The Scarlet Star Trilogy

by Ben Galley

  Sift was a professional pain-bringer, and he hated her all the more for it. (A lifespan of centuries comes in handy when you have something to practice.) She had honed her skills into a deadly art form, and her collection—implements and devices, blades and needles, hooks and brands—was morbidly impressive. The tools were spread around that horrid cave of a room, sitting in purple, mole-velvet cases on skinny root-wood tables, or hanging from elegant iron brackets in the walls. He had only sampled but a fraction so far. There were still many more toys to enjoy. The thought summoned a cold sweat to his forehead.

  In the back of the room, a small forge crackled away. Rhin snuck another glance at the two pokers that lingered there, and winced.

  Sift paced some more, still waiting for her answer. In one hand, she held a fork with needle-sharp tines, and in the other a bottle of something orange and putrid.

  ‘I take it that’s a “no”?’

  Rhin knew all about troll blood. He had seen its effects first hand; splashing or dripping onto the fallen, bodies hissing and steaming as it ate into them, down to the bones. The only things troll blood couldn’t eat were glass and troll innards.

  ‘The humans call it “cauterisation”’, said Sift. ‘It burns while it eats, sealing the wound as it burrows through you. You simply lose whatever is in its way.’

  ‘How very pleasant,’ replied Rhin.

  Sift wandered closer, aiming the fork at him. ‘Would you like to see what we can cauterise?’

  ‘Maybe later,’ he replied, only to receive a stab from the fork. He looked down to find lavender blood pooling around the three tiny puncture wounds in his side.

  Another wound for the ledger. He was building up quite the collection.

  ‘His hand!’ Sift ordered. The two burly Coil Guards either side of Rhin dragged out his hand; the one with the black bean sidhe cross still etched into the palm. Rhin snarled and struggled, but to no avail. He was exhausted after the endless torture, wracked by how close he felt to cracking. Sift only stopped her games to eat, sleep, or deal with the riotous gatherings that seemed to be flaring up all around Shanarh. Something about food shortages and Sift squandering Fae gold on border wars instead of the city.

  Or spending too much time torturing old friends, thought Rhin.

  ‘All you need is a drop,’ Sift crooned, expertly flicking a single drop from the bottle’s coiled tip onto his palm. Rhin writhed immediately. The pain was intense, rushing up the veins of his arm. His heart clenched and spasmed as the blood bored a hole where the lines of the cross met. It soon found his bones, and Rhin seethed, spitting through bared teeth until the blood fizzled out.

  ‘More?’ Sift asked, raising the bottle.

  ‘No!’ Rhin answered quickly, almost biting the tip from his tongue. He hated to show weakness, but he also wanted to remind Sift that no prize could last long under this sort of treatment. She smirked.

  ‘Had enough, have we?’

  Rhin nodded, giving her what she wanted. Sift purred to herself, replacing the bottle and her fork in their individual nests before coming back to circle him, a smug grin on her face. She was just reaching for his cheek when a Coil Guard burst into the room.

  Her title was a rasping wheeze. ‘My Queen!’

  ‘I did not bid you enter!’ Sift shrieked.

  There was a clang as the guard’s armoured knees met the stone floor. ‘My apologies, Your Majesty, but a riot has begun in the Quivering Quarter.’ He bowed his head and flattened his wings.

  Sift scowled at him, hands outstretched but stopping short to strangle the air instead of his throat. Rhin knew she hated it when a faerie had a good excuse. With an irritated hiss, she clicked her fingers and strode from the room. ‘Put him back in his cell!’ The words tumbled in her wake like shrivelled leaves.

  ‘See you soon,’ Rhin whispered through cracked and bloodied lips as the Coil Guards grabbed him.

  His new cell was a square hole with a dirt floor, carved into the rock about halfway up the towering cavern walls. At least his view was improving, and there wasn’t a worm in sight.

  Rhin was shoved through the door. He smiled, sickly-sweet with gratitude, as one of the guards put his toothy keys to work. The other just spat an ugly pearl of phlegm through the bars before they sauntered back along the walkway, stolen by the shadows of the honeycomb corridors.

