Wildlord, page 12
Slowly, the layout and shape of the room formed itself in his mind. Each object shone with an inner radiance.
He sensed Jack’s imprint on every single one of them; that dark, combative energy. On some he could feel Kit’s cold, though sweeter, touch.
‘What are we looking for?’ In his mind he reached out to one of the glistening crystal spheres; but he was surprised when Zita pulled him back.
‘Don’t – don’t leave any evidence.’
‘Are we looking for something Samdhya?’
‘Yes – if you can feel them. Something that’s different, not Kit or me or Jack.’
He searched. ‘I don’t think it’s here.’
They went upstairs. Tom remembered the last time he’d gone up, and how the house itself had seemed to throw him into confusion.
The passageway darkened as they entered the narrow attic stairway.
You almost had to crawl up the final three stairs, and then you entered the corridor.
‘Seven doors,’ said Tom. ‘Seven now! And not much time.’
‘You start that way, I’ll go this.’
Tom went to the right, to the first door. It opened easily, and he came into a room, bare except for a narrow single bed, a small wooden bedside table, a curtain flapping at the open window, and, sitting on the bed, his father.
‘Hello, old thing,’ said his father, looking up from a newspaper. He hadn’t shaved, so it must be a Saturday, and he was wearing an old grey shirt and some flannel trousers. His sleeves were rolled up. He folded the paper neatly, as he always did when Tom came to him to ask him for things, and put it aside on the bed.
‘I was just reading a fascinating piece about Iran.’
‘Daddy?’ Tom stepped forwards into the room. Suddenly he was nine again. He felt as if he were standing on the edge of a cliff. One push and he would be over.
‘What do you think we should do today, old thing? I thought we could go play some tennis? Then have some lunch in the park café? I know you like knickerbocker glories!’
‘That sounds … that sounds great, Daddy.’
‘Extra marshmallows, old chap!’
Tom stepped nearer to the bed. There was a hunger in his stomach and his mouth was dry. His father was here.
His father had never died, it was all a trick. This whole thing had been a trick, leading him here, to this house. His father was a Swinton, after all. This was his house as much as it was James’s.
‘Daddy! I’m here. I missed you.’
‘And after the park maybe we’ll go home and play some pool?’
Tom paused. His father wasn’t responding to him as if he hadn’t seen him for five years. Something else was going on. The sense of the vastness of the drop over the cliff engulfed him. Was there anything at the bottom, or was it just blackness?
‘What’s the matter, Tom? You look worried about something. Is it school?’
‘No, Daddy, it’s nothing. I’m just …’
‘Why don’t you come and give your old father a hug?’
Tom was about to do so, when he noticed his father’s eyes.
They were not quite blue, as his father’s had been. Instead they were grey, and misty wreaths passed over them. The whole figure seemed indeed to be slightly blurry at the edges, as if at any minute Tom might blow on him and send him away.
It was an apparition. A wraith.
Jack must have created it. Tom clenched his fists, his nails scoring into his palms.
‘I … you’re not my father.’
‘What are you saying, Tom?’ The apparition stood up. He noticed it was willowy now. He shouldn’t have been convinced by this thing.
‘You’re not my father!’
Wildly, Tom prepared himself for contact as the apparition strode towards him. Putting his arms up, he closed his eyes, and a cold force slid all round him. He gathered together as much energy as he could within him, and sent it out in a huge burst.
When he opened his eyes, the apparition had gone and there was not even a newspaper on the bed.
Sadness welled up within him, but he pushed it aside. He had to stay alert and clear-headed. It was the only way.
Tom shut his eyes and focused all his attention on the objects in the room. There was the bed, there the walls, behind him the door. All he wanted now was to run out of that door and away.
But he could not.
He sent his mind out. Nothing in the room emanated any energy at all, apart from a box on the bed, which seemed to be where the apparition had come from; and that bore the mark of Jack.
When Tom opened his eyes, the apparition was back where it had been, reading its newspaper. It looked up.
