by Holly Race
But Artegall pursued him still so near
With bright Chrysaor in his cruel hand
‘What does it mean?’ I say.
‘No idea,’ says Ollie.
The drawings and notes pinned to the walls make more sense. Some of them are maps of Annwn. Tintagel is marked there. Other places are circled in red, the Globe amongst them.
‘She knew where Medraut was going to make kalends,’ I say, pointing to the circles.
‘That makes sense,’ Ollie says. ‘There’s the Royal Albert Hall, the Science Museum, a load of university buildings. They’re all places that make imagination grow, aren’t they?’
We follow the pinned notes through to my bedroom. It’s strange not to have a bed in here, or to see the clutter of my clothes, art supplies and sketches. A basic desk stands against one wall instead of beneath the window. Perched on it are an assortment of bowls and vases, each one growing an orchid – my mother’s favourite flower. I move the vases to one side to examine the curtains – the same ones that decorated the room when Ollie and I were born. Sure enough, one corner has been ripped. I dig out the fabric from the wax seal and press it against its match.
‘Look,’ Ollie says, and shows me a stick of red wax, a box of matches, some pens and a pad of paper in one of the drawers.
‘Why would she put everything in the hallway but leave it so bare in here?’ I say.
‘There is something here,’ Ollie says. ‘I can feel it, I just can’t see it.’
‘That means it’s behind something,’ I say. ‘You take the walls, I’ll take the ceiling and floor?’
We move methodically around the room. Ollie knocks on the walls at intervals, while I move up and down the room on my knees, testing the floorboards. Come on, Mum. We need you.
‘Yes!’ Ollie says, at exactly the same time as I exclaim, ‘Aha!’
While Ollie peels back the wallpaper at his spot, I prise up a loose floorboard.
‘Anything?’ I call over.
I continue to work at the board while I wait for an answer. When none is forthcoming, I look up. Ollie is peering into an opening in the wall – a hidden shelf that is far deeper than the thickness of the plaster should allow. He turns back to me. ‘Empty. What about yours?’
I finally wrestle off the floorboard.
‘I’m not just a pretty face after all.’ I grin.
Ollie joins me, and we both look down into the gap between floors, where two boxes sit, each one overflowing with papers covered in Mum’s neat, spiky script.
35
The journey back to Tintagel feels as though it takes forever. I am intensely aware of Mum’s papers stored in the saddlebags hanging on either side of Lamb, gently rubbing against my calves. Lord Allenby beams at us when he sees everything, and rifles eagerly through the papers himself, before handing them back to us.
Over the next few nights we work our way systematically through Mum’s notes in between our training sessions. A handful of reeves sometimes join us, under orders from Lord Allenby, and Phoebe and Ramesh often stay late to help Ollie, Samson and I read through it all – even though they haven’t been asked to. Their presence irritated me as much as the reeves’ at first. I felt sure that Mum wouldn’t like total strangers reading her work. This was a family affair. But Phoebe’s thoughtfulness and Ramesh’s energy quickly become invaluable to our morale, because it becomes clear pretty quickly that Mum wasn’t spilling much about Medraut that she hadn’t already shared with the thanes fifteen years ago.
That’s not to say that what she wrote isn’t still fascinating.
There’s reams of research on King Arthur, all far more detailed than the basics we’ve been taught in our history lessons. I get lost in stories about legendary swords and how Guinevere and Lancelot worked together to overthrow Arthur when he was trying to destroy Annwn, just like Medraut is doing now. Less helpfully, she didn’t find much about the practicalities of how they brought him down. She just goes off on a tangent about a grail quest.
Samson finds a whole sheaf of papers about morrigans and stays well beyond his shift to finish reading it. ‘Your mum was shockingly clever, you know that, right?’ he says when he’s finished. He holds up a page covered in diagrams. ‘I’m not exactly stupid but I’ve been researching morrigan use for years and she’s just debunked one of my best theories in a single paragraph.’
‘What was your theory?’ asks Phoebe, looking up from her own set of papers.
