“You think that makes you innocent?” Poison cried. Then, ashamed that her anger had slipped her reins, she drew herself back into an icy shell. “Tell me what you offer.”
“This isn’t your fight, Poison,” Aelthar said, tilting his head and studying Azalea. “You only came here to get Azalea back. I would not have taken her if I could have imagined that her sister would prove to be such a plague. It was entirely random, you know; don’t feel hard done by. Any human child would do. I just needed a womb.”
“You’ll give me her back?” said Poison, her voice empty.
“If you retract what you said before the Lords and Ladies,” he replied. “And then go back home, and never bother me again.”
Poison frowned. “Why will that make any difference to you?”
“Many of my peers have become . . . awkward in the face of your accusation. If you tell them you were lying, then they will stop their protests.”
Poison studied him carefully. She had learned by now not to trust a thing the Phaerie Lord said. This certainly did not correspond with what Fleet had told her. If she believed Fleet, then Aelthar could seize power whether the others liked it or not, and Poison’s testimony either way would not make a jot of difference.
“I will have to think on this,” she said.
“Poison. This is your sister,” Aelthar pointed out.
“Is it?” Poison replied. “Or just an illusion? If I agree to this, you can be sure that I will have my sister back by my side before I say a word in your defence. Your kind are more treacherous than the worst of the marsh-snakes.”
Aelthar’s face twisted in anger, and she saw she had struck a blow. “Go, then. I will be here when you return. But know this, human. If you do not agree to my terms, I will not only keep your sister, I will ensure that the remainder of her life is spent in excruciating torture!”
Poison stood, as calmly as she could. “I will be back,” she said, and left.
Peppercorn rushed to hug her when she returned to Fleet’s chambers, sheer relief showing on her face. Poison barely felt the embrace.
“Oh, we thought you wouldn’t come back!” she cried.
Bram, who had also got to his feet, studied her dazed expression. “What is it, Poison? What did he say?”
“He offered me my sister back,” she said, over Peppercorn’s shoulder. “If I retract what I said and go home and never bother him again.”
Peppercorn released her slowly, gazing at her with her wide blue eyes. “What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” said Poison. She sat down in an empty chair by the fire. They were all watching her, even Andersen. “I don’t know,” she repeated.
Bram settled himself down in the chair next to her while she told them the rest of the details. Peppercorn was wringing her hands again. Andersen jumped on to her lap and curled up. Fleet’s brow was furrowed, and he was puffing on his hookah.
She could practically feel their concern, their sympathy. The old Poison would have rejected that outright; but now she tolerated it. It occurred to her that these were her friends; the only ones she had, in fact. She was even fond of the cat. She had been torn from a childhood of almost total alienation, and on the way she had found a few people worth hanging on to. Among all the trials and pain, there were these four. She might not feel that she belonged to the rest of humanity, but she belonged here.
The thought might have comforted her in other times, but now it seemed like it might tear her apart. She might get her sister back, but she knew well what could happen if the Phaerie Lord’s plan succeeded. Despite what he had said, the last guardian of humanity would be gone with Scriddle in the Hierophant’s office. And then there would be nothing standing between the phaeries and the whole Realm of Man.
And yet she still could not shake the sense that she knew her sister from somewhere, the girl in the apparition that Aelthar had shown her. She looked different then, but Poison was becoming more and more certain. Was it simply that she was recalling her infant sister’s face, transposing it on to another memory? If only she could make sure of it; if only she could remember.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Fleet said. “Why offer her to you at all? I don’t believe what he said about the other Lords opposing him.”
“That’s what I’ve been asking myself,” said Poison. “What possible harm can I do him?”
“You must be able to do him some harm,” Bram said. “Or he wouldn’t be making this offer. He wants you out of the way.”
“There has to be something. . .” Poison said, desperately searching her mind. “Something we’re missing.”
But she came up as blank as any of them.
The biggest frustration was that she could not share with them the strangest piece of the puzzle, for they had erased it from their minds. Only she remembered what had happened when she had been on the verge of death, how the story had unravelled around her. She knew, she knew, that she was living in a phaerie tale; and furthermore, it was her tale. That had been proved to her by the way the world could not seem to continue without her.
But the Hierophant had thought that he was writing it, and now he was dead. So who was really behind it all? Was anyone?
Didn’t you ever believe in a god, Poison? Then how is this different?
Bram had said that to her once. Maybe it was true. Maybe she would never know who or what was behind it. And maybe the author of this tale was like her, believing that they were master of their own destiny, plagued by doubts that they might not be.
