“I can,” said Steven. “He smells worse than I do.”
Even in this terrible situation, Paul couldn’t help but smile. His little brother was baiting the Illyri. His mother had always told them they were both too smart for their own good. Perhaps she’d been right.
“You’re a funny little boy,” said Vena. “Unfortunately, you both smell the same to me. You smell of fear, and desperation, and falsehoods. What did you see in that tunnel?”
“Nothing,” said Steven.
Vena turned her attention to Paul. “Are you going to let your little brother take all the heat for you? Are you going to let him fight your battles? What a coward you are, letting a boy do the talking while you sit back and try to save your own skin.”
“Like he told you,” said Paul, “we saw nothing. We were exploring the Vaults, we found a new pipe, the smell made my brother sick, and we left. That’s it. He was just trying to protect me by saying I wasn’t with him. We’re sorry.”
Vena considered what Paul had said, then nodded.
“Bring it in,” she said. The microphones hidden in the room picked up her words, and the door opened. A Galatean entered, carrying a wooden box. Its lid was perforated with air holes, and it had a hinged lid. He placed it on the table, and Paul was certain that he heard something move inside.
Two more Galateans entered. They freed Steven’s arms, but only for long enough to place them flat on the table. From its previously smooth surface emerged a pair of metal bands that slipped over Steven’s wrists, securing them in place.
Vena looked at Paul. “Since you seem to prefer letting your brother do most of the talking, maybe you’d like to let him do your screaming for you, too.”
The Galatean handed her a gauntlet of metal and thick leather. She put it on her right hand, then lifted the lid of the box and carefully reached inside. Whatever it contained seemed to strike at her, for she flinched and almost withdrew her hand. Eventually, though, she got a grip on the thing, and lifted it from its prison.
It was about a foot long, its armored body purple and red like an exposed muscle, five heavy jointed legs at each side. Two large bulbous eyes, like those of a mantis, stared unblinkingly from its skull, and between them was a long pointed mouthpiece with a barbed sucker at the end. As it struggled in Vena’s grasp, two thin black whips unfolded from the sides of its jaw and struck vainly at the air, splashing the table with clear liquid.
“Have you ever been stung by a bee or a wasp?” asked Vena. “It can be quite painful. It can even kill you, if you have a particular allergy. This little monster is called an icurus, and it’s mostly harmless. It just wants to be left to go about its business. But those stinging strikers deliver a powerful dose of neurotoxin similar to the apamin found in bee venom. I’ve heard it described as feeling like acid burning through your flesh.
“The icurus does have one nasty little attribute. During mating season, those stingers serve a dual purpose: they inject not just venom, but icurus larvae, which breed in the host organism and consume it from within. On its home planet, it breeds only at very specific times of the year, but Earth has thrown its biological clock right off. Frankly, I don’t know whether this one is in season or not. There’s only one way to find out, I suppose.”
She placed the icurus on the table, and eased it toward Steven.
“I’m afraid,” she said, “that this is going to hurt.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
F
or Syl, it had been a confusing, uneasy meeting in her father’s rooms. All thoughts of birthdays were forgotten, as were all concerns about her narrow escape from the bombings being discovered by her father. Meia had made it clear that she would not tell Lord Andrus about what Syl and Ani had been up to that day, including their trip to the Royal Mile and their bout of eavesdropping, as long as Syl gave her no reason to do so. Syl knew that she was now in Meia’s debt, but as she sat in one of her father’s armchairs and listened to what he and Danis and Meia had to say, she understood that they needed her, and that their debt to her would be at least as great as hers to Meia.
Syl had never been needed before, not in this way. For so much of her life she had been dependent upon others. Yes, her father needed her, but it was an emotional need, born out of love. To be needed because of something she alone could do, something practical, something dangerous, was different. And while she was frustrated at her father’s caution—for it was he who kept returning to the risks involved—she was secretly grateful to him for caring, even as he drew closer and closer to using her as a pawn in his game with the Diplomatic Corps and the Sisterhood.
“I still don’t understand why it’s Syl she wants to see,” he said at last, as it became clear that he was going to allow her to enter the Red Sister’s presence.
Syl could have told him, even if it was only a suspicion. So too could Meia, but she remained quiet. Syl recalled the way that Syrene had tried to seek out whatever had disturbed her in the Great Hall, and how she had finally fixed upon the ornate fire surround concealing the little slits through which Syl and Ani were watching her, as though willing her gaze to assume a physical form and insinuate itself into the gaps like a serpent.
Lord Andrus approached Syl and laid a hand on her shoulder.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” he said. “Nobody will think any less of you if you would prefer not to spend time in the company of Syrene.”
“I understand,” said Syl. “I want to do it.”
Andrus looked to Meia. She stared back at him. There was no need for her to speak. She had considered the problem, and offered her opinion based on her analysis.
“Meia thinks you’re clever enough to joust with Syrene for a time, and I agree. But remember: she is dangerous, and cunning, and she has no love for this family.”
