Nicola watched for him to sit up, at least to move an arm or a leg. Nothing. She was already on her way towards him, but if her horse stepped into a rabbit burrow she risked the same fate. Slipping free from the saddle, she raced towards her father on foot.
She caught movement at the corner of her eye, low to the ground, black, and moving erratically. It was the boar, still with the lance trailing from its side. It spotted the king lying defenceless in the sandy soil and stopped its roaming. Here was a target for the fury spurred so painfully by the wound in its side. It sprang forward, charging towards the king, head lowered to use its vicious tusks to the best advantage.
‘Get up, Father. Defend yourself!’ Nicola cried, but it was plain that unless someone stepped in to stop the charge, Pelham stood no chance.
She looked for the other riders. They were not far off, but not near enough to save her father. It was a race then.
Nicola ran towards her father, just as the boar was doing. She held her weapon ready, the blade as sharp as a pig’s tusks but useless unless she reached the king in time. Even if she did, she would get only one thrust of the lance.
She was five paces away. So was the boar. The lance rose in her hand, her eyes found a point between the beast’s shoulders. Three paces, two.
On the last, she leapt over her father and lunged the tip towards its mark. Steel sliced through hide, then the shaft bucked back towards her. She mustn’t lose her grip. Shrieks enveloped them both, the squeals of the pig mixed with her own scream — not of fright but searing pain. Her leg! One of those tusks had found her calf.
Still she held onto the lance, pressing her weight against it with all the force she had. Then, as quickly as they had come together, the struggle was over. The boar slumped on its forelegs, gave a final squeal of anguish and died.
The leaders among the following pack galloped rashly across the treacherous ground, aware only of the king lying motionless on his back and the princess bleeding beside him. Before Nicola could speak a word to her father, she was taken aside and sure hands began to dress the wound on her leg.
‘It’s a long cut but not very deep,’ said her nurse, and she winced as a cloth wiped away the blood. Better not to look at the damage. Besides, she cared only for the figure stretched out on the earth a few paces away.
‘Where is the pain, my lord?’ the chancellor was asking.
Nicola strained to hear the king’s reply, which was slow in coming and laboured like a man fighting for breath. ‘My back is broken.’
Two of the younger courtiers fell to their knees ready to turn the king on his side.
‘No,’ cried the chancellor. ‘Move him carelessly and he’ll die.’
‘What can we do then? How will we get him back to the palace?’
‘The surgeon.’
‘We’ve already sent for him.’
After this, there was little any of them could do. Nicola pushed her attendant away. ‘Later,’ she snapped, when he complained that the bandage had not yet been tied.
Two painful steps and she was standing over her father. His eyes showed the pain that his mouth refused to speak of, and already the skin of his cheeks was turning grey. His breath came slowly and though the jaw worked up and down, no sound reached her ears. It was her father’s eyes that Nicola latched onto, for she knew what was happening even though she wouldn’t let the words enter her mind. She was still staring into his eyes at the instant his spirit left him.
‘He’s stopped breathing,’ said one of the men who had earlier thought of rolling him onto his side.
Others came closer, bewildered, fascinated, unable to turn away.
For Nicola, the lifeless eyes, still open and looking up at her, were too much. She backed away, expecting tears, waiting for them, wanting them. Why wouldn’t they come?
‘King Pelham is dead,’ said a voice, but her thoughts were too far away to identify the speaker. She wished her body was far away too, with Marcel and Fergus, perhaps, so the three of them might grieve together. How she wished they were here, so she didn’t have to face this alone.
Then a gentle movement at her side and a hand taking hers. It was the chancellor, his face as grey as her dead father’s even if his lungs still worked air in and out of his body and his eyes still saw what they focused upon.
Keeping his hold on her hand, he lowered himself slowly to one knee, bowed his head and said, ‘To you I pledge my life and my loyalty, Queen Nicola.’
