The Watchtower (31 page)

Golden branch gone, John Dee's promise again in mind, Will could not help glancing down at her hand, and saw that her ring finger was bare. He winced, but no doubt she had the ring with her personal property, wherever she stayed. He had neither the desire nor a plan to once again directly confront the topic of immortality with her. The risk of bringing it up, given the recent disaster, was too great.

He got up, Marguerite following, and they began to stroll around the pool's circular footpath. Sunlight rippled along overhanging leaves, creating an effect of their being underwater. Flashes of silver beneath the pool's surface seemed to be darting fish, but when he glanced more closely at them, they disappeared. Marguerite's hand in his was as delicate as the yellow flowers that bordered the path, and as finely elegant as the abbey's architecture. His own palpitating blood was as uplifting as the love Marguerite seemed to have rediscovered for him, to his joy.

They spoke not a word as they circled the pool. But when they returned to the grassy slope where they'd started, the sun mere inches higher in the sky, Will felt as if a whole new cycle in his life had begun. He devoutly hoped, and sensed, that Marguerite might feel the same.

Her humble lodgings were remarkably similar to his; in fact her one window was directly across the street from his. Gold sunlight filled its modest pane when they arrived, and by the time they left again to dine, the glass was a sweet shade of lavender, a star twinkled, and the touch of their hands had a feeling of permanence to it as deep as eternity--even if not quite as long.

24

The Standing Stones

It was twilight when I awoke. Or at least what passed for twilight in this directionless, timeless place. Great swaths of indigo, violet, and chartreuse swirled in giant loops in the sky like the northern lights or van Gogh's
Starry Night
minus the stars. There were no stars and no moon.

For a moment I didn't know where I was.

Then I remembered that I was nowhere.

I laughed at that and something laughed with me. The reeds. Yes, I remembered them. Under the swirly sky they glowed silver and algal green and moved like the sea. I got up, bracing my hand against the rock to help myself, and cried out in pain. My hand was wrapped in a cotton scarf--pretty, that, I wondered who had given it to me--I must have hurt my hand, but I couldn't remember how.

What does it matter? What does it matter?
the reeds sang. I trailed my hand along one and the pain eased as if I had dipped it into cool water. They
were
cool. Parting a sheaf I saw that a bluish mist filled the space between each stem. The mist seemed to be pouring out of the hollow reeds through tiny holes--like a sprinkler system. I stepped into the reeds and felt the mist caress my face and hands. It felt lovely, like swimming. I took another step and the reeds clicked behind me like a bamboo curtain closing behind a sexy movie star entering an opium den ...

I had watched old movies like that with someone once but I couldn't remember who ...

What does it matter? What does it matter?

It didn't. I waded deeper into the reeds, which clicked behind me and kept clicking even after I had passed through them. It sounded as if someone were following me, but when I turned, all I saw was mist. I turned again and went deeper, moving my arms in a breaststroke ...

Someone had taught me how to swim once. A woman with a beautiful face ...

What does it matter? What does it matter?
the reeds sang.

It didn't. She had died. She had left me. Everybody left eventually. Everybody died ...

But there was someone who couldn't die ...

What does it matter?
the reeds sang,
He left, he left, he left ...

But the throb in my hand was saying something else.
He's here, hex2019;s here, he's here.

Where? I spun around, agitating the reeds into a miniature cyclone of snapping. Something moved in the mist, a dark shape ... but then it vanished. My hand throbbed again and I untied the scarf and held it up. A tear-shaped diamond glowed at the center of my palm. I took a step in the direction it pointed and the pain eased. But the reeds thrashed.

I took a step in the opposite direction and the pain flared up, but the reeds swished gently and cooed,
Yes, yes
.

The stone in my hand wanted me to go one way and the reeds another.

I stood still for a long time wondering which I ought to listen to. Stone or reeds? Reeds or stone?

Follow us, follow us,
the reeds sang.

He's here, he's here,
the stone cried.

Who is
he
?
I wondered. A face appeared, a face carved in black stone. A dead face. Was the stone leading me to his grave?

Yes!
the reeds hissed.
To his grave and yours. He will drag you down into his grave.

Tears stung my eyes like pinpricks. His grave. He was dead then. He had come here to find a way to be alive and he had died. For me. He had come here and risked this place that was no place for me.

No, no, no,
the reeds cried, beating against me.
For himself, for himself, for himself ...

But I shook them off and stepped in the direction the stone pointed. The reeds threw themselves at me in a frenzy, but I pushed on, holding my arms up to shield my face from their assault. It was like swimming upstream while being attacked by piranhas. The reeds lashed at my arms like machetes and twined themselves around my ankles like snakes.
We are snakes,
a reedy voice whimpered, but the voice was weak. I ignored it and kept going. All I could see was his grave. I wasn't even sure who
he
was, but I knew that he had come here willing to die for me and I couldn't let him lie alone in that grave unmourned.

I fell out of the reeds onto hard, stony ground, my momentum tumbling me down a rocky incline. I rolled in a blur of dirt and rocks, down and down until I crashed into something hard. Then I lay still, every part of my body throbbing with pain.

Every part of my body except my right hand.

I opened my eyes and saw that I was surrounded by tall, looming figures in gray robes. No, not figures--stones--a circle of nine standing stones that I felt I had seen earlier. Even when I'd identified the objects as stones, though, the feeling of being surrounded by interested spectators didn't dissipate. I sat up, keeping a wary eye on the stones, half afraid that they would close in on me if I tried to move out of the circle, but they remained still and impassive ... only ... hadn't there been nine of them when I first opened my eyes? I counted them. There were eight. I must have imagined the ninth intedThe stones couldn't move. Could they? And if one
had
moved, where would it go? The sky, still mottled purple and blue like a bruise, gave enough light to illuminate the entire valley I'd fallen into, and I was alone in it. The only spot I couldn't see fully was the area under the stone arch--the passage that led into the hill ... the tomb. Yes, that's what it was. I'd come through the reeds to reach the tomb because I knew he was here--even though I still couldn't quite remember who
he
was. I could see a face carved out of black stone and I knew he was dead and that he had come here for me ... but the order of those things was confused. I had the distinct impression that he had died before coming here for me, but then maybe that was because time didn't flow straight here. Just as the light seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere, so time flowed here in ripples and eddies with no beginning and no end.

