Herbie Brennan - Faerie Lord

Chalkhill said, ‘About Hairstreak. About having to be murdered.’

‘It’s symbolic. I told you,’ Brimstone said impatiently. ‘Now stop making a fuss and get into your coffin.’ He hesitated. ‘Better give me the money now.’

‘No way!’ Chalkhill snapped. He had a feeling that the money might be the only thing keeping him alive.

‘If you two have quite finished…’ Hairstreak glared.

Since there was nothing else to do, Chalkhill jerked his elbow out of Brimstone’s grasp and climbed into the coffin, a wary eye on Hairstreak as he did so. There was a curious sound from the assembled Brothers, somewhere between a sigh of gratification and a crocodile hiss.

‘Lie down,’ Hairstreak ordered. ‘Cross your arms over your chest.’

Like a corpse, Chalkhill thought. The trouble was, he’d been accustomed to obeying Hairstreak’s orders without question and somehow he couldn’t break the habit now. He lay down and crossed his arms over his chest. The coffin was quite comfortably padded, but it definitely smelled of old, sour blood. He kept thinking sacrificial lamb. He kept thinking death, destruction, slaughter.

The pallbearers closed the coffin lid.

Chalkhill nearly lost it then. The experience was quite different from the hoodwink, which had let in lots of light around the edges. Now the darkness was total; almost tangible. His breathing grew laboured as the air inside the coffin thickened. He felt hot. Was this the start of a cremation? He started to sweat profusely. Sombre music sounded in his ears, the result of some stupid spell cone, by the smell. Now he kept thinking, decay, corruption, putrefaction. He wondered if it would do any good to burst into tears.

The coffin lid opened again, letting in light and some blessed air. Avis was leaning over him, still wearing that stupid mask and loincloth. He had a dagger in one hand. This is it! Chalkhill said, but all that came out was a whimper.

‘You’re supposed to stand up now,’ Avery prompted, his voice muffled by the mask.

Chalkhill leaped from the coffin and fell into a weird fighting stance, legs bent, one hand outstretched, palm flat, in a chopping motion. Avis ignored him and placed the tip of the dagger lightly against his chest. ‘Do you solemnly swear and attest you will truly, faithfully, honestly and diligently uphold the principles of this Unholy Order, preserve its secrets on pain of having your tongue removed, your eyes gouged out, your breast ripped open and your heart stopped by a magical current that taps the fundamental power of the universe?’ Avis muttered speedily. ‘Do you further agree, attest, swear and undertake to endow this sacred Brotherhood with all your worldly goods, hitherto and hereafter accumulated, limited only to the amount previously agreed with your Sponsor, so help you Darkness?’

Chalkhill looked at him.

‘Say I do,’ Brimstone prompted.

‘I do,’ Chalkhill said.

There was a scattering of applause among the congregated Brothers. Hairstreak said formally, ‘Welcome to our Order.’ Then he added in a bored voice, ‘Do you have any questions, Frater Chalkhill?’

‘When do I get to talk to God?’ asked Chalkhill promptly.

The city was a lot different from the last time Henry had been here. The milling crowds of Cheapside had disappeared, leaving the streets eerily quiet. Highgrove was no better. Even the bustling commerce on the Loman Bridge had dwindled to a trickle. Although it was a warm enough day, Henry noticed Nymph kept the windows of the carriage tightly closed and was struck by a sudden frightening suspicion. ‘They’re not all dead, are they?’ he blurted.

Nymph looked at him in surprise. ‘Who?’

Henry’s head was filled with something he’d been reading for his History exams – an account of the Black Death in Europe. The disease had spread like wildfire in the fourteenth century, killing one-third of the population of the continent. A traveller at the time left vivid descriptions of empty city streets and the stench of death. ‘The people,’ Henry said.

Nymph continued to stare at him for a moment, then suddenly relaxed and shook her head. ‘No. No, the death rate isn’t very high yet. But people are frightened, so they don’t go out much any more.’ She glanced out the window of the carriage and added inconsequentially, ‘It hasn’t reached the forest yet.’

‘How -?’ Henry hesitated. He didn’t want to sound like a wuss, but he badly wanted to know. ‘How… contagious is it? I mean, how easy is it to get?’

‘Well, we’re not even sure how it spreads, but you don’t want to take stupid chances,’ Nymph said matter-of-factly, which didn’t tell him anything. He was wondering how he could pursue the topic further when Nymph asked a question of her own: ‘What happened between you and Blue, Henry?’

It drove the thoughts of disease from his head. What happened between you and Blue, Henry? He knew somebody was bound to ask him that eventually and Nymph had always been direct. He felt his brain falling back into its familiar defensive manoeuvres – Me and Blue? You think there was something between me and Blue? – then decided, with a massive effort, that it was time to break old patterns. He’d never survive the next few hours – meeting Blue again, which he was bound to do – if he didn’t get a grip on himself. Besides, he liked Nymph and had always found her easy to talk to. She didn’t tease you and she didn’t play games and she didn’t have an agenda. He took a deep breath, stared out the window again and said, ‘I blew it.’

After a moment, Nymph asked gently, ‘How?’

Henry turned back to look at her. ‘You won’t tell this to anybody, will you? I mean, I wouldn’t want – I mean, it might embarrass – ’ Nymph said nothing, just looked at him soberly. Henry said, ‘No, of course you won’t.’ He returned to staring through the window. ‘It’s old history now, anyway: I don’t suppose anybody really cares.’ He sighed. ‘Blue asked me to marry her.’

‘Really?’ Nymph sounded surprised.

‘Oh, yes,’ Henry said. ‘I don’t know what got into her. It was after that business with Beleth, of course, and the kidnap and everything and I suppose she was very upset and -’

‘What got into her was that she loved you,’ Nymph said quietly.

It shut Henry up completely. The carriage, a surface transport, rumbled over the great wooden bridge. He could see the broad sweep of the river winding lazily between the dockside warehouses on one bank and the ancient, overhanging residences of Highgrove on the other. After a while he said, ‘I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.’

‘Why not?’

Why not? There had been so many reasons and he wasn’t sure Nymph would understand a single one of them. She was a very uncomplicated girl. She’d fallen for Pyrgus and married him. Simple. At least that’s what he assumed had happened. What did he know? He said, ‘She was too young, for one thing.’

‘In the Realm some girls get married at thirteen,’ Nymph said. ‘It’s even younger in the forest – I could have got married at twelve if I wanted to. Blue was older than that two years ago.’

‘Yes, I think she was fifteen. Maybe just sixteen, I’m not sure. But that’s here. In my world you don’t get married that young. You just don’t!’ Actually there were some countries where you did, but he pushed the thought aside.

‘Was age the only reason?’ Nymph asked without a hint of judgement in her voice.

For just the barest moment, Henry thought he was going to cry. It would be terrible if he cried in front of Nymph, hideously embarrassing. Then the moment passed and a dam broke and he said with brutal honesty, ‘I was afraid.’