There was one figure who’d paid more dearly than the rest for his place in that scene and the embroiderers had saved their finest work for him. A young knight lay dead on the battlements, his name spelled out in silken threads beneath his body: Sir Finton.
‘You miss him very much, don’t you?’ Marcel said.
Nicola answered with a single nod, no tears, no deep sighs. Perhaps she had overcome her grief more quickly than he expected.
‘I miss him too,’ said Marcel, suddenly aware of how much it was true, but sensing at the same time that his pain couldn’t possibly be as deep as that his sister felt.
‘Was it really a year ago?’ said Fergus from beside them.
‘A year and a half,’ Nicola corrected him. Then, after another lingering silence, she told them something that seemed out of place in their sombre mood. ‘It was my seventeenth birthday yesterday.’
Marcel and Fergus needed a moment to take in what she’d said. Birthday! Curse all magic! It was too, Marcel thought. He stared sheepishly at Fergus who stared back with reddening cheeks.
‘Sorry, I was in Elsmouth,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders.
Before Marcel could offer a similar excuse, Nicola gave a tired laugh. ‘I didn’t mention it to embarrass you. It’s because of what Father said when the chancellor kept parading all those suitors in front of me.’
‘The ones you sent packing as fast as he could find them,’ said Marcel. ‘I even let you have Termagant to get rid of one.’
This brought genuine laughter from Nicola. ‘He was a duke’s son, or something grand like that, wasn’t he? I hear he still jumps whenever he sees a black cat.’
‘You were only fifteen back then. Too young for all that,’ said Marcel, expecting her to smile in agreement. Instead Nicola greeted this with a straight face and he felt the prickly blush of someone who’s said the wrong thing but doesn’t know why.
Fergus rescued him by asking, ‘What did your father say that was so important?’
Before she answered, Nicola stepped closer to the tapestry to inspect the figure that would forever lie there amid the kingdom’s history. ‘He said I’d have to choose a husband by my seventeenth birthday because it was going to be my wedding day as well.’
The heavy doors of the Great Hall opened again and at last the king strode towards them, followed closely, as always, by his chancellor. King Pelham’s hair was dusted with grey above the ears, a sign of the burdens he carried perhaps. He wore a rich red robe and a cape embroidered with gold in case anyone doubted his rank, but the pomp and solemnity of his dress weren’t reflected in his face.
‘Marcel!’ he cried, opening his arms to embrace his son. ‘We’ve missed you here, Nicola and I especially. Were all those months in Noam worthwhile?’
‘Yes, Father. Five times over. I’ve learned so much magic my blue book is full.’
‘Your mother gave you that book and told you those wonderful lines to write on its first page. She’d be pleased you’ve put it to such good use.’
‘I have, father. I have a spell for everything now.’
‘Perhaps you could cast a spell over your cousin’s wardrobe then,’ said the chancellor, ‘and conjure up some decent clothes for him, something worthy of King Pelham’s court.’
The chancellor was taller than the king and stoutly built, making him look more like a bodyguard than a royal advisor. His beard was neatly trimmed and showed no sign of grey even though he was a grandfather many times over thanks to his daughters.
‘Members of the court shouldn’t dress like a farmer’s son,’ he went on. ‘It sets a bad example, Pelham. If Fergus wants to be part of this court, he has to give up his … his …’
‘Simple way of dressing,’ said Nicola, taking advantage of the rare hesitation in the chancellor’s tirade. ‘Like the ordinary people, is that what you mean, Chancellor? Actually, I quite like it,’ she said brightly. ‘In fact, I’m having a jacket just like his made in time for winter. What about you, Marcel?’
‘Yes, it looks pretty warm to me and this hall gets cold and draughty in the winter.’
He didn’t care about the jacket, of course. He just liked the way the three of them were teaming up against a foe, even if that foe was really a good man at heart and the argument didn’t matter much. It reminded him of darker times when their enemies had been driven by the deepest evil and the strength they’d given each other had kept them alive.
