The Scarlet Star Trilogy

by Ben Galley

  ‘Pick a pine strong and tall, alive as the day it first sprang from seed,’ he whispered to himself.

  Rhin chose the biggest he could find and marched right up to its gnarled and twisted roots. With great ceremony, he drew his black steel sword with a metallic hiss and pointed it at the bark. ‘Carve to the heart, for a splinter true and strong,’ he muttered.

  With a grunt, Rhin dug the sharp blade into the bark and twisted it so that a section fell away. Rhin swung his sword again and his strong blade bit deeper. Resin started to gather, like dark, viscous blood. The faerie hacked at the tree-trunk, over and over again until the steel found the hard layers beneath the bark and outer rings. Rhin wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. With two more lunges, he cut two deep gashes, low and high. Then, pressing his palm flat against the sword-hilt, he burrowed with its sharp tip, levering out a section of wood the length of his forearm. With a splintering crack the piece was liberated from the tree-trunk and fell to the loam between the roots. Rhin picked it up and held it aloft, feeling how sticky it was with his fingers.

  ‘I guess it’ll do,’ he whispered.

  Next the faerie built a small fire in a ring of gathered stones, a short distance away from the pines. Faeries do not like to see trees burn. Sparks flew from the edges of his sword, and the sun-dried tinder began to crackle.

  Rhin waited for the tongues of flame to start licking before he added some of the resinous bark he had hacked from the tree. He sat on his heels and waited for his fire to blossom before he sat back and took out his black knife.

  Holding the long chunk of wood against his leg, he began to whittle it down, heating it every now and again to make the resin bubble and harden the wood. Half an hour, it took, to carve the chunk into a sharp, pointed stake. Rhin sat cross-legged, twirling it around in his fingers, feeling the weight of it and making little cuts here and there. Then he held it over the fire to harden and dry for a final time.

  There are few things in the world that bean sidhe do not like. Fewer still can harm them. Fae steel can only slow them, cut their rags and notch their bones. Only a pine-knife can pierce their flesh.

  Before they had been cursed and bent into the creatures they now were, banshees had feared the forests, keeping to the wilds and moors. It was why faerie forts were often ringed with trees as well as stone. It was because of the resin—that was all Rhin knew. It had soured their wounds in their war against the Queens, when the Fae had wielded long spears cut from pine. Now in death and memory it haunted them still.

  Short of carting around a copse with him, a pine-knife was the only true chance a faerie had against them. It was the slimmest of chances, but Rhin would take any he could get. If go he must, he would do so far from quietly.

  Rhin looked down at the black cross etched into his palm and frowned. He traced it gently with the needle tip of the pine-knife. He winced as a pain shot up his arm. The faerie smiled wryly. So the lore is not all lies and bedtime stories, then. A little of the heavy weight that had been pushing down on him lifted, just a little.

  Every day that weight had been getting heavier. It was part of the curse. The bean sidhe liked to take their time. The longer they waited, the more fear crept into their prey’s bones, the more restless their victim became in their sleep. Rhin knew the bean sidhe’s charms, but it did not mean he was immune. Each and every day he waited for them to come, the more he found himself gazing off into the desert, or flinching at the night sounds, and the more Merion watched him knowingly.

  Rhin abhorred fear. It was weakness incarnate. After Fell Falls and the White Wit, he had sworn never to entertain it again. That added another layer to his worries: a disappointment in himself that irked him deeply. Just so long as the boy doesn’t see it, he told himself.

  Merion had sworn all sorts of trouble for the banshees in the first few days. With the murder of his father somehow behind them, the boy did not exactly relish the thought of losing the faerie. But Rhin had just nodded and kept quiet, humouring him. Rhin wanted him to forget about it, as he also longed to do. And Merion had, in a way—falling silent and falling deeper into circus life—except for his wary looks, now and again. Rhin had promised never to drag the boy into his mess again, and he intended to keep his promise. Merion had plenty to concern himself with.

  Rhin sighed and looked up once more at the roof of leaves shivering far above him. The day was inexorably fading to evening. The faerie sighed and got to his feet. He twirled his pine-knife once again, pressed it to his forehead in a salute, and then thrust it beneath his breastplate, where it sat in a groove in his armour. Out of sight.

