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

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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

******

Part one: chapter five

Home for the holidays

___

"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

____

Part two

______

Part two: chapter one

The letter

___

"Letter for you." The boy swallowed anxiously. "Sir," he added, later than he should have, but earlier than some managed.

Bran took it without looking at it. "Dismissed." There were no thanks, not any more.

He walked to the small barred window, made, of course, from bullet-proof glass. He wondered how old the boy had been. Eighteen, perhaps. Bran remembered being eighteen, fresh from school, determined to tread his own path and free himself from expectations. Some paths, it seemed, were dug too deep. They were like chasms, and climbing out was impossible. All you could do was come to like it.

He ran his fingers over the glass. It was cold, and thick enough that the courtyard outside looked as if it was in another world. Sometimes, in winter, he went for weeks without being outside in daytime. There was skin on his face that had not been touched by sunlight for half a dozen years.

The letter slipped to the floor. Bran bent to pick it up, and saw his name on the envelope, hand-written in black. "Pendragon," it read, and nothing more. He pressed his lips together. This was the name he had chosen to go by, but sometimes he still felt a little jolt when he saw it. He still thought of himself as Bran, although he could not understand why. Bran was the name of a weak child, lied to by everyone he loved.

He tossed it on the desk. There was a knock at the door, and a woman entered, bearing his morning coffee. He did not know her name, and did not ask. He took it, looked at it, and said, face impassive, "I prefer it stronger."

"I'm sorry, sir." She flapped and flustered, visibly afraid. Pendragon despised her. Bran, not quite dead inside her, pitied her. "I'll get you another one."

He let out a breath. "Leave it," he said, his voice flat. "You can go."

He was twenty-four years old, and feared by someone old enough to be his… He stopped that thought just in time, because she was backing out, and might still be able to see his face.

When the door was safely closed, Bran sat down stiffly at his desk. He did not open the letter. He did nothing at all, just for a moment. When he sipped the coffee, though, it had gone completely cold. That happened quite often. Moments became hours, and he had no idea where they went.

The door opened again, this time without the warning of a knock. Bran snapped his head up. "I thought I told you…"

"You tell me nothing, Bran." The voice was mild, almost pleasant, but in this man, such a tone could be a weapon, as harsh as any shouting.

He shuttered himself, masks upon masks. "What are you doing here?"

His guardian sat down in the chair that had become "his" chair. No-one else used it. Bran sometimes wondered if they knew. "Rude, Bran?" his guardian said, arching an eyebrow. He was the only one who still called him "Bran." "I thought you'd got over this little rebellious patch of yours."

Bran shook his head. He moved his hand from the desk, so he could clench it on his lap, unseen. He had refused all his guardian's offers upon leaving school, and had set out to do… something. All he had found was doors that closed in his face. The world was not like school. People were scared or hostile. He tried to start at the bottom, but found that he did not like it.

Then someone had laughed at his appearance… His guardian himself had come to collect Bran from jail.

The day after that, Bran had said yes.

"I've told you lots of times," Bran said now, to the ageless man in the chair before him, "I didn't choose the Dark. I still haven't. I despise what you stand for. I just despise the Light more."

"Despise us, do you?" His guardian's blue eyes glittered like chips of ice. "May I remind you, Bran, how much I paid for your education? How many strings I had to pull to get you this job?"

Something twisted inside him, and made him reckless. "You didn't pay anything," he spat. "It was all stolen or extorted anyway."

"Come now, Bran." His guardian spread his hands. "Not stolen. All of mankind is ours. They are merely stewards of our riches. They give us gifts and tribute because…"

"You've tricked your way into power," Bran said. "No-one out there knows that the Dark exists. They think this is all the work of men. Even the general on the throne. He doesn't know what you are. Only I know, and I…"

"Will not tell." His guardian leant forward in his chair, and Bran felt the breath stop in his throat. "What we are, you are. You threw your lot in with us. If we fall, you fall." He steepled his fingers together, and Bran felt the breath flood into his lungs again. He tried not to gasp. "Besides, we both know that you will never tell. You whine and rail like the spoiled child you are, but deep down you like it. We both know that you like it."

"I don't," Bran tried to protest, because he had to. But he remembered the boys at school. He remembered standing over the man who had laughed at him, declaring that no-one would ever dare taunt him ever again.

If you were powerful enough, no-one dared betray you.

"Well…" His guardian brushed his hands together briskly. "On to other business. Your friends of the Light…"

"They're not my friends!" Bran said hotly, then flushed, realising that he had let his guardian bait him yet again.

"They are troublesome." All smiles died on Bran's guardian's face. "They are persistent and troublesome. Stronger measures are called for. The general has decided to set up a new body within the security services specifically to hunt down the last agents of the Light, and all who sympathise with them."

"He's decided that, has he?" Bran said, to cover his racing thoughts. The general decided nothing, although he still thought that he decided everything. The Dark ruled mankind, though men did not know it.

"You're wasted in this job," his guardian said, studying his nails.

Bran pictured himself confronting Merriman, and spitting in his face as he hurled every one of his lies back at him. He imagined seeing all hope die in Will Stanton's face. He imagined them cowering before him, humbled and pleading and broken.

"I'll do it," he blurted out. "I want to be part of it."

His guardian did not respond. Instead, he said softly, "I see you didn't open my letter."

"Letter?" Bran echoed. His hand moved unconsciously for the white envelope. "Why write when…?"

"Maybe it was a test." His guardian's face gave nothing away. "Maybe I changed my mind, and decided that I wanted to see your reaction with my own eyes."

Bran's stomach clenched, and his heart started to beat very fast. "I… I'll open it after you've gone, then."

"Very well." His guardian stood up. "You will receive intructions soon about your new assignment." He nodded slightly, a mocking bow. "Pendragon."

Bran watched him go. He picked up the letter, then glanced at the bin, wondering if he dared. His hand was trembling, as if he was just a weak and unloved child, and not the person he had become.

I can face it, he told himself. Whatever it is.

He tore open the envelope, and read the words within.

For a minute, he sat very still, his eyes closed. He blinked. His eyes felt wet, but that wetness burnt like flames, and flames turned into fury.

"Why did you think I'd care?" He strode across the room and flung open the door. His guardian was outside, just as he had known he would be. "He wasn't my father!" he cried. "He was nothing to me."

"So now I know." His guardian smiled.

"He was nothing," Bran repeated. "No, not nothing. He lied. I hate him. You can't hate nothing."

"No." Still that smile. Bran felt a sudden overwhelming urge to tear it off with his nails.

"And why should I care when the funeral is?" Bran demanded. "Why tell me that? Did you actually think I might want to go?"

"Certain… others might expect you to go."

"They all think I'm dead." It was a strange thing to say it. It felt like a cold breeze whistling through the chambers of his heart.

"Not all." His guardian's eyes gleamed like steel. "Some know. Some might be there, to claim you back. To lie. To get revenge."

Will, he thought. He pictured Will Stanton standing there on the mountain, watching a tiny procession of mourners issue from Own Davies' small cottage. He saw him leaning forward, waiting for Bran, watching… But it was a child Will that he saw. It was a child Bran that he imagined following Owen's coffin disconsolately, tears pouring unseen behind his dark glasses. It was a child Bran who brightened as he saw Will, and was comforted, knowing that he would never entirely be alone.

It was all lies. If Will was there, he went there armed with lies and armoured with trickery and magic. If Will was there, he was there with a trap.

"But the hunter," smiled his guardian, "can oft become the hunted. The trapper can be trapped."

Bran whirled away from him, and stumbled into his office. He slammed the door, and locked it, and then he stood. He just stood.

___

Part two: chapter two

Dust to dust

___

Merriman was far away.

Owen Davies is dead, Will thought. That means…

He paced to the window, and back again; ran his hands through his longish hair.

Surely he wouldn't… he thought. Surely he would…

Merriman was far away. Merriman had gone north, and had been away for months, though messages still came through. Will and Merriman were closer than they had ever been. If was as if all the links that had always bound the Circle together were now focused on the few who remained. They were stronger and closer than ever. At the same time, though, they had never been further apart. Just because two people could communicate, it did not mean that they did.

Will pressed his hand to his brow. Merriman had made him promise not to seek out Bran. Merriman had hinted of terrible consequences. But maybe terrible only to me, Will thought. He had stopped visiting his family long ago. They were untouched by his visits, but to him they were still agony. They were suffering, and he could not help them, but at least they were together, while he had no-one but a cold master.

He returned to the window, with its view of nothing but darkness. No-one could see in. No-one could find him. If he needed to contact people, he went out to find them. Only Merriman knew his real name, and the world thought him dead.

But Owen is dead. Owen dead now, and John Rowlands two years before him, both of them dying prematurely. They had both died in spirit years before. So much had died, that day when Bran and Will could have slipped into the ocean and gone forever.

Will wondered if there would be anyone there to mourn the man. "Bran won't be there," he said aloud, as if the echo of his words would linger in the room, and be there to defend him from Merriman's wrath. "I'd be going for Owen's sake, because he served the Light, and deserves this goodbye."

And thus, so easily, could decisions be made.

******

The Dark was there.

The Dark was there, but Bran was not, or, at least, if Bran was there, he was hidden and Will could not see him.

Will edged forward. He did not mean to do it, but his feet started moving, one tiny step, then another.

A small group stood around the grave, looking awkward and uncomfortable at the new funeral rites. It was three years since religious services had been outlawed, but it took longer for strict enforcement to reach the remotest rural places. The chapel looked as if it had only recently been boarded up. The officer conducting the terse funeral was English. Will wondered if the minister had gone into hiding, or if his body lay beneath the other recently-dug mound.

He frowned, peering into the distance, trying to identify faces. David and Jen Evans were there, but not their sons. The other mourners were people Will did not know. They all had the pinched, closed-off look of people who did not wish to be here, but felt that they ought to be. There was discomfort, but no grief. Too many tears had been shed for the world, for true tears to fall for a man they hardly knew.

A man was standing in the shadow of a building. Will inched forward, as if drawn by an invisible string. Was it…? Could it be…? He could not express the thought. Here to mourn Owen, he told himself. That's all.

The last words were said. The mourners started to depart. Rest in peace, Owen Davies, Will thought, wrenching his thoughts back to where they were supposed to be. You were a good man. You served the Light. You didn't deserve this.

He thought of his own father, and all fathers like him. Roger Stanton and Owen Davies had both lost a son on the same day. Countless other fathers had lost their sons to death over the years, but Owen and Roger had lost theirs to lies. Comfort could have been given at any time, but had been withheld, and now, for Owen, it was too late. He had died alone, in a world that no sane man would choose to inhabit.

Will blinked. The graveyard was empty, except for the stiff-backed officer by the grave, and the figure in the shadows. As Will watched, the figure moved. Its face was in shadow, but Will shivered, suddenly sure that it was watching him.

He was not shielded in any way. Just as he could sense the Dark, agents of the Dark could sense the Light. He could not openly use his powers, in case that drew their attention. Merriman could unleash the full might of his magic on agents of the Dark, but Will had to be more covert. Unlike Merriman, Will was dead in the eyes of the world, and in the eyes of the Dark as well.

His only disguise was the natural disguise of years. At twenty-four, there was nothing left of the boy of twelve who had witnessed the end of the world. He was not tall, but he was as lean as Merriman, after years of living in hiding on the fringes of society. His hair was down to his shoulders, and was often in need of a comb, raked through by anxious fingers. The Light had lost too much, and pain and loss was etched into all their faces. They were fully part of the world, bound to mankind by shared pain.

If that is Bran, Will thought, then this is surely a trap.

Yet still he edged forward. Maybe it wasn't a trap after all. Death changed things. When Owen was alive, Bran had kept away, but people often felt more charitably towards those who had died. Perhaps Bran was standing there in the shadows, weeping behind his dark glasses, crying tears that his Dark masters would never see or understand.

I could do it, Will it. Try it. Risk it. Hazard everything.

He half-closed his eyes, imagining it. Bran would look up warily, perhaps not even recognising him at first. But then Will would speak his name, an Englishman saying his name in the Welsh way, and Bran would know him. There would be no welcome, but perhaps there would be no hatred, either. Grief could make the most passionate man numb.

"I came…" Will would say.

"For Owen?" Bran's voice was harsh in Will's imagination.

Will shook his head. "For you."

"To bring me back?" Bran laughed harshly. "Drag me back to Merriman for punishment? Lock me in a room and try to turn me back to the Light Side?"

"No." Will shook his head. "I came in case you were here, grieving. I came in case you needed someone. We can go back afterwards, each to our own places. It doesn't have to change anything. But for now, today…"

His lips started moving, and he spoke the words aloud. "I am here, Bran."

The Darkness shifted, like a large beast lumbering to its feet. Will's eyes snapped open as he returned to the present. The figure was still there in the shadows, but other shapes had appeared behind him and around him. Will was too close to them. He had crept far too close.

He clenched both fists at his sides. Choices raced through his mind. He could unveil himself in all the glory of his power, and fight the Dark in open confrontation. He had grown greatly in power over the years, so victory was possible. Even failure only meant going out of Time, and there was peace and rest in that. At least he would be fighting, after a dozen years of skulking and hiding, dead to all who knew him.

He raised his hand, felt the possibility of power tingling with him, ready to break out.

The figure in the shadows was utterly still.

Or walk forward, Will thought, and do nothing at all. Surrender to Bran. Show him that I trust him, and he will give me trust in return. He will not let them hurt me.

He saw the midsummer tree, and a crystal sword, and pure hatred in the eyes of the one who wielded it. The hatred had been directed at all the Old Ones, but to Will most of all. Most of all, to Will.

Will took a slow step back, and another. The low figures edged forward into the light, and became creatures that smiled, with small, sharp teeth.

I cannot, Will thought, making a sound that was close to a sob. The world was sinking ever deeper into the darkness. The people were small and lost and afraid, staring into an abyss of hopelessness. Loved ones died, because of a ruler's caprice. Freedoms were snatched away, and behind it all lurked the Dark, laughing as it pushed mankind ever closer to the brink of doom.

Against all that stood the Old Ones, tired and dwindling, but still with power. Will had once been the youngest of many; now he was the youngest of oh so few. If he was defeated, the Circle would be weaker, the Dark would be stronger. He could not do this – could not. He could not show himself. He could not fight. All he could do was walk away.

He breathed in, and drew his magic back inside him, cherishing it like a secret hoard. As he did so, the squat shapes in the cemetery shimmered and became men, their forms grey and ordinary. Only an Old One could see through their glamour to their true forms beneath, and Will no longer saw things as an Old One. He was an ordinary man, a labourer from one of the farms, who had paused to watch a funeral, and was now walking away, having seen nothing unusual whatsoever.

The sense of Darkness reached for him, groped at him. Will emptied his mind, and walked on. He did not even shiver, though its touch sickened him. He did not let out a shuddering breath when it moved on past him, and he did not falter at all when it withdrew.

Just an ordinary man, he thought, who has seen a man buried, and is now returning to the hollow shell that is his life.

No tears showed upon his face.

___

Part two: chapter three

Just words

___

Today, thought Simon, not for the first time, I will do something to change this.

He thrust his hands into his pockets, pressing his jacket tightly to his body. The wind was chill, racing across the barren wilderness that had once been houses. A hotbed of dissent, the authorities had deemed it. When a fugitive had gone to ground, and no-one would divulge any information, the whole estate had been burnt. Most of the inhabitants had got out in time, but not all. People whispered in the shadows, saying that those who died had been the lucky ones.

A clock sounded from behind him. He counted the hours, tensing up a little, as everyone always did, in case he had accidentally missed the curfew. It reached six, and then stopped. It was a gloomy day, and looked dark enough for an hour later. The winter curfew was seven, unless a special pass was obtained to travel to a government-sanctioned talk or rally in the evening.

An old man approached him, shuffling along with a hungry-looking dog. Simon did not make eye contact. As their steps brought them closer and closer to each other, he looked over the rubble, blinked, and looked at the ground.

"Afternoon," the old man mumbled.

Simon swallowed, and fought the urge to look around him anxiously. The flesh on the back of his neck crept, as if with unseen eyes. "Good afternoon," he said eventually, in reply, but the man was past him now.

Simon almost called after him. What a fool he was, to still speak so to strangers. People had learned to keep their head down and touch nobody. The whole world had eyes and ears, and innocent words were twisted and turned into admissions of treachery.

He walked on. A woman passed him, and then a child. Neither of them said a word. They were like ships on their own little course, encased in a shell of metal, keeping them from others.

It wasn't like this when I was young, Simon thought, but memory was painful. He tried not to remember any more than he could help. Not everything could be suppressed, though. He remembered old ladies smiling and talking to him, ruffling Barney's hair, telling Simon how tall he was, and, oh, what a pretty little girl Jane was. He remembered his mother stopping to chat half a dozen times before she reached the local shop, and his father hailing people from the garden, or waving from the car.

It was as if the pool of words had dried up. People now said only what they had to say, and only to those they could trust. People had flown apart, the bonds between them broken. The only people who reached out were the bullies and the rulers and the lords, and they reached out to dominate, not to greet.

A car drew up beside him. Simon's heart sped up, beating audibly in his ears. "Show me your papers," a voice commanded. Simon remembered when such a voice would have been placatory, and orders phrased as requests, with a "sir" at the end.

Simon reached into his inner pocket, and pulled them out. His hands only trembled a little. He knew his papers were in order. He was heading to the shop to get some milk, and there was nothing illegal in that.

The man in the car looked at his papers. If he was disappointed to find them in order, he did not show it. "Your purpose for being out?"

"I'm going to the shops." Simon kept his head down. "I've run out of milk." He was not walking the most direct route, but the man clearly did not know the area, for he did not comment. He handed Simon his papers back, and continued on his way.

Simon let out a shaky breath. It happened often. "If you have done nothing wrong, then you have nothing to fear." That's what the government said. Simon knew it was true. "The trouble is," Barney had said once, "the government defines "wrong" according to their own whims and their own purposes." Jane had turned white, hissing at Barney to be quiet, even though they were huddled in their mother's kitchen, watched by no-one. Simon had said nothing, but he had wished that he had been the one to say it, not Barney.

He hurried towards the shop. I will do something, he thought again. It was a shaky thought, almost comforting in its familiarity. Because I keep on saying it, he thought, with a sick feeling inside him, and it's become just words. I never do anything.

For six years, he had drifted. He had started at a good university, but after only a few months, all universities had closed down, replaced with training colleges designed to churn out government loyalists and enforcers. Simon had joined hundreds of thousands of students on the streets, where little work was available. He had found work eventually, but it was manual labour, and nothing he dared tell his mother about. It allowed him to share a house with three other young men. The rest he could lie about, on those occasions when he could not avoid a family visit.

He had thought of Pendragon surprisingly often. He thought of him again, as he scurried through the dusk, past the wreckage of a place that had once been full of life.

Pendragon had been a bully, but he had protected Simon, too, in his way. Pendragon had contacts high up in the government, and he was doubtless in a position of power and influence by now. He was the sort of person who could not be anything else. On the last day of school, Pendragon had as good as offered Simon a job, and Simon had turned it down, still suffused with the naivete of youth. He had wanted to strike out for himself, making something of himself, prove that the bullies had not won.

Instead, he had this. It was a shadow of a life. He was on the fringes, eking out an existence, keeping his head down, dying a little inside with every day that passed.

"I really will change things," he whispered out loud. "If not today, then soon." Hidden in his pocket, his fist clenched in secret resolution.

This was no life for him. He was made for more. He would have been more, if school had not derailed him and forced him to become something else. Perhaps he would seek out Pendragon and accept his offer after all. At least then he could be someone. He would be in a position to make a difference. He could exercise his power to make life easier for the people he cared about. He would never again have to cower in the twilight, heart pounding in terror, just because a man in a car asked to see his papers. He would be the man in the car. He would be in control.

Something surged towards him, scraping and scratching. He gasped, leaping out of its way, before he realised that it was a sheet of plastic, blown by the wind across the wasteland. He tried to smile, tried to ease his fear. See? he told himself. That's what I meant. You can't live always in fear.

He just wanted a day when he did not awaken with an ache in his chest. He just wanted a morning when he did not drag himself out of bed, knowing that nothing stretched before him but uselessness.

"Good evening," a voice said.

Simon swung round. A young man around his own age had emerged from a side road. He was wearing a scuffed leather jacket, and his fair hair looked as if it needed a cut. He was smiling, and Simon almost smiled back. He liked the look of this man. Then, when the man drew closer, Simon saw that the smile did not reach his eyes. He knew what wariness looked like. It stared back at him whenever he looked in the mirror.

"I need to get on," Simon mumbled, making his excuses before the man could ask him anything. "Shop's closing soon."

"I know," the man said, still smiling. "I've often seen you walk this way. You always seem so preoccupied. And sometimes…" The smile faded. Simon thought he was supposed to understand the meaning in the man's expression, but he did not. "Sometimes you speak to yourself…"

Simon turned cold all over. He thought the end would come in a black car, and stern men with steely eyes. He had never looked for it on a wind-torn street corner, from a man who, in another world, could perhaps be his friend.

The man leant so close that Simo could feel the warmth of his breath on the side of his neck. "You want to change things." It was clipped and urgent, completely at odds with the relaxed tone of his greeting. "Why don't we walk for a while."

Simon did not know if it was a request or a command. He nodded. It was the only thing he could do.

___

Part two: chapter four

Left behind

___

Her mother was fretting again. "Jane!" she called, her voice querulous. "Make sure there's enough sugar. Is the bathroom clean enough?"

Jane scrubbed fiercely at a stain on the working surface. She did not like the bitterness that she so often felt. It bubbled inside her until it felt as if her chest was going to explode. When she smoothed her clothes down, ready to return to her mother, she often smoothed her face, too, and carried the movement down across her body, pressing down on those things that she could not show.

"Jane!"

Jane let out a long breath. "Coming." She smoothed nothing away this time, but when she picked up the small tray, with its tea and biscuits, she clutched it tight enough to turn her knuckles white. The surface of the tea quivered as if with a coming storm.

Her mother was hunched on the couch, knees covered with a thin blanket. She looked twenty years older than she had looked when her husband was still alive. She had not painted a single thing since he had disappeared. Drained of life and energy, she spent her days watching television, and worrying.

"Anything on?" Jane still tried to be bright. She tried to talk. She tried to pretend. She did not think she could bear it, otherwise.

Her mother bunched the blanket in her hand, then let it go. "More about those sorcerers."

Jane set the tray down, and put the cup and saucer into her mother's outstretched hand. "Do you think they're real? It's hard to believe, the things the government's saying about them."

"Don't say that!" Tea slopped over the edge of the cup, spilling into the saucer. Her mother's head darted from side to side, in case government enforcers were hiding behind the couch or lurking behind the curtains, listening to everything.

Jane sat down, perching on the edge of the couch, hands clasped on her knees. "It is hard to believe, though, isn't it, mother? I mean, magic, in this day and age… But, then, a dozen years ago, the idea that Britain could become a police state was as laughable as magic. Once people accept one impossible thing…"

"I don't want you to talk like this." Her mother put the tea cup down. "I've already lost my husband. I couldn't bear it if I lost you, too."

The television flickered darkly, with its dramatised scenes of dark sorcerers cackling as they struck down innocents. The acting was bad, but sometimes the television showed fuzzy films showing distant views of real so-called sorcerers. The sorcerers could be anywhere and everywhere, the television constantly told them. All loyal citizens were to denounce anyone who showed the slightest signs of sympathising with such a one.

"They killed your father, Jane!" her mother shouted, suddenly vehement. "It makes sense. They're behind everything."

But they aren't, Jane thought, the thought coming into her mind so clear and certain that it was as if someone else had spoken it. They're trying to stop it. The government was behind the sorry state that the world was in. The sorcerers were opposing the government, and that meant that they were on the side of good. We should help them, Jane thought. I should help them.

She bit her lip, frowning anxiously at the tenor of her thoughts. The sorcerers were just an invention of the government. They were probably laughing even now, vying with each other to invent an even more ridiculous lie for the sheep-like people to believe. How it must amuse them to watch the country torn apart with suspicion and paranoia because of something that did not even exist. They could not be real. But they are, her heart told her.

She got up and stamped back towards the kitchen, leaving her mother to her lies. Jane had spent ten years suppressing her heart. While her mother lived, that was all she could ever do.

The doorbell rang before she had left the room. "Is that Simon, early?" her mother trilled. "Or is it…?" She pressed her hand to her chest.

Jane could not entirely suppress the fear that coursed through her. She was only human, after all. An unexpected knock on the door could lead to many things, few of them good.

Once, she had dreamed that they came to take her away. They had cold, silver eyes, and black gloves, and faces that did not know how to smile. They led her to a car with blackened windows, and she was terrified, but she was excited, too. At least when she was terrified, she was also alive. She was feeling. She was so tired of bleakness and emptiness, trapped in the same four walls.

She edged quietly to the door. "Who is it?"

"Simon."

It was her brother's voice, but it sounded different from normal, though she could not tell how. Sometimes she still started with surprise to hear her brothers speak with the voices of men. She had been the adult in the house since she was fifteen, but sometimes she wondered if she would ever stop thinking of herself as a child.

She unbolted the door, and Simon came in. His eyes were shining. She could almost see the thoughts and feelings churning beneath his skin, like parasites desperate to burst out.

She stifled a burst of jealousy. "You're early," she told him. "You're never early. I'm not ready."

"Jane?" her mother called. "Is that Simon?"

"Go through," Jane urged Simon. "Talk to her, while I work on dinner."

"I'd rather talk to you," Simon said. "I've got something to…"

"Talk to her." Jane surprised herself with her vehemence. The nameless feelings were still there, so close to the surface on Simon's face. She wanted to claw them out. It wasn't fair! It wasn't fair! She smoothed all thoughts away. "You visit so seldom," she said. "She looks forward to it so."

"But it's so hard," Simon said. He looked resentful, those bubbling emotions quenched a little by her words. "She makes things so hard. She brings me down, and things have been hard enough..."

I have it every day. Jane dug her nails into her palms, into the well-worn grooves there. Every day for ten years.

Simon sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm being selfish." His voice was flat, as if he was saying it for form's sake, and did not really mean it. He stiffened his shoulders and headed for the living room, like a martyr destined for the sake.

Was it possible to hate someone, even as you loved them, Jane wondered. But the word "love" felt cold in her mind. It was like a ghost city, seen in dreams, always far away, always for someone else.

She heard Simon greet their mother, and heard her mother's reply. The television went off. It never went off for Jane.

She retreated into the kitchen, closed the door. She could no longer hear their words. Her hands shook as she busied herself with plates and cutlery. She cleaned a cup that was already clean, and stirred a sauce that was not yet on the heat.

The door opened, and she tensed, clutching the spoon, then dropping it. Simon came in. "She wants more tea. It wasn't strong enough last time."

"You pour it, then." Jane jabbed her finger towards the pot, though she kept her voice quiet. "There's still some in the pot."

Simon made no move to do so. He put the tea cup down on the kitchen table, and stood beside it, clutching the back of a chair. "I wanted to talk to you." His voice was bubbling again. "Something's happened."

She felt herself turn cold, even though his tone was not at all grim. She did not ask him what. She knew he wanted her to.

"I met someone a few months ago," Simon said.

A girlfriend, then. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Even in this terrible and uncertain world, people still met and fell in love. Children were born, and life was passed on. She saw then through her windows, sometimes – couples walking hand in hand, still foolish enough to smile.

"I can't tell you his real name," Simon said, "but he goes by the name of Phil. He's in the Resistance."

Love would be better, she thought. She turned her back on Simon, and thrust the spoon into the sauce. It scraped horribly on the bottom of the pan. "Then he'll be captured soon," she said, "if he tells that to strangers."

"He didn't tell me that at first, of course." Simon spoke as if she was ridiculously stupid, not really worth bothering with. "It was weeks before he trusted me. He had to see if I was worthy. It was like a test, I suppose."

"And you passed." She closed her eyes. Things spun away from her in her mind, fleeing and leaving her. She was alone at the centre, unable even to call. "How you must have liked that."

"I've joined the Resistance, Jane," Simon blurted out. He sounded impossibly pleased with himself. "At last I'm doing something. I've been sitting around for far too long, moping and complaining, but never doing anything. Everyone has. Well, let them carry on moping, but I'm out there doing something. I'm fighting for them, even if they're too afraid to fight for themselves."

Not everyone can fight, she thought. She wanted to hurl that that him, confront him with the reality of living with their mother. Or sometimes people have to fight so hard just to get through one day without screaming, that nothing else is possible.

She did not say that. Her life was built on never saying what she felt. "You shouldn't be telling me this," she said, instead.

"I had to tell someone," Simon said. "Jane, I feel so alive. I feel like I used to feel years ago, before that awful school. See? I can even talk about that now. It can't hurt me. Nothing can hurt me. I'm alive again. I'm going to change the world."

"Or die," she whispered. "Or get us all killed. They do that, you know. They strike at the families of people who are known to be in the Resistance. Ignorance might have been a defence, but probably not. Still, you shouldn't have told me. You shouldn't tell anyone."

"I thought I could trust you." She had finally succeeded in killing the excitement in Simon's voice. She took no joy in it. "I haven't told anyone else, just you."

"I'm sorry." She passed her hand across her face, and through her tangled hair. I'm just jealous, she thought. I want to slap you for your naivete. I want to be you. I want you to live as I do, just for a month. "I'm just afraid," she said. "It would break mother's heart if anything happened to you."

"It won't," Simon assured her. "And, if it does, I am not afraid."

A child, she thought. He was a boy in the badly-fitting body of a man. Perhaps their whole generation was like that. They had lost their childhoods to despair and darkness, but part of them would forever remain a forlorn child, wishing that the world would come back for them.

"Take mother her tea," she said wearily. "Don't breathe a word of this to her."

Simon nodded. Only when he was safely away did she cry.

___

Part two: chapter five

Like strangers in the night

___

When the door opened, Merriman opened his eyes, but did not move. He was sitting in the battered leather armchair in the corner, still wrapped in the dark coat he wore outside. The fire had burnt down to almost nothing, and the candles remained unlit in their wall sconces. The room was cold enough for his breath to turn to steam, wreathing around his face.

Will entered quietly, closing the door behind him. He did not see Merriman. Merriman’s shoulders slumped a little when he noticed that. He was not deliberately hiding. Will ought to have been instantly aware of him. The fact that he remained unaware spoke of a truth that Merriman wished was not true.

Will leant back against the door for over a minute, his eyes closed, head leaning back against the scarred wood. When he finally walked to the fire, his steps were weary. He was limping, and his right arm was pressed to his side, guarding an injury either in the limb, or on the side itself.

He knelt down in front of the fire. Merriman heard him suck in a sharp breath as the movement pained him, but no pain showed on his face. Even when he thinks himself unwatched… There was too much sorrow in that thought.

There was a crate of chopped logs beside the fire, and Will reached into it with his left hand, and threw one log into the fire, and then another. The fire darkened for a moment, then brightened, throwing its flickering light onto Will’s weary face. It made the shadows seem deeper, or maybe Will had lost more weight since Merriman had last seen him. Maybe the shadows would be there even in the brightest sunlight.

Will held his left hand out to the fire, palm outwards. It was not a gesture of power, but the gesture of a freezing man who needed warmth. His face visibly tightened with pain as he brought the right hand out to join it. There was no blood on it. That at least was something.

He thought himself alone. Merriman felt a sudden stab of guilt at watching him like this, although it was his right. He had spent thousands of years watching unseen. People showed things when they thought no-one was watching. If he knew I was here, Merriman thought, would he show even this much pain? He thought the answer was no.

He was not aware of moving, but the chair creaked gently beneath him. Will whirled round, his hands outstretched in warding. "It's me, Will," Merriman said softly. "It's only me."

Will lowered his hands. Merriman could see the breath painted in the air, shallow and fast.

"I startled you," Merriman said. "I'm sorry. I should have used mind-speech first." The sense of an Old One, mind to mind, could not be replicated even by the Dark. Everything else could.

"I shouldn't have been startled." Will did not move from the fire. His back was half turned to Merriman, his face slightly shielded.

"Yes," Merriman said. "Yes, you should have. With the things we are facing, and the things our enemies are capable of, it is better to err on the side of over-caution."

Will gave a bark of bitter laughter, hastily cut short. He threw another log onto the fire, still using his left hand.

"You're hurt," Merriman said, when Will was still again.

"Nothing that won't heal." Will used the tone of polite finality that Merriman had used so often on prying mortals.

