Chapter 94

Fire In the Soul

I fly home to Downing as fast as the wind and the beastie will carry me. Janvier’s words chase themselves around and around my head as we swoop over muddy fields, and gushing rivers, over castles and villages, and lakes and hills. Every bone in my body yearns to be home. To see my forest safe and sound. I dread what I will find.

It feels that no matter how well I prepare my home defences there is always something left vulnerable. Always some weak spot. Of course, ideally I would just stay there all the time, minding my own business and tending my garden. Alas, the world conspires against me at every turn. This is becoming unacceptable. I grind my teeth, and consider that I should either dig my heels in and refuse to leave ever again (tempting, but probably impractical, especially since I am now Queen of Einheath), or I need to unlock the secrets of those blasted portal candles.

Hmm. I have several ideas, several threads on which I can tug but my mind refuses to think clearly, so worried am I. And so I fly trailing clouds of anxiety, in fretful silence as the beastie eats up the miles.

After several hours, we cross the broad river separating Greater Downing from the orchards beyond. A short while later we are skimming the treetops on the outer edge of my beloved forest. Everything looks fine. So far. A few peasants look up at me and gape. I ignore them. Some deer run from our shadow. There is nothing out of the ordinary beneath the boughs. That I can see anyway.

It is late morning. A storm is brewing to the west. Dark clouds cluster on the horizon, whipped into angry peaks by the wind; a late winter gift from the spirits of the air, no doubt, to remind us all that spring is not quite here. Lightning crackles in the heart of the storm and the beastie sparks in answer.

“Faster,” I mutter, patting it absently, but I know it is already going as fast as it can.

We are nearly there. Dunbarra Keep should appear at any minute.

I can see mist hanging thick, hovering over the treetops. No. Not mist. Smoke. Not the usual winter pall of cooking and camp fires, but something more insidious.

Panic grips me and I urge the beastie on, mumbling curses into the wind in abject terror. Thick pillars of greasy smoke are pouring into the sky. My forest! My forest is burning! What is it with people and fire? My draugr are rushing to and fro, trying to subdue the flames, with limited success. Fire licks at the tree trunks, turning my darling trees into flickering demonic tapers.

At this point my thought process becomes a little scrambled.

Somehow I find myself tumbling through the air. I must have jumped before the beastie landed. My feet hit the ground, my knees buckling with the impact, and my body explodes into rolling waves of pain and agony. The heat is intense.

My bark is blistering. My twigs are alight, I am being eaten alive, I am dieing, part of me has died already. All is lost. There is only eternal agony, and then this shell will die too. No, no, that is not me. I am not on fire. My forest is on fire. My soul… no, no, that is not me. I am not on fire, we are separate. I made a small moan of distress, my brain and my body struggling to figure out what is happening.

Someone grabs my hand, patting it, someone I know. Someone nice.

“Roland,” I mumble, trying to see through the haze of smoke and blinding pain. I rip the eyepatch from my left eye socket seeking clarity. It only has the effect of bringing the spirit world into sharper focus, confusing me even more. The flames of the forest are overlaid with the writhing figures of tortured souls. Their screams fill my ears, their mouths screaming holes of darkness ringed with agony. In the distance I can see the friendly tree spirit frantically piling heaping snow against a group of smouldering oaks. “Roland-”

“I am here ma’am,” and he is.

With great effort I manage to focus on him. Roland is there, whole and sound. Well, not exactly whole—missing an ear, he looks more battered than I have ever seen him, and some of his stitching seems to have been cut. But he is alive.

“What happened to you,” I mumble, trying to block out the piercing shrieks of the burning souls.

“We cannot put out the fires,” he says. “Normal water will not extinguish them. We tried holy water, it works on the living trees, but it hurt the others…” .

“How-” I manage to bleat out. I can feel myself slipping away once more, and blink furiously, trying to retain my sanity. It is like scooping sand into a colander.

