Lady Liana was still getting her children ready to leave when the others gathered in the corridor outside their rooms. Marcel held only one thing in his hands, his blue book.
‘What this?’ said Rhys, seeing the solemn set of the boy’s face.
‘It’s the magic I’ve collected during my time as a sorcerer. I don’t know where this book came from — the memory has gone with so much else from my life. I’ve added things to it from Lord Alwyn’s books over this past year, but none of it has helped me. You saw what happened last night, and before that when you saved us from the storm at sea. Mistakes, weak magic — my sorcery is dangerous for everyone around me. You’re leaving now but I want you to do something for me first. Here, take this book, and take away my powers too.’
‘No, you can’t do this,’ said Nicola. ‘You’re Father’s Master of the Books.’
Marcel kept his eyes on the Grand Master, holding out the blue book as he said, ‘When you get to Noam, please pick out the most promising wizard and send him to Elster as my replacement.’
‘Don’t accept it, Lord Tironel,’ urged Nicola and, stepping forward, she snatched the book from her brother’s hands and held it tightly against her chest. ‘You can’t stop being a sorcerer because a few of your spells have gone bad.’
‘A few! All of them, Nicola, all except the simple tricks any street corner magician can do. Every time I try something more powerful it goes wrong. You don’t know what it’s like to be afraid of your own powers. There’s magic in me that I can’t control. What use is sorcery if I’m afraid of what it will do?’
‘But Father needs you. The kingdom needs you!’
Nicola was building herself into the kind of fury that Marcel had witnessed before, but this time he rounded on her. ‘You’re a fine one to say that. You’ve told me a hundred times how you don’t want to be a princess. Father wants you to marry a good man to help you rule when you’re queen, and what do you do? You chase them all away before you know the first thing about them.’
The heat of Nicola’s anger faded suddenly, leaving her face reddened with shame. When she responded it was in a much more measured voice, although the same steel lay behind it.
‘Yes, I’ve made things hard for Father, but that doesn’t make it right for you, Marcel. We’re both afraid of what we have to do.’ She dropped her head a little and when she raised it again she sought out Finn’s face. ‘I still am, but I’m not going to run any more.’
‘Listen to your sister,’ said Rhys. ‘I can take away a wizard’s powers, but only to free him into a happier life, not to help him escape a destiny he’s afraid of. Why not come with me to Noam instead, to learn the sorcerer’s arts along with the other apprentices?’
‘It won’t do any good. No amount of studying books will help me.’
‘You’re thinking of what we said onboard the ship, aren’t you?’ Rhys muttered thoughtfully, and for a few moments the corridor fell silent while he considered the unhappy young wizard before him. ‘When magic fails, there is usually a reason,’ he said eventually. ‘Sometimes it’s because a sorcerer becomes tentative with his spells.’
‘Tentative?’
‘Half-hearted. It comes from only putting part of yourself into the magic and so the spell is half done. How can it hope to achieve its aim then?’
‘That’s me,’ Marcel admitted. ‘I told you that on the ship, that I hold back. But I can’t change, Rhys, I’m afraid of what my magic will do.’
‘You need help then, a little confidence,’ said the Grand Master, and he turned to Lady Liana, who had now joined them. ‘Fetch the dragon’s tooth for me,’ he said.
‘Dragon’s tooth?’
‘You know what I mean,’ Rhys insisted. His wife still looked confused, until he made a shape with his hands, forming something small and curved.
‘Oh, of course. Yes, I’ll get it for you now,’ and off went Lady Liana into the room where her children were waiting to leave for the docks. Marcel heard them answering their mother’s muffled questions and there was the sound of luggage being turned out in a hurry. She returned soon after with a small object that she passed into her husband’s hand.
‘This will help you,’ said Rhys Tironel, holding up the talisman between thumb and forefinger. Marcel found himself staring at a kind of stone, thicker at one end and tapering to a rounded point at the other. Was it really a dragon’s tooth?
