by V M Jones
Words seeded in my brain — Bluebell — Tiger Lily — tag and I was falling forwards clutching the jug as its contents curved in a shimmering arc to shatter over Karazeel and the plasma globe.
What the moonlight revealed
A crack like a thunderbolt — a blinding explosion of blue-white light. I was flying backwards through the crackling air, my head connecting with the back wall with a thwack. Dimly I heard a patter like falling rain as the glass from shattered computer screens fell onto the table-tops … but my eyes were fixed on Karazeel.
Impossibly, he was dancing.
I stared, my head still ringing. Karazeel was dancing; dancing to the tinkling music of falling glass. A queer, graceful, twisting dance that reminded me of the tendrils of light from the plasma globe … and like them he was lit up in a brilliant blaze of fluorescent blue.
I stared, still not beginning to understand, as the electric glow of Karazeel’s writhing figure dimmed and faded … as the contortions of his dance slowed and bent and crumpled … as his body shrank in on itself like an autumn leaf, twitching and jerking till it was the size of a child — of a doll — of a playing-card, shrivelled and black. I stared as the faint breath of a breeze from the open door wafted a grey feather of ash from the floor … but before it could drift to the ground again, even that was gone.
I leaned against the wall like a broken puppet while Tiger Lily purred and rubbed herself against me and pretended the pale fur at the tip of her tail wasn’t frizzled and scorched. It was the end, wasn’t it? I’d done it — or rather Tiger Lily had. Karazeel was dead. Our world was safe. So why did I have such a feeling of dread? Could it be because my mind kept replaying, not what I’d seen, but what I’d heard?
What I’d thought at first was Karazeel singing as he danced; then thought was a high, wavering scream … but now echoed in my memory as a sound I’d never heard before and never wanted to hear again: Karazeel’s triumphant laughter.
After what seemed a long time I clambered unsteadily to my feet. There was only one thought in my mind: Find Q. More than anything else I longed to be held safe in his arms, to hear him tell me I’d done it; it was over.
Something caught my eye: an angular shadow under one of the tables. The knife. Too late now — but then maybe this was how it was meant to happen. I bent to pick it up.
It wasn’t the hard metal of the knife that met my fingers. It was something solid and velvety, that tickled my fingertips with the tingle of magic. I drew it out, and it fell open in my hand. The Book of Days.
It must have been in my backpack and fallen out when I was thrown across the room. Moonlight fell full on the open page. Words leapt out at me, and in the pale silvery light they seemed tinged with gold, as if they were written not in moonlight, but in liquid fire. They were words I hadn’t seen before, in a new hand, strong and compelling: the hand of Meirion the Prophet Mage. It is not over …
The words of the final entry in Zaronel’s diary echoed my own thoughts of seconds before. Numb, disbelieving, I read to the end. A few disjointed sentences, scrawled in haste … sentences that changed everything. Meirion was right. It hadn’t been over then — and it wasn’t over now.
My quest had just begun.
Q — I had to find Q.
I ran.
Past computers with their plastic covers melted onto the casings, their shattered screens gaping shark-mouths rimmed with jagged teeth — past the table where the plasma globe had stood, now just a blackened, shapeless base with a half-melted cord. Through the door, past the grandfather clock in the hallway, up the stairs two at a time. Left at the top past Hannah’s room, realising I didn’t know which door was Q’s. I’d never been to his bedroom; never needed to.
I needed to now. Logic told me it would be the next one — the one beside Hannah’s. I skidded to a stop, raised my knuckles and rapped as loud as I dared.
Nothing.
I lifted my hand to try one more time before moving to the next door down where a deep voice reached me through the wood: ‘Who is it?’
‘Me — Adam.’
A pause … then the doorknob turned and the door opened. I blundered in on a wave of relief, already starting to gabble.
But it wasn’t Q. It was Shaw, standing with one hand on the doorknob and the other at the neck of his paisley gown. If it hadn’t been for the dressing-gown I would have hugged him.