“Phylas,” he says, and I hone in on the name; a focus to keep me conscious and able to act. Phylas. Where is Phylas?

“Is he here? Where is he?” I manage to vocalise.

“He is dead, ma’am, but it was him who set the forest ablaze. So we suspect necromancy. Now that you are back we were hoping you could do something.”

“I can do something,” I mumble.

And I can. Surely, I can. Yes! I have already thought about it, how to extinguish an unnatural fire. I thought about it the first time I discovered ghost fire in the ashes. In case it was ever used against me. What did I think? It is hard to remember when everything is burning.

Thunder crackles to the west, heralding the approach of the thunderstorm. Oh yes!

I lift my arms and whisper:“decipula alma.”

There is a tug of power. I jolt forward with a gasp, but alas, the spirit of the storm remains where it is. Perhaps it is not possible to capture such a soul? Maybe a rainstorm has no soul. No, I refuse to believe that. Maybe it is simply too far away? Or am I am too weak, too spent from my fight against Janvier? Janvier who will respawn at any moment.

Fire fills my mind in a roaring inferno, the sound of crackling twigs momentarily drowning out everything else. Gritting my teeth I claw my way back to sanity. I will not allow this victory to slip through my fingers. I must be waiting, and properly dressed to greet Janvier on his arrival back in the realm of the living. But none of that matters if my forest is burning.

I take a step forward, and the ground around me ignites in a circle.

“I need- where can I find - old water-”

If the spirit of the storm is too big for me to call, then I need something smaller, but it is so hard to think when your soul is on fire.

“Old water?” repeats Roland, confusedly. “Ma’am, your skirt is on-”

I walk forward, searching the flaming forest like a restless spirit myself. Roland gives up trying to talk to me and crouch walks behind me, piling snow onto my flaming petticoats. He is a good man.

“A dried up river bed,” I mutter, “or a pond that is no more.”

“I know a place where the water used to flow,” says a low voice in my ear.

I jump. Turning I look straight into the frightened eyes of the friendly tree spirit. They are wide and wild and green as a sunlit spring. His thick brown beard is full of twigs, some of which seem to be budding and the little curling leaves are shaking gently. He jumps back as the ground around me smoulders dull orange.

“Show me.”

To my right a pine flares bright, and then topples over, crashing into the ground where it continues to burn. The tree spirit lets out a moan of terror.

“This way,” he says, and sprints quivering through the burning woods. I race after him, leaving a trail of flaming footsteps. Fortunately it is not far.

The tree spirit leads me to a small ditch. Hardly noticeable, it winds through the forest, overgrown with roots and bare branches, the bottom half filled with snow. Ah, I recognise this place. In my childhood a stream did indeed flow here, but it has long since been diverted to water the crops of Little Downing. It is not big, practically a furrow, a mere wrinkle in the forest floor. But perhaps it is all I can manage at my current power level. Will it be enough?

“Vita mutatur, non tollitur.”

The whisper leaves my lips like a silken promise, and to my relief, the ghost of the forest stream comes to me. The spirit has lingered in the rocks, in the soil, in the earth of that old passage that is no more. It is long and sinuous, like a glittering snake, refracted water twisting in transparent ribbons that undulate above my head in a curling winnow of light. Alas, there is no time to admire it.

I race for the flames, whispering encouragement to the spirit of the stream as it wraps itself lovingly around the burning oak. The flames shudder out with a sigh.

Gasping in gratitude, I let the cooling ghost waters undulate through the forest. Fire after fire is extinguished with a soft hisses. The relief I feel is beyond measure. Now I realise it was not only my soul that was screaming in agony, but each of those Phylas had used to fuel the fires. The end of their fiery torment returns a measure of clarity to my mind, and as the very last flames are extinguished I know peace once more. It is a weary, soot-stained, aching peace. I have been damaged but I will recover from it, in time.

I thank the little stream who was my saviour, and call it home to a crystal for safe keeping. Then I thank the tree-spirit, who wanders off as if he has not heard me, his eyes wide and filled with tears as he meanders amongst the charred stumps.

