Curse of Kings (The Trials of Oland Born, Book 1) (18 page)

LAND AND
D
ELPHI RAN, PLUNGING THROUGH THE
undergrowth, reluctant to even pause for breath. They knew now that the woods were filled with beasts of all kinds, but they had no way of knowing what they would stumble across. The only thing that finally stopped them was a terrible stench, like the smell of rotten eggs. As they sucked in huge breaths of air, they began to choke on it.

A marsh appeared before them, stretching as far as they could see.

“It's the smell of the marsh,” said Oland.

“It's terrible,” said Delphi, holding her nose.

“Don't bother,” said Oland, “it's best to get used to it.”

At different points in the greenish water, lights glowed then faded.

“Oland!” said Delphi. “Willow! ‘You will find someone by willow.' That's what the scryer said. She meant will-o'-the-wisps. Then she said ‘lamplights'.” Delphi pointed across the water.

They looked around and both noticed a long narrow jetty that stretched out into the marsh. It sloped upward, and at the end, perched high on green wooden stilts, was a tall, narrow, windowless shack, painted in red and green. A twisted strand of smoke rose from a red chimney in the roof.

“Look!” said Delphi, pointing to the back of the house, where a line of brightly coloured flags blew in the rising wind.

Oland turned to Delphi. “I don't believe it,” he said.

Delphi smiled. “The heraldist!” She paused. “You were right.”

“The scryer was right…” said Oland.

Delphi laughed.

They went to where the jetty started. It was so narrow that they had to walk one after the other.

“I'll go first,” said Oland. He turned to Delphi. “Are you sure you want to do this?” He glanced at the water. “Maybe you should stay on dry land.”

Delphi was shaking her head. “No. I'm not going to stay here alone.”

As they stepped on to the jetty, the green water began to glow in front of them. Something slithered out of the water and crossed the jetty, slipping into the water at the other side. Oland went rigid. He turned to Delphi. She lost her footing on the slime.

He grabbed her by the elbow and steadied her.

“Delphi,” said Oland, taking her by the shoulders, holding them tight and staring into her eyes. “Have you ever seen a lamprey?”

“No,” said Delphi.

“It's like an eel,” said Oland. “They're here, in the marsh. If you see one, don't look at it.”

“Why?” said Delphi.

“Because – and this is no lie – they are one of the most hideous creatures you will ever see.
Willow. Lamplights
. That's what the scryer meant. A lamprey with the glow of a will-o'-the-wisp.”

Delphi shuddered.

“They may not come near us,” said Oland. “I'm just telling you not to look at them.”

“But… what do they do?” said Delphi.

Oland shook his head. “Don't ask.”

“Tell me, Oland, so that, if I need to, I can…”

“Delphi – they look like snakes. That's all you need to know. If one comes near you, kick it away. It cannot do you any damage unless it's extremely close to you. It can't strike out and bite. It moves swiftly, but not aggressively. But… just don't look at it.”

“I don't think I can do this.” Delphi's legs were shaking. “I want to leave. Now.”

“We can't,” said Oland. “Not yet. But, as soon as we get the Crest of Sabian, we will…”

Delphi nodded, sending tears spilling down her face. Oland reached out a hand towards her, but quickly pulled back.

“You can do this,” he said. “I know you can.” He paused. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” said Delphi. “Yes. Go.”

Oland moved ahead. Every now and then, the water glowed to their left and right.

“What will you do with the crest when you get it?” said Delphi.

“I don't know,” said Oland. “I'm hoping something in the design will tell me something… or lead me to something… or someone. All I was told about it was: ‘depth and height, from blue to white, what's left behind is yours to find'
.
”

Oland quickened his step. “We're nearly there,” he said. He kept the fear from his voice; they were crossing a marsh, the deadest of water, yet it seemed to be moving and the level was rising. And a fog rose with it. Oland moved faster.

The heraldist's house was close; Oland could see that they would reach the lower of two walkways, spaced thirty feet apart, separated by a ladder. A second ladder stretched up to the house. Oland reached the end of the jetty.

“There!” he said.

