The Queen of Sinister

by Mark Chadbourn

  'Good for them,' Crowther said. 'At least someone is finding something worthwhile out of this whole miserable experience.'

  'I don't know what to do about Caitlin,' Matt said.

  'Yes, perhaps you should have thought of that before you blew up her one route into this place.'

  'You know I had no choice.'

  'Then she'll have to find another route ... or not. There's nothing we can do about it.'

  Crowther could see that Matt was obviously trying to distract himself from his anxiety by focusing on the matter at hand, but his fellow traveller was deeply affected.

  Matt scanned the door for some way of opening it. 'I can't understand why no one has been out to us. Surely they must know we're here.'

  'Triathus certainly implied they'd be eager to help us.' Crowther leaned on his staff. His back ached from the tingling insistence of the mask; its influence was growing more intense, so that sometimes it felt as though fiery fingers were digging into his spine.

  'There seem to be two different forms of architecture,'

  Matt said, pointing to the monolithic blocks and the delicate, surrealistic detail that overlaid them.

  'That's because it's the work of two different races.' Jack stood behind them, his arm around Mahalia's shoulders. 'The Golden Ones like to pretend they're the only people who ever ruled here, but there were others.' He walked over and patted one of the huge stone blocks. 'This comes from the Age of Warriors. The Drakusa were a hard, violent race - at least, that's what I heard. Not much is known about those who came before. Though before isn't really the right word in this place ... you know, time doesn't have any real meaning. I suppose they still do exist, somewhere. The Golden Ones just aren't interested in finding out any more about them.'

  'Did they influence humanity?' Crowther asked.

  'I don't know ... I suppose. It's said they had the power to shape rock, to pull up whole structures from the earth itself and mould it with the power of their minds. When I was in the Court of the Final Word, I made friends - although that isn't really the right word - with Math, the Keeper of Records. I think more than anything he was just keeping an eye on me once they'd done their work. But it gave me the chance to get into the library. They've got so many secrets hidden away in that place.'

  'Sounds like you might be even more valuable to us,' Matt noted.

  'More valuable than just a weapon?' Jack's tone suggested the hurt he felt at Matt forcing him to act against the Lament-Brood.

  'Can we just get inside?' Mahalia snapped. 'After nearly dying I could do with a sit down. And don't for a minute think I've forgotten who almost sent me flying to my death.' She fixed an eye on Crowther, who studiously ignored her.

  'Most of the great courts have doors that can be opened by anyone, if you know the right way,' Jack said. 'The

  Golden Ones aren't afraid of anything, so they never think anyone would be stupid enough to attack them.'

  Matt eyed the professor slyly.

  'What are you thinking?' Crowther said defensively.

  'You could use the mask—'

  'No! Absolutely not!'

  'You could—'

  'You saw what happened last time! Are you an idiot?' Crowther presented his denial forcefully, but he felt a feverish desire tingling throughout his entire body. The mask responded to his yearning with a gentle tug at his emotions.

  'You're a smart bloke. You can control it... or you can learn to.'

  'And in the meantime I risk destroying everything.'

  'You're doing to him what you did to me!' Jack protested.

  'I'm not trying to make anybody's life miserable, or to risk anything.' Matt sighed. 'But we're in a difficult situation with a lot at stake. Everyone has to do what they can to further our mission, even if there's a personal price involved.'

  'I don't see you paying any price.' Crowther pushed past Matt and sat cross-legged in front of the door. His hands were sweating as he tugged the mask from the hidden pocket in his coat. 'You have a very unpleasant way of manipulating people to your ends. Do you like seeing everyone suffer?'

  Matt dismissed the comment with a shake of his head, and went to watch the proceedings from the rail. Crowther held the mask for a second, but he was shaking with excitement and couldn't delay the gratification any longer. He held it up, and once it was near his face, the spider-leg protrusions burst from the sides and slammed into the holes in his head. There was a faint buzzing as it fixed itself to his skull.

