The Bitter Twins

by Jen Williams

  Hestillion looked at the back of the queen’s head.

  ‘A new place? What does that mean?’

  ‘We burrow deep, under the skin. Find warmth and darkness, and there we deposit that which will come next.’ Ahead of them, more doors tore into being. Hestillion looked around as best she could, trying to get some sense of where she was, but it all looked very similar; fleshy grey walls, bunches of softly glowing nodules. The queen frowned. ‘Your undernourished creature. You brought it here inside something, didn’t you? What name do you have for that?’

  ‘We called them pods. They are fruits that fall from Ygseril.’

  ‘We secrete that which will come next.’

  Hestillion pressed her lips into a thin line. ‘Eggs. You’re talking about laying eggs.’

  ‘Yes.’ The queen looked pleased and they continued walking. Ahead of them the opening was smaller than it had been, and a dim blue light leaked and flickered around its edges. ‘When the eggs have been laid, we enter the changing time. We become new shapes – not travelling shapes, but harvesting shapes. We become the tool to change this new place into what the eggs need.’

  Hestillion thought of moths and butterflies, emerging from cocoons.

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  The queen carried on as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Our forms change, but we must always remember what we are. That way, we are one. Here, look.’

  The opening revealed not a corridor, but a round chamber. Towering at its heart was a tall blue crystal, shining with an inner light.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said Celaphon at their feet.

  Hestillion nodded slowly, unable to take her eyes away from it. The light the crystal cast was clear and beautiful, the blue of a summer’s bird, but it made her deeply uneasy all the same.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It is a piece of our memory,’ said the queen, as though that explained everything. ‘Come and see truly.’

  Hestillion followed the Jure’lia queen into the room cautiously, too aware that the walls could close up behind her again. Up close the crystal winked and sang with light, and then abruptly she was looking at something beyond its surface. A landscape was caught inside it, like a painting behind glass. Hestillion’s breath caught in her throat.

  ‘How . . . how is that possible?’

  The landscape was a dark green sea pierced with paler green rocks, a sickly yellow sky arching overhead. The ocean tossed and hissed with steam. Hestillion had never seen anything like it.

  ‘A memory of a place we knew, where our eggs hatched successfully. We carry them with us. Do you remember, Hestillion, born in the year of the green bird, when we asked you what held you together?’

  Hestillion looked down at the little dragon. Despite his misgivings he was edging towards the crystal’s surface, so she pushed him back gently with her foot.

  ‘I remember. I thought you were Ygseril at the time.’

  The queen either didn’t notice or ignored the sour note in her voice. ‘This is what we meant. A memory, a moment of time held in place, at the heart of each Behemoth. So many worlds, Lady Hestillion, we hold in our hearts. It weaves us together, as one.’

  ‘That is . . . remarkable. But why bring me here? Why show me this?’

  The queen turned to her then, her tall body curving slightly to bring her face closer to Hestillion’s. Up close, it was possible to see that the rigid white mask wasn’t completely flawless. Hestillion could see flecks of dirt on it, even a small crack in its shining surface near her left eye.

  ‘Because, for the first time, our cycle is being . . . interrupted. We have been on this world for thousands of years. Each time we emerge to change the world to suit our eggs, we are pushed back. By you. By that.’ She pointed one claw-like finger at Celaphon, who cringed against the floor. ‘So long, so long in our harvesting forms. Again and again we retreat, recover. Again and again we emerge. And then, this last conflict, to lie cold and inert for so long, without even the chance to recover.’

  ‘Then why don’t you leave? This is a bad place for you. So go.’

  The queen ignored her question. ‘You said this time, it is new. That this . . . communication between us has never happened before. This is why we tell you, because we hope it is true. It’s not in our nature, but perhaps it is time to try something else.’

  ‘Peace?’ Hestillion glanced down at Celaphon, who had curled himself around her feet.

  ‘Here, come and see. We would be interested to know what you think.’

