Chapter Fourteen

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

IN THE gloom of the dwindling afternoon, only Herbert and Phillipa had stood waving them off. The boy was none the worse for wear after his run-in with the goddess, though he'd been found fast asleep in his bed, rather than the stables, and was too groggy to join their impromptu Christmas dinner. He was a tad sniffly, perhaps a bit feverish, but really did not need any of the worried looks that Silas sent him.

‘Is he dying?' Pitch had asked, a bit harshly.

‘No,' Silas had cried. ‘Of course not.'

‘Then stop fussing over him.'

Herbert had left Silas with an odd parting message. ‘Don't let them distract you, Mr Mercer. They do not sing louder, you now hear more keenly.'

‘Silas?' Pitch had frowned at the odd comment.

‘Nothing to worry about. Do you need a leg up onto Lalassu? It's not so easy with her being bare-back.'

That of course had been the perfect distraction. ‘Of course I don't need a bloody leg-up.'

Phillipa's send-off was not entirely heart-felt. The ghost was upset with their decision not to utilise her carriage. Tied as she was to the Lady Howard's coach, it meant she could not travel with them. The usually jovial ghost was glum as she watched their small party depart. Even when Silas thanked her solemnly for all her assistance, he was met with a scowl and a huff, and a fold of arms over the garish gunshot wound on her belly.

‘Just don't do anything foolish, now.'

Silas had promised he would not, but they all knew it was a promise already broken. This final journey was foolery of the highest order.

The Struggle was just as its name suggested; a seemingly endless wind of road that grew in its steepness as it traversed the Lake District. Its ascent began right from the outset, on a curving road amongst the houses, at the heart of Ambleside. It would have been quite easy for all the others to send them off, but there had been no messy, and gods-forbid, teary farewells.

‘Do you think they have begun the party yet?' Pitch asked after an hour's ride; still trying to find a comfortable position on Lalassu's bare back. He'd lied, of course, when insisting to Silas that he was fine, earlier. The simurgh's presence made his insides clench and twist. ‘I expect they are cups deep in champagne to celebrate their freedom from our troubles.'

When no reply came from Silas, who sat behind him on the mare, Pitch nudged him with an elbow. ‘Are you still angry with me?'

‘Hmm?'

Pitch sighed. ‘You're not paying me any attention. Would you prefer Charlie to ride with you?'

‘What? Of course not.' Silas adjusted his seat, his thighs pressing firmer against Pitch's. ‘I want you with me. And no, I am not angry at you still, nor was I before. I just would have liked to have been with you, to support you, when you took back the simurgh.'

The ankou had most certainly been angry, not at Pitch perhaps, but at his own perceived sense of having failed somehow, in not being there.

‘It was all over and done with quickly. Barely noticed it.' Pitch repeated his lie, even as the simurgh's claws seemed to dig at his innards. ‘Besides, you could support me now, if you like?' He wriggled his backside to make his point, but received not a wit in return. ‘Silas, whatever is the matter with you?'

‘Christ, I'm sorry.' The ankou nuzzled at the back of Pitch's head. ‘Forgive me. I'm a little fuzzy headed. Perhaps too much wine at our meal.'

‘Perhaps.' Though that seemed wholly unlikely. The meal was hours past now.

Silas delivered a few gentle kisses behind his ear, and Pitch decided to let things lie. He could not blame the ankou if he needed a moment or two of peace.

Pitch toyed with the multiple draping collars on his carrick coat, enjoying the fineness of the beige wool. He'd done far better with a riding coat than Silas, who'd been given a plain black cape to go over his equally dull blue frock coat. His gaze drifted to Charlie who rode up ahead through the misty late-afternoon. The lad wore an identical cloak to Silas's, although about twenty sizes smaller. He was easily managing the brown horse, a solid, reliable mount who did not so much as chomp at the bit. In fact he'd heard Charlie encouraging the nag along a few times when it lagged behind on the strenuous climb.

‘Are we there yet, pray tell?' Pitch ventured, knowing it would cause Silas to huff with laughter, and Charlie to roll his eyes.

He was wrong on both points. Silas made a faint noise, nothing whole-hearted, and it was the lad who put on a grand show of fake laughter. ‘Ah, now I see what it is that Silas adores in you, Tobias. You are utterly hilarious. I can barely stay in the saddle for all the laughter.' The insincerity was masterfully delivered, Pitch would give the lad that much.

‘Twat,' he returned.

‘Arsehole.'

They casually threw deprecating names at one another, and though Pitch was certain Silas would intervene, he took far longer than expected, and even then sounded awfully distracted with his soft sigh and call on them to desist.

‘I shall declare myself the winner of that round, Mr Astaroth.' Charlie's smile was genuine, the sparkle in his striking blue eye evident. The lad was a little force of nature. Small in stature, but rather large in terms of guts and balls. More so than many others Pitch had met. And a very decent rider to boot.

