‘Oh,’ said Sythia inadequately.
Xanthe sighed. ‘I have little luck where husbands are concerned, it seems.’
‘You poor creature,’ Sythia murmured, but still her heart beat fast.
At the graveside, while the mourners sweated uncomfortably in their ornate costumes, Xanthe stood cool and tall, staring down into the gaping earth. She seemed at least melancholy.
‘What will you do now?’ Sythia asked her as they returned to the house. ‘Come home to Mewt?’
‘No,’ Xanthe answered. ‘I shall remain here for a while at least.’
‘Alone?’
Xanthe smiled. ‘Yes. Alone.’
In the humid evening, Hesta reverently sponged Xanthe’s skin with milk. The moon was rising behind the trees and the gardens lay in silence. There were no rats out there, nor in the house; no small creatures at all. All the guests had gone.
Xanthe rose from her bath and Hesta wrapped her in a towel. ‘I will never marry outside my own kind again,’ Xanthe said.
Hesta made a small, comforting sound. ‘It was not your fault, my lady.’
Xanthe shook her head. ‘This time... this time, it seemed so right. He accepted me as what I am, did not question my behaviour.’ Her voice was low and uninflected, her gaze steady. She glanced down at Hesta. ‘But what I am has followed me from Mewt. It was waiting here, but twisted.’ She sighed and touched her belly. ‘It is time now for me to settle this matter.’
Hesta dropped a small curtsey. ‘I will await you, ma’am, in the kitchens.’
Xanthe smiled. ‘I will not be long.’ She clad herself in a long sheath of fabric, the colour of the moon, opalescent and oily. She glided through the house and out through the long back windows, down across the yellow lawns, past the sun-dial, the mermaid fountain, deeper, deeper into the garden to the court of the queen. In the outer courts the ladies of venom lay desiccated in their beds, petals strewn around them like papery jewels. Xanthe paid them no attention.
The queen, Night’s Damozel, still reigned in her bower, despite the fact that Xanthe had denied her water for three weeks. Her leaves had withered and the tall stalks of her flowers were wrinkled like the skin of a crone. The purple flowers were splayed open, like dying tulips, revealing black and golden hearts. Xanthe crept through the yews on silent, naked feet and stood before her.
‘Greetings,’ she said. ‘We have commerce to conduct, you and I.’
A single, damaged petal fell from one of the flowers, and the stillness of the night was absolute. Xanthe began to circle the central bower. ‘Your lover is dead, and your minions have either perished or retreated into a death-like sleep. How much longer will you stand, dark lady? I admire the way you cling to life, even though half your roots are now nothing more than lifeless twigs.’
Night’s Damozel seemed to shudder in the moonlight and another petal fell.
‘Come forth,’ Xanthe hissed, her eyes like slits, her elegant hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her narrow body swayed before the Damozel, and her will pulsed out of her like steam.
Again the plant convulsed.
‘Do you hear me?’ Xanthe said. ‘I order you to come forth. If you savour life, then obey me. If not, I shall trample your crippled body into the earth. I am not afraid of you, dark Damozel, for my poisons are greater than yours.’
The image of the plant seemed to ripple, and a stream of vapour exuded from the earth. It coiled at ground level, and then puffed upwards, resolving at last into an indistinct, female figure.
‘But you must show me more,’ Xanthe said. ‘I do not believe this wisp, this ghost!’
The emanation gradually became more solid, until it was clear that a strange woman stood upon the withered leaves of the Damozel. Her skin was pale with purple shadows. Her heart-shaped face was alien, horrifying, yet peculiarly alluring. She had barely a nose to speak of and her eyes were feathered slits.
Xanthe shook her head. ‘He never had the power to conjure you, did he,’ she murmured, ‘but then he knew so little of what he had.’
The Damozel fell to hands and knees upon the soil, her pale downy hair falling over her face. She looked starved, nearly dead.
