24. Poisonwood, Cupbearer
24
POISONWOOD, CUPBEARER
There were no analogues to these trees in Ari’s experience. Most looked vaguely succulent, their fleshy bark deadly, leprous pale; spines tipped with reddish ichor festooned the taller while the shorter bore crazycrack-quilted channels full of nasty resinous flow. Many were weighed down with clusters of maroon foliage—some like maples, others fernlike, still others deeply notched in parallel like oak leaves. There were tall black evergreens, their swollen needles dropping with tiny ugly plops when the breeze rose, and gnarled shrubs with bright, violently orange or jaundiced berries peeping through yellow-spotted leaves. Fungal growths clustered among and on fallen logs, giving off a faint eerie luminescence even during daylight, and spiny clumps of sword-shaped stuff like nightmarish aloe vera curled its blackened tips, sending up little puffs of steam wherever red sunlight striped its hide.
“All very poisonous.” Hannixe was clearly thrilled. “Though some few may be used in small amounts for certain cures. There is nothing so vile but that it cannot serve the Moon, my lady, and… oh, look, see there, those very white waxen berries? They are called beautiful stars , and very poisonous though a syrup made with them and sagradahl leaves may induce rest without pain for those most grievously wounded?—”
“Soft, my lady.” Amusement lit Keners’s sharp face. “I do not think our queen wishes to know every venom in the wood.”
Ari was just glad she hadn’t woken up here. A naryin- filled clearing was probably the best place she could have landed, a piece of luck she didn’t deserve but was grateful for nonetheless.
“But ’tis so interesting.” The Grey Lady glanced anxiously at Ari. “Forgive me, my lady. Relief makes me giddy.”
“I like the study of plants.” Ari meant to say ‘botany’, but their term was longer. The invisible translator had barely any lag now, and she had the strange sensation of almost thinking in that rolling, fluidly accented tongue.
If she’d majored in linguistics, would she have met Mike in that Renaissance to Modern Art class he’d admitted to taking because he thought it was an easy pass? Would she have married him, or someone else? Mom always said thinking about what might have been could drive a person insane, so it was best not to.
The chained man said a door would open for this queen of theirs, but clearly their opponent could make a few as well. What if any random mortal could stumble through one of the Bright King’s entrances, and the resistance simply nominated the first person to show up as some kind of royalty? Historically that sort of thing ended with a sacrifice, didn’t it? But that didn’t explain the dreams.
Nothing really explained the dreams. Or, more precisely, nothing Ari was willing to contemplate at the moment.
Hannixe pointed out a few more plants after that, but lapsed into silence as afternoon wore on. An acrid edge of rot and nastiness rose from the Poisonwood’s floor along with thin noisome steam and curls of outright smoke. The vegetation cringed away from the chained man’s mount, leaving a wide blackened track for the rest of them to troop along.
Ari belatedly realized the scorched area was slowly recovering behind them. Swollen-headed fungal things released bursts of greenish spores, branches uncurling, the blackened bits dropping with heavy, nasty wet sounds as fresh growth swelled to take its place. The rushing, creaking sound of repair was very much like that of the forest near the Keep except for an unpleasant sliding edge, like bloated wet fingers rubbing together.
The group halted near sundown, gloaming thickening between trees, stripes of phosphorescence brightening on certain plants. Tiny flickers like lightning bugs gathered in clouds amid the canopy, their swooping near-random patterns nauseating to watch.
A long rectangle of slick white stone shimmered through the undergrowth, pillars marching at its margins. The roof, steeply pitched and pierce-carved, was of the same material, and the whole thing floated like a dream, its edges sharp and distinct as the road’s. Equine hooves made soft musical sounds as the beasts stepped onto what seemed like marble floor between pairs of carved columns, and though Jazarl and his men looked pleased, Hannixe frowned.
“It’s so different.” She peered in every direction, twisting in the saddle. “This must be the Small Pavilion, so the Mere is that way. But… oh, the groves of shanbark are gone, and the naryin . Once these woods were full of song, and the cres -moss made for lovely pillows. And the paths were of white stone—but where are they?”
So this Mere was close by, and Ari still didn’t have a clue what the approaching ceremony entailed. She saw nothing but shadows, faint nasty glimmers from fungus or glowing insects, and the steamsmoke rising as the chained man’s passage through the Poisonwood healed over. Maybe ‘healing’ was too strong a term—the forest oozed to cover the scar, soft and repulsive, full of slow toxic pleasure.
A chill walked down her back. This place’s foul, expectant near-silence felt very much like the house on Hardison Hill, actually, and the old breathless tension gripped her middle.
The chained man lifted her down from the saddle as usual, but did not move away once he had set her carefully on both feet; the slippers were holding up surprisingly well, even with metal stirrups rubbing against embroidery.
“Do not wander,” he murmured, his breath touching her hair. “I did not think the rot had spread so far, nor burrowed so deep.”
