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      THE BOOK OF LIES

      JAMES MOLONEY

       Dedication

      For Charlotte and Sydney. Welcome to the world.

      Contents

       COVER

       TITLE PAGE

       DEDICATION

       CHAPTER 7 Pandemonium

       PART TWO

       CHAPTER 8 The Forest

       CHAPTER 9 A Verse in Golden Letters

       CHAPTER 10 Journey’s End

       CHAPTER 11 In a Cellar Beneath the City

       CHAPTER 12 The True and Rightful Heirs

       CHAPTER 13 Long Beard

       CHAPTER 14 Lenoth Crag

       CHAPTER 15 The Ones You Love Can Be the First to Die

       CHAPTER 16 Saving Bea

       PART THREE

       CHAPTER 17 Return to the Chamber

       CHAPTER 18 Astounding Truths and Magic Tricks

       CHAPTER 19 The Tapestry

       CHAPTER 20 A Waning Magic

       CHAPTER 21 Sparks in the Darkness

       CHAPTER 22 Let Slip the Beast

       EPILOGUE

       ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

       COPYRIGHT

       ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

       Prologue

      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

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