by Holly Race
‘Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she’d change her mind, seeing how he’s picked himself up.’
‘I doubt that,’ Ollie mutters. I can’t help but catch his eye. My own disappointment is mirrored there. So Medraut’s brainwashing is starting to take effect on Dad. I should have known that he was too weak-willed to resist it.
‘Helena Corday doesn’t like him,’ I point out. Perhaps a reminder about the one person of power who tried to help me after the fire will be enough to sway Dad. He’s not listening, though; that or he doesn’t have a comeback.
‘Oh, can anyone hear that?’ Dad cranes his ear towards the door in an exaggerated fashion.
Ollie and I groan in unison. Dad has been doing this for as long as I can remember. He pretends that Father Christmas forgot about us and we’ll just have to make do with the enormous lunch he’s prepared instead. Then, after we’ve eaten, he pretends to hear a knock at the door and goes to answer it.
‘Who is it, darling?’ Clemmie calls, genuinely confused. It’s almost adorable.
‘Look what I found!’ Dad returns from the hallway with three presents. Clemmie squeals delightedly.
Ollie gets a new watch strap and I get some clay glazes – expensive colours that I’ve wanted for a while. I hug my thanks. (‘Don’t thank me, thank the elves for remembering us!’)
Clemmie gets a little chain link bracelet. I’ve got to give Dad some credit, it’s quite pretty. At least it’s not covered in hearts or anything cringe like that.
I hand my present to Dad, feeling nervous. It’s been a routine between us for years that I draw or make something for him, and it always gets hung on the wall or popped on a mantelpiece. This year, though, I’ve given him something slightly different. As he pulls off the wrapping, his expression changes from one of false gratitude to one of shock.
‘Oh, Fern.’ Dad’s voice is tight and low. ‘That’s her. You’ve got her.’
Ollie cranes to see what I’ve drawn, and his expression changes too, although I can’t read it.
‘Mum.’
It hasn’t been easy to translate every detail from the portrait of her stashed in my locker in Tintagel onto paper in Ithr. I chose charcoals instead of the oils the original artist had used. I like the way it highlights her cheekbones and her dark hair.
Clemmie’s eyes dart between Dad and the sketch. Something squirms in my stomach. I hadn’t really thought about how this might make her feel.
‘How did you capture her so perfectly?’ Dad asks, his voice thick.
‘I – I made it up in my head, from photos.’
‘Thank you, darling.’ Dad throws a burly arm around me, the smells of Christmas cooking still in his shirt. I smile up at him, relishing the fact that today I’ve made him happy even if I’m a puzzle to him the rest of the time.
Dad looks to Clemmie. ‘I’ll need to find somewhere special to put her. You’ll help me find the right place, won’t you? You’ve got such an eye for these things, love.’
Clemmie stiffly gets to her feet. As they take the frame into the hallway, Ollie turns on me.
‘Why did you do that? Did you do it to upset Clemmie? Do you want them to split up? You want Dad to be lonely again?’
‘He’s not lonely, he’s got us!’ I say. ‘He liked it more than he liked your stupid book.’
His line of questioning has really rattled me, though. I really did just want to give Dad a happy memory … didn’t I? Now I’m questioning my own motivations. This is why I hate Ollie.
‘See what you think!’ Dad’s voice calls from the hallway. Ollie and I don’t look at each other as we squeeze our way through the door and crowd around the little frame.
‘It looks great, Dad.’ Ollie rests a hand on his shoulder and guides him back to the sofa.
‘She’s got her just right,’ I hear Dad say brokenly from the other room. ‘How does she do that?’
‘I know, it’s creepy, isn’t it?’
‘You’re a very talented artist, Fern,’ Clemmie tells me, her eyes shiny and her voice extra chirpy. She goes back into the sitting room without waiting for an answer.
I stay in the hallway. A woman called Una Gorlois stares inscrutably at me, her eyes bright and her smile knowing. She would become Una King, mother of Fern and Ollie, but at the moment that picture was captured she was free of her family, and I can tell that she loved that freedom.
