The Fire King (23 page)

“I'm not sure about this, Snow.”

“Neither am I. But we need to track down this Nimue if we want to find Merlin.”

“Maybe your brother was right. Maybe we should look for the Raven King instead.”

Emily frowned. “It's a bit late to change your mind now, Jack! We agreed that finding Merlin was the best way to stop the fire and get us home. We just have to follow this through to the end.”

Jack sighed. “Fine,” he said reluctantly. “Let's get this over with, then.”

Jack took the cork out of his vial and drank the contents. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a ripple spread across his face, like water lapping against a riverbank. Jack tentatively prodded his skin, then a grimace crossed his features and he convulsed, falling to his knees as if in pain. Emily hurried forward to help, but he waved her away.

“'M all right,” he mumbled. He waited a few moments, then pushed himself to his feet again.

What Emily saw made her step back in alarm. It wasn't Jack who stood before her anymore. His skin had turned dark brown and was covered with fine hair. His eyes were large and black, his ears long and pointed.

And not to mention the fact that he had shrunk as well, to the same height as Corrigan.

The thing was, although to all intents and purposes a piskie now stood before her, Emily could still see Jack in the disguise. The shape of his face, the curve of the mouth, the slant of the eyes—all that was Jack, but his features had been placed on a piskie.

He stared at his hands in amazement, patting down his body. “My clothes …” He looked at Steel, because Emily noticed for the first time that his clothes had shrunk with him so that they still fitted his smaller frame.

“Part of the magic,” she said smugly. She looked over at Beezle. “You won't find that kind of attention to detail anywhere else.”

“Does it … does it hurt?” Emily asked.

“No. It was just … uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable.” There was a gasp from Wren. Emily turned around to find he had already taken his potion. Except that instead of a piskie, he now looked like a goblin. His face was the color of mustard. A long, sharp nose dominated his face, overshadowing his tiny black eyes. He was staring at his hands, turning them this way and that. He looked up at Emily and grinned, showing serrated teeth.

“Amazing,” he said delightedly.

Her turn. Emily pulled the cork out of her bottle, took a deep breath, then swallowed the contents. It tasted sickly sweet, like sugar syrup. Not unpleasant, but not pleasant, either. Emily put the vial down on the table and waited.

She felt it on her face first. A persistent tickling, like ants were crawling across her skin. The feeling grew stronger and stronger, until it no longer felt like an ant, but more like a mouse. Her fingers tingled. Her feet itched. A strange bubbling sound came from her stomach. She burped and lifted a hand to cover her mouth. A hand that no longer looked like her own. It was the same color as tree bark. Her nails were yellow and slightly pointed.

She looked at the others. Jack was staring at her, a half grin playing over his new mouth. “At least it's made you better looking,” he said.

“Very funny.”

Steel was holding a small mirror out. Emily took it and lifted it to her face. She half knew what to expect after seeing Jack and Wren, but the transformation still took her breath away. It looked like her, but a fey version of herself. The structure of her face was the same, just smaller. Her eyes were much bigger than before, and her nose was tiny, a mere bump. She stuck out her tongue, using it to probe her tiny teeth.

“Right,” said Beezle, smacking his hands together. “That's me done here. If you'll just hand over my property, then we can part ways and never have to see each other again. I like the sound of that. Ever again. It has a very permanent ring to it.”

“Actually, we
do
need one more thing,” Emily said.

Beezle said nothing for a few moments. He breathed in deeply, then exhaled loudly. “Lady Steel,” he said, “could you please give me and my
friends
some privacy?”

“Of course. Just … don't break anything.”

Beezle waited till the old fey had left and closed the door behind her. “You're breaking the deal,” he said. “You wanted a disguise, I got you a disguise.”

“I know. But we need you to get us into the Faerie Tree.”

Beezle shook his head. “No. Can't be done. I already told you. There's a reward on my head. If I'm seen down there, my life is over.”

Emily thought about this. “Fine. What about to the market outside the lift?”

Beezle frowned suspiciously at Emily. “What lift?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Stintle.”

“You know about them?”

“I've met them. So how about that? You take us to the lift, and we'll find our own way in.”

Beezle stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. “And then you'll leave me alone?”

