Ruler of the Realm fw-3

by Herbie Brennan

  Henry said, truthfully this time, ‘I didn’t think you were.’

  Laura sat down beside him on the couch. She’d made herself a cup of tea as well. ‘Just so you know,’ she said. She hesitated, but only for a heartbeat. ‘I don’t know why he didn’t tell me about you, Henry – I suppose it’s the age thing: he’s very sensitive about it – but I want you to know I love your father. I mean, I don’t expect you to approve of me, or even like me – you love your mother, I know that. But I didn’t break up their marriage: I had nothing to do with that. And it’s important for you to know I’m not just some little floozy on the make.’

  This was hideously embarrassing, but despite his discomfort, all he could think of was that he’d never heard anybody use the word ‘floozy’ outside of a black-and-white movie.

  ‘I didn’t think you were,’ he said again. Maybe if he allowed her to get it off her chest, she’d let him go before his father came back. Henry didn’t think he could cope if his father came back. To encourage her, he asked hesitantly, ‘How did you two meet – you and Dad?’

  ‘At a club,’ Laura said.

  For a moment he thought she must be making fun of him, then saw from her face she wasn’t. His dad went to clubs? Oldest swinger in town? He opened his mouth to say something, couldn’t think of anything to say and closed it again. Fortunately Laura was burbling on.

  ‘I don’t usually go to clubs, but my sister dragged me to this one. Said it would cheer me up, but actually she just wanted company. It was just as dreadful as they usually are. I don’t really go for men my own age – they’re always on the pull and the only thing they can talk about is football. I’d decided to stay half an hour just to please Sheila – that’s my sister – then go home. But then I saw Tim on his own in the bar. He was drinking wine; all the other men – boys, really – were drinking beer. He looked so Byronic: you know, a tragic figure.’

  That would be Dad all right – a tragic figure. Just lost his wife to his secretary, just lost his kids to his wife, just lost his home to a waterside apartment with a fancy prospectus. Not sure you’d call that Byronic, though. Henry set his cup down on the floor.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I really do have to go. Got something to do. It was – it was very nice to meet you and I’m sorry I frightened you when, you know, when you came out of the shower and everything. And thanks for the tea: it was great. Anyway, maybe you’d tell Dad I called -’

  A door slammed shut somewhere. Laura said brightly, ‘You can tell him yourself. That must be him now.’ Henry looked around, frantically searching for some means of escape, but then his father walked into the room and she smiled and said, ‘Look, Tim. Look who’s here!’

  Six

  As the Spicemaster reached the centre of the spiral, his whole appearance changed. His back straightened. He seemed taller. The feathered cloak expanded, giving him the illusion of fearsome bulk. But far more impressive was the way he moved. The hesitant, sickly steps of the old man were gone and he strode like a warrior. He spun round to look at Blue and hissed. His eyes burned.

  With a chill, Blue saw his face had changed as well. He was still recognisable – if only just – but his features were florid and swollen, his lips thickened, with a bluish tinge. Worst of all were the teeth which had, incredibly, enlarged so that they seemed almost like those of an animal. He hissed again, a long drawn-out sibilant that cut through the air like a knife. Then his eyes rolled back in his head. He began to tremble violently.

  ‘Spicemaster -’ Blue murmured in alarm. The dragonskin drum slipped from her fingers and rolled across the floor.

  The Spicemaster’s trembling turned to something more violent, a sort of convulsion, like someone preparing to have a full-scale fit. His head began to snap back rhythmically with increasing force.

  ‘Spicemaster!’ Blue exclaimed again. He was dropping on all fours now, like an animal, but the convulsions were, if anything, more violent. It was the head-jerking that really worried her – the man could break his own neck. Despite a sudden eruption of fear, she started forward. Whatever was happening, he needed help.

  ‘Back!’ hissed the Spicemaster. His fierce eyes held hers for a moment, then the head resumed its jerking. He howled like a wolf and gripped his skull with both hands. ‘Stay… back…’ he gasped with enormous effort. ‘You… are not… safe… within the spiral!’

