Chapter forty

Coven Headquarters, Neman Forest

  

They blinked to the beacon at six in the morning. Bronwyn greeted them grumpily and told them that she could guarantee them thirty minutes but no more. Then she rushed off to intercept her sister. Kathleen’s face fell.

‘This seems so wrong’ she said

Owen frowned at her. He completely agreed with her, but now was not the time to say so.

‘Which bit of it?’ he asked

‘Making Bron fool her sister. She really hates doing it…’

‘We’re doing it for Celia’

‘I know’ sighed Kathleen, ‘and this may be the only way to find her…’

They had discussed this endlessly, the best friend and the boyfriend. If anyone had a duty to help her it fell to them.  They both knew, however, the potential consequences of duping and defying the coven’s second-in-command. And that was without the possible consequences of the magical act itself.

‘We need to get on’ muttered Owen.  

They were standing in the open area in the middle of the walled garden. It was here that the Sigla stood, the wide flat rock onto which the twins chalked the communication pentangles. They were very exposed.   

‘Do you know which way to go?’ asked Kathleen

Owen nodded and moved off. He sped across the lawn so fast that she found it hard to keep up. He pulled a small notepad out of his pocket.

‘What’s that?’ asked Kathleen, breathlessly. She was a short woman and no runner.

‘It’s a map. I made it from the information I got from my adail’

Owen made for the nearest door in the complex. It was early and there were few people around. There was no reason to worry about anyone except Gwyneth anyway – they were both councillors and no-one would challenge them.

They had to follow the route exactly as remembered using the adail spell. They went round in a circle three times and doubled back on themselves, but eventually they found a room filled with discarded furniture in an unused area of the domestic block. Half hidden behind a large table were some old stairs. Neither of them had seen them before and they would never have thought to look for anything there. Kathleen looked suspicious.

‘No door – are you sure this is right?’

‘Yes – there’s no need for a door in a room as cluttered as this’

Owen started down the stairs. Kathleen followed, looking behind her every few steps.    

At the bottom of the stairs there was a closed wooden door.

‘It’s witch-locked’ whispered Owen

He let her push past him. She tried the door and when it wouldn’t open she took out a small phial from her jacket pocket.

‘Will it work?’ he asked anxiously. Her reply was full of professional judgement.

‘Yes – Gwyneth’s witch-locks are pretty simple. It’s not one of her stronger points…’

She shook the phial gently and then pulled out its stopper. The end of the phial had a dropper, and she tipped the bottle so that a drop of the yellow liquid fell on the door handle. The drop formed a little fluorescent patch on the metal handle. It spread out rapidly over the whole door, giving it a pale glowing sheen. There was a whirring sound inside the door and several clicks. The door swung open with something that sounded uncannily like a sigh.  

They stared up at each other both with the same horrible thought.

‘Was that her voice?’ Kathleen gasped

Owen shook his head, but his eyes said possibly.

They pulled the door to and hurried over to the font, its shimmering lights drawing them in. The light from the font was enough to guide their way. Kathleen stood for a moment staring at the coloured cells.

‘Which is mine?’ she asked, softly.

Owen scanned across the surface of the liquid and pointed to a deep purple patch, small but intense.

‘Why purple?’ whispered Kathleen.

Owen glared at her and shook his head.

‘Not now’ he hissed. He put his hand high up above Celia’s pure bright white cell.

‘We need to cast the spell as soon as we can…’

Kathleen forced herself to look at the white cell. She leant over and took Owen’s hand. She began the adail spell. Owen jerked as the spell connection surged though him and then he placed his hand as close as he dared to Celia’s light.

Kathleen, as the spell caster, felt her world shrink until it was as if she were trapped in a cupboard. Nothing from the outside came in. For Owen, however, the world had become large and obvious. It was time to read the intense white and try to find his beloved in it. He was as good at this as anyone who lived and he knew that if someone could find Celia’s trace it would be he.

The spell swelled into his mind like a fanfare played on an orchestra of trumpets. All around him he could now feel the vague shapes of things – things that were neither dead nor alive. A babble of noise swarmed around them, like a hundred voices talking in as many languages. None of the words seemed to mean anything, however. These were shades or spirits, things that had once been, existed still perhaps, or might one day be. He knew that that only death magic could have conjured up these things. This was even more dangerous than he had thought – somehow Gwyneth had extracted fragments of the coveners’ souls and she had left them lying naked here to allow herself to monitor them.  The spirits seemed to have been drawn to these tiny exposed pools of life spirit, as a maybug to a lantern in a window.   

