Shadow Girl (18 page)

‘And where are my manners?' replies Yaouen, feeling generous.

He crooks up his finger and the Korrigan is lifted up in the air, his bottom higher than his dangling arms and legs. For a moment, Karadeg hangs from this invisible hook, looking sorry for himself. Then he is dropped on the horse's back and lands with a
plop
right behind Yaouen — who glances back to make sure he is sitting properly.

‘Fasten your seatbelt — so to speak.'

With powerful wingbeats, Morvarc'h rises into the night.

In the Prison Gate chamber in Vannes, Sandra's face is an interesting study in utter disbelief. Her beautiful almond eyes have widened to the size of African kola nuts, her eyebrows arched up like spring rainbows and her jaw dropped a full ninety degrees, stretching the limits of facial plasticity.

The reason for her bewilderment is standing a few steps away: the mistress of the place. A very confident, strikingly beautiful woman who has risen from the shadow of her dais to step into the light.

‘Uncanny resemblance, wouldn't you say?'The woman is smiling at her.

Sandra could be looking into a full-length mirror. Face, hair, figure, height, mannerisms, blue silk tunic. This personn is the spitting image of herself — apart maybe from the killer make-up and the provocative, seductive spark in her eyes.

‘And before you ask, no, I'm not the twin sister that you never knew you had.'

Sandra is saying nothing.

‘And I'm not the product of some secret cloning experiment. Or rather
you
are not the product of some secret cloning experiment.'

Sandra is still saying nothing.

‘And this is no random physiognomic coincidence.'

The woman's eyes are not leaving hers.

‘You don't have to wear that expression all day, you know.'

Recovering at last, Sandra manages to squeak out a few words.

‘Who . . . Who the gobbledygook are you? And whatsoever am I oddballing here?'

Amusement flares up in the woman's eyes.

‘Interesting turn of phrase. Is this how people speak in Australia?' She glances at Jenny. ‘I suppose this is his doing?'

‘I'm afraid so. But it's rather cute, don't you think?'

‘Cute is one way to describe it, I suppose.'

She addresses Sandra again.

‘Your second question will require a rather long explanation, so I'll call for tea.'

She gives a light hand clap and a second guard with bulging muscles and leather chest armour appears from behind the drapery hanging on the back wall. He is holding a tray with a steaming pot, three cups and a plate of biscuits.

‘As you can see, service is prompt. My men are models of efficiency, besides being spunky and peerless with a sword.' She throws Sandra another amused look.

‘As for your first question,' she continues, ‘I can answer it with one word. Youuu.' She has cocked her head and emphasised the word.

‘Eeww?' echoes Sandra, raising an eyebrow.

‘Fine, three words then, to clear any misunderstanding. I am you.'

Sandra does not know what to make of this. She looks at Jenny by her side, hoping for a sign that she has not gone mad.

‘No, you have not gone mad,' says her spitting image. ‘I can pretty much read your mind. Being you and all. Though your mind is still on the clouded side, and not too good at reading mine.'

She turns to the guard with the tray and pours some tea in the china cups.

‘It appears you were affected differently by the jump.'

She points a nonchalant finger at a sofa shaped like a half-moon and the guard sets down the tray on the plush detachable section at the heart of the curve.

‘Shall we?' she says, with a slow sweep of her arm from guests to couch.

Sandra feels Jenny's hand on her back and she allows herself to be steered to the luxurious canapé.

‘Please, make yourselves comfortable.'

The woman shows the way by reclining on the couch, her perfect legs tucked smoothly under her. She reaches for a cup, takes a sip then turns to Sandra, now ensconced among cushions between Jenny and herself.

‘I have done as instructed,' says Jenny. ‘Sandra was delightfully easy to seduce. No prodding at all and she was rearing to go like a champion mare on Cup Day. Forgive me for saying so, considering she is also you.'

‘No offense taken.'

‘She is ready for anything. Found it deliciously impossible to rein in her passions. Or hold in her waters. She is completely in my power. I have no doubt she will serve your purpose well.'

‘Excellent,' approves the house lady. ‘We'll refine her training while I regale her with my tales.'

She motions to the guard, who hands Sandra her cup of tea.

