by Holly Race
‘What’s the matter?’ Ramesh pants, but I simply point. The missing Head Thane between Lady Bethany Caradoc and Lord David Richards is no longer missing. The putty that was once there has melted away, revealing a familiar name: Lord Sebastien Medraut.
I reel backwards, unable to take in Ramesh’s exclamations. I am not surprised though. Maybe part of me had suspected all along that his name was the one that had been erased from the plaque. No, I’m not surprised. I am in shock. And that shock is rippling its way into anger as I start to piece together the events of the year of my mother’s murder.
Medraut was Head Thane for four years before he had some sort of breakdown at the start of 2005. A few months later, he started using a treitre – a half-human, half-monster assassin – to kill knights. What I don’t know is why he stopped being Head Thane, and what on earth drove him to kill the people he once led?
‘That is mad news about Medraut,’ Ramesh is saying. ‘Do you think he had something to do with that treitre attack then? I wonder why we haven’t been taught about him. Or about treitres, now I come to think of it.’
I shake my head, confused. Is this some sort of cover-up? Why else would they have tried to conceal Medraut’s name on that plaque, if they weren’t trying to protect him? I can’t make sense of it.
‘Cool Eyes has turned into Sulky Eyes tonight,’ Rafe quips later that night as everyone relaxes in the knights’ chamber after lessons.
‘You would too if your teachers were putting you in massive danger every time you left this castle!’ I snap back.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about the fact that fifteen years ago a treitre killed a load of knights and instead of teaching us how to deal with them you’re teaching us how to cope with stalkers and stupid trickster nightmares that aren’t even that dangerous!’
I am on my feet now, anger pounding through my veins. I can barely hear the gasps and whispers of my fellow squires through the thunderous beat inside me. Rafe has turned pale and still.
‘The reason,’ he says, his voice taut, ‘you haven’t been taught about treitres yet, is because you aren’t ready. You might think you’re invincible with your massive two months of training under your belt, but if you came up against a treitre right now it wouldn’t end well for you, I guarantee that. So until you’ve mastered the nightmares we’ve deemed you capable of tackling, me and Emory and the other actual knights will continue to risk our own lives to protect you.’
The heat burning through me has morphed from righteous anger to cannibalistic humiliation. Rafe doesn’t wait for me to reply but stalks off, joined by Emory and a few of the other more experienced knights.
‘Well, you’re not getting a teacher’s pet award any time soon,’ Ollie sneers.
‘He didn’t need to jump down your throat like that,’ Phoebe says.
‘He was telling her how it is,’ Ollie says. ‘Nothing wrong with that.’
‘Stop it, just … please, stop it,’ I tell my brother, suddenly exhausted. How can he still be so horrible to me, even when we now have so many bigger, more important things to worry about? How can he want to humiliate me even more when I’ve never done anything to warrant it? It’s baffling, and right now I don’t have the energy to parry his strikes.
Ollie opens his mouth to say something, but a meaningful look from Ramesh silences him. Later, Ramesh corners me again.
‘Why didn’t you say anything about Medraut?’ he asks.
I shrug. Even when shaking with rage, something had stopped me from mentioning the former Head Thane. Maybe it’s because the book about the treitres had been readily available, while Medraut’s name had, before it inexplicably appeared again, been hidden behind putty on a plaque tucked away at the back of the gardens. Someone really doesn’t want us to know about Medraut, which makes me think that my best chance of finding out more is by keeping quiet about what I already know. I try to explain this to Ramesh.
‘I don’t like keeping secrets,’ he replies.
‘We’re not keeping secrets. We’re just not spreading gossip.’
And this seems to satisfy him. My first successful manipulation. I have obviously picked up some tips from Ollie.
As Christmas approaches and more dreamers turn their thoughts to the holiday season, Annwn’s landscape changes. Tintagel is festooned with ivy and mistletoe; not the factory-farmed sprigs we get in Ithr but actual vines of the stuff that spread over the walls. Sprigs of holly peep from crevices. A thick layer of snow covers the gardens. Outside the castle walls, clouds of inspyre form miniature snowstorms. Fat little snowmen and Father Christmases wobble around, by turns scaring and enchanting dreamers.
