Prince of the Wind Read online

  But this wasn’t Highgate, and it wasn’t Weevil sitting on his haunches watching my with bright, beady eyes. This was Karazan, and that was Blue-bum, and everything was different … wasn’t it?

  Even without unrolling it, I could tell the map was wrecked. It had soaked the oil up like a sponge. Before, the parchment had been thick and creamy; now it was translucent and shiny like greaseproof paper. The ink would be totally smudged.

  I unrolled it gently and smoothed it flat. I’d been wrong: it wasn’t smudged. But it looked different — way different. It took me a moment to figure out why. ‘The splodge,’ I said slowly. ‘The splodge has completely disappeared. Danon’s revealing oil — it’s revealed the whole map!’

  We must have wasted at least half an hour huddled over the map, exclaiming over the mountains and forests and rivers and towns that had been hidden before. Everything was marked: everywhere we’d been, and everywhere — like the Stronghold of Arraz — we knew that thankfully we’d never have to go.

  But something was nibbling at the edges of my mind. I let the others’ excited chatter flow over me, and tried to pin it down. What was it Kai was always saying? There be patterns in the tapestries of destiny, yet those caught in the weave find those patterns hard to see. That meant things happened for a purpose. There’d been a piece missing in the jigsaw — or a piece we hadn’t seen. Now suddenly, an accident had revealed the whole map of Karazan. An accident — or destiny?

  I stared down at the map. It was like a tapestry, intricate and detailed. Could there be something on the map we were missing — that we were too close to the weave to see? Like that long-ago clue in the dark chamber of the Temple of Arakesh: the clue that had revealed the Serpent of Power. The black serpent whose coils had padded the entire circumference of the room, too vast to notice … Were we so focused on detail that we were missing something that was quite literally staring us in the face?

  And then I saw it. The dragon was real.

  It wasn’t as big as a parrot, and it wasn’t as big as a mountain.

  The dragon was the entire Draken Mountain range: the whole vast chain, stretching like a sleeping giant from its snaggle-toothed head in the north to where the curve of its spined tail dwindled away to low hills in the far south.

  The eyes of the dragon

  The climb up to the plateau was easier than any of us expected, but it took forever. The girls insisted on roping us all together for safety, though Rich said that just meant that if one of us fell, we all would. But it was just as well — without the security of the nylon rope knotted tightly round him, I doubt Jamie would have managed to get even halfway up the cliff.

  By the time we finally hoisted him over the top the sun was overhead and we were drenched in sweat. If we’d been expecting a view, we were disappointed. We were on a broad, high saddle, a dipped hummock of flat ground slung between the two low ridges. They rose up on either side in a jagged rim, hiding the plains to the north and the valley we now knew lay to the south. That valley was the Cauldron of Zeel, guarded by the snarling face and razor teeth of the dragon on one side, its flexed foreleg and curved claws on the other … and in its centre lay the new fortress of King Karazeel, the Stronghold of Arraz.

  But all we could see was the long plain stretching away from us, ripples of scaly grey bedrock stippled with patches of blue-green tussock and shallow drifts of fine, dry sand. Far ahead the two snow-topped mountains towered above the plateau, floating weightlessly on a shimmering haze of heat; to their right the peaks of the dragon’s back curved away into the mists of the far distance.

  The ground was firm and dry underfoot; birds twittered and spun in the still air. Best of all, we knew that finally we were on the right track, and must be nearing the end of our quest.

  Rich wiped his forehead on his sleeve and took a noisy swig from his canteen. ‘I vote we head straight for the base of the two mountains,’ he said, pointing. ‘See how they stick up from the dragon’s head like ears? You don’t need to be a genius to work out that somewhere between us and them will be the dragon’s eyes. We don’t even need to bother about the pools of darkness and the empty sockets. We’ve cut straight to the chase: I’m betting the dragon’s eyes will be caves, and that’s where Zephyr and his army will be holed up — in the perfect position to crash down on old Karazeel like a ton of bricks!’

