Iris blushed. She vaguely remembered a lesson on elves. She had been more interested in the pictures.
‘Well,’ continued Bink, ‘now you know, Lady Iris. Now, where were we? Ah, yes, trees!’ Lucian rolled his eyes. Bink saw this and turned to look at him. ‘Merlin the Good valued their voices. You’ve all heard of his prophecy, of course. But did you know it came to him through a Silver Tree?’ The bored look on Lucian’s face melted away. ‘Oh yes,’ said Bink. ‘Follow me!’ Suddenly, he disappeared.
‘Where did he go?’ Thomas said, as they stared around in the fog.
‘Here!’ came Bink’s voice. ‘Over here!’ He was standing beside the Silver Tree Master Hagworth had retreated to. ‘It was just like this one!’ Bink said as they approached, running his hand over the shimmering silver bark.
‘But not this one?’ Iris asked.
‘No, not this exact tree. The tree that spoke to Merlin was in Mortenstone Valley, near his home, I believe. Legend tells he had been dreaming about this tree for years and years. And then, one day, he found it. And when he touched it…’ Bink clutched the tree with both hands and gasped, his eyes widening. They all watched him, enraptured.
‘Enough with this nonsense!’ Master Hagworth snapped, rushing out of the fog.
‘What did he see?’ said Eve, ignoring the schoolmaster.
‘The White Witch!’ Bink said in a voice just above a whisper. ‘And the War of Light and Darkness.’
‘Stop this at once!’ Master Hagworth shouted. ‘You are here to teach them about tree music, not to fill their heads with silly stories.’
‘They aren’t stories. The White Witch is coming. Father believes it,’ Iris said, as though that settled everything.
‘No man, not even a powerful wizard like your great ancestor, can foretell the future. We place far too much faith in old tales,’ said Master Hagworth. ‘We are going back to the castle.’
‘But we haven’t—’ Iris began, but Master Hagworth cut her off.
‘Your teacher has chosen not to teach you, so it falls to me to fill your heads with facts. This lesson will continue in the schoolroom. Good day, Bink,’ he said scornfully.
As he marched them away, Iris looked over her shoulder apologetically. Bink smiled faintly through his disappointment, before he vanished into the fog.
As Iris stumbled back up the slope, she heard the loud groan of a tree and, somewhere further away, another tree answering its call.
Master Hagworth’s foul mood did not dissipate back at the castle and they spent the remainder of the lesson reading silently from books. When they were finished, he snapped his tome shut, sending dust scattering in all directions, and disappeared without a word.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ Thomas asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Iris distractedly as she rose from her seat. Throughout the lesson, while Master Hagworth had sighed and huffed, she thought about Alexander. She had kissed him. He had kissed her back and, for a moment, she felt as light as a cloud. Happy and free and full. And then it had all come crashing down. Lucian had followed her. Of course he had followed. She should have known he would. But, even now, as he glared at her across the schoolroom, she knew he could not have seen everything. If he had, she felt sure he would have told their mother.
That afternoon, she watched from the castle steps as Lucian and Thomas rode out of the courtyard with the Vandemeres and a pack of hunting dogs, bound for the Wild Wood, in search of a stag to butcher and boast about at dinner. Normally, she would have resented being left behind while they went off on an adventure. But, today, their departure brought her nothing but relief.
She went to the library and pulled a book of old legends from the bookcase, ready to brandish if anyone stopped her and asked what she was doing. But no one questioned her on her way out of the castle, nor did they notice her on Stone Lane, which was more crowded than usual. She overheard a baker telling a group of people that the guards had been marching to the border every hour to run checks; one of them had barged past him, knocking him to the ground without a word of apology.
She stopped at the end of the lane and looked across the Grassland, scanning the border. Then she smiled to herself. There wasn’t a guard in sight.
