by V M Jones
To Kyle Hafner and JB Warsop,
two wonderful boys who made the world
shine brighter.
Hamba gashle.
Contents
The Karazan Quartet
Map
Prologue
Promises
An army of five
The puzzle of the ring
The Stronghold of Arraz
The Cauldron of Zeel
The mysterious cylinder
A vanishing act
Blue-bum leads the way
Bird in a cage
The magic of destruction
Candlewax
Trust and betrayal
Skyfire
What the moonlight revealed
A spy in the night
The lost years
Riddles by firelight
The dragon wakes
Echoes in the mist
Out of the frying pan
Salt tears and broken hearts
A call of nature
A cradle-craft
Into the deep
Water everywhere
Four winds
Troupe Talisman
Circus arts
First steps
The brotherhood of the arena
A grey horizon
Hunting the hunters
The Lost Tribe of Limbo
A gift from Blade
Blunderbuss
The Circus of Beasts
First blood
Fire-tongue
Lyulf’s luck
The edge of the world
Thunder in the dawn
Wings
The voices of men
Truth and lies
The Realms of the Undead
The King of Darkness
Tallow
Take it … use it
Twain
Journey’s end
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Copyright
The Karazan Quartet
The Serpents of Arakesh
Book One: The adventure begins …
Finalist, Junior Fiction, New Zealand Post Children’s Book Award 2004
‘Very, very, very, very good … superb writing, intelligent story-telling …’ New Zealand Herald
‘Her dyslexic hero is delightful …’ Dominion-Post
‘Intensely readable and written with Jones’ trademark clarity, it’s a ripper …’ North and South
Beyond the Shroud
Book Two: The darkness gathers …
Finalist, Junior Fiction, New Zealand Post Children’s Book Award 2005
‘A fabulous read for adventure-loving children … a thrilling adventure …’ New Zealand Herald
‘Leaves the reader anxious for more …’ The Press
Prince of the Wind
Book Three: The door is open …
‘Compelling tale … excellent holiday reading’ Southland Times
‘Vicky Jones is one of the brightest lights of local children’s fiction …’ Herald on Sunday
Quest for the Sun
Book Four: The final mystery
Map
Prologue
Twin moons hang low over the tree-tops, their light a burnished barrier between the shadows of the forest and the sleeping city walls. High above the forest floor the old owl roosts on his favourite perch. The downy feathers of his breast stir in the night air. He has hunted well, but something keeps him here, his talons locked on the rough bark, his gaze fixed on the spill of moonlight below. There is a movement in the wall. Quicker than thought the owl’s head turns, his eyes snapping into focus. His grip tightens.
A dark outline traces itself on the stone. A rectangular section of wall shifts and swings outwards. The owl stares, unblinking. Two plumes of mist breathe themselves at man-height into the brittle air. For an instant they mingle in murmured words, whisper-soft; then part.
The owl’s night vision is keener than any living creature’s, but even he can see nothing other than two rhythmic gusts of vapour, one moving soundlessly eastwards, toward the sea, the other into the clutching shadows of the forest.
The radar-dish of feathers rimming the owl’s face catches faint ripples of sound, channelling it into ears that can hear and interpret a mouse stepping on a twig at thirty metres. His three-dimensional hearing builds up a sound picture of the creature moving cautiously towards him over the icy ground. A man, carrying a heavy, inert bundle.
A sense separate from sight or hearing tells the owl he is in no danger: the man’s attention is focused elsewhere. The heart-shaped face tilts downwards, then swivels to follow as the man passes beneath the tree. The owl’s brain processes the changing frequency of sound waves as the crunch of frost gives way to the rustle of leaves … and the man begins to run.
The owl turns to face forward again. Now the first groping tentacles of shadow are touching the city walls; the moons will soon be gone and the sun will rise …
A fleeting after-image of the sounds he has seen echoes in the owl’s mind. ‘Whooo,’ he hoots softly. ‘Whooooo?’ He ruffles his feathers, spreads his wings and floats silently away into the darkness.
To the east the first light of the new morning streaks the sky with violet, the sea with gold. The bulk of the city walls and the pinnacles of the palace take shape against the lightening horizon.
In the heart of the palace a private garden rings with the clamour of waking birds. Abruptly their song is silenced. A purple-cloaked figure is hurrying towards the royal apartments at a hitching shuffle.
The soldier stationed at the entrance snaps to attention. He might not exist. Eagerly the misshapen figure hobbles up the stairway to the bedchamber. At the top he pauses, cracks his knuckles, tilts his head to listen.
The landing is lit by burning brands in brackets at either side of the arched doorway. A rug of royal scarlet rests on the floor; beside the door a pedestal holds a delicately painted porcelain urn. Grey light drifts up from below as morning steals softly through the narrow windows that light the stairwell.
