Venom

by Bex Hogan

  I look over at Gaius, remembering something else he told me yesterday, that Rafe is to all intents and purposes Arlan’s puppet, groomed from an early age to do whatever Arlan suggests and give him the power he craves. According to Gaius, there is deep corruption within the Guardians – many of whom believe that after all these years they are the ones who deserve power. Those, like my friends, who wish to remain on their true path, are outnumbered, and it’s only a matter of time before the two factions go to war with each other.

  His advice sits at the front of my mind: focus on the magic, leave them to destroy themselves and pick up the pieces later.

  The prospect is a tempting one.

  Olwyn joins us before I can contemplate the idea any further, throwing me a quizzical look as she takes the empty seat to my left.

  ‘Happy now?’ Eena’s manner is less than welcoming.

  I smile sweetly. ‘Ecstatic.’

  ‘So, shall we begin?’ Gaius asks, and I’m glad he’s asserting himself firmly as overseer of this meeting.

  ‘I don’t see the point of this gathering at all,’ Eena says, her animosity from yesterday in no way diminished. ‘What is there to say? She wants an army; we won’t give her one. She should leave and slither back to whatever cesspit she crawled out of.’

  ‘Apart from the fact that this is her palace,’ Mordecai says, and I notice his friendly manner is all but gone today.

  ‘It’s not hers, it’s mine,’ Rafe says, and everyone looks at him. I think even my opponents are surprised at his adamant declaration. ‘I’ve lived here my whole life,’ he says, glaring at me. ‘She can’t just walk in and take it.’

  ‘Everybody, slow down,’ I say. ‘Why don’t you start by telling me about the problems you’re facing here?’

  Arlan sighs, realising Eena isn’t going to give me the satisfaction of a conversation and that it’ll be up to him to make their case. ‘You must realise, surely, that these Isles are out of our control? Lost to lawlessness and violence?’

  I think of the woman we helped, of her home and family destroyed, and frown. ‘I understand that many generations ago the royal family were wiped out. But someone must have risen to take control.’ In the East it’s been the bandits who have taken advantage of unrest. There’s always someone waiting to take power if it’s left exposed. As perhaps Arlan himself knows only too well.

  It’s Mordecai who answers. ‘Yes, and they rule with terror and without mercy.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  There is an uncomfortable silence.

  ‘We don’t know,’ Arlan says.

  I stare at them all in astonishment. ‘You don’t know? How is that possible?’

  ‘Because no one has ever caught them,’ Mordecai answers. ‘They slip like shadows into homes and take whatever they want and then disappear. They call themselves the Hooded.’

  Olwyn and I share a look. I certainly don’t need reminding of the last time I heard that name, when I was nearly offered as a sacrifice to keep them away.

  His tone prompts my next question. ‘And what do they want?’

  ‘Children.’ His voice is so quiet it’s almost a whisper.

  It’s like my blood runs cold, only to burst into flames seconds later. ‘Children? Children are going missing and you’re doing nothing to stop it?’ I stand up so abruptly my chair falls over. Mordecai reaches for my arm, but I pull it away. ‘Who are you people?’

  ‘Your hosts,’ Eena says, her voice pure venom. ‘Sit back down.’

  I don’t want to. I want to storm out, find a ship and flee this place. But then what? I’d be abandoning both the West and the East to ruin. I cannot save Torin if I run.

  Though it pains me, I do as I’m told. Gaius catches my eye and nods his approval. I need to bide my time if I want to help the Western or Eastern Isles.

  ‘The Hooded are clearly working for someone,’ Arlan continues as if my outburst never happened. ‘But we don’t know who.’

  I doubt they’ve tried too hard to find out.

  ‘On my travels I’ve asked about them,’ Mordecai says. ‘One name I keep hearing is Greeb. I think he’s the one behind them.’

  Arlan sighs as if he’s heard this a thousand times before. ‘There’s no evidence such a person exists, let alone that he controls the Hooded.’

  ‘But don’t you see now?’ Eena asks me. ‘The Hooded go after children and Rafe is a child. It’s vital we protect him from these monsters. That’s why we can’t spare the Guardians.’

