Poison

by Chris Wooding

  It was a T-junction in a corridor. That in itself was not remarkable, but what was strange was that the palace itself appeared different. Gone was the elegant jade and carven finery that had characterized the Phaerie Lord’s palace; instead, the walls were made of vast blocks of black stone, lending the scene a much grimmer air. Even the atmosphere was different: colder, and more moist. There was a faint and constant susurration. Bram inclined his head, listening hard to try and determine what it was he was hearing, before a roll of angry thunder passed overhead and he realized that it was rain.

  Poison put together the strange feeling of dislocation they had felt in the library, the sudden change of décor and the drastically different weather and came up with a conclusion as surprising as it was gratifying.

  “We’re here,” she said.

  “Where?” Peppercorn asked, trying to coax Andersen out of the corner where he had fled at the sound of thunder.

  “The Hierophant’s castle,” Poison announced.

  “Indeed you are,” said a voice. “And I’ve been waiting for you for some time now.”

  They turned to see who had spoken, but Poison knew who it was even before she saw the rangy old fellow. Though he was wearing a fine robe now, when she had never seen him in anything other than the battered marsh clothes he used to wear, she would have known that voice with her eyes shut; for she had spent so long listening to it recount tales of mystery and wonder, in that hut back in Gull.

  “Fleet?” she cried in disbelief.

  “Poison,” he grinned, as she flew into his arms and hugged him hard. “Steady there! You’ll snap an old man’s ribs!”

  The fire crackled in the hearth; Andersen lay asleep on the rug, his flank rising and falling gently.

  Poison, Bram and Peppercorn sat in armchairs around the small, cosy room. The chairs were a little threadbare and well used, but all the more comfortable for it. Bram was on the verge of dozing, tired out by the heat and the delicious meal they had just eaten. Now they sat and sipped mugs of chocolate coffee – potentially the best thing Poison and Peppercorn had ever tasted, for neither had grown up within reach of good food.

  Fleet sat nearby, watching them amiably and puffing on a gaudily decorated hookah. This room was not unlike the one back in Gull, where he and Poison had sat for hours and talked about this and that; there was the fire, the chairs, the wall slotted with great volumes of lore and a clutter of scrolls and notebooks scattered about. Fleet was evidently a man who knew his own mind when it came to his surroundings.

  Poison sighed contentedly. It was the first time since she had left home that she had felt truly safe. She had been so unwilling to spoil the joy of the moment that she had so far held herself back from asking the dozens of questions she had for her old friend. Instead, she told him of her journey; for now she had a story for him, and this one was undisputably true, and just as exciting as any phaerie tale. The storm raged outside, but within the massive stone walls of the Hierophant’s castle, they were immune to its fury.

  “Answers,” Fleet creaked at length, his wrinkled face a landscape in the firelight. “I expect you’ll be wanting answers.”

  Bram stirred lethargically. He was not concerned either way. Poison turned her attention reluctantly to Fleet; whatever answers he had might disturb the rare tranquillity that she had found. Peppercorn was rapt with ecstasy at the taste of the chocolate coffee, and had little time to spare for anything else.

  “What’s happening at home?” Poison asked. “Start with that.”

  “I don’t know anything more than you about that,” Fleet replied apologetically. “I left several days after you did. Your father and stepmother were . . . coping. With the changeling. Some of the village mothers were helping them.”

  “And what about the girl? The girl with the message?”

  “What girl?” Fleet asked, and Poison explained about the girl she had met in Shieldtown whom she had charged with delivering her apologies to her father.

  “If she ever turned up, it must have been after I was gone,” Fleet explained.

  Poison felt an unwelcome sadness settle on her. The very fact that Fleet was being so sparse with information indicated that the situation was not good. How could it be otherwise? She passed over it, deciding that she would rather not know.

  “I didn’t know about Lamprey, Poison,” Fleet said. “I’m sorry. If I’d have realized how dangerous he was. . .”

  “Why didn’t you just take me?” Poison asked wearily, interrupting him. “It seems you have no trouble getting out of the Realm of Man, since you’re here. You could have brought me to the Phaerie Lord. Why . . . why put me through all that?”

  “I couldn’t interfere,” he said emphatically. “I couldn’t. Not like that. You had to make your own way. All I could do was point you in the right direction.”

  “That makes sense,” Poison said sarcastically. Lamprey, Myrrk, and now Fleet? She was sick of evasive and circular reasoning. “Just tell me what and who you are, Fleet.”

  Fleet did so, his voice slipping into that easy rhythm of talespinning that had lulled Poison through her childhood. “There are many of us; I do not know how many. We recognize each other from time to time, but part of our purpose is to be anonymous. Those who know of us – and there aren’t many – call us the Antiquarians. It’s as suitable a name as any, I suppose.”

  He stretched his spine with a grunt and a loud crack, then settled back deeper into his chair and drew on the hookah pipe. The mood of his audience was relaxed, so he paced his delivery to match.

