The Poisons of Caux: The Hollow Bettle (Book I) (28 page)

xle had had a horrible time of it—the trip, the boat (normally the Marcel was a smooth ride, but during the Winds he suffered from motion sickness terribly). And the rigid fear he experienced at being away from his home—indescribable panic at times. Much harder than the fact that he was being taken against his will. He had no wherewithal to enjoy what is ordinarily a beautiful trip down the Marcel, through the pastoral countryside of Caux, to Templar.

He had finally completed the thirteenth edition of the
Field Guide
and was allowing himself a moment of congratulation in the form of a vintage bottle of excellent brandywine when the first uninvited guest arrived at his home.

Clothilde had been frantic, stating that the children were in danger. When she arrived at the trestle, Axle was surprised
at her state. Her attire was somehow red—startling in itself—and was filthy with the effort of her escape from Verjouce. Her constitution was haggard, and she was frail in a way that frightened and confused the old trestleman. For a bewildering couple of minutes, Axle had no idea of what she spoke, and then, after taking a prescribed gulp of brandy, she calmed somewhat. She had interrupted him in his study, and they were therefore surrounded by the comfort of his old and massive books. But one look at the Verdigris tomes sent her immediately into relapse. Just when he had her calmed, she began pacing and wringing her hands, crying out at times in utter despair—pulling at her hair and behaving in every way unlike any guest he’d ever entertained. She was obviously ill. Finally, with the help of some salts, she regained herself, and he managed to calm her enough to extract a story from her.

At first Axle was greatly pleased with news of his young friends, but quite soon, with Clothilde’s telling, his alarm returned—tenfold.

She explained shed been leading Ivy and her taster companion by back roads to Templar—and on to Pimcaux. They had gone by way of Underwood and the Eath. But Verjouce had been clever and caught up with them at Skytop Abbey. Clothilde lost Ivy there in an attempt to trick the Guild’s leader. She had wanted to keep them apart—knowing that if he was to ever meet her, all was lost. When Verjouce discovered her treachery, he imprisoned Clothilde there in the Abbey. He was in a fury.

“Am I really to fail? We must find the girl! You can convince her to go to Pimcaux—she’ll listen to you. Time is of the essence for my grandfather. If Verjouce finds Ivy … he’ll destroy her—and any chance of the Prophecy. Axle, he will destroy us all.”

Although Axle possessed few warm thoughts for Clothilde, he knew he could not refuse her.

It was decided they would set off that night. Axle kept a small boat lashed to the underside of one of the footings, and it could be readied quickly. It was not a desirable time to travel, with the Winds still blowing steadily, but they had no choice.

It was just not part of their plan that the Outrider would commandeer their craft and deliver them in chains.

Verjouce’s servant had not left Southern Wood or the grounds near the Hollow Bettle. He lurked there in hopes of finding his prize, thinking that it was quite possible the child would make her way home at some point. He was of a sinister temperament that did not much mind waiting for his prey. In the Wood, he lurked among the flora and fauna, eating small game whole and at times without a fire and drinking from mud-caked streams.

He sometimes slept in the white gossamer tent where he had tracked the travelers. The tent was the only marking remaining of Underwood, a place that held little interest for him. He had tracked the children to its entrance and was preparing a fire with which to smoke them out. Oddly, before
he could do much of anything, the hole inside the tent had closed up completely—quickly, as if the earth were weaving itself back together. Nothing was left, no mark at all, of the tunnel into the lost world. But having never known Underwood, he experienced no sense of loss—and in the tent had gained a shelter from the ravaging Winds.

Had he not been back to the small footbridge to spy upon the Bettle, he would have missed her.

His eyes narrowed, watching her slip down below the trestle, her dress streaming behind her in the dark sky like a scarlet flare.

He knocked in the little red door easily and collected the fugitives.

“Axle!” Ivy called—she had only been happier to see her uncle.

The Outrider, Axle’s captor, was confused. He thought he had left the Wood behind—but here it was again, and everywhere, all at once. Why, it was growing up and over his master before his very eyes!

Sorrel Flux had easily slipped by the confused Outrider and was sneaking down the polished hallway, marigolds blossoming feverishly upon his shoulders.

Ivy Manx was not detained long, either. Unfamiliar as she was with the castle’s sly layout, she needed to keep Flux in sight. It was no time for a reunion. Thankfully, Flux left a trail of petals in his wake.

lux had spent most of his sleepless nights eliminating potential sites for the Doorway, but it wasn’t until he’d pried the key to the kitchen off of Lowly Boskoop that morning that his quest was successful. It was exactly where those ancient vexing pages had said it would be, hidden in plain sight. In the kitchen, Lowly Boskoop was securely bound to the chair where Flux had left him.

If King Nightshade hadn’t been so panicked about being poisoned—with a single kitchen key allotted to Lowly Boskoop—the Doorway might have been discovered long before now. (Or perhaps not, since those who had scoured the castle for the missing King Verdigris would later swear it was not there before, as if the Doorway had not wanted itself known.)

There was a tower of rickety shelves pushed in front of it
that served as a pantry, holding various dry goods and cooking implements. Sorrel Flux had mustered up enough strength to slide the entire unit somewhat aside, so that he might squeeze by, and through. Although the door seemed simple enough, he was confronted with a new worry: there seemed nowhere to be a knob or handle. Just a gold knocker.

Stepping back into the kitchen, he rubbed his chin, irritated.

“Do you have another key for this one?” Flux demanded of his bound companion.

From the widened state of Lowly’s eyes, Flux knew that he did not, and he set about dejectedly kicking the shelves and cursing. Tins of stale tea leaves and bottled spices sailed through the air, giving Flux some sense of satisfaction.

