by Anne Forbes
The sword looked down from its place above the mantelpiece and frowned at the still figure of the girl. “She’s very young, isn’t she,” it said suspiciously, “and she doesn’t seem to have much magic in her …”
Lord Jezail sensed its disapproval. “Don’t worry, she won’t be here for long,” he said reassuringly, casting a rather anxious glance at Count Vassili as the sword gleamed with an angry reddish tinge. “All she has to do is write down the spells I told you about and then she’ll be free to go.”
“The sooner the better,” the sword muttered irritably, thoroughly fed up at Jezail’s insistence that the girl had to be captured before they returned to Ashgar. More and more, it rued the day that it had given itself into the magician’s hands. “So far you’ve done nothing but make a mess of everything!” it pointed out with ruthless candour, thinking of the Gra’el’s fury at its useless mission. “And why are we staying here, in the country, miles from anywhere? I want to be in Edinburgh. That’s where the action is! I want to find out more about the tournament.” And at the thought of the tournament, its colour changed to a golden glow.
“I’m just as anxious as you are,” the magician said truthfully, reaching out to touch its hilt. The sword’s magic sent a surge of excitement through him. His face changed and his spirits rose. All of a sudden he felt six feet tall, brave and courageous! He could see himself holding the sword in his hand, facing the dragon on the slopes of Arthur’s Seat! The feeling was so strong that he almost felt like leaving Clara there and then and hastening back to Edinburgh that very evening.
Aware that Count Vassili was watching him strangely, he turned away, hiding his feelings under a cloak of impatience as he looked down at Clara. “Isn’t she awake yet?” he demanded.
Almost as though she heard him, Clara blinked and struggled shakily to her feet. Where was she? The darkness was clearing from her mind and, as her eyes fell on the glowing crystal ball that lay on the table beside her, memories of the circus flooded her thoughts. She shivered and instinctively looked round for the young gypsy girl.
A hand took her elbow gently. “Just relax, Clara,” a voice said reassuringly. “The dizziness will pass. You’ll feel better in a minute or two.”
“Count Vassili … what are you doing here?” She looked at him in blank surprise, recognizing the distinctive voice at once. “Where am I?”
“You’re quite safe, Clara,” he assured her. “Nobody is going to harm you.”
Gazing round, her eyes widened as they took in the rough stone walls and high slit windows of some sort of tower. Surely she was in one of the old Border keeps! Scattered here and there throughout the countryside, they had, in the past, guarded the neighbourhood from the raids of the infamous Border Reivers. She’d gone round one on a school trip not many months before and relief flooded through her as she realized that she was probably quite close to home.
“I told you she’d be alright, Vassili,” a soft voice spoke from behind her.
Clara whirled round to meet the shrewd black eyes of a richly dressed old man whose mane of dark hair flowed round his shoulders. So elegant and expensive were the cut of his robes that he could quite easily have been mistaken for one of the Lords of the North.
“Excellency,” Count Vassili bowed low, “may I present Miss Clara MacLean.”
Clara gave a somewhat shaky curtsey. She guessed what was coming next for the old man had the same deep-set eyes and beak of a nose as her aunt. The likeness was unmistakeable.
“Clara, this is His Excellency, Lord Jezail of Ashgar.”
Clara looked at him in awestruck wonder and not a little apprehension. Anyone who could put dreadful hexes on people, as he’d done with Prince Casimir and Prince Kalman, was certainly to be feared. Glancing at the count, she relaxed slightly as he nodded encouragingly. His presence was a comfort, for he had been her German teacher at Netherfield and she knew instinctively that he wouldn’t let anyone harm her. She took a deep breath and her gaze, when she met Jezail’s eyes, was steady enough. “You,” she said, “are my Auntie Muriel’s father.”
It didn’t take the count’s indrawn breath to tell Clara that she’d said the wrong thing although she couldn’t understand why. But it was, nevertheless, the truth. Muriel had been her uncle’s wife and it was only after her accident that they’d learned that her father was a magician.
