Lucas was frightened. It had taken him weeks to admit it to himself. Admitting it made it real.
Lawrence was teaching him, indeed; lessons in sheer terror of the Gates and what lay beyond. He instructed Lucas in every trick of opening Lychgates, half-gates, aligning portals within the labyrinth to enter any realm directly… but more than that, the arts of sealing, protecting, locking. Once the Great Gates were fully open, Lawrence told him, every portal on Earth would open along with them and nothing would hold Brawth back.
The teaching was all theory. Lucas wondered if he’d ever be allowed actually to touch the Gates. Lawrence seemed compelled to pour all his knowledge into him, at the same time warning him constantly against the dangers of putting theory into practice.
At these times, Lawrence would talk late into the night. Luc had to bring him coffee and food, otherwise he would consume nothing but whiskey. They would usually sit in the library, with only a desk light to soften the cavernous gloom, and the tall net curtains shifting with every draft.
“I’ve often thought of the ice giant as a figment of my deranged mind,” Lawrence told him. “But in the Spiral, dreams become real. I dreamed a mythical enemy, and woke it. Everything I have done is to protect my sons, especially you, from its wrath.”
“I’ve seen it,” Lucas told him, and described the great figure in the Abyss, the ice mist rolling off its mountainous flanks. When he reached the part where it had turned to look at him, Lawrence’s face went grey.
“Brawth has seen you. Marked you. It knows you’re my son. Thank the gods it didn’t wake and pursue you. Your presence, and the open Lychgate, weren’t enough to rouse it. I believe it will only wake in response to me. As long as it remains in stone form, we are safe.”
“Estel said it had always been there,” said Lucas. “Perhaps it really was just a statue, and I imagined it moving.”
“Of course Brawth has always been there.” Lawrence fixed him with glowing, ice-grey eyes; the pupils were pinpricks. “It is the shadow from the beginning and end of time.”
At first Lucas had found these sessions thrilling. Lawrence was powerful; he seemed the lord of the universe, yet all of his precious attention was focused on Lucas, as if no one else in the world mattered. It was flattering. Initiation was bound to be hard but it meant he was special, chosen. A few weeks in, however, the gloss was wearing off. Instead, Lawrence’s intensity became grueling and disturbing.
There were gentler moments, when Lawrence let him into the workshop behind his study where he cut albinite gems. Even there, his contemplation of individual jewels verged on obsessive. When Lucas asked about it, he received a long silence and a cryptic answer, “Someone once showed me a perfect stone that was rightfully mine, only to snatch it away from me. Ever since, even knowing I’ll never find it, I keep on searching. Like a gambler forever placing his final bet. I cannot stop.”
When Lawrence had talked himself to exhaustion, he would vanish to bed and Lucas would climb the stairs to Sapphire’s zone. It felt friendlier than the rest of the house. There he would lie in bed, but he often couldn’t sleep and would only stare at the ceiling, listening to the voice in the attic murmuring to itself.
Lawrence was always up before him. Often his mood was black, and he’d closet himself in his workshop, leaving Luc to his own devices. He explored halfheartedly or read books in the library. The shadowy dysir would pad around him; protecting or guarding him, he wasn’t sure. He ordered groceries on the Internet, paid with Lawrence’s credit card, and received them at the kitchen door. Each time Lucas looked at the outside world, he thought about simply walking away. And then he would close and lock the door again.
As spring came, he thought more often about leaving. Yet the more he considered, the less he seemed able to do it. Lawrence had flooded him with paralyzing terror. He felt he hadn’t learned enough yet, was terrified of missing some vital secret. And, after all, he simply couldn’t abandon his father. If he left, Lawrence would surely starve to death.
Still, the urge grew. He needed permission; that was it. One lunchtime, at the kitchen table, Lucas shredded a bread roll with trembling hands and announced that it was time he visited his family.
Lawrence froze. “I can’t stop you,” he said, “but I’d advise against it, Lucas. It’s too dangerous.”
“I won’t go anywhere near the Gates.”
The pallid face was heavy with disapproval. “It’s not that. Don’t you realize that our enemies are out there, itching to get their hands on you?”
“On me?”
“You understand the danger, but they don’t. Comyn and his crew will force the Gates open at any price. Don’t you realize that if you set foot outside, you are liable to be kidnapped?”
Lucas was shocked. “That sounds… dramatic. They wouldn’t.”
“Oh yes, they would. They’d stop at nothing. Our self-imposed exile here is no fun, but that’s the sacrifice we make for keeping the Earth safe!” Lawrence went on, in soft-voiced anger, describing what horrors awaited Luc if he left.
