The White Witch (The Serpent and The Sorcerer Trilogy Book 1)

by J. J. Morrison

  *

  Alexander Mordark sat on the trunk of an uprooted tree in the middle of the forest, as he had done every day since his encounter with Iris. She was a strong-willed girl. He liked that. And, though she had angered him, he found he wanted to see her again. She was much prettier than sour-faced Risella, who hounded him persistently at the castle.

  He hadn’t told his father about his encounter. She was from over there. Fabian would have insisted she be brought to him for interrogation, and they never ended happily. No, he didn’t want his father laying hands on her. And he didn’t want his brothers to know, either. He loved Vrax, but he knew he would do anything to impress their father, even if it meant betraying his brother. And Tobias… well, Tobias did as Tobias pleased.

  When he saw her approach, he thought he had dreamt it. The birds had not stirred, the ground had not given voice to her tread. All was quiet and still. And then, out of the gloom, she came. Her fair hair flowed out from beneath her hood like silk. She walked across the clearing towards him. Before she reached him, she stopped and lifted her hood. When she looked at him, he went hot and cold and rose quickly like a nervous fool.

  ‘Miss Swampton,’ he said. She bowed her head and looked down. ‘Is something wrong?’ he asked, taking a step towards her. ‘What is it?’ He stretched out his arm to try and comfort her but let it fall back to his side again, thinking better of it.

  ‘I can’t go back there,’ she said softly. ‘You have to help me escape.’ She looked up at him. Her eyes were red and swollen.

  ‘You don’t mean that,’ he said. A tear slipped down her cheek. He watched it linger on her jaw and then drop to the ground.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Why?’ he said. She gave a strangled whimper and shrugged, shaking her head, her eyes brimming with fresh tears. ‘Geraldine, you may think life where you’re from is unbearable, but it could be worse. Much worse. You won’t find refuge in the Dark Lands. They’ll kill you the moment they learn you’re from over there.’

  She didn’t answer. More tears fell and, somehow, he felt responsible for them. As he stood there, watching her cry, he felt an ache in his gut. She didn’t know real suffering. He thought about how, every winter, the walls of Castle Mordark turned black with the relentless deluge of rain, and how the marshlands overflowed, and how they all succumbed to the Winter Sickness; how their clothes steamed when they stood by the fire, damp and stinking; how they used so much magic to mend leaks and repair the crumbling tower rooves, they were bedbound afterwards, sometimes for days, their bodies stiff, their heads throbbing from the exertion. And here she was, in her fine clothes - to think, even peasants wore fine clothes in The Light! - consumed by her own menial troubles. He gritted his teeth. But, as irritated as he was, something about her made him want to help, to stop the tears. Sighing, he took her hand, squeezing it reassuringly.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet.’

  They went deeper into the forest, walking in silence. Alexander knew the way. He had attached a memory to every tree, branch, root and nest, every pond, clearing and hideaway in these parts. They passed the tree choking with Rash Ivy; the pale leaves wound tightly around the trunk, which had begun to lean to one side as the years wore on. They passed an old den, made from branches that had been woven together. The roof was a blanket of black moss, sagging now. A band of outlaws had once resided there. Iris froze when she saw the structure, but he pulled her on. There was nothing to fear; those men didn’t live there anymore. He and Vrax had smoked them out, though they hadn’t needed much coaxing. They had come running, six of them or more, knives in hand, ready for a fight. But they hadn’t seen Tobias, crouching behind the thicket of thorns, or the traps they had laid, ready to snap shut and crunch through the bones in their feet. They made a lot of threats, those men. Until the traps sprang. And, by then, he and his brothers were not feeling particularly merciful.

  When they came to a well-beaten track, Iris looked over her shoulder warily.

  ‘What?’ Alexander said, stopping.

  ‘You will kill anyone who comes after me, won’t you?’ There was a plea in her tone. She looked at him like her every hope depended on him.

  ‘If you tell me what’s going on, I will,’ he said.

  ‘Not now. I can’t…’

  ‘Then I can’t promise anything.’

  ‘This isn’t a game,’ she said, turning on him, her face so close to his he could see every lash that framed her blue eyes. He looked down at her feet; she was standing on the tips of her toes. ‘You’re useless,’ she said, her mouth twisting into a grimace. You wouldn’t know how to help.’