  I understand. She’s a mother who wants to keep her son safe. But she’s prepared to sacrifice all the other children of the islands for him, and that I cannot condone.

  I try appealing to him directly. ‘Don’t you care if the land you are to rule over is at war? Doesn’t it break your heart that people are being killed?’

  Rafe glances uncertainly up at his mother, before looking back at me. ‘But we’re safe here, aren’t we?’ He’s afraid – but only for himself.

  ‘Of course,’ Arlan says. ‘You have all of us here to protect you.’ He glares at me. ‘That is our duty. To serve the King.’

  Fury bubbles hot beneath my skin. He’s not crowned yet. ‘So you’ll use your army to help no one but yourselves.’

  Not one of them so much as meets my eyes, giving me their answer.

  Swallowing back my anger, I make a decision. I won’t abandon the West to this savagery, but I can’t afford to turn the Guardians against me – yet. Instead I shall train with Gaius. I shall gain my own power. And then we’ll see about putting things right.

  ‘Then there’s nothing more really to say is there?’ I try to bring this session to a close, wanting to go before I say things I’ll regret.

  ‘So you’ll leave? You won’t contest the throne?’ Eena asks, more than a little confused.

  ‘I think there must be a way to protect the islands from the Hooded, while still ensuring Rafe is safe.’ I choose my words carefully, being deliberately vague.

  ‘Well, I for one welcome the help,’ Mordecai says. ‘Marianne should be allowed to stay here for as long as she wishes, and be treated with the respect she deserves as our true heir.’

  Arlan’s whole face burns with disapproval, though he bows his head in agreement.

  I nod my appreciation and then walk out of the room without looking back, and though I can sense Olwyn and Mordecai right behind me, I desperately want to be alone. Rage and sorrow crush at my throat and chest, suffocating me – I have to get out of here. So I run. I hear Mordecai call after me, and I fly straight past Jax and Astrid who were waiting to find out what happened. I race through the crumbling corridors, and out into the overgrown grounds. Long grasses brush against me, rampant brambles try to catch me, but I keep running until something looms before me, and I slow as I realise what it is.

  A grave.

  Marked by a rough-hewn piece of stone that’s been claimed by moss and lichen, it’s clearly old. Very old. I brush it with my fingers, and sense a buzz of energy, a memory of the lives once lived. There is more than one body beneath the ground.

  ‘Your ancestors are buried here.’

  I turn to see Astrid and Olwyn walking towards me.

  ‘All of them? With only one grave?’

  Astrid shrugs. ‘There was a war. There wasn’t time to honour the dead properly.’

  Olwyn steps forward, until she’s close enough to take my hand. I shut my eyes and will her not to ask me how I’m feeling. I don’t want to talk about what just happened. I don’t want to think about what to do now. I came for help and instead have discovered a new enemy. The Hooded are yet another front on which to fight. How do I face the choices before me? Who do I want to be? What matters most? Viper, Queen or Mage? Which path will lead to victory?

  ‘Do the islands in the East have different names like ours do?’ she asks, and I’m so surprised by the question that I look straight at her. Olwyn smiles, and not for the first time, I’m swept with gratitude for her. She’s giving me
something else to think about.

  ‘Yes, they do.’ But I don’t want to think about the East. ‘Tell me yours – apart from Blood Island, I already know that one.’

  Astrid shoots me a slightly withering look.

  ‘And you know about the Seventh Isle,’ Olwyn says, ignoring Astrid.

  Ah yes, I remember Rayvn’s words about Shadow Island, home to all manner of spirits and demons. It sounds mysterious, sinister – but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t intrigue me.

  ‘If it’s cast in shadow, what grows there?’ I ask.

  ‘Not a lot. It’s a swampland, humid, dank and murky. Lots of vegetation. I’ve heard a certain type of tall tree grows there, one with many strange roots that grow out from high up the trunk. They call them drowned men’s hair.’

  An involuntary shudder passes through me. ‘What about your island? Let me guess – Crystal Island? Shining Island?’ It would make sense for it to be known for its diamond-like sand.

  ‘Good guesses, but no,’ Olwyn says. ‘It’s named after the mountains and the mares. Snow Island.’