  Blue halted, one foot just short of the entrance. Her mind was a turmoil. The spiral was nothing more than markings on the floor. Inside or outside surely made no difference. Besides, he needed help. She couldn’t let him injure himself, no matter how important this consultation was to her. All the same, she hesitated.

  But then, impossibly, the Spicemaster was on his feet again and he was no longer the Spicemaster. All vestige of the old man had disappeared. In his place towered a creature of gigantic proportions. For a moment it seemed as though it might be eight feet tall and vastly bulky. The thought of an illusion spell passed through her mind, but this was no illusion; or at least no magical illusion she had ever seen. Despite everything, the Spicemaster hadn’t really changed. She could still make out the wreckage of his features, the poor distorted body. But it was as if some alien entity had got inside him and blown him up like a balloon. She half expected to see his skin crack and something huge emerge.

  The creature that had been the Spicemaster began to dance.

  It was a rough, raw dance, a stamping, shuffling dance that conjured scenes of swampland and evoked the rage of beasts. From somewhere on the edges of her mind, Blue imagined she could hear the savage rhythms of primeval music: click-sticks, toma and mercomba, growling voices.

  The creature whirled to look at her…

  And smiled.

  The voice that echoed through the chamber should never have emerged from the Spicemaster’s throat. It reverberated like the dragonskin, but carried with it the infinite chill of deep space, a voice so alien, so other that she shuddered.

  ‘I see thee, Faerie Queen,’ it said.

  Seven

  Pyrgus whirled, one hand reaching instinctively for his blade. Then he saw the sweep of long black hair.

  ‘What the Hael are you doing here?’ Gela asked crossly. ‘I told you the boathouse!’ She had a gorgeous voice but a peculiar accent, probably due to the fact that the Ogyris family came originally from Haleklind.

  ‘Got lost,’ Pyrgus told her quickly. Which wasn’t strictly true since he’d only been sidetracked while looking for the boathouse, but he’d discovered you had to be careful with Gela otherwise she buried you under a whole heap of questions. His heart was still pounding furiously, but now it had nothing to do with the shock of the hand on his shoulder.

  ‘How could you get lost?’ Gela asked. ‘I gave you very detailed instructions. Don’t you know you could get killed getting lost?’

  It was happening again. Pyrgus decided to answer the first question and ignore the second.

  ‘I couldn’t read your instructions,’ he said.

  ‘Why not? You wrote them down. You can’t complain about my writing.’

  ‘No, I can’t. And I’m not. I’m just saying I couldn’t read the instructions – the instructions I wrote down.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘Because I -’ He was going to say Because I couldn’t see them, but realised that would just lead to another question and changed it to, ‘Because I didn’t bring a light with me.’

  ‘You didn’t bring a light with you?’ Gela asked incredulously. She tossed her head in disbelief.

  Pyrgus decided to stop this nonsense by asking a question of his own. ‘What are those things in the glasshouse?’

  Gela was a girl about his own age, but there any resemblance ended. Pyrgus was a prince who looked like a peasant, short and sturdy. No one would take Gela for a peasant in a thousand years. The clothes she was wearing had the understated stamp of designer flair. Her hair had the cut and sheen of expert styling and her face was finely featured. Her eyes were large for a Faerie of the Night
, large and liquid. She was, quite simply, the most exotic creature he’d ever seen.

  ‘Ah,’ she said.

  Pyrgus waited. ‘Ah?’

  ‘Those are something you shouldn’t have seen.’

  Pyrgus glanced through the glass. ‘Why not?’ he asked curiously.

  ‘Oh, you know…’ Gela shrugged. She said casually, ‘You haven’t touched the glass, have you?’

  ‘No…’ Or perhaps he had. Hadn’t he pressed his nose against it? With Gela standing so close Pyrgus couldn’t remember. He looked at her suspiciously. ‘Why?’

  ‘Daddy has it alarmed. Lethal force and all that.’

  ‘Lethal force and all what?’

  Gela shrugged again. ‘You know. It would kill you.’

  ‘Just touching the glass?’ He couldn’t believe it. This was worse than Chalkhill and Brimstone’s cobblestone minefield.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Gela said. ‘Maybe not just touching it. But if you tried to get in -’

  ‘Well, I didn’t,’ Pyrgus said. ‘Or touch the glass.’ He frowned. ‘Isn’t that a bit… extreme? I mean I know the sculptures must be very valuable, but -’

  ‘Oh, it’s not that. It’s just stupid politics.’

