The Witch Queen (16 page)

Mogwit.

“Grab him!” Fern cried. “I have to concentrate.”

Gaynor lunged just as Nehemet pounced. There was a moment of confused struggle: she felt her arm torn and never knew which animal was responsible. Then she was back in what remained of the circle, clutching a raging bundle of ginger fur. Nehemet threatened, her mouth stretched in a hiss; but she did not attempt to spring after them. Morgus began a charm or curse that was never finished. Fern felt her body grow rigid with the buildup of power: she forced mind and will, Gift and spell to converge in one instance, one word. Gaynor felt her wrist seized, heard the Command—and the circle spun into a hoop of flame, blurring, thickening. Light swallowed them . . .

. . . and they were back in Soho.

It was Moonspittle who had secured the perimeter, controlled if not actually coerced by Ragginbone. Will, handed the cat with a curt order to hold tight, had underestimated Mogwit’s strength: more than a hundred years as a wizard’s familiar had not only extended life but enhanced muscle tone, though the cat’s intelligence seemed to have lapsed into second kittenhood. Once the circle was empty Fern and Moonspittle closed the spell on a shriek of rage that came from nowhere in the room. The fires sank, the electric lights were switched on, and the basement reverted to its own brand of normality. They presented the owner with his promised reward, a new ball for his pet and a collection of pornographic postcards from the Edwardian era, which Ragginbone had found in a secondhand bookshop. “That cat almost certainly saved our lives,” Fern said. “I’ll come back tomorrow and bring him some salmon.”

“Smoked,” said Moonspittle. “He likes it smoked.”

“Nothing but the best,” Fern assured him.

They took a taxi back to her flat. Ragginbone reserved his strictures for their return; Will didn’t. They were recuperating in Fern’s living room over wine and coffee before the tide of recrimination finally began to subside.

“Well,” said Ragginbone judicially, “and how did Morgus look to you?”

“She’s lost weight,” said Fern. “I’m afraid—it’s been transmuted into power in some way. She spent centuries in hibernation, feeding off the Tree, and now she’s stronger. She said she has the power of the Gift, and the power of the Tree, and the power of the River . . . and I could
feel
it around me, against me. It was too much. I couldn’t fight it.”

“But you did,” said Gaynor.

“We were lucky,” Fern said somberly. “Just lucky. You can’t rely on that.”

“Still,” Ragginbone remarked, “it’s something to know the luck is with you. And Morgus
has
a weakness: that much is clear. The sisterhood told us: All that lives must die. It remains only to find a way.”

“At least we know where she is,” said Will.

“Does she know where we are?” asked Fern.

“We must hope not,” said Ragginbone. “I doubt if the elementals had enough time to absorb their location. Meanwhile, we have various avenues to investigate. It might be worth having another word with Mabb: she’s capricious and undependable, but the goblins seem to be deeply involved in this affair and she may have further information. Her folk have quick ears; they hear many rumors. Then there’s this man Morgus has enspelled . . .”

“The superbanker,” said Will. “Very rich, very powerful. That’s always suspect. You don’t get to be rich and powerful by being a warm, caring person.”

“Precisely. Also his son, Lucas.”

“Luc,” said Fern. “I told you, he’s Gifted. I’m sure of it. I’ll be in touch with him.” She felt a flicker of pleasure at the idea, a reaction she was determined not to reveal, but the feeling faded on another resolve, equally secret, less a determination than a compulsion. There was someone else she had to find, a friendship neglected, a debt unpaid. Kal. And if anyone knew Morgus’s weak spot, it would be him.

She went to bed later that night thinking not of Luc, but of a half monster, double horned and lion clawed, who had once been her guide in the dark.

