by S McPherson
‘This isn’t going to be easy,’ Jude observes, studying the mess of notes and ideas we’ve put together, one involving marching into the houses of parliament and letting them know about the whole corrupt organisation. Until, of course, we realised that many officials in parliament are probably marked with the same tattoo. We even went as far as writing a letter, its remains strewn beside me.
‘This isn’t going to be anything if we don’t come up with a plan.’ I push myself up, head over to the window and look out at the field, arms folded. The feral land expands around us, mist hanging in the air like smoke rising from extinguished flames. I can barely make out the curve of the boulder that marks the entry back into Feranvil.
My mind turns the shadows into Drake, imagining him darting towards the rock as Exlathars attack the ground, trying to shatter the shield below, acting as a diversion so Drake could slip in unnoticed. I press my head against the frosted glass; so many questions and no way to answer them.
‘You alright over there?’ I hear Nathaniel ask, certain I also hear the soft growl of Jude’s snores.
Drake’s imagined shadow looks at me from its crouch by the boulder, the violent wings of Exlathars slashing through the smog around him.
‘I have an idea,’ I say before I’m sure I mean it. My reflection stares back at me from the glass and smiles.
‘Oh?’ I hear Nathaniel shift, though not entirely enthusiastically.
‘This is the last place Drake was before he became our prisoner.’ I turn to meet Nathaniel’s gaze and he nudges Jude awake. ‘Perhaps we can learn what happened that night, or anything that was said before he entered.’
‘How?’ Nathaniel is clearly unconvinced and Jude smacks his lips together, still half asleep.
‘Only a Travisor can see what has previously happened in a place,’ he yawns. They both seem unimpressed with the idea but my insides are now practically singing.
‘Exactly.’ I step towards them, manoeuvring around the mismatched furniture, with surprising grace given the fog of sleep in my mind. ‘And I know a Travisor that may be willing to help.’
Two pairs of eyes furrow in my direction, their curiosity now certainly peaked.
‘Zack.’ I conclude.
‘Zack?’ both boys look baffled as they try to place him then Jude rounds on me, ‘the lad from the winter holiday?’
‘The night we all got sloshed?’ asks Nathaniel wracking his brain.
I nod, ‘He’s a Travisor.’
‘He can tell us what happened,’ Jude says to himself.
‘Yes, he can.’ I stretch and then droop, crushed by the weight of my relief and exhaustion. All is not lost. Not yet.
I’m relieved and mildly surprised when Zack answers my mindle call the next day, remembering exactly who I am.
My snow angel, he serenades. I flush and hope my contacting him now isn’t giving him the wrong impression.
Jude shifts beside me, a mug of something hot cradled in his hands as he stares intently, attempting to break my mindle shield. I waft him away, turning my back to him.
‘So?’ he urges the second I’m done with Zack.
‘Tonight,’ I say. ‘He’ll meet us here, tonight.’
The night arrives feeling like dawn, filled with possibilities. When three knocks sound on the cottage door, I can barely breathe, my legs steering me without my say-so. Nathaniel and Jude stay close, lingering behind me like a pair of sycophants.
‘Zack,’ and I do my best smile, the sound of my blood pulsing in my ears.
‘Snow angel,’ he says, easily, leaning against the doorframe, his head almost grazing its lintel. His shaggy golden locks are just as I remember, or possibly longer, falling into his hazel eyes as he tilts his head, examining me. ‘I believe you said you needed my gifts?’
‘Yes,’ I say, snapping back to my senses. ‘I need you to tell us what happened here, the night of January the seventeenth.’ I pull my cardigan tighter around myself and lead the way out of the house and over to the boulder, the boys exchanging pleasantries behind me. Every sense feels heightened, aware of everything around me: the whispering graze of the grass, the moist coolness hanging in the air, the fog clinging to us like a spider’s web. I can almost taste the night, like peppered crisps of fortune, and I register a subtle siren sound of the boulder, beckoning us, leading us to answers.
‘Here,’ I say, standing beside it, and then with forced vigour, ‘We need you to tell us what happened here.’
‘Good news,’ Zack says, his eyes glowing, ‘I can do more than tell you.’