“And what if something happens to you?” Lucas cried, jumping up. “What if the Court takes the power off me and gives it to someone else? What then? You can’t keep the Gates closed forever!”
Lawrence shot to his feet, overturning the table. Dishes crashed and food spilled. “Don’t speak of it! Don’t you dare even suggest it!”
Lucas fled.
Later, when he’d stopped shaking and uncurled himself from the corner of his bed, he felt plain despair. There was no escape. He actually thought Lawrence might murder him sooner than let him go—but the hardest thing to bear was his disapproval. Again he heard the scratching and crying of the ghost in the attic. He growled, and threw a pillow at the ceiling.
Luc sat hopeless on the edge of the bed, staring at his feet. It wasn’t the first time his father had lost his temper. Lawrence would right the table and clear up the mess; then, although he never apologized, everything would go on as before.
I’m as mad as him, thought Lucas. I’ll grow old in this place, I’ll turn into a scratchy mad wraith like that thing in the attic… “For fuck’s sake, shut up!” he said out loud. It ignored him.
Despairing panic came over him. He craved escape, but the only place to hide was above. Perhaps he could jump off the roof. Numb, he went along the landing until he found the little door to the attic. He climbed the narrow stairs and felt for the light switch he remembered at the top.
Brownish light caressed the roof space. Old chests, boxes, fabrics; it appeared nothing had been touched since he was last here so many years ago. The oil painting of the collapsed angel stood facing him. The crouched figure with its trailing hands and hidden face made him sad. It was exactly how he felt. Fighting tears, he sat cross-legged in front of it. He felt safe here. Lawrence never ventured to Sapphire’s rooms, let alone any higher. “Is it you crying?” he said. “I wish you’d stop. What’s wrong?”
Lucas reached out to touch the textured surface. In answer, the angel’s hand lunged out of the painting and grabbed him.
* * *
Sam lay in bed watching Rosie, who was on her feet with her back to him, on the phone to Lucas. She was wearing nothing but one of his shirts, which hinted deliciously at the curves of her bottom as she moved. Sam pushed the cover down to his hips to let his body cool. They were in the apartment he was sharing in Ashvale. He’d apologized for his room being cramped and shabby; she insisted she didn’t care, since it was their sanctuary.
“Well, you keep telling me you’re fine, but I don’t believe you,” she said. “The lack of detail makes me suspect otherwise… No, nothing’s changed, Luc. Mum’s still worried. We still want you home… Sorry, but I will keep on. I’m sick of treading on eggshells with you. If you keep saying the same thing, so will I!” Her tone took on a let’s-change-the-subject brightness. “So, are you going to Cloudcroft Show on Saturday? Oh, the usual; cows, horses, big tractors, Morris dancers, Beast Parade, all that stuff.”
Sam heard the scratch of Lucas’s voice, saying no.
“Come on, you’d enjoy the music.”
There was a rueful laugh at the other end. “Brass band? I don’t think so. I’ll call you next week, Ro.”
Rosie glowered at the phone. “He’s hung up.” She turned towards Sam, the open shirt offering a tantalizing glimpse of soft dark curls between her thighs. “What are you grinning at?”
“At you,” Sam said affectionately, “naked in my room. And the times I lay in my prison cell, fantasizing about this.”
She brandished the phone at him, mock-annoyed. “I don’t think you’re taking this seriously.”
He leaned on his elbows. “I am, love, but Luc’s got a point. Village carnivals, not my scene either. How about we go elsewhere for the day?”
Her eyes glimmered. “Where?”
“Shopping, dinner, romantic walk—anything and everything you want, sweetie.”
“Ooh,” Rosie breathed, her eyelids falling. “That sounds so tempting. To escape… it feels almost wicked.”
“That’s what we’ll do, then.” He smiled, basking in the tingle of conspiracy. Rosie parted her lips, moistened them with the pink tip of her tongue. The shine of her eyes became so intense that he felt its heat trailing over him. “Ah,” he said, “you seem to have turned fully human. You’ve become aroused by the word shopping.”
Rosie launched herself, and he fell back laughing under the force of her. She lay full length on him, her teeth and tongue playing hungrily over his skin. “Not shopping. You,” she said into his neck. She raised her head, trying to see through the wild mess of her hair. “You know, if you lie in bed with your naked chest on display, you are going to get jumped on.”
* * *
Lucas ended the call to Rosie and looked up at the ceiling. What should he have said to her? Help me, Ro, I’m going mad, please come and get me? His heart jumped in his throat. He picked up a grocery bag and softly made his way to the attic again.
