Dennis watched, scared, as his dads face grew paler, graver, grayer. The mouses eyes had burned until they were nothing but charred black cinders. Its brown fur had been crisped black. Smoke still rose from its tiny ears, and its teeth, visible in its death grimace, were a sooty black, like the teeth in the grate of a stove. Brandon made as if to touch it, and then pulled his hand back. He raised his face to his son and spoke in a hoarse whisper. Where did you find this? Dennis began to stammer out bundles of phrases which didnt mean a thing. Brandon listened a moment and then squeezed his sons shoulder. Draw you a deep breath and put your thoughts all in a row, Denny, he said. Im on yer side in this, as I am in all else, yer know. Yer did right to keep the sight of this poor thing from yer mom. Now tell me how you found it, and where you found it. Eased and reassured, Dennis was able to tell his father the story. His telling was a bit shorter than mine, but it still took several minutes. His father sat in a chair, one knuckle digging into his forehead, shading his eyes. He asked no questions, did not even grunt. When Dennis had finished, his father muttered four words in an undertone. Just four wordsbut they froze the boys heart into a cold blue cakeor so it felt to him at the time. Just like the King. Brandons lips were trembling with fright, but he seemed to be trying to smile. Do you suppose yonder animal was a King of Mice, Denny? Dad . . . Daddy, I . . . I . . . There was a box, you said. Yes. And a packet. Yes. And the packet was charred, but not burned. Yes. And tweezers. Yes, like Mamma uses to pluck the hairs from outn her nose Shh, Brandon said, and dug his knuckle into his forehead again. Let me think. Five minutes went by. Brandon sat motionless, almost as if he had gone to sleep, but Dennis knew better. Brandon did not know that Peters mother had given him the engraved box or that Peter had lost it when he was small; both of those things had happened long before Peter entered his halfmanhood and Brandon came into his service. He did know about the secret panel; he had happened on this in the very first year he had served Peter (and not very far into that year, either). As I may have said, it wasnt really a very secret compartment, as those things wentjust enough to satisfy such an open boy as Peter. Brandon knew about it, but had never looked into it after that first time, when it had contained nothing more than the glorified junk that any boy calls his treasuresa Tarot deck with a few cards missing, a bag of marbles, a lucky coin, a braided bit of hair from Peonys mane. If a good butler understands anything, he understands that quality we call discretion, which is a respect for the borders of other peoples lives. He had never looked in that compartment again. It would have been like stealing. At last Dennis asked Should we go over, Father, so you can look in the box? No. We must go to the JudgeGeneral with this mouse, and you must tell your story to him just as youve told it to me. Dennis sat down heavily on his bed. He felt as if he had been punched in the belly. Peyna, the man who ordered jail terms and beheadings! Peyna, with his white, forbidding face and his tall, waxy brow! Peyna, who was, below the King himself, the greatest authority in the Kingdom! No, he whispered at last. Dad, I couldnt. . . . I . . . I . . . You must, his father said sternly. This is a turrible businessthe most turrible business Ive ever known of, but it must be reckoned with and set right. Youll tell him just as youve told me, and then itll be in his hands. Dennis looked in his fathers eyes and saw that Brandon meant it. If he refused to go, his father would lay hold of the scruff of his neck and drag him to Peyna like a kitten, twenty years old or no. Yes, Dad, he said miserably, thinking that when Peynas cold, calculating eyes fell on him, he would simply drop dead of a heart attack. Then (with rising panic) he remembered that he had stolen an ash bucket from the princes rooms. If he didnt die of fright the moment Peyna commanded him to speak, he would probably spend the rest of his life in the castles deepest dungeon for theft. Be easy in your mind, Dennyeasy as you can be, anyway. Peynas a hard man, but hes fair. Youve done nothing to be ashamed of. Just tell him as youve told me. All right, Dennis whispered. Are we going now? Brandon got out of the chair and onto his knees. First well pray. Get here beside me, son. Dennis did. 37 Peter was tried, found guilty of regicide, and ordered imprisoned for life in the cold two rooms at the top of the Needle. All of this was done in only three days. It will not take long to tell you how neatly the jaws of Flaggs cruel trap closed around the boy. Peyna did not order the preparations for the coronation stopped at oncein fact, he thought that Dennis must be mistaken, that there must be a reasonable explanation for all of this. Just the same, the condition of the mouse, so like the condition of the King, was impossible to ignore, and the Brandon family had a long and valued reputation for honesty and levelheadedness in the Kingdom. That was important, but there was something else of far greater importance when Peter was crowned, there must not be a single stain on his reputation. Peyna heard Dennis out and then summoned Peter. Dennis really might have died of fright at the sight of his master, but he was mercifully allowed to go into another room with his father. Peyna gravely explained to Peter that a charge had been leveled against him . . . a charge that Peter himself might have played a part in the murder of Roland. Anders Peyna was not a man to mince words, no matter how much those words might hurt. Peter was stunned . . . flabbergasted. You must remember that he was still trying to cope with the idea that his beloved father was dead, killed by a cruel poison that had burned him alive from the inside out. You must remember that he had been leading the search all night, had had no sleep, and was physically exhausted. Most of all, you must remember that, although he had a mans height and breadth of shoulder, he was only sixteen. This stunning news on top of all else caused him to do a very natural thing, but it was a thing he should have avoided at all costs under Peynas cold and assessing eyes he burst into tears. If Peter had hotly denied the charge, or if he had expressed his shock and exhaustion and grief by laughing wildly at such an absurd idea, the whole thing might have ended right there. Im sure that possibility never entered Flaggs mind, but one of Flaggs few weaknesses was a tendency to judge others according to what was in his own black and murky heart. Flagg regarded everyone with suspicion, and believed everyone had hidden reasons for the things they did. His mind was very complex, like a hall of mirrors with everything reflected twice at different sizes. The track of Peynas thoughts was not convoluted but very straightforward. He found it very difficultalmost impossibleto believe that Peter could have poisoned his father. If he had raged or laughed out loud, things probably would have ended without even a trip to investigate the supposed box with his name carved on it, or the packet and tweezers it supposedly held. Tears, however, looked very bad. Tears looked like an expression of guilt coming from a boy old enough to commit murder but not old enough to hide what he had done. Peyna decided he must investigate further. He hated to do this, because it meant taking guards, and that meant some word, some whisper, of these momentary suspicions would leak out, to taint the first weeks of Peters reign. Then he reflected that perhaps even this could be avoided. He would take half a dozen Home Guards, no more. He could leave four stationed outside the door. After this ridiculous business had blown over, all of them could be shipped off to the remotest part of the Kingdom. Brandon and his son would also have to be sent away, Peyna thought, and that was a pity, but tongues had a way of wagging, especially when liquor loosened them, and the old mans liking for bundlegin was well known. So Peyna ordered work on the coronation platform temporarily suspended. He felt confident that work could begin again in less than half an hour, with the laborers sweating and cursing and hurrying to make up for lost time. Alas 38 The box, the packet, and the tweezers were there, as you know. Peter had sworn on his mothers name he had no such engraved box; his heated denial now looked very foolish. Peyna picked up the charred packet carefully with the tweezers, peered in, and saw three flecks of green sand. They were so small they could barely be seen, but Peyna, mindful of what had befallen both great King and humble mouse, put the packet back in the box and closed the lid. He ordered two of the four Home Guards still in the hall to step in, realizing reluctantly that the matter was steadily growing more serious. The box was put carefully on Peters desk, little wisps of smoke escaping from it. One of the guards was sent after the man who knew more about poisons than anyone else in the Kingdom. That man, of course, was Flagg. 39 I had nothing to do with this, Anders, Peter said. He had recovered himself, but his face was still pale and wretched, his eyes a deeper blue than the old JudgeGeneral had ever seen them. The box is yours, then? Yes. Why did you deny that you had such a box? I forgot. I havent seen this box in probably eleven years or more. My mother gave it to me. What happened to it? Hes not calling me mLord or your Highness anymore, Peter thought with a chill. Hes not calling me by any term of respect at all. Can all of this really be happening, I wonder? Father poisoned? Thomas terribly ill? Peyna standing here and doing everything but accusing me of murder? And my boxwhere in the name of the gods did it come from, and who put it in the secret compartment behind the books? I lost it, Peter said slowly. Anders, you dont really believe I murdered my father, do you? I did not . . . but now I wonder, Anders Peyna thought. I loved him dearly, Peter said. I always thought so . . . but now I wonder about that, too, Anders Peyna thought. 