he said, "and you misuse it in any manner—to trick me or trap me—then I will destroy you."

    She started to speak, but he hushed her. "I will, for there is one thing else that I shall demand of you Ariadne, Mistress of the Labyrinth."

    'Yes?"

    "That in return for teaching you the darkcraft, for opening to you completely the dark heart of the Labyrinth, you shall not only destroy the Game forever, but you will allow me to become your ruler. Your lord. Call it what you want, but know that if you ever attempt to betray me again, if you do not destroy the Game completely, I demand that you shall fall to the ground before me, and become my creature entirely."

    "Of course!"

    His expression did not change. " 'Of course!' ? With not even a breath to consider? How quickly you agree."

    "I will not betray you again, Asterion. Teach me the darkcraft and I swear—on the life of my daughter!—that I will use it to destroy the Game utterly. It shall never entrap you again."

    Aldred's fingers were still groping at Swanne's breasts, but the pain of his sharp-nailed fingers could do nothing to eclipse the sickening dread that now coursed through Swanne.

    Aldred's hand on Swanne's mouth and nose loosened a little, allowing a thin draught of air to trickle between his fingers, and Swanne's chest bucked in its effort to heave precious oxygen into her lungs.

    "And what did you do, Swanne-who-was-once-Genvissa?" Aldred whispered. "What did you do? Why, you started the Game again, thinking that I was too far distant to stop you. I don't care to hear of your excuses and your reasons, for I know them all. All I do care to hear is your acknowledgment of Ariadne's oath. She is the one who is going to destroy you, Swanne. Not me."

    His hand removed entirely from her mouth, and Swanne gulped air into her lungs. Aldred sat back, sitting on her lower legs, one fat, dimpled knee to either side of her hips, his hands to his own hips, regarding her with amusement.

    "Well?" he said.

    "What?" Swanne gasped, and then screamed, her body contorting again as Asterion's power surged through her.

    "Do you acknowledge Ariadne's oath?"

    She was still shrieking, and Aldred lifted a hand and struck her hard across the face.

    Blood spattered in an arc across the bed.

    "Do you acknowledge Ariadne's oath?"

    "Oh gods," Swanne moaned. "How can I…"

    She screamed again as a counter blow sent her head smashing into the wall.

    "It was an oath made on power and on the life of Ariadne's daughter, my dear. One that bound not only Ariadne, but through that daughter, all Ariadne's daughter-heirs. What a foremother, hey? What a legacy!" Aldred laughed, the sound rich and deeply amused. "Now, do you acknowledge Ariadne's oath?"

    She tried to deny it. She tried with every fiber of her being, but, even desperate as she was, Swanne could not force the denial from her throat again. Instead, there came a voice from her mouth that was not so much hers, not only Ariadne's, but the voice of all her foremothers, Ariadne and her five daughter-heirs before Genvissa.

    "Yes," that voice whispered, a ghastly, echoing utterance that coiled about the room. "Yes, I—we—acknowledge the oath."

    Aldred's body tensed, and Swanne was dimly aware that it was because he had drawn in a great breath of triumph. "You know what is going to happen now, Swanne, don't you?"

    Swanne whimpered. It was all she could articulate in her overwhelming sense of horror.

    "You are going to fulfill Ariadne's bargain for her, seeing as she is no longer about to do so herself. And well you should pay, Swanne, since it was you who began the Game again! You who tried to trap me!"

    "No, no! I beg you. Anything but—"

    "Everything, Swanne. Everything."

    "Please… no…"

    Aldred's hands were now fumbling under the great dewlap of his belly, and before Swanne's appalled gaze, he brought forth his erection.

    "No!"

    "And now, my lovely, we are going to cement Ariadne's bargain by the same means she and I originally cemented it. Are you ready?"

    Swanne tried to scream, but she felt Asterion wrap his power about her, and she could do nothing but whimper.

    She tried to hit at him, but her arms were leaden.

    She tried to roll away from him, but because Asterion still chose to cloak himself within Aldred's massive bulk—the ultimate humiliation—she could do nothing.

    Aldred lay down over Swanne, resting his full weight on her, and grunted.

    Swanne felt something vile, something cold, probe at her.

    She tried to writhe, but could do nothing, nothing, as Aldred shifted his hips, and grunted again.

    Something so cold and so painful that it felt like splintered, jagged ice slithered its way inside her.

    Aldred's hips bucked, then pushed down deeply.

    Agony coursed between her hips and deep into her belly, but even beyond this, Swanne felt something else.

    Something cold and painful, a splinter of sharp-edged ice, twisting its way into her soul.

    "You're mine now," whispered Aldred, and he forced his mouth over Swanne's, and pushed his tongue inside her.

    His hips began to work frantically, and Swanne knew that she would have died under the suffering of his brutal assault—both on her body and her soul—had not Asterion deliberately kept her alive.

    Aldred lifted his mouth a little away from hers, his fat face wobbling with his efforts, and slicked with sweat that rolled from his skin's open pores.

    "Everything you shall lay bare to me!" he said, and Swanne felt her entire being sliced open, her every secret laid bare, her every knowledge made understandable to this horror inside her.

    She felt her soul, her very being, kneeling in subjection before him.

    And then something terrifying, unendurably agonizing, exploded within her belly, and Swanne mercifully lost consciousness.

    WHEN SHE WOKE, HER BODY THROBBING IN TOR-ment, Aldred was sitting—fully dressed—on the edge of her bed.

    "There," he said. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

    Swanne tried to swallow, but her throat felt as if it had been stripped of its flesh, and she gasped in agony partway through the movement.

    "Poor dear," Aldred said, and patted her hand where it lay on the bed.

    Then his entire demeanor changed, and malevolence shone through the man's fat features. "You are now my creature entirely," he hissed, and his hand tightened clawlike about hers. "You may make no move, and you may make no utterance without my permission and guidance. You shall use your powers as Mistress of the Labyrinth only as I direct. Do you understand me?"

    Tears now coursed down Swanne's face, but she managed a tiny nod.

    And then a wince, as if even that tiny movement caused her pain.

    Aldred's rubbery lips stretched in a grin. "I may not always be close, but there is a part of me always with you, always watching you, always knowing. Do you feel it?"

    Benumbed, Swanne could do little but blink at him in incomprehension.

    "This," said Aldred, and lifted Swanne's hand so that it lay on her belly.

    He pressed her hand down.

    Swanne's eyes slowly widened in appalled understanding.

    "My little incubus," said Aldred, his very voice as sibilant as a snake's. "Always within you, always ready to bite and to whisper and to be. You are my

    creature entirely, Swanne." He laughed. "The Game is half mine."

    Then Aldred sobered, and bent his vile face close to Swanne's. "And all you have to do is please me, my dear. To start with, I think you can bring me William.

    A pause. "Won't that be nice for you? Eh?"

    Within her belly, the incubus bit deep with its tiny, icy fangs, and Swanne's mouth opened in a silent scream.

    Her body arched and bucked, and Aldred waited patiently until the agony had subsided enough that Swanne lay relatively still again, even though her moans had not quietened.

    "Later," he said, "I might find some errands for you to run. Yes?"

    She gave a single, agonized nod.

    "You will do whatever I want," he said, and Swanne sobbed, hopeless, knowing that indeed, yes, she would do it.

    Within her, Asterion's little incubus twisted happily.

    Darkcraft come to life and form.

    IN THE MORNING, HAWISE EXCLAIMED IN HORROR AT the blood covering her mistress's sheet, and at the haggard pain-filled face of Swanne herself.

    But Aldred, arranging the heavy golden crucifix on its chain over his chest, told Hawise that there was little point. "It is but Swanne's monthly flux," he said. "A little more burdensome than usual. No need to send for the physician."

    He turned to Swanne, fixing her with a cold, hard eye. "My lady should perhaps take as her inspiration the queen, who so valiantly struggles with her own womanly complaints. The physician is not needed, eh?"

    Swanne looked at him, then at Hawise, staring incredulously at her. "The physician is not needed," she said hoarsely.

    Part Six

    With Edward's gentle piety was blended a strange hardness towards those to whom he was most bound… his alienation from his wife, even in that fantastic age, was thought extremely questionable.

    A. P. Stanley, Memorials of Westminster Abbey,

    London, March

    HAT DO YOU KNOW OF EAVING?" SKELTON

    said as he stirred the sugar into his tea. He stared unabashedly at Ecub and Matilda, noting the similarities in their finely drawn features. True-bom sisters now; twins, he thought, as there was no age difference between them.

    Who had controlled their rebirth? Surely not Asterion. They must be a part of the Troy Game itself now, their souls entwined with the labyrinth.

    "Very little," said Matilda. "Jack, you know me, and know what once I was to you. If I knew, I would tell you."

    "Is she with Coel?"

    'You asked Loth that last night," said Ecub. "Would you blame her if she was?"

    "Curse you, Ecub!" Skelton said, pushing aside his cup and saucer. "I love her! Where is she?"

    "Coel has ever been the gentler choice for her," Ecub responded.

    "Coel is not the man for her," Skelton responded, very quietly, his eyes steady on Ecub's. "Now tell me, you ancient witch, where is Eaving? You are bound to her. You must know where she is!"

    Ecub looked at Matilda, then back to Skelton. She smiled. "You are going to have to fight for both Eaving and your daughter. Are you prepared to do that?"

    "Yes, dammit. Yes!"

    "Are you prepared to do everything in your power to—"

    'Yes!"

    Ecub raised her eyebrows, and shared a look with Matilda.

    "I will destroy the world if that is what it takes," said Skelton. "Please …"

    Ecub studied him, seeing in his haggard face all she needed to know.

    "What if I said to you," she said, "that 'destroying the world' means giving Eaving to Coel, forever and aye?"

    Skelton sat back in his chair and studied Mother Ecub through narrowed eyes. "No," he said slowly. "You say that only to taunt me. Giving Eaving to Coel is not required, nor is it even a concept within the understanding of what Eaving is. She cannot be given to Coel. Nor would he accept her."

    "But you having her is a concept within understanding?" Matilda asked.

    Skelton looked at the woman who, so many years ago, had once been his wife. His only answer was a small, tight smile and the slightest of nods.

    Both Ecub and Matilda burst into delighted laughter as if he were a favorite child who had just passed a crucial test. Matilda rose, and, stepping forward, placed her hand on his bare chest.

    His skin was very warm, the muscles beneath very tight, and her touch brought back many memories for the both of them.

    "Tell me what to do," Skelton said, "tell me what I have to do to win Eaving back from whatever darkness consumes her."

    o>ie

    CAELA WAS TRAPPED WITHIN HER MARRIAGE AND Edward's court throughout the Christmas festivities. For six long days she smiled and danced and jested and, in the mornings and evenings, attended chapel or abbey services with Edward.

    At night she lay beside Edward who, for once, did not sleep well, but tossed and turned and muttered throughout the nights, gripped with a slight fever that presaged a chest cold. If she left for even an instant he would have missed her.

    There was no time to herself. No time to talk with any of the Sidlesaghes, nor, hardly, with Judith.

    No time to kiss Damson on the mouth and effect a glamour so that, at least, she could move within the laundress's body.

    Caela had emerged from her almost catatonic state before the altar of St. Paul's to find Judith and Saeweald, and the remainder of her escort, waiting for her. There had been no chance to talk then, not with the men-at-arms and monks so close, and little chance once she returned to the palace, for Edward was in an unaccountably good mood and insisted on sitting in her chamber (behind a blanket that Judith hastily erected) while Caela took her bath and dressed.

    From there it was to chapel, and from there to court, and from there it was a merciless slide into Yuletide and all those days of celebration that it entailed.

    Normally Caela enjoyed the Yuletide festivities. This year she loathed them.

    She finally had a chance to exchange a few hasty words with Judith on Christmas Eve, the day after she'd returned from St. Paul's. They were sitting within Caela's solar, and several other of the queen's attending ladies were present, but bending over a chest full of linens in the far corner, muttering about some damp sheets which would need to be aired.

    "Madam?" Judith whispered. "We have not had a chance to speak. How went it?"

    Caela's eyes filled with tears. "Not well. Oh," she said, glancing at Judith's face, "I lost my virginity well enough, but it did not bring me the closeness to the land I had thought it would. It was just…"

    Bestial, she thought, and hated herself for the calamity of that bare truth. If it was nothing but the humping and grunting of animals, then that was, surely, her fault.

    "It was not a true marriage," Caela finished. "And I do not know why."

    "You still feel the emptiness?"

    "Yes. I have taken a wrong turning somewhere, and I do not know how, or what I should have done instead." Caela rested a hand lightly on her belly. "Even my womb feels it, for it pains me greatly."

    "Caela," Judith began, laying a hand on the woman's shoulder, but then two of the other ladies came over, a sheet draped over their arms, and distress written over their faces.

    "Madam!" one of them said. "Your bed linens have been quite soiled."

    There was a silence, and Judith closed her eyes briefly, appalled at the timing of the woman's concern.

    "I am very well aware of that," said Caela softly, and turned her head aside.

    LATER, JUDITH SAID TO SAEWEALD: "IT DID NOT WORK.

    Caela still feels her lack."

    "And why am I not surprised to hear of that?" said Saeweald, his voice weary despite the inherent sarcasm of his words.

    She chose wrong, he thought.

    Christmas day itself was unseasonably wild. A storm front surged down from the north, laying snow two feet deep on the ground and trapping people inside with its icy blasts.

    Thus it was that no one was about to see, at dusk, the figure capering atop the Llandin, now known as the Meeting Hill. It was something of the utmost evilness, now a man, now a bull, now something even worse, shifting and twisting into shape after shape, growing into something dark and humped and monstrous, then shrinking violently into something that existed only as a spark of light dancing among the driving snowflakes.

    It was Asterion, celebrating.

    Not Jesus Christ's nativity, but the success of his own schemes.

    "She's mine!" he sang, again and again, arms wild, legs cavorting. "She's mine!"

    And then stillness, only the darkness of his eyes glowing through the storm.

    "She has no will now, but mine."

    IT WAS SAEWEALD WHO HELPED, IN THE END. FOUR DAYS after the celebration of Christ's Nativity, and after a long discussion with Judith, Saeweald brought to the king in his evening chamber a particularly strong sleeping draught.

    "It is to aid you to sleep, gracious lord," Saeweald said as Edward sat on the edge of his bed in his nightshirt, his chest heaving in and out as he tried to catch his breath.

    On the other side of the chamber Caela stood in her own night robe, a light wrap thrown over her shoulders, her hair loose for the night. She looked as tired and drawn as the king; more in need, in fact, of the sleeping draught than Edward.

    Saeweald glanced at her, then looked back to the king. "Madam your wife has told me how ill you sleep," he said, his voice soothing and gentle. "Drink of this, I pray you, for you cannot exist much longer without the restorative power of a good sleep.

