Darkwitch Rising by Sara Douglass

It was that sense of power that brought Jane to her senses. She glanced about. There were two women standing almost hidden in the drapery by the window.

There was a man—dark, tall, lithe—standing to one side of the dais. He had a hand on his sword, and his face was swathed in dark anger.

Coel? she wondered, and her heart beat faster as she recalled that strange dream she’d had while unconscious after Weyland’s attack. She looked at the man again, wondering at the anger on his face.

Finally, Jane looked to the dais. There were two thrones atop it, and Jane looked first to the queen.

She was tiny, and dark, and sat sitting forward, her arm propped on the arm of the gilded throne, resting her delicate chin on one hand. She wore a speculative expression on her face, and Jane could see strength and determination there as well.

Jane felt her mouth go dry. That was Matilda-reborn. Queen again, at Brutus’ side, and once more witness to Jane’s mortification.

Finally, Jane looked at Brutus himself: Charles II of England.

There was something “hidden” about him; Jane’s eyes were now accustomed to the dimness of the room, and she should have been able to make him out as clearly as she had Catharine, his queen.

But much of Charles remained hidden. She could feel him, feel the power of the kingship bands about him (and yet even that was muted, as if also hiding behind some enchantment), but she could make out little else save for his overall height and the vast richness of his clothes.

He made an expostulatory sound, as if Jane had somehow annoyed him, and rose.

Scared almost to death, Jane sank to her knees—wishing she had thought to do this the instant she’d entered the chamber—and hung her head low.

Perhaps this way he won’t see how terrified I am. How ashamed I am. How—

“Jane,” he said, and she literally jumped at the kindness and gentleness in his voice.

She shifted her eyes forward, and saw a pair of beautifully tooled scarlet leather boots.

She lifted her gaze a little higher, and saw the fine cut of his silken and velvet breeches.

Still higher, and Jane saw the richly brocaded and jewelled doublet he wore, saw the lace that cascaded from the cuffs of his sleeves, saw the gems on the fingers of his hands as they rested relaxed on his hips.

Still higher, and she saw his face.

And in that moment, as she heard herself gasp and as she heard everyone else in the room step forward and move to encircle her, Jane was absolutely certain that she was a dead woman.

She looked into the handsome face of Charles II, looked at his black curling hair, felt the aura of the golden bands of Troy emanate from his flesh, looked at the power in his dark eyes.

Looked at the knowledge in them.

And recognised him.

“You’re not Brutus,” she said.

Part Six

THE FAERIE COURT

London, 1939

“B other!” said Frank as they drew up before the house. Piper’s car had come to a halt some ten feet before them, and around that car, as now also about Frank’s, were gathered what appeared to Skelton to be a few score of policemen with a couple of army officers thrown in for good measure.

“Does the ‘Old Man’ always go in for such security?” Skelton asked dryly as he wound down his window and handed his military identification papers to the policeman standing there.

“This isn’t for the Old Man,” said Frank. “Looks like the Boss has come as well.”

Skelton almost screamed with frustration, and might have done so, save that just then the policeman handed him back his documents.

“Very good, sir,” said the policeman. “If you’ll just follow me.”

Skelton climbed out of the car, and looked around. There was a flight of stone steps leading up to the house’s portico. Weyland Orr already stood at the head of the stairs, several small house dogs fussing about his legs.

He was grinning at Skelton, obviously enjoying the spectacle of the American being detained for a check of documentation while he, Asterion, was allowed straight through.

Skelton jerked his cap straight on his head, gave his jacket a tug to pull out as many wrinkles as possible, and envied Weyland his easy sartorial elegance. He ran up the steps, his gait light and graceful, and brushed right past Weyland.

Behind him he heard Frank and Piper mutter something as one of the waiting officers asked them to come around the back.

Whatever was awaiting Weyland and Skelton inside, Frank and Piper would not be a part of it.

They’re no one reborn, Skelton thought. They’re bit players, unaware of just what kind of web they’ve been caught within.

He was just reaching out for the cedar and glass doors, intending to push right into the house without waiting for Weyland, when one of them opened and a woman stepped through.

It was Stella Wentworth.

Genvissa!

He’d seen her not eighteen hours previously, huddled under a lamp on the Embankment. There she’d looked beautiful.

Here she looked stunning. Her black hair was glossy and left loose to hang down in waves to her shoulders. Her well-cut lavender suit hugged her figure, as did silken stockings her shapely calves.

“Major Skelton,” she said, offering him nothing more than a casual tip of the head. “We’ve been waiting.”

“Your lover detained me,” he said, and looked back over his shoulder.

Weyland Orr had vanished.

“My lover awaits you,” Stella said softly, and she stood back, holding open the door.

Idol Lane, London

NOAH SPEAKS

Weyland sent Elizabeth and Frances to collect their belongings as soon as Jane had gone, then he nodded to the two imps and Catling, instructing them to leave as well. I sat there and looked on, and raised no objections, telling Catling only to be good, and not to stray too far.

I felt no great care at sending her off to play with two such evil companions.

Weyland and I sat at that table, listening to the rattle of departing feet over the parlour floor, and then the sound of the front door opening and closing.

“You were surprised,” he said without preamble, “when I told Jane to tell Charles not to go near the forests.”

I said nothing, not knowing what to say. If he knew that, then he knew too much.

He knew the significance of “shelter”, I was sure of it, and if he knew that, then I was lost. Everything was lost.

And yet why did I not feel afraid? For an instant I recalled that strange vision he and I had shared when he’d healed me, then I forced the memory aside.

“Jane told me not to underestimate you,” I said.

He smiled, an easy, friendly boyish expression that sat well on his attractive face. “Jane is a very wise woman. The question is, though, can she overcome her dislike of you enough to teach you the craft of Mistress of the Labyrinth?”

Weyland leaned slightly forward across the table.

I moved back in my chair, the movement instinctive, and saw something in his eyes at my reaction that almost looked like…regret. Perhaps even hurt. I tried not to allow myself to be persuaded. After all, I’d learned a long time ago that Asterion was a good actor.

“Let me tell you something of my origins,” he said, “for I would you came to know me better. Do you know from where I come, of how I came to be?”

“You were trapped in the heart of the Great Founding Labyrinth of Knossos,” I said, wondering at this history lesson.

“Yes, but from where did I come? Who were my parents? What my origins?”

“How does this matter?” I said. I’d never seen Weyland like this, disarming, almost soft, although when he’d worn his glamour of Silvius he had often been humorous and teasing.

“Do you not want to know who I am?” he said. “Do you not want to know why I act as I do?”

“You want power, and you will stop at nothing to achieve it,” I said. “Murder. Destruction. Chaos. Agony, whenever you can cause it!”

Again that cursed memory of the few minutes Weyland and I had stood on the hill came back to me. Weyland, Weyland, what are we doing? How can we stop?

“And where do you think all that came from, eh?” Weyland’s air of boyish charm vanished completely. “Who taught that to me? Ariadne. What was I before she betrayed me, Noah? I was an object of disgust and shame, which was why I was imprisoned in the labyrinth in the first instance…ah!”

He sat back, looking away. I could see the muscles in his jaw working, and I thought that he was, truly, upset. He spoke again, his voice once more soft, and he did not look at me.