The World to Come

by Eildon Rhymer

What if the Dark had won at the end of Silver on the Tree? The world is sliding into darkness, and only tattered remnants of the Light remain. Will, Bran and the Drews grow to adulthood, and each to their own destiny in this World to Come.

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Part one: chapter one

Undone

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The sky did not yet know that the world had ended. It was blue and beautiful, like the rising of a midsummer morning in an age of endless Light.

Moaning, Will rolled onto his stomach, and pushed himself onto his hands and knees. "I'm going back." Breathlessness and exhaustion made his voice into a tiny, broken thing.

No-one heard him. Panic fluttered in his chest. Were they… gone? He stood up, looked around his place they had fled to, so anguished, so wild, so desperate. A dozen Old Ones lay scattered in a meadow of pale flowers, driven to the end of their endurance, and beyond.

"I have to go back," Will told them. "Bran… He's…"

His throat felt scarred. His legs could hardly hold him. His hand hurt, and he realised that he had burnt it, but how and where, he did not know. He remembered a sword coming down, and hatred in the eyes of a friend. There had been screaming, and darkness, and Merriman shouting to him to flee, to go, to run.

"He didn't mean it. We can change it."

"No." And Merriman was there, stern and tall, with a face like etched stone.

"Please." Will felt his face crumple, like the boy he still was, and would be for only minutes longer. "It can't finish like this. Bran…"

"Bran made his choice." Merriman's face was expressionless.

"No!" Will cried. "He didn't… He was just… We can change his mind. Then none of this will have happened. Everything will end as it's supposed to end."

"No," Merriman commanded. "It is done now. I cannot be undone, not by you, and not by anyone."

"But Bran…" Will was crying, sobbing like a child. "He looked at me… He said… He thinks we…"

"That does not matter, Old One." Cold and hard as the mountains, cruel as the Dark.

"But it does!" Will cried. "It does to me. Bran…"

Merriman slapped him. "You forget yourself, Old One."

Will was too weak to stand up to such a blow. He fell sideways, and struck his shoulder when landing. Merriman stood over him, his shadow falling on Will's face. It was suddenly incredibly cold.

"But the Dark has won," Will sobbed. "Bran… They must have tricked him. I just want to…"

"You will not." Merriman was not even looking at Will, cowering at his feet like a broken enemy. "This is your place."

Will crawled to his knees, and managed to stand again. He pressed his hand to his throbbing cheek, and felt his tears trickle through his fingers. "I don't want to give up. That's all. There must be something…"

Merriman grabbed his chin, long fingers squeezing painfully tight. "Four thousand years I have waited, Will Stanton. Four thousand years, and you have had just one. Four thousand years I have worked for this and waited for this. Believe me, Will Stanton, you feel nothing."

Will could not speak. His legs sagged, and he was held up only by Merriman's steel grip at his throat.

"A thousand Old Ones were blasted out of time today, boy," Merriman hissed. "I witnessed them all coming into their powers. I guided them as I guided you. All gone, ripped away, and I'm still here, and everything's lost."

He cast Will away, and Will sprawled to the ground, gasping for breath. He had felt them ripped out time, too. Their absence was a bleeding emptiness in his heart. The air felt thinner, and he was alone and tiny in the chambers of his mind.

"It cannot be undone, Will," Merriman said, a little softer. "This was the final Rising, the final battleground. The Dark has won. It is the end."

The end, Will thought. He looked at the flowers, still blooming. He looked at Jane and Simon and Barney, smiling and peaceful in their unnatural sleep. He looked at the sky above, where a silver aeroplane breathed a delicate line of white across the blue.

"No," he said, pushing himself to his feet once more. "It is not the end." The Dark would seek to rule mankind and tempt them to turn against each other, but the remnants of the Light would still fight them. The Dark was victorious, but it still remained to be determined quite how terrible a world they would make between them.

"Yes," Merriman said, nodding once. "And so you see why you cannot go back."

Because if he went back, he would be defeated. Bran was in the hands of the Dark now, and the only way to talk to him would be to go into the very heart of Darkness in all its new-found power. If he went back, he would be sent out of time forever, and there would be one less Old One to protect the people of the world from the worst excesses of the Dark.

But, Bran, he whispered to himself. I'm so sorry. He wiped his tears away with a hand that did not tremble. But I will find you one day, he vowed.

"You understand why I had to," Merriman said, touching Will on his bruised cheek.

Will nodded. The last of the tears had gone, and the child had died forever. He was an Old One, and the world was in the hands of the Dark. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else could ever matter.

"It would do no good to seek out Bran," Merriman said. "All it would do is make things worse."

He blames me, Will thought. It's my fault. Because I was the one who was supposed to befriend Bran. I was Bran's Merlin, and he was my Arthur, and I failed. I lost him.

But he stood tall, an Old One facing the future. "What about the children?"

They were beginning to stir, moaning and yawning in their enchanted sleep. No mortal could have travelled the way the Old Ones had travelled in their desperate flight, not without losing their minds forever.

"You know what we need to do, Will," Merriman said gently.

Jane woke first, tearing from sleep with a wild cry, but then her eyes widened, and she stared at the flowers and her brothers on either side of her. "Oh…" She slumped forward, breathing heavily. "It was a dream."

Will crouched down beside her. "It was not a dream, Jane."

Simon rolled over, his face a mask of horror. "Bran betrayed us. The Dark…"

"The Dark has won, yes," Will told him. "It cannot be undone. Bran made his choice."

"But it can't be true!" Jane cried. She kept looking beyond Will to Merriman, as if nothing was true until she had heard it from him. "It can't be!"

Merriman said nothing. It was the first time ever that Will had almost hated him. "It is true," he said. "The world is in the hands of the Dark. Things will change, but life will carry on."

"Shut up!" Simon screamed. He threw himself at Will and grappled him to the ground, and knelt over him, hands digging into his shoulders. "I hate you!" he spat. "Saying it as if it doesn't matter. Don't you ever care about anything?"

Will could not say what he wanted to say. He could not even think it. "We will make you forget all this," he said, looking Simon full in the face. "You will be targets for the Dark, if you remember. You will still have to live with what the world is going to become, but it will be more bearable for you, if you don't know how it happened, and how close it came to never happening."

"You…!" Simon shrieked, but Will brought up his hand, and steadily spoke the word. Behind him, he heard Merriman speak his own spell. Sleep, and forget. Sleep, and forget, and wake, but not to morning.

Minutes passed. He felt Merriman gently lift Simon from on top of him, and he heard the other Old Ones stirring. Words were said. Will was not the only one to weep on waking.

"Will," Merriman said eventually, so softly beside him.

Will sat up, blinking.

"There is one more thing you need to do."

Will closed his eyes. He knew what it was. The boy would have wept and begged, but that boy was dead now. Drowned, he thought. I will say that I was drowned, and Bran with me, on a beach where the sunlight never dies.

"Yes." But he was still human enough to say sorrowingly, "You're taking everything from me."

Merriman touched his cheek, and gave a smile of infinite sadness.

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End of chapter one

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Part one: chapter two

A vanished dream

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She woke from dreams of blankness to find herself staring up at dappled leaves.

"You must have been up early." It sounded like a stranger's voice at first, but then Jane recognised it as her mother's. "We missed you at breakfast, and your beds were empty."

"Up too early, and now ready for bed again." Their father chuckled. "You know how children burn up energy."

Jane sat up, blinking in the sunlight. Beside her, Simon was stirring, frowning in confusion as if he did not know where he was. Barney murmured in his sleep, and brought his knees up to his chest, like a baby seeking warmth.

Jane looked from brother to brother, and then at her parents, mother first, then father. "How did I get here?" she whispered.

The sunlight felt hot enough to scorch, but she had never noticed before how cold a blue sky could look. A car passed on the road, and the sea stretched out beyond it, and brittle grass stirred on the dunes.

Her parents looked at her indulgently. "It can be confusing when you fall asleep during the day," her father said. "Have some breakfast. We've asked the landlady to keep you some."

Barney woke up with a gasp and a start. His face crumpled, then smoothed out again, blankness replacing the emotion. "It was a dream," he said, "but I don't remember what it was."

Their father laughed. "If you were older, I'd say you'd all been drinking."

Jane stood up. Simon had dragged himself up so he was sitting with his back to the tree, but he was frowning, his fingertips pressed between his eyes. Jane fought the urge to sit down again beside him. Her legs felt shaky and sore, as if she had been running, and there was something missing inside her, though she did not know what it was.

"Are you…" She swallowed, and cleared her throat. "Are you off out again?"

Her mother bit her lip anxiously. "You don't mind, do you? I thought you relished the freedom. I know we're probably being awful parents, letting you run wild, but this isn't London. It's perfectly safe."

"Yes." Jane looked at Barney, still huddled on the floor. He looked incredibly young, suddenly, and far too small to be left alone in a world where anything could happen.

She became aware of a low pulsing sound, that grew steadily louder. Her heart quickened, before she identified it as a helicopter. They all watched it fly low above them, and begin to circle. "Rescue helicopter," their father said grimly. "I hope no-one's drowned."

"Maybe it was the maroons that we heard earlier," their mother said, "that awful sound that woke us."

There was something mournful and terrible in the world 'maroons.' Jane shivered. She thought of boys who looked like Simon and Barney, lost in the cold, grey sea, drowning alone, because no help ever came.

"Don't go," she said, but the word was only a whisper, lost in the noise of the helicopter. Her throat tightened, and she fought the urge to cry.

"Well," their mother said. "Nothing we can do about it. I'm off to that lake again. If the weather holds, I might even finish today."

Please say something, Jane thought, looking at her brothers. I don't think I can bear to speak. Neither of them stirred, so she fiddled with her hair to shield her face, and said, "What lake? Can we see the picture?"

"I told you yesterday, silly," her mother chided. "I think somebody wasn't listening. And you know that I won't have anyone looking at my work until it's finished. There's no use asking. You can't wheedle around me."

Why are you like this? Jane wanted to cry. Something's changed! Something's ended, and I don't know what. Above them, the helicopter began another circle. A police car passed on the road, but it was not sounding its siren. Jane doubted that her parents noticed it.

"It's more golf for me today," their father said heartily. "What are you three going to do, when you've woken up, that is? Are you going to play with those little friends you made the other day?"

Little friends? For a moment, Jane had not the slightest idea what he was talking about. Panic fluttered in her chest, before her mind supplied the answer. He meant the two boys they had chatted to briefly on the hillside. A serious English boy, and a strange Welsh one. She could not remember their names.

"I don't know," she said. "Any ideas?"

She turned to Simon. Simon was always the first to come up with suggestions of how they spent their days. He had always been quick to play the bossy older brother, and now he was almost thirteen he was frequently unbearable. Sometimes she argued, but today she only wanted to be led. Everything felt strange, and Simon would make them normal again.

"Simon?" she prompted.

