Jack Shian and the King's Chalice Page 2

  “Oh, he was just making noises because the Brashat don’t have the Stone.”

  “So the treasures don’t even exist? Like Atholmor said?”

  “They were just stories that ancient Shian told themselves when the Destiny Stone was far away.”

  “But what were the treasures?” persisted Jack.

  Grandpa scratched his chin.

  “I haven’t heard anyone mention these since I was a boy. Let’s see …” His brow furrowed. “I remember one was an ancient silver cup – that’s right, the French king’s cup. The legends said it told secrets about life and death for Shian and humans, or something like that. But they’re just stories.”

  Jack thought back to the festival and the Brashat leader’s reaction when Atholmor had cast doubt on the treasures’ existence – Briannan knew something! Jack was sure of it. But Grandpa obviously didn’t believe this. Jack played for time.

  “So we’ve just to wait for the Stone’s energy to flow again?”

  “It is flowing – the Shian square opening up after centuries is proof of that. And the force of the charms we can conjure up – like the bell hex we used at Falabray to keep the humans away – we couldn’t do that while the Stone was away.”

  Jack looked at the grey sandstone block again. The corner nearest the crown had a bit missing – like it had been chipped – but Jack could feel it pulsing anyway.

  “Just imagine having even that corner. That would be awesome!”

  “Oh, there’s no doubt it has power,” continued his grandfather, watching Jack closely. “That’s why Shian and humans have fought over it.”

  “Shouldn’t all the Shian have joined together to have the Stone for ourselves?”

  “There’s many more humans than us, and they can do some things we can’t, but the Watchers’ pact benefited both sides. The Unseelie never accepted that deal.”

  “Arrrgh!” The Brashat in the simulacrum raged at historical injustices.

  “Well, you’ve seen some of his sort tonight,” said Grandpa. “And there’s other Unseelie around the country. But as long as the Congress is in charge, they won’t cause too much trouble. And now the Stone’s back. Your father helped there – do you want to know more?”

  Jack nodded.

  “Then there’s bits Uncle Doonya should tell you now.”

  Grandpa Sandy took up his sceptre and stood. Encasing Jack in his cloak, he struck the floor firmly with his sceptre. There was a rushing sense, which made Jack feel briefly giddy.

  “I see Doonya has returned,” said Grandpa, noting that the light was on in the front room of the house. “He can tell you about what happened next.”

  3

  Family Secrets

  “How did you get on with the Congress, then?” asked Grandpa, tapping the lumis crystals by the kitchen door and brightening the room.

  Doonya’s knuckles were drumming the tabletop, his edginess evident. Jack stayed by the door and watched him warily.

  “To be upstaged by Briannan and his mob … Well, let’s just say we should’ve seen it coming. It’s given the Brashat something to crow about, but they can’t do much unless they get someone here under the castle.”

  “I’ll tell you something about that later. I’ve been telling young Jack about the Stone being returned. Now he’d like to know about his parents. Perhaps you’d pick up from there?”

  Doonya looked quizzically at his father for a moment, then shrugged and motioned Jack to sit down.

  “You were only tiny at the time, so I don’t suppose you remember your dad helping us escort the Stone back,” he began, “but he disappeared two nights after the Stone was placed in the castle.”

  “He can’t have just disappeared.” Jack could hear his voice betraying the upset he felt for a father he couldn’t even remember. “Somebody must know where he is.”

  “D’you think we haven’t looked?” snapped Doonya. Then more calmly, “He was seen talking with one of the Brashat lieutenants.”

  “But he wouldn’t betray us to the Brashat!”

  Grandpa held up his hand. “Calm down, young Jack.” The soothing voice broke through Jack’s fear. “We don’t think he betrayed us. But the Brashat may have taken him, and they can count on other Shian who are no friends of ours.”

  “What kinds of Shian?” With a sickening feeling, Jack realised that his upbringing in Rangie had not prepared him for this.

  “You’ve seen the Hobshee; they’ll do what the Brashat tell them. Then there’s blood-drinking Boaban Shee from the far north – a bit like vampires. And there’s Red Caps – they dip their caps in their victims’ blood.”

