Page 25 of The Poisoned King (Impossible Creatures #2)
The Orphan Longma
Irian Guinne led the way down the avenue of trees toward the palace.
“The building is sphinx stone,” said Irian. “A woman called Anja Trevasse died six months ago. There was some mystery about her death. Some say murder, some suicide, some accident.”
“Anja Trevasse is dead ?” said Christopher.
“She is.” Irian’s voice had no softness in it, nor any glee. “She was not a good woman. She did great harm while she was alive. But when her will was read, it was found she had left Fidens Nighthand the entire islet of Glimt—palace, land, forest: everything.”
They reached the huge oak door. Anya looked closer at the palace wall; there were, scratched deep into the blocks of yellow stone, mathematical symbols, words, images—etched with a sphinx’s claw into the rock.
She laid her hand on the stone. Despite the cold day, it was warm to the touch, with a vibration to it.
Irian saw her surprise and laughed. “Yes! I was shocked too when I first touched it. That’s the way, with sphinx stone,” she said. “It’s almost alive.”
“This island isn’t on my grandfather’s map,” said Christopher. “I know, because I made a copy and put it over my bed.”
“It’s not a true island,” said Irian. “It’s an islet—there are a few of them.
It used to be part of the mainland of Lithia, but a prince paid to have a channel dug.
Trevasse used the place as a pleasure palace, to entertain politicians from across the Archipelago in the summers.
Nighthand had no idea what to do with it. ”
Ratwin gave a hiccup of pleasure. “He saids, ‘What do I wants with sixty roomses? And ten greenhouses of flowerses?’?”
“Quite right,” said a voice behind them. “I only like plants you can eat.”
Round the corner of the palace strode the largest man Anya had ever seen. With a roar, the man charged toward Christopher like a bull. He grabbed the boy off his feet and pulled him to his chest.
“Christopher! You’re a miracle to set eyes on.”
He set Christopher down so hard his knees buckled and then turned to take in Anya, as if uncertain exactly what she constituted, dirty and bloodstained as she was.
“A…creature?”
“A dryad,” said Ratwin. “It explains the dirt.”
“No. A human girl, Nighthand, manifestly,” said Irian, and her eyes laughed. “Seeking justice, I think.”
“Fair enough. Welcome, child! Are you aware that you smell like a gagana, and not in a good way?”
Gallia and Koo, one on each of Anya’s shoulders, ruffled simultaneous affronted feathers.
“Do not minds him,” said Ratwin. “Nighthand is a Berserker. They does not feel fear, which means he does not worries about what he sayses, which means he once told the chief justice of Bryn Tor that he was a fools with the face of a behemoth’s sphincter.”
“He was,” said Nighthand simply. “I thought he should know.”
“You was in jails at the time, Nighthand. It was the wrongs moment.”
Suddenly Nighthand noticed Jacques, on Christopher’s shoulder. “Jacques!” he said. “You look like you’ve grown.”
Jacques glared at Nighthand. “ No, I have not grown. I have been this size—the perfect size—for hundreds of years. In fact, among other jaculuses, I am thought unusually hefty. If anything, too tall.”
“Welcome, then, my tall friend!” Nighthand turned to Irian. A sudden sweep of awkwardness seemed to overtake him, and he held out his hand for her to shake. “Irian,” he said. “It’s good to be back.”
“Nighthand. I’m glad you’re home.” She took the hand, and the moment her fingers touched his, a deep red began to creep up his neck toward his forehead. He took back his hand as swiftly as if he’d been scalded. Irian swallowed and smiled.
“Now!” The immense man tried to shake off his confusion. “You must eat! My search has been unsuccessful, yet again”—Irian darted a swift look at him—“and my two options, I find in those circumstances, are to be hungry or angry. I choose food. Onward!”
He strode to the door. “Here,” he said. “Welcome to the Palace of Glimt.”
Anya found herself in a great hall, dazzling white light streaming in through windows. The floor was patchworked in white marble and something richly red and green: she bent to touch it.
“Garnet,” said Irian, “and emerald, sliced thin and long. Hundreds of years old. The expense must have been breathtaking.”
Once, Anya thought, this would have been where guests were greeted by servants, given wine by the fire. Now it seemed to be empty, except for the radiant daylight.
Or—no, not empty.
As her eyes adjusted to the light, Anya let out a cry of delight.
In the far corner of the room, there was a curled green shape, horselike, which got to unsteady feet and walked toward them. Its eyes and ears were huge, its legs long and thin: clearly a newborn.
“A longma!” she said.
The longma colt had green scaled wings, and they fluttered as it moved but did not lift it from the ground. Anya stood still, and it came and pressed its green shining head against her chest, then against Christopher’s. Its eyes were deep brown.
“It thinks you have food,” said Irian.
“Why is it inside?” asked Anya.
Koo fluttered upward from her shoulder, into her tangle of hair and out of sight. Even Gallia flew up to the vast chandelier and watched from there. Longmas were known to eat birds.
“It’s living in here just until it’s strong enough to go out.
It was born three days ago.” The longma nuzzled at Irian’s side, and she reached into her bag and produced a milk bottle with a rubber teat.
“They give birth in flight, longmas. This one’s wings were too small, and it fell into the sea.
But follow me. You must wash, and then we will talk. ”
“I do not need to wash,” said Jacques. “Dragons are self-cleaning, and always smell of truth. But I will go with Christopher. We can discuss the chapter headings of my book.”