‘Hello, old thing,’ it said, folding the newspaper and putting it aside.
Tom backed away, slammed the door shut and, panting, stood with his back against the door. Leana was on the landing.
‘Any sign of him?’
The dog, as if she understood what he was asking, did not move.
He was mightily relieved when the doorknob didn’t rattle.
‘Zita?’ he called.
He heard her answer from the room next door, and, half afraid, half nervous, he sidled in.
It was just as bare as the other, with another narrow bed, a bedside table next to it and a wooden chair on bare white boards. Tom wondered when was the last time someone had slept in any of these rooms. Cobwebs hung in the corners, and the glass on the windows was grimy.
Zita was draped across the bed, elbow propped up on a pillow, and Tom was surprised to see that she was wearing what appeared to be a nightgown. The feather boa was also wrapped around her neck, and a headband with three sleek black feathers sat on her carefully coiffed hair.
‘Oh, Tommy dearest,’ she said. ‘You’ve found me a little deshabillée. Won’t you share a cocktail with me? I’ve got some new recipes.’
‘Now? We’ve got to find this thing. Any luck in here?’
‘I found one called a Harvey Wallbanger. Sounds remarkable, doesn’t it?’
‘Zita – not now. Can you see anything in here? Is there anything in the drawer?’ He rattled the handle, but there was nothing in it apart from some old bits of string and a paperclip.
‘Do you think it makes you bang your head against the wall? I can’t think why else they’d call it that.’
Tom was poking around in the cobwebs. Nothing.
‘I promise I won’t hurt you. Come, Tommy. Sit down next to me. Tell me all your secrets. You must have some. Everybody keeps something to themselves.’
Zita was still looking at him with the same demeanour. Tom went to sit next to her, and she stroked his cheek with her finger. An electric sensation passed over him.
‘Zita …’
‘Hush, now, Tommy boy,’ she whispered. ‘No need to say anything. I know what you want. My beautiful Tommy.’
The door burst open.
Framed in the doorway was Zita, the real Zita. She looked worried, and her expression changed into one of great relief when she saw Tom.
‘Tommy, don’t!’
He sprang away from the bed.
‘You’re all right!’
The apparition dissolved into shreds of mist.
‘Better check this room quickly.’ Tom closed his eyes, sensing the room unfold in his mind’s eye; all of it was brimming with energy, but it was Jack’s alone.
‘Come on, I’ve looked at four of them. How many have you done?’
‘Just two.’
‘What are these things?’ Tom said, as they closed the door behind them.
‘Glamours of memory, of desire, all sorts of glamours. He knows what he’s doing, Jack! I don’t know what we’ll find in the final room.’
‘What was in the others? What did you see?’
Zita went pink. ‘One day, darling boy, you’ll be old enough for me to tell you.’
The final room was under the eaves in the western corner of the house. Leana was sitting on the landing, as motionless as a stone statue of a dog guarding a doorstep. Only the very ends of her whiskers were twitching, as if she were sensing the air. Tom wondered if the dog were as gifted as Zita and Kit.
The door, like the others, was latched. Tom lifted up the latch quietly.
They stood for a second on the threshold, and Tom found his hand grazing Zita’s, and her fingers curled round his.
He and Zita went through together.
They found themselves in a darkened room. The curtains were closed, and the window too. There was a double bed tucked into the far side, and a heavy, ancient wardrobe.
Someone was asleep on the bed, breathing quietly.
‘Is that her?’ Tom moved closer. ‘Could that be the Captive?’
Zita looked nonplussed. ‘I just … I just don’t know.’
They edged nearer the bed.
Their eyes were growing accustomed to the gloom. It was strangely quiet, and Tom could not even hear the sound of traffic.
On the bed was a young man, lying on his back, in a deep sleep.
His features looked surprisingly like Tom’s.
‘My God,’ whispered Tom. ‘I can’t go any closer.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know. It’s like there’s a forcefield around him.’ Then he realised: ‘It’s him. It’s Jack.’