The angel was still out of the painting. The first time had frightened him half to death. The creature had come with him as he leapt up, unfolding from two dimensions into three; and there she stood eye-to-eye with him, a specter engraved on darkness, the face as wild with astonishment as his own.
Once he’d overcome his shock, he realized that she was the more terrified; that she was harmless, insubstantial like an elemental. She wouldn’t speak, only knelt on the floorboards and hid under her hair. The second time he returned, she’d melted back into the canvas and he’d had to coax her out again.
Now he approached carefully, trying not to startle her. She was willowy, drawn in sienna shadow, with creamy highlights on her flesh, long rippling bronze hair covering her naked form. The canvas behind her was an indigo blank. The shape of wings was sketched in the air above her, a faint high curve that moved when she did.
“Hello, it’s me again,” he whispered. “I’ve brought you some water, and food… uh, there’s a cheese sandwich, and some cake. I don’t know if you eat, but…”
She raised her head and stared at the items he was taking from the bag. Her face was delicate, perfect, a true faerie face. The eyes were solid golden globes; un-human, timeless and wary. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’ll sit with you. You’re not on your own.”
To his surprise, she reached out and took the bottled water from him. She tipped her head back and poured it on her face, opening her mouth. The red curl of her tongue was startling in the gloom. She took a bite of bread and spat it out; the cake seemed more to her liking. She licked and nibbled at it.
“So sweet,” she said. Tears swelled in her eyes.
It was the first time she’d spoken. Lucas sat on the floor next to her, pulse racing. “Don’t cry,” he said. “Or at least tell me why.”
“Lucas,” she whispered, touching his arm with long, thin fingers.
“That’s me. Do you have a name? I don’t know if you’re literally made of paint, or if I’m dreaming this, but you need a name.”
She paused, putting her fingertips to her mouth. “Iola.”
“Iola. That’s nice.”
Hesitantly she explored her face with her fingers. Her voice was faint, rusty with disuse. “I am not made of paint. I’m like you.” He began to ask if she meant Aetherial or something else, but she interrupted, her gold-leaf eyes widening. “Is he still here?”
“Do you mean Lawrence?”
The angel shivered. “Yes. Lawrence.”
Lucas’s heart sank. “He is. Why?”
Her lips opened; she froze, like a sculpture. “Then I can’t come out.”
“No.” Lucas caught her arm, afraid she would vanish into the canvas again. She winced. “Sorry,” he said, letting go. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Please stay with me. He won’t come up here, he never does. Why are you hiding from him?” Iola bowed her head and wouldn’t answer. “You’re obviously afraid of him. Me too. You’ve been here years, haven’t you?”
“You’re warm,” she sighed. “I’m so cold.”
“Come downstairs with me. You shouldn’t be up here alone.” She only shook her thigh-length ripples of hair. “I can’t leave. As long as he is still in the house, I must hide.”
* * *
Each day Lucas took her food, and each day Iola became more substantial. She began to move around the attic, testing her feet and legs. Her wings were now only a spectral hint, if there at all. He brought her clothes, but she wouldn’t wear them. She ran her fingers through her hair, gazed for a full hour at her reflection in an old pockmarked mirror, spun round so that her hair whirled in a fan. Lucas tried hard not to stare at the ivory flesh this revealed, and failed miserably.
She still looked gilded and fantastical like some opium dream of a faerie, but she was now too solid—he hoped—to fade back into camouflage. She let him plait and play with her hair. There was a sad serenity about her as she began to speak more freely.
“How long have you been here, in the painting?” he ventured.
“I don’t know. Time stands still, but the memories are bright.”
Skeins of silk ran deliciously through his hands. “It’s said that when Aetherials die, we don’t so much die as change. Become elemental and attach ourselves to a tree, a rock, or a stream. Is that what happened to you?”
“In a way.” She fixed her eerie golden eyes on him. “I am like you, Luc. Aetherial.”
“Did Lawrence… kill you?”
She smiled for the first time. The cosmos rearranged itself inside him. She was indulging his innocence. This was not a frightened fawn of a girl at all but an age-old creature beyond his comprehension. “He hasn’t told you,” she said. “I hear your conversations, when the house is quiet. He won’t admit it.”
Luc tried to take this in. She must have heard everything that went on in the house for years. “I knew he was keeping something back!”
“I’m from Asru, the realm of spirit,” she went on. “The Spiral Court sent me to Liliana, and I stayed to help Lawrence. They always send a guardian to aid the Gatekeeper. We stay in the shadows, not quite secret, but not seen, either. I was mistress of the dysir.”
