by Donna Hosie
Melehan snaps out of his reverie. He can sense I can’t do this. There’s just too much noise and heat distracting me. Melehan’s long fingers link through mine and he steps closer, pressing his body against mine.
“The scars, the burns, that cover Jalaya were caused by the king’s Ddraig, Lady Mila,” he says softly. “The fate that befell her encampment will come down on us all if we do not fight back.”
A painful lump forms in my throat. My father, my aunt, what kind of people do they become in this world? Killers? Torturers? It’s said that power corrupts, but I never thought for a second that could refer to my own family.
The dragon has unleashed so much fire from its long mouth that we’re now covered in a dark grey haze of smoke. I can hear people screaming, but I can’t see why. I’m thankful for that innocence.
“Think. Control. Believe,” says Melehan. He squeezes my fingers and the purple fire sparks between us.
“Now, Mila,” cries Rustin. “Before it kills us all.”
“Ddraig fragorite.”
Blue and purple flames shoot from our hands, but instead of joining together in one swirling mass, they separate. The blue flame from Melehan disperses the choking smoke; the purple fire from me shoots like a missile into the underbelly of the red dragon. It screams a long, pained shriek, which vibrates painfully inside my skull, pushing against the back of my eyeballs. The dragon rolls over in the sky and somersaults several times, as its enormous, scaly, sail-like wings beat twice, slicing the tops of several trees like a knife through butter.
“Direct hit, Mila,” cries Rustin. “Now run while it’s distracted.”
Melehan pulls me over to Rustin and Jalaya. I keep looking over my shoulder for the other Gorians, but I can only see the outline of two black cloaks lying on the ground. Both are smoking with grey-blue wispy vapours.
“It will return,” sobs Jalaya. “They always return.”
“Then Mila will shoot it again,” shouts Rustin, trying to pull her up from the forest floor.
But Jalaya is right. The dragon is circling back, and this time there’s black liquid dripping from its belly. I watch as some of it lands on the still body of a Gorian druid. What was smoking before bubbles up into a frothing, sizzling explosion of blood and tissue. The smell hits us in a wave and we all gag.
“We need to find Freya,” I call to Melehan. He and Rustin are pulling at Jalaya’s arms like she’s a Christmas cracker. “We can’t leave her here.”
“You have sliced open the belly of the king’s Ddraig, Lady Mila,” replies Melehan, throwing Jalaya over his shoulder. “You need no more training from Freya, just better aim. You should have gone for its throat.”
The dragon is now screaming a continuous high-pitched noise that’s like a pneumatic drill. It’s bleeding into my ears.
“Lady Mila,” cries an ancient voice, old and weary. “What have you done?”
Freya comes stumbling towards us, supported by a middle-aged man. He is thick-set, with a round face and little neck. His long dark hair is flattened by sweat to his pock-marked face.
“She has protected her own,” the man cries. “Lady Mila is of Gorian blood. That Ddraig was sent here by the court of Camelot to destroy us. It has almost succeeded.”
“Why would my father do that?” I cry. “Why would he send a dragon to kill you?”
“Kill us, Lady Mila,” replies the man, spitting. His phlegm is swimming with blood. “The sorcerer, Merlin, despises the Gorian druids, despises all druids. The thought that you are now one of us would have sent him delirious with fear. He alone wishes to counsel the king and the court of Camelot. The knowledge that the king’s daughter could be more powerful than he means only thing: a declaration of war.”
Melehan is struggling to hold onto Jalaya. The dragon has gone, but we’re still surrounded by fire. The acrid stench is making my eyes water and my throat burn.
“My dad didn’t do this,” I say forcefully. “He would never put me in harm.”
“Your father kept the Ring of Morgana in his possession for sixteen years, knowing full well the power that cursed object has,” snaps the man holding Freya. “He puts people in harm everyday just by breathing.”
The effect his words have is instantaneous. I don’t have to think, control or believe – I just do, because family is everything.
And screw those that dare threaten my family.
