The Poison Song

by Jen Williams

  ‘You ask too much,’ said Fell-Dana flatly. ‘That’s all there is to it.’

  Without really thinking about what she was doing, Noon walked to the back of the hall, and climbed up onto the roots. They felt strange and slick under her hands, cold and hard. It was difficult to believe that they belonged to a living thing, but the life energy of Ygseril was there nonetheless, a slow and vast presence. She stood up, and looked out across the women.

  ‘Listen!’ The murmuring fell silent, and the fell-witches turned to look at her. She saw Vintage’s eyebrows shoot up, and even Chenlo looked surprised. ‘Listen to me. No one can tell you what to do now. That’s the truth. The time when you were controlled by other people is over. When I smashed the Winnowry to pieces and threw open its doors, that’s what I wanted for you. Freedom.’ She paused, and a strange feeling of weightlessness passed through her. Moments ago the idea of talking to any of these women, let alone addressing them all at once, would have been horrifying, but suddenly it seemed like the only right thing she had ever done. ‘So we can’t tell you to do this. We can’t order you to help us. But I do want to tell you something, and if you care for me at all, if you think I’ve ever helped you, then I will ask you to please believe what I say. That’s all. Because it’s true.’

  The fell-witches were all watching her. Every head, etched with the sign of the bat wing.

  ‘Some of you know that I was missing for a while. It’s not easy to explain where I was, but I can tell you that I met the being that is responsible for us – for the winnowfire.’ There were some incredulous mutters at this, and then with a start Noon realised that Tyranny had edged into the room. She looked pale and thin, but her blue eyes were like chips of ice. ‘This being came to Sarn a long time ago, at the same time as Ygseril.’ Noon held her arms out, taking in the enormous trunk that rose behind her. ‘She is energy, she is fire, she is . . . impossible to explain, or describe. She is not a good person. In her own way, she is probably as bad as the worm people, but it’s her who gave the flame to us. So that’s the first thing I have to tell you, that you have to believe – our winnowfire shares a history with Ebora. You think all this has nothing to do with us?’ She smiled. ‘That’s not true, I’m afraid.’

  The fell-witches looked confused, and Noon felt a surge of fear, but she pushed it down.

  ‘The other thing I need you to believe is what this being told me. She said that she had given this gift – gift is what she called it, if you can believe that – only to the strongest people of Sarn. Only the strongest, she said, could possibly keep it inside themselves, could live with the green fire in their guts. Only the strongest.’ Abruptly, she found that she was grinning. ‘And it’s fucking true, isn’t it? I’m standing here, and I can see it when I look at you. We’ve survived, we’re still here, and we are the strongest. All of the terrible things the Winnowry did to us, all of the terrible things that people have said and done, all the people who have hated us because of what we are . . . and we live, still. The power is still ours. The flame never died. We are the strongest, and I think you know it too, deep down inside.’

  The women were entirely silent. Noon found that she couldn’t read their faces, but she could see that there were tears on Vintage’s cheeks. That was all right. She knew then that this had been the right thing to do.

  ‘I’m not going to tell you this thing is a gift, that you should be grateful your lives have been so hard, because that’s nonsense. The worst kind of nonsense. But I am telling you that it’s something we can bloody use. So fight with me,’ she said. ‘We’ll be unstoppable. I know you’ve grown up believing that Eborans are the only true heroes of Sarn, that they are the only ones who can fight, but that’s not true. It’s us. It’s our time to fight. So fight with me.’

  ‘I’ll fight with you!’ It was Tyranny, from by the doors. She came forward, and her eyes were shining. ‘The worm people will wish they’d never been born.’

  ‘It would be my honour,’ added Chenlo, ‘to fight alongside my sisters.’

  All at once, an excited babble grew from the crowd of fell-witches. Noon saw them turning to each other, taking each other’s hands. Not all of them looked convinced, she could see that easily enough, but she could see them daring to think of themselves in new way. Noon climbed down from the roots and headed back towards the doors, no longer avoiding their eyes or their questioning glances. Vintage met her halfway there, and threw her arms around her.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  ‘That was certainly something.’

