by Holly Race
‘Dad’s debating her tonight,’ Lottie is saying, ‘and he wants me to be in the audience.’
‘Sounds like a bore,’ Victoria von Gellert says. ‘Free tickets, Lot, to The Minxes.’
‘Sorry, Vix, can’t get out of it.’
‘You can’t run from us, Lottie Medraut. We will find you and we will drag you to this concert.’
Oh, to have friends who want to spend time with you that badly. Still, on the whole, my fellow squires aren’t as objectionable as I’d thought they would be. That night, as Lottie watches her dad’s debate and her friends bounce up and down to The Minxes, I am waiting outside an Annwn classroom with my fellow squires. A reeve slides to a halt beside us, brandishing a sheaf of papers. ‘Don’t suppose one of you could pop this down to the archives?’ he asks us. ‘Gawain have just caught some PR guy who’s been causing havoc and I need to organise all the checks and identifications.’
One of the facets of the knights’ job is to find aventures who’ve come into Annwn through illegal portals – black market items in Ithr that only the richest can afford.
Ollie pipes up. ‘Fern will do it. She’s a los— I mean, a loner.’
I wait for the sniggering. So does Ollie. It doesn’t come.
‘Give it a rest,’ Ramesh mutters, and Phoebe glances at Ollie with disapproval. I don’t understand what’s happening. This isn’t the natural order. Ollie makes a joke at my expense, everyone laughs, I remind myself that people are jerks. This new turn of events is too confusing.
‘It’s okay, I don’t mind doing it.’ I pluck the papers from the reeve’s hand. As I head towards the staircase down to the lower levels, I look back. Ollie is quiet, separated from the others. At St Stephen’s he had Jenny and her lot to back him up. I’d just assumed that no matter how welcoming they are to me at the moment, eventually Ramesh and Phoebe would follow Ollie’s example and turn on me as well. Maybe I was wrong about them. It’s an uncomfortable realisation.
The archives are exactly as I remember them: cosy and not a little claustrophobic, like a cocoon.
The paper I’m holding – An Investigation into the Inherent Properties of Morrigan Abilities – is already starting to flicker from new to faded. At some point the inspyre that forms writing in Annwn will probably change the font too.
I turn my attention to the plaques labelling each shelf. Each of the bookcases is on wheels so that they can be compressed and separated, like an accordion.
Personnel records, maps, London reports, national reports 2001–2010, national reports 2011–2020 … I heave on the handle and slip inside the gap that opens up. I stuff the report into its appropriate stack and head for the door, keen to get back to class.
That’s when the thought occurs to me. Mum.
I check the door. I know I don’t have long before someone starts questioning where I’ve got to.
I turn around and head deeper into the archives, running my hands over the plaques, looking for the right one.
Personnel records.
Such an innocuous title for something that holds so much potential. I glance round once more before pulling on the handle to the bookcase.
There are more records than I’d imagined. They’re sorted by century, then by decade, then by name. I give in to curiosity and pick up the very first folder which, anachronistically, is printed in modern Comic Sans. There, right at the top, is the name King Arthur Pendragon. I run a finger over the ink. It’s hard to conceive of records so old. I remember Nimue’s words at the Tournament. She had said that Arthur had betrayed them; tried to destroy them, in fact. Whenever I’ve tried to find out what that means, the teachers avoid answering. None of the books in the knights’ chamber mention much about Arthur after he set up the thanes, skipping quickly instead to the years after his death.
The folder in my hands contains parchment so ancient and thin that the slightest touch of my fingers tears it. I have to rest the pages on my palm to read them.
King Arthur Pendragon
Herewith founded the Knights of the Round Table in the Castle of Tintagel in the country of Annwn
On this day 24th January in the year of Our Lord 456.
Through the blessing of the Lord Merlin and Lady Guinevere and all the other Fay of Annwn.
Through Arthur, the once and future king, he of the far-seeing gaze, the wielder of Immral, the power and glory of the Otherworld shall be visited upon the Earthly Realm.
