The Poison Song

by Jen Williams

  ‘Have you? Is that the only reason why?’

  ‘You are changing the subject,’ said Hestillion. ‘We have to move. And I can’t do that by myself . . .’ Not yet, she added silently. ‘To move all the Behemoths, you must command it.’

  ‘We are busy,’ the queen said dismissively. ‘We are already beginning to see differences here, in this human’s mind. Look – there are so many, so many memories at his core.’ All the shards of crystal on the walls lit up, flickering with images. ‘And they are all different. Whereas we had one each, a single memory of each world, carried in the heart of us.’

  ‘You have nothing else?’ Despite her own concerns, Hestillion found herself struck by this thought. ‘Just those paintings of barren worlds?’

  ‘Eating. Changing. Moving. Those are our memories, and they are all much the same.’ Under the queen’s hands, Bern groaned again, and Hestillion looked back to the crystals. She could see Tor there now, little glimpses of him with his newly scarred face, laughing from the back of his war-beast or repairing a leather harness. The witch human was there too, small and unremarkable. To her shock she saw herself, a fearsome warrior riding a monstrous dragon, her face oddly blank, her red eyes bright with some unreadable emotion. She saw her cousin too, many images of her cousin, some of them . . .

  She blinked. ‘They are in love. That is your answer. That is why the memory is so strong – this human man desires my cousin.’ Her mouth twisted. ‘Not just affection or the bond between war-beast companions. The two of them were sleeping together.’

  ‘Sleeping?’

  Hestillion started to roll her eyes, and stopped herself. ‘Rutting. Whatever you want to call it. Some Eborans do take human lovers, a dirty little habit, of which my brother was especially fond, unfortunately.’ The thought of Tormalin brought all her previous worries back. ‘Think on what I’ve said, if you can spare the time.’

  She left the queen where she was, endlessly spooling the human’s memories onto shards of crystal, and made her way back outside. She summoned Celaphon, and together they flew up through the cavern into the daylight. It was an overcast day, and the Wild-touched forest seemed especially quiet. Although she knew Tormalin and his beast must be long gone, she looked around the clearing half expecting to see him there; his black hair loose over his shoulders, his familiar expression of mockery.

  ‘The human is back,’ said Celaphon into the silence. Hestillion frowned a little, annoyed at having her thoughts disrupted. ‘The man who is a weapon in my mind.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The queen has caught him.’

  The forest simmered in the heat. Hestillion cast her mind out to her circle, almost for comfort. They responded immediately, eager to hear her orders.

  ‘Will you free him again?’ asked Celaphon.

  ‘What? No.’ Hestillion scowled. ‘That idiot had his chance to live. If he and my brother are stupid enough to come here, after everything I have done, then that is their choice. The queen will pull his mind to pieces chasing after an answer she cannot possibly understand, and then his body will die, I expect. Humans are very weak.’

  Celaphon said nothing, but Hestillion could sense a certain reticence from him. She was about to ask him what he was thinking when something bright and out of character with the landscape caught her eye on the far side of the chasm. She urged the dragon to fly there, and then climbed down from the harness. It was a bright blue feather, as long as her forearm and undoubtedly from a war-beast. She remembered the griffin Sharrik as he had been when they held him within the corpse moon: angry, defiant, beautiful. He was a page out of history come to life. She looked back to Celaphon, with his mottled face and ungainly limbs, the odd starbursts of pale yellow, like mould, across his belly. He was as much Jure’lia as war-beast now, and no Eboran would ever paint a mural celebrating his victories. Still, history was changing all the time. That was the point of it.

  She threw the feather back down into the mud and went to her dragon.

  For Vintage, returning to Ebora was like descending into a pool of dread. She knew from her link to Helcate that something terrible had happened, but thanks to his limited abilities in that direction, she did not know what. However, the closer they got to the palace, the sharper the sense of grief became. She thought of their faces as the streets of Ebora passed below; Noon, Tor, Aldasair, Bern. A new family to her, a connection she had never known. Had she lost them already?

