Chapter 7
Sleeping Spells

    “Stay with me, Egrian. Please,” he tried to say, but wasn’t sure whether the plea was spoken or remained a wish locked within his mind.

    The next thing he was aware of was dawn’s vivid flush against his eyelids. He opened his eyes—to stare straight into Egrian’s fierce golden orbs.

    “So you managed to come back with me!” he said in a joyful whisper. Then he frowned as something occurred to him. “Egrian, if I fell asleep because of Laz—of Ignarius’s evil spell, how did I get back to the cave? And how come you managed to get into my bedroom?”

    “I guess Ignarius’s mind is full of other things and he became careless and lazy—or more probably over-confident. He should really have created another spell in the castle rather than reworking the first one. You see, I overheard the spell and so when it was invoked the second time Esmeralda and I were able to bring your spirit back to the cave to enable me to return here with you—because you wore her hat for so long.”

    “Oh!” Mark said, still too sleepy to fully understand. Besides, something else was demanding his attention. “I’m starving!” he complained as his insides growled loudly.

    “I’ll ask Esmé to get breakfast brought up. I need to see her anyway.” Egrian fluttered to a window. “Could you let me out, please.”

    After a brief struggle with a long-unused catch Mark opened the window. Regretfully he watched Egrian soar away on the morning’s first gentle thermals: it had been comforting to have a confidant. Then slowly he closed the window and returned to the bed.

    Some thirty minutes later the key rattled in the lock and the door opened to admit two armed guards and the sour-faced woman, carrying a tray, which she dumped on the bedside table before marching out. The guards followed and relocked the door.

    Too hungry to be fussy, Mark fell upon the tray’s unappetising contents—lumpy porridge without sugar or milk, toast and cooking margarine, and a cup of lukewarm, watery tea. He was just finishing the tea when a sound at the window made him start. He turned in time to glimpse a wing-tip.

    “Egrian!” he cried, rushing to open the window.

    Egrian had in his beak a piece of paper, which he dropped on the duvet before settling on the bedhead. “Esmé’s sorry she couldn’t make them give you a better breakfast. But we’ve worked out a way to free you. Esmé will smuggle me into the guardroom this evening and I’ll steal your key and take it to her. This note contains Esmé’s instruction. If I simply tell you, Ignarius’s sleeping spell will make you forget. When you’ve memorised it tear it up and throw it out the window. Now I must go: if I’m caught it will ruin everything.”

    Mark reluctantly unlatched the window and Egrian fluttered out, to be immediately caught up in a thermal. Mark watched him climb until he neared the top of the castle, where he banked from the rising current and swept around a corner with a powerful flapping of wings. Then, sighing heavily, Mark closed the casement and sat on the bed to read Esmé’s instructions. It was going to be a very long, boring day…

The key turning in the lock was shatteringly loud. Mark jerked up, his heart leaping painfully. Groggily he eyed the two guards and the grim serving-woman. What was happening? Surely he’d just had breakfast? And hadn’t Egrian returned as he was finishing?

    His eyes went to his bedside table. Yes, the tray was there. Had he dreamed Egrian’s return? Was the escape plan also a dream? Then he realised he was clutching a slip of paper. Oh, no! It hadn’t been a dream! And he hadn’t torn the instructions up!

    He sat up, carefully slipping the hand holding the paper under the duvet. The woman, however, barely glanced at him as she and the guards switched trays and went out. The key turned in the lock. Only when their footsteps had died was he aware he’d been holding his breath: he exhaled in one long gasp.

    If I wait till I’ve eaten I’ll only go back to sleep, he thought with sudden insight, going to the window through which Egrian had departed and reopening it. He unscrewed the piece of paper. Later he remembered reading it several times and shredding it for the currents of hot air to carry away. But even as he returned to the bed he found he couldn’t recall what Esmé had written.

    Worrying about it, he ate the scrap of cold, overcooked roast beef and the spoonful of tepid and lumpy mashed potatoes with equally lumpy gravy, but couldn’t prevent Ignarius’s spell taking effect the moment he’d finished.

    When the grim trio came for the third time Mark woke without any confusion. After their departure he lifted the covers and was astonished to find thick chicken soup, a rich beef casserole with vegetables and dumplings, and a colourful brandy trifle with both ice cream and whipped cream. Although he’d done nothing but sleep since lunch, Mark’s stomach started rumbling.

    It was only after starting to do full justice to this unexpected bounty that he remembered Esmé’s first instruction: “Don’t finish your dinner or you’ll go back to sleep. The spell will know when the food’s gone.”

    In that case, Mark thought gleefully, I’ll play games with it. I’ll go from dish to dish and leave something of everything. That should really confuse the spell.

    Using every ounce of self-control, Mark slowed his eating. And, suddenly remembering all of Esmé’s instructions, he took many short breaks to put his hands on his head and concentrate on an image of the guards asleep in the guardroom.

    An hour or so later he was still eating when the key turned in the lock—and there stood Esmé with her finger to her lips. Mark immediately abandoned his dinner.

    Gesturing again for silence, Esmé led the way to the dungeons where Flame the Tame waited.

    About to pass the abandoned prison cells, Mark paused on hearing a strange scratching. “Are the rats still working?”

    “No. They’ve gone.” Esmé stopped as she too heard the noise. “It’s coming from there.” She pointed to a heavy metal door. “And there’s only one of whatever’s scratching. I doubt we’d be able to hear one rat—those doors are very thick.”

    “You mean … it’s something bigger?”

    “I think I know exactly what we’ll find.” Mark couldn’t see the expression on Esmé’s face. But her voice was grim. “Put your hands on your hair,” she urged. Mark obeyed. “Now concentrate. Try to see through the door.”

    Mark did so. Instantly, as though the door had turned transparent, he saw a shadowy form on the other side. And the form was willing him to see it, to hear its voice. “Help me break the lock.”

    Compelled as though he had no choice, Mark bent his mind on the rusty lock. And the door started grinding open. A tall figure stepped out—a woman of awesome dignity, with now mostly dormant power radiating from her. In the torchlight her black eyes sent a shiver down his spine. “Who-who are you?”

    She seemed to pin Mark down with her forceful gaze. He expected her to answer by demanding to know who he was. But she replied instead with quiet dignity: “I am the Queen Dowager Lazaria. Ignarius’s mother.”

    Mark’s heart sank. Oh no! We’ve walked into a trap!

© Laraine Anne Barker, 1992
All rights reserved

THIRD BONUS
extract from Mark Willoughby and the Impostor-King of Lazaronia

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