‘Please,' she says, addressing Sandra. ‘Drink up. You look awfully thirsty. The cup is charmed. You won't burn yourself. You'll find your tea is the perfect temperature.'

‘Do as she says,' orders Jenny. ‘You are to obey her as you would me. Do you understand?'

‘
Oui
. . .
Bien sûr
. . . Of curse.'

Sandra complies without a fuss. She knows what is expected of her and relishes her vulnerability, her unquestioned obedience. She keeps her lips locked on the rim of her cup till there is not a drop left. This is a welcome refreshment, for her throat, her body, have dried up again from her exertions. She is offered an instant refill.

‘Keep drinking while we talk. André will make sure you do not go without tea. This would be a serious breach of hospitality after all. One should always keep one's guests happily fed and watered.'

The mysterious host watches Sandra down her second cup with relief. Then she points to the tray of biscuits.

‘Try one before your next cup. I have them baked by my chef following a traditional Devon recipe. They melt in your mouth like nothing I know. All to do, I'm told, with how cleverly the cream, egg and milk are stirred to make the dough. And how precisely that dough is then rolled out on a lightly floured tray then sculpted lovingly into three-inch rounds. Oh, I could rave forever about Jean-Paul's baking abilities. And his
other
abilities. I'm so lucky to have enchanted him so . . .'

‘Hexquisitly?' offers Jenny.

‘Quite so,' agrees the woman. She turns back to Sandra. ‘Forgive me — I'm sure you're not terribly interested in hearing more about my chef's skills, unmatched as they are. And I know you're dying to fill some of that huge blank in your mind. Find out more about yourself, finally, after all these years. So I'll satisfy your curiosity and, as they say, cut to the chase. But please be prepared for quite a tale.'

She puts down her own cup and looks at Sandra.

‘I am — or rather we are — known here as Viviane. Does the name ring a bell? Or set off a tiny beep somewhere deep inside? You've had a vision about your past recently, so this should not come as a complete surprise.'

A vision?
wonders Sandra, gulping more tea with her eyes on Viviane. The picture of herself by a lake, surrounded by birds and deer, comes floating back to her like a ghost, but she stays quiet.

‘La Dame du Lac,' says Viviane matter-of-factly. ‘That's what you're seeing. That is us in a distant past. By Lake Komper. I've always found water deeply attractive, you see. And I'm a sucker for trees too. Elms, beeches, birches and sweet chestnuts. The greener the better. Not exactly your cup of herbal tea, if I read you correctly. Or at least you've fooled yourself into thinking it wasn't. For like it or not, you grew up by a lake deep in the heart of a forest. An endless spread of trees, potent and mysterious. At least that's what Brocéliande was like before men and their machines shrank it — and sucked out most of its pith.'

Viviane's eyes go all dreamy.

‘Yes, it was a great place to learn about the world. And later, a safe place to keep Excalibur. The sword had always been there, at the bottom of the lake. Always. Even before I could walk, I could see its pure metal gleaming in the waters at night, moon or no moon. And somehow I knew, when I turned fifteen, that I had to look after it. Watch over it. Though whenever I beheld it, it was I — oddly — who felt soothed and shielded by its power.'

She takes a couple of graceful sips. And waits for Sandra to drink up her tea.

‘And then he appeared one day while I was bathing. He, the great Merlin, though I did not yet know who he was when I set eyes upon him. He had a beard as long as his arm and clothes the colour of autumn leaves. But it was the eyes I noticed first. Intense, mysterious. I was intrigued. Normally, when a traveller or a hunter stumbled upon my lake, I hid till they had gone. This time, I had been caught with my knickers down. Besides, this intruder was different. He was old, but had an aura I felt strangely drawn to. There was might, I could sense, behind the beard and the wrinkles. And he stood there watching with a smile.

‘“My lord,” I called, careful to keep only my head above water, “I'm naked.” He did not move. “Totally naked,” I added. Still he did not move. “I am a modest girl,” I said, realising you have to spell things out for men, even old ones, “and cannot come out while you're watching.” Finally, he averted his gaze, waved his arm and the water surged and swept me up and delivered me to the shore like a feather borne by the surf. Then he waved again, though I think he took a peek this time. I was carried up in the air and the skimpy tunic I had left on the grass flew over to clothe me. I was stunned by such agency and the ease with which this man was wielding it. Even I could barely raise a ripple on the water. I, the Lady of the Lake. I could protect the sword from human intrusion, and could shield its liquid home from harm. But I could not act at will. I could not shape the world to suit my moods and my purposes. Only wizards — great wizards — could do that, not simple fae people like me. So I made up my mind, there and then. I had to learn how to do it. How to mould and master the elements. How to redraw the fault lines of reality.'