Tom sent his mind out into the room.
Almost immediately he sensed something different.
It was under the bed, the gleam of something weird, untamed, pure and ancient, blocked and hedged around by powerful dark strands of Jack’s energy.
Zita had found it too. They opened their eyes and stared at each other.
‘Can you get nearer?’
Zita tried, but in the same way as it had Tom, an invisible barrier blocked her from nearing the bed.
‘We’ll need to take it apart,’ she said. ‘Can you feel it?’
‘Yes – it’s Jack. It’s strong.’ He felt the barrier. It was very much like the wards around the farm. ‘I think I know how this works. I think I can break it apart.’
‘It’ll take a lot of energy.’
‘I’ll start.’ Tom gritted his teeth and inspected the wall of energy. Here and there were little faults and bumps and knots. Jack clearly hadn’t strengthened the wards around it in a while.
Gently, Tom sent out some power into one of the faults.
Almost immediately, the sleeping young man shifted, snorted, groaned in his sleep.
As if in answer, Leana started to bark, the short, sharp noise that meant someone was coming; Zita and Tom fled the room as fast as they could.
The lurcher was already waiting for them at the edge of the landing. They needed no further warning.
‘Can you send yourself?’
Zita looked alarmed. ‘I don’t think we have time …’
Leaping down the stairs, Tom caught sight of Jack through the window, pacing back over the bridge, followed by Kit, who was dawdling as much as he was able to do so. Kit stumbled, and Jack turned irritably to help him.
Within half a minute, Tom and Zita were in the kitchen, and Zita had put an apron on, and Tom was busy peeling potatoes as if he’d been doing it for the past ten minutes.
Leana flopped down on her bed and gave a huge, blustery sigh.
‘… rather a good bit, actually,’ said Zita, as the door burst open. ‘I’ve always liked Jane Austen, even the twentieth time through …’ The kitchen immediately felt smaller, and Jack swept in, pausing only to glance at Zita and Tom.
‘Wards are good. Good work by you, Thomas Swinton. Strong.’ He glared around the room. ‘Zita, I need you in my rooms. Come.’
‘But I’m just telling Tom about the book I’m reading. He’ll be longing to hear the end, won’t you, Tommy boy?’
Tom managed to force his expression into a smile. ‘Yes, I’d like to read it after Zita.’ Inside he was trembling. His mouth was dry. Would Jack be able to sense that they’d been up in the attic? That they’d triggered some of his traps? Worse, that Tom had started trying to bring the wards down?
Jack left, Zita behind him. She turned and winked at Tom.
Kit, hovering in the doorway, looked at him, the question evident in his face.
‘How was it?’ Tom whispered.
Kit checked the kitchen door was shut and came closer to Tom. He spoke in a low voice. ‘Master says the wards be strong enough.’
Tom nodded. ‘I think I know where the beglamoured object is. But how to get it … that’s going to be hard.’
‘We maun do it, Tom. We maun.’ Once more Tom was blasted by the pain and sorrow in Kit’s eyes. Tom wondered when was the last time anyone had held Kit, and so he took the silver-haired boy into his arms, and soon Kit began to sob.
He wept for a long time, and when he had finished, he looked up, grateful.
‘I did love him once. Master. But then he desired the Samdhya … it was more’n I could bear. It ain’t right. It ain’t natural. I ain’t natural. I should’a been dead, in the earth, my soul wi’ my God, my flesh eaten by worms.’
Leana too came to offer her sympathy and pressed her wet nose into Kit’s hand.
‘We’ll get him, Kit. I promise you.’
‘Upon thy honour?’ Once more that ancient voice was coming back through, the ancient words, the glimpses of what Kit had been, so long ago.
‘On my honour.’ Tom squeezed Kit’s hand. ‘And on my mother and father.’
This seemed to satisfy Kit, and the boy stood. There was a look of gratitude in his eyes, and he straightened himself, returning to his tasks, leaving Tom alone in the kitchen, his mind spinning with plans.
