The Book of Lies

by James Moloney

  What a creature you are, Termagant, he thought in silent conversation. What fantasies must gallop around inside your head.

  No greater than yours, came a reply.

  Marcel blinked and looked around him. Who had spoken?

  Ah, but he already knew. The eyes of the beast upon him confirmed it. The words had come from Termagant herself. She had heard his thoughts, and what was more, he had heard hers in return.

  “But how?” he said aloud.

  He closed the door and went back to the desk, where the book of magic lay open. He began to study his book again with greater urgency. He quickly realised that much of the magic he had explored had sought out the thoughts of others, even animals.

  He tried again, reaching out for Termagant’s mind. Yes, it was there within his grasp, a wild and angry vision which he could see through her eyes. He felt the urge to intervene, to lessen her boiling rage, but he held back. He knew it was fear that stopped him. He was afraid of a power he could not remember.

  He must know more, he must become stronger, he told himself. But for now he had taken in as much as his mind could absorb. He felt his eyelids drooping and his soft bed beckoned. Just as the sky began to grow lighter, he crawled between the sheets and slept.

  The sun rose soon afterwards, but Marcel did not see it. He slept on until the motherly maid knocked at the door with their breakfast. He watched from his bed as she entered, white-faced and shaking after passing so close to Termagant. He closed his eyes again while she set the tray noisily on the table and departed.

  It took a familiar voice finally to rouse him. “If you don’t come soon I’ll eat yours as well as mine.” Sitting up quickly, he found Bea shovelling a fork crowded with bacon into her mouth.

  “Bea, you’re feeling better!”

  He joined her at the table just as the irresistible aroma brought Nicola from beyond the heavy curtain. Between mouthfuls of egg and crusty bread, brother and sister explained to Bea all that had happened while her own life had hung in the balance; the story of their escape from Zadenwolf’s camp, that Eleanor was not their mother after all and the amazing discovery that Termagant was just a kitten, transformed by a page from the Book of Lies that hung around her neck.

  “You are still a prince, then, Marcel?” asked Bea, wide-eyed and hesitant, as she struggled to make sense of so many discoveries.

  “Yes, and I’m a princess. Just look at my dress!” Nicola cried, standing up suddenly and turning herself around so they could admire the spectacular gown of shimmering gold she had found in her room. “Isn’t it beautiful! Come on, Bea, there are more dresses in here from when I was little. We’ll find something for you too.”

  Marcel could only watch as Nicola tugged at Bea’s hand, dragging her out of her chair and towards the curtain. But his little friend seemed no more interested than he was.

  “What’s wrong?” Nicola asked when she sensed Bea’s resistance.

  “I’m sure they’re all lovely, Nicola,” said Bea half-heartedly. “But a dress like yours would make me too easy to see.”

  Nicola realised her mistake immediately. “Of course. I’d forgotten that staying hidden is a part of who you are.” She inspected her own magnificent gown again. The expression on her face showed how much she adored it, but when she looked up she caught Marcel’s hard eye on her. “There are more important things to worry about, aren’t there? The things we talked about yesterday afternoon. We must find out why our own father is keeping us prisoner.”

  “Yes, that’s what really matters,” Marcel responded. It was exactly the way he felt too, and her obvious resolve doubled his own determination.

  He glanced through the window, judging the strength of the light. “Look, it’s halfway through the morning and no one has come to visit us except the servants who brought our breakfast. They might leave us alone here for days. If we’re going to find out anything at all, we’ll have to do it ourselves, don’t you think?”

  “But how are we going to do that?” asked Nicola bluntly. “We’re prisoners, and that’s no ordinary guard at the door.”

  Marcel had already been thinking about this. “Bea, are you well enough? Do you think you could…”

  “Past Termagant? No, not this time, Marcel. Even Grandfather would have trouble with her so close.”