"I don't know…" Simon lowered his hand from his brow. There was an expression on his face that she had never seen before. "Something's… gone. I don't know what to do."

It made her feel more afraid than anything else that had happened since waking. "Barney?" Her voice sounded high and squeaky in her own ears. "Shall we stay in the grounds today? Do you want to paint?"

Barney rose to his knees, and gazed towards the sea. "The light isn't right." His voice was flat. "There's too much darkness in it today."

Jane shivered, but their mother gave a tinkling laugh. "What funny things you say sometimes, Barney. It's a glorious day, but time's ticking on. Would you mind ever so much if I go now?"

Yes, Jane thought. Please stay. Please stay with us today.

She said nothing, and smiled. Their parents strode away in their different directions, and dwindled, and were gone.

The helicopter made another pass. "Someone's died," Barney said, his voice bleak.

"I want to go home," Simon said, in a tiny voice, not like his own.

Jane bolted into the hotel before they could see how badly she was crying.

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end of chapter two

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Part one: chapter three

He lied in every word

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There were shadows in every room.

Paths of footsteps showed in the dust, tracking everyone who had come and gone in the days since the house had been opened up. The curtains were velvet, the colour of garnets, but when the sunlight fell on them it was clear that they would be scarlet if the dirt was washed from them.

Sunlight came seldom, though. Tall evergreens surrounded the house, shutting out the world outside. From his upstairs window, Bran could see a large metal gate, and a gravel drive, lined with silver cars. Only when the sun was at its highest did they sparkle. Only at noon did the curtains turn to blood.

He tilted his face up towards that distant sun. "So they lied about that, too." His voice sounded hollow in a room but sparsely furnished. "He lied about everything."

"My first thought was, he lied in every word."

Bran knew the voice, and did not turn round. The man called himself Matthews, and was some kind of manservant, but to whom, Bran did not know. He spoke with a nasty giggle in his voice, as if he knew something that Bran did not.

"Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came," Matthews said, his voice like a playground taunt. "Or is it Childe Bran?"

Bran traced his finger across the window, patterns in the dirt. "What do you want?"

"To listen to you," Matthews said. "So tell me, how did they lie?"

Bran would not tell him. Beyond the pale of trees, the sun shone in a perfect blue sky. People still lived. If he pressed his ear to the glass, he could hear cars and horns and planes. The world had continued, and the life of man upon it. And they told me that the world would end if I didn't do what they commanded. They told me the Dark would bring the end of everything. He lied. Everything he said was a lie.

Dirt was thick on the window, and the sunlight blurred. Dust from the curtains filled his eyes and made them sting.

"My master's down below," Matthews said. "Your master too, now."

Bran clenched his fist. "He's not my master."

"You chose him, boy," Matthews chuckled. "You chose the Dark. Tell me, had you chosen the Dark all along? Did you lead your little friend, the Sign-seeker, on a merry dance, when you planned all along to…"

"I did not!" Bran cried. Fists clenched at his sides, he was heaving in great breaths. "I did not," he said, more quietly. "I didn't choose the Dark. I chose not to choose the Light, that's all, and only because…" Because they had lied to me. Because they were using me. Because she said…

"It's the same thing." Matthews spread his hands.

Bran turned his back. He ran his finger again through the patterns he had made in the dirt. He watched the gate, but it did not open. People were passing by beyond the trees, but no-one stopped. No-one came.

Matthews stepped closer on silent feet, until he was close enough for Bran to hear his breathing. "Our masters are not pleased with you."

"Why? I…" His voice thickened. It was hard to say. "I cut the blossom, and declared for them. If it wasn't for me, they…" He could not force a single other word out. The trees outside seemed to be growing, dark fingers reaching for the sun.

"They told you that the one who cut the blossom could banish all rival powers out of time," Matthews whispered. "They told you that, did they, these lying friends of yours?"

Bran was shrinking away from him, until his body was almost pressed to the glass. "Yes," he breathed, the word marked only by mist on the window.

"Protected by the Light, you cut it, but then you gave it to my master. In your heart, you renounced the cause of your false friends. You refused to be their puppet any longer."

Bran nodded. His forehead found the glass, and stayed there. The coldness of the touch seemed to seep through his skin and turn him frozen and numb.

Matthews touched his shoulder. "Ah, but did you see the Sign-seeker's face when you did that? Did you see the betrayal there, the pain?" The voice was soft, like a dreadful caress. "Is that why you faltered?"

"I did not falter," Bran whispered. His eyes were closed now. It made no difference, because all he saw now was shadow and darkness.

"Then why are they still here?"

Bran snatched his head up. His eyes snapped open, and there was the sunlight still, silver bright beyond the trees.

"Send them out of time forever," Matthews said, in sing-song voice. "And many were sent thus, but not by you. My masters took them in the first frozen horror of their surprise, but not all. Some escaped. If you had been true, this would not have happened. My masters know it, and now you know it, too."

"Who?" Bran rasped. "Who escaped?"

"Their master." Matthews spat. "Merlin. My masters would feel the passing of such a one."

"Any…" Bran swallowed. "Others?"

Matthews' mouth curled in a smile that did not reach his gleaming eyes. "Why, boy, is there one that you are particularly interested in?"

Bran swallowed. "No. No-one." Certainly not Will, no, never him. Will Stanton was the worst of them all. The others had never pretended to be anything other than stern masters of Light, but Will had pretended to be his friend. He had preyed on Bran's loneliness. The boys at school laughed at him and called him a freak, but at least that was honest. False friendship was the worst of all. For a while, Bran had even thought…

"Yes," he said harshly. "I was interested in one in particular, and you know who. I want to make sure that he's really gone."

"But surely we'll find out soon enough." Matthews smiled disingenuously. "If he's still here, he'll come looking for you, won't he? After all, he is your friend."

"I have no friends." Bran turned back to the window. "I want you to go away now."

"Giving commands to one such as me?" Matthews sneered. "I don't think our masters would like to hear about this."

"I…" Bran pressed his hand against the glass. "I made you win. If it wasn't for me, the Light would be throwing its weight around, imposing its rigid, cold, loveless, horrible lies on everyone. If it wasn't for me, you'd all be gone."

"You want us to be grateful, boy?" It was a new voice, a cold voice. The sunlight paled, and a draught sent the ancient windows rattling.

Bran felt himself turn round. He did not want to do it, but something was dragging at his mind, and he could not resist.

"Rider," he gasped, through tightened throat. That was what Will had called this man. Rider, and they had run from him together, cold waves of terror lapping at their heels.

"And now I ride the world," the Rider said, "and you say it's thanks to you."

It wasn't! Bran wanted to cry. It wasn't anything to do with me. It would have happened anyway, whatever choice I'd made. He thought of a crystal sword, and a blossom falling, and six companions thrusting out their Signs, protecting him with everything that they were.

"I…" he stammered. "I'm…"

"You're nobody now," Matthews gloated. "The Pendragon was for one purpose only, and that purpose is done, and oh, how it was done! You are an ordinary boy now, just a pathetic boy who turns on his friends, and my masters do not need you."

Bran saw a glance flicker between Matthews and his master, and something subtle changed about both of them.

"Peace, Matthews," the Rider said gently. He turned to Bran, handsome face soft and smiling. "He's only jealous, Bran. Of course we are grateful to you. You will, of course, be rewarded."

"I don't want a reward," Bran blurted out. "I only wanted…"

The Rider smiled. "What? Ah yes. That." He leant forward, hands on his thighs, like an adult bending down to a child. "The Dark does not deny such things, Bran. Stay with us, and you will find that. Unlike the Light, we do not lie. Unlike the Light, we do not compel men to suppress their deepest desires. We are freedom and truth, Bran, but of course you knew that. I saw that in your heart when you made your choice."

His eyes were as blue as a winter sky, as deep as an endless ocean. Bran looked into them, and saw truth.

"Just don't lie to me," he rasped.

The Rider straightened. Another glance passed between him and Matthews. With some distant part of his mind, Bran registered that Matthews was no longer smiling. He looked older and taller, side by side with the man he called master.

"The Light would have stolen your memories," the Rider said. "They would have used you, then cast you back to waste your life on a decaying farm with a man who was only pretending to be your father. You will find us more grateful to those who serve us."

Bran clenched his fist, and managed to rip his gaze away. "I won't serve anyone. I'm here because I choose to be."

"Of course." The Rider smiled placatingly. "And you can leave us at any time. You know that."

Bran nodded. He leant against the window, and gazed at the metal gate, relentlessly closed. He had no idea what city he was in, or how he had got here. Somewhere - far away, perhaps – was Owen Davies out on the hills, looking for the boy he had lied to and tricked? Were the boys at school sharpening their sticks and wondering where their favourite whipping boy had gone? Were the last remaining Old Ones prowling, ready to seize him if he returned, and destroy him for what he had done?

Was Will out there, ready to smile with false forgiveness, to woo him with treacherous words? Bran would reject him, of course. He would throw the lies back in his face, and give him to the lords of Darkness to have their way with him. He would hurt him, just as Will had…

"I know that," he said, his voice hoarse.

But I won't, he thought. Not quite yet. But I can. I can leave at any time. I rejected the Light. That doesn't mean that I embrace the Darkness.

The trees grew tall, a protective barrier against the garish world of sunlight, and the Light that lay beyond.

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End of chapter three

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Part one: chapter four

Holly for the Dark

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The tree had come early this year. Draped in tinsel and lights, it shone ferociously against the early twilight that was outside. Will had never seen it so bright, or so sorrowful.

He was sitting on the hearth, knees pulled up to his chin, arms wrapped around them. The stone was still cold beneath him, but the air around was colder. The only light came from the tree. The only sound came from the front door opening, and then closing again.

Will's father stirred. He had been sitting in his battered leather chair for over an hour, doing nothing at all, but now he picked up the newspaper and hastily tried to pretend that he had been reading it. He laid it down again when Mary entered, her arms heaped high with holly.

"Not more," Will's father groaned. "We've got enough."

"We haven't got enough." Mary stuck her chin out mulishly. She tipped the holly onto the couch, loose leaves and berries scattering everywhere. When she peeled her thick gloves off, Will could see scratches on her wrists, and there was a longer one on the side of her neck.

"It's cold in here," Mary said.

Will's father ruffled the newspaper. His hands looked stiff and tired. "Is it? Warmer than outside, I'd have thought."

Mary went to put the light on. The lights of the Christmas tree dwindled and faded in contrast. There were no paper chains this year, but the tinsel shivered as Mary stamped past.

"Any more Christmas cards?" Mary asked. "Any presents?"

"No presents." Her father shook his head. "A few cards from my family, that's all."

Will had glanced into a few cards earlier, and seen only sad and awkward greetings, without the usual chatty letters that came with Christmas in a large family. No-one knew what to say. The most awkward of all had been from Jen and David Evans. Will's father had ripped it up with a growl, and thrust it in the bin. It had been the most movement he had done all afternoon.