I cock my head.
‘I can show you.’
I stand, mesmerised, as Zack’s eyes shine brighter, sending out bursts of light like a thousand fireflies, and suddenly the world rewinds around me. Every conversation, entry and exit of Feranvil whizzes by in a blur of stuttering images. This is amazing. There’s Fawn, Deetry Pebble, that dwarfed couple with the triplets, even Jude, sometimes myself, the day I came back from riding or meeting with the estate agent. Fragments of life all swirl backwards until, finally, the reel seems to slow, every image getting clearer as we arrive at that night and time resumes once more.
My breathing slows, my eyes unblinking, and I watch in awe as the broad silhouette of my brother divides the mist and he steps into view, jaw thrust out, walking with purpose. It all seems so real I can barely control my urge to lunge at him, to knock him off his proud heels and pummel him into the ground. My fists involuntarily clench and my once steady breath becomes ragged.
Rage simmers in the core of my gut as Drake struts over to the boulder. A smug smile wrinkles his mouth. I didn’t expect him to be remorseful but the sod is practically giddy. I snarl as he stops inches away from me, flexing his fingers in anticipation. What is he waiting for?
I tear my gaze away from his self-acclaimed puffery and see he is not alone. A hideous black shadow, dripping emerald from its eyes, lurks off to one side, its expansive wings pounding the ground, stirring up dirt like a witch turning a cauldron. It hisses and screeches, seeming as excited as Drake but, like him, waiting…for what?
Or rather, for who, I realise as something catches the corner of my eye, something moving as if skating through the gauzy haze. My skin prickles, my chest tightens, but not from the apocalyptic presence of the mysterious hooded figure but from the colour of the cloak that shrouds it: emerald and shimmering—a cloak of the Courts.
The figure glides towards them, its cloak billowing out around its thin frame, but I can make out no discernible features. It stops a few metres from Drake, raising its arms out to its side.
‘Hello, love,’ its voice serenades like the gentle chords of a flute, momentarily making me forget the horror it represents.
Drake sneers back at it before crouching at the entrance; thick fingers poised on the boulder. He looks again at the figure, at the thing, the monster and I yelp when crimson beams shoot from its fingers like rope, winding and thriving as they bore into the ground. Ten thick, scarlet rays drill into the earth, arching, dipping and producing more chaos than the thrashing Exlathar as it sprays out a yellow venom to soak the ground, and releases a screech so excruciating, I stumble backwards, cradling my ears. This is what we were fighting that night: an Exlathar and a beast.
Almost instantly they vanish and we are back in the still calm of the late night, and I gasp, looking at the others.
Zack blinks, shaking his head as though relieving a crick in his neck. ‘I couldn’t stand that much longer.’
‘Thanks,’ Jude breathes.
Nathaniel is quiet as he glowers at the point where Drake had just knelt, and I do the same, trying to make sense of what I just saw. An icy cold prickles the back of my neck like a thousand frozen needles: somebody is working with the Exlathars; ruling them. And that someone is a member of the Court.
It is a stroke of luck that the portal opens tonight, though I feel that if it didn’t I would still be racing as wildly as I am now towards its opening. I would wait
for hours, days until the barrier broke and Coldivor burst into view.
I grip the gethamot tightly, my fingers turning white around it. I don’t stop to look over my shoulder but hear the thunder of harried feet racing after me. None of them asks where I’m going. None of them tries to stop me. Whatever we just saw is bigger than anything we thought. A member of the Court is behind this. A member of the Court set Drake on me and let the Exlathars take Coldivor. A member of the Court is the enemy, and with astounding powers neither I nor Jude nor Zack have ever seen before.
I hear Vladimir telling me that no information I have will ever be worth me crossing the portal, but as I duck and manoeuvre through the trees, I know he would feel differently now. At last we make it to where the portal will be and I teeter on my tiptoes, preparing to leap through as soon as it opens.
‘No R.U.O.E.,’ Jude notes, looking around. It is the first time any of us have spoken and I flinch, then follow his gaze. The woods are surprisingly still.
‘None,’ I say, unsure whether this is a good or a bad thing, but before I can decide, the portal springs open.