VI

On Saturday morning, the light crept belatedly into the shop that never opened. Dawn had done little to illuminate the interior, but as the sun ascended a few adventurous rays found their way into the alley, past bleared glass and barred grille, sending two or three thin slivers of brilliance needling into the gloom. Ragginbone was lying on a couch at the back, well past sleep, thinking the long slow thoughts that came from a long slow life. The couch was hard and too short for his height, but the centuries had toughened him against all discomforts and he was conscious of only one physical lack, the warmth of Lougarry’s body pressed against his side. He had left her in Yorkshire—her kind were ill-at-ease in the city—and he missed her silent companionship, her constancy, her soft unspoken whisper in his mind. Presently, he was distracted by the invasion of a newspaper inserted forcibly through the creaking mail slot. He rose to retrieve it, surprised that Moonspittle should have any such contact with modern life; but it was not one of the national dailies, only a local newsheet distributed free to anyone with an accessible door. Ragginbone sat down to peruse it, but instead found himself watching the darts of stray sunshine that traveled across the floor, until cloud or building cut them off for good. Their tiny glimmer revealed glimpses of mounded bric-a-brac dating back hundreds of years, shapeless hunks of abandoned furniture, many-pronged objects that might be candelabra or the antlers of decayed hunting trophies. Everything was dim with age and dust, save for the occasional chink where a glint of residual color peeped through. Ragginbone wondered idly what secrets might be buried there, under the cobwebs and the dirt. When the sun had moved on, his gaze returned to the paper. It was difficult to read in the poor light—he switched on a nearby table lamp, but there was no bulb in it—however, his sight had sharpened with the development of his Gift, and though his powers were mainly gone now, that was one of many side effects that had remained. He was poring over an article about rescue archaeology on a site in King’s Cross when Fern arrived.

Ragginbone admitted her; she had not yet mastered the knock that would summon Moonspittle. “I’ve brought the smoked salmon,” she said.

Mogwit appeared from the nether regions, drawn by some mysterious feline instinct, and pressed himself against her legs, meowing persistently. His attentions continued even on the stair, where she almost fell over him. In the basement, Moonspittle accepted the salmon without thanks and presented it to the cat on a cracked saucer, whereupon Mogwit proceeded to toy with it like a disappointed gourmet.

“Maybe it isn’t fresh enough,” Moonspittle suggested.

“It isn’t supposed to be fresh,” said Fern. “It’s smoked.”

They left the cat to his mind games and Moonspittle prepared an evil-smelling beverage that he insisted was tea. Ragginbone drank it because he had drunk worse things in the sixteenth century; Fern drank out of politeness. “I’ve been wondering,” she said tentatively, “I’ve got only a limited supply of fire crystals and spellpowder. Where do I go to restock?”

“All the same stuff,” Moonspittle responded. “Spellpowder is made from crystals. Ground down, mixed with . . . something. Only one supplier. If he isn’t dead. Haven’t seen him for a while.”

“You haven’t seen most people for a while,” Ragginbone pointed out. “How long?”

“Saw him—oh, in 1850. Remember very well. He had a calendar. He liked to keep track of time.” Moonspittle’s tone implied this was a rare eccentricity.

“What’s his name?” said Fern.

“Neb Goathless.” It was Ragginbone who answered. “He’s a dwarf—one of the true dwarves, not just a short human. There were many in the old days, but they were fond of war, and now they are all but extinct. He controls the processing and sale of the crystals, but the number of his customers must have fallen to almost nothing through the twentieth century. The witchkind have become so few. I can’t think of anyone who has been in contact with him recently. He may indeed be dead.”

“Where do the crystals come from?” Fern inquired. “Are they man-made, or—?”

“They come from the mines,” Ragginbone explained. “The mines of Gol. It’s a place in the otherworld, deeper than Hades: there used to be many entrances from the real world, in caverns and subterranean tunnels, but they have been sealed off. There is only one way in now, and it’s guarded by afreets. I went there once—just once. Visitors are not allowed in the mines: they are dark and perilous.”

“I’d imagine they are,” sighed Fern. “I suppose I shall have to go and see this Neb Goathless one day. Do you know the way?”

“Maybe,” said Ragginbone; and: “He used to deliver,” volunteered Moonspittle. “To special customers. He knew I didn’t go out.”

