Circle of Nine: Circle of Nine Trilogy 1 (30 page)

‘Because I have the seed of the Webx Gwyndion,’ the Hag finally admitted.

There was a stifled gasp from the angel couple.

‘Aye, as you are aware, with his bodily fluid I could work powerful magic,’ she continued, ‘but I need the Hags from all quarters to assist me. Yea, the Sea Hags have a long tradition of Webx-lore, more so than any dweller I know of in the known worlds. Indeed, it was the Sea Hags who were witness when the original Webx Elders walked across the waves from the Heztarra Galaxy. If there be anyone that can help Black Annis with the sperm magic — it be the Sea Hags! If there be anyone that understands Eom — it be the Sea Hags!’

The angels exchanged conspiratorial glances; the temptation to trust the Earth Hag strong indeed.

‘Pray tell, what is to prevent us going directly to the source? What is to stop me invading the Imomm and seizing the shootling?’ Ishran asked.

Black Annis laughed, revealing her piranha teeth and fetid breath. ‘Sometimes the most direct route is not the one to take, Lord Ishran. You may win a glorious battle, but you would not return to the castle with the Webx. The Imomm are masters of illusion and Glamour. They would shape-shift the shootling in a half-eyston!’

‘Yea, that may be truth, but how are we to trust that the sperm you boast of is from the Webx lad?’ Sati enquired. ‘We have only your word for it!’

The Earth Hag regarded them steadily. ‘Black Annis has seen and smelt the Webx’s seed. I am satisfied that it be from the Webx.’

The angels looked to each other in mute communion while Black Annis steeled herself to shape-shift to a rat and make her escape quickly from the castle if they made any sudden moves toward her. Then Ishran burst out laughing and thrust a severed gory limb in the Hag’s face.

‘Come, let us share our meal together and celebrate the merging of angels and Hags!’ Black Annis accepted the grisly offering eagerly. Fresh Bluite flesh was difficult to find now that time had caught up with the ageing Earth Hag. Her powerful jaws cracked the bone easily and she gnawed upon the delicious morsel reflecting that the union she had bargained for would have delicious side benefits for Black Annis. No more hungry belly! The trio began to growl and snarl as they tore the body to pieces, and between mouthfuls began to formulate their plan.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

The cells of stars contain the memory of the birth of trees and the death of leaves.

— Eronthite saying

D
iomonna stared at Gwyndion with open-mouthed admiration. Each was struck anew by the beauty of the other. Tonight the Faery Queen was clothed in a forest-green gown that revealed more than it hid. Diamonds glittered like dewdrops on the fabric. If it had not been for the faint odour of Faery that clung to her, Gwyndion would have thought her perfect among women.

Diomonna in turn was entranced by the Webx’s sensual beauty. His silver-blond hair was gossamer soft to her inquisitive light touch. His full silver lips were firm, yet hinted at his passionate nature. But the shootling’s eyes were dull with a melancholy sadness. Chilled, Diomonna recognised the all-too-familiar symptoms. Like so many before him, the Webx who had been graced with the honour of sighting the Hollow Hills was fretting for his homeland and people. The illusion that the Imomm were weaving so lovingly and skilfully for the shootling was failing to keep his life-force strong. She could hear the meerwog snarling from her cage as she witnessed the Faery Queen touching her master and she tensed. She longed to have the meerwog put to death, except she feared Gwyndion would die if this only tangible reminder from his homeland was removed.

As Gwyndion stared into Diomonna’s enormous green eyes he watched the moon float within them. In her eyes floated all life. He could feel her worrying concern for him and hope flared within his breast. If he could penetrate through her illusion and reach her heart, he might have a chance to escape. Deliberately he slumped forward, feigning lethargy.

*

From the confines of her cage, Samma watched her master and the Faery Queen with undisguised jealousy. The little meerwog was losing her vitality as time drifted by in the Hollow Hills. And time was beginning to mean little to her. They could have been with the Imomm tribe for seconds or seasons. Samma’s coat was dull, her eyes were glazed and Gwyndion did not seem to notice or care whether or not she was close to him. From inside her cage she had had to endure the taunts of the loathsome Faery people. Tiny Winskis would constantly float through the bars of the cage, biting her and crying insults before darting away to safety. She ate little of the Faery food that was so carelessly tossed to her, or the Faery brew that they poured into her bowl. She was only too aware of how their food and drink could trap the unwary in the Faery illusion. As a consequence the meerwog was badly dehydrated and her ribs were beginning to stick out from her body. There was no moonrise or moonset to signify the passing of time, and to Samma and Gwyndion life was a dull routine of listening to the unearthly strains of the Faery harpist, observing the wild Faery dances that occurred with frequent and sudden spontaneity. Samma mewed continually, attempting to attract Gwyndion’s attention, but to the meerwog’s dismay he appeared lost to her.

Continually, the taunting, melodic sounds of Faery voices would chant:

Gwyndion! Gwyndion!
Knower of neither love nor of sin!
Let yourself rest here,
Let your roots grow here!
With our Faery hands
We’ll remove all your fear.

