The Sword of Straw by Amanda Hemingway Read Free Book Online

forged endless ages ago and hidden away—the Cup in this world, the Sword and the Crown none knew where—guarded by alien forces—until in the city of Arkatron on Eos a ruler thousands of years old should find a way to complete the Spell and save his people from destruction…
    But the smoke-magic could not pierce the walls of this world, nor reveal the purpose of the Ultimate Powers—if there was one. Bartlemy saw only the kaleidoscope of quick-change images, the clues that led and misled. A blue-eyed schoolboy with a soft mouth, and Hazel watching him, covertly, from behind her hair—a star that wasn’t a star, looking down on Annie’s bookshop—a phantom in a mirror, too vague to have form or face but slowly solidifying, gone before he could make it out. And then they were inside the bookshop, and a man with an anxious forehead was leafing through a book, a very old book with handwritten notes at the back, in an ink that wasn’t black but brown with age. An ink, Bartlemy thought, that might once have been red. The man bought the book—Bartlemy heard Annie’s murmur of thanks—and the picture followed him out of the shop, and down the street, and somewhere in the background there was a little sound like a sigh, the released breath of an archer who sees his arrow hit the bull’s-eye at last. But there was nobody there to breathe…
    Lastly a dark figure in a dark room, long-robed, his back to the watcher, presumably Josevius again. He was dribbling powder through his fingers to form a magic circle. There was a hiss—
“Fiumé!”
—and a gleam of fire ran around the perimeter. And then came the muttered rhythm of an incantation, and a slow pale form coalesced at the circle’s heart. The magister, Bartlemy thought, summoning one of the Old Spirits—the Hunter, the Hag, the Child, the One We Do Not Name—in the deal that cost him his soul. But Bartlemy had used few fire crystals, and as the last one crumbled to a smolder the image faded into smoke. He unblocked the chimney, and the air cleared, and Hoover came and rested his chin on his master’s knee.
    “Well,” Bartlemy said, “was that helpful, or wasn’t it? Do we know anything we didn’t know before? Or—at the risk of sounding like Donald Rumsfeld—do we only know things we don’t know?” The dog made a whiffling noise. “Who was the man in the bookshop? Would Annie have any idea? It might be worth making a little drawing, and showing it to her. It’s a pity I’m not a better artist, but my creative skills are usually confined to the kitchen. Still, I can always cheat. Magic is about cheating, after all.”
    Hoover gave a short, sharp bark.
    “Yes,” said Bartlemy. “I take the point. If I can cheat, so can others. I’ll bear it in mind.”
    He poured himself a glass of something that smelled of raspberries and blackberries, of cinnamon and cardamom, of Christmas cake and summer spice—but most of all of alcohol. When he had taken a sip or two he remarked with uncharacteristic force: “I wish I knew what the hell was going on.”
    Hoover thumped his tail by way of agreement.
     
    T HE SUMMER term had begun badly for Hazel. Math, never her favorite subject, had taken a turn for the worse, and although Nathan usually helped her with it he was busy with his own commitments and somehow, when they
did
meet, they always had better things to talk about. George was quite good at understanding math, but less good at explaining
what
he understood about it. Now she was floundering in a quagmire of incomprehensible numbers, struggling with the feeling, long familiar to her, that there was no point in trying to think during lessons because it wouldn’t get her anywhere, so she might as well give up before she started. Her own stupidity made her angry, and she turned the anger outward on others. She was used to the idea that Nathan was cleverer than her—Nathan was cleverer than
everybody
—but it was galling to find herself taking second place