The heart of the Troy Game, and Antwerp, the Netherlands

Long Tom, oldest and wisest of the Sidlesaghes, sat by the prostrate white form of the Stag God, Og, as he lay in the glade in the heart of the forest. The flanks of the stag rose and fell with discernible breath, and his heartbeat, not once in millennia, but now at least once an hour, close enough that the watching eye might catch it.

Og was waking, moving towards rebirth. Long Tom kept watch this night, as he did many nights, but this night, that of the first of May, became something unexpected.

As he sat, something moved in the forest which surrounded the glade.

Long Tom raised his head and looked about as he heard a noise coming from behind the trees.

“Who goes there?” he called, wondering if Asterion had gained enough power to dare the heart of the Game.

Then the stag moaned, and something most unexpected walked free of the forest.

Long Tom stared.

The being that had stepped forth smiled, and then it spoke.

Long Tom listened, his large mouth dropping ever so slightly open. When the being had stopped speaking, he frowned, but then nodded.

“I will see that it is done,” he said.

The chamber, like the house which contained it, was large, yet sparsely furnished. The floorboards were well swept and bare save for a single rug sprawled before the fire. There were two plain elmwood chests pushed against a far wall, and a table of similar material to one side of the room with the remains of a meal scattered over it. Candles sat on both the table and the chest. A fire burned brightly in the grate, and before it, and slightly away from the direct heat, stood five large copper urns, steam rising gently from their openings.

A huge tester bed, again of plain unadorned wood, dominated the room. The bed curtains which hung down from the tester, threadbare and dulled with years of use, had been pushed back towards the head of the bed. The creamy linens and the single blanket—both linens and blanket expertly patched here and there—were piled towards the foot of the bed.

Three people lay on the bed, two women and a man. The younger of the women, perhaps of some twenty-five or twenty-six years, and of a fair beauty, lay stretched out naked on her side, watching the other woman and man make love, occasionally reaching out to stroke the man down the length of his back, or the woman over her breasts. This younger woman watched with gleaming eyes, seeming to receive as much pleasure from watching the lovemaking as she would had she been the recipient of the man’s attentions herself. That she had been the recipient of some man’s attentions, if perhaps not this one’s, was evident in the gentle rounding of her stomach, showing a five- or six-month pregnancy.

The lovemaking between the other two intensified, and the younger woman stretched sensuously, her hand now running softly over her distended belly. When the man cried out, and then his partner, so also did this younger woman, her breath rising and falling as rapidly as did that of her companions.

A long moment passed, then the man, Charles, now King Charles II in exile, raised himself from Marguerite’s body, leaned over, kissed Kate’s mouth lingeringly, then pulled himself free of both women, rolled over to the side of the bed, and sat there, laughing softly.

“You will tire me out,” he said, “before we have accomplished what we must this night.”

Marguerite, slowly rousing from her state of post-coital languor, ignored her lover for the moment, and instead rolled onto her side so she could kiss and fondle Kate. Catherine Pegge, called Kate by all who knew her well, had joined Charles’ court in exile some eighteen months earlier.

She was Erith-reborn, the second of Eaving’s Sisters to join Charles, and the second of the triumvirate which would eventually give Charles so much of his power. These three—Ecub-reborn, Erith-reborn and Matilda-reborn, who was yet to join them—were the core group among the larger community of Eaving’s Sisters. The three most important, the three most powerful, the three greatest in the Circle about Charles.

And the most unknown. Charles had now been almost thirteen years in exile, much of it spent travelling western Europe seeking financial, moral and military support for his always-in-the-planning invasion of England, to snatch it back from the archtraitor, Oliver Cromwell. He’d gathered little in the way of any such support, save muttered sympathies, and the occasional embarrassed handout from this prince or that, mortified to have the ragtag king begging at his court.

What Charles did have extreme success in collecting was women. Tall, darkly handsome, charming, and exuding an aura of undefinable power, Charles was well known for his score of mistresses, most of them highborn, all of them willing to part with whatever virtue they had to share a night, a month, or a season in Charles’ bed.

But this night, Charles was secluded with his tiny, inner circle of “mistresses”, that unknown coterie of Eaving’s Sisters. These women shared not only Charles’ bed, but his heart and soul and ambition as well. They knew his innermost secrets, and gloried in them.