  Their flight from the west had been uneventful, without even a distant sighting of the Jure’lia to send them off their path in an effort to hide. Yet she had also spotted many signs that the worm people were active, streaks of varnish here and there like eldritch scars, abandoned settlements and groups of refugees on the roads. Chenlo and Okaar had both been quiet, picking up on her own subdued mood, and as the huge form of Ygseril came into sight, the assassin broke his silence for the first time in hours.

  ‘It is never not surprising, is it?’ he shouted from the back of his bat.

  As comforting as it was to see the tree-god’s branches still spread to the sky, and still covered with shimmering leaves, Vintage’s sense of dread only increased when they reached the palace. She dismounted and looked around at the people, and she saw many grim faces, men and women who looked like they weren’t getting enough sleep. It’s a time of war, she reminded herself, but when she spotted Aldasair and Jessen coming across the grass towards them, it was as if her bones turned to water. The young Eboran man looked stricken, his handsome face pale and drawn, as though he had aged overnight, and Jessen walked with her nose to the ground.

  ‘Sarn’s bones, what is it?’ She went to him and took his hand. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Vintage.’ He squeezed her fingers. ‘There’s a lot to tell you, I’m afraid.’

  It did not take so long to tell in the end. Afterwards, Vintage went to her rooms, her arms full of scrolls – she wanted to examine for herself this evidence that Tor had thought he had found – which she dumped onto the bed, unread. She unpinned her hair and dragged out a case of wine bottles that Tor hadn’t managed to find, and poured a glass, which she drank in one slow movement, her chin tipped back and tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

  It was Noon she kept returning to. What had happened to her? Nothing that Aldasair told her made any sense. She had never heard of a fell-witch blowing themselves up, and even if she had, Vostok surely would have been injured too, or even covered in pieces of . . .

  She sat heavily on the bed, empty glass cradled in her hands.

  ‘Oh Noon, my darling.’

  Noon dead, Bern missing, Tor broken. Vostok out looking for her bonded companion, and Hestillion directing the Jure’lia. She thought of when she and Tor had first seen Noon, when she had been a bedraggled figure in the Shroom Flats, with no proper shoes and no idea what she was doing. Suddenly, with a fierceness that surprised her, she wished that she could go back there – take that lost girl and her ridiculous Eboran friend and hide them away somewhere, instead of getting them embroiled in all this nonsense. The world would have to learn to look after itself.

  There was a hesitant knock at her door. Vintage rubbed a hand quickly across her face.

  ‘Come in, please.’

  It was Chenlo. She had worn her old Winnowry travelling clothes back, but had since changed into the red silk shirt again, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She hung by the doorway, the thick braid of her hair falling over one shoulder.

  ‘Are you well?’

  Vintage stood up and went back to the small table, where she found another glass. ‘I’m not sure I know what well means anymore. Will you have a glass of wine with me?’

  ‘Many things have changed since we left,’ said Chenlo. She came over to the table, her gaze moving quickly around the room. Vintage felt a brief moment of embarrassment – she had never been a tidy person – and then filed it away as unimportant. Let Agent Chenlo think whatever she liked. ‘I have s
poken to the fell-witches who are still here. Some of them, after the Lady Noon vanished, decided to go away. I don’t know where. They saw her as a leader, and now –’

  Vintage poured two fresh glasses of wine, and passed one to Chenlo.

  ‘We still need them,’ she said simply. ‘We need them even more now, if that’s possible.’

  Chenlo frowned. ‘I’m not sure you have them. Your friend Aldasair is adamant that we should be heading towards the place they’ve found, and only the war-beast keeps him from leaving, I think.’ She took a sip of her wine, barely touching her lips to the liquid. ‘At least Okaar doesn’t seem to have caused the stir you thought he would.’

  ‘That is true.’ The assassin had been given his own room quickly and quietly, far from the Hatchery and the courtyard frequented by the war-beasts. ‘Aldasair has nothing in his head but saving Bern, and Jessen follows him.’

  Chenlo was quiet for a moment. ‘The Lady Noon was important to the fell-witches because she freed them. Because she told them their lives were their own. She is important to you for different reasons.’