    "Aye," said Edward, sighing heavily. "Aye. You are right."

    And he took the draught, and drank heavily of it.

    Later, when the king was already fast asleep, snoring mightily, the bower-thegn accepted with a smile the cup of spiced wine Judith brought to him.

    Soon he, too, was deep in sleep.

    WHEN ALL WAS STILL, AND THE ONLY SOUND THAT OF the snores of the two men, Caela rose. She slipped a cloak about her shoulders, shivering a little in the coldness of the air, slipped her feet into leather shoes, and padded quietly to stand in the center of the chamber.

    "Madam?" It was Judith, half rising from the trestle bed at the foot of Caela and Edward's bed.

    Caela put her finger to her lips. I go to the Sidlesaghe, Judith. Be still.

    "Be fast," Judith mouthed. "And be careful."

    Caela nodded, then stared at the floorboards.

    A trapdoor slowly materialized, and Caela bent down, lifted it and, with a smile for Judith, vanished below.

    THE SIDLESAGHE WAS WAITING FOR HER IN THE

    strange, brick-lined tunnel.

    "Oh, Long Tom!" Caela said, and stepped forward so that he could wrap his strong arms about her, and hug her to his chest.

    "What is wrong?" the Sidlesaghe said.

    Caela sighed. "I am still not as whole as I should be. I still… lack. Long Tom, what is wrong with me?"

    He frowned, puzzled. "You need to unite yourself to the land to attain your full self, sweet one. You know that."

    "But I did!"

    The Sidlesaghe's expression of puzzlement deepened. "You did?"

    "Yes! The night of the winter solstice. I lay with Silvius. You said…" Caela stopped as she finally looked at the Sidlesaghe's face.

    "Silvius?" he said. "He who sits and waits within the heart of the labyrinth?"

    "Yes. Long Tom—"

    "You lay with him?"

    "Yes!"

    The Sidlesaghe shrugged. "No matter. Was he enjoyable?"

    Caela gave a tiny laugh. "Well enough, I suppose, although I thought of no one but…"

    "But of him."

    "Yes."

    "Well, at that I am not surprised."

    "But did that not destroy… well, whatever was supposed to happen? Long Tom, I feel such a fool. Silvius tried so hard—"

    The Sidlesaghe put a hand to his mouth, and actually chuckled.

    Caela could not help herself, she laughed as well. "Well, you know what I mean. And, surely, by thinking of no one but Brutus, and imagining him with me instead of Silvius, I destroyed the magic that would have united me completely to the land."

    The Sidlesaghe shook his head. "It would have made no difference. You merely chose the wrong partner."

    "Oh? And who, pray tell, is the right partner?"

    The Sidlesaghe grew soulful. "When you see him, lady, you will know."

    "So I have lost my virginity to the wrong man?"

    "Your virginity is neither here nor there, sweet one. A marriage can be effected with or without it. But why do we talk of this inconsequential? There is greater danger afoot."

    Caela frowned. "What?"

    "Seven nights ago," the Sidlesaghe said, "something bad invaded this land."

    "How so?"

    The Sidlesaghe was now shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly agitated.

    "There has been a fundamental shift in the land," he said. "And, I think, in the Game. Something has happened. Something corrupt. Something wrong."

    "Asterion?"

    He shook his head. "Perhaps. Maybe. We don't know. Something has happened that has altered the foundations of the Game and of this land… something has tilted it slightly… I cannot know how else to describe it."

    "Something 'bad'?"

    "Oh, aye," the Sidlesaghe whispered. "Very bad." He had been looking down the tunnel, but now he refocused on Caela's face. "You must move another band. Tonight. And the others as soon as we may."

    Caela shivered. "Asterion…"

    "He will be waiting for us, yes. Surely."

    "Long Tom…"

    The Sidlesaghe reached out a hand and took hers, enveloping it within his. "We will watch for you," he said, his voice somehow immensely soothing. "As we have always watched for you."

    GUDO

    LHIS TIME THE SIDLESAGHE LED CAELA THROUGH a complex labyrinthine enchantment that eventually brought them to the low arched opening in London's wall, which allowed the Walbrook entry into the city. They stood once more just beyond the ring of columns that encircled Brutus who, once again, was taking a band from his arm—his left forearm this time—and placing it in the center of the columned circle. He made the complex enchantment with his left hand, the band vanished, and then so did Brutus.

    As Brutus disappeared, the Sidlesaghe felt Caela relax under his touch.

    "One day," he whispered to her, "you can allow him to meet your eyes."

    She made a dismissive motion with her head, clearly not wanting to talk about Brutus.

    "Sweet one," said the Sidlesaghe, "if Asterion meets you within the ruins of Troy while you are moving the band, he will kill you. Caela," the creature's voice roughened, and he had to pause and clear his throat, "don't walk through those ruins. Run. Run, for your life depends on it."

    She drew in a deep breath. "To Holy Oak," she said. It had been the Holy Oak when she had been Cornelia, and still it graced the tiny bubbling spring at the foot of the Llandin.

    Mag's Pond, still there after all these years, and Caela's natural escape route, should she need one.

    "I will be there to meet you," the Sidlesaghe said, and his voice had dropped so low that Caela had to strain closer to hear him. "Be safe, sweet lady. Be safe on the journey."

    She touched his cheek, then stepped forth into the circle of glowing light, and picked up the band.

    ASTERION WAS ROAMING. HE'D KNOWN EVEN BEFORE the sun sank that tonight would be special, that tonight she would attempt to move another of the bands.

    Asterion grinned. And if she did move a band, it was of no matter. He didn't care if she moved it to the cold heart of the moon, for he would still be able to find it.

    Now that he controlled her.

    But he had to play his part. There was no point in causing suspicion—and thus unexpected behavior—through inactivity. So he needed to make it appear as if he wanted to snatch the band as it was being moved. He needed to appear angry.

    "Frustrated," he whispered. "Inept!"

    And he laughed.

    He did not want to attempt the ruins of Troy again. The memory of that snatching hand was still too vivid.

    Besides, the ruins bored him. Best to make an appearance where she would emerge… which was… Asterion lifted his bull nose to the wind and sniffed.

    North.

    It would be north… northwest.

    Asterion's smile stretched even further. He knew where she was going.

    CAELA ONCE AGAIN TRAVERSED THE TERRIBLE PATH

    that wound through the ruins of Troy, the band clutched tightly in her hands.

    But this time, mindful of the Sidlesaghe's concerns, she ran as fast as she could while still able to avoid tripping over loose rocks or the rigid hand or foot of a corpse that lay partway across the path.

    Troy lay bloody about her, the dead lay moldering in their stinking heaps as they had previously, but Caela did not find them so disturbing this time. Instead she concentrated on the band lying in her hands, keeping her every sense strained for indication of pursuit. Every twenty or thirty steps she paused and half turned, her breath still, her body motionless, her face white, listening.

    Nothing, save the dying of Troy.

    Then she would hurry forward, her face even more strained, perversely, but she did not hear the sound of someone behind her.

    Was he ahead? Crouching behind rocks to her side?

    The further Caela moved through the destruction of Troy, the quicker became her steps, the tighter her face.

    Eventually, safely, she reached the end of her journey.

    ASTERION COULD FEEL THE PASSAGE OF THE BAND,

    feel its movement closer and closer toward him. It almost felt as if the band

    G

    were rushing to meet him, and, as he stood before the rock pond under the Holy Oak, Asterion literally held out his hands as he intuited her imminent arrival.

    There was a sound, a great sound of rushing water and wind and song, and suddenly a figure burst from the air before him, directly into his arms.

    He laughed in sheer enjoyment, but turned it into a roar, as if of fury, and grappled clumsily with the figure, allowing it to slip partly from his grasp. He grabbed at it again, meaning to pinch a little, but just as he tightened his fingers, it seemed as if the air itself erupted about him.

    Asterion's composure evaporated entirely as tall, bleak figures surrounded him. He panicked, not so much because he was afraid, but because these strangenesses were so entirely unexpected. The figure, she, slipped completely from his grip, but he was not worried about that, only the who and the what of that which attacked him.

    Gods, they were singing, and such a mournful sound! Asterion began to flail about with his arms, trying to see what it was that surrounded him, what gripped him, what was trying to smother him, but all he could make out was enveloping grayness, as if he were enclosed within a thick, viscous fog.

    There was the sound of water splashing, and he knew that she had escaped. Furious (not with her escape, but with the unknowns that attacked him), Asterion lashed out with virtually the full extent of his darkcraft.

    The air exploded, and there came the sound of moaning as the strange creatures fell back.

    There came the sound of a single sob, and then Asterion was standing alone by Mag's Pond, the ancient Holy Oak stretching out its bare limbs cold and dark above him.

    CAELA HEAVED IN GREAT GULPING BREATHS, HARDLY

    daring to believe she had escaped the Minotaur. Oh gods, the feel of his hands upon her, the heat of his body, the stench of his breath!

    She looked about. She still stood close by the Holy Oak, save that now the countryside had vanished, replaced with a terrible aspect that, for one frightening moment, made Caela believe she had fallen back into the ruins of Troy.

    She stood in a landscape covered over with bricks and mortar, hard, pale, smooth stone, and a wide roadway of hard blackness along which dreadful beasts roared. People moved shadowlike about her, and Caela realized she was seeing with that same awareness she'd tested inside Ludgate on the night she had moved the first band.

    Women, mostly, bustling busily about with baskets over their arms, and

    clothed in tight gowns that came only to their knees. Most of them wore hats, silly, small round bonnets that clung to stiffened curls. Some of the women had children with them, or pushed babies before them in wheeled conveyances that looked to Caela for all the world like backward running carts.

    There were some men hurrying among the crowded street. They were black, like ravens, and one or two of them swung sticks covered in material in their hands.

    What to do with the band? Where to leave it?

    She looked across the road, and saw there a small redbrick building. It was accessed via a large arch, which Caela could see led to an open paved area beyond the building. People stood about on this paved area, looking anxiously about as if expecting something.

    She turned her attention back to the building. Just inside was a small window in one of the walls, barred with metal, and behind this window she could see the tall form of a Sidlesaghe.

    He was looking at her, and once he saw that he had her attention, he lifted a hand and motioned to her, slowly, yet managing to convey the utmost sense of urgency.

    Again Caela looked about her, her hands now gripping the band even tighter in her anxiety.

    To reach the building and the Sidlesaghe, she had to cross this strange roadway.

    And there were great beasts that periodically roared along the road, black and blue creatures, twice the size of oxen, and red creatures the length of five oxen, and three times as high.

    "Oh, gods," she whispered. "What possibility is this the Game has created for me?"

    She looked at the Sidlesaghe again—he was still motioning to her to hurry, hurry—and then back to the road.

    It appeared to be clear.

    Taking a huge breath, Caela stepped onto the road, moving as fast as she could without risking tripping over the sodden robes that clung about her legs.

    Something roared past her.

    She shrieked, almost dropping the band, and stopped motionless in the middle of the road.

    She didn't know what to do. Her very will seemed frozen. She could step neither forward nor backward, and Caela was certain that her life would be snatched by one of those great speeding beasts at any moment.

    "Here, now, miss," said a soothing male voice, and Caela jerked as a firm hand took her by her right elbow. "Can't have you standing about in the street like this, you know."

    She risked a glance to her right—then sighed in relief. A Sidlesaghe stood there, although he was dressed in the most extraordinary jacket and trousers of tightly-fitted and very dark blue worsted cloth and with a blue and silver conical helmet on his head held on by a strap under his chin.

    "If you will, miss," said the Sidlesaghe, his gray-brown eyes watchful and reassuring beneath his strange helmet, and Caela allowed him to guide her across the street and into the building and thence to the barred window.

    There the Sidlesaghe, who had been so impatiently motioning to her, said, "Where to, miss?"

    Caela stared at him.

    "Miss?" said the Sidlesaghe who stood behind the counter at the window. Now that she was close, Caela could see that he was dressed in similar fashion to the Sidlesaghe in blue still standing beside her, but his close-fitted jacket and trousers were of a maroon color, and on his head he had a peaked cap with a leather brim.

    "I think miss would like to go home to Westminster," said the Sidlesaghe standing beside her.

    "Will that be a first-class ticket, miss?" said the Sidlesaghe behind the window.

    "Definitely," said the other Sidlesaghe.

    Caela stood, her eyes not moving off the Sidlesaghe behind the bars, unable to comprehend any part of this conversation.

    The Sidlesaghe behind the window held out his hand, palm upward. "A first-class ticket demands payment in gold, miss, if you don't mind. London Transport regulations."

    Caela stared at him.

    The Sidlesaghe stared at her.

    Caela slid the golden band of Troy through the aperture under the bars.

    "Thank you very much, miss," said the Sidlesaghe, handing to her a small rectangle of cardboard and placing the band into a drawer full of coins under the counter at which he stood. Then he nodded to his left. "Train's through there, miss. Should be arriving any minute now."

    "Thank you," said Caela, who still felt in a state of shocked unreality. "Is Long Tom about?"

    "I think you'll find him waiting on the platform, miss," said the Sidlesaghe who had helped her across the road and, hand still on her elbow, led her toward Platform No. 1 at Gospel Oak Station.

    IT WAS TOO MUCH. NOT THAT THE BAND HAD BEEN

    moved, but that her strange, unknown companions had thwarted him. Asterion

    was anxious, unsettled, and, anxious and unsettled, determined to make circumstances just a little more uncomfortable for… well, for everyone, really.

    Time to begin the process that would see William dead. To bring the Game under his control. Once and for all.

    Asterion moved through the night as a shadow, an unreality, rather than as flesh. He entered the palace at Westminster and slid under the door of Edward's bedchamber.

    There was a bowerthegn fast asleep on a bed by the door, and a woman on a pallet at the foot of the king's bed.

    There was no sign of Caela, and Asterion was not concerned about the absence of the queen. She was not what he needed this night.

    His form shimmered, coalescing into a black cloud of miasma, which hovered above the sleeping Edward's face, then, suddenly, it slid down to cover the man's face, then seeped inside his slightly open mouth.

    There was a moment of peace, of stillness, and then Edward suddenly reared forth, his eyes starting.

    "The Devil!" he screamed. "The Devil has taken me!"

    CbR

    ONG TOM WAS INDEED WAITING FOR CAELA ON

    the "platform," and before she could speak, he took her elbow *"*•* from the Sidlesaghe in blue, saying, "Hurry, there is mischief about at the palace, and you have been missed."

    As when she'd moved the band to Chenesitun, a new tunnel awaited them, and Long Tom hurried her along it.

    "I have a ticket," she said, holding out the rectangle of cardboard at the Sidlesaghe.

    He tut-tutted. "We have no time for that now!" But he took it anyway.

    Soon they were underneath the palace of Westminster, and even here, deep in the magical tunnel of possibility, Caela could sense the commotion above her.

