The Book of Lies (33 page)

Marcel could see his father’s heart reach out to the man,
wanting to believe him. But in his own heart he knew the real truth, and though his words would strike Lord Alwyn like the cruellest stones, he kept up his attack.

“No, you’ve never lied to my father. You lied to yourself instead,” he said harshly. “Your book can tell when any of the King’s subjects is lying, even to themselves, but you’ve never turned it on yourself – not until now.
You
are the greatest liar of all, Lord Alwyn. I listened to the story you told us of your apprentices, but I don’t believe what you said. You
wanted
them to fail the tests you set for them. You deceived yourself when you decided that the only one worthy of sorcery’s power was you.”

But still Lord Alwyn was not daunted. Summoning every last ounce of his strength, he insisted doggedly, “All lies. My magic is still strong. I will drive back Mortregis. There is nothing to fear.”

Now the Book of Lies went wild, fanning furiously from first page to last and back again. It jumped and shuddered so vigorously on the table that it upset the pot of ink that sat on the open map. It toppled over, spilling its contents across the Kingdom, starting in the mountains of the high country and spreading rapidly across the forest to the wide valley, gathering in slow rivulets that made their way steadily towards Elstenwyck.

The spreading stain seemed like an indictment of Lord Alwyn himself. In a panic, he tried to stop the ink with his
bare hands, which were soon blackened indelibly with the colour of death. But even this could not turn back the tide.

The Book had stopped its frenzy and lay open again at the final page, where the wizard’s last words were beginning to appear.

My magic is still strong. I will drive back Mortregis…

Marcel looked down at the ruined map, where the ink formed rivers that washed relentlessly towards Elstenwyck. “You have no one to follow you,” he said to the wizard, “and now your magic is dying. The Book has just confirmed it. You have let evil seep into the Kingdom – constant drought that has left the people starving, animals behaving strangely. Do you remember the bats, Your Lordship, how they came screeching and flapping down from the mountains, a great horde like the ink across that map?”

“I turned them back as I have always done.”

“But you cannot turn back Mortregis. Not this time. You have left the Kingdom without a magic strong enough to protect it.”

Lord Alwyn rose up as tall as his frail body would let him, and with his eyes locked on Pelham’s, he gasped, “I would never betray this kingdom.”

It was the solemn oath of a man desperate to believe his own words. But his own creation would not spare him. The
Book of Lies bucked with a kind of glee, flipping its pages in a final taunt, and when it had settled again at the last page, it wrote his words at the very end.

I would never betray this kingdom.

The King and his children stared down in horror at the damning words. Lord Alwyn could deny the truth no longer. Finally, the wizard turned his eyes to the page and found his own words among the last that would ever be written in his great Book of Lies.

“But I have lived my life for this kingdom! For you, Pelham, for Queen Madeleine who adopted you and for her father before that. I must go on,” he panted.

He stooped over the map of the Kingdom, so much of it already claimed by the invading ink. “Back, back into your bottle!” he commanded, as he swept his left hand over the stain.

The ink remained.

He tried again with his right hand but the result was the same. He turned his palms towards himself and saw only the same black that had enveloped the landscape from the mountains almost to the gates of Elstenwyck.

“Gone,” he whispered. “My magic is dead.”

His eyes widened in agony and he took a sudden breath. He released it moments later in a stifled sigh that echoed softly through the hall. That faint sound was quickly followed by another: the dull thud of flesh falling against hard marble.

“Alwyn!” the King cried out as he rushed to where his Master of the Books lay in a crumpled heap amid his black and green robes. Pelham called to him again, and when those deep-set eyes remained closed he took the man’s wizened hand in his own.

But already it was growing cold.