Two soldiers guard the door, swords crossed. The sorcerer approaches. The torches flicker as the swirl of his cloak disturbs the still air; reflections of flame spill scarlet stains down the razor edges of the swords. Dark eyes burn from a nest of hair. ‘Well? Has it come — the cry of the newborn?’
Before the guards can reply, there is the sound of booted feet on the stairs. They move with a heavy, deliberate tread. ‘Stand aside. The King approaches. The hour is come.’
To the west, in the depths of the forest, night is dissolving into the gossamer greyness of dawn. The man runs uphill. His lungs are on fire; his breath comes in harsh gasps. His shoulders burn with the weight he cradles tenderly.
He stops to check that the sound of the stream is still within hearing, as he was told he must. He cannot see his feet on the forest floor; cannot see the familiar face nestled within the soft fur. His fingers feel for the silken cascade of hair, the smoothness of the cheek … but it is cold as marble. He can see nothing; hear nothing. Fear twists his heart. He bends closer. ‘Zaronel?’ he whispers. ‘Ronel…’
A tiny mewling comes from deep within the mantle, and he feels an answering sigh, the caress of a breath on his skin. His soul lifts. He runs on, the air lightening around him with every stride. At last the trees begin to thin. Ahead he sees pale sky and looming rock; a standing stone, tall as a man.
This is the place.
Gently he lowers his burden to the ground. A tangle of young ferns cushions and conceals it, but as he withdraws his hand he sees her face at last. It is bloodless and still. He steels himself for what he knows he must do. His hand reaches out; by touch he finds the tiny bundle.
‘No …’ A low cry of a
nguish, as if it is her heart he is taking.
‘Yes. Strength and courage, Zaronel of Karazan. I will return.’
The red rim of the rising sun bleeds over the horizon. A shadow grows on the rose-washed surface of the cliff, faint at first, stretching tall as the sky. The sun drags itself up from the sea; the shadow strengthens and begins to shrink.
Now there is another shadow on the cliff face: the ghost of a man. The shadow-figure blends into the shadow of the standing stone, merges with it, and is gone.
The dead of night. A white gate creaks open of its own accord. Soft footfalls crunch on gravel … then move soundlessly over grass. Up the red steps … one, two, three… into the deep shadows of the porch.
There is the soft tap of something solid being set down with infinite care; a scrape as it is pushed into the furthest corner, out of the wind. A pause as two objects are snuggled into the lacy folds of a shawl. The outline of a box appears and disappears as clumsy, gentle hands tuck and rearrange, resting one last time on the swaddled bundle in a silent blessing.
Invisible footsteps pad across grass; crunch on gravel. The gate snicks shut.
In the dark stillness of the porch, snug as a caterpillar in a cocoon, a tufty-haired baby blinks and yawns. He chews sleepily on his fist, finds his thumb and starts to suck.
It is a long time till dawn.
Promises
‘I sort of thought I saw a reflection of myself — a kind of wavery splodge —’
‘Get real, Jamie,’ interrupted Richard. ‘If you saw anything fat and round it was probably the moon.’
‘It couldn’t have been the moon,’ said Gen. ‘There were no reflections in the pool: not the clouds, not the moon, not our faces. Only Adam.’
Kenta spoke softly, quoting from the poem on the magical parchment:
‘In pools of darkness seek to find
Zephyr, the lost Prince of the Wind;
In empty sockets seek the prize
That’s hidden in the dragon’s eyes.’
‘I still don’t get it,’ said Richard. ‘We’re saying it’s Adam? That Adam is him — Zephyr, the Prince of the Wind? But that’s crazy. Adam’s just an ordinary kid.’
‘I dunno …’ Jamie lowered his voice. ‘There’s a lot about Adam we don’t know. Things he’s kept … well … private. The whole orphanage thing, that silver flute … he even looks different, with his dark skin. There’s always been something … look at him now, for instance.’
Though they were speaking quietly, their voices carried across to where I was sitting, staring at the retreating storm. All my life there’d been so much I didn’t know, so many questions I’d dreamed of one day finding answers to. Now I knew. And I’d never felt so alone.
‘If it was me,’ Jamie went on, ‘I’d be excited. I’d be busy figuring out what must have happened, and what to do next …’
‘Exactly.’ Kenta’s voice was very low. ‘What to do next. How do you think Adam feels? We were all expecting some kind of grown-up super-hero on a winged horse to magically swoop down and solve all our problems —’
‘With an army to help him,’ chipped in Rich.
‘— and now what do we discover? There’s no super-hero …’
‘No winged horse …’
‘No army ….’
‘Only Adam.’
‘And us,’ said Kenta fiercely. ‘His friends.’
And suddenly, with those two words, everything changed. The others were all around me, the girls hugging me and crying, Rich giving me a clap on the back that practically busted my spine, Jamie shaking my hand and saying ‘Congratulations, Adam; you really deserve it,’ as if I’d been made a prefect or picked for a sports team or something.
