Mythophidia

by Constantine, Storm

A faint breeze that held the promise of snow lifted the golden fringes of the curtains, and I shrank back against the window casement. I was terrified that, at any moment, Papavera would swoop into the room and throw the curtain wide. She would stand there, tall as a tree, with her black hair whipping round her colourless face, and she would point a finger right at me, utter some fatal words... No, no, I must not direct my thoughts along such a fell avenue. I had charms aplenty around my neck, my skin had been anointed with an essence of protection. Papavera did not consider me a threat. As she glided through my rooms, she would not even give me a single thought. I pressed my hands against my mouth.

  The scent came insidiously, trickling like smoke into the room. At first, I thought I was imagining it. Then, Tartalan said, ‘It smells like early summer.’ He began to stand up.

  ‘She is here,’ I hissed, putting a restraining hand on Tartalan’s arm. ‘Keep down.’

  ‘I feel ridiculous,’ Tartalan whispered back. ‘This is a child’s prank!’

  I shook my head. ‘No!’ I clutched Tartalan’s arm for several minutes, until the overpowering scent faded a little and I was sure the dark queen had entered the locked doors. My body felt hot and yet I could see my breath steaming on the chill air.

  Stealthily, I led the Chamberlain into the main room. The fire was a dull, angry glow in the hearth and the lamplight looked weak and sick. The very air felt polluted. With shaking hands, I took the keys to Anguin’s doors from my trouser pocket. For a moment, I considered abandoning this course of action, packing my bags and fleeing back to my parents’ estate in Loolania that same night. Then, a shred of dignity reasserted itself. Had I not held sway in this kingdom for the last eighteen years? I had been a mere child, just past her first bud, when Marquithi’s father had taken me to wed. And that child had been afraid of nothing. If she could have looked forward in time, she would have been ashamed to see the woman she was to become hesitating and shying like a skittish mare. Straightening my back, I strode towards the secret stairway, Tartalan padding along behind me.

  The stairwell to Anguin’s rooms was in darkness, and we could hear no sound. I had to remind myself to breathe as we advanced cautiously up the dusty treads. I pulled one of the crescents from a leather pouch fixed inside my shirt, and with my free hand unstoppered a phial of caustic bane. If there was trouble, I intended to attack immediately.

  Anguin’s workroom was lit by the flickering, yellow glow of a single candle. As I poked my head through the floor, I could see he was busy working on something on one of the tables. He wore a refracting crystal on a metal band around his brow, which directed beams of the guttering light onto whatever lay on the table. Because of the design of the room, it was impossible to enter it and hide without being seen, so with a last prayer to my grandmother’s spirit, I walked over the wooden floor, straight towards my erstwhile alchemist. He looked up with alarm when he realised he was no longer alone, and I experienced a swift thrill of satisfaction to see the expression of shock on his face.

  ‘Yes, it is I, your mistress,’ I said. ‘I have come to inspect your work.’

  I went to stand beside him. ‘My Lord Chamberlain,’ I said, without looking round. ‘If you would be so kind as to examine this... handiwork.’

  Papavera lay on the table, split open from breast to groin. Where one would expect to see entrails and blood was only a jumble of thick purplish juices. There was evidence of bone, but it was strangely jointed together with gnarled sticks and metal rods. Undulating bags of soaked cloth approximated the position of stomach and guts. As for her face, it was an eerie caricature of her normal beauty; the mouth hung open, the black tongue lolled, the clouded eyes stared at the ceiling. A more repulsive sight was hard to imagine, neither was the odour of this operation particularly benign. Anguin had not spoken at all. He looked distinctly sullen.

  ‘Perhaps you can explain what it is you’re doing,’ I said to him.

  Tartalan stood behind me, making small anguished noises of disgust, a kercheif held to his nose.

  ‘Well, as you can see, I am working upon the queen,’ Anguin said lamely.

  I folded my arms and nodded. ‘Indeed. Now, you will destroy the monster.’ I picked up a sharp tool from beside the body and began stirring one of the bags of fluid in Papavera’s torso with it. ‘If you do not, Anguin, I shall rip this abomination apart myself!’

  ‘My lady, I am most reluctant to do as you ask. There are certain implications of which you are unaware...’

