"How modest you are, Orpheus," he had whispered to himself when the idea first took shape in his mind. "Two books, that's all you ask! Just two books – and one of them full of blank pages and in rather poor condition!"
Ah, what a life he could lead. Orpheus the all-powerful, Orpheus the immortal, hero of the world he had loved even as a child!
"He's coming! Bow low!" The Milksop jumped up so hastily that his wig slipped down over his receding forehead, and Orpheus came out of his delightful daydreams with a start.
A reader doesn't really see the characters in a story; he feels them. Orpheus had discovered that for the first time when, aged nearly eleven, he had tried describing or drawing characters from his favorite books. As the Adderhead came toward him out of the darkness, it was exactly like the day when he first encountered him in Fenoglio's book: He felt fear and admiration, he sensed the evil that surrounded the Silver Prince like black light, and an abundance of power that made it difficult to breathe. But Orpheus had imagined the Silver Prince very much taller. And of course Fenoglio's description had said nothing about that devastated face, the pale and puffy flesh, the swollen hands. Every step the Adderhead took seemed to hurt him. His eyes were bloodshot under their heavy lids. They watered even in the sparse candlelight, and the stench given off by his bloated body made Orpheus want desperately to cover his own mouth and nose.
The Adderhead didn't deign to look at him as he walked past, breathing heavily. Only when he was sitting on the throne did those reddened eyes turn to his visitor. A lizard's eyes, so Fenoglio had described them. Now they were inflamed slits under swollen lids, and the red jewels that the Adderhead wore in both nostrils were sunk deep, like nails driven into the white flesh.
"You want to tell me something about my daughter and the Bluejay?" He struggled for breath after every other word, but that made his voice no less menacing. "What is it? That Violante loves power as much as I do, so she's stolen it from me? Is that what you want to tell me? If so, then say good-bye to your tongue, because I'll have it torn out. I greatly dislike having my time wasted – however much of it I now have at my disposal."
His tongue torn out… Orpheus gulped. Not a nice idea at all – but he still had it at the moment. Even if the stench wafting down from the throne made speaking almost impossible.
"My tongue could come in very useful to you, Your Grace," he replied, with difficulty suppressing an urge to retch. "But of course you're free to tear it out at any time."
The Adderhead's mouth twisted into an unpleasant smile. Pain carved fine lines around his lips. "What a delightful offer. I see you take me seriously. Very well, what do you have to say?'
Curtain up, Orpheus, he thought. On you go, this is your big scene!
"Your daughter Violante" – Orpheus let the name die away for effect before he went on – "wants more than just the throne of Ombra. She wants yours, too. Which is why she is planning to kill you."
The Milksop clutched his chest, as if giving the lie to those who claimed that he had a dead partridge there instead of a heart. However, the Adderhead merely stared at Orpheus with his inflamed eyes.
"Your tongue is in great danger," he said. "Violante can't kill me, have you forgotten that? No one can."
Orpheus felt the sweat running down his nose. The fire behind the Adderhead crackled as if it were calling Dustfinger. Oh, devil take it, he was so frightened. But then wasn't he always frightened? Look him straight in the eye, Orpheus, and trust your voice!
Those eyes were terrible. They stripped the skin from his face. And the swollen fingers lay on the arms of the throne like dead flesh.
"Oh yes, she can. If the Bluejay has told her the three words." His voice really did sound astonishingly composed. Good, Orpheus, very good.
"Ah, those three words… so you've heard about them, too. Well, you are right. She could get them out of him under torture. Although I would expect him to say nothing for a very long time… and he could always give her the wrong words."
"Your daughter doesn't have to torture the Bluejay. She's in league with him."
Yes!
Orpheus saw, from the disfigured face, that such an idea really hadn't occurred to the Silver Prince yet. Ah, this game was fun. This was just the part he wanted to play. They'd soon all be sticking to his cunning tongue like flies on flypaper.
The Adderhead remained silent for an agonizingly long time.
