The White Witch (The Serpent and The Sorcerer Trilogy Book 1)

by J. J. Morrison

  ‘Go and finish the supper,’ Agatha said to Enola, stooping to put a hand on William’s shoulder. ‘And don’t boil the veg to death like you did last time.’

  Enola stirred the pot over the fire. She added a log to the flames and stoked it with a poker, all the while listening to Agatha as she spoke softly to William.

  ‘Calm yourself, boy. Take a breath.’

  ‘Don’t send the raven,’ he begged.

  ‘William, it has to be done.’

  ‘But it’s my fault. I care for her and now she’ll die. Because of me.’

  ‘It’s the way it has to be.’

  He was silent for a long time after that. Enola didn’t look at him. She would tread carefully around him now, she decided. At least until her father came to see her. Then she would leave the problem with him.

  As she dished out the food into bowls, William wiped his eyes and traipsed up the stairs to bed.

  ‘Goodnight, boy,’ Agatha muttered as the bedroom door closed.

  From the corner of her eye, Enola saw Agatha’s head turn towards her. And then she approached unsteadily, coming to stand over her by the fire. Enola could not avert her attention any longer. She stared at Agatha sullenly and was not surprised to see a look of contempt on the old woman’s face.

  ‘You are a wretched girl,’ Agatha said. ‘I have tried to love you. William has tried. But no amount of trying will change you or what you are. Time and love will not thaw your heart. I have given you a home, given you food, kept you safe, and never once asked for anything in return. Well now I am telling you. Behave, pretend, as if you have an ounce of goodness in you. I will send a raven to your father. But you are not to speak or even so much as look at William again. Do you hear me, girl?’

  Enola had stopped listening. She felt strange. Something was wrong. Her head was swimming, the room was becoming a shapeless blur. Her chest felt tight. She couldn’t breathe. She stood and staggered forwards. And then there was a sharp, stabbing pain in her chest; she gasped, gripping the pot handle over the fire to steady herself. The scorching hot metal burned into her skin and she recoiled, pulling the entire pot and its boiling contents to the ground with a hiss and a clang.

  ‘Oh, why?’ Agatha grumbled, raising her arms above her head. ‘You’ve spoiled it! Wretched girl!’

  Enola pushed past her and ran for the door.

  Out in the forest, she stood, breathing shallow breaths. Her burnt hand throbbed. Suddenly, the feeling went away. But the faint murmur in her chest remained, a threatening, ghostly pain. She pressed a hand to her heart, pushing it away.

  The birds squawked up in their nests, unsettled. As she looked around, the Silver Tree caught her eye. It seemed different, somehow. The silver bark that once glimmered in the moonlight was dull and grey, like the other trees along the path. Something was wrong. She could feel it.

  The wind picked up. It gushed down the path, plucking leaves from the trees and swirling her hair about her face, exposing the brilliant-white streak, which shone ever brighter in the darkening forest.

  18. A DEADLY DISCOVERY

  In the morning, Enola was the first to wake. She walked downstairs and sat in Agatha’s chair, blinking at the ashes in the hearth. Her sleep had been restless. The wind had howled so fiercely in the night, it was as if the house were surrounded by a pack of wolves. She awoke twice, startled at the thought, her heart thumping, the dull pain in her chest rising and falling with every breath.

  The ashes stirred in the breeze that funnelled down the chimney. As she watched them, she thought back to her eighth birthday. The wind had raced down the chimney on that day too, buffeting the flames so that they flickered and thrashed. She had stared at them, transfixed, for hours, while Agatha fretted over William, who had been gone all morning.

  When he returned later that afternoon, he went straight to Enola with his hands behind his back, almost giddy with excitement. ‘Happy birthday, Enola,’ he had said, kneeling before her. ‘I know it’s not as good as a real one but I hope you like it.’ And he pulled the gift out from behind his back and placed it on Enola’s lap. He had made her a Latheerian horse out of whittled sticks bound together with tree sap and string. He had even painted two blue eyes onto the model.

  It was an ugly thing. It looked nothing like a real horse.

  ‘Oh, isn’t that lovely, Enola!’ Agatha exclaimed.

