‘Well spotted,’ his mother tells him. She swallows and says, ‘No Spell can sow fear itself, but you can create the conditions for it. This is a Spell of Presentiment – a threat Worked into the air. It is already in our lungs; soon will be in our head and hearts too.’
A door opens behind the platform.
A long line of monks in dark robes file onto the stage.
Lady Mountfathom swears.
And Major Fortflay follows them – Luke notices the pistol at his belt and a single sheet of paper in his hand. Appears as uncomfortable as any with the Spell that has been set in the chamber, doesn’t wish to linger. Doesn’t sit but instead scans the room – he sees Luke and Lady Mountfathom, and his mouth at first makes a sour shape, but soon becomes more akin to a smirk.
A moment more, and Major Fortflay is joined on the platform by another figure.
Luke hears his mother breathe: ‘The Politomancer.’
A man, but like no man Luke has ever seen – like the Spell he has set on Dublin, the Politomancer is composed of pale smoke and vapour. Like a Messenger, but more substantial. Like a Trace? More malign – eyes a cold blue-white, and as he drifts silently across the platform into position beside the Major, the Politomancer fixes his gaze on Luke and Lady Mountfathom. And Luke thinks to himself, He knew we would come. We have been lured here. This is a trap.
KILLIAN
When the room does show itself there isn’t much to see – large table, battered but spotless; a chimneybreast harbouring no fire but with hundreds of books packed without benefit of shelves into two spaces on either side.
‘Never thought I’d see the hour,’ says the Cailleach, somewhere thereabouts in the dark, ‘that the Lord of the Mountfathom, the head of the Driochta, would come to this lowly bit of the city!’
‘Believe me,’ answers Mountfathom, ‘I would not be making such a trip if it were not necessary.’
‘Oh, then how lucky I am!’ says the woman, and shuffles into sight. ‘Should praise dull stars and grey slop of sun in the sky!’
‘Give over!’ says Killian.
The Cailleach smiles, shows those small teeth.
‘I do realise,’ says Lord Mountfathom, ‘that the relationship between the Driochta and those who practise other brands of Magic has not been the most harmonious.’
Laughter from the woman – a damp snort followed by, ‘True enough! Harmony doesn’t tend to follow capture and torture, does it, my good sir?’
‘However,’ says Mountfathom quickly, ‘I wish to remedy this. I think we may now need to rely more on one another. That is part of my reason for coming to you today.’
‘And the other?’ asked the woman.
Many moments begrudgingly go by. Killian wonders when Mountfathom might mention the missing woman – Lady Vane-Tempest – but instead Lord Mountfathom says, ‘We would like you to Uncover someone.’
The Cailleach finds a stool beneath the large table, drags it out with a squeal and scales it. When she is settled, hands over her potbelly, her smile still wide, she says, ‘Why not yourself? No mirrors left for Predicting on? No ink left to spill and shape?’
‘That is not the reason,’ says Mountfathom.
‘Then why?’ demands the woman.
‘I cannot,’ says Lord Mountfathom. ‘The House is too open now – the Spells around the demesne are failing. We are too vulnerable, and such a Spell may as much draw others to us as much as we would seek to Uncover them.’
Killian feels he should speak, thinks Mountfathom is stupidly saying too much truth to this woman. But when he steps forward and opens his mouth, the Cailleach tells him, ‘Oh, calm yourself, boy! I have no wish to steal one of the Big Houses and set myself up with the family silver and finery! I place no value in fine furnishings.’
‘I can see that,’ says Killian.
‘So those in the Castle no longer trust their most faithful servants?’ says the Cailleach, turning back to Lord Mountfathom. ‘How the upstanding are beginning to crumble. That foolish Major must be running rightly scared.’
She laughs.
But Lord Mountfathom stands taller and says, ‘You may gloat at what is happening, but I assure you now it is no cause for mirth. If the Major has his way, these tenements would be the first things to go. He has no conscience for the poor or ill-fated.’
‘And you do?’ says the Cailleach. Her eyes shiver a little, resettling on Killian. ‘Oh, but the answer is here with us – taking in strays now in order to ease your own guilt?’
