by V M Jones
I touched the back of my fingers to the girl’s pale cheek. It was cold as marble. You must come back now. However distant you are, however long and hard the journey.
I took my out my shawl and unfolded it. The crystal phial gleamed in the soft candlelight. Holding it up, I could see the potion: liquid mother-of-pearl, glowing with the promise of life.
I knelt beside the mother and gently unclasped her hands. They felt dry and papery and very cold. I pressed the phial into her palm, curled the fingers round … felt the tingle of magic pass from my hand to hers.
Her eyes widened and focused, as if she was waking from a dream. She turned her head, slowly, slowly, and looked at me. I looked back, deep into her eyes; saw the first faint light of hope flicker there, then burn with a strong, steady brightness.
I stood, and looked down at them both for a moment. How many long days and nights had they spent like this, mother and child enclosed in their silent shell of candlelight? And now it was over.
I turned away and left them, gesturing to the others to follow me out into the night.
‘So much for being good Samaritans,’ grumbled Rich, stomping along beside me back to the inn. ‘Not so much as a thank you — and we didn’t even get to see if it worked!’
I didn’t answer. For once I wasn’t in the mood for Rich’s bluster and bravado. What I really wanted was to be on my own. ‘You go in,’ I told the others as we reached the inn. ‘I’ll just …’ The words caught in my throat.
‘Shall I stay with you, Adam?’ offered Jamie shyly. ‘It’s real dark and scary …’
I smiled and shook my head. A wedge of yellow light spilled briefly out into the night, and at last I was alone.
The moon had risen higher now, a shining crescent among the silvery stars. The wind had dropped, and the night was very still. I walked over to the wizened tree and leaned back against it, my cloak wrapped round me, gazing up at the sky.
As I watched, a dot of light bloomed in the blackness, painting a hair-fine brushstroke across the sky before fading away to nothing. Ashling’s spirit, arcing through the heavens on its journey back to make her whole again? I smiled at myself; I’d been in Karazan too long. It was only a shooting star. I thought of the Star of Zaronel, and of Prince Zane’s gift: the most powerful wish of all …
Long ago, on another moonlit night in Karazan, we’d talked about what each of us would choose if we were granted one wish. Everyone had their turn except me. Now I wondered: could I take this shooting-star wish for myself and use it — for real? And if I did, what would I wish for? I didn’t know. Sometimes — like now — I had a strange ache deep inside, in my soul, almost: a kind of emptiness. I would wish for whatever it was that would heal that ache and make me feel complete; but the problem was, I didn’t have any idea what it could be.
I was still gazing at the place the star had disappeared when I heard the soft scrape of a footfall behind me.
I spun round, my heart in my throat. A dark, cloaked figure was moving towards me through the darkness. It was holding something in its hand …
‘I am sorry if I startled you.’ It was a second before I recognised the voice of the old man, Danon. He sounded different: stronger, surer. Happy. ‘I saw you from the window. I wanted to tell you … she has awoken, and though she is very weak, she knew our faces and smiled. We can never repay you and your friends for what you have given us.’
‘We were glad to.’
‘No — let me go on. For all of us now — not only Ashling — there is a future. Drakendale has become a place of the dead. For too long it has been used as a way-station by … by those who travelled the north road to Shakesh. I am a carpenter: my calling is to craft things of beauty from wood, revealing the hidden inner form through the art of chisel and saw. Yet these many spans my skills have been harnessed to the service of King Karazeel, building and repairing wagons, yokes, carts … and cages.’
‘And now?’
‘Now they say the king’s new stronghold is complete. This road is used no more, and we are free to go. Many of the townsfolk have already left, for a shadow lies over Drakendale, darkening the hearts of those who remain. For us, with Ashling as she was … the journey would have been impossible. Now, in a few short days, she will be strong enough to leave.’
‘Where will you go?’
‘To Arakesh, or the port of Kaladar — who knows? But at last we are free. Here.’ He pressed something into my hand. ‘This gift is humble, but it is all we have to give.’
