Growned

  “No, no,” muttered Hooktip. “I was just coming to find you.”

  “Ah, well, I've saved you a journey then,” said Cinnabar, slapping him lightly on the back. “So what's the news?”

  “What news?” asked Hooktip.

  “Exactly,” said Cinnabar. He paused. “Any news from Mezereon? Any news about Mezereon?”

  “Mezereon?” said Hooktip blankly.

  “Yes, yes. Is anyone out looking for him? If not, why not? Liam—that's your grandson, Mother—grandson, grandson, grandson, stop flinching or I shall say it again. Liam would like to go home as soon as possible, if we don't mind. I think he's somewhat underwhelmed by his experiences in Fairyland to date.”

  “So we can take it he's not planning to make a claim for the throne?” There was a note of disappointment in Hooktip's voice.

  “As if!” commented the Queen, her arms folded and a petulant look on her face. “As if we would tolerate a human child upon the throne of Fairyland!”

  “Half human, Mother. Yes, that would be interesting, wouldn't it? You'd have to do whatever he told you, wouldn't you? You know, it's almost worth persuading him to stay, just to see what colour you'd turn.”

  “You wouldn't dare!” squawked the Queen. “You wouldn't give up your entitlement just to get at me! Besides, you'd have to do what he said as well. How would you like that, hey?”

  “Mother, unlike you I have the greatest respect for my nephew. The courage and resourcefulness he has shown in what, for him, are exceptional circumstances, is quite remarkable and worth nothing but admiration. And the fact he saved my life clinches it. I am proud to be related to the child. However, I think his heart is set on home, so I feel it's the least I can do to arrange that for him as speedily as possible.

  “So, Hooktip, my friend, could you arrange for search parties to look for Mezereon and his servant? If they have been able to follow Liam's tracks, they may well be on the far side of the lake. Get as many fairies out as you can. I'd like to get the old codger back here by nightfall.”

  Hooktip made a stiff bow and left the chamber.

  Cinnabar turned to his mother. “I have to say,” he began, “that I am more than a little disappointed by your attitude towards Liam. Not surprised—but disappointed. Liam did not cause your son to leave Fairyland, he is the result of him leaving Fairyland. And I would have thought, if you still held any regard for Swallowtail, you would enjoy the privilege of having such a tangible link with him here in your own home. Remember, when Liam leaves us, it will be for good.”

  He gave a polite bow to his mother and left the throne room. The Queen stared after him, a look of shock on her face.

  Cinnabar strode through the corridors, a feeling of unease slowly stealing over him. He had thought a lot about his time with Liam and was becoming more and more puzzled about the events there. Why was Charlock so determined to kill the boy? What interest did the Vapourer have in the affairs of the Royal Family? It wasn't expected Liam would want to take the throne, so what point would there be in assassination, especially when the main result would be that Cinnabar would succeed?

  Or would he?

  He hadn't been paying attention when Mezereon had explained the problem with succession. What if Cinnabar couldn't succeed unless Liam renounced his claim? Then they would have no leader and the Vapourer could... attack?

  Cinnabar shook his head. Surely the Vapourer wasn't so naive to think Cinnabar wouldn't be able to organise resistance unless he had the title of king. Surely it must have occurred to him Cinnabar would do his duty and take on the responsibility.

  Cinnabar's thoughts paused. Would he have, though? Before Lord Pike had snatched him into the water, before he had met Liam, before the precariousness of his existence had been rammed home to him, would he have taken the news of danger seriously? He who had taken such a frivolous and dangerous risk in taunting Lord Pike. The Vapourer must have thought it was his birthday when he got news Cinnabar was missing.

  And now, if he knew both heirs were safe and sound, what would the Vapourer do? Attack while Mezereon was absent and things remained unsettled? Attack while his treachery remained unknown?

  Attack?

  With what? Charlock? But even Charlock wouldn't be able to overcome the palace guards on his own. But—

  Cinnabar stopped in his tracks, the thought was so dreadful.

  The Vapourer had made Charlock, hadn't he? An efficient, ruthless killing machine. But why stop at one or two? Why not an army?

  Cinnabar went cold at the thought. What if there was an army on the way, an army of frenzied killers? The possibility of such a plan took a sudden and firm hold in the prince's mind.