That’s hardly comforting. Still, the heat and bulk of him felt strangely protective. Ari turned, once again nearly trapped between him and an equine; he seemed to like doing that. Instead of anxiety at being so close to a big male, a curious, utterly ridiculous sense of safety poured through her, dispelling all unease for a single heartstopping moment.
It couldn’t last. Ari’s shoulders tensed, wanting to creep up to her ears. Come on, give me a hint . “What happens next?” It was ludicrous, she should’ve been trying to slip away, restoring a modicum of personal space, instead of freezing.
“Your Cupbearer will find us, I think.” He glanced aside, checking their surroundings. “Jazarl tells me she roams this place at will, too canny for the traitor’s abominations to catch.”
Sounds like another Keners . “And the Mere?”
“It may wait another night for your attention, my lady.” A slight edge of humor tinted the words. “Come. Let me show you something small, which may amuse you.”
Jazarl and his men set about tending the equines, Hannixe lingered at the edge of the marble floor, peering at the woods. Keners hovered nearby, clearly hoping she wasn’t about to take a stroll.
Which left Ari walking next to the chained man, the heavy sway of her skirts mimicking saddle-rhythm, the equine’s rocking gait lingering in her legs.
In the pavilion’s center a white stone dish easily six feet across rose upon a plinth, looking for all the world like an oversize epergne. Carving rioted over the stem, figures on horseback leaping and cavorting, but the bowl was decorated only with fruit and leaves, greenery frozen in stone.
It looked far healthier than the current flora, that was for damn sure.
The chained man held out a hand, armored fingers flicking once. A spark bloomed in the bowl’s bleached, pristine depth, underlighting a shimmer like summer heat over pavement; a slight coughing noise, and a ball of blue fire appeared. Its top stretched upward, tapering to ever-shifting points, and it produced a lot of light for such a tiny blaze.
“No need for wood,” the chained man said. “You said it would be a shame to burn the kaloidyei and shanbark, so the Pavilions, greater and smaller, were raised and are lit in this fashion.”
Oh. “She,” Ari said, and could have kicked herself.
That got a reaction. The chained man’s hand dropped, and he turned to focus fully on her. “What?”
“ She said it. Not me.” It definitely wasn’t the time for this conversation. Of course, there was never going to be a good moment, and Ari needed to know if this entire thing was going to end with some kind of Wicker Man episode. Whatever she was supposed to do at this Mere would likely be unpleasant, and she was on pins and needles waiting for it.
“Ah.” No trace of anger, audible or visible; the chained man simply nodded as if he’d expected her reaction. Of course, if he could bury rage so deep even Ari’s finely tuned antennae couldn’t pick it up, she was probably—as Mike would say—cruising for a real bruising. “You are the same as ever, to us. Does it disturb you?”
That’s one word for it . Ari wanted to step away, but his gauntlet shot out and braceleted her wrist, warm and irresistible.
She froze. “I really do want to help you.” Ari stared at the blue flame, shadows bringing the carvings to flickering life. Were they actually moving, fueled by magic or tech? Maybe it was just a giant gaslamp.
Wouldn’t that be hilarious.
“ All of you,” she continued quietly, hoping to keep this discussion private. “But if I was… what you think, wouldn’t some of this be familiar?”
“Can you say it is not?” Iron-clad fingers tensed, though they didn’t squeeze. “Is nothing in our company of any comfort? I would have thought your closest and most honoured handmaiden, at least, would meet with your approval.”
Bad move, Ari . How could she explain this was better than whatever waited for her back home, and yet more terrifying than Mike’s hands on her throat?
At some point in her marriage she had understood he would eventually kill her, and accepted as much with a variety of fatalistic fatigue. It was one thing to anticipate that everyday danger; what human female could avoid it? The statistics were clear, soaking every moment spent in society.
But if she lost this detail-saturated, dangerous, lovely world, finding herself once more blinking and dazed at the verge of a summerstorm landslide or staggering away from the smoking Oldsmobile on a winding road, the police cruiser squealing to a stop, its lights stab-flashing…
Two deeply conflicting urges, fighting over one lone, very confused woman. And right on time, the fact of the goddamn dreams reared its ugly head. Brothers Grimm had never covered this nonsense; Lord Dunsany might’ve but Ari had moved away from literature and into visual arts before she got to him.
“I…” Words failed her. Before she could find another way to stick her foot in her mouth, though, a new voice rang from the far, shadowed end of the pavilion.
“By silver, there are equines.” A figure in midnight-blue velvet, the skirt hemmed higher than Hannixe’s—mid-shin, instead of ankle—and a pair of glove-soft indigo leather boots moving underneath, resolved out of flickering gloom. Hazel eyes, thickly lashed, peered at the blue flame; a flash of mahogany skin showed, and very white teeth. “And… no. It cannot… it is. You…”
The woman halted, her skirts swirling for a moment. One hand flew to her mouth, the backs of the fingers touching her lips, a gesture familiar from time spent with Hannixe. A complex mass of dark braids wrapped in a coronet about her head, the rest pouring behind her shoulders, nearly to her knees. She made a soft, inarticulate sound, then flew across the intervening space, bursting into the rapidly expanding sphere of foxfire-blue illumination.
