The Poisoned Crown (6 page)

The Grandir wore a mask now, a white mask with perfect sculpted features, lips slightly parted to allow for speech, eye slots covered with bulbs of black glass. He was tall even for a tall race, and his protective clothing either padded or emphasized the great width of his shoulders and the mass of what must be a muscular torso. A cowl concealed both head and hair; gauntlets were on his hands. In the gloom of the chamber
Nathan could distinguish few details, but he knew the costume from many times before. He watched with the eyes of his dream as the Grandir moved among the star-globes, not touching them yet somehow controlling their rotation. It was strange to be intangible where he had once been solid, invisible where he had once been seen. He wanted to say something, but knew he would have no voice.

Every so often a picture was projected onto the ceiling from one of the globes, a glimpse into another world. Nathan saw a castle that looked familiar—not really a castle, more a house with castle trimmings—and with a sudden shock he recognized Carboneck, where he had found the Traitor’s Sword. There were people crowding outside in a city that had once been empty, people with bright happy faces, and a girl came out onto the steps, arm in arm with a young man, a girl with a lot of hair falling in many waves almost to her waist. She wore a crown of white flowers like tiny stars and a white dress glittering with gems or embroidery.
Nell
, Nathan thought with a sudden stab in his heart.
Nell in her wedding gown …
Princess Nellwyn, who had been his friend and ally in the alien kingdom of Wilderslee, when he’d drawn the Sword it was forbidden to touch, the Sword possessed by a malevolent spirit and endorsed by legend … He’d kissed her in the Deepwoods under the many-colored trees—but that was ages ago, more than a year, in a dream long faded. And in her time many years must have passed, and her face was lit with love, and Carboneck of the shadows had put out all the flags and was garlanded for a party …

Another picture, another place. A world of sea—the world of Nathan’s latest dream—a world he had visited, though only briefly, once or twice before. “Widewater,” said the Grandir as if to himself, and though he spoke softly his voice was a shock, breaking the silence of that high chamber. A voice like the rasp of iron on velvet, like the whisper of thunder, like the caress of fire. “The realm of Nefanu the mer-goddess, who hates all things that breathe the air. But there is always land under the sea, under the blue deeps and the green shallows. One day the mountains will lift up their heads and touch the clouds once more.”

The star-globe could not see beneath the waves, but the image showed several marine animals leaping and diving in a glitter of spray— seals? No: dolphins or porpoises. But there was one among them who looked different, a mercreature with arms that glowed like pearl and a purple tail, flying higher than the others, almost as if she would take wing. And when the school had moved on she remained, head above water, dark hair uncoiling like smoke in the wave pattern, gazing up into the sunlight, up at a star she could not see.
Denaero?
Nathan wondered, but the vision was too far off to tell.

Then Widewater vanished, and now it was
his
star upside down on the ceiling.
His
world. The patchwork of roofs and gardens that was Eade, little streets and twittens and paths, the meadows stretching down to the river. The mooring at Riverside House, with an inflatable tied up there, and children jumping on and off—presumably the Rayburns— under the casual supervision of their mother. One little girl—a brown-skinned elf with nubbly braids—slithered down the bank and fell in, disappearing immediately under the water. No one noticed. Nathan wanted to cry out, but he couldn’t be heard in the dream, let alone beyond. For what seemed like an age the river surface remained unbroken. Then her head bobbed up again, mouth open in a wail, as though she had been thrust up from below, and her family were snatching at her, too many rescuers tangling with one another in their haste, and she was plucked out of the water, onto the bank, and hugged and fussed over and dried.

The picture blinked out, and Nathan was just a thought in the dark. The Grandir was standing close to him, a huge physical presence where he had none—Nathan could hear the murmur of his breath through the mask, sense the steady motor of his pulse that seemed to make the air vibrate. And suddenly Nathan felt the Grandir was aware of him, listening for his thought, reaching out with more-than-human senses for the ghost that hovered somewhere near, unseen but not unknown. An inexplicable panic flooded his spirit, violent as nausea, and the dream spun away, and he was pitched back into wakefulness on the heaving mattress of his own bed.

Gradually, the mattress stabilized and Nathan subsided into normal sleep. There were no more dream journeys to other worlds, but he was haunted by images of Princess Nell in her wedding dress, running and running through an endless network of corridors, while he tried in vain to follow. Her laughter woke him in the morning, fading into music as the alarm went off and his radio started to play.

or a place where a murderer had lived, Riverside House seemed to Annie, as ever, curiously lacking in atmosphere. The round towers that had formerly been oasthouses were joined by a two-story building with all the mod cons, currently littered with boxes—boxes sealed or opened, half unpacked or collapsed into folds for reuse— and assorted furniture, often in the wrong place. There was a sofa in the kitchen and a double bed in the living room. Daubs of paint on the walls indicated experimentation with future color schemes. Much of the kitchen had turned lemon yellow, decorated with random stencils of art nouveau vegetables. The Rayburns were bringing their own atmosphere, Annie thought, but there was nothing underneath. Several murders and the residence of a dark enchantress had left little impression.

“Have a seat,” said Ursula Rayburn. “No—not there! Sorry. That’s Gawain’s school project.” She picked up a fragile construction that seemed to consist mostly of paper, feathers, and glue. “Isn’t it wonderful? I think it’s meant to be a phoenix.”

