Текст книги "Hell and Earth"
Автор книги: Elizabeth Bear
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
He was speaking to their backs. Murchaud’s silver rapier gleamed when the torchlight touched it, made itself a brand of darkness in between. The Elf‑knight slipped forward, half invisible in the shadows, and Ben and Tom flanked him. Will watched, fascinated, as Ben came up behind the lone man tending the braziers and broke his neck.
Kit, standing like a statue between the pillars, did not move. But Lucifer did, leaning close to Kit with a heated iron held negligently in his hand. He had not even time to turn to face Murchaud as the Elf‑knight’s advance metamorphosed fluidly into a tackle. “S’wounds,” Will muttered, limping forward, his knife concealed in the fall of his sleeve. “This is a fool’s errand if ever I’ve seen one.”
It’s no sin to deceive a Christian;
For they themselves hold it a principle,
Faith is not to be held with heretic…
–Christopher Marlowe, The Jew of Malta,Act II, scene iii
In a moment, the heat would touch him. Kit braced himself for the pain, tilting his chin down to his chest and imagining that his weight flowed like water through his pelvis and down his legs, anchoring him to the floor. He closed his eyes–a blessing anyway, as they tended to fall on the heap of mutilated ravens at the foot of the steps–and drew deep, heavy breaths. Mehiel stirred, so close to the surface that he could feel the muscles under his skin that would move the giant wings. He heard the rustle of feathers, smelled their warmth.
We’ve done this before,Kit assured the trembling angel. It’s only the fire.
One breath and then another, and then again. The air filling his lungs was thick and sweet, invigorating, full of the scent of fresh blood and hot metal. Very similar scents, some part of his brain mused, looking for a fresh conceit. Anything to distract himself upon. Mehiel. What are we going to do?
«Endure.» the angel answered.
«Be strong, my love.» Lucifer whispered in his ear.
Kit readied himself as best he could, gritting his teeth as if sheer willpower could keep him silent against what was to come. The fine hairs on his back melted under the nearness of the iron. The Morningstar’s long fingers tangled in his hair.
Something that Kit did not see struck Lucifer from the side, knocking him away, and the iron rang on the stones and then sizzled. The blow thrust Kit forward against his restraints, shoulders wrenched as his feet came out from under him. He yelped, a startled sound, and struggled back upright, twisting in futile desperation to seek the source of sounds of swordplay and a struggle. He couldn’t turn his head far enough to see anything of use.
But a moment later a hand was on his shoulder, and that he could crane his neck to see, and gasped in shock at the worry in blue eyes and a tight, hopeful smile. “Kit, can you hear me?”
“Will ! ” Kit glanced around wildly, glimpsed shadowy combat through blurred vision. Recognized Murchaud’s dark hair and nimble grace circling a laughing Prince of Hell, saw Ben Jonson brandishing a red‑tipped iron poker he must have snatched up from a brazier, and shook his head in wonder. “Will, they’ll be slaughtered – ”
The playmaker shook his head. “Your Prince assures me he can handle this, here, now. How badly are you hurt?”
Not at all,” Kit answered, and then saw where Will’s eyes rested. “‘Tis not my blood.” He pointed with his chin, while Will produced a dagger from his belt and sawed at tautstretched silk. Something about the wasted slaughter of all those birds made his breath catch in his throat, and he choked on it, refusing to cry now that he could almost taste safety. “They slaughtered all the ravens.”
“Not all.”
Kit sagged as Will severed the left‑hand restraint, surprised by Will’s strength as his friend hauled him to his feet. Kit looked up, trying to catch Will’s eye, but Will was moving hastily to free Kit’s other hand. “Not all?”
“I left a friend in the hallway …” Will’s sawing dagger parted the final shred of cloth. He glanced sideways as silver rang on steel. “Murchaud could use thy help, 1 imagine.”
Kit looked down at his naked, blood‑covered body, the short lengths of gossamer trailing from his wrists. At his fingers, swollen and raw. And bare of their restraining rings.
He smiled. “I don’t suppose thou didst bring me a blade, sweet William?”