He paused.
“You should know that your mother rejected the Sisterhood’s advances when she was young,” he said.
Syl was surprised. She had not known this.
“She did so for many reasons,” continued Lord Andrus, “some of which I understood, and some of which I can only guess. I was one of those reasons, if it’s not too vain of me to think so. Orianne and I were in love from a very early age, younger even than you are now. Ezil and Syrene took her rejection very personally, in part because it was I whom she loved, and even as a young soldier I had already been branded as an enemy of both the Corps and the Sisterhood. It was why your mother chose to wander the stars with me and leave her home forever. She was convinced that some harm might come to her if she stayed—to her, and to any children that she might have. So you were born far from Illyr, and far from the reach of the Red Sisters. But now the Sisterhood is here, and it may be that Syrene wishes to meet you because she wants to look at last upon the daughter of the Lady Orianne.
“Yet if that were all she desired, she could stare at images of you until her eyes fell from her head. Unusual though you may be, Syrene did not travel halfway across the universe simply to admire your features. There is another purpose at work here, and we need to establish what that might be. So spar with her, and debate with her, for she may reveal to the daughter what she wished to conceal from the father. We’ll be watching, and listening.”
He took Syl’s right hand. Encircling her index finger was a ring of white gold with a red crystal set into it.
“If at any time you feel threatened, or afraid, you know what to do.”
“Yes, Father.”
The ring functioned as her personal alarm. Pressing down hard on the crystal activated the device. It would bring help in seconds, but only within the castle precincts.
Andrus kissed her gently on the forehead.
“This isn’t quite the birthday that I would have wished for you,” he said.
“Thank you for my gifts,” she whispered.
“Gifts? I only gave you one.”
/>
“Two,” said Syl. “The bronze cast, and your trust.”
Andrus smiled. “Meia will take you to Syrene, and she’ll stay outside until you emerge safely.”
Meia stepped forward.
“Come, Syl,” she said.
“Time to dance?” said Syl.
“Yes, time to dance.”
•••
In the interrogation cell, Steven’s head slumped to the table. The icurus had been restored to its box, its venom seemingly inexhaustible. The fingers of Steven’s left hand were swollen badly, the tips purple and bleeding from the icurus’s strikes.
“Nothing,” he whispered, for what seemed like the hundredth time. “We saw nothing. . . .”
He was beyond weeping. He had exhausted his capacity for tears, but his brother had not. Paul was crying: for his brother, and his mother, and for his own inability to distinguish between strength and weakness. By remaining silent, he was allowing his brother to suffer. If he spoke, if he admitted what they’d seen, he could make Steven’s pain stop.
But if he told Vena what they had seen, they would both die. He was certain of it. Something terrible was happening beneath the city, something that the Illyri wished to keep hidden. Paul’s duty was to keep himself and his brother alive, and to report what they knew to those who might be able to investigate further.
“Stop hurting him,” said Paul. “Please. Hurt me instead. Just leave him alone.”
The little receiver in Vena’s ear lit up, and after a pause to listen, she stood and left the room without a word. Paul wanted to hug his brother, to hold him and tell him that he was sorry, that everything would be okay, but his hands were still bound behind his back. Instead he leaned over and placed his head against Steven’s.
“You did well,” he whispered. “You’re brave. You’re braver than anyone else I know.”
“Is it true?” said Steven. The words caught in his throat, like dry sobs.
“Is what true?”
“What she said about that thing, that it injects its young into people?”
“I don’t know,” said Paul. “I think she was just trying to frighten you.”
“Well, it worked. I am frightened.”
“We’ll have a doctor look at you once we get out of here.”
“Great. When do you think that might be? Because I don’t think it’s looking so good for us right now.”
The boys sat up. Steven stared at his deformed hand.
“It burns,” he said. “I can feel it spreading up my arm.”
He was right. The swelling was not limited to his hand. It was moving along his forearm, and was now halfway to his elbow.
“We’ll fix it,” said Paul, but he didn’t know if that was true. He wondered how much Knutter had told the Illyri. Knutter wasn’t clever, but he had a degree of animal cunning, and he hated the Illyri. He wouldn’t have told them much at all, if he could have helped it. At the very least, any admission of involvement with the Resistance would have put himself at risk. They had used him as a distraction, but it was the Agron who had followed the scent. No, Paul believed that Knutter would probably have kept quiet and hoped for the best. If they stuck to their story, there was still some hope for them.
The door opened again. This time it was not Vena who entered, but a medical officer in blue scrubs. He examined Steven’s hand, and injected his arm, but Paul noticed that he then cleaned the needle on a wipe, which he placed in a sterile specimen bag.
“That will take the swelling down,” he said.
“What about larvae and stuff?” said Paul.
The medical officer looked puzzled. “What about them?”
“The officer who did this said that the icurus injects its larvae into its host.”
