Prince of the Wind Page 13

  But hot food and the bright cheer of the fire worked their usual magic, and by bedtime our exhaustion had given way to a feeling of weary wellbeing.

  ‘Look at that moon,’ murmured Gen, gazing up at the silvery sky. ‘The diary — shall we see if the magic you told us about works again?’

  I dug it out from the depths of my pack and handed it across to her. She opened it, and her face lit up with excitement. ‘Yes! It’s there — the writing …’ Jamie and I had told the others what we’d read the night before; now Gen leafed eagerly through the first few pages before looking up at us with shining eyes. ‘I think this must be where you read to, Jamie — shall I go on?’

  Her soft voice began to read. The night around us seemed to tremble and dissolve, and once again the words of the past wove their spell on us all … and as Gen gave voice to Zaronel’s words from long ago, we were transported back into the past, watching her story unfold before our eyes.

  The three gifts

  The red carpet running the length of the great throne room was lined with heralds in the scarlet and golden livery of the Royal House of Karazan. Each held a silver trumpet in one hand and a furled standard in the other.

  At one end of the carpet were the vast studded double doors through which the princes were to enter. At the other was the throne, empty as it had been since the death of the old king two moons before. On its seat, on a velvet cushion tasselled with gold, rested the Twisted Crown of Karazan — plain gold and silver interlocking bands, unadorned with gems of any kind — and the Sign of Sovereignty.

  Zaronel was seated on an ornately-carved chair to one side of the throne. In accordance with Karazan custom she wore a simple gown of white, signifying purity. Her dark hair was intertwined with flowers — the last of the autumn, in shades of scarlet and gold.

  Half a pace behind her stood a figure in the bronze breastplate and crested helm of Antarion, one hand on his sword-hilt. Zagros, Guardian of the Jewel of Antarion.

  At an invisible signal, fifty trumpets were raised and fifty flags unfurled to show the royal emblem of twin moons encircled by a twisted crown. A clarion rang out. As the last echoes died away, the double doors were flung open and a figure in black stood framed in the archway, eyes fixed on Princess Zaronel.

  ‘His Imperial Highness Crown Prince Zeel of Karazan!’

  Zaronel watched as Prince Zeel strode forward, glancing neither left nor right. At last he reached the first of the three low steps that led to her dais and gave a low bow.

  There was no doubt that Prince Zeel was handsome. Pale, hooded eyes; black hair drawn back and bound after the fashion of the nobility of Karazan. Olive skin, smooth-shaven and unlined. But there was something about the emptiness of his eyes and the curve of his mouth that sent a chill though Zaronel’s heart.

  She forced herself to smile and extended a hand. ‘My lord …’ Her voice, though soft, carried to every corner of the waiting hall.

  He straightened, stepped forward and raised her hand to his lips. Though her flesh shrank from the touch of his skin and the heat of his breath, her face showed nothing. ‘You are welcome to the court of Karazan,’ he said smoothly, his lips curling into a practised smile. ‘I come in quest of your hand, Zaronel of Antarion. I pray you accept this humble gift.’

  Two pages hurried forward with a gilt table. On it lay a fur more magnificent than any Zaronel had ever seen. It was whiter than the snow, deep and luxuriant … she ran her hand through it, and it was like touching a cloud.

  ‘For many moons my hunters searched the northernmost reaches of Karazan for the cubs of the snow wolf. For your pleasure they were tracked over the uncharted snowfields; for your delight each last one was slaughtered. Accept this mantle as token of my suit, and wear it well.’

  Zaronel felt the blood drain from her face, and a wave of dizziness swept over her. ‘Forgive me.’ She opened her eyes, forcing her voice to be steady. ‘I thank you for your gift, Prince Zeel.’

  The table was moved aside, and once again the trumpets sang out. But before the fanfare finished a man was striding towards her, and in moments they were face to face. Zaronel did not hear the herald announce Crown Prince Zane of Karazan; did not remember a lifetime of being taught that a lady never stares.

  Before her stood a tall young man, broad-chested and long-limbed. A wide forehead; level brows; eyes that met her own with disturbing directness. A mouth too wide to be handsome, with a kink of humour at its corner. A strong, square chin … a flat-planed jaw with the sandpaper roughness of beard … hair damp and hastily combed, the colour of autumn leaves.