  We tramped on through the long afternoon and into the evening. The mountains were further away than they looked, and at times it felt as if we were marking time, walking on the spot without making any progress. I found my mind drifting, lulled by the swinging rhythm of my stride. And always, my gaze and my thoughts returned to the bulge of Blue-bum, snoozing away at the bottom of the pack on Rich’s back.

  I wished my feelings about him were simple and straightforward, like the others’ seemed to be. But I couldn’t help wondering if it had been him who’d rifled through my bag … and whether it had been an accident that the revealing oil had spilled over the map. Was Blue-bum trying to help us? Had he somehow guessed — or known — what the lotion would reveal? He was more capable than any of us of figuring it out — as Weevil, he’d been super-smart. But why not find a more direct way of telling us?

  There was still so much I didn’t understand. But as the afternoon wore on and the mountains grew from misty silhouettes to rearing walls of rock and scree, I realised it wasn’t important. By tonight — tomorrow at the latest — we’d be home, and none of it would matter.

  The terrain sloped gradually upwards, growing rougher and more rugged as we neared the mountains. The scattered vegetation gave way to bare rock, cracked and fissured and strewn with boulders that had crashed down from above. Here and there it had eroded into deep hollows like dimples; there were crevices and overhangs and crevasses … but no caves.

  At last Richard puffed to a halt and turned to look back the way we’d come. ‘I’d have expected to find the caves before this, Adam,’ he muttered. ‘I know you can’t take the whole dragon thing too literally, but — well, he’d be a pretty strange dragon if his eyes were tangled up around his ears.’

  He was right: there was no point in going any higher. Watching the others pick their slow way towards us through the rocks, I wondered if we could have missed the opening. It would be narrow; almost certainly well hidden, if it was the bolt hole of the exiled king.

  Gen was behind the others, trailing wearily across a circular patch of smooth, bare rock. That was exactly where you’d expect the dragon’s eyes to be … but it was the one place where the rock seemed smoothest. That, and another smooth, round indent way over at the foot of the other mountain. From my vantage point they looked like two giant dimples side by side …

  ‘Rich!’ I yelped. ‘Look over there! It’s not caves, but … d’you think those two hollows could be … empty sockets? And if they are —’

  ‘Way to go, Adam! How does the poem go? In empty sockets seek the prize that’s hidden in the dragon’s eyes! That means the entrance to the caves — the eyes — must be down there somewhere!’

  But it wasn’t. We combed every bit of the area around the two hollows, and found nothing that could have hidden anything bigger than a mouse.

  ‘I say we call it a day,’ said Rich at last, when it was too dark to carry on. ‘I’m bushed, and hungry enough to eat an elephant.’

  ‘There’s one other possibility,’ said Gen reluctantly. ‘What if the eyes are hidden by some kind of magic? What if there’s something we need to do to reveal them?’

  ‘And what if the pools of darkness are important after all?’ said Jamie. ‘Say they’re clues that have to be solved in sequence, and we can’t skip stages out? Then we’re in totally the wrong place. There are no pools of anything anywhere — this entire area’s as dry as a bone.’

  There was a miserable silence. I looked round at the tired, grimy faces that had been so lit up with energy and excitement that morning. Now they were close to tears with exhaustion and disappointment.

  �
��We’ve done all we can for now,’ I said gently. ‘Rich is right — let’s have something to eat and get some rest. There was an overhang a bit higher up the slope; if it rains, it might give us some shelter.’

  We dragged ourselves up to the shallow ledge and settled down under it with our backs to the rock. The long snout of the dragon stretched away from us, lit by the silver glow of the crescent moon rising over the plain.

  But over the hidden valley a storm was building. Already it had bitten a black chunk out of the sky; as we watched, the bank of cumulus cloud was advancing, bulbous, bulging, gobbling the stars. Its edges rippled and pulsed with flickering blue light. I could smell the wall of pressure it was pushing before it: dense, slow-moving air reeking of raw electricity and hot rock.

