They walked on, emerging from the corridor into the bright, airy entrance hall. Daylight flooded in through the open doors. As Thomas and Eve made for the staircase, Iris hesitated. She glanced at the courtyard beyond the doors; it stood quiet and empty but for one dog padding around searching for scraps.
Thomas and Eve began to climb the stairs. Iris looked at them and then at the courtyard again. And she made up her mind. She would see what her father planned to do with that man and his family. Lifting her skirts, she turned and marched out of the castle.
In the courtyard, she summoned her cloak with the wave of her hands and felt an oppressive weight on her shoulders as it appeared, the wool dark and coarse. She fastened the ties and hastened across the courtyard.
Beyond the courtyard was the public square, where a large, boisterous crowd had gathered. A barrage of ferocious shouting emanated from the centre of the crowd, spreading outwards until even those on the outskirts were making impassioned threats, their faces red with excitement.
The gates were open; two guards were stationed in front of them. Iris drew up her hood, mustered her courage and darted past with her head down. She heard one of them shout something as she ran towards the crowd.
She weaved through the people, pushing her way deeper into the throng. She could hear a man’s voice over the shouting. A clear, steady voice. Her father’s voice. And then the crowd roared. Suddenly, the people behind began to push and jostle her. She fell against a person in front, who, too, began to fall forwards. And, before she knew it, she was being swept along, one foot tripping over the other, as the crowd moved with urgent haste out of the square and along Stone Lane, towards the Dark Forest.
The air was hot and rancid. People were jeering and gesticulating as they pushed forwards. Iris couldn’t see over their shoulders but she was certain of whom they were jeering at. People leant out of the first-floor windows on Stone Lane and joined in with the mob, spitting down at the family as they were escorted to the edge of the realm.
Stone Lane sloped down to the Grassland, a flat expanse of land half cast in shadow for, flanking its other side, was the Dark Forest. The trees were still in the breeze, stretching on for miles to the north, east and south.
A hush came over the crowd as they filtered out from the lane and regarded the unmanned border. Iris had heard it said that, if you stared too long at the dark spaces between the trees, figures would form out of the blackness, figures with monstrous faces and dead eyes, and once you had seen one of these forest ghosts, they would haunt you forever. She never let her gaze linger on the forest and she noticed how other people, too, averted their eyes and fidgeted uncomfortably.
She saw her father in the distance, standing with the men from the Great Hall, facing the crowd. And, next to them, quaking and afraid, was the gaunt man and his weeping wife, who had a screeching bundle in her arms and a small boy clinging to her leg in terror.
Matthew turned and gestured the forest with the sweep of his arm.
‘Go,’ he said.
The man took his wife’s hand and walked towards the trees. He looked back once. Iris could see the whites of his eyes from where she stood across the Grassland.
The baby’s cries came in short bursts, but that did not seem to weaken Matthew’s resolve. His arms were folded, his jaw set, his mind made up.
When the family entered the forest, the crying stopped.
As the people made their way back along Stone Lane, Iris heard an elderly man speaking to a woman behind her.
‘They haven’t a chance. The Mordark filth will hunt ‘em for sport.’
‘They might make it across to the Dark Lands. They could disguise themselves as one of them,’ the woman said.
‘What, with no magic?’ the man said, incredulously. ‘The Mordarks will sniff ‘em out straight away.’
‘Maybe they’ll find the Land of the Banished...’
‘No, it’s too far. Mordarks will find ‘em before nightfall. They haven’t a chance.’
At supper, Iris seated herself far away from her father. He seemed to be in high spirits, smiling and laughing as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened that day. He had already devoured an entire roast chicken and washed it down with a goblet of wine. Now, he was tucking into a fruit cake.
Thomas and Eve were subdued; they sat quietly with their heads bowed, speaking only when spoken to, mumbling their responses.
Lucian took this opportunity to occupy his parents’ undivided attention. He leant across Thomas to get closer to their father at the head of the table. Their mother, Josephine Mortenstone, beamed at him as he told them about his progress in lessons and his desire to attend meetings in the Great Hall.
