Prince of the Wind Read online

  Dedication

  To D — always and forever.

  Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Too good to last

  Mr Smigielski

  Positive Placement Policy

  Reality

  An unexpected development

  Out of the blue

  A room of my own

  The final game

  A message from another world

  The impossible truth

  The only plan

  A promise to Q

  A starting point

  To open the gate …

  The Summer Palace

  The Chamber of the King

  No place to hide

  Something or nothing

  A little bit of magic

  The Book of Days

  Words of the past

  Jamie’s secret

  A piece of cake

  Absolutely anything

  Jamie

  The three gifts

  A bundle of rags

  Blue-bum

  Poor little guy

  The Empty Cowl

  Ashling

  A backwards horserace

  The Brimstone Caverns

  Into the darkness

  The belly of the beast

  Flowers of scarlet

  Tapestries of destiny

  The eyes of the dragon

  Pools of darkness

  The Karazan Quartet

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Prologue

  They drifted into the throne room like shadows. With them came a sudden darkness, and a chill as if a cloud had passed over the face of the sun.

  Instantly, there was silence.

  In their annex the queens shrank away, covering their faces. At a gesture from the hunched, misshapen figure beside the throne, pages sprang forward and drew the heavy drapes to screen them.

  The sorcerer hobbled forward, peering from his nest of tangled hair. With each step the heavy folds of his purple gown flapped grotesquely, like the wings of a crippled bird. ‘Clear the throne room,’ he croaked.

  In moments, only the hooded figures of the Faceless and the sorcerer remained. They … and the king. He lay back on the low couch that was his throne, as still as a gilded statue. His expression seemed unchanged, but deep in his eyes something flickered for a moment, bright and hungry as a flame. Only Evor the sorcerer knew it for what it was: white-hot anger, hope, and perhaps most of all … fear.

  Evor spoke for the king. ‘Well? Where are they?’

  The leading figure came to a standstill some distance from the throne, the others shuffling up behind it like ragged vultures closing on a kill. There was a pause; then the loose, rattling choke of what had once been a voice, coughing its way through rotting vocal chords. ‘Gone.’

  ‘Gone? What do you mean, gone? Gone where? Where could they go?’

  ‘Portal.’ The word was spat into the silence like a thick gob of phlegm.

  ‘You lost them.’ The accusation hissed through the air like a whip. ‘All of them.’

  ‘Not all.’ The leader of the Faceless withdrew something from deep within its cloak and dropped it at the sorcerer’s feet.

  Evor stared down at it. It was the size of a newborn baby, limp and boneless as a corpse. The skinny body was covered in fine, silky fur, except for its bright blue rump and the smooth, hairless face, shrunken and pathetic, clenched in a frozen rictus of almost human horror.

  Evor turned the body over with his foot, considering. ‘This was travelling with them?’

  There was an almost imperceptible movement within the dark hood.

  ‘Is it dead?’

  ‘No, my lord.’ Evor bent and lifted the limp form by its neck, the head lolling uselessly. ‘It has breathed the chill of the grave, but it lives.’

  The king’s cold gaze flicked from the leader of the Faceless to the shadowy figures behind, resting on them one by one. ‘You have failed me,’ he said softly. ‘It will not happen again, or you will be returned to the depths from which you came. Be gone.’

  ‘Now,’ murmured Evor, ‘now, my lord, let us see what the Faceless have delivered us.’ He crouched beside the king, cradling the limp form in the crook of one arm like a baby. The low table before the throne carried an array of delicate phials, as well as another object, small, dark and compact, looking strangely out of place among the gleaming crystal.

  Evor’s hand hovered above the phials for a moment before settling on one filled with a phosphorescent liquid like mother-of-pearl. He withdrew the crystal stopper from its neck, put his finger over the opening, and tilted the bottle. A single drop of potion gleamed like a pearl on the end of his gnarled and twisted finger. He inserted one long fingernail between the creature’s lips and levered the mouth open, then touched the tip of his finger to its tongue.

  Both sorcerer and king watched intently. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the tight-clenched eyelids relaxed, and both bright button eyes flickered open. Blinked, focused on the face of the sorcerer centimetres from its own — and squeezed instantly shut again.

  Evor’s breath wheezed out in what might almost have been a laugh. ‘You may seek to hide yourself in darkness, but the darkness will not hide you. There is no refuge for you now.’

  The king reached forward and touched the line where the smooth skin met the ruff of fur surrounding the small face. When he spoke, his voice was as caressing as the finger had been. ‘What were you once, little chatterbot? And here, among friends … what might you become?’

  ‘We shall see.’ Evor reached for another phial, upended it, and shook it over the still form of the little monkey. As the fine droplets touched its face it flinched slightly; then its body rippled in a long, convulsive shudder. Evor set it gently down on the carpet in front of the throne.

  For a moment, the chatterbot’s entire body seemed to vibrate. Then its limbs began to twitch and jerk. The face contorted, the slit mouth opening in an inaudible scream. And then, in a series of anguished, heaving convulsions, the tiny body began to stretch and grow. The furry coat smoothed, the silky fibres melting away; the arms and legs straightened and extended; the face flattened and stretched. The long, prehensile tail telescoped away to nothing. There was a single shrill, jibbering shriek that faded to a series of moaning sobs … and then the ragged, pyjama-clad form of a boy was lying sprawled on the red carpet, pain and confusion giving way to fear in his wide brown eyes.