‘Dragons are rare creatures these days and their teeth even rarer,’ Rhys told him. ‘This one has a magic of its own that helped the scaly beast it belonged to conjure some fearsome spells. Here, take it.’
Marcel opened his right hand to receive the tooth.
‘Hold it tightly while you work the sorcery inside you and your spells will stay true to their intention,’ Rhys said. ‘That way, you can release your will into the world without fear.’
Marcel stared at the remarkable gift that lay so cold on his palm. ‘Does it really work?’
‘Try it now,’ said Rhys. ‘Come on, out to the balcony.’
He led them into the room, past the beds where his children sat and stared wide-eyed as first their father, then Marcel, then Nicola and Lady Liana and finally Finn walked by, then out onto the balcony that offered a grand view over the harbour and much of the town as well.
‘What will I do?’ asked Marcel, clutching the dragon’s tooth tightly in his fist.
Rhys glanced around him, left and right and down towards the dingy street. Only when he looked upwards into the sky did an idea come to him. ‘Those birds heading to their winter feeding grounds — interrupt their journey for a few minutes, call them down to this balcony.’
‘How? I don’t know the spell. There aren’t any verses for it in my book.’
‘Do it a different way this time, Marcel. Enchantments and verses have their place, but you aren’t that kind of sorcerer. Use your will alone.’
To call down an entire flock! This was just the kind of spell that so often went wrong.
When Marcel still hesitated, Rhys reached forward and curled the boy’s fingers back over his palm, making a fist with the hard tooth inside.
Could he really do it? Did he dare? With Rhys here to guard against his magic if the spell turned to disaster …
He looked into the northern sky where the birds were approaching across the open waters beyond the harbour. There was something else among the birds, larger, and not shaped like a bird at all. Only he had seen it so far because the others kept their eyes on him. He tried to ignore it and concentrated on the challenge Rhys had set him, possibly the most important test of magic he had done since facing Mortregis. It was no use, the strange shape had broken into the moment.
‘What’s that?’ he asked the others.
They followed his gaze towards the approaching flock until Lady Liana cried, ‘It looks like a horse, a grey horse with wings growing out of its flanks.’
Marcel searched for Nicola’s face and found her just as eagerly staring at him. ‘Could it be him?’ she asked.
‘How many other flying horses can there be!’
They strained their eyes against the glare of the brilliant sky until there was no doubt it was Gadfly, and on her back a rider, thin and dressed in rags, but with hair the right colour. As they came closer, the grimace of determination on the rider’s face was all too familiar.
‘Fergus! Come on,’ Marcel called to Nicola. ‘He’ll be close enough to land in the city soon.’ Dragging his sister roughly behind him, he started towards the doorway.
‘Wait, Marcel,’ Rhys called from behind him. ‘There’s something you should know about the stone … I mean the dragon’s tooth.’
‘I have to go, Lord Tironel. That horse is carrying the boy I set out to save. We can speak later.’
The wizard called after him again, but Marcel was already through the bedroom and into the corridor. With his mind racing ahead to the reunion with Fergus, he slipped the dragon’s tooth into his pocket without a thought.
> OTHERS HAD SEEN THE flying horse by now. Shouts of fear and wonder echoed up from the courtyard and the city streets beyond the citadel wall. The corridor ahead was packed with bodies streaming out of the many rooms.
‘This way,’ Nicola called, and tugging Marcel by the arm of his shirt, she guided him out into the open, hoping the stairs here wouldn’t be as crowded. No sooner had they reached the top than a new cry erupted from the battlements above them.
‘Open the gate! Lorian is coming. His men have broken through the rebel lines.’
Marcel couldn’t see beyond the walls of the citadel, but from the raised vantage point where he and Nicola had stopped to search the sky again for Gadfly, they had a clear view of the courtyard below. Soldiers were pouring out of the barracks like water from a sieve. Some looked towards the open gate where riders urged their mounts into the safety of the citadel. Others watched for the flying horse.
‘There he is!’ cried Nicola.
