by V M Jones
It wasn’t long before Rich and I caught up with Jamie and the girls. We were together when at last, towards evening, we struggled over the millionth false summit and found nothing above us except pale eggshell sky.
Ahead of us the track levelled out, winding across a broad saddle of flat ground before diving between two scree-covered slopes and plunging out of sight: Draken Pass. To our left a scatter of low houses crouched in the deep shadow of the peaks which reared up on every side, a backdrop of dark conifers spilling down the mountainside behind it.
Drakendale.
A narrow path left the main track and led to the village.
‘Well,’ said Rich, ‘here we are. What next?’
‘I guess we find a friendly villager and strike up a conversation with him,’ said Jamie without much conviction. ‘Ask how the village got its name; stuff like that.’
‘Problem is, I don’t see any villagers, friendly or otherwise,’ said Rich.
He was right: there wasn’t a soul in sight … and there was something distinctly unwelcoming about the deserted-looking cluster of houses. Smoke twisted up from one or two chimneys, but other than that there was no sign of life. Now we were finally here, I realised with a sinking feeling that I had almost completely lost confidence in our reason for coming. Had we really come all this way because two lines in the poem seemed to suggest that Prince Zephyr was somehow hidden in the eyes of a dragon … and because the word draken had been mistaken for dragon by yours truly, never the world’s greatest reader?
As we straggled closer, I saw there were lights shining from some of the windows — the dim flicker of candles or a cooking fire. Most of the buildings — and there were no more than a dozen or so — were grouped round what I supposed was the village green, if you could call it that: a rough open area of patchy brown grass and bare, stony earth. In its centre was a stunted tree bearing a few wizened leaves; beside it a rusty hand-pump dripped water into a stone trough.
Some of the buildings were obviously houses: squat rectangles with a low door flanked by grimy windows. As we passed the first one I felt a prickling certainty that we were being watched. I walked on, resisting the temptation to look behind me: past the open double doors of a forge, the flagstones drifting with grey ash, the anvil silent, the furnace cold … past a row of dilapidated stables in a deserted courtyard. Next to it was a ramshackle double-storey stone building with a sign hanging from a rusty wrought-iron bracket above the door. The sign was swaying slightly in the wind, making an eerie creaking vibration like old, arthritic bones, or the sound of a rusty seesaw far away: up and down; to and fro.
The Empty Cowl.
‘What’s a cowl?’ asked Rich in a loud whisper.
‘Shhhh!’ hissed Gen.
‘It’s a hood, like a monk wears. Look at the picture,’ breathed Jamie.
I looked. It was faded faint as a ghost … a grey hood, with only darkness where the face should be.
The Empty Cowl. A chill trickled down my spine. That was what I could feel — what all of us had felt the moment we’d left the main track. The whole place reeked of them: the Faceless. They weren’t here now: if they had been, we would have known it long before. What I was sensing was the shadowy residue of their presence … a lingering body odour of evil.
‘I don’t like it here,’ quavered Gen, glancing uneasily over her shoulder.
Looking round at the unhappy faces of the others, I could tell that no one did. But we’d come all this way, and now we were here …
‘Come on, guys: think positive,’ I said cheerfully. ‘That sign means one of two things: this is either an up-market clothing boutique or an inn. And I know which my money’s on.’ I fished out one of the gold coins, spun it in the air and caught it. ‘This time round, we’re bucks-up. Who’s for a hot meal that hasn’t been cooked on a camp fire — and maybe even a real bed for the night? I say we go on in and see where it takes us.’
Reluctantly, the others agreed. We’d keep our eyes and ears wide open, say as little as we could possibly get away with, and — most important of all — double-check with the others before any of us made a single move.
‘You can be our spokesman, Adam,’ said Jamie, with a meaningful glance at Rich. ‘You look the oldest — but more important, you talk the least.’ It was ages since Rich got so carried away with his performance at the Brewer’s Butt, but none of us had forgotten the consequences.
‘Better make sure old Blue-bum’s well hidden, Kenta,’ countered Rich with a grin; ‘they may not allow pets.’ An indignant chitter from the depths of the pack made us all smile, even Gen. I pulled my hood well over my face, checked that the others had done the same … then took a deep breath, opened the door and walked in.
