The Lords of Blood and Honey (The Kingdom of Honey)

by David Gardner-Martin

  There was silence for a moment as both men stared into the fire. The dancing flames made Pooter feel giddy, as if a deep crevice had opened to swallow him whole. His vision blurred, and for a moment he felt completely disorientated.

  ‘Come, Mr Pooter, let us rest,’ Sideswipe said at last, clearly noticing his distress. ‘If we are to be ready for what tomorrow may bring, then even a restless sleep will be better than none.’

  Chapter 34

  Pontinal Bartolamy stared at his face in the mirror, but still he did not recognise the person before him. It was not that the features were unfamiliar to him; all the elements of his individuality were there before him, from the colour of his bright green eyes to the slight upward curves at the corners of his mouth. But though he could see plainly that the visage before him was his own, there was something profoundly different about the person that now stared back at him.

  He brought a hand into view and allowed his palm to run over his cheek. The sensation of skin against skin was comforting, but somewhere far behind the sensation, he also felt the power of life guiding his hand. He willed it, and his hand moved; he bade it stop, and it was still. So simple an action, and yet one that now seemed so incredible to him as to defy comprehension.

  A messenger arrived; His Mostfull was ready to be taken to St. Parthanter’s Cathedral.

  Lord Hardknot was keen that as few City residents as possible witnessed the grim procession, and when Bartolamy arrived only a faint glimmer of green on the horizon challenged the darkness of night. Darrius Slate bowed when he saw Pontinal Bartolamy approach. Beyond him Bartolamy saw a long covered carriage, within which he knew Cardinal Oblong lay in the Infusion Tank. Having been so recently restored by a similar process, there was a moment of longing to enter once again that blissful golden world, but when he pulled back a canvas flap and observed the naked body twisting and jerking in silent agony, he cried out in horror. Slate’s attendants beside the tank, busily orchestrating the delivery of the Seven Immortal Agonies into Oblong’s being, ignored the sound, so focused were they on the rhythm of the task in hand.

  ‘It has been a most satisfactory process, My Pontifect,’ said Slate, now at his side.

  Bartolamy said nothing, but walked away to step into a small carriage that had been reserved for him. Once he had taken his seat the commander of the King’s Own Guards shouted an order, and in the gathering light of dawn the procession began to march towards the little used rear Hivedom gateway.

  Running between shabby downcast houses that clung like limpets to the base of the rear Hivedom walls, and a row of equally shabby terraced houses, lay a narrow street, and the troop fell into double file and entered the gloom. The clatter of horse’s hooves and the grind of carriage wheels filled the confined space, and even at such an early hour several windows opened to see what the disturbance might be. As to why such a gallant troop was not using the widest and grandest of the City’s many avenues, not one person would have had any idea.

  Sometime later two small boys ran out of an alleyway, their dirty faces near identical as only those of twins can be. They looked at the King’s Own Guards in awe, their mouths opening wide as they caught sight of the long broadswords that were strapped in leather sheaths to each man’s side.

  ‘Stab me!’ gasped one. ‘Broad’uns!’

  ‘Real broad’uns too!’ said his companion back

  The commander stared at the boys that blocked their route. ‘Be off with you!’ he roared, but they did not move a muscle. ‘Sergeant Harald!’ he shouted, and a burly guard dismounted and ran toward the boys, his steel footsteps echoing in the confines of the narrow street; but the boys took flight, scampering easily out of his way like mice and into a ramshackle house.

  When at last they reached the end of the street the procession entered Lemon Road, which held a row of bonded warehouses and light engineering works; then Coldcart Way, packed with small shops for those of meagre means; and then finally into Herbert Hadport’s Way, a wide cobbled avenue of modest Proletaire businesses. When at last they reached its termination at St Brightspark’s Circus, the shadow of the Cathedral dome could be seen before them dominating the now bright green sky.

