The Poisoned Crown (5 page)

“Who—?”

“I cannot be sure. They were voices in a crowd, on a dark street, and it was not a place where I wished to linger. There are many streets in the city, some darker than others, and not all those who use them are as human as they look.”

Ragginbone was not obviously a man of the city, even without his coat, but Bartlemy knew better than to categorize him.

“Your wanderings take you to strange places,” he said.

“There are strange places around every corner, if you walk on the dark side,” Ragginbone said. “Belief creates its own kingdoms, even in this world. As the legends change, so do the pathways, but the shadows linger as long as memory, and the shadow dwellers are always there. Some of them may be coming your way, or so rumor has it. Some may be already here.”

“Nenufar,” said Bartlemy.

“The name I heard was Nephthys, but it is the same. She is old, and cold, and forever angry. Once, men sought to soften her with worship, but she could not be softened, not she. Now she has been sailed and chartered, polluted and abused, netted and dragged and mined, and the tale of her grievances is the lullaby she sings to the storm. What she may hope for, should the Gate open for her, I do not know, but the drowning of all humanity is in her dearest dream.”

“You’re well informed,” said Bartlemy. It was almost a question.

“I have heard her in the scream of the wind, in the roar of the waves,” Ragginbone said. It was not an answer. “And there are those who flee from her, bringing word of her wrath.”

“The word on the street,” Bartlemy concluded. “Have you come to offer help?”

“I have no help,” the other said. “My spells have all gone stale. I came to warn you—and to wish you well.”

“Thank you,” said Bartlemy. “I need all the well-wishing I can get. Or rather, Nathan does.”

“Who’s Nathan?”

“I think,” said Bartlemy, “he’s the key.”

“I have experience of keys,” said Ragginbone. “Perhaps I should have said,
what
is he?”

“A boy. A relatively normal boy, insofar as anyone is normal. Intelligent, resourceful, courageous—but a teenager.”

“He’ll grow out of that,” said Ragginbone. “Is he Gifted?”

“Not in the accepted sense. The power of the Lodestone on which
Atlantis was founded has never touched his genes. But he has … ability. To be precise, the ability to move between worlds. There is a portal in his mind—he passes it in dreams—in extreme cases his sleeping form disappears altogether, materializing in another universe. He seems to have little or no control over the phenomenon, but I suspect that someone else may be controlling him—guiding him—even protecting him. Someone from beyond the Gate. He has dreamed of a dying world, of a few survivors on the last planet, one stop from extinction. The ruler there is trying to perform a Great Spell. Plainly, Nathan has a vital part to play, presumably as a gatherer of certain objects. He has already retrieved the Grail, as you have heard, along with a Sword.”

“Extraordinary,” said Ragginbone after a pause. For him, this was strong language. “Great Spells are perilous, and may be millennia in the preparation. Are you sure?”

“The necessary elements are there. The feminine principle, the masculine principle, the circle that binds. A Cup, a Sword, a Crown. The Crown appears to have been mislaid, but no doubt it will turn up in time. Whenever that time may be.”

“A Cup … the Grim thorn Grail?”

Bartlemy nodded. “I have been wondering,” he said—changing the subject, or so it seemed, but Ragginbone knew better—“about a theory of yours. The Gift, as we know, is not native to the human race: the Stone of Power in Atlantis warped those who lived in its vicinity, giving them the talents their descendants still possess. Longevity, spell-power, the various madnesses that they engender. You have always maintained that the Stone itself was the essence of another universe— a universe with a high level of magic—accidentally catapulted into our own. Supposing, instead, it was just
apart
of another universe—an entire galaxy, for example—and its presence in our world was no accident …?”

“In infinity and eternity,” Ragginbone said, “all things are possible. What are you suggesting?”

“Perhaps our universe was chosen—as a refuge or an escape route— many ages ago, at least in our Time. The Gift may have been given so
that certain individuals could perform their part: Josevius Grimling Thorn, called Grimthorn, who accepted the Grail, and myself, as Nathan’s protector when he was a baby. My role has been very minor; nonetheless—”

Ragginbone was frowning. “I don’t like it,” he said abruptly.

“It was merely a hypothesis,” Bartlemy said. “I was looking for a pattern in Chaos, but—”

“You misunderstand me. The theory is viable. That’s what I don’t like.”

