Darkwitch Rising by Sara Douglass

“Charles?” Catharine said, concerned.

“Weyland,” Charles murmured, his eyes shifting about the chamber. “Somewhere close.”

She drew in a sharp breath. “Does he—”

“He calls me Brutus,” said Charles.

Catharine relaxed, just a little. “Indeed,” she said. “Who else?”

Before she could say more, Louis was at their side.

“He said he was sending a whore to me tomorrow,” said Charles. “He said her name is Jane.”

“Genvissa,” Louis said.

“Yes,” Charles said. “Genvissa. Weyland’s sister, and now messenger.”

“He has told you so that you can inform your guards to expect her,” said Catharine.

“At least he thinks well enough of me,” said Charles dryly, “that he feels the need to warn. He does not think I am so corrupt that a whore turning up at the front gate asking to visit would be automatically sent through.”

“What does he want?” said Catharine.

“Perhaps,” said Louis, “he is sending Jane to ask for the keys to the front door of the Game.”

Charles became aware that the entire chamber was watching them—the tension on the dais was obviously palpable. He smiled, and waved, and laughed, and the chamber slowly relaxed.

“Put a smile to your face, Louis, for the gods’ sakes!” said Charles. “If you walk from here with that glower on your face my guests shall think that I have just received word of a renewed outbreak of the plague.”

The expression on Louis’ face did not alter appreciably. “Charles—Jane will know. The instant she sees you, she will know.”

Charles nodded. “Aye. She will know. But I think we shall have no need to fear her.”

Louis laughed, a hollow, cynical sound. “No need to fear Genvissa? The day that happens the world shall have turned upside down indeed.”

Thirteen

Idol Lane, London

Weyland worked his way slowly up the Strand, past St Paul’s, then down Cheapside to Idol Lane. It was full night now, and even though it was the day after Charles’ arrival in London, it seemed as if the celebrations had not slackened in the slightest.

Of course, the continuation of the festive mood had been aided in no small part by the Venetian ambassador’s generous gift of free wine to all who thronged up and down the Strand. Weyland himself had stopped to drink a good measure of the fine French wine—now he felt the slightest bit lightheaded as he made his way to his house.

He wondered if Noah was awake. One part of him hoped she was, another not.

He entered the kitchen, and stopped dead.

Jane was at the hearth, as she normally was this time of the day, stirring at a pot over the flames. She glanced at Weyland and he saw a shadow of uncertainty in her eyes.

Her face was pale, and there were dark rings under her eyes, and Weyland saw that she held herself stiffly, but Jane was looking remarkably whole.

Too whole? There was something about her…but Weyland could not immediately place it, and so for the moment turned his attention to the table.

There sat Noah, together with her strange daughter, Frances and Elizabeth, and his two imps.

Like Jane, Noah was holding herself with obvious stiffness, and Weyland saw that her clothes were left loose about her back. But otherwise she, too, looked well.

She raised her face and looked Weyland in the eye.

Unlike Jane, Noah did not lower her gaze away from his.

“And a good evening to you, too,” said Weyland as he walked to the table. He glanced at Catling, sitting playing with a tangle of red wool in her lap, then he looked to his imps, and raised an eyebrow. They returned his gaze with faces swathed in innocence.

Weyland sat down.

“Well?” he said to Noah. It was not the wittiest of comments, but Weyland didn’t want to lead the conversation.

“You are a strange man,” Noah said, “to so wound us, and then to heal us. Why? So we are made strong enough to suffer once more for your pleasure?”

Weyland didn’t answer. He’d suddenly realised why Jane looked too well.

“Your poxed face is all but healed,” he said, looking from Noah to Jane. “Why is that so, Jane?”

She shrugged disinterestedly. “Perhaps it was the faeries, Weyland. It certainly wasn’t something I accomplished on my own.”

Weyland continued staring at Jane, hoping his regard would make her uncomfortable enough to proffer a better explanation.