  Bartolamy did not wish to observe the installation of Cardinal Oblong upon the Altar of Depravity, so went to the Chapel of St Ballistica; a refuge he knew well from his training as a relical. The tiny space had thus far been overlooked, for it had yet to be robbed of the relics of the Holy Church of Afterwards. Dark clouds had moved over the City and the small stained glass window added only gloom to the oppressive atmosphere. Bartolamy stared at the image of the Patron Saint of Anger, as he was ripped into pieces by Honeyist whores for daring to defy their patience. Beyond the bloody spectacle lay the endless bounty of the Blessed Afterwards; his soon to be reward for such a terrible martyrdom.

  Prayer was a ritual as deeply ingrained within Bartolamy as eating and breathing, yet now without any words to recite, he felt at a loss as to what to do. He knelt and opened his mind to guidance. The minutes passed in silence until at length, beyond the doubt, She came to him once more, filling his being with the power of Her love. He stayed within Her presence for as long as he was able, the world around him lost to his senses, and when he opened his eyes at last, a bright yellow light, shining through a crack in the glass, had filled the space around him with a golden glow.

  He saw a small Tabernacle of Unification, still upon the altar next to a single blue glowick. He stood and walked towards it. A tiny gold key was still in the lock and for a moment he hesitated, but then a hand reached out and grasped the cold metal. The cogs slid silently as the door was unlocked; his heart beat raced at what he was about to do. To open a sacred depository of Words outside a ritual of Church ceremony, was a most heinous sin. He took a deep breath and pulled the small door towards him.

  He looked at the silver Chalice of Words, the weight of all his previous beliefs bearing down so heavily upon him that he did not breathe. He removed the ornate lid then reached into the receptacle and took a small circular white disc. Without even looking at the letters that had been inscribed upon its surface to give the Word meaning, he held it over the flame of the glowick. There was a flash of purple light as it disappeared into a thin trail of white smoke.

  ‘It is over,’ he whispered, and then turned and walked away.

  By the time he made his way back to the Altar of Depravity, the Infusion Tank had been safely secured upon it. A master stonemason was putting the finishing touches to the inscription that would lie beneath it for all time. Bartolamy read out loud the only written words that were ever to be permitted existence in St Parthanter’s Cathedral.

  Witness the Seven Immortal Agonies of the Holy Church of Afterwards

  Fear Pain Loss Confusion Despair Grief Anguish

  The row of attendants orchestrating Cardinal Oblong’s eternal agony now occupied one side of the Choir. Bartolamy watched their fingers as they played their infinite symphony of suffering. He stared once more at Cardinal Oblong, and for a fleeting second there was recognition as their eyes met. But just as quickly a new series of chords sent Oblong thrashing into a fresh spasm of agony, his eyes now closed as if searching in hope for some inner relief from the torment; a relief that Bartolamy knew would never come.

  ‘It is perfect, is it not, My Pontifect?’ asked Slate, once more at this side, but Bartolamy could not reply, for a stream of tears that now fell freely from his eyes, over his cheeks, and onto the cold stone floor below, had robbed him of the power of speech.

  Chapter 35

  Despite their fearsome appearance, Allessia suffered no harm at the hands of her Zenjo captors. When they removed their hoods in the glow of a fire, their flat noses, large eyes, and mean pinched mouths, betrayed no emotion. They talked in soft voices in words she did not recognise, but when they spoke directly to her, she seemed to understand their meaning. Eat. Drink. Hold tight. There was little else. They did not seem to be any rush, and when they were tired, they s
lept as soundly as babies inside small leather tents that each Zenjo kept rolled behind their saddle.

  On one night, the cry of a strange beast disturbed the freezing night air; the black blades and vicious crossbows that swept into view in an instant, momentarily stilled her breath. The beast did not attack them, the dancing fire cast shadows sending it on its way. Heavy snow began to fall as the Zenjos smothered the flames, and then the journey continued.

  Their mounts were stocky and tough, with thick brown hair and wild eyes. Riding upon one was uncomfortable, but not painful.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ Allessia asked, chancing another question.

  ‘Zuth!’ came the gruff reply.

  Her captor said no more and the word meant nothing to her.