Freya falls to the ground as the thick-set man rises into the air. Tendrils of thin purple fire are wrapped around his throat. He clutches at his neck, but there’s nothing there to hold onto. He starts to turn blue. Blood trickles from his mouth as he splutters.
“MILA, THAT’S ENOUGH.”
The spell is broken as I’m knocked to the ground. Rustin’s mouth is open. I can see his teeth with perfect precision. They’re so straight. Just like my dad’s...
“Rustin, what the hell just happened?” I gasp.
“You hurt him, Mila. You damn near killed him.”
The man – and I still don’t know his name – is lying on the ground. His eyes are bulging and I can see the broken blood vessels spreading out across the whites of his eyeballs.
“I said she was dangerous,” he gasps. He rolls onto his side and props himself up on his elbow, exposing his hairy stomach.
Then he laughs, which rapidly turns into a cough that produces a slick of blood-stained saliva on the back of his hairy hand.
“A declaration of war?” whispers Melehan. “Waged in the heart of Logres itself.”
“NO!” I cry. “There’s not going to be any war. There’s only Lilly.”
“The artisan will bring peace,” calls Jalaya. Far from being frozen, she’s now a floppy rag doll, thrown over Melehan’s shoulder like a rug.
Rustin is shaking his head. At first I think it’s because of all the crazy talk, but he flinches when I go towards him.
“What’s the matter?” My throat hurts so bad. It itches and burns.
“What did you just do, Mila?”
“He threatened my dad.” Every word is costing me. I want to rip open my own throat and tear and scratch at the lining until it bleeds.
“No, he didn’t,” whispers Rustin. “What’s happening to you, Mila? Your voice, your eyes, your actions. Everything about you is changing.”
“Nothing is changing,” I snap. “You’re talking rubbish. You always talk crap, Rustin.” Why can’t he see the pain I’m in? Why is he making me defend myself? I need to make him shut up. I could quieten him forever. I could silence them all.
Wind chimes are singing to me. Laughing at me. There’s a woman’s voice. I can hear her above the screams and the whispers and the snapping and cracking of the dying wood.
I want to fight her. I want to fight everyone. I don’t want to see smoke and red fire and black cloaks and people anymore. I want to see purple fire. I want to surround myself in flame and burn in its glory.
“NO!”
I fall to my knees. The woman stops singing and the wind chimes cease too.
“Did you know this would happen to her?” The worried voice belongs to Rustin, but I can’t see him anymore. Everything in this world is drowning in the tears that belong to me.
“The one who has the power to summon the purple flame has been spoken of in Logres and beyond for many moons,” says the voice of Freya. I can hear sadness in her tone. Regret. “Yet it has never been seen by those that still walk these woods.”
“In other words, no,” snaps Rustin. “You’ve unlocked this power-magic-thing inside of Mila, not knowing what the hell it would do to her. I thought I was going to be the one who could be in trouble here, but it’s Mila, isn’t it.”
“She can control it,” replies Freya.
“LOOK AT HER,” yells Rustin. “DOES SHE LOOK AS IF SHE’S IN CONTROL?”
My fingers and toes feel so cold, and yet the back of my neck is burning. Spasms of pain are still throbbing in my throat. I’m scared I’m going to hurt someone – really hurt so
meone.
And I’m terrified that person will be Rustin.
“You have to leave me, Rustin,” I croak. His name gets trapped in my throat and I cough up blood-stained mucus into my sleeve. The smell of death covers me. Smoke and fire and incinerated human flesh.
“I’m not leaving you,” he replies forcefully. “I’m leaving with you.”
“But I’m scared.”
“Which is why I’m not leaving you.”
He flinched before when I went towards him, but now Rustin is the one coming for me. He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me up. His calloused fingers stroke my tear-streaked face. Rustin holds his finger out; he’s caught a teardrop on the end. It looks filthy, but I think that’s just the dirt on Rustin’s hand.
