I picked up a pebble, hefted it thoughtfully, and then sent it flying out across the uneven surface of the waters. It bounced several times, before sinking. After a moment Molly bent down, picked up a pebble of her own, and threw it out across the sea. Her pebble bounced a lot farther than mine. For a while we just stood there, throwing pebbles with all our strength, trying to outdo each other. Neither of us could manage much in the way of distance; the huge waves just snatched at the pebbles and dragged them under. The tide was coming in. I stooped down for another pebble, and a length of seaweed curled suddenly around my hand and clamped down, painfully tight. I had to use both hands to break the seaweed’s grip, and throw it aside. It was tough and springy, and unnaturally strong.
“There are those who say you can use seaweed to tell the weather,” said Molly.
“Oh yes?” I said. “Like, if it’s wet, it must be raining?”
“Something like that,” said Molly. “Tell me, Shaman—what are we doing here?”
“Here on the beach, or here on the Island?” I said, carefully.
“You don’t like Hadrian, do you?”
“I don’t trust him,” I said. “But then, I don’t trust any of the next generation, either. We’re here to do a job, Molly.”
“Hadrian was my first tutor. He taught me so much. My parents admired him. I think he was the closest friend they ever had.”
“A lot of people trusted him, in a lot of organisations, most of which aren’t around any longer. He was a very dangerous man, Molly. He still has a bad reputation in many parts of the world.”
“So do I,” said Molly.
“You always believed in your cause,” I said. “Hadrian Coll, aka Trickster Man, let us not forget . . . claimed to believe in a great many causes down the years. But somehow he was never there when the authorities closed in to round up the groups and make them pay for their crimes. I’m . . . not convinced by him. He has the feel of a professional politician. The kind who’ll say anything, do anything, that will advance his cause. Whatever that might turn out to be. I don’t trust this man, Molly, and I don’t think you should either.”
“No one ever did,” said Molly, surprisingly. “Not even my mother and father. But there was no one like him for getting things done. No one like him for stirring things up, for starting a fire in people’s hearts, and then aiming them at a target and encouraging them to do what needed doing. When Hadrian was around, people stopped talking and theorising, and started practising what they preached. That was what Coll always brought to the party: how to commit yourself to direct action. Even back then, in the original White Horse Faction, a group with a solid history of direct action . . . there were always people ready to talk any subject to death. To avoid committing themselves to getting their hands dirty. Or bloody. Coll put an end to that. Coll got things done.”
“Good things?” I asked. She didn’t answer.
We stared out across the beach at the dark and disturbed sea, and after a while Molly slipped her arm through mine. Where it belonged.
“You said . . . Monkton Manse isn’t the way you remembered it,” I said slowly. “Is Hadrian Coll . . . how you remembered him?”
“That’s the problem,” said Molly. “He’s exactly the way I remember him. As though he hasn’t changed at all. How can that be possible, after ten years? There’s a part of me that wonders if he’s just playing a part.”
“For your sake?” I said. “Or the next generation?”
“They seem straight-forward enough,” said Molly. “If . . . inexperienced in the real world. I’m not sure they’re ready to deal with someone like Hadrian Coll. Trickster Man.”
“Good thing we’re here, then. Isn’t it?” I said.
And then we both looked round sharply. From somewhere farther down the beach, stretching far and far away before us, a horse was running. I could hear the sound of its hooves, pounding along the pebbles. The sound was quite clear and distinct, rising above the crashing of the waves. And from the way Molly stood tensed beside me, I knew she heard it too. But no matter how hard I looked, straining my eyes against the distance and the lowering light, I couldn’t see a horse anywhere. The beach just stretched away into the distance, open and empty.
“There’s nothing there,” said Molly. “But I can hear it, clear as day. What the hell would a horse be doing here?”
I murmured my activating Words, and pulled my armour out of my torc to cover my face. The golden mask settled easily into place, and I used its expanded Sight to zoom in on the end of the beach. But no matter where I looked, there was no sign of any horse. Just the sound of one, endlessly running. And then, quite suddenly, it stopped. Gone, between one moment and the next. I dismissed the golden mask and looked at Molly.