  ‘She was my friend. Is my friend. You don’t have those in the Winnowry, I suppose?’ Vintage felt a stab of guilt at the wince that pursed the corner of Chenlo’s mouth. ‘When I found her, I thought she would be useful. Her winnowfire was an extraordinary weapon against the parasite spirits, even though she didn’t really know how to control it, not then. I offered her safety, someone to watch her back.’ She took a big swallow of wine. ‘And how safe did she turn out to be? Sarn’s bastard bones, I should have kept a closer eye on her, I should have been there . . .’ She clamped her mouth down on the words, suddenly sure she was going to cry, and she very much did not want to do that.

  ‘You cannot always watch the backs of friends,’ said Chenlo carefully. ‘You cannot protect them from all things. Even in the Winnowry, there were women who were under my care, who I could not always save. It’s a hard truth. Possibly the hardest. And the more we care, the more painful it is.’

  Vintage looked up at the woman, uncertain what to say, but Agent Chenlo was already excusing herself. She left her glass of wine on the side, still mostly full.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Tor and the two war-beasts arrived back late the next day. All three of them looked ragged and exhausted, Tor especially so. Vintage elbowed her way through the small crowd that had gathered and grabbed a hold of him as he clambered down from Kirune’s harness.

  ‘What did you do?’ she said fiercely, before wrapping her arms around him and squeezing him as tightly as she could. ‘You idiot.’

  ‘Do you mind? You’re creasing my shirt.’ But he wrapped one arm around her and squeezed her back anyway. ‘Did you hear about Noon?’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked up at him, searching his careworn face. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his normally luminous skin was dull. ‘My darling, come inside.’

  Before she could get him into the palace, Aldasair appeared with Jessen at his heels. The young Eboran had a face like thunder, and Vintage found herself jumping between the two.

  ‘What happened?’ demanded Aldasair. ‘Why did you leave him?’

  ‘Now, we all need a rest before anyone starts saying things they might regret, so let’s –’

  Tor stepped neatly around her. He took hold of his cousin by his arms. ‘Forgive me, Al. She took him, the queen, and I couldn’t get to him in time. We were swarmed and –’

  ‘He is right,’ said Sharrik, his voice uncharacteristically soft. ‘We would have all died if we’d stayed. The creature that is the queen wants him for something. Bern is not dead, brother Aldasair.’

  ‘We have to go back for him,’ said Aldasair. ‘Now that we’re all back, we have to go. Now.’

  ‘We do, and we will,’ said Vintage. ‘Now let’s get indoors and figure out exactly how we’re going to do that.’

  Aldasair nodded, although his need to be gone already was plain in the lines of his face. He stepped stiffly aside and they made their way back to the gates, but Tor stumbled awkwardly, going to his knees. Vintage went to him but he seemed unable to get up.

  ‘Whatever is the matter, darling?’

  ‘I’m just tired, that’s all. Kirune?’ The big cat came alongside him, growling faintly in the back of his throat, and Tor managed to pull himself to his feet by clinging to Kirune’s shoulder. ‘It was a long journey, and we didn’t stop to rest.’

  ‘Aldasair darling, I think we’d be better off if we let Tor sleep for a spell, he’s clearly on his last legs.’

  ‘No.’ There were two points of pinkish colour, high on Aldasair’s cheeks. ‘Bern is suffering, and we can’t wait. We’ll talk about this now.’

  In the end they talked about it all night, ensconced together in the war-beasts’ courtyard. Tor spent it sitting, his long legs stretched out in front of him, and despite the warm night he did not remove his cloak. Chenlo joined them, her face solemn. When all the news was recounted and all the fresh information shaken out, Vintage found herself sitting cross-legged on the flagstones, Helcate curled up next to her. Tor and Aldasair were talking about the journey to the cavern, about how to get there quickly, and Kirune was comforting Sharrik in a low voice she couldn’t quite make out.

  ‘Eggs,’ she said eventually, breaking into their talk. They all stopped and looked at her. Chenlo raised her eyebrows.

  ‘We sent for food already, Vintage, and ate it.’ Tor had eaten enthusiastically, but she still didn’t like the pallor of his skin. ‘If you’re still hungry . . .’