"Sit down." Merriman stood up, offering Will his chair. "I'll get you something to eat."

"I'm not hungry," Will said, but he took the chair. He lowered himself stiffly, but relaxed back into it with a sigh. "A difficult few days," he said, in useless explanation, "but I did what I meant to do."

Merriman did not ask what it was. They worked independently, and had done so for years. Will had been an Old One since he was a child, but the human part of him was now fully adult, too. They both worked for the same purpose, but they seldom met. Will had his secrets. More than I had realised, Merriman thought.

Merriman, though, had the greatest secret of all, and one that could never be told.

"A drink, then," Merriman offered. He poured Will some water from the pitcher in the corner. "It's somewhat cold, but pure, and that's something."

Will took it, but did not drink. "Why are you here?"

A memory came to Merriman then. It felt like a lifetime ago, although in the endless years of his immortal life, it was but yesterday. Merriman had driven up to Will's parents' house, ready to take him to Cornwall. Will had been outwardly polite, a stranger greeting a stranger, but inside his mind, he had been over-joyed. It's marvellous to see you, he had told Merriman, meaning it with everything that he was.

Now it had come to this. There was no-one to watch them, but they hedged around each other like the strangers they had once pretended to be. Neither of them had smiled since meeting tonight.

"I had time," Merriman said. "The Resistance is flourishing in the north now. Their leader's a good man. He needs to make his own choices. We have to play a more active role in man's affairs than we used to, but we are not like those of the Dark. We step back when we can."

"Yes." Will pushed his head back into the high armchair, and closed his eyes.

Merriman knew how to read his expression, but he did not say anything. It was harder for Will to step back than it was for Merriman. Merriman was insulated by the years. For millennia, he had watched men rise and fall. He had watched friends die, and flame and battle consume places that had once been beautiful. He had lived through the darkness that followed the loss of Arthur, and he seen the harshest winter finally give way to spring.

Will had none of Merriman's armour. Will had been separated from his family at twelve, and brought up by Merriman, who by necessity had treated him entirely as an Old One, and never as a boy, but that changed nothing. Will had been born into this world, and was still tied to it. He had family and friends here, and he had known no other world. Merriman watched, but Will was part of it. As the world crumbled, he crumbled, like all who were born on the earth, and lived to see such a thing.

Merriman had not wept for more than a thousand years. He did not weep now, but he knew that the tears were there, just a thought away.

"I came to see you, Will," he said softly. Will's eyes snapped open, but his face stiffened like stone. "No, not to hear any reports from you. I trust you. Just to… see you."

"Oh." It was the slightest little breath of a sound. Will closed his eyes again, leaning his head against the wing of the chair.

Merriman opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. When he took the glass from Will's hand, Will made no move to stop him. "Sleep," Merriman whispered. "I'll watch over you."

Will made an indistinct sound. Within a few minutes, he was asleep.

How long had it been, Merriman wondered, since Will had been able to relax in sleep, knowing that there was no need to stay on guard? The Dark could attack in sleep and dreams, and an Old One was as vulnerable as any mortal if attacked when unconscious.

I am so sorry, Will, he thought. There was never going to be a good ending for you.

If the Light had triumphed, Will would have been left alone, the last Old One remaining in the world. It would have been a cold path, but a necessary one, and the world would have been full of love and light and freedom. Instead, the Dark had triumphed, and Will was faced with this.

I could have eased it for you, Merriman thought. I could have been less harsh. I could have pushed less. I could have given you more. I could tell you what I have seen.

He let out a breath, moved his hand above Will's sleeping face, as if to stroke the cheek that he would never touch in the flesh. But I cannot. I could not. I never can.

___

Part two: chapter six

A walk in the park

___

Barney stood beside a weed-choked patch of land, that had once been a glorious flower bed. He did not even have to close his eyes to imagine what it had once looked like. Stuffed into his pocket, his hand itched to paint it. He would fill the painting with sunlight and flowers, but most of all, he would fill it with people.

There were still people out in the park. Boys still played, kicking footballs at make-shift goals. Young families brought their children out to play on their bikes, or just to practice running free, in a place where the air was relatively free of smoke. There were times in the summer when you could even pretend that nothing had changed, as long as you did not look up or left or right; as long as you did not blink.

Barney was here in the park to meet someone. He did not know who it would be. That was how it always was. Safer that way, they told him, and he supposed he agreed. Still, sometimes it would be nice to meet the same person a second time, and perhaps, in due course, to build up a friendship. Strangers were safer than friends, but less satisfying. He missed friendship most of all, more even than the art. At least the paintings lived on unhindered in his mind. No-one could take that away, or ever would.

He started to stroll along the path. There were few eyes in the park, and no ears, but it did not do to stay still for too long, not without a clear purpose. His course took him close to the boys who were playing football, and he stopped to watch them for a while.

He heard the footsteps come up behind him, of course. He did not turn round, did not alter his stance in any way, but he was aware of them. He was ready for anything, except for what he got. "You!" hissed a voice. "What are you doing here?"

Only at the end of it did he recognise his brother. Barney turned round slowly, but inside he was thinking furiously. Was it better to play this as a family encounter, or to feign indifference? He could think of advantages to both. If They were watching… If They knew…

He made up his mind. "Simon!" He hugged his brother, and continued to hold him by the upper arms, shaking his head incredulously as he looked him full in the face.

Simon frowned. He looked cold, or perhaps even hurt.

"You can at least pretend this is a happy reunion," Barney whispered, his smiled never faltering. "Just in case someone's watching. Just in case someone's been wondering why I've been hanging around in the park for so long."

Simon hesitated for too long. When he finally hugged Barney back, it was stiff and awkward. Oh well, Barney thought, it will just look as if we've had an argument. Countless families have. At least it will give us an excuse if we talk intensely in whispers. We're English. Can't be washing our dirty linen in public, after all.

"What are you doing here?" Simon demanded, when he had released Barney. "You should go. I'm supposed to be meeting…"

"Me," Barney told him placidly. Simon was wearing the pre-arranged sign, as was he. There was no mistaking it, though Simon evidently wanted to.

"You." Simon frowned, shaking his head. "You're in the…"

Barney hushed him with an urgent hand on his arm. There were no ears here, but there were some things that you never said out loud, even when alone.

"How long?" Simon's arms were hanging limply at his sides. He looks as if I've punched him, Barney thought. I wonder why.

"Six years," Barney said. "Not long after they killed Mr Thomas."

"Six years." One of Simon's hands slowly clenched into a fist. "You were only a child. You didn't tell me. You didn't tell any of us."

"Of course not. Only a fool tells anyone about something like this." Barney shook his head. "Is that what you're upset about, Simon? Because I didn't tell you?"

"I'm not upset," Simon said stiffly. Barney had never realised how bad his brother was at lying. Or maybe it was just that Barney had become so good at it. He had been playing a man's role since the age of sixteen, working in a role that could get him tortured and killed if he made a single slip. It had been so hard at first not to tell his family. Part of him had still been a child, but he was a child no longer.

But Simon still is. The thought was strange, and he did not know where it came from. He's older than me, but younger, too.

Perhaps the years had made him cold, too, for all he said was, "There's no time for this. You came here with a message for me."

"For you?" Simon echoed. "Are you the…"

"Of course not." Barney was amused, rather than irritated. "I'm just a messenger, like you. I'll pass it on to the person I need to pass it on to, and what happens after that, I cannot wonder. No-one knows names. No-one knows the leaders. That's how it is. We're just minor cogs in the wheel, and we never see the rest of the wheel, but…"

"And you're happy with that?" Simon had both fists clenched now. "After six years, you're still a messenger boy? I'm not like you, then. I want to make a difference."

Amusement warred with resentment. For Simon to stand here, preaching… But this is his first job, Barney realised. He'd seen others like him over the years. Sometimes people joined the Resistance because they dreamed of glory and heroism. Most of them soon realised that even the smallest, most unsung job served the cause, and buckled down. The few who did not were dead.

This last thought killed both laughed and anger. "You can't carry on thinking like that," Barney whispered fervently. "It will get you killed."

"If I die," Simon declared, "then so be it."

Barney could have shaken him. There were so many things he needed to say to him, but there was so little time. Even here in the park they had to guard their words, and keep things short. There were some things that could never be said.

"Simon…" He raked his hand through his hair, sighing. "Simon, please. You can't let it matter. You can't let any of it matter. So I joined before you did. So I kept it secret. That's how it is. You have to keep your head down, and do whatever task is asked of you, however small. It's not a competition. The cause matters. The cause is all that matters. I'm just one of the many, and so are you."

"I don't want to be…"

"No," Barney commanded him. "What you want doesn't matter. You said you're willing to die for this. Better, though, to live. Show your devotion to the cause not by embracing a heroic but senseless death, but by enduring small, boring tasks, by enduring loneliness, by doing what is needed, even if no-one ever knows it was you who did it."

"You make me sound so petty." Simon sounded crushed.

"You are." Barney felt no remorse. It was better to crush Simon now, than to see him killed. If Simon was captured, the whole family would tumble like cards, and the cause would be worse off by two men.

"I wanted it to be different," Simon whispered. "I wanted…"

"I know," Barney said gently. "Now tell me your message, and go back and tell your captain that you did the task as asked, and that you did it well."

Simon told him. His voice was low and defeated, but by the end there was anger in his eyes. He turned and left without a goodbye.

I have lost him, Barney thought. Such things mattered. He could not act on them, but they still mattered.

___

Part two: chapter seven

Laughter

___

They did not often laugh, these men who were fast becoming the most feared men in Britain. They smiled, though. With such men, a tiny smile could carry more meaning that another man's laughter.

They smiled in the van, but Bran was not meant to see it. He was sitting at the front, his body turned towards the window, his chin resting on his hand. Everything about him shouted that he did not want to be here. He was staring outside, pretending that these men did not exist. That was what they thought, anyway. In reality, his eyes missed nothing, hidden behind their dark glasses. Reflections in the windows brought him their smiles. The mirror brought him their smirks.

I will show them, he thought. He could not ignore this. He never had been able to. He still bore the scars from the fight that had landed him in prison, years before. Sometimes it seemed as if his whole life was scars.

They reached their destination. The men trooped out, and formed up, armed and professional. There were no smiles now. These men were good; Bran knew that. Sometimes he was proud of them, and sometimes he was almost scared by them. It was not good to enjoy inflicting pain.

Bran took his place at their head. He was their superior officer, but he had never gone out in the field. He gave orders, and he received the reports afterwards. He saw the prisoners, but he had never seen a capture. People under his command had killed, but he had never seen it happen.

He had dreamed about this the night before; dreamed about blood on his hands, and screaming. In his dreams, the dying man had gazed at him with enormous sorrow, and his eyes had been Will's.

"You will do your duty as you always do," he told them. His own gun was heavy and awkward at his hip. "This changes nothing, except that I am here to watch it."

A spy had reported that a Resistance group was due to meet in this builders' yard tonight. Three of them, he said, and one of them either a sorcerer, or a close companion of them. Because he disappeared into nothing, I swear to you, the spy had protested. All such reports had to be investigated. Traps had to be set, even if they caught nothing.

His men fanned out, their black uniforms blending into the semi-darkness. Bran followed them, but stayed behind. No-one was watching him, so he was able to take his glasses off. With them removed, he could see a little better, but not much. Everything was shades of grey, even the sky. When the moon rose, it, too, would be sheeted with grey. There was always something burning; always smoke in the air.

Something twisted painfully inside him. A memory filled his mind, so strong that he could smell it. A clean mountainside, a crisp sky, and the air so fresh that it went right through you and washed everything else away. Coming home, breathless, skin tingling, and…

No. He pushed it aside, and strode quietly after his men. They had taken up positions behind crates, and were readying themselves for action, communicating with hand signals. They knew their jobs well. How many raids had they gone on, Bran wondered. This was nothing out of the ordinary for them, and they all knew exactly what to do.

These were the men that he was commanding. Why am I here? he wondered, as pure panic shot through him. What can I say to them?

That, too, he pushed aside. He was here because he wanted to exterminate the Light and all its works. His guardian had procured him this position, but he deserved it, too. He had ruled his school by sheer force of personality. No-one had helped him to that position but himself alone. He had ruled boys then, and these were men, but he had been a boy at school, and now he, too, was a man.

He had the right to be here. They would obey him.

"Anything, lieutenant?" he said coldly, kneeling down behind the man.

The lieutenant shook his head. "Nothing yet. We need to go further in. Too obvious here. We must secure our positions and wait. Sir." It was added too late, and thus became an insult.

Bran took a deep breath against the fury that was bubbling inside him. Not yet, he told himself. Not with everything at stake.

"Do that," he ordered them. "Remember, if anyone comes, you are the capture them, rather than kill them. They must be questioned."

He said it too loudly. All these men knew it already. He caught another smile, almost hidden in the darkness. Too late, he remembered that he had not put his glasses back on. He did not like anyone to see his eyes. It made him feel almost afraid.

His men moved on, slinking like shadows into their hiding places. Bran went with the lieutenant, following as silently as he could. His skin prickled, as if someone was watching him from behind, their gaze boring into the back of his neck. Will? he thought. He changed it to a challenge. These sorcerers could steal a man's thoughts, and plunder all their secrets. If you are here, Stanton, then we have you. You will die.

He blinked, clenched his fists at his side. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself entirely alone. His men had slithered into their hiding places, and had melted into the night. Bran was entirely exposed. He imagined his pale skin shining like a beacon in the night, a target to all enemies.

Calm, he thought. Don't show it. Never show it. He carried on walking, and there was the lieutenant, crouched low between two piles of pallets. Some silent message was passing between him and the two men with him, but all faces were wiped clean when Bran crouched down beside him. They were laughing at me, Bran thought. He started trembling inside.

They waited in silence. Minutes passed. The sky darkened noticeably, and Bran started to get pins and needles in his legs. He wanted to stand up, but could not. He wanted to ask questions, but that was impossible. He was the commander there, even though he had never been out in the field before. Even commands would sound weak, he thought, because they would imply that he had been questioning. Take your positions, and wait all night, if necessary. He had written that command so many times. Now he had to live it.

No-one came. Bran had questioned the spy himself, and he had been most insistent. Maybe the spy had been deliberately supplied with false information. Maybe the spy himself had been spied upon, and the Resistance had changed their plans, knowing that this meeting was compromised.

Or maybe they had come, and the sorcerer amongst them had sensed the trap. There was nothing these minions of the Light could not do. Maybe they had come. Maybe they were still here…

Bran's shoulders itched again. It was all he could do not to whirl around, not to jump to his feet and shout his hatred and challenge into the night. Quiet, he thought. Still. He caught one of his men looking sideways at him, just the briefest glance. He tried to calm himself. He tried not to fidget or shift in the slightest.

A gunshot sounded, and Bran jumped. Something tore past his face, hot and loud, and he heard a thud and a cracking sound in front of him. "Down!" someone shouted, and Bran obeyed, throwing himself onto his face. Feet were moving all around him, and there was answering fire. A rain of dust and splinters fell down in front of Bran's eyes, and he wrinkled his nose, and gave a faint cough.

I was almost shot, he thought. His mind was busy processing what he had seen. If I hadn't jumped…He bit his lip. Saved by weakness.

People were shouting; no stealth now. And here was their commander, face down in the dirt.

Bran stood up, and very deliberately pushed his shoulders back, standing as tall and as implacable as he could. He still itched at the base of his neck, as if someone was watching him, watching him through sights on a sniper rifle, readying to kill… Guns sounded. How many bullets were criss-crossing the air?

He swallowed, but he walked on, and drew his own gun. He did not wear his glasses, and he was protected only by his long coat. Let them try, he thought, but it came out less defiant than he had wanted it to, and more like a plea. Let them try, because…

"We have him!" someone shouted. The gunshots stopped. Not too far away, Bran heard kicks and cries of pain. "Stop that," he heard the lieutenant say, a hiss of command. "Take him to the commander."

"Wherever he is," someone muttered. The lieutenant must have heard it, but he made no rebuke.

Bran stood tall and still, halting in the middle of an open area, gun still in his hand. Let them see him there, and know that their commander was not afraid. He had been there with them, not grovelling in the dust where they had pushed him.

They saw him, and dragged their prisoner before him. "This is the man, sir." This time the lieutenant spoke respectfully enough.

"There may be accomplices," Bran told him, not yet looking down at the prisoner. "Continue the search." The lieutenant nodded, but gave no orders. Of course, Bran thought, the orders had already been given, and the search was already underway.

Bran took a deep breath, and looked down at the man who had tried to kill him. Him! he gasped, but he said it coldly, hiding the trembling within. "You."

The spy spat bloodily at Bran's feet. So the whole thing had been a trap, of course. There had been no sorcerer, and no meeting. The spy had met with Bran several times before, enough to know how much Bran hated sorcerers. This had all been a deliberate trap for Bran, designed to draw him out.

Bran started trembling inside, and his fists clenched with fury. This man had manipulated him. He had reached into Bran's heart, found its weakness, and cruelly played upon it. The Light had done exactly the same. The Light, that this man served and followed…

"I should kill you for this," Bran swore.

The spy nodded. "I expected no less."

Why? Bran wanted to cry. Why me? Why do you hate me? He felt personally betrayed by this, as if he was standing at the tree again, and the Old Ones were… No! He bit his lip, forcing all that back in. He kept the fury, though. He could not lose the fury.

"Why do you serve them?" he demanded, hands trembling at his sides. "They're evil. They lie. They lie about everything, and they trick you and they pretend…"

"No, that's your lot," the spy said. He got a kick for that, from one of Bran's men. Bran winced inside, but loved it, too.

Bran grasped the spy's chin. "Why me?" he hissed.

"Because you were in my reach," the traitor said. "You were mine. I took the chance. I saw your weakness. I tried…" He shrugged, but Bran could see the terror racing behind his mask of unconcern. "I failed. Now I die."

"No." Bran released him. His hand felt dirty, tainted, but he resisted the urge to wipe it. "Now we take you away and question you."

Again he saw a look flicker between two of his men. He knew what it meant. A desk-officer only. He lacks the stomach to kill. He's a joke. A freak. Just look at him.

The prisoner's head sagged forward, but then he was on his feet, in a sudden whirl of motion. He tore himself out of his captors' grip, and hurled himself bodily at the lieutenant, knocking him down. He almost fell himself, but then was up again, running wildly, dodging, head bent down and cushioned by his arm.

Bran raised his gun. Lacks the stomach to kill… The lieutenant was fumbling for his gun. Betrayed me. Tricked me - me personally. His heart was trembling; his hand was steady. Offered me everything and snatched it away…

He pulled the trigger, and the spy fell. He struggled for a moment to get to his feet again, then slumped down, hand outstretched.

Bran shot him again. This time, nobody was laughing. No-one would laugh at him ever again.

___

Part two: chapter eight

Secrets

___

The sea was calm and grey. Waves broke gently on the shore, and pulled away, making the shingle chatter like distant voices. Children played on the thin stretch of sand beneath the sea wall, their parents hovering anxiously. Even the play was muted. Even the sea air was marred ever so slightly by smoke.

Will was sitting on a rusty bench on the promenade, watching the waves rise and fall. He had been there for over an hour. Sometimes he watched the scene before him, and sometimes he closed his eyes.

His eyes were closed when the man came. Will felt him at first only as a touch of cold on his face, from a figure walking between him and the sun. He opened his eyes in time to see a young man settling down beside him, arranging his jacket carefully so it would not crumple unnecessarily.

Will did not look at him, and no words were said. They looked at the waves together for a while, in silence. A helicopter passed low above them, and a car roared down the esplanade, chased by the police. Not far away, a gunshot sounded. The children playing on the sand did not react in any way.

"Sorry I'm late," the man said at last. He was fair-haired, and probably older than Will, though Will constantly forgot that he was only twenty-seven. His name was Anthony, or maybe that was just the name he went by. Will went by his real name, but no surname had ever been given, or asked for.

"It doesn't matter," Will lied. He remembered reading once that immortals did not feel the passage of time like ordinary people, but it was not true for him. He felt every minute, and endured every hour. The past fifteen years felt like a lifetime, not like the twinkling of an eye.

"Has anyone noticed you?" Anthony asked.

Will shook his head. "Or, if they have, they don't think it's suspicious."

Anthony gestured with his chin at the half-naked children playing in the sand. "Probably think you're a child-molester, or something innocent like that." There were barbs in his voice. Such behaviour was all-but condoned by the government. The truth - that they were two men meeting as part of a struggle for light and freedom - was far more dirty than any lie.

Will sighed. "Or that I was planning to kill myself." A solitary man, staring sadly out to sea… It had happened many times. He had felt that pull.

Anthony chuckled. "Must have been disappointed when I appeared, then."

They did not normally banter. They should not. Very occasionally, Will wondered if they could be friends, of a sort. Usually, he knew that they could not.

Anthony was his principal voice in the Resistance, his second-in-command. Merriman had left Will in command of the whole south-east. He was slowly learning what that meant. He hardly ever saw Merriman now, and sometimes he went a whole day without wondering what Merriman would do or say in a particular situation.

Anthony stood up, and lurched to the railing. "Do you ever think about it, though?" His voice was almost lost in the breeze. "I do."

Will thought of two boys, swimming together out into a starlit ocean, and never coming back. He still dreamed of that. He still dreamed of Bran, and of a world in which he could die. He still dreamed of paths beyond the furthest ocean, that led to happiness and light, in a place without tomorrows.

"No," he said, his voice husky.

"Of course not." Anthony returned to his seat. For a moment, Will thought he saw resentment in his eyes. "You're not one to give in. That's why you started all this. We were all sitting around moaning and complaining, but too afraid to do anything, but you…"

"No," Will rasped. "No."

"And you're never bothered by things," Anthony continued, as if Will had not spoken. "You're always so sure of everything, and it keeps me going, but sometimes I wish…" He stopped, shaking his head, and Will was grateful. He lived too many lies. It was even worse, hearing them.

Will pressed his hands together on his lap. "We need to talk about the solstice."

The midwinter solstice was the night when ancient man was celebrated the gradual return of the light, and the ending of night's suzerainty. Will was not the one who had come up with the idea of choosing that night for a special performance by the Resistance, but he approved of it. It was a good day to strike a blow. It was also his birthday.

"What are people proposing?" he prompted Anthony, when no reply came.

Will was their leader, but he seldom led. An Old One existed to guide, not to command. Merriman had forced them to take on a more active role, but it was the ordinary people whose world was at stake. Will allowed them as much freedom as he could. He had the power of veto, however, over all plans. Only he knew what was really at stake. Only he knew when an easy, tempting target was actually guarded by a lord of the Dark.

"Several promising strategies…" Anthony sounded distracted. He sucked in a breath, and said in a rush, "Will, are you a sorcerer?"

Will stopped breathing. A wave broke on the shore, and then another. He breathed in again, and out. "I am," he admitted.

Anthony said nothing.

There were too many things Will could have said. He could have asked Anthony how he had found out, or what he was going to do about it, now he knew. He could have launched into an apology, explaining that the Old Ones were a world away from the dark sorcerers of government propaganda. He could even have raised his hand, spread his fingers, and made Anthony forget.

Instead, he sat there, completely still. Two boys entered the sea, paddling first, and then wading. They went further out, and soon they were swimming. One head was fair, and one was brown. Will blinked, but they were still there. Not a dream, he thought. This is real.

"I…" Anthony smoothed the creases from his sleeves. Will knew him enough to know that he did it the way other men might wring their hands. "I'm glad you said yes," he said. "Glad that you are one? I don't know. Glad you said yes, though, and didn't try to lie, or deflect the question."

"You're deflecting now, aren't you?" Will said softly.

"Yes." Anthony smiled. "It's just… It's like something out of a story, Will. It's not real life. Sorcerers, real? It's absurd. But…" He pressed his hands together, brought them to his mouth. "But everything's absurd. I would never have dreamed that Britain would fall like this. I never thought to see prison camps in English villages. I never thought to see people shot in public parks. Really, magic seems less absurd than that."

"Yes," Will said, but it was a lie. There was nothing absurd about the Dark. Everything Anthony talked about had long been a possibility. It was what the Light had strived against for so long. "Don't call me a sorcerer, though," he said. "None of those things they say about us are true."

"Well, I knew that." Anthony shook his head incredulously. "Nothing they say is true. If they say something's black, then I know it's white. If they say left, then I know it's right."

Too simple, Will thought, but he did not say it. "Was it really obvious?" he asked. "I don't want others…"

Anthony shook his head. "Not obvious at all, to be honest. I was just watching one of those broadcasts, disbelieving it like everyone else does, when I started thinking. Why would they say something so ridiculous, I thought, if it wasn't true? Then I started wondering where these sorcerers are. If they're working with us, surely I'd have met one by now. And as soon as I thought that, I knew that if anyone I knew was a sorcerer, it was you. You're not like anyone else."

No, Will thought, but that was something he had mourned long ago, and it was useless to be hurt by it. "I've been wondering whether to tell people," he confessed, "once the broadcasts started."

Anthony thought about it for a while. "Not yet, perhaps," he said. "Most people don't believe it yet. They'd think you were deluded or mad. That wouldn't be good."

"I was thinking that it might be best to tell people sooner, rather than later," Will said, "before the propaganda has properly taken root."

"Lynch mobs in the street, and burnings at the stake, you mean?" Anthony grimaced. "Nothing to worry about. Our people are too clever for that. If they've joined us, then they know how to see through the propaganda. They won't fall for any of the lies."

Will found himself feeling lighter, all of a sudden. It was as if the sun had appeared through a gap in the clouds, and everything sparkled just a little. To have someone to talk to about this... He had borne this secret for so long. Not since Bran…

"There's something else," he blurted out. "The reason they know about us… They have sorcerers, too. True Dark sorcerers, like in the worst children's nightmares. We've been opposing them on earth for as long as man has existed, and they won. Lords of Darkness lurk behind every government. Creatures with magic masquerade as men, and march with the police or the army, or just on corners or in fields on in gardens, beneath the window."

Anthony swallowed hard. He looked paler than Will had ever seen him. "You're joking?" He raked his hand through his thick hair. "No, you're not joking, are you? That's why…"

"Why I've forbidden things that you thought were easy," Will finished for him, "because I knew they were not. I've always known the true face of your enemies. You see only masks."

Anthony brought his fist up, as if to strike. "Then you should have told us…!"

Will met his glare placidly. "Would you have believed me?"

Very slowly, Anthony lowered his fist. "No." He shook his head. "No."

Will studied the backs of his hands. "Will the others believe yet, do you think?" He said it very quietly.

Anthony let out a breath. "No," he whispered. He sounded strangely broken. "Some of them, maybe. We can tell a few. More, as time passes. But go public with it? Tell the world? We'd be a laughing stock. People secretly disbelieve it when the government talks about sorcerers, but they daren't laugh out loud. If we start up with the same talk… We're safe to laugh at. We're beginning to become heroes. That's what the whispers say, when people don't think anyone's listening. If we started to tell this tale, we'd become idiots, the lunatic fringe."

"Yes." Will stared out at sea. He did not know why he felt as if another little piece of himself had just died.

Several times, Anthony seemed to be about to speak. At length, he said, "Are you upset?"

Will started.

"That I guessed," Anthony said. "That it's not a secret any more."

"I've known since I was eleven," Will found himself saying. The words came from somewhere within him, and he did not try to stop them. "I've known since then that I'd spend my life alone, that no-one would ever know. Someone did, for a while, but that ended. My family… They think I'm dead. I died at twelve, and this is all just a dream."

"At twelve," Anthony echoed. He spoke as if the words hurt his throat. He half reached towards Will, almost touching his hand, then withdrew. His hands clasped together, then parted. "And you've never… Will, you should…"

Will thought he knew what was coming. He stood up, and went to the railing. It was cold beneath his hands, almost shockingly so. The sun was behind its clouds again, and the beach was clearing. Soon only the waves would remain, and then the night would claim even them.

"I think," he said, "that we should meet again in a week. There have been too many revelations. We need to talk about the things that we do with a heart untrammelled with emotion."

His voice was completely level. But Anthony touched him briefly on his back before departing, and the touch went through him like cold fire, promising friendship, but offering none.

___

Part two: chapter nine

The garden of lies

___

Jane lied to her mother all the time. Sometimes, she felt that she uttered not a single word of truth from first thing in the morning, to last thing at night.

She lied about herself, and she lied about others. "Of course I haven't been crying," she would say. "Yes, I'm sure Simon's fine. I know he's not been in touch for a while, but he's not doing anything dangerous." She lied about hope. "This will all pass one day, mother, I'm sure of it." She lied about disappointment, smiling with blank eyes when talk turned to education, and lost opportunities. She lied about the future, and she lied about the past.

This world has made a liar of me, she thought, brushing her hair with slow and listless strokes. It's poison at the core, and I have caught that poison, and now I am affected, too.

Her mother fretted on the couch, and knew nothing about what really lay inside her daughter's heart. The lies wove together, and became a solid framework. Soon they would be more real than any truth.

Soon Jane would believe them herself. Sometimes she almost did.

There was one thing that started with a lie, but ended with truth. "I'm going out to the shops," Jane told her mother. "Not the corner shop, but right into town. I'll be all morning, if not longer."

That was the lie. She uttered it about once a month, and had done so for over a year. It won her hours just to spend by herself, out of the house. She wandered beneath trees, and trailed her fingers through the waters of a stream. Sometimes she just sat, and emptied her mind, so it was full of nothing at all. Sometimes she ran, but mostly she strolled.

It was time for herself. It was a tiny little glimmer of truth. It did not undo a thing, and it did not change anything about her life, but it was like a drop of shining water, or a single gleam of sunlight.

She did not think she could survive without it.

Three months before, she had found a small garden, locked behind walls. She had peered through the gates, and seen beds of flowers, as glorious as gardens had ever been in her youth. She wanted to enter it, but knew she could not. Life was one long story of things being denied and snatched away. Those who wanted things too badly tended to end up dead. You had to content yourself with nothing, because at least then you lived.

Still, she had returned. Two months ago, she had wandered back past its walls, and again a month after that. She had watched the flowers turn from spring to high summer. Today, she would see them beginning to fade into autumn.

Today, the gate was open.

Jane paused on the threshold. I shouldn't, she thought. This garden was the property of someone else. It was beautiful and locked, and that meant that it belonged to someone in power. The door was only open by accident. She was not allowed in.

Coward. She imagined Simon standing behind her, berating her. The door is open! Take this chance. His eyes blazed with all the stupid bravery of the cause he had naively embraced. The people were like sheep, he told her, and complicit in their own oppression. She was a symbol of everything that was wrong with the populace. To see a door, wide open, and yet walk on by… To see a place of beauty, and turn away, murmuring that it was not for you…

The wrought iron gate swung gently in the breeze. Through the entrance, she could see a fountain cascading from a stone dolphin, its droplets falling like sweet rain. I'll show him, she thought. I'll show him that I'm not a sheep.

Her feet edged forward, one step, and two.

She thought of her mother, waiting anxiously on the couch at home, depending on her utterly. The gate was open, yes, but she knew it was only by accident. If she went in, and they caught her in there, they could punish her severely. The open gate would be no defence.

She shook her head, surprised to find that there were tears in her eyes. She had given up so many things in her life. This was nothing, just few stolen moments in a garden. She could not risk everything just for that.

As she walked away, she could not help thinking that she had failed some sort of test. Her morning alone now lacked its lustre. Simon would have gone in, she thought. Simon would have called it a symbolic gesture against the government. Sheep bowed their heads on walked on by an open door, but the truly brave ventured in, and took the forbidden fruits within.

"Then Simon is an idiot," she muttered to herself. It was stupid to risk everything for something so trivial. Simon might have dashed in, but she was sure that the leaders of the Resistance would have walked on by. If you fought the meaningless battles, then you left nothing for the battles that really mattered.

"You didn't go in," a voice said quietly from behind her.

Jane whirled round, heart pounding, excepting to see soliders in black, with guns trained on her face. Instead, she saw a man in a pale suit. He was older than her by at least ten years, with brown hair, and a smile that was almost tentative. His clothes were clearly expensive. That alone was enough to show that he had the favour of the government.

"I'm sorry," she stammered. "I knew it was forbidden. I didn't… I was only tempted for a second." Her fear felt sharp and real. For years, she had muted such things, until whole weeks went by without her feeling anything that was not grey.

"Don't be afraid." He raised his hand, spreading it to show his empty palm. "I left it open for you."

"I don't understand." She wanted to back away, but was scared he would see it as an admission of guilt. "You don't know me."