"I saw James outside," Mary said. "He's been fighting again. I thought I'd better warn you."

"Oh." Will's father tightened his lips. "I'll talk to him."

"Won't make a difference." Mary sat down on the couch, careful to avoid to holly that was spilling everywhere. "They deserve it, the ones he's fighting. You know the sort."

"Yes."

Will knew them, too. Richie Moore and his friends, and others like him, and worse. There were more of them by the day. Schools were ugly places, but soon towns and cities would be uglier. The children sometimes led, but their parents would soon follow. The Dark had won.

"You're talking about me?" James' cheek was bruised and his eye was swollen. He had already removed his coat, but his trousers were muddy and his shoes scuffed.

His father folded the newspaper, and laid it on the arm of the chair. "Fighting isn't the answer, James."

"Then what is?" James retorted. "They asked for it. They said… They said that…"

"It doesn't matter what they said." His father looked almost afraid of hearing it. "Ignore them. It upsets your mother so, when you come back like this. And today of all days…"

That's why he did it, of course, Will thought. He could see the truth on all their faces.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and all three of them stiffened, a group drawing in on themselves in anticipation of a stranger arriving. When Paul entered, they all let out a silent breath. Paul sat down on a spare seat, but gave no sign of noticing James' bruises. He did not comment on the holly.

"Played today, then, Paul?" James' question was spoken like an attack.

Paul shook his head. His eyes seemed drawn by the newspaper, as something he did not want to look at, but could not look away from. "Anything… happened?"

His father shook his head, but his words said otherwise. "The usual batch of murders and injustices and international crises. Some people don't seem to have heard of the season of goodwill."

"Things are getting worse." Paul looked at his hands. "The world's sliding."

"I don't know why you read a paper if it depresses you so much," Mary said. "There's nothing we can do about it all."

No, Will thought. No, there isn't. Not you.

His legs were growing stiff. He shifted position slightly, not making a sound. A needle fell from the tree, brushing the tinsel, setting a bell to make the faintest of rings.

Mary looked at the tree. "Oh," she said, with forced brightness. "I met Miss Bell on the way home. She's wondering if we're going carolling this year, considering…"

James' bruised face went closed. "No." His voice was tight. "I won't. Voice breaking." The statement was true. The reason was false.

Mary bit her lip. "We ought to…"

"Go on at Paul, then, not me," James snapped. "He's the one who's not touched his flute for six months."

Paul was looking at his hands miserably. His father stepped in before James could launch another attack. "It wouldn't be the same, now that Miss Greythorne is dead, and the manor's being demolished. And the Dawsons gone… Traditions end, Mary. Sometimes they end because we grow up, and sometimes because the world grows up and changes, and we're left behind."

"I don't want traditions to die," Mary cried. She thrust her hands furiously into her gloves, and picked up an armful of holly. Will edged his feet to one side to let her get to the mantelpiece. After she had covered it entirely with holly, she made for the windowsill.

"Too much," her father murmured quietly, as if unable to stop himself.

"It is not too much." Mary's face was red, and she had tears in her eyes. "Will used to say it drove away the dark. He put holly everywhere two years ago, remember? This house sure as hell needs the darkness driven away from it."

"Language, Mary." But Will's father's eyes were closed. There was pain there, and he tried to lock it away for the sake of the children, but how could he do it on this day of all days?

Mary threw the remaining holly to the floor. "And I don't know why we have to put the tree up four days early and pretend that we always used to do it this way, because we didn't. We don't even start to think about Christmas until Will's birthday is over. It's Will's birthday today. Why are we pretending that it's already Christmas?"

She was almost screaming it. Although there had been no sounds from the kitchen, Will could tell that his mother had stopped her silent cooking, and was listening. She was probably weeping.

Mary sank to her knees, her voice dying away to a broken whisper. "Why did Will have to die?"

I had to, Will thought, sitting unseen in the shattered heart of his family. He was the only Old One who had family still living. If the Dark knew that he remained on the earth, they would torture his family as a way of targeting him. To protect his family, Will had to be dead to them.

"I don't know, Mary." There were tears on Mr Stanton's cheeks now, and he gave up the struggle to hide them. "I just don't know."

I'm so sorry, Will thought. I'd make you forget me, if I could. But even that was forbidden. The Dark was watching them always, with agents in the village. If they suddenly forgot their youngest son, the Dark would know what it meant.

I wish you could see me. He was crying himself, tears that no-one would ever see. He wanted another Christmas laughing around the tree. He wanted to unwrap presents, and exclaim his thankyous, and write cards, and sing carols. He wanted to eat his mother's Christmas pudding, and make paper-chains with his sisters, and wake on Christmas morning with joy and hope.

Hidden and alone, he left them, with a last goodbye, never heard.

It was his thirteenth birthday.

******

End of chapter four

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Part one: chapter five

Home for the holidays

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"Is it really awful?" Jane whispered to him, as they helped clear the table.

Simon shook his head. He concentrated on placing the over-large pile of plates onto the working surface. His party hat lay limp in a pool of gravy, and he crumpled it up with a grimace. Only then did he speak. "Of course it isn't," he said brightly. "What gave you that idea?"

They returned to the dining room. Their mother was passing round china bowls, and their father was lavishly splashing brandy over the Christmas pudding. The dregs of Christmas crackers were strewn on the floor, and everyone else was still wearing their paper hats. Barney had collected all the novelties together, and was going through the jokes, laughing to himself.

"What a baby," Simon said harshly. "They're never funny."

"That's part of the charm, Simon," their father said. "Don't be cruel to your brother. It's Christmas."

Simon sat down, pulling the chair roughly in behind him. "So, are you on any teams yet?" His grandfather continued as if there had been no break between courses. All through the turkey, he had been on and on. On and on…

Simon played with the edges of the tablecloth, hidden on his lap. "Not yet, grandpa. I've only been there a term."

"Your father was on the junior rugby team by half term," his grandfather said. "Really proud of him, we were. A real chip off the old block."

"They didn't play rugby at Simon's old school," Simon's mother said. "I expect a lot of the other boys came from prep. schools and already know all about it. Right, Simon?"

Simon nodded. He tried not to think about standing on a cold field, mud splashing to his knees, boys roaring down towards him, and shouting at him, always shouting at him. He tried not to think of the changing room, and the laughter, and the red, angry face of his games' teacher, and the way spit flew from his mouth when he was shouting.

"Cricket in the summer, then." His grandfather dug his spoon into the portion of Christmas pudding that had been delivered to his plate. "Maybe we'll make a cricketer of you. You don't really have the build of a rugby player. Too thin. Too small."

Simon had been one of the tallest ones at his old school. He had enjoyed games and enjoyed lessons, and everyone had looked up at him, even the boys in his class who were older than him.

His own pudding came. He started to eat it, but his mother chided him, "Manners, Simon."

"Grandpa didn't say thank you," Simon pointed out. "Grandpa didn't wait for everyone else to be served."

"Simon! Apologise at once." His mother's face was very red. Turning to her husband's father, she said, "I must apologise for Simon. Of course I didn't mean… Honestly, he's been worse than Barney all Christmas."

Barney looked up from his jokes. "Mum!"

"Worse than Barney used to be, I mean." Their mother smiled at him, but there were no smiles for Simon.

Simon stared down at his pudding. The smell made him feel queasy, and shameful tears were blurring his eyes. "Can I be excused?" he mumbled.

"Certainly not," said his father. "Come on, eat up. It's Christmas."

"He's a teenager." Simon's grandmother nodded sagely. "I know all about them. I've read about them in the newspaper, and heard about them on the wireless. It's hormones." She lowered her voice as if she was saying a dirty word.

"I'm still me," Simon whispered.

"He'll be bringing a little girlfriend home soon, just you wait and see." His grandmother nodded confidingly. "Love's young dream."

"I go to an all-boy's schools, grandma." Simon clutched his spoon. "The only girls I ever see are Jane's stupid friends."

His grandmother reached across the table to pat his hand. "Your grandpa was my best friend's older brother. Oh, how we all admired him, but he chose me."

"My friends think you're stuck-up and stupid," Jane said. "They think Angela's brother's wonderful."

Simon pushed his chair away, and left the table without a word. His parents shouted at him to come back, to come back this instance, but he ignored them. The living room was quiet and solitary, still strewn with wrapping paper and presents. Barney had adored all the art materials he had received, but none of Simon's presents had been right. Half of them were too babyish, and the other half had been serious, schooly things. Half his relations saw him as a little boy, and the rest saw him as almost a man. But I'm still me, he thought. I want to be me.

He toyed with a piece of ribbon, twisting it through his hands. No-one came after him. A while later, he heard the dining room door opening, and the sound of plates being brought through. He heard the sound of a kettle filling for coffee, and laughter from the table. They're happy, now they've got rid of me, he thought.

He switched on the television, turning it deliberately loud. Blond-haired choristers were singing something in Latin. You still sound like a girl, Drew, he remembered. Why don't you put a poncy dress on and sing in the choir? Stupidly, he had replied. "But hardly anyone else's voice has broken yet. Why are you picking on me?" They had repeated it back in a high and squeaky voice, and mocked his accent, and even mocked his choice of words.

He clicked on to another channel, and found "The Wizard of Oz." "Not again," he said out loud. It had been a childhood ritual to watch it every year. Barney had grown fascinated with wizards and magic. Why, even last year… Simon frowned, trying to chase the memory. Last year, Barney had been more rapt than ever, and there had been something new, something about a wizard…

"I'm sorry I said what I did," Jane said quietly from behind him. "But you called my friends stupid. That wasn't nice of you."

"People can't always be nice." Simon clicked on to the next channel, which was showing adverts. "Being nice doesn't get you anywhere."

"Simon…" Jane sat down on the couch behind him. Kneeling on the floor in front of the television, Simon kept his back to her. "I know you keep telling Mum and Dad that school's wonderful, but it isn't, is it? You hate it there."

An irritating comedian was telling everyone to buy chocolate. "I don't know why he's bothering," Simon said. "The shops are shut, anyway."

"But it's only been a term, Simon. It'll get better."

The next advert was for a car. A man who looked like James Bond stepped out of it, straight into the arms of half a dozen glamorous women.

No, it won't, he thought, biting his lip against a sob. Just six months ago, he had been lord of his school, and lord of his family. He had been the biggest, the strongest, the one who knew everything. Now he was at the bottom in a wider, scarier world. Things he had always taken for granted suddenly didn't fit in any more. Decisions that had always been easy were now wrong. He had looked wrong on the first day, or acted wrong, or said something wrong, and the others would never forget it, ever.

"It's just that they all knew each other," he found himself saying. "Most of them came up from the same prep. school. Their friendships are all sorted out, and I…"

"It'll get better," Jane said.

"Of course it will." Simon whirled on her. "I don't need your help. You're just a girl, a baby."

