The Poisons of Caux: The Hollow Bettle (Book I) (15 page)

t is a strange sort of occasion to be one person one day and someone completely different the next. Imagine it yourself—to fall asleep one thing and wake something completely other, separated only by the peace and restfulness of your dreams. For eleven years, Ivy Manx played quietly on the limestone banks of the river Marcel and experimented in her garden and her workshop. To think, as she was forced to do of late, that her uncle—and Axle—for all those years was keeping something from her, something monumental, was a startling thought indeed.

And then to think, as it was reasonable of Ivy to do, that if she was someone quite different than she thought, then perhaps, too, her uncle needed a fresh perspective, another look.

Clothilde was providing this occasion. “Cecil Manx was—is—an apotheopath, yes. But not an ordinary apotheopath.
He is a Master Apotheopath, the last of a long line. Your uncle—as you know him—was at one time quite a fixture in Templar.”

“Cecil?!”

“Yes. He was an intimate advisor to the Good King.”

It was quite a task to picture this.

“King Verdigris? Are you sure?”

“Yes. He was the king’s own apotheopath.”

For a brief interval, the children were privileged to hear of the old king, his extensive and magical collections—particularly medicinal books and charts, which he stored in the Library in Rocamadour. They heard of Cecil there and his involvement in this gentle part of history, his personal discoveries (he was persistent in his learning, patient in demeanor, and responsible for many advancements in the arts—an entire wing in one of the most prestigious colleges was named for him!). His capacity for discovery was limitless; his abilities with healing plants were legendary.

Ivy’s vivid imagination had no trouble bringing to life a mysterious scene of adult discourse between her uncle and the Good King Verdigris, but it was still tinged with an air of incredulity. After Clothilde was done, Ivy was even more perplexed than when she’d begun. She wondered just how this regal lady might have come to know her uncle—and what in particular this had to do with her.

“Were you at Templar, too, then?” Ivy asked, a bit timidly.

“Of course,” came the answer as Clothilde smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from her dress. “But I came to know Cecil only later. And, I should add, his disappearance has inconvenienced me greatly.”

Ivy blinked, expressionless.

“And when the king departed?” Rowan asked.

“Ivy’s uncle went quietly away. And, like many people of the old ways, waited.”

“Waited for what?” Ivy wondered.

“Waited for the coming of the Prophecy. For you, apparently.”

The three sat in silence.

“This Prophecy. You’re certain it has to do with me?”

“Certain?” she scoffed, turning from the window, where Ivy had the impression she had been examining her own reflection.

“Regretfully, I am.” Her head was held high, jaw clenched. Her profile, in the morning light, blazed at Ivy like a golden coin.

“Before that elixir, I would have said no. But it is as it is written.”

The children could not help but notice bitter disappointment heavy in her voice.

In the silence that followed, Rowan moved to stretch his legs and, with Poppy bounding beside him, turned to the hearth where he had lain as an invalid.

“Uh, Ivy?” Rowan whispered. “Could you come here a minute?”

The taster had been convalescing upon a very interesting stone.

“479 knarls … to
Pimcaux.”
They both sighed together.

A quick look behind them confirmed Clothilde was back at the window.

“We seem to be getting closer,” Rowan pointed out.

“Yes!” Ivy agreed, reaching out to touch it.

The stone was smooth and carved with a fine hand, in intricate script, just like the one they’d seen in Southern Wood.

“It’s warm. Here, feel it!”

Their hands—Ivy’s small and delicate one, Rowan’s sturdier example—rested beside each other on the ancient slab.

“A bearing stone,” came Clothilde’s proud voice, suddenly behind them.

The children jumped.

“Bearing stones were once everywhere—at every crossroad or smallest winding path—when Verdigris was here. If you were lost, they seemed to sprout up from the earth right when you needed them. But bearing stones are quite rare now—your new king had them all impounded. It is their magical nature that when they’re moved, their information changes, too.”

“What does it mean?” Rowan asked, recovering from his fright.