He hoped that Kathleen had seen none of this, deep in her cramped spell space. Later, perhaps, he would talk to Gwyneth and persuade her to shut the dreadful thing down, but now he had to try to find Celia. He still wasn’t close enough – the thaumic noise was drowning out any sign of her. He glanced at Kathleen – her face was strained and beads of sweat were forming on her brow – she wouldn’t be able to carry on much longer.  He shuddered and plunged his hand deeply into the white cell. The pain was sudden and intense, but it was quickly done. Then he could sense her as if she were holding him. He could taste her trace, like a sweet patch on the tip of his tongue. His longing for her became the only thing in his universe.  He fixed on it, shouted ‘Amranta’ and blinked away.

He was far too eager – he had not thought through the consequences of his actions. His connection to Kathleen had not been broken and his spell triggered Kathleen’s own teleport – probably the worst spell in her repertoire. Both of them disappeared, but they were heading to different destinations.

 

***

Gwyneth had been looking for a missing spell book with Bronwyn in her sister’s room when she sensed that something had gone wrong. She felt the magic drain immediately: her head throbbed and her stomach ached as if it were empty. She looked up at Bronwyn and saw her turn pale and drop the books she was searching through. Something had happened and whatever it was must be close by.

‘Bron’ she barked, ‘what is going on?’

Her twin made no attempt to cover up. ‘It’s Owen and Kathleen…’ she moaned, ‘I’m so sorry – they must have done something very dangerous’

Gwyneth mood, which had been stirred into irritation by Bronwyn’s story about her mislaying the spell book, erupted into fury.

‘What have they done?’ she snarled, ‘and where, by the gods, are they?’

She stopped for a second to stride up close to her twin.

‘And even more importantly – what have you done?’

Bronwyn’s eyes were wild with pricking tears.

‘I tricked you… I’m so sorry… I thought it would be safe; Owen is usually so careful…’

Gwyneth understood immediately.

‘The font!’ she shouted, ‘you bloody fools!’

She ran through the complex and down to the cellar at extraordinary speed. She didn’t pause until she stood in its doorway.  

The font was belching light from every cell. Dark writhing shapes floated like huge dust motes in the incandescence. They were barely visible even in the coruscating light, but as she watched their hues and shapes became clearer: they looked like the sort of immature creatures that she had once seen, at the sea’s edge, in a mermaid’s purse. She shuddered and her involuntary movements took her a few hesitant steps into the room.    

‘Those idiots have broken the seal’ she called out to no-one in particular. Bronwyn only arrived a few seconds later. She had not seen the font before and she hesitated at the door, dazzled by the mad swirl of colours.

‘What’s it doing’ she asked, ‘and what’s that horrible noise?’  

‘I have no idea’ answered Gwyneth, ‘but I’m not taking any risks. We need to replace the seal…’

Bronwyn stared at the dark shapes that twisted in the light that was now pouring out of the font.  They hovered in the air and some were now unfolding dark membranous wings.  Black, strange things were being born in the air. 

‘What are those?’

Gwyneth’s mouth thinned to a line.

‘I have no idea… but we need to get rid of them… ’

She could feel the effects already – her breath was a little more laboured; her limbs felt a little heavier. She had created a feeding trough for thirsty spirits and Owen had opened it wide for their greedy mouths. She cursed him inwardly but more than that she cursed herself. They had both committed a grave folly; but hers had been the gravest.

Bronwyn staggered backwards – the light and heat were almost unbearable. Gwyneth knew that there was only one possibility; they would have to snuff out the lights without snuffing out the witches, themselves included. How though?

Bronwyn retreated further, her hands up against her eyes. Gwyneth struggled to stay looking at the chaotic kaleidoscope and the wild wings above it. She looked back imploringly at her sister.

‘Bron’ she shouted, ‘what should we do?’

 Bronwyn muttered something and then fled. Gwyneth was left surrounded by the agony of light. She had no idea how Angharad had sealed the font. The best that she could hope to do was to tackle the spirits.

