the Adderhead imagined that the cries echoing all the way to his room were the Bluejay’s. The man owed him many screams.
Orpheus listened with a smile, and the Night-Mare returned to him like a faithful dog after its meal. Panting, it merged with Orpheus’s shadow, and its darkness made even the Adderhead shudder. Orpheus, however, adjusted his glasses with a satisfied expression. Their round lenses reflected the sparks burning on the walls. Four-Eyes.
‘I’ll bring you back the Bluejay,’ he said, and even against his will the Adderhead felt the confidence in that velvety voice soothing him once again. ‘He hasn’t escaped you, however it may seem. I have bound him in invisible chains. I forged them myself with my black art, and wherever he’s hiding those chains will pull at him and bring back old pain. He knows I am the one sending him the pain, and he knows it will never end as long as I live. So he’ll try to kill me. Set Thumbling to guard my room, and the Bluejay will stumble into his arms. He’s not our problem any more. But the Fire-Dancer is.’
The hatred in his pale face surprised the Adderhead. Usually such hatred comes only after love.
‘So, he’s back from the dead again!’ Loathing clung to every word that Orpheus spoke, slowing his smooth tongue. ‘He’s acting as if he were lord of this castle, but take my advice and his fire will soon be extinguished!’
‘And what advice might that be?’
Orpheus smiled.
‘Send Thumbling to your daughter. Have her thrown into one of the cells, and spread word that she helped the Bluejay to escape. That’ll stop all the nonsense talked that makes your soldiers tremble with fear. As for her beautiful maidservant, lock her up in the cage where the Bluejay himself was held. And tell Thumbling he needn’t treat the girl too gently.’
The fire was still reflected in Orpheus’s glasses. They made his eyes almost invisible, and for a moment the Adderhead felt something he had never felt before – fear of another man. It was an interesting sensation. Like a tingling on the back of the neck, a slight pressure in the stomach …
‘Exactly what I planned to do,’ he said – and read in Orpheus’s face that he knew he was lying. I’ll have to kill him, thought the Adderhead. As soon as the new Book is bound.
No man should be cleverer than his master. Particularly not when he controlled so dangerous a dog.
65
Made Visible
But writing broke away from the gods and in that rupture much of its power was lost.
Salman Rushdie,
The Power of the Pen
‘You must go! You’re not safe anywhere in this castle!’ Dustfinger kept saying it, again and again, and Mo kept shaking his head.
‘I have to find the White Book.’
‘Let me look for it. I’ll write the three words. Even I can write well enough for that!’
‘No, that wasn’t the bargain. Suppose Death comes for Meggie all the same? I bound the Book, I must rid the world of it. And the Adder wants to see you dead as much as me.’
‘I’ll simply slip out of my skin again.’
‘You only just found your way back into it last time.’
How familiar the two of them sounded with each other. Like two sides of a coin, like two faces of the same man.
‘What bargain are you talking about?’
They looked at Resa as if they both wished her far, far away. Mo was pale, but his eyes were dark with anger, and his hand kept going to his old wound. What had they done to him down in that terrible cell?
Dust lay like snow in the room where they were hiding. The plaster on the ceiling was so damp that it had crumbled away in places. The Castle in the Lake was sick. Perhaps it was already dying, but on its walls lambs still slept beside wolves, dreaming of a world that never was. The room had two narrow windows. A dead tree stood in the courtyard below.
Walls, parapets, oriel towers, bridges … a stony trap, and Resa wanted her wings back. How her skin was itching. As if the feathered quills were just waiting to pierce through again.
‘Mo, what kind of bargain?’ She came between the two men.
When he told her she began crying. Now at last she understood. He was promised to Death whether he stayed or fled. Caught in a trap made of stone and ink. And so was their daughter.
He took her in his arms, but he wasn’t really with her. He was still down in the cell, drowning in hate and fear. His heart was beating so violently that she was afraid it might break in his breast.
‘I’ll kill him,’ she heard him say as she wept into his shoulder. ‘I ought to have done it long ago. And after that I’ll look for the Book.’
She knew only too well who he meant. Orpheus. He pushed her gently away from him and picked up his sword. It was covered with blood, but he wiped the blade clean on his sleeve. He still wore the black clothes of a bookbinder, although it was a long time since that had been his trade. He made for the door with determination, but Dustfinger barred his way.
‘What’s your idea?!’ he said. ‘Very well, so Orpheus read the words, but you are making them come true!’ He raised his hands, and fire wrote the words in the air, terrible words, all speaking of only one thing. The Bluejay’s Last Song.
Mo stretched out his hand as if to extinguish them, but they scorched his fingers and burnt his heart.
‘Orpheus is just waiting for you to come to him!’ said Dustfinger. ‘He’s going to serve you up to the Adderhead on a platter made of ink. Resist it! It’s not a pleasant feeling to read the words that guide your actions. No one knows that better than I do, but they didn’t come true for me either. They have only as much power as you give them. You won’t go to Orpheus, I will. I don’t know much about killing. Even dying didn’t teach me that, but I can steal the books from which he takes the words. And once you can think straight again, we’ll look for the White Book together.’
