Spellweaver (13 page)

Felicity managed a
weak, unconvincing smile.

“Seriously, though,”
Hollie said, placing her hand on hers. “What have you got to
lose?”

It was a sensible
question. Whatever the reason, Felicity found the very idea of
returning to the cellar almost repulsive, and it was only now that
her friend was questioning her that she considered why. It didn’t
take her long to figure it out.

It was fear. She
wasn’t afraid of Oliver, for since his capture he had proven
himself to be harmless. No, it wasn’t what he could do - it was
what he knew. The knowledge he possessed had a power beyond that of
any strange, magical spell he could perform. It wasn’t even his
knowledge of magic and other mysteries that scared her - it was
what he knew about her mother. He had to know something; his
desperation to get hold of the journal made that quite blatant, but
it also forced Felicity to a difficult realisation.

This strange,
mysterious boy knew more about her mother than she did, and she
needed to know how.

9.

The remainder of
Boxing Day passed, taking with it the leftover festivities of the
Christmas holiday. The merriment and cheer became a thing of the
distant past as people returned to work, shops reopened and radio
stations ceased airing jolly Christmas tunes. A thick layer of snow
still covered the streets like icing on a cake, but as it began to
contort into a slushy, brown mess the weather became more of an
annoyance than a welcome novelty.

Felicity had not
wanted to act upon Hollie’s advice to go and speak to Oliver
straight away. Jamie’s house still felt much like a warehouse for
far too many secrets, mysteries and impossibilities. Instead, she
went for a walk around the neighbourhood, idly tracing the icy
footprints that led across the pavement and hoping that the cold
air would help to clear her mind. It didn’t.

Had Felicity known
that Oliver’s head was filled with just as many anxieties, she
would have been very surprised indeed; he was so arrogant that it
would have been impossible for she and her friends to believe that
he had any problems or worries at all - save, of course, for his
imprisonment.

That was something
that Oliver felt particularly ashamed of. He had spent several days
amongst the teenagers at that contemptible high school, watching
them fritter from class to class like ants, hopelessly studying
trivial subjects that had no real importance. He had tried to close
his ears to their foolish whims and ridiculous problems, but
couldn’t stop all of it from getting in. It felt as though the
stories of relationship breakdowns and sporting defeats was making
him stupid, too. If only they knew what was coming.

They were so
ill-prepared it was laughable. Oliver had spent around six months
amongst these people and couldn’t find one shred of evidence that
indicated that they had any means of defence against magic. They
had plenty of ways of attacking one another - indeed, they were
particularly skilful in that area - but they wouldn’t have enough
time to amass any armies or launch any nuclear missiles if the
others decided to attack, and any defence or pre-emptive strike
would be useless anyway. It would all be over before these idiots
even realised it had started.

And that was what made
his capture all the more humiliating. He had been careless; he had
thought it was Felicity lying asleep on the sofa, and was quite
surprised when he realised it was Hollie. But by then it had been
too late, for that simpleton brother of hers had knocked him out
with a wine bottle. A wine bottle, of all things. It was so
pathetic that Oliver shuddered to even think of it, and now he was
trapped in a cellar with his hands bound and his ability to
spellcast stripped from him. The fools didn’t even realise what
they’d done to him; with his arms and hands restricted, he couldn’t
form the gestures and movements essential to creating magic. He
was, to put it quite simply, stuck.

Still, there was one
glimmer of hope that shed a grateful light on his predicament:
Felicity had the book. Oliver should have been elated that the item
he had been seeking so arduously for all this time was finally so
near, but however close it was, it was still out of his grasp. His
helplessness both infuriated and terrified him, for the others were
close now, so close that he could feel it, and they would not be
impressed that he had failed in his mission. The situation could
not have been more dire; the others did not take failure lightly,
and the utter incompetence that Oliver had displayed would not go
unpunished.

He deserved it, that
much he knew, even if it meant his life; the others had been known
to execute their own in order to set the example that failure would
not be tolerated. But this was more than failure. This was utter
ineptitude, stupidity, foolishness. To have been captured by these
inferior surface walkers, creatures who could not even grasp the
idea of magic, let alone use it themselves, was unacceptable. It
would bring shame upon the entire order - unless Oliver could do
something before the others arrived.

If he could somehow
escape the cellar and capture both the book and the girl, no one
would need to know about his humiliation. He would be seen as a
hero, the one who saved the world. The others wouldn’t punish him,
the book would be in safe hands and the girl would no longer be a
danger. With that thought in mind, Oliver began a renewed attempt
at severing his bonds.

He was in luck. The
surface of the pipe to which he was tied was not completely smooth;
it had several lips at certain intervals where different parts of
metal had been soldered and screwed together. In the dim light of
the street lamps that was seeping through the tiny cellar window,
Oliver saw that if he could just move far enough upwards, he could
try to use the lip of metal to cut through the rope tied around his
wrists. He needed about a metre; if he could stand on his chair
-

The door to the cellar
opened. Oliver looked up and saw someone coming in.

It was
Felicity.

The sight of her
enraged him, though he was an expert at hiding it. He watched her
descend the stone steps, one hand on the iron railing, the other
clutching the book that he was so desperate to possess. He clenched
his fists. Could it be true that she really had no idea what she
had? Who she was? Or was she simply insulting him by playing
deceitful games and feigning ignorance?

He would find
out.

He kept his eyes
locked on her as she walked slowly and nervously into the cellar.
He thought he saw her shaking. Her cheeks looked flushed, their
redness a stark contrast to the rest of her white skin. He could
see that she was struggling to keep herself composed and he had to
give her credit, for however much he stared at her, trying to
unnerve her, she stared right back at him.

