Roland loved and would have died for either of his sons, but he loved Peter with a particular fierceness. Smothering the boy in his cradle, making it look as if the Baby Death had taken him, would have once perhaps been possible, but Peter was now a healthy teenager. Any accident would be examined with all the raging scrutiny of Rolands grief, and Flagg had thought more than once that the final irony might be this Suppose Peter really did die an accidental death, and he, Flagg, was somehow blamed for it? A small miscalculation while shinnying up a drainpipe . . . a slip while crawling around on a stable roof playing Dare You with his friend Staad . . . a tumble from his horse. And what would the result be? Might not Roland, wild in his grief and growing senile and confused in his mind, see willful murder in what was really an accident? And might his eye not turn on Flagg? Of course. His eye would turn to Flagg before it turned to anyone else. Rolands mother had mistrusted him, and he knew that, deep down, Roland mistrusted him as well. He had been able to hold that mistrust in check with mingled fear and fascination, but Flagg knew that if Roland ever had reason to think Flagg had caused, or even played a part in, the death of his son Flagg could actually imagine situations where he might have to interfere in Peters behalf to keep the boy safe. It was damnable. Damnable! He must be put out of the way. Must be put out of the way! Must! As the days and weeks and months passed, the drumbeat of this thought in Flaggs head grew ever more urgent. Every day Roland grew older and weaker; every day Peter grew older and wiser and thus a more dangerous opponent. What was to be done? Flaggs thoughts turned and turned and turned on this. He grew morose and irritable. Servants, especially Peters butler, Brandon, and Brandons son, Dennis, gave him a wide berth, and spoke to each other in whispers of the terrible smells that sometimes came from his laboratory late at night. Dennis in particular, who would someday take the place of his good old da as Peters butler, was terrified of Flagg, and once asked his father if he might say a word about the magician. To make him safe, is all Im thinking, Dennis said. Not a word, Brandon said, and fixed Dennis, who was only a boy himself, with a forbidding look. Not a word will you say. The mans dangerous. Then is that not all the more reason? Dennis began timidly. A dullard may mistake the rattle of a BiterSnake for the sound of pebbles in a hollow gourd and put out his hand to touch it, Brandon said, but our prince is no dullard, Dennis. Now fetch me another glass of bundlegin, and say no more ont. So Dennis did not speak of it to Peter, but his love of his young master and his fear of the Kings hooded advisor both grew after that short exchange. Whenever he saw Flagg sweeping up one of the corridors of the castle in his long hooded robe he would draw aside, trembling, thinking BiterSnake! BiterSnake! Watch for him, Peter! And listen for him! Then, one night when Peter was sixteen, just as Flagg had begun to believe that there really might not be any way to put an end to the boy without unacceptable risk to himself, an answer came. That was a wild night. A terrible autumn storm raged and shrieked around the castle, and the streets of Delain were empty as people sought shelter from the sheets of chilly rain and the battering wind. Roland had taken a cold in the damp. He took cold more and more easily these days, and Flaggs medicines, potent as they were, were losing their power to cure him. One of these coldsperhaps even the one he was hacking and wheezing with nowwould eventually deepen into the Wet Lung Disease, and that would kill him. Magic medicines were not like doctors medicines, and Flagg knew that one of the reasons the potions he gave the old King were now so slow to work, was that he, Flagg, no longer really wanted them to work. The only reason he was keeping Roland alive was that he feared Peter. I wish you were dead, old man, Flagg thought with childish anger as he sat before a guttering candle, listening to the wind shriek without and his twoheaded parrot mutter sleepily to itself within. For a row of pinsa very short row at thatId kill you myself for all the trouble you and your stupid wife and your elder son have caused me. The joy of killing you would almost be worth the ruin of my plans. The joy of killing you Suddenly he froze, sitting upright, staring off into the darkness of his underground rooms, where the shadows moved uneasily. His eyes glittered silver. An idea blazed in his mind like a torch. The candle flared a brilliant green and then went out. Death! one of the parrots two heads shrieked in the darkness. Murder! shrieked the other. And in that blackness, unseen by anyone, Flagg began to laugh. 20 Of all the weapons ever used to commit regicidethe murder of a Kingnone has been as frequently used as poison. And no one has greater knowledge of poisons than a magician. Flagg, one of the greatest magicians who ever lived, knew all the poisons that we knowarsenic; strychnine; the curare, which steals inward, paralyzing all the muscles and the heart last; nicotine; belladonna; nightshade; toadstool. He knew the poison venoms of a hundred snakes and spiders; the clear distillation of the clanah lily which smells like honey but kills its victims in screaming torments; Deadly Clawfoot which grows in the deepest shadows of the Dismal Swamp. Flagg did not know just dozens of poisons but dozens of dozens, each worse than the last. They were all neatly ranked on the shelves of an inner room where no servant ever went. They were in beakers, in phials, in little envelopes. Each deadly item was neatly marked. This was Flaggs chapel of screamsinwaitingagonys antechamber, foyer of fevers, dressing room for death. Flagg visited it often when he felt out of sorts and wanted to cheer himself up. In this devils marketplace waited all those things that humans, who are made of flesh and are so weak, dread hammering headaches, screaming stomach cramps, detonations of diarrhea, vomiting, collapsing blood vessels, paralysis of the heart, exploding eyeballs, swelling, blackening tongues, madness. But the worst poison of all Flagg kept separate from even these. In his study there was a desk. Every drawer of this desk was locked . . . but one was triplelocked. In it was a teak box, carved all over with magical symbols . . . runes and such. The lock on this box was unique. Its plate seemed to be a dull orange steel, but very close inspection showed it was really some sort of vegetable matter. It was, in fact, a kleffa carrot, and once a week Flagg watered this living lock with a tiny spray bottle. The kleffa carrot also seemed to have some dull species of intelligence. If anyone tried to jimmy the kleffa lock open, or even if the wrong someone tried to use the right key, the lock would scream. Inside this box was a smaller box, which opened with a key Flagg wore always around his neck. Inside this second box was a packet. Inside the packet was a small quantity of green sand. Pretty, you would have said, but nothing spectacular. Nothing to write home to Mother about. Yet this green sand was one of the deadliest poisons in all the worlds, so deadly that even Flagg was afraid of it. It came from the desert of Grenh. This huge poisoned waste lay even beyond Garlan, and was a land unknown in Delain. Grenh could be approached only on a day when the wind was blowing the other way, because a single breath of the fumes which came from the desert of Grenh would cause death. Not instant death. That was not the way the poison worked. For a day or twoperhaps even threethe person who breathed the poison fumes (or even worse, swallowed the grains of sand) would feel fineperhaps better than ever before in his life. Then, suddenly, his lungs would grow redhot, his skin would begin to smoke, and his body would shrivel like the body of a mummy. Then he would drop dead, often with his hair on fire. Someone who breathed or swallowed this deadly stuff would burn from the inside out. This was Dragon Sand, and there was no antidote, no cure. What fun. On that wild, rainy night, Flagg determined to give a bit of Dragon Sand to Roland in a glass of wine. It had become Peters custom to take his father a glass of wine each night, shortly before Roland turned in. Everyone in the palace knew it, and commented on what a loyal son Peter was. Roland enjoyed his sons company as much as the wine he brought, Flagg thought, but a certain maiden had caught Peters eye and he rarely stayed longer than half an hour with his father these days. If Flagg came one night after Peter had left, Flagg did not think the old man would turn down a second glass of wine. A very special glass of wine. A hot vintage, my Lord, Flagg thought, a grin dawning on his narrow face. A hot vintage indeed, and why not? The vineyard was right next door to hell, I think, and when this stuff starts working in your guts, youll think hell is where you are. Flagg threw back his head and began to laugh. 21 Once his plan was laida plan that would rid him of both Roland and Peter foreverFlagg wasted no time. He first used all his wizardry to make the King well again. He was delighted to find that his magic potions worked better than they had for a long, long time. It was another irony. He earnestly wanted to make Roland better, so the potions worked. But he wanted to make the King better so he could kill him and make sure everyone knew it was murder. It was really quite funny, when you stopped to think it over. On a windy night less than a week after the Kings hacking cough had ceased, Flagg unlocked his desk and took out the teak box. He murmured, Well done, to the kleffa carrot, which squeaked mindlessly in reply, and then lifted the heavy lid and took out the smaller box inside. He used the key around his neck to open it, and took out the packet that contained the Dragon Sand. He had bewitched this packet, and it was immune to the Dragon Sands terrible power. Or so he thought. Flagg took no chances, and removed the packet with a small pair of silver tweezers. He laid it beside one of the Kings goblets on his desk. Sweat stood out on his forehead in great round drops, for this was ticklish work indeed. One little mistake and he would pay for it with his life. Flagg went out into the corridor that led to the dungeons and began to pant. He was hyperventilating. When you breathe rapidly, you fill your whole body with oxygen, and you can hold your breath for a long time. During the critical stage of his preparations, Flagg did not mean to breathe at all. There would be no mistakes, big or little. He was having too much fun to die. He took a final great gasp of clean air from the barred window just outside the door to his apartment and reentered his rooms. He went to the envelope, took his dagger from his belt, and delicately slit it open. There was a flat piece of obsidian, which the magician used as a paperweight, on his deskin those days, obsidian was the hardest rock known. Using the tweezers again, he grasped the packet, turned it upside down, and poured out most of the green sand. He saved back a tiny bithardly more than a dozen grains, but this bit of extra was extremely important to his plans. Hard as the obsidian was, the rock immediately began to smoke. Thirty seconds had passed now. He picked up the obsidian, careful that not a single grain of Dragon Sand should touch his skinif it did, it would work inward until it reached his heart and set it on fire. He tilted the stone over the goblet and poured it in. Now, quickly, before the sand could began to eat into the glass, he poured in some of the Kings favorite winethe same sort of wine Peter would be taking his father about now. The sand dissolved immediately. For a moment the red wine glimmered a sinister green, and then it returned to its usual color. Fifty