“I’m sure it’s just like one,” Annie said obligingly.

“Those pink fluffy bits look awfully like Liberty’s feather boa. She was wondering where it had gotten to. Oh well, it’s such a tiny sacrifice for her to make for her brother’s artistic development. All my children are
so
creative.” She sighed happily. “Except Michael, but he’s a sort of mathematical genius, so that’s all right… I hear Nathan’s frightfully brilliant?”

“He does okay,” Annie said, feeling uncomfortable. She had no desire to boast of Nathan’s genius or creativity. All she wanted was for him to be as normal as possible—and under the circumstances that was difficult enough.

“Did you get hold of a plumber?” she went on, changing the subject.

“Oh yes,” Ursula said. “Some firm in Crawford—but he said he couldn’t find anything wrong, and I said there’s got to be. We keep finding water on the floor. So he said maybe the roof leaks—it
has
rained a lot lately—but I said then it would be on the
top
floor, and it isn’t, it’s downstairs. Anyway, he thinks it could be sort of funneled down somehow, but I don’t believe it. I haven’t found any damp patches on the walls or ceiling.”

Annie asked, a little hesitantly: “Could I see where—?” She expected Ursula to find her curiosity bizarre, but her hostess clearly thought she was just trying to be helpful.

“Of course you can.” She led Annie through into the ground-floor room in one of the towers, which had once been a study. “This is going to be a sitting room,” she explained. “I
love
the shape. At the moment, Romany’s sleeping here”—a vague gesture encompassed a mattress on the floor—“and Michael and Gawain are upstairs. Jude and Lib are too old to share so they have their own rooms. The
murder room’s
going to be a guest bedroom—but only when I feel it’s been completely purged of bad vibes.”

Annie grinned. “So when people come to stay you can tell them:
We’ve put you in the haunted room
…?”

“Actually,” Ursula said, “I haven’t really sensed any ghosts. It’s a bit disappointing. At least, not exactly
disappointing
, but when a house has a history like this—well, you’d expect more than just vibes, wouldn’t you? It isn’t that I want to see an apparition or anything, but I
did
think … You know, a bloodstain that won’t scrub out, or—or perhaps moaning in the night.
Something.”

“And all you’ve got is a puddle on the floor,” Annie said thoughtfully. In the middle of the room was a large damp patch where the carpet still hadn’t dried out.

“There’s nothing ghostly about
that,”
Ursula retorted. “It’s just a bloody nuisance. I suppose we’ll have to get someone to look at the roof next. I tell you, I’m going to sue that inspector …”

They went back into the kitchen, and she poured coffee.

“We had an awful fright last weekend,” she went on. “The kids wanted a boat so much, so Donny got them an inflatable—it’s on the bank now, down by the jetty—and they were messing around with it, and Romany fell in. I don’t know how it happened—that river
is
dodgy, isn’t it? She must’ve gone right under, and then she popped up again, and we got her out somehow, and she was fine, but it absolutely terrified me. I mean, she’s eight, she can swim a bit, but she kept saying how the weeds pulled her under. I told them all they’re to stay away from the river, but of course they won’t.”

Absently, Annie found herself murmuring the familiar lines:

“What’s that?” Ursula asked.

“It’s a sort of local folk-rhyme,” Annie said. “About the river.

The river’s tidal, you see.” She didn’t go on with the poem.

“Does that mean you can get dolphins and things? Like in the Thames?” Ursula looked enthusiastic, then dubious. “Surely not—this river’s far too small. I expect that’s just fanciful.”

“Yes,” Annie said. “Fanciful.” She gazed pensively into her coffee, unsure of her own thoughts—or fears. Unsure what to say, and what to leave out.

Water on the floor—in the room where Romany slept. And it was Romany who fell in the river …

“I think,” she said, “you should keep an eye on her.”

“On who?”

“Romany.”

“I always do. Though in the main, she’s such a good child. A bit solitary—always inventing her own games, making up imaginary friends, going off on adventures with them. Of course, she includes Gawain sometimes—he’s her baby brother, after all. I expect she’ll grow up to be a great novelist, or playwright, or something.”

As long as she does grow up
, Annie thought.

Or was she being paranoid?

She would have to discuss it with Bartlemy when the opportunity offered.

H
AZEL THOUGHT
too much of her time at Thornyhill Manor was spent on schoolwork. She didn’t know quite how it had happened, but in the last few months she had begun redoing her lessons with Bartlemy, and although a tiny part of her was secretly pleased that her grades had gone up, the stubborn, awkward,
Hazelish
part still told her lessons weren’t exactly her thing, and she would never do really well, so it was all a waste of effort. Besides, schoolwork was boring, and she was supposed to be there to learn about magic. Despite her stated aversion to it, magic wasn’t boring.

“Could we try the spellfire again?” she said one day offhandedly. “I’m sick of math. I never get it right.”

Bartlemy’s mild gaze narrowed with a hint of amusement. “You’re doing fine with that geometry,” he pointed out. “Math teaches you to think. If you do magic without thought, you’ll end up like your great-grandmother. Do you want that?”

“N-no. I’ve just done enough thinking for one day.”

“As it happens,” Bartlemy said, “there is something with which I need your help. But it could be dangerous. I want to be sure you won’t lose your head.”