Honeycomb by Joanne Harris (book series for 12 year olds .txt) 📕

They gave him a lavish funeral, with all the honours of the state. The King himself laid flowers at the grave in the city cathedral. And everyone marvelled at the detail of that last self-portrait—although they never understood why the famous artist had chosen to paint himself with such a look upon his face; almost as if Lord Death himself had come to carry him, screaming, away.

20

R

EVENGE OF THE

S

PIDER

Q

UEEN

After that, the Wasp Prince, as the Folk now called him, vanished for a long time. Even the Lacewing King could not see where the boy had gone. He assumed that his son was grieving for the death of his mother, and did not attempt to track him down, thinking that once he was ready, the boy would come to join him.

Time passed. But the Wasp Prince showed no sign of returning. Occasionally, the King would hear rumours from his many spies, and sometimes he caught a fleeting glimpse of his son from his coat of a thousand eyes, but most of the time, he saw nothing, and life went on as always.

Meanwhile, the Wasp Prince was troubled by the recent events in the village. His mother had been a gentle soul and had taught him to respect all life. But now she was gone, and for the first time, the young man had a new path to tread. His mother had never told her son the circumstances of his birth, but he had heard tales of the Lacewing King from his occasional visitors—the Silken Folk, that his mother had often seemed unable to see—and he knew his reputation for wickedness and cruelty. He remembered very little of what had happened the day they met. He had been angry and upset, grieving for his mother. All he remembered was how they had flown together, over the village. How the villagers had screamed. And to know now that this was his father—

And so the Prince stayed in hiding, deep in the heart of the forest. He fed on wild honey, berries, and nuts, and sheltered in the hollow trunk of an ancient oak-tree. And it was here that the Spider Queen discovered him, asleep in the tree, and summoned her servants to bring him to the gates of her forest lair.

Over twenty years had passed since the Lacewing King had robbed the Queen of her coronet of eyes, and since then she had remained in her lair, surrounded by the high stone wall and the monstrous garden. But though she was unable to see beyond the walls of her domain, her web extended much further. Her long and sensitive fingers had grown so attuned to the movements of the world beyond, that, she could sense the presence of an ant on a wall a mile away; or feel the hairs on a moth’s wing against a window-shutter at night. And though she had withdrawn from the world, into the safety of her lair, she had not forgotten her vow to take revenge on the Lacewing King, and break his cold and arrogant heart.

Over the years she had observed him through the silken skeins of her web. Though she could not see his face, she knew his every movement. She knew the tone of his voice; where he went; the nights he slept like a child and the nights he paced the floor of his chamber. She knew when he was bored, and when he visited his concubines. She knew the names of his horses; his favourite dishes; his favourite books. And little by little, she had come to know things about her enemy that even the Glow-Worm Chancellor—even the Honeycomb Queen—did not. But as for breaking his heart, the Queen was no closer to finding a way than she had been two decades ago. As far as anybody knew, the Lacewing King was heartless.

But now, at last, she began to believe she might have found his weakness. She had followed his quest for an heir and knew how badly he had wanted a son. And now, the Wasp Prince was in her grasp, and she would have her vengeance.

First, she had her servants escort him to her forest lair in a carriage drawn by emperor moths and upholstered in dragonfly leather. She came to greet him in person as he arrived at the rust-red gate; but not in the Aspect she had assumed when she had first met his father. Gone was the queenly apparel; the crown; the train of ten thousand dewdrops. Instead the Spider Queen came to the boy as a woman of the Folk—a woman not unlike his mother—dressed in a simple homespun gown, with an apron knotted about her waist. So like his mother was she, in fact, that the boy was not in the least bit suspicious, but went with her willingly into her lair, which she had cleverly camouflaged to look like a little cottage, humble but inviting, in the heart of the overgrown garden.

“Forgive a poor widow, my Prince,” she said. “But I saw you sleeping out in the woods, and though my home is humbler than your father’s underground citadel, I would be glad to offer you whatever poor hospitality I can provide.”

And she offered the young Prince homely meats of the kind his mother used to cook; dishes of fried potatoes; river-fish cooked in jackets of leaves; mutton stew with dumplings and wine. The Prince, who was hungry, ate his fill, while the Spider Queen stood by and smiled. And then the Wasp Prince turned to her, and thanked her for her kindness, and asked her exactly what she knew of the Lacewing King, his father.

The Spider Queen told her tale; of how the King had stolen her crown through treachery and falsehood (although she omitted to tell of her plans to devour the young King on their wedding night). She told him of her poverty; of her withdrawal from the world; and then