  ‘What do you say?’ Alexander said, leaning forward in his armchair to examine the horse. ‘This is good!’ he said to William.

  ‘Enola,’ Agatha prompted.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, pushing the horse from her lap onto the seat and dusting her dress.

  When Agatha brought the cake out and put it down on the table, William and Alexander went to admire it. Thick, fresh cream oozed from between the fat layers of sponge. Agatha set a jug of hot custard down beside it and slapped Alexander’s hand as he reached out to dip his finger into it.

  ‘No. The birthday girl must have the first try,’ she said, turning back to the hearth – and gasping.

  Enola ignored her and snapped the last leg off the horse and threw all the pieces onto the fire.

  Agatha strode across the room and grabbed her roughly by the wrists. ‘Why did you do that? He spent a long time making that for you! Wretched little —’

  Alexander stepped in and put a hand on Agatha’s shoulder. ‘She’s only a child. She didn’t know,’ he said. And then he turned to William, whose eyes were glazed with tears. ‘You can make another one. For me. I liked it!’

  William nodded and his tears spilled onto his cheeks. Agatha went to comfort him.

  Enola smiled. And she turned her back on them all to watch the mutilated horse blacken and burn.

  The memory faded like a dream. Enola looked up from the ashes as Agatha lumbered down the stairs in her nightgown.

  ‘You should use your stick,’ she said.

  ‘I’m fine. Don’t tell me what to do,’ Agatha snapped, holding on to the handrail for support.

  ‘You’re getting old.’

  ‘I’ve always been old.’

  ‘You’ll die soon, probably.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, we shall see.’

  Two knocks sounded upon the door. They froze, each turning towards it. After a pause, a third knock came and Agatha sighed with relief.

  ‘Let him in, then,’ she said, hobbling down the last two steps.

  Enola went to the door, drew back the bolt and pulled it open. Alexander stood on the threshold. His forehead was faintly lined, his beard dark and full, his green eyes somewhat duller than they used to be.

  ‘Can we help you, stranger? Are you lost?’ Agatha said, scowling at his beard as she limped across the room towards him. ‘I don’t like it. You don’t look like you.’

  Alexander laughed and stepped inside, pulling Enola into an embrace, which she endured with rigid discomfort. When he let her go, she moved back and stared at him expectantly.

  ‘Is it done?’ she asked. ‘Did you get her?’

  Alexander’s smile turned to a grimace. He looked almost annoyed by her question. ‘I got her,’ he said, taking off his cloak. ‘You should be more careful.’ He moved past her into the room, throwing his cloak onto the table.

  ‘How are things?’ said Agatha, offering her cheek for him to kiss.

  ‘Vrax has had another daughter,’ he said, smirking.

  Agatha walked to her chair and sat down. Alexander followed and sat in the armchair opposite.

  ‘Another daughter! How many is that now?’ she said, waving a hand at Enola and pointing to the hearth. Glaring, Enola went to it and knelt to prepare a fire.

  ‘Four,’ said Alexander.

  ‘I gather your father isn’t pleased.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Agatha mused, rubbing her chin. ‘And Risella? Is she with child?’

  ‘Why do you always ask about her?’ Alexander said with disdain.

&
nbsp; ‘Because she’s your wife.’

  ‘She’s barren, I’m certain of it.’

  Enola listened as she swept the ash away and lay fresh logs in the hearth. She was glad her father’s wife was unable to give him children. If he had another child, he might forget to bring her things, or forget her altogether. And then who would keep Fabian away from these parts of the forest? Who would kill the people who had seen her? William wouldn’t. William was always too scared to do it.

  As she reached down to pick up the kindling, a blue spark shot out of her finger. She jumped back in surprise. The kindling began to smoke and shrivel inwards. A small flame flickered to life. And, soon, every log was ablaze. Agatha and Alexander continued to talk, oblivious to what had happened, while Enola stared at her hand, screwing it into a fist and then opening it again, inspecting it closely.

  ‘Here he is. Good morning, William,’ Agatha said as William walked down the stairs.

  Enola twisted around to look at him. He kept his eyes low, but the lids were swollen, his lips downturned. He mumbled something and traipsed over to the table to sit by himself.