*
Alexander was splitting logs outside Agatha’s house. Every time he swung the axe, he pictured Matthew Mortenstone’s face and sliced each log clean in half. His eye was swollen and bruised and there was a deep gash above his brow. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, burning the wound. As he stopped to wipe his face with his sleeve, he heard a rustling sound further down the path. He fumbled for the axe. It was stuck firmly in the chopping post. More rustling, louder now. Something was out there, moving closer. He tugged and tugged. Just as he wrenched it out, Iris emerged from behind a tree and came onto the track, tipping her hood back. The knots in his stomach eased. He lowered the axe.
‘Sulking?’ she said when she reached him. She leaned in to look at his eye and winced. He turned his face away. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly. ‘For what he did to you.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ he said to his shoulder. He could feel her staring at him. He moved back to the chopping post, placed a log on it and brought the axe down. Iris jumped back as the wood splintered.
‘Ouch,’ she said suddenly. Alexander looked up and saw her spinning around to look at the Silver Tree.
‘What?’ he said, tossing the axe aside.
‘Something just… What is that?’ she said, running her hand over a contraption protruding from the silver bark. When he saw what it was, he laughed.
‘That’s the secret to Agatha’s youth,’ he said, gesturing the wooden funnel that was sticking out of the tree trunk like a short, bony finger. ‘She fashioned it herself. She bleeds the tree and drinks the fluid. You lift this little trap,’ he said, sliding up a thin, smooth rectangular segment of wood. For a moment, nothing happened. And then out began to trickle a pale, silvery liquid. ‘Try it,’ he said. Iris looked unsure. ‘I used to drink it all the time. Just don’t let her catch you. She doesn’t like sharing it.’ Iris glanced uncertainly at the house. Alexander cupped his hands beneath the funnel and watched them fill with the strange water. Then he drank it in three gulps. It was oddly sweet and refreshing. It had been years since he had enjoyed this drink, and now he remembered why he had gone to such pains to sneak it when Agatha wasn’t looking. ‘It’s good,’ he said.
Iris looked at the house again and then cupped her hands and collected the liquid in them. As she began to drink, there was a sudden squeaking sound as Agatha’s front door opened. Iris jumped away from the tree and quickly wiped her mouth. But it was only William. The boy closed the door carefully behind him, took a few steps towards them and then stopped. He stared at them inquisitively, until Alexander, pitying him, finally said, ‘Come on then, William. You’re strong. You can help me carry these logs in for the fire.’
William looked pleased to be included and marched dutifully towards the pile of wood, arms swinging at his sides.
Iris waited outside while they transported the firewood into the house. She seemed wary of Agatha and asked Alexander not to tell her she was there. He found this odd; she was brave enough to wander through the Dark Forest alone, but too terrified to face an old woman.
Agatha was snoozing in her chair by the fire, an empty wooden cup sitting in her lap. On the mantelpiece stood a half-empty bottle of the same silver liquid he and Iris had just extracted from the tree. Alexander smiled to himself.
When he stepped back outside, it was almost dark. Iris was sitting in the dirt, leaning against the Silver Tree. She seemed sad. Her lips were turned down at the corners. He felt a pang of sorrow then, looking at her. His throat ached. He wanted to put his arms around her. But he also wanted to throttle her. She was one of them. She could never be his. They would always be enemies. He traipsed over to the tree and sat down next to her. His arm tingled where it touched hers. It wasn’t fair. He banged his
head against the tree in frustration.
‘Why? Why do you have to be a Mortenstone?’ he said. Iris looked startled. She stared at him, wide-eyed, and then turned her head away and sniffed.
‘I won’t be for much longer,’ she murmured.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m going to marry Gregory Vandemere of the Low Lands,’ she said.
‘You can’t!’ he snapped, a burning anger rising in him as he imagined another man’s hands on her. No. If he couldn’t have her, no one else could either. ‘Don’t marry him!’
‘I don’t want to. I have to,’ she said. ‘The wedding is in the summer. By next summer, I’ll probably be a mother.’
‘No!’ he shouted, pulling her around to face him. He shook her. ‘No,’ he said again. Her eyes brimmed with tears. He felt something blocking his throat and tried to swallow it down. His eyes stung as he stared at her. Iris was his. She belonged to him. He leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. Her tears wet his cheeks, trickling down them as if they were his own.