Marguerite rolled onto her back, smiling in contentment, her eyes staring at but not seeing the shabby bed curtains about her. The twelve years since she had joined Charles had treated her well. Her beauty had mellowed from that of the young girl to that of the mature woman: her hair was darker, but just as thick and luxurious; her form was a little thicker, but the more sensual because of it; her softly rounded belly showed the marks of the three children she had borne Charles. Without looking, she raised a hand and rested it on Kate’s pregnant belly. This was Kate’s first child, a daughter, and growing well.

“Matters are stirring,” said Charles, rising and walking to the curtained window. He twitched one of the curtains back, staring out into the dark. It was May Day (May Night, now), and spring celebrations would be well under way across Europe.

It was one of the nights of power in the annual cycle of seasons, the night of the land’s rebirth and reawakening. It was one of those four or five nights during the year that Charles always spent closely closeted with this magical, powerful inner coterie, Eaving’s Sisters, as well as…“Louis?” he said.

Both the women sighed, and Charles repressed a grin, hearing their disappointment in the lack of

Louis’ presence.

“He said he would attend as soon as possible,” said Marguerite. “Edward Hyde kept him a while, to go over some detail regarding money, I believe.”

“Where would we have been without Louis and his money?” asked Charles, his tone indicating he expected no reply. The Marquis de Lonquefort had kept his bastard son well supplied from the Lonquefort coffers, which in turn had kept the wolf from the door of Charles’ court. Well might he bear a pretty title, and even prettier pretensions, but Charles was a king without a kingdom, and without the money with which to support his court. His mother had done her best (the sale of the crown jewels had kept them in bread and wine for a few months), as had Charles’ relatives spread about Europe.

But there comes a point when relatives grow tired of supporting what appears to be a lost cause, and over the past few years Charles had literally existed from hand to mouth on those handouts his loyal supporters were able to secure. If this chamber was plainly furnished, then it was because Charles had no money to spare.

That they could actually eat was due almost entirely to de Silva money; Louis offered more, but Charles refused. He had given up many things over the past thirteen years, but his pride was not one of them.

“There is something happening,” Charles said. “Not just in the land. I can feel darkness closing about, and I can feel the Game moving.” He raised both his hands, resting them on his biceps, as if he could feel the golden kingship bands of Troy there. “Something will happen tonight. Something powerful.”

Both Marguerite and Kate shivered as they stared at Charles. Their intimacy with him greatly increased their respect, not only for his intuition, but also for his power. If Charles said something was going to happen tonight, then tonight would be a night of power, indeed.

And not necessarily benevolent power.

“Asterion?” said Marguerite.

Charles shrugged. “I don’t know. It is just a tightness in my belly. An intuition only.”

“Will we be safe?” Kate said, resting her hand on her belly.

“I can never guarantee safety,” Charles said. “You have always known that. If you want safety, then leave now. Leave me, leave this house, leave this Circle.”

Kate had joined the Circle that Charles, Marguerite and Louis had first formed twelve years earlier as a matter of course. She was one of Eaving’s Sisters, she was sworn to Eaving’s protection, and she had the power. The group used the Circle to reach out to Eaving where she lived at Woburn Abbey, to ensure that she was safe, and to send her all the wellbeing they could muster.

It was not much, but it was enough, and it was all they could do to help her until they were back in England, back with their feet touching the Troy Game.

It was also potentially dangerous. They all feared that Asterion might sense the power of the Circle, sense the reaching out to Eaving, and, in so sensing, that he might leap. They had all imagined, and then discussed, the nightmarish possibility that one day Asterion himself would rise up from beneath the piece of turf that Marguerite transformed into the circle of emerald silk.

There had been no indication yet that Asterion was aware of their activities in any way, but they were apprehensive nonetheless.

Everyone had learned from their previous lives that it was murderously foolish to underestimate the Minotaur.

Kate dropped her eyes, chastened. “I’m sorry. I was concerned for the child only.”

Charles’ stern gaze did not turn away from her. “Then you should not have conceived it. Kate, the child is as much a part of this as you or I, or Marguerite, or Louis, or Cornelia-reborn. Fate has us all caught in its whim. If we don’t have the courage to dare it, then we will never succeed.”

Kate raised her eyes, moving her hand away from her belly. “I know.”

“We must be strong, Kate,” Marguerite said.

Even more chastened now that Marguerite had spoken, Kate coloured, then nodded. “I have endured too much to walk away now,” she said. “I will be strong.”

