by V M Jones
‘Yes, Gen,’ I said patiently; ‘I’m absolutely sure.’
‘And he’d put it on tape for you if we had one — save him telling you over and over again,’ growled Rich.
‘In empty sockets seek the prize that’s hidden in the dragon’s eyes,’ said Jamie sadly. ‘And we’re really saying — for definite — that it’s a dud?’
I stared into the fire. The flames seemed dim beside my memory of the hidden inferno deep in the belly of the mountain. Could it really mean nothing? ‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Then what are we left with?’ asked Gen, ‘We’re back to pools of darkness again — and we still haven’t the least idea where they might be.’
‘Yeah — pity you didn’t think to ask Danon about them while you were about it,’ grumbled Rich.
‘And words of the past. We haven’t learned much from the diary so far, though,’ said Kenta, gathering up the dishes. ‘I know it’s your turn to clear, Adam, but you’ve done enough today. You two look terrible.’
But I was on my feet in a second, jelly legs and all. ‘Hey, Weevil — Blue-bum, I mean — where d’you think you’re going?’ He was sidling over to my pack, keeping to the shadows at the edge of the firelight. He looked across at Kenta, cringing and chittering.
‘Don’t yell at him, Adam! He’s trying to help by fetching the diary for us — aren’t you, Blue-bum?’ said Kenta. ‘Give it to him, Adam — let him bring it across to me. He just wants to do his share.’
‘Hardly a share,’ muttered Rich. ‘How about letting him clear away, if he’s so keen to be helpful?’
‘It’s OK — I’ve got it. Here you go, Kenta.’ For some reason I didn’t like the thought of Weevil touching the diary. I forced the feeling down, pasting a stiff smile on my face. ‘Thanks, Blue-bum. Sorry to growl. I’m just tired, I guess.’
‘Now, where were we up to?’ Kenta opened the little book, tilting it so the moonlight fell on the pages. ‘The coronation …’
Blue-bum scrambled onto her lap and peered down at the page, then up at her face. Chattered softly; then reached out a tiny, crooked paw and scrabbled at the paper.
I said nothing.
‘What is it, Blue-bum? What are you trying to tell me? You want to turn over? You think we should read further on?’ There was a volley of staccato clicks from Blue-bum. Kenta looked up at us. ‘Blue-bum thinks we should read further on,’ she announced. ‘And you know: he’s right. It’s a really good idea.’
‘Yes,’ said Gen slowly. ‘I guess it is. I don’t know why we didn’t think of it before.’
‘We need to know what happened to Zane …’ said Jamie.
‘And what happened to Zephyr after that. Let me see if I can find anything …’ Kenta flipped through the pages, frowning.
Blue-bum looked across at me and stretched his mouth into a smug monkey-smile. I pretended not to notice. He was right. We needed to get to the guts of what had happened fifty years ago — and we had no time to lose. There was a funny, hollow feeling inside me that I thought must be relief. Of course Blue-bum was still on our side. He wanted Zephyr found as much as anyone — and this proved it.
‘Wait a second,’ said Kenta suddenly. ‘This part here — the writing changes. It’s not Zaronel any more. It’s Zagros. Listen to this:
I am Zagros, warrior lord, Guardian of the Jewel of Antarion. I write in moonlight, for my lady cannot …’
Flowers of scarlet
Five long years had passed since the twisted crowns had been placed on the heads of King Zane and Queen Zaronel, and the Sign of Sovereignty set upon the new king’s hand. It was a golden era for Karazan and her sister state Antarion; a time of peace and prosperity.
Now at last, after years of waiting, had come the most joyous tidings of all. The belly of Queen Zaronel was ripe with child. The prince — for none were in any doubt that the baby would be a boy — was to be borne on the wings of the Zephyr, the southerly wind that tipped the balance of the seasons from the warm days of summer to the long dark nights of winter.
It should have been a time of perfect happiness. Yet a shadow lay over Arakesh; a feeling of foreboding, as if a nameless evil lurked in some hidden place. Zagros felt it, and he knew his lady felt it also, though she did not speak of it.
