Reunion (3 page)

Then came the fateful day when a woman, besotted with Fenwyck's sorcerous abilities, had rushed forward and said, “Oh, wise seer, can you please foretell my future?”

Fenwyck had been nonplussed and he hesitated. “Well, I—I don't have all of my necessary equipment with me. . . .”

Corwin had stepped up to the edge of the stage then, for he
knew
; he suddenly could see a part of her future, as if a bit of the thread of Fate had become a scroll that he could read. “You're going to have a child,” he told her. “A boy child.”

The woman smiled radiantly. “Yes? Yes?”

“But he . . . will be missing some fingers and toes,” Corwin went on. “And he will be blind. And he will die before he is a year old.”

The woman's smiles turned to a sneer of disgust and horror. “What? How dare you tell me such a thing! You disgusting little creature!”

She had rushed at Corwin, and Fenwyck had intervened to stand between them. “He—he means nothing, madam. He was making a joke, a horrible joke, to be sure, but pay him no mind.” Fenwyck then dragged Corwin behind the stage for a whacking. “You . . . must . . . only . . . tell . . . people . . . nice . . . things!” Fenwick had declared in rhythm with his blows.

“But it's
true!
” Corwin had protested.

“I don't care if it's true!” Fenwyck declared. “The truth is not going to make us rich!”

Corwin had been very careful from then on to tell only the good things that he saw. Although when a powerful vision would strike him, Corwin would not be able to lie and therefore would say nothing at all.

A quiet memory next—sitting next to Fenwyck before a campfire, eating some smoked venison and drinking watered wine. “Fenwyck, who were my parents? Was my mother really a princess and my father a demon?”

Fenwyck had only looked at him and said, “Your mother would want you to think of her as a good woman. And that's all I will say on the matter.”

More memories, more county fairs. Corwin grew and could do sleight of hand as well as, if not better than, Fenwyck. He learned to be glib-tongued and strong as Fenwyck became old and tired. But with all of their skill and tricks and occasional thieving, they still had not become rich. Fenwyck's beard had become gray, his “Hammurabian” robe became tattered, and their performances had become stale. Corwin had thought, guiltily, of setting out on his own and would have done so, except that he knew no other life.

In a moment of clarity, Corwin's mind returned to his surroundings. He was still lying on the bed of leaves beneath the holly bushes and the oak tree. From the angle of the sunlight filtering down through the forest canopy, he could see it was now midday.
I have journeyed through the years of my past and the sun has journeyed high in the sky. Is this still the same day as when I fell here, I wonder? Why doesn't my mind feel like my own? Has the red sea creature somehow captured my thoughts to play with?

At a familiar raucous cry, Corwin peered up at the branches overhead. Nag was stalking back and forth along the lowermost oak bough, tilting his head this way and that as he regarded Corwin on the ground.

“I'm ill, you stupid bird,” Corwin grumbled. “If you want to be useful, go get me some food, or a wine flask, or at least a water bag.”

Nag extended his neck and opened his beak wide with an accusatory “Raaawk!” as if to say, “Who are you calling stupid?” Then the bird hopped down onto the leaves beside Corwin and began gently pecking at the silver shell in his hands.

“You leave that alone,” Corwin said, pulling the shell tighter to his chest. “It's the only fortune I have left. Just go away, if you won't help.”

Nag ruffled his feathers and shook his head and stalked away, muttering in incomprehensible raven-talk.

“And don't—oh, Gods!” Corwin cried as again his mind sank into memories. This time it was the memory he had been dreading.

He slipped back to a time only a few weeks before. Fenwyck and Corwin were strolling through the central square of Carmarthen, debating how to spend their last penny, when they saw townsfolk gathering around a crier. Joining the crowd, Corwin and Fenwyck heard the crier announce:

“Let it be known to all assembled, His Majesty, the mighty and valorous King Vortigern—”

This elicited some snickers from the audience, which the crier ignored.

“—will be holding court in his castle here in Carmarthen for the summer. He will be arriving tonight, so the roads into the city must be cleared for his processional retinue. Any caught blocking the king's passage shall be harshly punished. However, His Royal Majesty wishes to be a bringer of good fortune to the city of Carmarthen. Therefore, those wishing to be in the king's service may find their labor rewarded if they report to the Office of the Royal Steward within the next fortnight.”

