The Poison Throne

  The next spark caught the tinder, and Wynter bent her head and blew gently until the little pile of wood shavings blazed. She lit the candle with shaking hands, and lifted it over her head so as not to ruin her vision. The candle and the rapidly dying tinder-blaze threw a wavering circle of light.

  To her relief and anger the cat stood just a foot away, eyeing her with undisguised contempt.

  “Honestly,” it hissed, showing all its needle teeth. “Your species! So utterly dependant on its props.” It shook its head in disdain, and stalked into the darkness.

  Wynter gritted her teeth, packed her stuff away and stamped out the last of the mostly dead fire. Then, lifting the candle even higher, she followed the cat’s arrogantly twitching hindquarters to the top of the corridor.

  The two of them stood at the head of the steps, looking uncertainly down at the door of the torture chamber. The air in the stairwell seemed to writhe under the unsteady illumination of the candlelight.

  “I will await you here,” murmured the cat, unusually quietly. “Whatever business you have in The Black Room, it’s… it is no concern of mine.” And it sat stiffly down on the flagstones, its eyes glued to the shifting darkness at the foot of the steps.

  Thank you so much, thought Wynter, thank you so, so very much for all of your great help. Her feeble sarcasm warmed her not a jot as she descended the stairs.

  She heard the whispering as soon as she neared the closed door, and it stopped her dead. It seemed to fill the bottom of the stairwell as a living presence. It did not so much inhabit the air, as attempt to inhabit Wynter. Hissing and slipping through her skin, it filtered into her brain. It crawled underneath her clothes and ran itself along her ribs. It twisted under her skin, and slid, cold and stealthy, up her spine

  The memory of Christopher’s voice rose, bright and clear against the gurgling terror of the whispered litany… You ever seen an eye drawn from its socket?

  Wynter choked out a little sound and took a step back. She began to tremble and her wildly shaking candle spattered her upraised hand with gobs of hot wax.

  Every whispered word was clear and distinct, though the voice that spoke was clogged with pain and guttural with fear. It was the Midlanders’ prayer to their virgin. Wynter stood and listened to it, her eyes wide and staring. Fat drops of wax fell into her hair and spattered on her cheeks, as she tried to gather the courage to reach out and turn the handle.

  “Ave Maria,” implored the desperate voice, “gratia plena, Dominus tecum…” The words gained speed, as if afraid of being stopped, “… benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Jesu.” Surely no earthly person could speak so rapidly and so clearly. Wynter felt her head begin to spin. “Sancta Maria,” whispered the voice, its wretched pleading reaching new heights of despair “Mater Dei ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.” Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.

  There was no pause after the “amen”, no ghostly inhale. The voice just continued on into another driving round of prayer, launching once again into “Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum…” It rose in pitch and speed. Its desperation palpable “Benedicta tu in mulieribus…” it cried, as if the words themselves could save it, “… et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Jesu.”

  Christopher’s voice broke through again, calmly documenting this poor soul’s terrible last hours… Then they took hot pokers… have you ever smelled that? Hot metal on flesh?

  Wynter pressed her free hand to her ear and took another step backwards, shaking her head. She could not go in there. This was something she just could not face. Her heart was beating so rapidly that she felt in immediate danger of fainting. She couldn’t face the source of this terrified prayer. She couldn’t. She had not the nerve…

  “Child…”

  Wynter screamed and spun around, casting wax in a wide splattering arc. The candle guttered and darkened, and then flared to blessed life again as she stumbled back against the wall. Dark spots of fear and shock blossomed in her vision and she felt her legs begin to buckle for real. Terrified that she might be about to faint, she yelled out, to release the pent up horror from her chest and to clear the fear blossoms from her head.

  Rory stood on the steps beside her, his translucent face heavy with concern. Wynter held the candle out against him like a weapon. It took several seconds for her to get enough control to allow her to lower her violently shaking hand, and straighten from her terrified crouch against the wall.