40 Flagg bustled in and, without even looking in Peynas direction, began immediately to bombard the numbed, frightened, outraged prince with questions about the search. Had any trace been found of the poison or the poisoner? Any sign of a plot uncovered? He himself was of the opinion that it might have been a single individual, almost surely insane. He had spent the whole morning before his crystal, Flagg said, but the crystal remained stubbornly dark. He didnt care, though, he could do more than shake bones and peer into crystals. He craved action, not spells. Anything the prince wanted him to do, any dark corner he wanted explored We did not call you here to listen to you babble like your own parrot, with both heads talking at once, Peyna said coldly. He did not like Flagg. As far as Peyna was concerned, the magician had been demoted to the position of Court Nobody at the moment of Rolands death. He might be able to tell them what those evil green flecks in the packet were, but that was the extent of his usefulness. Peterll have no truck with this weasel when hes crowned, Peyna thought. He got just that far, and then his thoughts derailed in dismay, because the chances of Peters being crowned seemed to be growing slimmer. No, Flagg said, I dont suppose you did. He looked at Peter and said, Why am I summoned, my King? Dont call him that! Peyna exploded, deeply shocked in spite of himself. Flagg saw this shock on Peynas face, and although he affected to look puzzled, he understood perfectly what it meant and was satisfied. A worm of suspicion was working its way toward the center of the JudgeGenerals chilly heart. Good. Peter turned his pale face away from both of them and looked out across the city, once more struggling for control of his emotions. His fingers were laced tightly together. His knuckles were white. He looked much older than sixteen just then. Do you see the box on the desk? Peyna asked. Yes, JudgeGeneral, Flagg said in his stiffest, most formal voice. Inside is a packet which appears to be slowly charring. Inside the packet are what look like grains of sand. I would like you to examine them and see if you can tell me what they are. I urge you very strongly not to touch them. I believe that the substance in the packet may have caused King Rolands death. Flagg allowed himself to look worried. To tell the truth, he was feeling very fine. Playing a part always made him feel that way. He liked to act. He picked up the packet, using the tweezers. He peered into it. His gaze sharpened. I want a piece of obsidian, he said. I want it right now. I have a piece in my desk, Peter said dully, and brought it out. It was not as big as the one Flagg had used and then disposed of, but it was thick. He handed it to one of the Home Guards, who handed it to Flagg. The magician held it toward the light, frowning a little . . . but inside his heart, a little man was jumping excitedly up and down, turning cartwheels, and doing somersaults. The obsidian was much like his own, but one side was broken and jagged. Ah, the gods were smiling on him! Indeed, indeed, indeed they were! I dropped it a year or two ago, Peter said, seeing Flaggs interest. He was unawareas was Peyna, at least for the momentthat he had added another layer of bricks to the wall that was abuilding around him. The half youre holding landed on my rug, which cushioned its fall. The other half landed on the stones, and shattered into half a hundred pieces. Obsidian is hard, but very brittle. Indeed, my Lord? Flagg said gravely. Ive never seen such stone, although Ive of course heard of it. He put the obsidian on Peters desk, upended the packet over it, and poured the three grains of sand onto it. In a moment, little tendrils of smoke began to rise from the obsidian. All present could see that each grain was slowly sinking into the pockmark it was creating in the worlds hardest known stone. The guards murmured uneasily at the sight. Be silent! Peyna roared, whirling on them. The guards drew back, faces long and white with terror. This seemed more and more like witchcraft to them. I believe I know what these grains are, and how to test my idea, Flagg said, rapping the words out. But if Im right, the test must be performed as quickly as possible. Why? Peyna demanded. I believe these are grains of Dragon Sand, Flagg said. I had a very small quantity once, but it disappeared, alas, before I could study it closely. It may well have been stolen. Flagg did not miss the way Peynas eyes flicked toward Peter at this. I have been uneasy about it off and on ever since, he went on, because it is reputed to be one of the deadliest substances on earth. I did not have a chance to test its properties and so doubted, but I see much of what I was told proved here, already. Flagg pointed at the obsidian. The dimples in which the three specks of green sand rested were each now nearly an inch deepsmoke rose from each like smoke from a tiny campfire. Flagg guessed that each grain had eaten through half the thickness of the stone. Those three specks of sand are working their way rapidly through a piece of the hardest rock we know, he said. Dragon Sand is reputed to be so corrosive that it will eat through any solidany solid at all. And it produces fearsome heat. You! Guard! Flagg pointed at one of the Home Guards. He stepped forward, not looking happy to have been chosen. Touch the side of the rock, Flagg said, and as the guard reached a tentative hand forward to touch the paperweight, he added sharply Just the side! Dont get your hand near those holes! The guard touched the paperweight and drew his hand back with a gasp. He stuck his fingers in his mouth, but not before Peyna had seen the blisters rising there. Obsidian conducts heat very slowly, Ive heard, Flagg said, but that piece is as hot as the top of a stove . . . all from three gains of sand that would fit on the moon of your pinkie fingernail, with room left over! Touch the princes desk, Lord JudgeGeneral! Peyna did. He was distressed and amazed by the heat under his hand. Soon the heavy wood must begin to blister and char. So we must act quickly, Flagg said. Soon the desk itself will catch fire. If we breathe the fumesalways assuming the stories Ive been told are trueall of us will die within days. But, to be sure, another test At this, the Home Guards looked more uneasy than ever. All right, Peyna said. What is this test? Be quick, man! He detested Flagg more than ever now, and if he had ever felt it would not do to underestimate him, he felt that doubly now. Five minutes before, Peyna had been ready to dismiss the man as the Court Nobody. Now it seemed that their livesand Peynas case against Peterdepended on him. I propose to fill a bucket with water, Flagg said, speaking more rapidly than ever. His dark eyes gleamed. The Home Guards and Peyna stared at those small black holes in the obsidian, at those tiny ribbons of steam, with the evil fascination of birds hypnotized by a nest of weaving pythons. How deep into the obsidian now? How close to the wood? Impossible to tell. Even Peter was looking, although the tired mixture of sorrow and confusion had not left his face. Water from the princes pump! Flagg shouted at one of the guards. We want it in a bucket, or a deep pot or pan. Now! Now! The guard looked at Peyna. Do it, Peyna said, trying not to sound frightenedbut he was frightened, and Flagg knew it. The guard went. In moments, they heard water being pumped into a bucket he had found in the butlers cupboard. Flagg was speaking again. I propose to dip my finger into this bucket and let a drop of water fall into one of those holes, he said. Well watch this closely, Lord JudgeGeneral. We must see if the water which goes into the hole turns momentarily green. Its a sure sign. And then? Peyna asked tautly. The Home Guard returned. Flagg took the bucket, set it on the desk. Then Ill put drops very carefully into the other two holes, Flagg said. He spoke calmly, but his normally pallid cheeks were flushed. Water wont stop Dragon Sand, its told, but itll hold it. This was making things quite a bit worse than they were, but Flagg wanted them frightened. Why not just douse it? one of the guards blurted. Peyna favored this upstart with a horrible glare, but Flagg answered the question calmly as he dipped his pinkie finger into the bucket. Would you like me to wash those three grains of sand out of the holes theyve made in the rock and somewhere onto the lads desk? he asked, almost jovially. We could leave you in here to put out the fire when the water dried up, sirrah! The guard said no more. Flagg drew his dripping finger out of the bucket. Waters warm already, he said to Peyna, just from sitting on the desk. He carefully brought his finger, from which a single drop of water hung, over one of the holes. Watch closely! Flagg said sharply, and to Peter he sounded at that moment like a cheap peddler about to perform some monstrously deceiving trick. But Peyna bent close. The Home Guards craned their necks. That single drop of water hung from Flaggs finger, for a moment catching all of Peters room behind it in perfect curved miniature. It hung . . . elongated . . . and dropped into the hole. There was a spatting hisss, like the sound of grease dropped onto a hot iron skillet. A tiny geyser of steam arose from the hole . . . but before it did, Peyna clearly saw a catseye flash of green. In that moment, Peters fate was sealed. Dragon Sand, by the gods! Flagg whispered hoarsely. Dont, for pitys sake, breathe that steam! Anders Peynas courage was as hard as his reputation, but he was afraid now. To him that single wink of green light had seemed inexpressibly evil. Put out the other two, he said hoarsely. Now! I told you, Flagg said, calmly dipping his pinkie again and staring at the obsidian. They cant be put outwell, there is one way, the tales say, but only one. You wouldnt like it. Yet we can hold them, and then get rid of them. I think. He carefully plinked a drop into each of the other two holes. Each time there was a sullen green flash of light, and a plume of steam. Were all right for a bit, think, Flagg said. One of the Home Guards sighed in gusty relief. Bring me gloves . . . or folded cloths . . . anything I can use to pick up this rock. Its as hot as fury, and those drops of water will be boiled away in no time. Two hot pads from the butlers closet were brought quickly. Flagg used them to grasp the obsidian. He lifted it, careful to keep it level, then dropped it into the bucket. As the obsidian sank to the bottom, all of them clearly saw the water turn a momentary light green. Now, Flagg said expansively, that is well. One of these guards must take this bucket out of the castle, and to the large pump by the Great Old Tree in the middle of the keep. There you must draw a large basin of water, and put the bucket in the basin. The basin must be taken to the middle of Lake Johanna, and sunk in the middle. The Dragon Sand may heat up the lake in a hundred thousand years, but let those that come in that timeif any doworry about that, I say. Peyna paused for just a moment, biting his lip in uncharacteristic indecision, and then he said You and you and you. Do as he says. The bucket was removed. The Home Guards carried it like men carrying a live bomb. Flagg was amused, for all of this was, in large part, magicians foolery, as Peter himself had momentarily suspected. The single drops of water he had allowed to fall into the holes had not been enough to stop the corrosive effect of the sandat least not for longbut he knew that the water in the bucket would damp it well. Even less liquid would have served for more of the sand . . . a goblet of wine, say. But let them believe what they would; in time they would turn against Peter with that much more fury. When the guards had gone, Peyna turned to Flagg. You said there was one way the effect of Dragon Sand could be neutralized. Yesthe stories say that if it is taken into a living being, that living being will burn in agony until it is dead . . . and when it is overthe dyingthe power of the Dragon Sand also dies. I had meant to test it, but before I could do it, my sample disappeared. Peyna was staring at him, white around the lips. And on what sort of living being did you intend to test this damned stuff, Magician? Flagg looked at Peyna with bland innocence. Why, on a mouse, my Lord JudgeGeneral, of course. 