Chapter Thirty-Five

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

SILAS LAY on his back, in sunshine that beat down with a perfectly lovely heat. The air was dank with the waft of honeysuckle and roses, utterly charming and rich enough to make him a little light-headed. His hands rested beneath his head, his chin tilted to take in the warmth, his eyes closed against the glare. There was grass beneath him, he smelled its pungent, spring-fed scent, felt its soft padding beneath his back. His bare back.

That caused the flicker of a frown. Why did he not wear a shirt? But almost at once he had the answer, and his smile could not be wider. He chuckled to himself and touched at his lips. There was still the hint of the daemon upon them, that bitter-sweetness that was such a part of Pitch: kisses like lemon pie, when the chef had been too heavy-handed with the lemon and cinnamon.

Pie. Is that where Pitch had gone? To get them something to indulge in, now they had finished indulging in one another.

Silas smiled, blinking into the brightness of the day, stretching his arm to play at the grass there. Pitch was definitely not with him. A tiny whisper of discontent came with that, but then the waft of honeysuckle and roses rushed in, and Silas decided it was not discontentment after all, but hunger.

Pie. Tarts. That was where the daemon was, rustling up a picnic, to fuel them so they could indulge in intimacy with returned vigour.

Silas exhaled, imagining what he would next do to Pitch, how he would make him whimper in that blissful way of his, watch as he threw back his head and moaned, spreading his legs wider for Silas.

With such thoughts, Silas's concerns slipped away.

He was content.

Insects moved about him, the buzz of a bee there, the click of a cricket to his right. At his arm, an ant tickled his skin as it made its way over the mountainous range of his limb.

Silas breathed in, letting his eyes flutter open, and exhaled once more. He rolled his head, taking in his surrounds. Grass, as he'd suspected, verdant, short-cropped. A greensward.

The thought snagged, and the pitter-patter of the ant grew more ticklish. More irritating. Silas shifted his arms from beneath his head, shaking the tiny critter free. The wash of honeysuckle came in stronger, almost to the point of sickening. Almost. The roses tempered the strength of the scent perfectly, and Silas abandoned the thought of sitting up.

It was perfectly lovely here. An exquisite greensward.

A pain bothered at the back of his eyes, and he rubbed at them.

Another sweep of floral magnificence came, and the pain slipped away.

He glimpsed a stone. A block of granite peaking through the grass. Another stood not far away, and something in their rough cut and tilted stance caused his thoughts to snag yet again. A butterfly appeared, a pretty thing of speckled blue and black, which decided his nose was a proper landing place. Silas waved it off, and it danced in the air above him. The movements were mesmerising, the fluttering hard to look away from as it repeated the same pattern over and over and over. Perhaps he'd doze a while longer, whilst he waited.

His eyelids grew leaden, eager to close.

Silas rolled his head in the opposite direction, all but ready to give in to the urge to sleep, when his gaze fell upon more stones. Just like the others, they were half consumed by the grass.

He was surrounded. In a circle of stones.

And all at once, he was afraid. The butterfly sought his nose once more.

‘No.' Silas sat up, swiping more vigorously at the insect. His hand swept through its flimsy mass and the butterfly burst, small blue petals fluttering. ‘Where am I?'

His contentment was slipping, like a blanket falling free when one woke from a nightmare.

Silas squeezed his eyes shut, his thoughts snagging once more. They dangled, half-shaped, refusing to form. He touched his hand to his bare chest, suddenly awash with confusion. He could not recall undressing, and was certain he'd remember if Pitch had undone his buttons. Where was his coat? And his boots?

Damn it, this was not right. A thought tingled, like the blasted ant returned, then wriggled down more like a worm, deep into his mind to hide.

‘Pitch, where are you?' His voice had no reverberation, no hint of echo. ‘Are you there?'

‘Hush now, Lord Death, is this not a wonderful enough haven for you?'

Silas jumped at the figure, a man, lying right beside him on the grass. Silas's first thought; it is not Pitch .

‘Byleist?' Silas's thoughts were pickled with confusion. ‘This is an illusion. You cannot be.'

‘And yet I am.'

The ants crawled through Silas's mind and their tickle drew his thoughts away from where he sought to lead them. ‘But you died…when you aided us in escaping the cockaigne. I saw you entombed in the glass.'

Some forgotten gleam of information dangled itself just out of reach. Something he should recall.