A shiver crawls up my spine. Out of everything that has happened in the last month, this is, somehow, the strangest. I still have books Dad read to me as a child about King Arthur and his knights. Seeing his name here, diluted into a dry entry in a file of records, makes me feel odd. I am living inside the legacy of a mythical king.
Something rumbles in the ceiling, as though someone’s dragging a heavy object across the floor above. Stop messing around, Fern. I slide the parchment back inside its folder and move down the stacks. I’ve lost sight of the passageway that leads out of the archives before I reach the 1990s, which must have been when Mum became a knight. I rifle through the Ks, looking for King, Una. I find Kindrick, Scott followed by Kingsberry, Cadwyn, but nothing where my mother’s record should be. Then I remember that Lord Allenby called Mum by her maiden name. She joined before she married Dad. How could I have been so thick? I run back up the passageway to G. There. Gorlois, Una.
My hand is shaking in time with my heartbeat. The folder has a dusty red cover and is pregnant with paper. My whole life I’ve wanted to know more about my mother. This is an Important Moment. There should be fireworks, or at least a drum roll.
When I open the folder, I’m expecting a sheaf of typed papers. I’m totally unprepared for the painting that sits on top. Oils are daubed in confident strokes. There’s no room for sky or a backdrop in this picture. The artist devoted every centimetre of their canvas to a single face. Wild black hair and pale skin frame dark eyes.
‘Mum,’ I breathe.
I kneel. This is my mother, as no photo of her has ever captured. Warmth and mischief bubble across the dimples in her cheeks. There’s unassailable confidence – the kind I see in Ollie – in the toss of her hair. A signature rests in the corner: EC.
There’s something secret, illicit, about this likeness. It was not created for this folder or these dusty archives – it was intended to be a shared gift, between artist and subject.
Eventually I put the portrait to one side and read the papers beneath. Information I know – name, birthday, residence – flicker in and out of focus through the sudden blurriness in my eyes. Further pages yield facts I didn’t know about her. Lancelot regiment. Horse: Aethon (black Arab). I wonder if she was as close to Aethon as I am to Lamb. These snippets aren’t enough. She’s still out of reach.
The next page I find is apparently a notice of disciplinary action. 15th December 2000. Admitted to negligence while out on patrol. Suspended from active duties for six months.
Six months. Negligence? This isn’t the Mum I wanted. What did she do? Maybe she took a detour to look into something she shouldn’t have … like I’m doing now, I think. That must be it. A big punishment for a small transgression. I push that particular piece of paper to the bottom of the pile.
An ink stamp on the next page prints the word Resigned. A date is scribbled underneath it – 2nd July 2005. A month after Ollie and I were born. A month before she died.
I hurry up a few shelves to those marked Lancelot regiment, pulling down the one marked 2004–2005. I flick through until I find a list of the regiment’s members that year. There’s Una Gorlois, near the top. Ellen Cassell is just above it. Perhaps this is the EC who painted Mum’s portrait.
There’s something else: a red scrawl next to many of the names, faded unlike the rest of the ink, as though it doesn’t want to be deciphered. Died in the line of duty. It’s next to Ellen Cassell’s name. I scan down the list. There it is again, and again, and again. Next to nearly every single name, right down to the final one: Clem
ent Rigby. Died in the line of duty. That tallies with the death call of names on the columns a floor above me. There are only two people who don’t have that tragic footnote next to their record. One is my mother. The other name is at the top of the list: Lionel Allenby. So he and my mum were the only survivors – at first, anyway. No wonder he said they were friends; they were the only people left in their regiment by the end.
What did happen in 2005? This kind of massacre wasn’t normal. I’d studied the names and years on the columns at length. Before 2005 there wasn’t a death in Tintagel since 1998, and there’s only been a handful since.
I run back out into the aisle. My absence is going to be noticed soon but I have to make the most of this opportunity.
Tintagel Records, 2001–2010.
