Chronicles of the Red King #3: Leopards' Gold (15 page)

R
ain fell in the night; heavy, persistent rain. It continued well into the morning. The king could have stopped it, but he had much on his mind. He sat in the solarium with Solomon on his shoulders, consulting the ancient serpent on a matter that he found too difficult to resolve: the behavior of his children.

The rain dripped onto the blacksmith’s furnaces and the charcoal became too wet to light. At midday, the helmets that the king had commanded to be melted were still waiting in their damp sacks. Llyr did his best with gorse and broom and bones, but after a brief flickering, the fires died again. The magic in Eri’s fingers worked a little better, but eventually the fires fizzled out. He tried with a mixture of hellebore and bloodstone dust, but even this potent mixture couldn’t keep the fires alight. It seemed as if the weather had been conjured by some malignant force in the misty, dripping forest.

The damp did nothing to help Friar Gereint’s toothache. Too afraid to visit the wizards, the friar took to his bed and classes were cancelled again.

In the sheltered passage behind the furnaces, Petrello watched the wizards’ efforts.

Llyr’s fair hair, now dark with rain, hung in wet strands on the shoulders of his cloak. In vain, he struggled to keep his hood from falling back. Eri had tied a moleskin shawl over his head, and sprinkled his cloak with the scales his dragon shed every summer. He looked an odd sight, but he was doing better than his grandson.

“Shall I tell the king?” Petrello asked tentatively. He didn’t want the wizards to think he had no faith in their abilities.

“We’ve sent messengers, twice,” snapped Eri.

“Oh.” Petrello stepped farther back into the sheltered passage. A blacksmith’s son, Rintail, joined him.

“Why don’t they give up until the rain stops?” Petrello asked Rintail.

“King’s orders. Got to melt the old helmets as soon as possible,” said Rintail. “There might be spells in ’em.”

“Spells?” Petrello murmured thoughtfully. Now it all made sense.

“How’s your other sister?” asked Rintail. “Not the poisoner; I mean the one that made everything move. My poor dad’s arm was awful bruised.”

“I think she’s asleep,” said Petrello. “The wizards gave her a potion.” He’d seen Llyr take a brown bottle along to Olga’s bedchamber, and Guanhamara said she’d peeped in after Llyr had left, and Olga was lying very still.

“Hope the potion keeps her down,” Rintail muttered. “Couldn’t do with all that banging and bruising as well as the wet. I could do with some hot soup. How about you?”

“I don’t think we’ll get any yet,” said Petrello, stamping his feet. He discovered that he was standing in a puddle. The courtyard was awash with mud. The cooks couldn’t cook. No one could work. The sun was shrouded in iron-dark clouds, and the candles burned so unsteadily they melted away almost as soon as they were lit.

Petrello decided to go and see his father. Perhaps he’d have better luck than the messengers. But first he went to his aunt’s apartments, and there he found his mother and his aunt cutting and sewing, their heads bent close to their work. Zobayda’s usually cheerful room was dismally dark. The toys on their shelves were mere shadows, and of the five candles in the stand behind the queen, only two remained, and they shed a fitful, glimmering light.

“Your brother’s shirts,” said the queen as Petrello stepped closer. He could see now that his aunt was cutting narrow slits at the back of Tolly’s shirts, while his mother sewed pieces of fabric at the top of each opening. “To hide his wings,” she told Petrello, “until they grow too big, of course.”

“But he has the cloak,” Petrello reminded her.

“He can’t sleep in it,” said Zobayda. “And if Vyborn knew about the wings, he would tell the entire court.” She paused in her work and added, “Your father’s in the solarium.”

“Ask him to stop the rain, Petrello,” said his mother. “We’ve had enough.” She put down her needle and rubbed her eyes. “Tell him to give us some light.”

For the second time in his life, Petrello walked down the dark passage and around the pillar into his father’s solarium.

The king was pacing his bright room, murmuring to the snake coiled about his shoulders. While everyone in his castle worked in sunless gloom, here it seemed that sunlight had been captured. The sky, seen through the circle in the roof, was as dark as night, yet here every color was as bright as ever.