  ‘What does it look like I’m doing?’

  ‘Give me your knife at least, so I can protect myself.’

  He backed away from her as she tried to snatch it.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Give it!’

  ‘No.’

  She stared at him incredulously. And then, in the distance, came a screech. Crows. She jumped with fright and looked over her shoulder again. There was a sad desperation in her eyes. Alexander sighed and pulled the knife from is belt, handing it to her. She wouldn’t need it.

  They walked on. A dull light filtered into the forest above the track, illuminating the way. Iris held the knife out in front of her and moved it everywhere she turned. She almost sliced into Alexander’s arm, mere moments after he had given it to her. He stopped and asked for it back but she wouldn’t give it. He left a wide space between them after that.

  *

  Iris looked around at the forest. Many people lived there, concealed from the world in the vast darkness. Most, she knew, were not the kind she would want to encounter without her magic, but she could hide from them, too. She could hide from everyone. No one from The Light would venture this far in search of her and, if they did, they would never find her. As she contemplated a life in the shadows, her eye was drawn to something in the distance. Ahead, on the edge of the track, tucked away between two trees, stood a cottage. She stopped dead. Like the trees around it, the little house was crooked and appeared to list forwards, as if it were about to topple over onto the track. The roof thatching hung low over the walls, which were patched together with wood and mud and stone, and a small chimney puffed smoke out into the forest.

  Alexander nodded towards the cottage. ‘We’re here,’ he said.

  Warm light spilled out from one of the windows. They walked along the track towards it. Iris began to wonder who might live there. In plain view of passing strangers and completely isolated, they would have to be fearsome, people others dared not cross. The thought made her feel ill-at-ease. She looked at Alexander. He seemed relaxed as he ambled towards the house.

  When they reached the door, Alexander knocked three times and then turned to her, raising his eyebrows. Reluctantly, she lowered the knife and handed it back to him. As he slid it into his belt, there was a loud click and a thread of light appeared around the door. Slowly, it creaked open. Iris stepped back behind Alexander. There, in the doorway, silhouetted against the firelight, was an old woman. She was no taller than Iris, her back slightly hunched. She hobbled forwards, using the door frame to steady herself. Beneath the thick stole that covered her shoulders, she wore a brown smock that looked to have seen better years. Her grey hair was wound into a bun; the loose hairs stuck out around her face as if frozen in the wind. Her skin was pale and her forehead was lined with deep wrinkles, which seemed to smooth out when she saw Alexander.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you, boy,’ she said, with a voice like gravel. ‘I’ve not gathered anything for supper if that’s what you’re here for.’

  ‘No, I came to see you,’ he said, bending down to embrace her. She smiled faintly before her flinty eyes found Iris over his shoulder. Her face hardened. Iris’s skin prickled under the old woman’s gaze. ‘This is Geraldine,’ Alexander said, standing back and nodding towards her.

  Iris bowed her head and stared at the ground.
There was a moment of silence. She could feel her cheeks burning. She glanced at Alexander, whose eyes widened, as if prompting her to speak. But, before she had mustered the courage to look at the woman again and greet her, she heard a low groan behind her. She spun around, her breath trapped in her throat, her hands scrabbling for Alexander’s knife. But then she stopped. She could hear him tittering.

  On the other side of the path, twisted and disfigured like its companions, and gleaming like a bright jewel amongst them, was a Silver Tree. Hundreds of intricate, weaving branches splayed outwards as far as they did upwards, encroaching on the neighbouring trees, encasing them in a web of silver. She stared at it, open-mouthed. There were Silver Trees in the Wild Garden at Mortenstone Castle, even more in Mortenstone Valley, but it seemed too pure a thing to be there, in the Dark Forest, surrounded by giants, clinging to them in the darkness. The tree creaked again, the way a ship creaks when the sea is pressing in around it. It made her feel better, to see something so familiar all that way from home; it was as if a piece of home was now with her. She felt a strange compulsion to walk over to it and rest her hand upon its bark. But the impulse left her as soon as it came. She turned, instead, to face the old woman, whose eyes flicked from the Silver Tree to her with deep suspicion. Her brow twitched, fighting off a frown, and she looked hard at Iris, as if she was searching for the answer to an unuttered question. Iris stayed completely still, trying to make her face as unreadable as possible, opening her eyes up wide. It was important to widen the eyes; wide eyes were trustworthy eyes, or so her father said. The woman’s expression did not soften. She went on staring, staring, and then looked at Alexander sternly.

