Spectred Isle (Green Men #1)(37)

“And we let them use us, Saul. We obeyed orders. I did. I— Christ, I am ashamed to say this, but I was part of the circle at Mons, and in three smaller summonings after. I did it, Saul. I played as big a part in ripping the veil to pieces as anyone alive. I saw the damage that was being done, I knew it was wrong even as I did it, but we were at war, we had orders, and I followed them.”

He was looking straight ahead, his profile set in an emotionless cast. Saul knew what that hid, and felt his chest contract in sympathy with the old familiar pain.

“I didn’t start to speak against those orders until, what, September 1915, and then only to my family, quietly. It was already too late. The generals understood the scale of the weapon they had; they weren’t going to let it go unused. Some arcanists were drunk on power, and many more were too caught up to stop, and an awful lot of us knew it was catastrophic, but we believed in those simple rules. It’s so much easier to obey orders. It’s not much fun to think.”

Saul watched him. The bones of his face stood clear under the skin.

“I had row after row with my father. By the end we were screaming in one another’s faces. I said he could pull every British occultist off the job, use his standing to end the madness. The Germans were having exactly the same rows on their side, and we were related to a dozen senior people at Heidelberg. We could have stood together across the battle lines and said no, this weapon is too great, the damage will be incalculable.

“But we didn’t. My father wouldn’t hear me and in the end nor would anyone else. Because the Germans were beginning the second Great Summoning, you see. We’d started it with the Great Summoning at Mons; the Germans intended to finish it at Ypres. We knew it was coming—how could we not; the air was full of grease and tin. We hadn’t stopped our summonings so they didn’t stop theirs, and that just proved one couldn’t trust the bloody Krauts. Or the bloody Brits, depending on point of view. So there we were at Ypres, the German summoning under way, and we were ordered to throw everything we had at them. And I said no.”

“You were a conscientious objector?”

“Hardly that. I killed, before and after. I was quite happy to fight, but not to lead an obviously catastrophic charge to certain death. Whereas my father was old, and old-fashioned, and he couldn’t or wouldn’t see what was going on. I called him a bloody fool; he called me a coward, and said he was ashamed to name me his son. He marched the Glydes, my whole family but me, out to fight for our country, and within three minutes they were all dead, their lungs turned to glass.”

“Glass,” Saul repeated.

“They did their duty, and died coughing up shards in the mud. I broke the rules and lived, and I’m the one who has to sort out the mess we all left. Tell me more about what if, Saul, tell me more about playing your part in catastrophe. The veil is hanging in tatters because we obeyed orders, three-quarters of England’s occultists are dead, and now two of London’s most vital protections depend on a stupid sod who’s let himself get trapped into being eternally two miles from Swaffham fucking Prior. Oh look, more good news.”

Saul had been staring at the hard, savage lines of his companion’s face. He turned now at Randolph’s finger, and saw the waystone. It said Swaffham Prior, 2 miles, and on top of it lay a limp, faded rag that might, a century ago, have been a fashionable Homburg hat.

“How long have we been here?” he asked, thinking of Rip van Winkle, of tales of ancient sleepers falling to dust. “How long—”

“Don’t panic,” Randolph said. “They don’t play by the rules. Nevertheless, I’m not feeling particularly inclined to stay on this road.”

“Can’t you do something? Use these words of yours?”

“I am even less inclined to do that.” Randolph picked up the felt remnants with two fingers. “I don’t know what impact they might have here. I suspect it would be large and destructive, and the veil is too damned torn to risk more damage. The words might send us back to where we should be; they might equally rend a hole between here and there which would let more through to our side than just us.”

“There isn’t anything else here.”

“Would you care to bet on that?”

Skin prickled all the way down Saul’s neck. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t feel alone.” Randolph dropped the rag and glanced around. “Have you observed the shadows?”

Saul looked down. His shadow stretched out in front of him, a foot or so of black on the dusty road. He grabbed for his watch. “It’s working! No, wait—what?”

Randolph consulted his own watch. “Stopped at twenty-five to three? Marvellous. Sodding marvellous. Because if time is passing in some manner, you may imagine what that means.”

Saul thought about it. “Are you saying that night will come?”

“And who knows what with it. I don’t want to be here at night.”

“What do we do?” Saul could feel the terror rising, like an echo of that long-ago evening with the Abchurches—no, last night, it was just last night. “Randolph?”

Randolph was looking around, eyes narrowed. “I should like to find Burwell Castle. I would guess it will be here, and potentially useful, but the question is how to reach it. It was right behind the church, but damned if I know which way to Burwell.”