seconds. Flagg went back to his desk. He picked up the flat rock and took his dagger by its handle. Only a few grains of Dragon Sand had touched the blade when he slit through the paper, but already they were working their way in, and evil little streamers of smoke rose from the pocks in the Anduan steel. He carried both the stone and the dagger out into the hallway. Seventy seconds, and his chest was beginning to cry for air. Thirty feet down the hallway, which led to the dungeon if you followed it far enough (a trip no one in Delain wanted to make), there was a grating in the floor. Flagg could hear gurgling water, and if he had not been holding his breath, he would have smelled a foul stench. This was one of the castles sewers. He dropped both the rock and the blade into it and grinned at the double splash in spite of his pounding chest. Then he hurried back to the window, leaned far out, and took breath after gasping breath. When he had his wind back, he returned to his study. Now only the tweezers, the packet, and the glass of wine stood on the desk. There was not so much as a grain of sand on the tweezers, and the bit of sand left inside the bewitched packet could not harm him as long as he took reasonable care. He felt he had done very well indeed so far. His work was by no means done, but it was well begun. He bent over the goblet and inhaled deeply. There was no danger now; when the sand was mixed with a liquid, its fumes became harmless and undetectable. Dragon Sand made deadly vapors only when it touched a solid, such as stone. Such as flesh. Flagg held the goblet up to the light, admiring its bloody glow. A final glass of wine, my King, he said, and laughed until the twoheaded parrot screamed in fear. Something to warm your guts. He sat down, turned over his hourglass, and began to read from a huge book of spells. Flagg had been reading from this bookwhich was bound in human skinfor a thousand years and had gotten through only a quarter of it. To read too long of this book, written on the high, distant Plains of Leng by a madman named Alhazred, was to risk madness. An hour . . . just an hour. When the top half of his hourglass was empty, he could be sure Peter would have come and gone. An hour, and he could take Roland this final glass of wine. For a moment, Flagg looked at the bonewhite sand slipping smoothly through the waist of the hourglass, and then he bent calmly over his book. 22 Roland was pleased and touched that Flagg should have brought him a glass of wine that night before he went to bed. He drank it off in two large gulps, and declared that it had warmed him greatly. Smiling inside his hood, Flagg said I thought it would, your Highness. 23 Whether it was fate or only luck that caused Thomas to see Flagg with his father that night is another question you must answer for yourself. I only know that he did see, and that it happened in large part because Flagg had been at pains over the years to make a special friend of this friendless, miserable boy. Ill explain in a momentbut first I must correct a wrong idea you may have about magic. In stories of wizardry, there are three kinds that are usually spoken of almost carelessly, as if any secondclass wizard could do them. These are turning lead into gold, changing ones shape, and making oneself invisible. The first thing you should know is that real magic is never easy, and if you think it is, just try making your least favorite aunt disappear the next time she comes to spend a week or two. Real magic is hard, and although it is easier to do evil magic than good, even bad magic is tolerably hard. Turning lead into gold can be done, once you know the names to call on, and if you can find someone to show you exactly the right trick of splitting the loaves of lead. Shape changing and invisibility, however, are impossible . . . or so close to it that you might as well use the word. From time to time Flaggwho was a great eavesdropperhad listened to fools tell tales about young princes who escaped the clutches of evil genies by uttering a simple magic word and popping out of sight, or beautiful young princesses (in the stories they were always beautiful, although Flaggs experience had been that most princesses were spoiled rotten and, as the end products of long, inbred family lines, ugly as sin and stupid in the bargain) who tricked great ogres into becoming flies, which they then quickly swatted. In most stories, the princesses were also good at swatting flies, although most of the princesses Flagg had seen wouldnt have been able to swat a fly dying on a cold windowsill in December. In stories it all sounded easy; in stories people changed their shapes or turned themselves into walking windowpanes all the time. In truth, Flagg had never seen either trick done. He had once known a great Anduan magician who believed he had mastered the trick of changing his shape, but after six months of meditation and nearly a week of incantations in a series of agonizing body postures, he uttered the last awesome spell and succeeded only in making his nose nearly nine feet long and driving himself insane. And there had been fingernails growing out of his nose. Flagg remembered with a grim little smile. Great magician or not, the man had been a fool. Invisibility was likewise impossible, at least as far as Flagg himself had been able to determine. Yet it was possible to make oneself . . . dim. Yes, dimthat was really the best word for it, although others sometimes came to mind ghostly, transparent, unobtrusive. Invisibility was out of his reach, but by first eating a pizzle and then reciting a number of spells, it was possible to become dim. When one was dim and a servant approached along a passageway, one simply drew aside and stood still and let the servant pass. In most cases, the servants eyes would drop to his own feet or suddenly find something interesting to look at on the ceiling. If one passed through a room, conversation would falter, and people would look momentarily distressed, as if all were having gas pains at the same time. Torches and wall sconces grew smoky. Candles sometimes blew out. It was necessary to actually hide when one was dim only if one saw someone whom one knew wellfor, whether one was dim or not, these people almost always saw. Dimness was useful, but it was not invisibility. On the night Flagg took the poisoned wine to Roland, he first made himself dim. He did not expect to see anyone he knew. It was after nine oclock now, the King was old and unwell, the days were short, and the castle went to bed early. When Thomas is King, Flagg thought, carrying the wine swiftly through the corridors, there will be parties every night. He already has his fathers taste for drink, although he favors wine rather than beer or mead. It should be easy enough to introduce him to a few stronger drinks . . . . After all, am I not his friend? Yes, when Peter is safely out of the way in the Needle and Thomas is King, there will be great parties every night . . . until the people in the alleys and the Baronies are choked enough to rise in bloody revolt. Then there will be one final party, the greatest of all . . . but I dont think Thomas will enjoy it. Like the wine Im bringing his father tonight, that party will be extremely hot. He did not expect to see anyone he knew, and he didnt. Only a few servants passed him, and they drew away from the place where he stood almost absently, as if they felt a cold draft. All the same, someone saw him. Thomas saw him through the eyes of Niner, the dragon his father had killed long ago. Thomas was able to do this because Flagg himself had taught him the trick. 24 The way his father had rejected the gift of the boat had hurt Thomas deeply, and after that he tended to keep clear of his father. All the same, Thomas loved Roland and badly wanted to make him happy the way Peter made him happy. Even more than that, he wanted to make his father love him the way he loved Peter. In fact, Thomas would have been happy if their father had loved him even half as much. The trouble was, Peter had all the good ideas first. Sometimes Peter tried to share his ideas with Thomas, but to Thomas the ideas either sounded silly (until they worked) or else he feared he wouldnt be able to do his share of the work, as when Peter had made their father a set of Bendoh men three years ago. Ill give Father something better than a bunch of stupid old game pieces, Thomas had said haughtily, but what he was really thinking was that if he couldnt make his father a simple wooden sailboat, he would never be able to help make something as difficult as the twentyman Bendoh army. So Peter made the game pieces alone over a period of four monthsthe infantry men, the knights, the archers, the Fusilier, the General, the Monkand of course Roland had loved them even though they were a bit clumsy. He had immediately put away the jade Bendoh set the great Ellender had carved for him forty years before and put the one Peter had made for him in its place. When Thomas saw this, he crept away to his apartments and went to bed, although it was the middle of the afternoon. He felt as if someone had reached into his chest and cut off a tiny piece of his heart and made him eat it. His heart tasted very bitter to him, and he hated Peter more than ever, although part of him still loved his handsome older brother and always would. And although the taste had been bitter, he had liked it. Because it was his heart. Now there was the business of the nightly glass of wine. Peter had come to Thomas and said, I was thinking it would be nice if we brought Dad a glass of wine every night, Tom. I asked the steward, and he said he couldnt just give us a bottle because he has to make an accounting to the Chief Vintner at the end of each sixmonth, but he said we could pool some of our money and buy a bottle of the Barony Fifth Vat, which is Fathers favorite. And its really not expensive. Wed have lots of our allowances left over. And I think thats the stupidest idea I ever heard! Thomas burst out. All the wine belongs to Father, all the wine in the Kingdom, and he can have as much of it as he wants! Why should we spend our money to give Father something he owns anyway? Well enrich that fat little steward, thats all well do! Peter said patiently, It will please him that we spent our money on him, even if its something he owns anyway. How do you know that? Simply, maddeningly, Peter replied I just do. Thomas looked at him, scowling. How could he tell Peter that the Chief Vintner had caught him in the wine cellar, stealing a bottle of wine, just the month before? The fat little pig had given him a shaking and threatened to tell his father if Thomas didnt give him a gold piece. Thomas had paid, tears of rage and shame standing in his eyes. If it had been Peter, you would have turned the other way and pretended not to see, you slug, he thought. If it had been Peter, you would have turned your back. Because Peter is going to be King someday soon, and Ill just be a prince forever. It also occurred to him that Peter never would have tried to steal wine in the first place, but the truth of this thought only made him angrier at his brother. I just thought Peter began.  