I rush along, pulling out the files for 2005 and flicking through them randomly until I realise that I’m not actually reading anything. I have to take deep breaths and deliberately slow down. It’s no use looking without seeing.
So I look, and I see. One name stands out on the pages, repeated in ever more panicked handwriting.
Sebastien Medraut.
Lottie’s father. Up and coming politician. Irrelevant to me before now except as the handsome dad to one of my peers and the opponent to one of the only people to show me genuine kindness.
5th April 2005
Medraut struck again today. As with his other victims, he left his mark. None of the Gawain regiment returned from their patrol, but their weapons were left behind, with his trademark verse. We are working towards uncovering how he is orchestrating the deaths, given that he must be too weak to commit them himself.
‘Fern? Fern King?’
The voice of the reeve makes me jump.
‘Are you still down here? I’ve got Mr Blake asking after you.’
‘Coming! Sorry, I got lost!’ I shout, taking one final look at the papers. On the next page, a single line reads, He has a treitre. God help us.
I stuff the papers untidily back into the folder, but before I push my mother’s folder back into its place, I slip EC’s portrait into my pocket. It drums my hip as the reeve ushers me up the stairs towards the classroom. I don’t learn anything else that night. My mind is focused on a man with violet eyes, whose daughter goes to my school. A man who, despite apparently orchestrating the deaths of knights fifteen years ago, is still at large. I want to cry, and I want to scream. Why is no one hunting him down?
16
By the morning, my heart has that deep, sinking feeling I always get when I can’t process something terrible. For the first time since moving to Bosco, school once again feels like crossing enemy lines. I am on edge as I approach the entrance: will Medraut be dropping off his daughter this morning? Will I bump into him in the corridors as he’s on his way to a meeting with the headmaster?
‘You’re skittish today, Fern,’ my English teacher remarks. ‘Are you quite all right?’
I shrug her off, inadvertently catching Lottie Medraut’s eye. Is it just paranoia, or is she paying more attention to me? It had never occurred to me before that I might already know people in Ithr, other than Ollie, who are also aware of Annwn. Is Lottie one of them? How much does she know about her father? For that matter, how much do I know about him?
At lunchtime I head over to the computer room and search for Sebastien Medraut online. I disregard the recent articles and try to find out what he was doing in Ithr at the time of my birth – at the time of Lottie’s birth too, I guess. Medraut was apparently engineering the deaths of hundreds of knights while expecting the arrival of his child. The Internet throws up some articles mentioning Lottie’s birth a few months before Ollie and I were born. Then, at the start of 2005, I find what I’ve been looking for.
Rising Star of Politics Steps Down
Last night, in a move that has shocked thousands of his loyal followers, Sebastien Medraut, founder of the One Voice party, announced that he would be stepping down from his role as leader of the party, effective immediately. Looking emotional and visibly shaking, Medraut apologised to the members of his party, which has grown to encompass an impressive 113,000 members since its inception in 2003.
The article goes on, but I’m already looking up a video of his resignation speech. On the film, it’s obvious that Medraut is ill. He’s hunched over the podium, his fists clenching and unclenching robotically. He’s frowning as though he’s having difficulty reading the autocue and his voice, which is usually so measured, has an uneven timbre, occasionally veering into a shout, sometimes becoming too quiet for the microphones to pick up. But the most striking part of the video is his eyes. I can’t be certain, but it looks as though they are … less violet. As though something’s sucked the colour from them and left them bleak and grey.
I pull out my knightbook and scribble, What happened to Medraut in January 2005? Then, underlined, EYES.
By the end of lunch I am steadier. Research has allowed me to regain some control, to find a beacon in the sea of chaos and questions that has been pulling me under since last night.
When I get home I turn the telly on straight away, barely greeting Dad.
‘Hey, homework first, Ferny,’ he objects from the kitchen.
‘It’s the news,’ I tell him, switching channels. I land, finally, on something that looks promising.