  In his arms he held the cloak he had been wearing earlier, wrapped in an untidy bundle. He cradled it with exaggerated care, as if whatever it contained was either very fragile or very precious.

  He bowed — rather clumsily, hampered by whatever it was he held. Zaronel extended her hand to him, as she had done to his brother. This time, it trembled slightly. He took it and touched it briefly to his lips. ‘You are welcome here, Princess Zaronel,’ he said gruffly. ‘I bring you a gift. I hope it pleases you.’

  He set the bundle gently onto the floor, and carefully unwrapped it. There was a sudden scramble — a snuffle and a snort — the scrabble of tiny hooves. Zaronel’s eyes flew wide with delighted disbelief. There on the scarlet carpet a tiny creature was struggling to its feet. Was it a pig? It could not have been more than a few hours old. It was covered in fine, silky hair, with a corkscrew tail at one end and a flat, questing snout at the other. Great ears like sails … bright, beady eyes … a head so covered in comical lumps and bumps that it was impossible to say whether it was the ugliest or the most beautiful creature she had ever seen.

  ‘I found him in the forest,’ Prince Zane was saying, ‘lost and alone. He needs someone to look after him … and I thought …’ he met her eyes, and in that moment she felt he could see straight into her soul; ‘I thought you might be glad of a friend.’

  Dawn of the second day. With the help of her handmaiden, Princess Zaronel arrayed herself in the shimmering gown symbolising the silver moon of Karazan, the silver in the twisted crown.

  Karris braided silken threads of silver into Zaronel’s hair as she sat silent at the window, gazing out into the drifting snow. Behind her the little piglet snored softly on the floor.

  Again Princess Zaronel took her place in the throne room; again the trumpets sang and a figure appeared in the distant doorway. She felt her heart give the tiniest skip; but then Prince Zeel was striding towards her over the red carpet, a dark-cloaked servant limping behind him.

  Zeel mounted the second step. Zaronel could smell the oil slicked into his hair; it had a cloying, sickly odour that caught in her throat.

  His eyes slid slowly over her. When he spoke his whisper was too soft for any but her to hear. ‘You are very beautiful, Princess Zaronel: a fitting jewel to adorn the crown of a king. The gift I bring you today is fair indeed, yet beside your loveliness it pales to nothing.’

  The servant stepped forward. He carried a cushion covered with a cloth of rich brocade. With a flourish, Prince Zeel flicked the covering away and let it fall to the floor.

  A ripple ran through the hall. On the cushion rested a gem of breathtaking beauty. It was a perfect sphere the size of a walnut, silver-grey in colour, its surface sheen deepening to a lustrous inner glow as if a dark light burned at its core.

  Prince Zeel half-turned, his voice ringing through the great hall. ‘Princess Zaronel of Antarion, on this the second day I bring you the Black Pearl of Karazeel: the name I shall take when I am king. At my command divers have scoured the oyster beds in its quest these two moons past, many perishing in the icy waters and treacherous currents of the southern seas. But at last the black oyster has been found, and the dark heart ripped from the flesh that has nurtured it for more than a hundred spans. This is my gift to you.’

  The courtiers stirred and murmured. Zaronel’s mouth felt dry. She forced herself to speak, afraid her voice would catch in
her throat, but her words came clearly, with only the slightest tremble. ‘I thank you, Prince Zeel.’

  Zeel stepped aside. There was a long, expectant hush. The two lines of trumpeters stood motionless, only their eyes moving as they awaited the signal to begin.

  Zaronel felt a pulse beating at her throat, bringing a flush of hot blood to her cheeks.

  The silence stretched on … and on.

  And still he did not come.

  Zaronel lay cold and still under her furs, pale moonlight spilling through the casement onto the bed. The little piglet lay at her feet. He was dreaming: she could feel the twitching of his tiny hooves and hear his snuffling grunts. Yesterday, the sound would have made her laugh aloud. Now, a single tear crept from under her dark lashes.

  Then suddenly she heard music. The haunting song of a larigot, drifting through the open window.

