The Last of the Sky Pirates (31 page)

Tweezel was standing above him, a lantern raised in one hand and a cold, damp mist-leaf in the other, which he pressed to Rook’s glistening brow. The great spindlebug’s glass body seemed to fill the entire cabin.

‘Keep fighting, brave master,’ he said, his reedy voice hushed with sympathy. ‘The fever will soon break.’

He reached across, plumped up Rook’s pillow and pulled the blanket back over him. Rook closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the spindlebug had gone – though the lantern, low and sputtering now, still glimmered from the desk opposite. Rook looked round
the small, shadowy cabin with its lufwood panelling and simple carved furniture. From the moment Parsimmon had first shown him to it on his arrival at Lake Landing-now already more than a year since – Rook had felt safe and secure inside the cocoon-like timber cabin.

He stared up at the ceiling, his gaze following the narrow planks of wood into the corners and down the walls. The soft amber light of the flickering lantern was mirrored in the varnished wood. Rook’s eyelids grew heavy. The straight lines between the panels twisted and blurred. The dull ache in his shoulder throbbed, sapping his strength and spreading through his body like a slow-burning forest fire.

His eyes closed. His breathing became low and regular as Rook fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. When he woke again, the fever had returned.

One moment he was burning up, his bed-clothes drenched and his skin blistering hot. The next, as if plunged into icy water, he was bitterly cold, huddled up in a tight ball in the middle of the bed-shelf, teeth chattering and body violently shivering.

Noises from outside permeated his dreams. The night cries of the nocturnal Deepwoods creatures, the hushed yet excited chatter of the apprentices hurrying past his door; sometimes the wind howling or rain pounding on the roof, sometimes the turbulent lake slapping and sloshing beneath him – and just once, the distant yodelling cry of a solitary banderbear.

Rook lost all sense of time. Was it night? Was it morning? How long had he lain there, now moaning softly,
now thrashing fretfully about, as he fought the goblin poison that coursed through his veins?

‘It’s all right,’ he heard. ‘Don’t try to speak.’

He slowly opened his eyes. The room swam.

‘We’ve come to say goodbye,’ came a soothing voice.

‘Goodbye,’ Rook repeated, his own voice a low rasping growl.

Before him, two round faces emerged from the shimmering golden shadows. His neck lolled from side to side as he tried to hold their gaze. The effort was too great.

His eyes fluttered shut. A hand clasped his own. It was cool and soft. With one last effort he opened his eyes once again, and there, looking down at him, was Magda. Behind her, Stob.

Rook tried to speak. ‘Magda …’ he whispered, his cracked lips barely moving. His eyes closed.

‘Rook,’ she whispered back, her own eyes filling with tears, ‘Stob and I depart on our treatise-voyages to morrow …’ She broke down. ‘Oh, Stob!’ she cried. ‘Do you think he can even hear us?’

‘He’s a fighter,’ came Stob’s gruff voice. ‘He won’t give in – and Tweezel’s doing all he can. Come, let’s leave him to rest.’

The two apprentices rose to go. ‘Fare you well, Rook,’ they said softly.

Rook’s eyelids flickered. He felt a light kiss brush his fevered brow, the lips cool and dry, and smelled the pine-like scent of Magda’s thick hair. His body was impossibly heavy.

There was a click of the catch as the door closed. Rook was alone again.

Night followed day followed night. Time after time, as evening fell and the milky light from outside grew dim, the spindlebug came to light the oil lantern. He bathed Rook and tucked him in; he put droplets of potent medicine under his tongue and applied oily herbal unguents to the angry wound, and bandaged it up with fresh strips of gauzy cloth.

Sometimes Rook would wake to find Tweezel fussing about him attentively; mostly, he would sleep through the spindlebug’s tender ministrations.

‘Rook, can you hear me?’ Rook opened his eyes. He knew that voice. ‘It’s me, Rook. Xanth.’

