‘Your Holiness?’
The Seer turned, his eyes blazing with anger. ‘What?’
The soldier hesitated, realising that the violence in his master’s voice would inevitably fall somewhere. He only hoped that it would not be on him. ‘Your Holiness, it’s probably best if we don’t burn anything. The smoke will give us away.’
The Seer stared until the soldier averted his gaze and bowed his head. Then he turned back to Samuel. ‘I know you have it, old man. My father couldn’t be wrong. He knew that it came here. I promised him on his deathbed that I would retrieve it, so there’s no point holding out. You’re going to die anyway, so you might as well pass it on to me, because, if I don’t get it, no one will, will they? You won’t be able to give it to anyone when you’re dead. Will you?’ He waited for an answer, but Samuel stayed silently curled in a ball. The Seer swore and kicked the old man again and again. ‘Jarudha make you rot and burn forever!’ he screamed, as he kicked and kicked and kicked the curled wreck of rags and bones.
Emma looked up from her reading as the black bush rat pushed through the gap in the wall, and she watched the rodent scamper across the cottage’s earthen floor and launch onto her lap. ‘Well,’ the old woman said, ‘here’s a surprise visitor. What’s brought you down to my place?’ She stroked the rat’s twitching nose before she noticed the fine gold chain dangling from the little animal’s neck. ‘You’ve taken to wearing jewellery?’ she asked light-heartedly, but she felt a cold chill within. She unhitched the chain and held it to the daylight streaming through her open window, staring at the amber crystal slowly spinning at its extremity. ‘Samuel!’ she gasped.
Following the agile but patient rat up the hill took her longer than she wanted, but her old body would not obey her fearful heart’s need, and by the time she reached the cave she was breathing heavily and her legs threatened to melt. She halted by the stream, fighting her trepidation, and watched the rat cautiously creep to the entrance. Only after the rat entered and did not return could she summon her trembling strength and gather her breath to go forward. She stumbled into the darkened cave, feeling more than seeing the wreckage. ‘Samuel?’ she whispered. She retreated to the entrance and picked up a stone, which she cupped in her hands until it glowed with light. She went back in and revealed the true extent of the destruction. Everything was broken, torn apart and overturned, as if a wild beast had gone on a rampage. The rat appeared at the edge of her light, so she followed it to Samuel and found him curled under the fragments of a shattered gum wood stool. His wispy white hair was stained maroon and black with his dried blood. ‘Samuel,’ she said in shock as she knelt beside him and gently touched his shoulder. The rat was nudging the old man’s bloodied chin. ‘Oh, what happened?’ was all Emma could say as she sat despairingly beside her old companion. ‘Who would do this to you?’
‘Well?’ Prince Future asked, pushing aside the pageboy who was adjusting his breastplate buckle. ‘Successful?’
Seer Truth swallowed the bitterness in his pride and shook his head. ‘No.’
Future shrugged. ‘I thought you said you knew where this thing was.’
‘I did. But it wasn’t there.’
‘And now?’ Future asked, studying the dark-haired, blue-robed Seer with his critical green eyes. ‘You promised that it would help to change the direction of this war. Now what do I do?’
‘You go back to the original plan, Your Highness,’ Seer Truth said calmly.
‘That’s why we’re losing, Truth!’ the Prince snapped. ‘We’re losing because the original plan isn’t working!’
‘You know my answer to that, Your Highness.’
‘What?’ Future asked derisively. ‘That it’s Jarudha’s will?’
‘No, Your Highness.’ Truth wondered why he championed the cause of the impetuous red-haired young pretender to the Western Shessian throne. The act was a necessary step in the fulfilment of Jarudha’s will, a plan the Prince could never comprehend, even in blind faith, but it was becoming a tortuous trial for the Seers like Truth who had sided with the Rebels under Future’s leadership.
‘Then what?’
He knew what would follow the moment he resurrected the worn argument, but persistence would always eventually wear down resistance. ‘There is the matter of the Queen, Your Highness. If she was to be simply eliminated—’
‘She is my mother!’ Future retorted angrily.
‘She is your enemy, Your Highness,’ Truth reminded him.
‘She is still my mother! And I will not have her blood on my hands!’ Future’s face was crimson with exasperation at the Seer’s impudence.
Truth dared a cynical smile as he said, ‘She seems happy to have your blood on her hands.’
