The Book from Baden Dark

by James Moloney

  ‘My heart remains free,’ he whispered.

  What a word, that last one. So deceptive, so inviting, yet so frightening. If he was free to choose, then how did he decide? The second line didn’t help now as it once might have done. Not magic. No, of course not. There was no spell he could cast to help him, since a spell could only fulfil his own wish and if he didn’t know what that was …

  Wisdom, then. He was surrounded by it, everything ever known by his kind, and all it told him was that the answer didn’t lie within Arminsel. It lay in himself alone.

  Yes, that first line was the key, after all. Fate, free. How did he decide? What part of him should give the answer? No sooner had he formed the questions, than the verse gave up its reply: My heart remains free. ‘My heart,’ he said again and at last he understood what it meant. A heart beat in his chest to give him life, it was the target of every hurt he’d ever felt, the storehouse of all the joy that had come his way, and he had ignored it utterly.

  He listened to it now and, almost immediately, it sent him hurrying towards the archway into the open and the brook where the others would be waiting. With every stride, a vague misery he’d tried to ignore lifted a little more until, when he reached the archway and stepped free of Arminsel, he felt laughter wriggle up from between his ribs and into his throat, if only he could let it out.

  ‘Bea! Fergus!’ he called.

  There was his cousin, sitting on the slope, shredding broad blades of grass in frustration. Bea was beside him, obscured by his large body and visible only when she moved a hand into the light. They sprang to their feet.

  ‘You have to listen to us,’ said Fergus coolly.

  For all her concern, Bea was still wary. ‘I couldn’t bear it if you stayed here. We couldn’t,’ she said, correcting herself and becoming so confused by what she meant she could only make a sweeping wave with her hand and give way to tears.

  Fergus slipped a reassuring arm around her shoulder. ‘He’s here now. We’ll talk him out of it, the two of us together.’

  It still hurt to see them touch so easily, but he must block it out for he had to tell them about his father and that Nicola was now Queen of Elster. As they crossed the last patch of grass to join him, their eyes switched from his face to stare over his shoulder. Moments later he knew why.

  ‘It’s time,’ said Gannimere. ‘These two must return to the Mortal Kingdoms, as we discussed.’

  Marcel knew what that meant, and he knew just as clearly what he was about to do.

  ‘No, Gannimere. Memory is too precious. I can’t let it happen. I knew it was wrong from the beginning, I knew it in my …’ He suddenly felt awkward, almost foolish to speak like this, only to discover a strength in the words he hadn’t expected. ‘… in my heart. The good that Arminsel brings to the Mortal Kingdoms shouldn’t be protected by a magic as foul as this.’

  ‘Have you forgotten the alternative, Marcel?’

  ‘None of that matters now. I’m not going to stay here in Baden Dark after all,’ said Marcel, staring solemnly at Gannimere.

  To give his announcement force, he walked the final three paces to Fergus’s side. Bea was only an arm’s length away if he cared to stretch out his hand. It was a relief to stand with them like this, instead of against them. Tears welled suddenly at the edges of his eyes. He blinked them into obedience before they could embarrass him but he was glad to discover them there and close to breaking free. If this was what it felt like to free his heart, he would recite the special verse every day until he followed his father into oblivion. ‘I’ve been so alone,’ he said beneath his breath.

  ‘But you agreed,’ Gannimere said, ‘just as I’d planned. You looked me in the face and said you would follow after me.’

  ‘Only because I couldn’t look anyone else in the face,’ he said, wondering if he would ever free himself of that shame. He looked down at the green of the meadow around his feet, rather than risk catching Bea’s eye.

  ‘I made you to take my place. Arminsel’s powers came together at your birth as they could never do otherwise. You were born for this role,’ said Gannimere.

  ‘I was born free to choose my own life.’

  ‘And you did, less than an hour ago. You chose to live here, as Arminsel’s protector, so that I —’ He caught himself suddenly, as though he had been going to say things he didn’t wish them to hear. ‘To take my place,’ he finished. It was the second time he had used those words.

  ‘My place is not here, Gannimere. I have a life in Elster that I’ve barely begun to live.’