"Interesting," he said at last. "Violante's mother had a weakness for strolling players. I'm sure a robber would have taken her fancy just as much. But Violante is not like her mother. She's like me although she doesn't care to hear people say so."
"Oh, I have no doubt of that, Your Highness!" Orpheus injected just enough deference into his voice. "But why has the illuminator who works in this castle had to do nothing but illustrate songs about the Bluejay for over a year? Your daughter has sold her jewels to pay for paints. She's obsessed by that robber; he dominates her mind. Ask Balbulus! Ask him how often she sits in the library staring at the pictures he's painted of the man! And ask yourself, how is it possible for the Bluejay to have escaped from this castle twice in the last few weeks?"
"I can't ask Balbulus anything." The Adderhead's voice seemed made for this black-draped hall. "The Piper is having him hunted out of town at this very moment. He cut off his right hand first."
That really did silence Orpheus for a moment. His right hand. Instinctively, he touched his own writing hand. "Why… er… if I may ask, Your Highness, why did he do that?" he managed in a thread of a voice.
"Why? Because my daughter thought highly of his art, and I hope the stump of his wrist will make it clear to her how very angry I am. For Balbulus will of course take refuge with her. Where else would he go?"
"Indeed. How clever of you." Orpheus involuntarily moved his fingers as if to reassure himself that they were still there. He had run out of words; his brain was a blank sheet of paper and his tongue a dried-up pen.
"Shall I let you in on a secret?" The Adderhead licked his cracked lips. "Hike what my daughter has done! I can't allow it, but it pleases me. She doesn't care for being ordered around. Neither the Piper nor my pheasant-murdering brother-in-law" – here he cast a look of disgust at the Milksop – "has realized that. As for the Bluejay, it may well be that Violante is only pretending to him that she will protect him. She's wily. She knows as well as I do that it's easy to trick heroes. You just have to make a hero believe you're on the side of what's right and just, and he'll go trotting after you like a lamb to the slaughter. But in the end Violante will sell me her noble robber. For the crown of Ombra. And who knows… perhaps I really will let her have it."
The Milksop was looking straight ahead as fixedly as if he hadn't heard those last words spoken by his overlord and brother-in-law. However, the Adderhead leaned back and patted his bloated thighs. "I think your tongue is mine, Four-Eyes," he said. "Any last words before you're left as mute as a fish?"
The Milksop smiled unpleasantly, and Orpheus's lips began to tremble as if they already felt the pincers. No. No, this couldn't be happening. He hadn't found his way into this story just to end up a mute beggar in the streets of Ombra.
He gave the Adderhead what he hoped was an enigmatic smile and clasped his hands behind his back. Orpheus knew that this posture made him look rather imposing; he had rehearsed it often enough in front of the mirror. But now he needed words. Words that would cast ripples in this story, circling outward like stones thrown into still water.
He lowered his voice as he began to speak again. A word weighs more heavily if it is softly uttered.
"Very well, then these are my last words, Your Highness, but rest assured that they will also be the last words you remember when the White Women come for you. I swear to you by my tongue that your daughter plans to kill you. She hates you, and you underestimate her romantic weakness for the Bluejay. She wants the throne for him, and for herself. That's the only reason why she freed him. Robbers and princes' daughter
s have always been a dangerous mixture."
The words grew in the dark hall as if they had a shadow. And the Adderhead's hooded gaze rested on Orpheus as if to poison him with its own evil.
"But that's ridiculous!" The Milksop's voice made him sound like an injured child. "Violante is little more than a girl, and an ugly one at that. She'd never dare turn against you!"
"Of course she would!" For the first time the Adderhead's voice rose, and the Milksop compressed his narrow lips in alarm. "Violante is fearless, unlike my other daughters. Ugly, but fearless. And very cunning… like this man." Once again his eyes, clouded with pain, turned to Orpheus.