"Leave Jane alone, Simon," their mother chided, struggling through the door with a tray full of mugs. "Honestly, you've turned into a real hateful little so-and-so this term. I hope you're not going turn into the school bully."

Oh, Mum, if only I could tell you… He could almost have laughed, if he had not been so close to tears.

"Off the couch, Jane," their mother said. "Your grandparents want to watch the Queen's speech." She grimaced. "And, yes, I know she always says the same, so you don't have to say it, Simon. But it's tradition. I wonder if she'll say anything about… well, you know."

Wars and tensions and bombings. School was like a prison, in a way, and no news from the outside could penetrate. Simon had come out in December to find a very different world from the one he had left in September. Not that he paid it much attention. Such things were far away. Schools had their own wars and crimes and atrocities. A school could be as much a place of terror as could a war zone.

Simon got up. "I'm going to my room."

"Be like that, then." Their mother shrugged. "I won't argue with you at Christmas. But if you don't want to be with us, you might at least get started on the washing up."

Simon pretended not to hear her. He stamped up to his room, where the calendar on his wall faced him like a taunt.

Ten more days to go, and then… And then…

He threw himself face-down on the bed, memories screaming in his ears.

******

End of chapter five

******

Part one: chapter six

Bully

___

They tried to laugh at him. "Look at the new boy," they taunted. "What a freak!"

Bran had endured this for his whole life, but no longer. Not any longer. I made a choice that will change the world, he thought. I can deal with laughing idiots like these.

One of them came capering up to Bran, sniggering. "Why're you so white? Did you fade in the wash, or something?" He looked back at his friends, smirking at his mighty wit.

Bran stood as tall as he could, and kept his face blank. "Why are you ugly? And you, there, why is your nose so long? Why have you got freckles? Why have you got dandruff?"

Their leader turned back to Bran, all laughter gone from his face. "What did you say?"

"Only that I will not let you pick on me. If you want to pick on someone, find someone who cares."

They scurried away.

"That was fantastic!" Bran turned to see a podgy boy at his side, his hands pressed together. "That lot make everyone's lives a misery, but you showed them."

Yes, Bran thought, letting out a slow breath. Yes, I did.

The Light would not have given him the strength to do such a thing. The Light had watched him for years, waiting for the right time to use him. They had watched him endure agonies in the playground, and they had done nothing. They had done nothing.

"Will you be my friend?" the podgy boy asked.

Pathetic, Bran thought. Even then, I was never as pathetic as that. Yes, he had practically thrown himself at Stanton's feet in his eagerness to have a friend, but he had never come right out and said so. He had kept that much of himself intact, away from the clutches of the Light.

"I don't need friends," he said coldly, "but you can be my follower."

The boy's eyes widened, but he nodded.

******

Another one came to him at break time.

"Is it true that you told Ed Norris and his gang where to go?"

Bran nodded, hidden behind his dark glasses. This one was weedy and spotty, a born victim.

"That's amazing. What's your name?"

"Bran," Bran said. "Bran Pendragon." Not Davies, oh no. He would never use that name again. The name belonged to the man who had snatched him from his true mother, and pretended to love him. It belonged to a man who wanted to deny Bran's true nature, and instead shape him into the very model of himself, stunted and frozen and alone.

"Bran." The boy pronounced it wrong, of course. The English always did, even when he told them and corrected them, as if it didn't really matter how they said his name. Only Will had ever…

"Bran," Bran said harshly, making it sound as Welsh as possible. "If you can't say it right, don't bother speaking to me at all."

The boy swallowed nervously. "What does your dad do?"

"I don't have a father." Bran dug his nails into his palm. "I have a… guardian. He's called Mr Mitothin. He's going to be really important soon. You'll see."

The boy looked unimpressed. "Most people here have important fathers. It's that sort of place. Important, but thick. I'm here on scholarship. That's why they pick on me."

Bran eyed him slowly and obviously, from his scuffed shoes to his greasy head. "I don't think it is," he said. "They pick on you because you let them. People who let themselves get picked on have only themselves to blame."

The boy started to sniffle, crying without shame. Bran despised him. Fourteen years old, and crying openly! When Bran wanted to cry, he screwed his face up and clenched his fists and willed the tears to go away. He had not cried, even in private, since… since…

He walked away and left the boy without a word.

******

He was walking back to his House after lessons when he heard it, the unmistakable sound.

Bran froze, clutching his books to his body. Fists and laughter; tears and cries of, "Don't. Please don't." Curled on the floor, looking up at boys taller than the sky. "Freak," and "weirdo," and no-one coming, no-one stopping it no-one caring…

"No." The books fell to the floor. He was forward, round the corner of the building, and on to them. The first one was big, but Bran hauled him off bodily, taking him by surprise. His side-kick gaped, then, "Stay out of it, Pendragon." It was a pathetic attempt to sound threatening.

Bran grappled the ringleader to the ground, and knelt astride him. "Don't you dare." He slammed the bully's head into the tarmac surface. "Don't ever bully someone again." Each word came with a blow. "And now you're crying," Bran hissed. "Not so tough now, are we?"

Hands hauled at his shoulders, pulling him off. Bran clenched a fist and swung it round, striking the side-kick in the jaw. Behind him, the victim cowered, watching it all with wide eyes, but making no attempt to join in. Bran wanted to strike him, too, to slap him on his pathetic little face, but he did not.

"What is this?" bellowed a grown man's voice.

They froze, bullies and victims alike, in the universal posture of children caught by a master. Bran would have no part of it. He stood tall, and looked the teacher full in the face, knowing that he could see the master's eyes, but the master could not see his. "They were picking on this child," he said. "Two of them against one. I stopped it."

"He tried to kill me!" cried the leader. Blood was trickling down the back of his neck, and he was snivelling.

"Of course I didn't," Bran said. "I intervened to stop an assault. The school does not condone bullying, I believe?"

Something about his own voice made him remember, then. Will Stanton standing before an adult, and speaking to them not as a child, but as an Old One, always steady, always sure. It almost made Bran falter and lose everything he had gained. I will not model myself on him. It made him feel sick, to think that he had almost done so. Instead, he thought of the crystal sword, and the power that had flowed through him when he had held it. I am the Pendragon, he thought, and this man is nobody.

The master turned red. "It doesn't condone fighting, either. You will see the Headmaster, all three of you."

"But Bran saved me," the victim piped up. Not a child at all, Bran realised, but a boy in the same year as him. They all looked so young. They prattled of foolish things, and their eyes held such innocence. They did not know the treachery that could lie at the heart of those who spoke of good. They did not know what it was to choose.

"Then of course the Head will take that into account," said the master. He pulled out a notebook to jot down their names. Bran's, though, he knew without asking. The bully had known it, and the victim had, too, though Bran did not know any of them.

He wondered about that, as he walked away.

******

End of chapter six

******

Part one: chapter seven

Forever autumn

__

"Be a darling, Jane, and pour me some more tea."

Jane unfolded her legs from beneath her, and reached for the tea pot. "Same cup, or do you want a clean one?"

"Same cup," her mother replied. "I drink out of all sorts of things when I'm out painting. A bit of dirt never killed anyone."

Jane placed the full cup on the coffee table, and watched as her mother picked it up clumsily with her left hand. "Are you sure you'll manage?" she asked. "I can stay a bit longer. If you phone the school and ask..."

"No. I'll be fine." Jane's mother smiled. "Your father should be home the day after tomorrow, anyway, and I can get by perfectly well with my left hand. Anything but painting." She looked wistful. With a broken wrist, she would not be able to paint for weeks, and painting was her life.

Jane had grown to envy that lately. She had nothing that so consumed her, nothing that allowed her to express herself, to create. She was only average at art and music, and her English teacher told her that she held too much of herself back to be a truly great writer.

"I appreciate you coming home, Jane, to look after your silly old mum." Her mother placed the cup back on the saucer. "Tripping on the doormat. How stupid of me." She gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Now, let's settle down to some TV, shall we? Don't tell Dad, but I often watch the silliest things when he's away."

Jane walked to the television and switched it on. BBC1 was showing a costume drama, all swirling dresses and glowering men. "Jane Eyre," Jane said. "We did that last term."

"Oh, I did love that when I was your age," her mother cried. "That's why I called you Jane. Oh, I was so in love with Mr Rochester." She patted the couch with her good hand. "Sit down next to your old Mum, Jane. Let's watch it together. Ooh, he's handsome, isn't he? Do you think he's handsome?"

"Mum!" Jane felt herself blushing. Now that Jane was fourteen, her mother seemed determined to treat her like a giggling friend, to talk about men and romance. We girls must stick together, she often said. Here we are, stuck in a house full of men. It made Jane feel uneasy and miserable. She wanted her old mother back again, who had always... Well, who had always seemed like a mother.

"Who do all you young girls fancy now?"

"No-one," Jane said. "It's silly, that sort of thing." It was a lie of course, but she was not going to tell her mother whose pictures were plastered over the wall above her bed at school. She wasn't going to talk about late-night giggles, and the whispers spread by girls who had actually kissed a real live boy. She would not talk about the hearts drawn in her rough book, and the tears she shed over novels, or about the dreams.

"Oh, isn't that Mr Rochester dreamy?"

Jane stood up. "I've got prep I should be doing. I'll go to my room, if you don't mind."

"But I thought we could have a nice girly evening." Her mother looked crestfallen.

"Honestly, mum, you don't have to try so hard." Jane paused with her hand on the door. "I'm not a different person just because I'm a teenager. I'm still me. You don't have to pretend to be someone different just to get on with me."

"I'm not." Her mother looked hurt. "Has it ever occurred to you, Jane, that maybe this is the real me? That maybe I've spent a dozen years playing mother, and that now you're finally growing up, I want..."

The television picture went blank. To a black screen, a sombre announcer said, "We interrupt this programme with a news flash."

Jane's mother screamed.

******

Hours later, they were still staring at the screen. The tea had long-since gone cold in the pot. The cat was screaming, demanding to be fed.

"I'll feed him," Jane said dully.

"No." Her mother grabbed her arm. "Don't leave me. There might be news..."

"I'll feed him," Jane said. "I'll be back in less than a minute. You'll see."

In the kitchen, she pressed both hands to her face. Her hands felt icy cold, or maybe it was her face that was burning hot. She felt the stickiness of old tears, and the dampness of new ones, though how was it possible that she still had tears to shed?

The cat rubbed around her ankles, and she lowered her hands, and turned to the business of opening a tin, and spooning the contents into a bowl. The smell of it almost made her gag. Then, walking towards the bin, she found a blood-stained dead mouse on the floor. She fell to her knees, and cried over it, then was sick in the kitchen sink, bringing up nothing but spittle. It felt as if it came wrenching from her soul.

"Jane? Jane!"

Jane splashed water over her face, and returned to her mother. The television was still showing men in suits, who knew very little about what was happening. Sometimes they would cut to scenes of fire and screaming, but it was all too fast and too horrible to see what was happening.