  Grandpa aimed his sceptre at the kitchen wall. As the simulacrum reformed, a grisly old man appeared, stooping over a fresh corpse. Clutching a bloody red cap, he looked up, leering into the kitchen. Jack felt the colour drain from his face.

  “You never told me about Shian like that before,” he whispered.

  “There’s Seelie and Unseelie all around the country,” said Doonya. “That’s why we need a strong Congress – to make sure the Unseelie don’t unite.”

  “Amadan could unite them; I pray you never have to deal with him. We deliberately shielded you, that’s why you’ve never left Rangie before. If your father was captured, whoever did it might have wanted to get you too – to put pressure on him.”

  “But why would they want to take him?”

  “Your father told us he was on to something – something big that would make our family strong again. If the Brashat – or whoever – found out about that, well …”

  The hooded figure who’d accosted him in the High Street flashed across Jack’s mind. Had he really been Shian? And had he really said ‘father’? The more Jack thought about it, the less sure he was.

  “That’s why my mother left, isn’t it?” Jack played for time. “Aunt Katie told me that she left because she thought she’d be captured next.”

  “She was scared,” said Doonya. “You never knew before, but a Brashat killed her own father. A stupid quarrel that got out of hand. She was never the same after that. And then when your dad disappeared, it just distracted her. All she could think of was evil Brashat coming to snatch her and Cleo. So she ran away.”

  “Why didn’t she take me with her, then?” demanded Jack.

  “Well, your mother was always quite … highly strung. Your dad’s disappearance brought back memories of her own father’s death. It was too much for her.”

  “What d’you mean, ‘highly strung’?”

  “After her father died, she became very … nervous. She felt she couldn’t cope with you and Cleo.”

  A pause.

  “She just didn’t face problems well, young Jack. But you were better off in Rangie. The Brashat would never go there, it’s too far away from their own places. They’d stand out.”

  “Then she would’ve been safe there too.”

  “She didn’t see it that way. She panicked, and ran.”

  “She’s had years to stop panicking, though,” Jack shouted.

  He felt numb. The explanations didn’t convince. Maybe he just didn’t want to hear them. For years he had been fobbed off with evasions and half-stories. But he’d always known there was something else, something no one wanted to tell him. And now the painful truth was upon him. His father had disappeared, possibly in an act of treachery, maybe kidnapped; his mother had run away, too scared to stay and look after him. He had a younger sister who might not even know of his existence.

  One thing Jack knew: no one had ever felt this sense of betrayal. His uncle and aunt had always taught him to be proud of his family, but this was a lie – his parents had not protected or raised him. Unable to think of any other response, Jack jumped to his feet.

  “It’s a lie!” He thumped the table. “He didn’t betray us!”

  Storming out of the kitchen, he slammed the door and ran upstairs.

  Grandpa Sandy stood up and exhaled slowly. “We might have handled that a bit b
etter.”

  Jack slept late. When he awoke, he could hear his cousins downstairs as they clattered around the kitchen. Jack dreaded the thought of facing his uncle and grandfather. He decided to stay in bed for a while.

  Gradually, the noise of his cousins and the smell of breakfast became too much for him. Dressing quickly, he slipped down to the kitchen, where Petros was at the sideboard, making toast on the open fire.

  “You know the humans can make toast, perfectly brown on both sides?” he announced to his sisters. “I’ve seen the machine in the shops.”

  “Hi, Jack,” called Rana, her face beaming. “That was exciting yesterday, wasn’t it? I wasn’t really scared. Dad would’ve sorted out those Brashat if they’d tried anything funny.”

  “There’s hawberry pancakes here. Help yourself.” Petros shoved a plate over.

  “Was it exciting up at the Stone last night?” asked Lizzie.

  “It was great” replied Jack, warming to the conversation. “I got a really strange feeling from it, sort of warm and fuzzy. Have you felt that too?”

  “Sort of,” replied Lizzie slowly. “I’ve only been there once. It doesn’t look like much, does it?”