    "Go," said Long Tom.

    CAELA DID NOT DARE TO REAPPEAR WITHIN HER BED-

    chamber using her power. It was too late. The entire palace was alive with shouting and consternation.

    What to do? What to do?

    There was little she could do, only one possibility, and Caela seized it. She reappeared in a still corner of the palace—a storeroom that was partway between the royal quarters and the bachelors' quarters—then slid stealthily into the palace proper, arranging her features into those of the panicked wife (something, in truth, she did not have to pretend too much) and ran back to her and Edward's quarters.

    People—clerics, servants, thegns, chamberlains, men-at-arms—had thronged the approaches to the quarters, but they stood back as Caela approached, glancing at her curiously.

    Where had she been?

    Caela ignored them, restraining her pace to something more dignified, although she kept the worried expression set on her face, moving

    through the chambers until she reached the antechamber just before the bedchamber.

    Here thronged yet more people—as well as the echoing sound of Edward's shouts—and, thankfully, Judith, whose face reflected even more trepidation than Caela's.

    "Madam!" Judith said, then, in a softer tone, "Where have you been?"

    Caela put a hand on her arm, and drew her in close.

    "Is Saeweald here yet?"

    Judith, her eyes round and frightened, shook her head slightly.

    Caela drew in a deep breath, which Judith thought had the feel of sheer relief.

    "How is my lord?" Caela asked in a stronger voice. "I had felt a change in his breathing as he slept, a horrid rasping, a deep difficulty, and saw a ghastly pallor cross his face. I rose, dreading what this portended, and without thinking to wake anyone else, fled for Saeweald."

    Apart from Edward's echoing shouts, the entire antechamber was silent, everyone staring at Caela, watching.

    Judith's tongue flickered over her lips, then she managed to speak. "Aye, madam. It must have been your rising that waked me just before my king shouted."

    "You did not think to wake me, or any other of the king's servants?" said the bowerthegn, staring at Caela with patent disbelief.

    "I panicked," said Caela, keeping her voice calm. "I thought only of the physician."

    There was a movement at the door, and the shadow of someone entering. Judith glanced over and then, before anyone else could speak, said, "Ah, Saeweald! How fortunate that my mistress reached you so quickly!"

    Caela turned, and managed a wan smile at Saeweald, who regarded both women carefully. "I am sorry for rousing you so precipitously, Saeweald, and I thank you for responding so quickly. My lord is ill, desperately so, and I fear greatly for him."

    Saeweald bowed slightly to Caela. "The desperation in your voice, madam, roused me as nothing else could have done. Our king is fortunate indeed that he has such a caring wife at his side."

    A great smile, clearly one of relief, spread over Caela's face, and Judith hoped that most of the observers standing about would think it merely relief that Saeweald had arrived.

    "I, and my king, are fortunate in having you as a servant," she said. "Come, physician, let us waste no more time."

    With that, she straightened her shoulders and led Saeweald, Judith directly behind, into the bedchamber.

    EDWARDS BED WAS SURROUNDED BY ALMOST AS many people as had been waiting in the antechamber. There were several clerics, of which Wulfstan was the greatest, all muttering prayers or wailing invocations for the speedy aid of almost every saint imaginable. Several women, a midwife among them (Judith supposed she had been one of the few people within the immediate vicinity who had any claim to healing skills, and so had been hauled into the chamber), rocked back and forth on their feet, wailing and wringing their hands. The palace chamberlain held position at the very head of the bed, an island of stillness and silence among the commotion, his steely eyes roving about the chamber as if seeking someone to blame for the current crisis. Armed men stood several paces back from the bed, nervous, alert, unsure what they should do. The bowerthegn, entering before Caela, went to stand at the foot of the bed. He picked up the coverlets over the king's toes, squeezing and twisting the material until it seemed he would rip it at any moment.

    The instant people realized that Caela, Judith, and Saeweald at her back, had entered the chamber, the murmuring and crying and caterwauling ceased—even Edward, who was sitting bolt upright in the center of the bed, bedclothes twisted to one side, stark naked, sweat glistening over his entire body—and everyone turned to stare at Caela.

    "Wife!" croaked Edward in a horrible, thick raspy voice. "Explain your absence!"

    "Thank God and all His saints and angels that you still live!" Caela said, her voice one of apparent joy. "See, I have brought Saeweald to your side."

    "Your beloved wife realized the change in your vitality even before you woke," Saeweald said, pushing aside several of the clerics and women to reach the side of the bed, Caela directly at his shoulder. "She came to me before anyone else had thought of my name, weeping that you were ill, nigh unto death. How lucky you are, my lord king, to have such a wife!"

    Still close to the door, Judith closed her eyes and sent a heartfelt prayer of thankfulness to all water and forest gods in existence for Saeweald's quick wits.

    Edward folded his lips into a thin line, his bright, feverish eyes darting between Saeweald and Caela. "You were not here," he finally said, his gaze settling on his wife. "The Devil came a-visiting and you were not here."

    "My lord," Caela said, and sat on the bed. "I was here, until I heard your breath gasp. Then I rushed for the physician." She glanced at the women present. "Hasten now, and bring me cloths and warm rosewater. I would wash this sweat from my lord's flesh."

    The women backed away, and Saeweald took Edward's wrist and felt his pulse.

    It was weak, fluttering feebly.

    "My lord," Saeweald said quietly. "What has happened?"

    "The Devil has entered me!" Edward said, sending one more vicious glare in Caela's direction.

    She ignored it, her face set in respectful concern, and she took a hastily wetted cloth from one of the women and began to run it over one of Edward's hands.

    Edward looked back to Saeweald, and then to Wulfstan, who had maintained his position at the head of the bed opposite from Saeweald.

    Wulfstan moaned theatrically, and with a wavering hand made the sign of the cross over Edward. "Begone, Devil!"

    "Devil or not," Saeweald muttered, "your chest is sorely congested." With one hand flat on Edward's chest, he tapped its back with the stiffened middle two fingers of his other.

    Edward's chest resounded with a thick, horrible thud at every tap. Then the king gasped, his face purpling, and he began to cough in great hacking barks.

    "What have you done?" cried Wulfstan, but Saeweald ignored him.

    "Expel it!" he said to Edward, who was now bent almost double with the effort of his hacking. "Bring it forth!"

    Saeweald grabbed the cloth from Caela, now sitting quite still as she stared in horror at her husband, and brought it to Edward's mouth just as the king ejected a great clot of blood and pus.

    There was a collective gasp of horror from those still gathered about the bed and, apart from Saeweald and Caela, everyone took a step back.

    "Pestilence!" muttered the palace chamberlain, and his stance stiffened even more, if that were possible.

    "Still your hysteria!" snapped Saeweald. "Your king has a great and evil congestion of his lungs, but this is not the pestilence!"

    There were concerned glances among the onlookers. Pestilence had not struck in over three generations, but the stories of its horror were still whispered about fires and tables.

    "Physician," said Caela, leaning forward to touch Saeweald's arm briefly. "What can you do? Please, tell me that you may save my husband's life!"

    The distress in her voice did not appear feigned.

    "I shall bleed him this night," said Saeweald, "and prepare a poultice for his chest and belly. Will you stay, madam, and aid me?"

    "Gladly," she said, then, as one of the women returned with a bowl of warmed rosewater, she rinsed out the cloth thickened with the blood and pus and began gently to sponge down her husband's body.

    FOUR

    S*

    (V fo.

    SOME DEEP, INNER CORNER OF HER BEING,

    Swanne realized she was drifting toward wakefulness, and she fought it with every ounce of her strength. Better sleep and unknowingness than facing what had occurred last night (as every night in recent, terrifying memory).

    To no avail- She felt herself propelled toward consciousness, and at the same time she felt that ghastly, leaden, icy weight in her belly, and she knew the incubus was forcing her to wake. Asterion must want her.

    "No!" Swanne muttered as her eyes sprang open. She stared directly upward to the wooden ceiling of her chamber. It looked so ordinary, so nonthreatening, and Swanne wondered why its innocuous wooden planks did not somehow reflect the agony that gripped her. She moaned, twisting a little in the bed. Her body throbbed and ached in a score of places, the hurt between her legs and deep within her belly the worst of all. There was a warm dampness on her thighs, and even without looking Swanne knew it was fresh blood. The incubus? Breakfasting?

    "William," she moaned softly and, for the first time since Asterion had trapped her, without her thinking or considering the implications, acting only on deep need and on her even deeper terror, Swanne tried to reach out to him. The next instant a blood-curdling scream ripped through her throat and she convulsed on the bed. The incubus had sunk its teeth into the inner lining of her womb, and had ripped her flesh clean away.

    As horrific as the pain was, worse was the frightful feel of the thing's jaws working back and forth, back and forth, as it chewed its morsel.

    "My lady?"

    The door had burst open at the sound of Swanne's cry, and Hawise and another of Swanne's attending ladies stood there.

    The instant they'd entered they'd halted, transfixed by the sight of Swanne writhing beneath her bloody sheets.

    "Madam!" Hawise gasped, and would have moved forward save that at that moment Aldred appeared behind them, grabbed both of the women's elbows, and forced them backward toward the door.

    "It is but her monthly flux," he said soothingly. "It is still flowing—can you credit it? A nuisance, indeed." He turned from the women and looked benignly at Swanne. "That is the problem, is it not, my dear?"

    Swanne looked at Aldred, and then felt the incubus within her open its jaws again. A wave of hopelessness all but overwhelmed her.

    "Aye," she whispered, and within her the incubus closed its jaws. "It is but my flux. More burdensome than usual."

    "But…" said Hawise.

    "The flux, Hawise," said Swanne, her voice flat. "Nothing more."

    "And now," said Aldred, "if you will leave your ladyship and myself alone for a time. We must talk a little over… arrangements."

    The women, now outside the door, stood motionless, still staring, as Aldred closed the door on them, and then Swanne heard their footsteps retreat.

    "No…" she whispered, and wondered if that was going to be the only thing she could ever say again.

    For so long as her life lasted… for so long as Asterion permitted her to live.

    "I am glad to see you awake," Aldred said, wobbling forth. "The night has seen some intriguing happenings." He paused, and grinned maliciously. "Not only the lovemaking that transpired between you and me. Yes?"

    She said nothing, but Aldred saw her throat constrict as she swallowed.

    "I am awaiting your response, my dear." Aldred's voice had hardened into ice, and Swanne felt her head jerked back so that she was forced to stare at him.

    "Yes," she whispered, her mouth dry with terror.

    "Another of the bands has been moved. Did you not know of it?"

    "My… my mind was consumed with other things."

    Aldred laughed, the sound harsh. "Indeed you were. Indeed you were." He began to tug at the neckline of his robe, pulling it away from his shoulders.

    "No!" Swanne cried out, and instantly the incubus inside her bit hard and viciously, and her cry turned into a choked-off shriek, her back arching off the bed in agony, her eyes almost popping from her head.

    "I regret I may have misunderstood your response, my dear," said Aldred, now naked. "I thought you may have said no."

    The agony had hardly dissipated, but Swanne knew her life depended on being able to placate this monster standing before her. All she had to do was survive, somehow to live, and eventually she would be able to find a way to…

    O

    The incubus bit again, harder and deeper, and the pain was so terrible that Swanne almost lost consciousness. She opened her mouth, but the agony was such she could not draw breath even to cry out.

    Her eyes rolled up into their sockets, and her body jerked, and then convulsed.

    Aldred smiled amiably and climbed onto the bed.

    A moment passed, and then, even though her body was still stiff with suffering, Swanne managed a faint, "Yes."

    "Yes… what, my dear?"

    "Yes, my lord. I am grateful for your attention."

    Aldred smiled, cold and malevolent, and forced Swanne's legs apart with one hand. "This bleeding is truly heavy, my dear. You really should learn to say 'Yes' to me a little quicker. Yes?"

    "Yes."

    "Good girl," he whispered and, grunting with both effort and pleasure, forced himself once more inside her body.

    SHE CONTINUED TO EXIST, SOMEHOW, THROUGH THAT grunting, thrusting nightmare. The incubus roiled within her, joyous to feel its master so close, and it nibbled and poked and thrust itself so that her body, from her breasts to her ankles, seemed composed of nothing other than screaming, tearing flesh.

    When Aldred had done and had rolled away from her, Swanne barely managed to conceal her tears of relief.

    He rose immediately, garbing his hideous body with his robe, then turned back to Swanne who lay motionless amid the dreadful, bloodied sheets.

    "None of this lying about, my dear. I have work for you to accomplish."

    A tear rolled from Swanne's left eye down her cheek, and the sight of it irritated Aldred. He leaned down and dealt Swanne a blow across the face, making blood spurt from her nose.

    "Get up!" he said. "Rise, and wash and clothe yourself. Now!"

    Swanne managed to struggle to her feet, but was unable to stifle the moan of pain as she did so.

    She jerked, as if expecting Aldred to strike her again, but he merely sat down on the bed and regarded her with calm eyes. "Wash and clothe yourself," he repeated, moving toward the door. "I have some matters to attend to elsewhere, but will return shortly. Be waiting for me, a smile on your face."

    Grateful that the monster had departed, Swanne nonetheless did as she was told, although she thought several times during the procedure that she

    would faint with pain. Her belly throbbed unbelievably, and blood continued to trickle from between her legs.

    Nothing she had ever endured had been this bad, not even childbirth, and she wondered how she had any blood left in her after the nightmare of the past week.

    As she pulled her gown over her shoulders, and twisted a little so she could manage the fastenings, Swanne closed her eyes and indulged in a heartfelt moment of pure hatred for Ariadne.

    How could she have done this? How could she have been so stupid? Why had she not warned her daughter-heirs? Had she been so self-conceited, so stupid, so…?

    "She was wrapped in her own ambitions," said a voice behind her, and it was Asterion's voice rather than Aldred's.

    She felt his hands fall about her waist, and she jerked, frightened almost to insensibility.

    Asterion had only come to her as Aldred since he'd first forced himself upon her, not in his true form. Now Swanne's heart raced, her breath growing tight and shallow, as she wondered what this portended.

    Asterion's hands grew heavy where they rested about her waist, and he turned her about.

    The Minotaur stood there, regarding her from his monstrous bull's head with beautiful liquid black eyes.

    Swanne grew rigid, but could not tear her eyes from the bull's powerful face. Its terrible aspect was almost hypnotic, and Swanne understood in a moment of clarity just why it was that Ariadne had consented to this single, devastating condition.

    She had been seduced by the power—and the hope of power—in that great face.

    She would have offered him the world if he had asked for it, just for the power he offered.

    Ah! What was she thinking? Ariadne had with that single ill-considered consent given her cursed brother the world!

    Asterion's hands were still about her waist, and now he slipped one of them downward to rub gently over her belly.