  There was a distant rumbling, a constant low vibration like a giant piece of furniture being slowly pushed towards us through the sky.

  ‘Well,’ I said reluctantly, hoping to distract the others from the grim reality of a wet night with no wood and no fire, ‘I guess it’s my turn to have a crack at that diary.’

  I pulled it out and frowned down at the first page. The writing was there, faint and silvery and — for me — almost impossible to read. My guts twisted. Aside from writing, reading aloud was my worst. But if the others could do it, so could I.

  My fingers fumbled with the flimsy pages, turning them clumsily till I reached the place where the writing changed; then past it, to where Kenta had left off. Zagros’ writing was different from Zaronel’s curving script: strong, upright strokes as easy as printing to read. These are your friends, I told myself. It won’t matter if you make the odd mistake.

  But the hollow feeling inside me had nothing to do with making mistakes. Some deep instinct told me that what I was about to read lay at the very heart of the mystery of Karazan … and that uncovering it would change everything forever.

  Pools of darkness

  I position my finger under the first line to keep my place, take a deep breath, and begin. I read slowly, haltingly. The magic doesn’t happen for me this time. There are no pictures: only words, bleak and full of pain, falling hard as stones on the bare mountainside.

  King Zane is dead — we know by whose hand. Evor, roosting in his high tower like a raven, mixing his potions and poisons; Zeel, pretending friendship and brotherhood, slipping a deadly powder into a goblet of wine after the hard day’s hunt.

  I write by the moonlight that falls through the casement of the royal chamber. Meirion has told me it is my duty to set down the events of this night, that in the future all should not be lost to memory — but to what purpose? All is in ruin. The heir of Karazan and Antarion is yet unborn, but Zeel’s soldiers stand guard outside the locked door of the chamber, awaiting his first cry.

  I hear the sword being sharpened.

  The queen has uttered no word since the passing of King Zane. Her time is near, but her labour is silent. I pray it will be brief — as brief as will be the life of the infant prince. He is to be named Zephyr after the wind that bears him here; after the wind that will blow him hence, to the distant shores of the next world.

  Meirion offers me words I know are meant as comfort. ‘His passing will be but a passage into a different world, friend Zagros,’ he tells me. ‘A place where none will do him harm; a safe harbour, where his spirit will be free. Who knows? Perhaps one day he will return; for the door between the worlds is but a curtain that blows in the wind, as insubstantial as the mist.’

  He whispers and murmurs to Zaronel as he ministers to her, though to what end I do not know. The fate of Prince Zephyr is sealed; he is lost before he draws breath. And what lies ahead for my lady I know to be, for her, a fate far worse than death.

  Still I write on at the command of the mage. The night advances. The steel-shod boots of Zeel’s men cross and re-cross before the door.

  Once only has the queen spoken. Meirion called me to her. Her face was as pale as her pillow, seared with sorrow and pain; yet her eyes burned with a desperate hope. ‘Do not despair, Zagros,’ she whispered. ‘All will not be lost. But the future rests with you, and you alone —’ Her face twisted as another pain came upon her, and Meirion gestured me away.

  Midnight approaches: the darkest hour.

  At last I hear it: not a cry, but the whimper of a newborn. Meirion draws me to the bedside. I look down upon them: queen, widow, mother … and boy-child, suckling at her breast. I kneel before him: my prince; my king. There are tears upon my face.

  At last the babe’s eyelids droop and close; his lips release the nipple, and he sleeps. Zaronel presses a single kiss onto his brow. Meirion takes him, wraps him warmly for his first and final journey. Delivers him into my arms. I hold him close.

  Mine, then, is to be the duty of delivering the sleeping infant up to the guards. Once well met and forever farewell, little prince. I look at Meirion, awaiting his signal.

  He presses something into my hand.

  I look down. King Zane’s silver larigot gleams in my palm; beside it, the Sign of Sovereignty. The mage whispers of a secret passageway through the wall of the palace … of a hidden store of potion that will render us invisible as we make our way to the forbidden depths of Shadowwood.

