In his hand was an open book. It was quite slim, but obviously its size was not linked to its importance. My master closed it and pointed to its cover. Engraved into the brown leather, high on the cover in silver letters, was one word: Doomdryte. Below it, also embossed in silver, was an image that I instantly recognized. It was the head and forelimbs of a skelt.
“It’s a grimoire, lad,” my master told me. “In theory the most dangerous one that has ever existed. No doubt this is just a copy, but if accurate, its text could still bestow incredible power upon a practitioner of the dark arts. Some say it was dictated by the Fiend to a mage who tried to use its magic but was killed in the process. If one word of the incantation is wrong or mispronounced, the speaker is instantly destroyed. However, if a mage ever does manage to read it aloud accurately at one go—and that takes many hours—then he’d achieve godlike powers. He’d be invulnerable and able to do terrible things with impunity.”
“Why has a skelt’s head been used on the cover?” I asked.
The hilts of my sword, the Destiny Blade, and Bone Cutter, the dagger given to me by Slake, were formed in the likeness of a skelt’s head. The sight of such an image on the cover of the most dangerous of all grimoires made me feel uneasy about the sword. At times it almost seemed sentient. Immediately before combat, blood dripped from the ruby eyes. Even though it was supposedly a hero sword, there was something of the dark about it, forged as it was by one of the Old Gods.
“Well, as you know, lad, the skelt has long been associated with witches who use blood magic, especially water witches. They keep one in a cage and let it loose to drain their prisoners. Once the creature is bloated with blood, they rip its living body to pieces with their bare hands and then devour it. This triples the power of the blood magic. I’ve always considered that a particularly nasty ritual—so it is a creature that is most appropriate, don’t you think, for the very worst of the grimoires?”
“You’d think such a dangerous book would be hidden away, not just placed casually on a shelf here. I wonder if Mistress Fresque knows what it is?”
“A librarian hasn’t necessarily read all the books in her library, lad.”
“So you’ll want this one for your own library?” I asked, more uneasy than ever.
“Nay, lad, not for my library. I want this book so that I can destroy it and prevent it from falling into the wrong hands.”
At that moment the far door opened and Mistress Fresque backed into the room holding a tray, which she set down on the table. It was laid with a knife, three tankards of water, a large plate with thick slices of bread and cold chicken, and two wedges of cheese; one was from the County, but the other I didn’t recognize.
I saw her glance at the book the Spook was holding, and it seemed to me that a flicker of annoyance briefly twisted her pretty face. It disappeared so quickly that immediately afterward I wondered if I’d just imagined it. My master certainly didn’t notice it; he had turned and was already replacing the Doomdryte on the shelf.
“You must be hungry after your journey. Please help yourselves,” Mistress Fresque said, gesturing to the tray.
I sat down next to the Spook. Our host sat some distance away, facing us across the table.
“Aren’t you going to join us?” my master asked.
She shook her head and smiled. “I’ve already eaten. Later I will prepare supper—you’re welcome to stay for the night.”
The Spook neither accepted nor declined her invitation. He simply smiled, nodded, and cut himself a piece of County cheese. I helped myself to some chicken. I often had more than my fill of cheese: this was the only thing I was allowed to nibble on when we were preparing to deal with the dark.
“What do you think of my library after your first brief inspection?” she asked.
“It’s an astonishing collection,” my master said. “There are so many books to choose from—which leads me to two questions. First, how many books are you prepared to let go, and second, would you accept payment in stages? I’m involved in the expensive business of rebuilding my house at the moment.”
“The number of books you can take is, of necessity, limited. But I could see my way to selling maybe three hundred or so. The price of each will vary—some are rare indeed, while others could be replaced from other sources. There are just a few that I cannot allow to leave this library, but make your selection and we will see. It may not be a problem. As for price, we will negotiate, but I’m sure we can reach a compromise that will make us both happy. You needn’t worry about paying for them all immediately. Indeed, the cost could be paid over the course of a couple of years, if you wish.”
There was a question that had been bothering me. It was an impressive library, so why did she want to reduce the stock?
“Do you mind if I ask why you’re selling some of your books? Is it just to help Mr. Gregory?” I asked.
Mistress Fresque smiled and nodded. “It is partly to help your master rebuild his own library. He has done much good work and deserves help in restocking that resource to leave to his heirs. But I must confess that I am also driven by a need to carry out repairs to my own house. I inherited it just five years ago, when my uncle died. He was an old man who was set in his ways—he had a great love of trees. He could not bear to break a single twig, never mind cut down anything that encroached upon the house. There has been some damage done to the foundations, and I need to enlist the services of a forester to deal with the roots. I also need a stonemason to carry out repairs to the structure of the building.”
“Thank you, Mistress Fresque. Your offer to stagger the payments is kind, and of necessity I must accept it,” said the Spook. “But I can make a payment up front—one that will enable you to begin to attend to your own needs.”
I noted that my master had not addressed her by her first name, Cosmina, even though she had invited us to do so. Her superior manner and air of assurance made it seem inappropriate to be on first-name terms with her.