‘Oh, I always wondered whether morrigans could be used to extract more than just bad memories.’
‘What do you mean?’ Ramesh asks.
‘Well, we use morrigans to take away specific memories and emotions that give poisoners power. If we can do that, couldn’t we just remove the whole emotion of self-hatred?’
‘That’s a really good idea,’ Ollie says quietly.
‘It’s not, though,’ Samson says, rustling Mum’s notes. ‘Right here, it says that she’s investigated it and it’s way too dangerous. My research can only conclude that fear is a core ingredient of any normal creature, not just necessary but beneficial to a balanced mind.’
Samson looks up. ‘See? I should have thought of it myself but, well, sometimes an easy fix just looks so appealing, doesn’t it?’
‘Too much fear turns us to stone, but not enough and we are no longer human,’ I say.
Ollie looks at me sharply.
‘Did you just come up with that?’ Samson asks admiringly.
‘No,’ I say, squirming, ‘it’s something Mum wrote.’
‘Like I said, shockingly clever.’
Still, clever or not, I can’t help but wish that Mum had focused her efforts less on morrigan research and more on whoever was killing her friends. Especially a few days later, when I’m leaving school and overhear Lottie once more telling her mates in no uncertain terms not to go to her dad’s speech tonight. They reluctantly agree, but I am not so easily persuaded. I want to see Medraut in the flesh. I want to be able to take his followers by the shoulders and shake them into seeing what he’s doing to them.
As I near Trafalgar Square, I fall in with a steady stream of people pushing to find a decent position. The event is titled Your Future Leaders: Live, Honest and in the Flesh! but there’s clearly absolutely nothing honest about the first few politicians who bore the crowd with talk about education and balancing the budget and how because they once set foot in a supermarket they’re totally one of us. I am on the verge of giving up and heading home when the screen behind the makeshift stage flicks to indicate the next speaker. A black circle on a white background, with a V stabbing into it. The last time I saw that banner was in Sebastien Medraut’s stronghold in Annwn.
The crowd shifts. People wearing black and white jostle to get closer to the stage and I am pushed along with them. I try to ease my way back, but all I end up doing is getting forced deeper in, until I am right at the front of the stage. The crowd stirs, but remains silent as Medraut himself steps up onto the dais and moves the microphone to one side.
He’s tall, with greying hair that is swept away from a chiselled face. His movements are relaxed but precise. His violet eyes sweep over the crowd and his gaze is like a lighthouse beam. I can feel the ripple as everyone, even me, stands taller in the hope that his eyes will settle on them.
He is not expecting applause and he gets none. Instead, the people around me raise a clenched fist over their mouth, nails facing outwards. A sign of respect. A sign that they are his people and they will listen to him alone.
Then the strangest thing happens. Medraut begins to talk, and what he says is fascinating. But I couldn’t say exactly what he’s talking about. There’s something about the importance of drawing together and the need to present a united front to the world. He uses his hands sparingly but forcefully, punching them outwards at the speech’s crescendos. Every time he does it I feel it in my chest, as though with each punch he plants a seed of agreement, and by the end of the speech a forest is growin
g there, with every branch reaching for Medraut. I find myself nodding along, mouth half open. It is only when he stops talking that some of the power he emitted fades. I feel foolish for having been drawn in. I am alone, though. Every other face, even those who did not come for him, is illuminated with adrenalin, every cheek flushed with a new passion for everything that Medraut believes in, even though I bet not one of them could recall a single sentence he said. His Immral is the kind that has power in Ithr as well as Annwn – true, whole Immral. This is what I could have been if Ollie and I hadn’t split ours.
The murmur is indecipherable at first. But as it is taken up by the next person, and the next, I make out the words.
‘One voice,’ the crowd whispers. ‘One voice. One voice. One voice.’
Medraut’s voice. They are giving up their own voices, their own thoughts and feelings and opinions, and replacing them with his.
