Poison (14 page)

It was because they were hurrying so that Poison did not at first notice they had left Peppercorn behind. But then with a shiver of fright, she tugged on Bram's shoulder to stop him. Andersen scuttled back to see what the problem was.

“Wait here,” Poison whispered, conscious that their voices could be heard through the grilles by the phaeries in the rooms all around them. “I'll go back.”

She found Peppercorn just around the next corner, her fingers clenched in the fine ironwork of a grille, standing on tiptoes to gaze through it. Poison came up alongside her.

“What are you
doing
?” she whispered.

“Look,” Peppercorn cooed dreamily. “She's so beautiful. A princess. Just like that story.”

Poison rolled her eyes and then nudged her aside so she could humour the younger girl. Her scepticism evaporated, however, when she laid eyes on the lady in question.

She was like a vision, something half-dreamt that had found its way to reality. Tall and slight, her face was a perfect oval, her hair falling down her back in streams of white and gold, stirring slowly as she moved, seeming to curl and sway with a life all its own. She wore a dress in tones that matched her hair, clinging to her slender figure, a fabric as light as air and which shimmered like the mist at the foot of a waterfall. Her skin was pale as milk and inhumanly perfect, and her features were alien, resembling those of a woman and yet not, seeming smoother somehow, as if she were moulded rather than born. Her eyes were pools of endless blue, with no pupils to mar their colour, and they were like the sky on a spring morning.

Poison could hardly breathe. The phaerie woman was mesmerizing. She was standing alone in a room, waiting for something or someone, and yet even the slightest of movements that she made seemed to wrench at the heart. She sighed, and the sound was like the wind stirring fallen leaves in autumn, or birds taking flight. Poison could not help wondering who she was, why she was here, what she was waiting for . . . but with an effort of will she tore herself away from such thoughts. They had no time for idle fancy. Steeling herself against the temptation to gaze on the lady again, she grabbed Peppercorn by the wrist and pulled her away. Peppercorn made a small noise of complaint, but she did not resist. They rejoined the others, both of them feeling as if they had left a small part of themselves behind, that by sacrificing that beauty they had betrayed themselves.

“Are you done gawking?” Bram said, bringing them back to earth.

They went on through the squeezeways for what seemed like an age, and when finally Andersen stopped and they caught up with him, they were exhausted. He was sitting next to a grille that was just like dozens of other grilles they had passed, a barely visible silhouette in the gloom. Poison crouched down next to the cat and peered through.

The room beyond was an elegantly furnished chamber, hung with tapestries of war and immaculate in its finery. It was empty.

Poison frowned. “Andersen, why did you. . .” she began, and then trailed off as she heard the sound of approaching footsteps. She cast one last, suspicious glance at the cat and then returned her attention to the room beyond the grille.

She could have predicted who would walk in then, even before she saw him. Andersen did know where he was going; he must have wandered these squeezeways long ago, back in the shadowy depths of his past.

It was Aelthar who entered, and with him was Scriddle, his obsequious and prickly secretary. These were the Phaerie Lord's chambers.

“Shut the door, Scriddle,” Aelthar said. The tone of his voice betrayed his mood. He was angry, and short on patience.

Scriddle did as he was told.

“We must make plans,” Aelthar snapped suddenly, pacing the room. “This cannot go on.”

“I agree,” Scriddle replied, his sharp head bobbing. “Something must be done.”

“Humans!” Aelthar spat. Poison felt a thrill of fright.

“They are indeed a most annoyingly pestilent breed, Lord,” Scriddle agreed. “May I ask if your private conferences with the other Lords bore any fruit?”

“Ha!” Aelthar cried bitterly. “When have any of us been able to agree on anything? Grugaroth is still bitter about Myghognimar; he can barely suffer to be in the same room as me. The Umbilicus is so overcautious that it never acts at all. Only the Gomm has the will and the strength to be an ally to me in this matter, but it is like trying to chain a bull. He understands nothing of subtlety.”

Poison felt Peppercorn burrowing in alongside her, trying to get to see what was going on. She shifted over a little to make way.

“What's happening?” Peppercorn whispered. Poison hushed her.

“My Lord should not be too downhearted,” Scriddle said, raising an eyebrow above his round glasses. “There is still the issue of our visit to the Hierophant. Every Lord and Lady of the Realms will be there. And many are frightened by what the Hierophant is up to, Lord. They won't stand for it.”

“Of course they're frightened! Who knows who will come out on top when the barrel is shaken?” Aelthar suddenly crossed the room to stand before the grille where Poison and Peppercorn watched. Peppercorn was about to make a noise of alarm when Bram's glove clamped over her mouth.

“How ridiculous it seems,” the Phaerie Lord mused. “Humans are the lowest rung on the ladder of the Realms, and yet a single one of them can inspire such panic. What is it about them, Scriddle? How is it that only
they
can become Hierophants?”