Iris looked at her father bitterly as he clapped a hand on Lucian’s shoulder and shook it encouragingly. When, suddenly, he turned his head and caught her eye, she looked down at her plate and pushed her cabbage around with her fork. She had no appetite. She wanted nothing more than to leave the table.
‘Father, when can we go to Draxvar? I want to go on a dragon hunt. I want to be the youngest person to slay one without magic,’ Lucian said.
‘Is that so? Perhaps in a few years, when you’re stronger,’ said Matthew.
‘No, I want to be the youngest man to do it. It should be soon or I’ll miss my opportunity. Mother?’
‘You are more than capable, Lucian,’ said Josephine. ‘Your father must see that,’ she said, turning her cold eyes on Matthew, who smiled tightly.
‘Merlin was seventeen when he slayed the dragon. You have years yet, and more important things to focus on for the time being,’ he said to Lucian.
‘What if someone my age does it tomorrow?’
‘It’s been more than a thousand years, Lucian, and no one has managed it. I’m sure we can afford to wait a few more years for your turn.’
‘I’d skin it afterwards and use its scales for armour,’ Lucian said, his eyes flashing excitedly.
‘Of course you would,’ Matthew said as he wiped crumbs from his clothes.
When the servants came forward and snapped their fingers and the plates and silverware vanished from the table, the bell began to ring for the children’s bedtime. Iris backed out her chair and left quickly without kissing her father goodnight. She hurried down the corridor to get away. When she heard him call out behind her, she pressed on, faster.
‘Iris!’ His voice boomed down the corridor. She could hear his footsteps quickening. ‘Iris!’ he said again, closer now. She kept going until she felt his hand on her arm. She stopped. Matthew pulled her around to face him. ‘Why are you running away from me, Iris? What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing,’ she muttered, looking down at her shoes. Matthew cupped her chin gently and brought it up so he could look at her. ‘We are on the good side, aren’t we, father?’ she asked. Her question seemed to puzzle him.
‘Of course we are,’ he said. ‘We are descendants of Merlin the Good.’ He looked across at a large portrait of the white-haired wizard on the wall. ‘Goodness is in our blood.’ He kissed her on the forehead. ‘Now, let’s say your bedtime prayer.’
Iris protested but he sat her down on a bench and knelt in front of her, closing his eyes and taking her hands in his.
‘We pray to the White Witch,’ he began. ‘We pray that she may one day come to us and rid us of our troubles, our pain, our enemies, and bring light and life to the realm.’
Iris muttered the prayer with her eyes open, looking at her father. She realised then that goodness was a matter of perspective and that her family was not wholly good.
Five years later
2. THE FAILED REBELLION
The square was transformed into a giant stage with tiered seating all around on the anniversary of the Failed Rebellion. People had travelled far and wide, from the mountains of Latheera to the caves of Draxvar, to celebrate the event. The stalls were filled to bursting and the crowds spilled into Stone Lane and Brim Street and Merlin’s Way. Many came dress
ed in purple robes with billowing bell sleeves; some had strapped on white beards in imitation of the Great Wizard. Street vendors on each corner of the square were selling fizzing candies and sweet bread and, for the children, Merlin dolls on wooden sticks and toy snakes with removable heads. Purple banners bearing a Silver Tree, the Mortenstone crest, hung from the windows of every house lining the streets, as well as the gates of Mortenstone Castle, where spectators turned their eager eyes as they waited in anticipation for the show to begin.
When the gates opened, a hush crept over the crowds. Guards began to file out into the square. They took their positions around the stall nearest the castle, which was occupied along its upper tiers by castle maids and servants, who grinned ecstatically, thrilled to be the focus of so many watchful eyes. As the last of the guards passed through the gates to stand beside the stall, the city of Lambelee stood in complete silence.