"I saw you looking in a few months ago," he said. "I was inside. Then I saw you again on the camera. I could tell that you loved it."

She looked down at the ground. "So you tried to trap me. But I didn't do anything. I never would."

"No," he said, "and that's why I let you in. You will come in, won't you?"

She stood very still, barely even breathing, not sure what he was asking of her. Meanings lurked beneath his words. If this was a test, she did not know how to win it. If this was not a test, then she did not know what it was at all.

He must have seen the hesitation in her eyes. "I am a powerful man, Jane. It is not advisable to refuse my gifts."

He said it quite calmly, as if he was commenting on the weather, not issuing threats. She was chilled by that alone. She did not immediately notice that he had used her name. When she did, she could have fallen to the ground in horror. "You know…"

"I can know anything, Jane," he said gently, and he reached towards her, but refrained from touching her. If he had been anyone else, she would almost have thought that he was shy.

"Why me?" she whispered, her hands rising to her face. "I haven't done anything. I'm not…"

"You're beautiful, Jane," he told her. No-one had ever told her that before. She knew it was a lie, designed to entrap her, but something cold and grey inside her raised its head, as it touched by a distant sun. "I saw that right away, when I saw you looking at my flowers, but trapped outside, in shadow. I appreciate beautiful things, Jane. That's why I have my garden. Come, Jane. Let me show it to you."

She shook her head, but it was slowly done. "I can’t. I need to get back. My mother…"

"I am not accustomed to being refused, Jane." His voice turned cold. His outstretched hand clenched slowly into a claw. She was about to turn and flee, when he laughed. "Now, Jane, look what you almost made me do. I don't intend to hurt you. I just want you to come into my garden. Come whenever you like. I won't even be there myself, if that's what you want."

She thought of hours alone in that beauty, locked away from the rest of the world, protected from everyone by strong gates. Her mother, Simon, noise, and rushing… News on the television, and sobs suppressed in supermarket queues. Instead of that, she would have leaves and flowers. There was something about leaves…

She hardened her heart to it. "I want to," she admitted, "but I have never been able to do what I want. It's not you. It's me. Find someone else, someone who can give. I lost all ability to feel things years ago. You say I'm pretty, but I'm not inside. I'm dead inside. I'd kill the flowers. It's not right, a place like that, for me. I can't…"

She walked away, and he did not stop her. She waited until she was almost home before she let the tears fall, and for the first time in years, she was not able to stop them.

___

Part two: chapter ten

Flight

__

Simon was running. It felt as if he had been running for hours. His chest was heaving; his palms were scraped raw from when he had fallen. There was too little cover. Once he had thrown himself onto his face, rolling round and staggering up again, as a bullet had shot high above him. Others had scattered near him, spouting up dust.

There was no shouting, not any more. That had come first. "Stop right now." Running on, biting his lip, half of his mind floating above his body, amazed at what he was doing… Stop, it said. Turn around. Surrender. Talk about it. "Stop!" The shout had come again, further away, yet seeming louder. "Stop or I shoot."

There had been no stopping. Feet pounding at the ground, hands clenched across his chest, making him small, even though it slowed him down. A gun! his mind gibbered. If I don't stop, he'll shoot me. I'm going to die.

No stopping. No stopping. The floating part of his mind was still there. This isn't real. This isn't happening. People didn't shoot at you in real life, not in Britain. It happened in stories, or in far parts of the world.

Another shot. He cowered, a sob wrenching its way out of his breathless throat. His chest hurt. Had he been hit? How long did it take for a bullet to reach you? His mouth tasted horrible; was that blood? He ran on, and his legs still supported him. He thought he was still alive.

Think. Another part of his mind detached itself and looked down on him sternly. It's only one man. He's not very fit, and obviously not a very good shot. You just have to outlast him and use whatever cover you can.

But streaks of colour danced in front of his eyes whenever he blinked. There was green and black and lurid red. Exhaustion and panic made the trees run like paint in the rain. Fear had a colour. He never knew that before.

It wasn't supposed to be like this, the colours wailed. The red saw him dead in a ditch and forgotten. The green saw him panicking and running away. The black saw a world that was lost, a world in which all this was possible.

Simple. It should have been simple. Something large was being built out in the countryside, and the Resistance wanted to know what it was. Others had been given the most dangerous jobs, and Simon had complained about that, arguing that he had been a member for long enough now that it was time he was allowed to do something big, not just run messages like any stupid errand boy. He would do what he was told, they had said, and without message carriers nothing would happen at all, and for want of a nail the shoe was lost, and stupid things like that. Worse than the government, he sometimes thought darkly. Not the noble thing he had been expecting, and sometimes he hated Barney for saying…

His pursuer shouted. It sounded further away than Simon had expected. There were no bullets. I'm getting away! he thought. I've outrun him. He's run out of ammunition. Only a matter of time now. Just got to keep going.

He dodged left, heading for a gap in a hedge. The field on the far side was rough and bumpy, and he feared for his ankles, but still he ran.

Investigate the timings of their deliveries, then, he had been told. He had been given a cover story. This place was not yet out of bounds. Better not to be spotted, but if they did spot him, he was doing nothing wrong, as long as he had kept his distance. Brazen it out, they had told him. Watch their faces, and learn what you can.

A single guard, that was all it had been. A single guard, asking, not even shouting, for his papers. They had all been ready in his pocket, and his story on his lips. He had stood before the guard, and seen the gun. He had seen the eyes and the uniform and the power that lay in both. His voice had dried up; his hands had started to tremble.

And he had run.

But I'm getting away, he told himself. I was right to run away. I was right.

An exposed root tangled itself around his foot, and he fell, his foot twisting painfully beneath him. He tried to get up, but it pulled him down again. He clawed at it, ripping it apart. "You ran," a voice said, racked with breathlessness, but chilling. Simon cowered into the sunlight, into the barrel of a gun. "You will come with me."

"No," Simon whispered. His hands skittered in the dust. Roots and grass tangled in his fingers. "No. Please no."

He tried to get up, slipping, sliding. "Or I will shoot you," his pursuer said coldly. "Resisting arrest."

I can't! his mind cried. I don't want to die. I can't go with him, I can't.

The gun was level, not trembling, though this man had run as far as Simon had run, and Simon was shaking, heaving with lack of breath. Simon saw the man's finger on the trigger. He saw it move, and then stop. He saw the man's face, frozen. He pushed himself backwards, still half sprawled on his back, scraping against the earth. The man did not move. He was still, not blinking…

Not breathing.

Simon scrambled to his feet. His ankle hurt, but it took his weight. He bit his lip. Should run, he thought. He reached towards the man. "Are you…?" It had to be a trick, he thought. But he could feel the wind stirring his own clothes, but the man's were utterly still. It was a stillness beyond anything he had ever seen. He had never realised before how much movement there was even to a man at rest, until he saw it now, gone.

"Don't," a voice said softly, as Simon moved to touch the gun. Then, even softer, "You can't."

Simon snatched at the gun, and came away without it. For a moment, he had felt it there against his fingers, but he had been unable to grasp it. Even that touch left his fingers numbed, as if this stillness was catching, spread by touch.

"I'm not one of them," the voice said. "Don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid!" Simon cried. He turned round, tried to still the savage heaving of his chest. His hands felt empty, without a weapon, and he was caught between two strangers, and the world was not what he had always thought it was.

The newcomer stood in front of him, placid in the long grass. He cast a shadow. The man with the gun, Simon remembered, did not. He was about the same age as Simon, but he did not look like anyone remarkable. Something about him looked faintly familiar, but when Simon looked more closely for it, it was gone.

"You weren't there a minute ago," Simon said, because the field ahead of him had been empty, and the grass was long, but not long enough to hide a man. Then he cursed himself for saying such a thing, because it sounded weak.

"I was nearby," the man said. "I saw you. You needed help."

It was him, Simon thought. He did this. It was bizarre, ridiculous, but it slotted into his mind like a jigsaw puzzle piece that had long been lost. This stranger had done something to the man with the gun, something that should not be able to happen. But they don't exist! he tried to protest. The government spread its stupid lies about sorcerers, but Simon had never seen one, and whenever anyone asked one of the captains in the Resistance, they just smiled and shook their heads.

"It's true," he said. He brought both hands up to his mouth, and let them fall. "It's true."

"Yes." The man nodded. His hands were folded neatly in front of him, and he was not dressed for war.

"What did you do to him?" Simon was getting his breath back now, but his throat felt scraped raw, and words hurt him. "What did you do to him?" he rasped.

"What was needed," the man said. "It won't hurt him. When he… returns, I will make it so he doesn't remember you. A false alarm, he will call it. You will be safe."

Before, when he had been running, the whole world had been made of lurid colours. Now it faded all to white. He was standing in the middle of a world made of mist, and nothing was real but this strange and impossible thing. "I don't…" he stammed. "I don't…" He brought his hands to his face again. I hate this, he whispered. I ran, and he… And he…

"How can you stand there?" he shouted, bunching his trembling fists at his sides. "How can you stand there like this, and talk like this, and do things like this? I didn't need saving. I was getting away, and you… and no-one should be able to do this. It isn't right."

The man shook his head, smiling slightly. Simon despised the smile. It looked superior, inhuman.

"I didn't need rescuing." Simon jabbed his hand towards the man's chest. "If you're really a sorcerer, why aren't you off doing something more important? Why don't you stop all this from happening? Why don't you make things go back the way they used to be?"

He was almost screaming now, he realised. Behind him, the man with the gun stood silent and unmoving, like a statue, but even more still.

"We are doing what we can," the man said. "Their power is greater than ours, because they are many. We strike where we can, but we always must stay hidden. I must stay hidden. That's why you couldn't know. None of you could know. That's the only reason, Simon. It wasn't because we didn't trust you."

"I'm fed up with not being trusted," Simon cried. "I never get to do anything important. I didn't need rescuing." He realised something then, and it darted through him, cold horror, followed by scarlet fury. "How do you know my name?" He took a step back. "How did you know my name?"

"I knew you once," the man said, "when we were boys, before. We were… not quite friends. You were never entirely comfortable with me. I stepped onto your territory. You felt… Well, there's no need for that. I just… take an interest. Something to cling to. Sentiment, I suppose. There's so little else."

His voice was vague and distracted. Simon wanted to stay angry, but bizarrely he also wanted to laugh. This could not be happening. This was a dream. He had died to his pursuer's bullet, and this was some warped form of afterlife.

The man have a smile that seemed full of sorrow, but was doubtless full of lies. "Of course, I can only speak like this, because you won't remember it. I have no choice. You and him both. Walk away and forget this, and I…"

"Forget…" Simon echoed. He brought his hands up to his brow as if to hoard his memories there.

"It was done to you before," the man said, "though not by me, and I sorrowed for it. I hate to do it to you again. But I have to, Simon. I'm sorry. I have secrets, and too much rests on them. I don't think you would keep them."

"I'd keep them," Simon shouted, hating this man. "Why doesn't anyone trust me? I've served my time in the cause. I've been loyal."

"But you are angry," the man said quietly, almost as if he was apologising for it, "and you ran. I cannot. I am sorry, Simon. I am glad to have met you again, and I am glad that you are well, but I cannot let this pass. Not you. Not today. You have to walk away, and then you will forget."

"I don't…" Simon whispered. It was all the sound he could produce. The mist welled up and consumed him. His feet started moving him forward, and there was nothing around him but greyness, and a half-remembered dream. Don't… he thought. It was like gripping the edge of a cliff with his fingertips, struggling hopelessly to hold on. Don't take…

He blinked. The sun faded in around him, like sound welling up from silence. His ankle hurt, which was a nuisance, but he could see the road ahead. His car was not much further beyond that. He had done his job, keeping watch on the secret place in the countryside, and now he was on his way back, with nothing to report but silence.

Nothing had happened at all. But I wish it would, he thought, curling his hand into a fist inside his pocket. I wish it would.

It made him feel faintly sad, for some reason.

___

Part two: chapter eleven

Ruined

___

Shadows clung thickly in the ruined church, but shadows could only survive where there was also light. Faith had its own power. For centuries, people had worshipped here, and their faith had seeped into the stone. It still remained, as strong as it had ever been, even though darkness had outlawed that faith and tumbled that stone.

It was warm. Will's breath turned to steam in the cold, but the presence of power warmed him in the places that really mattered. He liked to meet in churches. They were not watched in the way that the ancient places of the Light were watched. The Dark dismissed the power of human faith. They thought they had triumphed by turning such places into empty shells of rubble and shadows. They did not see how thoroughly the power in those places defied them.

Anthony waited beside him, sitting neatly on the step that led to the choir. Will preferred to stand. The pews and the rood screen had been ripped out, taken for fuel or perhaps just for trophies. There was nowhere to sit, but that also meant that there was nowhere for the enemy to hide.

"They're late," Anthony said, glancing at his watch.

Will said nothing. He walked across the nave and looked up at a window. A saint raised his hand in fierce benediction, while angels looked on with distant eyes. He looks like Merriman, Will thought. He wondered if that meant something, but he knew it did not.

Anthony pushed himself painfully to his feet. He had almost died in a raid a few months before, and would never be free from pain. Will had not been there. If he had been, things might have ended differently, but if he had been there, then he would not have been elsewhere. Someone else, somewhere else, would have died or suffered or been hurt. Will could only save a few. It was something he still found so hard to live with and accept.

The side door opened silently, bringing in a wave of colder air and a swelling of the faint sounds of evening. Will and Anthony both whirled round, instinctively ready to fight, but it was one of their own. "Sorry I'm late," Phil said, when the door was safely closed again. He walked towards them with the silence that had become second nature to everyone in the Resistance.

"You're not the last." Anthony's voice was soft, but Will could sense how taut he still was. His near death had shaken him. He was quick to react to possible threats, but slow to calm down afterwards. Will could hear the pounding of his heart, and see it, pulsing in the air around him.

Phil walked to the empty space that had once been the Lady Chapel, where a pillar obscured him from Will's view. There was a soft grating sound. When Phil came back, he was carrying a gun. "That's better," he said. "I know it would be suicide for us to carry them outside, but still…" He grimaced. "It's the last few yards that are the worst. Approaching the meeting place, knowing that they could be watching, and without any way to fight back."

Anthony nodded with feeling. Will, who had his weapons with him always as part of himself, said nothing. He could not remember what it felt like to be fragile and mortal. People like Anthony and Phil, he thought, were far braver than him. Will was doing the thing he was made for, but they had made a choice. Will had already lost everything, but they could still lose.

"Who else is coming?" Phil asked.

"A good man," Anthony said. "He's been one of my seconds for a few years, but he's capable of a lot more. He has knowledge of the target, though, which is why he's coming tonight."

Will nodded distractedly. He had personally met so few of the people who were out there risking their life, under his ultimate command. Most of them now knew that their commanders possessed magic, but it was told as a secret, not to be passed on. The public still quietly laughed at such talk. No-one had publicly breathed a word about the true nature of the power that lurked behind all thrones.

Anthony and Phil carried on talking, exchanging news about this and that, sometimes even chuckling. Will found himself drifting away from them. He took one step towards the door, and then another. Something's coming. The thought tickled against his mind. Something I used to know.

"Something's coming."

He was not aware of saying it aloud, but Anthony and Phil stopped talking, and flanked him, guns ready.

"But not a threat," Will murmured. But, if that was so, why was his heart pounding so? Why was he fighting the sudden urge to turn and run? Walk away while you still can.

The main door opened. "It's him," Anthony gasped, his voice cracking with relief. He lowered his gun, laughing with the nervous relief of tension. Phil stood ready, still cautious.

The newcomer approached, moving from shadow to twilight, but Will would have known him even in the dark. He breathed his name, the sound hidden by Anthony's louder calling of the same name. Will's hand fluttered uselessly almost to his face, as if he could create a mask and hide behind it, then fell to his side again.

James walked briskly down the nave. He nodded at Anthony, and looked more warily at Phil. Will received the same look. There was no recognition there at all. It was ridiculous, but that hurt.

Anthony introduced them quickly. "James, this is Phil. And here's the boss."

James looked at Will more closely. Will looked back. He tried to keep it cool and level. He tried not to give in to the urge to look away. He tried not to give into the urge to devour James with his gaze. He wanted James to know him. He wanted James not to recognise him. He wanted this to go on, and he wanted this to be over.

"Good." Will nodded, and looked away. "We can start…"

"You…" James rasped. Will had missed the moment of recognition. Maybe it was something in the way he turned his head, or the way he stressed his words. Maybe it was the way the light had fallen on his face when he moved. When he looked at James again, his brother's eyes were wide with doubt and horror. "You're a sorcerer," he breathed.

"I told you that." Anthony sounded impatient.

"You…" James staggered back, almost falling. He reached for the support of something that was not there, and snatched his hand back to his chest. "You look like… No, it's magic. Don't. Please…"

"James," Will begged. He could not help himself.

"So cruel." James made a visible effort to collect himself. He stood tall, face wiped of emotion, and cold. "Was that a test?"

"What are you talking about?" Anthony strode to James' side, plainly embarrassed by him. "Stop it," he hissed. "You're making a fool of yourself."

No, Will thought sadly. I'm making a fool of him. I shouldn't have…

The door burst open again. The air tore apart with the sound of a gunshot, hollow, harsh, echoing. James fell forward onto his face.

"They followed him!" Phil shouted. He dropped to one knee, and started returning fire. Anthony threw himself to the ground, and reached for James. He was only able to touch his arm.

I didn't hear them, Will thought. I should have…

He plunged forward, hurling himself to his knees, scrabbling for James' body. "Keep them off us!" he shouted, commanding the air and the stone and the men beside him. "Keep them away from him!"

Anthony's face was a bleached mask, but he pushed himself up to his knees, and raised his gun. There were only three attackers, and one was already down. Will saw that much. After that, all he could see was James.

His brother was still breathing, but the breaths were horrible and tortured. His pulse fluttered weakly. Blood was bubbling from his mouth, pooling on the stone floor. His outstretched hand looked white and frail, and the fingers twitched as if searching blindly for help.

Will turned him on his back, supporting his head on his lap. His hands turned red with his brother's blood.

"Stop…" James whispered. "Them…" His dimming eyes were not focused on Will, but beyond him. Will could not turn his head, but he knew that Phil was wounded, blood spilling in drops from his right arm. Anthony was crying out wordlessly, a sound that could have been fury, but could have been terror and pain.

Will heaved a wrenching breath, and raised his blood-stained hand. The air responded, and joined with sound and light and memories of flame. With the tearing sound of an explosion, fire erupted through the middle of the church, forming a solid wall that separated Will's friends from the enemy. "Burn," he willed it. "Keep us safe. Keep him safe."

"Really a sorcerer, then," James whispered. "I never saw…"

"Don't speak," Will urged him. He tried to seek the wound, but James cried out, grasping his wrist hard enough to hurt.

"Is he…?" That was Anthony, his face lurid in the light of the flames. "Can you…?"

He could not. Against death, Will had no more power than any man. He could not heal another's wounds, and he could not save the life of any living thing. Death was necessary for life, and life was necessary for death. The Light was beyond and apart from the domain of living things.

The grip of Will's wrist tightened, then went slack. "Is it really you?" James whispered.

"It is," Will told him, smiling, weeping, holding him back.

James turned his face away. "Can't be." His lips moved, barely a whisper of sound coming out. "Will would never have been so cruel."

His eyes slipped shut. Will felt the moment of his death. It tore through him like a hurricane. It exploded in fire in his back and his chest, and someone was shouting, and someone was screaming. He heard his name called, and gunshots sounding. He saw fire, and James' face so close to his, and an outstretched hand on the stone floor, blood smearing on the tiles.

"They came through!" Anthony screamed. "Will! Will!"

Will pushed himself up on his hands and knees. I've been shot, some distant part of his mind registered, but that did not matter at all. He blinked, and there were no tears now, only clarity. James was dead, and Phil was down. Another of the enemy lay dying on the ground, but the final one remained, his gun raised.

Anthony stood defenceless before him, fumbling desperately to reload. "Will!" he pleased. "Kill him. Please…"

Will shook his head. He could not kill with magic. The power of the Light could not be used to end a life. Instead, he pointed his figure, and froze the man out of Time. "Shoot him," he told Anthony. He made his voice cold. He had to make his heart cold, too.

Anthony finished reloading, and raised the gun. He did not question, and did not hesitate. The moment he pulled the trigger, Will released the man from his spell. He returned to life only to die.

It seemed like the most unforgivable thing of all.

Anthony holstered his gun. "We have to get out." He looked wildly at the fire.

Will shook his head. "No." The fire vanished as if it had never been there. It left no scars on the fabric of the church. Everything else remained. There were scars from tonight that would never heal, and death could not be erased by a word.

He returned to James' body. Anthony tugged at his arm, trying to pull him back. "We do need to go," he insisted. "What if they reported this?"

Will pulled himself free. He huddled over James' body, his hand ghosting over his face. Cruel, James had called him. He supposed it was true. He wanted to blame Merriman, but he could not. If Will had not been distracted, James would still be alive.

"I have to see to them," Anthony said, "to make sure they're really dead, and if they're not..." Will only vaguely glanced up as he walked away. He was only dimly aware of the killing shots, and the silence that came from dying men ceasing their struggles. He was more aware of Anthony's return, but only because he felt the urge to grab hold of James and hold him defensively, against this stranger who would steal his family from him a second time.

"They're all dead." Anthony's face was cold, but Will knew it was just a mask of hide his guilt and disgust. Anthony hated killing. The Resistance only recruited people who could kill when they had to, but took no joy in it. "I had to do it," Anthony said, his voice cracking a little. "They'd seen you. They would have told."

"Yes." Will nodded. This, too, was true.

"You're hurt, Will." Anthony knelt beside him, and started worrying at him with his hands. "Come on…"

"No." Will shook his head. "I'll heal. I can't die. Everyone else can, and they keep on…"

He snapped his mouth shut. His wound hurt horribly, but not as much as grief. He was trying to claw himself back up to the high and lonely path that he walked, but he had fallen too far. He was not an Old One tonight, but a child who had been torn from his family. He hurt, and he wanted his mother to kiss things better. He wanted her to soothe him and tell him that it wasn't his fault, that he'd done everything he could. He wanted to curl up to sleep, secure in the knowledge that his big brothers would make everything alright. He just wanted to sleep.

Phil shuffled up to them, a tall shape against the dappled twilight of the windows. He was bleeding from his arm, and clutching a lump on his forehead. "Hit my head on the step," he slurred. "We've got to go."

Will shook his head. "I can't leave him." The authorities would identify the body. When they captured someone from the Resistance, they made their whole family pay.

"No." Anthony sighed. "I know he's got family. He talked about them a lot. He said once that he wasn't afraid of dying himself, as long as they…"

"They will not find him," Will vowed. He tried to pick James up, but although he was an Old One, who was still bound by the limits of his human body. Scarlet pain flared through his body, from a fiery sun in the middle of his back. He staggered, but Anthony was there, half supporting him, half holding James. Anthony's face was twisted with pain, but he was surprisingly strong.

"Where?" Phil asked.

Will moistened his dry lips. "I've got a room nearby." It was not his home. He did not have a home. There were half a dozen places where he regularly slept, and this was one of them. No-one else had ever been inside it.

He remembered little of the long walk from the church. He remembered pausing at the door, and whispering the command that would wipe all blood and traces from the church. He remembered arms beneath his, and the way James' head sagged forward, and how he was no longer bleeding, and that was the most terrible thing of all, because it meant that James was dead.

He remembered turns and pauses, and how the sound of a helicopter had gone through him like a spear. He remembered how fast Anthony's heart had been beating, as their bodies were pressed together, side by side. He remembered Phil muttering words that made no sense, but Anthony groaning only once, when they jolted down a kerb.

He kept them hidden all the way with magic, because there was no choice. His magic was a beacon if the right people were watching, but unshielded, they would be a beacon to all. Out a every thousand men in uniform, only one could see him as he truly was.

He tried to explain a little of this to Anthony – how he could be dooming them all. Anthony just grunted, but later he laughed in wonder when they met a young woman, scurrying anxiously home to beat the curfew. She passed within inches of them without even seeing them. "I never grow tired of your marvels," Anthony said, eyes shining despite the pain.

But then the blankness of grief and exertion, and the next he knew it was almost dark, and they were stumbling through a doorway he had walked through so many times before, always alone. Anthony took James from him, and he cried out, but Anthony did not falter. Will leant against the wall, and watched Anthony lay James on the floor. "That might be concussion," Anthony said to Phil. "Stay here where we can watch you."

Will blinked. When he opened his eyes again, Phil had gone, and the room was lit with flickering candlelight. Anthony was standing in front of him. When he saw Will looking at him, Anthony started, and looked away, his face shuttering over. Will wondered dimly what expression it had worn a moment before, when his eyes had been shut.

"You need to sit down, Will," Anthony said. "I would have made you tea, but you don't seem to have any electricity, and I wasn't sure if it was safe to light a fire."

Will let himself be led to the couch. He reminded himself again that he could not die from this, no matter how badly it hurt. It would get better in time. He had to ignore it and carry on. There was no other choice.

"Phil's asleep in the other room," Anthony said. He lowered himself onto the couch beside Will, his careful breathing betraying how much it hurt him. "What are we going to do now?"

Will looked at James' face. It looked like the face of a stranger. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw instead the face of the bright and vibrant thirteen year old boy James had once been. It seemed impossible and absurd that he had turned into this adult lying dead on the floor.

He passed his hand across his face, and shivered at the damp feel of smearing blood. "Destroy this place," he said. "Destroy all trace of me here. There's too much of a trail now." It was not what Anthony had meant, and he knew it. He raked his hand again across his brow. "We'll have to…" He swallowed. "Destroy his body. If they find him with a government-issue bullet in him, they'll know."

"And go after his family," Anthony finished for him. He touched Will briefly on the back of his hand. Will did not know which of them was trembling, and which one was still.

Will nodded. "But better for them… Better for his family if they know. He can't just disappear."

Anthony leant back against the couch. "He had a brother. He told me that once. A younger brother. He disappeared when James was thirteen. They had to assume he was dead, but they never really knew for sure. It was bad enough that he was gone, James said, but the thing that really tore the family apart was that little seed of hope that perhaps he was alive after all."

Will turned his face to the side, so Anthony could not see it. He had to keep his hands entirely still. He could not betray the slightest emotion.

"That's what James was most afraid of." It sounded to Will as if Anthony's voice was coming from a very long way away, but there was no other sound in the world, so it was as loud as a shout. "That his family would be targeted because of him. That was part of it. But even more than that, I think, it was the fear that he would become one of the disappeared, and they would never know. But he still joined us. Even with the risk to them, he said, he couldn't sit back and do nothing. His family would understand that, he said."

Oh, James… Will blinked back the tears that could not be allowed fall. You were braver than me. You were braver by far.

"His brother was called Will," Anthony said. It was said so casually that Will knew beyond all doubt that Anthony knew. He tried to prepare something to say, tried to decide how his face would look when he turned round. He tried for denial, and struggled for truth. Seconds passed, and he remained frozen.

Anthony touched his hand, and this time he lingered. "You've been alone since you were twelve."

Will nodded. Even that movement hurt, as if it was wrenched from his soul. "I didn't want to, but everyone was just beginning. If the enemy had had any inkling that I was still alive, they would have…"

Anthony silenced him with a finger to his lips. "We don't have to be alone, Will."

He touch was fire and ice. The look in his eyes held Will pinned, unable to move towards it, unable to move away.

"It's comfort in the darkness, Will," Anthony whispered. "Everyone needs to know that they're not alone."

Will wanted to close his eyes and sink into arms that understood him and forgave everything. He struggled for speech. "I'm not…"

"Neither am I," Anthony said with a smile. "But that's not what it's about. Soldiers share blankets in the valley of the shadow of death. Comrades give comfort. There's girls where I live and sometimes I… but it's nothing. It doesn't mean anything. They don't know what I do, and I can't tell them anything. Everything that matters is locked away. Comfort comes from sharing and trust. Without that, it's nothing – just tawdry bodies in the dark."

He moved his hand to Will's face, caressing his cheek. It was the closest human contact Will had enjoyed since he was a child. Part of him craved it with a hunger that defied all thought. James was dead, and he was hurting so badly, and Anthony knew so little of him, but at least he knew enough.

Enough… The word caught, like a feather plucked from the wind. Enough, he echoed to himself. It was not enough. Anthony had seen a little beneath the surface of him, but he would never understand his heart. A snatch of comfort in the dark was no substitute for total trust. It would not bring James back. It would not change a thing.

Will took hold of Anthony's wrist, and gently pushed him away. "No," he said softly. "I can't do that."

Anthony did not snatch his hand back, or recoil in anger. He twisted his hand so he could briefly grasp Will's fingers. "You should," he said. "If not with me, then with someone."

Will looked away. He saw a figure, dark against the sun, turning towards him, smiling… He blinked, and saw only his small bleak room, that had never been a sanctuary, and now was only a prison.

He passed his hands across his face, as if scraping away all emotion. "I need you to do something for me," he said.

___

Part two: chapter twelve

Ashes

___

The tree above him had shed the last of its leaves. They lay on the ground as fading skeletons, and the branches were no shelter from the winter sun.

I have been here before, Will thought. I have watched this before.

But it had never been like this before. Over the years, he had watched his family from the hidden darkness. He had watched tears and anger, grief and pain. Only sometimes had he seen smiles. For ten years, he had seen nothing at all. He was shocked by how old his parents were looking, and how slowly they walked.

The breeze stirred his hair. A robin sang on a gatepost. Mary saw it, and turned. For a moment, both Mary and Will were staring intensely at the same thing. Will shivered at the thought, but Mary turned away.

The family gathered close. Will could not hear what they were saying. He could have listened effortlessly, of course, but he chose not to. He was no longer part of them. He would be a stranger, intruding on their grief.

He did not think he could bear it.

Five years before, Will had stood on another, greener hill, and watched a funeral. For a wild moment, he had almost thought that that funeral could be a beginning. This one was an ending. Nothing would be the same after this.

They stood so close to each other, hand clasping shoulders, arms around arms. There were tears. All the terrible things in the world had still not inured mankind to grief. It never should. This was the third son Will's mother had lost. Only one, the baby, had left behind a body to mourn, to hold, to stroke his face. Will had been taken away forever, and of James, all they had was ashes.

That had been Anthony's task. Will himself had set the fire that had consumed James' body, but Anthony had been the one to deliver the ashes to his parents. It had been a dreadful thing to ask, but Anthony had done so without demur. Will knew Anthony would be discreet. Some secrets had to be told, to ensure his family's silence. On the other secret, Will had implored Anthony to stay silent. He could have forbidden it, but instead he had called on trust and friendship. "Not even a hint," he had said. "Not even a hope."

He did not know what Anthony had said on that dreadful morning. He did not know if his mother had screamed, or if she had stood there in silence, pressing her hand to her mouth and closing her eyes. He did not know if his father had shouted, screaming that Anthony was lying, that it was a trick. He did not know how they had contacted his brothers and sisters, and what lies they had told over the phone.

All he knew was that they were here now, mourning a son and a brother who was gone. They had no body, but they had ashes, and the day was a beautiful as days had been before the fall.

Robin and Steven were dragging a cart laden with firewood. That seemed to Will to be the saddest thing of all. James could not be mourned openly, because his death was a secret. The authorities could not watch everywhere, but if they watched this, there was a pretext. A family walk in the sunshine, to gather wood.

What a terrible world it is, Will thought, when a father cannot be seen to bury his son. He heard the echo of it on the wind, and realised that the words had been his father's, and not his own thought after all.

He wondered how much they knew. They had to know that James had been killed while opposing the government, because that was the only way the explain the secrecy. They knew they could not grieve while spying eyes could see. They had to speak of him as if he was still alive, and carry on unchanged. Any lapse would see them punished for aiding the Resistance. They had colluded in a cover-up, and Will had given them no choice about it.

No, he thought, he was the one who had had no choice. If his family had been given the choice, this was what they would have chosen. It was better to live in danger, than not to know.

Better, he thought. He clenched his fist. Better…

A tall figure came up beside him. "I am sorry, Will."

Will had not seen Merriman for over a year. He had told Merriman about James' death, but in his darker dreams, Merriman had flapped his hand, dismissing it as nothing important. Outside dreams, he had heard nothing.

Will wrapped his arms around his body, looking up at the sun. "They didn't even have this much, with me."

As a child, he had always been so glad to see Merriman. Now he only wanted him to be gone. There were people he wanted to be with, but they were on the hillside before him, and out of reach forever. Merriman was not them.

