The Book of Lies

by James Moloney

  THE BOOK OF LIES

  JAMES MOLONEY

  Dedication

  For Charlotte and Sydney. Welcome to the world.

  Contents

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER 1 Mrs Timmins’ Home for Orphans and Foundlings

  CHAPTER 2 Lord Alwyn

  CHAPTER 3 Old Belch

  CHAPTER 4 The Race

  CHAPTER 5 The Book of Lies

  CHAPTER 6 Whispers in the Orchard

  CHAPTER 7 Pandemonium

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER 8 The Forest

  CHAPTER 9 A Verse in Golden Letters

  CHAPTER 10 Journey’s End

  CHAPTER 11 In a Cellar Beneath the City

  CHAPTER 12 The True and Rightful Heirs

  CHAPTER 13 Long Beard

  CHAPTER 14 Lenoth Crag

  CHAPTER 15 The Ones You Love Can Be the First to Die

  CHAPTER 16 Saving Bea

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER 17 Return to the Chamber

  CHAPTER 18 Astounding Truths and Magic Tricks

  CHAPTER 19 The Tapestry

  CHAPTER 20 A Waning Magic

  CHAPTER 21 Sparks in the Darkness

  CHAPTER 22 Let Slip the Beast

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  Prologue

  ON A NIGHT WHEN angry clouds boiled and burst overhead and the people of Fallside prayed by their fires that the storm would soon pass, four men emerged from the forest that surrounded the village. None spoke a word, and even their footsteps were unnaturally silent as they splashed through muddy pools. They wore heavy robes, their faces shrouded in cavernous hoods like damned monks cast out into the night and driven to this remote corner of the Kingdom by their deeds. Between them, they carried a bundle wrapped in a sodden blanket, the coarsely woven cloth straining under the weight of their load.

  The village lay on the other side of a stone bridge across a stream. It was no more than a handful of wretched houses, really, all clustered around the main street between the inn at one end and the church at the other. But these men were not heading for Fallside. Before they reached the bridge they turned and hurried towards the waterfall that gave the village its name. Here, where a stream suddenly plunged into the valley below, they found their destination.

  A house stood alone, only fifty paces from the cliff’s edge, two storeys of grey stone with a single-roomed tower rising, like a grim warrior on guard, from its centre. As the men approached, a yellow light flickered in the two narrow windows of this tower, watching them like eyes.

  They passed silently through the gate and across the cobbled courtyard to the kitchen. The blanket was placed carefully on the stoop and once it was settled their leader rapped three times on the heavy door. His hand paused for three counts, then knocked again, once, twice, three times, beginning a strange and ghostly rhythm that would continue until the door was opened.

  Upstairs, a woman stirred in her sagging bed. She hoped that the knocking had been in her dreams, but there it was again. One, two, three. Slowly – for she was worn out after a hard day’s work – she lit a candle, and pausing only to gather her patched and mended dressing gown around her, she hurried into the corridor.

  Her son was already waiting. “The knocking,” he whispered. “Another one has come.” He towered over his portly mother, the candlelight picking out the ugly spots that marred his cheeks and left him feeling awkward in front of the village girls. “Should I fetch His Lordship?” he asked.

  The woman shook her head briefly, which made the fleshy folds beneath her chin jiggle and sway. “He will know already. Our job is to get the poor thing inside,” she said, as she led him down the staircase and into the kitchen.

  The knocking continued relentlessly. One, two, three. The sound sent a shiver through the woman’s body. She had been listening out for it, but she prayed that the noise had not woken anyone else. She mustn’t lose courage now. Steeling herself, she drew back the bolt and pulled open the door.

  A gust of misty rain greeted her, snuffing out the candle and obliging her to take a tighter grip on the folds of her dressing gown. Here were the hooded figures she had seen before, but she forced herself to ignore them and let her eyes fall quickly to the shape wrapped in the saturated blanket. “Is this one even breathing?” she gasped.

  The faceless figures made no answer. Nor would they carry the blanket and its hidden cargo across the threshold. Together, she and her son had to step into the rain and drag the heavy load from the paving stones themselves.

  Finally they released their burden and the woman relit her candle. Holding it close, she reached out tentatively to turn back the blanket. “A boy,” she said, adding, as she touched his forehead, “Oh, and he’s as cold as ice.”

  “He’s not dead, is he?” asked her son anxiously. He could cope with his fear of the silent visitors, but the body of a dead child…

  “No, and he’ll live a long life yet if I have anything to do with it. We’ll soon put some colour back into those cheeks. Quickly now, upstairs with him,” she said briskly.

  But her son didn’t move. Instead, he stared over her shoulder, which made her turn around. The kitchen door was still open to the rain and the four strangers huddled under the eaves.

  “Will you not come inside and warm yourselves while we tend to the boy?”

  Such kindness came naturally to her, but this was not the first time the strangers had come and she guessed her offer would not be accepted. When the hooded figures remained silent and still, she sighed and told them, “Your job is done, then. You may as well go.”

