The Dawn Herald

By LB Mara

Charis and her mother Isolde are outsiders, shunned by their neighbours who suspect that they are witches - which they are; Charis and Isolde must keep their talents hidden. As she approaches her twelfth birthday, Charis's talents become more and more noticeable. One night, Isolde tells Charis who and what she truly is - and that only her unique gifts can save her world from destruction...

• Language: English
• Publisher: LB Mara
• Release date: Nov 18, 2012

Book preview

CHAPTER I

Well, really! cried Mrs Latimer as the door of Number 46 St Etheldreda’s Square slammed in her daughter’s face. Eight-year-old Amanda, her piano music falling from her hand, began to sob. Mrs Latimer made her way up the short flight of steps as fast as her hobble skirt and parasol would permit and dragged the weeping child away.

She said that I was a talentless idiot and I should never be let within fifty yards of a piano, wailed Amanda. Mrs Latimer’s lips tightened into an invisible line.

This is positively the final straw. We shall not be talking to them again, she announced to the neighbours clustering around the steps, all of whom adopted outraged expressions. They parted to make way for one of Number 46’s lodgers, an elderly archaeologist who wandered around the Square in his dressing gown to the outrage of the other inhabitants. The archaeologist beamed.

Good lesson? he asked the drooping Amanda. Mrs Latimer turned on her heel with a flounce and towed her child away, indignation radiating from every pore.

From that day St Etheldreda’s Square ignored Number 46 as if it had never existed. They particularly ignored its owner Isolde, who had never quite fit in with the respectable accountants, doctors and bankers who lived in identical tall white houses grouped around tidy communal gardens. Isolde was far too tall, her hair was far too short, and she wore flowing velvet gowns when the fashion was for wasp waists and high bustles. Showing off as if she were Royalty, sniffed Mrs Edwards at Number 28, when she doesn’t even keep servants. And I hear she paints her face!

You are very right, my dear, nodded her neighbour, old Mrs Babbacome. Not only that; she’s let the house go something dreadful. All that peeling paint! I am ashamed to walk past it. It lets us all down.

No matter how much the Square tried to ignore Number 46, however, it always managed to intrude upon their notice. Isolde had many lodgers. Amongst their number was an opera singer who practised arias at two in the morning, and an artist who spent all day in a hammock on the lawn smoking cigars and telephoning his many girlfriends. Then there was Isolde’s daughter Charis, who came in for her fair share of criticism. A born troublemaker, that one; and where’s the father? That’s what I’d like to know, said Mrs Whittaker at Number 20 to her husband. Did you hear your mother? Stay away from that girl. She’s bound to come to a sticky end, Mr Whitaker warned his daughters, who watched, giggling, as Charis slouched past talking to herself.

Last but not least, the inhabitants of St Etheldreda’s Square suspected that Isolde and Charis might have magical powers. I thought all the witches had been burnt? Could have sworn I went to a witch-burning a few years ago. Jolly good day out, drawled Bertie Huntingdon to Mrs Latimer at the yearly Square cocktail party.

Unfortunately not, said Mrs Latimer. I tell you, my dear, I have seen the strangest things when I have taken Baby out for his daily airing. I swear that I saw a bowl of flowers float through the air right into Isolde’s arms just this afternoon! And that awful daughter of hers! Amanda sits behind her in class, you know. She says Charis uses magic to do her schoolwork. No-one has caught her yet, but –

Can’t think why Isolde doesn’t educate the gel at home, yawned Bertie Huntingdon.

Well, quite. It’s not as if any of us wants to see her, the plain little thing.

Charis, who had heard all the whispers about herself and was still young enough to mind, sat at her desk and tried to finish off her pile of homework without using magic. She looked thoughtfully at a list of quotes she was supposed to write out in perfect copperplate, closed her eyes and rested her hand on the page. A stream of letters curled beneath her fingers and flowed across the ivory parchment. Charis sighed and rubbed her hand across the page. The copperplate disappeared. She threw her handwriting notebook to one side and stared out of the window, scowling. It was so unfair that she wasn’t allowed to use magic, just because she and Mummy might get burnt at the stake. It wasn’t her fault that all her classmates had ganged up and sent her to Coventry, just because she was different. Charis hated school with a passion. She was bored most of the time and miserable the rest. She had no friends. None! Not one! She was alone-alone-alone. Alone! It wasn’t fair!