‘Be careful!’ Nathaniel calls.
I wave but don’t look back as I charge through the swirling green haze.
I hit the ground with a thump, soil clinging to my lips. Ouch! I get to my feet, switch on my stopwatch and take out my flashlight. I’m more cautious here. R.U.O.E. I can hope to outrun, but not the Exlathars. Shuddering, I peer over my shoulder and up into the trees, searching for a gleam of green or a flutter of a giant wing. All clear. Holding the torch out in front of me, I head in the direction I think is Melaxous.
I remember the air being cooler in Taratesia—perhaps because it’s so near the ocean—so instinctively head away from the trailing breeze, through an overgrown expanse of olive blades. A short while later, the grass changes, becoming brittle and withered, and I note with relief that I am crossing the border.
‘Yes,’ I breathe when my feet touch sand: Melaxous. This walk I know well; the Court is not far. Taking a deep breath, I march on, sand and stone crunching underfoot. Here the air is muggy, veiling me in a hot gauze that smells faintly of brimstone. Panting, I keep my thoughts focused on why I’m here and what exactly I’m going to say when the time comes.
‘What are you doing here?’ a gruff voice growls and a series of hazy clouds leave me surrounded by Rijjleton guards. They don’t wait for an answer. They grip my arms behind my back and jab me in the shin with their spears so I fall on my knees.
‘Let go of me!’ I tug against them but they’re having none of it. Stubby fingers press into my shoulders, yank on my hair and, grip my wrists, but then a particularly odd sensation takes over. I feel as though I’m being vaporised, like my skin is breaking free and turning into puffs of air. I am weightless, warm and finally I am gone, only mist sailing by as though I’m immersed in a sea of clouds, the pungent stench of sulphur quickly fading.
‘Get in there’ the same rough voice orders, penetrating the haze, and suddenly I am whole again, feeling their stumpy hands wrenching me to my feet and shoving me ahead. ‘Look who we found trespassing,’ sneers the guard.
My vision clears. I am in a hall—one I know well: the Court of Coldivor.
‘Dezaray?’
I almost fall, stunned when I hear Milo’s voice. Turning, I’m speechless to see him standing at the great stone table, Lexovia and members of the Court around him—and as though he is in charge. I barely notice Vladimir’s look of rage as I rush to him, my steps echoing in the frozen silence.
‘Oi!’ the Rijjleton guards yell, but I am already well out of their grasp. Milo eyes me with concern as I throw my arms around him.
He squeezes me close. ‘Are you okay?’
I take a shuddery breath, ‘I will be.’
‘What are you doing here?’ says a voice I barely recognise, one dripping with so much fury it hardly sounds human: Vladimir’s.
I slide out of Milo’s arms and jut out my chin, inwardly sighing when Milo slips his fingers into mine.
‘Well?’ Vladimir barks, stalking towards me.
I am about to speak when he cuts me off.
‘I thought we already discussed the damage your return could have on Coldivor.’
‘We did,’ I say, preparing to explain.
‘So?’
‘Vladimir—’
‘Why have you come here?’ his voice booms.
‘If you’d let me speak, I might be able to tell you,’ I snap.
Shock passes through the room and Vladimir’s eyes flash but he says nothing.
‘My brother, Drake, has escaped. The one sent by the Vildacruz to kill me.’ I begin, ‘Only he isn’t working for them. He is working for an organisation called R.U.O.E.. An organisation bent on ridding earth of all evil…of here.’
Hushed whispers ripple through the hall, until I say, ‘There’s more,’ and all become stilled, every eye now upon me. ‘Through the help of a friend of mine, I saw the night my brother came for me. He was not only helped by an Exlathar but by someone in a…in a cloak.’ My gaze lingers on Vladimir, willing him to understand the emphasis. ‘My brother also told me that his escape leads to “Phase two”. He didn’t go into much detail but it definitely won’t be good for either world.’
I don’t know if Vladimir fully grasps what I am saying but his heaving chest has stilled. ‘Did he tell you anything else?’
I shrug, longing to give more information but can only lamely add: ‘He said he’ll be returning his findings to someone called Daniel.’
