Poison seethed inside. She could feel an angry flush creeping up her neck and colouring her cheeks.
“As to the Lady Pariasa, if she will permit me to speak in her defence, she has most certainly not been meeting with me, neither recently nor any time since the Hierophant married her. My subjects will no doubt be able to account for my whereabouts between the time of the audience I gave to this human girl and this very moment – I have scarcely been alone at all, having met several of you Lords here present at my palace, and then travelled directly to this castle.”
He appealed to the audience once more: “I admit I wanted the Hierophant dead. I want all humans dead, verminous whelps that they are. I despise them. But I did not kill him, and nor did the Lady Pariasa. The girl is a natural storyteller; she spins a fine tale. But the truth is that she is bitter. I took her sister, many years ago, and she has borne a grudge against me ever since.”
Poison felt her mouth go dry. Many years ago?
She heard Bram’s voice in her head, the words he had spoken to her as she was about to enter the Bone Witch’s house and head for the Realm of Phaerie. Time is not the same there as here.
“Then what it comes down to, in the end, is this human girl’s word against mine and the Lady’s,” Aelthar was continuing.
“No,” Poison heard herself say, though her mind was barely on her own words any more. Many years ago? “No, there is a witness. The Hierophant himself. The book of Melcheron was stolen from the Great Library, some time after the murder. That means the murderer knew their name would be recorded inside its pages. The books know what the Antiquarians know, and Melcheron was Head Antiquarian; he must have known who was in the room when he died, and so it would have been written in the book, and made visible after his murder – for that was the end of his tale. I believe only one person could have taken it, only one person not prevented by the Hierophant’s magick. Pariasa, his wife, whom he trusted. That book is indestructible. We find the book, we find the murderer.”
A flicker of concern crossed Aelthar’s face as the room suddenly simmered with murmuring. The theft of the book was news to the Lords and Ladies.
“Search Aelthar’s and Pariasa’s rooms,” Poison said, “and perhaps we will find the answer.”
“I refuse!” Aelthar replied. The room went silent.
Is there something you are hiding? growled the Troll-King.
“Not at all,” Aelthar replied with a sneer. “But the idea of troll-folk pawing through my belongings disgusts me beyond measure.”
There was more outrage at this. Poison flinched. The room was far too volatile for insults like that to be thrown around, and there was no protection from the Hierophant any more. Everyone here was vulnerable while they remained in a Realm with no Lord to rule it.
“Wait!” she said, and her tiny voice had the curious effect of quieting them all. “Wait! I have a solution. Send the Antiquarians. They are neutral, and they will treat your rooms with respect.”
Aelthar considered this for a moment. “Not him,” he said, a single accusing finger picking out Fleet among the troll-folk. “But otherwise, I agree. Search my rooms, and those of the Lady. You will not find Melcheron’s tome there. We – all of us – will stay here until this matter is resolved.”
Agreed, Grugaroth rumbled.
An Antiquarian left the hall to pass on the message, and all they could do was wait.
There was a moment of impasse. Poison turned her attention to the phaerie lady whom she had accused. Her heart would have ached to condemn such a beautiful thing, if she were not convinced of the creature’s guilt. She looked back at Bram and Fleet and Peppercorn. Peppercorn was wringing her hands, while the others looked grave.
How did I get to here? she thought to herself. What’s the purpose of it all? I just wanted Azalea back. If this is truly a tale, then where is it going? And who’s writing it, now that Melcheron is dead? I don’t understand any of this.
“Well,” said Aelthar, after a time. He rolled his shoulders inside his gleaming silver armour and flashed a grin about the room. “Since we have nothing to do but wait, and since I am entirely certain of our innocence, I have another matter to bring before the assembly.
“The Hierophant has died and no successor has been named. There is no precedent for this; but there must be a Hierophant. Therefore, I propose that we put forward our own candidates.”
