Page 66 of The Neverfear

‘Bound how?’

Carla lifted her wrist and the snake bracelet writhed. ‘By this.’ She took out a nail file and began to shape each of her nails to a sharp point. ‘When Fidens Nighthand abandoned me, I was penniless and heartbroken and alone. I had nothing. Nothing, until I met Astor Morax. We met by chance at the Midwinter Fete, in Heletha Square in the City of Scholars. Half of the ground was transformed into an ice rink; there were dances. I could see him watching me as I danced. I was used to that. He wore a mask: many people did. I did not see his face. Perhaps I would not have done what I did, had I seen his face. But he came to me – striking, tall. Confident and rich. He told me he could give me anything, anything at all, if I would join his company of men and women. He said my beauty was a power he wanted in his arsenal. So I told him what I wanted.’

‘What did you want?’

‘I said I wanted the head of Fidens Nighthand.’

Irian said nothing.

‘I told Astor Morax I could not live like this. I could not live with the knowledge that the man I loved had laughed in my face, and abandoned me on an island of pirates, and still walked free. He had to die, so I could live.’

‘And what did Morax say?’

‘Astor Morax has never been in love. He did not understand my pain. But he knew how to make a bargain. He has made many in his lifetime: too many to count. He told me he could guarantee Nighthand’s death.’

Carla Venasque paused, thinking back to that day. She had asked him very few questions. It stunned her now, to think how few questions she had asked.

‘He told me he would need payment in exchange,’ she said to Irian. ‘I asked what he required, and he said: loyalty. I should have known even then: it is the virtue most prized by thugs. I laughed, at the time. This man, with all his power, asking no more than a promise! But he was not so foolish. He told me promises are nothing without a guarantee. And he held out his palm. On it was a snake, small and slim. He told me I would wear it upon my wrist. An ouroboros. And I would come when he called me.’

Morax had not been alone at the festival. Darius, his captain, had been with him; and Carla’s eyes had gone to him, and he had nodded. He had said, ‘We are united by it. Any man or woman you see with the bracelet, anywhere in Glimouria, you know they’re an ally and a friend.’

So in that moment, without further question, Carla had set the bracelet upon her wrist. Only later did she discover that to try to remove it was to die. She was never alone: even in silence, there was the threat of what he might hear, for the snake and the man held some connection she did not, even now, understand.

All those who served him wore it. Most had put it on willingly, in full knowledge of what they did, stepping gladly and hungrily into a community of murderers. A few had been blackmailed into it.

‘So now I am his.’ Carla shook herself, a spasm of disgust, and faced Irian. ‘And I have kept my half of the bargain. I have spied for him. I have been bait for him: my beauty has become a trap that he likes to set. I have more freedom than some. I dare speak the truth of him, knowing he can hear me at any moment, because I know he values me. I would be hard to replace. And he has sent out his spies – oh, he has some formidable spies – looking for Fidens Nighthand. And now Morax has found him – and Morax has woven his death into his plan.’

She looked at Irian, who listened in her chains, breathing hard.

‘We are nearly at the moment his plan takes flight,’ said Carla.

The Immortal

Teren moved, unsteady but eager on his feet, across the great sweep of garden. From his small height it was a vast expanse. Twice, he toppled over: infinity capsized. Each time, he laughed, a high distinctive gulp of laughter. Nighthand, following at a distance, laughed with him.

The contours of the world’s knowledge still eddied like water currents within him; not yet fully seen nor fully understood. But he had the instincts of all the people he had been: the caveman, the soldier, the visionary, and, most recently, Mal Arvorian: the girl who had launched herself into the sky for the sake of the world itself. She was closest to the surface of his heart; he was her, and she him.

He was making his way towards the borometz, to stroke its fur and study its breath – but something caught his attention. He saw the sparkle of light reflected on a bird bath: a glimmer he had seen before, but he was not yet old enough to place it in the infinite reach of his mind. It was the glint of a stymphalian bird’s beak, refracting the light as it flew as close to the island as the fendthorn allowed.

Unease came over Teren. He turned to look for Nighthand, who had been just behind him: he was never far away. But then his unease shifted, for there was something else: a boat, coming into view. It was familiar. He let out a cry, and pointed.

Nighthand came running, and scooped Teren into his arms. ‘The Neverfear!’ he said. ‘They’re home!’

How To Tell A Berserker A Terrible Truth

Telling Nighthand was harder and bleaker than facing any creature in Glimouria. Christopher would gladly have met the three-headed dog again, gladly have exploded three dozen snakes.

At first Nighthand was pure rage. He had been there to welcome the boat, accompanied by an eager and sweet-faced Teren, and by Gallia, whose fluttering wings betrayed her relief at their return.

It took Nighthand a moment to understand. He had helped Anya and Christopher from the Neverfear, ruffled Ratwin’s fur, greeted Jacques with a salute.

And then he had looked, again, to the boat, waiting for her to emerge. He had waited. And then, very slowly, he had turned to fix his eyes on Christopher. ‘Where’s Irian?’

When he had understood, it had been like watching the eruption of a volcano of lions: an explosion of molten rage.

‘Irian? Held hostage? My Irian? And you did not tell me?’ He grabbed Christopher by the shoulders and for one moment Christopher thought he might kill him.

‘Nighthand! Listen to us! They said they would kill her if we told you. Look!’ He thrust the ransom note at the Berserker. ‘Read it!’