  Chenlo looked up from the piece of parchment she had been reading and nodded thoughtfully. She and Vintage had been in the study for the last hour or so, talking to each fell-witch who wanted to join the fight, making a note of their name, and trying to figure out how to divide up the supplies they had amongst them: the bats, the armour, the remaining vials of heartbright. More of the women had signed up than Vintage could have hoped for, and it looked like they had the makings of a small squad of dedicated witches.

  ‘Did you know she was going to do that?’ asked Chenlo.

  ‘Not at all.’ Vintage poured a small measure of brown liquid into a pair of glasses – it was a Yuron-Kai drink called barakesh, and she’d bought some from the Yuron-Kai contingent. It tasted to her tongue like something used to clean flagstones, but when Chenlo sipped at it she seemed to savour it. ‘As I’m sure you’ve noticed, she’s done her absolute best to avoid talking to or even thinking about the fell-witches – I think it reminded her too keenly of her old life – so I was surprised to even see her in the hall this evening. But these last few months have been strange ones for Noon, and she has changed. I suppose we all have.’ She sat down in the chair next to Chenlo with a sigh. ‘This bloody poisoned world, it’s always changing us.’

  ‘She’s their leader,’ said Chenlo quietly. ‘I thought that perhaps . . . but when they look at me, they will always see one who stood on the outside of their cells. The Lady Noon gave them their freedom, and now she has stepped up to that responsibility.’

  ‘The fell-witches were lucky to have you. I didn’t see that at first, because, well, the Winnowry . . .’ Vintage waved her hands around vaguely. ‘The Winnowry is deeply evil and dangerous. But there are roses growing in the most Wild-touched places.’

  Chenlo nodded and looked away, but not before Vintage noticed a flush of colour on her cheeks. The Winnowry agent picked up the sheet of parchment, full of her neat handwriting and Vintage’s more elaborate scrawl.

  ‘At first light I will go to the quartermaster and look at how good our harnesses are,’ she said, suddenly business-like again. ‘There’s good Finneral leather available, so we can make more, if we’re quick.’

  ‘Yes.’ Vintage took the piece of parchment, looking at the names etched there in black ink. Although she had been overjoyed to see so many women at their door, the sight of their names seemed to place a terrible cold weight in her stomach. She couldn’t help thinking of Esiah Godwort, lost inside his own compound as it burned to the ground; of little Eri, who would never have come to Ebora in the first place if she hadn’t insisted he accompany her; of misguided, cowardly Nanthema, destroyed by the Jure’lia at Jarlsbad. She even thought of Tor, the disease that had killed most of his people now marching hurriedly through his veins. She felt responsible for all of them. How many people would still be alive without her interfering? And how many names on this list would not live to see another summer?

  ‘What is it?’ Chenlo was looking at her with obvious concern. She took Vintage’s free hand and squeezed it.

  ‘Oh. These brave people.’ She forced herself to smile and meet Chenlo’s eyes. ‘We’re asking them to risk death. And many of them may well die. What right do I have?’

  ‘You have the right because you will be there with them,’ said Chenlo steadily. ‘And because I will be there too. We will face the worm people together.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I will be glad to stand with you, Vintage.’

  S
he leaned forward and brushed her lips against Vintage’s cheek, and then rested her forehead against hers. The kiss that came after that seemed as natural as breathing, and quickly Vintage was lost in the scent and the taste of her – the barakesh that had been so brash on her tongue now tasted powerful and intoxicating, and when she pushed her fingers through Chenlo’s hair it ran through her fingers like silk, river-quick.

  ‘I’ve had a solitary life,’ Chenlo said. ‘I’m so tired of it, Vintage. So tired of very carefully feeling nothing.’

  ‘That’s no life at all.’ Vintage swallowed hard, abruptly nervous. ‘Let me show you.’

  She kissed her mouth, her throat, the place where the eagle seared her skin. Eventually, they left the study, and, holding hands and laughing together like teenagers, they meandered down the empty corridors, pausing to kiss here and there until they came to Chenlo’s room. Inside it was lit with a single lamp, casting a golden light on a bed tidily made up with white and red sheets. The crimson shirt Vintage had bought her was carefully hung over a screen.

  ‘Darling, are you sure . . .?’

  ‘Please,’ Chenlo murmured. ‘Show me.’