  ‘Such as?’ I raised the dripping instrument and pointed it at his face. ‘Hurry, Anguin. Your explanation would indeed gratify me.’

  ‘Her kin,’ he said flatly. ‘I fashioned her body from whatever materials I could lay my hands on, but her soul was not created by my acts. It was quickened by nightling energy.’

  I blinked at him, aghast. It is no coincidence that, in some places, nightlings are called the Devourers. ‘Destroy it!’ I hissed. ‘For the love of all things lit, Anguin, I will discount your insubordination and add my strength to yours against any eventuality, but destroy this creature now!’

  His mouth opened and closed a few times. I think he would have complied with my wishes, but at that point, the sound of splintering wood and heavy feet came from below. Seconds later, the chamber was suddenly flooded with light and filled with palace guards, who were pouring through the floor brandishing weapons. Then, Marquithi himself leapt through the trap-door. I don’t think I’d ever been so pleased to see him. My pleasure, however, was short-lived.

  Upon seeing my son, Tartalan jumped backwards a few steps and raised his hand, pointing at Anguin and myself. He waved the kercheif at us like a flag. ‘Arrest these traitors!’ he cried.

  Anguin and I exchanged a shocked glance. Angrily I turned to my son. ‘Marquithi, restrain the Chamberlain. He has lost his wits!’

  Marquithi was staring at the table where the parts of his wife lay in disarray. His face was unreadable, but he would not look at me. ‘Take them away!’ he said to the guards and left the room.

  You can imagine that the shock of Marquithi’s action quite drove me senseless. I was utterly benumbed; mercifully, even to the point where I was unaware of my surroundings. I was incarcerated beneath the palace in a secure lodging best described as squalid, although that conveys little of the true horror of it. One of the Councillors came to see me, to explain that I was to be put on trial for treason, along with Anguin and the young queen, whom Marquithi had demanded be reconstituted to meet her fate. Till that point, I had not enjoyed a warm relationship with the Councillor, but I felt he sympathised with my position and perhaps felt uncomfortable with Marquithi’s harsh treatment of me. They are sticklers for tradition, these Gordanians, and my blood, after all, was quite royal. I told him I’d acted in good faith, admitted I’d miscalculated, and he seemed to accept this explanation. However, it appeared Tartalan had reported everything I had told him to the King, and in a particularly venomous manner (how could I have misjudged him so!). Therefore, on the night when he and I had crept up to Anguin’s room, Marquithi had already been alerted. It had been prearranged that the three of us should be caught in flagrante. My son knew everything: how I had kept him docile, how I had arranged for Papavera to be created, everything. I suppose in his position I too might have felt somewhat chagrined, but blood is thicker than water, as they say, so he really was going a little too far by persisting in keeping me in detention.

  The hours passed interminably. To this day, I have no way of telling how long I spent in that abysmal hole. Sleep evaded me, and I could not eat. I realised that, should Marquithi stick to the letter of the law, I was finished. I only hoped the method of despatch would be painless, if it came to that. How ungrateful a son can be! Had I acted in any way but to spare him pain and bother? He did not even come to speak with me.

  At some point, Queen Papavera was brought in to share my cell. She had indeed been restored, although her face was tight with some unnamed emotion. At first, she did
not speak, while I, upon seeing her, desired only to execute the plan I’d had in Anguin’s chamber, namely tear her to pieces. We sat upon opposite sides of the small cell, glaring at one another. Eventually, because of my breeding and innate gentility, it was I that broke the silence.

  ‘Look at me in that way if you wish,’ I said, ‘but the fact is we are both in error. I, for having Anguin conjure you in the first place, and you for becoming too ambitious. Together we could have lived in harmony for many years and, I might add, in rewarding control of this country!’

  Papavera made a guttural, hissing sound. ‘Empty comfort!’ she said in harsh voice. ‘I anticipate an ignoble end to my reign.’

  Having made communication, my mind had begun to stir itself from torpor. I tapped my lips thoughtfully with my fingers. ‘Papavera, we are both in the direst of predicaments. Marquithi is a fool. However, if my memory serves me correctly, you at least have recourse to assistance.’

