The Scarlet Star Trilogy

by Ben Galley

  He awoke to a polite knocking on the carriage door. Dizali cleared his throat and pushed it open. The sky was now pitch-black, starless. Several of his butlers were waiting with lanterns. The Prime Lord dismounted and strode through them, causing them to spin and follow in his wake like autumn leaves in a gust.

  ‘Have you eaten, my Lord?’ asked the first.

  ‘No, and I don’t care to tonight.’

  ‘Will you require the sitting room, my Lord?’ asked another.

  ‘No, just privacy.’

  ‘Would you like a book, as usual, my Lord?’ enquired the third.

  ‘Not tonight. Tonight I will just sit and think.’

  ‘A fine choice, my Lord,’ they chorused, each then peeling off through separate doors and down hallways. Clovenhall was quiet and still. Dizali took the main stairwell that spiralled upwards. A short walk led him to the northeast wing, where a small tower jutted out from the brickwork and coiled upwards into a point.

  The door was locked to all except him and one of the butlers, the one he trusted most. Dizali fished the key from around his neck and slid it into the lock. He slipped inside, quick as a cat, and locked the door after him. He stood there for a moment, in the shadows, and took a long, slow breath.

  The stairs curled up to one circular room, then another with an ornate wooden ceiling, its rafters spinning an intricate pattern. The first room was a small sitting room, complete with fireplace, armchair, and a small bookcase. The upper room was a bedroom lit by small candles in jars, almost burnt down to their wicks. Dizali scowled at that as he trod softly up the stairs. He would have them seen to.

  In the middle of the upper room was a wide bed, laden with white sheets and white pillows, as though a small iceberg had come for a nap. Dizali shook his head and dragged the sheets and blankets back. ‘Give you some air,’ he said quietly.

  With great ceremony, Dizali fetched a small, three-legged stool and positioned it carefully next to the bed: not too close, and not too far. Sitting, he reached into the mound of pillows and retrieved a very thin and very frail hand. The wedding ring on it was loose, sliding back and forth, trapped between the knuckles. Dizali lifted the hand gently to his lips.

  ‘I shall tell you a different story tonight, my dear,’ he said quietly, as if afraid to disturb the rhythm of shallow breathing coming from between the pillows. He did not dare look. He did not like to see her eyes, empty and wide as always, staring at whatever was placed before her. For now, as it had been the past few years, it was the ornate ceiling.

  ‘I shall tell you what I have planned for this city, for this Empire. I will tell you a story of what I will achieve, because I know you will be proud of me when you hear it all out,’ he said, listening to the breathing for a while, as if waiting for a reply. ‘It will be as you dreamt.’

  Dizali went on, telling her of every strand in his web of politics. It was a tale that roved from dusty America to the black beaches of the Ottoman Empire and beyond. He gripped her hand tighter and tighter as he spoke, laying it all out before her, as if somewhere deep inside her broken mind, behind that glass-like gaze he could not meet, his wife remained, and was listening, huddled in a cell, smiling for him.

  When he had run out of air and machinations, Dizali released his grip and let the hand fall back to the bedsheets. He took a moment to stare at the hand some more, and then reached into his inside pocket. He withdrew a vial of dark, red liquid and uncorked it with a squeak. ‘Here, my dear, Avalin,’ he said, reaching over and finding her lips with his fingers. He poured, gently, hearing her gargle and then swallow, before lifting it to his own lips and finishing it off. He slid the vial back into his pocket and narrowed his eyes as the blood slid down his throat, making his skin prickle.

  Dizali stood up, straightened his waistcoat, and made to leave. He got halfway to the stairs before he mumbled an apology and went back to kiss her hand. He looked at her as he did so, encountering her vacant gaze. It was one of those glances where the eyes betray themselves, moving inexorably, like a toddler’s hand reaching towards a bright flame.

  Dizali bit his lip as he felt his stomach sink. ‘Goodnight, dear,’ he muttered, and left.

  Once the door was tightly locked and several determined breaths had been taken, Dizali marched back down the stairs.

  ‘Tea, my Lord?’ asked one of the butlers, leaning out of a doorway, as though he had been waiting to do so. Without breaking stride, Dizali plucked one of the empty cups from the man’s silver tray, walked several paces, and then let it smash on the marble floor.