“Well, what do you think, Fenwyck?” Corwin had asked. “Should we try some honest labor for once?”

“What?” Fenwyck protested. “Scrubbing floors and emptying chamber pots? We haven't sunk that low, lad. Once you begin accepting lesser duties, the greater chances slip away like oil from a leaky barrel.”

Corwin rubbed his stomach to quell its rumblings. “If we don't eat soon, my strength is what's going to be slipping away.”

“Be patient,” Fenwyck snapped.

“In addition,” the crier went on, “His Most High Royal Majesty seeks a particular personage. On the advice of his soothsayers, His Majesty is in search of . . . a visionary boy. Yet this can be no ordinary youth. This must be a boy who has
no
man for a father, and who can see the future with the same clarity as the past. Should such a youth be found and proved worthy, the reward for him and his mother or guardian would include a permanent position in the king's new mountain fortress.”

“Well, there you are,” Fenwyck said, with a rapturous smile. “It's as though the gods themselves heard and answered our wish.
That
is for us.”

“But I
had
a father,” Corwin argued. “I just don't know who he was. And you know I don't see the future clearly—”

“Hush!” Fenwyck cut in. “How would the king know that? All we have to do is convince him.”

“But—”

“But me no buts, my lad. One does not stand and dither at the gate of Heaven! This is the gateway to greater wealth and comfort than we have ever known. To be permanently installed in court as a Royal Druid? What better location for two connivers like us? There's no greater den of liars than a royal court, I can tell you.”

And so the very next morning Fenwyck, with Nag riding on his shoulder, and Corwin had reported to the Office of the Royal Steward. A very dubious lower chamberlain had ushered them into a tapestry-lined waiting room. There, dozens of other townsfolk, men and women, stood anxiously, all with little boys by their sides. The boys had been scrubbed pink and were wearing whatever finery their families could afford. Everyone stared with open distrust and hostility at Fenwyck and Corwin and Nag.

Fenwyck was not going to let any of it bother him, however. He had smiled at all of them grandly and said, “Good morning to you all, gentlemen and ladies.”

“You're going to die!” a little redheaded boy burst out, pointing at Fenwyck. His mother hushed him fiercely.

But Fenwyck had patiently retained his smile and crouched down to the boy's eye level. “Of course I am, good young master, as are we all someday. But I fear you'll have to do better than that to impress the king.” Nag squawked as if to agree.

Corwin, however, had been more disturbed by the outburst than his mentor. For Corwin had had disturbing dreams the night before, and he wondered if the little boy might be as prescient as himself.

At last, the door at the end of the waiting chamber had opened, and a dark-bearded man in a beautiful robe of blue silk walked in, bearing a staff topped by a chunk of crystal.

“One of the king's own sorcerers,” Fenwyck had whispered in Corwin's ear. “Anguis, I think he calls himself. He attended one of my shows once, before you came along. I tricked him out of ninepence at pick-the-card. Poor fellow was terribly humiliated.”

The sorcerer walked slowly among the townsfolk, gazing into the face of each little boy. When one of the adults tried to speak to the sorcerer, Anguis would quell their queries with a solemn glare. The sorcerer himself said nothing, though he paused for long moments when he came to the boy who had told Fenwyck he would die. Then the sorcerer came to Fenwyck himself. “You!” Anguis declared, with a disgusted frown.

“What of it?” Fenwyck had replied. “I have as much right to put forth my claim as any other.”

“Him?” the sorcerer asked, pointing at Corwin.

“He fits the requirements. Corwin has no father. You can ask anyone, near or far throughout the kingdom, and they will tell you no one knows his sire. They will also tell you of Corwin's demonstrated ability with the Sight.”

“Spouting pleasantries to the peasants?” the sorcerer spat.

“He speaks those truths that people will accept,” Fenwyck had replied mildly.

“You're frauds, the both of you!”

“Test him for yourself,” Fenwyck said softly, “and see.”

“Very well,” Anguis growled. “Let's get you out of the way first. You might provide His Majesty with some amusement. At least, you had better
hope
he's amused.”

