Six

Simangee hopped from foot to foot with impatience. 'Come on, Adalon, I have to show you. You won't believe it otherwise.'

Adalon wasn't to be hurried. 'Targesh, can you take Varriah to Bolggo? He should be able to find her some quarters.' After the battle at Sleeto, Adalon knew that the villagers there wouldn't be safe from the Queen's revenge. Bolggo had been the innkeeper, the most important saur in the village, and so he had become the leader of the refugees as they made their way across Thraag. Now they were safe in the Hidden Valley, Bolggo still helped to organise their everyday matters.

'Somewhere east-facing, I should think,' she said. 'I prefer morning sun. And not on the ground, I do like a view. And . . .'

They left Targesh scratching his head at Varriah's requests.

Simangee hummed as she went and Adalon was pleased to see his friend happy. In their struggle, light moments had been few.

They walked along corridors, up sweeping staircases, through vast and echoing spaces, beneath ceilings carved with strange and disturbing shapes. Finally, Simangee stopped at a pair of double doors, brass-coated and solid. 'I found it last week,' she said.

'Before you'd grown bored with exploring?'

She smiled. 'I had better things to do. But now . . .' She pushed open the doors and stood back, ushering Adalon into a vast hall. Narrow windows filled the space with light. The wood-panelled walls on either side were hung with immense paintings in ornate, gilded frames. Adalon stepped inside and his eyes widened.

The hall was full of statues.

Dozens of figures stood in rows, a motionless crowd, rank on rank of saur of all sorts. Adalon hesitated, then he approached the nearest statue.

He was a towering Toothed One, made of black stone that had a dull sheen, as if it had been oiled. Frozen in mid-snarl, one hand extended, claws grasping at empty air, he was twisting, caught in the action of facing an unexpected enemy. Adalon could see the muscles straining in his forearm and the tension in his neck. 'Who is he?' he asked, aware that Simangee had come near.

'I don't know. There's no inscription. But I'm not sure if he's anyone in particular. Look.'

Standing next to the first statue was another Toothed One, again caught with supreme skill. This saur had claws raised and the muscles in her great legs were bunched. She was clearly about to attack.

Adalon compared this statue with the first. She was a different type of Toothed One, with less massive jaws and much longer arms. She was smaller, too, more compact.

Another Toothed One was on the left. This one had an odd stumpy tail and short legs.

'They're all different,' Simangee said, gazing at the ranks of statues. 'But see how all the Toothed Ones are together, then all the Clawed Ones, all the Crested Ones – lots of different sorts there – Long-necks . . .'

Simangee led Adalon past statue after statue. Dazed by the running, twisting, leaping saur, he soon lost count. Horns, crests, plates, claws – the saur were all different, but all one. Kin, he thought.

Simangee stopped near the back of the hall and pointed. 'And what do you think of these?'

They aren't saur, was Adalon's first thought. Then he looked more closely and wasn't so sure. Stories from childhood came back to him. 'The Winged Ones,' he breathed. He remembered the tales told by flickering firelight of a time when the saur were young, a time when the proud and aloof Winged Ones were still part of Krangor. They rode the winds and commanded the clouds, travelling great distances when the whim took them. They'd vanished many, many years ago but according to the tales, they longed to be restored to the land they came from.

The Winged One statue Adalon stood before reached his shoulder height. He studied the wings: thin skin over bones that sprouted from the shoulder blades of a well-muscled back. Long arms, well-clawed hands, bones that looked fine, even spindly, but Adalon could see stringy muscle stretched along the limbs. The saur's face was bony, with a blade-like crest and out-thrust chin. He had a massive chest.

Simangee grinned, enjoying Adalon's bafflement. 'Are you ready for another surprise?'

'I thought I was proofed against surprise. What is it now?'

'Look at the next row.'

These statues were different again. Tall, slim, some with elongated necks, some with stumpy bodies, all had flippers instead of feet. 'The People of the Deeps,' Adalon gasped.

The People of the Deeps had always scared young Adalon. In the stories, they made their homes in lakes, rivers and shallow seas, which sounded alien to one raised in the mountains of the Eastern Peaks. The People of the Deeps were as proud as the Winged Ones. Slower to anger than their airborne cousins, they never forgot a wrong and would seek revenge for years. Sailors still carried charms to placate the People of the Deeps and they told tales of having seen their sinuous forms sporting in storms, either trying to help a foundering ship – or dragging lost sailors to their doom.

Simangee said, 'The Missing Kin: the Winged Ones and the People of the Deeps. The ones who fled Krangor an age ago and who are waiting to come back home. These are the allies we're looking for.'

'Allies?' said Adalon. 'But we'd have to find them first.'

'Hoolgar once told me that they still live. They're out there somewhere.'

The old tutor from High Battilon had taught the three friends much, and Simangee most of all. It had been his suggestions that had helped Simangee find the long-lost Hidden Valley.

Adalon reached out and touched the strong features of one of the statues. As he did, a flash lit up the room, a white brilliance that disappeared as quickly as it came.

Simangee blinked. 'What was that?'

Adalon touched the statue again. Light flared once more. 'It came from one of the paintings.'

When Adalon moved to the nearest wall, he saw the gilt frames didn't hold paintings at all – they held maps. Simangee joined him and, entranced by the bold outlines of shore and mountain, they walked along the unfolding display, seeing all Krangor in front of them, charted and labelled.

Adalon stopped in front of the largest map, the entire continent made visible by the skill of the A'ak map-makers.

'I've never seen finer charting,' Simangee said.