After we had finished our meal, Mistress Fresque took the tray and prepared to leave the room so that we could get on with our search. When she reached the doorway, she pointed to a cord hanging down beside one of the bookshelves. “Pull that and it will ring a bell in my quarters. Do not hesitate to summon me if there is anything you need,” she said, giving us a smile as she left.
“Well, lad, what I suggest is that we place any books that catch our fancy on the table. It doesn’t matter if we take too many. We can make a final selection later and then return the remainder to the shelves.” He sighed and shook his head.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Aren’t you happy to be able to choose from so many books?”
“Aye, lad, that’s good—it’s just that I know that some things can’t be replaced. Just think of all those notebooks written by past spooks that I had at Chipenden; the history of their endeavors, how they solved problems and discovered new things about the dark . . . that’s all gone forever. We won’t find such materials here.”
But the Spook was quickly proved wrong, for I soon found a book by one of his ex-apprentices—none other than Judd Brinscall!
“Look at this!” I cried, handing the book to him. It was a slim volume entitled A Study of the Moroii.
My master nodded in appreciation. “He was a good apprentice, lad, one of the few who completed his time to my satisfaction. And during his travels abroad he’s added to our store of knowledge. Moroii are Romanian elemental spirits. And I can tell that he knows his business because he’s spelled moroii with two Is at the end, which is correct for the plural. He must have given this to Mistress Fresque. I’d certainly like it for my new Chipenden library.”
After more than three hours of debate and selection, we had piled about three hundred and fifty books on the table. “It’s getting late, lad. I think it’s time we were off. We’ll come back first thing tomorrow,” said the Spook, putting his hand on my shoulder.
“Aren’t we going to take up Mistress Fresque’s o
ffer to stay the night?”
“I think it’s best if we get back to the tavern. There are a few things that I need to think through,” said the Spook, pulling the cord twice. I could hear nothing but knew that somewhere a bell would be ringing.
Within a minute Mistress Fresque had joined us. She smiled when she caught sight of the books on the table. “I see that you have been busy.”
“That we have, but now we’re tired,” said the Spook. “So we’ll come back in the morning, if you don’t mind.”
“Won’t you stay here tonight?” she said, looking very disappointed. “You really are most welcome. I get so few visitors and would love to offer you further hospitality.”
“Your offer is very kind, but we don’t want to put you to any trouble. Before we go, there is one thing I’d like to ask. . . .”
The Spook went over to the table and picked up the book by Judd Brinscall. “This book by Judd—how would you feel if I bought it?”
“Judd gave it to me knowing that it would be safe here. But it is probably better suited to your new collection,” she replied. “I have looked at the book. It is an excellent study of the elementals of my homeland.”
“You have lived most of your life in Romania?” my master asked.
“Yes, I was raised there. But my uncle left the country as a boy and spent most of his life in your land. On his death I came here to claim what he left me—this house and library and a very small income from his investments. I cannot draw on the capital, hence my need to sell books.”
After taking our leave we walked back through the trees toward the river. My master seemed lost in thought.
“Is there something wrong?” I asked.
The Spook nodded. “It’s just my instincts—they’re telling me to be on my guard. Tell me, lad, when we were talking to Mistress Fresque, did you have any sense of a warning coldness? Anything at all?”
The Spook was asking if I had experienced the chill that told me something evil was close by. As seventh sons of seventh sons, we had the ability to sense witches, mages, and other servants of the dark.
I shook my head. “I felt nothing. Not the slightest hint.”
“Neither did I, lad. But some types of witch have the power to block our sensitivity to such things.”
“But earlier, just before we entered the house, I did sense something wrong. A feeling that we were being watched, that something dangerous was lurking close by,” I told my master.
“Well, that’s one more reason to be alert and ready for anything.”
“Do you think she might be a witch?” I asked.
“I’m not jumping to conclusions, lad, but there are a few things bothering me. Why were there such a large number of books about the dark in that library? What would be the motive for acquiring them? Did her uncle have a special interest in such matters? If it weren’t for the fact that Judd is a friend of hers, I’d be more than suspicious.”
“Do you trust Judd?”
The Spook nodded. “He was a good apprentice, and once I’d have trusted him with my life. But folks can change. . . .”
“There’s something else, too,” I told him. “She saw you holding the Doomdryte, and I’ll swear that, for a moment, she looked furious.”
“Then let’s see how she reacts tomorrow when we tell her it’s one of the books we’ve selected.”
CHAPTER IX
SEVENTH SONS
WE left Bent Lane, made our way down to the riverbank, crossed the bridge, and walked on until we reached the tavern. The sun was an orange orb sitting on the horizon, but the tavern was already closed and locked. The Spook hammered on the front door with his staff several times. It was a while before the innkeeper unlocked it. He glanced toward the setting sun.
“Another five minutes and you’d have been too late,” he remarked. “And you’re certainly too late for supper.”
“We’ve eaten already,” my master told him. “Two rooms will do. And we’d like breakfast at the crack of dawn.”
