The Third Age of Obsidian [Quest for Earthlight Trilogy Book Three]

by Laraine Ann Barker

  Peter shook his head, too tired to even care about being hungry and only wanting to sleep.

  "Good night then, Peter."

  When Peter turned to answer, Lord Merrilyn was gone, and he hadn't even heard the door close.

  Peter undressed, scrambled into his pajamas and climbed into the unfamiliar bed, which appeared to be stuffed with feathers and was surprisingly warm. He curled up and fell instantly asleep.

  He awoke a bright summer morning to find himself back in his bedroom at Bart's place. Everything looked strangely small and unfamiliar. The clothes he took off the night before at Lord Merrilyn's—winter clothes, looking strange to him at this time of year—lay across the chair by the bed. They also looked unusually tidy. The summer clothing of tee-shirt and shorts that he had put on after arriving at Bart's house the day before was scattered on the floor. In a flash Peter remembered placing the piece of paper in his trouser pocket. He went to grab the trousers from the chair when his gaze rested on the pile of broken branches on the bedside table. His blood froze as he remembered his first dream. Then he saw, scattered over the floor and the bed, a few pine needles missed in his clean-up. With shaking fingers, he snatched up the trousers and plunged his hand into the pocket where he remembered putting the piece of paper.

  And there it was, that cryptic little verse that was supposed to guide him to the One Tree. He read it through again, but it still made no sense At least, he thought, it proves I wasn't dreaming. I really did visit an English manor house in the nineteenth century. Somehow the thought brought him comfort from the horrors of the first dream.

  Chapter 14

  Piper in the Forest

  WHEN PETER went downstairs that morning, he took the pine branches and the piece of dead wood with him. Dreyfus padded quietly at his heels. Susan and Mrs. Evans were cooking breakfast and discussing the wedding. Bart sat at the table in the dining room drinking a cup of tea and frowning over a logging ledger. He held the book in his hand instead of resting it on the tablecloth because the table had been set as though for overseas guests. In addition, piles of presents lay beside three of the place settings. The scene reminded Peter, with a sense of shock, that today was his birthday. Bart looked up as Peter and Dreyfus entered the room.

  "Good heavens! What's all that? Have you been out logging while we've been asleep?” he joked. He shut the ledger with a slapping sound and frowned as Peter closed the door. “What's the matter?"

  Peter described his dream as accurately as he could. Then, before Bart could comment, he plunged on: “After I left you when I pulled the rocklight from the wall, I spoke to Merlin about another dream I've had three times. I asked him if he'd been sending dreams to me. He said that he and the Lady are two of the Sleepers mentioned in the prophecy, but they aren't responsible for dispensing the dreams. The Lady said some of my dreams wouldn't be dreams at all, but I'd always know the difference.” He held out the twigs and the rifle-shaped branch. “My three dreams about looking for Aunt Angela were just dreams, while the one about the One Tree and the Blue Lord was obviously real—but was it woven by the Sleepers?"

  "All the dreams are woven by the Sleepers, but they mightn't be distributed exactly as they were created. They'll sometimes be real rather than dreams. But the Earthlight would never have allowed a dream like that—which would probably have been intended as some type of warning—to become reality.” Bart looked extremely uncomfortable and his gaze was on the things in Peter's hand rather than Peter himself. “The Blue Lord must have been responsible for twisting the dream and turning it into reality—an act of vengeance. It shows how powerful he is—but I think you already know that—and it would seem his intentions aren't to stop you finding the One Tree but to take its power for himself once you've found it."

  "The tree turning into the Lord in Blue was a sort of symbol of his grabbing the power of the One Tree for himself?"

  "Something like that.” Bart now looked up at Peter. He sighed, and Peter wondered what he was holding back.

  Knowing there was no point asking, Peter tried another approach. “Why are the Sleepers weaving dreams? What purpose does it serve? What good are dreams in the Quest for Earthlight?"

