a fractured dome. Then at last she found what she knew she had been seeking. He lay in a dim hollow beyond the reach of the sun, and stones weighted the rags of his clothing, and his dark hair moved like filmy weed in the current, and white shells covered his eyes. She lifted the stones which pinned him down, and removed the white shells, and kissed his cold, cold lips – a witch’s kiss, to break the spell – and his eyes opened, and gazed at her. The water receded like waves from a beach, and he was lying on an apricot shore under a sky of bronze, and his arms were reaching for her …
The dream faded towards awakening, and, as always, there was a moment in between, a moment of unknowing, when the past lingered and the present was void, a waking to hope and the brightness of a new day. Then realisation returned, and all that she had gained, and all that she had lost, rushed over her in a flood of suffering reborn, so she thought her spirit was too frail a thing to endure so much pain. And it was the same every day, every waking. She remembered that it was her birthday, her seventeenth. Tomorrow she would return to London, to school, to study, to the slow inexorable unrolling of her predictable life. She was a diligent student: she would take exams and go to university and succeed in a suitable career. And one day perhaps she would marry, because that was what you did, and have children, and live to be forty, fifty, ninety, until, unimaginable though it seemed, she was old and tired, and the dream came from which there was no awakening. A life sentence. Maybe eventually the acuteness of her loss would dull to an ache, and the routine of her daily existence would numb her feelings and deaden her heart; but in the morning of her youth she knew that this moment, this emptiness was relentless and forever. She had been told she had the Gift, setting her apart from other mortals – that if she willed it she might live ageless and long – but that fantasy had gone with the city, if indeed it had ever been real. And why should she wish to lengthen the time of her suffering?
When she got up she found the veil discarded on a chair – the veil that was all she had left – its patterns dimmed to shadows, its colours too subtle for the human eye. For a minute she held it, letting its airy substance slide through her fingers; then her grip tightened, and she pulled with sudden violence, trying to tear it apart, but the gossamer was too strong for her. She made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry, looked in vain for scissors, not knowing whether to be relieved or angry when none came to hand. Finally, she folded it up small – she was always methodical – and thrust it into the back of a drawer, willing it to be gone with her dreams, back into the otherworld from whence it came.
Downstairs there was melon for breakfast – her favourite – and presents from her father and brother. ‘What do you want to do for your birthday?’ they asked.
‘Go back to London,’ she said. ‘For good.’
The battle was over, and now Nature was moving in to clean up. The early evening air was not cold enough to deter the flies which gathered around the hummocks of the dead; tiny crawling things invaded the chinks between jerkin and hauberk; rats, foxes, and wolves skirted the open ground, scenting a free feast. The smaller scavengers were bolder, the larger ones stayed under cover, where the fighting had spilled into the wood and bodies sprawled on the residue of last year’s autumn. Overhead, the birds arrived in force: red kites, ravens, carrion-crows, wheeling and swooping in to settle thickly on the huddled mounds. And here and there a living human scuttled from corpse to corpse, more furtive than bird or beast, plucking rings from fingers, daggers from wounds, groping among rent clothing for hidden purse or love-locket.
But one figure was not furtive. She came down from the crag where she had stood to view the battle, black-cloaked, head covered, long snakes of hair, raven-dark, escaping from the confines of her hood. Swiftly she moved across the killing ground, pausing occasionally to peer more closely at the dead, seeking a familiar face or faces among the silent horde. Her own remained unseen but her height, her rapid stride, her evident indifference to any lurking threat told their own tale. The looters shrank from her, skulking out of sight until she passed; a carrion-crow raised its head and gave a single harsh cry, as if in greeting. The setting sun, falling beneath the cloud-canopy of the afternoon, flung long shadows across the land, touching pallid brow and empty eye with reflected fire, like an illusion of life returning. And so she found one that she sought, under the first of the trees, his helmet knocked awry to leave his black curls tumbling free, his beautiful features limned with the day’s last gold. A deep thrust, probably from a broadsword, had pierced his armour and opened his belly, a side-swipe had half-severed his neck. She brushed his cheek with the white smooth fingertips of one who has never spun, nor cooked, nor washed her clothes. ‘You were impatient, as always,’ she said, and if there was regret in her voice, it was without tears. ‘You acted too soon. Folly. Folly and waste! If you had waited, all Britain would be under my hand.’ There was no one nearby to hear her, yet the birds ceased their gorging at her words, and the very buzzing of the flies was stilled.
Then she straightened up, and moved away into the wood. The lake lay ahead of her, gleaming between the trees. The rocky slopes beyond and the molten chasm of sunset between cloud and hill were reflected without a quiver in its unwrinkled surface. She paced the shore, searching. Presently she found a cushion of moss darkly stained, as if something had lain and bled there; a torn cloak was abandoned nearby, a dented shield, a crowned helm. The woman picked up the crown, twisting and turning it in her hands. Then she went to the lake’s edge and peered down, muttering secret words in an ancient tongue. A shape appeared in the water-mirror, inverted, a reflection where there was nothing to reflect. A boat, moving slowly, whose doleful burden she could not see, though she could guess, and sitting in the bows a woman with hair as dark as her own. The woman smiled at her from the depths of the illusion, a sweet, triumphant smile. ‘He is mine now,’ she said. ‘Dead or dying, he is mine forever.’ The words were not spoken aloud, but simply arrived in the watcher’s mind, clearer than any sound. She made a brusque gesture as if brushing something away, and the chimera vanished, leaving the lake as before.
‘What of the sword?’ she asked of the air and the trees; but no one answered. ‘Was it returned whence it came?’ She gave a mirthless laugh, hollow within the hood, and lifting the crown, flung it far out across the water. It broke the smooth surface into widening ripples, and was gone.
She walked off through the wood, searching no longer, driven by some other purpose. Now, the standing hills had swallowed the sunset, and dusk was snared in the branches of the trees. The shadows ran together, becoming one shadow, a darkness through which the woman strode without trip or stumble, unhesitating and unafraid. She came to a place where three trees met, tangling overhead, twig locked with twig in a wrestling match as long and slow as growth. It was a place at the heart of all wildness, deep in the wood, black with more than the nightfall. She stopped there, seeing a thickening in the darkness, the gleam of eyes without a face. ‘Morgus,’ whispered a voice which might have been the wind in the leaves, yet the night was windless, and ‘Morgus’ hollow as the earth’s groaning.
‘What do you want of me?’ she said, and even then, her tone was without fear.
‘You have lost,’ said the voice at the heart of the wood. ‘Ships are coming on the wings of storm, and the northmen with their ice-grey eyes and their snow-blond hair will sweep like winter over this island that you love. The king might have resisted them, but through your machinations he is overthrown, and the kingdom for which you schemed and murdered is broken. Your time is over. You must pass the Gate or linger in vain, clinging to old revenges, until your body withers and only your spirit remains, a thin grey ghost wailing in loneliness. I did not even have to lift my hand: you have given Britain to me.’
‘I have lost a battle,’ she said, ‘in a long war. I am not yet ready to die.’
‘Then live.’ The voice was gentled, a murmur that seemed to come from every