  ‘I need something stronger,’ Dizali snapped, as he made his way towards his office. He had letters to write, many letters indeed.

  *

  Deep beneath the earth, where even the worms do not dare crawl, where the tunnels are carved from rock and the air grows hot, a Fae Queen was growing tired. Tired of the endless stops and starts. Tired of the constant clanking of the armour and rattling of wheels. Tired of waiting.

  The Deep Tunnels were a legendary maze, eons old and craftier than a pickpocket. They delved deep into the earth where the old magicks still held sway, where creatures even more dangerous than the Fae still lurked. But Sift knew the safest route, thanks to the ancient lore passed down from queen to queen. It was etched into her brain, a song-map, learned by rote as a child: to call on the oldest foes of the Fae; those that had sworn an oath on the edge of extinction; to be called upon, whenever a Fae Queen has need.

  And Sift had need. By the Roots, she had.

  ‘Take the left passage,’ she called out. She was even beginning to tire of her own voice, ordering the steps of the song in an ever-increasing monotone. The song-map was long and complicated. They had been negotiating the Deep Tunnels for a day now.

  Their only bother had been a mole, two days past. It was a savage beast, a true wild one, fuelled by the old bloodlusts. The Coil Guard had made short work of it, taking it down with spears before driving a sword through its neck. She had decided she liked this new captain she had chosen: a fine Fae if ever she saw one, not too far a cry away from that Rhin Rehn’ar.

  Sift thumped her fist on the roof of the carriage. The soldiers flinched, looking around. ‘Left passage, I said,’ she hissed.

  They journeyed on, slow and rattling, the spiders now tired. The guards had to walk to save their strength, so the carriage could only totter on at a walking pace. It would take them an age at this rate.

  ‘Faster, I say,’ Sift ordered.

  Caol ran up to the side of the carriage and bowed. ‘My Queen, the spiders are worn out. If we drive them hard now, they may leave us stranded. It may take longer if we have to walk. Dangerous too.’

  Sift’s golden eyes flashed. ‘I’m dangerous, Captain, and we’re moving at a walking pace right now! They’ll find some energy if they know what’s good for them. Whip them on,’ she snapped as she retreated inside the carriage. She listened to the thuds of boots climbing aboard, and the crack of the driver’s whip. She felt the carriage lurch and smirked. That Caol was a brave one.

  Another handful of hours slipped by, filled with Sift yelling directions, and the soldiers cracking the whip. Finally, the song-map was coming to an end. Sift sped them up for the final few lines, putting them far into the northern spoke of the Deep Tunnels.

  ‘One final left, and then straight on,’ Sift shouted, before demanding they stop and let her sit up front. The guards made way and the carriage sped on. Sift leant further forwards with every yard that rattled past. The air had grown cold, with a bitter taste to it. Sift’s wings twitched in anticipation.

  The tunnel stretched on into the darkness. The guards’ combined light spells were waning from tiredness. It was plain to see in their narrowed eyes. But something about the chill in the air had woken them up. That, and Sift’s furious eyeballing whenever the light dimmed. They shone with a renewed effort, wings humming acquiescently.

  The air grew colder still, until they could see their own breath before them. So
me of the rock turned to ice, and it spiralled around the tunnel, as if they were secretly falling and did not know it.

  Sift pressed them on, faster still. She did not care how tired the men or the spiders were, she just wanted to get this over with. It would be unpleasant, she knew, for the bean sidhe were vile creatures, with hearts of ice. Sift hoped they would keep to their ancient oath. She would see to it that they did.

  After an hour, the cold became unbearable. Not a single faerie on that carriage was not shivering. Even Sift, the strongest of the lot of them by a mile, the purple blood of queens in her, trembled a little.

  A mist arose to greet them as the end of the tunnel loomed, marked by a huge seal depicting witches and shadows feasting on a table of small human children. A relic from millennia lost, by the look of it, dusty but not rusted. Sift’s eyes wandered over the haggard faces of the witches, fangs out and proud, and the claws of the shadows. She shivered against her will, cursing.

  She stepped down onto the frozen ground and pulled her thick, fur-lined cloak tightly about herself. She had already seen the archway, leading into the darkness. Sift narrowed her eyes at it.