“I couldn’t See a damned thing. And look at the beach. A real horse, running on this beach, would have kicked up pebbles everywhere. I can’t see any sign of a disturbance.”
“A ghost horse?” said Molly. “How likely is that? And what would a ghost horse be doing here? A lot of people may have died on this island, but no animals, as far as I know.”
“Maybe it came through the Fae Gate,” I said. “The living and the dead can travel the elven ways.”
“No,” said Molly, frowning. “If I’m remembering right . . . there’s never been any animal life on Trammell Island. Not even rabbits, or rats . . . animals just die here. Even birds won’t land, or so I’m told. Who told me that? Why can’t I remember?” She stopped, frowning so hard it must have hurt her forehead. She looked distracted, almost frightened. “This means something, Eddie. It means something to me, something important that I just can’t remember! Like a word on the tip of your tongue. A horse . . . There’s something significant about that. Something that matters.”
I waited, but she had nothing more to say.
“If you say so,” I said, finally.
“There are gaps in my memory,” Molly said flatly. “Though I never knew that, until I came back here. I’m remembering things I never remembered before, important things, that I’d forgotten I ever knew. But there are still great gaps in my memory of my time here before. How could I have forgotten so much? And not even noticed?”
“Because someone didn’t want you to remember,” I said. “And perhaps that someone was you, Molly. You didn’t want to know. If something really bad did happen here, maybe something to do with the death of your parents . . .”
“I need to know,” said Molly, coldly. “I need to know everything.”
She shuddered suddenly. I took her in my arms and held her, but it didn’t help.
• • •
Some time later, we made our way back to Monkton Manse. All the windows were lit now, blazing with bright electric light, and the whole place felt more comfortable, and inviting. It looked inhabited again, the kind of place where people might actually live. It even felt comfortably warm in the hallway as we came in out of the bitter cold, and slammed the heavy door shut behind us. We rubbed our hands together, and stamped our feet, and finally took off our coats and hung them up.
“Coll must have got the old generator working again,” said Molly.
“They’ve blown out your candles,” I observed. “I think I preferred the candlelight. Less harsh.”
“You old romantic,” said Molly. And then she frowned. “I don’t think this place was ever romantic. Or even happy . . .”
“But . . . you had good times here?” I said.
“Maybe,” said Molly.
We made our way through the winding corridors and hallways of Monkton Manse to the main dining hall, where a meal of sorts was waiting for us. We joined the others, all sitting around one end of the long mahogany dining table, eating cold cuts of tinned meat, along with a couple of bottles of half-way decent wine. The food had been neatly arranged on the very best china plates, along with gleaming stylised cutlery. Presumably courtesy of the first and last Lord of Trammell.
We all huddled together for comfort at our end of the table, which stretched away into the massive dining hall. It had clearly been originally intended to seat thirty or maybe even forty people at one sitting. The hall had an oppressively high ceiling, and gleaming wood-panelled walls. No portraits or paintings here, or decorations of any kind. This was a setting for the serious business of food and drink.
We kept our voices low as we talked, and tried not to look around, half intimidated by the sheer scale and opulence of the dining hall. Doing our best to ignore all the extra empty space, and pretend it wasn’t there. Hadrian Coll wasn’t bothered. His great voice boomed out endlessly, telling one story after another as he attacked his food and drink with great enthusiasm. I did my best to seem a little overwhelmed, because Shaman Bond would be, but this was actually a bit more than even Eddie Drood was used to at Drood Hall. This dining hall had been deliberately designed to be too big for people, to put them in their place in the presence of the Lord of Trammell.
I really didn’t like the shadows at the end of the dining hall. There were too many of them, too deep and too dark. And I am not the sort who is usually bothered by shadows.
Coll did most of the talking, often with his mouth full, dominating the conversation by the simple expedient of never letting anyone else get a word in edge-ways. The next generation were overawed enough to let him get away with that, and Molly seemed genuinely interested in everything he had to say. Perhaps because she was checking it all against her memories. Looking for contradictions, and loopholes. I watched everyone else, as they listened to Coll.
