The Poisons of Caux: The Hollow Bettle (Book I) (20 page)

o you see,” Clothilde said sharply as she looked around the gloomy cavern, finding Boxelder’s eye, “why I need to get the children to Templar. We’ll go by way of Skytop.”

The miners gathered around her in a quiet huddle and proceeded to talk in low tones.

Rowan and Ivy peered into her cupped hands, heads together, bathed in a rosy light.

“The crest! Ivy, it was on your face—just like Clothilde’s!” Rowan whispered. With the mark of the king making an appearance on his friend, he found himself feeling timid and slightly foolish beside her.

“We have to get away,” Ivy said urgently. “Just the two of us. I’ll explain later.”

“But what do you suppose this Skytop is?” Rowan asked.

Ivy cast him a look that plainly showed her annoyance. “What does it matter? I’m sure you’d follow
her
there—anywhere, for that matter.”

“What do you mean?” Rowan looked down at his feet, knowing perfectly well what she meant.

“All I’m saying is, you’ve been awfully cozy with someone who poisoned you.” She snapped her fingers shut over the soothing light in her hand and stood straight.

“There’s a path over there,” Ivy challenged. “Let’s go now, while we have the chance.”

Rowan looked about the room and made a quick decision.

“Okay, but we take Poppy, too.” He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving the boar behind.

“Fine,” she called over her shoulder as Rowan motioned for the animal. A faint set of stairs was carved in the rock, he saw, and they edged forward, keeping to the shadows. The adults were discussing something intently, and a pile of woolens and shaggy furs was being amassed in their midst.

“It was written long ago—” the head miner protested. “You must know we have been warned. There are regular inquiries by the Guild.”

“It is mine, this task, and while I appreciate your position, Boxelder, I do not see it your way,” Clothilde said.

The miner nodded finally and appeared to wish to counsel her further but, under her direct gaze, seemed to reconsider. Instead, he turned to one of his miners for a report on the mountaintop.

Now nearly to the carved stairs, Ivy started sprinting. She
heard Rowan right behind her as she began climbing the teetering steps.

“Ivy.”
A clear voice rang out in the chamber. The room became deathly quiet as the voice fell away.

“Go on!” Rowan urged.

The path did not lend itself to speed, and she slipped in her haste, nearly ending their escape in a frightening fall. Dust rained down on Rowan.

“Foolish girl.” Clothilde’s voice was shrill. “How will you get to Templar without me?”

“Don’t listen!” Rowan called helplessly. “You said she’d never take us—remember?”

“There’s a treacherous mountain pass ahead, and you’ll never make it past the gate.” Clothilde sounded pleased.

Ivy slowed. A hint of trepidation crossed her pale face as she turned to Clothilde. Poppy stiffened and snarled at the gathering below.

“What gate?” Rowan challenged.

Clothilde stood, as she so often did, with one hand on her hip and ignored his question. “I’m certain Boxelder would forgive your rudeness if you’d just be kind enough to wait a moment.” She looked at them from under a raised eyebrow. “After which I will be happy to escort you quickly—despite your doubts—to Templar.”

Ivy scowled, looking about the room. Several of the burly miners had been inching forward and were within pouncing
distance. The large clan of boars, sensing the undercurrent of menace, curled their lips and raised their hackles.

Ivy stared down at Clothilde and wondered suddenly just what sort of mother might let her baby float downriver in a windstorm.

“That’s a good girl,” Clothilde cooed. “Now get down here, both of you, and after you apologize to your kind hosts, we’ll be going. You too, Poppy.”

The miners broke free of the huddle, and Ivy found herself meekly in their midst—their heavy scent greeting her nose. With Clothilde by her side, she felt a fleecy wrap thrown around her, and she mumbled something of an apology to no one in particular.

True to her word, Clothilde saw that they departed quickly and by the very same set of steps Ivy had started. She felt her way along the jagged walls and walked carefully, although Clothilde bounded forward indifferently. Poppy’s hooves clattered against the rocks behind them. When there was nothing but darkness—a deep mountainous darkness like none other—Clothilde lit the staff Boxelder had given her and instructed Ivy to hold up her bettle. She did so, begrudgingly A pleasing red light warmed the way but did nothing to lighten the children’s mood. Ivy was aching to tell Rowan about her vision on the trestle. She crept forward uneasily, waiting for a moment alone with him.

The path led the group ever upward. Although Clothilde
showed no signs of tiring, Rowan felt it was a fine time for a rest, yet he dared not suggest it. At some point there was a crack in the darkness. The white light was more blinding than Clothilde’s robes, and it grew as they approached it. Against the brilliance, she was all but invisible.

“Rowan, hurry yourself,” Clothilde demanded.

He rolled his eyes. No one besides himself seemed to acknowledge the lack of nourishing air. Ahead, Ivy kindly stopped to wait for him.