41 At three that afternoon, a strange meeting took place in the Royal Court of Delain at the base of the Needlea great room which, over the years, had become known simply as Peynas Court. MeetingI dont like that word. Its too tame and small to describe the momentous decision that was arrived at that afternoon. I cannot call it a hearing or a trial, because that gathering had no legal meaning at all, but it was very important, as I think you will agree. The room was large enough to hold five hundred, but there were only seven there that afternoon. Six of them huddled close together, as if it made them nervous to be so few in a place meant for so many. The royal arms of the Kingdoma unicorn spearing a dragonhung on one of the circular stone walls, and Peter found his gaze returning to this again and again. Besides himself, Peyna was there, and Flagg (it was Flagg, of course, who sat slightly apart from the others), and four of the Kingdoms Great Lawyers. There were ten Great Lawyers in all, but the other six were at various farflung places in Delain, hearing cases. Peyna had decided he couldnt wait for them. He knew he had to move fast and decisively, or the Kingdom might bleed. He knew it, but it galled him to know he would need the help of this cool young murderer to avert such bloodshed. That Peter was a murderer was something Anders Peyna had now decided in his own heart. It wasnt the box, the green sand, or even the burning mouse that had decided him. It was Peters tears. Peter, to do him credit, looked neither guilty nor weak now. He was pale but calm, completely in charge of himself again. Peyna cleared his throat. The sound echoed dully back from the forbidding stone walls of the court chamber. He pressed a hand to his forehead and was not entirely surprised to find a sheen of cold sweat there. He had heard testimony in hundreds of great and solemn cases; he had sent more men than he cared to remember beneath the headsmans axe. But never had he thought he would have to attend a meeting such as this, or the trial of a prince for the murder of his royal father . . . and such a trial would surely follow if all went as he hoped this afternoon. It was right, he thought, that he be sweating, and right that the sweat should be cold. Just a meeting. Nothing legal here; nothing official; nothing of the Kingdom. But none of themnot Peyna, not Flagg, not the Great Lawyers, not Peter himselfwere fooled. This was the real trial. This meeting. The power was here. That burning mouse had set a great course of events in motion. That course would either be turned here, as a great river may be turned near its source when it is still a brook, or it would be allowed to run onward, gathering power as it went, until no force on earth could turn it or stand before it. Just a meeting, Anders Peyna thought, and wiped more sweat from his forehead. 42 Flagg watched the proceedings with a lively eye. Like Peyna, he knew that all would be decided here, and he felt confident. Peters head was up, his gaze firm. He met the eyes of each member of this informal jury in turn. The stone walls frowned down on all seven. The spectators benches were empty, but Peyna seemed to feel the weight of phantom eyes, eyes that demanded justice be rendered in this terrible matter. My Lord, Peyna said at last, the sun made you King three hours ago. Peter looked at Peyna, surprised but silent. Yes, Peyna said, as if Peter had spoken. The Great Lawyers were nodding, and they looked dreadfully solemn. There has been no coronation, but a coronation is only a public event. It is, for all its solemnity, show and not substance. God, the law, and the sun make a King, not the coronation. You are King at this very minute, legally able to command me, all of us here, the entire Kingdom. This puts us in a terrible dilemma. Do you understand what it is? Yes, Peter said gravely. You think your King is a murderer. Peyna was a little surprised by this bluntness, but not entirely unhappy with it. Peter had always been a blunt boy; it was a pity that his surface bluntness had concealed such depths of calculation, but the important thing was that such bluntness, probably the result of a boys stupid bravado, would speed things up. What we believe, my Lord, doesnt matter. Guilt or innocence is for a court to determineso Ive always been taught, so I believe with my most sincere heart. There is only one exception to this. Kings are above the law. Do you understand? Yes. But Peyna raised his finger. But this crime was committed before you were King. So far as I know, this terrible situation has never come before a court of Delain before. The possibilities are terrible. Anarchy, chaos, civil war. To avert all of these things, my Lord, we must have your help. Peter looked at him gravely. I will help if I can, he said. And I thinkI prayyou will agree to what I am about to propose, Peyna thought. He was conscious of fresh sweat on his forehead, but he didnt wipe it off this time. Peter was only a boy, but he was a bright boyhe might take it as a sign of weakness. Youll say youre agreeing for the good of the Kingdom, but a boy who could have the monstrous, twisted courage to kill his own father is also, I hope, a boy who cannot help believing he will get away with it. You believe we will help you cover this up, but oh my Lord, you are so wrong. Flagg, who could almost read these thoughts, raised his hand to his mouth to cover a smile. Peyna hated him, but Peyna had become his numberone helper without even knowing it. I want you to put aside the crown, Peyna said. Peter looked at him with grave surprise. Renounce the throne? he asked. I . . . I dont know, my Lord JudgeGeneral. I should have to think about that before I said yes or no. That might be hurting the Kingdom by trying to help itas a doctor may kill a sick man by giving him too much medicine. The lads clever, Flagg and Peyna thought together. You misunderstand me. Its not a renunciation of the throne I ask for. Only that you put the crown aside until this matter has been decided. If you are found innocent of your fathers murder As I will be, Peter said. If my father had ruled until I was old and toothless, it would have made me perfectly happy. I wanted only to serve him and support him and love him in all I did. Yet your father is dead, and you stand accused by circumstance. Peter nodded. If you are found innocent, you would resume the crown. If you are found guilty The Great Lawyers looked nervous at this, but Peyna did not flinch. If you are found guilty, you would be taken to the top of the Needle, where you would spend the rest of your life. None of the royal family may be executed; that law is a thousand years old. And Thomas would become King? Peter asked thoughtfully. Flagg stiffened slightly. Yes. Peter frowned, deep in thought. He looked terribly tired, but not confused or afraid, and Flagg felt a faint stirring of fear. Suppose I refuse? If you refuse, then you become King in spite of terrible charges which have not been answered. Many of your subjectsmost, in light of the evidencewill believe they have come to be ruled by a young man who murdered his own father to gain the throne. I think there will be revolt and civil war, and that those things will come before much time has passed. As for myself, I would resign my post and set out toward the west. I am old to begin over, but I should have to try to do so just the same. My life has been the law, and I could not serve a King who has not knelt to the law in such a matter as this. There was silence in the chamber, a silence that seemed very long. Peter sat with his head bowed, the heels of his hands planted against his eyes. They all watched and waited. Now even Flagg felt a thin film of sweat on his brow. Finally Peter raised his head and took his hand from his eyes. Very well, he said. Here is my command as King. I will put the crown aside until I am cleared of my fathers murder. You, Peyna, will serve Delain as Chancellor during the time it is without a royal head. I would that the trial should take place as soon as may betomorrow, even, if that is possible. I will be bound by the decision of the court. But you will not try me. They all blinked and sat up straighter at this dry note of authority, but Yosef of the stables would not have been surprised by it; he had heard that tone in the boys voice before, when Peter was only a stripling. One of these other four will do that, Peter continued. Ill not be tried by the man who will hold power in my place . . . a man who, by his look and manner, already feels in his heart that I have committed this terrible crime. Peyna felt himself flush. One of these four, Peter reiterated, turning to the Great Lawyers. Let four stones, three black and one white, be put in a cup. The one who draws the white stone shall preside at my trial. Do you agree? My Lord, I do, Peyna agreed slowly, hating the flush which even now wouldnt leave his cheeks. Again, Flagg had to raise a hand to his mouth to cover a small smile. And that, my little doomed Lord, is the only command you will ever give as King of Delain, he thought. 43 The meeting which began at three oclock was over by quarter past the hour.


Senates and parliaments may drone on for days and months before deciding a single issueand often the issue is never decided at all in spite of all the talkbut when great things happen, they usually happen fast. And three hours later, as dark was coming down, something happened which made Peter realize that, mad as it seemed, he was going to be found guilty of this terrible crime. He was escorted back to his apartments by unsmiling, silent guards. His meals, Peyna said, would be brought to him. Supper was fetched by a burly Home Guardsman with a heavy stubble of beard on his face. He was holding a tray. On it were a glass of milk and a large, steaming bowl of stew. Peter stood up as the guardsman came in. He reached for the tray. Not yet, my Lord, the guardsman said, the sneer in his voice apparent. It needs seasoning, I think. And with that he spat into the stew. Then, grinning, showing a mouthful of teeth and gaps like an illtended picket fence, he held the tray out. Here. Peter made no motion to take it. He was utterly astonished. Why did you do that? Why did you spit in my stew? Does a child who murders his father deserve any better, my Lord? No. But one who has not even been tried for the crime does, Peter said. Take that out and bring me a fresh tray. Bring it in fifteen minutes, or youll sleep tonight below Flagg in the dungeons. The guardsmans ugly sneer faltered for a moment and then returned. I think not, he said. He tilted the tray, first just a little, then more, then more. The glass and bowl shattered on the flagstones. Thick stew splattered in ropes. Lick it up, the guardsman said. Lick it up like the dog you are. He turned to go. Peter, suddenly blazing, leaped forward and slapped the man. The sound of the blow rang in the room like a pistol shot. With a bellow, the scruffy guardsman pulled out his shortsword. Smiling humorlessly, Peter lifted his chin and bared his neck. Go ahead, he said. A man who would spit in another mans soup is perhaps also the sort of man who would cut an unarmed mans throat. Go ahead. Pigs also do Gods bidding, I believe, and my shame and my grief are very great. If God wills me to live, I must, but if God wills me to die and has sent such a pig as you to do the killing, that is very well. The Home Guardsmans anger melted into confusion. After a moment he sheathed his sword. Ill not dirty my blade, he said, but his words were almost a mumble, and he was not able to meet Peters eye. Bring me fresh food and drink, Peter said quietly. I dont know who you have been talking to, guardsman, and I dont care. I dont know why you are so eager to condemn me for my fathers murder when no testimony has yet been heard, and I dont care about that, either. But you will bring me fresh meat and drink, and a napkin to go with them, and you will do this before the clock strikes half past six, or I will ring for Peyna, and you will sleep below Flagg tonight. My guilt is not proved, Peyna is yet mine to command, and I swear what I say is true. During this the Home Guardsman grew paler and paler, because he saw Peter did speak the truth. But this was not the only reason for his pallor. When his mates had told him the prince had been caught redhanded, he had believed themhe had wanted to believe thembut now he wondered. Peter did not look or speak like a guilty man. Yes, my Lord, he said. The soldier went out. A few moments later, the captain of the guard opened the door and looked in. I thought I heard some disturbance, he said. His eye fell on the broken glass and crockery. Has there been trouble here? No trouble, Peter said calmly. I dropped the tray. The guardsman has gone to fetch me a fresh meat. The captain nodded and left. Peter sat on his bed for the next ten minutes and thought deeply. There was a brief knock on the door. Come, Peter said. The bearded, gaptoothed guard came in with a fresh tray. My Lord, I wish to apologize, he said with awkward stiffness. Ive never behaved so in my whole life, and