Nicola was thoroughly enjoying the look on the chancellor’s face. ‘And you, Father, will you wear one too?’ she asked mischievously.
Pelham seemed to give the suggestion serious consideration while he, too, examined the chancellor’s face. It had long since turned red and was well on the way to raging crimson. The king turned away from him for a moment, towards Nicola. Was that a wink?
‘Why not?’ he said.
Marcel strained not to give the game away. He could see the same secret delight in the other faces, four of them now united against the chancellor whose fists had become tight balls in the sleeves of his robe.
‘And as for Fergus being a member of the court,’ said Nicola, pausing to arrange her next words like an archer fitting an arrow to the bow. ‘My cousin might end up in your job one day, Chancellor, when I am queen.’
Bull’s-eye. The chancellor exploded in a torrent of fury. ‘How can you let her say such things, Pelham? The Lord Chancellor of Elster,’ he said with a horrified glare at Fergus, ‘in a sheepskin coat!’
His complaints were drowned out by royal laughter. What could he do but let his protests die in his throat as he began to see how he’d been played like a trout. If he said any more he’d flounder about making a fool of himself while the others chortled all the harder, so he settled for grim-faced silence.
‘Oh, don’t think badly of us,’ Pelham managed to say. ‘The princess isn’t really having a sheepskin jacket made for her. Am I right, Nicola?’ he asked, reaching for his daughter’s hand.
‘No, Father, and when I’m queen, I can only hope I find a chancellor as good as yours,’ she said, adding a gracious bow towards her victim.
After this, the chancellor’s face looked less like a ripe tomato. He even managed a surprise of his own when he shrugged and offered the suggestion of a smile. ‘If I’m granted a long life, your highness, I would be honoured to serve you as I’ve served your father.’
‘Well said, each of you,’ declared the king. ‘Now then, this matter of the elves. Have you heard anything more, Nicola?’
Marcel waited impatiently while Nicola shook her head and repeated what they already knew. What did catch his attention was where his sister stood; not beside him or next to Fergus or with the chancellor as they completed a line of three in front of the throne, but at Pelham’s elbow, facing towards them as he did.
‘And they’ve appealed for our help,’ said the king, the creases in his forehead dipping towards the bridge of his nose.
‘Actually, your majesty, the appeal hasn’t come from the elves, not from their leaders anyway,’ the chancellor pointed out in measured tones. ‘It’s come from one little elf-girl.’
‘Bea’s not much younger than Fergus and me,’ Marcel responded immediately. ‘If she’s small, it’s because all elves are small, even Long Beard.’
‘But your friend holds no position of authority. That’s what concerns me. There has been no delegation, not even a letter. The message was delivered in a pigeon’s egg, I believe.’
‘It’s genuine. She needs our help,’ said Nicola, just beating Marcel to the same words.
‘Your friend might think so, but do the rest of her kind? The elves have always shunned contact with humans. Look at the way they stay hidden from us in the shadows, even when they are only an arm’s length away. This is not our business, Pelham. We’ll be interfering where we’re not wanted. I’m not convinced anyone should go to their mountain at all.’
‘Don’t listen to him, Father,’ cried Marcel a little too loudly. He could see
in the king’s face how seriously he was considering his chancellor’s argument, but shouting wouldn’t change that, only a better argument for the other side.
Nicola knew this even better than her brother. ‘How could Long Beard ask for help when he’s the one who’s been kidnapped? Of course it was Bea who sent the message. She had Marcel’s magic ready to use. It was the fastest way.’
‘That’s not the point. She was acting alone, not for the other elves.’
‘If you’d felt the fear in her message like I did, Chancellor, you wouldn’t say that. This is something new, something more dangerous than they’ve ever faced before.’
‘It’s still no concern of ours.’