"Will…" Merriman began.

"Don't," Will begged him. "Don't tell me that things like this is the lot of an Old One. I know you've watched thousands of loved ones die. I know you think this is nothing at all, but to me it's not. Don't tell me that I shouldn't be thinking like this. Don't tell me I need to be an Old One, focused only on the Light. I know all this. I know everything you could tell me. It's just…"

"I wasn't going to say those things," Merriman said softly.

"It's just…" He turned his head away, unable to say the rest of it. It's just that, deep down, I'm a little jealous. At least they've got each other.

Below him, his father opened the simple wooden box, and scattered James' ashes to the wind. The wind took them, taking them away to the south, to open fields and slumbering trees and places where animals waited for spring. As he did so, the robin sang again, and this time they all turned towards it. Will saw his mother smile through her tears. He hoped they thought that James was singing, too.

"Goodbye, James," Will whispered. He knew that a part of his brother would seep into the ground, and that plants would grow from where he had fallen, and would flower in glory beneath the sun. The Old One was consoled by this; the brother only knew that James was gone.

His parents clasped hands, and Steven put his arm around Mary. Slowly, heavily, they started the walk back home. They talked as they went, and sometimes they even laughed. They seem lighter, Will thought. Happier.

Stray strands of thought came together into a sudden whole. He had never been in any doubt that his parents needed to know about James, even though it burdened them with dangerous secrets. They would keep that secret. And they would keep Will's, too. All he had to do was show himself.

There would be disbelief, but he had explanations. There was enough talk of sorcerers that he could broach the subject of his true nature, without it seeming impossible to them. James had called him cruel, so perhaps they would hate him for a while, but he could live with that. It was better for them to hate a living son, than the grieve for one who had disappeared.

He drifted forward. "Don't." Merriman grasped his wrist. His voice was soft, but there was command in it, too.

"But I can tell them now." Will turned to him with shining eyes. "They've already got secrets. They won't give anything away. Everything will be all right."

"No." Merriman shook his head. There was a terrible apology in his eyes.

Will strained against his grip. "It was different when it first happened, I know," he said. "The Dark was watching them like a hawk. But they're just another ordinary family now. There's no risk to them. Or, if there is a risk, it's the same risk they face just by living."

"Is it for their sake, that you would do this," Merriman said, "or for yours?"

"Theirs," Will cried, but he could not lie. "Mine, too. Please, Merriman, I was only twelve. I've done everything you've asked. You look at the people in the world and you just see children, but I grew up with them. They're mine, and I've been so lonely, and I know it's necessary, and I'd do it again if I had to, and I am not falling, not wavering. I am still of the Light. I'll do what I have to, but I just… I just wish…"

"Will," Merriman said, softly, terribly. "You cannot. You did what you had to do, and it cannot be undone. You must shed these attachments like a snake shedding its skin. You are an Old One, Will. You know this."

Will gave a sobbing moan. "Why are you so cruel?"

Merriman stood as tall as the sky, and as terrible as stone. "The Light is a harsh master, Old One." He let out a breath, and his face turned soft, his eyes full of gentle sorrow. "But it is my master, Will, as well as yours."

Will stopped fighting. His hands fell limply to his sides, and his head sagged. He let out a breath, and it felt like dying.

Merriman just looked at him. Above him, dead branches scored at a pure blue sky, but beyond that, not far away, people died in the streets. Men were dying in cells or wasting away in prison camps, and freedom was trampled beneath the feet of the lords of the Dark. That was what Will had to fight, and he knew it. He would never falter.

His family moved out of sight, and was gone. It felt as if they were taking his last chance away with them, and it was gone forever, and he was dead again, killed a second time.

Will raised his head. "I know," he said, but when he moved off, he walked alone.

___

Part two: chapter thirteen

All things change

___

Something's going to change today, Barney thought, as he stood on the ornamental bridge overlooking the dried-up stream. He had woken with that feeling. It had not shifted as he had walked to the park, to the latest of many meetings. It was still with him now.

He did not let it affect him. He knew people who anticipated doom every time they went on a simple mission, and they were still alive. He had known others who had departed with smiles and plans for the future, and were now dead. This world had changed everyone. Some clung to superstition, and some were ruthlessly practical. Some believed in fate, and some thought that there was nothing in a man's future that could not be changed, if you tried hard enough.

And which one am I? Barney wondered. He ran his finger up and down the rusty railing, slivers of paint chipping off against his skin. Which one am I?

He watched the figure approach, heard the steps on the bridge. A long-ago memory raised its head, of stamping over a bridge just like that, pretending to be the billy goats gruff. "Who's that trit-trotting over my bridge?" he muttered.

"What?" Simon took his place beside him. "Oh. Childish games. It's hardly the time for that."

"I was just remembering," Barney said softly. "I think it's good to remember that we used to be happy. It reminds us what we're fighting for."

Simon snorted. His hand curled around the railing, his knuckles white.

"I paint them, sometimes," Barney said. "Happy memories. Places we went on holiday. Cornwall. Wales. Mum and Dad. Children on a beach…"

"Don't," Simon rasped. He drew himself up, all stern older brother. "We're here to do our job, and nothing else," he said sternly. "There's no time to chat."

There's time, Barney thought. It's going to happen anyway. We might as well talk before then. We might as well remember.

He did not say it, though. He shook his head. "No," he said. "I'm sorry. You're right."

It was more important than ever to be friends, he thought. If something was really going to happen… No, even if it wasn't. For years, he had only occasionally seen Simon, and most of those meetings had been like this one, when their roles in the Resistance brought them together. There seemed to be an enormous barrier between them now. They were both engaged in the same dangerous work, but that had only pushed them apart.

"But we should meet up sometime," he said, "apart from this."

"It would be dangerous," Simon said. "Wouldn't it?" He sounded sarcastic and biting. It was five years since Simon had first discovered that Barney had joined the Resistance, but Barney knew he was still not forgiven. Simon wanted glory; Barney just wanted to serve.

Simon could be dangerous, he thought. If something really is going to happen today, it will be because of him.

He tried to ignore that thought, too, but he could not do so entirely. They had been taught to act on intuition, and follow up on any hunch of danger, however small. "Could someone know about this meeting?" he asked. "Could someone have followed you?"

Simon looked over his shoulder, and back again. "Of course not."

Barney breathed in, and out. He wondered whether to tell Simon the truth, and decided that he had to. Always pass on your hunches about danger, they had been told. If you did not, and then someone died…

"I've just had a strange feeling all day," he said. "A… warning, perhaps. A feeling that something's going to change."

"You believe in things like that?" Simon laughed.

Barney moved his finger up and down the railing. Almost all the paint had now gone, speckling the ground at his feet. "I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe."

"I don't," Simon scoffed. "Superstition is for cowards. I believe that individual people can change the world. Our fate's in our own hands. That's why I joined. That's why I'm doing what I'm doing."

"I believe that too," Barney said, "but…"

"If you believe in fate," Simon said, "then you're saying that all this was meant to be. That we can't fight it. That we shouldn't fight it."

"I didn't say it was fate," Barney tried to explain. "It's just a feeling…"

"Besides," Simon interrupted, "it doesn't even mean anything. Something's going to change." His voice was high and mocking. "How vague is that? It could be a good change. Maybe someone's going to assassinate…"

"Don't," Barney cried. He let out a breath. "No, it felt like a bad change. I don't know if I believe it, but…"

He believed in magic. The government spoke of sorcerers in the Resistance, and everyone denied it, but Barney was sure it was true. He had no idea why he was sure. All he knew was that all talk of magic resonated inside him, and made him think of green mountains and golden sand. Sometimes, when he was painting his old memories, he felt the same way, as if he could fall into a picture and walk in a place of magic, with a guardian at his side.

He believed in magic, then, but he also believed in the power of every man. Mr Thomas had shown him that. Mr Thomas had shown him that a single artist could change the world, and a single man's death could change a boy and shape the man he would become. Barney had joined the Resistance to help change the world, by actions big or small. If sorcerers were working alongside them, then they would do their part, but every ordinary mortal still had to play their part.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I just don't know."

"Well, I don't believe it," Simon said. "Stop babbling. We've got a job to do."

Barney nodded. He was still nodding when the men emerged from the trees, armed with guns, and shouting.

So I was right, Barney thought.

The end, when it came, was almost gentle.

___

Part two: chapter fourteen

The price

___

The doorbell rang. Jane's mother froze with the fork half way to her lips. Jane put her cutlery carefully down, so her hands could tremble safely, without her mother knowing.

"Who could it be?" her mother wondered, worrying at her lip.

Jane could not remember what it had been like to live in a world where a doorbell ringing unexpectedly had been a cause for mild curiosity, rather than dread.

It would fall to her to answer it, of course. It always did. She pushed her chair away from the kitchen table, wincing at the screech it made on the tile floor. As she walked to the door, she brushed against the edge of a newspaper, lying on the kitchen surface. It slid to the floor, taking a glass with it. Her mother screamed as it shattered.

Jane walked past it. The bell rang again, but quieter. If I don't answer, she thought, perhaps they'll go away. She thought of a door left forever locked. She thought of earth closing over a mound, and the dead sleeping within in, undisturbed forever.

Still she walked on. She fumbled with the lock, but only a little. She did not recognise the man on the doorstep at first, not until he spoke. "Hello, Jane."

It was two years since she had turned down his offer of a place in his garden, but she had never forgotten him. She had never gone back to the part of town where his garden was. Glimpses of flowers sometimes made her want to cry, and there were times when she thought she had been offered a piece of paradise, but had turned it down. At other, darker times, when the news on television was too heartbreaking, she thought she had almost been tempted into hell, but had resisted. In her dreams, he was both serpent and angel.

"Who is it, Jane?" her mother was calling nervously.

Jane turned away from the door. "Someone. Someone I… met… once. A man."

"More than that, I hope," the man said, with a grim smile. "I will not ask to come in. I have things to say that your mother should not hear, with her health being what it is."

"Bad things?" It was cold outside, heading towards the middle of winter. A tendril of ice reached in from the dark and coiled around her heart.

"Bad, yes," he said, when she was outside with him on the step, and the door had closed, barring her from light. "But not, perhaps, the worst, if you… co-operate."

She reached for the support of the wall, hand closing on rough brick. "Is that a threat?"

Over the road, a curtain twitched. The darkness hid all else. She wondered if there were soldiers there. She wondered how many neighbours would watch her being marched away, and if anyone would try to save her. She thought they would not. In times of danger, even neighbours became strangers. You kept your head down, and pretended that you did not hear the screams in the darkness, and did not see the armed men passing in the night.

"I will not lie to you, Jane," the man said. "Your brothers have been captured. It seems that they were in the Resistance."

A slow release of breath was the only sign she gave of the scream that tore her apart inside. She did not even blink. "My brothers aren't…"

"You didn't know this?" The man was looking at her with something that could have been compassion, but she was sure it hid only traps. "No, these hardened criminals keep it even from their family, I've heard. You are innocent in all this, and so is your mother. I will tell them so…"

His tone suggested that he had not finished. Jane waited for the rest, but it did not come. If, her mind gibbered at her. There's an if. It is a threat. He wants me to…

"How…" She swallowed. "How do I know you're not lying?"

"You want me to prove it by bringing their fingers, or their ears, perhaps?" He smiled. "Or do you want to see pictures of their tortured bodies?" He gave an exaggerated sigh. "I do not have such things, Jane. I thought it would be a comfort to you to have only my word, and not something more grisly. But I give you my word. This is true."

I can't take the risk. She dug her nails into her palms to stop herself sobbing. Simon was a member. I knew that. I've been expecting this for years. And Barney… I didn't know, but he's… No, he could be. And everyone gets captured in the end. It always ends in death.

She raised her head, covering her face with a mask as hard and emotionless as stone. She would not give him the pleasure of knowing that he had broken her. In that moment, she thought, she was more courageous than anyone in the Resistance would ever be. They launched their futile little struggles because they could not bear to endure. If Jane knew anything, it was how to endure. She had been doing nothing else for more than half her life.

"What do you want from me?" she asked him, her voice utterly level.

Her calm seemed to leave him flustered. "I risked a lot coming to you, Jane," he said. "You're not supposed to know anything about this until the police come. I'm not supposed to be helping…"

"Are you helping?" She folded her hands in front of her.

"I haven't been able to forget you," he said. "So beautiful. So crushed. I collect beautiful things. You're like a work of art languishing in a junk yard. You need to be taken to a place where you can shine. I have power, Jane. I can pull strings. By rights, you and your mother should be interned for this, but I intend to save you."

"If…?" she asked. She clasped her hands tight, and tried to banish all thoughts of Simon and Barney from her mind. She could not think of them in pain. She could not.

She thought he was about to lose his temper, but instead he passed his hand across his brow. When he lowered it again, he looked almost defeated. "I came with threats, Jane, but now that I see you, I won't… I can't… I can't let them take you. You can spit in my face, but I won't let them take you."

She wanted to sag with relief. I should take it and run, she thought. I warned Simon. He knew what the risks were. Barney, too. Anyone who joins the Resistance is prepared to die. They took their chances, while I…

It was no good. She could not think it. She could not do it. She had spent her lifetime keeping her head down, but she was no coward.

"No," she said, taking his gaze and holding it. "That isn't enough. I want you to save my brothers, too."

He clenched his fist. "You ungrateful little…"

"Please." She touched his arm, pressed her body to his side. "Please. If they die, then I'd rather be taken. You won't have saved me at all."

He tore himself away, and paced a few steps along the path, and back. "If they're guilty, I can't… I've got power, Jane, but not that much. I'm not one of the inner circle" He breathed in, and out again. "I could maybe get them sentenced to the camps, rather than anything worse."

"Do that." She felt as if the whole world was trembling, centred on this moment, on this choice. She was teetering on the edge of a cliff. After this, nothing would be the same again. "Please. I'll do anything. I'll give you anything."

He looked at her, and slowly smiled, his eyes glittering like frost in winter. And there, in the silent darkness, he told her what the price would be.

And she accepted it.

___

Part two: chapter fifteen

Footsteps

___

"Simon?" Barney touched his brother's shoulder. "Simon?"

There was no answer. Simon had been unconscious for several hours. Barney had called for help, but no-one had come. Long ago, or so he had been told, questions were asked if people died in police custody, but now nobody cared.

"I'll try again, Simon," he said. He limped the few paces to the door, and tried to peer through the tiny grille. He could see nothing but the blank face of the door opposite, but just as he began to move away, he thought he heard shouting.

"Nothing." He settled down again beside his brother. Simon's lips looked dry and bloodless, but Barney had already used up their scant allocation of water, gently coaxing it down Simon's throat. They had not been fed. It was over twenty-four hours, Barney thought, since they had been brought in, and they had been left alone for the whole time.

He did not yet want them to come. Soon, though, he would become so desperate from hunger and solitude that he would be begging for them to come, even though their coming meant torture. That was how the secret police worked, he knew. First the solitude, then the attention. Both were as bad as the other. It was a terrible thing to be so lonely that you were crying out for the coming of one who would hurt you.

But I can take it, he thought. I will face it, as long as they come before Simon dies.

He had no idea how badly Simon was hurt. Simon had once intended to be a doctor, but Barney's thoughts had always been on art, once he had grown past childish things. He did not know how much abuse the body could take before it gave up and died. He did not know how close Simon was to that point.

"You shouldn't have fought them," he murmured, stroking his brother's blood-caked hair away from his brow. "It was obvious they were going to win."

Barney had yielded instantly, recognising impossible odds. Perhaps it had been cowardly; perhaps he had just given up. It had already felt half like a dream, and he had been drifting into the reality of his premonition, moving towards it almost with a sense that this was right. Simon, though, had struggled, and tried to run. They had fought to take him. Throughout the terrible journey to their cell, Barney feared that Simon was dead.

Simon's eyes began to flutter. "Where…?" his cracked lips muttered. "What…?"

"Don't try to move," Barney told him gently. "You're hurt. We've been arrested. Remember?"

Simon's face crumpled. "Yes." It was a sob, a whimper of pain. "You let them. You didn't fight. You…" He bit his lip against the pain. "Coward," he whispered.

Barney did not contradict him. He was afraid – terribly afraid. He was terrified of the silence, and he dreaded the sound of footsteps at the door. He didn't want to be hurt, and he didn't want to die. A simple death was terrible enough, but to be captured was the worst thing of all. What if he broke under torture, and talked? What if he betrayed…?

"Your fault," Simon muttered. "Yours."

Barney sat very still. It would have happened anyway, he thought, but he did not say it. He did now know which of them had been followed. He did now know which of them had been indiscreet or unlucky, and betrayed their meeting to the enemy. He did not know whose fault it was, but he also knew that it did not matter. There could be no reproaches when you played a game of life and death. There could be no blame when death stalked them all every day.

"It's all over now." Simon's face twisted in a sob. "Nothing left."

"Try to sleep," Barney told him uselessly. "Your body needs to heal."

"What?" Simon gave a bitter bark of laughter, closer to tears. "So they can kill me or torture me? Best to die here, isn't it, now you've ruined everything."

Barney thought of the footsteps that would approach their door, sooner or later, inescapable. Everyone who joined the Resistance knew that this day might come for them, and they all claimed that they could live with that risk, because the cause was good. But it was one thing to say it, and another thing entirely to live it. He thought about all those others who had been captured before them, and wondered how they had faced their end, alone and afraid. Did they regret making the choices they had made? Did the fear unman them all in the end?

There was no comfort he could give. Words of comfort would be a lie, and he thought he was beyond words now. Simon turned his head away, and drifted into sleep, or unconsciousness, or the last drift into death.

Barney was alone, hearing only the scraping sound of his own breath. The silence trembled. No footsteps came, and every second without them was a reprieve, and every second without them was a curse.

His fingers were bloody, black behind his nails. He wondered if they would take his fingernails, if they would…

"No," he moaned to himself. Be strong. Be strong for Simon. He wanted to sob and tremble and scream. But I…

He shuffled to the edge of the cell, and pressed his face against the cold stone. This could not be the end. They were in England! He had seen so many terrible things. He had watched the world fall into tyranny and despair, and he had fought it. Since he was barely more than a child, he had fought it, and surely you could only fight a thing if you believe that it was real. But now, at the end of things, it seemed absurd. This could not be happening. This could not be true.

He had spent his childhood laughing and painting and playing games in the sun. He could not end it here, screaming in a cell.

Simon moaned. Barney's head snapped up. "No!" he gasped, because sound meant footsteps, and footsteps meant the end. Simon moaned again, and then was silent, and Barney crawled over to him, to touch his throat and find him still breathing.

It was only then that he realised that the footsteps had come after all. They were fast and loud, and someone was scratching at the door of their cell, clanking and turning and scraping, and…

The door opened. "Please," Barney said. "My brother's badly hurt. Please don't hurt him any more." And that was a surprise, the words coming as if someone else was saying them, because until the moment the door opened, he had thought he was going to collapse and grovel and beg.

"Come on," the person at the door urged him. "Quickly."

Barney blinked. The light from the corridor hurt his eyes after hours of gloom. It pulsed on and off, as people ran past in the corridor, and he could hear shouts in the distance, and the sound of guns.

"Come on!" the person shouted. "It's a rescue. Come on!"

Barney looked at the light, then back at Simon. "He can't walk…"

"We haven't got time." The man at the door peered desperately over his shoulder. "Got to go."

Barney looked at the door again, at the light, at the hope. Out there was freedom and sunlight. He would have to hide, of course, and live forever under an assumed name, but he would be alive. Here there was nothing but fear and pain and death. It was footsteps in the darkness, and a hand with a knife. It was torment and despair, and then it all ended in dark and nothingness.

"Go," he said, flapping his hand. "I can't leave him here. I'm staying."

The man at the door nodded once, and left.

Barney knelt there in his cell, and stared at the light outside. He did not move.

He was still there when the soldiers came with guns.

___

Part two: chapter sixteen

Equal night

___

The man beside him tilted his head, as if listening. "There is power here."

"Good." Bran jammed his hands deeper into his coat pockets. The rain had been growing heavier all evening, and the tree offered only scant protection. He was soaked through, and very cold.

He would endure far worse, of course, if it meant the capture of one of the Light.

"Power," the man said again. He grimaced, as if he had tasted something unpleasant. "But hidden. More like an echo."

He was called Hedges, and Bran did not like him. He was of the Dark, but not a great lord. The Dark, it seemed, were less jealous of their magic than the Light. The Old Ones kept all the power for themselves, inhuman, immortal, and cold. The Dark also had its immortal lords, but also had its minor minions, who possessed a part of the magic of the Dark, but would live a normal mortal life. Hedges was one such man, and Bran did not like him.

He had no choice but to use him. He would use all weapons, and ally with all manner of men, if it helped bring down the Light. Nothing was truly evil, if it was used to extirpate a greater evil.

"We do not pay you to talk about echoes," Bran said harshly. "You are here to lead us to the Light."

Hedges glowered at him, hatred glittering in his narrowed eyes. Bran did not need to possess magic to know that his dislike was returned. Most of the Dark hated him because of who his father had been, and they were jealous, and thought that Bran should have been killed. It did not matter. Bran could cope with being hated. It was better to be hated than to be deceived. It was better to be feared than to be mocked.

Hedges stalked out into the open, and peered into the distance, towards the castle. Bran's men had melted into the darkness long before, and had joined all the other units and divisions. Something big was expected tonight, and intelligence had suggested that it would be here, at Windsor. Once a royal castle, it was now a government outpost, but there were many of the old trappings of royalty still in the castle, there for the taking. The Resistance liked to strike at symbolic places, and Windsor was one of the greatest symbols of all.

Bran pushed down his dislike. The task was more important than emotion. It always was. "Anything?" he asked, moving up beside Hedges.

"Power." Hedges shivered. "But not of the Light."

Bran remembered Will telling him about Herne. They had been sitting side by side on the hillside, legs stretched out in front of them, and the sky so blue and vast above them. They had been talking about this and that, mostly normal things, but then Will had been telling him about the Wild Magic, and hunter that had scattered the dark and the cold of winter. He rode on the eve of Twelfth Night, Will had told him, and today was only the autumn equinox, but…

"The Hunt," Bran murmured. "Could it be the Hunt?" For the equinox was also a day of power in the old calendar, and perhaps a being like Herne could ride a second time, if there was cause.

Hedges recoiled in fear, hissing low in his throat. "Yes. Yes…"

"A trap." Bran felt strangely calm about it all. "They brought us here to…"

"No," Hedges said. "No. Not tonight. Once a year. They are bound. I was there. I saw it. I was there. We all were, seeing with eyes, even if our bodies were far away. We were all part of it, hunted and hounded like vermin, when your friend the Sign-seeker…"

"He's not my friend!" Bran cried. "He never was my friend." He breathed in and out, struggling for control. The rain helped, cold and relentless, washing away anything he did not want to be there. "Is Herne here, Hedges?" he demanded. "Is this a trap?"

"Not here." Hedges shook his head. "An echo. It tastes different. Not like it was then, but still unpleasant." He spat. "We should wipe all such things from the earth."

"But not tonight," Bran said. "Tonight we strike at the Light, and the Resistance that dangles from their strings like puppets."

Can't you see? he wanted to bellow at his prisoners, when they were brought before him. Can't you see how the sorcerers force you to dance to their tune? You are the ones who pay the price, while they sit behind and laugh. Cold face, cold voice, but inside he would be whispering, Like they did with me. But all the prisoners were blind and unrepentant, and declared that they had acted of their own free will. They died still believing that they had been free.

His radio buzzed quietly, and Bran unhooked it from his belt. "Pendragon," he said quietly into it.

"McKenzie, sir," came the reply. "The men are in position, but we have taken a prisoner, sir. An old man, a vagrant. Reeks of drink, and worse."

"It could be a disguise." Bran thought for a moment, weighing up the risks. "Have someone bring him to me. The rest of you keep your positions."

"Very good, sir."

He wondered if Hedges was looking at him. Anyone could disguise themselves as a vagrant, but with magic a man could take on a completely different face. A young man could become old. A whole man could become broken. That was why Hedges was here. He could sense the presence of the Light, and he could sniff out sorceries. He could unmask traitors, and bring them crashing down.

Can you sense anything? he wanted to ask Hedges, but he did not like to be beholden to such a man. Then he realised how selfish and stupid he was to feel like that. The cause was more important than any mere pride. He would humble himself if it meant the capture of a foul creature of the Light. To get his revenge on Will Stanton, he would even endure laughter.

"Anything?" he asked, keeping his voice level, but Hedges shook his head. "Tell me if you notice anything…" Bran began.

"You do not command me, Pendragon," Hedges interrupted him, sneering the title. "We share common purpose, but mine is more pure."

Bran chose not to fight it. He moved a few steps away, back to the paltry protection of the tree, and waited. After a few minutes, he saw the dark shape of one of his men, returning through the trees. The prisoner he was dragging seemed placid, as if broken already. Or pretending, Bran thought. Playing a part.

He glanced at Hedges, but Hedges was quite obviously not looking at him. The prisoner was Bran's, then. Bran went forward to receive him. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"Harry," the old man said. His captor threw him down before Bran, where he grovelled on hands and knees. "Please don't hurt me. I sleep here, that's all. I haven't got a house. I like a bit of drink every now and then, you see. Wife left me, and they took my house, but I sleep in the woods, and that's not a crime, is it?"

Bran looked down at him. "Yes." He kept his voice low and cold. He knew from experience that such a voice induced more terror than a shout. "All citizens should live in proper registered accommodation. Sleeping rough is a crime." He bent down, just a little. "Being a member of the Resistance is a worse crime."

"Resistance?" the man echoed. "I'm not in the Resistance. They wouldn't have me," he laughed. "Too drunk."

"Ah, so you tried to join them?" Bran demanded.

"No. No." The man was pathetic in his grovelling. "A joke, sir. I'm sorry. I don't know anything about the Resistance."

Bran straightened up, made to turn away. "Of course," he said, "someone in the Resistance would say just that, too. They might even dress up as a vagrant and spin a story just like yours…" He let his voice trail off, and counted to ten, tuning out the prisoner's squawks and denials. "But if you are who you say you are," he said, turning back, "then perhaps you have seen people passing tonight. Not us, but others. Perhaps a little word about them…"

"I didn't see anything," the prisoner protested. "Nothing at all. Nobody, until the soldiers came."

Perhaps it was the truth. The Resistance was tricksy and knew how to move unseen, especially if they had foul magic on their side. This man could be just what he seemed, in which case he needed to be arrested for vagrancy and put to work in a prison camp, but not by Bran. Bran aimed at far higher targets, and dealt with the worst of crimes.

"I think you're lying." Bran started to pace around the prisoner. This, too, had broken many a man. He lingered at the man's back, knowing that the man would be trembling at the thought of a knife at his back, and death in a single word. "I think you're a member of the Resistance in disguise. Perhaps you even let yourself be captured deliberately, so you could strike…"

"No," the man gabbled. "No. It's not true. I'm not…"

Bran grabbed him by the hair, pulling his head up. "You could be a sorcerer," he hissed. He stared at the man's eyes, suddenly desperate to see Will Stanton's eyes staring back at him. "I could have you in my hands, the chief viper of them all."

"No," the man sobbed. "No, please, let me go. You're hurting me. Let me go. Please…"

His radio sounded. A distraction, Bran thought. He did not let the man go. "I will have the truth out of you," he vowed.

The radio sounded again, louder this time. Bran cast the prisoner away. "Hold him," he commanded to the soldier, as he snatched the radio from his belt. "What?" he snapped.

It was not McKenzie. The voice at the other end was high with fear and fury. It told its tale, and Bran felt as if he was standing on the edge of a precipice, and it was crumbling beneath him, and he was falling, falling…

"What?" Hedges demanded. "You see!" the prisoner cried. "I said I wasn't… I said…"

Bran hated them for hearing. He switched the radio off, and turned away. The rain had stopped, he realised. He wondered when that had happened. If felt like a new day, as if time had stopped when the message had come in, and only now was starting again.

"There is no attack," Bran said, still not looking at anyone else. "There is no trap. This whole thing was a trick, a diversion." A thousand men were stationed at Windsor, and hardly anyone left behind. His home, his office, all his possessions… The pride of it, and the shame. "We withdraw," he said wearily. Withdraw, and go back, and face the wrath and retribution that was to come.

"The prisoner, sir?" the soldier asked.

Just a vagrant. Nothing more than he appeared to be. "Let him go," Bran commanded, as he walked away into the darkness. "Someone else will find him soon. They always do."

___

Part two: chapter seventeen

Doors close

___

The sun turned bloody in the smoky autumn sky. The lurid light flooded Bran's devastated office, and made it look as if he was standing ankle-deep in blood.

"He has been punished, of course," his guardian was telling him. "Only a fool falls for a trick like that."

The head of the secret police had committed everything to thwart the expected attack on Windsor, leaving nothing behind to defend their own base. The prisoners in the holding cells had been released, papers and possessions had been stolen, and those that could not be taken away had been destroyed.

Bran felt violated. Mine, he thought, imagining them stamping through his office and rifling through his desk. Foul Resistance creatures, tainted with sorcery... "I will make them pay," he swore.

"Of course," his guardian said, with a quick and chilling smile. "You are taking his position. The secret police is yours now." He smiled again. "See that you do not fail as he did."

He strode out, splashing through blood, wading through it, drowning in it.

Far below, in the only cell that was still occupied, Barney shivered. "Something…" he whispered to Simon, who could not hear him. "Something… evil." It was a strong word to use, but it felt right. He did not know what had prompted it.

The bloody sun did not penetrate the place where Simon and Barney were. There had been no light since the cell door had been slammed shut by the soldiers. Barney had no idea how many had escaped, or who had organised it. As far as he had been aware, a big operation was planned for Windsor, and not here. He could only assume that the Windsor plans had been a distraction, and he had not been trusted enough to know the truth.

Which is good, he thought, because that means there are fewer people for me to betray when they break me.

He no longer feared the footsteps. He could have run, and he had stayed. When they came, they came. He could not fear it and he could not regret it. He had made this choice, and that was that.

When the footsteps came, he took his place at Simon's side, and held his brother's hand.

On the far side of London, Jane imagined how it would be. They were not hurt in her imagination, though, and Simon was the strong one, shielding his younger brother as the door opened. She wondered if they had been afraid when the time came. She wondered if they had been afraid, just for a moment, that this meant death.

"It's done?" she asked him.

He nodded. "It is done. They are on their way to the camp." He took her hand and squeezed it. "It's all I could do, Jane. I couldn't free them, not for this. At least they're alive. They'll have to work, but they won't be ill-treated. I promise you that."

"Yes," she said. She wished she could have seen them. She wished she could have talked to them. A tiny, terrible part of her wanted them to know. I paid the price, she wanted to cry to them. I paid it so you can be free.

"Come on, Jane," he said, picking up a wine bottle and heading for the bedroom. "There are better things to do on our wedding night than talk."

She followed, walking slowly, and painted a smile on her face. The bedroom door closed on the last of the sunlight…

And then there was night.

"So close." Will paced up and down in front of the shattered window. "I didn't know. I could have…"

"No," Merriman told him. "You could not. You should not. You must forget it."

Bran was at Windsor; he had known that much. He had found Bran's office, with "Pendragon" on the door, but he had not entered, had not touched a thing. He had shielded their flight, and they had escaped without casualties, their objectives achieved.

It was only afterwards that he had learned that Simon and Barney had been there, and had been left behind.

"We are fighting to save the world, Will," Merriman said sternly. "We cannot throw that away because of one person we used to know."

I don't like him any more, Will thought, and he felt a stab of pain worse than he had felt at James' death. Merriman was his only friend. He had been father and mentor to him. As a child, Will had longed for him. It was the most dreadful thing of all, to find that worship turned to this.

"I knew them longer than you did, Will," Merriman said softly. "I grieve, too, but…"

But you cursed Hawkin, Will thought, whom you loved.

"I don't want to be cold," Will cried, almost sobbing it.

"You have no choice, Old One," Merriman said, and he closed the door and left Will alone with the night.

*******

End of part two

Part three will resume six years in the future. Part three is the final part, and has 21 chapters.

___

Part three

____

Part three: chapter one

Lion in chains

___

Merriman had known that this day would come. He had known for quarter of a century that this moment lay in his future.

The manner of it, though, and the timing, was hidden. The Dark had triumphed at the tree, and magic was now ruled by the Dark. Merriman could no longer step into the future and see what lay ahead. In many things, he was as blind as a mortal.

