"Worlds Without End" - читать интересную книгу автора (Spector Caroline)

6

We have always been a meddlesome race of beings, we Elders.

I suppose it comes from a long time of being priv- ileged. Few have known of us. And none have been able to stop us from doing what we wanted. Oh, well, there was that business with the great worms, but even they must sleep eventually.

What was that amusing little saying from the comix? "Who Watches the Watchmen?" I used to see it scrawled across the bottoms of bridges and on the sides of buildings during the late nineteen-nineties.

So, though we'd been given a thrashing, while the cat's away (or the monstrous serpents), the mice will play. And so we did.

Myself, I have always preferred a low profile. None of the flash that has marked the passage of my fellows. The tales that have floated about me were easily written off as fables. That wasn't by accident, for I have believed for a long time that our presence is more a danger than a boon.

Perhaps had I been more vigilant, certain events of the past wouldn't have come to pass.

I had been traveling to England. Why, I can't re- member now. Although I believe it had something to do with that collection of stones in Wiltshire. There were rumors of power there. Tremendous magical power. It was whispered in the harems and in coun- cil rooms. In market places and among the nomads. There were always places of power and this was one of them.

Stupidity.

That's how I came to be there. Had I bit of sense in my head I would have left them all to die. Hack- ing their lungs out, puking up what they'd barely managed to down a moment before.

Ignorant, superstitious peasants.

I knew there was a reason I'd stayed in the east for so long. In the east I wasn't looked upon as a black devil. The color of my skin was hardly com- mented upon.

But here among these backwards Englishmen with their pasty skin and bad teeth I was something to be feared, hated, and possibly killed. And the place they'd put me in might well do that.

It was called the Tower, but, of course, it wasn't. More like several castles and towers collected to- gether. Not that I'd had much of a chance to see any of it. I'd been brought here in the middle of the night and hadn't seen much of the light of day since. Sometimes I wondered if anyone even remembered I was there.

Once a day a jailer slid a plate of bread and por- ridge through the grate. I could hear him muttering catechisms under his breath. It would do him little good and likely lose him his head, given the political mood. But don't we all fall back upon the icons from our youth? The stories we recite to keep the monsters at bay.

And that was how I knew I must appear. Oh, I'd lost the pointed ears, thank goodness. The more ob- vious signs of my elven condition were muted now.

Magic was at a low ebb, though for some reason be- lief in it had never been higher. There were more charlatans and mountebanks claiming to turn lead into gold than you could swing a dead cat at. And they did a great bit of that, too. To drive out the de- mons.

Demons like me with my black skin and my white hair. My hair I could dye. Luckily, my eyes had changed to a brownish-gray color; otherwise I'd probably already be dead. What would they make of Vistrosh and his ceathral skin and pink eyes? I won- dered.

But here I was locked up tighter than a miser's hoard.

And how had I come to be here? My own weak- nesses, as usual.

"Help us," I'd heard.

I looked down and saw a young child, a girl, maybe eight. She wore a ragged tunic and her feet were bare and dirty. What desperation drove her to ask for help from any passing stranger? Much less one who looked like me.

"They're sick," she said.

"Who is sick?" I asked.

"Everyone," she replied. "Everyone except me."

But she didn't look well herself. Her eyes were bright and glassy and as I drew closer, I could feel the heat of fever radiating off her.

"Please," she said. Her hands reached out and I thought she might actually touch me, but she pulled away.

"What makes you think I could do any good?" I asked.

"Someone has to," she replied. "Or I'll be all alone. They'll… die."

I didn't want to help them. For as far back as I could remember I'd been trying to keep out of these things. To let Fate take her own course. It wasn't for me to decide. There were other matters that needed my attention. But as I looked into that pale feverish face another child came to my mind, and I found myself being led into the rude thatched hut.

The air was thick with the odor of a low-burning peat fire. There was a hole cut in the roof to let the smoke escape, but that only helped a little. Pallets lined the edge of the room. On them lay several peo- ple, all of whom were in various stages of the same sickness.

The grippe.

Why these people were so ill from it I didn't know. It was a common enough problem-not as frightening as the plague or cholera, which could pass through a town and leave it devastated hi a mat- ter of days or weeks.