The king didn’t smile when Petrello entered. He looked troubled, his thoughts far away.

“Mother sent me,” Petrello explained.

The king didn’t answer; he continued to pace while the snake whispered into his ear.

“It’s so dark,” went on Petrello. “And your wife can’t see to do her needlework, and the wizards can’t light the furnaces because it’s so wet, so the helmets you ordered to be melted are still waiting, and — and we can’t even have hot soup.”

The king stopped pacing. He lifted his head and suddenly began to laugh. “Perhaps you should have mentioned the soup first,” he said. “I’m sure it’s more important to you than helmets or needlework.”

Petrello flushed. It was true. He felt cold and damp inside and out.

“It seems that I must go to work,” said his father. “Come with me, Petrello.”

“Yes, Father.” Petrello had never watched his father work the weather. Not close-up. Like everyone else, he had seen a distant figure, high on the battlements of the Royal Tower; he’d seen a faraway glint that might have been a swirl of a gold-trimmed cloak, as his father swept it through the air. But he could only imagine what might be happening up there on the tower, before the weather changed.

The king placed Solomon on his treasure chests. Bending over the snake, he gently stroked his silvery head and whispered something. Solomon closed a jet-black eye and curled himself into a ropelike coil.

“Come, Petrello!” The king led the way down the passage and through the door to the beginning of the long, spiraling stairway.

They were in the half dark again, but as they climbed the steps, the king’s cloak cast a soft, glimmering light on the stone walls, and when Petrello looked closer, he could make out the faint golden pattern of a spider’s web embedded in the deep velvet of the red cloak.

They passed a door into the royal apartments, and then there were no more doors, but only an endless, twisting climb on knee-high steps with nothing to hold but the rough stone walls of the tallest tower on the castle.

The wind roared at the stone, and the rain thundered and splashed as though it would beat the tower to the ground. Petrello couldn’t hear his father’s footsteps, or his own. He threw back his head and looked up. They were on the last spiral. The trapdoor at the top was rattling under the pounding of the rain.

The king reached up and flung open the door. As he climbed out onto the battlements, water sluiced down the steps, and Petrello almost lost his balance.

“Take my hand, Petrello.” The king grasped his son’s hand and pulled him up through the trapdoor. Petrello was met by such savage wind he almost toppled back again. But the king held him steady while he closed the door with his foot.

Petrello made his way to the protecting wall. If it hadn’t been as high as his shoulders, he imagined that he would have been blown away. His father came to stand beside him. Petrello had never seen him look so jubilant; his smile was broad and his teeth gleamed in his dark face; his eyes were wide and eager.

“Now!” The king took off his cloak and, holding it by its golden collar high over his head, he let the wind billow into it, shaking and tossing the red velvet as though it would tear it from the king’s grasp. And then the king began to call. Long, beautiful commanding sounds came from his mouth, like the words of a triumphant song. He began to stride across the roof, with the cloak whirling above him and the words rising through the storm, until all Petrello could hear was the song.

Looking through one of the openings in the wall, Petrello could see the gray land far below. Trees had fallen and the fields were strewn with leaves and branches. The forest stooped and twisted as though its trees were in agony. But as the king’s song filled his ears, he saw a stillness creep over the forest. The rain stopped battering his shoulders and, gradually, the darkness rolled away and sunlight brought the land to life. It was green and bright again.

I will never be able to calm a storm like that
, Petrello thought.
Why did my father bring me up here?
He looked at his hands and wondered about the boy called Tancred; a boy who was not yet alive.

“Come, Petrello!” The king was putting on his cloak. “What did you think when you saw the weather change?”

“That it was something I will never be able to do,” said Petrello, flexing his fingers.

“Would you like to?”

“More than anything.”

“Then … maybe …” The king opened the trapdoor. “Let’s get to the bottom of this tower. We shall ride out very soon.”