  Hestillion waited for the Jure’lia queen to move, but instead the ground beneath their feet slowly began to drop. It was just the space immediately around them – the flickering crystal with its frozen memory stayed where it was – and strings of the Jure’lia substance stretched long around them as they were lowered into a cavernous room below. To Hestillion, it looked as big as the Hall of Roots in the Eboran palace, but there were no windows. The light came from rings of the glowing nodules that circled the walls – larger than those Hestillion had seen elsewhere – and a series of large raised circular pools, filled with a white liquid that seemed to give off light like a shifting, curling mist. There were unmoving shapes in the pools, but Hestillion could make out no details.

  ‘What is this place?’

  ‘You would call it . . . an experiment.’

  Their platform settled softly onto the floor and was immediately absorbed into it. Celaphon stepped away from the space where it had been, whining softly. The queen began to walk towards one of the pools, and after a moment, Hestillion followed.

  ‘You are not like the rest of your people,’ said the queen. ‘Perhaps it follows that this world is not like the others. So, for the first time, we are trying to grow something new.’

  They crested the edge of the pool and she pointed down into it, but for the moment, Hestillion refused to look. Instead, she kept her eyes on the queen’s mask-like face.

  ‘We nearly killed you last time, didn’t we? It was almost the end of all of it, us or you – one of us would perish. Except that’s not how it worked out. You were trapped, and we were poisoned.’

  ‘We did not poison you. Your diseases are your own affair,’ pointed out the queen, mildly enough. ‘Will you look?’

  Grimacing, Hestillion turned to the pool. The initial shape of the thing resting in it was that of an enormous man, at least nine foot tall, as far as Hestillion could guess. It lay on its back in the pool, the cloudy white water half submerging it. Like the water, it was white as chalk, and its features were soft and unfinished; Hestillion could make out grey shadows where its eyes were, and a thin greyish slash where a mouth would be, but no nose. Its chest was bulky and wide, and its arms were thick. There was no hair on it anywhere that Hestillion could see, and there were . . . holes. Ragged openings in its chest, its stomach, along its thick arms, and inside it was possible to see that it was hollow and filled with the sticky greenish black substance that was everywhere on the corpse moon. Just like a drone, thought Hestillion. There were strands of pale muscle across these openings, as if it were still knitting itself together. The figure also appeared to be lying on something just below it, but the water was too bright to make it out.

  ‘Well that’s . . . disgusting.’ Hestillion glanced around. ‘There are more of them?’

  ‘Many more.’ The queen was gazing down at the figure with narrowed eyes, as if she wasn’t sure what it was either. ‘We have learned from you, do you see? We are not things that learn, not usually. We birth, we eat, our eggs hatch, we travel and we begin again. But perhaps these shapes are the key.’ She turned to Hestillion. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘What do I think?’ Hestillion took a deep breath, and drew herself up to her full height. She tried not to think about her dirty hair or her stained robes. ‘I think that I am a guest and an ambassador here, and it is time you started to treat me as one. You wish to consult me? Then I require rooms, a proper bed, a place to clean myself. Better food t
han the swill you have been forcing on me. Celaphon and I must be housed in a way that befits our status – as a lady of Ebora and her war-beast.’

  The Jure’lia queen went very still. She raised her hand, with its long, tapering fingers, and closed them slowly around Hestillion’s neck – they were so long they wrapped easily around themselves.

  ‘We could summon something to eat you,’ she said, her voice low. ‘Eat all your insides and connect you to us forever.’

  ‘But then I would be just another part of your hive, and you wouldn’t be able to ask me questions.’ The queen’s skin – for want of a better word – was warm, just like normal skin. ‘What reason is there for me to cooperate with you? I will not spend the rest of my life in a squalid, windowless cell.’

  There was a long moment of silence. Hestillion strained her ears for any sort of noise at all, but she could only hear her own breathing, and the fearful panting of Celaphon. They must be very deep in the belly of the corpse moon.