    Swanne tensed, expecting further suffering, but unbelievably her pain began to dissipate until it was little more than a dull ache. Her entire body sagged in relief, and for an instant she almost loved the Minotaur for releasing her from the agony.

    "Aldred has treated you poorly," Asterion said, "Your belly is battered almost to the point of uselessness."

    What are you saying? Swanne thought. You have treated me "poorly"!

    "Very poorly," Asterion murmured, and Swanne relaxed a little further under the touch of his hands, closing her eyes as even more of the pain abated. Just to feel the cessation of pain, just for a moment, was worth this brief compliance.

    "Do not judge me by Aldred's actions," Asterion said.

    Swanne could do nothing but nod, just once, jerkily. Her eyes were still closed as she concentrated on living every pain-free moment as desperately as she could.

    "My dear, I need you to look upon me" said Asterion.

    Swanne reluctantly opened her eyes.

    "I wish you to present yourself at Edward's side—"

    "I cannot! Harold dismissed me from court…" she stopped, terrified by the Minotaur's thumbs which had suddenly dug into her belly.

    "Remember what Aldred put in you," he said, very softly, What I put in you while I used Aldred's body.

    "Yes," she said dully. "I will do it. I will go to Edward's court."

    "Good. Poor Edward's health appears to have taken a turn for the worst. He is busily engaged in his dying. I wish you to watch for me, be my eyes and ears."

    "But you… but Aldred has better reason to be there—"

    "And be assured he will be there. But you have your ear attuned to the world of women, and can be admitted to their presence." He stopped, his black brow wrinkling as if in perplexity. "Now, I know that you and William— the sweet, sweet boy—believe Silvius is moving those bands. That may be so. But whoever is moving them has aid. Someone aids him. Or her. If someone is aiding Silvius—or whomever—then I need to know who, or what, they might be."

    He smiled, and ran his hands up to Swanne's breasts, caressing them gently. "After all, my sweet, you must have some duty to keep you occupied until you deliver William's life into my hands, mustn't you?"

    She moaned.

    "You will deliver William's life into my hands, will you not?"

    Silence.

    "Will you not?"

    Swanne jerked her head once in assent.

    "Good."

    Asterion let her go, eventually, and Swanne, her face dull, lifted her cloak from where it lay draped over a chest and moved to the door.

    "Swanne, my sweet," Asterion called to her just as she laid a hand to the door catch. Her back stiffened as she heard his voice. "I heard a rumor that

    I

    Caela was not at Edward's side when he took ill last night. I do rather hope you can discover for me who she might have been with. This is most important. What strange company does Caela keep these nights when she doesn't lie with Edward? You will ask her, won't you? I am most curious to know."

    LATER THAT MORNING, ALDRED SAT IN HIS BATH,

    slowly washing himself, puzzling things over in his mind.

    Everything this past week had been so dim… and yet so vaguely pleasurable. Somehow he seemed to have acquired the lady Swanne as a mistress, but he could not always remember those nights he spent with her so very well.

    Yet that he was spending them with her was undoubted. Everyone was looking at him differently—and Swanne herself, why she practically fell over herself to cater to his every wish. The proud lady he'd known for so long seemed to have decided to admit herself as his utter slave.

    Aldred smiled, then sighed happily. He wasn't sure about the "why" of his current circumstances, but he wasn't about to complain.

    F1V

    Caela Speaks

    A

    rDWARD SAT THROUGH THE DAY AND WHEEZED A little further into his dying with every breath, and enjoyed every moment of it.

    Finally, he was vindicated. The Devil and his evil roamed everywhere and now, due to the inattention of careless priests and the apathy of Edward's subjects, the king had been struck down in all his glory.

    No matter that Edward was an old man anyway.

    No matter that he'd whined of his aches and pains and fevers for as long as I had known him (and well before that if the mutterings of his long-suffering mother were any guide).

    No. He rambled and he moaned all through that morning: See how your lack of attention and love has struck me down. See how your lack of piety has allowed the Devil into the very heart and soul of the realm. If only you (and he took in the entire realm with that single "you," although his feverish eyes did tend to linger on me as he said it) had loved me and cared for me and tended me as your duty insisted.

    By noon I could gladly have gone to the window, thrown back the shutters, and screamed for the Devil to come back and finish the thing properly.

    Oh, I knew it was Asterion, and I knew why. He was pushing matters forward to suit his own pace. Catch us off-balance. Snatch at the Game before any of us, whether William or Swanne or Silvius or myself, or even Saeweald, could snatch back.

    What was Asterion planning? I wondered if Long Tom was pacing through the Game, wondering and worrying. I wondered if Silvius worried, and I had an urge to see him, not only to seek his forgiveness for what I could not give him on the night of the solstice, but to just have him hold me, and tell me all would be well. I know I had spent the hours after my return, ignoring Edward's vilenesses, wondering and worrying. I was outwardly the dutiful

    wife, bending my head in contrition at every barb Edward spat my way, aiding Saeweald as first he bled Edward, then applied hot herbal and honey poultices to his armpits and chest and groin, wiping down Edward's face and arms and legs to wash away his stinking sweat.

    About us hurried and muttered various court and church officials, moaning and blessing and praying and, no doubt, wondering how best to position themselves in the upheaval following Edward's undoubted soon-to-be death.

    Harold came to attend the debacle as well. He'd hurried from Alditha's bed (Harold had wasted no time in knocking at the door of Alditha's chamber, and I knew also that he had broached the subject of marriage with her ecstatic family; I had no doubt that Harold would be making sure of a legal heir as early as possible. He might not, after all, have much time once Edward had succumbed), glanced worriedly at me, then, with the rest of us, endured Edward's ranting throughout the remaining hours of the night and through the morning. He'd pushed a chest against the far wall—as far from Edward's bed as he could manage—and there he had sat and watched, his face haggard, his eyes deep with worry. Occasionally one of the chamberlains or counts or thegns or courtiers would bend close to him, and mutter, but Harold only ever responded with a nod.

    My eyes slid his way more often than need be, I expect, but I had so little chance to see him, or be with him, and the sight of him comforted me greatly.

    I would have liked—desperately liked—to be able to sit down next to him, and allow him to wrap me in his arms, and to hold and comfort me, but that was impossible under these circumstances.

    Under any circumstances, I expect.

    Sweet gods, how close had I come to discovery during the night? Or had I been discovered? Asterion would have noticed my absence when he'd visited his little dance of death upon Edward. Would it have seemed strange to him? Or would he have thought only that I slept in a different chamber so that Edward's piety would not be disturbed by my female form?

    In which case, Asterion must have wondered why my attending lady, Judith, slept on a pallet at the foot of the bed.

    Would Asterion have remembered that brief moment when he'd held me by the magical waters of the pond, and connected that woman with my absence from Edward's bed?

    As the night progressed, my worry combined with my fatigue to make me nauseous, and, when one of the servants leaned close to me just after dawn and offered me a cup of warm mead, I felt my stomach heave and sweat break out on my face.

    Saeweald noticed as well, and grabbed my arm just before I toppled from the bed.

    "Madam," he said, sharing a glance first with Harold and then with Judith, "you must rest. You cannot do more for your husband at present than you have."

    "What?" screeched Edward, lurching up from where he'd been reclining against the pillows. "The whore feels ill? What, Caela, a bastard child you're breeding there to some peasant lover? A thick-witted boy you're going to claim is mine? A bellyful of some lustful—"

    "You go too far, even for a king," snapped Harold, rising and coming to the bed. "If you think yourself dying, Edward, then concentrate on that dying, and ensure your own salvation rather than searching out imaginary faults in those who seek only to aid you."

    He turned his back on Edward, who was spluttering and hacking his way through a coughing fit brought on by his own outburst, and Harold took my arm, leading me back to the chest where we both sat down.

    Judith hurried over with a freshly dampened cloth to wipe my face, and I smiled my thanks at her.

    There was a clear question in her eyes, and I shook my head slightly. There was no baby, I was certain of that, even though my womb had been cramping badly in the past week or so.

    Judith wiped away my sweat, then brought me a mixed cup of milk and egg and honey, and I took it gratefully, thanking her as she turned to return to her stool by the door.

    "He is dying?" Harold said softly, his lips barely moving.

    "Yes."

    "Saeweald cannot save him?"

    "Do you want him to?"

    Harold, who had been staring at Edward, now looked at me. "No," he admitted. "I do not. It has come time for me to take my heritage."

    I shivered, a black wave of despair making me feel ill all over again. "Harold…"

    "I know, my love. I know."

    That "my love" almost undid me, and I had to set the half-drunk cup of milk down on the floor.

    Harold mistook the reason for my distress, and took my hand, no longer caring, I think, what all the watching eyes thought.

    "I am strong. I can face whatever comes at me. England will not accept either Hardrada or William."

    Oh, Harold, my love, I thought, you have no idea at all what it is you will face. I had the sudden, crazed thought that I hoped Asterion would best all who raged against him, for then Harold would not have to die. He could reign

    as king, never knowing that beneath him reigned a far viler lord in a far more wretched land…

    The thought vanished even before I had completed it. England would not accept Asterion either.

    Harold's gaze returned to Edward, now lying back on the pillows and struggling for breath. He spoke again, keeping his voice very low. "Edward will die, and he chose the best time of year to do so."

    "What do you mean?"

    "It is the dead of winter. Neither Hardrada nor William can invade until late summer at the earliest. I have well over six months before…"

    He stopped, and I squeezed my eyes closed so that he might not see the pain in them. Oh, I knew very well what that "before" encompassed.

    Before William came home to kill Coel all over again.

    William would win whatever battle he engaged in with Harold. William would become king. Hardrada, if he was to be a player at all, would be little more than a nuisance.

    "Do not fear for me, Caela," Harold said in the gentlest voice I have ever heard from any throat. He was going to say more—I was by this stage beyond any coherent speech—but then his head jerked toward the door, and he cursed, not taking the trouble to lower his voice.

    I raised my head.

    Swanne had entered the room.

    She looked… I don't know… she looked different in some aspect. She was very pale, but then she'd always had pale skin, but it did seem far more translucent than normal. Her eyes were overbright, but then that might be because she had a winter chill.

    There was a strange rigidity in the manner in which she held her body, but that was likely because she'd fully heard Harold's curse, and because she undoubtedly knew she would not be much welcomed within this chamber.

    Edward had always disliked her (the man had some sense!), and Harold had made his feelings for Swanne known all through the court.

    Harold was within one or two weeks, at the most, of being crowned the new king, and there was no one in this chamber likely to try and alienate him by taking Swanne's side in their rift.

    The chamber was already crowded, and there was little room for movement, but still somehow people managed to draw back from Swanne as if she carried the pestilence within her person.

    "What do you here?" Harold asked. He had let go my hand and risen.

    Swanne's eyes moved about the room, as if searching for supporters, but she answered Harold calmly enough. "I am here to pay my respects to the

    king," she said, "and to offer my aid, in howsoever that may be required."

    Without waiting for a reply, Swanne moved to the side of Edward's bed— the opposite side from Harold and myself—and sank to the floor in a graceful curtsy, bowing her head almost fully down to her breast.

    "My lord and liege," she said to Edward as she finally raised her face to look at him, and I was shocked to see her eyes glistening with tears, "I am sad to see you in such distress. How may I best help?"

    Edward was in no mood for courtly niceties. "You can remove yourself from my presence," he said, "and take that slut with you. I have had enough of her."

    He waved a hand feebly in my direction.

    Harold tensed, and before he could speak I rose myself and said calmly enough, "I will be glad of the time to rest. Judith, perhaps you might bring some bread and cheese so that the lady Swanne and I may break our fast together? We can sit in peace in the solar, I think."

    Away from all these people. That would be a relief, at least, even if Swanne's company was not. I determined to rid myself of her as soon as possible. All I wanted was to sleep…

    Swanne seemed curiously pleased at this suggestion, and she and I made our silent way to the solar—gratefully empty. There was no fire burning in the brazier because of the fuss Edward's sudden sickness had caused, but there were furs and blankets enough to wrap about us, and Judith could send someone to attend to the fire shortly.

    "Swanne," I said as we sat down in opposite chairs and arranged the furs about ourselves. "How do you?"

    It was but a politeness, but her eyes gleamed strangely, and her mouth worked as if she wanted to say something but dared not.

    "Well enough," she said finally. She was staring at me now with a disturbing brightness, and I shifted, uncomfortable. I did not truly feel like trading barbed comments with Swanne at the moment.

    "And you are comfortable at the archbishop's palace?" I said. The news of Swanne's move to Aldred's residence had caused a great stir and even more comment in Edward's court.

    She jerked her head in what seemed like assent.

    I looked to the door, wondering where Judith was. Even the presence of another person in this chamber would be a welcome relief, even if she did nothing to ease the awkwardness of this conversation.

    "You must be missing your children," I said.

    "Do you remember those golden bands Brutus wore about his limbs?" she said. Her entire body was rigid, and she stared at me unblinkingly.

    I froze, although I truly should not have found this unexpected. Swanne

    would have known another band was moved last night, and I was the only living soul in England with whom she might discuss the matter (apart from Asterion, of course, but then I could not imagine Swanne interrogating him about the bands' movements!). She might even suspect me, although she would not think me capable of their movement.

    Still, Swanne-who-once-was-Genvissa had been blaming me for most of the world's ills for these past two thousand years, so that she would blame me for this—without actually believing that I was responsible for it—was hardly a shock.

    "Of course," I said. "Brutus treasured them dearly."

    "He hid them. After you had murdered me."

    "They vanished from his limbs, that I know, but I did not know what he had done with them." Not then.

    "Now someone is moving them."

    I swallowed. It wasn't so much the topic of conversation, but the strange, unreal directness of it that perturbed me. There was something odd about Swanne. Something… un-Swanne. It was the only way I could think of describing the strangeness that hung about her.

    Perhaps it was just her anger and shock at the movement of the band.

    "We think it is Silvius," she said.

    We? I thought. "Silvius?" I said.

    "Oh, come now, you pathetic little wretch, you know who Silvius is."

    I fought the urge to drop my eyes from her direct stare. "Oh… Brutus' father. Yes? Swanne, you must understand that in our dealings with each other, Brutus and I spent little time talking."

    There, let her make of that what she would.

    Swanne flushed, and I knew my barb had hit home.

    "There are rumors, foul rumors, I am sure," she said, "that you were strangely absent from Edward's bed when he took ill last night. How may that be explained, do you think?"

    It was not unexpected that Swanne would have heard this, and certainly not unexpected that she would comment on it to me… but that she would do so in the instant after discussing both the band's movement and Silvius?

    I gave her the same explanation I'd given everyone else. I'd woken, realized Edward's distress, and run to fetch Saeweald without thinking to wake anyone else.

    I finished, but Swanne said nothing. She just stared at me with that unusual light in her eyes.

    "I've taken Aldred to my bed," she said. "Did you know that?"

