Bram’s moustache quirked in a grin. “Not a word of it,” he said. “But I know that if you get better, this wasting sickness goes away. That’s all I need to know.”
Poison’s recovery was quick, and within days she was out of bed and walking again. With the return of her strength, the malaise that had taken the Hierophant’s castle seemed to recede like a bad dream. Colour came back to the cheeks of the castle’s inhabitants, and flesh to their bones. The walls seemed to become denser, until they were once again the indestructible stone they had always been, as mighty as the foundations of the mountains. Storms lashed the castle with renewed fury.
The most remarkable thing, aside from the rapid recovery of all concerned, was the amnesia that seemed to come with it. Nobody remembered the strange fading sickness; like a nightmare destroyed by the sunlight, it existed only in faint tatters of recollection. Whenever Poison mentioned it she was met by puzzlement, even by Bram, and told that she had not quite recovered from her own illness yet. As far as anyone was concerned, Poison had gone down with the flu and they had nursed her back to health; but if she pressed anyone for the specifics, they evaded the question.
She let the matter pass for now. Her thoughts were on other things. She was plotting how to overcome the creator of this place, how to outwit the one who was writing her life for her. She spent days in deep contemplation while in bed, and when she was up she paced the room, her brow furrowed and her eyes even more intense than usual.
She need not have troubled herself, as it happened. It was on the day that Fleet declared her fully fit and well that the Hierophant was murdered.
He lay slumped over the great leather-bound tome that he had been writing in when Poison had seen him last, the quill still held lightly between his dead fingers. In fact, it might seem he had simply fallen asleep at his work, if it were not for the handle of Asinastra’s dagger that protruded from between his shoulder blades. Poison could not draw her eyes away from that dagger; the dagger she had stolen from the Lady of Cobwebs, that was now buried up to the hilt in the Hierophant’s back.
There was no blood. It was as if the fanged blade had simply drunk it out of him. On the blank pages of the book over which he lay, there was not a stain or a smear.
The storm crashed outside, drumming on the segmented circle of window glass that commanded the room. Poison looked around the others who were assembled in his chamber. The gargoyles had stopped guarding the doors once it was clear that their master was dead, but four robed Antiquarians stood sentry over the corpse to ensure that nobody touched it. Most of the Lords and Ladies that had stayed while Aelthar demanded an audience were here assembled; the discovery of the body was only minutes old, and they had rushed to see the truth of it for themselves. Poison, Bram, Andersen and Peppercorn had come in with Fleet, and nobody had challenged them. To Poison’s relief, Asinastra was notably absent.
Poison was aware that Aelthar was there too, glaring at her hatefully from beneath his flame-red fringe. She returned the glare. The dagger that she had brought him had found its way into the Hierophant’s back. She had more than an inkling of who was responsible.
But more than that; for there was one thing that troubled her above all else. Having only lately recovered from the crushing weight of knowledge that the Hierophant had placed on her, she found this almost impossible to cope with.
The Hierophant had been murdered. The storyteller had been killed by one of his own characters.
So who was writing her story now?
But any time for contemplation that she might have had was taken from her, for then walked in a vision of ethereal beauty, wearing a dress of silver that shimmered like sunlight on water. She passed into the room with a grace and elegance that captivated the eye of everyone present, and they moved aside to let her through, until she stood at the side of the Hierophant’s desk.
“It’s her,” Peppercorn whispered in awe.
“Who?” Bram asked automatically.
“We saw her,” Poison said, her voice raw with suspicion. “At the Phaerie Lord’s palace.”
The phaerie lady’s endless blue eyes looked over the body of the Hierophant, and she let loose a sigh of terrible lament, like the stirring of the wind through the yews of a graveyard.
“Her?” Fleet queried. “Are you sure?”
“It was her,” Poison said. She was not an easy creature to forget. “Why, who is she?”
The assembly watched the phaerie lady as a single tear of purest crystal slid down the smooth, pale planes of her face.