You just thought, you just thought,  Thomas mimicked savagely. Well, go think somewhere else! When Father finds out you paid the Chief Vintner for his own wine, hell laugh at you and call you a fool! But Roland hadnt laughed at Peter, hadnt called him a foolhe had called him a good son in a voice that was unsteady and almost weepy. Thomas knew, because he had crept after when Peter took their father the wine that first night. He watched through the eyes of the dragon and saw it all. 25 If you had asked Flagg straight out why he had shown Thomas that place and the secret passageway which led to it, he would have been able to give you no very satisfactory answer. That was because he didnt exactly know why he had done it. He had an instinct for mischief in his head, just as some people have a way with numbers or a clear sense of direction. The castle was very old, and there were many secret doors and passages in it. Flagg knew most of them (no one, not even he, knew all of them), but this was the only one he had ever shown Thomas. His instinct for mishief told him that this one might cause trouble, and Flagg simply obeyed his instinct. Mischief, after all, was Flaggs cake and pie. Every now and then he would pop into Thomass room and cry, Tommy, you look glum! Ive thought of something you might like to see! Want to go and have a look? He almost always said you look glum, Tommy or you look a bit in the dumps, Tommy or you look like you just sat on a pinchbug, Tommy because he had a knack of showing up when Thomas was feeling particularly depressed or blue. Flagg knew that Thomas was afraid of him, and Thomas would find an excuse not to go with him unless he particularly needed a friend . . . and felt so low and unhappy he wouldnt be particular about which friend it was. Flagg knew this, but Thomas himself did nothis fear of Flagg ran deep. On the surface of his mind, he thought Flagg was a fine fellow, full of tricks and fun. Sometimes the fun was a bit mean, but that often suited Thomass disposition. Do you think it strange that Flagg would know something about Thomas that Thomas didnt know about himself? It really isnt strange at all. Peoples minds, particularly the minds of children, are like wellsdeep wells full of sweet water. And sometimes, when a particular thought is too unpleasant to bear, the person who has that thought will lock it into a heavy box and throw it into that well. He listens for the splash . . . and then the box is gone. Except it is not, of course. Not really. Flagg, being very old and very wise, as well as very wicked, knew that even the deepest well has a bottom, and just because a thing is out of sight doesnt mean it is gone. It is still there, resting at the bottom. And he knew that the caskets those evil, frightening ideas are buried in may rot, and the nastiness inside may leak out after awhile and poison the water . . . and when the well of the mind is badly poisoned, we call the result insanity. If the magician showed him scary things in the castle sometimes, he did it because he knew that the more frightened of him Thomas was, the more power he would gain over Thomas . . . and he knew he could have that power, because he knew something Ive already told youthat Thomas was weak and often neglected by his father. Flagg wanted Thomas to be afraid of him, and he wanted to make sure that, as the years passed, Thomas had to throw many of those locked boxes into the darkness inside him. If Thomas were to go insane at some point after he became King, well, what of that? It would make it easier for Flagg to rule; it would make his power all the greater. How did Flagg know the right times to visit Thomas, and take him on these strange tours of the castle? Sometimes he saw what had happened to make Thomas sad or angry in his crystal. More often, he simply felt an urge to go to Thomas and heeded itthat instinct for mischief rarely led him wrong. Once he took Thomas high into the eastern towerthey climbed stairs until Thomas was panting like a dog, but Flagg never seemed to lose his breath. At the top was a door so small that even Thomas had to crawl through it on his hands and knees. Beyond was a dark, rustling room with a single window. Flagg had led him to that window without a word, and when Thomas saw the viewthe entire city of Delain, the Near Towns, and then the hills which stood between the Near Towns and the Eastern Barony marching off into a blue hazehe thought that the sight had been worth every stair his aching legs had climbed. His heart swelled with the beauty of it, and he turned to thank Flaggbut something about the white blur of the magicians face inside his hood had frozen the words on his lips. Now watch this! Flagg said, and held up his hand. A spurt of blue flame rose from his index finger, and the rustling sound in the room, which Thomas had first taken for the sound of the wind, turned to a rising whir of leathery wings. A moment later Thomas was screaming and beating the air above his head as he blundered blindly back toward the tiny door. The little round room at the top of the castles eastern tower had the best view in Delain save for the cell at the top of the Needle, but now he understood why no one visited it. The room was infested with huge bats. Disturbed by the light Flagg had raised, they whirled and swooped. Later, after they were out and Flagg had quieted the boyThomas, who hated bats, had been in hystericsthe magician insisted it was just a joke meant to cheer him up. Thomas believed him . . . but for weeks after he awoke screaming with nightmares in which bats flapped around his head, got caught in his hair, and ripped at his face with their sharp claws and ratty teeth. On another excursion, Flagg took him to the Kings treasure room and showed him the mounds of gold coins, tall stacks of gold bars, and the deep bins marked EMERALDS, DIAMONDS, RUBIES, FIREDIMS, and so on. Are they really full of jewels? Thomas asked. Look and see, Flagg said. He opened one of the bins and pulled out a handful of uncut emeralds. They sparkled wildly in his hand. My fatherss name! Thomas gasped. Oh, thats nothing! Look over here! Pirate treasure, Tommy! He showed Thomas a pile of booty from the encounter with the Anduan pirates some twelve years ago. The Delain Treasury was rich, the few treasureroom clerks old, and this particular heap hadnt been sorted yet. Thomas gasped at heavy swords with jeweled hilts, daggers with blades that had been crusted with serrated diamonds so they would cut deeper, heavy killballs made of rhodochrosite. All this belongs to the Kingdom? Thomas asked in an awed voice. It all belongs to your father, Flagg replied, although Thomas had actually been correct. Someday it will all belong to Peter. And me, Thomas said with a tenyearolds confidence. No, Flagg said, just the right tinge of regret in his voice, just to Peter. Because hes the oldest, and hell be King. Hell share, Thomas said, but with the slightest tremor of doubt in his voice. Pete always shares. Peters a fine boy, and Im sure youre right. Hell probably share. But no one can make a King share, you know. No one can make a King do anything he doesnt want to do. He looked at Thomas to gauge the effect of this remark, then looked back at the deep, shadowy treasure room. Somewhere, one of the aged clerks was droning out a count of ducats. Such a lot of treasure, and all for one man, Flagg remarked. Its really something to think about, isnt it, Tommy? Thomas said nothing, but Flagg had been well pleased. He saw that Tommy was thinking about it, all right, and he judged that another of those poisoned caskets was tumbling down into the well of Thomass mindkersplash! And that was indeed so. Later, when Peter proposed to Thomas that they share the expense of the nightly bottle of wine, Thomas had remembered the great treasure roomand he remembered that all the treasure in it would belong to his brother. Easy for you to talk so blithely of buying wine! Why not? Someday youll have all the money in the world! Then, about a year before he brought the poisoned wine to the King, on impulse, Flagg had shown Thomas this secret passage . . . and on this one occasion his usually unerring instinct for mischief might have led him astray. Again, I leave it for you to decide. 26 Tommy, you look down in the dumps! he cried. The hood of his cloak was pushed back on that day, and he looked almost normal. Almost. Tommy felt down in them. He had suffered through a long luncheon at which his father had praised Peters scores in geometry and navigation to his advisors with the most lavish superlatives. Roland had never rightly understood either.


He knew that a triangle had three sides and a square had four; he knew you could find your way out of the woods when you were lost by following Old Star in the sky; and that was where his knowledge ended. That was where Thomass knowledge ended, too, so he felt that luncheon would never be done. Worse, the meat was just the way his father liked itbloody and barely cooked. Bloody meat made Thomas feel almost sick. My lunch didnt agree with me, thats all, he said to Flagg. Well, I know just the thing to cheer you up, Flagg said. Ill show you a secret of the castle, Tommy my boy. Thomas was playing with a buggerlug bug. He had it on his desk and had set his schoolbooks around it in a series of barriers. If the trundling beetle looked as if he might find a way out, Thomas would shift one of the books to keep him in. Im pretty tired, Thomas said. This was not a lie. Hearing Peter praised so highly always made him feel tired. Youll like it, Flagg said in a tone that was mostly wheedling . . . but a little threatening, too. Thomas looked at him apprehensively. There arent any . . . any bats, are there? Flagg laughed cheerilybut that laugh raised gooseflesh on Thomass arms anyway. He clapped Thomas on the back. Not a bat! Not a drip! Not a draft! Warm as toast! And you can peek at your father, Tommy! Thomas knew that peeking was just another way of saying spying, and that spying was wrongbut this had been a shrewd shot all the same. This next time the buggerlug bug found a way to escape between two of the books, Thomas let it go. All right, he said, but there better not be any bats. Flagg slipped an arm around the boys shoulders. No bats, I swearbut heres something for you to mull over in your mind, Tommy. Youll not only see your father, youll see him through the eyes of his greatest trophy. Thomass own eyes widened with interest. Flagg was satisfied. The fish was hooked and landed. What do you mean? Come and see for yourself, was all he would say. He led Thomas through a maze of corridors. You would have become lost very soon, and I probably would have gotten lost myself before long, but Thomas knew this way as well as you know your way through your own bedroom in the darkat least he did until Flagg led him aside. They had almost reached the Kings own apartments when Flagg pushed open a recessed wooden door that Thomas had never really noticed before. Of course it had always been there, but in castles there are often doorswhole wings, eventhat have mastered the art of being dim. This passage was quite narrow. A chambermaid with an armload of sheets passed them; she was so terrified to have met the Kings magician in this slim stone throat that it seemed she would happily have shrunk into the very pores of the stone blocks to avoid touching him. Thomas almost laughed because sometimes he felt a little like that himself when Flagg was around. They met no one else at all. Faintly, from below them, he could hear dogs barking, and that gave him a rough idea of where he was. The only dogs inside the castle proper were his fathers hunting dogs, and they were probably barking because it was time for them to be fed. Most of Rolands dogs were now almost as old as he was, and because he knew how the cold ached in his own bones, Roland had commanded that a kennel be made for them right here in the castle. To reach the dogs from his fathers main sitting chamber, one went down a flight of stairs, turned right, and walked ten yards or so up an interior corridor. So Thomas knew they were about thirty feet to the right of his fathers private rooms. Flagg stopped so suddenly that Thomas almost ran into him. The magician looked swiftly around to make sure they had the passageway to themselves. They did. Fourth stone up from the one at the bottom with the chip in it, Flagg said. Press it. Quick! Ah, there was a secret here, all right, and Thomas loved secrets. Brightening, he counted up four stones from the one with the chip and