"You're a viper like me, am I right? Poison runs in our veins, not blood. It consumes us, too, but it is deadly only to others. It also runs in Violante's veins, so she will betray the Bluejay, whatever else she may intend at the moment." The Adderhead laughed, but it turned into a cough. He struggled for breath, gasping as if water were filling his lungs, but when the Milksop bent over him in concern he pushed him roughly away. "What do you want?" he spat at his brother-in-law. "I'm immortal, remember?" And he laughed again, a wheezing, gasping laugh. Then the lizard eyes moved back to Orpheus.
"I like you, milk-faced viper. You seem much more like a member of my family than that fellow." With an impatient gesture, he thrust the Milksop aside. "But he has a beautiful sister, so one has to take the brother on with her. Do you have a sister as well? Or can you be of use to me in some other way?"
This is going well, thought Orpheus. Very well indeed! Now I'll soon be weaving my own thread through the fabric of this story – and what color will I choose? Gold? Black? Maybe bloodred?
"Oh," he said, casting a weary glance at his fingernails – another effective trick, as the mirror had shown him. "I can be useful to you in many ways. Ask your brother-in-law. I make dreams come true. I tailor things to your own wishes."
Careful, Orpheus, you don't have the book back yet. What are you promising?
"Oh, a magician, are you?" The contempt in the Adderhead's voice was a warning.
"No, I wouldn't call it that," Orpheus was quick to reply. "Let's just say my art is black. As black as ink."
Ink! Of course, Orpheus! he told himself.
Why hadn't he thought of that before? Dustfinger had stolen his favorite book from him, it was true, but Fenoglio had written others. Why wouldn't the old man's words still work even if they didn't come from Inkheart? Where were the Bluejay songs that Violante was said to have collected so carefully? Didn't people say she'd ordered Balbulus to fill several books with them?
"Black? A color I like." The Adderhead, groaning, heaved himself out of his throne. "Brother-in-law, give the little viper a horse. I'll take him with me. It's a long way to the Castle in the Lake, and perhaps he'll help me to pass the time."
Orpheus bowed so deeply that he almost toppled over. "What an honor!" he stammered – you always had to give powerful people the feeling that you could hardly speak in their presence. "But in that case, might I most humbly ask Your Highness a favor?"
The Milksop cast him a distrustful glance. What if that fool had bartered Balbulus's books of Fenoglio's songs for a few casks of wine? He'd read him an attack of the plague!
"I am a great lover of the art of book illumination," Orpheus went on, without taking his eyes off the Milksop, "and I've heard wonderful things about the library in this castle. I'd very much like to see the books and perhaps take one or two on the journey. Who knows, I may even be able to entertain you with their contents on the way!"
Indifferently, the Adderhead shrugged his shoulders. "Why not? If you'll work out, while you're at it, how much silver those that my brother-in-law hasn't yet exchanged for wine are worth."
The Milksop bent his head, but Orpheus had seen the vicious dislike in his eyes.
"Of course." Orpheus bowed as low as he could.
The Adderhead came down the steps of the throne and stopped in front of him, breathing heavily. "When making your estimate, you should take into account the fact that books illuminated by Balbulus have risen in value!" he remarked. "After all, he won't be producing any new works without his hand, and that certainly makes those already in existence more valuable, don't you agree?"
Once again Orpheus found it hard not to retch as the Adderhead's foul breath met his face, but all the same he managed to produce an admiring smile.
"How extremely clever of you, Your Highness!" he replied. "The perfect penalty! May I ask what punishment you intend for the Bluejay? Perhaps it would be appropriate to separate him from his tongue first, since everyone goes into such raptures about his voice?
But the Adderhead shook his head. "No, no. I have better plans for the Bluejay. I'm going to flay him alive and make his skin into parchment, and we want him to be able to scream as it's done to him, don't we?"
"Of course!" breathed Orpheus. "What a truly fitting punishment for a bookbinder! May I suggest that you write a warning to your enemies on this very special parchment and have it hung up in marketplaces? I will happily provide you with suitable words. In my trade one must be able to use words with skill."