Later that night, as Dad makes himself a BLT to keep him awake on his night shift, Ollie and I bid him a final ‘Happy Christmas’ and head towards our bedrooms. I’m already in my pyjamas when there’s a knock on my door.
‘Clemmie?’ I say. I really hope she’s not here for ‘girl talk’. I should probably try, though, especially after what I put her through.
‘It’s Ollie.’ He opens the door a fraction.
‘What do you want?’
‘I wanted to check you’re okay after … after last night?’
‘I’m fine,’ I lie.
Ollie teeters at the door for a moment, then steps inside and closes it behind him.
‘You know the nose bleeds and the ear bleeds are because you’re using your power, right?’ he says.
‘Of course – I’m not stupid,’ I sneer, but actually he’s caught me out, because I hadn’t connected the two at all. Last night Lord Allenby had made me go through all the times when I used my Immral without realising it, like when I lifted Lamb over a huge wall on my first try, and the way I changed the inspyre on the piece of wool. And of course there’s the reaction Ollie and I had to Medraut’s kalend at the Globe. My instinct had been right: we weren’t allergic to the vine, we were allergic to the total absence of inspyre.
‘I haven’t noticed you getting nosebleeds, other than last night,’ I say. ‘Maybe it’s because your Immral isn’t as strong as mine.’
‘Or maybe I’m just not stupid enough to overuse mine,’ he says. ‘Anyway, the bleeding thing is messed up. I had to sit next to those crusty ears all through lunch.’
‘That was of course the main reason I didn’t wash them,’ I say sweetly.
Ollie pulls a face at me and we lapse into silence. The sound of Dad crooning along to ‘Let It Snow’ wafts up the stairs.
‘When did you know? About your power, I mean?’ I ask, speaking a little louder to drown out the sound of Clemmie joining in.
‘I didn’t know what it was called until the other night, at the monument. But I’ve been feeling other people’s memories and emotions in Annwn ever since the light took me. That was how I found out about Medraut being Head Thane. That plaque in the gardens? Well, when I touched the blank space I saw Medraut in Lord Allenby’s chair.’
‘And you never told anyone?’
Ollie shrugs.
‘Thought you’d get a sneak peek into their minds without them knowing, huh?’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ Ollie snarls. ‘I … I tried not to do it. I pretended it wasn’t happening, okay? I tried not to touch anyone, and if I did accidentally I just tried to ignore all the images and feelings that came into my head.’
‘Because you didn’t want to seem like a freak.’
He shrugs again. ‘Can you blame me?’
‘No, I can’t,’ I say truthfully. ‘I just think it’s funny, considering you made my life hell for ages because you thought I was a freak.’
Ollie’s eyes spark with anger. ‘Look –’ he begins.
‘Let’s just not?’ I cut him off. I don’t want to be angry today, and I didn’t say what I said to start an argument. If Ollie’s part of the Immral has granted him the ability to actually consider other people’s feelings then that can only be a good thing.
‘I suppose Lord Allenby’s going to make us work together now,’ I say, trying to change track.
Ollie snorts derisively.
‘Exactly.’
The song downstairs ends, and Ollie makes to leave. As he reaches the door, I remember one more thing. ‘What did you see? When Lord Allenby took your hand?’
Ollie turn
s. ‘A lot of different things. None of it made much sense. I think I saw his family in Ithr. And there was a morrigan in a garden, feeding from a woman, then the same woman crouched over a dreamer. It all happened so quickly I couldn’t make sense of it.’
‘Why did you look so weirded out afterwards then?’
Ollie considers this. ‘I suppose it was because of the emotions attached to his memories. There was nothing happy in them. Nothing happy in him. Nothing happy at all.’
24
Christmas night in Annwn is supposed to be one of the quietest nights of the year for the thanes, but there is nothing quiet about the reaction Ollie and I get when we arrive at Tintagel. There are shouts from the galleries as reeves beckon to their friends to gawp at us, and the harkers cheer from their desks as we pass. And that’s nothing compared to the noise that greets us when we enter the knights’ chamber.
