Darkwitch Rising

by Sara Douglass

“I’m sorry,” he said. Then his head tilted slightly. “Ah. You are Jane, yes? Weyland’s sister?”

  “You well know who I am.”

  He smiled. “Always the same Genvissa.”

  She frowned. Why speak of her as if he knew her?

  He walked towards her. “Don’t you know me?”

  He was upon her before Jane saw through the aura of power that encased him and recognised his features. “Coel!”

  She would have spun away—now she was more certain than ever that he would murder her—but he seized her arm. The instant his flesh touched hers his face softened, and she saw real sorrow in his eyes. “Oh, gods…Weyland hurt you, as well as Noah. Tell me, Jane. Are you still alive?”

  “Are you sure you are not asking if Noah lives?”

  “I ask for both of you.”

  “I live. She lives. Barely.”

  His face relaxed. “That pleases me.”

  “That Noah lives, surely, but not that I—”

  “I am pleased also that you live.”

  “I cannot believe that.”

  His hand moved from her arm to her shoulder, and then to the back of her neck. “I have had my revenge on you, Jane. We are even.” Then he looked about. “What are these fields to you? Why stand here in your extremity, gazing at the Tower?”

  “I do not wish to speak of it to you.”

  She thought he might object, but he didn’t.

  “I felt a great need to come here. Why, Jane, do you think?”

  “I don’t know.” His hand was very warm on the back of her neck, and she wished he’d move it.

  “The Faerie sent me here,” he said. The Faerie, the power that underlay everything connected with the magical creatures of the land. “I thought it was to meet with Noah. I had hoped—”

  He laughed as he saw the expression on her face. “But I have found you instead. It is not my day for luck, eh?”

  She felt like spitting at him, and then, to her amazement, realised he was teasing her. She gave a small, unconvincing smile.

  The hand at the back of her neck moved about the side of her face, to her forehead, sweeping back the wing of hair away from her sores.

  “Ah, Jane. I am sorry.”

  His fingers slid over her poxed cheekbones, and she wished she had the strength to turn aside her face.

  “The Faerie sent me to meet you,” he said. “Why?”

  “To murder me? What else?”

  The fingers were still working on her cheeks, then they slid back to her forehead.

  “This disease has deep claws,” he said.

  She gave a nod.

  Then suddenly she gave a yelp, and sprang back from his hand.

  He laughed merrily. “Not any more!” he said.

  Jane had halted a pace or two away from him, staring. Slowly she reached up her hands to her face, and felt her forehead.

  Her sores had closed over. Her brow was not quite smooth, for there were ridges and lines where the sores had closed…but it was healed.

  Indeed, Jane felt well. Every bit of pain that had plagued her—not merely that which Weyland had visited on her over the past day, but every ache—had gone.

  She opened her mouth, and then closed it, unable for the moment to comprehend what had just happened.

  Suddenly there came the sound of beating wings. Jane flinched, and the Lord of the Faerie lifted his face. “Look,” he said, and Jane reluctantly lifted her own face.

  A magpie, all deep blues and blacks, hovered above them and, as they watched, slowly descended until it sat on Jane’s shoulder. She tensed, but before she could move the Lord of the Faerie held out his hand.

  The magpie jumped from Jane’s shoulder to his fingers, trilled a short phrase of some melodious, magical song, and then flew away.

  Within a moment it had vanished.

  “Aha,” said the Lord of the Faerie. “Now I know why the Faerie sent me here. Well, well, Jane. Here’s a turnabout for you and me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He answered with his own question. “Will you be coming back to the fields?”

  She blinked at him, still disorientated by all that had occurred over the past few minutes.

  “Yes,” he said, “I can feel that you shall return. This place pulls you for some reason. Well, when next you come, meet me by the scaffold.” He pointed to a spot at the northern extremity of Tower Fields. There several man-high posts stuck up from the grass, half rotted with age. A scaffold had once stood there, not used in generations.

  “But—” she said.

  “Meet me by the scaffold, Jane.” There was power and authority in his voice, and so she merely nodded.

