Prince of Time (8 page)

“It’s called ‘coffee’, Ieuan, and it’s not good for you.” I turned to see Prince Dafydd, lounging against the frame of the door, his arms folded across his chest.

“When Bronwen was in the room, she had one of these cups in her hand, but the liquid was a lighter brown,” I replied.

“That’s because she filled the cup with cream and ‘sugar,’” Dafydd said, using an unfamiliar word. He gestured to the cup. “Take a sip and see what you think.”

Hesitantly, I did. It
was
incredibly bitter, but the smell wasn’t unappealing. I took another sip. My lord laughed.

“Here,” he said. “See how you like it with some cream and sugar.” He took two of the parchment packets, and a little pot of cream that I hadn’t noticed and poured them into my cup. Then he took one of the sticks and stirred it. I tasted it. Except for the ‘chocolate’ my lord had given me in that little room in the fort along Hadrian’s Wall, I’d never had a taste explode in my mouth in such a fashion.

“Everyone likes sweet things,” Dafydd said. “Do you remember the candy I gave you from my mother’s pack?”

I nodded.

“It was also made of sugar.”

“Is it possible to take some sugar home with us?” I said.

Dafydd hesitated, and then reached across me and took three of the packets. “I’ll try. Come, the nurse is looking for you.”

I allowed Dafydd to lead me back to my room.

Chapter Six

Bronwen

D
avid found me that afternoon as I was leaving the archaeology building to get myself a diet soda.

“Do you still have the weapons?” He’d come around the corner of the building, just as I pushed open the door.

I nodded, still wary of him. He’d not changed his clothes, but oddly, didn’t look too out of place. State College, Pennsylvania was a good spot to be in if you weren’t quite normal in your dress. There were fifty thousand college students and that made it easy to blend in with
some
group.

“Good,” he said. “Are they nearby?”

“Still in my car,” I said. “Come with me.”

He trailed after me across the plaza to the student parking lot, half a mile away. The night before, I’d miraculously found a closer space. Usually I was lucky to find any parking at all.

Unfortunately, today wasn’t my day for cars, either. When we were within a dozen yards of my car, I noticed a man beside it, who wasn’t getting into the car next to mine as I first thought, but was trying to get into
mine
!

David put out a hand to stop me, but I was already shouting. “Hey! What are you doing?” I raced forward, leaping across the sidewalk and the grassy median which fronted my car.

As I reached the man he spun around. A switchblade flicked out. My hands automatically came up and I braked, leaning back out of the way before taking a step backwards over the concrete parking block behind me. David had run with me and now stepped in front of me, his arms also up.

“Stay back,” the man said. “Turn around and walk away if you know what’s good for you.”

“That’s my car, David,” I said.

“I won’t let him take it,” he said, “not with our weapons in it.”

Well, thanks.
We took another step back, matched by the man’s step forward. He was thin, shorter than David, with very dark eyes and pale skin, and wore a trench coat—not exactly usual Penn State summer wear, and looked more out of place than David.

“What are you going to do?” I said.

“Disabling him would be easy,” David said, “if I didn’t mind getting cut. But I really don’t want to go to the police station and answer a lot of questions, so my best suggestion is that you scream your head off.”

I paused, thought a second, and screamed.

At that same moment, David took one step forward and kicked the man’s hand. But he didn’t just kick his hand, he swung his left foot and hit the man’s wrist in exactly the right place so that the man released the knife and it flew across the hood of my car. David moved in, but the man ran and David didn’t follow. I stopped screaming. The thief’s feet thudded as he retreated across the parking lot, matching the pounding of my heart.

“What did you do?” I tried to get my breath back.

“A crescent kick from karate,” David said.

“Where did you learn karate?” I placed my arms on the roof of my car and rested my head against them, feeling my heart slow. “Wales?”

David stood beside me, waiting. When he kicked that man, David had unleashed violence within himself. I could practically see it leaking out his ears in the aftermath as the adrenaline drained off him. Pulling myself together, I stepped to the back of my car, unlocked the trunk, and gestured inside. David looked at the contents with satisfaction. He rummaged through the gear and pulled out a knife with an eight-inch blade.