dont know what came over me. For my life I do not. I Peter waved it away. He felt very tired. Do the others feel as you do? The other guards? My Lord, the guardsman said, carefully setting the tray on Peters desk, Im not sure I still feel the way I did. But do the others feel that I am guilty? There was a long pause, and then the soldier nodded. And is there some one reason they tell against me most of all? They speak of a mouse that burned . . . they say you wept when Peyna confronted you. . . . Peter nodded grimly. Yes. Weeping had been a bad mistake, but he hadnt been able to help it . . . and it was done. But most of all they only say you were caught, that you wanted to be King, that it must be so. That I wanted to be King and so it must be so, Peter echoed. Yes, my Lord. The guardsman stood looking at Peter miserably. Thank you. Go now, please. My Lord, I apologize Your apology is accepted. Please go. I need to think. Looking as if he wished he had never been born, the Home Guardsman stepped out the door and closed it behind him. Peter spread his napkin over his knees but didnt eat. Any hunger he might have felt earlier was now gone. He plucked at the napkin and thought of his mother. He was gladvery glad indeedthat she wasnt alive to see this, to see what he had come to. All of his life he had been a lucky boy, a blessed boy, a boy to whom, it sometimes seemed, no bad luck ever came. Now it seemed that all the bad luck which should have been his over the years had only been stored up to be paid at once, and with sixteen years of interest. But most of all they say you wanted to be King and it must be so. In some deep way he understood. They wanted a good King they could love. But they also wanted to know they had been saved by only a hairs breadth from a bad one. They wanted blackness and secrets; they wanted their fearful tale of rotten royalty. God only knew why. They say you wanted to be King, they say it must be so. Peyna believes it, Peter thought, and that guardsman believed it; they will all believe it. This is not a nightmare. I have been accused of my fathers murder, and not all my good behavior and my obvious love for him will dismiss the charge. And part of them wants to believe I did it. Peter carefully refolded his napkin and laid it over the top of the fresh bowl of stew. He could not eat. 44 There was a trial, and it was a great wonder, and there are histories of the event if you care to read them. But heres the root of the matter Peter, son of Roland, was brought before the JudgeGeneral of Delain by a burning mouse; tried in a meeting of seven which was not a court; convicted by a Home Guardsman who delivered his verdict by spitting into a bowl of stew. That is the story, and sometimes stories tell more than histories, and more quickly, too. 45 When Ulrich Wicks, who drew the white stone and took Peynas place on the bench, announced the verdict of the court, the spectatorsmany of whom had sworn for years that Peter would make the best King in Delains long historyapplauded savagely. They rose to their feet and surged forward, and if a line of Home Guards with their swords drawn had not held them back, they might well have overturned the sentence of lifelong imprisonment and exile at the top of the Needle and lynched the young prince instead. As he was led away, spittle flew in a rain, and Peter was well covered by it. Yet he walked with his head up. A door to the left of the great courtroom led into a narrow hallway. The hallway stretched perhaps forty paces, and then the stairs began. They wound up and up, around and around, all the way to the top of the Needle, where the two rooms Peter would live in henceforth, until the day he died, awaited him. There were three hundred stairs in all. We will come to Peter at the top, in his rooms, and in good time; his story, as you will see, is not done. But we will not climb with him, because it was a climb of shame, leaving his rightful place as King at the bottom and marching, shoulders back and head erect, toward his place as prisoner of the Kingdom at the topit would not be kind to follow him or any man on such a walk. Let us instead think of Thomas for a while, and see what happened when he recovered his wits and discovered that he was King of Delain. 46 No, Thomas whispered in a voice that was utterly horrified. His eyes had grown huge in his pale face. His mouth trembled. Flagg had just told him that he was King of Delain, but Thomas did not look like a boy who has been told he is the King; he looked like a boy who has been told he is to be shot in the morning. No, he said again. I dont want to be King. It was true. All his life he had been bitterly jealous of Peter, but one thing he had never been jealous of was Peters coming ascension to the throne. That was a responsibility Thomas had never in his wildest dreams wished for. And now one nightmare was piled on top of another. It seemed it wasnt enough that he had awakened to the news that his brother had been imprisoned in the Needle for the murder of their father, the King. Now here was Flagg, with the appalling news that he was King in Peters place. No, I dont want to be King, I wont be King. I . . . I refuse! I UTTERLY REFUSE! You cant refuse, Thomas, Flagg said briskly. He had decided this was the best line to take with Thomas friendly but brisk. Thomas needed Flagg more now than he had ever needed anyone in his whole life. Flagg knew this, but he also knew that he was uniquely at Thomass mercy. He would be wild and skittish for a time, apt to do anything, and care would have to be taken to establish a firm hold over the boy here at the outset. You need me, Tommy, but it would be a very bad mistake for me to tell you that. No, you must say it to me. There must be no question about who is in charge. Not now, not ever. Cant refuse? Thomas whispered. He had jerked upright on his elbows at Flaggs awful news. Now he fell weakly back on his pillows again. Cant? I feel weak again. I think the fevers coming back. Send for the doctor. I might need to be bled. I Youre fine, Flagg said, standing up. Ive filled you full of good medicine, your fevers gone, and all you want is a little fresh air to finish the job. But if you need a doctor to tell you the same thing, Tommy (Flagg let the smallest note of reproach creep into his voice), then you need only to pull the bell. Flagg pointed at the bell and smiled a little. It was not a terribly kind smile. I understand your urge to hide in your bed, but I wouldnt be your friend unless I told you that any refuge you sense in your bed or in trying to stay sick, is a false refuge. False? I advise you to get up and begin working at getting your strength back. Youre to be crowned with royal pomp and ceremony in three days time. Being carried up the aisle in your bed to the platform where Peyna will stand with the crown and scepter would be a humiliating way to start a kingly reign, but if it comes to that, I assure you they will do it. Headless kingdoms are uneasy kingdoms. Peyna means to see you crowned as soon as possible. Thomas lay on his pillows, trying to absorb this information. He was rabbiteyed with fear. Flagg grabbed his redlined cloak from the bedpost, swirled it over his shoulders, and hooked its gold chain at his neck. Next he took a silverheaded cane from the corner. He flourished it, crossed his waist with it, and made a large bow in Thomass direction. The cloak . . . the hat . . . the cane . . . these things scared Thomas. Here had come a terrible time when he needed Flagg more than he had ever needed him before, and Flagg looked dressed for . . . for . . . He looks dressed for traveling. His panic of a few moments ago was only a minor scare in comparison with the frightful cold hands which seized Thomass heart now. And now, dear Tommy, I wish you a healthy disposition all of your life, all the cheer your heart can stand, a long, prosperous reign . . . and goodbye! He started for the door and had actually begun to think the boy was so utterly paralyzed with panic that he, Flagg, would have to think of some stratagem for returning to the little fools bedside on his own, when Thomas managed a single, strangled word Wait! Flagg turned back, an expression of polite concern on his face. My Lord King? Where . . . where are you going? Why . . . Flagg looked surprised, as if it hadnt occurred to him until now to think Thomas would even care. Andua to start with. They are great sailors, you know, and there are many lands beyond the Sea of Tomorrow Ive never seen. Sometimes a captain will take a magician on board for good luck, to conjure a wind if the ship is becalmed, or to tell the weather. If no one wants a magicianwell, I am not as young as I was when I first came here, but I can still run a line and unfurl a sail. Smiling, Flagg mimed the action, never dropping his cane. Thomas was up on his elbows again. No! he nearly screamed. No! My Lord King Dont call me that! Flagg crossed to him, now allowing an expression of deeper concern to fill his face. Tommy, then. Dear old Tommy. Whatevers wrong? Whats wrong? Whats wrong? How can you be so stupid? My fathers dead by poison, Peters in the Needle for the crime, I must be King, you are planning to leave, and you want to know whats wrong? Thomas uttered a wild, shrieky little laugh. But all these things must be, Tommy, Flagg said gently. I cant be King, Thomas said. He seized Flaggs arm, and his nails sank deeply into the magicians strange flesh. Peter was meant to be King, Peter was always the smart one, I was stupid, I am stupid, I cant be King! God makes Kings, Flagg said. God . . . and sometimes magicians, he thought with an inward titter. He has made you King, and mark me, Tommy, you will be King. Either youll be King or there will be dirt shoveled over you. Let it be dirt, then! Ill kill myself. Youll do no such thing. Better to kill myself than to be laughed at for a thousand years as the prince who died of fright. Youll make a King, Tommy. Never fear. But I must go. These days are cold, but the nights are colder. And I want to be clear of the city before dusk falls. No, stay! Thomas clutched wildly at Flaggs cloak. If I must be King, then stay and advise me, as you advised my father! Dont go! I dont know why you want to go, anyway! Youve been here forever! Ah, finally, Flagg thought. This is goodin fact, this is RICH. It is hard for me to go, Flagg said gravely. Very hard. I love Delain. And I love you, Tommy. Then stay! You dont understand my situation. Anders Peyna is a powerful manan extremely powerful man. And he doesnt like me. I should think it fair to say he probably hates me. Why? Partly because he knows how longhow very longI have been here. More, I think, because he senses exactly what I mean to Delain. Its hard to say, Tommy. I suppose it has to do with the fact that he is a very powerful man, and powerful men usually resent other men who are as powerful as themselves. People like a Kings closest advisor, perhaps. As you were my fathers closest advisor? Yes. He picked up Thomass hand and squeezed it for a moment. Then he let go of it and sighed mournfully. A Kings advisors are much like the deer in a Kings private park. Such deer are cosseted and petted and fed by hand. Both advisors and tame deer have pleasant lives, but Ive all too often seen a tame park deer end up on the Kings table when the Kings Preserves wouldnt yield up a wild buck for that nights deer steaks or venison stew. When a ruling King dies, the old advisors have a way of disappearing. Thomas looked both angry and alarmed. Has Peyna threatened you? No . . . he has been very good, Flagg said. Very patient. I have read his eyes, however, and I know that his patience will not last forever. His eyes tell me that I might find the climate in Andua healthier. He rose with another swirl of cape. So . . . as little as I like to go . . . Wait! Thomas cried again, and in his pinched, pallid face, Flagg saw all his ambitions about to be fulfilled. If you were protected when my father was King, because you were his advisor, wouldnt you be protected now that I am King, if you were my advisor? Flagg appeared to think deeply and gravely. Yes . . . I suppose . . . if you made it very clear to Peyna . . . very clear indeed . . . that any move made against me would be looked upon with royal disfavor. Very great royal disfavor. Oh, I would! Thomas said eagerly. I would! So will you stay? Please? If you go, I really will kill myself! I dont know anything about being a King, and I really will! Flagg still stood with his head down, his face deep in shadow, apparently thinking solemnly. He was, in fact, smiling. But when he raised his head, his face was grave. I have served the Kingdom of Delain almost all of my life, he said, and I suppose that if you commanded me to stay . . . to stay and serve you to the best of my abilities . . . I do so command you! Thomas cried in a quivering, febrile voice. Flagg sank to one knee. My Lord! he said. Thomas, sobbing with relief, threw himself into Flaggs arms. Flagg caught him and held him. Dont cry, my little Lord King, he whispered. All will be well. Yes, all will be very well for you and me and the Kingdom. His grin widened, showing very white, very strong teeth. 