Quest for the Sun (17 page)

I don't know how much of what I tried to say they understood, but somehow, in the course of those few clumsy words, all the tension drained away. They still held their spears towards us and the points looked as sharp as ever, but the threat was gone.

Though the youth glared and scuffed his feet and darted me sulky glances, I knew we'd won through. The old man's eyes weren't flat and opaque any more; now they had light and depth.

He rumbled some question or comment to the tall man, who gabbled a reply … and next thing we knew the whole lot of them were having a lively discussion, fingers rather than spears jabbing away at us to drive home whatever point they were making. One word was repeated so often even I could pick it out:
Temba.

I wondered if perhaps it was my brother's name.

The tall guy barked an order, and his two mates prowled off behind a nearby rock and retrieved a deer carcass strung on a pole, slinging it between them. A finger stabbed once at Rich
and once at me, and a lean brown arm beckoned in a gesture that was universal.

Then the hunting party loped off across the sand with Rich and me jogging along behind.

 

It was evening before we reached the main encampment: a huddle of rough tents made of animal hide; the glow of campfires; the clear note of voices calling through the twilight air.

On the long tramp our escorts had all but ignored us — I'd had the feeling that while we were welcome to tag along, they wouldn't so much as slow their pace if we fell behind. But now hard hands gripped our arms and we were hustled through the campsite, startled eyes and silence following our progress, children peeking at us from the flaps of doorways.

We reached a tent bigger than the rest, a woman in a beaded skirt stirring something over a fire outside. She gawked at us as if we'd come from outer space; then, at a gruff word from our escorts, scurried into the tent. I could hear an urgent exchange of voices, some kind of garbled explanation … then the door flap lifted and a man emerged, straightened to his full height and surveyed us haughtily without the smallest hint of surprise.

He was the leader — of that there was no doubt. His face could have been carved from hardwood; his eyes were sharp as an eagle's, their intensity proclaiming his status more clearly than a crown. His presence seemed somehow larger than he was, a coiled energy radiating from his gleaming-dark skin like heat.

I bent my head, sensing Rich beside me doing the same. When I lifted it he was still staring at me. Then he inclined his head once, deeply, gravely, as if returning the bow of an equal. I felt a moment's confusion: who — or what — did he think I was? What had the hunters told him? Then, looking deep into those eyes, I knew: this man didn't need to be told. In the same way I'd known him for what he was, he had looked
beneath the tattered clothes and grime and tangled hair and seen … what?

He said his name: ‘Jabula.'

This time I didn't bother with hand signs. Slowly, thinking carefully before each word, I told him why we'd come — though I sensed he might already know. ‘I am Zephyr.' It was the first time I'd spoken it aloud; saying it made it true. ‘I come from Karazan.' A light flickered deep in his eyes. ‘Meirion sent me.' He nodded at the name.

‘I have come for Zenith.' There was something unsettling in his face now … something too deep and complex for me to read.

He spoke haltingly, as if reciting something he'd been taught long ago, each unfamiliar word falling awkwardly from his lips. ‘Show me the sign.'

There was only one thing it could be. I drew my ring out from under my shirt and held it up for him to see, gleaming in the firelight. He nodded once. ‘Come.'

 

He led me away from the hearth into the darkness beyond, my footsteps keeping time with the beat of my heart in the stillness. We came to a path bordered by flickering torches and followed it, soft-footed; and as we walked I realised the sound I was hearing wasn't my heart, but the rhythmic beat of a single drum in the darkness.

Then out of the night came another sound: a high, wavering ululation; women's voices tangling and parting, twining and unfurling in a lament that wound up towards the stars like a prayer. Part of my spirit twisted upwards with their song — and in that moment, deep in my soul, I knew what I was going to find.

We came to a simple hut made of woven branches. A ring of torches surrounded it; beyond them, invisible in the night, wove the circle of song. There was no door, only a low archway leading into darkness.

Jabula touched me lightly on the shoulder and left me. I stood for a moment alone under the ceiling of stars, the silver moon rising, the golden one already low in the night sky. I bent and entered.

An earthen floor beneath my hands, swept clean; a smouldering wigwam of twigs sending a whisper of fragrance into the still air. And on the far side, a shape huddled motionless on a low bed. On hands and knees I crept closer. It was dark … too dark to see anything but a tangle of whiteness, the faint outline of a cheek. There was a tang of something in the air, a sourness the incense couldn't hide, like ashes from a dying fire. Then the figure stirred and turned towards me. I saw skin faded grey, pleats and wrinkles folded in on themselves by time, a pale halo of crinkled hair, eyes quick and bright in sunken sockets.

