by Kit Downes
“Camelpat!” Zal stepped back and lowered his sword. It still was not right.
“Wraff, waff,” said Rip, from the top of the ladder.
Zal nodded. He was getting better. His drawing technique was fine and his accuracy was perfect. But he still was not fast enough. And he needed to be faster than fast when he was facing him. Zal slid his sword back into his scabbard. He spread his feet a little further apart on the grass, and tried again.
“Zal? Where are you?”
“AAAAHH!”
Zal jumped and his sword sunk into the wooden leg of the stepladder.
“WRAFF!” cried Rip, as the ladder toppled over, tipping him and the apples onto the grass and pulling Zal’s sword out of his hand.
“ZARA!”
“What?” said Zara Aura, as she stepped into the orchard and looked at Zal, who was wrestling to pull his sword out of the ladder’s leg while Rip dug himself out of the apples. “What are you doing?”
Zara was a small, slim and pretty girl, with green eyes and blonde hair that just touched the bottoms of her ears. She was the same age as Zal, but a few centimetres shorter. As well as being one of the Champions of Azamed, she was a senior student at the school run by Azamed’s Guild of Magicians. She was also Zal’s best friend, his former worst enemy, his carpet-racing and carpet-weaving partner and – reluctantly – his fiancée.
“Practising!” said Zal, as he pulled his sword out of the ladder. Thankfully, the blade wasn’t chipped. “You just—”
“Well, stop. It’s time for breakfast,” said Zara. “Come on. I want to go out.”
Zal rolled his eyes, but sheathed his sword and followed her up the garden to the hotel. It was a tall white building with fifteen floors and lots of balconies. They went across the patio and into their ground floor suite, brushing aside the muslin curtain that hung across the open doors. The suite was bright and airy, with high white walls and soft, fluffy carpets on the floor. Large sofas and armchairs were set in a square in one half of the main room and in the other stood a wooden dining table, spread with the hotel’s extravagant complimentary breakfast. Zara’s father, Arna Aura, was already sitting at it.
“Gwwd mwrning, Zwl!” he said, through a large mouthful. “Cwme wnd swt dwn. It’s gwing fwst.”
“Thanks, Mr Aura,” said Zal, as Rip scampered over to the hotel’s extra-large complimentary dog-food bowl. “So where do you want to go?” he said to Zara.
“Where do you think?” said Zara. She sat down and unrolled a tourist scroll. “We’re in Shirazar. I want to go to the Royal Palace and the Magician’s Academy and the Library of Magic and the Tomb of Heroes and the Butterfly Bridge and the Sunset Caves and the Statue Gardens. This morning, anyway. This afternoon, I want to go to—”
“Hold on,” said Zal. “I’ve been to all of those before.”
Now that he had sat down, Zal realized he wasn’t hungry. He got up and went over to the suite’s full-length mirror. He placed his hand on his sword hilt and relaxed again.
“You have, but I haven’t,” said Zara. “This is my first trip to Shirazar, remember? I want to see everything.”
“Mmm! And you’re never going to forget it,” said Arna, pausing in refilling his plate. Zara’s father was a large man with a short beard and a huge stomach. “Shirazar is the shining emerald of the Great Desert. There are mysteries and wonders to be found here around every corner. It’s one of the greatest cities of the Seventeen Kingdoms. Second only to dear old Azamed, eh, Augur?”
“Mmm? Oh, yes. Absolutely.”
The voice came from the other side of a giant block of magic carpets that stood in the middle of the room. They were rolled up and fastened with string, then stacked like logs and tied together in a big rectangular block, six across and eight high. They were all brand new seven-coloured rainbow carpets that Zal had woven and Zara had enchanted. Zal’s father, Augur Thesa, peered over the top of them. He was a tall, thin man with a long beard that hung down to his waist. Azamedian flying carpets were popular in Shirazar and Augur and Arna – who were both friends and business partners – had brought forty-eight of Zal and Zara’s finest ones to sell to the city’s many magic carpet shops. Augur was going over each one, checking against a long list to make sure it had survived the trip from Azamed undamaged.