  In the next instant he was gone, and her dream fading.

  Jane roused very slowly from unconsciousness. She fought it because of the pain she knew would assail her the instant she came to her senses, and because of the further pain she was sure Weyland would inflict on her the moment he realised she was conscious.

  She could not believe that what had happened in dream would follow her into waking.

  But when Jane could fight it no longer, and when she did wake, it was to find that not only was there little pain, there was less pain than she had had to endure every day for the past several years. The constant ache of her legs and spine was gone. Her abdomen, torn apart by her imp, was merely aching slightly.

  Gods, she thought, her eyes still closed, the Lord of the Faerie did heal me!

  She could hardly comprehend it. Healed. Left without pain and the terrible humiliation of those sores. Jane had never thought to be healed of her pox. A life free of the pox had not once entered into her wildest wishes and hopes.

  But it was not just the pox that had been healed. By rights Jane knew she should be dead—no one, surely, could have survived the terrible torture of that imp’s exit. At the very least she should be assailed with agony.

  But…nothing, save for those few aches and cramps.

  Soft movements in the kitchen caught Jane’s attention. Who was it? Catling? Elizabeth or Frances?

  Weyland?

  A hand suddenly fell on her shoulder, and Jane literally jumped.

  She opened her eyes, wide, staring, terrified, and saw that it was but Frances, squatting down by her pallet and holding a tankard of what smelt like warm ale. It was morning, and soft light permeated the kitchen.

  “It is all right,” Frances said softly. “He is in the streets, at Whitehall, gathering news of the king.”

  “Are you sure?” Jane said, her voice rasping out from her dry throat.

  “I am sure,” Frances said. “Here, sit up, and drink some of this.”

  Jane sat up, looking about the kitchen, clutching the blanket which someone had laid over her nakedness. She felt whole. Looking around the room, Jane saw Noah was lying on a pallet just beyond Frances and Elizabeth, and Catling sat at the table.

  Two youths also sat at the table, just beyond Catling, and Jane froze at the sight of them.

  The imps, made incarnate!

  They had taken the form of boys of twelve or thirteen years of age, but, to Jane, their origins were clearly visible in their sly faces and crafty, narrowed eyes. They were very dark, their heads a tangle of dull black curly hair, their facial skin pitted and blotched with adolescence (or perhaps natural malignance), and they had thin arms and legs.

  Which one, she wondered, was hers?

  The one furthest from her grinned, showing sharp pointed teeth, and Jane had her answer.

  She looked away, taking the tankard from Frances with shaking hands.

  “Weyland brought them into the kitchen this morning,” said Frances, “before he left to gather news.” She paused. “Jane, how do you feel?”

  “I feel…well,” Jane said. She glanced at Noah, then raised her eyebrows at Frances.

  “She sleeps. She will wake soon.”

  “Frances, what do you know about—”

  “Later,” Frances said, and Jane made do with
sipping her ale (either Frances or Elizabeth had sweetened it with honey, and added a pinch of spice) as Frances rose and rejoined the others at the table.

  As Jane drank, the attention of those at the table turned to Catling, who raised her hands from her lap.

  Jane saw that she had a length of red wool twisted between the fingers of each hand.

  She’s playing cat’s cradle, thought Jane.

  Then she caught full sight of what it was that twisted between Catling’s fingers.

  Somehow, the child had formed a labyrinthine design with her twists of wool and, as Jane watched, the imp nearest Catling frowned, raised a long, thin finger and slowly tried to trace a pathway from the centre of the design to the edge.

  Jane went cold. Cornelia’s lost daughter be damned, she thought. That creature sitting there at the table is not her daughter at all!

  The imp almost got halfway, then his frown deepened, and his finger stalled. His lips pursed, and he muttered something that Jane did not catch.

  Then his brother leaned over him, and tried his luck. His finger also stalled at about halfway through the labyrinth, and he, too, frowned.

  “Bother!” he said, quite clearly.

  Catling smiled. “You admit defeat?”

