The Book of Lies (34 page)

“Stand back,” she called to the others, and swinging the mace awkwardly over her shoulder, she advanced on the glass case. At the last moment she closed her eyes, but this wasn’t enough to ruin her aim. The case exploded with a deafening crack, followed by the tinkling of shattered glass raining upon the floor.

Nicola opened her eyes and they widened in amazement at the destruction she had caused. She put down the mace and stepped gingerly through the shards to pick up the Book of Lies. After a quick shake to dislodge any specks of glass, she strode over and handed it to Bea.

“Quick, someone might have heard the glass smash! I’ll find Old Belch and ask him to let me ride Gadfly around the gardens. That sounds like something a princess might do. You find a bag to hang round her neck. All right?”

Bea nodded, and together they rushed towards the enormous doors, without seeming to give Marcel another thought.

They were heading towards such danger, yet neither of them appeared the least bit worried. Marcel felt suddenly
ashamed of himself, watching them set off alone, all because he was afraid to test the strange powers he had found inside himself.

“Wait!” he called.

They turned and stayed where they were until he caught up to them, their eyes searching his face questioningly.

“All right. I’ll come with you too,” he sighed.

Bea’s face shone brightly even though there was no sunlight picking out her features. “I knew you would.”

But when they arrived at the stables, Old Belch guessed what they were up to immediately.

“You’re going to make her fly again, aren’t you?” he demanded, but there was a sly gleam in his eye. “I’d like to have another look at those wings. And you are a prince and princess, after all. I must obey your commands,” he added with a wink, to show that such things mattered little to him. “But tell me first: where are you going that you need wings to get there?”

“To save a life,” Marcel answered, all trace of his earlier reluctance now gone, “and perhaps a kingdom too!”

Old Belch gave them another feedbag to carry the Book around Gadfly’s neck. Minutes later, she rose majestically into the sky above Elstenwyck with the three children clinging tightly to her back. The townsfolk gaped and pointed, but they were soon left behind.

Gadfly flew on for hours over the drought-ravaged wheat fields and dusty, desolate farms. In the west the sun was closing its eye behind the distant mountains, as though it did not want to see what the night would bring. They were glad to see it go; their plan could work only in darkness.

Another hour passed, then two. They had never travelled this way, so there was nothing they could use to give them a bearing, yet somehow Gadfly found the way ahead. Perhaps she used the stars, as mariners did.

“What’s that?” Nicola cried into the roaring wind. Amid the blackness below, a bright speck of gold appeared. The closer they flew, the more it separated out into earthbound stars, until they realised they were approaching the dying embers of a village. As they flew directly overhead, a roof gave way and crashed in on the burned-out walls of the cottage below. A shower of sparks erupted into the night sky and a few eager flames went scavenging among what remained.

To their right, perhaps two miles away, they could make out more pinpoints of light. “There’s the camp! Gadfly, take us down quickly, away from their sentries,” Nicola shouted into the horse’s ear.

Once on the ground, they found a thicket of trees that could serve as a hiding place of sorts while Bea crept in among the tents to find Fergus.

“What if they catch you?” Marcel worried all over again.

“They won’t catch me,” she sniffed dismissively. “It’s dark.
I could wander round their camp for hours and they’d never know I was there.”

“Bea, you will be careful, won’t you?” he whispered, but there was no answer. She was already gone.

The next twenty minutes were a torment for Marcel. “Do you think she’s found him?” he asked Nicola. He let two more minutes go by then asked the question again. When he spoke a third time, she turned on him in frustration.

“I’m nervous enough without you going on like this,” she said heatedly.

What would they do if Bea were captured? They were too far from the rebel camp to see or hear, in any case. All they could do was wait impatiently and take turns checking on Gadfly, who was hidden well back in the trees, her wings folded against her body, ready to take flight again at a moment’s notice.