—the Hierophant must be of human blood—whispered the Umbilicus. —it is law—
“Indeed,” said Aelthar. “And so they shall be. Choose them from the Realm of Man. Search far and wide for the greatest and wisest of men and women. And at a time in the near future, we present them and decide between them at council.”
There was much discussion of this, but it seemed a fair resolution of the situation, and was agreed upon grudgingly.
“Then, my Lords and Ladies, allow me to be the first to present my own candidate,” Aelthar said. “I confess I had made some preparations against just such an eventuality as this. Humans are so terribly short-lived, don’t you think? Patience is all that is needed.”
The candidate stepped forward, and Poison felt the earth drop away beneath her feet. It all made sense now. In her mind, the connections suddenly clicked into place.
The Hierophant must be of human blood, thought Poison. But nobody ever said how much of it had to be human.
“Lords and Ladies, I give you my most loyal secretary, Scriddle,” Aelthar was saying, but Poison swayed and felt faint. She could see Aelthar’s intention as he turned his piercing gaze upon her, saw the spark of malice in his eye.
He’s going to kill us all. He’s going to wipe us out. The entire Realm of Man.
Poison was so overcome with terror that she barely heard the return of the Antiquarians, nor the announcement that there was no book of Melcheron to be found in the chambers of the accused.
“We have to do something,” Peppercorn sobbed. “Someone must be told,” Bram agreed. “If they knew. . .”
“They do know!” Poison said, pacing Fleet’s room like a caged animal. Andersen was watching them attentively from where he sat upright near the hearth. The neverending rain battered at the thick window; sheets of water slipped and slid down the pane. Nobody in the room even noticed the thunder or lightning any more; not even the cat, who had been terrified of the storm at first.
Fleet was sitting in his favourite armchair, his fingers steepled and resting on his lips. “Poison is right,” he said. “They do know. Whatever the truth of it, there’s no question that Aelthar is behind this somewhere. I knew he hated humanity, but I never guessed how much. . .”
“So why don’t they stop him?” said Peppercorn. She was hugged inside the great circle of Bram’s arm, her eyes red; she had taken Poison’s revelations rather hard.
“It’s not so simple,” Fleet replied wearily. “Aelthar is the most powerful Lord; his armies are the mightiest of all. The only reason he did not utterly crush humankind during the Many-Sided War is because the Hierophant intervened. None of the other Lords or Ladies can stand against him.”
“But if they all did. . .” Poison suggested.
“Why would they?” Fleet replied. “None of them cares a fig for humankind. In their own Realms, a Lord or Lady is virtually all-powerful; but now this Realm has no Lord, and it is open to invasion. This pretence of deciding who will be Hierophant is a sham. By putting Scriddle forward, Aelthar is delivering a message; he is saying: I claim this Realm. Who will oppose me? Aelthar can act with impunity, because he knows that the only way he will be beaten is if the other Lords and Ladies unite. And that they will never do. They are too divided. Too many old hatreds fester between them. They will bluster and protest, but they can’t stand up to him. He will take this Realm in a bloodless coup.”
Poison stared into the fire, and flames flickered in the violet of her irises. “Aelthar w
ill put Scriddle in the Hierophant’s place, and then there will be nothing to stand between him and wiping us out entirely. Scriddle might be half-human, but his loyalties and heart are phaerie. The Realm of Man will be ended.”
“You knew it was hopeless,” Bram grunted at Fleet. “So why did you let her do this? Why did you let her accuse Aelthar?”
Poison gave her friend a sad smile. “I had to try,” she said. “You knew that, didn’t you, Fleet? I would have done it anyway.”
“At least it is out in the open now,” Fleet said. “All is not lost yet.”
“All is not lost,” Poison echoed from where she sat in her chair; then she fixed Bram with a strange look. “You taught me that once, Bram. When I was on the brink of death. You brought me back.”
Bram looked shocked, his small eyes going wide in the shadow of his hat. “What? What are you talking about, girl?”
Poison shook her head at her idiocy. Of course, he didn’t remember. None of them did. The malaise that had nearly destroyed them all had been wiped from their memories.