Scriddle paused for a time before answering. “Perhaps they have something that the other races do not?” he suggested.

“And what might that be?” Aelthar laughed, tossing his flame-red hair. “A complete inability to cooperate? A tendency to embark on long and pointless acts of genocide upon their own kind? I swear to you, even the animals of their Realm count higher in my estimation than humans do. Their gift of intelligence they have squandered by selfishness and barbarity. One day, the day they lose their precious guardian, I will march my forces into their lands and wipe them from existence, and I will be counted a hero by all for doing so.” He stamped to the other side of the room, exclaiming “Vermin!” as he went.

“My Lord,” Scriddle said, adjusting his glasses with an embarrassed cough, “may I remind you that I myself am half human?”

“And a shame it is,” Aelthar said. “Were you pure phaerie, I would have you as my right-hand man instead of merely a secretary. You have everything I ask for in a subject, Scriddle; but not the blood.”

“I am honoured to have risen this far in your employ, my Lord,” Scriddle replied humbly. “I ask for no more.”

“Well,” Aelthar said, taking a few breaths to calm himself after his tirade against humanity. “We must prepare a retinue. Assemble them in the library. We leave immediately for the Hierophant's castle.”

“Lord?” Scriddle queried, his ledger appearing in his hand and falling open. “There is one matter yet to attend to.”

“What matter is that? Oh, the humans?”

“Indeed.”

“Need I even tell you?”

“I would be loath to second-guess my master and choose incorrectly,” Scriddle said smoothly.

“Kill them, Scriddle. Kill them, of course.”

Poison felt her blood run cold.

“I suspected as much,” Scriddle replied, snapping his ledger shut; and with that the two of them left the room.

Peppercorn and Poison stood up in the narrow squeezeway and looked at each other.

“Kill us?” Peppercorn squeaked.

“That's the trouble with phaeries,” Bram muttered. “You can't trust them as far as you can spit.”

“They'll find out we're gone!” Peppercorn said, her voice rising as she began to panic. “They'll come looking for us!”

“Don't worry, Peppercorn,” Poison said, her violet eyes shining in the hot darkness. “We won't be here.”

There was iron in her voice. The Phaerie Lord's words had shaken her – not because she feared for their safety, but because she knew now that he intended to betray them. He had never meant to give Azalea back and honour his side of the bargain. Poison's entire plan up until now had relied on Aelthar returning her sister of his own volition. Now she saw that it had been a false hope. For an instant, she teetered on the brink of despair; but then a new resolution took the field, and dragged her back. If the Phaerie Lord would not give her Azalea, Poison would
take
her. By whatever means necessary. And while she herself was too weak to threaten a being as mighty as Aelthar, she had learned by now that there were other beings that he
did
 fear.

“We won't be here?” Bram echoed. “Where will we be?”

“You heard him say that they're heading for the Hierophant's castle,” said Poison. “I've been meaning to have a word with him anyway. And by the sounds of it, we'll be safer there than anywhere. At least he's human.”

“You want us to stow away in the Phaerie Lord's retinue?” Bram asked.

“You
are
sharp,” Poison said. “That's exactly what I want.”

Bram ruminated for a moment. “I wish I had any better ideas,” he grumbled.

“After what we've been through so far, you're worried about a little bit of sneaking around?” Poison grinned, slapping him encouragingly on the shoulder. “How hard can it be?”

Andersen mewed sarcastically at her feet.

 

The Hierophant's castle stood on the rocky heights of a mountain, glowering darkly in the storm-lashed night. Rain swept across the surrounding peaks, and the blanket of black cloud was periodically underlit by a silent flicker of lightning, before thunder would barrel across the landscape and into the distance.

The castle was the only sign of life in this bleak Realm; it crouched massive and alone, sprawling over the mountaintop, a shiver of turrets and crenellations, parapets and spires and towers, all carved from the stone of the mountains. It had been built on uneven ground, and so it was uneven in shape, following the contours of the cruel, bare rock and giving it a lopsided appearance, with its western wing set lower than the main body of the castle. In the darkness, it was a shadow of deepest black against the sky, and dozens of lights burned inside its silhouette, a scattering of man-made stars in the storm.

 

If Poison had a plan in mind for secreting herself and her companions among the Phaerie Lord's retinue, it turned out to be unnecessary. Still thinking along human lines, she had envisioned a train of carriages such as the coach that had brought them here; but the ways between the Realms were not bound by the laws of distance.

Remembering Aelthar's words, they had backtracked along the squeezeways until they came to the vast library that they had seen through a grille earlier. With a little muscle and some wriggling on Bram's part, they had dislodged it and slipped through, clambering down a bookcase to one of the balconies that ringed the aisles. There, they had found a place to hide until Aelthar arrived shortly afterwards.