  Agatha watched him for a moment and then said quietly to Alexander, ‘It was his…lady friend... who saw Enola.’

  Alexander nodded, looking uncomfortable, and glanced quickly at William.

  ‘Nasty work but it has to be done,’ Agatha said. ‘Now where was I? Ah yes, I —’

  ‘How, exactly, did you kill her?’ asked Enola, watching William. He didn’t look up, but she saw his hand ball into a fist on the table.

  ‘Enola!’ Agatha said firmly.

  ‘He’s getting angry again,’ Enola said. ‘He was angry last night. He had a lot to say then. You should have heard the terrible things he said to me, father. If Agatha hadn’t been there, he would have slit my throat, too. He came right up to my face with a knife and said he hopes Fabian Mordark finds me and burns me like uncle Lucian burned my mother.’

  The colour drained from Alexander’s face. He turned his head slowly towards William, who was gazing back at him, still as a deer before a hunter. And then Alexander was across the room, dragging William from his chair.

  ‘No, Alexander!’ Agatha cried.

  William kicked out, upturning the table, as Alexander threw him to the floor and pummelled his face.

  ‘Stop!’ Agatha shouted. ‘Stop it, now!’ Alexander shook her off, knocking her to the floor, when she tried to pull him back. Then he fastened both hands around William’s neck and began to throttle him.

  The blood rushed to William’s face and the veins in his forehead swelled. He choked and spluttered, trying to prize Alexander’s fingers away. His eyes bulged.

  ‘Alexander!’ Agatha pleaded in despair.

  The stabbing pain in Enola’s chest returned with breath-taking force. She gasped and doubled over, but she didn’t look away. All night she had thought of this moment. Her father was taking care of the problem, like he always did. It was what she wanted. But… no. She shook her head. No. He was killing him. She straightened up. William couldn’t, mustn’t, die. Darkness was coming and, when it did, she would need him. She knew it. She knew it as if she had seen it all play out a thousand times before in her mind, as if it had already happened. As the realisation hit her, she looked at the window; beyond it, standing on the forest path, was the old man from her dreams. His face was full of sorrow. As he stared at her, the pain in her chest intensified, snatching the breath from her lungs. She clutched the back of the armchair. When she looked again, the man was gone.

  ‘Stop,’ she whispered, her throat closing up, smothering the word. Alexander didn’t listen; he continued to strangle William, his teeth bared like a beast’s, while Agatha watched on hopelessly. ‘Stop,’ Enola said again, as William’s eyes closed wearily and his legs stopped flailing.

  The door burst open and slammed against a cupboard, and a torrent of leaves blew into the house, swirling around the room and extinguishing the fire. Alexander removed his hands from William’s neck to shield his eyes. William crawled away from him, coughing and retching.

  The howling wind quietened. The leaves fell to the floor. Enola looked at Agatha and, for an instant, thought she saw fear in the old woman’s eyes – eyes that darted to the open door when there came a low groan from outside, followed by a creaking, splintering sound. Enola held her breath.

  Silence.

  Another mournful groan rumbled through the air. Then, there was an almighty crash. The ground shuddered. The house shook. Enola dropped to her knees, covering her head, as jars fell from the mantelpiece and smashed, silver liquid splashing all over the floor and sizzling on the hot ashes in the hearth. Pots and pans fell, clattering, from their hooks. Books flew from the shelves. Agatha shrieked and clamped her hands over her ears. And, suddenly, all was still again.

  Nobody moved, except for Alexander, who sprang to his feet and ran to the door. Enola watched from the ground as he stared out, saying nothing, his mouth agape. The quiet became unbearable. She got up and staggered to the door after him, and looked on in disbelief at the colossal tree blocking the eastern path, bark as grey as a wolf’s pelt and turning greyer still, crumbling, falling away, dying before her eyes. It loomed over the path like a tower.

  Alexander left the house as if in a trance and walked limply along the path towards it.

  ‘Don’t go out there!’ Agatha shouted after him. She looked truly afraid now.

