The Scarlet Star Trilogy

by Ben Galley

  Just as his legs were growing sore, Merion found himself in the long shadow of the buildings on Jekyll’s edge. He took a moment to stand atop a small mound and stare about, eyes wandering between the benches and saplings.

  ‘A copse. Oak and elm. Oak and elm…’

  Merion muttered to himself, wishing he knew more about trees; although it was impressive enough that he remembered their names, and Rhin’s old rhymes.

  He spotted a copse nestled in a hollow just short of the park’s boundary. The trees were packed so tightly that half of them were nearly fused together. Merion aimed himself at the hollow, walking slow and careful, as if the presence of his footsteps could betray him.

  Just outside the copse he found a small plaque set into a rock. Merion scanned its weathered surface, shining grey where it had been rubbed of its brass. It told the story of a young child, lost to the well inside these trees. But Merion was not in the mood for stories, and he knew better than to listen to its warnings. He walked on, eyes narrow.

  It took several minutes to find a gap where he could sneak through into the deeper darkness between the trees. It was silent there; the rattle and clatter of carriage wheels and footsteps muffled by the density. He found himself a little short of breath. Perhaps it was a sort of magick; Fae spells to keep intruders at bay.

  Merion found the well almost immediately. It was the only thing standing amid the loam and gnarled roots; impossibly old, made of bone-grey brick, the mortar long chipped away. A warped wooden structure stood over it, dangling a thin, silvery rope into the mouth of the well. The boy forced himself forward to look down, even though his heart hammered in his chest. All he wanted to do was run, yet he knew he had to look, to push himself on. It was inspiration in its darkest form.

  His thoughts turned to the night of the Bloodmoon, of Rhin snarling in the lightning flashes, of the sight of the empty dock receding into the night as the Black Rosa dragged him and Calidae away.

  Merion shook his head. Rhin was done running. He would have fought the banshees tooth and claw until they took him. He was here, in London, there was no doubt. Merion shuddered as he thought of what his friend might endure while his plan unfolded. What scored him deeply was that he was no use to the faerie yet; that Rhin had to wait to be saved.

  Merion put his hands to the cold brick and stared down into the hole. It was as if the light—what little there was of it—was not welcome in the well. It shied away from the darkness, barely penetrating a yard or two at the most. From there on, it was velvet blackness. Impenetrable. Merion shuddered and let his legs lead him away, squeezing back through the trees, and out into the evening. He had never felt magick quite like it.

  He let the fear vacate him, embodied in several giant sighs of relief. A passer-by walking a herd of small tufted dogs threw him a concerned look. Merion mumbled an apology—more to Rhin than to the stranger—and began to walk away, catching his breath on the move.

  By the time he was back in London’s core, his feet didn’t want to see another mile of the city. That’s what you got, pretending to be a waif and stray in the biggest city in the world. He had the coin for carriages and horse-traps, but carriage-jockeys and whip-crackers like to swap tales, or so his father had once told him. And they remember faces like you would not believe. Better to put his feet to work instead of ruining Dizali’s surprise.

  Finding himself back on the Kingsroad, Merion followed it south until the pungent smell of the docks tickled his nostrils. His eyes roved every nook, every cranny, gutter, shadow, and wall; as they had all day. He was on the hunt for two things. First, a Scarlet Star, then a place he could stow himself away for a night or two. The latter was taking precedence at this moment in time. A chill was already settling into the cloudless evening.

  He stuck to the older streets, where the dock-houses had sat before the sway of industry and commerce moved further down the river. The stench of grimy wood and overused gutters drifted on the air. To most high-born, it would have been intolerable to walk these streets, never mind sleep on them, but Merion’s spectrum of tribulations was too broad for a boy his age. He thought of the day spent handling the dead in Fell Falls, after the Shohari attacked. He had seen the world’s true face and it was an ugly one. But there was no time for naivety, nor regretting missed chances for change. As that traitorous Big Jud had said, far back in Nebraskar:

  ‘If you’re content in this moment, then don’t regret those that have led you to it,’ Merion muttered. Big Jud hadn’t put it nearly as eloquently, but the meaning was clear. The Endless Land may have chewed him up and spat him out, but at least he was back here, in London. He had returned home.

