by Holly Race
I nod. ‘Let’s take the left one first.’
So we do, but quickly meet another dead end – an actual one, this time.
We retrace our steps and take the central opening.
‘I can hear something,’ Samson says. We press ourselves against the walls. I nearly trip over a step but Samson pulls me back before I fall. It’s a good thing he does, too, because we have stumbled across a vast room that is packed full of beings.
The steps lead down into a vaulted hall where hundreds of people stand in rows. They are still, and if it weren’t for the quiet murmur of their shifting movements they could be mistaken for mannequins. A familiar energy pulses around the hall: the same energy I feel when I sink into my mind to access my Immral.
A gong sounds from the far end of the space. The bass note hugs the walls.
The energy emanating from the rows of people changes. I can feel them absorbing the inspyre around them like sponges, and as they do so they begin to change as well. Some of them expand, some of them stretch, but every one grows bigger. Their human skin cracks like a nut de-shelled, and is consumed by the underbelly of the creature beneath. Wings spread where there were once human shoulder blades; tails whip out from spines. Nothing remains of the human face. Instead, there are only smooth, domed heads with deep-set, pinprick eyes. Every one shines with metallic skin.
I have seen creatures like this once before, in a book laid out on a lectern in the hospital. That book spoke of assassins, souls and murder. This is what treitres look like.
31
The writer of that book in the hospital had said there were no more than thirty treitres in the whole of Annwn – but there must be three hundred of them here at least.
‘How can that be possible?’ Samson says, horrified.
‘It’s an army,’ I say.
‘We have to go.’ Samson tries to pull me back, but I am transfixed. I had always wondered how treitres could go unnoticed by the harkers, but now I understand. The transformation only took seconds, and until that point every monster here looked like a regular human. It would have been impossible to pick these people out of a pack of dreamers right up until the moment they transformed. A patrol wouldn’t have stood a chance.
At the far end of the hall one of the treitres is pacing in long strides. While the other treitres are copper or silver or brass, this one is cold, bright gold. It doesn’t have great, dribbling jaws like some – in fact it doesn’t look as though it has a mouth at all. It may not even be the largest treitre down there, but it moves with such precision and grace that it is easy to see why it’s in charge. Something Mum wrote in her diaries pours ice down my back. The golden treitre came for me today. Is this the creature that killed all those knights fifteen years ago? Is this the one that killed Mum?
‘Come on, Fern.’
I allow myself to be dragged up the corridor. Samson pushes me down the right-hand path. At last the end of the tunnel comes into view. I wriggle into it and pull myself along the earthen floor, glad to feel a familiar substance, even if it is just dirt. When we land on the lawn outside the cannon, I set off for the pathway that will lead us back to where Lamb and Ollie are waiting, though every muscle and thought is focused on the golden treitre.
‘Wait!’ Samson says. ‘The boy, remember?’
Of course. I can’t let what I’ve just seen throw me off balance, not while there’s still work to do here.
We slip back inside the warehouse, passing through now-unfamiliar corridors until we spot the one with cell doors. With the final piece of my inspyre, I unlock the door and summon the boy with a finger to my lips. He leaps from the floor and the bird hops onto his shoulder as he skips towards us.
He stops, his face contorting in horror. Then I feel it. The door is moving, moulding itself around me, trying to trap me inside the room.
‘It’s him!’ Samson hisses. ‘Get out!’
He pulls at me and I reach for the boy, who grabs my arm. The bird hops up and down on his shoulder in alarm. The wood is trying to force its way through me, and for a terrifying instant it begins to prise open my chest.
‘Focus, Fern,’ Samson says, and I shut my eyes, concentrating on the inspyre within the door, forcing it back. Something bursts inside my forehead and a gush of hot liquid rushes from my nose, but the door retreats, allowing me to slip out. The boy isn’t so lucky. I am still holding his arm, but he is now stuck inside the door as the molten wood flows around him. His head and shoulders protrude, but from the torso down he is imprisoned. Tendrils pierce his skin and he screams in pain and fear.
