Bright Ruin

by Vic James

  For Hilary and Giles

  Old friends, dear friends.

  Thank you for believing in me.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue Midsummer

  One Abi

  Two Luke

  Three Silyen

  Four Gavar

  Five Abi

  Six Abi

  Seven Silyen

  Eight Luke

  Nine Bouda

  Ten Abi

  Eleven Luke

  Twelve Luke

  Thirteen Silyen

  Fourteen Abi

  Fifteen Abi

  Sixteen Bouda

  Seventeen Abi

  Eighteen Rædwald

  Nineteen Rædwald

  Twenty Abi

  Twenty One Bouda

  Twenty Two Abi

  Twenty Three Abi

  Twenty Four Gavar

  Twenty Five Luke

  Twenty Six Luke

  Twenty Seven Abi

  Twenty Eight Luke

  Twenty Nine Bouda

  Epilogue Abi

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Midsummer

  The Snubbing Post, down by the river in Vauxhall, was a useful sort of place when the whole of London was looking for you. The pub was centuries old, its small windows opaque from years of pipe smoke within and traffic fumes without.

  In the upper room, six people sat around a large table.

  One person was missing, and Midsummer was trying not to feel anxious about her absence.

  Renie had been given clear instructions on how to find the place. But the kid was now quarter of an hour late. Well, Renie was a law unto herself. She’d surely be along soon.

  Her uncle Wesley was here, as was Speaker Dawson. The other three were Midsummer’s most trusted slavetown contacts: Emily from Exton, down in Devon; Mac from Auld Reekie, the slavetown of Edinburgh; and Bhadveer from Portisbury, the hellhole between Bristol and Cardiff. They were smugglers – of goods in, and people out. Occasionally, they were saboteurs – of faulty equipment, or the careers of brutal guards.

  But open revolt had never been on their to-do lists. Could Midsummer change that?

  ‘I’ll get straight to it,’ she told them. ‘The Blood Fair was monstrous. Whispers in parliament say that what comes next will be worse. We need to end this.

  ‘Meilyr Tresco and Dina Matravers are dead. My dear uncle, who was Chancellor, is dead. Not one of us Equals has got it right or done enough. I need to apologize for our arrogance in thinking this was our fight to win. Because Jardine is justifying his clampdown on all of you, because of us.’

  Mac was watching her, his blue eyes flat and hard. Emily nodded.

  ‘But I’m not giving up,’ Midsummer continued. ‘My girlfriend is expecting our first child in a couple of months, and our baby will be Skilless. I’m not here as an Equal, trying to command you. I’m here as a mother, and as a woman who has seen too many lives broken by the slavedays, to ask if you’ll let me fight with you. To work for you, to mend this broken country.’

  Stop there, Midsummer told herself. Don’t do that Equal thing of imposing your will. Listen.

  She sat back in the pub chair and tried not to fiddle with her lip-ring while she waited.

  And when they spoke, she listened, as they asked what, where, when – and most of all, how?

  ‘Folk back in Scotland are already wondering,’ Mac said, ‘when we’ll be getting a Blood Fair of our own.’

  ‘Here’s what I’m thinking,’ said Emily, leaning forward.

  Which was when Midsummer’s left-hip-pocket phone buzzed. She carried three phones and knew exactly who had the numbers of each one. The left-hip phone was for clandestine contacts outside her immediate circle in the Bore. She took the call.

  ‘They’ve got Renie.’

  ‘Jon – is that you?’

  She saw Speaker Dawson sit up at the sound of her son’s name.

  ‘Security have got the kid down by the rivergate of the House of Light. I’m heading there now. Can you come?’ he said.

  ‘Tricky. I’m your boss’s public enemy number one.’

  But Midsummer’s brain was already racing for a solution. She went to the pub’s antiquated sash window and, with her free hand, hauled it open. Yep. The fire escape that led down from the roof was still in place. She clamped the phone against her shoulder and swung herself out and up.

  ‘Where are you?’ said Jon, huffing down the phone as he ran. ‘They’ll recognize Renie from the Blood Fair – take her straight to Bouda. But maybe I can intercept them and get her out. If Bouda hears about it, I’ll say it was mistaken identity. She’ll believe me over some guards.’

