Part 21 (1/2)
”Believe . . .” She picked up the word as if to sample it, to taste its poison. ”You told me once you believed in nothing. No pattern, just chaos. But you believe in him him, don't you? His His pattern? pattern? His His chaos?” chaos?”
”He gave me something to believe in. Someone. Neither evil nor good. The power at the heart of things, the pulse along the wires. The one who makes skysc.r.a.pers grow and sparrows fall. He said he would teach me how to use my Gift, would mesh my power with his. He named me Lukastor, Fellangel, Lord of the Serafain, and gave me wings to ride among the stars. Do you you believe in a kindly G.o.d with a white beard who leans down from a cloud once in a while to pat you on the head? Do you believe in harps, and cherubs, and pearly gates? He is the real thing, the only thing. He has my belief.” believe in a kindly G.o.d with a white beard who leans down from a cloud once in a while to pat you on the head? Do you believe in harps, and cherubs, and pearly gates? He is the real thing, the only thing. He has my belief.”
”There is a Gate,” she said, ”but it isn't made of pearl. I have seen it.”
And, after a while: ”Lord of the Serafain. He gave you a t.i.tle t.i.tle. A little thing, at so high a price. Lukastor, Son of Morning, how thou art fallen. Farther than any sparrow.”
He said: ”You're talking nonsense. Without him, I would not have found you, or saved Dana.”
”How do you know? There was always chance, or fate.”
”You make your own fate.”
”Not anymore.” She almost sighed. ”He will shape your fate for you.” will shape your fate for you.”
She was thinking: You might indeed be Rafarl. There is weakness as well as strength in us all. Light and dark. Fear and courage. We are the choices we make. I loved you tonight, I loved even the dark in you. But not the choice you made, not the you who chose . . .
She said: ”So what was the price-the whole price? What service did he require, to prove your loyalty?”
She had guessed the answer.
Luc said: ”I am to take you to him.”
”And?”
”He will offer you what he offered me. He says your Gift is great, and you can be great among his people. Morgus was a test: he was certain you would find a way to kill her. He wanted you to kill; he said it was necessary. Come with me-come to him-and we will be together always, sharing our power and his. So many live their lives without meaning, dying from a night's cold, a whiff of disease, and we can do nothing for them. But we can do this for ourselves. We can live our our lives with a purpose, we can make our mark on eternity. Fern . . .” lives with a purpose, we can make our mark on eternity. Fern . . .”
”I like eternity unmarked. I am content to live my life in doubt, with no questions answered.”
”Fern-”
”He lied to you, of course.” She was tranquil now, if emptiness is tranquillity. ”Would you have taken me to him openly, or by subterfuge?”
”He said I mustn't tell you. Not immediately, not till-”
”Not till it was too late for me to run away. Not till we crossed the threshold of his office. And then he might have made his offer, and he might not. Or he could have chosen slow torment for me instead. Petty tyrants have so little imagination; they always favor slow torment. Not that it matters. I won't be going.”
”You must.”
The moon had moved now, leaving them both in shadow. She was still lying on her back, motionless; he leaned over her, loomed over her, like a lover or a murderer.
”Must?”
”You don't understand. It was part of the bargain. I hadn't met you then; I swore-”
”Well, I I didn't.” didn't.”
”You must come,” he reiterated. ”He won't harm you: I know that. I don't want to force you, but-”
”Then don't. I knew someone who broke his bargain with Azmordis.” She used the name, in defiance or indifference, but no demon stirred. ”He wasn't a good man-in fact, he did much evil-but he was brave. The morlochs set on him-have you seen the morlochs? The goblins call them pugwidgies. They have no feelings, no minds minds, only hunger. Oh, yes, Ruvindra was brave. They ate him alive. How brave are you?”
”Fairy tales don't frighten me.”
”You are in in a fairy tale, in case you've forgotten. Only no one lives happily ever after. Magic . . . magic is just another way of playing without the rules.” He thought she smiled, but it was only a trick of the dark. ”I play by witch's rules, didn't you know? Witch's honor.” a fairy tale, in case you've forgotten. Only no one lives happily ever after. Magic . . . magic is just another way of playing without the rules.” He thought she smiled, but it was only a trick of the dark. ”I play by witch's rules, didn't you know? Witch's honor.”
”Fern.” He bent down to her, and his voice was softened again. ”Stop hiding in your own nightmares. Listen to me. We could do so much, be so much. The other week I saw a girl dying in a doorway-drugs of some sort-and I knew I was helpless. And there are so many like her. Don't die that way, don't live that way. I love you too much.” He kissed her parted lips, a long, long kiss. She did not resist, did not respond.
When he was done she said in a flat voice: ”I would rather die in a doorway than walk another yard with you.”
He swung his legs off the bed and began to dress, finding his clothing without the light. Witchsight, she thought. Then he turned. There was an object in his hand that gleamed a thin reflected gleam. The knife. The knife that had lain on the desk in the tower office.
”You have no choice,” he said. ”I chose for you.”
Silence. Shadows and silence. And in the silence, in the shadows, the glitter of her eyes.
”I am a witch.” Her voice was very quiet. ”I killed tonight. Do you think you can compel me?” And to the knife: ”Rra.s.se!” ”Rra.s.se!” But the blade had its own power: it trembled, but did not break. But the blade had its own power: it trembled, but did not break.
”Do you think you can fight me?” said Luc.
She rose out of the bed, naked, all pale slenderness. He said: ”Dress.”
”Why?” She seemed indifferent to her nakedness, like a wild nymph or fey child.
”You will be cold.”
She dressed, carefully, still in the dark. Always in the dark.
She whispered a charm, but it did not reach him; Azmordis must have s.h.i.+elded him from her sorcery.
She said: ”Naked or clothed, I won't go with you.”
The gleam of the knife blade stirred in his hand. They stared at each other for perhaps twenty seconds, then in the same moment, the same motion, he sprang, she dodged. There was no magic between them now, only strength, his and hers. He flung her on the bed, pinioning her arms almost without effort. The knife was at her throat. ”Don't call the dog,” he said. ”You're fond of her. I should hate to have to harm her.”
”You might find that difficult.” She strained, but could not break his hold. ”I won't call for any a.s.sistance. We are one to one: that is fair enough. Except you have a weapon, I don't.”
”We are witchkind. As I understand it, we don't play fair.”
”You learn fast.” But not fast enough. I am on my home territory. I don't need to call: there is already someone there.
”Give me your word you will come with me in the morning, and I will release you.”
”My word?” She was playing for time.
”What was that phrase you used? Witch's honor.”
Witches have no honor. But that was something he had yet to a.s.similate.