  If he explained how his sister needed him, he would have to explain his father’s death and this was no time for Fergus to hear the news. They faced a difficult journey, first through the bowels of the mountain and then home to Elstenwyck, and he would find the moment along the way. For now, though, he had to settle a vital matter with Gannimere.

  ‘There is no need for the spell Lord Alwyn learned from this tree. The three of us will find our own way to keep the secret of Baden Dark and it won’t be through magic.’

  ‘But I’ve waited so long.’

  ‘You must find someone else,’ said Marcel. ‘Time means nothing to you. There’ll be others who find their way to Baden Dark.’ Turning to Fergus, he asked, ‘Is there anything we need to take with us?’

  ‘Time,’ Gannimere repeated, as though the word were new to his lips. His pale skin had lost all hint of colour and his eyes were vacant. ‘No, you can’t go,’ he said, to himself it seemed because his voice was low and tentative. Then he said it again, ‘You can’t go,’ and this time there was more force in his throat. ‘You are the one, you must stay in Baden Dark.’

  Marcel looked up. What was Gannimere saying? He’d barely been listening because his mind was already filled with departure and the trouble they would have returning to the Hidden Village.

  Gannimere was watching Fergus check the sword at his belt. Then the ancient wizard spoke through lips that had become a hardened line across his face.

  ‘You will stay here, Marcel, and take my place as you said you would.’

  He said nothing more, but looked instead towards Bea and Fergus, leaving no doubt what would happen if Marcel didn’t agree.

  ‘I’ve told you before, you’ll have to kill me first.’

  Was that what it would come to — a battle that saw one of them dead? Despite Gannimere’s threat, Marcel didn’t want to kill the wizard, not unless he had to. For now, though, he must protect Bea and Fergus and, with this in mind, he conjured the first distraction he could think of.

  ‘Mortregis,’ he breathed, passing his hand across his face.

  Immediately, a spiralling column of flame rose from the grassy slope around him and bent itself into extravagant loops above his head like the ribbons twirled by farm girls as they danced at the spring festival. He commanded the lengthening flames into an eye-searing arc overhead, their intensity growing with every circuit of his body.

  ‘Go, quickly, hide inside Arminsel,’ he shouted to Bea and Fergus, ‘as deep as you can go.’

  ‘What use is hiding? He’ll find us soon enough,’ Fergus cried above the roar of the flames.

  ‘I need you safe during the battle. He won’t do anything to harm his precious tree.’

  It was a sound idea and this fiery game would give them time to do what he’d demanded. He began to mould the flames into arrows, fascinated by the savage beauty of their colours. When he was ready, he sent them darting towards Gannimere who was only a few paces away.

  The elaborate performance had given his opponent plenty of time to prepare. It was a simple enough trick to deflect the flames and Gannimere did so with a quick movement of his hand, turning his head away at the last moment to protect his eyes from the heat. His sorcery did the rest and the flames dispersed into a thousand weakening tongues in the air above him.

  To his dismay, Marcel found neither Bea nor Fergus had moved one step closer to Arminsel’s arched entry.

  ‘I don’t
like running away like this,’ Fergus growled. ‘I want to fight.’

  ‘No, your job’s to keep Bea safe.’

  Marcel prepared the same magic to capture Gannimere’s wary eye a second time. It should have been a simple matter, but as the flame shot into the air he lurched sideways, barely able to stand up. The effort of conjuring the fire had drained his strength.

  Stand up straight, regain your powers, he demanded of himself. At least he could do the first. He straightened his back and looked towards Gannimere in time to see him sweep his hand before his eyes.

  Marcel staggered backwards, then fell. On his back now, propped up on elbows that struggled to take his weight, he found Gannimere staring down at him. Where was his magic? Once he’d imagined every last skerrick of the world’s sorcery was concentrated within him. Now he’d have been pleased to command enough for a game against the young apprentices of Noam. He must try, he must use what he had left.

  Lying back to free his hand, he passed it in front of his nose as he had done a thousand times before, summoning whatever was left of Marcel the sorcerer. He found the final spark of his magic, the last of his will, but in commanding it his body’s strength deserted him. He lay flat and exhausted on the ground, his eyes rolled back in his head. His last thought, as a breath eased from his lungs, was of the blackness that had begun to envelop him.