  He speaks of the sunrise on this day, the day of Sunbalance when night and day are equal, that will reveal a hidden portal in the Cliffs of Stone …

  The moon is gone. A crack of thunder splits the sky; steel rods of rain batter the mountainside.

  I stare blindly out. My eyes, like my thoughts, are bent inward.

  At last the whole picture is revealed, an intricate tapestry that tells a tale with its beginning half a century ago; its ending … who knows where? And somewhere in that complex pattern is this moment; these five children on a mountainside.

  Five in one … and one in five.

  There is only one thing that still doesn’t make sense: how could more than fifty years telescope into only thirteen? And then Q’s long ago words at Quested Court drift into my mind: It’s not surprising that the timeframe is different in Karazan. Common sense suggests that the passage of time in different dimensions is different, too … that fifteen minutes here would correspond to an hour in Karazan …

  And finally I understand.

  The storm passes.

  I follow the others down to level ground again, where the deluge has filled the empty sockets of rock with rain. They are pools of darkness: the eyes of the dragon, staring up at the new-washed night sky. The others are babbling with excitement, laughing, calling out to me to hurry down, to run. Jamie is chanting the poem triumphantly, capering at the rim of the pool.

  ‘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’m in no hurry. I know what we will find.

  Gen’s voice floats over to me as I move slowly closer, as if in a dream. ‘Look — it’s weird! The water really is dark — black, like ink. And though the moon’s out, there are no reflections — none at all.’

  They stand in a semi-circle round the pool, peering earnestly down at the blank water. ‘Come and help us look, Adam. Maybe you’ll see something we’re missing …’

  I take the last slow step to the edge of the pool. Kneel, and stare into the still water.

  My own face stares back at me. Pale eyes, dark skin, a tangle of filthy hair. I am the same as ever … and at the same time, I am a stranger.

  There is a faint radiance around my head, as if I am wearing a crown of stars.

  Five friends on a barren mountainside; a face reflected in a dark pool.

  For Adam Equinox, many questions have been answered. The Prince of the Wind has been found — and the future of two worlds lies in his hands.

  Now the Stronghold of Arraz must be infiltrated and evil Prince Karazeel overthrown — before it is too late. But Evor has been brewing potions more potent and secret than Adam
could ever dream of … and Karazan is a land of contradictions where nothing is as it seems. Success turns to failure; light to darkness.

  Then Adam turns the final page of the Book of Days and uncovers the greatest secret of all — a secret unguessed by all but Queen Zaronel and her most trusted retainers. The discovery launches Adam on his final quest, over the Plains of the Dead to the outer reaches of Karazan and beyond.

  Among the savage nomadic gladiators of the far east he is trained to battle the creatures of nightmare — but nothing can prepare him for the final confrontation with evil in the Realms of the Undead …

  Adam Equinox’s adventures in Karazan began with The Serpents of Arakesh and Beyond the Shroud. Prince of the Wind will be followed by the final title in The Karazan Quartet, Quest for the Sun.

  THE SERPENTS OF ARAKESH

  Adam Equinox takes no pride in any aspect of his school work. He has poor social skills and is a negative influence on his peers. He is disruptive …

  But a bad report is the least of Adam’s problems. Abandoned on a doorstep twelve years ago, he has no idea who — or where — his parents are, no friends, nothing he’s good at, and nowhere he really belongs.

  When Adam stumbles across the entry form for a competition, his luck starts to change. It’s a prize he’d give anything to win — the chance to work with software genius Quentin Quested, test-driving a top-secret breakthrough in computer-game technology.

  Adam enters a world he never dreamed existed. And when Quentin Quested reveals why Adam and his four companions are really there, the boundaries between fantasy and reality begin to break down. Together they embark on a perilous quest to the parallel world of Karazan, where the Serpents of Arakesh stand guard over the most precious prize of all …