"Believe . . ." She picked up the word as if to sample it, to taste its poison. "You told me once you believed in nothing. No pattern, just chaos. But you believe in him him, don't you? His His pattern? pattern? His His chaos?" chaos?"

"He gave me something to believe in. Someone. Neither evil nor good. The power at the heart of things, the pulse along the wires. The one who makes skysc.r.a.pers grow and sparrows fall. He said he would teach me how to use my Gift, would mesh my power with his. He named me Lukastor, Fellangel, Lord of the Serafain, and gave me wings to ride among the stars. Do you you believe in a kindly G.o.d with a white beard who leans down from a cloud once in a while to pat you on the head? Do you believe in harps, and cherubs, and pearly gates? He is the real thing, the only thing. He has my belief." believe in a kindly G.o.d with a white beard who leans down from a cloud once in a while to pat you on the head? Do you believe in harps, and cherubs, and pearly gates? He is the real thing, the only thing. He has my belief."

"There is a Gate," she said, "but it isn't made of pearl. I have seen it."

And, after a while: "Lord of the Serafain. He gave you a t.i.tle t.i.tle. A little thing, at so high a price. Lukastor, Son of Morning, how thou art fallen. Farther than any sparrow."

He said: "You're talking nonsense. Without him, I would not have found you, or saved Dana."

"How do you know? There was always chance, or fate."

"You make your own fate."

"Not anymore." She almost sighed. "He will shape your fate for you." will shape your fate for you."

She was thinking: You might indeed be Rafarl. There is weakness as well as strength in us all. Light and dark. Fear and courage. We are the choices we make. I loved you tonight, I loved even the dark in you. But not the choice you made, not the you who chose . . .

She said: "So what was the price-the whole price? What service did he require, to prove your loyalty?"

She had guessed the answer.

Luc said: "I am to take you to him."

"And?"

"He will offer you what he offered me. He says your Gift is great, and you can be great among his people. Morgus was a test: he was certain you would find a way to kill her. He wanted you to kill; he said it was necessary. Come with me-come to him-and we will be together always, sharing our power and his. So many live their lives without meaning, dying from a night's cold, a whiff of disease, and we can do nothing for them. But we can do this for ourselves. We can live our our lives with a purpose, we can make our mark on eternity. Fern . . ." lives with a purpose, we can make our mark on eternity. Fern . . ."

"I like eternity unmarked. I am content to live my life in doubt, with no questions answered."

"Fern-"

"He lied to you, of course." She was tranquil now, if emptiness is tranquillity. "Would you have taken me to him openly, or by subterfuge?"

"He said I mustn't tell you. Not immediately, not till-"

"Not till it was too late for me to run away. Not till we crossed the threshold of his office. And then he might have made his offer, and he might not. Or he could have chosen slow torment for me instead. Petty tyrants have so little imagination; they always favor slow torment. Not that it matters. I won't be going."

"You must."

The moon had moved now, leaving them both in shadow. She was still lying on her back, motionless; he leaned over her, loomed over her, like a lover or a murderer.

"Must?"

"You don't understand. It was part of the bargain. I hadn't met you then; I swore-"

"Well, I I didn't." didn't."

"You must come," he reiterated. "He won't harm you: I know that. I don't want to force you, but-"

"Then don't. I knew someone who broke his bargain with Azmordis." She used the name, in defiance or indifference, but no demon stirred. "He wasn't a good man-in fact, he did much evil-but he was brave. The morlochs set on him-have you seen the morlochs? The goblins call them pugwidgies. They have no feelings, no minds minds, only hunger. Oh, yes, Ruvindra was brave. They ate him alive. How brave are you?"

"Fairy tales don't frighten me."

"You are in in a fairy tale, in case you've forgotten. Only no one lives happily ever after. Magic . . . magic is just another way of playing without the rules." He thought she smiled, but it was only a trick of the dark. "I play by witch's rules, didn't you know? Witch's honor." a fairy tale, in case you've forgotten. Only no one lives happily ever after. Magic . . . magic is just another way of playing without the rules." He thought she smiled, but it was only a trick of the dark. "I play by witch's rules, didn't you know? Witch's honor."