It was then that he noticed at his feet a peculiar slab of stone. It was set as if part of the floor, directly in front of the door. Large and rectangular, it appeared to have something written on it. Flux produced a burst of strength from his scrawny arms, and with an enormous clatter, tipped the shelving unit over and out of his way, sending grain and sugar flying everywhere.

His growing rage was staunched by the arrival of Ivy. For the first time ever she was actually pleased to see her former taster, having lost sight of him before descending into the Gray Gardens.

“Stay away, you …,” Flux instructed, long bony finger
pointing at the girl, marigolds blooming from his collar. He knelt down, trying to wipe the stone free of flour while appearing menacing enough to keep Ivy at bay.

The stone said simply,

It was followed by a delicate arrow pointing at, and through, the Doorway.

“Yes, yes. Pimcaux. But how?
How do I open the door?”
He banged the knocker loudly.

There was a moment of stillness.

And then, slowly, very slowly, the door opened out into the room, heavy and silent.

Sorrel Flux was still upon his knees, and he skittered back to make room. He and Ivy—having forgotten their struggles—waited breathlessly to see what greeted them on the other side. (They were not to be disappointed.) Behind them, Clothilde arrived from the Gardens, having made great strides in following Ivy through the castle.

Ivy waited, transfixed. She was overcome with a feeling of deep longing, a suffocating homesickness, at once familiar and like none she’d ever felt. Much in the same way where in Ivy’s dreams, particularly as a young child, her heart beat a loud rhythm inside her. Only now, she suddenly realized, it was not
her heart at all, but her prized red bettle that thumped restlessly in one of the inner pockets of her tasters’ robes.

It was beating and jumping so insistently that she let her eyes leave the Doorway to examine the peculiar thing.

Sorrel Flux stood and turned—and if he was surprised by Clothilde’s presence, he did not betray it. He was more used to her flitting about in a white gown, though, for he had become quite acquainted with Clothilde over his many years of service to Vidal Verjouce and had been sent to the Hollow Bettle by the Director expressly to keep her at bay. Verjouce had feared she would get to Ivy first—and indeed, this seemed to be so.

Flux half smiled at this and was about to say something unpleasant when he was surprised by the force with which he was knocked to the ground. Marigold petals fluttered about like confetti. He had seen nothing but a streak of white and, oddly, smelled something cold and crisp (the mountaintops? he wondered)—and now here he was again on the floor, in a great amount of discomfort.

“Ivy, quick—” Clothilde flew to the Doorway and held out her hand. “This way!”

Flux, who thought at first perhaps his back had been broken by the white beast, soon found that he had just had the wind knocked out of him. The experience, however, left him in a new, less generous mood. He called out the first thing that came to him—taking a chance and hoping it would buy him the time he needed to get himself on his feet, and out the Door.

“I don’t suppose she’s mentioned your father, Ivy. Has she?”

His words, delivered with his trademark sneer, had their intended effect.

In the dining room, an interesting juxtaposition was occurring.

Within the weeds and the clouds of insects that had sprung up from the woven panels of the tapestries, two very different men were engaging in a classic argument of good and evil.

“Is this your work?” Verjouce asked Cecil, referring to the sudden prominence of plant life surrounding them. The carpet beside him had sprung a bog, complete with oozing puddles and odd-smelling flowers. A frog hopped over the foot of the feared Director of the Guild, chasing a dragonfly. From somewhere beneath the murky waters, large bubbles issued.

“Hardly,” Cecil replied evenly. “I just helped it along.”

“Never one to take credit, were you, Cecil?”

“I suppose you would see it that way, Vidal.”

“I wish I could say your humility was charming. But it’s not. It’s merely old-fashioned. And boring. And because you chose the old ways, you find yourself here in chains.”

Verjouce strained to turn his scarred face to the Outrider, still transfixed and standing confused by the entrance.

“Get over here and help me out of this chair!” he hissed at the hooded figure.

“The old ways? Is there really any other choice?” Cecil asked.

A darkness flitted over Verjouce’s face.

“You never saw it—the evolution. Things change, Cecil, and it was long overdue. What is your way? Old and forgotten—that’s what it is. Dust and dreams—just like the old man. Poisonry is a natural evolution of apotheopathy just as smoke is from fire. My powers have far exceeded anything that Verdigris was capable of!”

“You have stolen his best work and claimed it as your own,” Cecil stated flatly.

The Guild’s Director leaned in slightly, straining at his bonds. “If you wish it, there is still a place for you at Rocamadour—I will see to it.”

He lowered his voice to a hiss.

“It’s your last chance, Manx!”

“There is no room for treachery in my way—old or new.”

“So be it, apotheopath,” Verjouce spat. “You have chosen defeat.”

“Perhaps. But you know as well as I that Verdigris is still very much alive. You failed at your ultimate task, Vidal. He will return, the king. And he will come for you.”

The Outrider had by now successfully stripped most of the vegetation from the blind man’s body, and Verjouce stood, shaking his cane at Cecil, strips of bindweed falling from his
freed arms. Rearing now to his full height, he made an impressive figure—even beside the Outrider.

“No one will save Verdigris, you fool. And without the help of the Noble Child, he is not long. After your old and crippled king is gone, where will you be?”

He steadied himself upon his dark cane—bettle blazing on its top.

“See to him,” Verjouce ordered. “By the time I return.”

The Guild’s leader turned his ghastly countenance to face Cecil.

“There’s a little girl who needs my attention.” His smile cracked across his face in all his awfulness.