At my feet lay an elderly woman. I knelt down beside her and took her wrist in my hand. Under my fingers her pulse felt erratic. I was closer to the power here; the pull of it too tempting to resist. As my eyes closed I began to see the pattern of her life. Thin and threadbare. Bleak colors woven together with an odd shock of bright blue.

It was so difficult to hold on to what I was seeing. The images were blurred and hazy, slipping away from me if I hesitated for a moment. But, healing her would be simple enough, I saw suddenly. It had been so long since I'd taken the risk. Since I'd wanted to.

There was a faint sound. It broke my concentra- tion and I turned toward it. There, shadowed in the doorway, stood the girl. For a moment her image blurred with one from my memory. I knew then I would help them, regardless of the risk.

Again, I took the woman's wrist. Tapping into what little reserves I'd tucked away, I focused all my concentration into bringing back the weave of her life. The heat flew through me then, sliding into her body, burning out her fever and pain. Hot ribbons of health wove themselves into her body.

I released her wrist then, exhausted by this minor act. I smiled a bit at this, I who had brought armies to their knees with a flick of my wrist, swooning at this child's play.

And what did my generosity get me?

A private room in the bloody Tower.

The people I helped weren't to blame. They couldn't have been expected to keep quiet about their miraculous healings, I suppose. Though I sus- pect the tale was embellished by the time it reached the ears of the clergy.

The Protestants and the Catholics had been going at it ever since Mary came to the throne, but the one thing they agreed on was that anything smacking of witchcraft was to be dealt with severely.

For some reason the local priest, who was the first person to see me after I was captured, didn't want to kill me right off. Perhaps it was my skin, or maybe he hoped to gain points with bishop. At any rate, I was taken to London and then sent to the Tower.

Where I remained for months.

I'd heard that there were prisoners here who'd been forgotten for years. But I tried not to dwell on that.

Spring passed, then summer.

All Hallows Eve.

Dark came early. Through my slit of a window, I could see the fine mist ushering a heavy fog. The flickering torches looked unreal and ghostly. A per- fect night for the devil's work. If you believed in that sort of thing.

I'd been'sitting in the dark for several hours. The worst thing about imprisonment was boredom. But this wasn't the first time I'd been in such a situation. Then I heard it. A faint sound from down in the base of the tower.

Then footsteps on the stone steps. They were coming to kill me, I knew it. After all this time, they had remembered and were dispatching me at last. The least I could do was go to my death on my feet. But somehow I couldn't force myself to move from the cold stone floor where I sat.

The sound of voices. I thought they might be ar- guing. Then more footsteps. The lock was opened and the door swung in.

I put my hand up against the sudden brightness of a lamp. A rustle of fabric. Any moment now I would feel the bum of the blade.

"You may leave us now," a voice said.

A voice I knew.

I dropped my hand and blinked. It couldn't be, yet it was.

Standing across from me, robed in heavy velvet and fur, was Alachia.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

She frowned. "You never have learned any man- ners," she said. "Do you not know that you are to rise in the presence of a queen?"

I snorted. "Blood Wood is long gone," I said. "Its ashes have been forgotten more times than either of us can remember. You're no more a queen than I."

"You never were ambitious," she said.

"No, just not foolish and vain."

Her frown deepened. Even with such a withering expression on her face, she was still beautiful. The skin was as pale, the hair as fiery red, and the eyes as blue. Not as stunning as she'd been, but part of that was due to the changes in the magic. Now her beauty was more human. 46

"You are an annoyance," she said. "But you are my cross to bear. Isn't that an amusing expression? Tell me, aren't you curious as to why I am visiting you?"

I didn't answer. I knew it would annoy her. How odd that even after all this time we fell back into our old patterns.

"Well, I'll tell you," she said. Her voice was glee- ful and fairly danced with excitement. "In a fort- night, I am again to gain a throne. Admittedly, not as impressive as those I've left behind me, but it will do in the meantime."

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"Haven't you heard?" she asked. "Mary is dying and Elizabeth is to be crowned queen. Don't you think Henry is turning over in his grave? Killing off that poor girl's mother because she couldn't give him sons. Brutal bastard."

"What has that to do with you?"

"Why, my dear, haven't you guessed yet?"