  After relieving himself on the fire to make sure it was as dead as could be, he set a course back to the circus. He strolled casually, letting his thoughts wander onto other topics instead of banshees and pine knives. Fortunately for the faerie, his mind humoured him for once, making a mockery of the miles between the forest and the edges of the circus. He was back before he knew it.

  Old habits die the hardest. Even though the circus had accepted him as one of their own, Rhin still kept himself on the fringes of invisibility. He wandered the patchwork shadows, and ducked under guy ropes and wagons. Even after all his many decades, it never ceased to amuse him to know he was just a flicker in somebody’s periphery, a shadow that made them momentarily scratch their heads, and shrug.

  ‘Sneaking about again, are we?’ asked a voice, shattering his game.

  Rhin froze and completely vanished. It was Nelle Neams, the beast-keeper, leaning against one of the wagons, smoking a cigarette to the bone. Nelle was a skinny sort, pigeon-chested, with a smart goatee and long, slicked-back hair down to his neck, a whitish blonde. He wore a flat-topped hat, the kind the lawyers and the accountants wore in London.

  Rhin let his spell wane. ‘Evening, Mr Neams.’

  ‘Nelle’ll do just fine, Rhin,’ he replied.

  ‘Nelle it is.’

  ‘Coming to the fire-pits tonight?’ he asked, pushing himself off the wagon so he could step into the light and crouch down.

  ‘I suspect so,’ Rhin replied, wary as ever. Nelle had not stopped looking at him since the night of their performance. Rhin had kept a low profile since, happy to have a few chats here and there, but usually out of sight, or with Merion. It was all rather new to him, being so open, so visible. Nelle had not spoken to him before like this. This was new.

  ‘That’s good, good.’ Nelle nodded, watching a few of the other folk pass by, some of the workers. ‘I have a proposition for you that I think you’ll find entertainin’.’

  Rhin crossed his arms. Propositions always came with a cost. Be it in time or coin or blood, they will always make a mark, hammer a dent. ‘Why not just tell me now, and I’ll give you my answer after supper.’

  Nelle was already lighting another cigarette. Rhin had to wait for him to light it, twice, before the man answered.

  ‘Seems a good idea,’ he replied. ‘Well then, Rhin. I’ve got an empty cage with your name on it.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Rhin glared, putting a casual hand on his sword.

  Neams held up his hands, talking between pursed lips and his cigarette. ‘No, no, not like that. You see I got a gap to fill, and knowing that you faeries have a strong lust for mischief, I thought you might want a part in my zoo. Just some fool-play, to scare the kids and whatnot,’ he explained, clearly not eager for a taste of black steel.

  Rhin raised his eyebrow. ‘What?’

  ‘You can sit in the cage, vanishing and reappearing here and there.’ Neams took a sift drag of his cigarette and then waved his hands about. ‘Stealing popped corn, throwing stuff. Do whatever you like. Have a little fun. Get tips too. Now I heard the Fae like coin. We could get you a little tunic. Or waistcoat.’

  ‘A waistcoat?’

  ‘And a little blow pipe and some pips.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Just think it over,’ Neams said. ‘And tell me later.’

  Rhin fought not to cackle with derisi
on. ‘That I will. Have no fear.’

  ‘Right. Later.’

  ‘Until then, Nelle,’ he said, sketching a shallow bow and then striding off, vanishing bit by bit as he walked away. Rhin kept his eyes ahead, somehow knowing Neams would still be looking.

  Rhin found Merion circling the perimeter of the tent, gazing out into the distance and grumbling away to himself.

  The faerie’s keen ears picked out his words. ‘Where is that little bugger?’ Merion was saying, over and over. Rhin shook his head.

  ‘I’m here, and you will not believe the conversation I just had with Nelle Neams,’ Rhin announced as he appeared, already rolling his eyes.

  Merion looked as though he would unleash a tirade on the subject of wandering off, but instead he led the faerie inside the tent. He stood in the middle of it, yawning and stretching. ‘Go on then, spill,’ he said, a glint of curiosity in his eyes.

  ‘Show me a thirteen-year-old boy who can resist a good story and I’ll give you my wings,’ Rhin chuckled. ‘So Neams wants to put me in a cage.’