I would go and weep with him but I have wasted enough time, and need to prepare for Janvier’s arrival. To the castle I run, shouting for Roland as I go. I spy Gunder hanging worriedly from one of the gate bars as I stampede across the drawbridge.

“Gunder!” I shout, and he swoops over looking worried.

“Yes, Lady?”

“Fly to the blacksmiths,” I start, then rub the side of my skull. It is possible that my ears have been damaged by all the screaming of those tortured souls. Gunder takes off at once, leathery wings flapping. He comes back immediately.

“What should I do once I get there?” he asks a little sheepishly.

“Tell them to fire the forges,” I bellow, starting up the stairwell. “Tell them to prepare the silver.”

“At once, Lady Maud.”

I bound up the stairs taking the stairs at two or three at a time.

“Um,” says Roland. “Did we win?”

“What? Oh, Fairhaven, yes! Fairhaven is mine.”

Cackling, I race to my private broom closet, bang open the door and reach up behind the hidden stone, feeling around for the rag wrapped phylactery.

There is nothing there.

I check again.

“Nooooo!” I screech. “Roland, it's gone! Janvier’s phylactery, it is gone! Who has been here?”

I slam the door shut with so much force the wood cracks.

“Phylas must have taken it, Lady,” he says, “do not despair. I’m sure it is, er, safe.”

“Tell me! Where did Phylas meet his end?” I demand. “Quickly! There’s not much time! If I have to fight Janvier again I will be most sorely vexed!”

“The Grimoire, ma’am,” he says.

I pause, one foot in the air.

This could be problematic. No matter! I have defeated lich kings, conquered cities, commanded armies, and raised the art of embroidery to new heights! I will not lose a battle with an irate book monster that behaves like a spoiled toddler.

Quickly I pat my pockets.

Thank the goddess. The gift I brought for the grimoire is still there.

“Go and check on the forges,” I say to Roland. “Please. Make sure they are nice and hot.”

Roland runs off, looking grateful.

When he is gone I approach the obsidian door in the tower room with some trepidation. There are bloodstains on the landing, and more bones than I remember. From within comes a cacophony of sobbing, as if from a multitude of mouths.

“Knock, knock,” I say, at the door. It slides open begrudgingly.

The grimoire is huddled in a corner, attempting to hug itself with its many, many trunk sized limbs. I can see it is folded in as small as it can make itself, which is to say, not very small. Two dozen hands peep towards me, the eyeballs in the centres of the palms all filled with moisture.

“There, there,” I say. “Did the bad man hurt you?”

“YESSSSSSSSSSSSS!” roars the grimoire, a score of mouths materialising in the centre of the palms, each lip twisting in eldritch distress. “MAUD HE HURT ME! WHY DID HE HURT ME?” The room shakes a little.

“He was a very bad man,” I say, disapprovingly. “Can I see the hurt? Perhaps I can make it better.”

I smile brightly at the heaving monster. Its many limbs hang despondently for a moment, the eyes overflowing with tears. I keep the smile fixed patiently on my face, as if I have all the time in the world. You cannot rush the Grimoire. I suspect Phylas was not patient, and those are his bones on the landing.

At length a shy hand comes creeping out of the mass of limbs and presents itself to me. There is a gash across the palm, and the mouth in the centre is bleeding, the lips turned down at the corners.

“Oh my,” I say, “that is nasty. Let’s fix you up a bit.”

Carefully I tear a strip off my petticoat. This outfit is ruined away. Half of it has burned away and what isn’t burned away is covered in muck from the battle at Fairhaven. I tie it gently around the Grimoire’s enormous meaty palm.

“There,” I say consolingly. “Is that better?”

The fingers flex, and all the eyeballs turn to look at the makeshift bandage.

“Better.”

The eyeballs blink slowly and then brighten. As one, they turn to me. “Maud. Dear. Did you bring me a present?”