The chant never increases in volume, but with so many people saying the same thing it becomes far more sinister than any noisy rally. The crowd begins to move, as one, out of Trafalgar Square and onto the streets that lead towards Westminster and the Houses of Parliament. Medraut watches them, a small smile playing across his features, but he doesn’t follow. I, too, stand firm as the crowd passes. I stare up at him until he becomes aware of me. Slowly, against my better judgement, I lower my hood. I want him to know that he can’t manipulate everyone. Not yet.
His expression doesn’t change. If anything, he wipes his face clear of all emotion. That’s how I know that he saw me the other night in Annwn and recognises me now. He knows that I was one of the people who stole his puzzle box.
We remain looking at each other for a long time. I no longer feel the crowd jostling me. It’s only when Medraut’s mouth lifts a little – a knowing smile – that I realise why. His silent mob has stopped. I am surrounded by them. A wind shivers through me, and I can’t be sure whether it’s the weather or the wave of hatred that is directed towards me. I try to see over the top of them, but I’m in the centre of the square, and it is filled on all sides with a crowd loyal to him. There are no cameras to record what is about to happen.
They begin to close in on me. Their gaze roves over my burn scar and my eyes. They don’t touch me at first. They’re physically repulsed by me. But the fear, the need to eliminate the cuckoo in their midst, is too strong. One hand grabs me, then another and another. My hoodie is pulled off, exposing my school uniform. Through the mass of people, I glimpse Medraut descending the stage. He is no longer watching. He trusts his people.
I shout out, hoping to use the silence of Medraut’s followers to my advantage. If I’m loud enough maybe someone outside the square will hear me and send help. I crawl beneath legs, kicking and biting at those who try to stop me. My hands are filthy, my school trousers ruined. Someone pulls off one of my shoes.
‘Move away!’ a voice shouts.
Stomping footsteps approach. A policeman ploughs through and almost trips over me. He and his colleagues lift me up and push me behind them, forming a shell as they manoeuvre out of the silent crowd. Without me to focus their hatred on, the people renew their chant of One voice, and follow their comrades out of the square.
‘Get a blanket around her,’ a familiar voice says, ‘and for God’s sake go and arrest someone.’
‘It doesn’t work like that, ma’am,’ one of the officers says, but retreats anyway.
Helena Corday, the MP who came to visit me after the fire, turns me to face her. ‘Oh my. It’s Fern, isn’t it? Fern King? Whatever are you doing caught up in all this?’
I can’t answer her. My teeth are chattering. She folds me into a hug.
‘You do have some bad luck, young lady, don’t you?’
‘He’s t-turning everyone against people like me,’ I stutter. ‘He’s dangerous. He’s so, so dangerous.’
Helena looks me very clearly in the eyes. ‘Believe you me, Fern: I know exactly what that man is, and what he wants.’
She rubs my arms, the way people do to children when they’re chilly. ‘Shall I call your father to collect you? Do you feel up to making a statement to the police?’
The nearby officers glance at each other. I see one of them place his fist over his mouth, nails facing outwards. He does it almost unconsciously, but the gesture is so specific that its meaning is clear. These are Medraut’s policemen.
‘The thing is, ma’am,’ one of them says, ‘we can take the young lady’s statement, but … she’s all right, isn’t she? No harm done.’
Helena Corday virtually hisses with indignation.
‘It’s okay,’ I tell her, ‘I’m used to it.’ I try not to sound bitter. I want her to think I’m resilient. Eventually, she agrees to let me go, but insists that her driver takes me home. Not wishing to risk bumping into Medraut’s people again, I accept. She walks me to the car, parked a few streets down.
‘What were you doing in there?’ she asks me.
‘I got caught up in it,’ I tell her. ‘I don’t know. I wanted him to see me.’
She laughs. ‘Yes. Sebastien does have that effect on people.’ Before I can tell her how very wrong she is, she continues, ‘But you know now that he isn’t for you, don’t you? Be careful, Fern. Your parents wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.’
Ah. So she doesn’t remember me well enough to recall that it’s just Dad now.
‘Why were you there, if you don’t mind me asking, Ms Corday?’
