She knelt in the fern and placed Rose next to her. Then she took Enola’s hands.
‘Are you warm enough?’ she said. Enola did not respond; she didn’t even look at her. Iris glanced at Maid Morgan, who averted her eyes, pretending not to have witnessed the exchange.
‘Come, Enola. Master Hagworth has exciting spells for you to learn,’ said Matthew, striding past them. ‘Jacobi, keep up,’ he called. Jacobi stumbled after him. Master Hagworth followed, hands filled with parchment and quills. He looked at Iris angrily and then raised his chin and walked on. Enola pulled her hands free with a hard tug and went after him.
Iris got to her feet as Thomas and Eve reached her and together they led Rose towards the others, who were now gathering around a tree stump by the side of the path. Master Hagworth put the parchment and quills on the ground and dusted his cloak; he cast Iris another scathing look as he did so. Iris sat next to Eve on a bed of moss and pulled Rose onto her lap. Thomas stood behind them, arms folded, watching, as Matthew picked Enola up and sat her next to Jacobi on the tree stump.
‘Do you know where we are?’ he said. Jacobi shook his head. Enola remained expressionless. ‘We are in Mortenstone Valley. Do you know why we call it that?’ Jacobi shook his head again. ‘Because this is where our ancestors are from. Where we are from. Do you know who our most famous ancestor is?’
‘Merlin,’ said Jacobi.
‘Very good. Merlin Mortenstone. Merlin the Good. And Merlin was born here, in this valley. Did you know that?’
Jacobi’s mouth fell open. ‘Where is his house?’ he asked, looking thoroughly excited.
Matthew chuckled. ‘Well…Mortenstone Castle was his home, where we live now. But the house in which he was born is far away, deep in the heart of the valley. We won’t go there today.’
‘I want to see it.’
‘One day you will. I will take you there. Both of you. And Rose. Would you like that?’ Matthew said. Jacobi nodded vigorously. Rose copied her brother. Matthew’s eyes flicked to Enola, who stared but didn’t answer, and then he looked away, turning to the schoolmaster. ‘Master Hagworth, please begin the children’s lesson.’
Master Hagworth came forward and knelt in front of them. He stared at each of the children in turn over his spectacles. Then, he held out a quill horizontally and took his hand away. The quill remained, suspended, in the air. The children watched it intently. Suddenly, the quill dropped. But, before it hit the ground, it stopped again, hovering above the moss. Master Hagworth leaned forward.
‘That is mind magic,’ he said. And he reached out and picked up the quill, pointing the feathered end at them. ‘Where I come from, this is the magic we are born with. We use our thoughts to control the world around us. It takes much practice and skill. In Draxvar, they use blood magic,’ he said. ‘Any spell or enchantment requires a drop of blood, or more, depending on the spell. In the Low Lands, they use hand magic. A swish of the hand,’ he said, swiping his own hand through the air, ‘is what it takes to make things happen. In Edgeton, spells are spoken. Incantations, we call them. The easiest magic to perform,’ he said, a derisive smile twisting his lips. Iris heard her father laugh. ‘And do you know what kind of magic they are born with here in Mortenstone Valley?’ Master Hagworth continued, leaning even closer and looking at them conspiratorially. The children stared at him, enraptured. ‘All of it!’ he said. ‘Everything. A Mortenstone is born with the ability to command mind, blood, hand and spoken magic. That makes you stronger and more powerful than anyone else, but only if you practise. If you do not master your magic, then others can master you.’
The children absorbed Master Hagworth’s words unblinkingly. He sat back, looking quietly pleased with himself.
Iris remembered the day she had received the same lesson from the schoolmaster. He told it exactly as he did now, with the same theatrics, the same trick with the feather. And one day, when they were old enough to understand, he would tell her children the whole story. He would tell them about the family who shared the valley and its magic with the Mortenstones. He would teach them about that family’s rebellion and the events it set in motion, and how those events changed the course of history and the realm they might have known.