I stared at her for a moment, then, through the dullness of my mind, comprehension.

"Are you mad?" I asked.

"What do you mean?" she said coyly.

I was staggered. She'd been interfering for years in things that weren't our business-but this-this was too-much.

"How do you propose to achieve this miracle?" I asked. "Don't you think people will see the differ- ence between you?"

"Ah, I have been planning this for years," she said. "It has taken an immense amount of time and energy. Do you think that I just popped up yester- day? Oh no, I have been Elizabeth for quite some time."

"But her servants, teachers, surely someone…"

"A simple enough matter to arrange. A spell here, a spell there… and patience. Such patience as you have never known. And now, at last, I'm in a posi- tion where I can do something."

I could only stare at her. It was madness-sheer and utter madness. How she could possibly think she could maintain such a farce was beyond me.

"Aina," she said, "you have always been so short- sighted. We can control what happens over the next thousand years. Make the world over in our image. Think of it-the power will come back again. Not this trickle, but a deluge of energy to rip loose the moorings of the world-unless we make certain of the proper order of things. Humans are sheep. We will always rule them.

"The legends and tales you strew about aren't enough. We must have more. We must control them. This is our destiny."

Even had I wanted to stand, I didn't think my legs would hold me. What she was proposing was mon- strous. It went against everything I believed about our place. Our purpose. We had a duty to perform. We were to keep the world safe so that the knowl- edge would survive from age to age.

She knew what I did-how could she discard it all for so clumsy a form of power? But then, power had always entranced her. And so much of her mind would never be known to me. She was far older than I.

And I have lived so long that Sisyphus's chore looked like a blessing to me.

"You pervert what we are," I said.

"This pious attitude is quite boring, Aina," she said. "I think I liked you better before you lost your faithful companion. He certainly would never have tolerated such an attitude. And he could goad you into so many things."

I felt the blood draining from my face and blessed my dark skin. Cruelty was her hallmark. How could I have let my guard down for even a second? The energy drained from me then. I didn't have the strength now to battle with her.

"What has all this to do with me?" I asked.

She walked closer to me. The wide span of her skirts just touched the ragged hem of my cloak.

"I want your assurance that you won't interfere with my plans," she said. "I know you could make things difficult for me and I won't have it. There has been too much time and energy devoted to this for you to create problems."

"How did you know I was in England?" I asked.

"That was a happy accident," she said. "For the last few years I've made it my business to keep abreast of any rumors of witchcraft. When I heard about a dark-skinned woman with white hair who'd been arrested for sorcery, well, I assumed it must be you."

"Have you known all along that I've been here?" I asked.

"Of course," she said. "I just couldn't take any action on it for a while. Besides, I wanted you out of the way until I decided what to do with you."

I closed my eyes. Knowing Alachia, she could keep me here for decades before letting me go. By that time I might well have lost my mind.

"What do you propose?" I asked.

"Just what I said. You keep out of my way in this matter. I will act as queen to this tiny nation."

"This is madness, Alachia," I said. "Why would you want this?"

"Because I need to rule," she said.

"And if I don't agree?"

"I'll find someplace where I can leave you to rot," she said. "You won't die, unfortunately. But you'll certainly wish you had. That is, if you still have your sanity intact after all those years locked up and alone. It's really not much of a choice, is it?"

She had me there. I couldn't stop her from what she was about. But I could certainly see my way clear to making her life difficult once she let me out.

"Very well," I said. "I agree."

She came to the throne on November 17, 1558 and ruled for an astonishing forty-five years. And at every turn I made her way as difficult as possible. Oh I didn't act directly; that has never been my way. But I knew people on both sides, and it was a simple matter to sow the seeds of distrust and paranoia. All I had to do was stir the pot. Between juggling the French and Spanish, she was forced to look to the welfare of the country.

Besides, it was a source of constant amusement to me that she was referred to as the Virgin Queen.

That wasn't the first, nor would it be the last, time she did such a thing. But the brazenness with which she acted in this matter always amazed me. And af- ter that time, I always made sure to stop her when- ever I could.

Do you think you'll escape me through the past?

Do you think that by telling them you'll be safe?

Don't you know that I've been waiting-as patient as time itself? Don't you know you can never stop me?

