The Path to the Sun (The Fallen Shadows Trilogy)

by Kimberli Bindschatel

“Ah, but you do.” Aurora took a step forward, reaching out to someone standing behind Kiran. He spun around. Jandon and Bria had followed him down from the treehouse. Bria was holding his codex out to him. Aurora took it from her and opened it to the page where he had inscribed The Ancestor’s Footprints. “Sing the song and you will find your way.”

  The others started to hum the tune as though sending him in merry farewell.

  Aurora hugged him and whispered in his ear, “All you have to do is take the first step.” She pulled away and gave him a broad smile.

  His head was swimming.

  He turned to Bria. Her eyes were filled with tears. He reached out to her, touched her cheek, and ran his finger along her jaw, trying to etch her image into his memory to hold forever. His gaze lingered on her soft lips, then her green eyes. He had forgotten how bright her eyes could be. How they seemed to sparkle when she smiled. “When I see you smile, I know I can do anything,” he whispered.

  She rewarded him with a larger one. “I have something for you,” she said, taking from her pocket two tiny dolls. She handed him one that was made from her skirt. “It’s…” She wiped back a tear. “It’s me.” She hugged the other little doll to her chest. He could see that it was made from his old tunic. “And I will hold you… close to my heart… until…”

  He pulled her to him and kissed her with abandon, his heart filled with longing. He wanted to hold her for eternity, but knew that no matter how far he traveled, he would be forever bound to her.

  When she pulled away, he looked down at her beautiful face “Bria, I don’t need—”

  She put her fingers to his lips. “Some things we have to find out for ourselves.” She handed him his pack and nodded toward the setting sun.

  Day after day, as he walked the shimmering dunes, he lost all sense of time and space. Nothing in life seemed solid anymore, just waves of unending, undulating sand, sculpted by the whims of the wind. The only sign of life was an occasional snake, its head protruding from the sand, its body hidden below, or little piles of sun-dried grasses, whisked around by the tiny whirlwinds that spiraled across the dunes.

  At night, alone in the vast expanse of darkness, with nowhere to hide, nowhere to flee, he felt naked, as vulnerable as a baby, and slept curled in a ball next to Medira, his dreams invaded by visions of snakes, their bloody heads on sticks. Worst of all was the recurring dream of himself, wandering the dunes for eternity, alone, staggering through the sand, shouting for the others, knowing he’d never see them again, sent to die alone in the sand, his bones left for the birds to pick clean. He would wake in the morning, shivering in the chill, with only Medira to comfort him, her ears perked upward.

  He’d look for his tracks from the day before. There were never distinct footprints, only a faint hint of his passing. He’d take off his boots and shake the sand from them, brush the fine dust from between his toes, then put his boots back on, get to his feet again and walk on.

  He plodded west, day after day, fighting the wind under the silent sun, with nothing to see but sand and sky, nothing to do but think, acutely aware of the void. The nothingness pulsated with profound emotion and his mind began to drift with the sand, up and away, for lengths of time without measure, from the ceaseless striving toward the Voice, back to the forest and Bria, to live out their lives together in the harmonious world of the Weikaito.

  The urge to quit, to turn back, came on him in waves. Then he would imagine his village, dry and brittle, swept away like dust on the wind, and he’d be left weak and shaken by the visions, gripped by fear that if he ever did made it to the Voice, it would be too late. His mind retreated into a dark state of detachment, as though his soul had fled into a deep recess of his being. His life back home in the village became a surreal, dream-like image of the distant past, fading now into a mirage.

  At times, he thought how easy it would be to lie down, stop walking, to give in, to escape to the bliss of sleep. He was sick to death of thinking, of words, of not knowing the meaning of the Script. He wanted it over. But he was haunted by the image of Roh and his indomitable will, and the promise Roh had compelled him to make. He would not quit, not while he could still draw breath.

  One morning when he awoke, he thought he smelled the salt of the sea carried on the wind. He counted the scratch marks he had been making on his walking stick, once again, to be certain of the days that had passed. He had spent forty days and forty nights, as Aurora said the journey would be, but in every direction he saw nothing but rolling hills of sand. Then he noticed, toward the setting sun, a mound speckled with reeds of grass. He picked up his pace and trudged to the top.