“It’s a splendid city,” he said. “Why did you never come with us before, Zara?”
“Because she always had magic contests to go to,” said Zal, who was staring at himself in the mirror. He whipped out his sword again, in another fast diagonal-draw-cut, aiming at his reflection’s neck. He stopped the sword just before it touched the glass.
“They were important,” said Zara. “But I’m here now and I want to see Shirazar. You don’t have to come.”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Zal. “This isn’t a holiday. We’re here to race. We need to start training.”
“Now, now. There’s five days to go until the race,” said Augur. “There’ll be plenty of time for practising after Zara’s done some sightseeing.”
“No, there won’t,” said Zal, looking at his father in the mirror. “This isn’t like racing at home. This is the Champions’ Race. We’re up against the finest flyers in the Seventeen Kingdoms. They’re going to be out training already.”
“Bwfwre brwkfwst?” said Arna.
“Why are you so worried?” said Zara. “You never used to get this excited about races.”
“Are you crazy?” said Zal, looking over his shoulder. “This might be our last chance to race on the Rainbow Carpet.”
It was true that he never used to be interested – at all – in magic carpets or racing on them. Zal’s ambition was to join the Caliph’s Guard, the fearless soldiers and policemen who patrolled the streets of Azamed, protecting the city from danger. But that was before the Shadow Society had set fire to his father’s carpet shop, trying to win the Great Race before it had begun. It was before Zara had led him on an astonishing adventure around Azamed and back into the mists of his city’s past, where they had learnt the real history of magic carpets. It was before he had woven the first seven-colour carpet in centuries, the Rainbow Carpet that many said was impossible, and before he and Zara had ridden it to a glorious victory in the Great Race. The moment they crossed the finishing line, flying through applause and flower blossoms, Zal realized he had fallen in love with magic carpets.
Unfortunately, his chances of racing on the Rainbow Carpet again were slim. The seven-colour carpet had turned out to be so fast that the Caliph of Azamed had declared it definitely gave them an unfair advantage. He had decreed that in the future, only six-colour carpets or less would be allowed to compete in the Great Race. But as Zal and Zara were the clear winners – and had overcome the Shadow Society team’s determined cheating – he recognized them as Azamed’s new champions, and announced that they would be allowed to represent their city in the Champions’ Race, using the Rainbow Carpet.
“Unless we win the Champions’ Race and we can defend the title next year, that’s it,” said Zal. “We’ll never get to race on the Rainbow Carpet again. At least not until we’ve sold enough to hold a rainbow carpet race. But that won’t be the same.”
“Zal, I’m delighted!” said Augur. “You’ve finally learnt how special magic carpets are.”
“Cwrtwnly!” said Arna. “And just think, if you do win, we’ll be almost sure to get the Carpet Seller of the Year Award.”
Even though seven-colour carpets had been banned from the Great Race, Augur’s carpet shop in Azamed was overflowing with orders for them. Even if they could never race on them, many people still wanted to own a rainbow carpet of the kind that was mentioned so often in Azamed’s legends. Some people were already talking of organizing a new race just for rainbow carpets, where piloting skill would be tested much more than speed. As only Augur and Arna and their children knew the secret to weaving rainbow carpets – and they were determined to take it to their graves – the two fathers were making a
fortune out of selling their new rainbow carpets and were well on the way to becoming the richest carpet sellers in Azamed.
“Well, I want to race on it again too,” said Zara, as Zal made yet another diagonal-draw-cut. “But I want to see the city as well and … and… What are you doing?”
“Practising,” said Zal.
“How’s that going to help with the race?”
“Not for the race! He’s going to be here any minute.”
“Who?”
There were three short, jaunty knocks on the hotel suite door.
“Aha!”
Zal spun around and sheathed his sword. He quickly smoothed the creases out of his tunic, then ran to the door and flung it open, throwing his arms wide and smiling.
