Darkwitch Rising by Sara Douglass

“I will…” he said, then stopped, not sure what it was he wanted to say.

One of her eyebrows raised, and, at the same time, Weyland became aware of the strength of her shivering. His horse had a small rug draped over its hindquarters, and Weyland busied himself for a moment, pulling it off and wrapping it about Noah’s shoulders, using the time the action gave him to recompose himself.

“Thank you,” she said.

“It shall not be long,” he said, wishing now he hadn’t so weakened as to give her the rug. “Cromwell is dead, Parliament renders itself more incompetent each day, and the people in London’s streets speak Charles’ name with hope and joy.” He stopped dead again, furious with himself at that last, for it had brought a flush of pleasure to Noah’s cheeks.

“They do?” she said, and she smiled.

It was achingly lovely, that smile.

“He will never bring you joy and hope,” he said. “You are mine now.”

“I do not deny it.”

“You shall come when I call.”

“I shall.”

Weyland became aware that he’d lost all advantage in this conversation. Damn her!

“You will be my whore,” he said, even more roughly than previously.

“I have no intention of escaping my destiny, Asterion.”

“Do not call me that. I—”

“How should I call you then, in this life? Beelzebub? Diabolos? Masshit? Asmodeus?”

“I am no biblical demon, Noah. It surely would not hurt you to remember that I was dragged into this Game as you were—not through my own actions, but by the betrayal of someone I loved.” He paused, fighting down the memory of Ariadne. “My name is Weyland. Weyland Orr.”

Again she smiled. “It is a name that suits you, Master Orr.”

Words bubbled in his throat. He wanted to tell her how he would hurt her, how he would debase her, how he would torment her until she screamed for mercy, and yet he said none of them.

“You are—” he began.

She looked at him, now fully in control of herself, her beautiful mouth curved in the hint of a smile that, however Weyland tried to view it, was in no manner sarcastic or patronising.

“You are very lovely,” he said finally, and her smile once more broke through.

“And you are far prettier than ever you were as Aldred.”

“Prettier than Brutus?”

Her smile faded, and Weyland almost hated her for it.

“No,” she said finally.

“I will kill him, Noah. I will force you to give me his kingship bands, and then I will—”

She laid the fingers of one hand on his mouth. “None of us can ever know what the future holds,” she said, “much less think to predict or control it.”

“You will come to London when I call,” Weyland said, trying very hard to regain the ascendancy in this dialogue.

“Aye, that I will,” she said. “That is clear enough to me. If you want me to be your whore, Weyland, then I will do that.”

He wanted her to scream and plead and beg, but she wouldn’t do it. He wanted sullenness and resentment, hatred and revulsion, but he got none of it.

Instead, suddenly, and very horribly, Weyland realised he was staring into the eyes of an equal.

Somehow, poor lost Cornelia, pathetic, humiliated Caela, had grown up.

“Let me go inside, I beg you,” Noah said, “for I am frozen nigh unto death standing here.”

Weyland breathed in deeply, immensely relieved at her words and at the consequent resurrection of his control.

He nodded, then quickly stepped forward, kissed her hard on the mouth, and pushed her towards the door of her house.

“Until London, Noah.”

He mounted his horse and kicked it into a canter down the slippery, icy high street of Woburn village before even the door had closed behind Noah. He’d needed to escape from her presence very, very badly.

A mile or so outside of the village he pulled the horse back to a walk, thinking over the encounter.

He was unnerved by what had happened. He’d thought Noah would be another Swanne-Jane; a woman powerful in magic, but weak in spirit. A woman who, despite her arrogant ways, could be humiliated with ease.

A woman he could despise.

Instead, Weyland had found none of that.

Damn her!

Part Four

THE SUMMONS

London, 1939

Jack Skelton put the cigarette in his mouth, lit it, then handed it to Weyland. “Well?” Weyland took a long, appreciative drag on the cigarette. “It’s Pen Hill,” he said. “Noah loved this place.”

“Goddamn it, tell me why you brought me here!”

Weyland tipped the cigarette towards the summit of the hill. “Harold came to her here and made love to her when she was Caela. That was just before the unfortunateness of Hastings.”

Skelton’s face tightened. He tipped out another cigarette from his pack, and lit it. “Yes?”

“Long Tom used to dance atop here.”

“Weyland—”

“I wanted to show you the summit. Do you think you can get over these railings?”

Skelton shot him a black look, then leapt lightly upwards, grasping the top of the railings and hoisting himself easily over.

At the kerbside, Frank—who was now standing by the driver’s window of the black sedan talking to Piper—looked over, obviously appalled at the further time about to be wasted.

Within a moment Weyland Orr had joined Skelton, and together they slowly climbed the hill. It only took them a minute.

“It has shrunk and somewhat declined,” said Weyland as they reached the top. Where the summit should have been there was a dip of some four feet, and then the blank grey water of a reservoir. “Now the hill is used by the London Water Authority as a holding station for water before it is pumped further into the city. Pity, really.”

“A sad fate for a sacred hill,” said Skelton. “Did you plan it? Do it to torture Noah? To torture the land?”

“Oh, it was done to torture the land,” said Weyland, then took another long drag on his cigarette. “Effective, too. There are drowned stones at the bottom of this reservoir, Jack. Murdered Sidlesaghes. Who now knows they are there, eh? Who cares, these days? But I didn’t do this, Jack. You know who did.”

Skelton didn’t reply.

“Stella tells me you walked about London last night,” Weyland said. Skelton grunted.

“Did you see me, Jack? Parading about in all my bullish finery?”

Skelton dragged his eyes away from the water to Weyland. “You’re far prettier this morning.”

“I didn’t move from my bed last night, Jack. As you know, my bed holds far greater pleasures for me than chasing you through the cold, heartless streets of London. You spoke to…well, I’m sure you know who you spoke to. But it certainly wasn’t to me.”

Jack Skelton stared at him, and then, with a muttered expletive, turned back for the cars.

Woburn Village, Bedfordshire

NOAH SPEAKS

Oh, the terror I’d felt when Asterion appeared outside the house, and ordered me through the ice and snow to his side. It was terror, not only at the thought of his presence, but also at the fact that when he’d called I had no hope of resisting. I could do nothing but mumble some inane excuse to Marguerite who sat with me, and walk outside into the frigid weather wearing nothing but a light woollen gown.

There awaited Asterion, or Weyland Orr, as he now calls himself. He loomed before me, a tall figure wrapped in a heavy cloak, thick scarves about his neck, and with his hands hidden within such bulky leather gloves they appeared like mallets that he would turn against me at any moment. Then I saw his face.

It was not what I had expected. Not in any manner at all.

His eyes were keen, and sharp, locked on my every movement. I knew they noted my fright, and for that I hated him more than ever I had previously. Then I saw their colour, which was a soft hazel, and that disconcerted me, for I had never associated the concept of “softness” with Asterion at all.

Weyland Orr’s face was, at first glance, all angles. A sharp, perceptive face to suit those eyes, but, like his eyes, it also had its softness. The line of his jaw was saved from angularity by its strength, his nose was saved from thinness by the regularity of its contours, and the inflexibility of his broad forehead was softened by a wisp or two of fair hair that fell forward and gave him, gods help me, a boyish air.

He was handsome, but not immediately in any striking way. It was only after you’d studied him for a few minutes that his features truly impressed themselves upon you.

His was a dangerous attractiveness, because it swept upon you unawares.

We talked. He threatened, I evaded or agreed, as necessity dictated. I tried to keep calm, although I dare not believe I was very successful.