Samson and I hurl ourselves against the door. Samson pulls at the boy’s disappearing arms, while I try to focus all of my remaining energy on the inspyre within the wood, commanding it to retreat. But Medraut is near and his command is far more powerful.
‘Fern, please!’ Samson says, his muscles straining to free the boy.
‘I can’t!’ I sob. ‘The inspyre won’t listen!’
The boy can’t scream any more – the wood has forced open his mouth and is reaching down his throat, absorbing him from the inside out. The bird, though, is still on his shoulder. It looks at him, and it looks at me. Then it very deliberately pecks the boy on his ear; a kiss goodbye. It takes off, hovering in front of me, trying to tell me something. I understand. I reach out a shaking hand, and with a little flutter the bird bursts itself back into inspyre, and with all my remaining strength I slam it inside the flowing wood.
For a second the door simply freezes. Then, like a video on rewind, the little-bird inspyre begins its work and the wood flows backwards, out of the boy’s mouth, out of his shoulders, away from his body, until he collapses into Samson’s arms. I fall to the ground too, completely spent, my head pounding, black spots growing in my vision.
‘Right, let’s get out of here,’ I hear Samson growl. He pulls me to my feet, the boy a wilted flower in his arms. I stumble after him. The walls are still moving, a living maze trying to trap us inside, but Samson remains calm this time, and that gives me strength.
‘This way, I think,’ I say, feeling a weight lifting as we reach an impasse. Samson heads down the path I’d indicated and soon we see a point of light – grey daylight, not the manufactured grey of Medraut’s mind. Suddenly, the walls ripple more urgently.
‘He knows we’re here,’ Samson says, and sure enough the opening begins to close. At the same moment something tips inside my stomach.
‘He’s here,’ I say, my voice grating. It feels like something is trying to rip out my vocal cords – a power so much greater than mine that it is trying to suck my Immral from me. I topple over, my organs rebelling against my body. I convulse. Samson doesn’t kneel next to me, doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He simply shifts the boy to one arm and lifts me in the other. With a roar of strength he powers towards the closing opening. We aren’t going to make it. We aren’t going to make it. We –
We are through. A river breeze bathes my aching head.
I look up, over Samson’s shoulder as he runs for the wall and leaps it in a single, great burst of imagination. I’m not certain, but I think I see Medraut’s figure at the opening we escaped through. I think he sees me too.
32
April 2001
The applause that followed the announcement shook the bones of Tintagel. It was official: Lady Caradoc was handing the reins to Sebastien Medraut. She had led the London thaneship for twenty years, and she wore every one of them in the lines of her face and the weariness in her posture. There had been rumours for months that she was going to step down and that Medraut would take her place. The longest-serving Head Thane giving way to the youngest-ever Head Thane. So fitting. So poetic.
Una was one of only a handful, all stationed at the back of the hall, who were not clapping. Lionel wore a rueful smile. Not that he had expected the position; he was a few years older than Medraut but always seemed to be a few years behind him. Ellen’s face was clouded with concern too.
Yet as Medra
ut ascended to the podium to shake Lady Caradoc’s hand, Una realised that most of the applause was coming from Medraut’s old regiment. The rest was polite, even resentful.
Medraut had made it known that if he was given the position, he would make some changes, and a lot of the thanes didn’t like the sound of that. The reeves tended to be set in their ways and were wary of what Medraut would alter. He had never been a friend to the veneurs either, and many of them were concerned about what would happen to their morrigans with him in charge. He had never liked the creatures.
Medraut stepped forward to give his acceptance speech. He was trying to act humble, but he wasn’t yet skilled enough to suppress the inspyre that shimmered around his body, telling of his glee and triumph. Una prepared herself for an onslaught of Immral-powered words, girding her mind with scepticism.
Sure enough, as Medraut began to speak, the atmosphere in the hall took on a new energy. From uncertainty stepped determination. Doubt metamorphosed into enthusiasm. Medraut’s words picked up his audience and buoyed them along on his ideas: ideas of unity, betterment and ancient traditions. When he had finished, even the veneurs were cheering heartily. Even Una couldn’t help but whoop.