“MILES!” he cried.
“ZAL!” cried the boy who was standing in the hall in the same position, arms thrown wide and with a beaming smile on his face. He was also wearing a sword.
They stayed like that for just an instant. Then their eyes turned to steel. Zal and the boy’s hands shot across their bodies and grabbed their sword hilts. The metal rang as they ripped them from their scabbards and launched twin, lightning fast diagonal-draw-cuts, aiming at each other’s necks.
CLAAANG!!!
Zara squeezed her eyes shut as the two blades collided and locked together. Zal and the boy were frozen in place. Zal’s blade was stuck, halfway to the target, locked against the boy’s sword hilt. The boy’s blade had made it all the way and was just touching the side of Zal’s neck.
“Ha!” cried the boy, jumping back. “Still slow!”
“Camelpat!” said Zal, lowering his sword. “How do you do it?!”
“It’s all in the feet. Just like I always tell you,” said the boy. “And it’s great to see you, by the way.”
“Yes, it really is,” said Zal. “Miles!”
“Zal!”
They threw out their arms again, stepped forward and hugged each other, being careful to keep their swords out of the way.
“Miles, my boy!” said Arna, striding around the table. “How wonderful to see you! But where the Stork is your father?”
“Hi, Mr Aura. Great to see you too,” said the boy, shaking Arna’s hand. He was about the same height as Zal, with thick, curly red hair, blue-grey eyes and an open, friendly face. “Dad says sorry. He and Celeste are out training. But you’re all invited to lunch tomorrow. Hello, Rip!”
“Wraff, wraff!” Rip dashed over to the door and jumped around Miles’ feet until he squatted down to scratch the dog between his ears.
“Meow!”
At that moment, a large, fluffy Pursolonian cat, with pale blue eyes and thick, snow-white fur, looked around the door.
“WRAFF!” barked Rip.
“MEOW!” said the cat, all its fur standing up on end.
Rip and the cat launched themselves at each other. They collided in the air and locked together into a single furry black-and-white ball. They rolled, biting and scratching, across the carpet.
“Hello, Fluffy,” said Zal, stepping out of the way.
“Some things never change,” said Augur, smiling and shaking his head. “Hello, Miles.”
“Hello, Mr Thesa.”
“Shouldn’t we stop them?” said Zara, as the two pets bounced, hissing and barking, off one of the sofas.
“Oh, don’t worry. They’re always like this,” said Miles, just as the cat and dog came to a stop on one of the rugs. Rip lay panting, with Fluffy half on top and half underneath him, and then started licking Fluffy’s head. She purred happily.
“Zara, this is Miles Nocturne,” said Arna. “The son of an old and dear friend from our past visits to Shirazar. He and Zal used to train at the School of Swords together.”
“Oh, how do you do?” said Zara, shaking his hand.
“Very well, thanks, Zara. It’s great to meet you at last,” said Miles. “Zal’s been complaining about you for years.”
“Shut up, Miles,” said Zal.
“Oh, really?” said Zara. Then she blinked, looking at Miles. “Wait … Nocturne? Not as in…”
“Yes. As in Paradim Nocturne,” said Arna, clapping Miles on the shoulder. “This is the Red Squirrel’s son.”
“Wait a minute!” said Zal, spinning around. “Did you say out training? You don’t mean…”
“Yes. That’s what I came to tell you,” said Miles. “Dad’s decided he’s going to compete this year.”
Despite its immense beauty, the Great Desert was a harsh and hostile place to live. The civilizations that had grown up in it or around its edges had all learnt early in their history that the safest, most convenient way to travel across the burning wastes was to fly.
Each kingdom had developed its own means for doing this, either by capturing and taming the giant flying animals that had evolved in the Great Desert, or by learning to infuse flying magic into various objects. All of the kingdoms had done this, except for Shirazar.
It was not from lack of trying. Shirazar’s magicians had worked tirelessly for centuries, trying to create flying objects. Explorers and adventurers had searched the furthest corners of the continent, looking for new flying animals. But somehow they were never successful. Shirazar remained the only kingdom with its feet stuck firmly on the ground.
