“Aye, but…” said Jane. “I do not know about you, Noah, but I am heartily glad to have that creature gone from my body. I feel—”
“Free,” said Noah. “Light.” She took a deep breath, and Jane heard it shudder in her throat. “Jane, do you think that Weyland still has the same control over us as he did when those imps were inside our bodies?”
Jane thought a moment. “Oh, aye,” she said, her tone bitter. “I can feel it in here.” She tapped her breast. “A blackness. A bleakness. He can still control us, Noah, if not with such suffering.” She paused. “Noah, why did he heal us?”
Noah took a long time to answer. “I don’t know,” she said finally.
They both fell silent for a time. They might be healed, but both were still exhausted physically and emotionally from the events of the previous day.
Eventually, Noah spoke. “Jane, what is Ariadne doing back? And in London? For all the gods’ sakes, do you think she wants to take control of the Troy Game?”
“Instead of you, do you mean?” said Jane, allowing a small measure of bitterness to creep into her voice.
“Whether I do or not, Jane, is your choosing. I shall not ask or beg for you to teach me the ways of the labyrinth, and whatever you do choose, I shall accept.”
“Well then,” said Jane, “perhaps I shall keep my powers as Mistress of the Labyrinth, eh? I shall wait for whoever wins the battle to be Kingman, and dance with him the Flower Dance, and live forever wrapped in the immortality of the Game.”
To that Noah made no reply, but merely looked at Jane with sad eyes.
That look of pity infuriated Jane. “I may not have my teeth at your throat this very instant,” she snapped, “and I may not control the respect and fear that once I did, but do not think that I am so well disposed to you, nor so desperate, that I shall hand to you my powers as the Mistress of the Labyrinth with little more than a shrug!”
Noah sighed, and looked away.
Weyland made his way through the crowds outside Whitehall. It seemed that most of London was here, thronging the streets, dancing where there was space, drinking where there was not. It may have been a full day since the king had entered London, but the partying had not stopped. The palace itself was guarded from the revelry by units of the army.
Weyland managed to maintain a semblance of joy—anything less would have drawn immediate attention—but his thoughts were far from the celebration going on about him. Yesterday and last night had been exhausting. First, the horrific birthing of the imps, then the healing. Noah and Jane had still been unconscious when he left the house this morning, for which he had been grateful.
He didn’t want to face them, or any of their questions.
He didn’t want to face Noah. Not just yet.
He certainly didn’t want to think too deeply on that strange vision he’d had of standing atop the hill, looking at Noah, at the tears coursing down her face…
Weyland forcibly turned his thoughts to what he needed to accomplish next. Yesterday had served its purpose; now he needed to send another message to Charles.
After several hours of pushing and shoving through the crowds, Weyland found himself standing before the high iron railings that ran about the great courtyard of Whitehall Palace. He managed to find himself a secure place close to the gates where the crowd would not jostle him too much, and wrapped his hands about the upright iron posts, staring at the buildings.
He thought that Whitehall had to be the most ugly collection of buildings he’d ever seen. The palace complex had grown haphazardly over a hundred and thirty years: a hall here, a dormitory there, courtiers’ quarters somewhere else, a cockpit for entertainment, a garden for pleasure, a chapel for salvation. Weyland had never been inside, but he’d heard from several sources that the king’s and queen’s quarters were a series of barely coherent rooms that were often cold and draughty. Fifty years ago, during the time of James I, the king’s daughter actually had to bed down in the tennis court. James’ son, Charles I, had commissioned a complete new plan of the palace, meaning to rebuild it.
Of course, his head had come off before he’d been able to sign the work order.
Weyland didn’t envy Brutus-reborn this ugly monstrosity. He preferred his home in Idol Lane.
His Idyll.
He suddenly thought of the imps. He’d left them in the kitchen, not merely to suitably intimidate the women, but because Weyland was sick of their constant whining about the Idyll. He regretted ever taking them in there.
Frankly, he had come to regret ever creating them in the first instance. They’d served their purpose, and perhaps now he could send them off to wander the streets.
He grinned a little wanly. They’d certainly create mischief among this throng.
A light flickered in one of the windows of the nearest palace building—it was now close to dusk—and Weyland’s mind returned to the task at hand.
The light in the window grew stronger, and shadows moved behind it. Courtiers and servants, Weyland thought, tending to the needs of the king.
And, by all the gods of hell, Weyland could smell Charles. A few hundred yards, at the most, separated them. He was so close. Weyland could feel the power of the Kingman as it filtered through the walls of the palace.
Feel his bare limbs as they cried out for the kingship bands of Troy.
Feel his despair—Charles had been deeply affected by Noah’s agony. Good. Tomorrow Weyland would drive the message home, make sure Charles understood it.
Weyland turned his attention from Charles and sent his senses scrying out over London. Could he now feel the bands? Had they responded to the presence of their Kingman?
Yes! There!
Their presence was stronger than Weyland had ever felt them in this life. The bands had woken at the proximity of their Kingman.
They were awake, and they could be taken.
Now all Weyland had to do was keep Charles away from them.
And from the forest.
Weyland knew many, many things, and one of the things he did know was that the Stag God meant to rise in this life. It was something Weyland had managed to glean from Mag long ago when Charles and Genvissa had first created the Game. Mag had planned for the Stag God to rise again, and it was in this life that it was supposed to occur.
Weyland meant to take every step necessary to ensure he didn’t. Genvissa should have made sure of the Stag God’s murder three thousand years ago. This life, Weyland would rectify her mistake.
Once again Weyland looked at the palace. The evening was settling in, the golden, joyous light behind the windows of the palace ever more prominent.
Charles was within.
Now Weyland felt the tiniest measure of fear. Charles was so much more powerful in this life, and Weyland would need to be very, very careful. It would be tempting to assume a disguise—a glamour, such as he had in his previous life as Silvius—and try to enter Charles’ court to see the king for himself. Weyland thought it would not be worth the risk; he was unlikely to get away with that particular trickery again.
Still, he had the perfect messenger. All he had to do was ensure that Charles knew she was on her way.
Weyland drew in a deep breath and held it for one moment. Then he gathered his power, and sent a single thought pulsating towards the palace, through the walls, through to Charles…
The king sat in a huge and magnificently carved chair in his reception room, courtiers crowded about him, music and women and wine abounding. The gaiety of the chamber was astounding, the colours magnificent, the richness almost unbelievable. All those years, he thought. All those years in penurious exile, and now…this.
His women were here. Kate and Marguerite were circulating among the guests. Catharine was at his side, looking cool and beautiful in her jewels and silks. Louis was here, tense and angry, but managing to be courteous to all who addressed him. His air of suppressed anger made him appear exotic and mysterious, and he formed a second centre of interest after Charles himself. After a nobleman and his wife had been introduced to their king, and had passed a few words, they inevitably gravitated to Louis and sought his company for a short while.
As Charles’ eyes drifted about the chamber, he suddenly tensed.
Listen well, Brutus! I shall be sending a whore to you tomorrow. Her name is Jane. Make sure you receive her.
There was a movement to one side, and Charles looked.
Louis. His face pale, his eyes bright with emotion. He had heard, as well.