In Sunlight and in Shadow Page 3

  There was a place for her at the high table, one of the little courtesies of the Pendragon, sharp as a knife. Well, Bet would take it, and not because she feared to do otherwise. Because she was owed it, by the Last Court, and because they would never pay in full what was owed to her. Maybe right wouldn't prevail. But she would make them see what they were taking and what price they were paying for it.

  She sat beside the Midnight Queen and drank cork-tainted wine from golden goblets, ate burnt boar from styrofoam plates. Aviva pushed her food around her plate, watched Bet anxiously. Bet ate with gusto. Hell with it. The peahen might be greasy and the lark's tongues insipid, but it was better than cup noodles, whatever Bet had tried to tell herself. There'd be time for fighting when the feast was done. She might as well drain the flagon down to its dregs before it was time for an ending.

  Before too long, the boar and peahen was taken away, and confections were brought out, elaborate swans and dolphins of flaky dough, filled with candied fruit and meats. And then those were removed as well, and it was time for her trial.

  The Lady Ysabet of the Sword stood out on the floor before she was called by the herald and faced the thirty-ninth Pendragon and the Midnight Queen.

  "You are charged with disregarding the authority of our court, Lady Ysabet," said the Pendragon, holding his orb of office in his left hand. "Of failing in courtesy to the crown and to person of the Pendragon, of failing in your duties as a sworn knight of the Last Court. How then do you plead?"

  "I swore loyalty to the Last Court," said Bet, "with the understanding that the court would face down the monsters that haunt the shadows. For three years, I have fought with other knights in tournaments and in stupid farces of honor and betrayal. When I sought monsters and fought them, I was not even given the courtesy of the court. We feast on burnt meat and drink sour wine, my lords and ladies, and wear our swords as ornaments, as children are slain in the streets. My oath is void, this court has no meaning or authority, the Pendragon is no rightful king. Now, let the truth of my claims be judged in combat, before this court and before God."

  The Pendragon was old; the crown sat upon grizzled hair, and there was a tremor in the hand that held the orb. But for all that he had turned his court to games of honor and death, he had not gained his position nor held it by any weakness.

  "Very well," he said, with a faint smile. "If you wish to prove your claim, take up your sword, Lady Ysabet, and return with the head of the beast Asag, who dwells in the furthermost tunnels, hideous in strength. Or flee from it, if you wish, and prove yourself coward and forsworn."

  Ysabet knelt, half mockingly, then stood. "A quest!" she said. "The first our Pendragon has called in these five years. A quest, my lords and my ladies, that is not to avenge some insult to his honor. A challenge to a beast who has been allowed to roam unchecked through our realm. I have been told that some few of you were eager for a hunt—now here is a hunt for the greatest of game. What a glorious opportunity our Pendragon has given us, to match our wits and blades against a dragon."

  The men and women at the lower tables froze in place. It had been presented as a challenge to Bet, but when the Pendragon gave the word, when he set his knights against a dragon, it was a quest. They could take up swords at her side if they chose—though if they did, Bet would have to face a different trial by combat if she survived.

  "So, then, belted knights, flower of chivalry. Who among you will join with me in this quest I have been given? Who shall risk their life and honor to beard evil in its lair?"

  Aviva looked like she was going to say something, and Bet quelled her with a look, then turned to face the lower tables. One by one, the knights of the Last Court turned away. It was a quest; they could join. But Asag was old and cunning, and the Pendragon disapproved, and feasts and courtly love were a lighter obligation than the teeth and flames of Asag.

  "Come now," she said. "I admit, it is not as simple an affair as seeking out an unarmed woman and slaying her for not wishing to wear a costume and dance a gavotte. But surely, one of—"

  "Enough!" said the Pendragon. "You have been given your task, Lady Ysabet. If you had taken squires, if you had seen to your duties as a lord of this court, rather than sought vainglory, perhaps your ranting would have some weight—perhaps some ear would bend. This is not a matter of the bravery of the knights of my court; it is a matter of their loyalty, and that loyalty is confirmed."

