Curse of the Forbidden Book (7 page)

“I am sorry about your friend,” Prince Corin said.

A rich, powerful prince apologizing to his slaves. Jesse almost laughed at the ridiculous situation.

“No,” Parvel said. “You did what you could. And we are grateful.”

Now what?
Jesse wondered. He was already hot, standing in the middle of the crowd in the bright spring sun, and his head was beginning to ache from the noise.

“Now I must return to the governor's palace. You are free to go,” Prince Corin said. “My debt is paid.”

Jesse expected Parvel or Silas to lead them away, perhaps to find Roddy and think of a way to rescue Rae. Instead, Parvel stayed firmly where he was, staring off into the distance with a thoughtful look on his face.

“Prince Corin,” Parvel said slowly, “where did you say you're going, again?”

“The palace.”

Jesse exchanged a glance with Parvel.
Exactly where we need to go
. “Could we speak to each other for a few moments…alone?” Parvel asked.

“Certainly.” Prince Corin bowed his head at them slightly and walked away.

“Don't go far,” Silas advised. To Parvel and Jesse, he added under his breath, “We can't rescue him twice in one day.”

Jesse wondered when “we” had rescued Prince Corin, since Silas had not been involved, but he didn't say anything.

“This could be our way into the palace,” Parvel said, sounding excited. “We can rescue Rae
and
find the Forbidden Book!”

“You want us to
offer
to be this man's slaves?” Silas snapped.

Jesse laughed. He couldn't help himself—it sounded so foolish when Silas put it like that.

Parvel shot him a quick glare and turned back to Silas. “That's exactly what I'm saying. He's our way into the palace. Unless you prefer to climb over the wall of a heavily guarded fortress.”

“And then the inner wall too,” Silas added, looking as though he was starting to see Parvel's point.

“What?” Jesse asked, confused.

“A moat surrounds the outer wall of the palace,” Silas explained. “There is only one bridge to get across, which leads you to the main guard tower. Inside the outer walls are the palace grounds—the gardens, the lawn, the stables and outer buildings. Then, the palace itself, where the governor, his family, and their court members live, has another wall around it.”

“It would be impossible for us to go through all of that on our own without getting caught,” Jesse said. “Not that I don't appreciate the chance to compare the conditions of yet another prison….”

Silas still didn't look very enthusiastic about Parvel's idea. “I am not going to be anyone's slave.”

“He doesn't seem to be a hard master,” Jesse pointed out. “Besides, what would you have us do, leave Rae behind?”

His glare was answer enough. “Fine. But I don't like it.”

Parvel waved Prince Corin over, though he didn't notice for a few moments because he was too busy staring at a traveling minstrel performing for a crowd of booing peasants.

“Perhaps this is for the best,” Parvel said, slapping Jesse on the back. “After all, it might be a good chance for Jesse to get some new clothing so that people won't mistake him for a beggar.”

“Yes,” Silas said, rolling his eyes. “Now he's a slave. Quite a step up.”

Prince Corin joined them, but before he could say anything, Parvel spoke up. “We would like to remain your slaves.”

“Temporarily,” Silas added quickly.

Prince Corin stared at them for a moment, as if he were wondering if this was some strange Amarian custom. “May I ask why?”

“Yes,” Silas said, “but we won't answer. Not yet.” Parvel frowned at him, and he shrugged. Jesse knew that it would take more than repaying a favor for Silas to trust Prince Corin with knowledge of their mission.

“It has something to do with the young lady, does it not?” he asked, giving Silas a knowing smile, which Silas returned with his usual cold stare.

Except…
Jesse gave him a second look.
He couldn't be blushing…could he?

“We feel it might be best to tell you at another time,” Parvel said, attempting to smooth things over, as usual.

“Very well,” Prince Corin said, turning away. “We will go to the palace.” He turned back to them with a more princely bearing. “But I
will
get an explanation. Soon. Am I understood?”

Only Jesse and Parvel nodded. Prince Corin began to walk more quickly. “Why are you in such a hurry?” Jesse asked, struggling to keep up.

