Jack was coming here to be marked with something far darker. He had come to absorb into his flesh the remnants of Og’s being.
Most of Ambersbury Banks was speckled with ancient, gnarled trees which had, over thousands of years, twisted the lines of earthworks until it appeared that a gigantic plough had run amok over the hill, riding it into parallel lines of agony that mirrored its bloody history. On the summit, however, there was a clear space of perhaps a quarter of an acre.
In the centre of this almost circular patch of grassland stood the stump of a tree which had been felled in a storm eight hundred years earlier. Over the centuries its top had been worn smooth by the rubbing of countless hands. It was known as the wooden stone, because when you looked down to its base, you saw that the stump’s twisting, knotted roots were wrapped about and over a broad smoothfaced stone.
This stone was the heart of Ambersbury Banks; its causeway, if you like, back into the Faerie. It was an altar, as old as the hill itself, and it had served almost as many religions and priests and druids as it had weathered storms.
Although the night was moonless, the cleared space on the summit of the hill was nonetheless lit with an unearthly silvery light. A man stood by the stump, carefully laying out instruments atop its smooth surface.
It was Walter Herne, now without his stick and standing full square on both feet.
He had removed both his dog collar and his shirt, and stood bare-chested, his skin goosebumped in the cold night air. There was a shadowy tracery over his shoulders and chest; the memory of a mark that had lingered through several lives.
Loth, and all he had once been, and all he once could have been, was not quite dead, although Walter hoped to murder him once and for all this night.
Just this one thing, Walter, and then you’ll be free.
Just this one thing.
There was a movement to the eastern quarter of the summit, and Walter froze and looked over.
Then he relaxed, if only a little. It was the Lord of the Faerie, stepping forth from under a tree. Like Walter he was bare-chested, although rather than Walter’s woollen trousers and shoes he wore wellfitted leather trousers, and his feet were bare.
On his head sat a crown of red berries set amid twisted twigs.
The Lord of the Faerie walked to a point halfway between the encircling trees and the stump where stood Walter, then he stopped.
“We are glad you have come, Loth,” he said, and Walter twitched.
“My name is not Loth,” he said.
The Lord of the Faerie ignored his rebuttal. “I have brought the pestle and mortar,” he said, and lifted his right hand.
That hand had been empty a bare moment ago, but now the Lord of the Faerie carried a crudely chiselled stone pestle and mortar in his hand. As Walter watched, the Lord of the Faerie squatted down and, with his left hand, grabbed a handful of dirt and blown leaves from between his feet. As he rose, he crumbled the mixture of dirt and leaves into the bowl of the mortar.
Then he lifted his hand to his crown, and plucked from it three or four of the red berries.
These, too, he crumbled into the bowl.
Once this was done, the Lord of the Faerie walked over to Walter, looked him in the eye for a long moment, then put the pestle and mortar on the top of the stump.
Before Walter could speak, or even move, the Lord of the Faerie leaned very close to him, placing a hand on Walter’s chest.
“How could you walk away from this?” he whispered, his mouth almost touching Walter’s ear. The Lord of the Faerie ran his hand softly over Walter’s chest, and then up and over his right shoulder. “How could you leave? We were such friends, once, you and I.”
Walter didn’t know if the Lord of the Faerie referred to the friendship they had once shared when he had been Loth and the Faerie Lord had been Coel, or if he talked of the more distant friendship between Faerie Lord and earthly servant. Whichever one the Faerie Lord meant, Walter had no idea how to answer.
His mouth opened, but he could find no words to speak.
The Lord of the Faerie’s hand tightened fractionally on Walter’s shoulder, and he leaned even closer to the man, his mouth now touching Walter’s flesh. How could you leave?
Tears sprang to Walter’s eyes, but he was saved from the need to answer by the appearance of a man emerging from under the trees on the western verge of the clearing.
Both the Lord of the Faerie’s and Walter’s eyes slid towards him.
The man bowed from the waist in deference to the Lord of the Faerie, then stepped forward.
It was Malcolm, Jack Skelton’s valet, but he no longer wore servant’s clothes. Instead he’d come dressed as an ancient druid in a robe of tartan wool, and with woad marking out his face, his forearms and the backs of his hands.
“It is a wakeful night,” Malcolm said as he came to a halt a few steps away from where Walter and the Lord of the Faerie stood so close together. “The forest is restless, waiting for its lord.”
The Lord of the Faerie regarded him with unblinking eyes. “Well met, Druid. I did not know you lingered within Malcolm’s flesh. And at Copt Hall, no less. What role do you play in this?”
“I am bound to the land,” said Malcolm, “as surely you must know, and I work in its interests. I am bound to Copt Hall by death, and similarly bound to Ambersbury Banks. I have come tonight to serve, if I may.”
The Lord of the Faerie regarded him steadily, then abruptly stepped back from Walter and gave Malcolm a nod.
Then all three men turned their eyes to the south.
Jack Skelton had walked into the clearing.
His nerves kicked in again the instant he saw the group—Malcolm included, as he’d expected—about the stump. It wasn’t the forthcoming pain that troubled him so much as the realisation that there would be no going back from this night. The Lord of the Faerie had reassured him that this would confirm his humanity, rather than assimilate it, but Jack still could not help having qualms.
So he hesitated on the edge of the clearing. He thought he’d been sure, but now knew he wasn’t.
Then the Lord of the Faerie walked forward. Very slowly, very surely.
“Jack,” the Lord of the Faerie said, coming to a halt before him.
He said nothing else, just held Jack’s gaze with such tranquillity that Jack felt himself relax.
The Lord of the Faerie’s mouth moved in a small smile. “You can be who and what you want,” he said. “Whenever you want. That is what tonight is about. You will be woven entirely, forest to man. You choose the face you wear, you choose the power you wield. As Louis de Silva you gained the power and the knowledge. Tonight you gain the familiarity, and you will gain everything that Og once commanded, but you will lose nothing at all.”
It was what Jack needed to hear, and he relaxed even further. The Lord of the Faerie stepped up to him, one hand running behind Jack’s neck to cradle his head in its palm, and kissed softly first Jack’s forehead, then both cheeks, and finally his mouth.
“Welcome to the strangeness of completion, Jack,” the Lord of the Faerie said.
Then he was gone, back to the central ancient altar of Ambersbury Banks, and Jack, still at the edge of the clearing, began slowly to strip away his jacket and shirt.
Malcolm came to Jack’s side, and took from him the jacket and shirt, folding them neatly, unhurriedly, and placed them, together with Jack’s shoes and socks, behind a tree, out of sight.
Then he walked away to the western edge of the clearing, and stood, watching, hands folded before him, eyes shining.
Jack took a deep breath, and walked forward. He could feel the cold air upon the naked flesh of his chest, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
Through the soles of his bare feet he could feel the forest—feel the land—as a thrumming warmth, almost a breathing, caring curiosity. It would be a witness, too.
Tonight he would gain familiarity and completeness.
Wisdom, too, he hoped.
And eyes, with which to see.
Walter stood behind the altar. Jack could see that he was tense and fearful. His shoulders were rigid, his eyes glittered, he held his arms stiffly at his side.
“Hello, Walter,” Jack said.
Walter inclined his head.
“Can you do this, Walter?” Jack said. “Will you let go the Stag God entirely into my care? Do you dare?”