“Alas,” Will said, and stooped slowly. When he stood, something long and dark speared from his hand: a length of twisted rod stock, drawn to a fine sharp point. It steamed slightly in the torchlight as Will reversed it in his hand and offered the looped butt to Kit. “Thy rapier, my love.”
It weighed more than a rapier, and would be useless for a cut. But the point was sharp, and the iron was heavy. He glanced over Will’s shoulder to where Murchaud fought Lucifer, falling back steadily before the Devil’s laughing, casual advance. Lucifer had drawn a blade from somewhere, a shadowy thing that flickered like his crown and rang like steel on Murchaud’s silver rapier. None of the others came near them; Tom and Ben stood back‑to‑back at the foot of the stairs, guarding Will and Kit. Ben still held the poker, Tom a brace of pistols. Between them they had three men at bay, a fourth one bleeding among the murdered ravens. Neither Baines nor Poley was anywhere in sight.
Kit snickered. The improvised weapon in his hand, the comfort of his friend at his side, were all the strength he needed. “Now all I need is a pair of breeches.”
Will pointed at a dead man, falling back a step. “That one looks about thy size.”
Lucifer’s dark blade struck sparks from a pillar as Murchaud ducked and cursed. Kit’s head turned. “And boots more‑so,” he growled, and sprinted barefoot and unclad over wet stones and slick mud to reach Murchaud’s side.
A moment’s eagerness for battle might race his heart and pulse false strength along his veins, but his long confinement had left him unfit and he knew it. Four steps down, a wave of vertigo caught him like a trap. He stumbled, expecting the hard stones on knees and forearms, the skitter of the iron bar on the tiles. There was shouting, nearby. The clash of iron on steel, blade on bar. Tom’s voice, Ben’s. A grunt, the sizzle of coals on wet tile as someone kicked over a brazier. Kit heard it all, scented, tasted. Pushed it away and dove.
And something caught him falling, a hard slap like wings cupping air, a jerk like a harness, a blaze of light around his hands and under his skin, silhouetting the crimson sigils painted on every inch of his flesh black on hot sunlight.
He sailed forward, the dark iron in his hand burning like a spear of light, a voice like a choir of falcons bellowing Lucifer’s name somehow rising from his throat, and everything a fury of gold‑barred black and searing light. “Behold!” Mehiel?
«Be not afraid, my friend.»
Except Lucifer straightened, that dark sword still in his hand. Kit saw through the haze of Mehiel’s wrath the edge smeared red with blood, the blade itself bottomless dark: a cut in reality, whatever lay behind it gleaming with silver motes like stars. “Murchaud, strikehim,” Kit cried in his own voice, but the silver blade was falling from the Elf‑knight’s fingers, and he was settling slowly, breathlessly back against the fluted pillar he stood before, both hands clutched across his abdomen and red welling through fisted fingers.
:Be not afraid: Mehiel said again, and–wearing Kit’s body like a suit of armor –raised his sword of light and purity to parry Lucifer’s blow.
But Lucifer barely tapped the blade, teasing, and stepped back, opening his guard to all but bare his chest. «Brother,» he said mockingly, «how it pleases me to fence with thee. Come, strike.»
His words resonated in Kit, and Kit shook his head, knowing that the words were meant for Mehiel. Mehiel, who knotted Kit’s fist on the butt of the poker and slipped steadily to the side, tapping lightly not at Lucifer’s breast but at Lucifer’s blade.
«Come,» the Devil whispered. «This is not stage fighting. Strike at me.»
And Mehiel did, but it was a wild blow and Lucifer deflected it without obvious effort. The angel in Kit said nothing, but Kit felt his confusion, his passion–
–his memory of Lucifer’s fingers lovingly carding Kit’s hair. Strike him!Kit urged, and Mehiel swung again.
Inadequate. And Lucifer did not strike back.
Mehiel lowered his sword and stepped away. «I cannot.»
Mehiel!
«I cannot,» the angel repeated. «I cannot strike. God forgive me. I pity Lucifer.»
Then let me strike him,Kit replied, and lifted the iron poker in his hand.
Come not between the dragon and his wrath.
–William Shakespeare, King Lear,Act I, scene i
Kit moved like a serpent, Will thought, and not a man. No. Not a serpent.
A dragon.