  Cinnabar started to hurry. He must find Hooktip. They must get the guards ready, and everyone inside the castle.

  As he hurried round a corner, he collided with Myrtle.

  “What's the rush?” she asked as he pulled her up from the floor.

  “Myrtle, we've got to find Hooktip. We need to organise the palace guard and get everyone into the palace. I think the Vapourer is going to attack us. ”

  *

  “ACROSS the lake? Are you mad, boy? There's no cover whatsoever. Anything could eat us!”

  “But they're going to attack tonight!” Hornbeam almost shouted. “They've got to have time to prepare. There isn't a moment to lose!”

  Mezereon looked hard at his servant and smiled sympathetically. “I understand the urgency,” he said gently. “No, really, I do. But if we take the risk of flying straight across the lake, the chances are we won't get to the palace at all. Either of us. And I have to tell you, Hornbeam, there is no way I am going to be able to fly across that lake in one go. So you'll have to go on your own.” Mezereon frowned suddenly. “Unless,” he muttered under his breath. He stared at Hornbeam as if considering something and then shook his head. “No, no,” he mumbled. “No, I can't. It would be too—never mind, never mind. Come on, we'll just have to find another way, there's no other choice. No, really there isn't!”

  Hornbeam looked at his master, momentarily perplexed, and fell silent. What should he do? Risk the journey on his own and let Mezereon make his own way home? Or use up precious time going around the edge of the lake.

  He gazed out over the water. It looked a long way. Could he, perhaps, carry Mezereon? He shook his head. No, that was foolish and desperate. Mezereon was right. At this time of day, the likelihood was that they would be snatched by some hungry creature and no word of warning would reach the palace.

  “You are right, Master,” Hornbeam conceded. “We must go around. But we must start immediately.”

  “Yes, I know,” sighed Mezereon. “And I will do my best to keep going, Hornbeam. Really, I will.”

  And so they started—flitting from branch to branch, waiting quietly for the birds to pass, watching carefully for predators wherever they landed. And all the time Hornbeam felt the anxiety building up in him. We're not going to make it, he thought. Already the sun was reaching its zenith.

  They landed in a dying elm. Hornbeam looked behind him and then ahead. They now had less distance to travel than they had come, but Mezereon looked exhausted. He had not complained to Hornbeam, but Hornbeam doubted the old fairy could go on much further, even with frequent rests.

  He looked back over the lake. How long, he wondered, would it take Charlock and his army to get around on foot. Probably not as long as Hornbeam would like. Charlock's speed and stamina was legendary, and if the rest of the assassins were made similarly—

  “AHH! Help!” came a squawk from behind him. Hornbeam turned to see Mezereon in the beak of a chaffinch. The bird was just in the process of adjusting its hold on its catch.

  Hornbeam knew he didn't have much time before the bird swallowed Mezereon. Swiftly, he drew his spear from between his wings and flew up until he was level with the chaffinch's head. As hard as he could, he jabbed the bird in the eye. The surprised and indignant creature dropped Mezereon and flew from its perch.
r />   In desperation, Hornbeam dived, trying to catch hold of his master, but watched helplessly as the old fairy rolled off the branch and into the foliage below.

  Hornbeam put himself into a dive and sped after him, but he knew it would be no use. He was no match for gravity. He could only hope Mezereon would hit sufficient bits of tree on his way down for Hornbeam to have a chance of catching him up. As he saw his master heading towards a mass of brambles growing at the bottom of the elm, he knew all was lost. He was, therefore, very surprised and relieved when Mezereon was deftly caught by two fairies wearing the uniform of the palace guard, who appeared out of nowhere. They flew up to Hornbeam carrying Mezereon between them. “Does this belong to you?” one of them asked.

  *

  “WHAT'S going on?” asked the Queen, now mildly hysterical. “Why are there guards on the gate and weapons everywhere?”

  “Because, Mother,” said Cinnabar impatiently, “I am expecting an attack. I did explain, remember?”

  “Oh, you're not still banging on about that?” said the Queen dismissively. “As if the Vapourer could organise such a thing.”

  “I rather suspect we've been underestimating the Vapourer. We shouldn't, for example, have supposed the creation of Charlock would be the end of the matter. Why, knowing he had created such a creature, did you and my father assume he would be satisfied with just that?”