It was only afterwards that Una was able to see that she had been taken in. But others didn’t want to hear it. She’d never know whether their ignorance was genuine or whether they knew that they’d been duped but didn’t want to admit to the weakness. The knights’ chamber was full of chatter about what an incredible speech he had given. They droned on about how everyone was going to pull together behind Medraut in a way they hadn’t done with Caradoc. Yet when Una challenged them to tell her what Medraut was going to do to bring about this change, none of them could give her a straight answer.
In the end, she wedged herself in an armchair in the corner of the room with Ellen, Lionel and Clement, listening morosely to the chatter of those around them.
‘Maybe it’s not as bad as you think,’ Clement said. Then, in response to her glare, he added, ‘You’re not always right, Una. Honestly? I think he might be exactly what we need.’
‘How can you say that?’ Una hissed.
‘I joined the same year as Medraut and he’s never been anything but nice to me.’
‘Oh, well, as long as he’s nice to you –’
‘Stop arguing,’ Lionel said. ‘I hope you’re right, Clement. I really do. But – sorry to pull rank here – I’ve been in the knights longer than all of you and I can’t see this ending anywhere good. King Arthur –’
Clement rolled his eyes. ‘Not your King Arthur schtick again.’
‘He had good intentions at the start as well,’ Lionel said doggedly, ‘but look how that ended up. No one likes to talk about it, but the man tried to take away our freedom.’
‘Exactly,’ Una chimed in. ‘That’s where this leads.’
‘Not always.’
‘Not always,’ Lionel agreed, ‘but if you really think about it, Clement, has Medraut ever done anything that didn’t boost his status? That’s what worries me. He always thinks he’s right, and for what it’s worth I think it’s pretty dangerous to hand power to someone who won’t be told when he’s made a mistake.’
Clement shook his head but didn’t respond.
‘What do you think?’ Una said to Ellen, who had been listening to their argument impassively.
Ellen frowned. ‘I think you should be careful.’
‘You think he’s already dangerous?’ Una said.
‘No. Maybe not. But you’re going to try to investigate him, aren’t you?’
Clement looked up, startled.
Una smiled. ‘You know me too well.’
‘Keep your distance from him then,’ Ellen said, not returning the smile. ‘You don’t want him to read your mind and see how much you distrust him. If he’s as dangerous as you think he is then nothing good will come of him finding out.’
Una nodded and clasped her friend’s hand in thanks.
‘The rest of us should congratulate him, though,’ Lionel said. ‘We’d better keep up the pretence that we’re happy for him. Help cover for our Una.’
‘Yes. That’s a good idea,’ Ellen said.
‘Do you remember when you hissed …’ Una started, but looking at the woman Ellen had become, the memory died on her lips. That was another Ellen and a simpler time.
Then Medraut entered the room and everyone bustled towards him.
‘Come on then,’ Lionel said.
As Ellen rose from the sofa, Una caught her arm.
‘You shouldn’t go either,’ she whispered, ‘or at least don’t shake his hand. Remember …’
Ellen disentangled herself gently and sighed. ‘I remember, dearling. I remember.’ And as Una watched, her friends joined the throng jostling to greet their new lord.
33
By the time we reach Lamb and Ollie I have just about regained use of my legs. Brother and horse rush over with gratifying speed. While Lamb nuzzles the little boy, Samson shakes Ollie’s hand and fills him in on what happened.
‘We should get moving,’ Ollie says, hefting the little boy onto Balius’s back. Samson helps me onto Lamb and then he and Ollie run next to us as we make our way back to Tintagel.
It must be the end of the night shift by the time we ride through the gates, and some of the regiments have only just returned themselves. Natasha sees us as she swings off Domino, and throws herself into Samson’s arms as though they’re long lost siblings. Rafe punches the air and leaps towards his regiment commander, while Emory comes in over the drawbridge behind us, rides up to Samson and gets him in a headlock by way of greeting. From the centre of the commotion, Samson smiles at me, his relief and exhaustion mirroring my own.