  Politics? This was getting more confusing.

  ‘What’s a glasshouse got to do with politics?’

  Gela sighed deeply. ‘I’m not supposed to know this, but Father’s growing them for somebody.’

  ‘Growing what?’ Pyrgus asked, utterly bewildered.

  She nodded in the direction of the glasshouse. ‘The flowers.’

  ‘Those aren’t flowers,’ Pyrgus said. ‘They’re sculptures.’

  Gela tilted her head to give him a supercilious look. ‘If they aren’t flowers,’ she sniffed, ‘why do you think the lights are on?’

  Pyrgus looked at her blankly.

  Gela said with exaggerated patience, ‘If they were just sculptures , why would Father set the growlights to come on in the middle of the night? Why would he want the place all lit up and attracting attention when he didn’t have to? Why would he keep them in a glasshouse in the first place? Why wouldn’t all his boring guards be beating you up this very minute?’

  The only one of Gela’s questions that really made sense was the last one. ‘Why aren’t his boring guards beating me up this very minute?’ he asked. He didn’t believe what she said about the flowers, but there were hundreds of crystal sculptures in there, each one worth a fortune. Why didn’t Gela’s father have a whole army of guards around them? He could certainly afford it.

  Gela’s face took on that dangerous look she got when she was impatient. ‘Because guards attract attention. None of this is supposed to be happening, you know. You put guards around something and everybody knows it’s important. Father just wants to grow his flowers quietly at night when there’s nobody around. He makes the glass opaque during the day so you can’t see what’s inside.’ She blinked slowly, covering and uncovering those magnificent eyes. ‘Besides, he has some really dangerous spells on that building.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he opaque it at night? The growglobes are inside.’

  ‘Something to do with starlight,’ Gela said vaguely. She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Look, are we going to stand here all night discussing horticulture?’

  ‘Who’s he growing them for?’ Pyrgus asked. He still wasn’t sure he believed they really were flowers, but it might be useful to play along with the story.

  ‘That’s a secret,’ Gela told him severely.

  ‘Do you know?’

  ‘Of course I know – I’m Daddy’s pet, aren’t I?’ She sniffed. ‘But I’ve told you far too much already.’ Her head went up again. ‘Now, are we going to the boathouse for our meeting, or have you forgotten all the fuss you made about it?’

  ‘We’re going to the boathouse,’ Pyrgus said.

  It turned out the boathouse wasn’t all that far – he’d remembered his instructions well enough before he’d sidetracked to the glasshouse. He followed her along the lakeside, then up a short path to a smallish jetty. There was a wooden building to one side of it. Gela pushed the door and disappeared inside. Pyrgus hesitated for a moment, then followed her.

  It was pitch black inside. Gela’s voice floated imperiously out of the darkness ahead.

  ‘Close the door.’

  Pyrgus closed the door behind him and at once a glowglobe illuminated overhead. It had the low light setting Faeries of the Night preferred, but he was able to see well enough. Gela was standing a few feet away beside two rowing boats and some fishing tackle. She looked stunning.

  ‘Well,’ she asked, ‘are you going to tell me why we’re here?’

  Pyrgus walked across and kissed her.

  Eight

  Henry escaped eventually, slightly consoled by the fact that his dad was even more embarrassed than he was.

  Henry could understand perfectly well why his father had neglected to mention his children to a girlfriend who was young enough to be his daughter. It was no big deal. But Dad went on a guilt trip – you could see it in his eyes. He saw his new squeeze sitting on the couch and Henry sitting uncomfortably beside her and you’d have thought he’d been caught with his hand in the till.

  ‘ Ah, Henry, old man. Wasn’t expecting you today. I see you’ve met my – my – see you’ve met Laura. She’s, ah, staying over for a couple

  …’

  And as he’d trailed off, Laura said mischievously, ‘ You never told me you had a son, Tim.’ Then blinked and added, ‘ Or a daughter .’

