Mark Chadbourn - The Silver Skull

CHAPTER 62

or a moment, Will was convinced he could smell smoke on the wind, but it was just the enchantment of Deortha's words.

"You understand now," Deortha concluded.

In his pale eyes, Will saw the depth of emotion, and understood so much that had troubled him: what was kept in the room at the top of the Lantern Tower; why the Unseelie Court had risked so much to attack the Palace of Whitehall, and why they needed the Shield as protection when they unleashed the Silver Skull's plague; the comments Cavillex had made in Edinburgh about Dartmoor; and why the Enemy was so determined to destroy England.

"This madness will never end," Will said. "Each atrocity drives worse from the opponent in a spiral of horror."

"It will end," Deortha said firmly, leaving no doubt as to his meaning.

"No one can win," Will pressed. "There is no good here, no evil. Everything is tarnished. Do we even remember why we fight?"

"We remember."

"We continue this war, then, like the dogs tearing chunks off each other in the pits in the inn-yards of Bankside?" His bitterness made the words catch in his throat.

"What your kind did that night can never be forgotten, or forgiven," Deortha said coldly.

"And what you did to England for generation upon generation-"

"Then you understand fully. There can be no peace. We are too much alike."

Will felt as desolate as the dark landscape stretching out into the night.

"There is worse to come," Deortha continued. "Cavillex's death is a bitter blow to the High Family, which has already suffered greatly in this conflict. His brothers and sister burn with the desire for vengeance. Your nation will soon fear the heat of their response."

"It never ends," Will said to himself. "Then grant my request. Help my friend and let them take me and punish me for their brother's death."

For the first time, Deortha's laughter was filled with clear contempt. "You think you are a fair exchange for a member of the High Family? If all your countryfolk were put to death, and your nation burned to the ground, it still would not make amends. You mean ... nothing."

Will set his jaw. "Then you will not help me?"

Deortha considered for a moment and then said, "I will help." His smile chilled Will.

"The conditions?"

"You must make a choice. Aid for your friend ... or an answer to the mystery that consumes your nature: what happened to your lost love."

Will was stunned, not only that Deortha had offered such a dilemma, but that he knew about jenny. The slyness around his eyes showed that he was aware exactly what effect his offer would have.

Hiding his shock, Will replied, "Why? You refuse to take me for punishment, perhaps death, yet you gladly offer help if I make a simple choice?"

"Choose."

He could see Deortha revelling in the agonies that consumed him. Knowing the truth about jenny had been the only thing that mattered for so long, it consumed him, drove him on to do everything he did; how could he turn has back on what might be his only chance? Yet how could he knowingly consign Nathaniel to the horrors of Bedlam? He saw the elegant cruelty in Deortha's dilemma: either answer had the potential to destroy him, not in sudden brutality at the hands of the High Family, but gradually, over years, with a slow magnification of pain that would eventually consume him. He was responsible for Nathaniel's suffering. He was responsible for never knowing the truth that would finally give him peace.

"I choose ... my friend," he snapped.

"Very well." The triumph in Deortha's face sickened Will. "There are worse things than death," Deortha continued wryly, as though he knew the phrase had been uttered before. "For the rest of your days, you will be haunted by the knowledge of this night, as we are haunted by the knowledge of that other night. You could have solved the mystery that wrenches your heart. You could have found the one answer that will allow you to sleep at night. Perhaps you could even have brought your love back to you."

"Enjoy your small victory," Will said. "What I have achieved for my friend is worth my own suffering."

"At this moment," Deortha agreed. "In a week's time? A year's? At the end of your days, lying on your deathbed, knowing your entire life has been wasted by the never-knowing?" He shook his head.

"You think you know our ways so well," Will replied. "But you do not understand hope. I have hope that I will find my jenny, and I will do everything I can to bring that about."

"Exactly." He smiled one more time, and then motioned for Will to wait. At some point Will could not define, he disappeared from view, and when he returned he held a small phial. "Give this to your friend. One drop, on the tongue. He will forget his contact with the flame of our being, and he will recover. And should it happen again," he added knowingly, "administer one more drop. It will only work for him."

Taking the phial, Will held it tight in his palm, afraid Deortha was going to snatch it back once he had finished his taunting.

"You make all your choices with such a poor vision," Deortha said. "You see a week ahead, at best a year. We are long-lived. Our plans move cautiously over years, decades, generations. Connections that are invisible to you fall into relief only when seen from our perspective. You cannot fight us when your reactions to our schemes are based only on the here and now. Who is to say that the things you do are not aiding us? That everything you consider a victory is only a step we expected and factored in to our plans, leading inexorably to our ultimate victory?" He nodded and added pointedly, "Enjoy this moment."

Weighing Deortha's words, Will looked down at the phial in his hand, and when he looked up the Unseelie Court was gone. Yet something glinted in the grass in the moonlight, a meaningless object Deortha had dropped in the warm glow of his cruel victory.

For a moment, Will stared at it, barely believing, and then he plucked it up and made his way back across the moor.

CHAPTER 63

he stage was set, the players ready in costumes of green and gold and scarlet, trying on their expressions for a good fit, their true selves long since forgotten. Yet their private conversations carried subtle, conflicting notes. The dress rehearsal was a pivotal point, the end of the prelude. They were filled with the apprehension of how their performances would be received, yet also jubilant at a new start filled with possibilities.

The yard at the Bull Inn was flooded with early morning sun and crisscrossed with cooling shadows cast by the pennants that had been strung haphazardly from window to window overhead. They were only one of many marks of celebration at the news still coming in of the wrecking of Spanish ships in storms all around the northern coasts of England, Scotland, and Ireland.

All yawns and lazy smiles, doxies hung from windows to watch the players run through their final preparations. Scents of honeysuckle and rosewater mingled with the sour aroma of beer drifting from the shadowy interior of the inn.

Leaning against the cool stone in the shade, his arms folded, Will watched the proceedings. It was going to be a hot day.

Marlowe sauntered over in a brighter mood than Will had seen him in for a long while. He was accompanied by a young man who shyly left before he was introduced to the great hero of England.