Charis glared at her pile of homework and decided to leave it until later. Whenever she was cross, the bad words she was thinking mysteriously ended up all over her essays and handwriting practice. The last time it had happened, she had been given six whacks on her hand by her class teacher. It had taken all of Charis's willpower to stop herself from evaporating the woman on the spot.

She ventured into the upstairs corridor, listening intently for the sound of Isolde’s raised voice. It was always better to avoid Mummy when she was in one of her Moods because, despite Isolde's best efforts, things tended to catch fire when she was enraged. The house was silent. Emboldened, Charis skipped down the back stairs, whistling loudly.

On her way she passed Mr Beauchamp, the archaeologist: he spent half his year on digs in Palmyra and Samarkand and his skin was brown and mottled and as thin as vellum. He peered at her over his half-moon spectacles and turned a page of the second volume of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Charis shook her head and picked up her striped tabby kitten from its favourite sunlit patch on the landing. The kitten, which resented being woken, stuck a sharp claw into the skin over Charis’s collarbone and tugged. Charis smacked the paw hard, rubbed at the itchy patch of skin, and made her way down the back stairs to the kitchen, listening out for the sounds of smashing china.

Mummy rummaged in the larder, muttering to herself. Charis perched on a high stool and watched as a milk bottle floated over to her and poured out a saucerful for the kitten.

Mummy, you’re doing it again. Charis fiddled with what looked like a normal marble until you peered at it closely and could suddenly make out entire galaxies. Her eyes glowed as a dwarf giant expanded in wave upon wave of blinding light.

Blast. I forgot. Isolde frowned at Charis. Don’t play with that. It’s someone else’s universe.

Charis put the marble into a bowl filled with at least fifty universes, all of which looked round to start with and then started developing strange lines and curves, and shook the demon-glass instead. An unbreakable crystal goblet, it had trapped within its atoms an evil spirit that had been stupid enough to challenge Isolde to a duel when she was out on a jaunt in another dimension. Charis twirled the glass, stuck her tongue out at the glinting orange eyes that appeared briefly in the rim, and watched Mummy prepare supper. Isolde was glowing with suppressed rage. She looked altogether too bright, too real for her everyday surroundings. Being around someone who lived at a higher frequency than most people made Charis feel a little breathless at times. Isolde slammed the larder door shut and clenched her hands, squeezing her eyes shut tightly. She muttered under her breath for a moment and gave a huge sigh.

What’s wrong? Charis stared at the foaming curling mound of rich cheeses that Isolde had grated for a sauce and sneaked a handful. Isolde smacked Charis’s hand.

You can wait until dinner’s ready. Um. What’s wrong? Only that the Latimer woman was spying on me through the drawing room windows again. I’m surprised she hasn’t reported us to the Church Authorities on suspicion of witchcraft, the nosey, meddling fat-faced fool.

Fat-headed, more like.

Well said. Anyway. Enough about the wretched Latimer woman. I suppose it’s a stupid question to ask if any of your school friends are coming over for dinner?

No. Charis hopped down from her stool and poured Isolde a glass of wine. 'You know I don’t have any friends."

Oh, well. Friends aren’t all they’re made out to be. Especially when you’re eleven. Trust me. I didn’t have any friends when I was eleven.

I’m tired of being lonely. Just because I’m not like the other girls.

Who cares about not being like the other girls? Charis’s face fell and her eyes watered. She rubbed them hard. Isolde gave her a bruising hug.

I’m sorry, little one. I know it’s hard. Personally, I blame the educational system. Isolde smashed a clove of violet-veined garlic and sautéed a teaspoon of the puree in the foaming butter. Charis’s mouth watered. School seems to be all about whether you’re popular and not at all about learning. Isolde whisked a snowy cloud of flour into the butter. It’s probably for the best that you’re not popular, my little one. You’re beginning to shine at night.

Am I really? asked Charis, fascinated. Why?