  For a brief moment her smile fades, as she’s reminded of Mama and Pip. I understand. My smile has faded too.

  ‘The Tenth Isle is called Fire Island,’ Astrid carries on, noticing the shift in mood. ‘Virtually uninhabitable. Imagine the Fire Fields we passed, only covering the entire island.’

  I remember the incredible sense of excitement I had gazing down at the barren valley spewing gas intermittently from the vented ground, and imagine it on a vast scale. So much power.

  So much magic.

  The thought comes from nowhere, but I wonder if it’s true. ‘Is it safe?’

  ‘Well, the fields are dormant at the moment,’ Olwyn says. ‘Nothing more than a smoking presence on the horizon. But it hasn’t always been that way, and it won’t stay like that for ever. One day the fires will burn again.’

  ‘And the Eleventh is Song Island,’ Astrid says. ‘In part, because those born there are naturally gifted musicians, and partly because the island sings.’

  I’m mesmerised. ‘It sings? How?’

  ‘No one really knows. The way the wind passes through the grasses, the way it echoes through the valleys. I’ve been there a few times; it’s quite beautiful.’

  ‘Lastly, there’s this one,’ Olwyn says. ‘The Jewel of the West.’

  ‘Or it was once.’ Astrid’s sadness is unmistakable. ‘I’ve seen paintings of when the land was lush with colour, wild animals grazed and life thrived in every way. The settlements shone with happiness. Contentment. Those pictures look like a dream. Or a lie.’

  I look up at the palace, a forgotten relic of a prosperous time, and realise with some surprise that I feel a need to restore it – restore the island – to its former glory. I can’t do that hiding away.

  Taking a deep breath, I squeeze Olwyn’s hand. ‘Come on, we should go back.’

  Olwyn and Astrid slide their arms through mine, and together we return to reality, their presence softening my anger and strengthening my resolve.

  When we reach my chamber, Mordecai and Jax are waiting for us.

  Mordecai wastes no time. He takes one look at me and says, ‘So what do you want us to do?’

  I clench my jaw and speak through gritted teeth. ‘We’re going to find out who the Hooded are. And then we will end them.’

  I scan their faces and see only support. They hate this situation as much as I do.

  ‘Leave it to us,’ Jax says. ‘You keep your head down and don’t give Rafe any reason to withdraw his hospitality.’

  ‘There may be others willing to help us,’ Astrid adds, her voice low. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Be careful,’ I say. ‘I don’t think I’m well liked here.’

  ‘Which is strange given your return should have been cause for celebration …’ Mordecai says, before trailing off. He’s looking behind me, and I turn to see what’s caused him to fall silent.

  Gaius is standing at the end of the corridor, waiting for me. A shiver of excitement runs up my spine. It’s time. Finally, it’s time.

  ‘I have to go,’ I say, already moving towards Gaius. ‘Find me later. We’ll talk more then.’

  When I reach Gaius, he says nothing, simply turns and hobbles off. I assume he wants me to go with him, and so I follow him along the dark hallways, venturing into a part of the palace I’ve not seen before. He struggles down a winding staircase, but I sense offering to assist him would cause great offence and so I merely continue to be his silent shadow until we reach a strangely-out-of-place little door in the stone wall.

  Acknowledging my presence for the first time, Gaius gives me a grin that tells me I’m going to like what’s behind this door, and he opens it wide.

  Though it’s far larger than yesterday’s room, it’s equally untidy – like some sort of magical explosion took place. Benches are covered in everything you’d expect a Mage to have: pots are surrounded by bottles and jars; a fire burns in the corner, a concoction brewing in a cauldron over it; acrid smoke fills the air so that my eyes burn. The smell is strange, like a mixture of earth and rainwater, but with an underlying sourness I don’t recognise. Any spare space is covered in books and papers, while ink stains the floor, along with other substances I can’t identify. Clearly Gaius is not one for order.

  ‘This,’ he says, moving to the nearest bench and brushing papers out of his way, ‘is where I work. It’s where you will learn. And given Arlan and Eena are already scheming to get rid of you, I don’t think we should waste any time, do you?’