We were in a low-ceilinged, smoky room lit by a couple of overhead lanterns. A fire smouldered sullenly on the far wall. There were half a dozen tables on the stone-flagged floor, the one nearest the fire occupied by three rough-looking men with swarthy, bearded faces. A wooden counter ran the length of the wall closest to us, its surface cluttered with iron-hooped barrels I guessed must contain ale or wine, and an untidy array of tankards, goblets and dusty-looking bottles. A couple of men stood at the counter, and one — in a stained apron that might once have been white — behind it: the innkeeper.
As we walked into the room, absolute silence fell. Every head turned slowly to stare at us, on every face the same expression: wariness and hostility. I set my own face into grim, unfriendly lines to match. Instinct told me nothing would be gained by using Matron’s best manners here, trotting up to the counter cap in hand like children begging a favour. Ignoring everyone, I slouched across to a vacant table near the window, shrugged off my backpack and settled down facing the room, gesturing the others onto the chairs beside me.
‘Adam!’ hissed Jamie, bug-eyed with disapproval. ‘You can’t just walk in — it’s not polite! You should …’
‘Should what?’ I gave him my best Karazan glower. ‘This is an inn, isn’t it? Let him come to us.’
Sure enough, after a muttered exchange with his cronies the innkeeper sidled over, anything but welcoming. ‘Well?’ he snarled. ‘What do you want?’
‘Food — and beds for the night,’ I growled back, snapping the coin down on the table with a loud click. I only hoped it would be enough. Automatically, the innkeeper’s eyes followed the sound, narrowing suspiciously … then widened to a look of almost comical astonishment. His mouth dropped open.
A sly, greedy expression crept over his face. ‘It is many spans since we have seen an old gold crown in these parts … especially in the hands of one so young. How came you by it?’
Here we go, I thought: question time. But one thing’s for sure — the money is enough. More than. The listening silence in the room — along with common sense — told me that the fewer questions we answered, the better. I met his eyes levelly. ‘Food and a room,’ I said.
For a long moment his eyes stared back into mine, cunning and calculating; then dropped to the coin. It lay between us on the rough, fissured surface of the table, seeming to glow with its own golden light, the strong profile of the king gazing fearlessly at infinity. Suddenly, I wished I didn’t have to part with it. I desperately wanted to keep it — more than I wanted hot food, more than I longed for a comfortable bed and a good night’s sleep.
Most of all, I wanted to find out the truth: to discover what had become of Zane and Zaronel; to find Zephyr, not only to save our own world, but to put right whatever wrongs had been done to them, and to all of Karazan.
‘Ask for something to drink, Adam,’ Jamie was hissing under his breath. ‘Something hot … cocoa, maybe …’
I looked round at the faces of my friends: tired and dirty, tension and fear giving way to a kind of weary hope. I pushed the coin across to the innkeeper. ‘And something hot to drink.’
It wasn’t long before a frowzy woman with frizzy hair came waddling through from the kitchen with a laden tray. Two trips later the table was groaning: a
cottage loaf of dark, crusty bread; a whole cheese, amber-coloured, crumbly and sharp-smelling; five steaming bowls of stew, fragrant gravy thick with vegetables and tender meat falling off the bone.
The final trip brought our ‘cocoa’: steaming pewter goblets full to the brim with something the colour of rubies. The steam curled up my nose and straight into my bloodstream, strangely sweet and sour together; it tasted of hot grapes and spices, liquid velvet warming me to the tips of my toes.
‘I could drink this all night,’ said Jamie cheerily a short while later, draining his glass and burping.
‘Might be better if you didn’t,’ I told him, giving Rich a wink. ‘And now, if we’ve finished, I think we should find our room and get some sleep.’ I had a hunch our host might happen to pass our table soon, and stop for a chat — he’d find more than one tongue loosened by whatever had been in those goblets.
Sure enough, he was heading across the room, wiping down tables, working his way steadily nearer.
I shook off my feeling of woozy wellbeing, levered myself up and intercepted him. ‘I think you have forgotten something,’ I said quietly.
