With these words she gave a little bow and left the room by the second door, closing it behind her.
‘Well, lad,’ said the Spook enthusiastically. ‘Let’s get to work.’
So we went to opposite sides of the circular room and began to look at the titles on the spines. Many were intriguing: a large leather-bound tome caught my eye: Speculations on the Dark: Its Achilles Heel.
I knew that Achilles was a hero from Greek history. At birth his mother had dipped him into a cauldron to bestow upon him the gift of invulnerability. Unfortunately she had held him by the heel, so this part was not immersed in the liquid. In later life an enemy had fired an arrow into that heel and he’d died. So this book probably told the reader how to find the secret weaknesses of creatures of the dark, which could lead to their destruction. I thought that might be well worth dipping into.
I was just about to lift it off the shelf when the Spook called me over. ‘Come and look at what I’ve found, lad!’
In his hand was an open book. It was quite slim, but obviously its size was not linked to its importance. My master closed it and pointed to its cover. Engraved into the brown leather, high on the cover in silver letters was one word:
Doomdryte.
Below it, also embossed in silver, was an image that I instantly recognized. It was the head and forelimbs of a skelt.
‘It’s a grimoire, lad,’ my master told me. ‘In theory the most dangerous one that has ever existed. No doubt this is just a copy, but if accurate, its text could still bestow incredible power upon a practitioner of the dark arts. Some say it was dictated by the Fiend to a mage who tried to use its magic but was killed in the process. If one word of the incantation is wrong or mispronounced, the speaker is instantly destroyed. However, if a mage ever does manage to read it aloud accurately at one go – and that takes many hours – then he’d achieve god-like powers. He’d be invulnerable, and able to do terrible things with impunity.’
‘Why has a skelt’s head been used on the cover?’ I asked.
The hilts of my sword, the Destiny Blade, and Bone Cutter, the dagger given to me by Slake, were formed in the likeness of a skelt’s head. The sight of such an image on the cover of the most dangerous of all grimoires made me feel uneasy about the sword. At times it almost seemed sentient. Immediately before combat, blood dripped from the ruby eyes. Even though it was supposedly a ‘hero sword’, there was something of the dark about it, forged as it was by one of the Old Gods.
‘Well, as you know, lad, the skelt has long been associated with witches who use blood magic – especially water witches. They keep one in a cage and let it loose to drain their prisoners. Once the creature is bloated with blood, they rip its living body to pieces with their bare hands and then devour it. This triples the power of the blood magic. I’ve always considered that a particularly nasty ritual – a creature that is most appropriate, don’t you think, for the very worst of the grimoires?’
‘You’d think such a dangerous book would be hidden away – not just placed casually on a shelf here. I wonder if Mistress Fresque knows what it is?’
‘A librarian hasn’t necessarily read all the books in her library, lad.’
‘So you’ll want this one for your own library?’ I asked, more uneasy than ever.
‘Nay, lad, not for my library. I want this book so that I can destroy it and prevent it from falling into the wrong hands.’
At that moment the far door opened and Mistress Fresque backed into the room holding a tray, which she set down on the table. It was laid with a knife, three tankards of water, and a large plate with thick slices of bread and cold chicken, and two wedges of cheese; one was from the County but the other I didn’t recognize.
I saw her glance at the book the Spook was holding, and it seemed to me that a flicker of annoyance briefly twisted her pretty face. It disappeared so quickly that immediately afterwards I wondered if I’d just imagined it. My master certainly didn’t notice it; he had turned and was already replacing the Doomdryte on the shelf.
‘You must be hungry after your journey – please help yourselves,’ Mistress Fresque said, gesturing to the tray.
I sat down next to the Spook; our host sat some distance away, facing us across the table.
‘Aren’t you going to join us?’ my master asked.
She shook her head and smiled. ‘I’ve already eaten. Later I will prepare supper – you’re welcome to stay for the night.’
The Spook neither accepted nor declined her invitation. He simply smiled, nodded and cut himself a piece of County cheese. I helped myself to some chicken. I often had more than my fill of cheese: this was the only thing I was allowed to nibble on when we were preparing to deal with the dark.
‘What do you think of my library after your first brief inspection?’ she asked.
‘It’s an astonishing collection,’ my master said. ‘There are so many books to choose from – which leads me to two questions. Firstly, how many books are you prepared to let go, and secondly, would you accept payment in stages? I’m involved in the expensive business of rebuilding my house at the moment.’
‘The number of books you can take is, of necessity, limited. But I could see my way to selling maybe three hundred or so. The price of each will vary – some are rare indeed, while others could be replaced from other sources. There are just a few that I cannot allow to leave this library, but make your selection and we will see. It may not be a problem. As for price – we will negotiate, but I’m sure we can reach a compromise that will make us both happy. You needn’t worry about paying for them all immediately. Indeed, the cost could be paid over the course of a couple of years if you wish.’
There was a question that had been bothering me. It was an impressive library, so why did she want to reduce the stock?
‘Do you mind if I ask why you’re selling some of your books? Is it just to help Mr Gregory?’ I asked.
Mistress Fresque smiled and nodded. ‘It is partly to help your master rebuild his own library. He has done much good work and deserves help in restocking that resource to leave to his heirs. But I must confess that I am also driven by a need to carry out repairs to my own house. I inherited it just five years ago when my uncle died. He was an old man who was set in his ways – he had a great love of trees. He could not bear to break a single twig, never mind cut down anything that encroached upon the house. There has been some damage done to the foundations, and I need to enlist the services of a forester to deal with the roots. I also need a stonemason to carry out repairs to the structure of the building.’