  She growled dismally. ‘Hardly! Once Anguin finished his ministrations upon me, Marquithi had the soldiers cut off his hands. I expect he is already dead.’

  ‘I did not mean Anguin,’ I said. ‘I was referring to your kin.’

  She looked up at me sharply. ‘Do not think I haven’t tried to petition them,’ she said. ‘The fact is they are contemptuous of my ineptitude at manipulating my circumstances. They believe I deserve to lose this human form and revert to my true state.’

  ‘Is that a sentiment you share?’

  She looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘There are certain enjoyable aspects of this incarnation.’

  ‘In that case, it is obvious what we have to do,’ I told her.

  ‘What?’ I was gratified by the ignition of hope in her eyes.

  ‘First, you must give me your most binding vow you will not desert me, betray me or harm me in any way.’

  She nodded. ‘Excise me from this mess, and I shall shower you with devotion for eternity.’

  ‘Very well, we shall see to the solemnising of that vow presently. First, I will tell you this. In order to attract the assistance of your kin, we must have something to offer them in return, for even though I am unacquainted with the customs of your people, I know there is no form of life in existence that does not respond to the prospect of gain.’

  ‘True enough,’ said the young queen. ‘But what do you suggest?’

  I reached over and patted her clenched hands. ‘My dear, there is not one bumbling foreign nobleman who is not slave to your charm and beauty. Should we escape our distress, I am convinced we will find succour somewhere else beyond Gordania. It seems to me that your kin would welcome ingress into some area of human activity. Perhaps we could facilitate that.’

  Papavera smiled. ‘With your knowledge of the human condition and my access to nightling caprices, it does indeed seem a workable plan.’

  The trial was a farce, although I must admit it gave me some satisfaction to hear my crimes recited. Papavera was declared demonic and would be burned at the stake. I, as conspirator in diabolic practices and consequently a traitor to the crown, must also be executed but, because of my rank, I would be allowed to drink poison. Anguin, already half dead and mutilated, would be thrown to the royal hounds and be devoured alive. Marquithi maintained a pale, cold distance while the fates of the women in his life were proclaimed. It was almost as if he’d never loved either of us. It was very strange, but I could not hate him. He simply could not understand our female ways, which seemed very ordinary to myself. Still, it was a mistake to let a man witness the true nature of our power, and if anyone deserved to die that day, it was Tartalan.

  As a formality, I was allowed to speak in my own defence; a procedure I knew would have no effect upon the outcome. I spoke plainly, remarking that, as I saw it, the only problem was a disagreement between Papavera and myself, and that I could not imagine why it had reached the grand court of Gordania. These comments caused a rumble among the spectators’ gallery, where the dim-witted Councillors’ wives flapped themselves with fans and gorged their spirits on my humiliation. I refused to be penitent or cowed. At least Papavera gave me her support through her gentle smile across the court. She was allowed no defence, poor creature. At length, after all the talking was done, the judge donned his black cowl and named the time of our executions. Sunfall. Papavera held my eyes as she was taken from the room. I had to trust her; not just her intention, but her ability. I prayed for her success.

  Papavera and Anguin were returned to the dungeons, whilst I was escorted to my former rooms to await the hour when the physicks would bring me the deadly cup. I sat in my favourite chair by the window, watching the shadows lengthen. No-one came to tender their farewells. My servants were all gone. Only a couple of whiskered slaughter-house women kept me company, and a brace of guards beside the door. I reflected how badly my life had gone awry, and yet, given the time again, would I have acted differently? It was difficult to tell. As the dusk stole quietly towards the windows, I heard their steps outside the door. My heart began to beat much faster. I saw the night-black shadow of an enormous wing across the sill.

  So you see, that is my story, that is how I am here beside your fire, and my fellow travellers asleep in your hayloft. What? Oh do not be afraid, our unseen companions will not attack you, or your animals. Although I must admit the ferocity of their attack, when the mood takes them to indulge in violence, is quite incredible. Did I tell you how quickly it is possible to shred the bodies of two guards, two large women and a brace of physicks? No? Well, perhaps I had better spare you the details.

  We had to bring Anguin with us, of course, in order for my dear companion to retain her physical splendour on a long-term basis. To date, he has been teaching me some measure of his skills, although - please don’t tell him this - my lady and I are considering allowing him to build himself a pair of hands. He did so well with Papavera’s bodily equipment after all, and, well, he is so tractable nowadays.