47 Thomas couldnt sleep a wink the night before he was to be crowned in the Plaza of the Needle, and in the earlymorning hours of that dread day he was seized by a terrible fit of vomiting and diarrhea brought on by nervousnessit was stage fright. Stage fright sounds both silly and comic, but there was nothing either silly or comic about this. Thomas was still only a little boy, and what he felt in the night, when we are all most alone, was an extremity of fear so great that it would not be wrong to call it mortal terror. He rang for a servant and bade him fetch Flagg. The servant, alarmed by Thomass pallor and the smell of vomit in the room, ran all the way and hardly waited to be given entry before bursting in and telling Flagg that the young prince was very ill indeed, might even be dying. Flagg, who had an idea of what the trouble was, told the servant to go and tell his master he would be with him shortly, and to fear nothing. He was there in twenty minutes. I cant go through with it, Thomas moaned. He had vomited in his bed, and the sheets stank of it. I cant be King, I cant, please, you have to stop it from happening, how can I go through with it when I may vomit in front of Peyna and all of them, vomit or . . . or . . . Youll be fine, Flagg said calmly. He had mixed a brew which would both soothe Thomass stomach and temporarily cement his bowels shut. Drink this. Thomas drank it. Im going to die, he said, putting the glass aside. I wont have to kill myself. My heart will just burst from fear. My father said that sometimes rabbits die that way in snares, even if they arent badly hurt. And thats what I am. A rabbit in a trap, dying of fear. Youre partly right, dear Tommy, Flagg thought. Youre not dying of fear as you think, but you are indeed a rabbit in a trap. You will change your mind about that, I think, Flagg said. He had been mixing a second potion. It was cloudy pinka restful color. Whats that? Something to calm your nerves and let you sleep. Thomas drank it. Flagg sat by his bedside. Soon Thomas was sleeping deeplyso deeply that if the servant had seen him at that moment, he might have believed his prediction had come true and Thomas was dead. Flagg took the boys sleeping hand in his own and patted it with something like love. In his own way he did love Thomas, but Sasha would have known Flaggs love for what it was the love of a master for his pet dog. He is so much like his father, Flagg thought, and the old man never knew it. Oh, Tommy, we will have wonderful times, you and I, and before I am done the Kingdom will run with royal blood. Ill be gone, but I wont go far, at least not at first. Ill come back in disguise just long enough to see your flyblown head on a spike . . . and to open your brothers chest with my dagger, and rip his heart from his chest, and eat it raw, as his father ate the heart of his precious dragon. Smiling, Flagg left the room. 48 The coronation went off with no trouble or complications at all. Thomass servants (he had no butler, being too young, but this would be provided for soon) dressed him for the occasion in fine clothes of black velvet which were strewn with jewels (All mine, Thomas thought with wonderand with dawning greedThese are all mine now) and high black boots of finest kid leather. When Flagg appeared promptly at eleventhirty and said, It is time, my Lord King, Thomas was far less nervous than he had expected. The sedative the magician had given him the night before was still working in him. Take my arm then, he said, in case I stumble. Flagg took Thomass arm. In the years to come, it was a posture the inhabitants of the court city would become very familiar withFlagg appearing to bear the boy King up as if he were an old man instead of a healthy youngster. They walked out together into bright wintry sunshine. A cheer so great it was like the sound of surf breaking against the long, desolate strands of the Eastern Barony greeted their coming. Thomas looked around, amazed at the sound, and his first thought was Where is Peter? Surely this must be for Peter! Then he remembered that Peter was in the Needle and realized the cheering was for him. He felt a dawning pleasure . . . and I must tell you that the pleasure was not just in knowing the cheers were for him. He knew that Peter, locked in his lonely tower rooms, must hear the cheering, too. What does it matter now that you were always best in lessons? Thomas thought with a mean happiness that pricked him even as it warmed him. What does it matter now? You are locked in the Needle and I . . . I am to be King! What does it matter that you brought him a glass of wine every night and But this last thought caused a strange, greasy sweat to rise on his forehead, and he put it away from him. The cheers rose again and again as he and Flagg walked first to the Plaza of the Needle and then under the arch formed by the upraised ceremonial swords of the Home Guard, dressed again in their fine red ceremonial uniforms and their tall WolfJaw shakos. Thomas began to positively enjoy himself. He raised a hand in salute, and his subjects cheers became a storm. Men threw their hats in the air. Women wept for joy. Cries of The King! The King! Behold the King! Thomas the LightBringer! Long live the King! rose in the air. Thomas, who was only a boy, thought they were for him. Flagg, who had perhaps never been a boy, knew better. The cheers were because the time of unease was past. They were cheering the fact that things could go on as they always had, that the shops could be reopened, that grimeyed soldiers in tight leather hats would no longer stand watches around the castle in the night, that everyone could get drunk following this solemn ceremony and not worry about waking to the sounds of confused midnight revolt. No more than that, no less than that. Thomas could have been anyone, anyone at all. He was a figurehead. But Flagg would see that Thomas never knew that. Not, at any rate, until it was too late. The ceremony itself was short. Anders Peyna, looking twenty years older than the week before, officiated. Thomas answered I will, I shall, and I swear in all the right places, as Flagg had coached him. At the end of the ceremonies, which were conducted in such solemn silence that even those at the farthest edges of the huge crowd could hear them clearly, the crown was placed on Thomass head. Cheers rose again, louder than ever, and Thomas looked upup and up the smooth, rounded stone side of the Needle, to the very top, where there was but one window. He couldnt see if Peter was looking down, but he hoped Peter was. He hoped Peter was looking down and biting his lips in frustration until the blood flowed down his chin, as Thomas had often bitten his own lipsbitten them until there was a fine white network of scars there. Do you hear that, Peter? he shrilled in his mind. Theyre cheering for ME! Theyre cheering for ME! Theyre finally cheering for ME! 49 On his first night as King, Thomas the LightBringer awoke straight up and staring in bed, his face stark and horrified, his hands crammed against his mouth as if to stifle a scream. He had just had a terrible nightmare, one even worse than those in which he relived the awful afternoon in the Eastern Tower. This dream had been a kind of reliving, too. He was in the secret passage again, spying on his father. It was the night his father had been so drunk and furious, striding around the room and shrilling defiance at the heads on the walls. But when his father came to the head of Niner, the things he said were not the same. Why do you stare at me? his father shrieked in the dream. Hes killed me and I suppose you couldnt stop that, but how could you see your brother imprisoned for it? Answer me, damn you! I did the best I could, and look at me! Look at me! His father began to burn. His face turned the dull red of a wellbanked fire. Smoke burst from his eyes, his nose, his mouth. He doubled over in agony and Thomas saw that his fathers hair was on fire. That was when he woke up. The wine! he thought now, in horror. Flagg brought him a glass of wine that night! Everyone knew that Peter brought him wine every night, so everyone thought Peter poisoned the wine! But Flagg brought him wine that night, too, and he never did before! And the poison came from Flagg! He said it was stolen from him years ago, but . . . He would not allow himself to think of such things. He would not. Because if he did think of such things He would kill me, Thomas whispered, horrified. You could go to Peyna. Peyna doesnt like him. Yes, he could do that. But then all his old dislike and jealousy of Peter returned. If he told, Peter would be let out of the Needle and would take his place as King. Thomas would be no one again, just a bumbling prince who had been King for one day. It had taken only one day for Thomas to discover he could like being Kinghe could like it very much, especially with Flagg to help him. Besides, he didnt really know anything, did he? He only had an idea. And his ideas had always been wrong. Hes killed me and I suppose you couldnt stop that, but how could you see your brother imprisoned for it? Never mind, Thomas thought, it must be wrong, it has to be wrong, and even if it isnt, it serves him right. He turned over on his side, determined to go back to sleep. And after a long time, sleep came. In the years ahead, that nightmare sometimes came againhis father accusing his hidden, spying son and then doubling over, smoking, his hair on fire. In those years, Thomas discovered two things guilt and secrets, like murdered bones, never rest easy; but the knowledge of all three can be lived with. 50 If you had asked him, Flagg would have said with smiling contempt that Thomas could keep a secret from no one except a person who was mentally enfeebled, and perhaps not even from such a one as that. Certainly he could not keep a secret, Flagg would have said, from the man who had engineered his rise to the throne. But men like Flagg are full of pride and confidence in themselves, and although they may see much, they are sometimes strangely blind. Flagg never guessed that Thomas had been behind Niner that night, and that he had seen Flagg give Roland the glass of poisoned wine. That was a secret Thomas kept. 51 Above the jubilee of the coronation, at the top of the Needle, Peter stood at a small window, looking down. As Thomas had hoped, he had seen and heard everything, from the first cheers when Thomas appeared on Flaggs arm to the last as he disappeared back into the palace itself, also on Flaggs arm. He stood at the window for nearly three hours after