The Book of Whispers Read online

  Kimberley Starr is a teacher and author based in Melbourne. She won the 2003 Queensland Premier’s Literary Award for Best Emerging Author for her debut novel, The Kingdom Where Nobody Dies. She has a degree in mediaeval literature, and travelled through Turkey and Israel to research The Book of Whispers, which won the 2015 Text Prize for Young Adult and Children’s Writing.

  kimberleystarr.com

  textpublishing.com.au

  The Text Publishing Company

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  22 William Street

  Melbourne Victoria 3000

  Australia

  Copyright © Kimberley Starr 2016

  The moral right of Kimberley Starr to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  First published in Australia by The Text Publishing Company, 2016

  Book design by Imogen Stubbs

  Cover images from iStock, Shutterstock and Arcangel (sword by Tim Robinson, sky by Collaboration JS)

  Map by Simon Barnard

  Typeset by J&M Typesetting

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication

  Creator: Starr, Kimberley, author.

  Title: The book of whispers / by Kimberley Starr.

  ISBN: 9781925355512 (paperback)

  ISBN: 9781922253972 (ebook)

  Target Audience: For secondary school age.

  Subjects: Fantasy fiction.

  Dewey Number: A823.4

  For my own adventurers—Ben, Tom and Jake Elliget.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  The de Falconi family of San Gimignano

  Luca, son and heir to the Conte (Count) de Falconi

  Onorato, the Conte de Falconi

  Anna, the Contessa de Falconi

  Gemma, Luca’s younger sister

  Sir Narlo, Luca’s cousin, squire to the Conte

  Other Tuscans

  Lady Serafina Santoro, Luca’s friend, betrothed to Luca since childhood

  Monsignor Dragonus Ramberti, a priest from San Gimignano

  Brother Bonaccorso, a monk from a monastery near San Gimignano

  Sir Mattiolas, nephew of the Duke of Piacenza

  Sir Bottiglio del Benino, vassal knight to the Conte de Falconi

  Lady Bianca, Bottiglio’s wife and Serafina’s sister

  Desi, Luca’s groom

  Drucia, Lady Bianca’s maid

  Sir Oderisi of Genoa, Narlo’s closest friend

  Trotula of Salerno, a famous female physician

  Grand Contessa Matilda, Margrave (ruler) of Tuscany

  Members of the Cappadocia Rock Convent Community

  Suzan, daughter of Sister Helena

  Sister Helena, a voiceless captive nun

  Father Eser, a priest

  Other Sisters: Sister Aysel, Sister Najat, Sister Irem

  Princes and religious leaders of the Great Pilgrimage (now known as the First Crusade)

  Bishop Adhemar of Puy, religious leader and envoy of the Pope

  Prince Raymond of Toulouse, a wealthy crusader who lost an eye brawling in a church

  Prince Bohemond of Taranto, a warrior king in search of a kingdom

  Alexios I Komnenos, Emperor of Byzantium

  Tancred, nephew of Bohemond

  Demons

  Thanatos, the demon of death, now a prince of demons

  Tutivillus, the demon of the book

  Perseus (Sir Percy), a demon of the pride genus

  Invidia, a demon of envy, attached to Narlo’s spurs

  Kenodoxia, a demon of pride, attached to Raymond’s chainmail

  Philargyria, a demon of greed, attached to Bohemond’s coin bag

  Asmodeus, a demon of lust

  Other demons: Pazuzu (rage), Tristitia (gloom), Edicitas (gluttony)

  The Hydra, demons of water

  The Keres, demons of war

  N.B. History, like the Book of Whispers, has a way of writing some people in and others out. Characters marked with a are figures in history or mythology, as well as in this book.

  sappie che, tosto che l’anima trade

  come fec’io, il corpo suo l’è tolto

  da un demonio, che poscia il governa

  as soon as any soul becomes a traitor,

  as I have been, a demon takes its body

  and keeps that body in his power

  —Dante, Inferno, Canto XXXIII, c.1318

  For thirty moons, the demons dance

  across the world, from Rome and France.

