bright tunnel as the kitchen door banged back and a new crowd of people surged in to join the dozen or so already there. Foremost among them was the Queen’s Money, clad in a brocade dressing gown, his face stiff with outrage. Erik strained to hear, but sounds were growing muffled, far away. When Prue spoke a few crisp sentences, the Money’s expression changed, at first blank with shock, then intent and worried. Gripping his gnarled hands together, the gardener nodded in emphatic agreement to whatever Prue had said.
The Queen’s Money turned to a couple of hard-eyed men wearing short swords. Erik caught only a couple of words. “Fetch Rhiomard and his guards . . . Search . . . palazzo . . . Careful . . . basement.”
The evidence is there, murmured the Horned Lord. They will find it. The Money is nothing if not efficient. The City is less so, but nonetheless, he will organize divers. Caracole will be saved, the Leaf of Nobility healed in time.
The Lady’s breath blew over Erik in a sweet gust. Her hand closed over the nape of his neck. The kit you freed will grow to be a patriarch of seelies. His progeny will be legion.
“I knew You’d like them,” he murmured, his brain gone all muzzy with the comfort of Her touch. Death wasn’t so bad. Smiling, he closed his eyes, feeling his soul begin to drift, the moorings loosen . . .
No, that wasn’t right . . . was it?
Something small and persistent tugged at him, relentless as a biteme. Mumbling his irritation, he tried to brush it away, but it refused to be dismissed. “I am here,” it said, hanging on grimly. “I won’t let you go.”
Erik forced his eyes open. His view of the kitchen had shrunk, no more than a keyhole through which he saw Prue pick up his limp hand, wrap his fingers around the Lord’s horn and hold them closed with her own.
Very gently, the Lady said, You have paid your debt for Inga, Erik, paid it in years of buried, festering guilt. You are free. All that is left is to beg Prue’s forgiveness. Only then will you heal.
Erik’s head rolled. “No, that can’t be right. What I did—”
Is forgiven, rumbled the Horned Lord. Do not presume to question.
“Why not?” said Erik, with a tired grin. “It’s not as though You’re going to kill me—again.”
The Lord’s chuckle reverberated around the inside of his skull, rattling Erik’s brains as though they were dice. Incorrigible, said the god, shaking His great horned head. Stubborn and brave. Which is why you must choose once more. There is work still for you to do, Erik Thorensen—if you wish it.
Choose? Fuck, he was so weary. Why wouldn’t They leave him be?
“Stay with me, Erik.” Prue’s biteme voice, right in his ear. “I’ve got you. Darling, darling—” She broke off on a gulping sob like a child’s.
Erik stirred. “Not without her.”
Of course. Was the Lady laughing at him? There is a place in the Pattern even for a skeptic like a null witch.
A null—? Never mind, he’d worry about it later.
His heart banged painfully behind his ribs. “And the Magick?”
That was Our gift, said the Lord. As was the Voice. They are yours.
A slow tide of compressed agony washed over the left side of Erik’s chest, bringing with it a deathly chill. “T-tell me what You want me to do,” he said, his teeth chattering.
No, said the Lady softly. If We touch the Pattern directly, We alter it.
The Lord’s horn was a glowing ember under his fingers, Prue’s frantic grip cold in comparison. With a supreme effort, Erik rallied his forces. “I have a price,” he said between his teeth.
You dare to bargain with the gods? The Lord’s voice dropped so deep it went beyond the threshold of hearing. Erik felt it only as a vibration in his bones, his skull.
“Take the Voice from me.”
Silence.
“I beg You. Take it.”
At last, the Lady said, The curse and the blessing are one, Erik. No more music. Are you sure?
Erik’s chuckle turned to a rasping cough. “Great Lord, long ago, You told me . . . everything has a . . . cost.” He fought for breath. “I cannot afford . . . the Voice.”
Another silence. Constellations wheeled past while the gods considered, stars lived and died, planets settled in their orbits.
Done, said the Lord, like a great bell.
Close your eyes, little one, whispered the Dark Lady. Huge, slender fingers stroked over his