  “Child,” he repeated, his voice far less distinct than that of the pitiful soul trapped behind the door. “You must hurry… the others…” he looked behind him, every movement slow and laborious. Rory was barely standing, he slouched in place, his head low. Wynter thought that, were he not a spirit, he would be slumping against the wall.

  She lifted her hand to him, moved by his terrible condition. The words, we cannot do this, were poised on her lips. But Rory turned wearily without looking at her, and waved a hand over the catch of the door. Wynter heard heavy mechanisms moving within the lock and the door swung open without a sound. Rory slipped into the darkness and, without a pause, almost against her own volition, Wynter followed.

  Rory stood just inside the door, gazing towards the chair, his face suffused with pained compassion. The frantic prayers had subsided to a crooning repetitive mantra “nunc et in hora mortis nostrae… nunc et in hora mortis nostrae…” The sighing whispers echoed around the room. Every inch of Wynter’s body was trembling and she could not bring herself to tear her eyes from Rory.

  “I must go now…” he murmured, glancing at her, his eyes soft. “Be kind to him. He’s had too much suffering and cannot leave it behind.” Suddenly Rory gasped and looked sharply ahead of him. “I must go,” he cried, turning quickly, his arm clutched round his waist. He jerked forwards into a jogging run towards the back of the room. “Don’t forget, little Moorehawke… fast and far… as soon as I tell you… run…” and Rory was gone, passing effortlessly through the far wall of the torture chamber.

  Wynter kept her eyes on the diminishing phosphorescence that marked the place of Rory’s passage. She watched it until it disappeared completely, then reluctantly turned her eyes to the whispering man.

  He was nothing but a cloudy shape at first. A starry manshape, clutched, spread-eagle, in the black arms of the chair. But as Wynter focused her attention on him, he grew in definition and detail so that she had to look away for fear of being sick.

  “Mary…?” he whispered. “Mary…?” Wynter thought he was still praying. Then she realised that he was turning his head from side to side, seeking her out. “Mary?” he whispered again and Wynter saw the black holes in his gums where the inquisitors had removed his teeth. He must have heard her unwilling footsteps on the gritty floor because he turned his eyeless sockets to her and followed her movement across the room as she approached him. “Mary… they have hurt me…”

  Wynter’s hand was shaking so badly that she was in danger of extinguishing the flame, so she set the candle on the corner of a table. It illuminated all the terrible array of instruments that had been used against this poor man and Wynter averted her eyes and clutched her hands together in horror and despair. Razi was here, she thought, Razi allowed this to happen. God help us.

  “MARY!” the spirit screamed suddenly, and Wynter leapt in shock. “MARY! Oh please… darling, don’t go…”

  Wynter couldn’t stand the awful despair in his voice and she stepped closer, her hand up as though she could somehow touch him and give him comfort. “I am here,” she lied. “It… it is all over now… you are… you…” she searched his tormented face and knew it was not over. Not for him. She dropped any pretence at being his Mary. “What is your name?” she asked softly.

  He turned his head to her, straining his neck against the leather straps that no longer held him in place. His words should have been blurred and distorted by his cruelly punished mouth, but they w
ere not. His voice was cultured and warm and thoroughly bereft of hope. “Mary…? Darling…? Am I so awful? Do you not know me?” His head lolled back, his mouth gaping in despair. “Oh release me,” he begged. “Oh, Mother of Jesus, hear me. Release me. Release me…” He began to pray again. Rolling his head from side to side in desperation, his empty eye sockets wells of glistening darkness. He arched suddenly against his invisible bonds and shrieked. The smell of fire and burning flesh flared to life in the close room and Wynter pressed her hands to her mouth and nose, and sobbed.

  Outside the walls a low wail began to sound and a barely perceptible vibration began to build in the soles of her boots. Wynter looked around in fear, but there was nothing to see. She was overcome with the understanding that she must be quick.

  “What is your name?” she asked again, but the spirit rolled its head and bucked, bloody tracks streaming down its tormented face, like tears. “What is your name?” insisted Wynter, unsure of why she needed to know. “Tell me and I will take a message to Mary!”

  “Mary!”