But King Zane did not. His footfalls rang on the flagstones as he ran up the winding stairway to his wife; his laughter rang out like a bell as he knelt before her, his palms spread on her stomach, feeling the strong legs of his son kick against his hands; the soft lullaby of his larigot drifted from the window of the royal bedchamber each night as he played queen and unborn prince to sleep.
Zagros kept as closely as he could to Zaronel’s side. Only when King Zane was beside her in the Summer Palace did he relax his vigilance. Even at night, he kept his place outside their door. And his keen eyes watched.
Especially they watched Prince Zeel, who it seemed had a new stillness since the news of the baby prince. He smiled more, but something about the smile put Zagros in mind of the serpents in the sacred temple, with their flat, watchful eyes.
It was the custom of King Zane and Queen Zaronel to hold court on the golden afternoons in the great hall. There, on matching thrones, they would listen to the petitions of their people; or rather King Zane would listen, nodding, smiling, sometimes frowning, always just and fair in his pronouncements. Queen Zaronel would sit quietly by, head bent over whatever sewing, crochet or tapestry her hands were busy with, directing the occasional smiling glance or soft word of counsel to her king.
Of late her nimble fingers had been busy with the preparation of a layette for the baby prince: garment after garment of softest cotton and delicate lambswool, all in purest white or cream: nightgowns; tiny leggings and bonnets; little jackets with buttons of pearl; fluffy blankets and lacy shawls to swaddle the newborn.
And always, Zagros stood a pace behind the queen’s throne, and watched.
Now, two neighbours who had been locked in a bitter dispute over a boundary fence were leaving the hall. Ten minutes before, guards had restrained them from settling the matter with fists and daggers; now, following the counsel of the king, they were leaving, arm in arm and laughing, to celebrate the renewal of their friendship at the tavern.
King Zane lifted a pewter tankard of water to his lips and took a long draught, then stretched, yawning. ‘It has been a long afternoon, Meirion. How many more?’
The mage consulted the scroll that lay on the oak pedestal before him, concealing a smile in his beard. He knew that the hours spent at Citizen’s Council did not sit comfortably on the shoulders of the young king, who regarded them in the same light as he did parchment and quill: a necessary hardship. ‘Only one, my lord.’
Zane met his wife’s eyes in a shared glance of rueful resignation. Smiling, Zaronel snipped a loose end of snow-white wool with a pair of tiny golden scissors and held up the finished garment for him to see. It was a tiny sock, edged with frothy lace and threaded at the ankle with a satin ribbon. Taking it from her, the king slipped the sock carefully over the top of one large brown thumb. It barely fitted. King Zane examined it solemnly. ‘This is an exquisite piece of craftsmanship, my beloved Zara,’ he pronounced at last with great solemnity. ‘But dare I ask the question: is it a fitting boot for the mighty foot of the future King of the United Empires?’ He passed it back with a laugh, and she placed it with the other finished articles in the sandalwood box beside her throne.
The king sighed. ‘Very well, Meirion: send him in.’
At a signal from the mage a figure appeared at the far end of the long carpet, and made its way slowly towards the thrones.
He was a man of middle years, clad in a ragged leather jerkin and blood-stained breeches. As he drew nearer, Zagros heard Zaronel draw in her breath; saw her put her hand up to her throat. The man’s face was disfigured by a raw, weeping wound: a gash that ran from eye to chin, crusted with blood and yellow pus and blue with bruising at its edges.
‘My lord king,�
�� said Zaronel softly, ‘this man should have been sent to the Temple for healing before seeking audience here.’
Before the king could reply the man himself spoke, falling to his knees on the low step in front of the thrones.
‘Good King Zane,’ he said, his voice hollow with exhaustion and pain, ‘I beg you for help. I am a woodcutter in the Forests of Nightshade: I dwell with wife and children in a village that numbers no more than two dozen souls. Our lives are humble; we wish for nothing but to live in peace and safety. But now …’
‘Now?’
‘Now a creature is come more fearsome than any from myth or legend. A giant boar, taller than a horse and more massive than a bull. Its tusks are as long as my forearm and sharper than swords; its appetite is for human flesh, and cannot be sated. Two days past the men of our village — six in number — tried to hunt it down. Two are dead; one will not live to see the dawn. Our women and children cower behind barred doors by day, and cannot sleep at night for the terrors that come to them in their dreams. I beseech you for aid, my lord king, before all is lost.’