  As soon as he was alone, Rhin slumped into a heap and took a long, slow breath. ‘By the bloody Roots,’ he wheezed to himself, when his lungs began to burn. Sift had used her old spells to keep him on the edge of consciousness, but with distance they were waning. She had healed, then destroyed, over and over. Sleep now clawed at him, but Rhin forced himself into a sitting position to check his many wounds.

  His fingers examined the countless cuts and swollen lumps from fists and boots; the “S” carved into his ribs, in Fae tongue; the broken rib; the empty socket at the back of his mouth; another notch to his ear; the multiple burns from the pokers across his chest and shins; and the new hole or two in his left wing. Rhin focused on each and every one, pressing his fingers to them, willing them healed. There was no drama to Fae magick, no pomp nor ceremony. It was intrinsic, running through a faerie’s veins like tree-roots through the earth. Casting spells was simply a muscle to tense, a rhyme to remember and a lot of concentration.

  Rhin sat like that for an hour, draining what little energy he had left to heal himself as best he could. He tried to clear his mind of the core-numbing fear; the chilling prospect of being trapped there for months, maybe years. He focused on simple emptiness. Only then did he let sleep take him.

  He melted into the cold, rough floor, his mind chasing the memory of hot sun on his back.

  *

  Not too far away, under the streets and hidden away in the banks of the Thames, Merion and Lilain held their breath.

  ‘Will it work, Aunt?’

  ‘Not if you keep distracting me, Nephew.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  The nimerigar blood waited patiently in a beaker. The purified leech shade hovered above it, the first drop teetering on the puckered lips of a pipette. All the work until this point had been to get the bloods on the same level, or so she put it. Two halves of each other, just waiting to combine. A slight miscalculation, and they would split, and Merion would have wasted three days.

  All eyes followed the drip’s descent, making a brief crown within the nimerigar blood. Lilain leaned close, wincing as though the mixture would erupt at any moment. Nothing happened, and she tapped her nails on the table.

  ‘We’re in luck. It’s blended.’ Lilain swatted at Merion as he reached forward. She picked up a pocket watch as she began to stir the blood. ‘I’ll tell you when it’s ready, Nephew. Two more minutes.’

  Merion nodded. That he could handle after the threat of days. Even so, he paced the narrow triangle of the room, making Lurker anxious.

  ‘Sit down, boy, ‘afore I put you outside.’

  Merion sought a stool. A familiar tap at the door, one of a beak on wood, distracted him. Lurker moved to stand but the boy beat him to it. There was a squeak of hinges, a welcoming squawk, and in waddled Jake. He instantly flapped to Lurker’s waiting arm, chattering away.

  Jake had visited twice in the space of a day now. Last night, he had brought news of Calidae losing Slickharbour Spit, Dizali’s plans to hang the Queen, and, most important of all, her induction into Dizali’s lamprey Order. Merion would not have admitted it aloud, but he was impressed. The girl knew what she was doing.

  ‘What now?’ he asked.

  Lurker translated. ‘Witchazel will come.’

  ‘About time,’ said Gunderton behind him.

  Merion clapped his hands. ‘All the more reason to stay on schedule. Aunt?’

  ‘Yes, Merion. We’re done,’ sighed Lilain, holding up two chunky vials, each filled to the brim with bright red blood.

  The boy grinned. ‘Then it’s off to Jekyll Park.’

  *

  As they wound
up the steps into the day—one full of patchwork sunlight and a brisk wind—they set a path north and slightly east, heading around the fringes of London’s core and the bustle of the midday rush.

  It was clear that Merion wasn’t the only one simmering with emotion. Tensions seemed higher than usual on the streets of London. Constables stood at every other corner. Grim faces and wide eyes made up the crowds, shuffling a little slower today.

  The paperboys swiftly informed them why; it was the death sentence of Queen Victorious. Dizali had announced it that very morning. Some it chilled, some it cheered, but it set all chattering. Merion caught talk of protests in the dockyards, of crowds gathering at the Crucible and Emerald House. The news had put the city on a low boil, ready to spill and spit or go dry and quiet. The other headlines of the day did nothing for distraction.

  ‘Red King Lincoln seeks peace with the frontier!’

  ‘Second Grand Fleet besieges Sevastapol!’

  ‘Lord Felcher dies in freak carriage incident! Family and constituents mourn!’