‘Now, here is what I want you to do,’ said Master Hagworth, taking two quills and handing them to Enola and Jacobi. ‘We will start with some simple hand magic. Using your hands, I want you to make your quills float. You must concentrate. Gently bring your hands over the quill. Do you feel that? There should be a pulsing feeling in your palm. Focus on that feeling. Make it grow. Now, move your hands up. Ah!’ he exclaimed, as both children lifted their hands and their quills rose from their laps and hovered in the air. ‘Very good!’
‘Look, Mama!’ Jacobi said, smiling with delight.
‘I see! Well done, Jacobi!’ Iris said, clapping.
‘When you are older and stronger, you will be able to make the quill float with a single thought,’ said Master Hagworth.
‘I want to do it now!’ Jacobi said impatiently.
‘Ah, but you cannot, dear boy. Not yet. Mind magic is a gift that will come to you when you are nine, perhaps older. I was eleven - a late developer.’
Iris and her father exchanged a look. Enola had mastered mind magic before she could walk.
‘Now, here is your next exercise. Take this parchment here,’ said the schoolmaster, handing each of the children a sheet. ‘Go and find somewhere quiet to sit. Wait for the first creature you see. Then draw it. Make it a detailed drawing. And then come back to me and tell me four things you noticed about that creature. Off you go,’ he said, shooing them away. They climbed down from the tree stump and went off in different directions. Maid Morgan followed Enola and a young lady’s maid accompanied Jacobi.
When they were gone, Matthew, Thomas and Master Hagworth discussed their growing concern over the illegal trade of Latheerian horses across the border, while Iris and Eve threw up armfuls of leaves for Rose to run beneath.
‘Throw them higher, Iris!’ Eve cried, laughing as freely as Rose as she launched the leaves into the air and ducked under them as they fell.
Iris glanced at her sister distractedly and then returned her attention to Lareena, who had begun to paw at the ground in the distance. As one of the stable boys attempted to soothe her, she grunted and snapped at his hand. Iris dropped the leaves she was carrying.
Suddenly, there was a flash of white light. And a scream.
Without a second thought, she was running, running in the direction Enola and Maid Morgan had gone, running down a moss-covered hill with her father, sliding and stumbling, blood rushing in her ears. They emerged onto a twisting, uneven path and stopped. Maid Morgan was sprawled on the ground with her hands over her face. Enola was sitting calmly, further along the path, surrounded by smoking debris. Iris stared at it for a moment. And then she realised what it was and backed away, her mouth falling open in horror. Blackened mushrooms were strewn across the track. The little fairies that inhabited them lay scattered on the ground around them, contorted in all sorts of hideous ways. Dead. All dead. Their skin was grey. Their delicate wings scorched. Their little eyes vacant.
Iris ran to Enola, grabbed her by the arms and shook her. ‘What have you done?’ she shouted.
Thomas and Eve came crashing down the hill onto the path, with the guards and stable boys close at their heels. Eve began to scream when she saw the bodies.
Iris felt the forest spinning around her, the trees merging into one green blur, Eve’s screams ringing in her ears. And, over the screaming, the nearby howl of a valley dog, followed by a cacophony of distant barking. Word was spreading. She looked at her father, who, hearing the sound, straightened up.
‘Ready the horses,’ he called to the stable boys. They looked at him blankly. ‘Now!’ he shouted. The boys turned at once and ran back up the hill, passing Master Hagworth as he stepped down onto the path.
Iris grabbed Enola’s hand and began to drag her away. The cr
eatures of the valley would descend upon them soon if they did not move.
Matthew scooped Maid Morgan up off the ground. Her eyes were red and swollen, her cheeks streaked with tears. And then her head drooped and lolled to one side. She had fainted. Matthew handed her to the guards.
‘Take her. Put her on a horse!’ he said. Then he turned to Thomas. ‘Get Eve back to the horses!’
Thomas wrapped his arms around Eve’s waist and began to haul her, screeching, up the hill. She struggled and fought against him. When he dropped her, Matthew ran to help him and together they carried her.
Halfway up the hill, Iris hesitated, looking back at Master Hagworth, who had not moved.