‘But Bea is,’ Marcel told him sternly. ‘Take another look at the tapestry behind us, Chancellor. Bea is stitched into Elster’s history.’ And not content with simply telling him, Marcel hurried along the wall until he could point out the scene. ‘Here’s Mortregis, with flames pouring out of its mouth, and there’s Bea, on Gadfly’s back, swooping around the hideous head to put off its aim. If those flames had killed me, I wouldn’t have been able to drive the dragon down into the Book of Lies. Can you imagine what would be left of Elster if I hadn’t stayed alive to use my magic?’
‘In saving you, she saved us all,’ said the king, neatly reducing his story to a few words.
Marcel strode back to the throne. ‘Let me go to her, Father,’ he urged when he saw the king’s face soften in sympathy.
‘If I let you go, it won’t be alone. You said yourself, the dangers may be more than we realise.’
Marcel was caught between two of his own arguments now. If he denied the danger, his father had no need to send him; but if he insisted on setting out alone, he wouldn’t be allowed to go at all.
‘I’ll go with him,’ said Fergus, who’d left the speeches to his cousins up till now.
‘Would you send one boy to protect another, Pelham?’ the chancellor scoffed. ‘If you must let your son roam around on that mountain, then he should have experienced soldiers with him.’
‘Soldiers will stomp around and upset the elves,’ said Nicola, siding with her brother.
‘That’s right. I don’t even want Fergus to come with me,’ said Marcel. ‘Bea wanted me to come alone. Nicola shouldn’t even have told you about the message, and every minute we stand here arguing is wasted. I should be on my way. That’s why I got myself here so quickly. Please, Father, give the word and let me get started. If you want soldiers to escort me, then they can see I get safely to the bottom of the escarpment. After that, I’ll climb the rest of the way by myself.’
Marcel’s eyes darted from face to face, judging the response. The hardened frown on the chancellor’s brow was no surprise, but he wasn’t expecting to find it mirrored in Fergus’s face. What was wrong with him?
‘You’re certainly in a hurry, Marcel,’ said the king. ‘That worries me. If you rush off ill-prepared you could end up a prisoner like Long Beard, or worse.’ He switched his attention to the chancellor. ‘Your spies bring news from every corner of the Mortal Kingdoms. Have you heard anything that might give us a clue?’
‘Nothing unusual, certainly not from that region. We hear little about it. The mountain has been avoided for centuries; it’s part of the stories mothers tell their children, of ghosts and malevolent magic. Outside this palace, no one knows the mountain is inhabited by elves and it’s best it stays that way.’
When there was nothing more from the chancellor, Pelham leaned back in the finely carved wood of the throne, while his small audience shifted nervously. They didn’t have to wait long for the decision. The king pushed forward again, his face alive with confidence in what he was about to say.
‘I want to help Long Beard. All of the elves, in fact, especially Marcel’s friend who risked her own life against Mortregis. They may all be in grave danger and need human help to overcome it, whatever the threat.’
Marcel felt his body relax. His father had listened after all. He’d be on his way to Bea in a matter of minutes. In contrast, the chancellor snorted his disapproval.
‘Don’t be too disgruntled, Chancellor,’ the king said. ‘You made some important arguments and I haven’t forgotten them. Marcel is to leave tomorrow, but a small troop of our best soldiers is to go with him.’
‘Only as far as the escarpment. Is that right, Father?’
‘No, they are to remain with you. And you won’t reach the mountain by climbing the cliffs of the escarpment either. You are to ride up to the high country using the pass near Fallside and then proceed through the forest, calling out your intentions until the elves make contact. If they refuse our help, your entire party is to return.’
‘But riding all that way and then walking through the trees — it will take days, even a week. And if the elves don’t show themselves because of all the soldiers, I won’t be able to help Bea at all.’
‘I have made my decision, Marcel. You’ll do as I say!’
Marcel wouldn’t listen. ‘Nicola, talk to him, make him change his mind.’
The creases in the king’s face betrayed rising anger and he looked ready to silence his daughter before she could open her mouth. He might have done just that if she hadn’t moved to stand beside the throne as she’d done earlier.
‘No, Father is right. You haven’t given a thought to the risks. You shouldn’t go alone,’ Nicola said with a princess’s air of command.
