I don’t feel anything special about this book.
“See, I’m right!” crowed Starkey. “You are the key. Here, give me your hand,” and before Marcel could pull away, his arm was seized in the man’s steely grip. “Trace your fingers over the golden letters and let the magic flow.”
Marcel had no choice. The Book had found him out. But he was sure there was no sorcery in him. Perhaps if he did as they asked it would all quickly come to nothing. Then hopefully they would leave him alone, and all he would need was a few moments to pick Bea up in his arms and escape to where Nicola would already be waiting anxiously for him.
He did as Starkey commanded and let his fingers range over the glowing letters. They were strangely warm to his touch, enticing him, urging him to let that warmth flow further into his body and even into his mind, where the simple words of the verse already resided.
This was not what he had expected. He felt himself wanting to give way to the magic, so he could learn the truth it seemed to offer. All he had to do was press his fingers more firmly into the golden letters. But he could not learn the truth unless he let the Book into his mind, and it was this that held him back. He wasn’t ready. The Book would surely overpower him.
He tried to lift his fingers from the Book, but it held him there, drawing him down into itself. A book full of lies. No matter what it promised, he couldn’t let himself become lost among the Book’s pages. He must break free, and if his body seemed to have lost its will he must find another way, before Lord Alwyn’s magic claimed him after all.
Free… there was a different set of words that had once come to him, magically. He fought for them, urgently pushing away his fear until at last he felt them on his tongue.
My fate is my own, my heart remains free
He spoke these words under his breath so that the others would not hear, but in the struggle with the Book they boomed like thunder. What did he know of fate? Was it just what happened to you, like it or not, or could he forge his own way ahead? Could he recover the unknown life that had been stolen from him by Lord Alwyn’s magic? No, he decided, he would find his life only when he created it for himself. With this thought, a second line joined the first.
Not magic but wisdom reveals destiny
Where had this come from? Not the Book of Lies, surely, because he had managed to keep it at bay.
Looking down, he saw with relief that his fingers had come free from the golden letters. He worked them up and down and stared about him, blinking like a sleeper just coming awake. Starkey and Eleanor were staring at him, amazed and suspicious.
“Well, did the Book tell you anything?”
“No. I don’t know what the verse means any more than before,” he answered.
Since this was true, he was not surprised to see the Book of Lies slam itself shut and glow faintly, but it was not enough for Starkey. “Did you try? Did you concentrate your mind properly on these words so the meaning would be clear?”
“Answer him,” retorted Eleanor when he hesitated.
“Yes, I felt the magic in my fingers, but…” He peered into their cold, expectant faces. If he told them what had happened they would make him try again, and this time he would have to let the Book’s sorcery flow into him. Those golden letters held a terrible power, an evil he didn’t ever want to touch again. Before he knew what he was doing, he launched into a desperate lie.
“I felt the Book’s magic but it couldn’t tell me the meaning of the verse.”
As soon as they were gone from his mouth he wished he could snatch them back. He had betrayed himself, and any moment now the Book would buck violently back and forth until his lie was recorded.
But to his astonishment, the Book of Lies glowed in Starkey’s hands, brighter than he had ever seen it.
“Curse this book!” Starkey roared. “It’s tormenting us with its promises and its magic.”
What had happened? How could he have tricked Lord Alwyn’s greatest creation, a magic that could look into a person’s heart and know that he was lying? And he had lied. I felt the Book’s magic but it couldn’t tell me the meaning of the verse.
Of course it could. It had been eager to do just that.
But wait… it couldn’t tell me… In one sense, it was true. The Book couldn’t tell him because he hadn’t let it. He had deceived Starkey and Eleanor and yet told the truth at the same time!
This was becoming more than he could understand. Why had it glowed brighter than ever before? Marcel began to suspect that the Book of Lies had wanted him to deceive them. More than that, it had helped him to do it!
Starkey’s unrelenting gaze bored into Marcel as though he suspected some kind of trick. “This book has a way to raise Mortregis. It’s there in those words. Try again – and this time I shall accept no failure!”
