Icefall (6 page)

~
You have other daughters, other sons. I never forget that. They would listen, they would know. They would oppose me. Look at Leonora! Had she not fallen in love and bound herself to Griogair, she would have done what I have done. She might even have beaten me.

~
But she kept her Name, and loved.
The voice grew silky. ~
Like Lilith.

And look what happened to her, thought Kate. ~
Lilith was weak, like Leonora. But others may not be. What strong witch wants another to have power over them? Does any strong witch want the rule of a god? If you keep our bargain, your other children have to die. All your witch-children, and you know it.
She shrugged lightly. ~
All but one, perhaps.

~
Yes, I know it. That was our bargain.
A drifting sensation on her neck, like a cobweb. ~
Oh, you are good.

~
Yes. Yes, I am. But I'm also impatient.

~
It will come. Patience and the long game, Nameless Queen.

~
But the boy is untouchable.
Her rage seethed upwards in her gullet. ~
I need the boy!

~
The boy will follow what he always follows.
The child's mouth closed softly, and its head bowed into shadow. ~
Lead him.

 

Rory

Rory sat very still on the sofa in the darkness, some unrecognised film flickering at him from the screen. A soldier screamed in silence; another fell backwards in a spray of blood. Rory turned the remote in his right hand, finger twitching on the volume button, then creeping towards the channel changer. He clicked that instead. Full-mortal Christmas, and the schedules were full of films.
Alien Resurrection.
Another click.
Casablanca.
People standing in a bar, singing with fierce soundless pride to muted fuming Nazis at the piano.

Rory had assumed Carraig's death would seem unreal. He'd thought the pain would be dulled because he hadn't seen so much of Carraig in the last couple of years. The man travelled a lot for his job, and he'd be gone for months at a time. If Rory had expected anything, it was the soft regretful ache of grief for a half-forgotten friend. As it turned out, the pain was a savage throb of loss under his breastbone, and a brutally empty void in his mind where once there had been Carraig.

Dawn was greying the gap in the heavy curtains, but it was dark enough in here. Maybe he'd sleep tomorrow.

Your father hated Carraig, a long time ago, and Carraig hated your father.
True.

He tied your father's wrists so the clann could flog him for Conal's death
. True.

He stayed at your father's side and gripped his hand while it was done.
Also true.

When Rory was smaller he'd fitted easily on Carraig's shoulders.
Your father is coming home. No, he won't die. Your father is always lucky, he's coming home. I'll take you up to the parapet and we'll watch for him. You can see forever from the parapet.

Did you cut your head open again, you short-arsed bastard? Come on, I have chocolate if you don't cry while Grian fixes it.

Awake again? Don't you go wandering, little shit. Fearna and I are bored and the fire's still warm. Which story do you want tonight? Haven't we told you them all?

We have? Well, brat, we can always start again. The endings change anyway, when Fearna tells them. That's not down to his addled old brain, no. That's the good thing about stories, little bastard. The ending can always change.

A racking surge of grief brought Rory to his feet. Stumbling, he yanked open the curtains to let pale light soak the room. Light wasn't enough, so he unlocked the French windows and shoved them wide. The rush of air was singed with frost, and made him catch his breath.

Out on the cliffs, the weather suited his mood. As he trudged towards the edge he could make out the water below, but only just: a surly heaving tide churned into a lace of foam on the rocks. As minutes passed and the mist sank lower, the sea vanished. It was as if the rocks below him were pillowed with cloud, as if you could take one step out and float gently down.

Stay back from that cliff, bastard boy. You don't want the mermaids to sing you down, do you? Oh, did I not mention the mermaids? If you get up here on my horse I'll tell you all about them. I'll take you back to the dun and I won't tell your father you were on the cliff. Do we have a deal?

Rory gave his blurred eyes a vicious swipe with a fist. Blinking them open, he thought for a second that the sun was breaking through, but it was only defiant clumps of early whin, glowing as if bits of sunlight clung to the earth. But the morning mist must be dissipating, a little. Otherwise he wouldn't have caught sight of Finn.