As they fed they grew in size and began to assume more recognisable shapes: they seemed to be humanoid in form if not in size and each one had huge wings. They clustered over the font stealing magic in a bid to become real. The chatter of their inchoate voices had turned into a roar. She was sure that they now had faces and mouths and that their cries had become real.

Gwyneth fell to the floor – the pain in her head had become unbearable.  She had been betrayed and abandoned by her sister and she was sure that they all would die. She must try something though, if only she could think of a spell to counter these abominations…

Bronwyn cluttered back in the room. It looked to Gwyneth as if she were clothed in darkness – she clutched in her hands some dark magic force that seemed to suck up the light as she advanced with it. She staggered forward and threw the black force over the font. Everything was engulfed in welcome darkness.  The voices stopped at once. 

Gwyneth scrambled up from the floor, her head clearing. Bronwyn lit the lantern that hung by the door. The sudden light revealed a dark shroud that lay over the font, its surface covered with strange symmetrical patterns. Where had Bronwyn found an item of such power?

‘What is that?’ asked Gwyneth. She had never seen anything like it before.

Bronwyn paused for a second and stared at her sister blankly.

‘It’s the old tablecloth from the big dining room…’

Gwyneth examined the shroud more carefully. The arcane patterns were just the remains of some rose designs that had worn down over the years.  She sat down on the floor, no longer angry at anyone.

‘I’m so sorry, Gwyn’ whispered Bronwyn, ‘I had no idea what would happen…’

Gwyneth shook her head.  

‘Don’t apologise; it’s unnecessary. We’ve all been ridiculously feckless and unthinking, but most of the fault lies with me. Owen was right – I should never have designed the font; Angharad should never have agreed to help me build it; I should never have revealed its existence to John; he should never have told Owen about it; you and Kathleen should never have helped Owen. If we start blaming it may go on forever…’

Bronwyn sat down next to her on the floor. The light of the lantern showed nothing around them expect the grey walls of the cellar.

‘Where are they?’ she asked, ‘where are Katy and Owen?’

‘I have no idea’ muttered Gwyneth, gesturing to the font, ‘but they were still alive two minutes ago…’

‘True’ said Bronwyn, ‘at least that’s one good thing’

‘Well, it depends where they’ve gone…’

Bronwyn nodded. Gwyneth took her hand. Gwyneth felt the prick of tears behind her eyes

‘I thought you’d run away’ she said.

Bronwyn squeezed her hand.

‘I’d never do that… I thought that you would know that…’

But you deceived me thought Gwyneth, but felt unable to speak it out loud.  She rarely reflected on how much she needed her sister, but this had been a painful lesson. Her mistake had been not to share this secret from the start – Bronwyn would have had none of it.

‘Clever idea – the tablecloth’ she admitted, a little grudgingly, ‘I would never have thought of something so simple and yet so effective…’

Bronwyn smiled, just a flicker on her worried face. She let go of Gwyneth’s hand, got up and straightened her skirt.

‘We used to hang it against the window in the playroom – to turn it into a cave. Don’t you remember?’

Gwyneth remembered the dark room and the ghost stories. This had been like a real ghost story.

‘Yes, of course I remember… Useful training after all’

Bronwyn shook her head and frowned.

‘Well, you never were all that good at playing, Gwyn… I had to make up all the stories…’

Gwyneth’s anger flared again inside her, but she kept it to herself.

‘No time for that now’

This stopped Bronwyn’s timid irritation dead.

‘What should we do?’ she asked.

Gwyneth jumped to her feet and gestured at the covered font. 

‘First, we tell John everything that’s happened; second, we look out for Owen and Katy’s traces; third, we get Angharad to shut that bloody thing down’

There was a moment when they both stared at the font. Then Gwyneth made for the door.

‘This is the Enemies’ fault, you know’ said Bronwyn as her sister passed her, ’They are ultimately responsible…’

Gwyneth’s anger surfaced briefly.

‘Nonsense – that’s just something we tell ourselves to make ourselves feel better’

Her sister stood motionless, looking like a good schoolgirl being told off for something she hadn’t done. Gwyneth felt her anger subside and a sliver of guilt spear her. She knew that she should say something to soften her words but ‘come along now – I need you to chalk the pentangle’ was all she could manage.