Druids Sword (61 page)

J
ust as Jack turned his back on Grace, a bomber flying high overhead disgorged its last stick of high explosive for the night.

One of the bombs fell erratically, wildly, on a far different track than its fellows.

It struck the roof of the north transept of St Paul’s, bursting through, then hit the floor of the cathedral where it exploded, the explosion creating a massive crater into the crypt.

The White Queen’s Game had taken its first bite.

Catling seethed into life. She had been unsettled the entire night…something was happening…but she couldn’t define what it was, and wondered if perhaps she was mistaken. Maybe it was just the massive air raid which made her shudder so, or maybe it was the nightmarish conflagrations within the eastern and southern parts of London that made her so edgy.

Maybe.

And maybe Jack and Noah were opening their move against her.

She crouched amid the dust and debris that filtered through the crypt, and snarled. None of the emergency workers or the members of the cathedral Watch could see her, but they could all feel the malevolence in the air.

They put it down to the bomb and the destruction it had wrought, not realising for a moment what else inhabited the crypt with them.

Jack
…Catling whispered.

Jack emerged back into Epping Forest. It disorientated him, because he had expected to appear back on the Southwark bank where he had left Grace and the others.

Why here?

Grace.

Jack couldn’t forget the terrible image of her, despairing, in the crypt. He knew it was only a vision of what
could
be, he knew that Grace was either still at Southwark or on her way back to Copt Hall, but even so, he couldn’t repress the sickening sense of loss that flooded his being.

He looked about. It was near dawn, a faint light tinging the eastern sky.

He was close to Ambersbury Banks, and thus close to Copt Hall.

Maybe Grace was waiting for him there.

He turned to the west, but before he had taken two strides Catling appeared before him.

Jack stopped, his stomach feeling as though it was rising up into his mouth. He knew instantly it was Catling rather than the White Queen. He swallowed, fighting down fear.
What did she want? Why was she here?

“Dressed as a Kingman, Jack?” Catling said, taking a single, terrible step closer to him. “And with
six
of the kingship bands now? I always knew you had them. But what is this? I smell residual power about you. What
have
you been doing tonight?”

She was very alert, very tightly strung, and Jack realised she’d felt
something.

“Did you not feel the raid tonight?” Jack said, injecting anger into his voice. “Did you not
feel
the destruction and the terror? For all the gods’ sakes, Catling, you are the one reflecting that destruction into the Faerie! That’s where I have been, damn you, trying with every power I have to try to deflect your
cursed
malice!”

Jack’s voice broke a little on his last sentence: not through any skill of acting, but through sheer emotion and fear. All he wanted was to get away from Catling before she discovered the truth, get away from her before someone else
(Grace!)
happened upon them in the forest and unwittingly exposed his lie to Catling.

All he wanted was to get away from Catling and back to Grace and take her in his arms, and know that she was still safe.

Again Catling nodded, but Jack could see the mistrust in her eyes, and knew she didn’t believe him. She smiled, so coldly it risked delaying spring by a month.

“Finish me,” she said. “Delay as long as you will, Jack, for I cannot force you onto the dancing floor. But know that each day you delay I grow stronger.”

Jack stared at Catling a moment, then gave a terse nod of his own, and walked away.

When Jack got back to Copt Hall Grace was there, waiting for him.

Jack enveloped her in a tight embrace, holding her as close to him as possible.

“Thank gods,” he whispered. He knew now that if he lost her when they closed the Shadow Game, then he would not be able to live, knowing she was trapped in its dark heart with Catling.

J
ack met with Noah and the Lord of the Faerie atop The Naked. The Faerie was now beyond desperate. The hills surrounding The Naked were virtually barren dust, save for the odd tree here and there.

The Faerie folk, those who had survived the desolation, were huddled in small groups about the slopes of The Naked, silent, blank-eyed.

“Look!” said the Lord of the Faerie. “Look!” He gestured to the devastated hills about him, fought to find words to speak, then shook his head helplessly. “We cannot survive much longer,” he said eventually, his voice almost as lifeless as the Faerie.

