An Artificial Night
Page 77
“But?” I echoed. There was a catch. Of course there was a catch.
“You leave without this.” He pulled a familiar crystal sphere out of his vest, holding it up to show me the struggling butterfly trapped inside. “Isn’t she lovely? She brushed past me in the night, and I took her. How long will she last, I wonder?”
Karen. Oh, root and branch, Karen. “Let her go!”
“Stay with me.”
I froze, staring at him. “What?”
He smiled again. “Put down your candle. Stay with me. You don’t have time to save her and escape, but if you’ll stay of your own free will, I’ll let her go.”
“Why?”
“Because you tricked me once; that impressed me, but I’m not leaving you free to do it again. Because your existence offends me, daughter of Amandine.” He spun the sphere, making the butterfly fan its wings in a frantic attempt to stay upright. “You stay. She goes.”
“And Katie?”
“You have no claim to her.” He shook his head. “Sacrifice yourself to save one, or lose both. The choice is yours, daughter of Amandine. You haven’t got that much time left.”
I looked down at my candle. He was right: time was slipping away, and I wasn’t sure I could make it out alone, much less with my kids. Damn it. Forgive me, Luidaeg, but you were right. I really did run away to die.
“I see,” I said, looking up.
Blind Michael smiled. “Will you make the trade?”
I shivered, taking another look at my candle. It wouldn’t burn forever; if I stalled too long I’d be trapped, and Karen would be trapped with me. If I took his bargain, at least one of us would get away.
I didn’t mean to fail anyone; I didn’t mean to leave Katie behind. At least she’d forget that she’d ever been anything but a horse in a madman’s stable, and Quentin was young—he’d have outlived her no matter what happened. Loving a mortal is never wise. You get burned every time. He was just going to have to learn that lesson a little earlier than I did.
I knew I was justifying what I was going to do. I didn’t care. There was no other way.
“If I stay,” I said, slowly, “you’ll let Karen go. No tricks, right?”
“Of course,” he said, offended. “My word is my bond. Am I not born of Faerie?”
That was the thing. He was born of Faerie, a Faerie so old only the Firstborn remembered it. Our word has always been our bond, and his blood was older than mine. His word would be more binding. “Promise me,” I said.
“If I promise, you stay. You will join my Hunt and belong to me, forever.”
One last chance. I could still say no; I could run away and come back to save them all, if I truly believed I could still get there and back by a candle’s light. The wax was melting faster all the time, running down and coating my fingers. How many miles to Babylon?
Too many.
“If you promise, I’ll stay,” I said. “You have my word.”
“That is all I need.” Blind Michael stood, giving a short, mocking bow. “By my mother’s blood and my father’s bones, I promise,” he said, in a singsong voice that echoed back and forth until it filled the world. I shivered where I stood, wanting to run. Too little and too late, by far. I’d given up my chance, and I was going to have to live with the consequences.
“By oak and ash, by rowan and thorn, I promise. By root and branch, by rose and tree, by flowers and blood and water, I promise this to you: your sleeping princess and her siblings shall be free of my lands, and I will never touch them again. My Hunt will not pursue them, my Hunters will not take them. You have my word.”
His words were ash and dust; I breathed in their power and felt myself go cold. The children erupted into cheers. He’d done it. The promise was made, and not even Blind Michael could escape his own bindings. Karen would go free and I would stay behind. It was up to Quentin and the others to free Katie. The fight wasn’t mine anymore. My fighting was over.
I looked into his face and saw the end of the world. “Your turn,” he said.
“I . . .” There was nothing I could say. Like it or not, I’d given my word. You can get there and back by candlelight, the Luidaeg said, and she’d been right; the light brought me into Blind Michael’s lands and kept me as safe as possible while I was there. It was my road home, and as long as I had it, my promises didn’t matter. As long as I didn’t let go, there was still a chance.
Wordless, I opened my hand, and I let the candle fall.
The Hunt watched, and Blind Michael watched through them. When it hit the ground, flame finally going out, he smiled. Victory, damn him forever. Victory was his. I stood as straight as I could, blinking back tears. The land wasn’t very welcoming when I was under the Luidaeg’s protection, but now, without my candle, it was terrifying.
Dimly, I realized that I wanted my mother.
“I stay,” I said.
“Yes,” said Blind Michael, “you do.” Something hit the back of my knees, knocking me to the ground. I tried to raise my head, but the world had gone dark, filled with the icy whispering of Blind Michael’s lost children. Oak and ash, what had I done?
“Here comes a candle to light you to bed,” they chanted. I could feel them closing in around me, but I couldn’t get my body to obey me and move away.
Luidaeg, forgive me . . . I thought, desperately. “Here comes a chopper to chop off your head,” rumbled Blind Michael. “Take her.”
Something heavy hit me on the base of the skull, and the world fell away.
TWENTY-SEVEN
THE WORLD WAS MADE OF MIST and filled with snatches of song. I hummed along, singing when I knew the words. There was nothing else: just the music, the mist, and me. Sometimes people moved past without speaking, but they didn’t matter. Nothing mattered as long as the music was there to keep me warm. There was a time when the world was something more than mist and half-remembered songs, but that time was long ago and far away; that time was over. I hurt when I tried to remember, and so I’d stopped trying. I just sat in the darkness and waited. What I was waiting for exactly was the part I didn’t know.
There were things to hope for, even in the misty darkness. If I was very lucky and very good, He might come. He was as big as the sky and as bright as the moon. When He walked the mists parted, and I could see the plains that stretched forever under the twilight sky. I would have done anything for Him. I would have died for Him. I think I told Him that once. I remember His hand on my hair, and His voice, as deep and wide as the ocean, rumbling, “You’re almost ready.” I cried for a long time after that. I didn’t know why. Something about promises.
