Honeycomb Joanne Harris (best chinese ebook reader txt) 📖

the features of the Lacewing King. “A clockwork woman,” he repeated. “Yes, I think I remember. But that was all so long ago—”

“Long ago,” repeated the bird. “Long ago, and far away. These people aren’t real, Your Majesty. They only exist in stories and dreams.”

The Watchman frowned at the scarlet bird. Something about it seemed familiar. Perhaps the harsh contempt in its voice; perhaps the way in which its eyes seemed to reflect another world. And it was always hungry. As the Watchman approached, he saw the scarlet bird snap up a dozen of the fireflies that hovered around the Lacewing King. The Watchman noticed how the King waned a little more at the loss, as if the creatures were part of him. And maybe they were: his fingertips were fading more than ever now; bleeding luminescence into the semi-darkness.

“I’m no dream,” said the Watchman. “I’ve been waiting all this time. And I would speak with the Lacewing King alone, without interference.”

The bird made a clicking sound with its beak. “What do you want? An audience? Look into my eyes, old man. I can show you marvels.”

The Watchman kept his distance. At his side, the Clockwork Princess ticked and ground her restless gears. The scarlet crow saw their unease and gave a crawk of laughter.

“Seen enough?” it taunted.

“Enough,” said the Watchman mildly, “to know that you’re the Harlequin.”

The bird snapped up another firefly. “Who cares what I used to be? Now I am the Eater of Kings. Look into my eyes, old man, and let me take you to the stars.”

The Watchman averted his gaze.

“Very wise,” said the Harlequin. “Now leave us. His Majesty is fatigued. And I, old man, am hungry.”

The Watchman hesitated but did not turn. He knew of the Harlequin only through stories; but he knew of its hatred of the King, and its desire for vengeance. Its deadly gaze was powerless now that the Lacewing King was blind, but its appetite remained, endless and insatiable. It had already fed on his life. Soon it would consume him.

“Your Majesty, run,” said the Watchman. “The Harlequin will eat you alive.”

The Lacewing King gave an absent smile. “The Harlequin’s only a story,” he said. “Long ago, and far away.”

“No, this is real,” said the Watchman.

“Nothing’s real,” said the Lacewing King. “The honeycomb is empty.”

“Not quite empty,” said the bird, devouring another firefly. “But vengeance is like honey, my King. So sweet: so rare; so precious.” And at that, it turned its scarlet head and began to feed again, as the Watchman and the Clockwork Princess looked on in consternation.

95

D

ESCENT OF THE

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IGHT

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RAIN

Meanwhile, the Night Train had started to roll, fired by the power of stories. The Engine Driver was at the controls, while the Barefoot Princess read tale after tale, all the while watching their progress through the eye of the Hallowe’en King.

Their journey was painfully slow at first; but as the train gathered momentum, they soon began to see the desert landscape around them shifting. Sand gave way to scrubland; scrub gave way to forest. For a time they travelled through caverns of ice, then mountains rising out of the sea. Then they were travelling through the sky, moving at the speed of Dream, with the stars shooting all around them and the sound of the engine in their ears.

“More stories!” said the Engine Driver, as the train began to slow down. But the Princess was still watching through the amber eye of the Hallowe’en King.

“I think I see the Lacewing King,” she said. “But he looks so far away.”

“We’re losing speed,” said the Driver. “We need more fuel, and quickly, or the Train will fall right out of the sky.”

The bees that were clustered around the Princess joined in the Driver’s warning.

“Falling, falling,” sang the bees. “Falling into emptiness.

Lost, forgotten, broken, blind

Dwindling to nothingness.”

The Barefoot Princess looked closer into the stolen amber eye. “That bird, that bird on this shoulder,” she said. “Where have I seen that bird before? A scarlet bird with eyes like knives. In a story, in a dream?”

“In a story, in a dream,” sang the bees.

The Princess frowned. “It looks like a cave. Like a labyrinth. If only I could see the way, then maybe we could reach him—”

“More stories!” said the Engine Driver. “The engines are failing. We’re starting to fall!”

It was true; the Night Train was falling from its track in the sky, its engines grating and stuttering, fighting the pull of the ground below. Around them, the stars wheeled like acrobats. The ground was still in darkness.

“Quickly, please!” said the Driver. “A story—any story—”

And so, once more, the Barefoot Princess began, with the words: “There is a story the bees used to tell…” But she had read out the last of the stories left by the Night Train boy, and somehow, she couldn’t seem to remember a single tale that she had read in the Lacewing King’s library, or heard from the bees, or gathered from the Sightless Folk.

“I can’t remember!” she said. “I can’t!”

“You must,” said the Engine Driver. “How can you run out of stories?”

Wildly, the Princess shook her head. “I can’t,” she said. “I’ve forgotten them all!” And then, at the word forgotten, she stopped. Her features lit. She started to laugh.

“Forgotten. Forgotten! That’s it!” she said. “The Labyrinth of Forgotten Things. I’ve heard the story so many times. That’s where we’ll find the Lacewing King!” She held up the amber eye to hers. “This will show us the way,” she said. “And now, for all our sakes, just drive!”

By now the Night Train was gathering speed, eerily silent as it began to plummet, unchecked, towards the ground. Vainly, the Engine Driver tried to correct their downward course, and steer towards the Labyrinth. But the controls were dead; and now they could see the ground below, rushing towards them like Death itself.

“What about the bees?” she said. “Can’t you ask them for a tale?”

But the Barefoot Princess