‘Shaw,’ I gasped, ‘thank goodness I’ve found you! Where’s Q? I have to talk to him now. Stuff has happened with Karazeel and I’ve found out —’
‘Adam! Yer back! But ’ang on, ’ang on — ’old onter yer ’olly-’ocks.’ He lumbered past me and shut the door. ‘Don’t want ter wake the whole house, do yer? Now, wot’s the problem?’
I was tempted to blurt out the whole story, knowing he’d take it all in stride; it was next to impossible to rattle Shaw. But it was Q I needed … and something was niggling at the back of my mind, something I didn’t have time to think about right then. I pushed it away; steadied myself. ‘Shaw, which is Q’s room? I need to speak to him.’
Shaw shook his head slowly. ‘Sorry, Adam, Q’s ’ad ter go ter Winterton with wee ’annah. Last night she were took bad.’ I thought I saw a glimmer of something in his eyes. Could it be tears? I felt my own throat close. Hannah was over her terrible illness — wasn’t she?
‘Is she …’
‘Touch an’ go, Adam; touch an’ go. But Q left you a message. If yer came back unexpected, like. Said ter tell yer …’ Shaw paused, as if trying to recall exactly what Q’s words had been; ‘… ter say that if yer needed ’elp, just come straight ter me.’ His eyes glinted in the gloom. ‘That … and ter give yer ’is love.’
I stared at his face, so solid and reassuring in the candlelight. Candlelight … the explosion must have blown the electricity. I shivered. It was cold in the room; no wonder Shaw was clutching the neck of his dressing-gown closed.
To give you his love … Tears filled my eyes, and my knees turned to jelly. I sank down on the bed. ‘Shaw,’ I stammered, ‘so much has happened … and now, the biggest secret of all …’
‘Steady now, Adam; just take yer time.’
I was trying desperately to order my thoughts. ‘Zephyr, the Lost Prince of Karazan … it’s me. I know it sounds crazy, but he — I — was brought to our world as a baby. Time’s different here, it’s slower. And Karazeel has been taking a Potion of Immortality, so I tricked him into coming to our world and … and …’
‘And?’ There was a new note in Shaw’s voice now; I’d hardly have recognised it.
‘The plasma globe — the water — he’s …’ I couldn’t say it, but I could tell Shaw understood. His face had gone very still, his eyes were burning into mine with an intensity I’d never seen before. ‘But … he was laughing — laughing. And that can only mean one thing. Something has gone horribly wrong and Karazan is in terrible danger.’
The suffocating dread was back, half panic, half paranoia. ‘There’s more,’ I whispered. ‘There’s a spy of Karazeel’s here in our world, looking for me.’
And here, in the gloom of Quested Court, I knew without a doubt who that spy must be. ‘It’s Usherwood — it has to be! The plasma globe gave her a shock once too, remember? You told me — that’s why you won’t go near it. But it doesn’t shock just anyone — only people from Karazan. Usherwood’s a dissembler, and her real name’s Tallow.’ The pieces of the jigsaw were falling into place so fast I was gabbling to keep up with them. ‘She was the one who searched my room — she’d taken invisibility potion so I couldn’t see her! That’s why she’s been watching me all this time! That’s why she wanted to adopt me, to find out more about me. She must have suspected —’
Something in Shaw’s face flickered in what could almost have been a smile. ‘There, there. Don’t fret yerself, Adam. Usherwood ain’t ’ere now; I am. The door’s closed and it’s just the two of us. Now, is there anything else yer need ter tell me?’
‘Yes.’ I he
sitated. ‘But … it’s so secret only three people in the entire universe have known it up till now. And it changes everything. I read in Queen Zaronel’s diary that there wasn’t one baby born that night. There were two. Prince Zephyr — and Prince Zenith. The Prince of the Wind and the Prince of the Sun — one silver, one gold; one for each of the twin moons of Karazan; one for each strand of the twisted crown.
‘Somewhere I have a brother … and it will take both of us to save Karazan.’
A spy in the night
The candle-flame flickered, and Shaw’s shadow wavered huge and dark on the closed door behind him. His face was as impassive as ever, but I thought I saw a glimmer of approval in his eyes.