“That’s Pariasa, Mistress of the Aeriads,” Fleet told them. “She’s the Hierophant’s wife.”
“His wife?” Poison asked, turning to Fleet. “The Hierophant had a wife?”
Fleet nodded.
Poison thought for a moment, her face a picture of concentration. Everything seemed to fit. The dagger, the phaerie lady, Aelthar. . .
“We need to go,” Poison said. “There may not be much time.”
They rushed through the dour stone corridors of the Hierophant’s castle, Poison in the lead, Andersen dodging between their feet. Bram huffed and puffed as he brought up the rear. Poison was looking around nervously as they went, shying away from the shadows and regarding every stranger with a wary eye.
“What is it, Poison? Where are we going?” Peppercorn asked, hurrying along behind her.
“We’re getting out of here,” she said. “We’re in danger. All of us.”
“Danger?” Bram panted. “Why?”
Poison pulled to a halt so that the older man could catch his breath. Fleet, despite having at least twenty years on Bram, was not even sweating.
“Listen,” she said, glancing up and down the corridor. “The only people who know about that dagger are us,” she said. “Everybody else – if they knew anything about it at all – would think it came from Asinastra. Don’t you see? Whoever did that to the Hierophant wants us dead; we’re the only people who can point the finger at anyone other than the Lady of Cobwebs.”
“Then who did it?” Bram asked.
“Aelthar!” Poison, Peppercorn and Fleet replied in unison.
Bram scratched the brim of his hat. “Seems unanimous, then,” he replied, a little embarrassed at being the last one to figure it out.
“I’ll explain later,” Poison said. “Right now we’ve got to get to safety.”
“But wait,” Bram said, stalling for time so he could rest a little longer. “Why didn’t you just tell everyone in the Hierophant’s chamber just then? And I thought we were safe in this castle?”
Peppercorn gave a long-suffering tut. “We were under the Hierophant’s protection,” she explained. “That’s not much good now he’s dead, is it?”
“And I can’t accuse Aelthar yet,” Poison added. “I need some sort of proof, or at least someone to back me up. There’s nothing to stop him just killing us right now.” Or Asinastra, she added mentally, remembering their encounter on the balcony earlier.
“Proof. . .” Fleet muttered; then suddenly his eyes lit up. “The library.”
“What’s in the library?”
“Melcheron’s tale! The Hierophant was an Antiquarian like us – the Head Antiquarian, really – so it will all be recorded up until the point of his death. If he saw who it was that killed him. . .”
“It’ll be written in the book of his life!” Poison finished. “What he knows, the book knows! Perfect!”
“But I thought we were going somewhere safe,” Peppercorn mewled.
“Afterwards,” Poison promised. “But we have to do this first. If Aelthar thinks of it before we do. . .”
“Well, let’s stop all this hanging around then,” said Bram, as if it had not been him they were waiting for. “Come on!”
The Great Library was eerily empty.
The companions walked softly through the labyr
inth of aisles, dwarfed by the shelves of books that stretched up several storeys above them. Darkness hovered at the edges of the lantern light, and the quiet seemed to suffocate sound. All of the Antiquarians were elsewhere, having heard about their master’s death by now, and Poison was beginning to think that perhaps it had not been the best idea to come here. In this endless maze, anything could come upon them and they would have no hope of help.
They followed Fleet around corridors, between shelves, up stairs and over narrow bridges. Whatever method he used to navigate the library was a mystery to Poison; even Andersen seemed content to trail meekly along behind instead of scouting ahead as he usually did. When finally he halted, it was in a small chamber where two sets of shelves leaned in close, and a single lantern-lit desk sat unused against the wall. Poison found herself wondering how the lanterns stayed alight, then decided it was magick, then changed her mind and assumed it was merely some Hierophant’s lack of attention to detail. It made her head hurt to think of such things – especially when there could be a perfectly rational explanation for the endlessly burning lanterns – but she could not help herself.