  ‘What the hell is Renie doing over there?’ Midsummer demanded.

  Then she realized – and it pierced her. The kid would be looking for Abigail.

  Renie had been inconsolable in the safe house, following their escape from Gorregan Square this morning. She blamed herself for not being able to pull her friend onto one of the lions, and was convinced that Abi was back in Security’s custody. Renie had talked about cells beneath Bouda’s offices, in which she and the men of the Bore had spent the night before the Blood Fair. Scouting out a rescue must have drawn her back to parliament.

  ‘I’ll try a distraction – buy you time. Hang up. Go – go!’ Midsummer told him, before stuffing the phone back in its pocket and clambering onto the roof.

  The Snubbing Post was an old bargemen’s pub, and it stood almost flush to the Thames. From here, you could see across the river to the crenelated facade of the House of Light.

  Down near the muddy water margin, Midsummer made out three struggling figures. Renie was putting up a fight, but they had hold of her, so it would be over soon.

  The Equal lifted her eyes to the roof of the great debating chamber, saw what she needed, and launched her Skill across the river. The target was crouched at one end of the roof gable, and Midsummer flinched as her Skillfull awareness slammed into it, waking it. It was much bigger than the lions she’d animated at Gorregan Square: long and powerful. She felt it shake out heavy hindlimbs, claws raking the chamber roof, its massive jaws unhinged.

  Midsummer trembled as her Skill flowed into a pair of wide wings. As her power filled the creature from snout to scaly tail, she drove the wings down.

  She heard an intake of breath beside her. Dawson and Emily were standing there, gaping.

  ‘Is that . . .’ came Mac’s voice over the edge of the roof. ‘Is that a dragon now?’

  He hooted in amazement, but Midsummer hardly heard it. The Security officers were already dragging Renie back towards the parliamentary rivergate.

  Faster. It needed to be faster. Yet she had to be certain of her control. If she mishandled the dragon, it might smash into the building – could crush Renie, and the guards, who she had no desire to harm.

  Hurry up, Jon, Midsummer thought, as she sent her beast arching over the parliamentary quadrangle.

  The guards had halted, staring upwards, dumbstruck. But she didn’t want to risk snatching Renie up in the creature’s claws. The talons might rake the girl’s skinny body, or pierce her skull. They might break her or drop her.

  Midsummer didn’t want to risk it, but she would, if that was the only way Renie was getting out of there.

  She turned the dragon and sent it lower. Renie was still struggling. The girl would be looking for any opening to kick a shin or bite a hand, and escape.

  Then Jon burst onto the terrace.

  His hands cupped his mouth as he yelled something – presumably a command for the guards to release Renie. Midsummer’s heart soared along with her gilded beast. He could take it from here. He’d get the kid away safely. Bouda could be fobbed off with a line about mistaken identity: the ch
ild wasn’t the Blood Fair fugitive, just a teen trespassing for a dare.

  Which was when Midsummer caught a flash of white-blonde out of the corner of her eye.

  And something rocketed up from the river and slammed into her dragon.

  Midsummer twisted and groaned. Her chest felt suddenly constricted, and acrid panic burned her throat. She smacked her forehead to bring herself back to the moment.

  Focus.

  On the terrace stood Bouda Matravers, her hands upraised as if conducting the wind and sky.

  But air wasn’t the element she was bidding. Bouda had torn a strip from the river itself. Twisted it into a coiling serpent, and sent it aloft.

  Wickedly curved barbs ran the length of the monster’s spine and a lizard’s frills fanned about its head. Between teeth like icicles, a forked tongue flicked. Two broad wings spread from its back, while an endless tail thrashed in the river beneath.

  A wyvern.

  Who had known Bouda could do such a thing? Not Midsummer. No one had seen what the woman was capable of, before the rippling wall of water and the crushing wave in Gorregan Square this morning. And now this. A dazzling beast, veined with incandescent Skill that refracted through its watery body.

  It was awe-inspiring. And it was going to ruin everything.

