Quest for the Sun (9 page)

… 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 gunpowder 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.

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?

Narrowing my eyes I stared into the shadows, feeling, or imagining, the tingle of magic in the air. The back of my neck prickled as if I was being watched. I braced myself; took a breath. Called out, as loudly as I dared: ‘Argos.
Argos!
'

Waited. I heard nothing: not the crack of a twig, not the rustle of a leaf. But a voice spoke behind me, soft in my ear: ‘Who are you that calls my name?'

I turned slowly. Last time he'd towered over me; now we were eye to eye. He hadn't changed. The same untidy tangle of grey-brown hair, the same weathered skin and tall, gaunt frame. The same watchful distance in his eyes.

‘Look at me, Zagros,' I said quietly. ‘Who do you see?'

We looked into each other's eyes for what seemed a long time. During the walk through the forest my mind had been a jumble of worry — what if I couldn't find the cottage? What if I couldn't find Argos? What if I'd got it wrong, and he wasn't Zagros? What if he was on the other side? And if I did find him, what would I say?

But the words had come into my mind fully formed, and the instant I said them a kind of peace settled over me. This was the way it was meant to be. Now all I could do was wait.

At last he spoke, as much to himself as to me. ‘You have your mother's eyes. How could I not know you?'

 

He led me back the way I'd come. We retraced our steps — almost, but not quite. ‘Follow me closely,' Argos had said long ago, and now I understood why. Before, I'd thought he was picking a random route through the trees, but now I realised he was following an invisible path. Left round this
tree, right round that, through a narrow gap between two tree trunks like massive gateposts … and we stepped out into the clearing — the clearing that had been nothing but an empty glade with a few saplings and a tangle of overgrown brush five minutes earlier.

And there it was: the little grey cottage. The log-pile was higher than before, newly stacked; the flagstone path had been swept, the broom still leaning against the wall. The soft glow of lamplight shone from the window.

I followed Zagros up the path onto the covered porch. Tucked away in the corner was what I realised must be a spinning wheel, the beginnings of a blanket or cloak folded neatly on the arm of the rocker. I reached out and lifted the soft wool to my cheek. There it was — the faint spicy fragrance that still clung to my own shawl, as familiar to me as my own heartbeat from further back than I could remember.

Zagros paused with one hand on the latch and shot me a questioning glimmer from under his brows.
Ready?

But suddenly I wasn't. I couldn't do it. This was the moment I had dreamed of all these long, lost years. And now that it was here I couldn't go in.

Zagros reached out and took my shoulders in hands clumsy with gentleness. ‘She knew it was you. That lost boy in the woods … it was impossible, and yet she knew. Let us not make her wait any longer.'

I followed him inside.

She was there at the fireplace. It wasn't how I'd dreamed all those times. She was old, but the years cloaked her as softly as a mantle. I'd always imagined she would be bigger than me, but she only came up to my shoulder. Her eyes reflected mine like clear water, and in them I could see the same question, the same uncertainty that was filling my heart.

She was the mother and I was the child, and the lost years trembled between us for what seemed an eternity.

And then she held out her arms.

‘And now,' said Zagros, ‘it is time for business.'

I took a second bowl of stew from Zaronel, tearing off another hunk of crusty bread to mop up the gravy. Zaronel —
my mother
— had tended to the cut on my hand with gentle fingers, smearing it with a salve that burned, then soothed; now a little stiffness and a tidy bandage were the only reminder it had ever happened.

I shovelled another spoonful into my mouth and looked over at Zagros with what I hoped was a politely enquiring expression. He and Zaronel were sitting at the table watching me with a kind of pride, as if gobbling down stew was something not many people are capable of. Zagros — Argos and Ronel had been their nicknames for each other when they were playmates in Antarion, he'd told me — looked back at me, his eyes crinkling in what passed for him as a smile as he nodded towards the inner door.

Puzzled, still chewing, I followed his gaze and at the same time a voice — deep, strange and yet familiar — spoke into
the silent room. ‘Well met once more, Prince Zephyr.'

There in the doorway stood Meirion, Prophet Mage of Karazan.