  Marcel’s face reflected his frustration as he let his eyes explore the room again, not to inspect its treasures this time, but to find a way out. Nothing seemed to offer any hope of escape… unless…

  His eyes had fallen on his own book of magic, from which he had already learned so much. Did he dare?

  “Open the door,” he ordered his sister as he stood up from the table.

  “Are you mad? You heard Lord Alwyn. Three steps and she’ll rip you to pieces.” But her look said she knew he was serious and she did as he asked.

  The opening of the door had alerted Termagant who extended her claws in readiness, should the children try to rush past her. The click of those deadly claws echoed on the stone floor of the corridor and moments later Termagant stood framed by the doorway. With all the menace they remembered, she snarled at Marcel and bared her savage teeth, while Nicola and Bea backed away until they felt the cold wall behind them.

  Come, stand in front of me, Marcel told Termagant soundlessly.

  She paused to think about this, then padded into his view, stopping only an arm’s length from his nose. Her sleek features quizzed him, and for the first time the terrible heat in her eyes seemed doused, just a little. But she was not under his control yet.

  The old sorcerer is my master. I obey his magic.

  I am a sorcerer too. Perhaps you knew that even when I didn’t. You and I must have played together many times. Did I practise my magic on you?

  Termagant’s thoughts hesitated and Marcel saw his chance. He held her eyes with his own, forcing his way into her mind until he heard her recall, There was a mouse…

  He had her now, he could feel it – so long as he kept his concentration. Termagant’s body, huge and frightening though it was, lost the tension that had rippled and danced along its flanks whenever Lord Alwyn commanded her. Marcel was holding her steady with his mind, drawing on the words he chanted over and over again.

  Suddenly at the edge of his vision he sensed a shape move. It was Bea. What was she doing? Go back! he urged frantically in his mind.

  But Bea was not a partner in his thoughts. She kept coming, closer and closer towards Termagant. With a sickening leap of his heart, Marcel understood the terrible risk she was about to take.

  “Bea, come back!” Nicola called.

  The words broke through to Marcel, disturbing his concentration, and Termagant began to growl deeply. She turned her massive head towards Bea and bared her teeth.

  There was no time for Bea to retreat. One well-aimed swipe of those vicious claws and not even Lord Alwyn’s magic would save her this time.

  Concentrate. The magic lies in the power of my thoughts, Marcel reminded himself. Lie down, Termagant, he ordered. Purr like the cat that you are.

  Slowly, so slowly, Termagant began to settle at Marcel’s feet. Now Bea crept bravely towards her and reached out to the tiny pouch that hung from the leather strip around her neck. Bea’s nimble fingers worked at the knot that held it in place, prising the leather apart until at last the two ends came free. She backed away with the little pouch in her hands and slipped it into the pocket of her dress.

  The transformation began at once. The huge beast, made docile by Marcel’s magic, shrank before their eyes. She shuddered, once, twice, and stretched herself out like a cat waking from an afternoon nap, but by the time she stood upright and still on the carpet again, she was a little cat once more.

  “How – how did you do it, Marcel?” Nicola blustered, barely able to believe what she had seen.

  “I found a book,” he began weakly. He was stunned at how much the magic had taken out of him, but his elation at what he had done helped him recover. “My own
book of magic. You won’t believe it. I was a sorcerer, like Alwyn himself.”

  But there was no time to show it to them. Their guard was gone and they were free.

  “Where do you think we should go, Marcel?” Nicola questioned.

  Marcel had his answer ready. “To get the truth from anyone who can tell it to us. We have to know why our own father is treating us this way.”

  “Marcel, do you remember the faces as we entered the palace?” Nicola asked him. “Some of the courtiers still seem to care about us, even if the King doesn’t. Perhaps one of them will tell us what happened. Bea, you scout the way ahead and warn us if anyone is coming.”

  Bea crept into the corridor, and with a mischievous wink she vanished before their eyes. Luck travelled with them, and there were no guards about. Moments later Bea waved them on. By the time they reached the top of the sweeping staircase she was already at the bottom, taking refuge behind a suit of armour as two soldiers marched towards them along the length of the antechamber and turned to go out the front entrance.

