The Poison Song

by Jen Williams

  She came to the part of the garden that was still reasonably tidy, and there he was: a tall, still figure, black hair loose across his shoulders. Her heart lightened at the sight of him even as she felt a sharp stab of annoyance.

  ‘I’m beginning to feel like you’re avoiding me.’

  She saw his shoulders jerk as she surprised him, and a moment later he turned, smiling faintly.

  ‘It’s so noisy at the palace. I almost miss the days when everyone there was dead.’ He gestured around at the garden. ‘I wanted some peace and quiet.’

  ‘Peace and quiet? You?’ But she went over to him, and for a while stood next to him in silence, looking down at the place they had cleared for Eri’s grave. As soon as they could, she and Vintage, along with Helcate and Vostok, had gone back to the foothills of the Bloodless Mountains to find the boy’s remains. It had taken a while – it turned out that one slope covered in stones and scrubby grass looked very much like any other – but Helcate at least had had a very powerful memory of where Celaphon had attacked them both, so he had led them. Weather and the interest of small animals had reduced Eri’s body to a sad pile of bones and ragged clothes, scattered and painfully hard to look at.

  ‘When we found him, I thought –’ Noon cleared her throat, suddenly embarrassed.

  ‘You thought what?’

  ‘That there was something magical about him, or about the place where he was. The snow had all gone by then, and it was a bare, miserable place, but Helcate was so sure he was around there somewhere. Then, I saw glinting lights by the ground, a haze of shimmering red stars. And I thought, oh, of course – when Eborans die, they turn into lights or something like that. It made sense to me, for a second, because you were always so magical and mysterious to us all, when I was a child.’ She pushed her hair out of her face. ‘But it was the armour he had. Do you remember? A kind of jacket made of copper and rubies. It was twisted and broken in the mud, but the rain had washed it, and then the sun lit it up. That’s what I could see. Just reflections.’

  Tor said nothing.

  ‘His bones were there, so we gathered them up and brought them home.’ She wanted to say more, about how she had wrapped them in cloth, so carefully, trying not to think about the bucket the boy had had once, the bucket that had contained his father’s bones, yellowed and polished. They had buried him here, near his parents, in the garden that he had tended for so many decades, and Aldasair had chosen a small marble sculpture from the Eboran archive, which they had placed out here by his grave. It came up to Noon’s hip, and it depicted a whirl of falling leaves, artfully carved so that they looked weightless and free, caught in a gust of wind. In the middle of the leaves was a laughing Eboran boy, one hand lifted to catch the leaves that were moving too fast for him. ‘I know that Helcate still comes out here all the time. Tor, what are you doing here? Really? We’ve barely seen you all week.’

  ‘He was my friend too, however briefly.’

  ‘The plains folk are going to have a festival,’ she said. ‘It’s a new one. With the full moon tomorrow, they want to celebrate the fact that the true moon is finally alone in the sky. They’re going to do it every year from now on, apparently, as the summer ends. And they want us all to be there, so they can, I don’t know, honour us, I suppose. There will be food and a lot of drink,’ she added hopefully. ‘Although I recommend steering clear of the stonefeet. It’s made from mare’s milk.’

  For the first time since he had seen her arrive, Tor turned and looked at her. She was struck again by the hollow places on his cheeks, and the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. More than once since the Jure’lia cavern she had offered him her own blood, but he had refused.

  ‘You should go,’ he said. ‘Throw yourself in with them, get to know your people again.’

  ‘What?’ Noon grimaced. ‘Blood and fire, why would I do that? I’m still half a monster to them, you know that.’

  ‘No, you’re a hero to them, just as you are to the fell-witches. You need to get over these ideas, Noon, let go of that past. It’s not you anymore. If the Ninth Rain has really ended, don’t you need to reconnect with your people?’ He paused, then shrugged, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. ‘What about when you want to settle down? There will be young men falling over themselves to wed the hero of Sarn now.’

  Noon turned on him, a hot prickle of horror moving down her back. ‘Wed? What the fuck are you talking about? What the fuck do you mean, settle down?’