Tell you later. Isolde whisked buttercup-yellow creamy milk into her sauce. She looked around, making sure that none of her neighbours were peering through the window, and conjured up a little nutmeg tree in a celadon bowl. She plucked a fruit, tore the nutmeg from its heart, kissed it with fiery lips so that it dried out in a trice and grated a fragrant umber-coloured drift of spice into her sauce, added an aromatic bay leaf and a grinding of pepper, and visibly relaxed. She gave Charis a sidelong look under her lashes. What have you been dreaming about? Isolde took a sip of wine and flicked her finger at the whisk. At once, it began to slowly stir the sauce.

Star sailors, said Charis rapturously.

Beautiful, were they?

Oh, yes. More than… I don’t have any words, really.

Show me. Quickly now, before any of our neighbours come snooping, ordered Isolde. Charis projected the memory of her dream into a shadowy corner. It flickered for a moment, and then the images of starry ships sailing through the Gulf of Heaven, guided by the glowing planets, emerged from the gloom. Orion, his bow raised, strode through the fields of lights; the Little Bear roared, and Cassiopeia, hurtling on her upside-down throne through the heavens, cried how has it come to this? The light-filled vessels moved steadily through the void until a pinkish glow lit the blackness. Then a shell-shaped world appeared, a gossamer cloud the colour of sapphires hanging over its surface. Two slender moons hovered above a great wall that ran all the way around its circumference, and the broken contours of a great arc of crystalline matter hung above it. The sky, torn and hanging in tattered folds, was draped over the outermost edges of its cities and pooled in its seas, and the faint shadows of other worlds, worlds of every shape and size and colour radiated through it and bisected it and dissected it.

Charis blinked and the image vanished. Isolde nodded and added half the mountain of cheese to her sauce.

Was that the first time you dreamt about this world?

Charis snitched another pinch of grated cheese. No. I’ve been dreaming it since I was about… four or five.

A long time.

"It started around the time I had the ’flu and you were worried about me and I said to you wouldn’t it be funny if petticoats were petty-coats… and you got mine and yours out of the cupboard and made them be petty and insulting to each other...

I think that was the first time, because later that night I dreamt this country all made out of china that was shaped like a teacup if you were to look at it on a map. Then there was that angel on the twelfth step the time you were ill and I was really scared you wouldn’t get better and it held me in its wings and I felt like I’d come home; so safe, you know. Oh – and that time we went to Venice and it rained and we went into that church with the painted angel on the ceiling and it came down and sat on my shoulder. It was stern. Charis shivered. I mean, it held me too, but then it told me I had to start being good or terrible things would happen, and I said what things, and it made me feel… she shrugged her shoulders …I don’t know, cold all over like I’d lost something I loved or something.

Isolde tried to coax the Aga to work the human way. After a few minutes and some shocking language, she stepped back and crossed her eyes at it. At once the kitchen was toasty warm and a cauldron of water began to bubble furiously. She put a huge amount of macaroni on to cook and whisked her pan of sauce, melted in the last of the cheese, put the pan on a back hob, prepared crudités, sliced a side of smoked salmon, made a tart of roasted tomatoes, roasted garlic, fresh basil and crisp pastry, unearthed a crock of potted shrimp from the larder, devilled twelve eggs, conjured up a huge green salad, sautéed green beans and baby carrots, whipped up a lemon fool and a peach cobbler for pudding, prepared a board of cheeses and fruit, sliced crusty bread, opened three bottles of white wine to breathe, set the table, broke her thumbnail, swore, took a restorative sip of her own wine, spilled some down her chin, swore again and asked:

Where is your angel now?

In here, somewhere. Charis laid one finger across her heart.

Call the lodgers down to supper, darling. Isolde put down her glass and mixed a shaker of lethally strong pre-dinner cocktails. Charis stepped into the corridor that ran between kitchen, scullery, garden room and laundry, took down the battered hunting-horn that hung from a bent hook and blew three strident blasts. Upstairs, doors opened and shut and the shuffling and stamping of many feet announced the imminent arrival of Isolde’s Lodgers. There was Mr Beauchamp, who only wore a silk dressing gown and slippers when he wasn’t away on digs, and Mr Frobisher, an undertaker with a deadly sense of humour, and Mr Partridge the painter, and Signor Scarlatti the opera singer, and Regan, a girl with a charming lopsided smile who worked as a waitress during the day and wrote the Great English Novel by night. The one thing they had in common, aside from being rogues of the highest order, was a talent for magic. They were very proud of Isolde and Charis, who could do things they had never dreamed of, and many were the nights they watched in awe as Isolde conjured entire miniature cities, worlds and universes from nothing.