To Vassili’s amazement, however, the magician showed no sign of anger. Instead he smiled kindly and when he spoke, his voice was as smooth as treacle. “We are, of course, related,” he agreed. “Perhaps you could look on me as some kind of … er, uncle,” he continued.
Clara curtseyed again and Lord Jezail, seeing Vassili’s totally stunned expression, frowned warningly at him over Clara’s bent head.
It was then that Clara froze. The magician was wearing her talisman! She clenched her hands tightly for seeing it there, on his wrist, made her feel quite odd.
She turned away and in doing so, caught Count Vassili’s eye. She knew that he’d noticed but she didn’t care; for although she was glad he was there, she doubted if she could trust him. He had known all along that her aunt had left the talisman to her and yet he had stolen it and taken it to his master.
“Come and sit down, Clara,” Lord Jezail gestured to a chair near the fire.
She was, indeed, quite glad to sit down. It all seemed like a dream, somehow; the magnificent room, the warm fire that made her sleepy and the incredible presence of Lord Jezail and Count Vassili.
It was as she looked above the fireplace that she saw the sword. Sitting up abruptly, her expression changed to one of horror as her eyes travelled down the blade to the carved dragon that curled round its hilt. Dragonslayer! It must be! Sir Pendar’s sword had made the front pages of all the newspapers and she was quite sure that this was it!
She looked at Lord Jezail questioningly. “The sword!” her voice was a whisper. “It’s Dragonslayer, isn’t it?” She glanced across at the count, who dropped his eyes and stayed silent. “Did … did you steal it from Edinburgh Castle?” she continued hesitantly.
Lord Jezail smiled openly. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I didn’t need to steal it. This, you see, is the real sword. The sword in the castle is a … a replica. Is that the right word?” he looked at Vassili, his eyebrows raised.
Vassili nodded and rose stiffly to his feet. From his expression, Clara gathered immediately that he was none too pleased at what was going on.
Her thoughts raced and she felt a surge of alarm as she thought of Arthur and the Lords of the North. She had to tell them! She had to escape and tell them that Dragonslayer wasn’t in the castle. It wasn’t safe, as they thought — it was here, in the hands of Lord Jezail!
The sword looked down on Clara and sighed irritably. Altogether, things weren’t turning out quite as it had hoped. Still, Jezail had promised him that the girl wouldn’t be around for very long. Once she’d written down the spells he wanted, she’d be returned to her parents. And the sooner the better, it thought sulkily.
Unaware of the sword’s displeasure, Clara looked round nervously to see that Lord Jezail had turned to talk to someone who had just entered the room … a dark-haired young woman. She stiffened, feeling suddenly afraid. It was the same girl; the gypsy who had imprisoned her in the crystal. In her anxiety, she forgot all about the sword as memories of the fortune-teller’s tent flooded through her once more! Her parents must be out of their minds with worry. And Neil! How must he be feeling? Suddenly, it was all too much to take in. A feeling of tiredness gripped her and she yawned widely, feeling suddenly exhausted.
“The child needs to rest,” the girl sounded anxious as she approached Clara. “Come with me, Milady,” she said. “What you need is a nice long sleep.”
Clara’s eyes searched the room. Where was the count? He wasn’t there … and then she saw him by the front door. He was pushing an enormous bolt into place and, making sure it was fast, turned and strode up to her. “Go with Maria, Cla
ra,” he said. “There’s a bedroom upstairs and she will see to it that you have something to eat and drink.”
“I am hungry,” Clara admitted, suddenly discovering that she was, indeed, starving, “and thirsty …”
“I’ll bring up a tray with all your favourite food on it,” Maria promised as she guided Clara to a narrow stone stairway that curved upwards from the main hall.
The bedroom made Clara gasp. Never had she seen anything more magnificent than this ornate room; it was immense — so much so that the huge four-poster bed hung with heavy brocade drapes, did not look the least bit out of place. It was wonderful, the soft carpets, the tapestries on the walls, the dim lamps and the sweet sense of incense that hung in the air; it all reminded her of a picture in a story book. The Sleeping Princess, perhaps …
Maria broke into her thoughts. “There’s a bathroom here,” she said, opening an arched door, “and pyjamas on the bed.”