O
N THE DAY AFTER
Lord Alwyn’s death, the royal court gathered to farewell their Master of the Books. The Great Hall, so solitary and deserted when Marcel, Nicola and Bea had first peeked inside it, was crowded with every nobleman and dignitary of the Kingdom: grand lords and generals, knights with swords at their belts and beside them ladies of the court, their dark gowns brushing the marble floor. The King, seated on his throne, was dressed in deepest black and so were his children, welcome at last to stand at his side.

“Lord Alwyn was the most brilliant sorcerer of his age and a faithful servant of us all,” the King told them, his trembling
voice barely able to mask his grief. “For countless years, his magic has protected this kingdom and kept it at peace.”

Out of the deepest respect, Pelham did not tell them that Lord Alwyn had died leaving no one to take his place.

The Book of Lies was there, set to one side. The King could not bring himself to destroy the greatest creation of his dead sorcerer, but he was wary of its deceit. He had ordered it sealed inside a glass case where it could not hear a single word.

Marcel listened sadly, with Nicola and Bea at his side.

When the King finished his speech, Lord Alwyn’s body was carried solemnly out through the tall oak doors and the courtiers shuffled mournfully into line behind it.

Only Pelham and the children remained in the hall when the bearded Chancellor reappeared suddenly in that same doorway, red-faced and anxious.

“Your Majesty, a farmer has just arrived all the way from his village near the border with Grenvey. You must hear his news.”

“Bring him in,” Pelham ordered, and within moments a shabbily dressed man coated in fine dust was helped into the Great Hall by two soldiers.

“Forgive me… Your Majesty,” he spluttered, fighting for breath and almost falling to the floor as he tried to bow. “I have been riding for hours… as fast as my horse would carry me.”

A chair was brought for him by one of the soldiers.

“What is your news?” Pelham asked anxiously. “Tell me what has happened.”

“This morning… soon after dawn…” the exhausted messenger began, though he could manage only a few words at a time between rasping breaths. “A band of tribesmen… forty of them… down from the high country north of Grenvey. They looted our village and… and set it on fire. Then they set up camp nearby to wait for the rest.”

“The rest!” cried Pelham, aghast. “How many?”

“I saw at least six hundred, and still they were coming. A thousand or more. Brutal savages, every one of them. They… they slaughtered all the men of my village,” he cried in anguish, close to collapse. “All but me.”

“How did you escape?”

“I didn’t. They gave me a horse… and set me free, with a note for you, Your Majesty.”

He opened his jerkin and withdrew a scroll of paper.

Pelham took it and read:

We have your son. Surrender the throne to Eleanor
and Damon and he will go free.
If you send your army against us, the boy’s throat will be cut.

As the soldiers helped the stricken farmer from the Great Hall, Marcel pictured Starkey’s ruby-handled dagger in his mind. “Fergus! Father, you must save him!”

“Save him? How, boy?” demanded the Chancellor, who deliberately refused to address Marcel by his royal title.

“I don’t know,” he replied helplessly.

“Father, you must do
something!”
cried Nicola, aghast.

Pelham slumped wretchedly back into his throne without answering her. The Chancellor came closer and began to give his own advice. “Your Majesty, this must seem like a great shock to you, but in fact it is not a true threat at all.”

“What do you mean?” the King asked warily.

“You know the Book’s prophecy as well as I do, Sire. It has already been proved right. Your own children betrayed you when they released your enemies from their prison.” His frosty gaze fell on Nicola and Marcel as he spoke these words. “Prince Edwin is still with them, perhaps planning even more treachery. Starkey’s note might simply be another of his tricks. Remember what the Book foretold. The boy is determined to kill his own father. Need I explain what that means?”

Marcel watched his father’s careworn face and saw the tiny movement of muscles in his cheeks and jaw. “What are you suggesting, then?”

“Ignore this threat, Pelham,” the man urged him, lowering his voice as he became more familiar. “Let Starkey kill the boy and you will thwart the most dire warnings of the Book. How can a son kill his father if his own throat is cut first?”