  Bart shrugged, looking distinctly uncomfortable as he bent and absently scratched Dreyfus behind the ears. “Sometimes the purpose might be a warning, as I think this one was; sometimes a direction—an idea or clue to the next course of action. Most of them can't be explained by the conscious mind, which is why your dreams are puzzling you at the moment. Your subconscious will let you know when the time comes. Also, don't forget, Peter, the Sleepers aren't merely weaving dreams. They're also ‘invoking the revival of their power'. Dreams can be a very potent force.” As though suddenly remembering something, Bart looked at the brightly wrapped parcels on the table. “Today is a day of power for you three lads. The birthday of a Chosen One is his greatest day for harvesting power."

  "It's your birthday too,” Peter said, abruptly realizing the implication of Bart's words.

  "And Dreyfus's as well,” Bart said with a faint smile.

  This was news to Peter, but when he thought about it he realized it was obvious. He grinned broadly. “And Thaddeus Carter's.” He couldn't keep the wistfulness from his voice as he remembered the previous summer holiday. Unconsciously he let Bart see what was in his mind—the image he sent out was of the City of Light rather than the Carter farm that his words suggested.

  Bart looked at him sharply. “We're all supposed to be spending Christmas with Thad. Our flights are already booked but—"

  Bart broke off as the door burst open and Jamie and John came in, followed by Susan, Sylvia and Mr. Edwards. All bore dishes piled high with bacon, eggs, kidneys, lamb's fry, tomatoes, enough toast to feed an army and freshly baked bran muffins.

  To stop any questions about the pine branches, Peter dumped them on the floor by his chair. In the noise and excitement of the meal and unwrapping of presents that followed, he forgot them. In truth, he almost forgot everything in the novelty of a shared birthday that seemed almost like Christmas Day. It was only when he stood up to help clear the table and nearly tripped over the pieces of wood that the burden of his responsibilities came flooding back. He allowed the others to leave the room before putting the dishes he had picked up back on the table and bending to scoop up the branches.

  Swiftly and quietly he left the house. With Dreyfus padding behind, he walked briskly towards the woodshed.

  He was nearly there when Dreyfus stopped dead in his tracks. A low growl issued from the dog's throat. When Peter glanced down at him Dreyfus looked almost twice his size. Peter stopped and was about to ask what was wrong when the hairs on his own scalp prickled as from somewhere ahead, to his left, came the strange high singing sound of his nightmare. Only this time he realized it wasn't singing but rather a high piping sound. In his dream his brain had translated the sound into wordless song. It now seemed clearer and more recognizably non-vocal.

  He was given no choice as to whether to investigate the sound. Dreyfus took off as though all the hounds of hell were after him. Peter followed as fast as he could. Dreyfus disappeared over the top of the rise and by the time Peter reached it there was no sign of his dog. He halted, scanning the slopes from left to right. A distant bark, short and sharp, from the direction of the forest sent him racing for the trees.

  By the time he arrived on the outskirts of the forest he was hot and breathless. There was still no sign of Dreyfus. He could also no longer hear the high sweet piping. He stopped under the cool shade of the trees at the forest border to catch his breath. For a minute or so the only sound he could hear was that of his own heaving lungs and pounding heart. When he could breathe normally he stood a few moments listening intently. The forest seemed deserted; even the birds were quiet and there was no breeze soughing through the pines. Then the music came again—clear and sweet—sending little shivers up and down his spine, despite the warmth of the summer morning.

  There was no
path where Peter entered. He quickly noted the direction of the sun before venturing further under the trees. Pine needles provided a soft, noiseless carpet under his feet as he moved deeper and deeper into the forest.

  When he had been walking for some time it seemed to him he was no nearer the source of the sound than at the beginning. In desperation he stood still and sent out a mind probe, but was gently denied.

  That's strange. Whoever's making the music is unaware of my presence; the resistance is coming from outside not from within. I do wish whoever it is would stop moving around.

  As though in answer to his thought, the music started to sound closer. Finally, just as it seemed he would stumble over the musician at any time, Peter's attention was caught by a slight movement in a patch of dappled sunlight. It was Dreyfus. The dog seemed oblivious to his approach. With ears pricked and tongue lolling, he was intently watching and listening to something still hidden from Peter by the trunk of a tree. And Peter realized the music came from behind the tree.