Killian swears at the woman. This amuses her muchly.
‘Oh, yes! A true child of the tenements he is, with a mouth like that!’
Killian silenced. It bothers him, being seen so clearly by this creature. He struggles to say, ‘She can’t help us. Let’s go. This was a stupid idea.’
‘Oh, I can help,’ whispers the Cailleach. ‘I think perhaps I am your only help now.’
Killian doesn’t speak.
Suddenly her slack old face finds a tautness and she says, ‘I will need your blood, Mountfathom. A drop is all. As you would use ink, so I will need blood for this Uncovering.’
And Lord Mountfathom says without a pause, ‘Agreed. Let us begin.’
LUKE
The Major begins to speak.
‘We have never known such dark times! Never experienced such unrest and dissent! Never known such evil as now. Houses are being burned, families massacred, lives wiped out!’ Major Fortflay stops, turns over the page and continues in a stilted, stumbling fashion. ‘This country is slowly being dismantled and its Union and bonds of friendship fractured. This is something, regretfully, that it is not within my power to repair. However, I will not see out the remainder of my long service on this island as a mere overseer of civil war and ruin.’
‘He didn’t write this,’ Lady Mountfathom whispers.
‘How do you know?’ says Luke.
‘I have, unfortunately, known the Major for years. He is not an unintelligent man, but this polite turn of phrase is not his. The sentiment belongs to him, no doubt about it. Our Major Fortflay has become a mouthpiece – a ventriloquist’s dummy sitting on the knee of the state, with the hand of Westminster up his backside.’
‘The time has come for action,’ says the Major. ‘I believe we can only bring this country under control by force! I have the consent and agreement of the oldest of Orders in this country.’ He looks to the line of monks on stage – hands tucked into their sleeves, heads lowered. They say nothing. ‘And we have agreed on a way forward. We have tried to reason and debate with these Land Grabbers, but the time has come for more aggressive powers. For a more merciless form of Magic.’
Major Fortflay looks now to the Politomancer – the pale and silent figure that Luke realises is the one now in control of matters within the Castle. Realises something else too –
‘There isn’t going to be any vote.’
‘No,’ says his mother. ‘There never was.’
The Politomancer raises one near-transparent hand and Luke feels a sudden stab at his heart – an arrow of pure cold. And on the platform the monks shudder and one by one sink to their knees. Around the room all delegates shiver and slump in their seats at the intensity of the Spell.
‘Mother,’ is all Luke manages to say. He feels her taking his hand.
‘Be ready,’ she says. Squeezes his hand tighter. ‘Be ready to fight.’
The door behind the platform opens: a fresh Spell enters the chamber –
Luke hears his mother swear once more –
In a slow, silent prowl onto the platform, creatures composed of the same smoke and vapour as the Politomancer – not wolves nor dogs nor hounds, but something close. Claws sharp and eyes blue-white, the pack stops silent on the brink of the platform.
‘The Pall,’ says Major Fortflay, and in his voice Luke detects some thread of fear. ‘They shall go into the countryside and track down each and every person who opposes the rule of the Crown, and they shall destroy them. They
do not tire or need sleep, and shall be our best weapons against any resistance. From this moment on, the Politomancer will oversee all brands of Magic in Ireland. Anyone who is caught performing any Spell or Enchantment will be arrested, and will be executed. Consequently, the Order known as the Driochta is therefore disbanded, and its members now considered enemies of the Crown.’
Once more Lady Mountfathom tells Luke, ‘Be ready.’
And all eyes – delegates, Gards, Major, the Politomancer and creatures of the Pall – settle on Luke and his mother.
Fortflay cannot suppress a smirk as he says, ‘Gards, arrest them.’
KILLIAN
The Cailleach raises a long silver needle and tells Lord Mountfathom, ‘Your wrist.’
‘Why there?’ asks Lord Mountfathom, with more curiosity than concern.
‘It is where the blood is bluest,’ says the Cailleach.