Phoebe runs towards us and begs, ‘Show me how you do it!’
An older knight comments, ‘I bet I could’ve used that power for so much good if I had it.’
‘You were keeping that one quiet, weren’t you?’ Ramesh grins.
‘Hey, it’s her with the power, not me,’ Ollie protests. He’d made it very clear last night that he’d prefer to keep his mind-reading abilities secret, but it turns out that horse has bolted.
‘I remembered you getting sick at the Globe,’ Ramesh pipes up, ‘and none of us could imagine Fern having mind-reading abilities – sorry, Fern – so we figured Ollie must have Immral too.’
‘Then we got to talking about your eyes,’ Rafe explains. ‘It was Natasha who worked out the red-blue-violet thing and how you being twins must mean it got split.’
‘Yeah, appreciate you telling us next time you do a spot of mind-reading, eh?’ Emory says, lightly punching Ollie’s shoulder. She’s smiling, but there’s an edge to her voice that tells us no one is thrilled about his part of the Immral.
I find myself trailing Ollie to his locker, since ‘time alone with fellow super-powered brother’ seems to be the one thing that gets the others to stop following me around. As he opens it I study the look of misery on his features.
‘You get used to it,’ I say eventually, ‘being the odd one out.’
‘How?’
‘You make yourself smaller. Don’t say as much. You think about every movement you make and work out how to make it less noticeable.’
Ollie doesn’t look at me. ‘That sounds horrible.’
‘It’s not the most fun.’
‘And it doesn’t always work anyway.’
His hands are shaking. Fleetingly, sympathy makes me lean a little closer and say very softly, ‘There are no Jennys here.’
For a moment, Ollie looks at me with such raw vulnerability that I feel sure he’s about to apologise for the first time for his part in the fire. Then Ramesh’s bellowing laugh blows through the room and Ollie looks away. That’s when I see it. A poem, carved into the wood of his locker.
For whatsoever from one place doth fall,
Is with the tide unto an other brought:
For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
Ollie shrugs. ‘No idea. It’s been there for ages apparently.’
I study the poem for a moment longer, certain that I’ve seen it somewhere before. Then we’re called to training and I forget about the verse. For now.
Luckily the focus on Ollie and me is lifted in the New Year, partly because everyone’s pre-occupied with the looming regiment placement, and partly because Lord Allenby removes my brother and I from most of our regular lessons to train in private. We practise our Immral with whichever teachers can be spared. It’s a great idea in theory, and it works for Ollie. He’s been aware of his Immral for longer and has already learned how to control it on a basic level, after months spent trying to stop himself from reading minds. All he needs are some willing subjects to help him refine his ability to sift through memories and emotions.
It’s virtually useless when it comes to my Immral, though. The trouble is, they can’t really tell me how to access my power, and now that I know I can manipulate inspyre, I … can’t. Whenever I’ve done it in the past, it’s been an instinctive reaction born from panic. I can’t recreate the same urgency. That limits the teachers to making suggestions as to how I might kickstart my power, none of which work a jot. It’s all very well Miss D informing me that at the height of his powers Medraut walked around Tintagel with a sphinx of his own creation at his side, but when it comes down to it I haven’t got the foggiest clue how I’m supposed to create a slug, let alone a complex mythical creature.
I resort to studying my knightbook in Ithr, desperate for any clue that might help me unlock my power. That’s when I make the connection, and barge down the stairs and into Ollie’s room without knocking.
‘Who owned your locker before you did?’ I ask him before he’s had a chance to look up from his homework.
‘What are you on about now?’
I throw the knightbook down in front of him, the page open at my mum’s first poem.
Fall brought lost
With other lost brought
Unto for other from place unto brought lost
Be with lost is
Place unto unto place other!
‘See?’ I say. ‘Doesn’t it remind you of that poem in your locker?’
Ollie takes a moment to get my meaning, but then he scribbles the locker poem next to Mum’s riddles.
For whatsoever from one place doth fall,
Is with the tide unto an other brought:
For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.
‘It’s the same style,’ he says.