  Down they went, but there were more footsteps coming. “Quickly, through those doors!” Nicola whispered frantically. She was already running across the intricate marble mosaics set into the floor, heading for the grand oak doors they had noticed yesterday.

  They opened one of the doors cautiously, but again no one challenged them, so they bolted through and pushed the heavy door back into place. The echo of its creaking hinges rebounded from the far end of the room, but to their relief the footsteps continued without a pause.

  They found themselves in a great hall of breathtaking grandeur. Termagant had come with them from the bedchamber, and she sauntered on ahead, her tail held high as she rounded an ornate throne raised on a low platform at one end of the long hall. There was a large and splendid desk covered with maps of the Kingdom and a pot of ink, and a few chairs were scattered about, but other than this the hall was unfurnished.

  Panels on the ceiling were painted the colour of the sky and edged in silver. The banner bearing the royal coat of arms was suspended high above the throne, taking pride of place among rows of colourful pennants. Fastened to the right-hand wall were shields like the one that hung above Fergus’s bed, and all manner of weapons: swords, maces and long pikes. They looked as though they had not been used for many years.

  Great shafts of sunlight streamed in through a row of windows high up on this side, illuminating a magnificent tapestry that stretched the entire span of the opposite wall. It brushed the floor and rose as high as a man could reach, all but the last two yards crowded with scene after scene, embroidered in rich threads that must surely have been stolen from a rainbow.

  Marcel immediately found himself mesmerised by it. One early scene in particular caught his eye. He stretched out his fingers, tracing the stitches. “Lord Alwyn’s robe,” he muttered.

  “What is it? What have you found?” Nicola asked, and she hurried to see what had caught his eye. “The dragon,” she gasped.

  “It’s Mortregis. Here he’s destroying a castle. And look at this,” he went on, touching a different scene. “A brave knight has challenged him but Mortregis is burning him with his breath.”

  “Who’s this? Is it Lord Alwyn?” Nicola asked, pointing to a solitary figure in black and deep green. They pushed their faces closer and saw a book in the man’s hand.

  “No, not Lord Alwyn,” Marcel told her confidently. He could see how long the tapestry was and he had already guessed that the Kingdom’s history would unfold as they walked its length. “These scenes are from long ago. This must be the first Master of the Royal Books. Do you see what this is, Nicola? It’s the legend Starkey told us about.”

  The story lay depicted in intricate detail before them. The dragon, huge and menacing, became smaller and smaller in the following pictures until it hovered above an open book.

  “Do you recognise that symbol?” Marcel asked, excited now that he finally knew its meaning. “When I first saw it, I thought it was some sort of bat flying beneath the dragon.”

  “You’ve seen it before?”

  “Oh, yes, a dragon above an open book. It’s the symbol on Lord Alwyn’s robes.”

  They began to move slowly along the tapestry, their feet finding their own way as their eyes took in each new scene. That same symbol, a rampant dragon caught above an open book, appeared many times, always on the robe of a great wizard, identifying him as Master of the Books in his own time.

  At last Marcel pointed to one of the exquisitely embroidered figures whose stance looked familiar. “There’s Lord Alwyn. And this must be the old Queen dying. See her crown?”

  Nicola moved impatiently to the next picture, where the crown was on a man’s head. She paused before saying his name. “Pelham.”

  They both fell silent now, because beside the crowned figure of the King stood three children. Nicola moved her fingers to touch the woman who completed the group. They traced back through the scenes to where the same woman stood beside their father at an altar, her beautiful name sewn beneath her feet. “Lady Ashlere. Oh, look how beautiful she was,” Nicola whispered in a voice that would break the hardest heart.