  Her heart leapt in her breast. She sprang up, her face flaming as she ran to the window and leaned out. Below, the golden stallion stamped and blew steam into the icy air. Prince Zane smiled up at her, the last notes of his serenade dying away in the darkness.

  ‘I have a mind for a night ride,’ he called softly. ‘Would you come with me?’

  Zaronel did not hesitate. She threw her shawl over her shoulders and snatched up a woollen cloak as she ran to the door. Eased it open … and came face to face with Zagros, wearing a scowl like thunder, his sword half-drawn.

  Zaronel stared at him, heart hammering. She had forgotten that he would be on guard outside her door, as he was every night. He growled her name: the familiar nickname he had called her by since childhood. ‘What is it? What has frightened you?’

  ‘I — nothing, Zagros,’ she replied haughtily. ‘Put up your sword; nothing can harm me here! I … I could not sleep. I thought I might walk …’

  He sheathed his sword. His mouth was a hard line, and his eyes bored into her. ‘I will walk with you.’

  ‘No! That is … I wish to walk alone.’

  ‘Then you will not walk at all, Zaronel. Pray go back into your chamber.’

  A flood of emotions swept through her. Anger, frustration … and a strange pull more powerful than any of them.

  Beside Zagros, she seemed tiny; but she drew herself up and looked him full in the eye, every inch a princess. ‘I go to ride with Prince Zane,’ she said quietly. ‘He awaits me at the foot of the tower.’

  Zagros’ mouth dropped open. ‘What? You wish to ride out with the prince at night? Alone? Zaronel, surely even you can see —’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘I did not say I wish to ride; I said I go to ride. Do not stand in my way, Zagros. Remember who commands you.’

  His face darkened with anger and wounded pride. There was something else, deep in his eyes — a twist of pain, as if a sword had been stabbed into his heart. She saw it, and knew it for what it was. ‘Zagros,’ she said gently, ‘my safety alone is your concern, and I will be safe with him. Do not hope for that which can never be. Stand aside now, and let me go.’

  Silently, he stepped back and allowed her to pass. Stood like a statue with a heart of stone, hearing the quickening drum of hoof beats vanish into the night.

  Prince Zane pulled the winged stallion to a halt on the crest of a low hill. Zaronel’s cheeks were burning with cold, her hair a wild tangle from the ride. She could feel the raw energy of the horse under them, coiled like a spring to run again. She nestled safe as a child on the saddle in front of Prince Zane, his arms circling her, his solid warmth shielding her from the wind that swept the hillside. One gloved hand was steady on the reins, holding back the prancing stallion; the other drew his rough cloak round her shoulders. ‘Zaronel.’ The vibration of his voice on her bare neck made her shiver. ‘Are you cold?’

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Not cold.’

  ‘Here is my gift to you,’ he said. ‘Look up, Princess Zaronel. It is in the night sky.’

  Obediently, she tilted her face upwards. Close — so close — wheeled a million stars. With his strong arms holding her, his breath warm on her hair, she felt they were the still point at the axis of the world, all the constellations of the universe spinning round them.

  ‘Look.’ He pointed. Above the horizon was a star like none she had ever seen before, bright with a light neither silver nor gold. She saw that it was moving, tracing a slow arc across the night sky; and as it moved it shed its radiance in a trail of iridescent stardust.

  ‘The star is not mine to give,’ he said, ‘but it shall be known from this night forth as the Star of Zaronel. A star such as this carries a wish more powerful than any other. That wish is my gift to you.’

  Zaronel closed her eyes and allowed her head to tilt back so that it rested against his chest. In the long silence that followed, under the light of the countless stars, she wished.

  On the third day Princess Zaronel’s handmaiden brought a gown of gold, with a golden veil like sunlight shining through rain to cover her face.

  ‘I will dress myself today,’ she said gently, taking the clothes from the handmaiden. She washed and readied herself as if in a trance, and brushed her hair into a shimmering cascade. Standing before the oval looking glass, she gazed long at her reflection, her grey eyes wide and full of dreams. At last she drew the veil over her face, and went out into the hallway where Zagros was waiting.

