Mark Chadbourn - The Devil

It was then, just as the Irish spy began to fear the worst, that a bell rang, its tone crystal clear. The dancers swept to the perimeter of the hall where they continued to circle, and the music quietened a little as the fiddler and pipe player retreated to the hearth. When the door flew open, two guards in winged helms dragged Will in. Meg felt a rush of joy to see him still with the living, and, despite everything, a flicker of hope warmed her heart. Blood caked the edge of his left eye and a bruise swelled on his cheek, but he flashed a grin when he saw her. Even at the last, he knew how to make a girl’s heart beat faster, she thought with a quiet laugh.

The guards flung Will on to the flagstones in front of Mandraxas. Climbing to his feet, the spy brushed the dust from his shirt with lazy strokes. He paid no attention to the Fay King. Yet when he was done, he locked eyes with Jenny in a gaze heavy with emotion. In that look, Meg saw such depth of feeling that it touched her heart.

‘You are creatures of few days,’ Mandraxas said, looking down upon Will, ‘and they pass in a blink of an eye. We, however,’ and he gestured to those around him, ‘we continue for ever. You move slowly, through a fog of ignorance. We race across fields of wonder. How high you raise yourselves up, insisting you are not beasts of the field. How pitiful you are in truth.’ The King reached out his left hand for Jenny to take, no show of affection but one of ownership, designed to wound. ‘Shall we see how little you mean to us? Shall we have fine sport? For now your days are truly at an end.’

Will drew himself up and spat a mouthful of blood on to the flagstones. ‘You think you have our necks upon the block, but we are exactly where we wish to be.’ He turned to the spies and flashed Meg another grin. She recognized the familiar heat in her belly. Could he really have a plan, even here in the heart of Hell, friendless, weaponless and surrounded by an army of enemies? She would have mocked the suggestion if it were any other man, but Swyfte, he was a schemer and a gambler, perhaps the greatest one she knew. England’s greatest spy . How the other rogues in Cecil’s service laughed at the sobriquet concocted to assuage the fears of the good men and women of England. And yet it was true, it was true.

As if unsure of what he was hearing, Mandraxas’s eyes narrowed. ‘We are masters of torment and suffering. We can pluck agony like the string of a lyre and sustain it for eternity. Do you doubt me?’ He clapped his hands once and the musicians stepped in front of the throne. The fiddle player began to increase the tempo until the music whirled into a frenzy, his silver hair lashing the air with his passion. The piper spun round and round, atonal notes seemingly in opposition to his partner’s melody.

The din set Meg’s teeth on edge at first, but gradually she felt her heart begin to beat faster, and her cheeks flush, and euphoria begin to burn inside her. Under the clashing tunes, she thought she could hear another song being played. Despite herself, her feet and hands began to twitch to the rhythm.

And yet it was Grace who seemed most affected by the music. Carpenter clutched for her, but she danced away from his fingers, spinning on light feet into the space in front of the musicians. Sweat glistened on her brow as she turned faster and faster still, her brown hair flying. Yet Meg saw none of the joy the girl would have exhibited at one of the court masques. Instead, her eyes were wide with fear, her expression fixed.

‘She cannot stop,’ the Irish spy murmured with dawning realization.

‘Dance your hours away,’ Mandraxas called. ‘Dance until your flesh withers and falls from your bones.’

When Meg heard the piper alter his tune once more, she saw shadows cross the faces of Carpenter and Launceston. Their eyes gleamed and faint, beatific smiles flickered on their lips. It was as if they had forgotten all that transpired in that hall and were instead looking deep within themselves to some glorious time of their youth. Gradually Meg noticed that it seemed as if a light was slowly going out in their features.

Will’s expression darkened, but he held firm. Meg saw his hand reach behind his back where his shirt hung loose above the waist of his breeches.

‘Do not harm them.’

Though the voice was quiet, it rang out with such intensity that it cut through the raucous music. Mandraxas recoiled as if he had been slapped. It was Jenny who had spoken. Tears glimmered in the corners of her eyes, but her expression was fierce. And Grace’s mad dance began to slow.

Meg looked from the woman to Will. He was smiling in triumph, and she knew that he had gambled on his love’s awakening.

‘It seems your Queen disagrees,’ he said. ‘Spite her and show we mortals mean nothing to you. Or accede to her request and accept that our kind, in certain circumstances, have power over you.’

Meg watched Mandraxas wrestle with the net that seemingly snared him. The dancing of the Unseelie Court slowed and all eyes turned towards their King. They had the look of a hungry wolf pack ready to pounce, the Irish spy thought.

‘You have not forgotten,’ Will continued. He swallowed, nearly choking on his passion as his gaze locked upon Jenny. ‘One thousand years may pass, but still the heart calls out.’ Her cheeks flushed. ‘You remember your sister, Grace, who whispers a prayer for you to return home every day. And you remember me-’

‘Enough,’ Mandraxas snapped. Gone was the striking, regal face, replaced by a death’s head of sunken cheeks, thin lips and hollow eyes.

Meg brushed the hair from her face, standing taller as she looked with hope to Will. A faint but familiar smile played on his lips. It was the smile of a man who saw his carefully laid snare tightening around his prey’s neck. ‘There is one way to solve this knotty affair of pride and human emotions,’ he said, as if the notion had only just come to him. ‘A duel.’

The King snorted with derision. ‘Between you and me? But a duel is a fight between equals.’

‘Before I left London, I visited your Queen.’ Will raised his voice so the other gaunt-faced members of the Unseelie Court would focus upon his words. ‘The true ruler of this place and people. She yearns to return to the City of Gold-’

‘And so she will,’ Mandraxas said, too quickly.

‘She spoke to me of your people, of the rules that bind you, and the beliefs, and she told me of honour,’ Will pushed on, his voice louder. ‘You believe mortals are a dishonourable breed, yes? That our kind are filled with deceit, shaped for betrayal. Honour is what separates your kind from ours, that is what your Queen said.’

‘And she spoke true.’

Meg smiled as she watched the Fay King move towards the trap step by step. Seemingly unable to look away from the dancing fire, he appeared oblivious of what lay in the dark around him.

‘Then we duel, you and I,’ Will said, his tone lazy. ‘And honour dictates the outcome. If you win, you will have your cruel sport with us. And if I win, we have safe passage to leave this place and return to the world of men, my friends and I.’ He paused, for effect. ‘And Jenny.’

Mandraxas’s eyes widened for a moment, but then he settled back into his throne and folded his hands in his lap. His smile was corpse-cold. ‘But you cannot win. I am faster, stronger, more skilful than even one of our Hunters. Will you brag as much when you wriggle on the end of my cold steel?’ He threw his arms wide, looking around his court with a wolfish grin. ‘A duel, then. Fine sport for all.’

‘A duel conducted with honour,’ Will said. ‘You will use no magics or illusions to turn my head. No music to make me dance like a fool. No whispers that turn my bones to straw or whisk my wits away to Bedlam.’