pressed. He expected some neat little bit of jiggerypokerya sliding panel, perhapsbut he was quite unprepared for what did happen. The stone slid in with perfect ease to a depth of about three inches. There was a click. An entire section of wall suddenly swung inward, revealing a dark vertical crack. This wasnt a wall at all! It was a huge door! Thomass jaw dropped. Flagg slapped Thomass bottom. Quick, I said, you little fool! he cried in a low voice. There was urgency in his voice, and this wasnt simply put on for Thomass benefit, as many of Flaggs emotions were. He looked right and left to verify that the passage was still empty. Go! Now! Thomas looked at the dark crack that had been revealed and thought uneasily about bats again. But one look at Flaggs face showed him that this would be a bad time to attempt a discussion on the subject. He pushed the door open wider and stepped into the darkness. Flagg followed at once. Thomas heard the low flap of the magicians cloak as he turned and shoved the wall closed again. The darkness was utter and complete, the air still and dry. Before he could open his mouth to say anything, the blue flame at the tip of Flaggs index finger flared alight, throwing a harsh bluewhite fan of illumination. Thomas cringed without even thinking about it, and his hands flew up. Flagg laughed harshly. No bats, Tommy. Didnt I promise? Nor were there. The ceiling was quite low, and Thomas could see for himself. No bats, and warm as toast . . . just as the magician had promised. By the light of Flaggs magic fingerflare, he could also see they were in a secret passage which was about twentyfive feet long. Walls, floor, and ceiling were covered with ironwood boards. He couldnt see the far end very well, but it looked perfectly blank. He could still hear the muffled barking of the dogs. When I said be quick, I meant it, Flagg said. He bent over Thomas, a vague, looming shadow that was, in this darkness, rather batlike itself. Thomas drew back a step, uneasily. As always, there was an unpleasant smell about the magiciana smell of secret powders and bitter herbs. You know where the passage is now, and Ill not be the one to tell you not to use it. But if youre ever caught using it, you must say you discovered it by accident. The shape loomed even closer, forcing Thomas back another step. If you say I showed it to you, Tommy, Ill make you sorry. Ill never tell, Thomas said. His words sounded thin and shaky. Good. Better yet if no one ever sees you using it. Spying on a King is serious business, prince or not. Now follow me. And be quiet. Flagg led him to the end of the passageway. The far wall was also dressed with ironwood, but when Flagg raised the flame that burned from the tip of his finger, Thomas saw two little panels. Flagg pursed his lips and blew out the light. In utter blackness, he whispered Never open these two panels with a light burning. He might see. Hes old, but he still sees well. He might see something, even though the eyeballs are of tinted glass. What Shhhh! There isnt much wrong with his ears, either. Thomas fell quiet, his heart pounding in his chest. He felt a great excitement that he didnt understand. Later he thought that he had been excited because he knew in some way what was going to happen. In the darkness he heard a faint sliding sound, and suddenly a dim ray of lighttorchlightlit the darkness. There was a second sliding sound and a second ray of light appeared. Now he could see Flagg again, very faintly, and his own hands when he held them up before him. Thomas saw Flagg step up to the wall and bend a little; then most of the light was cut out as he put his eyes to the two holes through which the rays of light fell. He looked for a moment, then grunted and stepped away. He motioned to Thomas. Have a look, he said. More excited than ever, Thomas cautiously put his eyes to the holes. He saw clearly enough, although everything had an odd greenishyellow aspectit was as if he were looking through smoked glass. A sense of perfect, delighted wonder rose in him. He was looking down into his fathers sitting room. He saw his father slouched by the fire in his favorite chairone with high wings which threw shadows across his lined face. It was very much the room of a huntsman; in our world such a room would often be called a den, although this one was as big as some ordinary houses. Flaring torches lined the long walls. Heads were mounted everywhere heads of bear, of deer, of elk, of wildebeest, of cormorant. There was even a grand featherex, which is the cousin of our legendary bird the phoenix. Thomas could not see the head of Niner, the dragon his father had killed before he was born, but this did not immediately register on him. His father was picking morosely at a sweet. A pot of tea steamed near at hand. That was all that was really happening in that great room that could have (and at times had) held upward of two hundred peoplejust his father, with a fur robe draped around him, having a solitary afternoon tea. Yet Thomas watched for a time that seemed endless. His fascination and his excitement with this view of his father cannot be told. His heartbeat, which had been rapid before, doubled. Blood sang and pounded in his head. His hands clenched into fists so tight that he would later discover bloody crescent moons imprinted into his palms where his fingernails had bitten. Why was he so excited simply to be looking at an old man picking halfheartedly at a piece of cake? Well, first you must remember that the old man wasnt just any old man. He was Thomass father. And spying, sad to say, has its own attraction. When you can see people doing something and they dont see you, even the most trivial actions seem important. After awhile, Thomas began to feel a little ashamed of what he was doing, and that was not really surprising. Spying on a person is a kind of stealing, after allits stealing a look at what people do when they think they are alone. But that is also one of its chief fascinations, and Thomas might have looked for hours if Flagg had not murmured, Do you know where you are, Tommy? I dont think so, he was going to add, but of course he did know. His sense of direction was good, and with a little thought he could imagine the reverse of this angle. He suddenly understood what Flagg meant when he said he, Thomas, would see his father through the eyes of Rolands greatest trophy. He was looking down at his father from a little more than halfway up the west wall . . . and that was where the greatest head of all was hungthat of Niner, his fathers dragon. He might see something, even though the eyeballs are of tinted glass. Now he understood that, too. Thomas had to clap his hands to his mouth to stifle a shrill giggle. Flagg slid the little panels shut again . . . but he, too, was smiling. No! Thomas whispered. No, I want to see more! Not this afternoon, Flagg said. Youve seen enough this afternoon. You can come again when you want . . . although if you come too often, youll surely be caught. Now come on. Were going back. Flagg relit the magic flame and led Thomas down the corridor again. At the end, he put the light out and there was another sliding sound as he opened a peephole. He guided Thomass hand to it so he would know where it was, and then bade him look. Notice that you can see the passageway in both directions, Flagg said. Always be careful to look before you open the secret door, or someday you will be surprised. Thomas put one eye to the peephole and saw, directly across the corridor, an ornate window with glass sides that angled slightly into the passageway. It was much too fancy for such a small passageway, but Thomas understood without having to be told that it had been put here by whoever had made the secret passageway. Looking into the angled sides, he could indeed see a ghostly reflection of the corridor in both directions. Empty? Flagg whispered. Yes, Thomas whispered back. Flagg pushed an interior spring (again guiding Thomass hand to it for future reference), and the door clicked open. Quickly now! Flagg said. They were out and the door was shut behind them in a trice. Ten minutes later, they were back in Thomass rooms. Enough excitement for one day, Flagg said. Remember what I told you, Tommy dont use the passageway so often that youll be caught, and if you are caughtFlaggs eyes glittered grimlyremember that you found that place by accident. I will, Thomas said quickly. His voice was high and it squeaked like a hinge that needed oil. When Flagg looked at him that way, his heart felt like a bird caught in his chest, fluttering in panic. 27 Thomas heeded Flaggs advice not to go often, but he did use the passageway from time to time, and peeked at his father through the glass eyes of Ninerpeeked into a world where everything became greenygold. Going away later with a pounding headache (as he almost always did), he would think Your head aches because you were seeing the way dragons must see the worldas if everything was dried out and ready to burn. And perhaps Flaggs instinct for mischief in this matter was not so bad at all, because, by spying on his father, Thomas learned to feel a new thing for Roland. Before he knew about the secret passage he had felt love for him, and often a sorrow that he could not please him better, and sometimes fear. Now he learned to feel contempt, as well. Whenever Thomas spied into Rolands sitting room and found his father in company, he left again quickly. He only lingered when his father was alone. In the past, Roland rarely had been, even in such rooms as his den, which was a part of his private apartments. There was always one more urgent matter to be attended to, one more advisor to see, one more petition to hear. But Rolands time of power was passing. As his importance waned with his good health, he found himself remembering all the times he had cried to either Sasha or Flagg Wont these people ever leave me alone? The memory brought a rueful smile to his lips. Now that they did, he missed them. Thomas felt contempt because people are rarely at their best when they are alone. They usually put their masks of politeness, good order, and good breeding aside. Whats beneath? Some warty monster? Some disgusting thing that would make people run away, screaming? Sometimes, perhaps, but usually its nothing bad at all. Usually people would just laugh if they saw us with our masks offlaugh, make a revolted face, or do both at the same time. Thomas saw that his father, whom he had always loved and feared, who had seemed to him the greatest man in the world, often picked his nose when he was alone. He would root around in first one nostril and then the other until he got a plump green booger. He would regard these with solemn satisfaction, turning each one this way and that in the firelight, the way a jeweler might turn a particularly fine emerald. Most of these he would then rub under the chair in which he was sitting. Others, I regret to say, he popped into his mouth and munched with an expression of reflective enjoyment on his face. He would have only a single glass of wine at nightthe glass which Peter brought himbut after Peter left, he drank what seemed to Thomas huge amounts of beer (it was only years later that Thomas came to realize that his father hadnt wanted Peter to see him drunk), and when he needed to urinate, he rarely used the commode in the corner. Most times he simply stood up and pissed into the fire, often farting as he did so. He talked to himself. He would sometimes walk around the long room like a man who was not sure where he was, speaking either to the air or to the mounted heads. I remember that day we got you, Bonsey, he would say to one of the elk heads (another of his eccentricities was that he had named every one of the trophies). I was with Bill Squathings and that fellow with the great lump on the side of his face. I remember how you came through the trees and Bill let loose, and then that fellow with the lump let loose, then I let loose Then his father would demonstrate how he had let loose by raising his leg and farting, even as he mimed drawing back a bowstring and letting fly. And he would laugh an old mans shrill, unpleasant cackle. Thomas would slide the little panels back after awhile and slink down the corridor again, his head pounding and an uneasy grin on his facethe head and grin of a boy who has been eating green apples and knows he may be sicker by morning than he is now. This was the father he had always loved and feared? He was an old man who farted out stinking clouds of steam. This was the King his loyal subjects called Roland the Good? He pissed into the fire, sending up more clouds of steam. This was the man who made his heart break by not liking his boat? He talked to the stuffed heads on his walls, calling them silly names like Bonsey and StagPool and Puckerstring; he picked his nose and sometimes ate the boogers. I dont care for you anymore, Thomas would think, checking the peephole to make sure the corridor was empty and then creeping back to his room like a felon. Youre a filthy, silly old man and youre nothing to me! Nothing at all! No! But he was something to Thomas. Some part of him went on loving Roland just the samesome part of him wanted to go to his father so his father would have something better to talk to than a bunch of stuffed heads on the walls. Still, there was that other part of him that liked spying better. 