Part 15 (1/2)

”Too general,” said Ragginbone. ”Anyhow, she had no friends and all her foes are dead. It was a long time ago. You'll have to-”

But someone was there. A woman. Gaynor, startled to the point of horror, saw with slight relief that she looked rather like a middle-aged water maiden who had spent too long in the shower. She was as thin as a pipe cleaner, her att.i.tude languis.h.i.+ng, almost drooping, with straight wet-look hair hanging to her waist, a dress that clung damply to her bony figure, and skinny arms with drooping, long-fingered hands. Her face was beautiful in a haggard way, fine-penciled with lines, heavily shadowed in the eye sockets. She gazed around her with an air of vague surprise, until her regard came to rest on Gaynor.

”Who are you, child? I think we have not met before.”

”I'm Gaynor. Gwennifer. Aren't I supposed to ask the questions?”

”Don't you know?” said the woman. ”Dear me. This is very confusing. I thought you summoned me.”

Gaynor glanced wildly at Ragginbone, but he was studying the visitant with a frown and offered no advice.

”Go on,” said Will.

”I summoned . . . someone,” Gaynor explained. ”Someone who knows Morgus. The witch. Do you-”

”Oh, yes. I know her. I've always believed she was dead. So much time gone by-so many centuries-I never kept count. Are you telling me she lives after all? That would be bad news for the world, or at least our corner of it. How could she manage to evade the Gate?”

”She hid,” said Gaynor, ”in a cave among the roots of the Eternal Tree. Now she's back in this dimension, and we don't know how to deal with her.”

”I can't help you there,” said the woman. ”No one could ever deal with Morgus. The G.o.ds themselves were afraid of her. Mind you, there were many G.o.ds around in those days, and some of them were small and nervous. I used to suspect it might be due to their digestion: too much red meat at the sacrifice, not enough herbs-”

”Who are you?” Gaynor interrupted, prompted by Will.

”I am Nimwe. I thought you knew. I was an enchantress-quite a good one, if I may say so; that's why I'm still around. I've slept through much of history: I didn't like the way it was going. I was waiting for something, though nowadays I don't always recall what. It will come back to me. When the time is right.”

”But you knew Morgus once?” Gaynor persisted. ”You knew her well?”

”Well enough. Did you say you were Gwennifer? Little Gwenny? You look like her-in a bad light. She died, of course, way back. In a nunnery. There was a fas.h.i.+on for such things. Repentance, you know, and a life of chast.i.ty. Locking the safe when the treasure has already been stolen. Poor Gwenny. They married her to a king, but she loved another and blamed herself when it all went wrong. A sad tale, but common enough. I hear they still make songs for her, even now. Something about a candle in the wind . . .”

”Wrong princess,” said Gaynor.

”Same story,” said Will, ”more or less. Can't you get her to keep to the point?”

”I'm trying,” Gaynor said indignantly. She turned to Nimwe. ”Please tell us about Morgus.”

”Ah . . . please please. Always the magic word. I like courtesy in the young. They say it has gone out of style, but I'm glad to see they're wrong. Gwenny was a polite child, I recall-very important for royalty. She could be sharp with her equals, but she was always charming to the peasantry.”

”Morgus . . . ?”

”She was never polite, not even to the G.o.ds. She cowed the weak with hard words and the strong with harsh deeds. Succor, valor, honor, that was the knightly code, but she twisted it and mocked it. She had no fear of any man, neither king nor wizard.”

”Nor any woman?” Gaynor asked.

”Certainly not me, if that's what you mean.” Nimwe fidgeted with her long hair, her eyes dreamy under drooping lids. ”Of course, we wanted different things. She was concerned with dominion over others and earthly power; I wanted illusion, and enchantment, and love. She went mad; I didn't.” Her gaze lifted, focusing on Gaynor. ”I am quite sane, you know, even after all these years. Quite Quite sane. Shall I show you something?” sane. Shall I show you something?”

Gaynor hesitated, unsure how to respond, and Nimwe shook her hair, scattering water drops on the circle. Segments of the fire ring were extinguished, damped into a smoking rim that leaked magic. The floor at Gaynor's feet sprouted gra.s.s that shriveled and died within seconds, like a high-speed nature film. The earth crumbled and heaved with white worms. Something that might have been a hand came groping upward, greenish with long decay. Moonspittle, frightened out of his panic, for once reacted quickly, jabbering a succession of Commands. The circle closed again, the hand sank, floorboards scabbed over the worm-ridden earth. Nimwe laughed sadly, a curious sound. ”He isn't ready to wake yet,” she said. ”One day . . .”

”Morgus must have feared someone,” Will said, ”else why did she flee?”

