Poison staggered back a step. Asinastra. The Lady of Cobwebs had got her revenge.
The Phaerie Lord was dead.
Poison could not think. Her brain seemed to have seized and jammed the flow through her mind. She could only stare at the corpse in the chair, the phaerie creature that had been the object of her hatred for so long, now silent. Only an hour ago, when he had been drinking the very wine that killed him, he had seemed invincible, an obstacle that could not be surmounted. She had never considered that he would be beaten, only that she might persuade him somehow to give back what was hers.
Poison got you, one way or another, she thought.
That single moment of spite, when she had chosen to tell Asinastra who had been the one that sent her to steal the dagger; that single moment had set into motion a chain of events that resulted in the death of her enemy. The Hierophant’s murder had meant there was no guardian of this Realm, no guarantee of safety. Asinastra had used that. Poison would never know how she got to him, but she had. With the patience of the spiders that she ruled, she’d lain in wait until the moment came to strike. By the time Asinastra had visited Poison in Fleet’s study, Aelthar had already died. No wonder the Spider Lady was in the mood to be merciful; she had already dealt with the one she truly blamed for the theft.
Poison fought to process what this might mean, how she should react. Everything had shifted now, with Aelthar dead. Suddenly, the state of play was radically different; so different that Poison found herself floundering, trying to decide what to do next.
Her decision was made for her. She heard a voice outside the door. Scriddle.
Sudden, irrational panic seized her. If he caught her in here, with his master dead and nobody else in the room, what would he think? What would he do? A part of her wanted to stand there and face him, to confront him with what Asinastra had done; but that part – her courage – had exhausted itself already in making the choice between her sister and the fate of humanity . . . and all for nothing, it seemed, for now the point was moot.
She fled. Aelthar’s chambers comprised several rooms, and she chose a doorway at random and ran. She was not a second too soon, for at that moment the double doors that led on to the corridor flung open.
“I don’t care who is in there with him, this is urgent. Filthy trolls, clamouring around the door like beggars.”
The doors slammed shut. Poison, wild-eyed, found herself in a small antechamber with another settee, cupboards, and a table. A tall set of windows looked out over the storm-blitzed mountainside, and long, velvet curtains hung down at either side. There were no other doorways except the one through which she had come. Clutching at the only hope of concealment she had, she slipped behind the curtains, enfolding herself in their vermilion embrace.
“My Lord Aelthar, forgive this intrusion, but it was important that the Lady and I spoke with you,” Scriddle was saying, haste making his voice snippy. “Matters have become considerably more urgent, as you know, and I . . . we . . . must respectfully suggest that we move the date of my succession to . . . my Lord?”
Poison felt the awful inevitability of what was to follow.
“My Lord? Why are you sitting in shadow? My Lord?”
She heard a long silence.
He is dead, came a voice like the rustling of trees on a summer’s day, and she knew it must be the Lady Pariasa.
“Dead?” Scriddle hissed. “Dead? He can’t be dead! Not now! Not now!”
His voice was rising in pitch as he spoke, buoyed by purest anger and frustration.
And yet he is, replied Pariasa. Alas, our plans are undone.
“No!” Scriddle fairly screamed through gritted teeth.
They will hear you, Pariasa pointed out. Poison assumed she meant the men outside. You should compose yourself, before we tell them.
“Tell them? Tell them? No! No, not yet. Where is that girl? They said she was in here!”
Poison heard a thump of footsteps – only Scriddle’s, for Pariasa glided like air – going from room to room. She thought of making a break for the doors, but she didn’t dare; and in the moment of indecision they were back and then the two of them came through the doorway and into the antechamber with her. Poison felt her heart stop in sympathy with her breathing. The two of them stood just a few feet away from where she was concealed, separated only by the thickness of the curtain. Thunder boomed distantly, followed by a long, flickering flash of brightness.
What are you doing, my love? she said softly. Her voice was frail and ethereal, gentle and resonant. How could a thing of such beauty be a murderess? She is not here.
