Emily Rodda: Deltora Quest #1: The Forests of Silence

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.

Afterwards, Jarred could barely remember scrambling from the ditch. He could not remember stumbling through the tangled weeds and thorny bushes beyond the road. He did not know what guided him to the blacksmith’s forge, where at last he fell, fainting, to the ground.

Perhaps he saw the glow of the fire. Perhaps he heard the hammer beating on the red-hot metal, and the sound reminded him of his lessons with Endon. Or perhaps the spirit of Adin was looking after him. For Crian the blacksmith, stubborn and fearless, was perhaps the only man in Del who would have taken him in.

Crian roused him and helped him into the small house behind the forge. At Crian’s call, a sweet-faced girl came running. Her eyes were full of questions, but she was silent as she helped Crian give Jarred water and bread and bathe his cuts and scratches. They took his filthy, torn clothes, gave him a long, plain nightshirt, and tucked him into a narrow bed.

Then Jarred slept.

When he woke, the great hammer was ringing on metal once more, the girl was singing in the kitchen, and the sun was setting. He had slept the day through.

At the end of his bed he found a set of clothes. He pulled them on, tidied the bed, and crept outside.

He found Crian at work in the forge. The old man turned and looked at him without speaking.

“I thank you for your kindness with all my heart,” Jarred said awkwardly. “I will leave now, for I do not want to cause you trouble. But I beg you not to say I was here if the palace guards come searching. They will tell you I tried to kill the new king. But I did not do it.”

“So much the worse,” the old man answered grimly, returning to his work. “Many in Del would thank you if you had.”

Jarred caught his breath. So this was how things were. The king was not loved, but hated. And no wonder. As far as his people knew, he lived in luxury behind his high walls while they suffered. They did not understand that he had no idea of their trouble.

“The guards will not come,” the old man said, without turning around. “I threw your clothes over a cliff into the sea and watched as they found them. They think that you are drowned.”

Jarred did not know what to say. He saw that Crian had finished the horseshoe he had been hammering. Without thinking, he picked up the heavy tongs beside the forge and stepped forward. Crian glanced at him in surprise, but let him pick up the shoe and dip it into the barrel of water standing ready. The water hissed and bubbled as the iron cooled.

“You have done this work before,” the old man murmured.

Jarred nodded. “A little,” he said. Carefully, he lifted the horseshoe from the water and laid it aside.

“I am old,” Crian said, watching him. “My son, whose clothes you are wearing now, was killed three years ago. His dear wife died before him, when their child was born. I have only that child, Anna, now. We live simply, but there is always food on the table. And will be, while I keep my strength.”

He glanced down at Jarred’s hands — soft and white, with long, rounded nails. “You could stay here, boy,” he said. “But you would have to work hard to earn your keep. Could you do it?”

“I could,” said Jarred strongly.

Nothing would please him more than to stay. He liked the old blacksmith. He liked the calm, sweet-faced Anna. Here, too, he would be close to the palace. He could do nothing for Endon now except to keep watch. But he had vowed that this he would do.

Prandine thought he was dead. But he would be unlikely to tell Endon so. It would suit his purpose better to let the king think Jarred was still alive, and dangerous. If he feared for his life, Endon would be even more willing to do exactly as he was told.

But one day Endon may realize that after all I was right, thought Jarred. One day he may call me. And if ever that happens, I will be ready.