The Path to the Sun (The Fallen Shadows Trilogy)

by Kimberli Bindschatel

  “The Oracle? You’ve traveled ten moons to see the Oracle?” The old man shook his head and muttered, “Well, that explains a lot.”

  “You can take me to her?” Kiran asked, feeling hopeful.

  “Yes, but I don’t think—” He drew in a long breath. “She’s a fortune teller.”

  “Maybe she knows how to find the dwelling place of the Voice.”

  Artus paused, his eyebrows knit as though he were searching for words. “Kiran, it doesn’t work that way.” He waited for Kiran to respond, but Kiran said nothing. “She babbles and people interpret it to mean whatever fits their needs. I’m not sure that’s what you’re lookin’ for.”

  “Pel said she knows about prophecies. Maybe she knows about the Seventh Elder.”

  Artus gripped the edge of the box and pushed himself up to stand. “Well, who am I to say? If you want to see the Oracle, then by all means, go see her.”

  Kiran looked down the street at the maze of twists and turns. “Which way do I go?”

  “I’ll draw you a map of the city,” Artus offered.

  “A what?”

  Artus chuckled, shaking his head. “A map. Let me show you.” He took Kiran’s writing stick and his codex. “May I?”

  Kiran nodded.

  “Think of it as though you were looking down at the city from the sky.”

  Kiran watched, fascinated with the concept, as Artus sketched out lines for streets and shapes representing buildings, explaining each as he drew them. He handed the codex back to Kiran. “Now, remember what I told you. Keep those coins in your pocket. And be careful. The city attracts all kinds of people seeking all kinds of trouble.”

  Kiran yawned as he nodded.

  “On second thought, you’d better wait till mornin’. You can sleep here in the stable.”

  Kiran thanked him.

  “Good luck, boy,” Artus said and sauntered back through the door.

  Kiran found the corner in which Medira had lain and snuggled up next to her. He took the tiny doll that Bria had given him from his pocket, held it close to his heart, and fell fast asleep.

  When he opened his eyes again, he didn’t know where he was or what had brought him here. He felt groggy, as though awakening from a long dream.

  “Sleep well?” came a voice.

  Kiran jerked upright. Artus was sitting on the box. Kiran let out his breath, tucked the doll away in his pocket, and rose to his feet.

  “Still intent on seeing the Oracle?” Artus asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Kiran said, taking hold of his pack.

  “I was thinking I’d come along. If that’s all right with you? I don’t have anything better to do this morning anyway.”

  Kiran nodded.

  “Listen, I’m going to be honest with you. I don’t believe in this Oracle and her cryptic messages. But I can see you’re stubborn.” He rose from the box. “Some things we have to find out for ourselves.”

  Kiran gazed at Artus, Bria’s voice echoing in his mind.

  “Let’s get going then,” Artus said, and led the way.

  As they walked, Artus showed Kiran many things he hadn’t seen the day before: buildings with elaborate porticoes supported by towering columns graced with fine sculptures of women in flowing robes; an amphitheater built in the side of the hill, all of stone, where the cityfolk acted out stories and held meetings; a water bridge that, Artus explained, was connected to underground tunnels, built to carry water throughout the city from the hills above.

  Kiran marveled at the massive construction. “I can’t believe men would toil to build such a thing. Is there no river? No streams?”

  “Yes, of course,” Artus said. “But water is a necessity and the rains are fickle. Streams can run dry. In the hills, there are cisterns to collect the water and keep the flow constant, so that we are not made to rely on the whims of nature.”

  “I see,” Kiran said, curious now about the detailed workings of the system. Artus told him that was all he knew about it.

  At last, on the outskirts of town, atop a steep hill, they arrived at the Palace of the Oracle. Hundreds of people milled about the lawns. “C’mon,” Artus said, pushing through the crowd. “Let’s find the end of the line.”

  An old woman grabbed Kiran by the arm. “I can read your fortune,” she said with a grin, revealing a mouth full of rotten teeth. “You seek love. I can see it in your eyes.”

  Artus stepped between them. “Mind your business,” he said, shooing her away.

