The Book of Whispers

by Kimberley Starr

  I look around and realise he’s right. There are few horses left. I think of the one I saw slaughtered on the roadside and shiver.

  We set up camp for the night. Just before vespers, a knight walks up to me. Sir Percy. Since I met him in Constantinople, starvation has made scarecrows of the rest of us, but not of Percy. He’s as muscular and luminous as ever. ‘Hello, falcon.’ He shows me his teeth.

  ‘The falcon,’ he repeats. ‘Do you know what that means?’

  I can test him. ‘I know you’re a demon.’

  He chuckles. ‘That’s just a word. Some of us are nearly human. One day, we’ll learn how to feel. Can you fight?’

  ‘Of course I can. I’m a knight.’

  ‘I want to see your book. I’ll fight you for it.’

  ‘I don’t need to fight for it. It’s already mine.’

  ‘I don’t want to own it. There’s no point in that. Prophecy says the falcon will take it to Temple Knoll.’

  This is news to me, but I keep this to myself.

  ‘I just want to read it. I want to find out what kind of falcon you are.’

  ‘Why would I want to fight you?’

  ‘I have something I’m sure you’ll want. My helmet.’

  ‘I already have a helmet.’

  ‘Not like this one.’

  Percy pulls a helmet from a bag tied to his waist. It’s more shiny than silver. Its demon is a small, perfectly formed female shape that gracefully slides down its tethering rope to the ground, and performs a swaying dance around Percy’s ankles. Its eyes are like mirrors of red glass.

  Percy puts the helmet on his head. He shimmers for a moment—then he isn’t there.

  I blink, startled.

  In the emptiness, I hear Percy chuckle. He reappears, helmet in his hand. ‘The Helm of Darkness makes its wearer invisible. Not just to human eyes, but to demons as well. You can have it if you win. This is a good deal. I only want to look at the book. So fight me.’

  I touch my sword’s hilt. Percy is right. I want that helm. There are so many ways I could use its enchantment to be revenged on Ramberti! For a moment, I think too of walking, invisibly, to Suzan’s tent in the early hours and watching her dress. I’m not proud of that thought.

  ‘Can you bear to lose such a treasure?’ I ask.

  Percy grins. He rests the helmet on the ground between us. ‘I don’t plan on losing.’

  Then he takes choice away from me. Unsheathing his sword with lightning speed, he lunges at me. I’ve practised. I’m quick, too. My sword meets his. If Percy is a creature of smoke, his sword is as metal as my own. Like the Hydra, he must have something of a physical body.

  An audience gathers.

  Percy laughs as he thrusts and parries. ‘They can’t see me,’ he boasts. ‘They think you’re mad, fighting shadows.’

  From the darkness, a clear voice says, ‘I see you.’

  Suzan! She must have been watching us this whole time.

  Startled, Percy twists. It’s my opportunity, and I take it. I push against him with one upward thrust and his sword clatters out of his hand. From the ground, Percy’s helm glows more brightly, giving a subtle hum.

  Suzan steps closer. ‘You win,’ she says to me.

  Percy tries to pick up the helm, but it sets off sparks and he jumps away. The helm itself seems to know it has been lost and won. Percy can no longer touch it.

  I have defeated him—and so quickly! Thanks to Suzan.

  ‘You…mortal,’ Percy spits. He recognises his loss. His eyes turn from copper to flame with his fury. ‘You will pay for this.’

  Suzan hands the helm to me. It feels warm. The glow continues, but the buzz resolves into something like a cat purring.

  ‘In the end, you mortals always die!’ Shaking, Percy stalks off.

  Suzan laughs with relief. She grabs my hand and pulls me under the shelter of an olive tree, while the small crowd dissipates. ‘Try the helmet, Luca. See if it works.’

  I’ve never seen this expression on her face before. She looks proud of me. Impressed.

  I like it.

  I wait until I’m sure no one is watching then raise the helm over my head and slowly lower it into place. For a moment, I think it hasn’t worked. It occurs to me that the helm might only work on demons or, worse, that Percy was simply tricking me.

  Then I hear Suzan gasp and realise her eyes are no longer focused on mine. She looks shocked. ‘Luca?’ she asks softly. ‘Are you still there?’

