by Ben Galley
Merion hugged the wooden wall, head full of the clattering footsteps from the stairwell below. He clenched his teeth and checked his hand for the dozenth time. It was still invisible, even to him. If he looked harder he saw a faint smudge in the air; an indistinct outline speckled by raindrops. But that was all. His heart beat no slower for it.
The footsteps grew to a crescendo. A lordsguard burst from the doorway and ran past him, almost brushing his arm. A second later, four more figures emerged. Three Brothers Eighth, bowler-hatted and hurrying. And then Lord Dizali, inches close, his sharp face chiselled from stone and his eyes narrow in anticipation. No doubt eager to finally get his hands on the Hark boy. A paperboy, more like.
Merion could have easily reached out and encircled his throat.
Not yet.
Merion bared his teeth and peeled away from the wall, allowing himself to breathe. He froze solid as Dizali paused in his steps, boot-sole brushing the next stair. The Brothers surged on without him. He looked over his shoulder, scanning the hallway cautiously as he swayed back and forth. Merion stared right at Dizali’s moss-green eyes. Even though his heart thundered, part of him wanted to grin at the cheek of the moment. He tensed as hard as his muscles would allow, clutching at the oily tails of the Fae shade.
How did Rhin do this so easily?
It was an age before Dizali swore to himself and raced after his Brothers. Even after he had disappeared, Merion stayed still, counting the minutes in his head. Five or ten. That was all he had, and he had used at least six of them getting into this damned mansion. Now here he was, wasting more time, standing at the foot of the cellar stairs.
Witchazel had drawn him a map, but Merion would have come here even without one. Where treasures were concerned, there were usually only two options: up, or down. The tallest towers or the deepest cellars. In every fairytale his maids had ever read him, it was the same. His father had chosen the latter for his own lair. Dizali was clearly of the same ilk.
Allowing himself to unclench his fists, Merion slipped through the door and down the carpeted steps. His feet fell like feathers—quiet and unseen—which made it tricky to know where to place them.
Down, he coiled into the darkness, until he found a grand set of doors. Behind them he felt the cool air embrace his skin. He followed the natural curve of the mighty wine racks and shelves to find more stairs leading down into the dark. Only a handful of gaslights offered guidance.
Merion’s boots tapped against the steps. He tread as fast as he could without tripping, and held out unseen hands to steady himself. Falling and breaking his neck now would have been preposterous.
Another level came and went. Merion’s eyes still darted back and forth. He was biting his lip so hard, it was close to bleeding. Ten minutes. Time must have been almost up. He glanced at his arm, checking he was still invisible. It was hard to tell in the gloom.
He found a final flight of stairs and hurtled down them, coming to an abrupt and stumbling stop as he reached a dusty floor and an open space. A gold contraption stood quietly in a shaft of gaslight.
The Orange Seed was a magnificent thing, cast in burning gold and pieced together from countless shapes and interlocking whorls of metal. It looked much like a globe of the known world; only instead of countries and borders, it was emblazoned with miniature fissures and mesmeric lines. At its top was some sort of protuberance; a swirling cone of metal that pierced both the orb and the golden cage that enclosed it. Here was Merion’s fell swoop; his penultimate shift of the chess-pieces, cast in flaming metal.
And there was something else: a figure sitting tall and tied in a wooden chair, a stone’s toss from where he stood. Calidae Serped, and none other. She was peering into the darkness, confused at the swirling dust that had sprung up from the floor, and the strange noise of clattering boots without an owner. Merion saw fresh injuries on her face.
‘Who’s there?’ she hissed.
‘Only me,’ said Merion, flashing her a cocky smile even though he knew she couldn’t see. ‘I hope your unfinished business was worth it.’
‘You’re supposed to be—’
‘In Rolick’s hands?’
‘You found a better distraction after all.’
Merion had indeed. The plucky paperboy, just a few years his younger, had done exactly as instructed. Merion had stood behind him at the gate, when the lordsguards had so readily cocked their rifles. It was a dangerous thing to ask of anybody, but he seemed to be making a habit of asking dangerous questions, and had sworn to see the lad safe before the night was done.