Another strike of pain found Pitch's belly; the muscles in his torso clenching in one sharp action. Silas was too distracted to notice the tiny flinch, but Pitch's other passenger felt it well enough.

Scarlet peeked from the confines of his pocket, wide eyes lifted to meet his.

‘I'm fine,' he mouthed.

The wisp folded its arms and tilted its head. A universal sign of disbelief. Pitch poked out his tongue, and then shifted his arm so Scarlet was blocked from view. Silas mistook the move for a fault on his part, widening his elbows, giving Pitch space.

‘Sorry, was I holding too tight?'

‘No, Scarlet was shifting about, that's all.' Pitch urged Silas's elbows down. ‘Don't worry so.'

‘Then perhaps don't give me reason to.' Silas's new forthrightness only made him more appealing, but here it was imbued with a testiness unlike him. ‘I won't be happy if you are keeping any discomfort from me.'

‘I know that. And I assure you, all is well.' Pitch knew he saw right through his insistence that the regaining of the simurgh was no trouble, but with Silas already in a distracted state Pitch was not about to whine about a belly ache. ‘And certainly for the best, is it not? Imagine that colourful bird flying with us, or sitting on the back of a horse. Hardly commonplace. We'd have half the county coming out to peer at us.'

‘There's no one for miles.'

‘How can you bloody tell? This mist is worsening.' The landscape was a white blur. On the occasion that it shifted, they saw themselves surrounded by rolling hills, endless sweeps, rising ever upwards, the occasional flock of sheep showing as whiter blobs amongst the milky scenery.

‘Do you think an elemental assists us?'

‘No. I think this just a fine example of dismal English weather.' Pitch wiped at his nose where moisture beaded. ‘Now, truly, if we are talking of keeping things from one another, perhaps you'd like to elaborate on your mood?'

‘There is nothing to my mood.'

‘Fine. There was nothing to the return of the simurgh, either.'

‘Pitch.' The single word dropped hard, like the clang of a grandfather clock, resolute and dominate. And all at once it seemed completely ridiculous to carry on the charade. Besides, the ankou would chew his ear off for the rest of this journey if Pitch did not open up now.

‘I don't feel well. There you go. I feel quite shitty, in fact. And having the Cultivation return hurt like all the fucking hells…' He paused to take a breath. Scarlet gave him a pat from inside their pocket hiding place. ‘I think the damage done to the simurgh is partly to blame. The ruined claw was not the most pleasant of things to absorb.'

The reunion had been harsh enough, but he'd not been prepared for how awful he'd feel after it was done. He felt as though he'd eaten bad oysters, truth be told.

Silas said nothing for a while, merely nestled in closer, and brought his arms in with a firmer embrace.

‘Thank you.'

‘For what? Feeling like a dog's breakfast? Your fetishes are not what I expected.'

He felt rather than heard Silas's amusement, something in the shift of the man's broad shoulders. ‘Of course not, my lovely fool. Thank you for telling me.'

‘Well, you were being tiresome. It seemed the best way to shut you up.'

Scarlet jabbed at him–with a bulbous finger, he hoped–and Silas's breath huffed against his ear.

‘You are so thoughtful.'

Charlie twisted in the saddle. ‘I can barely see the road, I'm worried I shall miss the turn off.'

As if to accentuate the remark, a particularly dense buffet of mist swept across the road. There was hardly anything left to be seen of either Charlie or the brown horse.

Pitch was hardly surprised when Silas sucked in his breath.

‘It's alright Silas, he's only a few strides ahead.'

‘No…it's not that.' He bit the words between his teeth, and jerked at the reins. Lalassu lifted off her front feet, and veered sharply to one side. Pitch lunged for a fuller handful of her mane, instinct pushing him, despite the fact there was no fear he'd fall, with the horse's mane pinning his legs, and Silas steady behind him. ‘I just need a moment, Lalassu, release me.'

Freed of the mare's bracing hold, Silas swung his leg over her rump and dismounted.

‘Silas? Are you all right?' Pitch struggled to free himself too, but Lalassu was being damned slow about it. ‘Come on, you little shit. Let me down.'

‘No. Hold him, Lalassu.' Silas leaned forward, bracing his hands to his knees. ‘We'll carry on in just a moment. I'm fine…I'll be fine…I just need to catch my breath. They are terrible to listen to.'

The countryside could not have been any quieter.

‘Is this something to do with what Herbert said to you, before we left?' Pitch demanded. ‘Who are you hearing, Silas? It's not what the Herlequin did to you again, is it?'

Silas shook his head, his dark curls like heavy curtains concealing his face. ‘No. This is not manipulation. And I am not afraid.'

‘Then what do you hear?'

The ankou straightened. It still astonished Pitch how grand the man was. Every day he seemed greater, more imposing. ‘All of them. All of the dead.'