Rich conjured up some dry wood and soon we were huddled round a roaring fire. Gen unearthed a bag of marshmallows from her pack and we toasted them, squishing them between chocolate biscuits. ‘I was saving the biscuits for a special occasion,’ Jamie told us with his mouth full, a strand of marshmallow dangling from his chin, ‘but I don’t reckon any occasion could be more special than this!’
Gradually the cold numbness inside me started to thaw. Frowning down at the pink marshmallow on the end of my stick, turning it slowly over the flames, I watched it darken and bulge, then sprout shiny caramel bubbles and collapse into squishy gloop I only just managed to catch on my biscuit.
That was what seemed to be happening to me inside: a swelling warmth. Part of me wanted to capture it before it escaped forever, but another part of me — a deep-rooted, certain part that was new and strange — knew it would still be there when I crept into my sleeping bag and turned my back to the others and slipped my thumb into my mouth … still there when I woke in the morning and saw the first light brush the sky of Karazan with gold.
A wish had come true and a prayer had been answered, and the wonder of it would be with me forever.
‘So,’ said Rich cheerfully once the last crumbs had disappeared, ‘what next? I guess we should start thinking how the five of us are going to sneak into the Stronghold of Arraz … and what the heck to do when we get there.’
But there was something he was forgetting. For a while I’d almost managed to forget it too — or at least pretend I had. I took a deep breath. I expected the words to come out in a kind of strangled croak, or maybe not find their way out at all, but my voice sounded steady and matter-of-fact. ‘Not us. Me.’
Four pairs of eyes stared at me across the fire. ‘What d’you mean, you?’ squeaked Jamie.
‘We made a promise, remember? A promise to Q …’
It seemed like a lifetime ago. We’d been huddled in the library at Quested Court on what should have been a day of celebration, the last game in Q’s fantasy computer-game series finally finished. How long had it taken for it to turn into a nightmare?
As long as it took words to appear on a computer screen.
If I closed my eyes I could still see them scrolling down as if they were imprinted on my retina:
stand take to King
we you throw Karazeel
We understand you undertake to overthrow King Karazeel. A message from another world: Karazeel and Evor’s twisted interpretation of Q’s last computer game, Power Quest to Karazan.
It didn’t take us long to figure out what must have happened. Using the microcomputer Jamie had left in Shakesh, they’d somehow hooked into the VRE Interface on the Quested Court computer system. Q had tried to explain how, but all the jargon had formed a log-jam in my brain and I hadn’t understood half of it. But one thing had been horrifyingly clear to all of us, even Q’s five-year-old daughter Hannah: King Karazeel and his evil sorcerer Evor now had direct access to every computer belonging to every kid who’d ever bought a Karazan computer game.
In the space of half an hour, an innocent computer game had changed into a war game — from fantasy to reality. Because Karazeel and Evor believed the best form of defence was attack: an attack that would unleash hordes of computer-generated monsters into our world.
Unless we could stop them.
That’s what we’d come to Karazan to do: on a desperate mission to find the one person with the power to overthrow King Karazeel. Zephyr, Prince of the Wind, vanished into legend fifty long years before.
Q hadn’t wanted to let us come, but in the end he’d agreed — on one condition. As soon as we found Zephyr we’d leave him to deal with Karazeel and come straight home. And we’d all promised, with varying degrees of reluctance; but the promises had been made. Now finally, after days of blundering round Karazan, we’d accomplished our mission. Zephyr had been found. It was home time.
There was a slight complication … but only for one of us.
Me, Adam Equinox: Zephyr. The guy holding the entire future of Karazan — not to mention our own world — in his ham-fisted hands.
An army of five
‘But …’ said Richard.
‘But what?’ Jamie looked at him. From his expression it was impossible to tell
whether he was hoping Rich would manage to find a way out of the promise, or not.
‘But Q didn’t know it would turn out to be Adam,’ said Gen.
There was silence while we all tried to imagine what Q’s reaction would have been if he had somehow known. Thinking of him, in his frayed old jersey and smeary specs, I suddenly wanted him there. I wanted to be held close, to see the smile in his kind blue eyes, to hand over the burden I suddenly found myself carrying and leave him to sort it out. Except he wouldn’t be able to. Only one person could. It kept coming back to that.
Then I was talking slowly, finding the words as I went along. ‘I feel so weird about this. I can’t believe it … and at the same time it’s almost as if I’ve always known.’ I risked a quick glance to see if they were laughing. They weren’t. Rich was scowling at the ground; Gen was listening, her eyes full of tears. ‘What it means is …’ I swallowed. The things I was about to say … I hadn’t even had time to think them yet. ‘What it means is that it was my mother …’ I shook my head, searching for the words. ‘It was my father …’ My voice cracked. The shadowy image I’d kept tucked away in a corner of my mind had a face now: a strong profile, etched in gold. ‘I’ve always wondered where I belong. Now I know. This is mine to do; it’s my …’