  Vintage showed her, with her lips and her tongue and her clever fingers. She felt dizzy herself, her own desire beating like a newly born heart – the golden tones of Chenlo’s skin, the delicious feeling of bare limb against bare limb, the delicate lines at the corners of Chenlo’s eyes, creased with pleasure. When she came, she shuddered in her arms, crying out in wonder, and Vintage held her close, wondering if this was it now; if Chenlo would retreat from her again, deciding that she had made terrible mistake. But Chenlo pulled her closer, pulling at her last pieces of clothing.

  ‘Now show me again,’ she said, ‘so I can show you.’

  Tor, from his lonely spot in the courtyard, saw them pass. They were a brief picture of happiness caught through the glass windows, both looking much younger than their years. When they were gone again, he made to get up, thinking that he should go inside and try and get some rest, but the pain in his arms and chest forced him back into his seat. A shadow on the far side of the courtyard caught his eye, and he grimaced.

  ‘I can see you there,’ he said. ‘Don’t you know that Eborans can see very well in the dark?’

  A hooded figure eased its way out of the gloom.

  ‘Old habits, forgive me,’ said Okaar. ‘I wanted somewhere quiet. To be alone, for a time.’

  Tor gave a little snort of laughter. ‘Ah well, you’re a few years too late. A little while ago, you couldn’t move for lonely places in the palace. Now, it’s as lively as –’ He shrugged. ‘Actually, I don’t remember it ever being this lively. Even when I was a child, our world was fading.’

  Okaar pulled back his hood and nodded. The human man looked gaunt, the shadows under his eyes almost as vivid as the scars on his face and throat, and Tor couldn’t help noticing that his fingers trembled slightly against the dark material of the robe. He remained standing, as though he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

  ‘Will you not sit with me?’ said Tor. He was forcibly reminded of leaving Ebora, decades ago, and coming across the old human man sleeping in the tower. What had he asked him? Will you not drink with me? And the man had called him a monster. ‘Vintage seems to trust you, despite everything, and I’m not sure I have the energy to be suspicious this evening.’

  Okaar did not move or speak for a long time. He seemed to be caught in the threads of an invisible web. Eventually, he shook his head, slowly, back and forth.

  ‘I do not feel that I can sit, or sleep, or rest. I don’t know what has happened to my sister. I feel that until I have figured that out, there can be no rest for me.’

  ‘The girl Jhef? Vintage mentioned her.’

  Okaar nodded. ‘It seems very likely that she has died. Crushed deep inside the palace as it fell, or eaten alive by the Jure’lia. I’m not sure what would be worse. I’m not –’ He stopped, his voice briefly too strangled to continue. ‘The last time I saw Jhef, we argued. There were terrible words exchanged. It was not her fault. She grew up following Tyranny, living a life where we took what we wanted, when we wanted it. A thief’s life. Jhef couldn’t understand why I would not stand with Tyranny in that palace. Why I could not pretend that she was a queen.’ He sighed shakily. ‘Ah. The not knowing. It is impossible to bear. Part of me believes that if I think about it hard enough, I can figure out a way to find her, save her. Yet I go –’ he lifted a finger and whirled it through the air next to his head – ‘around in circles. There is no saving her. There is no figuring it out. I will be caught forever, wondering what happened, what were her last moments like, was she scared, did she suffer. I –’ Tor heard the thick click in his throat as the words were swallowed by grief.

  ‘Maybe you’re better off not knowing.’ The man looked up at that, a flash of something in his eyes, and Tor shook his head, too tired to argue. ‘I know very well what my sister is doing, and it certainly doesn’t bring me any peace. She flies with the Jure’lia, wears their skin on her skin, and she kills humans like they were stains to be wiped away.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘When we were children, we were close. Very different from each other, certainly that – Hestillion was always clever, thoughtful, methodical. She figured out what she wanted and then she constructed elaborate plans to get it, usually using me, since I was easily talked into helping her. I was flighty, difficult to pin down, full of my own self-importance, and our parents despaired of me, yet when our world fell to pieces –’ he looked up at Okaar, who was still standing in a shard of moonlight – ‘she was like you. When everyone began to die, when Ygseril was a cold and remote chunk of wood, she spent her time trying to figure out how to fix it. She wanted, somehow, to bring everyone back, but there is no turning back time. You know, I think that’s what turned her into what she is now. Not the dying, the pain, the slow ending of everything – but the fact that she couldn’t fix it. In her dreams, she could craft anything. But when she woke up, the world was still a rotten husk.’