  I run my finger along the bench, picking up a trail of dust. ‘Short of surrendering all my rights, nothing I do will please them.’

  ‘Why is it you seek power in magic, but not in ruling? You could have both … have it all.’

  It’s a good question, and for a moment I have to consider my answer. Do I simply want power without responsibility? Is that why I left Bronn to captain the Maiden? Does wearing a crown mean I can’t run when it becomes too hard?

  ‘Kings and queens fall,’ I say, and I’m telling the truth, even if not in its entirety. ‘Their power is finite, fragile. It can be taken from them, as history has shown us time and again. I want power that cannot be so easily stolen from me.’

  Gaius’s eyes shine, and I can’t read his reaction. If he suspects my other fears, he says nothing.

  ‘Well, it’s not my place to tell you what to do in that regard,’ Gaius says. ‘In matters of state my role is only to advise.’ His expression changes from meek servitude to one so cunning it takes me by surprise. ‘But in magic? Now that is a different thing altogether.’

  ‘So where do we start?’ I’m almost giddy with excitement.

  ‘Why, at the beginning of course. Tell me what you already know.’

  That seems fair enough, and I perch on a stool as I tell him about my childhood studies with Milligan back on the Maiden, my long-seated thirst for knowledge on how to heal. I tell him of the books I’ve read, the way I can see life leaving a body and what I did for Lilah. As I talk, something inside me settles. I’m remembering why I want to be a Mage. Not for power – though I can’t deny the temptation it holds – but to mend. Olwyn was right – in my heart I’m a healer. Whether it’s an injury in the body or the unrest on the Isles, my desire is to fix and to restore. That knowledge brings me peace as I talk. Old Tatty told me that if I didn’t want to lose myself to the magic, I had to know who I was and this is something I can cling to. It’s how I’ll fight the darkness.

  When I finish relaying all I can think of, Gaius sits there for a while, nodding his head while he ponders my words.

  ‘Interesting,’ he says. ‘These books – you didn’t happen to bring them with you, did you?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. But I made notes,’ I say, wishing I hadn’t left them behind in my room.

  ‘I would very much like to see them some time,’ he says, and I’m more than happy to agree.

  Gaius conti
nues to mull things over, what fingertips he has remaining pressed together. ‘Very interesting indeed,’ he muses. ‘You are clearly drawn to healing – what we must do now is discover whether that skill is aligned with your magic or simply a coincidence.’

  He struggles out of his chair and walks over to the fireplace, resting against the hearth.

  ‘Show me how you would treat a burn. Use whatever you wish,’ he says, gesturing to the room.

  Ideally I would use a generous amount of second-salve to soothe a burn, and instinctively glance down to the scar on my wrist caused by molten metal. But I suspect that Gaius doesn’t have a large supply of ingredients from the East. I shall have to mix an ointment of my own and search through the scattered bottles until I find one labelled ‘powdered moonflower’, and one branded ‘fyre’. Pouring equal amounts of both herbs into a mortar, I grind them together with a pestle, adding a little water into the mixture until slowly it forms a dark paste that is mostly brown in colour with streaks of orange.

  I take it over to show him.

  ‘Let’s see how effective it is, shall we?’ And, to my horror, he thrusts his hand into the flames beside him.

  ‘Gaius!’

  ‘Go ahead,’ he says, removing his hand from the fire, and sucking his breath in with pain. ‘Treat it.’

  I stare at him for a moment, stunned by his action, but get to work, smearing the paste liberally over the angry red skin, wishing I’d made more because the burn covers a large area. This hand is already missing three fingers; it doesn’t need to be scarred too.

  When I’m done, I look up at him uncertainly.

  ‘Good,’ he says. ‘You’ve treated it just as I would hope any good healer would. If I keep this bandaged for several days, I should end up with a clean scar.’

  I wait for him to continue. Because I’m certain this isn’t the end of the lesson.

  ‘Now, would you be so kind as to make another batch of your ointment?’

  Doing as I’m told, I repeat the process, watching him closely for fear he’ll plunge his other hand into the fire. He does not. Instead he takes a cloth and wipes off my first remedy, taking some of his blistering skin with it too.