The Purple Emperor

by Herbie Brennan

  Henry twisted his head to look at them. They hung behind him, large and marvellous. They weren’t the wings of a bird, more like the wings of a butterfly or moth—a rusty iron colour with some patchy, muted markings. He’d seen more spectacular butterflies, but his wings were still beautiful. Beautiful! He had wings! He was a winged boy! It was just too wonderful for words.

  Henry began to run. He thought that if he ran, his wings might make him fly.

  His wings stretched out behind him and he could feel the lift of air beneath them. That was really freaky. There was sensation in the wings, a straining in the new muscles between his shoulder blades while the air itself took on a squishy-pillow feeling. He thought he might lift off, but it didn’t happen. He tried again, running harder. His wings vibrated and flapped uncontrollably, but nothing else.

  It occurred to him that since he couldn’t really move his wings, the next best thing might be to hold them rigid. He ran again, experimentally. His wings locked easily into one position and there was a slight, reassuring sense of upward pull. Maybe he was on the right track.

  Near one of the quadruped trees, Henry found a small, spongy hillock. On the far side was a gentle downward slope that ended in a sheer drop of several feet. It was a perfect launching pad.

  He could spread and furl his wings now, more or less to order, and while he couldn’t move them otherwise, he thought this might be enough. He spread his wings, locked them open, then began to run down the slope towards the drop.

  He began to feel the lift on the slope. The locked wings tugged at him, affecting his balance and almost causing him to veer off to the right. He gritted his teeth, compensated and managed to head straight. Even before he reached the edge, he knew it was going to work.

  The edge was rushing towards him faster than he would ever have believed possible. At the last possible moment, he began to doubt. This was stupid. The wings would never work. He was running down a weird hill on a weird plain in some weird world and the chances were when he went off the edge he would end up breaking his neck.

  Henry ran off the edge.

  And flew.

  Henry soared. It was fantastic. It was as if a giant hand had pulled him upwards. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced before, not like running, not like swimming, but a magnificent, wonderful, delightful, joyous something else.

  The strange thing, the great thing, was how natural it felt. Henry had never had much of a head for heights, but now he didn’t care. It was as if he lived in the air, as if he’d lived in the air all his life. It felt as safe as walking.

  Within seconds he discovered he was in control. He didn’t quite know how, but it was happening. If he wanted to turn right, he turned right, banking like a glider with his right wing tipping downwards. He wheeled and plunged and soared and fell and soared again. It was utterly, totally and completely wonderful.

  Henry flew higher and higher. He felt the wind on his face and the elation in his heart. He flew until he thought he soon must touch the sky.

  His hand reached out and really touched the sky. The blue dome wasn’t sky at all—it was ceiling. The realisation struck him like a thunderbolt. He was in a giant room. What he had thought were tree trunks were the legs of chairs. The horizon was a wall. That strange formation to the south was actually a bed. There was a dressing table, a cupboard, a wardrobe. The ‘hill’ he’d used as a launch pad was a crumpled garment somebody had left lying on the floor.

  Not a giant room. Not a giant room at all! Henry had shrunk. It all came together now. The strange perspectives. The missing biofilter on the portal control. He had reached the palace all right—he was in somebody’s bedroom—but he had undergone a transformation in the process.

  He fluttered down to the dressing table and examined himself in the towering mirror. He was a fairy creature. Except for the patterns on his wings, he looked like Pyrgus had looked the first time they met. He was a fairy creature who could fly! He felt like dancing with delight.

  Then he saw the spider.

  Thiry-Two

  There were rows of Palace Guards standing in formation on the palace lawn. Pyrgus walked between them with as much dignity as he could muster. Blue was at his side. Mr Fogarty walked three ceremonial steps behind, his features set. They had all taken the short time allowed them to change into official robes, giving the whole nasty affair the feel of a State occasion.