  ‘Agatha, be nice,’ he said.

  The woman’s eyes darted to Iris once more before she turned around and walked back into the cottage with a grunt.

  ‘Come in, then!’ she called impatiently. Alexander laughed under his breath and shrugged apologetically but Iris could not find the will to smile. He raised his arm, inviting her to go in first, but she stood rooted to the spot, waiting, until he gave up and went inside. She stole one last look at the Silver Tree and followed him over the threshold.

  ‘Hip’s been playing up,’ Agatha said from an armchair by the fireplace, as she pulled a fur throw onto her lap. A black pot bubbled away over the flames, perfuming the room with the mouth-watering smell of roasting meat and broth. Above the mantelpiece were shelves laden with books, pans, knives and jars. Iris’s eye was drawn to one on the bottom shelf, filled with a silvery liquid that shimmered in the firelight. Wooden cases with more books, weapons and bottles lined the right-hand wall. It was a homely, civilised living space.

  Alexander moved to close the door. As he stepped back, Iris noticed a table on the left, behind the spot where he had been standing. Occupying one of the four wooden chairs at the table was a dark-haired boy, no older than five. He stared at her inquisitively through eyes wiser than his years.

  ‘That’s William,’ Agatha said, looking at her expectantly.

  ‘Hello, William’ Iris said. The boy continued to stare after she looked away.

  The fire spat a piece of wood onto the rug. Agatha smothered the glowing ember with the heel of her boot, wincing slightly as she lifted her leg.

  ‘Come on then, let’s be having it. What have you done now?’ she said.

  ‘I haven’t done anything. But my friend, Geraldine, here, has run away from home. Home being over there.’

  ‘And you want her to stay here, is that it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Agatha was silent for a moment. ‘Out of the question,’ she said finally.

  ‘Why? She’ll pull her weight. You can cook, can’t you?’ he said, looking at Iris.

  ‘I don’t care if she can hunt deer with a stick! She can’t stay.’

  ‘Ugh!’ he groaned, falling into the armchair opposite Agatha, who leant forwards and smacked him across the head.

  ‘Enough of your cheek, boy!’

  Alexander rubbed his head. ‘Why?’ he said.

  Agatha didn’t answer him. She stared at the flames, her mouth set.

  Iris’s heart sank. This had been her only hope. She backed away, dejected, and slipped out of the house into the forest.

  *

  Alexander folded his arms and watched sullenly as Agatha began to stoke the fire.

  ‘I know it seems harsh, boy,’ she said. ‘She’s a pretty one, and you, being a typical man, want to impress her, no doubt. But this isn’t the way.

  ‘You should go home, girl,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘before they start to wonder where you’ve got to.’ She turned to look at Iris when no response came. Alexander looked, too. She was gone.

  He stood and made for the door at once.

  ‘Wait!’ Agatha said, struggling to her feet. She put a hand on his arm. He was still angry with her and didn’t meet her eye. ‘Look at me,’ she said. Frowning, he looked at her. ‘Watch yourself with that one,’ she warned, lowering her voice. ‘She’s a Mortenstone.’

  6. AGE OLD ENEMIES

  On the eve of the Vandemere visit, Iris sat up late in the library leafing through books. A storm raged outside; rain lashed at the windows in furious bursts, but the hearth glowed comfortingly and she pulled her chair close to the fire for warmth.

  She had cried all the way home from Agatha’s cottage. The very moment she set eyes on her, she knew the old woman would not help, that Alexander could not help, that she alone was responsible for her fate. The walk back to The Light had been excruciating. It was as if her legs were made of stone; each step grew harder than the last, every muscle burdened with weight she could hardly bear. She didn’t want to return at all, to Mortenstone Castle, to her mother, to marriage. But, in truth, she was more afraid of living in darkness.