“You mean—”

“I was thinking of the classics,” Ragginbone said.
“Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes.”

“I fear Greeks bearing gifts. A reference to the Trojan Horse, a gift whose acceptance by the Trojans led to the downfall of their city.”

“Exactly,” Ragginbone said.

I
T RAINED
heavily that night. In the visitor’s bedroom under the eaves the roof leaked, though it had never done so before. Ragginbone woke, or dreamed he woke, and saw the steady drip-drip from the ceiling, and the water spreading in a puddle on the floorboards. Presently, a hand emerged—a white cold hand with bluish nails, like the hand of someone who has drowned—and groped around the edge of the puddle, seeking for purchase. The wolf-dog approached and growled her soundless growl, snapping at the crawling fingers, and the hand withdrew, slipping back into the water. The puddle shrank and vanished. The dripping stopped.

“No spirit can enter here uninvited,” Bartlemy said in the morning. “Are you sure it wasn’t just a dream?”

“The time is out of joint,” Ragginbone said. “The old spells are unraveling; even the Ultimate Laws may no longer hold. The future casts more than a shadow. Whatever is coming, it may change everything.”

“Keep in touch,” Bartlemy adjured, seeing his visitor to the door.

“I will,” promised Ragginbone. He did not say how. He strode off
under a drizzling sky with the she-wolf at his heels, and Bartlemy returned to the sanctum of his living room, looking more troubled than he had in a long, long while.

A
NOTHER VISITOR
came to Thornyhill Manor that week, but he came to the back door and would have been seen by no one, unless they had weresight. He was barely four feet high and bristled with tufts of hair and beard, sprouting in all directions as if the designer of his physiognomy had never quite sorted out which was which. His clothing was equally haphazard, rags of leather, Hessian, oilcloth tacked together more or less at random, covering his anatomy but unable to produce a recognizable garment. Yet the most noticeable thing about him was his smell—the stale, indescribable smell of someone who has slept in a foxhole for a hundred years and thinks bathing is bad for your health.

Bartlemy seemed oblivious to it. He made food for his guest, rather strange food, with ingredients from a jar that sat on an obscure little shelf in the corner of the kitchen all by itself. His cooking gave off the usual aroma of herbs and spices and general deliciousness, but Hoover sniffed suspiciously at a morsel that fell to the floor, and let it lie. While his guest was eating Bartlemy poured two tankards of something homebrewed and flavored with honey, then sat back, waiting with his customary patience.

The dwarf made appreciative noises as he cleared his plate.

“Ye can chafe up a mean dishy o’ fatworms,” he remarked in an accent whose origins were lost in the mists of time, “e’en though they were no fresh. Howsomedever …”

“You didn’t come to talk of cooking, I imagine,” Bartlemy supplied.

“Nay. Nay, I didna, but there’s no saying I wouldna rather talk o’ food and drink and the guid things in life, instead o’ the dark time to come. Ye’ll be knowing it, I daresay. Ye’re one who would read the signs and listen to the whisperings. The magister, he used to say to me: There’ll be one day, one hour—one hour o’ magic and destiny—one hour to change the world. I didna care for that, ye ken. The world
changes, all the time, but slow, slow. What kind o’ change can ye be having in a wee hour? It canna be anything guid, not to be coming that quick. Aye, and the magister’s face would light when he spoke of it, wi’ the light o’ greed and madness, though he were niver mad. He didna have that excuse.”

Some time in the Dark Ages the dwarf had worked for Josevius Grimthorn, scion of the ancient Thorn family—once owners of Thornyhill—and a sorcerer rumored to have sold his soul to the Devil. What he had gained from the transaction no one knew, but he was said to have lived nearly seven hundred years and died in a fire in his own satanic chapel, leaving the Grimthorn Grail to the guardianship of his descendants. That guardianship, like the manor, had passed to Bartlemy The dwarf had fallen out with his master and been imprisoned for centuries in a subterranean chamber in the Darkwood, until Nathan and Hazel inadvertently released him. The lingering dread of his old master’s activities remained with him.

His name, when he remembered it, was Login Nambrok.

“Did he tell you exactly when this hour is due?” Bartlemy asked.