I almost choked on my stew. Last time I'd seen him had been at the edge of the shroud after our escape from Shakesh; he'd been filthy and half-starved, wearing nothing but a dirty loincloth. We'd rescued him from the dungeon where he'd been imprisoned and tortured; even now I could hardly bear to look at the hollow sockets that had once been eyes. We'd planned to take him back with us to Quested Court, but when we emerged from the shroud, he was gone. I remembered the brief tingling hand-touch that had meant farewell; the shadow of a smile; the words, dismissed as gibberish at the time, dust-dry in darkness:
The five are come, Man-child … the time is nigh …

‘You knew,' I breathed, staring across at the tall, robed figure. ‘Man-child, like in the prophecy — all the time, you knew. But how …'

‘The inner eye sees through a veil of darkness. Some things can be seen and yet not spoken of; some seen and yet not changed.' As he spoke, he crossed to stand before the fire. Watching him, it was hard to believe he was blind.

‘How did you know it was me, I mean?' Then suddenly the the questions were falling over each other. ‘Why didn't you tell me? Why did you just disappear like that? Where did you go? How did you find your way here? And how did you get to Shakesh in the first place? There's so much I don't understand …'

I heard myself burble to a stop. The flames flickered and steadied, and my thoughts steadied with them. I pushed my plate aside. Everyone was watching me, even Meirion, with his empty eyes — but watching in a different way from before. Watching … and waiting.

Hesitantly I rose and crossed to where the mage was standing. I reached for his right hand and raised it, touching it to my lips and then my cheek in a gesture that already felt familiar.
When I spoke, uncertainty cracked my voice into a gravelly croak completely unlike my own. ‘Well met, my Lord Meirion. Please … tell me …'

‘What is it you wish to know?'

Again, all the unanswered questions pushed up inside me like a gigantic bubble, but this time I swallowed them. Sifted through them; found the ones that really mattered. Spoke my thoughts aloud, slowly, hesitantly. ‘Is Zeel dead? On the other side, the plasma globe —' I knew I didn't have to tell him more — ‘it's linked to the darkness here in Karazan, isn't it?'

It is not over yet …

‘My brother, Zenith … I need to know where to find him, and what we must do to bring back the light. And Meirion, if you can … please help me follow in the footsteps of my father.'

Perhaps it was just a trick of the light, but the creases in the seamed cheeks seemed to deepen. ‘For the last: you will make your own footprints upon the soil of Karazan, Prince Zephyr. As to your other questions … I will tell you what I can, but this is Karazan, and the way to the truth is crooked and hard to find. I will point the way, but it is your steps that must lead you there. You will stumble upon many things on your path, some of use, some not. Some you have, and some have yet to come. Listen, and look deep into the fire.'

The room seemed suddenly darker. The flames that had burned so brightly moments before had died down into a sullen red glow. Zagros and Zaronel had gone; we were alone. I sat cross-legged beside Meirion, my heart thudding in my chest.

He felt for the worn leather pouch that hung at his belt and drew out a small parchment, folded like a tiny envelope. As he opened it, a dry, musty smell filled the room. On the paper lay two leaves. Staring down at them, I could imagine they might once have been golden; now they were pale skeletons, brittle and faded. As he spoke, he rubbed them gently between his fingers, so that they crumbled into fine grey dust.

‘The dark night of the prophecy has come to pass. But there cannot be dawn without nightfall, nor spring without the cold of winter. You ask where you should seek the Prince of the Sun. You, the firstborn, were taken west by Zagros; and into his keeping was given also the Queen, near death from loss and labour. I bade him build a bower in the depths of Shadowwood, its foundation the sloughed skin of the Serpent of Invisibility, and there await my return.

‘I carried the second-born to the east, and left him in safe hands. On my return to the shores of Karazan, I was captured by a servant of Zeel: one who went by the name of Tallow. The rest, you can guess.'

It wasn't a guess. They'd tortured him to make him tell where he'd taken the baby. I didn't need to ask if he'd told them. If he had, he'd be dead; if he had, everything would have been over a long, long time ago.

Silence hung in the air.

‘Tell me …' I cleared my throat; tried again. ‘Tell me where you took him.'

