Darkwitch Rising by Sara Douglass

“Are you his lover, Noah?”

I took a deep breath. “Yes.”

He let his breath out on a hiss. “To what depth, Noah?”

“That is what I need to find out.”

“Noah, you ask me to risk the Faerie. To bring Weyland there. To bring Asterion into its sacred borders…”

Dear gods, what would he say once he realised that I was a Darkwitch, and of Asterion’s bloodline?

I decided I needed to tell the Lord of the Faerie more. “Weyland is almost there already. Atop his house in Idol Lane he has built a magical realm, his Idyll. My Lord of the Faerie, it reaches to the very borders of your realm. Furthermore, on the night that Weyland had torn myself and Jane apart, he and I met in vision on The Naked. I do not know if we were truly there, or if it were merely dream, but still…I think there is some connection between Weyland and the Faerie, something even he does not realise, and we need to know what it is. Please, please allow this, for, if nothing else, we need to know the nature of the threat that this land faces, whether it be Weyland…or something else.”

He heaved a great sigh, but eventually he nodded, and for that I loved him more than ever. I had upset Coel’s world more than once, too, but his love and belief had never wavered.

“Gods, Coel,” I said. “Thank you for this!”

“When?” he said.

“Tonight.”

Twenty-one

The Realm of the Faerie

Weyland was more unsure of himself than he had ever been in all his myriad lives. Every instinct screamed at him to rein Noah in, to wrap her about with power, to force her to his will. Over the past two days those instincts had screamed louder than ever: Noah had too much freedom; she was not necessarily going to learn the skills of the Mistress of the Labyrinth as she said she was; she was possibly in contact with Brutus-reborn, and—gods, gods, gods!—she had brought the Troy Game incarnate into this house, and told him that his precious imps were now under its control.

If it had been anyone else Weyland knew he would have slaughtered them without a second thought.

Intellectually, Weyland knew that granting Noah tolerance and freedom worked more in his favour than any force or fright he could have used.

Intuitively, he knew that asking for shelter had somehow bound Noah more tightly to him than any enchantment he could have used. Weyland did not know the hows and whys of it, but he knew, just as surely as he knew that he needed those kingship bands in order to win out against Brutus-reborn.

Emotionally, Weyland was not sure that he could bear to use force on Noah any more, and that realisation scared him more deeply than anything had for three thousand years.

Not since Ariadne had betrayed him.

Love. Who could trust it?

He’d loved Ariadne, and with such a vast intensity that even now it hurt to recall its strength. She’d been the only one to regard him without loathing, to offer him her body for love, to give him a child. And then she had snatched it all back.

The child, gone because it humiliated Ariadne.

Love, taken from Asterion and handed to Theseus.

Weyland remembered that day, lying on his bed in the heart of the labyrinth, when he’d heard Ariadne’s soft footfall. He had started up, a smile on his face, thinking she’d come back to him, but then Ariadne had entered holding the hand of a man she graced with her smile, and whom she addressed as Theseus.

“Take the beast, for I am weary of him,” Ariadne had said to her new lover, and Theseus started forward, a sword raised.

Asterion tried to defend himself, but he had no sword, and Ariadne used her arts as Mistress of the Labyrinth to aid her new lover’s weapon.

That is what love accomplished. Humiliation. Betrayal. Murder.

But, oh…Noah. There was something happening there, something growing within him, and Weyland was terrified that it might be love, come again to betray him.

“Weyland.”

He started, literally jumping from his chair at the kitchen table onto his feet.

Noah stood before him…but it was a Noah he’d not ever seen before.

Her hair, thick and dark, flowed free down her back, moving slightly within the stillness of the kitchen as if it had a life of its own.

Her clothes—the tired bodice, the heavy skirts, and the thick leather shoes—had all vanished, and instead Noah stood clothed in a raiment of cloth that looked as if it were made of flowing waters: part green, part grey, part shimmery silver.

Her face—it was still Noah’s face, but different. Now it radiated magic, and her eyes…oh, her eyes. They had turned from dark blue to a sage green, shot through with gold and silver.

Weyland’s first thought was that he had never seen such a vision of loveliness and power.

His second was that she had come to betray him.

Brutus was waiting outside, with a sword.

“Weyland,” she said, her voice far richer and deeper than usual, “will you come walk with me?”

He was tense, so tense he could barely have moved had he wanted to. “What is happening?” he said.

“The land is walking,” she said, and Weyland felt a thrill of the supernatural vibrate through his bones.

“What is happening?” he said.

“The land is walking,” she repeated, and this time she held out her hand.

Her arm was round, and firm, and glowed with a wonderful luminescent creaminess.

“You are going to betray me,” he said, and in defence he began to summon his power, call it screaming to the surface.

In an instant she was upon him, the hand which had been outstretched now clasping one of his, her body held close against his, her face, so near to his own, her mouth, almost upon his.

“No,” she breathed. “Let go your power, let go your fear. Trust me.”

Weyland felt the power radiating out from her. A memory sprang into his mind, that time he’d met with Mag—Noah’s predecessor—in the stone hall. He recalled how contemptuous of her he’d been, how weak and insipid he’d thought her power.

But Mag was as nothing compared to Noah. The being who stood so close to him now was a giant in comparison. Her power was so vibrant and so unfathomable Weyland knew he could never plumb its depths even had he a thousand years in which to attempt it.

It terrified him, and he wondered if he should destroy it.

Then she laid her mouth against his, and kissed him.

Weyland closed his eyes, part frightened, part lost. Her body pressed closer against his, and Weyland felt its warmth, and felt the rolling of the meadows and the waters within it.

She leaned back a fraction, and Weyland was appalled to hear himself moan.

“Come walk with me,” she said. And then, softly, “Trust me, Weyland. I am not Ariadne.”

No! No! No! his instincts screamed at him. Everything within him shrieked, Danger! Danger!

And yet there was one small place, one small haven within his soul, that said, Trust her.

“Come walk with me,” she whispered against his mouth, and the next moment she stepped back a little, her hand tugging gently at his, and Weyland found himself following her.

She led him through the kitchen, and through the empty, barren parlour.

She led him to the front door, which she opened with the gentlest of touches of her free hand.

She led him through the open door, and into something so extraordinary that for the moment Weyland forgot his fears, and merely stared.

“We stand,” she said softly at his side, “on the borderlands of the Faerie. Welcome to the land, Asterion.”

Weyland stared at the vista before him. He and Noah stood on what appeared to be the rise of a small hill. Before them stretched a series of rolling hills, carpeted with thick, almost impenetrable forest, wisps of mist floating about the tree tops and birds dipping in and out of the mists.

In the far distance rose great purple peaks gilded with snow.

During his many lives, Weyland had seen a score of stunning landscapes which had momentarily touched him. They, however, could not hope to compare with this. It was not so much what Weyland saw, but what he felt.

The sense of a land so ancient it was virtually incomprehensible.

A wilderness of power, drifting through the trees, and throbbing up through his boots from the very soil beneath him.

A sense of permanence so extraordinary Weyland thought that even if he threw all the power at his command at this land it would not touch it.

A loveliness so great he felt as if he would weep. He realised that this was the same landscape he’d seen in that vision he and Noah had shared—Weyland, Weyland, what are we doing? Why can’t we stop? Why can’t we stop?—but now that he stood here in reality it was incomparably more potent.