  CHAPTER 31

  The Flight of an Arrow

  BEA WATCHED IN HORROR as Marcel forced one last effort of magic from his ailing body then fell back motionless. He’s dead, she thought, until she saw his chest work up and down. Despite herself, she gave a laugh of relief.

  ‘Beaten by his own magic,’ said Gannimere calmly. ‘The more he turned his will against me, the more it drained the sorcery from his blood.’ He took a step closer, as though he intended to finish the job.

  With the lithe grace of a warrior, Fergus drew his sword and, in the same movement, aimed a withering slash that caught Gannimere just below the ribs. It would have sliced any other man in two, but Gannimere was no ordinary man. At the instant the blade touched the loose fabric of his shirt, it shattered in a cloud of rust-coloured dust that settled quickly around his feet.

  A sweep of Gannimere’s hand and Fergus was thrown backwards to lie beside his cousin, both of them now an easy target if he employed a more deadly magic. Without a thought, Bea stepped in front of the two vulnerable figures.

  ‘You’re a brave one,’ Gannimere commented without letting the stony chill thaw in his voice.

  ‘Please, Gannimere, I’d rather see Marcel stay here forever than let you kill him. If you have to send my spirit into Arminsel I don’t care, but let these two live.’

  Gannimere stared down at her for long seconds, the ageless creases in his face straining to retain the hard lines they’d taken on since Marcel’s change of heart. At last, Bea saw the gentle and generous man emerge from behind the sorcery.

  ‘I could no sooner kill this young wizard than you,’ he said, and with a wave of his hand a healing spell passed easily into Marcel’s motionless figure. Bea heard a groan behind her.

  ‘He’s waking up, he’s all right,’ called Fergus, who had rolled painfully onto his knees for a closer look.

  ‘I want only what Marcel agreed to,’ said Gannimere, ‘that he stay here in Baden Dark and become Arminsel’s protector. He knows what will happen if he refuses.’

  As he spoke, he was looking past Bea’s shoulder and she knew that Marcel must be sitting up now, listening to him. She turned and found her friend utterly defeated. He’d imagined his magic invincible and more than a match for Gannimere, yet with a single stroke of his centuries-honed sorcery, the wizard had left him sitting on his bottom, head spinning and his heart in his shoes.

  ‘You have a courageous friend in this elf-girl,’ Gannimere said as Marcel shook his head and tried to stand up. ‘She was ready to give her own life for you.’

  ‘It’s not the first time,’ Marcel said, and the look he sent towards Bea showed the person she’d known three years ago was back inside his skin.

  ‘Then you have all the more reason to return the favour,’ the wizard replied.

  ‘How can you be sure I’ll stay after you die?’

  ‘You will take an oath, the same oath I devised for myself when I first saw the danger and what had to be done. It will bind you to Baden Dark for the rest of your days. Repeat the words as I recite them for you and Arminsel will have a new protector. Fulfil the promise of your birth and your two companions may leave here unharmed.’

  ‘Their bodies, yes, but what of the lives they’ve already lived?’

  ‘That much must die. The spell will make each of them relinquish all they have ever known, every memory of place and person. That cannot be helped. Those are my terms, Marcel, the oath and the spell. Agree or they will die.’

  Place and person, Bea heard Gannimere say. Her life would be spared but Marcel would be gone from her mind, and Fergus too, her grandfather — oh, and her mother’s wisdom, bequeathed to her through the fibres of Arminsel only to be snatched back again. She would live but already she felt the grief of death.

  ‘Don’t do it, Marcel,’ she said.

  ‘I have to, Bea. Gannimere’s magic is stronger. He’ll never let me leave Baden Dark. At least this way you and Fergus will stay alive.’

  ‘If you take that oath, it will be like watching you die.’

  Gannimere’s hand moved and Bea expected to be thrown backwards like a rag doll, as Fergus had been, or even worse, since she’d caught a glimpse of the dark anger in the wizard’s face.

  Marcel had seen the hand move as well. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked tentatively. Without powers to match Gannimere’s, he had lost the bravado from his voice.

  ‘I think so.’ There’d been no sudden jolt, no pain. Bea searched for the result of Gannimere’s spiteful spell and found it not in Fergus or herself, but in Marcel when he stared at her quizzically then put his hand to the side of his head.