All they knew was that the government had been overthrown, by a secret group within the military. The Prime Minister was dead, his body strung from a lamp-post in Whitehall. Bombs had gone off in Parliament, and Westminster Abbey was burning. A military dictatorship had been declared, and Britain had become the latest of the world's democracies to fall to military rule.

All we know? Jane almost giggled through her tears. It was enough. It was more than enough.

"But it won't really affect us, will it?" Jane has asked, when the first horror of the announcement had faded. She could not imagine those cold-faced military men being interested in a silly fourteen year old girl who lived in the suburbs. "It doesn't really make a difference to ordinary people, does it, when the government changes?"

Her mother had slapped her, the first time ever. "Stupid girl," she had screamed. "Stupid girl! Look!"

For London was burning. The people were resisting, pouring onto the streets with fire and flame and fury. There were riots in London, and now the merciless television was showing blood and bodies in all the other major cities, too.

Their father was in Edinburgh, and Edinburgh, too, was burning.

*******

At ten o'clock the next morning, the television went blank, and did not return. At her mother's request, Jane tried the radio, The local and commercial channels were still there, but the BBC channels were transmitting only static.

"They've taken over the BBC." Her mother was white-faced, with red-rimmed eyes. Neither of them had even tried to sleep. "I never thought to see such a thing. All through the war, the BBC kept going. I remember us gathering around the wireless after dinner, listening. It was our lifeline. And now... Is this real, Jane? Tell me it isn't real."

The phones were still working. Jane had already fielded a dozen phone calls from relatives. "Yes," she told them all. "We're fine. We're on the edge of London, you see. Miles from where it's happening. Mum and I are fine, but Dad... But Dad..."

"Answer it, please," her mother always said. "I can't bear it." A dozen times, reaching for the phone, hand trembling and heart pounding, hoping to hear her father's voice. When her uncle had spoken, his voice so like her father's... That had been the worst. She had not told her mother about the wild relief that had coursed through her at that moment, or the wrenching, horrendous disappointment when she had realised who it really was. She had not told her mother a lot of things.

Jane walked to the window, and looked out, half-hidden by the curtains. It looked as if nothing had changed. A pale sun shone through a thin layer of cloud, and swifts flew overhead. The flowers in the front garden were glorious, and greenfinches and bluetits fluttered around the bird feeder, while starlings patrolled on the grass. Beyond the garden, people passed as normal. Ladies with shopping bags walked back from the shops, and mothers pushed their children to clinics and playgroups. Earlier, the postman had still come, and the milkman had come still earlier, his van rattling with empty bottles.

It can't be true, Jane thought. They wouldn't still be doing normal things, if the world had really ended.

Then she, too, had to be one of them, for midday came, and she realised that neither of them had eaten. Her mother said she wasn't hungry, but Jane told her that she had to eat. You had to keep doing the normal things, even if your whole world had fallen apart around you. "How do you know?" her mother said bitterly. "You're only fourteen." And Jane nodded and said that she had read it somewhere, or learned it at school, but really it had come out of her own heart, from nowhere, and she found that she truly believed it.

"I'll get some bread," she said, "and some cheese. Can I take your purse?"

"I don't want you to go." Her mother bit her lip. "What if the phone goes?"

"Answer it." Jane picked up her mother's purse, and checked it for money. "I won't be long, and I will come back."

She stopped as soon as she was outside, breathing in deeply. Fresh air coursed through her veins, and a gentle breeze stroked her tired skin. The birds fled from her, but the flowers seemed to turn towards her, their varied colours beautifully arranged. This is it, Jane thought. The last time I'll be free.

She walked to the shops, and saw nothing except that people were more ready to talk to each other. She chose a loaf and a chunk of cheese, and joined the queue. "Shocking," the woman in front of her was saying, to anyone who would listen. "I wasn't surprised when those foreigners started doing things like this, but it's just not English, is it?"

"They interrupted that lovely Jane Eyre programme," another woman was complaining. "That Mr Rochester is lovely, isn't he?"

"Well, as long as I can still get my ginger snaps and pot of tea each afternoon at the club, I'm not complaining."

"I didn't fight in two World Wars for something like this to happen," grumbled an old man.

"You didn't fight in two, dear." Her wife nudged him. "You only fought in one."

"You mark my words." The man raised his voice, speaking to the whole shop. "It won't last. We English don't take well to tyrants. Look what happened to Charles I, and that Cromwell, too, when he started getting too big for his boots. This will all be over by next weekend."

Not over. Jane looked at the floor, and tried not to start crying. My Dad might be dead.

"What do you mean, no newspapers?" exclaimed the man at the front of the queue. "I do my crossword over morning tea, regular as clockwork."

Stop it! Jane wanted to scream. Stop being like this! She bit her lip, and tried to blank out the babble around her. When it was her turn to be served, all she could do was thrust the money silently at the man, and stumble from the shop.

The air outside felt cold and dangerous. The birds were dark shapes that saw everything, and the wind brought with it a faint smell of smoke, from fires that were the graves of ordinary people like herself.

She did not even remember the journey home, and when she shut the door behind her, it felt like a prison door closing, never to open again.

******

That night, if she went into Barney's attic bedroom, she could see a distant orange glow that came from London, burning.

Before that, though, the television burst back to life, to show a man in military uniform, plastered with medals. Normal service would resume, he assured them. All the programmes that they knew and loved would carry on as before, because of course it was not their intention to victimise the normal, loyal, decent people who just wanted to get on with their lives and would never dream of stirring up dissent. The break in service was regrettable, but necessary, since certain dissident elements had to be... removed. Once the staffing of the various media companies had been... cleaned up a bit, everything would return to normal.

Jane's mother had been sleeping, then, curled up uncomfortably on the couch with her broken wrist stretched out away from her body. Jane crouched in front of the television, and turned the volume as low as possible, while still being able to hear it.

The man introduced himself as Colonel Hampton. He was speaking on behalf of his superiors, who were busy trying to restore peace to the capital, after dissidents and trouble-makers had irresponsibly breached the peace. The dissidents cared nothing for all the innocents they killed, and all the property they ruined, but General Vaughan and his men were striving only to restore peace.

General Vaughan was now their President, Jane gathered. The existing political system had been dissolved, and the surviving MPs imprisoned. The Royal Family, too, were under guard, but Colonel Hampton assured his viewers that no harm would come to them. The General was just a custodian, ruling the country on behalf of the Queen. It pained him to take such measures, but the old system had been rife with corruption and treachery. The so-called servants of democracy had in reality served no-one but themselves, and the country had been sliding towards disaster and ruin. But now that General Vaughan had stepped in...

I don't believe it, Jane thought. It's all lies. But, even all alone as she was, she clapped her hand to her mouth to stop herself from saying it aloud. She looked at her sleeping mother, so fragile and afraid. I have to be strong for her, she thought. I can't say what I feel.

On the television, Colonel Hampton was introducing the men who were standing behind him. They were not the great ones, he explained, for the great ones couldn't be spared from the pacification of the cities. No, these were merely the loyal soldiers and agents whose hard work had helped this revolution come to pass. They were all blank-faced men in suits or uniforms, and Jane hardly listened to their names. One, though, stood out. He was handsome, in a cold sort of way, with pale skin and blue eyes and reddish hair. His name was strange, but it was his eyes that made Jane shiver.

I've seen him before.

******

Two days passed, and there was still no news from Jane's father.

They had reported him missing to the police, of course, and the police had said they would do whatever they could, but all travel into the big cities was still prohibited, so it would be at least a few days... They had seemed distracted, too. When leaving the police station, Jane had noticed a soldier standing at the back door, a gun in his hands.

That was one more thing she did not tell her mother.

Jane had phoned her brothers' schools, and had been able to speak to both of them. Neither of them had known that their father was in Edinburgh, or that their mother had broken her wrist. "No," she said, in answer to both of their questions. "There's nothing you can do here. Best stay at school. I'll let you know the minute we hear anything."

"He's dead," Jane's mother said that night, picking at the dinner Jane had struggled to cook. "I just know it. He'd have phoned us if he could. The city's cordoned off, but phone-calls are still getting out. I just know he's never coming back."

Jane took a sip of her drink. It tasted of ashes. "We have to keep on hoping," she said brightly.

"He isn't coming back..." Her mother's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Jane, I know it's awful to think of such a thing at such a time, but I just wish I could paint. I always feel better when I'm painting. It's as if the world goes away for a little bit, and nothing can hurt me."

I felt like that, Jane thought, when I was little, and you hugged me. She chewed another tasteless mouthful. Please, Mum. I just want you to give me a cuddle. He's my Daddy!

"I don't know how I'll cope, Jane."

Jane breathed in, and out again.

******

She made the phone call when her mother was sleeping, sprawled restlessly on her bed in the middle of the day.

"Jane." Her headmistress's voice was gentle. Some of the girls found her a monster, but Jane had always liked her.

"I..." Jane swallowed. "I got permission to come home for a few days, because my mother broke her wrist and Dad… and my father was away."

"I know," the headmistress said. "I signed the form. You were supposed to be back today."

"I..." Jane cleared her throat. "Are things... I mean, are lessons still...?"

"Everything's still happening," the head said gently. "It's best that way. Until we know how things will be, we will carry on as if nothing has changed. The English are a remarkable people, you see, Jane - and I say that as a Scot, looking on. No-one else in the world is quite like the English when it comes to proclaiming business as usual, even if bombs are falling all around their ears."

It was not what she wanted to hear. It would have been easier, she thought, to hear of chaos, and lessons cancelled, and all her friends gone home.

She blinked back tears, and struggled to speak. "I won't be coming back. My mother... She doesn't know yet, but she'll sign the forms. My father… he's probably dead. He was in Edinburgh, and we haven't heard..."

"Oh, Jane, I'm so sorry," the headmistress gasped. "But, really, is that a good reason to throw away your future?"

Jane wiped roughly at her eyes. "I'm not throwing it away. There are other schools. I'll go to the comprehensive down the road. St Catherine's. It's not a bad school. My friends from junior school are all there. My life isn't going to be ruined just because I'm not going to a posh boarding school any more."

She had expected to be shouted at for speaking like that to the head. Perhaps she had even wanted to be shouted at, because then she could shout back, and perhaps that would melt the block of ice that was where her heart should have been.

But the headmistress gave her nothing but gentleness. "But you've settled in so well here, Jane. We've all got great hopes for you. And it's always disruptive to change schools, whatever school you're going to. It's a bigger thing than you think it is."

Of course it's a big thing! Jane wanted to scream. Do you think I don't know that? But what else can I do? There's no-one else.

"Jane?" She must have seen silent too long, fighting tears. "Jane, are you still there?"

Help me. She pressed her hand to her mouth, stifling sobs. Please help me, Mrs McCrae.

