Midnight's Twins

by Holly Race

Rafe shakes his head. ‘Some of them haven’t turned up for duty. Cowards.’

  ‘Can you really blame them?’ Ollie says as he joins us. ‘I bet I’m not the only one here who took a while to open my portal tonight.’

  No one talks after that.

  When Lord Allenby emerges, I can see immediately that he’s putting on an act. He still strides out, straight-backed and purposeful, but something has broken in him. This is the second time in his career as a knight that a treitre has committed genocide – then it was his peers and friends he lost; last night it was those who were supposed to be in his care. What does that kind of burden do to a person?

  Beside Lord Allenby are two familiar faces. Leering Merlin and, to my delight, Andraste. It’s only her gently warning expression that stops me from running into her arms there and then.

  Lord Allenby speaks. ‘I know you all have questions about last night. There will be time later for answers. Right now we’re here to pay our respects.’

  I’ve never liked going to church before, but there is a power in hundreds of people bowing their heads as one; a power stronger than any Immral. Silence falls over us like a blanket. On the other side of Phoebe, Ollie closes his eyes in prayer. Merlin digs his arms into the pillars where the names of the dead scroll. Inspyre crackles around his forearms. With a grinding noise, the words come to a halt, and Merlin pulls his arms out of the pillars. Lord Allenby recites without the need of paper.

  ‘Emory Blair.’

  Merlin runs his hands over the stone and Emory’s name appears. Then something even stranger happens. The inspyre around us forms a shape. Emory’s dreadlocked face stares down at us. Her form shimmers for a moment, then vanishes as Lord Allenby announces the next name. And so the list goes on. It builds like a tower of cards in my chest. The same ritual for each person murdered last night – their name is read, engraved, then their shape forms. The silence beneath the dome is gradually replaced by muffled sobs. Even Samson, who is usually so stalwart, has tears running down his cheeks. I wait for it to hit me but I can’t absorb the fact that all of these people are gone.

  ‘Ramesh Hellier.’

  The cards topple. Phoebe silently takes my hand, her chest heaving. I thought I had done all my crying earlier today when I found Ramesh’s obituary, but I was wrong.

  At first my search for Reyansh Haldar had only raised sensationalist headlines about the deaths. It took a while to find his social media accounts. On one of them his parents had written a brief message.

  Reyansh died peacefully in his sleep last night. We can’t believe that our sweet little boy, and Sachi and Kala’s big brother, has left us. We’ll update here with details of the funeral. We ask you not to contact us in the meantime, and please don’t pass our details on to the press.

  Underneath the message there was a slurry of comments, nearly all of them only a few words each. RIP mate. Can’t believe you’ve gone. Always such a joker, RIP. Then, near the bottom: I’ll miss you so much, Rooster. You saved my life once, wish I could’ve done the same for you. Xx. The photo was of a black-haired, black-lipped girl from his school giving the finger to the camera. So he had one real friend, at least. If what she’d written was true, then Ramesh was in the business of helping people in Ithr too.

  As I think about that message there’s a pull, from both my head and my heart, like a thread being drawn from them. Phoebe gasps and I know she’s feeling the same thing. Those threads seem to take form – at first just a wisp of blue light, then as it intertwines with other threads, it takes on a shape. Rough, maybe a little more noble-looking than he really was, but it’s definitely Ramesh. His form flickers, like all the others, then it dissipates. The power of our joint memories, focused through our grief, made him real and alive again, if only for an instant.

  After the last name is added to the pillars, the atmosphere in the hall lifts, as though it’s been cleansed.

  ‘It’s not right,’ Phoebe whispers. ‘People should know they didn’t just die in their sleep.’

  ‘It’s best that no one realises,’ Rafe replies. ‘Think about the chaos if everyone knew the truth.’

  ‘I know,’ Phoebe says fiercely. ‘It still doesn’t make it right that we’re the only people who know that they died fighting. It’s not fair.’

  There’s nothing much we can say to that. She’s right. It’s not fair at all.

  Lord Allenby clears his throat.

