‘Oh! It is you! My old friend, you’ve come back to us!’ The man pressed his cheek to the horse’s fur and sobbed.
‘Who are you?’ Enola said, approaching him. The man looked at her and straightened up, wiping his tears.
‘I am Robert Swampton, miss. This horse belonged to my family. Or at least he did… We had to sell him, years ago, when we fell on hard times. I never thought I’d see him again,’ he said, stroking the horse’s nose affectionately. ‘Forgive me. He is yours now?’
Enola shook her head. ‘Take him,’ she said. ‘I have no need for him now.’
‘Truly?’ he said, unable to disguise his glee.
‘Truly.’
‘Oh, I cannot thank you enough. You must have something in return. You must!’ he said excitedly. ‘Gerald! Bring Nimowae!’ he called, waving to a young man with red hair and a smoke-blackened face. ‘My son’s young filly,’ he said to Enola. ‘She is strong and capable. A Latheerian! No one has yet ridden her. We used her to pull the carts to battle. She is waiting to form a bond.’
‘I can’t ride. The horse would be wasted on me,’ Enola protested.
‘She will make a valuable companion,’ he said, as his son led a skittish black horse towards them. Its brilliant blue eyes were darting cautiously in every direction. ‘Poor thing. Her nerves are frayed, but she will heal in time and she will serve you well.’
When his son reached them, he handed the reins over to Enola, who took them reluctantly. Robert Swampton smiled with satisfaction and then gave a start as the bells of Mortenstone Castle began to ring. All across the Grassland, people were turning to look at the castle. Some stared in awe, others in fear.
‘It feels strange to live it, to see it, don’t you think? Merlin’s Great Prophecy at last realised,’ said Robert. He paused for a while, staring at the castle, and then looked at Enola and smiled. ‘A new age, indeed. Good luck to you, Miss,’ he said. And he and his son walked back to their small group with the white Latheerian horse, leaving Enola with Nimowae, who flinched when she raised a hand to stroke her.
The bells rang until dusk. Most people remained on the Grassland, huddled together around fires for warmth. And there they sang and drank and talked into the night, unaware of the darkening atmosphere in the streets around the castle, which were teeming with people, all waiting for Agatha to re-emerge, shoving and pushing each other to get closer to the gates.
The Dark Families had already begun to raid the empty houses and shops on Stone Lane. Enola sat beneath the tree, cold and sodden, watching as they carried paintings and purple Mortenstone banners across the Grassland to burn on the fires. Among them were the men who had escorted Agatha to the castle; they cheered as it all went up in flames and returned to Stone Lane in search of more Mortenstone relics to feed the fire. Enola felt a hot rush of anger. She was half Mortenstone, after all. And she had a strong sense that those were her belongings, and the wicked things they were doing to them, they were also doing to her.
The darker the mood became, the more restless Nimowae grew. Enola had let go of her that afternoon, hoping she would trot off in search of Robert Swampton, who had long since departed. But Nimowae did not leave her. All day, she kept her eye on Enola, checking that she was still there as she grazed. Now, Enola found herself keeping a watchful eye as Nimowae skittered about, frightened by the crazed men around her.
‘There, there,’ said a soothing voice. ‘They won’t hurt you.’ Enola looked up as an old man came around the side of the horse and ran a shaky hand along her curved neck. He seemed preoccupied with calming Nimowae, but when he spoke next, it was to Enola. ‘They always want the stallions with the strong backs. But it’s the mares that will truly surprise you. A mare knows when to think and use her intuition, and when to listen. And she’s loyal,’ he said, finally turning to look at Enola. His face was tired and the skin sagged around his jaw. But it was a kind face. ‘I am Master Hagworth,’ he said. ‘And you are Enola Reverof. Oh yes, I know those eyes.’
Enola sat up straight. She remembered him. Schoolmaster Hagworth of Mortenstone Castle.
‘Did Agatha send you?’ she said.
Master Hagworth pushed his frayed bag strap off his shoulder and the bag fell to the ground with a soft thud.