“You and the Knight Protectors?” asked Petrello as he skimmed down the steps ahead of his father.

“The Knight Protectors, yes. And in five years, perhaps you will be one of them.”

Five years sounded a very long time. Petrello wanted to be a knight sooner than that.

Once on the ground, the king went to find his knights. Sunshine filled the courtyards, and a castle in a gloom came to life again. Fires burned brightly, and one by one, the old helmets were melted down. The eagle helmet was the first, and Llyr watched closely as the metals spat and snarled on the blacksmith’s furnace. A rivulet of glowing green stuff dripped from the grating to a bucket, and the blacksmith declared that he had never seen the like of it. “Must be something awful wicked in that helmet,” he muttered gloomily.

The cooks got to work and soon there was hot soup and warm baked bread for everyone. But the knights’ platters were filled with venison, and they were told to eat their fill. The king could wait no longer. They must find Rigg and the Seeing Crystal, even if it meant riding all the way to Castle Melyntha.

“And our friend Peredur,” Sir Edern reminded everyone, as he stuffed half a leg into his big mouth. “He must be found.”

After the midday meal, the horses were brought out, and the children watched the squires help the knights into their chain-mail suits and padded tunics. And then the new helmets were brought from the armory; each one was different, their gold and silver decorations copied from creatures of the air, the forest, and the fields. Mabon, the archer, wore a helmet engraved with bears. Edern’s was crowned with a silver falcon, though his shield was emblazoned with an eagle.

Borlath eyed his plain, steel helmet with its band of iron. “There was no need for a new one,” he grumbled. “Lilith wouldn’t have harmed us.”

“Then why did she try her tricks on Amadis?” asked Mabon.

Borlath turned away.

The twenty-one knights were armed and mounted when the king arrived on his camel. The queen walked at his side. She looked as if she was trying to hide a frown. Gabar’s harness glowed with colored ribbons and silver bells. A red-and-gold blanket covered his back, and his wooden saddle was hung with golden tassels and decorated with pearls. He looked very pleased and proud.

The king wore no helmet. He trusted in the luck the jinni had invested in his red cloak. The front of his tunic was embroidered with a deep red sun, and his round shield bore the same image. From a plain leather scabbard, his sword hilt could be seen, glinting with jewels.

Cafal had wheeled Gunfrid out to see the king and his knights depart, and the orphan gazed at the troop in astonishment.

“How fine! How fine!” Gunfrid kept saying. “I never seen nothing like it, never, never, never. The knights at Melyntha were nothing like this.”

On the other side of the courtyard, the chancellor and his men watched the spectacle, unsmiling. They would not be accompanying the king into the forest. As the chancellor pointed out, someone would have to defend the castle; a Vanishing would not be enough, if it came too late.

King Timoken gazed down at his queen. She lifted a hand and clung to his, before he gently drew it away and put on his gauntlet.

“Let us depart!” The king’s deep voice carried into the air, cheerful and determined.

A wave of cheering broke out. The great doors of the South Gate were opened and the king led his knights out of the castle.

Good luck, Father!
Petrello said silently.

Beside him, Guanhamara eased her hand into his. He could feel her trembling.

“What is it?” he asked his sister.

“Trello,” she whispered. “I think I have another power, and I don’t like it.”

He looked into her anxious face. “What kind of power?”

“I am seeing into the future, unless it is my imagination that is frightening me.”

“Our father can’t be killed, remember,” said Petrello. “The jinni saw to that. He is immortal.”

“Yes,” said Guanhamara, her voice very small. “But we are not. And anyway, living forever doesn’t mean that you’ll have a happy life.”

T
hree days passed. Guanhamara wouldn’t tell her brother what her dreams had shown her. She became quiet and pensive, spending most of her time with Elin. No word came from the forest. Perhaps this was a good sign. Two messengers had accompanied the king, and the queen had asked her husband to send news of their progress. She spent most of her days in the castle gardens, snipping at dead flower heads with her pearl-handled scissors, or tugging out the weeds. There were two gardeners to help her, but she liked to be involved in the cutting and planting.