“I might have,” I smile.

“I want a present.”

“And you shall have it,” I say. “But you have to do something for me first.”

The mouths pout. A small ‘ow’ comes from the palm wearing the bandage.

“Did the bad man have something on him?” I ask. “A package? A crown?”

The eyes narrow. “Maybe,” say the mouths. The rest of the eyes roll up to examine the ceiling. One mouth, somewhere at the back mutters, “It's mine now.”

“Actually,” I say, “the crown belongs to me and I can’t give you your present until I have it back.”

The eyes flutter in worry. I can see Grimoire thinking furiously.

“What if I don’t want to give it back?” it says, at last. “I found it.”

“Ah well,” I say. I slap my thighs as if I need to leave. “That’s a pity. Someone else will have to enjoy this present.”

“Show me,” it begs.

“Give me the crown,” I counter.

The Grimoire does not move, the stillness of the giant limbs uncanny.

Then, to my intense relief, a hand emerges from somewhere amidst the unholy growth of limbs, holding the crown on its enormous wrist, like a bracelet. It holds it out regretfully.

“Thank you,” I say, plucking it off the wrist and secreting Janvier’s phylactery away as if it was no more than a trinket.

“PRESENT!” bellows the Grimoire.

I remove the specially prepared soul crystal from my pocket. It is rainbow quartz, with an iridescent sheen, mostly purple in colour with glimmers of gold.

The mouths all make the shape of an ‘O’.

“This is where your present lives,” I say. “Their house, if you will.”

I summon the shoal of ghost fish. They wriggle through the air in a silvery mass and the Grimoire’s mouths all turn up at the corner. The eyeball palms follow the shoal with obvious delight. Thank goodness.

I beat a hasty retreat, shutting and locking the obsidian door behind me. Much good it does, but it is a habit by now. If my calculations are correct, Janvier will be among us in the next hour. Assuming the Whisperer is punctual, and the god of death has never given me any reason to think he is not.

Taking the crown with me, just in case, I rush down to the forest and find a snow bank, scrubbing the soot and grime from my bones with wild glee. Then I run as fast as I can to my dressing room (I can’t call it a bedroom because I don’t have a bed), and wriggle into my victory gown which is waiting where I left it, on a wooden mannequin. My beautiful, specially prepared victory gown.

It is pitch black, in flowing silk. The neck is high, and bordered in black lace. The embroidery on the bodice, hem, and sleeves is venom green, ivy, and skulls, twisting around the hem in undulating and sinuous waves. The skirts are wide and full. It is a gown fit for a queen. I had hoped to have a little more to fill out the bodice, but ah well. Fairhaven is mine, and my rival is slain. I mustn’t be greedy. I finish the look off with ceremonial pauldrons in engraved steel (I’m too fond of these ones to wear them into battle, the blacksmith worked a floral pattern in the metal and its just my favourite thing), and, of course, Janvier’s crown which I place square on my head.

“Very nice you look too,” remarks the skull on the dresser, “for a skeleton.”

“Thank you, mother.”

Jenkins is slumbering on a velvet chair, and looks up at me with a peep as I slip into an assortment of feather light petticoats. They have ruffles for days and make my gown stand out like a rose in bloom when I twirl.

Pausing, I scratch him behind the ears in greeting, but he does not get up to rub his way round my ankles, although he does purr. The poor dear looks more worn than I have ever seen him, even worse than Roland and the sight twists my innards. I need to spend some time looking after my loved ones, as soon as this is over.

“I’ll take care of you soon,” I whisper to him, and press a kiss onto the top of his furry head. “I promise.”

What else? Oh yes.

I hoped to be able to wear my hair in ringlets but Janvier stole that victory from me. Nevermind. I have what matters: the kingdom, my rival’s soul, and a daisy chain of exquisite yellow ghost blossoms around my head.

With one last, satisfied glance in the mirror I make my way down to the throne room where the blacksmith awaits.