by Kate Forsyth
‘With this willing sacrifice …’ Mistress Mauldred began to chant.
‘No!’ Quinn screamed. She pushed Wilda away and stumbled towards the fallen body of the Grand Teller. Wilda fell down to her knees, rats scuttling away. The serpent raised high his flat head, swaying at the end of his long, sinuous neck. He hissed in warning and the old witch shrank in fear.
Quinn bent over the crumpled body of her teacher. One hand sought the wooden medallion about her neck. ‘Oh what can I do, what can I do?’
A deep voice boomed out. ‘Hast thou forgotten thy gifts? Thou hast what thou needst within thee, as an acorn carries a forest in its heart.’
Sebastian jerked in surprise. It was the Oak King’s voice, he was sure of it. He had never heard Sylvan speak before, though Elanor had. He put up one hand to the wooden dragon brooch that had been Arwen’s gift to him. Lord Mortlake was angrily looking around for the source of the voice and not paying any attention to the boy he held at sword-point. Sebastian unhooked the brooch from his cloak and drove the sharp pin deep into Lord Mortlake’s shoulder. He roared in pain and surprise and staggered backwards, one hand clapped to the wound. At once, Beltaine swooped down and blasted him with fire, turning his iron breastplate a sullen red. Lord Mortlake staggered back, dropping his sword.
At the exact same moment, Elanor lifted her hand to her mouth and blew upon her ring. A crackling blue shield of energy leapt up between her and Mistress Mauldred, knocking the witch backwards, head-over-heels. At once, Quickthorn leapt forward and stood before Elanor, guarding her as Lady Mortlake rushed to help her sister.
Tom was left unguarded. He slipped one hand inside his shirt and drew out the battered wooden flute that Arwen had given him, putting it to his lips. He blew one long tremulous note.
‘You think to enchant me with your little flute?’ Lady Mortlake turned back to face him. The ring on her left hand was glowing red. ‘A child like you? Why, you’re nothing but a pot-boy.’
Tom’s tune faltered.
Lady Mortlake smiled. ‘You think to be a hero, but it’s only a silly childish dream. Wake up, child. A pot-boy you were born and a pot-boy you’ll remain.’
His throat muscles had constricted so much Tom could not take a breath to blow into the flute. His hands lowered. His vision blurred.
‘Don’t listen to her!’ Elanor called.
‘Don’t stop, Tom!’ Quinn called, her voice breaking with tears. ‘You can be whatever you want! No-one can choose our lives for us!’
Sebastian shouted, ‘Tom, you’re the bravest hero of us all! Don’t listen!’
‘Pot-boy,’ Lady Mortlake taunted, striding back towards him, her knife held ready.
Tom hung his head.
Lady Mortlake stepped closer, her knife held high. Tom sidled away, looking from side to side. His back bumped against the oak tree. He put one hand upon it, feeling the rough, fissured bark against his fingertips.
‘It is all within thee, like an orchard inside an apple seed,’ the Oak King boomed, his deep voice echoing around the twilight glade.
The Grand Teller lifted her head. Her voice sounded in Tom’s mind: If you are brave of heart, sharp of wit, strong of spirit and steadfast of purpose, there is nothing you cannot achieve …
Tom took a deep breath, lifted the flute to his mouth again and began to play with all his might. The notes were deep and strong and shook with power. The Oak King began to sing:
‘DARK MOON, I CALL TO THEE,
DYING SUN, I CALL TO THEE,
RISING STARS, I CALL TO THEE,
IT IS TIME, IT IS TIME, IT IS TIME.
CRACKER OF STONES, I CALL TO THEE,
BLOSSOMS OF BONE, I CALL TO THEE,
SEEDS THAT HAVE BEEN SOWN, I CALL TO THEE,
IT IS TIME, IT IS TIME, IT IS TIME.’
The Oak King’s voice quickened and rose, and Tom’s flute playing echoed him, the tune spiralling out into the twilight garden.
‘IT IS TIME TO RISE,
ALL THEE THAT ARE GREEN AND GROWING,
IT IS TIME TO RISE,
ALL THEE THAT ARE BLUE AND BLOWING,
IT IS TIME TO RISE,
ALL THEE THAT ARE GOLDEN AND GLOWING,
IT IS TIME TO RISE,
ALL THEE THAT ARE RED AND HARROWING.’
High and wild and sweet, the flute music spiralled up towards the stars, now blazing out in a violet-blue sky. The wind whirled through the garden, blowing away all the smoke and ashes, and making Elanor’s hair stream out like a silken banner. The trees in the sacred circle all bent and creaked, the whispering of their leaves making a song of their own. Sparks flew past like tiny flaming beetles.
Sebastian felt as though he was rooted into the ground. He saw that all the others were as still, their bodies bent in the shape they had been in when the song begun. There was terror on Wilda’s wrinkled face and Lord Mortlake’s lips were drawn back from his teeth in a snarl of rage. The two witch-sisters clung together, their eyes dark with dread.
Then the trees lurched and swayed, their branches reaching out like great clawed hands. Brambles and briars sprung up around the feet of the four villains, weaving together faster than the eye could follow.