On the evening of the third day, Petrello and Tolly slipped out of the East Gate and joined their mother in the garden. She was picking herbs down by the yew trees, every now and then gazing out at the forest. She was pleased to see the boys and held out her arms, then clasped both of them close to her.

“I can feel your wings, Tolomeo,” she said. “Let me see.”

He turned around and from his back two wings lifted above the glossy feathers of his cloak.

“How they’ve grown,” exclaimed the queen.

“And I can spread them, Mother. Look!” Tolly’s black wings opened like wide, feathered fans, the tip of each wing rising above his head.

“My dark angel,” sighed the queen. “Have you tried to fly?”

Tolly frowned and looked at his feet. “Not yet.”

Petrello knew that his brother was afraid to try. He thought he might come crashing to earth if he couldn’t control his wings. “After all, I’m not a bird,” he’d told his brother.

“There’s no news from Father, then?” said Petrello.

“No.” The queen stared over the gate at the forest that spread as far as the eye could see, its many shades of green becoming a soft blue in the distance. “I wish the leopards had gone with him,” she said.

“Why didn’t they?” asked Tolly.

“The king wanted them to stay here to protect us. The Vanishing might not be as speedy as it should be, without the crystal’s warning.”

They were about to turn away from the gate when a horse walked out of the forest. It began to trot, somewhat wearily, up to the South Gate. The rider was a knight, for they could see his mail suit shining in the evening light. His head was bowed and he slumped in the saddle, as though he barely had strength to hold the reins. Behind him, lying over the horse’s back, was a body.

“Mercy!” cried the queen. “Quickly, boys. We must find out who it is.”

They ran up the path, climbed the stone steps to the East Gate, and hurried into the courtyard. The doors of the South Gate had been opened to let in the knight and his weary horse.

“It’s Sir Peredur!” called one of the guards.

“Peredur!” cried the queen. “But how … ?”

Hearing her voice, the knight looked up, raised a hand, and then the effort proving too much, fell forward onto his horse’s neck before sliding to the ground.

The queen knelt beside her friend. “Peredur,” she said, taking his bare hand. “What has happened to you?”

Peredur’s eyelids fluttered and he groaned. “They’re dead.”

“Who?” The queen’s fingers dug into Peredur’s hand. “Who is dead?”

Peredur’s painful grin revealed his long, wolfish teeth. “The abductors. But Rigg is still alive. Save him, Berenice.”

“Rigg?” She looked at the body on the horse. Two guards were already lifting it down.

“Careful,” said the queen. “Take him to the sanatorium. Immediately.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” replied the guards.

Petrello, standing beside the queen, suddenly became aware of the chancellor’s men pressing close behind him. A groom ran up and led the exhausted horse to the stable. And then the chancellor arrived. He stood opposite the queen, his legs apart, his thumbs in his belt, and his pale gray eyes were hard as stone.

“Stay with Mother,” Petrello whispered to his brother. “I must fetch the wizards.”

Pushing through the group of Gray Men, Petrello ran toward the aerie. He didn’t hear the stealthy run of the man behind him, and was about to leap onto the stairway when someone stepped in front of him.

“Where are you going, Prince?” asked Chimery.

“To see the wizards,” Petrello replied.

“Why?” The man brought his lined, lean face close to Petrello’s. “Why, I say?”

“You are aware, sir, that two men are badly wounded. They need the wizards’ help.”

Chimery’s dark eyes narrowed. “Perhaps …”

Petrello’s fingers ached. “Not perhaps. Definitely.” He dodged around Chimery who, all at once, gave a small stagger.

Petrello leaped up the steps to the aerie. He paid no attention to the sudden breeze that appeared to knock Chimery off balance. In fact, he was barely aware of it. He reached the top of the stairway, banged twice on the door, and, without waiting for an invitation, burst into the aerie.

“Shivering stars, young Petrello,” said Llyr, weighing chalk dust on his copper scales. “What’s the trouble?”

