The Book of Lies (25 page)

“All right, we’ll show Remora’s body to Damon. We’ll tell him everything, but not yet, not until Nicola and I have talked it over,” he said, glancing at her bewildered face. “Give us until this afternoon. After that, it will be up to your father.”

Fergus smiled at this show of trust and started moving off, back to the trail that led to the camp site. “This afternoon, then.”

“Yes, come to our tent after lunch,” Marcel responded, following after him.

Even as he said it, he knew it was a lie. He couldn’t risk telling Damon. And he couldn’t just sit back and watch Bea die. Without Remora, what chance did she have? Just look at the way she’d deteriorated since the elf-nurse had disappeared. She’d been so much better last night, but then this morning she’d started bringing up all the broth that Eleanor fed her.

Sudden terror seized his heart. He stopped dead. Behind him, his sister stopped too. “Nicola,” he said, turning round, “Do you think… maybe Eleanor isn’t just waiting for the bleeding to kill Bea…”

“What are you talking about, Marcel?”

“Poison!” he yelled, and before he was even aware of what he was doing he had burst through the bushes and was bolting as fast as the slushy ground would let him along the track towards the camp.

He charged past the mystified Fergus, but he could hear Nicola panting behind him, struggling to keep up.

“Wait!” she bellowed, her breath coming in gasps. Finally she caught at his trailing cloak and he was forced to stop. “You’re not going to Damon later, are you, Marcel?”

“What makes you say that?”

“I could tell, the way you were so desperate to convince Fergus.”

Despite his panic, Marcel was impressed. He might as well tell her everything. “Nicola, I’ve got to get Bea back to Long Beard, before another drop of that broth touches her lips. There’s not a moment to waste!”

“I’m coming with you.”

She wasn’t asking him, she was telling him, and though he didn’t say so, he was glad. They were brother and sister. Together they had tried to love their mother and together they had come to despise her. He nodded his assent.

“How will we carry her?” she asked briskly.

Marcel answered with a single word. “Gadfly.”

Nicola managed a brief smile and a nod. “I’ll go and get her. You wrap Bea up as warmly as you can and I’ll meet you back here on this trail in a few minutes.” Then she was gone.

With the rain still falling there was no one in sight as he cautiously approached Bea’s tent. He listened for sounds of activity within, every nerve strained.

When he entered he was relieved to find Bea alone, sleeping fitfully. He knelt to rouse her, but even as he did so he felt a soft draught against his cheek and heard the gentle
whoosh
of the tent flap being cast aside.

Marcel’s heart almost jumped out of his mouth as he turned to find Starkey staring down at him, a strange smile on his face. Clutched to his chest was the familiar leather sack containing the Book of Lies.

“I saw you return from the woods just now, Marcel. I need you to help me with the Book.”

Then, before Marcel had time to reply, the heavy canvas was swept back once more to reveal Eleanor. In her hands she was holding a bowl of steaming broth.

H
OW MARCEL LOATHED THEM
both, even his own mother. He wanted to shout at them, to let them hear the hatred in his voice, and tell them he had guessed their dreadful scheme. But these boiling, spitting impulses lasted less than a moment. He had to keep his wits about him if he was going to save Bea.

“Bea is asleep,” he whispered as he came towards his mother, holding a finger to his lips. When he was close enough he tried to take the bowl from her hands, murmuring, “I’ll feed this to her when she’s awake.”

“No, wake her now. She needs the broth to build her strength,” insisted Eleanor who would not let go of the bowl.

Marcel knew he must wrest that bowl from her grasp. It was his only chance. Once he had it, he could pretend to trip as he walked towards Bea’s bed and let the bowl drop at his feet.

Eleanor looked down at his hands, which clutched the sides of the bowl like her own. “I’ll feed her myself,” she announced, and to show her determination she tried to wrench the bowl free. But Marcel’s hands stuck fast. They struggled, mother and son staring into each other’s eyes, all pretence of affection now dead.

Then the bowl tipped over and the contents spilled into the dirt.

“You stupid, stupid boy!” Eleanor raged at him. She swept back her hand, ready to slap him across the face for his clumsiness.

But Starkey caught her by the wrist before she could deliver the blow. “Leave him. Whether the elf-girl lives or dies will mean nothing if we can conjure Mortregis from this book,” he growled, brandishing the leather sack in his other hand.

Starkey’s sudden intervention and his imperious tone had clearly aggravated Eleanor. “This story of a dragon is nonsense!” she snapped. “Damon thinks so too. I’m just glad we talked you out of telling Zadenwolf your foolish ideas!”

This insult made Starkey furious. “You might question me now, but you won’t call it nonsense when the Book brings us
our victory. Come here! Read the verse for yourself. It speaks of a great dragon, one so powerful it can bring down kings and set new ones in their place. It must be Mortregis.” He dragged the Book out of the sack and opened it at the last page.

Eleanor glanced at the verses and swallowed her own fury for the moment. “Yes, but what is the magic?”

“It seems clear enough. See the last two lines? One who understands the verse will command the beast.”

“Not you though, Starkey. You’ve been trying to decipher its codes for days now,” said Eleanor, with a mocking edge to her words.

“No, not me,” he said without argument. Instead, his eye came to rest heavily on Marcel.

Marcel’s former terror returned. He didn’t like the way they were staring at him.

“I know you have some special feel for the Book, Marcel. Those verses were in your mind even before you read them. There is magic in your hands. The elf-woman sensed it.
You
are the one to summon up the dragon.”

“No, not me!” he gasped, dismayed at what Starkey was suggesting. “I don’t feel anything special about this book.”

He should have known. Hadn’t he seen the Book of Lies do its work many times before? But lying is an easy habit, the words coming to the tongue before the mind has even realised, and he so desperately wanted to believe the words himself.
While the golden verse illuminated the tent, his own words began to appear on the page opposite.

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.