‘It is time to pay for thy evil deeds,’ the Oak King said, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. ‘It is time to reap the harvest thou hast sown.’
For a moment, all was quiet. Lord Mortlake and his accomplices were all imprisoned within cages woven of twigs and thorns. The scene was lit by dancing fireflies. Sebastian saw that fierce-faced faeries rode on their backs, holding tiny blowpipes made of angelica stalks.
‘Let us out!’ Lord Mortlake shook the wooden bars of his cage.
‘You’ll pay for this!’ his wife screamed.
‘I order you to release me.’ Mistress Mauldred shook her finger at Elanor.
‘Please help me,’ Wilda whimpered. ‘I’m just a poor old woman. I never meant any harm.’
The children all started talking at once.
‘We did it!’ Sebastian and Elanor grasped each other’s hands, and jumped up and down in excitement.
‘Thank you, Sylvan.’ Quinn cupped one hand around the wooden medallion.
‘Have you ever heard such music?’ Tom said wonderingly. He rubbed the wooden flute lovingly.
‘Look to the lady,’ the Oak King said, in a voice so raspy and tired it was hard to understand. ‘Her life blood is ebbing away.’
Elanor ran to where Arwen lay crumpled on the grass. The old witch’s eyes were closed, the skin around her mouth blue. Her white robe was stained with blood. Elanor dragged out the stopper of her water bottle and then bent to pour the last drops of the enchanted water into the old witch’s slack mouth.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then Arwen coughed, and lifted one frail hand. The unicorn pranced over and laid his sharp horn against the deep wound in her breast. The blood shrank away, and the flesh closed. Arwen smiled.
‘Lift me up,’ she whispered. ‘I want to dance.’
Music had begun to fill the dark garden once again. The deep, rhythmic beating of a drum, the infectious call of a fiddle, the sweet notes of a lap-harp. Tom turned and saw, to his utter amazement, that the crooked old elder tree at the far end of the garden had split open and a whole host of faery folk were dancing out into the gloaming. Leading the way was an old, old woman, dressed in a cloak of leaves with a crown made of elderberries on her silvery-white hair. She lifted her skirt and pointed her toe and danced forward, smiling. Around her head spun a halo of tiny, shining faeries, their wings like stars. A short, fat, bearded man in a brown coat and a red hat danced a jig behind her. More of the Ellyllon zoomed past, riding on the backs of iridescent winged beetles. A group of tall, fair-haired elves waltzed past, their clothes made of spidersilk and flower petals. Dark-skinned brownies tumbled about, turning cartwheels and backflips.
Many were playing instruments. Filled with wonder, Tom lifted his flute to his mouth and played as he had never played before.
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br /> People came dancing through the trees. Knights in black armour. Bakers in tall white hats, waving rolling pins. Women in aprons and clogs, with frying pans in their hands. They all danced into the green garth, laughing and calling to Tom.
Lord Wolfgang danced past, holding the hand of Sophie the kitchen-maid. Sabre swayed back and forth, eyes slitted in pleasure. Beltaine did a somersault, spitting circles of fiery sparks like fireworks. Quickthorn pranced and bowed his horned head to Rex, who spread his wings and lashed his tail.
Then the old woman in the crown of elderberries began to sing and all the faeries joined in. Their voices were high and wild and sweet, and their song echoed from every stone till it seemed as if the castle itself had broken into song.
And the stones of the castle sing …
The bells rang out, pealing joyously.
And the bells of victory ring …
Tom could play no longer. The moment overwhelmed him. All around him people sang and danced and laughed. Tom looked about him in awe. Was it true? Had they won? Was it possible?
Grinning, Sebastian raced to hug Tom. ‘You did it! To think all those hours of fighting couldn’t defeat them and you did it with a song.’
Elanor and Quinn were leaping joyfully with Arwen, who looked more spry than she had for years. Tom and Sebastian raced to join them, laughing as they saw their beasts celebrating in their own wild ways. Beltaine and Rex were swooping high in the starlit sky, while Quickthorn was prancing with a dozen tiny faeries spinning about his horned head. Sabre was swaying back and forth, his long body coiled below him. Somewhere, far above, bats and ravens wheeled and whirled.
The four friends held hands and spun about, unable to believe that they had, in the end, triumphed.
‘Tom, you’re a hero!’ Elanor cried.
He laughed. ‘We’re all heroes, Ela! To think I thought that flute was useless!’
‘Can you believe it? We did it!’ Quinn cried.
‘I always knew we would!’ Sebastian said.
An army of knights galloped into the inner ward. ‘Valour, glory, victory!’ a huge voice bellowed.
Sebastian stepped forward with a disbelieving laugh. ‘Too late, Father!’
The leader of the army pulled off his golden helmet. ‘What?!’ he exclaimed. ‘I was hoping for a nice, bloody fight. Are we really too late?’
Sebastian indicated the four villains, lying bound at his feet. ‘We wrapped up without you.’
Lord Byrne slumped in disappointment.
‘But we could probably rustle you up a feast,’ Sebastian said.
His father perked up. ‘A feast?’