CHAPTER 30
The Wisdom of a King
MARCEL WITHDREW DEEP INSIDE the great tree to wander where his feet cared to take him, along passageways roamed by ghosts he’d come to accept as naturally as birds in the sky.
‘If I let Gannimere take their memories, I’m no better than he is. Worse, because I know the suffering this spell can bring,’ he said out loud.
What use was such a confession when there was no one to hear, no one to admonish him? He was getting off very easily, which seemed cause for another confession. He would simply stay here until the magic had done its work and both Bea and Fergus were free of Baden Dark, free of its secrets and its dangers, with the sun on their faces and safe in the care of those who loved them.
He let his thoughts wander to the daylight, and the Hidden Village where Bea would be welcomed home by Long Beard and the woman she had spoken of who seemed to have become a second mother to her. She wouldn’t even know who they were. He began to feel a deepening dread and tried to embrace the pain of his guilt, despising himself all the more.
The dread became stronger and, despite his miserable spirits, Marcel started to doubt it could come from his guilt alone. He’d felt this before, on the battlements overlooking Cadell when he’d tried to save Finn from the arrow thrust deep into his shoulder. As each moment passed, he’d sensed death coming closer and knew he couldn’t keep it at bay. But he was deep inside Arminsel now, where the spirits of the dead were all around him, all that remained of people he had never known, from lands he had never visited. So why this dread that demanded a place in his heart? Only someone he cared for could bring on such a feeling; a loved one close to his heart.
Bea! Or was it Fergus? No, Gannimere was a good man, Arminsel’s protector. The guardian of so much wisdom wouldn’t go back on his word. Then why did he feel the oppressive fear grow heavier with every moment he stood in the eerie golden light? It had a presence now among the spirits of the dead; so powerful he feared he would be overwhelmed by it.
‘Someone dear to me,’ he whispered.
He took new paths deeper into Arminsel, unsure whether it was magic that guided his feet or the pull of the spirit he sought. With a jolt that almost stopped the heart within his chest, he found himself guessing who it must be.
‘Not him,’ he whispered. ‘Too many depend on his rule.’
He pressed his hand against Arminsel’s smooth, muscular contortions and felt the uneasy connection between his living flesh and the wisdom of the dead that lay within the fibres. Close by, he didn’t dare consider how close, a spirit had begun to shed itself of all that hindered the peace of eternity.
‘Who’s there?’ he cried. ‘Speak to me! Show yourself!’
When first they’d entered Baden Dark, he’d conjured a spell to make the ghosts visible. He began the same magic now, sending it out barely formed into the space around him, watching to see what appeared, hoping desperately that the face of a stranger would swim into view.
That last hope faded when ghostly grey shoulders began to take shape, extending into arms and a broad back, then above them, a head, turned away towards the tree.
‘Father?’
The face turned towards him and Marcel’s dread gave way to a grief that threatened to paralyse his magic. But he mustn’t fail, because a plan was forming in his mind. He was a sorcerer and now he would use his power in ways he hadn’t realised he could. The spirits who visited Arminsel could not be seen. Well, he’d changed that already. They could speak only in shrieks and threat
s. He would give this one a better tongue. What eyes the spirits had saw only Arminsel and the path of their final journey. He would make Pelham see him.
He passed his hand before his face, then spoke a second time. ‘Father?’
He willed the face to recognise him. Slowly, the features he’d conjured into view responded and the spirit of his father knew who greeted him.
‘How did it happen, Father? Tell me, please. How can you be dead?’
He could make out eyes now and beneath them a mouth. The jaw moved, the lips formed around familiar words. ‘A fall from my horse. My back was broken. Nicola watched the life die in my eyes. My last vision was her stricken face, like yours now, Marcel.’
‘A broken back! Father, I have spells that can knit the bones of your spine and a verse to put breath back into your lungs. I can make your heart beat again.’ He listed his powers with such joy. ‘I couldn’t save Finn, but I’m a better sorcerer now, my magic is stronger. I can do it. I will do it.’