But in the end, it was all pointless philosophy. She was as free as she felt, as real as she felt. Her choices might be being made for her, but if she still believed that they were her choices, then what actual difference did it make? She wasn’t certain enough to know that they weren’t. She could second-guess herself endlessly and still never know.
And she had to choose now. Between condemning her sister to a lifetime of torture, or risking the whole future of humanity.
At the back of Fleet’s chambers a narrow, shadowy stairway climbed upwards, almost hidden between the fireplace and an overburdened bookshelf. It led to what Fleet called his “thinking room”, a small study with yellowed maps pinned against the wall and books strewn across a desk. One wall and the roof were crafted from thick glass, laying the room open to the sight of the grim mountains that surrounded them. From here, high up on one side of the castle, the endless procession of black peaks that was the Hierophant’s Realm trudged towards the horizon, smashed and battered by the endless rain and distant, flickering pulses of lightning.
It was here that Poison took herself to think. She could not make a decision like the one she faced with her friends offering advice and insight; she needed to be alone. She had chosen a heavy, musty armchair to sit in, facing out over the dark panorama. There were no lanterns burning up here; she liked the cool shadows, the ambient glow from outside and the occasional brightness of the lightning. The crawling tears of the rain against the window shone on her narrow face, superimposing themselves on to the pale planes of her skin.
Impossible. The situation was impossible. On the one hand, if she chose to save Azalea and return home, then Aelthar would put Scriddle at the Hierophant’s desk and mankind’s last guardian would be gone, leaving Aelthar to exterminate the humans he despised so much. Poison knew better than to believe Aelthar’s blithe assertion that he did not care enough about humanity to destroy it; phaeries were liars, and she knew Aelthar’s true feelings on the subject from overhearing him in his chambers, back in his palace. Poison and Azalea would not be spared.
The other choice was just as bad. Abandon Azalea, and oppose the Phaerie Lord. But what good was that? Poison seemed to have something about her that made the Phaerie Lord worry, or he would not be offering her this deal at all; yet since she had no idea what it was, how could she use it against him? Leaving A
zalea to torture was awful enough, but the result would be the same in the end. Scriddle would become Hierophant, humanity would be wiped out.
If only she had the key, the one fact that she was missing that would make it make sense. She struggled to fit together any scenario she could imagine that would make her a threat to the Phaerie Lord, but she came up blank. So she sat in the dark, listening to the bellow of the thunder and watching the rain, and wondering at the cruelty of having to make such a choice as this.
The rasping whisper at first made her jump; then, an instant later, realization hit. She knew that broken voice.
Asinastra.
She leapt convulsively out of her chair, looking about wildly. The shadows cloaked the corners of the room. Suddenly the play of light from the running water on the windows seemed to make the room swarm with movement.
Poison’s heart lurched. She backed up against the windows, where there was a little more light. How could Asinastra have got in? There was only one entrance to this room, and that was through Fleet’s chambers, and past Grugaroth’s trolls who guarded it. Poison was suddenly acutely aware that the Hierophant’s murder meant that the only protection she had was Grugaroth’s threat of retribution to anyone that harmed her; and it felt like no protection at all now. This time, there would be no Amrae’s Law to fall back on: it only worked once.
The Lady of Cobwebs’s schizophrenic, overlapping sentences seemed to come from everywhere, lisping out of the walls themselves. Poison had no intention of calling for help, anyway; she doubted she could shout loud enough to penetrate the thick stone of these castle walls. Bram and the others might hear her down the stairs, but they would have to alert the trolls, and she realized only then that the stairway was far too narrow to allow a troll through.
Then Poison spied her. She was crouched atop a bookcase at the far end of the room, squeezed grotesquely between the shelves and the roof, her black eyes glittering above her rotted veil. Too late, Poison remembered what had happened last time she had met those eyes; but by then she was already snared, her body going rigid with fear, locked in place by Asinastra’s paralysing gaze.
Poison watched in horror as Asinastra crawled slowly along the floor towards her, never breaking the contact between her black eyes and Poison’s violet ones. Poison wanted to scream, but her muscles and lungs refused to go along with the notion. Imprisoned in her own flesh, she could only wait, terrified, as the spider crept up on its helpless prey.
Asinastra drew herself up to stand in front of Poison, leaning close so that Poison could smell her dank, foetid breath.
Lightning flashed and thunder roared, booming across the mountains. Poison was trying to shake her head, trying to make a sound, if only to explain that it wasn’t what it looked like, that she had been forced into it. . .
Poison’s mind was ablaze with impotent pleas for mercy. A tear spilled over the edge of her lash and ran down her cheek.
