A Thousand Glass Flowers (The Chronicles of Eirie 3)

by Prue Batten

  His horse slid under the clocktower of the stable yard and he urged it toward the open door of the stone stables, flinging himself off, slamming the door shut so the horse was concealed, praying it would be safe. He swallowed on the tension that sat in his throat like a cork and as another cry filled the air, he sprinted back to glance up the hill.

  A horse appeared on the summit, outlined in what was left of the moon’s fragile light. Damn the woman, damn her to hell and back, what has she done? A cry shattered the blackness and the far-above forest erupted into fresh shrieks. The sounds choked, howled and hissed and the sibilation slid all around Finnian so that his skin crawled.

  Iniquity closed in on the rider he knew was Lalita and he quailed at the ineptness of the enchantment that should have had her sleeping for ages yet. How has she known where to find me? He heard her yell but the words whipped away as she and the mare streaked downhill, white froth flying back off the animal’s neck. Finnian held his breath as the mare lifted at the log at the bottom, but she pecked, scrabbling with her legs to prevent falling and to re-define her terrified rhythm. Lalita who stood in her stirrups precipitously leaning over the wither, flew across the mare’s shoulder with a cry, the horse surging on without her.

  Lalita, get up, get up! He turned to a cresset, grabbing the torch, amazed to see no flame, just the ivory wick of a moonbeam streaming upward, and he began to run.

  She sat in a circle that was moonlight and a cobbled lunar path stretched before her to Finnian, as if she could jump from moonstone to moonstone over a dark pond and he called to her to flee the shadow that unfurled by the minute, to jump from patch of light to patch of light before the dark swallowed her. All around her, the awful shapes dipped and dived, screamed and wailed, and he yelled, ‘Run, run.’

  She launched herself on the narrowing path of light, the dracules swooping in alongside, unable to penetrate the milky circle around her. The beat of their wings, the odour from their leathery bodies filled the air between Finnian and Lalita as the path narrowed, more swathes of cloud covering parts of the moon. Lalita reached the patches of light and Finnian urged her on, waving the brand, sprinting closer to her all the time.

  ‘Jump, Lalita.’

  The flaming light of the torchère reflected in her eyes in that last leap and she tumbled forward into his arms, trying to speak.

  ‘Thief,’ she whispered as he threw the torch at the dracules and scooped her up to run under the clocktower.

  He set her down near the walls of the house, picking up another flambeau from a wall sconce. ‘It’s a moonbeam,’ he uttered, ‘Quickly, we must get inside.’

  She nodded and gasped as if in pain and he wanted to ask what was wrong, but danger threatened with every passing second. ‘Come on.’ He took her by the hand and dragged her inside a dark doorway and swore roundly as Killymoon’s grounds disappeared into shade. Stories of the Raji Bhuta thundered through his mind – vampires who attacked the living as ghouls, drinking blood and causing the unfortunates to become vampires in turn, cousins and family to the Strigoi of Trevallyn.

  ‘Can you walk?’ Such a bland question when what he really wanted was to erase the disillusion that would fill her in equal measure with the pain of her injury. He took her hand and they threaded flat against walls from empty room to empty room, up and down sweeping stairs. Where are the paperweights, Moonlady? He dragged Lalita on as the Strigoi howled outside.

  But as the cries came closer and the massive glass doors in the drawing room were smashed in with a resounding crash, Lalita subsided with a sigh at his feet.

  Chapter Nineteen

  She surfaced through a pain-filled fog, hearing a door slam and a key turning in a lock. She sensed Finnian through closed eyes, bending toward her, lifting her gently, holding her against him, and perversely she craved his warmth despite rampant disgust that he had seduced her, mesmered her and stolen from her. She opened her eyes to see the moonbeam shining at his side with infinite subtlety; designed not to give them away, merely to illuminate their path.

  ‘A fool’s errand, thief. What is it like to wreak failure, huh, for you must still deal with me by your side in the hunt, mustn’t you?’ Satisfied, she watched a frown etch across his face. The movement to lay her on a chaise caused her to gasp and she tried to support her side without him noticing. Finnian raised the light to examine the rest of the room and she twisted her head to see shelf upon shelf of books climbing like bricks and mortar to the ceiling. His moonbeam light caught the shy glister of goldleaf and the tint of ultramarine and yellow ochre and she guessed the ceiling was painted or frescoed, far, far away. Far, far away. She pulled herself from the vapid mists swirling around her and tried to concentrate.