“Remember who you are, Mila,” he says softly. “The real you. The girl who eats vinegar-soaked chip butties from a van down by the hang-out. The girl who has slam-dunked everyone who has ever taken the piss out of me because of my name. The girl who aces math just to make her dad happy. The girl who would travel back in time to save her little sister.”
And then he kisses me. Not like the time we kissed at the hang-out. Not a long, mouths open, fingers in the hair and down the back kind of kiss, but a soft touching of our lips. Rustin has his eyes closed this time too.
I know because I keep mine open.
He pulls away and smiles sheepishly at me.
“Sorry, I couldn’t think of another way to get you to stop attacking people.”
“I might thump you instead.” I know I’m blushing because I can feel it, but it’s nice feeling normal inside my own skin once more.
“It’s worth the risk.”
“This is all very touching,” says Melehan, and his voice is so deep it’s almost growling. “But we have to get away. The king and his men could be upon us in moments, and the Ddraig could be healing as we tarry. The Vale of Avalon was our original destination. Has that now changed?”
Melehan is glaring at me. I can feel his dark eyes cutting into me. I know why. Just a few hours ago I was kissing him. Now I’m kissing Rustin. But I’m not the kind of girl he thinks I am. I’m not like Marty Carter. She sleeps with anything that has a pulse. I didn’t even kiss a boy until I was fifteen, and that was Rustin.
But I don’t know what kind of girl I am anymore. I’m not who I thought I was.
“Freya, can you walk?” I ask, turning away from Melehan’s contemptuous stare.
The old woman shakes her head. Two large burns are seared across her wrinkled bald scalp. “Leave me,” she gasps.”
“I’ll carry her,” says Rustin. “Melehan can take Jalaya, and you...” Rustin looks at the thick-set man. “You stay away from Mila.”
“My name is Joseph,” says the man. “And I will take my chance.”
I don’t know how long we walk for. Joseph becomes our unelected leader and steers what’s left of the Gorian group away from the fire and smoke and the toxic poison of the bleeding dragon. I keep my ears primed for the neigh of a horse or the marrow-chilling slice of metal against metal, but there’s nothing. Not even a bird in the sky.
It’s as if we six are the only people left in time.
Melehan’s words hang around me like an echo as we walk. A declaration of war. But who has declared war? Was it Merlin who sent the dragon after us? There’s no way it was my father. I know he’s a king here, but he’s not going to declare war on a handful of druids.
But that just leaves one person: me. By stopping his dragon from incinerating everything in its path, have I inadvertently declared war on my own father? My knowledge of history isn’t as great as Rustin’s, but I pay attention enough to get good grades in that subject. I know wars are started over the most stupid of reasons. World War I was started because Archduke Ferdinand was shot by the Black Hand Gang, and the Trojan War came about because Paris couldn’t keep his hands off the King of Sparta’s wife.
But those were real. This is a living myth. There are different rules for the fantastical that happens to be real. I don’t know the protocols here. For all I know, I have started a war.
I’m so tired I could cry. We walk for miles until my legs are silently screaming in pain. Melehan and Rustin are supporting Jalaya and Freya and can barely put one foot in front of the other. I’m not sure the old woman is even conscious anymore. But still we trek through the never-ending forest.
Eventually, even Joseph can walk no further. He collapses next to a large hollow log that’s covered in lichen. Melehan places Jalaya on the ground and she immediately crawls into the log for safety.
“How much further?” asks Rustin, falling down into a pile of dry leaves that billow up like brown crushed confetti as he lands in them.
“The Vale is close,” replies Freya. “What do you hear, Lady Mila?”
“Mila?”
“Lady Mila?”
I ignore Freya, Rustin and Melehan. A path, at least ten yards wide, has appeared in the trees. The branches on either side have bent over, forming a green canopy.
A wooden tunnel.
The tree trunks have morphed. They’re no longer one solid block of wood entering the ground. They have divided into two, so each tree in the tunnel looks like it has legs. They’ve changed colour too. No longer differing shades of brown, they have become one of two colours: charred black or chalk-like white.