The Lady of Cobwebs stepped back a little, glaring at Poison with those depthless black pearls, her filthy hair straggling over her face. She stood hunched, with her pregnant belly disfiguring her shape further.
It took Poison an instant to realize that she meant the gathering where she had accused Aelthar. Had Asinastra been there all along, watching from the ceiling, hidden in the shadows?
Poison was having a hard time following the insane mutterings of the Spider Lady, but she grasped the gist. If she had been able to reply, she would have; but she was frustratingly, appallingly helpless to prevent any fate that Asinastra had in store.
That’s right! Poison thought desperately, willing the words into Asinastra’s diseased mind. That’s right! It wasn’t my fault!
Poison felt a tiny flicker of hope. Had Asinastra really understood?
Poison felt her insides melt in utter and complete relief, and with that the Lady of Cobwebs broke the gaze and Poison slumped to the floor, gasping.
Poison did not know which of them she was referring to, but she dared to look up as Asinastra retreated, backing away into the shadows. For the first time, Poison saw that she was holding a blade in one hand: the forked dagger that had been found in Melcheron’s back.
Poison lay on the floor in front of the rain-blasted windows, gasping amidst the roar of the storm.
It was an hour later when she returned to the Phaerie Lord’s chambers to give him her answer.
She could not unravel the knot in her stomach as she walked along the corridors of the castle, surrounded by the lumbering, armoured trolls, led by Grugaroth himself. Their red eyes scanned the corridors watchfully as they escorted her. Grugaroth had realized what Poison and the others had guessed: the fact that Aelthar wanted to make a deal with her meant that she had some leverage over him, and so she was still precious. Anything that might disadvantage the Phaerie Lord was good for the Troll King. Poison had made no mention to anyone of Asinastra’s visit. For some reason, she felt a need to respect the Spider Lady’s secrecy, and it would offend Grugaroth to know that she had slipped through his guards with ease. The others would only worry.
They came to a set of double doors, guarded by twenty stern-faced phaerie warriors: elves, by the look of them. An evil breed, narrow-faced and cold. The trolls came to a halt, glaring fiercely at their enemies, who regarded them with icy malice.
The girl has an answer for your Lord, said the Troll King, his voice like a distant earth tremor.
The elves waited just long enough to be insulting, then stepped aside.
“The Lord Aelthar awaits you within,” said one of them, opening the door a little.
Poison took a deep breath to calm herself, then stepped inside.
Aelthar was not on the settee where she had first met him; he was sat in shadow against one wall, an empty goblet in his hand. A fire burned in the grate, lit not long ago. Poison could see the shine of the firelight on his eyes. She glanced about the room. There was a half-full bottle of dark red wine on the table, and another goblet.
“I have come with my answer,” she said.
Almost at once Poison felt her throat close up, felt tears coming. It was so cruelly unfair to be f
orced into making a choice like this. Either way, she lost. Either way, she would have to live with the burden of her conscience for the rest of her life. She wanted to shout and scream at him, to ask him how he could play these evil games with her, to ask him if he enjoyed toying with her heart this way. But that would be weakness, and now was the time for strength.
“I. . .” she began, but her mouth had gone dry. To make this pact would be irrevocable. She found herself floundering for another second, another minute, in which to think her way out of it. “I would like some wine,” she finished.
Aelthar did not reply, merely watched her from the darkness. Poison hesitated a moment, then went to the bottle and poured. Taking up the goblet, she raised it to her lips . . . and stopped.
Aelthar was still looking at the spot where she had been standing, not where she was now.
“Aelthar?” she said.
He made no reply.
Slowly, she put the goblet down, squinting at the shadows to make him out. The gloom made it hard to see anything. The sound of the rain hammering against the windows seemed suddenly terribly loud.
She picked up the marshwraith lantern and crept across the room, fearing a trick, fearing . . . she did not know what. There was a premonition of dread rising within her, but she did not understand it.
Then, when she was only a few feet from the motionless Phaerie Lord, she raised the lantern.
His eyes were glazed, staring emptily at the door. His skin was white and pale. His hand held the goblet limply, the last dregs of wine still inside.
The wine! she thought.
A flash of lightning and a crack of thunder blasted the castle simultaneously, and in its light Poison saw that there was something in Aelthar’s mouth. She leaned closer, scarcely daring to breathe, not knowing what this might mean.
A long-legged spider scuttled out, making her yelp and jump back. It was followed by another, pushing out from between his cold lips and running over his cheek to his hairline. The first one disappeared over his chin and beneath the chestplate of his silver armour.
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