Will almost saw the massive wings that hurled him forward, didsee the halo of light that curled and flickered about his head and hands, the power and fluidity in his gestures as Murchaud fell and Kit lunged toward Lucifer. Will had just enough time to hear weapon crash against weapon once and then again before a hard arm clipped his neck and he found himself dragged backward, too startled at first to react.
“Master Shakespeare.” Robert Poley’s voice. Robert Poley’s broad‑palmed hand and rough fingers clenched upon Will’s jaw, stretching the tight muscles of his neck. He dragged Will backward, off balance, far stronger than Will. His other hand caught Will’s right wrist in a numbing grip, immobilizing the knife Will hadn’t had time to resheathe. “Do you suppose Master Merlin would surrender to ensure your safety? ”
“‘Tis possible,” Will admitted through gritted teeth, determined not to give Poley the satisfaction of hearing his fear. Foolish, he thought, as his heart raced dizzyingly. He bit his lips and let his body go slack, trying to roll and fall forward to the water‑slick tiles. Poley kept him upright with ease, his livery stiff against Will’s back, the ornate buttons gouging Will’s skin through layers of cloth. Lucifer was laughing, defending himself delightedly from the slender light‑wrapped figure who pressed him only tentatively. “But I do not think Master Merlin is in command, at present.”
“Pity,” Poley said, his grip tightening. At the foot of the dais, Will could hear Tom and Ben engaged in a passage of arms with whatever men remained. Poley sneered, still backing away, still dragging Will. “Then I’m afraid I have no use for you–”
Will heard another set of wing beats. Smaller, lighter, a cracking sound like paper shaken in the air. He ducked, bruising his throat on Poley’s thumb, and kicked back hard against the side of the other man’s knee just as something black and heavy barreled shrieking into Poley’s face.
Poley swore and pressed his face to Will’s shoulder, protecting his eyes. A good conceit, except his right hand’s grip loosened on Will’s wrist, and Will was ready for it. He ducked under the buffet of the raven’s wings and slammed the dagger into Poley’s right thigh. Poley staggered backward, fingers clenching on Will’s jaw, and Will clung to the dagger and let himself fall forward, shielding his face with his flat left hand.
Hot, raw‑smelling blood spurted, soaked his sleeve to his skin, sprayed his breeches and the back of his calf. He went to his knees and then forward as Poley fell.
The stones slammed the wind from Will, and somehow Will kept his dagger and rolled. He came up, saw blood fountaining, and backed away on his hands and knees until he was out of range. Somehow, the dagger remained in his hand. The pommel scraped on stone harshly enough to make him grit his teeth.
Will had opened a gash like a gaping mouth in Robin Poley’s inner thigh. Poley twitched and kicked on the stones, groaning as if he’d been kicked in the gut, red blood spurting between his clutching fingers and his other hand raised in a futile attempt to keep the croaking, stabbing raven from his eyes.
Will scrambled to his feet, spitting blood, wiping blood from his face with blood‑soaked hands, and turned to go to Kit‑
–just as Lucifer saluted with his star‑black blade, chuckled, and vanished like a cloud blown to tatters across the moon. Kit, committing to a lunge behind his poker as if behind a rapier thrust, measured his length on the silted tiles.
Poley fell slack, bubbling. The raven raised its head, jet eyes gleaming in the darkness, blood and vitreous fluid dripping from its beak, and regarded Will with feral intensity. Will looked away with an effort, eyes seeking Ben, or Tom.
Or Kit, who pushed himself up onto his hands and knees – naked again, no longer clothed in light, the bloody patterns marked on his skin blurred with effort –and swore most vilely. He turned over his shoulder, and met Will’s eyes. “I swear to God he planned that,” Kit said, and flopped over like a fish thrashing on a deck.
“Does that mean you know what he’s playing at?”
Kit shook his head, modesty abandoned. “Unless he was trying to awaken Mehiel,” Kit said, holding up a hand that briefly flickered gold. “In which case, he’s succeeded admirably. I don’t honestly believe he wants the Prometheans in power, though. Otherwise he wouldn’t keep interfering with their plans for him.”