    Perhaps if she had said that she was really Og reincarnated, she may have stunned me more, but, frankly, I doubt it. Not only was that comment so

    O

    totally unexpected, so totally inappropriate to the conversation immediately preceding it, but the fact that Swanne had taken Aldred to her bed was… unbelievable.

    I cannot imagine any woman willingly taking Aldred into her bed, but Swanne? Never! Not when events were so clearly moving toward a reckoning. Not when William was so closel

    Later, of course, I may have recognized that comment for what it was—a heavily-veiled scream for help—but at this moment I only sat there, my mouth agape, and finally managed to splutter, "But what about William?"

    "He wasn't handy at the time!" she snapped.

    "But—"

    "Do you know who is moving the bands?"

    Again, the sudden twist in the conversation unnerved me. "No."

    "Is it Silvius?"

    "I don't know to what you refer, Swanne. I—"

    "Are you moving the bands, Caela?"

    "Me? Me? How can I, Swanne? I do not even know why you are so obsessed with these damned bands! And Brutus hid them, not me! Surely you have enough wealth and estates. Why tinker after some long-buried relic?"

    "Are you moving the bands, Caela?"

    "Why are you asking me this, Swanne?"

    "You were not with Edward last night when a band was moved."

    Gods, and to think I'd been worrying about what Asterion might have thought] "I have explained where —"

    "Who do you keep company with, Caela? What strange creatures aid you those nights you are not with Edward?"

    "What do you mean?"

    She rose suddenly to her feet, the furs and coverlets tumbling about her feet. "Who else has come back from that terrible life we endured? Who are your friends?"

    I defended with attack. I was now so truly confused, worried, and disorientated by Swanne's bizarre behavior that I could think of no other way to respond.

    I, too, leapt to my feet, and with one fist I beat against my belly. "Do you not remember, Swanne? Asterion tore Mag from my womb! I am no more than an ordinary woman—I have no insights! No secrets! What? Do you think that I am still Asterion's pawn? Still dancing to his tune?"

    Something in Swanne's face changed. There was a moment when she seemed terrified, and I assumed that her terror was because she might truly have thought I was Asterion's creature.

    "Look," I snarled, spreading my hands wide. "No knife."

    She winced, but I carried straight on.

    "I want nothing save to be left in peace, Swanne. I have no ambitions save to escape your malevolence and jealousy and retire to some quiet hall in the country where I might live quietly. I do not want to see your and William's triumph, Swanne."

    My face was twisting in bitterness now, and I think it was that more than anything else that convinced her. "I do not want William, Swanne. You can have him. I just want to escape you and him and all that has happened. I just want to escape!"

    I burst into tears, and as I put my hands to my face and sobbed, Judith entered the room, took one appalled look at me, and hastened over.

    "Madam!" she said. "What—"

    "My lady Swanne is leaving, Judith. Perhaps you can close the door behind her."

    Swanne gave me one more strange, searching look, nodded tersely, then left.

    TWO DAYS LATER, AS I SAT EXHAUSTED IN EDWARD'S

    chamber, Silvius came to see me.

    I was astounded at his daring—for he did not bother with one of his Aegean sorceries, but came to me openly—and grateful. In truth, Edward's death chamber (once our marital chamber, but now utterly overtaken with the stink and business of his dying) was thronged with clerics, supplicants, nuns, abbesses, physicians, herbalists, nobles, members of the witan, sundry palace servants crowding in for a glimpse of the fun, and a press of other bodies and ambitions I did not bother to recognize. Jesus Christ himself could have entered that chamber, and it would have elicited no comment.

    I was sitting on a linen chest on the far side of the chamber, all but hidden from the view of those closely grouped about the bed by a group of nuns (from Mother Ecub's order, I think, which may have given Silvius the courage, knowing they would do their best to keep him hidden from view), when a close-hooded monk came to me, murmured an apology for intruding, and sat on the chest beside me.

    "My lady," he said, and took my hand.

    I almost jerked it out of the presumptuous man's grasp before I realized who it was. Silvius' good eye gleamed at me from deep within his hood, and I almost burst into tears.

    I almost spoke his name, but he put his finger to his lips and winked.

    I contented myself with squeezing his hand. "What do you here?" I asked, lowly.

    "Come to see if you need any comfort."

    Oh, he was too good to me. "Oh," I said. "Good man—" Damn this audience for not allowing me to say his name! "—I am glad you are here. I wish to say… that…"

    I wanted to apologize to him for how I had acted that night we lay together, for not being what he deserved, but I did not know how to phrase the words.

    "Do not worry, my lady, you were all that I deserved, and more. Tell me… have you lost that emptiness?"

    I shook my head wordlessly.

    "Ah, I am sorry for it. I had hoped…"

    "I know." Again I squeezed his hand. "So much has changed in so few days."

    He glanced at the back of the closely grouped nuns, as if he could see Edward through their substance. "I know. There is a disturbance in the Game."

    "Long Tom has felt it also." Silvius' eye jerked back to my face as I continued. "The foundations of both land and Game have tilted slightly."

    "And does he know what has caused this?"

    "No." Now it was I who looked about the chamber. "Swanne is altered. I wonder if it is she who has… has…"

    "Has?"

    "I don't know." I felt close to tears, and Silvius lifted his free hand and touched my forehead, making the gesture look like a blessing. I wished he could keep his fingers on my face, but of necessity he needed to drop them away. I took a deep breath and tried again. "Her manner. Her very being. It is different in some way. Sharper, edgier. More acute."

    "Then what has happened, has happened to Swanne," he said.

    "But what could it be?"

    He shrugged.

    "Asterion?" I asked, glancing about, wondering if fee was here, among us.

    Undoubtedly.

    "If Asterion did anything to Swanne, it would be to kill her. That I could imagine. Especially if he was angered that another band had been moved. Who else would he suspect, save for Swanne?" said Silvius.

    "He could suspect me. He came to Edward while I and Long Tom moved the second band, and he saw I was not here. Then Swanne came to me, and asked questions…"

    "Lady," Silvius said very gently, "how could he suspect you? He is certain that Mag has been killed. He cannot know you for who you truly are."

    I shrugged again, closer to tears than ever. If only I could sleep, rest, close my mind to everything save the delicious relief of dream.

    Silvius' hand tightened about mine. "I can feel him," he said, beating his

    GODS¹ CONCUBINE

    other hand in a closed fist gently against his breast. "I can feel that motherless bastard in here. He is confident. He is crowing with confidence. The Game has shifted, and he has caused it. Swanne has 'shifted' and I cannot think but that he has caused this, as well. Caela…"

    "Yes?"

    "If Asterion murders Swanne or otherwise corrupts her, we are lost. You know that, don't you?"

    I closed my eyes, and gripped Silvius' hand tightly.

    "I know that," I said.

    CbAPGGR S1JX

    th January

    DWARD LAY DYING. HE'D TAKEN ALMOST A WEEK

    about it, but now, in the heart of the bleak midwinter, it was his time.

    He was screaming.

    There was no need for him to scream so, save that Edward was approaching his salvation, and he wanted everyone to know that he was going to grab at it with both hands. There was no possible means by which salvation was going to avoid him. No possible means by which God and His saints were going to escape an eternity without the Confessor by their side.

    Humility had never been Edward's strongest attribute.

    His screams were terrible to hear. As he gurgled with the blood and pus that now almost completely filled his lungs, they rippled about the crowded chamber like a rotten sea.

    It appeared that anyone who had even the faintest connection with the king had squeezed themselves into the chamber.

    Caela was there, the chief mourner and witness. Her face was pale and expressionless, her every movement measured, as if she kept herself under tight control.

    Most of the highest clergy, currently within a days' ride of London, were there: Wulfstan, bishop of Worcester; Eadwine, the abbot of the newly consecrated Westminster Abbey; Stigand, the archbishop of Canterbury; Spearhafoc, the bishop of London; Aldred, the archbishop of York, his eyes weeping, his chins wobbling, his plump hands twisting and twining before his ample stomach; and sundry abbots, and deacons, including many from Normandy.

    Many earls and counts and senior thegns were there, including the earls Edwin and Morcar, brothers to Alditha, and who were there less to witness Edward's death than to ensure Harold wed their sister as soon as possible. Among the other men of rank who attended were at least eight members of

    the witan. Their eyes rested on Harold far more than they rested on Edward.

    Swanne was there, standing well back and hardly visible, but with her black eyes darting about and watching the crowd more than they watched Edward.

    Saeweald also attended. He stood at the king's side, silently using linens to wipe away the worst of the effluent that projected from the king's shrieking mouth before handing them to Mother Ecub, prioress of St. Margaret the Martyr, who placed them in a basket at the bed's head.

    No doubt, once the king was dead, the basket's contents would be sou-venired by eager hands, kept against the inevitable day when Edward would be sanctified and the purulent linens would become valuable relics.

    Finally, packed at the furthest distance and generally jammed against the walls of the chamber, stood the king's most faithful servants: his bowerthegn, his palace chamberlain, his royal men-at-arms, the laundresses (Damson among them) and stable boys who had served Edward with love and devotion and who wondered if Edward were to find himself a place with God and His saints this night, then what place there might be for them in the new court.

    This relatively small group of servants were, truly, the only ones there whose primary concern was to mourn.

    Everyone else had their own agendas, the most common of which was to ensure themselves a prominent place in the new court. Doubtlessly, the sound first heard, in that moment after Edward drew his final breath, would be the thud of knees hitting the floor as men pledged their allegiance to the new king, Harold.

    Edward's shrieks grew louder, more incoherent. It was difficult to distinguish individual words, but no one had much doubt as to their intent: Edward was letting God know of his imminent arrival, and was telling the world that it would be a poorer place indeed for his absence.

    The dying king sat propped upright against a welter of goose-down pillows. He had on a linen nightshirt, open at the neck so that it revealed his thin, laboring ribs, and it billowed about his skeletal arms as he waved them about. Edward's staring eyes were fixed on the golden cross held in the trembling hands of a monk who stood at the foot of the bed. The darkened chamber was lit only by eight or nine fat candles in wall sconces, and what light did manage to find its way through to Edward's bed consisted only of graying, shifting shadows.

    As Edward's shrieking shrilled yet higher, and the pustulence he emitted from his mouth became thicker and more foul, several members of the witan, who stood close to the huddled clerics, stepped forward and began urgently to whisper to Stigand, Spearhafoc, and Aldred, the three senior clerics present.

    The whispered conversations grew heated. Both the members of the witan and the clerics gesturing and, occasionally, looking worriedly at Edward.

    Finally Aldred nodded his head, as if he agreed with what the witan argued, and turned to his two fellow clerics, adding his weight and influence to the reasonings of the witan.

    After some moments, Stigand and Spearhafoc nodded as well—by this stage most eyes were watching this discussion rather than the king—and Aldred wobbled to the king's side and, holding a careful sleeve to his mouth, lest the king splatter him with his dying, began to speak to Edward in a low, but compelling voice.

    "My dearest liege," he said, "your time is upon you. See! God holds out his hands before you! The saints chorus their jubilation!"

    On the other side of the bed Saeweald turned his head as he accepted a clean linen from Mother Ecub, taking the opportunity to roll his eyes very slightly at her.

    Ecub's face remained expressionless, but Saeweald thought he could see a slight relaxation of the muscles around her eyes: she was as amused as he.

    "Yes! Yes!" Edward shrieked—the first two coherent words he'd uttered in the past hour.

    "Salvation awaits!" Aldred continued, his eyes gleaming with a fanatical light. "Heaven and the next world awaits! You shall live at God's side for eternity!"

    "Salvation!" screamed Edward, his hands flapping at his bed linens. "Eternity!"

    Caela winced, then looked away.

    "The Devil shall be bested!" shouted Aldred, now working himself into a true fever.

    "Bested!" shrieked Edward.

    "Evil shall be overcome!"

    "Overcome!"

    "God and his angels shall prevail!"

    "Prevail!"

    "Your subjects shall be saved!"

    "Saved!"

    "Harold shall reign, a true Christian king!"

    "A true Christian king!" Edward echoed. Then, more softly, and far more suspiciously. "Harold?"

    "Harold shall be your heir!"

    Edward said nothing, but glared at Aldred.

    Across the room Harold also glared at Aldred, who flushed.

    "My best and truest lord," Aldred said, his tone unctuous, "evil thinks to

    create disharmony and confusion within your realm. There is unsurety about your heir. Name him now! Best evil! Ensure that righteousness prevails! Name Harold—"

    "Godwine's cursed son?" Edward said. "You want a Godwineson to sit on the throne of—"

    He stopped, and uncertainty appeared to overcome him. He coughed, spitting into the linen that Saeweald provided, then looked with watering, tormented eyes to Eadwine, the abbot of Westminster. "What should I do?" he whispered. "What should I do?"

    "You must do what is best," Eadwine said.

    "What is best?" said Edward.

    "Harold," said Eadwine, and, about the chamber breaths were released in profound relief.

    "Harold?" said Edward.

    "Harold," said Eadwine.

    Edward gave a small nod, then looked back to Aldred. "Perhaps Harold would be best," he said.

    "Name him," Aldred said very softly.

    Edward sighed. "Harold shall succeed me." He did not look at Harold as he said this.

    For his part, Harold's face flushed with relief. He had been named. He had the right to the throne. If William or Hardrada or even a bevy of church mice tried to lay claim to it then they would do so illegally, both in the sight of God and in the sight of England.

    "Harold…" Edward said, and his tone was one of immense sadness, as if he felt he had failed somehow, but was not quite sure of that "how."

    Aldred laid a heavy hand on Edward's shoulder. "Be at peace, my lord," he said, and with those words Edward slipped quietly into death.

    There was a silence, then cries of "Harold! Harold! Harold!"

    Through the tumult, Aldred raised his face and caught Swanne's eye.

    William, he whispered into her mind. William is on his way… and you shall hand me his life. Yes?

    A pause during which Swanne's face twisted in silent agony and she grabbed with one hand at her belly.

    Yes?

    Yes, she whimpered back, and her eyes ran with tears.

    sevejM

    fr't

    AROLD'S ELECTION TO THE THRONE WAS A

    foregone conclusion, the result not only of Harold's careful and ceaseless canvasing of the members of the witan as Edward lay a-dying over the Christmas season, but Aldred's ability to wrangle a succession order from Edward in those moments before he died. Within an hour after Edward's death, Harold's succession was proclaimed over Westminster and through London; within a day it had spread to most parts of the realm.

    Edward's chamber was abandoned virtually within moments of his passing, save for Damson, Caela, and several other ladies who attended to his laying out. The rest of the witnesses, the counts and earls, the chamberlains, chancellors, stewards and thegns, the priests and bishops and abbots and abbesses and all their attendants had moved with Harold to the Great Hall of the Westminster palace, there to plan the coronation.

    It would take place in the morning at the very newly consecrated Westminster Abbey, directly after the funeral service to bury Edward.