  There… there’s a title on that book. What does it say? She endeavoured to focus, to pull herself from the pain of breathing, from the terror of the noise outside, from the proximity of the man who attracted and repelled in equal measure. The book title wavered and then firmed and she could read it. The Art of the Miniature Book and then next to it, The Glassblower’s Manual and then next to that, A Glossary of Stitches and she wondered what kind of world they had entered through that door. What kind of cosmic trick is being played here?

  She stared into the shadows of this room that was indubitably a library. The walls were filled with books of all shapes and sizes and at any other time she would have been excited and keen to examine the contents. There were two ladders on either side of the mammoth walls and she knew instinctively they would move on little wheels, that she could have access to a world of knowledge in this place. Beside her, Finnian stared around, as fascinated as she, but she could see his glance went frequently to the one and only window, a huge roseate opening past which shapes swooped. Do they know we’re here? She longed to ask Finnian, but pride and prejudice made her swallow her words and she stiffened in his presence, her hand clenching as it supported her rib cage.

  She continued her examination of the shaded room and saw a massive desk and chair against a far wall, the silhouette of an unlit lamp and piles of manuscripts rising from its surface. Of any other furniture there appeared to be none, except, what was…

  Finnian turned toward her as she heaved herself upright, her hand holding tight to her rib underneath her breast.

  ‘You’re hurt. Is the rib broken?’

  But she pushed him away. ‘Don’t. Don’t touch me. I despise you.’

  ‘Lalita, I can help you if you let me.’

  ‘Help me?’ She hissed at him. ‘Help me like you did when you helped yourself to my paperweights? Help me like you did when you lied to me that you sought the charms to remove them from Isolde’s grasp? I would never have loved you if I had known of your perfidy. How could you possibly help me, Færan?’ She sank back onto the chaise, puffing as if she had run a race, pressing her hand hard against the broken ends of bone that rubbed together, bones that she knew required help.

  ‘I can bandage you,’ he had reached for a silk shawl that lay over the end of the chaise, ‘so you are more comfortable. Please.’ He slipped a dagger from his belt and slit the silk, making ripping sounds as shred after shred dropped to the floor in a pile of wide ribbons. ‘Can you hear the Strigoi? They’re dracules. They suck the blood of an innocent and the unfortunate becomes one of them, so you must be able to move with speed if they attack. Let me do this, it’s for your own good.’

  ‘I know what Strigoi are,’ she snarled as he peeled her top up. ‘Just as I know what Bhuta are and what Others are and how untrustworthy all of you are. You’re no better than the Strigoi. And besides, you are safe, Færan, aren’t you? Nobody could call you an innocent.’

  ‘They’re still outside,’ he ignored her venom. ‘But some broke the glass doors of the drawing room and they seek us through the house. I’ve bolted this door and they can’t pass through walls like some wraiths, so for the moment we’re secure. I need you to hold your arms out straight. Is this the place?’ She sucked in her breath as his fingers fou
nd the fracture and it was all she could do not to weep with the pain. ‘I need for you to hold yourself still and I shall begin. I’ll try not to hurt, I promise.’

  Still? Still? I want to claw your eyes out, I want to scratch your face and yet I am at your mercy. You stare at my naked back, at my breasts as you wind me up, strip after strip, and I can do nothing.

  He reached around to her breasts, laying the silk over them. Again around the back and then the front, swaddling her in a silk cocoon that enfolded her ribs to keep them still as she moved. ‘Is that better, can you breathe more easily?’ He eased her top back down as she nodded. ‘Here,’ he pulled a small brass flask from his pocket, unscrewed the lid and gave it to her. ‘Drink.’

  ‘And have you poison me? I think not.’

  ‘Lalita,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve said before, I could have mesmered you any time I liked and removed the paperweights. A drink of this is nothing. Suit yourself.’