  “We are the biographers of the Realms,” he continued. “Collectors of lives. We do not only gather stories, we attend them, witness them, and where necessary, help them along. The Antiquarians are not bound by race or loyalty; the calling can strike anyone, human or phaerie, troll or dwarrow, or any of a hundred other species. We soak up the tales, histories, myths and legends of our people, and we watch as new ones are created. All of these we record, and we store them here, in the Hierophant’s castle.” He paused for dramatic effect, taking a drag on his hookah and blowing out a thin stream of aromatic smoke. Then, with an expansive gesture, he added: “Within these walls lies the tale of creation, from the time that the Realms began until this very instant. Everything of importance that has been said or thought or done in all of history lies in our libraries.”

  Poison’s eyes widened. “That’s impossible,” she breathed.

  “The Hierophant decides what’s possible,” Fleet advised her.

  “Show me,” Poison said.

  The library of the Hierophant’s castle simply defied belief.

  Poison had never seen so many books, but more overwhelming even than that was the impression of how many more she could not see. For the Great Library was a labyrinth of corridors and aisles so dense and compact that it was impossible to guess how far it stretched. The corridor in which she stood had six balconies, stretching up into the sombre dimness of the upper levels, and each balcony represented a different level of the library, not counting the one they stood on. The seven levels, so Fleet informed them, were built to different floorplans, so that they intercut each other crazily; sometimes the ceiling would plunge so that it was only a little higher than a man’s head, other times it would soar away, with bridges leaping across chasms of books high above. The corridors curved and twisted like living things, and it felt to Poison like she was inside a twining snake with shelving for ribs.

  “How big is it?” she asked, amazed.

  “Size doesn’t really apply here,” Fleet said. “The Great Library is not constrained by walls, or even the barriers between the Realms. It reaches into any place where books are kept. You can get to any library in any Realm through these aisles, if you know how to look.”

  Poison found herself wishing that Bram or Peppercorn had chosen to come with her and see this, but they had been content
to sleep in their chairs, exhausted, and so she had gone without them.

  “Can I see one?” Poison asked. “How do you find your way around?”

  Fleet laughed. “One question at a time. Finding your way around the library is part of the apprenticeship we all go through as Antiquarians. Let’s just say it’s not easy, so don’t lose me, Poison. Now, you want to see a book? Let me get one for you.”

  She followed him into the shadowy corridors of the Great Library. Lanterns burned in sconces at intervals, but the place was too vast for them to overwhelm the darkness that lurked all around. Poison raised a quizzical eyebrow at the lanterns, but Fleet intercepted her thought.

  “Don’t worry. There are more magicks on this place than you can count. You could no more burn a book with that lantern flame than you could tear one with your hands.”

  Poison looked over Fleet as he walked. He was still the same old Fleet, with his floppy grey-white hair and large, solid nose and kindly eyes. Putting him in a scholarly robe had not changed him much. Except now he had told her he was an Antiquarian, some kind of collector of lives, and that meant he was something other than the Fleet she had known back home.

  “Why didn’t you tell me, Fleet?” she asked, as they walked.

  “Are you angry?” he replied.

  “No,” Poison said. She didn’t feel particularly betrayed by his deceit. “No, I’d just like to know.”

  “I couldn’t,” he told her.

  “That’s what I thought,” she said. “Because you were watching me?”

  “Very quick, Poison,” he said approvingly. “I was watching you. Among others. I did travel a lot, you know. But of all the folk I kept an eye on, I was watching you the closest.”

  Poison nodded, digesting this. “What made you choose me?”

  “I have an instinct for that sort of thing,” he said. “All who are called to the Antiquarians have it, to a lesser or greater extent. Time teaches you to spot the seeds of adventure in a person’s heart, even when they are young.”

  “But if Aelthar had not sent the Scarecrow to steal Azalea—”

  “You would still have gone eventually, Poison,” Fleet interrupted. “Aelthar’s intervention was just the trigger you needed. If it had not been that, it would have been something else. Although, perhaps not.” He shrugged. “The nature of our work is inherently random. Often, those who have the potential to be great choose not to fulfil it. Circumstance or fate decide otherwise. That is why we spread our nets, we choose our targets, we watch and wait. Heroes and villains are made on the turn of a sovereign, Poison. Sometimes we miss that moment, and we must work to retrieve it by deciphering stories, tales and legends to filter out the facts. But sooner or later, all knowledge comes to us.”

  “Is there a book for me in here?” Poison asked.

  “Of course,” Fleet replied.

  “Can I see it?”

  Fleet smiled indulgently. “Not until it is done, Poison.”

  “Are you writing it?”

  “No,” Fleet said. “No, our purpose is merely to observe. Through us, the books write themselves.”

  Poison frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “See, then,” Fleet said. He hauled down a massive tome with studded iron bindings. Taking it to a recess, he laid it down and turned up the lantern that hung overhead. There was a bench there on which he and Poison sat while they looked at the book that was laid on the table before them.

  “Alambar Burl,” Poison read aloud. It was embossed on the cover in fading gold. Fleet hefted the book open to a page in the middle. The writing was in perfect script, written in ink without a blemish or smudge.