I ride onwards. I don’t belong to this joyful reunion of friends. I place the boy in the care of the apothecaries, and slip up the steps into the castle. Luckily we got him out before he could suffer the same fate as the tongueless, mouthless dreamers who occupied those prison cells before him.
What I really want, more than anything, is some dreamless sleep, but since that’s not going to happen I permit myself a bit of downtime in the knights’ chamber before I am inevitably asked to report to Lord Allenby.
When I open the door, Phoebe and Ramesh look up from their usual positions by the fire. Without a word, they lead me to the sofa. Ollie joins us shortly afterwards.
‘So I hear Samson’s back,’ Ramesh says, and for some reason I find that immensely funny. My hysterical laughter bounces around the room, into the mouths of the others and out again.
‘Can you tell us what happened?’ Phoebe asks.
I glance at Ollie. ‘I don’t think so,’ I say. ‘Sorry.’
Phoebe throws herself back on the sofa with a sigh. ‘So bloody cool.’
Ollie disappears for a while and returns with a sweet smelling muslin and a pot of water for my bloodied nose and ears. The chamber is relatively empty, with everyone else outside celebrating Samson’s return, so Phoebe and Ramesh take advantage of the fact by putting an old record on the player that sits in the corner and we all listen to it in companionable silence until the rest of the knights crowd into the room, jubilant at the return of their captain.
Mercifully, I am saved from too many back pats and hand shakes by the arrival of a reeve. He doesn’t need to say why he’s here. I am exhausted. I am in pain. All I want is a rest and maybe a foot rub, but Lord Allenby needs Ollie and me.
‘Come on,’ Ollie says, and I limp out of the chamber after him.
When we arrive, Lord Allenby props me up in his large leather chair with another glass of that hot, spicy drink. Samson lays a blanket over my lap with a tired smile.
‘I know you need rest, Fern,’ Lord Allenby says, ‘but with this treitre army Samson tells me about I’m worried we don’t have much time.’
‘They had a leader or a sort of general,’ I tell Lord Allenby. ‘A golden treitre. Do you think it could be the one …?’
Lord Al
lenby tenses.
‘Perhaps,’ he says. ‘Perhaps it’s still doing Medraut’s bidding, after all this time.’
‘Sir, the box,’ Samson says.
‘Yes, yes. If this box is as important to Medraut as Samson thinks, we won’t have much time before he tries to retrieve it. Samson and I have tried to find a way of opening it, without luck. Do you think you might be able to take another look?’
Lord Allenby holds out the puzzle box. I take it, running my hands over the black resin that adorns it, then turning it over, tapping into the part of my head that hurts the most, testing different parts of the mahogany for hints of the inspyre that must lurk within.
‘What are you hoping to find?’ Ollie says.
‘Some hint at what he’s going to do next,’ Lord Allenby says. ‘Something that will help me and the other lords formulate a plan for stopping him.’
I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know if it’s because I’m tired, but I can’t find a way of opening it. I can’t sense any locks inside. I don’t think this is a puzzle box at all.’ I meet Samson’s eyes, knowing how much this is going to confuse and upset him, to have gone through everything we did for nothing. ‘I think it’s just solid wood.’
‘But he was so protective of it,’ Samson says.
Ollie moves forward, an odd expression on his face. ‘Can I try?’
Lord Allenby takes it from me and passes it to my brother.
The effect is instant. Ollie cries out as the box is placed in his hands, but he doesn’t seem to be able to let go of it. He falls to the ground and convulses.
‘Get it off him!’ I shout. Samson and Lord Allenby try to prise the box from Ollie’s grasp, but they’re being too gentle. I throw myself off the chair and wrestle with it. A lightning bolt of inspyre shoots out from the place where our hands touch. The pain in my head spikes, then seems to rush down my arm, fusing my hand to my brother’s. My vision goes black, then is replaced by something else entirely. A new world. A future already set in motion. Blank expressions; grey buildings; and blood, blood everywhere. I tear the box – and myself – away from Ollie, and the vision dissipates. Ollie sits up shakily. Blood is trickling from his ears.