Mark Chadbourn - The Devil

In one chamber he found a strange creature like a shaven ape throwing dice on a long table. When he entered, it stared at him with golden eyes that contained an unsettling intelligence and then proceeded to mimic every movement he made as if it were his mirror image. In another chamber, ten pendulums as long as a ship’s mast swung from the high, vaulted ceiling. In the gloom, Will could just discern on each one a long-beaked figure, seemingly asleep, strapped upside down, hands crossed on its chest. As he moved deeper into the fortress, the sense of being part of a troubling dream swallowed him whole and he had to fight to keep his hold on his purpose there. How easy would it be to give himself up wholly to these wonders and mysteries?

Again and again, as he made his way through the fortress, Will had to duck into doorways to avoid the Fay themselves as they moved silently through their realm. The air of corruption heavy around them, males and females walked side by side like courting couples, heads bowed yet occasionally glancing at each other as if they communicated without words. Some Fay passed on horseback, their silvery cloaks and helms suggesting a higher status. Occasionally, their heads would turn, their eyes wide and staring as if they could see him in his hiding place, but they rode on without a sound.

It was as if time had no meaning there. It felt as if the walls, the paths, the vast hallways, went on for ever. Will paused and leaned back against a golden wall. Though Dee’s warning still rang in his mind, he found himself reaching into the pouch that rested on his hip. After a moment fighting with his conscience, he pulled out the obsidian mirror. Even knowing all of the Unseelie Court could swoop down upon him in an instant, he was so lost that he felt he had no choice but to use the looking glass if he were to find Jenny.

As he hunched over the mirror, the mist in the glass cleared and Jenny appeared. Her face looked uncommonly pale in the gloom, and though she gave a faint smile when she saw him her brow was furrowed. Despite the dangers, Will was overjoyed to see her. He could scarcely believe he was so close now after so many years of wondering whether they would ever meet again.

‘Where are you?’ she asked, squinting. He knew she could see the gleaming gold on the halls around him. ‘Will,’ she exclaimed, her eyes widening. ‘I told you not to come.’

‘That conversation has long since sailed, Jenny,’ he replied, his eyes scanning his surroundings. Would he even hear a footstep when they came for him? ‘Quickly now, tell me where I can find you, afore I feel a dagger at my neck.’

She hesitated for an instant, then said, ‘The highest hall is always lit by moonlight. Turn to the left once you enter and climb the steps. On the third floor, behind the third door, you will find me.’ She flashed the smile that he remembered so well and then whispered, ‘Take care, my love.’

Will felt his heart swell. So close now, so close. He darted ahead, looking up the towering walls every time he reached a courtyard. At the centre of the fortress, the highest hall was indeed silvery with moonlight, the shadow of every grotesque carving stark on the upper reaches. With each step, it loomed ever closer.

His heart pounded fit to burst. If the Fay discovered him when he was so near to the prize he had desired for so long, he thought his spirit would be broken for ever. Silently, he prayed that his enemies would continue to search beyond the fortress walls, but he knew the time must surely be near when they would turn their cruel eyes towards the dark streets of their home. When he reached an arched doorway at the base of the highest hall, he finally sucked in a deep draught of hot, fragrant air. His head was spinning with the rush of conflicting emotions. All he wanted now was to feel Jenny in his embrace. Steeling himself, he eased open the heavy gold and jet door and stepped into searing heat. The deep rumble of hammers rang through the walls louder still, reverberating in the pit of his stomach.

His pulse racing, the hand that held his sword now clammy with sweat, England’s greatest spy took the steps two at a time. Fiddle and pipe music swirled dimly from the chambers below, but above him all seemed still.

At the top of the steps on the third floor, he leaned against the throbbing wall and drew in a deep breath to steady himself. Ahead lay a corridor lit by a single torch with doors along the right wall. Will noticed his sword hand trembling as all the years of yearning for this moment rushed out of him, and he knew he had to steady himself.

Calm descended on him. He was ready. He crept along the corridor, his senses alert to the slightest sign of danger. At the third door, he raised the latch and pushed gently with his shoulder. It didn’t move. It was locked.

His heart beat faster. He pressed his ear against the rough wood, listening for any sound from within. All was quiet. Visions of what horrors might lie on the other side of that door flashed through his mind. He hesitated for a long moment, his chest tightening. Dare he call out?

When he had weighed his choices, he leaned closer until his lips were almost brushing the timber and whispered, ‘Jenny. It’s me.’

Silence followed, and his heart grew heavy. But then he heard movement on the other side of the door, drawing closer. He held his breath. After a moment a woman’s voice hissed, ‘At last.’ It was Jenny.

The hairs on the nape of his neck tingled with anticipation. How much richer her voice sounded in life than coming through the glass of the obsidian mirror.

A bolt was drawn. The door swung open.

The only light came from the ruddy glow of a hissing brazier in one corner of the chamber. Will’s eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom. A figure loomed in the half-light: tall. . much taller than he remembered. He saw the silhouette of a staff, pale fingers wrapped around it. They looked unnaturally long, the curved nails sharp, like talons. Other details emerged as if a curtain were being drawn back. Robes, seemingly too thick for the unbearable heat, a faint gold filigree glinting in the brazier’s light. Yellowing skulls of birds and mice, and trinkets, all braided into gold and silver hair. And finally the face appeared from the shadows, hollow-eyed and sunken-cheeked.

Deortha, sorcerer to the Fay High Family, reached out his right hand, palm up. With a sly smile, he murmured, ‘The looking glass, if you will.’

The brazier’s acrid smoke drifted across deortha’s cold features. Will’s mind reeled as he watched the shadows play on the Fay’s face in the incarnadine glow of the chamber. ‘You made a play of being Jenny all along?’ he croaked. Despair flooded him.

He remembered the first time he had ever cast eyes upon the Unseelie Court’s sorcerer, on that awful moonlit night on Dartmoor six years gone. It was after Deortha had departed that he had found Jenny’s locket upon the grass, his first real evidence that she was still alive and a prisoner of the Unseelie Court, or so he’d thought. At the time he should have questioned the coincidence, but he had wanted to believe it so much it had clouded his wits.

There had been so much more: the whispered words of Christopher Marlowe’s devil telling him Jenny still lived in a hot land across the sea; his love’s face in that devil’s looking glass, insisting he ignore her while encouraging him to do the opposite, all of it luring him to this place, this moment. And all of it a play, an illusion. He was a fool to have believed so easily, because he wanted to, because he loved, and the Unseelie Court were nothing if not expert in finding the flaws in every man. Time meant nothing to them. They wove their schemes across the years, not caring how long it took to achieve their aims. And in his weakness he had delivered into their hands the one thing they wanted: that terrible mirror.