His hand found the hilt of the ruby-encrusted dagger and Marcel’s stomach turned sick with fear.
“Princess Eleanor,” came a rough voice from outside the tent. The tension of the moment was instantly shattered.
“Enter,” Eleanor called, and one of Zadenwolf’s men appeared before them. “A messenger has come from Long Beard to ask about the elf-girl. He is waiting in King Zadenwolf’s tent.”
Eleanor dismissed him with a wave of her hand. She spoke openly in front of Marcel now, without a care for what he might make of her words. “What will we do? She’s still alive,” she hissed at Starkey, who frowned deeply while his eyes stayed focused on the Book of Lies. She saw this and snapped at him angrily, “Leave the Book. We don’t want it with us when we speak to Long Beard’s courier.”
Moments later they were gone, leaving Marcel to wonder whether he should follow them and shout the truth in front of this messenger. No, he decided quickly, Starkey and Eleanor would surely kill the poor fellow, just as they had murdered Remora. He must go back to his own plan and get Bea away to safety. They could return at any moment to check on her.
He hurried to Bea’s bed and began to pick her up, but she moaned weakly and her body felt so cold and frail that he had to let her fall back on to the mattress again. For precious seconds he stared down at his little friend as she struggled for life, and as each of those seconds passed he sensed more strongly that his plan would not work. Bea would probably not survive a journey through the forest, and even if she was still alive when they reached Long Beard, elfish medicine would not save her now. She needed something far more powerful.
With a mixture of hope and the gravest terror, Marcel already knew what he must do. He turned sharply and let his eyes scour the tent for what he knew was there. Yes, the Book of Lies still lay where Starkey had put it aside. Gadfly was waiting. It was the only way to keep Bea alive.
He put the Book back in the leather sck and looped it over his shoulder, picked up Bea’s limp body and stepped out into the rain.
No one challenged him. Zadenwolf’s soldiers were still sheltering from the deluge. He hurried towards the forest trail, where Nicola and Gadfly stood shivering.
“What took you so long?” Nicola whispered anxiously. When he hesitated, she pressed him. “Come on, there’s no time to lose.”
“Nicola, where I’m taking Bea, you won’t want to come,” he told her.
“What are you talking about?”
Marcel answered solemnly, “Bea needs more than ointments and potions to survive.” He could barely believe his own words when he said what was in his mind. “She needs sorcery.”
“You can’t mean Lord Alwyn!”
All Marcel cared about was Bea, and if Lord Alwyn was the only one who could keep her alive then he would take her to him. Slipping the leather sack from his shoulder, he held it up for Nicola to see. “Lord Alwyn would help us if we took his book back to him in return.”
“You’re crazy, Marcel. He and Pelham might simply kill us all!”
“If you’re afraid, it’s not too late to go back to camp.”
“No, I’m with you whatever you do,” she said firmly.
&nb
sp; “Then get on to Gadfly’s back,” he ordered, and when she had struggled into place he lifted Bea up to sit slumped in front of her.
But Nicola had a sudden thought. “Marcel, Lord Alwyn will be in Elstenwyck by now. That’s days and days away, even with Gadfly to carry us. Bea will never make it.”
Marcel’s lips were curling into a wry smile as he began to loop the Book of Lies over Gadfly’s head. Instantly she snorted and shimmied, and along her flanks strange lumps began to undulate wildly.
Nicola looked down in astonishment then quickly pulled her feet up out of the way. “What’s happening?” she yelled.
As he swung himself up on to the horse’s back in front of Bea, Marcel called out to his sister, “Nicola, there’s something about Gadfly that I never told you…”
PART THREE
Chapter 17
Return to the Chamber
THE STEADY BEAT OF Gadfly’s wings carried them on towards Elstenwyck. The relentless rain had stung their faces at first, but by the time the dark outline of the elves’ great mountain loomed ahead it had eased. They broke over the edge of the steep escarpment to the valley, where rain had not ventured for the past year. The plains below looked parched and their clothes were quickly dry. Farmhouses dotted the patchworked landscape and occasionally they would sweep over a sleepy village nestled in the crook of fields that shimmered and danced in the afternoon heat.
