,” Weyland said. “Then be ready to staunch as best you can their bleeding.”

  He moved back to the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb, then folded his arms, his eyes now resting on the hearth as if he found it fascinating.

  Frances and Elizabeth bent down to Noah and Jane.

  Charles felt as if he were being torn apart, and yet, worse than this shared pain, was the knowledge he could do nothing.

  Desperate (yet still sitting on his horse, waving and smiling as if nothing more disturbed him than a worry that this crowd might keep him from his roast beef) Charles did the only thing he thought he could do.

  He reached out to Catling. Help her, girl, help her!

  And he received back but the one word, spoken in the girl’s unnaturally calm mental voice.

  No.

  Somehow Frances and Elizabeth, working together first on Jane and then on Noah, managed to pull and tear the clothes from their writhing bodies.

  When they’d done, and the women lay naked, they paused to stare yet once more, horrified.

  “For gods’ sakes,” Weyland said. “Attend to them!”

  Elizabeth looked up at him. “Master, what can we do?”

  Before Weyland could respond, Frances lifted her hands to her face, and shrieked.

  Noah, who lay directly at the girl’s feet, had partially raised herself and was now clawing at the small of her back. As Elizabeth and Frances watched, the skin over the base of Noah’s spine suddenly swelled, as if it had developed into a gigantic bubo.

  And then, as Noah screamed terribly, her hands now flailing at the floor, the bubo burst, and Frances and Elizabeth found themselves staring into the face of an impish creature grinning at them with a sharp-toothed smile.

  It put tiny hands to either side of the wound in Noah’s back, and started to pull itself out.

  Frances fainted, while Elizabeth staggered away, her feet slipping in blood, her body convulsing in desperate heaves as she vomited forth her morning’s meal.

  Weyland closed his eyes—pray to all gods that this will be worth the suffering!—then forced himself to reopen them, and watch. He swallowed, knowing he had to act. This would not be worth the suffering if he didn’t use it to the best advantage. He sent his senses scrying out, seeing in his mind’s eye Charles riding ashen-faced amidst all the cheering crowds.

  Using all of his strength, Weyland sent Charles a very personal message of welcome. Greetings, king. Do you feel your lover’s pain? Do you feel her body tearing apart? Fret not, for she will live. Just. Know that I only need her alive, I don’t need her whole.

  Charles literally slipped in the saddle as Weyland’s loathsome words ripped through him, and only the quick thinking of the soldier walking at his stirrup managed to keep him on the horse.

  The crowd suddenly hushed, thinking that their king had suffered a fatal brainstorm, but Charles managed to right himself and shrug a little, as if to say that he had quite forgot himself in the excitement.

  The next moment Louis was at his side, having spurred his horse forward.

  “My God, Charles…”

  “We can do nothing until this farce is over. He won’t kill her, Louis. He won’t.”

  Louis’ face was a mask of horror—he didn’t have Charles’ strength of will to maintain a false smile. “She suffers so!”

  Charles managed to reach out a hand and very briefly grasped Louis’ forearm. “She will survive, my friend. Know that she will survive!”

  “She’d be better dead,” said Louis, then he allowed his horse to drop back level with the coach where, Charles presumed, he’d have the sense to say some words of comfort to Catharine, for she would be feeling this as much as Charles and Louis.

  Curse Catling for not aiding Noah. Curse her!

  Jane was silent—she was beyond screaming—but her body whipped back and forth, back and forth over the floor, occasionally bumping into Noah, knocking over two of the chairs at the table, and coating herself in Noah’s blood.

  Her belly mounded as if she carried a full-term baby inside her. Her imp roiled beneath her abdominal layers of skin and muscle. Elizabeth now sat next to Catling. She had her arms wrapped tightly about her body, and watched with eyes numb in shock and horror the frightful sight before her.

  Catling remained calm, but her eyes were hooded, their expression unreadable.

  Weyland straightened in the doorway. “Come here!” he commanded, and Elizabeth jumped, certain he meant her.

  But instead the hideous black creature that had just pulled itself free of Noah’s body looked up, its black eyes bright in its blood-coated face.

  The next instant it was scampering over the floor and clinging to one of Weyland’s legs with its spindly-fingered hands.

  Weyland ignored it, instead watching Jane.

  Her body spasmed, then suddenly, horrifically, her abdomen split apart.

  A black head appeared, grinning, and then two thin, claw-tipped hands which dug themselves into the lips of the terrible wound. The imp pulled himself out, then sat up as the blood pumped from Jane’s abdomen, looked to where Weyland and his brother watched him, and grinned happily.

  He scampered over to join Weyland, who ignored him as he had the first.

  Weyland took a deep breath, his face twisting slightly at the stink of fresh blood, and, motioning for the imps to stay behind, walked over to where the two women lay. For a moment he simply stood there, staring, his face expressionless.

  Then he squatted down, and very gently felt Noah’s wrist.

  She did not move, lying so wan and still she could have been lifeless were it not for her irregular and shallow breathing.