I looked down at it. It was a small bottle made of thick, dark-coloured glass, with a cork stopper. ‘Thank you,’ I mumbled. Even in the darkness, I could see his expression: a kind of shy pride, as if whatever he was giving me was far more precious than he pretended — at least to him. ‘What is it?’ I ventured.
‘I call it my revealing oil. It will bring out the hidden grain in even the plainest timber. You will find it nowhere else in Karazan, for I make it myself, from the sap of a secret tree that grows deep in the mountain forests.’
‘Well … that’s …’ I wasn’t sure what to say. What use would this ever be to us? Still, as Hannah would have said, it’s the thought that counts. I unstopped the cork and took an appreciative sniff. It smelled the way pine trees do after rain — a fresh, resinous, golden smell. ‘Mmmm. That’s really special. Thank you very much. We’ll treasure it.’
‘I only wish I could give you more. But now …’ He turned to go.
‘Wait Danon … before you go. There is one thing.’ I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before. I hadn’t consulted the others — but then I hadn’t had the chance. ‘I don’t suppose …’ I was racking my brains for a way to make the question sound casual, the kind of throw-away line you’d come out with just because it happened to pop into your head. ‘You don’t happen to know of any … uh … dragons round here, do you? Not necessarily a real dragon,’ I said, remembering Jamie’s complicated theory; ‘just something … dragon-like? D-d-draken-like, maybe?’ I could feel myself blushing scarlet.
Danon gave me a shrewd, searching look. For a moment I was sure he thought I’d gone totally crazy. But then he smiled, as if I’d answered a question he hadn’t even asked. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I confess I wondered why a party of travellers so young would be so far from home. So, you are off on an adventure: in search of the mythical dragon that gives the mountains their name!’ He laughed: an odd, rusty sound, as if it hadn’t been used for a long time. I saw he wasn’t nearly as old as I’d thought; with laugh lines on his face, standing straight and tall, he seemed a different person from the pathetic figure of an hour ago. ‘Why, how many times did I myself roam these mountains as a child, chasing the dreams conjured by firelight tales … but that was long ago.’
My heart gave a peculiar little skip. ‘You were looking for it too! And did you ever find anything?’ I asked breathlessly. ‘Any hint it might be true — any sign at all?’
He shook his head. ‘Nay, my friend. Though the old tales do tell that it is here, in the northern reaches, that the dragon lies, sleeping deep in the belly of the mountain. They say he has slumbered these five hundred spans and more, and will waken only when the True —’ He stopped abruptly.
‘When …’ I prompted, without much hope that he’d continue. Truth was, I didn’t need him to: I had a fair idea what he’d been going to say.
He shook his head, smiling grimly. ‘I have said enough.’
‘But do you think it’s true — the legend of the dragon, I mean?’
‘That I know not. But one thing I do know: there be no legend without the seed of truth at its beginning.’
‘All the times you looked,’ I said; ‘the places you went … you must know these mountains better than almost anyone. Did you never find anywhere that looked even slightly promising?’
He thought for a moment, then smiled. ‘There are nooks and crannies, gullies and ravines aplenty, both in this range and the main range to the west. But of all places, the
one that gave me most hope lay to the far north — a place they call Brimstone Caverns. Skirt the mountains, then follow their foot westwards — you cannot mistake them. It is a long road, but the land is level and the route plain … and the mountains will shield you.’
‘Shield us … from what?’
‘From those who travel between Morningside and Dark Face.’
‘Dark Face?’
‘Aye.’ His voice was grim. ‘The far side of the mountains, where lies the new stronghold of King Karazeel — the Stronghold of Arraz. And now, I must bid you goodnight. May good fortune go with you, may the twin moons light your way …’
He clasped my wrist for a moment, then turned away. As he left, his stride quick and sure as he headed home, I heard — or thought I heard — ‘and may Zephyr guide your course.’
A backwards horserace
‘There you go — what did I tell you?’ said Richard triumphantly. He was sprawled on his bed under the window of our attic room, chin in his hands. ‘It does exist — and tomorrow we go dragon hunting!’