  I laugh. ‘I’ve vanished?’

  ‘It works.’

  I take the helmet off and gaze at it, holding invisibility in my hands. How furious Percy must be! I’ve made myself a powerful enemy. But I’m becoming stronger.

  Over the next sevennight, water makes our journey a little easier. One day, shortly after noon, we pass a large caravanserai, a roadside inn that looks like a desert anthill, half-covered in sand. The large sandstone building will offer shelter from the area’s hot winds and, more importantly, it will offer food.

  The Saracens who had been guarding it quickly surrender to our immense group. Pilgrims swarm over the caravanserai. We eat the vegetables we find, and slaughter fresh animals to roast. That night, there is spiced lamb and stuffed chicken, and gravy for our trenchers.

  After vespers, Mattiolas finds a wineskin concealed beneath a pile of old armour in an empty sheep pen. He brings it to Suzan and me, hidden beneath his cloak. We’re sitting on piles of hay in the corner of a sandstone chamber.

  ‘How did you know to look there?’ Suzan asks.

  ‘He must have sniffed it out,’ I joke.

  Mattiolas makes a face, then winks at me. ‘Having lost my horse, I was looking for a sheep to ride.’

  He passes the wineskin. It smells forcefully of sheep dung. But this hasn’t affected the wine’s flavour.

  Beside us, Suzan picks at flatbread. ‘How many days before we reach Antioch?’ she asks.

  ‘Two at most,’ Mattiolas tells her.

  I’m surprised. I hadn’t thought we were that close.

  ‘Then Jerusalem!’ Mattiolas declares. ‘You wait and see. We’ll be as rich as kings when we get there. No more sheep-dung wine! Cheers!’

  Suzan

  Antioch rests against the high and rugged Mount Silpius, whose crags undulate like rippling muscles, as vast and alien as another world. When we reach the city, two days after leaving the caravanserai, its defences seem even more impregnable than the God-built towers back in Cappadocia. Blindingly white walls many cubits high run up and along the mountain’s steep slopes. Dozens of towers protect its length, each built from white marble. Between them, and at each corner of the walls, a colossal statue the height of sixty people gazes out with stone eyes. At first I take the statues for naked women but, when I look more closely, I note too-pointed teeth and silver-coloured tiles for skin. Some have faces more like dogs. Whoever designed these walls could see demons too.

  Arriving on horse and on foot, pilgrims gawp at the enormous walls. I hear murmurs. Pilgrims identify some statues as Greek goddesses or the Virgin Mary. Above the statues and the walls, a soaring citadel reaches to the Heavens. The city’s inhabitants are trapped there until we let them out.

  A horn sounds at noon, ordering all the pilgrims to halt.

  ‘Just outside bowshot.’ Luca looks at me. ‘Arrows fired from the city won’t reach us here.’

  ‘How can Adhemar even imagine invading this place?’ I ask.

  ‘Saracens only possessed the city recently. We’re here to win it back.’

  ‘We can get through those walls?’

  ‘We’ll try. Have you seen a trebuchet?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A siege weapon. Designed to sling huge rocks. Otherwise we go under the walls. Or over. We could be here for several moons.’

  Scouts are sent to confirm the city is completely sealed. Camps are set up. All we know of the Princes’ decision about what to do next is that they can’t agree. Not even about whether t
o attack St Paul’s Gate or the Duke’s Gate. Between late-afternoon prayers and vespers, they pitch their pavilions at various places around the walls.

  Luca sees Bishop Adhemar and Monsignor Ramberti arrange for their pavilions to be erected near the Dog Gate, and calls for his groom.

  ‘It looks like we’ll be here for a while.’

  ‘At least there’s water, Master Luca,’ Desi says. ‘I mean Sir Luca. I mean, Conte.’

  Luca and Desi unfold one of our tents, while I hold the bag of pegs. The ground is rocky, but the soil soft. The tent pegs slide easily into place. Luca flies his de Falconi banner—once his father’s—from the centre pole. We pitch a smaller tent nearby for me. And that’s it. For a while, this will be home.

  Close by, Dragonus Ramberti can be heard ordering his servants around. ‘Get it right!’ he barks. ‘By Christ, it’d be easier to have the job done by trained cats.’