  She could only watch as they turned quickly and began the long journey back to wherever they had come from. When she bolted the door, she caught a last glimpse of the four silhouetted forms as they marched through her gate and disappeared into the darkness.

  The woman did not realise it, but above her in the tower another figure stood watching. With his eyes on the departing travellers, he passed a hand before his face in a single sweeping movement. Suddenly, the men stopped and stared about them, as sleepwalkers do when awakened from a dream. Their first tentative words escaped into the rain-swept night and one of them pushed back his hood to reveal a bewildered face. He pointed the way uncertainly and led them towards the village and the dark forest beyond. In the morning, they would forget they had ever come to Fallside or brought a sleeping boy to a house near the cliff’s edge.

  In an upstairs room, a little girl lay straining her ears for every sound. She had struggled to stay awake, hoping to hear an entirely different noise, but tonight it had not come. Instead, the ominous knocking had started up, frightening her, and she had buried herself deeper under the blankets. But it had stopped now, and only moments ago she had heard the bolt snap back into place on the kitchen door.

  Someone was coming up the stairs – two people, she guessed, when the footsteps passed her door. They continued down the hall to the small guest room at the end. Her curiosity had been roused and she felt she would never sleep until she knew why. She slipped out of bed, then, sure-footed and without a sound, she crept to the door at the end of the hall. It had been left ajar, just an inch, but enough to let the pale candlelight spill into the passageway.

  “He’s a fine-looking boy,” said a woman’s voice, one she easily recognised. “We’d better get him out of these wet things.”

  The girl heard muffled sounds, then at length the two sets of footsteps came towards the door, leaving her just enough time to step aside before it opened wide to reveal the woman’s familiar figure, with a bundle of damp clothing u
nder her arm, and her son close at her shoulder. He held a candle for them to see by, but neither noticed the girl even though they passed close enough to touch her. She was not surprised; in fact, her face creased into a satisfied smile.

  When the light had disappeared altogether, she tiptoed inside and closed the door behind her. With the candle gone, she had to wait while her eyes adjusted. After a minute or two she could see that the room was simply furnished with a bed, a roughly made table and stool and a battered wardrobe. The room was so small that there was little space for anything more.

  The boy was sleeping deeply. She poked him gently on the shoulder. No response. She poked harder and still he didn’t stir. She shook him vigorously and even pulled his ear, but he slept on. Surely such slumber wasn’t natural. Distracted by these efforts to wake him, she didn’t hear the footsteps in the corridor until they were right outside the door. With only a moment to hide, she flicked the wardrobe latch and stepped silently into the shadows behind the door. There she waited, as still as a stone.

  Her heart beat frantically as she watched a man slowly walk across the room, carrying a candle. He held it away from his face to protect his eyes and so she could not see his features, but his movements were stiff and stern. He might once have been as tall as the doorway itself but now old age made him stoop at the waist. Robes of the darkest green and black fell loosely from his pinched shoulders, pooling untidily where they touched the floor.

  He carried something heavy in the crook of his arm, hugging it tightly to his chest like a young mother holds her new baby. A book, the girl realised, when he placed it carefully on the table. Free of his precious burden, he went to stand over the sleeping boy, lingering there for some time. Then, releasing a deep and weary sigh, he stretched his hand out over the boy’s face and began to mutter words she couldn’t hear.

  “No! No!” the boy cried immediately. With his eyes still closed, he thrashed wildly under the blanket until the man pressed one hand firmly on his shoulder. At the same time, he continued to sweep the other over the boy’s face, palm turned downwards. The boy lay still, but his resistance was not over. In a much calmer voice now, he recited a verse that seemed to come from a part of him that the old man could not reach.

  My fate is my own, my heart remains free

  But before he could utter any more words, long and aged fingers touched his lips. “Be still now, Marcel. Your magic is no match for mine.”

  The boy cried out, a loud and desolate sound of loss as though his very soul had been wrenched from his grasp. But that hand remained over his face and he settled again into a fitful sleep.

  Now the man dragged the table with the book lying on it to the bedside. He straightened his back painfully as he sat himself on the stool, and after a moment’s reflection he began to speak.

  Before she died, my mother told of her last wish. She had chosen a name for her newborn baby, the name of a favourite uncle she had known as a child.

  As he spoke, the book opened of its own accord and the pages began to fan first one way then the other. When this frantic shuffling ended and the open pages lay still, a second voice joined in, an identical voice, repeating his words at the very moment he uttered them.

  Where had this second voice come from? There was no one else in the room, the little girl was sure of it, though this didn’t stop her from glancing around fearfully. Her eyes turned back in time to see the dark figure pass his hand over the book. The second voice continued freely now, even though the old man himself had stopped speaking.

  And so it was that after my mother was laid to rest in the graveyard, my father announced that his new son was to be called Robert.

  On the bed, the sleeping boy stirred once more. His face grimaced into an agonised frown as he rolled his head back and forth. “It’s not me, it’s not my life!” he wailed. But then that wrinkled hand was extended again and he lay still.