  But Alexander had already passed into the shadow of the fallen tree, drawing ever closer. Enola watched from the doorway with trepidation, when he stopped. He turned abruptly and she saw the whites of his eyes.

  Then she heard it. Voices, carried on the wind. Men. Thundering hooves.

  ‘Agatha!’ Alexander shouted, running now, back towards the house. ‘Run!’

  Agatha pushed past Enola and slammed the door shut, drawing the bolt across and pressing herself up against it. ‘They’ve come!’ she said. ‘William, up, up! It’s time.’

  William got to his feet, looking dazed as Agatha crossed the room to her chair and dragged it aside.

  ‘Help me with this,’ she said, lifting the corner of the rug. William helped her haul it back to expose the rotting floorboards. And a trap door. Agatha motioned for him to open it. After three heaves, the door opened with a groan.

  Cold air rushed up from the darkness below, into which a narrow ladder descended. William stepped back.

  ‘This passage will lead you to the edge of the realm,’ Agatha said, looking at them both. ‘Then you must run. Run through mist and shadow until you pass from the forest to the water’s edge. You will come to a boat. It will take you to the Land of the Banished. Do not stop until you get to the boat. Do you hear me? Go now. William will know the way,’ she said, meeting his bemused look with one of confidence. ‘Follow William,’ she said to Enola, ‘and only William!’

  ‘Only William? What else is down there?’ Enola said, paralysed with fear as she stared into the black hole. There were shouts coming from outside now. They would burn her if they caught her. Or worse.

  ‘William!’ Agatha said, slapping him across the face. ‘Wake up!’

  William’s eyes came back into focus. The marks around his neck were turning purple.

  There was a barrage of banging at the door.

  ‘Go!’ Agatha said, pushing them towards the trap door.

  ‘You have two seconds to open this door, old woman!’ came a deep voice from outside.

  ‘Hurry now!’ Agatha hissed.

  William began to climb down the rotting ladder. Enola followed, looking up at Agatha one last time before the old woman threw the trap door shut and they were plunged into darkness.

  *

  Alexander tried to reason with Vrax. ‘What would you have done? Tell me, what would you have done, if it were your daughter?’ he shouted. Vrax did not answer him, only went on smashing his fist against the door.

  The other men were dismounting their horses. Tobias was amongst them; Alexa
nder’s stomach lurched when he saw him. He turned back to Vrax and pulled him away from the door.

  ‘Stop! Listen to me!’ he pleaded.

  Vrax shoved him hard in the chest. Alexander stumbled backwards and fell to the ground.

  ‘You lied to us. For all these years. Your family!’ Vrax spat.

  ‘She’s my daughter!’ said Alexander, scrambling to his feet again.

  ‘She’s a Reverof bitch!’ Vrax said, moving slowly towards him. ‘I was dangled over a Worgrim pit like meat and whipped to the bone. I had my flesh washed with their poison until my skin burned away - because of you! But don’t fret, brother, there is a potion for that. There is a potion, so I could endure it all over again!’ He brandished his scorched wrists. The skin was marbled with scars. He laughed manically. ‘Twelve years, I have been treated like an outcast by our father - for a mistake I never made!’ He looked at Alexander stonily as his men surrounded the house. ‘Now you can answer to him,’ he said, turning back to the door. Then he drew his knee to his chest and kicked.

  Alexander leapt forwards as Vrax stormed into the house, but Tobias had him by the throat in a chokehold in an instant.

  ‘Where is she?’ came Vrax’s impatient shout from inside. And then Agatha screamed, and Vrax was dragging her from the house by her hair. Her thin legs churned up the dirt as she struggled and screeched. Vrax threw her to the ground at Alexander’s feet and took out a knife. Alexander gave a choked cry and writhed in Tobias’s grasp. ‘Shut up!’ Vrax shouted, crouching low to position the tip of the blade over Agatha’s heart. ‘Where. Is. She?’ he said to her, prodding her chest with the knife as he uttered each word.

  Hot tears welled in Alexander’s eyes as he fought to break free, but Tobias’s grip only tightened. His head began to feel light and strange. There was a distant ringing in his ears.

  Agatha looked at him and shook her head sadly. ‘It’s time, boy,’ she said.