  ‘You did. You mesmered me and stole from me, you conniving bastard,’ she grabbed the flask and sucked back the liquid and then coughed as the alcohol burned down her gullet, investing her with added fortitude, her hand supporting her side as he replied.

  ‘It’s brandy from the saddlebag. You’ve more colour already.’

  She swallowed on the coughs as she sipped more and then threw the stoppered flask back at him, not another word spoken.

  ‘Can you follow me?’ He held out his hand and she weighed up the risk as if it were a viper. And then she laid her palm in his, wanting him to feel her icy coldness, for him to suffer the ignominy she felt.

  ‘It helps,’ she said, but allowed no graciousness to pass between them as she followed close on his heels around the walls of shelves toward the windowspace. The glass window stared vacantly back at them, the sound and sight of the Strigoi removed as they had sped to other parts of the building. The flowery fenestration would normally shed light on a table beneath; a long refectory style of table that for the moment sat almost secretly.

  ‘Keep away from the window and press against the walls. They haven’t realized we’re here.’ He stood in front of her, pushing her back gently, shielding her from any likely sight of the abominations outside.

  The Strigoi swooped and dove in the distance, calls curdling her blood, but overpowering any fear was a shy sparkle in the dark. She grabbed at his arm, pushing him to face the window. ‘Look.’

  But before he could react to her discovery, the aperture began to lighten, the moon sailing free of its cloudy shroud. Beams fell in a pale shower through the ornate stone tracery and created shards of luminousness on the floor, so that it looked as if the window had collapsed and there were splinters of glass everywhere. Finnian sprang forward and grabbed at them.

  ‘Take these,’ he opened her hand and laid the rattling, shining daggers across. ‘Use them like stilettos.’

  The weapons chilled her palms as she held them. ‘What are they? They’re so sharp.’

  ‘It’s moonglass.’ He passed her more and she held them carefully, concerned the slick edges would slice through the veins of her wrists.

  ‘How do you know this? Something else you read about in that childish escape of yours?’ As the words fell about them, a wave of self-loathing filled her. How could I say that? Whatever else I may think, there’s no denying his terrible life.

  His voice froze the air as he answered and she knew she had overstepped the mark. ‘As it happens, yes. In Isolde’s library when I was young. Moonglass is thought to be a legend; tales tell of it appearing in the darkest of times when innocence and goodness are under threat.’

  She noticed he placed the tiniest emphasis on innocence and goodness but dared not reply.

  The moonlight cast a circle as it moved with he and Lalita, closer and closer to the long table on which lay the two small glistening objects that she had spied. They lay side by side as if they were a part of a family and Lalita muttered unnecessarily. ‘The paperweights.’

  She knew she couldn’t reach them, that her ribs penalized her at this most crucial moment and she cursed that she must allow the dishonest man by her side to reach for them instead. Damn it! Is it my Fate to see him win? Is that what you saved me for, Rajeeb?

  As Finnian’s fingers stretched out, the enormous circular window above exploded in a storm of glass and the Strigoi launched into the room, the moonlight vanishing as quickly as if someone had snuffed out a flame.

  ‘Use the moonglass!’ Finnian drew back with a piece of the moonbeam and pitched it, an ear-piercing cry erupting from a swooping wraith as it vanished, pierced like a pincushion.

  Lalita forgot her pain, peeling back her arm to hold the glass by its sharpest point, propelling it end over end through the air with perfect precision. She gave a grunt, bringing her other hand to support her side, but with every throw she hit a target and before the splinters had found their mark, she would be aiming with the next one. She thanked Aine for Kholi who after hours of her begging him, had taught her the art of knives.

  The Strigoi moved like a flock of bats, beating the air with leathery, veined wings. As Lalita took aim again, her eyes met the ghastly orbs of a dracule and the creature smiled, black lips dragged back from teeth as jagged as a merrow’s and where two incisors waited to bite. The expression staring down was as cold as death, complacent and menacing as if the monster spoke to her alone in order to weaken her resolve. ‘We play, that is all, we play. Soon you shall tire and your weapons will be gone and then we shall swoop down and collect you both, for we are thirsty and hungry and you will become as one with us.’