“Cornelia-reborn needs you,” Marguerite said. “As she needs all of us.”

As Marguerite spoke, the door opened, and Louis de Silva entered.

He looked drawn and tired, as if Hyde’s undoubtedly anxious queries about money had sapped his strength, but he smiled as he set eyes on the women and Charles, and the smile lifted away much of the tiredness from his face.

“Louis,” Kate breathed, and stretched naked across the bed in a display of almost feline grace. Her hand was back on her belly, for on the night she had conceived this child she had lain with both Charles and Louis, and to be honest she had no idea which of the men had fathered the child, or if, in some magical way, the baby was an amalgam of both men’s seed. She hoped it was the latter, and knew in her heart that it was entirely possible. Charles and Louis were inseparable friends (if it hadn’t been for Hyde, Louis would have shared the recent bed sport with as much enthusiasm as the other three) and when it came to conception, Kate thought her body would have accepted the seed of both men as indistinguishable.

“I am glad you are here, Louis,” Charles said. “It is almost time.”

“And Charles is worried,” Marguerite said. “He feels…”

“He feels what?” said Louis. He had strolled over to the bed, kissed both Marguerite and Kate softly on their mouths in greeting, then stepped over to Charles, who he also kissed softly. “What is wrong?”

“There is a disturbance tonight,” Charles said. “An…expectation, almost. Something is waiting for us.”

Louis stilled, his dark eyes riveted on Charles’. “Then perhaps we should not form the Circle.”

“We must,” said Marguerite and Charles together.

“I will not be frightened off,” said Charles.

“Those are the words of the thwarted king, not of the wise man,” said Louis. “Charles, we—”

“I must,” said Charles. “We must. That I feel, too. Ah,” he made a frustrated gesture with a hand, “I cannot say why, but this night is both unknown and yet vitally important. Who knows, it may be Noah herself who is reaching out to us. It might be Asterion, yes, but it might also be Noah.” They had learned Cornelia-reborn’s name, not through the efforts of the Circle, but through discreet inquiries back in England. Who is the young girl living at Woburn Abbey? She of the lustrous hair and vivid eyes?

“Or myriad other unknown entities,” muttered Louis.

“I wish Matilda-reborn was here,” Marguerite said. “The Circle would be so much more powerful with her presence.”

Matilda-reborn, unlike Marguerite and Kate, had been born far distant and into high aristocracy—the daughter of the King of Portugal, no less. Catharine of Braganza, as Matilda was known in this life, was young and of great marriageable value. Her father, already aware of her attachment to the exiled Charles, was firm that she could not join him unless as his wife.

Negotiations were under way, but Charles had little hope of winning Catharine until he had his kingdom in hand; the King of Portugal was not going to let his beloved daughter marry a penniless, if prettily titled, exile.

In all save a few details it was history repeating itself: William, the Bastard of Normandy, had endured more than a few years of hardship in winning Matilda of Flanders, and Charles realised he would need to do the winning all over again in this life.

Well, Matilda was worth it.

But until she was with them, and the Circle of the three most powerful of Eaving’s Sisters complete, then they must make do with what they had.

In the silence, Louis turned away and disrobed, as he had the first night Marguerite had shown them how to form the Circle.

As Louis folded his clothes neatly on one of the chests, and Kate poured out water from the copper urns so that all could ritually cleanse themselves, Charles thought about the ever-increasing power and influence of the Troy Game itself.

In their last lives, the Game had shown that it was remarkably aware and capable of influencing the course of events. It had decided it wanted Cornelia, reborn as Eaving the goddess of the waters, to become the Mistress of the Labyrinth and to dance out the final steps of the Game with the resurrected Stag God, Og, as Kingman. Brutus and Genvissa, the originators of the Game, were to be discarded.

In this life, Eaving’s Sisters—Marguerite, Kate and Catharine—had been reborn with vastly more power than they’d ever commanded previously, and Charles suspected that this was as much the Game’s doing as it was the women’s connection with Eaving herself. Eaving needed protection, and, together with Charles and Louis, Eaving’s Sisters were to provide it.

It was, Charles had discovered years ago, the Game’s means of counteracting Asterion’s malevolence.