  She moped for days, wandering the corridors aimlessly and refusing to attend lessons. She didn’t speak to or even look at her father; her heart still stung with his betrayal. When she passed Lucian on the staircase, his sneers made her want to scream and throw herself over the railings just to wipe his smug smile away. Though who could say if it would.

  Then, one night, it came to her, as she dreamed a familiar dream. Always, it was the same. Always, the baby’s cries woke her. Only this time, upon waking, she did not feel sadness or fear, but hope. She snatched up her night robe, pulled on her boots and rushed down to the library, where she had remained ever since.

  The library door creaked open. Iris didn’t take her eyes off the book but she knew it was Thomas from his faltering footsteps. He cleared his throat to make his presence known, then dragged a chair over to the fireside and sat down opposite her.

  ‘Why do you spend so much time here? You hate studying.’

  ‘I have a need for it now,’ she said, turning page after page.

  ‘You have a need to learn Historic Tales of the Non-Magical Folk?’ he said, lifting up the cover to read it. ‘And… The Myths and Mysteries of the Passage to the Land of the Banished?’ He looked confused as he put the second book back on the table. ‘How is that useful?’

  ‘There weren’t any non-magical folk in the beginning. Did you know that?’ Iris said, looking up from the book. ‘Our ancestors stripped people of their magic and sent them off to die in the Dark Forest, just like father does. They had no food, no shelter or weapons and yet they made it all the way south to new lands. How? How did they survive?’

  Thomas looked more perplexed now than he had when he asked the question. He shrugged and shook his head.

  ‘Luck, I suppose.’

  ‘No, not luck. They survived because there is a safe passage in the Dark Forest that leads to the Land of the Banished.’

  ‘Iris, it’s just a story—’

  ‘No! It’s true, I know it is. We could find it.’

  ‘Find it? Have you gone mad? Mordarks roam the Dark Forest! And worse!’

  ‘There is nothing worse than Mordarks,’ Lucian said.

  Thomas and Iris both started at t
he sound of his voice. He emerged from the shadows. The bookcase through which he had entered closed softly, concealing the secret doorway.

  ‘I want to hear the rest of your story, Iris,’ he said, smiling as he approached, his footsteps silent against the stone floor. He came up behind Thomas’s chair and leant against it, watching her. His smile withered. ‘You can’t run from this marriage. You were born for the purpose of forging and maintaining alliances, all of you,’ he said, gesturing Thomas as well.

  Iris bit her lip and looked down at her book again.

  ‘You are here to assist my rule and keep our family name strong. You cannot abandon your duty. So put the book away.’

  When Lucian had gone, Iris sat back in her chair. She could taste blood in her mouth. Never fan the flame, her father had told her. But Lucian’s burned regardless of what she said or didn’t say.

  ‘Do you remember when we were younger and we saw father banish that man and his family?’ she said, staring into the fire.

  ‘Yes,’ Thomas said solemnly.

  ‘Do you think they deserved it?’ They sat in silence until, eventually, Thomas shook his head. ‘Neither do I,’ she said. ‘And yet father still did it. And if he could do that, what might Lucian be capable of? He is the future of this family, which means there is no future. Lucian is no leader. He will destroy the family name with or without our help. Why should I stay? Why should I sacrifice my happiness, my life?’

  ‘But you would risk your life searching for a mythical passage to a land that might not exist? Where is the sense in that?’

  ‘The land exists. Merlin himself travelled there, many times,’ she said, tapping the book of tales.

  ‘Many times? And what of the Misty Veil? You must remember the poem - Master Hagworth made us recite it a thousand times at least! Is that not in your book?’

  Iris remembered it well. All children knew the Poem of the Misty Veil, the magical border between the Dark Forest and the Land of the Banished, a border which, once crossed, could never be re-crossed. The poem told of countless tragedies – children who wandered through the veil, never to be seen again; lovers who, upon passing through its enchantment, lost all memory of their former lives and lived the rest of their days with empty hearts. The Misty Veil slipped between history and legend. Even Master Hagworth appeared to live in confusion about its existence. At times, he would denounce it as an old wives’ tale and blame the “simple people” of Edgeton for fuelling the rumours; at others, he would talk of it in such a way that there could be no doubt it was real.