the ceremony was over, watching the crowds. They were loath to break up and go home. There was much to discuss and much to relive. ThisOne had to tell ThatOne just where he had been when he heard the old King was dead, and then they both had to tell TotherOne. The women had a final good cry over Roland and exclaimed over how fine Thomas had looked, and how calm he had seemed. The children chased each other and pretended they were Kings and rolled hoops and fell down and skinned their knees and screamed and then laughed and chased each other again. The men clapped one another on the back and told each other that they guessed all would be well nowit had been a terrible week, but now all would be well. Yet through all of this there ran a dull yellow thread of unease, as if they realized that all was not well, that the things which had gone so wrong when the old King had been murdered were not right yet. Peter, of course, could tell none of this from his high, lonely perch in the Needle, but he sensed something. Yes, something. At three oclock, three hours early, the meadhouses opened, supposedly in honor of the new Kings coronation, but mostly because there was business to be had. People wanted to drink and celebrate. By seven that night, most of the population of the city was reeling through the streets, drinking the health of Thomas the LightBringer (or brawling with each other). It was nearly dark when the revelers finally began to disperse. Peter left the window, went to the one chair in his sitting room (that name was a cruel joke), and simply sat there with his hands folded in his lap. He sat and watched the room darken. His dinner camefatty meat, watery ale, and coarse bread so salty it would have stung his mouth if he had eaten any. But Peter did not eat the meat or bread, nor did he drink the ale. Around nine oclock, as the carousing in the streets began again (this time the crowds were much more boisterous . . . almost riotous), Peter went into his prisons second room, stripped to his singlet, washed with water from the basin, knelt by his bed, and prayed. Then he got into bed. There was only a single blanket, although the little bedroom was very cold. Peter pulled it to his chest, laced his hands together in back of his head, and looked up into the darkness. From outside and below came screams and cheers and laughter. Now and then there was the sound of firecrackers, and once, near midnight, there was an explosive gunpowder flatulence as a drunken soldier set off a blank charge (the following day, the unfortunate soldier was sent as far east as the Kingdom of Detain stretched, for his drunken salute to the new Kinggunpowder was rare in Delain, and jealously hoarded). Sometime after one in the morning, Peter at last closed his eyes and slept. The next morning, he was up at seven. He knelt, shivering in the cold, his breath puffing white from his mouth, goosebumps on his bare arms and legs, and prayed. When his prayers were done, he dressed. He went into the sitting room and stood by the window silently for nearly two hours, watching the city come to life below him. That coming alive was slower and crankier than usual; most of the adults in Delain woke with drinkswollen heads. They stumbled to their jobs slowly, and in a foul temper. Many of the men went to their tasks blistered by angry wives who had no sympathy with their aching heads (Thomas also had an aching headhe had drunk too much wine the night beforebut at least he was spared the lecturing wife). Peters breakfast came, Beson, his Chief Warder (who had a hangover of his own), fetched him plain bran cereal with no sugar, watery milk that was rapidly souring, and more of the coarse, salty bread. This was a bitter contrast to the pleasant breakfasts Peter had enjoyed in his study, and he ate none of it. At eleven, one of the Lesser Warders fetched it silently away. Young princeling means to starve, thinks I, he said to Beson. Good, Beson replied indifferently.


Spare us the trouble of keeping him. Maybe he fears poison, the Lesser Warder ventured, and in spite of his aching head, Beson laughed. The jest was a good one. Peter spent most of his day in the sittingroom chair. In the later part of the afternoon, he stood at the window again. The window was not barred. Unless you were a bird there was nowhere to go but straight down. No one, not Peyna, not Flagg, not Aron Beson, worried that the prisoner might somehow climb down. The Needles curving stone wall was utterly smooth. A fly might have done it, but not a man. And if he grew depressed enough to jump, would anyone care? Not much. It would save the state the expense of feeding and housing a blueblooded murderer. As the sun began to move across the floor and up the wall, Peter sat and watched it. His dinnermore fatty meat, watery ale, and salty breadcame. Peter did not touch it. When the sun was gone, he sat in the dark until nine, and then went into the bedroom. He stripped to his singlet, knelt, and prayed with small white puffs coming from his mouth. He got into bed, laced his hands behind his head, and lay on his back, staring up into the darkness. He lay there thinking about what had become of him. Around one oclock in the morning, he slept. So he was on the second day. And the third. And the fourth. For a full week Peter ate nothing, spoke nothing, and did nothing but stand at his sittingroom window or sit in his chair, watching the sun crawl across the floor and then up the wall to the ceiling. Beson was convinced that the boy was in an utter blackness of guilt and despairhe had seen such things before, especially among royalty. The boy would die, he thought, like a wild bird that was never meant to be caged. The boy would die, and good riddance to him. But on the eighth day, Peter sent for Aron Beson and gave him certain instructions . . . and he did not give them like a prisoner. He gave them like a King. 52 Peter did feel despair . . . but it was not as deep as Beson believed. He spent that first week in the Needle carefully thinking out his position, and trying to decide what he should do. He had fasted to clear his head. Eventually it did clear, but for a while he felt terribly lost, and the weight of his situation pressed down on his head like a blacksmiths anvil. Then he remembered one simple truth he knew he hadnt killed his father, even if everyone else in the Kingdom thought he had. During the first day or two, he grappled with useless feelings. The childish part of him kept crying out, Not fair! This is not fair! And of course it wasnt, but that sort of thinking got him no place. As he fasted, he began to regain control of himself. His empty belly peeled the childish part of him away. He began to feel cleaner, husked out, empty . . . like a glass waiting to be filled. After two or three days of eating nothing, the growlings in his stomach subsided, and he began to hear his real thoughts more dearly. He prayed, but part of him knew that he was doing more than praying; he was talking to himself, listening to himself, wondering if there was a way out of this prison in the sky where he had been so neatly put. He had not killed his father. That was the first thing. Someone had blamed it on him. That was the second thing. Who? There was only one person who could have, of course; only one person in all of Detain who could have had such an awful poison as Dragon Sand. Flagg. It made perfect sense. Flagg knew he would have no place in a kingdom ruled by Peter. Flagg had been careful to make Thomas his friend . . . and to make Thomas fear him. Somehow, Flagg had murdered Roland and then arranged the evidence which had sent Peter here. He was this far by the third night of Thomass reign. Then what was he to do? Simply accept? No, he wouldnt do that. Escape? He couldnt do that. No one had ever escaped from the Needle. Except . . . A glimmer came to him. This was on the fourth night, as he looked at his dinner tray. Fatty meat, watery ale, salty bread. A plain white plate. No napkin. Except . . . The glimmer grew brighter. There might be a way to escape. There might. It would be horribly dangerous, and it would be long. At the end of much work, he might only die in spite of all his efforts. But . . . there might be a way. And if he did escape, what then? Was there a way to bring the murder home to the magician? Peter did not know. Flagg was a wily old serpenthe would have left no evidence of what he had done to damn him later on. Could Peter worm a confession out of the magician? He might be able to, always assuming Peter could lay hands on him in the first placePeter guessed that Flagg might disappear like smoke if he heard that Peter had escaped the Needle. Would anyone believe Flaggs confession, even if Peter could get one out of him? Oh yes, he confessed to the murder of Roland, people would say. Peter, the escaped fatherkiller, had a sword to his throat. In a fix like that, I might confess to anything, even the murder of God! You might be tempted to laugh at Peter, turning such things over in his mind while he was still imprisoned three hundred feet in the sky. You might say he had gotten the cart quite a bit forward of the horse. But Peter had seen a way he might escape. It might, of course, only be a way to die young, but he thought it had a chance of working. Still . . . was there any reason to go through all the work if in the end it could come to nothing? Or, worse still, if it were to cause the Kingdom fresh harm in some way he did not see now? He thought about these things and prayed over them. The fourth night passed . . . the fifth . . . the sixth. On the seventh night, Peter came to this conclusion it was better to try than not to try; better to make an effort to right the wrong even if he died trying to do so. An injustice had been done. He discovered a strange thingthe fact that the injustice had been done to him didnt seem half so important as the fact that it had been done at all. It ought to be righted. On the eighth day of Thomass reign, he sent for Beson. 53 Beson listened to the speech of the imprisoned prince with incredulity and mounting rage. Peter finished and Aron Beson let loose a gutter flood of obscenity that would have made a horse drover blush. Peter stood before it, impassive. You murdering snotnosed hound! Beson finished, in a tone that was close to wonder. I guess you think yer still livin in the bloody lap o luxury, with yer sairvants to run scurrying every time you lift one o yer perfoomed little fingers. But it aint like that in here, my young prince. No, sir. Beson leaned forward from the waist, scruffy chin jutting, and although the stench of the mansweat and thick cheap wine and great gray scales of dirtwas nearly overpowering, Peter did not give ground. There were no bars between them; Beson had yet to fear a prisoner, and certainly he felt no fear of this young whelp. The Chief Warder was fifty, short, broad of shoulder, deep in the gut. His greasy hair hung in tangles around his cheeks and down the back of his neck. When he had come into Peters room, one of the Lesser Warders had locked the door behind them. Beson balled his left hand into a fist and shook it under Peters nose. His right hand slid into the pouch pocket of his shirt and closed around a smooth cylinder of metal. One hard smash with that loaded fist would break a mans jaw. Beson had done it before. You take your requests, and you jam them up your nose with the rest of the boogers, my dear little prince. And the next time you call me in here for any such royal rubbage as this, youll bleed for it. Beson started away toward the door, short and hunched over and almost trolllike. He traveled in his own tight little cloud of stink. You are in danger of making an extremely bad mistake, Peter said. His voice was soft but grim, and it carried. Beson turned back to him, his face incredulous. What did you say? You heard me, Peter said. And when you