Jane kept on stirring the pot. She remained silent.

“I preferred your face poxed, Jane,” Weyland said quietly. “It suited my purpose better that way.”

Jane well knew that tone of voice, and she stopped stirring and visibly stiffened. “You must have expended more power than you thought, Weyland, and healed all of me, not just my belly. Perhaps you misjudged. Do not blame me for my smooth skin!”

“There is far more in the land than you know,” Noah said, and Weyland whipped his gaze back to her. “You are a foreigner, and not privy to its ways.”

“As are you!” Weyland snapped. “Don’t patronise me, Noah.”

She didn’t reply; merely held his gaze calmly.

Weyland looked back to Jane. He considered her, then rose, walked over, and dealt her a heavy blow across her face so that she fell to the floor.

“I need you to look a little morose,” he said, “for the duty I have for you in the morning.”

Then, without a backward glance, he left the kitchen.

Noah and Jane lay on their pallets before the hearth. It was very late at night, and the household was quiet. Elizabeth, Frances and Catling were abed in one of the rooms upstairs, the imps likewise in a different bedroom, and Weyland shut within his own chamber at the very top of the house.

Jane and Noah lay still, each awake, staring at the shadowy ceiling above them. There would have been silence between them save that Jane’s breathing came harsh and thick—Weyland’s blow had injured her nose and it now dribbled a little blood and clear fluid. The left side of her face had also swollen so that her left eye, now black and blue, was almost closed.

“Jane?” said Noah softly. “We need to talk.”

Jane sighed.

Noah turned her head, looking at Jane. “How can I make amends to you, for what I did? For taking your life?”

“Oh,” said Jane, “now I see. We’re going to forgive each other, fall into each other’s arms weeping in new-formed friendship, and then I, grateful wretch that I am, shall hand to you my powers as Mistress of the Labyrinth. Yes?”

“Jane—”

“Gods damn you,” Jane said softly. “What do you mean, amends? There are no amends to be had between you and I. We have done each other enough damage to call the score even, I think. There is no forgiveness to be given or accepted.”

Noah was silent, and Jane almost smiled. All Noah’s carefully laid plans, shattered. Beg forgiveness from Jane, make her your friend, and hope that, in gratitude, she’ll hand over to you her powers of Mistress of the Labyrinth.

Gone.

There was no forgiveness to be begged, no gratitude to be ladled about.

“I am not going to teach you the ways of the Mistress of the Labyrinth,” said Jane, now watching Noah closely. “Would you like to know why?”

Noah raised an eyebrow.

Jane had to admit some grudging respect for Noah’s composure. “Because it is what Weyland wants.”

“Why? And how can you be sure? Has he said as much?”

“Yes,” said Jane. “He has been plain about it. I teach you to be Mistress of the Labyrinth, and then I walk free. Ha! I die, more like. But, yes, he wants me to teach you. Thus he throws us together in the kitchen each night, hoping that we shall magically bond through some shared sisterly magic. He wants you to become Mistress of the Labyrinth.” Jane managed a cynical laugh, which, coming as it did from her deformed face, sounded both harsh and despairing. “Amusing, isn’t it?”

Noah stared, clearly shocked.

“Oh,” said Jane, “surely you don’t need me to explain that as well? Do you think he would want me, when he could have you? Do you think he’d be satisfied with just a mere Mistress of the Labyrinth when he could have one that also commanded goddess power as well? For the gods’ sakes, Noah! Were you to learn the craft of the Mistress, then you’d be the most powerful Mistress of the Labyrinth that ever was! I know that, I can admit that, and you may be sure that Weyland knows it as well. He wants to be Kingman. He wants you at his side.”

“I had not thought—”

“Then think, damn you. Think! Everyone always underestimates Weyland. In this life I, at least, am determined not to make that mistake again.”

“If you did teach me the ways of the Mistress, would Weyland know?”