To begin with, this had not posed a major problem. Shirazar was wealthy enough from trade that its citizens could easily buy any means of flight they chose from the other kingdoms. But over the centuries, as each of the other kingdoms’ unique means of flight became an important part of its culture, Shirazar began to feel ashamed of being the odd kingdom out. Its failure to find its own means of flight became a source of great sadness for the city and its people.
Five hundred years ago, Empress Haju’s ancestor, Emperor Clearju, had decided to do something about it. Studying the other kingdoms, he realized they all had one thing in common: every year, they each held some sort of ultimate flying race, to establish who was the greatest flyer in their kingdom. There was the Royal Aerial Regatta of Pursolon, the Air Contest of the Heaven Steppe, the Wind Chase of the Silk Lands and the Great Race of Azamed. Why shouldn’t there be, the Emperor mused, some sort of international race, where the winners of these races could compete against each other to determine who was the greatest flyer in the Great Desert? And Shirazar, with no means of flight of its own, would be the perfect, neutral place to hold it.
The Emperor wrote immediately to the rulers of the other kingdoms explaining his idea and they all responded with enthusiasm. The other kingdoms had often held small, local competitions with their nearest neighbours, racing two means of flight against each other, but no one had thought of bringing all sixteen champions together before. They immediately dispatched their current title-holders to Shirazar to compete in the first ever, hastily named “Champion Flyer of the Great Desert” race.
It was a tremendous success. Despite the Champions of Katrasca’s dramatic crash and the Champions of Quakajak trying to eat the other contestants because they had misunderstood part of the rule book, the race was a triumph. Racing the different means of flight against each other turned out to be far more exciting than anyone had imagined. During the Champion of Xalam’s victory party, the ambassadors of all the other kingdoms publicly called on the Emperor to make the race a regular event and he agreed.
The celebrations in Shirazar lasted for a month. The kingdom had finally found its place among the flying kingdoms. But the happiness was tinged with sadness because even though they were now hosting the ultimate flying race, no Shirazan would ever be able to compete in it.
Forty years ago, a boy had been born in Shirazar who would change that. His name was Paradim Nocturne and he first watched the Champions’ Race when he was seven, sitting on his father’s shoulders. It was the most thrilling thing he had ever seen. As soon as the winner crossed the finish line and the cheering died down, Paradim announced to his parents that he would fly in the race when he grew up. His parents smiled sadly and exp
lained why that was impossible.
But Paradim was not discouraged. He listened to his parents, but told them that, nevertheless, he would compete in the Champions’ Race one day. He also told his friends, his relatives, his school teachers, the customers in his mother and father’s shop and anyone he happened to meet in the street. Once they had finished laughing and realized he was serious, they asked how he thought he was going to do it.
Paradim applied himself to the problem. For five years, he studied the history of the Champions’ Race and of Shirazar’s search for its own means of flight. As he was not a magician, he studied alchemy and potion-making. Some of the formulas he made were impressive for a self-taught twelve-year-old working in his bedroom but, unfortunately, none of them worked. Nothing he painted over the legs of his bed made it fly, nothing he fed to his mother’s pet water dragons made them grow wings and nothing he did to any of the butterflies he caught with his friend, Empress Haju’s father, then the Crown Prince of Shirazar, caused them to grow big enough to ride on. Paradim eventually reasoned that only a true magician, born with the Gift to control the seven shades of magic, would be able to create a means of flight by magic.
Paradim tried a different course. He consulted magicians, mystics and astrologers. He meditated for hours, trying to fly by willpower alone. He visited the local temple and prayed to the Celestial Stork, asking her to send him a sign. Finally, one night after his fifteenth birthday, Paradim had a dream. In it, he was floating among purple clouds. Suddenly, the clouds were swept aside and out of them flew a giant stork, with a man riding on its back. The man had a long red ponytail that was streaming out behind him in the wind.