  The closer they drew to Jekyll Park’s southwest corner, the more Merion’s trepidation grew. It wasn’t so much a fear of what lay beyond; it was the fear of not being able to meet it. The close call with the Sand Rabbits in Wyoming had always played heavy on the boy’s mind, and with the recent Gavisham failure, he was beginning to doubt his abilities.

  He kept up his stride, not breaking for an instant, keen to keep his struggle hidden from the others. Doubt is a silent battle.

  ‘You’ll have worn yourself out by the time you get there,’ said Lilain, taking big strides to match his marching.

  Merion pulled a wry face. ‘We’re almost there.’

  ‘Any idea where Rhin’s being held?’

  ‘He will be somewhere in the Coil, in Sift’s clutches.’

  ‘And you still have no idea how you’re going to break him out?’

  ‘Of course I do. Ingenuity and improvisation.’

  There came a hoarse rasp of disapproval; the same as the first time he had told her.

  ‘I have to do this, Aunt. There is not a great deal of choice in the matter. We need the blood.’

  ‘And I s’pose trying some other letters, some of my old tuto—’

  ‘You said so yourself. The Fae shade is rarer than flaming ice. One of your top three, if I remember rightly? We don’t have the time.’

  Lilain held up her hands. ‘I have to ask.’

  Merion nodded. ‘That you do, and as I said before, I appreciate it. We’re here.’

  He pointed to the copse of oak and elm that sat apart from the wall of trees lining Jekyll Park. It was like a strange child, bullied and cast out, all curled in on itself. A few clumps of people milled about, giving it a wide berth. They tossed balls or snoozed in the cloud-chased sunlight, escaping from the press of the city.

  ‘That’s it?’ Gunderton didn’t sound impressed.

  ‘The well is in there. Below it is Shanarh, capital of Undering. Did you expect more?’

  ‘A city inside a well,’ grunted Lurker. ‘Well I never.’

  ‘Madness, one might say,’ said Merion. The old prospector just nodded.

  Merion set about getting ready, stretching his muscles and slowing his heartbeat. He didn’t want to boil his blood this time around. He cast sideways glances at the copse as he forced himself to breathe as slow as a sighing tree. ‘So what am I to expect? Bones breaking and cramps?’

  ‘No pain I hear, just a dizzyin’,’ said Lilain.

  ‘It’ll come strong and stick fast, so you have to be forceful with it,’ advised Gunderton.

  Merion took that on board. ‘What about my clothes? Will they shrink too?’

  Lilain chuckled. ‘I know this is magick, Nephew, but that’d be preposterous. The shade can only sink its teeth into you, not your clothes. Fear not, I’ve made some spares. I was up all night.’ She patted her pocket. ‘Got twine, too. Which will seem like rope.’

  Merion wore a wry smile. ‘See? Useful.’

  Lilain looked victorious as she produced two vials from her pocket. The boy stuck out a hand. ‘Right. It’s time for me to go.’ To his confusion, his aunt passed him just one of the vials. She gave Gunderton the other.

  ‘What’s this?’ Merion enquired.

  His aunt had that look on her; the one that his father used to wear when he was about to define some rules.

  ‘You don’t think you’re going alone, do you?’

  ‘That’s not the plan.’

  ‘I know. We’re making an addition.’

  Merion scowled. ‘I can do this on my own.’

  Gunderton stepped forward, looking down at him with his odd eyes, over his bushy beard. It was still difficult to look into them and not see Gile and Gavisham staring back.

  ‘You do realise you can’t rush whilst you’re down there? That you’ll have to rely on your hands and skills? You a fighter, Merion?’

  The boy felt cold fingers around his neck. ‘Er… No.’

  The Brother seemed almost boastful. ‘I’ve been in more fights than you’ve had hot dinners, Merion. I once punched a man so hard his eyeball popped right out of his skull. And besides, your father’s ghost might strangle me if I don’t go with you.’

  ‘Fine, you’ve made your case.’ Merion sighed, even though he knew Gunderton was right. He felt some of the weight lift from his chest, and turned to his aunt as he flicked the cork.

  ‘And you’re sure it’ll last?’ He didn’t fancy suddenly swelling up and getting trapped in a tunnel for faeries to jab at.