‘Well, young Adam, yer’ve certainly put two and two tergether and come pretty close to makin’ four. Some of wot yer’ve just said is news ter me — some, but not all. So you’re Zephyr, are yer? Well, well, ’oo’d ’av thought it? Me, mebbe, if I’d only known about the time difference.’ He rubbed his face, grimacing slightly as if it was stiff or sore.
‘And looking at you now, it isn’t so hard to believe. Like I said, young Adam, you’ve done well. And you’re right about Usherwood, she is a spy. But there’s one thing you don’t know. There are two spies from Karazan here at Quested Court. One sent by King Karazeel … and one sent by those they call the Believers. Both on the same mission: to find Prince Zephyr. Think of it as a race, if you like, or a complex game of cat and mouse.’
I stared up at him. He watched me, dark eyes expressionless. He was scratching the base of his neck thoughtfully, almost as if he was waiting for something … waiting for me to say something, make some connection …
Suddenly the niggle I’d pushed to the edge of my mind leaped back centre-stage, fully formed. What had Shaw said when I knocked on his door? Who is it. I’d been so focused on what Shaw was saying I hadn’t noticed how he was saying it: not ’ow — how…
I felt a grin spread over my face. ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ I said slowly. ‘You’re the Believer. That’s how you know all this stuff! You’ve been looking for me all this time — and I’ve been right here, under your nose!’
‘Almost right, Prince Zephyr. All except for one small detail.’ He turned away, scratching the base of his neck. There was a sound like ripping plaster and he turned back to me, the loose skin of his face and head dangling from his hand inside-out, pale and flaccid. Shaw’s dark eyes peered out at me from a featureless mass of scar tissue, salmon-pink and grey. It’s not like candle-wax, I thought stupidly; it’s like brains, as if his brains have melted and run down his face …
And now finally, with his mask removed, Tallow was smiling as he advanced towards me.
Instinct took over, powered by adrenaline.
I pushed off from the bed like a rocket, head low and arms pumping, and bolted straight for Shaw — my head rammed him in the gut like a charging bull. I heard his breath whoof out as I dodged round his doubled-up body and clutching hands and fumbled for the doorknob. Grabbed it, twisted, wrenched open and ran.
Out of the door and down the dark corridor to the end, a long passageway at right angles. Left or right? Didn’t matter, as long as I made the turn before Shaw saw. Like a rabbit on the run, I dodged and dived left and right and left again …
I hurtled down corridor after dark corridor, swinging round corners, my feet hardly touching the carpet — but I could feel him behind me and closing. I risked a frantic glance backwards; wished I hadn’t. He was closer than I’d thought.
Another junction — or was it the same one? Right again, breath coming in ragged gasps — no, this was different. This passage ended in a stairway, heading upwards. I raced up the stairs, two, three at a time, stumbling, crawling, my legs and arms scrabbling for grip, for extra speed. At the top I looked back — he was halfway up, gaining fast.
Left; left again. The passages on this level were narrower; the carpet replaced by worn linoleum that squeaked under my feet. Another left and ahead of me was a short passage ending in a blank wall, a door leading off to either side. One of them was open just a crack …
I made the decision in a split second. He’d never look for me here — only a fool would duck down a dead-end. The open door could lead into a room, a hallway, maybe, with another exit; I’d slip through, lose him, sneak on down.
The door opened inwards. I pushed the crack wider and slipped inside, easing it closed behind me and crouching in total darkness, trying not to breathe. I knew instantly there was no room, no hallway, no other door. I was in a broom cupboard. Just like my dream … There was the fusty floor-polish smell of dusters and brooms and something was tickling the back of my neck … I breathed shallowly and waited, praying I wouldn’t sneeze.
How long till he’d be safely past? I heard a sound. Stealthy footsteps, like someone playing hide and seek. The heavy, measured breathing of someone who’d been running, but didn’t have to run any more. I heard the door creak slowly open across the passage; snick softly closed again. Soft footfalls, coming closer. The doorknob gave a little jiggle. I realised I was holding it, on the dark inside of the broom cupboard. It was trying to turn against my hand.