‘So, at last you come. Almost too late.' It was a woman's voice, with the querulous crack of extreme old age, but an edge that told me the mind was sharp and clear.

‘Who are you?'

‘I am Temba. Mother of the Chief.'

‘You speak English …'

‘I speak the tongue of the Lost People, and the tongue of the Borderlands and beyond — though I have not spoken it these fifty years, and will not speak it again.'

‘You knew I'd come.'

‘I prayed you would not.'

Everything was still. I whispered the words. ‘Why? Where is he?'

‘Dead.' The single word fell like a stone into the silence.

I couldn't speak; barely felt the skinny claw creep from the folds of fur and find my hand.

‘The mage brought him here: a speck of a thing hardly a day old. My own son was suckling — Jabula, chief-child — but I had milk enough for two.

‘
Keep him for me
, Meirion said.
Keep him safe and guard him well, and treat him as your own.
And we did.'

‘What …' I swallowed. ‘What —' My voice cracked.

‘What became of him? Two sons, one born, one given, but a few days separating them. Jabula pulled struggling and screaming into the world, kicking, walking, running before the first nine moons were past: a quick mind and strong body to match it; his father's son. I loved him for his strength … love him still.

‘But the babe Meirion brought … I loved him more. He was not my birth-child, but I loved him for his weakness, his frailty, though I knew it doomed him. Slow, so slow to everything … yet so perfect. There have been other infants like him, in the annals of the tribe, where growth does not keep pace with the journey of the days.'

‘You're saying there was something … wrong with him?'

‘At half a year the elders were muttering among themselves. I kept him hidden as best I could, pretended nothing was amiss … but always there was his breast-brother beside him, a dancing flame to his still shadow. The mind —' she was talking to herself now, her words far away and full of pain — ‘the mind was whole! I knew it with a mother's heart — saw the spirit shine from his eyes, bright as fire. But at a year, he was not able even to crawl upon his hands and knees, he just lay and smiled at me.
Treat him as your own,
Meirion said … and we did.'

I stared at her, unable to look away from those dark eyes gazing back into the past.

‘It is the way of our people. A hut was woven for him and ringed with fire; the songs of our ancestors offered him up to the stars. And at daybreak we left him.'

‘You left him? A little baby, helpless and alone?'

‘He was doomed! Ours is a harsh life, the land of Limbo bitter and unforgiving. The frail, the crippled, the ill, the old — all come to it in time. Oh, I begged, do not think I let him go easily … but none can argue with the ancient ways of the Tribe and the laws of the desert land.

‘
Treat him as your own,
Meirion said — and we did … we did.'

Later — how much later I don't know — I found myself alone in the darkness, my larigot in my hand. The golden moon was setting over the far horizon.

I put my larigot to my lips and played: a farewell to the brother I had never known and the mother who loved him, my song mingling with the lament of the women and the wailing cry of gathering wolves. I played until the silver moon shone high and cold alone in the sky, fading with the dawn.

At first light we went our separate ways, a single hut marking the place the camp had been, the Lost Tribe of Limbo a straggle of dark figures melting into grey distance.

None looked back.

 

‘Where have you
been?
' Jamie's voice was an indignant squawk. ‘Borg's been ropeable! It's after dinnertime on the
second day
, and you promised Lyulf —' He broke off and stared at me, eyes wide. ‘What … where's …'

‘Later, Jamie. Adam needs to sit down and have something
hot to drink.' I started to shake my head, but Rich took my arm and drew me to the campfire. ‘You do and you will, whether you want to or not.'

I sat; took the cup of hot broth Kenta pressed into my hands. Sipped it and gazed into the fire, dimly aware of Rich taking the others aside and whispering to them.

Borg stumped up and stood glaring down at me, arms akimbo. He looked far from pleased, but a smouldering excitement beneath his scowl told me he had something different on his mind. ‘So you're back. High time too — we have our first tournament tomorrow. Gather round, all of you!' The others clustered round, Blue-bum clambering onto my lap and chittering up into my face with an anxious monkey frown. The Masked Man took up his place on the far side of the fire, Blade beside him; Lyulf settled on a log with his usual cat-like grace.

