Darkwitch Rising by Sara Douglass

“This is a strange and frightening path you take,” he said. “I stood behind you as you talked with John, and heard.”

“Then you know I need to ask your permission also.”

“Gods, Noah, what you plan—”

“Coel, if I don’t act, then the Troy Game will destroy the land, and then reach into the Faerie and take that too. It is evil beyond knowing. I need to act before it destroys us all. Coel, as you have ever loved me, then grant me your aid and your permission.”

He rubbed at his eyes, fretting, then finally nodded. “Yes. Yes to both. What may I do to help?”

“Can you take our baby, Grace, and keep her safe? I do not think Catling can yet reach into the Faerie…can she?”

He shook his head. “No. For the moment it lies beyond her. Very well…” He reached out, and took Grace from me.

Weyland had gone very tense at my side, and I realised that, apart from Jane, this was the first time he’d allowed anyone else to hold his daughter.

The Lord of the Faerie realised Weyland’s tenseness. “I will watch over her, and all the faerie folk besides,” he said. “We shall be watchers…we will not be gaolers.”

Thank you, Coel. Weyland needed to know he will get his daughter back.

“What else do you desire of me?” the Lord of the Faerie asked.

“To watch over these,” I said, and held out my hands…at the same time I sent a summons of calling into the house in Idol Lane.

The four kingship bands of Troy that I had taken over the past year materialised on my palms.

Weyland gave a start. “Noah, no!”

“Weyland,” I said, “Coel will watch over them. When I ask, he will hand them back.”

I was looking at Weyland as I said this, but from the corner of my eye I was aware that the Lord of the Faerie was watching him very carefully. Whether he knew it or not, Weyland was facing a critical test that would either earn him the Lord of the Faerie’s trust, or his suspicion.

It was a battle. Weyland had wanted those bands for so long he’d forgotten what life was like without his desperate need for them. To hide them within the Idyll was one thing. To hand them to the Lord of the Faerie was another.

Then Weyland gave a short little laugh and addressed the Faerie Lord. “I am trusting you with my daughter, but hesitate to trust you with these four damned pieces of gold. I can’t believe it. Take the bands, Faerie Lord, but take care of my daughter before all else.”

The Lord of the Faerie smiled, then he gave a short nod.

The bands vanished from my hands, and the next moment reappeared as four golden ribbons, one about each of Grace’s limbs.

Weyland and I both laughed at the sight. Somehow, those golden ribbons about our daughter’s limbs reassured us as almost nothing else might have done.

“Well,” said the Lord of the Faerie, “now that I hold your entire future in my arms, what else could you possibly want from me?”

“I need to ask this of Charles, the king,” I said.

The Lord of the Faerie smiled. “I will pass him the message.”

“There is a man who has been commissioned to draw plans for the rebuilding of St Paul’s. His name is Christopher Wren.”

“I know him. He has a good heart, and can persevere, no matter the difficulties.”

“Coel, will you, as Charles, be his friend? Will you trust him, give him free rein as much as you are able?”

“I can. What else?”

I drew in a deep breath. “I need the aid of Gog and Magog, and of the water sprites.”

“You do not need to ask my permission for their aid.”

“Nevertheless…”

He smiled once more. “Speak to them. They will do whatever you wish.”

“Thank you.”

His smile died, and he glanced again at Weyland. “Noah, you must speak with Ringwalker. You must. You owe him this, at least.”

“Do I? Why, Coel?”

“Noah, he loves you. He—”

“I loved him for thousands of years while he ignored me. And now he still wants to believe in the Game more than in me. Coel, I do not know where we will go, or what we will do, but I—”

“Talk to him!”

I didn’t want to. I didn’t know how I would feel, or where my emotions would pull me.

And I wasn’t sure if I could trust him. Ringwalker was too close to the Game, unable yet to see beyond it.

“Talk to him,” Coel whispered, and, very reluctantly, I gave a single nod.

I left Weyland waiting for me on the bridge while I went into the dreams of the man I had mentioned to the Lord of the Faerie, Christopher Wren.

I took him through the realm of the dream into the stone hall, that vision which had both plagued and comforted me over thousands of years.

“Who are you?” Wren said to me as I escorted him down the hall. Even as he asked his eyes were darting around, staring first at the columns and then at the great dome that soared above us.

“Master Wren,” I said, “who I am does not matter. I am merely a messenger.”

“What is your message?” he said, not even pretending to look at me any more. Instead, he was standing entranced under the dome, head cricked back, staring upwards.

“This,” I said softly, “is London’s heart, and it will be your monument. Build it, I pray, and let none stand in your way in the doing.”

“The cathedral chapter will never stand for it,” he said. “It’s not English enough.”

“You have a powerful ally—the king. He will stand behind you. Do this, Christopher Wren.”

Finally he looked back at me. “Why? What purpose does it suit for you?”

“This?” I stood, looking about as I had not done for many long years. The stone hall. How much had happened here? How many seductions? How many lies? How many murders? “This, good Mr Wren, is going to become the most wondrous casket in history, the coffin of so many hopes and dreams and ambitions that it would take a lifetime to number them all.”

And with that, I left him to his dreams.

I had one final task that night. I called to me Gog and Magog, and the water sprites who tumbled joyfully amid the raging torrent under London Bridge. I spoke long and seriously to them, and, eventually, all nodded—the giants reluctantly, the sprites with the most marvellous joy.

Mischief was about.

I returned to Weyland, and with him went back to the house in Idol Lane.

We sat at the table in the kitchen, a table around which so much had happened and so much had grown, and we waited for the following night.

While we waited, Weyland talked. He did not stop for almost twenty-four hours, and he talked of nothing but the darkcraft.

Fifteen

London

Weyland and Noah left the house at dusk the next day. They stood outside for a moment, close together, looking up at the house.

“For the house,” said Weyland, “I care nothing. But what of the Idyll?”

“Whatever happens,” said Noah, “the Idyll will survive. We may need to build ourselves some new steps, but the Idyll will survive.”

He lowered his gaze from the house to her face. “Are you ready?”

Noah gave a wan smile. “No. I feel sick to the stomach at what I must do. But do it I will. I am sick of dancing to the Game’s tune. Now I will construct the dancing floor, Weyland, and fashion it to my own needs.”

“Catling is about,” he said. “I can sense her.”

“Catling is all about,” said Noah. “She is under our feet and in the air that we breathe.”

Weyland grasped her hand in his. “Noah, be careful.”

She squeezed his hand. “I have you, and all of the Faerie with me. How can I fail?”

Weyland had opened his mouth to reply, but before he could get out the first word there came a sharp and commanding step from the Tower Street end of Idol Lane.

Weyland and Noah turned to look.

And stiffened, their interlocked hands now tight, their faces guarded.

It was Ringwalker.

The Lord of the Faerie cradled the baby Grace in his arms, speaking soothing words to her, and carried her into the Realm of the Faerie. The woman who had once been called Jane, and who was now known simply as the Caroller, met him at the foot of The Naked.

“It is Grace!” the Caroller said, raising her eyes to the Lord of the Faerie’s face.

He gave a wry smile. “We are to babysit.”

Then the Caroller saw the ribbons about the baby’s limbs. “Dear gods, I can understand that Noah might want to secrete the bands within the Faerie, but Weyland?”