  A tall man in robes the colour of mist stood beside the throne. He was neither young nor old; dark hair streaked with grey fell about his shoulders, and the inner dimension of the seer shadowed his eyes.

  He spoke in a deep, clear voice that carried easily to the far end of the great hall, yet Zaronel felt his words were for her ears alone.

  ‘I am Meirion, Prophet Mage of Karazan. The Symbols of Sovereignty are in my keeping. Today is the Third Day, the final day, the day on which gifts are given but not received.

  ‘Only the gift of the winner of the Contest of Kings will be delivered into the hands of Princess Zaronel.

  ‘And on this the Third Day, the nature of that contest will be made known.’

  The trumpets rang out.

  Prince Zeel strode down the red carpet, empty-handed and alone. He mounted the third step and stood before the princess. She felt the force of his will and quailed before it; sensed an emptiness deep within him, and an insatiable hunger for possession and power.

  His lips barely moving, he spoke four words: ‘You will be mine.’

  He drew his sword with a hiss of steel and laid it on the step at Zaronel’s feet. ‘On this the third day I offer you my final gift. My sword has drunk deep of blood, yet its thirst is never sated. It is Blood-spiller, Widow-maker, Sorrow-bringer. I offer it to you and to the service of Antarion.’

  Zaronel stared down at the sword. Its hilt was intricately wrought of dark metal, set with black gems. Even the blade was black.

  She said nothing.

  Again, the trumpets sang. As Prince Zane moved swiftly down the aisle towards her, Princess Zaronel felt she was drawing him to her with a silken cord wound tightly round her heart.

  He reached her and knelt before her. If she had reached out, she could have touched him; run her hands through the tangle of his red-gold hair. She clasped her hands and waited.

  He took a single scarlet rose from the folds of his cloak and laid it at her feet. When he spoke, it was as if the two of them were alone if the great hall.

  ‘I offer you my heart … my love … my life.’

  Zaronel gazed down at the black sword and the red rose. Even when the silence was broken by the deep voice of Meirion, she did not lift her eyes.

  ‘The Contest of Kings will take place on the morrow, at sunrise. It will be a race on horseback. The course will run from the eastern gate of Arakesh to the southern border of Shadowwood. A lone tree grows there with four golden leaves upon on its branches. The princes will ride out, pluck one leaf, and return to Arakesh. Ride out again, and return with the second. The prince whose horse is last across the finish line will win the Twisted Crown of K
arazan, the hand of Princess Zaronel, and the stewardship of Antarion.’

  There was a moment’s silence, then a buzz that ran through the throne room like a swarm of bees.

  Zeel stepped forward abruptly. ‘But Mage Meirion,’ he began, ‘how can … do you not mean —’

  ‘The prince whose horse is last will be the winner of the race. Last will be first, first last.’ Meirion’s face was expressionless.

  ‘The Oracle has spoken. Tomorrow, at dawn.’

  A bundle of rags

  We woke before sunrise, stiff and cold. Jamie had insisted on taking the last watch; now he was snoring away on one corner of the tarpaulin we’d spread over our gear to protect it from chatterbot raids. The fire was out, but Rich’s plan of weighting the tarp on every side with sleeping bodies had worked: our stuff was safe.

  I’d expected to fall into a deep sleep the moment my head touched the ground. But for me the night had been full of dreams — unsettling, disjointed fragments that lingered long after I woke. I’d dreamed there were chatterbots close by in the forest, jibbering and calling … creeping still closer in the dark, busy fingers scrabbling at my sleeping bag. Then, in one of those dreamlike transformations, the fur-fringed faces of the chatterbots had changed to hooded heads looming over me, brushing my sleeping face with the chill of the grave … I’d jolted awake, heart hammering.

  It had been the dawn breeze on my skin that had woken me. Now, tired and grumpy, I followed the others to the edge of the forest to look for twigs. The awkwardness of the previous day had evaporated overnight; as we fossicked between the scattered trees, the others’ good-natured grousing and cheerful chatter drifted on the morning air.

  ‘Would’ve been too bad if you’d escaped from the quicksand and then been hugged to death by the girls, huh, Jamie — though at least then the fire wouldn’t have gone out …’