"Jane, listen to me," the head urged. "I know you feel you have to stay at home for your mother's sake. That's it, isn't it? But don't do anything rash. It's only three weeks until the end of term, and then it's the long vacation. I wouldn't normally do it, but I'll grant you permission to miss the rest of the term, if your mother consents. You'll have nearly three months at home. Things might seem different in September."

Jane nodded desperately. "Yes please. I mean, thank you. Thank you, Mrs McCrae. I'll do that. I... I don't want to leave." The last words came out in a rush, quiet and tiny.

******

But summer passed, and the days grew shorter. The nights grew darker, and her heart grew colder.

September came, and nothing had changed.

By day, Jane went to a strange school, where she found that her friends from two years before had become strangers, who did not know her. Every evening, she came home to a grey house, and her mother, who no longer painted, although the plaster had long since come off.

September came, and turned to winter, and then to spring again.

In her heart, she thought, it would be forever September.

******

End of chapter seven

******

Part one: chapter eight

From shadow

__

They sat beneath the stars on an ancient hillside.

"Why?" Will moaned, as the hunter strode the eastern sky, his sword and bow picked out in jewels. "Why can't they see what's happening?"

"Do you want them to see, Old One?" Merriman asked mildly.

Will curled his fingers, pressing them into the moist earth. "The Dark is taking over the world. One by one, the governments of mankind are falling..."

"Replaced by others that are also of man."

He gouged out a handful of dirt. "Yes, but with the Dark behind them. You know that, as well as I do. The Dark engineered this coup. The Dark stands behind this general and all his actions. And no-one does anything. They shrug over their coffee. They bicker with their neighbours about fences. They go to school and to work and on holiday. Why can't they see that the Dark is now amongst them?"

"I say again, Old One, why do you want them to see?" Merriman was just a voice in the darkness, a voice in his soul.

"Because then they might do something about it." Will threw the earth away. It scattered on the grass, shivered, and was still again.

They had walked through the cities of man, Will and Merriman together. They had seen them burn, and they had seen the slow beginnings of rebuilding. They had seen communities mourn the dead, and they had seen the same communities laughing in the snow, pinning up tinsel and lights above their doors. Everything had changed, but for most of the people, nothing had changed. They closed their eyes to the truth, and they danced and they loved, as all around them the world was plunging into darkness inescapable.

"I ask you a third time, Will, do you really want them to know?"

Will closed his eyes. If they knew the truth, the people would sink into despair. They would cower at home, weeping, or, worse, they would go outside in their fear and their anger, and try to assuage such feelings by hurting someone else. As it was, hope and humanity still clung on to life. Whenever someone declared their love for another, or helped a stranger, or made someone laugh, then the Dark was not entirely victorious. People still had the choice of whether to approach life with hope or despair. The Dark had taken over the government, but it had not yet taken over people's lives.

"No." He opened his eyes, and looked at the sleeping world spread before him. "I would want them to stay ignorant for as long as they can. But it will not last, Merriman. One day, and soon, they will no longer be able to be blind. They will know, and then..."

"We will be there, Will." Merriman touched his shoulder.

Will lay down on his back, heedless of the cold that grasped at him from the earth like a living thing. He thought of all the Old Ones lost beyond the stars, beyond Time. Of the few that remained, only a handful remained in Britain. The others were off fighting battles of their own, against the evils that spanned the globe.

"I'm sixteen tomorrow," he said suddenly, without planning to say it.

He heard the rustle of clothing as Merriman nodded. "I know. I wouldn't forget your birthday, Will."

Will rolled onto his side. "When's yours?"

Merriman shook his head, smiling. "It stops being important when you get as old as I am."

Sixteen, Will thought. He knew it should not matter. He had stopped being a boy on a midsummer day over three years ago. He had spent those years as an Old One at Merriman's side, hiding and learning, and occasionally fighting. In every important way, he was far older than sixteen. There really was no reason why the date should matter to him.

He sat up, pulling his knees up to his chest. "I went home a few weeks ago." But not on his birthday. Never on his birthday again. "Barbara's married. Stephen's come home. James wanted to join the army, but I don't think he will, now that this has happened. The manor's been turned into flats, and Dad's been forced out of business, and I'm sure that's because of the Dark. He's unemployed, but at least only James is at home all year round now, so there's fewer mouths to feed."

He had not meant to say all that, either. It came out in a monotone, and he hugged his knees tightly as he said it, and blinked against the sharpness of the night.

"Perhaps you shouldn't," Merriman said mildly.

Will whirled on him. "Don't try to stop me. I want to. I need to. They think I'm dead. It's only reasonable to want to watch over them."

"Yes." Merriman let out a breath. "There are people I watch, too. Simon and Jane and Barnabas. It is hard to let go of love, and neither should you, as long as you are not ruled by it."

Will carefully folded his hands together. "I still haven't looked for..."

"And you never will." Merriman's voice was a snap of command, harsh at the edges. "Promise me, Will. You will never seek out Bran, not as long as I remain in the world. You will never show yourself to him. You will never speak to him. You will never given him any cause to believe that you are still alive."

He had thought of Bran more and more, as the winter drew around him. The Dark was stretching its fingers out across the world, but it had started over three years ago, in the heart of one boy. Bran had been tricked, Will was sure of it. He had been tricked, and was now trapped by it. They were both dead to the world, one growing to adulthood under the guardianship of a lord of Light, and one nurtured by the Dark.

"Bran Davies is too far lost to the Darkness," Merriman intoned. "If he saw you, he would tell his masters, and everything would be lost."

Will looked at him sharply. "Have you seen something?"

Merriman froze, for a moment not even breathing. He seemed to draw everything back into himself. "I am the oldest, Will Stanton, and you are just a child. I am a Lord of Light, and you just its servant. I command you on this, and you will obey without question."

"I will." Will swallowed hard. I'm sorry, he wanted to whisper, but he was an Old One, and this was a formal binding. "I bind myself to this promise," he said in the Old Speech. "I will not seek out Bran Davies while you are in this world."

"Good." Merriman passed his hand across his brow, and the mask of the stern master came away with his hand.

Down in the valley, a church clock struck midnight. Sixteen, Will thought. Sixteen, and binding my life in a promise, on a hillside in the Dark.

"When the Dark came Rising," Merriman said, "you were an Old One in your full powers, but you grow still stronger with every year. That is the way of things. Soon you will be ready, and the world will be ready..."

Will turned away from him, and gazed across the vale that parted him from his family. He looked at the stars that shone down on Jane Drew and Simon, on Barney, and, somewhere, on Bran, with his dark guardian at his side. No-one was so lost in darkness that they could not see the silver of the stars. The powers of the Dark were bound always to serve the Dark, but no human was beyond redemption. That's what I believe, he thought, and Merriman is wrong.

"We are sworn not to interfere in the affairs of man," Merriman said, "but the Dark has triumphed, but the Light still remains, shattered, but still alive. None of the old rules hold any more. While the Dark was still mustering, there was nothing we could do, but now the Dark has shown itself. There are many who hate what has happened to the world."

"You said I would soon be ready," Will said, "and the world would soon be ready. Ready for what, Merriman?" He thought he already knew.

"Ready for us to step out of the shadows. Only we know the true nature of the enemy. If they band together, these angry children, and fight in ignorance, they will be crushed. For four thousand years, I have watched and guided, and stepped aside, because that was how things had to be. But now the rules have changed. The Dark has changed the way of things. Now the time has come, Will Stanton, for you and I to become leaders of men."

Will closed his eyes. I don't want to. I only want...

Merriman touched him on the back of his bowed head, and Will felt pity there, in the midst of something else. "Happy birthday, Will," Merriman murmured.

Will laughed.

******

End of chapter eight

******

Part one: chapter nine

To see the King

___

"Maybe you'll get on better," his mother said, "at a different school."

"Lots of people change schools for the sixth form," Barney offered helpfully.

Simon dragged his younger brother to one side. "Did you tell her?" he hissed, clutching Barney's arm as tightly as he could. "Have you been blabbing?"

Barney shook his head. "No, I haven't, but you should tell her. You should have told her years ago."

Simon pushed Barney away. "I wish we’d never gone to grandma's." They had shared a room, him and Barney, and there had been bad dreams, and then Barney softly asking him questions, and Simon, half in tears, had said things… "If we hadn't, then none of this would have happened."

"I didn't tell!" Barney protested. "I know Mum doesn't notice much nowadays, but she's not completely blind. It's obvious you've hated that school ever since you started at it. She wants you to go somewhere else because she hopes you'll like it more. I don't know why you're getting so cross about it."

Because they know, Simon thought. He was the oldest of them, and he had led them throughout childhood. He was not supposed to be the one being bullied at school. He was not supposed to be the one who woke crying in the night, sobbing at dreams of darkness and loss. He was supposed to be the one with all the answers. School was terrible, but it would not be quite so terrible if he could still be Big Brother Simon at home.

"You should be grateful," Barney said, snatching his arm from Simon's grip. "It's one of the best schools in the country, and ever so expensive. I wish grandpa would pay for me to go there, too."

Jane came slowly down the stairs. She frowned when she saw them huddled near the door. "You two arguing again? I wish you'd both go back to school. It's so much quieter without you."

Simon was about to speak, but Barney got there first. "It's nothing. Sorry, Jane. Shall we play Monopoly?"

Jane was still frowning angrily, but she nodded, and the two of them went off to set up the board. Simon stayed behind, staring after them. It was hard work, a conscious effort, to think about what had just happened. At school, his own misery was such an all-encompassing thing, that he often forgot what it was like to think about what others were feeling. He tried to think how Jane would feel, to hear him complaining about his new school, when she had been forced to leave hers. He tried to work out what she was really feeling, when she complained about them being around.

He trailed them belatedly into the dining room. "Can I play, too?"

Barney smiled. "It's not much fun with two. You can play the boot, though. I'll be the dog."

Simon did what his brother told him.

"Mum?" Jane called. "Do you want to play?"

Their mother shook her head. She was sitting on the couch, glimpsed through a half-open door. A book was open on her lap, but she was not reading it. The radio was on, playing the mellow, trite music that was all that was now allowed. "I'm too old for games," she said.

Simon found that he no longer wanted to play, but he played on, and he lost.

******

He was trembling as he unpacked his cases. Now he was in the sixth-form, the House Master had explained to him, he would have a bedroom of his own, and a study shared with one other boy. He had almost sagged with relief at the news. At least no-one would hear him crying in the night. No-one would know about the dreams.

His bags unpacked, he headed into the shared study, but it was empty. The other boy had not arrived yet. The door into the second bedroom was open, showing a featureless room. There were no clues as to who the boy would be. Simon hoped fervently that it was another new boy, transferred all alone from another school.

Simon walked to the window, where he looked down on the mass of red-faced boys, and weeping mothers, and sisters who stared round curiously, but giggled when anyone looked back. Simon had come by himself on the train. His mother seldom left the house now, and this was a fresh start that only he could make for himself.