“You leave without this.” He pulled a familiar crystal sphere out of his vest, holding it up to show me the struggling butterfly trapped inside. “Isn’t she lovely? She brushed past me in the night, and I took her. How long will she last, I wonder?”
Karen. Oh, root and branch, Karen. “Let her go!”
“Stay with me.”
I froze, staring at him. “What?”
He smiled again. “Put down your candle. Stay with me. You don’t have time to save her and escape, but if you’ll stay of your own free will, I’ll let her go.”
“Why?”
“Because you tricked me once; that impressed me, but I’m not leaving you free to do it again. Because your existence offends me, daughter of Amandine.” He spun the sphere, making the butterfly fan its wings in a frantic attempt to stay upright. “You stay. She goes.”
“And Katie?”
“You have no claim to her.” He shook his head. “Sacrifice yourself to save one, or lose both. The choice is yours, daughter of Amandine. You haven’t got that much time left.”
I looked down at my candle. He was right: time was slipping away, and I wasn’t sure I could make it out alone, much less with my kids. Damn it. Forgive me, Luidaeg, but you were right. I really did run away to die.
“I see,” I said, looking up.
Blind Michael smiled. “Will you make the trade?”
I shivered, taking another look at my candle. It wouldn’t burn forever; if I stalled too long I’d be trapped, and Karen would be trapped with me. If I took his bargain, at least one of us would get away.
I didn’t mean to fail anyone; I didn’t mean to leave Katie behind. At least she’d forget that she’d ever been anything but a horse in a madman’s stable, and Quentin was young—he’d have outlived her no matter what happened. Loving a mortal is never wise. You get burned every time. He was just going to have to learn that lesson a little earlier than I did.
I knew I was justifying what I was going to do. I didn’t care. There was no other way.
“If I stay,” I said, slowly, “you’ll let Karen go. No tricks, right?”
“Of course,” he said, offended. “My word is my bond. Am I not born of Faerie?”
That was the thing. He was born of Faerie, a Faerie so old only the Firstborn remembered it. Our word has always been our bond, and his blood was older than mine. His word would be more binding. “Promise me,” I said.
“If I promise, you stay. You will join my Hunt and belong to me, forever.”
One last chance. I could still say no; I could run away and come back to save them all, if I truly believed I could still get there and back by a candle’s light. The wax was melting faster all the time, running down and coating my fingers. How many miles to Babylon?
Too many.
“If you promise, I’ll stay,” I said. “You have my word.”
“That is all I need.” Blind Michael stood, giving a short, mocking bow. “By my mother’s blood and my father’s bones, I promise,” he said, in a singsong voice that echoed back and forth until it filled the world. I shivered where I stood, wanting to run. Too little and too late, by far. I’d given up my chance, and I was going to have to live with the consequences.
“By oak and ash, by rowan and thorn, I promise. By root and branch, by rose and tree, by flowers and blood and water, I promise this to you: your sleeping princess and her siblings shall be free of my lands, and I will never touch them again. My Hunt will not pursue them, my Hunters will not take them. You have my word.”
His words were ash and dust; I breathed in their power and felt myself go cold. The children erupted into cheers. He’d done it. The promise was made, and not even Blind Michael could escape his own bindings. Karen would go free and I would stay behind. It was up to Quentin and the others to free Katie. The fight wasn’t mine anymore. My fighting was over.
I looked into his face and saw the end of the world. “Your turn,” he said.
“I . . .” There was nothing I could say. Like it or not, I’d given my word. You can get there and back by candlelight, the Luidaeg said, and she’d been right; the light brought me into Blind Michael’s lands and kept me as safe as possible while I was there. It was my road home, and as long as I had it, my promises didn’t matter. As long as I didn’t let go, there was still a chance.
Wordless, I opened my hand, and I let the candle fall.
The Hunt watched, and Blind Michael watched through them. When it hit the ground, flame finally going out, he smiled. Victory, damn him forever. Victory was his. I stood as straight as I could, blinking back tears. The land wasn’t very welcoming when I was under the Luidaeg’s protection, but now, without my candle, it was terrifying.
Dimly, I realized that I wanted my mother.
“I stay,” I said.
“Yes,” said Blind Michael, “you do.” Something hit the back of my knees, knocking me to the ground. I tried to raise my head, but the world had gone dark, filled with the icy whispering of Blind Michael’s lost children. Oak and ash, what had I done?
“Here comes a candle to light you to bed,” they chanted. I could feel them closing in around me, but I couldn’t get my body to obey me and move away.
Luidaeg, forgive me . . . I thought, desperately. “Here comes a chopper to chop off your head,” rumbled Blind Michael. “Take her.”
Something heavy hit me on the base of the skull, and the world fell away.
TWENTY-SEVEN
THE WORLD WAS MADE OF MIST and filled with snatches of song. I hummed along, singing when I knew the words. There was nothing else: just the music, the mist, and me. Sometimes people moved past without speaking, but they didn’t matter. Nothing mattered as long as the music was there to keep me warm. There was a time when the world was something more than mist and half-remembered songs, but that time was long ago and far away; that time was over. I hurt when I tried to remember, and so I’d stopped trying. I just sat in the darkness and waited. What I was waiting for exactly was the part I didn’t know.
There were things to hope for, even in the misty darkness. If I was very lucky and very good, He might come. He was as big as the sky and as bright as the moon. When He walked the mists parted, and I could see the plains that stretched forever under the twilight sky. I would have done anything for Him. I would have died for Him. I think I told Him that once. I remember His hand on my hair, and His voice, as deep and wide as the ocean, rumbling, “You’re almost ready.” I cried for a long time after that. I didn’t know why. Something about promises.