  ‘Do you ever think about saving her?’

  A slither of pain like a blade moved across Tor’s heart, although he couldn’t have said if it was the crimson flux or not at that moment. Ignoring the renewed agony in his arms, he pushed himself to his feet again.

  ‘Vintage is the one who loves a lost cause, not me,’ he said. He walked to the courtyard gates, trying not to think of the expression he had seen on Okaar’s face as he left.

  The horde moved, and the circle followed.

  If Hestillion wanted to, it was possible to see the trail of destruction they were leaving from multiple angles – through the eyes of the First, or Green Bird or Red Moth, each on board one of the remaining Behemoths. Or she could see what Grey Root and Yellow Leaf saw, travelling as they did with the huge amorphous shape that was the Jure’lia queen herself. Mostly, though, she preferred not to; she could see enough from Celaphon’s back, riding high in the cold air far above. They had been heading steadily north for some time, crushing, destroying and suffocating anything in their path. If she looked behind them she could see a great long stretch of solid green. On this bright morning, the sky was pocked with chilly grey clouds.

  ‘The sea,’ said Celaphon. ‘It’s coming. What will happen then, do you think?’

  Hestillion squinted against the wind and saw that he was right. A thin line of unsteady light on the horizon suggested a great stretch of water, and they were heading straight towards it. As yet, the queen had not turned aside for anything, and it was difficult to imagine her doing so now.

  ‘Can she swim, do you think?’ she said. ‘Or fly, even?’ The thought was alarming.

  ‘She has no wings,’ said Celaphon dismissively. ‘And she would need very large wings.’

  Hestillion pictured a map of the region. They were leaving the great southern continent of Sarn, so ahead of them should be the Lost Sea, whose hot blue waters were said to conceal all manner of Wild-touched monsters. Far to
the east, the strip of land grew thin and then fat again, eventually becoming Catalen, a region of thick forests and warm, sunny days. If the queen kept up this trajectory, they would cross the sea to arrive just west of Catalen, possibly near Orlé or Triskenteth, where they could follow the River Tyg inland to the swamps. Further, along that coast, was Mushenska, one of Sarn’s biggest and busiest cities. Hestillion had only ever seen it from a distance, but the thought of it – crawling with humans, all living too close together and giving off their stale, human scent – made her grimace.

  ‘What will happen,’ asked Celaphon, ‘when we get to Ebora?’

  ‘Bad things.’ Aware that this was not the answer the dragon was after, she sighed and pushed a strand of blond hair out of her eyes. Her armoured suit was safely stored onboard one of the three remaining Behemoths and she itched to put it on. ‘You know what she wants. She wants to wipe it from the map, she wants to suffocate it in varnish, leave nothing there alive.’

  ‘My home,’ said Celaphon. ‘I’ve not even seen it, not properly.’

  ‘It’s not your home,’ snapped Hestillion. ‘You were born on the corpse moon, and nourished there. It’s not even my home. Not anymore.’

  ‘Then you do not care?’ There was a tone to Celaphon’s voice she had not heard before; a certain craftiness, like that of a child who thinks they have the key to getting their own way.

  ‘It’s a little late for that, do you not think?’ The Eboran child lying with its guts in the dirt; her brother, holding his sword to her throat.

  ‘If our queen destroys the tree-father, then I will die too.’

  Hestillion narrowed her eyes. Below them, the land was growing drier, more familiar. She saw stretches of long grass dotted with islands of tall, spindly trees.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘It is just a thing that I know,’ said Celaphon. ‘Or you told me once. I do not remember.’

  ‘She might not destroy Ygseril. She may keep him prisoner, as he kept her prisoner for so many centuries. A final humiliation.’ Even as she said it, she knew it was unlikely. And the truth was, she did not know how she would feel if the tree-father was finally destroyed. The thought was just too big to comprehend. Perhaps, part of her reasoned, it would just be a relief. Celaphon was not convinced.