In Ithr, though, things are not quite so happy. I notice it on the way back from school. An almost imperceptible difference that no one but people like me would detect. I sense it first on the tube. The carriage is packed, as usual, but it’s a few stops before I realise that there’s a gap between me and the other commuters. I catch the looks that people are throwing my way. Curiosity I can cope with, but not this. This is disgust, and something far more dangerous – fear. I try to make myself physically smaller. Being overtly bullied is one thing, but this feels like a level up. When I get off the tube I run all the way home, those accusing eyes boring into my memory.
Annwn, always a welcome escape from real life, becomes even more of a sanctuary for me. Even if Ollie is there, at least I don’t get strangers staring at me in hostile silence. In any case, in Annwn I have Ramesh, who has kept my confidence against all my expectations, and Phoebe, whose warmth and laid-back nature soothes the entire chamber, stretching even to the quiet corner where I sit each night. Rafe seems to have forgotten my accusation, and Natasha, who is fond of me because of my riding prowess, finds me one night to say that she heard about my outburst. ‘Be patient,’ she tells me. ‘There’s a reason for the way we teach you.’
‘When, Lamb, when?!’ I rant at my horse on a semi-regular basis. It’s all very well for Natasha to tell me to be patient, but there’s a difference between waiting for something you know is going to happen and waiting indefinitely on a promise. Lamb whickers in response and pulls another mouthful of hay from the manger. Sometimes I get the impression that she views me as a neurotic creature to be nuzzled into good humour.
Tonight we’re shadowing Lancelot on their patrol of the tidal circuit – a loop of the Thames stretching from Tintagel’s turf down to the old brick factories south of the river, all the way along the shore to Kew Gardens, where honeysuckle flowers as big as trumpets turn bumblebees plump.
Emory signals us to drop into single file to cross the river, leading us down into a narrow tunnel that serves as a footpath beneath the Thames in Ithr. In Annwn the echoes of our horses’ hooves are joined by the percussion of the nocturnal creatures that lurk in the crevices between the tiles.
When we come up for air, Ollie reins in his horse Balius to match Lamb’s pace. He’s been unusually quiet since the day in the knights’ chamber when I refused to argue with him, and not just with me, but with the other squires who didn’t back him up. He doesn’t have it in him to be nasty to me unless he has the support of others.
‘I found something else,’ he tells me quietly, ‘about Medraut.’
‘What?’ I yank on Lamb’s bit in my shock and she bucks in rebuke.
‘Smooth,’ Ollie says.
‘You mean the plaque?’ I ask, resettling myself in the saddle.
‘Something else. Not in Annwn. In Ithr. In Mum’s old notes.’
‘I’ve got Mum’s notes,’ I say. ‘They’re in my bedroom.’
Ollie smirks. ‘Yes, they are.’
‘You broke into my room? You absolute w—’
‘Relax,’ Ollie says. ‘I only looked at Mum’s stuff, not anything of yours. Not like you have anything interesting in there anyway.’
I am rendered temporarily speechless by the fact that Ollie genuinely seems to think it’s okay to enter my room
without permission as long as he doesn’t go through my drawers.
‘Mum has a recording of Medraut, did you know that?’ Ollie continues.
‘The voice recorder? How did you make it work?’
‘I got a mate to transfer the data onto my laptop. I’ll play it for you at home, if you like,’ Ollie says.
I nod, unsettled. I’m in uncharted territory, with this new, mostly civil way of talking to my brother. Part of me wants to embrace it. The other part of me is wondering when I’m going to find the catch; the trick; the betrayal. The idea that he could be helping me just because, is totally alien.
‘Did you crack Mum’s code too?’ I ask, trying hard to sound casual.
‘What code?’
Aha. So I know something he doesn’t. I have managed to claw back some power.
‘In her diaries.’ I hesitate, then take the plunge. ‘I’ll show you back in Ithr, if you like.’
Ollie nods, his wariness mirroring my own.