  Sweat rolled down Midsummer’s brow and prickled her shaved scalp, as her dragon writhed in the wyvern’s grip. Bouda would have seen the girl, and not even Jon’s smooth excuses would be able to deceive her now. The guards had woken from their stupor and were dragging Renie up the steps from the shore. The only chance for the girl would be if Midsummer’s dragon could free itself and snatch her away.

  Midsummer lashed out with hindclaws. The wyvern’s screech beat ripples into the river and it bent its frilled head, snapping. Some of those icicle teeth found their mark and Midsummer bit her tongue hard to stifle a scream, blood filling her mouth. Was this as bad for Bouda? Did she also have to inhabit her creature to master it, or was her wyvern merely a weapon?

  Time was running out. The guards had Renie up on the terrace now, and though Jon was arguing with them, he couldn’t bar their way – one was waving a gun. Midsummer’s strength was leaching away.

  The wyvern, as if sensing victory, coiled tighter. And in that moment, Midsummer realized what she could do.

  She let the dragon sag. Allowed its wings to droop. Hauled in a rasping breath as she made the wyvern work to hold the dragon’s body aloft. Felt the serpent’s grip loosen as it slid up to capture the faltering, failing wings.

  As the coils contracted in triumph, Midsummer flexed the dragon’s massive pinions and the wings ripped up and through the shining serpent. The wyvern exploded in a spray of shimmering droplets that rainbowed the air.

  Midsummer staggered and felt arms reach for her – the others on the roof, holding her up. But there was no time to gloat, or to spare Bouda a glance. Chest heaving, Midsummer turned to look for Renie. She no longer doubted her mastery of the dragon, and could pluck the girl to safety.

  But Renie, and the guards, were gone.

  1

  Abi

  ‘You’re awake!’ said a voice, as Abi opened her eyes. Daisy leapt onto the bed and hugged her. ‘You’ve slept till teatime.’

  Abi shifted to dislodge her sister – then recoiled as she noticed the other people standing in the bedroom.

  ‘I don’t usually wake up to an audience.’

  ‘You see,’ Gavar Jardine said to the woman next to him, ‘I told you she’d be back to her usual self.’

  The old lady smiled, and her face was full of kindness, which was when everything came back to Abi in a rush: Gavar pulling her from the wreckage of Gorregan Square. The motorbike ride. This house deep in the countryside, lived in by Gavar’s old nanny, his little daughter Libby – and, just as he had promised, Daisy. The disbelieving joy of seeing her sister again.

  Abi had taken a boiling hot shower and scrubbed off the filth and blood of Gorregan Square. But she hadn’t been able to scour away the bone-deep stain of witnessing people ripping like animals at someone who was helpless to resist – whatever his alleged crimes. Nor could she purge the breath-stealing terror of knowing she was next.

  Worst of all was the hollow ache in her chest at the memory of Jenner’s betrayal – promising her safety then turning her over to his father. Despite escaping the crowd’s knives at the Blood Fair, something had been torn out of Abi after all: her heart.

  She hadn’t been able to control her tears, until this old woman had appeared at her shoulder with a soft laundered nightdress, a mug of camomile tea and two sleeping tablets.

  Abi had taken them, gone upstairs to this small guest room, and fallen unconscious for several hours.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, looking over her sister’s shoulder at the old woman. Mrs Griffith was her name. ‘That was just what I needed. And thank you for having me in your home.’

  ‘Don’t thank me,’ said Griffith, her lined face crinkling. ‘Thank Master Gavar.’

  Abi turned to Gavar. That proud face and the size of him were as intimidating as ever, but his expression wasn’t the blank hauteur to which she was accustomed. In his arms, he held his little daughter.

  ‘I’m not sure I’ve the words for that,’ Abi said eventually. ‘You didn’t just rescue me. You saved all of us by putting a stop to the Blood Fair.’

  Abi felt her sister’s arms tighten around her. The heir of Kyneston ducked his head.

  ‘It was what anyone would have done.’

  ‘But no one else did. Only you.’

  ‘Well.’ Gavar cleared his throat. ‘Griff has found some clothes for you. Then come downstairs for some food and we can talk about what’s next.’