Poison's heart sank. His retinue consisted only of ten phaeries, four of which were guards and the rest an assortment of naiads, undines and dryads. Scriddle was there, practically twitching with nervousness and irritation; he had no doubt discovered that the humans had slipped his clutches by now. Poison wondered whether he had told Aelthar or not.

Still, the small satisfaction of the discomfort she had caused Scriddle did nothing to ameliorate the disappointment she felt. There was no way they could hide among Aelthar's retinue. The best they could hope for was to follow them and see where they led.

As they watched, Aelthar approached a great book that lay closed on a stand at the end of an aisle beneath them. It was enormous, bound in faded red leather with its pages yellowed. Aelthar opened it without ceremony, found a page somewhere in the middle, and began to read from it. Poison craned to hear, but the words were in a language that she did not know. It was only when Andersen hissed softly that she began to notice that something was happening.

The cat had its hackles up and was pressed low to the floor, burrowing under Peppercorn as if he feared the roof falling on his head. Peppercorn herself was cringing, and loose hairs were beginning to lift away from her blonde curls, drawn upwards by static. The air seemed to tighten around them, and Poison found that she had to labour to draw breath into her lungs. Bram was frowning darkly beneath the broad brim of his hat, and his moustache was trembling. There was a sensation of building energy, registered on senses that they did not even know they had; everything seemed to
flex
at once; and then it was done, and normality was restored. Poison exhaled a low sigh of relief.

“What happened then?” Bram muttered. “Some kind of phaerie magick?”

“Perhaps,” Poison said, but she was watching Aelthar as he closed the book and then stalked out of the library, his retinue assembling to follow.

“Come on,” said Bram. “We'd better get after them.”

They hurried down to the ground level of the vast library, by which time the phaeries had departed through a huge set of double doors. Their footsteps tapped in the echoing stillness, muffled by the weight of knowledge contained in the books that surrounded them. When they reached the doors, Poison opened one of them a crack and peered through. She looked back at the others with a puzzled expression. Then she pushed it open and they left the library, and found themselves in an entirely unexpected place.

It was a T-junction in a corridor. That in itself was not remarkable, but what was strange was that the palace itself appeared different. Gone was the elegant jade and carven finery that had characterized the Phaerie Lord's palace; instead, the walls were made of vast blocks of black stone, lending the scene a much grimmer air. Even the atmosphere was different: colder, and more moist. There was a faint and constant susurration. Bram inclined his head, listening hard to try and determine what it was he was hearing, before a roll of angry thunder passed overhead and he realized that it was rain.

Poison put together the strange feeling of dislocation they had felt in the library, the sudden change of décor and the drastically different weather and came up with a conclusion as surprising as it was gratifying.

“We're here,” she said.

“Where?” Peppercorn asked, trying to coax Andersen out of the corner where he had fled at the sound of thunder.

“The Hierophant's castle,” Poison announced.

“Indeed you are,” said a voice. “And I've been waiting for you for some time now.”

They turned to see who had spoken, but Poison knew who it was even before she saw the rangy old fellow. Though he was wearing a fine robe now, when she had never seen him in anything other than the battered marsh clothes he used to wear, she would have known that voice with her eyes shut; for she had spent so long listening to it recount tales of mystery and wonder, in that hut back in Gull.

“
Fleet?
” she cried in disbelief.

“Poison,” he grinned, as she flew into his arms and hugged him hard. “Steady there! You'll snap an old man's ribs!”

 

The fire crackled in the hearth; Andersen lay asleep on the rug, his flank rising and falling gently.

Poison, Bram and Peppercorn sat in armchairs around the small, cosy room. The chairs were a little threadbare and well used, but all the more comfortable for it. Bram was on the verge of dozing, tired out by the heat and the delicious meal they had just eaten. Now they sat and sipped mugs of chocolate coffee – potentially the best thing Poison and Peppercorn had ever tasted, for neither had grown up within reach of good food.

Fleet sat nearby, watching them amiably and puffing on a gaudily decorated hookah. This room was not unlike the one back in Gull, where he and Poison had sat for hours and talked about this and that; there was the fire, the chairs, the wall slotted with great volumes of lore and a clutter of scrolls and notebooks scattered about. Fleet was evidently a man who knew his own mind when it came to his surroundings.

Poison sighed contentedly. It was the first time since she had left home that she had felt truly safe. She had been so unwilling to spoil the joy of the moment that she had so far held herself back from asking the dozens of questions she had for her old friend. Instead, she told him of her journey; for now
she
had a story for
him
, and this one was undisputably true, and just as exciting as any phaerie tale. The storm raged outside, but within the massive stone walls of the Hierophant's castle, they were immune to its fury.