‘You know I could have come before,’ Xanthe said, ‘and perhaps you were waiting for me. If I had succumbed, would Samuel still be alive?’ She put her head on one side to study the spirit of the flower. ‘I could destroy you now,’ she said. ‘And should. Poor Samuel. He sought to kill me with your pollen, and woke in me the instinct to survive. What could I do but strike? I had no choice, for my nature overcame me. Didn’t you think of that? I found him dead upon me. You are a jealous mistress, lady, but I know your measure.’
The spirit of the Damozel lifted her head. Her eyes wept an indigo steam.
Xanthe extended one slim foot until it nearly touched the Damozel’s fragile, splayed fingers. ‘I have loved and lost too many times, but in Samuel found peace. In his innocence and inexperience, he lacked the brutal qualities of men who awake the beast within me. Noxious flower, you have destroyed my haven, for now I am alone again!’
The Damozel’s fingers flexed in the dry soil.
Xanthe folded her arms. ‘In my land, you are known by a different name, Ophidia. You are the serpent flower. They say in Mewt that the serpents who doze among your leaves leave you the gift of their poison. It is said that this is how you able to concoct your seductive venoms.’ Xanthe laughed coldly. ‘We know better, don’t we?’
The spirit raised its head and opened its mouth, the interior of which was black. No sound came out.
‘Oh, you are parched, of course,’ Xanthe said. ‘Do you choose death or life, dark lady? You see, I am merciful. I give you that choice.’ She squatted down before the spirit. ‘As I know your kind, Ophidia, you must know mine. We have a long history between us. I walk the land, but you cannot. You are the cauldron of venom, and I am its channel. Together we become greater than our separate parts. You have killed my love, and made me all that I sought to forget. So, we must revive the ancient contract. Refuse me, and you die.’
The Damozel’s eyes were black holes in her pale countenance, without expression. Then, with painful slowness, she attempted to crawl to Xanthe across the crumbling soil.
Xanthe smiled to herself and stood up, retreating a few steps. She gestured with both arms. ‘Come, come to me, serpent flower. Get to your feet.’
Stumbling, the Damozel lifted her body erect. It seemed she was unused to it, for her limbs moved awkwardly. There was a hunger in her posture, in the curve of her spine.
Xanthe put her hands upon the mushroomy flesh of the Damozel’s arms and lifted her as if she were a child. Xanthe opened her mouth wide and lifted her tongue. In the moonlight, two dark glands that leaked an inky liquid extended over her lower teeth. Even before the Damozel’s lips met her own, a spray of venom jetted out of her mouth, smelling of burned feathers. ‘I know you,’ Xanthe hissed. ‘Take my bane.’
The house was a cool now, a shadowy sanctuary from the sun. The gardens below simmered and seethed in the last of summer’s heat; the grass now parched and crisp, the flowers brown and withered. Xanthe looked out upon the garden from her bedroom window as Hesta busied herself stripping the sheets from the bed. Summer was breaking now. It would not be long before the cold came creeping across the land, bringing with it the desire for sleep.
‘My lady,’ Hesta said.
Xanthe turned and found the woman holding out the folds of white bed-sheet to her. They were filled with a fibrous dust. ‘Yes, it is time.’ She stroked her swollen belly, where the heart of a daughter beat and grew. Xanthe’s kind rarely had sons. She took some of the dust in her fingers, then let it trickle away. Her skin itched, and now her face looked grey and tired.
‘It has been a long summer,’ Xanthe said. ‘I will be glad to cast it away.’
She removed her dress and went naked through the house, down long stairs, through the drawing-room and out into the sunlight, moving stiffly.
The desiccated lawn crunched beneath her feet. In the herb-garden, the soles of her feet burned against the flagstones, yet her face registered no pain. Deeper now, into the court of the queen. The bower thrived in a tropical lushness, and a single flower remained in the midst of the Damozel’s leaves. Here, Xanthe lay down upon the soil. She closed her eyes and arched her back, her brow wrinkled in a frown. She touched her throat, and then pressed one finger-nail, the colour of dried blood, against her flesh. The skin parted with a soft popping sound. Slowly, she drew the nail down her body, opening herself up like a flower. Pollen drifted down from the Damozel; the last of it. No blood beaded along the deep scratch in Xanthe’s flesh. The skin simply lifted away, like old paper, crumbling with age. Beneath it lay clean, virgin skin already coloured a deep honey gold, glistening as if kneaded with rich oils. Softly, the last petals of the Damozel fell down upon Xanthe’s body and veiled her eyes.