‘What are you doing down here? Don’t tell me you’ve actually come to rescue me, you fool.’ She watched the dust swirl around the golden feet of the Orange Seed.
‘As much as I am fond of pleasantries,’ Merion snapped, hands already probing the cold contraption. ‘I don’t have time to talk.’ He glanced at her bruises and added, ‘Are you alright?’
Calidae grumbled something acidic. She squinted, trying to make out the shape of the boy as he examined the Seed.
‘What exactly are you planning to do with that? You should be handing yourself over with the deeds, not prowling about like your damn faerie.’
‘And you should be hidden away with Witchazel, safe and sound and ready to march into the Emerald House tomorrow, to denounce our good friend. As somebody once said, plans change. The deeds are in here, Calidae. Now silence yourself.’
Merion stared down into the hole at the very top of the Seed. There seemed to be some sort of funnel, just as Witchazel had told him. He set his jaw and reached into his pocket for the small fragment of metal he had taken from Gunderton’s lair. It was barely more than a splinter but it would do the trick.
Merion shoved his sleeve up to his elbow. His stomach lurched as he realised he could see it now, as well as feel it: the outline of his skin and clothing. It was nothing more than a shadow among shadows, but was enough to tell him his time was nearly up. The shade was dying.
The young Hark grimaced as he pierced the metal into the flesh high on his forearm. It stung, but he pressed harder, feeling the shard puncture his skin. With little ceremony and even less time, he held his bloody arm over the mouth of the Orange Seed and let it drip.
One.
Two.
Three drops spattered across the gold, only becoming visible when they left his skin.
‘Are you—’
‘Quiet, Calidae!’ Merion whispered, eyes locked on the orb. Nothing was happening, except his stomach practising its most intricate knots. He began to back away, shaking his head.
‘No…’ he moaned, voice trailing away. ‘Please don’t say—’
It was his turn to be interrupted, with a mechanical crunch and a liberal puff of dust from the Seed’s crevices. Merion surged forward as the orb was peeled. Sliver after sliver retracted, segment after jagged segment rolled inwards, down into the base of the contraption. The metal flickered in the gaslight as it moved with the grace of liquid. Cogs rolled, wires sprung, and mechanisms ticked in smooth and confident order. The Seed was a marvel of craftsmanship, and Merion promised himself time to pore over it someday. He wrung his hands as he looked for a way in, urging the thing to stop showing off.
It took several precious moments for the Seed to come to a rest. Its upper half had fallen away, leaving a shallow golden crater, yawning wide like a mouth attempting to swallow the shaft of light. Its insides were lined with black velvet. They held a leather-bound sheaf of official-looking documents, a few trinkets here and there, a golden bracelet far too small even for his wrist, a ring with a ruby; and another envelope, sealed with the Bulldog’s own ring and sigil. The pure white paper held but one word:
Tonmerion
His hand hovered over the paper, itching to tear it open; his father’s last words to him, just a hair’s breadth away. But his fingers were already beginning to coalesce. The magick was retreating from his extremities.
‘Hurry up!’ Calidae hissed, straining ag
ainst her ties.
Merion threw open his cloak and delved into a deep, wide pocket. He gently moved aside the letter and slid his paper into the bottom of the leather-bound pile. Stolen words in ink. The words of the Sleeping Tree rushed back to him, unbidden. The wisdom of Akway had held true.
‘Er…’ he muttered to himself, stepping back. He had no idea how to close the Seed. He looked over its innards again, searching for a switch, a lever, anything that remotely resembled a closing mechanism. His heart beat hard as his hands came up empty.
‘How do you close this thing?’ he hissed, giving its cradle a kick. There was a muted clang before the Seed began to go to work again, sliding shut just as intricately as it had opened. Merion punched the air, hopping up and down as he eagerly waited for it to build itself into a sphere once more. It was achingly slow, and by the time he was wiping every last drop of blood from its funnel, he could see his hands and wrists.