  ‘No doubt you all know by now that what happened last night was on the orders of Sebastien Medraut. It might not seem like it, but we got off lightly. I’ve had reports that Cornwall and Oxford have been completely wiped out. Last night was a declaration of war.’

  There’s more to it than that, though, I realise. The long tables that were intended to be for the Ostara celebrations have been pushed to one side. The glorious trees have been stripped of their blossoms and the garlands of flowers have been torn down. It may seem like a small thing in the grand scheme of the tragedy, but it is symbolic of what we have lost. Medraut knew. He knew that last night was supposed to be a time of joy for the thanes – a brief moment where we could congratulate each other, since no one in Ithr even knows we exist. He knew all of that, and he chose last night to decimate us anyway.

  ‘You know what we have to do,’ Lord Allenby is saying. ‘As of right now, destroying Medraut is our priority. It’s the priority of every thane in this country. We don’t stop, we don’t balk, we don’t rest until he has been brought to justice. Is that understood?’

  The call goes up around the hall. ‘Yes, my lord.’

  I look at Phoebe, Natasha and Rafe, all red-faced from crying. I look at Samson, who has seen more than any of us what Medraut is capable of. Then I look at Ollie, my enemy, my ally, my other half. I reach out to all of them. One by one, they place their hands over mine.

  ‘We do not rest,’ Samson says.

  ‘We do not fear,’ I add.

  ‘Let’s get the bastard,’ Ollie says.

  Medraut has fired the opening shot. But we will be the ones to fire the closing one, if it’s the very last thing we do. And with my dying breath if needs be, I’ll take that golden treitre with me.

  42

  Andraste finds me after the memorial service. Up close, she looks more tired than before. Her face is riddled with oozing scars. When she talks, her lungs rattle.

  ‘It’s Medraut, isn’t it? Who’s doing that to you?’ I say.

  She nods. ‘His influence in Annwn and Ithr grows, and ours wanes. People tell his story, not ours. We cannot survive if our stories are forgotten.’

  ‘When you first brought me here you asked me to save you. Did you know I had Immral?’ I ask.

  ‘No – I spoke in a moment of desperation. I did not mean to put my life on your shoulders. My brothers and sisters are angry that I helped you into Tintagel. They no longer trust any human with the King’s Power, but I told them that you are different.’

  I think about what I did to Jenny, and squirm.

  ‘I am going to try to save you, you know.’

  She smiles at that, but it’s a sad smile, as though she doesn’t believe me. I watch her walk slowly away, the hint of a limp now plaguing her stride.

  We feel the absence of our fallen friends most keenly when we go out on patrols. Despite our losses, Bedevere fared better than any of the other regiments. ‘And that’s thanks to you, Fern,’ Samson says. ‘We all know it, and we won’t forget it.’

  It means that some of our knights are moved to other regiments to even out the numbers. Amina’s promoted to the head of Lancelot. It’s a bittersweet pill for her; she and Emory were close.

  There is one more ritual to perform to mourn our dead. It doesn’t take place in Tintagel, but in the sheltered garden where the amber monument marks the massacre of the knights fifteen years ago. We hang our own ribbons from the branches. No words can fill the space between my anger and my grief, but I try all the same. For Ramesh, I write. You were annoying and you talked too much. Yo
u made me your friend against my will. Now you’re gone and I want you back.

  I notice Ollie slipping his own ribbon onto a lower branch and surreptitiously read it: Ramesh – you knew who I really am and you liked me anyway. Thank you.

  A second amber monument has been erected next to the first, containing the weapons of the sixty-one fallen. My comrades spend a long time crying in front of it. At first, I can only stare hopelessly at the jet-black fountain pen engraved with the name Reyansh Halder, but after a while I find myself drawn to the original monument. Ollie said that the treitre had carved something onto the once-weapons of its victims. Sure enough, each item has the same verse etched into it. Hereafter dear thou shalt repent. I move around the monument, seeing the same words on toy cars and bracelets, cufflinks and dolls. Hereafter dear thou shalt repent. The more I read it, the more sinister it becomes. Then I come across a paintbrush – spattered with coloured oils – right at the bottom that bears a different inscription. I claim this life for Sebastien Medraut.