  Messengers pass between groups, trying to sway the crowd to their various Princes’ ways of thinking.

  After gathering timber for an evening fire near our tents, Luca and Mattiolas have the same argument. ‘A siege on Antioch isn’t the right way to win back Jerusalem,’ Mattiolas insists.

  Luca accepts the wineskin his friend offers, but disagrees. ‘If Saracens keep a stronghold here, they’ll send an army to slaughter us before we even reach Jerusalem.’

  ‘At least we won’t be hungry,’ Mattiolas says. ‘We have Saracen farmland, if we don’t have Saracen gold.’

  The land is crossed with vineyards, dotted with grain silos. The next day, we find orchards where the trees are so heavy with apples that their branches bow to welcome us.

  All this food makes our camp feel like a land of plenty, and that night and the next few evenings, we eat and laugh about the Saracens who stole this city that we want to steal back. How frustrated they must be, behind thick walls that keep them safe—but that deprive them of apples and grapes and grain for bread!

  The season ages. Our life here is relatively comfortable. It’s three moons since the battle at Dorylaeum, then four. The book continues to count down. Twenty-one becomes twenty. Then we’re nearly at nineteen. Apples rot and drop, and we spend days gathering them for cider. The weather cools and I begin to wear a hooded surcoat, a gift from Luca, over my tunic. Luca comes for me in the evenings and we walk beneath the apple trees. We find reasons to celebrate. One day, it’s because, finally, we have gathered enough herbs to perform the demon-binding charm from the book. At least once. Luca has a few mirrors and I have the red ribbon Drucia gave me. And we have many drawstring linen bags filled with the required apple seeds. This gives us hope we can win. That, whatever demons plan, perhaps we can stop them.

  Luca continues to have dark moods but there are times when I see his normal, happy self shine through as well. One evening, Luca teases Mattiolas, promising him rubies and adding, ‘Here, have a ruby!’ before tossing him a ruby-red apple.

  Mattiolas responds by dropping into a deep bow. ‘Conte de Sciocconi,’ he says and laughs.

  ‘What does Sciocconi mean?’ I ask. That’s a word my mother didn’t think I’d have to know.

  ‘My ancestors were called de Falconi because they trained hunting birds,’ Luca explains. ‘Mattiolas is calling me the Count of Fools.’

  I laugh. ‘Mattiolas is a good friend!’

  Luca’s mood changes, abruptly. ‘Where will you go after we reach Jerusalem?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘With Mattiolas?’

  ‘Mattiolas?’ I ask, astonished. ‘Luca, I…’

  He turns away. ‘I see.’

  But I don’t think he does. And there are things I don’t understand either. Luca rescued me in Cappadocia. Somehow, I’ve imagined I’ll stay with him, and go where he goes. But of course this is foolish. For me, there are only two real places: with him and on my own. But for Luca the pilgrimage will end. He has his own life to return to, a life that does not include me.

  ‘I don’t want to think about that now.’

  CHAPTER 13

  Nineteen moons

  RETURN TO GOREME

  Luca

  Suzan often pulls out her santur, and plays the letters that I recognise as her mother’s name.

  Helena.

  She has explained to me that the musical tone will match her mother’s mood. Usually her mother’s name sounds sad and nostalgic. But one day outside Antioch, after our noon meal, though the notes vibrate as usual, each sound is sharply dissonant and lasts only a moment before the wind blows it away.

  My ears prick up. ‘Is something wrong with your santur?’

  Suzan leaps to her feet. ‘Something’s wrong with my mother!’

  She sprints to her tent. My scabbard strikes my leg as I follow. Once inside, she reaches into her pouch and pulls out her golden ankh.

  ‘Three enchanted journeys. Your book says it can take me to her.’

  ‘Suzan. Stop.’

  Her eyes are wild. I cross to her, and touch the ankh as well. ‘I can help you. But I need to go back to my tent first.’

  She shakes her head. ‘I’m going now.’

  Gently, I pull on the ankh. It vibrates slightly, not wanting to lose its connection to her. ‘Think about it, Suzan. We can use my helm. The herbs for our charm.’

  Suzan looks unconvinced.