“You do not know?” Prince Corin asked. Apparently, their blank faces communicated that they didn't. “The tournament starts in no less than half of an hour, and I cannot be late.”

Once, when Jesse was seven years old, a traveling carnival had come to Mir. He remembered being fascinated by the colorful wagon, the fancy saddles on the horses, and the chatter of the bustling crowd who gathered to watch the performers. Everything seemed bigger and brighter, louder and more exciting, with the carnival in town.

That's what Jesse thought of as they crossed over the bridge that led to the lawn surrounding the palace. Tents were set up here and there, creating splotches of color against the green grass. Fluttering above them were flags with all kinds of shapes and designs. From somewhere came a lilting, cheerful melody, although Jesse could hardly hear it over all the noise.

So this is what a tournament is like!
Jesse had heard of rich nobles who had the time and money to throw elaborate parties where the main entertainment was watching warriors pretend to fight each other. The idea sounded like nonsense then, but now he began to understand the appeal.

Prince Corin had gotten them across the drawbridge and past the outer wall. Inside, the governor seemed to have his own walled city, complete with clumps of trees and a bustling main road.

“Follow me,” Prince Corin said, bringing Jesse's attention back. “I must get you some proper clothes. I cannot have my servants looking so ragged. People are already staring.”

Jesse knew Prince Corin didn't realize that people were staring at
him,
not them. Everything about Prince Corin—his clothes, his appearance, his walk, his voice—announced that he was not from Amarias.

“Look who's back,” a low voice snarled.

Jesse turned around. There, standing with his arms crossed, was the closest thing to a human peacock that Jesse had ever seen. Compared to this man, the rich merchants in the town square seemed to be dressed as plainly as priests. His doublet was made of blue silk, with sleeves so large that Jesse though it must be hard for him to squeeze through doorways. His shoes and belt were decorated with large, scrolled buckles, and a floppy purple hat covered much of his forehead.

His face was twisted into a haughty sneer, all of his features coming to a point at his upturned nose. He eyed Prince Corin with beady eyes, glinting with private laughter.

The kind of person you want to punch in the face
, Jesse decided.

For his part, Prince Corin just kept walking.

“Thought you might have run away, island boy,” the peacock crowed, stepping in behind them. “Too afraid of getting whipped in the swordfight today. Do they even have swords on your little island?”

Prince Corin turned to Jesse and made a face like he had tasted something foul. Then he turned, face perfectly calm. “Yes,” he said. “I've been trained in sword fighting since I was twelve years old.”

“Is that all?” the peacock asked, snorting. “You won't have a chance. My father had me using a small broadsword as soon as I turned three. All of the nobles in District Two do the same with their sons.”

“How fortunate for you,” Prince Corin said. “However, my father was of the opinion that young children should not be exposed to violence.”

“Listen, island boy,” the peacock sneered, “Lady Taralyn is the wealthiest noblewoman in Amarias, thanks to her greedy father. And she's beautiful too, from what I hear. Her suitors are the best swordsmenin the land. You don't have a chance. Why don't you just go back where you came from?”

Jesse saw Parvel stiffen beside him.
Please, Parvel, don't do anything foolish
, he willed him. A slave talking back to a powerful noble was offense enough to warrant losing a hand.

“Please remind me of your name, if you would,” Prince Corin said.

The peacock seemed surprised at Prince Corin's polite question. “Duke Hale of Glen Court.”

Prince Corin's smile reminded Jesse of the thin, soapless dishwater after his aunt had finished all the dishes on a busy night at the inn. “Well then, Duke Hale, I should tell you that I do not believe in chance. Just skill, hard work, and the will of God.”

That stopped Duke Hale for a moment. Then the cocky gleam returned. “So what if it's God's will that I stomp you into the dirt today?”

“It is possible,” Prince Corin said, shrugging. “But I have found that God rarely takes the side of the haughty and cruel.”

Duke Hale's eyes narrowed. “What are you saying, island boy?”

“Just that I look forward to the honor of fighting against you during the tournament,” Prince Corin said mildly, turning away again.