    And directly after he was crowned king, Harold would wed Alditha and crown her queen. All would be settled before noon.

    The morrow was going to be a rushed day indeed, but that was, as Harold explained to his crowd of old retainers and friends, heavily augmented with new hangers-on and applicants to power, all to his advantage.

    "If I leave my coronation until the usual period of official mourning will have passed, then William, Tostig, Hardrada, and half the aging Vikings still left in Norway, for all I know, will have moved." Harold sat on the throne on the dais, having marched there without hesitation the instant he entered the Great Hall.

    One of the senior members of the witan, Regenbald, who had been Edward's chancellor, stepped forward. He was an old man, but still radiated a powerful virility, and was renowned across half of Europe for his insights and sagacity.

    "Mourning would only take a month," he said. "No one is going to mount an invasion in a month. Not in the bleakness of midwinter. To rush into a coronation might appear to smack of… unseemly haste."

    There were murmurs of agreement in the nve-man-deep throng about Harold.

    "Aldred, my friend," said Harold. "What say you?"

    The archbishop visibly preened with pride; Harold's prompting for advice was a direct reward for Aldred's success in securing a succession order from Edward.

    "I cannot speak for Hardrada," said Aldred, his eyes skimming quickly over the watching faces before returning to Harold, "but I think I can for William. His spies at this court—"

    There were murmurs and dark looks exchanged about the gathering, but Harold kept his own gaze steady on Aldred.

    "—will have doubtless already sent word regarding Edward's demise," Aldred continued. "William will have been waiting for this news. Surely, yes, he will swing his plans for an invasion into place, but the first thing he will do is seek to claim the throne himself. He has, as we are all too well aware, been claiming for years that Edward promised him the throne many years ago when Edward sheltered at the Norman court. William will proclaim loud and long all over Europe, from the Papal court to the Holy Roman Empire to Flanders itself that he is the legal king of England. He will do this because he will hope to make the witan think twice about electing Harold. William will do everything he can to make Harold's succession, should it happen, as illegal as possible."

    "We will never have a Norman king!" said Regenbald.

    "We would never elect William!" said Robert Fitzwimarch, who had been a member of the witan even longer than Regenbald.

    "A Norman and a bastard," muttered yet another witan member, Ansgar.

    Harold smiled. "If he surrounded London with enough swords you would elect him willingly enough," he said, then carried straight on through the howls of denials. "Aldred is right. If I give William so much as a day of space he will have petitioned most of the reigning princes, dukes, kings, and prelates of Europe regarding his right to the throne and, knowing William's charm and his reputation, most of them shall have agreed to his right to it. If I waited for the full month of mourning before being crowned, I would have the weight of European opinion against me, and William would have his excuse for an invasion. This way," he paused momentarily, his face suddenly looking old and haggard, "this way, perhaps I have a chance of circumventing him."

    There was a silence.

    "St. Paul's?" said Aldred brightly. "I should send word to the dean that he should ready the cathedral for your—"

    "No," said Harold. "I will be crowned in Westminster."

    "But kings have always been crowned in St. Paul's!" said Stigand, the

    GG

    archbishop of Canterbury, and Spearhafoc, the bishop of London, as one. Stigand had always been a stickler for tradition, and Spearhafoc could suddenly see the coronation sliding out of his control into the eager hands of Eadwine, the abbot of Westminster.

    "Then I shall start a new tradition!" snapped Harold. "Think, damn you! Edward had stipulated that he be buried in Westminster Abbey, and I dare not go against that lest I be seen to disrespect his wishes and his holy corpse. So the funeral service for Edward, with every court member present, will be held in Westminster Abbey in the morning. I am not then going to insist that everyone up and move themselves, through the heart of a frozen winter's day, to St. Paul's for my coronation! Westminster it is."

    Harold leaned forward on the throne and looked Stigand in the eye. "Is your matter still before Alexander?"

    Stigand looked down. "Yes." For several years now Stigand's appointment as archbishop of Canterbury had been in dispute. The matter had gone to the pope for a final decision, but Alexander II, not known for his speed in dealing with business matters not directly connected with either food or young girls, had not yet proclaimed on the problem.

    "Then Aldred shall crown me," Harold said.

    "No!" Stigand cried, taking a half step forward. Harold raised his hand.

    "I cannot afford to be crowned by an archbishop whose appointment is in doubt!" Harold said. "Damn it, Stigand, if Alexander does not rule in your favor, and you have crowned me, then my coronation is null and void. Aldred is the second most senior churchman in England, and there is no dispute as to his right to the title. He shall crown me."

    Stigand shot Aldred a foul look, but the obese archbishop was staring down at his hands laced across his belly, a small smile on his face.

    Harold stood up, beckoning to the brothers Edwin and Morcar. "I need to speak to you about your sister, Alditha. If I am to wed her in the morning, then you and I need to finalize her dower arrangements tonight."

    And with that, the rest of the crowd was dismissed.

    eigbc

    /| LDRED HAD SECURED FOR HIMSELF A SMALL BUT

    private chamber within the Westminster complex. Between the death of the one king and the coronation of the next, there was little time to scurry to and from his palace in London.

    Besides he was enjoying himself far too much to waste time in traveling along the frozen Westminster to London road.

    "And so then Harold said, 'Aldred shall crown me'!" Aldred said, and grinned. "I could hardly believe it. I… I, to crown the king of England! Shall I crown William, too, my dear? Do you think?"

    Swanne sat at the very edge of the bed, as far away from Aldred as possible. She felt as though she were locked into a black, cold night from which she could never escape. Her belly ached from the incubus's horrid nibbling, her heart ached for all that had happened and for what Asterion promised would happen, and her entire body throbbed painfully from Aldred's just-completed bout of lovemaking… if such a brutal assault could be in any way described as lovemaking'.

    "Shall I, my dear?" Aldred said, now much softer, and Swanne's head jerked in terrified assent, knowing that the incubus could strike at any moment.

    He was going to say more, but just then came a knock at the door, and a mumbled request from one of the abbey monks that the archbishop join the abbot of Westminster and the archbishop of Canterbury within the abbot's private chambers as shortly as possible.

    Aldred sighed, patted Swanne on the cheek, and departed.

    A few minutes later, surprising Swanne who had relaxed just enough to close her eyes, the door reopened, and Asterion, now in his ancient form of the Minotaur, walked in.

    He sat on the bed, close to Swanne, who had shrunk back.

    She tensed, her black eyes growing huge and terrified, and Asterion reached out a hand and took one of hers gently.

    "I will not harm you," he said, sliding close enough that their bodies touched at hip and shoulder.

    If anything, her eyes grew even wider.

    "I will not harm you," he repeated, and ran his free hand softly over her shoulder, breast, and belly, where the hand lingered a moment before continuing down to rest on her thigh.

    She was very cold, and Asterion jerked his eyes toward the brazier.

    Instantly a fire roared into life, making Swanne tremble under Asterion's touch.

    "Shush," he said, and pulled her tense body close. "I do not mean to treat you harshly."

    She made a small noise, part laughter, part groan.

    The expression on Asterion's great bull head changed into something curiously like a smile. "Ariadne loved me, you know," he said. "Perhaps you might, too."

    "She wanted you dead," Swanne said.

    "Oh yes, she did, and thus this." Asterion's hand again rested on Swanne's belly. "I am not going to make the same error with you as I made with Ariadne. But she did love me. A long time ago, when we were but half brother and sister, and mated within the great mystery of the labyrinth." He paused, and again smiled, this time more obviously. "It was hardly as if she were a virgin when Theseus first took her, you know."

    For the first time since she'd managed to struggle from under Aldred's body to this spot at the end of the bed, Swanne looked at him. And for the first time in many days there was something other than fear in her eyes. A questioning, perhaps.

    "Think about it," said Asterion. "Ariadne was the Mistress of the great founding labyrinth. I was… almost her Kingman, if you like." His bestial mouth brushed the top of her head, and Swanne winced. "And you well know what relations exist between a Kingman and the Mistress of the Labyrinth," Asterion said, drawing back a little.

    "You were not the Kingman of that labyrinth," said Swanne. "You were the blackness and malevolence she kept trapped within its heart."

    He laughed. "Ah, you know your history too well, Swanne, my love. Be that as it might, Ariadne nevertheless visited me in the heart of the labyrinth on many an occasion. We were lovers, Swanne, and that is what made her betrayal of me to Theseus the more… dreadful."

    His voice had hardened into ice on that last word, and Swanne shuddered.

    "And yet still I gifted her all that I had," Asterion went on. His hands were running all over Swanne's body now, and, as they moved, they smoothed away all the pain and aches she felt. Without realizing it, Swanne leaned very gradually against him. Finally she relaxed enough to rest her face against his

    O

    broad chest, and to feel without fear the play of his soft, warm breath over the crown of her head.

    Swanne closed her eyes. Oh gods, it felt so good to have all the pain and fear soothed away. She felt a sudden rush of gratitude toward Asterion for taking away all the pain Aldred had caused, and she did not even pause to think that thought strange.

    "You are so very much like her," Asterion continued, his voice now very soft. "Your hair. Your face. Your form." Again he paused, although his hands still kept moving, slowly, gently, soothingly. "Your ambition."

    So greatly had she relaxed that Swanne did not even tense at that last phrase, and Asterion smiled to himself over the top of her head. She had learned to hate and loathe Aldred, and that was good.

    Better would be the day when she automatically relaxed whenever he appeared as Asterion.

    And best would be that day she allowed herself to love him. That she would, he had no doubt. Once she loved him, then Swanne would grant him any wish, if he promised to keep Aldred at bay; a captive creature was all very well, but Swanne would do twice as well for him, should love drive her actions rather than force. Aldred's brutalization had been harsh, but it had been necessary.

    "What do you think I plan?" he asked Swanne, in that moment before she fell asleep.

    She jerked a little, not in fear, but merely in half-surprise at the question.

    "To destroy the Troy Game," she murmured against his chest. She had lifted one hand, and now it rested against his skin, the tips of her fingers slightly tangled in the black hair that curled over his chest.

    He took her shoulders and tipped her back so that she could see his face. "No," he said. "I do not seek to destroy it, Swanne. Whatever gave you that idea? Some strange half truth that Ariadne passed down through her generations of daughter-heirs? I do not seek to destroy the Game, Swanne. I seek to control it."

    She frowned, and would have spoken, save that Asterion laid the fingers of one hand over her lips.

    "And if I want to control the Game, my love," he said, his voice now throbbing with reassurance combined with heady promise, "I will need a Mistress of the Labyrinth."

    Her eyes widened, then clouded with confusion. What was he intimating?

    "I will need a Mistress of the Labyrinth, and I will need a set of kingship bands, of which the Trojan bands are the only set left. Swanne, you want to control the Game, and for that you need a Kingman and you need his bands. How are we at odds here?"

    O

    "But…" she murmured behind his fingers.

    "But… what?"

    "But you want to destroy me."

    "Nay," he said, laughing softly, and planting a brief kiss on her forehead. "I adored Ariadne. I can adore you, as well."

    Swanne's forehead creased as she tried to order her thoughts… but she was so warm, and so grateful to be free of pain and fear. "William," she managed to say finally.

    Asterion's face became dismissive. "Ah, William. He is not here, is he? He pouts uselessly in some draughty Norman castle. Of what use is such a King-man to you?"

    His mouth brushed her forehead again, the touch firmer this time, and with his touch he used a barely discernible element of his darkcraft. Love me, Swanne.

    Swanne suddenly realized she did not find the touch of that great beast's mouth loathsome at all.

    His mouth brushed against her forehead yet once more. Love me, Swanne. Trust in whatever I say.

    "When he arrives in England, my dear, we shall have to negate him."

    "Really?" Swanne said, so under Asterion's enchantment now that she was not even mildly curious at her total lack of concern at Asterion's proposal.

    "Yes, really. There is room for only one Kingman, after all, and to have William scrambling about would be such a nuisance."

    She was silent.

    "Do you really think," he said, whispering so that she could barely hear, "that William is stronger than me?"

    His hands were moving again, firmer, more insistent. "Do you really think," he said, directly into her ear so that his bull breath slid deep into her soul, "that William is preferable to me?"

    Love me, Swanne. Do whatever I want.

    She moaned, and could not think at all. All she could do was lean into Asterion's hands, against his chest once more, and allow herself to be drawn back to the bed.

    She felt no fear, only a vague gratefulness that he was not angry at her, and the words he whispered were not those of terror.

    "You have the darkcraft within you," he whispered. "I put it into Ariadne, and she has passed it to you. Can you imagine, Swanne, my darling, what kind of Game we could build, what kind of power we could command, if we used the darkcraft to control the Game?"

    He rolled on top of her, and Swanne felt herself part her legs with some-

    O

    thing that felt a little like eagerness. Caught in Asterion's sorcery, her mind had now completely forgotten that Asterion also used Aldred's body from time to time. Instead, they had become two separate personalities to her. Aldred caused her pain and humiliation. Asterion relieved that pain, and offered her soft words… and power.

    "Why William," he repeated, sliding sweetly and gently into her, "when you have me?"

    "Not William," she whispered.

    "No, my sweet. Not William. When he arrives in England, will you kill him for me?"

    Swanne moaned, not simply from pleasure at the feel of Asterion's body within hers, but because she could feel him sliding a small piece of the dark power back into her with every thrust.

    Oh, that was so sweet!

    "Will you kill him for me?"

    "Yes! Anything, anything…" She gasped, and moved sinuously under the Minotaur, encouraging him with her body.

    "And all you will have to do, my love, is to seduce him back to your bed. That won't be too difficult, will it?"

    Swanne couldn't think, let alone reason. "No. Anything. Please, give me more of the darkcraft… please."

    "When you have killed William, I will give it all back to you."

    She moaned.

    SHE WOULD DO ANYTHING FOR HIM NOW. ANYTHING.

    Asterion whistled as he wandered along the river path. He'd had to escape Westminster and the confines of petty men, and so had chosen this somewhat muddy walk for the solitude it gave him. He wanted to shout and to scream his power, but in the interest of maintaining some dignity, restrained himself to the occasional hop and skip as he walked along.

    The Troy Game was all but his.

    The bands he could get any time.

    He had his Mistress of the Labyrinth.

    All that stood in his way was William.

    Asterion sobered a little. He well understood that William was indeed highly dangerous. As dangerous as Theseus had once been—and Theseus' danger had been fatal.

    Asterion needed William negated. Murdered. Assassinated. Whatever. Dead.

    O

    Then nothing would stand in his way. Nothing.

    Asterion's face resumed its cheerful aspect and, as he imagined what awaited William the instant he gave into his lust for Swanne and slid inside her body, he chuckled and then burst into laughter, startling the waterfowl which had been hiding in the rushes.

    Caela Speaks

    DWARD HAD DIED, AND I WAS FINALLY FREE.