A log crumbled on the fire. Meirion's answer, when at last it came, was softer than the falling ash. ‘A heart is broken; salt tears turn to stone. A cradle-craft sets sail for Limbo; in those lost lands I left him.'

There was an eerie, almost sing-song quality to his voice that sent a shiver down my spine. ‘Is there nothing more you can tell me?' I asked gently. ‘Is Limbo a place? How will I know it? Who did you leave him with?'

Slowly, painfully, Meirion shook his head. Before, he'd looked somehow ageless; now he seemed an old, old man, his face carved from stone. As if in slow motion, he reached into the parchment and sprinkled a few of the tiny flakes onto the glowing coals. They snapped and crackled, igniting in sparks bright as stars: red, green and brilliant blue. A sharp smell like burnt cinnamon stung my nostrils, and there was a strange, hollow ringing in my head. I watched the sparks drift down,
a faint thread of smoke twisting up where each one fell. I wasn't sure whether the next words were Meirion's, or my own thoughts, or came somehow from the fire itself.

Look for grey smoke on a grey horizon.

Meirion cast another pinch of powder into the fire. His voice came again, deep and harsh: ‘What has befallen the Prince of Darkness?'

The powder hissed and spat, sucking the flames inwards to a sullen purplish glow.

He has passed into the Realms of the Undead. The birds of the air will point the way; truth and lies will lead you there.

Blue smoke swirled through the room. I stared, my breath catching in my throat, as Meirion reached his hand into the fire and set the parchment itself in the depths of the coals.

The room exploded in a blaze of light. I flinched, squeezing my eyes shut … and an after-image floated in the velvet darkness behind my eyelids: two identical circles, drifting in nothingness.

The twin moons of Karazan follow each their own orbit, one near, one far, tracing their own path through the skies; but at Sunbalance they rise together as one, silver and gold, a perfect pair balancing the heavens.

The vision of the full moons faded. I opened my eyes. Meirion was beside me, ash-pale. The fire had burned down to embers. The room was dark and silent.

There was nothing to say. I felt dizzy and sick. Meirion had given me all he could: I'd been shown everything, yet I understood nothing. And I realised now — too late — that there was something else I should have asked, something that was lying like lead in my heart, though it had nothing to do with my quest or the future of Karazan.

Hannah — what about Hannah?

Meirion stirred and turned towards me. I leaned forward to catch his words, for a wild moment half-believing he might have read my mind and be about to answer my unspoken question … but then he spoke, and the hope faded.

‘One last thing I will tell you, Prince Zephyr. For you, Child of the Wind, your destiny lies where you least look for it — the beginning will be the end, and every end a new beginning.'

I set out alone as the dark of day was deepening into night.

At my side hung my father's sword. Zagros had taken it from the Summer Palace on the night I was born; now it belonged to me, Zane's firstborn son. It was plain and unadorned: no elaborate engraving, no jewels, no crimson velvet or golden cord. Worn strips of leather bound the hilt; it fitted my hand as if it had been made for me. The fine blade slid from its casing with barely a whisper, its gleaming length chased with the faintest tracery of leaves, flowers and birds. The edges were razor-sharp. As I belted it on, standing tall and square-shouldered to take the unaccustomed weight, I felt for the first time that I was my father's son.

My pack was on my back; in it, neatly folded, was a clean square of bleached calico the size of a small tablecloth, heavily patched and darned. ‘It is all Meirion had when he came to us,' Zagros told me. ‘He bade me tell you to take it with you and use it well.' I could hardly recognise it as the ragged loincloth Meirion had worn, but as I stowed it away my fingers prickled and I felt a sudden certainty that, like so much in Karazan, it would have a use — one I hoped I'd recognise when the time came. As for the mage himself, I hadn't seen him again, nor expected to: we had said all the farewells we needed by the dying light of the fire.

Above the cloth, wrapped in a napkin, were dried fruit, bread and cheese … and in my head rattled a useless jumble of meaningless contradictions and confusing images.

Zagros waved me away from the door of the grey cottage with my mother beside him, as bright and brave as a candle flame.