  “Dad says it might not be the real Stone,” pouted Rana. “There’s a story that the real Stone was hidden, and this one’s a fake.”

  “Yes, but this Stone’s working, isn’t it?” said Petros, his mouth full of toast. “It couldn’t if it wasn’t the real Stone.”

  “I think it’s the real one,” said Jack calmly, remembering the feeling he’d had sitting next to the Stone. “Grandpa says it’s working because it’s close to other sandstone. And Shian charms are working better again – even hexes.”

  “Look, Jack, Mum bought us a squillo.” Lizzie reached into her skirt pocket and gently pulled out a small rodent. “Isn’t he sweet!” she cooed, and despite himself, Jack began to smile.

  “We’ll call him Nuxie,” announced Rana, leaning over and stroking the timid creature. “Let’s take him out to the High Street,” announced Rana. “Who wants to come?”

  “You’re getting used to the human spaces now, aren’t you, Jack?” asked Petros. “D’you remember your first time?”

  Of course I remember it, thought Jack. It was only a few days ago!

  4

  Midsummer

  “Effatha!”

  The Shian gate sprang open. Jack and Petros trebled in size as they emerged onto Edinburgh castle’s sunlit esplanade. Jack felt his stomach lurch upwards – he still wasn’t used to moving between the Shian and human spaces, but he concealed his queasiness from his cousin. If Petros saw that, he wouldn’t take Jack beyond the esplanade.

  The pair moved briskly down towards the Royal Mile, whose ancient smoke-blackened buildings loomed high in front of them. Wide-eyed, Jack looked around him at the baffling mixture of old and new, foreign and local.

  “Quick, this way!” Petros urged, dragging Jack by the arm.

  They both broke into a run, heading away from the castle.

  “What’s up?” panted Jack as he tried to keep pace.

  “Over there,” hissed Petros, pointing at a small crowd gathered near St Giles’ Cathedral.

  “Is it the juggler?”

  Petros grimaced, and pointed at the far side of the crowd. A tall figure was slowly edging his way forwards. Inconspicuously dressed, he was nevertheless striking. Jack became aware of the muscles beside his eyes twitching. He’d had this feeling several times when out in the human parts of Edinburgh.

  “He’s Shian,” whispered Petros. “Can’t you tell?”

  The tall figure glanced across at the two youngsters. There was a flicker of a smile, and an almost imperceptible nod.

  “Oh, right.” Jack grinned, feeling a bit safer. It was good to know they weren’t the only Shian in this crowd. Humans were all right, but they were a bit … jostly.

  The juggler, who had been busy setting fire to the end of five wooden staves, now addressed his audience in a loud and imperious voice.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Jongo the greatest juggler in the northern hemisphere – that’s me, in case you were wondering,” he gave a cheesy smile to the audience, “requires the help of a glamorous assistant.”

  A plump young woman stepped forward. Jongo regarded her briefly before looking round at the crowd and hissing in a stage whisper, “Not really glamorous enough.”

  The woman turned scarlet, and hurried away, her eyes downcast.

  Some of the onlookers started muttering.

  “There was no need for that …”

  “Poor soul …”

  Jongo gulped hard, realising he’d overstepped the mark, and was grateful when the tall stranger distracted the crowd’s attention by stepping forward. The stranger stared hard at Jongo for a moment. Unable to hold his gaze, Jongo addressed the crowd in general.

  “Ah, a volunteer!” he cried extravagantly. “And where, sir, do you come from?”

  The figure did not speak, but mimed ‘far away’ with a wave of his arm.

  “A visitor to this cold city, sir, so am I. Now, lie down there!”

  Jongo was back on form, and with an imperious wave, he pointed to a grubby mat. In a barking voice, he then explained to the crowd how he would juggle and throw the flaming staves towards the mat, but catch them before they landed and burned the volunteer to a crisp, a feat nobody else this side of the equator could match.