"I tried to stop her," I said.

"What?" asked Caimbeul.

I hadn't realized I'd spoken aloud.

"Nothing," I said. With a quick snap of my wrist I pulled the drapes together and shut out the storm. "I suppose I should pack."

There was the creak of leather as he settled back into my chair.

"So," he said, "you're going to tell them. Where will you go first?"

"The Seelie Court," I said. "It should be the least hostile reception."

"If you can find them."

This made me laugh.

"Ah, Caimbeul," I said. "That will be the easy part."

It was drizzling the next morning as we loaded our bags into Caimbeul's rental car. I'd set the alarm and cast spells, and as I locked the front door I had the terrible feeling that this would be the last time I would ever see Arran.

Damn them all, I thought. If they would only have listened. If they 'd stopped playing with things they only barely understood. Then I wouldn't have to leave my house and venture into matters I've spent hundreds of years avoiding.

But I knew the worst of the bunch were the ones who knew the dangers and went ahead with their foolishness anyway. Damn them, too.

Caimbeul had opened the passenger-side door and stood there waiting for me to get in. I dropped into the synthleather seat, sniffing the vinyl scent of new car as I did. After shutting the door behind me, Caimbeul came around the front of the car and got in on his side.

"I made some plane reservations while you were still asleep," he said. "It was bloody expensive and I expect to be reimbursed."

"I can't believe you're bringing up money at a time like this," I said.

Out the comer of my eye I saw him shrug.

"I know you're good for it," he said.

"So are you. You've got piles of the stuff hidden everywhere. What's a plane ticket to you?"

"That's not it," he said, primly. "It's the principle of the thing." '

"The principle of the…" And then I couldn't continue because I was laughing too hard.

I contented myself with watching the passing sce- nery and playing with the vid, trying to get some decent signal to come in. But all I found were walls of noise and static. Finally I managed to tune in a pre- historic station that was doing a retrospective of tum-of-the-century music. Snapping off the trideo portion, I let the sounds wash over me. I confess I liked the older flat-screen stuff: Nine Inch Nails, Cold Bodies, Sister Girl's Straight Jacket. Nothing like a little atonality with my angst.

Every so often I would glance over at Caimbeul. Excuse me. Harlequin. I don't think that name will ever come trippingly to my lips. And I hate what it represents even more.

Yes, I know you think you understand him. You might even think you know him well, but you don't. I've known him for longer than either of us cares to remember. And he wasn't as you see him now. That stupid painted face. Though he wasn't what many would call handsome, I have always found him at- tractive. Maybe even beautiful. Oh, I know that sounds peculiar, but there is an aspect of ugliness that is so shocking and strange it becomes beauty.

And his wild hair, all gold and brown woven to- gether. He'd let it grow long again, which I like. But he insisted on pulling it back in that ridiculous pony tail. It made me want to sneak up behind him with a scissors and cut it off. Either you wear it long or you don't was my way of thinking.

His hands lay easily on the wheel. I knew they were smooth and feminine with calluses on the fin- gertips. There was a hint of yellow between the first and second fingers where he held those Gaullets he smoked. And he smelled of tobacco and clean linen. 54

And I wondered whether he remembered those sorts of things about me. The little details that only come from intimacy.

"Will you turn that off?" he asked.

"I like it," I replied as I leaned forward and nudged the volume button up a little.

"I know," he said. "You always did have terrible taste in music."

"No, I've always had broad taste in music. Unlike you who only seem to like classical music and the occasional jazz group."

"I prefer to think of it as a refined taste."

"I know you do."

We didn't say anything else and I went back to watching the kilometers slip by as the rain streamed across the windows.

Edinburgh was crowded. Old ladies were crying and hugging uncomfortable-looking teens. Suits hur- ried by, oblivious to everything but their own sense of self-importance. I've never been too fond of cor- porate thinking. That whole bigger is better drek was what had led to most of the problems in the world, as far as I could tell. Okay, indoor plumbing was the one exception to this rule, but otherwise…

We found the gate for the flight to Tir na nOg. As we came around the comer, I saw that the usual se- curity measures were in place. All our luggage was going to be searched. There would be the usual weapons scan and the endless procession of bureau- cratic red tape. Like I said: corporate thinking.