Marcel saw that he’d get nowhere against the two of them. Before another word was said, he stormed petulantly from the Great Hall.
CHAPTER 9
Gadfly
THAT EVENING, IN A part of the palace safe from human eyes, a black cat gave birth to four healthy kittens. She licked them clean and kept them warm and, though she heard her master calling for her, she was content to stay unfound. Whatever adventure he had in mind, this time he must do without her.
At midnight, an ageing chamberlain began his last duty of the day, as he’d done every night for thirty years. Until he made his rounds, the palace corridors were illuminated with torches to help its inhabitants find their way to bed from the banquet hall and sitting rooms. Now that everyone was asleep, it was his job to extinguish the torches so that the oil didn’t burn pointlessly. Courtiers who wandered around the palace after this must carry their own torch. That was if they needed to see the way, of course, and if they didn’t mind letting others see the light pass their door.
Marcel had other ideas. When his call to Termagant had gone unheeded, he’d brooded in his room, unvisited by Nicola or Fergus who’d both greeted him at dinner with straight-faced silence. He didn’t care. All he could think about was reaching the elves as soon as he could and he had just the spell to get through the first brief leg of his journey.
Head and shoulder, chest to thigh
Fade to shadow, trick the eye
Cloak and britches, toe to knee
Flesh and fabric, none to see.
He stayed close to the wall on the sweeping staircase, ignored the doors onto the terrace, which were always locked at night anyway, and felt his way to the kitchens. The scullery maid was stacking wood beside the fire, ready for the next day, and turned when he brushed a chair on his way past the table. But there was nothing for her to see, as the words of Marcel’s spell demanded, and she went back to her work.
Ah, the door into the lane had been left on the latch for the baker in the morning. It was handy knowing the palace routine. Marcel poked his head into the cool night air, saw that he had the lane to himself and set off for the courtyard.
At the stables, he ducked into the shadows, careful not to disturb the horses, and dispensed with the spell that had got him this far.
He had walked only a few steps when a voice reached out of the darkness. ‘Marcel, over here.’
‘Nicola!’ he whispered in surprise.
‘And me,’ said Fergus.
Judging their location by the sound of their voices, Marcel made his way along the
narrow passage between the stalls. As he approached, something large moved behind them. A horse.
‘We’ve been waiting for you,’ said Nicola.
‘Waiting! But how did you know I was going to —’
‘Because we know you, of course,’ Nicola said, cutting him off.
‘I’ve got a horse ready for you,’ said Fergus. ‘You know her already.’
Marcel’s eyes were adjusting to the darkness by now and he could make out enough of the mottled coat to recognise her. ‘Gadfly.’
He found his way to her head and held it gently between his hands. ‘I’ll bet no one’s dared take you for a gallop since I left for Noam. Well, those skinny legs of yours will cover some miles tonight.’
Gadfly snorted at the insult but he could feel the tension in her already. She was up to any challenge, especially if it meant escaping from these stables.
Nicola reached up between his hands to stroke the mare’s nose. ‘If we still had that page from the Book of Lies, she wouldn’t need her legs.’
‘Make her fly?’ Marcel said. ‘No, I did the right thing burning the last fragment. It’s better that nothing of the Book of Lies remains, not even a single page.’
Fergus was more practical. ‘It’s been years since either of us flew on her back. We’re older now and much heavier. Poor Gadfly wouldn’t get off the ground.’ He turned away and suddenly a second horse shifted in the darkness.
‘Why two?’ Marcel asked.
‘Because Father is right,’ Nicola answered bluntly. ‘You need someone with you, to watch your back.’
‘No, my magic is all I need.’
Marcel had barely said the words when he was wrenched backwards and slammed against a post so hard the air exploded from his lungs and the darkness around him became a night sky of the brightest stars. He would have slumped to the ground if Fergus hadn’t been pressing him against the post, his face close enough for Marcel to feel his cousin’s breath.
The Book from Baden Dark Page 7
