Catherine Fisher - Corbenic

At the gate in the wall the latch was broken; the outer door banged in the wind. He pushed through it and looked up. There was a rusty bracket. But no hotel sign.

For a moment he stood there in the pattering rain with the sword dripping in his hand. The castle was a shadow behind its tangled wilderness, silent, without even birdsong. There was no one here.

He had meant to toss the sword back inside; instead he found himself pushing it into the rucksack. Then he turned. When he spoke his voice was bitter. “I’m sorry. It’s not me you need. I don’t even know what you want me to do.”

Rain dripped. And the wind whipped the door out of his numb fingers and slammed it in his face.

The tramp to the station seemed endless; after half an hour he was soaked and thirsty. The lanes were dripping and muddy with dead leaves, the ditches overflowing, all hedgerows bare. He had a sudden terror that too much time had passed; that the night in the castle had been weeks out here, and it almost made him run in panic, but the rucksack was too heavy and he had to stop, breathless. Stupid. Calm down. And the lane was different. He hadn’t remembered any turnings last night but they were here now, and around the next bend the lane divided into two, with no signposts, the fields silent but for a few cows that chewed and watched him. Far off, a flock of rooks rose noisily from some trees. Cal chose the left-hand lane, and walked on, soaked and hopeless.

Until he heard the car. It was a long way back but it was coming up fast behind him, and he turned quickly, waiting. A Range Rover. Smart. He flagged it down. A middle-aged man put his head out of the window dubiously.

“I’m looking for the station,” Cal said quickly, trying not to seem so wet.

“Station?”

“Railway station. Corbenic.”

“Never heard of it.” The man pulled his head in and spoke to his wife. A small Yorkshire terrier yipped in the back.

“There’s a station at Ludlow.” The man looked him up and down; Cal felt hot with humiliation. “We’re going near it. Would you like a lift?”

“Thanks!”

The car was gloriously warm, and smelled of leather and cigarettes. The dog sniffed him once and then jumped down, scrambling into the front on the woman’s lap. Her manicured fingers caressed its silky hair. “Terrible weather,” she said.

“Yes . . .” Cal watched the rain run from his soaked trousers and darken the seat; he moved his coat to cover it. “I think I must have gotten lost.”

“Come far?”

“From the Castle Hotel.” He said it deliberately, knowing only too well that the man would answer as he did.

“Don’t know it.” He changed gear. “What was that place again?”

“Corbenic.”

“We’ve lived here for three years and I don’t think I’ve even heard the name before.” The woman turned and smiled over her shoulder pleasantly. Then the smile froze to a sickly rigidity. She had seen the sword. Cal swore silently. It was jutting out from the rucksack, the blade bright in the watery daylight. She turned back to the front quickly, then flashed a terrified glance at him in the mirror. Cal stared grimly out of the window. Maybe he should say something. Explain. Lie. The woman nudged her husband. Now he kept looking up in the mirror. The car veered. It was going too fast.

Suddenly Cal couldn’t care less what sort of weirdo they thought he was. He leaned back and pulled the wet coat around him, brooding, glad he’d scared them. Why did he always have to be worried about what people thought of him? Why was he always so anxious?

They came to a crossing; the red light stopped them. The driver’s gloved fingers tapped feverishly on the padded wheel. “Got far to go then?” His voice was false with cheeriness.

“Chepstow.”

“Nice place.” They were terrified of him. He smiled coldly. The man put his foot down and drove, before the lights changed. Right, left, through some streets of small black and white houses. Then he pulled up jerkily. “This is it.”

Cal opened the door, got out, and heaved the rucksack after him. In the mirrors their scared eyes watched. He couldn’t stand it. It was stupid but it mattered to him. He put his hand on the sword hilt and grinned foolishly. “Historical stuff. Sort of a hobby, really.”

The Yorkie barked.

“Right,” the driver said. Relief was all over him like sweat. “Got you.” Then the door slammed, and the Range Rover roared away.

On the tarmac, despising himself, Cal looked down at the blade, then whipped his jacket off viciously and wrapped the thing in it, tight. The sharp edge took a tiny treacherous slice out of his finger; blood splashed in sudden drops on his shirt. Furious, he shoved the sword under one arm. It will serve you, the note had said, as you have served me.

Chapter Five

Perfect was Gweir’s prison in the courts of the Otherworld.

Spoils of Annwn

“Of course, I’ll be expecting you to pay rent. It doesn’t have to be much, in the beginning, but the principle is important, Cal. You’ve left home. You’ll have to pay your way from now on.” It was hardly much of a welcome. Trevor dumped the rucksack in the car truck. He was a small man, meticulously neat, his coat dark over the business suit. “I’m glad you’re not loaded down with stuff,” he said, dusting his hands. “I hate the place cluttered.”

“Not much to bring,” Cal muttered.

He was weary. The journey from Ludlow had been a nightmare. Waiting ages, then having to buy a new ticket because his had been for yesterday, then missing the connection at Newport. He wanted to moan about it but his uncle didn’t even ask, just sat in beside him and looked at him. “You’re taller.” His gaze settled on Cal’s crumpled shirt, the cheap, useless jacket. Saying nothing, not needing to say it, he turned and started the car.

They drove down through the steep, narrow streets of the small town, through the arch in the old walls. Afternoon shoppers were few on the pavements; across the housetops fading bunting flapped in the rain. The shops were small. Smaller even than Bangor. Cal sighed.

“So what was it like?” Trevor asked.

“Sorry?”

“The hotel. What sort of bill am I going to get?”

Cal pulled a tiny thread off the cuff of his shirt. “None.”

His uncle looked at him quickly. “Come into money?”

“I’ve been saving. A long time.”

Trevor nodded. “I’m glad to hear it. Still got that account I started for you?”

“Yes.” It had been their secret. His mother had never known, because if she had she would have had the money out, wasted it, drunk it away, and it was his. All the savings from his weekend job had gone in there, every penny. For months now he had waited eagerly for every statement, watching how the tiny amounts of interest had been added on. He’d even gone without food sometimes, if she’d given him anything for a takeaway, just to have the pleasure of adding to it. A secret, vivid pleasure.

“I rang Annie last night.” Trevor turned the wheel; the car went around the traffic circle and climbed the hill. His lips were tight with distaste. “To be honest, I don’t think she took in a word I was saying. ‘Where’s Cal?’ she kept asking. As if she was expecting you home for tea. She does know, doesn’t she, that this is for good?”

“I’m sick of telling her.” Cal watched the houses pass grimly.

“And that medication she’s on, is it any use?”

“When she takes it.” He didn’t want to think about her. Not now. He didn’t want the shadow of her to spoil this. The car had turned into a quiet cul-de-sac called Otter’s Brook, lined with houses. New, expensive houses. Cal looked at them with satisfaction, and a sort of pride. They were detached, double-glazed, well-cared for. Some had double garages. A new kid’s bike lay in the drive of one, right out in the open, as if it was safe to do that here. Big cars were parked by immaculate green lawns.