Perhaps this was the crazed landscape of a dream, Silas reasoned with himself. And he'd wake, yelping like a fool, Pitch dozing at his side, ready to make a right mockery of him for it.

‘Did you hear my death notes, my lovely fellow?' The Dullahan, or rather the fae he'd once been, lay with his elbow crooked, resting his head upon one raised hand, working a fine sliver of grass between his lips. His bone hand. A skeletal remnant of Silas and his scythe, freeing a headless horseman from servitude. Byleist grinned. ‘If you say I am dead, then it must be so, Lord Death.'

‘I…well, I suppose I didn't…' Silas pressed at his forehead, wishing the damned ants would stop buggering about. ‘No…I heard no death note…but you were entombed in the glass.'

‘Entombed, yes. Dead, not quite so.' The fae grinned, his teeth too sharp to be called pleasant. Even in York, as Byleist showed more evidence of his true self, there could be no doubt he'd been a striking elf in life. He was glorious here, the array of gold earrings on his pointed ears catching the sunlight on crystal prisms, the purple hues of his long hair distinct and bright, and his eyes like black cherries in syrup, glistening and inviting. And distractedly alluring. ‘Though I did wonder, when that angel was so rough about it, whether I'd end up dead at his hands.'

‘Michael.' Silas said, for no particular reason, with no particular emotion behind it. Just a name. Just an angel. No bother.

The butterfly settled upon Byleist's shoulder, upon a shirt of the finest, thinnest silken silver, his nipples like tight rose buds beneath. Silas stared at the blue wings on the insect, their slow sweep back and forth was soothing.

‘That is the one, yes. He searched for you, but I gave him nothing.'

‘Thank you,' Silas sighed, contentment warming him once more. ‘You are brave. And I am much relieved to know for certain you are well. It pained me to leave you that way, especially without a chance to tell you of my deep gratitude for all you did for us.'

Byleist's sultry grin vanished, replaced with something much more sombre. ‘You could tell me now, my lord. It shall help us pass the time.'

Silas smiled and settled onto his back. ‘Very well, then. I thank you, Byleist. For your Duty-bind, and your persistence in honouring it. Without you, my friend…' he shook his head. ‘I don't like to imagine how bad things might have gone.'

‘My friend,' Byleist whispered. ‘Do you truly see me as such, my lord?'

‘I do. But I'd see it more clearly if you'd stop addressing me that way.'

He wondered how long it would take for Pitch to return. Silas wished to see how delighted he'd be to find Byleist well. The daemon and fae were firm friends. Were they not?

The ants were getting bothersome again.

‘You are not fond of a title, are you?' Byleist's smile returned, along with his pointed teeth and his stare. ‘I think titles are quite fetching. I certainly shall command no one to cease addressing me as Regent.'

Silas scratched in behind his ear, searching for what tickled at his thoughts there. ‘Regent?' The grass was warm as a rug lying before the fire. He ran his hand out over it, eager for it to be covered once more by Pitch's body. ‘That is quite a grand title, indeed.'

‘Isn't it just?' Byleist mirrored Silas's move onto his back, tucking his bone hand behind his head. ‘But fortune favours those who survive long enough. The Erlking is no longer, and, it turns out, was a dreadful king, with barely a subject who could stand him. Myself included, of course. The UnSeelie Throne sits empty, and I have been chosen to keep it warm for now. I suppose they assume I despised Lokke most of all, with being his Dullahan so long as I was, so I am least likely to follow in his tradition of making appalling alliances with angels and sorcerers.'

‘Angels and sorcerers?' The butterfly's wings were not so brilliant blue as Silas recalled. ‘I don't think I like either of those…' But he really wasn't sure. All that was certain was that ants were making a maze of his mind.

He brushed at his hair, trying to shake them free.

‘There, there. Don't fuss with those superb curls.' Byleist took him by the wrist, urging his hand down. ‘All is well now. You are very safe now. That is what we both wanted. At least he and I have that in common.'

Silas lowered his hand, letting the fae entwine their fingers. ‘The Erlking wished to see me safe?' He may be addled, but that made no sense whatsoever.

‘No, no, my charming ankou.' Byleist settled their hands upon Silas's bare chest. ‘The daemon. He reneged on his promise, and as Regent I was in the fortunate position of being able to accept your bequeathing to the fae, and claim you as my own. You are perfectly safe now. He knew there was really only one place for you.' Byleist sighed and laid his head against Silas's shoulder. ‘And that is with me.'