She nibbles at the biscuit she is holding before continuing.

‘When I had slipped on my floaty summer wear, I turned to him. He was struggling to keep his eyes off some parts of me. Off
all
parts of me. Old as he was, he was clearly not insensitive to my charms. I sensed an opportunity. “My lord,” I said, quite innocently letting the shoulder strap of my dress fall off my shoulder, “you are no doubt wise and powerful. You can raise the water and command the air. I am most impressed.”

‘“I can do much more,” he said.

‘“Really, my lord?” I replied, looking at him with wide ingenuous eyes and, quite by chance, letting my second shoulder strap slip down to my elbow. His eyes erred to my breast lines.

‘“I can command fire, the earth itself,” he said, a tinge of pride in his voice. “I know healing spells and black magic, spells for courting and for cursing, spells for turning a king crazy and a brave knight lazy; spells for making a sloth go wild and an old woman grow with child; spells for catching fish in a desert, for making snow bloom with roses, for stretching poplars higher than mountaintops; spells for breaking the strongest hexes and for melting the steel of axes, for changing bees into boars and boars into beanstalks; spells for making cowards bold and filling castles with gold.” Then he looked straight into my eyes, and he added, “And spells for seeing through a woman's wiles.”

‘I felt a little chill and thought perhaps that might put a spanner in my seductive works. But I was willing to take a chance on an old man's heart. “Holy springwater, that's amazing,” I said, giving him a coy look over my shoulder. “I would so love to learn some of those wonderful enchantments. To help protect the sword, you see.”

‘“You already have all you need to do that, my child,” he answered.

‘“Err . . . Yes,' I said. “Naturally. Without question.” I was looking desperately for a valid reason and could find none. So I went for flattery. “But . . . I would be such a diligent student. Focused, dedicated, hanging on to your every word like a lamb to its mother's teat — though that's an unfortunate choice of metaphor and I'm not suggesting for a moment, heaven forbid, that you are a ewe.”

‘“That I am a me?” he said, puzzled.

‘“Forget it,” I hastily replied. “The point is, I would learn fast. I would make you proud. And I would do everything I can to make you happy.”

‘“Everything?” he said.

‘“Everything,” I said.

‘“I know a perfect patch of moss not far from here,” he said, “behind a clump of sweet-scented bushes.”

‘“Oh, my lord, I would gladly follow you there but . . .”

‘“But?” he said.

‘“But I would be too distracted, too full of the hunger to learn to give myself freely to you. It would drive me crazy. I'd be thinking of all those complicated spells you will teach me. How to mix herbs with potions, balance out jinxes and runes, combine chants and sesames. You know what women are like surely. The mood, my lord. The mood is all. It is the key to a woman's heart and to all her juicy secrets. So teach me your charms, quench my thirst for your abstruse knowledge and I swear on my mother's topknot that you can bed me on that moss, come rain or shine. Come even hail, though that might be rather painful.”

‘He looked at me without speaking. I could see him debating.

‘“Be here tomorrow, when the sun rises over that oak,” he said at last, pointing to an old gnarled tree. “We will start then.” He took one last longing look at my bosom, turned into a stag and bounded out of sight. Yes! I leaped for joy. The old mug had taken the bite. He would teach me his magic, all of it, I would make sure of that. All I had to do was flash some skin and keep him drooling long enough while I pilfered his trove. And if our first meeting was a sign of things to come, it would be easy as Breton apple pie.'

Viviane interrupts her tale to watch Sandra drain yet another cup.

‘I'm not boring you, am I?' she asks, laying a hand on Sandra's arm. ‘Pray tell me if I do.'

She resumes her story without waiting for an answer.

‘Merlin was true to his word and returned with every new dawn. And every day I would persuade him to teach me more spells, more magic, more incantations. “Enough, you know enough,” he would say. “Herbology and arbology, healology and beastology.”