‘Daniel?’ a deep voice booms, the speaker hidden in the shadows of the torches flame, ‘Daniel Schawsmith?’ A broad shouldered, bald-headed man steps forward, his face adorned by a thick black moustache and astonishingly silver eyes.
I shake my head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Who is Daniel Schawsmith?’ Lexovia asks, and I feel the Court tense, but then so does she, her gaze falling on Vladimir. ‘D.S.; Elutheran magic.’
I try to understand the unspoken exchange between them but then Brixen speaks: ‘Daniel Schawsmith is someone whose chapter we thought we had closed a long time ago.’
I look around the grim faces, everyone seeming to retreat into themselves. ‘Well, then, perhaps it’s time to reopen it.’
DANIEL SCHAWSMITH
‘To explain Daniel, I will have to explain The Great Plague: a sickness that decimated all of Coldivor.’ The man I learn is named Baxter says, his silver eyes piercing.
‘The Great Plague?’ Milo furrows his brow. ‘This wasn’t taught in Years of Coltis.’
‘No, it was not,’ Vladimir snorts. ‘I found out from my father.’
‘The plague was a century ago now and the Court members back then decided to remove it from the main archives,’ Baxter explains. ‘Strictly need to know.’
‘And what do we need to know?’ I ask, relieved when no one snickers or says ‘You don’t need to know anything, Corporeal.’
‘There was a war, on Earth, one that involved nearly every dot on your map.’ Baxter flicks his head at me and I assume he means countries. ‘The Corporeal wanted to save themselves, to escape. But where could they go when their whole world was at war?’
‘To another world,’ I say, ‘to Coldivor.’
‘Exactly.’ He tilts his head approvingly. ‘The Corporeal fled to Coldivor when the war started, and coincidentally—or perhaps not such a coincidence—this was when The Great Plague began. Coltis and their Corporeal counterparts started dying off. Within days, a fortnight at best, both were gone.’
I notice a few Court members shuffle, some sitting on the sand filled sacks as though settling in.
‘It took a while but the Court finally realised that counterparts cannot co-exist in the same realm,’ Vladimir goes on to say, leaning against a beam behind him, ‘that the plague was not a plague at all.’
‘So that’s how we found out,’ Milo murmurs under his breath.
‘A decade or so later, when ano
ther war raged in the Corporeal world, the people once again fled in the hopes of venturing into Coldivor, but this time their entry was refused.’
‘You wouldn’t let them cross into Coldivor?’ Lexovia gasps, perching on the stone table, her backside perfectly covering the lightning bolt of the Spee’ad empire. Vladimir notices, an unreadable expression crossing his face as he eyes her, but not one of anger.
‘No, we would not.’ Baxter rubs his hands across his smooth scalp. ‘If the Corporeal entered, they and their counterparts were sure to die. At least on their own side they had a fighting chance.’
‘It was a hard decision,’ Brixen states, his eyes lowered, his bulky arms folded across his chest. I’d only ever spoken to him briefly, but he never struck me as someone who felt sadness; he never struck me as someone who felt anything. The look of pain creasing his features now, though, makes me think I may have been wrong.
‘And it was not a decision made lightly,’ Baxter assures everyone, skirting past the table. I’m mesmerised by his graceful movements, given his size, and the shocking hue of his eyes, so bright I am sure I could see my reflection in them.
‘But one day Daniel managed to get through the portal, hidden amidst a stampede.’ Baxter shakes his head. ‘They just wouldn’t listen,’ he unexpectedly roars, and I flinch.
He clenches his fists and a slim woman with long brown hair falling over her shoulders, a sudden lock of lilac framing her face, steps forward, resting a hand on his shoulder.
‘Forgive us,’ she says. ‘Many Court members have been shown what happened that day, the day Daniel Schawsmith got through. It’s hard to discuss without reliving it,’ and immediately I understand why almost every member is either fidgeting or avoiding each other’s eyes, why they all retreated into themselves at the mention of his name. To them, Daniel isn’t just a story from a very long time ago; they have all seen it, through the power of a Travisors sight. They all feel it as though they were there.