28 The night that Flagg came to King Rolands private rooms with the glass of poisoned wine was the first occasion in a very long time that Thomas had dared spy. There was a good reason for this. One night about three months before, Thomas found himself unable to sleep. He tossed and turned until he heard the keep watchman cry eleven. Then he got up, dressed, and left his rooms. Less than ten minutes later, he was looking down into his fathers den. He had thought his father might be asleep, but he was not. Roland was awake, and very, very drunk. Thomas had seen his father drunk many times before, but he had never seen him in anything remotely like his current state. The boy was flabbergasted and badly frightened. There are people much older than Thomas was then who harbor the idea that old age is always a gentle timethat an old person may exhibit gentle wisdom, gentle crabbiness or craftiness, perhaps the gentle confusion of senility. They will grant these, but find it hard to credit any real fire. They have an illusion that by the seventies, any real fire must have faded to coals. That may be true, but on this night Thomas discovered that coals may sometimes flare up violently. His father was striding rapidly up and down the length of his sitting room, his fur robe flying out behind him. His nightcap had fallen off; his remaining hair hung down in tangled locks, mostly about his ears. He was not staggering, as he had done on other nights, moving tentatively with one hand out to keep from running into the furniture. He was rolling like a sailor, but he was not staggering. When he did happen to run into one of the highbacked chairs which stood near the walls beneath the snarling head of a lynx, Roland threw the chair aside with a roar that made Thomas cringe. The hairs on his arms prickled. The chair flew across the room and hit the far wall. Its ironwood back splintered down the middlein this bitter drunkenness, the old King had regained the strength of his middle years. He looked up at the lynx head with red, glaring eyes. Bite me! he roared at it. The raw hoarseness in his voice made Thomas cringe again. Bite me, are you afeard? Come down out of that wall, Craker! Jump! Heres my chest, see? He tore open the robe, revealing his scrawny chest. He bared his few teeth at Crakers many, and lifted his head. Heres my neck! Come on, jump! Ill do you with my bare hands! ILL RIP YOUR STINKING GUTS OUT! He stood for a moment, chest out and head up, looking like an animal himselfan ancient stag, perhaps, that has been brought to bay and can now hope for nothing better than to die well. Then he whirled away, stopping at a bears head to shake a fist at it and roar a string of curses at itcurses so terrible that Thomas, cringing in the dark, believed that the bears outraged spirit might swoop down, reanimate the stuffed head, and tear his father open while he watched. But Roland was away again. He seized his mug, drained it, then whirled with brew dripping from his chops. He hurled the silver mug across the room, where it struck a stone angle of the fireplace hard enough to leave a dent in the metal. Now his father came down the room toward him, throwing another chair out of the way, then kicking a table aside with his bare foot. His eyes flicked up . . . and met Thomass own. Yesthey met his own eyes. Thomas felt their gazes lock, and a gray, swooning terror filled him like frozen breath. His father stalked toward him, his yellowed teeth bared, his remaining hair hanging over his ears, beer dripping from his chin and the corners of his mouth. You, Roland whispered in a low, terrible voice. Why do you stare at me? What do you hope to see? Thomas could not move. Found out, his mind gibbered, found out, by all the gods that ever were or shall be, I am found out and I will surely be exiled! His father stood there, his eyes fixed on the mounted dragons head. In his guilt, Thomas was sure his father had spoken to him, but this was not soRoland had only spoken to Niner as he had spoken to the other heads. Yet if Thomas could see out of the tinted glass eyeballs, then his father could see in, at least to some degree. If Thomas hadnt been utterly paralyzed with fear, he would have run away in a paniceven if he had summoned enough presence of mind to hold his ground, his eyes surely would have moved. And if Roland had seen the eyes of the dragon move, what might he have thought? That the dragon was coming to life again? Perhaps. In his drunken state, I even think that likely. If Thomas had so much as blinked his eyes on that occasion, Flagg would have needed no poison later. The King, old and frail in spite of the temporary potency the drink had given him, would almost surely have died of fright. Roland suddenly leaped forward. WHY DO YOU STARE AT ME? he shrieked, and in his drunkenness it was Niner, Delains last dragon, that he shrieked at, but of course, Thomas did not know that. WHY DO YOU STARE AT ME SO? IVE DONE THE BEST I COULD, ALWAYS THE BEST I COULD! DID I ASK FOR THIS? DID I ASK FOR IT? ANSWER ME, DAMN YOU! I DID THE BEST I COULD AND LOOK AT ME NOW! LOOK AT ME NOW! He pulled his robe wide open, showing his naked body, its gray skin blotchily flushed with drink. LOOK AT ME NOW! he shrieked again, and looked down at himself, weeping. Thomas could take no more. He slammed shut the panels behind the dragons glass eyes at the same moment his father took his eyes from Niner to look down at his own wasted body. Thomas crashed and blundered down the black corridor and slammed full force into the closed door, braining himself and falling in a heap. He was up in a moment, unaware of the blood pouring down his face from a cut in his forehead, pounding at the secret spring until the door popped open. He rushed out into the corridor, not even thinking to check if anyone was there to see him. All he could see was his fathers glaring, bloodshot eyes, all he could hear was his father screaming Why do you stare at me? He had no way of knowing that his father had already fallen into a sleep of deep drunkenness. When Roland woke up the next morning, he was still on the floor, and the first thing he did, in spite of his fiercely aching head and his throbbing, bruised body (Roland was far too old for such strenuous revels), was to look at the dragons head. He rarely dreamed when he was drunkthere was only an interval of sodden darkness. But last night a terrible dream had come to him the glass eyes of the dragons head had moved and Niner came to life. The worm breathed its deadly breath down on him, and although he could not see that fire, he could feel it deep down inside him, hot and getting hotter. With this dream still lingering fresh in his mind, he dreaded what he might see when he looked up. But all was as it had been for years now. Niner snarled his fearsome snarl, his forked tongue lolled between teeth almost as long as fence pickets, his greengold eyes stared blankly across the room. Ceremoniously crossed above this fabulous trophy were Rolands great bow and the arrow FoeHammer, its tip and shaft still black with dragon blood. He mentioned this terrible dream once to Flagg, who only nodded and looked more thoughtful than usual. Then Roland simply forgot it. Forgetting was not so easy for Thomas. He was haunted for weeks by nightmares. In them, his father stared at him and shrieked, See what youve done to me! and threw his robe open to display his nakednessold puckered scars, drooping belly, sagging musclesas if to say this too had all been Thomass fault, that if he hadnt spied . . . Why do you never want to see Father anymore? Peter asked him one day. He thinks youre mad at him. That Im mad at him? Thomas was astounded. Thats what he said at tea today, Peter said. He looked at his brother closely, observing the dark circles under Thomass eyes, the pallor of Thomass cheeks and forehead. Tom, whats wrong? Maybe nothing, Thomas said slowly. The next day he took tea with his father and brother. Going took all of his courage, but Thomas did have courage, and he sometimes found itusually when his back was to the wall. His father gave him a kiss and asked him if anything was wrong. Thomas muttered that he hadnt been feeling well, but now he felt fine. His father nodded, gave him a rough hug, then went back to his usual behaviorwhich consisted mostly of ignoring Thomas in favor of Peter. For once, Thomas welcomed thishe didnt want his father looking at him any more than necessary, at least for a while. That night, lying awake for a long time in bed and listening to the wind moan outside, he came to the conclusion that he had had a very close shave . . . but that he had somehow gotten away with it. But never again, he thought. In the weeks after, the nightmares came less and less frequently. Finally they stopped altogether. Still, the castles head groom, Yosef, was right about one thing boys are sometimes better at pledging vows than they are at keeping them, and Thomass desire to spy on his father at last grew stronger than both his fears and his good intentions. And that is how it happened that on the night Flagg came to Roland with the poisoned wine, Thomas was watching. 