‘One of my colleagues was talking, and when he finished I thought I’d listen to the others. Nothing like getting a gauge on your enemies first-hand, is there?’
Helena’s chauffeur opens the car door for me and her assistant climbs in after me, already calling my dad to let him know to expect us. Inside the car is all beige leather; the sticky kind that squeaks embarrassingly. Helena raises a hand as the car reverses into the road. I watch out of the rear window as she turns her attention once more towards Medraut’s retreating army, her expression unreadable.
36
The uncontrollable shaking may have receded by the time I get home, but I can’t stop thinking about what could have happened if Helena Corday hadn’t been there. I have no doubt that those people would have killed me. It’s like the fire all over again: two different groups of people wanting to take down the person who stands out.
Ollie’s already home when I get in. As I fling myself up the stairs he emerges from the bathroom dabbing a cut lip.
‘What happened?’ he asks, but I am too incoherent to answer. I know it’s unfair of me to ignore him like this – it looks as though he’s had troubles of his own on the way home from school – but I can’t help it, not today. I retreat into my room and don’t come down to dinner. Instead, I relive the terror I felt inside the scrum at Trafalgar Square, nursing it until it ferments into rage. When it’s time to go to Annwn I don’t head to the knights’ chamber for the start of lessons. I go straight to the stables and throw on Lamb’s tack. At the drawbridge the harkers and reeves question my going out, but when I just stare at them they lower it. They’ll assume I’m being sent out on another mission and Lord Allenby’s just forgotten to let them know.
I am out in Annwn. Now I need somewhere to go.
The anger at Medraut and his followers, and at those police officers, fuels me as I head east. What happened today has only underlined what I already knew. That Medraut may be breeding bullies but they existed in plentiful amounts before he started gaining power.
The memory of the fire crackles to life: the pause before the flame caught; the beyond-pain moment when it bloomed up to my face; Jenny’s expression – half shock, half hunger – as she realised that she had lost control. All the humiliation that I have worked so hard to overcome this year floods back. There is no justice. None. There wasn’t with the fire, there wasn’t today and there won’t be in the future. I’m supposed to have this incredible power, but I’m still getting ostracised and threatened on a daily basis. What use is my Immral if I ca
n’t even protect myself with it?
And suddenly, I know exactly where I’m heading.
I’m going to administer a little justice of my own.
When I arrive outside the white-washed townhouse there’s an inevitability to what I’m going to do. My head feels cottony. I’ve never been inside, only watched Ollie emerge from the hallway. She would always see him off with a coy wave. I glance up the road and then at the park opposite. A large black dog flees from a pack of rabid squirrels, each one a nightmare etched in blue, but otherwise I am alone.
I climb the steps to the front door. The door’s locked but that’s not a problem – with one flick of my brain the catch slides back and I’m in. Downstairs the house is chilly and empty. Upstairs the air changes. I climb up to the top floor. As I put my hand on the door into the loft room, I sense someone behind it.
Jenny is lying in her bed, dressed in pyjamas, duvet pulled up to her chest. She stares, unmoving, at the ceiling. I am halfway down the stairs before I can stop myself. Why am I running? She’s not dangerous to me here. In Annwn, I am the one with the power.
Slowly, sure that at any moment she’ll stir, I return to the bedroom. She doesn’t move, even when I wave a hand in front of her face. She sees nothing. She’s the kind of person who comes to this incredible world full of possibilities and can only imagine herself in her bed, just as she must be in the real world.
Conjuring the flame is easy. Keeping it alight requires a little more effort. The dull ache at the back of my head grows with the fire. I move closer to my tormentor, holding the flame just above my palm. Her eyes remain fixed on the ceiling, unaware of me. She doesn’t realise how vulnerable she is. Right now, I am her puppet-master, her hell, her God.
The flame floats above her chest, just below her exposed collarbone. The next bit’s going to be tricky. I’ve never done it before, or not consciously anyway. Dreamers usually choose what they see and hear and feel in Annwn, even if they do so unconsciously. I have learned from what Medraut did to those dreamers that I should be able to overcome that. The question is how to do it.