And then, finally, Matthew and Josephine Mortenstone emerged with their children, in gowns of purple and silver. The square erupted. Cheers turned to screams of elation. People stretched out their hands, straining to touch them. Matthew paused to wave. Lucian waited behind him, looking sullen. He despised the anniversary of the Failed Rebellion and often told his mother that, one day, when he ruled, he would cancel the celebration until the enemy had been destroyed once and for all.
As they moved on through the square, several girls in the stalls giggled and tried to catch Lucian’s eye. He ignored them all.
Iris walked behind Lucian. Her maids had braided threads of silver into her golden hair. As she came out of the courtyard into the sunlight, the silver threads glinted and sparkled. People began to point at her excitedly.
‘There she is! Lady Iris!’
‘…the beauty of the realm…’
‘Look, look at her! Behind Lord Lucian!’
She smiled at them, and at Lucian when he looked over his shoulder at her with disdain.
When they arrived at their seats, a man dressed in black came onto the stage and bowed before them. Then he raised his arms and the audience quietened.
‘Welcome, all, on this joyous day. The day darkness battled light, and met its demise! The day Merlin the Good proved his worth - and that of his kin - for all eternity! Behold! The Failed Rebellion!’
The crowds cheered and stomped their feet. As the man left the stage, the sound grew louder and more impassioned, like a thousand war drums beating up a frenzy.
After the cheers died down, people began to fidget and look at one another expectantly.
Lucian leaned in to talk to his father. ‘Why is nothing happen—’ But, before he could finish his sentence, a ball of emerald-green light appeared, hovering five feet above the centre of the stage. It seemed to give off a low buzzing sound as it flared like a fire igniting itself again and again. The buzzing grew louder and then the sound began to transform into a snake-like hiss. Suddenly, the ball imploded with a thunderous clap. There was a brief silence as the audience watched the empty space in confusion. Then, a wizard materialised in the middle of the stage. He wore an emerald-green cloak. His hair and beard were grey and tangled. He circled around, regarding the audience, and his thin lips curled into a snarl.
‘I, the Serpentine Wizard, shall take Avalon for my own. I will poison others against Merlin, and I will defeat him!’ he declared.
The wizard began to shrink, his arms disappearing up the sleeves of his cloak. His face contorted grotesquely and a long, reptilian tongue flicked out of his mouth, before his head, too, disappeared into his robes. The garment fell to the floor and a snake emerged from beneath it.
A group of wizards came onto the stage then, deep in discussion. They took no notice of the snake as it began to circle them, hissing loudly. A green cloud of fog rose from the ground, drifting into their mouths and ears. Suddenly, one of the men lifted his head.
‘We must rise up against Merlin,’ he said. ‘The Serpentine Wizard is our true leader.’ The men all nodded in agreement.
‘We must slaughter every man, woman, and child who does not follow him,’ said another, to further nods.
They exited the stage and the snake vanished.
During the interval, as refreshments were handed out and children ran to the street vendors with coins they had begged from their parents, Iris sat back in her seat, bored. Every year, it was the same. She looked over her shoulder and noticed Master Hagworth sitting behind her.
‘How did he die?’ she asked, turning in her chair.
‘The Serpentine Wizard?’ said Master Hagworth.
‘No, not him. Merlin,’ she said.
Master Hagworth looked surprised. ‘Dear girl, why would we concentrate on his death? Let us focus on his extraordinary life!’
Iris turned back around and folded her arms. The performance always began and ended the same way, at the same two points in time, with the same words. It seemed that all anyone really knew about Merlin was the rebellion he quashed. And there his story ended. Iris sighed. Master Hagworth looked at her pitifully and leaned forward to whisper into her ear.
‘I rather like to think he died peacefully in his sleep in this very castle,’ he said. ‘But, in truth, Iris, all we have left are fables. Whatever became of your great ancestor is lost to history. I—’
A trumpet blasted, silencing Master Hagworth, and the man in black appeared again on stage to announce the second half of the performance. Eve clamped her hands over her ears and groaned at the noise. Her Companion hushed her and presented a Merlin doll for her to play with. Eve took the toy, placed it in her lap and then began to pinch the skin on the back of her wrist anxiously. Matthew looked down the line at her with concern but Josephine squeezed his hand tightly and told him to keep his eyes on the stage.