“Sir Peredur has returned,” gasped Petrello, bending to get his breath. “He’s badly wounded, and so is Rigg.”

“Rigg?” Eri got up from his couch so suddenly he trod on Enid’s tail. A burst of hot steam issued from her snout, blowing the chalk dust into Llyr’s face.

“Stop that!” cried Llyr, rubbing his eyes as he glared at the dragon.

“My fault! My fault!” mumbled Eri. “Rigg, you say? Rigg has returned?”

“Rigg and Peredur,” said Petrello. “But Rigg seems close to death. My mother commanded the guards to take him to the sanatorium. We must save him.”

“Of course we must!” Llyr began to pack his medicine box. “Rigg knows it all: who let the strangers in and who abducted him.”

“He is a good man who deserves to live,” said Eri, slightly reprovingly. He fetched his staff and dusted it with his sleeve.

“Quickly! Quickly!” cried Petrello. “I think the chancellor isn’t happy with Sir Peredur’s arrival. He looks as though he wishes him dead.”

“The devil he does.” Llyr pushed a vial of orange liquid into his leather box and hurried after Petrello, who was already leaping down the steps.

It was left to Eri to collect the bowls, the heather, the bones, and the fungus. Ready at last, the wizard descended, with Enid lolloping behind him.

While Llyr turned the corner into the sanatorium, Petrello waited for Eri, afraid that the old man might fall.

“Go on, go on, boy,” Eri ordered as he reached the bottom step. “Enid and I will get there in due course.”

There was quite a crowd in the sanatorium. Rigg had been laid on the nearest bed inside the door, with Peredur on the bed next to him. On the other side of the doorway, the chancellor sat on a low stool, his eyes darting from Rigg to Peredur and then to the queen. A square and sturdy guard paced the aisle between the rows, and Gunfrid and Zeba had retreated to the end of the room, with Cafal holding the back of the wheeled chair.

The queen stood beside Peredur, occasionally feeling his forehead.

Llyr was already laying out his potions on the small table between the patients. The wizard kept clicking his tongue, feeling Rigg’s head, sniffing his skin, and lifting the poor man’s bruised and broken fingers.

“Even his feet have been crushed,” muttered Llyr, glancing at Rigg’s bloodstained bare toes.

When Eri and his dragon arrived, Enid, caught up in the mood of restless excitement, began to snort dangerously long flames.

“Get that creature out of here!” the chancellor demanded.

“Enid’s with me,” Eri retorted. He pulled four bowls out of his bag and handed them to Petrello. “You know what to do,” he said. “The door, the sill, and the beds.”

“Yes, Eri.” Petrello ran to place the bowls where he knew they should go.

“We’ve had enough of that rubbish,” the chancellor exclaimed. “Old spells, they do more harm than good.”

“Thorkil!” the queen said sharply. “Don’t speak to the wizards like that.”

Ignoring the chancellor, Eri proceeded to fill the bowls. When all four had their full quota of fungus, bones, and heather, he set them alight with a quick touch of his thumb.

The scent of burned bones, scorched heather, and dragon breath drifted around the beds, and the room filled with soft blue smoke.

Petrello’s eyes began to water. He looked up at the low rafters. They seemed to sway and dip toward him. He felt so dizzy he had to cling to a bed rail, rocking on his feet. His fingers ached.

“For pity’s sake, put out those fires!” the chancellor shouted through a fit of coughing.

“Better leave the room, Chancellor,” Eri advised.

But nothing would dislodge the chancellor. He sat there, watching the injured men like a hawk watching his prey.

He needs to know what Rigg will say
, thought Petrello, flexing his fingers.
And he’s afraid.

A draft swept across the floor, and one of Llyr’s vials rolled off the table. Luckily, it was corked.

“Close that door!” shouted Llyr.

It was already closed. Petrello and the chancellor looked at the closed door, and then each other. Through a cloud of smoke, Petrello could see the chancellor’s eyes fixed on him. It was a heartless gaze, full of suspicion.