Will saw movement alongside the shadows near the far wall. A lean figure in dark clothing, forcing himself to his feet. “Your Prince is still bleeding, Kit – ”
“Murchaud!” Blinking, startled, as if he had utterly forgotten the Elf‑knight’s existence, Kit turned away from the mortal men and hurried to Murchaud’s side. Kit pulled Murchaud upright, checking his injuries with a fussiness that left Will tasting bile and jealousy. “Art well?” Kit answered, and even by torchlight Will didn’t miss his hopeful smile.
“I’ll live,” the elf answered, straightening. “There is no iron in Lucifer’s blade, and naught else can harm me for long.” He glanced about the room, squeezing Kit’s hand before he let it fall. “It will bleed, but that is all. In any case, the Faeries will be here shortly, and even if Baines’ plans for Kit have been altered, there’s a scene or two yet to play.”
Will dragged himself up and staggered away from Poley’s corpse, threw his own blood‑slaked cloak over Kit’s bloody and goosefleshed body. Then he sank down on the wet tiles beside Kit and Murchaud, crossed his legs, leaned his elbows on his knees, and pressed his forehead into his hands. “This is all too complicated for me.”
Kit dropped down beside Will and lay back on the floor as if he reclined in a featherbed, drawing the cloak around him. Tom and Ben staggered over to them. “A timely rescue, gentlemen. Now find me a pair of trousers, and we’ll see if we can manage a timelier one.”
Ben limped heavily, blood staining the outside of his breeches. “Can’t find Baines,” he said, bending down to brace his hands on his knees, breathing like a runner.
“Bloody buggered Christ,” Kit answered, sitting up so Will could see the long curve of his back. “I imagine he’ll find us before the evening’s out. It’s all for naught. The war’s over for England and James anyway: the portents have spoken, and the Tower’s bastions are breached with the deaths of the ravens – ”
The heavy beat of wings interrupted Kit. He looked up as the crippled raven rowed heavily through the air and landed on Will’s automatically upraised fist.
Kit blinked. “A raven. Unwounded and alive.”
Will smiled, and Tom Walsingham coughed into his hand. “Just one. But one’s enough, isn’t it? All stories are true stories, or so Will tells me.”
“All stories – ” Will and Kit shared a glance, and it was Will who looked up first. “Kit, should we be asking ourselves what Lucifer wants?”
Kit shook his head. “I wonder if we should be asking ourselves what ‘tis he wants to become.He’s Prometheus, thou knowest. And the serpent Amaranth too.”
“‘Twas Amaranth told me where to find thee, Kit,” Will said. He held out his hand to help the other poet to his feet. “I don’t understand–”
“Surely you don’t think the Father of Lies is limited to one shape only,” Kit said dryly, once his feet were under him. “You know how you said of Salisbury, he plays his game as if there is no other player, only pieces that sometimes move themselves?” His voice was quiet, his gaze hooded, as if he directed his commentary not to Will and Tom and Ben, but someone closer still. “Aye… .” Will glanced at Ben for assistance. Ben looked up from binding his leg.
“Sir Christopher, ” Ben said softly, “are you suggesting that Lucifer is playing both sides of the board?”
“I’m saying that his opponent is refusing to move, and he’s attempting to provoke–something. A commitment. Possibly just a response. We’ve walked into a lovers’ quarrel, gentlemen.”
“Walked, or been dragged?” Will shook his head.
Act V, scene xviii
We are no traitors, therefore threaten not.
–Christopher Marlowe, Edward II,Act I, scene :
It might lack of warmth, comfort, and sartorial splendor, but Kit was happy simply to be clothed. He’d resumed the white breeches–grimy enough now that they would be slightly better suited to skulking in the darkness–and pulled his shirt back on over the bloody sigils that patterned his flesh. He scrubbed the cloth against his skin to smear the marks, and looked up to see Will watching with an inscrutable expression twisting his mouth.
“What happens next? ” Will asked, when Kit would not look down. Will’s fingers idly stroked the rainbow‑dark plumage of the raven that perched on his wrist, and Kit’s fingers itched with the memory of feathers. If he closed his eyes, he was sure he would feel those enormous wings again, lifting him, bearing him up–
He was glad Mehiel hadn’t struck down Lucifer. Glad, and furious. Conflict is the essence of drama.He shrugged and turned to seek Murchaud, but the elf‑Prince was in conversation with Tom. “I’ll find a pair of boots,” Kit answered, and went to pull Poley’s off his dead feet.