The worst of it was that once we got to the Tir, all this would begin again.

As we approached the head of the line, the elven official looked up from the display screen where he was sliding credsticks to check documentation. He gestured us forward, ignoring several people ahead of us.

"May I see your passports and visas?" he said. He tried to keep it polite, but you could tell he wasn't going to take no for an answer.

We handed over our sticks with our IDs and travel permits on them, and he asked us to step into a small room off the main corridor. As the door shut behind us I could hear the other passengers whispering to each other. You could cut the paranoia with a knife.

"Is there a problem?" Caimbeui asked.

The security drone didn't answer as he sat down at a display on the far side of a small formica table in the center of the room. The walls were a dirty white and one of the fluorescent lights flickered on and off erratically. I read his name off his badge:

Clovis Blackeye. No wonder he was an officious prig. With a name like that I'd be a drekhead, too.

He was gaunt and stoop-shouldered for an elf. His hair was tied back into a ponytail and was shot through with premature gray. A perpetual expression of misery lined his face and made his eyes look sunken and bruised. He knew he would never be anything more than a low-level bureaucrat.

Sometimes there was no explaining UGE.

"I said, 'Is there a problem?' "

Clovis finally looked up from the screen. His beady eyes swung from Caimbeui to me. "It says here that you're visiting relatives in Tir

na n6g. But it doesn't list who those relatives might be."

"Is that necessary?" I asked.

"How do we know you really have relatives in the Tir? Maybe you're from that other place, come to cause trouble."

"That other place?"

"Tir Taimgire. The fallen ones."

I glanced at Caimbeui and he rolled his eyes. Nothing worse than a patriotic officious prick.

"And perhaps we have relatives who don't want every low-level clerk knowing who their relatives are," I said.

His flat piggy nose flared slightly.

"That's not for you to decide," he said. "Now tell me or you don't get on that plane."

I leaned forward across the table then and grabbed his collar. For a moment I thought he might resist, but the force of my will kept him from moving. It was as easy as a snake hypnotizing a rat.

"Listen to me, little brother," I said in Eireann sperethiel. My accent might have been a bit off, but otherwise I was letter perfect. "You are playing in things far beyond your knowledge or concern. You wish to know who we are to visit? Then come closer and I shall tell you."

I jerked him across the table and whispered a name in his ear. The blood fled from his already pasty cheeks. As he pulled away, I let him see me-really see me. These are the kinds of tricks I hate- obvious displays of power-but he'd slotted me off.

"Now you can well imagine how annoyed this person would be if they discovered their name came up in this sort of situation," I said. "So I would suggest that we all forget this unfortunate incident."

Old Clovis was only too happy to oblige. He gave us back our papers like he'd just discovered they'd been tainted with VITAS. We were ushered onto the plane without further delay. I settled into the thick leather upholstered seats of the first-class section and smiled at the attendant who handed me a glass of single malt scotch.

"Was that really necessary?" asked Caimbeui after she moved away.

"What?" I said, letting my eyes go wide and inno- cent.

"That show you put on back there."

The plane gave a little lurch as it backed from the gate. I glanced out the scratched window. Below me I could see the orange lights on the ground.

"No," I said. "We could have missed the flight snaking around with him. But I didn't have the pa- tience for it. Besides, he's going to be too scared to tell anyone. He believes in the omnipotence of the Elders. You could see it in his eyes."

"But you showed him…"

"I showed him what would impress him the most. Some people are so literal."

"I missed you."

"What?" It was a strange and unexpected non- sequitur. And I couldn't believe my ears. 58

"Well, I didn't miss the arguing. But I missed you when you get like this." I didn't say anything to that. It wouldn't have made any difference anyway.

She's running.

The forest is alive with sounds and smells. In the distance, the dying rabbit cries sound like a child's screams. The heavy scent of new-dug earth hangs in the air. Branches slap against her face, and no mat- ter how she tries to push them away, they keep com- ing back.

Something is behind her. She doesn 't know what it is-only that it will kill her if it can. Looking over her shoulder, she tries to see what it is. So she doesn't see when she steps off into space.

She's falling now.

Falling with nothing to save her.