29 When Thomas got there and slid aside the two little panels, his father and his brother were just finishing their nightly glass of wine together. Peter was now almost seventeen, tall and handsome. The two of them sat by the fire, drinking and talking like old friends, and Thomas felt the old hate fill his heart with acid. After some little time, Peter arose and took courteous leave of his father. You leave earlier and earlier these nights, Roland remarked. Peter made some demurral. Roland smiled. It was a sweet, sad smile, mostly toothless. I hear, said he, that she is lovely. Peter looked flustered, which was uncommon with him. He stammered, which was even less common. Go, Roland interrupted. Go. Be gentle with her, and be kind . . . but be hot, if there is ardor in you. Later years are cold years, Peter. Be hot while your years are green, and fuel is plentiful, and the fire may burn high. Peter smiled. You speak as if you are very old, Father, but you still look strong and hale to me. Roland embraced Peter. I love you, he said. Peter smiled with no awkwardness or embarrassment. I love you, too, Dad, he said, and in his lonely darkness (spying is always lonely work, and the spyer almost always does it in the dark), Thomas pulled a horrible face. Peter left, and for an hour or more not much happened. Roland sat morosely by the fire, drinking glass after glass of beer. He did not roar or bellow or talk to the heads on the walls; there was no destruction of furniture. Thomas had almost made up his mind to leave, when there was a double rap at the door. Roland had been looking into the fire, almost hypnotized by the flickerplay of the flames. Now he roused himself and called, Who comes? Thomas heard no response, but his father rose and went to the door as if he had. He opened it, and at first Thomas thought his fathers habit of talking to the heads on the walls had taken a queer new turnthat his father was now inventing invisible human company to relieve his boredom. Strange to see you here at this hour, Roland said, apparently walking back toward the fire in the company of no one at all. I thought you were always at your spells and conjurations after dark. Thomas blinked, rubbed his eyes, and saw that someone was there after all. For a moment he couldnt rightly make out who . . . and then he wondered how he could possibly have thought his father was alone when Flagg was right there beside him. Flagg was carrying two glasses of wine on a silver tray. Wives tale, mLordmagicians conjure early as well as late. But of course we have our darksome image to keep up. Rolands sense of humor was always improved by beerso much so that he would often laugh at things that werent funny in the least. At this remark he threw back his head and bellowed as if it was the greatest joke he had ever heard. Flagg smiled thinly. When Rolands fit of laughing had passed, he said Whats this? Wine? Your son is barely more than a boy, but his deference toward his father and his honor of his King have shamed me, a grown man, Flagg said. I brought you a glass of wine, my King, to show you that I, too, love you. He passed it to Roland, who looked absurdly touched. Dont drink it, Father! Thomas thought suddenlyhis mind was full of an alarm he couldnt understand. Rolands head came up suddenly and tilted, almost as if he had heard. Hes a good boy, my Peter, Roland said. Indeed, Flagg replied. Everyone in the Kingdom says so. Do they? Roland asked, looking pleased. Do they, indeed? Yesso they do. Shall we toast him? Flagg raised his glass. No, Father! Thomas shouted in his mind again, but if his father had heard his first thought, he didnt hear this one. His face shone with love for Thomass elder brother. To Peter, then! Roland raised the glass of poisoned wine high. To Peter! Flagg agreed, smiling. To the King! Thomas cringed in the dark. Flaggs making two different toasts I dont know what he means, but . . . Father! This time it was Flagg who turned his darkly considering gaze toward the dragons head for a moment, as if he had heard the thought. Thomas froze, and in a moment Flaggs gaze turned back to Roland. They clinked glasses and drank. As his father quaffed the glass of wine, Thomas felt a splinter of ice push its way into his heart. Flagg made a halfturn in his chair and threw his glass into the fire. Peter! Peter! Roland echoed, and threw his own. It smashed against the sooty brickwork at the back of the fireplace and fell into the flames, which for a moment seemed to flare an ugly green. Roland raised the back of his hand to his mouth for a moment, as if to stifle a belch. Did you spice it? he asked. It tasted . . . almost mulled. No, my Lord, Flagg said gravely, but Thomas thought he sensed a smile behind the mask of the magicians gravity, and that splinter of ice slipped further into his heart. Suddenly he wanted no more of spying, not ever. He closed the peepholes and crept back to his room. He felt first hot, then cold, then hot again. By morning he had a fever. Before he was well again, his father was dead, his brother imprisoned in the room at the top of the Needle, and he was a boy King at the age of barely twelveThomas the LightBringer, he was dubbed at the coronation ceremonies.


And who was his closest advisor? You guess. 30 When Flagg left Roland (the old man was feeling sprightlier than ever by then, a sure sign the Dragon Sand was at work in him), he went back to his dark basement rooms. He got out the tweezers and the packet containing the remaining few grains of sand and put them on his huge old desk. Then he turned his hourglass over and resumed reading. Outside, the wind screamed and gobbledold wives cringed in their beds and slept poorly and told their husbands that Rhiannon, the Dark Witch of the Coos, was riding her hateful broom this night, and wicked work was afoot. The husbands grunted, turned over, told their wives to go back to sleep and leave them alone. They were dull fellows for the most part; when an eye is wanted to see straws flying in the wind, give me an old wife any day. Once a spider skittered halfway across Flaggs book, touched a spell so terrible not even the magician dared use it, and turned instantly to stone. Flagg grinned. When the hourglass was empty, he turned it over again. And again. And again. He turned it over eight times in all, and when the eighth hours worth of sand was nearly gone, he set about finishing his work. He kept a large number of animals in a dim room down the hall from his study, and he went there first. The little creatures skittered and cringed when Flagg came near. He did not blame them. In the far corner was a wicker cage containing half a dozen brown micesuch mice were everywhere in the castle, and that was important. Down here there were also huge rats, but it was not a rat Flagg wanted tonight. The Royal Rat upstairs had been poisoned; a simple mouse would be enough to make sure the crime came home to the Royal Ratling. If all went well, Peter would soon be as tightly locked up as these mice. Flagg reached into the cage and removed one. It trembled wildly in his cupped hand. He could feel the rapid thrumming of its heart, and he knew that if he simply held it, it would soon die of fright. Flagg pointed the little finger of his left hand at the mouse. The fingernail glowed faintly blue for a moment. Sleep, the magician commanded, and the mouse fell on its side and went to sleep on his open palm. Flagg took it back into his study and laid it on his desk, where the obsidian paperweight had rested earlier. Now he went into his larder and drew a little mead from an oaken barrel into a saucer. He sweetened it with honey. He put it on his desk, then went out into the corridor and breathed deeply at the window again. Holding his breath, he came back in and used the tweezers to pour all but the last three or four grains of Dragon Sand into the honeysweetened mead. Then he opened another drawer of his desk and removed a fresh packet, which was empty. Then, reaching all the way to the back of this drawer, he brought out a very special box. The fresh packet was bewitched, but its magic was not very strong. It would hold the Dragon Sand safely only for a short while. Then it would begin to work on the paper. It would not set it alight, not inside the box; there would not be air enough for that. But it would smoke and smolder, and that would be enough. That would be fine. Flaggs chest was thudding for air, but he still spared a moment to look at this box and congratulate himself. He had stolen it ten years ago. If you had asked him at the time why he took it, he would have known no more than he knew why he had shown Thomas the secret passage that ended behind the dragons headthat instinct for mischief had told him to take it and that he would find a use for it, so he had. After all those years in his desk, that useful time had come. PETER was engraved across the top of the box. Sasha had given it to her boy; he had left it for a moment on a table in a hallway when he had to run down the hallway after something or other; Flagg came along, saw it, and popped it into his pocket. Peter had been griefstricken, of course, and when a prince is upseteven a prince who is only six years oldpeople take notice. There had been a search, but the box had never been found. Using the tweezers, Flagg carefully poured the last few grains of Dragon Sand from the original packet, which had been wholly enchanted, into the packet which had been only incompletely enchanted. Then he went back to the window in the corridor to draw fresh breath. He did not breathe again until the fresh packet had been laid in the antique wooden box, the tweezers laid in there beside it, the top of the box slowly closed, and the original packet disposed of in the sewer. Flagg was hurrying now, but he felt secure enough. Mouse, sleeping; box, closed; incriminating evidence safely latched inside. It was very well. Pointing the little finger of his left hand at the mouse lying stretched out on his desk like a fur rug for pixies, Flagg commanded Wake. The mouses feet twitched. Its eyes opened. Its head came up. Smiling, Flagg wiggled his little finger in a circle and said Run. The mouse ran in circles. Flagg wiggled his finger up and down. Jump. The mouse began to jump on its hind legs like a dog in a carnival, its eyes rolling wildly. Now drink, Flagg said, and pointed his little finger at the dish holding the honeysweetened mead. Outside, the wind gusted to a roar. On the far side of the city, a bitch gave birth to a litter of twoheaded pups. The mouse drank. Now, said Flagg, when the mouse had drunk enough of the poison to serve his purpose, sleep again. And the mouse did. Flagg hurried to Peters rooms. The box was in one of his many pocketsmagicians have many, many pocketsand the sleeping mouse was in another. He passed several servants and a laughing gaggle of drunken courtiers, but none saw him. He was still dim. Peters rooms were locked, but that was no problem for one of Flaggs talents. Three passes with his hands and the door was open. The young princes rooms were empty, of course; the boy was still with his lady friend. Flagg didnt know as much about Peter as he did about Thomas, but he knew enoughhe knew, for instance, where Peter kept the few treasures he thought worth hiding away. Flagg went directly to the bookcase and pulled out three or four boring textbooks. He pushed at a wooden edging and heard a spring click back. He then slid a panel aside, revealing a recess in the back of the case. It was not even locked. In the recess was a silk hairribbon his lady had given him, a packet of letters she had written him, a few letters from him to her which burned so brightly he did not dare to send them, and a little locket with his mothers picture inside it. Flagg opened the engraved box and very carefully shredded one corner of the packets flap. Now it looked as if a mouse had been chewing at it. Flagg closed the lid again and put the box in the recessed space. You cried so when you lost this box, dear Peter, he murmured. I think you may cry even more when its found. He giggled. He put the sleeping mouse beside the box, closed the compartment, and put the books neatly back in place. Then he left, and slept well. Great mischief was afoot, and he felt confident that he had moved as he liked to movebehind the scenes, seen by no one. 31 For the next three days, King Roland seemed healthier, more vigorous, and more decisive than anyone had seen him in yearsit was the talk of the court. Visiting his ill and feverish brother in his apartments, Peter remarked to Thomas in awe that what remained of their fathers hair actually seemed to be changing color, from the babyfine wispy white it had been for the last four years or so to the iron gray it had been in Rolands middle years. Thomas smiled, but a fresh chill raced through him. He asked Peter for another blanket, but it wasnt really a blanket he needed; he needed to unsee that final strange toast, and that, of course, was impossible. Then, after dinner on the third day, Roland complained of indigestion. Flagg offered to have the court physician summoned. Roland waved the suggestion away, saying that he felt fine, actually, better than he had in months, in years He belched. It was a long, arid, rattling sound. The convivial crowd in the ballroom fell silent with wonder and apprehension as the King doubled over. The musicians in the corner ceased playing. When Roland straightened up, a gasp ran through those present. The Kings cheeks were aflame with color. Smoking tears ran from his eyes. More smoke drifted from his mouth. There were perhaps seventy people in that great dining hallroughdressed Riders (what we would call knights, I suppose), sleek courtiers and their ladies, attendants upon the throne, courtesans, jesters, musicians, a little troupe of actors in one corner who had been going to put on a play later, servants in great numbers. But it was Peter who ran to his father; it was Peter they all saw going to the doomed man, and this did not displease Flagg at all. Peter. They would remember it had been Peter. Roland clutched his stomach with one hand and his chest with the other. Smoke suddenly poured out of his mouth in a graywhite plume. It was as if the King had learned some amazing new way of telling the story of his greatest exploit. But it was no trick, and there were screams as smoke poured not only from his mouth but from his nostrils, ears, and the corners of his eyes. His throat was so red it was nearly purple. Dragon! King Roland shrieked as he collapsed into his sons arms. Dragon! It was the last word he ever spoke. 