The Book of Lies
A spectacular fantasy adventure, where three children, led by Marcel, battle against the Book of Lies to find their true identities.What is the Book of Lies? It is a collection of all the lies ever told… If you open the Book and tell a lie the Book has not heard, it will add it to its collection. If you tell the Book a lie it has heard before, it will speak the lie out loud. If the Book speaks a lie over and over, it will convince you it is the truth, so a lie and the truth become one…In the dead of night, an unconscious boy is brought to an orphanage. All traces of anything that could identify the boy are removed, including the gold ring he wears, engraved with the name Marcel. A book is placed in front of the boy and opened. But this is no ordinary book – it is the Book of Lies. A powerful magic user, Lord Alwyn, uses the lies the Book contains to erase Marcel’s former life, and give him a new identity.But there is someone else in the room, someone who fills Marcel’s ears with wax to prevent him absorbing the lies flowing from the Book. For Marcel is not the only orphan who has had his identity changed by the Book of Lies, and he is soon thrown into an adventure that will see him encounter wolves, a flying horse, elves, a usurper king and his army and enchanted prisons. But the final battle will be with the Book of Lies itself, as only it can provide Marcel with his true identity.
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THE BOOK OF LIES
JAMES MOLONEY
For Charlotte and Sydney. Welcome to the world.
Contents
CHAPTER 1 Mrs Timmins’ Home for Orphans and Foundlings
CHAPTER 6 Whispers in the Orchard
CHAPTER 9 A Verse in Golden Letters
CHAPTER 11 In a Cellar Beneath the City
CHAPTER 12 The True and Rightful Heirs
CHAPTER 15 The Ones You Love Can Be the First to Die
CHAPTER 17 Return to the Chamber
CHAPTER 18 Astounding Truths and Magic Tricks
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?”