The new arrival flung her arms about Ari just as the Grey Lady had, hugging breathlessly tight. “No,” she chanted, in a clear soft soprano. “No, no no. Oh, no. Oh, my lady, my lady. I knew you would not leave us, not forever. Oh, by silver, by silver and Moon, my lady…”
Then she burst into tears, laughing at the same time. Ari, her wrist caught in gauntlet-fingers and the rest of her nearly crushed in a stranger’s arms, tried patting the young woman’s back with her free hand.
This, then, was Leshe, and she treated Hannixe to a furiously tight embrace as well. The two women looked vaguely similar, just as the men all did—something in the shape of their cheekbones and large beautiful eyes, not to mention the vibrant velvet of their flawless skin.
Ari was feeling distinctly outclassed, but that was nothing new.
“It has been so long,” Leshe said, dashing at her tear-spotted cheeks with quick butterfly motions. “And there are terrible things in the woods, it has all changed. You!” She spotted Sarle next, and made a beeline for him, running toe-first like a ballerina temporarily brought to earth. “I have not seen you for mortal ages, but the Moon returned a few nights ago and I thought you would visit at last.”
“Forgive me, I could not arrive earlier.” The stocky man opened his arms for a hug; a gleam on his own stubbled cheek was lost as he hunched to rest his forehead against hers. “Perhaps what I bring will grant me some lee.”
“Silly.” Her motion stilled for a few moments, and the young woman took a deep breath. “I would forgive you just for appearing. It has been a little lonely, with no-one to talk to save Keners every once in a while. And is there an equine for me?”
“Soft, little sister. All in good time.” Sarle held her shoulders; the two of them made another Pre-Raphaelite illustration lit with blue glow, pale columns shimmering gently in the background, Majan and Darjeth to one side, Jazarl on the other holding something to an equine’s sensitive nose, palm and fingers flat as the beast nibbled at a treat.
Leshe’s greetings to the others were more restrained, but with everyone grinning so broadly it was a happy picture indeed. Ari’s cheeks felt strange; she hadn’t smiled like this for a long while. Sure, she wasn’t one of them, but anyone could feel happy for other people’s joy.
The chained man’s shadow nearly swallowed hers, since he loomed at her shoulder. Spiked and sharp that darkness hovered, and hers had an odd refraction at its heart, a soft silver glimmer. It could have been the blue flame catching a stray gleam from his armor or a piece of tack, but the white-gemmed necklace hidden under Ari’s cloak pulsed again, its warmth spreading in hazy rings.
Finally, Leshe turned away from Naithor and hurried back over glowing marble, heedless-quick. “I hid the Cup,” she said, nearly skidding to a stop, her dark hair swaying. “But when the Moon rose again, I retrieved it. We are going to the Mere, yes? And then that awful Ternek?—”
“Do not speak that name.” Sharp and swift, the chained man’s command made the blue flame waver for a moment, flattening in its bowl. “Our lady queen requires rest. There is clean water for you, and you may make merry as you please with the other companions—but softly, and do not mention the faithless accursed so lightly. You are granted much since our lady finds your antics amusing, but blasphemy I will not brook.”
So that was indeed the Bright King’s name—Ari vaguely remembered a previous mention. She bookmarked the fact with careful mental effort, a curious momentary chill slipping down her back.
Leshe turned somber, nodded swiftly, and sank into a twin of Hannixe’s curtsey. “Your pardon, my lord prince. I am simply so happy.” Her hazel gaze turned to Ari, and a tremulous smile bloomed afresh. “I am sorry, my queen. I would not cause you pain for anything.”
“No need.” Now Ari was repeating the chained man’s phrasing, and she almost flinched at the echo; the Carcanet pulsed again. She quelled the urge to take a step sideways, putting herself between him and Leshe; it probably wouldn’t end well. “Really. Everything’s all right.”
“Your accent is strange.” Leshe cocked her graceful, braid-crowned head. “But your eyes are the same, and… yes, you feel the same, as well. Here.” Her hands rose, graceful birds, and when they parted a bright star flamed for a moment, snuffed almost as soon as it was born. “See? I guarded it well, my lady, as I was bid.”
She had produced a cup of dark wood—a goblet, similar in shape to the two at Hannixe’s house and the carved fire-bowl. Its sides were satin-smooth, but along the rim a thin line of silver seemed to flow in a lazy circle.
No, the silver was moving. Ari stared at the slight motion, trying to decide if her eyes were fooled by the blue light or by Leshe’s moving closer, toes pointed out and her steps soundless-soft.
The young woman offered her treasure with both hands, and Ari took the cup. Warm as the Carcanet, carved wood nearly alive against her touch, stretching under her fingertips like a cat enjoying its beloved human’s petting.
The rim gave another flash, silver flaring with pale fire. Ari nearly dropped the thing, and the chained man’s warmth touched her shoulder as he leaned close.
“And so.” Soft, and intimate. “Doubt yourself if you wish, my lady Ariadne. But do not expect us to do the same.”