”She feared winter,” said Nimwe, when Gaynor pa.s.sed on the question. ”The Northmen came, bringing the ice in their hearts. Or maybe it was Time she feared, because hers had run out. Who knows? They say she feared her sister, but Morgun went away and did not wait for the future. They were identical twins, coequal in power but very different in character. Morgus was-and no doubt still is-a creature of cold pa.s.sions, greedy, cruel, heartless. She feeds off others' pain, even as did the Spirits of old, but her weaknesses are human. The insecurities of a mortal ego. Morgun, too, was pa.s.sionate, but her blood was hot. She was reckless, driven by love as well as hate. In the end, so they say, love conquered her, and she sought redemption. She and her maidens took the wounded king from the site of the last battle and carried him to the lost isle of Avalorn in search of healing. So they say. In some stories, I was there: did you know that?”

”Were you really there?” asked Gaynor.

”No. I stayed. I had other business. Someday, I may complete it. When he he wakes.” Her head dropped; her thin body sagged like a willow overburdened with leaves. Suddenly, she looked up again. Her strange eyes met Gaynor's: they were dark, with smoky lights moving in their depths. ”Why did you call me?” wakes.” Her head dropped; her thin body sagged like a willow overburdened with leaves. Suddenly, she looked up again. Her strange eyes met Gaynor's: they were dark, with smoky lights moving in their depths. ”Why did you call me?”

”I needed your help,” Gaynor replied. ”Against Morgus.”

”None can defy her. Her sister dared to try, and ran for her life. They were lovers: did you know? Twin cherries on a single stem, as the bard says. A later bard, that; doubtless he stole from his predecessors. Anyway, they were wound together, Morgus and Morgun. Rumor said the demons themselves would go to spy on their lovemaking: they were so beautiful, and so perfectly matched. They would lie lip to nether lip, limb tangled with limb, their secret skin rose kissed, beaded with the moisture of love. The very G.o.ds of desire fainted with l.u.s.t at the sight. But Morgun betrayed her sister for the love of men and left the world, and Morgus is gnawed ever by vengeance unfulfilled. Mention her sibling, if you wish to strike at her empty heart. She may not be injured, but she will be annoyed.”

”Thank you,” Gaynor said uncertainly.

”Are you done with me, child? I am very tired now. If we cannot wake the sleeper, then let us join him.”

”Of course. I-I release you. Is that right?”

Nimwe faded slowly into what looked like a shower of silver rain. Her last whisper fell softly into the silence of the room. ”We will meet again . . .”

”Now what?” asked Gaynor.

”Nothing,” said Ragginbone. ”We close the circle. It is dangerous to continue. I did not know Nimwe was still around: the Gifted can be a long time dying. She must have bound herself in an enchanted sleep, waking intermittently as the spell wore thin. I suspect she is only . . . quite quite sane.” sane.”

Moonspittle finished the ritual, the fires died, the power drained, the circle was cold and dead. Only a faint tingle in the air indicated that the protection spells were still in place. Mogwit, no longer restrained, prowled around the room, pouncing on shadows.

Will said: ”I need a drink.”

”What do we do now?” Gaynor reiterated.

”We wait for Morgus,” said Ragginbone.

The flashlight beam darted around the entrance hall, slicing the dark into segments of shadow that twitched and s.h.i.+fted around them. More shadows slid under doors, leaped up the stairs; eyes peered from a portrait. Luc said: ”There's a light switch here somewhere.”

”Leave it.” Fern was curt, perhaps from nerves.

”We needn't fear discovery. With Morgus absent-”

”There may be other occupants. Besides, our burglar here would not like too much light. You're meant to be our guide, hobgoblin. Start guiding.”

Luc swung the flashlight, but Skuldunder was gone; Fern picked him out as a black hump shrinking in the lee of the stair. ”Point the light elsewhere,” she told Luc. ”Come on out, burglar. You do your queen no credit, running from a single ray of electricity. Where is the spellchamber Dibbuck spoke of?”

”Tell him to leave me alone,” Skuldunder muttered. ”Spellchamber . . . upstairs. Dibbuck said it used to be a sitting room. He He should know.” A crooked digit indicated Luc. ”She uses the cellars as a storeroom. Below the kitchen. That's where Dibbuck saw the Tree.” should know.” A crooked digit indicated Luc. ”She uses the cellars as a storeroom. Below the kitchen. That's where Dibbuck saw the Tree.”

”What about the servant?” said Fern. ”The hag? We should deal with her.”

”In the kitchen.”

Luc said: ”This way, I think . . .” He shone the flashlight ahead; Skuldunder followed behind Fern, well away from the prying light. Luc had visited the house only rarely, but eventually he found a descending stair with a yellow gleam beneath the door at its foot. Fern thrust it open and walked boldly in. The hag was backing away from her, lips working on some primitive charm or the voiceless mouthings of panic. Her narrow black orbs seemed to exude a mixture of malevolence and terror. The cowl had fallen back from her head and her gray hair, dense with tangles and small insect life, fanned out from her scalp as if animated with static. Fern seized a handful of her filthy robe-Grodda was light, scant flesh on gnarled bone-and thrust her effortlessly back, and back. Then Luc was there, lifting the lid on a chest freezer, and between them they bundled her in, slammed it shut, and placed a stack of ceramic ca.s.serole dishes on the top.

”Won't she die in there?” Luc asked without any particular concern.