‘Forgotten something?’ he blustered. ‘I know not what you mean —’
‘I think you do,’ I said evenly, holding out my hand.
‘Oh. Why yes, of course …’
He bustled over to the counter, and made a great show of fumbling beneath it. Eventually he produced a worn-looking drawstring bag and counted out a number of coins, tipping them into my outstretched hand.
They could have been gold and silver tiddlywinks for all I knew, but I frowned intently down at them, pretending to check them carefully before slipping them into my pocket. There were plenty of them. Even if he was cheating us — which I didn’t doubt he’d do if he could get away with it, helped along by the hot toddy — I wouldn’t need to break into our remaining crown too soon.
At that moment the door creaked open behind me, icy wind gusting down my neck. I wheeled round, all the fears that had been banished by warmth and food returning with a rush. But it was just an old man coming in for a jug of something to keep out the cold; he shuffled through the door, pulling it closed behind him. I headed back to our table to try to dislodge the others, half-watching him out of the corner of my eye. There was something about him …
Back at the table, Kenta was talking to the others in an urgent undertone. ‘It is, I tell you! I’d know him anywhere!’ Everyone was staring first at her, then across the room at the old man, who had settled on a bench beside the fire and was slowly unwinding the heavy woollen scarf that swathed his face. Even Blue-bum was peeping out of Kenta’s pack, eyes bright and inquisitive, a half-nibbled piece of cheese held awkwardly in one crooked paw.
‘Don’t you remember? Drakendale!’ Kenta’s eyes were glowing with excitement, her cheeks flushed.
Rich shifted uneasily. ‘Relax, Kenta,’ he said in a voice he obviously hoped was soothing. ‘One old man looks pretty much like the next, especially all wrapped up like a Christmas pudding. And it was ages ago …’
‘Don’t patronise me, Richard!’ she snapped, suddenly sounding just like Gen. ‘I know when I’m right! And I’m going to, so there!’
I drew breath to ask, ‘Going to what?’ But it was too late.
Open-mouthed, I watched — we all watched — as Kenta marched across the room and plonked herself down onto the bench beside the old man, chattering away nineteen to the dozen and smiling up into his scowling hatchet face as if he was her long-lost grandfather.
Ashling
‘So much for no one making a move without the others’ say-so,’ grumbled Rich.
Things were moving way too fast for me. Whatever made Kenta think she recognised the old guy? It wasn’t as if we had a vast network of acquaintances in Karazan; as far as I knew, we’d only ever met one old man before: Meirion. And it certainly wasn’t him.
‘I don’t get it,’ I said. ‘Who does Kenta think —’
‘She can tell you herself,’ said Richard grimly. ‘Here she comes.’
Over by the fire, the old guy was on his feet again, the scarf dangling from his hand, apparently forgotten. He was staring across at us with an odd expression on his face. At the bar, the innkeeper and his friends were watching with undisguised interest.
Kenta was dodging between the tables, gabbling away before she even reached us. ‘It is him! I knew it! Danon of Drakendale: that’s his name! Adam, you remember him — the poor man with the sick daughter.’
How could I have forgotten? An old man struggling down the aisle of the Sacred Temple of Arakesh wheeling a rickety barrow … falling to his knees to beg the Curator of Healing for the magical potion that would save his daughter’s life … the huddled form under the threadbare blanket, so small and still. His words, trembling with desperation: We have begged gelden from kin both far and near … sold all we have save the roof over our heads to raise the price for the potion that will heal her. But it hadn’t been enough. He was sent away empty-handed.
‘… her name is Ashling and she’s still alive — a living death — I’ve told him we can help — come on!’
‘But Kenta —’ Jamie began.
‘But what?’ Her dark eyes sparked. ‘James Fitzpatrick, are you telling me you have a problem with giving Ashling the last of our healing potion?’
Jamie flushed and looked down, shuffling his feet. ‘Well, not exactly. It’s just …’
‘Just?’
‘Just that … well, Karazan’s real dangerous. And … we might need it ourselves.’