  ‘Captain,’ she hissed. ‘I need no escort from here on. I’ll go in alone. No questions. No protestations. No heroes. Just do as you’re told, do you hear me?’

  ‘Loud and clear, My Queen,’ replied Caol.

  Sift raised her chin and marched forwards across the mist-carpeted ground. The archway swallowed her in darkness and she had to feel her way along the small tunnel. It felt like an age before she saw light—a faint glimmer, but light nonetheless. She began to walk faster, as if the darkness was closing in on her. When she burst out of the tunnel and into the cavern, she did so with a gasp.

  As she brushed the dust from her robes, Sift glared about the cavern. It was choked with mist, which swirled around the three pillars that held up the ceiling. Everything was dripping. Stalactites and stalagmites hung and sat like fangs, as if the cavern itself were the skull of some yawning monster. Sift eyed the warped ceiling. That was probably not far from the truth. She took a breath and stepped forward, manoeuvring through the sharp teeth so she could stand in the centre of the three pillars. Her teeth chattered as she waited for something to happen. Anything. She did loathe to be kept waiting, after all.

  Then there came a whisper, the shadow of a distant scream. The mist swirled around the bases of the pillars. The air grew even colder, almost too cold to breathe. Rag-wrapped bones, stark and grey, rattled as they plucked themselves from the soggy earth. Sift watched them come together, piece by piece. Their breath was the scraping of stones. Their faces were forged in vapour, giving their stolen bones flesh. Their eyes were hollows with sharp specks of light hiding at their centres. It made her eyes twitch to meet their dead gaze, to stare too closely at their faces, where the mist coiled about their skulls, playing at being a lip, a nose, or an eye. Sickly green light rippled in their black throats as they yawned, wailing like needles across a slate.

  Sift drew herself up to her full height. ‘I have to come to call upon the bean sidhe and have them honour their oath to serve the Fae Queens, forever and always.’

  The banshees slid forward, bare bones brushing against frozen rock. The spectral faces smiled at her, a glimpse of death in the rotted flesh.

  ‘Centuries have passed since that oath,’ moaned one, its voice the sound of a dozen corpses all whispering as one.

  It sent a shiver down Sift’s spine, put a stumble in the beating of her heart, and that irked her. Fae Queens do not have back feet, yet here she was, on hers. Sift bared her sharp teeth, her eyes glowing. Her wings had begun to freeze in the cold air.

  ‘Hence the part about forever and always, sisters,’ she replied, loud and clear.

  There was a combined hiss. The banshees crept ever forward.

  Sift raised a finger. ‘Do I need to remind you of the stories, sisters, of when your kind slew the last Fae King in spite? Of how the Fae Queens vowed to hunt you down like moles, and forced you to the brink of nothingness? How we let you live, you three alone, in return for the occasional favour?’

  ‘We remember,’ creaked the banshee behind her, far too close for comfort. Sift whirled to face her, staring into the mist-filled eye sockets. ‘We remember well.’

  ‘We forget nothing.’

  ‘We never break an oath.’

  Sift turned to stare at the last banshee, head tilted to one side. ‘You will do as I ask, then?’

  ‘For a Fae Queen, anything,’ she replied, licking her mist lips.

  ‘What is his name?’

  Sift raised an eyebrow. The stories of their keen eyes were true, then. ‘Rhin Rehn’ar, a traitor, a thief, and a liar. He has defied me and forsaken the Fae, and it is time he saw justice.’

  The banshees now circled her, mist swirling around their murmuring rags. ‘Have you a trinket of his?’ one sighed.

  Sift narrowed her eyes. ‘Blood, found in the courtyard the day he escaped Shanarh,’ she said, reaching into her cloak and producing a tiny black box with minuscule silver hinges. Sift held it out and the banshees reached for it. A yellow spark flew when an ice-cold finger brushed against hers. Sift shuddered again.

  ‘Is that all you need?’ she asked them. ‘Sisters?’

  They were crowding around the box, trying their skeletal fingers at its latch. Sift backed away, watching them whisper and moan. The box sprang open and the mist shuddered, coursing like a wave across a still pond. Sift felt the pressure in the air heighten. The chill lifted, just for a moment. Sift watched the light grow under their rags and through their ribs. The mist began to bubble and swirl, three obelisks of vapour that glowed on the inside.