They were too soaked with blood to wear, which was a pity, because they would have fit, unlike the too‑large ones Kit liberated from the corpse of the man Ben had killed, which rubbed his feet to blisters as the five of them wound back through the tunnels to the surface, a straggling line lit by two lanterns.
Ben took the lead on the argument that Baines was still ahead of them somewhere, and neither Kit nor Will in any condition to fight. Kit, leaning on a captured poker as he walked, raised an eyebrow at that, but the big man shrugged. “It looked from my vantage as if Lucifer made a point in failing to injure you, Master Marlin.”
“Aye,” Kit said. “I’m untouchable. Pity your charge is not, Will.” He gestured to the raven, who seemed quite content to nestle against the curve of Will’s neck. “I think I recognize that bird.”
“He’s prone to keeping company with the prisoners in the Salt Tower,” Will said, craning his head with amusement to see the witchlights that flitted from Kit’s hands, and Murchaud’s. “We made an acquaintance while I was there.”
“That is no natural raven,” Murchaud said from the rear of the group.
“Aye,” Will answered. “I had come to suspect as much. Some form of Faerie creature?”
“Some such thing, Master Shakespeare.”
Will staggered in exhaustion. Tom put a hand on his shoulder at the same instant that Kit caught his arm. The raven beat its wings heavily, but seemed loath to abandon its perch; Will yelped as its talons pinched. “And the sole thing betwixt England and destruction, if the legends of ravens and the Tower are true. We cannot even bring him away for the danger: he must stay in the Tower precincts.”
“That bird on your shoulder is the reason behind the legends,” Murchaud said.
Kit glanced over his shoulder at the elf‑Prince. Murchaud moved wearily, as if his bones ached, frowning as Kit met his gaze. “Too much iron?” Kit asked.
Murchaud nodded. “London is full of it.”
“The reason behind the legends?” Will’s voice, considering. He leaned heavily on Tom’s arm now, to Kit’s concealed annoyance. “That seems to me a statement that begs an explanation, Your Highness.”
Kit coughed, every breath still carrying the metallic reek of the ravens’ blood crackling and itching on his skin. He stopped with his hand across his mouth, his feet suddenly too heavy to lift, and turned to Murchaud in speechless amazement. His mouth worked once or twice. “But he lies in Faerie,” Kit said. “Thou didst show me his bier.”
“Beg pardon,” said Ben, at the front with the lantern. “But all this talking will make it certain that if Baines isahead of us, he’ll hear us coming.”
“Wait, Ben,” Tom answered. “I have a feeling we’d do well to hear this out. Kit, of whom dost speak?”
Kit didn’t look, didn’t lower his eyes from Murchaud’s. The Elf‑knight shrugged. “Aye. He sleeps in Faerie as well, but–”
“All stories are true,” Kit finished, and craned his neck for a better look at the raven. The bird cocked its head at him, a sideways twist like a girl tossing her hair, and Kit laughed low in his throat. “I’ll be buggered,” he said, and angled his gaze to meet Will’s eyes.
Will shook his head. “Thou’rt insane.”
“Arthur Pendragon,” Kit said, and so saying made his nagging suspicion crystallize with a sound like cracking ice. He turned to face Murchaud, and bit his lip on the smile he wanted to taste. “Turned into a raven when he died. Murchaud–”
“Aye?” The Prince did smile. “It changes nothing. We protect the bird, and we climb.”
“Oh,” Will said, craning his neck to examine the profile of the black bird on his shoulder. “And when we get to the surface?”
“We deal with my mother and my wife,” Murchaud answered. “We save the life of a mortal King. We do not let England or Faerie fall.”
“That’s something I’m not sure I understand,” Will said, still idly caressing the raven’s head. “What is it that they hope to accomplish here tonight, Prince Murchaud? Why are the Fae in London at all?”