She was sitting below the cliff edge, on a narrow ridge of sandstone, hugging her knees. Beside her, on the ledge, the raven stretched its wings; they were both staring down at the foot of the precipice. Something down there fascinated Finn, but her hair hung across her face in the stillness, and Rory couldn't see her expression. The raven hopped up and across her knees, then took flight, but she didn't watch it swoop out into the grey mist. She stood up, edged along and down the ledge of rock, manoeuvred carefully round an outcrop and was gone.

It could be worse, thought Rory: at least he didn't have to see Carraig's last sight, like Finn had. And Carraig had been nothing like in range; he'd been nearly two hundred miles away when his car exploded. How by all the gods had Finn felt that? She wasn't related to Carraig. She hadn't even seen his fetch; she'd felt his actual
death.
Finn always Saw more than most, felt more than most, but this was ridiculous.

‘Not ridiculous,' said a voice behind him. ‘Not even amusing.'

He jumped. ‘Grian, quit that. You scared me.'

‘Scary is not me, Laochan, it's your father's lover.'

‘She doesn't mean it, Grian. It's not her fault.'

‘That scares me even more.'

Sighing with aggravation, Rory turned on his heel and glared. ‘Leave her alone. Why do you have to go on about it?'

Grian rubbed his bare arm, staring down into the cushion of mist that hid Finn. ‘Believe me,' he said, ‘I'm blocking. I wouldn't want to get on her wrong side. Doesn't that tell you anything?'

‘If you're seriously implying she can't be trusted,' said Rory silkily, ‘you'd better back away from that cliff.'

‘I'm saying no such thing. I'm saying it might not be her choice in the end. Witches are the children of the Darkfall, Laochan. Every one of them.'

‘There is just
so much
you've got to break to my father face to face, isn't there?'

‘Seth barely qualifies as a witch,' said Grian brusquely. ‘He keeps a handle on it. He hasn't got the skill or the inclination.'

The power of speech, Rory realised, had temporarily deserted him. He opened his mouth, shut it again. At last he cleared his throat. ‘And you're telling me this because…'

‘Look, there's a lot of it about. Fine. You've got it too, of course, more than your father.'

‘Gods' sake, it's all relative. We can all throw mind-bolts, and the full-mortals would think that was witchy.'

‘Which is why nobody does it, unless they're trying to hurt someone. You're proving my point.'

Rory shook his head, exasperated. ‘Grian, there's people who'd call your healing witchcraft.'

‘Not on our side of the Veil, they wouldn't.' A dangerous light sparked in Grian's eye, but it didn't take Rory long to stare him down. The man shook his head in frustration. ‘Look, I'm not name-calling. I'm just saying we need to be careful around her. Something's changed. She's stronger than she knows and she doesn't care. She doesn't control it and I don't know if that's because she can't, or she
can't be bothered
.'

Rory began to turn away. ‘You're talking to the wrong—'

‘She should not have felt Carraig die!' barked Grian.

A single angry step, and Rory shoved his face into Grian's, seizing his shirt collar. ‘I'm pretty sure,' he hissed, ‘that she didn't want to.'

Grian did not back off. ‘She didn't want to, and she didn't mean to. I'm damn sure of that myself.' His breath was hot on Rory's skin. ‘
That's what worries me.
'

Rory released him sharply and strode away, shaking his head. If he didn't, he thought, he really might shove Grian two metres backwards. All the same, the man's low voice followed him through the closing fog.

‘There's only one other witch who ever felt a man's mind at that distance. And she spends her endless, pointless, godforsaken days eating souls.'

 

Lauren

She knew she was irritating Hannah, and that was a bit of a shame when they were getting on better these days, but if Rory was willing to share Xbox time or anything else, Lauren wasn't about to stand on her dignity and stop going round to the house on the cliff. She was pretty sure Rory didn't fancy her, and she was well aware he was off-limits, but a girl had to have a respectable excuse for spending so much time away from her own home.