  “Yes! Tell me how. Tell me how to get a message to Mary. Where is she? Is she at the camp? Is she with his Royal Highness? At the camp?”

  “At the camp… aye… she is at the camp. She is with the others… Mary…”

  The vibration was all around them now, raising the hair on Wynter’s arms and on the back of her neck, buzzing against her eardrums and itching at the roots of her teeth. The wail outside the walls had begun to invade the room. Little runnels and sparks of phosphorescence outlined the stones of the walls.

  The spirit gasped and began to shake, its heels and the backs of its broken hands drumming the wood of the awful chair.

  Wynter forced her voice to stay soft. She did not want to sound like an inquisitor, though the urge to shout and grab and shake was almost uncontrollable.

  “Tell me where she is and I will ensure she gets your…”

  “She is in the camp…”

  “Which camp? There are so many… which camp is Mary in?”

  He tried to turn his face to her but he was jerking and shaking so violently now that the back of his head battered rhythmically against the chair. “Indirie Valley… in… Indirie Valley… with Oliver… with the Combermen… she… guhhhh.” His words were lost in a bubbling gurgle and his mouth overflowed with black and glistening blood. Wynter scurried backwards.

  The entire room was alive with phosphorescence now. It washed the walls in shimmering ghostly light. It spread greedy tendrils across the ceiling. The wail had become battle noise. Shouting, horses, there was the unmistakable sound of matchlocks firing, but so fast, unbelievably fast, that it resembled fireworks going off over the horizon.

  The ghost arched up against his non-existent bonds, curving like a longbow, his head and heels the only contact between himself and the black chair. “MARY! he shrieked. Tell… MARY!” Blood sprayed up from his lips with each word. The smell of blood and gunpowder, smoke and burning flesh was unbearable.

  Wynter snatched her candle from the table and staggered backwards, her hand clamped over her mouth. Indirie Valley, she repeated, Indirie Valley. Don’t forget…

  Rory Shearing ran through the wall at the back of the room. He stumbled towards her, clutching his belly, his face the picture of agony. His mouth was open in a silent yell and he flung his hand out to her. Go! GO!

  The glowing mist surged from the wall behind him, filling the chamber from floor to ceiling in an immutable swirling mass. It advanced across the room in a slow wave, bringing with it the stinging reek of gunpowder and the heavy, continuous firing of matchlocks. Rory stumbled ahead of it, but he was weak and uncoordinated and it caught him in its advancing tide and lifted him from the ground. His head fell back in a howl of agony, and his arms and legs flung helplessly out. Rory was spread-eagled against the shimmering surface, like a man floating on a river of pain. It drew him across itself, suffusing him with dancing green light. Then, as Wynter watched, it slowly tore Rory Shearing apart.

  “NO!” she screamed, “Rory!” But Rory was gone, destroyed by the glowing mass of advancing light, his despairing scream rapidly diminishing as the noise of battle grew louder.

  The light continued to creep forward. It moved sparking fingers across the black chair, finding the edges of the tortured man. He cried out in fear as green witch-light ran into his eye sockets and sparked across his lips. It lifted him from his prison and raised him into the air, and he turned his head to Wynter, as she continued to back away.

  “Tell her…” he wailed. “Tell Mary… tell her that Isaac stayed true. Tell her…” Then he, too, was drawn across the surface of the advancing tide and, screaming, torn slowly limb from limb.

  Wynter choked and stumbled, the backs of her legs hitting the steps as she fell over. The tide continued to advance upon her, and she turned and sped up the stairs on her hands and knees.

  Her candle guttered out, and Wynter scaled the rest of the steps in pitch darkness. She cleared the top like a salmon breasting a weir, missed her footing and crashed, sprawling, to the ground with a desperate yell. The breath was slammed from her and she grazed her chin and skinned her hands as she slid across the floor on her belly. Her feet were already scrabbling for purchase, her hands thrust out to feel her way in the dark. She got her legs under her, ran in a half-crouch for a yard or so and slammed face first into a wall. Bouncing back, stars and sparks filling her vision, Wynter staggered a few steps, then ran into the dark again.