The Heart of Fairen De’ath
Filerion had dwelled in the heart of the forest, in the house of black stone, for two years. Other people lived among the trees, in dark and hidden glades, but Filerion rarely saw them. It was a lonely life he led, and one quite different to that he had left behind in the lakeside town of Celestia. Filerion was not upset by this; his seclusion was wholly voluntary.
One night, what now seemed such a long time ago, he had sat outside an inn along the Avenue of Red Eyes and, over his sweet but vicious cordial of direthorn and spice, had faced the sadness and disappointment that had become the sum total of his life. His mother had recently died – there was no father he could remember – and had left him worse than penniless. More creditors than friends had attended the funeral and, to satisfy them, Filerion had been obliged to sell the lease to his mother’s spacious rooms and millinery workshops. He had then moved all the possessions he could not sell into smaller and meaner accommodation. But it had not been enough.
There had been a series of jobs, each more poorly paid than the last; most of what he earned passing straight to the purses of the merchants and storemen to whom his mother had owed money. Filerion wished he’d paid more attention to family finances in the past, and considered bleakly that luck must have fled along with his mother’s spirit. If luck was currency, perhaps the dead woman had owed more than earthly debts.
Barely more than a boy, Filerion’s only recourse to survive had been to open his cloak along the dark alleys of the Footways of Perfect Desire, and receive coin for the brief pleasure his flesh could bring to others more financially fortunate. The reality of this trade revealed itself less dreadful than the intention of it, Celestia being a town where courtesans were respected rather than reviled. They could earn themselves legendary status if they were clever.
Furtive, masked gentlemen, whose breath smelled of cloves, enticed Filerion into their carriages, where they fumbled through cramped couplings. Sometimes, pairs of pampered, spoiled boys would come giggling to the Footways and Filerion would take them to his lodgings to join in their laughter and offer them the delicious, dark pleasures they yearned. Also, sleek young daughters of wealthy houses sought his services, all claiming, in bored voices, they were there because it was necessary to sample all of life’s spices; it was merely curiosity.
Filerion did not care about their reasons. He took the money and walked away. It was not important. He never experienced shame or self-hatred, but knew that his youth, however fresh for now, would not last forever, and when it left him, he would have to think of a different way to earn his coin. Affairs of the heart, though plentiful – for many of his patrons were intrigued enough by his mystery to become regular – had always ended in sorrow. It was a game to them, an act of rebellion and daring. Should wives, lovers or parents ever begin to suspect, they fled, never to return. Filerion was tired of trying to convince himself he did not care. Resolve hardened within him. He must seek a new life, elsewhere.
Perhaps crazed by the moon, for it was full and powerful that night, he gathered up his belongings, left a brief, vague note in his lodgings, and walked northwards out of the town, through the shuttered merchant quarter, past the low, sprawling temples, whose chimneys gouted the smoke of burnt offerings and incense. He wondered how long it would take for him to be missed. Tonight’s regular patron would undoubtedly already be fractious at his absence from his usual corner, beneath the magnolia trees. He wondered whether he’d miss the generosity of his customers. No, he decided. All they’d given him was coin and material things. Filerion suspected there was more to happiness than that.
Without planning a destination, he eventually found himself upon the road that wound along the edges of Coolcandle Forest. The dark between the trees seemed to beckon him; he felt soothed by it. By the roadside, he came upon an old, wooden barrel that appeared to act as a post box for lake-bound mail, and here there was a track, leading into the forest. Filerion followed it. The strong scent of the foliage enveloped him like the water of a scented bath. He felt comfortably drowsy. Now, he would rest, shaded and fanned by fragrant ferns. Tomorrow, he could plan his future.
