The Book of Lies (26 page)

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.

“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…”

T
HE 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?”

As soon as she touched it, the handle yielded, and she opened the door to let Marcel set Bea down gently on a couch, amid a cluster of soft brocade cushions. The room, now that they could see it, was fitted out with every luxury: rich wall hangings, ornate oaken furniture, and heavy velvet drapery adorning the twin beds.

Lord Alwyn knelt stiffly beside Bea, who stirred and fought to open her eyes. “Let me see the wound.”

Marcel’s hands moved quickly, peeling back the bandage, which was completely soaked in Bea’s blood. The wizard drew in a sharp breath. “It will test all my powers to save her,” he murmured. He slipped the heavy sack from his shoulder and put it on the couch at Bea’s feet. Closing his eyes, he passed his hand slowly over the ravaged flesh of Bea’s shoulder.

“Look, the wound is beginning to heal!” cried Nicola.

As Marcel watched, the blood around that angry wound darkened and became hard. The crusted blood flaked away and new skin began to grow before their eyes. In little more than a minute, all that remained was a scar the size of a silver coin.

Bea’s eyes opened at last, the clear dark eyes they all remembered. She was still too weak to sit up or even say a word, but her eyes found Marcel’s and her face lit up with happiness. Fighting tears, and despite the danger all round him, Marcel laughed like he never remembered doing before.

A frightened gasp from Nicola broke his joyful thoughts. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“The door!”

He spun round and saw that Lord Alwyn had deliberately closed the door of the chamber behind them. “The spell!” he exclaimed, all gratitude draining rapidly away. “Lord Alwyn, what have you done? We’re all locked in here for ever now, unless Damon or Eleanor takes pity on us.”

“Damon and Eleanor? I doubt we could expect much pity from those two. Perhaps you have learned that already,” the wizard remarked wryly. He was slumped against the cushions, as though the magic of Bea’s recovery had left him without the strength to stand up. “Certainly I cannot free myself, but for you two it is quite a different matter. By the words of my own magic, you can leave whenever you choose.”