Silas frowned up at the pretty sky, with its perfect clouds and sublime temperature. He'd not noticed any clouds before. ‘The daemon? You speak of Pitch?' Why did that simple question seem weighed down and difficult to put into words? ‘He reneged on a promise?'

Thoughts were forming amongst the ants, and Silas resisted the urge to brush them aside, get rid of their prickly pieces.

‘Yes, yes. He promised himself to the bluecaps queen, in exchange for your freedom. Even though that queen is dead, the promise is not. Clever boy, that daemon, to discover the clause of reneging. It is long buried in the annals of the Courts' histories. Of course, as soon as I knew you were being returned, I claimed you for the UnSeelie Court. So here we are, just two chaps enjoying the illusion of a fine summer's day. Though I'm pleased, that the daemon cannot see I've made you shirtless. He's a far more affable fellow than I'd imagined, but he gets rather heated over you.' Byleist squeezed Silas's hand. ‘But perhaps I worry too much, and he'll just be pleased to know you are admired and desired.'

Suddenly the warmth was cloying, the grass like hedgehog quills against Silas's back. And the ants, the blasted, bloody ants, were still insistent. Silas shook off Byleist's hold and sat up.

The fae made a noise of irritated surprise.

‘He is not here.' A pickaxe of certainty drove itself into Silas's thoughts. ‘He is not here. What have you done to him?'

Byleist sighed, flopping onto his back, draping his arm across his eyes. ‘Gracious, I told Jacquetta to have him sign a blood agreement before he toddled off. I told her you'd not believe it.'

Silas whirled onto his knees, no easy task when his skull felt heavy as a cannonball, his limbs weighted like they were turning to stone. ‘Toddled off? Where the blasted hell has Pitch gone?'

Oh, the ants were scattering now from his thoughts. Fleeing for their bloody lives, as they should.

‘Off to the lake, of course.' Byleist was infuriatingly matter of fact about it. ‘I'll be honest. Both Jacquetta and I were shocked at his selflessness.'

Shock squeezed Silas's lungs. He could barely speak for the rage. ‘He left me?'

‘Good of him, don't you think?' Byleist withdrew his arm from his eyes, smiling up at Silas like a lover ready for his due. ‘Never thought he had it in him. You are quite safe now, Lord Death.'

‘Fuck, I don't wish to be safe, Byleist,' Silas shouted, but this strange twilight held him deadened in all ways, stuffed with cotton and stones. ‘It is not selflessness, it is utter stupidity. Let me out of this place. I have to go to him.'

The damned ants weren't done yet, nibbling at his remembrance of how to get to his feet. Hard as he thought on it, he could not recall which limb moved first.

‘Of course you think you need to go to him, my lord, but the daemon was quite right. It is best you stay here, Jacquetta has you quite safe, trust me. And I'll be there the moment I'm given the go-ahead to retrieve you.'

‘No one will bloody well retrieve me. And not a one of you may determine what is best for me.' Silas had never been more furious at Pitch. It made his blood thunder in his ears. ‘Release me. Now.'

Byleist's seductive smile melted like heated wax, and his gaze shifted to the sky. The clouds were dark smears now, where they had been white puff balls before. He sat up. ‘My lord, calm yourself. It is not that simple to walk away from a royal claim of the UnSeelie Court.'

‘Make it simple. Release me.' The voice rose from the bottom of Silas's chest, that guttural depth of voice he'd discovered in the cockaigne. The one that gathered all his years in its wake and used their mass to propel it from his lungs.

The sunshine wilted. Byleist tilted his head, his hair sweeping at the grass that was now turned brown and crisp beneath him. He appeared as close to worry as Silas knew him capable. ‘You must understand, it was your prince's choice to renege –'

Silas grabbed at Byleist's shirt and dragged the elf in close. ‘I promised him he would not see this through alone, do you hear me? He may renege on his promise, but I will never, ever go back on mine. Never. My vow is as certain as death.'

Byleist smoothed the alarm from his face. ‘The lake is the daemon's burden. His fate lies in those waters. He fears you seeing what he will become, and was sickened by the thought you'd be there, watching as he fell. Stay here, Silas. It is what your mighty prince wished for you.'

‘Wished for me?'

‘To save you from any suffering.'

Silas's heart truly ached, not just a pinch of muscle at his ribs, but the pumping, frantic vessel itself.