The women had done with washing and now Louis and Charles took their turn. Although the sexual intimacy the four shared further cemented the ties that bound them, to work the Circle they needed to come to it clean and naked, as they had been born. All the sexual tension that had permeated the room now dissipated; the four worked silently, the women stripping and remaking the bed with clean linens, the men sponging down before drying themselves. Their nakedness was no longer arousing, but binding and solidifying.

Once the bed was made, and the men dry, Charles stood in the centre of the chamber and held out his hands. Marguerite came to his right hand, Louis to his left, Kate took Louis’ and Marguerite’s other hands.

“We must name ourselves,” said Charles, and thus they did, using the names of their first lives, to bind themselves not only to the past, but to wherever the Game and the land needed them to go. Brutus, Coel, Ecub, Erith. Even now, after all of these lives, it felt strange to the others to accept Brutus among them, but then…he had changed, hadn’t he? More than any of them.

They dropped their hands, and moved to the bed. There they sat cross-legged on its vast expanse, forming a circle in the same order that they had named themselves when they were standing, and sitting at an equidistance.

“What is it we wish to view?” asked Marguerite quietly. As she had with Charles and Louis when they had made the first Circle together so many years ago, she took the lead here.

“We wish to view Eaving,” the others whispered, as one.

“What is it we wish to accomplish?” Marguerite said.

“To send Eaving our love and support, to let her know that she is not alone.”

Marguerite reached behind her and lifted something from a box she had earlier put on one of the pillows. It was the same lump of turf and dirt that Charles had torn from the Cornish coast on the night he and his mother had fled the land.

Now even more browned and crumbly than it had been when Marguerite first held it, it nonetheless stayed in one piece as Marguerite hefted it in her hand.

“The land,” she whispered, then threw the piece of turf high into the air. It hit the ceiling plaster with a distinct thud, then fell back towards the bed.

As it did so, it changed.

The watchers gasped in wonder, as they never failed to do. Even Kate’s baby twisted a little in the womb, awed at what she saw through her mother’s eyes.

The crumbled piece of turf and dirt shimmered, then in the blink of an eye flattened and spread out, its very nature changing as it fell (slower now, as both its nature changed and the magic which bound it took hold). It turned from turf into a large circle of lustrous emerald silk that rippled and glimmered in the candlelight as it continued to fall.

It settled to the bed in the centre of the Circle with a sigh, and as it did so once more it changed its contour, this time into the shape of the island that was the land. Its form undulated as it settled against the linen sheets, and mountains rose and moors spread out, and the lie of the land was revealed.

Llangarlia, the ancient land to which they were all bound by magic, murder and love.

“Noah,” said Charles, and as he spoke, he moved his hand so that it pointed towards Woburn Abbey to the north of London.

The emerald silk flattened, as if it had become a great lake, and then it clouded, and shapes began to form within its centre.

But not of Noah or Woburn Abbey, as it normally did.

The watchers gasped, and might have broken the Circle had not Charles held out a stern hand in warning. “Watch,” he commanded. “Whatever appears is for a reason. Watch!”

The view within the circle of silk resolved into that of the interior of a great hall, stacked with chairs and pews.

“The House of Commons,” Charles muttered, for the others here had not ever seen it.

The House was empty, save for a man who sat in the grandest chair of them all, the speaker’s chair. He had a powerful presence, his dark eyes looking about the hall as if he knew he was being watched, and his hands where they rested on the arms of the chair were tense, ready for action.

“Cromwell,” Charles said, his voice tight. “My father’s murderer.”

“No,” Louis said. “Asterion was your father’s murderer, Charles. Never forget that.”

Charles’ eyes flickered Louis’ way, then settled back on the figure the silk showed them.

Cromwell was still, and very, very watchful.

Almost as if he expected someone, or something.

“Look!” Kate said, one hand pointing.

They all saw it, a miasma of blackness that crept under the great closed doors of the House and slid towards Cromwell.

He did not appear to notice it.

“Asterion?” said Marguerite.

“Death,” said Charles, “whether at Asterion’s hand, or that of the Game. Death…finally.”

“And thus we are being shown this,” said Louis. “Your time has almost come, Charles. England awaits. For all of us.”

The scene changed again, Cromwell sitting on his lonely throne fading first into a murky greyness, and then into…into…

A great roiling mass of silk as it suddenly heaved away from the bed. Its centre rose, as if it contained something underneath it, while its edges remained flat on the bed.

“No!” Kate cried, reeling back, one hand on her belly. “Something comes!”

“Asterion,” Louis said flatly.