The Poisoned Crown

by Amanda Hemingway

  “You won’t be coming back?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He had shared Ezroc’s mind: it was a bond like no other.

  “Get on,” the albatross said.

  And then they were flying, circling the group in the water. Denaero looked up and waved, sudden comprehension in her face. Nokosha made a gesture of acknowledgment; Burgoss raised a flipper; Uraki and Rhadamu offered a brief salute.

  He heard Denaero call what she believed to be the traditional farewell of his people.

  “Live long—and prosper!”

  He thought: Maybe, from now on, they’ll always say that…

  There are worse ways to say goodbye.

  They rode the air, ascending in giant spirals toward the clouds. Below, the water was shadow blue, still unbroken by a single rock, but soon the islands would be there, the islands Keerye had dreamed of, the Jeweled Archipelago, the Giant’s Knucklebones, the islands of story and legend that he and Ezroc had sought for long ago. The subterranean caverns were filling and would never again be emptied. Whether the deed was good or bad Nathan didn’t know, but it was done, and he couldn’t change it now. Far off he saw the sun’s rays parting the clouds, streaming down toward the sea. And in the other direction the rainbow appeared, arching across the horizon—he fancied they could fly through it to all the worlds that ever were, and beyond, to a better place, a world without war or hatred, Avalon, Nirvana, the kingdom of Faerie. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, though he remained solid, he was the bird, and the bird was him, at one in the magic of the flight and the hope that somewhere there was a place where they would see Keerye again, and tell him all their tale—somewhere there was a place where it all came right…

  And then Nathan found the portal in his mind, and it opened, not onto sleep but a spinning, reeling, dazzling rush through the borders of the cosmos, hurling him back into his own bed with a jolt that left him dizzy and star-blind.

  He tried to sit up but sank back until the vertigo subsided. The Crown was in his hands. He was soaking wet.

  Bartlemy was there—his mother—Hazel—all staring at him. For some reason, Annie seemed to be crying …

  “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m back.”

  IT WAS Christmas. Annie and Nathan were having dinner at Thorny-hill, joined this year by Hazel, who, having spent the day dutifully with her mother and an assortment of aunts, uncles, and cousins, had now left Lily tête-à-tête with Franco and come to dine off Bartlemy’s cooking.

  “I didn’t eat anything at lunch,” she revealed. “They all said I had anorexia—it’s idiotic, I’m not even thin—but Mum said I was eating here, and Uncle Len said at my age, he’d have grabbed the chance to have two Christmas dinners, which is probably why he’s as fat as a hog, and Aunty Christine looked all offended, so I took a mince pie and pretended. It was disgusting—Aunty Christine’s the world’s worst cook—I gave it to the cat, and she spat it out. It’s awful when you have Christmas with bad cooking. I mean, the whole point of Christmas is the food.”

  “It’s supposed to be the season of peace and goodwill,” Annie murmured with the hint of a smile.

  “Not in my family,” Hazel said. “It’s better since Dad left, but Uncle Kevin always gets drunk and starts to squabble with Aunt Lizzy, and Aunty Christine disapproves of Mum and Franco—”

  “So do you,” Nathan pointed out.

  “That’s different. She’s my mum. It’s nobody else’s business.”

  “You’ll get a good dinner here,” Annie promised. “And no squabbling, especially between you and Nathan.”

  They had a wonderful dinner—roast goose with gooseberry sauce, potatoes done in the fat, sprouts and chestnuts, cabbage with leeks and bacon, then Christmas pudding with cream or ice cream, and Stilton if anybody had any room. Afterward, there was port, and presents. They had opened most of their presents earlier, before Hazel arrived, but they still had to exchange gifts with her, and Annie always made special crackers with gold paper and silver lace containing little extras for everybody. Even Hoover had a cracker, a very large one with a bone inside.

  Hazel, to Nathan’s surprise and satisfaction, was rendered nearly speechless by his present.

  “I’m afraid I sort of stole it,” he admitted. “Only it was probably stolen originally from somebody who died long before. I put it on in the cave and didn’t take it off. It’s way too small for me but it should fit you.”