Bram was right, though, she thought as she watched Fleet searching the shelves for the book with Melcheron’s name on it. I would have let myself die, without a struggle, if he had not talked me out of it. But now the Hierophant is dead. Am I controlling my destiny now? Did he ever really have power over me at all?
There was so much she was unsure of. How was it that the world went on without the Hierophant, the one who had created her; and yet when she was on the verge of death, it began to fall apart? Within this story, she was more important than the man who professed to write it; that much was evident. What if Melcheron had been wrong? What if there was some higher, unseen Hierophant, one who had created Melcheron as Melcheron had created Poison, an overseer of all the Realms to whom Poison was indispensable but Melcheron was not? She felt suddenly, terribly small and alone in the light of such an over-whelming concept.
“It’s not here,” Fleet said. He checked the shelves again, as if disbelieving his own eyes, then shook his head. “No. Gone.”
Poison sagged. “Are you sure?” she asked, scrabbling for a straw to cling to.
“Sure as I can be,” said Fleet. “They must have planned the theft in advance. They took the book, knowing it could be used against them.”
“How can someone just take a book from here?” Poison cried. “I thought this place was guarded by magick?”
“The books are indestructible,” Fleet said. “They are not immovable. Most people can’t take them out of the library but some of us can: Antiquarians, and a few other people Melcheron trusted. Had the Hierophant been alive, he would have known of the theft through his magick.”
“So they took the book after Melcheron was murdered?” Bram said, catching on. “Someone close to Melcheron?”
“Exactly,” said Poison.
“Are you even sure it’s Aelthar?” Bram asked, stroking his moustache with a gloved knuckle. “I can’t imagine Melcheron trusted him very far. And how did he get past those gargoyles and into Melcheron’s room? They didn’t let him through before.”
“Because it wasn’t just Aelthar,” Poison said. “We should go.”
Andersen hissed suddenly and the sound froze them all as efficiently as if someone had said: listen!
They listened. The silence of the library weighed upon on them. Poison looked down the long aisles of books, to where they tapered into darkness. Something had jarred in her memory a moment ago, something that had been too faint for her to hear. But the cat had heard it.
Something. . .
Distantly, almost too quiet to hear, came the chime of a small silver bell.
Poison felt her heart lurch and the blood drain from her face. Andersen began to make a strange crooning noise of menace in the back of his throat.
It came again, a clear ring, echoing through the library. Louder this time.
“It’s him,” Poison breathed, remembering. . .
. . . reaching through the page . . . the touch of a fingernail on her wrist. . .
She felt her head go light with terror. “The Scarecrow’s here.”
“The what?” Peppercorn quailed.
“Aelthar’s sent him after us,” Poison said, grabbing her hand. “Run!”
They did not need any further prompting. They fled through the aisles, away from the sound, racing out of the small chamber and over a narrow, arched stone bridge that vaulted a chasm of books. They plunged back into the confines of the shelves again on the other side. It was only moments before they came to a starfish-shaped five-way junction. Poison made for a random direction, but Fleet grabbed her arm and pulled her back.
“Don’t be so headstrong, Poison. If you get lost in this place, you’ll die in here.”
“You guide us, then,” she snapped.
“Where are we going?” he returned.
“You said this place can get into any library in any Realm?” She did not even wait for Fleet to nod. “Take us to Grugaroth.”
“The Realm of Trolls? Why?”
The bell sounded again, a pure tone that seemed to ring inside their skulls.
“Just do it!” Poison cried.
Fleet threw up his hands, resigning himself. “That way,” he said, pointing.
“Thank you,” Poison said irritably, and they were off again, Fleet in the lead.
“I don’t want to meet trolls!” Peppercorn wailed, her dress tangling around her feet as she ran.
“You want to meet the Scarecrow even less,” Poison assured her. Glancing back at Peppercorn’s miserable expression, she felt compelled to say something else to take the harsh edges off her comment. “Listen,” she said between breaths, as they clattered down a set of steps. “We can’t go home. Aelthar will find us. And I can’t give up till I’ve got my sister back. The only safe place is another Lord’s Realm.”
“But why him?”