Lucas was confounded. “Never heard such a thing. Did you have… authority over him?”
“No, the guardian only comes to offer guidance, protection. We offer a connection to the inner realms. My first few years with Lawrence were difficult. I was always there, helping him find his way… but he rejected me. A black madness came over him. I tried and tried to help, but there was nothing I could do and in the end I was overwhelmed. His dear wife went too and I was powerless to bring her back. He drove us away. I’m ashamed to admit my failure but by the end I was mad with fear, so I fled.”
“Why here? Couldn’t you have returned to Asru?”
“Why here?” she echoed. “You’re here too. This is where he drives us.”
“Oh.” His mouth fell in shock, but she smiled.
“I couldn’t leave him, Lucas. He was still my Gatekeeper. I was still bound to him. So I hid myself. Faded away.”
Lucas thought of the weeping he and Jon had heard on and off for years. “You were heartbroken.”
“Oh, the pain in the house. I could never shut it out.”
“Does he know you’re here?”
“I don’t think so. He closed his ears to me years ago.”
One shoulder appeared between the waves of her hair. Lucas instinctively went to kiss it, stopped himself just in time. He cleared his throat in embarrassment. “Er, Iola, I’m the Gatekeeper now. So they tell me.”
“I know.” This time her smile was girlish and sweet. “That must be why I came back into the solid world. You called me out.”
“Then you have to come downstairs with me.” Hope danced in him. “We can face Lawrence together.”
She turned to him and placed her hands on either side of his face. “I can’t.”
He was pushing her too hard. She was still as fragile as smoke. Lucas was no good at being forceful, either; Lawrence could blow him over like a straw. How could he hope to defend Iola, if he couldn’t look after himself? Frustration brought tears to his eyes. “I can’t leave you up here.”
“You must, dear friend. I’m used to it.”
“I’m not leaving without you. We’re both his prisoners.”
“Don’t weep. You brought me to life,” she said softly, and kissed him.
The sweet surprise of her mouth on his ambushed him. Lucas was lost. He whispered, “Is this usual—with your Gatekeepers?” and her mouth warmed his ear as she breathed, “No. Never before. I need you… to make me real.” And he was falling into soft golden fire, falling through one exquisite sensation after another.
Snatches of memory touched him like electric shocks. Those knowing human girls who’d hung around the band, their solid flesh reeking of cigarettes and stale perfume; he’d never let them near him. There had been no one.
Drugs had thrown a muffling veil over any desire for love. There was always Jon, of course, and the quiet release they offered each other since they had no one else, and which they never spoke about in daylight; but that didn’t count. He’d never been inside anyone. Never imagined the feather-soft perfection of an angel’s body or the tenderness of her mouth and hands moving over him, drawing him deep into her.
It lasted forever, and it was over in an instant. She took his breath away like a fall into the Abyss. Spasms of ecstasy possessed him, hurled him out of himself, lashing like lightning.
As pleasure trickled away, he found there was no one beneath him. He was embracing the folds of a dusty blanket.
* * *
Lawrence woke from the toils of a nightmare and the angel was there again at the foot of his bed, her stone finger pointing at him, her blank golden eyes staring. “You will wake the Shadow,” she hissed. “I could have helped you, but you turned your back and drove me out. Now the beast is too hungry.”
“No,” he gasped. “I control the Gates!”
“Too late, Lawrence.” Lightning flickered around her. A hot wind caught the rippling hair. “You woke Brawth with your anger. The great Shadow at the beginning and end of time.”
“Please.” He writhed and his voice was raw. “How can I lay it to rest?”
“By losing what you love most,” came the savage answer. “When your pain is more powerful than your anger—that is all that will satisfy Brawth.”
“No!” he cried, starting up. He woke properly then, sweating in a tangle of sheets. There was no one there. The guardian, Iola, had fled and vanished years ago; he’d driven her away, believing that she was an infiltrator, in league with his enemies. Certainly not believing she could help him, for no one could. Yet still she haunted his nightmares, a wraith of ill omen, her stone finger piercing him with wintry cold and terrifying knowledge…
In the feverish aftershock of the dream, Lawrence suddenly knew, in horror, what she was telling him. It must end. And I… He trembled as all the years of fear, denial and icy self-control forged themselves into a torrent of rage. I must be the one to end it.
* * *
The morning of Cloudcroft Show was dry and fine. Jessica and Auberon were up early, ready to take full part in selling tickets, stewarding, or whatever duties they’d agreed to. Even Matthew dragged himself from bed despite an apparent hangover. Rosie felt a little guilty at running out on them; not guilty enough to change her plans, however.