‘Come inside,’ he said, brushing his fingers against her neck. ‘Agatha will have gone to bed.’
‘Alright,’ Iris whispered, her breath hot in his ear. Alexander stood up and pulled her with him. She held onto him so tightly, he gave her a small nudge of reassurance and brought her hand up to kiss it. Then he led her across the path and into the house, closing the door quietly behind them.
Outside, not a breath of wind stirred the air. But, in the still quiet, on the edge of the path, the Silver Tree began to sing.
9. A MOTHER’S BLOOD
Iris awoke before first light when the floorboards above started to creak. She shook Alexander.
‘I have to go,’ she hissed, springing from the bed and pulling her boots on.
‘It’s fine. It’s only Agatha,’ he mumbled, rolling onto his back and rubbing his eyes. Iris fastened her cloak, picked up the blanket that had fallen to the floor at threw it at him. Then she opened the door and peered into the sitting room. It was dark. The floorboards above had fallen silent. She waited, staring into the room for any sign of movement. When she was sure no one was there, she looked at the front door, outlined by the faint morning light that seeped in through the gaps around the frame. As she prepared to run for it, a hand seized her shoulder. She gasped.
‘What are you doing?’ she said, turning back to Alexander, who was standing behind her, grinning.
‘I’m going with you,’ he said.
‘Be quiet then!’
They tiptoed across the living room. When Alexander knocked into one of the wooden chairs, she gave him a murderous look. She had only opened the front door a fraction when it began to squeak. She didn’t dare open it any further and squeezed through the small gap, signalling for Alexander to do the same.
When they were outside, she darted away along the track until Agatha’s house was out of sight. Alexander ambled on after her.
‘I have to get back!’ she called, stopping to catch her breath. Alexander continued towards her slowly.
‘Iris—’ he said.
‘It’s morning already! If the servants come and my bed is empty…’ she said, feeling dizzy at the thought.
‘Fine, go,’ he said when he reached her. Iris scowled at him and he broke into a smile and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Here, I want you to have this,’ he said, slipping his hand into his pocket and pulling out a smooth blue stone. ‘I always carry it with me. It matches your eyes.’ He handed the stone to her. She took it and held it tightly.
‘Thank you.’
‘When will I see you again?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said anxiously, backing away from him. ‘Soon. I need to go!’ And with that, she hurried off into the forest and became lost amongst the trees.
When she came to the border, she stopped and looked out across the Grassland. The castle was but a shadow on the hill, turrets, sharp as needles, poking holes in the night’s sky, letting daylight bleed out.
Stone Lane was slowly waking from its slumber. She could see movement in the fading darkness - a white market stall canopy, flapping in the wind; a cart horse dragging supplies down towards the Snake’s Head Inn; a woman, leaning out of an upstairs window to beat a rug against the wall, and… a man? Her stomach clenched tight. Was it a trick of the shadows, or was there truly someone standing at the end of the lane, watching her? She stepped back behind a tree, her heart pounding. If there was someone there, they would report to her father before she made it halfway across the Grassland. And, if there wasn’t, and she walked through Stone Lane unnoticed, how did she ever hope to get past the guards at the gate without raising suspicion? How would she answer them, when they asked her where she had been? How could she stop them from telling her father, their Lord? No, it couldn’t be done. Time was running out. Any moment now, the maids would come into her bedchamber to light the fire. There was only one way. She had no choice. Nervously, she moved out of the forest, crossed her arms over her chest and thought of her bed.
She felt a touch of wind and opened her eyes. She was standing in her bedchamber. It was dim; the fire had not yet been lit. She had never travelled this far before with magic. A small part of her had thought she wouldn’t be able to. But she had done it. It had worked. She sighed with relief. But, as she did, she felt suddenly strange. Her head began to throb, the pain starting behind her eyes and moving back like a wave beneath her skull. Her body ached as if a lump of stone had been tied to every muscle, every bone and tendon. Blood coursed her veins like poison, burning, itching, stinging. And heavy. Her blood felt heavy, thick. It oozed through her body, weighing her down. Her fingertips bulged with it. She tried to unfasten her cloak. Her hands worked lethargically. The cloak finally fell to the ground with a flumpfh. She crawled onto the bed and retched but there was nothing in her belly to vomit. She didn’t have the energy to pull back the covers, so she lay there, willing the dreadful feeling away.