Poison rolled her eyes heavenward. “Because he hates Aelthar. And so do we. That’s one thing we’ve got in common.”
“I don’t hate anyone!” Peppercorn protested.
“No,” Poison murmured, with something like envy in her tone. “No, you probably don’t.”
They raced through a dizzying series of corners, then down another set of stairs to what Poison thought of as the ground floor of the library. They were pursued by the chime of the Scarecrow’s bell, getting steadily closer and closer, seemingly unobstructed by the shelves and unhindered by Fleet’s attempts to shake it off. Poison felt panic rising within her, but she kept it off her face. She was running hand in hand with Peppercorn, and she could almost feel the fear emanating from the blonde girl, passing through their palms. Bram was thumping along behind, having picked up Andersen to prevent him from tripping them – he had a potentially fatal habit of winding between their legs.
They came out from the narrow alleys of books into a wider, shelved corridor. Fleet pulled to a halt suddenly, looking one way and then the other. The endless volumes stretched away in either direction, disappearing into the gloom. A lantern sat on a table nearby, casting strange shadows sideways across their features.
“What have you stopped for?” Poison demanded.
“I’m thinking, curse you!” Fleet snapped back, surprising her. He was obviously on edge. Like Bram, the fact that he almost never got angry made it all the more effective when he did. “Do you think it’s easy to remember my way through a place this size?”
“I thought you were an Antiquarian?” Poison cried. “I thought this was your calling?”
“Shut up, Poison,” Bram growled. “You’re not helping.”
Poison was shocked into silence. She subsided, still furious. Fleet glared at her for a moment and then returned to his attempts at remembering the next stage of her route. Poison became sudde
nly, acutely aware that the bell had gone silent.
A moment later she saw the sparkling flakes come drifting down like snow to settle on them. It took an instant for alarm to register, and then she looked up.
The Scarecrow was above them, standing on a bridge that spanned the corridor, his eyes two yellow slits in the shadow of his hat. He was scattering the flakes into the air, a cloud of the stuff that fell lazily towards them.
“Poison, I feel sleepy. . .” Peppercorn said from behind her. Poison felt Peppercorn’s grip slacken in hers.
“Get it off you!” she shrieked, beating at her clothes and hair. She could feel the lethargy settling on her already, the tiredness seeping into her bones. She made an attempt to wipe the flakes from Peppercorn, but she could not spare more than a few pats, and it was too late anyway. Peppercorn slipped to the floor with a sigh, and fell asleep amidst the thin dusting that had coated the floor. The others had seen the danger now, and were copying Poison; but they were already well coated in the stuff, and it was a losing battle. Bram had dropped Andersen, who barely managed to land on his feet before slumping down, asleep; Fleet had sunk to his knees. Bram was battering at himself, great drifts of flakes sloughing off the brim of his hat; he was fighting to keep his eyes open. And still the flakes kept falling.
Poison felt the warm wash of sleep caressing her. She saw Fleet gently lay himself down and sink into oblivion, and thought how wonderful it would be to surrender herself to that. Her hands felt heavy now, pawing half-heartedly at her clothes to rid herself of the stuff. Already she was half-asleep, drowsing, unable to fight the magick of the phaerie substance. She heard a groan and a thump behind her as Bram succumbed, and then there was only her. Her and the Scarecrow.
She did not know how it had got from the bridge to the ground floor. Whether it had jumped or flown or moved by some altogether more mystical means, she had not noticed. She was drifting in and out of consciousness, swaying on her feet, and the thing was coming closer now, as if in a nightmare. Thin, wrinkled hands poked from the sleeves of its long, ragged coat; its slit eyes glowed beneath the huge brim of its hat, wider even than Bram’s. In one hand, it held the tiny bell, twitching it now and again. The chime was hypnotic, lulling Poison towards the folds of sleep. She swayed on her feet now, unable to even muster the strength to wipe away the flakes that had settled on her. If she slept, she died . . . and yet even knowing that, she could not stop the tide of unconsciousness.
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