  In the distance stood a city of buildings like none he’d ever seen before. Beyond, lay the sea.

  Chapter 30

  The air shimmered around the city and for a moment, Kiran thought it was a mirage. A sprawling mass of white buildings with roofs of all shapes and sizes and colors rose up against the blue skyline, covering the hillside as far as the eye could see. It dwarfed any settlement he’d ever seen or could have imagined.

  Amid all those buildings, all those people, how would he find the Voice? He had assumed that once he got to the edge of the world, everything would be clear, that all would be obvious, that the dwelling place of the Voice would be right in plain sight.

  “Now what do we do?” he said to Medira. She flicked an ear and took a step. He followed and they made their way steadily forward.

  As they got closer, he could see the harbor. Dozens of boats bobbed on the waves. A breeze blew up from the sea and he was sure he could hear the low rumble of waves crashing on the beach. To the south, a roadway meandered along the shoreline and into the heart of the city. A steady stream of wagons and animals traveled in both directions, to where and to what, he could not guess.

  At the city’s edge, they passed beneath an arch and into a maze of earthen streets lined with buildings made from stone blocks with tiled roofs. The clatter of wheels and the clickety-clack of hooves mixed with hurried voices. From under broad, colorful canopies, shopkeepers shouted into the crowd, tempting women to browse their markets filled with baskets of fresh fruits and vegetables, barrels of drink, and all sizes of wooden boxes. Children ran and played in the streets. Everything seemed crammed too close together and saturated with the sweat of men and the odor of their animals.

  Kiran blended in among the throng of bodies. There were so many people; no one noticed or welcomed him. He didn’t know which way to turn, where to go, but somehow Midira seemed to have a direction in mind, so he followed her, wandering through the streets. They entered a district with fewer shops and more residences, the buildings old and dilapidated, made of weathered boards and wood-shingled roofs. Chickens and other small animals scurried about under foot. At one house, a woman veiled in long robes was sweeping her porch. She watched Kiran walk past, suspicion in her eyes. A rut, running with sewage, cut across the street. He pulled his tunic up over his nose.

  Medira picked up the pace. They rounded a corner and came to a ramshackle stable with crooked slatboard walls. Medira went straight to the trough to lap up a drink of water.

  Kiran sat down on a wooden box in the shade to rest, wondering where to go. A door slammed opened in the back of the stable and a man with shaggy red hair and a belly that hung over his pants waist stumbled across the threshold. “Damn,” he muttered as he fumbled with his pants and urinated into the straw.

  Kiran eased from the box, thinking he could quietly slip away.

  The man’s head swung around. “What do you want, boy?” he grumbled, eyeing Kiran up and down as he flicked a tiny sliver of wood back and forth in his lips. He took his time adjusting his pants and turned to face Kiran, hand on his hip.

  Kiran faced him head on, unsure what the man would do. “Hello, sir,” he said. “I, ah…”

  The man yanked the splinter of wood from his mouth. “Out with it,” he growled.

  “I came with Medira,” Kiran said, gesturing toward the an
imal. She turned, her ears perking up at the mention of her name.

  The man noticed the animal then and his lips spread into a broad smile. He stroked her neck. “Welcome home, old girl.” He scratched his face through his thick beard. “You brought her all the way across the dunes, eh?”

  Kiran hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. How did you know?”

  “Just a guess,” he said with a grin. He slapped Kiran on the back. “You look thirsty. Go on in.” He gestured toward the door. “The least I can do is offer you a pint. Tell Marion that Artus sent you.”

  “Uh, sure.” Kiran wasn’t sure what a pint was, but the man seemed friendly enough.

  “Well, go on. I’ll unburden Medira here and be right along.”

  Rusty hinges groaned as Kiran pushed open the heavy wooden door. He stepped into a dark room and waited for his eyes to adjust. Hanging on wooden pegs driven into the wall were three woolen coats. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the rafters. Sitting atop a couple of bins were tall, brown earthenware jars with narrow necks. Rows of barrels were stacked along the far wall.