‘Mortenstone Castle is no longer my home,’ he said. Then, with some effort, he crouched down and began to rummage through the bag. ‘Ah,’ he said, retrieving a hunk of bread wrapped in a cloth. ‘For you.’ He offered it to her. Enola took the bread, perplexed. ‘My journey will be long, but yours will be longer still,’ he said, closing the bag and lowering himself down to sit on it. ‘Before I begin my journey, I would like to confess something. I taught your mother, as you know. She was a sweet girl. Spirited, but sweet. She knew right from wrong, and always strove to do the right thing. I am ashamed to say I used this to my advantage, to try and convince her not to have you,’ he said, lowering his gaze in shame. ‘I did all I could to stop her, for I knew what you would become. The life of a Reverof follows the same pattern. It is a dreadful curse. A curse we all feared. When you were born, when you walked your first steps, when you cast your first spell, I felt only despair. Where your mother was kind, you were cruel and cunning – everything I had expected you to be. But that was before I truly opened my eyes. Do you remember that day in Mortenstone Valley? You did terrible magic, unforgivable. Magic you were too young to know. But, without it, perhaps I would not have seen what I saw. Do you know what I saw that day?’ Enola shook her head. Master Hagworth leaned in, his eyes glinting. ‘Something greater yet to come. Greater than this,’ he said, waving a hand at everything around them. ‘When I looked at you, before that day, I saw only a curse. I did not see the girl trapped within. I did not see the girl you would one day become. You will do great things, Enola Reverof.’
Just then, a shriek pierced the air and was quickly silenced by a hard thwack. They both turned to see two Mordark soldiers dragging an unconscious man off towards Stone Lane. ‘Mortenstone sympathiser!’ they shouted for all to hear as they passed.
Master Hagworth did nothing to hide his horror.
‘I awoke this morning to a new world,’ he whispered. The raging fires were reflected in his spectacles. ‘The old magic is dead, my young pupils held captive in their own home. The future of the Mortenstone line teeters on the brink of destruction.’ He looked down at his hands, long and thin and spotted with age. ‘I am an old man. I do not have many years left. It would be easier to give up, to pledge my allegiance to this woman. But I cannot do that, because I know in my heart it is wrong. And you must always pay attention to what your heart is telling you. It might not lead you to the safest path, indeed it might take you to the most perilous path of all, but it will always lead you to the path that is true.’
‘Wise words,’ Enola said. Master Hagworth laughed softly. ‘Where will you go?’ she asked.
‘It would be wise not to tell you,’ he said. ‘But I will. I shall return to Latheera, where I grew up. It is incredibly peaceful there, though, I admit, I have not been back in a great many years.’
‘Would you like my horse? You’ll get there faster with her.’
‘No, no, dear girl. You will be needing the horse.’
‘I won’t. I can’t even ride,’ she said.
‘You will learn.’
‘But I’ve nowhere to take her. I don’t have a home anymore.’
‘No? And there is nowhere else you might go? No journey you wish to complete?’ he said, peering over the spectacles on his crooked nose.
‘The Land of the Banished?’ said Enola, wondering how he knew. ‘I can’t go there.’
‘Can’t you? Why ever not?’
‘The path is blocked under all that,’ she said, pointing at the great, mountainous shadow of fallen trees, silhouetted in the moonlight.
‘There are other ways to the Land of the Banished, Enola. The Dark Forest marked only one.’
‘How do you know that?’
Master Hagworth chuckled and rubbed his chin. ‘Because I am wise!’
‘Show me, then. Tell me how to get there.’
‘Sadly, I do not know. While there is magic in my blood, that realm cannot call to me, but there are others to whom it can. Others who know the way.’
‘Who? Tell me!’
‘Patience, patience. You will get there, Enola.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘But I do. The story is already written,’ he said. And, with that, he pushed himself to his feet, sighing heavily. Then, as if in afterthought, he added, ‘When you get there, you will need an ally. You will find him in a place called Camelot. His name is Mordred.’
Bewildered, Enola picked up Master Hagworth’s bag and handed it to him. He smiled at her knowingly.