‘Tomorrow we enter our first town,' growled Borg. ‘None of our seasoned gladiators are sufficiently recovered to fight — which means it's down to you, for better or worse. Tomorrow, your lives as gladiators begin in earnest. If you perform well, riches and even fame await. If you do not …' he paused, then drew a flat hand across his throat and made a gurgling sound. ‘As first-time performers, there are a number of things you need to know. Firstly, our entrance into town …'

I tried to concentrate on what Borg was saying, but my brain was numb and the words — important as I knew they were — bounced off unheard.

But the hot broth was warming me, thawing something I'd thought frozen forever deep inside. The loss of Zenith changed everything … and yet it changed nothing. My quest was still the same. My mind groped blindly for the familiar words:

Jamie had said they could only mean one thing, and at the time that meaning had seemed as clear as day.
The two of you need to be together again for everything to get back to normal.
But now Jamie's interpretation seemed childish, almost naïve in its simplicity … because now I saw there was another meaning.

First there had been one baby, then two … and now there was only one again.

And the child I'd been only a day ago had transformed overnight into a man — a man in whose hands alone rested the future of Karazan.

 

‘You have all learned well.' Lyulf's voice brought me back to the present. Borg's briefing was over; he and the Masked Man were gone, the fire burned down to glowing embers. ‘Put your trust in your skill and you will have nothing to fear.'

Blade stood, reaching into the leather pouch that hung at her waist. She seemed different: lit up inside with a radiance that shone from her dark eyes like candles. She moved round the circle, giving something to Kenta, then Gen. ‘Here.' Her words were deliberately offhand, but we knew her well enough to tell that this was important. ‘These are for you.'

My turn came. She pressed something small and soft into my palm and closed my fingers round it, holding my hand for a moment in her firm, cool grip. Her eyes met mine in a smile. ‘Courage and strength, Whistler,' she said softly, and moved on.

I opened my hand. There in my palm was a soft leather drawstring bag on a thong.

‘Our talismans …' Kenta murmured. Borg, Blade and Lyulf all wore them: it was no secret that Borg kept the keys to the weapons chests in his, a symbol of his authority he flaunted at every opportunity. We'd never seen Blade without hers, or Lyulf without his scuffed suede one, as much part of him as his rough red hair — but we had no idea what was in them.

‘Your talismans,' agreed Blade cheerfully. ‘I have crafted
them for you — the only time I ever willingly wield a needle rather than a sword.' She was suddenly serious. ‘Choose what you keep in them with care.'

‘What kind of thing should it be?' Jamie wondered, opening his up and peering hopefully inside.

‘Your luck,' said Lyulf grimly, ‘whatever that may be.'

 

I offered to take first watch, stoked up the fire and sat quietly watching the flames. Any luck I had was inside me, but I knew what I'd keep in my leather pouch. My ring; a whisker from a little cat in a far-away world; a grey striped feather that could mean something … or nothing.

A voice spoke quietly beside me. Lyulf. I hadn't heard him come — but who ever did? ‘You did not find what you sought?'

‘No. And yet … perhaps I did.'

‘We do not always search for that which we are meant to find.'

We watched the fire together in silence. Then we spoke, at the same moment, almost the same words:

‘I'm going to have to leave —'

‘I will soon be moving on —'

We each broke off, gesturing to the other to go on; but it was me who continued, finding the words as I went along. ‘I need to leave. There's something I have to do.'

‘Will you take your companions with you?'

‘I don't know. I'd like to — if they can come. But I have a feeling …'

‘… that some paths are made to walk alone.'

I glanced at him. He was no stranger to those paths, I knew … and suddenly I wished I could talk to him, tell him about Zenith, my quest, everything.

A shadow shifted beyond the firelight. ‘Our friend walks late,' Lyulf murmured. ‘The shades of the wildlands hold no fears for him, it seems.' His tone changed. ‘And what of the
morrow, Whistler? Your friends take courage from you, you know — even Tornado.'

Two days before I'd have been a jumble of nerves, agog with queasy excitement at the prospect of putting my new-found skills into practice. But now I hardly cared; it was what lay beyond that was filling my mind. ‘I don't know,' I admitted. ‘One more day can't make much difference. I'll stay and fight with the others, I suppose. How about you? Will you fight too?'

‘No. My fighting days are over.'

‘But …'

‘I am a teacher now, remember?' There was a smile in his voice. ‘And if you learn nothing else from me, Whistler, learn this: every strength has a weakness, and even the creatures of darkest nightmare may be vanquished by the light.'