  ‘What?’ Merion spluttered.

  ‘Exactly what I said. He wants me to be part of his zoo. Scare the kids by playing tricks with my magick. As if it’s some sort of party game. Says he’ll even pay me, which is about the only bonus.’

  Merion crossed his arms, a trait he had picked up from his father whenever there were serious words to be had. ‘Well, when you put it like that, why the hell not?’ he asked.

  It was a good question, and one that momentarily stalled Rhin. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Why not? This is probably the one place where we can get away with it. Where we can practise our magick in plain view and have people cheer and throw coins instead of fetching pitchforks. When have you ever been able to do that? When will we ever get the chance again?’ he explained, with a clever smile. He did not bother to mince his words. Merion was quickly realising that in the wild west, words did not know the meaning of mincing. And with Rhin’s black cross, well, chances needed to be taken, seized, held tight and close to the chest.

  Rhin rubbed his forehead, furrowed like a farmer’s field as it was. He sighed. ‘Well, when you put it like that …’ he murmured. ‘Damn it. When you’re right, you’re right,’ Rhin cursed. Fae, like humans, did not like to admit they are wrong.

  Merion beamed. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, I’m jealous, but you should say yes.’

  ‘But do you not find Neams a little too odd for your liking?’

  ‘Rhin, we’re living with a circus now. That line is drawn a little farther down the road here, I think.’

  ‘Right you are. Well, I’ll tell him after supper then.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll perform tomorrow night, for Daeven Port?’

  ‘Maybe I will,’ Rhin mused, already trying to think up games he could play. He tutted at himself.

  ‘I’ll come and watch.’

  Footsteps sounded outside the tent and in walked Lilain, followed by Lurker, who had a sway in his step. Lilain seemed to be ignoring the prospector, as if he had got drunk on her words. ‘Ah, Nephew. How are we?’

  Merion nodded, but then held up a finger. ‘Actually, I had a question: I can’t remember my dreams.’

  ‘What an odd thing to say,’ Rhin remarked.

  Merion shushed him. ‘I know it sounds peculiar, but I used to have such vivid dreams, and remember them so easily when I awoke. But now, I can’t remember anything about them. And I somehow know they’re just as vivid, but fogged now.’

  Lilain was cradling her chin in her fingers. ‘Hmmm,’ she pondered. ‘It happens sometimes when you rush. In fact, Sheen and I were talking about this earlier.’ Lilain ignored Lurker’s muted grumbling, half-disguised as a cough, and continued. ‘The magick seems to burn out the part of your brain that remembers your dreams. Some letters will tell you they’re connected: the part that dreams and the part that understands, or controls magick; as if they grew up together, all those centuries ago.’

  It made sense to Merion. ‘It’s just particularly frustrating.’

  ‘I don’t remember shit about my dreams, if I dream at all,’ Lurker rumbled from behind them. He had found a comfortable spot on Merion’s borrowed bedroll, and spoke from beneath the brim of his hat.

  ‘Maybe that’s it then.’

  Rhin buzzed his wings. ‘Fae remember every single aspect of our dreams. Even move them around if we wish.’

  ‘Well, that’s nice for you, ain’t it,’ Lurker muttered. Rhin threw a tiny pebble at him, catching him on the peak of his hat. Lurker swatted at him like a fly, even though he was a good few paces away.

  ‘Does it ever go away?’

  Lilain shook her head and patted him on the shoulder. Merion might have taken it as patronising had he not been in a fine mood. ‘ ’Fraid not, Nephew. I think it’s permanent for you. Now come on, it’s almost supper time. And Lurker, you need some food in you.’

  ‘Yes Ma’am,’ Lurker replied, not moving a muscle.

  Merion pulled a face. ‘Well that’s annoying,’ he muttered to himself, before reaching for a thick plaid shirt, another loan from the circus. His stomach distracted him with a fearsome growl and he patted it warily. ‘Supper sounds good.’

  *

  Supper was a plain affair. It had been a while between towns, and supplies were low. Lentils and watery broth, with nondescript meat. Merion had to have two bowls just to placate his murmuring stomach.