  At last the outline of a high wall breeched the horizon; Allessia’s heart jumped with excitement, for there was no doubt that she was being taken back to the City. Had these strange people, she thought, simply come to rescue her? Were her parents still alive and waiting to welcome her home? Though the idea flashed for a moment, her intuition quickly overshadowed it once more. She stared at the approaching City. Whatever fate was about to befall her, she determined, would be encountered with as much fortitude as she could muster.

  The gate was opened only after a heated exchange between the Zenjo Chieftain and the guards on the battlements. They rode slowly into the City, the Zenjos clearly nervous and with their blades primed yet hidden beneath their cloaks. For a moment Allessia considered crying out for help; after all, these were City guards, whereas the men that held her, who had stolen her from her companions at the Winter Castell, were clearly from another world. But something cautioned her against the risk.

  The City streets were largely deserted, and when at length the Zenjos were given passage to a large open space in front of the Palace, the dull purple light of late afternoon revealed a mountainous black cloud approaching the City, its zenith shimmering in hidden rays of sunlight like a windswept wave. Beneath it flashes of lightning could be seen as it released its pent-up anger. Allessia watched its approach whilst the Zenjos spoke with the Palace guards. Her mind wandered back to the view she remembered so well from her room in the Seventy-Third Wing and the thunderstorms she had dared to watch from her open window. Several of the spires and domes now silhouetted before her looked familiar, although juxtaposed in an unfamiliar arrangement, but there was no doubt that she was close to home. Why then, she wondered, was the atmosphere so very different? Something was wrong, and an unfamiliar tension bit into her young heart.

  At length, a man in far more magnificent attire than all the guards arrived. To her amazement, he performed a formal bow as she was lifted from the horse and stood before him.

  ‘You are most welcome, My Lady,’ he said, in a deep refined voice above the stiffening wind. ‘I am Lord Marshall Forgewell, Commander of the King’s Army.’

  ‘Then, do you know who I am?’ asked Allessia, a question she realised would sound foolish as soon as she asked it, but one she felt compelled to venture.

  ‘You are to accompany me to your quarters, My Lady,’ said Forgewell, ignoring the question, and with that he turned and marched towards the Palace entrance. Allessia followed in the midst of a group of guards with their pikestaffs raised as if to protect her. She turned to look back at her captors, but the Zenjos had already started to trot away.

  The scents and sounds of the Palace were familiar and welcome. Nobles bowed, guards stood to attention, and gaggles of drollups hugged the walls. Allessia smiled at them all and sensed their pleasure at such a simple gesture.

  At length, the small party reached a wide hallway, the guards on duty pulling open two huge doors as they approached. They swept by into a beautiful room, richly adorned with precious artworks, tapestries and furniture. An all-pervading sense of sweetness and welcome filled Allessia’s being. Despite having no idea where she was, or why, she felt strangely at home. So much so, that she almost sighed with relief.

  ‘You are to wait here, My Lady,’ said Forgewell.

  ‘For what reason, sir?’ asked Allessia, deciding on politeness, but wanting to know all the same.

  ‘I have my orders, My Lady,’ said Forgewell. ‘When your ladies arrive, you will be served refreshments.’

  ‘My Ladies? I have no ladies. I had friends at the Winter Castell, but was stolen by those awful thieves that delivered me here. And do you know my father, the Earl of Rumball?’

  A dark expression fell over Forgewell’s face. ‘I never met him, My Lady.’ He executed a deep formal bow once more and then turned to march away, his guards accompanying him. The huge doors swung closed behind the entourage with a solid clunk and then there was silence.

  For a moment Allessia just stared after them, her mind racing with a confusing concoction of emotions; her new life seemed to be utterly strange and totally outside her control.

  ‘What,’ she exclaimed out loud, ‘is going on?’

  She heard a sound behind her, and when she turned she saw a young lady enter the room. She walked with soft footsteps, her long red hair tied back in several woven trails held fast with sparkling ribbons. Her body was wrapped with silks so insubstantial, that they seemed like mere wisps of coloured smoke. She saw Allessia and for a moment both figures stood still in silence, each held fast in their own moment of inaction. Then the girl spoke.