I can be anyone I want to be, he told himself. He still had no idea what had gone so catastrophically wrong at his last school, but he was sixteen now, and things were different. No-one here needed to know what had happened at his old school. No-one here had grown up knowing that he, Simon Drew, was the chosen victim in his year. Here, Simon could be a leader again, if only he kept his head high and guarded his every word.

No-one came. One by one, the parents left, and there was nothing to be seen from the window but empty space. Taking a deep breath, Simon decided to venture down to the common room. Perhaps friendships were already being forged. Perhaps, by hiding in his room for the crucial first hour, he had already lost beyond all hope of ever returning.

He descended the stairs, and made for the room the House Master had told him was the sixth form common room. He could hear the sound of voices inside, but he could not make out any words. He paused, his hand on the door handle, and tried to listen. If only he knew in advance, he could prepare. If only he had warning.

"Hey, it's a new boy," someone proclaimed behind him. "Look at him there. Scared to go in, are you, new boy?"

It was as if all the blood in his veins turned to ice. No, he thought. Oh no... He swallowed, swallowed again. "I wasn't..." he stammered. "I'm not..."

Someone saved him then. It was a fat boy, of the type that in Simon's old school would have been cowering on the floor, his books kicked in the mud, and his shirt ripped. This boy looked secure and confident, his head high, and a bag slung nonchalantly across his shoulder. "Up to your old tricks again, Norris?" he said brightly. "Don't even think of it. He'll find out, and you know what he said would happen to you if you tried to bully anyone again."

The boy called Norris turned red. "It was only a bit of fun. If anyone's a bully, it's him. You know that, Tandy, as well as I do."

The fat boy's amiable face turned nasty. "Shall I tell him, then? Do you want that?"

"No." Norris backed off, like a puppy with his tail between his legs. "It was only a bit of fun. I'm sorry." He slapped Simon on the back, hearty with false friendship. "No hard feelings, mate."

Simon mumbled something incomprehensible in reply. The fat boy slung his arm across Simon's shoulder, and dragged him into the common room. "New boy!" he proclaimed.

Simon's heart started to beat very fast. This is worse! he found himself thinking. Far worse than Norris. Around twenty boys were inside, some of them chatting, others looking together at a magazine. Some were by themselves, and some in pairs, or threes. But all of them, Simon thought, were arranged around the boy who stood by the window. The whole room, even the furniture, was arranged around him, even if it did not know it.

His mouth dried up, and he could not have spoken, even if someone had held him at gun point. He knew the type. This boy was King of the School, and all the other boys in school were either his followers, or his enemies. There was no other way. There was nowhere to hide. You had to be someone to him, or life would be worse than unbearable.

The boy was not tall, and he was slender. As he stood in the window, the light was behind him, a corona of brilliance around him. Simon could not clearly see his face, but he could see that he was pale. His hair was fair, bleeding into the light that surrounded him. Of all the boys in the room, he was the only one not wearing school uniform.

"A new boy, is it?" When he spoke, his accent was very Welsh. "And what sort of a new boy is it?"

"Someone was trying to give him some trouble," the fat boy explained. His manner was very different, now he was talking to his leader. "It's all sorted now. No need for you to get involved."

"Trouble, eh?" The pale boy walked slowly from the window, the light falling away from him like a cloak. He was not just pale, Simon realised, but white, an albino totally devoid of colour. It's not fair! he thought. Someone who looks like that should be the one being picked on.

"This is Pendragon," the fat boy hissed in Simon's ear. "He'll make sure no-one bothers you again."

Pendragon heard him. "Unless you're the one causing bother." His voice was soft and sing-song, but it made Simon want to shiver. "There have been many of those. They have all been dealt with."

"I..." Simon swallowed. "I'm..."

"Simon Drew," Pendragon said wonderingly. "Fancy seeing you again, after all these years."

"I... I don't know you." Simon moistened his lips. "I've never met you before."

"So they took that, did they?" Pendragon started to walk around him, as if assessing him. "You were on their side. That should make you my enemy. But I expect you were a victim of their lies, too. That should make you my ally."

He was standing behind Simon now. Simon could hardly breathe. He fought the urge to turn, to keep Pendragon where he could see him. He knew from experience that bad things happened when people stood behind him.

"But what about you personally, Simon Drew?" Pendragon continued his slow walk. Shivers were running up and down Simon's spine. He wanted to run away, to lock himself in his room, to never come back. "You were arrogant when we met," Pendragon said quietly. "You looked down on me. I didn't like that."

"I don't know you," Simon whispered. "You're confusing me with someone else."

"But you never liked him, either. Should that be enough?" Pendragon stopped in front of him, and took off his dark glasses. His eyes were tawny underneath, a colour Simon had never seen before in anyone. "Yes, it's enough," Pendragon said. "Come on, Drew. You're in. Tandy will tell you who everyone is."

He turned away from Simon, and walked to the window. Throughout the introductions, he stood there, staring at the outside, his back straight, and his shoulders tense.

******

End of chapter nine

******

Part one: chapter ten

To see you in dreams

___

He saw them standing over his empty grave, placing flowers on the stone tablet that marked the limits of his life.

He saw his false father weeping for him, a man who never wept.

He saw John Rowlands play the harp at the graveside, and pray for him, to all the gods that were and never were, that might have been, or one day would be.

He heard a laughing man say, "You're dead. They gave up searching months ago."

He saw a man with death-cold eyes, who smiled, and said, "You made this choice."

He saw a boy who had claimed to like him. He saw a dog who had died for him, because of the Light, but no, it was because of the Dark, because of a man with a twisted heart, who had given himself to them, all that he was.

He saw a harp and a horn and a sword.

He heard a voice, a woman's voice, crying from the darkness. "It wasn't me. It never was me. I never wanted this."

Turning from her, crying from her... No, turning towards her, seeking her... He surfaced briefly, face burning with tears, sheets tangled around his icy limbs. Darkness pressed into his face. Sighing, moaning, he slept again.

This time he flew as a raven above the world. Far below, he saw two boys on a hillside, and a silver-eyed dog between them.

"An Old One?" he heard the brown-haired boy say, the words brought to him by the wind. "What's an Old One?"

"You," said the boy who had been Bran. "That's the only reason you came for me. Because you're of the Light, and your masters want to use me."

"Are all Welshmen as mad as you?" The English boy swatted Bran's arm. "Old Ones? Light? I'm just me, an ordinary boy. I like you, Bran. I want to be your friend. Shall we write after I go back? Can I came to stay with you in the spring half term?"

Ordinary boys, who played and chased and climbed together. Boys who sat at a father's table and ate slices of cake, and laughingly helped gather the sheep for shearing. Boys who played with a dog who never died. Boys who were inseparable every holiday, until their parents engineered for them to be at school together, too, where they kept their heads down, and nobody bothered them, and nobody asked them to be anyone in particular apart from themselves.

"No." The raven circled, screaming. The sky turned dark. The hillside tumbled down to the ocean, and the waves surged.

"I'm glad you're here with me," Bran said. His voice rose clear above the roaring of the ocean.

"Glad I'm dying here, rather than far away, safe?" The other boy laughed. "That doesn't sound very friendly."

"I don't mean it like that," Bran protested.

"I know you didn't." Will smiled. "I'm glad, too, Bran. I'd hate to think of you being here alone."

Water closed above them. Water was everywhere, grey and black and terrible...

"But gentle," said the raven. "Bright and cool and sweet and beautiful, because the other side of the waves lies peace."

Bran tossed his head to one side, and surfaced through the waves to almost-wakefulness. Someone was knocking at his door. He hauled himself through the waters, and blinked into the darkness. "What is it?" His voice sounded hoarse, and it was a man's voice. For a moment, he had expected to hear the unbroken voice of a boy.

"It's midnight," Tandy hissed through the door. "You said I was to wake you up, so we could go and teach Norris a lesson he won't forget."

"Yes." Bran raked his hands through his damp hair. Only a dream, he told himself. They tell lies in dreams, too.

"Who's Will?" Tandy asked, when Bran threw open the door.

Bran stood very still, and breathed in, and out. In, and out.

"You were calling his name, when I came to the door."

Bran grabbed Tandy by the throat. "He's nobody." He slammed Tandy's head against the wall. "Don't you ever say that name again, to me or to anyone. You understand?"

Tandy nodded, tears shining in his eyes. Unable to bear it any longer, Bran cast him away. Tandy landed with a thump and a whimper. "We'll deal with Norris tomorrow," Bran told him. "Get out of my sight. I'm going back to bed."

He shut the door, and stood with his back to it for a very long time, as his knees gradually gave way and slid him to the floor.

He did not sleep again that night.

******

End of chapter ten

******

Part one: chapter eleven

Seekers of truth

___

"Oh, very good, Barney." Mr Thomas paused behind Barney's easel. "That's excellent. Truly excellent."

Barney could not stop grinning. A fourteen year-old boy, his friends kept on telling him, did not looked overjoyed when a teacher praised them. Teachers were the enemy, and lessons were boring. Most of the boys worked hard, but it did not do to work hard quite so obviously. They had an image to keep up, after all. Think what you like inside, but feign boredom and indifference when asked.

Barney had never been able to do that, and, strangely, even the nastiest of boys in his classes had ended up accepting that. When Barney was happy, he showed it. When he was sad, he cried. He was no leader, but he was not the victim his brother had been. He knew the teachers liked him, and he thought many of the boys did, too. "I wish I was as brave as you," one of them had confessed to him, just the day before. "It must be so much easier, being you."

"Then try it yourself," Barney had suggested, but the other boy had hunched in on himself, shaking his head. It was too late, he said, and too much was at stake. In a few years, he would be out. School didn't last forever.

"You have such a powerful vision, Barney," Mr Thomas said, "and such wonderful execution. But so dark..."

Barney's grin faded. "The world is dark. My father went missing in the Rising, and they've never found his body. Did you know that, sir?"

"I did." Mr Thomas patted his shoulder briefly. "And I'm sorry, Barney. But don't you think the purpose of art is to..."

"To awaken man's heart to the truth of things," Barney said, quoting back Mr Thomas's own words from an earlier lesson. "To show him the truth, and stir him to act."

"It is," Mr Thomas said, "but the way to the truth is not always through darkness. Don't always try to shock. Oh, I know, you're young. It is a young man's game to try to shock his elders. When I was your age, my art was a horrible thing to see. But sometimes, men can be taught the truth through gentleness and beauty. There are more ways to understanding than cold, harsh truth."

Barney circled his brush in the pool of black ink, round and around and around. "I don't want to create chocolate box pictures. That's not art."

Mr Thomas crouched beside him. "Show them beauty, Barney. Show them how the world should be. An image of a cornfield in all its summer glory can move a man to tears, and make him take steps to fight those who would destroy such things. A picture of a beautiful childhood can make a man wonder what happened to such days. Gentleness and beauty can be as much a cry to war than any garish, martial sound."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I'm your teacher." Mr Thomas stood up, smiling sadly. "It's my job to tell you things. And you have a rare gift."