  Fleet leaned over it and read.

  But though men and women fell to the left and right of him, Alambar would not retreat from the battlements, and it seemed as though he was charmed. The phaerie arrows cut the air all around, but none found their mark in his breast. With his sword raised high, he called to rally, and the people of Jemar heard his cry and took heart, and they swarmed to the battlements with new strength. Then were the phaeries dismayed, for the defenders did cut them back, and the earth at the base of Jemar’s walls was darkened with phaerie blood.

  Poison had already read on several paragraphs by the time Fleet had finished. “So who was Alambar Burl?” she asked.

  “He was a hero of the latter days of the Many-Sided War,” Fleet explained. “After our people had split themselves apart and fought to exhaustion, the phaeries came. It was a different Phaerie Lord back then, but they have not changed much in the intervening years. The struggle was a terrible one, but the phaeries eventually drove us from the plains and into the high and low places, the mountains and mines and swamps. Alambar was a great fighter, and a legend of those times.”

  “How did he die?” Poison asked, turning the pages in great sheaves until she reached the last one. She skimmed the final paragraphs.

  At that, Alambar took Sisella’s hand and looked into her eyes, and spoke gravely. “I swear to you, we will not be long skulking in the shadows. Adversity will make us stronger. We will unite, and united we cannot fail; by the strength in our blood we will take back our Realm.”

  Then Sisella knew that her husband spoke true, and together they walked back into the mountain settlement, where the skeletons of the first buildings stood against the setting sun.

  Poison looked confused. “I thought these were biographies? How can you finish a biography if they’re not dead?”

  “You always did have a morbid streak, Poison,” Fleet grinned. “A biography doesn’t have to end with someone dying; that’s an obituary. No, Alambar lived till a ripe old age, and Sisella with him. His death is recorded elsewhere. You see, this is his story. Though he lived on after it was finished, this tale was done. It began with a boy enlisting to fight in the Many-Sided War, and saw him become a man and a hero, but it ended with the defeat of the human armies to the phaerie, and their retreat. Before this tale, and after it, there is little of interest in his life. We are storytellers, Poison, working for the Hierophant, who is the master storyteller. Storytellers do not include details unless they are necessary. We leave the boring work to the historians.”

  “I think I see,” Poison replied. “Then a person has only one tale?”

  “No, some have two or three separate ones or more,” Fleet said. “Some people have many tales. Sometimes they are linked into one big tale, sometimes they are utterly distinct. Most people do not have one at all. Though the Antiquarians are many, we cannot cover every life. So we take only those lives that are most important to the world. What we see and learn, the books know. It is part of the Hierophant’s magick. And they then write themselves.”

  “So my tale has begun?” Poison asked, brushing her black hair behind her ear.

  “Yes.”

  “So why can’t I see it?”

  “Because all the pages are blank.”

  Poison made a noise of incomprehension.

  “You can’t tell half a tale, Poison. You can’t write half a book. Whatever you choose to do next will completely change the aspect of what has gone before. If you decided to suddenly kill your friends as they slept—”

  “Why would I do that?” Poison interjected.

  “Bear with me,” Fleet said patiently. “If you did, then the tale would take on a whole new light. Instead of being the journey of Poison from Gull to save her sister, it would be the terrible story of how a young girl became a cold-blooded killer. The way it would be written would be different. Do you see? Or you might die right now, and it would turn out that it wasn’t your tale all along, it was Bram’s or Peppercorn’s, and you were just one of the sideline characters. The whole story has to be known before it can be recorded; otherwise it might suddenly change. That’s the beauty, Poison. You never know what’s going to happen next. When the tale is ended, then the writing will
be visible to your eyes; but until then, it is unwritten.”

  Poison pinched the bridge of her nose. This was too much to understand. “When did my tale begin, then?” she asked.

  “When you left Gull, I should think,” Fleet replied. “Well, probably a little before. The story of how you got your name is quite an interesting one. And we needed to know about your family so we could learn about Azalea, and how she was taken.”

  “This is wrong,” Poison said, feeling bewildered and weary. “This is my life, Fleet. This is my sister being stolen, and . . . and the tears I’ve cried over her . . . and the times I’ve been scared to death and nearly eaten alive . . . and all of that is just a story?”

  “Everything’s a story,” Fleet replied. “I told you that before. It just depends on your point of view.”

  “We demand to see the Hierophant!” Aelthar’s voice rang out across the hall.

  “The Hierophant will see none of you until his work is done,” boomed the gargoyle.

  Poison’s knuckles gripped the stone parapet of the balcony as she looked over the scene being played out below her. The sight of the flame-haired Phaerie Lord and his secretary filled her with rage and disgust, for in them she saw the creatures who had stolen her baby sister, and who had later double-crossed her so as not to give the child back. What purpose had they for taking her in the first place? Poison did not even know that much. Where was Azalea? What had she been suffering since she had been taken into the Realm of Phaerie by the Scarecrow? Was she even still alive?

  Poison bit down on that thought. She would not be discouraged. There would be ways. She was far from beaten yet.