Jack wondered if he should relate the conversation he’d had with Catling, then decided against it. No need to further worry anyone here.

“Have you built the devising yet?” he asked Noah. “Discovered somewhere to shelter Grace?” He’d barely seen Noah over the past week or so. He knew Noah had spoken to Ariadne and Silvius, but he did not know the details of that conversation.

“Yes,” Noah said. “The Idyll will be the perfect place to—”

“No!” Jack said. “Catling has already penetrated the Idyll.”

“The Idyll has isolated itself entirely,” Noah said. “As soon as the Faerie began to decay, the Idyll retreated. Remember, it is the essence of Weyland, and its very nature is to hide and isolate itself the moment it feels itself under threat. I know Catling penetrated the Idyll to hex Grace, but the Idyll is far more tightly shuttered now than it was then. And I have the devising that
will
keep Catling’s hex from touching Grace. I
can
wall off the Idyll.”

Jack said nothing, regarding Noah with a steady, probing gaze.

“Damn you!” Noah said, low. “Grace is my
daughter!
I will
not
risk her unless I think she has a good chance of being safe.
I can shelter her, Jack!
”

“I need more reassurance than that,” he said.

“What more can I say? What do you want? A badge? A statutory declaration? Something written and signed on letterhead? We are
all
going into this blind, Jack. I have done as much as I can. I am certain it will work. There is
nothing
else I can say or do.”

“For gods’ sakes,” said the Lord of the Faerie, “listen to you both! If this is the best the land can hope for, then gods help us all!”

Jack took a step away, looking over the rolling hills, his entire stance tense, taking a few moments to calm himself.

“I want Grace to survive,” he said finally, softly, without turning around.

“We all do, Jack,” said the Lord of the Faerie, “but the land must come first. Whatever happens to Grace, the land must come first.”

“You want me to sacrifice her willingly?” Jack said, whipping about.

“Not ‘willingly’, Jack,” said the Lord of the Faerie, holding his gaze, “but I do expect you—and Grace—to do what is needed to save the land. The land
must
come first, the entrapment of the Troy
Game
must
come before Grace. I know that. You know that.” He paused, still holding Jack’s furious gaze. “Grace knows that.”

Jack stared a moment longer, then he turned, and walked away down The Naked.

Noah went to follow him, but the Lord of the Faerie caught at her arm. “Noah, how sure are you that your devising will work? How safe
is
Grace?”

“Not enough,” she whispered, “is the answer to both your questions.”

And then she, too, was gone.

Catling sat alone in the heart of the Troy Game, feeling the labyrinthine powers of the Game swirl about her.

She was more certain than ever that Jack and Noah would launch an attack on her during the Dance of the Flowers.

Well, she was ready for them. Whatever happened to her
would
happen to Grace.

Catling’s face contorted in a rictus of a smile. She raised her hands, revealing the red wool twisted about them. Her fingers began to move, layering the hex that bound her to Grace into new depths of malevolent constructions.

After a while, the wool began to scream.

“Grace?”

She turned about from the fire in the drawing room, wondering how it was that the Lord of the Faerie had managed to get past Malcolm’s watchful eye.

“He is upstairs, running your bath,” said the Lord of the Faerie. “I did not knock. I just entered.”

“Please,” said Grace, “sit down.”

“I will continue to stand, if you please,” the Faerie Lord said, his posture stiff, his words awkward, and Grace tensed in response.

“What can I do for you, Coel?” she said.

“Grace, if your mother’s devising fails, if you are trapped within the heart of the Shadow Game, will you continue to—”

“Stop,” she said, taking a half step back towards the fire. “Don’t. Coel…for gods’ sakes, we were lovers once, and—”

“I need to know, Grace. I am for the land, first and foremost. What we once did in a bed is beside the point. Will you continue to do what is right?”

“
Do
you have a heart?” she said. “Do you have even a faint shadow of one left?”