“Thank you,” Clara whispered. Maria looked at her for a second and then came over and slipped an arm round her shoulders. “Don’t worry, Clara,” she said comfortingly. “I’m sorry about putting you in the crystal ball but you know yourself that while you’re in it, you know nothing and you feel nothing.”
Clara nodded. It was true. She hadn’t remembered that she’d been in a crystal at all until she’d seen it on the table and the memory had come flooding back.
“Now, you just sit down here and I’ll be up in a second with your supper.”
Clara ate, drank, bathed and brushed her teeth in a daze. She was so tired …
The minute she lay down, snuggled between cool sheets and soft pillows, her eyes closed and she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
12. Networking
“Look! If I say I can’t do it, it means that I can’t!” Clara said shortly, as she scowled at Lord Jezail. Why, why, why wouldn’t he believe her?
Vassili handed his master a glass of water and took a pill from a little box. “Take this, Milord,” he said, “and you’ll feel better.”
The magician stretched out a quivering hand for the pill and, still breathing heavily after his outburst of rage, swallowed it and sank back in his chair.
“Lord Jezail hasn’t been very well,” Vassili explained, coldly. “You see, he’s hoping that there might be spells in the book for … for medicines that will help him regain his health. Surely it’s not asking too much to ask you to write them down?”
“The spells have nothing to do with medicine,” Clara said stubbornly. “It’s not that kind of book.”
“Look, can’t you just write them down? He needs to be kept calm and, quite frankly, you’re not helping him by being awkward!”
This, she thought, was more than a bit of an understatement as, at her refusal to put pen to paper, Lord Jezail had strode up and down in a towering rage before collapsing into his chair.
Clara glowered at him and sighed, for the morning had actually started quite well. She’d had breakfast in bed and when she’d come downstairs, streams of sunlight had been pouring through the high windows of the tower. Maria had obviously been busy, for the room smelt fresh and clean, the remains of the fire had been neatly swept away and a bundle of freshly chopped logs lay in the iron basket, ready to be lit. Lord Jezail and Count Vassili, who had obviously been waiting for her, looked up, smiling pleasantly.
From then on, however, things had gone from bad to worse and she lowered her eyes, unable to look at the count, who now stood stiffly by the side of his master’s chair. She’d thought him her friend but he’d given her no help and, indeed, had sided with his master. Resting her head on the back of the chair, she let her eyes wander round the ornate room before returning somewhat hopelessly, to the sheet of paper and pen that lay before her on a small table.
“Why don’t you try again?” Vassili suggested, his voice stern. “Maybe you could write out the spell that you used last year when you … er, called up daemons in the middle of the school concert.” Even now, he winced at the thought of them. “You must remember it, surely!”
Clara shrugged and said nothing.
“Don’t forget that I was there, Clara,’ he continued, his voice hardening. “I heard you. You said it as if you knew it off by heart. You didn’t falter once!”
Clara picked up the pen and fiddled with it, her hand trembling slightly. Tears pricked her eyes. How could she make them understand that the words of the spell just weren’t there? Sensing their anger and feeling decidedly nervous, she closed her eyes tightly and tried again to remember the hexes in the witches’ Book of Spells. Nothing happened. “I told you,” she said, looking upset, “I told you I can’t remember them.”
Lord Jezail sat back in his padded armchair and, with an effort, hid his frustration. He’d gone to great lengths to capture the child and now she either couldn’t or wouldn’t write down the spells that he was quite convinced she knew. It was then that he’d tried to bully her and thrown a temper tantrum that had left him weak with exhaustion.
Clara, watching him anxiously, picked up on the nasty glint in his eyes and shivered slightly. She deliberately hadn’t mentioned that she only knew the spells when she was wearing the talisman in the hope that they’d let her go but the viciousness of his expression really frightened her. What if he hexed her or something equally horrid? On the other hand, she thought, hope rising in her heart, once she had the talisman on her wrist, she might possibly be able to escape …
“Calm down, Clara,” the count said quickly. “Just relax and perhaps the words will come to you.”