‘This does not save me, Byleist. It curses me.' He loosened his grip on the fae's shirt, his hands shaking. ‘Pitch is a fool if he thinks this death wish shall spare me any suffering. You say you are my protector, and my friend?' Byleist nodded. ‘Then help me. My days, my hours perhaps, are numbered, and every breath will be an agony if you do not let me go to him.'

Byleist rocked onto his knees, bringing them almost face to face, for the fae was a tall, lithe creature. The brittle grass crackled with his weight. He cupped his bone hand to Silas's cheek. He allowed the intimacy, too busy searching the fae's face for a sign he would agree.

‘My Lord, my friend…this is for the best. You are the only one who cannot see it. I cannot let you go.'

Silas's fury sat like dark, smouldering coals in his belly. The earth rumbled beneath his knees. Byleist shot a look of unconcealed fright at the shaking ground.

‘My lord, I beg you, calm yourself. You are in neither one world nor the other, and I fear what shall become of you if you damage this place.'

‘Then let me out.'

‘I cannot.' Byleist sounded truly anguished. ‘I don't want to.'

Silas dragged in a deep breath, finally clearing his head. The scent of the soil found him; loam and iron and coppery depths. Rich and teeming, the giver of life.

The scythe hummed against his finger, waking along with him. Sending a surge of clarity.

The soil; giver of life, but formed by death. The result of living things returned to the earth, and broken down hungrily. Made immortal.

Silas edged away from the fae and leaned down to plant his hands upon the ground. He dug his fingers into the dying moss, and it dissolved like sand between his fingers. The moss that had swallowed most of the faerie circle stones now fell away, making naked the granite stones; dull with their rounded tops and mediocre size, their uninteresting parched surfaces, smoothed by time.

‘My lord, I beg you, take care.'

‘Tell me what must be done.' Silas dug his hands into the dirt; felt it drive beneath his fingernails. The rumbling grew more intense, enough that Byleist braced his fingers against the ground to steady himself. A dusky light held court now, the sky clouded over.

‘Silas –'

‘Tell me what must be done.'

‘It cannot be done. That is what I'm trying to tell you. The fae circle is held closed by the reneging of his promise.'

Silas drew in deep lungfuls of air, letting the waft of decay seep into him, spread through his body like a welcome disease. ‘If it can be closed, it can be opened. Tell me what must be done.'

A bird dropped from the sky. Landing dead between them. Byleist's cry was one of horror and awe. ‘My lord –'

‘I'm losing patience.'

An anguished sound came from the fae. ‘You will be harmed –'

‘Byleist.' Silas's roar brought with it the fall of another sparrow, another fluttering of butterflies. And a sharp crack.

A fine break in one of the stones.

The fae's black eyes widened, his pretty lips parting in astonishment. ‘You have found it.'

‘Found what?' Silas growled, another booming reverberation moving through the ground, as though all the long ago-dead raged with him. No matter the world or realm, no matter the longevity of the life within it, there was no place that death did not know.

‘Your way.' Byleist spent a moment in a clear struggle with himself. Then he muttered what could only be curses. ‘The stones, they are what hold you. Break the stones. It will not sever your allegiance to the UnSeelie Court, but it will free you from this purgatory. I cannot, I will not, aid you in this. And I do not know how it might harm you, but I dare say that does not worry you much.' He rose to his feet, an imperious bearing to the way he stood over Silas. ‘I shall not stay to watch, though. I do not trust that the urge to save you from yourself will not overwhelm me. Perhaps then I would become another bird to fall from the sky.'

Silas had been focused upon the ground, upon the shift of every grain of soil that might aid him. He raised his head. ‘I would not harm you.'

Byleist's sly smile returned. ‘Oh, my dear, that is a lie. There is nothing you will not do for him. None are safe whilst the lord of death seeks his lover. Perhaps he should have known that not even the entire UnSeelie Court would be enough to keep you away.' He raised his bone hand to his lips, kissed his white fingers, and blew the kiss to Silas.

‘Thank you, Byleist. For all.'

He did not speak of seeing the fae again one day. What point in any more promises to be broken?

‘Good luck, Silas Mercer. If you free yourself, I hope you find him well enough to know you, and glad enough of your arrival. You chose a troubled creature to love.'

Silas turned his attention to the circle. ‘And he in return.'

When he glanced up again, the Dullahan was gone.

Silas dug his feet deeper into the soil, and slipped the scythe from his finger, forming the weapon he'd take to the stones; a war hammer. A slender weapon with a silver twined handle, and a ridged hammerhead with an opposing sharp spike.