“Did she now? She’ll be telling you that it delivers parcels to human children at Christmas next.”
“So it’s not true?”
“No.” He lowered his voice. “The icurus lays eggs, thousands of them, but only on the leaves of one specific plant. Your brother has venom in his system, but nothing worse. Then again, the venom is bad enough. He’s been badly stung. If the poison were allowed to spread, it would eventually start shutting down his respiratory system. I’ve seen grown men killed by those things during interrogation.”
He glanced at the box. It didn’t look as though he approved of Vena’s methods.
“Thank you,” said Paul.
“For what?”
“For treating my brother.”
“I’m a doctor. It’s what I do. Illyri, humans, terrorists, it makes no difference to me.”
“We’re not terrorists,” said Paul.
“Whatever,” said the doctor. “It’s not my concern.”
He unwrapped another needle and took a blood sample from Paul.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s just a precaution. Nothing to worry about.”
But once again he cleaned the needle with a wipe, and that went into its own specimen bag. He then took skin swabs from each of them before departing.
After some time, three Galateans came in and released the boys’ hands. They were brought soup and some dry bread.
In the silence of the interrogation room, they waited for their fate to be decided.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
T
wo female Illyri in faded yellow gowns stood at the door of Syrene’s quarters. They stared with distaste at Syl as she and Meia approached.
“Novices,” whispered Meia. “They live for the approval of the Archmage.”
Syl felt that they were assessing her, and had found her wanting. They seemed barely to notice Meia, but Meia had a way of making herself appear unthreatening when she chose. It was part of her talent as a spy. There was a transformative quality to her, an ability not only to blend into her surroundings but almost to alter her physical appearance. It was subtle—the dipping of her head, the slumping of her shoulders, the slackening of her facial muscles—but even in the course of the short walk from Lord Andrus’s chambers to the temporary lair of the Red Sister, Meia had changed. Had Syl not spent the past hour in her company, she thought, she might have passed her on the street and not noticed her.
“I bring Syl Hellais,” said Meia. “The Archmage is expecting her.”
One of the novices nodded.
“You may enter,” she told Syl. “The other stays outside.”
Meia touched Syl gently on the shoulder. “Remember to call her ‘Your Eminence,’ ” she whispered. “She will expect it from you.” Then she stepped back as the door opened.
Without hesitation, Syl entered the presence of the Red Sister.
What struck her first was the nature of the room itself. Just as Meia had the ability to take the familiar and make it appear strange and new, so too Syrene’s chambers had been transformed by her presence. The wooden floors were now covered with rugs of red and gold, intricately decorated and clearly very, very old. Cloths had been draped over functional furniture, softening the lines, and candles provided the only light. Tapestries on the walls depicted mythical beasts from an imagined Illyri past, and ancient battles fought long before ships flew to the stars. Above the bed hung what Syl now understood to be the seal of the Sisterhood, the Red Eye, but this one was different from those that adorned the ship in the courtyard and the collars of the guards. From it flowed graceful red tendrils of energy that seemed to move even as Syl looked at them, so that it seemed they might reach out and caress her skin.
And in the center of the room, strangely beautiful, stood Syrene. She had dispensed with the long robe and ornate veil of the Sisterhood, and wore a simple red dress cinched tight around her upper body but flowing like waterfalls of blood from her waist. Her dark hair was cut very short, and was shaved back along her hairline to reveal the tattoos spilling from her scalp and down h
er forehead, but care had been taken with it. This was no military cut, nor was it the kind of severe shearing to which some of the female religious on Earth resorted. To Syl it indicated both a desire to meet the Sisterhood’s requirement that hair should not be long, and a degree of personal vanity on Syrene’s part. There was a faint red glow to Syrene’s eyes. Syl thought it might have been a candle flame reflected in them, but when the Red Sister advanced to meet her, the glow remained where it was, only dying as she drew close enough for Syl to smell her breath. It had a hint of spice to it that was not unpleasant.
Syrene extended her hands in greeting. Like her face, they were intricately decorated with red tattoos, although these were more like the detailing on lace curtains than some of the figurative illustrations on her face. Now that she could examine the Archmage more closely, Syl’s attention was drawn to the red eyes tattooed on each of Syrene’s cheeks. They were carefully etched—almost lifelike—and the pupils at their core were very, very dark. For the first time since she had entered the room, Syl felt a tickle of unease.
“Your Eminence,” she said.
“The young Syl Hellais,” said Syrene. “I am most pleased to meet you.”
She stretched out her arms as if to embrace her, and Syl instinctively tensed at the approach. She did not like strangers touching her. Syrene recognized her discomfort and allowed her arms to drop once again by her sides, but she seemed faintly disappointed by the girl’s reluctance to engage in physical contact. In fact, Syl could not help feeling that although she had only just arrived Syrene was already bored with her—as if in those first few moments she had learned all that was worth knowing about her, and was now content to discard her.