  Merion allowed himself a grim smile beneath his hood.

  No regrets, just revenge.

  By the time the city’s bells were proclaiming midnight, Merion was settling into his new abode; a forgotten alcove under a higgledy thatched roof. It was warm for the most part, thanks to a roaring fire somewhere beneath him and a dry roof above. Spiders and mice he would have to come to some sort of agreement with.

  The stress of the day smothered him as he put his head to the crumpled bag; a rudimentary pillow. His eyelids were lead shutters, clamped tightly; his limbs made of stone. He felt sleep curling around him and slipped into its embrace.

  Chapter VI

  PROMISES

  30th July, 1867

  All Rhin knew was cold, and that he wasn’t able to move. Not even a hair. He was just a pair of eyes, trapped in a kaleidoscope of green, white, and the darkest black. It was so cold even the shadows had frozen. He couldn’t see his breath before his face. Every now and again, he would feel icy water climb his neck, or linger at his lips, unseen, making him want to thrash and panic. All he could do was blink. The uninterrupted fear seemed to last for days, until the phantom water was finally dragged away, leaving his eyes to shiver uncontrollably, rattling in their dead sockets.

  Was this death? Or just the journey?

  When Rhin finally managed to focus his addled mind, he had the suspicion that if this was death, then it was only just the beginning. For bean sidhe do not kill what they have been commanded to fetch. If there was to be a light at the end of this tunnel—as the humans enjoyed to pretend—it would be Sift’s grinning face, sharp like a blade of granite.

  The shadows grew with every warped mile that passed; every mile closer to Shanarh they drew. By the time he felt the hard press of the earth choking him—clutching his throat and forcing dirt into his mouth—blackness enveloped his eyes. He screamed in his head, wanting for all the world to feel just one twitch, one shiver, in his paralysed body.

  With a thundercrack, it was over. The dirt, fear, and the cold all vanished. Rhin floated like a lost seed on the tunnel breezes; curled like a foetus, forgotten and discarded.

  Then came the stillness; hours of it, as the world slowly found its feet again. Up became up, down became down. Then a pressure, as if gravity were falling over him for the first time; building up from his knees and ankles to his wings and his head, laying heavy on his chest. Then the cold returned, its spikes digging into his wilted muscles. He wanted to snarl and curse but his face was still frozen, his eyes still blind.

  Inch by inch the feeling returned, flooding glorious warmth back into his icy veins. But then came a new terror: the pain of realisation. It had not been a dream. In the void, he had harboured a hope, prayed to the Roots even, that he had simply knocked his head, or he was fighting through a fever. Praying was something he had not done in decades; not since he had realised the evil of Sift’s mind and stolen her Hoard.

  Roots be damned!

  Rhin shuddered as he breathed, as warm air found his lungs. He was on his knees; he could feel it now. He arched his back and neck, letting his head loll backwards, and with every inhalation of cool air, he felt his face come back to life. Lips, then cheeks, and finally his eyes. With a great effort he cracked them open, peeling his eyelashes apart to find a vast dome of marble hanging above him, an
d a chandelier of wrought iron, gold-flecked root, and mole-bone.

  There was only one queen in the world who would own something so disgustingly audacious: Fae Queen Sift.

  Rhin let his head fall back until it felt level, and focused his eyes on what lay before him. There she was, just as expected; lounging casually in her beetle-horn throne, fingers resting against her lips, golden eyes narrowed in amusement. She was thoroughly enjoying this. It was plain as day.

  With a crack of his neck, Rhin looked to his left and right, and found he was surrounded by the bean sidhe, grinning with their black mouths and decayed teeth. Their misty rags crept over the marble like sentient tentacles. Their sickly-green glow ebbed and flowed about them, emanating from the mist that wrapped their brown bone in gristle and sinew. They whined ever so softly in discordant unison, no doubt moaning at their collective wounds. Rhin had battled them the length of the pier and back again. The pine-knife had been splinters by the time their magick had felled him; their bones and ethereal flesh gouged and scraped. Rhin vaguely remembered his sword snapping at the hilt before the darkness had taken him.