“Never mind, Bram,” she said. “Let’s just say you taught me something important.”
“Then what is left, Poison?” Fleet asked. “What can we do?”
“Well, there’s still that missing book,” Poison said.
“Melcheron’s tale?” Fleet asked, sitting up. “Even if we could find it, what good can that do now? We’d have proof, but we won’t be able to stop Aelthar.”
“Perhaps not,” Poison said. “But we might learn what it was he was writing that scared the Phaerie Lord so much. It will surely be mentioned in the book of his life.”
“You’re right,” Fleet said, getting up. “You’re right!”
There was a knock at the door of Fleet’s room, making Peppercorn jump. Fleet frowned, then levered himself out of his chair and went to open it.
There in the doorway stood Scriddle, besuited as always, his hair freshly slicked and his round glasses freshly polished. He gave a cruel smile, showing his short, sharp teeth.
“Is Poison here?” he asked. “My Lord Aelthar would like a few words with her.”
It had taken many assurances before Poison could be persuaded to set foot in Aelthar’s chambers, but she finally agreed. Aelthar had insisted on meeting her alone. Poison had replied that she would not come unless she had a retinue – after all, she did not trust the Phaerie Lord’s promise that she would be safe. He had broken it once.
Eventually, Grugaroth himself came along, with a dozen trolls. They were not permitted to enter, but they were allowed to wait outside. If they heard Poison’s cry, Grugaroth promised, they would burst in and protect her. Poison was scarcely reassured; by the time she made a noise, she would probably be dead. However, the threat of Grugaroth’s retribution ought to be enough to hold Aelthar back from outright murder; and a dozen trolls stood a good chance of getting to him before his phaerie guards could prevent them.
The door closed behind her, and she was alone with Aelthar. The room was hung with tapestries to cover the black, grim stone of the walls, and scattered with fine furnishings; not so elegant as the Phaerie Lord’s palace, but possessed of a grave kind of charm. He sat in his deadly, jungle-cat slouch on a carven settee, a goblet of red wine in his hand. Poison took the settee opposite. They regarded each other over a stained-glass lantern, in which a marshwraith glowed and fizzed fitfully. A marshwraith! Poison could have laughed. It all began with the marshwraiths. . .
“You truly are a monstrous annoyance to me, Poison,” Aelthar said slowly.
“Glad to hear it,” she replied.
His lips quivered into a smile, and then as he watched her over the rim of his goblet he sipped his wine. “You know, your little . . . accusation has made things very difficult. This would all have gone smoothly, if not for you. Now there are Lords and Ladies causing me all kinds of troubles. They think I murdered the Hierophant to install my own puppet Hierophant in his place.”
“You did,” Poison said simply, unrepentant.
“Oh, but it’s not true,” he replied. “I did take advantage of the situation; indeed I did. And I had planned for it for more years than your kind can count. But I did not plot to kill him.” He sipped his wine again. “I suspect, however, that Scriddle did.”
Poison scoffed. Despite the fear that being this close to her enemy provoked, she kept up her façade of disdain. It was the best defence she had.
“Believe it or not,” Aelthar said. “I think Scriddle got tired of waiting. He could never rise in the ranks of the phaerie because of his polluted blood. So he set his sights on being Hierophant instead. That, really, was why I had him spawned as a half-breed in the first place.” The Phaerie Lord looked thoughtful. “He’s very ambitious. I shall have to keep my eye on him.”
“You expect me to swallow that? You knew nothing about the murder?”
“I assure you, dear human, that it was as much a surprise to me as to you. I told you the truth when I said I never received the dagger you stole. I really did set you the task because I thought you would never manage it. Yet you apparently did succeed, and you say you gave the dagger to Scriddle. I suspect he gave it to the Lady Pariasa, and she put it in the Hierophant’s back. You see, the dagger was really not important to Scriddle’s plan. An ordinary one would have done just as well. But when you appeared with a dagger that everybody knew belonged to Asinastra, he saw a perfect way to throw the other Lords and Ladies off the scent. It was merely a fortunate happenstance; he was already plotting the Hierophant’s murder before you arrived. Scriddle knew that he was the only real candidate for a replacement in my eyes. He knew I would put him forward.”