After ten more minutes of silence, Marcel couldn’t help himself and was about to ask another impatient question when a stone landed in the fine dust near his feet. “It’s Bea. It must be. She’s signalling us.”

“So you don’t get a fright,” said a soft voice at his elbow, and there was Bea among them again.

“Did you bring Fergus?”

“Yes, but Marcel –”

Before she could explain, something stirred in the trees around them.

“Who’s there?”

A low bough was pushed aside at the edge of the thicket, admitting a dark figure to their hiding place. “Marcel?”

Relief flowed into Marcel’s tensed muscles. It was a voice he remembered only too well. “Fergus! Over here.”

The figure came closer, the handle of a sword jutting from his side. The shadowy outline could only be their brother. He stopped a dozen paces short of them, obviously reluctant to come too close.

“What’s wrong, Fergus? Didn’t Bea explain?”

“Yes, she told me what you sent her to say.”

“Then you know who we really are. None of us belongs to those murdering cousins at all. King Pelham is the father of all three of us, and you’re not my cousin, you’re my twin brother.”

“It’s more lies,” Fergus answered coldly.

“No! Why would we lie to you now?”

“You did before, when we found Remora. You told me you trusted Damon and that we’d tell him together, but it was a lie. You just wanted a chance to sneak away. I don’t believe this story of yours. It’s a trick to get me away from Damon.”

Marcel tried to close the gap between them, but Fergus backed away sharply, drawing the sword from his waist.

“Listen to me,” Marcel urged. “Damon is as bad as Eleanor. He helped her to murder Queen Ashlere. Do you remember the gravestone among the roses in the palace gardens? It’s our
mother under that stone, Fergus, yours as well as Nicola’s and mine. She was the first to die, and if we don’t stop this war thousands more will die with her, just so those two can sit on the throne. We can’t let it happen. Pelham is a good king and the people love him.
He’s
the true and rightful heir.”

“I don’t believe you. I don’t believe any of this. I’m going back to camp. I won’t give you away, but you’d better leave before Zadenwolf’s soldiers find you here.”

Fergus turned away. Any moment now he would be gone into the darkness, their last hope disappearing with him.

“Wait!” Nicola called. “If we tell you all this before the Book of Lies, will you believe us?”

“Nicola, what are you saying?” Marcel asked, mystified. “You know the Book can’t be trusted. The evil is too strong.”

“For Lord Alwyn, yes, but he was sick and dying. You’re stronger than he was now, and whatever evil lies inside the Book, it must still make that golden glow if what we tell it is true. Everything the Book said about
him
yesterday was true, wasn’t it? What do you say, Fergus? You know how the Book works.”

“Where is it? If this is just another trick to make me come with you to Elstenwyck…”

“No, we have it here with us,” said Nicola, and as she spoke she raced into the trees, returning quickly with the Book of Lies, which she had retrieved from the bag around Gadfly’s neck.

Marcel took it from her. He focused every part of his mind on it, sensing immediately the foulness of its lies, sniping and feuding, battling the feeble magic that had once kept them in check, determined to escape his control. But slowly he managed to push them down as though they were autumn leaves under his feet, until he could feel them crushed and still. “Now, Nicola,” he whispered. “Speak now.”

She closed her eyes, took a breath and began. “I am truly a princess, the daughter of King Pelham and Queen Ashlere,” she said solemnly. When she dared open her eyes, she found the Book glowing gently.

Fergus’s hard glare began to soften and he took a step closer.

“Now me,” said Marcel. “I am Prince Marcel, the true son of King Pelham.” He felt the Book’s glow even before he saw it amid the darkness.

“Watch the Book, Fergus,” he pressed, “and you will finally know who you are.” Marcel said clearly, “You are the son of King Pelham, just as I am. You are not my cousin but my brother and my twin.”

He stood waiting for the Book to glow a third time. But instead, his face creased in horror when it opened suddenly, startling him so that he dropped it into the dirt at his feet. There, the pages began to fan wildly until the last page lay exposed. Though it was too dark to see clearly, there was no doubt that his words had been written down.