  Anyway, I’ve kept you awake long enough. So gracious of you to offer us accommodation. Now, I must sleep. Tomorrow, we have business with the squire of this parish. Madam, you are too kind, but I insist you accept my coin as payment. Are we not sisters, after all, sisters of a certain persuasion? Before bed, I would walk in your mandrake garden. So fortunate we saw you weeding it from the road as we were passing, so fortunate. I have longed to share my story with a woman of like mind. A night of blessings to you, madam, a night of blessings.

  Curse of the Snake

  Lyye was lost. The last of her defenders had been trampled beneath the hooves of the enemy’s war-horses; smashed carrion meat across the fields of death. The thousand turrets of Lyye, once a wonder of the world, had been toppled by the marauders, who cared nothing for their beauty and impossible convolutions. Decapitated, the towers were a litter of shattered debris, amid the ruins of desecrated temples. The idols of Lyyrian gods, whose names were unknown beyond the city walls, lay like slaughtered giants in the rubble; an imperious arm pointing up at the sky here, a grimacing face peering through corpses there. The ground in those places was scarified with blood; later it would be sown with salt.

  The massive city walls, which had stood for centuries uncounted, had been breached and tumbled. The titanic blocks of marble, each anointed long ages past with the life essence of a sacrificed priest, had crushed the last desperate defenders, even as they had attempted to repel the invaders, who clambered over the rubble like ants, swinging their great weapons, dismembering anyone in their path. The Lyyrians had never been fighters and, unused to war, could do little to save their city or themselves. Their weapons were ornaments, worn at the hip to accentuate the lines of a costume. None of them were blooded; their blades were virgin, witless.

  In the past, only the Lyyrians’ reputation as sorcerers had kept enemies at bay - ambitious conquerors, outraged neighbouring states, greedy rabble. The city had been impenetrable, hiding its supposedly dark secrets within. Only the hint of sulphurous flame
playing about the towers on certain nights of the year hinted at the activities that took place within the walls.

  The people of the Wolf Kings, a coalition of neighbouring kingdoms, avoided the area. It was considered the safest course. But then the nomad hordes of the Fenilix, having been driven from their far northern lands by a hot-headed warmonger, had sought passage through the swamp plains of Giddian. The Wolf Kings of the Twenty Cities, who met often to discuss the bane of Lyye, but never to plan action, had held counsel with the Fenilict leaders. The Fenilix were fearless and only dimly aware of the Lyyrian reputation. For a price, they were prepared to attack the dreaded sorcerer princes of Lyye. Their gods, they said, rode with them into battle and no man, mage-wise or not, could withstand their righteous wrath.

  The Fenilix had gathered upon the swamp plains beyond the white city. Votive fires had been lit, the throats of youths ritually cut, to invoke the presence of the gods.

  Sentinels upon the walls of Lyye had observed these procedures with interest. After aeons of unmolested privacy, they could not believe that some lesser race was preparing to attack them. In any case, the walls of Lyye were too thick and too high to succumb to invaders. In retrospect this had proved short-sighted.

  After long months of siege, while the Fenilix besported themselves before the walls, swigging wine and conducting feasts in full sight of their rapidly famishing enemies, the walls had proved as much a prison as a refuge. One drunken night, the Fenilix had poured forth across the plain, shouting war hymns and anointing themselves with fresh blood. It was through accident rather than strategy that they discovered the walls of Lyye, though thick and towering, were as friable as chalk, owing to their immense age. Encouraged by their first assault, the Fenilix clawed and battered the massive stones, and the walls crumbled.

  The Lyyrians were a beautiful, fragile race, but doomed to extinction. Inbreeding had thinned their blood, whereas the Fenilix were young and hardy, and familiar with the art of war. As the palaces fell, the weary citizens were herded from the ruins to be raped and massacred upon the blood-soaked plazas. Priceless artefacts were looted, burned or broken. Whole libraries, where the knowledge of millennia was stored in ordered ranks, were ransacked and despoiled. If the Lyyrians had recourse to magic, it was not strong enough to repel the brutal physical force of the Fenilix.