Jesse glanced back at Duke Hale, who stood staring at them, looking as if he were trying to figure out if he had been insulted or not.

“Such kind people here in District Two,” Prince Corin commented. “Very welcoming indeed.”

“What did he mean about Lady Taralyn?” Jesse wanted to know.

“There are three stages to the tournament,” Prince Corin explained. “Whoever wins the competition will receive Lady Taralyn's hand in marriage.”

“Oh.” Jesse tried to imagine that—being handed over as a prize, like a trophy or ribbon. “That's a strange tradition.”

“I thought the same,” Prince Corin admitted.

“Then why did you come here to compete?” Silas asked.

“Some months ago, a ship brought tidings to my father that the governor of District Two requested a member of his court to participate in a tournament for the hand of his daughter. It would have been a great affront to refuse. I chose to come, out of a desire to see the world, a thirst for adventure.” He sighed. “I have found that it is much different than I expected.”

They continued walking, until they reached a tent on the very edge of the green, near the moat. It wasn't really a tent, or at least, not like any Jesse had ever seen. It looked more like a great woven box, with panels of light-colored straw mats stitched together with thick red cords.

“I suppose that one is yours,” Parvel said, pointing.

“Yes,” Prince Corin said, continuing toward it. “How did you know?”

Parvel chuckled. “Just a guess.”

Prince Corin pulled the thin linen curtain aside from the doorway of the tent and gestured for them to enter. Again, Jesse shook his head in amazement.
How many princes let their slaves go before them?

Every few years, a nobleman would stay at his uncle's inn, and Jesse always hated waiting on them. They seemed to give orders just for the sheer pleasure of it, demanding to be served immediately, as if there were no other guests. Like them, Prince Corin was wealthy and important, but there the similarities ended.

It must be because of where he's from
, Jesse decided as he stepped into the tent.

Since he was expecting something strange and exotic, Jesse was not surprised to see that the inside of Prince Corin's tent was as unusual as the outside. More woven mats covered the ground, and there were four metal boxes on skinny wooden legs, one in each corner. Several large pillows in bright colors overflowed on a mattress in the back of the tent, and a few bags and chests were stacked nearby.

“I apologize; it may be a bit crowded,” Prince Corin said, glancing around. “I did not anticipate having guests.”

Jesse looked around. There was no sign that anyone but Prince Corin stayed in the tent. “Don't you have any other slaves with you?” Jesse asked.

Prince Corin shook his head. “No. In my country, we have workers, not slaves. And all of them were too busy bringing in the spring kalem harvest to follow the king's youngest son across the sea.”

“You're from Dagen?” Parvel asked.

Prince Corin's dark eyes lit up. “You've heard of it, then?”

“My summer home was in Terenid, in District One. We had many sea captains bring products from the island, including kalem fruit. They said Dagen is a place of great beauty.”

“Yes,” Prince Corin said, staring blankly at the walls of his tent. “It is.” Then he shook his head. “But there is not time for all that now. The tournament will begin soon, and I am not even armed.”

He began rummaging around in an intricately carved wooden chest, pulling out a lute-like instrument, a large woven fan, reed panpipes, a necklace made of bright feathers, and other strange objects.

Jesse stepped toward the far wall. There was only one thing hanging on it: a simple wooden ornament, made of two pieces of wood, crossing each other in an uneven X. He stroked it with one finger. It was shiny and sleek, like satin made into wood.

“What is this?” he asked.

Prince Corin looked up. “Ah, the cross,” he said, reverently. “On it, the Holy One died.”

“The Holy One?” Jesse began to ask. Then he thought about it. “No…you can't mean…Jesus?”

Now Prince Corin stopped. “You mean you are followers of the Lord as well?”

“Yes,” Parvel said, beaming as though he had found a long-lost family member.

“Not all of us,” Silas interjected immediately. “Only the foolish ones.”

But even that didn't seem to dim Prince Corin's excitement. “In my country, there are many who believe,” he said. “Here…I have not found any before you.”

