Circles of Stone
Page 46
And when she had checked the rigging and examined the sails and tweaked the wheel, she cast her eyes further afield, out on to the Barrens, to see if that might take her away from the sadness. And the happiness.
But she should have known better. As her eyes searched the pitch-black, her heart became leaden and her spirit failed. It was not just the deathly dark, nor the looming presence of the endless plains. It was the thought of the one they had left behind. Of Triste, who might even now be battling for his life against the Kraven, or his burns, or worse.
This time, though, she did not turn away. This unhappiness she had to face, and do it without tears. This unhappiness she had caused.
And so she steered the ship on towards the Valley of Outs, looking between the pale glimmer of the river ahead and the Barrens. She sailed as Sylas and his mother walked the decks, deep in conversation. She sailed as the decks filled with lively chatter, which turned eventually to song: that same sad but hopeful song that they had sung beneath the shadow of the Dirgheon – the song of the Valley of Outs. And slowly she was pulled in by these sounds of life and laughter, drawn back to the decks of the Windrush.
Then she saw it. Out there in the blackness, far ahead of the dancing ship. It was barely visible, but it was there.
A flickering glimmer of light. A winking orange flame.
It was moving, winding towards the riverbank.
She heard a voice at her ear. “There’s a Scryer out there!” declared Bowe, leaning his weight on the wheel.
And then Simia let herself cry.
She smiled a smile of tears.
“I know,” she said. “I know!”
THE CORDON OF SOLDIERS advanced slowly but purposefully, lowered in a crouch, weapons tucked tight into shoulders, safety catches off. This is what they had trained for. It was training that made them move as one, that steadied their hand, that helped them fight the urge to run.
It was training that made them walk towards the impossible.
They peered along the barrel of their guns, surveying the scene, searching for a target. They saw standing stones veiled in a fading light, they saw the tracks of the beasts gouged deep into the plain and the marks of skidding tyres converging on a gap between the stones. They saw where the marks stopped in the exact same spot, as though several vehicles had become one and then disappeared. And now, as the light faded still further, they saw the centre of the circle, churned into a muddy mess by claw and talon, rutted and furrowed by the devil’s own spawn.
But that was all. There were no dark, prowling beasts, no huddling prisoners, no crates or cases. There was no mysterious convoy of vehicles shrouded in tinted glass and flying a foreign flag. There was nothing but the standing stones, silent and strong, whispering in the wind.
A radio command crackled in their earpieces and at once their walk became a trot, the cordon closing like a noose around the hanging stones. Barrels swept left and right, readied for the unthinkable, primed for beasts rising from the earth or descending from the heavens. But nothing came. The cordon reached the stones and shouts went up from all directions:
“CLEAR!”
“CLEAR!”
“CLEAR!”
And then, “HOLD! ALL UNITS, HOLD!”
A lone soldier lowered his mouthpiece and stood staring at one of the stones, his eyes trained on the spot where it met the ground.
“What the …” he murmured to himself.
Something was oozing up from the base of the rock, something smooth and slick, like oil. It glooped as he watched, surging as though fed by some underground spring.
And then it pooled outwards, coating the turf in a thick, impenetrable black.
I USED TO THINK that a book was a solitary effort, but that is very far from the truth. While most of the work is done alone and a writing shed certainly comes in handy, this book has been touched by many people along the way, so I have plenty of thanking to do.
I have to begin with my agent, Ben Illis, who was there at the start and whose inexhaustible energy and enthusiasm has propelled this trilogy onwards from the first draft of the first book. Without him as its champion, there is a good chance that it would never have seen the light of day. I also owe a great debt of gratitude to the publishing team at HarperCollins Children۶s Books for their patient support, and in particular, to Nick Lake, who first saw the potential of The Mirror Chronicles and shared my excitement for all it might become. His expertise and creativity has helped me to bring the story ever more vividly to life and this trilogy would not be what it is without him. Thanks, too, to Lily Morgan, who copy-edited Circles of Stone with great sympathy and insight (and prevented it from being even longer!) and to Sam Swinnerton, who brought all the editorial and design efforts together to make the book in your hands. Finally, I am very grateful to Matthew Kelly, for the stunning cover illustration, and to Mary Byrne, Nicola Carthy and Hannah Bourne for all their marketing and publicity skill and pizzazz.
I am hugely indebted to my early readers, who have helped to shape both my ideas and my writing, and have made the whole process a lot less lonely and a lot more fun. Thanks, in particular, to Ben Truesdale, David Williamson, Melinda and Marc Dresser, Chris and Mike Paris-Johnstone, Ed Moran, Adrian and Heather Rosser and my mum, Barbara Johnstone.
A month before the publication of The Bell Between Worlds, when I was about halfway through the writing of Circles of Stone, my wonderful wife, Emily, suffered a very serious stroke. Her courageous struggle has dominated our lives from that day to this, and neither of us could have kept going without the kindness and support of many around us. So this book owes a great deal to Alyrene, our ever-smiling sister, for being there and putting up with me; to Adrian and Heather, for their tireless support and for sharing this hardest of journeys; to my mum, for Tuesdays, and all the other days; to our little girl Ella, for making each and every moment better; and to all the dear family and friends who have gathered us up and helped us along – I can’t name you all but you know who you are. Thank you.
Last but by no means least, I want to thank Emily, who through it all has been the best companion, friend, confidante, critic and editor I could ever hope for, and who thought of others, and me, and this book, even as her world fell in. Thank you for staying with me, Emily, and for making this and everything else, possible.
Books by Ian Johnstone
The Mirror Chronicles: The Bell Between Worlds
The Mirror Chronicles: Circles of Stone
Praise for The Mirror Chronicles – The Bell Between Worlds:
“Dramatic, with perils that are both real and colourfully described. Highly recommended.” The Bookbag
“Not since Harry Potter have I devoured a fantasy world as much as this. I can tell Ian Johnstone will sit high up on the fantasy author list.” Readaraptor
“Outstanding … Epic stuff. The best ‘classic’ fantasy I have come across so far from the last 14 years.” Magic Fiction Since Potter
“A beautifully written book, featuring a vividly imagined alternative world … Jaw-dropping.” Through the Gateway
“Imaginative, intriguing and finely written. Great start to a new fantasy adventure trilogy. Very much looking forward to book two.” Goodreads
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