field. Possibly Gaynor could use her contacts to learn more about him?’
‘I never thought of that,’ Gaynor admitted. ‘Of course, it’s obvious. How stupid of me.’
‘Not at all.’ Unexpectedly, Ragginbone smiled at her, a maze of lines crinkling and wrinkling at eye and cheek. ‘You had a disconcerting experience, but you seem to have kept your head very well. It was a pity you were so upset by the bats.’
‘I hate bats,’ said Gaynor.
‘What about the Old Spirit?’ asked Will. ‘He has to be behind all this.’
‘I fear so. He was weakened by his failure in Atlantis, but alas, not for long. And no other has ever laired in Azmodel.’
‘But why is he targeting Gaynor?’
‘Possibly because you put Alison’s television set in her room,’ Ragginbone retorted, with a flourish of his eyebrows. ‘Technology lends itself to supernatural control, and after all, what is a television but the mechanical equivalent of a crystal ball? Gaynor was not targeted, she was merely on the spot. It is Fern, I suspect, who is the target.’
‘Revenge?’ Will asked after a moment’s reflection.
‘Possibly. He has always been peculiarly subject to rancour, especially where the witchkind are concerned. The first Spirits hated the rumour of men aeons before they arrived, fearing them as potential rivals for the dominion of the planet, knowing nothing of who they were or from whence they would come. When they realised that their anticipated enemies were no fiery angels descending from the stars but only hairless apes who had clambered down from the trees, their hatred turned to derision.’ Ragginbone paused, smiling a wry smile as if at some secret joke. ‘Time passed. For the immortals, time can move both very fast and very slow: a week can stretch out indefinitely, or a million years can slip by almost unnoticed. Man grew up while their eyes were elsewhere, the Gift was given and Prospero’s Children learned to vie with the older powers. And of all the Spirits, his self-blame for such wilful myopia – the contempt and enmity that he has nourished for mortals ever after – was the greatest. Yet he yearned for Men – to rule, to manipulate, to control. And down the ages he has grown close to them, learning too well their follies and weaknesses, becoming their god and their devil, their genius and nemesis. Learned but never wise, he has remade himself in their image: the dark side of Man. Revenge gnaws him, but power motivates him. And Fern … Fern has power. How much, I do not know. In Atlantis, he must have seen more than we. In the years when the loss he had suffered there drained him like a slow-healing wound he may still have dreamed of using her, turning her Gift into his weapon. The Old Spirits have sought before now to corrupt witchkind and force them into their service, though such bargains have usually achieved little for either partner in the end. Remember Alimond. Still, it is said that the Fellangels, his most potent servants, were numbered among Prospero’s Children, until both their souls and their Gift were warped into the form of his purpose. Fern would not listen to the whispers of the Old Spirit – at the moment, she listens to no one – but … she might be subjugated through those she loves. Or so he may calculate. I think …’
‘You mean us?’ Will interrupted.
‘You, and others. You two seem to be the most readily available. You will have to be careful.’
‘You aren’t very reassuring,’ said Gaynor. ‘I thought I was scared before, but now … I suppose I could decide not to believe in any of this: it might be more comfortable.’
‘Is it comfortable,’ Ragginbone enquired, ‘to be afraid of something you don’t believe in?’
Gaynor did not attempt to respond, relapsing into a nervous habit of childhood, restless fingers plaiting and unplaiting a few strands of her hair. Presently, she broke into Will’s murmur of speculation, addressing the old man: ‘Why did you say “them” all the time?’ Ragginbone frowned, baffled. ‘When you talked about mankind, you said “them”, not “us”. I was wondering why.’
‘I wasn’t aware of it,’ Ragginbone admitted. ‘You are very acute. Little things betray us … I was born into the dregs of humanity, my Gift raised me higher than the highest – or so I thought at the time – and when I lost it I felt I was neither wizard nor man. The human kernel was gone: all that remained was the husk of experience. I became a Watcher on the periphery of the game, standing at the elbow of this player or that, giving advice, keeping the score. The advice usually goes unheeded and the score, at least on this last hand, was evidently wrong.’
Will grinned. ‘That’s how it goes.’
‘You’re an outsider,’ said Gaynor. ‘I thought so on the way here. Outside life, outside humanity, perhaps even outside time. Are there – are there others like you?’
‘Some that I know of. Probably some that I do not. We are the invigilators: events unfold before us, and occasionally we may try to give them a nudge in the right direction, or what we hope is the right direction. Our task is neither to lead nor to follow, only to be there. I have been an onlooker for so long it is hard to remember I was once part of the action. The human race … that is a club from which I was blackballed centuries ago.’
‘But –’ Gaynor broke off, gathering her courage for the question she was suddenly afraid to ask.
‘But?’ Ragginbone repeated gently.
‘Who appointed you?’ asked Gaynor. ‘There must be someone – Someone you work for, Someone who gives you orders …’
‘There are no orders,’ said Ragginbone. ‘No one tells us if we have succeeded or failed, if we have done right or wrong. We work for everyone. All we can do is all anyone can do: listen to the voice of the heart, and hope. I should like to think that we too are watched, and by friendly eyes.’
‘You will never get a straight answer from him,’ Will said. ‘Only twisted ones. He could find curves in a plumb-line. Ragginbone, Bradachin said the thing that came out of the mirror was not Alison but a tannasgeal. What did he mean?’
‘They are the spirits of those who died but feared to pass the Gate. They have long forgotten who they were or why they stayed; only the shreds of their earthly emotions linger, like a wasting disease. Hatred, greed, bitterness: these are the passions that bind them here. They loathe the living, and lust after them, but alone they have little power. However, the Oldest has often used such tools.’
‘How could it look like Alison?’ Will demanded.
‘People – and events – leave an impression on the atmosphere. Such creatures are parasites: they batten onto the memories of others, taking their shape. No doubt the tannasgeal saw her in the mirror.’
‘Mirrors remember,’ said Gaynor.
‘Exactly.’
They were silent for a while, leaning against the rock where once, long before, Ragginbone had shown Will and Fern the Gate of Death. Every so often there was the rumour of a passing car on the distant road, but nearer and clearer were the tiny sounds of insects, the call of an ascending skylark. The colours of the landscape were dulled beneath the cloud-cover; the wind was chill.
‘What can we do to protect Fern?’ Gaynor said eventually, shivering now from cold rather than the recollection of horror.
‘I don’t know,’ said Ragginbone.
‘I