‘Xanth?’ he murmured, and winced as the searing pain in his shoulder shot down his arm.

Xanth winced with him. His face was pale and drawn, and his dark sunken eyes looked more haunted than ever. He pushed his hair off his forehead and took a step closer to the bed. The lantern in his hand swung to and fro. ‘I came to say goodbye, Rook,’ he told him.

‘Goodbye,’ said Rook dully. ‘You as well? Magda and Stob …’

Xanth laughed bitterly. ‘Magda and Stob! How I envy them,’ he said. He put his head in his hands. ‘There’ll be no treatise-voyage for me, Rook. My path leads away from the Deepwoods and back to New Sanctaphrax.’

‘New Sanctaphrax?’ Rook struggled to clear his head. Was this really happening – or was it all just a fever-induced dream? ‘But why, Xanth?’ he murmured.

The apprentice turned away, and Rook could just make out his hunched-up shoulders in the shadows. When he spoke, his voice was low and thick with emotion. ‘You have been a good friend to me, Rook Barkwater,’ he said. ‘When others ignored me or made fun of me, you were there, defending me, encouraging me …’ He hesitated. ‘And I have repaid your friendship with lies and treachery.’

‘But … but how?’ asked Rook. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I am a spy, Rook,’ said Xanth. ‘I serve Orbix Xaxis, the Most High Guardian of Night. The librarian knights are my enemies.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Why do you suppose no groups of apprentices have reached Lake Landing since I arrived? Because I betrayed them, Rook. And how did the goblins at the Foundry Glade know that Varis Lodd was going to pay them a visit, eh? Because I set the trap, that’s how. Oh, but Rook …’ Xanth turned and kneeled beside the bed-shelf. He clasped Rook’s hand, his own hands trembling with emotion. ‘If I’d known that you – one of only two people I have ever called friend – were going to be on that raid, I would have warned you, Rook. You’ve got to believe me!’

Rook pulled his hand away. ‘You? You betrayed us?’ he said weakly. ‘After all we’ve been through together … Oh, Xanth, how could you?’

‘Because I belong to the Guardians of Night,’ said Xanth bitterly. ‘They own me, body and soul. Try as I might, there is nothing I can do to get away from them. Don’t you think I’d rather stay out here in the beautiful Deepwoods if I could?’ He shook his head. ‘It’s not possible, Rook. I have gone too far. I have done too much damage. I cannot stay.’ He sighed. ‘I am as much a prisoner of the Tower of Night as my friend Cowlquape, to whom I must now return.’

Rook stared at Xanth through lowered lids. His temples pounded, his vision was blurred.

‘It was Cowlquape who first filled my head with stories of the Deepwoods, and his adventures with Twig the sky pirate,’ Xanth continued. ‘Because of him, I had to come out here and see it all for myself – even if the only way I could do so was by becoming a spy.’ He looked down miserably. ‘I suppose I have betrayed you both.’

Rook turned away. The fever was returning with a savage intensity. Xanth? A traitor? He didn’t want it to be true. Xanth was his friend. A deep sorrow mingled with the pain of his wound, and the shadows grew darker round his bed-shelf. Rook closed his eyes and let the fever wash over him.

Xanth looked down at the sleeping youth, and pulled the blanket up around his shoulders. ‘Farewell, Rook,’ he said. ‘I doubt our paths will cross again.’

He stepped back, turned and crossed the floor to the circular doorway. He did not look back.

Fingers shaking with excitement, Rook dressed himself in the stiff, green leather flight-suit, secured the belt with its dagger and axe, and Felix’s sword round his waist, swung the small backpack of provisions onto his shoulder and set off down the tower staircase. Although he was still a little weak, and his face was pale and drawn, with Tweezel’s help he had managed to beat the goblin’s poison. Now – two weeks after Stob and Magda had set forth – it was his turn to set off on his treatise-voyage.