  The imps muttered between themselves for a moment or two, then one sighed, and nodded. “We admit defeat,” he said.

  “Good,” said Catling, and folded the wool away.

  Something in Catling’s actions clicked in Jane’s mind. Catling is playing the Game with them!

  At that moment Noah stirred, and Jane, at least, was grateful for the distraction. It gave her time to pull her thoughts together.

  She didn’t want Catling looking at her face, and seeing there…recognition.

  Frances brought Noah a tankard of ale, and Jane saw that Noah seemed as puzzled by her current circumstances as was Jane. Indeed, Noah looked as well as Jane herself felt. Her colour was good, and she wore no lines of pain on her face.

  Jane saw the moment when Noah caught sight of the imps. Noah froze, and then turned a little so she could see Jane. Her eyebrows rose in clear question—why are we so well? And what do those imps at the table, sitting so casually?

  Jane gave a slight shrug. She turned aside her blanket, uncaring that both imps stared at her nakedness with boggling eyes, and stood up, feeling for her balance carefully. Finding she could stand, she walked to the chest where she kept what few clothes she had, and lifted its lid. She drew forth some underclothes, and an old bodice and skirt. But, before she dressed, Jane inspected her abdomen.

  There was a red gash running from her navel to her pubic hair, but while it was red and angry, it had healed over.

  Stifling her questions (not here, not with the imps present), Jane quickly dressed then turned to Noah, knelt by her side and, without asking, drew aside Noah’s blanket.

  At the table, unnoticed, Elizabeth and Frances looked at each other.

  Jane stilled as soon as she saw Noah’s wound. “It has almost healed,” she said. “The wound has mended, its edges neat and free of infection. As is mine.”

  Elizabeth, who had been watching Jane and Noah, now spoke up. “Weyland healed you,” she said. “Both of you.”

  Jane felt sick with regret and disappointment. Her dream of the Lord of the Faerie had been just that. A dream. Weyland had healed her.

  She noticed Noah had gone white.

  “I’d thought it was just a dream,” Noah said. “Now I find he did heal me. And you. Oh, Jane, look! The sores on your face are no more!”

  Elizabeth had risen, and came over to Jane, squatting down beside her. She lifted a hand and pushed back Jane’s loose hair.

  “They are healed,” said Elizabeth. “All of them. And the ache in your spine and legs, Jane? Are they still there?”

  Jane shook her head.

  Elizabeth frowned. “Weyland healed the injury caused you by the imp, but he did not heal your pox. I remember particularly, because he made a remark that he didn’t want you too grateful.”

  Jane stared at Elizabeth, and then very slowly smiled. So my dream wasn’t a fabrication! It truly happened!

  Elizabeth also smiled, responding to the sudden light in Jane’s face. “What do you know, Jane? Tell us, how have these sores healed?”

  Jane dampened her smile. “I cannot tell, Elizabeth. I was unconscious.”

  “You may speak of it,” said Catling. “They won’t tell.”

  “We won’t tell,” said the imps together, then both grinned, taking all the promise from their words.

  “They will not tell,” Catling said firmly, and the imps’ smiles faded.

  For an instant Jane almost believed her. She certainly believed that the imps would not say anything to Weyland, but then she realised she didn’t want Catling to know about the Lord of the Faerie.

  So Jane shrugged. “I truly don’t know. It is a mystery to me.”

  Later that morning, Noah and Jane lay down on their pallets again, saying they needed to rest. The others—Catling, the imps and Elizabeth and Frances—took themselves into the parlour, so that the two women might rest undisturbed. Instead of sleeping, Jane and Noah lay close together and conversed in low tones so that the group in the parlour would not hear.

  “Jane,” said Noah, “tell me. Who healed you of those sores? I do not believe this ‘I do not know’ of yours.”

  Jane took a long time to answer. “I dreamed,” she said, “that I stood in Tower Fields, where we met Ariadne. A man came to me there.” She hesitated. “The Lord of the Faerie came to me, Noah. Do you know who he is?”

  “Yes. Long Tom, one of the Sidlesaghes, spoke of him to me some years ago.”