  With a sudden scramble he twisted onto all fours, crouching like an animal at bay, teeth bared. Evor took a lurching step forward, and the boy threw up one hand in an instinctive gesture of self-defence … and saw his own pyjama-clad arm in front of his face. His eyes widened, and his mouth fell open in an expression of almost comical shock. He looked at his hand, turned it, opened and closed the smooth, pink fingers. Stumbled to his feet, staring down at his straight boy’s body in disbelief. Looked from Evor to the king, and back again. His mouth opened. ‘Y-you … I …’

  ‘What is done can equally be undone,’ hissed Evor, ‘and what is undone need not be undone for all eternity. We know now what you are. Who you are, we will soon discover.’

  ‘N-no.’ The boy’s voice shook slightly. ‘I’m not going to tell you anyfing.’

  ‘Be still, Evor. Come now, little one.’ The king’s voice was soft as velvet. ‘You need not be afraid. I am King Karazeel, and this is my trusted servant Evor. Tell us your name. There can be no harm in that. See, Evor has returned you to your natural form. Is that not evidence enough of our good will?’

  The boy blinked and shook his head. ‘I dunno … maybe. I … I guess so. My name … my name’s Bl- … I mean, Weevil. William Weaver
, I mean … Your Worship.’

  King Karazeel’s lips twitched. ‘There now. Was that so hard? Bravely said. You see — all is well. Welcome to Shakesh, William Weaver. And now …’

  But the boy’s eyes had fallen on the object that lay on the table beside the crystal phials. Instantly they widened, and his face broke into a grin. ‘Hey!’ he blurted, the words spilling from his mouth the second the thought was fully formed in his mind. ‘A computer! I —’ Then he realised what he’d said. His hand flew to his mouth, as if to snatch the words back … but it was too late. They hung in the air of the throne room like iridescent bubbles, way beyond reach.

  ‘So.’ The king’s voice was very soft. ‘It is a computer. I see. Yes, I think I begin to see. And tell me, my little friend: you seem like such a clever boy. What more can you tell us about this computer? Its purpose, perhaps? Its … powers? But no — you are too young for such wisdom.’

  A flush spread over the boy’s pale face. ‘Too young?’ he said indignantly. ‘That’s what you think! I know heaps about computers — more than most grown-ups. They’re my fing. I could tell you more about computers than practically anyone on earth — if I wanted to,’ he amended hurriedly. ‘But I don’t — and you can’t make me.’

  King Karazeel and Evor looked at each other … and smiled.

  Too good to last

  The bucket chairs had been arranged in a long line stretching right down the corridor from Matron’s office door almost as far as the rec room.

  I still thought of it as Matron’s office … and looking at the closed door still gave me that familiar helpless, queasy feeling, even though I knew she’d never be back.

  Every ten minutes or so the door would open a crack and one of the kids would sidle out. Then whoever was at the front of the line would get up and go into the office and close the door behind them, and we’d all shift up one seat closer, onto a grey plastic seat warm from the previous person’s bum.

  It was hard to read the expressions of the kids coming out of Matron’s office. They seemed guarded — wary, almost. They looked down at the floor and said nothing.

  Behind the office door was Mr Smigielski. ‘His name is pronounced ShmeegYELLskee,’ Cookie had told us at breakfast, dishing up fried eggs and bacon. ‘He’s the Chairman of the Board of Trustees, and he’ll be coming after school today to talk to you individually about the future of Highgate, and about the exciting plans he has for each and every one of you.’

  Her words had seemed real upbeat and positive, and some of the littler kids gave each other sparkly looks and jiggled up and down on their chairs. Not me. I looked at the way Cook’s mouth was tucked in at the corners, and how she was staring down at the pile of bacon instead of up at us while she talked … and I couldn’t help noticing the way her big, pillowy front heaved in a ginormous sigh under the bib of her faded old apron.

  And it made me wonder.

  The door opened and Geoffrey came out, his chubby angel face blank and expressionless. He darted a glance at me, then down at the floor again, and tried to sidle past the row of chairs into the garden.

  But I grabbed hold of the leg of his pants as he went past. ‘Pssst, Geoffrey,’ I hissed, ‘what did he say? What’s going on?’

  Geoffrey gave me a furtive, trapped look. His rosebud mouth quivered. ‘We’re not allowed to say,’ he whispered righteously. ‘And if you don’t let go of me right now, Adam Equinox, I’ll scream.’

  Hurriedly, I let go. Shifted one seat up, feeling the hot dampness where Callum’s legs had been. Waited.

  Highgate had been a different place since Matron left.

  She’d been arrested for fraud — it turned out she’d been creaming money off the allowance meant for feeding and clothing us kids. Doing it for years, salting it all away in a secret bank account and buying stuff for herself — including a brand new car — while we wore op-shop rags and ate food on waste from the supermarket because it was past its use-by date.

