by Holly Race
I was thinking too literally, too small, when I imagined making people like me. I could make them love me. I could make them turn on Ollie, the way he got them to turn on me. I recoil from the thought, given my earlier conversation with Ollie, but maybe I need to give him a taste of what he put me through.
Lord Allenby is speaking again.
‘About thirty years ago, when I was a young knight, along came a squire who had Immral. We could tell immediately, because all Immrals have one thing in common beyond their power: they all have violet eyes.’
The gathered squires exclaim and whisper around me, as Sebastien Medraut’s name is passed from mouth to mouth. Ollie, Ramesh and I exchange glances.
‘Yes, yes,’ Lord Allenby growls, ‘it’s very exciting to learn that someone famous in Ithr was once one of you. Everyone was very excited about it back in the day too. Sebastien Medraut became the youngest Head Thane in Tintagel’s history. But I said that Immrals have used their power for good and evil. Well, Medraut wasn’t one of the good ones. It took a while for us to find out, but he started to run experiments on dreamers. Seeing how far he could push their minds until they turned mad. Working out which nightmares were best at controlling their imaginations. And he started to drain the inspyre from Annwn.’
‘Sorry, sir, but what do you mean?’ a reeve blurts out. ‘How can you drain inspyre? Isn’t Annwn made of inspyre?’
‘It is, Miss Atkinson.’ Lord Allenby nods. ‘And only an Immral could even think of being able to do such a thing. But Medraut is one of the strongest Immrals we’ve ever heard of. And when he drained inspyre from Annwn, he made pockets where no inspyre, no imagination, could exist. Our whole sense of self rests on our imaginations. If that’s taken from us, well …’
He leaves us to imagine the suicidal insanity of not understanding who we are. Not as in ‘I can’t remember that I’m a fifteen-year-old girl’ but not knowing myself in my very core.
‘You saw one of those pockets earlier tonight at the Globe. They’re called kalends, and they’re one of the most dangerous things you can come across in Annwn. We found them all over the place, twenty years ago,’ Lord Allenby says. ‘Eventually we linked them back to Medraut. He’d been using his Immral and his position as Head Thane to cover his tracks, but with the help of our morrigans we managed to throw him out of the thanes.’
I think of the articles I’d read, and about what Dad told me – that Medraut had some kind of breakdown and retired from public life for a while.
‘But we made a mistake,’ Lord Allenby continues. ‘We’d meant for the morrigans to take his whole imagination, so he could never come back to Annwn. But he escaped before they could finish the job. A few months later, an assassin – a treitre – started to kill our knights. It was hired by Medraut. Who knows why he did it. Some people think it was revenge or for power. Myself, I think it was a way for him to claw back some pride. Whatever his reason, that one treitre managed to kill nearly two hundred knights inside three months.’
Silence descends. I look up at the monument and the hundreds of items it holds. Each one, I now understand, was the weapon of a fallen knight while they were alive. I catch sight of a pair of headphones, crudely broken in half, and can almost hear the despair and terror of that knight’s final seconds. The ribbons rustle in a river breeze, whispering of loss and regret.
‘We’ve been hunting Medraut in Annwn for years,’ Lord Allenby says. ‘We never really doubted he’d recover. We have some idea of what he’s doing and where he’s going in Annwn, and we know where he’s set up his base, but his Immral makes it too dangerous for us to face him without gathering more information. That kalend you just found confirms what we’d feared, given his rise in Ithr – that his strength has returned in full. And with Medraut seeking power again, all of us need to be prepared for him to try to finish the job he started all those years ago.’
The whispering resumes; alarmed squires wondering what on earth they’ve signed up for in joining the thanes. I edge around the garden, my heart hammering with this new knowledge. Then I see what I was looking for. A bright red ribbon with familiar handwriting on one side – my mum’s handwriting.
Ellen, dearling, it says, come back to me.