Despite the warm wind that whipped at their hair and their sleeves, Marcel shuddered. Was he leading them all into hands even more evil than the ones they had just escaped?
Behind him, Nicola saw that shudder and guessed the cause. “We are doing the right thing, Marcel. I’m sure of it now.”
Wedged tightly between them so that she would not fall was little Bea, her head slumped on to her chest and closer to death with every minute that passed. “Come on, Gadfly, faster!” Marcel urged, at the same time secretly dreading their journey’s end.
They flew on for another hour. Then two had passed, and finally Nicola cried out, “There!” and pointed with her arm outstretched. “The city. Do you see it?”
It was still a long way off, but there was no doubting that their destination was in sight. Soon they could make out the houses inside the city walls, but it was the palace that held their eye. No human being had ever seen it as they saw it now: the round towers planted solidly at each corner, the myriad smaller turrets jutting skywards, each with a column of windows surveying the lush gardens below. With its walls glowing sand-yellow in the afternoon sunlight, the palace didn’t seem like the vast dungeon Marcel had imagined when he first set eyes on it at night.
The busy streets below swarmed with townsfolk. Faces turned upwards to see what could have cast such a strange shadow as Gadfly flew overhead. The spectacle left them all open-mouthed, and some scurried along the streets for a closer look.
Agile as a sparrow, Gadfly dipped below the height of the thatched roofs, and with the palace only the length of a street away, she touched down on the cobblestones in a deserted alleyway. Marcel jumped down immediately and took Bea in his arms. Nicola was quickly on the ground beside him.
“Pull the leather sack over Gadfly’s head,” he instructed her.
As soon as Nicola had removed the sack, those great wings shrivelled and shrank and finally disappeared into Gadfly’s speckled flanks.
“Such magic,” she breathed, looking down at the weight in her hands. “After everything you did to steal it, Marcel, now we’ve brought the Book of Lies back to Lord Alwyn.”
He nodded with calm determination. “It’s a simple thing. Lord Alwyn can have his precious book in return for Bea’s life.”
He turned to look at the palace, so grand and inviting when he had seen it from the air. Now it loomed pitilessly over him once again, the lair of a man he was yet to meet, a man he feared even more than Lord Alwyn, whose name he loathed even more than Eleanor’s. King Pelham.
By now, a crowd had found them and gathered a short distance away, staring and whispering.
“They were flying, I saw them. That horse had wings!” cried a flabbergasted woman who clutched a basket of apples from the market.
“Yes, but where have the wings gone now?” asked another.
“Who are those three?”
“Are they witches?” called a bolder, less friendly voice.
Nicola scanned the curious faces. “We can’t stay here like this,” she whispered, and before Marcel could react she started to lead Gadfly along the lane, forcing the crowd to part as they passed through. Just as well, too, for she began to hear a familiar name, uttered with awe and amazement.
“Catherine!”
All too soon it was on everyone’s lips. “It’s Princess Catherine!”
“And the boy is Prince Marcel!”
Other names quickly followed, muttered darkly and with an unmistakable edge of alarm and anger. “Damon… Eleanor… houses set on fire… these two had a hand in it, they say.”
Had the alley been longer, the seething crowd might have turned on them, but they soon found themselves at the same small gate Starkey had chosen on the night of Damon’s and Eleanor’s escape. A familiar face stared out at them.
“The young Princess… and your brother!” he added when Marcel stepped forward. The keys remained untouched at his belt as he came closer to the gate. He glared at them with a confused mixture of resentment, suspicion and something more difficult to place.
“Your name is Joseph, isn’t it?” Marcel began tentatively. “Would you let us through, please, sir?”
“We want to see the King,” Nicola insisted defiantly.