‘She is my mother! I will not kill my mother!’ Future yelled.
‘Then you will not have her crown, Your Highness,’ Truth quietly said. ‘While she is alive, you cannot be the King.’
‘She’ll make me King if I beat her in war.’
‘Perhaps, Your Highness,’ said Truth, tempted to yawn with boredom at going over the same old lines. ‘But first you have to beat her.’
‘Damn you and your stupid promises! You priests tell nothing but lies!’
‘We do Jarudha’s work, Your Highness.’
‘You told me that Jarudha’s work was to restore a King over our land and to begin the holy cleansing of evil.’
‘And so it is, Your Highness, but sometimes we must be patient.’
‘I’m tired of being patient. You promised to end this war in our favour by finding this—what did you call it?’
‘The Conduit, Your Highness.’
‘And now you tell me that it doesn’t exist.’
Truth hid his anger at the young man’s ignorance, but he reasserted his belief by replying, ‘I didn’t say it doesn’t exist, Your Highness. It just wasn’t where I thought it would be.’
‘So where will you look next?’
‘I don’t yet know,’ said Truth, and he meant it. His father’s painstaking research didn’t point to another possibility. Logically, Samuel Kushel was the only live link to the old tales associated with Alun’s gathering of Conduits and Erin’s sharing of them—at least he had been the only link—but the old man did not have a Conduit. The thought that his father’s research had been in vain—the single-minded and pointless pursuit of a myth—goaded him, and singed the core of his beliefs. He looked over the Prince’s shoulder at a figure riding towards them. The knight wore plate armour that gleamed with a soft blue hue.
When Prince Future saw the Seer’s attention change, he turned. ‘Lord Overbrook!’ he called in greeting, as the knight reined in.
‘Your Highness,’ the knight replied with a nod, before acknowledging Truth with, ‘Your Holiness.’ He swung down flamboyantly from his horse and embraced the Prince.
‘How is the armour?’ Truth asked.
Overbrook smiled, his looks disarmingly handsome, as he said, ‘Your colleagues’ spells make it impregnable, Your Holiness. If we could do the same for a whole troop we’d be invincible.’
Truth glanced at Future as he said, ‘It will happen, but not yet.’
‘And the army?’ Prince Future inquired.
‘We’re ready to march, Your Highness. We merely await your command.’
Future smiled at the reminder that he was the supreme authority of his Rebel army. ‘Tell them I am coming,’ he said.
Overbrook bowed, and said, ‘At once, Your Highness,’ and with practised ease he remounted, wheeled and galloped down the slope towards the Prince’s forces.
‘Lord Overbrook could still sway the balance in this war,’ Prince Future said as he watched the knight’s receding form. ‘I’ll give your priests credit for what their spell does in protecting him from our enemies’ weapons. No one is his equal on the battlefield.’
‘Our Blessing has its uses,’ Truth said. ‘Be thankful that Jarudha gives us a glimpse of His greatness through our small works.’ Within
, however, the Seer knew that the magic of the Blessing was severely limited without the power imbued in the Conduit, and the Conduit was the key to an even more glorious future than anything the ambitious and selfish Prince imagined.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘By all the powers in the earth and sky, water and fire, I conjure you—fly!’ Bulging yellow eyes stared back, but the mottled green frog stayed put. ‘Fly!’ The frog leapt into the reeds. Exasperated, she sank onto the cool earth and stared at the white clouds. ‘What am I doing?’ she scolded herself. ‘There’s no such thing as magic. And if there is I don’t have it.’ She closed her eyes, and let the dappled light and shadow play across the inside of her eyelids. The meeting with Emma was annoying her. Instead of giving a definite answer, no matter how outlandish, the old crone had been enigmatic, teasing, and gave no answer, just a hint of possibilities. Now she had Meg believing that there might be magic. How stupid was she?
‘Well?’ her mother asked, arms akimbo in the doorway, when Meg returned from the old woman’s cottage.
‘Nothing,’ she told her.
‘A silver shilling, and she told you nothing’?
‘She didn’t charge because she had nothing to tell me,’ Meg explained. ‘I used the shilling to get flour instead. I tried to tell you I didn’t have the Blessing, but you don’t listen.’