Sam took her to Birmingham. Not the most exotic venue, but the city center had changed in recent years. Grimy industry had given way to the faux crystal glamour of shopping malls. At the entrance to the Bullring Center stood a great bronze bull statue that reminded Rosie of Brewster as she stroked the smooth metal; beyond were high viewpoints from which to admire the city skyline. They drank coffee in a bookstore. Sam bought her a blood red crystal heart on a black leather cord. They discovered the unexpectedly sensual pleasure of buying clothes for each other—sliding silk and cashmere and cotton against each other’s skin, flirting with the danger of discovery in changing rooms—and later, after a lengthy meal with champagne, they walked hand-in-hand along the canal basin, which had been renovated and lined with trendy bars. Late sunlight sparkled on the water. No one knew them here. Rosie, with her arm wrapped around Sam’s lean waist, had never felt more perfectly that she belonged.
“This has been the best day of my life,” Sam said in wonder.
“And mine,” said Rosie. They stood with their arms around each other, not wanting to break the spell. “Do they have designer stores in Elfland? Where would you get a cappuccino? Do they have an economy at all?”
“Nah,” said Sam, amused. “You’re supposed to find your true self up a mountain or in a sacred grove, aren’t you? Instead it turns out to be here, in a grim old midlands city beside a canal. Perfect happiness. Perfect peace. Who’d have thought it? I like this world.”
* * *
Fun and hot dogs and the flutter of bunting; it was all a masquerade for human benefit. Sapphire felt detached from it, tense all day as if with stage fright. When evening fell, it would begin; a carnival procession, traditional folkloric revelry, a perfectly natural part of the day’s activities. In isolation, the Beast Parade would have looked as weird as hell. In context, no one had reason to suspect a thing.
They costumed in a back room of the Green Man pub. It was like dressing up for a village play, except that everyone was deathly quiet. Comyn and Jon were in another room. No one spoke to Sapphire. It was when she slid the hound mask onto her face that a sense of ritual strangeness and unreality hit her. The mask was stylized, with staring eyeholes; a fetish object.
I’m not myself anymore, she thought, looking at her animal reflection in a mirror. Not little Maria Clara Ramos, not Marie Claire Barada, not Sapphire da Silva or Mrs. Lawrence Wilder. I don’t know what I am. She felt calm, focused, intent.
The costumes were in shades of green, part-medieval and part-fantastical. With their masks, the gathered Aetherials became hunter and hound in one. She couldn’t tell who was who anymore. They were… a pack.
Comyn alone was dressed in red, complete with a Victorian-style huntsman’s jacket in scarlet. He wore a simple black highwayman’s mask. When he brought Jon in, Sapphire started. It was like a beast from another world lumbering in.
Jon towered, and the hide that covered him reeked. When she went closer and tried to see his face, he only smiled vacantly, horribly back at her. He’d obviously taken something, but who could blame him? It was what shamans did. For this night, it seemed appropriate.
The air felt humid as they stepped into the evening and made their way onto the village green. Sapphire felt the fire of vengeance quivering through her. This was what she’d lived for her whole life: the end of Lawrence.
* * *
Violet-blue dusk fell gently as Sam and Rosie drove back to Cloudcroft. The festival lingered on. It was a fine evening, with crowds of people outside the Green Man and all over the road. They plainly considered the day not done and the highway a traffic-free party zone. Sam had to crawl to avoid running anyone over. At the far corner of the green, there was activity. People were drifting in that direction, entirely blocking their way.
“Great,” said Sam, drumming the steering wheel. “I thought they’d be done by now. Haven’t you got bleeding homes to go to, people?”
“Must be the Beast Parade. It’s usually long over by now.” Rosie wound down her window and called to a man standing near the car, “What’s happening?”
“Dunno, love,” he said happily. He reminded her a bit of Alastair. “There’s some idiot dressed up as a deer. These folk customs, all about fertility, aren’t they?” He winked.
Rosie grinned back. “Er, yeah. Thanks.”
The crowd began to stream up through the village, following the attraction. Rosie heard the thump of a ritual drum. Sam crawled after the pro cession in the car for a few yards, then swung into a side road and parked. “Be quicker to walk,” he said.
The evening air felt warm. There was a pink flush to the sky, but the light was fading towards slate grey. She saw the spark of lanterns and torches concentrated at the front of the column.
As the lane rose in front, the head of the procession came into view. She glimpsed costumed dancers in green, perhaps thirty or so. At their head was a figure with massive antlers on his head. The antlers shook and dipped, making their wearer seem a mad, shamanic figure. Behind the core ran a looser group of a hundred or so folk, also mostly in green—and Aetherial, from their light, tireless pace.