And then the door opened and Tolly came in with the investigator. In their identical cloaks, they looked like a bird and its child.

“I thought Wyngate should be here,” Tolly whispered to his brother. “Because of the investigation.”

“Good thinking,” said Petrello, looking at the chancellor.

Wyngate bent over Rigg, oblivious to the smoke wafting around the bed.

“How is he?” the investigator asked Llyr.

“Unconscious,” said Llyr. “His heart beats, but very slowly.”

“He looks cold,” Wyngate remarked.

“Very cold,” Llyr agreed. He uncorked a vial, handed it to the investigator, and then, lifting Rigg’s head, he gently opened the bellman’s mouth. “Two drops on his tongue,” he told Wyngate. “No more, no less.”

Wyngate held the vial steady and, with remarkable accuracy, allowed two drops of the orange liquid to fall onto Rigg’s tongue. The bellman’s eyelids flickered, his mouth remained open, but he gave no sign that he had swallowed the wizard’s potion.

Llyr laid the man’s head back on the pillow and closed his mouth. “All we can do now is wait,” said the wizard.

“A pity the king’s cloak is not here,” said Eri. He had pulled a strip of silvery gray stuff from his bag and began to apply it to Peredur’s forehead. Petrello knew it was a spider’s web.

“Mmm,” Peredur murmured. “That’s better. I’ll be back on my horse in no time.”

“I doubt that,” said Eri. “But perhaps you’ll be able to talk in a while, and tell us how you came by your wounds.”

“Devils!” muttered Peredur. “Took me by surprise. I’d been tracking them for miles. We must have been very near the gates of Melyntha. But I got them in the end. And then I found poor Rigg. They’d tied him to a tree, maybe thought he was dead.”

Peredur fell back on his pillow, breathing heavily.

“No more talk for now.” Eri applied another web to the knight’s hand.

The queen looked back at Cafal and the two orphans. “Children, we must leave the wizards to do their work,” she said. “Gunfrid can sleep in the boys’ chamber tonight.”

“I will carry him there,” Cafal mumbled. He began to wheel Gunfrid toward the door. When he passed Rigg’s bed, Petrello noticed that Cafal glanced quickly at the bellman and grimaced, as though he were in pain.

“Petrello and Tolomeo, you, too,” said the queen.

The sun had gone down and the evening air was chilly. The wheels on Gunfrid’s chair bumped and clattered over the cobblestones. Cafal kept hunching his shoulders. He turned his head left, then right, his expression troubled. He had something on his mind and needed to share the burden.

Petrello touched his brother’s arm. “Cafal, did Rigg tell you about the solution? The spell for the Seeing Crystal?”

Cafal nodded mutely.

“Did you tell anyone that Rigg knew the secret?”

Cafal nodded again. “Rigg didn’t tell me the spell. He saw it written in Eri’s book, but he never, never would tell anyone what it was.”

“But someone else knows that Rigg saw the list of ingredients,” said Petrello.

“Ingredients?” said Gunfrid.

“What are those?” asked Zeba.

“Herbs and things that go into a spell,” Tolly told her.

Petrello explained the importance of the Seeing Crystal, and the solution that made it function so effectively.

The orphans listened, their eyes wide, and Zeba emitted a quiet, “Oooo!”

No one said a word after that. The wheels rattled over the bumpy ground, and then the children reached the steps to the bedchambers.

“I’ll carry you now.” Cafal went around to lift Gunfrid out of his chair.

Petrello suddenly said, “Who did you tell, Cafal? Who did you tell about Rigg and the spell?”

Cafal violently shook his head. “No one!” He quickly lifted Gunfrid and began to run up the steps.

“You scared him, Petrello,” Zeba said accusingly. “Why did you do that?”

“Didn’t mean to. I just wanted to know.” Petrello followed Zeba, already climbing the steps behind Cafal.

From behind Petrello, Tolly whispered, “If Rigg wakes up, he’ll tell us.”

Cafal laid Gunfrid on Tolly’s bed, then fled without another word.