Darkwitch Rising

by Sara Douglass

  “I remember when you were Swanne,” a gentle, amused voice said behind her, “you could not wait to be rid of me.”

  Jane spun about. “Coel!”

  He was leaning, arms folded, against a massive tree trunk two paces away (Tower Fields had again vanished, replaced by the ancient forest). He straightened as Jane came over, and took her hands, and kissed her mouth.

  “Welcome home, Jane,” the Lord of the Faerie said, very softly.

  He conveyed her to The Naked. On this occasion, both the summit and the slopes were bare of anything save grass, the Lord of the Faerie’s throne set to the eastern portion of the summit, and the magpie, sitting on an arm of the throne.

  “Master Magpie,” said the Lord of the Faerie, “shall be your song-master.”

  At that he let go her hand, and stood back, and Jane felt a pang of great loneliness. But she took a deep breath, and stepped forward, and the magpie smiled (its beak curving most marvellously) and bowed its head, and spoke.

  “Welcome, Caroller. Have you come to learn the ways of the dawn and the dusk?”

  Jane’s sense of loneliness abated as curiosity and eagerness filled her.

  “What have I missed all these years?” she said, looking down at the magpie.

  Life, came the Lord of the Faerie’s whispered reply in her mind. Joy.

  “And thus,” said the magpie, “you shall greet the dawn and dusk with life and joy, and with majesty and reverence, so that both the day and the night shall grace the Faerie. Is this something you can accomplish?”

  “I wish to,” said Jane, and that appeared to be the right answer, for the magpie smiled once more, and then began to hum. It was but a simple phrase, repeated over and over, but Jane could hear a great complexity running through it. She frowned, concentrating, and wondered if she could ever master its intricacies.

  “Sing it,” the Lord of the Faerie said, and Jane jumped slightly, for suddenly he was behind her, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders.

  “Sing it,” he whispered. “Complete your penance.”

  And so Jane, drawing a deep breath to steady her nerves, opened her mouth, and began to sing.

  She’d never thought she had a good singing voice, but somehow the melody she sang, that simple repeated phrase the magpie had hummed to her, created a richness of its own. To her stunned surprise, Jane heard the complexity she’d recognised in the magpie’s voice repeated in her own, yet ten times over, so that the phrase became redolent with meaning and imagery, even though she sang only with tone and not with words.

  Jane stopped suddenly, amazed.

  The magpie and the Lord of the Faerie laughed, the magpie flapping his wings, the Lord of the Faerie sliding his hands down Jane’s body to her waist, turning her about, and kissing her once more.

  “Each time you come back to The Naked,” he said, “Master Magpie shall teach you another phrase of the Ancient Carol until you have accomplished it all, and then, who knows? I loved you once, maybe I shall again.”

  “Don’t tease me,” she whispered.

  “I only offer possibilities, Jane.”

  Another moment of silence, in which they looked at each other, and then looked away.

  “Jane…” the Lord of the Faerie said, his voice drifting away. Then he sighed. “It is time to go. Noah has done for the day.”

  Ariadne asked Jane, many times, where she went while she and Noah spent their time within the Tower, and Jane affected a bored air, and said that she did little but wander about the grassy spaces of Tower Fields plucking at flowers.

  At this Ariadne always rolled her eyes, and Noah looked at Jane with such cynicism as she delivered her “I spent the day being bored” explanation, that Jane wondered if perhaps she had some idea of what truly happened. But Noah did not question her closely, and so they continued, Jane and Noah travelling every few days to the Tower. There Jane would watch Ariadne and Noah disappear inside the Lion Gate, then she would walk to the scaffold.

  There, always, waited the Lord of the Faerie, and he would take her to The Naked. There, each day, Jane would learn a new phrase of the Ancient Carol, and fall a little deeper into hope, and even deeper into love.

  Thirteen

  At sea on the Woolly Fleece

  The master of the Woolly Fleece was somewhat bemused by his two strange saturnine passengers, but they had paid well enough, and the master had been at sea for too many years to question gold coin placed in his hand. The two youths, Tim and Bob, kept themselves to themselves, bunking down with the sailors in the hold at night, and, strangely, crouching under the deck railing at the very prow of the ship during the day. The master thought they looked like hunched black monkeys as they huddled there, drenched with sea spray, bright eyes peering ahead.

  They had sailed from the Pool of London ten days ago, making good time to The Hague where, over three days, they’d off-loaded their cargo of wool, then reloaded with fine woven cloth from Flanders and Venice. During these three days the two youths had absented themselves from the port, reappearing but an hour or two before the master was to shout the orders to cast off for England. He’d regarded them critically—as he did all passengers and sailors after a stay in the Low Countries—but they were bright of eye, and quick of movement, and he could see no sign of the sickness within them. If it was there, then doubtless it would appear on the voyage back home, and if that were the case, well then, the master would take care of it as he took care of all passengers or crew who happened to show signs of fever, or exhibited any lumps under their armpits or in their groin.

  A regretful smile, and a quick shove off the deck. The rolling grey sea was, so far as the master of the Woolly Fleece was concerned, the best remedy of all for the plague.