Marcel sensed another presence and turned to find his new master at his shoulder. ‘Can it be done, Gannimere? Can life return to a body that has already been abandoned?’
‘If you act quickly. The power is within you, Marcel, if your will is strong enough.’
Strong enough! He would make sure it was. Pelham would live on. Elster needed its king, who had proven himself a good man, a leader his people loved. At last Marcel had a task matched to his magic. The destiny he’d finally found for himself was showing its worth.
‘Stay your magic,’ came a voice.
Marcel had turned away to Gannimere while they spoke of sorcerer’s things. The voice had come from behind him, from the dead king.
‘I won’t go back among the living.’
‘But, Father, all of Elster wants you to live. They need your streng —’
He was cut off, not by a shout or a gesture of the half-formed body. The king’s eyes alone had silenced his son, the same eyes that had fixed on Nicola in the final moments of his life.
‘Death has a time for every being, even for a king, and I accept mine as everyone must. I leave a daughter to take my place and learn as I had to do. Whether she will be a good queen is not for me to know, but to deny my death would deny her the life she was born to, no matter how hard it may turn out to be. The wise don’t hide from hardship, Marcel. If I leave a seed of wisdom in this tree for the children of Elster to take up after me, then that is it.’
‘You don’t understand. You don’t have to accept your time. I’m your son, I have great sorcery in my bones. I can do it, I know I can. Let my magic send you back to the Mortal Kingdoms.’
‘It’s you who doesn’t understand, Marcel. You see magic as the answer to everything.’
The disappointment in the ghostly voice was unmistakable, and the shock at hearing these words, spoken in such a tone, was enough to finally silence the young sorcerer’s tongue.
‘Look inside your blue book, for there is more between its covers than spells and recipes for potions.’
‘I … I left it behind in Noam,’ Marcel admitted. He was unsettled by the disapproval in his father’s face, a face conjured by his own magic. It didn’t seem fair that he should be so unsure of himself. ‘I know every word, on every page,’ he said, hoping to rid that face of its stern expression. ‘It’s full now, after I added so much to it that I learned from the sages.’
‘It’s the first page I’m thinking of, Marcel. Recite the verse that you wrote there so long ago.’
It had been years since he had read those words, but his boast about the blue book was true and the verse was quickly on his lips.
My fate is my own, my heart remains free
Not magic but wisdom reveals destiny.
‘Not magic but wisdom,’ his father repeated. ‘You’ve learned it all by heart, Marcel, but have you let the most important lines into your heart? If you had, then you’d help my spirit take on the peace of the dead and let Nicola rule in my place.’
‘No, no, I don’t want you to go,’ said Marcel, but his voice was weak with uncertainty.
Those same doubts had begun to loosen his magic. Pelham’s image was fading, the vague outlines of shoulder and arm already gone, and the mouth, even the eyes quivering like smoke. He could call them back with an effort of will but he no longer felt the strength of purpose that must accompany that will.
‘Gannimere,’ he said helplessly.
‘It’s best that you let fate take its path. Your father knows that better than you. The peace of death is inviting, Marcel, as I know only too well.’
Marcel’s hand stayed by his side and, though he wasn’t aware of any particular moment when the decision was made, he seemed to have made it, for there was nothing to see any longer amid the coiling limbs of Arminsel. When he did raise his hand, it wasn’t to his face, but to the smooth bark where he pressed it flat and felt, rather than heard, the wealth of his father’s life pass into the fibres of the great tree. When it was done, he caught a fleeting glimpse of the peace that had taken hold of Pelham’s spirit. Then, as quickly as the tranquillity touched him, it was gone.
‘My father is dead,’ he muttered.
Gannimere’s hand rested gently on his shoulder in wordless consolation. ‘Perhaps this death is a sign, Marcel. Even if you’d chosen to go back into the Mortal Kingdoms, you would not have seen him alive again. Your future is here, just as you’ve decided.’