‘That is unbelievably odd,’ sighed Calidae. She was seemingly unimpressed by the magick.
‘This is how a faerie must feel all the time,’ said Merion, already heading for the stairs. ‘Not a word, Lady Serped!’
Calidae smirked at him.
Twice, he stumbled, confusing his feet for shadow, nearly knocking himself out on the stone steps. One flight, two flights, and he was in sight of the grand doors. Merion brushed himself clean of dust. Nothing could betray him tonight; the young Hark walked a fine knife-edge as it was.
He tiptoed up the stairs, just a faded watercolour of himself. Now his wariness was reversed: he needed to rid himself of the shade before it sunk him. He pushed with all his might as he climbed, trying to bury the magick. It worked. The tingle vanished from his veins and soon enough he was whole again. He lurked at the top of the stairwell and stared into the main hallway running through the mansion, leading directly to Dizali’s study. Calidae’s maps had been useful indeed.
The mansion was teeming with lordsguards. Merion flitted left, pace quick and confident, hoping his bravado would shrug off any suspicious eyes. In no more than a minute, he stood at the ornate doors of his enemy’s study.
He raised a hand, willing away the tremble, and knocked twice.
Chapter XVIII
WHERE TWO LINES MEET
11th August, 1867
Dizali practically beamed at the boy as he entered. He felt the weight of doubt lift from his chest; he wanted to laugh until his throat was sore, and shout Hark’s failures to the rooftops until his lungs burst. He wanted to do so many things to mark this long-awaited moment. But he kept it all in. The Lord Protector simply folded his arms and leaned back against his desk.
‘My, my,’ said Dizali, around an almost whimsical sigh. ‘Young Lord Hark. The thorn in my side, at long last plucked loose and tossed at my feet.’
‘The displeasure is all mine.’
Merion flashed a defiant smile, despite being seized in the vice-like grip of Heck and Hanister. There was too much of Karrigan in it, and Dizali wanted to slap it back to the grave.
‘You have an impudent tongue, for somebody at my mercy.’ Dizali made it sound as though they were conversing over a cooked goose. Hanister shoved the boy to his knees, as if to illustrate his master’s point. Dizali would not let the boy’s tone spoil his victory. He felt like a chess master, watching the pieces on their checkerboard battlefield, all sliding into place. Dizali moved to stand over the boy, searching every inch of his captive with his eyes.
From his enveloping brown-black cloak and mop of any-yellow hair, the boy looked ragged yet bereft of the puppy-fat he had worn the last time they had seen each another, in Harker Sheer. The Endless Land had chiselled his cheeks and firmed his jaw, and added a spark to his gaze that Dizali knew would be hard to extinguish. He had seen the same lights in Witchazel’s eyes, in Fever’s cell. He had seen it in the Bulldog’s eyes, too. All sparks fade in the end.
‘Tell me, Tonmerion, what was your plan here tonight? What was the point of distracting me with your little message?’
‘Every lord needs a herald, does he not?’ The boy was a paragon of impertinence. Dizali kicked him in the leg.
‘Tell me. What were you doing, skulking around my halls?’
‘I was attempting to rescue Calidae, before coming to face you.’
‘You see?’ Dizali looked up at his Brothers. ‘Traitors stick together. How pointless of you, Hark. You failed yesterday evening, and so you attempted it again.’ Dizali chuckled. ‘Look at where such loyalty has brought you. Look at you now! A boy who would play at his dead father’s games. A boy who believes himself above the consequences. A boy who thought he could cheat me and stand in the way of progress.’
Merion showed him that spark again. ‘My father always said dictators are the harbingers of decline, not progress.’
Dizali waved a hand dismissively. ‘Then Karrigan Hark was a bigger fool than I thought him.’
There. A scratch of anger in the patina of defiance. A twitch of the shoulders and of the trigger fingers. Dizali smiled all the more before sweeping back to his desk to fetch his brandy; the situation called for it. All good victories must be honoured, otherwise how would you tell them from losses? ‘It is no surprise therefore,’ he continued, ‘that you follow in the footsteps of his treachery.’