After a great deal of plotting, the final scene saw the Serpentine Wizard locked in battle against Merlin the Good. Bolts of light flew from their hands and clashed with one another. The other men on stage aimed smaller, feebler bolts at each other. Many were hit and fell down, while the rest continued to fight around the two great wizards, who stared at each other menacingly. Eventually, the Serpentine Wizard’s bolt faded. Weary and pained, he dropped to his knees.
‘You deserve death!’ bellowed Merlin. ‘But I will show you mercy. I banish you to a land of darkness, where you shall thrive.’ He drew his arms back and then pushed them towards the wizard forcefully. A bright light shot forth from his hands and engulfed the Serpentine Wizard and all his followers. ‘Light conquers darkness!’ Merlin said.
The audience jumped to its feet and roared as the performers took their bow. When Matthew stood, they cheered louder - some even wept. Lucian watched them all from his seat. Suddenly, his eyes stopped on a bald man in the opposite stall, who had stopped clapping. When the man saw Lucian staring, he resumed his applause with vigour.
The actors came forward and lined up before Matthew.
‘And where are you from?’ Matthew asked, smiling at the man in black who had opened the performance.
‘Edgeton, my Lord Mortenstone,’ the man said, bowing. Master Hagworth let out a sharp laugh. Matthew glanced at him over his shoulder and then clapped a hand on the man’s arm.
‘Well, today you have made Edgeton proud!’ he said.
When the man moved away, Matthew looked at Master Hagworth again and suppressed a smile.
Iris might, too, have found this amusing. But, as she watched Lucian, she felt a growing sense of unease. He was staring at someone on the other side of the stage and a dark look had settled over his face. It was a look she was familiar with, a look he had when he was thinking terrible things.
3. THE LORD OF THE DARK LANDS
Fabian Mordark sat in his seat of Blackstone at the end of a gloomy hall drinking wine. The sky outside was grey and offered little light to the room through its narrow windows. He tapped his fingers along to the drip, drip, drip of rainwater as it leaked through the cracks in the ceiling and splashed onto the floor.
His eldest
son, Vrax, stood at his side, looking serious as usual, while his youngest, Tobias, was slumped in a chair three steps below with his legs dangling over the arm.
‘The Swamp Creatures have drowned two of Belfor’s boys,’ Fabian said, taking another sip of wine. ‘I would avoid him at all costs if I were you,’ he said, recalling his own encounter with his distraught cousin that very morning. ‘He’s on the warpath. Wants to hunt them all down and burn them.’ It was a humorous notion, he thought; the only thing Belfor could hunt down was a hot meal, usually from Fabian’s own kitchens in the basement of Castle Mordark.
‘I would gladly help him, father’ said Vrax.
Fabian had to crane his neck to look up at him. Vrax had hollow cheeks that aged his face beyond his years, but the boy was still green. And with his youth came a readiness that, today, irritated Fabian.
‘No. No one touches them. For all their faults, they keep the rats at bay. Belfor can have more children - I cannot live with rats.’
He turned then to the small man kneeling on the floor in the middle of the hall. ‘And who is this anguished soul?’ He set down his goblet and looked towards the back of the hall, where his second son, Alexander, was picking dirt from his nails with a knife. Alexander looked up, dusting the blade. The jewelled eye of the serpent on the front of his black, leather tunic flashed as he moved out of the shadows into the dying light of the fire, which spluttered and choked in its own ash.
‘We’ve been clearing out the dungeons. This man here,’ Alexander said, grasping the man by both shoulders, ‘is our last living prisoner. He’s been here for five years.’
‘Five years?’ Fabian said, surprised. ‘Perhaps it is you I should be thanking, for keeping the rats at bay.’ He laughed, his lips curling back over grey teeth as he made a munching noise and rubbed his belly. The man flinched and turned his face away.
The White Witch (The Serpent and The Sorcerer Trilogy Book 1) Page 2