“There’s a rope tacked to the wall here, and I want each of you to take hold of it. And don’t let go.”

With that, they emerged from the semi-darkness into the snow-blinding light. They were near the highest peak of the Craggy Burls, in a world of white snow and ice. And it was cold—so cold that their hands against the rope quickly froze up, despite the miners’ best provisions.

The way was marked with flags tattered by the mountain winds—most of which were pointed at odd angles, their poles having shifted in the snow of the ages. Clothilde and Poppy disappeared in the snowscape: the only splashes of color as far as Ivy’s eyes could see were these flags and everyone’s hooded jackets, made crudely of some kind of fur.

They hiked the steep zigzagging path, at one point passing through a crevice so small that Poppy needed to be pushed through, grunting with protest. At the top, they were greeted by the austere hulk of the ancient Skytop Abbey.

Before it, a formal gate.

Peering through the massive bars, the children saw the Abbey as it gleamed in the daylight, reflecting off thousands of impressively large icicles hanging precariously from the steep roof. The entire place was set on the clifftop, suspended over the vast cloudscape below.

“The gate you were wondering about.” Clothilde stared at Rowan coldly. Rowan glared back, despite the heat rising in his face.

“How do we get in?” Ivy asked, the freezing wind stealing her breath.

“Just one way,” Clothilde responded, feeling about in her neat hair. She produced a silver hairpin from somewhere, and it glinted in the stark sunlight.

Ivy relaxed, expecting to see some fine lock picking. Such illegal business made her feel right at home. But rather than turn her attentions to the ancient and unwieldy lock, Clothilde instead grabbed Ivy’s wrist and quickly secured her small hand in her icy grasp. She brought the hairpin down and pricked Ivy’s little finger.

“Ow!”

“Two drops,” Clothilde stated after assessing Ivy. “Just two.”

“What are you doing?” Rowan demanded. “Don’t you have a key?”

Clothilde led Ivy and her wounded pinky over to the lock
and allowed a large single bead of the brightest red blood to form and then drop upon the casing. There it puddled against the freezing metal and, all at once, vanished inside. Clothilde repeated this and, satisfied, released Ivy’s hand and replaced the hairpin, allowing herself a moment to smooth her immaculate hair. But in doing so, a third drop of blood fell from the girl’s hand, and instead of finding its mark upon the locked gate, it splashed upon the white lady’s skirt hem—a solid blotch of intense color against the brilliance of her gossamer robes.

Clothilde reacted with a sharp intake of breath. For a moment, she looked at the two children with shock, then bent her head to examine the stain.

“What have you done?” she hissed.

Ivy and Rowan were captivated. Their cheeks frozen and their backs buffeted by the wind, they watched as Clothilde’s dress made what can only be described as a remarkable transformation.

It began at the hem, the crimson color rolling in like fog—thick and weighty. The small droplet intensified, as if the dramatic whites of Clothilde’s dress were calling out for color, thirsty and insatiable. Little waves and curlicues of red surged and rolled, commandeering the fine and delicate weave. Eventually, the entire gown was the color of Ivy’s blood, more vivid and commanding even than the white had been. Shocking against the white snow, Clothilde sighed crossly and set her smooth face with a look of determination.

The children stared wide-eyed at the plush crimson gown and then at each other, incredulous. It was only when the transformation was complete that Ivy noticed the gate had swung open.

The group approached the only entrance to the Abbey available to them, a door crusted over with an impossible layer of ice. Spiked icicles creaked above them as they stood on the threshold, waiting. Clothilde managed to free a large brass knocker from its frozen imprisonment and rapped loudly, causing a cascade of crystal spears to drop down in an icy symphony.

“If this doorway’s any indication, no one’s been up this way in some time,” Rowan whispered in the silence that followed.

“I somehow think we’re not that fortunate,” Clothilde responded grimly.

Ivy didn’t like the sound of that and reached over to grab Rowan’s gloved hand.

At last, cracking, snapping, and finally splintering, the door opened inward. The travelers were greeted with a humid blast of warm air and what appeared to be an empty hallway.

kytop Abbey was once the lone outpost on the mountaintop, back in Good King Verdigris’s time. It bordered on nothing but the ether, and the monks who lived there found it to be as close to their creator as they could get. Their brandywine—some of the best ever to be sampled—was made from a secret recipe and was thick and syrupy, tasting of mountain herbs and nuts. The monks existed in a severe silence, and busied themselves both distilling the brandy and tending to their exquisite hanging gardens.

These gardens were nourished by the hot sulfur springs that bubbled up from deep within the mountain. Consequently, there was an abundance of both heat and water, and with this resource the ancient monks constructed a series of terraces and arbored gardens to rival no other.

But none of this was to be seen—at least immediately.

For the group received an odd welcoming.