  "It is not enough," said Bet. "I came because I was promised a fair hearing, so whether you will it or no, you will hear me now, my Lord Pendragon. Lord Septimus Alabaster, you brought me to this court. You taught me the use of sword and shield, of lance and of great axe. Will you come with me on this quest? Will you stand with me against the beast Asag?"

  Septimus started when Bet called his name, but he did not look away. For a moment, Bet could see Shawn again, an exceptional athlete who had a grace and dignity that would have demanded he be known as a knight, even if there was no Last Court, no magic and no dragons.

  Then he looked off to the side, at the Pendragon. Back to Bet. "I cannot."

  "And why not?" asked Bet.

  He breathed in, and then slumped. "Because I do not wish to die, Lady Ysabet," he said.

  It had hurt him to say that, Bet could see that. And yet, she laughed. "And there you are, my Lord Pendragon. There is the glory of your court. There is its purpose."

  Nothing was spoken as Bet turned and strode forth from the Last Court. There was no applause and there were no jeers. None wished to bear the consequences of defying the Pendragon by showing any kindness to the woman who had been the champion of the court. But at the same time, Bet was as full of rage as a basilisk was full of poison. If any of them had crossed her, young or old, newly come to court or there for longer than she had lived, Bet would have spit that rage at them and left them to drown in it, as she had done with Alabaster.

  As she left, she took the King's Lance from the herald's nerveless fingers. She was on quest; she was entitled. They had not anticipated her taking the things that were hers by right. It seemed that they had not anticipated her taking up the quest at all. Asag was old and powerful, and that the Last Court had grown so attached to its games and its importance that it did not even allow for the possibility of choosing something other than obedience to the Pendragon's whims, a purpose other than bowing and scraping and courtly romance.

  Bet could feel Aviva watching her as she left the court, and she was careful not to turn to see her face. Stupid fucking kid. Being right was sufficient for her to prevail? Well, Bet was right, and now she had to face a dragon alone. And anyway, even if Bet did get herself killed, that was nobody's problem but her own.

  After she left the court and found her way into the subway tunnels, she called down the virtue of the scarf and the virtue of the lance. The scarf gave her the armor of the court, and the lance pulled her towards her foe. He was a long, long way off: Queens, it felt like, or Brooklyn. It would be easiest not to wear the armor, or to ride the trains rather than walk.

  Perhaps if the Last Court had spent more time fighting the monsters that struck from the shadows, a knight of the Court could carry the King's Lance without wearing armor in the midst of crowds. Now, enemies other than Asag would be drawn to the power of what she carried, and if she wasn't careful, they would take it from her corpse.

  Bet sighed and headed out through the tunnels, lance over her shoulder. She would have to take the empty ways out to where Asag was laired. It was going to be a long, long trek, but at least it wasn't so cold beneath the streets.

  Not long after she left the Last Court, there was a noise behind her, and Bet froze, her sword rising up into a guard. Then there was an explosive equine sneeze.

  "Maish?" she said, and the steed all of midnight pushed his nose into her, snorted.

  Bet thought that she was about to cry. She didn't entirely understand the theory involved, but Maish was part of Aviva's soul—to give her that, when she knew that Bet was alm
ost certainly going to die, knowing that Maish would probably be killed too... and now Bet wasn't alone, and didn't have to face Asag after hours of walking through hostile tunnels.

  Bet mounted up, and there was a twist of paper in the bridle. It said: "Be patient with those whose valor has failed them; what is a story may become real."

  Aviva's last words to her, and they had a fucking semicolon in them. She'd given Bet her soul, and then scolded her about being unkind to the knights who'd watched her go seek her own death and not chosen to risk their lives with her, when together the risk would've been reduced. As if they needed Bet's patience, when she was going out to fight a dragon, and they'd probably already gone back to their dances and their games. And Aviva—

  Aviva had given her life as surety for their sake as well as for Bet's. She asked for patience for them and not for herself, but Bet remembered her ducking her head and looking small on their walk to the Last Court, and what she'd said: I'm sorry. I was afraid.