  Hazel put the serpent ring on her third finger and said in her lowest mumble: “’s beautiful.”

  She thought: I have a ring from another world.

  It seemed to her that in putting it on her whole personality changed, becoming glamorous and mysterious.

  Nathan added: “I’m pretty sure it’s gold.”

  Hazel smiled. “I know how to check.”

  The snake’s eyes were made of tiny jewels whose color altered when she put the ring on, turning from green to fire red.

  “May I see it?” said Bartlemy. “Rings picked up in caves can lead to trouble—there are precedents, as we all know. There’s something written on the inside … maybe Nathan can read it.”

  “I spoke the common language of Widewater,” Nathan said, “but I never had occasion to read anything. Besides, this must have belonged to the human civilization there, and they could have had a language of their own. I’m sorry, Hazel: I don’t suppose we’ll ever know what it says.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Hazel said. “I’m going to wear it all the time.” And, to Bartlemy: “It isn’t evil, or magical—is it?”

  “After the dinner you’ve just eaten,” Bartlemy said, “your chances of turning into a wraith are very slight.”

  Later, Nathan told Hazel about his scholarship ending—Annie had broken the news to him the previous week—and they discussed what he would do for the sixth form.

  “Uncle Barty says he’ll pay for me to stay on at Ffylde,” Nathan said. “But I’m not sure I should. I mean, I love it there—I’ve got loads of friends—but maybe this is, like, a sign. Maybe I should have a change. Crawford College is really good—and I’d be with you and George.”

  “I’ll never get into Crawford College,” Hazel said. “They only take people with good GCSEs. You’ve got to be all academic and motivated.”

  “Uncle Barty says you can do it if you try,” Nathan retorted. “It would be fun, the three of us together again. There’s motivation for you.”

  “I always mess up,” Hazel said somberly. “Look at my spell to help you on Widewater. All I did was saddle you with Nenufar. It could have been fatal. I’m bound to mess up my exams. It isn’t worth trying— when I try, everything goes wrong.”

  “Your spell worked out for me, in the end,” Nathan pointed out. “I couldn’t have gotten into the cavern without it. And now the Crown’s here, with the other things … and you’ve got a ring from another world. You can do anything.”

  For no particular reason, the snake’s eyes turned from red to citrine yellow.

  “It’s like a mood ring,” Hazel said. “I’ve seen those.”

  And: “I’ll think about it.”

  THAT NIGHT—the night after Christmas—Nathan dreamed of Eos. He knew when he was on Eos, even if his surroundings were unfamiliar; by now, he had acquired a certain feel for that universe, a kind of instinct that told him when he was there. And he knew, too, that he was in control—or at least, that this visitation had nothing to do with the Grandir. He was in a room with dim mauve hangings and dim gray light and general dimness. There was a bed in a curtained alcove with the curtains drawn back. People came and went softly, the way they do when someone is very ill. Nathan thought that if it was him who was ill it might possibly annoy him—the tiptoeing and the carefulness and the library hush. He was insubstantial, observing, but for the first time he felt that if he wished to materialize he could: it would only take a moment of concentration.

  In the bed was a man with long silver hair and an amazing beard, a bea
rd that might, if he had been standing, have reached his knees. It was the beard of a wizard in a story, or an aged king from the days of legend, forked and plaited and white as snow. It was a beard that spoke of wisdom, and extreme old age, and possibly a permanent disinclination to shave. Even on Eos, Nathan was sure, there was only one beard like that. Osskva Rodolfin Petanax, first level praetor and father of Kwanji Ley. Above the beard his face was unmasked and very thin, concave cheeks falling away from jutting bones, his eyes sunken deep in their sockets under tufted Gandalfian brows. They were closed, but as Nathan drew near they opened, and saw.

  “Ah,” he said, in a voice as dim and shadowy as the room. “It’s you.”

  “You can see me?” Nathan knew he wasn’t visible.

  “The Gate is very near for me now. Already, it stands half open. I can see things that other men cannot.”

  “I didn’t think people allowed themselves to die here,” Nathan said. “I thought the magic kept you going … sort of indefinitely.”