“Then where is she? How did she. . . How did she. . .” he trailed off, almost choking on his rage.
She is dangerous, came the reply. We all knew that. Aelthar thought he could get rid of her, buy her with her sister. To keep her ignorant and out of our way. It seems he was mistaken.
Poison could barely credit what she was hearing. Dangerous? Her? How? Had Aelthar really feared her that much? He had offered to let her go home, to stay out of his way. Why?
“I must think,” Scriddle replied hurriedly. “I must think. Once word is out that Aelthar is dead, the other Lords. . . Our lives will be at risk. I have been put forward as Hierophant; you are accused of murdering the last one. Do you suppose we can walk out past a dozen trolls, past Grugaroth, if he thinks Aelthar is dead? He’d be liable to smash his way in here just to get back his cursed half-brother’s sword if he thought he had half a chance.”
Without Aelthar, you cannot succeed in your bid to be Hierophant, Pariasa said evenly. We must flee, my love. Let us leave while we can. We can be gone before they find him.
“Leave?” Scriddle cried. “Leave for where? For what?”
I am still Lady of the Aeriads, Pariasa said. Come back to the Realm of Phaerie with me.
“And be what? Your consort? I am half-human, Pariasa! Half of my blood has that vile taint of humanity. I can never hold an office of any power in the Realm of Phaerie! The only reason I was spawned was to be Hierophant! That’s why we made our plans, remember? That’s why I took that dagger from that stupid human girl; that’s why you put it in old Melcheron’s back. Aelthar didn’t have to know; everyone would have blamed that spider bitch! If not for that accursed girl, it would all be going to plan.”
But all that is over, came the calm reply. For Aelthar is dead.
“I refuse to be beaten by a human!” he hissed.
She is not just a human, said Pariasa. We know that now, even if she does not.
At that moment, a terrible thunderclap battered the room, making the panes of the windows shudder. Poison started, her nerves already wound taut. And though she made no noise, the slight movement was enough. The curtain was thrown back, and she stood revealed before the murderous gaze of Scriddle, his expression as dark as the clouds that rolled overhead. There was a moment of hesitation, then she bolted for the doorway. She had barely moved an inch before Scriddle had caught her by the throat and slammed her against the wall, pinning her there, choking. His sharp teeth showed in a snarl; his round glasses were awry on his pointed nose. Pariasa watched them expressionlessly.
“You,” Scriddle breathed, with unfathomable malice in his voice. “You did this. You’ve ruined everything.”
Poison struggled against his grip, but it was like steel, cutting off her air inexorably. “Shouldn’t . . . have taken . . . my sister,” she croaked defiantly.
Scriddle gave a cry of anger and flung Poison against the other wall. The world seemed to go white for an instant as she hit, and then pain returned with reinforcements. She lay collapsed against the side of a desk. Something had broken inside her; a rib. She felt it sawing as she stirred. The agony was unbelievable.
“Your sister?” he cried in disbelief. “You stupid, misguided human fool! We gave your sister back long before you ever turned up
to plague us!”
Poison’s eyes were empty with incomprehension as she stared at him, her face tight with shock.
“She was unsuitable,” Scriddle sneered, stepping closer. “By the time she reached adolescence, it was clear that she didn’t have the qualities Aelthar needed for his breeding programme. He sent her back. The Scarecrow dumped her in the midst of your foul realm with no memory of what had happened, and we left her to make her own way home. Are you satisfied now? We don’t have your sister! Aelthar was lying to you!”
It was too much, too much to take in at one time; but the force of comprehension was relentless, battering her even through the dizzying blaze of her broken rib. The phaeries had given her back. All this time, all this searching and fighting and heartache, and they had already given Azalea back?
Then it hit her. Like a jigsaw piece snapping into place, she remembered where she had seen the girl that Aelthar had shown her in the apparition.