  Concerned that the piping would stop and the piper vanish, Peter rushed forward. As he rounded the trunk of the large pine the music stopped. The first thing he saw was Dreyfus, who had been listening entranced to the music. Then he noticed the musician, a girl of about his own age. Sunglasses hid her eyes. Light brown hair curled around a small, round, rather pale face. Her cheeks flushed slightly as she looked up at him.

  "Hello, Peter,” she said, lowering her instrument and taking off the sunglasses at the same time.

  "Maria!” Peter gasped. Feeling foolish at being caught with bits of branches in his hand, he tossed them down on the other side of the tree. It took him a few moments to work out what was different about Maria. She had done something to her fine, straight hair. “What—whatever are you doing here?"

  Maria scrambled to her feet. She started making a fuss of Dreyfus as though to avoid looking at Peter. “Mum and I are going riding for the day. She's up at the stables choosing the horses."

  Peter's mind whirled. “Well, why aren't you with her? You shouldn't wander in here alone, off the track. It's too easy to get lost."

  Maria looked up with a sudden grin.

  "Oh, I'm not lost,” she said with unusual self-confidence. “The Lady told me there would be marks to guide me."

  Peter started in surprise at the way she said the word, as though it had a capital letter. “Lady? What Lady?"

  "That's what she called herself. I thought it was rather strange. When I asked who she was, she just said ‘I am the Lady.’”

  "When did you see her?"

  "A few nights ago. I thought it was a dream at first. In fact, I'm sure I was dreaming to start with. Then I woke up, and she stood right by my bed, looking exactly as in my dream—all in white with a blue hooded cloak over her shoulders. There was a faint sort of glow coming from her. I thought she was a ghost until she touched me. She was holding a little box. It looked like crystal and there was a red dragon with a ruby eye on the lid."

  Peter's eyes widened at the mention of the crystal box. His heart started thudding with excitement. However, his own nightmare that hadn't been a dream at all made him wary. The Enemy could, he knew, impersonate the Lady. He remembered what she once said to him—that the only thing no one, not even Merlin himself, could imitate was her music. She'd said nothing about the crystal box. He hadn't even known of its existence then. What if the Enemy could create a fake image of the box?

  "Was there anything else?” he asked, trying not to give away the tension gripping his whole being. “Anything before she came or when she left?"

  "Only a couple of bars of music. It was weird—like bells and yet not like bells, because of course bells are percussive instruments. I can't play all the notes, of course, but this is how the tune went.” Maria lifted her pipe and played a few bars. The hairs on the nape of Peter's neck seemed to stand on end with shock, for it was definitely the Lady's music, even if it did sound different on Maria's instrument.

  "What did the Lady say? What did she tell you to do?” Despite his efforts to sound normal, to Peter's distress his voice came out as a croak.

  Maria looked at him in surprise. “She said to ask my mother to take me riding here this morning. Fortunately, Mum's a good rider—or she said she used to be—and she'd already heard of the stables. The Lady told me to leave Mum at the stables and come down to the forest. She told me to count twenty trees from the main path where I would find a tree marked with a chalked arrow. I was to follow the arrows and play the music she gave me. Then I was to sit under the largest tree I saw and continue playing. She told me you were staying up at the farm and would follow the sound of the music.” Maria shrugged. “That's all."

  Peter looked down at the pipe in her hand. “What is it?"

  "A sopranino recorder,” Maria said, sounding surprised. She indicated an open case on the forest floor behind her. It contained several recorders of different sizes.

  It was Peter's turn to look surprised. “Can you play them all?"

  "Of course. There's no point owning instruments you can't play."

  "I thought recorders were something only small children played, not real instruments."

  Maria laughed. “Lots of people have that funny idea. While a recorder is easier for a beginner than other woodwind instruments, it's quite difficult in the more advanced stages. I've been playing since I was about five. My mother teaches it."