When the melody began, Gwyndion would shake and cry out, and sweat profusely. The shootling would refuse to be calm until the Faery melody died away.

And always the faint, repellent odour of Faery clung to the air.

*

The midwives arrived. Gwyndion watched them with disinterested eyes. They were Bluites bound in chains, and they wept piteously as an army of Bogies catcalled and jeered. Old Patricia scolded the Bogies for their treatment, and swiped with a cloth at taunting Winskis in the air, who were attempting to pinch them. Gwyndion had no interest in wondering why there were now Bluite midwives installed in the Hollow Hills. He also had little curiosity as to why a team of Bogies were hard at work building a wooden cradle under Old Patricia’s directions. His feet were restless, prodding the ground, searching for soil.

*

The wind and air elementals brought the chilling sound of bluebells ringing. The inhabitants of the Hollow Hills shivered uneasily, for the bluebell ringers heralded death.

*

Imomm jockeys, with wings quivering excitedly, mounted the enormous maja spiders and spurred them to crawl hurriedly in bizarre races. Crowds of Faeries surrounded them, cheering madly and squabbling over the pronouncement of the winners.

*

He was in the hills above the Hollows. He was breathing Eronth air. How he got there he had no recollection. Scores of shouting Winskis encircled his head. Bats swooped, an owl hooted. The air felt so pure, liquid. The earth moved in slow sensual ripples. Red pungent toadstools and mushrooms in carefully arranged circles signalled to all foolish enough to venture too near that this was Faery territory. His feet grew roots, pushed into soil. Rain fell in soft splashes on his upturned face — night fell. Was it a dream?

*

A Faery dance. Faery musicians in gaily patterned clothes, holding brightly decorated fiddles, harps and tambourines. Bogies, Hags, Tree Shape-shifters, Elementals, Devas, Winskis. Even the shy Ghillie Dhu emerged from the security of his thicket to attend the dance. The magical creatures held hands and kicked their heels in wild revels. Shadows flickered. A Crossa danced crazily among the Faery folk, still wearing his business suit, hands clutching his mobile, eyes starting from his head as he attempted to keep pace with the Faery folk. Gwyndion felt nauseous watching him. He knew the unfortunate Crossa would dance to his death while the Faery folk cheered him on heartlessly. The midwives, held also by the maja web, gluttonously ate from the pewter trays of Faery mushrooms and drank greedily the caramel brewed mead, howling as they attempted to break their restraints and join the dance. Faery women, each one more beautiful than the last, attempted to seduce the Webx. Silver voluptuous lips promised unspeakable delights. But the shootling closed his eyes, focusing on truth, attempting to break their illusion, and when he opened his eyes again there would be in their place jeering Hags with withered, drooping breasts and swollen bellies, laughing with blacked gums at his distress.

The music played faster and the drunken Faeries sang.

*

A blackthorn and an elder tree danced together while a Tree Shape-shifter turned frenzied circles around them, her leafy green hair flowing in beautiful arcs. The Crossa had now removed his clothes to the excited shrill screaming of the Faery women, his hair lank with sweat. Faery animals ran through the crowd threatening to tip over anyone in their path.

*

A Faery woman floated naked over the crowd. Her full, firm breasts and body glowed like moonlight as she rotated and swayed. Stars burst from her skin onto the crowd below. From between her taut little buttocks sprouted a flowing horse’s tail.

*

Gwyndion met Diomonna’s eyes across the crowded room. How had he not noticed her before? She reclined on an ornately carved rosewood settee, holding a silver goblet decorated with grapes. A miniature leopard lay curled at her feet. Her beauty outshone all the other beauties at the dance and although the Webx knew it to be Glamour, his breath caught in wonderment at her loveliness. Miniature pink roses formed her gown and were dotted throughout her luxuriant hair. Her eyes were heavily outlined in kohl, her lips and the tips of her breasts rouged with the berry juice that the Imomm women used in their toilette. She was holding an oak stick, which she had been using as a wand as conductor for the musicians. A timeless moment passed as the Webx and the Faery Queen stared at each other. Behind them the dance and the musicians became a frozen tableau, extraneous to the scene.

*

Then he saw her. A Webx woman on the other side of the dance. Long, dark-green, leafy hair brushed her breasts. Her large brown eyes seemed surprised to see him. Clad in a simple lavender gown, she carried a bloodstained cloak. A mutual recognition passed between the two. The dark-haired woman reached out to him hungrily, a look of love on her face. Longing for him, desire.
Love.
The word hung in the air. She vanished slowly. Tantalisingly. Shadows.

*

Inside her cage, Samma wept tears of rage. The Winskis had placed a wreath of red pansies on her head. The madness of the scenes she could witness from her cage was sending the little meerwog into fits of anguish. She wished desperately that she could devise an escape plan for her and her master.

Presuming he actually does wants to escape!
she thought spitefully.