“My sister, Anna, and I are both black belts,” he said. “She’s really good, but small,” he glanced at me, and then back. “Shorter than you.”

“Where’s your sister?”

“Still in Wales,” he said. He held out the knife he was holding. “Here. Do you think it’s possible to sell this for enough money to purchase a vehicle?”

I looked from him to the knife, but didn’t move. He held it out to me further, flat across his palms. I wasn’t going to let this go. “Weren’t you afraid of getting hurt?”

“More for you than me,” David said. “You really should know better than to go after a guy like that. If you were alone who knows what would’ve happened.”

Now I was irritated. “And it was okay for you?”

“I’m ten inches taller and weigh a third again as much,” Dafydd said. “On top of which, I’m wearing armor, remember?”

I shook my head. David pushed the knife toward me.
With some hesitation, I picked it up and weighed it in my hand.
Huh
. More interested than I wanted to admit, I turned the knife around in my hands. It was beautifully worked; hand-crafted and from another era. My fingers itched. Although, like Tillman, my research was in the Roman era, I’d done some medieval stuff. I looked over at David. He stood silently, his hands resting loosely at his sides; not pressing; just waiting.
Who is he? And what is up with his friend?

“Where did you get this?” I said.

He didn’t answer, and I thought he wasn’t going to, but then he said, “From my father.”

“Well, it may be very valuable, but it might take some time to value it and find a buyer. I don’t really have the resources to do either. Have you tried the museum?”

“We don’t have time. We need to get to Bryn Mawr as quickly as possible. If I left it with you, would you give me enough money to rent a car?”

 “What?”

“We need to get to Bryn Mawr.” David repeated.

“Do you expect to rent a car in my name? Do you have any idea how much trouble I would get into if you were caught?” I said.

“My aunt lives there. I think.”

I gaped at him. “Why don’t you just call her and she can transfer some money into your account if it’s that dire. Keep your knife. You don’t need me.”

I shoved the knife at his chest and he took it. “Take your gear, too,” I said.

Wordlessly, he bundled the weapons in his arms. Then, “Please,” he said. “Please listen. Please don’t be afraid of us. We’re lost with no money, no identification, and no way to get home. I have no account into which I could transfer money. My parents aren’t in Pennsylvania. I realize that you’ve already helped us more than you think wise but please don’t run away.”

I couldn’t look at him. I opened the door of my car and got inside, but was shaking so hard I kept missing the button for the door locks. I managed to jam my key into the ignition, and when the car rumbled comfortingly to life, I took a deep breath and shifted into reverse.

Calmer, I pulled out of my space. David stood, arms full, watching me, his face totally expressionless.

I drove home. I found an empty space to park and hoofed the last four blocks to my apartment building, purposefully not thinking.
Come to think of it, I spend a lot of time that way these days
. The entryway was dark, as it usually was, and I grabbed my mail and let myself into my apartment. The door closed behind me and I sighed as I leaned back against it, exhausted
.

I hadn’t slept for nearly thirty-six hours, as I’d woken up at six o’clock the previous morning. I tossed my keys and backpack onto the floor near the cushions that doubled as my couch, and stumbled into the bedroom to fall face-first onto the bed, or what passed for my bed, since it was comprised of foam pads I’d picked up at a fabric store on sale.

They were soft, though, and I twisted onto my back to stare up at the ceiling. At least my apartment wasn’t as Spartan as that of another graduate student I knew—his bedroom lampshade consisted of an old t-shirt stretched around a coat hanger.

I threw my arms up over my head, my thoughts streaking back to that first night in college, alone in my dorm room as my roommate had already found a better offer in some guy’s bed. I’d lain there, freezing cold since I’d made the mistake of taking a late shower and my hair hadn’t dried. I’d never been so isolated in my life—alone surrounded by hundreds of people, probably many of whom were as lost as I. Overall, the loneliness had lessened as I’d grown older. Or maybe I’d just gotten used to it.

