The Book of Lies (29 page)

“Your Lordship, the King is waiting for you to join him in the Great Hall,” said the maid.

“I must leave you,” Lord Alwyn said immediately to the children. At a wave of his hand, the fallen books rose, one by one, and returned to their places in Marcel’s bookcase. “But listen to me, both of you. You are not trusted, even if you do not understand why. You must not leave this room.”

“Termagant!” he called as he opened the door and let the maid and the other servants precede him into the corridor. The two soldiers standing on guard saw the creature appear at the old wizard’s side and staggered backwards in white-faced terror.

“You may go,” he commanded. “This beast will guard the children better than any man.” He waved his hand towards Termagant and the creature was instantly more alert, snarling
at the children with unmistakable malice. “She obeys my magic. Once she would not have harmed you, but if you try to leave now, she will ensure you take no more than three paces beyond this door.”

With that, he turned and hurried away as well as his ageing legs would allow towards his appointment with the King.

Termagant’s familiar growl had set Marcel’s pulse racing. As he closed the door and dragged himself back to the middle of the room, it took a few minutes for his heartbeat to slacken.

He and Nicola gulped down the soup and freshly baked bread then went to check on Bea. They were relieved to find her breathing easily, the colour in her face strengthening with every breath.

“We’re the same now, all three of us,” said Nicola, looking down at her with a sigh. “Our mothers are dead and we have no memory of them, not even a face in our minds or the memory of a hand touching us.”

The melancholy in her voice brought a lump to Marcel’s throat. “Starkey told us we had the same mother, but it’s taken that gravestone among the rose bushes to really make us brother and sister.”

Nicola turned to him, letting him see the tears in her eyes. All she could manage in reply was a nod of her head, but she took his hand as well. Once, he would have snatched it away, but not now.

“We know who we truly are now, but we’re no better off than when we thought we were orphans, back at Mrs Timmins’,” Marcel said bitterly. “We’re still prisoners, with the same terrible guard watching over us, and we still have no idea why.”

“That’s what he need to know most of all, Marcel. Why.”

This question, and many others like it, preoccupied them as the afternoon sun waned and slowly gave way to darkness. This had been the longest day either of them could remember, and they did not stay awake late. Nicola slipped through the curtain to her own room and Marcel climbed into his bed among the books, a thousand reflections swirling through his head. It wasn’t long, though, before exhaustion overtook him and he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

M
ARCEL
!

The call stirred him from his sleep and made him sit up blearily in bed. He couldn’t tell what time it was, but the silence of the palace told him it must be well after midnight.

“Bea, is that you?” he called across the darkened room.

No answer.

He threw the bedcovers aside and went to check, but she was sleeping calmly.

Perhaps it was Nicola. He pushed through the heavy curtain and hurried to her bedside, but his sister was fast asleep as well.

Who had called him? The word had been so clear, so loud inside his head. Yes,
inside
his head. Had he really heard it with his ears at all? Very strange. He settled back into the warmth of his bed, hoping to fall back to sleep quickly.

Thump!

He sat up again. It was just a book falling on to its side on the bookcase. He lay his head back on to the pillow, only to hear a second book fall. Before he could get out of bed, a third toppled over, then a fourth. By the time he was on his feet, every book on the shelves had toppled and fallen on the floor.

The feeble moonlight spilling through the window was not enough to see by. He groped his way to the writing desk and lit the candle he had noticed there earlier. Then he discovered something stranger still. Not all of the books on the shelves had fallen after all. There was one that remained upright, the same hefty book that had stayed in place when his rudimentary magic had swept the rest on to the floor earlier.

He reached up, expecting it to stick doggedly to the shelf. But no, when he grasped it the book moved easily. In fact, it felt light in his hand, too light for a tome of this size. He took it to the writing desk to examine it more closely. An impulse he could not explain drove him to turn the pages frantically, ten at a time, until he was a third of the way through the book. Then he stopped, open-mouthed in amazement. The pages of the larger book had been carefully cut away at their
centre to create a deep hollow, and sitting inside this hollow was another book, not bound in the aged and wrinkled red leather of the Book of Lies, but with a soft and supple cover stained the colour of the evening sky.

Cautiously, Marcel took this book out of its hiding place and this time he did open the very first page. Only two lines were written there, in the very centre, in a slow and deliberate handwriting.

My fate is my own, my heart remains free
Not magic but wisdom reveals destiny

He turned the page. Spells, enchantments, detailed instructions decorated with meticulous diagrams… he stared more closely at one illustration where a cat played peacefully with a mouse. There was no doubting which cat it was. Beneath the picture lay the magical words that could make this miracle happen, all in the same sloping script.

He took the quill, dipped it in the inkwell and began to copy the first line of the spell further down on the same page. He managed only three words before the nib ran dry, but by then he knew. The handwriting was identical, and that could only mean he had written everything in this book himself.

Here was proof that he had done more than dabble in the simple tricks that Lord Alwyn had scoffed at. The boy who
wrote these words knew more of sorcery’s secrets than the old wizard ever imagined.

His eyes were eager for the words, and as he read each rhyme, each incantation, it quickly settled within him, as though he had always known it. Soon he realised he was not just reading this book, his hungry mind was devouring it, page after page. He read on, for many hours, while around him the palace, the city and the entire Kingdom slept.

He became so absorbed that the tiny night-sounds of the palace fell unnoticed on his ears, until he heard a familiar growl that was too much for him to ignore. Someone had surprised Termagant. He heard a deep voice whisper to the beast, expecting obedience. Was it Lord Alwyn?

He left the book on the writing desk and crept to the door, daring himself to press down on the handle. He widened the gap to an inch but no more. There was Termagant, staring down the corridor, which was lit with candles hanging from brackets on the walls. Marcel’s eye followed just in time to see a tall figure round the corner at the corridor’s end. In that instant, he glimpsed a red robe, fringed in gold.

“The King!” he gasped. But before he could decide whether he was imagining things, Termagant saw him and growled again, warning him not to open the door any wider.

That familiar terror prickled beneath his skin, but he did not close the door immediately. There was something
fascinating about Termagant now. He had once drawn a picture of the real Termagant in his book of sorcery. He had not been afraid of her then. Was he afraid of her now? After all, she was no more than a simple cat, made huge and frightening by her own grand dreams and the magic in that pouch around her neck. Marcel had rediscovered a magic of his own in these past hours, from his own book, and as he stood there, peering through the door, he could feel it coursing faintly through his entire body.

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.