  "Oh! You play very well.” As he could think of nothing else to say, Peter changed the subject. “Do you like riding?"

  "I've never been on a horse,” Maria said calmly. “But it's my birthday and Mum usually lets me choose how we spend it."

  "Your birthday?” Suddenly the forest seem to spin around Peter.

  "Yes. You mean it's your birthday today as well?"

  "Yes. It's also Jamie and John's."

  Maria was given no time to reply; the sudden distant clopping of hooves made them both turn.

  Maria bent and snatched up the box of instruments, hastily replaced the one she had been playing and closed the lid. “That's Mum. I'd better go."

  Peter's head was still in a whirl as he and Dreyfus followed her. The sound of hooves stopped and a few seconds later Maria's mother called out, “Maria! Maria! Where are you?"

  "I'm coming! I'm coming! I'm just talking to Peter."

  They emerged from the forest to find Mrs. Fitzgibbon standing beside two of Bart's most placid mares.

  Maria quickly forestalled any reproach her mother might make about wandering into the forest where there was no path. “Sorry, Mum. I met Peter—he's staying up at the farmhouse—and we forgot the time."

  "Hello, Peter; it's nice to see you again. Now I know why Maria wanted to come riding.” Mrs. Fitzgibbon chuckled at her daughter's embarrassment. Then her gaze rested on the case of recorders. “I can't think what possessed you to bring those. Now we'll have to go back to the car."

  "I'll look after them for you. You can pick them up at the house before you leave.” Peter found himself making the offer almost as though someone else willed him to do so.

  Mrs. Fitzgibbon smiled at him. “Oh, thank you, Peter. That would be marvelous. We're booked to have lunch at the farmhouse anyway, so we can collect them then."

  Peter took the case from a beaming Maria and watched unashamedly as her mother showed her how to mount the horse. Then, realizing how he would feel if their roles were reversed, he excused himself and left at a run with Dreyfus at his heels. By the time they arrived at the house the breakfast dishes had been cleared away and their absence noticed. He and Dreyfus burst into the kitchen where the others were discussing where else they could look for him.

  "Sorry,” he gasped breathlessly before anyone could speak. He looked at Bart. “I went to throw those branches in the woodshed and met Maria and her mother.” He held up the case of recorders. “Mrs. Fitzgibbon said they were having lunch up here so I told Maria we'd look after this for her."

  At a sound like a strangled
gasp from his stepfather, Peter swung round to look at him. Mr. Edwards looked as though he had seen a ghost.

  "May I see it, please.” He held out a slightly trembling hand.

  Puzzled, Peter handed him the case. Mr. Edwards inspected its outside carefully before placing it on the kitchen table. He opened it and examined each instrument in turn.

  "You don't happen to know who gave this to Maria, do you?” His voice was now under control and very quiet.

  "Of course not. I didn't ask her. I suppose her mother bought it for her. She's a music teacher."

  "Your mother had one exactly like this. In fact, I could swear this is the set she owned. It must have disappeared before she died because when—when I sorted through her things, I couldn't find it."

  They all looked at each other. Bart voiced the half-formed thoughts of those of the Earthlight. “This is no coincidence. The Earthlight doesn't leave things to chance, and neither does the Enemy.” He gestured at the box of recorders. “These could be the instruments Peter's mother once owned, or they could be the work of the Enemy."

  Peter remembered how the hairs on his neck and scalp had stood on end at the sound of the music. Had it been fear? Yes, he admitted, it probably had, but only because the music sounded so much like the high singing of the dream that turned into a nightmare. He walked over to the table, placed the palms of his hand over the instruments in the open case and closed his eyes. He sent his mind out to probe the history of the pipes. However, no matter how hard he concentrated, all he received were flashing images of Maria playing each instrument—sometimes alone, sometimes in duet with her mother.

  "I can't find out anything,” he said in frustration, lifting his hands. “As far as I can gather, Maria and her mother are the only ones who've ever played them."

  "Can anyone apart from Susan and myself play the recorder?” Bart asked suddenly.

  "John and I both play, though John's better than I am,” Jamie said.