And if that was so, how could he be dead?

I looked into the dark passage. It gaped blackly, like an open mouth waiting to swallow me.

Something here
could
eat me, someone had told me that. I could feel fear flowing out of the black hole like a stream of cold air. I wanted to turn and run back to the reeds to lose myself in them again. I could do that. I would forget everything in the reeds. Eventually I would forget
him,
and wouldn't that be better if he was dead?

I took a step backward, afraid to turn my back on that blackness, and another. The chill wind coming out of the hole dissipated. If I kept moving back, I could get away and eventually I would forget ...

But I didn't want to forget. I took a step forward and felt the cold streaming out of the hole. The cold of the grave. I took two more steps into that stream and felt the cold envelop me. I was shaking all over by the time I reached the arch; every muscle in my body wanted to flee in the other direction, but I stepped over the threshold into the dark.

I touched one hand to each side of the stone arch. The stone felt icy, but that was better than when, several steps later, my fingers touched nothing. The stone arch opened up into a larger chamber beneath the mound. I could feel the space widening, but I still couldn't see anything. I couldn't do it. I couldn't walk into that blackness ...

But then I remembered that I didn't have to. I raised my right hand and snapped my fingers. They were shaking so badly it took three tries, but on the third try a flame appeared at the tip of my thumb. I held it up and a high-domed chamber leaped into fitful light. The walls were covered with the painted figures of animals and men, and creatures who were both--horned men and women with tails and wings--the gods of the fey. They were incredibly beautiful and somehow horribly sad.

I looked down and saw four rectangular plinths carved from a pure white stone that glittered in the light of my thumb-flame. Stepping forward I saw that two of the plinths were empty, but carved figures lay on the other two. The first was of a woman dressed in full battle armor, her long hair in a braid that lay over her cuirassed breasts. A fillet lay across her high forehead. A name flickered through my mind.
Maeve
. The sister who was killed. This was Maeve. Her sister Morgane had made is tomb for her. She was so beautiful that I stared at her for many seconds before looking at her companion.

His body and hair were carved out of black stone, but his face was as white as hers and as beautiful ... and
familiar.
I moved closer and held the flame directly over him. It flickered on his broad brow, wide cheekbones, chiseled nose, and full lips. I touched my hand to those lips, recalling the feel of them on my lips, my face, my throat ...

His lips parted, sharp teeth flashed in the flickering flame, a rush of black swept over me, extinguishing the flame and knocking me back against cold stone--but not as cold as the body pressed against me and the teeth at my throat.

"Will!" I screamed, the name torn out of me as his teeth pierced my skin. Memory flooded into me with the cold. I remembered the first time he had drawn my blood after I'd been poisoned by the manticore, and the second when I'd called his name on the wind, and the third when we'd made love on Governors Island.

"It will be difficult to stop once I start," he had said that last time.

He wasn't trying to stop right now. He was sucking my blood with an urgency I hadn't felt those other times. Because he was starving.

"Will!" I cried again. "It's Garet. We're in the Valley of No Return. I came here to find you."

He moaned at my name but only drank deeper. I could feel myself becoming weak. Soon I would pass out and Will would keep drinking. He'd been here for months--if time meant anything here--hiding from sunlight in this tomb, starving to death. He might not even remember who I was.

"Will." My voice was barely a whisper now. "It's ... Garet ... I came ... to find you. I love..."

My throat went numb; the venom the vampire released to anesthetize his victim had frozen my vocal cords. I felt the venom spreading from my throat down my chest into my stomach, seeping into my arms and legs. I was limp in his arms, pinned between him and the wall. All was black and cold here in Maeve's tomb, which would soon be my tomb.

"Garet?"

The voice came as if from far away. I was lying on the ground now, staring up at the blackness, but then a light flickered in the nothingness and swelled into a face. A face etched with terror.

"Garet! I didn't know it was you! I didn't know anything! I'd lost who I was. All that was left was the hunger. Garet, please don't die. Hold on."

"Cold," I managed to say, forcing the word out of my frozen throat.

His eyes widened. Then vanished. The light vanished and I was left alone in the dark.

Had he left me? Or had I died? I couldn't tell. All I knew was darkness and cold, and then there was light again--lots of light and noise and heat. A fire was burning in the center of the domed room. I watched Will throw armfuls of sticks on the fire. They burst into flames but burned so quickly he had to keep adding more. He flew in and out of the room so quickly he became a blur--a bat flitting above the hectic flames, always adding more sticks to the crackling fire.

They weren't sticks, though. They were reeds. Will was burning the reeds, and as they burned, they cried out.

He doesn't love you, he doesn't love you, he doesn't--

"Shut up!" I yelled. "It's pretty obvious he does!"

Will turned in midflight and landed by my side. His face glowed gold in the light of the burning reeds, his lips red--from my blood, I realized.

"You're alive," I said, then laughed. "Or as alive as you get."

"I feel more alive than I have in four hundred years," he said, grasping my hand. "When I thought I'd killed you ... I ... I wanted to die. Garet, I love you."

"I know," I said, touching my finger to his bloody lips. "And I love you. So what the hell are we doing in this place? We need to leave
now
."