It was the same girl that she met in Shieldtown, the traveller who was going to Gull. The girl she had given the message to, to pass on to her parents. No wonder she looked so strange, so haunted and travel-worn. Amnesiac, she had somehow managed to find her way back to her home town. Poison had never asked her her name; that was the greatest irony of all. For if she had done, the girl would have replied: Azalea.
A single question, and her journey would have been complete without ever leaving her own Realm. No Lamprey, no Bone Witch, no Phaerie Lord or Hierophant. If the coin had fallen the other way, if she had thought to ask, if she had only thought to ask! Or if only Azalea had recognized her, remembered her elder sister, even though she had last seen her twelve years before when she was an infant. Or even if Azalea had asked why Poison was sending a message to Hew and Snapdragon, instead of giving her that bland, incurious stare. Did Azalea know then that they were her parents? Would she have said anything if she did?
But how could Poison have guessed, how could either of them have guessed, when neither could have imagined then that while one week had passed in the Realm of Man since Azalea was stolen away from her crib, twelve years had gone by in the Realm of Phaerie, and in that time Azalea had grown up and then been discarded.
On her quest to save her sister, she had met her along the way and not known it.
She tried to take a breath to scream, partly to bring Grugaroth and his trolls running, mostly to vent her inconsolable grief and rage at the injustice of it all; but she could draw no air, it seemed, and her throat could barely make a sound after being crushed in Scriddle’s fingers. Scriddle loomed over her, his face red with rage and sweating. There was a knife in his hand, a long, curving knife with a wicked blade. Poison was too swamped in pain and sorrow to feel anything else; she regarded it dispassionately, for there was no room for fear in her.
My love, Pariasa said, appearing at his shoulder in a silent swirl of silver and gold. You must not.
“Why not?” Scriddle hissed. “You think I’ll let her live, after what she’s done to us?”
You have to, Pariasa said. Remember the book?
“You’ve got . . . Melcheron’s book?” Poison whispered hoarsely. Of course. They might have searched Aelthar and Pariasa’s rooms, but not Scriddle’s.
“Be silent!” Scriddle cried, pointing down at her with his knife.
You must not kill her, Pariasa begged him. It would be bad for all of us.
Poison fought to clear the fog in her head. This was important. There was something happening here that she did not yet understand, and her life depended on figuring it out. Why was it that they thought she was dangerous? Why not kill her and be done with it? And what did it have to do with Melcheron’s book?
“Why not kill her?” Scriddle hissed, echoing her own thoughts. He cupped her chin in his free hand and lifted her up, so that she was standing against the wall. The movement made the broken rib jolt and jar, and she almost passed out. She would not have believed that pain could reach that level of intensity. Surely she must die of it; and yet she lived. “Why not kill her?” Scriddle said again, his face inches from hers. “After all, the last one died without much of a fuss.”
And there it was. The final clue had been afforded her. The last tumbler of the lock had been engaged, and the door to understanding swung open. Now she knew it all, from start to finish. Her tale had never been about rescuing her sister at all. That was just the spur to set her on the track. It all seemed so ridiculous, so simple, so unfair, that she could not stop herself from laughing. It was a low, bitter chuckle, and it hurt her, for even the slightest movement made her rib stab at her insides. Blood flecked her lips, and still she laughed.
Scriddle and Pariasa watched her in disbelief.
“Is it the way of your kind to laugh at death?” Scriddle asked.
“You can’t kill me,” Poison said, still caught in the grip of that agonizing mirth. “You can’t kill me. I’m the new Hierophant.”
She knows! Pariasa said. Scriddle glared at her, then back at Poison; but she saw on his face that she was right.
“It’s in that book, isn’t it?” she said, finding strength to speak, smiling through the tangle of her hair and the smears of red on her lips. “The book of Melcheron’s life. You knew what he was writing. He was writing the story of a new apprentice, one who hated phaeries, one who would become the bane of your kind and take back our Realm from you.” She laughed again. “All this . . . all this was a test. All this was my apprenticeship. That’s why he left me so many clues; that’s why he told me the truth, that this was all a phaerie tale. He wanted me to know, because one day I would be the one to write it.”