  *

  'This time will he like honey.' The seductive voice of Maponus lapped around Crowther's mind. ' There will be no shocks ... no fear. It will be like floating on your back downstream, watching the clouds pass by above you, feeling the warmth of the sun on your face, knowing you could sleep if you wanted. You will be at peace in a way that you never have been. And you will want this peace again. You will always want it, for the rest of your days. After this moment, you will desire to wear the mask ... to connect with the greatness and wild wonder of my mind ... for ever.'

  And it was just as the mask said. Detached from everything that was happening, Crowther drifted in a state of pure joy and comfort, vaguely aware of the faint veins of blue that stretched across the door into a focal point three feet up from the ground and two feet in from the right outside edge. It glowed and shimmered before moving sinuously in a circle, round and round. It was a dragon eating its own tail.

  Languorously, he rose, walked towards the door and placed his palm in the centre of the circling dragon. There was a fizz of blue sparks from his fingertips and the door swung open.

  'See, mate, I told you there wouldn't be a problem.' Matt clapped Crowther across the shoulders.

  The professor stared intently at the mask lying flat in the palms of his hands where it had dropped after it had removed itself from his head. He had tried to keep it clamped there, but it had refused his urgings. Maponus' faint, tinkling laughter echoed around his skull.

  'Are you all right?' Matt asked.

  'Of course. I'm absolutely hunky-dory.' Crowther walked away through the doorway so that Matt couldn't see the tears in his eyes.An enormous hall soared up into a vaulted roof filled with shadows. The main walls were constructed from the monolithic blocks of the Drakusa, but everything else, every pillar, balustrade, arch, column, buttress, ridge, rail and shelf, was carved in such an intricately detailed manner that it was almost hallucinogenic. It was impossible to take in the level of detail, for the longer they looked at something, the more that would emerge, and continually so. The symbolism was heavy and portentous, and while not obvious to them, it worked its magic in their deep subconscious. Strange, troubling thoughts blossomed, as if someone were whispering hidden information into their ears.

  Mahalia caught Jack's arm. 'Can you see it? I thought it was an optical illusion - the light making the shadows shift...'

  Yet the light source remained constant, the shadows sharp and hard.

  'It's the carvings ... they're moving,' Jack replied uneasily.

  And they were, barely perceptibly but enough to trouble the companions. The strange beasts and alien figures continually shifted slightly as if they were alive; plants and trees moved in a faint breeze that didn't exist; birds adjusted their flight patterns. The effect was of the carvings shifting their perception as the four of them walked by, to get a better view of the strangers in their midst.

  'I don't like it,' Mahalia whispered, and hated herself for sounding so pathetic. She knew she could cope with hard, physical things that would bend to her will or her blades, but this was beyond her control. 'Why is it so dark here?' Matt said with irritation. 'If there's a whole court full of Triathus' people here, you'd have thought they'd have invested in good lighting. You know, nipped down to Ikea for some of those nifty little lamps on wires you can slide around.' He cursed under his breath. 'The window let the light in, but there must have been some kind of mechanism to transmit it into the depths of this place.'

  Mahalia unconsciously
moved closer to Jack so that he could slide an arm around her. The four of them stood huddled together in the centre of the vast hall for a long moment, drinking in an atmosphere of claustrophobia and incipient dread.

  'It feels to me,' Jack began hesitantly, 'as if something happened here. I don't know what...'

  Crowther had finally gained enough control over himself to return the mask to its pocket. 'Well, we can't go back,' he said, with an edge of bitterness. 'So we'd better hope there's another way out of here.'

  Matt ventured towards one of the walls, wincing as the carvings shifted to watch him. Plucking a torch from a metal bracket, he struck his flint and ignited it, so that the shadows swept away; it only added to the eerie movement across the walls.

  Matt walked slowly towards the darkness at the far end of the hall. The others fell into line behind him, glancing behind at the comforting sunlight that broke through the open door.

  The hall gave way to a maze of corridors and chambers, everywhere decorated with the disturbing carvings. They would glance up to see a horned figure watching them from above an arch, or something sinuous slither around a door jamb and into a room.