  The furred-wood tower’s water stroll

  to David’s city’s Temple Knoll

  lets green flame, blue blood, Holy Lance

  rend human souls. Dandelion and tansy

  sage and part-consumed bezants

  move bodies into their control

  in thirty moons.

  Knows this, the falcon’s codex scroll:

  Thanatos has life-theft as his goal—

  the lives of those who fight in trance—

  and their human form. You have one chance

  to save the final mortal soul

  —in thirty moons.

  —Prophecy from the Book of Whispers

  CHAPTER 1

  Thirty moons

  TUSCANY, AD 1096

  Luca

  Luca! Luca! Master Luca! Sir Luca!’

  The demon knows my name!

  Returning from a morning ride, I pull hard on my reins, dread surging through me. The creature babbles, bizarre sounds halfway between coughing and words. His repeated ‘Luca!’ is all I understand.

  From the side of the stable, the spindly, scaly demon pulls away from the pitchfork it’s tethered to, towards me. I don’t often see their leathery sheen so clearly. It takes energy for one of them to become visible to me. This demon is excited and fully formed. Its angular wings and sharp talons look as real as the stable door behind it.

  The pitchfork demon raises one of its four scabby arms, beckoning me. My charger, Orestes, slows and snorts, air steaming from his nostrils.

  I look around, checking I’m alone. Seeing demons causes me as much trouble as the demons themselves.

  Orestes is nervous. It’s as though I can feel the beat of his heart, massive beneath my saddle. He shakes out his black mane and takes slow steps towards the demon. The earthy leaf meal smell of trampled mud drifts around us. I lean forwards and murmur encouragement in his twitching ear.

  As we approach, the demon’s legs dissolve into a smoky outline. It leans back against the wall and says something in a deep, guttural tongue, a language I don’t understand.

  I hear a yell. ‘I won’t stay here with you!’

  My sister! Gemma’s voice is high pitched, her words tinged with an emotion I don’t associate with happy, determined Gemma. It’s anxiety. Maybe even panic.

  I spur Orestes towards her voice. Nearing the demon, waves of nausea crash over me. I lean slightly to one side in case I’m about to vomit. I must reach Gemma.

  ‘Let me go!’ she yells.

  I glance back at the demon. Had it been calling for me to help my sister? Surely not. Then I turn the corner of the stable and see who Gemma is with, and I understand. It’s my cousin. Demons love trouble. They love human pain and misery of any kind. The demon knows my reaction to this scene will produce far more pain than leaving Gemma to suffer on her own.

  ‘Narlo!’ I yell, peering down at the young man who has his long fin
gers firmly wrapped around my sister’s wrist.

  Narlo looks up at me and smiles. He’s wearing a quilted gambeson over his tunic, ready for our fencing lesson later on. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and he doesn’t let go of Gemma’s wrist. Instead, he pulls her roughly to him, slamming her against his chest and twisting her around so they’re both facing me.

  Seeing my sister’s face makes me angrier. All thoughts of the demon flee my mind. Gemma is twelve years old and the picture of innocence in her white tunic, a crown of bruised daisies in her hair. She pants, blue eyes wide with a mixture of fear and fury as she gazes up at me between strands of curly brown hair.

  Narlo lowers his jaw in a mock bow. ‘You’re meant to be out riding,’ he says. ‘Sir Luca.’

  He stresses my title with a sneer. Narlo continues to live with us, long past his squire’s training, as a favour to his parents. But I’m the one who’ll inherit the vast de Falconi estate one day. He’s always been jealous.

  ‘I see I’m back just in time.’ I snap my whip through the air. ‘Let go of my sister.’

  Narlo snarls like a dog. He has the temper of one as well—something he keeps well hidden from Father. ‘Your sister,’ he repeats. ‘My fiancée.’

  Gemma makes another furious attempt to break free. Narlo yanks her back.

  I leap off Orestes, hardly believing my ears. ‘Your what?’

  ‘You heard me. My fiancée. Your father agreed to our engagement this morning.’

  I scoff. My father would not make a decision like this without consulting me.