  “Well, he's always been so useless. We just assumed he'd created Charlock by luck rather than by judgement and he wouldn't be able to do it again. And you know your father, Cinnabar. He never wanted anything too serious to interfere with him enjoying himself. If it was too much trouble, he just ignored it. “Why worry?” he would say. “I'm more likely to be eaten by a bat or a bird than have the Vapourer do anything to me.” And he was right, wasn't he? I mean, he didn't get eaten. But, essentially, he was right, wasn't he?”

  Cinnabar paused before he opened his mouth to berate his mother. Hadn't that been him just a few days ago? Hadn't he had the same attitude when, with all that responsibility about to slide onto his shoulders, he had pushed his luck with Lord Pike? He could as easily died as survived, and then who would have been here to stop the Vapourer taking over Fairyland? Was that what the Vapourer had been counting on—that the heir apparent would be just as short-sighted and egotistical as his father? And he wasn't wrong, was he?

  “Just trust me on this, Mother,” said Cinnabar. “I'm quite sure about it. The Vapourer isn't as stupid as we hoped. And I think he's got something awful planned for us.”

  There was a crash as the chamber doors flew open and Hooktip and Myrtle rushed in.

  “We've found them, Cinnabar,” said Myrtle breathlessly. “Mezereon and Hornbeam, I mean. And Cinnabar, it's worse than you thought.”

  “Hornbeam's seen them,” interjected Hooktip. “There's an army of assassins—over a hundred—led by Charlock. They intend to attack tonight. Any of us they don't kill, they mean to enslave.”

  The Queen gave a dramatic little scream. “No, no, it can't be true!” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Cinnabar, I feel, oh... all queer. I think I might—”

  “Oh, Mother, you're not going to faint. Pull yourself together,” snapped Cinnabar. “I need to speak with Hornbeam and Mezereon. Where are they?”

  Myrtle glanced at her brother and then said, “It's Mezereon. He was caught by a chaffinch before the palace guard could get to him. And then he fell and, well—it's not good. Hornbeam's with him in Mezereon's quarters, but...” She looked at her brother again.

  Hooktip didn't meet her eyes and looked down at his feet. Cinnabar said nothing and nodded his understanding.

  “Right, Mother,” he said briskly, “I suggest if you're going to feel faint, you take yourself off to your apartments and have a lie down. We are going to be very busy in a short while and won't have time for hysteria or drama.”

  “I don't know what you mean!” said the Queen indignantly.

  Cinnabar ignored her and turned to Hooktip and Myrtle. “You two will have to be my seconds in command, and I give you both authority to order whatever is needed to secure the palace and the fairy community. We need to get everyone either into this place to defend it, or safely away. I'd prefer volunteers to defend the palace. Anyone with children should keep away from here. They'll have to find a safe hideout in the woods or somewhere. Charlock will be heading to the palace. It's going to be bloody and not a place of safety. Go to it.”

  Myrtle and Hooktip left through the window.

  “Mother, are you still here?” asked Cinnabar, exasperated. He signalled to the gentlemen-in-waiting. “Take the Queen to her apartments. She might like to think about packing and leaving. Then find the armoury and get yourselves weapons.”

  They nodded, and bowing courteously to the Queen, lifted her up by her elbows and escorted her out. The Queen, for once in her life, was too surprised to talk.

  “Right,” sighed Cinnabar when he was finally alone, “Mezereon next.” His heart felt heavy as he said it. Myrtle and Hooktip's words hadn't sounded too good. He hoped they had been overreacting.

  He entered Mezereon's rooms and stopped. The old fairy was laid out on his bed, his face a pallid green and his eyes closed. His breath was shallow and had a strange rattling quality, as if each breath had been mixed with a liquid of some sort. There was bloody spittle at the corners of his mouth.

  Beside him sat Hornbeam, his eyes bright and his face crumpled from the effort of holding back the tears.

  “How is he?” asked Cinnabar, though he knew the answer.

  Hornbeam shrugged. He didn't want to speak.

  Cinnabar picked up a chair and sat down next to Hornbeam. “I'm sorry,” he whispered, “but we haven't got much time. I need to ask you about what you saw. I need to know what we're up against.”