“Well, it’s pretty straightforward, I’d say. Let’s see—this one says 479 knarls—”

“What’s a knarl?” he interrupted.

Her look told him never to interrupt her again.

“An old way of measuring distance.”

The pair waited for her to continue.

“Roughly, it should take a good man one hour to walk a knarl. But I’ve done it much quicker,” she added, smiling to herself.

“Are we near Pimcaux, then?” Ivy asked hopefully.

“Hardly.”

“Have you been?” Ivy wondered.

“Of course. It’s where I’m from.”

Clothilde examined the two stunned faces and suddenly burst out in a refreshing peal of laughter.

“And if I’m going to get there—or anywhere, for that matter—I need to see a trestleman. The one under that little bridge just there, the nearest trestle. We will need something from him if we’re to get off this island.”

“Island?” Ivy ran to the window—and sure enough, they were in the middle of a vast, calm lake. How could she not have noticed? The whole place was dotted with tiny islands, as far as her eyes could see, each like a round green bubble in the still water. White mist clung to the lake’s surface as the sun gained strength.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“The Lake District.”

“The Lake District?” Ivy couldn’t imagine how they’d traveled so far underground. Somehow, they’d emerged from beneath the entire Southern Wood and arrived at these splendid waters, once reputed to have healing powers.

“You’re in a King’s Cottage,” Clothilde explained. “There are several around the kingdom, all alike, all set and ready for the king’s return.”

Ivy realized now that the cottage in Southern Wood was one, too.

“Somehow I don’t think you’re talking about King Nightshade,” Rowan said.

“I’m talking about my grandfather. King Verdigris.”

“Princess Violet had a daughter?” Ivy thought of the history Rowan had discovered in the
Guide
. The cinquefoil crest, the one that appeared on Clothilde’s face in Underwood. She was indeed highborn.

The tall lady nodded and tightened the knot in her hair. She eyed the enormous lake in a way one might if one owned it.

The children sat in stunned silence.

“But how will you get there?” Ivy asked finally, peering out the window at the beautiful scene. “The trestle connects those islands over there. There’s nothing but water between us!”

“Why, swim, of course!” And with that, Clothilde opened
the cottage door and walked two long strides, diving gracefully into the morning light.

While her departure left the pair wide-eyed, it had little effect on the pig, who was chewing on her tail with great enthusiasm.

gain, as the tall lady’s lively spirit left the room, the pair experienced a shift in mood. This time, a dark impatience settled in, and the shadows that were kept at bay by Clothilde’s brightness quite soon resumed their dim shade. Ivy found herself fixated on the darker side of waiting.

“This Prophecy,” Ivy began. “There’s nothing about it in the
Guide?”

“Nothing.” Rowan shook his head.

“On the trestle, Axle told me that Uncle Cecil went to Templar in my stead.”

“Why? To protect you? Maybe that’s why he didn’t tell you about
her.”
He nodded in the direction of the door, contemplating. “Ivy, she frightens me.”

Ivy nodded in complete agreement. She knew they needed
her, though—to get off the island—so she tried hard to forget that Clothilde had poisoned her friend with baneberry

The pair moved to a huddle on the bearing stone, which now seemed a little too close for comfort to the small door and the bleak stairs down to Underwood.

“You don’t suppose the Outrider could follow us here, do you?” Ivy glanced back at the stone chimney.

Rowan shuddered, the darkness further intruding.

“I doubt it. Either way, we’re stuck here. Look at all this water!”

A gentle yet persistent lapping of the water’s edge encompassed them as it nudged the island and the old cottage. Rowan, although sufficiently athletic, was not a confident swimmer even when outfitted with the proper attire. The water made the taster nervous, and rather than confide this in his new friend, he allowed his mind to turn to his grim brush with death. The visage of Vidal Verjouce returned to him and with it the recollection of some of what he was taught at the Guild. His heart sank.

“The thing about Outriders is their persistence. They never fail. He won’t return to Rocamadour empty-handed. He’s not allowed.”

Ivy frowned. This didn’t fit into her plan of finding her uncle.

