In France, Göring gave a triumphant radio address to the Germans, claiming a historic victory for the Fatherland.
The war had come to roost in London.
Catling rested, replete, deep in the heart of the labyrinth. She had fed well during the day and night, drawing nourishment from the pain and terror that had consumed London.
The German offensive over London had begun, and Catling knew that over the following weeks and months she could grow strong enough to counter whatever Jack and Noah might throw at her.
“Just a few more months,” she whispered. “Just a few more months, and then I will be unstoppable.”
Over London, the shadow throbbed.
It, too, had feasted well.
Part Four
MISTRESS OF THE LABYRINTH
London, 1205
The physician sighed, leaned down, and closed Peter de Colechurch’s eyes. The man was in God’s hands now, and there was nothing anyone on earth could do for him. The physician stepped back and allowed the brothers of St Mary Colechurch access to their venerable brother’s body, thinking that Peter had lived an exceptional life, and an exceptionally long-lived one at that. It had been a good life, and a good death, and no one could wish for better than that.
The new stone London Bridge was almost complete. It would stand as a monument to Peter—an elegant and strong series of Gothic arches straddling piers built on starlings dug deep into the bed of the Thames. The bridge was the wonder of Europe—it was the longest stone bridge that anyone had ever seen, and everyone commented on Peter’s extraordinary engineering skills.
No one else could have designed and built such a bridge.
There was only one problem.
Peter had designed and caused to be constructed a beautiful chapel on the bridge. Situated almost at the centre of the bridge, the chapel straddled the ninth pier from the London bank. Dedicated to St Thomas, the chapel projected almost sixty feet from the side of the bridge, and boasted graceful stained-glass Gothic windows, and entrances both from the road level on the bridge and from the starling below, so fishermen could tie up and worship when they needed. The best craftsmen had fitted out the interior of the chapel, and it had been dedicated only a few months before Peter’s death.
The problem lay in the crypt Peter had insisted be incorporated into St Thomas’ Chapel.
In itself the crypt was not unusual because most churches and chapels had them. But St Thomas’ crypt was different in two respects.
Firstly, Peter insisted it be dug deep. So deep, in fact, that it lay well under the riverbed. Even though it was underwater, the crypt had been so well constructed that it was utterly watertight. It ran the entire length of the chapel above, had a spectacular fan-vaulted roof, and an altar at the east end.
As a crypt it was one of the best examples in London, and was easily accessible from the chapel above via a twisting stone stairwell in the ninth pier.
But…in that “but” lay the second problem. Even though it was bone-dry, and even though it was commodious, the crypt was unusable.
There was something wrong with it.
Peter could never sense it, but from the day the crypt was completed, whenever someone else went down there they left almost immediately, complaining of a sense of foreboding so terrible they felt the world was about to end. Some people claimed to have seen a lovely young woman down there, huddled by the altar and weeping inconsolably as if she had been trapped and left to die by those she loved most. Others said the young woman had a terrible aspect, as though she were the most malevolent witch imaginable.
On the day after Peter’s death, a workman went down to collect some tools, and never returned.
When his comrades went looking for him, they found him lying dead before the altar.
He had been strangled with a twisted length of red wool, and his face wore an expression of such terror that everyone who saw him instinctively looked over their shoulder as they hurriedly stepped back.
The bridge wardens decided immediately to seal the crypt. What bridge needed a crypt, anyway? Certainly not this bridge, and most certainly not this particular crypt.
Within hours of the decision being taken, stonemasons were at work sealing the staircase that wound down to the crypt. Once one sealing layer of masonry had been built, the wardens decided to inter Peter de Colechurch in the space before the next layer of masonry went down. It would be a fitting resting place for the man, interred in his beloved bridge, and who knew, perhaps his bones might assuage the anger of whatever malign evil inhabited the crypt.
There was a short religious ceremony held at the site of the internment, and then a full funeral mass held above in St Thomas’ Chapel while stonemasons laid the next layer of masonry.
Once the priests had gone, and before the masons laid more coursework, they held a small ceremony of their own. One of them opened a large bag, withdrawing from it several small dead animals, as well as the detached limbs of some larger beasts, all with red wool tied about their legs and claws.
These he placed atop Peter’s shrouded corpse, and then on top of the small animals another workman left a charm, given to him by a wise woman.
These added measures, they hoped, would ensure that the malignant spirit stayed where it was.
Hours after they left, and when the stairwell was in darkness, the figure of a small girl, black-haired and cold-faced, materialised above the several layers of stonework meant to inter her below. She looked upwards, a sneer on her face for the foolish efforts of those who thought to contain her, then she looked down to her feet, as if she could see Peter’s corpse beneath the stonework.
“Thank you, Peter,” she whispered. “May your journey to the Otherworld be sweet and gentle.”
ONE
Faerie Hill Manor
Sunday, 8th September 1940
They gathered, without summons, at Faerie Hill Manor. No one had slept the night before, but of them all, Noah and Eaving’s Sisters looked the worst. They had spent all of Saturday afternoon and the entire night in their mobile canteen, travelling through the City and the West End, visiting shelters and, eventually, helping to transport the shocked survivors of the devastation to relief centres. Matilda, Erith and Ecub were dishevelled, their faces white under smudges of dirt and soot, their clothes torn, their hands shaking as they accepted glasses of whisky or brandy from Stella.