Sebastian pointed. ‘The kitchen’s that way, Father. See what you can find for us. I’m starving.’
Then Tom heard a much-beloved voice. ‘Tomkin!’
He looked around eagerly. There was his mother. Her hair was a bird’s nest, her face was streaked with dirt and she was considerably thinner, but she flung open her arms in her usual loving way, and Tom went into them like an arrow into the gold. He could not speak. Nor could she. They just hugged.
A howling pierced the night. Tom saw a tall, shaggy shape striding through the dancing crowd. It was his father, surrounded by wolves.
‘Hunter!’ his mother cried. She seized Tom’s hand and they ran towards him. Then Tom saw, with a joyful bound of his heart, that his wolfhound Fergus sat amongst the wolves, howling away jubilantly with them. Between his forelegs crouched a fluff-ball of wolf cub, his muzzle pointed up at the stars.
‘Fergus!’ Tom flung himself down on his knees, hugging his wolfhound. Then he gathered Wulfric into his arms. ‘Where have you been?’
‘They came to find me,’ Tom’s father said.
Tom looked up. Hunter stood with both arms clasped firmly around Tom’s mother’s waist. He did not seem to mind her bird’s nest hair and she did not seem to mind his shaggy wolf-skin clothes.
‘I came as fast as I could,’ Hunter went on. ‘We had some fierce fighting with Lord Mortlake’s border guards. But we got here in the end.’
‘That’s all that counts.’ Tom’s mother snuggled her arms tighter around him.
Tom felt a bubble of happiness inside him.
Hunter smiled and drew off the ring he wore on his finger. ‘Will you take back your ring?’
Tom’s mother put both hands on her hips. ‘Will you come live in the castle like an ordinary man?’
Hunter looked uncomfortable. ‘Perhaps, if Lord Wolfgang promises to stop killing the wolves.’
‘I think Lord Wolfgang has had enough of killing to last a lifetime,’ she answered dryly.
‘Well then, maybe … in the winter, at least.’
When his father bent his head to kiss his mother, Tom slipped away into the darkness, the wolfhound and the wolf at his heels.
Kissing was all well and good, but he did not want to watch it.
Sebastian’s father had somehow managed to assemble a feast of epic proportions. The four children were starving, and they gathered around the table, talking around mouthfuls of fresh white bread crammed with roast pheasant and redcurrant jelly.
‘How did you get here so fast?’ Sebastian asked his father. ‘We thought we wouldn’t see you for days.’
Lord Byrne grinned. ‘Your mother was worried about you. We were getting these long, gushing letters about how good it was here. Not a spelling mistake in sight! We knew something was wrong.’
Sebastian laughed till he almost cried. Quinn, Elanor and Tom laughed with him.
Then Jack rushed up, dressed in a shining suit of chain mail that was rather too big for her. She had found Lord Byrne only half a day’s ride away, she told them, and he had galloped the rest of the way. ‘He was beside himself with worry for you,’ she told Sebastian.
Lord Byrne went bright red. ‘Well, you can’t blame a father for being worried about his son, can you? Not that there was any need, I can see. You handled that blighter Lord Mortlake on your own. Told your mother, I did. Sebastian can look after himself.’
Sebastian’s grin had never been so wide.
‘There’s only one thing that worries me,’ Quinn said. ‘What happened to the four warriors? Did they retreat to the hidden chamber in time?’
‘I heard them call the retreat,’ Sebastian said. ‘And my sword just dissolved in my hand.’
‘I hope they are back under the castle,’ Elanor said. ‘Waiting till they are needed again.’
For a moment, all four were quiet.
‘The strange thing is,’ Quinn said, ‘some people are saying they saw the legendary heroes ride …’
‘And others think it was us,’ Sebastian added, looking very pleased about it all.
‘Father wants to knight you,’ Elanor told Tom.
‘But I thought you’d rather be trained to be a minstrel,’ Quinn said. She added, with a shy smile, ‘Who knows, maybe one day you could be the Grand Minstrel at the royal court?’
Tom stared at her, unable to speak for the sudden hope in his chest.
‘The thing is,’ Elanor said in a burst, ‘Father cannot seek justice on his own. What the Mortlakes did was treason. He has to take them all to Stormness to seek the king’s justice. He wants us all to go, too, so the king can thank us.’
‘I should probably go anyway,’ Quinn said. ‘Since the king is meant to be my great-uncle.’
‘You mean to claim your throne,’ Tom breathed.
Quinn smiled at him and shrugged, spreading wide her hands. ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
Sebastian grinned. ‘Now that truly would be an impossible quest.’
They all laughed, knowing that none of them believed anything was impossible anymore.
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First edition published by Scholastic Australia in 2015.
This electronic edition published by Scholastic Australia Pty Limited, 2015.
E-PUB/MOBI eISBN: 978-1-760270-99-5
Text copyright © Kate Forsyth, 2015.
Cover illustration and map on page iv by Jeremy Reston.
Logo design by blacksheep-uk.com.
Internal photography: brick texture on page i © GiorgioMagini|istockphoto.com; castle on page ii and folios © ivan-96|istockphoto.com.
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