32 The old man was toughincredibly tough. Before he died he was throwing off so much heat that no one, not even his most loyal servants, could approach closer to his bed than four feet. Several times they threw buckets of water on the poor dying King when they saw the bedclothes beginning to smolder. Each time, the water turned instantly to steam that billowed through his bedchamber and out into the sitting room where courtiers and Riders stood in numb silence and ladies clustered, weeping and wringing their hands. Just before midnight, a jet of green flame shot from his mouth and he died. Flagg went solemnly to the door between the bedchamber and the sitting room and announced the news. There followed an utter silence that stretched out for more than a minute. It was broken by a single word which came from somewhere in the gathered crowd. Flagg did not know who spoke that one word, and he did not care. It was enough that it had been spoken. Indeed, he would have bribed a man to speak it if such could have been done with no danger to him. Murder! this someone said. There was a universal gasp. Flagg raised a solemn hand to his mouth to hide a smile. 33 The court physician amplified one word to three Murder by poison. He did not say Murder by Dragon Sand, for the poison was unknown in Delain, except to Flagg. The King died shortly before midnight, but by dawn the charge was rife in the city and spreading outward toward the far reaches of the Eastern, Western, Southern, and Northern Baronies Murder, regicide, Roland the Good dead by poison. Even before then, Flagg had organized a search of the castle, from the highest point (the Eastern Tower) to the lowest (the Dungeon of Inquisition, with its racks and manacles and squeezing boots). Any evidence bearing on this terrible crime, he said, must be searched out and reported at once. The castle rang with the search. Six hundred grimly eager men combed through it. Only two small areas of the castle were exempt; these were the apartments of the two princes, Peter and Thomas. Thomas was barely aware of this; his fever had worsened to the point where the court physician had become deeply alarmed. He lay in a delirium as dawns first light fingered its way into his windows. In his dreams, he saw two glasses of wine raised high, heard his father say again and again Did you spice it? It tasted mulled. Flagg had ordered the search, but by two in the morning, Peter had recovered enough of his wits to take charge of it. Flagg let him. These next few hours would be terribly important, a time when all could be won or lost, and Flagg knew it. The King was dead; the Kingdom was momentarily headless. But not for long; this very day, Peter would be crowned King at the foot of the Needle, unless the crime was brought home to the boy quickly and conclusively. Under other circumstances, Flagg knew, Peter would have been under suspicion at once. People always suspect those who have the most to gain, and Peter had gained a great deal by his fathers death. Poison was horrible, but poison might have won him a kingdom. But in this case, the people of the Kingdom spoke of the boys loss rather than the boys gain. Of course, Thomas had lost his father, too, they might add after a pausealmost as if they were ashamed of the momentary lapse. But Thomas was a sullen, sulky, awkward boy who had often argued with his father. Peters affection and respect for Roland, on the other hand, were known far and wide. And why, people would askif the monstrous idea was even raised, and so far it had not beenwhy would Peter kill his father for the crown when he would surely inherit it in a year, or three, or five? If evidence of the crime were to be found in a secret place that only Peter knew, howevera place in the princes own roomsthe tide would turn quickly. People would begin to see a murderers face beneath a mask of affection and respect. They would point out that, to the young, a year may seem like three, three like nine, five like twentyfive. Then they would point out that the King had seemed, in the last few days of his life, to be coming out of a long, dark timehad seemed to be growing hale and vigorous again. Perhaps, they would say, Peter had believed his father was entering a long, healthy Indian summer, had panicked and done something as foolish as it was monstrous. Flagg knew something else; he knew that people have a deep and instinctive distrust of all Kings and princes, for these are people who may order their deaths with a single nod, and for crimes as petty as dropping a handkerchief in their presence. Great Kings are loved, lesser Kings are tolerated; Kingstobe represent a scary unknown quantity. They might come to love Peter if given a chance, but Flagg knew they would also condemn him quickly if shown enough evidence. Flagg thought such evidence would be forthcoming soon. Nothing more than a mouse. Small . . . but big enough in its way to shake a kingdom to its foundations. 34 In Delain there were only three stages of being childhood, halfmanhood or womanhood, and adulthood. These halfyears lasted from fourteen to eighteen. When Peter entered halfmanhood, the scolding nannies were replaced with Brandon, his butler, and Dennis, Brandons son. Brandon would be Peters butler for years yet, but probably not forever. Peter was very young, and Brandon was nearing fifty. When Brandon was no longer able to buttle, Dennis would take over. Brandons family had buttled high royalty for nearly eight hundred years, and were justifiably proud of the fact. Dennis rose each morning at five oclock, dressed, laid out his fathers suit, and shined his fathers shoes. Then he wandered blearily into the kitchen and ate breakfast. At quarter to six, he set out from the familys home on the west side of the castle keep and entered the castle proper by the Lesser West Door. Promptly at six oclock he would reach Peters rooms, let himself quietly in, and go about the early choresbuilding a fire, making half a dozen breakfast muffins, heating water for tea. Then he would quickly circle the three rooms, setting them to rights. This was usually easy, because Peter was not a messy boy. Last of all, he would return to the study and lay out breakfast, for the study was where Peter liked to eat the meals he took in his roomsusually at his desk by the east windows, with a history book open before him. Dennis didnt like getting up early, but he liked his job very much, and he liked Peter, who was always patient with him, even when he made a mistake. The only time he had ever raised his voice to Dennis was when Dennis had brought him a light lunch and had neglected to put a napkin on the tray. Im very sorry, yHighness, Dennis had said on that occasion. I just never thought Well next time, do think! Peter said. He was not shouting, but it was a close thing. Dennis had never neglected to put a napkin on Peters tray againand sometimes, just to be safe, he put on two. Morning chores done, Dennis faded into the background and his father took over. Brandon was every bit the perfect butler, with his cravat neatly knotted, his hair pulled tightly back and rolled in a bun at the nape of his neck, his coat and breeches without a speck, his shoes shined to a mirror gloss (a mirror gloss Dennis was responsible for). But at night, with his shoes off, his coat hung in the closet, his cravat loosened, and a glass of bundlegin in his hand, he looked to Dennis a much more natural man. Tell you something to always be remembrun, Denny, he had said to his son on many occasions while in this comfortable state. There may be as manys a dozen things in this world which last, but surely no more, and may be less. Passeyonut love of a woman dont last, and a runners wind dont last, nor does a braggarts wind, nor does haytime in the summer or sugartime in spring thaw. But two things that do last is one, royalty, and another, service. If you stick with your young man until hes an old man, and if you take care of him proper, hell take care of you proper. You serve him an hell serve you, if you take the turn o my mind. Now pour me another glass, and take a drop for yourself, if you like, but no more than a drop or your motherll skin us both alive. Undoubtedly, some sons would quickly have grown bored with this catechism, but Dennis did not. He was the rarest of sons, a boy who had reached twenty and still thought his father wiser than himself. On the morning after the Kings death, Dennis hadnt had to force himself blearily out of bed at five oclock; he had been awakened at three by his father, with the news of the Kings death. Flaggs rared up a search party, his father said, eyes full of bloodshot distress, and thats right enough. But my master will be leading it soon enough, Ill warrant, and Im off to help him hunt for the fiend who done it, if hell have me. Me, too! Dennis cried, grabbing for his breeches. Not at all, not at all, his father said with a hard sternness that made Dennis subside at once. Thingsll go forrad here just as they always have, murder or nothe old ways must be kept to now more than ever. My master and your master will be crowned King at noon, and thats well enough, although he comes to the crown in a bad time. But the death of a King by violence is always an evil thing if it comes not on the field of battle. The old ways will hold, doubt it not, but there may be trouble in the meantime. Whats best for you, Dennis, is to go about your work just the same as always. He was gone before Dennis could protest. And when five oclock came, Dennis told his mother what his father had said and told her he should get about his morning round, even though he knew Peter would be gone. Denniss mother was more than agreeable. She was dying for news. She told him to go, of course . . . go and then come back to her no later than eight of the clock, and tell her all he heard. So Dennis went to Peters rooms, which were utterly deserted. Nevertheless, he observed his regular routine, finishing by setting breakfast in the princes study. He looked ruefully at the plates and glasses, the jams and jellies, reflecting that surely none of those things would be used that morning. Still, going about his ordered course had made him feel better for the first time since his father had turned him out of bed, for he now understood that, for better or worse, things were never going to be the same again. Times had changed. He was