Noah had not seen Weyland since the morning before, and when she trailed in after Eaving’s Sisters, he enveloped her in a tight embrace, weeping in relief, sure that he’d lost her the previous night. Noah clung to him as tightly, then reached out for Grace who was standing wan-faced to one side, kissing her cheek before pulling her into a shared embrace with Weyland.
“I have never imagined such horror,” Noah said, her voice strained and cracking. “Nothing…nothing I have seen…ever…I can’t…”
“Weyland, sit her down,” Harry said, indicating a sofa. As soon as Noah had lowered herself down, Weyland beside her, he thrust a glass of warm milk and brandy into her hand. “Drink it, Noah.”
Glad to have something to do, Noah raised the glass in trembling hands to her mouth, and sipped at it. “Harry—”
“In a moment,” Harry said. “Finish your drink. Let’s all just get settled, and then we can talk.”
Grace had been left standing in the centre of the room when Noah and Weyland had gone to the sofa, and now Jack walked over to her, put a hand under her elbow, and guided her to another sofa. He hesitated, as if he was going to sit beside her, then moved nearer to the fire and stood before it as if he needed to warm himself.
Silvius was also present, as were Malcolm and Ariadne. She and Weyland had glanced at each other, but there had been no other interaction—both were too worried or traumatised to be bothered with hostility.
“Harry,” Jack said, “what has happened in the Faerie overnight?”
Harry and Stella exchanged a glance, and Jack felt his stomach turn over at its bleakness.
Flopping down in a chair, Harry passed a trembling hand over his eyes, and Stella sat down on the arm of the chair and slid a comforting hand behind his neck.
In the end it was she who responded, not Harry. “Wherever a bomb dropped in London, Jack, so devastation spread over the Faerie. It isn’t as bad as here, in the mortal world, but tracts of forested hills have now been left blackened and smoking. We…we don’t know if they will ever regenerate.”
“Christ,” Jack muttered.
“The Faerie folk,” said Harry, so quietly everyone had to strain to hear him, “were terrified. They sat huddled atop The Naked, crying out every time another section of the Faerie exploded. I had no idea what to say to them.”
“It was terrible in London as well,” said Noah. She swallowed, taking a moment to collect herself. “It was not just the infernos and the death and mutilation, the destruction. It was the chaos…the realisation that there was no effectual help, that there was no escape. It was the people, terrified, running hither and thither, scurrying ants in the shadows cast by the flames, with no idea of where to go, or what to do…no idea what the hell was happening. No one knew what to do…no one expected…”
“And the noise,” Matilda said as Noah drifted into silence. “The noise. The whine of the bombs falling, the cruuuuuump as they exploded, the blast winds. The screams. The gasps. The sobs. The sound of ripping flesh. And the smell—the stench of burning buildings and people, of high explosive and molten metal. Noah’s right. I don’t think any of us could have imagined such horror. We had no idea.”
“Grace,” Jack said suddenly, “where were you?”
“In the Savoy’s shelter,” she said. “I was safe enough.”
Jack smiled, relieved, then for the next few minutes they talked about the raid, and what they’d seen of the devastation in London this morning.
“Did anyone see Catling?” Jack asked.
“I saw her in my bedroom,” Grace said, “just before I went down to the shelter. She didn’t even seem to notice me. She stood at the window and stared outside. Then, just as I was leaving the room, she turned to me, and smiled.”
Grace paused. “It was horrific. I have never seen anything so cold.”
Jack remembered what Catling had told him—that every death that occurred until the day he and Noah closed out the Troy Game would be on his conscience. Jack didn’t feel guilty as this was Catling’s guilt to bear, not his, but all the same he knew they needed to make faster progress. Find out once and for all if this shadow was a weakness of the Troy Game—or something else.
He looked towards his father. “You were right,” he said. “We need to probe this labyrinthine puzzle and discover once and for all what it is. We need to know if we can use it against Catling, before she murders half of the land.”
“Then be careful you don’t murder half the land with your probing,” said Weyland, his voice flat. “I’m with my daughter on this one. I think this shadow is something other than a weakness, and I fear it is more malevolent than you give it credit for.”
TWO
London
Wednesday, 11th September 1940
Noah?”
She’d been helping Matilda and Grace load the mobile canteen in the garage of the Savoy, but turned as Jack walked out of the shadows.
She smiled. “Jack.”
Matilda and Grace had stepped down from the back of the van and were standing, watching. Jack nodded to Matilda, giving her a brief smile, then looked at Grace. “I didn’t know you were helping your mother, Grace.”
“It is better than staying in the apartment at night,” she said. Then, for the first time, she spoke to him with her power, sharing what she didn’t want to say aloud before her mother, or Matilda. Don’t worry, Jack. The imps won’t attack me while I’m with Eaving’s Sisters.