“I wonder if the same goes for Mr. Flux,” she whispered. He seemed, in the way of a tick, to be small but persistent.

The lady in white was back in record time, accompanied by a
clickity-clack
-like noise that heralded her arrival—and with her came the sun. The door opened, and Clothilde stepped inside holding what seemed, to Ivy, to be the remainder of an old umbrella. The contraption folded neatly, as an umbrella would, but had no repellent fabric—making it utterly useless in a rainstorm. It had strapping that crisscrossed the chest and shoulders, and a little pull cord dangled off the handle.

“One for you and you.”

Clothilde distributed a rickety device to each of them.

“What …?” Ivy began.

“Windwhippers.” Clothilde smiled radiantly.

“Wind-whats?” Rowan asked, jaw dropping.

“Windwhippers—for flying. From the trestleman. They’re such an inventive race, wouldn’t you say? Quite useful at times. Odd fellows, though—every one of them.”

True, the little thing seemed well made, albeit incredible. It was heavier than Ivy imagined it to be, something that did not lend itself well to flight. There were four paddles that unfolded from the central leader and presumably spun hard enough to carry her weight from one point to another.

“Is it safe?” Rowan asked.

“Of course.” Clothilde gave him a sharp look. “Really. You should loosen up a bit.”

“But what about Poppy?” Ivy asked. There were only three windwhippers.

“Poppy? How ridiculous! Pigs can’t fly!” She laughed, amused.

Clothilde snapped her fingers and Poppy bounded over, leaving Rowan. She leaned down and whispered into the white boar’s pointed ear for what seemed like an extraordinarily long time to converse with an animal. Ivy and Rowan exchanged concerned looks. Clothilde then rose and stepped back, revealing the new morning through the open door.

“Poppy’s going home, you see.”

“Home?” Ivy cried. She had grown to enjoy the boar’s company.

“No!” Rowan echoed Ivy’s sentiment. Poppy had helped save him, after all, and Rowan was easily endeared to pigs of any variety.

“What? Don’t be silly, the two of you. We need her to get help. And fast. Poppy knows the way—it’s not far from here. At least, as the crow flies.”

Ivy threw her arms around the white boar’s tall and muscular neck. She smelled like a surprise frost, cold and clean.

“Bye, Poppy, you be safe,” Ivy whispered as Rowan rubbed the animal behind a bristly ear.

“Go now, quickly,” Clothilde commanded.

And with that, the enormous white boar turned and trotted on cloven hooves across the cottage floor and—with less
grace than her mistress but still quite eagerly—belly-flopped into the waters of the Lake District. Ivy watched from the door as the boar made surprising progress, soon fading away altogether into the mist.

The windwhippers—true to trestleman form—proved to be in good working order. The pull cords clicked pleasingly when exercised, and the paddles unfolded and extended into position, beginning slowly to rotate. After a minute or two, the things actually began to pull their wearers upward, an exhilarating sensation after they overcame the initial wobbliness.

Ivy, being the smallest of the three, had the least problem staying sufficiently airborne, although try as she might, the thing would not fly higher than a couple feet off the water’s surface. It seemed designed to skim the rider along, like a leisurely Sunday drive, where one might be less buffeted by atmospheric conditions.

Rowan’s contraption, however, proved to be more idiosyncratic. His robes immediately threatened to drag in the water, and he was forced to gather them in his spare hand and hold them aloft lest they become too wet, and too heavy, to fly. This immediately put him at a disadvantage, because steering was easier with two hands. He had to contend, too, with the added liability of his numerous pockets, which were full with the regulation paraphernalia that accompanies a boy in his position—one more accustomed to tasting than flying.

Clothilde, needless to say, was expert in the finer subtleties of flight. She bobbed sometimes less than patiently over the smooth surface—in the manner of one unaccustomed to imperfection—giving curt advice to the struggling taster.

“Straighten your arm. Loosen your shoulder. Keep the windwhipper perfectly vertical; otherwise, you’ll be taking a bath.”

