Merlin redoubles his efforts and cracks appear in the metal walkway beneath our feet. He throws back his head and snarls as if he wants to bring the tower crashing down. He’d rather die buried in rubble than see us win. The thought fills me with despondency and before I can stop myself, I feel my hopelessness wash around the circle like cold water, sapping my sisters of resolve.

Merlin stares down at us and barks his disdain. ‘You think that sharing your emotions makes you stronger? It makes you weak. You women have always been weak.’

Outrage stabs at my chest and I gasp as Morgan flies up, her huge black wings opening like an avenging angel. She kicks the sceptre from Merlin’s hand and it clatters onto the walkway. Beating her wings furiously, she screams a death-defying war cry, louder than any sound should be.

As if a signal has been given, we hurl every last bit of energy we have at the platform. Rage burns inside me and I scream with my sisters – a single voice carrying the hurt of all wronged women, those whose bodies have been stolen from, those who’ve been silenced. The noise is impossibly loud – powerful enough to strip leaf from stem and flesh from bone, to shake the roots of history and fell armies of men.

Merlin reaches for his sceptre, but our magic holds him back. We grit our teeth, our eyes welling with tears, as nine streams of coloured light shoot from our palms, the energy crackling and pulsating. Desperate hope fills me and I know that my sisters feel it too.

Merlin draws himself up and lunges for his sceptre. Keeping our arms outstretched, we step forward and our magic merges and forms a shield, immobilising him. He glares at us, his eyes smouldering with hatred drawn from the depths of hell, his fingers just centimetres from the sceptre but unable to move. A strange look passes across his face, as if he’s calculating what to do. Refusing to admit defeat, he gives a terrifying growl then throws himself backwards. He falls into the swirling red whirlpool and is gone.

29

While my sisters comfort one another, Morgan runs to me and crouches next to Tom’s body.

I kneel beside her and she places my palm on his chest and then lays her own hand on top. She starts to chant and her hair lifts and swirls above her head, her blue eyes luminescent.

Tom’s face is deathly grey, his eyes closed. I watch him, desperately hoping for some sign of life, but there’s nothing. Morgan chants louder and I join her, our voices stronger as one. She presses her hand into mine and her power surges through my veins like wildfire.