Jack studied her uncertainly. He was worried about the imps, but he was also thinking about what his father had said. He did want to spend more time with Grace, but he simply had no idea how to go about it or even if he wanted to go about it. Every time he saw Grace he worried about what to say, or how to say it, and how either she or he might be hurt by it, and then the moment always passed, and Grace was walking away.
To one side Matilda raised her eyebrows a little, both at what Jack had said and at the way he was standing, looking at Grace, clearly indecisive about something.
Catling won’t harm me, said Grace. She can’t. To harm me would be to harm herself.
He looked at her a moment longer, gave her an irresolute smile, then turned back to Noah. “Noah, will you come with me tonight? I thought—”
Noah took a deep breath. “You want to try—?”
“Yes.”
Grace went white. “No,” she said, “that’s too dangerous!”
“Grace,” said Jack, “I promise we’ll be careful, but we do need to do this. We need to probe this labyrinthine puzzle, or at the very least we need to probe Catling’s strength. We will be careful, but we can’t hang about gathering information piecemeal. Too many people will die.”
She stared at him, then turned away.
Jack looked after her, sighed, and turned to Matilda. “Can you and Grace cope with the canteen tonight? Where are Ecub and Erith—can they help you?”
Matilda nodded. “They’re already waiting at the Elephant and Castle for us, Jack.” Then, more quietly, “I’ll watch out for her, Jack. We’ll be fine. But you be careful, all right?”
“All right, Matilda,” Jack said. He grinned, gave her a peck on the cheek, and turned back to Noah.
They stood in Carter Lane just south of the cathedral. The lane was narrow and bounded by four-storey buildings, but still St Paul’s loomed over them. Even when they kept their heads low, and stood in the shelter of a doorway, they could feel its presence in every sinew of their bodies and with every breath they took.
They could feel it calling to them. It was subtle, but it was unrelenting, and within an hour of coming to stand so close to the cathedral both Jack and Noah were feeling slightly sickened by it.
The labyrinth knew they were close.
They stood in the doorway of a solicitor’s office. As doorways went it was reasonably commodious, but its overhang did nothing to impart any sense of safety either from the labyrinth’s call or from the terrible menace of the Luftwaffe planes overhead. For four hours they had stood in this doorway, barely moving, listening, as wave after wave of bombers swept over, tensing every time they heard the whistle of bombs falling, jumping at the terrible crump of bombs detonating.
Jack had his arm about Noah’s shoulder as she leaned in against him. Apart from the occasional movement, they’d been standing almost motionless for the entire four hours.
They’d been immersing themselves in the power of the labyrinth that Brutus and Genvissa had made atop Og’s Hill and which now rested deep within the earth beneath St Paul’s.
They were not Jack and Noah so much as Kingman and Mistress of the Labyrinth.
By two a.m. they’d tested the strength of the labyrinth, as well as tested their own combined abilities to use it. Additionally, and very, very carefully, they’d been probing at the Troy Game’s defences, trying to identify any chink in its armour.
All without alerting Catling to what they were doing, although both believed she must have known of their presence.
Feel the life of the city, Jack said in Noah’s mind.
Aye, she said. Feel the movement of its peoples, mirroring the winding of the labyrinth. Feel the waters of the Thames, the purr of the traffic, the dreams of the sleepers. Feel the labyrinth, winding its way through everything.
“Harmonies,” Jack whispered, aloud this time. Everything was harmonies, and every overlapping and intertwining layer of harmony increased the power available both to the labyrinth and to Jack and Noah.
Noah closed her eyes, leaning closer to Jack, feeling the heat of his body through the thick material of his uniform. It felt so good to be he
re with him like this, in such accord, merging her powers so tightly, so cleanly, with his.
Finally, after so many missteps, so many mistakes, so many long, terrible years…
“Jack,” she whispered, “can we use the shadow?”
Jack had spent the past hour probing at it with his and Noah’s combined power. But whatever he did, he couldn’t touch it, couldn’t understand it any better, and, if he were honest with himself, he was slightly relieved about that. Despite being almost certain that the shadow was a reflected weakness of the Troy Game, that “almost” niggled at him. If it wasn’t a weakness, and he woke the shadow from its sleep…and if it were as malevolent as Grace and Weyland believed…
No, that was too awful to contemplate.
No, he replied. It is closed to us. But if we can use the harmonies to influence one of those bombs to penetrate Catling’s defences, then we will be that little bit surer that the shadow is a reflection of a weakness in the Troy Game itself rather than anything…else.
There was nothing else that it could be.
Surely?
“Jack…”
“I know,” he murmured against her hair. “I am frightened as well.”
“If we mishandle this…”
“I know.” Jack paused. “But we’ve got to try.”
Do we? she wondered, but there was no strength behind that thought, and Jack ignored it.
Can you feel the squadron flying overhead now? he said to her. Feel the plane on the northern flank? Sense the bombs in its belly?
Aye, she replied.
Do you feel that bomb which lies cradled in the heart of its rack, feel its intent?
Aye. She could feel it as if it were her own child. She knew its history, knew its sorrows, knew its joys. Do you want me to use my Darkcraft? she asked Jack.