"Fern." He bent down to her, and his voice was softened again. "Stop hiding in your own nightmares. Listen to me. We could do so much, be so much. The other week I saw a girl dying in a doorway-drugs of some sort-and I knew I was helpless. And there are so many like her. Don't die that way, don't live that way. I love you too much." He kissed her parted lips, a long, long kiss. She did not resist, did not respond.

When he was done she said in a flat voice: "I would rather die in a doorway than walk another yard with you."

He swung his legs off the bed and began to dress, finding his clothing without the light. Witchsight, she thought. Then he turned. There was an object in his hand that gleamed a thin reflected gleam. The knife. The knife that had lain on the desk in the tower office.

"You have no choice," he said. "I chose for you."

Silence. Shadows and silence. And in the silence, in the shadows, the glitter of her eyes.

"I am a witch." Her voice was very quiet. "I killed tonight. Do you think you can compel me?" And to the knife: "Rra.s.se!" "Rra.s.se!" But the blade had its own power: it trembled, but did not break. But the blade had its own power: it trembled, but did not break.

"Do you think you can fight me?" said Luc.

She rose out of the bed, naked, all pale slenderness. He said: "Dress."

"Why?" She seemed indifferent to her nakedness, like a wild nymph or fey child.

"You will be cold."

She dressed, carefully, still in the dark. Always in the dark.

She whispered a charm, but it did not reach him; Azmordis must have shielded him from her sorcery.

She said: "Naked or clothed, I won't go with you."

The gleam of the knife blade stirred in his hand. They stared at each other for perhaps twenty seconds, then in the same moment, the same motion, he sprang, she dodged. There was no magic between them now, only strength, his and hers. He flung her on the bed, pinioning her arms almost without effort. The knife was at her throat. "Don't call the dog," he said. "You're fond of her. I should hate to have to harm her."

"You might find that difficult." She strained, but could not break his hold. "I won't call for any a.s.sistance. We are one to one: that is fair enough. Except you have a weapon, I don't."

"We are witchkind. As I understand it, we don't play fair."

"You learn fast." But not fast enough. I am on my home territory. I don't need to call: there is already someone there.

"Give me your word you will come with me in the morning, and I will release you."

"My word?" She was playing for time.

"What was that phrase you used? Witch's honor."

Witches have no honor. But that was something he had yet to a.s.similate.

She said: "Witch's honor."

He drew back, the knife gleam still bright in his grasp. She sat up. Stood up. "When I have a weapon," she said, "then this will be a straight fight." this will be a straight fight."

He made out the shape crouching in the dark beyond her-the shape he had not seen before. He heard the whispered admonition: "Ferrn! Carlin! I hae the weapon for ye-"

Her hand closed on the haft. She felt the weight of the spear pulling her into the thrust, guiding her. The Sleer Bronaw, the Spear of Grief. Grip, pull, thrust. It was a single movement, smooth and inevitable. The death strike of the cobra, the warrior's lunge, the swordsman's coup de grace coup de grace.

The knife gleam leaped toward her.

(But was there a hesitation, a fatal instant of doubt?) The blade dropped harmlessly from his hand. He made a noise: not a scream, a sort of choking grunt. He fell heavily. She said: "Luc," and she was on her knees beside him, trying to pull out the spear, but the barbs had opened in his belly, and she could see the blood, lots of blood, black in the moonlight. She called for cloths or bandages but not light, not electric light, no light to see what she had done, to make it real. She was holding a wad of cloth against his stomach, watching it turn black with the blood. Her hands were black. "Luc," she said, "Luc," but he did not answer. At some point she tried to find a pulse in his wrist, in his throat, but she wasn't sure how. Her face was wet, though she was not aware of crying.

Bradachin said: "He's deid," and "There wa' nae help for it."

Much later, nudged by Lougarry, she rose and went to wash her hands. The blood swirled around the basin in the stream of water, ran down the drain. She thought: This is what murderers do. They have to wash the blood off their hands.

None of it was real.