20
March 2005
The grief had sunk into a deep well inside Una. Sometimes she thought she would go mad unless she could puncture her ankle and let it all drain out. It was her fault. If she’d never investigated Medraut, none of this would have happened. Maybe he had been working for the good of the dreamers. After all, who was she to judge the morality of conducting secret experiments in Annwn?
With Ellen and Clement gone, Lord Richards had reassigned her to Palomides. So here she was, following Jeffrey Green through Camden, trying to tamp down on her terror. The stalls and bars offered too many places for Medraut to hide. How had he done it? He shouldn’t have been strong enough to kill her friends, not any more.
She nearly didn’t hear the gurgle of the knight behind her above the hubbub of the dreamers. She turned in her saddle, and suddenly realised exactly what had happened to Ellen and Clement. So this is what Medraut had been doing.
The creature that towered over her was beautiful, not because it was gold, but because of its grace. The fearless confidence that it was the most powerful being in this city. For an instant, Una was pleased that her friends hadn’t succumbed to any ordinary nightmare.
The creature leaped in one huge bound over Una’s head, and landed on one of her companions, ripping his horse’s head off with a single tug.
‘Urgent backup requested!’ Una said into her helmet as Jeffrey marshalled his regiment as best he could. ‘He’s got a treitre. It’s a treitre!’ She couldn’t hear the harker’s reply.
‘Una, get back to Tintagel!’ Jeffrey shouted at her, shooting uselessly as the creature danced around him. Ros Evans, Jeffrey’s second-in-command, loyal and brave to the last, flung herself in front of it even though she must have known the fight was fruitless. The treitre swept her away then threw its head back in a mockery of laughter, before pouncing on Jeffrey.
‘Una, I’m ordering you: get back to Tintagel. Tell them, tell them –’
The monster ripped Jeffrey’s gun away, taking his hand with it. It landed not far from Una. She stared at the fingers still clutched around the trigger.
‘That’s a … command …’ Jeffrey spluttered. The monster was playing with him. Stabbing him experimentally with one claw at a time. That was when Una knew that there was still humanity inside the treitre. Only a human could be that cruel.
She leaped from Aethon’s back and urged the mare to flee. She dropped to the ground, imagining herself smaller and smaller, so that by the time she was level with the treitre she was the size of a cat. She would never have been able to outrun it if she had fled instantly, but now she might be able to hobble it so that she stood a chance of getting back to the castle.
She was so close to it now, just within reach of the hinged joint that clasped the back leg together. Ignoring Jeffrey’s death rattle, she raised her knife, searching for the most vulnerable point in the joint. When she had it, she stabbed quickly and often.
The monster had no mouth, so it could not scream, but it flailed backwards, its skin scraping on the road. Una flickered back to her normal size and ran to Jeffrey. He was still breathing. Una hauled him up and called to his horse, who had loitered as close to his master as he dared. Una threw Jeffrey onto the saddle and wound the reins around his waist, sending the horse leaping down the road, back towards Tintagel.
Now Una had to flee, too.
But.
The treitre.
If she was able to kill this one, then surely Medraut would be defeated once more? This could be her repentance for the suffering she had caused. Revenge for Ellen and Clement and the rest.
The monster flailed in pain from the wound she’d inflicted.
‘You killed my dearest friends,’ she told it.
It
stilled.
‘You can’t be happy as you are,’ she continued. She showed it her knife.
It didn’t move. If she could have prescribed an emotion to that smooth head she would have thought it was sad. She dared to take one step closer.
Foolish Una.
The creature leaped up and whipped a claw through the flesh that joined her arm to her shoulder. With a scream of shock and agony, Una fell back, scrabbling at her limp arm, trying to hold it on. She glimpsed nerves and bone. The only thing keeping her from passing out was the sharp awareness of her need to survive.
The treitre inched towards her, only a slight hobble in its injured leg. It had tricked her. It had tortured Jeffrey simply for fun. How much worse would it be with the person who hurt it first?
When Una’s back hit a wall, she closed her eyes. This was a path that everyone had to travel eventually. She was just doing it sooner than most. She wished she’d said goodbye to Angus. Most of all, she wished she’d been able to bring her babies into the world. She refused to sob, absolutely refused, but the tears came anyway.