Filerion woke with the dawn. He stared up through the shivering fronds, arching over him protectively and decided he could not bear to set foot once more upon the hard, open road. Let the forest take him. He sat up, ate some food from his pack, drank some water and ventured further into the trees.
He travelled this way for three days. To complement his meagre food supply, he ate berries and nuts he recognised as edible. Later on, he unpacked his slender knife and confidently, if inexpertly, killed and skinned a small animal. He changed direction many times, doubling back, leaving the paths, investigating each intriguing sound. At no time did he feel in any danger. At first, it seemed he was the only human creature in the forest, but as time went on, he scented smoke and once passed a camp of charcoal-burners, who paid him no attention. At night, resting in open glades, he patiently persisted in the art of making fire. During the day, as he wandered, he was wooed by the low, enchanting song of hidden life, and entranced by the stranger places that seemed to vibrate with sentience, and where there was no sound at all.
On the morning of the fourth day Filerion discovered a brown, dusty pathway shadowed by ancient trees. Short, dark green grass grew between the massive, moss-carbuncled trunks. In the distance, he could hear the sound of water running. Filerion felt a quickening of excitement within him. The track appeared to have been beaten down by human feet. Perhaps it would lead him to a deep forest settlement. What kind of people would live there? Would they be friendly or hostile?
At length, the trees thinned and a large glade was revealed, overlooked by a soaring, crag that reared above the trees. Filerion immediately recognised the marks of cultivation in the glade. Against the dark rock at the farther end stood a tall, black house.
Filerion froze, staring. The house exuded a powerful air of great age, its eccentric design suggesting someone quite apart from conventional thinking had built it. There was no sign of life, however; no curl of smoke, no sound, no open window or door. Brooding eaves overhung the dark bricks. Grass and moss mantled the sagging roof. A weather vane poised motionless among the tall, narrow chimneys. Every bit of the building showed signs of neglect and decay.
After maybe half an hour of cautious scrutiny, Filerion convinced himself that if the house did have inhabitants, they must be old or dead. Summoning courage, he walked up to the front door, which swung open when he knocked on it. Filerion paused at the threshold, then entered the building. What had he to lose? A search within revealed the place deserted.
Dusty furniture stood disintegrating beneath shawls of spider-web. In a spacious, low-ceilinged kitchen at the back of the house, Filerion found a large, cracked sink filled with leaves. There were corridors and passages to explore, scurrying things darting from his sight as he crept through the silence. There were stairs to climb; stairs that wound, stairs that swept purposefully straight, stairs behind doors, stairs down to darkness. And there was a multitude of rooms; big rooms,
small rooms, empty rooms, rooms with books, rooms with torn, heavy curtains, rooms with bare, high window-frames, rooms with beds. The place was enormous. Enormous and unused.
Filerion found himself once more in the kitchen, after having carefully made his way down a narrow, dark stairway with a door at the bottom. He dropped his bags upon the large central table, tested the pump above the sink and was eventually rewarded by a trickle of clear water. It was obvious no one had lived in the tall, black house for considerable time. Filerion took a drink of the water, found it good, and straightened up to assess his find. He breathed deeply. Yes, he thought to himself, the house had a good feel. Solemnly, he spoke aloud, introducing himself, asking if he might be allowed to stay for a while. Silence. But not a menacing silence.
He decided to stay there for a couple of days until some plan presented itself for the future. In the meantime, he thought, he could tidy the place up a little. He took off his thick cloak, bound up his glossy black hair and rolled up his linen shirtsleeves. Brooms were found in a cupboard and he tore down some of the ragged curtains to use as cleaning cloths. By mid-afternoon, the kitchen was almost habitable.
Pausing to refresh himself, Filerion heard an eerie scratching at the back door. Suppressing a tremor of apprehension, he wrenched open the protesting door and looked out. At first nothing. Then: ‘meow.’ Filerion looked down. A small grey cat sat upon the doorstep, smiling. ‘Meow, pee-urr, yeowrrr!’ it said, and to Filerion it sounded as if the cat was saying, ‘At last, you’ve finally arrived.’