speak to me next, you stinking little turnip, I think you had better remember you are speaking to royalty, dont you? My lineage did not change when I climbed those steps. For a moment Beson could not reply. His mouth opened and closed like the mouth of a fish yanked out of the oceanalthough any fisherman catching something as ugly as Beson would surely have thrown it back. Peters cool requestsrequests delivered in a tone which made it clear that they were in reality demands not to be refusedmade Besons head buzz with fury. One of the requests had been that of either an utter sissy or an outright lunatic. That one Beson had dismissed at once as nonsense and tomfoolery. The other, however, had to do with his meals. That, combined with the firm resolute look in Peters eye, suggested that the young prince had thrown off his despair and meant to live. The future prospects for idle days and drunken nights had looked bright. Now they had dimmed again. This young boy looked very healthy, very strong. He might live a long time. Beson might very well have to look at the young murderers face for the rest of his own lifethere was a thought to set a mans teeth on edge! And Stinking turnip? Did he actually call me a stinking turnip? Oh, my dear little prince, Beson said, I think you are the one who has made the mistake . . . but I can promise youll never make it again. His lips split open in a grin, revealing a few blackened stumps of teeth. Now, about to attack, he moved with surprising grace. His right hand came out of the pouch pocket, wrapped around the bar of metal. Peter took a step backward, his eyes moving from Besons fisted hands to Besons face and then back to his fists. Behind Beson, the tiny barred window in the middle of Peters door was opened. Two of the Lesser Warders were crammed there cheek to stubbly cheek, grinning and waiting for the fun to start. You know that royal prisoners are to be given some consideration in smaller matters, Peter said, still backtracking and circling. That is tradition. And I have asked you for nothing untoward. Besons grin widened. He imagined he heard fear in Peters voice. He was mistaken. This error would shortly be brought home to him in a way to which he was unaccustomed. Such traditions are paid for, even among the royalty, my little prince. Beson rubbed his left thumb and finger together. His right fist remained tightly balled around the chunk of metal. If you mean you wish an odd bit of cash from time to time, that might be arranged, Peter said, continuing to circle away. But only if you drop this foolish behavior of yours right now. Afraid, are you? If anyone should be afraid here, I think it is you, Peter said. You apparently mean to attack the brother of the King of Detain. This shot struck home, and for a moment Beson faltered. His eyes grew uncertain. Then he glanced toward the open window in the door, saw the faces of his Lesser Warders, and his own face darkened again. If he drew back now, he would have trouble with themnothing he couldnt handle, of course, but still more annoyance than this little stinker was worth. He moved forward in a rush and swung the weighted fist. He was grinning. The princes screams as he fell to the stone floor with his smashed and squirting nose clutched in his hands would be, Beson thought, shrill and babyish. Peter moved back easily, his feet moving as gracefully as if in a dance. He seized Besons fist and was not surprised in the least by its weighthe had seen the gleam of metal between Besons swelled fingers. Peter pulled with a wiry strength that Beson would not have believed five minutes ago. He spun through the air and hit the curving inner wall of Peters sitting room with a crash that rattled the few teeth remaining in his jaws. Stars exploded in his head. The metal cylinder flew from his fist and rolled across the floor. And before Beson could even begin to recover, Peter had sprung after it and seized it. He moved with the simple, pure liquidity of a cat. This cant be happening, Beson thought with dawning dismay and stupid surprise. This absolutely cant be happening. He had never feared entering the tworoom prison at the top of the Needle, because there had never been a prisoner here, not of noble blood, not of royal blood, who could best him. Oh, there had been some famous fights up here, but he had taught them all who was boss. Perhaps they ruled the roost down below, but up here he was the boss, and they came to respect his dirty, compact power. But now this stripling of a boy . . . Bellowing with rage, Beson came off the wall, shaking his head to clear it, and charged Peter, who had folded the cylinder of metal into his own right hand. The Lesser Warders stood staring at this unexpected development with stupid wonder. Neither thought of interfering; they could believe what was happening no more than Beson himself. Beson ran at Peter with his arms outstretched. Now that the prince had gotten his fist weight away from him, Beson had no more interest in the sort of freeforall swinging and hitting he thought of as boxing. He meant to close with Peter, grapple with him, drive him to the floor, land on top of him, and then choke him unconscious. But the space where Peter had been emptied with magical suddenness as the boy stepped aside and dropped into a crouch. As the squat, trolllike Chief Warder went past, trying to turn, Peter hit him three times with his right fist, which was closed around the metal cylinder. Hardly fair, Peter thought, but, then, it wasnt I that brought this piece of metal into it, was it? The blows did not look hard at all. If Beson had been watching a fight and had seen those three quick, fluttering punches thrown, he would have laughed and called them sissy punches. Besons idea of a real mans punch was a roundhouse blow that made the air whistle. But they werent sissy punches at all, no matter what the likes of Beson might have thought. Each was driven out from the shoulder, just as Peters boxing instructor had taught him in their twiceweekly classes over the last six years. The punches were economical, they didnt make the air whistle, but Beson felt as if he had been kicked three times in rapid succession by a very small pony with very big hoofs. There was a flare of agony across the left side of his face as his cheekbone broke. To Beson, it sounded as if a small branch had snapped inside his head. He was driven into the wall again. He hit it like a rag doll and bounced back bucklekneed. He stared at the prince with obvious dismay. The Lesser Warders peering through the hole in the door were agog with surprise. Beson, being beaten by a boy? It was as unbelievable as rain would have been coming down from a clear blue sky. One of them now looked at the key in his hand, thought briefly of going in there, then thought better of it. A man could get hurt in there. He slipped the key into his pocket, where he could later claim to have forgotten it. Are you ready to talk reasonably now? Peter wasnt even out of breath. This is silly. I require only two small favors of you, favors for which you can count on being well and amply repaid. You With a roar, Beson flung himself at Peter again. This time Peter was not expecting an attack, but he managed to pull back anyway, the way a matador pulls back from a bull which charges unexpectedlythe matador may be surprised, perhaps even gored, but he rarely loses his grace. Peter did not lose his, but he was wounded. Besons nails were long, ragged, and filthymore like animal claws than human nailsand he liked to tell his Lesser Warders (on dark winters nights when a gruesome tale seemed required) about the time he had slit a prisoners neck from ear to ear with one of those thumbnails. Now one drew a bloody line down Peters left cheek as Beson flailed his way by. The cut zigzagged from temple to jawline, missing Peters left eye by hardly half an inch. Peters cheek fell open in a flap, and all his life he would bear the scar of his encounter with Beson there. Peter grew angry. All the things that had happened to him over the last ten days seemed to slam together in his head, and for a moment he was almostnot quite, but almostangry enough to kill the brutish Chief Warder instead of just teaching him a lesson he would never, never forget. As Beson turned, he was rocked by left hooks and right jabs. The jabs would ordinarily have done little damage, but the pound and a half of metal in Peters fist turned them into torpedoes. His knuckles sprung Besons jaw. Beson roared with pain and again tried to close with Peter. This was a mistake. There was a crunch as his nose broke and blood flooded over his mouth and chin. It dripped onto his filthy jerkin. Then a bright flare of pain as that heavy right hand smashed his lips back. Beson spat a tooth onto the floor and tried to circle away. He had forgotten that his Lesser Warders were watching, afraid to interfere. Beson had forgotten his anger at the young princes attitude, had lost his former desire to teach the young prince a lesson. For the first time in his tenure as Chief Warder, he had forgotten everything but a blind desire to survive. For the first time in his tenure as Chief Warder, Beson was afraid. Nor was it the fact that Peter was now punching him at will that frightened him. He had taken bad beatings before, although never at the hands of a prisoner. No, it was the look in Peters eyes that had so terrified him. It is the look of a King. Gods protect me, it is the face of a Kinghis fury blazes almost with the heat of the sun. Peter drove Beson against the wall, measured the distance to Besons chin, and then drew back his weighted right fist. Do you need more convincing, turnip? Peter asked grimly. No more, Beson replied groggily, through his rapidly puffing lips. No more, my King, I cry your mercy, I cry your mercy. What? Peter asked, flabbergasted. What did you call me? But Beson was sliding slowly down the curved stone wall. When he had called Peter my King, he had done so as unconsciousness stole over him. He would not remember saying it, but Peter never forgot. 54 Beson was unconscious for over two hours. If not for his thick, snoring breaths, Peter would have been afraid that perhaps he really had killed the Chief Warder. The man was a gross, vicious, underhanded pig . . . but for all of that, Peter had no wish to kill him. The Lesser Warders took turns staring in the little window in the oaken door, their eyes wide and roundthe eyes of small boys looking at the maneating Anduan tiger in the Kings Menagerie. Neither made any effort to rescue their superior, and their faces told Peter that they expected him to leap on the unconscious Beson at any moment and tear his throat out. Perhaps with his teeth. Well, why shouldnt they think such things? Peter asked himself bitterly. They think I killed my own father, and a man who would do such a thing might stoop to any low act, even that of killing an unconscious opponent. Finally Beson began to moan and stir. His right eye fluttered and came openthe left couldnt open, and wouldnt completely for some days. The right eye looked at Peter not with hate, but with unmistakable alarm. Are you ready to speak reasonably? Peter asked. Beson said something Peter couldnt understand. It sounded like mush. I dont understand you. Beson tried again. You could have killed me. Ive never killed anyone, Peter said. The time may come when Ill have to, but if it ever does, I hope I dont have to start with unconscious warders. Beson sat against the wall, looking at Peter with his one open eye. An expression of deep thought, absurd and a little frightening on his swelled and battered features, settled over his face. At last he managed another mushy phrase. Peter thought he understood this one, but wanted to be absolutely sure. Repeat that, please, Mr. Chief Warder Beson. Beson looked startled. As Yosef had never been called Lord High Groom before Peter, so