“You'll never see us again,” said Emily.

“Swear. Swear on your mother or father's life.”

Emily hesitated, then nodded. “I swear. On my mother's life.”

“Fine then. Let's get this finished.”

“Suits me,” said Emily. “But first, I need a blanket.”

“What for?”

“Doesn't matter. Can you get one from your friend?”

Beezle sighed. “I'll see what I can do.”

It took them an hour to reach their destination, and every minute that passed had Emily ruing the fact that they had already drunk the disguise potion instead of keeping it until they were closer to the Faerie Tree.

But what was done was done, she supposed. There was no point in complaining.

Beezle didn't take them down through any route Emily had already used. Once away from the riverfront, he led them through the city and finally stopped before an abandoned house.

“It's through here,” he said, entering the garden and following the path to the rear of the building. The others followed after, finding themselves in a wildly overgrown garden.

Creepers and bushes pushed up against the wood of a large rickety shed, weeds and small trees taller than Emily (when she was normal-sized) clogging up the rest of the space.

Beezle led them into a huge patch of bushes, where Emily was rather surprised to find a large metal statue. It was of a man on a horse, and it was easily over six feet tall. “You should bow,” said Beezle. “This used to be your King.”

Emily looked at the statue, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“It's Charles I. His statues were destroyed during the civil war, but the Royalists took what they could and hid them. Some of them still lie around London. Forgotten.” He patted the flank of the horse. “Ain't that right, your Kingship.”

“It's a liberty, if you ask me,” said the statue.

Emily jumped back, startled. She stared up to find the metal King leaning over his horse, watching her curiously.

“What's wrong with the piskie?”

“Uh … nothing. Easily scared. That's all. Can we get in?”

“What's the password?”

Beezle frowned. “I wasn't aware there was a password.”

“New rules.”

“
Whose
new rules?”

“Mine.”

“So how are we supposed to know the password if you haven't told us?”

“Mmm. Good point. It's Charles.”

“What?”

“Charles.”

“I know who you are.”

“No. The password is Charles. Wanted to make sure I remembered it, y'see.”

“Ah.” Beezle nodded. “Very wise.” He waited. “So … can we come in?”

“You haven't said the password yet.”

“Oh. Sorry. Charles.”

“Yes? What can I do for you?”

Beezle opened his mouth to probably say something rude, but the statue cackled with laughter.

“Sorry. Just my little joke. You may enter.”

He flicked the reigns on his horse. It neighed and stepped aside, pulling creepers of ivy and large clumps of grass aside to reveal a dark hole in the ground with a set of wooden stairs leading into the earth. Muttering under his breath, Beezle disappeared through the hole, Emily, Jack, and Wren following quickly after.

Beezle led them through old earthen tunnels and fey-built passages, descending deeper and deeper until Emily found herself back in the huge tunnel with the market outside the Stintles' little shop.

“And this is where I really say good-bye,” said Beezle. “I'd like to say it's been fun, and that I'm sad to see you go, but I'm not, so I won't. Good riddance, and if I ever see you again, I'll be sure to run in the other direction. Good-bye.” Beezle saluted, turned on his heels, and vanished back into the darkness.

Emily watched him step back into the tunnel. His sudden departure made her feel incredibly exposed. They were alone now. Really alone.

It was all up to them.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

Locked in. Riddles. The Great Fire is sighted.

I
can't believe him!” said Corrigan, for about the twentieth time. “Locking us in here like this. Who does he think he is? “The Abbot, the Abbot, fast as a rabbit,” said the Prophet. “Yes, thank you, Thomas,” said Corrigan. William watched the man as he sat on his bed, playing

with the threads of his blanket. “You called him Thomas. Do you know who he is?” “Hmm?” Corrigan glanced up from where he was push

ing against the wood of the door, testing for any weak spots.

“Him? Aye. I think so, anyway.” “And?” prompted William. “Thomas of Ercildoune.” “Is that supposed to make sense to me?”

“You must have heard the story of Thomas the Rhymer.”

The name rang a vague bell in his head, but he wasn't sure why. William shook his head.

“He was taken to Faerie by the Faerie Queen a few centuries ago. He became something of a favorite of hers. But she thought his life would be in danger during one of the wars, so she sent him back home. With a special gift.”