"In painting?"

"In seeing the truth," Mr Thomas said, "and reacting to it with unfettered mind." He began to walk away, but turned and said, with a chuckle, "And, yes, at painting, too."

Barney stared at his picture. Was it true? He brought his brush up, dripping black, then jabbed it into the pot of water, swirling it around until the water turned as black as the brush had been. He looked at the light colours in his paint set, seldom used. He looked at other easels, belonging to other boys, and saw them all painting much the same as he had been painting. But flowers and meadows are trite, he thought. Aren't they?

The door opened, and Barney and all the other boys turned to see the Headmaster, accompanied by a man in a suit, and several more in military uniform. The Headmaster looked stern and angry. But he's miserable, too, Barney realised, looking at him with his painter's eye, that saw through facades and missed nothing. He hates this. He wishes he were far away.

"Edward Thomas?" the suited man demanded crisply.

Mr Thomas had frozen, fists clenched loosely at his sides, head slightly bowed. Barney watched as his arm came up. Pushing his glasses up his nose, he thought. It was a familiar gesture.

"Edward Thomas. We would like you to come with us."

Mr Thomas' head came up again, and he turned round slowly. "On what charge are you arresting me?"

"No, Edward, no, it's not like that," protested the Headmaster. Yes, it is! his body proclaimed. "They just want to... You'll come quietly, won't you? We don't want anything... Not in front of the boys."

"No, I think the boys should see this," Mr Thomas said. His eyes seemed to find Barney, as he said, "It is the burden of the artist to always seek the truth."

"Very well." The man in the suit nodded. Barney thought he was pleased to be allowed to do it this way. "Edward Thomas. You are arrested on the charge of sedition, and the possession and propagation of illegal images. You are arrested on the charge of corrupting minors, abusing the position of trust that you are in as their teacher."

"Corrupting?" Mr Thomas raised his eyebrow. "Is that what you're calling it now?"

"You are a dissident," the man said coldly. "You are a recruiter for the Resistance. Fortunately, your colleagues have assured us that they knew nothing of your double life, and have promised to assist us in every way with bringing you to justice. If not, we would have been forced to closed down the school."

"There is no law against art." Mr Thomas' head was high, but Barney could see how his hands were trembling. He was terrified, but surely the jury would find him innocent, and even if it did not, it would only be a fine, or something.

"There is now," the man said. He nodded to the soldiers. "Take him." Barney saw his teacher look desperately from side to side, before realising that there was no escape. The soldiers grabbed him, one by each arm.

The other boys were frozen, staring at the ground, pretending not to be there at all. You should do something, Barney willed at them. If we all get up all at the same time...

"I trust we came in time to stop his poison spreading," the man said, falsely gentle. "Tell me, boy." He pointed at a boy to Barney's right. "Did this man try to corrupt you to his false cause? Did he try to touch you? Do you renounce him and all his ways?"

The boy nodded eagerly. Just don't hurt me, his body said. Just leave me alone.

"That's not true!" Barney was on his feet before he knew it, scattering his easel, scattering his paints. "He never tried to touch us. That's a shocking thing to say, and only someone with a dirty mind would think it. He's a teacher. He taught us art. That's all. He taught us to seek the truth. That's been the goal of artists for as long as there's been art."

"Ah, so we have a little traitor in our midst, do we?" The man turned towards Barney, and pulled out a gun. "Would you repeat what you just said, boy?"

"No!" The Headmaster fluttered into life. "I must protest. No weapons, you said. No violence. It would be clean. No-one would know."

"Barney!" Mr Thomas shouted, but one of the soldiers dispassionately punched him in the stomach. "Barney," he gasped, as the other kicked him in the face as he was doubled over in pain. "Don't. Please, don't."

Barney tried to reach towards him. "But you didn't..."

"And it means everything, that you said it. But don't..."

They struck him again, and he fell to the floor, and again, and then there was blood.

Barney clenched his fists at his sides, so tightly that they trembled. Don't, said his teacher's dying eyes. Not yet. Not now. But Barney could not lie. He had never been able to entirely lie.

"He did not touch us," he told the man. "I don't know what he's done outside school, but he never did anything in any of our lessons that he could be reproached for."

"Oh, but I think he did." The man turned his gun on Mr Thomas, and shot him, without the faintest flicker on his mask-like face. "And I will spare you now, boy, but I will remember you, and you, I am sure, will remember this lesson for as long as you live, and will, I trust, learn from it."

The other boys were screaming, scrabbling to the far end of the room. Barney just stood there, though dark wings of panic were beating in his chest. I will, he swore. I will learn from it well.

But he clenched his fists tightly, kept his eyes clear, and said nothing.

******

End of chapter eleven

******

Part one: chapter twelve

The last day

___

I will never have to see any of them ever again, he thought, as he left the school for the last time.

They flapped around him. They follow him like waves in the wake of a ship. A few asked him to write. Most said little, though. I don't think they ever really liked me, Bran thought. But they followed him, and perhaps that was enough.

He was eighteen years old, and a man in the eyes of the law. Of course, he thought, and it was almost a sad thought, he could be anything in the eyes of the law. The law was the word of his dark guardian, who called himself Mr Mitothin. If the people in power said that black was white, and the sun came out in the evening, there would always be foolish sheep to believe it.

"I can't believe it's over."

Bran did not turn round. Simon Drew, he thought, recognising the voice.

"What are you going to do now, Pendragon?" It was a humble voice, but not so humble as Bran would have expected, when Simon had first come to his school.

He had not meant to answer, but he found himself doing so. There was a scent of summer in the air, and perhaps that made things different. "I haven't decided yet. My guardian has a place for me, but…"

"I wanted to be a doctor once," Simon said, "but that changed when I was… when I was at my last school. But I think I did pretty well on my A-levels."

Bran slowly clenched his fist, fingers curling onto his palm. "Do you really think that A-levels are going to be of the slightest important in the world that is coming?"

"Won't they?" Simon let out a breath. "I suppose they won't. You're right."

"You always say I'm right," Bran said, with a bitterness that surprised even himself. "You all do."

"We're scared of what you'll do if we don't."

The last day was over, and school was ended. The world was ahead of them, or Simon would never have dared say a thing like that. Bran knew he ought to shout at him, but all he wanted to do was stand in a place where no-one could see his face.

"My guardian's really high up in government," he said. His voice sounded strange, alien. "If I go and work for him, I'll be in a position to help anyone I know. I'll need people…"

"No," Simon said.

It hurt. Bran had no idea why it hurt. He turned round, his expression hidden by his glasses.

"I'm not a fool," Simon said. "I had an awful time at my old school, and that changed me. Then I came here, and I recognised you. No, not you personally, but the sort of person you were. You let me into the fringes of your circle, and that was good. It gave me the freedom to begin, just a little bit, to regain what I'd lost. But you didn't fool me into worshipping you. I know a bully when I see one. I know one all too well."

I'm not… Bran turned his back again. He knew what his dark guardian would say - that he had failed with Simon, because he had not properly won him to his cause. Simon Drew would be a good ally to have, a perfect way to hurt the last who remained of the Light. Through Simon he could reach the other Drew children, and then he could turn to the Stanton family, too, until there was not a single person left whom Will had known, who had not turned against his memory and his cause.

He still did not know why he had been unable to do it. He should have recruited Simon, or despised him. Instead, he had merely tolerated him, and ignored him, and this was his reward.

"I'm not necessarily going to do what my guardian wants me to do," he felt the need to say. "I make my own choices."

But he looked ahead, and he saw only emptiness. Other boys dreamed of travelling, but there was nowhere in the world that was hidden from the eyes of the Dark. Some spoke of study, or careers, but all such things filled Bran with bleakness. He had ruled this school, but the world outside was the one that had despised him.

I'm afraid, he admitted sometimes, in the darkness of the night. And his dark guardian came and offered, and he could see no ending to it.

Simon began to walk away, a man's footsteps on the gravel of the drive. There were no goodbyes.

Bran could not stop himself. "If you ever meet a boy called Will Stanton, tell him…"

Simon stopped. "What?"

Bran looked at his empty hands. "Nothing. And he is dead."

******

End of chapter twelve

******

Part one: chapter thirteen

What might have been

___

Two boys are on the beach. They have stolen from their beds, and come together to this place, to play among the waves.

It is midsummer, and the western ocean takes the sun to its bosom, and does not ever truly let it go. There is still light beyond the ocean, of lingering sunset. In the east, beyond the ancient hills, the pale light of dawn is already gathering. It is never fully dark here. It will never be fully dark again.

One, a pale boy, stoops to cup some sand in his hands, and he flings it at the other boy, laughing. The other boy could have evaded it if he had wanted to, but he lets it strike him, and he smiles as sand trickles through his hair, tickling the back of his neck.

"Got you!" the pale boy cries.

The other boy shakes the last of the sand from his straight brown hair. "Yes, you've got me."

"Enough of that," says the pale boy. "Let's go swimming."

"Paddling," the other boy says, correcting him.

"Paddling?" his companion hoots. "Paddling's for babies and tourists and English men with hankies knotted on their heads. Are you one of those, Stanton?"

"No." The English boy smiles to himself. "But the sea is cold, and it's almost dark, and there's no-one around to keep an eye on us."

"All the better, then." Some devil seems to have seized the pale boy. He is stripping off his clothes down to his underpants, and runs whooping into the sea. He cannot entirely suppress the cry that the coldness forces from his lips, but he follows it with words that tell the lie. "It's wonderful. Come on in, Stanton, or are you a girl?"

His friend has never been one to rise to a dare, but the last dregs of sunlight are on the ocean like a pathway to something beautiful. Specks of light dance on the water, and the wind is whispering in the dunes, speaking of hope and promises. There are too many people on the land, all of them jabbering with expectations. The sea is freedom, and he will be swimming with a friend at his side.

"Alright, then," he says. "I will."

He pulls off his own clothes and walks into the sea. He does not realise how he is walking until the pale boy asks, "Why are you walking like that? It's not a procession."

He has been moving like someone walking to their execution, or a supplicant approaching some initiation. He tries to laugh, but the sunset is calling him. The world and all its pressures is a fading memory. The sea is darkness and light mingled for all eternity, and the two of them are side by side, the only people in the ocean along the whole coast of Wales.

"Let's see how far we can swim out," the pale boy says, his tawny eyes sparkling with more joy than the other boy has ever seen in them.

That is reason enough. "Yes," Will says, and sees his own smile reflected in Bran's eyes. "Let's swim to the sun. Let's swim until we can't even remember what land looks like."

Bran laughs, and together they surrender to the current.

No living creature sees either of them ever again.

******

And in the world that truly was, the two boys, grown almost to men, stand in separate windows, and gaze at the night-time, alone.

******

End of chapter thirteen

End of part one

Part two will resume some six years in the future