  ‘You said there’s a demon there. I’m coming.’

  Suzan finally nods. Her eyes glow with anxiety.

  The dark robes she wore when I first met her are heaped near the folded rugs she sleeps on. I pass them to her. ‘We need those herbs. You might want these, as well.’

  Suzan pulls the black robes over her linen tunic and clutches her pouch. We walk to my tent and I fetch several small bags of herbs and the helm.

  We turn to face each other like partners in a dance. Suzan’s fingers are on the ankh. I place one hand on my scabbard and feel a rush of energy as her hand reaches for mine. A sizzle. From the ankh’s power?

  Suzan glances up, aware of it too. She holds the ankh to her lips. ‘Take us where we need to go,’ she murmurs.

  The ankh hums, in tune with her voice. Something strange starts to happen. The outlines of her beautiful face pulse like a struck santur string. Only her amber eyes are steady.

  In its bag at my side, the helm throbs—the enchanted objects vibrate together as though somehow connected. The ankh emits a subtle glow that shines more as it spreads and eventually encompasses both of us. I let out a breath of relief. Hopefully, this means it intends to take both of us.

  The glow expands into the space beside us. Its original pale yellow deepens to a rich gold and, in the haze, a shape begins to form, a larger representation of the ankh we hold. It grows until it’s as tall as the tent, then twists, sinking into the ground.

  ‘What—?’

  Suzan’s eyes are bright. ‘I think we go through it!’

  Still holding the small metal ankh, we step towards the large air one. Its opening grows rounder to accommodate us.

  ‘Ready?’ Suzan asks.

  I take a deep breath and, slowly, hands connected tightly, we step through.

  For a moment, all air is sucked from my chest. The light flickers like a guttering candle. I’m filled with an overwhelming sensation of despair and loss. The only real thing in the world is Suzan’s touch. Nothing else exists.

  Suzan

  Desolation. Aching, terrible despair like everything in creation has given up on us…Have we made a terrible mistake?

  And then, the darkness and bleakness are over and, suddenly, I’m home. Luca’s hand is firm and supportive, holding mine. We stand in Cappadocia, with the late-afternoon sunlight pushing shadows eastwards from the monumental fairy towers.

  ‘It worked!’ Luca stoops to pick up the ankh, now on the ground, and smiles. I’m so glad he’s here.

  I look up, trying to work out exactly where we are. The fairy towers go on for miles in every direction. But the ankh has done its job well. I reco
gnise a few of the tallest towers that seem to lean towards one another. Between them is the rock entrance to my mother’s convent. The place where I used to belong.

  In the distance, I see the movements of black shapes that are the Sisters. I wrap my black scarves more tightly around myself.

  ‘Use your helm,’ I tell Luca. ‘You don’t belong here.’

  Like the ankh, the helm’s enchanted glow gives it the look of being not quite real—or, absurdly, of being more real than anything else. Luca slides it over his brown hair.

  The helmet’s shimmer stretches and drops, until it and Luca are covered in a fine mist. Soon, Luca is reduced to an outline, the sketch of a man on a parchment page. And then—nothing.

  ‘Has it worked?’ Luca asks.

  ‘How will I know where you are?’

  ‘Like this.’

  It’s eerie to feel a hand coming from nowhere, Luca’s fingers entwined in my own. I close my eyes and know he’s there, like he was there in the journey through the void a moment ago.

  ‘I’ll start looking in places it’s easiest to reach,’ I tell him. ‘Judging by the sun’s position, it’s nearly time for mass.’

  Luca follows as I walk to the chapel. Sisters, returning from tending fruit and vegetables, pour in. I stand back and let them pass. In my long, dark robes, they don’t notice that I’m an intruder. But one Sister brushes against Luca and gasps, raising her veiled face to see what she touched.

  I feel Luca move behind me, where he will be out of their way.

  I’d know the shape of my mother’s shoulders even in her black robes. She isn’t here.

  I’m about to leave when I hear more people arriving. Father Eser. If my mother is in trouble, it’s bound to involve him. I step inside, pulling Luca with me. Father Eser walks into the chapel.

  I stifle a gasp. Luca’s book has let me see through whatever enchantment made Eser appear human, and now I see him as he really is. A demon.