They cornered him, as they had cornered so many of his kind before him, over the years. He was a lord of Light, but against him stood all the lords of Darkness, and a score of their minions. As soon as he saw them, he knew that he was taken.

He did not fight; only a soft, quiet surrendering to the inevitable. This had to be. The future was hidden to him, but some things had always been clear.

He had been the first, but he would not be the last. He had to go, for Will to come into his own.

But I wish I'd had longer, he thought, as they closed on him, grinning, triumphant. He had lived for such a long time, and had seen so much death and darkness, but he still wanted more time. He did not know if Will was ready. He wanted to tell him…

"The old lion himself," they crowed. The lesser ones sneered. The true lords of Darkness just stared impassively, for they were equals to him, although opposite in every way. "The very last one of your kind."

He cherished his secret and kept his face impassive. Even defeated, he could protect his mind from the Dark, but part of him remained human, and hope could betray itself in very human ways.

"We have you now," they said. "Too broken even to fight."

He looked at them, one, then another, then another. The lesser ones amongst them broke, and looked at the ground. Not broken, his look said. But defeated. Yes, defeated…

Perhaps they would think he had surrendered himself to them deliberately, too shattered by despair to live on. They had not captured him on some great enterprise, fighting the Darkness against all the odds. Instead they had come upon him in a wood, when he had gone unguarded to remind himself that the world was beautiful, and to remember great men whom he once had loved. He had bowed his head a while, and raised it to find himself surrounded. It had been a genuine mistake.

Or maybe, he thought, as they bound him with bonds of magic and twine, the Light had willed it so. Will was ready. It was time.

"No words for us, Lyon?" they taunted. "No pleas? No defiance? The others did, before they were destroyed."

"That is a lie," Merriman told him. He knew his Old Ones. They could feel whatever a human could feel, but they would not show it, not at this last extremity.

"It matters not," they told him, as they led him away. "You are the last of your kind. The Light has been eradicated forever. The world is ours now. Think on that, in your prison beyond eternity."

He did not bow his head, but he went where they led him. His powers were great, but theirs were legion, and there were many of them, and he was alone. He had no chance of escaping his fate. They would send him out of Time forever, but first they would parade him in front of the men who thought they ruled the land, and show him to the masses on television. He was the conquered sorcerer chieftain, the last of his foul kind. They would gloat for a while, but then it would be the end.

After four thousand years, he was leaving the world, leaving it in the hands of the Dark.

He could have wept then, tears hidden behind his mask-like face. This was inevitable, this was necessary, but this was the end. He left the world in darkness. He would never see the triumph of the Light. After so many years, so many struggles…

He was still human enough to care.

The only ending he would ever see was darkness, and then oblivion. He could not even cherish hope, in case they saw it in his eyes, and snatched it away from him, and knew.

Merriman was defeated indeed.

___

Part three: chapter two

Before

___

"Do you remember?" Barney wondered out loud, as he studied his coarse hunk of bread. "How it was before, I mean. Sometimes it seems like a dream."

Simon took a spoonful of soup, and grimaced as he found it too hot. He dropped the spoonful back in the bowl, but the grimace was still there, frozen onto his face.

"Six years, we've been in here," Barney said, "and years before that, fighting all this. Years before that, when things were going wrong, but we didn't really understand what was happening. How long has it been like this? Nearly all my life, really, but I still remember what it was like before."

"Don't," Simon rasped. He took another spoonful of soup, and swallowed it, though Barney could see that it hurt him.

"No," Barney said gently, for they had been through this before. "We have to remember. It reminds us why we're here." He tried some of his own soup, for he understood why someone might seek the simple pain of a burn. "I don't think I could bear it," he said, "if I didn't remember what we were fighting for. We failed, but at least we were right to try."

"Twenty-four years," Simon said. He put his bowl down, and started worrying at his hunk of coarse bread, tearing it to pieces. "Twenty-four years ago this September. It's been awful ever since."

Barney almost questioned it, then understood. For Simon, it had all started to go wrong when he had started his new school that year. The world had started to decline at about the same time. It was only understandable that the two things were mixed up in Simon's head. Personal things always hit hardest. After all, Barney had turned a blind and innocent eye until Mr Thomas had been killed in front of him.

"There's no point talking about it." Simon's bread was nothing but crumbs now. "Nothing's going to change."

"We don't know that," Barney had to say. He had been saying it for six years, and he could not stop not – could not.

Simon, as always, just grunted.

"They don't tell us a thing," Barney went on, as he always did. "The government might be teetering and about to fall, and we wouldn't know anything until the fences get torn down. The Resistance might be winning. And then there's that man…"

Another grunt, louder this time.

Barney gave up. He could never find much to say about the man who had come to their prison door six years before, and brought them to this place. "I cannot free you completely," he said, "but I can at least save your lives. A lifetime in the camps, yes, but at least you'll live. I did what I promised. I will not need to lie."

Barney had fired questions at him. Was he a friend, he had asked, but the man's cold face had answered no. Was he a sympathiser? A tight sucking in of breath had been his answer to that. Was this a trick, a warped tactic to get them to talk?

"It is a gift," the man had said, "though not to you. A payment, some might say, but I prefer not to."

They had never seen him again. If it was a gift, Barney had no idea who had received it. If it was a payment, he did not know who had paid the price.

"He helped us once," Barney pointed out now. "He might…"

"If he even existed," Simon grunted. Simon had been unconscious throughout. "We've talked about this hundreds of times before, Barney."

Barney picked up his black coffee and swirled it, watching the thick liquid splash against the sides of the chipped mug. "Yes," he said. "I know."

He took comfort in the repetition. It was almost a ritual by now. It made him believe that some things did not die. Some things endured, even if everything else was crumbling around them. He was still alive, and so was Simon, and there was continuity and comfort in that.

"I wish you wouldn't go on so." Simon turned on him, suddenly fierce. "Always nagging. You won't let it lie. It's easy for you, but I… You're just making it worse. You won't let me forget."

"Easy for me?" Some coffee splashed onto his leg, black and scalding.

"Because you were so young when it happened." Simon's hand closed into a fist around the remaining crumbs of his bread. "Just a baby, really. You never knew. You never had hopes. You never…"

"No," Barney cried sharply. "No."

Sunlight dancing on water. Children laughing. A leaf in autumn. A brush moving on canvas, and mother's smile.

He let out a slow, careful breath, reminding himself that this was his brother, and they had enemies enough, and must not be angry with each other. "I was nine, Simon," he pointed out. "I have lots of memories of what it was like before. I had lots of hopes. I was going to be an artist."

"Forget them, then," Simon said harshly. "It does no good to think about them. Best forget. Best forget all of it."

Of course, Barney thought, Simon had had further to fall. Barney had never hoped to change the world, only to do his little bit to lessen the grip of darkness upon it. Simon, the eldest, lordly and confident, had always expected to be a leader. Barney, the youngest, had trotted behind, lost in art and stories. Simon had never known how to cope with failure.

It made him feel strange, as if he was the older one now, and Simon was the younger, needing a guide and comfort.

But, "No," he said gently, wrapping his hands around his still-warm mug. Above him, thin sunlight seeped through the smoky clouds, warm on his face. "I think it is important to remember. It hurts, yes, but the alternative is worse."

The klaxon sounded, marking the impending end of their break. Simon struggled to his feet, but Barney sat there a moment longer, face tilted to the light.

"Forgetting is a little like dying, you see," he murmured. "You can't have hope without regret."

Simon was limping away, taking his place in front of the stone-faced overseer, and did not answer.

The cloud parted completely, and full sunlight shone upon the dingy yard, transforming it utterly.

___

Part three: chapter three

The man in the mirror

___

A stranger stared back at him from the mirror.

Bran studied him. The stranger was called Pendragon. Sometimes - more and more often, now - Bran thought of himself as Pendragon. The name his mother had given him was fading further away, dying from lack of use. Other times, though, the difference was stark. Mirrors made it the starkest of all.

One man stood before the mirror; another man stood within, gazing back.

The man in the mirror was strong and sleek. His white hair was raked back severely, and his tawny eyes did not blink. His mouth was pressed into a straight line. It was silent now, though it knew how to shout. Even better, it knew how to be icy cold, to reduce people to grovelling terror just with a few quiet words.

No-one laughed at the man in the mirror. Long ago, a boy with tawny eyes and white hair had been laughed at by all the other boys at school. Freak, they had called him, and they had pinched and shouted and laughed. Then had come the Old Ones, who had pretended friendship, like a lifeline in a storm. They had laughed, too - laughed behind their hands at the stupid freakish boy they had tricked and ensnared.

Then Bran had become Pendragon. The boy had become a man, and the man had begun to rise through the ranks of the secret police, sustained by his hatred of those who had tried to use him. A few had laughed at him even then, thinking him soft, a fool promoted because he had connections in high places.

Those men, too, he had silenced.

No-one had laughed at him for years. Neither, too, had the man in the mirror ever laughed. Bran's hand rose to his face. In the mirror, he thought, the movement looked like a threat, but all he did was touch his mouth, pushing the edges gently, testing the feel of a tiny smile.

It felt wrong. Cold smiles he could do - the smile of a captain who had caught his man; of a gaoler spreading chill to the heart of the man at his feet. But a true, happy smile… He lowered his hand. He did not know how to do them. He had forgotten how.

He knew he was not happy. He was many things, but he was not a man to lie to himself. Circumstance and choice had set him on this path, and one thing had led to another, and now he was captain of the secret police, the most feared and hated man in Britain. He did not like what he did, but the alternative was worse. It was better to be feared than mocked. It was better to be hated than to have people pretend to love you.

It was better to be Pendragon than to be the boy who had once been called Bran.

"And besides," he told the man in the mirror, "if it wasn't me, it would be someone else, and that would be even worse." There were many beneath him, eager for his job, who were cruel and sadistic and would torture prisoners just because they could. At least Bran only ordered pain when there were genuine secrets to be discovered. They called him merciless, but he spared people when he could, and let their deaths be as clean as he could make them. "I'm helping them, in a way."

The man in the mirror blinked. Bran sighed. No, there could be no lies. He could not hide behind that excuse. He did what he had to do. He did not enjoy it, but he could have walked away years ago, and he had not. He had made his choice. They were right to hate.

"But I was right, too," he told the man in the mirror. Those lips moved, speaking with the voice of a stranger. You were right, too. He had made his choice. He had refused to be used. He had raised his sword, and the world had fallen into place around him. Much had happened that he had not foreseen, but better this than rule by those deceivers. Better the honesty of Darkness, than the smiles of the Light, that hid only tricks and lies.

And now it was over.

He half brought his hand to his mouth again, struggling for that smile, but still no smile would come. He felt nothing. A few days before, Merriman Lyon, the chief of the sorcerers, had been captured and sent out of Time forever. The lords of the Dark had been terrible in their jubilation. The last Old One had gone, and the world belonged to the Dark forever.

Bran had not been there to witness the last moments of Merriman, master of lies. When they had told him the news, he had frozen, as still and cold as the man painted on the glass of the mirror.

Over, he thought. No more sorcerers to hunt. No more. Nothing. The end.

But he had not smiled. He had not mourned at the loss of his life's purpose, now achieved. He had paused only for a few seconds, then walked on, his face unchanged. Why? he asked the man in the mirror. He did not understand why. Pendragon, the man in the mirror, carried on unchanged. He led his men, and he ordered death. He hated, even though there was no-one left to hate. The Dark had won, but he still did their work, and still told himself that they had not won his heart.

He did not understand it.

The man in the mirror stared back, and gave no answers.

____

Part three: chapter four

Go gentle into the night

___

It did not feel as if Merriman was gone.

That was the strangest thing. For the whole of Will's awakened life, Merriman had been there. Sometimes he had been a voice in Will's mind, and sometimes just a distant presence, impossible to pin down, but always there. Sometimes they had gone for years without seeing each other, and sometimes they had lived in the same room. They had stood side by side, and they had disagreed.

They had been master and pupil; mentor and disciple. They had been father and son, and then friends. They had argued and disputed, but they had always been allies, always fighting for the same cause. They were of the Light, and they could not do anything else, or be anything else.

They were of the Light, and now Merriman was gone. Will was the only one left, and the Dark reigned supreme.

He ought to feel more bereft than he did. Will stood at the broken window, hand pressed into the dust. The rain fell down in a grey mist, and a stray cat sat sulkily beneath the shelter of an overhanging wall. It ought to hurt, a wrenching pain of absence, like James dying in his arms, or the first time he had seen his family after his first death. It ought to be terrible, impossible, dreadful. Instead, all he felt was numb.

Merriman was gone. Sometimes he had to say it out loud to believe it. "Merriman…" He could not say the rest of it. It was too absurd, too ridiculous. Merriman was the oldest of them all. He had watched man crawl up from the age of dust and stone, and create civilisations of beauty and gold. He had seen heroes rise and fall, and had lived through wars and battles and the death of kings. He should have been there at the end of it all, as he had been at the beginning.

Will had often wondered what it would be like to face the end, to be defeated, captured, blasted out of Time forever. Every other Old One in existence had met that fate, many of them in the original shock of the Dark's victory, and the rest over the years, and alone.

Most of Will's dreams were still of the past, but he dreamed, too, of capture. Brought in chains before the lords of the Dark. Kicked to the ground, head bowed. Cold laughter and eyes like ice, but then a figure, approaching from behind. Pale skin, pale hair, and eyes the colour of amber. "Hello, Will." And then a hand reaching out, and after that, nothing.

He shivered. Rain drifted through the broken window, falling on the back of his hand in a fine mist. He expected all Old Ones had such dreams, though none of them ever spoke about it. Every single one of them had faced their end alone. One by one, they had all fallen, until only Will and Merriman had remained.

Had Merriman, too, dreamed of his end? Had he feared it? Had he known? Will had dreamed of his own end, but never of Merriman's. He had never doubted that he would go first, and that Merriman would remain, last as he was first.

"It's wrong," he said aloud, but he said it only as a quiet murmur. He was numb inside and out, frozen by the unreality of the thing. He is not gone, his mind protested. He cannot be.

"What do we do now?" Anthony said softly, close behind him. Will had not sensed his approach. This numbness affected more than just his heart.

Will swallowed. "I'm the only one left."

"They don't know that." Anthony was still behind him, unseen, but close enough for Will to feel his warmth. There was no comfort in it. "They think Merriman was the last one. They think they've won. They don't know we've still got you."

Will closed his eyes. "It does no good. Before, when I did things, they thought it was Merriman. Now, the minute I act, they'll know they were wrong, and that there is still an Old One in the world. It… cripples me."

"Does it matter?" Anthony persisted. "Let them know that they're wrong. Make them afraid. There they are, gloating over their victory, and suddenly they realise that their enemies aren't all dead after all. Someone's still out there. If there's one, there might be more. Maybe they haven't won after all."

But they have, Will thought. They had all along.

The Dark had won on a hillside at midsummer, twenty-four years ago. The Light had fought, and had encouraged mankind to fight, too. Hundreds of thousands of people had died who might not have died, because they had joined the Resistance and fought. And, one by one, the Old Ones had been defeated, and the Dark's grip on the world grew steadily tighter and tighter.

There's no point, he thought. If Merriman could be defeated, then Will had no chance. The best he could hope was a few more years of enduring, ending in defeat. It would make no difference to the world. It would not dent the power of the Dark entirely.

"Will?" Anthony touched him on the back of his shoulder. "Will?"

Will opened his eyes. Nothing had changed. Nothing would ever change. Rain fell from a polluted sky, and winter would come and would reign forever. Merriman was gone. The Circle had ended, and now there was nothing but endless Dark.

"There's nothing I can do," he whispered.

He heard Merriman's voice then, as clear in his mind as if Merriman was standing beside him. This voice, though, spoke only in memory. Long ago, it had been, when Will was just a boy – though he had not really been a boy since the summer he was twelve. Side by side, they had sat, on a green hill above a plain, watching the winter stars, and speaking of past and future. "Never seek out Bran," Merriman had said, "while I am in the world."

Merriman was gone now. Will was alone, but Bran remained.

Nothing I can do, he thought, but perhaps this…

He could not save the world, but perhaps he could save one man, who had once been his friend. Then, after that, whether he succeeded or failed, he would face the end in peace. He would go gentle into the night, because he had at least tried.

"No," he said, moving away from the window. "I know what to do." He turned to Anthony at last. "But alone. I need to do it alone."

He did not say goodbye, and he did not look back, but he knew what he was doing. He knew that this was, in a way, a kind of suicide.

He only whispered it afterwards, when he was out in the dusk. "Goodbye." He meant it to Anthony, to his friends, to those who followed him. He meant it to the people in their locked houses, and those scurrying home in the streets, and people in farms and hillsides that he had never seen. He meant it to the world, to the Old Ones, to the Light.

"And, "Goodbye," he said, at the very end of it, pausing to look up at the sliver of the moon. "Goodbye, Merriman. I will see you soon, one way or another."

____

Part three: chapter five

Gilded cage

___

Soft music seeped from the room behind her. The light was pale golden, flickering gently as the diaphanous curtains drifted in the breeze. Jane could still taste the expensive chocolates, that had been left for her on a table, wrapped in a red bow. Her head was slightly fuzzy from her afternoon sleep.

She rested her forearms on the wrought-iron balcony, hands clasped above the darkness. In the west, the sun was fading, burning like a harvest fire in the smoke and ashes that filled the city sky. Other fires blazed beneath it, set by man upon the earth. Few nights passed without bomb or blaze, without raid or reprisal.

Not that Jane saw any of that. She was a princess in a tower, like Rapunzel, set above the world of men. But no prince would climb up to save her. This was her life now, and it would never end.

She lacked for nothing. No-one in all the world would ever dare to hurt her. Where other people struggled on the ground, she lived in the air. While they lived in ugliness, she was surrounded by all the beauty that she could ever dream of. There was art and music, soft fabrics and rich food. She lived in light and ease and comfort.

Jane leant out over the railing, as if she was straining for something out of reach. "Are you happy?" her husband asked her every night, and she would smile with brimming eyes, and tell him yes. "I want you to be happy," he said, and he was a man who always got what he wanted. She told him what he needed to hear. Sometimes she even believed it. But, at the same time…

She drew herself back, and rested her hands on her swollen belly. Six months along, she was. Her little boy, growing inside her, child of a man whom she did not love, but had been married to for six years. She did not love the child yet, but she hoped that she would. It was not the child's fault that the world was as it was. The child was not her prison. Her prison had been locked a long time before that, by her husband and her brothers.

"A baby." Her husband had been over-joyed, and had even cried a little. "My baby. A little boy. My son. An heir."

"Yes." She had smiled at him. "Your son."

He did not seem a stupid man. How, then, could he live this lie? He had forced her to marry him by blackmailing her with the life of her brothers. Did he really think that six years of gentleness could make her forget that? Did he really think that expensive gifts could make her love him?

It's because I'm too afraid, she thought, returning to the railing. Too afraid to tell him that he's wrong. He still had the power to kill her brothers. He still had the power to break her mother's heart.

The music came to an end. The machine changed to another disc, and started again, seedy and sensual. I should go in, she thought, picturing the open box of chocolates, and the heavy cushions on the velvet couch. Her husband had books only as works of art, and did not like them to be read, but there was always the television. Ordinary people could only watch government-produced propaganda, but her husband was a member of the elite, and their television could receive the full range of entertainment channels, denied to the masses.

She did not move. I'm afraid of that, too. It was a shaming admission, but she could not avoid it. I'm afraid of losing all that.

She liked the art and the music, the food and the comfort. She had spent years struggling to run a household and cope with her mother's depression, and it was a wonderful thing to finally be free from fear and the need to work. She had sacrificed her education and her future for her mother, and at last she had her reward. Her mother was safe, looked after by a full-time carer in the apartment below, and Jane was free. She spent her days at leisure, and she wanted for nothing.

She was terrified of losing it, and she hated herself for feeling that way. I am a coward, she thought. I always have been. She remembered how she had tried to stop Simon from joining the Resistance. She thought of all those days she had scurried through the town with her head down, hiding herself.

"Afraid," she murmured out loud, touching her belly, as if by doing so, she could give her son the courage that she lacked. She had been afraid in the dark days, and was afraid still, now that her life was full of light and gold.

Gunshots sounded in the street far below her. Holding her breath, she strained to see into the dusk. A man ran past, illuminated briefly by an orange street light, then hidden by the dark. Not long after, four men in black ran through the smear of light. She could hear them shouting, but the height made their voices thin and reedy, more like a plea than a command.

She let the breath out slowly, as her hands started to tremble. The men in black were the secret police, Pendragon's men. She had seen them kill a man once, far below her in the street. She had been too far away to see his face, and too far away even to see the blood, but that night she had lain awake for hours, unable to sleep for imagining it. In her dreams, the man had looked like Simon, or Barney, and once even like herself.

The guns sounded again. I don't want to watch, she thought. Heart fluttering, she began to turn away. I can't do anything. He'll die all the same, whether I'm watching it or not.

She walked towards the light and music of her apartment, but a man was there, standing before her.

Jane screamed, but her hands had risen instinctively to her mouth, and the sound was muffled and strangled. Safe! her brain gibbered. I'm supposed to be safe here! It was not her husband, not one of the servants. He was a stranger, tousled and grubby and smeared with blood. His side was bleeding, but there was no sign of pain on his face. Cold, she thought he was. Cold and merciless, a killer who would never feel remorse.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said. He started it like a fact, not like a reassurance. His voice was soft, though. It made her want to believe him. "I just needed somewhere to get away."

Her knees gave way, and she sank to the ground, her unconscious mind realising the truth before her conscious mind could do so. This man was a sorcerer. He was the one she had glimpsed in the street-light below. He had ducked into the darkness, and now here he was on her balcony, hundreds of feet in the air, and a world away.

She should turn him in, of course. She should scream for help. If she did nothing, and her husband found out… Simon and Barney would die, and Jane would be cast out, or even killed.

"Please," she whispered. She raised one hand imploringly. Please, she whispered. Please go away. Please leave me alone. It would break mother's heart, and I… And I…

"Please save me," her treacherous voice said.

He touched her cheek, cupping her cheek in his hand with a gentleness that filled her heart with a yearning almost too painful to bear.

"I have another to save first," he said, and then he was gone.

____

Part three: chapter six

Second meeting

___

This was the end of all his journeying. This was the end of his quest. Everything would end here, or change forever.

Will had hidden himself in the bushes, hiding only as a mortal man would hide. His powers he had used earlier, to track Bran down to this place. It had not been difficult. It was still only a week since Merriman's defeat. Midsummer was ten days away, but Will had no idea if he would see it.

The sun had set, and thick twilight had descended on the close. No-one had come or gone from the house for over an hour, but Will knew that Bran was still inside. He had to emerge soon. If he came alone, then Will would approach him. If he came out with a crowd, then Will would find a way to follow him from a distance until he was alone again. There had always been an air of solitude about Bran, even as a child, and he had chosen a path that lent itself to loneliness. A man so feared would not have friends.

Time passed. Will shifted uncomfortably. He had been hurt a little earlier, when bad luck had caused him to come to the attention of a patrol. He had been forced to use his magic to escape, though they had not realised it, and thought he had merely outrun them. That was when he had met Jane. Jane, so sad, so privileged, so unexpected… It had been all he could do not to blurt out her name.

"Help me," she had pleaded, though there had been terror in her face, too. She had looked at him as if he was the bringer of doom, but also bringer of a terrible, painful hope.

"I will," he wanted to promise her, or, "I cannot. I cannot even save myself." All that pushed down, by the habitual mask of the Old One. He had another to save first, he told her. Another to save… or maybe himself to destroy, and everything…

He tried not to think that way. Today, of all days, he had to be calm. He had chosen to do this, and he still believed that it was right. Perhaps it was a kind of suicide, but it was not suicide without a fight. He would give everything he had to try to bring Bran back to the Light. And, if he did not, at least he would have seen him one more time. At least he would have the chance to ask what went wrong, to know, to understand.

Anthony, he knew, would call him brave for this. Will suspected that he was, in fact, a monumental fool. But he had to do it. He had to try.

And now was the time. The door opened. Bran came out alone, walked down the small flight of steps, and paused at the bottom. He let out a breath, bowed his head for a moment, then looked up at the shrouded stars.

Will stepped out of his hiding place. There was no time to prepare, no time to think. In a way, he had been preparing for this for his entire adult life. The numbness crept over him again. It was as if this was so important, so pivotal, that the heart could not encompass it. It felt as inconsequential as a walk to the shops, and as vital as the walk to the midsummer tree, and the ending of everything.

Bran heard him approach. He stiffened, but did not go for his gun. There was something weary about him, Will thought. He was the most feared man in Britain, but his pallor made him look almost fragile.

Will did not wait to be challenged. He stopped three paces short of the man who had once been his closest friend. "Hello, Bran," he said.

Bran was utterly still for a while, but then he smiled. His smile was the coldest thing Will had ever seen, but his hands, stiff at his sides, started to tremble.

"Do you know me, Bran?" Will asked.

The smile disappeared, and there was nothing left but ice. "Will Stanton," the Pendragon said. "I have been waiting for you." He brought his hand up, fingers curled, as if in possession. "And now I have you."

"Yes." Will nodded, surrendered with open hands. "Now you have me."

____

Part three: chapter seven

Blood

___

He moved as if in a dream, wrapped in the unreality of the thing. He drifted up the steps, intending to… what? Summon his men to grab the sorcerer and secure him? Send a message to his dark guardian himself? Or maybe just to tell his men that they should finish up on their own, that he was going home.

His hand closed on the door handle. Was Stanton still there? He turned round, suddenly terrified that he was gone, but the sorcerer was still standing there, silent and placid on the edge of a pool of light. Bran half turned away again, almost turned the handle…

He could not do it. He could not leave him, even for a moment. It was a trick, an illusion. If he turned his back, Will Stanton would vanish, leaving only the echo of his mocking laughter. He was a shadow slipping through the fingers, a dream, a trick of the light.

"No," he said. "I am not letting you go."

They walked off together, side by side. Bran fought the urge to grab hold of him and never let him go, but he knew such things were useless in the face of magic. Only the lord of the Dark could secure such a one as this. The only right thing for Bran to do was to send for them.

"Where are we going?" Stanton asked.

Bran shot a glance at him sideways, hidden by his glasses. Stanton had changed a lot over the years, but Bran would still have known him anywhere. He would have recognised him even in the distance through a crowd. "Do you really expect me to tell you?" he demanded.

"I was just wondering," Stanton said, "if it was somewhere where we could talk, just the two of us, or if this is all the time we have, and I should say what I need to say now, even though anyone could hear us."

He sounded so calm, so emotionless, that Bran felt the veil of unreality begin to tear, revealing the hatred and anger beneath it. "I should hand you over to the Dark," he hissed.

"Yes," Stanton said, "but I need to talk to you first."

"More tricks," Bran spat, but still they walked onwards, side by side, not touching. "More lies."

"No." Stanton sounded very tired. "Just the truth. There was only ever the truth. Perhaps it was never said aloud, though, or not said enough."

Bran clenched his first, forcing himself not to lose control, where people could be watching from behind curtains, hidden by the darkness. His apartment was very close to the house they had been investigating. They would be there within minutes. He would hold off until they arrived, he decided. Once he had lured Stanton inside, then he would contact his guardian and let things unfold as they had to unfold.

They walked in silence. He's too far gone even for lies, he thought. He still felt half in a dream, but anger was there now, and something else, too. He felt confused, almost scared, his heart fluttering in his chest, and his hands ready to tremble if he did not clench them tight.

Why had Will Stanton come to him? For he had come to him. He had not been captured and dragged here against his will. He had chosen to show himself to Bran, just as he was choosing to walk with him now. Why? It's a trick, he thought, but he could not work out what sort of a trick it was.

"I wish you were in chains," he told Will Stanton harshly, "hanging broken in the hands of the lords of the Dark, just like your master."

Will said nothing. Bran searched for signs of emotion on his face, but saw only a mask. It reminded him of the man he saw in the mirror.

He speeded up, suddenly desperate to get home. As he walked, he thought of all the ways he had dreamed of this moment. He had lived for revenge. He had been sustained for years by his hatred of this man. He had imagined a thousand ways of watching Will Stanton broken, and a thousand more of him grovelling, saying that he was wrong, begging for a forgiveness that Bran would never give.

It was not supposed to be like this. This ruined everything. How could you hate someone who came so quietly and so willingly? But, at the same time, Bran hated Will, for robbing him of his hate.

In a few minutes, he reached the outer door of his building, and pushed the door open. Will Stanton followed him. The guard in the lobby said a few words, and Bran said a few words back, but a moment later he could not remember what was said, or what he had answered.

The lift came. They rode side by side, and then side by side walked down the corridor, feet silent on the blood-red carpet. Bran opened his door, and Will went in.

There, Bran thought, as he locked the door. He wanted to bolt it, to lock it again and again. He would wrap it in chains and lock it a thousand times, if that would stop his enemy slipping away. Mine, he thought. In here, and all mine.

Will remained standing in the middle of the apartment. It occurred to Bran that this was the first visitor he had ever had, although he had lived here alone for four years. No-one but him had ever sat in his couch. No-one had ever shared the food that he occasionally cooked. No-one had seen his bed, or asked about the painting that hung above it, showing mountains, and a stretch of sand half-revealed by the retreating tide.

He could almost have laughed. He fought an absurd urge to ask Will to sit down, to bring him tea and biscuits and chat about whatever it was that normal people talked about, when they had someone round to stay.

"Bran," Will said. The sound of his voice was like a fist twisting on Bran's heart. No-one had called him that name for years. Will said it in the Welsh way, but with an English accent, in the way that no-one but Will had ever said his name, and it made him…

"Don't," he rasped. "Don’t."

Will blinked mildly. "Don't what, Bran?"

"Say my name like that," Bran shouted, "as if we were friends."

"I was always your friend, Bran."

Bran punched Will in the jaw, sending him backwards. He landed on the edge of the coffee table, and slid off it, crumpled on the floor. There was blood on his mouth, and blood elsewhere, too, Bran saw now. He had been hurt already, and, Good! Bran thought. He deserves it. Good! His first hurt, and the pain fuelled the anger, and the anger was good, too. Anger was simple and plain, not like the strange dream-reality of the walk.

"You're my prisoner, sorcerer," Bran spat. "You're only here until the lords of the Dark arrive and take you away." He stalked to a drawer, where he kept handcuffs and weapons and worse. He pulled out the cuffs first, and then a knife. "Not much use to chain a sorcerer, is it? But you bleed just like normal men. If you were made to bleed enough, I'm sure you couldn't escape."

"No need for that." Will was kneeling now, evidently in pain from his back. "I'm powerless before you, Bran. I daren't use any of my powers here. They're watching you. If I used magic in here, they would know. They would be here in an instant, and then I wouldn't…"

"Watching me?" Bran raised his fist again, but Will did not cower. "You're lying. They trust me."

"I can feel them," Will said. "I can feel their eyes, although they're turned away now. But they're close. If I did anything, they would come."

"So you are powerless." Bran smiled. He grabbed Will by the throat, and hauled him to his feet, rejoicing in the moan of pain that he dragged forth. He searched around for a place to tie him, then remembered the high cupboards in the kitchen. He marched Will there, and cuffed his hands together, then raised them up, securing them to the handle above his head.

Will endured it all without a struggle. Once again, Bran felt the hot jet of his anger lessening, replaced by the confusion and the sense of unreality. He wanted the anger back, and so he punched Will in the stomach, to hear him moan. Then he picked up the knife, and held it to Will's throat. "Tell me why you came," he demanded.

"To see you," Will replied.

Bran hit him again. The blow jolted him to the side, so his neck scraped against the knife, drawing a thin line of blood. Bran drew the knife away a little.

"Why did you come?" he demanded. "I will get the truth," he promised. "This is my job."

"Torture?" Will said. "I know. But, oh, Bran… I wish you hadn't. You were so good, so pure, so…"

"Stop it!" Bran threw the knife away, and slapped him across the face. "Is that it? You came here to play the virtuous saint, telling me how far I've fallen? I know that. I'm not proud of the things I do, but it's all I had. It's all you left me. You wouldn't let me do anything else."

"I'm sorry," Will whispered, through bloody lips. "I…"

"No, you're not!" Bran screamed. He groped for the knife again, and found it. With the other hand he punched the light switch. For a moment, the kitchen was completely dark, before the lights from outside seeped in and turned it grey.

Bran never liked to see the blood of prisoners. He asked the questions, but he did so in the dark, and he never looked down.