“Anyway,” Ragginbone concluded, “you have enough supplies for now. It would be hazardous to attempt further magic at the moment; elementals like Cthorn and Oedaphor are still around, and they would almost certainly be drawn to it. Now we need more mundane research.” As he spoke, his thought strayed to the newspaper stuffed in his jacket pocket. Perhaps that was why he missed the unnatural blankness of Fern’s assent.

“Of course,” she said. “I’d better get going. Thanks for the—the tea.”

As she left the room, she noticed Mogwit had polished off the salmon and was now curled in a chair, looking, with his patchy fur and smug expression, the picture of feline raffishness. He ignored his benefactress completely.

That evening, she drew the curtains in her flat well before dark. She had canceled a visit to the cinema with friends, pleading PMS, and although she hovered on the verge of calling Gaynor, even lifting the receiver and starting to dial, after a moment she replaced it in the cradle, aborting the call before it was made. She was learning the value of backup in a dangerous situation, though it went against her instincts; that night she had many reasons for wanting to act alone. With Ragginbone’s warning in mind she spent a long time in preparation, screening the room with spells of concealment and protection, a web of magics that would allow only the most insubstantial elementals to pass. She blocked the chimney and placed a handful of fire crystals in the grate, igniting them at a word. A few drops from one of the phials damped down the bluish flames, producing instead a thick pale smoke that coiled out into the room, thinning to a mist that blurred vision and stung the eyes. She spoke the incantation she had learned in the Cave of Roots beneath the Eternal Tree, in the days when she was Morgus’s apprentice, her spirit stolen from her body and held captive at the witch’s whim. The smoke drew together, condensing into a swirl opaque as porridge, which spun around an epicenter and darkened to the color of storms. The picture developed slowly, dark on dark. A glimmer of light grew between writhing pillars: a cave, with stalagmites springing to support the roof, and the red gleam of torches, and the creak of a huge wheel revolving ponderously in the background. Dimly she made out the human figure spread-eagled against the spokes, a giant of a man all muscle and bone, the ribs straining at his torso, the knotted sinews in his arms almost bursting the skin. Here and there she could see the spikes that held him in place thrusting through his flesh, and the dark blood that drizzled down his limbs. The wheel turned; his mouth opened in a scream that she could not hear; sometimes sound was late in coming to the spell. The picture focused on his face, upside down: the throbbing bulge of his throat, the ridged lines of jaw and cheekbone, the white half-moons of his eyes, upturned in his head. Fern wanted to look away but she could not. Sound arrived as a shriek, earsplitting, agonized, abruptly cut off. Everything went black.

Other images followed, some faintly familiar, some strange, many of them horrible. A path winding through gray meadows in a light that was neither day nor dusk, and the back view of a man striding steadily, purposefully, and far behind him a frail ghost whose robe trailed like a shroud. A river of molten lava, rippled with fire; spirits danced in the vapors above it, and something that was not a bird plunged screeching from a ledge, skimming the heat on featherless wings. Then a cauldron full of a red viscous liquid swimming with pale noodles that might have been entrails; an eye popped to the surface, and a severed hand, only to sink from view again. The cauldron was made of black metal, but presently it began to glow dull red, and the contents bubbled into steam, and shapes poured out, rising like smoke or scrambling over the rim—human shapes patched together from broken limbs and shattered skulls. One came toward Fern as if rushing out of the picture: its nose was crushed and a sword swipe had split both lip and jaw, but its eyes shone with an unholy glow. She murmured a soft word, and it vanished abruptly, the image clouding into darkness. There was a long drawn-out pause; then the scene lightened gradually into a green glimmer filtering between many leaves. They resembled oak leaves, but larger, and they rustled gently as if filled with muted whispering. The spell-scene pulled back, showing a fat yellow fruit ripening slowly out of sight of the sun. The process appeared to accelerate: irregular lumps swelled on either side, ears unfurled like petals, eyeballs bulged against sealed lids. Hair came last, sprouting from the crown and flowing down to great length. A tiny white spider began crawling up one dark-gold strand. The sallow rind warmed to pink; the eyes opened. She’s beautiful, thought Fern, and:
I know her
. But the woman she had known was old and withered, all greed and furtive malice; this was a witch from an enchanted island, radiant with youth. Yet the look in her eyes was the same.