Varis Lodd was at the foot of the tower to greet him. ‘There were occasions,’ she confessed, ‘when I wondered if this day would ever come. But you made it, Rook. I’m so proud of you. And now, Librarian Knight,’ she said, nodding towards the tethered
Stormhornet
which bobbed about at the back of the stage, ‘your skycraft awaits.’

Rook stepped forward, wrapped his arms round the smooth wooden neck of the delicate creature and rubbed his cheek against its head.
‘Stormhornet,’
he whispered. ‘At last.’

Just then, from behind Rook, there came the sound of footsteps. He turned to see two figures approaching. One was Parsimmon, his tattered gown flapping. The other – tall, bearded and dressed in a black tunic – raised
his hand in greeting. Rook’s gaze fell upon the white crescent moon emblazoned across his chest.

‘The Professor of Darkness!’ he said, surprised.

‘He arrived while you were ill, Rook, bearing news of Xanth’s treachery,’ said Varis. ‘A bad business all round.’

Rook nodded sadly. The two figures drew close. The professor took Rook’s hand and shook it firmly.

‘Can this truly be the callow youth who once tended the buoyant lecterns on the Blackwood Bridge?’ he said. His eyes twinkled. ‘I can scarce believe it. Here you are, about to embark upon your treatise-voyage. We have groomed and trained you. Now it is your chance to contribute to the great canon of work already stored in the Storm Chamber Library. You have done well, Rook. Very well.’ His expression clouded over. ‘Though you have hardly been helped by a certain friend, I believe.’

‘Xanth?’ Rook faltered. It all seemed like a dream to him now, Xanth’s confession and departure. He had tried to put it out of his mind.

‘Xanth Filatine,’ the professor said, ‘is a traitor!’

‘A traitor,’ Rook whispered softly. ‘He … he came to my cabin when I was ill, just before he … disappeared.’

‘Fled back to his evil master, the Most High Guardian
of Night,’ said the professor, shaking his head.

‘Many good apprentices and their loyal guides have been lost because of that young wood-viper,’ said Parsimmon sadly. ‘But come, we are not here to talk of such things. Xanth Filatine will pay for his treachery soon enough. Now we shall celebrate the beginning of your great adventure, Master Rook.’

Rook nodded, but said nothing. He couldn’t think of his former friend without a heavy ache of sadness forming in his chest. He tried to push the feelings away. Today was a day for celebration, not sadness, he told himself.

Varis stepped forwards. ‘Rook, it is time for you to leave,’ she said softly. As she spoke, the low sun rose up above the trees. She shielded her eyes with her hand. ‘May your treatise-voyage be safe and fruitful.’

Rook looked up. He saw the professor, Parsimmon and Varis all smiling at him kindly. He smiled back. Beside him, the sails of the waiting
Stormhornet
fluttered in the light breeze.

Parsimmon nodded towards it. ‘She’s raring to go,’ he said.

‘And so am I!’ said Rook, hardly daring to believe that the moment of his departure had finally arrived.

Checking his laden flight-suit and tightening the straps of his backpack, he turned away. He untethered the small craft and leaped into its saddle. The skittish
Stormhornet
bucked and lurched.

‘Good luck, Rook!’ said Varis.

Rook adjusted his goggles, took hold of the upper sail-rope and raised the loft-sail.

‘Earth and Sky be with you, lad,’ said the Professor of Darkness solemnly The nether-sail billowed out beneath him. The
Stormhornet
juddered upwards and hovered impatiently.

‘And may you return successful from your treatise-voyage!’ cried Parsimmon. ‘Fare you well, Master Rook.’

‘Fare you well!’ shouted the others.

Rook pulled down sharply on the pinner-rope. The sails filled. The flight-weights swung. And Rook’s heart soared as the skycraft flew steeply up into the cool, bright morning air.

‘Farewell!’ he shouted back.

Below him, Lake Landing quickly became smaller and smaller, and the three figures standing upon it – their arms waving and their faces turned up to the sky – grew so tiny, he could no longer see which was which.