  But these two youths appeared well enough. They carried with them two small casks, which the master duly inspected.

  They were packed with black feathers.

  The master raised an eyebrow at the youths.

  “We have a mistress,” said one of them, “inordinately fond of her feathers. The best of the black are to be found here, in the Low Countries.”

  It was the strangest response the master had ever heard, but harmless enough, so he shrugged, and walked away.

  An hour later, the Woolly Fleece was on her way back to England and her home port of London.

  “Well?” said Catling. She sat on a bale of wool (part of the cargo awaiting the Woolly Fleece which would, within a day or two, be on its way to Flanders with this particular consignment).

  The two imps stood before her, each with a cask under his arm.

  “Collected from the very pits of the contagion,” said one.

  Catling smiled, and jumped lightly down from the bale. “Good,” she said. “You may begin tonight. Not all, mind, just a handful here and there. I want this to spread slowly. Next week, a handful or two more, elsewhere.”

  The two imps crouched atop a section of the crumbling medieval wall of London by Cripplegate. They had one of the casks between them. They sat there for several hours, absorbing the night, watching as lights winked out in houses, and the streets emptied of the last of the tavern customers.

  In the very early hours of the morning, one of the imps inserted his long, thin, dark fingers under the lid of the cask and carefully opened it, placing the lid silently to one side.

  He looked at his brother, blinked slowly, then gave a slight nod.

  His brother lifted out a small handful of the black feathers.

  “Go where you will,” he whispered, “and enjoy.”

  Then he put his mouth to his open hand, and blew.

  The feathers lifted out into the night, drifting this way and that, north and south, east and west, until, one by one, they dropped slowly, like soft sooty ashes, over the tenements of London.

  Each one fell in a direct line, ignoring the wind, and each one fell, without fail, directly down a chimney to settle on the ceramic covers—called curfews—placed by householders over the coals f
or the night.

  There, they clung to the handles of the curfews, ready to be taken up in the morning by whoever it was wished to relight the fire.

  Eight days later, a gentle physician by the name of Nathaniel Hodges was called from his house in Watling Street to treat a young man who lived in a narrow laneway running off the churchyard of St Botolph Aldersgate. The moment Hodges saw the black swellings in the young man’s armpit he knew with what he dealt.

  Hodges stepped back from the bed, and sighed, and shook his head at the man’s wife. “Pray,” he said, “and keep him comfortable. It is all you can do.”

  From the house, Hodges went straight to his local alderman and reported that, regretfully, the plague had returned to London.

  Two nights later, Catling sent the imps to the parish of St Giles-in-the-Fields, where they clung to the steeple of St Giles and cast their feathers into the night.

  Two weeks later reports drifted into the Privy Council about the growing numbers of deaths due to plague. Fifteen hundred people in the parish of St Giles-in-the-Fields had died within the past eight days alone, and the council took the precaution of setting wardens at street junctions at the borders of the parish to prevent people leaving the plague-ridden area.

  And then there was the area surrounding Smithfield. Although the first cases of the plague had been reported from there, the outbreak hadn’t been as heavy as that at St Giles-in-the-Fields. Now, however, it was growing, and creeping steadily through the ancient alleyways and lanes of the city.

  Most worrying of all were the reports on the weather. It was unusually warm for the time of year, and dry, and with strong westerly winds. Historically the plague was always at its deadliest during hot dry spells when the wind blew in from the west.

  The Council prepared itself for the worst, and sent a report to the king.

  Fourteen

  Whitehall Palace, London

  Elizabeth was spreading washing to dry in one of the small inner courtyards of Whitehall when a servant came over and whispered in her ear. Elizabeth paled, but she nodded, set the washing to one side, and hurried to the servants’ courtyard where she found the imps lurking in a shadowy corner.

  “What is it?” snapped Elizabeth.

  The two imps, masquerading as usual as disreputable street youths, both raised their eyebrows. “Snarly lady today,” observed the first imp.

  “Has she a fever, then?” said the other. “Do her armpits swell and discomfort her under the tight sleeves of that sweet bodice?”

  “What is it?” Elizabeth said again.

  “We come,” said the first imp, “because we carry a message from your one-time lover, Weyland. Remember him?”

  Elizabeth’s lips thinned. “Yes?” she said.

  “Don’t fret,” said the second imp. “The message is not for you. These are words that Weyland wants you to carry to the king, our Great Lord Almighty Charles, majesty, benevolence, defender of the faith, high prince of righteousness, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.”

  Elizabeth’s mouth tightened yet further, but she said nothing.

  “Tell him,” said the imps as one, their voices perfectly matched in bleakness, “that if the Londoners grow buboes, then it is because Weyland has planted the seeds. Tell Charles that Weyland is spreading his horror over London to show Charles his might, and to demonstrate that Weyland is unconquerable. Tell Charles that Weyland thinks that all this digging of graves in the churchyards and fields and orchards of London will surely scare out those kingship bands…yes?”