  Lilain crossed her arms as if accepting a challenge. ‘Leech blood gives it strength, longevity. And both shades have been distilled as far as can be. Their power is now many times stronger. You’ll have an hour, maybe more.’

  ‘Plenty of time, right?’ Merion glanced at Gunderton. He was holding his open vial an inch from his lips. He rolled his eyes as though her couldn’t quite believe the words queuing on his tongue.

  ‘Let’s go rescue a faerie.’

  Down, the crimson went; a bitter stream of fiery liquid that burned Merion’s throat and stomach. It wasn’t painful, just potent. Merion tensed his muscles, bending the blend to his will, dragging it out into his body and driving it into his skull. It was like manhandling a hay bale up a slope, but he got it there eventually.

  If only he had a Bloodmoon to help him.

  As soon as the magick took root, he felt the world sway around him. He threw out a hand to steady himself and Lurker caught it. He felt like his mind was tumbling over and over inside his head with nowhere to fall. There was a pounding noise. Merion looked down and saw the grass rising up to greet him. He felt his clothes become baggy and oversized. It was working!

  He steeled himself and dragged his wits out of the nausea so he could watch himself shrink. Within a few seconds he had passed Lurker’s belt, then his thighs, until gradually the shrinking came to a stop just shy of the prospector’s knees.

  ‘Incredible!’ he said to himself, checking his hands and patting his chest. Everything about him was exactly the same, even though he was naked and wrapped in the crumpled fabric of his cloak. It was the world that had changed. He looked up at Lilain and Lurker, high above. They looked colossal, and as they bent down to peer at him, they seemed to move slower than usual. Merion now knew the secret behind a Fae’s nimbleness.

  ‘Feeling alright?’ Gunderton asked, flicking a nearby blade of grass. He was shameless in the way he stood there, legs wide and arms crossed, free of his huge clothes.

  Merion could feel the magick bubbling in his veins, sticking fast as Gunderton had said; as though it had dug a claw deep into every one of his muscles and pinned them together. The dizziness had receded; now he just felt very warm. All of the energy of a thirteen-year-old human boy had been squeezed down into a smaller package. No wonder he was already sweating.

  ‘Hot, but fine. Clothes, Aunt?’

  Two crudely cut and sewn outfits landed between them. Merion
held his up, marvelling at its itchiness. The threads were like loops of twine. The fabric was grey and black, perfect for creeping around a Fae city. There were no pockets; just a thin lining of leather for protection. A small bundle of whip-cord followed, stout rope to them.

  ‘Wish I could come along,’ Lurker boomed. Merion’s ears were incredibly sensitive.

  ‘Sorry, old friend, not this time,’ replied the boy. His voice sounded small and lost.

  ‘And some weapons, too,’ said Lilain, passing them shards of metal or needles wrapped tightly with thread; crude swords to take on black Fae Steel. Merion stuffed both weapons under his makeshift belt, fashioned from a piece of cord.

  ‘Can you take us closer?’ Gunderton called up to the others, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder.

  Being carried so effortlessly was a strange sensation when you’re the one used to doing the carrying. The high-born in Merion made him resentful, feeling as though he were a pet in his aunt’s hands. Rhin had never seemed to mind it. He was glad when they put him down.

  He looked up at the trees of the copse, looming over them, and the darkness that hid between them. Merion felt that chill again, in the oppressive touch of their shadow, making him long to walk away and be done with this foolishness.

  ‘Feel it?’ he asked of Gunderton, who was also busy scowling at the trees.

  ‘I do,’ he said.

  ‘Fae magick.’

  ‘We’ll be waiting right here,’ Lilain said, face fighting not to frown. ‘Be safe.’

  Jake squawked, making Merion flinch. The bird was terrifying up close. His beak was as long as the boy’s forearm.

  ‘Give ‘em hell,’ said Lurker.

  Together, Merion and Gunderton moved forward into the woods, feet battling the grass stems while their minds fought heavy fear. It was like wading through a jungle that screamed incessantly.

  The fear became more potent with every step they took through the dark cavern between the trees; roofed by interwoven branches, tiled by leaves. The darkness seemed to crowd around them like black smoke. And yet still they marched on, gritting teeth and clenching fists.