  Hornbeam nodded and took in a long, deep breath. “Yes, Sir,” he said and began to tell Cinnabar what he had seen and heard. Cinnabar listened in silence, his heart filling with dread and fear as he learned more and more of what they were about to meet.

  He shook his head in bewilderment when Hornbeam had finished. “However did it come to this?” he muttered.

  “Well, Sir, all is not lost, is it? They don't know we know they're coming, do they? They think they have the element of surprise, when the fact is, we do. That's got to count for something, hasn't it, Sir?”

  Cinnabar nodded. “If we can make it count,” he said.

  “Highness,” a barely audible voice wheezed. “Highness, must speak, must tell.” It was Mezereon.

  “Hush, Mezereon,” said Cinnabar soothingly. “It'll wait. It'll wait 'til you're better.”

  Mezereon smiled wryly. “Not getting better. My own fault. No more time. Listen.”

  Cinnabar and Hornbeam bent nearer.

  “The succession,” wheezed Mezereon, “can only pass directly from parent to child. It cannot pass sideways, brother to brother or nephew to uncle—unless—” He paused to get his breath. “—unless the legal heir formally renounces the throne in favour of his kinsman. Or any other fairy he deems fit to rule in his stead. The decision of the current heir overturns all considerations of primogenitor.” Mezereon stopped again, breathing with difficulty. “In my desk,” he said to his servant. “Document—in my desk.”

  Hornbeam hurried away and came back with a scrolled document. He handed it to Cinnabar, who unrolled it and read it.

  “I see,” he said as he rolled it back up again.

  “Get the human child to read it, agree to it and sign it,” said Mezereon, “and succession passes to your side of the family and your children.”

  “And if he doesn't sign it?”

  “The succession dies with him. Then, theoretically, anyone can become ruler—if they can press their claim successfully.”

  “Press?”

  “By force if necessary.”

  “Right,” said Cinnabar, nodding. “So I need to see Liam and get this signed. He'll be happy, he can go—” Cinnabar st
opped.

  There was a pause.

  “Home?” finished Mezereon, with a rattle. “I regret—” He stopped. He was struggling now. “I regret I cannot help. But the child might be able to do it himself. Like his father.” And then, so quietly they could hardly hear him, “Hornbeam knows.” He fell silent.

  “Hornbeam knows what, Master?” pressed Hornbeam. “Master? What do I know? Master? Master?”

  Cinnabar put his hand on Mezereon's. Already the warmth of life was leaving it.

  “I think he's gone, Hornbeam,” he said in a gentle voice. “He can't hear you any more.”

  A stifled sob erupted from Hornbeam's lips. Cinnabar put an arm around him and sat in silence as the stricken servant struggled to speak.

  “I wished him dead,” said Hornbeam between sobs. “When we were out there, I wished the spider had eaten him, I was so fed up with his moaning and his criticisms.” Cinnabar nodded sympathetically. “And then,” Hornbeam continued, “when we saw the Frenzy and he knew the danger we were facing, well, he tried so hard and I knew the journey back here was exhausting him, and I took my eye off him for not even a minute, Sir, and that bird—that bird! It's all my fault. Just when it mattered, I let him down.”

  “No, no, Hornbeam,” said Cinnabar sternly. “You know as well as I do, Mezereon would have died days ago if you hadn't been out there with him to protect him. And I bet you've been saving him from his own stupidity ever since you came to work for him.”

  Hornbeam nodded and wiped his eyes. “You're right about that, Sir.” he said. “But Sir, I should have saved him this time. We were in a tree, for goodness sake. I should have been thinking of birds.”

  Cinnabar clapped Hornbeam on the shoulder. “I think, my friend, you have to accept you are just a fairy and can't be everywhere and everything all the time.”

  Hornbeam nodded and blew his nose.

  “And now,” continued Cinnabar, “I have to take this document to Liam and explain to him that, even if he signs it, I can't send him home.”

  *

  THE Vapourer stood beside Charlock, watching with awe the hundred and sixty two assassins screaming and hollering and with blood on their minds. While Charlock grinned in grim satisfaction, the last sensible part of the Vapourer's thinking process tried desperately to make itself heard.