Anyway, there was no question that Hannah's new set-up was interesting. Lauren wasn't entirely sure what the deal was—commune or simply very large and long-lasting house party—but the blokes were easy on the eye and the women were bearable. Okay, the big blond guy actively detested her, oozing distaste every time Lauren was near him. And she went out of her way to avoid Rory's parents: the frosty stepmother, and the father who had the air of a man clinging to a cliff-edge by his fingernails. Rory had an older brother: a shaven-headed brute with beautiful eyes that glinted with the hot light of alcohol. But she'd twigged fairly quickly that he wasn't an alternative, and it wasn't as if he was threatening. It was even ironically amusing, being around a big thuggish guy who had absolutely no interest in cornering her at random moments.

Sometimes she wished Hannah had never moved out.

Twelve Dunnockvale was in darkness when she got home. The television was on but the muted screen was obscured by a message about standby mode. Even as Lauren watched, the screen blinked dark, and until her eyes adjusted, the only light in the room was the tiny red glow of a phone charger on the side table.

She could feel a headache threatening, so she rubbed the bridge of her nose hard. She heard a small grunting snore, and when she blinked open her eyes, they had adjusted enough for her to make out the sprawled shape of her mother on the sofa.

Lauren stood over her, undecided. If she didn't wake her up to go to bed, Sheena would be in a filthy mood in the morning. On the other hand, she seemed to have escaped into a particularly nice dream for once. A tiny smile twitched her mother's mouth as Lauren watched, and a mumbling sound escaped along with a sliver of drool.

Okay. Leave her here, then. Lauren turned away to tiptoe out of the room, and straight into a dark bulky shape. She yelped.

‘Where have you been all night?' asked her father.

Lauren backed off. There always seemed to be five times less space in the room when her father was in it. He took up much more than his actual body size.

‘'S only midnight.'

‘Half past. Where you been, love?'

‘With Hannah.'

That unpleasant expression flitted across his face. She knew he didn't like it that Hannah didn't live here any more. ‘Good for you.'

‘I'm away to bed.'

His tongue touched the corner of his lip and his eyes flickered to the sofa. ‘I'll see you up.'

Lauren sidestepped.

‘Don't wake Mum,' she said. She picked up the remote and aimed it threateningly at the TV.

Marty looked back at her, his eyes creasing a little. There was a smell of beer off him, but it wasn't strong. ‘Are you tired, love?'

‘I'm really tired. I've got school in the morning.'

Marty shifted awkwardly, glanced at the TV, flicked imaginary dust off his knuckles. ‘Away to bed and get some sleep, then.'

Lauren nodded at her mother's unconscious form. ‘Don't let her chuck up and choke in her sleep, will you?'

‘I'll look after her. Don't I look after you both? Night, love.'

Lauren's headache was back, but once she was in her room she didn't want to go back to the bathroom for the paracetamol. She shunted a chair against the door handle and sat down on the bed, and wondered why the hell Hannah had ever had to move out, and whether she could ever follow if it meant her mother would be stuck here alone with Marty.

She couldn't be bothered undressing. She just kicked off her trainers, then huddled under the duvet and pulled the pillow over her head. Why did she have to be the last one left?

Sometimes I hate you, Hannah Falconer.

 

Finn

I heard the door bang, rattling in its warped frame, and a moment later Seth came into the kitchen and chucked his leather jacket down on a chair. He stood there, lost and angry, and I glanced over my shoulder, my fingers cold and bloody from cleaning pheasants.

Oh, he was impossible. Refusing to go home, hating where we were, racked with irrational guilt for the clann's exile. If we weren't in exile we'd be
dead,
everyone told him so, but still Seth brooded and raged. I wished he'd snap out of it. I wished he'd tell me what was wrong now, but I waited in silence. I knew he'd tell me in the end.

At last he shoved his hair out of his eyes, put his arms round my waist and kissed my neck, a little brusquely.

‘I had to talk your little boyfriend out of a cell. Again.'

‘Oh,' I said.