“It was a different time then,” he said grandly, refilling his wine-glass with a flourish. “All those years ago . . . the big businesses and the corrupt politicians held all the big cards. And they owned the law. So all we had left to work with was violence, to force change for the better. And yes, that meant playing their game, but when it’s the only game in town . . . We were at war with vested interests, who were never going to be persuaded to change things by reason or logic. Not if it meant giving up power and money. Arguments got you nowhere, persuasion didn’t work, so all that left was hitting them where it hurt. It was all we had.
“Now, things have changed. The Internet means that arguments and philosophies can shoot around the world in minutes, backed up by hard evidence. Information wants everyone to be free. If I’ve learned anything from my time with so many groups and organisations, it’s that you can’t get people to listen by shouting at them. You have to gang up on them, and drown out their lies with the truth.”
He stopped abruptly, to look at Molly. She’d hardly touched her food or her wine, which wasn’t like her, and now she was leaning forward, scowling, and rubbing at her forehead as though bothered by some intrusive new pain. Or memory.
“Are you all right, Molly?” said Coll. “Is something bothering you?”
“I remember being here, before,” said Molly. Her voice sounded odd, strangely detached. “At this table. With the old White Horse Faction. Everyone was here, including my parents. And you, Hadrian. I can see them all, as clearly as I see you . . . sitting around this table. Talking, planning . . . something big. I’m here, excited to be included in their plans. I see my mother and my father, smiling at me. They don’t look that much older than I am now. Oh, God . . . it’s been such a long time, since I saw them smile at me . . . but now everyone’s talking at once, raising their voices, shouting at each other. Something’s changed. My parents aren’t smiling any more. No. No! They’re gone. . . . They’re all gone.”
She raised her head, to look sharply at Coll. “What were they planning here, Hadrian? It was something much bigger, and far more dangerous, than they were usually involved in. Why did my parents look so sad then, at the end? And why did you look so worried?”
“This isn’t what you really want to talk about,” said Coll. “You want to know how your parents died. All right, you’ve waited long enough. Look at this.”
He produced something from his pocket, and held it up for all of us to see: a single brightly glowing jewel. Smooth and polished as a pearl, shining fiercely with some intense inner light. Almost too bright to look at directly. Like staring into the sun. Coll rolled the thing back and forth between his fingers, splashing unnatural light around the length of the dining hall. Enjoying the way he was holding everyone’s attention.
“This . . . is a memory crystal. Supersaturated with condensed information. Future technology, of course . . . fell off the back of a Timeslip, in the Nightside. It contains a complete recording of what happened here, in this room, at the very last meeting of the original White Horse Faction. The night everybody died.”
“What?” Molly sat bolt upright, glaring at him. “My parents died here? In Monkton Manse? Why didn’t I remember that?”
“Because you were here when it happened,” said Coll. “Now hush. And watch.”
He murmured some activating words over the memory crystal, and just like that a vision appeared, floating on the air before us. A deep and distinct image from the Past, showing exactly what happened, in this dining hall, ten years earlier.
Some twenty-odd people sat around the long table, talking heatedly with each other. We couldn’t hear their voices, couldn’t hear what they were saying, but none of them looked happy. Hadrian Coll was there, looking a lot more than ten years younger. He wasn’t talking. Just sat there, watching the others. Beside him sat a man and a woman I immediately recognised as Molly’s parents. A good-looking pair, strong and noble, arguing with passion and intensity. And sitting beside them a teenage Molly Metcalf. Obviously upset by all the raised voices and arguments. She looked so young, so vulnerable. Unmarked by all the harsh pain and anger to come, that would scar her so deeply. I wanted to reach out to her, to hold her and protect her; to save her from what I knew was coming. But I couldn’t.
All I could do was watch.
Everyone at the table looked round, startled, as the door at the far end of the dining hall slammed open, to reveal a dark and shadowy figure. And before anyone at the table could properly react, the shadowy figure produced a gun and opened fire. Those nearest him died first, blood flying from gaping wounds and shattered heads. Bodies crashed to the floor. People started to their feet, reaching for weapons or magical protections, but bullets found them first. They all died, one after another; the entire White Horse Faction wiped out, in just a few moments.