  Jane felt disappointed. Was there nothing Noah did not know? “I was surprised to find he was Coelreborn, ” she said, and was finally rewarded with a look of utter shock on Noah’s face.

  Noah took a deep breath, and managed to speak.

  “Yes, of course. It fits. Jane, in our last lives I saw him crowned with light atop Pen Hill, and I also saw the Sidlesaghes doing him homage in his crowning in Westminster Abbey. When he came to me on Pen Hill, he was the one to induct me into my full self. I had never, before now, realised the true significance of all this. Now it makes sense.”

  “He healed me,” said Jane. “He touched my face, and my sores were gone.”

  “If the Lord of the Faerie walks,” said Noah, “then it means the Stag God is close to rising.”

  “Who?” Jane said, very softly, leaning her head so near to Noah that they might have been lovers.

  “You know who it must be,” said Noah, as softly.

  Of course. Jane battled her emotions, then, finally, she said, “And does Weyland know this?”

  Noah paused. “I hope not,” she said. “But…”

  “Aye, but…” said Jane. “I do not know about you, Noah, but I am heartily glad to have that creature gone from my body. I feel—”

  “Free,” said Noah. “Light.” She took a deep breath, and Jane heard it shudder in her throat. “Jane, do you think that Weyland still has the same control over us as he did when those imps were inside our bodies?”

  Jane thought a moment. “Oh, aye,” she said, her tone bitter. “I can feel it in here.” She tapped her breast. “A blackness. A bleakness. He can still control us, Noah, if not with such suffering.” She paused. “Noah, why did he heal us?”

  Noah took a long time to answer. “I don’t know,” she said finally.

  They both fell silent for a time. They might be healed, but both were still exhausted physically and emotionally from the events of the previous day.

  Eventually, Noah spoke. “Jane, what is Ariadne doing back? And in London? For all the gods’ sakes, do you think she wants to take control of the Troy Game?”

  “Instead of you, do you mean?” said Jane, allowing a small measure of bitterness to creep into her voice.

  “Whether I do or not, Jane, is your choosing. I shall not ask or beg for
you to teach me the ways of the labyrinth, and whatever you do choose, I shall accept.”

  “Well then,” said Jane, “perhaps I shall keep my powers as Mistress of the Labyrinth, eh? I shall wait for whoever wins the battle to be Kingman, and dance with him the Flower Dance, and live forever wrapped in the immortality of the Game.”

  To that Noah made no reply, but merely looked at Jane with sad eyes.

  That look of pity infuriated Jane. “I may not have my teeth at your throat this very instant,” she snapped, “and I may not control the respect and fear that once I did, but do not think that I am so well disposed to you, nor so desperate, that I shall hand to you my powers as the Mistress of the Labyrinth with little more than a shrug!”

  Noah sighed, and looked away.

  Weyland made his way through the crowds outside Whitehall. It seemed that most of London was here, thronging the streets, dancing where there was space, drinking where there was not. It may have been a full day since the king had entered London, but the partying had not stopped. The palace itself was guarded from the revelry by units of the army.

  Weyland managed to maintain a semblance of joy—anything less would have drawn immediate attention—but his thoughts were far from the celebration going on about him. Yesterday and last night had been exhausting. First, the horrific birthing of the imps, then the healing. Noah and Jane had still been unconscious when he left the house this morning, for which he had been grateful.

  He didn’t want to face them, or any of their questions.

  He didn’t want to face Noah. Not just yet.

  He certainly didn’t want to think too deeply on that strange vision he’d had of standing atop the hill, looking at Noah, at the tears coursing down her face…

  Weyland forcibly turned his thoughts to what he needed to accomplish next. Yesterday had served its purpose; now he needed to send another message to Charles.

  After several hours of pushing and shoving through the crowds, Weyland found himself standing before the high iron railings that ran about the great courtyard of Whitehall Palace. He managed to find himself a secure place close to the gates where the crowd would not jostle him too much, and wrapped his hands about the upright iron posts, staring at the buildings.