* * * * *

In the morning, after fifteen solid hours of sleep, I woke with a nagging feeling that I’d forgotten something. I usually
had
forgotten something; I had just too many late nights and too little sleep. I found in graduate school that there was always more work—another article, another hour on a paper—and when I wasn’t working, I felt guilty. Consequently, it was rare for me to have my head entirely clear. I staggered into the kitchen and panicked when I found that I was out of coffee. I grabbed a diet cola out of the refrigerator, took a big slug, and relaxed as the caffeine hit. Then, surfing on brainwave stimulant, I remembered the men.

That’s a pretty big thing to have forgotten.

I showered quickly, threw my books into my pack, and left my apartment. Before heading back to campus, I picked up my coffee at Mugby Junction, my favorite hangout, and treated myself to an apple fritter while I was at it, rationalizing that I was too stressed for nutrition.

Even though classes wouldn’t start for another week, I had a full schedule between my own research and Tillman’s. I thought that maybe by evening I could get to the library and research the knife. I had a pretty good visual memory and knew a couple of books that might narrow down its time period and provenance. Maybe that would tell me something about the men. Not that I was ever going to see them again.

I was feeling relatively cheerful and in control by the time I got to the archaeology department. As soon as I walked into the building, however, my ego plummeted into my shoes. It had taken a whole two days for word to spread, but finally, every person in every office knew who had and who had not received a stipend.

At one time, most graduate students worked for professors, either as teaching or research assistants, but that ride had ended two years before. Rather than negotiate with striking students who objected to the abysmal pay, long hours, and slave-like treatment, many universities had done away with the positions entirely. Rich departments like mine created the stipend system, taking only enough students as they could afford to fund. In contrast, many departments required students to pay upfront, just like in college or other post-graduate schools of business, law, or medicine.

In truth, I’d come to Penn State because they had a stipend for me. Now that it was gone, I really didn’t know what it meant to work as Tillman’s research assistant.
Am I funded by a grant, or is he paying for my work out of his own pocket?
That seemed so unlikely as to be ludicrous, and I worried again about what he might expect from me in return.

Worse, all day, I had to fight off the pity of my fellow students. It was in the way my friends either didn’t meet my eyes or gave me an insincere smile as I passed them. It was like batting tenth on a ten-man baseball team. Everyone knew you were left out in the cold, but at the same time, they had to sit in the dugout with you day after day, feigning respect. Of the five of us without funding, three had already cleaned out their desks and were gone. Kate, a (funded) friend, came by about noon.

She plopped into a chair set near where I was standing, examining a pot shard with a magnifying glass. “So,” she said. “What’s this all about?”

 “You mean, ‘this,’ as in, ‘I no longer have a stipend,’ or ‘this’, as in, ‘why am I slaving away for Tillman instead of working on my own stuff’?” I said, without looking up.

“Either. Both.”

I sighed and looked down at her. “Tillman told me that I am one of the five students to whom the department has chosen not to offer a stipend. Thus, my options are to quit, pay my own way, or work for him.”

“But the university doesn’t fund research assistantships anymore,” Kate protested. “This can’t pay your tuition.”

I rubbed my forehead with my hand. I’d been so focused on living, I’d forgotten about that little item. This was probably just some campus job, like working in the cafeteria. It would pay my rent, but not my tuition.

“What are you going to do? Are you going to call your parents?” she said.

I set down the pot, pulled up a chair next to hers, and sat, my head in my hands. “You know what they’re like,” I said. “I did talk to them yesterday and they offered to rent the shack next to theirs for me.”

“No tuition, then,” Kate said.

“No tuition,” I said. “I’m sure their offer sounded reasonable to them, though within thirty seconds, it was like my mom had forgotten why I’d called. She sent her best to you, though she called you ‘Jill,’ and asked after ‘Mark’.”

“You don’t have a friend named, ‘Jill,’ and who’s ‘Mark’?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I dated a guy named Russ for a while during my junior year in college, but it didn’t click for us and I don’t recall mentioning him to my parents anyway.”