The mass of human revelers ran to keep up. Ahead, others lined the road to watch. She heard the bright notes of a horn.
“They’re hunting him,” said Sam. He and Rosie began to run. It reminded her of something she couldn’t bring to mind. A hidden intent, an age-old ritual.
The Beast Parade was different every year, but the dancers normally went around the village in a circle to complete the enactment on the green. There was often some daft theatrical climax. Instead, the procession took the left fork that led past Oakholme and ultimately out of the village altogether. Human followers were starting to grow tired and drop out by then.
Rosie glanced into the windows of Oakholme as they passed. The only light was in Matthew’s room. Still the procession continued. There was nothing up here, no reason for them to come so far. She glanced at Sam but he only shrugged, puzzled.
“Are they drunk?” she asked. There was, however, nothing frivolous about the participants. They ran with serious intent. When they gave voice to hunting cries, the sound was raw, dirty, savage. The hunting horn sounded again.
“They’re heading up to Stonegate,” said Sam.
* * *
Twilight soaked the landscape in eerie gloom. The hunt took on the feel of a tribal rite. The stag sacrifice whirled and staggered in a trance. The huntsmen pursued in wild excitement like hounds after scent, their real selves subsumed. Sapphire was one of them—possessed, on another plane of consciousness, where all was narrowed down to their goal.
Even the human followers were caught up without understanding. Their shouts of encouragement were savage. Heaven knew, the villagers had no reason to love Lawrence either. The same dark blood hunger infected everyone.
The stag ran now as if exhausted. He staggered under the weight of the hide on his shoulders and the crown of antlers. He pushed himself into a brief burst of energy, running and feinting, then stumbling again. The hunting horn sounded, urging him on. The quarry must not fall too soon. Sapphire’s heart was in her mouth as it seemed he would collapse halfway up the drive; but the antlered head rose again and he struggled on. There on the step before the double doors of Stonegate Manor; that’s where it would end.
* * *
Lucas was in the rooftop conservatory, resting his forehead against the glass. The incident in the attic had left him profoundly disturbed. He’d crept up once and found no one there; now he daren’t return, in fear of what he might or might not find. Had he fallen in love with a hallucination? If so, he’d lost his mind without even noticing. Was it some conjuration of Lawrence’s, designed to keep him at Stonegate? There was one way to find out; ask Lawrence what he knew of Iola the guardian, and watch his reaction. But then—if Iola was real—Lawrence would want to know how he’d found out, and that might place her in danger.
His confusion sank towards despair. He thought he’d discovered a wonderful living secret in this tomb. Then it proved to be dust, or some cruel trick. The landscape below was velvety green, but he was isolated from it. All day he’d been hearing snatches of music and loudspeaker announcements from down in the valley. He’d sneered, but now he longed to be part of it. He and Rosie, eating ice cream as they trailed behind their parents, children again.
As dusk fell, Lucas saw the procession coming up the drive. The sight shook him out of his torpor. Why the hell were a couple of hundred people suddenly flowing towards Stonegate? They must be drunk. It must be a joke, but Lawrence would be incandescent.
He could make out only a shadowy mass, carrying lights. A horde of villagers with flaming torches, come to oust the fiend from the castle; that was the image, but there was something darker and quieter in their intent. As they came level with the walls beneath him, he saw they were dressed up, masked. A figure cloaked in deerskin dodged this way and that, branched antlers swaying, in symbolic flight. The hunters mimed pursuit.
Lucas stared, confused. Human spectators must see this as enacted folklore, but it wasn’t. There was a sinister, hidden meaning. Whatever it was, it would be nothing entertaining.
“Lawrence!” he shouted, running through deserted rooms until he reached the gallery.
Lawrence was already on his way downstairs. He crossed the great hall, switching lights on as he went. Luc followed him, alarmed. As they entered the lobby, a terrible sound came through the door; a muted ululation like the baying of hounds. Through the windows, they saw the crowd milling on the half-moon drive in front of the portico. “What do they want?” said Luc.
Lawrence’s face was limestone. “Traitors,” he said thinly. “So it comes to this.”
Lucas saw the stag framed in the portico, turning to confront his pursuers, rearing to his full height as they held him at bay. He saw the red-coated huntsman raise a longbow and take aim. The arrow flew. The stag bowed his antlered head and fell, hitting the doors with a tremendous thud. Lucas jumped. The doors shuddered.
Lawrence’s hand turned the key and began to slide back the bolts.