  Through another door, he could hear the low rumble of men’s voices. He pushed it open and stood in the doorway, looking into a crowded room alive with chatter and laughter and the savory smell of a bubbling stew. Men sat around tables, drinking from mugs.

  A robust woman with rosy cheeks stood at the bar, wiping the top with a rag. Her hearty laugh filled the room. She noticed Kiran and waved him in. “What’ll you have?”

  Kiran stared a moment, unsure what she was asking him.

  “Looks like you could use a pint,” she said, enunciating each word.

  Kiran nodded.

  “Shy one, are you?” She slung the rag over her shoulder and gestured toward a stool at the counter. “Well, take a seat. Relax.”

  Kiran dropped his pack to the floor and climbed up on the stool. Two men, leaning on the bar next to him, mugs in hand, eyed him up and down. One wore a beard that was too scraggly to hide a face pocked with old acne. They both smelled of fish. Kiran nodded in greeting and they turned back to their conversation.

  The woman grabbed a mug from behind the counter, lifted it to a spigot in a barrel that lay on its side, and filled it full to the top with a rich, frothy brew. As she slid the mug across the counter, she seemed to reconsider. With her hand still holding the handle, she said, “I’ll be needin’ your money up front.”

  Kiran looked at her. “Money?” He shook his head, confused.

  She pulled the mug back. “Yeah, I kinda figured. Where you from, lad? You one of them outlanders?”

  “Outlanders?”

  “You look like one.” She leaned back, one hand on her hip. “You smell like one.”

  Kiran’s eyes flitted around the room as he leaned toward his armpit and took a whiff.

  The woman roared with laughter, her hand going to her stomach. “Well, young man, what have you got worth tradin’?”

  He shook his head. “I…” Then he remembered the pouches of salt Aldwyn had given him. He dug around in his pack, pulled a pouch from its container, and presented one to her.

  “What have we here? Salt? Ha,” she said with a chuckle. “So, you’re a time traveler.” She dropped the pouch on the counter in front of him and cocked her head as though waiting for the punch line. When Kiran didn’t respond, she shrugged.

  “Artus sent me,” he said.

  “Oh he did, did he?” She examined him anew through narrowed eyes. “You’re welcome to wait for him.” She lifted the mug and drank it down. “I’ve got work to do,” she said and sauntered away.

  Kiran spun around on the stool and watched her as she went from table to table, pouring mugs of ale for the men. Occasionally, she’d serve a bowl of stew from a pot that hung over a crackling fire in the hearth on the far wall.

  Over the ruckus, he listened to the men sitting next to him. “I’m telling you, he swears the creatures could talk. Swam right along side the boat.”

  “The oaf fell in love with a mermaid,” the other chuckled.

  A mermaid? Kiran thought. A swimming creature that could talk? Where had he heard that before? The Irichoi. Takhura, Jandon’s Lendhi maiden, had told him about them. He turned to ask the men about it when the door to the stable opened and Artus ambled in.

  “Marion, did you give the boy an ale?” he asked.

  “He’s got no money,” she grumbled.

  The man heaved himself onto the stool next to Kiran. “Two pints, my dear,” he told her with a wink.

  Hands on her hips, she squinted one eye, then heaved a sigh. She grabbed two mugs, filled them to the brim, and slid them across the counter.

  Kiran brought the mug to his lips. The ale smelled bitter. He took a sip and raised his eyebrows. The old man took the toothpick from his mouth with one hand, lifted his mug with the other, and poured the ale down his throat like a man dousing a fire. As he slammed the empty mug on the bar, he thumped himself on the chest with the side of his fist and blew out his breath in a rumbling belch as if to purposefully insult anyone within earshot. He wiped his dripping beard with the back of his hand and shoved the toothpick back in his mouth.

  “So, got a name?” he asked.

  “Kiran,” he said and sniffed the ale again, debating whether he wanted to take another sip.

  “Well, young Kiran, what brings you to my door?”

  Kiran thought he sensed some sarcasm. He tipped back the mug and took a long draught of the ale, stalling before he answered, wondering if he could trust this man.