I say, Isolde, said Regan, who was first down to dinner, that weird chap’s back again. The one that hangs around the park in the funny clothes. You know, the one who dresses like a sixteenth century minstrel.

Oh? said Isolde, waving the lodgers towards the table. Eat! Eat!

Sixteenth century minstrel? asked Charis.

Probably some lunatic. Or a performance artist, said Regan with a grin.

A warlock, perhaps, said Mr Frobisher thoughtfully.

Charis snorted derisively. There’s no such thing as magic, remember?

I wish someone would tell the Prime Minister that. He has a riot on his hands in the House of Lords over his ridiculous People’s Budget; and all he can do is waste public money on employing Witch Snatchers, said Isolde acerbically. I saw two hanging around the Square Gardens in their silly red cloaks the other day. Perhaps, if they really want to catch a witch or two, they should be a little less inconspicuous.

I gave one of them a terrible rash the other day when I went past, said Charis and shrieked with laughter. He was standing there, twirling his silly moustaches, and all of a sudden he started scratching and scratching.

Isolde looked grave. You must be terribly careful, my darling. I would hate it if one of them took you away…

To be burnt? Oh, they’ll never catch me, said Charis with eleven-year-old bravado: I’m far too quick for them; and besides, if I’m going to be burnt, it will be because of your rotten temper, Mummy. You set that poor oleander bush in the garden on fire today because you were cross.

Isolde looked shamefaced. I hadn’t realised, she murmured, and turned her attention to her supper.

Gradually the dishes emptied, the wine was drunk and the port decanter made its unsteady way around the table. Mr Beauchamp, who always misjudged his capacity for food and drink, rested his head on his hand and began to snore. The rest of the lodgers exchanged amused looks and hauled themselves to their feet, groaning as distended stomachs juddered against suddenly-tight trousers.

Wonderful sup sups, Izzie darling, said Regan through an enormous yawn. I think I need a tiny nap…the Great English Novel can wait…

Isolde waved goodnight to Regan and endured the other lodgers’ attempts to help with the washing up, which involved a great quantity of bubbles, splashes, puddles and laughter. After creating a great deal of mess they departed, satisfied: they had made a contribution. Isolde, fiddling with the necklace of three precious stones on a thin gold wire she always wore around her neck, closed the door and waved her hands with a flourish. At once the kitchen was spotlessly clean and tidy.

They were only trying to help, said Charis, playing cat’s cradle and placing the resulting tangle of string on her kitten’s head. It batted it away crossly.

Are they gone? asked Isolde.

Ye-es, I think so... Why? Don’t you trust them?

It’s not a matter of trusting them. It’s a matter for you and me alone.

She tiptoed to the kitchen door, placed her ear against it, and raised her hands. The scent of roses filled the air.

You only smell of roses when you put people to sleep! Why are you putting them to sleep?

I must. Trust me. Isolde laid a hand on Charis’s arm. She gripped it for a moment, sped open to the basement, looked around, and hissed Matthias! Matthias! Come quickly!

CHAPTER II

What looked like a folded patch of shadow twitched and spread into a perfect square. There was a strange sucking sound and the middle of the square disappeared. A pair of legs clad in green silk hose emerged, followed by the torso and head of a noble-looking young man with lion-coloured eyes. Charis blinked in astonishment but, as she was very nearly twelve, affected an ‘I don’t care’ attitude and shrugged.

The young man carefully closed the door behind him, looked with distaste at the gleaming domestic appliances without which Isolde could no longer function, and made a low bow.

Hail Dawn Herald, Ruler of Ellyra and Keeper of Gerena, he said and knelt at Isolde’s feet, kissing the back of her hand. Charis giggled and rolled her eyes at Isolde. To her shock Isolde’s face wore an expression that Charis had never seen before. It was grave, and fierce, and regal, and as distant as the marble effigies of kings and queens that Charis had seen in Westminster Abbey. She felt a bit scared all of a sudden and chewed the ribbon on the end of her plait for comfort.