"I came because I had to see you, before the end." Will sounded as if he, too, was freed by the darkness. "They took Merriman. I'm the only one left. I cannot survive long. But, if the end is going to come, I wanted to see you first before I went, to talk, to explain, to understand…"

Bran passed his left hand over his face. It was smeared with specks of Will's blood, and he tasted it, and it was iron, just like any normal man's blood. "I knew," he said, drawing back a step. "I always knew you were still alive. They said you weren't. They said Merriman was the last one. But I knew. Two boys died that day, drowning in the sea, but you didn't die any more than I did."

"No," Will whispered. "I didn't want pretend like that. Merriman…"

"Why didn't you come back for me, then?" Bran screamed. He grasped the knife, thrust it as hard as he could into Will's stomach. "Why didn't you come?" He twisted the knife. "Why didn't you come?" He was almost sobbing. He pulled the knife out, and let it fall from his nerveless fingers, and heard it thud and clatter on the tile floor. "Why didn’t you come?" he whispered.

He had never realised, never known. For so many years, he had lived with this hatred. Will Stanton had pretended to be his friend. He had lied to him and used him, wanting him to become a tool for the false cause of the Light. But first, before that, hadn't there been need? In those early days, hadn't he felt trapped by his decision, and lonely? He had stood at the window for hours, watching for Will to come and fight for him. Even if everything he said was a lie, at least he would be saying it in person. At least Bran would not be alone.

"You stayed away," Bran said, his voice broken and hoarse, "and so I knew it was true."

"I wanted to come," Will gasped, strangled with pain. His blood fell on the floor in audible drips. "I begged Merriman to let me, but he wouldn't… He never would… Again and again I asked him, but he… It's only now… now he's gone, that I can…"

"I thought you were my friend." Bran backed away, and crouched down in the darkness, in a place that was clean and cold and free of blood. "I was so lonely as a child. I'd never had a friend. And then you came… I know it was the quest that brought us together, but I thought there was something more. It meant so much to me, but I was wrong. It was all a lie."

"It wasn't, Bran." Will's voice was hardly audible. "None of it was a lie. It's a lie that it was a lie."

"No," Bran cried, for he had based his life on this, had made his choices because of this, had fallen so far because of this, and it could not be false, it could not.

"I don't know what they told you," Will whispered, in a fading thread of a voice. "I don't know what they showed you, but it wasn't true. None of it was true."

"No," Bran moaned.

"I mourned for the world, but I mourned you even more."

Bran flailed for the knife, and caught it by the blade, scoring a deep line in his palm. I want… He tried to pick it up, tried to surge to his feet, to bring the knife across Will Stanton's lying throat, to silence him forever. He'd call for the Dark, and let them take him away. He'd keep Will hidden here for weeks, and kill him piece by piece, and then kill him again, because he could not die.

"Whatever you saw then wasn't true." Will's voice came to him like soft feathers falling from the air. "Remember, Bran. Remember…"

And, with a sob and a cry of anger, Bran did.

____

Part three: chapter eight

Mother

___

"The challenge holds," the Lady said, and she raised her hand.

The sword slipped from Bran's grip, and he tried to catch it, but his fingers would not move. Then even the will to do such a thing was gone, stolen by a blue mist of forgetfulness, sparkling like a summer dream. For a moment, he saw the others ranged beyond him – Jane, her mouth open in shock, and Will, staring at him with an intensity of pain – but then they, too, were gone.

There was nothing but blue. His body did not exist. He heard nothing and felt nothing. The blueness was not something he saw with his eyes, but something that merely was. He was scattered and had become the sky; he was the smallest pebble on the shore, enduring all but seeing nothing.

And then there was not even thought, until he heard it, a soft, soft whisper. He blinked, and he had his body again, but he was no longer on the ship. He was in a field of green, and beyond it were stars, silver in a blue velvet sky. He turned round, wondering, and saw that the stars were all around him, as if the field was a disc, floating in space, and there was nothing all around him and beneath him but the emptiness of the night.

But he did not feel afraid. This is magic, he thought, some magic of the Light.

"Not them," the whisper said, and it became a woman's voice, soft and low. Blodwen Rowlands came walking towards him through the grass. She was small at first, as if she was far away, but she grew with each step, like a candle flame brought towards you in the dark.

"Stay away," he warned her. He reached for the sword, but of course he did not have it. The Lady had seen to that.

She shook her head sadly. "So lost in lies, cariad. So lost in their lies."

Once he had thought it, he could not let it go. The Lady, forcing him to drop the sword… Will, so shocked and betrayed and horrified… The Lady and the Light had snatched him from his friends and now he was here, lost beyond the stars. "Lies?" he faltered. "No, you're the one who lies."

"So they told you," she said, "as they had you doing their work for them. Filling your mind so you spoke with a voice not your own. You joined with them to banish me, who had never done you any harm."

"You…" He licked his dry lips. "You… pretended…"

"Nothing, cariad." She touched his cheek, as he remembered her doing so often when he was young. "There was no pretending on my part. I watched over you. They stole your mother from you, but at least you knew the softness of a woman's touch. Remember, Bran." Another touch. "Remember."

He remembered days spent with John Rowlands, listening to songs and stories, while Mrs Rowlands brought him cakes and drinks. He remembered her putting a plaster on his knee when he fell over in the yard, and listening as he poured out the truth about school. "It will get better," she assured him. "Once they get to know you, they'll like you. They couldn't do anything else." Cuddles and comfort from her, when his father had just grunted and turned away.

"Lies," he whispered. "You're lying."

"I was there," she said, "and where were they? Where were your friends of the Light? They abandoned you to a lifetime of loneliness and mockery. They only turned up when they needed you, but I was there all the time."

He tried to edge away from her backwards, but he was too afraid of falling into the darkness. "You weren't who you seemed to be," he stammered. "You're not really…"

"Does it matter?" she asked gently. "What is more important: who we are, or how we act? John Rowlands loved me. Was that a lie? It made him happy. The Light stole that from him and broke his heart. So self-righteous, so hypocritical… I gave love and comfort to a lonely boy. Does it become any less real now you know who I really am?"

Yes, he wanted to say. Yes. But she had always been kind to him, and all his memories of her were warm, and the Light had never been there when he was young, only her.

"But… but the Dark killed my dog," he blurted out, "and he was a better friend than you ever were. If you cared so much, why didn't you save him?"

"Bran," she said. "Bran, the Light killed Cafall. I'm sorry, cariad. They killed him, so they could have your whole heart, without distractions. They wanted to rob you of everything you cared for, so you had nothing left but them."

"But Caradog Pritchard…"

She gave a sorrowing smile. "It is not just the Dark that can control a man's mind, Bran. At least the Dark is honest, and does not lie about it, or try to put the blame on someone else."

"No," he whispered. He thought of Will, coming to see him after Cafall's death, refusing to let him grieve in peace, trying to force him back onto the stupid quest. Had Will all alone been…?

"It is true," another voice said, soft as the petals of a rose. Bran twisted round, turning a neck that had suddenly gone stiff, and saw a beautiful lady in a flowing robe.

"Who…?" His voice died in his throat. He tried to ask again, but only his lips shaped the word. Who…?

"You know who I am, my son." The lady smiled, a smile of infinite love.

"You…" He moistened his lips. "You're…"

"I am your mother." She started to cry, tears pouring freely down her cheeks, although her face remained beautiful and smooth.

"My mother…" His own tears answered hers. His strength failed him, and he fell to his knees, but she was there, gently raising him up. Her arms were soft and strong, and everything he had ever dreamed of. She smelled of flowers, and love, and home.

"I have longed for this for all these countless years," she murmured into his hair.

He could have sunk into her embrace and lived there forever, but there was too much pain in his past. He extricated himself, and stood up, and for a moment he was taller than she was, gazing down at her through the blur of tears.

"You left me," he accused her. "You brought me through time, and then left me."

"Not by choice." She reached towards him like someone drowning. "Merlin forced me. He tricked me. He stole you and took you through time, and I didn't want him to. I just wanted to keep you. I wanted to bring you up as my own son, just me and your father, a real family. I would have loved you and cherished you. You were my heart. But Merlin stole you. I was ripped away and cast back through time, and the door was locked behind me." She showed him her hands, and each nail was edged with blood. "I clawed and clawed to get back to you, but only the lords of Light can open the doors in time, and they had locked them forever."

"You chose it…" He felt as if he was tumbling from the highest rock on Cader Idris, and there was nothing beneath his feet but the pit. "He said… They said…"

"They lied." Her eyes turned cold.

"But…" He swallowed hard. "But…"

"It was all lies," Blodwen Rowlands said from behind him. "They lied to you in every word. They pretended friendship, but only to get you to do what they wanted – the Old Lion, lord of lies; and the Sign-seeker, worst of all."

Will, his mind pleaded. It isn't true. He likes me. He's my friend. And the others… Jane, Barney… It's too soon now, but maybe, later…

"I have waited an eternity to see you, my son." His mother grabbed his hand and caressed it. "They locked all doors. I can only see you now because the Light imprisoned you out of Time, and the Dark reached out their hand and made this place for us. If they win, I will never see you again."

"If they win," Mrs Rowlands said, "the world will be a prison of lies. At least with the Dark, each man is free. We do not hide our true motives in tricks and false words."

His mother grabbed him, her voice warm and alive on his cheek. "If you love me," she murmured, the words suffused with the scent of roses, "then you will hate the ones who tore us apart. Of all the people in the world, only I have ever truly loved you."

I know, he thought, with a long, slow sag of pain. Then he raised his head, clenching his fists. I know.

The Light had tricked him. Will had only pretended to be his friend. They wanted him to wield his sword and destroy the Dark, and then he would be cast aside like unwanted rubbish. But if he failed to play his game… If he failed to grant them total victory… It wouldn't mean that he had turned to the Dark. Perhaps the Light would win another way, but Bran would not be part of it. Or perhaps nothing would change, and there would still be Light and Dark together, carrying on their petty little squabbles while mankind got on with the things that really mattered.

"I will not play their game any longer," he said out loud. He tried for hatred, he really did, but all he could feel was sorrow.

He had thought that Will was his friend. He really had, but now…

"But be careful," Mrs Rowlands hissed from behind him. The stars above were beginning to fade, the dark blue fading to the light blue of a summer sky. "Until you stand before the tree, let them think you are still a prisoner of their lies."

"I will," he vowed, as pale blue swelled and encompassed him, then faded away entirely, leaving him on the deck of a ship, surrounded by the lying eyes of traitors.

He raised the sword, and they, too, were suffused in blue.

____

Part three: chapter nine

After the first death

___

When he finally opened his eyes, all was silent. "Are you…?" He cleared his throat. "Are you laughing now?"

Will said nothing. Something smeared beneath Bran's hand, and he knew that it was blood. He moved the hand, and the blood grew thicker, as if his fingers were wading through it like the sea. It was Will's blood, because he, Bran, had finally taken his revenge on him. It was Will's blood…

"I remember how it was," he said, louder than he needed to. If he said it enough, it would be true. It had to be true. "I saw my mother, and she said…"

There really was so much blood. But Will deserved it. And he couldn't die, anyway, could he? He could suffer like any mortal man, but he would come back. Bran could hurt him, but only the lords of the Dark could destroy him, and Bran had to contact them now, so they could… He had to…

He crawled towards the wall, and pulled himself up by the door frame. He groped for the light switch, and smeared his hand across it, turning the dimmer switch as faint as possible. The first thing he saw was his own bloody handprints on the white-painted wood. The second thing was Will's body hanging limply from his cuffed wrists, his legs bent and his knees close to the blood-stained floor. His face was white, and his eyes were closed.

"Faking," Bran said. "Faking to trick me."

But he edged forward all the same. Moving like an animal expecting to be bitten, he touched the side of Will's throat. He thought he felt a heartbeat, but then he thought it was just the trembling of his fingers. He tried again with the flat of his hand, and felt nothing at all.

He fumbled for the key, and released the cuffs, so that Will slumped to the ground. Bran tried to break his fall, but a human body was heavy, and Will slid sideways, so they both ended up lying in the pool of blood. Bran groaned at a stab of pain from his knee, but Will made no sound at all.

"You can't be dead," Bran told him. "You can't die."

In the light of a naked bulb, the blood acted like a mirror. He saw Will's slack lips and closed eyes, distorted in the pool of red. Bran himself was only a pale blur, as if he had never been anything more substantial than a dream. He was a thing made of myth and memories. His past had shaped him, and the things he had seen in that place of stars, beyond the blue.

"It was real," he told Will now. "It was real."

Will opened his eyes, a tiny slit of pale colour. The faintest of breaths disturbed the surface of the blood.

Bran curled his hand, blood seeping through the knuckles. "You were dead."

Will did not move. His cheek was pressed against the floor, and his mouth distorted. "I can't die. I didn't know before… how it would be. I thought… I wondered…" He rolled onto his back, and wiped his face with shaking hands, so his face was streaked with lurid red and pink. "We do die. We tremble on the edge of Time. But then we come back."

Bran did not know what to say. The memory, still so fresh, robbed him of words. "I remembered," he managed. He said it like an accusation.

Will clawed himself into a sitting position, his face clenched tight with pain. A tiny moan escaped him, but then he pressed his lips together, and nodded. "What happened, Bran?" he said softly. "Why did you turn against us that day?"

Bran's heart started to speed up. "Don't you know?"

Will shook his head. "If you remembered it just now, I couldn't see it. I cannot, Bran. We can't see into the minds of others, or make them do anything against their will. Not even the Dark can do that, although they can manipulate, and twist the truth with their lies, and that is almost the same."

Bran looked down at his hands, folded, and stained with blood. "I saw my mother." He had meant to shout it as an accusation, but it came out small. "She said that… that Merriman had stolen me from her, and that she wanted… She wanted…"

"It wasn't her."

He barely heard Will's quiet words, but when he did hear them, they stopped the world from turning.

"It wasn't her, Bran. I'm so sorry. It was a construct of the Dark."

Bran stopped breathing.

"I don't know what she said, but it would have been lies." Will's voice carried on inexorably. "Enough truth to be plausible, but twisted…"

"She told me that you'd been using me, every single one of you," Bran burst out. "She said you'd never been my friend. And where was your precious Merriman when I was crying myself to sleep when I was little? You wanted… You wanted to force me… And she said… She said that she was the only person who truly loved me, and it was true. It was true."

"No," Will said.

"But you didn't come!" Bran screamed. "So I knew it was true!"

He saw Will's eyes slide shut, and open again, older than before. "Merriman stopped me, and I know why now. I saw… I drifted to the edge of Time, and I saw…" He let out a long breath. "He had his reasons, and… Oh, but you suffered for it, and so did I, and now…"

Will stopped. Bran waited, breathing in, and out; in, and out. "Run out of excuses?" His bitterness tasted awkward in his mouth.

"It doesn't make anything all right," Will said. "It is not an excuse, just how it is. You were watched. They're still watching you, but nothing like as much as they used to. That stopped the moment Merriman… went. They thought one of us would seek you out, and they were ready. We would have been captured before we had even said hello. Only when Merriman had gone and they thought their position was secure. Only then… And Merriman knew. He knew it, and I…"

There were too many words. Bran crouched on the floor, and his brain felt tired and sluggish. His mother hadn't been real? It had all been a lie? No, he whispered. No… Twenty-four years stretched behind him, shaped by the revelations of that day. He had killed. He had grown cold. He was feared and hated because of that day, and if it was all a lie…

"Prove it," he demanded, clutching at a hope, or maybe at a fear. "Show me my mother."

Will shook his head. "Would that make a difference? That, too, could be a lie. And I cannot, even so. The doors of Time are almost closed. Too much has passed. All we have left is what we are."

"Words," Bran scoffed. He was almost crying, choking on tears he had not shed since he was a child. "Just fine-sounding words, a cloak for lies."

"No." Will almost reached for him, but his hand fell to his side again, pale and weak. His voice was clear, but he looked fragile, wrapped in pain. "It was never less than the truth."

And Bran knew it. He had known it all along. His life was a tower of cards, built on a lie. He had acted on impulse, out of raw pain, and the Light had come crashing down. The Dark had won, and he was trapped there at the heart of it, unable to see the truth.

Because, if he saw the truth, then it was all his fault. If he let himself believe the truth, then he had to live with the knowledge that he had destroyed the world.

He hid his face in his hands. "I didn't mean to." A pathetic, childish, stupid excuse. "I thought it would just stop the Light from wiping out the Dark. I thought things would carry on the same as they'd always been, with the Light and the Dark together, and I… I wasn't even thinking properly. I just…"

"Bran," he heard. "Bran." Will had been calling his name throughout, he realising. He stopped his flow of words with a sob, but he could not look at Will. He could not look at him ever again. "Bran," Will said, "it wasn't your fault, and it is done. It is past. The Dark is a master of lies, and you were just a child. They tricked you, and…"

"I shouldn't have," Bran moaned. "I should have known."

"No." Will's hand closed on his wrist, slowly and firmly pulling his hand from his face. "Kings and princes have fallen prey to the wiles of the Dark," Will said. "Wise men and war leaders have been ensnared by their words. The Dark bears the blame, not you."

"But…"

Will pressed his finger to Bran's lips. "No, Bran, no buts. All that remains is to decide what is to be done about it."

"Done?" Bran gave a bitter laugh. "Kill myself, you mean?"

"No," Will said, as if he was whole and strong, not mortally wounded and bathed in his own blood. "I mean, how are we going to defeat the Dark?"

Bran laughed, a despairing laugh with tears in it.

____

Part three: chapter ten

Homecoming

___

He stood for far too long outside the door, and knocked only gently at first.

No-one came. Will listened to a blackbird singing loudly in a hawthorn tree, and watched a brindled cat stalk delicately along a wall. He looked at unfamiliar shrubs in the garden, and a skyline that had changed. The smell of the doorstep was different. A small chip in the stonework was suddenly bitterly familiar, but other marks were new, speaking of a life that had carried on without him.

He raised his hand to knock again, then lowered it. The coward inside him wanted to run away. The Old One inside him, taught by Merriman, told him that coming here was unnecessary, an indulgence. He was embarking on a course of action that could defeat the Dark forever. This was a distraction. It was a risk. If the Dark discovered his existence because of this…

The blackbird flew away, crying in frenzied alarm. The cat lashed its tail, deprived of its sport. A leaf drifted gently down from where the bird had been, and the cat eyed it disdainfully, dismissing it as a replacement toy.

He wondered whose cat it was. Perhaps it was some distant descendent of a cat he had once known as a child, or perhaps it was an incomer, brought in by people he did not know. Old houses were empty in the village, and new ones had been built, uncompromising and ugly. The Manor was gone, and the farm, and all trace that the Old Ones had ever existed here, guarding their signs, and waiting for him.

He had left it too late, he knew that. Forgiveness was not possible after a lie that had lasted so long. The world had moved on. His family had moved on, and he was no longer part of it. There could be no going home.

And yet this was right. It was something he had to do. The cold wisdom of an Old One told him that it was unnecessary, even foolish, but he had been born a human, as part of a human family. Foolishness, not wisdom, had caused him to contact Bran. Emotion, not coldness, had won Bran back from the Dark. He had to do what he felt was right. He could not take on the might of Dark if he did so with this lie on his conscience. He could not risk leaving the world forever unless he undid this wrong.

He raised his fist and knocked, hard and firm. Only after he had done so, did he realise that he had unconsciously used the same pattern of knocks that he had used as a child, before he was trusted with a key.

His mother answered the door, but her face was blank and wary. She's forgotten my knock, he thought, with a pang that he had no right to feel. His next thought was horror at how old she looked. He had watched his family from afar, but in his mind, they had always worn the faces they had worn when he was young. They had frozen in time for him, but in the world, Time always moved on.

"Yes?" his mother said. There was no friendliness in her voice at all. "What do you want?"

Will opened his mouth; closed it again. He had travelled here slowly, dragging himself painfully from Bran's apartment, hiding in corners, evading pursuit. He had spent ages wondering what to say, but all the preparing openings vanished from his mind, destroyed by the coldness in the eyes of a woman who was too old.

"You look…" His mother frowned, then shook her head. "For a moment, you reminded me of my brother-in-law… But, no, it's forty years since he last looked like that. You wouldn't have been born then. Silly me. My mind wanders, now I… But never mind that. Say what you have come to say."

"I…" He could not say it. It could not be said. "I…"

Maybe it was the way he turned his head. Maybe it was something in the way he spoke. Maybe it was the light behind him, or a smell, or a nuance in the way he moved his hand.

"Will?" Her voice was a raw grate of pain.

"Yes." There were tears in his eyes. He was not an Old One at all, but a child who had been lost forever, and now had found their way home. "It's me, Mum."

"It can't be…" The blood rushed from her face, and she tottered. He swept inside, supported her, led her to the chair in the hall that had been there for as long as he could remember. "Will?" she whispered, half-fainting. "My boy?"

He got her water, and brought it to her. Her hand brushed his, and it was as cold and white as bone. Water splashed on their two hands. She drained the glass, and clutched it with trembling fingers.

"You're a trick," she said, but gentle now, and oh so sad. "You're just pretending, to trick us into… Oh…" She shook her head, eyes gleaming with tears. "I'm a mother. I can't believe that. I can’t."

"It really is me." He tried to take the glass from her hand, but she resisted. Her other hand found his wrist, and there was as much strength in it as there had ever been.

"They never found a body, you see." He could feel her fingers trembling. "Not for Will, and not for that Welsh boy, either. All these years, and they were never found. Everyone told me not to hope, but in this world of ours, with so many bad things happening, if you don't have hope, how can you face each day? How can you live?"

He could not speak. He bowed his head and rested it on her lap. After a while, her hand came to lie on his head, like a benediction.

"I thought he might have been washed up somewhere," she said, "and not know who he was. Or I thought he might remember us, but not be able to get back to us. He was only twelve. My littlest boy. At least with James I knew he was never coming back. But Will… But… you…"

He raised his head, and settled down on his knees on the floor, hands folded on his lap. It was time for confession, but not for absolution, never for that.

"I knew who I was," he said. "I was never in the sea. I knew, and I could have come back to you at any time. I did, sometimes, just to watch. I wanted to so much…" He breathed in and out, calming himself. He was not here for pity, just for truth. "There were reasons not to come back. I had to be dead to the world. It was… No, I cannot say it. 'For your own good,' I was going to say, but I know what it did to you all, thinking I was dead. The alternative, though… Someone told me… Someone assured me…"

She said nothing. Her face was hidden behind the cold mask again. She had dropped the glass, and it had shattered on the floor. He had not noticed.

The whole truth. An end to lies. "I am a sorcerer, mum – or what the Dark calls a sorcerer. An Old One. A wizard, if you like. I was since my eleventh birthday. We were supposed to be defeating the Dark forever, that summer I went to Wales, but everything went wrong. The Dark won. You've seen the results of that in the world. They were determined to hunt us down, the few Old Ones who remained. They would have done anything to get to us. The others were centuries old, without ties in the world, but I had you. If they'd known I was still alive, they would have hurt you, to get to me. Everyone had to think I was dead. Everyone."

She was silent. He had lost the ability to read her face.

"And because of that, we have hope," he continued desperately. "Only a slim hope, but hope nonetheless. Because it worked. They think they've won. They think all the Old Ones have gone. They've relaxed their guard."

His mother turned to face the open door, and gazed almost placidly at the world beyond this darkened hall. "Why now? If this is true, why come back to us now?"

"Because my master is gone," Will told her, tears welling in his eyes again. "He was the one who told me, back then. He wouldn't let me come. He forbade it, and he was the oldest of us, and the wisest, and I had to obey him."

"He kept a twelve year old boy from his family." His mother clenched her first. "It's just as well he's already gone, because if he wasn't, I would…"

"No," Will said. "Don't blame Merriman. He did what he thought was right. He always did. He always served the cause of Light, no matter what it cost him. He expected no more from me than he would have given himself."

"He was cruel, and a fool," his mother said.

"No…"

"You were a child!" his mother cried. "A child, and he kept you away from your family. We thought you were dead! It tore us apart."

"I know. I…"

"We wouldn't have told anyone, Will." She stood up with dignity and went to close to door, and stood there afterwards, showing him nothing but her back. "Did he understand a single thing about love? He should have known. You should have known. We would never have betrayed you, Will."

She was too calm. "You don't believe me," Will realised. She was calling him by name, but only because she no longer believed. She was humouring him, hoping to trick him into betraying himself.

She pressed her hand against the door. "I want to. I have never stopped hoping that Will will come back. I used to dream of the day."

"But you don't any more?"

She was silent for a while. "I still do," she said quietly. "I will still be dreaming when I die."

Will stood up. "I have come back, mum. Everything I've just told you is true, and…" He hesitated. No more lies. "James died in my arms, mum. I was his commander, but he never knew. He died, and I couldn't save him. My powers can't stop death. But afterwards I… I sent a friend to tell you what had happened. I knew what it had done to you all, when I disappeared. I couldn't undo that wrong, because Merriman… But I could stop it happening again. I could give you that much."

His mother said nothing. Only the faint shaking of her shoulders showed that she was crying.

Will made no effort to hide his own tears. "I wish you could believe me, mum, for your own sake, not for mine. What I want, I can never have. I know that. I can't be a child again. I can't expect you to forgive me. But you… I want you to know the truth. Hate me if you must, but please don't mourn me any more."

"Why now?" she said again, still showing him nothing but her back.

"Because…" He closed his eyes. "Because there is a chance now that I will be able to defeat the Dark, but if I fail, I will be gone forever, and even if I succeed, I may well be gone forever."

"So you come back," she said bitterly, "only to say goodbye. And I said that this master of yours was cruel."

"I'm sorry." He stumbled for the door. "Perhaps I shouldn't have come, but I wanted you to know the truth. I knew you wouldn't forgive, but I hoped you would believe."

She stepped aside. Will opened the door, and blundered out onto the path. The cat was still there, staring at him with resentful eyes. The garden was silent, with no birds singing.

"Are you hurt?" she asked.

Will paused between one step and the next. "I was, yes, but it's almost better."

It was a lie. In a very real way, he had died in Bran's kitchen, and had been born again with new wisdom, but in his old and battered body. His wound would heal at a human pace, but it could not kill him, and pain could be ignored. But what he had seen, when he had died… What he had experienced… It left nothing behind but a vague memory of awe. He had trembled on the edge of Time, but he had come back. This fragile earth was still his place, until his work was done, or until he failed.

She did not call him back. He walked almost to the garden gate, when he heard footsteps behind him. A hand on his arm, pulling him back. A hand on his neck; a kiss on his cheek.

"I'm glad you came," she said.

"You believe me?" he asked, but she did not answer. You forgive me? That could not be said. "Are you happier than you were?"

She took a step back, as if surveying him. "I need to think. You've told me so much. And I need to talk… My husband… The others… If you came back tomorrow…"

He shook his head. "I can't. But afterwards, if I can…" He did not want to say it, but it had to be said. "If I don't, then you will know that I have gone. This time, nothing on earth will keep me away, and only that."

"Gone?" she echoed.

"Not dead," he said softly. "My kind cannot die. We go out of Time and live somewhere else, in a better place. I glimpsed it, the other night, and it is marvellous. It is nothing to mourn."

"But not here. Not here with us."

He shook his head. "No."

"Go, then," she said, as she kissed him one more time, "and hurry back."

He walked away beneath trailing roses, but his tears made their petals blur until he was walking through a sea of red, like blood.

____

Part three: chapter eleven

Broken chains

___

Just act the way you've always done, Will had told him.

It was acting on top of acting. His whole adult life had been about playing a part. He had kept things inside, never showing anyone how he was really thinking. In the end, he had even fooled himself. Now he was Bran again, pretending to be Pendragon, when Pendragon himself had never truly existed. There were masks upon masks, and nothing else had ever been more difficult.

Every act, every word, was an indictment of what he had become. Every look, every word, showed how impossibly wrong everything was.

He parked outside the prison, in a place reserved for the governor. The Pendragon would do that sort of thing. He strode towards the gate, glaring imperiously at anyone who tried to get him to move his car. When asked for identification, he gave it imperiously, as if the guard was at fault for daring to wonder who he was. They fawned over him and trembled.

Pendragon would have thought it was good. Pendragon liked people to be afraid of him, because fear was better than mockery. Bran just wanted to fall to his knees and cry, "It wasn't me! That isn't me!" But it was. He had been Pendragon. He had done those things. He would have to live with that forever more.

Or die, he thought, as he let them escort him to the governor, one on either side of him, like honour guards to a king. He had brought about the ruin of the Light. Millions had died because the Dark had won, and all because of him. Even if Will's plan worked, there was no place in the future for him. He was the most hated and feared man in Britain. No-one would ever forget that. No-one should ever forget that.

Most of all, Bran would never forget that. Even if Will said… Even if Will still…

"Here you are, sir." They had reached the governor's door. One of the guards announced him, and Bran went in, drawing his Pendragon cloak around him as he did so.

Just ask, Will had told him. Don't offer explanations. Pendragon would never have felt the need to offer explanations.

He had to act as he had acted for years, but it had never been so hard. Arrogance had become almost a habit, but now he doubted every word.

He thrust his shoulders back, kept his head high. No explanations, just a command. "You are ordered to release two of your prisoners to me."

******

When the guards came marching into the dormitory, everyone stiffened. Barney watched them lying on their pallets, and watched how each one subtly relaxed when the guards marched past, and did not stop at them.

He wondered who it was this time. He wondered whether to fight. Someone had fought one night, trying to stop them from taking his friend away, but two men had died in the end, instead of just one. Even so, Barney sometimes thought he would fight, if it wasn't for Simon. Simon had never recovered from the shock of defeat, and sometimes Barney feared that the hopelessness would kill him. There was little that Barney could do to keep his brother's spirit alive, but he did what he could, and thought that perhaps he made a difference.

They marched on, past the person two to his left, past his neighbour. There were only two people to Barney's right, and then it was the end of the room.

They seemed to walk past him, but he did not let out a breath, not yet. Just after his bed, they stopped. "Prisoner Drew. You're to come with us."

A great calmness descended over him. He stood up, and turned to straighten the blanket on the bed. Best make the bed for the person who gets this after I'm dead. He presented his wrists for the cuffs, and the guards fastened them without meeting his eye. The guards never did, except for the cruellest ones, who liked to see your fear and pain when they hurt you.

He followed them through the dormitory, back towards the door. None of the other prisoners looked at him, either. Some shifted awkwardly, but most were looking away, pretending that this was not happening. It's as if I'm dead to them already, he thought. He hoped they would be gentle when they told Simon.

They led him outside into the yard, still warm and light in the midsummer evening. He took one last look at the sky, wishing for more light, or else for true darkness, with its silver stars. He wished the fence did not obscure the trees. He would have liked to have seen trees again, once more before the end.

Another group was approaching from the other side of the yard. His calmness shattered. "Simon!" he shouted. "Simon!"

Simon did not look at him. He was trudging, in a posture of utter defeat. "Simon," Barney hissed, when they were closer. "Why…?"

"Did you do something?" Simon said.

Barney wondered. Had one of them done something to bring this death sentence on them both. Or was it someone outside: Jane, or their mother? They would probably never know. They would be killed, and neither of them would know the reason for it. Perhaps there was no reason, just a whim.

"We’ve been dead for years," Simon said. "This is just an end of it."

I don't want to die, Barney thought. "I don't want to die!" he cried. He started to struggle. There was hope! He had never given up hope. The Resistance out there, fighting, and the sorcerers, and art, and family, and love. Goodness had to win – it had to. He could not accept a world in which anything else was possible.

"I didn't," Simon said, "but…"

"Stop talking," the guards commanded. Barney was struck on the back, and Simon on the cheek.

I don't want to die, Barney thought. He looked at Simon, and for the first time in years, it seemed that genuine communication flowed between them. So much had gone wrong over the years. If Simon hadn't been bullied at school… If they had told each other when they had joined the Resistance, and fought side by side, with no secrets… If he had listened to his premonition on the day they had been captured… If he had done more, had tried harder, to bring Simon out of his despair…

"Good will win," he said, "even if we aren't here to see it. People are decent at heart. They'll overthrow this…"

"No," Simon said. "They aren't, and they won't."

A fist stopped him, bringing him to his knees. Barney started towards him, but was dragged back. A guard made as if to kick Simon's fallen body.

"What's this?" a voice boomed. It was the governor. He was an arrogant tyrant, but peering up at him, Barney thought he could see fear in his eyes. "Bring them straight to me, I said, with no diversions. Lift him up." The guards did so. "And follow me. Our visitor does not like to be kept waiting."