Chapter 15
Our minds break through the ramparts of the universe.
— From the Sayings of the Samdhya, transcribed by Margaret Ravenswood
When Kit had gone, Tom paced around the kitchen, making endless cups of tea and tearing at crusts of bread with his teeth, hardly bothering to spread them with butter. The afternoon light was clear, and the woods and fields outside seemed still; the horse was quietly grazing in the home field, and the water in the moat was mirror-like.
Tanenwod had told Tom not to sound the flute again. Even so, he carried it around with him in his pocket, liking the feel of its simplicity, the care that had gone into its making, liking the fact that it connected him to her. He wondered if she had used it, if some of her breath had gone into it; perhaps she had made it herself, those beautiful fingers shaping and carving the wood.
Zita appeared in the kitchen at dinner time. She seemed worn, black shadows under her eyes. Yet she still retained her impish spark, her eyes darting at Tom.
‘He’s asked me to make more healing draughts,’ she said, nibbling at a boiled potato with a delicacy which only she was capable of. ‘I think he might be worried about this attack.’
‘That’s good – it plays to our advantage.’ Tom could not eat anything himself. His stomach was alive with nerves. ‘We need to get back up to the attic, and to that room.’
‘That was Jack, wasn’t it? But was it Jack’s actual self? Or was it a past version of himself? Or a sending? He must be very powerful if it is a sending. I’d be exhausted if I was doing a permanent sending. It takes enough out of me to do one.’
‘You know more about these things than I do, Zita,’ said Tom. ‘I just want to know how we can get past him.’
‘I’ll work on it,’ said Zita. ‘You see what you can find too.’
‘I’ll have a look in the books. There might be something in Margaret’s diary.’
Zita reached out and stroked his cheek. The kettle boiled and hissed, and Tom rushed to take it off. When he’d done it, she stood near him.
‘This has to happen, Tommy dearest. It has to.’
Tom held her hand for a second and then released it.
In the hall, the clock struck half past seven.
A few minutes later, Tom was heading up to the library, Leana at his heels, when a rasping voice called his name.
It was Jack, of course, standing at the top of the stairs, seeming to occupy far more space than was necessary. He loomed, half in shadow, and turned on his heel.
‘Thomas Swinton. Come.’
There was a command in the voice that brooked no dissent. Tom had to follow.
‘It’s time,’ said Jack, as he sat behind his desk, ‘for me to show you what you want to see. What you have always wanted to see. I have watched you, Thomas. I have seen you, wanting.’
He waited. But Tom did not answer. He did not want to let Jack know that he was right. He stood with his arms folded in front of his chest, almost as if he were hugging himself.
‘You think you can play with me? Very well. But I know what it is. Your parents. The death of your parents.’
Tom remained mute. He knew he could not accept this. If he did, he would be Jack’s creature, for eternity, like Zita, like Kit. He would be bound to the old man. His indentured apprentice, his bondsman.
‘It is time,’ said Jack, ‘for me to show you who you are and what you must do.’
‘Why?’ said Tom. ‘Why must I do it?’
Jack said, ‘Turn around.’
He indicated the glass structure which was hanging from the ceiling.
‘Go and look in it.’
Stumbling a little, Tom inched towards the structure. Once more he felt odd and slightly queasy when he neared it, as if it wasn’t quite filling up the space it was supposed to.
‘What do you see inside?’
Tom saw his own reflection, brow furrowed, eyes wide, staring back at him, and Jack behind him, glowering.
‘I see myself. And you.’
‘And anything else?’
In the far corner of the glass box something was fluttering. Something white and pale. Something that was forming into the shape of a person, black-haired, dark-eyed.
Tom focused fully on the form.
She came to the edge of the structure and tapped, eyes wide. They were separated by a thin sheet of glass. But by how much power?
Zita. It was Zita.
She was trapped. Trapped, inside the glass box. She spoke his name, and he could hear her, although her voice was distorted and came as if from far away.