Marcel sprang forward, pushing the bearded adviser aside. “No, don’t listen to him, Father! All the lies in that book have
overpowered Lord Alwyn’s magic, just as I did. It has deceived us all, especially you.”

Nicola was quickly at his side. “You can’t let them kill your own son!”

“If he is not an accomplice in this evil, then he may already be dead,” argued the Chancellor, drawing a gasp from Marcel and Nicola.

Before either could reply, Pelham took command. “Quiet, all of you! This matter does not concern the Book or its predictions, or even whether it can deceive us by telling the truth. My son is a hostage and they are determined to kill him.”

“He will only be the first of many to die,” the Chancellor reminded him, in defiance of his order to be silent. When he saw the look on the royal faces around him he flinched, but he would not back down. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but a terrible war is descending upon us. Hundreds, even thousands will die, and in the end even the life of your own son will count for little. We must defeat these invaders or the Kingdom will be plunged into darkness.”

“Surely you can’t be so heartless!” Nicola shouted in outrage, but again Pelham would not listen to her.

“The Chancellor is right,” he conceded miserably. “I am a father, yes, but I am also a king. If those two cousins replace me on this throne, justice will die and peace will become a thing of the past. I cannot betray the trust Queen Madeleine placed in me, even to save my own son.”

“Can’t your men at least try to rescue him?” Nicola begged.

“What could they do? As soon as I attack the enemy camp, Starkey will kill your brother.”

Before Nicola could respond, the Chancellor spoke to Pelham. “Your Majesty, there are urgent matters of war to discuss. Your generals are waiting.”

“I’m afraid you’re right again,” said the King, rising from the throne. And without another word the two men departed from the Great Hall.

Nicola could hold in her rage no longer. “We can’t just sit back and wait for Fergus to die! And the Chancellor’s right: what if they
don’t
wait until they reach Elstenwyck to kill him? Something has to be done
now.
If our father refuses to get Fergus out of the camp, it’s up to the three of us…” She thought fast. “Bea, you could sneak into the camp without being seen. If you explained the truth to Fergus, he might escape with you. Would you do it?”

Bea stepped into the sunlight that streamed in towards the tapestry, letting them see her clearly. “Of course,” she said without hesitation.

“But they could be anywhere by now!” Marcel objected. “We’ll never track them down, even if we can find horses to carry us.”

“There’s one horse that could track them down,” Nicola answered with a daring and determined edge to her words. She ran to the glass casket that encased the Book of Lies.

“No, the Book cannot be trusted!” exclaimed Marcel, appalled by what his sister was suggesting.

“But it can still give Gadfly her wings, can’t it? That’s all we need it to do.”

“But the evil inside it has made it unpredictable. We can’t be sure what it will do, especially now that Lord Alwyn is dead and there’s no magic to control it.”

“No magic! What about you, Marcel? You
defeated
Lord Alwyn’s magic yesterday. And I saw the candle alight in your room last night, long after the rest of us had gone to bed. You’ve learned even more, haven’t you?”

It was true. But there had been nothing in his own book of sorcery that gave him the powers of Lord Alwyn’s creation. The Book was dangerous and unstable. Most of all, he was convinced that it was eager to create even more mischief.

“No,” he said firmly. “I’m still not sure that I can control the Book’s powers. The risk is too –”

“The risk!” called a voice in disbelief. But it was not Nicola’s. For the first time in their brief friendship, Bea turned an angry eye on Marcel. “We have taken risks before. Why are you so afraid now when your own brother’s life is at stake?”

The risk certainly didn’t seem to worry Nicola either. She had already set off towards the wall opposite the tapestry.

“What are you doing?” cried Bea, going after her.

“One of these is what I need,” she muttered. Before either
of them could ask what she meant, she unhooked a rusting mace from where it had hung unused for a hundred years or more and tested the weight of it in her hands. It was little more than a rough, spiked ball of iron with a stout handle protruding from its centre. A primitive weapon for battle, perhaps, but just right for what she had in mind.