  “But the boy seeks answers.” She shook a small leather pouch and dumped the contents on the ground. Five seashells lay scattered at her feet. “Ah, I see what you are seeking,” she said, looking up at him, her eyes wide.

  “I said, mind your business,” Artus told her, more strongly now. He took Kiran by the arm and steered him through the crowd.

  “Wait,” Kiran said. “Why were you so rude?”

  “Rude? She was just trying to get your money.”

  “My money?”

  “Yeah. Some people will tell you what you want to hear, just to get something from you.” He frowned at Kiran. “Boy, you really are naïve. Good thing I came along.”

  Kiran looked back for the woman. She was already tossing the shells for someone else.

  Artus tugged him toward a long, covered colonnade that led to the entrance of the palace, where the line had formed. As they passed under an arch, something caught Kiran’s eye. Engraved in the stone were the words: He who has eyes, let him see. He who has ears, let him hear. Blessed are those who understand with their hearts.

  “What do you think that means?” he asked Artus.

  “It’s your journey, son. What do you think it means?”

  Kiran read the words once again. Listen to your heart, he thought. To listen to your heart.

  A few more paces along the colonnade, a crowd had gathered before a tiny, makeshift theater. On the stage were seven dolls with realistic features, each adorned in intricately embroidered costumes. They hung from strings on which someone hidden above tugged, making them come alive, their arms and legs moving as though they were real miniature people in a miniature world. The dolls were lined up before a golden throne. From behind the stage, a voice thundered, “Who deems thyself fit to reign? Come forth and present thy worth.”

  “What is this?” Kiran asked Artus.

  “It’s just the old parable of the seven virtues.”

  “Seven?” Kiran said, turning back to the stage.

  “C’mon, you need to get in line if you are to see the Oracle today.”

  “Wait. I want to see this.”

  A flute played a soft melody as a puppet with pink cheeks and flowing hair, stepped forward from the group, her tiny skirt swaying as she walked. “’Tis I shall reign,” she said. “For I am chaste.”

  “No, ‘tis me,” said another, pushing her out of the way. A drum beat played, bum, bum, bum. “For I am the strongest and most courageous among thee.” He dropped to one knee and raised his muscled arm.

  Then from the side, with the strumming of a lute, another doll came skipping round the stage and bowed before the throne. “Humble obedience is most revered. ‘Tis I who is the worthy one, though I do not ask for it.”

  A fourth doll marched across the stage, his tiny boots clicking. “Step aside,” he said. A bell rang four times. “For I am the hand of justice.”

  Kiran blinked, his eyes fixed on the arrogant little puppet. A gnawing feeling crept into the pit of his stomach.

  The instruments played in a cacophony of sound, the rhythm out of sync, as the four dolls danced and twirled, vying for the throne. The tempo increased until a fifth doll joined the dance. Her sing-song voice rang out over the music accompanied by a tinkling harp. “Love and kindness, I provide.” Kiran’s hand went to the little doll in his pocket.

  The sixth puppet joined the fray with the bah-boom of a large drum. “Dance, dance, dance. But hope shall reign tonight.”

  They twirled and twirled,
faster and faster. Bah bah bum, bah bah bum. Kiran felt dizzy, trying to make sense of it. The whole world was suddenly out of focus, the colors blurring together.

  The seventh doll descended from above with the whoosh of a rattle. “’Tis faith that is needed most.”

  The doll spun wildly among the others, round and round, as the instruments beat out a frenzied clash of sound. The music stopped and they all fell down before the throne. Each struggled to get up on his own, but could not. Then, one doll reached out to the one next to him for help, and that one reached for the next doll, then the next one to another, until all seven puppets were holding hands and, together, they rose to their feet as the music played in glorious harmony. The crowd cheered and applauded.

  Kiran stared at the miniature stage long after the show was over.

  “Are you all right?” Artus asked.

  “There were seven,” Kiran said, his eyes fixed on the tiny throne. “Seven.”

  “It’s a parable, Kiran. It’s a common story. It’s been around for ages. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard it? The moral of the seven virtues?”

