“He is ancient,” said Cag-Mag, “and if he had a name, it is forgotten. He was a mortal man once, and a sorcerer of great power. But do not conjure up in your mind’s eye some vision of an enchanter in silks and velvets: this was long, long ago. Think of a sorcerer robed all in skins and furs, face tattooed and painted, ochre upon his hands, bones and feathers adorning him, a flint dagger at his belt. He used his magic to draw out his life unfathomably long.”
“How long?”
“Very,” replied Cag-Mag. “The Winter King lived in an age when there was no iron or steel. Swords were made of bronze then. There were great kingdoms, armies and small cities even, but also builders of stone circles and barrows, and some folk still lived in caves, or followed the beasts and the seasonal berries and fruits, here to there and back. Those folk–so long ago–what they feared more than anything was death. And they had good reason. They were closer to the gods then, and folk of the mortal earth did not love the gods and goddesses. They had no hope for any manner of god-given afterlife, as cultists and worshippers think themselves entitled to nowadays. Folks did not worship the gods. Folks feared them. So, it was that a great deal of sorcery was spent in the seeking of long life or means to conjure life after death. The ancients build weird palaces under their barrows and deep in their pyramids, and their dead danced and revelled so long in the darkness that they forgot they were dead, and grew new bodies of flesh for themselves. But he was not one among those dead dancers in the darkness. He did not die… or not in the usual way.” Cag-Mag’s voice grew deeper and more inward. “When he understood that even his great magics could not extend his life forever–when all the others of his sorcerous order had withered down to mere husks of themselves–he made a bargain with Old Night and Chaos. He gave up whatever name he still clung to and became The Winter King, solely and utterly. And then, he died.”
“That seems contrary to the whole point of his bargain,” said Caewen.
“I’m not done yet. And neither was he. He died–yes–but, not all of him died. Not entirely. His corpse was cut up with obsidian knives, and his bones were hacked and sanded into objects that retained his old power. And then, once these objects were crafted, he found himself reborn.” She sniffed, waved a hand. “I don’t know how the transference of the soul was achieved, and I don’t want to know. I expect that some unfortunate maid was chosen, and she had little say in the matter. But he was reborn, and as a babe, just as any babe comes into the world. One imagines it was put into the maid in the usual way too, though I cannot be sure. Honestly, I don’t much want to think about it.”
Caewen made a disapproving noise with her tongue in agreement.
“Ah. Don’t worry… it gets worse. He was born. He grew. He was a child. A callow youth. A grown man. But as before, this new flesh could not live forever. Eventually he must die. Again. And the soul must migrate. Again. But, as long as he carried his objects of old power, as long as those tokens were anywhere near-at-hand, he could not die. So he sent them away, for safekeeping. And so, he dies. And is reborn. Grows to manhood, and recalls his bone relics. And he grows old. Sends away his relics. Dies. Reborn. Dies. Reborn. Dies reborn. You get the gist of it, I presume?”
“I do.”
“Again and again. Over and over. He is born. He grows old. He dies. I doubt very much this is the ‘immortality’ that The Winter King imagined. One would think it might be enough to drive a man insane. One lesson for us though: do not make bargains with Old Night and Chaos. She hangs goat heads on her market stall, but what she sells is dog meat.” A lazy wave of her thin fingers. “Anyway. Anyway. Where was I? In time, he grew to be the greatest servant of The Goddess of the Night. He commands her armies now. He rules her realms. He governs the lands that she cannot set foot upon. The old agreement still binds her, sitting atop a lifeless rock in a frozen palace of black ice, waited on by dead shades. But–ah ha. And now we come to it–this last time traipsing around the mortal coil, something happened that was wholly unanticipated. He was reborn, and he reached the age when he would traditionally call for his bone relics to be returned… but one of them was missing. That had never happened before. Now, this one missing object is not on its own disastrous: he still has most of his power. But that last object, that missing fragment of power, it is an absent piece of his own soul: he wants it, he craves it, he is looking for it. It gnaws at him. It is always there, clawing at him, rankling him.”
They both looked down at the bone cloak brooch, artfully carven, yellowed with age, lying heavily on the polished table.”
“Well,” said Caewen. “Bugger.”
“Yes. Bugger, indeed.”
“So, what do we do with it? Destroy it? Pervert it’s power? Burn it to ash? Grind it to dust? Throw it in the sea? Feed it to a dragon?”
Cag-Mag blinked at her. “Megsty me, lass. Hold your horses a moment.” She rearranged her dress, then said, “What we will do, is dangle it in front of him. Maybe we will give it to him. Maybe we do not. We shall see.”
Caewen was shocked. “At what price?”
Cag-Mag smiled. “Free.”
Her stomach knotted up. Unpleasant hot sensations crept up and down her throat. A jagged lump formed there. The hairs on her arms stood up a little. Was this a betrayal after all? Was Cag-Mag in league with The Winter King?
“No,” said Cag-Mag, evidently reading her thoughts as clearly as a scribe reads a book. At length, Cag-Mag stated, plainly, “I am not betraying you. I am testing you. And, in a roundabout way, I am perhaps helping you also. He will never stop hunting his lost bit of soul. So long as you have the brooch, then the Old Great Spell is also at risk.” She waved a veiny hand. “Yes. Yes. I know all about that too. Luckily, everyone else thinks the broken fragment is utterly destroyed. That was why The Queen of Night and Chaos let Athairdrost keep it. Everyone else thinks it nothing more than a curiosity. But, oh ho, we know better.” She winked, then her eyes grew serious again, and a witch-light glowed there, and a sheen of deeper power too. “So, I bid your shadow-thing bring you here, to me, so that you may face The Winter King. So that you may stand before him. So that you may say to him: here is what you desire, but it is in my hands, and you may not have it. And so, here in my house, you will be tested. You will give into the power, the allure, the beauty, the everlasting love of darkness, and hand over the brooch to him. Or you will not. Either way, you will be changed.”
“I’m not sure I like this plan.”
“I’d be deeply concerned if you did.”
“I really think we should reconsider. There must be some other–“
But Cag-Mag stiffened and looked up, as if she could see right through the stone boulders that made the walls and roof of her house.
“Too late. He is here.”