It seemed like an age
before she spoke, and when at last she did, her voice was calm and
steady. “You knew my mother,” she said to him.

But it was Oliver, not
Felicity, who was the seasoned professional at concealing his
emotions, and he could see how afraid she was. This in itself
wasn’t a telltale sign about how much she knew or how much she was
trying to hide; she was smart to be frightened of him.

“No,” he replied. “I
didn’t.”

Felicity frowned, and
her eyes dropped to the book. “But this is her journal, and you’ve
been looking for it. Haven’t you?”

“You’re right,” he
said. “I have. So why don’t you just give it to me and I’ll leave
you and your friends alone?”

She stared. “I don’t
believe you.”

Oliver’s shoulders
sagged, though he shouldn’t have been disappointed. He knew that
she wasn’t stupid. He was going to have to try harder if he wanted
to capture both her and the book before the others
arrived.

“Then
why are you down here talking to me?” he asked her.

Felicity seemed to
consider this. She looked from him to her mother’s journal, and
then back at his staring face. Then, in a distinctly decisive
manner, she began to walk towards the cellar steps.

He had pushed her too
far. He couldn’t let her go; there was too much at
stake.

“Wait,” he
said.

She turned
around.

“If you tell me
something, I’ll answer your questions. Does that sound
fair?”

Felicity bit her lip,
apparently considering his offer. After a moment, she nodded
slowly.

“I want you to tell me
the truth,” Oliver said. “No games.”

She nodded
again.

“Tell me whether or
not you’re pretending.”

The command caught
Felicity off guard, and it showed. Her eyebrows raised in surprise
and then furrowed in confusion as she processed what she had heard.
Oliver studied her changing expressions, watched as her eyes
flicked about the room as if searching for an answer. Her mouth
opened slightly; she was about to speak - no sound came. She
released her breath. Finally, her eyes came back to him.

“I don’t understand,”
she said. “What do you mean, ‘pretending’?”

He didn’t respond to
her question; there was no need. Her reactions and response had
told him everything he needed to know. She had no idea who she was,
who her mother was and what manner of thing she held in those
pitiful, weak hands. She had no concept of magic and what the world
was really like. Somehow, it had been kept from her.

She was lost - lost
and alone.

Inside, Oliver smiled.
It had to be on the inside, for he didn’t want Felicity to see it.
Her ignorance was to be his salvation. The less she knew about her
heritage, the better it would be for him. He could make it work;
with a few well-placed revelations and some misleading statements,
he would have her eating out of his hand. The question was whether
or not he could do so before the others arrived.

Felicity watched him
as he leaned back in his chair. It was evident that he was not
going to elaborate on what he had just said, and whilst she was
curious, she somehow knew that if he didn’t want to tell her
something, he wouldn’t; after all, he had no reason to. She wasn’t
going to release him in exchange for information and he knew it.
Her heart sank as she realised that he had absolutely no incentive
whatsoever to tell her anything at all, and she wondered whether or
not it had been worth the trouble coming down to the cellar to talk
to him.

But still, she had to
try. “What do you know about my mother?”

She was somewhat
relieved when Oliver broke off his unnerving stare and looked
upwards, as if in thought, and then he shrugged. “I know a few
things.”

“Then tell
me.”

“Where do I
start?”

Felicity flicked her
eyes down to her mother’s journal as it rested in her hands. “Start
with this,” she said. “Tell me why you want it so
badly.”

Oliver followed
Felicity’s gaze and had to try harder than usual to hide his desire
for the book. If only his hands weren’t tied behind his back, he
would shape a spell that would leave the wretched girl trapped
behind a wall of ice, and then he would simply pluck the book from
her shivering hands and leave her cowering uselessly in a corner
until the others came. How frustrating and pathetic it was that the
only thing that stood between him and his innate powers was a
string of ordinary rope.

He raised his eyes to
meet hers once again and delighted in the discomfort this caused
her. It was time to tell her the truth - well, some of it,
anyway.

“It’s a spell book,”
he said simply.

Felicity stared, her
expression betraying her disbelief.

“But not just any
spell book, of course,” Oliver continued. “It’s the book of the
Spellweaver. It contains instructions, notes and plans for the most
powerful magic in existence. Healing magic, destructive magic,
defensive spells - all of it is in that book, and no one, not even
me, has ever seen it. Even the Grandmaster himself couldn’t imagine
the kind of power contained on those pages.”

“Wait, wait, wait,”
Felicity interrupted him. “Just what are you talking about? Who’s
the Grandmaster?”

Oliver shook his head
impatiently; he had faltered. He had to stay conscious of the fact
that Felicity was ignorant of the things he took for granted. He
had to be more careful what he said.

“That doesn’t matter,”
he said dismissively. “What does matter is that you understand
exactly what it is that you’re holding.”

“But what you’ve said
- it’s impossible,” Felicity insisted. “I mean - spell books?
They’re... they’re for kids’ stories and - and - and they don’t
exist!”

Oliver rolled his
eyes. This was already becoming more taxing than he was prepared to
endure. She knew so little that it was almost amusing.

“You think I would
come to your world voluntarily? To become one of you, to go to your
school, to spend time in those ridiculous lessons by choice?” He
snorted. “I did it because I had to find that book, because what’s
contained within it is worth putting myself through all of that.”
He leaned forward, staring at her even more intently, and lowered
his voice. “You’ve seen what I can do,” he said darkly. “You’ve
seen what I’m capable of. Is it really that surprising to know that
others can do it, too?”