Chosen (9781742844657) (21 page)

Another reason why something had to be done about the orchard.

‘I'm going for a walk,' Renatus told her, squeezing Fionnuala's bony shoulder affectionately. She beamed at him.

‘Come in before it gets too dark and cold,' she ordered lovingly, as though catching a cold were a real concern of his, as though he had never faced worse things than a darkening sky as part of his life and work, as though anything dangerous could possibly occur to him, the White Elm's Dark Keeper, on his own estate.

‘I will,' he promised anyway, before leaving the kitchen.

As could be expected, nearly everyone was inside the dining hall, and the entry hall was completely abandoned. Renatus strode past the open door, preparing himself for the onslaught of teenage attention, but no one noticed him, either because the diners were too absorbed by their conversations or because the entry hall was not well-lit enough for Renatus to be easily seen.

Either way, he didn't care.

Darkness was creeping over the grounds now. Renatus, in his black cloak, blended straight in, heading purposefully across the grass towards the orchard at the edge of his property. Knowing where he was going, thinking about his impending destination, he began to feel slightly ill, as he always did whenever he tried to visit his past.

The past should be left be, Lord Gawain had said. He was a wise man, with Renatus's best interests at heart, like Fionnuala. But could he really understand? He had not lost that day. He'd witnessed Renatus's loss. Renatus had lost everything, and gained nothing but anger and a thirst for revenge. And he had thought he'd had his revenge, but now there was only a need to get it right this time, to do better.

Lord Gawain could not understand. And he would not. Not ever. Renatus would ensure it.

Some things were best left in the past, and the past should be left be.

Renatus had reached the edge of the orchard and stopped at the beginning of the pathway. The darkness was strongest right here, on this pathway, the site of his first act of darkest magic. The beginning of a lifetime spiralling downward. The stain of such an act was not something that simply washed away in the rain.

He had not been back here in the seven years that had passed since that day.

However, in the past week, he had begun to wonder whether his one act of evil had been enough. New information has a way of shedding new, and sometimes concerning, light on old situations.

Somebody would pay for this. Somebody already had, but it wasn't enough. It didn't bring back what Renatus had lost.

A soft and familiar presence was approaching. Renatus stared down the pathway to the cast iron gate, wondering whether he would ever be strong enough to follow this path to its end, open that gate and visit what lay beyond. Lord Gawain made his way over, closer and closer, until he was standing right beside Renatus, silent as well.

After several minutes, the older man spoke.

‘My friend, they will not begrudge you for staying away so long,' he said gently. ‘Is it finally time?'

Renatus stared through the trees at the tall grey headstones that stood, ghostly and elegant, beyond the gate in the family graveyard. Many he had visited as a child, ancestors he had never known. Three, he knew, had been there for seven years and had never been visited by a soul since the day they were buried.

‘Not today,' Renatus answered finally, hating himself for his cowardice. But the fact was that he could not bear the thought of standing beside their final resting places, reaching out with his hands and feeling nothing but dirt; reaching out for them with his energy and feeling nothing at all. Knowing, all the while, that in some sick way even he could not comprehend, their deaths were his own fault. How could they not be, when their bodies and souls had been destroyed and he had been left virtually unscathed?

His soul had been destroyed, too, but that had been his own fault. He had chosen his actions.

He turned away.

‘Then when?' Lord Gawain asked, turning in unison with his protégé and beginning the slow walk back to the house.

‘Maybe tomorrow,' Renatus said doubtfully.
Maybe never
.

‘Things will not always be as they are now, Renatus,' Lord Gawain commented. ‘You of all people know how quickly life can change. Tomorrow is a new day, and it may be the exact day you are waiting for.'

‘You always have the right advice to give me, Master,' Renatus said, feeling his stomach unknot as they moved further and further from that place. He finally met the leader's eyes. The cool blue was always lit with respect and fatherly love when he looked upon Renatus. ‘You have given me so much.'

He thought of the first time they had met. Lord Gawain and Lisandro, close friends and colleagues then, had arrived at the estate's gates and had been let inside by one of Fionnuala's daughters. The two White Elm had come straight to the orchard, where already the servants were combing the fallen trees for the family of the house. Lord Gawain had been the one to find Renatus, only fifteen years of age then, in shock, standing over the unrecognisable body of his twenty-year-old sister, his black hair plastered to his face from the rain and his shirt spattered with blood. And, instead of assuming the worst of the boy, Lord Gawain had rushed past the dead body and gathered Renatus into a tight embrace.

‘Thank heavens you're alright. Come away from here, my boy,' he'd said. His blue eyes then had been filled with an unbearable concern.

Concern that Renatus knew he didn't deserve.

Would Lord Gawain have been so loving and protective of Renatus had he known what the boy had done in the minutes before their arrival? Had he known where the blood on his clothes had come from, would he still have gathered the boy into his arms and half-carried him away from that place?

If he knew what Renatus was capable of, and what went through the younger man's head, would he have ever allowed him to rise to the position of Dark Keeper?

Certainly not
was the answer to all questions.

That evening, I wrote to my aunt and uncle while Hiroko wrote to her father, Xanthe wrote to her family, and Sterling chattered about nothing.

‘Damn,' Xanthe murmured, as her pencil's lead snapped. She glanced over her desk, and then turned to the rest of us. ‘Does anyone have a pencil sharpener?' She held up her pencil to show us what had happened. Sterling shook her head and continued going through her clothes, all the while chatting about what she was going to wear the following day. She was easy to block out. I glanced at my pencil sharpener, glinting of dull silver as it sat, unused, in my disorganised pile of stationery.