  ‘What did you say? I couldn’t hear you.’

  Bea spoke again, only to find her fears confirmed. Gannimere had blocked up Marcel’s ears and the reason was plain enough. He didn’t want him to hear the pleas of his friends.

  ‘I’ve longed for this one to come,’ he told her, gesturing towards the bewildered Marcel. ‘Five centuries is too long for any man to live, no matter how important the task. Death holds no fears for me. I long for it, the same way I have longed to see your young friend in Baden Dark. They are the same thing, you see. Once Marcel is strong enough, he will take not just my place but my life, so I can pass into the peace of death.’

  ‘You’ll be leaving Marcel to face the same longing you talk about.’

  Gannimere didn’t deny it. ‘Arminsel needs protecting,’ he said simply.

  ‘Why?’ Bea demanded in anger, although there was an innocence in her plea as well, because the answer wasn’t plain to her at all. Her question seemed to stun Gannimere more than Marcel’s magic could ever have done, so she drove the point home. ‘Arminsel lived unprotected before you found it, and it will find ways to defend itself whether you or Marcel or anyone lives here as its guardian.’

  ‘You don’t understand, girl,’ said Gannimere, dismissing her bluntly. ‘How could you, one so young, one who knows so little of the evil abroad in the world. Of course Arminsel must be shielded from the calumny of man and elf and every kind of being that walks the Mortal Kingdoms.’

  His voice had risen, as though he was convincing himself as much as Bea. There was a hint of doubt in his face too, Bea was certain of it, but he quickly hid this from her in the gush of words that followed.

  ‘Arminsel is the promise of unchecked power. Don’t you see that? All knowledge, all things that have ever been learned, everything the greedy and ambitious could want lie here in this tree. The temptation is too strong to resist, even for the good of heart.’ He pressed his hand against his own heart when he said this, startling Bea with his vehemenc
e. ‘That is why I stayed in Baden Dark. Once I’d discovered the great secret that lay here, I had no choice. If I returned to the Mortal Kingdoms, there would always be the chance that I would be tempted, no matter what magic I used to resist, so I conjured an unbreakable oath that would never allow me to leave.’

  ‘If you returned!’ Bea repeated. ‘You mean you were afraid of what you might do. That’s it, isn’t it? You could have used your magic to keep others out of Baden Dark, but all these years you’ve really been protecting Arminsel from yourself.’

  Gannimere had said more than he’d intended. He didn’t answer.

  ‘You feared what you would do,’ Bea continued, ‘so you stayed and now you are weary of life. I don’t blame you. Five hundred years alone, with only the dead and their wisdom for company. Why not end your own life and leave Marcel to live his own?’

  ‘The time is coming when my life will be over, but I cannot die by natural means and I cannot end it by my own hand. That was the oath I took, sealed by sorcery. The only way left is by the hand of another.’ As he spoke, he looked towards Marcel who could hear none of this description of his own fate.

  ‘Is this blackmail the kind of wisdom you’ve learned from Arminsel?’ Bea asked the wizard. ‘You tell us how devoted you are to the great tree, you tell us what good it does for the Mortal Kingdoms, and then you force this on Marcel.’

  Gannimere’s face grew dark and he raised his hand.

  ‘No, don’t hurt her,’ Marcel pleaded. Since his magic was useless before Gannimere’s all he could do was step in front of Bea in a pathetic attempt to block his will. It was pointless; Bea felt the magic touch her. When there was no pain, she wondered what it had done, until she tried to speak again and found her tongue flopping about inside her mouth like a fish freshly plucked from the ocean.

  Marcel turned to see what damage the spell had done and seemed relieved to find her apparently unharmed. Bea could see over his shoulder into Gannimere’s eyes. So weary. She had thought that the first time she’d seen him, but behind the brief anger that had prompted this silencing spell, she saw something else: Gannimere was ashamed of what he had done to her. She saw, too, that he despised himself for the way he was forcing Marcel’s hand. If she could only use her tongue, she would stab harder at the disgust he had turned upon himself. It was the only weapon left to fight him with and Bea wasn’t ready to give up yet.