It was breaking her heart that he appeared, to be gazing lovingly upon every female in the room, including the harlot Faery Queen, and now this latest apparition! Despairingly, Samma lay on her cage floor, paws over her head in a desperate attempt to block out the hated dance. Gwyndion no longer seemed to care whether she lived or died. Tears ran down the meerwog’s face as she remembered how close they had been on Zeglanada, from the moment she had first wriggled in his arms as a meerpuppy. For the first time since entering the Hollow Hills she began to long for death.

*

A stag danced with a witch’s cat. Elves howled as they cavorted in wild gyrations, wreaths of cowslips and foxgloves on their heads. The midwives lay in pools of vomit, mercifully unconscious. Old Patricia lay slumped in a corner, virtually covered by drunk Winskis. Thousands of other tiny Winskis danced like fireflies among the crowd. The Crossa’s face turned grey, turned black. He fell to the floor, his relieved sparrow escaping, while the bluebell ringer played a mournful dirge. Instantly the occupants of the Hills vanished, leaving only dust floating in the empty caverns. Only the snores of the drunken midwives interrupted the eerie silence. The dance was over. Shadows remained.

*

Diomonna grumbled to herself as she made the steep descent into the underworld, holding the young Bluite child by the hand. Every seven years she made this descent in order to make the obligatory tithe to Hades. Time had not dimmed her dislike of the task. It infuriated the Faery Queen that Hades demanded the tradition continue. The Imomm people had more than enough to worry about with their natural habitats being rapidly destroyed by the Faiaites and Azephim.

The temperature had begun to noticeably drop as the pair wound their way down the roughly hewn stone steps leading to the domain of Hades. Fool’s gold glinted on the walls, and the Bluite child exclaimed in delight at an ancient rock painting drawn in ochre by some long-dead hand. Humouring him, the Faery Queen paused to allow him to examine more closely the roughly drawn Stag Man encircled by serpents and grapes. She did not welcome having to meet with Hades again, finding him both gross and repulsive.

Her nostrils anxiously sniffed the air and she relaxed her taut muscles. Persephone was in residence! She could smell the young Goddess easily . . . also another . . . a female Bluite. Diomonna visibly relaxed. If Persephone was in the underground, Hades’ temper would be more mellow. The child attempted to ask her a question but she silenced him instantly with a warning look, her varnished nails digging savagely into his arm. He was a beauty, this child. Round blue eyes, tiny perfect rosebud lips and sun-blond curls. Black Annis’s contacts certainly knew what was required when it came to Bluite trade.

When she had first taken Gwyndion into her kingdom, the thought of using the Webx for the seven-year tithe had occurred to Diomonna. She had hoped that if Hades was sufficiently impressed with the Imomm offering up one of the reclusive Webx tribe it might buy them more time. However, Gwyndion had managed to enter her heart in a way that she had not foreseen and she was loath to use him as a bargaining tool, so the golden-haired beauty of this child was an ideal substitute.

Half of the inhabitants of the Hollow Hills had fallen madly in love with the child, however, and there had been much sobbing and gnashing of teeth when it was time to hand him over to Hades. Old Patricia had refused to look at Diomonna or address her directly. Insolent old bitch! The Faery Queen would never have admitted to herself how much it hurt her when Old Patricia was icy as frost with her. The aged Bluite had been in the Hollow Hills ever since Diomonna could remember. She had delivered many of the Faeries and Winskis, and she had laid out many of the Crossas who had died in the dance of death. Indeed, she had brought Diomonna up since she was a very small child. It was her father, Pysphorrus the Second, who had originally abducted the stinking Bluite to care for Diomonna. She had far too many airs and graces for a Bluite, Diomonna thought, but the truth was that the Faery Queen was slightly intimidated by her. The other, more disturbing truth was that she loved her old Bluite nanny like a mother.

The very small children that were stolen by the Faeries, either as Changelings or for the tithe, adjusted more easily to life in the Hollow Hills than the more adult Crossas, for they were closer to their memories of the other worlds. This latest child had been true to form: he had sobbed at night for his mother and his twin sister, but in the light of day he had been distracted by the admiring ethereal beings who had surrounded him and showered him with compliments and presents.

Diomonna had remained detached from the mass worship of the tithe, confused as she was by her feelings for the Webx. She could not recall, despite the numerous lovers she had taken over hundreds of years from all the known worlds, feeling the sensation that she felt in her breast when she gazed upon Gwyndion’s face and body. Lately she had been waking in her bed of rose petals, her body drenched in sweat and longing for the Webx. Horrified, she would vainly attempt to shut out her feelings and sleep, but the dulled expression of the Webx’s eyes was burnt into her brain.

Caught in her emotional concerns, Diomonna was unsympathetic to the child’s nervousness as they progressed nearer to Hades’ quarters. She had never chosen to worry herself too much about the fate of the children that she had delivered over time. Her main concern was for the highest good of the Imomm people. Bluites were an overpopulated race, Faeries were not.