‘Jamie’s right, Kenta,’ said Richard in a low voice. ‘You need to calm down and think logically. I’m real sorry for the old dude — we all are. But it’s not our problem. We gave the potion to Blue-bum, because … well, because he’s one of us. But we can’t go dishing it out to every Tom, Dick and Harry we happen to bump into. Jamie’s right: what if we need it ourselves, and it’s all gone?’
Kenta sank down onto her chair as if in slow motion. She stared from Rich to Jamie and back again. ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’
‘Neither can I,’ chipped in Gen in a furious whisper. ‘You boys are so selfish! Don’t you remember how we felt when we saw that poor man wheeling his barrow out of the Temple, the tears streaming down his face? I’d have done anything to help him — I thought we all would. And now, when we have the chance — I can’t believe it!’
‘Calm down, Gen,’ soothed Rich, looking warily at Gen’s clenched fists. ‘I’m not saying —’
‘Will you stop telling us to calm down?’ hissed Gen. ‘And if you’re not saying that, what are you saying?’
‘Just that we should think it through,’ mumbled Rich miserably.
‘And you didn’t have any right to promise him the potion without consulting us first, Kenta,’ said Jamie righteously. ‘Who’s going to tell him he can’t have it after all, just when his hopes are up?’
We all looked over at Danon. He was standing with his shoulders bowed, eyes fixed on the floor, the tattered old scarf twisted between his hands. He was obviously trying not to listen to our conversation, but by the look on his face he’d heard every word.
‘I say we put it to the vote,’ said Jamie at last, sounding very subdued. ‘But we need to remember that this is about …’ he dropped his voice even lower, ‘… about far more than the life of one child, as important as that is. We’re on a mission — we all know what — and we need every bit of help we can get. I’m really, really sorry, Kenta, but I vote we keep what’s left of the potion for ourselves — just in case.’
‘Me too,’ said Rich gruffly.
‘I’m with you, Kenta,’ said Gen, giving Kenta’s hand a squeeze. ‘So, Adam: looks like you have the casting vote.’
I stared down at the table. What the boys said was true. If one of us had an accident — like Jamie had — and the potion was finished … what then? My head told me that with so much at stake we’d be fools to give something so precious awa
y.
But then Q’s words drifted back into my mind: the advice he’d given us so long ago, way back at Quested Court before we’d set off on our first adventure to Karazan. Much may occur with a hidden purpose that will only become apparent later …
My head told me to vote with the boys; my heart told me differently.
I raised my head slowly, drawing a breath to say something, though I hadn’t yet decided what.
He was gone.
Without thinking I was on my feet and crossing to the door, dimly aware of the others scraping back their chairs to follow me. I flung the door open and stumbled out into the darkness, gazing wildly round. Deep night had fallen; a thin sliver of moon glimmered through distant treetops; the sky jangled with stars. The air crackled with cold; far away I could hear the lonely howl of the wind in the crags.
The old man was nowhere.
Then I saw it — a chink of light as he let himself quietly through the door of the very last house. A few strides and I was there, the rough wood under my knuckles as I rapped once, twice, then waited.
Behind me, a hand found mine and squeezed.
The door opened.
Ashling lay motionless on the truckle bed in the corner of the tiny room. Last time I’d seen her it had just been a fleeting impression of a dark, swaddled shape; now I could see she was a real little girl about Hannah’s age. Her face would have been pretty if it hadn’t had such a strange, frightening blankness; it was grey and lifeless, a smudge of ash under the tangle of dull black hair. She could have been sleeping, but her stillness was a million miles from sleep. Her body was here, but her spirit was far away.
‘She has been thus since the day she first fell ill,’ Danon whispered. ‘Never waking, never moving. These many, many moons.’
The mother sat at the head of the bed, her eyes locked on the face of her daughter, her hands clasped in her lap. Her face was seamed with weariness, dull with pain, blurred by a terrible, helpless patience. Even when Danon told her why we had come her expression didn’t change; she simply shook her head slowly from side to side, then reached out a gentle hand and smoothed the hair back from the child’s brow. ‘She hoped too long in vain,’ Danon murmured; ‘now she dares hope no longer.’