  Marcel felt a tug at his sleeve. He and Nicola had almost forgotten Bea, but she had not forgotten their story. “You must see this,” she pressed gently, drawing them on to the very last events depicted on the tapestry. One scene showed King Pelham offering a cup to his Queen, Lady Ashlere, and in the picture beside it their mother lay dead, her lips overlaid with bright blue thread.

  “The wine was poisoned, just as Eleanor said,” breathed Nicola, aghast.

  “Wait! Look at this!” Marcel urged. Above this scene other figures were busy, figures they recognised instantly.

  “That’s Eleanor. What’s she doing?”

  “She’s grinding berries of some kind. And here,” Marcel continued, stabbing at the cloth, “Damon is tipping them into the King’s wine.”

  Before they could say any more, one of the heavy doors began to groan on its hinges. The great shafts of sunlight made them easy to see, and Bea was the only one who had time to hide.

  “Who’s there?” boomed the newcomer imperiously. “What are you doing in the Great Hall?”

  It was the King!

  Through all the twists and revelations that had been thrust upon the children the day before, one thing had not changed. The thought of King Pelham still made them quiver with dread.

  When he recognised them, surprise turned to fury. “What are you doing out of your room?” he roared, as each angry stride brought him closer. Then an odd hint of panic raced briefly across his face. “How did you get past Alwyn’s beast? I saw her there myself.”

  He was level with them now, his haggard features con torted with the same anger that tainted his words.

  “Then it was you who came to our door last night,” said Marcel.

  Pelham’s rage faltered. “Last night. Yes, I… I did come, but the beast…” He couldn’t quite answer in words, and instead he startled them by wiping at a tear that had begun to roll down his cheek.

  Tears, from the man they had feared for so long?

  He turned to the tapestry and saw the scene they had been inspecting so closely. He touched the image of the dead Ashlere with a tenderness that left brother and sister staring at each other in wide-eyed wonder.

  Nicola found the courage to come closer. “It wasn’t you who poisoned our mother, was it? This tapestry tells the true story. It was Eleanor and Damon.”

  Pelham dropped his arm suddenly and reeled back as though she had spat at him. “Yes, the Book found them out. They poisoned the wine, but I can never deny that I was the one who gave her my cup to drink from,” he cried in bitter anguish.

  “It was you they were trying to murder,” muttered Marcel, as he felt the full weight of Eleanor’s lie settle into the pit of his stomach.

  Pelham nodded painfully. “And every day since then I’ve wished that they had, if it meant that Ashlere were s
till alive. If only I hadn’t given her the wine, if only I’d taken the first sip myself…”

  “Those two,” seethed Marcel through gritted teeth. He saw the face of Remora again, silent and horrible in her icy grave. “They’d kill anyone who stood in their way. They don’t care how many people die, as long as they can sit on that throne.”

  But he was still bursting with questions. “You knew it was those two who poisoned your wine, yet you let them live in that beautiful chamber?”

  Pelham turned to his son. “In any other kingdom they would have paid with their lives, it’s true. But I had made a promise. Look here,” he said, turning back to the tapestry. He reached high up to a woman dressed in the finest clothes, a crown proudly on her head, flanked by two others. “Queen Madeleine. She was the oldest of these three princesses, and when their father lay on his deathbed, he chose her to rule after him. She had no children of her own and only her jealous sisters for company. See? Even the embroiderers have stitched them with sour faces.”

  “One of the sisters was Damon’s mother and the other Eleanor’s,” said Nicola, realising that the story Starkey had told them in the cellar was right about this much at least.

  “Yes. Madeleine’s sisters were greedy and selfish and so are their children,” Pelham declared with disdain. “The Queen went through terrible loneliness, until Lord Alwyn brought her a young boy, a foundling, and told her to raise him as her son.” He touched the tip of his finger to one scene where a small bundle was cradled in the wizard’s arms.

  “You,” said Nicola straightaway.

  He nodded with his eyes still on the story that unfolded on the tapestry.

  “She loved you,” said Marcel.