Even though she was bitterly disappointed, Dawn honoured her promise and hadn’t raised the subject in the past few days. But the old crone’s failure to confirm that she did not have the Blessing haunted Meg. She started experimenting with conjuring spells whenever she was alone. Not that she had any idea what was involved in casting magic, except for the fragments that were mentioned in ballads and stories she remembered being told as she grew up. She tried to make water become milk, bread disappear, Sunfire change into a butterfly, her brothers silent, and now a frog fly. And all that her experiments proved to her was that magic was not real. How could something come from nothing? She opened her eyes and rolled onto her stomach. The farmhouse well was dry and the rains hadn’t come. Her wooden pail was lying on its side, waiting to be dipped into the river and carried to the house. Sunfire was also on his stomach, watching her, as always, but when his ears pricked Meg sat up, peering along the river path where she saw a young man walking towards her. She got up.
‘Hello,’ Button Tailor called. He was carrying a bunch of purple wildflowers.
‘I was daydreaming,’ she explained, as he reached her. ‘I was meant to be getting water.’ Sunfire sidled up to Button and thrust his nose against the young man’s leg.
‘Sunfire, isn’t it?’ he asked, reaching down to rub the dingo’s ears.
‘Seems he likes you,’ she said.
Button held out the gift of flowers. ‘These are for you.’
Embarrassment flushed her cheeks. ‘They’re pretty,’ she lamely replied.
‘Like you,’ he said, smiling. ‘Do you want me to carry the water?’
She stumbled on her answer. ‘No. It’s not heavy.’
Button ran his hand quickly across his forehead, pushing aside his dark locks, and said, ‘I’d better keep going, then. I promised Short Barleyman I’d help him to repair the thatch on his barn roof this morning. I hope you like the flowers.’ He rubbed Sunfire’s head again, smiled at Meg, and continued along the river path.
Meg’s insides were melting. Her cheeks were on fire. Button’s smile—white teeth behind soft lips and dark stubble—enchanted her. His blue eyes smiled like his mouth. She checked that no one else had seen her moment of confusion before she collected the pail, scooped it full of water and headed for home, flowers in one hand, pail in the other, thoughts of Button Tailor burning her. Her mother was baking bread when she walked in. Relaxed by the warm, enticing aroma, she poured the fresh water into the drinking bucket and returned the pail to its resting place beside the door. ‘Where are the boys?’ she asked.
‘Peter’s asleep,’ Dawn replied, without looking up from her dough rolling. ‘Mykel is hunting kangaroos. Daryn is fetching wood. It’s Alunsday tomorrow—or have you forgotten the feast in the market square?’ Dawn stopped and looked up, smearing a streak of flour across her cheek as she tried to wipe aside a loose hair. ‘In fact, I want you to find some mushrooms and wildroot for the numbat seasoning.’
Meg was relieved. Looking for mushrooms and wildroot released her from any further farm chores for the day because she’d have to search the hillsides above the valley to find what was needed. Basket on her arm, knife in her belt, she left the house, with Sunfire in tow, and headed up the slope of the northern hill. On the crest, weaving between the tall gum saplings, she surveyed the valley where her village huddled along the riverbank under the protection of the river gums. Smoke rose from the Bakers’ chimney. Late morning sunlight glittered on the aquamarine river. She wondered if her brothers had evaded their chores to go fishing again. Three tiny figures were crossing the bridge, heading for the market square, and a horse and cart was coming in from an outlying property, probably the Tillers’ farm, bringing sheep to market. Her farmhouse, nestled between trees, looked small and fragile. At the back of the house, tiny strips of coloured cloth hung on a line strung between two trees. She couldn’t see her mother. Movement overhead made her peer into a tall gum, where she spotted a pair of koalas, a female with her young clinging to her back, foraging for eucalyptus leaves. She checked Sunfire’s whereabouts, but he’d disappeared into the bush.
The best wildroot was in the next valley. She’d often gathered it, her mother teaching her when she was old enough to walk what to look for in the earth. Wildroot’s seasoning flavours were a village delicacy and people believed that it had medicinal qualities. It could also be boiled to produce a soft green dye that Meg’s mother liked to use for dresses and tunics.
Descending the steep slope, Meg spied Sunfire scouting through the bush, stopping occasionally to mark his territory. Sometimes a strong scent held him fixed to a spot while Meg pushed on. She farmed a circle of cream mushrooms in a sunny patch of grass. She loved the silken texture of the mushroom skins. She cut the stems and gently removed the clinging clumps of soil before placing them in her basket. Then she continued towards the rocky creek that cut through the valley.