Gadfly was over the rooftops of the town now. Rather than looking below for a place to land, Fergus seemed preoccupied with something in his hands. Marcel couldn’t make out what it was, but after a moment or two Fergus looked up, his eyes picking out the courtyard where so many bodies were already gathered to welcome the hero Lorian. He stretched out his arm, showing Gadfly the way, and after a few practised flaps of her wings, she held them stiffly out from her flanks and let herself glide down towards the cobblestones.
‘Make room, make room,’ voices cried and a space was quickly cleared for the landing.
‘Come on, we have to get down there with him,’ Marcel said, but Nicola’s hope of finding an uncrowded staircase was futile. While they had stood watching the twin arrivals, even more inquisitive people had emerged from the keep — cooks and serving girls, every page boy and guard who dared leave his post.
‘It’s hopeless,’ said Nicola as she tried to force a way through, only to fall back, defeated by the crush of bodies.
‘Fergus! Fergus!’ Marcel shouted, trying to get the boy’s attention, but this was equally pointless. The noise rising up from the courtyard drowned out his voice and all he could do was watch as Fergus slipped to the ground with barely a glance at the astonished faces packed around him like bricks in a human wall. He untied the pouch from around Gadfly’s neck and immediately the magical wings began to shrivel and disappear into her sides, bringing a gasp from the crowd.
Again, Fergus didn’t seem to notice. That odd contraption was back in his hand, a thin metal rod by the look of it, and he was stroking one end of the shaft with something small held between his fingers. Left to swing freely for a moment, the tip pointed towards the opposite end of the courtyard. He set off in the same direction, while the people in his way fell back in fear, making a path for him.
Where was he going? ‘Fergus!’ Marcel called again, to no avail.
‘Marcel, come here quickly,’ Nicola shouted.
He turned around to find his sister watching the pandemonium that had greeted the heroes who had all made it through the gate. The soldiers had dismounted, including their leader, whose famous white horse stood out among the rest. They had taken off their helmets too and that was what had caused Nicola’s distress.
‘I saw a face — it’s him!’
‘Who? Whose face did you see?’ Marcel asked, puzzled.
‘Damon’s. He’s one of the soldiers who just rode into the citadel — I’m sure of it.’
Damon. It couldn’t be. What would he be doing fighting for Cadell? But Marcel scanned the faces all the same and there he was, the man he hated more than any living soul, his mother’s murderer, the fiend who had betrayed his own kingdom to snatch away its crown. Damon was standing among the milling soldiers, enjoying the praise and welcome of the crowd.
Marcel’s eyes turned back to Fergus. He was heading straight for the same troop of soldiers, his path picked out easily as the crowd parted. Standing helplessly above, Marcel watched him get closer with every purposeful stride — and he couldn’t do a thing to stop him. This was the nightmare that he’d suffered over so many nights. There was a sword at Fergus’s belt, of course there was, and he would use it if he got the chance. If he managed a deadly blow, he would call down the curse upon himself: a year of torment ending in an agonising death, followed by an eternity of suffering.
Fergus was even closer now. The crowd stood back until the way was clear all the way to the soldiers. Some of them turned to see what the commotion was about. Just a boy, their faces seemed to say, there is no danger. But the disturbance had attracted Damon’s attention too. Perhaps it was the mention of a boy that alerted him. Marcel was too far away to hear words, but he saw the recognition in Damon’s eyes when Fergus emerged from the throng.
Damon gave a shout that brought the men around him to attention. They drew their swords. Only ten paces away, Fergus did the same. He was ready to charge towards Damon, to kill him as Marcel feared, but the call to arms put a dozen burly men between him and his prey, and another dozen behind, foiling any thoughts of escape. They rushed him, and before he could swing his blade, he was knocked to the ground and the sword ripped from his grasp.
On the steps where Marcel and Nicola were stranded, the crowd shifted at last. Pushing, shoving, elbowing bodies aside, they fought a way down to the cobblestones and through the courtyard, on hands and knees at times to keep moving forward. By the time they reached the circle where the drama was being played out, Fergus was held in the grip of two men whose hands were clamped around his upper arms more tightly than prison irons.