He stood over the nearest stone, the one already hindered by a crack. Silas settled his grip and raised his arms over his head. Lightning flashed but the thunder did not dare to rumble. Silas closed his eyes, picturing Pitch as he led Silas down to this circle, with dark betrayal on his mind.

The anger needed little kindling to spark again. He opened his eyes. Took aim.

And whistled for all the deadness in the ground to heed him. His note was as sharp as the spike on his hammer. And he drove them both down.

The earth rose at his summons, pushing the stones forth like unwanted children from its womb. Sending them up against the driving force of the hammer.

The scythe struck the stone, lacing it with cracks. Silas spun the hammer, turned the spike downwards now, and completed the blow.

The tip met stone and shattered it.

The first of the faerie circle stones succumbed to him beneath a flash of silent lightning.

Silas breathed in the victory, its scent making him heady, craving the next dose. He licked his lips, readying them for another note. This one was higher than the last, drawing upon all the thousands of years of death that were packed into the earth, dragging it up from the darkness where the deathnotes of those creatures great and small were long since broken down.

The faerie circle's magick was attacked on two fronts.

And it did not have the strength to defend against him.

Seven stones. Each had shattered like eggshells left in the sun. Another flash of quiet lightning with each. A silent protest at the ruin.

A useless protest.

Silas saw his way out and lunged for it like a starving wolf on a carcass.

He broke the last stone, sweat running down the back of his neck, soaking his underarms. The white light flashed once, then was replaced by a colour like the first peaches of the season; the dawn's hint at the edge of a sky, with a touch of violet tinging its depths.

‘Silas.'

Panting, he turned around; the hammer held loose in his hand. Edward stood with Scarlet upon his shoulder. The wisp waved with both hands, fingers bloated, but Silas was in no mood for simple things. ‘Where is he?'

‘He has gone into the lake. How did you end up here, Silas?'

‘Through good intentions that were ill-thought through.' The thump of Silas's heart felt dulled, still buried beneath all the dirt and decay. The scythe reshaped, finding its place upon his finger once more. ‘Edward, I must follow him.'

‘Of course.' The lieutenant stretched out his hand. Silas had not yet stepped from the death-scorched ground with its shattered stone. ‘Scarlet woke me…and brought me here. I see now why, but what happened here, Silas?'

‘Pitch wishes to take his trials alone. I disapprove.' Silas took the lieutenant's hand, a tiny crackling came with their contact.

He stepped from the remnants of the faerie circle, struck by how truly quiet it had been within them. Now the sounds of the Sanctuary were many, the wind stronger than he recalled; causing distant trees to tilt and groan, a window shutter somewhere to slam, and far off birds to call out warnings.

‘Is Charlie safe?'

‘Yes. Sleeping, thanks to Scarlet.' Edward tilted his head at the wisp, who had risen to its stubby feet. ‘They bid me come alone. Do you know what they intend?'

‘It had best be to show me where Pitch entered the lake,' Silas said. ‘Scarlet? Why have you brought Edward to me?'

The odd little creature performed a twirl, turquoise arms spread as though they embraced an invisible partner in a waltz.

A deep rumble moved through the ground. Different to the sound Silas's interference had made. This was like the rattling of a steam engine as it barrelled past a humble dwelling, causing all to shake. Edward's arms lifted, searching for something to brace on. Silas stepped forward, steadying him.

‘It has happened a few times now.' Edward said, with nervous glances about. ‘But this is by far the strongest. What do you suppose it is?'

The sound passed, softening, running beneath the earth, like a fox fleeing deeper into its den.

‘I don't know,' Silas said. ‘But if Pitch has just set foot in the lake I fear the unrest stems from there. I must find a way in.'

Scarlet darted from Edward's shoulder, and moved right up close to Silas's face, planting chubby mandarin orange hands against the tip of his nose, reminding him of the bothersome butterfly. But Silas had no doubt of this creature's loyalty, nor intentions.

‘How do I find him, Scarlet?' he whispered.

The wisp grabbed at the scraggy lengths of his beard and pulled him forward. Back towards the palace, whose elaborate peaks were never out of sight.

‘Back in the palace?'

A squeak, as clear an answer as any. Yes.

‘Let's go, Edward.'

The lieutenant gave Silas a tight nod, his face furrowed with his concerns, but he did not hesitate to fall into step.

Silas rushed away from the shattered faerie prison; from the place where Pitch had dared to bestow a kiss he'd intended to be their last.