The Forests of Silence

Startled, Endon and Jarred spun around. Prandine was standing in the doorway. His eyes, fixed on Jarred, glittered with hatred.

“How dare you tempt the king to turn from his duty and the Rule, servant boy?” he hissed, striding into the chapel. “You have always been jealous of him. And now you seek to destroy him. Traitor!”

“No!” exclaimed Jarred. He turned again to Endon. “Believe me!” he begged. “I have only your good at heart.” But Endon shrank away from him, horrified.

Jarred plunged his hand into his shirt to get the book — to show it to Endon, prove to him that he had good reason for what he said.

“Beware, your majesty! He has a knife!” shouted Prandine, leaping forward and sweeping Endon under his cloak as if to protect him. He raised his voice to a shriek. “Murderer! Traitor! Guards! Guards!”

For a single moment Jarred stood frozen. Then he heard bells of warning ringing. He heard shouts of alarm and heavy feet thudding towards the chapel. He saw Prandine’s mocking, triumphant smile. He realized that Prandine had been given the chance he had been waiting for — the chance to rid himself of Jarred for good.

Jarred knew that if he valued his life he would have to flee. Pushing Prandine aside, he ran like the wind from the chapel, up the stairs and to the back of the palace. He plunged into the huge, dim kitchens, where the cooks were just beginning to light the fires in the great stoves. Behind him he could hear the shouts of the guards: “Traitor! Stop him! Stop him!”

But the cooks did not try to stop Jarred. How could they think that he was the one the guards were pursuing? He was the young king’s friend, and they had known him all his life. So they only watched as Jarred tore open the kitchen door and ran outside.

The grounds were deserted, except for a ragged old man tipping food scraps into a horse-drawn cart. He took no notice as Jarred plunged under the cover of the thick bushes that grew against the palace walls.

Keeping low, Jarred crawled through the bushes to the front of the palace. Then he ran, dodging and weaving, till he reached the tree near the gates, where so often he and Endon had hidden from Min in the old days.

He crept into the tree’s hollow and huddled there, panting. He knew that the guards would surely find him in the end. Perhaps Endon would even tell them where to look. And when they found him they would kill him. Of that he had no doubt.

He cursed himself for being impatient. For scaring Endon with wild talk while he was still confused, tired, and grieving. For playing into Prandine’s hands.

There was a squeaking, rattling sound not far away. Peering cautiously out of his hollow, Jarred saw the rubbish cart trundling around the side of the palace, heading for the gates. The old man sat at the front, urging his tired horse on with sad shakes of the reins.

Jarred’s heart leapt. Perhaps there was a chance of escape from the palace after all! But how could he run away, leaving Endon alone and unprotected? He was sure now that Prandine was evil.

If you stay, you will die. And then you will never be able to help Endon. Never.

The thought brought him to his senses. He pulled out his pencil and paper and scrawled a note.

He tucked the note into a hole in the tree’s trunk, wondering if his friend would ever see it. Perhaps Endon, believing what Prandine said of him, would never come to this place again.

But he had done what he could, and the cart was coming closer. Soon it would pass under the tree. That would be his chance.

As he had done so many times before, he climbed up through the hollow trunk of the tree and squeezed out of the hole that gaped just above its lowest branch.

From here he could see that there were guards everywhere. But he was used to hiding. He lay on his stomach, flattening himself against the branch, being careful not to make it sway.

The rubbish cart was underneath him now. He waited until just the right moment, then dropped lightly onto the back, burrowing quickly into the sticky mess of scraps until he was completely covered.

Bread crusts, apple peel, moldy cheese, gnawed bones, and half-eaten cakes pressed against his face. The smell nearly made him choke. He screwed his eyes shut and held his breath.

He could hear the sound of the horse’s feet. He could hear the distant shouting of the guards searching for him. And at last he could hear the sound of the first pair of great wooden gates creaking open.

His heart thudded as the cart trundled on. Then he heard the gates closing behind him and the second pair of gates opening. Soon, soon …

The cart moved on, swaying and jolting. With a creak the second pair of gates slammed shut. And then Jarred knew that, for the first time in his life, he was outside the palace walls. The cart was trundling down the hill now. Soon he would actually be in the beautiful city he had seen so often from his window.

He had to look. His curiosity was too great. Slowly he wriggled until his eyes and nose were above the mound of scraps.

He was facing back towards the palace. He could see the wall, and the gates. He could see the top of the hollow. But — Jarred squinted in puzzlement — why could he not see the turrets of the palace, or the tops of the other trees in the gardens? Above the wall there was only shining mist.

He thought his eyes were at fault, and rubbed them. But the mist did not disappear.

Confused, he turned his head to look down towards the city. And his shock, dismay, and horror were so great that he almost cried out. For instead of beauty he saw ruin.

The fine buildings were crumbling. The roads were filled with holes. The grain fields were brown and choked with weeds. The trees were stunted and bent. Waiting at the bottom of the hill was a crowd of thin, ragged people carrying baskets and bags.

Jarred began struggling to free himself from the rubbish. In his confusion he no longer cared if the driver of the cart heard him or not, but the old man did not look around. Jarred realized that he was deaf. Unable to speak, too, no doubt, for he had not uttered a single word, even to the horse.

Jarred leapt from the back of the cart and rolled into a ditch at the side of the road. He lay, watching, as the cart moved on to the bottom of the hill and stopped. The old man sat staring ahead of him while the ragged people swarmed onto the pile of rubbish. Jarred saw them fighting one another for the scraps from the palace tables, stuffing old bones, crusts, and vegetable peelings into their baskets and into their mouths.

They were starving.

Sick at heart, Jarred looked back at the palace. From here he could just see the tips of the palace turrets, rising above the shimmering mist.

Endon might be looking from his window at this moment, staring down at the city. He would be seeing peace, beauty, and plenty. He would be seeing a lie. A lie created by pictures on a misty screen.

For how many years had this evil magic blinded the eyes of the kings and queens of Deltora? And who had created it?

Words from the book came to Jarred’s mind. He shuddered with dread.

… the Enemy is clever and sly, and to its anger and envy a thousand years is like the blink of an eye.

The Shadow Lord was stirring.