Beson had never been called Mr. Chief Warder. We can do business, he said. That is very well. Beson struggled slowly to his feet. He wanted no more to do with Peter, at least not today. He had other problems. His Lesser Warders had just watched him take a bad beating at the hands of a boy who hadnt had anything to eat for a week. Watchedand no more, the cowardly sots. His head ached, and he might well have to whip those poor fools into line before he could slink off to bed. He had started out when Peter called to him. Beson turned back. That turning was really all it took. Both of them knew who was in charge here. Beson had been beaten. When his prisoner told him to wait, he waited. I have something I want to say to you. It will be good for both of us if I do. Beson said nothing. He only stood and watched Peter warily. Tell themPeter jerked his head toward the doorto close the spyhole. Beson stared at Peter for a moment, then turned toward the staring warders and gave the command. The Lesser Warders currently jammed cheek to cheek into the opening, stood there staring, not understanding Besons blurred words . . . or pretending not to. Beson ran his tongue over his bloodflecked teeth and spoke more clearly, obviously with some pain. This time the peephole was swung shut and bolted from the outside . . . but not before Beson had heard the contemptuous laughter of his underlings. He sighed wearityyes, they would have to be taught some hard lessons before he could go home. Cowards learned quickly, though. This prince, whatever else he might be, was surely no coward. He wondered if he really wanted to do any business at all with Peter. I want to give you a note to take to Anders Peyna, Peter said. Youll come back for it tonight, I hope. Beson said nothing, but he was trying very hard to think. This was the most unsettling twist yet. Peyna! A note to Peyna! He had had a cold moment when Peter reminded him that he was the brother of the King, but it had been nothing compared with this. Peyna, by the gods! The more he thought of it the less he liked it. King Thomas might not much care if his older brother was roughed up in the Needle. The older brother had murdered their father, for one thing; Thomas probably didnt feel much brotherly love right now. And more important, Beson felt little or no fright when the name of King Thomas the LightBringer was invoked. Like almost everyone else in Delain, Beson had already begun to view Thomas with a certain contempt. But Peyna, now . . . Peyna was different. To the likes of Beson, Anders Peyna was more frightening than a whole marching regiment of Kings, anyway. A King was a distant sort of being, bright and mysterious, like the sun. It didnt matter if the sun went behind the clouds and froze you, or came out all hot and white to bake you ativeeither way you only accepted, because what the sun did was far beyond the ability of mortal creatures to understand or to change. Peyna was a more earthly being. The sort of being Beson could understand . . . and fear. Peyna with his narrow face and his iceblue eyes, Peyna with his highcollared judges robes, Peyna who decided who would live and who would go under the headsmans axe. Could this boy really command Peyna from his cell here at the top of the Needle? Or was it only a desperate bluff? How can it be a bluff if he means to write him a note I shall myself deliver? If I were King, Peyna would have served me in any way I commanded, Peter said. I am not a King now, only a prisoner. Still, not long ago I did him a favor for which I think he is very grateful. I see, Beson replied, as noncommittally as he could. Peter sighed. Suddenly he felt very weary, and wondered what sort of foolish dream he was pursuing here. Did he really believe he was taking the first few steps on the road to freedom by beating up this stupid warder and then bending him to his will? Did he have any real guarantee that Peyna would do even the smallest thing for him? Perhaps the concept of a favor owed was only in Peters own mind. But it had to be tried. Hadnt he decided, on his long, lonely nights of meditation as he grieved for both his father and himself, that the only real sin would be in not trying? Peyna is not my friend, Peter went on. I wont even try to tell you that he is. Ive been convicted of murdering my father, the King, and shouldnt think I have a friend left in all of Delain, from north to south. Would you agree, Mr. Chief Warder Beson? Yes, Beson said stonily. I would. Nevertheless, I believe that Peyna will undertake to provide you with the bit of cash you are used to receiving from your inmates. Beson nodded. When a noble was imprisoned in the Needle for any length of time, Beson would commonly see that the prisoner got a better grade of food than the fatty meat and watery ale, fresh linen once a week, and sometimes a visit from a wife or a sweetheart. He did not do this free, of course. Imprisoned nobles almost always came from rich families, and there was always someone in those families willing to pay Beson for Besons services, no matter what the crime had been. This crime was of an exceptionally terrible nature, but here was this boy, saying that no less a one than Anders Peyna might be willing to provide the bribe. One other thing, Peter said softly. I believe Peyna will do this because he is a man of honor. And if anything were to happen to meif you and several of your Lesser Warders were to rush in here tonight, and beat me in revenge for the beating I have given you, for exampleI believe that Peyna might take an interest in the matter. Peter paused. A personal interest in the matter. He looked closely at Beson. Do you understand me? Yes, Beson said, and then added my Lord. Will you provide me with pen, inkpot, blotter, and paper? Yes. Come here. With some trepidation, Beson came. The Chief Warders stink was tremendous, but Peter did not draw awaythe stink of the crime with which he had been accused had almost inured him to the smell of sweat and dirt, he had discovered. He looked at Beson with a hint of a smile. Whisper in my ear, Peter said. Beson blinked uneasily. What shall I whisper, my Lord? A number, Peter said. After a moment, Beson did. 55 One of the Lesser Warders brought Peter the writing implements he had asked for. He gave Peter the wary look of an alley cat that has been often kicked, and skittered away before he could receive a helping of the anger that had been heaped on Besons head. Peter sat down at the rickety table by the window, breath puffing out in the deep cold. He listened to the restless whine of the wind around the tip of the Needle and looked down at the lights of the city. Dear JudgeGeneral Peyna, he wrote, and then stopped. Will you see who this is from, crumple it in your hand, and throw it into the fire unread? Will you read it and then laugh contemptuously at the fool who murdered his father and then dared to expect help from the JudgeGeneral of the land? Will you, perhaps, even see through the scheme, and understand what it is Im up to? Peter was in a cheerier frame of mind that evening, and thought the answer to all three questions would probably be no. His plan might well fail, but it was unlikely to be foreseen by such an orderly and methodical man as Peyna. The JudgeGeneral would be as apt to imagine himself donning a dress and dancing a hornpipe in the Plaza of the Needle at the full of the moon as he was to guess what Peter was up to. And what Im asking is so little, Peter thought. That ghost of a smile touched his lips again. At least I hope and believe it will seem so . . . to him. Bending forward, he dipped the quill pen in the inkpot and began to write. 56 On the following evening, shortly after nine had struck, Anders Peynas butler answered an unaccustomedly late knock and looked down his long nose at the figure of the Chief Warder standing on the doorstep. Arlenthat was the butlers namehad seen Beson before, of course; like Adens master, Beson was a part of the Kingdoms legal machinery. But Arlen did not recognize him now. The beating Peter had given Beson had had a day to set, and his face was a sunset of reds and purples and yellows. His left eye had opened a little, but was still little more than a slit. He looked like a dwarfish ghoul, and the butler began to swing the door shut almost at once. Wait, Beson said in a hard growl that made the butler hesitate. I come with a message for your master. The butler hesitated for a moment and then began to swing the door closed again. The mans sullen, swollen face was frightening. Could he actually be a dwarf, down from the north country? Supposedly the last of those wild, furclad tribes had either died or been killed off in his grandfathers time, but still . . . one never knew. . . . It is from Prince Peter, Beson said. If you close this door, you will hear hard things later from your marster, thinks I. Arlen hesitated again, torn between closing the door against the ghoul and the power the name of Prince Peter still held. If this man came from Peter, he must be the Needles Chief Warder. Yet You dont look like Beson, he said. You dont look like your father, neither, Arlen, and its made me wonder more than once where your mother may have been, the lumpish ghoul retorted rudely, and stuck a smudged envelope through the crack still open in the door. Here . . . take it toim. Ill wait. Close the door if you want, although its devilish cold out here. Arlen didnt care if it was twenty below. He didnt intend to have the horriblelooking fellow toasting his feet in front of the fire in the servants kitchen. He snatched the envelope, shut the door, bolted it, started away . . . then returned and doublebolted it 57 Peyna was in his study, staring into the fire and thinking long thoughts. When Thomas had been crowned the moon had been new; it was not yet at the half, and already he did not like the way things were going. Flaggthat was the worst. Flagg. The magician already wielded more power than in the days of Rolands reign. Roland had at least been a man, full of years, no matter how slow his thinking might have been. Thomas was only a boy, and Peyna feared that Flagg might soon control all Delain in Thomass name. That would be bad for the Kingdom . . . and bad for Anders Peyna, who had never concealed his dislike of Flagg. It was pleasant here in the study, before the crackling fire, but Peyna thought he nonetheless felt a cold wind around his ankles. It was a wind which might rise and blow away . . . everything. Why, Peter? Why, oh why? Why couldnt you wait? And why did you have to seem so perfect on the outside, like a rosered apple in autumn, and be so rotten below the skin? Why? Peyna didnt know . . . and would not admit to himself, even now, that doubts as to whether or not Peter really had been rotten were beginning to nibble at his heart. There was a knock at the door. Peyna roused himself, looked around, and called out impatiently Come! And it better be damned good! Arlen came in, looking ruffled and confused. He held an envelope in one hand. Well? My Lord . . . theres a man at the door . . . at least, he looks like a man . . . that is, his face is most awfully puffed and swelled, as if he had gotten a terrible beating . . . or . . . Arlens voice trailed away. Whats that to do with me? You know I dont receive this late. Tell him to go away. Tell him to go to the devil! He says hes Beson, my Lord, Arlen said, more flustered than ever. He raised the smudged envelope, as if to use it as a shield. He brought this. He says its a message from Prince Peter. Peynas heart leaped at that, but he only frowned more strenuously at Arlen. Well, is it? From Prince Peter? Arlen was almost gibbering now. His usual composure was utterly lost, and Peyna found this interesting. He wouldnt have believed Arlen would lose his composure come fire, flood, or invasion of ravaging dragons. My Lord, I would have no way of knowing. . . .