‘Take him into the keep. Find a cell away from other prisoners,’ Damon demanded. ‘He’s more dangerous than he looks.’
‘Yes, Captain,’ said the men who held Fergus between them.
‘Wait,’ said a different soldier, calling out to the rest. ‘You haven’t heard. Your leader isn’t a simple captain any more. Call him by his proper title — he’s a general now, your high commander.’
As the cry of ‘General!’ went up, Marcel and Nicola pushed back into the crowd they had struggled so hard to break through. They risked another peep through the bodies. The soldiers all around were clapping Damon on the back and saluting him. He was clearly the favourite among the men, and now their leader.
‘Lorian,’ whispered Nicola, ‘the hero everyone’s been speaking of — King Osward’s favourite and the new general in charge of the entire city. It’s Damon, and Fergus just tried to kill him.’
CHAPTER 15
Reunited
MARCEL AND NICOLA SLIPPED away through the crowd, which had begun to disperse on the command of the new general. Finn found them when they reached the stairs and pulled them aside roughly.
‘Are you all right?’ he snapped in a mixture of concern and anger. ‘I lost sight of you. Don’t run off like that again where I can’t protect you. Outside the keep is getting too dangerous.’
He was speaking to them both but his eyes stayed firmly on Nicola. Marcel waited for the explosion, because no one told his sister off like this without getting as good as he gave. This time, however, Nicola held her temper and let Marcel do the talking.
‘It was Fergus,’ he explained, ‘we had to try and reach him. But then we saw Damon too. He’s here in Cadell, Finn. Worse than that, he’s the General Lorian they’re all talking about.’
‘Lorian! What happened to Fergus then?’
‘He drew a sword on Damon. By now he’ll be in a cell somewhere in the keep.’
‘And he won’t be easy to get out either, not if Damon has anything to do with it,’ said Finn, unable to keep the anxiety from his face.
‘Lord Tironel will speak for us though, won’t he?’ Marcel said. ‘The Grand Master of Noam carries a lot of influence.’
‘He can’t help us if he’s not here.’
‘You mean he’s gone?’
‘He had to. The ship’s captain arrived just as you two ran from the room. Rhys had to leave immediately or risk having his wife and children
trapped here in Cadell, and with him gone, there’s no one who can speak to the king for us.’
No, that wasn’t true. Marcel knew someone who could get them an audience with the king, and while Finn ushered Nicola to the safety of their rooms, he slipped away to find her.
Princess Demiter was in her chamber, a cheerful room without any extravagant flourishes, just like her dresses.
‘Wait, slow down,’ she said as Marcel poured out his story. ‘You’re telling me the strange boy who arrived on the flying horse is your cousin?’
‘Yes, his name is Fergus.’
‘I heard he tried to kill General Lorian.’
This stopped Marcel in his tracks. ‘Well, actually, I suppose he did.’
‘Then why should I ask my father to set him free?’
‘Because General Lorian isn’t who he pretends to be. We know him — he comes from Elster, like us.’
‘I’ve never liked him much,’ said Demiter, ‘especially when he turned up out of nowhere, as though he had no past at all. He was too ready to play the games of the court for his own good, but then everyone else here does the same, so he seemed to fit right in. I’m not surprised he’s ended up as Father’s favourite, but no one can doubt his courage, Marcel, not after the way he continued the fight when the rest of our army retreated behind the walls. My father hopes he’ll bring some of the same spirit to our soldiers and, to tell you the truth, so do I. It’s certainly been missing since General Kendally was replaced. So I doubt you’ll do any good denouncing General Lorian before the king. Most likely he’ll throw you in gaol along with your cousin.’
To Marcel, the idea that anyone could trust Damon, even admire him, felt like poison in his throat, but he had to swallow his dismay for the time being and salvage what he could. ‘You’ll help us speak up for Fergus though, won’t you?’
‘I’ll get you an audience with my father. That’s the best I can do.’
Marcel returned to the rooms he shared with Nicola and told her and Finn of his visit to Demiter. Then they waited. And waited.
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