“What was the gift?”

“That he could never lie again. That everything out of his mouth from that moment on would be the utter truth.”

William thought about this. “Doesn't seem much of a gift to me.”

“I know. I think the Queen had gone a bit funny in the head. She was quite old at that time.”

William stared at Thomas in pity. “And this is what her gift has done? Turned him into some kind of Prophet? Kept prisoner so others can use him?”

“Looks that way, doesn't it?” said Corrigan cheerfully.

“But … doesn't that bother you?”

“Boy, the only thing that is bothering me right now is getting out of here before that priest comes back.”

William sighed and pushed himself to his feet. The wine cellar was quite large, although the Prophet used only a small section against one wall. There were two torches lighting his living area. William approached him.

“May I borrow one of your torches?” he asked. “I'll bring it right back, I promise.”

“Promises, promises, sow what you reap. Easy to give, and hard to keep.”

“Uh … all right,” said William, unsure if that was a yes or no. “I'll really bring it back. I'm just going to search the room for a way out. Maybe we can get you out of here as well, yes?”

“Out, out, Thomas does doubt. In, in, away from the din.”

William straightened up. He was having serious doubts regarding Thomas the Rhymer's sanity. How were they supposed to get anything of use out of him if he just kept speaking gibberish?

William carefully took one of the torches out of its wall sconce. Thomas shifted on his bed, moving closer to the remaining torch, but otherwise, he didn't seem to mind.

William took the torch deeper into the wine cellar, passing stone pillars that supported the low roof. He did a complete circuit of the room, peering into the small niches in the walls, but there was no other door. No other way out.

He moved into the center of the room and lifted the torch above his head. Nothing in the ceiling, either.

He lowered the torch once again, but as he did so, he noticed something odd. The shadow cast by one of the pillars was slightly skew. The other three pillars cast shadows that were perfectly straight, but the shadow for the center pillar seemed to bend slightly.

William hurried forward and saw this was because the shadow fell across a slight dip in the floor. He got down on his hands and knees, holding the torch low to the floor. The dip leapt out in stark relief thanks to the flames. It traveled in a straight line directly into one of the wall niches.

William crawled forward and got down onto his stomach, using the torch to peer into the niche. Inside, instead of a small nook used to hold wine, he saw a hole that ended at a metal grill. It had to be some kind of drainage system, in case of flooding.

“Corrigan,” he called. “Over here.”

Corrigan stopped trying to slide his bronze dagger between the door and the doorframe and hurried over to join William. He peered into the hole.

“Can you fit?” asked William.

“Reckon so.”

He got down onto his belly and wriggled into the opening. William couldn't see what he was doing because he was blocking the light, but he could hear the piskie banging on the metal, trying to dislodge it. He eventually stopped and retreated back into their cell.

“It's loose. Need more leverage, though,” said Corrigan, then pulled himself back into the hole feetfirst. It only took a few hard kicks to dislodge the grate.

“I'll find my way round to the door,” he called. “You see if you can get any sense from Mr. Rhymer over there, preferably something not in verse.”

Corrigan pulled himself through the opening and disappeared from sight. William straightened up and returned the torch to its wall sconce. He stared at Thomas, uncertain how to start, uncertain if the man was even sane.

He sat down at the bottom of the bed. “I'm supposed to ask you some stuff,” he said after a while. “But I think you must be pretty sick of that, yes? Questions all the time.” He smiled awkwardly at Thomas. “I thought
I
had a tough life. My mother always used to say that no matter how bad things were, there was always someone worse off than you. I never believed it until today.”

Thomas's rocking slowed as William spoke.

“I wonder what Em is doing?” mused Will, more to hear the sound of his own voice than anything else. The silence was oppressive. “If I know her, she's probably already found Merlin and stopped the Fire King. Then I'll look like a fool, as usual.” Which was the problem with having a sister who was so smart. He knew he could never be as clever as her— he knew that in the pit of his being. But Emily didn't. She thought he was just as clever and was simply not applying himself. That he was lazy. In fact, Will reckoned she thought that about everybody. That everyone could be smart if they just applied themselves. Was that a bad trait or a good trait? Will couldn't decide. It was certainly an
infuriating
trait.