  Bet crumpled the paper up, meaning to toss it to the side. Then she smoothed it out, kissed it, and tucked it beneath her pauldron so that just a little of it could be seen. If Aviva wanted to be Bet's lady, brave and selfless, then Bet would be her champion. And if Aviva asked for patience for the knights of the Last Court, that was what Bet would be thinking about. Well, that, and the Beast Asag, terrible in strength.

  The Lady Ysabet of the Sword lowered her visor and charged out into the tunnel, her lance leading her way, and the horse whose name was Rumor thundering beneath her, faster than any train.

  They sped through tunnels and past stations, and the air shone with glamour; hermits crouched on the empty platforms, ladies and pages and pennoned knights mixed in with the crowds.

  Bet was riding on toward a dragon, and the world was arranging itself around that. Only it wasn't. If looked at the right way, the pennons became loose threads and long hair, the pages lost their careful coifs and courtly clothing, the hermits became homeless. But she did not choose to see the world that way. She saw the knights and ladies, kings and princes. This was what she had sought when she found the Last Court, and this was what she had found.

  She was riding on toward a dragon. The King's Lance told her that she was growing close, and everything she knew told her that she would not be allowed to proceed unmolested. Asag had not reached his age and power by facing his foes himself—he struck from within a cloud of traps and wards, servants and servitors, demons and wizards.

  As Maish thundered on through the tunnel, a knight all in silver waited for her. He raised his lance in salute, lowered his visor.

  Bet knew that she wasn't going to win. The knight was gigantic, and his horse was as huge and silvered as he was. But she lowered her visor as well, urged Maish onward. She was going to die anyway. That was the whole point, and a knight like that was as worthy a foe as she could imagine.

  The little slip of paper that Aviva had given her fluttered as she charged. Aviva didn't think she was going to die. She'd given Bet Maish, and advice on how to deal with the knights of the court when she returned triumphant.

  They were moving so fast there was barely time to think, but in the last moment, Bet saw what she had chosen not to see. She pulled hard to the left and Maish responded, springing to the side as the knight in the silver armor—as a Manhattan-bound M train—roared past, wheels screaming.

  If Bet hadn't turned, if she'd hesitated even a fraction of a second longer, there'd have been delays caused by police activity on the line between Woodhaven Boulevard and 63rd Drive-Rego Park.

  But she'd been fooled for too long, had held onto the illusion for longer than was safe or wise. She'd felt the hot wind of the train's passage against her side, felt the blare of its horn all the way through her skull.

  Maish took it worse. He was staggering as the train roared past, and when Bet dismounted, the midnight black of his flank was wet with blood. She'd held onto an illusion for too long, and Maish had suffered for it.

  She made soothing noises as she tried to determine how bad the damage was. It was hard to say. Maish was a thing of dreams and shadows, and a part of the woman she loved and not actually a horse, for all that he shuddered like a horse would when Bet probed for injuries and gave a pained little noise that was definitely equine when she found them.

  "I'm sorry," she said. Maish snorted irritably and nosed at her, like he thought she should mount back up. "No, Maish. You can't go into battle like this. Wish I could turn you into the handkerchief, but I can't do that, either."

  Bet let her armor fade, found an old shopping list in her wallet and a pencil in her pocket.

  She ought to say something to Aviva, something precious and meaningful. Finally, she just scrawled, "You worry too much," on the back of the shopping list and tucked it into Maish's bridle.

  "Go on home," she said.

  Maish gave her a disgusted look, but he turned and left. Bet called her armor back down around her and headed down the empty tunnel, alone.

  The air shone with glamour. It was Asag, trying to make her think that things were not as they were, to make her lose sight of real dangers by false beauty.

  The lance led her away from the tracks, down into service corridors. There were murder-holes and garrotters, crushing traps and grinding traps, and a glamour that made it all seem like flower-strewn meadows and faceless invincible knights.

