The Tasters Guild (29 page)

“That is easy,” Flux sniffed dismissively. “Try the grange. Something moved in there a while ago and is scaring the animals. I thought it was a specter.”

A
lthough Mr. Foxglove was masquerading as a writer—in particular, the King’s biographer—he had never interviewed the royal ruler. In fact, he had never actually
seen
the King directly. Mr. Foxglove assumed, rightly, that the King was dangerous and unpredictable before his illness, but now the old man’s great magic was undeniably deranged.

He was also, quite to Flux’s liking, missing.

Arriving on the sandy shores and golden pastures of Pimcaux from the bleakness of the Templar palace was like discovering a new color, or taste—or both. The thrill lasted approximately as long as it took Flux to shed his tattered robes and steal something slightly more suitable from a schoolboy. (He also pilfered the poor boy’s sack, in which he found the genesis of his new identity—a small notebook.)

He set out to do what he did best: to find the most powerful person he could and insinuate himself into his lavish life. He was most certainly up for the challenge. And challenges
there were, for the King’s magic was fearsome, and he had in place some difficult obstacles.

There were three tests.

Upon his arrival at the King’s retreat, Flux drew closer to the stone compound only to find great, gnashing trees that knit their ancient branches—in a symphony of cracking and straining—before him and threatened to carve deep gashes in his yellow hide. But his figure was slight, and he had little problem passing.

Next he came to a pool of incredible tranquility, and as he gazed upon himself within it (remarking on several occasions at his own good fortune for being so easy to admire), creeping, viny tentacles from the picturesque water lilies slithered up and around him, and he was nearly drowned.

Finally—and here he noticed he was no further along in his journey; if anything, he seemed only to be getting further away from the manor—an orchard sprouted before him. A patchwork of dappled moss led through it.

He sighed.

Golden light peeked from behind a thundercloud, bathing all before him in temptation. There were many trees, profuse with fruit. But Flux was not hungry (he was never hungry) and had spent long years of his life at the Tasters’ Guild, where his appreciation for untested fruits had been extinguished.

(Had the King only constructed an enchanted beer garden, it would have most certainly successfully ensnared him.)
Instead, he took a small, overgrown footpath into which he had seen a weasel dart, and it passed through a crumbling stone wall and brought him out upon the sea. A fortress of polished stone rose from a cliff, and Flux slid into residence quite easily, posting some papers he called his writing credentials, and brandishing a quill he had found at the bottom of the schoolboy’s sack.

“I will begin today on the King’s biography,” he announced to the pale and sickly Clothilde. “And should I uncover the identity of the person responsible for Princess Violet’s poisoning”—the taster paused dramatically—“then it will be my humble pleasure to mend the King’s broken heart.”

Writing this part of the King’s biography would be easy. Flux smiled, for he knew quite well who the killer was.

Yes, life was to be a whole lot easier here in Pimcaux for the turncoat Flux—or Foxglove, as he soon made himself known.

H
aving told Flux everything she knew about Verjouce’s ink (and much more that she didn’t), Ivy was outside with Clothilde in a matter of moments.

“Leave the midget here, as insurance.” Flux had pointed at Wilhelmina.

The alewife winked at Ivy and nodded encouragingly, so, taking her mother’s hand, Ivy led her down the marble steps and out into the moonlight.

Flux had sent along the guard, a man named Moue, who lagged behind with tentative footsteps. Moue was decidedly unenthusiastic about his new assignment—the kitchen servants had said the barn was full of bad spirits, and he was in some doubt as to whether a visit there was part of his job description. (If there were such a thing as a clock that told the time remaining in one’s life, Moue’s would be winding down quite quickly.)

Inwardly, he decided to follow the two just until the barn
doors and go no further, and this was made easier by the fact that the visitors were already ahead on the short path that led up the hill.

Moue had fallen behind, and from this point of disadvantage, he heard a shout. Hurrying (why was he hurrying? he wondered), he soon suffered a shock too strong for his poor system. Rearing above him at the hilltop was the most awful of specters. Moue knew from his childhood that a spirit might take any form it so desires. Giant lizards, half men, sea serpents. The one before him now was a wild-eyed and great-toothed tiger, with slashing talons and awful, festering black sores upon his skin.

Moue expired upon the spot, leaving Six to sniff him uninterestedly. Behind the large cat, Rowan had emerged from the shadows and, after a happy reunion with Ivy and a moment of explanation, joined her and the docile Clothilde at the barn doors. They pondered what to do next.

“I think I should go in alone,” Ivy finally said. The barn looked quite old, even in the darkness, and she realized she had always had a fondness for barns. Honeysuckle grew weedlike at the entrance. The night wind was picking up and blowing through the gaps in the wooden siding.

“No,” Rowan said firmly. “I’ve come this far by your side—and I made a promise to Axle never to leave.”

Ivy looked to her mother, who was standing back. A dazed frown creased her forehead; her now-black hair had come loose from its neat bun and was blowing wildly.

“Someone needs to watch her,” Ivy pointed out.

“She’ll be fine,” Rowan responded curtly.

“Mother?” Ivy called, but the word sounded false on her lips. Ivy turned to Rowan and, reaching for his hand, pushed open the sagging door.

Together, they entered the domain of the King.

H
ello?” she called, for nothing else came to mind. “Great-grandfather?”