“See, she thinks we should find Merlin. That he'll be the answer to all our problems. Me, I'm not so sure. I mean, he could be anywhere. That's why I wanted to search for the Raven King. Cavanagh had a lead, you see. That gave us something we could aim for. But try telling Em that. Oh, no. She knows her own mind, and you'd better not dare to disagree with her.” William shifted on the bed, noting that Thomas had stopped rocking altogether. William sighed. “I know she means well. But she's not my ma. She never will be.” William tried not to think about what Emily had said back at Somerset House. That their parents were still alive, held captive somewhere. He wasn't sure he believed it. After all, it was the Dagda who had told Emily, and he had been trying to get the key to the Faerie Gate. They couldn't believe what he said.

Could they?

“If only she'd stop ordering me around,” he said quietly. “If she stopped treating me like I was five years old, things would be better. I know they would.”

He trailed into silence and cast a sideways glance at Thomas. He smiled ruefully. “This is what it's come to. The only person who listens to me is a half-mad Prophet. No offense.”

William got up and walked over to the door, trying the handle just in case it had miraculously unlocked itself. It hadn't. He supposed he should ask Thomas about the Raven King now. That was why they came here, after all.

“Oranges and lemons,” said Thomas.

William turned around to find the man sitting on the edge of the bed. He was staring intently at him.

“I'm … sorry?”

Thomas stood up. “Here comes a candle to light you to bed,” he said, taking a slow step forward. “Here comes a chopper to chop off your head.” Thomas lunged forward and grabbed him by the arms. William tried to pull away, but Thomas held him tight, his fingers digging into his skin. “Chip chop, chip chop—the Last Man's
dead
!”

As he said these last words William heard a loud
click
from the door behind him. Thomas released his grip, and William whirled around and yanked open the door, almost tripping over Corrigan in his haste to get away.

“Hey,” snapped the piskie. “Easy there, tiger. What's the problem?”

“Him,” said William, nodding his head at Thomas, who now stood in the doorway.

“All you that in the condemned hole do lie,” said Thomas softly. “Prepare you for tomorrow you shall die;Watch all and pray: the hour is drawing near, That you before the almighty must appear—”

“Stop speaking like that!” shouted William. “Why is he saying that? Is he saying we're going to die? Is that what he's saying?”

Corrigan was staring thoughtfully at Thomas, who stepped through the door and looked around the corridor with interest.

“I'm not sure,” said the piskie.

“Oranges and lemons,” said Thomas, moving toward the stairs. He paused at the bottom, then turned to look at them expectantly. “Oranges and lemons?” he said, a questioning tone to his voice.

“I'm not sure if he's hungry, or if he's trying to tell us something,” said Corrigan. “But he's going in our direction, so get a move on. Before that Abbot comes back with Croth.”

They followed Thomas up the stairs and out into the dark interior of the church. William started moving toward the front doors, thinking they could unlock them from this side and escape. But he had only gone two steps before Thomas was dragging at his shirt.

“No go, you come; he comes, we go.”

“What?”

Thomas pointed urgently at the door. “He comes. We go.”

He released William's shirt and moved off a few paces, then stopped and waited, staring expectantly at William and Corrigan.

“Seems he doesn't want us using the front door,” said Corrigan.

“Then we go out the same way we came in,” replied William, heading for the door that led to the Abbot's rooms.

As he pulled it open he heard guttural voices coming from somewhere up ahead. He froze. The sounds were coming from outside the church. The handle on the door leading out into the cemetery started to move. William closed the door.

“Someone's coming,” he hissed.

“Who?” asked Corrigan.

“I don't know, but it doesn't sound like the Abbot.”

“Croth. He must have gathered up some of his heavies.”

“What do we do?” asked William.

“The only thing we can do. Follow our new friend.”

William turned. Thomas was disappearing through a door that was hidden behind a wall covering. He and Corrigan hurried after him. William had only just pulled the covering back into place when he heard the main doors of the church heave open to admit a babble of eager voices.

“Oranges and lemons,” whispered a voice.

Thomas was waiting at the end of a short corridor. When he saw he had their attention, he turned and disappeared up