  ‘Such an ugly sentence for a very gentle woman,’ Lord Allenby says. He’s standing on the other side of the monument, watching me examine the brush. ‘That weapon belonged to the first knight who was killed. We never did work out why the inscription was different for her.’

  Lord Allenby has spoken once before about the first people killed by the golden treitre. The woman who didn’t belong, like me. ‘This was Ellen Cassell’s?’

  He nods. ‘The cricket bat next to it was Clement Rigby’s. We found the weapons, but no trace of their bodies.’

  I am about to ask more, but at that moment the harkers and knights standing guard at the garden’s entrance signal to Lord Allenby. That’s our cue to return to Tintagel. I don’t see him alone again for quite some time.

  Our first patrol after the treitre attack is a quiet affair; a far cry from our former jubilance. When Samson gets a call over his helmet I can tell that everyone in our regiment is steeling themselves. This is business as usual, when nothing will ever be normal again. The call takes us deep into the narrow streets of Shoreditch, and I can tell that everyone is thinking about how simple it would be for the treitre to ambush us here. It’s easy to spot the dreamer. A little girl surrounded by the dreams of her friends: a gaggle of children. Then we get closer and I see that their mouths and noses are distorted into muzzles, although these muzzles are covered in skin instead of fur.

  ‘Look, Donald,’ Phoebe says, and her lion growls in acknowledgement. It takes me a moment to understand why, then I spot the stuffed toy clutched in the little girl’s arms as she cowers away from the wolf-children.

  ‘Mixed nightmare,’ Rafe says over the helmets. ‘Poisoners and pack. This is a dangerous one all round, guys.’

  We form a circle around the group. Samson places himself near to the dreamer, ready to jump in front of her at the opportune moment. We attack as one, Samson slipping in between the dreamer and her tormentors, and tackling the wolf-children head on, while the rest of us move in from the sides. We’re clumsy. We used to instinctively know which one of us was tackling which nightmare. Now we have to think about where the holes are and who is covering them. Still, we find our rhythm. Samson takes out four wolf-children at a time, firing one arrow from his bow and using the next like a rapier. Rafe leaps into the air like a gazelle, bringing his club down in just the right place to tackle a wolf-child that’s got Ollie in a bit of a bind. I try to do my bit, but I’m rusty using my scimitar.

  When the last wolf-child has been destroyed, we allow ourselves a rare moment of congratulation. After the events of the other night, it’s a much needed boost. But our satisfaction is short-lived. The inspyre whirls into motion and reforms into more wolf-children. They chase the little girl as a pack, snapping and jeering.

  ‘This is too quick,’ Samson says. ‘Poisoners don’t normally reform in the same night.’

  ‘It’s too strong in her head,’ Ollie says. ‘I can feel her fear from here.’

  ‘We’re going to have to see if we can wake her up,’ Rafe says. ‘Harker? Where’s our nearest portal?’ My focus is on Phoebe, though. She is staring at the little girl. One of her hands is curled tightly into Donald’s mane. I look between Phoebe, Donald and the little girl clutching her cuddly bear, and I realise what I need to do.

  ‘Let me try something,’ I say.

  I follow the dreamer with an outstretched hand, testing the inspyre that is creating the toy in her arms. There. I can feel its edges. I can feel how tightly she is holding it. The crackle in my brain travels down my neck, through my shoulders and my arms and leaps from my fingertips towards the girl.

  Grow, I command it. Be real.

  There’s a resistance. The little girl is imagining her toy too strongly, clinging to it for comfort. I give her a little shove with my mind, trying to throw her imagination off kilter for long enough to grant me control over it. She falters and shrinks from the nightmares even further … but it’s enough. The toy leaps from her arms. It twists, gathering inspyre like a tornado. It grows and grows and finally, when it has fallen to the ground, it unfurls itself. The bear draws its little girl close, gathering her into the fur of its stomach. It looks down upon the snapping wolf-children. And. It. ROARS.