  Comma was standing by the main gates, smiling smugly. ‘I don’t want you to give me any trouble, dear half-brother,’ he said as Pyrgus reached him. ‘If you try to come back again or interfere in any way, Lord Hairstreak will insist I have you killed. I wouldn’t want to, you know that, but it’s only fair. We have a Realm to run and there can’t be any interference. Besides, I shall be Emperor and any opposition to the Emperor’s will is treason.’ The smile left his face and was replaced by a curious, almost sympathetic expression. He dropped his voice. ‘You can keep all your money, Pyrgus, and if you need any more send word and I’ll give you more. If you stay away and don’t make any trouble, I’ll let you come to my Coronation. Lord Hairstreak won’t like it, but I shall overrule him.’

  ‘You’ll pay for this, Comma!’ Blue hissed. Pyrgus said nothing.

  ‘Escort them off the island!’ Comma called grandly. ‘Then have them transported to the Haleklind border. When they leave the Realm they must not return except on my invitation.’ He tilted his head back and struck a pose, then added, ‘In writing. And stamped with the Imperial Seal.’

  ‘Where’s Lord Hairstreak, Comma?’ Mr Fogarty asked in a conversational tone. He managed to sound as if he was going for an afternoon’s stroll.

  ‘It’s Prince Comma, Gatekeeper,’ Comma told him crossly. ‘And you aren’t Gatekeeper any more. I’ve fired you. I’m going to appoint another Gatekeeper, a Faerie of the Night. Lord Hairstreak says that’s more ecumenical.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Prince Comma,’ Mr Fogarty said mildly. ‘I was just wondering where Lord Hairstreak was. After all, he’s Regent now.’

  ‘You’d best be glad Lord Hairstreak isn’t here,’ Comma said, ‘otherwise you’d be in jail instead of leaving for a nice comfortable exile. But he’s coming soon, once he finishes off some business or something. He’ll be living in the palace from now on. With Father.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Mr Fogarty.

  ‘Well, you’d better hurry and get out before he does come, and get away while you still can.’ Comma moved to one side and the escort fell in behind Pyrgus and his little party.

  As Pyrgus stepped through the gate, he allowed himself a backward glance. He wasn’t certain, but he thought he saw his father standing at an upper window of the palace.

  ‘I’m going to kill him!’ Blue hissed the moment they were all alone.

  ‘He’s only a child,’ Mr Fogarty said unexpectedly. ‘He thinks being Emperor will make him something special.’

  ‘I’m worried Lord Hairstreak may kill him when he comes of age,’ Pyrgus said, echoing an earlier thought. ‘Hairstreak will never give up power once he becomes Regent.’

  ‘He’s already become Regent,’ Blue said sourly. ‘He’s already put everything in place ready for the official announcement.’

  Pyrgus shrugged. ‘You know what I mean.’

  They were seated together in one of the palace ouklos, an enormous golden carriage with plush purple seating. It floated at a stately pace that ate up miles with a deceptive speed. Through the window they could see the uniformed outriders on their individual floater pods—fiercely helmeted and armed men whose duty it was to ensure they left the Realm.

  ‘This Haleklind,’ Fogarty said. ‘Have either of you ever been there?’

  Pyrgus was staring out the window. ‘I have. I lived there for a bit.’

  ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘Hilly. Rocky. Barren. Quite primitive, really. There are parts of it where people still live in caves. But our father had excellent relations with the ruling House, so we should be giv
en somewhere comfortable to stay.’

  ‘We’re not staying,’ Blue said.

  ‘No,’ Pyrgus said. ‘No, of course not.’ His mind seemed on other things.

  ‘Who is the ruling House?’ Fogarty asked.

  ‘Of the Halek? House Halek. There is only one House, really.’

  ‘Would they help us take back the Realm?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Pyrgus said. ‘But even if they did, they’d be no match for the Imperial Army.’

  ‘It’s a backwater,’ Blue put in. ‘That’s why Daddy never bothered bringing it into the Realm—not worth the trouble.’

  ‘Why did you live there, Pyrgus?’ Mr Fogarty asked.

  ‘I wanted to get a Halek blade,’ Pyrgus said a little sheepishly.

  ‘It’s a knife that always kills,’ Blue explained to Mr Fogarty, with an expression on her face that suggested she had no time for knives that always killed.