‘I don't,' Hiroko apologised. Xanthe frowned, and turned her attention to me. Her gaze met mine.

‘Aristea?' she asked. I paused for probably a second too long, but I nodded, forced a smile and stood, pencil sharpener in hand.

‘Aye, it's fine,' I said, walking over and passing it to her. Perhaps I'd been too hard on her, I thought, as she thanked me, smiled quickly, and sharpened her broken pencil. She handed it back, and I went back to my desk, hoping that meant that our unofficial argument was over.

The weekend was uneventful but enjoyable. I spent a great deal of time doing very little, playing cards with Hiroko, leafing through Sterling's magazines, going for walks around the grounds with the girls (which was much more comfortable now that Xanthe wasn't ignoring me) and doing the little amount of homework I'd been set.

At breakfast on Monday, one of the servants, the portly little lady dressed in green I'd seen talking with Renatus (Fionnuala?), handed me an envelope with my name printed on it in Angela's handwriting. I didn't ask how she knew who I was.

To:     
Aristea Byrne

      
House of Morrissey

From:     
A. Byrne

          
9 Cairn Gardens

          
Coleraine

I tore it open and began to read, eagerly.

Aristea,

I received your letter this morning (it's Thursday) and had to write back to you straight away. It sounds like you're having the most amazing time there. I laughed when I read what you said about your friend Sterling and her obsession with your headmaster – I had a girl in my class at primary school who always said that she was in love with our teacher.

In your next letter you must tell me everything there is to know about Lord Gawain and Lady Miranda! Are they as amazing and incredible as the rumours say? I don't want to just take Aunt Leanne's word for it…

What is Renatus like in true life? Kell and I were just saying last night that he's the one White Elm that you never hear anything about. All I know is what you'd hear from gossip, so I was surprised when you said he is your headmaster. I thought that surely Lord Gawain or somebody high up would be in charge.

Your new friends sound lovely and your classes sound fantastic – I'm almost drowning in envy.

Sorry that this letter has been so short. Nearly nothing has been happening in my life. Work is dull, household chores are dull (although the sheer amount of chores to be done has noticeably decreased since you left) and being by myself in the house is dull. Kelly has been coming over in the evenings to keep me company, though, so don't you worry about me. Just focus on your studies!

Make sure you write again soon.

Love you so much xox

∼ Angela

I smiled and reread the letter. Angela's handwriting was so neat, precise and familiar; reading words written by her hand was almost as good as hearing her voice. She was a receptionist, with access to a computer all day every weekday, but I was grateful that she hadn't thought to fill in her spare time at work by writing to me. Typed letters, though often longer, simply did not compare to handwritten notes.

Hiroko, too, had received a letter, I noticed eventually. I glanced over the page, unintentionally peeking, but it didn't matter anyway. The entire letter was hand-printed in elegant Japanese script. To me, it was such a pretty and exotic-looking written language. I wondered whether it would be difficult to learn.

Breakfast finished, and since we had no classes first up, Hiroko and I went for a wander through the grounds. It was another beautiful day, and when Hiroko commented on this, I told her not to get too used to it. It wasn't going to last, it never did. We saw a young hare bounding across the grass, and I pointed out to Hiroko the differences between the hare and a rabbit.

‘My father has been very busy with work,' Hiroko informed me as we peered into a rabbit hole, waiting to see if anything came out. ‘He works for the biggest bank in Sapporo. It is not a very magical job but he likes it very much and he must work so I can learn English and go to good schools.'

‘My father built furniture,' I told her, remembering how Darren Byrne had always been good with his hands. ‘One year, when I was only very young and hardly old enough to even play in it, my father built a tree house in our yard. It was mainly for my brother and sister, because they were older and they could climb to it. But when they outgrew it, it was all mine.'

‘And now, you live only with your sister?' Hiroko added hesitantly. She glanced at me sideways, obviously hoping not to upset me, but curious all the same. For a long time I didn't know what to say. I hadn't talked to anyone about this, except relatives, at any point since it happened. I hadn't even spoken to the grief counsellor. Was I up to it? How to even start? Hiroko was still waiting, but she wouldn't be affronted if I declined to discuss the matter. She would understand. With that in mind, I sat down on the grass and I just said it.

‘My parents and brother died when I was fourteen.'

‘How awful,' Hiroko stated, sitting down beside me. ‘What happened?'

‘There was a big storm, and a tree fell in the wind and killed them,' I said, expecting tears and tightness in my throat. Surprisingly, it didn't hurt as much as I expected it to. It felt kind of relieving to share my experience with someone who cared and honestly wanted to know. ‘My sister and I had to find somewhere else to live, and we've had our aunt and her family for support.'

‘My mother is dead, too,' Hiroko told me, without hesitation. ‘She died in an accident, in a car, when I was a five-year-old. She was pregnant. So, I have no brothers or sisters.'

I tried to imagine losing my mother at age five. Who would have kissed better my bruises? Who would have sung me to sleep? Who would have read to me? That was when I'd needed her the most. I'd lost my mother after fourteen years of love; Hiroko had lost hers after only five.

I tried to imagine life without my siblings, as an only child. I tried to imagine my father's hands building a tree house intended for me alone. I tried to imagine wanting anything for my own reasons, instead of just because my brother and sister had one. I couldn't. Hiroko would have been a big sister, I realised, had this accident not taken away her mother. And I knew she would have been a fantastic one, just like Angela.