‘It sounds like a long way, though,’ said Gen. ‘I have this feeling that time is creeping up behind us, closer and closer, without us knowing exactly when it’s going to pounce — like a real-life game of K-I-N-G spells KING.’
Kenta made a face. ‘I know just what you mean. But we can only do our best — and now, thanks to Adam, at least we have some idea where to start looking.’
Jamie was the only one already in bed, lying on his side with his blanket pulled up round his ears and his eyes screwed tight shut. ‘Shush, you guys,’ he said; ‘I’m trying to sleep.’
‘Well, I’m not,’ said Gen, rolling over and staring up at the ceiling. ‘Too much has happened today — my brain’s buzzing.’ She glanced over at Rich, his tousled blond hair a dusty gold in the moonlight that slanted through the window. ‘Adam — give Richard the diary. We’re getting so hung up on the dragon part of the poem that we’re forgetting the rest — the words of the past. I want to know what happened about that horse race.’
Jamie’s eyes popped open, and I saw he was as wide awake as any of us. There was a slightly queasy, preoccupied look on his face, as if he was scared he might be about to throw up and didn’t want anyone to know. It was the thought of the morning, I realised suddenly — the dragon. He hadn’t been trying to sleep; he’d been hiding behind his tightly closed eyelids. I had a niggling tug in the pit of my stomach, too. It was all very well to hope that it wouldn’t be a real dragon, but this was Karazan, where anything was possible.
Gen was right — it would be good to have a distraction from the thought of another long journey, and what might lie at the end of it. I passed the Book of Days across to Rich. He leafed through it, looking for the place Gen had left off the night before. Blue-bum sidled to the end of Kenta’s bed and scrambled down, limped over to Richard’s, and pulled himself up beside him. ‘Look at little Blue-bum,’ laughed Kenta. ‘He wants to help, don’t you? How I wish you could talk — you’d be full of good ideas.’
‘Well, you can take your good ideas, along with your tail and blue bum, and shove off,’ said Rich good-naturedly. ‘It’s my turn to read, and I don’t need any help from anyone, thank you very much!’
There was a chorus of outrage from Jamie and the girls; Gen threw her pillow at Rich, and there was an energetic scuffle that stopped abruptly when Jamie pointed out the diary was in danger of getting crumpled.
At last everyone settled down again to listen. Propped on one elbow, waiting for Rich to find his place again and begin, I snuck a sidelong look at Blue-bum. He was huddled beside Kenta again, his back hunched, his beady eyes fixed intently on Rich. His gaze flicked over to me as if he could feel me watching him; he stretched his mouth into the familiar slit smile. I tried to smile back.
Had I imagined it? The look on Blue-bum’s face when Rich made his ham-fisted but well-meaning retort: not the apologetic chittering grin I’d expected, but a red-eyed laser glare of rage.
The fourth day — the day of the Contest of Kings — was pronounced a holiday throughout Karazan. When the first grey light of dawn brushed the city walls to the south, they were already thronged with townsfolk well wrapped in their warmest cloaks, an excited babble of voices drowning out the chorus of the waking birds.
A silken tent had been set up on a low platform near the city gate for the royal party. Zaronel was carried to the pavilion in a litter, heavy velvet curtains concealing her from the people. The litter came to rest; the curtains were drawn back. Slowly, regally, Zaronel took up her place beside the mage, Zagros at her shoulder.
All was in readiness. Every eye was on the gate; every ear strained for the sound of hoof beats.
And here at last they came: the winged golden stallion of Prince Zane and the wild-eyed black mare of Prince Zeel, side by side. A roar went up from the people. The stallion threw up his head and leapt forward, snorting, foam flying from his bit. His rider jerked him back with hands of steel.
Zaronel’s eyes widened.
The two horses paced nearer, approaching the platform from the east, silhouetted against the lightening sky.