  Not a complaint was heard from any of the circus folk. Merion expected they had seen worse meals in their time, and gone longer between towns. He kept his mouth shut and spooned it down as fast as any of them.

  For a change, Yara had ordered them to gather in the big tent. The stars that normally kept them company during their evening revelry had been obscured by finger-like clouds, creeping in from the east, a sign that rain was on the way. As the final spoons clattered into the last bowls, it had begun to patter on the tent, softly at first, and then rising to a dull roar. There is a certain smugness that comes from being dry and warm when it is pouring down outside. No less so in a tent.

  It was strange that however low the circus’s food supplies were, the supply of alcohol never dwindled. As soon as the tables were pushed aside and posteriors met the dust and flattened grass, beers and slim bottles of clear moonshine started to creep through the circles. It was necessary, proof that no matter how tough the road could be, there was always a drink at the end of it, rumbling bellies or no.

  Merion passed on the moonshine. Under Aunt Lilain’s watchful eye, he had tried a nip the first night at the fire-pits. It had burnt like acid and left him choking, much to the amusement of Yara and the others. No, beer was more to his liking, bitter and earthy, complete with the occasional speck of grit every now and again. Lilain had allowed him a swig or two, and he liked the way it tickled his head and warmed his belly, intoxicating him like blood.

  The chatter of conversation had a nervous buzz to it that night. There was more fidgeting, more laughter, and even more dancing when the moonshine made another pass. Merion watched it all through sleepy and beer-laden eyes. The training had taken its toll. He felt like a bubble floating aimlessly, bouncing back and forth between words.

  He sat between his aunt and Sheen, who were busy swapping stories over his head. The two seemed inseparable. They had spent the last few days discussing the finer points of blood. Merion had not seen his aunt quite like this before, not since his first night in Fell Falls. So enthusiastic and cheery. Perhaps it was the alcohol. Or maybe the magic of Cirque Kadabra had sidled under her skin too.

  Lurker sat opposite, muttering in Devan’s ear. Occasionally one of the two would roar with laughter. Even in Merion’s sleepy state, he did not miss the prospector’s furtive looks in his aunt’s direction.

  Rhin was speaking to Yara and Nelle at the other edge of their circle. The boy could not hear them, but from Rhin’s exaggerated hand movements, and Nelle’s growing smile, he assumed Yara had agreed.


  Merion caught her eye as he looked on, nurturing a little jealousy, it had to be said. She was staring at him with flat eyes, no emotion behind them. Merion tried a polite smile and she got up.

  ‘Sheen,’ Yara called to the letter and then motioned upwards. Sheen obeyed, standing up and moving aside so Yara could sit next to Merion. Sheen wandered off in search of more moonshine, leaving Lilain looking bemused and curious. She leant in to listen to the circus master’s words, eager to know what this was all about.

  ‘I can see it in your eyes,’ Yara said to the boy.

  ‘See what, Yara?’ Lilain enquired. She had the glint of liquor in her eyes.

  Yara flicked her a look, as if wondering why she was part of the conversation. When she replied she spoke to Merion instead of Lilain. ‘Lust.’

  Lilain raised an eyebrow. ‘Pardon me?’ she asked. This time Yara flashed her a smile.

  ‘A lust for the stage, like your little friend there,’ she explained, nodding to Rhin. The faerie was still in deep conversation with Neams. The odd man was busy drawing shapes in the dust as they talked. ‘I have spent enough time in the Cirque to recognise it when I see it.’

  Merion nodded. ‘I was going to ask you, later tonight,’ he admitted.

  Lilain was scratching her head, combing her long hair back where it had escaped. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘but I think I’m a little lost.’

  Yara explained for her. ‘Your small friend there has been invited to appear alongside the rest of the beasts, tomorrow night in Daeven Port. Our new attraction.’ She seemed proud of that.

  ‘It was Neams’ idea. He wasn’t going to do it, but I convinced him,’ Merion added.

  ‘And here was I, thinking it had been Nelle,’ Yara mused. A bottle of moonshine was waved in front her, and she passed it on. Yara the Lightning never drank more than a sip.

  Merion raised his chin. ‘And I want to do the same. I want a place in your circus, Ms Mizar, like Big Jud said, and sing for my supper as he put it. I already have an idea …’