‘Master Hagworth! We have to leave now!’ she cried. But Master Hagworth didn’t appear to have heard her. He was kneeling on the ground, staring at the bodies of the mushroom fairies. Exasperated, Iris ran back down the hill towards him, leaping over Enola’s discarded piece of parchment. ‘Master Hagworth!’ she called, as the schoolmaster reached out and touched one of the dead creatures with the tip of his finger. Suddenly, his hand shot back as if he had been shocked. He fell backwards and shrieked, his eyes twitching, flickering, jerking wildly. ‘Master Hagworth!’ Iris shouted, reaching him and sinking to her knees to cradle his head in her hands. Master Hagworth drew long, rasping breaths and stared up at her without recognition. And then, slowly, his expression changed. A haunted look crept over his face. ‘What is it?’ Iris said. The schoolmaster grasped her arm. She helped him sit up and, as she did, his eyes locked onto something over her shoulder. She followed his gaze to Enola and looked between them as they stared at each other. And then she noticed that Master Hagworth’s hands were trembling. She studied the old man’s face; in his eyes, she saw a thousand fears.
The next day was Enola’s fourth birthday. Iris fled the castle to Stone Lane in the morning to escape the incessant whispering, without visiting her daughter. Everyone had heard about what Enola had done. The very air felt toxic with the tale as it passed from person to person. Iris felt bitterly ashamed. For years, she had told them all Enola would be different, not like other Reverofs. And she had been wrong. It wouldn’t be long, she imagined, before her father finally sent Enola away. There was a reason her mother and Lucian looked so happy. There was a reason the elves, who had tried to take her before, had been called back to the castle. And there was a reason her father had not asked for any items of clothing to be packed for Enola. Iris only hoped that when they disposed of her daughter – and they would dispose of her – that they did it quickly and painlessly, that the deed be done by somebody, anybody, other than the physician who had been so desperate to do it years before.
She stopped halfway along the lane and watched two guards amble in from the Grassland. After years of sitting around in the camp down by the border, with nothing else to do but sleep and eat and rut with serving women who lived in the tents beside theirs, they had grown lazy and fat. The guards barrelled into the Snakes Head Inn. Iris stared absentmindedly at the door as it swung shut behind them. Then, suddenly, she felt a tap on her shoulder. Startled, she turned around and looked down into the bright eyes of a young boy, no older than ten. His clothes were heavily stained and covered in muck, like his face. She almost gasped when she realised who he was.
‘William?’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’
William glanced warily at the people passing by and leaned in to whisper, ‘I have a message for you, from Alexander. He wants to meet. Tonight.’
13. THE FINAL FEAST
Alexander sat on the floor of his mother’s bedchamber with a goblet of wine. The furs on her bed were folded neatly, the clothes in her chest untouched. A fire flickered in the hearth, throwing warmth into the icy cold air, and candles burned on the mantelpiece. It was as if the room waited for her return. Fabian had never treated her well. He had been cruel and chipped away at her spirit, day by day, until there was nothing left but a shadow of a woman with lost hopes and broken dreams. Alexander often wished his father would take her place in death, though, as the years wore on, it seemed to him that his wish was sustained purely out of habit. Because, in truth, it was impossible to miss her when she had so faded from his memory. Already, he had forgotten the sound of her voice. Soon, he would forget her face, too, for his father kept no portraits of her. There would come a day when she was simply gone. And that day was fast approaching. He could feel it.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror on the wall and took another mouthful of wine. Then, he stood up unsteadily. The wine began to spill; he tipped back the goblet to save it but lost his footing and fell, landing on the wine-soaked flagstones with a wet slap. The goblet rolled across the floor into the leg of the desk. He looked at himself in the mirror again and smiled crookedly, the way Fabian smiled. And then he started to laugh. And laugh. And laugh. And laugh. He could hardly breathe as he stared at himself, on his hands and knees, face spattered with red wine.
Two servants came rushing into the chamber and bent down to help him to his feet. When they finally got him up, they exchanged a look of unease. One of the servants snapped his fingers; the red stain on the flagstones vanished and the goblet disappeared, transported to the kitchens deep beneath the castle. Alexander tried to protest but his words were incomprehensible.
The servants propped him up on their shoulders and escorted him to his bedchamber, where they lowered him onto the bed and piled blankets and furs on top of him. They stoked the fire and lit candles before they left.
It was dark outside when he awoke. A boy was shaking his arm timidly.