The dawn gong boomed. The two horses sprang forward as one, their cloaked riders crouched low over their necks, driving them forward. The thunder of hooves dwindled into the distance as they rounded the edge of the forest and were gone.
Zaronel’s heart beat at her breast like a trapped bird. She dared a glance at Meirion. He stood motionless, expressionless, his eyes closed.
Last will be first, first last …
Why then were the princes urging their horses on as if their very lives depended upon being first past the finish post?
A table had been set out on the grass before the platform. On its surface rested a single item: a golden bowl. The grassy swathe leading to it was lined with people, shouting and cheering, craning their necks for the first view of the returning horsemen.
Silence fell. In the silence, faint at first, came the rapid tattoo of hoof beats. Zaronel’s own heart raced in time to their thunder as a great cry went up from the crowd and the first horse plunged into view, careering down the track towards the table at breakneck speed.
It was the black, hurtling down upon them like a thunderbolt.
And now in the distance the princess caught her first glimpse of the golden steed, far, so far behind …
The black was on them. It skidded into the turn, fighting for its head against the tight reins holding the reserves of strength and speed in check — for the race was only half run. The rider was half out of the saddle, tossing the golden leaf into the bowl … and they were away again on a hot gust of horse-sweat and leather, clods of earth kicking up onto the platform from the flying hooves.
But Zaronel had seen the rider’s face … and at last she understood.
The prince whose horse is last across the finish line will win …
And now Prince Zane’s winged stallion was upon them, eyes rolling white-rimmed, gouts of foam flying from his lips. The velvet corners of his mouth were jagged rips; bloody welts striped his flanks where the whip had split his satin hide. From a flat gallop the rider threw his full weight back on the reins, heaving at the horse’s head with all his strength. The stallion slid sideways on his haunches and almost fell, throwing out his wings to save himself. Snarling, the horseman flung his crumpled golden leaf at the bowl, then jabbed his sharpened silver spurs into the horse’s sides. The great beast lunged into a rearing run to escape the bite of the barbs — and they were gone.
The rider of the winged stallion was Zeel.
Princess Zaronel stared after them. Let it be the mare, she prayed. Let the black mare win.
The great crowd was silent. The minutes slipped by one by one, drops of water falling into a still pool. The future of Karazan, of Zaronel, of Antarion, hinged on which horse would come into view first.
The press of people hid the bend from sight. First came the hoof beats: then a long-drawn breath from t
he watchers, almost like a sigh.
As the horse came into sight, it seemed to Zaronel that it was moving in slow motion, its legs slicing through the air like swords, its head tossing and plunging like the crests of the white horses on the waves of the sea.
But this horse wasn’t white. It was golden … it was winged … it was the stallion of Prince Zane, carrying his brother to victory.
Zaronel was seated upon a low stool in her chamber. She was awaiting Meirion, Prophet Mage of Karazan. As the sun set, he was to bring her the third gift: the gift of the new king. She waited, cold and still as marble, as the last rays of the sun faded and dusk crept into the chamber like a thief.
The knock came; the door opened. Meirion was there, hands outstretched. His eyes smiled down at her. On his palms rested a single scarlet rose.
The room swam; warm blood rushed to her face. ‘I — I do not understand,’ she faltered. ‘Prince Zeel … the race …’
‘My dear princess,’ Meirion’s voice was very gentle, ‘the ways of Karazan are seldom simple; as queen, you will come to understand them better with time. There was not one test, but three. The first: to win your heart. The second: to unravel the riddle of the race. The third: the race itself.’ He paused, and a shadow fell over his face. ‘On the second lap, hidden from view of the watchers, Prince Zeel flew the golden stallion, keeping low, under cover of the trees. He overtook the black and won the race, but he did so by deceit and trickery. Of this, Prince Zane told me nothing. But the Oracle … the Oracle sees with the inner eye, though sometimes through a veil of darkness.
‘Some things can be seen and yet not changed, Princess Zaronel of Karazan; and some things, alas, cannot be seen.’
He left, closing the door softly behind him.