Something flickered in his face. “My heart has died along with the Faerie. I am not Jack, Grace. I would rather the land survive than you.”

She blanched, unable to answer

“Grace, please. Just answer the question. Will you continue the dance, even if trapped inside—”

“Yes!
Yes!
Damn you, Coel, get out!”

“I’m sorry, Grace,” he said. “I had to—”

“Leave now,” said Malcolm’s voice from the doorway. “There is no place for you here.”

The Lord of the Faerie turned, sent Malcolm an unreadable look, glanced once more at Grace, then left the room.

Grace now had her arms wrapped about her chest as if she were beset by terrible cold. “Malcolm, do you believe the White Queen when she says that she can, and will, do nothing for me?”

He didn’t answer in words, only walking over and taking her in his arms.

Grace clung to him, her shoulders shaking.

I
felt as if I could not get warm, no matter the trouble I took. Coldness enveloped me, as if assessing me for long-term companionship.

I wondered if the dark heart of the Shadow Game were cold.

Everyone that mattered, Jack and Malcolm foremost, my parents and Ariadne and Silvius next, were brightly—and, to my eyes, falsely—cheerful.

Everything will be all right, sweeting. Here, let me hold you, comfort you, reassure you.

But all I could ever think about was Jack’s lack of confidence, which he let slip in myriad small ways, and my mother’s likewise, and the Lord of the Faerie, standing before me, making sure that when I was trapped in the dark heart of the Shadow Game with Catling I would continue to “do the right thing”.

How bloody
British
of him.

The land might be saved, and the Troy Game might be halted in its tracks and entombed, but it looked to me like everyone would be having their celebrations without me.

I felt myself slide back into the black hole of hopelessness that had once ruled my life, and I couldn’t do a thing about it. Jack did his best.
He bent over backwards to be loving and kind and reassuring.

But there wasn’t a thing he could do, either.

I was lost. I was certain of it, and that great, terrible weight of impending doom dragged about with me every waking moment.

I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like, trapped inside the dark heart with a raging, vengeful Catling.

I tried to be cheerful, and because Jack needed to spend time with my parents, and Ariadne and Silvius, he pretended to take that cheerfulness at face value. He spent most of his days at the Savoy, where Silvius and Ariadne joined him, working out the steps of the entwining Games with them, and making sure that Ariadne and Silvius understood, and could manage, the devising that my mother had made to protect me.

I went along every so often as well, mainly to practise with my father the steps of the Dance of the Flowers. Although Weyland would wield little power during the dance, he did need to mirror Jack’s steps precisely and in complete harmony with him for the Flower Gate to begin to rise at the Shadow Game as well as at the Troy Game.

Jack was obsessed with timing. He berated everyone—save for me—for lack of concentration, or application, or the occasional stumbling which tore apart the critical sequence of events needed to ensure success. He snapped and snarled, he cajoled, he even wept in frustration, but in the end he had what he wanted. By Friday the ninth of May he said that he was as satisfied as he could possibly be.

There was one last thing we needed to do, he said.

We needed, all three couples, to go dancing in the Savoy’s ballroom one last time.

It was a rehearsal for what we’d need to do—
oh, gods
—tomorrow night, when the White Queen had told us a major raid was due. Where better than the dance floor of the Savoy’s ballroom?

I should have been nervous, depressed (my fate would be decided
tomorrow)
but instead I found the experience calming and settling.

All the other dancers melted away as we took to the dance floor. Silvius, Weyland and Jack were in evening dress; Noah, Ariadne and I in svelte black gowns. I wonder what the onlookers thought of us, three couples all dancing separately, but somehow so connected, so allied, that when one of us made a step, so also did five others.

It worked. It worked beautifully. I began dancing with my father, and Jack with my mother, but as the dance progressed Jack and my father changed places smoothly, effortlessly, missing not a beat or jarring our entwined harmonies. As Jack took me in his arms I saw the relief in his eyes, felt him relax against me, and suddenly, blindingly, I believed that everything would work.

It had to. This was too perfect to be an illusion.