And Ollie spurs Balius on to rejoin Ramesh. We have reached our conversational limit. I breathe deeply, my heart pumping with nerves. I don’t know how to navigate this change between Ollie and I. My guard against him has been so strong and now I’ve started to dismantle it. I just have to pray that I’m tough enough to cope if – when – he breaks my trust yet again.
Emory has been leading us through the old maze of narrow, cobbled streets that lazily follow the river. Through passageways I glimpse dreams of lives lived long ago: bears being baited, wooden ships painted in garish colours being made ready for adventure. I am just about to see whether I can, after all, inject myself into Ramesh and Ollie’s discussion about battle formations when I become aware of a crawling sensation deep within my stomach. It’s as though someone is trying to manoeuvre my organs out of me without cutting me open.
We round a corner and see the cosy splendour of the Globe Theatre, its thatched roof a neat hat. But as we approach, an uncomfortable muttering rises from the front of the group. My innards lurch. For the first time since arriving in Annwn I want, desperately, to turn around and head back to Ithr. Ollie drops back once more, but this time he is clutching his stomach.
‘What on earth?’ says Phoebe, and against my instincts I force myself to look.
At the entrance to the Globe, between the wattle and daub and beneath the blond thatch, is solid darkness. Instead of the raucous laughter of an audience and the sound of Shakespearean players hamming it up, the darkness emits silence. I’d never realised that the absence of sound could be aggressive until I witnessed this. Emory is talking with urgent tones into her helmet. Ramesh kicks his horse forward to take a better look.
‘Get back!’ Emory shouts at him. ‘Can’t you see it’s dangerous?’
Even as I double over, even as I hear Ollie retching into a bush behind me, I too nudge Lamb forward. But I don’t want to get closer to that hellish doorway. I want to hear what Emory is saying. I close my eyes against the nausea and focus.
‘Organise a rota of knights to guard this place day and night,’ Emory says. ‘We can’t risk any dreamers coming near. And tell Lord Allenby to get here now. I don’t care who he’s in a meeting with. Tell him he was right. Tell him it’s started again.’
19
In the short time it takes for Lord Allenby to reach us, I have to be lifted from Lamb’s back. I curl, snail-like, on a stretch of beach, trying to keep my insides from becoming my outsides. Ollie is next to me in a similar state. Phoebe and Ramesh hover over us. Ramesh goes to pat Ollie’s back but Ollie swats him away, retching.
‘How do you not feel it too?’ I gasp at them. ‘It’s coming from that doorway.’
‘I don’t know,’ Phoebe says, stroking my back. ‘I mean, it makes me feel really weird but I don’t feel ill. I think it’s only you two.’
‘Lucky me,’ Ollie spits, in between heaving out the contents of his stomach.
The distant pounding of hooves marks Allenby’s arrival, along with a retinue of harkers, reeves, apothecaries and a single veneur. Lord Allenby barely glances at us, swinging from his charger’s back and marching alongside Emory to inspect the doorway. The veneur tries to approach the doorway with his morrigan, but no sooner does it sense the vortex through its hood than it takes off, screeching in alarm.
Two apothecaries descend on Ollie and I, pressing cold compresses on our foreheads. ‘It must be an allergic reaction,’ says my apothecary – a tall, greying man who introduces himself as Drew. ‘It happens more than people realise, although I’ve never seen anything of this severity.’
‘We’re allergic to that black hole?’ Ollie asks.
He shakes his head. ‘It’s probably one of these vines.’ He points to the neon tendrils currently weaving their way around the wall that separates road from river. I nod, although secretly I’m with Ollie – I feel sure that my sickness is linked to that doorway. I watch, the compress helping a little with my nausea, as Lord Allenby orders Emory’s knights to guard the entrance. She whispers something to him, nodding back at the squires. Eventually, Allenby remounts his charger and gallops back towards Tintagel.
‘Are we going to get an explanation then or …?’ Ramesh trails off.
Emory addresses us. ‘You’re all to go back to the castle immediately. Wait in the hall.’
‘Are you coming too?’ Phoebe asks.
‘No, I’m staying here. We have to make sure no one goes near the Globe.’