  They began to think they could hear the carvings talking. What sounded like sibilant voices came and went in phased patterns. It was only after a while that they realised it came from small globes fixed high up on the walls, with holes of varying sizes bored into them. As the four of them moved, they set off air currents that passed through the holes to create the constant sounds.

  Once they understood the source of the noise they decided it didn't really sound like voices at all. There was timbre and rhythm and cadence; it was music, but of a kind they had never experienced before.

  Crowther theorised that many people moving through the corridors and rooms would create louder, more vibrant tones so that it would appear that the entire court was always filled with soothing music. But with only the four of them there, the effect was creepy and unsettling.

  In one large hall, they made out paintings on the walls, so heavily faded that only by holding the torch close could they see the design. Parts of the paintings were obscured by the carvings, making it clear that they came from the earlier age of the court, when the Drakusa occupied more spartan surroundings. There were mountains and fire and vast plains, epic forests and gushing rivers. But one section made them all pause. Here were strange silver objects like eggs with legs.

  'Clearly they are the Caraprix,' Crowther mused as he examined the silver shapes. 'They are symbiotes. All the Golden Ones carry them.'

  'Caitlin mentioned Lugh had one,' Matt said.

  'Yet here they are huge, dominating the scenery.' Crowther was puzzled. 'Then, the Drakusa knew of the Caraprix too. Yet the way they are drawn ... it's almost as if they were deified.'

  He wanted to consider the issue more, for he was convinced it was of deep importance, but the others were keen to hurry along in search of daylight.

  The court appeared to stretch for miles, from the cliff face deep into the bowels of the earth. Flaring up in the shifting torchlight were grand columned halls with designs of brass and glass, drapes of scarlet velvet and floors of shining marble, sweeping staircases that could have taken fifty people walking side by side. There was a room where the walls were entirely made of mirrors, giving an unsettling sense of the four of them striving throughout infinity, seeking survival in endless dimensions.

  The chambers cried out for a throng of people devoted to art and beauty, continually accompanied by the music of their movement. But nowhere was there any sign of life. The scuttling, chattering, whispering sound that followed them wherever they went only added to the abiding sense of loneliness.

  Finally, when weariness had turned their legs to lead, they opted to rest in a smaller room where they didn't feel so exposed. Matt fixed the torch in a bracket on one wall, but its faint light did little to dispel the feeling of a sea of darkness all around, waiting to submerge them.

  'Ever get the feeling we've taken a wrong turn?' Matt said as he settled down at the foot of a wall. The oppressive atmosphere had crushed all the humour out of him.

  'I can't understand this at all,' Crowther muttered. 'Everything suggests this place was clearly occupied very recently. Triathus gave no sign that it was deserted. So where could they possibly have all gone?'

  It was a rhetorical question, and no one even began to answer it, though it had been troubling all their minds since they had first stepped into the court.

  Both Matt and Mahalia fell into sleep quickly. Crowther, who had spent much of their trek through the court struggling with his desire to wear the mask, forced himself to sit down beside Jack. Even in the grip of his addiction, other concerns were at play in his mind. He watched the boy preparing to put his head down and then said, 'So, you and young Mahalia are .. . stepping out, as we used to say in my day.'

  Jack's brow furrowed. 'Stepping out?'

  'An item. A couple. Romantically intertwined. You really have led the ultimate sheltered life, haven't you?'

  'I love her.' Jack's eyes sparkled in the semi-gloom.

  'Really. Sorry to burst your bubble, but it's only infatuation. You're awash with hormones. It's a genetic process designed to facilitate speedy bonding for continued propagation of the species.'

  Jack stared at him blankly. 'I know what I feel.'

  'No, you think you know what you feel. That's what all this mess is about - everything is an illusion and the truth lies somewhere behind it. Tell me about love when you've been with someone for years, cared for them when they're ill, put up with them when they're miserable or grumpy, taken the sharp side of their tongue and still come back.' He looked away into the dark, and added quietly, 'Tell me about love when you've acted quite appallingly, and the other person has still accepted you.'