*
Matthew was sitting in the courtyard with Eve. It was a pleasant morning. The sun was up, warming the back of his head as he listened to the familiar clinking of the blacksmith’s hammer and the nearby clopping of hooves. He looked at Eve, perched quietly on a milk stool, staring at her thumbs. Her Companion lurked in the doorway of the servants’ quarters, watching her mindfully.
Matthew made a clicking sound with his tongue to get his daughter’s attention. When she looked at him, he held out his hand. In his palm was a white feather.
‘See?’ he said. She nodded, her eyes fixed on the feather. He pinched it between his thumb and forefinger and gave a fast, sharp blow. The feather vanished. He opened up his hands and looked all around in astonishment, lifting each foot, leaning down to search for it beneath his stool. Eve laughed and clapped her hands together softly.
Suddenly, a maid came skittering out of the castle, her skirts bunched in her fists.
‘My Lord Mortenstone, come quick!’ she exclaimed, bounding down the steps towards him. Two stable boys paused in their duties to watch. ‘It’s Lady Iris! She’s terribly unwell. She’s… she’s… You must come!’
‘Send for the physician,’ Matthew shouted, charging past the maid up the steps and into the castle.
He burst into Iris’s bedchamber and felt cold all over the moment he saw her, lying there on the bed, her face pale and waxy.
‘Iris,’ he said, moving to her bedside to place a hand on her head. It was warm. There was no fever. ‘What is it?’ he said, falling to his knees. ‘What’s the matter?’
Iris’s eyes drifted lazily to his. She stared at him blankly for a moment and then her lids closed. He pressed his fingers to her neck to feel for a pulse. Her heartbeat was strong. Her breathing was deep and steady.
The physician entered the chamber moments later. He was a round man, whose vast stomach put the buttons on his waistcoat under significant strain. He paused when he saw Matthew. Then he remembered himself and bowed. The bald patch on his head gleamed in the fireligh
t.
‘My Lord Mortenstone,’ he said.
Matthew stood and stepped aside. The physician passed him and moved to the foot of the bed, breathing heavily. He set down a large case, opened it and pulled out a thick pair of spectacles, propping them on his nose. Then, he lifted out a bulbous silver pendulum and moved around the side of the bed to dangle it over Iris. The pendulum began to swing in circles above her body, slowly at first and then with furious speed. He held it there a moment longer before snatching it up and putting it back in his case. ‘Hmmm,’ he said, tapping his lips with a plump finger. ‘She’s suffering from exhaustion. The girl used magic to transport herself a substantial distance.’
‘Then she’ll be well again soon?’ said Matthew.
‘Only time will tell, my Lord,’ said the physician. ‘The further she travelled, the longer her sickness will last. I advise that she travel shorter distances in the future, until she is strong enough, experienced enough, to go further,’ he said, closing his case. ‘Ensure that she rests and drinks plenty of water,’ he said. Then he bowed again and departed.
Seven days passed and Iris’s condition did not improve. Matthew tried to find out where she had been but it was impossible. In her waking hours, she was too weary to speak, and when she did try, her words were slurred and incomprehensible. That did not stop Josephine from voicing her suspicions, however, and she this did at every opportunity.
‘The Dark Forest, that’s where she’s been, the wretch,’ she would hiss.
But Matthew refused to hear it. Iris had promised him she wouldn’t go back there. He trusted his daughter. And yet…
On the eighth day, he went to Iris’s bedchamber at dawn and sat in the Witchwood chair by the fire, gazing at the flames, wondering if he was to blame. Was it because of the marriage? Had she been trying to escape? Had she made herself sick on purpose?
The White Witch (The Serpent and The Sorcerer Trilogy Book 1) Page 8