‘My Lord, you asked me to wake you when it was time,’ the boy said. Alexander’s skull felt tight and his head throbbed painfully. He tried to get up but collapsed back onto the pillow under the weight of the furs. He looked at the boy again and slowly began to comprehend his words. He felt a twinge in the pit of his stomach and sat up suddenly, remembering what he had to do.
‘Get me my cloak,’ he said. ‘And something to clear my head.’
The boy went off and returned, almost instantly, with his cloak and a small, thin vial of green liquid. Alexander pulled out the cork with his teeth, spat it onto the bed and drank. His vision became sharp and focused once more and his headache disappeared. He felt light and fresh again, but the knots in his stomach remained. His hands shook as he fastened his cloak.
‘Do you want me to accompany you, my Lord?’ said the boy.
‘No.’
*
‘He’s preparing to leave, my Lord. But he’s been drinking wine. Lots of it,’ said the boy.
Fabian’s lip curled into a snarl. He stood and walked to the window, staring out into the night. It did not surprise him; Alexander had been in a wine-induced oblivion for almost four years. But, tonight, it was unacceptable. He was relying on his son. Tonight, their fate depended on him.
He had beaten Alexander with his own hands when word had reached him about Iris Mortenstone’s pregnancy. Could there be a greater betrayal than that of a son fraternising with the enemy? And, worse, Alexander had tried to deny it. When the child was born, Fabian had beaten him again, the memory of his son’s disloyalty stinging him afresh. But, after that, they heard no more of the Reverof girl - dead, most likely, he thought - and his anger drained away. The years slipped by without incident, each season as bleak and cold as the last. And then, at the end of the wet summer just passed, his men made a discovery. They found a Mortenstone Castle maid romping with a Mortenstone guard in the Dark Forest and captured them both. Fabian learned from the maid that the Reverof child still lived, that she was a strange girl, deviously clever, and prone to vicious outbursts that unnerved the bravest of men. But what intrigued him most of all were the girl’s extraordinary abilities. The maid told him that, by the age of three, the girl had more power than a grown witch or sorcerer. A cruel and dangerous child, it seemed. And yet Matthew Mortenstone had allowed her to remain in his castle. Why, when she was illegitimate? Why, when her
very existence undermined his authority? The maid did not know. But the answer came to him soon enough. Matthew Mortenstone had a weakness – his daughter, Iris. And if she ruled his heart, then she ruled The Light. And if her heart belonged to Alexander, then perhaps he had been too harsh on his son. Maybe Alexander had the power to win back their lands. The more he thought about it, the surer he became. And now, tonight, it would all unfold. He would do what no Mordark had yet achieved. If Alexander succeeded, if he lured Iris Mortenstone into the forest and held her captive, they could demand what they wanted most from Matthew Mortenstone. They could force him to lift the border spell. And they could fight him at last for what was rightfully theirs.
Fabian watched from his window as a torch was ignited and a figure carried it down the sloping hill towards the Dark Forest. When the figure stopped and turned and he saw Alexander looking back at him over the flickering flames, he smiled.
‘Ready the men,’ he said to the guards behind him.
*
As Alexander walked along the path towards Agatha’s house, he sensed a stillness in the air, as if a great breath had been drawn. All was quiet. The forest was listening. He heard a sound and swung the torch to the side to see a lump of bark crumbling away from a tree. He stared for a moment and then continued, heart pounding, one hand clenched tight around a length of rope.
He rapped on Agatha’s door three times and it opened immediately. Agatha poked her head out, looked left and right and then waved him inside hastily. He doused the torch in a bucket of water and went in.
Iris was standing by the fire. He stopped when he saw her. His heart started to race. He felt hot and cold at the same time. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. He had half expected her not to come. But there she was before him, unchanged and yet different. The youth had gone from her face; her cheeks were hollow, her bones sharp and prominent. She was a woman now. He couldn’t meet her eye. He had behaved terribly the last time they had met. He had hurt her, abandoned her. And now they were together again and he was going to do far, far worse. He could feel her watching him and held the rope behind his back.
The White Witch (The Serpent and The Sorcerer Trilogy Book 1) Page 13