I locked my fingers, twisting against him, willing the handle not to turn. My other hand fumbled desperately in my pocket. Looking for something, anything. My hand slid helplessly on the smooth brass surface; the doorknob turned.
I threw my weight on the door, my foot wedged against the back wall for purchase but I knew it was useless. Shaw was a huge man, heavy and fit. Thud! The wood juddered as he flung his weight against the door; a chink of light appeared. I heaved back, but it didn’t budge; he’d have his foot against it, holding the gap while he readied himself for another push. And this time I wouldn’t be able to hold him.
Then my fingers found something in my pocket, something small and sharp I’d squirreled away in front of another door in another world. Something that held that door open when we wanted it closed. Would it hold this door closed for me now?
I dropped the little wedge-shaped stone onto the floor, hearing the tiny chink of it landing. Felt for it with my foot, kicking it under the doorjamb. Softly I moved away from the door. I had one chance left, and I’d need both hands free. If it was still there. If I could find it in the dark. If there was time.
I ripped my pack off my back and groped inside. Recoiled from the door as a massive weight rammed into it and it leapt inwards — and stuck fast. My fingers raked desperately through the jumble of oddments in the bottom of my bag, sending lightning picture-messages to my brain: pen, muesli bar, diary, matches —
Crash! Another shuddering blow; the door shifted a fraction, and held.
And there it was in the corner, smooth and heavy and unspeakably wonderful.
The microcomputer.
I lifted it out, hands shaking, squinting at the keys in the darkness. Crash! The door opened another notch. Now or never.
Alt — control — Q.
There was an animal roar, a crash like a battering ram that blew the door inwards as if the tiny stone didn’t exist. Grey light flooded the darkness.
My fingers clamped down on the keys …
The lost years
… and I was in Karazan.
Something was wrong. It was dusk … but it couldn’t be. I’d left the Stronghold of Arraz in the early morning. An hour maybe had passed since then, four hours Karazan-time at most. It should be the middle of the day, bright sunshine, birds singing.
But it was almost dark, and there was a terrible stillness in the air. It was as if the sun had gone out.
I took two slow steps forward, staring round me. The standing stone, the magic portal between the worlds, had fallen. It lay smashed in two on the sloping hillside, an angular stub sticking out of the ground like a broken tooth.
A pall hung in the sky; not cloud, more a heaviness of the air. To the northwest, way, way up where the cliffs met the horizon, there was a faint reddish glow. The air smelt burnt, not of fire, not the gu
npowder smell of thunder, but the coppery, metallic smell of fused electricity. My skin was covered in tiny dots of black that rubbed away when I touched them, like fallen ash.
Words of the past will show the way
To turn the darkest night to day;
When twain is one and one is twain
Wind blows and sun shines forth again;
When man is child and child is man
True King will reign in Karazan.
The words came into my mind from nowhere. It was the end of the prophecy, the one part we hadn’t been able to understand. Except Jamie, with his lofty talk of poetic licence and symbolism. Well, he was wrong. It meant exactly what it said. But how could he ever have guessed? How could anyone?
But what had happened? Had I done it? Was it somehow my fault? That didn’t matter. One thing I knew: it was up to me to put it right. I had no idea where the others were; I hoped they were safe. There was no one to help me decide what to do next.
That didn’t matter either. I’d read the end of the diary, and I knew what the poem meant. And I’d done some figuring out of my own.
I knew what I had to do.
I made my way slowly down the sloping hillside into the forest. It was darker here, but at least I could pretend the darkness was because of the trees. I followed the sound of the stream till I was roughly where I remembered finding the beautiful red flower — the flame vine — the first time I’d come to Karazan. The flower had clamped onto my face; I’d fallen, kicking and struggling … Argos had severed the vine and led me downhill.
There was no path; never had been. Hesitantly, following my instincts and uncomfortably aware that every tree trunk looked the same, each patch of tangled undergrowth identical, I wound my way between the trees. At last I reached a place that looked almost familiar: it was where I remembered the clearing being — where I’d looked for the cottage before, with the others, and found nothing. Again, there was nothing. Or was there?