‘Suppose the Adder’s soldiers find Mo here first?’ Resa was still staring at the burning words. She read them again and again.
Dustfinger passed his hand over the picture fading on the walls of the room, and the painted wolf began to move. ‘I’ll leave you a watchdog, though not quite such a fierce one as Orpheus’s, but it will howl when the soldiers come, and I hope it can hold them off long enough to give you time to find another hiding place. Fire will teach the Adder’s men to fear every shadow.’
The wolf with its burning coat leapt off the wall and followed Dustfinger out. However, the words that had been written in the air were still there, and Resa read them again: But when the Bluejay would not bow to the Adderhead only one man knew what to do, a stranger who had come from far away to be the Adder’s adviser. He understood that the Bluejay could be broken by only one man, and that was himself. So he summoned up all that the Bluejay didn’t dare to acknowledge: the fear that made him fearless, the anger that made him invincible. He had him thrown into darkness to fight himself there – to fight the pain still inside him, never forgotten, never healed, all the fear that fetters and chains had given him, the anger that had sown the seeds of fear. He painted dreadful pictures in his heart, pictures of …
Resa read no more. The words were too terrible. But the fire had burnt the last sentences into her memory.
… and the Bluejay, broken by his own darkness, pleaded with the Adderhead to be allowed to bind him a second Book, even more beautiful than the first. But as soon as the Silver Prince had the Book in his hands he condemned him to die the slowest of all deaths, and the minstrels sang the Last Song of the Bluejay.
Mo had turned his back on the words. He stood there with the dust of countless years around him like grey snow, looking at his hands as if he wasn’t sure whether they still did as he told them or obeyed the words burning behind him.
‘Mo?’ Resa kissed him. She knew that he wouldn’t like what she was about to do.
He looked at her absently, his eyes full of darkness.
‘I will look for the White Book. I’ll find it and write the three words in it for you.’ So that
the Adderhead dies before Orpheus’s words come true, she added in her mind, and before the name Fenoglio gave you kills you.
By the time Mo understood what she had said, she was already lifting the seeds to her mouth. He tried to knock them out of her hand, but she already had them under her tongue.
‘No, Resa!’
She flew through the fiery letters. Their heat singed her breast.
‘Resa!’
No, this time he was the one who must wait. Stay where you are, she thought. Please, Mo.
66
Love Disguised as Hate
Where did this love come from? I don’t know; it came to me like a thief in the night […]. All I could hope was that my crimes were so monstrous that the love was no bigger than a mustard-seed in the shadow of them, and I wished I’d committed even greater ones to hide it more deeply still … But the mustard-seed had taken root and was growing, and the little green shoot was splitting my heart wide open […].
Philip Pullman,
The Amber Spyglass
The Adderhead wanted fairy blood, a whole tub full, to bathe his itching skin. Orpheus was writing fairies’ nests into the bare branches of the cherry trees growing under his window when he heard soft footsteps behind him. He dropped his pen so abruptly that it spattered Ironstone’s grey feet with ink. The Bluejay!
Orpheus thought he could already feel the sword between his shoulder blades: after all, he himself had stoked the Bluejay’s blood-lust, drowning him in anger and helpless rage. How had he managed to get past the guards? There were three outside his door, and Thumbling was waiting in the next room.
However, when Orpheus turned he found not Mortimer but Dustfinger standing behind him.
What was he doing here? Why wasn’t he outside the cage where his sobbing daughter sat, letting the Night-Mare eat him?
Dustfinger.
Less than a year ago the mere thought of seeing him would have made Orpheus drunk with happiness – in the bleak room where he was living at the time, surrounded by books that spoke of the longing in his heart but never satisfied it. Longing for a world that bowed to his will, longing to escape his grey failure of a life at last, to become the Orpheus that slumbered inside him, the man whom those who mocked him never saw. Perhaps longing was the wrong word. It sounded too tame, too gentle and resigned. It was a raging desire that drove him, desire for everything he didn’t have.
Oh yes, the sight of Dustfinger would have made him very happy back then. But now his heart beat faster for other reasons. The hate he felt still tasted like love, but that didn’t tame it. And suddenly Orpheus saw the opportunity for such perfect revenge that he spontaneously smiled.
‘Well, if it isn’t my old childhood friend. My faithless friend.’ Orpheus pushed Violante’s Bluejay book under the parchment on which he was writing.
Ironstone ducked behind the inkwell in fear. Fear. Not necessarily a bad feeling. Sometimes it could be very stimulating.
‘I suppose you’re here to steal a few more books from me?’ he went on. ‘That won’t do the Bluejay any good. The words have been read, and they’ll pursue him. That’s the price you pay for making a story your own. But how about you? Have you seen your daughter recently?’
Dustfinger’s expression gave nothing away. He really didn’t know yet! Ah, love. What a perfect tool of revenge. Even the fearless heart that Dustfinger had brought back from the dead was powerless against it.