Sysselore, Fern said to herself.
This is the head of Sysselore.

A dark hand intruded, wielding a notched hunting knife. It cut the stem, and the head was gone.

The picture changed. In a corridor full of shadows Fern glimpsed a retreating figure moving with swift pace and lilting hips. Her white dress glittered in the dim light. Then there was a hill with three trees blackened from a lightning strike; then bare moorland and a wolf running that might have been Lougarry. These images passed very quickly; dark returned. She was back in the caves. But this time the Underworld was empty, save for the faint twittering of the ghosts and the water notes of the spring of Lethe, sweet enough to erase all pain, and memory, and love. As Fern watched a shadow crossed the picture; she caught sight of a curling horn, an eye that gleamed red under a lowering brow, the massive hunch of a shoulder. At its flank hung a pouch whose function Fern recognized: hair spilled from the top, and a white spiderlet scuttled to safety within. Fern recalled seeing such spiders during her sojourn beneath the Tree: they grew into arachnoid monsters the size of dinner plates. The spell-scene followed the creature through cavern and tunnel: it seemed to be part man, part beast, clothed in skins or its own fur, moving silently on taloned paws. “Kal!” Fern hissed, knowing he would not hear. He must be running errands for Morgus, though not willingly, she was sure. Perhaps that was why he would not stay, when she had called him to the circle. Ragginbone had told her the rune on his forehead looked like the rune of Finding; he might have feared to betray her whereabouts to his mother.

The scene shifted again, melting into a grayness of rain. Wipers swept across a windshield. Then—as on the road to Yarrowdale—she saw a vehicle rushing toward her, something huge, maybe a lorry, and headlights blinking in her eyes, and behind the oncoming wheel a brief vision of a death’s-head, its mouth fixed in a lipless grin. She felt rather than heard someone scream, and knew it was herself—

She found she had doubled over as if at a blow, shaking. She straightened cautiously, half afraid to look, but the smoke scene had moved on. Now the rain was black, streaked with lamplight and neon, and beyond it reared the glittering façades of banks and brokerage houses. She felt herself drawn into the picture, swept along crowded pavement, through snarling traffic. She tried to resist, knowing her destination, but the magic had taken over. The Dark Tower soared ahead of her. She was sucked up the endless shaft, whirled away on the escalator. And there was the office, the desk, the suit beyond, though as ever the spell avoided his gaze. But the red file was missing. Instead, she found she had produced her own file and set it in front of him. The knife slashed a shadowy arm, and something dripped from it that might have passed for blood. “Sign,” said a voice she thought was hers. He picked up the quill—

The magic shrank inward, distorting the image into cubist fragments; then suddenly it imploded, and there was only smoke. She was in her own living room, sitting cross-legged before the fireplace, and the crystals were spilling out of the grate, and torn vapors hung on the air. She unblocked the chimney and let them go. Only when the last wisp of fume had departed did she unbind the protection spells and open the window to admit the midnight breeze.

Before she went to bed, she plucked an ivy twig from the square’s garden and taped it to the front door.

On the Sunday, Will and Gaynor met for lunch at a riverside pub in Hammersmith. They paid on ordering, causing a brief tussle over the bill that Will won. He was nervous, and consequently annoyed with himself, and brushed aside her offer to pay with unusual curtness. Two years before, at the end of a period of danger and growing intimacy, she had walked out on him without saying good-bye—a brand of rejection that was rare in Will’s experience—and the wound to his ego still smarted. If there was more than ego involved, he suppressed the notion. Although he was chronically broke and his production company had yet to produce anything, he had never gone short of girlfriends: generally long-legged, high-minded beauties who made it a point of honor to pay their way. Gaynor’s legs were not particularly long and her face was not particularly beautiful, lending itself more to sweetness, sadness, and sympathy than any expression of assurance and poise, but she had her own independence.

“Are you sure?” she said.

Grunt.

“I’d really much rather—”

“No.”

“It’s just that Fern says you’re not awfully well off at . . . the moment . . .”