Running a hand through his hair, he nodded and moved to stand in front of Jenny. It felt as if sadness must fill every part of her, but still she smiled, for his sake, and that broke his heart. ‘It seems you have won this battle of wits,’ he said, grinning, for her sake.
Her eyes sparkled as she held his gaze for a long moment. No words were necessary. Then slowly her face hardened with the weight of her responsibility. She glanced up to the heavens. ‘You know what you must do.’
His chest tightened. He understood; it was what he had long planned. But with all of them free and sailing home to England; never like this. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I cannot. Leaving you behind is torment enough.’
‘If we are meant to be together, Will Swyfte, we will find a way.’
It felt too final, as if he were consigning her to the cold earth, but he knew she would never change her mind. ‘No ocean is too wide, no walls too strong, no danger too great. I will be back for you, Jenny.’ With trembling fingers, he felt under his shirt for the locket he had worn against his skin since Deortha had first dropped it in order to lure him here. Removing it, he gently fastened it round her slim neck, as he had done that day when they had sealed their love so long ago. ‘Wear this as I wore it: to remind you never to lose hope. Cradle it in your hands every night and know that I will be searching for a way back to you. Know that one day we will be together again.’
Her eyes glistened. Bowing, he took her hand and kissed the back of it. When he raised his head, they held each other’s gaze as they struggled to suppress all the hurt and the yearning, and then he took a step back and nodded. ‘Soon,’ he said.
‘Soon,’ she replied. She closed her eyes for a moment, and slowly her face transformed into that of a ruler, a Queen. Then she turned away from Will, from her sister, from Meg, Carpenter and Launceston, and walked back towards the labyrinth. Heads bowed in deference, the Hunters parted to let her through, and then turned to follow her. Will watched until he could see her no more.
When Grace reached out a hand to comfort him, he shook his head. ‘We are done here,’ he said, each word rolling out like a pebble falling upon wood. ‘But this is not yet over.’ Taking his bearings, he ignored the questioning gazes and moved to the trees. Looking up, he caught a glimpse of their destination through a gap in the canopy, and broke into a run. By force of will, he drove all his churning emotions deep inside him. Completing the task he’d set himself was now his sole aim. A memorial to Jenny.
The Tower of the Moon soared up through the trees, a cold sliver of grey stone with a bright white light burning at the summit. At its base, he halted to catch his breath and waited for the others. Meg was the first to arrive. ‘Whatever plan has gripped you, take care. I fear for you.’ Her voice was warm with concern.
‘You worry needlessly,’ he replied, his face betraying no emotion. ‘Stay here and ensure our Enemy does not have a change of heart.’
‘Where do you go?’
In reply, he simply raised his hand and pointed to the top of the tower high overhead.
Before the others had caught up and could question him further, he began to circle the base of the structure. As far as he could tell, there was no entrance. Only a series of stone footholds barely a finger’s length wide protruded from the walls, spiralling up towards the top. Setting down his rapier, he took off his boots to get a better grip and hauled himself on to the lowest step. Pressing himself tight against the wall, he felt for small clefts that seemed to have been made as fingerholds. The others called out, urging him not to risk such a precarious climb, but his head felt numb and their words faded away. Gingerly, he shifted his weight from one step to the next, and then the next.
As he clawed his way around the tower, his nose wrinkled at the smell of the warm stone against his cheek, and the wet-wood aromas of the forest, and the hint of brine on the breeze blowing in from the coast. Sweat slicked his body in the day’s heat. He balanced on the precarious footholds, clutching on to the wall until his finger joints screamed with pain. When he sensed the quality of light change as he rose above the treetops, the bird-cries rang in his ears as the shadows swooped across him.
And higher still he climbed, into a world of grey stone, blue sky and golden sunlight. He felt the suck of the dizzying drop as the wind tugged at his limbs, and the queasy twist in the pit of his stomach, but not for a moment did he look down. His legs and arms shook. The slightest misstep would send him plunging to his death. But then a soft white glow enveloped him and he realized he was nearing the summit.
A moment later he hauled himself over the edge, and rolled on to his back, filling his tight chest with clear, sweet and untainted air. He blinked, unable to see the sky any more for the moonlike luminescence. Yet it was not a harsh light; he felt as though he was swathed in down. Something about this strange light reached inside him and plucked at his grief, and for a moment he felt overwhelmed by the sense of loss and despair. He shook himself, gritted his teeth and clambered to his feet. He would not give in.
The top of the tower was flat and fixed upon it was an iron plinth topped by a blue-green copper bowl. In it, what seemed like a glass sphere the distance of fingertip to elbow in diameter floated an inch above the surface, turning slowly. It was from this that the white light washed out.
Will leaned over it, studying the gently pulsing light, but as he reached a hand across the bowl the light wavered, then dimmed. Now was the moment. Steeling himself, he gripped the glass globe between his hands. His skin tingled at its strange, almost living flesh-like warmth. One act to change the world, he thought. One act to save England. One act to break his heart.
And he wrenched the sphere away from the bowl in a fizz of golden sparks and in a single movement hurled it over the edge of the tower. The soothing, pale light swept down in the globe’s wake and he was left with a view across that verdant corner of the New World and the shadowy world beyond. A veil appeared to be hanging above the labyrinth from horizon to horizon. Through the shimmering haze, he could just discern the black bulk of Manoa, still turning against a fiery sky, but as he watched the mist slipped away, and with it all sight of the Unseelie Court’s strange, twisted world.
The door upon the Fay had been slammed shut. In their crepuscular land, cut off from the realm of man, the Unseelie Court could scheme and fight among themselves until the stars fell from the heavens. And what few of the damnable Fey still moved among mortals would be lost here.
Will heaved in a deep breath, still peering towards the blue horizon as though he could pierce that veil by will alone. And he blinked away the tears.
And somewhere the loneliest woman in all Christendom sat upon a golden throne, trapped in a world not her own and without end.
Jenny had given up everything to save this world, and beyond the few of them there, no one would ever know of her courage. Her sacrifice shamed them all. Will shielded his eyes. This would not be an end, he vowed silently. ‘I am coming back to get you, Jenny,’ he whispered. ‘Though all the hordes of Hell stand in my way, though oceans swell and conflagrations rage, I will find a way to reach you. And I will finally bring you home.’
For another moment he waited, caught in the mournful cry of the gulls, and then he began to make his way down to earth.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
SAPPHIRE GHOST-LIGHTS SHIMMERED around the masts of the galleon tossing on heavy seas towards England. On the forecastle, Dr John Dee, alchemist, scholar and spy, stretched out his arms to the lowering sky and muttered his incantations. The heavens crashed in response. Sheets of white lightning flickered along the western horizon. The long night was coming to an end.
Wind lashed his silver hair, but he stood like an oak against the rising gale and fixed his stony gaze upon the grey-green smudge of land ahead. If war was coming, he would not turn away. Come hell or high water, he would drive those devils out of England.
On the main deck, Bloody Jack Courtenay roared with laughter as the storm swirled around him, and the crew bellowed their songs of death and blood and wine and women. The
Louder and louder still, Dee howled his invocation, until his throat was raw and his ears rang. But then shafts of sunlight punched through the thick bank of grey cloud to illuminate the green fields of England, and for a moment he thought he saw a multitude of shadows take to the air like a murder of crows.