  ‘Eggs in the cavern. The Jure’lia eggs. This is why they’re here. This is what I’ve been looking for all these years, do you see?’ She laughed to herself, and shook her head. ‘I could never figure it out. Why come here over and over, to be driven back, again and again? Why not give up, or go somewhere else? Because they can’t. They’ve already laid their eggs, and now they must make this place work, regardless of the local hostility. They must make Sarn their nest, because once the eggs have been laid, they cannot move them.’

  ‘I’m glad for you, Vintage,’ Tor ran a hand over his face quickly, ‘I really am. But we have more urgent problems than the motives of the worm people.’

  ‘I’m not sure that we do.’ Seeing Aldasair open his mouth in protest, she held her hand up. ‘I know, dear, of course I know, but listen to me. What is most precious to any living being that can procreate, that wants to procreate? Its offspring. My darlings, we know where they are, and we know what is most precious to them. We can deal them the most devastating blow. We can remove their very reason for being here.’

  Silence fell briefly on the courtyard.

  ‘The egg field was vast,’ said Tor eventually. ‘How would we even begin to do something like that? If we had Vostok, perhaps, we might have a chance, but no one knows where she is. Without her, without Noon . . .’ An expression of pain passed over his face that Vintage was quite sure he was unaware of. ‘Without the two of them, our firepower is greatly reduced.’

  ‘Actually, it has recently been given something of a revival.’ She glanced at Chenlo, who was watching her warily. ‘Heartbright. We found a drug in Jarlsbad that increases the destructive abilities of winnowfire tenfold. Tor, I have seen it destroy moon-metal. The stuff is bloody explosive.’

  ‘You assume that you will have fell-witches to use it,’ said Chenlo quietly.

  ‘We have fell-witches here,’ said Vintage. ‘And, forgive me for saying it, they owe us.’

  ‘If they owe any debt, it is to the Lady Noon,’ Chenlo uncrossed her arms. ‘And even then, I’m not sure exactly what she gave them, aside from homelessness and an uncertain future.’

  Tor sat up. ‘She gave them freedom, witch.’

  ‘Us, Noon, it doesn’t matter.’ Vintage stood up, suddenly impatient with them all. ‘Those women are not stupid. However uncertain their futures might be, I am quite sure they understand that a future with the Jure’lia in it is the worst of all outcomes
. They will fly with us. They will fight with us. I know it.’

  ‘And what of Bern?’ Aldasair stepped forward, his face set into a stubborn expression that looked unfamiliar on him. ‘In the midst of your great plan, what of Bern?’

  Vintage went to him and took his arm, looking up into his crimson eyes. ‘We will not leave without him. What better distraction than the destruction of their great horde of offspring? Between us we will find him, and get him out. Remember, Bern himself is probably the safest any of us would be in that situation. His link to them will protect him to some extent, my darling, and our connection to him will keep us together.’

  Some of the stubbornness in his face softened. ‘I cannot lose him, Vintage. I won’t.’ He turned to Chenlo. ‘You will talk to the fell-witches, and see which of them will help us. I will go to the kitchens and the tents, see what supplies I can get together for this journey. We’ll be travelling light, and, if at all possible, before sunset.’

  He left immediately, striding purposefully from the courtyard, and Vintage watched him go, wondering what had happened to the quiet, meek young man she had first met in the Hatchery.

  ‘Sunset?’ Tor rubbed a hand over his face. ‘What time is it? Surely he means sunset tomorrow? The day after tomorrow?’

  Vintage held out a hand and he took it before levering himself to his feet. The sky above them was still dark, but it had taken on the tell-tale ghostly hue that hinted that dawn was not far off.

  ‘You, get to bed. I’ll come and wake you myself when it looks like you might have to get dressed.’

  When she’d chased him from the courtyard and the war-beasts had left to find their own roosting places in the grounds of the palace, Vintage turned to find Chenlo watching her. In the pre-dawn shadows, the tattoo around the woman’s neck looked dark and strangely alive.

  ‘It’s not right to ask this of them,’ she said. Vintage didn’t have to ask who she was talking about. ‘They’ve suffered, they’ve been tortured, they have only just found what it means to be alive, and you ask them to risk dying. When the woman who freed them isn’t even here to lead them.’