In one swift stride King Zane was beside him, raising him gently to his feet. ‘Beg no more. Come, stand tall and be of good cheer. Mage Meirion will take you and minister to your wounds; he will give you a phial of healing potion for your friend, and food and wine. Before nightfall a party of hunters will set forth to track this monster and destroy it. Have no fear: they will not rest until the task is done. As your king I am pledged to do all in my power to rid Karazan of its ancient legacy of evil, whatever form it may take. Remember that in the kingdom of Karazan you are never alone: the might of the crown and the power of good stand always at your shoulder.’
‘And why do we not join the chase, brother?’ Zagros’ eyes flicked to the doorway. Zeel stood there, his customary black garb almost concealing him in the shadows, his dark-cloaked steward as always by his side. Zeel stepped forward, smiling. ‘It is long since we hunted together, Zane. This beast sounds a worthy quarry. Or are you now too much the king to bloody your hands at the kill?’
Zane turned to Zaronel, and Zagros saw the wild light of the hunter burning in his eyes like a bright flame. She said nothing. She looked steadily into the eyes of her lord: a long, level look that had no need of words.
King Zane shuffled his feet and flushed; looked down, then darted a cautious, hopeful glance at her face. ‘Come, Zara,’ he coaxed; ‘it would not be long. It is a fortnight yet till we expect the arrival of our small stranger.’ Then he smiled, a boyish grin that lit his face like sunlight, and Zagros knew that his lady was lost. ‘Let me go — this last time. Then I will be glad to put the thrill of the hunt aside for a while. You have my word.’
Zaronel smiled back at him. It was only Zagros who saw the shadow of fear suddenly deepen in her eyes … and noted the soft departure of the servant Evor as he hobbled swiftly away in the direction of his turret room.
The party of hunters left as the sun was setting, the woodcutter riding a pace or two behind King Zane on a borrowed horse. The deep voices of the men and the jingle of harness carried clearly through the still air to Queen Zaronel, standing with one hand on the cold stone of the battlements, the other pressed to the swell beneath her bosom. ‘Well, Zagros?’ she asked, knowing he would be there without needing to turn. ‘Will he be long?’
Zagros did not reply. Like Zaronel, he was watching for the king to turn as he always did, brush a kiss to his fingertips, and blow it up to where his lady waited. But the king’s horse was fresh and itching to run; laughing, he held the prancing stallion back, calling over his shoulder to his companions, and did not turn.
It was Zeel who turned back, his pale, empty eyes seeking out the silent figure of Zaronel, grey as a ghost on the high tower as evening fell about her.
A week passed, and the hunting party did not return. Eight days; nine, and still no word. Each sunrise, Zagros followed Zaronel to the high tower that faced to the west, and gazed with her over the empty darkness of the forest. Zaronel asked that a chair be placed in the shelter of the battlements in the sunshine, and there she sat by day, her hands idle in her lap, staring into the trees.
They came on the evening of the thirteenth day. Zaronel sat alone in the vast dining hall, at the foot of the long table. As always, a rich feast was spread before her, but she had eaten nothing.
The great studded door burst open. Zeel stood framed in the doorway, his pale eyes fixed on her face like leeches. ‘It is done.’
Zaronel half-rose, then sank back in her chair as if she no longer had the strength to stand. She was pale as death. ‘Where is he?’
There was a silence. Then Zeel smiled. ‘My brother is here. But alas, he is … indisposed. Something he has eaten, perhaps.’ He raised one hand and clicked his fingers. Still, his eyes did not leave Zaronel’s face.
Two of Zeel’s servants appeared in the doorway. Between them hung the tall figure of King Zane, an arm round each of their necks. Instantly, Zagros sprang forward, taking the weight of the king, pushing the sly-eyed footmen aside. His gaze was fixed on the face of his king; had Evor been hovering in the shadows, he would not have seen him.
The king was utterly changed. His skin had a greenish pallor and gleamed with a sheen of greasy sweat. His hair hung in oily ropes. He had about him an odd, fungal smell, like rotten mushrooms. His eyes were rolled up in their sockets, and a thin string of saliva hung from his slack mouth.
