«He has something I want. Oh, Marisa —»
«What is it, Carlo? What's he got?»
He shook his head. But he was finding it hard to resist; his daemon was twined gently around the monkey's breast, and running her head through and through the long, lustrous fur as his hands moved along her fluid length.
Lena Feldt watched them, standing invisible just two paces from where they sat. Her bowstring was taut, the arrow locked to it in readiness; she could have pulled and loosed in less than a second, and Mrs. Coulter would have been dead before she finished drawing breath. But the witch was curious. She stood still and silent and wide-eyed.
But while she was watching Mrs. Coulter, she didn't look behind her across the little blue lake. On the far side of it in the darkness a grove of ghostly trees seemed to have planted itself, a grove that shivered every so often with a tremor like a conscious intention. But they were not trees, of course; and while all the curiosity of Lena Feldt and her daemon was directed at Mrs. Coulter, one of the pallid forms detached itself from its fellows and drifted across the surface of the icy water, causing not a single ripple, until it paused a foot from the rock on which Lena Feldt's daemon was perched.
«You could easily tell me, Carlo,» Mrs. Coulter was murmuring. «You could whisper it. You could pretend to be talking in your sleep, and who could blame you for that? Just tell me what the boy has, and why you want it. I could get it for you… .Wouldn't you like me to do that? Just tell me, Carlo. I don't want it. I want the girl. What is it? Just tell me, and you shall have it.»
He gave a soft shudder. His eyes were closed. Then he said, «It's a knife. The subtle knife of Cittagazze. You haven't heard of it, Marisa? Some people call it teleutaia makhaira, the last knife of all. Others call it Aesahaettr.»
«What does it do, Carlo? Why is it special?»
«Ah … It's the knife that will cut anything. Not even its makers knew what it could do. Nothing, no one, matter, spirit, angel, air — nothing is invulnerable to the subtle knife. Marisa, it's mine, you understand?»
«Of course, Carlo. I promise. Let me fill your glass …»
And as the golden monkey slowly ran his hands along the emerald serpent again and again, squeezing just a little, lifting, stroking as Sir Charles sighed with pleasure, Lena Feldt saw what was truly happening: because while the man's eyes were closed, Mrs. Coulter secretly tilted a few drops from a small flask into the glass before filling it again with wine.
«Here, darling,» she whispered. «Let's drink, to each other….»
He was already intoxicated. He took the glass and sipped greedily, once, again, and again.
And then, without any warning, Mrs. Coulter stood up and turned and looked Lena Feldt full in the face.
«Well, witch,» she said, «did you think I don't know how you make yourself invisible?»
Lena Feldt was too surprised to move.
Behind her, the man was struggling to breathe. His chest was heaving, his face was red, and his daemon was limp and fainting in the monkey's hands. The monkey shook her off in contempt.
Lena Feldt tried to swing her bow up, but a fatal paralysis had touched her shoulder. She couldn't make herself do it. This had never happened before, and she uttered a little cry.
«Oh, it's too late for that,» said Mrs. Coulter. «Look at the lake, witch.»
Lena Feldt turned and saw her snow bunting daemon fluttering and shrieking as if he were in a glass chamber that was being emptied of air; fluttering and falling, slumping, failing, his beak opening wide, gasping in panic. The Specter had enveloped him.
«No!» she cried, and tried to move toward it, but was driven back by a spasm of nausea. Even in her sickened distress, Lena Feldt could see that Mrs. Coulter had more force in her soul than anyone she had ever seen. It didn't surprise her to see that the Specter was under Mrs. Coulter's power; no one could resist that authority. Lena Feldt turned back in anguish to the woman.
«Let him go! Please let him go!» she cried.
«We'll see. Is the child with you? The girl Lyra?»
«Yes!»
«And a boy, too? A boy with a knife?»
«Yes — I beg you —»
«And how many witches have you?»
«Twenty! Let him go, let him go!»
«All in the air? Or do some of you stay on the ground with the children?»
«Most in the air, three or four on the ground always — this is anguish — let him go or kill me now!»
«How far up the mountain are they? Are they moving on, or have they stopped to rest?»
Lena Feldt told her everything. She could have resisted any torture but what was happening to her daemon now. When Mrs. Coulter had learned all she wanted to know about where the witches were, and how they guarded Lyra and Will, she said, «And now tell me this. You witches know something about the child Lyra. I nearly learned it from one of your sisters, but she died before I could complete the torture. Well, there is no one to save you now. Tell me the truth about my daughter.»
Lena Feldt gasped, «She will be the mother — she will be life — mother — she will disobey — she will —»
«Name her! You are saying everything but the most important thing! Name her!» cried Mrs. Coulter.
«Eve! Mother of all! Eve, again! Mother Eve!» stammered Lena Feldt, sobbing.
«Ah,» said Mrs. Coulter.
And she breathed a great sigh, as if the purpose of her life was clear to her at last.
Dimly the witch saw what she had done, and through the horror that was enveloping her she tried to cry out: «What will you do to her? What will you do?»
«Why, I shall have to destroy her,» said Mrs. Coulter, «to prevent another Fall…. Why didn't I see this before? It was too large to see….»
She clapped her hands together softly, like a child, wide-eyed. Lena Feldt, whimpering, heard her go on: «Of course. Asriel will make war on the Authority, and then…. Of course, of course. As before, so again. And Lyra is Eve. And this time she will not fall. I'll see to that.»
And Mrs. Coulter drew herself up, and snapped her fingers to the Specter feeding on the witch's daemon. The little snow bunting daemon lay twitching on the rock as the Specter moved toward the witch herself, and then whatever Lena Feldt had undergone before was doubled and trebled and multiplied a hundredfold. She felt a nausea of the soul, a hideous and sickening despair, a melancholy weariness so profound that she was going to die of it. Her last conscious thought was disgust at life; her senses had lied to her. The world was not made of energy and delight but of foulness, betrayal, and lassitude. Living was hateful, and death was no better, and from end to end of the universe this was the first and last and only truth.
Thus she stood, bow in hand, indifferent, dead in life.
So Lena Feldt failed to see or to care about what Mrs. Coulter did next. Ignoring the gray-haired man slumped unconscious in the canvas chair and his dull-skinned daemon coiled in the dust, the woman called the captain of the soldiers and ordered them to get ready for a night march up the mountain.
Then she went to the edge of the water and called to the Specters.
They came at her command, gliding like pillars of mist across the water. She raised her arms and made them forget they were earthbound, so that one by one they rose into the air and floated free like malignant thistledown, drifting up into the night and borne by the air currents toward Will and Lyra and the other witches; but Lena Feldt saw nothing of it.
The temperature dropped quickly after dark, and when Will and Lyra had eaten the last of their dry bread, they lay down under an overhanging rock to keep warm and try to sleep. At least Lyra didn't have to try; she was unconscious in less than a minute, curled tightly around Pantalaimon, but Will couldn't find sleep, no matter how long he lay there. It was partly his hand, which was now throbbing right up to the elbow and uncomfortably swollen, and partly the hard ground, and partly the cold, and partly utter exhaustion, and partly his longing for his mother.