"Well, well, you're obviously a man of many talents." The Adderhead was examining him with something like amusement.
Now, Orpheus! he told himself. Even if you do find Fenoglio's songs in the library, there's no substitute for that one book. Tell him about Inkheart!
"I assure you, all my talents are at your disposal, Highness," he faltered. "But to practice my arts to perfection I need something that was stolen from me."
"Indeed? And what might that be?"
"A book, Your Grace! The Fire-Dancer has stolen it, but I believe he did it at the request of the Bluejay, who is certain to know where it is now. So if you were to ask him about it as soon as he is in your power…"
"A book? Did the Bluejay bind you a book, too, I wonder?"
"Oh no. No!" Orpheus waved the mere notion away. "He has nothing to do with this book. No bookbinder captured its power inside the covers. It's the words in it that make it powerful. With those words, Your Grace, this world can be re-created, and every living thing in it made subject to your own purposes."
"Indeed? For instance, trees would bear silver fruit? It could be night forever if I wanted?"
How he was staring at him – like a snake staring at a mouse! Not a word out of place now, Orpheus!
"Oh yes." Orpheus nodded eagerly. "I brought your brother- in-law a unicorn with the aid of that book. And a dwarf."
The Adderhead cast the Milksop a derisive glance. "Yes, that sounds like the kind of thing my good brother-in-law would want. My wishes would be rather different."
He scrutinized Orpheus with satisfaction. Obviously, the Adderhead had realized that the same kind of heart beat in both their breasts – black with vanity and the desire for vengeance, in love with its own cunning, full of contempt for those whose hearts were ruled by other feelings. Orpheus knew what state his own heart was in, and he feared only that those inflamed eyes might also uncover what he hid even from himself: his envy of the innocence of others, his longing for an unblemished heart.
"What about my rotting flesh?" The Adderhead passed his swollen fingers over his face. "Can you cure that, too, with this book, or do I still need the Bluejay to do it?"
Orpheus hesitated.
"Ah. I see… you're not sure." The Adderhead's mouth twisted, his dark lizard eyes almost lost in his flesh. "And you're clever enough not to promise what you can't perform. Well, I'll return to your other promises and give you a chance to ask the Bluejay about the book that was stolen from you."
Orpheus bowed his head. "Thank you, Your Grace!" Oh, this was going well. Very well indeed.
"Highness!" The Milksop was hurrying down the steps of the throne. His voice really was like a duck quacking, and Orpheus imagined not a wild boar or his fabulous unicorn being carried through the streets of Ombra as a trophy of the hunt, but the Milksop himself, his silver-powdered wig full of blood a
nd dust. However, he'd be a poor sight in comparison with the unicorn.
Orpheus exchanged a quick glance with the Adderhead, and for a moment it seemed to him as if they were seeing the same picture.
"You ought to rest now, my prince," said the Milksop, with obviously exaggerated concern. "It was a long journey, and another lies ahead of you."
"Rest? How am I supposed to rest when you and the Piper have let the man who turned me into a piece of rotting meat escape? My skin is burning. My bones are icy. My eyes feel as if every ray of light pierces them with a pin. I can't rest until that accursed Book has stopped poisoning me and the man who bound it is dead. I picture it to myself every night, brother-in-law – just ask your sister – every night I pace up and down, unable to sleep, imagining him wailing and screaming and begging me for a quick death, but I'll have as many torments ready for him as that murderous Book has pages. He'll curse it even more often than I do – and he'll very soon find out that my daughter's skirts are no protection from the Adderhead!"
Once again a racking cough shook him, and for a moment his swollen hands clutched Orpheus by the arm. Their flesh was pale as a dead fish. It smells like a dead fish, too, thought Orpheus. Yet he's still the lord of this story.
"Grandfather!" The boy emerged from the darkness as suddenly as if he had been standing in the shadows all this time. He had a pile of books in his small arms.
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