Mountfathom unbuttons and peels back his sleeve and the Cailleach pierces the needle deep. Killian wants to shout out or snatch Mountfathom’s wrist away but forces himself to wait. When the needle is coated in blood, the Cailleach takes from beneath the table a small rectangle of mirror. She holds the needle above.
‘Not unlike your Mirror-Predicting,’ says the old woman.
Mountfathom doesn’t reply – he and Killian watch the dark beads of blood tremble on the tip of the needle … and still they do not fall.
‘Are you prepared for what you might see?’ asks the Cailleach.
Lord Mountfathom waits. Nods.
And finally blood leaves the needle to fall and blot the mirror.
Instantly: surface is swept with dark, with an unknown not unlike the Gloaming. Killian watches the last scrap of reflection vanish. And Lord Mountfathom tells him, ‘Killian: I want you to describe the man who brought you to Mountfathom.’
Killian looks at him. Confused. Opens his mouth to speak, but –
‘Please,’ says Mountfathom. ‘Do as I wish.’
Killian says, ‘He had all this white hair. He had dark eyes. He –’
Stops. Already the Gloaming is trying to Uncover someone – already a small storm at its heart, a pale swirling like so many hands delving, seeking … Uncovering …
‘Keep describing!’ croaks the Cailleach.
‘Please keep going,’ says Lord Mountfathom.
Killian wets his lips and says, ‘He was skinny.’
‘What did he say to you?’ says the witch. ‘No one can be Uncovered merely through sight – what did this man say to you, what words?’
Killian says, ‘He told me he was someone who could’ve been someone. Said he had the chance once but it was taken away from him. He –’
Falters at the sight – the Gloaming has something and is trying to show it but the thing is struggling. Like something hooked in the deep that doesn’t want to be reeled in …
‘Don’t stop!’ cries the Cailleach. ‘We’re going to lose him!’
‘Killian, you have imagination,’ Mountfathom tells him. ‘Use it – what do you think he meant by his words?’
Killian shouts, ‘I don’t bloody know! I think he must be linked to someone at the House.’
And then the mirror clears – for only a moment they see the man called Mr Gassin.
‘Where is this man now?’ asks Mountfathom.
The picture widens: they see the man with faded hair in a field, and beside and around him are a whole battalion of soldiers.
‘Gards,’ says Lord Mountfathom.
But Killian has his own question to ask.
‘Who does he know at Mountfathom? Who gave him that sheet that invited him into the grounds?’
Another figure surfaces in the mirror: hand in hand, the man with faded hair stands beside a tall adolescent, someone skinny and dark-haired and looking a lot like that manservant Findlater –
‘No more!’ says Lord Mountfathom, and Works a quick hand in the air and the mirror cracks as though struck by a hammer. ‘We have seen enough.’
LUKE
‘Now, Luke!’
Lady Mountfathom stands and whips her Needle from her belt and whirls it in the air –
A roar as a rush of amber fire surrounds the platform –
Delegates fall to the ground to cower, monks still on their knees and praying ardent prayers –
Gards hurry towards Luke and his mother with rifles raised and aimed –
Luke weaves a complicated Spell of Inertia. The approaching Gards are swept into the air as though by an invisible tide and in an instant are drifting, helpless as slumbering infants –
‘Go,’ says his mother, and pushes him on towards the door.
Cry of the Major, ‘Get them!’
More Gards lift their weapons –
Doors of the chamber are thrown open and into the room springs a cheetah that pounces on the Gards and swipes the rifles from their hands –
Luke sees Fortflay take the pistol from his belt and aim at them but his mother is alert to all – another whirl of her Needle and a torrent of water crashes through the tall windows behind the platform and knocks Fortflay from his feet.
But the Politomancer and the creatures of the Pall do nothing – do not move or act or try to pursue.
His mother pushes him on – ‘Keep going!’ – and with the cheetah beside them they leave the chamber and bolt down corridor after corridor and out into the courtyard –
Air polluted with dark –
Spells of Security are crumbling; so much cinder and ash finding its way through in sliver and fleck, like dark snowfall sifting through the air and settling on flagstones.
‘My Lady,’ says Dorrick, ‘look!’