  ‘Couldn’t you just buy one?’

  Pyrgus said, ‘Didn’t have enough money. Besides, a Halek blade takes time to make. And you’re dealing with Halek wizards. They’re the best in the world, but they’re tricky and they won’t hurry for anybody.’

  Mr Fogarty glanced at Blue. ‘Could they help with our predicament?’

  ‘The wizards?’ Blue said. ‘They might. Pyrgus is right—they have extremely powerful magical techniques. But we’d have to come up with a plan.’

  Fogarty nodded, then sank back in his seat and closed his eyes.

  Thirty-Three

  ‘Gone?’ roared Lord Hairstreak. He was dressed head to toe in black velvet and looked like an apoplectic imp. Comma had insisted on their meeting in the throne room, apparently because he wanted to sit on the throne.

  ‘Into exile,’ Comma said, emphasising the second word slightly, as if to stress its importance, or possibly just to show he knew what it meant. He had changed into State robes, several sizes too large for him, in imperial purple. From his high vantage point on the Peacock Throne he chose to study the backs of his hands casually.

  ‘I told you to have them imprisoned,’ Hairstreak snapped. ‘Actually I told you to have them executed!’

  ‘I decided to send them into exile instead,’ Comma said, then added petulantly, ‘Nobody tells the Purple Emperor what to do.’

  The child was a nightmare and always had been, just like his mother. Hairstreak said bluntly, ‘You’re not Purple Emperor yet. And until you are, you’ll do well to remember that your Regent holds the reins.’

  Comma glared at him sulkily. ‘Well, it’s done now.’

  ‘Where have you sent them?’

  For a second Comma looked as if he wasn’t going to tell, then he muttered, ‘Haleklind.’

  Hairstreak swore under his breath. It was one of the few countries that had resisted infiltration by his agents. Particularly galling in such an ignorant backwater. Most of the inhabitants were scarcely down from the trees. But their wizards were something else. Would it be possible to mount a raid? The price was bound to be enormous—Halek magic was weapons magic and the wizards could decimate an army if they dug in … one reason why their country had been left so long alone. Better to try to stop Pyrgus and his sister before they reached the border. Or arrange an assassination if that didn’t work.

  ‘When did they leave?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘A little while before you came,’ Comma told him vaguely.

  ‘How are they travelling?’

  ‘By ouklo. By imperial ouklo—they’re still members of the royal family, you know,’ Comma said.

  It could have been worse. Ouklos were not exactly fast and it was probably a day’s, two days’ journey to Haleklind under the best conditions. There was still time to do something. ‘Which route did they take?’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ Comma said airily. ‘I leave those sort of arrangements to my minions.’

  Hairstreak fought hard to replace his fury with an icy calm. It would be simple enough to find out what route had been taken. Even Comma wasn’t stupid enough to send them off without an escort. Once he knew the road, he could dispatch a party of his best men. The guards would not be expecting an attack—why should they? Pyrgus would be dead before they had time to react. So would anybody else travelling with him.

  Hairstreak narrowed his eyes. ‘It is foolish for your future to allow your half-brother and half-sister to live,’ he said firmly. ‘But you may safely leave that to me. Meanwhile, Comma, let me tell you this. If you ever, ever, countermand an order of mine again, I shall see that you regret it deeply. You seem to forget I have the full authority of your sainted father.’

  The change in Comma was astonishing, but not the change Hairstreak had expected. The boy swung round, eyes blazing. ‘That thing you call my father is an empty shell that only walks because of your black magic! You think I’m a fool? Better think again, dear uncle!’

  Hairstreak turned and stamped out of the throne room. There was no time to lose in mounting the pursuit of Pyrgus and Blue.

  He could deal with Comma later.

  Thirty-Four

  Henry found he was thinking two things at once. One was that he knew this room. He’d been here before—it was Blue’s bedroom in the palace. The other was, Yeoooow! He was afraid of spiders even when they were smaller than his thumb. This spider stood taller than his head.