  ‘Windows. Very well.’ The Jure’lia queen released her grip on Hestillion’s neck. ‘You shall be our first guest, Lady Hestillion Eskt, born in the year of the green bird. And everything you know, we shall come to know.’

  11

  We passed through a section of Wild territory yesterday. We could have attempted to go around it, I suppose, but it would have added days to our journey, and with Sarn, we are always likely to have to cross the Wild at some point – particularly if you want to get anywhere in a hurry. It was in the heart of a stretch of marshland not far from the western borders of Greenslick, and we happened to cross it in the midst of a bad patch of weather. The clouds grew low and dark, and the mists rose up all around us so that we stumbled into the Wild before we truly knew where we were.

  Together we had been following narrow tracks of solid land, built and maintained by the people of a small village not far from the marshes, which we passed through the day before. Apparently, they had built special fish enclosures within the marsh and consequently needed these paths to get back and forth safely. I had given them coin for a map of the paths, which was parted with very reluctantly. From the look the chap gave me, I suspect many are starting to feel that this will be the end of Sarn, and soon coin will be useless.

  Passing through the normal marsh into the Wild was not a pleasant experience, to say the least. I’m sure that if my dear Tor were here with us he would have been outraged at the cost to his clothes. The stench! The waters were brown and black and soupy, while enormous reeds grew in clumps so huge we almost became lost in them. Once or twice I got my boot wedged in the sucking mud, and we both became very itchy and sick. Several times I saw something huge moving in the mud, and I walked with my crossbow out for some distance. Eventually, when we had emerged from another great thicket of weeds, we spotted one Wild-touched monstrosity disappearing back into the stinking waters – I don’t know what it was truly, but it put me in mind of a vast mole, pink-skinned and blind, with a mouth full of long, yellow teeth.

  We have seen no parasite spirits, which strikes me as strange – though something of a relief.

  Extract from the private journals of Lady Vincenza ‘Vintage’ de Grazon

  ‘Extraordinary. Simply extraordinary.’

  Vintage had taken her notebook from her pack out of sheer habit, but she only gripped it with one hand, unable to drag her eyes from the sights around her. They stood in front of the gates to the Eboran palace. There were the sweeping gardens, the ornate buildings themselves, glittering with gold and glass, and then above it all, the spreading branches of Ygseril. And there were leaves on them, silver leaves against brown bark.

  ‘He lives.’ Nanthema was next to her, one hand pressed lightly to her mouth.

  Vintage realised she was swaying slightly. She took hold of the woman’s elbow, steadying her. ‘Eri, my dear, did you know? Did you know your god was alive?’

  The boy shook his head. He looked perplexed by their reactions, and he held his bucket tightly in both hands. ‘I was never supposed to come here,’ was all he said.

  There were people on the grass beyond the gate. They stood with tents or around cooking fires, and many of them were performing chores – fetching water, tanning leather, cleaning tools. They looked, to Vintage’s eye, ridiculously relaxed. Did they not realise where they were, or what stood behind them?

  ‘Nanthema, I feel like . . . I feel like we might have missed something significant. I also feel like I may throw up.’

  They walked slowly up to the gates, which were standing open, and stepped through. No one moved to stop them, and only a few people looked around with any interest. One of these was a huge blond man with a neat beard and a pair of formidable axes on his belt. He had his sleeves rolled up and Vintage could just see a thick band of ink poking out from under his shirt. Wiping his hands on a cloth, he came over to them.