  Kiran turned and looked into his eyes. “Virtues?”

  “It’s not enough to have one. We are to strive to have all seven. Each of us. To be good, I suppose. To be worthy.”

  Kiran took his codex from his pack and opened it to the last page he had written. He turned back to the stage. He tried to swallow, but his throat felt coated with sand. “To be a leader.”

  “Yes, I would say that, yes.”

  Kiran slumped to the ground. He leaned forward and held his head in his hands.

  After a time, when the crowd had dispersed and the tiny stage had been packed and hauled away, Artus said, “If you want to see the Oracle today, we should get back in line.”

  Kiran lifted his head from his hands. “I don’t need to see the Oracle.” He rose to his feet and hefted the pack unto his back.

  “Where are you going now?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Kiran wandered the city, lost in thought, until finally he made his way back to the only place he knew. Marion was at work, putting chairs up on the tables so she could sweep the floor. Artus was at the hearth ladling a bowl of stew.

  Kiran slumped down on a stool and dropped his head on the counter.

  Marion heaved herself unto the stool next to him. “Find what you were lookin’ for?”

  He couldn’t make sense of his thoughts, his fears. Everything was jumbled in his head. “There were seven.” He shook his head. “I just don’t know anymore.” He raised his head enough to meet her eyes. “The prophecy, what if it’s—”

  “Prophecy?” Marion shook her head. “Sounds to me like you’ve been chasing the shadow of a ghost,”

  “What if?” He sat up. “What if they were all wrong?” He was shouting now. “What if it isn’t true?” He stared into her eyes, fighting back tears. “What if everything is all just…” He slumped back down, holding his head in his hands. “Oh, what am I saying? I’m all mixed up. I don’t even know if there is a Script of the Prophecy. I mean, Deke said so. But…”

  “Listen, boy,” said Marion. “I know what you seek.”

  Kiran’s eyes snapped to meet hers.

  “But that which you seek can never be found. For the moment it is sought, it ceases to exist.”

  The door flung open, startling them. It was the two men who had been standing next to Kiran at the bar the night before. “Good morning,” the one said.

  The other man saw Kiran and said, “Ah, just the man we’ve come to see.”

  Kiran glanced at Marion and saw an edge of concern in her eyes.

  “Pub’s closed. You boys’ll have to come back later,” she said.

  “Oh, we just want to talk,” said the bearded one to Kiran.

  Marion kept her eyes fixed on the two men as she eased from the stool and moved behind the bar. Artus joined her, setting his bowl of stew on the counter.

  The men drew up the stools on either side of Kiran, sat down, and leaned toward him. “Couldn’t help but overhear last night. Seems you’re looking for something.” Kiran glanced at Artus who made a subtle shake of his head. “I got to thinking about that symbol,” the man pointed at the Pyletar hanging from Kiran’s neck. “I’ve seen it before.”

  “Where?” Kiran asked, curious now.

  “On an island across the sea. We was thinkin’ we could get you passage there.” The other man nodded his agreement.

  Kiran looked to Artus questioningly. Artus shrugged. He turned back to the men. “But I see no island in the sea.”

  “Well, you can’t see it from here. But it’s on the map. That’s why you’d have to take a ship, of course.”

  “A ship?” Kiran narrowed his eyes. “You must think I’m a fool.”

  “No, not at all. We can show you the map.”

  “Don’t listen to these scoundrels,” Artus said. He rose to his feet, his shoulders back. “Let me guess. You’ll help him get on this ship in trade for two gold coins. Am I right?”

  The two men glanced at each other and didn’t answer.

  Artus stepped from behind the bar. “Out with you. Be on your way. He doesn’t have the coins any longer anyway. The fool spent them for a dose of nonsense from the Oracle.” The men looked at Kiran, then back to Artus. “Now be off with you,” Artus gave them a nudge out and shut the door behind them.

  Kiran stared after them. “I don’t understand. Why would they tell me that?”

  “What did I say, now? People with tell you what you want to hear, just to get your money.”

  “They would send me on a ship to plunge over the edge of the world?”

