Beatrice took a pace back. The boy was mad, she was convinced. He shaped his lips to blow out another candle and the thing inside her, the jagged, barbed shape that crawled and slunk, began to howl, a dreadful keening note like a funeral lament.
‘What is that?’ said Snake in the Eye.
Beatrice had always fought it down. She knew now what she had done by that river, what had caused her fever. She had heard the rune howling and gone to the wall, tried to extinguish the candle that represented her life so she would no longer hear the call of the dread symbol. She had not managed it and had succumbed to fever and illness and dementia. Beatrice had tried to die but could not. That was before Loys, before love, and, faced by this awful boy, she wanted to live.
She no longer fought down the rune; she embraced it, opening her mind like a great sluice on a dam to allow what she had kept locked away to come bursting forth. The rune screamed and howled, raging like a cornered wolf. The trees stirred but not with the wind. Something was out there.
Snake in the Eye stared transfixed by the remaining candles in the wall. A low seething growl rumbled from the woods, a pure animal voice of threat that speaks to ancient fears and commands complete attention in a heartbeat.
There from the trees came Azemar, but it was not Azemar. Beatrice saw a man, but the idea in her mind was that of a wolf. Then she saw it, a great grizzled black thing, its eyes a shining green, its voice low with threat.
Snake in the Eye pointed at the wall. ‘There is no light here for the wolf,’ he said. ‘If you have drawn it here, lady, I do bid you send it away or I can snuff out your lamp as easily as any of the others.’
‘I am no one’s to command,’ said the wolf and its voice was like an avalanche.
Snake in the Eye backed away down the path, retreating from the wall.
‘Go,’ said the wolf who was Azemar and — Beatrice had one of those strange ideas that only exist in dreams — several other people too.
‘I could fight you,’ said Snake in the Eye. ‘I-’
The wolf sprang at the boy, knocking him to the ground, roaring into his face, his lips pulled back over his great teeth.
‘I am not free,’ said the wolf, ‘and you are not yet whole.’
‘I am a man as good as any.’
‘You will find the waters. You will find the well. You will pass over the bridge of light to find a place where you will die a meaningful death.’
The wolf released the boy and backed away from Beatrice.
‘Who are you?’ said Beatrice to the wolf.
‘Your killer,’ said the wolf, ‘time and again through many lives.’
‘Am I to die?’
‘I am bound, fettered and bound.’
‘You are free, sir.’
‘I send forth my mind to travel the nine worlds. Release me from the rock where the slaughter gods bound me and release yourself from your eternal suffering.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Ask rather, who are you, lady?’
‘Then who am I?’
‘Of many births the Norns must be,
Nor one in race they were;
Some to gods, others to elves are kin,
And Dvalin’s daughters some.’
‘Don’t talk in riddles. Who am I?’
‘A dream of a god. A dream of one greater than the gods. You spin the fates of men and gods.’
‘I am a woman, born of a woman, and I will die a woman.’
‘You lead me to my fate and only you can keep me from it.’
‘How should I help you?’
‘Release me. At the well and from there to beyond the bridge of light.’
‘Lady Beatrice!’
Behind her was Styliane, her eyes wide with fear.
Images rushed in on Beatrice — she saw herself as she had been before, in lives past. She was a country girl by a low hut, drying herbs on its roof in the sun; she was a lady dressed in man’s armour, fleeing beneath spring skies; she was something she did not understand, someone who had once carried the bright chiming symbols she had seen around that murderous boy by the river, a woman walking in a wood holding the hand of a man who she had known in lives before and would know in lives again. Azemar, the wolf, her killer.
‘Lady, come away from this place. We should not have come here.’ Styliane tugged at her, trying to pull her away.
She heard the snarl of the wolf and its voice, low and furious.
‘She is mine in lives past, present and future, and I will never let you take her!’
‘Azemar, no!’ said Beatrice, but it was too late. The wolf rounded on Styliane, Beatrice leaped to protect her, and the world went dark.
On the platform of the lighthouse tower Beatrice came back to herself. Her two companions lay flat; the coals of the fire burned dim. The moon had gone and the night was black again, the only light from the dim beacon.
She stood and had to put a hand to the wall for balance. Her head swam. She retched and stood panting for a while. She went to Arrudiya. The woman was dead, cold already. Styliane was warm and breathing but Beatrice couldn’t rouse her.
She sat down and sobbed. What was happening to her? Then she regained control. Styliane needed help. Beatrice leaned over the parapet of the tower. The boat still bobbed by the quay. She went to the top of the ladder and shouted down, ‘Get up here now. The lady needs your help.’
The slaves hurried up as Beatrice leaned on the wall for support, looking across at the night lights of Constantinople. She had seen enough in the dream to convince her Azemar was a demon. When she got back to the palace, she would cut his throat.
36
Guards bearing torches and swords marched under the black sky down the broad avenue. Loys tore ahead of them with his lamp down the Middle Way to warn the soothsayers of the purge. He shook them awake from their places in porches and alleys, screaming at them to get up and run. The wild women and fortune tellers, the casters of bones and the penny wizards cursed him and told him to leave them alone until they saw the soldiers coming. Then they fled for the city gates.
Next Loys ran to the hospital, the chamberlain’s words haunting him: We’re running out of time.
The chamberlain clearly believed the strange happenings had a purpose and, more than that, that they were building towards something. Loys thought too of those words that had come to him when he had spoken to Snake in the Eye. Thou believest that there is one God; thou doest well: the devils also believe, and tremble.
God’s protection had not worked in the church. Loys shivered. What if this was not a visitation from the devil but from God, chiding his flock for their sins? What did the Bible say — the Book of Revelation? First would come a rider on a white horse. He would come as a king and a conqueror. Well, Basileios fitted that description, though so did many warrior kings throughout history. Then would come War on a red horse. There had been plenty of war. Next Famine on his black horse. Such cold could not be good for the crops. Finally Death would ride in on his pale horse. The souls of the martyrs would cry out for vengeance beneath the altar. The faces of the corpses in Hagia Sophia loomed in his mind.