Hail Matthias, most loyal to our cause, said Isolde. Arise. She sat on a stool and, rocking back, looked up at him, entirely at her ease. She should be wearing armour, not a dress, thought Charis, and felt shocked at herself for even thinking such a thing. She tried to blend into the shadows, unaware that she was emitting a faint, celestial-blue glow. Isolde took no notice of her. Do you have it?

A smile lit Matthias’s serious face. He plucked a feather from his jerkin and blew upon it, and let it drift from his fingers. When it landed on the ground it transformed into a huge square oilcloth package bound with a leather thong. Isolde tore it open, not bothering to hide her eagerness, and clasped a pair of soft leather boots to her chest with a sigh of delight. She then took out a short sword, a little pouch which she turned upside down on the kitchen countertop and dumped out strings of pearls and emeralds and diamonds and gold coins, some cameos, an ivory stick broken in two, a tiny shield which expanded until it was three feet long painted in the green and gold, a feather-light chain mail shirt, a clouded mirror, a blinking peacock’s eye and two slim volumes with titles written in a strange script, one of which was smeared with what looked like dried blood. Finally, she held out her hands as Matthias unbuckled a sword from around his waist, her eyes alight.

Tschanthus, she murmured and drew the centaur-wrought blade from its scabbard. The blade gleamed fire-bright in the gloom, the great fire opal set into the sword’s pommel glowing with inner warmth. As they watched, the battle scenes etched on the blade began to move. A herd of centaurs fired blazing arrows into the sky, and a great army of identical dark men surged across a sandy plain towards ranks of hares and two-headed men and snarling Tygers, a bareheaded warrior at their head. The warrior sounded the battle charge. Suddenly the room in which Isolde, Matthias and Charis stood disappeared. They stood in the midst of the silver world at Tschanthus’s heart, finely milled molecules of steel sleeting around them. Two dimensional horses and their riders streamed through them, their whinnies and cries whistling tinnily through the sharp, metallic air. Charis, glowing brightly as a summer’s day, shedding light on the monochromatic landscape of Tschanthus’s interior, reached up towards and with both hands touched the too-bright sky. A cracked, bleeding rent in the firmament and a shattered rainbow arc of matter appeared…

There was a singing, ringing noise like the sound of a sword slammed into its scabbard and the world turned inside out once more; but the etched figures on the blade had stopped, mid-battle, and were staring in wonderment and horror at the disfigured sky.

Is this… breathed Matthias in astonishment. Isolde pinched his arm hard, cutting him off in mid-sentence.

Go upstairs, my darling, and wait for me, she said to Charis. I won’t be long, darling, I promise. Poor Charis trailed off, her pointed little face radiating disappointment and rosy dawn light in equal measures. She did not hear Matthias’s gasp of shock or Isolde’s choke of dismay. On the nape of the child’s neck there now glowed a bright crescent moon surrounded by a filigree web of stars.

Isolde wove her strongest enchantments around the whole house, so thick and impenetrable that not even the source of All Evil could pierce them.

Matthias sagged immediately, gasping, as though he had been holding his breath. Forgive me, Lady-fair: I have been cloaking my soul for the past three days to shield myself from the watchful eyes of evildoers. He fell back into a chair and wiped a hand across his trembling mouth.

I understand. There is nothing to forgive. Isolde crossed her arms and took several agitated turns around the kitchen. She stopped and looked at him. Yes. Charis is who you believe her to be. She is the Goddess of the Arc of the Sky.

The words fell into the silence. Each one hung like a little bead of light on the air. Isolde reached out moulded them into a ball of elastic matter. She rubbed the ball between her palms until it glowed white hot and blew on it. It became dark as pitch. Very slowly an explosion of light at its centre grew until it illuminated the entire room, and tiny glinting points of light radiated outwards into the black velvet depths. Isolde placed the ball of matter in the bowl with all the other universes and poured herself another glass of wine. Matthias bowed apologetically and took the wine away. He took another feather out of his jerkin and twisted it over a large carafe, and a great torrent of icewine splashed down, filling the room with its sharp aromatic, sweet-heather scent.

What age has she? he asked.

Three days shy of her twelfth year. Isolde sighed as the much-missed icewine trickled across her tongue.