He turned around to Delphi. For seconds that seemed endless, he watched as she stood frozen in the strange glow of the greenish light. Her fear had blinded her to the fog as it crawled slowly across the surface. But, as she looked up, Oland could see the panic in her eyes. He knew that the jetty in front of her was being swallowed up by the fog. A wispy strand of it floated across her legs.

As it disappeared, Oland could see a lamprey wrapping itself around Delphi's boot.

LAND BENT DOUBLE, CLUTCHING AT HIS STOMACH,
releasing a terrifying moan.

“Oland,” screamed Delphi. “What's wrong with you?”

As he fell to the ground, disappearing into the rising fog, he heard Delphi scream, “I'm coming, Oland, I'm coming.”

She ran, ignoring the fog, the water, the glowing lampreys. In one final jump, she was kneeling at Oland's side, dragging him up from the ground where he had collapsed.

“Oland,” she said. “What happened? Are you all right?”

He opened his eyes. His face was flooded with relief. “Delphi… you're alive.” He glanced at her boot. The lamprey was gone.

“Yes,” said Delphi. “Yes. Are you in pain? Do you feel unwell?”

Oland slowly sat up. “No,” he said. “No. But are you all right?”

Delphi looked at him. The fear in her eyes tore at him. He could see that she was trying to be strong, but that some of the fire in her had died.

“What happened?” said Delphi.

“I… I…” said Oland. “I don't know.”

From under Delphi's cape, the lamprey slid. Oland froze. As a child, he had seen the most intricately detailed watercolour of a lamprey, and it was burned into his mind. If it opened its mouth in front of Delphi, Oland had no doubt she would be so terrified, she would jump, and then she would fall into the water.

The lamprey disappeared; Delphi's oilskins were so stiff and heavy, she didn't feel it move under her armpit. But soon, from over her shoulder, by the choppy ends of her coal-black hair, the coal-black lamprey reappeared. Then it opened its mouth. Bile rose in Oland's throat. Once a lamprey's mouth opened, all that was visible was the lining – the colour of pale human flesh. There was no bony jaw, because it had no bones. Instead, there was a pale, fleshy circle, and inside it were concentric circles of pointed teeth with a dark chasm at the centre. Oland knew that lampreys clamped on to their prey and ate their way through the surface until they reached fluids and slowly sucked them away. Once they attached, they were impossible to remove. And one was ready to feed, inches from Delphi's face.

Delphi was talking and Oland had no idea what she was saying; he knew he couldn't do or say anything or the lamprey would be directly in her face if she turned. He had no idea how he would get it away. But the weight of it had begun to settle on to Delphi's body and, slowly, she became aware of it and, slowly, she turned around. The lamprey was right in front of her, its mouth open.

Delphi's eyes went black. She stared at it, as if she were more disgusted that it had dared to choose her as a victim than the fact that it was grotesque. It began to glow, its light reflected in the blackness of her eyes. Delphi's hand shot out with alarming speed. She grabbed the lamprey and, holding it at arm's length, squeezed it briefly then dropped it into the marsh.

She and Oland looked at each other. Delphi smiled.

Oland laughed. “I worried for no reason.”

“You collapsed on purpose, didn't you?” said Delphi, suddenly serious. “You collapsed on purpose, so that I would rush to the other side.”

“Would it be such a terrible thing if I had?” said Oland.

Delphi paused. “No,” she said. She smiled. “Thank you.”

Oland forced a smile – what he had just told her was a lie. But it was far better than telling her the truth. He had imagined Delphi disappearing underwater and it was a terrifying sight.

From the platform above they heard a deep hum that reverberated down through the timber. As it continued, the lampreys began to fall from the stilts into the water. Delphi and Oland climbed to the highest walkway, where a red ladder reached up to the house. A pale, bald man who looked to be in his sixties was leaning out over the gate.

“Goodness,” he shouted over the wind. “Come up, come up. My guardian lamplights were doing what they do best… but I never imagined such young people would find their way into these woods. You must have got the fright of your lives.”

He reached out his hand and helped Delphi the last of the way. Oland followed. Up close, the man's face, like the wooden shingles of the house, looked tired and weather-beaten.

“We have a baleful sky, pirouetting winds…” he said.

Oland thought again of The Great Rains. He had no sense of when they would come, nothing to tell him how much time he had left.