“No, don’t!” Lucas cried.
“I must,” said Lawrence.
He opened both doors wide. Light spilled out. Lucas saw dozens of pairs of glowing eyes staring back, red like the eyes of wild dogs. Only the huntsman had a human face, with a simple black mask, and he had a huge curved knife in his hand.
As Lawrence opened the door, the huntsman’s huge butcher blade rose and fell. Blood spurted. The stag collapsed in a red lake. The scene froze for a heartbeat, a tableau. In the space while no one moved, Lucas recognized the scarlet huntsman as his uncle Comyn.
Lawrence stood expressionless, staring. Panting, wild-eyed and defiant, Comyn glared back. “Out,” he said. “You are out, Lawrence Wilder.”
“What the hell is this?” said Lawrence, his voice raw and shaky. “What the devil is the meaning of this charade?”
“You know the meaning.” The huntsman stood with the blood-soaked blade raised near his face. “The stag bears your crime and is slaughtered.”
Lucas half-screamed, “Oh my god, it’s Jon!”
He lurched forward, but Lawrence gripped him and shoved him back. For a few moments the world spun into nightmare and all he could see was Jon, the fallen quarry, dead in a pool of blood.
“You recruited my own son to act this out?” Lawrence whispered. “Jonathan?”
The air caught in Lucas’s throat, raw. Then Jon raised his head. There was blood all over him, but not issuing from his body. Fake. He’d had a bag of pig’s blood strapped to him. His face was barely visible under the stag’s head. He was panting, eyes unfocused. Drugged; how else could he have done this?
“I’m not your son,” he rasped. “You’re not my father.”
* * *
Sam and Rosie finally reached the head of the procession where the drive met the house. A chaotic mass of people roiled in the dusk. Impossible to make sense of the scene. There were some humans looking confused and asking each other what the hell was supposed to be happening. Others, drunk, were cheering. The hard core of costumed hunters clustered around the front doors.
“What the fuck do they think they’re doing?” Sam hissed, outraged.
“The door’s open,” said Rosie. They pushed their way around the edge until they got somewhere near the front. The throng at the door wore forest greens and had the masks of hounds. Rosie felt the world shift like quicksand. How come so many Aetherials had known about this—but not her, or Sam, or her family?
Suddenly she spotted her parents—but they were on the fringes, not costumed. Jessica was in a tie-dye skirt and caftan of sunburst yellows, Auberon in grey flannels and jacket, and they looked every bit as shocked as Rosie.
Finding gaps to peer through, she and Sam watched the scene on the doorstep. The stag was on his hands and knees, awash with crimson blood. Lawrence stood on the threshold, his face white and terrible, with Lucas at his shoulder. She recognized Comyn’s voice.
“The slaughter of the stag upon your doorstep marks you as a pariah, Lawrence. It states the disapproval of the community. The stag is your crime. The stag is you. We sacrifice the old king and welcome the new.”
Lawrence was rooted like a standing stone. Sam started forward, but Rosie grabbed his arm and stayed him. He let her, seemingly at a loss. Finally Lawrence spoke. “I know what this absurd ritual means. I never thought I’d see the day when it was enacted against your Gatekeeper.”
“Then you know that the accepted procedure is to step down and leave,” said Comyn.
Lawrence laughed. “You can’t make me leave my own house.”
“No, we can’t prize you out of the old shell, it’s true. The condemnation of the Aetherial community is something else. It is a vote of no confidence. It’s the stripping away of any position and respect you had left.”
Lawrence turned grey. He began to shake slightly. Rosie felt horrified for him.
“This is blasphemy!” he said. “Let me see the faces of those who would drive me out. I know you, Comyn—this is no surprise from you—but the others? At least have the courage to show me your faces!”
A moment of uncomfortable stillness, then the masks began to come off. Sapphire and Phyllida were among them. All the Aetherials stared flatly at Lawrence. His attention in return flicked over their heads straight to Auberon.
“Even you?” He gave a horrible laugh. “Of course you! You were only ever biding your time! I can’t stand against this wholesale condemnation, can I?”
“You brought it upon yourself,” said Comyn.
“You traitors,” Lawrence whispered. “You wretched, backstabbing traitors, all of you. Idiots!”
“You can see from our clothes that we took no part in this and knew nothing about it until it began,” called Auberon. “Nor do I approve of it. However, you know this can’t go on. Lawrence, please. For the sake of peace, step down.”
“Have you come to kill me?”
“Of course not,” said Comyn.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Let Lucas go,” said Comyn. “Hand him over to us. Let us have our Gatekeeper again. What you do after that, no one cares.”