The hand lifted from his shoulder. ‘You need time alone. I won’t work the magic on your companions until you join me by the brook.’
Marcel had no room in his mind for what was about to happen to Bea and Fergus. His thoughts fixed on Nicola, imagining her as she stood over their father’s body, to the very instant when the light died in his eyes. What a horrible moment it must have been for her. She wasn’t one to let things happen any more than he was and the same sense of helplessness must have tormented her.
Poor Nicola. He wished he could have been there to put his arms around her, for the touch of another was the only comfort at a time like that. Since he hadn’t been there, he had to create the image of their embrace in his own mind, yet this only made him want it even more. It would have been as important to him as it was to her, he realised, and he gave an involuntary gasp without really knowing why.
Grief, that must be it; a feeling of loss that overwhelmed him so suddenly it had kicked the air from his lungs. He saw another embrace — Bea and Fergus this time, as they’d been when he emerged from the woods. He mustn’t think of that, or the childish jealousy it had aroused in him, but his lungs convulsed again, leaving him short of breath and aware of that same loss more strongly than ever.
With a wrench, he made himself abandon these worries. It wasn’t fair to Nicola. She was the one he cared about. She would have members of the court to console her, good people who’d loved the king and would help her as best they could. The women would embrace her as he wished he could; the men would find soothing words; even the chancellor, that rumbling bear of a man, would soften.
Yes, Nicola would have the court, but that wasn’t the same as family. With her father dead and her brother devoted to Arminsel’s protection, she was all that remained.
‘It will be so hard for her,’ he said aloud. ‘Not just Father’s death, but she’s the queen now.’ She would need help; she’d need people she could trust. ‘I should be there.’
No! As soon as he said these words, he dismissed them. He’d finally found the role he’d been born to, here in Baden Dark. He couldn’t change that. The decision he’d made to stay with Gannimere was the one definite thing he could take hold of and, reaching for it now, he waited for the calm it would bring to his mind and his muscles, for every one of those muscles had somehow become twisted as tightly as Arminsel’s boughs.
Peace didn’t come. In fact, he was more restless than ever.
It’s Father’s death, he told himself. Of course I feel this way. No matter how important the destiny he’d disco
vered for himself, he would have to face the pain that all sons endure when a father dies.
He remembered a long night, three years ago, when King Pelham had sat with him talking of the magic that had just shown itself in him. The burning stench of Mortregis had still lingered in the air, reminding them both that Marcel had defeated a dragon with the power of his will.
‘You have Lord Alwyn’s gifts, Marcel,’ the king had said. ‘Now that he is gone, you must become Elster’s Master of the Books.’
At the time it had seemed like his destiny. Now he had another. Could that be so; could one life be intended for two roles? He had so much magic in him.
A ghostly face and a partly formed body taunted him. ‘You see magic as the answer to everything,’ Pelham had admonished him.
The words sounded so similar to what Bea had shouted at him so angrily. He put magic ahead of everything else, she had complained so bitterly, even his own life.
Yes, I do, he’d answered to himself at the time. I have to, can’t she see that? I am a sorcerer. Magic is my life. Father couldn’t see it either or else he wouldn’t have spoken so harshly.
Memory of his father’s tone jabbed his heart worse than any dagger. The verse! Pelham had asked him to recite the verse from his blue book, written there in his own hand as his mother spoke the words:
My fate is my own, my heart remains free
His tongue was eager to continue with the next line as it always did. Magic, wisdom, destiny — these were the important words, weren’t they? He knew what that second line meant and it had helped point out the course of his life. He’d never lingered over the first line before because it didn’t seem to offer the same insight.
Perhaps it did, though. My fate is my own. What did that mean to a man who seemed to have two roles expected of him and only one life to live?
The Book from Baden Dark Page 23