  One after the other they spoke, wailing in distant voices, jawbones scraping out the consonants.

  ‘The errand is fulfilled.’

  ‘We have delivered our prey.’

  ‘The one called Rhin Rehn’ar is yours.’

  Sift waved her hands. ‘That you have, traitors. You may go back to your tunnels, until I have need of you once more.’

  There was an awful moment where the banshees didn’t move. They just wafted back and forth, rasping to themselves, dripping vapour on the stone floor. They looked angry, jilted, like mercenaries discovering their coin-purses were lighter than usual. One even floated forward, hissing like an over-boiling pot. It placed a hand on Rhin’s shoulder and the faerie felt the cold spread through him again.

  ‘I command you to go!’ Sift snapped.

  ‘And so.’

  ‘We.’

  ‘Shall.’

  The bean sidhe rasped one by one. Slowly, they faded into the air, screeching as they departed. Rhin and the Fae Queen were all too swiftly alone.

  Sift turned to look at him, and he at her. Their eyes duelled for a time.

  ‘Rhin Rehn’ar,’ she said. His name was the scrape of a knife-tip over slate. ‘Returned to us at last. Put up quite a fight, so I see. Impressive.’

  It took a while for Rhin to make his lips work, but when he did, they dripped with sarcasm. It made sense to get the jabs in while he still could.

  ‘Started referring to yourself in the third person have you, Sift? That’s rich, even for you.’

  The irritable flash in her eyes was so very satisfying, Rhin went for another; a coarse dig, unrefined, and cheap, but sometimes that’s exactly what a witch like her needed.

  ‘And I see you’ve got fatter since I escaped your clutches.’

  That brought her rearing up out of her throne and marching towards him. Her hand clouted him around the face, again and again, back and forth, until he was back in the void and struggling for air.

  Rhin came round to find Sift back in her throne, hands still bloody, a tight little grin on her face.

  ‘I cannot tell you how enjoyable that was, Rehn’ar,’ she said, picking some of the blood from her fingers. ‘I had expected better of you. Some manners, at least.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure to disappoint.’ Rhin spat blood on her marble.

  ‘Fascinating creatures, are they not, the bean sidhe? Succeeded where the White Wit failed. I should have gone to them first, instead of wasting a perfectly good mercenary.’

  Rhin chuckled, thinking back to the night of the storm in Fell Falls, and seeing Finrig punched through with a bullet. ‘He was almost as foul a soul as you, Sift. The world’s one faerie better off.’

  Sift leaned forwards in her throne and clapped her hands to her knees. Her wings buzzed irritably.

  ‘Ah yes, your little righteous speeches! How I’ve missed hearing them. Tell me again how I’ve lost my way, and become corrupt in my years. Or was it that you were a coward and couldn’t handle the pressure of being my general? As I told you many years ago, Rhin, it takes a queen to give the order, but a soldier to wield the sword. Both our hands are drenched in blood, my little hypocrite.’

  Rhin’s teeth were clenched so tightly he could have made diamonds. His words barely made it out.

  ‘You turned us into something barbaric. Something twisted and broken. I would not be a part of it. That was why I left.’

  Sift exploded. ‘AND TOOK MY HOARD WITH YOU!’ she bellowed, making Rhin flinch. There was magick as well as volume in that shout; raw and angry, pushing him backwards. ‘No Fae steals from me and lives!’

  ‘And I’d do it all again,’ Rhin shot back. ‘That reminds me, how are your little wars going?’ He half-expected another barrage of blows, judging by the dark shade of Sift’s cheeks. But instead she laughed, filling the throne room with cackling.

  ‘Why do you think I brought you back?’

  ‘Hopefully because you’ve seen the error of your ways and want to apologise before setting me free, never to bother me again?’ When all he received was a fierce stare, he shook his head. ‘You want to hang a blade over my neck and see my head in a basket? Toss me into the Hollow for the moles to eat? Dangle me from the Coil until I starve to death? Am I close?’