Rosie saw Luc’s face open up in terror. He looked at Lawrence and said, “Father?”
“Hand him over?” Lawrence’s tone was contemptuous. His hand crept around Lucas’s shoulders, drawing him forward. “He’s not a hostage. He’s not your slave. What makes you think he can open the Great Gates without my help, or indeed my permission?”
“So you’ve spent these weeks brainwashing him, have you? A desperate attempt to cling to your power? Give him up, Lawrence. It’s over.”
A chorus of Aetherial voices rose. Lucas, Lucas, Lucas! Lawrence waited sourly for it to subside. Both his hands rested on Lucas’s shoulders, fingers tapping a spidery rhythm. His eyes were glinting ice. “Yes, it is over,” he said. “You’ve got your way, Comyn. What do you want him to do for you?”
“To open the Gates, obviously.”
“And you are certain that is what you want?”
“Yes,” Comyn answered steadily. “Free access. It’s our right.”
“Even after due consideration of my warnings?”
“We don’t recognize your warnings.” Impatience edged his voice. “Whatever the danger, we’ll face it, fight it and defeat it!” There were cheers and yells. “The Great Gates must be opened!”
Lawrence paused for a few heartbeats, staring bleakly at them. “If that’s what you want—then so be it.” Lawrence seized Lucas’s arm and manhandled him from the house, sidestepping the fallen stag and pushing roughly through the front lines of the mob. They were taken by surprise. Lucas exclaimed in protest, but let himself be marched in the direction of Freya’s Crown.
“Follow us, then,” Lawrence called over his shoulder and suddenly, despite everything, he was in command again. “Then we’ll see if this is what you want. Come on. Are you afraid?”
Sam and Rosie followed on the edges of the crowd. They were somehow caught in the tug of the current, unable to intervene, not even sure they should. She saw her parents trying to remonstrate with Lawrence, only to be shouldered aside and crowded out by Comyn’s mob. Rosie couldn’t get near them.
Reaching Freya’s Crown, Lawrence gripped Lucas by the shoulders and turned him to face the rocks. Rosie caught a glimpse of Luc’s expression; white, startled, way out of his depth. Instinct told her this must not happen, but she couldn’t make a move. A spell lay over them, a force born of their massed will. They were no longer individuals but a single surging entity. Rosie couldn’t be the one to step out and stop this. Even Sam couldn’t.
The Dusklands shimmered softly around them and the gate mound found its true form; towering, shining. The crowd gathered in the dip. Among them she saw lavender glints of albinite. Lawrence was speaking to Lucas, whose voice came back faint. “I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can.”
“But you said…”
“What I said doesn’t matter. We must serve the will of the mob. Comyn is right; I cannot hold it back any longer. Let them have their way. Let it be over.”
Sam made a move forward, yelling, “Dad, no,” only to be stopped dead by Comyn’s arm shooting out like a steel barrier across his chest. The blow knocked him to the ground; Rosie went to help him up but too late, no one now could stop the ritual.
“I don’t know how,” Luc was protesting.
“Yes, you do. As I told you. Work calmly through each stage, then your instinct will take charge.”
“The apple branch—”
“Is symbolic. Your heel will do. Begin.”
Visibly shaking, Lucas stepped up to the Gates. His hands flew over the surface, pressing here and there, drawing runes. From within the rocks came a deep grinding and rumbling. Lights glowed; pressure in the air made Rosie dizzy.
Lawrence yelled suddenly, “Come then, and do your worst!”
At the same moment, Lucas shouted an incoherent word, and stamped on a rock with his boot. The blow was almost triumphant. Dazzling light spilled out. All the points of albinite flared blood red. Lawrence screamed.
Against the glare, Rosie made out the rock shells of the inner gates grinding one inside another until all the gaps came into alignment. No subtle crack of a Lychgate, this, but a triumphal archway. Armies could have marched through it. The night lit up. There were cries and gasps all around.
In her mind, she had an image of a vast black statue carved into the wall of the Abyss. It raised its great head at Lawrence’s call, responding to the pull of the Gates. Its solid form was turning liquid and flowing upwards from the Abyss, its silhouette towering against the night…
In the huge bright archway of the Gates, something was coming—a spindly darkness, taking shape against the brilliance, flickering and changing as it came; a vast blackness rushing towards them from a very great distance.
With it came a crescendo of sound, like the roar of machinery and tornadoes. Against it, Lawrence was screaming and sobbing on his knees, “I’m sorry—my sons, I’m sorry.” Then the light and darkness came rushing out together, and the world was torn away into a firestorm.