Straight ahead in the entranceway appeared a monk of sorts, dressed in deep brown. But—at seeing Clothilde—he gasped with some alarm and attempted to rush the group as quietly as he might up the arching set of stone steps at the hallway’s end.

“Poppy, you stay here.” Clothilde ordered the boar to remain outside.

“But she’ll freeze!” Ivy was aghast.

“Nonsense,” Clothilde snapped. “She’s a bettle boar, and she will do as I say.” Clothilde turned to the animal. “This is for your insolence earlier. Did you think you would not be punished for attempting to leave without me?”

A horrified look passed between the children, but there wasn’t time to argue.

Mounting the stairs, Clothilde radiated displeasure. The monk, having ushered the group into a large apartment, shut the door and leaned against it.

“What is this?” Clothilde demanded of their host. Her eyes flashed, and bolstered by her red dress, she looked positively fierce.

The monk looked pointedly at Ivy.

“I think I’d better explain in private,” he whispered.

Clothilde’s annoyance evaporated, and she agreed to depart with him.

“Don’t do anything foolish,” she admonished the pair.
“And do not leave under any circumstances, do you understand?”

They nodded, chastened.

As the thick wooden door clicked closed, Rowan turned to Ivy.

“Does she think we’re little children?” He scowled. “Who does she think she is to talk to us that way?”

Ivy looked at the closed door.

“My mother,” she confessed.

Rowan blinked.

“What?” His mouth was hanging open, and when he finally was made aware of this fact, he snapped it shut, nearly biting his tongue.

Ivy began, breathlessly. Rowan had been right! On a hunch, she had tasted Axle’s inscription on the abandoned trestle. She told him about her vision and then fished out his beloved
Field Guide
and returned it to him carefully.

“I knew it!” Rowan was pacing now. “I just knew it! I could have told you. The crests, you see …” He stopped in his tracks. “You know what this means, don’t you? You’re descended from the Good King Verdigris! You’re highblood.
Noble …
”

Ivy nodded, not wanting him to finish. The Prophecy was troubling in many ways but mostly because it was secretive and vague, and seemed to occupy the arcane realm of adults. It was also the reason behind their current situation and their search for Cecil in Templar. Ivy peeked out the window to the
inner cloister. Below, she saw the gardens. She knew they were not supposed to leave.

“Let’s go take a look around. What do you say, Rowan?”

Rowan could think of nothing nicer, and the pair left together quietly down the same stairs they came up.

The monks over the years had taken care to extract from their natural settings—whether under moldy floorboards or atop the highest tree—every last variety of flora to be found growing in all of Caux. It was an extraordinary opportunity for anyone with the love of plants (Ivy considering herself in this group) to explore and study.

Much of the vegetation was instantaneously recognized by Ivy, but astoundingly enough, there was much more that was not. She was particularly fascinated by a grouping of bog plants—some small flycatchers and some rather hungry-looking pitcher plants. These plants enjoyed the taste of meat; the smallest was ready to reach out and pluck a finger from her hand. The largest, with its odd-shaped funnel and crooked gullet, was big enough to swallow a man whole and slowly digest him alive. She skirted them carefully and warned Rowan to do the same.

Birds, many free-flying but some in gilded cages, chirped and called out to each other in the humid air. From somewhere in the center of the gardens came the sound of a bubbling fountain.

After passing through a carefully manicured hedgeway, the pair found themselves along a lengthy row of tall and impenetrable yew—little glistening red berries peeking out from the green like pins in a cushion. The floor here was soft with moss and made for a delightful walk. Ahead, the hedge turned off at a right angle, and another grew up beside it—and Ivy realized with some excitement that they were about to enter a maze.

“A labyrinth, Rowan! Let’s try it!”

Rowan was less enthusiastic. He could see no reason to purposefully get lost—it was annoying enough to find himself lost by accident, and to pursue it intentionally seemed foolhardy. But Ivy was streaking down the long corridor already, and he knew that he needed to keep her in sight.

He caught up to her just in time; the two met at the corridor’s end, beside a peephole. They could choose to walk in either direction, and as Rowan was assessing the merits of their choices, something altogether startling happened.

To their great surprise, the two heard, through the little opening, the ringing peal of a woman’s laugh. At first the laugh was quite foreign to their ears. It was the laugh of a young woman, a laugh from a time in which laughing happened often, and spontaneously, and was shared with a partner.

Such was its power that it stopped them both in their tracks.

And then, as they turned to each other to perhaps find some answers, there followed a voice, a dark and turbulent voice, one that Ivy had never before heard. But it was a voice that Rowan, having endured the secret Epistle ceremony, would never forget.

Clothilde and Vidal Verjouce—the betrayer of King Verdigris and the merciless leader of the Tasters’ Guild—were sharing a private joke a mere arm’s reach away from them.