‘Call Meirion.’ Zagros growled the words as he lowered his lord as gently as a baby into the great throne at the head of the table. A tremor ran through the body of the king; his eyes jerked open and fastened on Zaronel’s ashen face.
‘My love …’
Zaronel’s face was frozen; it did not change. But Zagros’ heart gave a great leap in his chest, as if it were about to burst apart. ‘FETCH MEIRION!’ he bellowed.
King Zane’s eyes were pools of blood.
If Evor melted silently from the room, no one saw him go.
Slowly, slowly, as if it was weighted down with a steel gauntlet almost too heavy to lift, King Zane reached out his hand towards Zaronel. He gave a single, soft cough.
A fountain of drops as bright as rubies sprayed over the polished wood of the table, over the platters of fruit and sweet-meats and plaited bread and pastries, over the silver and crystal and the spotless brocade of the napkins.
It splashed the breast and swollen belly of the queen with flowers of scarlet, as if her own heart had been pierced with a mortal wound.
Tapestries of destiny
I woke while it was still dark and lay watching the stars fade in the lightening sky. The words of the past had woven their way through my dreams; now their invisible threads drifted in the soft light of dawn like a cobweb spun across time, fragile strands connecting the past to the present with a symmetry I didn’t begin to understand.
Soon, Karazeel had said. How soon was soon? We’d been in Karazan for days, and we were no nearer finding Zephyr than when we’d first arrived. It seemed to me that we were blundering round blindly, occasionally stumbling into things that should have helped us — would have helped us, if we knew what they meant.
‘It’s like doing a jigsaw puzzle: all the pieces are on the table, staring us in the face, and we just can’t fit them together,’ Gen agreed over breakfast.
‘Let’s go over what we’ve got, and what we know,’ Jamie suggested. ‘Bags I go first. We’ve got Queen Zaronel’s magic diary.’
‘And we know that King Zane was taken ill on a hunting trip just before Zephyr was born —’ said Kenta.
‘Poisoned, I reckon,’ interrupted Rich. ‘By Zeel, and that sidekick of his, Evor. Slimy toad.’
‘We’ve got that cylinder thing,’ continued Jamie doubtfully, ‘from the secret passage in the Summer Palace — remember?’
‘But we don’t know what it is.’
‘And we’ve got a bottle of totally useless furniture oil,’ said Rich.
‘And a gold coin �
�’
‘And a handful of loose change …’
‘And a magic map,’ I said.
‘And a poem that’s supposedly the key to it all — if only we could understand it,’ finished Gen.
‘A poem that’s a load of twaddle, you mean,’ grumbled Rich. ‘The dragon part at least.’
‘And time is running out,’ I said reluctantly. ‘It has to be.’
There was a gloomy silence.
‘Let’s have a look at where we’re at — literally,’ said Jamie at last. ‘Haul out the map, Kenta.’
‘I haven’t got it. I took everything out, remember — to make room for Blue-bum.’
‘So who has?’
‘Me.’ My pack was a dumping-ground for everything no one else wanted to carry; most of the things Kenta had offloaded had found their way into it, map and parchment included. But I didn’t mind a bit of extra weight, and years of Matron and Highgate had trained me to keep everything tidily stowed away in its proper place. Ask me where anything in that pack was, and I’d be able to tell you exactly.
But now, my bag was a mess. Someone had been through it while I was asleep, or off looking for wood. Had it been Kenta, hunting for matches to start the fire? Or …
Suddenly I froze. My shawl was damp.
Our bags were completely waterproof. So how … Frowning, I pulled the shawl out and sniffed it. It smelt the way pine trees do after rain. I groped for the bottle of revealing oil Danon had given me; pulled it out, upside-down. Minus the cork. Empty.
Luckily the diary had been right at the top — though that wasn’t where I’d left it last night. Kenta had given it back to me once the moon had disappeared and she’d had to stop reading; I’d tucked it down the side, into its special place next to my penny whistle.
But just about everything else in the bag was soaked and stank of resin. I could feel a sick, familiar anger bubbling up inside me like bile. It was a feeling I hadn’t had since those long-ago days at Highgate, with Weevil.