  He shrugged, completely unmoved by her sudden rage. ‘I’m just being realistic, Noon.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ Her throat felt thick suddenly, as though her anger and confusion were bile rising up from her stomach. ‘What is it you’re not telling me?’

  ‘Noon –’ To her surprise, he touched her hair, smoothing his hand along her cheek. He looked so sad, so lost, that in one cold moment all her anger turned to fear. ‘How I feel about you is real, I promise you that. I didn’t lie when I said . . . what I said.’

  ‘Then what are you keeping from me?’

  Somewhere nearby, a bird was making a racket in the trees, chasing off a predator perhaps. The heat of the day was a weight, making it harder to move or speak. Noon felt like she was an insect, trapped in a jar; too warm, with a doom surrounding her that was so large she couldn’t see it. Tor dropped his hand.

  ‘What are you keeping from me?’ The flippancy was back in his voice, although it didn’t ring true. ‘I know there is more behind your time with She Who Laughs than you are telling. Vintage is just thrilled to hear the details, hungry for any knowledge on a god from another world, but she’s too excited to see the gaps in your story.’

  Noon stepped away from him. The last thing she wanted to think about was She Who Laughs, or the memories she had forced her to recover. They still felt dangerous to her, a nest of snakes that mustn’t be touched. That and the new power that lay dormant inside her.

  ‘You don’t want to talk to me about whatever it is that has you brooding about like a figure in a painting, that’s fine.’ She stomped away across the garden, leaving him standing by Eri’s grave. ‘But don’t accuse me of your tricks.’

  Later, as the sun sank from the sky and the heat drained away, Noon sought out Vostok. The dragon had sprawled herself on part of the palace roof, looking out across the city like a terrifyingly lifelike statue. When Noon called up to her, she lowered her tail down the side of the building into the courtyard, allowing Noon to climb up onto the roof next to her. The tiles still retained a little of the warmth of the day, and thanks to the slight hill the palace sat on, it was possible to see a portion of the newly busy city. Every day, as word spread of the defeat of the Jure’lia, more people came, and lights from multiple campfires burned fierce in the gathering dark. Noon could hear a faint murmur, the sound of lots of people nearby talking and living their lives.

  ‘Bright weapon.’ Vostok shifted on the roof, giving Noon room to come and sit curled by her forearm. ‘It is not easy for me to tell when something is wrong. Human emotions are strange, fast things, like fish in a river. And since the fiery one took you, that has been even harder.’ The dragon bent her head round to better look at Noon. ‘But this I do feel. Something new. A barb in your flesh.’

  Noon pressed her hand against Vostok’s scales, taking comfort in the presence of the war-beast. ‘You told me once that Tor was unreliable. That it was the nature of relationships between humans and Eborans to be, I don’t know, short-lived.’

  ‘I see.’ So close to each other, it was difficult for Noon not to feel the press of Vostok’s emotions. Pity, sorrow, a certain amount of satisfaction. ‘It is because you, yourself, are short-lived. That’s not his fault, bright weapon. It’s simply his nature.’

  ‘Well he’s chosen a weird time to feel that way. Sarn is peaceful, and it looks like we might no longer be in danger of dying in a variety of horrible ways, and now he’s started disappearing, avoiding talking to us, finding reasons to be al
one.’ The impulse to keep talking was strong – to tell Vostok that it was the thought of her, Vintage and Tor that had stopped her from stepping into her own abyss when She Who Laughs had forced her to look again at her own terrible past. That she longed for Tor in ways she didn’t entirely understand, in ways that almost shamed her. For so long her people had feared and hated Eborans, and here she was, in love with one. But instead she leaned against Vostok’s shoulder.

  ‘What happens to you?’ she asked softly. ‘If the Ninth Rain really is over, what happens to the war-beasts? I’ve never heard anyone talk about it.’

  Vostok chuckled. ‘We remain, in peace, for a while. In the past we have helped to rebuild cities and towns, moved supplies to those places that needed it. And then eventually, when we have no more tasks, we lay down to sleep, our souls returning to the roots of the tree-father, until a time when we might be needed again.’

  ‘Lay down to sleep?’ Noon sat up and looked at Vostok. ‘What does that mean? You mean you just decide to die?’