Adalon knew his friend admired maps. The way they made sense of the unknown appealed to her. He peered at the fine lines and spidery characters. 'It's good?'

'It's masterly. It's someone putting their stamp on the world, saying that this is how it is. It's Krangor made real.'

Adalon looked again. The kingdom of Bondorborar sprawled across the steamy north with Virriftinar just to the south of it, jostling with Thraag, which took up the south-west corner. Knobblond was squeezed between Thraag and Virriftinar, a position that had caused centuries of unease for its citizens. The backbone of the Skyhorn Ranges divided the continent down the middle. On the eastern side of the range were the huge kingdoms of Chulnagh and Shuff, and Callibeen in between.

Scattered all over Krangor were blue marks. Adalon scratched his chin. 'What do these mean?'

Simangee peered at the map and pointed to the south. 'Here we are, in the Lost Castle. It's blue,' she said. 'Could blue mean A'ak settlements?'

Adalon chewed on this. If it was true, the hand of the A'ak had stretched much further than they'd supposed.

Simangee sighed. When Adalon looked, her face was dreamy. 'So many types of saur,' Simangee said, 'all together on this ship of earth, sailing the wide, blue ocean. Clawed Ones, Long-necks, Crested Ones – all of us.'

Adalon nodded. The land was spread out in front of him. Krangor, home of the saur. He sought for and found the Eastern Peaks. His soul ached at the sight, and even more when he found High Battilon's lofty position marked. For a moment he could taste the bite of the mountain air and he longed to be home.

To stop his heart from bursting, he tracked north from High Battilon, seeking the village of Sleeto and the pass through the Skyhorn Ranges to Callibeen. He shook his head. The village was too tiny to feature on such a map, but he thought he could make out the pass, a cleft in the mighty mountain range.

'Where are you, Missing Kin?' Simangee murmured.

'If they're more than fairytales, they're well-hidden. Then again, much of Krangor is still unexplored.' He looked around the room, counting.

Fourteen maps hung on each side of the hall, with the large map of the entire continent in the middle of one wall. Each featured a region of Krangor: The Fiery Isles, the long, ice-carved bays of southern Shuff, the headwaters of the Astolet River in Knobblond . . .

Simangee hummed and strolled back to the statues.

A moment later, the dazzling light blinked on and off. Adalon swung around. 'Where did that come from?'

'I didn't see.'

'What were you doing?'

'Looking at the statues of the Long-necked Ones.'

'Just looking at them?'

Simangee frowned. 'I ran my hand along the back of one, just to feel the stone.'

Adalon took up a position at the far end of the hall, looking back toward Simangee and the statues – and the maps. 'Do it again.'

Simangee opened her mouth, but then closed it and reached out for the statue of a haughty Longneck.

The map of Bondorborar flared with white light and Adalon dashed to confront it. 'Again!' he cried.

Immediately, the map flickered and a sharp burst of light lashed his eyes.

He rubbed his eyes and frowned, thinking hard. Long-necks ruled Bondorborar. Their holy monarchs had done so for millennia, happy in the swampy, tropical jungles of the north. 'Magic,' muttered Adalon. 'Try another statue. A Plated One this time.'

Adalon stood in front of the map of Knobblond, the small country ruled by the magnificently plated Gorbrend family. He nodded in satisfaction when it flashed. 'How old do you think those statues are?' he asked Simangee.

She looked around. 'Old. As old as any of this A'ak stuff.'

He paced to the largest map. 'We saur have spread all over Krangor, haven't we?'

'Yes.' Simangee rolled her eyes. 'Is this important?'

Adalon ignored her question. 'But each of the seven kingdoms has always been ruled by a different kind of saur, correct?'

'A Clawed One in Thraag, a Plated One in Callibeen, a Toothed One in Chulnagh, a – '

'Enough, enough.' Adalon smiled. 'This is why it's said that, long ago, Callibeen was the home of the Plated Ones, Chulnagh the home of the Toothed Ones . . .'

Simangee nodded slowly. 'Before we spread throughout the land, mingling.'

Adalon pointed at the maps. 'When you touched a statue of a Plated One, the map of Callibeen flared. Callibeen. The home of the Plated Ones.'

'And when I touched the Long-neck, Bondorborar lit up?'

'Exactly.' He pressed his hands together. 'I think we're being shown the home of each saur kind.'

Simangee glanced at the statues of the Winged Ones and the People of the Deeps. 'So we should be able to find the home of the Missing Kin?'

Without a word, she ran to the nearest statue of a Winged One. She hesitated for a moment, then reached out and touched the mysterious figure. Light flared, on and off. Adalon turned. 'Once more!' he called.

Another dazzling blink of light and Adalon had it. Simangee scurried up. 'Where is it?' she demanded. 'Where do they live?' She saw the direction of Adalon's gaze. 'Oh.'

'The Fiery Isles,' Adalon said softly.

The map displayed the archipelago off the northeast coast of Chulnagh, a handful of islands dropped into the ocean like stepping stones. The islands were rumoured to be hostile, a collection of dangerous mountains thrust up from the sea, belching molten rock and ash with furious regularity.

Adalon had never heard of any saur living there. It was a place of dark repute.

He leaned close and studied the map. Reefs, rocks and a league or more of cruel sea separated the Fiery Isles from Krangor. He squinted and scratched his snout. A thin blue line connected the nearest point of the islands with the mainland. A reef? A sandbank? He shook his head. The more he looked, the more puzzles he found.

'Our story is growing larger,' he said. 'And the Fiery Isles is another chapter.'