  Jongo grasped all five staves and began to juggle, deliberately (or was it?) fumbling one or two. Some of the crowd started laughing, and others began to clap. At last, Jongo launched the staves into the air, but before he could complete the trick, the recumbent body burst into flames. The surprised performer stumbled and fell, looking on aghast as the figure before him was enveloped in fire. Gasping in horror, the crowd stepped back.

  And then the figure stood up. The flames fell off him, and he dusted himself down as if nothing had happened. The crowd, overawed, did not know what to make of this. Then someone started to clap, and others joined in. Soon they were cheering delightedly and stamping their feet in approval. Jongo seized the opportunity and milked the applause, while glancing ruefully at the remains of the smouldering staves.

  The tall figure melted back into the crowd and disappeared.

  “Come on,” said Petros. “That was cool, eh?”

  Jack seemed frozen to the spot. Like the rest of the crowd, he was still trying to put a name to what he’d just seen. Then his eyes sparkled.

  “A flame spirit!” he said, his face beaming. “I’ve never seen one before. That was brilliant.”

  “I bet he’s here for the festival,” said Petros. “I can’t wait to tell Rana and Lizzie.”

  The festival! Jack’s mind raced at the thought of the entertainment to come – just two days away now.

  “I’m going to buy some floating charm stones too, and hexes that make humans forget who they are. Some of them are so stupid.”

  Petros laughed as he steered Jack back up the road. At thirteen, Petros was a year older than Jack, and had started his apprenticeship under the castle the previous summer.

  “Come and see this,” Petros announced, doubling back down the street and darting across the road.

  Another shop full of human gadgets, moaned Jack inwardly. Petros can’t get enough if them. Jack slowly began to cross the road to join Petros, who was gazing at a window display of cameras.

  “Oww!”

  An ice-cold hand grabbed Jack’s shoulder roughly, its jaggy fingernails tearing through his shirt and drawing blood. Gasping in surprise and pain, Jack spun round. A man wearing a grubby hooded top, ill-fitting trousers and battered trainers snarled incomprehensibly. The hood up, Jack could barely see the man’s face. He was muttering, the words were indistinct …

  Did he say ‘father’?

  … but the tone was undoubtedly threatening. The muscles beside Jack’s eyes started twitching furiously, and yet this produced a mixed response.

  He’s
Shian. He’s like me.

  But at the same time, a feeling of dread filled Jack, and he felt sick. Releasing Jack, the man swept the hood off his head, revealing a hideously scarred face, and he mumbled something that was unmistakably angry. Jack’s instinct was to run, and when the man made to grab him again, this cleared his mind: Get out of here!

  He ducked away, and began to run up the street, only slowing down as he neared the castle esplanade. Gasping for breath, he stopped beside the warhorse memorial, hands resting on his knees. From here he could get a good view of everyone approaching the castle.

  Jack’s breathing slowly settled, and the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach eased a bit.

  Why’d he try to grab me? And what about my father?

  It was exactly one week since Jack had moved to his new home under the castle. One extraordinary week – the longest of his life.

  Since arriving from Rangie with Rana and Lizzie, Jack hadn’t ventured further than the castle and the esplanade. The High Street could wait, said Petros, and indeed it had, until today. (Jack had quickly learned to copy Petros’s term, the ‘High Street’. Only tourists call it the Royal Mile, Petros had said. Petros the city boy.) Uncle Doonya had agreed with Petros, explaining that Jack shouldn’t cram too much in to the first few days. ‘Sensory overload’, he’d called it – a phrase that meant little to Jack. In the sheltered Shian glen of Rangie, little changed from one month or one year to the next.

  Now Jack had to get used to living in the Shian square, away from Rangie’s woods and streams. He had to learn the charms that would get him into and out of the square without attracting attention, and he had to get used to being stretched up to full human height when out in the human spaces. This, he knew, was the secret of blending into his new surroundings. Relieved, he saw Petros jogging towards him.

  “Where’d you get to?” gasped Petros. “I only went to look at some cameras. You shouldn’t run off like that. ’Specially not on your first proper outing.”

  “S-Someone tried to grab me.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know who. He was Shian, that’s all I know.”