I can’t see to the end of the tunnel the trees have formed, it’s too dark. But there’s something moving, hovering, like a tiny ball of pale blue light.
“What can you see, Lady Mila?”
“A light,” I reply, walking towards it. It’s pulling me.
“There’s nothing there, Mila,” calls Rustin. “Sit down and get some food before Melehan eats it all.”
But he’s wrong. There is something there. The closer I get, the clearer it becomes. I can see a full shadowy outline now. There’s a person in the tunnel. Tall and willowy.
And the Ring of Morgana is on her finger.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Artisan Revealed
I’ve seen her before, but I can’t remember where. It’s like a long lost memory that doesn’t want to resurface. She smiles at me. Her lips are thin and her teeth are very straight. They aren’t a dazzling white, and they don’t distract from the shimmering ring on her finger, but it’s also the strongest colour that emanates from her. The rest of her tall figure is still bathed in dark shadows, which dance around her body in a swirling vortex.
The tree tunnel is creaking and groaning. A hand on my shoulder startles me.
“Don’t go any further, Mila. It’s a trap.”
It’s Rustin. His mouth is slightly open and he’s staring at the trees with a quizzical look on his face, as if he’s concentrating real hard. I’ve seen him make that same face in history lessons, the one school subject – apart from woodwork – where he really tries.
“Can you see her?” I whisper.
“There’s no one there, Mila.”
“There is, there’s a woman, and she’s wearing the ring,” I reply, taking another step towards the woman. I can see her face properly now, although the shadows are still swirling around her figure. She’s so beautiful. Her eyes are aquamarine and her blonde hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders. She’s gliding back into the darkness. I can still feel the tugging in my chest. She wants me to follow her. I need to follow her. I want that ring. I need that ring.
Rustin increases the pressure on my shoulder. “They say it’s a trap. Whatever you’re walking towards is going to hurt you, Mila,” he says.
The woman stops smiling and scowls. Her blue eyes narrow and her thin mouth disappears into a straight line. Shadows form underneath her high cheekbones, making her face appear more skeletal.
“Who says it’s a trap? Freya? Joseph? I’m not listening to them anymore,” I say. “She has the ring, Rustin. I can see it.”
But Rustin steps in front of me, blocking my line of sight to the woman. I can hear her c
alling a name. It’s like an echo, but it’s distorted, as if it’s coming from under water.
“Arthur…Arthur…Arthur…”
“The trees are talking to me, Mila,” whispers Rustin. His eyes are still fixed firmly on the canopy of leaves that’s stretched over us. “I can hear the trees.”
“You mean you can hear wind in the trees,” I reply.
But Rustin shakes his head. “No, Mila. I can hear the trees. They’re talking to me. Just like the trees spoke to me the first time you did magic with Freya. They’re old, Mila. Really old. Their voices…they’re so deep. They’re tired, weary.”
Rustin’s voice is starting to change too. He’s always had a deeper voice than most of the boys at school, but now he’s starting to sound like a bass.
“He is mine…he is mine…he is mine…” says the woman.
I place my hands on Rustin’s shoulders and peer around him. The woman is still there, but something strange is happening to the shadows. They aren’t swirling around her body anymore, they are sucking at it. She’s disappearing, like water down a plughole.
“The ring,” I gasp, and I run towards her, catching Rustin off guard. He makes a grab for me and pulls me back, just as my fingers are about to close in on the ring.
And then she’s gone. The branches of the trees pull back to their normal position, and the path disappears as the trunks move in around us without disturbing the earth. Their wooden legs become one trunk again, and the bark is coloured back to lichen-covered brown.
“Why did you do that?” I scream at Rustin. “I almost had it. I was inches from grabbing that ring.”
“Whatever that vision was to you, it was a trap,” yells Rustin.
“A trap?” I cry. “A trap? And I should listen to you because all of a sudden you can talk to trees?”
“No, Mila,” snaps Rustin. “You should listen to me because I’m your best friend.”