  ‘By the stones, you look like you’ve had a long journey, if you don’t mind me saying.’ He was smiling at them warmly, but there was a stillness about his eyes that suggested he was as perplexed about their appearance as they were about the newly living Ebora. ‘I’m Bern Finnkeeper and I’m . . . I’m helping out around here, for want of a better way of putting it.’ He glanced from Nanthema to Eri and back again. ‘I – where have you come from? I thought we knew of all the living Eborans—’

  ‘I’m Lady Vincenza de Grazon, but you can call me Vintage, dear.’ Vintage stepped neatly in front of the others, offering her hand. The big man called Bern enclosed it in his meaty fist with remarkable gentleness. ‘My associate is Nanthema. She, as you can probably tell, is a child of Ebora, and what with everything happening in Sarn, she thought it best to come home, and, to tell you the truth, I have always wanted to see Ebora and who could possibly pass up the opportunity? This is Eri, his story is a little more complicated, but I’m sure we’ll get it all out eventually but mostly, I suppose, what I would really like to know –’ she took a sharp breath – ‘is why, by the bones of Sarn, is that bloody great tree alive when it’s been dead for centuries?’

  ‘Vintage. Vintage!’ The big man took her hand and squeezed it again, looking suddenly very pleased. ‘I know your name, of course I do. Listen, Lady de Grazon, there is an awful lot—’

  At that moment they were swallowed by shadow. Vintage looked up to see something huge barrelling towards them from above. Her hand dropped to her crossbow automatically, and then the big man Bern was gone; instead, he was rolling across the grass with something enormous, something of fur and feather and brightly shining claws.

  ‘No.’ Nanthema’s words were softer than a whisper, but Vintage heard them as clear as thunder. ‘It can’t be.’

  The rolling chaos resolved itself into a giant monster. It clambered to its feet, a creature with the body of a great muscled cat, half hidden within ruffled eagle’s wings. Its head was also that of an eagle, its throat ringed with blue and white feathers. Vintage looked for Bern, fully expecting to see him gathering his guts from a steaming pile on the floor, but he was pulling himself to his feet and laughing, gamely thumping the enormous creature on the flank.

  ‘You got me that time, Sharrik. You sneaky bastard.’

  ‘Fuck me.’ Vintage blinked. Her voice felt like it was coming from very far away. Her voice was the beach and she was the tide, edging further and further out. ‘Fuck me.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Bern, brushing himself down. The creature shook itself all over. It was a griffin, Vintage thought, although its cat-like paws suggested that it was a sub-set of the species, as, rightly, it should have the talons and front legs of a bird, although who was to say what a true griffin was anyway? She would have to consult, consult all the books and notes available and . . . Vintage blinked rapidly. Get a grip.

  ‘Sharrik has made a game of surprising me,’ said Bern. He threw an affectionate glance over his shoulder to the beast, who was now gathering an audience of children. They were tugging on his fur and looking up at him with bright
eyes – just as though he were the farmer’s prize horse. ‘I’m sure he thinks it’s very funny, but . . . I’m sorry. This must be a lot for you to take in.’

  Vintage realised he was looking at the two Eborans. Nanthema was standing with one hand pressed to her mouth, tears streaming silently down her face, while Eri hid behind her, his face very pale. Vintage took a deep breath, trying to get her heart under control, and she grabbed hold of the big man’s forearm. It was as solid as a tree trunk.

  ‘Strong drink, my good man. Do you have any?’

  It was late when they got back to the palace. Kirune slunk off immediately, not giving any indication of where he was going, and Vostok declared that she was going to the outer hills for, as she put it, ‘a bit of peace and quiet’. Tor and Noon were left alone in the courtyard.

  ‘Well.’ Tor rubbed his neck, which was cramping with the sort of deep ache that likely meant a headache later. The scars on his face felt tight and sore – a sure sign that he’d been flying for a length of time. ‘I’m not sure whether to call that successful or not.’

  ‘Kirune and Vostok went somewhere together without killing each other, that seems like progress.’ Noon smiled faintly as they stepped through the doors into the palace corridor. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Hmm? Oh, aches and pains, you know. The usual.’

  Silence fell between them then. The corridors were lit softly here – they couldn’t afford to waste too much oil, after all – and in the dim light Noon’s face looked flushed. It occurred to him that it was very rare for them to be alone together these days. There was always someone wanting something, or a war-beast that needed attention. Or the dragon. There was always the dragon.