  Artus cocked his head to the side and scratched his chin. “Kiran, that’s not—”

  Marion slapped her hands on the counter and said to Artus, “I think it’s time you take him to meet the Scholar.”

  Chapter 31

  The home of the Scholar was built of stone, perched atop a cliff with a view of the sea. At the door, they were greeted by a young man who spoke in hushed tones. He led them into a room to await the Scholar, then disappeared through a door that, Kiran assumed, led to a second room. It was a strange home. There were two chairs and nothing else. No cooking hearth, no bed that he could see. The air had a stuffy smell, heavy with the musty odor of old dust.

  “Why are we here?” Kiran whispered to Artus.

  “I told you. The Scholar possesses great knowledge.”

  “You think he knows where to find the dwelling place of the Voice?”

  Artus pursed his lips. “Just wait and see.”

  Kiran sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, then shifted forward and crossed his legs. A fly circled the ceiling, trying to escape with a determined bizz-buzz, bizz-buzz.

  At last, the door creaked open and a short, wrinkled old man appeared, leaning heavily on a cane. “Kiran is it?”

  Kiran quickly assessed the man. His eyes were soft and honest, his face like soft putty, his frail stature unintimidating. Kiran nodded.

  “So, what brings you to me?”

  Kiran looked to Artus. Artus replied, “Well, the boy here needs some guidance.”

  “That so?” the Scholar said.

  “I’m on a pilgrimage to the Voice of the Father,” Kiran told him.

  The Scholar frowned at Artus. “A pilgrimage? Why bring him to me?” The Scholar looked at Kiran as though examining every inch of him.

  Kiran squirmed. He looked at Artus, then back to the Scholar. “I, ah, thought he would be here. But now, well, I don’t know where to go. And those men, they told me of an island, out there, in the sea, but how could that be?”

  The Scholar placed his cane to turn and head back through the doorway. “Perhaps you should go and see for yourself. Artus can help you get passage on a ship.”

  “But the ships, they fall off the edge!”

  “Ah, I see now,” the Scholar said, turning back. “Your pilgrimage has brought you here, to the
edge of the world? Is that right?”

  Kiran nodded.

  “And now, someone has told you this is not the edge of the world, and you want to know the truth.”

  Kiran stared. He wasn’t sure. Was that what he wanted to know?

  “Yes, yes. Well, no need to be concerned. Common misconception. Indeed, the world goes on. It is not flat, but a big round ball. So, take to the sea if you are still seeking. Time on the open ocean is good for putting things into perspective.”

  Kiran stared. What was this man saying? A big round ball?

  As though reading Kiran’s mind, the Scholar added, “There is no edge.”

  “No edge?” Kiran sat back. This couldn’t be true.

  “It is so large, that you cannot see in the distance. It only appears to fall away. But as you travel on, you always continue to see out in the distance. Do you understand?”

  “I suppose,” Kiran answered, trying to imagine how it could possibly be so. He remembered walking on the flatlands, thinking he could see the edge in the distance, but as they kept walking and walking, the hills had appeared on the horizon. Kiran’s eyes grew wide and his mouth fell open. He was right!

  “So, you see? There is no edge.”

  “That means the dwelling place could be farther in the direction of the setting sun. On an island, as those men said, then.” He stared at the old man’s face and his mouth slowly dropped open. Wrinkled with time and crippled with wisdom.

  “Could be.” He leaned on his cane and made for the door. “Best wishes in your travels.”

  Artus said, “Uh, that’s not all.”

  “No?” The Scholar sighed and leaned against the doorframe.

  “The sailors claimed they had seen his symbol on a map.” He nudged Kiran. “Show him your pendant.” Kiran presented the Pyletar to the Scholar. With a furrowed brow, the old man examined the symbol. Artus went on, “They said it’s on an island in the far reaches of the sea. You see?”

  Without looking up, the Scholar asked, “Where did you say you’ve come from?”

  “The Toran village. On the far side of the world, toward the rising sun.”

  “Toran?” The Scholar looked up so quickly he nearly lost his balance. “Toward the rising sun?”