“No,” Kit said. “Lucifer’s as well – ” He was struck by a sudden, vivid memory of the Mebd’s golden hair spread between his fingers, the cool, smooth surface of a tortoise‑shell comb, and he stopped and lowered his voice so that only the Elf‑knight would hear. “Morgan’s. What’s Morgan after, Murchaud? I remember when first I came to Faerie, it was her ear thou didst whisper into, and not the Mebd’s.”
Murchaud rested a hand on his elbow, almost lifting him up the ragged stairs. Only pride kept Kit from leaning hard on Murchaud’s arm. “Thinkst thou so little of me, Sir Poet, that I must serve the agenda of my mother or my Queen, and have no passions of mine own?” The hand squeezed, pulling the sting from the words.
Kit shot Murchaud a sideways glance, and realized it was true. Exactly and precisely: he had indeed assumed that Murchaud served Morgan’s whims, and to a lesser extent those of the Mebd. “Very well,” he said. “What is it that thou dost seek?”
Freedom,” Murchaud answered succinctly. “We all have our own purposes in seducing thee, Sir Poet. Thee, and that which thou dost harbor.”
“Seducing me.” He laughed. “In Morgan’s case, breaking me into a shape of which she approved. She told me she thought I was the one who could reconcile Faerie and Hell, England’s crown and the Prometheans.”
“Aye. And the Mebd thinks that thou – and Mehiel – are the ones who can burst Faerie’s bond with Hell, can destroy the Prometheans so that we no longer need Lucifer’s protection from the avenging spirit the Prometheans would set as the Divine.”
“Lucifer is Prometheus,” Kit said. “I do not understand why he takes payment to protect us from himself.”
Murchaud laughed softly. “An old acquaintance of Robert Poley’s, and thou dost not understand how extortion works? Besides” – a modest pause – “Lucifer no doubt has plans of his own. Which he has not seen fit to share.”
“He maneuvers all the pieces,” Kit answered, climbing. Will slipped on the stairs. Kit reached up to steady him, and Murchaud steadied Kit. Above them, Ben kept climbing, inexorable as a Jewish golem,and at the rear, Tom followed. No one spoke, and Kit realized they were all listening as intently to his quiet conversation with Murchaud as if they leaned close over a candle‑lit table in some tavern, whispering conspiracies. “I believe I know what he wants, Murchaud.”
Murchaud turned his head. “Aye?”
“The love of God,” Kit said plainly, and winced at his own forgetfulness when Murchaud flinched and stumbled.
“Thy pardon, Kit – ”
“Nay,” Kit said. “Thy pardon, I cry. But that does not answer the question that holds me most.”
“Aye?”
“What is it that thouseekest, Elf‑knight? Thou hast not made that plain to me, but thou must have some use for me, or thou wouldst not have been so kind, so long.”
“I–” The Elf‑knight hesitated. “I am Fae.”
It was not an excuse, but simply a statement, and Kit nodded agreement. “‘Tis so. So tell me now.”
A low, solemn laugh. “Thou didst never ask before.”
“I make no argument. And I am asking now.”
“Faerie,” Murchaud said. “Sovereign.” He looked pointedly at the raven huddled on Will’s shoulder. “I would like to see the ghosts and legends settled. I’d like, perhaps, to know for a day what story I might walk through–”
“You want what Baines wants,” Kit said coolly. “You want to choose the nature of the Divine.”
“‘Tis futile,” Murchaud answered. “Say rather I’d prefer that some stories were just stories. That a legend could change without changing the world. Call it the inverse of the Prometheans’ goal–if they wish to shape the stories, I wish to not be shaped by them.”
Kit considered that in silence for a moment or two, and found himself in sympathy. Mehiel?
«Ask me not about morality,» the angel said unhappily. «when I, an Angel of the Lord, find myself in love with Lucifer Morningstar.»
Kit blinked at the words. In love.
«Hast another name for it?»
Slowly, thoughtfully, Kit shook his head. If I found a way to free thee, Mehiel–
«Thou must not,» the angel said. «Thou must not give thy life up needlessly. We will endure.»
–regardless. If thou wert freed, what wouldst thou do?
A hesitation as the angel pondered his question. Fleetingly, Kit wondered if an angel could lie.
«Go home.» Mehiel answered, after a little while.
Return to God’s embrace. Go back to Heaven, and out of Hell. Despite thy love for the Morningstar.
«Wouldst not thou? Wouldst choose love over Heaven?»
Kit chuckled softly. Mehiel.He laid a hand on Murchaud’s arm, and Murchaud gave him the edge of a worried smile in the inadequate, flickering light. I have.
Another pause for thought. «Wouldst choose love over duty, then? Over remaining true to thyself?»
And Kit thought of Edward de Vere, and shook his head. Thou art right. But what wilt thou take home to the Lord thy God that thou hadst not when thou wert taken? Thou, Mehiel. Thou who art a piece of God?
«Thee,» the angel answered without hesitation. «Man, mortal and fragile. I know thee now, and thou art more worthy of brotherhood than I had realized. And I will take in that brotherhood all thou art, and thy true‑love’s grief and pity over his son, over thy pain. I will take the Fae in all their sorrow and bitterness and their solemn pact with Hell.»
And the Love thou hast for another–
Silence. And then the angel, wondering, the flex of black‑barred yellow wings. «Love. For the Morningstar. Yes, I will bear that home as well.»
Aye.Climbing still.
«Sympathy.»
“Simple,” Kit said dryly. “Or sympathetic magic, rather.”
“I beg thy pardon, Kit?”
“Nothing, Will. I don’t think we need to worry about the Morningstar further, fellows. Lucifer has what he came for.” All my life is stairs, Mehiel.
«Better stairs than falling,» the angel answered, but he did not sound convinced.
There were no torches lit in the Tower’s great courtyard when the ragged, soaking little party emerged from the bowels of the earth. No mortal lights illuminated the scene: not even a few candles flickering dimly in the windows of the White Tower. There was only the ethereal moonlit glow surrounding the court of the Daoine Sidhe, who waited on their Fae steeds like so many ghostly riders on a procession out of Hell.
The Mebd sat her black horse sidesaddle in the center of the procession, and on her right side, on a milky gray the shaded color of alabaster, Kit was surprised to meet the eyes of Morgan le Fey. Cairbre the bard rode beside them, and a half‑dozen other Fae Kit knew more or less well –
–and, on a shaggy, floppy‑eared pony no taller than Kit’s breastbone, the gawky figure of Robin Goodfellow, elbows akimbo and knees disarrayed.
Kit felt Murchaud drawing himself up tall, and laid a hand on the Prince’s elbow. “Puck?” A stage whisper, and Murchaud looked at him and shrugged.
“She knows thou dost care for him,” Murchaud said. “Perhaps his freedom is a gift to thee, to reassure thee of her good will. They’re waiting for us, Kit–”
“No,” Will said, even more softly, raising one knotted, trembling hand to point to a figure clad in raven‑black, a gold chain glinting at his shoulders as he entered the spill of Faerie light. “They’re waiting for the Earl of Salisbury.”