Muttering to himself, the landlord locked and bolted the door behind us and then showed us to our rooms. As he was about to leave, the Spook asked him a question.
“We hope to conclude our business with Mistress Fresque tomorrow and need to transport quite a large quantity of books. Do you know of anyone who might have a horse and cart for hire?”
The man scowled and shook his head. “Nobody this side of the river will want to cross that bridge. We keep ourselves to ourselves.”
Before we could question him further, he left the room, still muttering under his breath.
“Well, that’s a job for you tomorrow, lad. But first you can come up to the house and help me make a final choice.”
We retired to our own rooms, and it wasn’t long before I drifted off into a dreamless sleep. However, for some reason I kept waking up. It seemed a very long night.
We had to wait over an hour for our breakfast because the innkeeper didn’t rise until the sun was well up over the horizon.
The Spook wasn’t best pleased, but he didn’t complain. We left our bags in our rooms and, clutching our staffs, were soon walking up Bent Lane once more.
“The service at the tavern isn’t very good,” I remarked.
“That’s very true, lad,” my master replied. “But we have to make allowances. The innkeeper is a frightened man. I’m beginning to think that there’s some threat from the dark on this side of the river. Or maybe there has been in the past. I’d like to get back to Chipenden with the books as soon as possible, but I think we should pay Todmorden another visit in the very near future.”
When Mistress Fresque showed us to the library, there was something a little colder or perhaps more hesitant in her manner. I looked about me and for a moment I grew dizzy. The feeling passed very quickly, but for a moment the shape of the room had appeared to change, along with the atrium. Yesterday I could have sworn it was a perfect circle. Today it looked more like an oval. Was I imagining it? I was probably just tired, I thought—I hadn’t slept well.
She gestured at the table. “You are going to make your final selection from these?” she asked.
“Mostly,” said the Spook, “but we’ll examine the shelves once more just in case we’ve missed anything.”
“I’m sorry, but there is a book here that I cannot allow to leave the library.” She pointed to the Doomdryte, which she had set apart from the rest.
“I’m sorry too,” said my master with a frown. “But I must have the Doomdryte at all costs. It’s an extremely dangerous book, and one that must not fall into the wrong hands. I would buy it in order to destroy it. If it is the price that bothers you, I am willing to pay a great deal of money to take it away from here. But once again I’d have to stagger my payments.”
Mistress Fresque smiled. “With reference to that book, my hands are tied. In my uncle’s will there is a codicil listing the books that must always remain in this collection. The Doomdryte is on the list. Every year a lawyer comes to confirm that they are still present in this library. If they are not, I forfeit the house.” There was a finality about her words that gave my master no room for maneuver.
“Is Judd around?” he asked. “I’d like to have a few words with him.”
“He set off early on business,” she replied, returning the forbidden book to the shelves before leaving us without another word.
We continued our work in silence. I knew that my master was thinking hard, but short of stealing the book there was nothing he could do. John Gregory was an honorable man and certainly no thief.
At last, after another search of the shelves, we narrowed our choice of books down to three hundred and five.
“Right, lad, we’re just about finished, so get yourself across the river and find us someone willing to cart these books to Chipenden.”
I nodded and, carrying my staff, set off through the trees toward the bridge. It was late afternoon, and the air was still warm and heavy with the drone of insects. I was glad w
hen I emerged from under those leafy branches into the open air. The sky was cloudless, and there was just the lightest of breezes from the west.
Crossing the bridge back to the County side of the town, I noticed that, in contrast to the bustle of the previous day, it was almost deserted. It suddenly struck me that the innkeeper was right—hiring a horse and cart would be no easy task. But it proved even harder than I expected. The first two men I approached hurried wordlessly past me, a look of disapproval in their eyes. Strangers just weren’t welcome here. Or was it the fact that I was wearing the hood and gown of a spook and carrying a staff? Because spooks dealt with the dark, people were always nervous around us and sometimes even crossed the road to avoid us. But accustomed as I was to such reactions, this seemed more extreme. I felt sure that something was wrong about this place.
In a carpenter’s workshop I had my first piece of luck. The man rested his saw long enough to listen to my question. Then he nodded.
“There’s no townie here does that kind of work, but old Billy Benson has a horse and cart and he’s always short of money. Maybe he’d do it if the price was right.”
“Thanks. Where will I find him?” I asked.
“At Benson’s Farm, of course,” the man replied in a tone that suggested that everyone knew that. “Go north out of the town; it’s over the top of the moors. You’ll see the track. He runs a few scraggy sheep.”
“How far is it?” I asked.
“You’re young and fit. Shake yourself and you could be there and back by nightfall.”
Mumbling thanks for the second time, I left the premises and set off at a jog. What choice did I have? No doubt the Spook would be unhappy that I was taking so long, but we really did need the transport.
It soon became apparent that I was not likely to return to Todmorden by nightfall. It took me well over two hours to reach the end of the meandering track across the moors. As I walked, my thoughts turned once more to Alice and the lies I had told her. My heart felt heavy, and I thought of the future with dread. It seemed we were growing apart. With her increasing use of dark magic, we were following diverging paths.
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