    At least, that is what it felt like. No longer the queen, merely the

    ^tllüim relict of a dead king, all interest in me evaporated the instant

    Edward breathed his last. I could have torn the robes from my body and run

    shrieking about the palace complex and, at best, I would have been regarded

    with only mild irritation for creating a noise.

    Instead, Alditha became the focus of attention (after Harold himself, naturally). Harold had spread the word of his betrothal to her the day of Edward's death and now she, the future queen, became the darling of the sycophants.

    She was not the loathed wife.

    She was not the detested bedmate.

    Alditha was respected and treated with deference by her future husband, and thus the entire court respected and deferred to her.

    I did not mind in the least. Not for the world would I have had any other woman suffer what I did in Edward's court. I visited her as soon as Edward had been respectably laid out, and to her credit Alditha admitted me within an instant, dismissing all the flatterers who crowded about her chair, and kissing me on the cheek before embracing me tightly.

    "I will not have you move from your quarters," she said. "There is no need."

    "There is every need," I said, "for they stink of death. Mother Ecub, the prioress of St. Margaret the Martyr, has offered me lodging and privacy, and I shall move there without delay. You do not need me cluttering up your court, my dear."

    Harold had entered then, and as he bent to kiss Alditha, I was pleased—if smitten with a pang of jealousy—that there was clearly not only friendship between them, but the ease of physical intimacy as well. Harold had not been wasting his nights at all.

    O

    He had the grace to color slightly when he met my eyes and saw the understanding there. He put a hand to Alditha's shoulder, and said, gently, "You have done well by me, sister. I am grateful."

    "And I," said Alditha. Then she sobered. "I think."

    Harold and I both burst into laughter, and the awkwardness dissipated.

    "I heard you say you were moving to St. Margaret the Martyr's," said Harold. "Caela, there is no need."

    "I do need to quit this palace," I said. "It has nothing but bad memories for me." And traps, and eyes, and ears. The freedom of Ecub's establishment promised to be exhilarating. "You may visit me there whenever you wish, Harold. Kingdom and new wife permitting."

    Again we laughed, all three of us, and spent some pleasant minutes in idle conversation. Then Harold had to leave—the kingdom waited, and plans for his coronation—and I also did not linger. Alditha had many matters to occupy her as well, and I did not want my presence ever to become a strain.

    As we stood, I leaned forward and pressed my cheek against hers and, presumptuously, laid a hand lightly on her belly. "You will have twin sons by Yuletide this year," I whispered. "Do not fear for them."

    Then, with Alditha staring bewildered after me, I took my departure.

    ALDRED CROWNED HAROLD IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY the next day, an hour after Edward had been laid to his eternal rest inside his cold stone casket, inside his cold stone abbey.

    I hoped it comforted him, all that cold stone imprisoning him within his death.

    Alditha was crowned alongside Harold, the abbey alive with music and garlands and pennants and the shouting of the Londoners outside. I stood to one side in the shadow of a side aisle, Judith, Ecub, and Saeweald beside me, watching, both glad and saddened for Harold.

    I could almost hear the sound of William sharpening his sword across the narrow straits of the sea.

    I closed my eyes, fighting to keep back the tears. Gods, what this land needed was Harold as its king, not William!

    I felt Judith's hand touch my elbow in concern, and I opened my eyes, and gave her a small smile.

    Then I looked back to Harold, just as he was standing to receive the acclaim of the witan and the nobles.

    A stray shaft of sunlight hit his head, highlighting the golden crown atop his brow, and I frowned, for it seemed to me that I was seeing something very important at that moment, yet not understanding it.

    O

    "Caela," Ecub whispered in my ear, and she nodded to a spot within the crowd hailing Harold.

    There stood Long Tom, looking at Harold with eyes shining with reverence.

    He must have felt me watching, for the Sidlesaghe shifted his gaze from Harold to me. He frowned, and nodded in Harold's direction, and then raised his hands and applauded as most everyone else in the abbey was doing, his eyes constantly dancing between Harold and myself, and then the tears did slip down my cheeks, because I knew Long Tom was trying to tell me something, trying to show me something, and I was fool enough not to understand what.

    THAT NIGHT, MY FIRST AT ST. MARGARET THE MARTYR'S,

    I climbed to the summit of Pen Hill, and there waited Long Tom.

    I asked him what he had been trying to tell me in the abbey, but he only shook his head, and would not answer the question.

    "We are worried," he said, changing the subject when I tried to press. "The land feels ill. You do not feel it?"

    I shook my head. In truth, the past week I had slept so little that I doubt I would have felt it even if my right arm had been torn from my body.

    Then I was consumed by guilt, because I should have felt it. I was the land, and if it was not right, then I should have felt it.

    "It has an imp within it," he said, and moaned so pitifully that I began to weep. "We cannot see where, but that imp will eat at us and this green land and its forests and waters until all are gone."

    "Long Tom, I can see and feel nothing. Why? What is wrong with me?"

    And to that he did not respond, either, saying only, "You must move another band tonight, sweet lady. It is all we can do."

    I did, moving a band that Brutus had hid in the northeastern part of London's wall to a point far to the south of the river, a place called Herne Hill, where waited for me a similar scene as that had greeted me at the Holy Oak, save that this time I handed the band to a man sitting behind a curious wheel in one of those frightful black beasts, this time stationary by the entrance to a similar redbrick building as had stood at Gospel Oak.

    My heart raced the entire time, but there was no sign of Asterion.

    Somehow that worried me more than anything.

    G6J'tI

    VES HAD BEEN AND GONE, AND NOW WILLIAM

    stood before Matilda with the unfolded letter in his hands that the priest had delivered.

    He was staring at it without expression.

    "Does it…?" Matilda said, wanting to snatch at the letter but unable to tear her eyes from her husband's face.

    "Yes," William said, finally raising his own gaze from the letter to look at Matilda. "It confirms the rumors we've heard for the past two days. Edward is dead. And Harold has been elected and crowned and anointed king of England."

    Matilda drew in a sharp breath. "He moved fast. But then we always knew he would." She nodded at the letter. "And Swanne? How has she positioned herself?"

    William's mouth twisted wryly, and he handed the letter to Matilda to read. "This is not from Swanne, but rather Aldred."

    Matilda took the letter, her eyes scanning the thick inked lines. "The archbishop of York?"

    "Aye." They had already heard that Harold had set Swanne to one side, and neither were surprised at this intelligence. William wondered, however, just how deeply Swanne had taken that to her heart.

    He wondered, very privately, and with an intensity that ate at him during those long wakeful moments in the heart of the night, if it was her anger and undoubted humiliation that had caused the "shift" he'd felt in the Game over the past few weeks.

    Something had happened—distinct from the movement of the second and third bands that William supposed could be attributed to Silvius—and it had happened as he had felt a simultaneous "withdrawing" from Swanne. Apart from their two brief meetings, they'd never been in close contact, but William had always been able to sense her, feel her.

    Now that sense had faded.

    What was happening?

    Well, at least now he had the excuse he needed to move. William too* deep breath, grateful at least for Edward's dying.

    At last… at last.

    He looked to Matilda's face and saw the excitement there, and for the first time he wondered what would happen to her in this forthcoming battle. Dear gods, let her not be hurt!

    He reached out and touched her face tenderly, and was rewarded by the slight pressure of her cheek against the palm of his hand.

    "You will be king," she said.

    He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. "Aye. After all this time…"

    "William," she said. "I have had news from my agent as well."

    "Yes?"

    "Swanne has moved into the archbishop of York's palace."

    "What?"

    "Harold put her aside. This cannot be surprising news, surely."

    "That Harold should set Swanne aside? No. In truth, I expected it. But why would Swanne move into the archbishop's household? In what capacity, has your agent discovered that?"

    Matilda watched her husband closely as she picked her next words with some care. "It is rumored that Swanne has become Aldred's lover."

    William's mouth fell open.

    "My love," Matilda said. "After what Harold has told us of her, you cannot be surprised that—"

    "That Swanne has chosen a lover? No, I am not surprised at that. I am sure she did it so that she might retain a place at court. Unless she became a laundress—"

    Matilda's eyes widened very slightly, but otherwise her face remained remarkably expressionless.

    "—there could be little else Swanne could do to keep a place within court. Sweet Christ, Harold would not want her there! But Aldred… Aldred! Matilda, you have met him and seen him for what he is. An obese flatterer with few qualities. He is useful, yes… but as a lover…"

    "Perhaps he is a good lover."

    William laughed briefly, incredulously. "There are many other men within court who could have served as well as Aldred. Swanne is a beautiful woman—"

    "I wouldn't know," murmured Matilda.

    "—and she could have any man she…" he stopped abruptly. He stepped to Matilda, and cradled her face in his hands. "Matilda, you will be queen beside me. I swear it to you."

    "I expect to be, William. And Swanne?"

    "I don't know." And he didn't. William didn't like to consider what Swanne

    she learned Matilda was not to be pensioned off to some nun-Vs. He remembered what she had done to Cornelia, how she 'ler, come near to murdering her, taken her child from her…cct you," William said to Matilda.

    She frowned. What an odd thing to say. Before she could question him on the matter, William had let her go, walking to a chest beneath the window where lay several sheets of parchment and vellum. He picked them up, shuffling them in his hands and signaling through his action that he wanted the subject changed.

    "The documents are all prepared," he said, "and the riders are waiting. They will be dispatched by this evening."

    Matilda came to stand by him, leaning in close as she stared at the letters before her.

    They were addressed to the leaders of Europe: Alexander II, the pope, leader of all Christendom; Henry IV, the Holy Roman Emperor, controller of the largest territory within Europe; Count Baldwin V of Flanders, Matilda's kinsman, who was not only an important prince in his own right, but was also the guardian to the young French king, Philip I; as well as scores of other lesser nobles and prelates. William was going to invade England, come what may, but he was going to make damned sure that he had the political and armed support of Europe behind him.

    "I have also sent out word to my magnates," William said. "I will hold a great council in Lillebonne in a few weeks. When they agree, I will have an undivided Normandy behind me."

    "Will they agree?" she said.

    "Yes. The rewards will be too good to ignore."

    "And the ships?" She almost whispered the question.

    "I sent word yesterday, once the rumors grew strong." William had actually known the instant Edward had died, but had been forced to stay his hand until he heard the news by more conventional means. He didn't want whispers of murder by poisoning circulating. "The wharves of Dives River are already ringing with the sound of carpenters' hammers and adzes."

    "When?" she said, and she had to say no other word for William to know of what she spoke.

    "Late summer," he said. "Harold has until summer to enjoy his kingdom."

    His stomach clenched. Only another few months, a few months!

    ecevejM

    ro

    HILE INTELLECTUALLY, SWANNE SHOULD

    have known that Aldred and Asterion were one and the same man, one and the same beast, Asterion's subtle sorcery worked so well that emotionally they were entirely separate in her conscious mind. Once the coronation was past (and how she had hated seeing Harold enthroned, and that pale-faced bitch beside him), Aldred had settled her back into his London palace. Here, at least once a day, he brutalized her both physically and emotionally until she cringed whenever she heard his voice, or caught a whiff of his scent on bed linens or a discarded robe.

    Asterion usually came to her once Aldred had departed. He would hold her, and soothe away her hurts, and tell her how beautiful and powerful she was, and whisper how good it would be when they ruled the Game together. Swanne never made the connection that Asterion appeared to her immediately after Aldred brutalized her, so that Swanne would grow so dependent on him, and so grateful to him, that she would do anything he wanted. Aldred unhinged Swanne's mind and made her cruelly vulnerable to Asterion's ensuing sweetness. Aldred was danger and pain; Asterion was relief from that pain.

    Swanne was so grateful to Asterion, and now so desperately dependent on him, that it was difficult for her to disagree with anything Asterion said to her, or asked of her. Moreover, she found herself longing for those times when Asterion appeared. In a strange, bizarre fashion, she almost enjoyed the worst of Aldred's beatings and rapes because it meant that Asterion was likely to come to her within an hour or so of Aldred, leaving her writhing in agony.

    Swanne was not sure what she wanted most from Asterion: the relief he represented; or the power he represented.

    Strange that previously she had never thought of Asterion as a possible partner in the Game. She'd only ever considered Brutus, or William as he was now, as her Kingman. But she didn't have to use William, did she? Asterion was right. All she needed as Mistress of the Labyrinth was a Kingman.

    It didn't matter which Kingman.

    That realization had hit with almost a physical thud one day after Aldred had left her bruised and bleeding.

    All she really needed was a Kingman.

    She had selected Brutus because she'd thought he was the only one left. Indeed, there was no selection about it at all. It was him, or no one. She'd come to love him because of his power and attraction and vitality and because he was what she needed to fulfill her ambitions.

    But there had been another choice apart from Brutus, hadn't there? Why hadn't she ever thought of Asterion? This puzzled Swanne in those long, silent afternoons she spent sewing with her ladies, their heads bent over their embroideries, unspeaking at their mistress's demand.

    Why hadn't she ever thought of Asterion beyond considering him as a threat?

    Asterion did not want to destroy the Game. He wanted to control it—a perfectly understandable ambition, had Swanne thought clearly enough about it before now.

    To control the Game, all Asterion needed were the bands. And Swanne, the Mistress of the Labyrinth.

    Imagine the Game she and he could build together!

    The power…

    The darkcraft in full flower…

    Swanne could feel her ancient darkcraft reemerging. Every time Asterion lay with her, it became a little bit stronger. Asterion had put the darkcraft into Ariadne, and now he was putting it into Swanne.

    She almost loved him for it.

    No… she did love him for it.

    As the weeks passed, Swanne found herself hardly thinking about William at all. All she wanted was to be free again, to be the mistress of a resurgent Game.

    And all she needed to do that was to ensure that Asterion found the bands.

    All she wanted was power, and Asterion seemed to represent the quicker, surer pathway to that than did William.

    GUD6CV

    /^* AWISE HAD SERVED AS SWANNE'S MAID AND THEN

    as senior attending woman for over twenty-five years. She'd known / Swanne as a child in her father's manor, as the young woman who had seduced Harold to her bed, as the mother who had borne him six children, and, by virtue of Swanne's connection with Harold, as one of the most senior women at Edward's court.

    Swanne had never been an easy woman, even when Hawise had first known her. She had been reclusive, demanding, cunning, charming. She had never been friendly, nor confiding. She had always seemed sure… of something, as if even from childhood she entertained a distant vision that only she could discern.

    Even if she was never Hawise's friend, Hawise was as close to a friend as Swanne was ever likely to achieve. Thus, it was as a friend that Hawise asked Edward's physician Saeweald to attend her mistress. (After all, it was not as if Edward needed the constant attendance of the man now, was it?)