The dwarf heaved his shoulders in a shrug bigger than his whole body. “He said I would feel it,” he offered, “i’ the marrow o’ my bones. I’m no siccar there’s much marrow left—my bones are auld and dry— but there’s an ache in me like a warning o’ foul weather to come. And there are other signs than my auld bones. The sma’ creatures i’ the wood, they’re leaving—aye, or scurrying ’round and ’round like they dinna ken where to go. And there’s birds flying south wi’ tidings o’ darkness in the north, and birds flying north wi’ rumors o’ trouble in the south, and so it goes on. There’s times I think the wind itself has a voice, and it’s whispering among the leaves, but mebbe that’s a’ fancy. And there’s
them
—the invisible ones—they’d gather down by the chapel ruin, under the leaves, muttering together in the auld tongue, though I doot they understood the words—muttering and muttering the charms that magicked them. But lately—” He broke off with something like a shudder.

Bartlemy looked a question.

“There was a hare I’d been following,” Nambrok said. “I’d fancied
him for my dinner, and I’d been stalking him awhile, quiet as a tree spider, and he went that way.
They
saw him. Time was, they wouldn’t have troubled any beast, but they saw him and chased him, down the valley and up the valley, chased him till he couldna run farther, and then they were on him and crowding in his head, and now the puir creature is madder’n March, and bites his own kind, and snarls like a dog when ye come near him. That’s no honest end for a beastie. And ye canna eat a creature that’s been so enspelled. There’ve been others, too … and one day it’ll be man, not beast. It’ll be some chile walking in the woods, or a dog that sets on his master. There’s no reason to it—nothing to guard—no threat—but…”

“They’re out of control,” Bartlemy concluded. And he repeated, more to himself than his companion: “The old spells are unraveling. Things are beginning to fall apart.”

“Aye,” said the dwarf, “and there’s little ye can be doing about it, or so I’m thinking.”

“Maybe,” said Bartlemy. “But we can try.”

A
BOVE
N
ATHAN’S
house a single star shone. The night was misty and the sky obscured, but that one star shone brightly, a steady pinpoint of light looking down on the bookshop, while Nathan sat on the edge of the rooflight, looking up. When the dreams were most intense— when half his life seemed to happen in worlds whose reality was still unproven—he would climb up to the roof and gaze at the star, and that kept him sane. Winter and summer, its position never altered. It had been there now for two years and more, a star that did not twinkle or move along the set pathways of the heavens—a star that could not be seen beyond the borders of Eade—fixed in its place like a lamp to guide him home.
His
star.

He went to bed, reaching in his mind for the portal that would once more let him through, and dreamed of the star.

It hung in a chamber of darkness at the top of a tower a mile high. Light streamed outward from its heart but seemed to go nowhere and
illuminate nothing, absorbed into the gloom around it. Other stars were suspended around the periphery of the room, pale globes emitting a similar radiance, but it was his star at the center, turning slowly on its own axis, a crystalline eye of intercosmic space. A lens on another world. Here,
his
world was the otherworld, the alien country. This was Arkatron on Eos, a city at the end of Time. In this room with no visible walls or floor a ruler ten thousand years old—a ruler who had held a whole universe under his sway—gazed beyond the Gate to find a refuge for the last of his people, away of escape from the Contamination that had eaten the numberless galaxies of his realm. By day, his subjects went robed and masked against the poisonous sun; by night, they slept uneasily, anticipating the End. But in this chamber it was always night. Nathan’s thought floated in the darkness, waiting. Presently, the Grandir came.

If he had a name, no one knew it. Other Grandirs had come and gone, leaving their names behind them, but he was last, and nameless. In a universe with a high level of magic, to know someone’s name is to have power over him: the power of summons, even of Command, if the summoner is strong enough.
Like knowing the prime minister’s cell phone number
, Nathan reflected, smiling to himself in thought.
I bet he doesn’t give that to just anybody.
But the Grandir didn’t tell his name even to his nearest and dearest—if he had them—not even to his bride-sister, Halmé, Halmé the childless, whose beauty was a legend among her people, though few had ever looked on her face. She went unmasked only in private chambers, for the eyes of a privileged few. As for the Grandir, Nathan had seen his face naked just once, in a dream that plucked him from danger, and the memory of it still made him shiver, though he wasn’t sure why.