  ‘No, Rhin, you are not,’ Sift hissed, eyes afire. ‘The very definition of property is something you own outright, no contest. You, Rehn’ar, are now my property, and as such I can, and will, do anything I please with you. You think you have seen barbaric things as a soldier of mine? They will pale in comparison to what I have planned. I have years of fun to have with you. Not even your little pet boy can help you now.’

  Rhin couldn’t help but twitch at that.

  ‘And when I finally grow bored, perhaps a decade from now, you will beg me to end your life, and ask for my forgiveness.’

  Rhin bowed his head. His tongue was suddenly parched. No wit would come forth; no words to make a mockery of the fate that had been so eloquently illustrated for him. He could see it in Sift’s eyes; she meant every last damn word, and after several centuries of knowing her, he was sure she would see it through.

  She would do everything but kill him, bringing him back from the brink, time and time again, until he was a broken shade of the faerie he had once been. Rhin saw it all spread before him, and it chilled him more than a banshee’s gaze.

  As Merion would have put it: this would simply not do. Rhin had two choices left, as far as he could see. He would escape or he would die; and in either case, Sift would not be given one ounce of satisfaction.

  Rhin narrowed his eyes, and, with effort, met Sift’s gloating gaze.

  ‘Do your worst!’

  ‘Oh,’ Sift chuckled. ‘I shall.’

  Chapter VII

  A CHANGE OF PLAN

  2nd August, 1867

  Merion tapped the feather of the quill to his chin and pondered over his words.

  C,

  I’m bored of waiting it out. I know W is in Clovenhall. Have you found him yet? Or the deeds? Three days and still no letter. Planning for 10th.

  M.

  There wasn’t a spelling mistake in sight. He just wondered if it was a little too rude. He pulled a face, and dipped the quill in the ink-pot.

  P.S. Hope you are well.

  He knuckled his forehead. Doltish.

  After a moment more spent grumbling, he blew the letter dry and found an envelope. Then he placed it into the tiny drawer hidden under Calidae’s desk. (No surprise that it was sat directly next to her father’s. Ever the studious one, that Calidae. He wondered if she had ever known a childhood.)

  The boy left the study and worked his way through the bare halls once more. A few sticks of furniture had been left behind, standing wrapped in white sheets, like children playing ghosts. Seeing their ancestral home in all its dusty glory revealed a different side of the Se
rpeds. A handful of portraits watched him creep along. Distant or dead family, even one or two of Calidae, boring into him even through ink and oil.

  It was an odd feeling to be there alone, left to pry. He had made enemies of the Serpeds before he had truly known them. On his first visit, he had still held them as sharp shapes in his mind, painted them in black and white. This was the third time he had trudged their halls, and now those images had been filed down, smudged into grey. Merion understood it all now. Castor Serped and Karrigan Hark were the same. Opposite sides of the same gleaming coin; each working for their family’s success, doing whatever it took to get there. Castor simply occupied the opposite end of the moral spectrum, and that was why Merion did not regret killing him. Calidae was another matter, one he refused to entertain for now.

  The Spit was a jut of land poking into the Thames estuary. Slickharbour was the town around it, and Slickharbour Spit was the Serped estate, all sweeping walls and square towers. It looked completely out of place.

  Merion snuck back along the beach, dodging into the woods here and there to disguise his tracks. He was getting good at this, after two days. Rhin would be proud. He was helped no end by the complete lack of guards. All of Castor’s staff and lordsguards had accompanied him to Fell Falls; as had all his riches and prized possessions. Both of those had turned to ash. Slickharbour Spit was now a shell; abandoned, locked up tight like a rabid dog.

  From the Spit to the road was a short walk, and from there, another quick jaunt along the high street to the rumbleground station, the most isolated in the new network. Both he and his feet thanked the Almighty. He had seen far too much of London flagstone and cobble. His feet were so calloused he might as well have had hooves. The rumbleground train meant he could get to Slickharbour and back in under two hours, and with minimal walking. It cost a pretty penny, but he had a few of those to spare.

  Merion let the rattling of the aptly named trains lull him into a broken sleep, full of the hissing of clockwork doors and garbled announcements from the hoarse conductors. Before America, he had loved these journeys, pressing his nose up to the glass to glimpse the lights, soot-painted workers, and the over-sized rats scurrying through the dark.