  Not his life! What did he mean?

  The girl heard the desperation in his cry and sensed his pain. She had never seen the boy before, knew nothing of him except for his name, but if he was suffering, how could she not help him? If only she could get closer…

  Without thinking, she nudged the wardrobe door just enough for it to creak. The man stood up instantly and took a step in her direction. This man was a sorcerer. Just the thought of the enchantments he might work upon her chilled her bones to the marrow.

  What could she do? In the shadow of the wardrobe’s door she could stay undetected, but not if he pushed the door aside and let the candlelight pick her out. He came a step closer. One more and he would be able to swing the door out of the way. The girl drew back, but that was all she could do. He would surely find her.

  But before he could take that final step, the old man faltered, and for a moment it seemed he would fall. He staggered sideways, groping desperately for the edge of the table to support himself. Finally, he turned his back to the wardrobe and hunched over, exhausted and fighting for breath. By the time he had recovered, a full minute later, he seemed to have forgotten the creaking wardrobe door. Behind that door the little girl finally dared breathe again.

  The wizard turned back to the boy. “I will leave you while my magic takes hold,” he muttered, then shambled out into the passageway and shut the door behind him while the voice of that strange book continued its story.

  Slowly, cautiously, the girl emerged from beside the wardrobe and stood watching the magic at work. Now she could see that the words the sorcerer had spoken were written in a black, spidery hand on the pages of the book itself. The story droned on while the boy listened through his sleep. He was frowning again. A low groan broke from his lips as the name Robert was repeated.

  No, this wasn’t right. He wasn’t Robert at all. She had heard his real name just now: Marcel. She knew she must stop this magic somehow…

  The book, perhaps that was the key. She leaned over the stool, and with a quick flick of her hand she slammed it shut. The voice continued, though muffled now so that the words could not be heard. That should do it, she thought with a smile of satisfaction.

  But the smile was soon wiped from her face when the book opened again by itself, at exactly the same page, and the story continued. She tried again, this time sitting on the front cover. It worked for a moment, then she gave a little shriek as the book bucked her off and left her sprawled painfully on the floor beside the table.

  If she couldn’t stop the telling, then she would have to stop the boy from hearing. She grabbed the candle and began to search for something that could block up his ears. But apart from a few threadbare blankets in the wardrobe, she found nothing, while behind her the storytelling continued, every word searing itself into the boy’s mind. Candlewax dripped on to her hand, hot and runny. She picked it off, moulding its softness between her fingers before she flicked it aside. Then her fingers stopped suddenly. She realised she had found just the thing.

  Working quickly, she melted a pool of wax into her palm, and while it was still warm she worked it into two lumps and pushed them into the boy’s ears. There, it was done. His face became less troubled and his slow, gentle breathing told her he was drifting into a calmer sleep. She sighed with relief and withdrew into the shadows beside the wardrobe once more in case anyone returned.

  After the first telling the book began again, and after the second came a third, but just as this was starting there were more footsteps in the hall outside and the door opened to admit the woman and her son. They stood listening without a word until the story reached its tragic conclusion.

  When I was twelve years old, my father cut his leg with a scythe and the wound began to fester. After struggling desperately for over a week, he died, and because there was no one to care for me I was taken to a home for orphans in Fallside.

  Finally the voice ceased and the book closed without the touch of a hand.

  “Your new name is Robert, it seems. It’s as good a name as any.” The woman touched the palm of her hand to the boy
’s face. “He’s warmer now,” she said to her son, tucking in the blankets where the boy’s twisting and turning had torn them free.

  Watching from nearby the little girl held her breath and hoped they would not see the wax in his ears. But there was no need to worry, she soon discovered. “Come on, Lord Alwyn will be waiting for his book,” the son said quickly, and taking the candle with them, they left the room.

  Even when the house grew quiet, the little girl hesitated. She was still terrified of being discovered. At last, when her fears had calmed a little, she returned to the boy’s side and removed the wax from his ears. Even this intrusion did not wake him, and she guessed that the old man’s magic was still at work. Then she returned to her own room and climbed into bed. The night had many hours still before dawn, but she didn’t sleep a wink.

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  Mrs Timmins’ Home for Orphans and Foundlings

  DAYLIGHT FRINGED THE CURTAIN of the tiny room, then when the sun had climbed high enough, arrows of sunshine broke around the edges, finding targets on the table, the chair and the gaping wardrobe. At last, one golden beam touched the boy’s face, and he awoke.

  Staring down at him was a pair of kindly green eyes. There was a mouth that quivered uncertainly between a smile and a frown, a bulbous nose to match the round and reddened cheeks, and above those eyes, wisps of greying hair that refused to stay in place under her cap.

  “Who are you?” he asked weakly.

  “I’m Mrs Timmins,” she said softly. “You’ve been brought here to live with me and the other children. Counting you, that will make thirteen altogether.”

  “To live… other children?” he murmured, closing his eyes again. Sleep began to welcome him back into its drowsy folds but he fought his way free, opening his eyes a second time. “Where am I?”