Joseph raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I daresay he’ll want to see you two, as well. How do you dare to show your faces back here again?” He touched the bandage he still wore on his head.
“We’re sorry you were knocked out like that, Joseph. We didn’t know our friend would do such a thing.”
“Your friend! They say the culprit was Sir Thomas Starkey himself.”
“Yes, but he’s certainly not our friend any more, and he’s not here with us now. You have my word. Please believe us, Joseph. We’re here because this little girl needs Lord Alwyn’s magic. We’ve come to give ourselves up, as hostages.”
“Hostages? That makes no sense to me,” said the old guard, “but my poor mind was simple enough before Starkey did his damage.”
Joseph scrambled hastily to fit the key into the lock and at last they were inside. The gate was locked again, though the more brazen of the townsfolk who had followed them along the lane pressed cold, hostile faces against the iron bars to see what would happen. They might have taken matters into their own hands if we’d stayed out there any longer, thought Marcel grimly.
“Where’s the other one, your brother?” Joseph asked.
Brother? But before they could ask what he meant, a deep and melodious burp split the air.
“Belch,” Marcel cried as the man himself appeared around the corner of the guardhouse. As soon as Gadfly saw him, she stepped along the path and offered her nose for stroking.
“There’s a mad fellow rushing through the palace, shouting about a flying horse. I knew it must be you,” said Belch.
“But what are you doing here?”
“Ah, well someone had to bring Lord Alwyn back to the palace.”
So Lord Alwyn was here, Marcel thought with a mixture of relief and dread. But the sight of Belch stroking Gadfly’s nose prompted a lingering guilt, and despite the apprehension that gripped his heart, he turned to the horseman and said, “I’m sorry, Belch. Gadfly was yours and I stole her from you.”
“Mine! No one can own a horse like this one, Marcel, except perhaps the boy who gives her wings,” he replied, fixing him with a firm stare in case there was any doubt about whom he meant.
“It was not the Prince who gave your horse wings, Belch,” a deep voice called out from behind him. Marcel spun on his heels to find that the stooped figure of Lord Alwyn himself
had emerged from the gardens. “You know the cause as well as I do, Marcel. Now, where is the Book?”
“We have it, Your Lordship. We’ve stolen it from Starkey and Eleanor and Damon. We’ve come here to give it back to you, but in return we beg you to help this girl. She’s dying. Please, Lord Alwyn, only magic can keep her alive.” He turned to his sister. “Nicola, give him the Book.”
This was the moment. They would soon know whether their wild gamble would save Bea. Did Lord Alwyn have any compassion in him? Nicola came forward, holding out the leather sack. As he took it into his hands, the deep lines carved into Lord Alwyn’s face seemed to slacken with relief and his ageing frame became a little straighter.
“Let me see the girl,” he said.
Marcel stepped closer, raising Bea’s frail body as high as his aching arms would allow. “She was wounded by an arrow, fired by Starkey’s own bowman. See the bandage on her shoulder?”
Lord Alwyn touched her forehead with an unexpected tenderness. “She is barely alive,” he muttered gravely. “You are quite right. Only my magic can help her now.”
He paused to think for a moment, looking about the palace grounds as he spoke. “We must act quickly. Take her to the chamber in the rose garden.”
The chamber! Both children gasped. But what choice did they have? Better to risk becoming Pelham’s prisoners than leave Bea to a certain death.
The wizard led the way into the same garden they had once scurried through in darkness. The chamber lay waiting for them, built of the same honey-coloured stone as the palace itself, with only its narrow windows to hint that it had recently been a prison.
When they arrived in the alcove that shaded the entrance, Lord Alwyn read from the inscription carved in the door. “A true and rightful heir. Which of you opened this door for Starkey?”
Marcel looked briefly at his sister. “We did it together, all three of us,” he announced, unafraid.
Marcel’s arms were full with Bea’s little body, so Lord Alwyn turned to Nicola. “Your Highness,” he said, “would you open it for us now?”
The Book of Lies Page 19