  'Why are you so concerned about us, Professor Crowther?'

  Crowther snorted. 'I'm not concerned. Ridiculous.'

  Jack eyed the gentle rise and fall of Mahalia's chest. Occasionally, she would twitch and half-heard words would spring to her lips. His attention was caught by Crowther fumbling inside his coat, and for a second Jack thought the professor was after the mask again. Instead, he pulled out a dog-eared picture.

  'What's that?' Jack asked as he shuffled closer to peer at the snap. 'A painting?'

  'A photograph.' Crowther's voice was strained.

  The picture showed two teenage girls, long, blonde hair, wide smiles, sparkling eyes. Anyone other than Jack would have recognised the fashions of the early nineties.

  'Who are they?' Jack asked.

  'My daughters.' Crowther's face was shrouded by shadows.

  'What are their names?'

  'Sophie. And Stacia.'

  'Where are they now?'

  'You ask a lot of questions,' Crowther said grumpily. He tapped the photo gently with the tip of his index finger. 'I have no idea where they are. They left home. Never really got in touch much.'

  'That's not very nice.'

  'No, it's not their fault,' Crowther said firmly. 'I wasn't the best of fathers. Quietly obsessed with my own life, you see. Children were a distraction.' He fell silent for a moment, then added quietly, 'It seems to be true what they say - you never really know what you've got till it's gone.' He tucked the photo away.

  'Well, I know what I've got with Mahalia,' Jack said adamantly.

  Crowther pulled his hat low over his face and shuffled deeper into his overcoat, ready to sleep. His mumbled words issued quietly into the dark. 'Be careful how you treat her, boy.'

  'I wouldn't do anything to hurt her, ever.' Jack tried to pierce the shadows beneath the brim of the hat, but Crowther's face was lost to him. 'You care about her, don't you?'

  But all that came back was a long, low snore.

  They woke together, and realised some sound must have disturbed them. Matt instantly took charge, keeping them silent with a cutting motion of his hand while they listened intently. From a distance, a scraping noise came to
them, faint, but in the tomblike quietness it might as well have been an alarm.

  Matt grabbed the torch from the wall and they all crept out of the chamber.

  The noise was intermittent and indistinct and they would often have to wait for long periods until it emerged again to guide them in the right direction. They moved along a broad corridor and eventually came to a large hall that could well have been some place of worship, for there was a strange air of sanctity present. Exquisite paintings of fantastical scenes lined the walls and in the centre of the floor was something resembling an altar - a large stone table set with objects of reverence. In that room the motion-tones took on a different texture, sombre, haunting, prickling the hairs on the backs of their necks.

  The scratching sound came from the foot of the altar. As they moved closer, the torchlight set shadows dancing across the hall. The darkness unfurled to reveal a shape crumpled on the floor, and an odd fluttering movement above it.

  'Don't go any closer,' Mahalia said in a weak, strained voice, tugging at Matt's sleeve. He threw her off, curious and unnerved at the same time. He had to see.

  The shape fell into relief. It was one of the Golden Ones, a male, resembling Triathus with his beautiful features, faintly shimmering skin and long hair. He was twisted half on his back, occasionally clutching feebly at the altar to try to pull himself up.

  Mahalia exclaimed quietly, a note of sadness in her words, for they could tell he was dying. They hurried to his side and though his throat had been slit and there were numerous other wounds in his torso, there was no blood. Instead, his body was breaking up into tiny pieces that transformed into something like moths, glowing and golden as they fluttered up to the shadows that swamped the vaulted roof. Inside him, it appeared as though he were made of nothing more than light.

  Crowther pushed Matt to one side and knelt beside the dying god. At first the professor attempted to staunch the fragmenting of the body, but when it became apparent that the process was irreversible, he leaned forward and said, 'Who did this?' The god's lids snapped open to reveal shimmering eyes that ranged back and forth until they fell on Crowther's face. Then, with the last of his strength, the god reached up to grab Crowther's coat to pull him closer. His voice was a thin husk. 'They come,' he said. 'They come.'