“They won’t come to me,” she said in a small voice. “Honestly … they’re just not there anymore. I only ever knew them when I was wearing the talisman.”
Lord Jezail spoke a few words in German, thinking, no doubt, that Clara wouldn’t understand.
As the count had been her German teacher at Netherfield the previous year when they’d both been hunting for the talisman, Clara had more than a fair idea of what had been said. Lord Jezail had asked the count if he should let her wear the talisman! She lowered her eyes and thought fast.
“What do you think,” Lord Jezail continued in German. “Is it worth the risk?”
Vassili looked at Clara warningly. He hadn’t told Lord Jezail that she had understood their conversation and again she felt that he was very much on her side. Best to let him take charge, she thought. At least he’d keep her safe, for Lord Jezail was proving to be every bit as horrid as the MacArthur had said.
“Lord Jezail is going to let you wear the talisman, Clara,” the count said, “to see if it will help you remember.”
Lord Jezail pulled up the wide sleeves of his velvet robe and with long, white fingers, made to pull the talisman off his wrist and then hesitated at the thought of it leaving him. “No,” he said, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully, “no, I won’t let her wear it. It’s too risky. She can touch it while it’s on my wrist though. We’ll see if that will make her remember the spells!”
Clara’s heart sank, but the count nodded. It was, he thought, certainly worth a try. Helping his master out of his chair, he carried it across the carpet and placed it by the side of the little table so that Clara could touch the talisman on Jezail’s wrist with her left hand and write with the other.
“Go on, try it,” Vassili urged as Lord Jezail laid his arm along the edge of the table and she stretched out a tentative hand.
It was only when she touched the talisman that Clara realized how much she’d missed it. Its magic flowed through her in a surging wave of happiness that told her, without doubt, that she was its rightful owner. Her aunt had left it to her and the talisman, itself, knew it. Suddenly feeling much more confident, she sat up straight in her chair and smiled at Lord Jezail. It was a strange smile that almost made him pull his arm off the table.
Count Vassili stiffened as his master crouched in his chair like an animal waiting to attack. “Can you write the spells now, Clara?” he asked hurriedly, unsure of his master’s rea
ction.
“Yes,” Clara nodded. “I know them now,” she admitted, as fear gripped her. Unlike Vassili, who was standing to one side of his master’s chair, she had seen the change in Lord Jezail’s face and the flare of madness in his eyes. She just had to escape! But what could she do? The only hexes she knew were those from the Book of Spells and none of them would transport her out of this prison.
“Write,” Jezail ground out, spittle forming in the corners of his mouth.
She glanced at the count as she picked up the pen and he nodded.
Pulling the table closer, she straightened the paper and started to write. The spells were all there in her mind and, using her best handwriting, she wrote slowly and carefully, seeing the words in her mind as though she were copying them off the whiteboard at school.
“What spell is that?” Jezail asked, leaning forward anxiously as she drew a line below it.
“I really don’t know,” Clara lied, “I can see only the words in my head but I don’t know what they mean — or even what language they’re in.”
“Let me see the paper,” he demanded.
She pushed it towards him and he bent over it greedily before looking up and handing it to Vassili.
“The language is the language of old magic,” Vassili nodded, handing the paper back to Clara.
“How do I know she hasn’t made a mistake?” Jezail queried. “She could have missed words out — or mixed them up!” he hissed.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Clara tried to keep her voice steady in the face of his anger.
“Master …” Vassili said imploringly.
Clara gave a half smile. There was one sure way to prove that she hadn’t cheated and he didn’t half deserve it! Before they knew what she had in mind, she picked up the piece of paper, gripped the talisman on Jezail’s arm firmly and read out the spell. The words and the magic flowed from her lips in a stream of sound that echoed softly round the old stone walls of the tower.
Vassili swore violently and whirled round, while Jezail wrenched his arm from Clara’s grasp and, despite his frailty, leapt to his feet as a sparkling web of silver stars appeared out of nowhere, hovered in the air and then dropped over them both with alarming swiftness.
