Inkspell (Inkworld 2)

Oh yes, Snapper? thought Mo. Suppose I were to tell you that the Bluejay was really made up by a writer just like you?

How furtively they were all looking at him.

“We must get away from here,” said the Prince into the silence. “They’re combing the forest all the way down to the sea. They’ve already found two of our hiding places and smoked them out –

they haven’t yet come upon the mine, but only because they don’t expect us to be so close to their own back door.” The bear grunted, as if amused by the stupidity of the men-at-arms. The gray muzzle in the furry black face, the clever little amber eyes – Mo had liked the bear even in the book, although he had imagined him slightly larger. “Tonight half of us will take the injured to the Badger’s Earth,” the Black Prince continued, “and the others will go to Ombra with me and Roxane.”

“And where does he go?” Snapper was looking at Mo. Then they all looked at him. Mo felt as if their eyes were fingering his skin. Eyes full of hope, but what for? What had they heard about him? Were people already telling stories about what had happened at the Castle of Night, about the book full of blank pages and Firefox’s death?

“He has to get away from here, what else do you think? A long way away!” The Prince picked a dead leaf out of the bear’s coat. “The Adderhead will be looking for him, even though he’s spreading word everywhere that Mortola was responsible for the attack in the forest.” He nodded to a thin boy, at least a head shorter than Meggie, who was standing among the men.

“Tell us again what the crier announced in your village.”

” This, ” began the boy in a hesitant voice, ” this is the Adderhead’s promise: If the Bluejay ever ventures to show his face in Argenta again, he will die the slowest death that the executioners of the Castle of Night have ever given anyone. And the man who brings him in will be rewarded with the Bluejay’s weight in silver. ”

“Better start starving yourself, then, Bluejay,” mocked Snapper, but none of the others laughed.

“Did you really make him immortal?” It was the boy who asked this question.

Snapper laughed out loud. “Listen to the lad! I expect you think the Prince can fly, too, eh?”

But the boy took no notice of him. He was still looking at Mo. “They say you yourself can’t die,”

he said in a low voice. “They say you made yourself a book like that, too, a book of white pages with your death held captive in it.”

Mo had to smile. Meggie had so often looked at him wide-eyed, just like that. Is it a true story, Mo? Come on, tell me! They were all waiting for his answer, even the Black Prince. He saw it in their faces.

“Oh, I can die all right,” he said. “Believe me, I have come very close. As for the Adderhead, however – yes, I have made him immortal. But not for long.”

“What do you mean by that?” The smile had long since frozen on Snapper’s coarse-featured face.

Mo was looking not at him but at the Black Prince when he answered. “I mean that at present nothing can kill the Adderhead. No sword, no knife, no disease. The book I have bound for him protects him. But the same book will be his undoing, for he will have only a few weeks to enjoy it.”

“Why’s that?” It was the boy again.

Mo lowered his voice when he replied, just as he did when he was sharing a secret with Meggie.

“Oh, it’s not particularly difficult to ensure that a book doesn’t live long, you know. Particularly not for a bookbinder. And that’s my trade, although so many people seem to think differently.

Normally, it’s not my job to kill a book – on the contrary, I’m usually called in to save the lives of books – but in this case I’m afraid I had to do it. After all, I didn’t want to be guilty of letting the Adderhead sit on his throne for all eternity, passing the time by hanging strolling players.”

“Then you are a wizard!” Snapper’s voice was hoarse.

“No, really, I’m not,” replied Mo. “Let me say it once again: I’m a bookbinder.”

They were staring at him again, and this time Mo wasn’t sure whether there might not be some fear mingled with the respect in their eyes.

“Off you all go now!” The Prince’s voice broke the silence. “Go and make litters for the injured.”

They obeyed, although every one of them cast a last glance at Mo before they walked away. Only the boy gave him a bashful smile, too.

As for the Black Prince, he signaled to Mo to go with him.

“A few weeks,” he repeated when they were in the gallery where he and the bear slept, away from the others. “How many exactly?”

How many? Even Mo couldn’t tell for sure. If they didn’t notice what he had done for the time being, it would all be quite quick. “Not very many,” he replied.

“And they won’t be able to save the book?”

“No.”

The Prince smiled. It was the first smile Mo had seen on his dark face. “That’s consoling news, Bluejay. It saps one’s courage to fight an immortal enemy. But you do know, don’t you, that he’ll only hunt you down all the more pitilessly when he realizes that you’ve tricked him?”

So he would, indeed. That was why Mo hadn’t told Meggie, had done what had to be done in secret, while she was asleep. He hadn’t wanted the Adderhead to see the fear in her face.

“I don’t intend to come back to this side of the forest,” he told the Prince. “Perhaps there’ll be a good hiding place for us somewhere near Ombra.”

The Prince smiled again. “I’m sure there will be,” he said and looked at Mo as intently as if he meant to see straight into his heart. Go on, try it, thought Mo. Look into my heart and tell me what you find there, because I don’t know myself anymore. He remembered reading about the Black Prince for the first time. What a fabulous character, he had thought, but the man now standing before him was considerably more impressive than the image of him that the words had conjured up. Perhaps a little smaller, though. And a little sadder.

“Your wife says you’re not the man we take you for,” said the Prince. “Dustfinger said the same.

He told me that you come from the country where he spent all those years when we thought he was dead. Is it very different from here?”

Mo couldn’t help smiling. “Oh yes. I think so.”

“How? Are people happier there?”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps! Hmm.” The Prince bent and picked up something lying on the blanket under which he’d slept. “I’ve forgotten what your wife calls you. Dustfinger had a strange name for you: Silvertongue. But Dustfinger is dead, and to everyone else you will be the Bluejay now. Even I find it difficult to call you anything else, after seeing you fight in the forest. So this belongs to you here in the future. Unless you decide to go back after all . . back to the country where you came from, and where I suppose you have another name.”

Mo had never before seen the mask that the Prince was holding out to him. The leather was dark and damaged here and there, but the feathers shone brightly: white, black, yellowish brown, blue. The colors of a blue jay.

“This mask has been celebrated in many songs,” said the Black Prince. “I allowed myself to wear it for a while, and several of us have done so, too, but now it is yours.”