‘It’s the only path I would ever walk,’ said Merion.
Dizali snipped off the ends of the boy’s words.
‘Fool! You are mine now. With your capture I not only put an end to your interfering ways, but your grand home truly becomes mine in the eyes of the Benches. You have delivered the Empire to me. And like your father, you will be remembered forever as a traitor and a murderer. Once they have cut your limp body from the rope, that is.’
‘And when should I expect such a glorious ending?’ asked Merion. Dizali was alarmed to see no hint of fear. He had expected a thirteen-year-old to at least blink at the mention of the hangman, but there came not a pinch of hesitation. The boy simply raised an eyebrow, as though he had just been informed that rain was on the way, not the gallows. ‘Will I have the honour of hanging beside your disgraced Queen?’
The Lord Protector wagged a finger while he took another celebratory sip of brandy. ‘As a matter of fact, Hark, you shall indeed. A little warm-up act before the main event, shall we say. Some target practice for the rotten fruit-throwers.’
Merion clicked his fingers The lordsguards tensed. The Brothers pushed him further into the floor. ‘Just like that?’
‘Oh, heavens, no,’ said Dizali, tutting. ‘I shall make quite the example of you first. Before the crowds will have their fill of you, the Emerald Lords and Ladies will get to see the Hark name crumble. No longer will you be an obstruction to the Order’s march.’
Merion’s eyes fell to the carpet, finally breaking in the face of fate. Dizali felt like laughing again. This was so enjoyable!
‘I would not want you to miss seeing that stunning Harker Sheer of yours become mine, now would I?’ This would be the perfect crushing blow before the rough noose was lowered about his neck. With any luck, the boy would break into tears right here in the middle of the Emerald House.
There was silence as Merion’s gaze remained locked on the carpet. Dizali watched him like a hungry gull, brandy paused before his lips. ‘No witty remarks now, Hark? No jibes? No defiance?’
Merion took the bait. His eyes flashed with a dark fire as he spoke.
‘You’ve gone too far, Dizali. You and your precious Order have overstretched. Even if you do take Harker Sheer for yourself, and then the throne, the people will soon see you for what you are. They will realise they have lost a queen and put a dictator in her place, and they will cast you down and revolt in the name of justice and government!’
Dizali laughed. ‘Why name it a revolt, if it isn’t something to be crushed and smeared on the cobbles by a boot?’ he asked nonchalantly.
‘Absolutely!’ said Hanister, smiling.
‘Shut up, Hanister.’
‘Yes, Milord.’
‘On to the matter of Gavisham,’ said Dizali. But he was interrupted by a knock at the door. He cast the boy a sharp look. ‘Another trick of yours, Hark?’
‘I’m all spent,’ Merion smiled. Dizali bid enter, and Rolick poked his head around the door, looking more bemused than usual. His confusion only increased when he found the real Hark kneeling in front of him.
‘Milord,’ he announced. ‘My apologies, but a carriage has just arrived at the gate. Black, four horses, but nobody is driving it. And it’s empty aside from—’
‘Let it in,’ Dizali ordered. Perhaps Sift had her uses after all. ‘Have its contents deposited in the cellars. And be quick.’
‘Yes, Milord,’ said Rolick, and after a bow, was gone.
‘And on that note, I believe we have more pressing business to attend to than my dead Brother Seventh,’ Dizali announced with another wave of his brandy glass.
Merion made a show of struggling as the Brothers hauled him up, but he soon calmed down when gun-barrels were waggled in his face. They took their time in removing him, giving Rolick a moment to fulfil his duties.
The captain returned and they left for the cellars. Dizali brought up the rear so he could watch the boy being dragged across the carpet and stone; powerless, just as he should be. This had been a long time coming. The Lord Protector allowed himself to savour it. All good victories…
The cellar cooled his brandy-flushed face with its cold air. His heart thumped as he strode down the flights of stairs, deeper into the darkness. He rubbed his hands; an almost childish excitement welling up inside him. If his wife was not proud of him now, she would be after tomorrow.