Back in the bedroom, she switched on the light. She didn't want to, but she knew it was necessary. (He wanted you to kill: he said it was necessary.) (He wanted you to kill: he said it was necessary.) The body lay there, its face waxen from the blood loss. Not Luc, the body. A dead thing, solid and real, filling the room, filling the house. Taking over. It did not crumble into instant decay like Morgus: it stayed there. Unmoving. Immovable. She saw it in the light as if for the first time. The body lay there, its face waxen from the blood loss. Not Luc, the body. A dead thing, solid and real, filling the room, filling the house. Taking over. It did not crumble into instant decay like Morgus: it stayed there. Unmoving. Immovable. She saw it in the light as if for the first time.

In London, Will's phone rang.

"I've killed Luc." His sister's voice was almost unrecognizable, close to hysteria. "Come now. You've got to come. The body's here and it won't go away. I don't know what to do with it. Please . . ."

Will said to Gaynor: "We'd better go."

Driving through the small hours, much too fast, they reached Yarrowdale before eight. The remnants of the front door had been jammed into place with a chest of drawers; it took Fern several minutes to shift it. "You said you'd killed Luc," Will said, once they were inside.

The explanation came out in a stammering rush, close to incoherence. "He had a knife-the little dagger from the tower office. Like a paper knife. I tried to break it, but the spell failed. All my spells failed. He said I must go with him. We s-struggled, and Bradachin gave it me. Sleer Bronaw. The spear." Her mouth shook; her gaze seemed to be fixed on something they could not see. "It went in so quickly-so quickly. There wasn't time to . . . to pull back. He hesitated. I'm sure he . . . He had the knife, but he was slow, and I was fast, and it went in, and I couldn't get it out. I couldn't . . ."

Will put his arms around her, and she began to shudder violently, dry sobs racking her like an asthmatic fighting for breath. "It's okay," he said with what he hoped was authority, though he knew it wasn't. He had never seen her like this, frantic, falling apart; it shocked him as much as what she had done. "Why did he pull a knife on you?"

"Sold himself-to Azmordis." For a moment, she looked up at him, and her eyes were wild. "It was my dream: do you see? Him, not me. Luc-Lucas-Lukastor, Son of Morning . . . I saw the scar. He said-I must join him. My third chance. Third time lucky."

Gaynor said: "Dear G.o.d."

Will: "I see."

"We made love. He l-let me think-he made me believe-he was Rafarl, Rafarl reborn . . . True love-Someday . . . Maybe he was. That's the worst. Maybe he was, and he betrayed me." The tears were coming now, leaking from her eyes, scribbling rain trails down her face. "We slept-and I dreamed-and when I woke up . . ."

"All right," Will said. "Gaynor, make her some tea. Strong and very sweet. Or coffee; whichever you find first. As long as it's sweet."

"I don't take sugar."

"You do now. You're in shock." With Fern still curled within his arm, he followed Gaynor into the kitchen, refraining from comment on the broken windows. Lougarry emerged from the shadows to accompany them; Bradachin was already there.

"I tried to help her," he said. "But she waur just sitting there, on the floor, trembling like a wee pippit. The dog was licking her, like she wa' herrt, but she didna say aught. It wa' nae blame to her, the laddie was a baddun. He would hae killt her."

Fern shook her head numbly. Her voice had dropped to a whisper. "He hesitated. I didn't. I didn't I didn't." The tears came faster now, healing, or so Will hoped.

He addressed Bradachin: "Where is he?"

The goblin jerked his thumb, pointing upward. "Her bedchamber."

They went upstairs. The body lay where it had fallen, cold and pale in the morning light. Will surveyed the face for a minute, thankful that the eyes were closed. It was the color of tallow, or the color he imagined tallow ought to be, the black hair, flattened by the crash helmet and deprived of gel, falling in limp spikes over the forehead. He didn't look at the wound, or remove the pad of reddened towels that concealed it. There was blood on the carpet, stiff and dry now. The spear had gone; Bradachin must have extracted it somehow. "Ye maun bury him deep," the goblin said. "I'm thinking there's those that wouldna understand what the maidy had tae do."