  When they’d all trooped out, Abi washed and pulled on the skirt and frumpy cardi Griff had laid out. She looked in the mirror and saw the mass of hair extensions with which she’d disguised herself.

  Some people, though, concealed their true self inwardly, not outwardly. How had she got Jenner so wrong? How?

  She knew how. She had fed herself with fairy tales. All those novels about handsome Equal boys – Jenner had walked straight out of their pages, his Skillessness a tragic flaw that only made him more vulnerable. More lovable. What a fool she’d been.

  She wasn’t ‘back to her usual self’ after finding refuge and having a few hours’ sleep. She never would be again. That Abi had died in Gorregan Square, betrayed by her own romantic illusions.

  Abi forgave her past self for her naivety, but wouldn’t mourn her.

  The kitchen downstairs contained a surreally domestic scene. The foursome could have been a family: a young father with his two daughters, a grandmother at the stove scrambling eggs. Abi went to join her.

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Bless you. Sit down and eat.’

  So she did. The eggs were just how Mum did them, with lots of butter. Abi had used to fuss about the cholesterol and saturated fat, but she’d learned there were worse ways to die, so she piled her toast high.

  Mum wouldn’t be cooking like this in Millmoor, judging by what Luke had told them of life inside the slavetown. Were she and Dad even housed together? Married couples usually were, but there was no underestimating the sheer vindictiveness of the people who’d sent them there.

  Wherever her parents were, together or apart, Abi devoutly hoped they hadn’t been watching the television recently. For Mum and Dad to know that Luke was Condemned and detained by Crovan had been terrible enough. She didn’t want to think what learning of her own intended fate would do to them – because she doubted very much that the Jardines were broadcasting her escape.

  ‘What are they saying about it?’ she asked. ‘Everything that happened this morning. Because I bet no one’s talking about how Midsummer Zelston brought bronze lions to life and we all got away.’

  Gavar scowled.

  ‘My brother read the official statement at lunchtime. He’s getting good at making my family’s excuses
.’

  Jenner, Abi thought. He means Jenner.

  She pressed her thumb against the sharp tines of her fork and waited for her racing heart to slow, while Gavar sent the two girls into the garden to play.

  ‘He called my intervention “a doting father’s mistake”,’ Gavar continued. ‘Apparently, I erroneously thought I’d seen my daughter in the crowd, and merely wanted to pause proceedings while she was removed. Terrorists seized that opportunity to firebomb the platform and the crowd. And my wife saved the day by Skillfully cracking open the fountain to douse the flames and trap the suspects, who were promptly recaptured. There were lots of pictures of that wall of water, of course. The cameras love Bouda.’

  ‘And people believe it?’

  ‘The media is repeating it, which is what counts. Anyone who was there can say otherwise, but they won’t get the airtime. And those contradicting it too loudly will be hauled off to Astrid Halfdan and Silenced. Or worse.’

  As cover stories went, it was paper-thin. But backed by Jardine control of the media and the rapid shutting-down of alternative versions? Well, it’d probably do the job.

  ‘We need to talk about you,’ Gavar said. ‘Here’s what I think. I can get you over the water to one of the Irish provinces. You could enrol at university in Dubhlinn, under a false name. People are going to be looking for you, Abi. My father and Bouda don’t like loose ends. They’ll hunt you, and all the others who escaped. Midsummer Zelston will have a price on her head bigger than the amount I owe my wine merchant.’

  ‘That much, huh?’

  They exchanged glances, but the jokes weren’t enough to raise one smile between them.

  ‘I don’t think I can,’ said Abi. ‘My brother is still imprisoned by Crovan for a crime he didn’t commit. How can I abandon him?’

  ‘But what can you do for him, Abigail? Nothing. That castle is under ancient Crovan family enchantments. No one in their right mind would even think of a rescue.’

  ‘Meilyr Tresco did. And he died there for it.’

  There. Abi had said it. Meilyr was gone now. Dina, too. Neither of them could be hurt any more by someone knowing the truth about how Meilyr died.

  ‘You mean it wasn’t suicide? I thought he couldn’t go on because of what was done to his Skill . . .’