“Anyway, welcome, welcome,” said the man. “Tell me who you are.”

“My name is Oland Born. And this is my companion, Delphi.”

“Well, hello, Oland and companion Delphi.”

“Are you the heraldist?” said Oland.

“I absolutely am. My name is Quintus. Do come in.”

Oland and Delphi looked at each other and smiled. Finally, they would uncover the mystery of the Crest of Sabian.

UINTUS THE
H
ERALDIST'S LOVE OF COLOUR WAS NOT
just reserved for his crests; fine horizontal stripes of pale-to-deep shades of yellow, red, green, purple, gold, silver and bronze ran from his shoulders down to his wrists.

He led them into a long narrow room, bursting with more colours than Oland or Delphi had ever seen. The ceiling was neatly covered with hundreds of flags. Across three walls were hundreds of crests, all perfectly aligned. They were emblazoned with birds and animals, roses and swords and daggers. The fourth wall was unexpectedly made entirely of glass; every day, the inspirational colours of the woods were laid out before him like a palette.

“Everything is so beautiful!” said Delphi. “And so tidy!”

Quintus laughed. “Ah, but not in there,” he said, pointing through a narrow doorway. Delphi and Oland went into the small room, where papers towered in crooked stacks, and books and ornaments and pots and pans were in haphazard collections on the floor, on shelves, on boxes and crates. There was a glass case mounted on the wall that held a row of dusters of different sizes.

“I rummage in there, and I create in here,” said Quintus.

Oland and Delphi came back into the main room, but could hear the rattle of cups from a third room at the end.

“How on earth did you find me?” called Quintus.

“Oland worked it all out,” said Delphi. “He thought about where cloth was made and dyed, why people no longer did that, how Villius Ren now owns these woods so that no one dared work with colours… except for one man. The Scryer of Gort told us more…”

“You have been on quite the adventure,” said Quintus. He carried out a tray with three cups on it and a tall blue jug.

“Cinderberry,” he said, about to hand them a cup.

Oland flashed back to the smell from the intruder's bandages on the night he came out from the throne room. “I can't,” he said. “I'm sorry…”

“Ah,” said Quintus, “did you suffer a burn?”

“No, not me,” said Oland, “but let's just say I once met a terrible man with cinderberry-soaked bandages.”

“Strange that a berry can taste so good as a juice, and transform into something so pungent as an ointment,” said Quintus. “The patient man's ointment, as it is known.”

“Why?” said Delphi.

“Well, there are more effective ways to treat burns, ways that heal them quicker. Cinderberry takes many years, but will ultimately leave no trace of a scar. None whatsoever.” He looked from one to the other. “So shall I make lemonade for you both?” he said.

“I'll try cinderberry, please,” said Delphi.

“Lemonade for me,” said Oland. “Thank you.”

“Bad memories spill from all the senses,” said Quintus as he left the room.

“Is it true that you have made all the crests of all the lands?” called Oland.

“In the last fifty years,” said Quintus. “Yes.”

“And before that?” said Oland.

“My ancestors did,” said Quintus. “Where are you from?”

“Decresian,” said Oland.

“Aha!” said Quintus. He reappeared with Oland's drink and handed it to him. “Come with me.”

They went to a table in the corner, where a giant book lay.

“What a fine king you had in King Micah,” said Quintus. “I was saddened by his passing.”

He heaved the book open.

“Here I have all the crests ever made – in Envar and beyond.”

He beckoned Oland and Delphi to his side as he opened up the contents page. He held two bony fingers to the corner of the book and flicked so quickly through the pages that they became a blur.

“Here we are,” he said. “The Crest of Decresian, and its beautiful gold and teal. This was a very special crest, designed by my grandfather,” said Quintus. “Did you know that the teal and gold of Decresian was to mark King Micah's birth? When his mother, Queen Amber, knew that she was with child, she wanted the official colours of the kingdom to change to reflect his birth, and she wanted a colour that had never before been used. My grandfather travelled the length and breadth of Envar, and he returned with the most magnificent teal dye. It was used for the king's robes when he was born, and for the Crest of Decresian. That was over one hundred years ago…”

Delphi pointed to it. “Where did he find the colour?”