She stops the ‘Why?’ on several dozen lips with a well-aimed stare. ‘Get back on your horses and get back to Tintagel.’
We do as we’re told. The apothecaries help Ollie and I back into our saddles, and as we canter away from the Globe, the sickness in my stomach lifts. By the time we’re thundering over the drawbridge into the castle grounds, it’s as if I’ve dreamed the sudden, devastating nausea entirely. A different energy flows through Tintagel’s halls though. It’s quieter, the air bloated with unanswered questions. The more senior thanes flurry through the cloisters and offices, their faces tense, while the rest of us are untethered.
I am one of the first to see Lord Allenby emerge from his office. With a glance, Allenby summons the captains of the different lores and murmurs instructions to them. When he’s done, he addresses the rest of the castle in a voice that reaches to the highest tower. ‘Squires, with me. The rest of you, go to your chambers. You’ll be briefed there by your captains.’
Rachel catches my eye and trots over with a few of her harker friends. The buzz of intrigue hangs over the squires as we follow Lord Allenby out of the castle, through the grounds and once more across the drawbridge. Only the knight and apothecary squires have been outside Tintagel’s walls yet, and the others – the reeves, harkers and veneurs – pull into the nucleus of the group, nervous of the dreams and nightmares that are now so familiar to me. I ignore their conversations, watching where Lord Allenby is leading us. Emory’s words – it’s started again – fill me with a bubbling anticipation.
We wend our way east, retracing the path that Andraste and I trod on my first night in Annwn. But before we get to Tower Hill, Lord Allenby veers down an alleyway. In the distance I spot a statue, and realise that it’s the same one I glimpsed from the main road on that first night. As we draw closer, the alleyway opens out into a courtyard garden. The statue is actually a monument – an obelisk topped by a sphere and engraved with the emblem of the thanes. It’s not made of gold, as I’d thought on that first night, but of amber that spins the sun’s rays into a blanket that drapes across the garden. Set inside the resin is a bizarre collection: hundreds of seemingly random items – a toy soldier, a silver cup, even a pair of gloves. I had thought that the ribbons I’d spotted all those months ago were attached to the obelisk, but they are festooned from the trees and flowers that border the space.
The others crowd around the obelisk but my eye has been caught by the ribbons of paper hanging from a branch above my head. They are not merely decorations: they are covered in messages.
/> Dream easy, Rosalind. We miss you.
Charlie – comrade and best friend. I don’t know how to
be without you.
For Clement and Ellen. I’m so sorry, for everything.
Clement and Ellen – they were listed in Mum’s regiment in those archive records. Then Lord Allenby speaks, and the names are driven from my thoughts.
‘It’s time for you to learn some home truths about our past.’
He pauses, and I’m almost certain that he glances towards Ollie and I, as though measuring how ready we are for what he’s about to say. I lift my chin, returning his gaze as steadily as I can.
‘You all know about inspyre. You know we can only change it in a limited fashion, and even that’s difficult. Well, that’s not true for everyone.’
The squires stir, caught between wondering what this has to do with what happened at the Globe and with the monument before us, and the fact that the fundamental rules we’ve been taught are, apparently, untrue.
‘Once in a while, someone comes along who can manipulate inspyre all they like. And if you can control inspyre, you can control imagination. These people, they can read and control the minds of every person in Annwn.’
‘So cool,’ Ramesh whispers. I imagine being able to read someone’s mind – to be able to tell what they’re thinking about me. Then to control that; to stop them from picking on me. To make them like me, even. My chest fills with longing. Yes, that would be something.
‘This power crops up once or twice in a lifetime, but when it does, you know about it. The first person we know who had this power was King Arthur. That’s why it’s sometimes called the King’s Power.’
‘Original,’ Ollie remarks.
‘It’s proper name is Immral,’ Lord Allenby says.
That word was mentioned in the archives too, in King Arthur’s file.
‘People with Immral have used it for great good and great evil. Boudicca, Genghis Khan, even Moses. You see, people with Immral can make dreams and nightmares. Think about what you could do to a dreamer, if you had that power.’