  And poor old Tim, who went to discos now he was on his own, launched into an explanation so convoluted Henry couldn’t remember any of it. He’d probably still be explaining if Henry hadn’t said, ‘ It’s OK, Dad,’ and something in his voice convinced Tim it really was OK: if he’d done anything terrible, been disloyal or whatever, he’d been forgiven. He didn’t seem all that worried about Laura, probably because it was clear from her grin she didn’t mind at all.

  With the explanation bit over, Dad had suddenly come over all hearty and started to talk about Henry staying the afternoon so they could all go out for a meal later, as if Mum wouldn’t have gone ballistic if she’d ever discovered that cosy little arrangement. Henry just said no and muttered something about Mr Fogarty.

  After that, it degenerated into one of those uncomfortable How the hell are you? conversations until Henry stood up and announced firmly he was leaving, which was probably a relief to everybody. Now he was at the head of Mr Fogarty’s street and in a serious worry.

  Up to now, he thought he’d taken it for granted that his parents would divorce. They were living apart, his mum had a new partner, so what else were they going to do? But Dad finding another woman somehow made it really final. If there was just the slightest chance Mum and Dad might get back together, it was gone now. Or would be, once Mum found out. Didn’t matter Mum was the one who broke things up in the first place. Once she heard Dad was consoling himself with somebody – somebody young and pretty – she’d never forgive him. After that, it was just the legal formalities.

  Including custody.

  Henry wondered if he and Aisling would have to turn up in court. If they did, maybe the judge would ask them which parent they wanted to live with. Some nightmare that would be. Henry couldn’t very well ask to move in with his dad now he was honeymooning with Laura. Not in a tiny flat – you were bound to hear stuff. But if he said he’d stay with Mum, he knew his dad would be hurt. Besides, he didn’t want to stay with Mum. He hated Mum almost as much as he loved her and he was sure it was only a matter of time before Anais moved in.

  But maybe the judge didn’t ask you. Maybe he just decided what should happen and you had no say about it. Henry shuddered.

  ‘Hello, Hodge,’ he said mournfully as the old tom emerged out of nowhere to polish his ankles. It was gloomy in Mr Fogarty’s kitchen so he flipped the light switch before taking a pouch of Whiskas from the cupboard. Then on impulse he took out a second
. Mr Fogarty didn’t approve of pouch Whiskas, which he claimed was far too good for a cat, but Hodge was looking thin lately – probably needed worming – and Mr Fogarty wasn’t here. The story was that Mr Fogarty had gone to visit his daughter in New Zealand.

  If that really was a story.

  The thought struck Henry like a thunderbolt. He knew Mr Fogarty was Gatekeeper of the Faerie Realm. He knew Blue was crowned Faerie Empress. Henry had even visited the Realm himself. But standing here in Mr Fogarty’s kitchen, feeding Mr Fogarty’s cat, it all seemed… it all seemed…

  The light went out as if the bulb had blown. Henry ignored it. It wasn’t really dark yet and he could change it later. He’d be out of here in a minute anyway.

  … It all seemed mad, was what he wanted to say. He was a teenager , for God’s sake. How many teenagers did he know who believed in fairies? There were no such things as fairies, there was no such place as Fairyland. No such place as Fairyland. It echoed like a voice in his head.

  The trouble was, he remembered Fairyland. Henry set the Whiskas pouches down beside Hodge’s plate on the counter-top. If he remembered Fairyland, there had to be something wrong. There had to be something wrong with his memory. He stared down at the cat, who was staring up at him in beady expectation. There had to be something wrong with his mind!

  All of a sudden, Henry felt very much afraid.

  To Hodge’s indignant howl, he walked out of the kitchen into Mr Fogarty’s back garden. There was a constriction in his chest and he needed air. The twilight outside had taken on a bluish tinge and there was a slight vibration in the ground as if there were some heavy lorries passing. Henry felt like throwing up.

  No such place as Fairyland, the voice repeated in his head.

  It had all started to make a ghastly sort of sense. He knew stress could make you ill – his father had had a grumbling ulcer for years, just because he was in a high-powered job – and a lot of stress could make you mentally ill. Everybody knew that. You just thought it could never happen to you.