Rowan and Ivy gripped each other as a slight dizziness struck them both. They felt as if they had passed through an invisible mist of sorts, which tingled as it clung to their skin. Blinking, they saw it was an unlikely twilight. Before them was not the interior of a barn at all but a vast forest of ancient oak.

Rowan peered behind them. The door was gone—Clothilde, too—and the forest stretched out in all directions, endless.

Ivy bent down and picked something up.

“An acorn!” She cupped it. It was surprisingly heavy.

“It’s solid silver!” Rowan gasped.

Looking around, closer now, they saw that the oak leaves appeared to be made of silver as well; they tinkled pleasantly in a slight breeze.

“Acorn,” Ivy whispered. “Means
eternal life
, right? Do you
think it’s Flower Code?” Ivy was beginning to see a larger connection between herself and the world all around her, but before she could say so, Rowan spoke.

“Or
imminent death,”
Rowan whimpered, remembering. “It depends on how it is presented.”

Ivy was silent.

“Axle says that nature has retreated and does not want to be interpreted. Right now, I hope he’s right,” Rowan added.

The pair stood before a path. It was a meandering one, and as they stepped forward, the great oaks accompanied them along their way, bowing low in welcome and knitting a basket above Ivy’s and Rowan’s heads from smaller branches. A jackdaw twittered a complicated song.

They walked for some time, lulled by the wood. Astonished, the friends watched as the acorns and oak leaves turned from silver to gold, and then back to silver.

“Haven’t we already been this way?” Rowan demanded. “The leaves are silver again, and I could swear we passed that low branch there earlier.”

Ivy stopped and looked around.

“I don’t know.”

A wind had picked up, and the metallic sound from the trees was a fury of chimes. A few acorns fell roughly to the ground beside them.

“I think you’re right—we’ve been walking in circles,” she decided. Suddenly the forest seemed more like a maze.

“I think we’re lost,” Rowan said hopelessly.

“Nonsense.” Ivy crossed her arms. They were so close to the King—she could feel it!

The light was dimmer now, and a storm was picking up. Above, the great trees bent and swayed, and soon a hailstorm of silver acorns began pelting down upon them.

“Oww!” Rowan, who had been attempting to collect the acorns, gave up and ran for cover.

Whosoever speaks to the trees speaks to the King
, Ivy thought.

“I am Ivy Manx!” she shouted. She raised high the acorn that she still clutched. For her efforts, she received a nasty strike to the cheek—a welt rose up, and indeed, a bruise would appear and last for weeks.

“Ivy!” Rowan called, desperate. “They’re coming down everywhere!”

There was no safe haven from the streaking acorns, and Rowan cowered beneath his arms. Whereas one silver acorn was a novelty to the former taster, hundreds falling from the sky were suddenly an abomination—and, clearly, quite dangerous. Rowan shut his eyes.

“I am Ivy Manx—and you will let me pass!” he heard his friend say.

Something happened then.

With a loud crack, followed by a reverberating rattle, the world shifted.

Ivy was suddenly back in the barn, and she was alone. Flecks of dust caught shards of moonlight from above, filling the air with glittering constellations. Pinholes in the roof threw down spears of silver, and Ivy saw that above the grange’s first story rose another, blanketed in dust and pigeons’ roosts. Severe windows pierced the walls in several places along the way and provided Ivy with enough light to wonder at the dim vision that now rose before her.

A set of pillars, unlikely in a barn, of the densest marble and highest polish stretched the height of the room, and they were crowded with ivy and creepers—heavy and old. Ivy’s eyes were drawn to the recess between the pillars, but something was there that stirred great fear within her. Gathering her courage, she looked, and saw an unforgettable throne of such majesty she inexplicably started crying.

A figure was seated on the throne.

The man before her was grave and dispassionate, and very old. It appeared to be raining on him—a gentle, persistent rain, and one that the King showed no proclivity to address. His blue eyes were clouded over, but he sat tall and defiant. His hair grew long, a cloud of spun wool that cascaded to his shoulders and draped to the floor—where it intertwined with his similarly long beard. Each was covered in silk ribbons, everywhere, tied at chaotic intervals. His robes were of an unnameable green—the color of spring, perhaps, or summer, or
the underside of a rock. They were plush with embroideries, woven strands of gold and rich colors that moved about seemingly on their own. The garments fell heavily to his knees. His hand rested on his lap, in which he clutched a book, bound with chains and sealed with an ancient lock.

“Ivy,” came a voice, a voice of the wind, of the wood. “Your name means
friendship.”

Ivy was silent.

“Let me gaze upon you. You remind me of someone whom I loved greatly.”

Ivy took a tentative step forward, and as she did, she noticed the King shrink—as if struck. She stopped.

“You have her face. Violet—my daughter’s.”

Ivy examined the King’s dull eyes—they were the saddest she had ever seen.

“King Verdigris,” she began, “the Prophecy …”

King Verdigris’s grip tightened upon the locked book in his lap, and she stepped forward again. Once more the King cringed.

Ivy looked closer at the throne upon which the ancient King rested. This was not easy, as there was an embroidered tapestry draped across the King’s knees. The tapestry itself wanted to be admired—it was of the same quality as the very ones in Templar, and seemed lively and pulsating. But it was the throne now that Ivy wished to see, and it appeared to be of the densest wood, with a dark stain. Upon further examination, Ivy saw that it was not solid but rather a mass of trained branches impossibly growing in concert in the shape of a cathedra, or royal seat. The rain poured down upon it, soaking and strengthening it.