  He had made it this far, to the edge of the world. But he had no idea where to go next. He needed help from someone.

  He decided he had no choice but to trust him. He gulped down another couple swallows of the drink. “I’ve come on a pilgrimage,” he said, setting down the mug.

  “Ah, of course you have.” Artus slapped his hand on the counter. “You hear that, Marion? The boy’s here on a pilgrimage.”

  “I knew it,” the barmaid said. She leaned toward Kiran. “You have that faraway look of a dreamer.”

  Kiran looked to Artus. “A dreamer?”

  “Don’t pay her no mind,” he said. “Everyone’s searching for somethin’. How can I help?”

  “Can you tell me where to find the Voice of the Father?”

  Artus eased back on the stool and looked at Kiran as though seeing him for the first time. “The Voice of the Father, eh?” He fiddled with the toothpick in his mouth.

  All of a sudden, Kiran was overcome by a wave of dizziness. He tipped back the mug and gazed at the swig of ale left in the bottom, then looked up at Artus. He shoved back the stool. “I’ve had enough of your kind of magic.”

  “Magic?” Artus threw his head back and roared with laughter. The men standing at the bar turned and snickered. “There’s nothing magic about getting drunk.” He slapped Kiran on the back so hard he nearly knocked him off his feet. “Sit down.” His eyes turned serious. “No one’s trying to do anything but make a new friend.” He took hold of Kiran’s mug, tipped it up, and chugged it dry. “No magic. Just tasty malt.” He burped. “Though some call it the nectar of the gods. I tell you, it will cure what ails you. And make you forget your troubles.”

  Kiran hesitated, unsure what to make of this man, then eased back onto the stool.

  Artus leaned on his elbow, facing Kiran, serious again. “So, you were saying, you’re on a pilgrimage…”

  Kiran nodded.

  “And this Voice. Is that all you’re seeking?”

  Kiran thought for a moment. He reached into his pocket, took out Deke’s two stones, and placed them on the counter. “I’m also looking for more of these.”

  Artus looked at Marion and something unspoken passed between them.

  “What is it?” Kiran asked. The two men beside him had stopped talking and were staring at the stones.

  Artus scooped them up, grabbed Kiran by the wrist, and placed them in his hand. He leaned forward and said to the men at the bar, “Mind y
our business.” He whispered in Kiran’s ear, “You’d do well to keep those coins in your pocket.” He scanned the room as though looking for something. “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Money?” Kiran shook his head.

  Artus shifted on his seat. “Let’s go check on Medira, shall we?” He placed his hands on the bar and lifted himself from the stool. “C’mon.”

  Kiran grabbed his pack and followed him back out to the stable.

  “Sit down,” Artus said, gesturing toward the wooden box. He found another one in the corner of the stable, set it next to Kiran, and sat down. “I can see you’ve got a good heart. I was young and ambitious like you once.” He lifted an eyebrow. “I bet you’ve got some sweet girl waiting for you back home.” He sighed as though his own memories made him weary. “Now listen to me. If you want to make it back to her, you have to use your head. Do you understand?”

  Kiran stared. He had no idea what he’d done wrong.

  “All right now, tell me the whole story.” He shifted his weight on the box. “Tell me the truth and I’ll do what I can to help you.”

  Kiran took the codex from his pack and opened it to the first page. “I have followed the Script. But I fear…”

  “What? You fear what?”

  “That I’ve translated it incorrectly.”

  “I see,” Artus said, examining the page.

  He listened patiently as Kiran told him of the quest, how he and the others had been sent to save the village, and how Aldwyn had given him the scroll.

  “And what does it say?” Artus asked.

  Kiran read it to him.

  Artus took the toothpick from his mouth and pointed to the codex with it. “You came all this way on that?”

  Kiran nodded. “We found the river. But the valley and the peak… I don’t know… I’ve followed the setting sun.”

  Artus leaned against the wall, shoved the toothpick back in his mouth, and chewed on it for time before he said, “I’m sorry to tell you. I don’t know of this Voice. I wish I could help.”

  “Do you know of the Oracle?”