She cannot stay here. She must be moved at once, far far away where the source of all evil cannot find her.

She’s becoming a lot more noticeable. Shining during the day and so on. The other children haven’t really noticed – they don’t notice anything at that age, I don’t think, apart from themselves – but I’ve noticed some of her school-mistresses giving her funny looks. On her birthing day, I will not be able to hide her any longer. But I do not know where to take her. I do not know how to keep her safe.

She must be told. She must be told, at once, who and what she is. We cannot keep her safe if she does not know what a danger she is to herself.

Please help me, Matthias.

Matthias bowed. My life is yours, my lady; now and always.

Isolde pursed her lips as if she did not approve of such profound self-abasement. Matthias shouldered her pack full of possessions and followed her up the back stairs to the third floor. A radiant blue light shimmered from beneath Charis’s door. Isolde pushed it open and, pushing Matthias in ahead of her, closed it quickly and shoved a towel in the gap at the bottom. Then she sat on the edge of Charis’s bed and pinched her.

Ow! shouted Charis, sitting bolt upright, scowling. She rubbed her arm.Sometimes, I really hate you, mummy! The tabby kitten woke up, spat at Isolde and deliberately turned her back on her. What do you want?

Stop yelling. I need to talk to you. Isolde pulled her little briar pipe out of her boot and lit it, looking at Charis over the bowl. I promised you that I would, you know.

Yes, but then I fell asleep, and I don’t know what’s so important that it can’t wait until tomorrow.

Stop being a brat, said Isolde. Got something to tell you. She paused and looked at Charis out of the corner of her eye. You know your dream about that strange world? Do you remember the broken arc of matter and the ruined cape of stars hanging in the sky above it? Charis nodded, yawning, and hunted beneath her bed for the biscuit tin. After all that macaroni cheese? asked Isolde. Charis nodded and bit hugely into a gingersnap. Crikey, said Isolde in disbelief. Anyway. The Arc. Do you know anything about it? Charis shook her head. Hum. Right. Well. She leant against the wall and looked contemplatively through the skylight at the darkening sky. As deep night set in, several little lamps set in sconces around the room burst into flame. Isolde, puffing away on a briarwood pipe, was blowing not only smoke rings but smoke clowns and smoke acrobats, too. You tell her, she said suddenly to Matthias. You’re much better at stories than I am. I don’t know where to begin.

As my Lady wishes. Matthias settled himself more comfortably on the bare floor. Our story begins on another world, far, far away…

CHAPTER III

"There is a world just over the horizon which nestles in the topmost branches of a great tree.

If you pluck a hair from your head and look through it in bright sunlight, you might be able to catch a glimpse of this world. But you must be swift, for after you have seen it once it will not reappear again for seven years.

Woven into the gnarled roots of the great tree that cradles this world in its boughs is another world, all fire and ice; and beneath that world there is another tree. A strange shadow-world hovers around roots that grow deep into the foundations of the universe itself.

The world at the top of the trees is called the Tertiary World. After twelve thousand years of argumentation and two serious wars, the philosophers could not come up with a more poetic name for the bowl-shaped world with its twin suns and great Sky Goddess whose nebulous body stretches from horizon to horizon.

On the edge of the Tertiary World’s largest sea there is an angel-shaped city named Ellyra. Many years ago, in a time when dragons and two-headed men and talking Tygers roamed the land, it was home to a very unusual princess.

She was supposed to be a boy.

Her name was Isolde. She was the last of the Din dynasty which had ruled the Kingdom of Gerena for six thousand years; the last descendant of Belial, a fallen angel and Alnair, a fallen star. Alnair and Belial had thirteen children, all boys, who went out and conquered the lands of the Tertiary World. Some kings were like their star-mother and were wise and just. Others were like their beautiful but wicked father and used dark magic to slay their enemies. All their descendents, only one in every generation, were male. Their fathers arranged marriages for them with beautiful girls whose families were happy to sell their daughters in exchange for wealth and power. There had never been a female descendant of the fallen angel and the fallen star. Until Isolde.

It was customary, while awaiting the birth of the Heir, for the King to divert his attention from his wife’s agonies by playing a game of chess with live pieces. At the moment of Isolde’s birth King Halliam