  By her side, Finnian pitched and pitched again, the numbers dwindling but never enough. Lalita’s moonglass weaponry had shrunk to nothing and she slumped against him. ‘They keep coming.’

  She turned toward him as she spoke and he yelled, ‘No, don’t turn.’

  In that moment, less than a second, a dracule swept down and plucked her up, to lift and fly toward the shattered window. Her ribs ached with venomous pain and a chill spread over her, her limbs unable to move as Finnian reached out to grab her fruitlessly by the toes.

  Papery hands with talons for fingers hooked into her clothes. The body that held her close was a man’s, bone and sinew shining through the hide-like skin. The wings erupted out of the shoulderblades and they pumped the air in long sweeps. A ghoul’s face – sharply boned, cheeks sucked in and dragging as if the creature starved, the lips stained, hair stringy and hanging in wafting wisps – grinned at her. ‘You see,’ it said. ‘We were just playing, just waiting.’ Teeth as sharp as needles projected out of pale gums, marked at the tips as if they rotted, breath tainted with death.

  Terrified, she could see it in her mind’s eye – her carcass laid in the dark outside and the Strigoi fighting over a sup of her juices as if she were some delicate wine they must sample. And when she was drained of life, she would sit up, pale and bloodless and feel the consummate need to sip blood for herself and she would search and feed.

  But miracle of miracles, those awful eyes turned away toward the window. Whatever freeze the monster had mesmered her with passed. Desperation led force to her limbs despite her injury and she kicked and pushed, her nails dragging down the ghoul’s face, seeking to throw the creature off balance. He headed toward the shattered aperture and as he moved his hands to grasp her more firmly, a silvered sound sucked on the midnight air and Finnian bellowed below. The dracule arched his back and shrieked, his hold on Lalita loosening as he arched again and she wriggled herself free of the talons. She began to fall, the Strigoi tumbling lifeless behind her.

  She had heard the legendary stories of that singing sound. Finnian had sent a mesmer into the air – invisible, lethal. The metallic shiver sang a song of death as it hurtled straight to the marauding dracule, smiting him in the back, crunching through the spine, into the innards and emerging out the chest.

  Finnian caught her as if she were swansdown, the remaining Strigoi flying in circles, howling as they watched th
eir brother hunch and empty of life. Fleeing through the window, they bayed with unsatisfied bloodlust as he began to dissolve into filthy dust.

  The foul particles settled on the floor, shrieks disappearing into the hilly distance as an uneasy quiet filled the library. Lalita shivered and gasped and she knew this time there was more damage than a sundered rib. Her breath whistled. Short, uneven puffs as broken bones pierced her lung. She looked at Finnian, his face creased with such concern that she was surprised. As she tried to figure out that compassion, to sort it in her mind, the edges of her vision faded, narrowing her world almost to a pinpoint. She sucked greedily on what little air she could garner but the dark mist spread, frightening her, making her feel as if death held onto her heels, and try as she might, she couldn’t utter a word.

  ***

  ‘Lalita, I have you. I’ll get help, listen to me.’ He picked her up as if she were treasure most rare, heading to the stable with speed. He hoped the gelding would still be in the building and not dashed against the walls in a paroxysm of anxiety, that it had stayed in the protective dark, regaining its breath, cooling down, maybe even finding water in one of the stalls that were strewn with thick straw. In his pocket the two paperweights rubbed together with another glass sphere and a piece of paper, a noise like a satisfied little snicker. Not that he cared. The thing he valued most in the world lay in his arms and hovered on the edge of life.

  Such an awakening of long buried emotion felt like being… drawn and quartered.

  He skirted the ebony pleated edges of the forest. In the dark of the never-ending night, Lalita lay slung in his arms as he headed to the Ymp Tree Orchard, to where he believed the Færan healer lived. The gelding walked with purpose, perhaps sensing the direction of the home yard, at the same time intuiting the need for a measured but steady pace for his injured passenger. Finnian wanted to gallop, to fly; every second of delay weakening the fragile link between he and Lalita, the chain that he knew was almost sundered. But he must progress at this damned snail’s pace for her sake, for her life, because speed would break the last link with life utterly.