  Narlo’s sneer turns into a grin. Like a demon, he enjoys my confusion. ‘Now, Sir Luca, if you’ll leave us, I’m busy teaching my fiancée what it is that married people do.’

  Gemma lets out a sob. With the tip of my whip, I catch Narlo behind the knees. He gulps, startled, and accidentally lets Gemma go. She runs to me.

  Now Gemma is clear, I flourish the whip more fully, using a full sweep of my arm to crack it twice: first near Narlo’s left ear, then his right.

  Narlo stands stock-still. Behind me, I hear a burst of demonic chatter, a clicking noise like lizards running up and down the walls. Demons gather, dancing shadows that partially materialise, some possessing feathered, fibrous and taloned legs. A sulphurous smell overpowers the odour of the stables. The pitchfork demon has summoned demons of its own kind. Some are superficially beautiful, with the faces and figures of young women; others are more animal-like, with beaks and claws. I don’t understand their words but their tone is clear. These demons are disappointed. They’ve been watching Narlo and me for years and love to see us fight.

  ‘Gemma, go back to the house,’ I tell her.

  ‘My…my eggs,’ she says, pointing at a basket that’s been knocked over. A few eggs are broken, but most are intact.

  ‘Get them first,’ I say quietly. ‘Narlo’s a coward. He won’t attack you again while I’m here.’

  Narlo pulls down the front of his gambeson and tugs his tunic into neat order. He looks very fine for a poor man. My stepmother does a good job cutting down Father’s old clothes for him.

  He tries to smile again. The gesture still doesn’t reach his eyes but the surliness has gone. As long as I have the whip I have the better of him, and he knows it.

  ‘Attack is a harsh word,’ he says.

  Gemma keeps her distance from him as she walks back to the chicken coop and picks up her basket. Narlo watches her bend over. The expression on his face sickens me.

  ‘She’s twelve years old,’ I remind him. Narlo is eighteen, nearly a year older than me.

  Narlo’s pupils are dilated. ‘Girls can be married at twelve,’ he reminds me. ‘She’ll be mine soon enough.’

  I crack the whip one more time. Gemma shrieks and runs uphill to the house. ‘Not if I have anything to do with it.’

  Narlo steps closer. He knows I won’t hurt him if I don’t have to. He’s the one with out-of-control rages.

  ‘You won’t have anything to do with it,’ he says threateningly. ‘When I’m married to your sister the estate will be made over to me, Sir Luca. I will be the next Conte de Falconi. You watch.’

  I shake my head. After all these years, I can’t believe Father doesn’t see how malicious Narlo is. When I tried once to explain, Father simply said, ‘It’s normal for young men being raised as brothers to have some animosity.’

  I keep my whip in hand as a groom races out to take Orestes and return him to the stable. I follow Gemma back to the house. Narlo catches up with me.

  ‘Gemma will be my wife,’ he repeats. ‘You should leave us alone and get back to your usual crying about the poverty of our peasants.’

  I shake my head again, watching my boots churn through the mud underfoot. Narlo and I routinely argue about the tenants of Father’s cottages. One particularly cold winter, I donated one new blanket to each cottage, only to have Narlo later go from family to family demanding one denarius for each blanket. I soon put a stop to that.

  ‘I know what you want,’ I tell him.

  ‘You don’t need demons to tell you that.’ Narlo never misses a chance to remind me about the time I confessed to seeing demons—or the torture I faced as a result. ‘I want what every man wants. Property. Respect.’

  ‘You’ll be a beggar once I tell Father what I just saw.’

  Narlo snorts. ‘He’s a man. He’ll understand. Whatever you tell him, I’ll be the one alone with him while we’re crusading.’

  ‘Crusading?’ I ask sharply. A familiar image floats into my mind—Father’s body, broken and bloody, in a foreign land. A nightmare I’ve had too often. I brush it away. ‘What do you mean, crusading?’

  Narlo pauses. ‘You really don’t know?’

  ‘Know what?’ My whip twitches, eager for use.

  Narlo bristles with self-importance. ‘Your father has decided to join the Pope’s great pilgrimage after all,’ he says. ‘He’s taking me as one of his knights. We leave in two moons.’