Murchaud shrugged; Kit felt the heavy lift and drop of the Prince’s shoulders, the swing of his cloak, and spared a moment wishing for his own patchwork cloak. Baines probably burned it.The imagined loss stung. “It’s an auspicious night for the overthrow of regimes. Baines’ plans are not the only ones coming to fruition on November fifth.”
“No,” Kit said. “Lucifer’s as well – ” He was struck by a sudden, vivid memory of the Mebd’s golden hair spread between his fingers, the cool, smooth surface of a tortoise‑shell comb, and he stopped and lowered his voice so that only the Elf‑knight would hear. “Morgan’s. What’s Morgan after, Murchaud? I remember when first I came to Faerie, it was her ear thou didst whisper into, and not the Mebd’s.”
Murchaud rested a hand on his elbow, almost lifting him up the ragged stairs. Only pride kept Kit from leaning hard on Murchaud’s arm. “Thinkst thou so little of me, Sir Poet, that I must serve the agenda of my mother or my Queen, and have no passions of mine own?” The hand squeezed, pulling the sting from the words.
Kit shot Murchaud a sideways glance, and realized it was true. Exactly and precisely: he had indeed assumed that Murchaud served Morgan’s whims, and to a lesser extent those of the Mebd. “Very well,” he said. “What is it that thou dost seek?”
Freedom,” Murchaud answered succinctly. “We all have our own purposes in seducing thee, Sir Poet. Thee, and that which thou dost harbor.”
“Seducing me.” He laughed. “In Morgan’s case, breaking me into a shape of which she approved. She told me she thought I was the one who could reconcile Faerie and Hell, England’s crown and the Prometheans.”
“Aye. And the Mebd thinks that thou – and Mehiel – are the ones who can burst Faerie’s bond with Hell, can destroy the Prometheans so that we no longer need Lucifer’s protection from the avenging spirit the Prometheans would set as the Divine.”
“Lucifer is Prometheus,” Kit said. “I do not understand why he takes payment to protect us from himself.”
Murchaud laughed softly. “An old acquaintance of Robert Poley’s, and thou dost not understand how extortion works? Besides” – a modest pause – “Lucifer no doubt has plans of his own. Which he has not seen fit to share.”
“He maneuvers all the pieces,” Kit answered, climbing. Will slipped on the stairs. Kit reached up to steady him, and Murchaud steadied Kit. Above them, Ben kept climbing, inexorable as a Jewish golem,and at the rear, Tom followed. No one spoke, and Kit realized they were all listening as intently to his quiet conversation with Murchaud as if they leaned close over a candle‑lit table in some tavern, whispering conspiracies. “I believe I know what he wants, Murchaud.”
Murchaud turned his head. “Aye?”
“The love of God,” Kit said plainly, and winced at his own forgetfulness when Murchaud flinched and stumbled.
“Thy pardon, Kit – ”
“Nay,” Kit said. “Thy pardon, I cry. But that does not answer the question that holds me most.”
“Aye?”
“What is it that thouseekest, Elf‑knight? Thou hast not made that plain to me, but thou must have some use for me, or thou wouldst not have been so kind, so long.”
“I–” The Elf‑knight hesitated. “I am Fae.”
It was not an excuse, but simply a statement, and Kit nodded agreement. “‘Tis so. So tell me now.”
A low, solemn laugh. “Thou didst never ask before.”
“I make no argument. And I am asking now.”
“Faerie,” Murchaud said. “Sovereign.” He looked pointedly at the raven huddled on Will’s shoulder. “I would like to see the ghosts and legends settled. I’d like, perhaps, to know for a day what story I might walk through–”
“You want what Baines wants,” Kit said coolly. “You want to choose the nature of the Divine.”
“‘Tis futile,” Murchaud answered. “Say rather I’d prefer that some stories were just stories. That a legend could change without changing the world. Call it the inverse of the Prometheans’ goal–if they wish to shape the stories, I wish to not be shaped by them.”
Kit considered that in silence for a moment or two, and found himself in sympathy. Mehiel?
«Ask me not about morality,» the angel said unhappily. «when I, an Angel of the Lord, find myself in love with Lucifer Morningstar.»
Kit blinked at the words. In love.
«Hast another name for it?»