  ‘Bright weapon, there is no need to take that tone. You forget, that for us to die means something quite different. There is no mystery or ending for us, just a period of waiting. Eventually there will be another time, another form to take.’

  ‘But . . .’ Noon reached up to curl her arm around Vostok’s neck. ‘I don’t want you to go anywhere. And what if the worm people really are gone, forever? Does that mean the tree-god won’t grow any new pods, ever again?’

  Vostok shifted against the tiles, and Noon knew with a sudden sinking certainty that the proud war-beast hadn’t considered such a possibility. Nevertheless, when she spoke again her voice was measured and unconcerned.

  ‘Then we will have lived in glory, and died in victory.’

  ‘Bollocks to that,’ said Noon. ‘Bollocks to all this death and glory stuff. I will think of tasks for you. So many tasks you’ll have to stay until I’m old and grey, at least.’ Her arm still awkwardly slung over the dragon’s neck, she did her best to pull Vostok to her. ‘If Sarn doesn’t need you anymore, I still will.’

  Chapter Forty-four

  The sweet fluting sound of a horn cut through the air.

  Vintage put down the journal she had been studying – more of Micanal’s personal writings, all the more fascinating since they had learned his fate – and turned curiously to the window. The single note was followed by a series of more frantic calls, and she felt a flicker of alarm move through the connection she shared with Helcate. Something was happening. She left the chamber and quickly made her way to the palace grounds, where Kirune, Tor, Noon and Aldasair were already waiting, their eyes on the sky. Next to them one of the Finneral guards was standing, one hand held over his eyes even as the last light faded from the day. In his other he clutched an elegant horn, carved all over with the complex geometric shapes of the Finneral written language.

  ‘What is it?’ She glanced at the others. Noon was frowning, her forehead wrinkled so that the bat-wing tattoo became a confused smudge. ‘Anyone care to enlighten me? Are the worm people about to vomit on us from above?’

  The Finneral guard raised the hand with the horn and pointed with it. ‘We’ve something flying over the city, Lady Vintage, but it’s all over the place. We’re not sure what it is.’

  There was, Vintage saw, a bright pale dot flying over the outskirts of the city. It wove back and forth, like a drunkard trying to find the bits of the street that weren’t moving, yet it was growing closer all the time. Whatever it was, it was trying to head towards the palace.

  Vintage pulled the spying glass from her belt and held it up to her eye, twisting and untwisting the lenses until the thing came into focus. It was still difficult to see, because it was moving too much, but even so, there was no mistaking it.

  ‘It’s Queen Tyranny,’ she said flatly. ‘Or at least, that’s Windfall, and she has someone on her back, but she looks injured.’

  ‘Tyranny?’ Tor looked at her. ‘The woman who stole our war-beast?’

  ‘Our sister comes home,’ added Kirune.

  ‘Should we . . . go up and help her?’ asked Noon.

  Vintage pressed her lips together and shrugged. ‘Darling, she stole from us, tried to have me and Eri killed, stole an entire kingdom, tried to feed me and Chenlo to some Wild-touched cats, and kept a war-beast from her destiny. If she’s going to fall, let her.’ Vintage turned to the guard. ‘Go and find Okaar, if you can. Let him know what’s about to take a big shit on our doorstep.’ Catching Noon’s look, she shook her head slightly. ‘Noon darling, it would be dangerous anyway. Windfall possesses an extraordinarily powerful ice beam, and we are certainly not her friends. We should wait and see what happens.’

  They watched the pale dot grow closer, watched as it resolved into a giant white bat. Vintage still couldn’t quite make out the figure riding in the harness, partly because the angle was wrong and partly because whoever it was had slumped forward, their face obscured by the bulk of the war-beast’s head. The creature was over the edges of the palace gardens when it started to drop, falling out of control before a few flaps of its enormous wings bore it briefly up again.

  ‘Fire and blood,’ muttered Noon. ‘What’s the matter with it?’

  The bat made it to the outer garden and then dropped a final time, crashing down behind the treeline. Without discussing it, Vintage and the others ran forward.

  ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘Here,’ Tor was in the lead, his sword held loosely in one hand, ‘I can see it through the trees.’