“There!” Fergus cried triumphantly. “It’s not true. I’m not Pelham’s son and I’m not your twin, either.”

Marcel was too shocked to make sense of what had happened. “But my magic took charge of the Book! I know it. It can’t deceive us, not now!”

“You sound like Lord Alwyn,” Nicola said scathingly.

What had happened? Marcel stared down in shock at the Book of Lies, but for Fergus the Book’s response only confirmed what he believed. He pushed Marcel and Nicola aside and picked it up, holding it across his hands just as Marcel had done. “I am the son of Prince Damon,” he declared, and instantly the Book closed with a snap and began to illuminate the dense thicket around them with its golden glow, as bright as they had ever seen it.

“I don’t understand,” Marcel mumbled.

But he did not have long to ponder what had gone wrong. The heavy tread of a boot disturbed the fallen leaves and he dropped the Book from his hands. None but Bea had time to hide.

Soon they could just make out a fur-clad soldier, who entered the clearing and stopped rather deliberately with a hand on the hilt of his sword, as though he were waiting for a signal. The children quickly knew why when a second man stepped out of the darkness, followed by several more. Finally, Damon himself appeared, brandishing a torch that lit up the surrounding trees.

“Check behind those bushes. See if any of Pelham’s men have come with them,” he ordered. One of the soldiers ran forward and soon returned leading Gadfly by the mane.

Damon gestured towards the children. “Take them,” he called to the soldiers.

Nicola was quickly wrenched off her feet. She kicked frantically, but there was little she could do against the strength of a full-grown man. Bea crept out of her hiding place to help her, and even though the soldier could barely see her, he grabbed her as well and passed her to one of his companions.

“Get the boy,” barked Damon, but before a soldier could capture him, Marcel snatched Fergus’s sword from his belt and backed away into the centre of the clearing. When one of the men approached, Marcel wielded the sword fiercely and only an agile leap saved the soldier from injury.

“Stay back!” Marcel shouted as he lunged at a second man who tried to disarm him.

“What’s the matter with you all?” Damon growled at them. “He’s just a boy. Seize him!”

Nicola wrestled with her captor, but when he wouldn’t succumb to her kicks and scratches she shouted at Damon instead. “You lied to us! Eleanor’s not our mother.”

“No,” he said calmly. “But we needed you to believe it so you would open the door of the chamber. After that we kept you around in case we needed you as hostages. Starkey had his
dagger ready for the day you were no longer of any use to us.”

“Yes, you needed
us
to open that chamber.
We’re
the rightful –”

“Silence her!” Damon roared, and the soldier clamped his hand over Nicola’s mouth.

“Is it true, Father? Was Starkey going to kill them?” Fergus asked as he came to stand beside Damon.

“As long as they live, these two will claim the throne. To be a king, you must dispose of your rivals.” He took his own sword from his belt, and handing it to Fergus, he nodded towards Marcel, who stood surrounded by soldiers in the middle of the clearing.

“Kill him.”

Marcel saw Fergus’s face pale at this command, though in the dim light no one else could tell. He weighed the sword in his hand as the cowardly soldiers backed away, leaving Marcel alone. Fergus took a tighter grip and attacked.

Marcel was forced back as he fended off the first savage blow. Sparks flew from their blades, lighting their faces for an instant as the sharp clash of steel against steel rang out in the night air, strike after strike. Stay on your feet, stay on your feet, Marcel urged himself, remembering the wolves and the lessons Fergus himself had taught him.

How long could he defend himself against such blows? Three times, four times Fergus struck, and he threw back each blow valiantly, but he was not as strong as Fergus and his arms
seemed ready to drop from sheer exhaustion.
His
skills lay in magic, not sword play. If the fighting stopped for just a moment he might be able to conjure a spell to save himself. But Fergus was relentless.