The Secret Kingdom by Jenny Nimmo

drown if Gabar did not move. He could not bring himself to leave his oldest friend, his family.
    There was a movement beneath him. The camel was struggling to his feet. With a surge of hope, Timoken pulled Gabar’s head upwards, up to the surface of the water where they both took long gasps of air, and then up again, the camel’s heavy body struggling out of the river while Timoken shouted encouragement. Gabar’s big feet kicked themselves free of the water, and Timoken lifted him into the air. Now they were flying,their grunts and cries of delight filling the air.
    They landed on the track with a bit of a scramble. Gabar sank to his knees, water pouring from the bags tied to his saddle. Timoken lifted the bags off the camel as fast as he could. Only when he had made sure that Gabar was safe did he notice the red-haired boy gaping at him, almost in horror.
    Timoken grinned at the boy. ‘I thought I had lost him,’ he said. ‘He is my family, you see!’
    The boy just stared at Timoken. At last he said, ‘What are you?’
    ‘I am just a boy,’ Timoken replied.
    The boy shook his head vigorously. ‘No, you are a king, I think.’ He pointed to the gold band embedded in Timoken’s thick hair. The crown that had never left his head. ‘A magician-king,’ the boy added, dropping his voice.
    Timoken could not help laughing. He still felt so happy to have rescued Gabar. ‘My name is Timoken, and I suppose I would be a king,’ he admitted, ‘if I had a kingdom. But it is all gone.’ He fell silent for a moment and then said brightly, ‘We must find somewhere safe to dry ourselves and talk.’
    The boy went first. He limped a little, from a twistedankle, but pressed on in a very determined way, his free hand holding his injured arm against his side. Gabar followed the boy, placing his feet carefully on the rough track. And Timoken came last, so that he could watch the others. He dragged the saddle and the wet bags behind him, and he thought of the moon cloak, and how he could use it to warm Gabar’s back and perhaps, even, to mend the boy’s arm.
    Luckily, they did not have to walk far before they came to a small grove of trees growing in an old quarry. There was room to spread out the wet clothes and for Gabar to sit in the sun and dry himself.
    The boy’s arm was not broken after all, but badly bruised. Timoken gave him some water and then, a little self-consciously, he lit a fire. Although the sun was out, the wind was chilly and Gabar was still shivering from fright and the cold.
    The boy watched Timoken for a while, and then he said, ‘My uncle can do that!’
    ‘He can use his fingers to …?’
    ‘Light a fire, yes. But he cannot fly.’
    Timoken began to spread out his possessions in the sunlight. He gave the boy some dried meat, and they satwatching the flames and each other before Timoken eventually asked the boy’s name.
    ‘Edern,’ the boy replied and then, unable to keep quiet any longer, he began to explain how he had come to be in such a dangerous place and so far from home.
    ‘I come from a land many, many days away,’ said Edern. ‘My father is a poet and I lived in a castle in much splendour, because the prince of our country values poets even above soldiers. One evening a group of monks came to the castle, begging for shelter. It was our duty to let them in. But that night they stole up to the room where I and my three friends were sleeping. Before we could cry out, they had gagged us and bound our hands and feet. They carried us out of the castle, past two guards who were sleeping, drugged, no doubt.’ Edern’s mouth formed a grim line. ‘We kicked and struggled but those men were no holy monks; they were built like oxen, brutal, powerful and cruel. They put us in a covered wagon and drove us to the sea where a ship was waiting. We were carried aboard in sacks, like so much rubbish, and thrown into the hold. There were other children there, weeping and groaning. Some lay very still,