Darkwitch Rising by Sara Douglass

London had burned on many occasions, and thus the city was well prepared for that moment when first the alarum was screamed into the night.

The Lord Mayor arrived on the scene and, while he privately commented to a friend that he thought a woman might piss the fire out, he nonetheless made sure the fire watches were roused and the fire engines summoned. Both watches and engines duly arrived, bucket brigades hastily set up, and fire engines—marvellous contraptions of hand-held pumps and reservoirs—carried with much huffing and puffing up stairs to attack the fire from above.

But, unseen by all those who thronged the streets—either fleeing or crowding about to gawp—water sprites wriggled everywhere. Their tiny, deft, sharp fingers sprang leaks in the leather buckets and pushed wads of sodden tobacco into the machinations of the fire engines so that they stopped. Others wormed their way into the city’s reservoirs and turned the cocks, so that all supplies of emergency water to the city were halted.

When, in desperation, the fire watches started to pull down buildings in order to create firebreaks, the water sprites took great lungfuls of air, and blew fireballs into the sky so that fire rained down behind the firebreaks.

The fire spread, slowly, inexorably, west and north-westwards, consuming almost the entire part of the old city, and setting the dead in the city churchyards to flaming like candles. Gradually, the fire moved in a pincer movement towards the cathedral of St Paul’s.

On the third day, Tuesday, as the crackling flames drew near to the cathedral, Catling roused, and hissed.

Then she picked up her length of red wool, and twisted it through her fingers.

Since the start of the fire, St Dunstan’s-in-the-East had been guarded by the scholars of Westminster School, led by their dean, John Dolben. Tense and wary, they were nonetheless relieved as the fire spread ever westwards, away from the ancient church.

On Tuesday morning, flames crept eastwards, against the prevailing wind, directly for Idol Lane. It was as if some malevolent hand directed them, for surely no natural fire could move thus.

Nothing that the watch at St Dunstan’s could do managed to stay the flames. They were so concentrated in one snapping, frenzied river of fury which was so inexplicably purposeful that Dolben finally ordered the scholars to stand back. It was better to watch the ancient church burn than to lose lives.

They gathered in the churchyard, sombre youths and men, their faces drained and smudged with soot, as that strange river of fire roared into Idol Lane.

“God have mercy on all of us,” muttered Dolben, “for I fear the Devil himself directs that fire.”

The fire had flowed to a point just north of the church. Then, as all watched, it suddenly, violently, inexplicably, exploded eastwards.

Directly into Weyland Orr’s house.

The house detonated with such a frightful roar that the blast threw Dolben and his scholars off their feet—at least five of the scholars fractured limbs or skulls as they impacted on headstones. By the time Dolben gained his feet, shaking his head clear of the effects of the blast, Orr’s house had vanished inside a tower of flame.

The next instant, the top of the house erupted as if it were a volcano. Flames and molten stone burst over the entire area, and Dolben threw himself once more to the ground, sure that this time he would be killed.

And yet once again not only he, but all his charges, survived.

Unbelievingly, Dolben raised his face out of the hot earth.

Before him Orr’s house had vanished, as had the bone house attached to it.

And there was a small lick of flame peeking almost apologetically out of the timber struts of the church spire.

“To work!” screamed Dolben as he stumbled in his haste to rise to his feet. “To work!”

Eight hours later, the spire had collapsed into crumbled ruins and some of the outer buildings had been destroyed, but the main body of St Dunstan’s-in-the-East had been saved.

Whatever malevolence had sent that hell-driven river of flame into Idol Lane had apparently found something else to play with.

Ariadne stood atop the White Tower, as she had for three days and nights, wrapped in concealing magic, watching as the fire spread eastwards. She was clothed in her ancient Minoan finery, her red skirts and black hair whipping about her in the wind. The flames cast rosy shadows on her white skin, and reflected the bright fear in her eyes. “Ye gods, Noah,” she whispered, “be wary!”

Weyland felt it first. A tug. Tiny, yet insistent.

They were standing on one side of Ludgate Hill, just below St Paul’s, watching the fire march relentlessly forward. Noah was concentrating, her body shaking with the effort, trying to hold back the flames so that the hordes of people darting about like ants had time to get out of the way, and save their precious belongings. Both Noah and Weyland were masked in magic, their forms hidden by the hot shadows thrown forwards by the fire.

“Noah,” he said, and instinctively grabbed her shoulders.

It was only just in time.

The next instant Noah wailed as she felt something grab within her belly, and then both she and Weyland were hauled forwards, through the crowds, dragged forwards, forwards, forwards, up Ludgate Hill and through the open western doors of St Paul’s.

Catling had called.

Seventeen

St Paul’s Cathedral, London

“Well met!” the little girl seethed as Noah and Weyland finally came to a halt before her. She’d pulled them to the altar where, in the rosy glow cast through the stained glass windows of the cathedral by the approaching fire, Noah stood only because Weyland had her by the shoulders.

Otherwise, exhausted, and so totally drained emotionally, physically and magically, Noah would have slumped to the floor.

“You think yourself so clever,” said Catling. She was still in the form that Noah had last seen her, a beautiful black-curled little girl with porcelain skin and dark blue eyes, garbed in a black dress with a tight bodice and a full skirt that rustled about her like the flames in the streets outside.

“You think to outwit me,” the girl continued, and took a step towards Weyland and Noah.

Her eyes, blue a moment before, now reflected red and angry with the light filtering through the windows.

Noah struggled to stand upright, and Weyland’s hands tightened on her shoulders.

“You and I,” Noah said in a voice surprisingly strong, “shall indeed meet within this place, but we both know that now is not the time.”

Catling hissed, but Noah continued.

“I no longer dance to your merry jig, Catling. I will control the dancing floor, and the patterns that it weaves. Not you.”

“You couldn’t control the death of a cockroach, weakling,” said Catling. “Look at you! You’d fall if it were not for the hands of your companion in hell.”

“I have a lover,” said Noah quietly. “He makes me whole. What do you have save—”

“I have your destruction in my hands,” said Catling, “and I intend to wield it as I want.” Her right hand suddenly jerked up, and in response the fire in the streets outside roared.

The windows flamed as the fire leapt into the sky.

There came a light pattering on the lead roof high above them, as if the rats who lived between its joists had decided to flee.

“The roof is afire,” said Catling conversationally. “We’re all going to burn.”

Noah and Weyland tried to take a step backwards, but neither could move.

Catling’s smile became a rictus of triumph. “You must know where we are,” she said. “We stand high above that ancient labyrinth that Genvissa and Brutus carved into the summit of Og’s Hill. Where they gave birth to me. They were good creatures. Precious. Reliable. Obedient. You? You’re nothing. I wish I had never bothered with you. I wish I had never thought to use you. But never mind, for we stand over the dark heart of the labyrinth, and surely you both know what that means.”

Noah again turned her eyes to Weyland, and they were agonised.

We stand over the dark heart of the labyrinth.

“Trapped,” whispered Catling. “Trapped by the Troy Game. Unable to find your way out. Your powers as Mistress of the Labyrinth and as Eaving shall not aid you here, Noah. You’re all Darkwitch; that’s all that counts, and that’s all that will eventually destroy you.”

“You arrogant piece of nonsense,” Weyland said. “Destroy Noah and you destroy any hope you have of being completed! You may be able to manipulate Ringwalker, but he’s useless to you without Noah!”

“When did I say I was going to destroy Noah?” Catling said. “I just need you both in my dark heart. There’s something there I need to show you.”

There came a dim roar from high above, and all three involuntarily lifted their eyes.