******

"Here they are," the governor said.

Simon glanced at the man sitting in the arm chair, and then could not look away. Pendragon! It was Pendragon, ruler of the school, commander, protector, bully, enemy. Despite everything, despite the years of disappointment and despair, his first thought was that this was a rescue. No, he told himself sadly. Things like that don't happen. This is the end. Things will only get worse.

Pendragon sat with his legs crossed, his face a mask of arrogance. "The sentence on you was too light," he said, "for members of the Resistance. The Resistance is mine. Strings were pulled by a traitor to save you from the punishment you deserved. He has been exposed now, and justice will be served."

Outside, Simon had told Barney that he wanted to die, because even death was better than this life. Now he fell to his knees. "Please," he begged. "You remember me? We were at school together, and you…"

Pendragon stood up slowly. "Unlike some," he said coldly, "I would never put friendship or family connection above my duty. I knew you once; I know you no longer. You are a traitor, and that is all. You are coming with me."

"To die?" Barney asked.

"It is not for you to question." Pendragon snapped his fingers. "Bring them to the gate." He spoke to the governor as if he was a slave. "If they are well cuffed, I will take them from there." He pushed back his jacket to show the gun at his side.

"You came alone?" the governor asked.

The look Pendragon turned on him could have frozen a summer's day. "Are you questioning me?"

"No, no." The governor shook his head. "I…"

"Then have them brought to me." Pendragon went to the door. "You don't want to keep me waiting, do you?"

******

They were cuffed in the back of the car, locked behind a bullet-proof screen.

I have to talk to them, Bran thought. I have to…

He was afraid. His hands were shaking as he gripped the steering wheel. He drove through the evening, heading he knew not where. Only the markings on his car kept him from being stopped and questioned by the checkpoint guards, but his progress would be marked.

He wondered if the governor was already on the phone to London, reporting what he had done. He knew he had aroused suspicion by driving two prisoners off in his own car, without any guards, but how could he trust any of his men to be party to this? He had awed them into obedience, and could only hope that he had awed them into silence, too. If he had not… If they talked…

He could not think like that. Bring them out, Will had said. That's what matters more than anything. Do it, Bran, please.

They were there in the mirror, every time he glanced there. Simon and Barney Drew, who had almost been his friends when he was a child, before the world ended. They thought he was going to kill them. He had to reassure them as soon as he could, but how could he? They wouldn't believe him. Even if they believed him, they would hate him.

I can’t, he had begged, but Will had said, You have to. His hand had closed round Bran's wrist, leaving blood-stains that he had found afterwards. I know you can. I trust you.

He had laughed derisively, then, but it was the only thing keeping him alive. Will trusted him. Will forgave him. Despite everything, Will still…

"I'm not going to kill you," he blurted out. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm rescuing you, but that was the only way I could do it. I'm sorry. I had to… They'd have suspected, otherwise."

"It's cruel," Barney said, "to try and fool us with these tricks."

"I know you have every reason to hate me," he told them. "I've done terrible things, but I'm sorry. I…"

"Sorry," Barney said. He sounded almost like Will, so quiet and detached. "Does sorry make it better? Will you still be saying sorry when your men are torturing us to death?"

He looked at the road signs. Hours to go before he met Will. Hours to go before Will could take over, and he could hide.

"Why would you rescue us?" Barney said. "Because Simon knew you at school? I don't think so." His voice shook. He was far less calm than he sounded. Glancing in the mirror, Bran saw that Barney was crying. A voice did not have to tell everything, when it spoke in the darkness, from a face that was hidden.

They don't remember anything, Will had warned him. "A friend," Bran said. "Someone who knew… who knows your sister. He's called Will. He made me realise all the mistakes I've made. He asked me to get you out, and I did it… I did it for him, and for me, to atone…"

"You cannot atone," Simon said harshly. "The past is done. The past is always done."

"Yes." Clutching the steering wheel, Bran stared straight ahead, at the never ending greyness of the road. "But you can do what is right, even so."

____

Part three: chapter twelve

The key

___

He didn't come back.

It was just a foolish dream, Jane told herself. Why would a total stranger risk himself by coming back to her? Why would he care? She was rich and privileged, married to an important man. How he must have laughed, afterwards, that she had begged to be saved.

One day passed, and another. She was alone all day with servants who never spoke. In the evenings, her husband came home, with flowers and gifts. He had been in a particularly good mood since the last sorcerer had been destroyed, and he had been bright and gentle, and everything a woman could want in a husband.

I imagined it all, she told herself, alone once more in the morning. The sorcerers are all dead. I was lonely. I was still half asleep. She felt trapped, so her mind was conjuring up a saviour who could not exist.

He was never coming. There would be no ending.

She drifted onto the balcony, and stood there full in the sun, but not even the sun could drive away the shadows. She took a sip of iced water, and wiped her brow against the heat.

"Please don't turn around," a voice said. "Pretend you are still alone."

It was him. She knew his voice instantly, though she had only ever heard him speak a few words. "Can you read my mind?" she murmured.

"No."

"But you came back." She felt less joy than she would have expected. The shadows still clung, despite the sun. "You're going to…"

"I cannot save you," he said, "but I can tell you this: your brothers are now safe."

She gasped, and whirled round. There was no-one there. Of course there was no-one there. She was talking to a ghost, to a voice in her mind, to her own madness. "Please," she whispered. "Please…"

A hand brushed hers, warm and real. "People watch in the daylight," he said. "I'm taking a risk, but you needed to know. They're out of prison, and safe."

"I don't…" she stammered. "I can't…"

"I can't offer you proof," he said sadly. "I wish I could. Simon and Barney, your brothers. Barney liked painting, and dreamed of King Arthur. Simon played Prospero in a school play. I knew them. You won't remember, but I would never lie to you about this."

Safe, she thought. She brought fluttering hands up to her face. The world beyond her balcony sheeted into blue and sunlight, until there was only her at the centre of the world, and this soft voice beside her.

"How…?" she breathed. "What now?"

"I cannot stay." Another touch, this time on her cheek. "I cannot say what I need to say, in case…"

"I won't tell anyone!" she burst out. "I won't breathe a word."

"You live on the fringes of the Dark here," he said, "and some secrets cannot be said in this place, while you still wear that ring. But if you want to walk away from that, come after me."

"How?" she asked, because it was the simplest thing to say. All her other thoughts were impossible to express.

"You will know." She heard his voice smiling. "You are one of the six, and the Light will guide you."

"But I…" She turned round desperately, looking from side to side. She wished she could see him. How could you judge a stranger just from his voice?

"If you come," he said, "perhaps we can start to change this world for the better. But it has to be your choice. If you come, though, come soon. I cannot hide from them for long, not like this. The pieces have already been set in motion. Simon and Barney…"

"They're with you?" she gasped.

"I have said more than I should." She heard him move as if to go. She could have grasped at where his hand had been, to keep him there, but she did not. "One thing, though. Your brothers are safe. They have been freed from prison. The only way to do that was to pretend we were taking them to something worse. If you are told that, do not believe it. But do not say that you already know. Then they will ask how you know, and then they will find me."

He went. She knew when he had gone, by the emptiness in her heart. She stood, world reeling around her. Minutes had passed before she realised that she could have begged him to take her with him now, but she had not.

Save me, she had begged him, but all he had done was given her the key, so she could save herself. She could take her mother, go away, and…

She stood. She barely noticed the sun climbing high in the sky, and clouds passing it, bringing patches of cold. A servant asked her what she wanted for lunch. She murmured something; ate it without tasting it.

Afternoon came. She could leave at any time, she thought. All she had to do was believe this stranger, this sorcerer. Perhaps he had lied. But why had he come back? To trap her? But why? She was nobody. And the government hated the sorcerers. The sorcerers were leaders of the Resistance, and Barney and Simon had been members of the Resistance. Why would a sorcerer try to get her brothers killed?

He was telling the truth. Reason told her that. Her heart told the same tale, even more strongly. There had been truth in his voice. There had been goodness in his eyes, the time she had seen him. Light, she thought. That was the word he had used. He was Light, and those he was opposing were of the Dark. The concept resonated deep within her, as if she had heard them before, but she could not remember where.

She was free. If her brothers were safe, then nothing was binding her to her husband. She could walk away. He had given her the key, and…

Evening came, though the light remained. It was almost midsummer, the longest day of the year. Her husband came home, and stepped out on the balcony to kiss her on the back of the neck.

Too late, she thought. Too late to leave without him knowing. Too late to run away without a word.

She realised that she had made a decision after all. She could not simply vanish; that was what her father had done. Did she want to leave him at all? She did not know. It should have felt like a liberation, to know that her brothers were safe. Instead, it felt like… what?

"Is something wrong?" he asked her, settling down on the chair beside her. "You look sad."

"I was… thinking about my brothers," she told him.

He did not like her to speak of them. Their marriage had started with blackmail, but he wanted to pretend that it had started with love. When she spoke about her brothers, the illusion shattered.

Today, though, he stiffened, and let out a breath. The authorities thought that Simon and Barney had gone to somewhere far worse, she remembered. Did he know? No, he was sure to know. Would he tell her? No, she decided. Of course he wouldn't. He had bound her to him by threatening her brothers' safety, and he could not so willingly give her the key to her chains.

"I…" He passed his hand across his brow. "I had news today. Your brothers… It wasn't any of my doing, but…" A sigh. She had never seen him like this. "Pendragon took them, Jane. I'll do what I can, but…"

A great and extraordinary peace stole over her. It's true, then! That was the first thought. But after that, and even louder, was, He truly loves me. He had told her this, though surely he had to know that she would…

Leave him. She finished the thought almost aloud. Would he beg now? Would he threaten?

"I'm so sorry, Jane."

She faced the railing, trailed her hand over the edge. He truly loved her. It was a warped idea of love, of course, because he had won her and kept her by threatening the lives of her brothers, but he had never raised his voice to her. He gave her everything she wanted, except for freedom.

Or maybe, she wondered… Maybe he did give her freedom, but she had never taken it. Except for that day she had agreed to marry him, he had never made any threats against her brothers. Perhaps he had changed. Perhaps he truly regretted the way their marriage had begun. Perhaps he thought it a love match, and she only thought it a prison because she had never tested the bars.

Would she leave him?

She really did not know.

"I… don't know what to think," she confessed. "I need… time."

"Time?" He looked lost. An imposing man, fond of his own way, he looked small and vulnerable, felled by just her words.

She really did not know. She could not decide, not so quickly. The world was not as she had thought it was. The was a possibility – a tiny, incredible possibility – that she might be in love after all.

"Just to think. Please…" She realised that her face was pale, that her hands were trembling, that tears were pouring down her cheeks and falling onto the railing. "A few days… I'll stay with a friend from… from when I was young." Because she had no friends now, and had not had friends for many years. "If… If Pendragon's men have my brothers, then they're dead. I need to mourn them."

"But with me," he begged her. "Please."

She needed to be cold. She had to be cold. She had to remind him that he had won her by threatening their safety, so he had no right to help her grieve. She had to… She needed to…

"No." She shook her head, and even managed a laugh. "Maybe it's hormones, with the baby. I just want time. I haven't been away, out of this apartment, for ever. I just need time."

"But you'll come back?" His face was naked, like she had never seen it. "You'll come back to me?"

She could not answer. She did not know the answer. The sorcerer had given her a key; she still did not know how she would use it.

____

Part three: chapter thirteen

Stories

___

"Do you believe him?" Barney whispered.

Simon looked up listlessly; not long ago, he had been struggling and fighting. The man called Pendragon sat stiffly in the neighbouring room, clearly visible through the open door.

"Are we…?"

"I don't know," Simon hissed, as if the whole thing was Barney's fault. "What can we do?"

Pendragon glanced towards them, then away, as if the sight of them hurt him. Call me Bran, he had told them, his voice stiff and not at all friendly. My name is Bran. But of course it wasn't. Barney had heard of Pendragon when he was still free, as someone to be feared, someone on the rise. Simon had never mentioned knowing him at school, but Simon never spoke of school. Barney presumed that Pendragon was one of the bullies.

"Well…" Barney frowned, struggling to think. In prison, the brain slowly atrophied. You learnt how to survive, but you did not need to think. There was nothing to plan for, and so you lost the ability to plan. "We can…"

"Nothing." Simon raised his cuffed hands. Pendragon had a gun; they had both seen that. "This is just…"

A sound at the door cut him short. In the next room, Pendragon's head started up. The expression on his face looked like wild hope, or terror, or something in between. Barney's own heart started to thud. You could not spend so long in a harsh prison camp without coming to dread a sound at the door, late at night.

A man came in, a stranger with brown hair. He looked deeply tired as the door opened, but as he walked into the light, the tiredness was wiped away, because he doesn't want us to know, Barney thought. He knew about masks.

When the man saw Simon and Barney, his eyes widened. Ignoring them, he hurried over to Pendragon, and spoke to him in a fierce whisper. "…left them cuffed?" Barney heard, and Pendragon muttered, "They don't trust me. They would have run away." What came after that, Barney could not hear.

"Have you seen him before?" Barney whispered to Simon.

"No." Simon shook his head, frowning. "No…" He sounded more doubtful the second time.

Barney watched the faces of these two men who held their fate in their hands. You learnt to read nuances in the Resistance, but the body language of these strangers was unexpected. Pendragon, so high in government and so feared, was almost deferent to this stranger, and the stranger, although berating Pendragon, looked almost the same to him. As if Pendragon's a newly-tamed dog, Barney thought, and he's mastered him, but is scared he'll go wild again, if he makes a wrong move.

Then the stranger was heading towards them, leaving Pendragon alone and surly in his grey little room. He crouched beside them; touched their cuffs, but did not open them, not yet.

"I am a friend," he said. "You are truly free. When I untie you, will you listen to what I have to say?"

Barney studied his face, but you could not tell by appearances. Murderers could look mild, and gentle friends could have eyes that were harsh and cold.

"My name is Will," the stranger said. He touched Barney's cuff gently with his fingers, and it parted. Then the same with Simon's, metal slithering and clanking to the floor.

Barney rubbed his wrists. A moment later, he realised the meaning of what had just happened.

"Yes," smiled the stranger called Will. "I am a sorcerer. An Old One, actually, but that title is not known to people, while that of sorcerer is. I was also your commander in the Resistance, though we never met, as that was the way of things." He said it as simple fact, as if defying them to say anything.

Simon said it, though, his voice hostile. "You're too young."

Barney looked at Will's eyes, and did not think that they were young. Even when he smiled, his eyes were sad. "Not all wizards have grey beards," Will said. Barney wondered where the sadness came from.

Simon seemed about to say something, but Barney interrupted. "Why free us? Out of all the other Resistance members in prison, why us?"

"There aren't many others." This time, Barney understood the sadness in Will's eyes. People in the Resistance knew they could hope only for death if they were captured. He had never understood why he and Simon had merely been imprisoned. "But that is not the reason. You and Simon…"

There was a noise from the other room. Barney looked up to see Pendragon moving away, the chair falling over in his wake. Will looked after him with sympathy. Barney thought that hatred would be more appropriate. Pendragon must surely have killed many of Will's subordinates.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs above. Only when they were quiet, did Will sigh. "Sit down. Make yourselves comfortable." Pendragon had left them on the floor, cuffed to the radiator. Barney moved onto the couch, and Simon, glaring resentfully, settled down stiffly beside him. Will moved to the armchair, where he sat down with the stiffness of someone who was in pain.

"I have to tell you something," Will began, "that you might find difficult to believe. It is about a world of… magic, you might call it, but it is more than magic. It is Light and Dark – two poles that all the universe revolves around. On this earth of yours, the Light and Dark has been in conflict for thousands of years, fighting over the world of men. The Dark wants to rule men, and thrives on man's darkest desires. The Light wants man to be free."

"Good and evil, then," Simon said harshly. "Like in a little child's story."

Will nodded. "All the stories came from truth, and there is truth in all the stories. Light and Dark – a battle older than man."

"And let me guess," Simon said. "You're from the Light."

"Yes." Will inclined his head, seemingly unconcerned by Simon's hostility. "I am of the Light."

Barney knew the reason for his brother's harshness. Simon had always been jealous of people with abilities that he did not share. Barney was glad to see it still there. He had been so defeated in prison. Arrogance was far better than despair.

"But why us?" Barney asked. It occurred to him as he said it that he could have asked many other things. He could have asked for proof. He could even have laughed disbelievingly. Magic, in a world like this! But he accepted it. It did not even cross his mind to doubt it.

"Twenty-four years ago," Will continued, "the Dark rose up for what was supposed to be the final time. The Light gathered together in defiance. It gathered… champions. There were Signs and portents. The Dark was to be defeated forever, but… something went wrong. The Dark won; the Light was scattered. You see the results in the world today. The Dark is behind your government. The so-called sorcerers were the last remaining Old Ones of the Light, but the true sorcerers have been lording it over you for years, masquerading as men."

Barney swallowed. The truth, he thought, and, I believe it, and, Why? He ought to laugh, or cry. He wanted to leap to his feet and march on London, ready to tear down the Dark with his own hands. "Why us?" he asked again. "Why us?"

Will closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, they were still and clear. "You were two of the champions of Light," he said. "You two, Simon and Barney, and Jane, your sister, were the Three from the Track – three children of men who would play their part in the final defeat of the Dark."

Simon laughed harshly. Barney just felt cold. "We failed…"

"No!" Will cried. "You stood firm. You passed every test. No-one failed. The Dark was… too strong. It struck in a place we did not anticipate."

"Then why us?" Perhaps the truth was just too big, too impossible, for him to cope with, so he had to focus only on this question, endlessly repeated. "Why now, if the damage has already been done?"

"Because there is… a chance." Will appeared to be choosing his words carefully. "A chance that it can be undone, the thing that happened twenty-four years ago, if the same people are gathered, and on the same day, in the same place…"

"You want our help? Us? Me?" Simon sneered it bitterly, but Barney thought there were tears in his eyes, too. "You want us to help save the world?"

"Yes." Will nodded solemnly.

"But… But it's ridiculous." Simon blinked fiercely. "If this is true, why don't we remember it?"

"You were made to forget," Will told them. "It was too much. You were only children. Life was going to be hard enough for you without you knowing quite how much had been lost. Only through ignorance could you be kept safe, at least until you were old enough to make your own choices. As long as you knew nothing, the Dark would leave you alone, but if the Dark thought that you knew…"

"Prove it!" Simon cried. "Make us remember again."

Will shook his head. Barney noticed how stiffly he was sitting.

"Then I'm going." Simon stood up. "I refuse to play this stupid game."

Will folded his hands. His eyes were clear, but his knuckles were white with how tightly he was holding them. "Then that is your choice. The Light does not hold people against their will. But I would urge you… I would beg you… The world needs this, Simon."

Simon stopped with his hand on the door knob. "Then let me remember."

Barney watched Will's face. He saw him think; saw his eyes flicker briefly upwards, to where Pendragon was, on the floor above. "I can return your memories," he said at last. "I couldn't, before, because it was not my spell, but now… I can do it, but… Do you really need memory to believe?"

It was Barney who answered; it was Simon who froze. It was Barney who remembered the memories of beauty, and how they had sustained him in prison. And it had been Simon, then, who had turned his back on memories, because memories of past happiness only made the present more unbearable.

"Yes," Barney said. "If we are to be whole, we need our memories. We need memories if we are to be free."

Sighing like one shouldering a heavy burden, Will raised his hand.

____

Part three: chapter fourteen

Forgiveness

___

Some things could never be forgiven.

Bran sat in the darkness of an upstairs room in a dingy house. He could not hear what was being said downstairs, but he did not need to hear it.

They were drawing together, these brothers and their childhood friend. They were bonding, these men who had never wavered from the Light, who had never failed a test.

They were excluding him, and he hated it, and he hated them for it, and he deserved it.

He started to pace. You will never be forgiven, said the creak on the floorboards with every step. Never be forgiven, breathed the air outside. Never be forgiven.

He stopped at the window, leaning on the windowsill, staring at the darkness outside. If he let his mind drift, he could hear the voice of his dark guardian. If he let himself drift even further, he could almost see his mother, calling him back.

Come back to us, Pendragon. Come back to the Dark. We will forgive. You will have power as if none of this has happened. You will be loved…

Love. He bowed his head. The Dark had never loved him, had never shown him tenderness. His mother had spoken of love, but he had never seen her again, and it had been a lie anyway. The Light could not love him now, but the Dark offered nothing better. Only power. Only blood. Only fear.

It is better to be feared than cast aside.

He pressed his forehead to the glass. "Will," he whispered. "Help me. I'm so alone." Words never to be said out loud. Words that could never even be thought again.

Blindly, he pushed away from the window, and headed for the dim light of the stairs. Two steps down he managed, then, faltering, a third. "I remember!" he heard Barney gasp, and, "It was Bran! He betrayed us." That was Simon, horrified, triumphant.

Bran crept back into the darkness. They knew. Will had given them their memories back, so they knew the full horror of what he had done. There could be no hiding behind ignorance. They knew that the Light had fallen because of him. Will might speak soft words that pretended forgiveness, but Barney and Simon never would.

He sank down beneath the window, his knees to his chest as he curled up against the wall. He would never be forgiven if he stayed with the Light. He would never have peace of mind. He would never be free from this guilt. He would never be happy. He would never be loved.

Were the laughing downstairs now? He pressed his hands to his ears so he would not hear them. Will had known the Drews before he had known Bran, and the Drews had never betrayed him. Old friendships would win over new ones. Unblemished ones would conquer those that were rotten to the core.

If he stayed with the Light, he would be despised forever. If he stayed with the Light, he would despise himself forever.

If he returned to the Dark...

"No!" he moaned. "No!" He drove his forehead against the wall, and longed for and dreaded footsteps on the stairs.

____

Part three: chapter fifteen

Leaving

___

She learnt to keep her mind blank. When she stopped to think, the doubts came, leaving her clutching at the steering wheel in panic. What have I done? Oh, what have I done? Once, she pulled blindly into a lay-by, and sat there trembling, thinking of her luxurious home, and the man she had left, who loved her. Almost, then, she turned back. Almost…

When she stopped to think, she lost all sense of direction. She floundered, not sure whether to turn left or right, whether to go on, whether to go back.

She had no idea where she was going. When she stopped thinking with her conscious mind, she knew which direction to turn. Some distant magic was guiding her, tugging at her heart. It took her to places she did not know, through towns with names that were strange to her. She remained in England, but it took her to places she had never dreamed of.

It took her to a place where such things were true.

She was terrified of being stopped by the authorities. She had all the proper papers, but dreaded having to show them, in case her husband had issued commands that she was to be brought back. She trembled whenever she passed a checkpoint, conspicuous in her expensive car. Her husband had paid for her to have driving lessons years before, but a chauffeur usually drove her on the rare occasions she went out. She was sure she was committing errors. She was terrified that she would crash.

She drove along a street that reminded her so much of her childhood home, that she drove the next few miles with tears drenching her cheeks, thinking of her brothers, of her father, longing for a time when the future had been full of hope. She drove through an estate where soldiers patrolled, and blank-eyed children stared out from burnt-out houses. She drove on a motorway, and remembered when they had been full of traffic, and children have waved from the backs of cars, overjoyed at the start of the holidays.

And all the while, the call within her heart grew stronger and stronger, telling her that this was right.

Afternoon was heading into evening when she reached a small town, and then a hamlet, and then a shadowed, leafy lane. This is the place. She drove along the bumpy road. A short terrace of nineteenth century houses appeared on the left, overgrown with shrubs, and dingy with the air of neglect. The first one she passed, and the second. Here, she thought. She stopped the car. Here.

There were two other cars outside, one of them as expensive and sleek as her own. The other was dull and entirely nondescript, the sort of car that no-one would look at twice. That is his, she thought, but the other car worried her. It looked like government. It looked like the police.

Jane scraped her hands across her face. I should go. But that was the fear talking. That was the conscious thought. The thing inside her, calling to her, still told her that this was the right place. It still told her that this was right. It told her to go on.

She got out of the car, and pushed her hair back with shaking fingers. She felt like a child, diving into a swimming pool for the first time, sustained only by her mother's reassurance that everything would be well. Only faith sustained her. Everything else in her life screamed at her to run, but there was that kernel of certainty at the heart of her, telling her to go on.

Something flickered at the upstairs window, and she snapped her head up, but it was gone. A face? she wondered. Him?

Too late to run. The door started to open. For an eternity, the gap grew bigger and bigger, until there was the sorcerer, smiling at her, but with weary eyes. "You came."

"You knew." It was not what he had intended to say, but she knew it was true.

"Yes." He nodded. "I knew you were coming. I did not know if you would reach the door. You could have turned back at any point. I did not know that. I could not have stopped that."

"You could." This, too, she knew.

"Yes," he admitted, "but I would not have done so, not without betraying what I am."

She peered beyond him. It was a dull house, smelling a little of damp and neglect, but something intangible about it shouted of home. She wanted to go in, she realised. To go in was to commit herself to this sorcerer and his cause. It was to ally herself with her husband's enemies. It meant closing doors forever, and never going back. But she wanted to. It spoke to her, called to her.

"Come in." This time even his eyes were smiling. He stepped aside to let her walk through the door, and stayed behind her as she went into the front room. One step in, then two, and she entirely forgot about the sorcerer. Two men were there, and they were… Barney! That was Barney! And Simon… They were here! They were safe!

She stumbled forward, falling into their arms. She babbled; she did not know what she said. They were thin, they were drawn, and she worried about that. They exclaimed about her pregnancy. She wept because she had feared every day that they would be killed. They told her, and she told them. There were tears and laughter and hands clasping tight.

Light faded outside. She found that she was sitting down, a mug of tea clasped between her hands. Simon and Barney were on either side of her, but the sorcerer was gone. Her throat was sore from talking, but there was so much she had not said. They did not know who she had married. They did not know the cost she had paid for their lives, but perhaps they would hate her, and not think it a cost after all.

Her elation faded, and it was then that the sorcerer made his appearance, slipping in quietly from the stairs. But another man was behind him, awkward and stiff.

"Him!" Jane gasped. "You!"

She could have screamed. It was all for nothing. Pendragon had found them all. He had tracked them down, and this was the end of everything. She was caught in treachery, consorting with sorcerers. This was it. They would all die here. Her baby – my baby! - would never be born.

"It's all right, Jane," the sorcerer said.

Then he was in league with Pendragon, too, a traitor to his kind.

"It's alright, Jane," Barney said. "He… Will says…"

She looked at Simon, appealing to him to support her, but she was just glowering down at his hands. Of course, she realised, Simon and Barney had gone to prison before Pendragon had risen to prominence. They didn't know what he was capable of. They didn't know him.

"Jane." The sorcerer crouched down in front of her. "He is who you think he is, and I am who you hoped I was. But anyone can repent. Anyone can change. It is now that matters, Jane, not the past. It is now."

No, Jane thought sadly, it's the past. It's always the past.

____

Part three: chapter sixteen

The gathering

___

They were gathered in a circle, unconsciously echoing the Circle that had gone. But that Circle had been united and true, forged by Light. This circle was fragmented already. There was no time for it to be forged as one. Each of them would have to face the battle disjointed and alone.

I wish I had more time, Will thought. Time was nothing to an Old One, but here, at the end of things, Time was the most important thing of all. Time for Simon to recover the confidence he had lost so many years before. Time for Bran to forgive himself. Time for the others to accept Bran. Time for Will to spend with his family. Time to say farewell.

There was no time. This fractured group was all he had. These fractured hearts would have to heal themselves, afterwards. He could not hide for another year, waiting for another midsummer. It had to be now.

He took a deep breath. Jane and Barney were looking at him expectantly, but Bran was looking down at his hands, and Simon was pointedly looking anywhere but at Bran. "You all now remember," he began, "how it was last time. What we hoped. How it… ended."

"Because of him." Simon spat the words out like poison.

"Because of the Dark." Will had said it so many times, and he was tired of it. "The Dark chose Bran as its target, because he was the greatest prize. If it had chosen you, Simon, you would not have been able to resist."

"I would have," Simon protested.

"No." Will looked at him until Simon was forced to meet his gaze. "You would not have. I know the Dark better than you ever will. You would not have resisted, nor you, Barney, nor Jane."

"But you would have," Simon said bitterly.

"I am of the Light," Will told him. "The Light is my nature. I cannot turn against my nature, but even so, the Dark has made me… waver, once in a while. With fear, with threats… once with my sister's life. The Light always offers choice. The Dark offers no choice, or else twists the choice so it becomes no choice at all. That is how it was with Bran."

"But…" Simon was clearly furious. Bran was gazing at Will with misery and desperate hope.

No time, Will thought. No time…

"I still don't think…"

Will raised his hand, cutting Simon off. He made himself tall, his voice terrible. "But we will not speak of this again. The Light forgives Bran, and who are you to question the Light? You will work together for the cause of the Light. I will not have the future of the world thrown away because you cannot rise above your past resentments."

He was weary when he had finished. So they will hate me now. He sat still, and did not blink. And I probably deserve it, but it matters not at all.

"The Light and the Dark," he spoke into the silence, "have fought for thousands of years over the world of men. Much came down to choice, but some was foretold. Some things had to be. When the time came for the final Rising of the Dark, either the Dark would win and banish Light forever, or the Light would win and banish the Dark, and then…" He stopped. No need to tell them yet what would come after.

"But the Dark did win," Bran said hoarsely. Will glanced at him, surprised, knowing what it had cost him to speak.

"No." Will shook his head. "The Light won every stage of the battle. The six were in place; the signs were gathered. But then, right at the end, the Dark tricked… they cheated, if you like. It was enough to scatter the Light and banish many of them, but some of the Light remained. It was not a proper victory."

"You mean it doesn't count?" Simon said incredulously.

"Yes," Will said. "I mean just that. It was not a complete victory. The Light won every other battle. As long as just one of the Light remains, there is still a chance to undo that final moment, that final slip."

"Then why wait twenty-four years," Barney asked, "if we could have tried again at any time?"

"We couldn't." Will shook his head. "While the Old Ones remained, the Dark was always on their guard. Bran was too well guarded. We could never have reached him successfully. We would never have had a chance to do what I am planning to do. But now… They think the Light has gone. They think they have won. They don't know that I am still here."

How much had Merriman foreseen, he wondered. Merriman had made him fake his death, saying it was for his family's protection, and perhaps it was, in a way. But had Merriman known, even then, that this chance would come one day? Had he known that the future of the world would one day hinge on the existence of one last Old One, when the Dark thought that all Old Ones had gone?

"Tomorrow is Midsummer's day," he told them. "Every year, the Midsummer tree blooms, although there are none to see it. There is still a chance to set things right. The Light had almost won. At the very end, things went wrong, but we will undo that error and…"

He faded out, eyes closing. "Will," Jane said quietly. "There are only five of us."

Will opened his eyes. "You three are what you were. Bran is still the Pendragon; nothing has changed that. But I am not what I was. I…" He could not look at Bran. "I died."

"But an Old One can't…"

"No." He looked at Jane, not at Bran, who had spoken. "We die, and we come back, changed."

Was this true for all the Old Ones? It was the one thing that the Book of Gramarye had been silent on. Did all Old Ones only come into their full powers after they had died as a man, and come back? Dying, he had hovered on the edge of Time and eternity. He had seen and understood things that had always been veiled to him. Merriman was part of him now. All the Old Ones who had ever gone out of Time were part of him, and he of them. He was no longer a boy called Will Stanton; he was Light.

His eyes were brimming with unexpected tears. "And there is a seventh." He looked at Jane until her hand, faltering, moved to her belly. "In the eyes of the Light and the Dark, the unborn can play their part, Jane. But not a harsh one. Whatever happens to the world, your son will be safe."

"But… But how…?"

"What are we going to do?"

He let them question him. His mouth opened, and spoke words, answering them. Inside, though, his mind was drifting.

He thought of his lies. Hinting to his mother that he would come back… And Bran, who thought he could face the future with Will at his side, championing him even when the rest of the world was hostile. And Simon, who needed help, and the baby…

"Do we really have a chance?"

He looked at their faces – at the lines etched in them by years of fear and misery in a world ruled by Darkness.

He had no words. He could not answer true. He breathed in, and out again. "It is better than no hope at all."

____

Part three: chapter seventeen

The tree

___

Simon wanted to burst out laughing. The only alternative to that was to sob.

It was ridiculous. Why was he still following? It was not even light, on a misty morning, colder than was normal in the summer, and here they were, climbing a hill in the middle of nowhere, readying themselves to take on the dark sorcerers who were the secret rulers of the world.