He is pointing his Needle towards the sky. And at first Luke does not see … now suddenly, shockingly, a glimpse: the blackness parts and for a heart-chilling moment he makes out the sleek body of a flying Ash-Dragon.
KILLIAN
Another smash of glass –
By the window – men from the tenements trying to force their way in –
Killian sees a rifle in the hands of one of the men so shouts, ‘Get down!’
Window shattered by gunshots as Killian falls to the floor –
But Lord Mountfathom doesn’t shift – in a moment he has his Needle whipped from his belt and whirls it through the air to divert bullets, sending them into wall and floor and ceiling.
And the Cailleach is screeching and crawling towards the fireplace –
‘Don’t let her leave!’ shouts Mountfathom. ‘We must find Helena!’
Killian has been waiting for this moment; takes so much relish as he grabs the old woman by the throat and shouts, ‘A woman came to see you – where is she? We know she’s here! Tell me or I’ll bloody strangle you!’
A slash of silver –
Needle wielded by the Cailleach swipes across his cheek and he releases her. She crawls fast into the fireplace and is swallowed.
Ringing silence: some pause as the men outside reload –
Killian stands beside Lord Mountfathom and tells him, ‘She didn’t tell me anything.’
‘No matter,’ says Mountfathom. ‘I told you my Magic is more powerful than any Cailleach.’ And he lifts the hand not holding the Needle and commands, ‘Foilsigh!’
Killian feels the whole room – whole house – vibrate; tremble as though it is being squeezed for its secrets. Shaken and shaken until behind them the Spell Mountfathom has shouted springs a concealed panel. Killian sees inside an animal: blue-green and faintly iridescent, bound by the legs and around the wings. A peacock.
‘Free her,’ says Mountfathom. ‘Quickly!’
Killian snatches up a shard of mirror they used for the Uncovering and kneels to carefully saw through the ropes knotted around the peacock. His fingers touch feather, feel the stickiness of blood – the bird looks on with small and near-lightless eyes. But as soon as the bonds fall free the peacock is on its feet and extending its wings, testing and flexing them.
Lord Mountfathom shou
ts, ‘Be ready now!’ And to Killian he hands the emerald key and says, ‘Stay close to us. We need a door, and quickly.’
And as the men of the tenements raise their guns, Mountfathom Mogrifies into the Irish elk – a towering form! All heaving flank and dark eyes and antlers so vast they touch the walls on either side –
Moments of surprise amongst the men outside –
Enough for the elk to charge and the peacock to take flight and crash through the remains of the window with Killian following in a leap –
Onto the cobbled street where the dozen tenement men are falling back. But Killian knows any confusion or fear won’t last long in them.
A door, he thinks. A door! So simple a thing but now he is so desperate he can’t see one! Most are open or have other men at them, watching.
He shouts to the elk and the peacock, ‘This way! Follow me!’
It has taken less time than he thought for the men to regroup –
Gunfire resumes –
Elk charges into the men, scattering them –
Peacock lifting into the air and plunging, diving with such violence downward to rake shoulders and arms and scalps –
Killian rounds the corner and is back onto the street where he used to live shouting, ‘Here! Here!’ Stops and stands on the doorstep of his old home. ‘And here goes.’
He jams the emerald key into the lock and turns it. Waits and hardly a moment later arrives the long, loud note; opens the door onto the Gloaming.
Killian turns –
Peacock sails past him through the doorway but –
A gunshot strikes the elk on the hind leg and Mountfathom falls.
‘For fecksake,’ says Killian. He runs to the animal and meets the man Lord Mountfathom instead. ‘You couldn’t just use your antlers and injure them a bit?’ says Killian, taking the Lord under the arms and lifting. ‘Had to be charitable to the end, eh?’
Mountfathom is saying, ‘Leave me. Go now.’
‘Oh, shut up,’ says Killian, little bother to him dragging a fully-grown man – has done it enough when his father is found half-dead on the streets of Belfast.
Mountfathom tells him, ‘You must not tell my son what we saw in the mirror. You must not tell Luke. He won’t understand. Promise me.’
The House of Mountfathom Page 19