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, Clara,” 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.