‘Last night MP for Newham, Helena Corday, debated newly elected MP for Kensington and Chelsea, Sebastien Medraut,’ a newsreader says. ‘Medraut recently replaced disgraced Shadow Secretary John Lawrence in a snap by-election, storming to a landslide victory with his newly reinvigorated One Voice party.’
The TV displays a clip of the two politicians standing behind podiums. ‘We must be unified,’ Medraut is saying. ‘One voice, across the nation.’
Helena Corday grimaces and rolls her eyes, but anyone watching can see she’s the one who’s looking weak.
‘Not you as well.’ Dad nudges me over and hands me a bacon sandwich dripping with ketchup. He tucks into his own.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your mother was obsessed with him.’
My blood goes hot. ‘Mum?’
‘I teased her something rotten about it.’
‘Did you ever ask her why?’ I ask Dad.
‘She said she didn’t trust him. That was all. He was only just starting to make a name for himself, then he dropped out of politics altogether. Your mum never stopped checking up on him though. But …’
He trails off, distracted by the sound of Ollie getting back from school. My brother barges into the room, his hair messed and his uniform dirty. He bats away Dad’s questions and goes to make himself another bacon sarnie with the leftover rashers.
‘But what?’ I prompt, trying to get the conversation back on track.
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ Dad sighs.
‘I want to know,’ I say.
‘Well … your mother was in a funny place, that last year.’
‘What do you mean?’ I say. Ollie has stopped assembling his sandwich, his eyes darting between Dad and I.
‘Oh, you know, little things. She was just a bit … a bit down, you might say.’
‘About what?’
Dad shrugs.
‘Come on, Dad,’ Ollie says, ‘you can tell us.’
Dad pauses. ‘Well, she … she was having dreadful nightmares.’
Ollie and I share a glance.
‘What kind of nightmares?’ he asks.
But Dad shakes his head. ‘Your mother wouldn’t want you thinking about her like this.’
‘We want to know everything about her,’ I say, but Dad won’t be drawn, even when Ollie turns on his charm.
That night we leave Tintagel again. Natasha accompanies us on Domino, along with a retinue of retired knights acting as bodyguards. I would feel patronised by it if I had the spare brainpower to care.
‘Fiver for your thoughts?’ Ramesh interrupts.
‘What?’
‘Compound interest on a penny
,’ he explains, then blushes. ‘Sorry, I’m a geek, in case it wasn’t obvious.’
Natasha listens to something through her helmet – the one piece of uniform we only get when we become proper knights at Ostara – the spring equinox. It allows us to communicate with the harkers back in the castle. She nods and steers our group north towards the canals and markets of Camden.
‘Have you heard anything about Sebastien Medraut?’ I ask Ramesh impulsively.
‘The politician guy? My friend in Ithr fancies him like crazy,’ Ramesh replies. ‘She’s part of his youth movement.’
‘But … you haven’t heard anything about him in Annwn?’
Ramesh shakes his head. ‘Why?’
I look at Ramesh’s open, inquisitive face and wonder … Can I trust him with this? Will he use it against me? Is it worth the risk?
‘I think he might have something to do with my mum’s death,’ I say quickly.
Natasha holds up a hand, signalling us to stop and pull our horses to one side of the road.
‘God, that’s awful,’ Ramesh whispers and reaches a hand out, as if to comfort me. At the last minute though he seems to remember who he’s dealing with and pats Lamb’s neck instead. The gesture makes me smile.
‘What about treitres?’ I ask him, remembering the strange word that had seemed to inspire such fear in the writer of those records.
‘Treitres?’ Ramesh frowns. ‘I have heard that somewhere, yeah. Where did I hear it?’
Natasha silences us with a look and points towards a dreamer who’s half walking, half jogging through the streets. This is usually one of my favourite parts of training – when we’re shown nightmares and dreams in action. There’s always a split second when you can tell that a dreamer is about to enter a nightmare. You can see it in their eyes, as though something has twisted in their head and altered the way they see the world.