‘Please,’ she said, opening her eyes and cradling her belly, ‘just please don’t hurt me here. Kill me any other way you like. Make it as long as you like. Just please don’t hurt me here.’
The creature froze. It didn’t look at her stomach, but she knew that it understood. Her pregnancy wasn’t showing in Annwn like it was in Ithr, but there was a universal attitude of pregnant women and she had invoked it with the way she held herself. The creature bowed its head.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
Maybe there would be a chance for the twins. Maybe they could be saved in Ithr. She pushed away the knowledge that it didn’t work like that. There is only so much despair one person can face. She closed her eyes once more.
One moment she could feel the monster’s presence a hairsbreadth from her face. The next, cool air stroked her cheek. She opened her eyes. The treitre had gone.
21
Our training takes on a new urgency with the discovery of the kalend at the Globe. Reeves and veneurs busy themselves fortifying Tintagel. Morrigans are stationed at the guardhouse in the hope that they might be able to finish what they started fifteen years ago.
In Ithr, Medraut seems to be everywhere I look. Maybe he has been for a while, but I’m only really noticing it now. His party’s logo – a V sitting on top of a circle – adorns stickers on lampposts, is carved into the back of toilet doors, is worn proudly on badges by teenagers and adults alike. It’s impossible to turn on the TV without his face appearing on the news, seemingly ready to give his opinion on any issue. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I’m sure that every time he’s mentioned in Ithr, people cast malignant glances my way.
The confirmation that he was behind all of those deaths is exactly what I needed. It lifts me out of uncertainty and helps me concentrate on our training in how to deal with treitres. ‘You want my honest opinion?’ Miss D tells us at the end of explaining a complicated counter-attack move. ‘If you come up against one of these things, run away as fast as you can or play dead. It’s the only reason I’m still here.’
Despite the feeling of impending doom, though, it’s hard not to be sucked into the merriment of the Christmas period. As if the garlands of mistletoe and ivy and the drifts of snow aren’t enough, it’s becoming impossible to ride down a street without being hugged by the smell of cinnamon. When we practise our flying, we’re now joined not only by angels, but by reindeer too.
In only a few months it will be Ostara, the day we become fully-fledged knights. We’re doing more advanced moves now, like combining flying and parkour so that we can twirl through the air, bouncing off buildings like balletic warriors. We spend more time practising with our weapons. Phoebe has taken to doing impressive leaps between her horse and her lion, using them to distract and confuse nightmares. The heads of each of the five regiments start coming to every session. Rafe takes the absent Samson’s place at the head of Bedevere, sitting alongside Natasha and Emory, Arnold from Dagonet and Flora from Palomides. They watch us from the sidelines, making notes and conferring.
‘They’re working out who will fit best into which regiment,’ one of Bedevere’s knights, Amina, tells us. ‘Natasha probably won’t take you, Ramesh, because she’s already got two riders with spears in Gawain. No use in having any more.’
Training starts to get competitive, with different groups of friends working together to prove they should be put in the same regiment. Ramesh and Ollie develop a move that involves swapping weapons mid-gallop. For the most part, I keep myself to myself, despite Phoebe’s attempts to get me to use Donald the lion as a landing mattress.
People from the other lores start coming to watch our training sessions too. ‘Apparently one of the apothecaries runs a castle-wide sweepstake on who gets assigned to each regiment,’ Ramesh tells us excitedly. I can’t help the thrill that runs through me. It’s pretty amazing to be part of Annwn’s answer to fantasy football. That’s dented somewhat when Rachel later tells Phoebe and I that she’s the only one who’s picked me so far. ‘No one else knows where to put you, Fern.’ She shrugs. ‘But I took a punt. I’ve got you and Ollie together in Gawain.’ I don’t bother telling her that Ollie and I are about as likely to be placed together as Lord Allenby is about to break into a tap dance. Ollie and I haven’t crossed paths much in Ithr since the night we came across Medraut’s work at the Globe. But one afternoon I get back from school to find a note on my bedroom desk.