"I know." He would have to dispose of the body. He thought about it coldly, matter-of-factly, because that was the only way to think right now. "Can you help me?"

"Yon's tae pondersome for me."

He would have to ask Gaynor. He didn't want to, but there was no one else. "I won't bury him: digging takes too long, and new-turned earth is always obvious. There's a lake about an hour's drive from here. Far enough."

"And the motorcarridge," said Bradachin. "Ye maun get rid o' that, too. Folks will be noticing it muckle soon."

"Pity." Will was concentrating on detachment. Fern, who never panicked, had panicked-Fern who had faced dragon and witch queen, who had stolen a fruit from the Eternal Tree, walked the paths of the ancient Underworld, ridden out the tempest at the Fall of Atlantis. Now everything was down to him. "I didn't like Luc, for the little I knew him," he remarked with studied flippancy, "but it's a shame about the bike."

"Aye," said Bradachin. "I dinna approve o' carridges without horses, but yon's a bonny machine. I would ha' liked to gie it a try."

Back in the kitchen, Will said to Gaynor: "I'm really sorry, but I'm going to need your help, if you can bear it. It'll take two of us to carry the body."

"Body," said Fern. "Luc. The body . . . Like s-something on TV." The tea mug rattled in her hands.

Gaynor said: "Yes. All right."

"h.e.l.l of a way to start a relationship," said Will, giving her shoulders a quick squeeze before they entered the bedroom.

Gaynor made a wry, unhappy face. "h.e.l.l of a way to finish one."

Mrs. Wicklow arrived around lunchtime, but Will had antic.i.p.ated this, and he and Gaynor had already moved Luc, wrapped in a sheet, to a room on the third floor, and put Fern to bed, claiming she was ill. The motorcycle had been wheeled into Will's studio and covered with another sheet, though they trusted the housekeeper would have no reason to go in there. She expostulated over the breakages and traces of droppings, attributing them correctly to some sinister cause, and cooked a sustaining meal that neither Will nor Gaynor could eat. Fern, exhausted and heavily dosed with aspirin, had finally fallen asleep and was left in peace. Fortunately for the other two, Mrs. Wicklow ascribed their lack of appet.i.te to what was clearly a blossoming romance, and her superficial dourness led her to ask few questions. She went home at last around four and Will and Gaynor, with a bizarre sense of relief, lapsed back into tension.

"When do we go?" asked Gaynor, stroking the she-wolf's head for rea.s.surance.

"Not till ten. We need full dark. Dark for dark deeds. It's Sunday night: there shouldn't be many people about. Let's hope to G.o.d anyone who is is out is un.o.bservant." out is un.o.bservant."

"Fern shouldn't be left."

"It can't be helped. Bradachin will take care of her. Lougarry will go in the car with you; I'll lead on the bike. Strange: I've always wanted to ride a Harley, but now-" He shrugged.

"Mrs. Wicklow's made steak-and-kidney pudding," Gaynor remarked, pale. "Her steak-and-kidney's awfully good."

"Afraid we'll have to freeze it," Will sighed.

The lake lay cupped in hills, reflecting the moon. It was an authorized beauty spot, a tourist destination of the kind that forbade picnickers and where angling was allowed only with a license. Will had gone there in his college days, to lie in the sun smoking dope-that didn't count as a picnic-and attempt the seduction of a girl he had been pursuing. Now he couldn't even remember if he had succeeded. There were legends attached to the lake, one concerning a drowned village, or maybe just a church, a priest who sold his soul to the devil, a local beauty who killed herself, and the bells that could be heard tolling sometimes, far beneath the water. Older stories spoke of kelpies, and a green-haired nix, and a lake G.o.d bearded with weed who lurked in the deepest places. More recently another local beauty had been pulled out, or part of her, after a ten-year absence, on the end of a fishing line. The prime suspect was her husband, who had collared her money, changed his name, and gone to live in the Balearics. Extradition proceedings were still under way. The lake had a bad name, for all its picturesque qualities; perhaps that was why Will had thought of it so quickly. Almost as if some dark intuition had invaded him, prompting his subconscious. Somehow, he felt it was the only choice.