  The imps’ voices had become singsong, but that did nothing to diminish the horror of what they imparted. “Tell Charles that he is to gather the kingship bands of Troy, and hand them to you, so that you may hand them to Weyland. Only then will the death halt. A simple enough message, yes?”

  Elizabeth had taken two steps back as they spoke. “This is vileness,” she said.

  “This is the way it is,” said the first imp, “vile or not.” Then the imps were gone, and Elizabeth was left standing alone in the shadowy corner of the courtyard.

  Elizabeth walked slowly through the palace, dragging her feet, unable to hurry this ghastly message to Charles. Inevitably, however, her grudging feet drew her close, and she asked admittance of the king’s guards in a soft, hesitant voice.

  Elizabeth was of Charles’ inner coterie, and the guards allowed her into the king’s private apartments without hesitation.

  Charles was sitting, together with Catharine, Marguerite and several of his older bastard children, under an apple tree in the private courtyard off his apartments. The instant Charles saw Elizabeth’s face he waved the children to a far corner to play, then beckoned her close.

  “What is it?” he said quietly.

  “Weyland has sent a message,” said Elizabeth, not looking at Charles, so ashamed was she to be the one Weyland had chosen to bring this before the king.

  “Aye?”

  “Weyland has caused the pestilence which spreads through the city and its fields. He says the death will not stop until you gather in the kingship bands, and hand them to me, so that I may pass them to him.”

  Marguerite hissed. “We should have known this outbreak was Weyland’s handiwork. Such foulness becomes him.”

  For the moment Charles ignored Marguerite’s comment. He reached forward, and took Elizabeth’s hand, making her look at him. “I do not hold you to blame for such grim news, my darling,” he said. “Do not fear.”

  “What can we do?” said Catharine. “You cannot gather the bands.”

  Charles and Marguerite exchanged a look. Two of them Charles could very well gather, but this they did not remark upon.

  “Dear gods,” Catharine continued, “the plague will spread and spread, inching its dark way into the soul of every Londoner. What can we do? Louis…Louis should—”

  “Louis cannot be disturbed from his transformation,” said Charles, “unless it be for the direst reason.”

  “This is not the direst reason?” Marguerite said.

  “And what of Eaving?” said Catharine, too consumed with her worries to take much note of what anyone else said. “She is trapped within Weyland’s den, and may not move until Jane has taught her all she needs to know of the labyrinth. Gods, what is happening to her?”

  Charles’ eyes flickered at that, but he said nothing.

  “Weyland is the foulest creature ever to draw breath,” said Marguerite. “It will be a blessed day indeed when Eaving can escape him.”

  Noah and Weyland had spent the entire day within the Idyll. They had touched, and kissed, but had not made love. Instead they talked, of who they had been in former lives, and what they had seen. By the late afternoon Noah was feeling restless—these remembrances had not always been comfortable—and so, Weyland trailing behind her with a smile on his face, she embarked on a far-reaching exploration of the Idyll.

  Noah had known the Idyll was large, but had not suspected it was this vast. She explored for what felt like hours, and what she saw convinced her that in acreage alone (not even considering power and enchantment) the Idyll was far larger than London itself.

  Chamber emptied into chamber after chamber, balconies led to walks along battlements that made Noah dizzy, stairwells rose and fell with apparent abandonment.

  At last, growing tired, Noah paused, and Weyland took the opportunity to gather her in his arms.

  “What do you think, then,” he said, “of what I have built atop the goddess hill? Is it a fine enough shelter for you?”

  She tensed in his arms, and Weyland regretted the tease. Should he finish it now, then, and just ask for shelter?

  Noah had put a bright, false smile on her face, and Weyland sighed, and let her go.

  She turned—a little too abruptly—and walked through yet one more door onto a balcony that overlooked a vast vista.

  Noah stopped the instant she saw what lay beyond the balcony. “What made you create this?” she said.

  Weyland looked o
ver the balcony to where stretched a succession of wooded hills, rolling into infinity. Mist drifted in the valleys and hollows between the hills and scarlet and blue birds dipped slowly and gracefully in and out of the mists.

  “Don’t you remember this?” he said. “That night I healed your back in the kitchen? We met in vision then, in this strange land. It was so lovely…”

  Noah was looking at him strangely. “And so you recreated it here?”

  He shook his head slowly. “I did not make this, Noah. It just appeared one day. I thought you had made it.”

  Now she was staring as if she were frightened. She took a half-step back, and Weyland grasped her arm, terrified she was going to run.

  “Noah?”

  Noah made a visible effort to relax, and she offered him a sunny, false smile. “You must have dreamed of it, and made this without thought.”

  “The only thing of which I dream,” he said, “is of what you said to me in that vision.”

  She stared at him a moment longer, then abruptly she pulled her arm from his hand, and left the balcony.

  Fifteen

  By the Scaffold in Tower Fields

  One morning Jane went to the scaffold in Tower Fields to find the Lord of the Faerie waiting for her. Unusually, however, his face was creased with worry and he did not immediately take her to The Naked.

  “Jane,” he said, leaning to kiss her.

  “What is it?” Jane could hardy breathe for apprehension.