The sorcerer had turned, and Fenwyck and Corwin followed him through the ornate carved door at the end of the antechamber.

The throne room was not what Corwin would have expected. Because King Vortigern had only just arrived, the hall was in disarray. Servants were everywhere, hanging up tapestries, arranging chairs, assembling the dais, rolling out carpets. The king himself stood in the center of it all, giving directions, lending a nod of approval or a dismissive wave of his hand to whatever he was shown.

King Vortigern wasn't what Corwin had expected, either. For one thing, he was shorter than Corwin and younger than Fenwyck, with a fat face. If it hadn't been for the gold circlet bearing a single sapphire resting on his head and the people bowing whenever they went past him, Corwin wouldn't have thought that Vortigern looked kingly at all.

“Majesty,” said the sorcerer escorting them, “here are the first petitioners for your boy seer.” He bowed and then whispered something in Vortigern's ear. Corwin had the impression he wasn't saying anything good.

Fenwyck, meanwhile, dropped to his knees and pulled hard on Corwin's sleeve until Corwin did the same. “O, great King,” Fenwyck intoned. “O, mighty conqueror of Britain from whom all mercies and justice flow, O—”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Vortigern said impatiently. “Get up, get up, the both of you. Let's get this done with quickly, shall we?” Vortigern waved for them to follow him and strode over to a chair in a corner of the huge chamber. There he sat and crossed one leg over the other. “So. Fenwyck, Magus of Hammurabia, is it?” He cocked his brow in disbelief. “And Master Corwin. My adviser tells me you are frauds. What do you have to say for yourselves?”

Corwin had almost been prepared to like Vortigern, given his informality. But Vortigern looked on them with the cold, calculating gaze of someone who sees other people as mere nuisances to be dealt with.
There won't be any mercy or justice from this man.

“I say,” Fenwyck stated, “that you should hear us out before you judge us, Majesty.”

Nag squawked again, and Corwin had the distinct impression that the raven didn't like Vortigern, either.

“Who said you could bring a bird into my throne room?” Vortigern demanded, his ruddy face reddening further.

“Nag is my familiar, Majesty,” Fenwyck said with mock hurt pride. “I couldn't possibly appear on so important an occasion without him.”

Vortigern wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Well, see that it doesn't . . . drop anything on the carpets. I've had them imported at great expense from Persia.”

“Of course not, Majesty.”

Two young men walked up to Vortigern. “Father,” said one of them, “Faustus here says there isn't going to be a boar hunt today!”

Vortigern shut his eyes firmly. “That's right, my son. I have a somewhat more urgent matter to attend to at this moment.”

“What? You can't be serious, Father. Have your sorcerers truly convinced you that your tower will only be saved with a sacrificial lamb?”

Corwin stiffened. Who, exactly, was the lamb to be sacrificed? He looked closer at the prince, who seemed just a couple of years older than him. The prince glanced back, his stare making Corwin feel uncomfortably like a duck hanging in the marketplace to be bought for someone's dinner.

“Wait,” the other man, Faustus, said. Corwin switched his gaze to him, taking in his fox face and brushy mustache. “Didn't I see you two at the county fair in Cardiff last year?” Faustus continued, stepping toward Corwin. “You told some poor wench that she would have the love of her dreams. The annoying creature pursued me for weeks after.”

“It's . . . possible, my lord,” Corwin murmured, bowing.

The prince walked up to Corwin and inspected him closely. “Aren't you a little old for this role?”

“He is big for his age, Highness,” Fenwyck said.

“Vortimer,” King Vortigern sighed, “if you don't intend to be useful, will you and Faustus kindly go amuse yourselves elsewhere?”

“Nay, Father. We want to see the look on his face when you order him cast into the dungeons.” Prince Vortimer and Lord Faustus moved to a nearby pillar and casually leaned against it.

“As you will,” King Vortigern said, “but I may let them go free just to spite you. Now,” he said, turning back to Fenwyck and Corwin, “here is the matter. I have been trying to have a new tower built in this castle—something tall, so that I might have a good view of the sea, and strong, so that Castle Carmarthen might have a stronger defense. But every time work begins on the tower, it collapses.”