  ‘Be careful.’ Vintage touched her belt, missing her crossbow once again. ‘Remember, this one is dangerous.’

  However, as they emerged into a small clearing, littered with freshly broken branches, Vintage had to admit that Windfall did not look especially dangerous. The great white bat was pressed to the ground, her wings spread out as though she could not cope with her own weight, and her huge blocky head was bowed. On her back, a woman was trying to untie herself from the harness. She managed it just before they reached her, and Tyranny fell awkwardly into the long grass.

  Despite all her words of anger and caution, Vintage found herself going over to the woman.

  ‘Tyranny? What’s happened? What are you doing here?’

  The young woman raised her head. The fine jewellery and robes were gone, and instead she was dressed in a sweat-stained vest and patched trousers. All the hectic colour had left her cheeks, leaving her skin oddly grey-looking, and the acid scars across her neck looked livid and sore. Worst of all, when she met Vintage’s eyes, Vintage had a crawling sensation that, for a moment, Tyranny didn’t know who she was.

  ‘Are we here?’ she said. The confident Mushenskan drawl was absent. ‘Is this Ebora?’

  ‘You are in Ebora.’ Tor lowered his sword so that the point of it hung in front of the blonde woman’s face. ‘I don’t know why a thief would return to the scene of her crime, but if you think we’ve forgotten what you did, you are very much mistaken.’

  Tyranny glared at the sword, then looked away again. Instead, she dug her hand into the thick white fur of the war-beast.

  ‘You see? We’re here. Are you bloody happy now?’

  Windfall raised her head, and Vintage felt her stomach turn over. Where the bat’s right eye should’ve been was a deep black hole, ragged and bloody. Her other eye, still blue and intact, looked wild and lost.

  ‘Tyranny,’ Vintage leaned down and, taking a risk, shook the woman’s shoulder, ‘Tyranny, what happened? Was it Tygrish? Has Tygrish fallen?’

  Tyranny shuddered violently, and her mouth turned down at the corners. To Vintage’s astonishment, the woman started to cry.

  ‘Not just Tygrish,’ she choked out between sobs. ‘All of Jarlsbad. All of Jarlsbad is gone.’

  Having established that Tyranny wasn’t going to be an immediate threat, they took the woman and her war-beast into the palace via the rear gate and through to the biggest courtyard – the easiest space for the war-bea
sts to gather within the palace. Aldasair sank into the background, fetching food and drink and quietly talking to the guards who had gathered at the doors. Vintage, meanwhile, was watching the woman and her war-beast very closely, her face set and stern. Tor could see that she was conflicted – her anger at Tyranny’s behaviour was fighting against her usual curiosity.

  ‘Tell us what happened.’ Tor put his sword away, and shared a glance with Noon, who was standing with her arms crossed over her chest. The war-beast called Windfall had crept into the corner, her head weaving back and forth in a manner that sent cold fingers walking down Tor’s back; she made him think of his mother, when the horror of their situation had eroded her mind to a single point of bright confusion. ‘It was the worm people, yes? When did they attack?’

  Tyranny sat forward with her elbows on her knees, her head down. There were dark scuff marks on her skin, dried blood behind her ears. She clearly hadn’t washed for some time.

  ‘I am cold,’ she said in a very small voice. ‘Do you have a blanket or something?’

  ‘A blanket? We sent you diplomats and your response was to lock them up and try to have them eaten alive. You’re lucky we didn’t burn you from the skies on sight.’ Even so, Tor nodded to Aldasair, who vanished back through the doors. ‘Why are you here, Queen Tyranny of Tygrish?’

  She shuddered at the name of her kingdom and raised her head. Tor, who had been far from Ebora when Tyranny had tried her tricks and stolen their war-beast pod, had built a picture of the woman in his head, and it was very far from this scrawny, dirty, shivering creature. Yet there was a steeliness in her eyes, and he could see her attempting to control her own fear.

  ‘Windfall wanted to come here. It’s all she’s spoken of since – since we were attacked. She thinks that we’ll be safe here.’ Her mouth twitched up at the corner in a bitter smile. ‘But all of Sarn is fucked, as far as I can see.’