  Weyland’s fingers tightened momentarily about her wrist, then he stood up, stumbling as he slipped in the blood on the floor.

  “Elizabeth,” he said, then snapped her name again when she did not immediately respond. “Elizabeth!”

  The girl jerked her eyes to him.

  “Rouse Frances,” said Weyland, “then bind Noah’s and Jane’s wounds, and make them comfortable.”

  “But, master,” whispered Elizabeth, “they will need a surgeon, surely. They are torn asunder! Frances and I cannot—”

  “Do it!” snapped Weyland, and then, taking the hands of the imps, marched from the room.

  A minute later Elizabeth heard their feet stamping and pattering up the stairs. She breathed deeply, summoning her courage, then managed to get to her feet and walk over to where Frances lay.

  She gave her a hard shake by the shoulder. “Wake, for God’s sake, Frances, wake up! I can’t do this on my own!”

  Catling watched while Elizabeth finally managed to rouse Frances. As they began their terrible task she made no move to aid them.

  Weyland escorted his imps up the stairs, higher and higher, until he reached the top floor.

  The imps chattered between themselves, and wriggled about, as if uncomfortable in Weyland’s grip, but he paid them no attention. He was numbed by what he’d seen downstairs.

  What he’d done downstairs.

  With every step he justified his actions.
/>   Charles had to be contained.

  Noah’s suffering was the only means through which this might be achieved.

  Charles had to be contained.

  Noah had to suffer, it was the only way he could do it.

  Charles had to be contained.

  Noah was the only means by which he could…damn it. Curse it! Why was he trying to justify himself? Gods, he’d murdered tens of thousands throughout his many lives. Why quibble now over the cries of one simple woman?

  But hardly “one simple woman”.

  They reached the top of the stairs, and Weyland nodded at the door that led into his Idyll.

  “There we shall rest,” he said, “and you shall hear how you may aid me.”

  The imps nodded dutifully, and Weyland led them forward.

  The door swung open as they approached and, hesitating only slightly (never before had he led anyone into his Idyll) Weyland took the imps through.

  He let go their hands once they were in the vestibule.

  The imps stood, their mouths drooping open.

  “Well?” said Weyland, trying to inject some cheerfulness into his voice.

  The imps, their mouths now closed, surveyed the vastness.

  “Don’t like it much,” said one.

  “Too gaudy,” said the other.

  “Then find yourselves some shadowy corner and lurk,” snapped Weyland, “for I find myself tired of you!”

  So saying, he abandoned the imps, and strode off deeper into the Idyll.

  Ten

  Idol Lane, London

  NOAH SPEAKS

  I had not thought even Weyland capable of such cruelty. This sounds naive, I know, but after I realised that it was he who had come to me and healed my back, and after I recalled how he had torn that repulsive man from my body…I had thought that perhaps the worst was behind me. I knew that he planned something terrible for Charles’ return into London, but I had never thought he would do this: tear both Jane and myself apart, and use our agony to send Charles a greeting on his arrival.

  I had never thought…

  I had never realised…

  I had never suffered so as I did the instant Weyland set those terrible imps to tearing their way forth from Jane’s and my bodies.

  I felt that imp slash its way through every single one of my pelvic organs on his frightful journey to the base of my spine. I felt him rip me apart, and thus torment became my entire world.

  Nothing else existed.

  All thought of Charles fled.

  All thought of the Game vanished.

  I even forgot that terrible moment when Weyland had mentioned asking me for shelter (and that little piece of terror had occupied most of my waking hours during those days he kept us trapped in the kitchen). But I was so consumed by pain, the only thought I had was to hope that death would snatch me sooner rather than later. Nothing else mattered. All I wanted was the relief of death.

  But of course death stood by and did nothing, for Weyland had better things planned for me. I would be kept alive, but in agony, because that would amuse him and it would tear Charles apart.

  What was it he’d spoken to Charles as I descended into hell (and Weyland had made sure that I heard this, too): Know that I only need her alive, I don’t need her whole.

  I remained conscious until the imp tore his way through my back. How can I describe what that felt like? I can’t. There are no words for it. It would have driven me insane, I think, had it not been for…

  Jane.

  When Weyland had sent my imp on its rampage while I’d been at Langley House, he’d sent Jane into agony as well. Somehow we’d touched during that time, shared our suffering, and briefly comforted each other through that sharing.

  It happened again as we both writhed about the floor of that kitchen, our bodies tearing apart about us. We met in some bleak wilderness of despair and anguish where, desperate, we touched and then clung to each other. It was somewhere beyond Weyland’s knowledge. I don’t know how I understood this, but know it I did…as did Jane. We had not escaped our agony in this strange wilderness, but we drew some small measure of comfort from our shared suffering.

  It wasn’t much, and, eventually, it wasn’t enough. We could feel our flesh tearing away from our bodies, feel our blood drain away, feel Weyland’s eyes on us as we suffered. I think that we would have lost our minds, deliberately, as a means of escaping from the pain and horror, save that…

  Save that, as we slid towards that welcome abyss of insanity, we heard a voice.