  He recognised it as well. It was the thing Blue kept in her jewel box, some sort of pet. But pet or not, it was a monster that could eat him now he’d shrunk.

  Except for one thing, of course. He could fly and the spider couldn’t.

  Henry turned to launch himself off the edge of the dressing table and found he couldn’t move a muscle.

  It was the most horrible sensation he’d experienced in his entire life. It was as if something had wrapped filaments around his mind, binding him so tightly he could scarcely think. His whole body felt chill and lifeless, like meat. Henry froze on the edge of the dressing table and watched with terror as the spider crawled towards him.

  Its eyes were huge, featureless ovoids, black as the depths of Space, liquid and hideously wise. They stared at Henry without emotion.

  The creature moved with great deliberation, legs lifting high, feet placed carefully, almost delicately, as if feeling out the high-grained wooden surface. There was a soft, gentle click with each contact and Henry noticed for the first time the spider had claws.

  There was a jerk in time, like missing frames in an old movie reel, and suddenly the spider was no more than a yard away from him. The smell was overpowering now, alien and rank. He could hear a tiny hissing, crackling sound like bacon frying.

  The spider reached out with one foreleg, as if gently probing. Henry fought his paralysis like a mad thing, but still failed to move. The claw at the end of the leg was embedded in a tuft of yellow fur. It was curved as a sabre is curved, but little longer than a dagger and, like the eyes, completely black. The surface had the polish of horn. It moved with great deliberation towards his eye.

  Suddenly the spider slashed him.

  The claw missed his eye, but ripped a gash in his cheek, opening it to the bone beneath. Amazingly there was no pain, but blood spurted like a fountain, spattering both eyes and blinding him. At the same time his paralysis broke. Henry jerked backwards in a reflex action, stepped into space and found himself falling. Desperately he knuckled his eyes. Sight returned slowly through a red, stinging haze that cleared as he blinked. He was dropping like a stone. The floor beneath rushed up to meet him.

  Henry found his wings again and flew.

  His heart was pounding, his whole body trembling, his mind frozen in the shock of his experience. There was a sticky warmth across his cheek, which was beginning to hurt now—a deep, hot throb that spread to take over almost the whole of his face. Yet the wings took him and held him, as if of their own accord. He rose easily and safely until, high above the dressing table and its nightmare, he was able to hover far from danger while his breathing slowed and calm g
radually returned.

  The spider was drinking his blood.

  Henry fluttered down a little closer to make sure, but there was no mistake. Blood from the wound on his cheek had pooled on the surface of the dressing table and the spider was bending to it now, extruding a fleshy tube with which to feed.

  For a moment he simply watched, his thoughts tumbling in confusion. Something began scratching at the edges of his mind, like a dog at a door. The sensation was so sinister Henry froze again and it was only when he began to drop directly down towards the spider that he remembered to use his wings. In his anxiety to get away, he found himself fluttering in circles like a wounded moth. But he couldn’t get away—the scratching thing was inside his head.

  Henry almost lost it then. He wanted to scream and scream and flail about and curl up into a ball and hide and never, never come back out again so long as there were things like —

  The spider stopped. It hung there, at the edge of his mind, alert but cautious. Below him, the spider suddenly looked up and watched him with its huge, black eyes. Two spiders, but the same spider. The creature below was just a thought away. The creature below … A stupid, stupid, stupid idea occurred to Henry. The creature below just wanted to make friends.

  The thing had ripped his face apart and drunk his blood! It was about as friendly as a viper!

  All the same, he turned his mind towards it and watched carefully. It stayed quite still, waiting. I have to be mad, Henry thought. I have to be nuts even thinking I should do this. The spider waited. Henry hovered and the spider waited. Henry couldn’t stop thinking the spider only wanted to make friends.

  The thing below him trilled with pleasure.

  He could stroke it like a kitten. If he wanted to, he could just reach out and stroke it. It was crazy, but he could. The spider below was the ugliest thing he’d ever seen, but the spider as it hung at the edge of his mind was somehow … different. It looked the same to his mind’s eye, but ...