  ‘He told you this?’

  ‘While you were riding.’

  This can’t be true! Many moons have passed since Pope Urban II called for a great pilgrimage to free the city of Jerusalem from the hands of Saracen Turks. Father insisted that no de Falconis should go, even when I begged to be allowed to put my knightly training to use. Why would he change his mind? And why take Narlo instead of me?

  I race into the villa’s kitchen, where our noonday meal is nearly ready. Venison and bread are laid out on the table near Gemma’s basket of eggs. Cook stands at a bench, slicing pork.

  She turns as I run in, her mouth a wide O of surprise.

  ‘Master Luca! Hungry again! It’s—’

  ‘Is Father upstairs?’ I ask.

  Cook shakes her head. ‘I saw him near the olives.’

  I sprint outside, through the kitchen garden. Pungent herbs reach out to me with their scents. Then I run down the worn track, past a stand of poplars and further, down the steep slope of our nearest olive grove. One of our grooms, Desi, is working on a broken ladder. He’s a tall, broad-shouldered man who’s been with our family since before I was born.

  He looks up. ‘Master Luca?’

  ‘I need to find Father. Where is he?’

  Footsteps crunch behind me. My stepmother, Anna, runs up. She’s breathing with difficulty. Her pregnant figure is hidden beneath a wide white apron, covered in green stains. A leaf pokes out from her dark hair. She must have been in the kitchen garden, her favourite place, when I passed through.

  ‘Onorato?’ Anna asks. ‘Has something happened to him?’

  ‘I need to find him,’ I repeat. ‘Desi, where—’

  Anna lays a green-stained hand on my forearm. ‘Let me,’ she says. ‘Desi, have you heard anything since this morning?’

  Desi shakes his head.

  ‘Since this morning?’ I repeat. ‘What happened this morning?’

  ‘Shhh…’

  I shake her off. Anna is not my mother. My mother died when I w
as six years old, just after Gemma was born.

  ‘What happened this morning?’ I demand again.

  ‘Nothing to make you fearful, Luca,’ Anna says. ‘Your father’s gone to a gathering in San Gimignano. That is all. I wanted him to tell you. But he was worried you’d insist on going.’

  ‘About this…pilgrimage?’

  Anna swallows and nods. ‘Your father says we must stay here so I can teach you how to run the estate.’

  ‘All my training, all that fencing practice, and he wants me here looking after vines and olive groves?’

  ‘He’ll be home soon,’ Anna says. ‘There’ll be time to talk then.’

  I look around. The blue sky, the giving earth, the fruitful trees in their neat green rows. The upcoming pilgrimage is for the glory of God, the Pope said. But how could anything give more glory to God than this?

  I let Anna lead me to a fallen tree, smoothed over and made into a kind of bench, where we sit. ‘We all have places we want to go. You know how much I’ve always wanted to go home, Luca. There are some things that we just can’t do.’

  I know she gets homesick for Rome, where she grew up, but I have a new obsession of my own. ‘Anna, what’s the real reason for Father not wanting me there?’

  She looks down. ‘The Pope has called for a religious army dedicated to driving Saracens and demons from the Holy City.’ She pauses. ‘Demons, Luca.’

  My demons are famous. People know of my exorcism and worry that I bring bad luck or evil.

  ‘There aren’t any demons,’ I say flatly.

  Anna sighs. ‘You’re agitated. It’s nearly time for noon prayers. Come inside. I’ll tell your tutor to leave now and return tomorrow. If you want to talk to your father, spend time on your own first, Luca. Plan what you need to say.’

  I lie on my pallet after our noon meal. The few mouthfuls of venison I could eat are heavy in my stomach. In the corner of my chamber, between a large chest and a shaded window, a dark shadow lurks. I ignore it. I’ve ignored them for years. Sometimes I can ignore even the demonic shapes the creatures solidify into when they want my attention.

  The shadow moves. I ignore this, too—or try to. Moving is something shadows do, I remind myself, as the sun moves across the sky, as branches wave.