Mark Chadbourn - The Silver Skull

Will hammered on the door until the keeper came, a big man with a large belly, long, grey-black hair, and a three-day stubble on his chin, a substantial ring of iron keys at his belt. He eyed Will suspiciously until Will introduced himself, and then the keeper clapped Will on the shoulder and proclaimed the glory of England over Spain.

Will had no time for niceties and demanded to be taken to Nathaniel. With a shrug, the keeper complied. Will could hardly make himself heard above the screams that rang from behind every door and in the long, vaulted cellar where the inmates of Bethlehem Hospital prowled in their own private worlds, clawing at the dank walls or kicking the filthy straw in a frenzy. Everywhere smelled of dirty clothes, urine, excrement, and vomit.

Noticing Will's pained expression, the keeper said, "This is Bedlam. There is never quiet here."

He led Will to a quieter annexe and unlocked a door that led into a windowless room. After Will's eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw there was only a bed within. Nathaniel squatted in a corner, hugging his knees.

"The dark is good for those distraught from their wits," the keeper noted, and they must be kept free from all distractions. It is best for him," he added, seeing the dark look cross Will's face.

"Has he spoken?" Will asked.

"He says nothing. He eats if we feed him, but there is nothing left of him." He shrugged. "He will not recover."

Turning on the keeper, Will flung him against the wall and pressed his face against the keeper's. "Do not beat him-"

"They must be beaten, for their own good!"

"Do not beat him, or I will return and deal to you tenfold whatever you deal to him," Will snarled. He threw the keeper from the cell in a rage.

Pausing for a moment to control his churning emotions, he squatted in front of his assistant. "Nat, it is Will," he began quietly. "Your Master ... Your friend."

No reaction crossed Nat's face, and when he did not move, Will placed a hand on his arm to check he was still warm.

"I have failed you, Nat," he continued. "There are times when I fear everyone close to me will be destroyed." As he watched his friend, the weight inside Will grew until he felt it would crush him. "I will not abandon you," he whispered.

CHAPTER 60

tark slabs of exposed granite sparkled silver under the full moon hanging over the uplands, where the brackish streams trickled down through gorse and sedge, catching the light like jewels. It was a warm night, sweetly scented with the aromas of a country summer. Across the vast expanse of desolate grassland, not a light twinkled; all human life could have been extinguished.

Dusty from his long journey, Will let his rapid heartbeat subside, his breathing slow, and he listened to the singing of the breeze in the grass. Turning slowly, he surveyed the empty Dartmoor landscape. Alone in the world. From the moment jenny had walked out of his life, nothing had changed.

Long nights of agonising had followed long days visiting Nathaniel in Bedlam, turning over all he knew, letting unseen connections slowly rise from his memories, until finally he had made his decision.

Ahead of him, the standing stone towered against the starlit sky, almost twice his height. Beardown Man, the locals called it; a reminder of when giants walked the Earth, some said, a warning from the Devil of the fate that awaited all sinners, others averred. Will thought the latter was probably closer to the truth, according to the legends that had grown up around Devil's Tor, where he stood, the ghostly sightings, the ethereal music playing on summer nights, the noises deep in the earth.

"Here I am, then," he announced. "Come to me!"

Only the sighing of the wind replied.

For long minutes he stood waiting, and then made his way to a lichencovered boulder where he sat patiently. They would come in their own time, when they had shown it was not at his bidding.

An hour passed slowly, until thin strands of pearly mist drifted across the grassland. For no reason that he could discern, the skin on his arms became gooseflesh.

When the mist had passed, figures stood like statues here and there across the tor, their faces turned towards him, all lost to shadow. None moved; none spoke.

After a moment, a figure caught his eye, striding towards him through the grass past the threatening sentries. Tall and slender, he wore grey-green robes with a strange design in gold filigree, like the symbols of an unknown language, faintly visible whenever the moon caught them. His age was indiscernible. His cheeks were hollow and dark rings lay under his pale eyes, but his long hair was a mixture of gold and silver. Trinkets and the skulls of mice and birds had been braided into it so that he made a soft clacking rhythm as he walked.

He came to a halt before Will, his emotions unreadable. "Few dare to call to us," he said in a dry voice.

"You know me?" Will asked.

The stranger paused thoughtfully, and then said with a wry smile, "I know of your kind."

"And you speak for the Unseelie Court?"

"Ah," he said, still smiling, "unholy. Yes. You may call me Deortha. I am ... an advisor." With his right hand, he appeared to be plucking words from the aether that Will could comprehend. Finally, with a nod, he settled on, "I am the Court's equivalent to your Doctor Dee."

"You know Dee?"

"Oh, yes." Deortha gave a strange smile.

"A sorcerer, then. An alchemist. A wise man."

Deortha's pale eyes twinkled in the moonlight. "You have a request of us?"

"How do you know?"

"You would not be here otherwise."

"What you are is anathema to humankind," Will began. "You are the madness in the night. The shadow on the family hearth. In the very nature of your being, you tell us that however much we order this world to make it sane, it is not, and will never be, and we are nothing. We have no control."

Deortha nodded wryly.

"Some who come too close to you are burned to ashes, like moths approaching a lantern's flame." Will watched Deortha's face closely for any hint of manipulation, or sign of an impending attack. He knew his own life hung in the balance the moment he set foot on the tor. "My friend is one of those. His wits are gone. He could not cope with the secrets that lie behind your eyes."

"Unlike you. You would revel in the knowledge of our secrets," Deortha challenged.

Will ignored him. "My own people cannot help him. You have at your disposal great things unknown to us ... charms ... potions ..." Will shrugged. "Can you help him?"

A faint glint shone in Deortha's eyes, quickly gone. Will knew he had bared his throat for an attack.

"And why should we aid you?" Deortha asked.

"I killed several of your own. I helped bring about the death of Cavillex, one of your leaders. Help my friend regain his wits, and I will give myself to you for whatever punishment you see fit."

"Are you sure you are prepared to lay yourself open to our attentions? Our punishments are fierce."

"Nevertheless, that is my offer."

"Even though you will never see your kind again? Even though you will plead for a death that will never come?"

"I am ready."

Deortha was intrigued. "If you are ready, then those punishments have no value."

"Tell me about Dartmoor," Will said.

CHAPTER 61

ive carriages trundled along the rutted, muddy ways in the last light of the sun. The gale had finally blown itself out. From the window of the second carriage, Walsingham watched the shadows pool over the bleak Dartmoor uplands, the sense of apprehension mounting with each second of the day that passed away.