‘Long live the White Witch,’ he said. Then he bowed his head, turned and shuffled away.
As Enola watched him go, she wondered whether he would complete his journey. She hoped he would, though she believed he wouldn’t.
When he had stumbled out of sight into darkness, Enola turned around and met a cold, white face, inches from her own. She almost screamed. Standing in front of her, swathed in a dark cloak, wisps of white hair creeping out from beneath her hood, was Agatha.
‘Who is he?’
‘No one. An old man,’ said Enola.
‘Is that so? Making friends?’ Agatha said, staring over Enola’s shoulder with deepening interest. Enola scowled at her. ‘What are you sulking about, girl?’
‘I’m not sulking.’
‘Yes you are. You’re always sulking about something. But you’ve no reason to now. The last of old Merlin’s magic is dead. Your curse is lifted. Smile, for once in your life. Carry on the way you are and I’ll—’
‘Did you find them?’ Enola interrupted.
Agatha’s eyes flashed before her expression quickly turned blank. ‘Who?’
‘You know who,’ said Enola. As calm as Agatha was pretending to be, Enola knew that, inside, she was furious that Jacobi Vandemere and Josephine Mortenstone had escaped.
‘I will find them,’ Agatha said in a clipped tone. Enola smiled darkly as Agatha’s lips pursed with suppressed anger. ‘You can wipe that smile away, girl. I will find them. I will kill them. All Mortenstones!’
‘I’m a Mortenstone,’ said Enola.
‘You are a Mordark!’ Agatha snapped. ‘And you’d do well to remember it. Blood is important. Your blood saved you today. You’d be dead if your father wasn’t your father.’
Enola stared long and hard at Agatha. And it was only then that she noticed how green the old woman’s eyes were. And, suddenly, it occurred to her, the reason for Agatha’s loathing of all Mortenstones.
‘They banished you,’ Enola said.
Agatha closed her eyes. ‘Don’t push me, girl.’
‘But why? Whatever did you do?’ Enola continued. ‘Something terrible?’
‘I’m warning you…’
‘Or perhaps you didn’t do anything. Perhaps you didn’t deserve to be banished. Perhaps your blood couldn’t save you, Agatha Mordark.’
‘Say one more word and you’ll burn for it,’ Agatha said in a low voice. She looked rattled, vulnerable somehow, as though the truth shamed her. But she did not deny it.
‘You can’t threaten me, old hag. You are the White Witch. You are here to protect me,’ Enola said mockingly.
‘Protect you?’ Agatha said with a sneer. And she leaned in, fixing her flinty eyes on Enola. ‘I am here to rule you.’ She looked towards Stone Lane, where the crowds were jostling to get closer to the castle. ‘Look at them,’ she hissed. ‘How long have their old masters been dead? Just this morning, they would have died for them. People are all the same. They follow power. They care not who wields it. They want to be led. They want to be told. And they’ll bend anything I do to make it fit their old words. They’ll make it fair,’ she said. ‘Come to the castle. I want to show you something.’ She took hold of Enola’s arm roughly.
‘No,’ Enola said, pulling away.
‘Stubborn little wretch. Would you really abandon me now? After all I’ve done for you? Have you no gratitude?’ Agatha said, shaking her head with a look of disgust. ‘You remind me of him. Merlin the Terrible.’ She spat at the ground. ‘Mortenstone filth! You even look like him. Same smug face. Same eyes. He would have despised you,’ she said, moving closer, until Enola could feel the old woman’s stale breath on her face. ‘He would have murdered you while you were still in your mother’s belly. Your father’s head would have been impaled on a spike outside the castle walls. Remember whose spell it was, Enola Reverof. Think of all the wicked things he would have done, had I not put an end to his evil,’ Agatha said. Enola stared at her blankly. Agatha nodded slowly and her thin lips curled into a secretive smile. ‘I ended him. Wonderful Merlin the Good. Do you know where I did it?’ She pointed towards the fallen forest. ‘It was a trap. I waited a long time, but I got him eventually. I’ve always been good at hunting. He’d grown weak, weaker than his old magic. So, I used it against him.’ She laughed then. ‘Brought down by his own spell. One would think the Great Prophet would have foreseen what I was about to do,’ she said, smiling manically. ‘And you, his own blood, didn’t feel him, hadn’t the slightest inkling that he was just outside the door the whole time. You took from him, you drained life from him every time you drank from the Silver Tree. I wonder if he screamed in there. I’m sure he felt it. I’m sure it was excruciating. I’m sure he regretted his spells every moment of every day of his miserable life.’