Bring Mum’s messages to my room tonight and I’ll play you the recording. O.
He’s only bloody broken into my bedroom again. I have got to see if I can change the lock without Dad noticing. But I’d totally forgotten about Mum’s recordings. I do as I’m told for once and knock on Ollie’s door with my knightbook in hand.
‘Here.’ I open my book at the first page of Mum’s coded messages and hand it over. ‘If you think you can break it, be my guest.’
Ollie stares down at the gibberish. The first poem looks even more outlandish now I’m not staring at it through sleep-deprived eyes.
Fall brought lost
With other lost brought
Unto for other from place unto brought lost
Be with lost is
Place unto unto place other!
‘What on earth?’ Ollie says.
‘I know, right? Where’s the Medraut recording?’
Ollie presses play on a track on his phone, then hands it to me while he pores over Mum’s messages. I listen as the recorder crackles into life. A woman’s voice whispers, ‘Testing, testing, one, two, three.’ Goosebumps prickle across my back and shoulders.
‘Is that Mum?’
‘Weird, isn’t it?’ Ollie replies, frowning at the knightbook.
It’s more than weird. It’s crazy. I’ve thought about my mother every day since I understood that she ought to be in my life. Now, fifteen years later, I’m hearing her voice for the first time since I was too young to remember it.
‘Recording on the twenty-eighth of December 2004,’ Mum whispers. Her voice is lower than I’d imagined; balsamic. There’s a scratching, rustling noise.
‘What’s she doing?’ I say. Ollie flicks his head in irritation, then throws me the digital voice recorder from Mum’s belongings.
‘I found it on this,’ he says. ‘It’s a spy recorder. Supposed to be able to pick up voices through walls. My guess is she’s pressing it against a building. Now be quiet or you’ll miss it.’
I bite back a retort and bring Ollie’s phone closer to my ear. There are voices, but it’s almost impossible to hear what they’re saying.
‘… Imperative … demand they move … Sebastien … must be the first of May …’
Suddenly, the voices cut out. The timbre of the static on the tape shifts, as though an unknown force is messing with it. The next voice is unmistakably Medraut’s, even though it’s so muted. ‘Too loud,’ he says, the ‘d’ a stab of the tongue. ‘Far to
o loud.’
The voices dip in volume even further, and I cannot hear anything more.
‘Is that it?’ I say, pissed off that I’ve given Ollie my knightbook for a few meaningless words.
‘Yep.’
I’m about to snatch the book away from him when I realise the importance of something on the recording.
‘The first of May is Beltane,’ I think out loud.
‘That’s what I thought too.’
Beltane, like Samhain and Ostara, are important dates in the thanes’ calendar. We don’t celebrate Beltane like we celebrate the others, but it’s important because it’s one of the days when the fabric that divides Annwn and Ithr is at its thinnest. All that inspyre pressing against the doors between the worlds means that Beltane is one of the nights when dreamers are more imaginative and the knights are at their busiest. I peer over Ollie’s shoulder at my knightbook.
‘Have you worked it out?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, but … these seem really familiar somehow.’
‘Well, that’s helpful. We still have no clue what they say, but at least you think they’re familiar.’
Ollie shoots me a look. ‘If you’re just going to be a bitch then you can go.’
I’m about to snap a reply, then realise that actually he’s been pretty decent to me this evening, or as decent as Ollie ever gets. It’s not as if I was getting anywhere with cracking Mum’s code on my own. I can’t quite bring myself to apologise, though.
‘Hopefully you’ll remember why it’s familiar soon.’ I take the knightbook from his lap, holding it like a hot-water bottle.
‘Yeah.’ His mouth twists into a smile. ‘Maybe it’ll come to me in a dream.’
‘Saddle up quickly tonight, squires. We’ve got a Christmas Eve treat for you,’ Miss D barks as we arrive at the stables.
‘The way she says treat makes it sound more like a test,’ Ramesh remarks.
‘A torture,’ Ollie says.