    Swanne had shocked Hawise (as all the other ladies, and as all they gossiped to when she had not only moved herself to Aldred's palace in London, but accepted the corpulent cleric into her bed. If Hawise had been shocked by that action, then she had been stunned by the manner in which Aldred appeared to treat Swanne. Bruises. Bite marks. Bleeding.

    Her mistress's face gaunt and haunted, and her eyes brimming with agony every morning.

    Matters had improved vastly in the time since Edward's death. On those nights Aldred spent with Swanne (and that was most of them) there still came the sounds of muffled sobbing from behind the locked door of the bedchamber, and often in the morning there would be rusty streaks of dried blood staining the bed linens, but Swanne seemed to have improved within herself, and her bruises and wounds were far less, even nonexistent for days on end.

    And yet…

    Swanne was changed somehow, and most definitely not for the better. Her loveliness had become brittle. Her eyes, if possible, were darker, more

    That realization had hit with almost a physical thud one day after Aldred had left her bruised and bleeding.

    All she really needed was a Kingman.

    She had selected Brutus because she'd thought he was the only one left. Indeed, there was no selection about it at all. It was him, or no one. She'd come to love him because of his power and attraction and vitality and because he was what she needed to fulfill her ambitions.

    But there had been another choice apart from Brutus, hadn't there? Why hadn't she ever thought of Asterion? This puzzled Swanne in those long, silent afternoons she spent sewing with her ladies, their heads bent over their embroideries, unspeaking at their mistress's demand.

    Why hadn't she ever thought of Asterion beyond considering him as a threat?

    Asterion did not want to destroy the Game. He wanted to control it—a perfectly understandable ambition, had Swanne thought clearly enough about it before now.

    To control the Game, all Asterion needed were the bands. And Swanne, the Mistress of the Labyrinth.

    Imagine the Game she and he could build together!

    The power…

    The darkcraft in full flower…

    Swanne could feel her ancient darkcraft reemerging. Every time Asterion lay with her, it became a little bit stronger. Asterion had put the darkcraft into Ariadne, and now he was putting it into Swanne.

    She almost loved him for it.

    No… she did love him for it.

    As the weeks passed, Swanne found herself hardly thinking about William at all. All she wanted was to be free again, to be the mistress of a resurgent Game.

    And all she needed to do that was to ensure that Asterion found the bands.

    All she wanted was power, and Asterion seemed to represent the quicker, surer pathway to that than did William.

    GID6CV

    /^L AWISE HAD SERVED AS SWANNE'S MAID AND THEN

    as senior attending woman for over twenty-five years. She'd known / Swanne as a child in her father's manor, as the young woman who had seduced Harold to her bed, as the mother who had borne him six children, and, by virtue of Swanne's connection with Harold, as one of the most senior women at Edward's court.

    Swanne had never been an easy woman, even when Hawise had first known her. She had been reclusive, demanding, cunning, charming. She had never been friendly, nor confiding. She had always seemed sure… of something, as if even from childhood she entertained a distant vision that only she could discern.

    Even if she was never Hawise's friend, Hawise was as close to a friend as Swanne was ever likely to achieve. Thus, it was as a friend that Hawise asked Edward's physician Saeweald to attend her mistress. (After all, it was not as if Edward needed the constant attendance of the man now, was it?)

    Swanne had shocked Hawise (as all the other ladies, and as all they gossiped to when she had not only moved herself to Aldred's palace in London, but accepted the corpulent cleric into her bed. If Hawise had been shocked by that action, then she had been stunned by the manner in which Aldred appeared to treat Swanne. Bruises. Bite marks. Bleeding.

    Her mistress's face gaunt and haunted, and her eyes brimming with agony every morning.

    Matters had improved vastly in the time since Edward's death. On those nights Aldred spent with Swanne (and that was most of them) there still came the sounds of muffled sobbing from behind the locked door of the bedchamber, and often in the morning there would be rusty streaks of dried blood staining the bed linens, but Swanne seemed to have improved within herself, and her bruises and wounds were far less, even nonexistent for days on end.

    And yet…

    Swanne was changed somehow, and most definitely not for the better. Her loveliness had become brittle. Her eyes, if possible, were darker, more

    unknowable, and often Hawise found Swanne watching her with a calculation and bleakness she found deeply disturbing. And despite her almost incessant bleeding, Swanne also appeared to be with child again (Hawise spent much time on her knees before whatever altar she could find praying that this child was Harold's final gift, and not Aldred's loathsome welcome), although Swanne denied it with vicious, hard words that one time Hawise had dared to venture the question.

    And Swanne was growing thinner, as if the child (or whatever it was, if Swanne had been telling truth) was eating her from within. In Swanne's previous pregnancies she had never grown thin, but had blossomed and bloomed.

    In essence, Swanne was growing thinner, harder, and darker—and more sharp-tongued as each day passed.

    Hawise feared her mistress had a fatal, malignant growth within her and, though she knew Swanne would not thank her for it, took it upon herself to send for Saeweald. It was all she could do, and that Hawise did that much for a woman who had never given her much beyond harsh words, said a great deal about Hawise's generosity of spirit.

    "I DID NOT SEND FOR YOU," SWANNE SAID AS Saeweald stood before her, one hand gently fingering the copper box of herbs at his waist. In his other hand, he grasped firmly a large leather satchel that Swanne presumed contained all the tricks of his trade.

    Swanne's mouth curled. All Loth's "tricks of his trade" vanished that night he'd murdered Og along with Blangan in Mag's Dance two thousand years before.

    "A friend sent for me," Saeweald said, and Swanne's eyes slid toward Hawise, standing calmly a few paces away.

    "No friend to me," Swanne said, and Saeweald had to refrain from hitting the woman. Gods, as Genvissa she'd at least managed to maintain a semblance of respect toward the women and mothers in her circle. Even as Swanne, she'd managed a fragile veneer of sisterly communion with the women about her.

    But this naked contempt. Swanne must be sure of herself indeed, and that worried Saeweald.

    He'd been glad when Hawise approached him, handing to him on a platter the perfect excuse to visit—and examine, by all the luck of the gods!— Swanne. He'd heard from Caela how Swanne had accused her, and then how the Sidlesaghes felt there was something wrong with the Game and the land, some dark shift, and that it possibly concerned Swanne.

    Well, and that was no surprise. Every "dark shift" always somehow con-

    cerned Swanne-Genvissa. If there was one lesson he'd learned in all his lives, then that was it.

    "Do not discard friendship when it is offered to you," Saeweald said as he set his leather satchel down by his feet. He expected Swanne to sneer again, but she smiled, almost as if genuinely cheered by some thought that had come into her head, and then laughed, and gestured for one of her women to bring a chair forward for Saeweald.

    To Saeweald's surprise, he saw that it was Damson, and he asked after her as he took the chair.

    "Damson is well enough," said Swanne before the woman had a chance herself to answer, and waved her a dismissal.

    "I'm surprised to see Damson in the archbishop's household," Saeweald said as he sat down.

    Swanne raised her brows. "I'm surprised you even know her."

    "I attended her once for a fever."

    "Well, she is of no matter, her health of even less. Damson had asked if she might join my household here, and I saw no harm in it. I suppose she thought it preferable to serving that mealy-mouthed jade Harold took to wife."

    They were sitting in the chamber that Aldred had put at Swanne's disposal. Saeweald had never been to the archbishop's London palace previously, and he had to admire the comforts with which the good archbishop surrounded himself.

    Swanne being one of them, of course.

    Like everyone else, Saeweald had wondered about this liaison, particularly as he knew Swanne better than most. Swanne could have had the pick of any noble male protector within the court—but Aldred? It was not like Swanne to select the most physically unattractive man about when, as Saeweald well knew from her previous existence, she preferred someone more delectable.

    "You look amused," Swanne said, disdainfully raising one carefulry plucked black eyebrow as only she could manage.

    "I was imagining you with Aldred," Saeweald said, not inclined to play polite word games with her. "I was wondering why."

    "It is none of your concern," Swanne snapped.

    "Everything you do is my concern," Saeweald said. "You have a terrible penchant for destroying my entire world."

    She smiled again, but this time it was so icy and so calculating, it made Saeweald's blood run cold.

    He reached out a hand and took Swanne's wrist.

    She drew back slightly, then relaxed and allowed Saeweald to feel her pulse.

    Unable to bear her black-eyed, shrewd scrutiny, Saeweald looked down at her wrist. Her skin was so pale he could see the blue-veined blood vessels beneath, and he could feel the delicate bones shifting beneath his fingers. Her pulse beat strong and full, however.

    Whatever had affected Swanne, whatever had caused this pallor and thinness and strange light in her eyes, it had not lessened her strength or, Saeweald suspected, her ambition and purpose.

    "You must have heard from William recently," he murmured, making much fuss about feeling her pulse from several points on her wrist and lower forearm.

    Swanne gave a tiny shrug of her shoulders.

    "And you must be excited that—perhaps—he will shortly be here. I have no doubt that you cannot wait to see him again."

    Swanne gave a small sigh, as if the matter was of supreme disinterest to her.

    Saeweald's eyes flew to her face. That disinterested sigh had sounded genuine. Swanne? Didn't care if she saw William or not? It could not be!

    "You do not spend every moment lusting for him?" Saeweald said.

    Again that secretive smile. "I have a better lover," Swanne said.

    Saeweald gave up any pretense of feeling Swanne's heartbeat. "Aldred?"

    Something flashed over Swanne's face, and for an instant Saeweald thought it terror, but then an expression of the most supreme contentment took its place. "No," she said. "Not Aldred."

    "I had thought the Mistress of the Labyrinth would spend her time lusting only for her Kingman."

    Yet again Swanne said nothing, but held Saeweald's eyes with a disdain that told him she was hiding something momentous.

    What?

    And who? Swanne would not just discard William for an athletic lover, however skilled he might be in her bed. She would not just discard her Kingman.

    Saeweald felt the germ of hope within him. Perhaps Swanne had changed. Perhaps she was prepared to abandon her ambitions as Mistress of the—

    "Never think that," Swanne said, her voice a low hiss, and Saeweald screened his mind in sudden fright. "I will be the most powerful Mistress of the Labyrinth that ever was. The Game will be mine."

    "But for that you will need William," Saeweald said, pushing the point.

    Again that shrug, the slight, disdainful lifting of an eyebrow.

    Saeweald sighed, hiding his confusion and concern with rummaging about in his satchel for a moment.

    "I need none of your potions," Swanne said, irritated by Saeweald's fidgeting. "I am not ill."

    Now it was Saeweald's turn to raise an eyebrow. "You do not look particularly well," he said. "You have lost much weight. There is a fever burning in your eyes. Hawise says that you may be pregnant—"

    "Hawise is a fool!"

    "Perhaps this lover of yours is potent."

    Swanne smiled. "Oh, aye, that he is. But he fills me with… ah, this is not your concern, Saeweald. It is far and away not your concern."

    He fills me with power. Saeweald could almost hear the words she had stopped.

    "But enough of me," Swanne said, her tone almost girlish now. "I admit myself surprised, Saeweald, that you have not yourself sunk into a great blackness of spirit now that Mag has finally been disposed of. Caela, poor lost soul, must have been your final hope for some kind of… oh, some kind of purpose, I suppose."

    Saeweald dropped his eyes, dampening that tiny gloat within him. Well may you think Mag dead, Swanne…

    And then he looked back at Swanne again, meaning to say something trivial, and saw the blaze of understanding in her eyes, and knew that he had not been secretive enough.

    "Mag is not dead, is she?"

    Swanne rose to her feet, pushing Saeweald away. "Mag is not dead! Of course! The secretive, treacherous bitch. I should have known she would do something like this!"

    SHE WAITED UNTIL ASTERION WAS ATOP HER, WITHIN

    her, driving both her and himself into a panting, moaning lust before she told him, gasping the words as she felt Asterion climax within her.

    "Mag is alive."

    "What?" He pulled himself back from her, raising himself up on straightened arms, his ebony face glistening with sweat.

    There was a little trickle of perspiration running down the center of his moist black nose, and Swanne found herself momentarily fascinated by it. "Mag is not dead."

    "Of course not. I knew this."

    "You thought you killed her!"

    He grinned, the expression horrible on his bull's face. "Oh, but I mean to."

    She narrowed her eyes, and he thought she looked so beautifully sly that he had to bend his head down and kiss her mouth.

    "What do you know that I don't?" she said, pulling her mouth free.

    ©

    A great deal, he thought. "Only that we have the means to finally trap her," he said. "Would you like that, my love?"

    She breathed in deeply, and Asterion's eyes clouded over with renewed desire as he felt her breasts move beneath his chest.

    "Oh, aye," she said.

    Caela Speaks

    RETIRED, EDWARD'S RELICT, TO ST. MARGARET

    /*% m the Martyr's, that small priory I had endowed so many years

    The sense of independence was astounding. Ecub gave me several small chambers that were at the very end of the priory's main group of buildings. Here I had access to the herb garden, the refectory, the chapel, and the outside as much as I wished. Of all my ladies, Judith was the only one to come with me (the others gratefully transfering themselves to Alditha's household), and Saeweald took the opportunity to take over the running of the priory's herb garden and infirmary. I have no idea what gossip ran through London about this arrangement—no doubt that the physician spent most of his time sampling the wares within the sisters' dormitory rather than tasting the sweetness of his medicinal draughts—but none of that bothered us within the calm of St Margaret's. Saeweald spent his nights with Judith, and I…

    I spent my nights either blessedly alone (ah! The wonder of not having to share a chamber, let alone a bed!) or even more blessedly in company atop Pen Hill. Here I climbed late at night, aye, even in the depths of winter, and here the Sidlesaghes came to me, and sang, and comforted me. Ecub often joined me, and also Judith and many of the sisters of Ecub's order. The cold did not perturb us, for we were warm with power and shared femininity and a shared oneness with the land.

    It cheered me to think that not all had been lost, and that a few still remembered the old ways.

    One day, I thought, I would be able to dance here with my lover, with Og,

    with the white stag with the blood-red antlers and the bands of power about his limbs. One day.

    ONE EVENING SAEWEALD CAME TO VISIT ME, AS HE SO

    often did.

    I was seated with Judith and Ecub, and Saeweald joined us about the small fire I had burning in the hearth.

    "I have seen Swanne," he said as he sat.

    A bleakness overcame my heart. I had almost forgotten her existence. And at that realization I felt dreadful, for I could not afford to forget Swanne, who somehow I had to persuade to pass over her gifts as Mistress of the Labyrinth.

    Saeweald's eyes dropped to the hands in his lap. "But before I relate what news I gleaned there, I must make a confession."

    We waited. Saeweald finally raised his eyes.

    "I was incautious," he said. "She gleaned from my mind that Mag is not as dead as she had thought."

    I felt a nasty jab of fear, but quickly suppressed it. "And what can she do with this knowledge, Saeweald? It is unfortunate, perhaps, but the main thing is that Asterion does not know."