  ‘We will find him.’

  ‘We will bring him.’

  ‘We will fulfil the oath.’

  ‘Leave us!’ they whined as one. They began to screech and yowl, a piercing cry that rose up and drove splinters into Sift’s eardrums. Sparks began to fly as the sisters joined hands. The queen retreated back into the small tunnel, letting the banshees crackle and howl as the wind whirled around them. It chased her through the darkness, pushing and prodding her along until she stumbled out at the other end.

  The guards sprinted to her but she waved them away. Their wings had also begun to gather ice, and they drooped wearily in the misty air.

  ‘We can leave now,’ she grunted, her ears still ringing from the banshees’ howl.

  ‘What was that, my Queen? Are we in danger?’ Caol muttered in her ear.

  ‘Not any more,’ replied Sift, bluntly. She waved a hand towards her carriage, and the weary spiders slumped on the cold ground. ‘Let’s get them back to a warmer part of the tunnels, then make camp. Slowly if necessary,’ she ordered.

  ‘Yes, My Queen. A good plan.’

  Sift did not need Caol to tell her that, but she smiled anyway. ‘You will be guarding my tent tonight. You alone,’ she said, matter-of-factly. She noticed the confusion, or hesitation perhaps, on his face. ‘Is that a problem for you, Captain?’

  ‘No, Your Majesty. I’ll be there.’

  ‘Good,’ Sift said, before climbing back into the carriage and slamming the door. ‘Onwards!’ she yelled, and the guards climbed aboard.

  Sift spent most of the juddering journey smiling at the black silk that lined the walls—spiralling stitches that entranced her narrowed eyes. She bared her sharp teeth and nodded to herself. That bastard would be hers. All she had to do was wait. The banshees might take a week, they might take a year, but they would deliver. The oath bound them and Rhin was powerless against them. Sift grinned some more and then closed her eyes, eager to sleep the chill out of her bones and the lingering fear out of her chest. Not that she would have admitted that fear to anybody, dead or alive. And besides, if anybody among the latter dared to accuse her of it, he or she would have swiftly joined the former, and be none the wiser. Fae Queens do not fear anything, not even bean sidhe. Yet she had felt it, hot and sharp as the daylight a
bove. It was why a current of anger flowed under the satisfaction, souring it. Bittersweet.

  The patchwork sleep did well to calm her down, filing some of the edges from the experience, stealing some of it away. Sift awoke to find the carriage still and waiting, and a knocking at her door.

  ‘What?’ she demanded.

  ‘We’ve found a place to pitch camp, Your Majesty.’ It was Caol.

  ‘Call me when it’s finished, then,’ Sift sighed—as if it were all so difficult.

  ‘Yes, My Queen,’ Caol bowed and shut the door, leaving Sift to doze off again. He shook his head as he walked back to his group of faeries. ‘Right, let’s build a camp,’ he hissed.

  An hour passed, maybe more, as the two tents were erected, one for the soldiers and one for the queen, several feet away and on the opposite side of the carriage. The spiders were staked to a sword in the dry dirt. They wandered around, their long bony legs testing each footstep before moving. A few guards erected a fire while the rest stood in a circle, spears aiming out into the darkness, their purple eyes piercing the darkness, their keen ears listening.

  Caol knocked again once the food was cooked and ready. Sift swept from her carriage, her fur cloak billowing out behind her, wings folded down.

  ‘Bring it to me,’ she told him, before disappearing into her mole-skin tent.

  Caol did as he was told. The guards did not dare to snigger, even though in their eyes he could see that they wanted to. He prepared a bowl and a tray and made sure to include every single little thing she could possibly ask for. It had barely been a week, and he had already felt the lashing of her tongue far too many times. Caol cleared his throat outside the queen’s tent and waited.

  ‘Come in,’ came the reply, quietly, not in her usual tone. Caol raised an eyebrow and stepped forwards.

  ‘My Queen? Your supper.’

  Sift was standing off to the side, halfway through a book it seemed, one of the few she had brought along. She wore a long grey dress that shivered in the candlelight. ‘On the table, Caol, as always,’ she replied.