The Book Without Words_ A Fable of Medieval Magic - Avi [42]
The cheering soldiers took up their positions around the house.
21
A trembling Sybil covered the newly dead Thorston with a blanket.
“I’m afraid I agree with Master,” said a weary Odo from atop the books. “We need not bury him again. With Damian gone, I’m not sure we even could manage it. Anyway, I fear Master will be back all too soon.”
“God protect us,” said Sybil. She turned and held her hand out to Odo. The coin, the one with Damian’s image, rested in her palm. “The boy was false in life,” she whispered. “He’s false in death. Is that how the book’s magic works? That his desire for gold truly consumed him? How could Master have done such a thing?”
“I suspect,” said Odo, “those stones he swallows not only make him younger, but more powerful each time.”
“Crueler, too,” said Sybil. “And, Odo, according to the monk, when he takes this last one—Time—we shall have no more time: we’ll die.”
Odo fluttered to the window and peered out.
“Odo,” said Sybil, “we need to bring the book and stone to the monk—now.”
“It’s too late,” said Odo. “Look.”
Sybil joined him at the window.
“There, you see,” said Odo. “Bashcroft is showing the soldiers the gold. If I know anything about humans, that will make them hungry for more. Step out the door, and Bashcroft and the soldiers will only hang us.”
“But if we stay,” said Sybil, “we won’t be any better off in Master’s hands.”
“I suppose one of us could swallow the stone,” said Odo. “That might help.”
“Odo,” said Sybil, “whatever good might come of it, it’s clear something bad will come too—perhaps worse.”
Alfric emerged from the back room. “Please, mistress, is it safe?”
“For a while,” Sybil replied. “Master is dead again.”
“But—he’ll return, won’t he?”
“We think so,” said Odo.
“What will he do then?” said the boy.
“We don’t know,” said Sybil. “Best return to the back room. I’ll come comfort you.”
The boy started off, then stopped and turned. “Mistress, what shall become of us?”
“I don’t know that either,” admitted Sybil.
CHAPTER FIVE
1
AS THE cathedral bells tolled midnight, the upper room was aglow with moonlight. Alfric lay asleep in the back room. Odo was crouched on the windowsill, bright eyes fixed on the gallows and the soldiers, who were either sleeping or standing on guard.
Sybil sat by herself in a corner of the room, eyes fixed on the bed where Thorston continued to lay dead. On the floor by her side lay the Damian coin—as she had come to think of it. Now and again she glanced at it: the image of the boy seemed to be glaring up at her—complaining about his plight.
“Perhaps,” said the raven, “we could use some of those coins Master made to pay ransom for our freedom.”
Sybil looked up. “Do you think it would work?”
“It might,” said Odo. “As long as they don’t know the gold is false.”
“I’m willing to try,” said Sybil, putting the Damian coin in her own purse.
The two hurried down to the basement, where Sybil flung open one of the chests. She gasped. The coins were gone: each and every one had turned to sand.
“Blessed mercy,” cried Odo. “Try the other chest!”
They were the same.
“My heart is breaking,” whispered Odo.
The two returned to the upper room. “This is all my fault,” said the bird.
“Why?”
“My thoughts were only about gold.”
“You only desired to free yourself.”
“I should have been content with what was.”
“But you hated that life,” said Sybil. “Besides, we may still have a chance. I suppose it depends now on Master.” She went to Thorston’s bedside and gazed at his unmoving body beneath the blanket. She wondered if the astonishing changes of age came slowly or suddenly. “Odo,” she said, “do you think magic is nothing but life in haste?”
The bird shook his head. “More likely it’s the other way around: life being the slowest magic.”
“But magic all the same,” said Sybil. She thought of the last and smallest stone. “Such a small stone,” she said. “Time. Such a great gift. How odd it’s the