  “We have outlasted the lesser races of this world,” Osskva said. “The Contamination took them long before. But even we cannot live forever. I have seen seven thousand years come and go. It is enough. My daughter, whom I loved beyond all else, is dead. I am content to follow her.”

  “How old was she?” Nathan asked. “She must have been much younger—but the magic makes you sterile after the first fifty years or so, doesn’t it?”

  “It does indeed. I stored my seed, preserving it with certain spells for the right moment, the right partner. It is a method that senior praetors use, though it is beyond the range of those with lesser power. Thus the great families conserve their talent and pass it on. But my Kwanjira was no spellmaster; she was proud, and difficult, and a rebel. Every family throws them up from time to time. Still, she was more to me than all the stars that ever shone …”

  “Did you … have other children?” Nathan inquired diffidently.

  “No. The magic does not work that way. You must save all your seed, all your fertility—that is the price. My first wife … did not forgive. But I waited for one of purer genetic makeup—I waited six thousand years for Zarabinda Ley. Her genes were perhaps not perfect, but she was as beautiful as the dawn. And so Kwanjira was born into a world without children, a world already on the edge of death. I thought… she would survive. I would have given everything I had, for her to live on. But she was rash, and angry—the fire of youth in a universe grown old. I think—I always knew she had no chance …”

  “She was very brave,” Nathan said uncomfortably, remembering how she had died, beside him in the cave. And there had been people waiting for her, he was sure of it—well, not exactly people but presences—friendly—kindly—only he didn’t know quite how to explain that.

  Perhaps he didn’t need to. Not now. Perhaps Osskva already knew.

  “Our Grandir,” the old man went on, “I often wondered … He and Halmé … there were no children. I think … I understand now. His seed was required for another purpose. The Gate will open soon, very soon. Not into death but life—salvation. Salvation for all who remain.”

  “Are you the only people in this world?” Nathan said, remembering the term lesser races, wondering why he had not thought about it before.

  “We are now. Once there were many, many peoples—too many to list them all. But we were the strongest, the cleverest, the ones with a natural affinity for magic. We came from Alquàrin, from Gond, from Rheegor—I forget. It was so long ago even the historians have ceased to speak of it. We ruled for a million years. The others blended their blood, their genes, mingled and degenerated, but not us. We remained pure. Somewhere, we will rule again.”

  Nathan considered debating the whole purity issue, but Osskva was dying, and he left him to his illusions. The purple eyes had closed again; Nathan drew back. He found himself thinking of Eric, who had never talked of lesser races, who had adapted to an alien world and its backward inhabitants apparently without a qualm. But Eric wasn’t a first-level praetor, just a onetime fisherman centuries out of a job …

  A tall, dark figure interposed itself between Nathan and the bed. A familiar figure, even from the back. Always familiar.

  Nathan thought: He doesn’t know I’m here.

  “How long?” the newcomer asked someone else. One of those who tiptoed, and whispered, and was careful in the imminence of death. As if it was Death, not Osskva, who must be treated with respect.

  Someone else said: “Not long.”

  Presently, the person added: “He talks to himself.”

  No, he doesn’t, Nathan thought. He talks to me.

  The Grandir said: “You may go.”

  It was an order.

  Alone—more or less—he waited. He took off his mask, but Nathan stayed behind him, unable to see his face. He felt less solid than a ghost, but he knew the Grandir would be sensitive to his presence, and for no reason that he could explain he did not wish to be seen there.

  Eventually, the old man opened his eyes again.

  “You have come,” he said. “I thought you might.”

  “You had a daughter,” the Grandir said. “One of the terrorists. She was in Deep Confinement, but she escaped—somehow. None ever escape from the Pits, but she … I learned her identity too late to do anything for her.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Osskva said. “Our children are our future, even here. I knew, from the hour of her birth, that she would throw mine away. She was willful—playful—reckless beyond reason. I will pass the Gate before you, and my path will be other than yours. But you—you have a future still. The future of our people. I have seen it.”

  “What have you seen?” the Grandir demanded.