  Follow me.

  We paid it no attention. It had no meaning to what was left of our lives.

  Follow me.

  The voice was neither male nor female. We did not recognise it. We ignored it once more. The abyss before us was so tempting, and offered such an escape…who cared if Weyland took my mind? I no longer did. He was welcome—

  Follow me!

  This time the voice roared through us. It was full of such power that we shrieked, and I felt Jane’s fingernails tear through the skin of my shoulders.

  Follow me, whispered the voice, and this time it was gentle and seductive, and, with no willpower left, Jane and I followed.

  I blinked, then screwed my eyelids shut. I was aware of two things: that I still clung to Jane, and that my pain was miraculously gone (strangely, the absence of pain was almost as painful as its presence).

  I gulped in air and felt Jane do the same.

  I tried to open my eyes and this time succeeded if only to almost close them again as I squinted against the bright sunlight. We were outside, but where? And how?

  Slowly my eyes became accustomed to the light, and, with Jane, looked about.

  “We are in Tower Fields,” she said, her voice bewildered.

  Indeed we were (my memory coming from my life as Caela rather than this life; the landscape, although much built over, had not changed a great deal). We stood in the open space just beyond the northern walls and moat of the Tower of London. In the distance we could hear the roar of the crowds—somewhere further to the west Charles was still engaged in his jubilant parade.

  “But how…?” Jane said.

  “By my aid, of course,” said a voice—that voice which had saved us—and Jane and I let go of each other and whipped about.

  A woman stood some four of five paces away, surveying us with a self-satisfied smile.

  The style of her dress gave me pause, for I was not used to seeing women dressed in the ancient Minoan manner standing about in the grassy fields of London.

  The woman wore a flounced skirt of red silk that fell to just above her ankles, stiffened with many layers of petticoats, and a jacket of cloth of gold, embroidered with yet more golden threads and pearls and jade. It had three-quarter-length sleeves, wide stiffened lapels and a collar, and lay open to her waist where it was loosely held together with scarlet ties. She wore no blouse beneath it, and the open lapels of the jacket revealed her bare, firm breasts.

  She wore little jewellery save for a collection of thin golden bands about her right ankle and her left wrist.

  Her face was stunning: finely boned, yet giving the impression of strength rather than fragility, the woman had a broad, high forehead, large and elongated dark eyes further emphasised with an outlining of kohl, gracefully arched and drawn eyebrows, and a full and sensuous mouth that was painted the same red as her skirt. Her skin was the same rich cream of her breasts.

  A magnificent head of hair crowned all of this bounty. Very dark, almost black, it rippled in bright waves down her back and shoulders.

  If I had been a king I would have lusted for her, for she radiated power as well as beauty.

  If I had been a common man I would have lived in terror of her, for I would have understood that this witch had the power to destroy my life.

  I also knew precisely who she was.

  “Ariadne,” I said, in as calm a voice as I could manage. “Well met, at last.”

  She opened her mouth to a
nswer, but just then Jane let out a shriek and darted for her foremother. Her arms were extended, her hands clenched into claws, and I have no doubt that she meant to murder Ariadne as soon as she reached her.

  It was a sentiment I could understand, even as I winced. It was Ariadne, after all, who had cursed Genvissa-Swanne-Jane with her promise to Asterion that should she or any of her daughter-heirs ever try to resurrect the Game, then she (or whichever of her daughter-heirs bore her blood) would become Asterion’s slave.

  Ariadne calmly held out a hand, turning it heel down, palm outwards, and said one single commanding word that emerged not as sound so much as a ripple of powerful emotion.

  Jane stopped, so abruptly she collapsed into a heap two paces short of Ariadne. I stepped forward and aided her to rise. “Be still, Jane,” I whispered. “This is not the time.”

  Then to Ariadne, who continued to regard us with a supreme equanimity that I envied, I said, “Are we here in reality, Ariadne, or in spirit?”

  “In spirit only,” she said. “Your bodies still writhe about that dreadful kitchen floor. This was all I could do for you.”

  “Why?” I said.

  “You were in pain, and I did what I could to save you.” She gave a half shrug, the movement one of exquisite grace. “I can do nothing to the injuries perpetrated upon your physical bodies—by now, surely, you shall be virtually lifeless—but I could save your sanity.”

  Now she looked at Jane. “I am sorry for what has happened, Jane. If not for my promise…”

  “You have no idea of what I have suffered,” Jane hissed.

  “Yes, you are right. I can have no idea. And so I shall do my best to set things to right.”

  She paused, regarding us intently, then she smiled at me. The expression was cold, and predatory. “And well met to you as well…Eaving.”

  I could not forget that Ariadne had once been the MagaLlan of Llangarlia as well as the Mistress of the Labyrinth, but I was put out by her knowledge of my goddess name. The surprise must have shown on my face, for her smile became genuinely amused.