It was ridiculous. If it wasn't for the memories that Will had awakened in him, Simon would be walking as fast as he could in the opposite direction. But the memories were true. He wanted to be able to denounce them as a trick, but deep down he knew that they were not. They were true, and he had once played his part in the fight against the Dark, and this was a chance that he had to take.

But with such company…! Will, who led them, looked shattered with exhaustion, and Barney had pointed out to Simon the night before that Will moved as if he was hurt. Simon and Barney were muscled from their labours in the prison camp, but run down from poor diet and captivity. Pendragon was Pendragon, and Simon refused to think about him any more than that.

And as for Jane… Jane was pregnant, for crying out loud. Pregnant, and she wouldn't tell them anything about the father, except to say that she had married him, and he loved her, and she would tell them everything one day, afterwards.

Afterwards, he echoed. If we survive. If the world survives.

He did not like to think of that. Instead, the laughter came bubbling out.

He thought of himself as he had been the last time they had stood on this hillside, so many years before. He was the firstborn, the oldest son, quick to lord himself over his siblings, and quick to defend them, too. He had been the tallest at his school, leader of a large group of friends. And then the Light, too, had chosen him, singled him out. He and his brother and sister had been given a vital part to play in defending the whole world from evil, and it was wonderful, it was joyful, it was special, it was him.

But what had it led to? The Light had been defeated. Hope had led to despair. He had changed schools, and had suddenly and inexplicably gone from class leader to victim. He had been bullied, and it had shattered everything he had ever known about himself. Unhappy, he had drifted, until the Resistance had found him. For a while, he had relished the prospect of glory in its ranks, but even that had led only to disappointment. He had been captured, defeated, humiliated, broken.

Better not to hope. Hope led only to disappointment. Hope only meant that you could not cope when disappointment came. A more humble boy, who had kept his head down in his younger days, could perhaps have coped with the bullying at school. One who had hoped less could have coped better with being captured.

"What?" Barney drew alongside him. "Why are you laughing?"

"This." Simon thrust his arm out, indicating their sorry little group. "How ridiculous it is. How… doomed."

"Is it?" Barney blinked at him. "I do not think so."

He even sounded like Will now. Simon's laughter died; it had been closer to tears, anyway. "I have to," he found himself confessing. "I have to think like this. Earlier… When I didn't… I…"

Barney looked at him with sympathy. He's wise, Simon realised. Wiser than I am. Perhaps he's always been, and I've just never thought to notice. He wondered if people were doomed by their childhoods. He was the oldest; Barney was the youngest. It made all the difference in world when you were ten, but no difference at all when you were in your thirties. The difficulty came in realising this, and learning how to be friends.

"I think…" Barney bit his lip, as if struggling with a hard truth. "I think this is where it went wrong, for you, Simon. I think part of you remembered. You remembered defeat, and it made you lose confidence. We noticed it, Jane and I, from that summer onwards. It started when we woke up outside the hotel, and didn't know how we'd got there. It wasn’t the school that started it. It was there already."

Simon gaped. It felt as if Barney had thrust a fist in his stomach, winding him. It felt as if Barney had opened a door to the light, freeing him.

"Or maybe it was the Dark itself," Barney continued. "Maybe it was the Dark's way of punishing you for opposing it. It made you doubt yourself, and everything came from there."

"Don't," Simon rasped. He didn't want to hear any more. Barney understood him too well, and he couldn't bear it, he couldn't bear it. "It's too late."

Ahead of them, a dark strip was growing out of the mist. It revealed itself as a line of trees, but ahead of them, shimmering a little with unreality, was the enormous pillar of the Midsummer tree, just as it had been when they were children, and Merriman had walked at their side, old and wise and infallible.

Barney must have been remembering the same. "We were too young to grow up," he murmured. "We were too young to lose our innocence. Merriman made up forget, hoping we could stay innocent for a little longer, but it was too late. The damage was done."

Ahead of them, Will and Pendragon had reached the tree, and had stopped at its base, close enough in the mist that Simon could barely see the gap between them. A fist of hatred closed itself around his heart. Pendragon had betrayed them all. He had no right to be there at Will's right hand.

"When you are young," Barney said, "you think that people older than you have all the answers. You know they will make sure everything has a happy ending. But then you grow up."

"Then why are we following him, then?" Simon gestured fiercely towards Will.

"Because faith does not need to be blind," Barney said, "and he has given us hope, not promises."

Simon did not understand. Jane had almost reached the tree, but paused to wait for them. Simon walked forward, frowning. Each step felt slow and terrible, but Jane was smiling nervously. He made himself smile back, and the nervousness left her smile. For a moment, she looked almost happy.

"Like the old days," she said.

Barney took her hand. Simon hesitated briefly, then took her other hand, and squeezed it. The three of them walked to the tree together, and even when they reached it, they did not drop their hands.

"We are here," Will said. "We five, we six, we many." He pointed up at the tree, to a place that chimed with newly-awakened memory. "Watch for the moment, Bran. Silver on the tree."

Simon watched Pendragon. He wanted to rage at him. All the things he had done… All the terrible, dreadful things… But Will had forgiven him as if they were nothing. The Light forgives him, and who are you to question the Light?

I have every right! Simon wanted to scream. I was there, too. I was betrayed, too. We did everything the Light asked of us, and he betrayed us, but you still treat him as more important than us.

The mist was slowly clearing. Low in the east, the sky was turning yellow with the rising of the midsummer sun. There was no sign of the Dark. The five of them, so tiny beneath the enormous tree, stood still and silent, and none of them had any idea of what to say.

Last time, Simon remembered, there had been Lords of High Magic, and heroes of old, and armies. Last time, the whole universe had seemed to centre on this one tree in the middle of England. Now, they seemed to stand in a patch of land bypassed by time, watched by no-one. It would all end in a whimper.

I want to say something, Simon realised. I need to say something.

The tree exuded calm. It had been here for ever, showing itself only when needed, and only to those with eyes to watch. The Light had dedicated itself to fighting the Dark for a thousand lifetimes of man, and they had lost everything by this tree, but still they fought on.

I'm so small, Simon realised. So little. For twenty-four years he had been wrapped up in himself, concentrating on his own misery, or trying to prove that he was not the victim that the bullies had turned him into. Even now, just moments before, he had looked at Pendragon, and fumed with furious jealousy.

But he, Simon, had been chosen by the Light, and had fought well, even though they had been defeated.

And he, Simon, could play a part in the final defeat of Dark – a wild, impossible hope, yet a hope nevertheless. Against that, what did anything else matter? The future of the world was far more important than one man's pride and despair and regrets.

He was nothing against the might of the tree, and he was everything. He was a tiny speck on the face of the world, and he was the man who could change the world. Everyone could change the world, in big ways, or small.

"I want the Light to win," he said out loud. "I want us to win."

As soon as he said it, he felt silly, sure that they would laugh, but when he dared to look at them, he realised that they were all smiling. Some had tears in their eyes. Pendragon – Bran, he corrected himself – looked almost awed. Will looked pleased, even relieved, though Simon could not understand why.

They felt like an army. Before, they had been a rag-tag collection of individuals, with their own hatreds and flaws. Now, in their smiles, they were forged. They became a group, and this time, when Simon laughed, there was no bitterness in it at all.

"But now," Will said, when the smiles had faded, "the time has come."

He pulled a box out of his coat pocket, and behind him, in the west, the sky turned grey.

____

Part three: chapter eighteen

The Dark is Rising

___

The Dark came rising.

It was not like the last time, when the final confrontation had been foretold for a thousand years. Then, the Light and Dark had gathered their forces, and the Light came en masse, and the Dark was an army that filled the earth and the skies. This time, the Light was one Old One and a small group of mortals, one of whom had already betrayed him. But the Dark, too, was weakened, caught off guard.

Can we really do this? Bran thought.

A moment later, he realised that he had thought, "we", and he trembled, knowing that he had no right to claim to be one of the Light, even though he was fighting on Will's side in this final, desperate battle.

Will had opened the box and handed out the Signs. Bran dimly remembered dropping his, twenty-four years before, when he made his decision to turn from the Light. The children perhaps had clutched on to theirs, but Merriman must have taken them when the children lay forgetful and sleeping, and had kept them as a secret all these years.

"Merriman kept them," was all Will had offered in explanation. "I only knew about them afterwards."

After he had died – that's what Bran thought he meant. After I killed him. He could not forget the sight of his knife, stained with Will's blood. He could not forget the rage and the hatred that he driven him. He could not forget Will lying so still on his floor. Now Will said that his death had brought him wisdom, and this wisdom brought them hope, but that changed nothing. He had killed Will. He almost wished that Will would hate him for it.

They each held a Sign, and Will held two. Bran felt sick as he raised his high, clutching it in whitened fingers. The intervening years faded to nothing. He felt as if he was looking into a mirror, looking at his younger self, holding Sign and sword, staunch in the Light, determined to conquer the Dark. He had been so sure, both in hope and in friendship, and it had all come crashing down.

"Please," he whispered. "Please… Let me pass the test this time."

The Dark came in ones and twos at first. Some ambled up surprised, as if they could not believe that this was happening. Some came storming up in all the majesty of their fury. They brought storms with them, and a terrible, crushing darkness, like a giant fist pressing down on the earth and everyone upon it.

As the light faded, only the Signs shone true. Bran felt himself falling into the maelstrom, and he pinned himself to the shining sign of fire in Will's right hand, and the glistening black in his left. "I can't," he whispered. "I can't."

"Old One," a voice hissed, louder than the thunder, more intimate than a lover. "So it is you, Sign-seeker."

"Yes." Will inclined his head. "It is I."

"How clever you must think you are, Old One," Bran's dark guardian sneered. "To have existed this long, without us knowing. To have seduced my little Pendragon there. You think you are winning, do you not, Old One?"

The Rider raised his hand. Behind him, lost in the darkness, were other lords of the Dark, their bone-like fingers emerging from the mist to point at Will.

Will did not waver as he held the Signs aloft. "You cannot," he said. "I am protected by the Signs and the Circle. You took my master, but you cannot take me."

Laughter swelled from the darkness like the tearing sound of thunder directly over head. The hair stood up on Bran's arms, and the Sign of Light tingled against his fingers, almost enough to hurt.

"I have been to the edge of Time, and back," Will said, quite calmly. I have seen secrets. I am no longer a child, to be cowed with threats."

The Rider's eyes darkened. "Don't," Bran gasped in sudden horror. "Don't provoke him, Will."

"Ah, but I am provoked already, Pendragon." The Rider's mouth curled into a thin smile. "It is my nature, as it is his. It is not something you mortals can understand."

All the while he was speaking, Will was gazing fiercely at Bran. There was some desperate message in his eyes. The tree! Bran thought he heard. Watch for the blossom. Don't let him take your attention from the tree.

Bran tried to wrench his eyes back to the tree, but something was pressing down on him. The Sign in his hand grew heavy, and he had to hold it up with both hands. Darkness swirled in his head like madness. Dimly, he heard Jane moan. Barney was sobbing. Simon was on the far side of the tree, a lifetime away.

"Petty signs," the Rider laughed. "Relics of the past, and useless now. What ever were you thinking, Old One?"

Will did not reply. His face was white with the strain of holding up two Signs, and perhaps he was using his magic, too, to hold the Dark at bay.

"We have already won," the Rider sneered. "And now, because of this foolish attempt, you are flushed out. You fell into our trap, Old One. We have you now, and these traitors you have seduced. Our Pendragon laid a pretty trap, did he not?"

"I didn't!" Bran lunged towards Will.

"No!" Will screamed. "Keep in the Circle! Hold the Sign!"

Bran was rocked back to place by the force of Will's voice. "I didn't," he pleaded. "It wasn't…"

"I know," Will said.

"He lies," said the Rider.

Bran closed his eyes. As soon as he did so, the pressure on his mind lifted. The weight in his hands fell away. He was on a smooth green hill, sloping down to a golden beach. Silver waves rippled on the sand, and the soft breeze whispered through his hair.

"Bran," his mother crooned. "At last you have come back to me."

Bran looked at her. She raised her arms, offering love and sanctuary. She was beautiful, and she was his, and she loved him. She forgave everything, for he had done nothing that she needed to forgive. Everything he had ever done had been for the love of her.

"Bran." She spread her arms wider. "Won't you come?"

The sea was a silver mirror, and things shimmered beneath it, like a lost land, a paradise. He had dreamed of this place, he realised. He had dreamed of swimming here with Will, and dying with him, side by side.

"Don't think about him," his mother snapped. Then her smile returned again, but now that Bran had seen her angry, he thought he could see the coldness that always lurked beneath her smile.

"You are not my mother," he said. Tears welled up in his eyes as he said it. "You never were. I have never seen my mother. I never will."

"Does it matter?" His mother's face changed, and became the face of a Lord of the Dark, with silver eyes, and cheekbones like a knife blade.

"Yes." Bran backed away, but something lunged out and tripped him up, and he landed hard on his back on the ground. It hurt him, and he realised that it was no longer grass, but paving stones, made of grey marble. A castle was in front of him, with people lining the ramparts, but he was completely alone.

"As alone as you will be if you persist in aiding the Old One," a voice said in his mind.

There was no-one around him, no-one. He struggled to his feet, and hard laughter rattled from the distant walls. Gunshots fell short of him. A beggar shambled into sight, then turned away. The loneliness inside him was a clawing, rending hunger than could not be eased.

"You will never be forgiven," hissed the voice. "After everything you have done for the Dark, only the Dark will welcome you. In any other future, you will be an outcast."

He thought of himself sobbing at school, a five year old shunned by the others because he was strange. He thought of a boy who spent whole days running with his dog, exchanging barely a word with anyone human. He thought of Simon and Barney and Jane, recoiling from him in horror when they saw him at Will's side. He thought of himself, cowering in a dark bedroom, hating himself and what he had done.

"The Dark will forgive," the voice said, "for you have brought us such a prize as Will Stanton. The Dark will greatly reward such a service."

An army rode from the castle, but when it reached him, it stopped and honoured him. Ten thousand men bowed towards him, and a servant brought him a richly-caparisoned horse, and he mounted it, taking his place at the head of an army who feared him and lauded him and followed him. His sword had blood on it, but he could not feel guilt. He did what he did, and he reaped the rewards, and he never trembled.

"What future would you want for yourself?" the voice asked. "Power without remorse, or a lifetime of guilt and self-loathing, shunned by the people who tried to help?"

The army vanished. Bran fell to his knees on the marble, and pressed his fists into his eyes.

The Light has forgiven him, and who are you to question the Light? He had shuddered with awe and gratitude. Who am I? Who am I? Because he had not been able to forgive himself, but Will forgave him. Will would stand by him. Will would help him. And one day… Perhaps one day soon… He lowered his hands. "Perhaps, one day, I will even be able to forgive myself. Perhaps I can even be happy. Will says…"

"Will will be gone," the voice said. "He knows this. If the Light wins, you will be utterly alone."

"But…" He turned a full circle, seeking the source of the voice, desperate to see a lie on its laughing face. The castle faded away. He was alone forever, on an endless slab of stone.

He fell forward, and there was grass beneath him again, and he was staggering under the weight of the Sign, and Will was calling to him to stand firm, to be strong, not to listen, Bran, please, don't listen…

Bran's eyes were gritty. "Is it all lies?" He mouthed it, unable to speak. He could barely see Will's face through the darkness.

Barney, he saw, had fallen, but Simon was at his side, helping him up, and Jane had staggered round to fill the gap, decreasing the size of the circle. They were still standing, so small, so doomed, so valiant.

This is right, he thought, but there was no triumph in it. This was the cause he had to fight. Nothing else mattered. If he had to spend the rest of his life shunned and hated, then so be it. Let his life be dull, empty years of guilt and self-hatred, but at least he would know that here, at the end of everything, he had made the right choice.

"Now!" Will gasped.

The darkness grew until it was as black as midnight. The only light left came from the signs, and there, above them all, a tiny speck of silver, blossoming on the tree.

Bran had no sword. He watched the blossom opening, and it seemed as if all the powers in the world were watching, too, for the darkness grew still, and air grew silent. Bran breathed in, and out, and it seemed to take an hour. On the edge of his vision, he saw Will sag forward, drifting gracefully towards the ground, with dark shadows entwined round his throat. He saw Jane's mouth open in a silent scream, and Simon laughing in frozen defiance.

The blossom opened, pure and silver. Bran leapt. For the Light! he thought, and his hand closed round it, and oh, it hurt! It was cold, like ice, like silver, like virtue in the heart of someone clothed in sin. Bran sobbed, and clung onto it. For Will! It hurt, and the tears that fell from his eyes were molten silver, and the pain inside him was like a sword of crystal through his heart.

Please, he whispered, as the darkness rose up screaming, and the world came to an end.

____

Part three: chapter nineteen

High Magic

____

Darkness absolute crashed down on the hillside, and then even the hillside itself crumbled, and there was nothing but Light.

Will floated, a pinprick at the heart of the universe. All around him, like statues carved out of hard grey stone, were Lords of High Magic. He did not know their faces. It was only the human part of him that gave them faces at all. Beings such as these did not have human form, except in the eyes of one who still remained human.

"We have been here before," they said.

The Light faded, and became the grey of a misty summer morning. The tree was there, and Bran, hunched over the blossom. Gasping darkness melted from Will's throat, and around him, held in a ragged circle, the Signs blazed with defiant light.

"The last time we were gathered here," they said, "it was supposed to be the ending of the struggle for this world, but it was not."

"Twenty-four years of man," said another. "Twenty-four years of wrongness."

"A world should have both Light and Dark," they said, turning to the hosts of the Dark, "or it should have neither. All worlds must one day be ceded to their children. What you sought was wrong."

"Are we not allowed to use any tools we choose?" the Rider asked. "We acted within the law. You cannot stop us."

The lords inclined their heads. "True. But the Light, too, has acted within the law, to try to restore what should have been, to try to undo this wrong."

Grey mist sheeted across the sky, settling on everything like a quiet blanket. The Dark fell silent. Even Will was still. The only one moving was Bran, who slowly raised his head, the blossom clutched to his chest with one blistered hand.

A lord walked towards him, bare feet in the grass. "Which do you choose, my child?"

Bran's eyes flickered, but this was not Arthur. He stood up slowly, and his eyes met Will's, and there was something in them that Will could not read.

"The Light," Bran said. He said it as if it was a defeat.

The lord turned from Bran, and came to Will, a question in his infinite eyes.

Will looked at Bran, then met the eyes of this lord who looked wholly human to him now, but would never look like that again. "Yes," he said, in answer, and the deed was done.

____

Part three: chapter twenty

One goes alone

___

They woke up slowly, rubbing their eyes against the sunlight. Bran's hand was burnt; for a moment, he could not remember how he had done it. Jane groped for the Sign, but the Signs were gone. Barney dimly remembered them blazing with fire, then fading away to nothing, but Simon had forgotten the Signs entirely. His mind was brimming with memories of the lords who had appeared from nowhere, spoken, then gone away again, leaving the world changed.

It was Barney who spoke first. "Are they…? The Dark… Is it gone?"

"Yes."

They turned towards Will, each in their own manner. Why is he still here? That was Barney. Simon had to struggle to remember his name. Jane wept with joy. Only Bran looked at him steadily, knowing the truth, but still daring to hope.

"Then we've won." Jane felt subdued, rather than happy. She had dreamed of her husband, and he was the first thing she thought of on waking.

Will shook his head. "The Dark has gone, but the mortal rulers of your world remain. The Dark pulled the strings, but the puppets are still powerful. Governments are weakened, not overthrown. There is no magic wand to undo what has been done. There is much hard work, and years to go before things are restored to what they were before."

"They will never be restored," Barney said sadly, thinking of all those who had died. "The world is changed forever."

"But maybe for the better," Simon said, surprising himself. "You can learn through mistakes. People will know what's really important now."

"And we've got your magic," Barney said. "It will be easy."

Will looked away. The sun had risen revealing a day so beautiful it could have been the first day in the world. And in a way it is, he thought. This was how the world would look without Dark or Light. It was a world in which these people – my friends – would live and love, but it was not a world that Will would ever see.

Bran, though, saw nothing of the sunlight. He clutched his burned hand, and thought of his choice, and knew that he would be alone forever. I chose the Light, he wanted to cry. Isn't that enough for you to stay with me?

Will turned to Jane. "You need to know one thing. Your child will be… different. I know this. I have seen this."

Jane pressed her hand to her belly. "A sorcerer?" Her heart started to beat very fast.

"No." Will smiled. "Not an Old One. Not Light, although his mother was touched by the Light, and not Dark, although his father was touched by the Dark. There will be a new Circle for a new world. They will have power, but they will be human, too. They will live a normal life, and die in their time. They will be bound to their world by family and love. They will belong to the world they are fighting for, and not live apart from it, as we did. They will be human, and your son will be the first."

My son, Jane thought. "He needs his father." She looked not at Barney or Simon, but at Will. "I think I… I'm going back to him. He isn't a bad man. He…"

"I know." Will touched her cheek, and then the baby inside her body. He wanted to say more. He wanted to be an Old One, giving his blessing, but the human part of him just wanted to cry.

He's leaving, Bran thought. Is he going to tell us? Will I get a goodbye, or will he just go?

"Take me with you," he blurted out.

Will turned towards him, his grey eyes wide, as if he was afraid.

"My father…" Bran took a deep breath. "Before I… Last time, he… I mean… He was going to go out of Time, wasn't he, with Merriman? So if he can, why can't I?"

Will looked at him, walked to him, touched his palm gently, with cool hands that soothed the burn there. "They told you, didn't they," he said quietly. "They taunted you. You told you that no-one but me would ever forgive you for what you did, and that I was abandoning you."

"They said…" Bran clawed at the shameful tears. "They tell lies, though, don't they? They said I'd helped to trap you, and that was a lie. This was a lie, too, wasn't it?"

Will wished with all his heart that he could say yes. Instead, he touched Bran's cheek. "You know it is not, Bran. All worlds must be ceded to its children. You heard them say that. The Dark has gone, but so must the Light. I cannot stay. I only have these minutes because I begged them."

"Then let me come," Bran pleaded. "I don't want to stay here. They'll all hate me. They'll never forgive me, never."

"No," Will had to say. "I cannot. Your father could have done it, maybe, but that time has gone. I…" He sighed. "Oh, Bran, I can't do it. I can't play the Old One, not to you. I wish I could stay with you. I wish I could ease things, but I can't. I have to go. I can't stay, and you…"

"I can't go on," Bran whispered.

"You have to." Will grabbed him by his shoulders. "Think, Bran. Governments will be reeling at the moment, with their puppet-masters gone. You have followers and influence. You'd be in a position to really made a difference. You can take the police and lead it back to justice."

"But no-one will trust me," Bran said. "The people…"

"Barney and Simon will testify for you," Will said. "There are commanders in the Resistance who knew who I was, and will believe any message passed on from me. Put it out that you were enchanted, or that you were a Resistance agent who was secretly working from within to bring the government down. Say…"

"No." Bran raised his head, looking Will full in the eye. "If I have to stay, I will not do it with a lie. If they hate me, then they hate me."

Over Bran's shoulder, Will could see the Lords of High Magic lingering, waiting for him. They had no human form at all now, and only Will could see them. The others – friends and companions – saw only with mortal eyes. Will would never see with mortal eyes again.

I want more time, he wanted to sob - his last, human urge.

"Bran," he whispered, then stepped back, and hoped his eyes could say everything that his voice could not.

The others gathered round, drawn by something that they could not see. "It is time for the Light to depart," Will told them. "I will not take your memories of this. There is no-one left to guard this world, but neither are there enemies to attack it, except the enemies that lie in the hearts of men. But you have suffered much, each one of you. I lay nothing on you as I leave. Rest and forget, if you wish. Fight for the world, if you would. Return to loved ones. Be happy, and find hope."

He embraced each one of them, Jane first, and Bran last of all. Even Simon accepted it, caught up in the solemnity of the moment.

The last wizard. Barney thought of Merlin, in his childhood tales, and Merriman, who had guided them.

There is no magic left, just us. Simon shivered, not with dread, but with anticipation.

I will live through this, Bran told himself. I will.

"Goodbye," Will said, and, smiling, turned away, and was never seen again by mortal eyes, or on the earth that bore him.

____

Part three: chapter twenty-one

The world to come

___

Slowly, gradually, life resumed.

Governments toppled. Popular risings tore open the gates of prison camps, and for a while total anarchy seemed likely, until the police, with Pendragon at their head, asserted order with a firm yet gentle touch. Talks were convened. Trust was slowly built, where before there had only been hostility. The new leader of the Resistance met with Bran Pendragon in private, and much was said, and, months later, everyone was more or less agreed that things had started to turn around at that point.

On a warm day in autumn, Jane gave birth to her son. She looked deeply into its eyes for signs of magic, but she saw only love. "I want to call him Will," she told her husband, and he let her have her way. He did that often, now. He had lost his job and they had lost their rich apartment, but she was fairly sure now that she would stay with him, at least for a while. She still did not say so, though, just in case.

When the first elections were held, Barney Drew was amazed to be elected to Parliament. He saw Bran briefly at the inauguration ceremony, but few people saw Bran after that.

"I don't think he's dead," Simon said one night, almost nine months after the midsummer morning that had been both the ending and the beginning of a world.

Barney frowned. "I hope not."

Bran had been vital to the smooth changeover of government, but there had never been a place in the new world for him. The people were ready to forgive him his worst sins, but they could not see a man like that continue in power. Nor, Barney suspected, did Bran want to stay in power. He had briefly taken control only because Will had wanted it. As soon as the country was stable again, he had vanished.

Simon, much to everyone's surprise, had decided to stay at home and look after his mother, while studying at home through one of the newly-re-established universities. "I don't know what I want to do," he admitted, "but I mean to find out." One night, after a few drinks, he confessed more. "I've been trying to prove something all my life, you see, but now I can just be me, whoeever I am."

Jane's baby had its first birthday, and his parents were still together. I can leave at any time, Jane had told herself, every single morning for nearly a year. But now, on the morning of her child's birthday, she realised that she had not needed to tell herself that for months. I'm going to stay, she thought. This time she said it, and her husband's smile almost broke her heart.

Christmas approached, but, before that, the darkest night of the year. In a house in Buckinghamshire, an old couple raised a glass. "To Will," they said. "To our son."

The pale-skinned man on the other side of the hearth raised his own glass in return. "To Will."

He had come a year before, terrified of his welcome, but knowing only that he had to bring them news of Will's final hours. Instead, he had found himself embraced. He had stayed one night, and then two. Yes, they knew who he was, but they were too old to bear grudges, and Will had always spoken so fondly of Bran when he was young. They were lonely, it seemed, since all their children had left home, and they had this great huge house, just crying out for someone to stay.

"To Will." Bran lowered the glass, and afterwards, he stood in his room, in the room that had once been Will's, and looked out over the dark treetops, to the stars that shone in the night, each one a gleam of purest Light.

******

END

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Thank you for reading. I can tell from my website stats. that a lot of people have been following this story, but what did you think of it? I'm am insecure writer. Yes, I know common sense ought to tell me that people wouldn't bother following a story through 51 parts and 3 weeks unless they were getting at least something from it, but, still…

Feedback would be lovely. You can email me here. You can drop me a note on my Livejournal. (Anonymous comments are fine, too, so you don't have to be a LJ user to do this.) You can add a review on fanfiction.net.

Once again, thanks for reading!

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Rambling author's note

This was the most challenging thing I've ever written. When I wrote the original drabbles, I had never planned them to lead to a long story. The drabbles were set 24 years after the end of Silver on the Tree. In other words, they were set very near the end of the story. While I saw certain things very clearly – Simon and Barney in their prison camp, Jane in her gilded cage, Bran as head of the secret police – I didn't know how they'd got to those positions.

This meant that when I decided to expand the drabbles into a longer story, I was effectively writing the story backwards. I knew where the characters ended up, but I did not yet know how they'd got there. Normally I start a story with only a vague idea of where it's going. The characters take over and usually end up taking the story to places I'd never expected them to. I couldn't let this happen in this story. Simon and Barney had to end up in that prison camp. Bran had to end up head of the secret police. And so on.

This was rendered even more complicated by my decision to adhere to anything that I'd written in the drabbles, and to change nothing. I wanted "The World to Come" to be a story expanded out of those drabbles, not a story loosely inspired by them. A single word in those drabbles could lead to a whole plot arc in the long story that resulted from them, which usually was great, but sometimes caused me trouble.

For example, Simon's entire plot arc grew out of his listlessness in the original drabble. He seemed so defeated – more so than Barney. Why? I mused about the answer, and his entire story emerged – his awful experiences at school, his high hopes in the Resistance etc. Another example comes from Jane's drabble, when she thought that Will was "one of those Resistance sorcerers." From this came the whole storyline of the Old Ones in the Resistance. From this also came the whole "sorcerer" issue – i.e. the Dark going public about the Old Ones, branding them as "sorcerers." Even though I was never entirely happy with this, I had to stick with it. Jane had thought "sorcerer" in the drabble, and this needed to make sense.

The other challenging thing about the story was the sheer length of time it covered. I normally write fairly intense stories, that cover only a few days. I rarely have more than a few hours between scenes. In this story, however, I had 24 years to cover, from 6 different viewpoints. If I wrote in my usual way, I would end up with a 10,000 page story.

I decided to write it as a collection of vignettes and short stories, each one focusing on one character alone. I felt that this was the only way I could cover the time properly, and also this fitted in with the feel of the original drabbles. However, this caused its own problems. I was seeing a snapshot of a character aged 17, and was then not seeing them again until I glimpsed them aged 26. It was a challenge to keep hold of the characters. It also meant that every single chapter was like chapter one of a new story. I always find beginnings hard, but in this story, I had 51 beginnings.

Yet, at the same time, it was a really enjoyable experience to write. It took me a long time, but I made it.

I am now jumping into Diana Wynne Jones fandom to write a sequel to "A tale of two wizards." After all this angst, some quirky comedy-adventure is just what I need.

___

Original drabbles:

Memories

"Do you remember," Simon asked, "what it was like… before?"

Barney chewed his dry bread. Sunlight. Colour. Smiles.

"Of course, you were just a child. I envy that, sometimes. It's worse, remembering."

Barney smiled. "But you're wrong, Simon."

Sunlight dancing on water. Children laughing. A leaf in autumn. A brush moving on canvas, and mother's smile.

"Memories are like paintings," he said. "They make the world seem less bleak."

"Or make the darkness seem darker." Simon curled his chained fist. "Things won't change. Better not to hope."

"Never think…"

But the overseer returned, and there was no more talking that day.

___

Chains

He was chained at last.

The lords of Darkness lurked behind every throne. The four who stepped from behind the curtain were a power not even he could resist.

The least of them turned to the brown-haired general who thought he ruled the land. "Oh, well done, sir. This will shatter them forever. Their last sorcerer." His grabbed Merriman's chin. "The last of your kind, Old One. Think on that, in your eternity of despair."

Laughing, they blasted him out of time, but they never touched his secret, locked in his heart. It, too, was chained.

Not the last. One remains.

___

In the mirror

Once, he had been unloved. Once, he had been powerless.

Then the foul sorcerers had come, to make him their slave. They wanted the world to stay as it always had been, but why on earth would he want that? That world was teasing and loneliness, and so he had raised his sword, turned on those false friends…

And the world had fallen into place around him.

Those who had once teased him now fawned on him, or trembled. "It's better this way," he said.

The face in the mirror looked back at him, and did not know how to smile.

___

Gilded cage

Far below her golden balcony, a man was on the run, shot at by Pendragon's men.

Jane turned away, and the same man appeared before her, dirty and bloodied. Jane clapped her jewelled hand to her mouth. "How did you…?"

Sorcery. It had to be. But weren't the sorcerers dead? A sorcerer from the Resistance. But her brothers had already… It would break her mother's heart if she… That's why she had married…

"Please…" Leave me, she meant to say, but, "Please save me…" The words wrenched out of her throat.

He nodded once. "But another first." And then he was gone.

___

Second meeting

The most feared man alive stood alone on a threshold.

Will readied himself in the shadows. For years, Merriman had forbidden Will from doing this, but Merriman was gone. Will was leader of the Resistance now, the only Old One left in the world…

And very possibly a monumental fool.

Fifteen years ago, the Dark had come rising, and the Dark had won. Cruelty and terror had claimed the world, but Will had never given up hope, and never would, until… Unless…

Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward. "Hello, Bran."

Bran raised his hand. "Will Stanton," he said, and he smiled.