  We all hoped that once Matron was safely in prison we’d inherit her DVD player and flat-screen TV, but Cookie said it had been taken away by the police as evidence. So the television was still the same junk-shop special that could only get one channel — if you were lucky.

  Nothing much else had changed — on the surface, that is. There were still the same creaky old beds crammed into overcrowded dorms, the same smell of floor polish and disinfectant, the same ramshackle garden full of weeds, the same bare patches on the lawn, the same sagging clothesline billowing with threadbare sheets and ragged hand-me-downs.

  But now the allowance that had been given to Matron was given to Cook — and Cookie was spending it all on us. Before, the fridges had been stacked with dripping bags of greyish meat, slimy chickens and wilted bunches of spinach. Now they were cram-jammed with packs of smoked bacon, fresh farm eggs, crispy lettuces and whole heads of celery so fresh you could snap the stalks. The vegetable rack had once held bruised apples, blackened bananas and oranges patchy with blue mould. Now it was piled with potatoes, onions and other fresh veggies, and there was a basket on the servery full of fresh fruit for us to help ourselves whenever we wanted.

  Cook had started having her radio on in the kitchen while she worked, and we’d come back from school to the sound of golden oldies, Cookie singing along as she laid out our afternoon tea and started the preparations for dinner.

  Before, you could tell what day of the week it was by what was on the menu. Now, it depended on what was on special at the supermarket, and what Cookie felt in the mood to make. I’d got in the habit of poking my head round the corner when I dropped off my lunch box, grabbing an apple or a pear, and asking, ‘So — what’s for dinner, Cookie?’ You never knew what the answer would be. It could be ‘roast beef and Yorkshire pudding’, or ‘lasagne’, or ‘chicken à la king’ … or sometimes ‘wait and see, you little monkey — and don’t you come bothering me when I’m busy!’

  Best of all was that the sense of being watched had completely disappeared. There was no sick, nervous feeling of dread that you’d be caught doing something you never even dreamed was wrong. Half the rules went out the window. We were allowed to read for fifteen minutes in bed before lights-out. We had picnics in the garden when the weather was nice. We were even encouraged to invite friends to play in the afternoon.

  And we could use the computer whenever we liked, as long as no one else was rostered on.

  Yeah, Highgate sure was a different place.

  The door opened and Callum shuffled out. As he passed me he gave a long, liquid sniff.

  I stood up and walked the two steps across to the door. My knees had the same peculiar feeling they used to have in Matron’s day — as if they were slowly dissolving. Habit, I guess. I put my hand on the doorknob, same as I’d done a million times before. Turned it … and as the doorknob turned, so did my stomach, in a slow, sickening roll.

  I gave myself a mental shake, took a deep breath, and went in.

  Mr Smigielski

  The room was completely bare except for Matron’s big desk. It had been positioned in the middle of the floor, with a plain brown Manila folder in the dead centre of its shiny wooden surface. There was a chair on my side, empty. And there was Mr Smigielski, sitting behind the desk.

  He looked as if someone had put him between two sheets of tissue paper and shut him inside a book for a couple of weeks, sideways-on. His head was long and narrow, with a sharp chin and a pointy nose like a beak. His eyes were very close together and his skin an unhealthy-looking greyish colour, with a blue shadow like bruising over his cheeks and chin where he’d shaved. His hair was black — flat black like paint, so dark I almost wondered if he could have dyed it. It was combed carefully across his scalp in stripes you could have counted.

  He was wearing a plain black suit and a narrow black tie. His Adam’s apple jutted out above the tight knot of the tie as if he’d tried to swallow a peach stone and it had stuck halfway down.

  He stared at me expressionlessly f
or what seemed like a long time. Then his mouth stretched into what I guessed was meant to be a smile. ‘Come in and sit down.’

  I shambled forward, pulled out the chair with a grating sound, and lowered myself reluctantly onto it. I was suddenly very aware of my shaggy hair, long overdue for a cut, and the rash of pimples that had recently sprouted under my greasy fringe. My hands and feet felt huge and awkward, gangling and out of proportion to the rest of me. I noticed my nails were dirty. Hastily, I tucked my hands out of sight between my knees.

  Mr Smigielski had a peculiar stillness about him that reminded me of a snake. It gave me a crazy urge to fidget. But I made myself sit still and stare right back at him, into his small, opaque black eyes.

  Finally, he spoke again. ‘And you are?’ His voice was flat-sounding too, as if it had been squashed in the book along with the rest of him.

  ‘Adam,’ I mumbled. ‘Adam Equinox.’ The Adam came out deep and gruff, but the Equinox notched itself up an octave into a stupid-sounding squeak. I felt myself blush, and scowled furiously down at the floor.

  ‘Hmmm … Adam Equinox. An unusual name.’ He flicked the folder open. Upside down, from across the desk, I couldn’t see what was in it; but it didn’t look to be much.

  ‘Yeah, I guess,’ I muttered.

  ‘As you know, I am Mr Smigielski, Chairman of the Board of Trustees of Highgate. I would find it of assistance if you could give me a brief outline of your history and the circumstances of your placement here.’