  Green ghost-fire blossomed behind her, and her path sprang into view as the mass of phosphorescence rolled up the steps and advanced down the corridor. The battle noise swelled, the continuous fizzing pop of the matchlocks agitating the air.

  Wynter slipped and sprawled again, scampering on hands and knees for a few paces before getting her feet back under her. The corridor turned and she was in a narrow spiral stairwell in the pitch black, scrambling on all fours, climbing, climbing.

  Green light illuminated the staircase and Wynter’s way was clear. The steps were very steep. She clambered onwards, all the time on her hands and knees. Then the green light swelled, and Wynter cried out in breathless panic as she realised she wasn’t going to outrun it. It was coming around the corner! It was on her!

  A phosphorescent tendril wrapped around her ankle and Wynter’s leg went dead.

  She screamed and sprawled flat as her feet were pulled from under her. Her belly and chest slammed hard and painful into the sharp edge of the steps. The ghost-fire closed around her other leg and numbness shot up past her knees. Eyes bulging, mouth wide with terror, Wynter continued to haul herself desperately upwards, hand over hand. Her legs were dead and useless. She heard the toes of her boots bumping against the steps as she frantically pulled herself up the stairs.

  She was too terrified to look down, but she felt her waist go cold and numb. Her spine cramped suddenly and a jolt went through her belly as though someone had driven an icicle into the small of her back. She scrabbled fruitlessly against the stone steps but couldn’t pull herself any higher.

  No! No!, she thought desperately, I don’t want to die! Dad! Dad! Help me!

  Green sparks traced the contours of her outstretched hands and danced at her fingertips. Wynter felt her breasts scrape and catch painfully against the steps as she slid backwards into the humming, nettle-sting embrace of the phosphorus light.

  “DAAAAAAD!” she screamed.

  Then the light blinked off, the battle noise ceased, and Wynter was dumped, face down and panting, on the gritty steps. She cringed, waiting for the assault to continue, her breath a ragged whimper in her throat. But the world stayed silent, black and cold.

  Slowly, she turned her cheek against the stone, then lay perfectly still, her eyes open in the pitch black, listening. There was nothing. No ghost-light, no sound. The surge had run out of energy. Wynter had survived it after all.

  For a while she just lay there, staring into the dark, and waiting for her legs to come bac
k to life. Then she moved her fingers against the rough surface of the stone and was amazed to find the candle lying beside her. She closed her hand on it, taking reassurance in its warm solidity, and slowly she drew it to her, curling her arm inwards until she cradled it against her cheek. Her heartbeat gradually slowed. She tried to summon the energy to roll onto her side.

  Something moved on the steps above her and Wynter was too drained even to be frightened. She felt, rather than heard, a soft movement on the step by her face and she opened her eyes to stare, once more, into the darkness.

  “Cat?” she whispered.

  “Aye.” Its voice was more thready and shocked than any cat-voice Wynter had ever heard.

  “Are you… harmed?” she asked.

  The cat did not answer. Instead Wynter felt a warm rasping sensation on her face, not altogether pleasant, and she realised that the cat had licked her cheek. Then it butted its head in under her arm and squeezed itself into a tight, warm ball against her neck. Wynter curled her arm around it, and it fit its head up under her chin. It whimpered. They stayed like that for a while, pressed to each other, wordless and shaky, blinking sightlessly into the dark.

  Eventually, the life returned to Wynter’s legs, and she rose stiffly to her feet and began slowly to climb the stairs.

  The cat stuck close to her for the long winding journey out of the pit, and then it abandoned her in the hallway of the middle gallery. It just slid into the night without a word of goodbye, there one minute, gone the next, and Wynter was left to stagger the rest of the way home alone.

  Pretend

  Wynter woke to the clock tower bell sounding the hour.

  “RORY!” she thought, opening her eyes, and jerking from sleep with a start. She was sprawled face down on her bed, arms and legs akimbo, fully dressed and filthy.