Jesse was still focused on what Prince Corin had said earlier. “Jesus can't die,” he exclaimed. “That doesn't make any sense! He was God's Son!”

“But He did die,” Parvel said. “When Adam and Eve ate from the forbidden tree, the punishment was death. Someone had to die, so Jesus died in our place. He took our penalty.”

“I can't believe this!” Jesse exclaimed, not caring that he was raising his voice. “What a terrible ending.”

“But it's not the end,” Parvel said. He had a hint of a smile on his face, which made Jesse feel better even though he didn't understand it.

“So they say,” Silas muttered.

Jesse glanced at him. Silas was scowling, his arms folded over his chest.
He really doesn't want to have anything to do with God.

“Indeed not,” Prince Corin agreed. A loud fanfare of trumpets interrupted the conversation. “But the real ending must wait for another time. I must go.” He was fastening what looked like a thick mat around his chest.

“That's your armor?” Silas asked skeptically. “It's made of grass.”

“Not grass,” Prince Corin corrected, pulling a strap in the back tight. “Three layers of woven fibers from what we call the iron tree.” He patted it. “It can turn back arrows, spears, and blades better than any metal.”

Jesse wondered if the weapons on Dagen were anything like the ones from District Two, but he didn't say anything.

“In any case, the sword fighting today is just a skirmish,” Prince Corin said, strapping on his sword. It looked fairly standard, as did the shield, although it was decorated with a bold green emblem of a leaping dolphin. “No blood.”

Another trumpet blast, calling the combatants to the fight. “I must go,” Prince Corin said again, his words still clear and distinct even as he rushed. “If you wish to change clothes, you will find some spare sets in the top chest. Wash water is in the basin. You may join me afterward, or stay here.”

With that, he pulled the cloth away from the doorway and left.

“I don't believe this,” Silas said, shaking his head. “He left us with all of his valuables. If we wanted, we could steal them and run.”

“He
is
very trusting,” Jesse admitted. In a strange way, it made him want to prove he was worthy of being trusted.

He found the basin Prince Corin had mentioned. It was made of a shiny, hard material that shimmered into different colors, depending on the light. Soon, though, the water and the cloth lying next to it were dirty enough that you couldn't see the colors anymore.

“There, Parvel,” Jesse said, as he gave his face one last swipe. “You should be happy. At least my face and hands are clean.”

“It is an improvement,” Parvel said, nodding. He knelt beside the chest—Prince Corin had left the lid open in his hurry—and found three sets of clothes, simpler than the robe the prince wore. “Let's see if these fit,” he said, tossing one at Jesse.

“I don't know,” Jesse said. “What if these are his only spare outfits?”

“They are not,” Parvel replied, shutting the trunk. “He has perhaps a dozen more. Small island country or not, the prince is wealthy.”

“I don't understand it,” Silas said, jerking on a bright orange robe. “Why do we keep meeting followers of your God?”

“What do you mean?” Jesse asked. He surveyed the robe Parvel had given him. It was cut in a style designed to be knee-length, but Jesse had no doubt that it would be longer on him.

“Hardly anyone in Amarias believes in God any more,” Silas said. “Even some of the priests don't believe. Yet, here you are, Parvel. And Samar, back in the desert, Noa in New Urad, and this prince—all Christians. Even Aleiah talked about God, before she….”

There was silence for a moment, and Jesse knew why. Aleiah had been the fourth squad member. She had died during the Youth Guard training.

When Parvel finally spoke up, his voice was quiet. “Perhaps there is a reason, Silas. Maybe God is trying to tell you something. He often brings people into our lives to do that, you know.”

“Rotten luck is more like it,” Silas grumbled, jerking on some strange baggy pants. He was about the same height and build as the prince, so they fit well.

Jesse on the other hand, had to fold up the sleeves of his tunic. It was a pale green and reached his ankles. He used the belt from his torn clothes to keep the tunic from sagging too much.

Parvel had the opposite problem. It was fortunate for him that the island style seemed to be loose clothing, but even then, his broad shoulders stretched the limits of the borrowed robe.

“All right,” he announced. “Let's watch some sword fighting.”