‘It’s more than that,’ I say, running a finger between the verses. ‘Mum’s messages are written with the same words as the poem in your locker.’
‘There are twenty-six words in the verse,’ Ollie says.
‘And there are twenty-six letters in the alphabet,’ I finish.
He points at the first message I found in Mum’s diaries.
‘If “fall” is the seventh word in the original poem, then …’
‘G.’
‘Well done, you know the alphabet.’
‘Piss off.’
Ollie scribbles out the translation. It works perfectly. Each line of Mum’s gibberish poem translates to a single word. And suddenly her message makes sense: Got into Lancelot with Ellen!
‘Mum wrote a message to someone called Ellen in that memorial,’ I tell Ollie, marvelling that such an incomprehensible poem can turn with one code into the sort of message fifteen-year-old Una Gorlois would write in her diary.
‘Let’s do the other ones,’ he says.
We each take a handful of poems, writing them out alongside the dates they were entered in the diaries. Mum’s life in Annwn blooms before me like a sun-starved flower seeing daylight.
5th December 2000: A murderer as well as a thief. Or
I may as well be.
3rd May 2001: Too much fear turns us to stone, but
not enough and we are no longer human. It’s all
going wrong.
4th October 2002: Met the man I’m going to marry.
25th January 2005: Found a way to make it up to E.
King Arthur isn’t the only legend that’s real.
20th February 2005: My best friend died last night.
28th March 2005: The golden treitre came for me
today.
As we stand back to study the translations, I latch on to one line in particular. ‘A murderer as well as a thief,’ I repeat.
‘Looks pretty bad, doesn’t it?’ says Ollie.
But Ollie doesn’t know the half of it. Because something I learned from my visit to the archives rises within my memory. I can’t remember the exact date, but Mum was disciplined for negligence while on patrol. What if it hadn’t been a minor indiscretion at all? A murderer … or I may as well b
e. My heart sinks.
‘Well, there’s nothing here that gives us anything on Medraut or your Immral,’ Ollie sighs, shutting my knightbook and pushing it towards me. ‘I guess Lord Allenby knows everything Mum could have known anyway. Well, it was worth a try.’
I gape at him. ‘Don’t you care about what Mum wrote here?’
Ollie shrugs. ‘It doesn’t make any difference to us, does it? We didn’t steal anything or … the other thing.’
As I gather up my knightbook and stalk out of Ollie’s bedroom I realise that of course Ollie isn’t going to care about anything beyond the immediate concerns of our power and the threat of Medraut. Of course he doesn’t care about learning about Mum. He hasn’t spent most of his life pinning his hopes on Mum’s love, on how things might have been different if she’d lived. His world view isn’t going to be irrevocably altered by the fact that Mum might have got someone killed. But I know that unless I find the truth, my mother’s memory, and everything I’ve pinned on it, will be tainted forever.
25
I don’t raise Mum’s messages with Ollie again, other than to ask him to find out who owned his locker when she was alive. I am expecting him to discover that it was Mum’s but apparently it belonged to someone from her regiment – Clement Rigby.
Even though I know there’s no point trying to make Ollie care about Mum’s time in the thanes, I can’t shake the sinking anxiety that maybe she wasn’t the brilliant knight I’d imagined. None of this, of course, helps me with my Immral. My training sessions are getting more and more frustrating for everyone involved.
Then, one night, Lord Allenby himself comes to watch me train. And he is not alone.
‘Andraste!’ I exclaim in a most un-Fern-like manner.
‘Lord Allenby tells me that you are in difficulty.’
‘Understatement of the century,’ Ollie remarks.
‘I thought,’ Lord Allenby says, ‘that since we can’t supply you with a teacher with Immral, Fern, that we could at least find a Fay who could help you. Ollie, why don’t you rejoin lessons for tonight and leave your sister to it?’
As soon as we’re alone, I turn to Andraste with a grin. I hadn’t fully realised until he’d gone how much pressure Ollie’s presence was putting on me. She rests a gloved hand against my cheek, studying me warmly.