A cold feeling trickled down Enola’s spine. The Silver Tree that creaked and groaned outside Agatha’s house… The man from her dreams who stood on the forest path beside it, tears streaking his face… Merlin. But it couldn’t be true. It had been more than a thousand years since his time.
‘You’re lying. No one can live that long,’ Enola said.
Agatha smiled again. ‘Magic is a curious thing. His magic sustained him while he was trapped within it. But now, as you see, the spell is dead. And Merlin along with it,’ she said, eyes twinkling with pleasure.
‘And you? When will you die?’ Enola said.
Agatha began to laugh. It was a cold, harsh sound. ‘I am the White Witch,’ she said. ‘I will live forever.’
27. A NEW AGE
Moments after Agatha vanished, the frenzy began. Shouts and screams spread through the crowds along Merlin’s Way, Brim Street and Stone Lane. Something was happening up at the castle.
Across the Grassland, people were deserting their fires, running towards the commotion. Enola followed them, pulling Nimowae behind her until she reached a wall of people at the end of the lane. And then she saw the cause of the disturbance. In the distance, standing on the ledges of the castle windows, were four children. They were in their nightgowns, and they had nooses around their necks. Behind each child was a man in black. Enola’s heart began to race. Her sister, Rose, was standing in one of the middle windows, hugging her arms around herself. The younger children were frozen with terror.
‘Mortenstone scum!’ the crowd jeered, waving their fists in the air. And then they began to chant, ‘Off! Off! Off! Off! Off!’
When the men shoved the children from the windows, the crowd exploded with bloodthirsty cheers. Enola watched as if in a dream, as the bodies writhed and twitched. The shouts grew faint and hollow around her, the sea of heads blurred. But she could see the children still, clear as day, swaying at the ends of the ropes, limp now.
Enola turned and led Nimowae along the side of the last building on Stone Lane, where she slid down against the wall and stared into darkness.
Despite her efforts to stay awake in the cold night, she opened her eyes to a bright morning, as if only moments had passed. Her bruised legs ached from the cobbles and her back was stiff from sitting against the stone wall. She rubbed her hands together to bring back the feeling in her fingers and squinted up at the sun. Suddenly, a dark shape eclipsed i
t. Enola blinked in surprise. Standing over her, his hands and clothes covered in dried blood, with dark shadows beneath his eyes, was William. Quite alive. Quite unharmed. She stared at him in stunned silence for a moment, and then her lips curled into a snarl.
‘Traitor!’ she spat.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, staring down at her guiltily. ‘I came back for you, though. That has to count for something.’
‘It counts for nothing,’ said Enola, turning away from him to face the wall, where she watched his shadow against the stone. Waiting. Waiting. But he didn’t leave, no matter how hard she willed it.
‘Are you William?’ came a deep voice then. Startled, Enola turned quickly to see a man standing before William, wearing a cloak as black as his beard. He had a sword sheathed in his scabbard.
‘Yes,’ William said, though he sounded uncertain.
‘The White Witch requests your presence,’ said the man.
‘Who?’ William asked.
‘The White Witch requests your presence at the castle.’
William looked uneasy. ‘The castle?’ he said, taking a step backwards and glancing at Enola mistrustfully. ‘I went back for her,’ he said to the man, who looked confused. ‘I didn’t hurt her. Whatever she’s told you, it isn’t true. I went back for her. I didn’t let him take her!’ He took another step away. The man moved his hand to the hilt of his sword.
The White Witch (The Serpent and The Sorcerer Trilogy Book 1) Page 25