It was maddening, but Rowan finally mastered flight—not exactly gracefully, but with enough utility, he hoped, to get him where they needed to go. Which, the lady assured the children, was a short trip across the waters to the biggest of the islands and then—should all go as planned—on to Templar.

There was not a more beautiful place, they all would have agreed, for a morning fly-about. The Lake District was one of Caux’s natural jewels, vast and deep at the foothills of the Craggy Burls. The waters were freckled with satisfying little islands—little green humps parting the small waves on their backs. Clothilde’s skirts billowed primly beneath her, refusing to be buffeted by the breeze—she was somehow dry and pristine, even from her earlier swim. She led the way, followed by Rowan, then Ivy.

The sun was nearly up above the mountains to the east, and Rowan, who had spent most of his youth waiting to see the Craggy Burls in person, felt a surge of expectation rising
within him—the sort of feeling one can only get from vast, snow-topped peaks. These were the very mountains of which he’d so often dreamt! Ivy, too, felt at once humbled and thrilled; the contrast of cliff and its watery reflection was breathtaking. Somewhere up there Poppy had to make her precarious way—the peaks rose from the earth to jagged points high in the blue sky. As they clacked along, the brandy bottle tightly stowed in her waistband, Ivy wondered if the trip ahead for the boar was impossible.

And then, as they rounded a particularly large island, there was finally some sign of life. A sturdy pair of towers rose spectacularly in front of them, their caps pointing in opposing directions, and Rowan and Ivy scanned the waters eagerly. The stout towers, connected centrally by a covered transom, were mysterious and thrilling, but to Ivy’s great regret, they were not the group’s destination. In fact, Clothilde picked up the pace.

There was also something new to contend with—something atmospheric. The water, as calm as glass in the early morning, was forming little whipping waves, some even crested with froth, beneath them as they flew. Ivy had noticed it, too. Flight, as a general rule, is safer and easier when there aren’t unruly winds with which to contend. Fortunately, the winds seemed to be pushing them toward their destination rather than away, but in a cruel trick they also seemed to be pushing them lower and lower—when the gusts blew down
from the mountains, there was a very real possibility of being buffeted downward and slapped against the waves.

Rowan, who lagged behind, was taking the brunt of these damaging winds. His windwhipper had not been cooperating since it took him airborne, but it was now undeniably losing steam. He noticed with growing alarm that it was flying lower, forcing him even at times to pick up his heels. He had considered stopping briefly on the nearby island, but a rational fear of not being able to restart the contraption overtook him. That, and he was mildly sure he saw a pair of eyes watching them from a thin dark window in one of the towers—a set of eyes that vanished just as quickly as they appeared.

“The weather’s changing,” Ivy called ahead to Clothilde, but the wind never delivered her message.

Ivy turned to look back at her friend and saw his feet dipping in and out of the water. He was losing altitude quickly, and soon there’d be nothing he could do but swim. She urged her windwhipper ahead and finally caught Clothilde’s attention.

“Should we land on that island with the towers?” Ivy asked, hoping they might turn back.

“Not a good idea.”

“But I don’t think his windwhipper will make it much farther!”

Indeed, Rowan’s propellers had sputtered and stopped—and gasped back to life.

“Tower Island is a Nightshade outpost,” Clothilde yelled over her shoulder.

Ahead, Ivy was happy to see they were approaching the largest of the lake’s islands, an island called the Eath. Clothilde had turned back and was swooping in just in time to catch the taster by his collar and drag him, dripping, behind her.

It was in that undistinguished way that Rowan made his arrival, drenched and bedraggled, to the shores of an ancient retreat.

Here, on the biggest island by far, the lake met the Burls in a dramatic contrast between water and stone. Here, also, was one of the more dangerous places, due to the architecture of the mountains and the origin of the winds above, to wait out the Windy Season. It was notoriously unsafe. The collection of vast wooden structures before them was not fit for such an assault—in normal times a caretaker was responsible for closing down the property sufficiently to withstand the Winds, his main duty being the shuttering and boarding up of all the windows. But the windows were overgrown, and the caretaker was long ago poisoned by the island’s new inhabitants.