At the bottom, where the tree canopy kept the air cool and moist, naked tree roots curled across the earth from their trunks, dipping into the creek’s clear water. Patches of bright green moss and yellow lichen added colour to the sombre grey roots and dark brown earth, and red and white-spotted toadstools sprouted in unlikely places. The toadstools were a good sign. Wildroot often grew near them. Meg searched for the soft bulges in the earth that betrayed the wildroot’s presence and soon found what she was seeking. She knelt and burrowed into the soil with her fingers, unearthing a thick wildroot tuber. She cut it loose from its thin fibrous roots and cleaned away the dirt, exposing its green skin. Wildroot flesh was orange and pulpy, good for mashing and spreading over cooked food or for stuffing inside numbats, fish or chickens. The skin was the green dye source. She gathered seven wildroot tubers.
Satisfied, she brushed down her skirt and looked for Sunfire. ‘Sunfire!’ she yelled. The dingo’s yelp echoed along the narrow valley. ‘Where are you?’ she called. ‘Come on!’ The dingo yelped again. He was on the opposite slope, halfway up gauging from his yelp. He’d found something and wasn’t going to come. ‘Frustrated by another wombat burrow,’ she muttered, remembering how he was perpetually puzzled by the fact that wombats could fit down their burrows but he couldn’t. She hoisted her basket and climbed, hoping to find more mushrooms as she went to see what had secured Sunfire’s attention.
The vision of the grey horse stopped her cold. It was saddled and its reins dangled. ‘Hello?’ she called warily. Sunfire was several paces downhill, staring at the ground. Meg put down her basket and drew her knife. ‘Sunfire,’ she tentatively called again, but he ignored her, transfixed by his hidden quarry. Summoning her courage, she crept towards him. Dark s
tains stretched along the horse’s flank, and a long weeping cut ran up its shoulder and neck. The dark brown saddle was soft fine leather and the black blanket beneath was embroidered with the royal gold serpent crest. Meg’s father had worn the same crest when he marched off to the distant war. Her heart quickened.
A few paces from Sunfire, she saw what was consuming his attention: a man face down in a hollow—a soldier in chain mail—an arrow embedded in his back. His sword was lying across a flat stone just beyond his reach, the blade stained with dried blood. ‘Sunfire!’ she ordered. The dingo, hackles raised, glanced at her, but stayed where he was, growling. She edged closer, until she could see that the man’s breath wheezed painfully in and out. ‘Sunfire!’ she hissed. ‘Enough.’ The man’s legs jerked. Meg instinctively raised her knife and Sunfire’s growl deepened, but the soldier sighed and was still again, his breathing noticeably shallower. He was dying. She’d seen people die from illnesses and accidents. Only three cycles earlier, Brightsky Beekeeper had died of the consumption illness. Meg had visited Brightsky, with a gift of butter from her mother, and found his corpse. The soldier’s face, turned to the side, was already grey like the faces of the dead. His beard was matted with blood and his hands were lacerated, and the metal arrow punched through the chain mail corslet’s rings was buried deep between his shoulderblades. What could she do? ‘Hello?’ she said. The soldier’s breathing quietened. ‘Can you hear me?’ As she reached to touch his shoulder, his eyes flickered, startling her. And he stopped breathing. She sat back. Sunfire’s ears and tail drooped. He came forward cautiously, to sniff the soldier. As if he was satisfied that the man was dead, he turned and trotted towards the horse.
Meg stared at the dead soldier, wondering who he was, and why he’d died on a hillside a short distance from her home. He wasn’t someone from her village. By the freshness of his wounds, he’d fought a battle that morning, or the previous night. Who had killed him? Her fear rose. Were his killers close by? She scanned the trees and bushes. Sunfire was circling the horse, apparently unconcerned for anything except his curiosity. If there was anyone near, he’d know, she decided. She sheathed her knife, and studied the grey face again. He wasn’t very old. Behind the bruises and cuts and beard, and the death mask, he was handsome. Who was he? Would he have a wife or a young woman who was already missing him, like she missed her father? Why had he come so close to Summerbrook? Was he lost? Or had he been looking for someone?
The Amber Legacy Page 4