  Bet saw things for what they were. It took her hours, but she stepped past the traps, gutted the garrotters as they came up behind her. Asag knew that the only people who might seek him out were knights in the service of the Last Court, and he had arranged his defenses to stop them. Bet was something else, and though it was grinding, deadly work, she found her way through all of it, at last arriving where the great beast slumbered.

  Asag's lair was a vast concrete chamber, dotted with spreading water stains, with pipes and cables and cheap fluorescent lights. And because it was a dragon's lair, it was filled with treasure. Rotting leather jackets, vials and baggies and kilo bags of cocaine and heroin and marijuana, walkmans and iPhones, laptops and tablets, letter jackets and skulls and shattered hip-bones, cash and jewelry.

  Asag was huge. The size of a tractor-trailer, two tractor-trailers, all black burnished scales and blood-red crest, great, webbed wings, and tooth and claw and jaws. His eyes were closed, the steam rising from his nostrils coming slowly and regularly.

  He was no more asleep than the train had been a mounted knight.

  Bet moved the shield from her back to cover her arm, held her lance ready. It wanted her to close, trying for the kill, and it would finish her. Well, Bet had tricks of her own. She let the armor flicker into nothingness, drew the Glock that she'd holstered at her back, let the armor come back into place.

  Three shots, center of the head.

  They bounced off, harmless, and Asag was on her, cat-quick. The claw was so big and so fast it knocked her off her feet before she even realized what had happened. But when it pounced, she was already rolling clear.

  She'd dropped the King's Lance to draw her pistol; now it was twenty feet away, more, and Asag was watching her, eyes wide open and bright, ancient and evil. Bet's side ached. There were twinges in her arm where the manticore had struck, and there was blood dripping down inside her armor.

  That was the trick. There'd been two parts: she dodged the first and had been caught by the second. The train was real, the knight wasn't. The traps had been real, the meadows hadn't. But not everything ugly was true, not everything beautiful was false. She had lost the King's Lance, which had long hungered for the blood of the beast Asag.

  A lazy grin spread across Asag's face, his fangs glinting in the flourescent lights. Bet twitched as though she was about to leap for the King's Lance, and Asag breathed out a gout of flame between her and the lance, hotter than a blast furnace, turning a pile of pocket watches and 80s boom-boxes into slag and smoke.

  She had her sword and her shield, but they didn't have the range that she need
ed. Asag was playing with her; he could strike when he wanted, and while Bet would be able to dodge for a time, sooner or later, she would be too slow. She would die, and both Glad Tidings and the King's Lance would join the dragon's hoard forever.

  Bet waited, ready. She was going to die with her sword in hand, facing down an evil that nobody else would face. There were other things that she'd wanted, but this was enough.

  Asag struck. She dodged. Again, and again, and again. Footing was uncertain, and every strike sent up a rain of change and subway tokens. That last one had clipped her shield arm just above the elbow. Just the edge of Asag's claw, but it hurt, and it was going to keep hurting. Too many mistakes like that, and—

  And again, and she dodged again.

  There were little windows, way up on the wall. They were so grimed-over that Bet had barely noticed them; they were above the fluorescents, so they were lost in the shadows and pipes of the roof. But then three of them broke at once, and there was sudden burst of sunlight and winter air into Asag's lair.

  Asag had already been striking when those windows broke. The light fell on him, turning his scales oil-slick irridescent, his crest bright as flame. He was distracted; Bet wasn't. She might have tried to grab up the lance, but she was the Lady Ysabet of the Sword. She dodged Asag's strike and came forward instead, Glad Tidings mirror-bright in her hand, light as a willow-wand.

  She struck hard, cutting a gash in his lower jaw. Ichor sprayed across Bet's chest and shoulder, burning into her armor. Asag turned, jaws wide, flame rising up behind fangs. No retreat, no backing off. Bet swung Glad Tidings again with all her strength.

  A burst of ichor sprayed in all directions, and Bet was knocked off her feet by Asag's twisting, headless corpse. That knocked the wind out of her; she lay on a broken pile of cassette tapes and wallets, gasping for air, aching everywhere.

  "Bet?" said Aviva, from somewhere above her. "Bet?"