preparing to leave when he heard a sound. It was so muffled he couldnt rightly tell where it wasonly the general area from which it came. He looked toward Peters bookcase, and his heart leaped in his chest. Tendrils of smoke were drifting from between the loosely shelved books. Dennis leaped across the room and began pulling books out by double handfuls. He saw that the smoke was issuing from cracks at one side of the bookcases back. Also, that sound was clearer with the books gone. It was some sort of animal, squeaking in pained distress. Dennis clawed and pawed at the bookcase, his fright spiraling toward panic. If there was one thing people were afraid of in that time and place, it was fire. Soon enough his fingers happened on the secret spring. Flagg had foreseen this, tooafter all, the secret panel wasnt really very secretenough to amuse a boy, but not much more. The back of the bookcase slid to the right a bit, and a puff of gray smoke wafted out. The smell that escaped with the smoke was extremely unpleasanta mixture of cooking meat, frying fur, and smoldering paper. Not thinking, Dennis swept the panel all the way open. Of course, when he did that, more air got in. Things which had been only smolderng before now showed the first winks of flame. This was the crucial point, the one place where Flagg had to be content not with what he was sure would happen but with his best guess of what would probably happen. All his efforts of the last seventyfive years now swung upon the fragile hinge of what a butlers son might or might not do in the next five seconds. But the Brandons had been butlers since time out of mind, and Flagg had decided he must depend on their long tradition of impeccable behavior. If Dennis had frozen in horror at the sight of those blossoming flames, or if he had turned and run for a pitcher of water, all of Flaggs carefully planted evidence might have burned in greenishtinted flames. The murder of Peters father would never have been laid at Peters door and he would have been crowned King at noon. But Flaggs judgment was right. Instead of freezing or going for water, Dennis reached in and beat the flames out with his bare hands. It took less than five seconds, and Dennis was barely singed. The doleful squeaking went on, and the first thing he saw when he had waved the smoke aside was a mouse, lying on its side. It was in its death agonies. It was only a mouse, and Dennis had killed dozens of them in the line of duty without the slightest feeling of pity. Yet he felt sorry for this poor little bugger. Something terrible, something he could not even begin to understand, had happened to it and was still happening to it. Smoke rose from its fur in fine ribbons. When he touched it, he drew his hand back with a hissit was like touching the side of a tiny stove, such as the one in Sashas dollhouse. More smoke drifted lazily from an engraved wooden box with its lid slightly ajar. Dennis lifted the lid a little. He saw the tweezers, the packet. A number of brownish spots had flowered on the packet and it smoldered sluggishly, but had not burst into flame . . . nor did it now. The flames had come from Peters letters, which were, of course, not enchanted at all. It was the mouse that had set these alight with its fearfully hot body. Now there was only the sullenly smoldering packet, and something warned Dennis not to touch it. He was afraid. There were things here that he didnt understand, things he was not sure he wanted to understand. The one thing he knew for sure was that he badly needed to speak to his father. His father would know what to do. Dennis took the ash bucket and a small shovel from beside the stove and went back to the secret panel. He used the shovel to pick up the smoking body of the mouse and drop it into the ash bucket. He wet the charred corners of the letters once more, just to be sure. Then he closed the panel, replaced the books, and left Peters apartments. He took the ash bucket with him, and now he did not feel like Peters loyal servant but like a thiefhis booty was a poor mouse that died even before Dennis got back out the West Gate of the castle. And before he had even reached his house on the far side of the castle keep, a horrible suspicion had dawned in his mindhe was the first in Delain to feel this suspicion, but he would not be the last. He tried to push the thought out of his head, but it kept coming back. What sort of poison, Dennis wondered, had killed King Roland, anyway? Exactly what sort of poison had it been? By the time he got back to the Brandon house, he was in a bad state indeed, and he would answer none of his mothers questions. Nor would he show her what was in the ash bucket. He told her only that he must see his father the moment he came init was dreadfully important. Then he went into his room and wondered exactly what sort of poison it had been. He only knew one thing about it, but that one thing was enough. It had been something hot. 35 Brandon arrived just before ten oclock, shorttempered, exhausted, and in no mood for foolishness. He was dirty and sweaty, there was a thin cut across his forehead, and cobwebs flew from his hair in long strings. They had found no sign of the assassin at all. His only news was that preparations for Peters coronation were going full speed ahead in the Plaza of the Needle, under the direction of Anders Peyna, Delains JudgeGeneral. His wife told him of Denniss return. Brandons brow darkened. He went to the door of his sons room and rapped not with his knuckles but with a closed fist. Come ee out here, boy, and tell us why you come back with the ash bucket from your masters study. No, Dennis said. You come in here, DadI dont want Mother to see what Ive got, and I dont want her to hear what we say to each other. Brandon barged in. Denniss mother waited apprehensively by the stove, expecting it was some sort of semihysterical foolishness which the boy had thought up, some illadvised monkeyshine, and that very soon she would hear Denniss wails as her tired and distraught husband, who must begin today at noon to buttle not a prince but a King, took out all his fears and frustrations on the boys backside. She hardly blamed Dennis; everyone in the keep seemed hysterical this morning, running around like crazy people just let out of bedlam, repeating a hundred false rumors, then taking them back in order to repeat a hundred new ones. But there were no raised voices from behind Denniss door, and neither of them came out for more than an hour. When they did, a single look at her husbands white face made the poor woman feel like fainting dead away. Dennis scurried along at his fathers heels like a scared puppy. Now Brandon was carrying the ash bucket. Where are you going? she asked timidly. Brandon said nothing. It seemed that Dennis could say nothing. He only rolled his eyes at her and then followed his father out the door. She saw neither of them for twentyfour hours, and became convinced that both were deador even worse, that they were suffering in the Dungeon of Inquisition below the castle. Her dire thoughts were not so unlikely, either, for those were a terrible twentyfour hours in Delain. The day mightnt have seemed so terrible in some places, places where revolt and upheaval and alarms and midnight executions are almost a way of life . . . there really are such places, although I wish I didnt have to say so. But Delain had for yearsand even centuriesbeen an ordered and orderly place, so perhaps they were spoiled. That black day really began when Peter was not crowned at noon and ended with the stunning news that he was to be tried in the Hall of the Needle for the murder of his father. If Delain had had a stock market, I suppose it would have crashed. Construction on the dais where the coronation was to take place began at first light. The platform would be a juryrigged affair of plain boards, Anders Peyna knew, but he also knew that enough flowers and bunting would cover the rude spots. They had had no warning of the Kings passing, because murder isnt a thing that can be predicted. If it could be, there would be no murders, and the world would almost certainly be a happier place. Besides, pomp and circumstance wasnt the pointthe point was to make the people feel the continuity of the throne. If the citizens got the feeling that everything was still all right in spite of the terrible thing that had happened, Peyna didnt care how many flower girls got splinters. But at eleven oclock, construction abruptly ceased. The flower girls were turned awaymany of them in tearsby the Home Guards. At seven that morning, most of the Home Guards had begun dressing in their gorgeous red ceremonial uniforms and their tall gray WolfJaw shakos. They were, of course, to form the ceremonial double line, an aisle down which Peter would walk to be crowned. Then, at eleven, they received new orders; strange, unsettling orders. The ceremonial uniforms came off in a blazing hurry and their dull, duncolored combat uniforms went on instead. The showy but clumsy ceremonial swords were replaced with the lethal shortswords which were everyday equipment. Impressive but impractical WolfJaw shakos were cast aside in favor of the squat leather helmets that were normal battle dress. Battle dressthe very term was distressing. Is there such a thing as normal battle dress? I do not think so. Yet soldiers in battle dress were everywhere, their faces stern and forbidding. Prince Peter has committed suicide! That was the most common rumor which went flying about the castle keep. Prince Peter has been murdered! That one ran a close second. Roland was not dead; it was a mistaken diagnosis, the physician has been beheaded, but the old King is insane and no one knows what to do. That was a third. There were many others, some even more foolish. No one slept as darkness stole over the confused, sorrowing castle keep. All the torches in the Plaza of the Needle were lit, the castle blazed with lights, and every house in the keep and on the hills below showed candles and lanterns, as frightened people gathered to talk about the days events. All agreed wild work was afoot. The night was even longer than the day. Mrs. Brandon kept watch for her men in terrible loneliness. She sat at the window, but for the first time in her life, the air was rife with more gossip than she wanted to hear. Yet for all of that, could she stop listening? She could not. As the small hours of the morning stretched out endlessly toward a dawn that she felt would never come, a new rumor began to supplant all the old onesit was incredible, unbelievable, and yet it was asserted with more and more assurance until even the guards at their posts were repeating it to one another in undertones. This new rumor terrified Mrs. Brandon most of all, because she rememberedtoo well!how white poor Denniss face had been when he had come in with the princes ash bucket. There had been something inside, something that smelled sick and burnt, something he wouldnt show her. Prince Peters been taken in custody for the murder of his father, this awful rumor went. Hes been taken . . . Prince Peters been taken . . . the prince has murdered his own father! Shortly before dawn, the distracted woman laid her head in her arms and wept. After a bit, her sobbing faded as she fell into a troubled sleep. 36 Now tell me whats in that bucket, and be quick about it! We want no fooling, Dennis, dyou understand me? was the first thing Brandon said when he entered Denniss room and closed the door behind him. Ill show you, Dad, Dennis said, but first, answer me one question what sort of poison was it that killed the King? No one knows. What were its ways? Show me whats in the bucket, boy. Do it now. Brandon balled a great hard fist. He did not shake it; he only held it up. That was enough. Show me now or be knocked aside. Brandon looked at the dead mouse for a long time, saying nothing.