  I will always remember that moment. The moment when the wolf-children cringed away from the bear and popped, one by one, back into inspyre. The way the little girl looked up at her bear, grown huge and alive, with an expression that said she’d found her protector forever and always. These are the candles that live inside the chests of the knights: a flame that tells us that we have done something worthwhile with our existence. My God, it’s addictive.

  For the rest of the regiment, the victory is a renewal of our vows to be thanes. The treitres haven’t broken our spirits. Not yet.

  We trot along the Southbank, the Thames rippling with sailing boats on our left.

  ‘Do you remember,’ Phoebe says, ‘when Ramesh thought he saw a giant turtle and dived in?’

  ‘I can’t believe he thought he’d be able to ride it,’ Rafe says.

  We all laugh. A sad, fond laugh.

  Ramesh. Or, as I must come to know him – Rayensh.

  The message had come through that afternoon.

  Rayensh’s funeral will be held on Friday 30th March at 4 p.m., in St Margaret’s Church.

  There will be a small wake at our home afterwards. All friends are welcome to attend.

  Natasha had warned us not to go looking for the fallen in real life. ‘It’s an unspoken rule,’ she’d said. ‘I know it might seem like it would give you closure, but it’s not fair on the dead.’

  ‘Did you lose someone in Annwn then?’ Phoebe had asked.

  ‘Only once, about seven years ago, but he was my best friend. I tracked him down and I wish I hadn’t. It turned out his real life friends were quite nasty. He looked nothing like he did in Annwn. Didn’t even have the same name. Anyway, it changed my memories of him. Messed with my head.’

  Well, I already know that Ramesh doesn’t look like he did in Annwn and that he doesn’t have the same name. But from what I’ve read, he wasn’t that different from the Ramesh I knew. Anyway, I can’t exactly get high and mighty about someone wanting a fresh start here. Going to Ramesh’s funeral feels like the only way I can honour what he did for me. He was loyal and open and he made me think about people differently, and I’m starting to understand that that’s what friendship means.

  43

  March 1996

  Una’s eyes flitted around the knights’ chamber as soon as she arrived, as they had done every night for the last week. Yet again, Ellen hadn’t turned up. Una spotted Lionel and Clement deep in conversation, perched on the armchairs in the corner.

  ‘The harkers can’t find her,’ Lionel told Una as soon as she arrived.

  ‘It’s been six days. She can’t have been awake for –’ Clement tried to do the math, ‘– that many hours.’

  ‘Which means two things could have happened,
’ Una said. ‘Either she’s dead, or she’s alive but can’t get into Annwn.’

  The three knights looked at each other, their worry reflected in each other’s faces.

  ‘I looked, you know,’ Clement said quietly, glancing around to make sure no one else was listening. ‘In Ithr. For her.’

  He hung his head, clearly awaiting their judgement.

  ‘So did I,’ Lionel said.

  ‘Me too,’ Una told him. They started laughing, but not too loudly in case it angered Sebastien Medraut, who was holding court on the other side of the room.

  A voice echoed through the gramophone that sat beside the mantelpiece.

  ‘Una Gorlois, can you come to the entrance?’

  Una sprang to her feet and was out of the door before the others could even think about following. She jogged past the harkers’ tables, running through scenarios in her head. She couldn’t be in trouble because, for once, she hadn’t done anything wrong – or nothing that the harkers could have seen, anyway. It had to be Ellen, didn’t it? A harker was waiting for her near the castle doors. He beckoned her over.

  ‘She’s outside.’

  Una broke into a sprint. What could have happened? If Ellen was injured she would have been brought straight to the hospital, surely? Out on the porch, Una looked around wildly for her friend. There she was, standing on the platform clasping her portal in one hand. In the other she held her weapon – a great fang – as though she was expecting to be attacked even inside the castle walls.Una ran over and they stood in each other’s arms for a long time.

  Ellen wasn’t injured, or not that Una could see anyway. She felt like a toy that had some of the stuffing ripped out of it.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she whispered.

  ‘In Ithr.’

  ‘Awake?’

  ‘I took some drugs that let me sleep without dreaming.’

  ‘Can you come into the castle?’

  ‘No. Please don’t make me.’

  She could barely hear Ellen’s voice, even with their heads so close together.