Slowly, thoughtfully, Kit shook his head. If I found a way to free thee, Mehiel–
«Thou must not,» the angel said. «Thou must not give thy life up needlessly. We will endure.»
–regardless. If thou wert freed, what wouldst thou do?
A hesitation as the angel pondered his question. Fleetingly, Kit wondered if an angel could lie.
«Go home.» Mehiel answered, after a little while.
Return to God’s embrace. Go back to Heaven, and out of Hell. Despite thy love for the Morningstar.
«Wouldst not thou? Wouldst choose love over Heaven?»
Kit chuckled softly. Mehiel.He laid a hand on Murchaud’s arm, and Murchaud gave him the edge of a worried smile in the inadequate, flickering light. I have.
Another pause for thought. «Wouldst choose love over duty, then? Over remaining true to thyself?»
And Kit thought of Edward de Vere, and shook his head. Thou art right. But what wilt thou take home to the Lord thy God that thou hadst not when thou wert taken? Thou, Mehiel. Thou who art a piece of God?
«Thee,» the angel answered without hesitation. «Man, mortal and fragile. I know thee now, and thou art more worthy of brotherhood than I had realized. And I will take in that brotherhood all thou art, and thy true‑love’s grief and pity over his son, over thy pain. I will take the Fae in all their sorrow and bitterness and their solemn pact with Hell.»
And the Love thou hast for another–
Silence. And then the angel, wondering, the flex of black‑barred yellow wings. «Love. For the Morningstar. Yes, I will bear that home as well.»
Aye.Climbing still.
«Sympathy.»
“Simple,” Kit said dryly. “Or sympathetic magic, rather.”
“I beg thy pardon, Kit?”
“Nothing, Will. I don’t think we need to worry about the Morningstar further, fellows. Lucifer has what he came for.” All my life is stairs, Mehiel.
«Better stairs than falling,» the angel answered, but he did not sound convinced.
There were no torches lit in the Tower’s great courtyard when the ragged, soaking little party emerged from the bowels of the earth. No mortal lights illuminated the scene: not even a few candles flickering dimly in the windows of the White Tower. There was only the ethereal moonlit glow surrounding the court of the Daoine Sidhe, who waited on their Fae steeds like so many ghostly riders on a procession out of Hell.
The Mebd sat her black horse sidesaddle in the center of the procession, and on her right side, on a milky gray the shaded color of alabaster, Kit was surprised to meet the eyes of Morgan le Fey. Cairbre the bard rode beside them, and a half‑dozen other Fae Kit knew more or less well –
–and, on a shaggy, floppy‑eared pony no taller than Kit’s breastbone, the gawky figure of Robin Goodfellow, elbows akimbo and knees disarrayed.
Kit felt Murchaud drawing himself up tall, and laid a hand on the Prince’s elbow. “Puck?” A stage whisper, and Murchaud looked at him and shrugged.
“She knows thou dost care for him,” Murchaud said. “Perhaps his freedom is a gift to thee, to reassure thee of her good will. They’re waiting for us, Kit–”
“No,” Will said, even more softly, raising one knotted, trembling hand to point to a figure clad in raven‑black, a gold chain glinting at his shoulders as he entered the spill of Faerie light. “They’re waiting for the Earl of Salisbury.”
Act V, scene xix
March all one way, and be no more oppos’d
Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies:
The edge of war, like an ill‑sheathed knife,
No more shall cut his master.
–William Shakespeare, Henry IV Part I,Act I, scene i
“Jesus wept,” Kit said, and started forward. Will held on to his sleeve and followed; Ben, Tom, and Murchaud paced them a little behind. Given pride of place by a Prince and a Knight,Will thought, amused despite the worry seething in the pit or his belly. Or perhaps they’re simply willing to let us be the ones to beard the lions. And the lionesses.
Salisbury turned as they came up on him, a double‑dozen guards and yeomen ranged at his back. He considered and dismissed first Kit and then the rest of the party–their bruises and scrapes, their mud‑spattered rags. “Gentlemen,” he said, in a tone that didn’t mean gentle.His black robes rustled as he turned, and Will fought the ridiculous desire to step behind Kit like a child twisting himself in his mother’s skirts.