“From a flower, I was told,” said Quintus.

“I know the flower,” said Delphi. “It was taken from the petals of a camberlily.” She paused. “Well, that's the name I gave them.”

Oland was nodding as she spoke. “It's that exact colour.”

“Well, that's extraordinary!” said Quintus. “Are you from Dallen Falls?”

“Yes,” said Delphi.

“Well, would you believe, my grandfather went back there – we've all been back there to look for them, every year – and we've never seen them since.”

“They're there now,” said Delphi. “In one of the caves.”

“That would be them indeed,” said Quintus. “My grandfather found them in the cave, quite by chance, floating by. How could we have missed them, in all our pilgrimages?”

“I only saw them for the first time a few months ago,” said Delphi.

“Well, I might take a trip to Dallen Falls once more,” said Quintus. He smiled, and his eyes sparkled with all the glorious colours around him.

“Thank you for showing us the crest,” said Delphi.

“But we've been sent to find the Crest of Sabian,” said Oland.

Quintus frowned. “Sent?” he said. “By whom?”

“King Micah,” said Oland.

“King Micah? But surely he died before you were born…”

“He left a letter for me,” said Oland. “That is all I can tell you.”

“Sabian, you say?” said Quintus.

Oland nodded. “Yes. We came here because we wanted to see the crest, or find out where it is.”

Quintus' face fell. “Oh, Oland Born, Delphi, dear,” he said.

Oland felt a stab of panic.

“It is with a heavy heart I tell you: there is no Crest of Sabian,” said Quintus. “There is no Sabian – not any more. Sabian is the land that fell into the sea.”

Oland stood, motionless. It was as though he hadn't heard Quintus' words, yet had heard them so loudly that they became unbearable. He was surrounded by more crests than were imaginable, yet the room might as well have been bare. It was not that he was here to prove that he had achieved something, or reached somewhere, or deciphered something. He had left an entire kingdom behind, and though its people scarcely knew him, and certainly did not know of his quest, he had a loyalty to them that he could feel like a flame burning inside him. He had never envisaged a future that the past had already destroyed.

“Hundreds of years ago,” said Quintus, “there was a battle for control of Sabian. It lasted for many, many years and it was the ruin of many. Only one army was left standing, led by a man named Obuled – a dangerous and ignorant man. For years he ruled Sabian with a crazed mind and a violent hand.

“One night, during a banquet he threw in honour of himself, Sabian was plunged into darkness. The ground started to tremble. Cracks broke out all across the land and, before long, they became huge crevices. Within minutes, every last trace of Sabian disappeared into the sea.

“So I would imagine,” said Quintus, “that there was little chance that a crest survived and little chance that anywhere outside Sabian the crest of such an evil man was ever preserved.” He paused. “I am sorry, Oland, Delphi.”

“But… the letter says… it's a blue and white crest.”

“There
are
no crests of blue and white,” said Quintus. “In heraldry, blue represents truth and loyalty and white represents peace and sincerity, but, at that time, hundreds of years ago, it was the colour of the flags used by the army of Obuled. Of course, it was a mockery: Obuled was an evil man, who knew nothing of truth and loyalty. He lied, cheated and betrayed his way through life. He found it amusing, therefore, to have a blue and white crest. My father, my father's father and every generation of heraldists before me refused to allow blue and white to be used in a crest ever since.”

“But where was Sabian?” said Oland. “I've never seen it on a map.”

“But you may have heard of it,” said Quintus. “Or what's left of it.”

“No,” said Oland. “I haven't.”

“It used to be the southernmost tip of Envar…” said Quintus.

Oland knew then where Quintus meant. He closed his eyes. “It can't be.”

Quintus nodded gravely. “I'm afraid so,” he said. “Sabian is now Curfew Peak.”

“Curfew Peak?” said Delphi. “The prison? The drogues…”

Oland quoted his book. “‘One mythic beast was four engulfed: vulture, bull, bear and wolf.'”

“If the crest is there,” said Quintus, “it should remain there. As it is said: ‘If you disturb the grounds of Curfew Peak, the grounds of Curfew Peak will disturb you tenfold.'”