“This is idiocy!” Scriddle cried. “A phaerie tale? Are you mad now?”
But Poison was never more sure of anything in her life. “You stole the book so that nobody would know who murdered him, but when you read it, you found a name. My name.” Finally the laughter died, and she grew serious. “There’s an irony here, though. I never hated phaeries much until you took Azalea from me. You made me hate you. You turned me into what I am. Perhaps that was part of the tale. Perhaps he was moulding me as a successor.” She coughed and gave a bitter sneer. “And I will take the Hierophant’s quill and I will make your kind pay.”
“Not if I end your life right here,” Scriddle said, but uncertainty showed in his eyes.
“But you can’t,” she replied. “Don’t you see? This is my story. That’s why the Hierophant could die, but when I tried, everything unravelled. It’s the story of how I become the Hierophant. The tale can do without him; it can’t do without me. If you kill me, you kill yourself and everyone else. Until this tale is done, until I’m appointed Hierophant, I have to live.”
“Such nonsense you humans talk,” said Scriddle, and stabbed her.
Poison’s violet eyes went wide in surprise and disbelief. The knife had gone in low and to her side, beneath her ribs. She gaped, and blood trickled in runnels from the corner of her mouth. Her body had suddenly become numb and cold; she barely felt this new pain from the blade, for shock swamped it in ice.
He wrenched the knife free, and she juddered. A moistness was spreading across her hip and the outside of her thigh. She looked into Scriddle’s dark eyes, saw the glimmer of triumph therein. How could this be happening? She had been so sure, so sure. . .
Then Pariasa screamed. It was a high, fluting sound, terrible to the ear, for a voice so beautiful should never be distorted in fear or distress. Scriddle looked, and he saw too. The walls seemed to be thinning, becoming less solid than they once were. Pariasa’s eyes were fixed on her delicate hands, through which the structure of bonework beneath could nearly be seen. She staggered weakly, collapsing on to a settee. Poison shuddered in a breath. Even the air seemed fake, as if it was all dissolving into a dream.
Scriddle turned back to her, wild-eyed. “What is this? What are you doing?”
“I told
you,” she whispered, with a note of triumph in her voice. “You can’t kill me. This is my tale.”
My love, you must listen to her, Pariasa cried.
“No!” Scriddle shrieked, and he plunged the knife into Poison a second time. This one was deeper, and in her stomach. She whimpered at the impact, at the terrible piercing of the blade through her flesh. Once more the knife was pulled out, wet with her blood. She tottered, and would have fallen if Scriddle had not been holding her up, for he had grabbed her by the throat again. There was no strength left in her, nothing left to resist him with. A tear slid from one violet eye, dropping to the stone floor. She fancied that it might pass through, for the floor was so wan and faded now that it was almost ghostly, and would have been incapable of supporting them if they were not so ghostly too. Her vision glazed over, but she could still see how Scriddle’s hair was falling out in clumps, how his teeth had become loose, how the knuckles stood out on his knife hand. In the background, Pariasa was levering herself weakly to her feet.
Stop! she cried. You’re killing us!
But Scriddle had madness in his eye. “She will not beat us this way! She’s a human!”
“You’re . . . already beaten,” Poison said, managing a red smile. “Finish it. The last laugh will be mine.”
Scriddle howled in fury, and he raised his knife a third time to plunge it into her. But at that moment, Pariasa launched herself towards him, a knife of her own appearing in her slender hand, and with a cry she buried it in the side of Scriddle’s neck. The world seemed to shudder to a halt.
I want to live, she whispered.
Scriddle’s eyes went wide, and he struggled backwards, clutching at his throat. Poison slumped to the floor, no longer supported by his grip. He still kept his gaze fixed on her, as if it were she that had put the blade in him and not his lover. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a tide of blood that washed over his chin. Then his eyes rolled back in his head, and he toppled backwards, crashing through a dressing-table and bringing it down on top of him.