“So what of the Lady Pariasa? Why would she—”
“The Hierophant was old, and soon to die. My guess is, she will marry the new Hierophant, Scriddle. That, I imagine, is part of her deal with him. That way she keeps her power. It’s all very simple, really. Of course, that’s only my theory. I could command Scriddle to tell me the truth, but I’d rather not ask. It’s better that I don’t know. They call it credible deniability in human circles, I believe.”
Poison watched him for a time. His cruel eyes, the sharp set of his handsome features, the deep red of his hair. She hated him; oh, how she hated him.
“Why are you telling me any of this?” she asked.
“As a sign of good faith. To help you believe me. I may be guilty of opportunism, but I am innocent of murdering the Hierophant. And because I have a deal to offer you.”
Poison did not react. He put down his goblet and got to his feet, then paced over to the other side of the room. With a wave of his hand, the air seemed to shimmer and solidify, to swirl and thicken until it took on a shape. Poison caught her breath.
She was about Poison’s age, wearing an elegant black dress, with her dark-blonde hair tied back in a braid. Pretty – prettier than Poison, anyway – but not overly so, and aided by artful make-up and mascara. She stood with her eyes downcast, her hands, clad in long, black gloves, clasped before her. She looked so familiar, a face from her past that Poison could not quite place.
“Who is she?”
“Why, Poison! For shame. Don’t you recognize your own sister?”
Poison’s legs went weak, and all the strength drained out of her. Now she saw. Those eyes, that nose; the resemblance was there. It seemed so obvious now, only she had been unable to think of her sister as anything but the infant that had slept in the crib in her room. This girl was older, an adolescent: those tiny bones lengthened, the puppy fat gone, the innocence fled. Mere weeks had passed by Poison’s human chronometer, but time had fractured over and over as she skipped between Realms. Her little sister had caught up a dozen years or so somewhere in the interim.
She felt tears start to her eyes, wiped them away angrily. Twelve years, robbed from her. Twelve years when she should have been with Azalea, wa
tching her grow, playing with her, helping her through the trials of growing up. Of all her family, Azalea was the only one she identified with, and secretly she had hoped she would have a companion in her sister, someone to share her loneliness with. All that had been taken from her by Aelthar. This had been the ace up his sleeve the whole time.
“She is not here,” Aelthar said, his voice cold. “She cannot see us. You cannot touch her, or talk to her.”
Poison could not take her eyes off the apparition of her sister. It was uncanny how much she did recognize her, now. “Why?” she breathed. “Why did you take her?”
Aelthar gave a short burst of laughter. “Why do we take any human babies? For breeding, of course. So that I could create for myself the perfect replacement for the Hierophant. We take them as infants, and watch them grow, determining whether they have suitable qualities. Some we give back soon after we take them. Some we never give back. Those we breed from; selecting and strengthening those characteristics that would make a good Hierophant. Scriddle is the product of a long, long line of experiments. He is eminently qualified, you see; loyal to his Lord, intelligent, ruthless, learned enough to take on the post. Oh, don’t worry; your sister hasn’t been . . . used yet. Maybe she won’t have to be, now.”
Poison turned a glare of pure malice on to the Phaerie Lord, who met it with amusement. “All this . . . all this so you can wipe us out.”
“Destroy humankind?” he laughed. “You imagine that is why I wanted Scriddle as Hierophant? You flatter yourself. Humankind is too insignificant for me to trouble with right now. All I’m concerned about is ensuring that the Hierophant is on my side. You see, you made some good guesses. The Lady Pariasa really did know what the Hierophant was writing, and it was going to be very unpleasant for us. She told Scriddle, who told me. But it was Scriddle who acted, not I. For the good of the phaerie folk.”