  “I have seen the child—the child of another world. He grows taller—almost a man—he grows like the Destroyer in the forbidden tales, who came to manhood in a year and a day to avenge the death of a god. The youth is still on him, like dew on a flower …”

  “The flowers have all gone,” said the Grandir. “Only the desert endures. When did you see this child?”

  “He comes and goes,” Osskva said. “Twice—three times. The Gate is behind you—it stands ajar—ajar! He is beside it, holding the door. He shines like the dew in the morning—youth the Destroyer— youth that lasts an instant, an hour, and is blown out like a candle in the wind of Time. We have no youth anymore but he is there, holding the Gate, youth our savior, last of our children …”

  He’s rambling, Nathan realized. The Grandir knows it. He will not turn—he will not look for me—

  “He is there!” Osskva cried, his voice growing stronger, trying to sit up. “There! Youth—the angel youth—”

  The Grandir turned—

  Nathan wrenched himself away, out of that world, into the dark.

  He dreamed of a gate, an ordinary gate under a low stone arch. It was made of wood, bleached of all color by the sun, or the moon, or the light of forgotten stars. Flowers grew around it, tiny white flowers like jasmine, smelling of Forever. A lizard with scales like beads of glitter scurried across the boards …

  He thought Osskva was beyond that Gate now, and Kwanji Ley— Romandos and Imagen—Keerye—his own father, Daniel Ward … So many, so many. There was no crack or chink between the boards but suddenly the Gate opened, less than an inch, and a light streamed through—a light he had seen once before, between worlds—a light that did not dazzle his eyes—a light that found its way inside him and touched his soul …

  He woke up.

  THAT NIGHT—the night after Christmas—Bartlemy sat in his living room, listening to the year tick away. Once this was Yule, the pith of the winter, the dark of the year—and people had always celebrated, because now the season was turning, the days lengthening, and they could look forward to spring. That was typical of the human race, Bartlemy thought with sudden warmth, to celebrate when things are darkest—to celebrate Hope, and Faith, and the belief that, with a little luck, the sun would rise in the morning, and for al
l the mornings to come. If there was a God Who cared—if there were Ultimate Powers watching over the worlds—he trusted they could see what they had made, the courage of these fragile, short-lived creatures, who shaped their world, for good or evil, and sang their songs, and feasted and fêted, because the hope of their hearts was stronger than the dark.

  And the Christians had taken Yule, and given it to be the birthday of a man who had never seen snow on the pines or eaten plum pudding, who lived and died in the warm southern climes where winter never came.

  So Bartlemy sat, sipping the dark red liquor he reserved for these occasions, pondering the nature of things, coming to no conclusions, for such ponders never do, but appreciating the conclusions he didn’t come to. At his feet Hoover flopped his ears over his eyes and snored a doggy snore.

  Presently, Bartlemy said: “Come in.”

  “Greeting,” said the dwarf, stepping through from the kitchen, a bundle of dubious odors, rags of leather and hessian, clumps of hair. Knobbly fingers already held the wing of the goose, which vanished into his beard even as he seated himself crook-legged on the hearth rug. “’Tis a black night,” he remarked after a minute, around the goose, “and the fire looks muckle welcoming.”

  “The night is often black,” Bartlemy commented. “Especially when it’s cloudy. It’s the nature of nighttime.”

  “Aye,” said the dwarf pensively, as if this were a profound subject. “I’m thinking it mun be Yule, what the new religion calls Christmas. Nae doot that’s why ye be roasting the goosey, and living off the fat o’ the land.”

  “Nae doot,” said Bartlemy. “But this is the twenty-first century, unless I’ve lost count, and in the New Year people will look at their waistlines and live off the lean. That’s how they do things nowadays.”

  “The ways o’ menfolk be strange to me,” Login said. “But this New Year, the way I hear it, there may be neither fat nor lean. Let them feast now, while they can. There are dark times coming. Too dark for me. I’m hearing, ye ha’ the cursed Crown here, wi’ the cursed Cup, and the cursed Sword. That bodes nae guid to man or dwarf. I told ye, the magister was mad—the hour he spoke of is a-drawing nigh, and I ha’ no wish to wait here for the gate o’ hell to open.”