  ‘Welcome, My Lady,’ she said in a gentle voice.

  For a moment Allessia could find no reply, but then she found words to speak. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘But who are you? And where am I?’

  The girl answered without resistance. ‘I am Heather, My Lady, and a femone in service to the Queen’s Wing. This room is the Queen’s Chamber.’

  ‘And are you here alone?’

  ‘No, My Lady. But with Her Lightness newly cast, my companions and I have little to do. I alone have been sent to welcome you to your quarters.’

  ‘Her Lightness! Did you know the Lady Camellia?’

  ‘I am a femone, My Lady. She was well-known to me as our Queen. And well-loved.’

  ‘She was…wonderful,’ said Allessia, quickly deciding that now was not the time to make Camellia’s awful fate known. But quite why this should be so, she did not know.

  ‘May I ask, My Lady,’ asked Heather; she hesitated. ‘I hope you will not take offence at a direct question.’

  ‘No indeed,’ said Allessia. ‘For I have plenty of my own.’

  ‘We have been told to expect you, and that we are to serve you, but not who you are. And if I did not ask you, many of my companions would do so. In telling me, perhaps I can remove the burden from you of answering the same question many times.’

  Allessia smiled at the explanation, given as if it was needed. Maybe it was. But why?

  ‘My name is Allessia. And really, Heather, I have no idea why I am here. No idea at all.’ And with that she sat on a nearby seat and stretched, the evidence of awkward mud-worn travel clear to see even in the half-light. ‘I was brought here from the Winter Castell by strange men who said nothing I understood,’ Allessia continued. ‘Just grunts really.’

  Heather stared for a moment at Allessia’s muddied legs, clearly puzzled by the visitor she had been instructed to welcome. Then growing in confidence, she moved closer.

  ‘But surely you are a femone, like me, are you not? From the way you speak, your eyes.’

  ‘You are the second person to tell me this. So maybe it is true.’

  ‘It is clear to me that this must be true, My Lady. But if that is so, where you have been?’

  ‘I will tell you all I know. But right now, I am tired, very hungry, and surely in need of a bath!’

  ‘Of course, My Lady,’ said Heather smiling. ‘I will organise a room where you can bathe and change, and partake of refreshments.’

  ‘Please call me Allessia, Heather,’ said Allessia, beginning to like her new companion. ‘And though I have been brought here for reasons neither you nor I understand, I thank y
ou for your welcome and kindness.’

  After a heavenly warm scented bath and a much appreciated selection of treats to eat and drink, Allessia stood at a large window watching the storm. The flash of lightning and the crash of thunder struck so deep within her that she gasped out loud at each fearful explosion. At length stormballs started to strike the City, bright violet missiles shooting down from the sky like daggers to hit towers and steeples in showers of purple sparks. Allessia stared transfixed, the sensation of a world in motion growing with every passing minute.

  She felt a presence enter the room behind her and turned to see a tall man at the doorway. He looked her up and down with powerful grey eyes. Allessia felt flashes of light spin through her simple silk dress and a breeze brushing her long auburn hair. She felt exposed and uncertain what to do. But still the man did not speak. A chest thumping crash from a nearby lightning strike flew into the room causing Allessia to jump, and when she saw the man begin to smile, anger welled up within her that she could not contain. If she was going to be stared at once more like a fatted calf, she thought, well this time she would have something to say about it.

  ‘Have you seen quite enough?’ she snapped.

  Still the man did not move or speak, but simply continued to stare at her as if she had said nothing at all.

  ‘Do I please you?’ she added, as a further stormball showered the room with bright violet light. ‘Perhaps I should no longer be surprised, but it does get tiresome you know. One minute kidnapped, then bound and sold into slavery, then rescued, then safe, then running away. Shall I go on? Oh yes, of course, then stolen again in the middle of the night, dragged onto a smelly horse, and without a by-your-leave, brought back to the Palace once more. And now, well, do you know what is going on, for the ladies here seem to know nothing?’