‘You really should go to her. She’s sobbing in the most heart-rending way, tearing her beautiful hair.’
The look in his eyes! Got you, thought Orpheus. Got you both on the hook now, you and the Bluejay.
‘My black dog is guarding your daughter,’ he went on, and every word tasted as good as spiced wine. ‘I expect she’s terribly afraid. But I’ve ordered my dog not to feast on her sweet flesh and soul … just yet.’
There – so fear could sting Dustfinger after all. His unscarred face turned pale. He stared at Orpheus’s shadow, but the Night-Mare did not emerge from it. The Night-Mare was outside the cage where Brianna sat weeping and calling for her father.
‘I’ll kill you if it so much as touches her. I don’t know much about killing, but for you I’d learn!’ Dustfinger’s face seemed so much more vulnerable without the scars. His clothes and hair were covered with fiery sparks.
Orpheus had to admit it – the Fire-Dancer was still his favourite character. Whatever Dustfinger did to him, however often he betrayed him, it didn’t change that. His heart loved him like a dog. All the more reason to remove him from this story once and for all – although it was still a shame. Orpheus could hardly believe he had come here only to protect the Bluejay. Such high-minded nobility didn’t suit him at all. No, it was time the Fire-Dancer returned to playing a part that was more like himself.
‘You can ransom your daughter!’ Orpheus let every word melt on his tongue.
Oh, sweet revenge. The marten on Dustfinger’s shoulder bared its teeth. Nasty brute.
Dustfinger stroked its brown coat. ‘How?’
Orpheus rose to his feet. ‘Well … first by putting out the lights you’ve so skilfully brought to this castle. At once.’
The sparks on the walls flared up as if reaching out to burn him, but then they died down. Only those on Dustfinger’s hair and clothes still shone. Yes. What a terrible weapon love could be. Was any knife sharper? Time to thrust it even deeper into his faithless heart.
‘Your daughter is crying her eyes out in the same cage that held the Bluejay,’ Orpheus went on. ‘Of course she looks much more beautiful in there, with that fiery hair. Like a precious bird …’
The sparks swirled around Dustfinger like a red mist.
‘Bring us the bird who really belongs in that cage. Bring us the Bluejay and your lovely daughter is free. But if you don’t bring him, I’ll feed my black dog on her flesh and her soul. Don’t look at me like that! As far as I’m aware you’ve played the part of traitor once already. I wanted to write you a better part, but you wouldn’t hear of it!’
Dustfinger said nothing, just looked at him.
‘You stole the book from me!’ Orpheus’s voice almost failed him, the words still tasted so bitter. ‘You ranged yourself on the bookbinder’s side, although he snatched you out of your own story, instead of backing me, the man who brought you home! That was cruel, very cruel.’ Tears rose to his eyes. ‘What did you think – that I’d just accept such treachery? No, my plan was to send you back to the dead without a soul, hollow as an insect sucked dry, but I like this revenge even better. I’ll make you a traitor again. How that will pierce the bookbinder’s noble heart!’
The flames were leaping from the walls again. They licked up from the floor scorching Orpheus’s boots. Ironstone moaned with fear and buried his head in his glass arms. Dustfinger’s anger showed in the flames, burning on his face, raining down from the ceiling in sparks.
‘Keep your fire away from me!’ Orpheus cried. ‘I’m the only one who can command the Night-Mare, and your daughter will be the first it eats when it next feels hungry. Which will be soon. I want a trail of fire laid to wherever the Bluejay is hiding, and I’ll be the man who shows it to the Adderhead, understand?’
The flames on the walls went out for the second time. Even the candles on the desk burnt out, and all was dark in Orpheus’s room. Only Dustfinger himself was still enveloped in sparks, as if the fire were in him.
Why did the look in his eyes make Orpheus feel such shame? Why did his heart still feel love? He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again Dustfinger was gone.
As Orpheus stepped out of the door the guards who were supposed to be keeping watch outside his room came stumbling along the corridor, their faces twisted with fear. ‘The Bluejay was here!’ they stammered. ‘He was all made of fire, and then he suddenly dissolved into smoke. Thumbling has gone to tell the Adderhead.’
Idiots. He’d feed them all to the Night-Mare.
Don’t lose your temper, he told him
self. You’ll soon bring the Adderhead the real Bluejay. And your Night-Mare will eat the Fire-Dancer too.
‘Tell the Silver Prince to send some men to the courtyard under my window,’ he snarled at the guards. ‘They’ll find enough fairies’ nests there to fill a tub with their blood for him.’
Then he went back to his room and read the nests into the trees. But he saw Dustfinger’s face through the letters, as if he were living behind them. As if all the words spoke only of him.
67
The Other Name
I write your name. Two syllables. Two vowels. Your name inflates you, is bigger than you. You repose in a corner, sleeping; your name awakes you. I write it. You could not be named otherwise. Your name is your juice, your taste, your savor. Called by another name, you vanish. I write it. Your name.
Susan Sontag,
The Letter Scene
Inkdeath Page 49