“Answers,” Fleet creaked at length, his wrinkled face a landscape in the firelight. “I expect you'll be wanting answers.”

Bram stirred lethargically. He was not concerned either way. Poison turned her attention reluctantly to Fleet; whatever answers he had might disturb the rare tranquillity that she had found. Peppercorn was rapt with ecstasy at the taste of the chocolate coffee, and had little time to spare for anything else.

“What's happening at home?” Poison asked. “Start with that.”

“I don't know anything more than you about that,” Fleet replied apologetically. “I left several days after you did. Your father and stepmother were . . . coping. With the changeling. Some of the village mothers were helping them.”

“And what about the girl? The girl with the message?”

“What girl?” Fleet asked, and Poison explained about the girl she had met in Shieldtown whom she had charged with delivering her apologies to her father.

“If she ever turned up, it must have been after I was gone,” Fleet explained.

Poison felt an unwelcome sadness settle on her. The very fact that Fleet was being so sparse with information indicated that the situation was not good. How could it be otherwise? She passed over it, deciding that she would rather not know.

“I didn't know about Lamprey, Poison,” Fleet said. “I'm sorry. If I'd have realized how dangerous he was. . .”

“Why didn't you just take me?” Poison asked wearily, interrupting him. “It seems you have no trouble getting out of the Realm of Man, since you're here. You could have brought me to the Phaerie Lord. Why . . . why put me through all that?”

“I couldn't interfere,” he said emphatically. “I couldn't. Not like that. You had to make your own way. All I could do was point you in the right direction.”

“That makes sense,” Poison said sarcastically. Lamprey, Myrrk, and now Fleet? She was sick of evasive and circular reasoning. “Just tell me what and who you are, Fleet.”

Fleet did so, his voice slipping into that easy rhythm of talespinning that had lulled Poison through her childhood. “There are many of us; I do not know how many. We recognize each other from time to time, but part of our purpose is to be anonymous. Those who know of us – and there aren't many – call us the Antiquarians. It's as suitable a name as any, I suppose.”

He stretched his spine with a grunt and a loud crack, then settled back deeper into his chair and drew on the hookah pipe. The mood of his audience was relaxed, so he paced his delivery to match.

“We are the biographers of the Realms,” he continued. “Collectors of lives. We do not only gather stories, we attend them, witness them, and where necessary, help them along. The Antiquarians are not bound by race or loyalty; the calling can strike anyone, human or phaerie, troll or dwarrow, or any of a hundred other species. We soak up the tales, histories, myths and legends of our people, and we watch as new ones are created. All of these we record, and we store them here, in the Hierophant's castle.” He paused for dramatic effect, taking a drag on his hookah and blowing out a thin stream of aromatic smoke. Then, with an expansive gesture, he added: “Within these walls lies the tale of creation, from the time that the Realms began until this very instant. Everything of importance that has been said or thought or done in all of history lies in our libraries.”

Poison's eyes widened. “That's impossible,” she breathed.

“The Hierophant decides what's possible,” Fleet advised her.

“Show me,” Poison said.

 

The library of the Hierophant's castle simply defied belief.

Poison had never seen so many books, but more overwhelming even than that was the impression of how many more she could
not
see. For the Great Library was a labyrinth of corridors and aisles so dense and compact that it was impossible to guess how far it stretched. The corridor in which she stood had six balconies, stretching up into the sombre dimness of the upper levels, and each balcony represented a different level of the library, not counting the one they stood on. The seven levels, so Fleet informed them, were built to different floorplans, so that they intercut each other crazily; sometimes the ceiling would plunge so that it was only a little higher than a man's head, other times it would soar away, with bridges leaping across chasms of books high above. The corridors curved and twisted like living things, and it felt to Poison like she was inside a twining snake with shelving for ribs.

“How big is it?” she asked, amazed.

“Size doesn't really apply here,” Fleet said. “The Great Library is not constrained by walls, or even the barriers between the Realms. It reaches into any place where books are kept. You can get to any library in any Realm through these aisles, if you know how to look.”

Poison found herself wishing that Bram or Peppercorn had chosen to come with her and see this, but they had been content to sleep in their chairs, exhausted, and so she had gone without them.

“Can I see one?” Poison asked. “How do you find your way around?”

Fleet laughed. “One question at a time. Finding your way around the library is part of the apprenticeship we all go through as Antiquarians. Let's just say it's not easy, so don't lose me, Poison. Now, you want to see a book? Let me get one for you.”

She followed him into the shadowy corridors of the Great Library. Lanterns burned in sconces at intervals, but the place was too vast for them to overwhelm the darkness that lurked all around. Poison raised a quizzical eyebrow at the lanterns, but Fleet intercepted her thought.

“Don't worry. There are more magicks on this place than you can count. You could no more burn a book with that lantern flame than you could tear one with your hands.”